FIRST IMPRESSIONS
When the train pulled out of the station Nancy Nelson noticed for the first time that the sky had become overcast and the clouds threatened rain. Scorch O’Brien, the odd new friend she had made, was so sprightly a soul that she really had not observed the change in the weather.
“Oh! I’d like to have a brother like him,” she thought. “I don’t care if he is slangy—and fresh. I guess he wouldn’t be so if—as he says—everybody didn’t try to poke fun at his red hair. And how homely he is!”
She smiled happily over some of Scorch’s sayings and his impish doings; so they were some miles on the journey before she began to look about the car.
Her ticket had called for a chair in the parlor-car; and she immediately discovered that she was not the only girl who seemed to be traveling alone.
At least there were half a dozen girls not far from her own age who were chattering together some distance forward of her seat. When the conductor came along he smiled down upon Nancy and asked, as he punched her ticket:
“You going to Pinewood, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your first term there?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Then you don’t know these other girls?” and he nodded to the group further up the car.
“No, sir. Are they going there, too?” asked Nancy, eagerly.
“Yes. I’ve been carrying a lot of them to Clintondale this week. The Hall opens day after to-morrow. Anybody to meet you, Miss?”
“I telegraphed on from Cincinnati,” said Nancy.
“That’s all right, then. One of the ’bus men will be on the lookout for you.”
“But are those all new girls, too?” asked Nancy, earnestly, as the conductor was about to pass on.
“No. But most of them have been there only one term. That tall girl is named Montgomery. Her father’s a State Senator—guess you’ve heard of Senator Montgomery? Go up and speak to them,” and the conductor passed on.
But Nancy did not have the courage to take his advice. She, however, observed the girls with renewed interest.
The tall one—the Montgomery girl—was very richly dressed, and she seemed to think a good deal of what she wore. She was always arranging her gown, and looking in the glass to see if her hat was on straight—and occasionally Nancy caught her powdering her nose.
There was a black-haired girl, too, with very sharp eyes and a lean face, who laughed whenever the Montgomery girl said anything supposed to be funny, and seemed to ape the Senator’s daughter in other ways, too. The other girls called her “Cora.”
Once Nancy went forward to get a drink of water. She passed the group of her future schoolmates slowly, hoping that some of them would speak to her. But none did, and when she came back down the aisle, the tall girl eyed her with disdain.
Nancy flushed and hurried by; but not too quickly to hear the Montgomery girl say:
“Trying to butt in, I guess.”
The girl called Cora laughed shrilly.
“I guess I’m not going to like those girls,” sighed Nancy. And then she shivered as she thought of how mean they might be if they ever found out that she was “Miss Nobody from Nowhere.”
The rain began to slant across the open fields and trace a pattern upon the broad, thick, glass beside her so that she could no longer see out. Besides, it was growing dark early.
The train passed through towns that seemed all gloomy, smoky brick buildings, or shanties clinging like goats to the sides of high bluffs. A pall of dun vapor hung over these towns, and the lonely Nancy was glad when the train did not stop.
Sometimes they dashed into a tunnel, and a cloud of stifling smoke wrapped the cars about and the cinders rattled against the ventilators and roof.
On and on swept the train, and at last the brakeman, as they left one station, announced:
“Next stop Clintondale!”
Nancy began to gather her things together and put on her coat long before the train slowed down. Then the other girls got ready leisurely, still chatting.
The rain beat harder against the window. It was after seven o’clock. They passed a block-tower with its lights and semaphore. Then the grinding brakes warned her that her destination was at hand.
The end of the wet platform flashed into view. There were dazzling lights, rumbling hand-trucks, and people running about.
As she came to the door of the car—she did not go out by the one chosen by the Senator’s daughter and her friends—the roar of voices burst upon her ear:
“Clinton Hotel! This way!”
“Pinewood Hall! This is the ’bus for the school! Pinewood Hall!”
“Carriage, Miss! Private carriage, Miss!”
“Pinewood Hall! Pinewood Hall!”
“Clinton House! Come on, here, you that want the hotel.”
“’Bus for Pinewood. That you, Miss Briggs? Going with me? Where’s yer check?”
“This way for the school. Pinewood Hall! Hi, there, Jim! Found that other one? Miss Nelson! Miss Nelson! Who’s seen Miss Nelson?”
Suddenly Nancy realized that the big man in front of her was roaring her name in stentorian tones.
“Oh, oh!” she gasped. “I’m Miss Nelson.”
“All right. Here she is, Jim! Right this way to the ’bus. Where’s your check, Miss? All right. Have the trunk and bag up some time to-night—if they are here.”
“They should have come on the earlier train,” explained Nancy.
“All right. Then you’ll git ’em on this load. There’s the ’bus, Miss. Yes! there’s room for you in there.”
The omnibus was backed up against the platform under the hood of the station. There was a crowd of laughing, chattering girls before her in the vehicle.
“Now, Jim! you can’t put another livin’ soul in this ’bus—you know you can’t,” cried one, to the driver.
“Boss says so, Miss,” growled Jim.
“What do you think we are—sardines? Oh! my foot!” shrieked another girl.
“And she’s a greeny, too. Any of you ever see her before?” demanded one of the girls nearest the half-closed door.
“Say! what’s your name?” asked another girl, leaning out to speak to Nancy.
Nancy told her.
“She’s green—what did I tell you? And we’re all sophs here. Say, Freshie! don’t you know you don’t belong in here?”
“She’ll have to ride with you, Jim, on the front seat.”
“Now! you know what the Madame would say to that, Miss,” growled Jim.
“Here!” interposed Nancy herself. “I don’t want to ride with you any more than you seem to want me. But it’s raining, and I don’t propose to get wet,” and she sturdily shouldered her way past the driver and into the ’bus between the knees of the girls on either hand.
“I can stand,” she said, grimly.
“But don’t stand on my foot, please, Miss!” snapped a girl she was crowding. “Haven’t you any feet of your own?”
“Oh, cracky, Bertha! you know she’s got to stand somewhere. And your feet——”
“Ouch! who are you shoving?”
“Step forward, please!”
“Plenty of room up front!”
“Why, Belle Macdonald’s piled her bags up in the corner and has gone to sleep on ’em!” shrieked somebody from ahead, as the ’bus lurched forward.
Nancy was confused, hurt, and ashamed. The horse splashed through the puddles and the ’bus plunged and shook over the cobbles.
There were few street lights, and such as there were were dim and wavering in the mist and falling rain. She could see nothing of Clintondale, except that huge trees lined the streets.
The girls were cross, or loud. Not one spoke to her kindly. She was shaken about by the ’bus, and scolded by those whom she was forced to trample upon when she lost her footing.
The new girl from Higbee was much depressed. All her pride and satisfaction in being sent to such a popular school as Pinewood had oozed away.
Her experience with Mr. Gordon added to her unhappiness. She had learned nothing by going to him. He had even called her disobedient.
If these girls were a sample of Pinewood Hall pupils, Nancy knew that she had a hard row to hoe ahead of her. And she had not liked the appearance of those other girls in the train, either.
It was a hopeless outlook. She would have cried—only she was ashamed to do so in the sight of these sharp-tongued, quarreling sophomores. Poor Nancy Nelson’s introduction to Pinewood Hall seemed a most unfortunate one.