"Thank you so much," she said. "You know it's for a good cause!"

"They are lovely things," remarked the buyer, sincerely. "Really, they are just what I have been looking for."

With trembling fingers, Marjorie and Lily folded the snowy articles gently and tied them into a bundle. It was simply wonderful to have nothing left over.

"Half an hour, and nothing to do!" said Marjorie, squeezing Lily around the waist. "Wasn't it the best luck, though!"

"Sh! Don't say anything! Let's pretend to be busy, and surprise Miss Phillips when she calls for a report!"

"And Ruth Henry, too!" added Marjorie, wickedly.

At quarter past five the last purchaser left the gymnasium, and Miss Phillips ordered the door to be closed.

"We'll leave things as they are," she said, "and come over to clear up to-night. In the meantime, you are to go back to the dormitory and prepare for supper. But there is one thing I want to know before you all leave," she concluded; "and that is—how much cash you each have. Did anyone, by any chance, sell out?"

"Yes, we did!" announced Ruth Henry, although the sandwich table had really been in charge of Elsie Lorimer.

"Fine! How much?"

"Thirty-two dollars—and some change!" Ruth glanced triumphantly at Marjorie.

"Anyone else?" inquired Miss Phillips.

"Yes," replied Marjorie. "Lily and I did. We have one hundred and six dollars, and twenty-five cents."

But amidst all the congratulations that followed, Marjorie thought only of one thing: that she had been able to answer Ruth's challenge! She had made the most of any booth—and she felt privileged to have a say in the direction to which the money should be applied! She would not be afraid to urge again the cause of Frieda Hammer, and the Scouts' Good Turn!



CHAPTER XV

THE SCOUT CHRISTMAS TREE

It was not until the following Friday evening, when each girl in charge of a table had made her report, that Miss Phillips was able to add up the total receipts from the sales at the bazaar. At last she looked up with a happy smile.

"Four hundred and twenty-two dollars!" she announced; and the girls broke into uproarious applause.

"Since this is our last meeting in the old year," she went on, "I especially want the new girls to take their Tenderfoot tests. But before that, and before we talk over the Christmas plans that Ruth Henry suggested several weeks ago, I desire to read you some letters.

"I went to the office of our little local newspaper, The Star, and asked whether any poor children had written to Santa Claus through them.

"The woman in charge was awfully nice; she smiled sort of tenderly, as if all the children belonged to her.

"'Indeed we have,' she replied, opening a drawer. 'Look at this bunch.'

"And she handed me these"—Miss Phillips held up a handful of torn, dirty pieces of all kinds of paper, except writing paper—"and I discovered there were thirty-two of them, all so quaint and funny. So I said I would put the matter up to you Scouts to-night, and report to her to-morrow."

"Oh, let's give them a party, and a tree, and the presents they want," cried Marjorie, anxious for everyone to know that she did not want to monopolize all of the money for Frieda.

"Read them, please, Captain!" begged Frances.

Miss Phillips opened two or three, selected one, and read slowly, apparently encountering difficulty in the spelling:

"Dear Santa Klaus:

"Pleas send me a dol that opens hur ise with love Mary Connelly."

After that she read half a dozen or so, each one as laboriously composed as the first, asking St. Nicholas to bring them the things nearest their hearts.

"But when could we have the party?" asked the Captain. "It's too soon to have it this Saturday afternoon, and next week the older children will have school."

"Couldn't we have it at four o'clock?" suggested Ethel; "I should think we could keep them out until half-past five, and then we could take them home ourselves, because, of course, it would be too dark by then for them to go alone."

They decided upon Thursday afternoon, for the girls were to leave Miss Allen's at noon on Friday; and a hundred dollars was appropriated for the party and the presents.

The time seemed all too short for the committee in charge; indeed, every member of the troop served in some way. Miss Phillips took Frances and Ethel to the city with her to select the presents and the tree ornaments; four of the girls wrote the invitations, and half a dozen were to attend to the refreshments and decorations. Lily Andrews, because she was stout and jolly, was awarded the supreme honor of being Santa Claus; and she spent much time preparing her costume.

At last everything was in readiness, and the Scouts gathered in the gymnasium. A big tree stood in the center, glistening with tinsel and shining with brightly colored balls. Underneath, attractively wrapped in Christmas paper and ribbon, the presents were invitingly piled. Santa Claus, with several of the girls who were to assist "him," was hidden in Miss Phillips's office.

The guests—everyone of the thirty-two ragged little children, and several additional younger brothers and sisters besides—arrived, dressed in what was probably their best clothes—just as the little Ruggles came to Carol's famous party in "The Birds' Christmas Carol." Edith and Frances received them at the door and helped them remove their coats and hats.

With exclamations of "Oh!" and "Ah!" they stood perfectly still, lost in admiration of the Christmas tree. They had never seen such a lovely one before.

"Will everyone please sit down upon the pillows?" asked Miss Phillips, indicating a row of sofa cushions arranged around the tree.

Doris Sands and Emily Rankin gave out the popcorn and candy toys. The children were too much awe-struck to think of talking. They just sat still and gazed, all the while sucking their candy, and looking expectantly at the alluring parcels under the tree.

In a short time, from the direction of the office, a great chorus of song came:

"Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright——"

the famous old Christmas carol that children and grown people everywhere love.

When the last notes of the song had died away, Edith Evans, the story-teller of the group, related the pretty little legend of "Why the Chimes Rang"—telling how a small boy, who had only ten cents to give at Christmas time, gave it with his whole heart, and the magical chimes, which sounded only for great gifts, and which had been silent now for many years, rang out through the clear stillness of that Christmas night.

There is perhaps no other Christmas story which contains the real Christmas spirit so much as this one, with its simple message of whole-hearted giving; and it did not fail to produce the desired effect. The children were just in the mood of what followed: the appearance of Santa Claus!

With a jolly "Ha! Ha!" and the ringing of sleigh bells, he came in through the open door carrying a huge pack on his back, and was greeted with tremendous applause.

Reaching into his pocket, he took out the notes and held them up to examine.

"I got every one of your letters," he said, "and I hope you will all be satisfied with your presents. I have tried to do the best I could. Ha! Ha! Ha! Christmas is a jolly time!"

Santa's laughter was so real and his enjoyment so genuine that the children beamed with happiness. It seemed as if their dreams had really come true.

"Here's a package for Mary Connelly," he said, taking off his pack; "and here's one for Peter Myers."

The children hesitated a moment, and then went forward to receive their gifts. Edith and Frances brought the others out from beneath the tree, and there were half a dozen left over, even after the unexpected guests had been provided for.

"And a box of candy for everybody," concluded Santa Claus, reaching for the pile of boxes, each wrapped in white paper, and handing them to his helpers.

"And now I must be gone!" he said. "I've many places to visit before Christmas day. A merry Christmas to all!" he cried, and as they answered, "The same to you!" he vanished through the doorway. The tingling of sleighbells announced the fact that he had gone.

The short winter day was drawing to a close, and the children suddenly realized, as they were looking at their presents, that it was getting quite dark. But in an instant, as if by magic, the tree was alight with many gaily-colored electric bulbs, which gleamed and sparkled so gloriously that they all gasped and gazed in wonder.

While the refreshments were being prepared, Ethel and Doris started a game, to the winner of which a prize "stocking" was given. Just as this was concluded, Miss Phillips called that they were ready.

Behind the tree there had been a row of screens to hide the preparations. Now these were removed, and the most beautiful sight that the children had ever seen appeared before their eyes. A table piled with goodies of every kind decorated with holly and mistletoe and Christmas candles and candies. Three large bowls in the center of the table contained red strings which extended to every child's place.

The little guests sat down and pulled their red ribbons—and to their great delight, each received another present. Then they began to eat. There were chicken sandwiches, and cocoa with whipped cream, and ice-cream, cake, candy, fruit, and nuts. The Scouts simply loaded their plates, telling them that they might carry home what they could not eat.

They were having such a delightful party that they were all surprised when six o'clock came, and Miss Phillips gave the signal for departure. The Scouts put on their hats and coats, and, with their arms laden with goodies, and gifts, and holly, the children returned to the village.

Lily reappeared, dressed in her Scout uniform, to accompany them. One of the children, who had been looking at her closely for several minutes, exclaimed abruptly,

"Santa Claus is a Girl Scout!"

The Scouts burst out laughing.

"He was this time," explained Edith, kindly; "for the real Santa had too much to do, so he asked us to help him."

"You are all Santa Clauses!" corrected the child. "I think Girl Scouts are the most nicest people in the whole world!"

And Pansy troop, to the last girl, was satisfied with the work it had accomplished and the real Christmas cheer it had brought to these children's hearts.



CHAPTER XVI

THE VISIT TO HAMMERS'

The Christmas holidays had always meant a great deal to Marjorie. There was not only the joy of the holiday season, and of giving and receiving presents, but the pleasure of seeing the family and her old friends again, of going to parties, and of entertaining. The preceeding year she had given a house-party to the freshmen and sophomore members of the sorority to which she belonged at that time, and they had all had a lovely time. Ruth, who had never been a member of the secret society, had been left out—a proceeding which so angered her as to cause her to seek in some way to get even with Marjorie. And this had been the beginning of all the trouble! Now as she looked back upon it, the whole affair seemed childish; she realized that whatever parties she gave in the future would include Ruth.

