Jerry--it's perfect! Come and look. Gyp, shivering in her pajamas, was standing with her small nose flattened against Jerry's cold window. Downstairs a clock had just chimed seven.
Jerry sprang from her bed with one bound. She peeped over Gyp's shoulder. A thaw the day before had made the girls very anxious, but now a sparkling crust covered the snow and the early sun struck coldly across the housetops.
This was the day of the Lincoln Midwinter Frolic.
Bring your clothes into my room and we'll dress in front of the fire. Uh-h-h, isn't it cold? But won't it be fun? Don't you wish it was ten o'clock now? It's going to be the very best part of the whole holiday!
Jerry thought so, too, when, a few hours later, she and Gyp joined a large group of the Lincoln girls and boys at the trolley station. A special car, attached to the regular interurban trolley, was to take them and their sleds and skis--and lunch--out to Haskin's Hill where the Midwinter School Frolic was always held.
Jerry had not caught a glimpse of the country since arriving with Uncle Johnny at the Westley home. As the car sped along she sat quiet amid the merry uproar of her companions, but her eyes were very bright; these wide, open stretches of fields, with the little clusters of buildings and the hills just beyond, made her think of home.
The founders of Lincoln School had wanted to thoroughly establish the principle of co-education. "These young people," one of them had said, "will have to live and work and play in a world made up of both men and women; let them learn, now, to work and play together." The records of the school showed that they worked well together and one had only to give the briefest glance at the merry horde that swarmed over Haskin's Hill on that holiday morning to know that they played well together, too.
It's most like Kettle, cried Jerry, excitedly, for at Haskin's station, where the picnickers left the trolley, the hills pressed about so close that they, indeed, seemed to Jerry like her beloved mountains. "But how horrid to call a lovely place like this Haskin's!"
It's named after a funny little hermit who lived for years and years--they say he was 'most one hundred and fifty when he died--in the little cabin at the foot of the hill where we coast. He used to write poetry about the wind and the trees and he'd wander around and sit in his door playing a violin and singing the verses he'd written.
Then his name could be any old thing, declared Jerry, delighted at the picture Gyp had drawn, "if he did such lovely things! Let's us call it the Singing Hill."
The scent of pine on the frosty air and the knowledge that her new sweater and tam-o'shanter were quite as pretty as the prettiest there, transformed Jerry into a new Jerry. She felt, too, that out here in the open she was in her element; a familiarity with these sports that had been her winter pastime since she was a tiny youngster gave her an assurance that added to her gay spirits.
Thanks to long hours of play with Jimmy Chubb she could steer the bob-sled with a steadier hand than any of the others; Barbara Lee, looking more like a schoolgirl than ever in a jaunty red scarf and cap, declared she'd trust her precious bones to no one but Jerry!
The morning passed on swift wings; only the pangs of hunger persuaded the girls and boys to leave their fun. They gathered in front of the picturesque old cabin about a great bonfire over which two of the older boys were grilling beefsteak for sandwiches. And from a huge steaming kettle came a delicious odor of soup.
Imagine Isobel saying she's too old for all this fun, exclaimed Gyp as she stood in the "chow line" with her mess tin ready in her hand. "Why, a lot of these girls and boys are older than she is! The trouble with Isobel is"--and her voice was edged with scornful pity--"she's afraid of mussing her hair!"
Skiing was a comparatively new sport among the Lincoln boys and girls. Only a few of the boys had become even fairly skillful at it, yet there had been much talk of forming a team to defeat Lincoln's arch-enemy--the South High. While the young people ate their lunch their conversation turned to this.
We haven't anyone that can touch Eric Hansen, though--he learned how to ski, I guess, in the cradle, declared Dana King, frowning thoughtfully at the long hill that stretched upward from where they were grouped.
During the morning Ginny Cox had borrowed Graham Westley's skis and had, after many tumbles, succeeded in one thrilling descent. She declared now to the others, between huge mouthfuls of sandwich, that it was the most exciting thing she'd ever done--and Ginny, they all knew, had done many! Jerry, next to her, had agreed, quietly, that skiing was--very exciting. Ginny's head was a bit turned by that one moment of victory when she had stood flushed--and upright--at the foot of the hill, trying to appear indifferent as the boys showered laughing congratulations upon her for her feat, so, now, she turned amused eyes upon Jerry.
Can you ski? There was a ring of derision in her voice. Jerry nodded. "Then I dare you to try it from the very top!"
The face of Haskin's Hill was divided by a road that wound across it. Because of the steep descent of the upper part and because the level stretch of the road made a jump too high for anyone's liking, only one or two of the boys had attempted to ski from the very top, and they had met with humiliating disaster.
Jerry looked up to the top of the hill. Ginny's tone fired her. She was conscious, too, that Ginny's dare had been followed by a hush--the others were waiting for her answer.
If someone will lend me their skis---- She tried to make her tone careless.
Jerry Travis, you never would!
Take Dana King's skis. They're the best.
The very top---- commanded Ginny.
May I use your skis, Dana?
Let her use your skis, King.
Jerry, don't---- implored Gyp.
Jerry put down her plate and cup. Miss Lee was in the little cabin, so she did not know what was happening. The girls and boys pressed about Jerry, watching her with laughing eyes. Not one of them believed that she had the nerve to accept Ginny Cox's "dare."
But when, very calmly, she shouldered Dana King's skis and started off up the hill alone, their amusement changed to wonder and again to alarm. Jerry looked very small as she climbed on past the level made by the road.
Oh, she'll fall before she even gets to the jump--that part's awfully steep, consoled one boy, speaking the fear that was in each heart.
If she kills herself you'll be her murderer, cried Gyp passionately to Ginny Cox.
Ginny was wishing very much that she hadn't made that silly, boastful dare--trying to make someone else do what she was afraid to try herself! She was very fond of Jerry. The red faded from her face; she clenched her hands tightly together.
Tibby commenced to cry hysterically. One of the older girls declared they ought to call Jerry back. The boys shouted, but Jerry, catching the sound faintly, only waved her hand in answer.
At the top of the hill Jerry turned and looked down the long stretch. She had skied over many of the trails of Kettle, but none of them had had "jumps" as difficult as this. Quite undaunted, however, she told herself that she needed only to "keep her head." She adjusted her skis, then tried the weight of her pole, carefully, to learn its balance. She began to move forward slowly, her eyes fixed on the narrow tracks before her, her knees bent ever so little, her slim body tilted forward. Only for one fleeting moment did she see the group below, standing immovable, transfixed by their concern--then their faces blurred. The sharp wind against her face, the lightning speed sent a thrill through every fibre of Jerry's being; her mind was intensely alert to only one thing--that moment when she must make the jump! It came--instinctively she balanced herself for the leap, her back straightened, her arms lifted, her head went up--as though she was a bird in flight she curved twenty feet through the air ... her skis struck the snow-crusted tracks, her body doubled, tilted forward ... then, amid the unforgettable shouts of the boys and girls she slid easily, gracefully, on down the trail.
