But even in her dreams, she appeared to be experiencing the incidents of her story, for now she moved restlessly murmuring, “How the boat pitches!” or “Listen to the wind howl!” A moment later she sat bolt upright, exclaiming in a shrill whisper, “It’s ice! I tell you it’s ice!”
Marian was the first one up in the morning. It was her turn for making toast and coffee. As she passed Lucile’s desk she glanced at the stock of paper and unconsciously read the title, “The Cruise of the O Moo.”
Gladly would she have read the pages which followed but loyalty to her cousin forbade.
“To-day,” said Lucile at breakfast, “I am going to have my story typed, and next day I shall take it to the office of the Literary Monthly.”
“I hope the editor treats you kindly,” smiled Marian. “You must remember, though, that we are only freshmen.”
But Lucile’s faith in her product, her first real “creation,” was not to be daunted. “I did it just as Professor Storris said it should be done, so I know it must be good,” she affirmed stoutly.
That night Lucile spent an hour working over the typewritten copy of her story. Tracing in a word here, marking one out there, punctuating, comparing, rearranging, she made it as perfect as her limited knowledge of the story writing art would permit her.
“There now,” she sighed, tossing back the loose-flung hair which tumbled down over her shapely shoulders, “I will take you to ye editor in ye morning. And here’s hoping he treats you well.” She patted the manuscript affectionately, then stowed it away in a pigeon-hole.
If the truth were to be told, she was due for something of a surprise regarding that manuscript. But all that lay in the future.
Florence and Marian were away. They had gone for a spin on the lagoon before retiring. She was alone on the O Moo. Tossing her dressing-gown lightly from her she proceeded to put herself through a series of exercises such as are calculated to bring color to the cheek and sparkle to the eye of a modern American girl.