BINKS AMES MAKES A DISCOVERY
“Binks” Ames, otherwise Elizabeth B. Browning Ames and first cousin
to Georgia, was now a sophomore. Being a strenuous little person and
addicted to walks in all weather, she had grown even thinner and
browner than she had been as a freshman. When she timidly discovered a
friend in a crowd of girls she did not know and flashed her a friendly
greeting, Binks seemed to be all wonderful big gray eyes and wonderful
sweet sympathy.
“Binks is peculiar,” Georgia explained her tersely. “Couldn’t help
that, could she, with a mother who goes in for Browning and Municipal
Improvement and Suffrage and the Uplifting of the Drama and all such
nonsense? Binks is lovely to her--pretends to take an interest in
all her isms, and bluffs about understanding Robert Browning and
Henry James, and about liking her name. But it’s all bluff. Binks
is just as sensible as I am, and lots and lots more--decent,” ended
the unsentimental Georgia. “Takes home stray cats, you know, and goes
walking with freaks,--and doesn’t mind the bother. I never in all my
life set eyes on as many stray cats as Binks finds homes for in a good
average week. Of course Esther Bond is her big discovery. She was
responsible for getting Esther into the Morton, you know, and since
then Esther has mysteriously developed into the biggest all-around
Senior Star that we’ve got.”
“Really?” asked Straight. “That queer Miss Bond?”
Georgia nodded solemnly. “Jumped into things like that.” She flashed
out a capable hand. “Argus board, Senior Play Committee, and I guess
Ivy Orator. Of course Helena Mason’s dropping out gave Esther an
extra-good chance to step in, but it’s wonderful all the same. It must
be lots of fun to be a perfectly Dark Horse like her. People would be
so agreeably surprised that they’d appreciate you even more than you
deserve.”
“Instead of wondering how in the world a commonplace girl like Georgia
Ames ever got to be so popular,” mimicked Fluffy, the tease.
“I say, Georgia,” demanded Straight, who liked college because it
offered her the chance of knowing such a variety of people, and so of
satisfying every mood, and developing every trait of her own complex
character. “If you’ve got a cousin as clever as all that, why don’t you
let us meet her? I don’t believe I ever so much as heard of her before.
We ought to be looking up the eligible sophs, you know. Dramatic Club’s
first sophomore election isn’t so very far off. Is Elizabeth B. B. Ames
a possibility?”
Georgia gave a little start of surprise. “Why, I don’t know. Honestly
I never thought of her as one, and yet compared to some girls that are
being rushed and discussed, and to some that are expecting it--you see,
Binks is--well, different. I can’t imagine her in Dramatic Club. She’s
so queer that she might actually refuse to come in.”
“You said she was just as sensible as you are, Georgia,” Fluffy
reminded her. “That’s not so much--but at least you didn’t refuse
Dramatic Club.”
“Have a tea-drinking and let us see her,” Straight settled the
controversy briskly. “I for one want to see her. Come along now or we
shall be late for the hockey.”
A few days later Georgia, finding a free half-hour on her hands, went
over to the Westcott House to see Binks. Not having paid much attention
to the college career of her peculiar cousin from Boston, Georgia was
surprised and pleased to find said cousin’s room full of a departing
House Play Committee, who were loud in their praises of Binks’s ability.
“It’s only that I sew costumes for them,” Binks explained when they had
gone, leaving the room still fairly full of gilt crowns, ermine robes,
and foresters’ doublets and hose of Lincoln green. “I love to sew, only
I don’t know how very well.”
Georgia surveyed her cousin critically. “Should you like to belong to
Dramatic Club?” she asked abruptly.
Binks smoothed out a bit of purple canton flannel that looked exactly
like velvet with loving little pats. “I don’t know. Do you belong? Is
it fun?”
“I belong,” Georgia told her, “and I think it’s fun, but I suppose some
people might not--if they were queer enough in their tastes.”
“It’s nothing like any of Mother’s clubs, is it?” inquired Binks
anxiously. “I don’t care about that kind of fun--writing papers, and
speaking to the legislature about changing laws, and all that.”
“Binks Ames,” began Georgia solemnly, “don’t you honestly know more
than you’re pretending to about Dramatic Club? Because if you don’t you
ought to join for your own good and to learn a little something about
college life.”
Binks smiled vaguely. “I don’t seem to have time to do all the things
you do, Georgia. You see, I have to specialize in economics to please
Mother, and in history to please Father, and in astronomy to please
myself. And then there are so many queer girls that I get mixed up
with, as I did with Esther Bond and Miss Ellison--the poetess person.
She is forever taking me for walks and spouting poems to me all the
way. I tell her that I don’t know anything about poetry, but either she
doesn’t believe me or she can’t find any one else who will listen.”
“No reason why she should bother you,” grumbled Georgia, who began to
think that Binks might be worth cultivating.
