Margaret Penrose - Dorothy Dale in the City

Neither books, papers nor pencils were to be seen in the confused mass of articles, piled high, if not dry, in the rooms of the pupils of Glenwood Hall, who were now packing up to leave the boarding school for the Christmas holidays.

“Going home is so very different from leaving home,” remarked Dorothy Dale, as she plunged a knot of unfolded ribbons into the tray of her trunk. “I’m always ashamed to face my things when I unpack.”

“Don’t,” advised Tavia. “I never look at mine until they have been scattered on the floor for a few days. Then they all look like a fire sale,” and she wound her tennis shoes inside a perfectly helpless lingerie waist.

“I don’t see why we bring parasols in September to take them back in Christmas snows,” went on Dorothy. “I have a mind to give this to Betty,” and she raised the flowery canopy over her head.

“Oh, don’t!” begged Tavia. “Listen! That’s bad luck!”

“Which?” asked Dorothy, “the parasol or Betty?”

“Neither,” replied Tavia. “But the fact that I hear Ned’s voice. Also the clatter of Cologne’s heavy feet. That means the plunge – our very last racket.”

“I hope you take the racket out of this room,” said Dorothy, “for I have some Christmas cards to get off.”

“Let us in!” called a voice on the outer side of the door. “We’ve got good news.”

“Only news?” asked Tavia. “We have lots of that ourselves. Make it something more substantial.”

“Hurry!” begged the voice of Edna Black, otherwise known as Ned Ebony. “We’ll be caught!”

Tavia brought herself to her feet from the Turkish mat as if she were on springs. Then she opened the door cautiously.

“What is it?” she demanded. “Is it alive?”

“It was once,” replied Edna, “but it isn’t now.”

The giggling at the door was punctuated with a struggle.

“Oh, let us in!” insisted Cologne, and pushed past Tavia.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Whatever is this?”

The two newcomers were now in a heap on the floor, or rather were in a heap on a feather bed they had dragged into the room with them. Quick to scent fun, Tavia turned the key in the door.

“The old darling!” she murmured. “Where did the naughty girls get you?” and she attempted to caress the feather tick in which Edna and Cologne nestled.

“That’s Miss Mingle’s feather bed!” declared Dorothy. “Wherever did you get it?”

“Mingling with other things getting packed!” replied Edna, “and I haven’t seen a little bundle of the really fluffy-duffy kind since they sent me to grandma’s when I had the measles. Isn’t it lovely?”

“No wonder she sleeps well,” remarked Tavia, trying to push Cologne off the heap. “I could take an eternal rest on this.”

“But why was it out in the hall?” questioned Dorothy. “I know Miss Mingle has a weak hip and has to sleep on a soft bed, always.”

“Her room was being made over, and she wanted to see it all alone before she left. She is going to-morrow,” said Edna.

“And to-night?” asked Dorothy.

“She must have a change,” declared Edna, innocently, “and we thought an ordinary mattress would be – more sanitary.”

“You cannot hide her bed in here,” objected Dorothy. “You must take it back.”

“Take back the bed that thou gavest!” sang Tavia, gaily. “How could I part with thee so soon!”

“We did not intend to hide it here, Doro,” said Cologne. “We had no idea of incriminating you. There is a closet in the hall. But just now there are also tittle-tattles in the hall. We are only biding a-wee.”

“Oh, it’s leaking!” exclaimed Edna, as she blew a bunch of feathery down at Dorothy. “What shall we do?”

“Get it back as soon as you can,” advised Dorothy. “Let me peek out!”

Silence fell as Dorothy cautiously put her head out of the door. “No one in sight,” she whispered. “Now is your time.”

Quietly the girls gathered themselves up. Tavia took the end of the bed where the “leak” was. Out in the hall they paused.

It was Tavia who sang. Then with one jerk she pushed the bed over the banister!

“Oh!” gasped Edna and Cologne, simultaneously.

“Mercy!” came a cry from below. “Whatever is – ”

They heard no more. Inside the room again the girls scampered.

“Right on the very head of Miss Mingle!” whispered Edna, horror-stricken. “Now we are in for it!”

“But she needed it,” said Tavia, in her absurd way of turning a joke into kindness. “I was afraid she wouldn’t find it.”

“Better be afraid she does not find you,” said Dorothy. “Miss Mingle is a dear, but she won’t like leaky feather beds dropped on her.”

“Well, I suppose we will all have to stand for it,” sighed Edna, “though land knows we never intended to decapitate the little music teacher. And she has a weak spine! Tavia Travers, how could you?”

“You saw how simple it was,” replied Tavia, purposely misunderstanding the other. “But do you suppose we have killed her? I don’t hear a sound!”

“Sounds are always smothered in feathers,” said Cologne. “Dorothy, can’t you get the story ready? How did the accident happen?”

“Too busy,” answered Dorothy. “Besides, I warned you.”

“Now, Doro! And this the last day!”

“Oh, please!” chimed in the others.

“I absolutely refuse to fix it up,” declared Dorothy. “I begged you to relent, and now – ”

“Hush! It came to! I hear it coming further to!” exclaimed Cologne. “Doro, hide me!”

A rush in the outer hall described the approach of more than one girl. In fact there must have been at least five in the dash that banged the door of Number Nineteen.

“Come on!”

“Hide!”

“Face it!”

“Feathers!”

“Mingle!”

Some of the words were evidently intended to mean more. Snow was scattered about from out of door things, rubbers were thrust off hastily, and the girls, delighted with the prospect of a real row, were radiant with a mental steam that threatened every human safety valve.

“Girls, do be quiet!” begged Dorothy, “and tell us what happened to that feather bed.”

“Nothing,” replied Nita, “it happened to Mingle. She is just now busy trying to get the quills out of her throat with a bottle brush. Betty suggested the brush.”

“And the hall looks like a feather foundry,” imparted Genevieve. “Mrs. Pangborn is looking for someone’s scalp.”

“There! I hear the court martial summons!” exclaimed Edna. “Tavia! You did it.”

The footfall in the hall this time was decided and not clattery. It betokened the coming of a teacher.

A tap at the door came next. Dorothy scrambled over the excited girls, and finally reached the portal.

“The principal would like to have the young ladies from this room report in the office at once,” said the strident voice of Miss Higley, the English teacher. “She is very much annoyed at the misconduct that appeared to come from Room Nineteen.”

“Yes,” faltered Dorothy, for no one else seemed to know how to find her tongue. “There was – an accident. The girls will go to the office.”

After the teacher left the girls gave full vent to their choking sensations. Tavia rolled off the couch, Edna covered her own head in Dorothy’s best sofa cushion, Cologne drank a glass of water that Tavia intended to drink, and altogether things were brisk in Number Nineteen.