CHAPTER XIV
THE SPIRIT OF WO-HE-LO
Bessie stole along silently behind Dolly. She wanted very much to say something, but she was afraid of what might happen if she let Dolly know that she was spying on her. And she had made up her mind, anyhow, that she would do more harm than good by interfering at this time.
Whatever it was she was doing might be wrong, but, after all, she had a good deal of provocation, and she had been far more patient already than anyone who knew her would have expected her to be.
"I bet they're just trying to work her up to trying to get even," Bessie reflected to herself. "Gladys Cooper knows her, so she must know what a temper Dolly has, and she must be surprised to think that she hasn't managed to arouse her yet."
That thought made Bessie gladder than ever that she had decided to follow Dolly. While she was not in the plot herself, she meant to be in it if Dolly got into trouble, or if, as Bessie half feared, it turned out that her chum was walking into a trap. Moreover, she was entirely ready to take her share of the blame, if there was to be any blame, and to let others believe that she had shared Dolly's secret from the first and had deliberately taken part in the plot.
Dolly's movements were puzzling. Bessie had expected her to go to the back of the camp, and when she heard laughter and the sound of loud talking coming from the boathouse, which was, of course, on the very shore of the lake, Bessie breathed a sigh of relief, since it seemed to her that the fact that the other girls were there would greatly increase Dolly's chance of escaping detection.
But instead of taking advantage of what Bessie regarded as a great piece of luck, Dolly paused to listen to the sounds from the boathouse, and then turned calmly and walked in its direction.
For a moment an unworthy suspicion crossed Bessie's mind.
"I wonder if she can be going to see them—to make up with them?" Bessie asked herself.
But she answered her own question with an emphatic no almost as soon as she had asked it. Dolly's anger the night before and that afternoon had not been feigned.
As she neared the boathouse, Dolly moved very cautiously. Even though she could see her, Bessie could not hear her, and she even had difficulty in following Dolly's movements, for she had put on a dark coat, and was an inconspicuous object in the darkness.
From the boathouse there now came the sound of music; a phonograph had been started, and it was plain from the shuffling of feet that the girls inside were dancing. Dolly crept closer and closer, until she reached one of the windows. Even as she did it a sharp, shrill voice cried out, and Bessie saw someone rush toward her from the darkness of a clump of trees near the boathouse. It was a trap, after all! Bessie rushed forward, but before she had taken more than a couple of steps, and before, indeed, her assailant could reach her, Dolly had accomplished her purpose.
Still running, Bessie saw her lift the basket she carried, and throw it point-blank through the window, first taking off the cover. And then the noise of the phonograph, the shout of Dolly's assailant, and all the noises about the place were drowned in a chorus of shrill screams of terror from inside the boathouse.
Bessie had never heard such a din. For the life of her she could not guess what Dolly had done to produce such an effect, and she did not stop to try. For the girl who had seen Dolly and rushed toward her, although too late to stop her, had caught hold of Dolly and was struggling to hold her.
Bessie rushed at her, however, and, so unexpected was her coming, that the other girl let go of Dolly and turned to grapple with the rescuer. That was just what Bessie wanted. With a quick, twisting motion she slipped out of the other girl's grip, and the next moment she was running as hard as she could to the back of the camp, where, if she could only get a good start, she would find herself in thick woods and so safe from pursuit.
She knew Dolly had recognized her at once. But neither had called the other's name, since that would enable whoever heard them to know which of the Camp Fire Girls was responsible for this sudden attack.
As she ran Bessie could bear Dolly in front of her, and she knew that Dolly must be able to hear her. Otherwise she was sure her chum would have turned back to rescue her. Behind her the screams of the frightened girls from the boathouse were still rising, but when Bessie stopped in ten minutes, she could hear no signs of pursuit.
"Dolly!" she cried. "It's all right to stop now. They're not chasing us any more."
Dolly stopped and waited for her, and when she came up Bessie saw at once that Dolly was angry—and at her.
"Much good it did you to try to stop me, didn't it?" said Dolly, viciously. "You got there too late!"
