THE VISIT TO HAMMERS'
The Christmas holidays had always meant a great deal to Marjorie. There
was not only the joy of the holiday season, and of giving and receiving
presents, but the pleasure of seeing the family and her old friends
again, of going to parties, and of entertaining. The preceeding year she
had given a house-party to the freshmen and sophomore members of the
sorority to which she belonged at that time, and they had all had a
lovely time. Ruth, who had never been a member of the secret society,
had been left out--a proceeding which so angered her as to cause her to
seek in some way to get even with Marjorie. And this had been the
beginning of all the trouble! Now as she looked back upon it, the whole
affair seemed childish; she realized that whatever parties she gave in
the future would include Ruth.
Marjorie's mother had told her that she might invite Lily, or any other
friend, to spend part or all of the holidays with her; and she had
received a lovely invitation from Doris's mother to go to their home
for Christmas week. But she had resolutely refused all these
suggestions; she had other plans--not of a social nature.
It was with this purpose in mind that she visited Miss Phillips the
night of the children's party.
"Could you possibly spare me a day during your holiday, Miss Phillips?"
she asked. "I want to go and see Frieda's mother."
"Why, what an idea!" exclaimed the teacher in surprise. "But do you
think she knows where her daughter is?"
"I think she must know something. And maybe she could tell us why Frieda
ran away. And----" Marjorie paused, shyly,--"and I want to get word to
her if I can that I don't mind her taking my canoe!"
"Marjorie, you're a strange girl!" remarked Miss Phillips, looking at
her quizzically. Then, "But have you asked your parents' consent?"
"Yes; papa said he would drive us over. But he also said that he
wouldn't let me go without you. And he was afraid it would be asking too
much of you!"
"Not at all. I could easily arrange to meet you. What day do you want to
go?"
"Whatever day suits you best."
Miss Phillips went to her desk and consulted an engagement pad.
"How about Friday--a week from to-morrow?" she suggested. "Then, if it
should rain, we could go Saturday."
"Fine!" concluded Marjorie, rising to go. But Miss Phillips detained her
for a moment.
"Marjorie, I want to thank you for your lovely gift. It was sweet of you
to do all that work for me."
The girl smiled, delighted that her favorite teacher was pleased. In
fact, Miss Phillips was not only her favorite teacher, but the only one
in whom she took any interest.
"I'm glad you liked it, Miss Phillips," she said, as she turned to leave
the office.
Marjorie and Ruth rode home in the train together. As soon as the girls
were away from Miss Allen's, and there was no longer any rivalry raging
between them, Ruth became her old self again, and expected to have
Marjorie once more as her best friend. But Marjorie was not to be so
easily won.
"Mother writes that there's a new family moved in next door to us,"
remarked Ruth, "and she says that the son--a boy a little older than we
are, seems very nice. I thought maybe I'd ask him over some night during
Christmas week, if you and Jack can come, too. We could play bridge, and
dance a little."
"That would be lovely," murmured Marjorie, in a preoccupied manner, for
her thoughts had flown in a different direction--to her own _one_
important plan for the coming week.
"How would next Friday suit?" suggested Ruth.
Marjorie shook her head decidedly. "Sorry, but I can't possibly!"
Ruth regarded her curiously. What plans could Marjorie have--so early?
No doubt it had something to do with John Hadley.
"If it's John, why, bring him along, and I'll try to get another girl,"
she ventured.
"No; it has nothing to do with John. I expect to be out of town."
"At Lily's?"
"No; I won't be visiting anybody."
"Oh, well," said Ruth, sulkily, "if you don't want to tell me, you don't
have to. I don't care."
"I can't very well tell you, Ruth," replied Marjorie; "and besides, you
wouldn't be interested."
"Then when can you come?"
"Tuesday or Wednesday, whichever you like."
The girls finally agreed upon Wednesday, and separated with the promise
to visit each other before then. But Ruth resented Marjorie's secrecy
and tried to imagine what her important engagement could possibly be.
Christmas, and the next four days passed happily and quickly, and almost
before she realized it, Friday had come, bringing to Marjorie her chance
for adventure.
Wrapped snugly in her mother's fur coat, and with the big robe tucked in
around her, she sat on the front seat of the machine that cold, clear
morning of the end of December. She was very happy; she felt, indeed,
that she was doing something worth while, and the prospect of a nice
long ride with Miss Phillips added not a little to her pleasure.
After they had driven about fifteen miles they met the Scout Captain,
and then continued on their way. Ten miles before they reached their
destination they stopped at a hotel for dinner.
"Suppose they don't live there any longer," remarked Marjorie. "All our
trip for nothing!"
