THE MOONSHINERS' BACON-ROAST
Jean's sudden retirement from the cast of "The Merchant of Venice" was
the subject of a good deal of excited conjecture during the few days
that remained of the winter term. Betty explained it briefly to Barbara,
who in turn confided Jean's story to the rest of her committee. All of
them but Clara Ellis thought better of Jean than they ever had before
for the courage she had shown in owning herself in the wrong. Teddie
Wilson, being in Jean's French division, remembered her letter from the
last year's girl and made a shrewd guess at the true state of affairs;
but realizing just how sorely Jean had been tempted she was generous
enough not to ask any questions or tell anybody what she thought. So the
Harding world was divided in its opinions, one party asserting that
Jean's acting had proved a disappointment, the other declaring that she
had wanted to manage the whole play, and finding that she couldn't had
resigned her part in it. Jean herself absolutely refused to discuss the
subject, beyond saying that she was tired and had found it necessary to
drop something, and she was so sarcastic and ill-tempered that even her
best friends began to let her severely alone. Toward Eleanor her manner
was as contemptuous as ever, and she kept haughtily aloof from Betty.
But one day when two of the Hill girls, gossiping in her room, made some
slighting remarks about Betty's prominence in class affairs, Jean
flashed out an indignant protest.
"She's one of the finest girls in 19--, and if either of you amounted to
a third as much, you could be proud of it. No, I don't like her at all,
but I admire her immensely, so please choose somebody else to criticise
while you're in here."
Meanwhile the winter term had ended, the spring vacation come and gone,
and the lovely spring term was at full tide in Harding. If you were a
freshman, it made you feel sleepy and happy and utterly regardless of
the future terrors of the conditioned state in comparison with the
present joys of tennis and canoeing or the languorous fascination of a
hammock on the back campus,--where one goes to study and remains to
dream. If you were a senior it made a lump come in your throat,--the
fleeting loveliness of this last spring term, when all the trials of
being a Harding girl are forgotten and all the joys grow dearer than
ever, now that they are so nearly past.
"But it's not going to be any daisy-picking spring-term for 19--," Bob
Parker announced gaily to a group of her friends gathered for an
after-luncheon conference on the Westcott piazza. "Isn't that a nice
expression? Miss Raymond used it in class this morning. She wanted to
remind us, she said, that the Harding course is four full years long.
Then she gave out a written lesson on Jane Austen for Friday."
"What a bother!" lamented Babbie, who hadn't elected English novelists.
"Now I suppose we can't have either the Moonshiners' doings or the
'Merry Hearts' meeting on Thursday."
"Who on earth are the Moonshiners?" asked Katherine Kittredge curiously.
"Learn to ride horseback and you can be one," explained Babbie.
"They're just a crowd of girls, mostly seniors, who like to ride
together in the cool of the evening and make a specialty of moonlight.
We're going to have a bacon-roast the first moonlight night that
everybody can come."
"Which will be the night after never," declared Madeline Ayres sagely.
"What's the awful rush about that bacon-roast?" asked Babe. "I should
think it would be nicer to wait awhile and have it for a sort of grand
end-up to the riding season."
"Why, there isn't but one more moon before commencement," explained
Babbie, "and if we wait for that it may be too hot. Who wants to go on a
bacon-roast in hot weather?"
"The 'Merry Hearts' are going to decide about passing on the society,
aren't they?" asked Rachel. "That's a very important matter and we ought
to get it off our hands before too many other things come up. Girls, do
you realize that commencement is only five weeks off?"
"Oh, please don't begin on that," begged Babe, who hated sentiment and
was desperately afraid that somebody would guess how tear-y she felt
about leaving Harding. "I'll tell you how to settle things. Let's go
over all the different afternoons and evenings and see which ones are
vacant. Most of the 'Merry Hearts' are here and several Moonshiners. We
can tell pretty well what the other girls have on for the different
days."
"I'll keep tab," volunteered Katherine, "because I belong to only one of
these famous organizations. Shall I begin with to-morrow afternoon? Who
can't come then to a 'Merry Hearts' meeting?"
"We can't. Play committee meets," chanted Rachel and Betty together.
"Mob rehearsal from four to six," added Bob.
"Helen Adams has to go to a conference with the new board of editors,"
put in Madeline. "I heard her talking to Christy about it. It begins
early and they're going to have tea."
"To-morrow evening--Moonshiners' engagements please," said Katherine
briskly.
"Class supper committee meets to see about caterers," cried Babe. "We
can't put it off either. Last year's class has engaged Cuyler's
already,--the pills! That committee takes out me and Nita and Alice
Waite."
"Rehearsal of the carnival dance in the play," added Babbie promptly,
"and Jessica, alias me, has to go."
