Betty Wales, Freshman

CHAPTER XII

A TRIUMPH FOR DEMOCRACY

By Wednesday Betty was well enough to go to classes, though she felt very conspicuous with her scratched face and her wrist in a sling. And so when early Wednesday afternoon Eleanor pounced on her and Katherine and demanded why they were not starting to class-meeting, she replied that she at least was not going.

“Nor I,” said Katherine decidedly. “It’s sure to be stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” said Eleanor. “We may need you badly; every one is so busy this week. Perhaps you’ll change your minds before two-thirty, and if you do, please bring all the other girls that you can along. You know the notice was marked important.”

“Evidently all arranged beforehand,” sniffed Katherine, as Eleanor departed, explaining that she had promised to be on hand early, ready to drum up a quorum if necessary.

Betty looked out at the clear winter sunshine. “I wanted a little walk,” she said. “Let’s go. If it’s long and stupid we can leave; and we ought to be loyal to our class.”

“All right,” agreed Katherine. “I’ll go if you will. I should rather like to see what they have on hand this time.”

“They” meant the Hill-School contingent, who from the initial meeting had continued to run the affairs of the class of 19–. Some of the girls were indignant, and a few openly rebellious, but the majority were either indifferent or satisfied that the Hill clique was as good as any other that might get control in its stead. So the active opposition had been able to accomplish nothing, and Hill’s machine, as a cynical sophomore had dubbed it, had elected its candidates for three class officers and the freshman representative on the Students’ Commission, while the various class committees were largely made up of Jean Eastman’s intimate friends.

“I hope that some of the crowd have nicer manners than our dear Eleanor and are better students,” Mary Brooks had said to Betty. “Otherwise I’m afraid your ship of state will run into a snag of faculty prejudices some fine day.”

Betty belonged to the indifferent faction of the class. She was greatly interested in all its activities, and prepared to be proud of its achievements, but she possessed none of the instincts of a wire-puller. So long as the class offices were creditably filled she cared not who held them, and comparing her ignorance of parliamentary procedure with the glib self-confidence of Jean, Eleanor and their friends, she even felt grateful to them for rescuing the class from the pitfalls that beset inexperience.

Katherine, on the other hand, was a bitter opponent of what she called “ring rule,” and Adelaide Rich, who was the only recruit that they could succeed in adding to their party, had never forgotten the depths of iniquity which her pessimistic acquaintance had revealed in the seemingly innocent and well conducted first meeting, and was prepared to distrust everything, down to the reading of the minutes.

The three were vigorously applauded when they appeared in the door of No. 19, the biggest recitation room in the main building and so the one invariably appropriated to freshman assemblies. Katherine whispered to Mary that she had not known Betty was quite so popular as all that; but a girl on the row behind the one in which they found seats explained matters by whispering that three had been the exact number needed to make up a quorum.

The secretary’s report was hastily read and accepted, and then Miss Eastman stated that the business of the meeting was to elect a class representative for the Washington’s Birthday debate.

“Some of you know,” she continued, “that the Students’ Commission has decided to make a humorous debate the main feature of the morning rally. We and the juniors are to take one side, and the senior and sophomore representatives the other. Now I suppose the first thing to decide is how our representative shall be chosen.”

A buzz of talk spread over the room. “Why didn’t they let us know beforehand–give us time to think who we’d have?” inquired the talkative girl on the row behind.

The president rapped for order as Kate Denise, her roommate, rose to make a motion.

“Madame president, I move that the freshman representative aforesaid be chosen by the chair. Of course,” she went on less formally, turning to the girls, “that is by far the quickest way, and Jean knows the girls as a whole so well–much better than any of us, I’m sure. I think that a lot depends on choosing just the right person for our debater, and we ought not to trust to a haphazard election.”

“Haphazard is good,” muttered the loquacious freshman, in tones plainly audible at the front of the room.

“Of course that means a great responsibility for me,” murmured the president modestly.

