“See here, Marjorie,” began Jerry. “You want to look out for Mignon. I told you how mad she looked when she passed us. Irma saw, too. She’ll try to do something to get you off the team and herself on. See if she doesn’t.”
“I’m not going to bother my head about her,” Marjorie made careless reply. “She has never really hurt anyone she’s tried to hurt since I’ve known her. With Ellen Seymour managing the teams, we are all sure of fair play.”
“Don’t be too sure,” muttered Jerry. She added in a louder tone, “Ellen’s not much protection with Mignon on the job. If she can’t play, she’ll try to fix it so somebody else can’t. Not you, perhaps. Anyway, it won’t do any harm for you to keep your eyes open.”
“Don’t croak, Jeremiah.” Marjorie laid a playful hand on Jerry’s lips. “Didn’t I tell you long ago that I should not allow Mignon La Salle to trouble me this year? I am going to keep at a safe distance from her.”
“I hope you stick to that,” was Jerry’s ungracious retort. Under her breath she added, “but I doubt it.”
Jerry Macy’s well-meant warning was destined, however, to come back most forcibly to Marjorie no later than the following morning. As she ran down the steps of her home and on down the walk on her way to school, she encountered the postman at the gate. He handed her two letters, which she received with a gurgle of girlish delight. On the top envelope she had glimpsed Mary’s familiar script. The gurgle changed to a dismayed gasp as she examined the other. Only too quickly had she recognized the handwriting. Shoving Mary’s letter into the pocket of her pretty tan coat, she hastily opened the other envelope. Her evil genius had again come to life. A wave of hot resentment swept her as she unfolded the one sheet of heavy white paper and read:
“Miss Dean:
“No doubt you think yourself very clever to have made the junior team. You could never have done so had partiality not been shown. Others at the try-out were much more worthy of the choice. You believe because you can dress like a doll and are popular with a few rattle-brained girls that everyone likes you. But you are mistaken. A few persons, at least, know how vain and silly and deceitful you are. You pretend to hate snobbery, but you are a snob. Some day everyone will know you for what you really are. The time is not far off. Beware.
“The Observer.”
Turning, Marjorie went slowly back to the house and climbed the stairs to her room. Pausing before her desk, she opened it. From a pigeon-hole she extracted another letter. Carefully she compared it with the one that had come by post. Yes, they must have both emanated from the same source. Stationery, writing and signature were unmistakable proofs. With a sigh she shoved them both into the pigeon-hole. Who could her mysterious enemy be? These letters were certainly of the variety she had heard classed as “poison pen.”