Ginny Cox was the first to reach her. She threw her arms about her and almost strangled her in a passionate hug.
You wonder! Oh, if anything had happened to you----
The boys were loud and generous in their praise.
Now we've found someone that can put it all over Hansen, shouted one of them. "Let's challenge South High right off!"
Who'd ever believe a little kid like you could do it, exclaimed Dana King with laughable frankness, but he stared at Jerry with such open admiration that any sting was quite taken from his words.
Jerry could not know, of course, that, all in a moment, she had become a "person" in Lincoln School. Uncle Johnny, that afternoon in the Westley library, had said very truly that it was usually some unexpected little thing that set a style or made a leader. He had not, of course, foreseen this episode of Haskin's Hill, but he had known that Jerry had determination with her sunniness and a faith in herself that could never be daunted.
Come on, fellows, let's us try it. We can't let little Miss Travis beat us, challenged one of the boys.
There was general assent to this. Half a dozen picked up their skis. But Jerry lifted an authoritative hand--Jerry, who, until this moment, had been like a little mouse among them all!
Oh, boys, don't try it. Unless you can ski very well, a jump like that's awfully dangerous. I've skied all my life and I've jumped, too, but never any jump as high as that and--and I was a little scared--too! And, because Jerry was a "person" now, they listened. She had spoken with appealing modesty, too, not at all with the arrogance that comes often with success and can never be tolerated by fellow-students.
Miss Travis is right, fellows, broke in Dana King. "Let's learn to ski a little better before we try that jump. This very minute we'll begin practice for the everlasting defeat of South High! You can use my skis, Jerry. Come on, Ginny--the All-Lincoln Ski Team!" He led the way up the hill followed by a number of the boys and Ginny Cox and Jerry--Jerry with a glow on her cheeks that did not come entirely from the wintry air; she "belonged" now, she was not just a humble student, struggling along the obscure paths--she was one of those elected ones, like Ginny and Dana King, to whom is given the precious privilege of guarding the laurels of the school at Highacres!
Good-morning, Mr. Westley!
Barbara Lee's demure voice halted John Westley in a headlong rush through the school corridor.
Oh--good-morning, Miss Lee. If a stray sunbeam had not slanted at just that moment across Miss Lee's upturned face, turning the curly ends of her fair hair to threads of sheen, John Westley might have passed right on. Instead, he stopped abruptly and stared at Miss Lee.
I declare--it's hard to believe you're grown-up! And a teacher! Why, I could almost chuck you under the chin--the way I used to do. I suppose I'd get into no end of trouble if I ever tried it----
Well, her face dimpled roguishly, "I don't think it's ever been done to anyone in the faculty. I don't know what the punishment is. Anyway, I'm trying so hard to always remember that I am very much grown-up that it is unkind of you to even hint that I am failing at it--dismally."
I think--from what my girls say--that you're succeeding rather tremendously, here at Highacres.
That is nice in you--and them! I wonder if I can live up to what they think I am. Miss Lee's face was very serious; she was really grown-up now.
Miss Lee, can you give me half an hour? I was on my way to Dr. Caton's office when----
You nearly knocked me over!
Yes--thinking you were one of the school children----
We can go into my library or--down in my office.
Your office, by all means. John Westley was immensely curious to see Miss Lee's "office."
It was as business-like in its appearance as his own. A flat-topped desk, rows of files, a bookcase filled with books bearing formidable titles, and three straight-backed chairs against the wall gave an impression of severity. Two redeeming things caught John Westley's eye--a bowl of blooming narcissi and a painting of Sir Galahad.
I brought that from Paris, explained Barbara Lee. "I stood for hours in the Louvre watching a shabby young artist paint it and--I had to have it. It seemed as if he'd put something more into it than was even in the original--a sort of light in the eyes."
Strange---- John Westley was staring reflectively at the picture. "Those eyes are like--Jerry Travis!"
Yes--yes! I had never noticed why, but something familiar in that child's expression has haunted me.
Though John Westley had come to Highacres that morning with an important matter on his mind and had, on a sudden impulse, begged Miss Lee to give him a half-hour that he might talk it over with her, he had to tell her, now, of Jerry and how he had found her standing on the Wishing-rock, visioning a wonderful world of promise that lay beyond her mountain.
Her mother had made an iron-clad vow that she'd always keep the girl there on Kettle. Why, nothing on earth could chain that spirit anywhere. She's one of the world's crusaders.
Barbara Lee had not gone, herself, very far along life's pathway, yet her tone was wistful.
No, you can't hold that sort of a person back. They must always go on, seeking all that life can give. But the stars are so very far off! Sometimes even the bravest spirits get discouraged and are satisfied with a nearer goal.
John Westley, sitting on the edge of the flat-topped desk, leaned suddenly forward and gently tilted Miss Lee's face upward. There was nothing in the impulsive movement to offend; his face was very serious.
Child, have you been discouraged? Have you started climbing to the stars--and had to halt--on the way?
The girl laughed a little shamefacedly. "Oh, I had very big dreams--I have them still. And I had a wonderful opportunity and had to give it up; mother wanted me at home. She isn't well--so I took this position." She made her little story brief, but her eyes told more than her words of the disappointment and self-sacrifice.
Well, mothers always come first. And maybe there's a different way to the stars, Barbara.
There was a moment's silence between them. John Westley was the first to break it.
"I want your advice, Miss Lee. I believe you're closer to the hearts of these youngsters out here than anyone else. I've something in my mind but I can't just shape it up. I want to build some sort of a scholarship for Lincoln that isn't founded on books. The trouble is,"" he went on, ""that every school turns out some real scholars--boys and girls with their minds splendidly exercised and stored--and what else? Generally always--broken bodies, physiques that have been neglected and sacrificed in the struggle for learning. Of what use to the world are their minds--then? I've found--and a good many men and women come under my observation--that the well-trained mind is of no earthly value to its owner or to the rest of the world unless it has a well-trained body along with it.""
"That's my present business, laughed Miss Lee. "I must agree with you."
So I want to found some sort of a yearly award out here at Highacres for the pupil who shows the best record in work--and play.
That will be splendid! cried Miss Lee, enthusiastically.
Will you help me? John Westley asked with the diffidence of a schoolboy. "Will you tell me if some of my notions are ridiculous--or impossible?" He picked up one of the sharpened pencils from the desk and drew up a chair. "Now, listen----" and he proceeded to outline the plan he had had in mind for a long time.
