“There are three of us and three of you,Though only one knows one,So pray accept this little giftAnd go and have some fun.”
“There are three of us and three of you,Though only one knows one,So pray accept this little giftAnd go and have some fun.”
But if the rhyme went haltingly and was not quite true either, as Betty pointed out, since Adelaide and Alice had contributed to the fund, and the whole house had bought absurd quantities of valentines because it was such a “worthy object” (“just as if I wasn’t a worthy object!” sighed Mary), there was nothing the matter with the “little gift,” which consisted of three crisp ten dollar bills.
“Oh, if they should feel hurt!” thought Betty anxiously, and dodged Emily Davis so successfully that until the day of the rally they did not meet.
That week was a tremendously excitingone. To begin with, on the twentieth the members of both the freshman basket-ball teams were announced. Rachel was a “home” on the regular team, and Katherine a guard on the “sub,” so the Chapin house fairly bubbled over with pride and pleasure in its double honors. Then on the morning of the twenty-second came the rally with its tumultuous display of class and college loyalty, its songs written especially for the occasion, its shrieks of triumph or derision (which no intrusive reporter should make bold to interpret or describe as “class yells,” since such masculine modes of expression are unknown at Harding), and its mock-heroic debate on the vital issue, “Did or did not George Washington cut down that cherry-tree?”
Every speaker was clever and amusing, but Emily Davis easily scored the hit of the morning. For whereas most freshmen are frightened and appear to disadvantage on such an occasion, she was perfectly calm and self-possessed, and made her points with exactly the same irresistible gaucherie and daring infusion of local color that had distinguished her performance at the class meeting.Besides, she was a “dark horse”; she did not belong to the leading set in her class, nor to any other set, for that matter, and this fact, together with the novel method of her election made her interesting to her essentially democratic audience. So when the judges–five popular members of the faculty–announced their decision in favor of the negative, otherwise the junior-freshman side of the debate, 19–’s enthusiasm knew no bounds, and led by the delighted B’s they carried their speaker twice round the gym on their shoulders–which is an honor likely to be remembered by its recipient for more reasons than one.
As the clans were scattering, it suddenly occurred to Betty that, if Emily did not guess anything, it would please her to be congratulated on the excellence of her debate; and if, as was more likely, she had guessed, there was little to be gained by postponing the dreaded interview. She chose a moment when Emily was standing by herself in one corner of the gymnasium. Emily did not wait for her to begin her speech of congratulation.
“Oh, Miss Wales,” she cried, “I’ve been to see you six times, and you are never there.It was lovely of you–lovely–but ought we to take it?”
“Yes, indeed. It belongs to you; honestly it does. Don’t ask me how, for it’s too long a story. Just take my word for it.”
“Well, but—” began Emily doubtfully.
At that moment some one called, “Hurrah for 19–!” Betty caught up the cry and seizing Emily’s hand rushed her down the hall, toward a group of freshmen.
“Make a line and march,” cried somebody else, and presently a long line of 19– girls was winding in noisy lock-step down the hall, threading in and out between groups of upper-class girls and cheering and gaining recruits as it went.
“Hurrah for 19–!” cried Betty hoarsely.
“Take it for 19–,” she whispered to Emily, as the line stopped with a jerk that knocked their heads together.
“If you are sure— Thank you for 19–,” Emily whispered back.
“Here’s to 19–, drink her down!Here’s to 19–, drink her down!”
“Here’s to 19–, drink her down!Here’s to 19–, drink her down!”
As the chorus rose and swelled Betty felt,as she never had before, what it meant to be a college girl at Harding.
As Betty was leaving the gymnasium she met Eleanor face to face in the hallway.
“Wasn’t it fun?” said Betty, shyly. Perhaps, now that the debate was over, Eleanor would be ready to make friends again.
“Patronizing the genius, do you mean?” asked Eleanor slowly. “I hope she didn’t buy that hideous salmon-pink waist with your money.”
“Oh, Eleanor, how did you ever find out?” cried Betty, deeply distressed. Only a few of the Chapin house girls knew anything about the disposition of the valentine money, and not even the rest of the firm had been told who had received it. So Betty had thought the secret perfectly safe.
“No one told me about your private affairs,” returned Eleanor significantly. “I guessed and I congratulate you. The genius will be a useful ally. She will get all the freaks’ votes for you, when—”
“Eleanor Watson, come on if you’re coming,” called a voice from the foot of the stairs,and Eleanor marched blithely off, without finishing her sentence.
Betty stared after her with unseeing eyes. So that was it! She was to blame because Jean had told her of Eleanor’s predicament–told her against her wish. And now she was supposed to be trying to get votes.
“Votes for what, I wonder? How perfectly absurd!” said Betty to the brick wall she was facing. But the appropriate smile would not come, for the absurdity had cost her a friend whom she had loved dearly in spite of her faults.
“I shan’t be here to dinner Sunday,” announced Helen Chase Adams with an odd little thrill of importance in her voice.
