Mary answered for them all. “She is all right enough when she’s only reciting to us, or even in regular class work. But she realizes that the faculty are going to be extra-fussy with her, because of her conditions and the general situation. She never passed a formal exam in her life till she came here last year——”
“And then she flunked more than she passed,” put in Madeline flippantly.
“She thinks, like all little freshmen, that everything depends on mid-years, and she’ll get nervous and excited, and write utter nonsense,” ended Mary, disregarding the interruption.
“Give her soothing syrup,” suggested Madeline, who refused to take Montana Marie’s troubles seriously. Babbie frowned at her, and then, leaning forward on one elbow, she frowned at space, thinking very hard indeed about the far-away days when she was the prettiest, the idlest, the most reckless, and the cleverest of the famous “B” trio, and had mid-years of her own and Bob’s and Babe’s to worry about, and plan to scrape through somehow, for the honor of the B’s and the “finest class” of 19—. Everybody else was thinking, too, but Babbie was the first to have an articulate idea.
“Why, Babe used to be just that way,” she said in a surprised tone. “If she crammed a lot and got to thinking how terrible mid-years are, why, she couldn’t do anything. And Bob was just the opposite—never paid attention in class, just dawdled along, and then sat up all night with the text-book for the course and some prod’s note-book that she’d borrowed, and next day she could answer anything. After mid-years the faculty always thought they’d misjudged Bob.” Babbie giggled cheerfully. “Babe really knew heaps more. We used to have such times persuading her to frivol all mid-year week.”
“How’d you do it?” asked Madeline idly.
“Pretended to frivol ourselves. Did frivol some to get her started. Got up anti-cram movements. Insinuated that we weren’t going to sit up a single night that year. Oh, it was an awful bother getting Bob a chance to grind and keeping Babe from grinding and tending up to things a little myself,” ended Babbie with a reminiscent sigh.
“Well, it’s lucky you had such a lot of practice,” Mary Brooks Hinsdale told her sweetly, “and that you came back here this week to see about the big fireplace for the Robert Thayers’ library. Because you are qualified to act, and are hereby elected to act, as chairman of the committee on the mid-year madness of Montana Marie O’Toole. Betty, the assistant tutors, and everybody else who is needed to divert her mind, are hereby elected to the committee. We’ll get that child through yet, Betty Wales; so please don’t look so discouraged.”
Betty laughed. “I was only thinking what a stupid I am, not to have planned all this long ago myself. Of course you’ll get her through! Why, I believe you could get a broomstick doll through mid-years.”
“We are a clever lot,” agreed Madeline complacently. “Well, I must go. Plan the campaign, Babbie, assign parts, and we’ll come in strong at the finish. And the finish shall not involve the finish of Montana Marie. Nay, it must not,” she went on in melodramatic tones. “Montana Marie is a treasure. To bury her in her native state or to return her to dear distant Paree would be to deprive the Harding firmament of its brightest star—and me of my most treasured understudy for a heroine.”