And in the opulent days which followed the winning of the carnival
prizes, and the selling of lovely amounts of Camp Fire goods, Camp
Karonya decided that it ought to own a phonograph. The treasury, which
was a suitcase under Helen's bed, had money in it, and the girls badly
needed something to dance by. To be sure, the camp boasted a mandolin,
two guitars, a mouth-organ and a banjo, to say nothing of Mrs. Bryan's
Iroquois drum. But all these had to be worked by hand, and the
orchestra, after performing for several long evenings while their
friends practised folk-dances with abandon, struck.
"We want to get a chance at the folk-dances, too," they remonstrated,
very reasonably. Indeed, Louise got up and made a moving speech,
alluding to her pressing need of folk-dances, and her slender chance of
being able to do them while she played her instrument.
"Here I am," she said pathetically, "twice as plump as anybody else in
camp. I need folk-dances more than anybody here does. And I've spent
this whole blessed evening plunking a banjo while other people got thin,
people that were thin already! It may be good for my moral character,
but, girls"--Louise's voice dropped tragically--"it's _ruining_ yours!"
They all agreed that something should be done.
Mrs. Bryan was entirely willing to go on pounding her Indian drum
indefinitely, but the girls did not think it would be good for their
moral characters to let her, either. So they held a business meeting on
the spot, which happened to be the large level place they used for
dancing ground; and decided to buy a phonograph.
"I think we have catalogues of them at home," said Dorothy Gray. "Shall
I write and have them sent on?"
The girls considered that for awhile, but they finally decided not to.
Everyone wanted a voice in choosing the phonograph, or at least in
deciding on what kind of a phonograph they were to have.
"But we don't want to pay the full price for it," said Helen wisely.
"What we ought to do is to advertise in the _Press_ in the village. It's
the country paper. Look at the market Win created for kittens----"
But here Winona sprang for her, and they rolled over on the leaves, and
the meeting ended in a frolic.
However, they all liked Helen's idea, and two Blue Birds were sent off
to the _Press_ with an advertisement for a second-hand phonograph or
victrola in good condition. Next day two other Blue Birds went after the
answers. There were three.
One offered a fine music-box in good condition, which had never been
used since the owner's wife died twenty years ago. He lived on the
Northtown Pike (which nobody present had ever heard of), about seventeen
miles from the village. The music-box played six tunes and was an
heirloom, having belonged to his mother, but the farmer on the Northtown
Pike would part with it for twenty-five dollars for he wanted another
Holstein cow and this would pay for part of her.
"Horrid old thing!" said Winona when Marie was done reading the answers
aloud. "If it's an heirloom he hasn't any business parting with it to
buy a section of any kind of cow--or even a whole one."
"Well, Marie, go on to the next," said Mrs. Bryan. But the next was even
more hopeless. What this man had was, from his description, a very cheap
phonograph which was almost as old as the farmer's music-box; but he,
too, thought he would like to have twenty-five dollars for it.
"He doubtless wants to buy a section of cow, too," suggested Mrs. Bryan.
"Maybe they're buying her together," said Louise brilliantly; and Marie
read the last letter. This was the only one at all promising. The
writer, who was a woman with a good handwriting and correct spelling,
said that she had a two-year-old victrola in good condition, and that
she would gladly sell it for twenty-five dollars, because she was going
to be given a new one.
"That sounds better," said Mrs. Bryan. "I would advise a committee of
you to go and look it over."
"But how badly they all want twenty-five dollars!" groaned Marie. "Do
you notice it? They all ask for exactly the same amount."
"Probably buying the cow on shares," repeated Louise.
"I vote we make Louise one of the committee to see the two-year-old
victrola," said Winona. "She has business instinct, and the rest of us
haven't such a lot."
"What's more to the point, I also have a victrola at home, or Dad has,"
said Louise, "and I know what it ought to be like to be good."
So it was moved and seconded that Louise, Winona and Helen be appointed
a committee of three to investigate the victrola.
As early as they could in the afternoon after they had received their
replies they started out. It was a gorgeous day, not too warm for
comfort, and they chased each other about the road as if they were
kittens, instead of responsible Camp Fire Girls out on a very
business-like errand. After they had gone about a mile, which led them
nearly to the village, it occurred to some brilliant person that it
might be a good plan to ask somebody how to get to the address of the
woman with the two-year-old victrola. It was The Willows, Lowlane, near
Gray's Road, and so far as the girls knew that might have been nearly
anywhere. So they did ask at the post-office, where they had quite made
friends with the old postmaster.
"It's three miles down the pike," said he. "Strike off on the left to
Gray's Road--you'll see a signpost, I guess--and then turn down the
first little lane you come to. They call it Lowlane now, the folks that
own the house, but it was never anything but Low's Lane till they came
there."
"The first little lane we come to?" repeated Winona.
The postmaster looked thoughtful. "Now, I don't want to be too sure," he
said. "The first, or maybe the second. Elmer, do you recollect whether
Low's Lane is the first or second turning on the Gray's Road way?"
