CHAPTER I. CANDIDATES.

Five spick-and-span roadsters, of the same model, of the same year, were parked in a line to the side of the main entrance to Turner College, awaiting their owners’ wishes. It was almost dark, and their lights had not been turned on, but the illumination from the college windows made them clearly visible. The days were growing so short that soon the girls would be obliged to put the cars away before supper.

Out of the wide open doorway five figures suddenly appeared, and with arms linked together slowly descended the steps. They wore light summer dresses and gay sweaters; their heads were still bobbed; only one of them displayed a “shingle.” It was the one time of the day that these girls still saved for each other, “in memory,” as Alice Endicott4 put it, “of the senior patrol of Pansy Troop of Girl Scouts.”

“Without any prejudice,” remarked Florence Evans, a junior at the college, “wouldn’t you pick out my car for the one in the best condition?”

“Not at all!” returned Lily Andrews, the senior who rejoiced in the “shingle bob”; “mine’s had the best care of any of them—and it looks it!”

“Don’t forget I spent all last Saturday with mine!” put in Florence proudly.

“Then you must have been running it pretty hard, if it needed so much attention!” returned Lily.

“Really, I think they’re all splendid!” cried Daisy Gravers, as she fumbled for her key, and inserted it in the lock. “And there’s never a day goes past, Alice, that I don’t feel grateful to your Aunt Emeline for such marvellous presents.”

“Well, we earned ’em!” remarked Florence, who was never inclined to be sentimental.

“Do you ever hear from Aunt Emeline?” inquired Daisy. “Or,” she added laughingly, “the nephews?”

“Yes, Aunt Emeline’s disappointed that we’re not doing something to continue our troop. She says she never saw such a plucky set of girls.”

“Well, we certainly had fun!” observed Marjorie Wilkinson reminiscently. “I consider my Girl Scout experience the best part of my life!”

5 “You mean, so far,” her roommate corrected her. “The poet says, ‘The best is yet to be * * *’, and I believe it. Well, girls, everybody ready to hit the trail?”

They fell into line in the road, passed through the college gate, and descended the hill to the garage. It was not until after they had left their cars that conversation was resumed.

“You all going to the dance in the gym tonight?” asked Daisy.

“I am,” replied Florence, without any hesitation; “and so is Alice. How about you two reverend seniors?”

Marjorie shook her head.

“No, I’m too tired; I’m going to stay home. And I’m hoping that maybe Lil is going to keep me company.”

Lily, however, looked doubtful.

“I really don’t approve, Marj; I think you ought to be mingling with the girls as much as possible now—they expect it and they want to see you. Don’t forget that you’re a candidate for senior presidency.”

“Bosh!” exclaimed Marjorie, lightly. “You know I won’t play politics, Lil!”

“That isn’t playing politics, my dear. But naturally the girls want a leader who is sociable. And really, you’re just the one for the office.”

6 “It’s awfully nice of you to say that, Lil, but I guess you’re prejudiced. And I honestly don’t care a lot about having it, so I’m not going to work for it.” Her tone grew pleading, “Lil, be nice and stay home with me!”

“She will, Marj, don’t worry!” remarked Alice. “She always does what you want.”

“Yes, and Marj does what I want, too,” added Lily, squeezing her arm affectionately. “So I’m not going to urge her if she’s tired.” Then, with a sly glance at the others, “She’ll be elected, anyhow!”

When they were alone, they dropped comfortably into their favorite seats, smiling across at each other in content. Both had been hiking all afternoon, through the lovely autumn woods, and both appreciated the chance to rest. There were so few such chances in a busy senior’s life!

“Lil,” began Marjorie, dreamily, as she let her gaze wander about the familiar sitting room which had been so dear to them both for three years, “Lil, I would like to do something this year.”

“Do something!” repeated the other, in amazement, “why you have so much to do now that you don’t know which way to turn! And then if you are elected, as you probably will be——”

“No, no!” interrupted Marjorie. “I don’t mean that, Lil. Of course it’s all very well to be class7 president, but after all I’m not the only girl for that job. Anybody else could do that as well. What I mean is to do something that is really worth while—something that nobody else has time to do!”

“But why, Marjorie? You mustn’t try to do too much!”