“Shan’t you?” responded her roommate absently. She was trying to decide which dress to wear to the Hilton House play. Her pink organdie was prettiest, but she really ought to save that for the Glee Club concert. And should she ask her cousin Jack Burgess up from Harvard for the concert, or would it be better to invite Mr. Parsons? These absorbing questions left her small attention to bestow on so comparatively commonplace a matter as an invitation out to Sunday dinner.
“I thought you might like to have some one in my place,” continued Helen, moving the pink organdie waist on to the same chair with the batiste skirt.
Betty came to herself with a start. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t see that I had takenup all the chairs. I was trying to decide what to wear to the dramatics.”
“And I was thinking what I’d wear Sunday,” said Helen.
It was so seldom nowadays that she obtruded her affairs upon any one’s notice that Betty glanced at her wonderingly. Her eyes had their starry look, and a smile that she was futilely endeavoring to keep in the background played around the corners of her mouth.
“I’m glad she’s got over the blues,” thought Betty. “Why, where are you going?” she asked aloud.
“Oh, only to the Westcott House,” answered Helen with an assumption of unconcern. “Would you wear the blue silk waist or the brown dress?”
“Well, the Westcott is the swellest house on the campus, you know. When I go there I always put on my very best.”
“Yes, but which is my best?”
Betty considered a moment. “Why, of course they’re both pretty,” she began with kindly diplomacy, “but dresses are more the thing than waists. Still, the blue is verybecoming. But I think–yes, I’m sure I’d wear the brown.”
“All right. If you change your mind before Sunday you can let me know.”
“Yes,” said Betty briefly. She was examining the batiste skirt to see if it would need pressing for the dramatics. After all, Jack was more fun, and probably Mr. Parsons was invited by this time anyhow–he knew lots of Harding girls. What was the name of Jack’s dormitory house? She would ask the Riches; they had a brother in the same one. So she strolled off to find the Riches, and incidentally to get the latest basket-ball news from Rachel and Katherine. At nine o’clock they turned her out; they were in training and supposed to be fast asleep by nine-thirty. When she opened her own door, Helen was still sitting idly in the wicker rocker, looking as if she would be perfectly content to stay there indefinitely with her pleasant thoughts for company.
Betty had quite lost interest in Helen lately; she had small patience with people who moped, and besides, between Eleanor and the valentine enterprise, her thoughts hadbeen fully engrossed. But this new mood made her curious. “She acts as if she’d got a crush,” she decided. “She’s just the kind to have one, and probably her divinity has asked her to dinner, and she can’t put her mind on anything else. But who on earth could it be–in the Westcott House?”
She was on the point of inquiring, when Helen diverted her attention to something else. “I made a wonderful discovery to-day,” she said. “Theresa Reed and T. Reed are the same person.”
Betty laughed. “They might easily be,” she said. “I don’t see that it was so wonderful.”
“Why, I’ve known Theresa all this year–she was the one that asked me to go off with her house for Mountain Day. She’s the best friend I have here, but she never told me that she was specially interested in basket-ball and I never thought–well, I guess I never imagined that a dear friend of mine could be the celebrated T. Reed,” laughed Helen happily. “But all sorts of nice things are happening to me lately.”
“That’s good,” said Betty. “It seems tobe just the opposite with me,” and she plunged into her note to Jack, which must be ready for the next morning’s post.
All that week Helen went about fairly wreathed in smiles. Her shyness seemed to have vanished suddenly. She joined gaily in the basket-ball gossip at the table, came out into the hall to frolic with the rest of the house at ten o’clock, and in general acted as a happy, well-conducted freshman should.
The Chapin house brought its amazement over the “dig’s” frivolity to Betty, but she had very little to tell them. “All I know is that she’s awfully pleased about being a friend of T. Reed’s. And oh yes–she’s invited out to dinner next Sunday. But of course there must be something else.”
“Perhaps she’s going to have a man up for the concert,” suggested Katherine flippantly.
“Are you?” inquired Mary Rich, and with that the regeneration of Helen was forgotten in the far more absorbing topic of the Glee Club concert.
Sunday came at last. “I’m not going to church, Betty,” said Helen shyly. “I want to have plenty of time to get dressed for dinner.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Betty carelessly. She had just received an absurd letter from Jack. He was coming “certain-sure”; he wanted to see her about a very serious matter, he said. “Incidentally” he should be delighted to go to the concert. There was a mysterious postscript too:–“How long since you got so fond of Bob Winchester?”
“I never heard of any such person. What do you suppose he means?” Betty asked Mary Brooks as they walked home from church together. Mary had also invited a Harvard man to the concert and Dorothy King had found them both seats, so they were feeling unusually friendly and sympathetic.
“I can’t imagine. Do let me see his letter,” begged Mary. “He must be no end of fun.”
“He’s a worse tease than you,” said Betty, knocking on her door.
“Come in,” called Helen Chase Adams eagerly. “Betty, would you please hook my collar, and would one of you see what time it really is? I don’t like to depend too much on my watch.”