Marjorie's mother had told her that she might invite Lily, or any other friend, to spend part or all of the holidays with her; and she had received a lovely invitation from Doris's mother to go to their home for Christmas week. But she had resolutely refused all these suggestions; she had other plans—not of a social nature.

It was with this purpose in mind that she visited Miss Phillips the night of the children's party.

"Could you possibly spare me a day during your holiday, Miss Phillips?" she asked. "I want to go and see Frieda's mother."

"Why, what an idea!" exclaimed the teacher in surprise. "But do you think she knows where her daughter is?"

"I think she must know something. And maybe she could tell us why Frieda ran away. And——" Marjorie paused, shyly,—"and I want to get word to her if I can that I don't mind her taking my canoe!"

"Marjorie, you're a strange girl!" remarked Miss Phillips, looking at her quizzically. Then, "But have you asked your parents' consent?"

"Yes; papa said he would drive us over. But he also said that he wouldn't let me go without you. And he was afraid it would be asking too much of you!"

"Not at all. I could easily arrange to meet you. What day do you want to go?"

"Whatever day suits you best."

Miss Phillips went to her desk and consulted an engagement pad.

"How about Friday—a week from to-morrow?" she suggested. "Then, if it should rain, we could go Saturday."

"Fine!" concluded Marjorie, rising to go. But Miss Phillips detained her for a moment.

"Marjorie, I want to thank you for your lovely gift. It was sweet of you to do all that work for me."

The girl smiled, delighted that her favorite teacher was pleased. In fact, Miss Phillips was not only her favorite teacher, but the only one in whom she took any interest.

"I'm glad you liked it, Miss Phillips," she said, as she turned to leave the office.

Marjorie and Ruth rode home in the train together. As soon as the girls were away from Miss Allen's, and there was no longer any rivalry raging between them, Ruth became her old self again, and expected to have Marjorie once more as her best friend. But Marjorie was not to be so easily won.

"Mother writes that there's a new family moved in next door to us," remarked Ruth, "and she says that the son—a boy a little older than we are, seems very nice. I thought maybe I'd ask him over some night during Christmas week, if you and Jack can come, too. We could play bridge, and dance a little."

"That would be lovely," murmured Marjorie, in a preoccupied manner, for her thoughts had flown in a different direction—to her own one important plan for the coming week.

"How would next Friday suit?" suggested Ruth.

Marjorie shook her head decidedly. "Sorry, but I can't possibly!"

Ruth regarded her curiously. What plans could Marjorie have—so early? No doubt it had something to do with John Hadley.

"If it's John, why, bring him along, and I'll try to get another girl," she ventured.

"No; it has nothing to do with John. I expect to be out of town."

"At Lily's?"

"No; I won't be visiting anybody."

"Oh, well," said Ruth, sulkily, "if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. I don't care."

"I can't very well tell you, Ruth," replied Marjorie; "and besides, you wouldn't be interested."

"Then when can you come?"

"Tuesday or Wednesday, whichever you like."

The girls finally agreed upon Wednesday, and separated with the promise to visit each other before then. But Ruth resented Marjorie's secrecy and tried to imagine what her important engagement could possibly be.

Christmas, and the next four days passed happily and quickly, and almost before she realized it, Friday had come, bringing to Marjorie her chance for adventure.

Wrapped snugly in her mother's fur coat, and with the big robe tucked in around her, she sat on the front seat of the machine that cold, clear morning of the end of December. She was very happy; she felt, indeed, that she was doing something worth while, and the prospect of a nice long ride with Miss Phillips added not a little to her pleasure.

After they had driven about fifteen miles they met the Scout Captain, and then continued on their way. Ten miles before they reached their destination they stopped at a hotel for dinner.

"Suppose they don't live there any longer," remarked Marjorie. "All our trip for nothing!"

"No, for we could probably get some information from Mrs. Brubaker," replied Miss Phillips. "But I don't think they'd move."

"It isn't likely," assented Marjorie.

It was two o'clock when they arrived at the Brubaker farm. The front door opened, and Mrs. Brubaker appeared.

"Well, of all things!" she exclaimed, recognizing Miss Phillips and Marjorie in the car. "This surely is a surprise!"

When they were all comfortably seated before the open fire, Mr. Wilkinson explained their mission, and the good woman seemed amazed at their news.

"We had no idea Frieda wasn't still at school. Her mother never said a word. Oh, I'm so sorry!"

They talked a little while, and then leaving her father with Mr. Brubaker, Marjorie and her Captain proceeded toward the tenant house where the Hammers lived.

Mrs. Hammer did not recognize them at first. Then Miss Phillips explained.

"We want to know if you have any news of Frieda, Mrs. Hammer," she said, very politely.

"Come in," invited the older woman, holding open the door a little wider.

"We haven't heard a word since she ran away," continued Miss Phillips, as soon as they were inside, "except that a friend of mine saw a girl answering her description in New York."

"That's where she is, I reckon," assented Mrs. Hammer, "but that's all I know. From her onct in a while I get a letter, and can write to her care of—what d'ye call it?—general delivery. But I can't write very good."

"Oh, may we see the letters?" asked Marjorie, eagerly.

"Yes—I don't mind. You people sure treated her white. I don't know what's got into her."

The woman crossed the room, which was untidy and dirty, and pulled out a drawer in the table. There, among heterogeneous trash, Marjorie noticed several letters. Mrs. Hammer tossed them into Miss Phillips's lap.

"You can read them all," she said, "while I go look to the baby."

Miss Phillips noticed Marjorie's excitement, and politely handed her the letters—there were three of them,—which the girl opened with trembling fingers. Apparently, all of them were short.

"This must be the first," she said, and read aloud,

"DEAR MA,

"I ran away in that girl's bot becaus a girl insulted me. I brot my clothes and a pencil and I stayed at an empty hous to-night.

"FRIEDA."

Marjorie put the paper back into the envelope with a sigh.

"That doesn't tell us a whole lot, does it?" she observed. "Except that we know now for sure that the girl that old woman described at the empty house was Frieda."

"But what does she mean about a girl insulting her?" asked Miss Phillips, in a puzzled tone.

Marjorie frowned; she had no desire to tell tales about Ruth. Accordingly, she related the story, but withheld the name of the girl concerned.

"Frieda certainly must be skillful as a boatsman," remarked Miss Phillips, "to be able to come that far."

"Yes," said Marjorie, opening the letter with the second earliest postmark. Then, "Oh, listen to this:

"I got to Trenton but befor I crossed the river I sold the bot for $20. I'm going to New York for to get work.

"FRIEDA."

"Trenton!" repeated Miss Phillips. "Marjorie, we might be able to locate your canoe if we search all the boat-houses and the river-front there, and on the opposite side of the Delaware!"

"That's an idea!" cried Marjorie. "I'll ask papa——"

But she was too anxious to read the third and last letter to finish her sentence. Hastily she pulled it from the envelope.

"DEAR MA,

"I'm in New York now and you can rite me care Gen. Del. My money is most gone. I got a waitres job.

"FRIEDA."

"But she hasn't, any more!" protested Marjorie; "at least, if Miss Smith is right!"

At that moment Mrs. Hammer returned with the baby, and Marjorie asked her all sorts of questions to which she could not reply, but only shake her head hopelessly.

"But aren't you the least bit worried?" asked Marjorie, picturing how her own mother would feel under similar circumstances. For Mrs. Hammer was certainly amazingly calm.

"Ach! she's old enough to take care of herself!" cried the woman impatiently. "New York's a fine place—I'm glad she is there!"

Marjorie again thought of the great city as she had seen it when she visited Lily at Thanksgiving, and she shuddered at the confusion and the danger of it all. And to a country girl like Frieda, it must be even more terrifying. But she said nothing further; Mrs. Hammer had no conception of it, and probably never would have. She was relieved to see Miss Phillips make a motion to go.

All during the ride home, she was unusually quiet, but it was not from despair. The visit, she felt, had not been in vain; she had formulated a plan which she meant to put into effect as soon as she reached home. She would write to Frieda and tell her how much she wanted her to come back. She would assure the girl that she did not mind about the canoe—she would even make her a present of it. And she would be glad to send Frieda the money for a return ticket if she would only promise to come back!



CHAPTER XVII

RUTH FINDS THE CANOE

Ruth Henry had always been a pretty girl, but in the past year she had grown even more attractive. Though small of stature, there was nothing insignificant about her; indeed, she was of the striking type which attracts immediate attention, even of the casual observer. Always planning some activity, or involved in some scheme to further her own interests, she was a creature of perpetual animation. This very vivacity was one of her chief charms among young and old.

It was no particular surprise to anyone, therefore, that Harold Mason was smitten by her at first sight. Here, he felt, was his ideal type of girl: pretty, petite, feminine, yet combining with all those characteristics a love of sport and adventure, and a spirit of daring that was almost boyish. What a comrade! he thought.

