"Oh, it's not so bad. You'll come to it—some day when you're starving."
"Starving? Don't you get enough to eat here?"
"Yes—but it's not the Copley Plaza—exactly. We manage to get fat, anyway. That reminds me—where's Wee? Go get her, Sue, and ask her to bring over some Nabiscos, if she happens to have any handy. Wee's a regular life-saving station, usually."
Sue dashed out of the room and came back in a minute with a very large, stout girl, whom she introduced as her room-mate, Deborah Watts—better known as "Wee."
Good nature, affability—all the essentials of comradeship—fairly oozed from Deborah Watts. She took Blue Bonnet's hand in a grip that hurt, but Blue Bonnet felt its sincerity and squeezed back.
A bright girl in the school had once compared Deborah Watts to a family horse. Not a pretty comparison, but apt, when one knew Deborah.
The girl said that Deborah was safe, gentle, and reliable. Safe enough to be trusted with old people; gentle enough for children; and that she could, at times, get up enough ginger to give the young people a fair run. The comparison went even farther. The girl declared that sometimes—oh, very occasionally, under pressure and high living—Deborah could kick up her heels and light out with the best, and that when she did, people held up their hands in horror and said: "What ever in the world has got into Deborah Watts!"
Her room-mate and friends had beheld her in this enviable state a number of times, and had pronounced her—in boarding-school vernacular—a perfect circus.
"Can you cook things in your room?" Blue Bonnet inquired of Ruth, gazing at the chafing dish with the water steaming in it.
"You can have a chafing dish, if that's what you mean; that is, you can if you happen to be a Senior. Annabel and I graduate in June. Our menu is limited, however. We seldom roast fowl, or boil coffee"—she winked at Sue—"or try entrées, except—"