ROUND ROBIN
ROUND ROBIN
Sixgirls and a terrier puppy were waiting on the wharf at Old Harbor for the boat to come in. Of course there were many other persons gathered besides these; for the arrival of the daily mail boat was the great event of the little Maine seaport. But the six girls in their brown middies, flitting about like gay thrushes, seemed to take up most of the room on the little pier; to say nothing of the omnipresent pup.
Although they were dressed almost exactly alike, and were of nearly the same age, they were as different as six girls could well be.One was tall and quiet, with a straight thick mane of fair hair. One was short, dark and round, and spoke with a quaint accent. One had a rich olive skin, great serious brown eyes, and a black braid thick as your arm. One was freckled like a meadow lily, with a snub nose and sandy curls. The fifth was a slender, dainty brunette with tiny hands and feet and a delightful Southern drawl. The last of the six had features like the tall, quiet girl. But she was sturdier and quicker. There was a ripple in her chestnut hair and a twinkle in her blue eyes that marked this Yankee from her English cousin.
These two, arm in arm, were leaning over the railing of the pier, exchanging jokes with a big red-haired boy in a dory below, who was doing mysterious things with a landing net.
“Ho! There, you’ve lost another one, Dick!” cried the lively girl of the watching pair. “A great cowboy you are, and can’t catch a crab!”
“I’ll bet I could do it with a lasso, Nancy,” grinned the boy good-naturedly, “though thecritters do have nex’ to no necks.” Dick Reed was always making atrocious puns like this one, which the girls pretended not to notice. “I figured I’d get a nice mess for all our suppers. But”—he glanced ruefully at the two small red objects sidling about the bottom of the dory, “I reckon I’ll have to make it a private donation to the newest comer; a sort of peace-offering. Say, do you suppose she will like ’em?”
“Why shouldn’t she like them?” asked Cicely Vane, the English girl, in her clear soft tones.
“Yes? Why shouldn’t she like them?” Nancy Batchelder repeated her cousin’s question in her more animated and penetrating voice. “I suppose she eats like the rest of us.”
“Well, we’ll soon see,” said Dick, landing another crab dexterously. “There you are, old Sidestepper! And proud you ought to be to make a lunch for the Golden Girl.”
“Hush, Dick!” cautioned Nancy, “Don’t let any stranger hear you call her that. It sounds so—so vulgar. You’ll forget sometime, and she will hear you.”
“She’s got good ears if she can hear me now,” muttered Dick.
“We used to call her that last summer,” Nancy whispered to her chum. “You know, she has lived here longer than any of us, really. But I don’t believe she knows the nice, dear corners of Old Harbor, or the nice, dear comfortable people as well as we do. She never went anywhere off her father’s place, they say, except to ride or drive or sail in his yacht. Though when she was a tiny little girl she used to run down to Cap’n Sackett’s often. That was before Nelly went there to live.”
“Didn’t she come to see you at the camp?” queried Cicely, wondering at the inconsistent ways of these Americans, in a land where everyone was supposed to be “equal.” “I should have thought she would be lonesome in that big house.”
“Dear me, no!” laughed Nancy. “She never even looked at us in those days. You ought to have seen her nose go up in the air when she passed us in the motor. She had girls and boys on house parties to visit hersometimes. But they came from far away, and flocked by themselves. Mrs. Poole, her stepmother, is a dressy, snobby kind of woman. I’m glad my mother isn’t like that! The people here scarcely know her by sight. Nobody likes Mr. Poole, either. He is what they call a ‘hard man,’ whatever that may mean.”
“In England it has something to do with money and not being kind,” said Cicely vaguely. “I don’t think I shall like this rich girl of yours, Nancy.”
“Don’t call hermine!” Nancy hastened to disclaim, with a little shake to her cousin’s shoulders. “I didn’t want her to come. Nobody did. But as Mother said, what could you do, when Mr. Poole wrote so strangely, to say that he and Mrs. Poole were going suddenly away with the baby, and that there would be no other place for them to leave Anne? Just imagine! He said Anne had always spent her summers at Old Harbor; and now mightn’t she stay at Mother’s camp with us girls, to learn the simple life, which would be good for her!”
“My word!” commented Cicely. “How odd! Was that all her father said?”
“I think so. Anyway, you know Mother. After she had read that letter backward and forward—and upside down, for all I know—she sighed and said—‘Poor little Golden Girl! I don’t understand her father. But I guess we ought to have her here and be nice to her.’”