The boy himself was far from unattractive. Raised in Virginia, he possessed that unconscious charm of the Southerner that is always particularly pleasing to women. He drawled his words, dropping his "r's"; and he had a little habit of smiling at the end of his remarks. Like Ruth, however, Harold Mason was an only child; and, like her, he was spoiled. Possessing a car of his own—even though it happened to be only a Ford sedan—he came and went as he pleased, with the consequence that his studies had often suffered. Now, when he should have been in college, he was merely finishing the latter half of his senior year at High School.

"I tell you what, Ruth," he said on the second day of their holiday (they felt by now as if they had known each other all of their lives), "let's have a regular good time this week. Let's go somewhere every single day!"

Ruth smiled faintly; she could not help being flattered by her conquest.

"Suppose I have other engagements?"

"Chuck them—ah—just for once!"

"And maybe mother won't let me."

"Well, tease her!"

"And then," added Ruth, "you haven't met Marjorie Wilkinson. She's considered (by some) the most attractive girl at our school!"

"Oh, forget her! I've seen her, even if I haven't met her. Her type doesn't appeal to me!"

Ruth laughed good naturedly, and surrendered. But she made one reservation.

"I promised Jack Wilkinson I'd go to the movies with him on Friday."

Harold closed his lips tightly, and shrugged his shoulders.

"As you please," he said; "maybe I will ask Marjorie for that day."

"Then you'll get left!" retorted Ruth triumphantly. "She has a date, too!"

"Well—then I'll ask Miss Maria!" he concluded, mentioning one who was the typical "old-maid" of the town, and who unconsciously bore the brunt of all the young people's jokes.

When Jack and Marjorie came over to Ruth's on Wednesday evening, Harold found the girl to be just as he had expected: rather quiet and diffident, even pretty, but not striking-looking; and he made no attempt to become intimate with her. After they had tired of playing cards, whenever Jack and Ruth saw fit to dance together, he offered to do likewise with Marjorie, as a mere matter of form. But he did not find her easy to talk to.

"Jack, what's Marj going to do on Friday?" Ruth asked as she poured the cocoa from the chafing dish on the tea-table.

Marjorie looked up, amused. She was sincerely thankful that Jack knew as little as Ruth about her coming adventure.

"You can search me!" replied the boy. "I did hear dad mention an auto ride."

"Your father?" repeated Ruth. "Is that all? And here I was picturing a secret meeting with an unknown lover——"

"Wrong as usual!" said Marjorie, a little sharply. "I told you that before, Ruth."

Harold Mason looked up quickly, incensed at the tone Marjorie had unconsciously used towards Ruth. In that instant he became her enemy; if she and Ruth should be rival contestants in any cause again, he vowed to himself that he would do all in his power to help the latter.

"Well, if it's nothing exciting, why don't you tell us about it?" said Jack.

"It's a personal matter, Jack," said Marjorie; "I should think you and Ruth would understand that by now!"

Apparently, Ruth was squelched. "I beg your pardon," she said humbly. But the very next instant she winked at Harold, and he knew her well enough to interpret the signal as a challenge against Marjorie.

"Don't make any engagement for Friday!" she whispered, as Harold left the house with the others.

By pre-arranged signals, Ruth and Harold sat waiting in his car at eight-thirty on Friday morning. The machine did not stand in front of either Mason's or Henry's house; instead, it was drawn up before a provision store, where, to the passer-by, it might appear to be waiting while Mrs. Mason or Mrs. Wilkinson was making purchases inside.

The young people did not have to wait long, for a few minutes before nine, Jack Wilkinson came hurrying towards them.

"They're gone!" he shouted. "The other direction—out the Main street."

In a second, he was inside the car, and Harold stepped on the starter and released the emergency.

"How long ago?" he asked, as the machine began to move forward.

"Just long enough for me to get my things on and run over here. About five minutes, I should say."

"Just Marj and your father?" asked Ruth.

"Yes."

"Is he a fast driver?" inquired Harold.

"Pretty fast, except in traffic," replied Jack.

"Well, speed up, Harold," urged Ruth. She leaned back against the seat contentedly; it would be such a lark to worry Marjorie, especially since she had been so secret about the whole proceeding.

"And what am I to do if we do catch them?" asked Harold.

"Just follow them, and make their lives miserable," laughed Ruth.

"I think it must have something to do with Miss Phillips," remarked Jack. "I heard her name mentioned once or twice."

Ruth repressed an involuntary start.

Miss Phillips! So this was the scheme: Marjorie was merely courting popularity with the Scout Captain! Probably her rival intended to wheedle Miss Phillips into giving her the first-class test privately, so that she might be the first in the troop to receive that honor! A hard look came into Ruth's eyes; she was more resolved than ever to do all in her power to make the other girl's project fail. But she said nothing of all this to her companions.

They followed the main road for about five miles, passing several machines, but never catching sight of the desired one. Harold had been keeping to about thirty miles an hour, but as he reached the level road and the open country, he let it out to thirty-five.

Ruth talked incessantly, telling the boys all about the Scout parties and the hockey games. Although she had not mentioned Frieda Hammer, she suddenly remarked,

"Wasn't it dreadful about Marj's canoe?"

"Yes," replied Jack; "who do you suppose stole it?"

"Don't you know?" exclaimed Ruth. "Why, that thief our Scout troop adopted to reform. But it serves Marj right! She was the strongest one for doing it."

Harold, who was in the dark about all this, was naturally curious to hear the whole story, and Ruth recounted it as briefly as possible.

All this time the youthful driver was speeding his Ford at its very limit, and gradually gaining upon a speck in the distance which appeared to be a touring car.

"By George! that's our Buick!" cried Jack. "I'll just bet anything!"

But Harold could not go any faster, and the other car was making good time. He continued, however, to keep it in sight, while Ruth breathlessly urged him on.

The houses were closer together now, and Harold unconsciously slackened his pace.

"Must we go slow?" asked Ruth, disappointed.

"Yes; the law's fifteen. But we'll take a chance on twenty-five!"

"Still, dad will have to slow up, too," remarked Jack, consolingly. "And maybe we'll catch him on the open road again."

"It's almost like following elopers," laughed Harold. "I do love a chase."

"So do I," agreed Ruth. Then, "Oh, see that bridge; do we have to cross that?"

"Yes," replied Jack; "for that will take us into Trenton. And they must be headed that way."

They slowed down before crossing the bridge when suddenly there was a terrific report, like an explosion, which startled them so that they almost jumped out of their skins. Harold applied the brakes quickly, and swung the car sharply towards the side of the road.

"Good night!" he exclaimed; "a blow-out! I was a fool to leave that bum shoe on the rear! And the spare is perfectly new!"

"We'll never catch them now!" mourned Ruth, dejectedly.

They sat gazing at each other helplessly.

"Well, we'll never catch them if we sit here all day; that's a sure thing!" announced Jack, coming to life. "Come on, Mason! Let's break all records for a quick change!"

They scrambled out into the road.

"Jerusalem!" exclaimed Jack, poking a finger at the jagged hole in the flat tire, where the tread was so worn that the lining of the shoe was exposed. "Look at that hole!"

He peeled off his coat and tossed it into the machine, and handed his watch to Ruth, saying,

"Here, Ruth; time us, from now on."

Harold, following his example, was rummaging under the back seat for his tools; he threw a kit and a jack out into the road calling,

"There you are, Wilkinson! You unscrew the rim-cleats, and I'll jack her up."

"That's a funny-looking jack!" observed Ruth, looking at it curiously.

"It's a new kind," retorted Harold knowingly, thinking that Ruth, like most girls, probably knew nothing about tools.

Jack glanced over his shoulder at the object; then dropped what he was doing to examine it more closely.

"By George! Ruth's right! Where is the part that goes under the axle?"

Harold was out of the machine in a jiffy.

"Great snakes!" he howled, tearing his hair. "It does come off; and if I can't find it under the seat, we're out of luck, that's all!"

He dived again into the car, leaving the other two staring at the dismembered jack. They heard him fumbling around again, and, after a minute, he slid out and sat upon the running-board.

"No use! I guess I left it home," he said.

"Then I guess I won't need this," said Ruth, handing Jack his watch.

Suddenly, the humor of the situation struck all three of them at once, and they burst into shrieks of laughter.

"Well, catching them is now out of the question," said Jack, after the merriment had subsided; "but we'll have to get home again somehow."

"Yes," agreed Harold, "the question is—how?"

"There must be a garage around here somewhere, and we could borrow a jack," suggested Ruth.

"Shall I go ahead and look for one?" asked Jack.

"Oh, we'll stop a passing machine, and borrow one," said Harold.

"But none has passed us yet," protested Ruth, "and we might have to wait here all day."

"I don't think so; there ought to be lots of traffic on this road; it's a main highway. They just won't come because we want them to."

"There are several little houses down there," said Jack, indicating a group of boat-houses along the banks of the river, about fifty yards away; "perhaps one of them would have a jack."

"To jack up the boats with?" asked Harold, sardonically.

