THE MYSTERIOUS "PETER RABBIT"
The gymnasium had, perhaps, never held a more motley crowd of revelers
than on the night of the Famous Fiction masquerade. The faculty, who had
been particularly interested in the idea of the masquerade, declared
that for originality it was in line with 19--'s usual efforts. They
occupied seats in the gallery and amused themselves with trying to guess
the identity of the various maskers and the books or famous book
characters which they represented.
It had been decided that as so many of the famous book titles did not
lend themselves to impersonation, famous characters in fiction might
also be impersonated. Therefore, when the longed-for night came round,
heroes and heroines, with whose adventures and doings the book-lover's
world is familiar, walked about, arm in arm, collected in little groups,
or danced gayly together to the music of the eight-piece Overton
orchestra, whose members appeared to appreciate the humor of the
occasion as keenly as did the faculty.
It was an inspiring sight to watch "Hamlet" parading calmly about the
gymnasium with "Beverly of Graustark," or to watch "Mrs. Wiggs of the
Cabbage Patch" waltz merrily off with "Rip Van Winkle." Every one
immediately recognized "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" and "Robinson Crusoe."
Meek little Oliver Twist, with his big porridge bowl decorated by a wide
white band bearing the legend, "I want some more," was also easy to
guess. So were "Evangeline," "Carmen," "The Little Lame Prince,"
"Ivanhoe," "Janice Meredith," and scores of other book ladies and
gentlemen.
There were a few masqueraders, however, whose fictitious identity was
shrouded in mystery. No one could fathom the significance of a certain
tall figure, dressed in rags, who stopped short in her tracks at
frequent intervals, and, producing a needle and thread, sewed
industriously at her tattered garments. A black-robed sister of charity,
accompanied by a strange figure who wore a shapeless garment painted in
dull gray squares to represent stone, and wearing a narrow leather belt
about its waist from which was suspended on either side two small
andirons, were also sources of speculative curiosity. So was a young
woman in white with a towering headdress composed of a combination of
the Stars and Stripes and the flag of France. And no one had the
remotest idea concerning the eight white figures who marched four
abreast and would not condescend to break ranks even to dance.
"Sherlock Holmes" was there with his violin tucked under one arm and a
volume of his memoirs under the other. He evinced a strong preference
for the society of "Joan of Arc," while "Sarah Crewe," "Little Lord
Fauntleroy," and "Rebecca of Sunnybrook" traveled about together, a
seemingly contented trio. "The Three Musketeers" were gorgeous to behold
in their square-cut costumes, high boots and wide feathered hats, but
the sensation of the evening was "Peter Rabbit," who came to the dance
attired in his little blue, brass-buttoned jacket, brown khaki
pantaloons and what seemed to be the identical shoes he lost in Mr.
McGregor's garden. His mask was a cunning rabbit's head that was drawn
down and fastened at the neck by a funny soft tie. Who "Peter Rabbit"
was and where he had managed to lay hands on his costume was a matter
for discussion that night.
The suspense of not knowing who was who ended with the unmasking after
the eighth dance, and amid exclamations and little shrieks of laughter
the masqueraders stood face to face.
"Elfreda Briggs! I might have known you would," laughed Arline Thayer,
shaking hands with "Sherlock Holmes," while Miriam Nesbit thankfully
lifted "Joan of Arc's" helmet and took off her mask.
"You're a perfectly darling 'Fauntleroy,'" admired Elfreda. "I suppose
Ruth was 'Sara Crewe.'"
"Yes," returned Arline Thayer. "Here come those eight white figures!"
she exclaimed. "Why, it is Miss Barlowe and her crowd. I don't know yet
what they were representing."
"The 'White Company,' of course," declared Elfreda. "There would be no
satisfaction in being 'Sherlock Holmes' if I couldn't solve all these
puzzles."
"Then live up to your reputation and tell me what famous work of fiction
this approaching rag-bag represents," laughed Miriam.
"My powers of deduction were strong enough to pierce the identity of
that bundle of rags," grinned Elfreda. "I knew Emma Dean by her walk,
but I don't know what she represents. Who and what are you, Emma?" she
hailed.
"'Never too Late to Mend,'" chanted Emma, flourishing a large darning
needle and attacking her rags anew. A shout arose from the little circle
of girls who had formed about her. "There is another still harder to
guess than mine. Over there," pointed Emma. "Look, girls!"
"What is it?" chorused half a dozen voices. "Well, I never! If it isn't
Grace and Patience!"
There was a concerted rush toward the two girls. "What in the name of
common sense is this illustrious combination?" asked Emma. "Why didn't
you choose something a little harder."
"We are easy enough to guess," returned Patience loftily. "That is, if
you are familiar with standard fiction."
"I'm not. I never was," declared Emma. "Tell us instanter!"
"Allow me to introduce you to the 'Cloister.'" Patience bowed low. "And
the 'Hearth.'" Grace saluted the company with a loud jingling of her
andirons.
"Oh," groaned Elfreda. "No wonder my powers of deduction failed. Who
could guess that Grace was representing a hearth? She looks more like a
section of a garden wall or the stone foundation for a new house,
or----"
"If my costume looks as stony as that, then I do look like a hearth, and
either your eyesight or your imagination is defective," declared Grace
in triumph.
"Certainly, you resemble a hearth," agreed Emma Dean. "Now tell me how
you like my costume. It took me hours to reduce my wearing apparel to
its present picturesque state. All you girls are screaming successes.
But who is 'Peter Rabbit'?"
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," declared Elfreda. "He, or
rather she, carried a package of little cards with a cunning rabbit's
head and the name 'Peter Rabbit' on them. I have one here."
"So have I," came from every member of the group.
