"Yes," said Eleanor curtly, "I know. I'm not going to usher. I have a headache. Jean, where is my basket-ball song?"
"How should I know?" said Jean, smoothing the petals of the green chrysanthemums that were festooned about her wand. "On the paper with the rest, isn't it?"
[Illustration: THE GREEN LINE WAS SHOUTING ITSELF HOARSE]
"No," said Eleanor, "it's not. I didn't go to the class 'sing' last night, but this noon somebody left a song sheet in my room. You said they chose mine, Jean."
"I said," corrected Jean, "that I thought they chose it. I was on the song committee, but I didn't go to the meeting. From your description I thought it must be one of those that Kate said was taken."
Eleanor held out the paper to Jean. "Whose are these?"
Jean glanced hastily down the page. "Why, I don't know," she said, "any more than you do—except that first one to the tune of 'St. Louis.'" She hummed a lilting measure or two. "That's our prize song all right, and who do you think wrote it?"
"Who?" demanded Eleanor fiercely.
"That little Adams girl—the one who rooms with Betty Wales. T. Reed told me she'd been working on it for weeks."
Eleanor's eyes flashed scornfully. "I should think it ought to be fairly decent then," she said.