The Meadow-Brook Girls Under Canvas

CHAPTER XVII

THE SOUP THAT FAILED

Al­most the sole top­ic of dis­cus­sion at Camp Wau-​Wau on the fol­low­ing day was the train of ex­cit­ing events of the pre­vi­ous evening. There were, too, mur­murs of dis­ap­proval at the trick that Har­ri­et Bur­rell and Jane Mc­Carthy had played on the girls. Some of the Camp Girls were ashamed that they had shown such cow­ardice, oth­ers were an­gry at the Mead­ow-​Brook Girls for mak­ing them ap­pear at a dis­ad­van­tage. Among the lat­ter were Pa­tri­cia and Co­ra. These two were talk­ing it over when Har­ri­et in pass­ing, bade them a pleas­ant good morn­ing.

“Now look at her su­pe­ri­or smile, will you?” jeered Pa­tri­cia. “I just would like to take her down a notch or two, and I will be­fore I leave this camp.”

“How?” asked Co­ra re­flec­tive­ly.

“I don't know. I'll catch her some­how and make a laugh­ing stock of her be­fore the rest of the girls.”

“Pa­tri­cia, have you for­got­ten the bath tow­el--have you for­got­ten what she knows about us?”

“No, I haven't,” an­swered Pa­tri­cia Scott, with a toss of her head.

“And she hasn't said a word to any one about it.”

“You don't know that. Have you no­ticed that that Miss Elt­ing looks at us very queer­ly when she pass­es us? She is very cold and dis­tant, too, just as though she knew some­thing about us. You mark my words, that Mead­ow-​Brook Girl has told her all about find­ing the tow­el, but if it gets to the Chief Guardian I know how I can turn the ta­bles on that im­pu­dent Har­ri­et Bur­rell.”

“How?”

“In the eas­iest way you can imag­ine. I'll say that Har­ri­et nev­er has liked me and that she had tak­en my tow­el and hid­den it pur­pose­ly, just to pro­duce it at the right time and ac­cuse me of hav­ing been im­pli­cat­ed in the haz­ing.”

“But it wasn't your tow­el,” protest­ed Co­ra. “It was mine.”

“That's all right. That will make it all the bet­ter. She will say it was your tow­el and I will say it was mine. Don't you see how that will mix the af­fair up? You must stand by me if it comes to that.”

“Of course,” an­swered Co­ra Kid­der, but in rather a weak voice. She was not a bad girl at heart, but she was eas­ily in­flu­enced; it was not dif­fi­cult to per­suade her to look at any mat­ter with oth­er eyes than her own. It was the bad in­flu­ence of Pa­tri­cia Scott that al­ready had led Co­ra so far in­to mis­chief, and that gave promise of lead­ing her still far­ther. Pa­tri­cia, on the oth­er hand, pos­sessed a jeal­ous and re­venge­ful dis­po­si­tion. It had caused her trou­ble in her own home and lost her many friends in her home town. She had been sent to the camp in the hope that the whole­some life in the woods might give her a new point of view, and that the as­so­ci­ation with the Camp Girls might make a bet­ter girl of her. Thus far the de­sired re­sult had not been at­tained, though she had man­aged to hide her short­com­ings from Mrs. Liv­ingston and the guardians. At times Mrs. Liv­ingston, close ob­serv­er that she was, had won­dered as to the girl's re­al char­ac­ter, but Pa­tri­cia's sweet smile, eas­ily as­sumed to fit the oc­ca­sion, had on each oc­ca­sion dis­armed the Chief Guardian.

“You must pre­tend to be very in­dig­nant if ev­er you are called to ac­count, and I will pre­tend to be in­dig­nant, too. I al­most hope she does com­plain of us, and she will, too. She is a sneak.”

“I don't hope she'll com­plain of us,” cried Co­ra in alarm. “I know I should die of mor­ti­fi­ca­tion.”

“You haven't any courage, Co­ra Kid­der,” de­clared Pa­tri­cia scorn­ful­ly. “I see I shall have to look out for both of us, and----”

“No, no,” protest­ed Co­ra. “Tell me what you want me to do. I will do it. I don't want to be found out for what I al­ready have done and be sent home. What would I do? Oh, what would I do?”

Pa­tri­cia gave her a with­er­ing glance.

“What you need is back­bone. You haven't any more courage than a two-​year old child. What ails you?”

“You say I haven't any courage,” an­swered Co­ra hot­ly. “I'll show you whether I have or not. What do you want me to do?” she de­mand­ed, straight­en­ing up to her full height and look­ing Pa­tri­cia square­ly in the eyes.