“She’ll be at least ten minutes too early,”sighed Betty, when Helen had finally departed in a flutter of haste. “And see this room! But I oughtn’t to complain,” she added, beginning to clear up the dresser. “I’m always leaving it like this myself; but someway I don’t expect it of Helen.”
“Who asked her to dinner to-day?” inquired Mary Brooks. She had been sitting in a retired corner, vastly enjoying the unusual spectacle of Helen Adams in a frenzy of excitement.
“Why, I don’t know. I never thought to ask,” said Betty, straightening the couch pillows. “I only hope she’ll have as good a time as she expects.”
“Poor youngster!” said Mary. “Wish I’d asked Laurie to jolly her up a bit.”
It is to be presumed that these fears were groundless, since the bell was ringing for five o’clock vespers when Helen came back. Betty was sitting at her desk pretending to write letters, but really trying to decide whether she should say anything to Eleanor apropos of her remarks about Emily Davis, and if so, whether she should do it now. Mary Brooks curled up on Betty’s couch, dividing herattention between Jack Burgess’s picture and a new magazine.
“Had a good time, didn’t you?” she remarked sociably when Helen appeared.
“Oh, yes,” said Helen happily. “You see I don’t go out very often. Were you ever at the Westcott House for dinner?”
“Once,” chuckled Mary. “But I found they didn’t have ice-cream, because the matron doesn’t approve of buying things on Sunday; so I’ve turned them down ever since.”
Helen laughed merrily. “How funny! I never missed it!” There was a becoming flush on her cheeks, a pretty new confidence in her manner.
“Helen, who did you say asked you to the Westcott?” inquired Betty.
“I didn’t say, because you didn’t ask me,” returned Helen truthfully, “but it was Miss Mills.”
“Miss Mills!” repeated Mary. “Well, my child, I don’t wonder that you were rattled this noon, being invited around by the faculty. Gracious, what a compliment to a young freshman!”
“I should think so!” chimed in Betty eagerly.
In spite of her embarrassment Helen evidently enjoyed the sensation she was producing. “I thought it was awfully nice,” she said.
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” demanded Mary. “Why, child, you must be a bright and shining shark in lit.”
Helen’s happy face clouded suddenly. “I’m not, am I, Betty?” she asked appealingly.
Betty laughed. “Why no, since you ask me. No, she isn’t, Mary. She sits on the back row with me and we don’t either of us say an extra word. It’s math, and Latin and Greek that Helen shines in.”
“Well, are you awfully devoted to Miss Mills?” pursued Mary. “Is that why she asked you?”
Helen shook her head. “I like her. She reads beautifully and sometimes she says very interesting things, doesn’t she, Betty?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” answered her roommate hastily.
“Well, I think she does, but I never told her I thought so. It couldn’t be that.”
“Then why did she ask you?” demanded Mary.
“I suppose because she wanted me,” said Helen happily. “I can’t think of any other reason. Isn’t it lovely?”
“Yes indeed,” agreed Mary. “It’s so grand that I’m going off this minute to tell everybody in the house about it. They’ll be dreadfully envious,” and she left the roommates alone.
Helen pulled off her best gloves carefully, and laid them neatly away, then she put up her hat and coat and sat down in her favorite wicker chair. “I guess I left the room in a dreadful muss this noon,” she said apologetically. “I guess I acted silly and excited, but you see–I said I hadn’t been out often–this is the very first time I’ve been invited out to a meal since I came to Harding.”
“Really?” said Betty, thinking guiltily of her own multitude of invitations.
“Yes, I hoped you hadn’t any of you noticed it. I hate to be pitied. Now you can just like me.”
“Just like you?” repeated Betty vaguely.
“Yes. Don’t you see? I’m not left outany more.” She hesitated, then went on rapidly. “You see I had a lovely time at first, at the sophomore reception and the frolic and all, but it stopped and–this was a good while coming, and I got discouraged. Wasn’t it silly? I–oh, it’s all right now. I wouldn’t change places with anybody.” She began to rock violently. Betty had noticed that Helen rocked when other girls sang or danced jigs.
“But I thought–we all thought,” began Betty, “that you had decided you preferred to study–that you didn’t care for our sort of fun. You haven’t seemed to lately.”
“Not since it came over me why you girls here in the house were nice to me when nobody else was except Theresa,” explained Helen with appalling frankness. “You were sorry for me. I thought it out the day after you gave me the violets. Before I came to Harding,” she went on, “I did think that college was just to study. It’s funny how you change your mind after you get here–how you begin to see that it’s a lot bigger than you thought. And it’s queer how little you care about doing well in class when you haven’tanything else to care about.” She gave a little sigh, then got up suddenly. “I almost forgot; I have a message for Adelaide. And by the way, Betty, I saw your Miss Hale; she and somebody else were just going in to see Miss Mills when I left.”
She had scarcely gone when Mary sauntered back as if by accident. “Well, have you found out?” she asked. “As a student of psychology I’m vastly interested in this situation.”
“Found out what?” asked Betty unsmilingly.
“Why Miss Mills asked her, and why she is so pleased.”