Marjorie paused in search of words, to express the sense of responsibility that had taken possession of her. “It must be because I’m twenty-one years old,” she said, slowly, “for somehow I feel different—as if my time for frivolity were over—as if I really ought to do something to justify my existence now.”

“But you always have, Marj!”

“Yes, in a way, but more of a child’s way. Something different now—and bigger!”

“For instance?”

Marjorie’s eyes lighted up with a brilliant smile; she was back to her favorite subject.

“The Girl Scouts!” she announced, joyfully, for the mere mention of the subject reminded her of so many past pleasures. “Something for the Girl Scouts—to make other girls as happy as I’ve always been!”

“Marj, you’re wonderful!” cried her roommate, with genuine regard in her tone, regard which had never ceased to increase with the friendship of so many years. “But please don’t try to do anything8 till you see whether you’re elected president,” she cautioned. “That’s an honor you could remember all your life!”

The other girl was silent, thoughtful for a few moments as if she were weighing both possibilities.

“I don’t believe an honor means so much to me as a responsibility,” she answered slowly. “Honors are things it is better for one to forget. Don’t you honestly think so, Lil?”

Again Lily looked at her chum in admiration; she was invariably impervious to flattery.

“But what do you mean to do, Marj?” she inquired. “Go on with our little troop in the village?”

Marjorie shook her head again.

“No, that isn’t enough. One of the juniors—Daisy, or Florence, or Alice—can take charge of that without any trouble. I want to give something more of myself to the Girl Scouts.”

“But how? Do you mean re-organize our old patrol, as Aunt Emeline suggested? It would be awfully hard to get the girls together, with Ethel teaching, and Doris and Mae both married——”

“No, no, Lil, not that! I agree with you that it would be out of the question, no matter how much fun it would be. Everybody’s too busy—we’ll have to wait till we’re all grandmothers, and then we can have regular reunions. But what I am thinking of is a troop with an entirely new set of girls—girls9 that have nothing in their lives. Perhaps I might find such a group in the city.”

“You’d wear yourself out going back and forth.”

“Don’t forget I have my little car! Now, Lil, don’t jump on me, but I have another idea: I want you to help me!”

But Lily did not continue to object as Marjorie had expected. Instead, she began to show interest in the plan and they fell to discussing its possibilities until a knock at the door interrupted them. The visitor was Jeannette Killough, a rival candidate for the class presidency.

“Do sit down, Jennie,” invited Marjorie, cordially for she was always glad to see the other girl, of whom she was a sincere admirer. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“Thank you,” replied Jeannette, accepting the invitation. Then, “I am lucky to find you both at home, though you really ought not to be, Marj!”

Marjorie shrugged her shoulders.

“Why, Jeannette?”

“Because you ought to be over at the dance, courting popularity. The election comes off tomorrow night!”

Marjorie dismissed the remark with a smile.

“I’m trying to get all my friends to vote for you, Jennie,” she informed her.

“Don’t do that, Marj!” cried the other girl, in10 concern. “In fact—I’ve decided to withdraw my name from the list.”

“What?” gasped Lily, in amazement. Such a stupendous honor as senior presidency was hardly to be turned down lightly.

“Yes, because I want Marj to get it, and I don’t want our vote to be divided. We have about the same friends, while Delia has an entirely different following. And you know that I don’t think Delia would make a good president.”

Marjorie considered the matter thoughtfully from this angle; it was certainly a fact that Delia Humphreys, conceited, over-bearing, almost bold in her manner, would not lead the class to its highest advantage. Yet she had certain supporters—perhaps enough to elect her if the vote were divided.

“I agree with you, Jeannette,” she decided, finally; “but your solution doesn’t meet with my approval. Let me withdraw, for I honestly want to. I mean to devote myself to the Girl Scouts this year.”

“What Girl Scouts?”

“I don’t know,” replied Marjorie, blushingly.

“That’s only an excuse!” cried Jeannette, jumping up impulsively. “I thought of it first—and I’m going to be the one to do it!”

“No, no! I am!”

“If you do, I will too!” announced Jeanette, defiantly.

11 “And then if you do, I will too!” repeated Marjorie, with a challenge.

“Stop fighting, children!” put in Lily, laughingly. “Don’t both withdraw—you’d only ruin your own object.”

“Then what shall we do?” asked Marjorie, humbly.

