THE FIRST ADVANCE
Madame Schakael had prophesied that Nancy would be perfect in her
recitations that day, and so there would be no doubt of her being able
to go skating on the river. But with the unexpected letters from Mr.
Gordon's office unopened, it seemed hardly probable that Nancy would
pull through the day without a reprimand.
"What _is_ the matter with you, Miss Nelson?" demanded one of the
teachers sharply, when Nancy had made an unusually brainless answer to a
very simple question.
Nancy came out of her haze with a sharp shock.
"Why--why, Miss Maybrick, I know very much better than that," she
admitted.
"Where is your mind, then, Miss?"
"I--I----"
Nancy was usually frankness personified, and she blurted it out now:
"I'm wondering what is in the two letters I have in my pocket, Miss
Maybrick."
"Where did you get them?" demanded the suspicious teacher.
"Madame Schakael gave them to me. I suppose they are from my guar----"
No! she could not claim Henry Gordon as her guardian. "From the
gentleman who pays my bills here," she added, in a lower voice.
"Well, for mercy's sake go to your seat and read them," said the
instructor, but more mildly. "They may be important. And having mastered
their contents, please try to master the lesson."
Nancy did as she was bid. With trembling fingers she opened one of the
envelopes. They both were typewritten as to address; but one seemed
addressed by an amateur in the art of typewriting. Nancy opened the
other first.
The enclosure was a slip of paper on which was written in a hurried
scrawl:
"You may need something extra. This is for your own use.
--H. Gordon."
And wrapped in this paper was a crisp twenty-dollar bill!
Nancy had scarcely spent a penny of her carefully hoarded pocket money
since coming to Pinewood Hall. Indeed, she had found no opportunity for
using it.
There had been plenty of secret "spreads" and "fudge orgies" in other
rooms. Cora had been to a lot of them, and had always slipped back into
Number 30 without being caught by any prowling teacher.
But of course Nancy had been invited to contribute to none of these, and
she was a particularly healthy girl with a particularly healthy
appetite: so she did not crave "sponge cake and pickles," or other
combinations of forbidden fruits supposed to be the boarding-school
misses' extreme delight.
Mr. Gordon had sent the banknote to her without any more feeling,
seemingly, than he would have had in throwing a bone to a dog. Yet, it
might be his way of showing her sympathy. Nancy slipped it back in the
envelope and picked up the second letter.
And before she opened this she believed she knew what it contained. She
had not forgotten "Scorch" O'Brien. Scorch had promised to watch "Old
Gordon" and write to her. He had used one of the office envelopes and
had stolen a minute when some typewriter was not in use.
Madame Schakael thought both letters were from Mr. Gordon. Nancy was too
curious as to what Scorch had written to deny herself the reading of the
contraband epistle.
It was much blotted and the scrawl characteristic of an office boy's
chirography proved that his terms at public school had not done Scorch
much good. This was the letter:
"Nancy Nelson,
Dear Miss:
I guess you haven't forgotten Scorch O'Brien. That's me. I said
I'd rite if I got a line on Old Gordon, that he was doing you
queer. I bet he is, but I don't know nothing for sure yet. I
put a twist on him this morning and I see a letter now in the
male-basket for you, so I says to myself, 'Scorch, what you
said took like vaccination.' Ouch! me arm hurts yet!
Well, I says to Old G., says I, 'What's come of the girl what
blew me to lunch at the Arrandale? She was some swell little
dame, she was.'
Says he, 'Mind your own business, Scorch. That's a good motto
for you to paste up over your desk.'
'Nix,' says I. 'If I didn't mind everybody else's biz in this
office the whole joint would go to grass.' And that's right.
'That girl's just the same as in jail at that boarding-school,'
says I. 'Have you forgotten her?'
'How'd I remember?' says he, looking sort of queer.
'Come across with a piece of change for her,' says me--I'm
practerkal, I be. Money always comes in handy; now, don't it?
Write an' tell me if he took my tip. And no more now, from,
"Yours respectfully,
"Scorch O'Brien."
It was Scorch all over--that letter! Nancy Nelson came near laughing
right out in the classroom; but she could cram both letters into her
pocket and go on with her studies with a more composed mind.
Scorch was evidently her friend. And eminently practical, as he
declared. Nothing could be more practical than that twenty-dollar bill.
And the red-haired Irish boy had put it into Mr. Gordon's mind to send
her this substantial tip.
She took the twenty-dollar bill out and looked at it again. It was very
real.
Cora Rathmore sat behind her in this class. Nancy happened to turn about
as she slipped the banknote out of sight again, and she saw that her
roommate was looking hard at her. Nancy turned away herself. She was
angrier with Cora than she had ever been before since the opening of
Pinewood Hall.
Jennie Bruce, one of the girls of her class whom Nancy admired the most,
leaned over and whispered to her:
"Goodness me! but you are the wealthy girl. Was that real money, or just
stage money?"