"Second," said Elmer the clerk readily.
"There now!" said the postmaster. "I might a' told you wrong. I
certainly had it fixed in my mind that it was the first."
"Thank you," said the girls. "It won't be hard to find."
It seemed, indeed, plain enough sailing, and the girls went on. The road
was bordered with trees, and there were flowers they wanted to pick, and
occasionally rabbits for Puppums to chase. He was not a swift enough
runner to ever catch any of the rabbits he ran after, and the rabbits
did not seem to mind, so Winona let him go on chasing.
"We've gone quite three miles, I know," said Louise dismally when they
had been walking some time. "And there's no Lowlane--not even any Gray's
Road." Louise had trained a good deal since she had been in camp, but
she still felt long walks more than the other two did, who were slim. "I
'don't believe there's no sich animal' as Mrs. Martin, or a victrola.
There aren't any victrolas or any lanes, high or low, on earth.
Woof--I'm tired!"
She fanned herself with her handkerchief, and the dog tried to jump at
it, under the impression that she was playing a game with him.
"It does seem a long way," said Helen sympathetically, "but there is a
Gray's Road, for I'm sure I see a signpost a little ahead of us."
"It's probably one of those automobile directions that says 'Three miles
back to the village--seventeen miles forward to Jonesville. Use Smith's
Lubricating Oil and Robinson Tires!'" and Louise shrugged her shoulders.
Nevertheless, when they came up to the signpost, although it did advise
automobiles about several kinds of supplies they ought to have, it also
said that this was Gray's Road. They turned as they had been told, and
went down it, in search of their second landmark, Low's Lane. This,
unfortunately, wasn't in sight. "Let's ask," said Winona as they passed
a little old house by the side of the road, and steered the others up
the path that led to the porch. It was a ramshackle, unpainted
packing-box of a place, with an old, old lady, heavily shawled, curled
up in a rocker, for inhabitant. Helen was pushed forward to speak to
her. "Can you tell us if we are near Low's Lane?" she asked, politely.
"Hey?" said the old lady. "I'm a little deaf."
Helen said it over again as loudly as she could.
"Rain?" said the old lady. "No, no--it ain't goin' to rain!"
"Low's Lane!" screamed Helen.
"What?" said the old lady.
"Ask her about the victrola," suggested Winona. "Sometimes deaf people
can hear one word when they can't another. Perhaps she'd know by that
where we wanted to go."
"We want a place where they're selling a victrola!" shouted Helen.
This time the old lady seemed to hear.
"Victrola, hey? You go right on a piece till you turn to your left. It's
the first house."
"Thank you," yelled Helen.
They were offered, and took, drinks of water, and went on again.
"I think one of you might have asked some of the questions," said Helen
indignantly.
"I'll ask one now!" defied Louise. "Far be it from me not to do my
duty." She turned and ran back to where the old dame still rocked on her
porch.
"Is it a good victrola?" she shouted.
The old lady shook her head.
"I wouldn't go so far's to say _that_," she answered. "Smart,
though--awful smart and clever!"
Louise ran back to the others without asking any more questions.
"She says the talking machine isn't good, but awful smart and clever,"
she panted. "What _do_ you suppose she means?"
"I can't imagine," said Helen. "Anyway, we know how to get there."
The first lane, sure enough, led to a house, but there seemed to be no
willows anywhere about it. Still houses often have names that have
nothing to do with the facts, so the girls pressed on. The place had a
vaguely familiar look to Winona and Louise.
"I'm sure I've come here before, by another way," said Winona.
"I haven't," said Helen. "You must have come by water. I think the
river's somewhere back of us. If you ask me, I think one way's enough to
come."
They lined up before the door and rang. But the bell, they discovered
finally, was badly out of order. A "please knock" sign was blowing about
the porch, they discovered still a little later. They knocked
vigorously, and the door was finally unfastened by a draggled little
girl of about eleven.
"Why--why, how do you do, Vicky!" said Louise in surprise. "Why, of
course, Helen, this is Sandy's house. Only this isn't the same door, is
it, that we came in by last time, Vicky?"
Vicky, who was as tousled as usual, shook her head.
"What's the matter?" she asked stolidly. "Has Sandy been naughty?"
"No, indeed," said Louise, "she's as good as gold. Can't we come in?"
for Vicky didn't seem to feel specially hospitable--she was holding the
door on a crack, and was not her usual sunny self. "Sandy's around here
somewhere--at least she's not in camp."
"Oh, yes," she said, and opened it wider. The girls filed in and sat
down in the square hall, which was as littered as usual with clothes and
paper bags and everything else that places are usually littered with.
"Look at that hole!" whispered Louise, forgetting her politeness as
Vicky stood near them, not intending, evidently, to sit down and
entertain them if she could help it. "There's more hole than stocking!"
It was quite true, but unfortunately Vicky had sharp ears.
"They're my own stockings," she said crossly, "and I like 'em with holes
in."
