The Girl Scouts at Sea Crest Part 1

The Girl Scouts at Sea Crest.

by Lillian Garis.

CHAPTER I

SAME OLD OCEAN

THREE girls stood on the beach watching the waves--the tireless, endless, continuous toss, break, splash; toss, break, splash! Always the same climbing combers smoothly traveling in from eternity, mounting their hills to the playful height of liquid summits, then rolling down in an ocean of foam, to splash on the beach into the most alluring of earth's play toys--the breakers.

"And we thought the baby mountain at Bellaire beautiful--why this ocean is--well, it is simply bigger and grander than anything I have ever dreamed of," declared Grace. "No wonder the girls out in Chicago long to spend a summer at the sea sh.o.r.e."

"I couldn't even find a word to describe it," admitted Cleo. "Doesn't it look like eternity all spilled out?"

"And the roll is like the origin of noise," suggested Grace. "Now, Weasie, what do you see that looks like--like the original public service telephone company, or the first gas and electric plant? Don't you think those glints of color and sparks of foam may be our first sulphur springs?"

"I never could claim a poetic imagination," admitted Louise, known to her chums as Weasie, "but I might see a family resemblance there to--well--to a first-cla.s.s Turkish bath. There! How the mighty hath fallen! From the origin of noise and eternity spilled out, down to a mundane yet highly desirable Turkish bath! And girls, mine is the only practical description, for a bath it is to be, ours for all summer! Can you imagine it?"

"And smell the salt?" prompted Cleo. "Since you insist on being practical, no use talking about the aroma of the G.o.ds, or the incense of the mermaids. Weasie, I see you are going to keep us down to earth; and I guess you are right. Essays are better in school than done orally on a beautiful beach. But really isn't it overwhelming?"

"I'll admit that much," replied Weasie. "But you see, I have had a glimpse of the beach before. I vacationed here for one week. Then I have been to Atlantic City in winter. That's simply wonderful. But you little Westerners, all the way from Pennsylvania," and she laughed at the idea, "you, of course, have only seen good old Lake Erie. Yes, girls, this is the ocean. Meet Madame Atlantic," with a sweeping gesture toward the ocean. "But look out! That's how Madame Atlantic meets us! Just look at my pumps!"

A vengeful wave had crept in and deliberately splashed the three pairs of new summer pumps, before the girls realized they were being surrounded.

"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Grace. "How did that wave get in without us seeing it? And we standing right there watching it! My shoes are simply done for," and she looked about for a place to sit down and dump out some of the damage.

"That's the way with waves," explained Louise, who now stood sponsor for the ocean and its habits. "You never can tell just what a wave will do."

"I see," said Cleo, trying to plough through the heavy sand without burying the soaking wet slippers. "I suppose we may call this our initiation. Changing time at Pittsburg is nothing to changing pumps at Sea Crest. Let's to it."

"And salt water is ruinous to leather. I know that much," declared Grace. "Weasie, you should have told us to leave our shoes on land and come into the sands barefoot. I suppose that's why all the picture dancers are barefoot on the sands; it's so hard on slippers. There's a barrel. Let's anchor that and divest ourselves. Did you ever see dry land so far away? This sand is as bad as water to plough through."

"Knocks the poetry out of it, doesn't it?" teased Louise. "But don't let's mind. What are mere pumps to all this?"

They reached the barrel which had been washed up on the beach and was quite securely embedded in the sand. On this the three chums took refuge from the ocean water and sea of sand, while they attempted to wring out their soaking socks and hang them on some brush to dry.

"This is such a lovely big barrel," commented Cleo. "Let's sit here, and while our wash dries we can tell marine stories. Grace, you had better put your pumps up farther. That island may be washed away with the next wave."

"I guess I will," agreed Grace. "It seems to me this old ocean knows we are greenies the way it tantalizes us. Now there!" and she placed the two black slippers much farther up from the line marked by the incoming tide. "I hope the next set of waves will be polite enough to keep their distance. Come on to the barrel and let's hear about Madaline. Why couldn't she come down?"

They adjusted themselves again on the great cask, and Cleo proceeded to narrate the details of her recent letter from their chum, Madaline.

