Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Front end paper]
[Frontispiece: "MURIEL! I CAN'T GET RIGHT WAY UP"]
JUST GERRY
BY
CHRISTINE CHAUNDLER
LONDON
NISBET & CO. LTD.
22 BERNERS STREET, W.1
1920
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
The Fourth Form Detectives
A Fourth Form Rebel
The Reputation of the Upper Fourth
The Reformation of Dormitory Five
Jan of the Fourth
The Thirteenth Orphan
Snuffles for Short
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. CUBICLE THIRTEEN
II. AN INTRODUCTION
III. THE WAYS OF WAKEHURST PRIORY
IV. AN INCIDENT IN THE DARK
V. A CARICATURE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
VI. THE GERMAN LESSON
VII. GERALDINE MAKES A FRIEND
VIII. MAINLY CONCERNING A MOUSE
IX. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE HEAD GIRL
X. THE DORMITORY MATCH
XI. A LESSON IN HOCKEY
XII. THE NEW FORM-MISTRESS
XIII. A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS
XIV. CHESTNUTS
XV. THE LOWER FIFTH IS MUTE
XVI. A GREAT DECISION
XVII. INTO THE LION'S MOUTH
XVIII. THE END OF THE STRIKE
XIX. THE LITTLE BLACK DOG
XX. AN AFTERNOON AT GYM
XXI. HECTOR OR PARIS?
XXII. THE DORMITORY FINAL
XXIII. THE PLUCK OF GERMAN GERRY
XXIV. THE LOWER FIFTH MAKES AMENDS
XXV. CLOUDS ARE ROLLED AWAY
JUST GERRY
CHAPTER I
CUBICLE THIRTEEN
The new girl sat on the edge of her bed, and gazed round at the small
domain which for the next three months would be the one spot in this
strange new world of school that she could call her own.
It was really quite a nice cubicle, some eight feet wide by ten feet
long--just large enough to contain a small white-counterpaned bed, a
dressing-table and chest of drawers combined, a small washhand stand, a
big wooden locker, and one chintz-covered arm-chair drawn up below the
broad sill of the opened window. The cubicle walls were white, the
furniture white-enamelled; while the curtain which cut the small
compartment off from the rest of the dormitory, the toilet-cover on the
dressing-table, and the covering of the arm-chair were all of a dainty
cream-coloured chintz with a pretty pink rosebud pattern stencilled
upon it. Everything was certainly very nice--much nicer than the new
girl had expected--and she looked around with a certain amount of
satisfaction. Perhaps after all school would not be the dreadful place
she had imagined it would be. Here, at least, would be a place of
refuge if the world outside should prove too hard and unfriendly.
Number Thirteen--the numbers were painted outside on the doorposts--was
the only cubicle in the Pink Dormitory across which the shielding
curtain was drawn. In all the other cubicles unpacking was taking
place in full publicity. Rules were in abeyance on this the first day
of term, and the dormitory hummed with the shrill chatter that was
going on all around. The school was reassembling for the autumn term,
and there were many accounts of holiday doings to be retailed, and much
conjecturing going on respecting new girls, new mistresses, new
prefects, and new rules. The school year at Wakehurst Priory began
with the autumn term, and any changes in the staff or the school
routine were usually made then.
Cubicle Number Twelve was as yet unoccupied, but when the bustle of
unpacking was at its height, a newcomer burst into the dormitory and
rushed helter-skelter down the long corridor, calling out cheerful
greetings to various occupants of the cubicles as she passed. Reaching
Number Twelve, she tumbled her coat and hat and handbag unceremoniously
on to the bed, and flung back the curtain of the next-door cubicle with
a gay call of greeting.
"What on earth do you want to go pulling your curtains for, you old
curmudgeon?" she cried impetuously, then stopped short in sudden
surprise at the sight of the strange girl who was sitting on the bed.
"Who the dickens are you?" she ejaculated. "And what in the world are
you doing in Dorothy Pemberton's cubicle?"