One week later the Lincoln Award was announced to the pupils of the school. So amazing and unusual was the competition that the school literally buzzed with comments upon it; work for the day was abandoned. Because the award was a substantial sum of money to be spent in an educational way, most of the pupils considered it very seriously.
Ginny Cox has the best chance 'cause she always has the highest marks and she's on all the teams.
It isn't just being on teams, contradicted another girl, studying one of the slips of paper which had been distributed and upon which had been printed the rules covering the competition. "It's the number of hours spent in the gym, or in out-of-door exercise. And you get a point for setting-up exercises and for walking a mile each day. And for sleeping with your window open! Easy!"
And for drinking five glasses of water a day, laughed another.
And for eating a vegetable every day. And for drinking a glass of milk.
That lets me out. I just loathe milk.
Of course--so do I. But wouldn't you drink it for an award like that?
Look, girls, you can't drink tea or coffee, chimed in another.
And you get a point for nine hours' sleep each school night! That'll catch Selma Rogers--she says she studies until half-past eleven every night.
I suppose that's why it's put in.
And a point for personal appearance--and personal conduct in and out of school! Say, I think the person who thought up this award had something against us all----
Patricia Everett indignantly opposed this. "Not at all! Miss Lee, and she's the chairman of the Award Committee, said that the purpose of the award is to build up a Lincoln type of a pupil whose physical development has kept pace with the mental development. I think it will be fun to try for it, though eating vegetables will be lots worse than the bridge chapter in Caesar!"
Jerry Travis, too, had made up her mind to work for the award. She had read the rules of the competition with deep interest; here would be an opportunity to make her mother and Little-Dad proud of their girl. And it ought not to be very hard, either--if she could only bring up her monthly mark in geometry! She had, much to her own surprise, lived through the dreaded midwinter examinations, though in geometry only by the "skin of her teeth," as Graham cheerfully described his own scholastic achievements.
Jerry found that Gyp had been carefully studying the rules--Gyp who had never dreamed of trying for any sort of an honor! But poor Gyp found them a little terrifying; like Pat Everett she hated vegetables and she despised milk; there was always something awry in her dress, a shoelace dangling, a torn hem, a missing button. But if one could win a point for correcting these little failings just the same as in chemistry or higher math., was it not worth trying?
Whoever do you s'pose thought of it all? Gyp asked Jerry and Graham. The name of the Lincoln "friend" who was giving the award had been carefully guarded.
Not one of the younger Westleys suspected Uncle Johnny who sat with them and listened unblushingly and with considerable amusement to their varied comments.
Well, I'll try for it, conceded Graham. "Who wouldn't? Even Fat Sloane says he's goin' to and he just hates to move when he doesn't have to! But five hundred dollars for washing your teeth and walking a mile----"
And standing well in Cicero, added Uncle Johnny, mischievously.
Do you s'pose Cora Stanton will be marked off in personal appearance 'cause she rouges and uses a lipstick? asked Gyp, with a sly glance toward Isobel, who turned fiery red. "I know she does, 'cause Molly Hastings went up and deliberately kissed her cheek and she said she could taste it--awfully!"
Cora's a very silly girl. Anyway, if she lives up to the rules of the competition she won't need any artificial color--she'll have a bloom that money couldn't buy!
Well, I'm not going to bother about the silly award, declared Isobel. "Grind myself to death--no, indeed! I don't even want to go to college. If you're rich it's silly to bother with four whole years at a deadly institution--some of the girls say you have to study awfully hard. Amy Mathers is going to come out next year and I want to, too." Isobel talked fast and defiantly, as she caught the sudden sternness that flashed across Uncle Johnny's face.
Mrs. Westley started to speak, but Uncle Johnny made the slightest gesture with his hand.
Into his mind had come the memory of that half-hour with Barbara Lee and something she had said--"the stars are very far off!" Her face had been illumined by a yearning; he was startled now at the realization that, in contrast, Isobel's showed only a self-centered, petty vanity--his Isobel, who had been so pretty and promising, for whom he had thought only the very noblest things possible.
But although he saw the dreams he had built for Isobel dangerously threatened, he clung staunchly to his faith in the good he believed was in the girl; that was why he lifted his hand to stay the impulsive words that trembled on the mother's lips and made his own tone tolerant.
Making plans without a word to mother--or Uncle Johnny? But you'll come to us, my dear, and be grateful for our advice. I don't believe just a lot of dances will satisfy my girl--even if they do Amy Mathers. And after they're over--what then? Will you really be a bit different from the other girl because you've 'come out'? What do you say to taking up your drawing again and after a few years going over to Paris to study?
The defiant gleam in Isobel's eyes changed slowly to incredulous delight. Uncle Johnny went on:
And even an interior decorator needs a college training.
John Westley, you're a wonder, declared Mrs. Westley after the young people had gone upstairs. "You ought to have a half-dozen youngsters of your own!"
He stared into the fire, seeing visions, perhaps, in the dancing flames. "I wish I did. I think they're the greatest thing in the world! To make a good, useful man or woman out of a boy or girl is the best work given us to do on this earth!"
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea----
"scanned Gyp in a singsong voice. Then she stopped abruptly; she realized that Miss Gray was not hearing a word that she was saying!
Miss Gray had asked Gyp to come to her after school. It was a glorious winter day and Gyp's friends were playing hockey on the little lake. Gyp had faced Miss Gray resentfully.
Please scan three pages, Miss Westley, Miss Gray had said, putting a book into Gyp's hands. And now, in the middle of them, Miss Gray was staring out across the snowy slopes of the school grounds, not hearing one word, and blinking real tears from her pale-blue eyes!
Little Miss Gray, for years, had come and gone from Lincoln in such a mouse-like fashion that no one ever paid much attention to her; upon her changing classes, as an individual, she left scarcely any impression; as a teacher she was never cross, never exacting, gave little praise and less censure; she worked more like a noiseless, perfect machine than a human being.
Gyp had never noticed, until that moment, that she had blue eyes--very pretty blue eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes. No one could see them because she was nearsighted and wore big, round, shell-rimmed glasses, but now she had removed these in order to wipe her tears away. Gyp, fascinated by her discoveries, stared openly.
Gyp's heart never failed to go out to the downtrodden or oppressed, beast or human. Now she suddenly saw Millicent Gray, erstwhile teacher in Second-year English, as an appealing figure, very shabby, a pinched look on her oval-shaped face that gave the impression of hunger. Her hair would really be very pretty if she did not twist it back quite so tight. She was not nearly as old as Gyp had thought she was. And her tears were very pathetic; she was sniffing and searching in a pocket for the handkerchief that was probably in her knitting bag.
T-that will d-do, Miss Westley, she managed to say, still searching and sniffing.
But Gyp stood rooted.
