Like every well-conducted freshman Montana Marie O’Toole took a vast interest in the basket-ball championship. Having been effectually barred from the team by her numerous entrance conditions and her even more numerous fall-term warnings, she was not disappointed, like some of her friends, when the team was chosen. Being an insuperable optimist, she cared not that the sophomore players were known as the Invincibles because they had never lost an interclass match.

When a practical-minded freshman player remarked, “Of course we can’t win, but we can play ball,” Montana Marie smiled her dazzling smile and retorted, “Don’t you give up yet. You can play ball and the rest of us can shriek—yelling is forbidden, they say, in this polite institution. And maybe—well, truth is stranger than fiction,” Montana Marie concluded with a cheerful giggle.

From this and many similar speeches the team gradually got the impression that Miss O’Toole had learned some wonderful trick-play in dear old Paree, which she was saving, to make sure that the sophomores didn’t get hold of it, until the very last days of team-practice. There was still another rumor to the effect that Montana Marie was as wonderful at basket-ball as at horseback riding, and that the faculty, out of deference to her peculiar position in college, had consented to her joining the team just before the great game, provided that her work until then was kept strictly up to the mark. But when the Invincibles lost two of their starriest stars, all because of mere low-grades in some obscure subject like elocution, the rumor that the scholarship rule was to be stretched for Marie’s benefit lost credence. But that she was to be depended upon to do something, certainly interesting and probably effective, nobody seemed to doubt. As Fluffy Dutton remarked, “She’s an awful bluffer, but somehow she always comes out on top.”

“Yes, she does,” agreed Straight, who, as head coach of the sophomore Invincibles, was peculiarly interested in Montana Marie’s proceedings, “and the reason is that nobody can get a word out of her edgewise. Maybe she has thought up a grand plan, and maybe she hasn’t an idea in her pretty head. But whichever way it is, she just smiles the same old smile. She’s a regular wizard at keeping secrets, that girl is.”

“Then maybe the freshman coaches are just as near crazy as you are,” Fluffy threw out gaily.

“I’ll bet they are,” Straight took up her twin soberly. “I’ll bet she has even the freshman captain guessing. I’ll bet the freshman high moguls would go for her good and hard, if they dared,—for raising false hopes and getting the team overexcited, and all that sort of thing. But they don’t dare, because they can’t make her out. And there’s one chance in a hundred that she’s thought up the grand plan that will save them.”

Straight was a clever forecaster; the situation in the freshman class was exactly as she had analyzed it. The team lost its temper and wasted its practice hours discussing the truth about Montana Marie. The ruling spirits of the freshman class, who saw the fine esprit de corps of the Invincibles falling in ruins, raged in executive sessions and singly and in groups interrogated the sphinx-like Miss O’Toole. She received their inquiries with smiles, giggles, and blank, non-committal impenetrability.

“I should say we ought to win! Well, rather! Can I do anything to help? Why, really I can’t tell you offhand like this. I’ll think hard, and maybe I’ll have a thought—isn’t that what that killing Fluffy Dutton is forever saying? And when I have a thought, I’ll let you know.”

Thus did Montana Marie O’Toole meet the pointed inquiries of the leading freshmen, and bring their plans for sounding her to naught. Montana Marie O’Toole had entered Harding against all rules and precedents. She had stayed despite the gloomiest prophecies to the contrary. With all her peculiarities she was close friends with the most prominent upper-class girls. She always got what she wanted. She wanted the freshman team to win. “Ergo——” Timmy Wentworth completed the syllogism with a wave of her good right arm. Timmy, who was coaching the freshmen, was unable to decide whether or not the vague confidence they felt in Marie offset the damaging effect of their constant quarrels about her. But being a lover of the picturesque and the bizarre, Timmy was personally amused by the episode. Also logic is logic.

The winter term wore on its long and tedious course. The weather continued unreasonably cold; so did the hearts of the faculty. The Invincibles lost a third member, their prize home, and the freshmen their best center. However, a sub who had been taken on at the last minute turned out to be quite a wonder at jumping, and on the whole the freshman chances were looking up a little. Finally it was only two weeks to the great game, then ten days, a week, and less than a week. Timmy Wentworth, being consulted by the leading freshmen, advised them to go to Marie once more.

