“So would I.” Marjorie’s face shone radiant good will. “You are a real Lookout, Connie. It would make us very happy just to know that we were making those poor children happy. At Christmas we could give them a tree, too. I know Captain will want to help with them, too.”
“You are O. K., Connie, and so is your aunt!” exclaimed Jerry. “Tell her for me that she is a peach; I mean a glittering angel. It’s a good thing the club meets to-morrow night. I’d hate to have to go around all week keeping this glorious stunt to myself.”
Brimming with enthusiasm of this worthy project, the quartette fell into an eager discussion of what they would need to put the house in readiness for its juvenile guests, and the probable cost of their little investment in human happiness. It was a protracted session which they held at the round table and when it broke up shortly before six o’clock they had finished a third supply of sundaes and were of the firm opinion that dinner that evening was quite unnecessary to their welfare.
It was not until she had reached her own gate that Marjorie remembered that she, too, had conceived of an idea which the club might see fit to incorporate into their campaign of usefulness. It seemed rather unimportant beside the greater project for the day nursery, yet she believed it was not valueless. However, it would keep, she reflected. She would reserve it until the other scheme was well on the way toward fulfillment.
How wonderful it would be to bring sunshine into the lives of those poor neglected children! She was sure that the other members of the club would hail the plan with acclamation. What a dear, unselfish girl Connie was! How unutterably sweet she had looked when she had said that she wished every child might be happy for the sake of little Charlie. Marjorie’s rapt reflections ended in a sharp gasp of dismay. Recollection of Charlie Stevens brought to her the vision of a black-haired, elfish-eyed girl who had once cravenly left a small runaway to shift for himself on a dark night. There was one member of the club on whom the woes of these children would make no impression, and that member was Mignon La Salle.
CHAPTER X—HALLOWE’EN MYSTERIES
At the meeting of the Lookouts on the following evening, Constance Stevens’ thoughtful suggestion that the club rent the little house where she had once lived and transform it into a day nursery, met the instant approbation of every member except Mignon La Salle. She was far too clever, however, to pit herself openly against the volume of approval that rose to high tide. Only by the eloquent shrugging of her shoulders and the ominous glitter of her black eyes did she betray her contempt for the project. She resolved within herself that no amount of persuasion should induce her to contaminate her precious person for one moment by an association with those “horrible slum children.” These idiotic girls might do as they chose, so would she. On whatever afternoon she should be detailed for duty in this detestable day nursery, she would find some good excuse for evading it.
It would take at least a month, she reasoned, to prepare the house for its small guests. By that time she might have become tired of the club. Still she rather liked her office of treasurer. It made her feel very important to know that the financial affairs of the club were in her hands. The Lookout Club had deposited its funds in the First National Bank of Sanford. She had been officially introduced to its president and duly authorized to deposit or draw out money from it in their name. If she resigned from the club now she would forfeit the privilege to use the check-book which had been given her. The club would soon begin to make frequent demands upon her for money with which to meet the various financial obligations which the furnishing of the day nursery would incur. Mignon decided that she would adroitly shirk the unpleasant duties of the club, but still retain her office. So long as she proved herself to be an efficient treasurer the girls might grumble as much as they pleased about her other shortcomings. At best they were too stupidly set on fair play to demand her resignation.
Intimate association with Rowena Farnham had developed Mignon’s fund of trickery to the nth power. Rowena had taught her how to play a subtle game as long as mere subtlety would answer the purpose. If there came a time when it proved unavailing, she would leave these babies in the lurch as boldly and defiantly, as Rowena had once performed the same unscrupulous office for herself. Contrary to all expectation, Rowena had taken the news of Mignon’s advent into the club with admirable tranquility. For reasons best known to herself, she had adopted this plan of action. Mignon’s letter informing her of the French girl’s sudden rise in popularity had merely caused her to throw back her head and laugh; a sure sign that she meant mischief.
Meanwhile, unconscious of the treacherous thoughts that settled in the brain of their graceless treasurer, thirteen girls were working heart and hand after school hours toward perfecting their cherished plan. The last of October found it nearing completion. The little house in which Constance had once dwelt had taken on a new lease of life. From cellar to roof it was a vision of shining cleanliness and order. The large room where the children were to play looked like a veritable kindergarten. Rows of sturdy plants decked the spotless windows, uncurtained in order to permit the greatest possible amount of light. The two long tables flanked by rows of cunning little chairs, stood ready to receive the coming residents. All sorts of toys had been unearthed from countless trunks in which reposed the treasures of the members’ own early days, now offered at the shrine of childhood. The kitchen had been fitted out completely, and its ample cupboard boasted of a new set of pretty dishes. Upstairs the rest room, with its four tiny white beds and spotless appointments, was a joy to behold.