I'm sorry you feel bad, Miss Gray. Will you take my handkerchief? It's clean, and Gyp, from the pocket of her middy blouse, proudly produced a folded square of linen.
You wouldn't believe that just that could open the flood-gates of a broken heart, she exclaimed later to Jerry and Pat Everett, feeling very important over her astonishing revelation.
Who'd ever dream that Miss Gray could squeeze out the littlest tear, laughed Pat, at which Gyp shook her head rebukingly.
Teachers are human and have hearts, Pat Everett, even if they are teachers. And romance comes to them, too. Miss Gray is very pretty if you look at her real close and she's quiet because her bosom carries a broken heart.
Sympathetic Jerry thought Gyp's description very wonderful. Pat was less moved.
What did she tell you, Gyp?
Gyp hesitated, in a maddening way. "Well, I suppose it was giving her the handkerchief made her break down and I don't believe she thought I'd come straight out here and tell you girls. And I'm only telling you because I think maybe we can help her. After she'd taken the handkerchief and wiped her nose she took hold of my hand and pressed it hard and told me she hoped I'd never know what loneliness was. And then I asked her if she didn't have anyone and she said no--not a soul in the whole wide world cared whether she lived or died. Isn't that dreadful? And she said she didn't have a home anywhere, just lived in a horrid old boarding house. Well, she was beginning to act more cheerful and I was afraid she was recovering enough to tell me to go on with the scanning, so I got up my nerve and I asked her point-blank if she'd ever had a lover----"
Gyp Westley---- screamed Pat.
Well, there wasn't any use beating 'round the bush and I knew we'd want to know and I read once that men were the cause of most heartaches, so I asked her----
What did she say? Wasn't she furious?
No--I think she was glad I did. Maybe, if you didn't have any family and lived in a great big boarding house where you couldn't talk to anyone except 'bout the weather and the stew and things, you'd even like to confide in me. She just blushed and looked downright pretty, but dreadfully sad. She said she'd had a very, very dear friend--you could tell she meant a lover--but that it was all past and he had forgotten her. I suppose I should have said to her that it's 'better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,' but I just asked her if he was handsome, which was foolish, because she'd think he was if he was as homely as anything.
And was he?
She said he was distinguished--a straight nose and a firm chin and black hair with a white streak running straight down through the middle, like Lee's black-and-white setter dog, I guess. Girls, mustn't it be dreadful to have to go on day after day with your heart like a cold stone inside of you and no one to love you and to teach school?
Each girl, with her own life full to brimming with love, looked as though they felt very sorry, indeed, for poor little Miss Gray.
Let's do something to make her happy, suggested Pat.
Do you suppose we could find the man? They must have quarreled and maybe, if he knew----
There can't be many men with white streaks in their hair and if we get the other girls to help us, perhaps by watching real closely, we can find him.
And I thought, too, we might send her some flowers after a few days without any name or any sign on them where they came from. She'll be dreadfully excited and curious and then in a week or so we can send some more----
Aren't flowers very expensive? put in Jerry. Gyp understood her concern; Jerry had very little spending money.
I know--Pat and I'll buy the flowers and maybe some of the others will help, and you write some verses to go with them, Jerry.
Though to write verses would, ordinarily, to Jerry be a most alarming task, she was glad of anything that she could do to help Miss Gray and assented eagerly.
Peggy Lee was enlisted in the cause, and the next day the conspirators made a trip to the florist's shop. They were dismayed but not discouraged by the exorbitant price of flowers; they scornfully dismissed the florist's suggestion of a "neat" little primrose plant--they were equally disdainful of carnations. Patricia favored roses, and when the florist offered them a bargain in some rather wilted Lady Ursulas, she wanted to buy them and put them in salt and water overnight, to revive them. Finally they decided upon a bunch of violets, which sadly depleted their several allowances. And Jerry attached her verses, painstakingly printed on a sheet of azure-blue notepaper in red ink. "Blue's for the spirit, you know, and the red ink is heart's blood. Listen, girls, isn't this too beautiful for words?" Gyp read in a tragic voice:
"Only to love thee, I seek nothing more, No greater boon do I ask, Only to serve thee o'er and o'er, And in thy smile to bask. Only to hear thy sweet voice in my ear,
"Though thy words be not spoken for me,
Only to see the lovelight in thy eyes,
The love of eternity.
They're wonderful, Jerry! And so sad, too.
Do they sound like a lover? asked Jerry anxiously.
Exactly, declared Pat, solemnly. "Oh, won't it be fun to see her open it? And she'll think, of course, that it comes from the black-and-white man."
And we must each one of us pledge to keep our eyes open for the creature.
Think of it, girls--if we could make Miss Gray happy again it would be something we could remember when we're old ladies. Mother told me once that things we do for other people to make them happy come back to us with interest.
In the English class, on the following day, four girls sat very demurely in the back row, their eyes riveted on their books. When presently there was a knock at the door (Gyp had timed carefully the arrival of the messenger), Pat Everett exclaimed, "my goodness" aloud, and Jerry dropped her book to the floor. But their agitation passed unnoticed; Miss Gray's attention was fixed upon the little square box that was brought to her.
Jerry had a moment of panic. She scribbled on the top of a page in her text-book: "What if she's angry?" To which Gyp replied: "If your life was empty, wouldn't you jump at a crumb?"
Only for a moment was the machinelike precision of the English class broken. Miss Gray untied the cord, and peeped under the cover. The girls, watching from the back row, saw a pink flush sweep from her small nose to the roots of her hair, then fade, leaving her very white. Then:
Please continue, Miss Chase.
When the class was dismissed even Gyp had not the courage to linger and watch Miss Gray open the box. "She might suspect you," Patricia had warned. But at recess she rushed to the girls, her eyes shining.
Jerry! Pat! She's crazy about 'em! I went in after the third hour and pretended I was hunting for my book. The violets were sitting up on her desk and she had a few of them fastened in her old cameo pin--and she looked different--already! Let's keep up our good work! Let's swear that we'll leave no stone unturned to find the black-and-white man!
Oh, I'm sick of winter! I wish I was a cannibal living on a tropical island eating cocoanuts.
#NAME?Virginia Cox threw her skates over her shoulder; Isobel, Dorrie Carr and herself were the last to leave the lake. The school grounds were deserted.
Oh, look at the snowman someone's started, cried Ginny, as they walked through the grounds. "Say, this is spliffy snow to pack! Let's finish up the work of art." In her enthusiasm over her suggestion her ennui was forgotten. "I know, let's make him into a snowlady."
Ginny's fingers were clever. Her caricatures, almost always drawn in ridicule of the faculty or her fellow-classmates, were famous. If, in her make-up, she had had a kindlier spirit and a truer sense of the beautiful, she might have become a great artist or sculptor.