“I suppose Miss Mills asked her because she was sorry for her,” answered Betty slowly, “and Helen is pleased because she doesn’t know it. Mary, she’s been awfully lonely.”
“Too bad,” commented Mary. Unhappiness always made her feel awkward.
“But she says this makes up to her for everything,” added Betty.
“Oh, I’ve noticed that life is a pretty even thing in the end,” returned Mary, relievedthat there was no present call on her sympathies, “but I must confess I don’t see how one dinner invitation, even if it is from—”
Just then Helen tapped on the door.
Down in Miss Mills’s room they were discussing much the same point.
“It’s a shame for you to waste your Sundays over these children,” said Miss Hale.
Miss Mills stopped her tea-making to dissent. “It isn’t wasted if she cared. She was so still that I couldn’t be sure, but judging from the length of time she stayed—”
“She was smiling all over her face when we met her,” interrupted Miss Meredith. “Who is she, anyway?”
“Oh, just nobody in particular,” laughed Miss Mills, “just a forlorn little freshman named Adams.”
“But I don’t quite see how—” began Miss Hale.
“Oh, you wouldn’t,” said Miss Mills easily. “You were president of your class when you were a freshman. I was nobody in particular, and I know what it’s like.”
“But why not leave it to her friends to hearten her up?”
“Apparently she hasn’t any, or if she has, they’re as out of things as she is.”
“Well, to the other girls then.”
“When girls are happy they are cruel,” said Miss Mills briefly, “or perhaps they’re only careless.”
Betty, after a week’s consideration, put the matter even more specifically. “I tried to make her over because I wanted a different kind of roommate,” she said, “and we all let her see that we were sorry for her. Miss Mills made her feel as if—”
“She had her dance card full and was splitting her waltzes,” supplied Mary, who was just back from an afternoon at Winsted.
“Exactly like that,” agreed Betty, laughing. “I wish I’d done it,” she added wistfully.
“You kept her going till her chance came,” said Mary. “She owes a lot to you, and she knows it.”
“Don’t,” protested Betty, flushing. “I tell you, I was only thinking of myself when I tried to fix her up, and then after a while I got tired of her and let her alone. I was horrid, but she’s forgiven me and we’re real friends now.”
“Well, we can’t do but so much apiece,” said Mary practically. “And I’ve noticed that ‘jam,’ as your valentine girl called it, is a mighty hard thing to give to people who really need it.”
Nevertheless the gift had been managed in Helen’s case; she had gotten her start at last. Miss Mills’s tactful little attention had furnished her with the hope and courage that she lacked, had given her back the self-confidence that Caroline Barnes had wounded. Whatever the girls might think, she knew she was “somebody” now, and she would go ahead and prove it. She could, too–she no longer doubted her possession of the college girl’s one talent that Betty had laughed about. For there was Theresa Reed, her friend down the street. She was homely and awkward, she wore dowdy clothes and wore them badly, she was slow and plodding; but there was one thing that she could do, and the girls admired her for it and had instantly made a place for her. Helen was glad of a second proof that those things did not matter vitally. She set herself happily to work to study T. Reed’s methods, and she began to look forwardto the freshman-sophomore game as eagerly as did Betty or Katherine.
But before the game there was the concert. Jack Burgess, having missed his connections, arrived in Harding exactly twenty-seven minutes before it began. As they drove to the theatre he inquired if Betty had received all three of his telegrams.
“Yes,” laughed Betty, “but I got the last one first. The other two were evidently delayed. You’ve kept me guessing, I can tell you.”
“Glad of that,” said Jack cheerfully, as he helped her out of the carriage. “That’s what you’ve kept me doing for just about a month. But I’ve manfully suppressed my curiosity and concealed the wounds in my bleeding heart until I could make inquiries in person.”
“What in the world do you mean, Jack?” asked Betty carelessly. Jack was such a tease.
Just then they were caught in the crowd that filled the lobby of the theatre, and conversation became impossible as they hurried through it and into the theatre itself.
“Checks, please,” said a businesslike little usher in pink chiffon, and Jack and Betty followed her down the aisle. The theatre was already nearly full, and it looked like a great flower garden, for the girls all wore light evening gowns, for which the black coats of the men made a most effective background; while the odor of violets and roses from the great bunches that many of the girls carried strengthened the illusion.
“Jove, but this is a pretty thing!” murmured Jack, who had never been in Harding before. “Is this all college?”
“Yes,” said Betty proudly, “except the men, of course. And don’t they all look lovely?”
“Who–the men?” asked Jack. Then he gave a sudden start. “Bob Winchester, by all that’s wonderful!”
“Who is he?” said Betty idly. “Another Harvard man? Jack”–with sudden interest, as she recognized the name–“what did you mean by that postscript?”
“Good bluff!” said Jack in his most tantalizing drawl.
“Jack Burgess, I expect you to talk sensethe rest of the time you’re here,” remonstrated Betty impatiently.
“Well, I will on one condition. Tell me why you sent it to him.”
“Sent what to whom?” demanded Betty.
