The Camp Fire Girls at School Part 9

C-R-A-C-K! A sound rang out on the still air that startled Migwan like the report of a pistol, followed immediately by another. She came to her senses with a rush. With hardly a moment's warning the ice on which she was standing broke away from the main ma.s.s and began to move. Struck motionless by fright, she had not the presence of mind to jump back to the larger field. A wave washed in between, separating her by several feet from the solid ice. The cake she was on began to heave and fall sickeningly. There was another cracking sound and the edge of the solid body of ice broke up into dozens of floating cakes, that ground and pounded each other as the waves set them in motion. Every drop of blood receded from Migwan's heart as she realized what had happened. She screamed aloud, once, and then knew the futility of it. Her voice could not reach to the sh.o.r.e. Lake and sky and horizon line now mocked her with their silence. The cake of ice, lurching and tipping, began floating out to sea.

On this wintry afternoon Sahwah left the house in a far different mood from that which had carried Migwan blindly over the ground. Her eyes were sparkling with the joy of life and her cheeks were glowing in the cold. She wore a heavy reefer sweater and a knitted cap. Under her arm was her latest plaything--a pair of skis. By her side walked d.i.c.k Albright, one of the boys in her cla.s.s, whom she considered especially good fun. d.i.c.k also had a pair of skis. The two of them were bound for the park to practice "making descents" from the hillsides. Sahwah was absolutely happy, and chattered like one of the sparrows that were flocking on the lawns and streets. Her chief interest in life just now was the school basketball team, of which she was a member. Soon, very soon, would come the big game with the Carnegie Mechanics, which would decide the championship of the city. Sahwah was the star forward for the Washington High team, and it was no secret that the winning of that game depended upon her to a great extent. Sahwah was the idol of the athletically inclined portion of the school. d.i.c.k thought there never was such a player--for a girl.

Sahwah was full of basketball talk now, and made shrewd comments on the good and bad points of both teams, weighing the chances of each with great care. "Mechanicals' center is shorter than ours; we have the advantage there. One of their forwards is good and the other isn't, and one of our guards is weak. On the whole, we're about evenly matched."

"Fine chance Mechanicals'll have with you in the game," said d.i.c.k.

"The only thing I'm afraid of," said Sahwah, with a thoughtful pucker, "is Marie Lanning; you know, Joe Lanning's cousin. She's to guard me and she's a head taller."

"Don't worry, you'll manage all right," said d.i.c.k. Sahwah laughed. It was pleasant to be looked up to as the hope of the school. "If you only don't get sick," said d.i.c.k.

"Don't be afraid," answered Sahwah. "I won't get sick. But if I don't get my Physics notebook finished by the First of February I'll not be eligible for the game, and that's no joke. Fizzy said n.o.body would get a pa.s.sing grade this month who didn't have that old notebook finished, and you know what that means."

"There really isn't any danger of your not getting it in, is there?"

asked d.i.c.k breathlessly.

"Not if I keep at it," answered Sahwah, and d.i.c.k breathed easy again. To allow yourself to be declared ineligible for a game on account of studies when the school was depending on you to win that game would have been a crime too awful to contemplate.

The snow on the hills in the park had a hard crust, which made it just right for skiing. Sahwah and d.i.c.k made one descent after another, sometimes tripping over the point of a ski and landing in a sprawling heap, but more often sailing down in perfect form with a breathless rush. "That last leap of yours was a beauty," said Sahwah admiringly.

"I think I'm learning," said d.i.c.k modestly.

"I 'stump' you to go down the big hill on the lake front," said Sahwah, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

d.i.c.k knew what that particular hill was like, but, boylike, he could not refuse a dare given by a girl. "Do you want to see me do it?" he said stoutly. "All right, I will."

"Don't," said Sahwah, frightened at what she had driven him to do; "you'll break your neck. I didn't really mean to dare you to do it." But d.i.c.k had made up his mind to go down that cliff hill just to show Sahwah that he could, and nothing could turn him aside now.

"Come along," he said; "I can make it." And he started off toward the lake front at a brisk pace.

But when he had reached the top of the hill in question he stood still and stared out over the lake. "h.e.l.lo," he said in surprise, "there's somebody having trouble out there on the ice." Sahwah came and stood beside him, shading her eyes with her hand to see what was happening. At that distance she did not recognize Migwan. "The ice is breaking!" cried d.i.c.k, who was far-sighted and saw the girl on the floating ice cake.

Like a whirlwind he sped down the hillside, dropped over the edge of the cliff like a plummet and shot nearly a hundred feet out over the gla.s.sy surface of the lake. Without pausing an instant Sahwah was after him.

She had a dizzy sensation of falling off the earth when she made the jump from the hillside, which was a greater distance than she had ever dropped before, but it was over so quickly that she had no time to lose her breath before she was on solid ground again and taking the long slide over the lake. In a short time they reached the edge of the broken ice.