"It won't hurt to try, anyway," retorted the other boy. "Come on, Ruth! We'll go ask."

To see Ruth walk away with Jack and leave him sitting there alone, was too much for Harold.

"Jack! I say, Jack!" he called. "Come back a minute!"

The boy and girl retraced their steps.

"What do you want?"

"I was just thinking—you might crawl under the car——"

"Eh?"

"I say, you might crawl under the car," repeated Harold.

"What for?"

"Jack 'er up!"

He jumped up from the running-board just in time to avoid the other's clutches.

"Now, Harold!" protested Ruth. "As if this were not enough, you must make it worse with bad puns."

"I won't do it again," promised Harold, with mock penitency. "But wait a minute—I'm going with you."

He tossed the tools on the floor of the car and slammed the door.

"Jack, my boy," he resumed, "I really believe your idea is a good one, an inspiration, a mark of genius; I verily believe we are on the eve of a great discovery——"

"Oh, you dry up!" snorted Jack. "I don't really think we'll find one. But it won't hurt to ask."

Upon closer inspection all of the boat-houses appeared to be deserted, except the one farthest away. This was slightly removed from the others, and more ramshackle looking; but someone was evidently there, for they could hear the sound of hammering, which seemed to come from within. Over the door hung a home-made sign, with the inscription:

JOHN SLACK, BOATS FOR HIRE.

"See anything funny about that name?" asked Harold.

The others examined it more closely.

"He's got the "N" printed upside-down."

"Sure enough!" laughed Ruth. "Well, of all things!"

"Judging from the noise he's making," continued Harold, "John's business isn't very slack!"

"Are you commencing again?" groaned Jack.

"That will do, Harold! You've said quite enough!" warned Ruth.

They halted before the open doorway, through which they could see an old man bending over an upturned boat which he was repairing.

"Good day, Mr. Slack!" called Harold.

The man paused with his hammer in mid-air, and raised his head; a dirty white beard which seemed to start at his eyes, grew down over his chest.

"Howdy! What can I do for you?"

"We've had a puncture," explained Harold, "and we want to know whether you have a jack that we could borrow?"

The man shook his head.

"Never had no use for one," he replied.

Their faces fell; but as they turned to leave, the old man straightened up, and called out,

"Hold on a minute! What kind of car you got?"

"A Ford," Harold told him.

"There's your jack, then," he said, pointing to a pile of lumber in one corner of the room; "that there twelve-foot beam!"

"How?" queried the boy.

In reply, the man worked his arms up and down, as if he were operating a lever.

"Just stick it underneath and hist on one end," he explained.

"Can it be done?" asked Harold, doubtfully.

"I seen it done onc't—I guess you fellers kin do it. Maybe not if you had a bigger car—I dunno. Yer welcome to try. But you want to take a block to stick underneath the axle when you get 'er raised."

Following his suggestion, the boys raised the beam to their shoulders, and carried it back to the car, Ruth following with the smaller piece. Placing one end of the timber beneath the axle and raising the other end, they found that without effort they could lift the rear of the machine sufficiently for Ruth to insert the block.

"Golly!" exclaimed Harold; "I believe we could lift a truck this way. Pretty smart of old Santa Claus to think of it."

In a short time the change was made, the tools put away; and resting the improvised jack along one side of the car, across the mudguards, they returned with it to its owner.

"The job's done, Mr. Slack!" announced Harold, as they flung the beam to the ground. "I'm very much obliged to you for your help."

He slipped a coin into the old man's hand.

"That's all right!" was the answer. "I'm much obliged to you. I wouldn't have no use for a real jack," he repeated.

Meanwhile, Ruth was carrying on an earnest conversation in undertones with Jack. She was directing his attention among the various small boats which filled the long room, to a particular one in the far corner, which was noticeable because of its bright green paint, and because it was the only canoe among many row-boats.

"It certainly looks like Marjorie's," she was saying.

"Where did you get that canoe?" she demanded sharply, turning to the boat-house keeper.

"I bought it from a young lady," he replied. "She paddled down the river. I give twenty dollars for it."

"That canoe was stolen!" cried Ruth, indignantly, as if to accuse the old man.

He thrust out his beard.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"I recognize it!" replied the girl.

He looked relieved and smiled.

"They's a good many models of the Oldtown canoe that looks like that one, young lady."

The graceful craft was lying on its side so that the interior was exposed more to their view than the sides.

"I'll identify it," said Ruth, undaunted. "There's a long scratch in the paint, about an inch from the keel, near the middle—we got stuck on a rock one day."

"You could find that on most any canoe," replied the man.

"Well—let me see—oh, there's candle grease on the inside, at each end! That's from the Japanese lanterns we had there, the night of the water-picnic," she told the boys. "And the name was painted on it in red letters—The Scout!"

At this, the old man's eyes opened wide.

"I guess you're right, lady," he said. "She's called The Scout, all right; but I don't know about the scratch and the candle grease—I never noticed that!"

"Will you sell it back to me, if you're convinced?" asked Jack.

"Gimme what I paid for it, and she's your'n. Never was much good to me, anyhow; I never hired it onc't—mostly too rough for a canoe in the river."

"Will it be all right if I pay you five dollars now, and return with the rest, say to-morrow, and get the canoe?"

"Suits me," agreed the other.

So the bargain was struck, and they crossed the room to examine The Scout. There, sure enough, were the evidences as Ruth had given them. At last, the canoe was found!

"I told you you were on the eve of a great discovery, didn't I?" said Harold, as they were driving home.

"But you never would have found the canoe, if it hadn't been for me," corrected Ruth.

"Marjorie certainly will be glad!" remarked her brother.

"Marjorie!" cried Ruth; "why, I'd forgotten all about her—and the chase!"

Then she fell silent for a long time. She was thinking of the medal of merit Miss Phillips had offered for the finding of Frieda; and she could not see why, if no one were successful, the finding of the canoe might not be considered the next thing to the finding of Frieda. It would be much better that Marjorie should never know about their pursuit of her.

Breaking her silence, she said,

"Promise me, both of you, that you won't tell Marj how we chased her?"

They both swore solemn oaths.

After supper, she and Harold strolled over to Wilkinsons' to tell Marjorie the news of the canoe, for Jack had promised to say nothing about it until they came. But they found her singularly unappreciative.

"I knew Frieda sold it before she reached Trenton," she remarked; "and I intended to get papa to take me to find it to-morrow!"

"Of all the ungrateful people!" snapped Ruth, as they left the house. "And we don't know yet where Marj went," she added.



CHAPTER XVIII

ALONE IN THE CITY

At heart, Frieda Hammer was not a bad girl. But for all these years her moral sense had remained undeveloped. She was like a man who has worked in a factory all his life, where the continuous roar of the machinery dulls his sense of hearing, so that all the finer tones are lost upon him. Frieda was so unaccustomed to the qualities of unselfishness and friendliness, that when she came in contact with them she could only mistrust them. Ruth Henry was the only member of the Girl Scout troop that she could seem to understand, for she was the only one who was out and out for herself. Marjorie Wilkinson was a puzzle to her, and always had been.

And just as the man without an ear for music would not appreciate an orchestra if he heard one, so this mentally-starved girl could not understand the charity and sweetness of the Scouts. But gradually, under the influence of her teacher, of Mrs. Johnson, and of her normal life, she began to realize what it all meant. She secretly liked Marjorie, but she was too proud to show it; instead, she decided to study hard, and bring credit to the Scouts.

All this was before the Japanese fete. Then, that night, like a harsh discord on one instrument breaking the harmony of an orchestra, she heard Ruth's detestable remark: "Here comes Frieda Hammer—look out for your jewelry!" her whole nature rebelled. Sick at heart, and regretting that she had ever allowed the Scouts to persuade her to leave home, she now wanted, more than anything else, to get away from them. She hated them all, Marjorie included!

Her first thought was to leave immediately for home, but upon remembering that while there she was always unhappy and wishing to be elsewhere, it occurred to her that this was her opportunity to strike out for herself. Casting about in her mind for some loophole of escape, she hit upon the plan of stealing Marjorie's canoe, paddling down the creek till it joined the river; and then, at the approach of some town, of attempting to sell it for what she could get, and continuing the remainder of her journey to New York by train. Why New York, rather than any other city, she never stopped to consider; it stood out as the one town to which anyone would wish to go.

That this way of traveling was much slower and more laborious than setting out upon foot at the outset, never occurred to her; it seemed like an easy way, less liable of detection, and it appealed to her love of adventure. Once in New York, she calculated, she would become a waitress in some "swell" restaurant, where she would make lots of money to spend for clothes. A hired girl of the Brubakers who had been a waitress in New York, once told her of the lavish tips she used to receive; and the future, as Frieda pictured it, seemed particularly rosy and independent. But to get there was the thing; once there—almost anything might happen! Why, some rich man might fall in love with her and marry her. That she was but fourteen, and neither attractive nor cultured, never entered her head; she had always longed for adventure, and she meant to have it.

Frieda would have put her plan into effect immediately, if she had only possessed a little money. As it was, she was afraid to set out with an empty purse. But when, over a week later, the Scouts sent her the cash for her ticket home at Thanksgiving, it seemed as if all obstacles were now removed.

