A PROPOSITION.
A college election of any kind is always supremely interesting to the
students; for the time being studies, social affairs, even athletics
are forgotten in the suspense that surrounds the outcome. The
candidates are discussed from every angle, their respective eligibility
decided upon over and over again by every group that gathers in the
dining room, in the reception parlors, in the dormitory, until the
girls in question fairly ache to have the thing settled one way or the
other.
With the exception of student-government president, no office brings
to its recipient the honor and prestige of the senior presidency. From
the time that the freshmen enter the college until the fall of their
last year, the question retains its importance. Who, of all their
number, will be best qualified to lead the class, socially, politically
and finally, during that greatest week of a senior’s life—at the
commencement time?
Marjorie Wilkinson’s three years at Turner College had already been
filled with positions of honor and responsibility; she had held
class offices, the athletic association presidency, and, during the
latter part of her junior year, had found herself at the head of
the student-government. From the point of view of experience and
popularity, she was the only girl for the class to choose.
So sure were Marjorie’s friends in the outcome of the election that,
when the actual day came, they found the excitement dying. Lily Andrews
seemed to be the only girl who was really concerned.
“Marj isn’t interested enough in the election,” she complained to Alice
Endicott, after lunch on the eventful day. “I think in her heart she
really hopes that she won’t get it, and she is still trying to induce
the girls to vote for Jeannette. I wish she could be made to see its
real importance.”
“There’s no use trying to influence Marj,” returned Alice. “She usually
has her mind made up—and her reasons are always so good that nobody
can argue with her. Remember the time we all tried to keep her from
spending the night at the tea room? Now she’s probably interested in
something else.”
“She is,” the other admitted. “It’s the same old story—Girl Scouts.
Just because she’s twenty-one, she feels that she must rush into a
captaincy.”
“But anybody can be a Girl Scout captain—I mean anybody with ordinary
intelligence; but it takes an unusual girl to be senior president.”
“Marjorie has no idea of being an ordinary captain—she’ll work until
she’s an extraordinary one, just as she does everything else. Still, I
think if we get her really elected, she’ll have so much to do that she
won’t have time to think about anything else. Girl Scouts will have to
be forgotten, until next year.”
Had Lily been with her roommate at that moment, however, she might not
have spoken so optimistically. Marjorie was stretched on the couch in
her sitting room, in the act of reading the Girl Scouts’ magazine from
cover to cover. She was searching eagerly for any notices of troops in
need of captains, in the hope of finding a place where her services
could be used to real advantage. In her mind’s eye she pictured a very
poor troop, whose members could hardly assemble the necessary money to
pay their dues, to whom uniforms were out of the question; girls who
knew nothing of parties or camping trips; girls who had never had a
chance to get away from the ugly slum district and learn the rapture of
the woods. How thrilling it would be to open their eyes to beauty, to
fill their starved minds with knowledge, to imbue their spirits with
the great scout ideal! In comparison with the glory of such leadership,
the honor of class presidency seemed insignificant.
Unfortunately, however, she found no such troop mentioned in the pages
of the magazine. There was a call for leaders in one of the country
districts, and an opportunity offered for camp councillors, but the
cities evidently were well provided. Or perhaps, as she feared, no one
had taken the trouble to look up any such groups of girls.
When Daisy Gravers dropped in a few minutes later, she was still deep
in her problem.
“You’re welcome, Dais’,” she said, rising and offering her visitor a
chair, “if you are not here to talk about the election. I’m bored to
death with it.”
Daisy laughed good-naturedly; it was the same old, modest Marjorie, who
had been sort of an idol to her ever since she had succeeded in finding
her sister Olive and reuniting her with her husband, and later when she
had sympathized with Daisy’s plea for the little slum-baby and its sick
mother. Other people might prove disappointing, but Marjorie Wilkinson
had never failed her.
“I’ll talk about anything you like, or keep absolutely quiet,” she
replied amiably.
“You’re a dear!” exclaimed her hostess, with sincerity. “Well, then—I
want to talk about the Girl Scouts.”
“All right; what Girl Scouts?”
Marjorie outlined something of her plan to the other girl, explained
that she wanted Daisy or either of the other juniors to take charge of
the little troop in the village, so that she might devote her time to a
more difficult group. Her voice grew animated as she spoke of her hopes
and her dreams for the troop that was to be hers.
“But I don’t know how to find such a troop,” she concluded,
pathetically. “You can’t exactly go into the streets in the poor
districts and gather the children up. They might question your motive.”
“Naturally,” agreed Daisy.
“Can’t you think of any way, Dais’?” she persisted.
“I’m afraid I can’t—unless you’d take a job I have off my hands. I’m
supposed to go to the Community House tonight, and supervise a dance.
I don’t know what the girls are like, but they might be interested in
starting a troop.”
Marjorie brightened at the idea.
“Do you suppose they’re poor?”
“Well, I’m afraid not so very poor, or they wouldn’t have dance dresses
and be able to pay for a party. But I’m quite sure they’re not rich.”
“How do you happen to be doing this?” Marjorie inquired.
“You’ve heard me speak of Miss Winthrop—that friend of Mother’s, who
is head of the Community Settlement in Philadelphia? Well, it seems
that she had promised these girls, who meet there one evening a week
as a little club, that they might have a dance. Then she was suddenly
called to a conference in New York, so she asked me to bring another
girl and chaperone them, in her place.”
