THE RETORT COURTEOUS.
Because of the happy ending of the Ramble the seniors made no secret of
the theft of the lunch hampers. If they had been obliged to go hungry,
they would probably have kept the entire story to themselves. Such is
human nature. When the story reached Miss Walker's ears, as most things
about Wellington did sooner or later, she sent for Margaret Wakefield
and got the history of the case from her in an exceedingly dramatic and
well connected form.
"And we had gone to no end of trouble, Miss Walker, and a good deal of
expense," Margaret finished. "Lots of us had had cakes and pickles and
things sent on from home."
Miss Walker smiled. She could have named the contents of those hampers
without any outside assistance.
"What none of us understands is where they took the hampers afterward.
They couldn't have brought them back to college without being found
out."
"No," answered the Principal, "that would have been impossible, of
course, and yet the hampers have managed to find their way back."
Shifting her chair from the table desk, she pointed underneath. "So, you
see," she continued, "that the sandwiches and pickles and stuffed eggs
and fudge may have found their way into college after all. Major Fern
discovered the hampers. They had been tossed into a ditch near his
place." Miss Walker sighed and frowned. "If the Exmoor boys were given
to this kind of thing, I might have suspected some of them. But the
standards at Exmoor are above such things as this," she indicated the
hampers with a gesture of mingled disgust and pain. "If only--only I
could bring my Wellington to that point. But every year there is
something."
Margaret felt sorry for the Principal who had striven so hard for the
honor of Wellington in the face of so many discouragements.
"It was a thoroughly silly and undignified act," she remarked later to
the Queen's crowd, telling them of the interview, "to break up a
time-honored custom like the Senior Ramble by stealing all the food; and
I'm sorry for the girl who did it if she ever gets caught."
An effort had been made to find out if there had been any sophomore
spreads the night of the Ramble with the stolen banquet, but these young
women were either very wily or very innocent, for nothing was found
against them.
In the meantime, things went on happily enough at Wellington and there
were no more escapades to wrinkle the President's brow or enrage the
girls who happened to be the victims. Molly's life was so filled with
work and interests that she had little leisure for reflection, and
about this time there came to her an unsolicited and entirely unexpected
honor. She was elected sub-editor of the Wellington _Commune_, the
fortnightly review of college news and college writings. Edith Williams,
beyond a doubt the most literary girl in college, was editor-in-chief,
Caroline Brinton was business manager, and there was besides a staff of
six girls from other classes who gathered news and ran their various
departments.
"I can't imagine why they chose me," Molly exclaimed one afternoon to
Edith, when the two girls were closeted in the _Commune_ office.
"For your literary discrimination," answered Edith.
"But I think my themes are dreadfully crude and forced. I can't help
feeling self-conscious when I write."
"That's because you try too hard," answered Edith, who always spoke the
brutal truth regarding the literary efforts of her friends. "Let your
thoughts flow easily, lightly," she added, making a flowing gesture with
her pencil to illustrate the gentle trickling of ideas from an
overcharged brain.
Molly laughed.
"You remind me of Professor Green. 'Be simple,' was his advice--as if an
amateur can be simple."
Edith, in the act of writing an editorial, smiled enigmatically.
"It's about as hard as getting a cheap dressmaker to make simple
clothes," she said. "Amateurs always want to put in ruffles and
puffles."
The two girls were seated at the editorial desk. There was a pile of
manuscript in front of Molly: themes recommended by Miss Pomeroy for
publication and contributed book reviews. Presently only the ticking of
the clock on the book shelves broke the stillness. Both girls had
plunged into work with a will. Edith's soft pencil was already flying
over the sheets.
"Flowing easily and lightly," Molly thought, smiling as she turned a
page.
For more than half an hour they worked in silence. At last Molly, having
selected from the reviews the ones she considered best for publication,
leaned her chin on her hand and closed her eyes. How peaceful it was in
this little office, and how nice to be with Edith who went at her
work--this kind of work--with force and swiftness.
Rap, rap, rap, came the sound of knuckles on the door, while some one
shook the knob and the voice of Judy called:
"Let me in, let me in, girls, I've got something to show you that will
make your blood boil."
"Run away, we're awfully busy," answered Edith, who kept the door to the
private office locked.
"I tell you it will make your blood boil with rage and fury," went on
the extravagant Judy. "As editors of the _Commune_, everybody calls on
you to resent an insult to college. Please let me in," she pleaded.
Molly opened the door and her impetuous friend rushed in, waving a
newspaper.