“Dear Tante!” exclaimed Cicely. “She couldn’t help but be nice to anyone. But why did she call this Anne a ‘poor’ little girl?”
“I don’t know,” said Nancy. “I wonder.”
Their wonderings were cut short by a cry from the other side of the pier. “Boat ahoy! Hi, Nancy!”
It was a tall young man in a flannel shirt and knickerbockers who called out to his sister over the heads of the crowd.
“Come on, girls!” summoned Nancy, who seemed to be their leader. And the little brown flock fluttered forward to the edge of the pier. “Now, when I say ‘One—two—three!’ be ready with the yell. We’ll start her right with a rousing welcome, anyway.”
The little steamer was just rounding the point of the nearest island. Evidently there were not many persons on board. It was still early in the season and many of the summer cottages were as yet unopened. On the upper deck was standing just one person. As the boat drew near one could see that this was a girl in a fur stole, who seemed to be looking earnestly at the group on the wharf.
“That must be Anne Poole,” said Nancy to her Club. And she whispered in Cicely’s ear—“I’m nervous! I don’t know why. She seems to me like a foreigner, though she’s not. But you didn’t, and you are!”
The sentence sounded mixed. But Cicely seemed to understand and squeezed her cousin’s arm. These two were old friends as well as relatives. For though this was Cicely Vane’s first visit to America, Nancy Batchelder had several times been to Cicely’s home in England, the country of Nancy’s own long-ago ancestors.
“Qu’elle est chic!” murmured Gilda Bétemps.
“But how pale!” added Norma, the dark girl.
“I wish Mother would let me bob my hair,” thought Nancy, looking enviously at the newcomer’s boyish head.
“What lovely clothes!” sighed the pretty Southerner, noting every detail of hat and coat and dainty shoes. “I can’t imagine her in this rig!”
“She looks stiff and unhappy,” thought the English girl. What Nelly Sackett thought she did not say. Her lips were pursed together and she eyed the Golden Girl with keen blue eyes.
“Now, come on, girls! Go to it, Doughboy!” Nancy admonished the puppy. “One two—three!” Six girlish voices, aided by a deeper masculine trio, burst into a wild yell. “Heia, hoia! Together! Get together!”
“Bow—wow—wow!” barked Doughboy, quivering with enthusiasm.
The girl on the steamer looked first surprised then interested, as she saw six handkerchiefs waved in her direction, while a little dog bounded frantically up and down like arubber ball. She had not expected a welcome like this. Though indeed she had not known what to expect, it was all so strange. A little color crept into her pale cheeks and she bowed her head slightly.
“Some airs!” sniffed Dick Reed. Then he disappeared into the background, where Hugh and Victor were getting the motor boat ready for passengers.
The little steamer picked her way gingerly to the pier. The gang plank was let down, and presently the Golden Girl was tripping ashore on high-heeled shoes. Nancy stepped forward with a well-meaning smile. “You are Miss Anne Poole?” she said, “And I am Nancy Batchelder from Round Robin. I’m glad to welcome you. My mother was sorry not to be here, too. But she is busy getting luncheon ready.” Anne Poole stared. Her hostess was busy, getting her own luncheon! What a funny place! Then she glanced around with a start; for already the gang plank was hauled in and the steamer was about to move away. “Oh, my bags!” she cried. “Didn’t anyone bring them ashore?”
“Three trunks have come off,” volunteered Nancy, as who shouldsay,—“Isn’t that enough for anybody?”
“No, bags; two handbags besides. One has my jewelry in it. I left them on the seat. I thought someone would bring them.” Anne Poole stood helpless.
The steamer’s bell rang. “Oh, Captain! Wait a minute! She’s left her bags!” Nancy called. Like a flash she jumped onto the steamer, over the railing, ran to the upper deck and soon reappeared with a big and a little bag, which the other girls helped her to hand ashore. Then once more she stood on the pier beside the astonished Anne, before either she or the Captain had recovered breath, or the steamer had got under way.
“We have to help ourselves and move quickly, or we get left, you see,” said Nancy, laughing at the girl’s amazed expression.
“I supposed there would be porters,” Anne repeated stiffly. “I never lift bags. But then, I never came to Old Harbor on the steamer before. Father always brought us down on the yacht.”
“It’s quite different when you come by steamer. You’ll find a lot of things different I guess,” grinned Nancy rather wickedly.
“I suppose so,” remarked Anne, lifting her eyebrows with a bored expression.