The new girl gave a startled jump and rose to her feet. She was a
tall, slight girl, some fifteen years old, taller by a couple of inches
than her inquisitor, and apparently older. But in spite of her
seniority she looked at the intruder in a frightened sort of way, and
replied nervously to her questioning.
"I--I--don't know. They told me it was my cubicle," she answered,
shrinking away from this alarming intruder.
"_Who_ told you?" demanded Phyllis Tressider, in such a truculent tone
that the new girl retreated yet farther into her cubicle.
"The--the person who showed me here. She looked like a hospital nurse.
I--I suppose it was one of the mistresses."
"You suppose just wrong, then," replied Phyllis, more briefly than
politely. "That was Sister. I suppose if she showed you here she
meant you to stay. But it's a beastly nuisance, all the same! Dorothy
Pemberton always has slept in this cubicle, and it's a sickening shame
if she's got to be turned out by a rotten new kid."
The "new kid's" face flushed scarlet. She was beginning some murmured
apology when the situation was relieved by the entrance of a girl of
about seventeen or eighteen years of age, who was hailed rapturously by
all the other occupants of the Pink Dormitory. This was Muriel Paget,
head girl of Wakehurst Priory, prefect and monitress as well, and
Phyllis left for the moment her inquisition of the occupant of Cubicle
Thirteen, to join in the chorus of welcome.
"_Muriel_! How perfectly ripping! You _don't_ mean to say you are
going to be our monitress this term? Oh, how quite too splendidly
glorious! I say, _do_ let me fetch you your hot water in the mornings.
Do--do--there's a dear!"
"No--me--me!" interposed half a dozen voices. But Muriel held up her
hand in laughing dismay.
"For goodness' sake, chuck it, you kids! _Nobody_ is going to fetch my
hot water for me. The maids can do it as they do everybody else's.
I'm not going to have any of that silly rot going on in the Pink Dorm,
if _I'm_ to be monitress here. So I give you fair warning!"
"You _are_ going to be monitress, then? Oh, how perfectly
scrumptious!" And Phyllis Tressider executed a dance of delight.
Muriel laughed again, pleased at her reception. She enjoyed popularity
as well as most people, although she would allow no unhealthy sentiment
to be lavished upon her. If people "adored" Muriel Paget, they had to
do it from a distance, and not let the object of their worship know too
much about it, either. Otherwise they ran a grave risk of "ructions"
with the head girl. And to be "told off" by Muriel was no joke, as
many of the girls at Wakehurst Priory could testify.
The head girl walked along the corridor towards the monitress's
cubicle, which was at the far end of the dormitory--a bigger and
somewhat more elaborately furnished affair than any of the other
cubicles. As she passed by Number Thirteen, the curtains of which were
still thrown back, the sight of the new girl and her rather frightened
attitude caught Muriel's eye, and she stopped good-naturedly to speak
to her.
"Hullo! Somebody new in here? What's your name, kiddie?" she asked,
ignoring the fact that she was only a couple of years or so older than
the individual she was addressing.
"Geraldine Wilmott," replied the new girl shyly. Phyllis's unprovoked
attack had unnerved her considerably, and she shrank away from the head
girl's well-meant advances.
"She's got Dorothy Pemberton's cubicle--isn't it a shame?" said
Phyllis, scowling darkly at Geraldine. "Dorothy's had that cubicle
next to mine for years and years. It's too bad that we should be
separated now, all because of a new kid."
"Jolly good thing you are to be separated, I think, if I'm to be your
dormitory monitress," replied the head girl, with a smile that took the
sting out of her words. "One of you alone is bad enough--but you two
together are the limit! If Sister has really put you into different
dormitories at last, she has my heartfelt gratitude!"
"They're not so far removed after all, worse luck," remarked the
occupant of Number Fourteen, who was just finishing putting away her
belongings in a neatly arranged drawer. "Dorothy's got Number
Twenty-Nine, the next cubicle to yours, Muriel. She's in the same
dormitory still."
