[Illustration: “Teekawata, come!” called the Indian.]
JANE ALLEN: CENTER
By Edith Bancroft
Author of Jane Allen of the Sub-Team, Jane Allen: Right Guard, etc.
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Akron, Ohio—New York
Copyright MCMXX
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Jane Allen, Center
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
I—The Silver Lining
II—Telltale Tidings
III—Over the Hills and Far Away
IV—Woo Nah and the Fortunes
V—On Their Way
VI—Journey De Luxe
VII—Lost—a Girl
VIII—New York at Last
IX—Girls’ Life a La Mode
X—Fears and Fancies
XI—A Strange Predicament
XII—Wellington En Masse
XIII—Stirring the Depths
XIV—Baffling Strategy
XV—Election Night
XVI—Politics Et Al
XVII—Potential Enemies
XVIII—The Woes of “Alias Helen”
XIX—Teams and Teamsters
XX—Stemming the Tide
XXI—The Two Jays
XXII—Jane Allen: Center
XXIII—The Barn Swifts—a Tragedy
XXIV—A Clue to the Mystery
XXV—To the Victors
XXVI—Angels Unawares
XXVII—What the “Bugle” Blew
XXVIII—Madam Nalasky
XXIX—The Boy Stanislaus
XXX—The Acorn and the Oak
CHAPTER I—THE SILVER LINING
Jolly round fleecy clouds tumbled over their playmates in the great,
broad playfield of endless blue; baby cloudlets climbed to tops, only
to slide down the other side, while haughty, majestic, dignified
leaders paraded straight to the prairie line, taking on tones more
sombre with each lap of earth left below. A shower should be
marshalled, it had been promised the wheat fields, but those young sky
rowdies never wanted to work, always romping and skylarking, allowing
the silliest little breezes to blow them off their course.
The girl on the grass gazed up; in her gray eyes the steely glints
quivered into sharp, silver blade-like flashes, reflected from the
arrow of some little god just peeking from behind the cloud mountain.
He warned her of the shower, he knew the parade would soon be formed
into battle line, yet the girl saw only the sunshine still braving the
cloud’s attack.
“Just like one’s fortune,” she mused, “clouds and sunshine, pleasant
here and a storm somewhere else. I wonder why we take things so
seriously? I believe the greatest philosophy of life is moderation: and
I am going to be very moderate with my little worries. The sunshine is
only behind the cloud, and the reaction is always crowding the
perplexities. I am not going to worry about going away this year.”
The girl was retrospective. Vacation was almost over, and Jane Allen
would soon leave the hills of El Capitan, her ranch home, to take up
her Junior year at Wellington college. Fortified with the resolution
against loneliness Jane would try to cover the thought of leaving her
dear dad, and her Aunt Mary, with the anticipation of so much joy at
the homecoming when the school term would end. A drop of rain fell into
her eye with the precision of an eye dropper. She blinked, then jumped
to her feet.
“Jan, Janie also Jeanie,” she roused herself. “Do you want some woozy
gnome to turn you into an old maid? Why the ruminating? In the words of
Judy Stearns, why the Willies? Don’t you want to go back to
Wellington?” she asked herself.
A light sprinkle answered her. That shower would come in spite of the
sun still showing blades of defiance. A rumble of thunder chased the
flash from her eyes and the playful sky god ducked behind the black
mountain. Jane stretched her arms unconsciously into gym rhythm, did a
one, two, three and a couple of doubles, then straightened her lithe
form, squared her shoulders, and made a quarter of a mile dash to the
house. She tumbled into the cushions at Aunt Mary’s feet just as the
drops assumed the magnitude of splatter and splash.
“Auntie Mary,” she panted, “did you notice it is raining?”
“Notice it? I behold it, Janie dear. I am glad you got back in time.
These late summer showers often turn into good sizable storms. Where
have you been?”
“Under my particular tree. I was telling my fortune in the sky when I
espied a whole flock of clouds, that wanted to play with an earth
maiden. They flirted outrageously, but I knew you would never consent
to my taking up with sky-gods without being properly introduced. So I
shook my head, and wig-wagged that they should send their cards to the
astronomy class. Auntie, hast any mail?”
“Yes, dear. And one from Wellington.”