"Let us find the famous Peter, then offer our congratulations," proposed
Patience, with a searching glance at the company.
But the "famous Peter" was not to be found among the throng of gayly
attired girls, and there was no little comment among them at his sudden
and complete disappearance.
"I wonder what became of 'Peter Rabbit'?" remarked Anne, when, later in
the evening, a number of Semper Fidelis girls gathered in one corner of
the room to hold an informal session and compare notes.
"Who is 'Peter Rabbit'; or, the Mystery of the 'Blue Jacket'?" declaimed
Emma Dean. "Even Sherlock is all at sea, aren't you, Brother Holmes?"
Emma Dean laid her hand familiarly on the great investigator's shoulder.
"Don't be too sure that I'm all at sea. I have a theory." Elfreda put on
a preternaturally wise expression.
"We'll hear it at once," returned Emma briskly.
"Not to-night. I have other weightier problems on my mind. I have been
asked to solve the campus mystery."
"Campus mystery!" exclaimed several voices. "What is it?"
"Walk to the extreme northern end of the campus, then go east one
hundred and fifty paces and you will come face to face with the
problem," was Elfreda's mystifying answer.
"Oh, I know what you mean," cried Sara Emerson. "The ground has been
broken there for some kind of building. We noticed it day before
yesterday."
"Right, my child," commended Elfreda patronizingly, "and therein lies
the mystery. I have prowled about the vicinity at odd moments ever since
the men began working there, but even my powers of penetration have
failed."
"Since your curiosity has reached such a height, why don't you ask Miss
Wilder to tell you the whys and wherefores of this startling affair?"
teased Emma Dean. "I never realized until now what a mysterious process
digging a cellar is."
"It isn't the process that's mysterious, it is the object of the
process," declared Elfreda, with great dignity.
"Not everyone 'can see' either," interposed Emma innocently.
"The Briggs-Dean rapid-fire conversation team in an entirely new line of
specialties," proclaimed Sara Emerson. "Secure front seats for the
performance."
"There isn't going to be any performance," flung back Emma. "This is
merely a friendly chat, but it ends here and now. I don't propose to
court publicity. Come on, Sherlock, let us hie us to the lemonade bowl
away from this madding crowd."
Sherlock offered his free arm--his memoirs were securely tucked under
the other--and strolled nonchalantly toward the punch bowl, looking as
though he were towing an animated rag-bag.
"Doesn't Emma Dean look too ridiculous for words?" laughed Arline Thayer
to Grace.
"'Never too late to mend,'" quoted Grace. "I wonder how she ever
happened to hit upon the idea. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?"
"Emma Dean? One of the nicest girls at Overton." Arline spoke with
enthusiasm. "When I came to Morton House as a freshman, Emma was there,
too. I had the most appalling case of the blues, for I didn't for one
moment believe that I should ever like college. Emma had the next room
to mine. She was so cheerful and said such funny things that I forgot
all about my blues."
"I never knew she had lived at Morton House," said Grace in surprise.
"She was there just two weeks," continued Arline. "Then a freshman, who
was an old friend of the Dean family, wanted Emma to room with her at
Wayne Hall, and so she left Morton House and has been at the Hall ever
since."
"Your loss was our gain," replied Grace. "We couldn't do without Emma at
Wayne Hall. She and Elfreda are the life of the house."
Arline smiled to herself. Elfreda and Emma might fill their own
particular niches in Wayne Hall, but there was only one Grace Harlowe.
"How I shall miss you, Grace," she said with sudden irrelevance to the
subject of Emma. "I shall miss you more than any other girl in college,
except Ruth, when I go to New York for good and all."
"I forbid you to mention the subject," cried Grace, her fine face
clouding. "We mustn't even think of it. Oh, listen, Arline! The
orchestra has begun that Strauss waltz I like so well. I'm going to put
these clumsy old andirons over in the corner; then we'll dance and
forget that we are seniors and must pay the penalty."
It was almost twelve o'clock when the Famous Fiction dance came to a
triumphant end, and the illustrious book heroes and heroines wended
their midnight way toward their various houses and boarding places. The
Wayne Hall girls marched across the campus, Emma Dean parading ahead
with outspread arms, her rags flapping about her, giving her the
appearance of a scarecrow which had just emerged from a farmer's
cornfield.
"There it is! There lies the mystery!" cried Elfreda, pointing toward
the northern end of the campus, where considerable headway had been made
in digging what appeared to be the cellar of a house. "But Sherlock will
unravel the tangled skein!"
"Don't be so noisy!" cautioned Miriam Nesbit. "The real Sherlock
wasn't."
"To-morrow will tell the tale," went on Elfreda unabashed, but in a
slightly lower key. "First, I shall spy upon the workmen, then I shall
collect samples of campus soil and spend the rest of the day deducing."
"I hope you won't overwork," was Emma's solicitous comment. "While you
are about it you might deduce the identity of 'Peter Rabbit.' I confess
I am curious to know who wore Peter's blue jacket and why she
disappeared so suddenly."
"So am I," declared Grace. "We must try to find out, too."
As the merry little party tramped upstairs to their rooms, Grace felt a
hand on her shoulder.
"Do you really want to know who 'Peter Rabbit' was?" whispered Elfreda.
"Yes," breathed Grace.
"Then don't tell the girls. It was Kathleen."
"Why didn't she unmask with the rest of us?" demanded Grace, as they
reached the head of the stairs.
"Why didn't she?" repeated Elfreda. "I'll tell you why. She didn't wish
any of us to know who she was. Can't you see? She wanted to be one of
the crowd and she was afraid the girls wouldn't take kindly to her. She
is beginning to feel that she would like to be liked, and," Elfreda
raised one hand, her index finger pointing upward, "'There is hope.'"