MAINLY CONCERNING A MOUSE
The Lower Fifth was a long way removed from the Sixth Form at Wakehurst
Priory. Between it lay the Middle Fifth, the Upper Fifth, and the
Sixth Remove. But things had a way of getting round in the school, as
they have in other places; and in due course it came to the ears of the
Sixth Form that the new girl, Geraldine Wilmott, was not exactly
popular with her companions. She had done something rather "sneaky,"
the Sixth understood, and was vaguely suspected of being a German--or
at any rate of having a good deal of German blood in her.
"Too bad of Miss Oakley to have admitted her into the school if it's
true," commented Kathleen Milne, one of the prefects and a prominent
member of the Sixth. "Of course, I know the war's over now, and all
that; but all the same, one can't quite forget some of the things they
did. I, for one, must say that I'd prefer not to be educated at a
school where they take German girls."
"Who's that that's German?" inquired Monica Deane, looking up quickly
from the book she was poring over. It was during the evening
preparation, and Monica, with one or two other members of the Sixth,
had repaired to the large room, half classroom, half library, where the
Sixth Form classes were held. Being a somewhat privileged form, the
Sixth were at liberty to prepare their work where they liked, either in
their common room, or in the small studies of which each member of the
form possessed one.
It was Kathleen Milne who answered the question.
"That new girl in the Lower Fifth--Geraldine Wilmott."
Monica banged her book indignantly upon the table.
"Rot! She isn't! She's as English as I am. She sleeps next door to
me in my dorm, and the first day of term she was telling me all about
her home and her relations."
"Well, Phyllis Tressider told me that she _was_," persisted Kathleen.
"Her mother was German and married an Englishman, and they lived in
Germany before the war. The kid jabbers German like a native. Fact,
Monica. Phyllis says the kid told them so one day, bold as brass about
it. She's got all their sneaky ways, too. She's always getting them
into rows, and is an awful little funk into the bargain. If that isn't
German, I don't know what is!"
Monica said nothing further then, but that evening after supper, she
encountered Phyllis Tressider in one of the corridors and immediately
cornered her on the subject of Geraldine's nationality.
"What makes you think she's German?" she asked. "Did she tell you she
was?"
"Well--all but," said Phyllis. "You wouldn't have any doubts about it
if you heard her talk their beastly lingo! She's got Pretty Polly beat
to a frazzle."
"Well, I don't believe it," said Monica firmly. "And I think it's
jolly rotten of you Lower Fifth kids to go spreading a rumour like that
about the school. Even if it were true, the least you could do would
be to keep it to yourselves. I didn't know that Wakehurst girls could
be such rotten little sneaks!"
"We're _not_ sneaks!" said Phyllis indignantly. "It's _she_ who's a
sneak! Why, she got Jack Pym kept in so's she couldn't be tested for
the second eleven, on her very first day at school!" And she poured
out a somewhat highly-coloured version of the episode of the caricature.
But Monica was not at all sympathetic with Jack's wrongs.
"She was new and didn't know," she said. "You are little brutes to go
giving the kid a rough time just because Jack chooses to get herself
into trouble. As for her being German--well, even if she is, she
needn't necessarily be any the worse for that. I dare say there are
some decent Germans--just as there are _some_ rotten English people!"
With which, for Monica, rather bitter little speech, the Sixth Form
girl stalked away.
Phyllis chose to consider herself very much aggrieved by the wigging
Monica had administered, and seeking out her chum, Dorothy, she
confided her woes to her. Dorothy was properly sympathetic.
"Well, anyway, if she isn't German, she's a beastly little sneak--and a
rotten little coward into the bargain! Let's do something to show
Monica what she is really like, shall we? If we could scare her up in
the dorm when Monica was there, so that she could see what a funk she
is, perhaps she'd believe us."
"But what could we do?" asked Phyllis doubtfully. "Ghosts aren't
allowed ever since the Green Dorm scared that little kid, Molly Forest,
into fits last winter. Besides, Muriel would be down on us like a ton
of coal if we tried on anything of that sort. And I don't want to get
into Muriel Paget's bad books if I can help it."
The conversation was taking place in the boot-lobby, a favourite haunt
of the two chums since they had discovered that after supper they
usually had it entirely to themselves. Dorothy was perched up on the
top of one of the lockers, and Phyllis was just climbing up beside her,
when a sudden click near by made them both jump down with a little
scream.
"What was that? Did you hear it, Phil?"
"It came from underneath this shelf, I think," said Phyllis, stooping
down to reconnoitre. Then she thrust her hand under the row of
boot-lockers with a little laugh.
"It's a mouse, caught in Bennett's mousetrap. I was in here when he
was clearing the boots away yesterday, and he told me he was going to
set one, because he was sure there was a mouse in the lockers
somewhere. Look, here it is! Isn't it a darling?" And she held up a
wooden and wire cage, in which a small mouse was held captive.
Dorothy clasped her hands with a sudden inspiration.
"The very thing!" she exclaimed delightedly.
"What is?" inquired Phyllis, mystified.
"Why, that mouse! It will do to frighten Geraldine with, _splendidly_.
We'll put it in her bed to-night, and she'll scream like anything when
she finds it there. That'll show Monica that you weren't much out when
you said she was a funk."
"I say! It _would_ be rather a lark," said Phyllis, her eyes dancing
with mischief. "It won't make Muriel ratty, though, will it?"