Jennie was a thin, snappy girl, with dancing eyes, a continual smile,
and as elusive as a drop of mercury. She just couldn't keep still, and
she was always getting minor marks in deportment because her sense of
fun was sure to bubble over at inopportune times.
"I--I guess it's real money," whispered Nancy, although talking during
lessons was frowned on by all the instructors.
But Nancy was only too glad when Jennie Bruce spoke to her. She was just
a little afraid of Jennie's sharp tongue; and yet she had never been the
butt of any of the harum-scarum's jokes. Perhaps Jennie had spared Nancy
because the latter was so much alone. The fun-loving one was not cruel.
"Twen-ty-dol-lars," whispered Jennie, with big eyes. "You certainly are
rich. What a lot of pickles that would buy!" and she grinned.
Nancy smiled. She knew that Jennie was only in fun when she suggested
such an expenditure. But the thought smote the lonely girl's mind that
by the spending of this money in "treating" she might gain a certain
popularity among the other girls.
Really, that was what made Grace Montgomery so popular. She had more
money to spend than almost any other girl in the school--in the freshman
class, at least. Nancy asked herself seriously if she should strive to
make friendships through such a channel.
Young as she was, the girl had serious thoughts at times, and this was
one of the times. She hid the money in the bosom of her dress and at
recess said nothing about it, although she saw several of the girls
whispering and pointing her out.
But the most surprising thing that happened was Cora coming to her
almost as soon as they were released from the classrooms for a short run
in the basement recreation room.
"I suppose you think I'm a mean thing," said the black-eyed girl,
glancing at Nancy askance.
"I'll leave it for you to say," returned Nancy. "If I had run to Madame
Schakael with a story about you----"
"How do you know I went to her?" snapped Cora. "She asked me where you
were. You slipped into her office so quick that she thought you were
trying to get out of it, of course. She knew all the time that you were
the girl who had been on the ice."
Now, Nancy did not believe this at all; but she said nothing to show
Cora that she distrusted her first friendly (?) advance.
"Anyway," said the black-eyed one, "she _did_ ask me about you, and if
you were out early, as usual. Oh! you can't fool the Madame."
"I shouldn't want to try," observed Nancy, quietly.
"Well! if you didn't act so offish we girls would like to be friends
with you," said Cora, tucking her arm into Nancy's. "Going skating this
afternoon?"
This was the first time any girl at Pinewood Hall had ever walked in a
"chummy" manner with Nancy. But to tell the truth, Nancy was not sure
whether this overture towards peace on the part of her roommate really
meant anything or not.
There were lots of the girls whom she thought she would like better than
Cora--or her friends. There was the lively Jennie Bruce, for instance.
Nancy often watched her flitting back and forth, from group to group,
being "hail-fellow-well-met" with them all. Jennie made friends without
putting forth any effort, it seemed.
"Oh, I wish I had Jennie for a roommate," thought Nancy Nelson. "I
really would be happy then, I do believe."
But this day seemed not to be a bad one for Nancy, after all. Cora
waited for her, with her skates, after recitations were over, and they
joined a party of Cora's chums on the way to the river.
Grace Montgomery was not among these; Grace never had a word for Nancy,
so the younger girl kept away from the senator's daughter.
But the river was broad, and the ice was like glass, and in the
exhilaration of the sport Nancy forgot snubs and back-biting, and all
the ill-natured slights under which she had suffered since becoming a
dweller in Number 30, West Side, Pinewood Hall.
She noted one thing that afternoon. Few of the girls skated toward the
railroad bridge; but most of them to the school bounds in the other
direction. The reason for skating down the river instead of up Nancy did
not at first understand. Then she heard some of Cora's friends talking
and laughing about it.
"Guess the old doctor has a grouch again. Isn't that mean? There isn't a
boy in sight."
"Not one!"
"Isn't it horrid of him?" cried another.
"I'll wager the old doctor has a channel sawed through the ice at the
bend here before he lets the boys out," declared a third.
"I _did_ want so to see Bob Endress," Grace Montgomery complained. "I
want him to bring a lot of nice boys home from the Academy at the
holidays, so as to have them at my party."
It struck Nancy that she had heard this Bob Endress spoken of before;
but she had no idea that there was any reason why _she_ should be
interested in him.
The girls came in from the ice half an hour before supper, cold, tired,
but merry. Nancy ran up to tidy her hair and wash. She found two of
Cora's chief chums in Number 30; but Cora herself chanced to be out.
These girls did not even notice Nancy when she came in. But that was not
strange. Often a dozen would come and go at Number 30 without once
speaking to the quiet little girl who occupied one-half of the
dormitory.
"Well, you take it from me," one was saying to the other while Nancy
brushed her hair, "she's got to do her share. It looks to me as though
she was sponging."
"Oh, do you think so?"
"Everybody else has put up for a fudge party, or something of the kind,
while she hasn't done a thing."
"Maybe she hasn't the money?"
"Then she shouldn't be in on all the other girls' good times. And she
wouldn't be if she didn't toady so to Grace."