"Thursday as I understand it is to be devoted to picking, not daisies,
but the flowers of Jane Austen's thought for Miss Raymond." Katherine
looked at Babbie for directions. "Shall I go on to Friday afternoon?"
"Class meeting," chanted several voices at once.
"It won't be out a minute before six," declared Bob. "We've got to elect
the rest of our commencement performers----"
"Which isn't very many," interposed Madeline.
"Well, there'll be reports from dozens and dozens of committees,"
concluded Bob serenely, "and there'll be quantities of things to
discuss. 19-- is great on discussions."
"In the evening," Betty took her up, "Marie is going to assign the
junior ushers to the various functions, and she's asked most of us to
advise her about it, hasn't she?"
Several girls in the circle nodded.
"Then we come to Saturday," proclaimed Katherine. "Evening's out, I
know, for Dramatic Club's open meeting."
"I'm on the reception committee," added Betty. "We shall have to trim up
the rooms in the afternoon."
"All the play people have rehearsals Saturday."
"Saturday seems to be impossible," said Katherine. "How about Monday
afternoon?"
"The Ivy Day committee has a meeting," announced Rachel in apologetic
tones. "But don't mind me, if the rest can come then."
"The Prince of Morocco has a special audience granted him by Miss
Kingston for Monday at five," said Madeline. "But don't mind him."
"Dear me," laughed Betty. "I hadn't any idea we were such busy ladies.
Is everybody in 19-- on so many committees, do you suppose?"
"Of course not, simple child," answered Bob. "We're prominent
seniors,--one of the leading crowds in 19--. I heard Nan Whipple call
us to a freshman that she had at dinner last Sunday."
"And all of us but Madeline work early and late to keep up the
position," added Babbie grandly.
"The Watson lady is an idler too," put in Madeline, with quick tact,
remembering that Eleanor had mentioned no engagements. "We're content to
bask in the reflected glory of our friends, aren't we, Eleanor?"
Eleanor nodded brightly and Babbie returned to the matter in hand. "We
shall never get a date this way," she declared. "Let's put all the days
of next week after Monday into Bob's cap. The first one that K. draws
out will be the 'Merry Hearts' afternoon; and the next the Moonshiners'
evening. Those that can't come at the appointed times will have to stay
at home."
Everybody agreed to this, and Madeline gallantly sacrificed a leaf from
her philosophy note-book to write the days on.
"Friday," announced Katherine, drawing out a slip, "and Thursday."
"Those are all right for me," said Madeline.
"And for me."
"Same here."
"And here."
"We'd much better have drawn lots in the first place," said Babbie. "Now
if it only doesn't rain on Thursday and spoil the full moon! Tell the
others, won't you, girls? I'm due at the Science Building this very
minute."
It didn't rain on Thursday. Indeed the evening was an ideal one for a
long gallop, with an open-air supper to follow. This was to be cooked
and eaten around a big bonfire that would take the chill off the spring
air and keep the mosquitoes at a respectful distance. Most of the
Moonshiners belonged to the Golf Club, and they had gotten permission to
have their fire in a secluded little grove behind the course. Babbie,
who had organized the Moonshiners and was their mistress of ceremonies,
held many secret conferences with Madeline Ayres and the two spent a
long afternoon sewing behind locked doors, on some dark brown stuff,
which Babbie subsequently tied into a big, untidy parcel and carried up
to Professor Henderson's. So the Moonshiners expected a "feature" in
addition to the familiar delights of a bacon-roast, and they turned out
in such numbers that Bob had to ride a fat little carriage horse and
Babbie bravely mounted the spirited mare "Lady," who had frightened her
so on Mountain Day. But there was no storm this time to agitate Lady's
nerves, and they kept clear of the river and the ferries; so everything
went smoothly and the Moonshiners cantered up to the Club house at half
past eight in the highest possible spirits.
They could see the grove as they dismounted and every one but Babbie was
surprised to find the fire already lighted. The dishes and provisions
had been carried out in big hampers in the afternoon, and the wood
gathered, so there was nothing to do now but stroll over to the fire and
begin.
"Why, somebody's there," cried Betty suddenly. She was walking ahead
with Alice Waite. "I can see two people. They're stooping over the fire.
Why, Alice, it's two dear little brown elves."
"Just like those on my ink-stand," cried Alice, excitedly. "How queer!"
Everybody had seen the picturesque little figures by this time, and the
figures in their turn had spied the riding-party and had begun to dance
merrily in the fire-light. They were dressed in brown from head to foot,
with long ears on their brown hoods and long, pointed toes curling up at
the ends of their brown shoes. They looked exactly like the little iron
figures of brownies that every Harding girl who kept up with the
prevailing fads had put on her desk that spring in some useful or
ornamental capacity. They danced indefatigably, pausing now and then to
heap on fresh wood or to poke the fire into a more effective blaze, and
looking, in the weird light, quite fantastic enough to have come out of
the little hillside behind the fire, tempted to upper earth by the
moonlight and the great pile of dry wood left ready to their hands. For
a few minutes after the Moonshiners' arrival the trolls resolutely
refused to speak.