“Oh come,” coaxed Jack. “You know what I mean. Why did you send Bob that valentine? It almost crushed me, I can tell you, when I hadn’t even heard from you for months.”
Betty was staring at him blankly, “Why did I send ‘Bob’ that valentine? Who please tell me is ‘Bob’?”
“Robert M. Winchester, Harvard, 19–. Eats at my club. Is sitting at the present moment on the other side of the aisle, two rows up and over by the boxes. You’ll know him by his pretty blush. He’s rattled–he didn’t think I’d see him.”
“Well?” said Betty.
“Well?” repeated Jack.
“I never saw Mr. Robert M. Winchester before,” declared Betty with dignity, “and of course I didn’t send him any valentine. What are you driving at, Jack Burgess?”
Jack smiled benignly down at her. “ButI saw it,” he insisted. “Do you think I don’t know your handwriting? The verses weren’t yours, unless they turn out spring poets amazingly fast up here, but the writing was, except that on the envelope, and the Cupids were. The design was the same as the one on the picture frame you gave me last winter. Beginning to remember?” he inquired with an exasperating chuckle.
“No,” said Betty severely. Then a light broke over her face. “Oh yes, of course, I made that. Oh Jack Burgess, how perfectly rich!”
“Don’t think so myself, but Bobbie will. You see I told him that I could put up a good guess who sent him that valentine, and that I’d find out for sure when I came up. But evidently he couldn’t wait, so he’s made his sister ask him up too, in the hope of happening on the valentine lady, I suppose. Know his sister?”
“No,” said Betty, who was almost speechless with laughter. “Oh, Jack, listen!” and she told the story of the valentine firm. “Probably his sister bought it and sent it to him,” she finished. “Or anyway some girldid. Jack, he’s looking this way again. Did you tell him I sent it?”
“No,” said Jack hastily, “that is–I–well, I only said that the girl I knew up here sent it. He evidently suspects you. See him stare.”
“Jack, how could you?”
“How couldn’t I you’d better say,” chuckled Jack. “I never heard of this valentine graft. What should I think, please? Never mind; I’ll undeceive the poor boy at the intermission. He’ll be badly disappointed. You see, he said it was his sister all along, and—”
The curtain rolled slowly up, disclosing the Glee Club grouped in a rainbow-tinted semicircle about the leader, and the concert began.
At the intermission Jack brought Mr. Winchester and his sister to meet Betty, and there were more explanations and much laughter. Then Jack insisted upon meeting the rest of the firm, so Betty hunted up Mary. Her Harvard man knew the other two slightly, and the story had to be detailed again for his benefit.
“I say,” he said when he had heard it, “that’s what I call enterprise, but you made just one mistake. Next year you must sell your stock to us. Then all of it will be sure to land with the ladies, and your cousin’s feelings won’t be hurt.”
“Good idea,” agreed Jack, “but let’s keep to the living present, as the poets call it. Are you all good for a sleigh ride to-morrow afternoon?”
“Ah, do say yes,” begged Mr. Winchester, looking straight at Betty.
“But your sister said you were going—”
“On the sleeper to-morrow night,” finished Mr. Winchester promptly. “And may I have the heart-shaped sign?”
Betty stopped in Mary’s room that night to talk over the exciting events of the evening. “Betty Wales, your cousin is the nicest man I ever met,” declared Mary with enthusiasm.
Betty laughed. “I shan’t tell you what he said about you. It would make you entirely too vain. I’m so sorry that Katherine wasn’t there, so she could go to-morrow.”
“It was too bad,” said Mary complacently. “But then you know virtue is said to beits own reward. She’ll have to get along with that, but I’m glad we’re going to have another one. Those valentines were a lot of work to do for a girl whose very name I don’t know.”
“Well, I thought I’d seen some excitement before,” declared Betty Wales, struggling to settle herself more comfortably on the scant ten square inches of space allotted her by the surging, swaying mass of girls behind. “But I was mistaken. Even the rally was nothing to this. Helen, do you feel as if they’d push you under the railing?”
“A little,” laughed Helen, “but I don’t suppose they could, do you?”
“I guess not,” said Betty hopefully, “but they might break my spine. They’re actually sitting on me, and I haven’t room to turn around and see who’s doing it. Oh, but isn’t it fun!”
The day of the great basket-ball game had come at last. A bare two hours more and the freshman team would either be celebrating its victory over the sophomores, or bravely shouldering its defeat; and the college hadturned outen masseto witness the struggle. The floor of the gymnasium was cleared, only Miss Andrews, the gym teacher, her assistant line-keepers and the ushers in white duck, with paper hats of green or purple, being allowed on the field of battle. On the little stage at one end of the hall sat the faculty, most of them manifesting their partisanship by the display of class-colors. The more popular supporters of the purple had been furnished with violets by their admirers, while the wearers of the green had American beauty roses–red being the junior color–tied with great bows of green ribbon. The prize exhibit was undoubtedly that of the enterprising young head of the chemistry department, who carried an enormous bunch of vivid green carnations; but the centre of interest was the president of the college, who of course displayed impartially the colors of both sides.