“And this time don’t you be so afraid of her,” she urged. “Call her bluff. Make her show her hand. If she gets mad about it, never you mind. Trick-plays that she keeps to herself won’t help us any. Now is the time for her to come out with her great thought. If she won’t—or can’t—why, we shall just have to scrape along without it.”

So a solemn deputation of six, headed by the class president, waited upon Marie that same afternoon. Marie listened to them with her habitual contemplative smile.

“It is getting pretty near the time, if we’re going to spring something good,” she agreed vaguely at last. “But say, what makes you all so sure that I can think of the right thing?”

The freshman president referred briefly to the rumors. “Reports like that usually have some truth in them. Besides, you’ve sort of hinted at something when we’ve asked you before.”

“I have? I’ve hinted? Well, that’s news to me,” declared Marie jovially. “I just said that I’d try to think, didn’t I, or some pretty speech like that? Well, I—I’ve been fearfully busy. But of course, if you’re depending on me——” Marie paused to giggle riotously. “I never saw a basket-ball game, you know,—a big one, that is, with lots of people watching and all that. Couldn’t we—couldn’t we—rattle the other side?”

“How?” demanded the freshman president inexorably.

Marie indulged in her very Frenchiest shrug. “Why, the regular ways, I suppose, only more so.”

“That’s easy to say,” the freshman president objected sternly. “But the Invincibles won’t rattle in any regular way. They’re too sure of themselves.”

“Well, then,” said Montana Marie calmly, “it’s certainly up to us to think of some unusual ways.” She settled herself more comfortably in Connie’s easy chair, and passed the inexorable freshman president a box of very expensive chocolates. “Now you folks go ahead and tell me about what happens at a big game. Go into all the details. Then maybe I shall have a thought on the subject of rattling those Invincibles. Fire away now. And keep the chocolates moving.”

The president began, rather scornfully. Never having seen a big game herself, she soon found herself somewhat hazy about details. So were the rest of the deputation. In the end Marie hunted up Connie, who had retired to a quieter spot for the purposes of study; and Connie, who, from much experience, believed in all Montana Marie’s strange methods, took up the tale. The team-mascots interested Marie extremely.

“Have we got one fixed up yet?” she demanded.

The deputation explained that they had. It was to be Professor Hart’s youngest son, arrayed in “invincible” armor.

Marie nodded approvingly. “What’s theirs?”

“We think they’ve got black Mandy’s little Mandy to be it,” explained the freshman president. “We don’t know how she’s going to be dressed.”

Marie ruminated. “Does a team ever have more than one mascot?” she demanded at last.

Connie said no. “It would be like carrying a purse full of lucky pennies,” she explained primly. “One mascot is enough.”

Marie considered. “If there’s no rule against more than one,” she announced at last, “I think a whole row stuck up in the freshman gallery—popping out one at a time, you know, when things were going against us—would be sort of rattling—if you ask me.”

“Where’d you keep them till they popped?” inquired a practical freshman.

Marie shrugged. “Ask Connie.”

“In the boxes that the back row of girls stand on, couldn’t you?” suggested Connie promptly.

“Of course,” agreed the freshman president.

“Well, what could we have for the extra ones?” pursued the practical freshman.

“Class animal,” suggested somebody.

“Black Mandy’s Jimmie,” suggested somebody else. “Little Mandy will curl up and cry when she sees all the people staring at her, but Jimmie would be game for anything.”

“It isn’t against any rules, is it, for mascots to keep popping out?” asked a cautious girl—she had made herself a leading spirit by saving her class from many of the indiscretions common to impulsive freshman bodies.

Connie, upon being appealed to, could not think of any rule covering the popping out of extra mascots after the great game had begun. “Of course,” she said, “Miss Andrews always asks the galleries to sit still and not scream; and near the baskets you can’t have your feet over the edge. Those are the only rules I ever heard of.”

“Well, we can get around those all right,” the freshman president declared easily. “The mascots can pop as silently as ghosts. But if the sophs don’t giggle or shriek or make some silly disturbance just as the Invincible home is trying to make a basket, or the center is diving after a new ball—why, then we shan’t have the bother of carrying you around the gym. on our shoulders, Miss Marie O’Toole.”

“The bother of what?” demanded Marie blandly.

