The other girl hesitated. “I don’t suppose I could make the grade,” she confessed, “but I’d heaps like to try. Our president said that nothing would please her more than to have the names of every member of our little study club on the Honor Roll before the closing exercises. I hate to acknowledge that I haven’t the brains or the perseverance that even Sentimental Sally possesses.”
Betsy entered “The Sign of the Tea Kettle,” and sat on the arm of a chair as she watched Dicky get out her books, pad and pencil.
“Are you going to dig into geometry on a spiffy Saturday morning like this?” she inquired.
“That’s my plan, old dear.” Dicky’s words were merry, but it was plain that her intentions were serious.
“If confessions are good for the soul, I’ll confide to you, belovedest. That one subject is my Waterloo. My name might decorate the blackboard in the lower corridor, if I could make head or tail out of geometry, but I can’t! I’m nutty when it comes to that subject.”
Dicky Taylor’s face brightened. “I was just that way about it at first. I didn’t think I ever could understand it, but when I knew I had to, or fail, I asked Miss King if I might stay after class and ask her a few questions, and, what do you think, it came to me all in a flash, sort of, and I believe I could make it clear to you, Betsy, if you have time to spare.”
The cherry colored tam was tossed on a chair and the sport coat was removed. Then Betsy locked the door. “I don’t want any of the bunch to catch me studying when I’ve kidded them all for doing it, but mind you, Dicky, even if I do dig in a while this morning, I’m not trying for the Honor Roll.”
Half an hour later there came a tap on the closed door. Betsy motioned Dicky to keep quiet. Then a voice outside said, “Dick and Bets went for a hike I think.” It was Sally who was speaking. Dora Crowell replied, “I wanted her to play singles with me. You come, will you Sal?” but that little maid shook her head and continued on her way to the room of Virg.
When the gong bidding the girls prepare for lunch rang, Betsy sprang up. “Dick,” she pleaded, “don’t you tell a soul that I studied geom all this morning. They’d think I was getting dippy, or that I was trying for the Honor Roll. Stuff and nonsense! I wouldn’t have my name seen on it. No siree! ’Tisn’t sour grapes,” she retorted when her companion began to tease.
She opened the door to go to Sweet Pickle Alley and prepare for the noon meal, but she had lingered too long. A swarm of girls appeared without. “Oh, no,” Babs shouted. “Here’s Betsy back from her hike.”