‘I didn’t know I was wanted,’ explained Barbara, following her up the field. ‘I never am wanted, you see.’
‘Nonsense! Everybody is wanted at this school,’ replied the games-mistress, who had a warm complexion, a breezy manner, and a vigorous step, all of which, aided by her name of Burleigh, had secured her the nickname of Hurly-burly. It never occurred to her that the new girl was suffering from anything worse than the ordinary depression natural to her newness, and she decided immediately that the best thing to cheer her up would be to make her run about. In the eyes of Miss Burleigh, running about was a cure for most things. ‘Here, Charlotte Bigley!’ she called loudly; ‘you ought to have looked after this child instead of letting her escape. She’ll do to play forward on your side. Just put her where you like, and let’s begin.’
There was not much chance, when Miss Burleigh was about, of letting private feuds spoil the game of hockey; and under the influence of her infectious gaiety, the girls even began to show Babs a certain amount of friendliness. Perhaps the fact that Jean Murray was bicycling round the cinder-track, instead of playing hockey, may have had something to do with their change of manner, but Babs did not inquire into that. It was enough for her that she was allowed, for the first time in her life, to run about in the open air without a hat; and she reddened with pleasure when Charlotte Bigley, the captain of her side, actually complimented her on the way she ran. Charlotte was the oldest of the junior girls, and she was going to be moved into the upper Third next term; so she always professed to be rather superior to the leadership of Jean Murray–especially when Jean Murray was out of the way.
‘You’ll make a very good right wing, when you’ve learnt to pass the ball inside instead of poking at it,’ she observed condescendingly, at half-time.
A very little was enough to send up Barbara’s spirits with a bound, and when the bell rang at four o’clock for preparation, she ran indoors with as buoyant a step as the rest, and even whistled gaily to herself as she unlaced her boots in the large cloakroom, where the girls were taking off their outdoor things. Angela happened to overhear her, and at once took upon herself to quench this unseemly appearance of cheerfulness, and to remind her that she was still only a new girl.
‘You’d better look sharp and take off the head girl’s boots, or you’ll catch it,’ she advised her in a threatening tone.
Barbara stopped whistling and became suspicious. ‘Last time I was told to go and do things for the head girl, it was all humbug,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to be taken in twice, so you shut up!’
Angela under the protection of Jean, and Angela by herself, were two very different beings. The unexpected resistance made by Babs was quite enough to change her bullying tone into an injured one, and she began to edge off towards the other girls. ‘This isn’t humbug, anyhow,’ she said in a milder tone. ‘If you don’t believe me, go and see; that won’t hurt you, whether it’s true or not. Of course, if you want to make Margaret jump on you, it doesn’t matter to me.’
There was certainly something in what she said, and Barbara heaved a sigh for the complications of school life. It was so silly, she felt, so extremely silly to make such a fuss about the displeasure of the head girl, and to avoid it by doing such stupid things for her. Why couldn’t the head girl take off her own boots, like every one else? However, it did not matter much, one way or the other; and Babs would have taken off anybody’s boots to secure a little friendliness in this most unfriendly of assemblages. So she threaded her way through the crowd of girls to where Margaret Hulme stood talking with the enthusiastic hockey players who formed the first eleven. She had not begun to take off her boots, Babs noticed, so perhaps it was true after all, and the head girl was really waiting for some one to come and do it for her.
‘Ruth would make a splendid half-back if she’d only learn to strike better,’ Margaret was saying earnestly; ‘and if Winifred wasn’t so frightened of tackling, we should have quite a–what is it, child?’