“Put it to vote,” commanded a voice from the front row, which was always occupied by the ruling faction. “And remember, all of you, that if we ballot for representative we don’t get out of here till four o’clock.”

The motion was summarily put to vote, and the ayes had it at once, as the ayes are likely to do unless a matter has been thoroughly discussed.

“I name Eleanor Watson, then,” said Miss Eastman with suspicious promptness. “Will somebody move to adjourn?”

“Well, of all ridiculous appointments!” exclaimed the loquacious girl under cover of the applause and the noise of moving chairs.

“Right you are!” responded Katherine, laughing at Adelaide Rich’s disgusted expression.

But Betty was smiling happily with her eyes on the merry group around Eleanor. “Aren’t you glad, girls?” she said. “Won’t she do well, and won’t the house be proud of her?”

“I for one never noticed that she was a single bit humorous,” began Mary indignantly.

Katherine pinched her arm vigorously. “Don’t! What’s the use?” she whispered.

“Nor I, but I suppose Miss Eastman knows that she can be funny,” answered Betty confidently, as she hurried off to congratulate Eleanor.

She was invited to the supper to be given at Cuyler’s that night in Eleanor’s honor, and went home blissfully unconscious that half the class was talking itself hoarse over Jean Eastman’s bad taste in appointing a notorious “cutter” and “flunker” to represent them on so important an occasion, just because she happened to be the best dressed and prettiest girl in the Hill crowd.

The next afternoon most of the girls were at gym or the library, and Betty, who was still necessarily excused from her daily exercise, was working away on her Latin, when some one knocked imperatively on her door. It was Jean Eastman.

“Good-afternoon, Miss Wales,” she said hurriedly. “Will you lend me a pencil and paper? Eleanor has such a habit of keeping her desk locked, and I want to leave her a note.”

She scribbled rapidly for a moment, frowned as she read through what she had written, and looked doubtfully from it to Betty. Then she rose to go. “Will you call her attention to this, please?” she said. “It’s very important. And, Miss Wales,–if she should consult you, do advise her to resign quietly and leave it to me to smooth things over.”

“Resign?” repeated Betty vaguely.

“Yes,” said Jean. “You see–well, I might as well tell you now, that I’ve said so much. The faculty object to her taking the debate. Perhaps you know that she’s very much in their black books but I didn’t. And I never dreamed that they would think it any of their business who was our debater, but I assure you they do. At least half a dozen of them have spoken to me about her poor work and her cutting. They say that she is just as much ineligible for this as she would be for the musical clubs or the basket-ball team. Now what I want is for Eleanor to write a sweet little note of resignation to-night, so that I can appoint some one else bright and early in the morning.”

Betty’s eyes grew big with anxiety. “But won’t the girls guess the reason?” she cried. “Think how proud Eleanor is, Miss Eastman. It would hurt her terribly if any one found out that she had been conditioned. You shouldn’t have told me–indeed you shouldn’t!”

Jean laughed carelessly. “Well, you know now, and there’s no use crying over spilt milk. I used that argument about the publicity of the affair to the faculty, but it was no go. So the only thing for you to do is to help Eleanor write a nice, convincing note of resignation that I can read at the next meeting, when I announce my second appointment.”

“But Eleanor won’t ask my help,” said Betty decidedly, “and, besides, what can she say, after accepting all the congratulations, and having the supper?”

Jean laughed again. “I’m afraid you’re not a bit ingenious, Miss Wales,” she said rising to go, “but fortunately Eleanor is. Good-bye.”

When Betty handed Eleanor the note she read it through unconcernedly, unconcernedly tore it into bits as she talked, and spent the entire evening, apparently, in perfect contentment and utter idleness, strumming softly on her guitar.

The next morning Betty met Jean on the campus. “Did she tell you?” asked Jean.

Betty shook her head.