The freshman president explained, and Marie thanked her effusively for her trouble. “It’s terrible not knowing any of these American college customs,” she sighed. “But I’m learning pretty fast. I won’t eat very much between now and the game, so in case you do have to carry me——”

“Before we plan on that,” put in the practical freshman, “we’d better go and get the mascots engaged and their clothes fixed up. It’s going to be some work, I can tell you.”

Whereat the deputation departed hastily in search of black Mandy and little Jim, of purple streamers, metal dish-cloths to serve as chain armor for the champion mascot, and canton flannel for the manufacture of a whole family of white rabbits—the white rabbit being the freshman class animal.

After that, rumors grew wilder and flew faster than ever, but none of them could be verified. The deputation, being composed of the most canny members of a large and brilliant class, shrouded all its proceedings in the deepest mystery; and Montana Marie’s ideas about the scheme she was supposed to have devised were much too vague for expression. Having been ridiculed for her ignorance of college customs early in the fall term, Marie had speedily discovered that silence kept one from being laughed at. That it also gave one a reputation for diplomacy, for expert bluffing, and for wonderful eleventh hour inspirations, was a matter of small concern to Montana Marie, who had none of Straight Dutton’s analytical interest in the queer crooks and turns of human nature.

The day of the great game found Harding in a state of unparalleled excitement. There was the regular great-game-excitement and the special mystery-excitement. Could the freshmen possibly win? And how would they try to do it? The line in front of the gym. doors was of record length. Even Mariana Ellison, blasé C. P., who had never before let a mere game interfere with the unfolding of her literary emotions, was to be found in the ranks. Montana Marie was an usher. In a ravishing white gown, with a huge purple bow on her lovely hair and a purple wand in her hand, she helped to direct the surging freshman mob to its proper place in the purple-draped balcony. Arrangements in the freshman gallery seemed to be complicated. Ushers ran wildly to and fro. The song leader moved her box three times in response to their whispered instructions. Everybody else moved countless times. Choice seats were abandoned cheerfully for no obvious reason. An overdose of purple drapery obstructed the view at the center of the gallery, but nobody touched a single fold of the offending decoration.

“The quiet, well-mannered little dears!” jeered Fluffy Dutton from the riotous sophomore gallery. “I wonder if they’ll wake up and take notice when their famous trick-play comes on the scene—and doesn’t work!”

But first the teams came on the scene, the Invincibles dancing gaily around little black Mandy, who was resplendent in a trailing red academic gown, with a small red mortar board topping her fuzzy black braids. Little Mandy looked frightened and sucked her thumb, whereas Johnny Hawkins, in metal-dish-cloth and silver-paper armor, marched proudly at the head of the freshman players, and he waved his purple banner with its white rabbit emblem in a bold and fearless manner that quite upset the decorum of the purple gallery. But only for a moment; the shrieks of delight were smothered before they were well begun; songs were sung, not shouted; clapping was subdued to a ladylike volume. Miss Andrews smiled approval at the purple gallery, whereat the leading spirits ensconced there winked joyously at one another. The plot was auspiciously launched.

For perhaps three minutes after Miss Andrews whistled the signal to the teams to “Play ball,” nothing particular happened. The freshman center muffed outrageously, the sophomore home barely missed making a goal, and the freshman guards seized the opportunity thus offered to do some very creditable interfering, which the center’s stage-fright rendered quite useless. The ball was back at the sophomore basket, and the Invincible home had poised it again for an easy toss. Then there was a faint rustle in the purple gallery, then a breathless “Ah!” of amazement from the red one, followed by a suppressed titter of amusement. The Invincible home caught a hint of something in the air, hesitated, tossed up the ball, and missed the basket. In the mêlée that followed every member of the Invincibles took a second off to look around, and the freshmen scored. Whereupon black Mandy’s Jim, whose striking costume of white and purple stripes had made his sudden appearance on the top rail of the purple gallery all the more spectacular, dropped back out of sight, before Miss Andrews had as much as discovered his presence. Annoyance and uncertainty as to what might happen next beset the Invincibles. The freshmen scored again. The purple gallery sang a polite song of triumph, then sat back behind the purple drapery and let the Invincibles score twice. Just as the most uncertain of the Invincible homes was about to score an inevitable point, standing close under the basket, something happened again. The voluminous purple drapery straightened out taut, disclosing itself as a huge purple banner with the class numerals on it in white; and at regular intervals on the white figures there were oval openings through which purple-capped faces popped out, grinning placidly across at the agitated red gallery. There was another rustle, a flutter, a giggle. The uncertain home missed her sure throw, there was a long, futile scramble for the ball, and Miss Andrews’s silver whistle sounded the end of the half. Score two to two.

