Helen nodded with pleasure and then said, “This is Miss Kitty Corwin; we call her our pot-boiler—that means that Kitty always manages to keep the pot boiling not only by holding up her end of the line, but all the other ends, too, when the derelict Girl Pioneers forget to do so.”
“And you might say she always carries all the pots and pans, too, when there’s a hike,” interposed the newcomer, with a nervous laugh. She was an awkward-looking girl about fourteen, all arms and elbows, but with a rather winsome face lighted by big, serious eyes. There was such nervous activity about her grip as she yanked Nathalie’s hand like a pump-handle that that young lady had no doubts as to her surplus energy. As Kitty tried to make her escape there was a suppressed howl, and then a twitter, for alas, she had backed into one of her companions with such force that the victim almost lost her balance.
The girls, each one smiling, but with a palpitating heart as if doubtful what Helen would say when her turn came, all looked up expectantly as a tall girl, somewhat older than the others, but with a certain dash about her that added to her charm, came forward. She moved with willowy grace and had an ease of manner that accentuated the Pot-Boiler’s embarrassed movements.
“Miss Page, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lillie Bell.” There was a certain emphasis in Helen’s tone as she presented this pretty, attractive girl, that indicated her pride in one of the most popular girls belonging to the group.
Miss Bell smiled in a self-assured manner as Helen introduced her, and then greeted Nathalie with sweet graciousness as she waited expectantly for her characterization to be given.
“Lillie is our story-teller,” continued Helen with a gleam of mischief in her eyes, “a would-be thriller, for we all shiver with the creeps when she begins her yellow-journal romances. Her specialty is ghost tales, the kind that, as we sit in the dark around our cheer fire, its glare (blood-red, please note), casting weird shadows over our pallid faces—” Helen intoned in tragic burlesque, and then stopped with a laugh.
Lillie Bell, however, did not appear at all annoyed at this banter, but returned coolly, “I hope Miss Page, you will not believe all Helen says, for she dotes on teasing, but we get even with her when the chance comes.” From a certain gleam in the smiling gray eyes Nathalie did not doubt her, but as her voice was musical, and her manner impressive, bordering on the dramatic, she wished she could hear one of her thrillers.
“Observe,” tantalized the spokesman as Lillie disappeared and her place was taken by a young girl who looked as if she was all blood and muscle, with ruddy cheeks, alert eyes, and the poise and bearing of one who was a frequenter of the gym.
As Helen said, “This is Miss Edith Whiton,” she made an old-time curtsy, “generally dubbed the Sport, as she is the champion knee-doubler, arm-stretcher, toe-raiser, and all the rest of the ball-and-socket team.”
With attempted nonchalance Edith twisted her shoulders and flashed Helen a quick glance as much as to say, “Wait, my turn is coming later!” She then stepped forward and shook Nathalie’s hand, smiling pleasantly down at her with frank friendliness.