The Girl Scout Pioneers Part 1

The Girl Scout Pioneers.

by Lillian C Garis.

CHAPTER I

GIRLS AND GIRLS

It was much like a scene in a movie play. The shabby dark room lighted by a single oil lamp if any light could make its way through the badly smoked gla.s.s that served as a chimney, the broken chair, and the table piled high with what appeared to be rags, but which might have been intended for wearing apparel, the torn window curtain hanging so disconsolately from the broken cord it had one time proudly swung from, and the indescribable bed!

Like some sentinel watching the calamitous surroundings, a girl stood in the midst of this squalor, her bright golden hair and her pretty fair face, with its azure blue eyes, marking a pathetic contrast to all the sordid, dark detail of the ill-kept room. She took from the side pocket of her plaid skirt a bit of crumpled paper, and placing it directly under the lamp, followed its written lines. Having finished the reading, she carefully folded the worn slip again, and returned it to her pocket. Then she threw back her pretty head, and any frequenter of the screen world would have known instantly that the girl had decided--and further, that her decision required courage, and perhaps defiance.

With determination marking every move, she crossed to the tumbled bed, and stooping, dragged from beneath it a bag, the sort called "telescope," and used rarely now, even by the traveling salesman, who at one time found the sliding trunk so useful. It would "telescope," and being thus adjustable, lent its proportions to any sized burden imposed upon it. Into this the girl tossed a few articles selected from the rummage on the table, a pair of shoes gathered from more debris in a corner, and on top a sweater and skirt, taken from a peg on the door. All together this composed rather a pretentious a.s.sortment for the telescope.

But the girl did not jam down the cover in that "movie" way common to runaways, rather she paused, glanced furtively about the gloomy place, and finally taking a candle from a very high shelf, lighted the taper, evidently for some delicate task in the way of gathering up her very personal belongings.

In a remote corner of the room an upturned orange box served as sort of stand. The front was covered and festooned with a curtain, dexterously made of a bright skirt, hung over the sides, and draped from a knot at the top. The knot was drawn from the waist band of the skirt, and tied with the original string into a grotesque rosette. All over the box top were such articles as a girl might deem necessary in making a civilized toilette, except at the knot--where the table cover irradiated its fullness into really graceful folds, falling over the orange box-here, on account of the k.n.o.b, no article was placed, and the rosette stood defiant over the whole surrounding.

The girl placed the candle on a spot made clear for that small round, tin stand, and then glancing anxiously at the door, stole over to make sure that the bolt was shot, hurried back and proceeded to untie the knot of string responsible for the drapery over the orange box. By the glare of the candle's flame her fingers could be seen stained with oil, and grim, as they expertly worked at the tied-up skirt, and finally succeeded in pulling apart the ragged folds. Quickly she slipped one small hand beneath the calico, and, obtaining her quest, drew back to examine it.

One, two, three green bills. Her savings and her fortune. Lights and shadows crossing the youthful face betrayed the hopes, and fears mingling with, such emotions as the girl lived through in this crowded hour, but no sooner had she slipped the small roll of bills into the flaring neck of her thin blouse, than a shaking at the door caused her to kick the telescope bag under the bed, hastily readjust the cover of the orange box, blow out the capering candle flame, and then open the door. A woman young in face but old in posture scuffled in. She wore a shawl on her head, although the season was warm April, and the plentiful quant.i.ties of material swathed in her attire proclaimed her foreign.

"Oh, Dagmar. I am tired," she sighed. "I thought you would come down to fix supper for papa. You do not change your skirt? No?"

"I was going to, so I locked the door," replied the girl Dagmar.

"But I, too, was tired."

"Yes, it is so. Well, the mill is not so bad. It has a new window near my bench, and I breathe better. But, daughter, we must go down. Keep the door locked as you dress. Those new peoples may not tell which is the right room." With a glance at the fair daughter, so unlike herself in coloring, the working mother dragged herself out again, and soon could be heard cliptrapping down the dark stairs that led to the kitchens on the first floor of the mill workers, community lodgings.

Dagmar breathed deeply and clasped her hands tightly as her mother's tired foottread fell to an echo. Love filled the blue eyes and an affectionate smile wreathed the red lips.

"Poor mother!" she sighed aloud. "I hate to--"

Then again came that look of determination, and when Dagmar slipped down the stairs she carried the telescope and her crochetted hand bag. Her velvet tarn sat jauntily on those wonderful yellow curls, and her modern cape flew gracefully out, just showing the least fold of her best chiffon blouse. Dagmar wore strickly American clothes, selected in rather good taste, and they attracted much attention in the streets of Flosston.

Once clear of the long brown building, through which spots of light now struck the night, out of those desperate rows and rows of machine-made windows, Dagmar made her way straight to the corner, then turned straight again to another long narrow street, her very steps corresponding to that painful directness of line and plan, common to towns made by mill-owners for their employees.