Accordingly, she carried out her project the following day. She attended school in the morning, and came home for lunch as usual, so as not to arouse suspicion; but shortly after one o'clock, she slipped out with her bag all packed. And her most precious possessions were Marjorie's pink dress and sweater!

If she had carefully calculated her time, she could not have chosen a more favorable hour for escape. All of Miss Allen's girls, and the teachers as well, were at luncheon, and the public school children were already back at their desks. Finally, one-thirty in the afternoon was just the time that Mrs. Johnson invariably selected for her nap!

Cautiously watching the campus, she untied the rope, and stepped into the canoe. It was a simple matter to paddle across the lake to the spot where the small stream joined it; but it was a more difficult feat to carry the canoe even a short distance on dry land. Frieda Hammer was a strong girl, but had it not been for the thought of the price she could get for it, and the distress its loss would bring to the Scouts, she would have cast aside her heavy burden then and there. She wished, too, that it had belonged to Ruth instead of to Marjorie, but she kept assuring herself that she was glad to bring trouble to any member of Pansy troop.

The distance, however, was short, and in a few minutes she was back again on the water. She paddled on and on, encountering no further obstacles, but was surprised at the speed with which the afternoon seemed to pass. The shadows began to lengthen; and there was still no sight of a river. She realized that soon she would be obliged to stop for the night. Through the trees, over on the left bank of the stream, she distinguished a house. Perhaps she might rest there for the night!

It was the "haunted house" which the Scouts later visited, but Frieda did not know that. Had she heard the tale of the ghost, she would probably have hesitated before remaining there alone all night; but no such story troubled her imagination. She was thankful for the shelter and protection, for the night was chilly.

Opening her bag, she took out the hasty lunch she had packed, and ate it greedily. She was hungry and tired. A few minutes later, she was fast asleep on the floor.

She awoke at dawn, thoroughly chilled, but refreshed, nevertheless, by her night's sleep. She did not lose a moment in collecting her things, and ran down to the creek. To her joy, she found the canoe just where she had left it.

The remainder of the journey, the sale of the canoe to the boatman by the river-front, and the ride to New York, were accomplished without accident or delay, and the girl finally found herself in the great city—the place of her dreams!

Perhaps it was Frieda's good fairy, or perhaps it was the answer to Marjorie's prayers, that brought the strange girl to the attention of the Traveler's Aid agent. Confused by the crowd, dazzled by the vastness of the station, unable to tell one direction from another, she stood bewildered, seeing steps on all sides. What should she do? She hesitated; turned around, and bumped into this good friend.

"Excuse me," she said, in the manner her teacher had taught her at school, "but could you tell me of a nice boarding house? I came here to work."

The woman looked at her kindly, pitying her from the bottom of her heart. To her, she was only a child, alone, strange, in the great city of New York.

"Yes, I know of a nice boarding house," she replied. "But have you a place to work?"

"Not yet!"

"Have you any money?"

"Over thirty dollars!" replied Frieda, to whom it was a princely sum.

Frieda was grateful, indeed, to be put upon the right car, and to have in her hand the written directions to the boarding house which the agent mentioned. In a short time she was established in her room—a bare unattractive one on the fourth floor, not nearly so nice as Mrs. Johnson's, but as good as she could afford. She meant to get work at once; already she was beginning to appreciate what the Girl Scouts had done for her.

She walked the streets for ten days, without success, looking for work. And then, on the eleventh, just when her money was beginning to be exhausted, she found it. Stating her age as seventeen, she obtained a situation as waitress in an attractive little tea-room on Fifth Avenue. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have been able to get such a place, for the other girls were of a higher type, but two waitresses had developed scarlet fever, and the proprietress was encountering difficulty in replacing them.

Frieda was given a black sateen dress and a white cap and apron, and instructed in the finer points of courtesy and service. She spent some of her first wages for powder and rouge, and learned to twist her hair up, according to the prevailing fashion. On the whole, she passed very easily for seventeen or eighteen.

But as the days went by, she found her life singularly monotonous. The proprietress paid the girls small salaries, expecting them to live on tips. But Frieda Hammer received very few tips, for she was not a very successful waitress. The regular patrons avoided her table, and the newcomers were usually displeased with her service, and tipped her grudgingly, or not at all.

Then, during the Thanksgiving holidays, she saw Marjorie and Lily, and a great longing to go back seized her, a desire to study more, and to accept the friendship these Girl Scouts so generously offered. But she thought of the canoe and the money she had stolen, and, overcome with shame, she disappeared into the kitchen to prevent the girls from recognizing her.

About the middle of December she lost her situation, and was forced to seek another, without even a reference. Christmas, which on the farm had meant little except what Mrs. Brubaker had done for her family, took on a new significance as she watched the shops and the decorations, and preparations everywhere. In her imagination she saw the Christmas the Girl Scouts would have, and thought of Mrs. Johnson; and in her heart she was homesick for what might have been.

She secured a temporary position as wrapper in a department store, with the understanding that she would be dropped after Christmas.

She spent Christmas day alone in her room—a small, bare attic, for she could no longer afford the comforts of a boarding house. She would have liked to go to the movies, but with no prospect of work, and not any too much money on hand, she dared not risk the expense.

All during the following week she looked for work, but could find none; for everywhere places were discharging, instead of taking on, girls.

And then the new year brought her the letter from Marjorie!

Marjorie had pictured Frieda now as a sullen, successful, working-girl, ready to scorn any advances on her part. She dreaded lest the girl would tear up the letter before she read it. But she never thought of her hugging and kissing it, as a veritable bond between her and the rest of mankind.

Frieda read the letter over and over, gradually developing a plan. She would go back to Trenton, get work if possible, and save to buy back the canoe. Then, when it was paid for, and she had enough money, she would paddle back to Miss Allen's, return the fifteen dollars and beg the forgiveness of Marjorie and the rest of the Scouts. The thought of beginning all over again inspired her with happiness—the first real happiness she had felt since her arrival in New York!

She next discovered a way to go to Trenton by trolley; and accordingly, the next morning she paid her bill and started off. For the time being, she seemed to have forgotten Ruth Henry; all that she thought of was how Marjorie Wilkinson would receive her when she finally saw her.

She reached Trenton in the afternoon, and hunted a room. Fortunately, she still had enough money to pay in advance. Leaving her belongings, she set out in the direction of the boat-houses, to ascertain whether the canoe was still there. But on her way she passed a large mill, before the entrance of which hung a sign, "Girls Wanted;" and without a moment's hesitation she went in, and secured trial employment.

With a light heart, she crossed the bridge to the other side of the river. Walking down a short distance, she espied several old men along the shore.

"There he is!" she thought, as she caught sight of the white beard that had attracted her before. She looked around expectantly for the canoe, but did not see it among the boats.

"Good afternoon!" she said pleasantly, adopting the manner she had been taught to use in the restaurant. "Several months ago I sold you my canoe. I wonder if I could buy it back at the same price?"

The man eyed her narrowly, while his mouth curled into a snarl.

"Your canoe, eh? Your canoe! I happen to know you stole that canoe—it never was yours!"

The girl recoiled as if he had struck her. How could he know? Were policemen on her trail? She shuddered with apprehension. Then, drawing herself up with dignity, she inquired haughtily,

"And from who did you get your information?"

"A gal and two boys in an auto stopped here to fix a puncture, and suddenly the gal seen the canoe, and recognized it. 'Where'd you get that?' she asked.

"'Some gal paddled up here in it and sold it,' I replied.

"'Wal it weren't her'n to sell,' the gal says. 'She's nuthin' but a common thief—that's what she is!'

"And she paid me five dollars to save it for her, and the next day they drove up with more money, and took it away.

"Now, I ain't sayin' nuthin' on you, but I advise you not to talk about your canoe no more!"

"Oh, indeed!" said Frieda, scarcely able to choke back the tears. And, turning hastily around, she walked over to the bridge.

But she could never go back to the Scouts now; she as a "common thief;" she had better stay and work alone!



CHAPTER XIX

THE SLEIGH RIDE

The first Scout meeting after the girls returned from the holidays was teeming with excitement. Ruth Henry reported that she had found the canoe; and received, to her delight, great applause. Marjorie revealed what she knew about Frieda, omitting to tell about the letter she wrote to the girl; and Miss Phillips informed them that they still had three hundred dollars in the treasury.

"Now for the new patrols," she announced; "I know you are all interested. The three girls with the highest Scout standing, besides Edith Evans who will continue to act as Lieutenant, are Marjorie Wilkinson, Helen Stewart, and Ruth Henry. Ethel Todd came fourth; if we should get enough girls for a new patrol, she would be the leader."

When the clapping had subsided, these girls, with their Captain, withdrew to choose patrol members. Ruth smiled; it was funny that she and Marjorie who were rivals in everything, ever since they had come to Miss Allen's, should again be opposed to each other.