“That's the way to talk, dear,” nod­ded Pa­tri­cia. “Let's take a walk. For­get the mean things I just said to you, but I had to do it to put some spunk in­to you.”

“There comes that Margery girl,” ex­claimed Co­ra.

“Don't mind her. She wouldn't see the side of a house if it were set up right in front of her. I can't say as much for that per­fect­ly im­pos­si­ble Grace Thomp­son. She is as sharp as she can be, and she isn't afraid to speak right out be­fore ev­ery­body. Didn't you see how she held her ground last night when most of the oth­ers ran away.”

“Oh, she was in the se­cret. She knew all about it,” an­swered Co­ra Kid­der.

“That's where you make a mis­take. She didn't. Didn't you see how fright­ened she was at first?”

Co­ra shook her head.

“You must keep your eyes open,” ad­vised Pa­tri­cia. “You've gone too far to take any chances; that is, any more than you have to take. She was go­ing to run, then she held her­self steady by sheer grit. I don't like her, I don't like any of them, but I know re­al courage when I see it and she showed it last night.”

“Har­ri­et knew, though?”

“Oh, yes; she was in the game. Of course she was. It was a shame. She ought to be put out of the camp. She will be. There isn't room here for her and me.”

Pa­tri­cia linked an arm in that of Co­ra's, walk­ing away to a spot where they might be more by them­selves. There were too many girls pass­ing back and forth now to make pru­dent a dis­cus­sion such as was theirs.

A good part of the af­ter­noon found Har­ri­et Bur­rell in the kitchen of the cook tent. Har­ri­et was try­ing to win an “hon­or” by mak­ing soup. By mak­ing five stan­dard soups con­sec­utive­ly she would win an­oth­er bead, pro­vid­ed the soups were fa­vor­ably re­ceived by the Camp Wau-​Wau Girls.

Har­ri­et's first day in the kitchen re­sult­ed in more con­fu­sion than the kitchen had known that sea­son. It seemed that ev­ery­thing was mis­placed. The din­ner was late that night, but the soup was ex­cel­lent. The oth­er girls in the kitchen made no com­plaint about the con­fu­sion, which they be­lieved to be due to care­less­ness on Har­ri­et's part, be­cause the mis­placed ar­ti­cles and var­ious in­gre­di­ents scat­tered about were those which she had used in her work.

The next day con­di­tions were no dif­fer­ent. Pa­tri­cia, who was prepar­ing sal­ads for an “hon­or” fi­nal­ly threw up her hands in dis­gust. She de­clared she could stand it no longer and if some of the girls didn't re­move Har­ri­et from the kitchen, she, Pa­tri­cia would have to get out her­self. Some­how this word reached Mrs. Liv­ingston, with the re­sult that Pa­tri­cia her­self was asked to drop her “hon­or” work in the kitchen for the present.

It was a blow to Pa­tri­cia Scott. She had not looked for this re­sult, and though she had not made the com­plaint in per­son, her crit­icism of Har­ri­et had been a boomerang that had re­turned and hit Pa­tri­cia. This made the girl even more bit­ter against Har­ri­et than be­fore.

The fol­low­ing two days brought with them less fric­tion in the kitchen. Har­ri­et Bur­rell's soups de­light­ed the girls and the guardians; many were the com­pli­ments be­stowed up­on the blush­ing Har­ri­et.

It was now the fifth day of Har­ri­et's soup-​mak­ing; the last in the test for the “hon­or.” It seemed a fore­gone con­clu­sion that the young wom­an had won her bead for this achieve­ment in cook­ery. Har­ri­et nat­ural­ly felt grat­ified. It meant some­thing to win even one bead in the Camp Girls' As­so­ci­ation as ev­ery mem­ber of the or­ga­ni­za­tion had soon come to know. No girl ev­er had won all of the “hon­ors” these “hon­ors” cov­er­ing so many fields of achieve­ment as to make this well-​nigh im­pos­si­ble.

“Well, Miss Bur­rell,” smiled the Chief Guardian that evening af­ter they had sat down to the ta­bles and grace had been said. “I sup­pose you will be en­ti­tled to wear a new bead to-​mor­row.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Liv­ingston,” an­swered Har­ri­et with a blush.

“Wait till you try the thoup,” sug­gest­ed Tom­my.

“I agree with you,” said Hazel.

“Your friends do not seem to have the same con­fi­dence in your soup mak­ing that the rest of us feel,” smiled Miss Par­tridge.

“Per­haps that is be­cause they know my short­com­ings bet­ter than you do, Miss Par­tridge,” replied Har­ri­et.

A close ob­serv­er might have seen Pa­tri­cia and Co­ra ex­change mean­ing glances.

