A BOLD STAND FOR HONOR
Thrilled with the discovery she had just made, Marjorie's first impulse
was to seek admittance to the room so long denied her and confront Mary
with the knowledge of her good deed. Remembering her General's
injunction, "Let her alone," she refrained from yielding to that
impulse. Her pride, too, asserted itself. It was not her place to make
advances, all too likely to be rebuffed. No, she must keep her secret
until time had done its perfect work. Reconciliation lay in Mary's
hands, not hers. She decided, however, that the girls must never know
who had been the author of the warning. So far as she was concerned, it
must remain a mystery to them.
"Where is Mary?" she inquired of her mother, as they sat down to
luncheon a little later. Mary's place at the table was vacant.
"Oh, she was invited to luncheon at her friend Mignon's home," returned
Mrs. Dean, frowning slightly. "I suppose she is hoping that Mignon's
team will win the game this afternoon."
"I suppose so," returned Marjorie absently. Her mind was still on her
discovery. Should she tell Captain about it? Perhaps it would be best.
Briefly she acquainted her mother with what she had so recently found
out.
"I am not greatly surprised," was her mother's quiet comment. "Mary is
too good a girl at heart to persist for long in this ridiculous stand
she has taken. I am glad you said nothing of it to her. She must clear
her own path of the briars she has sown. When she does, she will have
learned a much-needed lesson."
"But, Captain, it's dreadful to think of Christmas coming and Mary
and--I--not--friends," faltered Marjorie. "I can't give her a present,
and I'd love to. I suppose she doesn't care to give me one. We've always
exchanged gifts ever since we were little tots."
"Perhaps everything will be all right by that time. If it isn't--well, I
have a plan--but I'm not going to say a word about it yet. Wait until
nearer Christmas. Then we shall see."
"Oh, Mother, if only you could think of something that would make us
friends again, just for a day, I'd be so happy!" Marjorie clasped her
hands in fervent appeal.
"Wait and see," smiled Mrs. Dean enigmatically.
As Marjorie set out for the high school that afternoon she hummed a
jubilant snatch of song, due to the bright ray of sunlight that had
pierced the gloom. She could afford to wait, if waiting would bring
about the miracle that her mother had hinted might be wrought. She quite
forgot basket ball until she reached the steps of the high school.
There her mind reverted to the coming contest and she set her lips in
silent determination. Her team must win to-day. She could not endure the
thought that Mignon's team should be the one to play against the
freshmen for sophomore honors.
It was half past one o'clock when she entered the building and hurried
to the dressing room at one side of the gymnasium, which was reserved
for her squad. The first to arrive, she hastily prepared for the game.
Meanwhile, she kept up an earnest thinking as to the course she had best
pursue if Mignon and her supporters overstepped the bounds of fair play.
But she could make up her mind to nothing. Mere contemplation of the
subject was so disagreeable she hated to face it.
While she pondered, Susan Atwell bustled in with Muriel Harding. The two
remaining members of the team appeared soon after and a lively dressing
and talking bee ensued. The sophomore team, which Marjorie captained,
had chosen to wear their black basket ball regalia of the year before,
but instead of the violet "F" that had ornamented their blouses, a
scarlet "S" now replaced it. Black and scarlet were the sophomore
colors. Should their team win, they could wear the same suits in the
more important game to come. It was reported, however, that Mignon's
team would shine resplendently in new suits of gray, ornamented with a
rose-colored "S," which Mignon had provided at her own expense. If they
won, she had promised her adherents the prettiest black and scarlet
suits that could be obtained for the Thanksgiving Day contest. It is
needless to say that they had also set their minds on carrying off the
victor's palm.
The game had been set for half past two o'clock, but long before that
hour the gallery audience of Sanford School girls, with a fair
sprinkling of boys from Weston High, had begun to arrive. Opinion was
divided as to the prospective winners. Marjorie's team boasted of
seasoned players, whose work on the field was well known. Mignon had not
been so fortunate. Neither Daisy Griggs nor Anne Easton had played
basket ball, previous to the opening of the season. But Mignon herself
was counted a powerful adversary. The sympathy of the boys lay for the
most part with Marjorie's squad. The Weston High lads were decidedly
partial to the pretty, brown-eyed girl, whose modest, gracious ways had
soon won their boyish approbation. Among the girls, however, Mignon
could count on fairly strong support.
As it was a practice game no special preparations in the way of songs or
the wearing of contestants' colors had been observed. That would come
later, on Thanksgiving Day. But excitement ran higher than usual in the
audience, for it had been whispered about that it was to be "some game."