Now she worked feverishly, shaping a lifelike figure from the huge cakes of snow that the others brought to her. As she stood back to view her handiwork a naughty thought flashed into her mind.
Girls--it's going to be Miss Gray! And mother's got a funny old lavender crocheted shawl like that thing Miss Gray wears when it's cold, that the moths won't even eat. And I can fix a hat like the dreadful chapeau of hers that came out of the ark. And glasses, too----
Isobel and Dorrie laughed delightedly.
How can you get them out here?
Oh, I'll find a way! Ginny always could! "Do you think that nose is pug enough?" She deftly packed it down on each side with a finger, then gave it a quick, upward touch. "Isn't that better?"
Her companions declared the likeness perfect--as far as snow could make it.
And I can hunt up two blue glass allies for eyes. There was, plainly, no end to Ginny's resourcefulness. "You just wait and see what you'll see in the morning."
During the night King Winter maliciously abetted Ginny in her work, for a turn in his temper laid a sparkling crust over everything--and especially the little snowlady who waited, immovable, on a little rise of ground near the main entrance of the school.
The pupils, arriving at Highacres the next morning, rubbed their eyes in their amazement. Not one failed to recognize the English teacher in the funny, shawl-draped figure, with enormous glasses framing round blue eyes, shadowed by a hat that was almost an exact counterpart of the shabby one Miss Gray had hung each morning for the past three winters on her peg in the dressing-room. But there was something about the rakish tilt of the hat that was in such strange contrast to the severe spectacles and the thin, frosty nose, that it gave the snowlady the appearance of staggering and made her very funny.
All through the school session groups of pupils gathered at the windows, laughing. There was much speculating as to who had built the snowlady; the three little sub-freshmen who had begun the work Ginny had finished were vehement in their assertions that they had not. Gradually it was whispered about that Ginny Cox had done it.
We might have known that, several laughed, thinking Ginny very clever.
Then, over those invisible currents of communication which convey news through a school faster than a flame can spread, came the rumor that trouble was brewing. One of the monitors had told Dorrie Carr that Miss Gray had had hysterics in the office; that, in the midst of them, she had written out her resignation and that, after the first period, not an English class had been held!
Another added the information that Barbara Lee had quieted Miss Gray with spirits of ammonia and that Dr. Caton had refused to accept her resignation and had been overheard to say that the culprit would be punished severely.
Ginny's prank began to assume serious proportions. Ginny was more thoughtless than unkind; it had not crossed her mind that she might offend little Miss Gray. But she was not brave, either--she had not the courage to go straight to Miss Gray and apologize for her careless, thoughtless act.
There had been, for a number of years, one well-established punishment at Lincoln; "privileges" were taken away from offenders, the term of the sentences depending upon the enormity of the offence. And "privileges" included many things--sitting in the study-room, mingling with the other pupils in the lunch rooms at recess, sharing the school athletics. This system had all the good points of suspension with the added sting of having constantly to parade one's disgrace before the eyes of the whole school.
If Ginny Cox is found out, she can't play in the game against the South High, was on more than one tongue.
Gyp, deeply impressed by the criticalness of the situation, summoned a meeting of the Ravens. Her face was very tragic.
Girls--it's the chance for the Ravens to do something for the Lincoln School! We've had nothing but spreads and good times and now the opportunity has come to test our loyalty.
Not one of the unsuspecting Ravens guessed what Gyp had in mind!
Ginny Cox did build that snowlady--Isobel saw her. But if she gives herself up she'll be sent to Siberia!
Well, it'll serve her right. She needn't have picked out poor little Miss Gray to make fun of.
Gyp frowned at the interruption. "Of course not. We know all about Miss Gray and feel sorry for her, but Ginny doesn't. And, anyway, that isn't the point. I was talking about loyalty to Lincoln." Gyp made her tone very solemn. "Disgrace--everlasting, eternal, black disgrace threatens the very foundations of our dear school!" She paused, eloquently.
Next week, Tuesday, our All-Lincoln girls' basketball team plays our deadly enemy, South High. And what will happen without Ginny Cox? Who else can make the baskets she can? Defeat--ignominious defeat will be our sad lot---- Her voice trailed off in a wail that found its echo in every Raven's heart.
I'd forgotten the game! What a shame!
Why couldn't Ginny have thought of that?
Maybe Doc. Caton will just let her play that once.
Not he--he's like iron. Didn't he send Bob Morely down for three whole days just before the Thanksgiving game 'cause he got up in Caesar class and translated 'bout the 'Garlic Wars'?
Gyp sensed the psychological moment to strike.
Never before in the history of our secret order has such an opportunity to serve our school been given to us----
What can we do?
One of us can offer ourself on the altar of loyalty----
Her meaning, stripped of its eloquent verbage, slowly dawned upon six minds! A murmur of protest threatened to become a roar. Gyp hastily dropped her fine oratory and pleaded humbly:
It's so little for one of us to do compared to what it means, and if we didn't do it and South High beat us, why, we'd suffer lots more with remorse than we would just taking Ginny's punishment for her. Anyway, what did the promise we solemnly made mean? Nothing? We're a nice bunch! I'm perfectly willing to take Ginny Cox's place, but I think each Raven ought to have the chance and we should draw lots----
Yes, that would be the fairest way, agreed Pat Everett in a tone that suggested someone had died just the moment before.
I always draw the unlucky number in everything, shivered Peggy Lee.
There'll have to be two this time, then, for I always do, too, groaned a sister Raven.
Shall we do it, girls? Shall we prove to the world that we Ravens can make any sacrifice for our school?
Yes--yes, came thickly from paralyzed throats.
In a dead silence Gyp and Pat prepared seven slips of paper. Six were blank; upon the seventh Pat drew a long snake with head uplifted, ready to strike. The slips were carefully folded and shaken in Jerry's hat. Gyp put the hat in the middle of the room.
Let's each one go up with her eyes shut tight and draw a slip. Then don't open it until the last one has been drawn. They all agreed--if they had to do it they might as well make the ceremony as much of a torture as possible!
So horrible was the suspense that a creaking board made the Ravens jump; a shutter slamming somewhere in another part of the building almost precipitated a panic. After an interval that seemed hours each Raven sat with a white slip in her nervous fingers.
Now, one--two--three--open! cried Gyp.
Another moment of silence, a sharp intake of breath, a rattle of paper, then: "Oh--I have it!" cried Jerry in a small, frightened voice.
Will the young gentleman or lady who built the snow-woman that stood on the school grounds yesterday morning go at once to my office?
Dr. Caton's tone was very even; he might have been asking the owner of some lost article to step up and claim it, but each word cut like a sharp-edged knife deep into poor Jerry Travis' heart.