"I didn't try to stop you, and I was right behind you all the time!" said Bessie, angrily. "I was behind you so that if you got into any trouble I'd be there to help you—and I was. You're very grateful, aren't you?"
"Oh, Bessie, I am sorry! I might have known you wouldn't do anything sneaky. And you certainly did help me! I was going to thank you for that anyhow, as soon as I'd scolded you. But I knew you didn't want to try to get even with them, and I supposed, of course, that you were there to stop me."
Suddenly she began to laugh, and sat down weakly on the ground.
"Did you hear them yell?" she gasped. "Listen to them! They're still at it!"
"Whatever did you do to them, Dolly? I never heard such a noise in my life! You'd think they really had something to be afraid of."
"Yes, wouldn't you? Instead of just a basket full of poor, innocent little mice that were a lot more frightened than they were!"
"Dolly Ransom!" gasped Bessie. "Do you mean to say that's what you did?"
Bessie tried hard to be shocked, but the fun of it overcame her of a sudden, and she joined Dolly on the ground, while they clung to one another and rocked with laughter.
"I wasn't able to stop and watch them. That's all I'm sorry for now," said Dolly, weakly. "But hearing them was pretty nearly as fine, wasn't it?"
"Never heard of such a thing to do!" panted Bessie. "However did you manage it, Dolly? Where did you get the mice?"
"Promise not to tell, Bessie? I can't get anyone else into trouble, you know."
Bessie nodded.
"It was the guide—the Worcester's guide. He's just as mad at them as we are. It seems they've bothered him a lot, anyhow, and he didn't like them even before we came. He suggested the whole thing, and he was willing to do it. But I told him it was our quarrel, and that it was up to one of us to do it if he would get the mice. So he did, and put them in that basket for me. The rest of it was easy."
"They'll be perfectly wild, Dolly. I bet they'll be over at the camp complaining when we get back."
"Let them complain! It won't do them much good! Miss Eleanor is going to give me beans for doing it, but she won't let them know it! I know her, and she won't really be half as angry as she'll pretend to be."
"It was a wild thing to do, Dolly."
"I suppose it was, but did you think I was going to let Gladys Cooper tell all over town how they treated us? She'll have something to tell this time."
"Well, you got even, Dolly. There's no doubt of that. We'd better hurry back now, don't you think? They're quieter down there."
"I'm going to tell Miss Eleanor what I did just as soon as I see her," said Dolly. "She'd find out that it happened sooner or later, and I'm not ashamed of having done it, either. I'd do the same thing to-morrow if I had as good a reason!"
And, sure enough, as soon as they reached the camp, Dolly marched up to Miss Eleanor, who was sitting by herself on the porch, and told her the whole story.
"And was Bessie in this too?" asked Eleanor, trying to look stern, but failing.
"No, she was not. She didn't know what I was going to do at all. She just followed to see that I didn't get into any trouble. And I'd have been caught if she hadn't been there."
"I—I'm sorry you did it, Dolly," said Eleanor, almost hysterically. She was trying to suppress the laughter that she was shaking with, but it was hard work. "Still, I don't believe I'll scold you very much. Now you've got even with them for all the things they've done—more than even, if the screams I heard mean anything. We didn't know what was up."
"Not exactly what was up," said Margery, who had overheard part of the conversation, "but we knew who was up as soon as we found you were gone, Dolly."
Margery looked at Miss Eleanor, then she choked, and left the porch hurriedly. And the next moment roars of laughter came from the other girls, as Margery told them the story.
"But I'm glad you've told me all about it, Dolly," said Eleanor. "I don't mind saying that I think you had a good deal of excuse—but do try to let things work out by themselves after this. The chances are you've only made them hate us more than ever, and they will feel that it's a point of honor now to get even with us for this. All the girls will have to suffer for what you did."
Even as she spoke, Bessie saw two or three figures approaching from the direction of the other camp, and a shrill voice was raised.
"There she is, Miss Brown. She's the one who's supposed to look after them."