The patrol leaders chose their members, not so much for their ability as for their personality. For this reason, Helen Stewart's patrol included the five senior Scouts, Vivien VanSciver, and two freshmen—Florence Evans and her room-mate, Mildred Cavin. Marjorie's included Lily, Ethel, Frances, Marian, Doris, Alice Endicott, and Daisy Gravers. And Ruth's, of course, comprised her own following: Ada Mearns, Barbara Hill, Mae VanHorn, Evelyn Hopkins and three girls she did not know so well—Anna Cane, Dorothy Whitcomb, and Gladys Staley.

As soon as the patrols were announced, Miss Phillips talked to them about keeping up the standards of each patrol: promptness, industry in Scout work, etc., saying that whichever patrol won the highest standing by the end of the year would be senior patrol the next year. For the present, Helen's division was to have this honor.

"For two months now," continued the Captain, after the excitement had died down, "we shall do nothing but Scout work. Each girl is to prepare for the next test higher up.

"And, of course, you have not forgotten the trip to Washington. During spring vacation, I shall take the first eight girls who have passed their first-class test; so I want you all to get to work. All the girls who were in the troop last year, and are now second-class Scouts, are eligible. All who went to camp passed the first-aid division of the examination; they are not required to take that over again. I should, therefore, advise the following Scouts to get to work:

"Edith Evans, Elsie Lorimer, Emily Rankin, Mary Ridgeway, Frances Wright, Ethel Todd, Marian Guard, Ada Mearns, Lily Andrews, Ruth Henry, Doris Sands, Marjorie Wilkinson.

"I wish I could take all twelve," she concluded; "but I suppose it's more fun because of the competition."

"I'm going to stay up every night, all night!" declared Ruth; "just studying to pass!"

"So long as you don't kidnap any more children, Ruth, you're all right!" tantalized Ada, who could never forget Ruth's vain attempt the previous summer to pass the first-class examination.

Dismissing the subject, Miss Phillips remarked,

"You know, Miss Martin wanted our troop to come over and demonstrate Scouting early in the fall, but I wouldn't go until we had three patrols. Then, on account of the rush of Christmas time, we put it off until after the new year. So—be prepared for a shock—we are going to-morrow afternoon!"

"To-morrow afternoon!" echoed Ethel. "But Captain——"

"I know, Ethel; I realize I am asking a great deal. But listen to my reasons:

"First, the date suits Miss Martin; second, it suits Mr. Remington and the Boy Scouts; and third, it's going to snow."

The girls listened in open-mouthed amazement to these reasons. What could the Boy Scouts, Mr. Remington, and the condition of the weather—especially a stormy one—have to do with a trip to Miss Martin's? But no one uttered a sound; the girls simply waited for an explanation, for they all thought they had not heard their Captain correctly.

Miss Phillips evidently enjoyed their consternation, for she made no attempt to explain.

"Can everybody go?" she asked.

"Must everybody go, Captain?" asked Ethel. "I had another engagement——"

"Oh, if there is anything you can't break, like a dentist appointment——"

"No, it's social!"

"Then you must choose for yourself. We should love to have you, but we can get along without anyone except the three patrol leaders. But I am pretty sure I can guarantee you a good time."

"I know it will be!" cried Ruth, her eyes dancing with anticipation. "Don't we just remember how lovely all our Captain's other surprises turned out to be?"

In the end, Ethel, as well as everybody else, decided to go. The mention of a snowstorm and of the Boy Scouts proved too alluring to pass by.

"Wear your Scout suits, take sweaters, and wear woolen caps and heavy coats," Miss Phillips directed.

The weather man's prediction of snow was correct, for when the girls awakened on Saturday morning, they found everything white. By the time lunch was over, however, it had completely stopped snowing, and the paths were comparatively clear.

The girls gathered expectantly in the hall, dressed according to their Captain's directions.

"Are we going to hike?" asked Frances, looking about in vain for Miss Phillips.

The jingle of sleighbells in front of the door gave an answer to this question. Rushing outside, the girls beheld two sleighs, big enough to carry all the troop. Miss Phillips herself was already seated in the front of one of them, beside the driver, and was enjoying to the full the Scouts' rapturous surprise.

"Now we understand about the snow!" cried Frances, jumping up eagerly beside the Captain. "But where do the Boy Scouts come in?"

"They don't come in the sleigh at all," laughed Miss Phillips; "there wouldn't be room!"

The girls knew it was no use to try to satisfy their curiosity by asking their Captain questions. So they gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the ride.

The air was now clear and bracing, the country beautiful, and the sleighs seemed to fly along. Lily Andrews, who had always lived in New York City, and one or two others, had never experienced the sensation before; the smooth, gliding motion filled them with delight. All too soon the hour passed, and they reached Miss Martin's.

"I wish it were twice as far!" cried Marjorie. Then, catching sight of some girls of the other school, she changed her tone and called out a greeting.

Miss Martin's whole school turned out to welcome them; they invited them into their parlors, where steaming cocoa and cinnamon toast were served. The girls were hungry, and, in spite of their protestations, somewhat cold; but they soon warmed themselves before the cheerful fireplaces and drank the hot cocoa.

It was nearly four o'clock when they began their demonstration. There had been no special preparation; Miss Phillips announced that she would call for events as she thought of them.

She summoned different girls for signalling, first-aid, knot-tying, resuscitation, etc., including all the Scouts in the recitation of the laws and pledge. To no girl did she give any special distinction and on account of this Ruth was disappointed. She had hoped that Miss Phillips would single out the Patrol leaders and place them in a position of honor above all the others. Marjorie was well known to all the girls at Miss Martin's because of her brilliant athletic record; Ruth wished the girls to know that she was equally important. But Miss Phillips never mentioned them.

As soon as the little celebration was over, the girls took the Scouts over the school. Miss Martin's seminary was very much like Miss Allen's, although not so progressive, or of quite so high a standard. More of the latter's graduates attended colleges; but it was both older and larger than Miss Martin's.

"You'll find that you never made a mistake in starting a troop," remarked Miss Phillips, after she had explained a great many details to Miss Watson, who was to be Captain. "And it will be lots of fun for the two schools. I have my plans all ready for this summer, but perhaps next summer both troops could go to an organized camp together."

"What are we going to do this summer?" asked Ruth, who had overheard part of the conversation.

"Wait and see!" replied Miss Phillips, mysteriously. "You will know pretty soon!"

Regarding this almost as a rebuke, Ruth muttered disagreeably,

"Just so we don't waste any more money on thieves, I'll be satisfied," and turned away.

Miss Phillips did not overhear the remark, but Marjorie did, and it brought tears to her eyes.

"Say, Ruth," she remarked, rather tartly, "why don't you win that medal catching Frieda?"

Ruth shrugged her shoulders.

"I did more than anybody else by finding the canoe," she replied. "I guess nobody else has a better claim to the medal than I have!"

After an early supper, the Scouts wrapped up warmly again, and climbed merrily into the sleighs, bound, as they surmised, toward Miss Allen's. The horses had been fed and rested; the snow on the road was packed hard; the stars twinkled brightly, and the whole world glistened in the star-light. But the ride was shorter than before, for after half an hour the horses turned into a big gate. They were entering the grounds of Episcopal Academy, the home of the Boy Scouts!

Before they had pulled up to a standstill, the doors were thrown open by the boys, who were uttering great shouts of welcome. The girls jumped joyfully to the ground.

"The Girl Scouts don't know what they're here for," laughed Miss Phillips, while they were removing their wraps. "They think it's a party!"

"Isn't it?" asked Marjorie, quite distressed.

"For some of the girls, but not for you!" replied the Captain, significantly. "All the Scouts who wish to qualify for first-class test are to take signalling with Mr. Remington. The rest of us will stay here for games."

"Oh!" exclaimed Ruth, sinking down in her chair. "How could you, Captain?"

"Why didn't you warn us?" demanded Ethel.

"I didn't want to make you nervous, or to spoil this afternoon's ride. Now listen while I read the names of the girls who are to take the test." And she proceeded to read the list of girls whom she had previously announced as qualified. "I would like those twelve girls," she concluded, "to follow Mr. Remington to his office."

Marjorie arose with the others, and did as her Captain directed; but with each step that took her nearer to the place of the examination, she felt herself losing courage.

"Your handbook requires that you be able to send and receive semaphore at the rate of thirty-two letters a minute," said Mr. Remington, when they were all finally seated in the Boy Scout room; "but Miss Phillips tells me the requirement has been lowered by National Headquarters to sixteen. I shall, therefore, pass all of the girls who can receive at the latter rate, but shall later test to see whether anyone can make the higher record."

He proceeded to give the required examinations in both the semaphore and the Morse codes, making them strict, as Miss Phillips had directed. Only four of the twelve girls passed on both codes—Edith Evans, Ruth Henry, Ethel Todd, and Marjorie Wilkinson. And, to Mr. Remington's amazement, all of these girls passed the more difficult standard of thirty-two letters a minute!

"I think you have all earned a chance to dance!" he said, leading the way back to the big parlor where the rest of the young people were enjoying themselves.

And Marjorie and Ruth both danced with happy hearts, for they felt that the most difficult part of their first-class test was behind them, and their trip to Washington practically assured.



