THE SKULL AND CROSS-BONES.
If Marion Stanlock, "High Peak" in the trait and a torch bearer, had
read one of two letters, signed with a "skull and cross-bones," which
she found lying on the desk in her room after the adjournment of the
Grand Council Fire, doubtless there would have been an interruption,
and probably a change, in the holiday program of the Flamingo Camp
Fire. She saw the letters lying there and under ordinary circumstances
would have torn them open and read them, however hastily, before
retiring. But on this occasion she was rather tired, owing to the
activities and the excitement of the day and evening. Moreover, she
realized that she could not hope for anything but a wearisome journey
to Hollyhill on the following day unless she refreshed herself with as
many hours sleep as possible before train time.
So she merely glanced at the superscriptions on the envelopes to see
if the letters were from any of her relatives or friends, and, failing
to recognize either of them, she put them into her handbag, intending
to read them at the first opportunity next morning. Then she went to
bed and fell asleep almost instantly.
Marion was awakened in the morning by her roommate, Helen Nash, who
had quietly arisen half an hour earlier. The latter was almost ready
for breakfast when she woke her friend from a sleep that promised to
continue several hours longer unless interrupted. She had turned on
the electric light and was standing before the glass combing her hair.
Marion glanced at the clock to see what time it was, but the face was
turned away from her and the light in the room made it impossible for
her to observe through the window shades that day was just breaking.
"What time is it, Helen?" she asked. "Did the alarm go off? I didn't
hear it. What waked you up?"
Helen did not answer at once. For a moment or two her manner seemed to
indicate that she did not hear the questions of the girl in bed. Then,
as if suddenly rescuing her mind from thoughts that appealed to have
carried her away into some far distant abstraction, she replied thus,
in a series of disconnected utterances:
"No, the alarm didn't go off--a--Marion. I got up at 6 o'clock. I
turned the alarm off. It is 6:30 now. I don't know what woke me. I
just woke up."
Marion arose, wondering at the peculiar manner of her roommate and the
strained, almost convulsive, tone of her voice. She asked no further
questions, but proceeded with her dressing and preparation for
breakfast. For the time being, she forgot all about the two letters in
her handbag that lay on her dresser.
In some respects Helen was a peculiar girl. If her speech and action
had been characterized with more vim, vigor and imagination,
doubtlessly she would generally have been known as a pretty girl. As
it was, her features were regular, her complexion fair, her eyes blue,
and her hair a light brown. Marion thought her pretty, but Marion had
associated with her intimately for two or three years, and had
discovered qualities in her that mere acquaintances could never have
discovered. She had found Helen apparently to be possessed of a
strong, direct conception of integrity, never vacillating in manner or
sympathies. Moreover, she exhibited a quiet, unwavering capability in
her work that always commanded the respect, and occasionally the
admiration, of both classmates and teachers.
Not only was Helen quiet of disposition, but strangely secretive on
certain subjects. For instance, she seldom said anything about her
home or relatives. She lived in Villa Park, a small town midway
between Westmoreland and Hollyhill. Her father was dead, and, when not
at school, she had lived with her mother; these two, so far as Marion
knew, constituting the entire family.
Marion had visited her home, and there found the mother and daughter
apparently in moderate circumstances. Naturally, she had wondered a
little that Mrs. Nash should be able to support her daughter at a
private school, even though that institution made a specialty of
teaching rich men's daughters how to be useful and economical, but
the reason why had never been explained to her. Helen got her
remittances from home regularly, and seemed to have no particular
cause to worry about finances. She had spent parts of two vacations at
the Stanlock home and there conducted herself as if quite naturally
able to fit in with luxurious surroundings and large accommodations.
Only a few days before the Christmas holidays, something had occurred
that emphasized Helen's secretive peculiarity to such an extent that
Marion was considerably provoked and just a little mystified. A young
man, somewhere about 25 or 27 years old, fairly well but not
expensively dressed, and bearing the appearance of one who had seen a
good deal of the rough side of life, called at the Institute and asked
for Miss Nash. He was ushered into the reception room and Helen was
summoned. One of the girls who witnessed the meeting told some of her
friends that Miss Nash was evidently much surprised, if not
unpleasantly disturbed, when she recognized her caller. Immediately
she put on a coat and hat and she and the young man went out. An hour
later she returned alone, and to no one did she utter a word relative
to the stranger's visit, not even to her roommate, who had passed them
in the hall as they were going out.
Helen Nash was a member of the Flamingo Camp Fire and accompanied the
other members on their vacation trip to the mountain mining district.
