In themselves the dormitory girls were the finest student element at Hamilton. Originally brought together, and gradually welded into a congenial, self-governing body by the efforts of Marjorie, Robin and the Travelers, these earnest, capable girls were daily living up to the Hymn to Hamilton.
As president of the senior class sunny-faced, easy-going Phil Moore was their idol, Barbara, as her chum and intrepid co-worker, was hardly less worshiped. The moment Barbara left Phil to make her way back to the window she was eagerly surrounded and plied with concerned questions.
“Don’t give up this ship, children,” she gaily declared, raising her voice above the flood of questions which assailed her. “Robin is ’phoning for taxies from the station and Phil is ’phoning for Miss Wenderblatt and her car. We shall manage O. K. without the busses.”
Barbara’s assurances were received with jubilant cries of acclamation from the effervescently happy girls. While she was in the midst of them she happened to glance toward the back of the store. Phil was just emerging from the ’phone booth a pleased smile on her face. She paused before the booth which held Robin and peered in through the glass panel. Robin was still busy ’phoning, it appeared. Phil turned, saw Barbara looking toward her and waved a re-assuring hand. It signified that her part of the telephoning had been successful.
A false alarm of: “Here comes a bus!” caused a surging of the crowd to the window. Through the rain a large dark red milk truck had been mistaken for one of the busses. When Barbara finally turned away from the window it was to find Phil and Robin beside her. Phil was no longer smiling. Her blue eyes were full of resentment. Robin’s face was a mixture of dismay, indignation and perplexity.
“What do you think?” she blazed forth to Barbara. “That miserable Mariani person won’t let us have a single taxi! He claims they are all in use and will be the rest of the day. He was so hateful to me. He asked me very sarcastically why we did not use the busses today since we used them every other day instead of his taxicabs.”
“We certainly are in a pickle. Uh-h-h.” Barbara simulated collapse. “I’d forgotten all about it, but someone told me long ago that those two Italians, Mariani and Sabani have been at daggers drawn for years. Sabani once had the station jitneys, and all to himself. Then came Tony Mariani with a better looking lot of cars, and ran Sabani out. Then Sabani built a garage and ran that, but he swore never to accommodate anyone who patronized Mariani. The bus line belongs to Sabani. I suppose he has registered the same vow against Mariani.”
“Then we might as well count them both out,” was Robin’s dispirited ultimatum. “Did you ever know worse luck? To have all our plans upset because a couple of Italianos are ready to swear a vendetta!”
“If only we could capture a truck. I’d drive it myself,” Phil valiantly declared. “But it’s a holiday,” she added with a hopeless shrug of her shoulders.
“That milk truck is the only one I’ve seen today,” said Barbara mournfully.