A PITCHED BATTLE
After the echoes of the dance had died away, basketball received a new
impetus that brought it to the fore with a bound. With the renewed
interest in the coming game was also noised about the report that "Miss
Dean wasn't on the team any longer," and in some unknown fashion the
news that she had been "asked" to resign had also gone the round of the
study hall. The upper class girls were not particularly interested
either in Marjorie or her affairs. She had not lived in Sanford long
enough to become well-known to them, and as a rule the juniors and
seniors left the bringing up of the freshmen to their sophomore sisters.
The sophomores were too much absorbed in the progress of their own team
to trouble themselves greatly over what was happening in the freshman
organization. If Muriel or Mignon had resigned, then there would have
been good cause for predicting an easy victory, for both girls were
considered formidable opponents; but Marjorie was new material, untried
and unproven.
It was in the freshman class, however, that comment ran rife. Since the
night of the Weston dance the class had been almost equally divided. A
little less than half the girls had either openly or by friendly smiles
and nods declared in favor of Marjorie and her friends. The remaining
members of the class, with a few neutral exceptions, were apparently
devoted to the French girl and Muriel. Among their adherents they also
counted Miss Merton, who took no pains to conceal her open dislike for
Marjorie, and Marcia Arnold, who even went so far as to try to explain
the situation to Miss Archer and was sternly reminded that the principal
would take no part in the private differences of her girls unless they
had something to do with breaking the rules of the school.
The days immediately preceding the game were not cheerful ones for
Marjorie. She was still unhappy over her unjust dismissal from the team,
and she wondered if it had been much talked of among her classmates. At
home she had announced offhandedly her resignation from the team and
her mother had asked no questions.
Mignon was greatly disturbed and displeased with the advent of Marjorie
Dean into Sanford High School. Young as she was, she was very shrewd,
and she at once foresaw in Marjorie's pretty face and attractive
personality a rival power. To be sure, Marjorie's father was not so rich
as her own, but it could not be denied that the Deans lived in a big
house on Maple avenue, that Marjorie wore "perfectly lovely" clothes and
had plenty of pocket money. In the beginning she had decided that it
would be better to make friends with her, but Marjorie's sturdy defense
of Constance and utter disregard for Mignon's significant warning had
shown her plainly that she could not influence the other girl to do what
she considered an unworthy act. Therefore, she had secretly determined
to make matters as disagreeable as lay within her power for the two
girls during her freshman year. Still she was obliged to admit to
herself that her next move would have to be planned and carried out with
more discretion.
And now it was the Friday before the much-heralded basketball game which
was to be played between the sophomores and the freshmen, and the merits
and shortcomings of the respective organizations were being eagerly
discussed throughout the school. The game was to be called at half-past
two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and from all accounts there was to be
no lack of spectators.
"I wouldn't for anything miss that game to-morrow!" exclaimed Jerry
Macy, as she and Constance and Marjorie came down the steps of the
school together. "I hope the freshmen get the worst whitewashing that
any team in this school has ever had, too," she added, with a deliberate
air of spite.
"You mustn't say that, Jerry," returned Marjorie, a faint color rising
to her cheeks. "You must not let my grievances affect your loyalty to
your class."
"Do you mean to say that you want that horrid Mignon La Salle and her
crowd to win the game, and then go around crowing that it was all
because they put you out of the team? You needn't look so as though you
didn't believe me. You mark my word, if they win you'll find out that
they'll do just as I say. Freshman or no freshman, I'd rather see that
nice Ellen Seymour's team win any day."
"So would I," echoed Constance, her face darkening with the remembrance
of her own wrongs at Mignon's hands.
Marjorie was silent for a moment. She knew that Jerry's outburst rose
from pure devotion to her friends, and she could not blame Constance for
her hostile spirit. Still, was it right to allow personal grudges to
warp one's loyalty to one's class? If the record of their class read
badly at the end of their freshman year, whose fault would it be? She
had fought it all out with herself on the day she wrote her resignation,
and had wisely determined, then, not to allow it to spoil her year.