“It was my idea——,” began Jeannette.

“Wait!” interposed Lily. “Don’t begin all over again. I’ll settle it—by simply tossing a penny!”

Both girls agreed to Lily’s terms, and promised to abide by the result.

“If it’s heads,” she said, “Marj withdraws; tails—Jeannette.”

“Play fair!” cautioned the latter suspiciously.

“As if I didn’t always!” returned Lily. “A Girl Scout’s honor——”

She selected a penny from her purse, and heightened the suspense by looking it over carefully, noting its date. Then she tossed it high up in the air; so high that it hit the ceiling and bounded off to the side. An instant later it fell like a shot to the window-sill.

“Oh, catch it, quick!” cried Marjorie, rushing across the room towards the open window. “Suppose it goes out——”

But she was too late. Already the penny had12 rolled over the edge, down into the soft grass beneath.

The girls regarded each other in consternation.

“Shall we toss another?” asked Jeannette.

“Or go hunt for that one?” suggested Marjorie.

“In the dark?” demanded Lily, scornfully. “We’d hardly find it—and tomorrow would be too late for either of you to resign. And as for tossing another, that wouldn’t be playing fair, and I won’t do it! This is as good as any other sign that neither one of you is to withdraw!”

“Besides,” remarked Marjorie, thoughtfully, “they’d probably only put another candidate in our place. Doesn’t the constitution say there must be three?”

“I never thought of that,” admitted Jeannette.

“Well, I guess Lil’s right; we better be good sports and both run, Jennie.”

“All right, I will. But I hope you’re elected. And if I thought that I had spoiled your chances——”

“You won’t spoil each other’s chances!” declared Lily. “One of you is bound to be elected. Delia isn’t popular, and she hasn’t any executive ability. Everybody knows it, even her own little crowd. And either one of you will be good. And, as you said before, you didn’t want to use any politics——”

“Of course you’re right, Lil—you always are,”13 Marjorie conceded loyally. “And I’m game, unless a real opportunity for scout work comes up and makes the office out of the question for me. I’m a Girl Scout first, and a college senior second.”

“But is that loyal?” asked Jeannette.

“Yes!” cried Lily. “Girl Scouts came first to Marjorie; it’s only right that they should remain first.”

“And I had to fight to get in—and keep on,” murmured the girl reminiscently.

Jeannette rose to go; there was nothing left to be said. She opened the door and saw the girls returning to their rooms from the gym dance. In the thickest of the crowd, vivacious, talkative, elated, walked the rival candidate, Delia Humpheys!

CHAPTER II. A PROPOSITION.

A college election of any kind is always supremely interesting to the students; for the time being studies, social affairs, even athletics are forgotten in the suspense that surrounds the outcome. The candidates are discussed from every angle, their respective eligibility decided upon over and over again by every group that gathers in the dining room, in the reception parlors, in the dormitory, until the girls in question fairly ache to have the thing settled one way or the other.

With the exception of student-government president, no office brings to its recipient the honor and prestige of the senior presidency. From the time that the freshmen enter the college until the fall of their last year, the question retains its importance. Who, of all their number, will be best qualified to lead the class, socially, politically and finally, during that greatest week of a senior’s life—at the commencement time?

Marjorie Wilkinson’s three years at Turner College had already been filled with positions of honor and responsibility; she had held class offices, the athletic association presidency, and, during the latter15 part of her junior year, had found herself at the head of the student-government. From the point of view of experience and popularity, she was the only girl for the class to choose.

So sure were Marjorie’s friends in the outcome of the election that, when the actual day came, they found the excitement dying. Lily Andrews seemed to be the only girl who was really concerned.

“Marj isn’t interested enough in the election,” she complained to Alice Endicott, after lunch on the eventful day. “I think in her heart she really hopes that she won’t get it, and she is still trying to induce the girls to vote for Jeannette. I wish she could be made to see its real importance.”

“There’s no use trying to influence Marj,” returned Alice. “She usually has her mind made up—and her reasons are always so good that nobody can argue with her. Remember the time we all tried to keep her from spending the night at the tea room? Now she’s probably interested in something else.”

“She is,” the other admitted. “It’s the same old story—Girl Scouts. Just because she’s twenty-one, she feels that she must rush into a captaincy.”

