AN EXPEDITION.
But Eunice and Cricket were not altogether satisfied yet. They were very
silent during luncheon, which was rather an uncomfortable meal, in spite
of the older people’s efforts to make it as usual.
Whatever face he put on it, to be rusticated under any circumstances was
a hard thing for a proud fellow like Donald, to say nothing of his
athletic aspirations.
After luncheon, Donald stepped into his father’s office for another word
or two, while the others went up-stairs. A few minutes after, Mrs. Ward
sent Cricket back to the kitchen with a message to the cook. The office
door was still open, and Donald’s voice was plainly audible.
“Yes, this is terribly hard on Chester, for he has had the reputation of
being a regular daredevil, and the Faculty immediately put him down for
one of the ringleaders, whereas, you see, he wasn’t in it at all. A
great chum of his _was_ concerned, and the Faculty have pretty well got
hold of that, and there’s still a chance that three or four of them may
be expelled. Of course he won’t peach, for the only thing that will save
anybody is for us all to hold our tongues.”
“And Chester was with you, you said?”
“Yes. We were especially lamb-like that night,—calling on Miss Vassar.
It was so pleasant that we started to walk home, and met another fellow
who rooms in town, and turned in for a smoke. We left him about twelve.
We fell in with some others on the way out, who had likewise been in
town, and then we suddenly got into the crowd of the others, and were
all pounced upon together. Of course, sir, I can’t give the names of
those who were really guilty.”
“By no means. And old Chester takes it hard, you say?”
“He will, when he knows of it. I’m sorry for Chester. He’s a good
fellow,—first-rate stuff,—but he’s chuck-full of mere mischief. You see,
after that other row in the winter, his father swore that if he got into
any rumpus again, he’d take him out of college, and put him in the
office; and Chester hates that like poison. And old Chester isn’t like
you, dad. He never was a college man, and he doesn’t understand.”
“I suppose not. H’m! I’m sorry for Chester. I like the lad. It would be
rough on him to spoil his career.”
Here Cricket suddenly awoke to the fact that she was hanging on to the
banisters, listening with all her might. Much mortified, she flew on to
the kitchen and delivered her message, and then darted up-stairs to
share her story with Eunice.
“Eunice, _something_ must be done about it. Sidney Chester is awfully in
it, and Don says he didn’t do a thing, either. They were both calling on
Miss Gwendoline Vassar, the pretty one with red hair,—what Donald calls
Tissue hair,—he’s awfully struck on her, you know,—and the boys were
both there that very night.”
“Then they have only to tell the President so,” said Eunice, much
relieved.
“That’s just it. They won’t say so, and some others who were caught, and
didn’t really do anything, won’t say so either, because then the
President would know just who did it, and expel those very ones.”
“It’s all dreadfully muddled, seems to me,” sighed Eunice. “College
things are always so funny.”
“I think they’re very unsensible, myself,” said Cricket, decidedly. “I
think they _ought_ to tell. If the other fellows did it, let them say
so, and _be_ expelled. It’s like Zaidie, the other day. I was in the
nursery, and mamma told her not to run the sewing-machine, and Zaidie
did, and mamma tied a handkerchief around her hands. And yesterday,
Zaidie got at the machine again, when ’Liza wasn’t there, and then she
went and twisted a handkerchief around her own hands, and sat down in
the corner, and wouldn’t play with Helen and Kenneth for a long time. ‘I
just _wanted_ to run that machine again,’ she said, ‘and now I’ve got to
tie my hands up, ’cause I was naughty; but it was fun, anyway.’”
“That’s the way those boys ought to do,” said Eunice. “If they want to
go and do bad things, they ought to speak up like a man and say so.
Think of Don and Sidney Chester and the others being expelled, and they
just calling on Miss Vassar!”
“And Don’s just crazy to get in the team!” added Eunice, almost in tears
again. “Oh, Cricket, I _wish_ the President could know about it. I’m
sure he’d do something.”
Cricket sprang up with sparkling eyes.
“Eunice, let’s go and tell him! Come on, straight off, and don’t let’s
tell anybody till we get back, ’cause they wouldn’t let us, I suppose.