She sat in the sixth row; that meant that, to reach that distant door, she must face almost the entire school! Her eyes were downcast and her lips were pressed together in a thin, bluish line. She heard a low murmur from every side. Above it her steps seemed to fall in a heavy, echoing thud.
Not one of the Ravens dared look at poor Jerry; each wondered at her courage, each felt in her own heart that had the unlucky slip fallen to her lot she could never have done as well as Jerry had----
Then, instinctively, curious eyes sought for Ginny Cox--Ginny, who had been unjustly accused by her schoolmates. But Ginny at that moment was huddled in her bed under warm blankets with a hot-water-bag at her feet and an ice-bag on her head, her worried mother fluttering over her with a clinical thermometer in one hand and a castor-oil bottle in the other, wishing she could diagnose Ginny's queer symptoms and wondering if she had not ought to call in the doctor!
Jerry had had a bad night, too. At home, in her room, Gyp's eloquent arguments had seemed to lose some of their force. Jerry persisted in seeing complications in the course that had fallen to her lot.
It's acting a lie, she protested.
The cause justifies that, cried Gyp, sweepingly. "Anyway, I don't believe Dr. Caton will be half as hard on you as he would have been on Ginny Cox. It's your first offence and you can act real sorry."
How can I act real sorry when I haven't done anything? wailed Jerry.
You'll have to--you must pretend. The harder it is the nobler your sacrifice will be. And some day everyone will know what you did for the honor of the school and future generations will----
And I was trying so hard for the Lincoln Award! Real tears sprang to Jerry's eyes.
Oh, you can work harder than ever and win it in spite of this, comforted Gyp, who truly believed Jerry could do anything.
And I can't play on the hockey team in the inter-class match this week!
Of course it's hard, Jerry. Gyp did not want to listen to much more--her own conviction might weaken. "But nothing matters except the match with South High. That's why you're doing it! Now if you want to just back out and bring shame upon the Ravens as well as dishonor to the school--all right! Only--I've told Ginny."
I'll do it, answered Jerry, falteringly. But long after Gyp had gone off into dreamless slumber she lay, wide-eyed, trying to picture this sudden and unpleasant experience that confronted her. Her whole life up to that moment when, in Mr. John's automobile, she had whirled around her mountain, bound for a world of dreams, had been so simple, so entirely free from any tangles that could not be straightened out, in a moment, by "Sweetheart" that her bewilderment, now, made her lonely and homesick for Sunnyside and her mother's counsel. The glamour of her new life, happy though it was, lifted as a curtain might lift, and revealed, in the eerie darkness of the night, startling contrasts--the rush and thronging of the city life against the peaceful quiet of Jerry's mountain. It was so easy, back there, Jerry thought, to just know at once, what was right and what was wrong; there were no uncertain demands upon one's loyalty to the little old school in the Notch--one had only to learn one's lesson and that was all; even in her play back there there had not been any of the fierce joy of competition she had learned at Highacres!
And mother, with wonderful wisdom, had brought her so close to God and had taught her to understand His Love and His Anger. Jerry dug her face deep into her pillow. Wouldn't God forgive a lie that was for the honor of the school? Wouldn't He know how Ginny was needed as forward on the Lincoln team? It was a perplexing thought. Jerry told herself, with a sense of shame, that she had really not thought much about God since she had come to the Westleys. She had gone each Sunday with the others to the great, dim, vaulted church, but she had thought about the artists who had designed the beautiful colored saints in the windows and about the pealing music of the organ and not about God or what the minister was saying. Back home she had always, in church, sat between her mother and the little window where through the giant pines she could see a stretch of blue sky broken by a misty mountain-top; when one could see that and smell the pine and hear, above the drone of the preacher's voice, the clear note of a bird, one could feel very close to the God who had made this wonderful, beautiful world and had put that sweet note in the throat of a little winging creature.
Then Gyp's words taunted her. "You can back out--if you want to!" Oh, no--she would not do that--now; she would not be a coward, she would see it through; she would measure up to the challenge, let it cost what it might she would hold the honor of the school--her school (she said it softly) above all else!
Jerry had never been severely punished in her life; as she sat very quietly in Dr. Caton's office waiting for assembly to end she wondered, with a quickening curiosity, what it would seem like. Anyway, nothing could be worse than having to walk out of the room before all those staring boys and girls.
But Jerry found that something was! Barbara Lee came into the room, looking surprised, disappointed and unhappy.
Jerry, she exclaimed, "I can't believe it."
Jerry wanted to cry out the truth--it wasn't fair. Miss Lee sat down next to her.
If you had to make fun of someone, why didn't you pick out me--anyone but poor little Miss Gray! I think that if you knew how unhappy and--and drab poor Miss Gray's life has been, how for years she had to pinch and save and deny herself all the little pleasures of life in order to care for her mother who was a helpless invalid, you'd be sorry you had in the smallest measure added any to her unhappiness.
I wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world, burst out Jerry. Did she not know more about poor little Miss Gray than did even Barbara Lee?
Then why---- But at this dangerous moment Dr. Caton walked into the room.
Jerry's sentence was very simple. She listened with downcast eyes. She was to lose all school privileges for a week; during that time she must occupy a desk in the office, she must eat her lunch alone at this desk, she must not share in any of the school activities until the end of suspension. She must apologize to Miss Gray.
In Jerry's punishment there was an element of novelty that softened its sting. It was very easy to apologize to Miss Gray, partly because she was really innocent and partly because a fresh bunch of violets adorned Miss Gray's desk toward which Jerry had contributed thirty-four cents. Then a message from the Ravens was spirited to her.
You're wonderful! We're proud of you. Keep up your nerve. Blessed is the lot of the martyr when for honor he has suffered.
The Ravens.
P. S. Coming out of history I heard Dana King say to another boy that he didn't believe you did it at all--that you are shielding SOME ONE else!
Your Adoring Gyp.
Too, Jerry found the office a most interesting place. No one glanced toward her corner and she could quietly watch everything that happened. And on the second day Uncle Johnny "happened"--in a breezy fashion, coming over and pinching her cheek. Uncle Johnny did not know of her disgrace; by tacit agreement not a word of it had been breathed at home. Dr. Caton, annoyed and disapproving, crisply intimated why Jerry was there. Uncle Johnny tried to make his lips look serious but his eyes danced. Over Dr. Caton's bald head he winked at Jerry.
Uncle Johnny had come to Highacres to talk over some plans for an enclosed hockey rink. For various reasons, of which he was utterly unconscious, he was enjoying "mixing" school interests with the demands of his business. He lingered for half an hour in the office, talking, while Jerry watched the back of his brown head and broad shoulders. Before leaving he walked over to her corner.