“But anybody can be a Girl Scout captain—I mean anybody with ordinary intelligence; but it takes an unusual girl to be senior president.”

“Marjorie has no idea of being an ordinary captain—she’ll work until she’s an extraordinary one, just as she does everything else. Still, I think if16 we get her really elected, she’ll have so much to do that she won’t have time to think about anything else. Girl Scouts will have to be forgotten, until next year.”

Had Lily been with her roommate at that moment, however, she might not have spoken so optimistically. Marjorie was stretched on the couch in her sitting room, in the act of reading the Girl Scouts’ magazine from cover to cover. She was searching eagerly for any notices of troops in need of captains, in the hope of finding a place where her services could be used to real advantage. In her mind’s eye she pictured a very poor troop, whose members could hardly assemble the necessary money to pay their dues, to whom uniforms were out of the question; girls who knew nothing of parties or camping trips; girls who had never had a chance to get away from the ugly slum district and learn the rapture of the woods. How thrilling it would be to open their eyes to beauty, to fill their starved minds with knowledge, to imbue their spirits with the great scout ideal! In comparison with the glory of such leadership, the honor of class presidency seemed insignificant.

Unfortunately, however, she found no such troop mentioned in the pages of the magazine. There was a call for leaders in one of the country districts, and an opportunity offered for camp councillors, but the cities evidently were well provided. Or perhaps,17 as she feared, no one had taken the trouble to look up any such groups of girls.

When Daisy Gravers dropped in a few minutes later, she was still deep in her problem.

“You’re welcome, Dais’,” she said, rising and offering her visitor a chair, “if you are not here to talk about the election. I’m bored to death with it.”

Daisy laughed good-naturedly; it was the same old, modest Marjorie, who had been sort of an idol to her ever since she had succeeded in finding her sister Olive and reuniting her with her husband, and later when she had sympathized with Daisy’s plea for the little slum-baby and its sick mother. Other people might prove disappointing, but Marjorie Wilkinson had never failed her.

“I’ll talk about anything you like, or keep absolutely quiet,” she replied amiably.

“You’re a dear!” exclaimed her hostess, with sincerity. “Well, then—I want to talk about the Girl Scouts.”

“All right; what Girl Scouts?”

Marjorie outlined something of her plan to the other girl, explained that she wanted Daisy or either of the other juniors to take charge of the little troop in the village, so that she might devote her time to a more difficult group. Her voice grew animated as she spoke of her hopes and her dreams for the troop that was to be hers.

“But I don’t know how to find such a troop,” she concluded, pathetically. “You can’t exactly go18 into the streets in the poor districts and gather the children up. They might question your motive.”

“Naturally,” agreed Daisy.

“Can’t you think of any way, Dais’?” she persisted.

“I’m afraid I can’t—unless you’d take a job I have off my hands. I’m supposed to go to the Community House tonight, and supervise a dance. I don’t know what the girls are like, but they might be interested in starting a troop.”

Marjorie brightened at the idea.

“Do you suppose they’re poor?”

“Well, I’m afraid not so very poor, or they wouldn’t have dance dresses and be able to pay for a party. But I’m quite sure they’re not rich.”

“How do you happen to be doing this?” Marjorie inquired.

“You’ve heard me speak of Miss Winthrop—that friend of Mother’s, who is head of the Community Settlement in Philadelphia? Well, it seems that she had promised these girls, who meet there one evening a week as a little club, that they might have a dance. Then she was suddenly called to a conference in New York, so she asked me to bring another girl and chaperone them, in her place.”

“But college girls aren’t usually accepted as official chaperones,” objected Marjorie.

“Oh, there’s a Mrs. Morgan—the matron of the settlement—who will be there to keep up appearances. But Miss Winthrop says she’s an easy-going19 sort of woman, who never sees anything wrong with anybody or anything, and who would never be able to give her any sort of report of the party. Naturally, Miss Winthrop’s very keen to know just how the girls do behave.”

“Yes, of course. But Daisy, there’s no use of my going to a party like that. I can just picture those girls—regular flappers, of the younger set. They’d never make Girl Scouts in the world.”

Daisy made no effort to hide her disappointment.

“They might have younger sisters, Marjorie, who would be interested in scouting,” she offered feebly.

Marjorie shook her head.