Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College Part 21

It had been decided that as so many of the famous book t.i.tles did not lend themselves to impersonation, famous characters in fiction might also be impersonated. Therefore, when the longed-for night came round, heroes and heroines, with whose adventures and doings the book-lover's world is familiar, walked about, arm in arm, collected in little groups, or danced gayly together to the music of the eight-piece Overton orchestra, whose members appeared to appreciate the humor of the occasion as keenly as did the faculty.

It was an inspiring sight to watch "Hamlet" parading calmly about the gymnasium with "Beverly of Graustark," or to watch "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch" waltz merrily off with "Rip Van Winkle." Every one immediately recognized "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" and "Robinson Crusoe."

Meek little Oliver Twist, with his big porridge bowl decorated by a wide white band bearing the legend, "I want some more," was also easy to guess. So were "Evangeline," "Carmen," "The Little Lame Prince,"

"Ivanhoe," "Janice Meredith," and scores of other book ladies and gentlemen.

There were a few masqueraders, however, whose fict.i.tious ident.i.ty was shrouded in mystery. No one could fathom the significance of a certain tall figure, dressed in rags, who stopped short in her tracks at frequent intervals, and, producing a needle and thread, sewed industriously at her tattered garments. A black-robed sister of charity, accompanied by a strange figure who wore a shapeless garment painted in dull gray squares to represent stone, and wearing a narrow leather belt about its waist from which was suspended on either side two small andirons, were also sources of speculative curiosity. So was a young woman in white with a towering headdress composed of a combination of the Stars and Stripes and the flag of France. And no one had the remotest idea concerning the eight white figures who marched four abreast and would not condescend to break ranks even to dance.

"Sherlock Holmes" was there with his violin tucked under one arm and a volume of his memoirs under the other. He evinced a strong preference for the society of "Joan of Arc," while "Sarah Crewe," "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and "Rebecca of Sunnybrook" traveled about together, a seemingly contented trio. "The Three Musketeers" were gorgeous to behold in their square-cut costumes, high boots and wide feathered hats, but the sensation of the evening was "Peter Rabbit," who came to the dance attired in his little blue, bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned jacket, brown khaki pantaloons and what seemed to be the identical shoes he lost in Mr.

McGregor's garden. His mask was a cunning rabbit's head that was drawn down and fastened at the neck by a funny soft tie. Who "Peter Rabbit"

was and where he had managed to lay hands on his costume was a matter for discussion that night.

The suspense of not knowing who was who ended with the unmasking after the eighth dance, and amid exclamations and little shrieks of laughter the masqueraders stood face to face.

"Elfreda Briggs! I might have known you would," laughed Arline Thayer, shaking hands with "Sherlock Holmes," while Miriam Nesbit thankfully lifted "Joan of Arc's" helmet and took off her mask.

"You're a perfectly darling 'Fauntleroy,'" admired Elfreda. "I suppose Ruth was 'Sara Crewe.'"

"Yes," returned Arline Thayer. "Here come those eight white figures!"

she exclaimed. "Why, it is Miss Barlowe and her crowd. I don't know yet what they were representing."

"The 'White Company,' of course," declared Elfreda. "There would be no satisfaction in being 'Sherlock Holmes' if I couldn't solve all these puzzles."

"Then live up to your reputation and tell me what famous work of fiction this approaching rag-bag represents," laughed Miriam.

"My powers of deduction were strong enough to pierce the ident.i.ty of that bundle of rags," grinned Elfreda. "I knew Emma Dean by her walk, but I don't know what she represents. Who and what are you, Emma?" she hailed.

"'Never too Late to Mend,'" chanted Emma, flourishing a large darning needle and attacking her rags anew. A shout arose from the little circle of girls who had formed about her. "There is another still harder to guess than mine. Over there," pointed Emma. "Look, girls!"

"What is it?" chorused half a dozen voices. "Well, I never! If it isn't Grace and Patience!"

There was a concerted rush toward the two girls. "What in the name of common sense is this ill.u.s.trious combination?" asked Emma. "Why didn't you choose something a little harder."

"We are easy enough to guess," returned Patience loftily. "That is, if you are familiar with standard fiction."

"I'm not. I never was," declared Emma. "Tell us instanter!"

"Allow me to introduce you to the 'Cloister.'" Patience bowed low. "And the 'Hearth.'" Grace saluted the company with a loud jingling of her andirons.

