MARJORIE DEAN TO THE RESCUE
By one o'clock that afternoon 19-- had assembled at the big elm tree on
the river road which had been chosen as a meeting place. The flower
hunters had planned to follow the road for a mile to a point where a
boat house, which had a small teashop connected with it, was situated.
Owing to the continued spring weather the proprietor had opened the
place earlier than usual and it was decided that the picnickers should
make this their headquarters, returning there for tea when they grew
tired of roaming the neighboring woods.
Marjorie Dean had not hailed the prospect of 19--'s picnic with
enthusiasm. She did not welcome the idea of coming into close contact
with the little knot of freshmen that were loyal to Mignon La Salle's
interests. However, it would be a pleasure to walk in the fresh spring
woods and gather flowers, so she started for the rendezvous that
afternoon determined to have the best kind of a time possible under the
circumstances.
She had promised to call for Jerry, but the latter, accompanied by
Irma, met her halfway between the two houses.
"I thought you were never coming," grumbled the stout girl, in her
characteristic fashion.
"I've heard those words before," giggled Marjorie. "Haven't you, Irma?"
"Something very similar," laughed Irma.
Jerry grinned broadly.
"Shouldn't be surprised if you had," she admitted. "It's the first May I
ever remember that it hasn't rained. I hope the weather doesn't change
its mind and pour before we get home."
"Don't speak of it," cautioned Irma, superstitiously. "You'll bring rain
down upon us if you do. May is a weepy month, you know."
"Weeps or no weeps, I suppose we'll have the pleasure of seeing our dear
friends, Mignon and Muriel, to-day. I could weep for that," growled
Jerry, resentfully.
Arrived at the elm tree, the girls found the majority of their
classmates already there. To Marjorie's secret disgust, Marcia Arnold
was among the number of upper-class girls chosen to chaperon the
picnickers.
"Mignon's work," confided Jerry, as she caught sight of Marcia. "I hope
she falls into the river and gets a good wetting," she added, with
cheerful malice.
"Jerry!" expostulated Irma in horror. "You mustn't say such awful
things."
"I didn't say I hoped she'd get drowned," flung back Jerry. "I'd just
like to see her get a good ducking."
It was impossible not to laugh at Jerry, who, encouraged by their
laughter, made various other uncomplimentary remarks about the offending
junior.
The picnic party set out for the boathouse with merry shouts and echoing
laughter. The quiet air rang with the melody of school songs welling
from care-free young throats as the crowd of rollicking girls tramped
along the river road.
Spring had not been niggardly with her flower wealth, and gracious,
smiling May trailed her pink-and-white skirts over carpets of living
green, starred with hepaticas and spring beauties, while, from under
clusters of green-brown leaves, the trailing arbutus lifted its shy,
delicate face to peep out, the loveliest messenger of spring.
The girls pounced upon the fragrant clumps of blossoms and began an
enthusiastic filling of baskets. Held captive by the lure of the waking
woods, the time slipped by unnoticed, and it was after four o'clock
before the majority of the flower-hunters turned their steps toward the
boathouse.
Mignon La Salle, Muriel Harding, Marcia Arnold and half a dozen girls
who were worshipful admirers of the French girl, soon found flower
gathering decidedly monotonous.
"Let's hurry out of these stupid woods," proposed Mignon. "My feet are
damp and I'm sure I saw a snake a minute ago."
"Let's go canoeing," proposed Muriel Harding, as they came in sight of
the boathouse.
"The very thing," exulted Mignon. "Let me see; there are nine of us.
That will be three in a canoe. I'll hire the canoes and tell the man to
send the bill to my father."
With quick, catlike springs, she ran lightly down the bank, across the
road and disappeared into the boathouse. Ten minutes later three canoes
floated on the surface of the river, swollen almost to the banks by
April's frequent tearful outbursts. Mignon stood on the shore and gave
voluble orders as the girls cautiously took seats in the bobbing craft.
"Get in, Marcia," she commanded, pointing to the third canoe.
Marcia obeyed with nervous expressions of fear.
An hour later, from a little slope just inside the woods, Marjorie and
her friends, who had reluctantly directed their steps toward the
boathouse, glimpsed the returning canoeing party through the trees. The
canoers had lifted their voices in song, and Marcia Arnold, forgetful of
her fears, was singing as gaily as the rest.