He divided interest with a sprightly little lady in a brilliant purple gown, whose arms were so full of violets and daffodils and purple and yellow ribbons that she looked like an animated flower bed. She smiled and nodded at the sophomore gallery from behindtheir floral tributes; and the freshmen watched her eagerly and wished she had worn the green. But of course she wouldn’t; she had nothing but sophomore lit., and all her classes adored her.
In the gallery were the students, seniors and sophomores on one side, juniors and freshmen on the other, packed in like sardines. The front row of them sat on the floor, dangling their feet over the edge of the balcony–they had been warned at the gym classes of the day before to look to their soles and their skirt braids. The next row kneeled and peered over the shoulders of the first. The third row stood up and saw what it could. The others stood up and saw nothing, unless they were very tall or had been lucky enough to secure a place on a stray chair or a radiator. The balcony railings and posts were draped with bunting, and in every hand waved banners and streamers, purple and yellow on one side, red and green on the other.
In the middle of each side were grouped the best singers of the classes, ready to lead the chorus in the songs which had been written for the occasion to the music of populartunes. These were supposed to take the place of “yells,” and cheers, both proscribed as verging upon the unwomanly. By rule the opposing factions sang in turn, but occasionally, quite by accident, both started at once, with deafening discords that rocked the gallery, and caused the musical head of the German Department to stop her ears in agony.
Most of the girls had been standing in line for an hour waiting for the gymnasium doors to open, but a few, like Betty and Helen, had had reserved seat tickets given them by some one on the teams. These admitted their fortunate holders by a back door ahead of the crowd. All the faculty seats were reserved, of course, and the occupants of them were still coming in. As each appeared, he or she was met by a group of ushers and escorted ceremoniously across the floor, amid vigorous hand-clapping from the side whose colors were in evidence, and the singing of a verse of “Balm of Gilead” adapted to the occasion. Most of these had been written beforehand and were now hastily “passed along” from a paper in the hands of the leader. The rhymes were execrable, but that did not mattersince almost nobody could understand them; and the main point was to come out strong on the chorus.
“Oh, there’s Miss Ferris!” cried Betty, “and she’s wearing my ro–goodness, she’s half covered with roses. Helen, see that lovely green dragon pennant!”
“Here’s to our Miss Ferris, drink her down!”
“Here’s to our Miss Ferris, drink her down!”
sang the freshman chorus.
“Here’s to our Miss Ferris, drink her down!Here’s to our Miss Ferris, may she never, never perish!Drink her down, drink her down, drink her down, down, down!”
“Here’s to our Miss Ferris, drink her down!Here’s to our Miss Ferris, may she never, never perish!Drink her down, drink her down, drink her down, down, down!”
Back by the door there was a sudden commotion, and the sophomore faction broke out into tumultuous applause as a tall and stately gentleman appeared carrying a “shower bouquet” of daffodils with a border and streamers of violets.
“Here’s to Dr. Hinsdale, he’s the finest man within hail!Drink him down, drink him down, drink him down, down, down!”
“Here’s to Dr. Hinsdale, he’s the finest man within hail!Drink him down, drink him down, drink him down, down, down!”
sang the sophomores.
“There is a team of great renown,”
“There is a team of great renown,”
began the freshmen lustily. What did thesophomores mean by clapping so? Ah! Miss Andrews was opening a door.
“They’re coming!” cried Betty eagerly.
“Only the sophomore subs,” amended the junior next to her. “So please don’t stick your elbow into me.”
“Excuse me,” said Betty hastily. “Oh Helen, there’s Katherine!”
Through the door at one side of the stage the freshman subs were coming, through the other the sophomores. Out on the floor of the gym they ran, all in their dark blue gym suits with green or purple stripes on the right sleeves, tossing their balls from hand to hand, throwing them into the baskets, bouncing them adroitly out of one another’s reach, trying to appear as unconcerned as if a thousand people were not applauding them madly and singing songs about them and wondering which of them would get a chance to play in the great game. In a moment a little whistle blew and the subs found their places on the edge of the stage, where they sat in a restive, eager row, each girl in readiness to take the field the moment she should be needed.
The door of the sophomore room opened again and the “real team” ran out. Then the gallery shook indeed! Even the freshmen cheered when the mascot appeared hand in hand with the captain. He was a dashing little Indian brave in full panoply of war-paint, beads, and feathers, with fringed leggins and a real Navajo blanket. When he had finished his grand entry, which consisted of a war-dance, accompanied by ear-splitting war-whoops, he came to himself suddenly to find a thousand people staring at him, and he was somewhat appalled. He could not blush, for Mary Brooks had stained his face and neck a beautiful brick-red, and he lacked the courage to run away. So he waited, forlorn and uncomfortable, while the freshman team rushed in, circling gaily about a diminutive knight in shining silver armor, with a green plume. He marched proudly, but with some difficulty, for his helmet was down and his sword, which was much too long for him, had an unbecoming tendency to trip him up. When his hesitating steps had brought him to the middle of the gymnasium, the knight, apparently perceiving the Indian for the firsttime, dropped his encumbering sword and rushed at his rival with sudden vehemence and blood-curdling cries. The little Indian stared for a moment in blank amazement, then slipping off his blanket turned tail and ran, reaching the door long before his sophomore supporters could stop him. The knight meanwhile, left in full possession of the field, waited for a moment until the laughter and applause had died away into curiosity. Then, deliberately reaching up one gauntleted hand, he pulled off his helmet, and disclosed the saucy, freckled face of the popular son of a favorite professor.