“Oh, goody-good! It will tell us who won the scholarship. But look at
that rain. I wonder if Firefly got to his shed? I must see.”
“Janie, don’t run in that downpour, Janie!” But the girl was off down
the bridle path, waving her arms backward to signify how splendid the
sheets of rain felt, tossing up her bronze head, determined to accept
the full charge of the unequaled beauty bath in her joyous face. Oh! it
was wonderful to be alive and at El Capitan!
“The dear,” murmured her aunt, “and some folks think her willful. I
have always noticed that her self will ran in the right direction. She
didn’t care to leave home for school, of course, but now she loves
college life. Well, I do wonder if there is anything more beautiful in
life than a glorious young girl.”
Was Aunt Mary a little regretful? She had been a young girl once. She
had been glorious too. Jane had inherited her own swirl of bronze hair
from this self-same Aunt Mary, while the mother, a woman of rare beauty
had given the daughter those metallic gray eyes. Their glints could be
as soft as silver, or as flashy as steel, so, beautiful eyes, that were
velvet in meekness were really metallic in their moody changes.
Presently a gale of laughter announced Jane’s return.
“Auntie,” called the girl who was thus being eulogized, “I am bringing
you a guest. Here is Uncle Todd, got caught in the storm, purposes to
give you a jolly chat. Come on, Uncle. Aunt Mary wants to hear all
about the auction over Lincoln way. They even sold the big tree, Aunt
Mary.”
On the arm of the young girl there came trudging along the tanbark path
Uncle Todd; old, gray, tottering, his cane so much a part of himself as
to seem a third member, his uncertain smile ever making its way to
Jane’s happy face, while she urged and assisted him to the porch.
Plainly he loved Jane, and he enjoyed the prospect of a chat with Aunt
Mary, for Uncle Todd was a ranch character, serving, by contrast, to
picture more clearly the types so varied and so completely different
from that which he presented. Uncle Todd was a conservative in a group
of rebels. He kept with him the mannerisms of old New York State and
was a Yankee of the strongest and deepest dye. Even the twang of voice,
and tworl of words, had not been rounded out into the drawl of the
hills around El Capitan.
“Good afternoon, or is it still mornin’?” wheezed the old man. “Glad I
met Janie or that there shower might have blown me clean into the
hereafter. Sich a blow,” and he adjusted the confidential cane. “Jest
like the one that came one afternoon last summer, when that there city
fellar tried to sell me the trick umbrel.” He clambered the low steps
unsteadily. “And I mind, Janie girl, you happened along that day too.
Seems like as if you know just when to happen,” chuckling, he put his
arm more firmly into that of the girl who urged him along.
“Now, Uncle Todd, you know very well you were perfectly all right when
I found you just now. I do believe you were going to sit plumb down and
defy the storm. Just to see what it would do at its worst. But you are
a little wet,” feeling the green coat that covered the bent shoulders.
“I wonder, Aunt Mary, if we can’t fit Uncle Todd out in some of daddy’s
regimentals.”
“No need, no need,” he objected. “This here co’t don’t leak a mite.
Finest yarn—no more of this kind. I fetched it clear from Syracuse,” he
announced almost reverently.
“But you had better come inside,” warned Aunt Mary, “the rain gets in
here when the wind turns.”
“Just as you say, Miss Allen. Fact is, I never say no to a sit in the
parlor. I say to the boys, boys I say; if you want a real good
comfortable chin, in a chair that’s big enough for you, make it over at
Henry Allen’s place.”
Graciously acknowledging the compliment, Aunt Mary and Jane led the old
man into the living room he was wont to call the parlor.
“You are always welcome, Uncle Todd,” said the lady.
“How about the boys, Auntie?” teased Jane. “Especially the one who
plays the uke. I think he is wonderful. You should see him performing
in the corral the other night. My, but he did swing that lasso!”
“You mean the fellar with the long, lanky build? He looks like he’s
been stretched out when he was wet!” put in Uncle Todd. “Yes, I heard
him with that there fiddle box. ’Tain’t more’n a mite of a box, with a
couple of strings, but it kin keep a fellar awake, I tell you. There’s
a tree near my hut with a regular rickin’ chair, made right in it, and
them there boys like that place for their evenin’s. Well, Uncle Todd
goes to bed earlier than the young fellars and—well, the chap with the
fiddle sure does love to tune up,” and the usual chuckle ended his
quaint statement.