CHAPTER XX

THE TRIP TO WASHINGTON

Miss Phillips had feared that more than eight girls would qualify as first-class Scouts, and that, therefore, some would be disappointed at not being included in the Washington trip; but she found that, as the weeks went by, fewer girls than she had anticipated became eligible. Under the rigid standards of the new handbook it was no easy matter to become a first-class Scout. It was true that four girls had successfully passed the signalling, but of these four, only Ruth had made an acceptable map. For this reason it came about, just as she desired, that she was the first Scout of Pansy troop to receive that honor.

When she was presented with the badge at the following Scout meeting, she made no pretense at modesty. With a self-satisfied air, she strutted forward in answer to her Captain's summons. "The first-class Scout of Pansy troop!" her manner announced, as plainly as if she had uttered the very words.

"And I'll be the first Golden Eaglet!" she resolved, as she returned after the presentation. For it was characteristic of Ruth Henry that she always kept a goal in view.

Early in February, Marjorie, Edith, and Ethel fulfilled the requirements and received their badges, outwardly more humbly, though secretly they were as proud as Ruth. Their finer sensibilities, however, kept them from openly gloating.

Two more weeks went by, and all the while Miss Phillips grew increasingly anxious. The money was provided for eight; the opportunity was precious! Would she be obliged to take only four girls because all the other twenty Scouts, members of her own troop, were too lazy or too stupid to pass the test? The idea was distasteful; at every meeting she urged them on to increased activity.

A week later, she was partially rewarded, for Frances Wright and Lily Andrews became first-class Scouts. Now Marjorie was happy; she could not imagine a trip of this sort without her beloved room-mate. Lily, however, was a plodder, and while she was never among the foremost ranks, it was seldom that she was left out altogether.

"And now if we could only get Doris!" remarked Marjorie, when she and Lily were privately celebrating the latter's victory. "The party wouldn't be complete without her."

"She made a marvelous map at camp," commented Lily. "I wonder what is keeping her back?"

"Signaling, I think. I say, Lil, couldn't we just make her practice till she passes? We have two weeks yet!"

"Great idea, Marj!" agreed her room-mate; and the two girls hurried off that very minute to put the plan into action.

Doris accepted the help gratefully, and practiced the letters steadily until her ability had so materially improved that she felt qualified to take the test. To the infinite satisfaction of all concerned, she passed—two days before the girls were scheduled to leave. And, at the same time, Helen Stewart fulfilled the requirements and brought the party to the desired number of nine.

The girls preferred not to wear their Scout uniforms on the train, but carried them along in case they might need them for some official occasion. Miss Phillips said that she rather hoped there might be a Scout rally while they were there, thus affording them a chance to meet other Girl Scouts.

"How do you want to room?" she asked, as they were waiting in the station. "A letter from the hotel says that there are three bedrooms and a bath together on one side of the hall, and two—one is a single room for me—on the other. Now who is rooming with whom?"

"Marj and I are together!" cried Lily, proudly.

"Frances and I," announced Ethel Todd.

"Doris and I," said Ruth.

"So Edith and Helen must be," laughed Miss Phillips. "Well, that works out very well. Now she wants to come across the hall with me, and who wants to stay on the other side?"

"Oh, let Lil and me be with you!" exclaimed Marjorie, eagerly; and as she was the first to speak for the honor, none of the others protested.

With the exception of Edith and Miss Phillips, none of the party had ever visited Washington before, and the trip from the start was filled with interest. The girls watched everything out of the window, and laughed and chatted all the way. Since it was vacation, and a party, Miss Phillips permitted candy, and before they had gone very far Lily produced a beautiful box which her father had sent to her that very day.

They reached the hotel in time for dinner Thursday evening. The rooms, with their soft carpets, their luxurious chairs, pretty electric lights and comfortable beds were a novelty to most of the Scouts.

Sitting at the hotel table, listening to the music while they ate, and ordering from the menu cards, proved a delightful experience. The girls could scarcely eat, so interested were they in looking around the big dining-room, watching the people, and now and then catching sight of themselves in the many mirrors about the walls; and all the while conscious of the delicate odor of roses and the swinging rhythm of the music.

"I think it would be fun enough to stay in a hotel for three days," remarked Ethel, sipping her consomme, "without doing another single thing!"

"But our friend and benefactor wouldn't be satisfied with that," remarked Miss Phillips. "We are to see and learn things as well."

"Oh, please tell us who it is!" cried Ruth, almost swallowing her olive in her haste to satisfy her curiosity.

"I dare not! I promised!"

"My, how you do love mysteries, Captain!" observed Ethel.

"Is it a man?" pursued Ruth.

Miss Phillips hesitated. "Yes, it is. I'll tell you that much. And I'll tell you something more. He has promised to equip the girls for a canoe trip this summer, if they win the Pioneer badge!"

"A canoe trip!" repeated Marjorie. "Oh, how wonderful!"

"It will be a nice change from regular camping," said Miss Phillips. "But the pioneer test is a difficult one."

The girls discussed it for a while, and, after supper was over, went up to their rooms. They were too tired even to go to the movies, but Miss Phillips had brought cards, and they played a rubber of bridge before seeking their beds.

They were up early the next morning to find the dining-room almost empty. Again they had the fun of ordering "the things we don't get at Miss Allen's," as they themselves put it, and the meal passed pleasantly.

Most of the day was spent in sight-seeing. They visited the White House, and the Capitol; stopped at the Smithsonian Institute and laughed over the dresses the Presidents' wives had worn; took the elevator to the top of Washington Monument; and, after luncheon, rode to Mt. Vernon. It meant a great deal to them to see all the places they had read so much about.

They came back to the hotel tired; but a bath, fifteen minutes' rest, and fresh clothing, revived them; and at dinner they were as gay as usual. In the evening they went to the theater.

On Saturday they took a sight-seeing bus about the city and ended up at the Girl Scout Headquarters.

All of the girls were tremendously excited as they walked into the office; it was the first time they had ever met other officers, or visited any Scout office. Fortunately, Miss Phillips had insisted this time that they all wear their Scout uniforms, and in these they felt more at ease.

Instead of finding only one or two officials, the place was crowded with them. The girls stepped back shyly, while Miss Phillips made the advances.

"We are Girl Scouts from Miss Allen's Boarding School—in Pennsylvania," she explained; "we're seeing Washington, and, of course, we couldn't miss the Girl Scout Headquarters."

The hostesses were most cordial, showing the girls everything, and then inviting them to a big rally that afternoon.

"That reminds me," remarked one of the officers, who was evidently a representative from National Headquarters in New York City, "I have a list of Girl Scouts here, from all parts of the country, who want to correspond with other Girl Scouts. Would you girls, any of you, like to take some names?"

Marjorie was the first to accept the suggestion. "Oh, I would!" she cried. "That would be lots of fun!"

The officer handed the list to her, and the girls all crowded about to read the names, hoping that perhaps they might come across one that they knew. But, recognizing none, they selected at random, while Marjorie placed checks here and there in the list.

While she was still thus occupied, her eye fell suddenly upon a name which seemed familiar. It aroused a vague sort of expectation within her, as of some old association. Where had she heard it before: "Jennie Perkins," Trenton, N. J.?

She wrinkled her brows for a moment, lost in thought. But her uncertainty lasted only a second; in a flash, the significance of it dawned upon her. That was the assumed name under which Frieda Hammer must have worked at that Fifth Avenue tea-room! Could this girl—evidently a Scout, and living in Trenton—possibly be Frieda? Marjorie's heart leaped for joy, but she resolutely put down her hopes. The whole thing was most improbable. The girl might easily return to Trenton in quest of work, but Marjorie knew that her former dislike of their troop, particularly of Ruth Henry, would prejudice her against ever becoming a Girl Scout. And Frieda Hammer had never showed any signs of sociability; she was the last girl in the world to desire to make new friends by writing to unknown correspondents.

Still, Marjorie decided, she might as well select this name as any, for all were unknown to her. She had nothing whatever to lose, and there was one chance in a thousand that "Jennie Perkins" might be Frieda. Hastily making a check beside the name, she returned the list to the officer.

Although Miss Phillips had intended to take the girls home after luncheon, she changed her mind at their entreaties, and allowed them to remain for the rally.

It was a magnificent sight to behold hundreds of Girl Scouts, all dressed in uniform, gather together in the great hall, and to hear them join, as in one voice, in the pledge to the flag and the oath of the organization. More than one of the members of Pansy troop felt a tightening sensation at their throats when the great throng of girls sang the "Star Spangled Banner." The meeting brought to them an impression that they would never forget, and prepared them in one way to realize what it would mean to be part of a great organized camp.

They left the hall as soon as the address was over, in order that they might make an early train home; for, instead of returning to Miss Allen's school, each girl was to go to her own home, and Miss Phillips was anxious that they all reach their destinations before dark.

The rally had been the most fitting conclusion that Miss Phillips could have conceived. She realized this when she saw how deeply it had impressed the girls.

"A glorious end of a glorious trip!" said Ethel enthusiastically, as they got into the train.