“I thought likely she hadn’t. Well, what do you suppose? She won’t resign. She says that there’s no real reason she can give, and that she’s now making it a rule to tell the truth; that I’m in a box, not she, and I may climb out of it as best as I can.”

“Did she really say that?” demanded Betty, a note of pleasure in her voice.

“Yes,” snapped Jean, “and since you’re so extremely cheerful over it, perhaps you can tell me what to do next.”

Betty stared at her blankly. “I forgot,” she said. “The girls mustn’t know. We must cover it up somehow.”

“Exactly,” agreed Jean crossly, “but what I want to know is–how.”

“Why not ask the class to choose its speaker? All the other classes did.”

Jean looked doubtful. “I know they did. That would make it very awkward for me, but I suppose I might say there had been dissatisfaction–that’s true enough,–and we could have it all arranged – Well, when I call a meeting, be sure to come and help us out.”

The meeting was posted for Saturday, and all the Chapin house girls, except Helen, who never had time for such things, and Eleanor, attended it. Eleanor was expecting a caller, she said. Besides, as she hadn’t been to classes in the morning there was no sense in emphasizing the fact by parading through the campus in the afternoon.

At the last minute she called Betty back. “Paul may not get over to-day,” she said. “Won’t you come home right off to tell me about it? I–well, you’ll see later why I want to know–if you haven’t guessed already.”

The class of 19– had an inkling that something unusual was in the wind and had turned out in full force. There was no need of waiting for a quorum this time. After the usual preliminaries Jean Eastman rose and began a halting, nervous little speech.

“I have heard,” she began, “that is–a great many people in and out of the class have spoken to me about the matter of the Washington’s Birthday debate. I mean, about the way in which our debater was appointed. I understand there is a great deal of dissatisfaction–that some of the class say they did not understand which way they were voting, and so on. So I thought you might like to reconsider your vote. I certainly, considering position in the matter, want you to have the chance to do so. Now, can we have this point thoroughly discussed?” Then, as no one rose, “Miss Wales, won’t you tell us what you think?”

Betty stared helplessly at Jean for a moment and then, assisted by vigorous pushes from Katherine and Rachel, who sat on either side of her, rose hesitatingly to her feet. “Miss Eastman,–I mean, madame president,” she began. She stopped for an instant to look at her audience. Apparently the class of 19– was merely astonished and puzzled by Jean’s suggestion; there was no indication that any one–except possibly a few of the Hill girls–had any idea of her motive. “Madame president,” repeated Betty, forcing back the lump that had risen in her throat when she realized that the keeping of Eleanor’s secret lay largely with her, “Miss Watson is my friend, and I was very much pleased to have her for our representative. But I do feel, and I believe the other girls do, as they come to think it over, that it would have been better to elect our representative. Then we should every one of us have had a direct interest in the result of the debate. Besides, all the other classes elected theirs, and so I think, if Miss Watson is willing – ”

“Miss Watson is perfectly willing,” broke in Jean. “A positive engagement unfortunately prevents her being here to say so, but she authorized me to state that she preferred the elective choice herself, and to tell you to do just as you think best in the matter. She – Go on, Miss Wales.”

“Oh, that was all,” said Betty hastily slipping back into her seat.

A group of girls in the farthest corner of the room clapped vigorously.

“Nothing cut-and-dried about that,” whispered Katherine to Adelaide Rich.

“Are there any more remarks?” inquired the president. No one seemed anxious to speak, and she went on rather aimlessly. “Miss Wales has really covered the ground, I think. The other classes all elected their debaters, and I fancy they want us to do the same. As for the faculty–well, I may as well say that they almost insist upon a change.”

“Good crawl,” whispered Katherine, who was quick to put two and two together, to Adelaide Rich, who never got the point of any but the most obvious remarks, and who now looked much perplexed.