"I know how you girls feel about this," she said slowly. "I felt the
same way until after I had written my resignation. While I was writing I
kept hoping that the team would lose and be sorry they had put someone
else in my place. Then it just came to me all of a sudden that a good
soldier wouldn't be a traitor to his country even if he were reduced in
rank or had something happen unpleasant to him in his camp."
She stopped and looked embarrassed. She had forgotten that the girls
could not possibly know what she meant. She had never told any one in
Sanford High School about the pretty soldier play which she and Mary had
carried on for so long. It was one of the little intimate details of her
life which she preferred to keep to herself. Should she explain? Jerry's
impatient retort made it unnecessary.
"The only traitor I know anything about is Mignon," she flung back,
failing to grasp the significance of Marjorie's comparison.
Constance, however, had flashed a curious glance at her friend, saying
nothing. When Geraldine had nodded good-bye at her street, and the two
were alone, she asked: "What did you mean by comparing yourself to a
soldier, Marjorie?"
Marjorie smiled.
"I think I'd better tell you all about it. I've never told anyone else."
"What a splendid game," mused Constance, half to herself, when Marjorie
had finished. "Do you--would you--could I be a soldier, too, Marjorie?
It would help me. You don't know. There are so many things."
The wistful appeal touched Marjorie.
"Of course you can," she assured. "You'd better come to my house to
luncheon to-morrow. You can join the army then and go to the game with
me."
"I'm not going to the game." The look of expectancy died out of
Constance's face.
"You can't be a soldier if you balk at the first disagreeable thing that
comes along," reminded Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her
friend. Constance walked a few steps in stolid silence. She could not
make up her mind to watch the playing of the girls whom she felt she
hated, even to please Marjorie. It was not until they were about to
separate that Marjorie said quietly. "Shall I tell mother you are
coming?" and Constance forced herself to reply shortly, "I'll come."
By half past one Saturday afternoon every seat in the large gallery
surrounding the gymnasium was filled, and by a quarter to two every
square foot of standing room was occupied by an enthusiastic audience
largely composed of boys and girls of the two high schools. Marjorie's
mother had after some little coaxing consented to come to the game with
her daughter as her guest. She sat with Constance and Marjorie in the
first row of the gallery, while beside her sat none other than Miss
Archer, whom they had encountered on their way to the high school and
who had invited them to take seats in the front row with her. She had
already met Mrs. Dean at the church which both women attended and had
conceived an instant liking for the pretty, gracious woman who looked
little older than her daughter.
"Wasn't it nice of Miss Archer to ask us to sit here?" whispered
Marjorie in her friend's ear. "We have mother to thank for it. She is so
dear that no one can help liking her." Marjorie looked adoring
admiration at her mother's clear-cut profile. "Do you suppose anyone
will mistake us for faculty?"
Both girls giggled softly at such an improbability.
"I never went to a basketball game before," confessed Constance after a
time. "What are those girls over there in the red paper hats and big red
bows going to do?"
"Oh, that's the sophomore class. They lead their class in the songs. The
green and purple girls are the freshman chorus."
"I didn't even know our class colors were green and purple."
"You didn't! Why, that's the reason you and I wore violets to the dance.
Almost every freshman had them."
"Oh, look!" Constance's eyes were fixed upon a tiny purple figure that
had just emerged from a side door in the gymnasium and was walking
slowly across the big floor. Immediately afterward a door opened on the
opposite side and a diminutive scarlet-clad boy flashed forth.
"They are the mascots," explained Marjorie, her gaze on the two children
who advanced to the center of the room and gravely shook hands. Then the
boy in red announced in a high, clear treble: "Ladies and gentlemen, the
noble sophomores!"
The door swung wide and a band of lithe blue figures, bearing a huge
letter "S" done in scarlet on the fronts of their blouses, pattered into
the gymnasium, amid loud applause.
"The valiant freshmen!" piped the purple-clad youngster.
