“Who else got one?” Helen heard her ask the girls around her.
“Marion Lustig,” somebody told her, “and Emily Davis. I don’t know who else. One of the notes is still up there on the bulletin board.”
“Oh, Miss Mason,” cried Helen, “what is it that you are, please?”
“Why I seem to be an editor of the ‘Argus,’” laughed Christy. “Business manager, I think the note says. Isn’t it splendid—only I don’t see how it ever came to me.”
Helen’s face flushed red, and then she got white and faint and entirely forgot to congratulate Christy, who was much too happy to notice the omission. Could it be that she was an editor? Was that what the girl near the door had meant? Oh, she must have been mistaken! Helen looked despairingly at the bulletin board with the surging crowd of girls between it and her. It seemed as if she couldn’t wait—as if she must know at once whether or not there was anything there for her.
Just then a voice cried, “Pass this to Miss Adams. She’s standing by the door there, and she can’t get through the jam.“ In a moment another girl whom Helen didn’t know, but who seemed to know her perfectly, slipped something into her hand.
“I hope you’ll enjoy the work as much as I have,” the stranger said, shaking hands vigorously, “and I know you’ll do it much better.”
Then Helen found herself suddenly a vortex about which the crowd eddied and swarmed as it had swarmed about Christy, shaking hands, congratulating, complimenting.
“But of course, it’s no surprise to you,” one girl said. “We were sure you’d get it.”