"It's dangerous to go canoeing now," commented Jerry, judicially. "The
river's too high."
"Can you swim?" asked Irma, irrelevantly of Marjorie.
"Yes," nodded Marjorie. "I won a prize at the seashore last year
for----"
A sharp, terror-freighted scream rang out. The eyes of the trio were
instantly fastened upon the river, where floated an overturned canoe
with two girls struggling near it in the water. They saw the one girl
strike out for shore, and, unheeding her companions' wild cries, swim
steadily toward the river bank.
"Oh!" gasped Marjorie. Then she darted down the slope, scattering the
flowers from her basket as she ran. At the river's edge she threw aside
her sweater and, sitting down on the ground, tore off her shoes. Poising
herself on the bank, she cut the water in a clean, sharp dive and, an
instant later, came up not far from Marcia Arnold, who was making
desperate efforts to keep afloat.
A few skilful strokes and she had reached the now sinking secretary's
side. Slipping her left hand under Marcia's chin, she managed to keep
her head above water and support her with her left arm while she struck
out strongly for shore with her right. The water was very cold, but the
distance was short, and Marjorie felt herself equal to her task.
To the panic-stricken girls on shore it seemed hours, instead of not
more than ten minutes, before Marjorie reached the bank with her burden.
Willing hands grasped Marcia, who, with unusual presence of mind for one
threatened by drowning, had tried to lighten Marjorie's brave effort to
rescue her. Once on dry land she dropped back unconscious, while
Marjorie clambered ashore, little disturbed by her wetting.
It was Jerry, however, who now rose to the occasion.
"Marjorie Dean," she ordered, "go into that tea shop this minute. I'm
going to my house to get you some dry clothes. I'll be back in a little
while."
Marjorie allowed herself to be led into the back room of the little
shop, where Marcia was already being divested of her wet clothing.
Fifteen minutes afterward the two girls sat garbed in voluminous
wrappers, belonging to the boat tender's wife, sipping hot tea. Marjorie
smiled and talked gaily with her admiring classmates, but Marcia sat
white and silent.
Suddenly a girl entered the room and pushed her way through the crowd of
girls to Marcia's side. It was Muriel Harding.
"How do you feel, Marcia?" she asked tremulously.
"I'm all right now," quavered Marcia.
Muriel turned impulsively to Marjorie, and bending down, kissed her
cheek. "You are a brave, brave girl, Marjorie Dean, and I hope some day
I'll be worthy of your friendship." Then she turned and fairly ran from
the room.
Before Marjorie could recover from her surprise, Jerry's loud, cheerful
tones were heard outside.
"Here's a whole wardrobe," she proclaimed, setting down two suitcases
with a flourish. "I came back in our car, and as soon as you girls are
dressed, I'll take you home, and as many more as the car will hold," she
added genially.
It was a triumphant little procession that marched to the spot where the
Macy's huge car stood ready. As Marjorie put her foot on the step a
girl's voice called out, "Three cheers for Marjorie Dean!" and the car
glided off in the midst of a noisy but heartfelt ovation.
They were well down the road when Marjorie felt a timid hand upon hers.
Marcia Arnold's eyes looked penitently into her own. "Will you forgive
me, Marjorie?" she said, almost in a whisper. "I've been so hateful."
"Don't ever think of it again," comforted Marjorie, patting the other
girl's hand.
"I must think of it," returned Marcia, earnestly. "I--I can't talk about
it now, but may I come to see you to-morrow afternoon? I have something
to tell you."
"Come by all means," invited Marjorie. "I must say good-bye now. Here we
are at my house. I hope mother won't be too much alarmed when I tell
her. I'll have to explain Jerry's clothes. They are not quite a perfect
fit, as you can see."
Marcia held the young girl's hand between her own. "I'll come to see you
at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Maybe I can show you then how
deeply I feel what you did for me to-day."
"I wonder what she is so mysterious over," thought Marjorie, as she ran
up the steps. "I never dreamed that she and I would be friends. And
Muriel, too. How perfectly dear she was. But"--Marjorie stopped short in
the middle of the veranda--"what do you suppose became of Mignon?"