"No, for we could probably get some information from Mrs. Brubaker,"
replied Miss Phillips. "But I don't think they'd move."
"It isn't likely," assented Marjorie.
It was two o'clock when they arrived at the Brubaker farm. The front
door opened, and Mrs. Brubaker appeared.
"Well, of all things!" she exclaimed, recognizing Miss Phillips and
Marjorie in the car. "This surely is a surprise!"
When they were all comfortably seated before the open fire, Mr.
Wilkinson explained their mission, and the good woman seemed amazed at
their news.
"We had no idea Frieda wasn't still at school. Her mother never said a
word. Oh, I'm so sorry!"
They talked a little while, and then leaving her father with Mr.
Brubaker, Marjorie and her Captain proceeded toward the tenant house
where the Hammers lived.
Mrs. Hammer did not recognize them at first. Then Miss Phillips
explained.
"We want to know if you have any news of Frieda, Mrs. Hammer," she said,
very politely.
"Come in," invited the older woman, holding open the door a little
wider.
"We haven't heard a word since she ran away," continued Miss Phillips,
as soon as they were inside, "except that a friend of mine saw a girl
answering her description in New York."
"That's where she is, I reckon," assented Mrs. Hammer, "but that's all I
know. From her onct in a while I get a letter, and can write to her care
of--what d'ye call it?--general delivery. But I can't write very good."
"Oh, may we see the letters?" asked Marjorie, eagerly.
"Yes--I don't mind. You people sure treated her white. I don't know
what's got into her."
The woman crossed the room, which was untidy and dirty, and pulled out a
drawer in the table. There, among heterogeneous trash, Marjorie noticed
several letters. Mrs. Hammer tossed them into Miss Phillips's lap.
"You can read them all," she said, "while I go look to the baby."
Miss Phillips noticed Marjorie's excitement, and politely handed her the
letters--there were three of them,--which the girl opened with trembling
fingers. Apparently, all of them were short.
"This must be the first," she said, and read aloud,
"DEAR MA,
"I ran away in that girl's bot becaus a girl insulted me. I brot my
clothes and a pencil and I stayed at an empty hous to-night.
"FRIEDA."
Marjorie put the paper back into the envelope with a sigh.
"That doesn't tell us a whole lot, does it?" she observed. "Except that
we know now for sure that the girl that old woman described at the empty
house was Frieda."
"But what does she mean about a girl insulting her?" asked Miss
Phillips, in a puzzled tone.
Marjorie frowned; she had no desire to tell tales about Ruth.
Accordingly, she related the story, but withheld the name of the girl
concerned.
"Frieda certainly must be skillful as a boatsman," remarked Miss
Phillips, "to be able to come that far."
"Yes," said Marjorie, opening the letter with the second earliest
postmark. Then, "Oh, listen to this:
"I got to Trenton but befor I crossed the river I sold the bot for
$20. I'm going to New York for to get work.
"FRIEDA."
"Trenton!" repeated Miss Phillips. "Marjorie, we might be able to locate
your canoe if we search all the boat-houses and the river-front there,
and on the opposite side of the Delaware!"
"That's an idea!" cried Marjorie. "I'll ask papa----"
But she was too anxious to read the third and last letter to finish her
sentence. Hastily she pulled it from the envelope.
"DEAR MA,
"I'm in New York now and you can rite me care Gen. Del. My money is
most gone. I got a waitres job.
"FRIEDA."
"But she hasn't, any more!" protested Marjorie; "at least, if Miss Smith
is right!"
At that moment Mrs. Hammer returned with the baby, and Marjorie asked
her all sorts of questions to which she could not reply, but only shake
her head hopelessly.
"But aren't you the least bit worried?" asked Marjorie, picturing how
her own mother would feel under similar circumstances. For Mrs. Hammer
was certainly amazingly calm.
"Ach! she's old enough to take care of herself!" cried the woman
impatiently. "New York's a fine place--I'm glad she is there!"
Marjorie again thought of the great city as she had seen it when she
visited Lily at Thanksgiving, and she shuddered at the confusion and the
danger of it all. And to a country girl like Frieda, it must be even
more terrifying. But she said nothing further; Mrs. Hammer had no
conception of it, and probably never would have. She was relieved to see
Miss Phillips make a motion to go.
All during the ride home, she was unusually quiet, but it was not from
despair. The visit, she felt, had not been in vain; she had formulated a
plan which she meant to put into effect as soon as she reached home. She
would write to Frieda and tell her how much she wanted her to come back.
She would assure the girl that she did not mind about the canoe--she
would even make her a present of it. And she would be glad to send
Frieda the money for a return ticket if she would only promise to come
back!