The other eleven who boarded the train with Marion, the holiday
hostess, were Ruth Hazelton, Ethel Zimmerman, Ernestine Johanson,
Hazel Edwards, Azalia Atwood, Harriet Newcomb, Estelle Adler, Julietta
Hyde, Marie Crismore, Katherine Crane, and Violet Munday.
Miss Ladd, the Guardian, also was one of Marion's invited guests. The
party took possession of one end of the parlor car, which,
fortunately, was almost empty before they boarded it. Then began a
chatter of girl voices--happy, spirited, witty, and promising to
continue thus to the end of the journey, or until their kaleidoscopic
subjects of conversation were exhausted.
Every thrilling detail of the evening before was gone over, examined,
given its proper degree of credit, and filed away in their memories
for future reference. There was more catching of breath, more
cheering, more clapping of hands; but no mock jeers, now that the boys
were absent, as the events of the Boy Scouts' invasion and the many
incidental and brilliant results were recalled and repictured.
"I wonder what Harry Gilbert meant when he said some of them were
planning another surprise nearly as thrilling as the one they sprung
last night," said Azalia Atwood, with characteristic excitable
expectation. "He addressed himself to you, Marion, when he said it;
and he's a close friend of your cousin, Clifford Long. Whatever it
is, I bet anything it will fall heaviest on this Camp Fire when it
comes."
"Maybe it was just talk, to get us worked up and looking for something
never to come," suggested Ethel Zimmerman. "It would be a pretty good
one for the boys to get us excited and looking for something clear up
to April 1, and then spring an April fool joke, something like a big
dry goods box packed with excelsior."
"Oh, but that wouldn't measure up to expectations," Ruth Hazelton
declared. "It wouldn't be one-two-three with what they did last night,
and they promised something just about as interesting."
"You don't get me," returned Ethel. "The dry goods box filled with
excelsior would be the anti-climax of wondering expectations."
"You're too deep for a twentieth century bunch of girls, Ethel," Hazel
Edwards objected. "That might easily be mistaken for the promised big
stunt. They might compose a lot of ditties and mix them up with the
packing, something like this:
"'Believe not all big things that boys may tell thee, for
Great expectations may produce excelsior'."
"Very clever, indeed, only it sounds like an impossible combination of
Alice in Wonderland and an old maid," said Harriet Newcomb, with a
toss of her head. "I'm surprised at you, Hazel, for suggesting such a
thing. If the boys should put over anything like that, we'd break off
diplomatic relations right away. If they wanted to call us a lot of
rummies, they couldn't do it as effectively by the use of direct
language. Cleverness usually makes a hit with its victims, unless it
contains an element of contempt."
"That is really a brilliant observation," announced the Guardian who
had been listening with quiet interest to the spirited conversation.
"Continued thought along such lines ought to result in a Keda National
Honor for you, Harriet."
"I'll agree to all that if Harriet will take back what she said about
my being an old maid," said Hazel with mock dignity.
"I didn't call you an old maid, my dear," denied the impromptu poet
pertly. "I merely said, or meant to say, that the idea you expressed
might better be expected from an old maid, although I doubt if many
old maids could have expressed it as well as you did."
"Girls, Girls, are you going to turn our vacation into a two-weeks
repartee bee?" Marion broke in with affected desperation. "If you do,
you will force your hostess to go way back and sit down, and that
wouldn't be polite, you know. By the way, if you'll excuse me I'll do
that very thing now for another reason. I've got two letters in my
hand bag that I forgot all about. I'm going to read them right now.
You girls are making too much chatter. I can't read in your midst."
So saying, Marion retired to a chair just far enough away to lend
semblance of reality to her "go way back and sit down" suggestion, and
settled back comfortably to read the two missives that arrived with
the last evening's mail at the Institute.
"Settled back comfortably"--yes, but only for a short time. Marion
never before in her life received two such letters. Both were
anonymous. The first one that she opened aroused enough curiosity to
"unsettle" her. She thought she knew whom it was from--those ingenious
Boy Scouts of Spring Lake--perhaps it was written by cousin Clifford
himself. It was just like him. He was a natural leader among boys, and
often up to mischief of some sort. Marion was sure he was one of the
prime movers of the Scout invasion of Hiawatha Institute.
But the next letter was the real thriller, or rather cold chiller. She
knew very well what it meant. From the point of view of the writer it
meant "business," a threat well calculated to work terror in her own
heart and the heart of every other member of Flamingo Fire. It was a
threat couched in direful words, warning her and her friends not to go
to Hollyhill on their charity mission, as announced, and predicting
serious injury if not death to some of them. It was signed with a
skull and cross-bones.
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