Even the stars, now p.r.i.c.king their way through the blue, seemed to throw down straight lines of light on Flosston; nothing varied the mechanical exactness, and monotonous squares and angles of streets, buildings, and high board fences.

One more sharp turn brought the girl within sight of a square, squatty railroad station, and as she sped toward it she caught sight of the figure of another girl, outlined in the shadows. This figure was taller and larger in form than herself, and as Dagmar whistled softly, the girl ahead stopped.

"Oh, you got my note," said the other. "I am so glad. I was afraid you would not come."

"I'm here," replied Dagmar, "bag and baggage, mostly bag," kicking the accommodating and inoffensive telescope. "I hate to carry this thing."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the taller girl, who, under a street lamp, showed a face older than Dagmar's and perhaps a little hard and rough. Just that bold defiant look, so often affected by girls accustomed to fighting their way through the everyday hardships of walled-in surroundings.

"Tessie, I am afraid," confessed the younger girl. "I almost cried when Mama asked me to fix supper."

"Oh, baby! You are too pretty, that's all's the matter with you.

But just wait. Hush! There's that crowd of nifty-nice, preachy, snippy scout girls. Duck, or they'll be on our trail," and she dragged her companion around the corner of the high fence, where, in the shadow of its bill-posted height they crouched, until the laughing, happy girls of True Tred Troop, just out from their early evening meeting at Sunset Hall, over the post-office, had pa.s.sed down into Elm Street.

"I think they saw us," whispered Dagmar, "I heard one girl say some one was hiding by the signboard."

"We should worry," flippantly replied Tessie. "I guess they are too busy thinking about their old wigwagging to notice mill girls."

"Oh, you're mean, Tessie. I think they are real nice. They always say h.e.l.lo to me."

"That's because you are pretty," snubbed the older girl, with something like common spite in her voice.

"Here they come back! Guess they lost something."

"We'd better be moving the other way, then. Pshaw! We will sure be late if they keep up their trailing around. Come along. Just be so busy talking to me they won't get a chance to give you their lovely h.e.l.lo. It would be all up with us if they spied us." With a persuasion not entirely welcome to Dagmar, Tessie again dragged her along, this time turning away from the dim lights that showed through the window of Flosston station.

Presently the group of scout girls could be heard exchanging opinions on the possibility of finding something lost. One thought it might have dropped in the deep gutter, another declared she would have heard it fall if it hit the many stones along the sidewalk, and still another expressed the view that it would be impossible to find it until daylight, no matter where it had fallen.

"But I just got it, and wanted to wear it so much," wailed the girl most concerned. "I think it is too mean--"

"Now, we will be sure to find it in daylight," a.s.sured the tall girl, evidently the captain. "I will be around here before even the mill hands pa.s.s. Don't worry, Margaret. If we don't find it, I shall send to headquarters for another."

"But I shall never love it as I did that one," and tears were in the voice. "Besides, think of all the lovely time we had at the presentation!"

"Now come," softly ordered the tall girl. "No use prowling around here, we can't see anything with matches. I promise you, Margaret, you shall have another badge in time for the rally if we do not find this," and reluctantly the party of searchers turned again in the direction of the village.

Watching their opportunity, the two mill girls came out from the shadows of the high fence they had been trusting to shield them from the view of the scouts. With quickened step they now turned again towards the station.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Tessie. "Haven't we had awful luck for a start? Hope it won't follow us along."

"Well, the more we delay the more I want to go back home," Dagmar replied rather timidly. "Tessie, I am afraid I will not be able to look at things your way. I seem to have different ideas."

"Now, Daggie. Don't go getting scary. I don't care whether you think my way or not. I won't fight about it. Let's hurry," and with renewed protestations of real companionship, the older girl grasped the arm of the younger, as if fearful of losing her hold on the other's confidence.

"Oh, please don't call me Daggie," objected Dagmar, freeing herself from the rather too securely pressed arm grasp. "You know how I hate that. Always makes me feel like a daggar. Call me Marrie. That's American, and I am an American, you know."

"All right, little Liberty. I'll call you Georgianna Washington if you say so, Marrie. That's like putting on airs for Marie. But just as you say," evidently willing to make any concession to have the younger girl accept her own terms.

"Wait! My foot struck something," exclaimed Dagmar, just reaching the spot where burnt matches left the trail of the girl scout searchers. "There, I found the badge."

"Oh, let's look! Is it gold?" They stopped under the street lamp to examine the trinket.

"No, it isn't gold, I think, but isn't it pretty?"

"Kinda," urging Dagmar along. "Say, kid, what is this anyway? A stopover we've Struck? Are we going tonight or some other night?"

"I'll have to give this badge back."

"Why will you? Didn't you find it? Isn't it yours?"

"Of course not. It belongs to the girl who lost it."