“Oh, yes it is,” Binks told her seriously. “You see, she believes in
her poetry, and I guess it is all right enough. Anyway, if she stopped
believing in it, she would be too discouraged to go on trying to write
it. So if I can keep her going until she’s sure one way or the other,
why, it’s little enough for a general utility person like me to do.”
Georgia sniffed. “I hope some of the numerous geniuses that have
sponged on you will amount to something,--and that some of the cats you
have picked up will take prizes at Cat Shows.”
“But I don’t pick them up because they are nice cats,” objected Binks
solemnly, “only because they are lost, poor things!”
“Don’t forget about having tea with us to-morrow,” said Georgia,
getting ready to leave. Her half-hour was up, and besides, she hated
queer theories.
Binks did not forget to come for tea with Georgia and Georgia’s
friends. She arrived on time, and becomingly dressed. She listened with
gratifying appreciation to the sprightly conversation kept up by Fluffy
and Susanna Hart, with some help from the others. She talked enough to
be agreeable, and not enough to seem overanxious to make a favorable
impression on the leading spirits of Dramatic Club, who could “make”
her career at Harding, if they thought it worth while to include her
in the enchanted company of the sophomores who “went in” at the first
sophomore election.
As a matter of fact Binks did not know that the tea-drinkers all
belonged to Dramatic Club. She did not guess why she had been asked
to the tea-drinking. She had indeed entirely forgotten Dramatic Club,
and had never given a second thought to Georgia’s question about her
wanting to be elected to it.
Georgia, being a close observer, saw all this, and made up her mind
to work hard for Binks’s election. Her little cousin’s extreme
unworldliness made her seem to the straightforward, clear-headed
Georgia a rather pathetic object, to be looked out for and defended,
and secured the rights and privileges that she herself did not know
enough to demand. And, as what Georgia said always “went” with her
large and very influential circle of friends, Binks was promptly slated
as one of the fortunate sophomores whom Dramatic Club was to single out
as those most wanted in its councils.
While this was being decided casually on the way up the Belden House
stairs, Binks was sitting alone in her little room, staring out with
troubled eyes at a lovely wind-tossed sunset.
“Shouldn’t have said I’d do it, I suppose,” murmured poor Binks. “Only
I hate to say no. Georgia would call me a silly! Wish I’d told Georgia
all about it. I didn’t have any chance to talk to her alone. But I
might have made a chance--perhaps. Georgia knows Miss Wales better, and
anyway she doesn’t mind asking people to do things. Oh--come in!”
The door opened slowly and the poetess, looking tired and out of
temper, came in. “I wanted you to go walking,” she said reproachfully.
“I came at four as usual, and you were out.”
“But yesterday I stayed in for you, and you didn’t come at all,”
explained Binks patiently. “And I left a note on the bulletin-board
about to-day.”
“You know I never look at the bulletin-board,” returned the poetess
sadly.
“But you ought to,” began Binks, and stopped short. “Never mind. Let’s
not bother over what’s past. Do you want to go walking some more, or
would you rather just sit here and watch the sunset?”
Miss Ellison stared gloomily out the window. “I’m too tired to walk any
more. That divan looks awfully comfortable.”
Binks, who was sitting on the divan, stood up politely. “It is. Did you
want to write, perhaps? Because if so, I’ll go away.”
The poetess sank gracefully down among the cushions, pillowing her
cheek in one white hand.
“I’ve put paper out here in plain sight,” Binks told her, “and please
try not to spill the ink. Good-bye.”
“Don’t stay too long,” commanded the poetess dreamily. “I shall want
to read things to you a little later.”
“All right,” Binks promised, and hurried off to find Georgia.
“I want to ask you to do something for me,” she began abruptly.
Georgia frowned at the stupid mistake she had made about Binks’s
unworldliness, and shut the door. “Is it about Dramatic Club?” she
asked. “Because you know, Binks,--or rather I suppose you don’t
know,--that girls are not supposed to ask any member to help them get
in. But I don’t mind telling you that I’ll do my best for you, and I
think all the others will.”
Binks waited patiently for Georgia to finish. “I understand that,
Georgia,” she began. “I mean that I know, even though I am rather out
of things here, that it’s not Harding custom to act as if you wanted to
be in anything. You must just pretend you don’t care. I try to act that
way, but I can’t, about things that I really do want.”
Georgia looked troubled. “But, Binks, it will queer you hopelessly if
you give yourself away about Dramatic Club. Promise me solemnly that
you won’t ask anybody else to help pull you in.”
Binks sighed. “I’ve got to go back in a minute, and I came about
something special. Dramatic Club isn’t a thing I really do want,
Georgia. Why, I don’t know enough about it to think whether I want it
or not. But I’ve discovered something again, and I’m such a ’fraid cat
that I thought maybe you’d tell Miss Wales--that is, if you think she
ought to know.”