"Why, Monica, old thing--how are you? I never saw you hidden away in
there. Finished your unpacking? Then come along and talk to me while
I do mine." And the head girl slipped her arm round Monica Deane and
led her away. These two were great friends, out-of-school companions
as well as form-mates, although pretty, vivacious Muriel Paget,
brilliant at games and gymnastics as well as at lessons, was a great
contrast to Monica, who, although studious enough, was painstaking and
plodding rather than brilliant; and although keen and reliable at all
sorts of games, would never make much of a mark at them.
Phyllis Tressider remained staring rather sulkily at the new owner of
Number Thirteen, who, deprived of the comforting protection of the head
girl, was growing momentarily more and more nervous under the hostile
scrutiny. However, there came another interruption almost immediately,
this time in the person of an astonishingly pretty person who flung
herself effusively into Phyllis's arms, to be greeted with a delighted:
"Hullo, Dorothy, old dear! I am glad to see you again!"
For a few moments Phyllis's attention was diverted from the new girl.
But she was soon recalled to a remembrance of her grievance by
Dorothy's exclamation of surprise at seeing the occupant of her
one-time domain.
"Hullo! What's up? Aren't I to be in Number Thirteen this term?"
"No. Isn't it a shame?" responded Phyllis, her disgust returning.
"You're ever so far away--in Number Twenty-Nine, Monica says. This
wretched new kid has got your cubicle. I _do_ think it's mean of
Sister to go turning you out!"
Dorothy's face fell considerably.
"Oh, I say, that's too bad! Why, I've been in Number Thirteen for ages
and ages. Can't we get the new kid to change? Sister would never
remember. Here, I say, you, what's your name?" addressing the shy and
miserable occupant of Number Thirteen.
The new girl flushed hotly with embarrassment at this brusque mode of
address. But she answered the question politely enough. Indeed, she
was far too scared to do anything else--to her, discretion, in this
case at least, appeared to be decidedly the better part of valour.
"Geraldine Wilmott," she said, under her breath.
"Well, look here, Geraldine Wilmott, this is my cubie. You won't mind
changing into Number Twenty-Nine instead, will you? Phyllis Tressider
and I have always slept in next-door cubicles ever since we first came
to school."
"And that's the very reason you are to be separated now," said a voice
behind them, and turning round in dismay the two friends saw the
redoubtable Sister herself regarding them with a grimly humorous smile.
"It's just because you and Phyllis always have been together that
you're being moved. There were complaints enough of you last term, and
if I'd had my way you'd have been in different dormitories altogether.
But Miss Oakley said to give you one more chance, so I'm trying what
the effect of putting you at opposite ends of the dormitory may be.
You just leave Geraldine Wilmott alone, and get to work and unpack your
boxes. And mind you put the things away tidily--I shall be coming
round to inspect the drawers after tea." And Sister moved on down the
dormitory, leaving two very disconsolate damsels behind her.
"Bother!" said Dorothy crossly. "I suppose there's no help for it,
now. I shall have to go to Number Twenty-Nine." And with a scowl at
the innocently offending new girl, she marched off to inspect her new
cubicle with an aggrieved air.
Left to herself, Geraldine pulled her curtain again, and curled herself
up rather forlornly upon the bed. In spite of the brave resolutions
she had made when she left home that morning not to cry or show her
home-sickness, no matter how lonely or miserable she might be, the
tears were very near her eyes at that moment. And a devastating
feeling of shyness and fearfulness, which was the bugbear of her
existence, descended upon her mind.
For of all the shy, nervous, frightened girls of fifteen that ever
were, Geraldine Wilmott was surely the most shy and nervous and
frightened! It was not her own fault. She had always been a delicate,
highly-strung child, while a severe illness when she was seven years
old had not improved matters. And then, three years ago, during the
War, she had been in an air-raid, and the sights and sounds she had
seen and heard that night had left an indelible impression upon her
nervous system. She was fully aware of her own failings--almost
morbidly so--and she did her best to struggle against the fears that so
constantly beset her. But it was uphill work, and even the three years
of peace and quiet in the country house her parents had taken, after
the doctor had said that a country life was imperative for the little
girl, if her nerves were to be saved, had not altogether accomplished a
cure.