"Her folks are going to travel this summer so we can't have our little roly-poly Madaline with us," she explained. "Of course, we shall miss her, but we are going to have Mary. Her rich relations are coming down to the Colonade."

"To that immense gold-and-white hotel over there!" exclaimed Grace.

"Then we shall have wonderful times visiting her. And we can see all the dances and masquerades--I suppose they have a very gay season at a hotel like that."

"I saw a circular announcing the opening on the fifteenth," said Louise.

"Perhaps Mary will be down then and we may be invited."

"I smell fire," interrupted Cleo, "and there isn't a streak of smoke in sight. Wonder where it can be?"

"I am sure that _is_ fire somewhere," declared Grace. "Where _can_ it be!" and she too sniffed the odor of smoke.

"Oh my!" exclaimed Louise, jumping up and dragging her chums with her.

"We are on fire! See, it is in the barrel!"

"And my skirt is burned!" declared Grace. "Just see!" exhibiting a singed hole in her blue serge skirt.

"However did a fire start in there?" questioned Cleo. "Let's see."

But there was no need of investigation, for scarcely had they jumped from their places when a sheet of flame shot out from the open end of the otherwise innocent looking cask.

"Land sakes!" declared Louise. "We were lucky not to be blown up. How did that start with no one in sight to start it?"

"Maybe we touched off a fuse," suggested Cleo jokingly.

"No, I'll tell you," offered Grace. "When we sat on the barrel we shut out the wind from the side, all but enough to create a draft; and the paper must have been smoldering. Now, just look at our perfectly good seat turned into a beach fire! We had better rescue our socks. Maybe those sticks will explode under them, next thing we know."

"Oh, just look here!" called Cleo. "See what I just kicked up! It's a bottle and has a note in it! Maybe it's a warning from the firebug," she finished, dragging from the sand a bottle and proceeding to pull out the paper which had been carefully wound with a cord, the end of which was brought out at the cork. Cleo promptly let the cork pop, yanked the string, and so dislodged the note.

"I knew it," she exclaimed, "a message from the pirates. Listen to this!"

Grace and Louise hopped back to hear the contents of the rolled slip of paper.

"Short enough," commented Cleo. "It simply says, 'Beware of the fire-bug' and it's signed 'The Weasle'. Well, I never! Beware of the fire-bug," she repeated, "and not a human in sight that fire-bug fires.

And signing himself the Weasle! Must be pretty snappy. Well, I say girls, as early as we thought we were getting down, before all the other schools were dismissed, the little old fire-bug got here first. What do you make of it?"

"Maybe some one comes in by boat from some island, and leaves the fires to start up with a clock signal, like they do it in the movies,"

suggested Grace.

Louise and Cleo laughed the idea to scorn.

"Can you imagine an island in the ocean?" asked Louise. "And just look at the writing of this note! It is a perfectly modern school hand. Some small boy I suppose, who has been reading too much Captain Kidd. At any rate let us be glad we didn't burn up more skirts, although it is too bad to spoil that splendid new serge, Grace," she finished, commiserating with the girl who was just then judging the size of the hole burnt in her skirt by trying to view the sun through it.

"Oh, perhaps I can fix it," speculated Grace. "It's a very nice round hole, and I may cover it with a patch pocket, though it would be rather low down to trust my wealth to it. However, it is all right. And the fire will finish drying our socks and pumps. And also, we have something to remember in our first beach fire. I have often read of them. They usually toast potatoes and things in the fires, don't they?"

"Marshmallows," corrected Louise, quite well informed on beach lore.

"We'll have a marshmallow roast when enough of the girls come down. But it is nice to get here first and find everything out. When the other schools close next week I suppose we won't be able to find one another, with the crowds that will flock to this beach. And just now we have it all to ourselves," she finished, looking up and down the vast expanse of territory known as the ocean front, and therefore quite as extensive as the stretch of the ocean itself.

"All the same," insisted Grace, smoothing again the rolled slip of paper which Cleo had handed over. "I believe this is written by someone----"

"We all do," interrupted Cleo with a smile.

"I mean some one who is a firebug!"

"Oh, come now," teased Louise. "I don't believe you are as sensational as that, Grace. Firebugs don't grow in the ocean, like crabs. Just see that funny crab trying to get in your slipper. You don't suppose he can write notes, and start fires, do you?"