Laura turned her head. “Robbie Belle had promised to write up the first hall play for me. She was going to review two books for Jo and compose a Christmas poem for Adele’s department. I think maybe there are perhaps a dozen or so girls who might have been more easily spared.”
I brushed a hand across my weary brow. It did not feel like cobwebs exactly,—more like cork, sort of light and dry and full of holes. I had been up almost all night, studying over those fifteen manuscripts, applying the principles of criticism, weighing, balancing, measuring, arguing with myself, and rebelling against fate. If Robbie Belle had been there she could have recognized the best story by instinct. Ever since I became chief editor I had depended upon her judgment, because she is a born critic and always right, and I’m not. And now just when I needed her most of all and more than anybody else, there she had to go and get quarantined in the infirmary.
“Girls,” I said, “do express an opinion. Say what you think. We simply must decide this matter now, because the prize story has to go to press before the first, and this is our only free afternoon. I know what I think—at least I am almost sure what I think—but I want to hear your views first. Adele, you’re always conscientious.”
Adele was only a junior and rather new to the responsibility of being on the editorial board. She glanced down at her page of notes.
“Every one of the stories has some good points,” she began cautiously. “Most of them start out well and several finish well. Six have good plots, nine are interesting, five are brightly written. Number seven is, I believe—yes, I think I consider it the best. The trouble is——”
“Altogether too jerky,” interrupted Jo, “a fine plot but no style whatever. This is a cat. See the cat catch the rat. That’s the kind of English in number seven. Now I vote for number fifteen.”
“Oh, but, Jo,” I broke in eagerly, for number seven was my own laborious choice also, and Adele’s corroboration strengthened me wonderfully. “Jo, it is the simplicity of the style that is its greatest recommendation. You know how Professor Whitcomb has drummed into us the beauty of Anglo-Saxon diction. It’s beautiful—it’s charming—it’s perfect. Why, a six-year-old could understand it. Fifteen is far too sensational for good art. Just listen to this——”
Jo was stubborn. “The use of short words is a mere fad,” she said, “it is like wearing dimity for every occasion. Now listen to this!”
She snatched up one manuscript and read aloud while I declaimed from the other. Adele listened with a pained frown on her forehead, Janet laughed and teetered recklessly to and fro on her frisky chair, Laura fidgeted at the window and filled every pause with a threat to leave us instanter for the tournament positively had to be written up that day. Finally I put the question to the vote, for Jo is so decided in her manner that she makes me feel wobbly unless I am conscious of being backed up by Robbie Belle. I suppose it is because my own opinions are so shaky from the inside view that I hate to appear variable from the outside. It would have been horrid to yield to Jo’s arguments and change my ideas right there before the whole board. The rest of them except Jo had fallen into a way of deferring to my judgment, for I had seemed to hit it off right almost always in accepting or rejecting contributions. Nobody knew how much I had depended on Robbie Belle.
The board awarded the prize to number seven, my choice, you know. Janet was on my side because the story had a nice lively plot, and that was all she cared about. Laura put in a blank ballot, saying that her head ached so that it was not fair to either side for her to cast any weight upon the scale. Adele of course voted with me. Jo stuck to number fifteen till the end.