But if it hadn’t been for Montana Marie all might still have been well. Amelia “flunked dead” in her first class, and she looked so wan and woebegone over it that Montana Marie thought it would be only decent to try to cheer her up. She caught up with her between College Hall and the Morton, and drew her out of the crowd to congratulate her on Aurelia’s perfectly splendid records. Just then a big bottle-fly came buzzing along, preceding Straight Dutton like a noisy herald. Amelia struck out at it vigorously with her wet handkerchief, and somehow in her excitement hit her own nose instead of the fly. Naturally, off came the two big freckles.
“Oh, stop!” cried Montana Marie, her eyes wide with horror. “Stop! You’re losing them!”
“Losing what?” demanded Straight, joining them. Being Straight, she would probably have guessed at once, but Amelia saved her the trouble by letting fall two big tears and then dabbling wildly at the tears and the freckles, which mingled in a sticky brownish fluid on her peach-blossom cheeks.
Straight stared at the strange spectacle in absolute mystification, and Montana Marie boldly decided that the situation was not yet desperate.
“I told you not to fuss with any of those horrid face-washes,” she reproached the choking Amelia. “Freckles aren’t the worst thing in the world. You’ll be lucky if you haven’t ruined your pretty complexion. As for the freckles, I’ll bet they’re all back by afternoon, don’t you, Straight?”
Straight watched them go with vague stirrings of remorse, which dulled her suspicions. Amelia Pease was rather a goose, but it was mean to have gotten the freshmen so worked up and nervous over the meet. Spring term was meant for fun, not for strenuous, nerve-racking contests that brought tears and heart-burnings in their train.
But that afternoon it was a very trim, very alert, and perfectly self-possessed Miss A. Pease who jumped nonchalantly over the records and turned the sophomore audience pale with rage and dismay. The other freshman athletes did well too; even without Miss A. Pease the meet was no sophomore walk-over, and with her it was an overwhelming freshman victory.
“Just the same,” complained Susanna Hart irritably, “they needn’t act as if it was all so comical. They needn’t have hysterics once in about five minutes. They needn’t shriek with mirth every time they look at me.”
As a matter of fact, the joke connected with the freckles of Miss A. Pease was being passed along the freshman ranks, preparatory to its being spread still further. The freshmen had decided that, with Straight Dutton knowing more than she ought, the safest as well as the most dramatic procedure would be to let the cat out of the bag the minute the final score had been announced. Accordingly the freshman president rose promptly, called for silence, and with much dignity made her startling statement.
“Owing to a possibly regrettable mistake we are obliged to withdraw the scores of Miss A. Pease. That leaves the victory with the sophomore team. We congratulate them heartily, and”—with a sudden change of tone—“here comes the mistake. Wouldn’t you have made it too, if you could?”