Meanwhile Betty had been holding whispered consultations with some of the girls around her, and now she rose again. Her “madame president” was so obviously prior to Kate Denise’s that when Kate was recognized there was an ominous murmur of discontent and Jean apologized and promptly reversed her decision.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t to speak twice,” said Betty blushing at the commotion she had caused, “but if we are to change our vote, some of us think it would be fun to hold a preliminary debate now, and choose our speaker on her merits. We did that once at school – ”

“Good stunt,” called some one.

“I move that Miss Wales as chairman select a committee of arrangements, and that we have a five minute recess while the committee meets.”

“I move that there be two committees, one for nominating speakers and the other for choosing a subject.”

“I move that we reconsider our other vote first.”

The motions were coming in helter-skelter from all quarters, instead of decorously from the front row as usual. The president was trying vainly to restore order and to remember whose motion should have precedence, and to make way somehow for the prearranged nomination, which so far had been entirely crowded out, when three girls in one corner of the room began thumping on their seat-arms and chanting in rhythmic, insistent chorus, “We–want–Emily–Davis. We–want–Emily–Davis. We–want–Emily–Davis.”

Hardly any one in the room had ever heard of Emily Davis, but the three girls constituted an original and very popular little coterie known individually as Babe, Babbie, and Bob, or collectively as “the three B’s.” They roomed on the top floor of the Westcott House and were famous in the house for being at the same time prime favorites of the matron and the ringleaders in every plot against her peace of mind, and outside for their unique and diverting methods of recreation. It was they who had successfully gulled Mary Brooks with a rumor as absurd as her own; and accounts of the “spread” they had handed out to the night-watchman in a tin pail, and dangled just out of his reach, in the hope of extracting a promise from that incorruptible worthy not to report their lights, until the string incontinently broke and the ice cream and lobster salad descended as a flood, were reported to have made even the august president of the college laugh. Ergo, if they “wanted” Emily Davis, she must be worth “wanting.” So their friends took up the cry, and it quickly spread and gathered volume, until nearly everybody in the room was shouting the same thing. Finally the president stepped forward and made one determined demand for order.

“Is Miss Emily Davis present?” she called, when the tumult had slightly subsided.

“Yes,” shouted the Three and the few others who knew Miss Davis by sight.

“Then will she please–why, exactly what is it that you want of her?” questioned the president, a trifle haughtily.

“Speech!” chorused the Three.

“Will Miss Davis please speak to us?” asked the president.

At that a very tall girl who was ineffectually attempting to hide behind little Alice Waite was pulled and pushed to her feet, and amid a sudden silence began the funniest speech that most of the class of 19– had ever listened to; but it was not so much what she said as her inimitable drawling delivery and her lunging, awkward gestures that brought down the house. When she took her seat again, resolutely ignoring persistent cries of “More!” the class applauded her to the echo and elected her freshman debater by acclamation.

It was wonderful what a change those twenty riotous minutes had made in the spirit of the class of 19–. For the first time in its history it was an enthusiastic, single-hearted unit, and to the credit of the Hill girls be it said that no one was more enthusiastic or joined in the applause with greater vigor than they. They had not meant to be autocratic–except three of them; they had simply acted according to their lights, or rather, their leaders’ lights. Now they understood how affairs could be conducted at Harding, and during the rest of the course they never entirely forgot or ignored the new method.

To Betty’s utter astonishment and consternation the lion’s share of credit for the sudden triumph of democracy was laid at her door. The group around her after the meeting was almost as large and quite as noisy as the one that was struggling to shake hands with Miss Davis.

“Don’t! You mustn’t. Why, it was the B’s who got her, not I,” protested Betty vigorously.

“No, you began it,” said Babe.

“You bet you did,” declared Bob.

“Yes, indeed. We were too scared to speak of her until you proposed something like it,” added Babbie in her sweet, lilting treble.

“You can’t get out of it. You are the real founder of this democracy,” ended Christy Mason decidedly. Betty was proud of Christy’s approval. It was fun, too, to have the Hill girls crowding around and saying pleasant things to her.