THE PRIZE
"Good-morning, Mr. Westley!"
Barbara Lee's demure voice halted John Westley in a headlong rush
through the school corridor.
"Oh--good-morning, Miss Lee." If a stray sunbeam had not slanted at just
that moment across Miss Lee's upturned face, turning the curly ends of
her fair hair to threads of sheen, John Westley might have passed right
on. Instead, he stopped abruptly and stared at Miss Lee.
"I declare--it's hard to believe you're grown-up! And a teacher! Why, I
could almost chuck you under the chin--the way I used to do. I suppose
I'd get into no end of trouble if I ever tried it----"
"Well," her face dimpled roguishly, "I don't think it's ever been done
to anyone in the faculty. I don't know what the punishment is. Anyway,
I'm trying so hard to always remember that I _am_ very much grown-up
that it is unkind of you to even hint that I am failing at
it--dismally."
"I think--from what my girls say--that you're succeeding rather
tremendously, here at Highacres."
"That is nice in you--and them! I wonder if I can live up to what they
think I am." Miss Lee's face was very serious; she was really grown-up
now.
"Miss Lee, can you give me half an hour? I was on my way to Dr. Caton's
office when----"
"You nearly knocked me over!"
"Yes--thinking you were one of the school children----"
"We can go into my library or--down in my office."
"Your office, by all means." John Westley was immensely curious to see
Miss Lee's "office."
It was as business-like in its appearance as his own. A flat-topped
desk, rows of files, a bookcase filled with books bearing formidable
titles, and three straight-backed chairs against the wall gave an
impression of severity. Two redeeming things caught John Westley's
eye--a bowl of blooming narcissi and a painting of Sir Galahad.
"I brought that from Paris," explained Barbara Lee. "I stood for hours
in the Louvre watching a shabby young artist paint it and--I _had_ to
have it. It seemed as if he'd put something more into it than was even
in the original--a sort of light in the eyes."
"Strange----" John Westley was staring reflectively at the picture.
"Those eyes are like--Jerry Travis!"
"Yes--yes! I had never noticed why, but something familiar in that
child's expression _has_ haunted me."
Though John Westley had come to Highacres that morning with an important
matter on his mind and had, on a sudden impulse, begged Miss Lee to give
him a half-hour that he might talk it over with her, he had to tell her,
now, of Jerry and how he had found her standing on the Wishing-rock,
visioning a wonderful world of promise that lay beyond her mountain.
"Her mother had made an iron-clad vow that she'd always keep the girl
there on Kettle. Why, nothing on earth could chain that spirit anywhere.
She's one of the world's crusaders."
Barbara Lee had not gone, herself, very far along life's pathway, yet
her tone was wistful.
"No, you can't hold that sort of a person back. They must always go on,
seeking all that life can give. But the stars are so very far off!
Sometimes even the bravest spirits get discouraged and are satisfied
with a nearer goal."
John Westley, sitting on the edge of the flat-topped desk, leaned
suddenly forward and gently tilted Miss Lee's face upward. There was
nothing in the impulsive movement to offend; his face was very serious.
"Child, have _you_ been discouraged? Have you started climbing to the
stars--and had to halt--on the way?"
The girl laughed a little shamefacedly. "Oh, I had very big dreams--I
have them still. And I had a wonderful opportunity and had to give it
up; mother wanted me at home. She isn't well--so I took this position."
She made her little story brief, but her eyes told more than her words
of the disappointment and self-sacrifice.
"Well, mothers always come first. And maybe there's a _different_ way to
the stars, Barbara."
There was a moment's silence between them. John Westley was the first to
break it.
"I want your advice, Miss Lee. I believe you're closer to the hearts of
these youngsters out here than anyone else. I've something in my mind
but I can't just shape it up. I want to build some sort of a scholarship
for Lincoln that isn't founded on books.
"The trouble is," he went on, "that every school turns out some real
scholars--boys and girls with their minds splendidly exercised and
stored--and what else? Generally always--broken bodies, physiques that
have been neglected and sacrificed in the struggle for learning. Of what
use to the world are their minds--then? I've found--and a good many men
and women come under my observation--that the well-trained mind is of no
earthly value to its owner or to the rest of the world unless it has a
well-trained body along with it."
"That's my present business," laughed Miss Lee. "I must agree with you."
"So I want to found some sort of a yearly award out here at Highacres
for the pupil who shows the best record in work--_and_ play."
"That will be splendid!" cried Miss Lee, enthusiastically.
"Will you help me?" John Westley asked with the diffidence of a
schoolboy. "Will you tell me if some of my notions are ridiculous--or
impossible?" He picked up one of the sharpened pencils from the desk and
drew up a chair. "Now, listen----" and he proceeded to outline the plan
he had had in mind for a long time.
One week later the Lincoln Award was announced to the pupils of the
school. So amazing and unusual was the competition that the school
literally buzzed with comments upon it; work for the day was abandoned.
Because the award was a substantial sum of money to be spent in an
educational way, most of the pupils considered it very seriously.
"Ginny Cox has the best chance 'cause she always has the highest marks
and she's on all the teams."