"It's twenty-five after, children," informed Jerry Macy, who, with Irma
Linton and Constance Stevens, had been accorded the privilege of
invading the dressing room of Marjorie's team. Jerry had elected to
become a safety deposit vault for a miscellaneous collection of pins,
rings, neck chains and other simple jewelry dear to the heart of the
school girl. Marjorie's bracelet watch adorned one plump wrist, while
her own ornamented the other.
"Look out, Jerry, or you'll make yourself cross-eyed trying to tell time
by both those watches at once," giggled Susan Atwell.
"Don't you believe it," was Jerry's good-humored retort. "They're both
right to the minute."
"Remember, girls, that we've just _got_ to win," counseled Marjorie
fervently. "Keep your heads, and don't let a single thing get by you.
We've practiced our signals until I'm sure you all know them perfectly."
"We'll win fast enough, if certain persons play fairly," nodded Muriel
Harding, "but look out for Mignon."
A shrill blast from the referee's whistle followed Muriel's warning. It
called them to action.
The next instant five black and scarlet figures flashed forth onto the
gymnasium floor to meet the gray-clad quintette that advanced from the
opposite side of the room.
United cheering from the gallery constituents of both teams rent the
air. The contestants acknowledged the applause and ran to their
stations. A significant silence fell as the referee poised the ball for
the opening toss. Mignon La Salle's black eyes were fastened upon it
with almost savage intensity. She leaped like a cat for it as it left
the referee's hands. Again the screech of the whistle sounded. The game
had begun.
It was Marjorie who won the toss-up, however. She had been just a shade
quicker than Mignon. Now she sent the ball flying toward Susan Atwell
with a sure aim that made the onlookers gasp with admiration. Before the
gray-clad girls could comprehend just how it had all happened, their
opponents had scored. But this was only the beginning of things. Buoyant
over their initial gain, the black and scarlet girls played as though
inspired and soon the score stood 8 to 0 in their favor.
Mignon La Salle was furious at the unexpected turn matters had taken.
Her players, of whom she had expected wonders, were behaving like
dummies. They had evidently forgotten her fierce exhortations to fight
their way to victory regardless of expense. Well, she would soon show
them their work. It did not take her long to put her resolve into
execution. Joining a wild rush for the ball, which Harriet Delaney was
valiantly trying to throw to basket, Mignon made good her word. Just
what happened to her Harriet could not say. She knew only that a sly,
tripping foot, unseen in the turmoil, sent her crashing to the floor,
while the ball passed into the enemy's keeping, and they scored.
Inspired by the sweetness of success, Mignon's "dummies" awoke and
carried out the instructions, so often impressed upon them in secret by
their unscrupulous leader, in a series of plays that for sly roughness
had never been equalled by any other team that had elected to take the
floor in that gymnasium. Yet so cleverly did they execute them that
beyond an occasional foul they managed to elude the supposedly-watchful
eyes of the referee, an upper class friend of the French girl's, and
rapidly piled up their score.
When the whistle called the end of the first half it found the score
10-8 in favor of the grays. It also found a quintet of enraged
black-clad girls, nursing sundry bruises and vows of vengeance.
"It's a burning shame!" cried Susan Atwell, the moment the teams had
reached the safety of their dressing room. "I won't stand it. My ankle
hurts so where some one kicked it that I thought I couldn't finish the
first half. And poor Harriet! You must have taken an awful fall."
"I did." Harriet Delaney was half crying.
Muriel Harding's dark eyes were snapping with rage and injury. She was
nursing a scraped elbow, which she had received in the melee. "I'm going
straight to Miss Archer," she threatened. "I won't play the second half
with such dishonorable girls. That Miss Dutton, the referee, must know
something of the rough way they are playing. But _she_ is a friend of
Mignon's. I don't care much if Miss Archer forbids basket ball for the
rest of the season. I'd rather have it that way than be carried off the
floor, a wreck. I'm going now to find her. She's up in her office. Jerry
saw her just before she came to the gym. Didn't you, Jerry?" She turned
to the stout girl, who had just entered. At the beginning of the game,
Jerry, Constance and Irma had hurried to the gallery to watch it.
Seasoned fans, they had observed the playing with critical eyes that saw
much. The instant the first half was over, they had descended to their
friends with precipitate haste.
"Yes, she's in her office." Jerry had appeared in time to hear Muriel's
tirade. "I think I _would_ go to her, if I were you, Muriel. Those girls
are a disgrace to Sanford."
"Let's all go," proposed Harriet Delaney, wrathfully. "I'd rather do
that than stay and be murdered."