Instantly the purple gallery broke out in tuneful song, the sophomores in angry clamor. An indignant sophomore deputation beset Miss Andrews. The senior coaches came running out to join it. The junior coaches smilingly disclaimed all knowledge of the freshman plot to rattle the Invincibles. Miss Andrews had seen nothing; upon being enlightened she summoned the freshman president, who was also the leader of their music.

“But we aren’t breaking any rule,” that budding diplomatist explained politely. “We haven’t shrieked or clapped noisily,—or stamped”—with a meaning glance at the sophomore delegation, who blushed at the veiled accusation. “Basket-ball is supposed to teach self-control, isn’t it, Miss Andrews? The Invincibles oughtn’t to pay any attention to sophomore giggles. Of course if it is against the rules to show extra mascots—— But the sophomores shouted fearfully at first. That was what rattled our center so.”

In the end the freshman president returned in triumph to the purple gallery, where immediately the purple banner was again spread out to while away the tedium of the intermission.

“You’re smart, if you are mean,” Fluffy Dutton called across the big gym. admiringly.

“Wait till you see the rest of our stunts,” Montana Marie’s clear voice sang back. “I guess you’ll think we’re smart before we’re through. Well, rather!”

“Might as well enjoy whatever is doing,” Fluffy advised her irate neighbors. “This whole business just shows that they knew they couldn’t possibly win in a straight game. But it’s awfully clever.”

The Invincible team had arrived at the same philosophical conclusion. When they came back they bowed mockingly to the purple gallery, and cheered, in pantomime, below the mystic purple banner. They won a goal in spite of the disconcerting appearance on the freshman railing of a tiny yellow-haired child dressed as a purple Queen of Hearts. But when a whole family of white rabbits popped out at once, in assorted sizes, across the length of the purple gallery, they resigned themselves good-naturedly to the loss of not one goal only but two. When the banner unfurled again, this time with rabbit heads in the oval spaces, the prize center of the Invincibles happened to be facing it, and, being already half hysterical with weariness, she crumpled up with mirth. Before her sub. could trot out to the center field, the whistle had sounded the end of the great game. Score five to four in the freshmen’s favor, fouls accounting for the extra points.

“Do the stunts all over again and maybe we’ll forgive you,” Fluffy sang across to the purple gallery. After the mascots had appeared once more, amid much applause, there was a rush for the gym. floor.

The players were all carried round the gym. on their partisans’ shoulders, and Montana Marie O’Toole, smiling as serenely as though it were an every-day occurrence, also got her promised ride.

As she was let carefully down to the floor again, she found herself face to face with Straight Dutton.

“I say,” began Straight, “did you think of all that nonsense?”

Marie flashed her a knowing smile. “You’re too flattering, Miss Dutton, I assure you,” she parried.

“Not at all,” said Straight with asperity. “I think the whole performance was extra-specially silly. It just spoiled the game. You’ve won technically, of course, but not by playing ball.”

Montana Marie thrust her smiling face, topped by the huge purple bow, close to Straight’s flushed, tired one. “Don’t you tell a soul, and I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered impressively.

“Cross my heart,” promised Straight eagerly.

“Well, then, I’m sorry you lost,” whispered Montana Marie. “All my best friends are seniors, and I hate to see them looking so blue. Now don’t you tell!” Montana Marie joined a band of dancing freshmen and was whisked off down the gym.

Straight looked after her half admiringly, half angrily. “Just the same I don’t believe she thought it up. She’s the best bluffer that ever came to Harding. Smile, look mysterious, say nothing—that’s her trick-play, and it always scores. I wonder why she was so crazy to come to Harding. I certainly must ask Betty if she ever has wondered why her freshman was so stuck on Harding College.”

Then, as her twin rushed up with a reminder that it was time to dress for the team dinner, “Yes, Fluffy,” Straight answered absently, “I’m coming this very minute. But I certainly should like to know—nothing you can tell me, Fluff; so don’t ask me to stop and explain.”