Rule Two—Boarding-schools need not apply for assistance.
Rule Three—Matrons shall arrive on time and never be ill.
Rule Four—In short, bothers, fusses, complications, mysteries, worries, and everything else that makes life——”
Betty paused for an adjective, finally decided upon “interesting,” and threw down her pen with a little laugh. “That’s exactly it,” she thought. “Work and bothering and planning are what make life worth living and bring the big things around your way. Some day Morton Hall will run itself, as the Tally-ho does. Until then—— Come in, Miss Smith. Yes, I have heard from that school. Can you get a reference for Latin? There is one first year class that this teacher may have to take. You failed in Livy? Oh, I am sorry, Miss Smith! Yes, I understand; it was when you were a freshman and never dreamed of having to teach. But the Latin department could hardly recommend you, could it? Let me see what other places are vacant.”
It was a long, busy morning—a thoroughly grown-up, responsible morning for the Small Person behind the Big Desk. Once she rushed to her window to see the Ivy procession wind its snowy, green-garlanded way past, and again she deserted her post to hear the Ivy Song and to watch the pretty picture the seniors made as they sang. But neither Babbie’s gay pleading, Mary Brooks’s mockery, nor Helen’s mournful sympathy could shake her purpose. She was going to “tend up” to the business in hand, until it was done. It might be deliciously cool and as gay and amusing as possible down under the swaying elms. 19— might be holding an “experience meeting illustrated with tableaux, blue prints, and babies” under the Hilton House birch tree.
“I can stand it to miss all that,” Betty confided to Mary Brooks, “but if the afternoon people don’t come on time and don’t hurry through, so I can go on our own special picnic, I shall fairly weep on their shoulders.”
So the last of the “afternoon people”—a leisurely freshman who had taken ten minutes to decide between two rooms in Morton Hall—was surprised to see the patient, dignified secretary of the Student’s Aid dart past her down the stairs, sprint, hatless, her curls flying, across the campus, and shriek wildly at a passing flat-car, which slowed up for a minute while a dozen willing hands caught the panting little secretary and pulled her up and on.
It was a flat-car picnic, in memory of old days. There were ginger-cookies for Roberta, who ate an unbelievable number of them, and chocolate éclairs for everybody, because on the sorrowful senior picnic there had been almost nothing else. This time there was bacon, sliced very thin, to toast on pointed sticks, rolls, some of Bridget’s delicious coffee keeping hot in thermos bottles, a huge chocolate cake, and dozens of little raisin pies—the Tally-ho’s very latest specialty.
“Where is Madeline?” asked Betty, helping to start the fire. She had spent the trip out in catching her breath, cooling off, and borrowing hairpins to replace those lost in her flight.
“In the gym basement,” explained Christy, “with Nita and Jean Eastman. They’re the costume committee for the aftermath parade, you know. They boasted that they had done themselves proud before they came up here, but this morning Madeline had a great thought and they’ve been hard at it all day. They may come out later for supper.”