Marjorie stood regarding her players with brooding eyes. She smiled
faintly at Harriet's vehement utterance. "Girls," she said in a clear,
resolute voice, "I told you this morning that if anything like this
happened I'd go straight to Mignon and have an understanding. I'm going.
I wish you to go with me, though. I have a reason for it." She walked
determinedly to the door.
"What are you going to say to them, Marjorie?" demanded Muriel. "You
might as well save your breath. They'll only laugh at you. Miss Archer
is the person to go to."
"Not yet." Marjorie shook her head in gentle contradiction. "Please let
me try my way, Muriel. If it doesn't work, then I promise you that I'll
go with you to Miss Archer. Oh, yes. I wish you all to stand by me, but
don't say a word unless I ask you to. Will you trust me?" She glanced
wistfully at her little flock.
"Go ahead," ordered Muriel shortly. "We'll stand by you. Won't we,
girls?"
Three heads nodded on emphatic assent.
"All right. Come on. We haven't much time left. How many minutes,
Jerry?"
"Eight," replied the stout girl. "Can Irma and Connie and I come, too?"
"No. I'd rather you wouldn't."
"We'll forgive you. Now beat it." Although Jerry was earnestly
endeavoring to eliminate slang from her vocabulary, she could not resist
this forceful advice.
"Suppose we go around through the corridor and use that side door
nearest Mignon's dressing room," suggested Marjorie. "Then we won't be
noticed. I'd rather we weren't. This is really private, you know."
Four black and scarlet figures gloomily followed their leader. There
were two doors to each dressing room. One led into the gymnasium, which
was situated in a wing of the school, the other led into the corridor.
Through the half-open door of Mignon's dressing room the sound of
exultant voices reached the advancing squad. She stood with her back
toward them.
"We were a little too much for them." Mignon's boasting tones brought
fresh resentment to her injured opponents. "I told you that----"
"Miss La Salle!" Marjorie's stern voice caused the French girl to whirl
about. "We heard what you were saying. We came over here to notify you
that we do not intend to play the second half of the game with you
unless you give us your promise to play fairly and without unnecessary
roughness."
Mignon's black eyes blazed. "What do you mean by stealing into our room
and listening to our private conversation?" she demanded passionately.
Marjorie faced the furious girl with calm, contemptuous eyes. Before
their steady gaze, Mignon quailed a trifle.
"We did not _steal_ into your room. If you had not been so busy boasting
over your own unfairness you could have heard our approach. However,
that doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is this. Come here, Muriel." She
beckoned Muriel to her side. "Show Miss La Salle your elbow," she
commanded.
Muriel rolled back her loose sleeve and showed the raw, red spot on her
soft, white arm.
Mignon laughed sarcastically and shrugged her scorn of the injury. "You
can't be a baby and play basket ball," she jeered.
"Neither can you behave like a savage and expect it to pass
unnoticed--by at least a few persons," retorted Marjorie. She was
fighting hard to control the rush of temper which this heartless girl
always brought to the surface. "Harriet was badly shaken up, because
someone purposely tripped her. Some one else kicked Susan on the ankle.
It is too much. We won't endure it. Now I give you fair warning, if any
girl of my squad is handled roughly during the next half she intends to
call a halt in the game. The rest of us will then leave the floor and go
to Miss Archer's office. Think it over. That's all."
Marjorie turned on her heel. Without so much as a glance toward the
discomfited girls of Mignon's team, she walked from the room, followed
by her silently obedient train.
"Well, _what_ do you think of that?" gasped Louise Selden. Nevertheless,
she had had the grace to turn very red during Marjorie's stern
arraignment.
Mignon turned savagely upon the abashed members of her squad. "If you
pay any attention to _her_, you are all _babies_," she hissed. "You are
to play the second half just as I told you. Don't let that priggish Dean
girl scare you. _She_ wouldn't go to Miss Archer. She knows better than
that."
"You're wrong, Mignon. She meant every word she said." Daisy Griggs'
ruddy face had grown suddenly pale. "_I'm_ going to be pretty careful
how I play the rest of this game."
"So am I," echoed Elizabeth Meredith. "If Miss Dean went to Miss Archer
it would raise a regular riot."
Anne Easton and Louise Selden nodded in solemn agreement with Daisy's
bold stand. In her heart each of them stood convicted of unworthiness.
The righteous gleam of Marjorie's clear eyes had made them feel most
uncomfortable.
"You're cowards, every one of you," burst forth Mignon, her dark face
distorted with rage, "and if----"
"T-r-r-ill!" The referee's whistle was summoning them to the game.