"Not with us," declared Dorothy confidently. "She'll never find out
who's done it, even if she _does_ think it didn't happen to be there by
accident. She'll probably be awfully ratty with Geraldine, though.
She despises people who are afraid of mice. Don't you remember how
down she was on Dora Wainscott last term because she screamed when one
ran across the dining-hall one day?"
"But won't it get out before Geraldine gets into bed?" said Phyllis,
longing to carry out the trick, yet half afraid of incurring the wrath
of her beloved Muriel. Phyllis was as "gone" on the head girl as
Muriel would ever permit any of the girls at Wakehurst to be.
"It won't if we tuck the bedclothes in tightly," replied Dorothy.
"Come along, Phil, and let's put it in now. We shall just have time
before prayers if we buck up. You scoot ahead and see if the coast's
clear while I come behind with the mouse. Remember, you left your
handkerchief up in the dorm, and felt you were going to sneeze in
Chapel, but couldn't find Sister to ask permission to fetch it, if we
meet anyone."
The coast proved to be quite clear, however, and the handkerchief
excuse was not needed, which was, perhaps, just as well. The two had
used it some half-dozen times already this term, although barely a
fortnight had gone by. Arrived in the Pink Dormitory, Dorothy produced
a candle and a box of matches,--both were strictly forbidden in the
dormitories on account of the risk of fire, but that was quite a minor
detail with these two girls,--and having cautiously struck a light, the
two proceeded to deposit the mouse in Geraldine Wilmott's bed.
It was not a very difficult proceeding. The mouse was quite a baby
one, and far too scared to make any effort to escape when Dorothy shook
it out of the trap and covered it up securely with the bedclothes.
Phyllis had already tucked the sheets in tightly so as to cut off any
possible avenue of escape. And then the two conspirators made haste to
restore the trap to its place under the boot-lockers and take their
places in Chapel, the bell for prayers having already sounded.
The plot succeeded beyond their wildest anticipations. The occupants
of the Pink Dormitory were just about to get into bed that night, and
Muriel, as dormitory monitress, was waiting to turn the lights out,
when there came a piercing scream from Cubicle Thirteen. The next
moment a slender night-gowned figure burst into the corridor, shaking
in every limb. A dozen heads were thrust out from behind curtains to
see what was the matter, and the head girl came hurrying down the
dormitory to investigate the cause of the disturbance.
"Why, Geraldine! What is the matter? Who has been frightening
Geraldine Wilmott like this?" demanded Muriel sternly, as she joined
the group of girls clustering round Geraldine.
"Nobody's been frightening her. She just screamed, and we came out to
see what was the matter," said Phyllis Tressider, with an air of
innocence and anxious solicitude. Had Muriel been watching her closely
she might have suspected that extreme innocence, but as it was she was
too much taken up with Geraldine to heed it.
"What is the matter, Geraldine?" she asked again, putting her hand
kindly on the trembling girl's shoulder. "What happened? What was it
frightened you so?"
"It was a m--m--mouse! It was in my bed. It jumped out at me when I
was getting in. It's in my cubicle now. Oh, catch it for me! Do
catch it!" the girl wailed. "I do _hate_ mice so!"
"A _mouse_?" Muriel's hand dropped from the girl's shoulder, and her
voice was expressive of the utmost scorn. "Fancy making all that fuss
about a _mouse_! Really, Geraldine, I should have thought you were too
old for such nonsense. Get into bed at once and don't let me hear any
more of this rubbish."
"Oh, I daren't? It may be there still," cried Geraldine, struggling to
control her terror but not succeeding very well. Mice were a real
bugbear to her, and had been ever since a foolish nursemaid had scared
her with them as a tiny mite, and the fear had grown worse instead of
better during the last three years. But, of course, the girls of
Wakehurst Priory could not be expected to know this, or to have
understood the terror even if they had--least of all Muriel Paget,
whose own nerves were of that sane and healthy order for which mice and
other fearsome creatures had no terrors at all. She stalked into
Geraldine's cubicle and turned down the bedclothes of the small bed.
But though she made a thorough search both in the bed and under all the
furniture, no trace of the mouse could be discovered. It had utterly
disappeared, and the head girl was inclined to believe that the
occupant of Number Thirteen had imagined the whole incident.
"There's nothing there. Get back into bed at once," she commanded,
having looked in every possible and impossible place for the cause of
Geraldine's alarm. "Even if it was a mouse, it couldn't hurt you. It
would probably be much more frightened of you than you are of it."
"There really is nothing there, Geraldine," said Monica kindly. "Come
along and get back into bed and let me tuck you up. I'm next door to
you, you know, and I'll come along in a minute if you're frightened in
the night."
Geraldine allowed herself to be taken back to bed and tucked in by the
elder girl. Now that her first fright was over, and the unreasoning
terror that always possessed her at the sight of a mouse had passed
away somewhat, she was very much ashamed of her panic, and dreaded the
teasing it would probably bring upon her from the rest of the school.
A remark which Dorothy Pemberton made, as she scurried back to her own
distant cubicle at Muriel's bidding, did not tend to ease poor
Geraldine's mind.
"I think her name rather suits her, don't you?" she asked of the
dormitory in general. "She's nothing but a German Gerry after all!"
And although Muriel Paget commanded her sharply to shut up and get into
bed, yet the titter of appreciation that went round the dormitory
warned Geraldine only too surely that Dorothy had found a nickname for
her that would stick.