"Ah, now----"
"That's right. Lou would have left her out of the pound party last week,
only of course Grace demanded to look over the list of invited guests."
"Well! I _do_ think Grace takes too much upon herself sometimes."
"She's going to be class president. Voting comes just before the
Christmas holidays, and when we come back we'll know who gets the chair.
Madame doesn't allow the freshies to organize until then. Well! Cora's
got to do different."
"Mamie Beasley says she isn't going to invite her to her tea on Friday.
And, you know, the teachers approve of afternoon teas. It makes for
sociability, they say."
"But Cora----"
"Hush-up!" commanded another. "Want everybody to hear you?" and she
motioned toward Nancy. The latter saw her in the glass.
So the two went out. Nancy wondered if Cora was so popular, after all.
If it _was_ Cora of whom the two were speaking.
She noted, however, that for a day or two Cora remained in her room, and
few of her friends visited her. This suited Nancy very well, even if she
did not like her roommate. The dormitory was quieter and one could
study.
"My mother's just as mean as she can be!" blurted out Cora one day when
she and Nancy were alone. "She won't give me another cent of
pocket-money until the week we go home for Christmas. And I spent all my
allowance right away when school opened. Did you, Nancy?"
"Did I what?" asked Nancy, looking up from her book.
"Have you spent all your allowance?"
"No-o," said Nancy slowly, not quite sure that she _had_ an allowance,
Mr. Gordon gave her money so irregularly.
"Lucky girl! And I promised I'd give the crowd a big blow-out here next
week. I sent to mother for the money, and told her about it, and she
won't even send me another box of goodies."
"That is too bad," observed Nancy, with a faint smile.
"Isn't it?" exclaimed Cora. "And they'll all say Number 30 is so mean! I
hate to have our room get _that_ name."
This was the first time that Nancy had supposed Cora cared anything for
the reputation of the room. Certainly, she had never before appeared to
consider that Nancy and she had anything in common.
"You see, we're just freshmen, and the sophs criticise us so. I got
acquainted with Belle Macdonald and some of those other girls away back
last spring. They expect us freshies to treat them if we want their
friendship."
"I don't think that friendships bought in that way last; do you?" asked
Nancy.
"Say! how do you expect to get popular in a school like this?" demanded
Cora, in disgust.
"I--I don't know," sighed Nancy.
"How is it Grace is so popular?" cried Cora Rathmore. "Why, she's always
doing something to get the other girls interested. She's going to be
our class president."
Nancy said nothing. She wondered if Grace Montgomery, after all, was
quite as popular as Cora thought.
"I tell you what," said the black-eyed girl, suddenly, "let's have a
party in here, anyway?"
"Why, I--I don't know anything about giving a party," confessed Nancy.
"And I'm afraid the girls wouldn't come."
"Sure they will--in a minute!" declared Cora, confidently. "All I've got
to do is to tell 'em. You see, I've been making friends in Pinewood
Hall, while you've been 'boning.' Some of them think you are too stiff."
"I don't mean to be," protested Nancy, shaking her head.
"Well, here's a chance for you to show 'em. You say you've got some
money left?"
"Oh, yes."
"How much?" asked Cora, bluntly.
"Well--I've got more than twenty dollars," confessed Nancy.
"Crickey-me!" gasped Cora. "Twenty dollars? Why, we'd give the dandiest
kind of a spread--salad, and ice cream, and cakes--Oh, crickey-me! that
would be great."
"But what would Corinne say?" blurted out Nancy.
"Hah! those big girls have after-lights-out spreads, too. That Canuck
won't dare say a word."
"But some of the teachers----"
"You needn't borrow trouble," said Cora. "Of course, if you don't want
to do it----"
"I--I----"
"Sure, you understand that I'll pay my half," went on Cora, eagerly.
"All you got to do is to lend me the money until Christmas time."
"Oh, that's not it!" cried Nancy, who was naturally a generous-hearted
girl.
"Then you're in for it?"
"If--if you think the other girls will like it?"
"Sure they will!" cried Cora. "Hurrah! Now, you leave it to me. I'll
tell Grace first of all, and we'll pick out a nice crowd. Why, with
twenty dollars we can have at least twenty girls."
Nancy began to enthuse a little herself. She longed so to be friendly
with her own class, especially. There was Jennie Bruce, the fun-loving
girl, and several others whom she particularly liked. Of course, they
would all have to be domiciled in the West Side. No girl could cross
from one side of the Hall to the other after curfew without being
observed.
And the spread which Cora planned was not to begin until all the lights
were out and the teacher, whose turn it was to be on that night, had
gone her rounds to see that all the dormitories were quiet.
"We'll take a night when Maybrick is on, if we can," said Cora. "She
goes to bed to sleep! No prowling around for her after she has once
decided that all the chickens are on the roost."
And Nancy, with a suspicion deep in her mind that it was all wrong, and
yet willing to suffer much for the sake of gaining "popularity,"
so-called, allowed Cora to go ahead with the preparations for the coming
surreptitious feast.