"'Cause now you'll know we ain't real magic," explained Billy Henderson
indignantly, when his chum had fallen a victim to Bob's wiles and
disclosed his identity.
The fire was so big and so hot by this time that it threatened to burn
up the whole grove, so the small boys were persuaded to devote their
energies to toasting thin slices of bacon, held on the ends of long
sticks, and later to help pass the rolls and coffee that went with the
bacon, and to brown the marshmallows, which, with delicious little
nut-cakes, made up the last course.
The Moonshiners had spent so much time admiring Babbie's brownies that
they had to hurry through the supper and even so it bid fair to be after
ten before they reached the campus. Betty, Bob, and Madeline happened to
get back to the horses first and were waiting impatiently for the rest
to come when Bob made a suggestion.
"Mr. Ware is helping stamp out the fire. Let's get on and start for home
ahead of the others. Then we can let most of them in if they're late.
Our matron will rage if she catches us again this week."
"All right," agreed Madeline. "Mr. Ware said he had told a man to be at
the Westcott, ready to take some of the horses. Let's not tell any one.
They'll be so surprised to find three horses gone."
"We shall have to hurry then," whispered Betty. "They'll be here any
minute."
"On second thought," said Madeline, "I don't believe I can pick out my
own horse. It's inky dark here under the trees." Madeline had ridden all
her life but she seldom went out at Harding, and so hadn't a regular
mount, like most of the other Moonshiners.
"Of course you can, Madeline," scoffed Betty. "You rode Hero, that big
black beast hitched to the last post, next to my horse. Don't you
remember tying him there?"
Bob backed her sturdy cob out from between two restless companions, and
with much laughter and whispering and many injunctions to hurry and to
be "awfully still," the three conspirators mounted and walked their
horses quietly down the drive.
"My stirrups seem a lot too long," Betty whispered softly, as they
passed down the avenue, dusky with the shadows of tall elms. "Whoa,
Tony! Wait just a minute, girls. Why--oh, Bob, Madeline,--I've got the
wrong horse. Somebody must have changed them around. This is Lady."
Whether it was Betty's nervous clutch on the reins as she made this dire
discovery and remembered Lady's antics on the ferry-boat, or whether the
saucy little breeze which chose that moment to stir the elm branches and
set the shadows dancing on the white road, was responsible, is a matter
of doubt. At any rate Lady jerked back her pretty head impatiently, as
if in answer to her name, shivered daintily, reared, and ran. She dodged
cat-like, between Bob and Madeline and out through the narrow gateway,
turned sharply to the right, away from Harding, and galloped off up the
level road that lay white in the moonlight, between the Golf Club and a
pine wood half a mile away.
Betty had presence of mind enough to dig her knees into Lady's sides,
and so managed somehow, in spite of her mis-fit stirrups, to stay on at
the gate. She tugged hard at the reins as Lady flew along, and murmured
soothing words into Lady's quivering ears. But it wasn't any use. Betty
had wondered sometimes how it felt to be run away with. Now she knew. It
felt like a rush of cold wind that made you dizzy and faint. You
thought of all sorts of funny little things that happened to you ages
ago. You wondered who would plan Jessica's costumes if anything happened
to you. You wished you weren't on so many committees; it would bother
Marie so to appoint some one in your place. You made a neat little list
of those committees in your mind. Then you got to the pine wood, and
something did happen, for Lady went on alone.
Madeline, straining her eyes at the gateway, waiting for Bob and Mr.
Ware to come, couldn't see that.
"She was still on the last I could see," she told them huskily, and Mr.
Ware whipped his horse into a run and rushed after Lady.
Madeline looked despairingly at Bob. "Let's go too," she said. "I can't
stand it to wait here."
"All right."
They rode fast, but it seemed ages before they got to the pines. Mr.
Ware was galloping far ahead of them.
"If she's gone so far she'll slow up gradually on that long hill,"
suggested Bob, trying to speak cheerfully.
"Isn't it--pretty--stony?" asked Madeline.
"Yes, but after she'd run so far she wouldn't try to throw Betty."
"Suppose we wait here. Oh, Bob, what shall we do if she's badly hurt?"
"She can't be," said Bob with a thick sob. "Please come on, Madeline.
I've got to know if she's----" Bob paused over the dreadful word.
There was a little rustling noise in the bushes beside the road. "Did
Mr. Ware have a dog?" asked Madeline.
"No," gulped Bob.
"There's something down there. Who's there?" called Madeline fearlessly,
and then she whistled in case Bob had been mistaken about the dog.