Mignon ran to her station resolved on vengeance. Four girls followed her
to their places divided between two fears. Awe of Miss Archer and the
disaster that would surely overtake them if they persisted in their
former tactics acted as a spur to their sleeping consciences. Fear of
Mignon became a secondary emotion. They vowed within themselves to play
fairly and they kept their vow.
The second half of the game opened very well for Marjorie's team. She
passed the ball to Susan Atwell, who scored, thereby winning a salvo of
hearty applause from the gallery. The watchful spectators had not been
blind to the unfair methods of the grays. Two goals followed in their
favor. So far the grays had done nothing. Unnerved by Marjorie's just
censure and the fear of exposure, they paid little heed to Mignon's
glowering glances and frantic signals. They played in a half-hearted,
diffident fashion, quite the opposite of their whirlwind sweep during
the first half. The black and scarlet girls soon brought the score up to
14 to 10 in their favor, and from that moment on had things decidedly
their own way. Time after time Mignon cut in desperately for the basket
to receive a pass, but on each occasion her team-mates made a wild
throw. Marjorie's team, however, played with perfect unity, working in
several successful signal plays. Try as she might, the French girl could
do nothing to arouse her players. Their passing became so delinquent
that once or twice it brought derisive groans from the male spectators
in the gallery. As the second half neared its end, Muriel Harding made a
sensational throw to basket that aroused the gallery to wild enthusiasm.
It also served to take the faint remaining spirit from the disheartened
grays, and the game wound up with a score of 30 to 12 in favor of the
black and scarlet girls. They had won a complete and sweeping victory
over their unworthy opponents.
It was a proud moment for Marjorie Dean, as she stood surrounded by a
flock of jubilant boys and girls, who had rent the gallery air with
appreciative howls, then hustled from their places aloft to offer their
congratulations to the victors.
"I'm so glad you won, Marjorie," cried Ellen Seymour. Lowering her
voice, she added: "I could see a few things. I'm not the only one. But
what happened to them? They actually played fairly in the second
half--all except Mignon. But she couldn't do much by herself."
Marjorie smiled faintly. "We must have discouraged them, I suppose. We
never before worked together so well as we played in that second half.
Wasn't that a wonderful throw to basket that Muriel made?"
"Splendid," agreed Ellen warmly. "I predict an easy victory for the
sophomores on Thanksgiving Day."
Marjorie breathed relief. "Are you coming to see us play, or are you
going away for Thanksgiving?" was her tactful question.
Ellen plunged into a voluble recital of her Thanksgiving plans, quite
forgetting her curiosity over the sudden change of tactics of the
defeated grays. Several girls joined in the conversation, and thus the
talk drifted away from the subject Marjorie wished most to avoid.
In Mignon's dressing room, however, a veritable tornado had burst. Four
sullen, gray-clad girls bowed their heads before the storm of
passionate reproaches hurled upon them by their irate leader. They were
seeing and hearing Mignon at her worst, and they did not relish it. It
may be set down to their credit that not one of them took the trouble to
answer her. Beyond a mute exchange of meaning glances, they ignored her
scorn, slipping away like shadows when they had changed their basket
ball suits for street apparel. Outside the high school they congregated
and made solemn agreement that now and forever they were "through" with
Mignon.
Several friends of the latter, including Miss Dutton, the referee,
dropped into the dressing room, and to them Mignon continued her tirade.
But the face of one hitherto ardent supporter was missing. Mary Raymond
had fled from the school the moment the game was ended. For once she had
seen too much of Mignon. She had tried to force herself to believe that
she was sorry for the latter's deserved defeat, but, in reality, she was
glad that Marjorie's team had won. She determined to go home and wait
for her chum. She would confess that she was sorry for the past and ask
Marjorie to forgive her.
Putting her determination into swift action, she left the high school
behind her almost at a run. Once she had reached home she paused only to
hang her wraps on the hall rack, then posted herself in the living-room
window, an anxious little figure. When Marjorie came she would open the
hall door for her. She would say, "I surrender, Lieutenant. Please
forgive me." She smiled a trifle sadly to herself in anticipation of
the forgiving arms that Marjorie would extend to her. She was not sure
she merited forgiveness.
But when at last Marjorie came in sight of the gate, Mary vented an
exclamation of pain and anger. Marjorie was not alone. Up the walk she
loitered, arm-in-arm with Constance Stevens. The old jealousy, forgotten
in Marjorie's hour of triumph, swept Mary like a blighting wind. She
turned and fled from the hated sight that met her eyes, a deserter to
her good intentions.