And the shining eyes of the others confirmed their approval of her opinion.



CHAPTER XXI

LETTERS

Marjorie could hardly wait until she reached home, so excited was she about writing to the unknown Girl Scout. It would be a difficult matter, too, for she wanted to write a general letter, and yet one which, if Jennie Perkins should by any chance turn out to be Frieda Hammer, would be appropriate.

The family were all so glad to see her and so anxious to hear about the trip, that she at once gave up the idea of writing that night. Of course, her mother would expect her to go to church the following day; but after Sunday School she would undoubtedly be free.

But again her hopes were frustrated. Ruth sought her immediately after class and walked home with her.

"Let's go for a walk, Marj," she said. "Harold's coming over for me at your house, and I thought maybe Jack would go, too."

Marjorie frowned slightly; she did not particularly enjoy Harold Mason's society, and she did so long to write that letter. But she did not care to disclose any of her plans to Ruth; she had no desire to encounter her ridicule.

"All right; if we don't stay out late. I asked mother to have an early supper, for I want to write letters to-night!"

"John Hadley?" teased Ruth. "By the way, Harold knows him. He goes to Princeton, too, now."

"He does! You never told me——"

"I never thought you were particularly interested in Harold Mason, Marj!"

"Only as your friend, Ruth," laughed Marjorie.

The walk, just as Marjorie anticipated, was not particularly interesting to her. Ruth monopolized the conversation, succeeding in keeping both boys entertained by giving it a decidedly personal flavor. As Marjorie was almost entirely left out, she became bored, and grew impatient to get back. At last, when they were home, she told her mother she was going to lock herself in her room that evening to avoid disturbance.

It was only after a great many attempts that she produced a letter which met with her own satisfaction. She wanted it to be long enough, yet not too long; appropriate for any Girl Scout, and also, if Jennie Perkins should turn out to be Frieda, applicable and friendly towards the runaway.

"I'm just going to send this," she thought; "there's no use writing it over."

She held it up, however, and read it through for the third time.

"DEAR JENNIE,

"I hope you will excuse my using your first name right at the beginning, but since we are both Girl Scouts—really sisters, you know—I think it would be nice to get well acquainted right away!

"What kind of a troop do you belong to? What is your flower name? And how many girls are there in it? It just seems as if I want to ask a million questions at once, but I will try to wait patiently till you answer.

"Our Captain, Miss Phillips,—she is simply wonderful—took eight of us first-class Scouts to Washington for three days. We had a perfect time, lived in a big hotel, and saw all the sights and Saturday morning we went to the Scout office and it was there that I got your name so we could correspond.

"And that reminds me, did you ever live in New York? I knew a girl—or rather I knew of her—and her name was the same as yours, who lived there once.

"We went camping last year and had the loveliest time! If I ever meet you, I will tell you all about it but it would take too long in a letter. Next year our Captain says maybe we will take a canoe trip! Wouldn't that be fun?

"I am crazy to hear about where you go to school and what class you're in! I'm a sophomore and I go to Miss Allen's boarding school.

"We have another week of vacation here at home so I wish you would write to this address before I go back to school. Then I'll try to answer promptly, too.

"Your Sister Scout, MARJORIE WILKINSON."

After the letter was posted, Marjorie waited breathlessly for an answer. She watched for the postman faithfully, refusing to go away from the house when he was due. But three days passed by without her hearing a word.

On the fourth day, she became so restless and nervous that her mother noticed that something was wrong, and asked what the trouble was.

"Nothing, only I'm corresponding with a Girl Scout in Trenton, and I hoped I'd get a letter before I go back. And to-morrow's Friday—there are only two days left."

Mrs. Wilkinson gazed searchingly at her daughter. Marjorie had always been truthful, but this explanation did not sound plausible. Girls did not usually get so worked up over letters from other girls whom they had never seen. That part of the explanation was true, she knew; for Marjorie could not conceal her eagerness for the postman, and her depression when she received nothing. But Mrs. Wilkinson feared that her interest had something to do with John Hadley, and she sighed. Marjorie was too young to care seriously for anyone yet.

But Friday morning's mail brought the coveted letter. Marjorie seized it eagerly and ran off with it to her own room. Assuredly, it would tell her something about Frieda!

The handwriting was a trifle cruder than that of most girls of her own age, but she hardly noticed that. Feverishly, she tore open the envelope, and read,

"DEAR MARJORIE,

"I was very glad to receive your letter so soon, hardly hoping anyone would want to correspond right now. I guess when you hear that I am a mill girl you will not want to correspond. I have worked in Trenton going on four months now and I like it very much. I go to night school and there I met my girl friend and we started the Scouts here. I am only a tenderfoot now, hoping to be a second-class Scout before summer. Our troop never went camping yet. We are too poor.

"Hoping that you will still want to write to me even though I do work, I am yours truly,

"JENNIE PERKINS."

"But she doesn't say whether she ever lived in New York, or where she comes from!" cried Marjorie, in despair. "I'm just as much in the dark as ever!

"I'll just have to get it out of her, bit by bit. And maybe, even if she isn't Frieda Hammer, Pansy troop could help her a whole lot."

So Marjorie decided to write to her again immediately, telling her more about the troop, their hikes, and their good times. She posted the letter Saturday morning. She knew, of course, that she and Ruth were taking the Sunday train to Miss Allen's.

As they entered the main hall, Ruth remarked that they might as well stop in the post-office.

"We probably won't get anything," she said; "but somebody might have written here."

Marjorie's heart bounded with sudden joy when she beheld a letter in her own mail-box. It was registered, too; evidently the post-mistress had signed for it. Seizing it hastily, she looked expectantly at the postmark. Her hopes fell; it was stamped "New York." She was disappointed at this fact, but nevertheless she opened the letter eagerly; for school girls do not receive registered letters every day.

The first thing that caught her eye was a well-known greenback.

"Money!" she cried. "Look, Ruth—twenty—thirty—thirty-five dollars!"

"Who from?" asked Ruth, with surprise.

Marjorie turned the paper over in which the bills were enclosed, and discovered some writing, which she proceeded to read aloud, while Ruth listened with increasing amazement:

"From Frieda Hammer for canoe and carfare belonging to M. Wilkinson and Pansy troop Girl Scouts."

"And postmarked New York!" repeated Marjorie, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry at its receipt. For she rejoiced that Frieda had paid back the Scouts' money, but all her hopes of her unknown correspondent being Frieda were dashed to the ground. For, undoubtedly, she concluded, the girl was still in New York!



CHAPTER XXII

THE PIONEER BADGE

"I do not believe our benefactor, whoever he is, picked out the hardest test in Scouting," remarked Ruth, as Captain Phillips finished explaining the requirements.

"I agree with you, Ruth," assented Miss Phillips. "But we shall have a hike every Saturday night during April to study and practice the different requirements. The final hike, to learn how to build a lean-to, will be to the Boy Scouts' cabin; for they are going to teach us.

"Now," she concluded, "there is one thing more I want to talk about—and that is the money we have in the treasury. Counting what Frieda Hammer just returned to Marjorie, there is about three hundred dollars—a little more, perhaps. That is a lot of money for a troop like ours. And since we earned it to use for our 'Good Turn,' I don't think it would be right for us to spend it upon ourselves. But what do you all think?"

"I agree with you perfectly, Captain," said Edith Evans. "Just because one plan failed, that is no reason why the troop should stop all of its good work. I suggest that a committee be appointed to visit the local charity organization, and find out where assistance is most needed."

But before anyone else could speak, Marjorie jumped to her feet.

"Captain, are we sure that we have failed with Frieda? Doesn't the very fact that she returned the things she took, of her own free will, show that wherever she is, she is progressing? You all know that the Frieda Hammer we knew at camp would not have considered it wrong to steal, or would even have thought of returning the goods! So it's just possible, don't you think, that she may turn up? Couldn't we wait just a little bit longer?"

Lily and Doris, who both knew how close the project was to Marjorie's heart, spoke in favor of waiting until the first of June.

"That will still leave us time to spend the money before the seniors, who helped to earn it as much as any of us, leave," put in Ethel, who usually took sides with Marjorie in a discussion.

Ruth said nothing; she knew it would be of no avail. For by this time she was beginning to realize Marjorie's popularity, and considered it more discreet not to oppose her openly.

Accordingly, Marjorie got her way. She had two months left in which to trace Frieda, and, if she found her, to offer her a new chance. The whole affair had grown to be an obsession with her; it seemed as if she desired it more than anything else in the world.

It was still very cold when the first Saturday in April arrived; but Miss Phillips told the girls to be prepared to hike, no matter what the weather might be. Early in the afternoon they started off, well fortified against the cold.

"We are going to the cabin to-day," announced the Captain, as they walked along in a group. "Mr. Remington and two of the boys will be there to give us a lesson in the use of an axe."

"Which two boys?" asked Doris innocently, betraying the fact that she was more interested in the boys than in learning woodcraft.

Everybody laughed.

"I won't tell you!" replied Miss Phillips, ever mysterious; and each girl secretly hoped it was the boy she liked best.