They turned on the green-shaded student's lamp and drew the blinds, the night watchman being very vigilant at the dormitories, and began silently mopping up the floor with towels.

Judy removed her wet clothes, and unbound her long hair, light in color and fine as silk in quality.

"I can't go to bed," she announced, "until I find out what's happened to the Gemini," and without another word she crept into the corridor.

"Nance," whispered Molly, when they were alone, "if Minerva Higgins did this, she's about the boldest freshman alive to-day. But, after all, we can't exactly blame her, considering what we did to her."

"She is taking great chances," replied Nance, who had a thorough respect for college etiquette and cla.s.s caste. "Every pert freshman must be prepared for a call-down; and if she doesn't take it like a lamb, she'll just have to expect a freeze-out. It's much better for her in the end.

If Minerva were allowed to keep this up for four years, she would be entirely insufferable. She's almost that now."

"Don't you think she could find it out without such severe methods?"

"Severe methods, indeed," answered Nance indignantly. "Do you call it severe to be asked to sup with the brightest girls in Wellington?

Margaret's speech alone was worth all the humiliation Minerva might have felt; but she didn't feel any. Do you consider that rough, crude jokes like this are going to be tolerated?"

"But we don't know that Minerva played them, yet," pleaded Molly. "I do admit, though, that it must have been a very ordinary person who could think of them. Margaret might have been badly hurt if she hadn't fallen on top of the rest of us."

Presently Judy came stalking into their bedroom.

"It's just as I expected," she announced. "The Williamses' bed was full of carpet tacks and Mabel Hinton fell over a cord stretched across her door and sprained her wrist. She has it bound with arnica now."

"I don't see how Minerva could have had time to do all those things,"

broke in Molly.

There are some rare and very just natures--and Molly's was one of them--which will not be convinced by circ.u.mstantial evidence alone.

"She would have had plenty of time," argued Judy. "It would hardly have taken five minutes provided she had planned it all out beforehand.

Besides, it's easy for you to talk, Molly. You didn't bite your tongue, or sprain your wrist, or get a ducking; or undress in the dark and get into a bedful of tacks. You escaped."

"Disgusting!" came Nance's m.u.f.fled voice from the covers.

"It is horrid," admitted Molly. "Whoever did it----"

"Minerva!" broke in Judy.

"--must have a very mistaken idea of college and the sorts of amus.e.m.e.nt that are customary."

So the argument ended for the night.

CHAPTER V.

VARIOUS HAPPENINGS.

Guilty or innocent, Minerva Higgins displayed an inscrutable face next day, and the juniors, lacking all necessary evidence, were obliged to admit themselves outwitted; but they let it be known that jokes of that cla.s.s were distinctly foreign to Wellington notions, and woe be to the author of them if her ident.i.ty was ever disclosed.

In the meantime, Molly was busy with many things. As usual she was very hard up for clothes, and was concocting a scheme in her mind for saving up money enough to buy a new dress for the Junior Prom. in February. She bought a china pig in the village, large enough to hold a good deal of small change, and from time to time dropped silver through the slit in his back.

"He's a safe bank," she observed to her friends, "because the only way you can get money out of him is to smash him."

The pig came to a.s.sume a real personality in the circle. For some unknown reason he had been christened "Martin Luther." The girls used to shake him and guess the amount of money he contained. Sometimes they wrote jingles about him, and Judy invented a dialogue between Martin Luther and herself which was so amusing that its fame spread abroad and she was invited to give it many times at spreads and fudge parties.

The scheme that had been working in Molly's mind for some weeks at last sprung into life as an idea, and seizing a pencil and paper one day she sketched out her notion of the plot of a short story. It was not what she herself really cared for, but what she considered might please the editor who was to buy it as a complete story, and the public who would read it. There were mystery and love, beauty and riches in Molly's first attempt. Then she began to write. But it was slow work. The ideas would not flow as they did for letters home and for cla.s.s themes. She found great difficulty in expressing herself. Her conversations were stilted and the plot would not hang together.

"I never thought it would be so hard," she said to herself when she had finished the tale and copied it out on legal cap paper. "And now for the boldest act of my life."

With a triumphant flourish of the pen, she rolled up the ma.n.u.script and marched across the courtyard to the office of Professor Green.

"Come in," he called, quite gruffly, in answer to her knock. But when she entered, he rose politely and offered her a seat. Sitting down again in his revolving desk chair, he looked at her very hard.

"I know you will think I have the most colossal nerve," she began, "when you hear why I have called; but I really need advice and you've been so kind--so interested, always."

"What is it this time?" he interrupted kindly. "More money troubles?"

"No, not exactly. Although, of course, I am always anxious to earn money. Who isn't? But I have a writing bee in my head. I've had it ever since last winter, although I confined myself mostly to verse----"

Molly paused and blushed. She felt ashamed to discuss her poor rhymes with this learned man nearly a dozen years older than she was.

"There's no money in poetry," she went on, "and I thought I would switch off to prose. I have written a short story and--I hope you won't be angry--I've brought it over for you to look at. I knew you looked over some of Judith's stories."

"Of course I shan't be angry, child. I'm glad to help you, although I am not a fiction writer and therefore might hardly be thought competent to judge. Let's see what you have." He held out his hand for the ma.n.u.script. "On second thought," he continued, "suppose you read it aloud to me. Girls' handwriting is generally much alike--hard to make out."

Molly, trembling with stage fright, her face crimson, began to read.

The professor, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers, turned his whimsical brown eyes full upon her and never shifted his gaze once during the entire reading, which lasted some twenty-five minutes. When she had finished, Molly dropped the papers in her lap and waited.

"Well, what do you think of it? Please don't mince matters. Tell me the truth."

The professor came back to life with a start. She knew at once that he had not heard a word.

"Oh, er--I beg your pardon," he said. "Very good. Very good, indeed.

Suppose you leave the ma.n.u.script with me. I'll look it over again to-night."

She rose to go. After all she had no right to complain, since she had asked this favor of a very busy man; but she did wish he had paid attention.

"Wait a moment, Miss Brown, there was something I wanted to say. What was it now?" He rubbed his head, and then thrust his hands into his pockets. "Oh, yes. This is what I wanted to say--have an apple?" A flat j.a.panese basket on the table was filled with apples. "Excuse my not pa.s.sing the basket, but they roll over. Take several. Help yourself."

He made Molly take three, one for Nance, one for Judy and one for herself. Then he saw her to the outer door, bowing silently, all the time like a man in a dream.

The next morning the ma.n.u.script was returned to Molly by the professor after the cla.s.s in Literature. It was folded into a big envelope and contained a note. The note had no beginning and was signed "E. G." This is what it said:

"Since you wish my true opinion of this story, I will tell you frankly that it is decidedly amateurish. The style is heavy and labored and the plot mawkishly sentimental and mock heroic.

"Try to think up some simple story and write it out in simple language. Do not employ words that you are not in the habit of using. Be natural and express yourself as you would if you were writing a letter to your mother. Write about real people and real happenings; not about impossibly beautiful and rich G.o.ddesses and superbly handsome, fearless G.o.ds. Such people do not really exist, you know, and you are supposed to be painting a word picture of life.

"You have talent, but you must be willing to work very hard. Good writing does not come in a day any more than good piano playing or painting. I would add: be yourself--unaffected--sincere--and your style will be perfect."