There was a rush of black-clad girls, with resplendent violet "F's"
ornamenting their breasts, another volley of cheers from the audience,
then a shrill blast from the referee's whistle rent the air, the teams
dropped into their places, the umpire, time-keeper and scorer took
their stations, and a tense silence settled over the audience.
The referee balanced the ball. Ellen Seymour and Mignon La Salle
gathered themselves for the toss. Up it went. The two players leaped for
it. The referee's whistle sounded again. The struggle for basketball
honors began.
A jubilant shout swelled from the throats of the watching freshmen and
their fans. Mignon had caught the ball. She sent it speeding toward
Helen Thornton, who fumbled it, and losing her head, threw it away
from, instead of to the basket. An audible sigh of disapproval came from
the freshman contingent as they beheld the ball pass into the hands of
the sophomores, who scored shortly afterward.
Now that the ball was in their hands the sophomores proceeded to show
their friends and opponents a few things about playing. They had the
advantage and they kept it. Try as the freshmen might, they could not
score. The first unlucky error on the part of Helen Thornton had seemed
to turn the tide against them. Toward the close of the first half they
managed to score, but all too soon the whistle blew, with the score 8 to
2 in favor of the sophomores.
Their fans went wild with delight and their chorus sang or rather
shouted gleefully their pet song, beginning,
"Hail the sophomores, gallant band!
See how bold they take their stand!"
to the tune of "Hail Columbia," coming out noisily on the concluding
lines,
"Firm and steadfast shall they be,
Marching on to victory;
As a band of players, they
Shall be conquerors to-day."
The freshmen answered with their song, "The Freshmen's Brave Banner,"
but they did not sing as spiritedly as they had before the beginning of
the game.
"I wonder what Jerry and Irma think," commented Marjorie. Their two
chums had been detailed to sing in the freshman chorus, which accounted
for their absence from the Dean party.
"Jerry looks awfully cross," returned Constance, scanning the opposite
side of the gallery where Jerry was singing lustily, her straight, heavy
brows drawn together in a savage scowl.
"There goes the whistle!" Marjorie leaned eagerly forward to see the
freshman team come in from the side room which they were using. Her
alert eyes noted that Muriel looked sulky, Mignon stormy, Susan Atwell
belligerent, Harriet Delaney offended, and that Helen Thornton, the
substitute who had replaced her, had been crying.
Marjorie felt a thrill of pity for the unfortunate substitute. It looked
as though she had spent an unhappy quarter of an hour in the little side
room.
The teams changed sides and hastened to their places. Again Mignon and
Ellen faced each other. Then the whistle shrilled and the second half of
the game was on.
From the beginning of the second half it looked as though the freshmen
might retrieve their early losses. They worked with might and main and
made no false moves. Slowly their score climbed to six. So far the
sophomores had gained nothing. Then Ellen Seymour made a spectacular
throw to the basket and brought her team up two points. With the
realization that they were facing defeat the freshmen rallied and made a
desperate effort to hold their own, bringing their count up to eight.
Two more points were gained and the score was tied, but the time was
growing short. Helen Thornton had the ball and was plainly trying to
elude the tantalizing sophomore who barred her way. She made a clumsy
feint of throwing the ball. It slipped from her fingers and rolled along
the floor. There was a mad scramble for it. Mignon and Ellen Seymour
leaped forward simultaneously.
The crowd in the gallery was aroused to the height of excitement.
Marjorie, breathless, leaned far over the gallery rail. She knew every
detail of the dear old game. She saw Mignon's and Ellen's heads close
together as they sprang; then she saw Mignon give a sly, vicious side
lunge which threw Ellen almost off her feet. In the instant it took
Ellen to recover herself the French girl had seized the ball and was off
with it. Eluding her pursuers, she balanced herself on her toes, and
threw her prize toward the freshman basket. But it never reached there.
A long blue figure shot straight up into the air. Elizabeth Corey, a
girl whose sensational plays had made her a lion during her freshman
year, had intercepted the flying ball. She sent it spinning through the
air toward the sophomore nearest their basket, whose willing hands
received it and threw it home.
Mignon's trickery had availed her little. The sophomores had won.