"Oh," groaned Elfreda. "No wonder my powers of deduction failed. Who could guess that Grace was representing a hearth? She looks more like a section of a garden wall or the stone foundation for a new house, or----"

"If my costume looks as stony as that, then I do look like a hearth, and either your eyesight or your imagination is defective," declared Grace in triumph.

"Certainly, you resemble a hearth," agreed Emma Dean. "Now tell me how you like my costume. It took me hours to reduce my wearing apparel to its present picturesque state. All you girls are screaming successes.

But who is 'Peter Rabbit'?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," declared Elfreda. "He, or rather she, carried a package of little cards with a cunning rabbit's head and the name 'Peter Rabbit' on them. I have one here."

"So have I," came from every member of the group.

"Let us find the famous Peter, then offer our congratulations," proposed Patience, with a searching glance at the company.

But the "famous Peter" was not to be found among the throng of gayly attired girls, and there was no little comment among them at his sudden and complete disappearance.

"I wonder what became of 'Peter Rabbit'?" remarked Anne, when, later in the evening, a number of Semper Fidelis girls gathered in one corner of the room to hold an informal session and compare notes.

"Who is 'Peter Rabbit'; or, the Mystery of the 'Blue Jacket'?" declaimed Emma Dean. "Even Sherlock is all at sea, aren't you, Brother Holmes?"

Emma Dean laid her hand familiarly on the great investigator's shoulder.

"Don't be too sure that I'm all at sea. I have a theory." Elfreda put on a preternaturally wise expression.

"We'll hear it at once," returned Emma briskly.

"Not to-night. I have other weightier problems on my mind. I have been asked to solve the campus mystery."

"Campus mystery!" exclaimed several voices. "What is it?"

"Walk to the extreme northern end of the campus, then go east one hundred and fifty paces and you will come face to face with the problem," was Elfreda's mystifying answer.

"Oh, I know what you mean," cried Sara Emerson. "The ground has been broken there for some kind of building. We noticed it day before yesterday."

"Right, my child," commended Elfreda patronizingly, "and therein lies the mystery. I have prowled about the vicinity at odd moments ever since the men began working there, but even my powers of penetration have failed."

"Since your curiosity has reached such a height, why don't you ask Miss Wilder to tell you the whys and wherefores of this startling affair?"

teased Emma Dean. "I never realized until now what a mysterious process digging a cellar is."

"It isn't the process that's mysterious, it is the object of the process," declared Elfreda, with great dignity.

"Not everyone 'can see' either," interposed Emma innocently.

"The Briggs-Dean rapid-fire conversation team in an entirely new line of specialties," proclaimed Sara Emerson. "Secure front seats for the performance."

"There isn't going to be any performance," flung back Emma. "This is merely a friendly chat, but it ends here and now. I don't propose to court publicity. Come on, Sherlock, let us hie us to the lemonade bowl away from this madding crowd."

Sherlock offered his free arm--his memoirs were securely tucked under the other--and strolled nonchalantly toward the punch bowl, looking as though he were towing an animated rag-bag.

"Doesn't Emma Dean look too ridiculous for words?" laughed Arline Thayer to Grace.

"'Never too late to mend,'" quoted Grace. "I wonder how she ever happened to hit upon the idea. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?"

"Emma Dean? One of the nicest girls at Overton." Arline spoke with enthusiasm. "When I came to Morton House as a freshman, Emma was there, too. I had the most appalling case of the blues, for I didn't for one moment believe that I should ever like college. Emma had the next room to mine. She was so cheerful and said such funny things that I forgot all about my blues."

"I never knew she had lived at Morton House," said Grace in surprise.

"She was there just two weeks," continued Arline. "Then a freshman, who was an old friend of the Dean family, wanted Emma to room with her at Wayne Hall, and so she left Morton House and has been at the Hall ever since."

"Your loss was our gain," replied Grace. "We couldn't do without Emma at Wayne Hall. She and Elfreda are the life of the house."

Arline smiled to herself. Elfreda and Emma might fill their own particular niches in Wayne Hall, but there was only one Grace Harlowe.

"How I shall miss you, Grace," she said with sudden irrelevance to the subject of Emma. "I shall miss you more than any other girl in college, except Ruth, when I go to New York for good and all."