"It isn't just being on _teams_," contradicted another girl, studying
one of the slips of paper which had been distributed and upon which had
been printed the rules covering the competition. "It's the number of
hours spent in the gym, or in out-of-door exercise. And you get a point
for setting-up exercises and for walking a mile each day. And for
sleeping with your window open! _Easy!_"
"And for drinking five glasses of water a day," laughed another.
"And for eating a vegetable every day. And for drinking a glass of
milk."
"That lets _me_ out. I just loathe milk."
"Of course--so do I. But wouldn't you drink it for an award like
_that_?"
"Look, girls, you can't drink tea or coffee," chimed in another.
"And you get a point for nine hours' sleep each school night! That'll
catch Selma Rogers--she says she studies until half-past eleven every
night."
"I suppose that's why it's put in."
"And a point for personal appearance--and personal conduct in and out of
school! Say, I think the person who thought up _this_ award had
something against us all----"
Patricia Everett indignantly opposed this. "Not at all! Miss Lee, and
she's the chairman of the Award Committee, said that the purpose of the
award is to build up a Lincoln type of a pupil whose physical
development has kept pace with the mental development. _I_ think it will
be fun to try for it, though eating vegetables will be lots worse than
the bridge chapter in Caesar!"
Jerry Travis, too, had made up her mind to work for the award. She had
read the rules of the competition with deep interest; here would be an
opportunity to make her mother and Little-Dad proud of their girl. And
it ought not to be very hard, either--if she could only bring up her
monthly mark in geometry! She had, much to her own surprise, lived
through the dreaded midwinter examinations, though in geometry only by
the "skin of her teeth," as Graham cheerfully described his own
scholastic achievements.
Jerry found that Gyp had been carefully studying the rules--Gyp who had
never dreamed of trying for any sort of an honor! But poor Gyp found
them a little terrifying; like Pat Everett she hated vegetables and she
despised milk; there was always something awry in her dress, a shoelace
dangling, a torn hem, a missing button. But if one could win a point for
correcting these little failings just the same as in chemistry or higher
math., was it not worth trying?
"Who_ever_ do you s'pose thought of it all?" Gyp asked Jerry and Graham.
The name of the Lincoln "friend" who was giving the award had been
carefully guarded.
Not one of the younger Westleys suspected Uncle Johnny who sat with them
and listened unblushingly and with considerable amusement to their
varied comments.
"Well, I'll _try_ for it," conceded Graham. "Who wouldn't? Even Fat
Sloane says he's goin' to and he just hates to move when he doesn't have
to! But _five hundred dollars_ for washing your teeth and walking a
mile----"
"And standing well in Cicero," added Uncle Johnny, mischievously.
"Do you s'pose Cora Stanton will be marked off in personal appearance
'cause she rouges and uses a lipstick?" asked Gyp, with a sly glance
toward Isobel, who turned fiery red. "I _know_ she does, 'cause Molly
Hastings went up and deliberately kissed her cheek and she said she
could taste it--awfully!"
"Cora's a very silly girl. Anyway, if she lives up to the rules of the
competition she won't need any artificial color--she'll have a bloom
that money couldn't buy!"
"Well, _I'm_ not going to bother about the silly award," declared
Isobel. "Grind myself to death--no, indeed! I don't even want to go to
college. If you're rich it's silly to bother with four whole years at a
deadly institution--some of the girls say you have to study awfully
hard. Amy Mathers is going to come out next year and I want to, too."
Isobel talked fast and defiantly, as she caught the sudden sternness
that flashed across Uncle Johnny's face.
Mrs. Westley started to speak, but Uncle Johnny made the slightest
gesture with his hand.
Into his mind had come the memory of that half-hour with Barbara Lee and
something she had said--"the stars are very far off!" _Her_ face had
been illumined by a yearning; he was startled now at the realization
that, in contrast, Isobel's showed only a self-centered, petty
vanity--his Isobel, who had been so pretty and promising, for whom he
had thought only the very noblest things possible.
But although he saw the dreams he had built for Isobel dangerously
threatened, he clung staunchly to his faith in the good he believed was
in the girl; that was why he lifted his hand to stay the impulsive words
that trembled on the mother's lips and made his own tone tolerant.
"Making plans without a word to mother--or Uncle Johnny? But you'll come
to us, my dear, and be grateful for our advice. I don't believe just a
lot of dances will satisfy my girl--even if they do Amy Mathers. And
after they're over--what then? Will you really be a bit different from
the other girl because you've 'come out'? What do you say to taking up
your drawing again and after a few years going over to Paris to study?"
The defiant gleam in Isobel's eyes changed slowly to incredulous
delight. Uncle Johnny went on:
"And even an interior decorator needs a college training."
"John Westley, you're a wonder," declared Mrs. Westley after the young
people had gone upstairs. "You ought to have a half-dozen youngsters of
your own!"
He stared into the fire, seeing visions, perhaps, in the dancing flames.
"I wish I did. I think they're the greatest thing in the world! To make
a good, useful man or woman out of a boy or girl is the best work given
us to do on this earth!"