Grown people are _so_ funny. And somebody _ought_ to tell.”
Eunice stared helplessly at Cricket, aghast at this daring proposal. Her
younger sister’s rapidity of thought and action often took her breath
away.
“Go to the President’s house? Oh, Cricket, would you dare?”
“Of course I would,” answered Cricket, boldly. “He’s only a man. He
couldn’t eat us, could he? We’ll just tell him we’re Doctor Ward’s
daughters, ’cause he knows papa. Don’t you remember that papa dined with
him last week? And we’ll just tell him that Don and Sidney Chester were
calling on Miss Vassar, and that some of the others weren’t in it, too,
and ask him please to give them all another chance.”
Cricket was flying out of one dress and into another all the time she
talked. Eunice still stared.
“Would papa like it?” she hesitated.
“It won’t make any difference after it’s done; and if he doesn’t like
it, why,—I’ll never do it again. I’ll have the satisfaction of doing it
once, though. Come on, you old slowpoke. I’m nearly ready.”
“We don’t know where he lives,” objected Eunice, feebly, but getting up
and going to the closet.
“_I_ do. Or rather, I know the house when I see it, and anybody will
tell us the way. I know what cars to take from here, and the conductors
can tell us where to change. We’ll be all right,” finished Cricket,
confidently. “Do hurry, Eunice,” and Eunice hurried, feeling as if she
were pursued by a small cyclone.
A little later, the two girls went quietly down-stairs, and slipped out
of the front door.
“Will mamma be anxious, do you think?” asked Eunice, suddenly, feeling
very guilty, for the girls never thought of going out for a whole
afternoon without asking permission.
“Guess not. She’ll think we’ve gone to Emily Drayton’s. She said this
morning we might go, you know. There’s our car.”
The two girls, with fluttering hearts and excited faces, got on the car,
feeling as if they were bound for Japan or the North Pole. Cricket’s
buoyant, hopeful nature was serenely confident of gaining her end, while
Eunice’s more apprehensive temperament made her quake at the process.
“What shall we say, Cricket?” said Eunice, doubtfully.
“Just tell the President all about it,” answered Cricket, easily. “I
hope we can get him to let the other boys off, too. Perhaps he could
just rusty-coat them for just a week or two. They ought to be willing to
stand _that_; for, after all, what could you expect of _Freshmen_?” with
a tolerant air and accent that amused some ladies sitting by them
immensely.
“We change here. Come on,” and Cricket jumped up briskly. Eunice
followed more slowly. Generally, she was the leader in their joint
doings, even if Cricket was, as usually happened, the originator. To-day
both felt that Cricket was in command of the expedition.
They reached the house at last. Eunice quaked more and more, but
Cricket, though in a quiver of excitement, was as bold as a lion. The
feeling that she was going to rescue her beloved brother from the
clutches of that hawklike Faculty, who always hovered about, lying in
wait to tear unsuspecting Freshmen to bits, gave her unbounded courage.
Donald was in difficulty, and some curious code of honour kept him from
saving himself. Somebody else must do it, then. That was very simple;
and she was the person to do it. With this small maiden, as we know, to
think and to act were always in close connection,—so close that often
there was some apparent confusion of precedent. But now she was sure she
was right, and she valiantly went ahead.
Eunice was white with excitement. She, forming the rank and file of the
attacking army, had less to sustain her courage than General Cricket
had. Definite action is always easier than to await an issue. Then,
also, Cricket’s sublime unconsciousness that any one was particularly
interested or concerned in what _she_ did, saved her from the wonder,
“What will people think?” which so often nips one’s finest projects in
the bud.
“What shall we do if the President is out?” it suddenly occurred to
Eunice to wonder, as they rang the bell.
“Wait till he comes in,” answered Cricket, instantly. Having made her
plans, she proposed to fight it out on that line, if it took all summer.
“Suppose he doesn’t get home till evening? We would be afraid to go home
alone then.”
“He could get a carriage, and send us home,” said Cricket,
magnificently.
Eunice gasped. The children seemed to have changed places. Eunice was
generally the one who had the practical resources.
