“Why can’t we march too?” demanded Mr. Blake.
“Because you’re not Harding, 19—,” said Madeline with finality.
And so, half an hour later, another procession assembled on the spot where the Ivy Day march had started that morning. But this time 19— was wearing its oldest clothes and heaviest shoes and didn’t care whether it rained or not. Four and five abreast they marched, round the campus, up Main Street and back, round and round the campus again. “Just as if we hadn’t torn around all day until we’re ready to drop,” Eleanor Watson said laughingly. It is a perfectly senseless performance, this “class march,” which is perhaps the reason why every class revels in it.
But the procession was moving more slowly and singing with rather less enthusiasm, when a small A.D.T. approached the leaders. “Is Miss Marie Howard in this bunch?” he demanded. “She orter be at the Burton, but she ain’t.”
“Yes, here I am,” called Marie quickly, and the small boy lit a sputtering match, so that she could sign his book and read her telegram. It was from Christy: “Awfully sorry can’t come for supper. Writing.”
“How perfectly dreadful,” cried Marie, repeating the message to Bob, who was standing beside her. Bob passed on the bad news, and the procession broke up into little groups to discuss it.
“Why don’t you appoint some one to take her place right now?” suggested Bob. “Then she can sit up all night and get her remarks ready. She won’t have much time to-morrow.”
Marie looked hastily around her and caught sight of Betty Wales standing under a Japanese lantern that was still burning dimly.
“Betty!” she called, and Betty hurried over to her.
“I think we ought to fill Christy’s place now,” whispered Marie. “Shall I appoint Eleanor Watson or have her elected?”