"Migwan!" gasped Sahwah when she saw who the girl on the floating cake was. They could not get very near her, as the edge of the solid ma.s.s was continually breaking away, and there was a strip of moving pieces between them and her. "Fasten the skis together and make a long pole,"

said Sahwah, "and then she can take hold of one end of it and we can pull her toward us," said Sahwah.

"Good idea," said d.i.c.k, and proceeded to lash the long strips together with the straps, aided by sundry strings and handkerchiefs.

Then there were several moments of suspense until Migwan came within reach of the pole. She simply had to wait until she floated near enough to grasp it, which the perverse ice cake seemed to have no intention of doing. The right combination of wind and wave came at last, however, and drove her in toward the sh.o.r.e. She was still beyond the end of the pole.

"Jump onto the next cake," called Sahwah. Migwan obeyed in fear and trembling. It took still another jump before she could reach the lifesaver. She was now separated from the broken ma.s.s at the edge of the solid ice by about six feet. With Migwan clinging fast to the pole d.i.c.k began to pull in gently, so as not to pull her off the ice, and the cake began to move across this open s.p.a.ce until it was close beside the nearer ma.s.s of broken pieces. Then, supported by the improvised hand rail, Migwan leaped from one cake to the next, and so made her way back to the solid part. It was an exciting process, for the pieces tipped and heaved when she stepped on them, and bobbed up and down, and some turned over just as her feet left them.

"Eliza crossing the ice," said Sahwah, giggling nervously.

Migwan sank down exhausted when she felt the solid ma.s.s under her feet and knew that the danger was over. She was chilled through and through, and more than one wave had splashed over the floating ice while she was on it and soaked her shoes and stockings. Sahwah took this in at a glance. "Get up," she said sharply, "and run. Run all the way home if you don't want to get pneumonia. It's your only chance." Taking hold of her hands, d.i.c.k and Sahwah ran along beside her, making her keep up the pace when she pleaded fatigue. More dead than alive she reached home, but warm from head to foot. Sahwah rolled her in hot blankets and administered hot drinks with a practiced hand. Neither Mrs. Gardiner nor Betty were at home. Migwan soon dropped off to sleep, and woke feeling entirely well. Thanks to Sahwah's taking her in hand she emerged from the experience without even a sign of a cold.

With heroic patience and courage she began again the weary task of typing and burning all the pages of Professor Green's book and finished it this time without mishap. The money she received for it all went into the family purse. Not a cent did she spend on herself.

Not long after this Migwan had a taste of fame. She had a poem printed in the paper! It happened in this way. At the Sunbeam Nursery one morning Nyoda saw her surrounded by a group of breathlessly listening children and joined the circle to hear the story Migwan was telling. She had apparently just finished, and the childish voices were calling out from all sides, "Tell it again!" Nyoda listened with interest as Migwan, with a solemn expression and impressive voice, recited the tragic tale of the "Goop Who Wouldn't Wash":

Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, He was a Goop if there ever was one!

Slapped his small sister whene'er he could reach her, Muddied the carpet, made mouths at the preacher, Talked back to his mother whenever she chid, Always did otherwise than he was bid; Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, Manners he certainly had not a one!

O bad little Goops, wheresoe'er you may be, Take heed what befell young Agricola G!

For Gunther Augustus (unlike you, I hope), Had an inborn aversion to water and soap; He fought when they washed him, he squirmed and he twisted, He shrieked, scratched and wriggled until they desisted; He would not be combed--it was no use to try-- O he was a Goop, they could all testify!

So Gunther went dirty--unwashed and uncombed, With hands black as pitch through the garden he roamed; When suddenly a monstrous black shadow fell o'er him, And the Woman Who Scrubs Dirty Goops stood before him!

Her waist was a washcloth, her skirt was a towel, She looked down at him with a horrible scowl; One hand was a brush and the other a comb, Her forehead was soap and her pompadour foam!

Her foot was a s...o...b..ush, and on it did grow A shiny steel nail file in place of a toe!

Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, He had a fright if he ever had one!

In a twinkling she seized him--Oh, how he did shriek!

And threw him headforemost right into the creek!

Rubbed soap in his eyes (Dirty Goops, O beware!), And in combing the snarls pulled out handfuls of hair!

Scrubbed the skin off his nose, brushed his teeth till they bled, Tweaked his ears, rapped his knuckles, and gleefully said, "Gunther Augustus Agricola Gunn, There'll be a difference when I get done!"

After that young Agricola strove hard to see How very, how heavenly good he could be!

Wiped his feet at the door, tipped his hat to the preacher, Caressed his small sister whene'er he could reach her!

Stood still while they washed him and combed out his hair, His garments he folded and laid on a chair!

Gunter Augustus Agricola Gunn, He was a saint if there ever was one!

"Where did you get that poem?" asked Nyoda.

"I wrote it myself," answered Migwan.

"Good work!" said Nyoda; "will you give me a copy?"