"Be calm, child. Don't take on so. Sit down and tell us easily and
lightly and flowingly what's the matter," she said.
"Look at this base, libelous article," Judy ejaculated, spreading the
paper on the table.
With an expression of amused toleration as of one who must bear the
whims of a spoiled child, Edith drew the paper in front of her while
Molly and Judy seated themselves on the arms of her chair and read over
her shoulders.
The first things that caught their eyes were the pictures: drawings of
wildly disheveled beings in gymnasium suits playing basket ball and
hockey. One picture, also, represented a blousy looking young person in
a sweater, carrying a bundle of linen under one arm and a bottle of milk
under the other. In still another this same blousy model was yelling
"Hello" to her twin sister across the page. They saw her again in the
drug store dissipating in chocolate sundaes; and once more, chewing gum;
hobnobbing with the grocery boy, too, or perhaps it was the baggage man
or the postman. The article occupied a full page under flaring
headlines:
"THE PRESENT DAY COLLEGE GIRL, NO LONGER A PLEASING FEMININE
TYPE. SHE IS VULGAR, AGGRESSIVE, SLANGY. COLLEGES FOR GIRLS THE
RUIN OF AMERICAN HOMES--So says Miss Beatrice Slammer, the
popular writer and well-known anti-suffragist."
"It's ironic, untrue and insulting," observed Edith, in a choking voice
as her eyes traveled down the columns.
"She seems especially hard on poor girls who have to get their own
meals," broke in Molly. "Is there anything unfeminine in getting a
bottle of milk from the corner grocery, I wonder? Or saying good-morning
to the postman or Mr. Murphy? What would Miss Slammer think of us if she
knew how often we had tea with Mrs. Murphy and Mr. Murphy, too?"
"She recommends colleges for women to pattern themselves after a Fifth
Avenue school that teaches manners before it teaches classics," burst
out Judy. "I wonder if she went to that school?"
"She is evidently opposed to higher education for women," remarked
Edith. "The style of her writing shows that as much as her sentiments
do."
"I know one thing," cried Judy, "this settles it. I'm going to join the
Woman's Suffrage Society to-day. If this is the way an anti thinks, I'm
for the other side."
Edith and Molly laughed.
"It's an excellent reason for changing your political views, Judy," said
Molly.
And now the office of the _Commune_ was besieged by numbers of students
from the three upper classes. There were even one or two indignant
freshmen present. Those who had received the article by the first mail
had handed it to those who had not. Many of the girls had already
written letters in reply and sent them to be published in New York
papers. Would the editors of the _Commune_ do anything about the base,
libelous article? Were these stinging falsehoods about college girls to
be allowed to be scattered over the country without a single protest?
"You may add my name to the Suffrage Club, Miss Wakefield," called a
junior.
"And mine."
"And mine."
So Margaret's list of converts swelled amazingly that afternoon.
Edith was enjoying herself immensely.
"What funny creatures girls are," she said to Molly, still sitting on
the arm of the editorial chair.
The question was: how was the article to be answered? No doubt college
girls everywhere were thinking the same thing; therefore, the Wellington
girls would not like to be backward in coming forward.
"I suppose all the other colleges will be answering the article in
about the same way," said Margaret. "I wish we could think of something
original and different. Something more personal than a letter to a
newspaper."
"She speaks on anti-suffrage, doesn't she?" asked Edith.
"Oh, yes," cried Margaret. "She is evidently one of those women who
believes she can stem the tide of human progress by taking a stand
against higher education and universal suffrage. Do you think women like
that are ever silent? They are always standing on the street corners
trying to lift their little puny voices above the multitude--but who
hears them?"
There was a burst of laughter at Margaret's eloquence.
"Why not ask her to speak here?" suggested Edith.
"What good would that do?"
"Besides, she wouldn't come."
"Oh, yes she would. Wait until all this blows over and then send her
the invitation. People who write like that always want to talk."
"But how will we get any personal satisfaction out of it?" Margaret
asked.
"Well, by showing her what perfect ladies we are, in the first place. We
can be very attentive and still 'freeze' her. We can entertain her
without talking to her any more than is necessary, and we can listen to
her speech and make no comments."
After consideration of the suggestion, most of the girls began to see a
good many possibilities in this courteous revenge. They were taken with
the notion of inviting Miss Slammer into the enemy's camp and treating
her as a guest too honored to be familiar with. It was agreed that the
invitation should be dispatched in about two weeks, so that Miss Slammer
would feel no suspicions.