"Oh, all right!" said Louise dryly. "Only they aren't usually worn that
way."
"Can we speak to your uncle?" interposed Helen, for the air was becoming
stormy.
"Isn't home," announced Vicky. "He had a cross fit and went out
walking."
"Is anybody home?" asked Winona. "We came on business."
"You can do it with me, whatever it is," said Vicky, sitting down with
the torn-stockinged leg under her.
Helen plunged straight into the business at hand.
"The old lady down the road said that this was the house where they had
a victrola----" she started to say--and stopped in dismay over the
effect of her words; Vicky flew into a temper and began to cry.
"I want you to go away from here--coming to make fun of me!" she sobbed,
stamping her foot at them. Before they could answer she ran out of the
room, leaving them staring at each other in surprise.
"Well, what on earth?" Winona slowly ejaculated.
"Goodness only knows," said Louise. "Anyway, I seem to feel that she
doesn't want to sell it to us."
"Well, no," assented Helen, and the three of them thoughtfully and
slowly let themselves out at the door they had come in by.
They had gone only a little way back when they heard flying feet behind
them.
"Wait a minute," panted Vicky, catching up to them. "I
guess--perhaps--I'd better explain. I'm sorry I got mad. But--but my
_name's_ Victrola!" She flushed painfully. Evidently it was hard for her
to tell. "I thought you were just making fun of me, but I thought about
it, and I guess you weren't. I know the place you want--it's a little
further, up the next lane."
She started to run back, but Winona caught her hand and held her.
"Why, you poor dear!" she said. "I don't see why you mind. It's a very
pretty name. But we weren't trying to make fun of you. We really want to
buy a phonograph for the camp."
"They laugh at me--everybody does," faltered Vicky. "They were this
morning--the boys down by the landing. That's why I was so cross. They
pretend to wind me up, and--and I _hate_ it!"
"So would I," comforted Louise. "But you mustn't mind, Vicky. All my
life the boys have called me 'Carrots,' and 'Reddy,' and things like
that. There's no use caring. Look here, honey, I'll tell you what to do.
See if you haven't got a middle name you can use, or even one you ought
to have had. Ask your uncle if there wasn't a middle name somebody
almost gave you once, and if there was use it."
"I wonder if I could!" said Vicky, brightening. She reached down and
pulled up one of her stockings, as if the prospect of a better name made
her want to be tidy.
"Anyhow it's a pretty name," said Louise cheerfully. "I wouldn't worry
about it."
"Yes, you would," said Vicky, as she turned back. "There down this
lane's the place you can get--it."
It was Louise's turn to detain her this time.
"Vicky! Vicky!" she called. "Won't you and Sandy come down to Camp
Karonya and stay overnight, to-morrow night? We're going to do some
stunts--just to celebrate. The Scouts are coming over, and one or two of
our pet particular friends."
"I don't know the way," said Vicky.
"Sandy does," said Louise and Winona together.
"Thank you," said Vicky sedately. "We'll come. And--please don't tell
the others my name. I'll have the real one thought out by that time."
"Of course we won't," they promised.
"It _was_ mean to name her that," Helen declared as they went down the
lane.
"Maybe it was before there were machine victrolas, and her mother just
thought it was pretty," suggested Louise. "The other children have fancy
names, too; Alexandra and Lance. Remember Vicky told us there was a boy
named Lancelot, the day we went up?"
"To return your orphan?" said Winona. "Oh, yes--we all remember. Never
mind, Ishkoodah dear, perhaps next time you'll find a real one."
"Wouldn't it be fine if Camp Karonya _could_ look after some little
girl--one of the Children's Aid children, for instance?" said Helen
thoughtfully.
"It would take a good deal of money," spoke practical Louise, "if we
didn't one of us have it in the family."
"Not such a lot," said Winona. "Oh, it would be lovely! A nice little
orphan with blue eyes and curly hair, and we'd name her ourselves----"
"We'd call her Gramophone!" suggested Louise; and, tired as they were,
they all began to laugh. But by this time they were nearly at the house
the machine's namesake had directed them to, and it was the right one.
The owner had a fairly good victrola and six double-faced records, and
she finally consented to let it go for twenty dollars. The girls paid
down the money on the spot, and constructed a carrier for it out of two
pieces of board which the machine's owner threw in.
There were no adventures whatever connected with this end of the
happening. Helen took the front end and Louise the back, and Winona
steadied it. Then they set it down, after they had walked awhile, and
changed places. It seemed rather a long way home, and they were
exceedingly glad when they reached camp--that was all. Their sympathetic
comrades attended to their routine duties for them, and all the
adventurers had to do was to lie on the grass and tell about their
travels--everything, that is, but Victrola's name and her grief over it.
After supper the whole camp assembled to enjoy the machine, and danced
to everything on its disc, even the sextette from Lucia, given as a
vocal selection. But Louise did not do any folk-dances that night. She
was so tired that she curled up on a soft spot and fed the machine till
it was time to go to bed.