“But I really want to know about the auction, Uncle Todd,” interrupted
Miss Allen. “I am so sorry Welche’s folks had to give the old place up
at last. Did they sell everything?”
“Couple times over. Never see such shouting and jumpin’. Why the Deeny
girls, them old maids as never twisted their stiff necks to bow to man
or beast in these parts, them was the wurst. They just seemed to want
to buy every thin’ and carry it away in their old barouche.” The old
man pounded his cane on the buffalo rug in sheer contempt. “Like as if
they was goin’ to set up a first class boardin’ house hotel.”
“Oh, you know, Uncle,” enlightened Aunt Mary. “They are related to the
Welches.”
“Eggzactly. I recall. More reason why they should act decent like.
There was Mother Welch, out back in the barn, her apron most pokin’ her
eyes out at every yell from old Sheriff Nailor.”
“Now, I am just going to leave you two and the auction,” spoke up Jane,
“while I devour the delectable news in my letter. Did you ever have a
letter too good to read, Uncle Todd?”
“Yes, girl, I know that feelin’. Like you hate to have it over because
you want to have it on. Well, go to it, Janie, and don’t swallow too
much of that yellar paper. Looks poison like to me.”
Jane crushed the yellow envelope to her breast, in sheer delight. Then
she snapped up a knitting needle to open the cherished missive.
“You know, Auntie,” she whispered, “this will tell us who won dadykin’s
scholarship.” Then raising her voice to Uncle Todd’s inquiring eyes,
“Daddy gave a scholarship to my college, Unk,” she told him. “Do you
suppose some very nice, prim, prudy, who took the home correspondence
course between making sister Julia pinafores and Jacob’s jumpers, has
won it? Of course, I respect home cooking girls, and particularly
admire the devotees of domestic science, but Grade B from the
Branchville would be all out of luck in the Wellington routine. Bye-bye
now, and be good. Uncle Todd, don’t make Aunt Mary envious with your
report of auction bargains. She is always and ever objecting to
catalogue prices.”
With a gay wave of the letter, in which delight was momentarily
suppressed, Jane flitted from the room to the porch, where now the last
drops of the afternoon shower were reluctantly counting their totals.
She dropped into the big wicker chair near the wisteria arch, and
curled up like a kitten, in the way girls have of “fairly eating” a
letter.
While she is thus perusing this perfectly private communication let us
present Jane Allen formally to our readers.
In the first volume, “Jane Allen of the Sub-Team,” we met her as a girl
Solitaire. She had been reared on a ranch, without girl companions, and
had never realized that tolerance which is necessary in the big world
of boys and girls. But once at the Eastern college we like her best in
her brave battles against the limits of conventions she finds there,
and we cannot but admire the spirit with which she holds out, just long
enough, and gives in just in time, to save situations. Perhaps the true
deep affection, so soon shown for Jane by her classmates of the
freshmen, is the best testimonial to her glory as Jane Allen Sub. Jane
had for a time ignored the tame basketball sport, delighting in her
stolen rides on Firefly (for her indulgent father had sent the saddle
horse to school too with Jane as he expressed it), but finally
acknowledging there was something worth while in the game Jane fought
for a place on the team, and she won it triumphantly. The opposition
tried many turns both fair and foul to defeat her, but Jane won out;
with an interesting flourish.
Not less attractive was she as Jane Allen, Right Guard, in the second
volume of the series. Girls can be very small sometimes, even behind
the sheltering walls of important colleges, and in this story we were
introduced to a set of “peculiars” commonly called “snobs,” who spent a
lot of perfectly good time trying to spoil Jane’s ever-growing
popularity at Wellington. Just how flatly they failed makes a rather
thrilling tale. Haven’t you read it? You will love the way Jane rescues
Norma, the girl working her way through college, putting down scheme
after scheme, concocted just to embarrass the poorer girl. Jane found a
legitimate outlet for her talent as a joy maker, and a gloom crusher.
Even taking it moderately, one is enthralled with her genius in making
and keeping the best of friends, and Judith Stearns her “best,” runs a
close second with Jane in the popularity contest of the second volume.