Georgia looked hard at her queer little cousin. “Go ahead and tell me,”
she said, after a long stare of amazed incredulity. “Go ahead and tell
me, and I’ll tell Betty, if that’s what you want. But of all innocent,
simple-minded, dense----” Georgia paused. The degree of Binks’s densely
innocent simple-mindedness could not be put into words.
“Well,” began Binks intently, without noticing Georgia’s muttered
epithets, “you know the way I always get mixed up with freaks--the way
I did last year at the infirmary, with Mariana Ellison, who writes----”
“I know--the C. P.,” interrupted Georgia hastily.
“C. P.?” repeated Binks questioningly. “Oh, yes, the College Poet.
That’s the one. And Esther Bond was there, and a scientific prod, named
Jones.”
“I know--the one with the comical squint,” put in Georgia, smiling at
the recollection.
“Well, she’s got a sister,” went on Binks quickly, “a freshman.
They thought they had enough money for two, with the junior one’s
scholarship and what she earns tutoring. And then they found they
hadn’t, and the Student’s Aid doesn’t generally help freshmen.” Binks
frowned. “You can’t blame the poor things. The junior got Miss Wales
to give her a loan, and then she passed it over to her sister. And now
after it’s gone and she can’t pay it back, it has worried her so that
she’s about sick, and Dr. Carter wants her to give up tutoring and get
another loan to carry her through the term.
“And she wouldn’t! She came to me and told me and cried, and I
said--well, I suppose I promised to fix it up. Wasn’t that foolish,
when I can’t even explain it to you so that it sounds plausible? Why,
I’ve actually left out both her best excuses for doing what looks so
dishonest! One is that she could honestly say she needed the loan
herself, because she did. She’s gone without enough to eat lots of
times this year. The other is that the freshman is awfully bright and
not very strong, and if her uncle---- Goodness, I forgot to say that
an uncle promised to help the freshman, and then, after she’d given up
her country school and come to Harding, he backed out. Don’t you think
there is a good deal of excuse for her, Georgia? Of course the freshman
isn’t to blame at all, because she didn’t, and doesn’t know where her
sister got the money. There! That’s another point I forgot to bring in
in its proper place.”
“You have got a rather disorderly mind, Binks,” admitted Georgia.
“You’ve entirely left out the point that interests me most of all. Why
did Miss Jones tell you her story?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Binks plaintively. “I never know why
people tell me queer things. Of course you understand that she had to
tell somebody to get it off her mind. And now I’ve got it off my mind,
and I must go right back home. Miss Ellison might be waiting for me.”
“Let her wait,” advised Georgia coolly. “Did Miss Jones tell you to do
as you thought best with her unpleasant little tale?”
Binks nodded.
“Well, are you sure we hadn’t better just smother it?”
Binks’s small face took on a curiously scornful expression. “Of course
we hadn’t better smother it. She told me, so that I’d tell the right
ones and have it fixed right, so that she can feel honest again. You
see,”--she sighed--“those freaks always think that I will know how
to fix things--and I never do know. But I can find out,” added Binks
serenely. “I’m bright enough to do that. Only it is an unpleasant
story, and you know Miss Wales, and how to tell it to her right. I
think--I’m sure you’d better tell her, Georgia, if you’ll be so kind.”
“Certainly,” said Georgia. “Betty’s undoubtedly the one to handle it.
I’ll see her some time to-morrow.”
“Oh, thank you, Georgia.” Binks glanced anxiously at her watch and
slipped on her ulster. “Perhaps I can do something for you some day. I
do wish I could.”
“Nonsense,” said Georgia bluffly. “I’m not doing anything. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” Binks paused uncertainly on the threshold. “I forgot to say
that I don’t think the freshman sister should stay on here, even if she
had the money. I think she is really ill.”
“Dr. Carter thinks so, you mean?” asked Georgia.
“Dr. Carter hasn’t seen her. I think so myself. Mother is great on
germs, you know, and I’ve learned to notice when people look ill. The
freshman sister is pale and thin, and she coughs just a little, and
she works on her nerves--much too hard. She ought to live outdoors for
a while and get rested up and fed up. And if she would do that, why
perhaps Mother would know of a free sanitorium that takes in--whatever
she has. I must go now.”
Little Binks hurried eagerly off to conciliate the impatient poetess,
leaving Georgia to meditate upon her peculiar cousin and the pathetic
story she had told.
“To have people think you’re not honest!” reflected Georgia. “I
remember something about that from my freshman year. It’s pretty bad.
But to know yourself that you haven’t been honest--that must be just
perfectly dreadful. Poor thing! In a way it was all right, too. That
makes it even harder. And it’s abominably hard not to have any of the
things that most girls have here so much too much of. Why, that squint
of hers is enough to make her think crooked, and be discontented with
life! And if the sister is so done up that she has to leave, then the
dishonesty will have been all for nothing. Poor Betty! She won’t think
I’m much of a rescuer when I dump this bundle of bothers into her nice,
comfortable lap.”