Gladys Cooper was the speaker, but as soon as she saw Eleanor look around she dropped back, leaving a woman whose manner was timid and nervous, and whose voice showed that she had little spirit, to advance alone.
"Miss Mercer?" she said, inquiringly, to Eleanor. "I am Miss Brown, and I have been left in charge of Miss Halsted's Camp this summer while she is away. She is ill. I am one of the teachers in her school—"
"Sit down, Miss Brown," said Eleanor, kindly. One look at poor Miss Brown explained the conduct of the girls in her care. She was one of those timid, nervous women who can never be expected to control anyone, much less a group of healthy, mischievous girls in need of a strong, restraining hand.
"I'm—really very sorry—I don't like—but I feel it is my duty—to speak to you, Miss Mercer," stammered Miss Brown. "The fact is—the young ladies seem to think it was one of your Camp Fire Girls who let loose a—number of mice in our boathouse this evening."
"I'm afraid it was, Miss Brown," said Eleanor, gravely. "And I need hardly say that I regret it. I naturally do not approve of anything of the sort. But your girls have themselves to blame to a certain extent."
"Why, I don't see how that can be!" said Miss Brown, looking bewildered.
"Now, Miss Brown, honestly, and just between us, haven't they made your life a burden for you ever since you've been here with them alone? Let me tell you what they've done since we've been here."
And calmly and without anger, Eleanor told the teacher of the various methods of making themselves unpleasant that the girls in the camp had adopted since the coming of the Camp Fire Girls. She raised her voice purposely when she came to the end.
"Now, mind, I don't approve of this joke with the mice," she said. "But I do think it would be more plucky if your girls, after starting all the trouble and making themselves as hateful as they possibly could, had kept quiet when the tables were turned. When they worried us, we didn't go over to make a complaint about them. I must say I am disappointed in those of your girls whom I happen to know, like Gladys Cooper. I thought she was a lady."
There was a furious cry from the darkness beyond the porch, and the next instant Gladys herself was in front of Eleanor, with tears of rage in her eyes.
"You shan't say I'm not a lady," she cried. "I don't care if you are Miss Mercer! We don't want your horrid charity girls up here, and we tried to make them understand it—"
"Stop!" said Eleanor, sternly. "Listen to me, Gladys! I like your mother, and I'm sorry to see you acting in such a way. What do you mean by charity girls?"
"They haven't got the money to come up here," stammered Gladys.
"It hasn't been given to them, if you mean that," said Eleanor. "We don't believe in idle, useless girls in the Camp Fire. And every girl here, even those like Dolly Ransom, who could have got the money at home very easily, have earned all their expenses for this vacation, except two who didn't have time, and are here as my guests. Don't talk about charity. They have a better right to be here than you have. Now go away, and if you don't want to have unpleasant things happen to you, don't do unpleasant things to other people."
Quite cowed by the sudden anger in Eleanor's voice, Gladys didn't hesitate. And Miss Brown, before she left the porch, looked wistfully at Eleanor.
"I wish I had your courage, my dear," she whispered. "That served Gladys right, but if I spoke so to her, I should lose my position."
"Well, I suppose it wasn't a nice thing to do," said Dolly, as she and Bessie prepared for bed that night. "But I really do think we won't have any more trouble. I think Gladys and the rest of them have learned a lesson."
"I hope so, Dolly," said Bessie. "I wouldn't have done it myself, but I really am beginning to think that maybe it was the best thing that could have happened. Thunderstorms clear the air sometimes; perhaps this will have the same effect."
It was well after midnight when the girls were awakened by loud knocking below.
"Oh, that's some trick of theirs," said Dolly, sleepily, and turned over again.
But a few minutes later Eleanor's voice, calling them, took them downstairs in a hurry. They found her talking to Miss Brown, who was in tears.
"Girls," said Eleanor, "Gladys Cooper and another girl are lost, and they must be out on the mountain. It's turned very cold. Shall we help find them? We haven't been friends, but remember what Wo-he-lo means!"