My dear child, he began in a severe tone. He leaned over Jerry so that Dr. Caton could not hear what he said. A trustee had privileges!
I wouldn't give a cent for a colt that never kicked over the traces! Which, if Jerry had really been guilty of any offence, would have been very demoralizing. But she was not and she watched Uncle Johnny go out of the room with a look of adoration in her eyes.
A sense of reward came to Jerry, too, when Ginny Cox returned to school. Having fully recovered from the funk that had laid her, shivering and feverish, in bed, that first day she came back in gayer spirits than ever, declaring to many that she thought Miss Gray a "pill" to make such a fuss over just a little joke and, to a few, that it was fine in Jerry to shoulder the blame so that she might play in the game against South High. But her gaiety covered the first real embarrassment she had ever suffered, for Ginny, who had always, because of her peculiar charm, coming from a sense of humor, a hail-fellow spirit, an invariable geniality and an amazing facility in all athletics, exacted a slavish devotion from her schoolmates, and was accustomed to dispense favors among them, hated now to accept, even from Jerry, a very, very great one! And Jerry sensed the humility that this embarrassment called into being.
Ginny waylaid Jerry going home from school. Jerry was carefully living up to the terms of her "sentence"; each day, directly after the close of school, she walked home alone.
Jerry, I--I haven't had a chance to tell you--oh, what a peach you are, Ginny's words came awkwardly; she knew that they did not in any way express what she ought to be saying.
Jerry did not want Ginny's gratitude. She answered honestly: "I didn't want to do it. I had to--I drew the unlucky slip, you see. And you were needed on the team."
It's all so mixed up and not a bit right. Can I walk along with you? Who'd ever have thought that just building that silly snow-woman would have made all this fuss!
Dr. Caton says thoughtlessness always breeds inconsiderateness and inconsiderateness develops selfishness, selfishness undermines good fellowship and good fellowship is the foundation of the spirit of Lincoln, quoted Jerry in a voice so exactly like Dr. Caton's that both girls laughed.
He's dead right, answered Ginny, with her characteristic bluntness. "I just wanted to amuse the others and make them think I was awfully clever and that was plain outright conceit and selfishness. I guess that's the way I do most things. Well, I've learned a lesson. And there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Jerry Travis. If I don't play better basketball Friday night than I ever have in my life, well, you can walk all over me like dirt." There was a humble ring in Ginny's voice that had surely never sounded there before!
But the hard part of Jerry's punishment came when the others, without her, trooped off to the game against South High, the blue and gold colors of Lincoln tied on their arms. It promised to be the most exciting game of the season; if Lincoln could defeat South High it would win the Interschool cup.
There had, alas, to be practiced a little more deception to explain why Jerry remained at home. Gyp had announced that Jerry had a headache and Mrs. Westley had been much concerned--Jerry, who never had an ache or a pain! She had gone to Jerry's room, had tucked her in bed and had sat by the side of the bed gently smoothing Jerry's guilty forehead.
When I get through this I'll never, never tell a lie for anybody or anything, vowed Jerry in her heart, as she writhed under the loving touch.
Two hours later Gyp tiptoed to her door, opened it softly and peeped in. Jerry, expecting her, sat bolt upright. Gyp bounded to the exact centre of the bed.
We won! We won! But, oh, Jerry, it was a squeak! Honest to goodness, my heart isn't beating right yet. Tied, Jerry--at the half. Then Muff Bowling on the South High made two spliffy baskets--they were great, even if she made 'em! Our girls acted as though they were just dummies, but didn't they wake up? You should have seen their passing then. Why, honest, Midge Fielding was everywhere! Caught a high ball and passed it under--before you could wink! And, oh, Ginny--she was possessed. She could make that basket anywhere. And, listen, Jerry, with only two minutes more to play if they didn't make another and then Ginny fell--flat, Jerry, with the South High guard right on her chest and her wrist doubled under her--and she got up like a flash and her face was as white as that sheet--and she made a basket! And we won! And Gyp, drawing a long, exultant breath, dropped her chin on her knees.
Did--did they all cheer, then, for Ginny?
I should say so. With a long yawn Gyp uncurled her legs. "I'm dead. I'm going to bed." She turned toward the door. "Oh, say, I most forgot. Ginny told me to tell you that the reason she played the way she did to-night was 'cause she kept thinking of you and what you'd done for her and she wanted to prove that she was worth it. Ginny is a good sort, isn't she?"
The Ravens, now enjoying a pleasant distinction among the Lincoln students because of Jerry's suffering, the truth of which had become known after a few weeks to nearly everyone in the school, except, of course, the faculty, decided to admit more members to their circle. This necessitated an elaborate ceremony of initiation, and an especially elaborate spread.
Let's us clean the tower room, suggested Gyp one afternoon, with this in mind. "I don't mean sweep or scrub or anything like that--'cause the dust and the cobwebs make it lots more romantic. I mean just shove things further back. We'll need more room."
Jerry agreed. So the two pushed George Washington aside and climbed the little stairway. A sharp wind howled around the tower room, making weird, wailing sounds.
Isn't it spooky up here this afternoon? whispered Gyp. "Let's hurry. Here, I'll hand you these books and you pile them over there in that corner."
Gyp tossed the books about as though they were bricks. Jerry handled them more carefully. From her infancy she had been brought up to respect any kind of a book; those at home had seemed almost a part of her dear mother and Little-Dad; these had belonged to Peter Westley. He must have spent a great deal of his time reading, she thought, the volumes were worn about their edges, the pages thumbed. She peeped into one or two. Peter Westley, who had shunned the companionship of his fellow-mortals, had made these his friends.
Gyp divined what was passing in Jerry's thoughts.
These books look all dried up and dreary--just like Uncle Peter was, she exclaimed, throwing one over.
Jerry opened it at random.
"Oh, this isn't! Listen, isn't it beautiful? Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime,
"Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl----
It makes me think of a sunrise from Rocky Point. Often Little-Dad takes me up there and we sleep all night rolled in blankets.
I wish I could do things like that, sighed Gyp longingly. "I hate just doing the regular sort of things that everyone else is doing."
Jerry regarded her in astonishment; that Gyp might, perhaps, envy her the childhood she had had on Kettle had never occurred to her!
Perhaps sometime you can visit me in Sunnyside. Her eyes shone at the thought. "Don't you love poetry?" She read again:
"If 'chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet Extend his ev'ning beam, the fields revive, The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds Attest their joy, that hill and valley ring---- It's like that--at sunset--in the Witches' Glade,"" Jerry said slowly. She closed the book. ""I think Peter Westley must have had something nice in him to like this. There used to be an old, old lady who lived in a funny little house in the Notch; I always pretended she was old Mother Hubbard who lived in the cupboard. Jimmy Chubb used to throw apples at her roof to make her run out and chase him. But her garden was the loveliest anywhere around--mother used to beg seeds from her. And she'd talk to her flowers--sometimes when we'd hide behind the hedge next door to her house we'd hear her. And mother said that there must be something lovely in her soul if she cared so much for flowers. Perhaps that's the way it was with your Uncle Peter and his books.""