He grinned cheerfully at the stage and the gallery, gallantly faced the junior-freshman side, and waving his green plume aloft yelled, “Hip, hip, hurrah for the freshmen!” at the top of a pair of very strong lungs. Then he raced off to find the seat which had been the price of his performance between two of his devoted admirers on the sub team, while the gallery, regardless of meaningless prohibitions and forgetful of class distinctions, cheered him to the echo.
All of a sudden a businesslike air began topervade the floor of the gymnasium. Somebody picked up the knight’s sword and the Indian’s blanket, and Miss Andrews took her position under the gallery. The ushers crowded onto the steps of the stage, and the members of the teams, who had gathered around their captains for a last hurried conference, began to find their places.
“Oh, I almost wished they’d sing for a while more,” sighed Betty.
“Do you?” answered Helen absently. She was leaning out over the iron bar of the railing with her eyes glued to the smallest freshman centre. “Why?”
“Oh, it makes me feel so thrilled and the songs are so clever and amusing, and the mascots so funny.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Helen. “The things here are all like that, but I want to see them play.”
“You mean you want to see her play,” corrected Betty merrily. “I don’t believe you care for a single other thing but T. Reed. Where is she?”
Helen pointed her out proudly.
“Oh, what an awfully funny, thin littlebraid! Isn’t she comical in her gym suit, anyway? You wouldn’t think she could play at all, would you, she’s so small.”
“But she can,” said Helen stoutly.
“Don’t I know it? I guarded her once–that is, I tried to. She’s a perfect wonder. See, there’s Rachel up by our basket. Katherine says she’s fine too. Helen, they’re going to begin.”
The assistant gym teacher had the whistle now. She blew it shrilly. “Play!” called Miss Andrews, and tossed the ball out over the heads of the waiting centres. A tall sophomore reached up confidently to grab it, but she found her hands empty. T. Reed had jumped at it and batted it off sidewise. Then she had slipped under Cornelia Thompson’s famous “perpetual motion” elbow, and was on hand to capture the ball again when it bounced out from under a confused mass of homes and centres who were struggling over it on the freshman line. The freshmen clapped riotously. The sophomores looked at each other. Freshman teams were always rattled, and “muffed” their plays just at first. What did this mean? Oh, well, the homeswould miss it. They did, and the sophomores breathed again, but only for a moment. Then T. Reed jumped and the ball went pounding back toward the freshman basket. This time a home got it, passed it successfully to Rachel, and Rachel poised it for an instant and sent it cleanly into the basket.
The freshmen were shouting and thumping as if they had never heard that it was unlady-like (and incidentally too great a strain on the crowded gallery) to do so. Miss Andrews blew her whistle. “Either the game will stop or you must be less noisy,” she commanded, and amid the ominous silence that followed she threw the ball.
This time T. Reed missed her jump, and the tall sophomore got the ball and tossed it unerringly at Captain Marion Lawrence, who was playing home on her team. She bounded it off in an unexpected direction and then passed it to a home nearer the basket, who on the second trial put it in. The sophomores clapped, but the freshmen smiled serenely. Their home had done better, and they had T. Reed!
The next ball went off to one side. In thescramble after it two opposing centres grabbed it at once, and each claimed precedence. The game stopped while Miss Andrews and the line-men came up to hear the evidence. There was a breathless moment of indecision. Then Miss Andrews took the ball and tossed up between the two contestants. But neither of them got it. Instead, T. Reed, slipping in between them, jumped for it again, and quick as a flash sent it flying toward the freshman goal. There was another breathless moment. Could Rachel Morrison put it in from that distance? No, it had fallen just short and the sophomore guards were playing it along to the opposite end of the home space, possibly intending to— Ah! a stalwart sophomore guard, bracing herself for the effort, had tossed it over the heads of the centres straight across the gymnasium, and Marion Lawrence had it and was working toward the basket, meanwhile playing the ball back to a red haired competent-looking girl whose gray eyes twinkled merrily as her thin, nervous hands closed unerringly and vice-like around the big sphere. It was in the basket, and the freshmen’s faces fell.
“But maybe they’ve lost something on fouls,” suggested Betty hopefully.
“And T. Reed is just splendid,” added Helen.