And now at last the doctor had prescribed boarding-school as a remedy
for the nervousness.
"I really think it is worth giving it a trial, Mrs. Wilmott," he had
said. "There is nothing wrong with the child's health. It is purely
mental, and I believe that the society of other girls will do more for
her now than all the care and anxiety you lavish upon her at home.
Send her to a first-class school, a really big one. Don't make
arrangements for any special privileges--just let her mingle with the
other girls as though she were a perfectly normal child. She will
never get the better of this nervousness while you spoil and pamper her
at home."
"Really, I don't think I've spoilt her," began Mrs. Wilmott in some
distress, but the specialist interrupted her.
"No, I dare say you haven't, in the accepted sense of the word," he
said, with a smile. "And, of course, cosseting and pampering were what
she needed when you first brought her to me. Her nerves were all to
pieces, and school was the last thing I should have recommended then.
But now it is different. She is--how old did you say? Nearly fifteen?
More than old enough to go to school! And really there is no earthly
reason why you should keep her at home any longer. She is perfectly
healthy and well so far as her physical health is concerned, and I have
no fear of a nervous breakdown now, so long as she isn't overworked.
After a term or two at school I think you will find that she quite
overcomes this shyness and nervous fear of things. Try it, at any
rate, Mrs. Wilmott. It can do no harm, and it may do all the good in
the world."
And so Geraldine's lessons with her resident governess came to an end,
together with her quiet country life; and she found herself in Cubicle
Thirteen in the Pink Dormitory at Wakehurst Priory, with all the
unknown horrors of a first term at school waiting her.
But in spite of her nerves and her shyness, and her lack of physical
courage, Geraldine had a queer kind of moral pluck that was really
rather splendid in such a frightened individual. She knew nothing of
the nerve-specialist's advice, or that she was being sent to school as
a sort of last resource. She did not even consciously know that she
possessed nerves at all, or that her shyness and fearfulness were
largely due to that terrible October night three years ago. But she
did know that for some reason or other her mother was always terribly
anxious and worried about her. And she had made up her mind that,
however bad school might be, she would never breathe one word of her
unhappiness at home.
"I won't even tell her about my having been put into that other girl's
cubicle," she thought to herself, as she sat huddled up upon her bed.
"But, oh, I do so wish I hadn't been! I know--I'll begin my letter to
Mother now. I can tell her about my cubicle, how nice and pretty it
is, at any rate. And it will be something to do while I am waiting."
She fetched her writing materials and began a letter home, but she was
not to be left long in peace. About ten minutes after Dorothy's
reproachful exit, a bell rang violently through the school buildings,
and hearing a general rush of footsteps down the dormitory, the new
girl peeped shyly out into the corridor to see what was happening.
There was nobody near except Phyllis Tressider, who was hurriedly
scrambling the last of her clothes into an already overfull drawer.
"Could you--would you tell me what that bell is for?" asked Geraldine
very timidly. If there had been anyone else to ask, she would not have
approached her late antagonist. But there was nobody in sight at the
moment, and the new girl at last plucked up sufficient courage to make
her request.
Phyllis eyed her grumpily.
"Tea, of course, duffer," she snapped rudely. "Whatever else do you
expect at this hour of the day?"
Then she caught sight of Dorothy Pemberton emerging from her cubicle,
and went flying down the corridor to meet her.
"Come along, old thing," she cried. "Let's buck up and bag places at
Muriel's table." And the two chums vanished, arm in arm, leaving
Geraldine Wilmott to find her way as best she might.
The new girl was the only person left in the dormitory, and her face
grew wistful, and a choking sensation came into her throat as she
realised the fact.
"They might have just shown me the way," she murmured to herself,
looking forlornly around her. "I don't think I'm going to like Phyllis
whatever-her-name-is, and that Dorothy Pemberton. They needn't have
been so beastly to me just because I'm in one of their cubicles. It
wasn't my fault. Oh, well, I suppose I'd better go and try and find
out where tea is." And the new girl made her way towards the door
through which Dorothy and Phyllis had disappeared.