"Gyp frowned as though she was trying very hard to think this possible. She lifted a huge Bible and dusted it thoughtfully with her handkerchief.
I don't know--I heard Uncle Johnny say once to my father that Uncle Peter was as hard as rocks when it came to driving a bargain and he'd never give a cent to anyone. Mother said that riches that came like that only brought unhappiness and she was sorry we had any of it, though---- Gyp laughed. "Money's funny. It wouldn't matter how much of an allowance father gave Graham or me we'd never have any and I don't know where it goes. And Isobel always has a lot. Maybe she's going to be like Uncle Peter----" There was horror in Gyp's voice.
Jerry sat on the table, the huge Bible on her knees. Her eyes stared out through the dusty window-glass.
She wouldn't be like him because she won't have to work hard to get the money the way he did! Mother says---- Jerry had a way of saying "mother says" as though it was precious, indisputable wisdom. "Mother says that sometimes when a person sets his heart on just one thing in this world and thinks about it all the time, he kills everything else in him. Doesn't that seem dreadful? Not to enjoy all the beautiful, jolly things in the world?"
Jerry's philosophy was beyond Gyp's practical mind. "What would you do if you had lots and lots of money, Jerry?"
This was a stupendous question and one Jerry had often liked to ask of herself. Her answer was prompt.
I'd keep going to school just as long as ever I could. And then I'd go all over the world--to Japan and Singapore and India and to the Nile and Venice and Switzerland and Gibraltar---- her tongue stumbled in its effort to circle the globe. "Oh--everywhere. I'd want to see everything."
How many young hearts have dreamed of such adventure!
And yet, Jerry went on, "if I had all the gold in the world right in my hand I don't believe I could make myself go so far away from Sweetheart and Little-Dad and the dogs and--and Sunnyside!"
Oh, Gyp quickly settled such an obstacle. "If you had all the gold in the world you could take 'em with you."
At that moment they were startled by a loud thud in the hall beneath them. The Bible crashed to the floor. Each girl instinctively clapped her hand to her mouth to smother a cry. Then they laughed.
What ever do you suppose it was? Hark--I hear footsteps. Gyp spoke in sepulchral tones.
They're going away, whispered Jerry, relieved. "Goodness, how it frightened me!" Jerry leaned over to lift the poor Bible. From its pages had dropped a long envelope. It lay, white and smooth, the address side upward, on the dusty floor.
Look, Gyp--a letter! It must have been in this Bible.
Gyp took the envelope gingerly.
It's addressed to father! It's never been opened. It looks as though it had just been written! Jerry--that's Uncle Peter's handwriting!
Jerry stared at the envelope--except that the letter had been pressed very flat, it did indeed look as though it had just been written.
Isn't it creepy? Gyp shivered. "Do you believe in ghosts? Could Uncle Peter Westley have come here and written that--just--maybe, last night?"
It was a horrible thought--Jerry tried not to entertain it. But the wailing wind made it seem possible!
What'll we do with it? Gyp had laid it on the table.
Let's put it back in the Bible--that seemed a safe place--"and take it home. Maybe there is an important message in it that someone ought to see! But I wish we'd never come here this afternoon."
And see how dark it is--it's getting late. Let's let these other things go. Jerry's voice, betraying her eagerness to quit the tower room, made Gyp feel creepier than ever.
Each took a corner of the ghostly envelope and slipped it between the pages of the Bible.
There--it's safe enough now. We can take turns carrying it. The girls hurriedly donned their outer wraps. Then, without one backward glance, they tiptoed down the narrow stair. But, to their amazement, the panel at the foot of the stair would not budge. Vainly they shoved, and pressed their shoulders against the solid oak. Breathless, Gyp sat down on the Bible.
What'll we do?
We'll have to shout and bring someone--'cause we can't open the other door.
Then Old Crow will know our secret, wailed Gyp.
But we don't want to stay here all night!
Gyp gave one swift, backward glance up the secret stairway to the haunted tower room.
No--no! Well, let's shout together.
They shouted and shouted, with all the strength of their young lungs. But Old Crow, who really was Mr. Albert Crowe, for many years janitor of Lincoln School, had gone, ten minutes earlier, in his Sunday best, to attend the annual banquet of the Janitors' Association and his assistant had made his last rounds of the School, so that the shouts of the girls echoed and re-echoed vainly through the deserted halls of Highacres.
Jerry leaned, exhausted, against the wall.
I don't believe it's a bit of use--not a soul can hear us.
What'll we do? asked Gyp again--Gyp, who was usually so resourceful. "If we only hadn't found that old letter we never'd have thought of ghosts and we wouldn't have minded a bit being shut in the tower room."
Jerry commenced to laugh nervously. "Gyp, maybe you don't know you're sitting on the Bible!" Gyp sprang up.
I don't think it's anything to laugh about! Not me, I mean, but--but having to stay all night--up there!
Jerry started back up the stairway.
Come on, she encouraged. "I'm not afraid. If there are ghosts I want to see one." Gyp followed with the Bible. The tower room was shadowy in the fast-falling twilight. The girls tried to open each of the small windows; though they rattled busily enough they would not budge.
Gyp sat down resignedly on the window-seat. "We'll just sit here until we're rescued. Only--no one will guess where we are."
I think it's a grand adventure, declared Jerry valiantly.
If we only hadn't begun to think about ghosts! You never can see them, anyway--you just feel them. Is that the wind? Sit close to me, Jerry.
Jerry sat very close to her chum and they gripped hands; it was easier, that way, to endure the dreadful silence.
I'm hungry, whispered Gyp, after awhile. Then, a moment later, "Did you hear something, Jerry--like a long, long sigh?"
Jerry nodded and Gyp drew closer to her, shivering.
Of course, she murmured in a voice lowered to the etiquette of a haunted room. "You're not frightened because you didn't know Uncle Peter. If I was afraid of him when he was alive what----"
Sh-h-h! commanded Jerry. Uncle Peter's ghost might be hovering very close to them and might hear! Gyp's words did not sound exactly respectful.
Jerry tried to talk of everyday things but it was of no use--what mattered the color of Sue Knox's new sweater when the very air tingled with spirits?
Oh-h! Gyp clutched Jerry in a spasm of fright. "Something grabbed my elbow----" her voice was scarcely audible. "Jerry--true as I live--cross my heart! Long--bony--fingers--just like Uncle Peter's used to feel--Oh-h!"