Everybody was watching the gallant little centre now, but she watched only the ball. Back and forth, up and down the central field she followed it, slipping and sliding between the other players, now bringing the ball down with a phenomenal quick spring, now picking it up from the floor, now catching it on the fly. The sophomore centres were beginning to understand her methods, but it was all they could do to frustrate her; they had no effort left for offensive tactics. Generally because of their superior practice and team play, the sophomores win the inter-class game, and they do it in the first half, when the frightened freshmen, overwhelmed by the terrors of their unaccustomed situation, let the goals mount up so fast that all they can hope to do in the second half is to lighten their defeat. What business had T. Reed to be so cool and collected? If she kept on, there was strong likelihood of a freshman victory. But she was so small, and CorneliaThompson was guarding her–Cornelia stuck like a burr, and the “perpetual motion” elbow had already circumvented T. Reed more than once.
After a long and stubborn battle, the freshmen scored another point. But in the next round the big sophomore guard repeated her splendid ’crossboard play, and again Marion Lawrence caught the ball.
Ah! Captain Lawrence is down, sliding heavily along the smooth floor; but in an instant she is up again, brushing the hair out of her eyes with one hand and making a goal with the other.
“Time!” calls Miss Andrews. “The goals are three to two, fouls not counted.”
The line-men gather to compare notes on those. The teams hurry off to their rooms, Captain Lawrence limping badly. The first half is finished.
A little shivering sigh of relief swept over the audience. The front row in the gallery struggled to its feet to rest, the back rows sat down suddenly for the same purpose.
“Oh, doesn’t it feel good to stretch out,” said Betty, pulling herself up by the railingand drawing Helen after her. “Aren’t you tired to death sitting still?”
“Why no, I don’t think so,” answered Helen vaguely. “It was so splendid that I forgot.”
“So did I mostly, but I’m remembering good and hard now. I ache all over.” She waved her hand gaily to Dorothy King, then caught Mary Brooks’s eye across the hall and waved again. “T. Reed is a dandy,” she said. “And Rachel was great. They were all great.”
“How do you suppose they feel now?” asked Helen, a note of awe in her voice.
“Tired,” returned Betty promptly, “and thirsty, probably, and proud–awfully proud.” She turned upon Helen suddenly. “Helen Chase Adams, do you know I might have been down there with the subs. Katherine told me this morning that it was nip and tuck between Marie Austin and me. If I’d tried harder–played an inch better–think of it, Helen, I might have been down there too!”
“I couldn’t do anything like that,” said Helen simply, “but next year I mean to write a song.”
Betty looked at her solemnly. “You probably will. You’re a good hard worker, Helen. Isn’t it queer,” she went on, “we’re not a bit alike, but this game is making us feel the same way. I wonder if the others feel so too. Perhaps it’s one reason why they have this game–to wake us all up and make us want to do something worth while.”
“Betty Wales,” called Christy Mason from the floor below. Betty leaned over the railing. “Don’t forget that you’re coming to dinner to-night. We’re going to serenade the team. They’ll be dining at the Belden with Miss Andrews.”
Kate Denise joined her. She had never mentioned the afternoon in Eleanor’s room, but she took especial pains to be pleasant to Betty.
“Hello, Betty Wales,” she called up. “Isn’t it fine? Don’t you think we’ll win? Anyway Miss Andrews says it’s the best game she ever saw.”
“Betty Wales,” called Dorothy King from her leader’s box, “come to vespers with me to-morrow.”
Betty met them all with friendly littlenods and enthusiastic answers. Then she turned back to Helen. “It’s funny, but I’m always interrupted when I’m trying to think,” she said. “If there were six of me I think I might be six successful persons. But as it is, I suppose I shall always be just ‘that little Betty Wales’ and have a splendid time.”
“That would be enough for most people,” said Helen.
“Oh, I hope not,” said Betty soberly. “I don’t amount to anything.” She slipped down into her place again. The teams were coming back.
“See Laurie limp!”
“Their other home–the one with the red hair–looks as fresh as a May morning.”
“Well, so does T. Reed.”
“We have a fighting chance yet.”
Thus the freshman gallery.
But the second half opened with the rapid winning of three goals by the sophomores. Cornelia Thompson had evidently made up her mind that nobody so small as T. Reed should get away from her and mar the reputation of her famous “ever moving and ever present” elbow. The other freshman centreswere over-matched, and once Marion Lawrence and the red-haired home got the ball between them, a goal was practically a certainty.
“Play!” called Miss Andrews for the fourth time.
T. Reed’s eyes flashed and her lips shut into a narrow determined line. Another freshman centre got the ball and passed it successfully to T. Reed, who gave it a pounding blow toward the freshman basket. A sophomore guard knocked it out of Rachel Morrison’s hands, and it rolled on to the stage. There was a wild scuffle and the freshman balcony broke into tumultuous cheering, for a home who had missed all her previous chances had clutched it from under the president’s chair and had scored at last.
A moment later she did it again. There was a pause while a freshman guard was carried off with a twisted ankle and Katherine Kittredge ran to her place. Then the sophomores scored twice. Then the freshmen did likewise. “Time!” called Miss Andrews sharply. The game was over.
“Score!” shrieked the galleries.
Then the freshmen bravely began to sing their team song,