Nyoda showed the poem to Professor Green and Professor Green showed it to a friend who was column editor of one of the big dailies, and one fine morning the poem appeared in the paper, with Migwan's full name and address at the bottom, "Elsie Gardiner, Adams Ave." The Gardiners did not happen to take that particular paper and Migwan knew nothing of it until she reached school and was congratulated on all sides. Professor Green, who had taken a great interest in Migwan since she had worked up his hunting notes in such a striking style, and regarded her as his special protege, was anxious to have the whole school know what a gifted girl she was. He had a conference with the princ.i.p.al, and as a result Migwan was asked to read her poem at the rhetorical exercises in the auditorium that day. When she finished the applause was deafening, and with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes she ran from the stage. There were distinguished visitors at school that day, representatives of a national organization who had come to address the scholars, and they came up to Migwan after she had read her poem to be introduced and offer congratulations. Teachers stopped her in the hall to tell her how bright she was, and the other pupils regarded her with great respect. Migwan was the lion of the hour.

She hurried home on flying feet and danced into the house waving the paper. "Oh, mother," she called, as soon as she was inside the door, "guess what I've got to show you!" Her mother was not in the kitchen and she ran through the house looking for her. "Oh, mother," she called, "oh, moth--why, what's the matter?" she asked, stopping in surprise in the sitting room door. Mrs. Gardiner lay on the couch, and beside her sat the family doctor. Betty stood by looking very much frightened. Mrs.

Gardiner looked up as Migwan came in. "It's nothing," she said, trying to speak lightly; "just a little spell."

"Mother has to go to the hospital," said Betty in a scared voice.

"Just a little operation," said Mrs. Gardiner hastily, as Migwan looked ready to drop. "Nothing serious--very."

Migwan's hour of triumph was completely forgotten in the anxiety of the next few days. Her mother rallied slowly from the operation, and it looked as though she would have to remain in the hospital a long time.

It was impossible to meet this added expense from their little income, and Migwan, setting her teeth bravely, drew the remainder of her college money from the bank to pay the hospital and surgeon's bills. Then she set to work with redoubled zeal to write something which would sell. So far everything she had sent out had come back promptly. For a long time certain advertis.e.m.e.nts in the magazines had been holding her attention.

They read something like this: "Write Moving Picture Plays. Bring $50 to $100 each. We teach you how by an infallible method. Anybody can do it.

Full particulars sent for a postage stamp." Migwan had seen quite a few picture plays, many of them miserably poor, and felt that she could write better ones than some, or at least just as good. She wrote to the address given in one of the advertis.e.m.e.nts, asking for "full particulars." Back came a letter couched in the most glowing terms, which Migwan was not experienced enough to recognize as a multigraphed copy, which stated that the writer had noticed in her letter of inquiry a literary ability well worth cultivating, and he would feel himself highly honored to be allowed to teach her to write moving picture plays, a field in which she would speedily gain fame and fortune. He would throw open the gates of success for her for the nominal fee of thirty dollars, with five dollars extra for "stationery, etc." His regular fee was thirty-five dollars, but it was not often that he came across so much ability as she had, and he considered the pleasure he would derive from the correspondence course worth five dollars to him. Would she not send the first payment of five dollars by return mail so that his enjoyment might begin as soon as possible?

Migwan read the letter through with a beating heart until she came to the price, when her heart sank into her shoes. To pay thirty dollars was entirely out of the question. She wrote to several more advertis.e.m.e.nts and received much the same answer from all of them. There was only one which she could consider at all. This one offered no correspondence course, but advertised a book giving all the details of scenario writing, "history of the picture play, form, where to sell your plays, etc., all in one comprehensive volume." The price of the book was three dollars. Migwan hesitated a long time over this last one, but the subtle language of the advertis.e.m.e.nt drew her back again and again like a magnet, and finally overcame her doubts. "It will pay for itself many times when I have learned to write plays," she reflected. So she took three precious dollars from the housekeeping money and sent for the book. She did not ask Nyoda's advice this time; somehow she shrank from telling her about it.

In three days the book arrived. The "comprehensive volume" was a paper-covered pamphlet containing exactly twenty-nine pages. It could not have sold for more than ten or fifteen cents in a book store. The first five pages were devoted to a description of the phenomenal sale of the first edition of the book, two more enlarged upon the "unfillable demand" of the motion picture companies for scenarios, while the remainder of the book was given over to the "technique" of scenario writing. Migwan read it through eagerly, and did gain an idea of the form in which a play should be cast, although the information was meagre enough. Three dollars was an outrageous price to pay for the book, thought Migwan, but she comforted herself with the thought that by means of it she would soon lift the family out of their difficulties. She set to work with a cheery heart. Writing picture plays was easier than writing stories on account of the skeleton form in which they were cast, which made it unnecessary to strive for excellence of literary style.

She finished the first one in two nights and sent it off with high hopes. The company she sent it to was listed in the book as "greatly in need of one-reel scenarios, and taking about everything sent to them."

She was filled with a secret elation and went about the house singing like a lark, until Betty, who had been moping like an owl since her mother went to the hospital, was quite cheered up. "What are you so happy about?" she asked curiously. "You act as if somebody had left you a fortune."

"Maybe they have," replied Migwan mysteriously; "wait and see!"