“And I don’t wonder,” said honest little Binks, “if everybody’s work has slumped the way mine has.”
But even the faculty enjoyed the show; possibly they enjoyed it a little more than any one else. The Suffrage Bazaar occupied the big stage at the end of the gym. Once in twenty minutes the bazaar “woke up,” as the program picturesquely phrased it; and everybody who was not in one of the small side-rooms or curtained alcoves enjoying a side-show, curled up on the floor in a sociable company to see the Suffragettes militantly compel the Antis to buy the useful or beautiful articles they had for sale, such as manacles for tyrannous males, automatic baby-tenders, cookless cookers, and other devices likely to come handy in a home whose head spent her days in Woman’s-Club-land. The Suffragettes’ persuasive arguments frequently developed into harangues in behalf of the cause. The Antis, who were all timid, pretty creatures, tried to reply, but were speedily heckled down by the pointed questions and comments of their more eloquent opponents. But when a Mere Man appeared, it was the Antis who got possession of him, without any argument at all; and who bore him off to buy violets and chocolate sundaes, pink pin-cushions, purple sofa cushions, and all the other bits of useless frippery that clutter the traditional bazaars gotten up by old-fashioned women. Just before the last Suffragist had lapsed into discouraged silence, a small but determined army of pretty freshmen in Swiss peasant costume swarmed out upon the gym. floor with trays of alluring French cakes and Tally-ho candies, also alluring. And if you stopped to buy those, there was a “House Sold Out” sign in front of Madeline’s play; and if you hurried to the play, why, you were likely to go to your grave regretting a certain little cake, with chocolate-covered sides, a pyramid of marshmallow on top spread over with jam, and nobody knew what inside it, that you hadn’t stopped to buy.
It sent you into hysterics to see Mariana Ellison, clad in a scant white dress, white stockings, and black ties, throwing cotton snowballs at other tall, scantily attired children, while they all sang a lusty chorus about being cold and well and happy to the tune of “A Hot Time.” But if you waited to see them do it again, you missed that mirth-provoking parody on æsthetic dancing, in which twelve Rag Dolls and twelve Ploshkins flopped through a bewitching ballet, the “jist” of which was that the Ploshkins courted the Rag Dolls ardently until the Rag Dolls, remembering that they were new women, turned from pursued to pursuers—and pricked themselves painfully on the Ploshkins’ prickly, slippery tails.
“Well,” said Binks when it was all over, “I guess they all had a good time.”
“Too good for the money,” Georgia told her, “but that’s a general failing of Harding shows, so don’t take it to heart. And as for profits,—I guess the freshman Jones can pass the rest of her life in a sanitorium if she wants to.”
“Miss Wales is going to arrange about that,” explained Binks. “She went to see her to-night and told her about the plan, and Miss Jones is delighted—of course, because Miss Wales put it so nicely. Oh, I almost forgot! Miss Wales brought me a note from her freshman—Miss O’Toole. I stuck it into my shirt-waist.” Binks felt for the note and tore it open, whereupon five yellow bills fell out at her feet.
“A hundred dollars! Whew!”
“Fifteen weeks more paid for at that sanitarium!”
“Hurrah for Montana Marie!”
“Didn’t you ask her to take part, Binks?”