The maid opened the door. “Yes, he was in,” was the welcome answer to
the eager question. “But it’s afraid I am that he can’t see any one this
afternoon. He’s particular engaged.”
Dismay filled the children’s hearts. So near to their goal and not to be
able to reach it!
“Oh, please tell him we _must_ see him!” cried Cricket, imploringly.
“It’s dreadfully, awfully important, and we’ve come a long way; but
we’ll wait as long as he likes, till he’s quite through, but we _can’t_
go away without seeing him.”
The maid hesitated. Her orders were strict, but this was plainly
something out of the ordinary course. “I don’t know if I can tell him,”
she hesitated.
“We won’t take but just a few minutes. We’ll be very quick, and
something _must_ be done, and there’s nobody else to do it. Please ask
him to let us come in, and we’ll talk very fast, and tell him all about
Donald and the others, and—and I _can’t_ go away without seeing him!”
Cricket’s earnest voice grew almost to a wail as she ended, clasping her
hands entreatingly.
A door in the distance opened, and a gentleman came out.
“What’s the matter, Mary?” he asked.
“I want to see the President _so_ much,” pleaded Cricket, twisting her
fingers in her eagerness. “I know he must be awfully busy, for I suppose
presidenting is very hard, and takes lots of time, but _won’t_ you tell
him we’ll be very quick? And it’s _terribly_ important.”
The gentleman looked first amused, then interested.
“Come in, my little friends. I am the President, and I will very
willingly hear what you have to say, and help you if I can.”
At this announcement, Cricket, finding that she was really in the much
desired presence, drew a quick breath, feeling, for the first time, the
importance of what she was doing. The two girls, holding each other’s
hands tightly, followed their kindly guide to the pleasant library.
“My legs wobble so, I can hardly walk,” whispered Cricket to Eunice,
“and there’s _such_ a hole in my stomach! It feels all gone.”
The gentleman placed chairs for his little guests, with the utmost
courtesy of manner, and then seated himself.
“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked, pleasantly.
Cricket gripped her fast-retreating courage with both hands, drew a long
breath and plunged head foremost in her subject, as one might jump from
a burning steamer into the ice-cold ocean.
“It’s about Donald, and _he_ can’t tell, because it wouldn’t be quite
honourable to the others, and I found it out accidentally, and papa says
he’ll stand by him, though really Donald wasn’t in it at all, for he and
Sidney Chester were calling on Miss Gwendoline Vassar, that very
night,—that pretty Miss Vassar that all the boys are so stuck on, you
know,—and they stopped and smoked with another man coming home, and then
they met some other men, who hadn’t being doing anything either, and
then they all got mixed up with the ones who _did_ do something, but I
don’t know what, and they were all caught together, and none of them
would say a word, ’cause perhaps the right ones would be expelled if
they were known, and so they’re all going to be rusty-coated, or
suspended, or something, and that’s _dreadful_; and poor Sidney Chester,
who didn’t really do a thing this time, may have to leave college
entirely and go into his father’s office, and he hates it so, and he
really isn’t bad, only full of fun, and papa understands things better
than old Mr. Chester does, because he was at college himself, you know,
and he says he’ll stand by Don, for he must be loyal to the others, only
now perhaps Don can’t get on the team, and he hasn’t done wonders, but
he hasn’t done so badly in his work, and he’s such a dear fellow.”
Cricket drew a long breath here, and dashed on.
“And you see he didn’t really do anything himself, and nobody knows
we’ve come to you, and I guess papa would take my head off if he knew
it, but I knew somebody ought to do something, and you’d feel so badly
to punish somebody who didn’t do anything, and Donald didn’t even mean
to tell papa about it, but papa always understands, and, oh, dear, if
he’s—rusty-coated—I—can’t—bear—it!”
And here Cricket, perfectly unstrung by the nervous tension and the long
strain, suddenly surprised herself, and paralysed Eunice, by bursting
into convulsive sobs.
In a moment she was on the presidential knees, and her head was on the
august shoulder, where she wept a perfect flood of tears into a big
collegiate handkerchief which speedily replaced her small, drenched one.
Eunice was so overcome by the astonishing spectacle of Cricket in tears
that she sat wide-eyed with amazement, staring at her with bated breath.