"It's I--Betty Wales," answered a shaky little voice, with a reassuring
suggestion of mirth in it. "I'm so glad somebody has come. I'm down here
in a berry-patch and I can't get up."
Madeline was off her horse by this time, pushing through the briars
regardless of her new riding habit.
"Where are you hurt, dear?" she asked bending over Betty and speaking
very gently. "Do you suppose you could let me lift you up?"
Betty held out her arms, with a merry laugh. "Why, of course I could.
I'm not one bit hurt, except scratched. The ferns are just as soft as a
feather bed down here, but the thorns up above are dreadful. I can't
seem to pull myself up. I'm a little faint, I guess."
A minute later she was standing in the road, leaning against Madeline,
who felt of her anxiously and asked again and again if it didn't hurt.
"Hasn't she broken her collar-bone?" asked Bob, who was holding the
horses. "People generally do when they have a bad spill. Are her arms
all right?"
"I suppose I didn't know how to fall in the proper way," explained
Betty, wearily. "I can't remember how it happened, only all at once I
found myself down on those ferns with my face scratched and smarting. If
Mr. Ware went by ahead of you I suppose I must have been stunned, for I
didn't see him."
"He's probably hunting distractedly for you on the hill," said Bob, glad
to have something definite to do. "I think he's caught Lady, and I'll go
and tell him that we've caught you."
Just then Professor Henderson's surrey drove up. It had come for Billy,
and Babbie had thoughtfully sent it on to bring back "whoiver's hurted,"
the groom explained. But he made no objection to taking in Betty,
though, rather to Billy's disappointment, she did not come under that
category.
"I never saw a broken arm, ner a broken leg, ner a broken anything," he
murmured sleepily. "I thought I'd have a chance now. Say, can I please
put my head in your lap?"
"My, but your knees wiggle something awful," Billy complained a minute
later. "Don't you think they're cracked, maybe?"
So Madeline put the sleepy elves in front with the driver and got in
herself beside Betty. Curled up in Madeline's strong arms she cried a
little and laughed a good deal, never noticing that Madeline was crying,
too. For just beyond the berry-patch there was a heap of big stones,
which made everything that Bob and Madeline had feared in that dreadful
time of suspense seem very reasonable and Betty's escape from harm
little short of a miracle.
It was striking eleven when the riding party and the surrey turned up
the campus drive and the B's noticed with dismay that the Westcott was
brilliantly lighted.
"I know what's happened," wailed Babe. "Our beloved matron has found us
missing and she's hunting for us under the beds and in all the closets,
preparatory to calling in the police. Never mind! we've got a good
excuse this time."
But the Westcott was not burning its lights to accommodate the matron.
The B's had not even been missed. Katherine met them in the hall and
barely listened to their excited accounts of their evening's adventure.
"There's been plenty doing right here, too," she said.
"What?" demanded the three.
"College thief again, but this time it's a regular raid. For some reason
nearly everybody was away this evening, and the ones who had anything
to lose have lost it--no money, as usual, only jewelry. Fay Ross thinks
she saw the thief, but--well, you know how Fay describes people. You'd
better go and see what you've lost."
Luckily the thief had neglected the fourth floor this time, so they had
lost nothing, but they sat up for an hour longer, consoling their less
fortunate friends, and listening to Fay's account of her meeting with
the robber.
"I'm pretty sure I should know her again," she declared, "and I'm
perfectly sure that I've seen her before. She isn't very tall nor very
dark. She's big and she looks stupid and slow, not a bit like a crafty
thief, or like a college girl either. She had a silk bag on her arm. I
wish I'd asked her what was in it."
But naturally Fay hadn't asked, and she probably wouldn't see the thief
soon again. Next morning Emily Lawrence telegraphed her father about her
watch with diamonds set in the back, and he sent up two detectives from
Boston, who, so everybody supposed, would make short work of finding
the robber. They took statements from girls who had lost their
valuables during the year and from Fay, prowled about the campus and the
town, and finally went back to Boston and presented Emily's father with
a long bill and the enlightening information that the case was a
puzzling one and if anything more turned up they would communicate it.
Georgia Ames displayed no unusual interest in the robbery. She happened
to tell Betty that she had spent the entire evening of the bacon-roast
with Roberta, and Betty, watching her keenly, was almost sure that she
knew nothing of the excitement at the Westcott until the B's came over
before chapel to inquire for "the runaway lady" and brought the news of
the robbery with them. The "runaway lady" explained that she wasn't even
very lame and should have to go to classes just as usual. Then she hid
her face for a minute on Bob's broad shoulder,--for though she wasn't
lame she had dreamed all night of Lady and stones and briars and broken
collar-bones,--and Bob patted her curls and told her that Lady was going
to be sold, and that she should have been frightened to pieces in
Betty's place. After which Betty covered her scratches with a very
bewitching white veil and went to chapel, just as if nothing had
happened.