The “booster” parade for Augusta Forbes, candidate for sophomore
presidency of at least half the sophomore class, was as ridiculous as
its gleeful originators had intended it should be. Two evenings before
the sophomore election the paraders issued from the gymnasium at dark,
in amazing and flamboyant procession. A stolid drum major, Anna Perry
was a triumph. She wore a scarlet cotton flannel uniform, recklessly
trimmed in blue, and a high fur hat, contrived from an old squirrel
muff. She led the van with a truly wonderful flourish of baton.
The presidential candidate came next in a two-wheeled push cart draped
in red, white and blue bunting. Gussie, in an old black frock coat and
trousers and a white plug hat which Leila had unearthed from among the
Travelers stage properties was a figure of dignity in spite of the
occasional sprawling lurch forward she gave in the cart. The cart was
energetically motivated by four stalwart servitors. Their very energy
made Gussie cling desperately to the rug-covered soap box on which she
sat with one hand while she waved an acknowledgment with the other to
the uproarious populace.
The vice president had also been selected for push cart honors. This
dignitary’s vehicle, however, while draped with equal gorgeousness was
smaller and required only two lackeys. Richly attired in a pleated white
shirt, fawn knickers, a blue plush smoking jacket and a black silk hat
with a dent in one side of it, he sat flat in the bottom of the cart,
recklessly distributing smiles and bows.
The treasurer and secretary came next in white flannel tennis trousers,
white shoes and white silk blouses. They wore white sports hats wreathed
in blue and scarlet, the sophomore colors. Unfortunately for them they
had to be content with express wagons. As both candidates were tall they
had to sit in their wagons, backs to the willing soph horses, a generous
length of limb trailing over the rear end of their conveyances. It was
either this, or a certain possibility of kicking their hard-working
steeds. The rosy-faced manager of the Forbes’ party rode in a child’s
dark blue automobile which she sturdily propelled with both feet,
dressed in a plaided knicker suit, sneakers, a boy’s striped sweater and
a red and green monkey cap she looked not more than ten years old. Nor
could a boy of that age have made more noise.
Behind her came the band, a ten-piece organization composed of one
bugle, two accordions, two drums, one cornet, three combs and a hand
organ. On each side of the procession walked the torch bearers lighting
the impressive pageant with cat-tail torches. The dark-faced organ
grinder in an old black velvet coat and blue overalls and fierce
outstanding mustache closely resembled Calista Wilmot. He
enthusiastically ground out a program of “Suwanee River,” “Annie
Laurie,” “Get Out and Get Under,” and “Do You Love Me, Honey?” while the
rest of the band accompanied him with deafening zest.
Sauntering along behind this commotion and seemingly quite unruffled by
it were no less than Uncle Sam, George Washington and Christopher
Columbus. Their appearance on the campus was the signal for shrieks of
mirth and they were hailed with the familiarity accorded to old friends.
The parade circled Hamilton Hall three times then trailed down the main
campus drive and rested there while the band gave an ear-splitting
concert.
At the last the push cart detail tired of their hard but honored task
and flatly refused to take the candidates a step further. The squabble
ended by the squabblers walking off arm in arm toward the gymnasium
where the sophs had made ready a spread of cake and ice cream to which
anyone on the campus was welcome so long as the eats held out.
“It’s almost safe to say that Gentleman Gus will be friend president,”
Jerry declared to Marjorie that night as the two were preparing for
sleep. “I understand that she has over half the class with her.”
“Oh, I think she’ll win. I hope so.” Marjorie became suddenly silent.
“There are some of the sophs who still blame Gussie for what happened to
Alma Hurst and Ida Weir,” she said, after a little. “She was accused of
having informed on two members of her class. She didn’t, you know, and
so do the rest of us. It was Miss Walbert who betrayed them.”
“Why, old Marvelous Manager, what makes you so emphatic? Heard anything
special about Gussie?” Jerry fixed interested eyes on Marjorie.
“Yes; today. Calista told me. Gussie doesn’t know it. The other Bertram
girls do. They won’t tell her. She is so proud. They are afraid she’d
withdraw from the nomination. They want her to be president because they
think she’d make a fine one. Calista says the sophs are beginning to
make a fuss over Miss Monroe. A freshie who lives at Acasia House began
raving over Miss Monroe the first day she saw her. The very next day she
sent her a big box of roses. The story went around the campus and the
sophs heard it and began to rush Miss Monroe. She may be nominated at
the class meeting Thursday.”
“Maybe,” Jerry conceded. “Still I think Gus has the inside track. The
sophs may nominate half a dozen girls, but Gussie will carry off more
than half the votes. You see if she doesn’t. Don’t worry about _her_.”
“You are so cheering, Jeremiah. I did worry about Gussie, for her to
hear anything horrid now, when she’s so full of the election, would cut
her to the heart.
“Cut it out, Bean, cut out worry, is the valuable advice of Dr. Macy. If
you must worry, worry about me. I can’t decide what I ought to study.
I’m too highly educated now. My brain rebels against being stuffed any
fuller. I’m what you might call wise in my own conceit.”
“You’re a cheerful goose,” was Marjorie’s fond opinion. Nevertheless she
wished the eventful sophomore election were the next day instead of the
day after.