“But college girls aren’t usually accepted as official chaperones,”
objected Marjorie.
“Oh, there’s a Mrs. Morgan—the matron of the settlement—who will
be there to keep up appearances. But Miss Winthrop says she’s an
easy-going sort of woman, who never sees anything wrong with anybody
or anything, and who would never be able to give her any sort of report
of the party. Naturally, Miss Winthrop’s very keen to know just how the
girls do behave.”
“Yes, of course. But Daisy, there’s no use of my going to a party like
that. I can just picture those girls—regular flappers, of the younger
set. They’d never make Girl Scouts in the world.”
Daisy made no effort to hide her disappointment.
“They might have younger sisters, Marjorie, who would be interested in
scouting,” she offered feebly.
Marjorie shook her head.
“Can you imagine girls of that age and that type caring much about
their younger sisters’ pastimes? I’m afraid not, Daisy, and besides,
what real chance would we get to talk to them—at a dance? They’ll be
much more interested in their partners.”
Daisy sighed; there was no doubt that Marjorie was correct in her
surmise.
“Then you won’t go?”
“I don’t see that it would be of much use.”
“I really oughtn’t to have asked you—when this is your big night,”
said Daisy, contritely. “I honestly forgot all about the class
election.”
“Oh, the class election!” There was contempt in Marjorie’s tone,
mingled with indifference. “You know that it isn’t that, Daisy! And I
don’t want you to think that scouting is the only thing in the world
I’m interested in. If I really thought I could be of use to you, I’d
go.”
Daisy jumped up in delight.
“You honestly mean it, Marj? Oh, I am sure you can do a whole lot! You
know you’re a born leader, and the girls will just naturally have to
do the right thing, because you’re there. They’d never notice me—I’m
always so shy—but you——”
“Now, Daisy, that’s quite enough——” she began tipping her over on
the couch to enforce order, when she was abruptly interrupted by the
arrival of Alice and Lily.
The latter looked immensely pleased with herself, as if she had just
arranged some matter entirely to her satisfaction.
“Marj, the victory’s a sure thing!” she flung out. “Get out the
pennants! Before this time tomorrow, you’ll be our class president!”
“Yes,” cried Alice; “nobody doubts it for a minute! All glory to the
old senior patrol of Pansy troop!”
Marjorie and Daisy exchanged amused glances, but neither said anything.
“Jeannette and I have been planning the grandest celebration for
tonight,” Lily continued. “We’re going to have a regular parade—music
and all! We have permission from the dean to march down to the
tea-room, and make a regular lion out of our heroine!”
“Suppose I’m not elected?” the potential heroine suggested.
“Then we’ll do it for Jeannette, of course. But there’s no doubt that
you will be.”
“Well,” remarked Marjorie casually, “suppose I’m not here?”
Her roommate looked alarmed.
“Marj, you wouldn’t do a trick like that on us, would you?”
“You know I don’t like so much publicity, Lil. But I really wouldn’t
be mean enough to stay away purposely, just to spoil your pleasure.
However, it just happens that I have a very pressing engagement.”
“An engagement!” repeated the astonished girl. “On senior election
night?”
“It’s the truth!”
“But what? Has John Hadley——? I’ll never forgive him if——”
Daisy spoke up.
“Don’t blame poor John, Lily. It’s all my fault. I needed Marj’s help
tonight at the Community Settlement, and she volunteered to go.”
“A new scout troop?” asked Alice.
“No, just a party, that the head worker wanted me to supervise, in her
absence. But I don’t want to be selfish—if you need her more, Lily,
I’ll resign my claims.”
“No, indeed, Daisy, I’m not willing!” cried Marjorie. “I’m very much
interested in the dance now, and I want to see the girls. Besides, you
can’t possibly go alone, and you’ve given your word to Miss Winthrop.”
Then, turning to her roommate, “Lily, I’d love very much to have you go
with me.”
“Me!” exclaimed Lily. “Why you know I want to be on the spot to vote
for you!”
“Even when you know I don’t want to be elected?”
“Just the same I want you to be. I want you to do great things this
year, Marj.”
“And I want to do greater things. This is my beginning, Lily, and it
may prove my opportunity. Please come with me!”
Lily hedged; she remembered how deeply in earnest her roommate had been
during their talk on the previous evening, and she could not bear to
desert her. Already she saw her own little plan vanishing.
“How would we get home?”
“We could have John and Dick come for us at the settlement, and go to
Mrs. Hadley’s to spend the night.”
“Three of us?” persisted Lily. “Wouldn’t that be too many, on such
short notice?”
“I wouldn’t have to go, Lily, if you went,” put in Daisy. “Marjorie
could make a much better report to Miss Winthrop, and besides, it’s
much easier for seniors to get permission to be away from college than
for juniors. And both of you would be infinitely better than I would.”
“You just want to get out of it, Daisy!” teased Lily.
“Maybe I do,” the younger girl admitted. “Anyway, Marj, you go call up
Mrs. Hadley now.”
Marjorie flashed a triumphant smile.
“I will,” she agreed; “and while I’m doing that, you, Lil, go call
Dick.”
Lily made a face, but started towards the door.
“I guess I better go tell Jeannette first,” she said.