There was a live­ly chat­ter­ing along the ta­bles while the girls were wait­ing for the serv­ing of the first course, the soup. This was brought to the ta­ble in great tureens, one for each ta­ble, the guardian who sat at the head of the ta­ble serv­ing the soup which was passed along to the oth­er end by the girls them­selves. In this case it was Miss Elt­ing who was do­ing the serv­ing at the ta­ble at which the Mead­ow-​Brook Girls were seat­ed.

“This con­somme cer­tain­ly looks de­li­cious,” she said with a smile.

“From the smell I should say it must be,” de­clared Jane Mc­Carthy. “I know I could die eat­ing that soup.”

“Be care­ful,” warned a voice. “You may.”

“I say girls, let's wait till Har­ri­et sam­ples it,” sug­gest­ed Hazel. “It is her last chance at the soup. There's no telling what she might do to us.”

“Yeth, that ith right,” nod­ded Grace. “No poithon cup for uth.”

“Taste it, dar­lin',” urged Jane.

Har­ri­et with a good na­tured smile dipped her spoon in dain­ti­ly, car­ry­ing some of the steam­ing soup to her lips. She tast­ed the con­somme gin­ger­ly, then took an­oth­er spoon­ful, and hur­ried­ly put the spoon back in the dish. A hor­ri­fied ex­pres­sion ap­peared on the face of the Mead­ow-​Brook girl.

“There! What did I tell you?” cried Margery.

“What is the trou­ble?” asked Miss Par­tridge.

“Oh-​h-​h!” gasped Har­ri­et, mak­ing a des­per­ate ef­fort to con­trol her­self.

A girl on the oth­er side of the ta­ble from Miss Bur­rell, sam­pled the soup, then hasti­ly dropped her spoon. Margery fol­lowed suit a mo­ment lat­er.

“How is it?” ques­tioned Hazel.

“Please don't ask me,” de­clared Margery gloomi­ly.

Miss Elt­ing made a wry face when she tast­ed the con­somme, but said noth­ing. Some went on eat­ing, oth­ers laid down their spoons and leaned back in their chairs. Tom­my was the first to break the si­lence that had set­tled over the ta­ble.

“There ith thome­thing the mat­ter with thith thoup,” she de­clared in a loud voice.

“That's what I say,” an­swered a voice.

“And I, and I, and I,” cried oth­er voic­es.

“Yes, I agree with you,” an­swered Miss Par­tridge grave­ly. “Har­ri­et what did you put in the soup?”

“The usu­al in­gre­di­ents.”

Mrs. Liv­ingston at this junc­ture sam­pled the soup. Her face dark­ened. She swal­lowed a spoon­ful, then quick­ly laid the spoon on the soup plate.

Har­ri­et had shrunk back in­to her chair. A deep flush rose to her face. To cov­er her con­fu­sion she es­sayed to take some more soup, but the ef­fort was a fail­ure. She sim­ply could not eat the con­somme.

“It tathteth to me like thoap,” de­clared Tom­my.

“I be­lieve it is soap,” spoke up Pa­tri­cia Scott. “How per­fect­ly fright­ful!”

“I am afraid, Miss Bur­rell,” said Mrs. Liv­ingston, “that you have lost the 'hon­or' for this sea­son. This con­somme seems to be a dis­mal fail­ure. This of course does not pre­clude you from tak­ing up some oth­er branch of cook­ery and win­ning an 'hon­or'.”

Har­ri­et was on the verge of tears, but she held her­self un­der good con­trol. Her hu­mil­ia­tion was ap­par­ent on­ly in her flam­ing cheeks and al­most im­per­cep­ti­ble beads of per­spi­ra­tion that stood out on her fore­head.

“This is a mat­ter that must be looked in­to, Har­ri­et,” said the Chief Guardian. “Young ladies, eat no more of the soup. There is some­thing se­ri­ous­ly wrong with it. It tastes like soap to me, too; I am free to ad­mit that. I hope no one has been play­ing pranks,” fix­ing a keen glance on Har­ri­et's face.

“Oh, Mrs. Liv­ingston,” cried Har­ri­et, shocked al­most be­yond words.

“I am not ac­cus­ing you of any such thing, my dear,” ex­plained the Chief Guardian. “You would be un­like­ly to play pranks and lose your 'hon­or' mark. The guardians will please ac­com­pa­ny me to the kitchen. Young ladies, you will pro­ceed with your din­ner. Up­on sec­ond thought, Miss Par­tridge and Miss Elt­ing will ac­com­pa­ny me. The oth­er guardians may re­main here.”

Mrs. Liv­ingston rose, as did the two teach­ers whom she had named. A heavy si­lence set­tled over the cook tent af­ter the three wom­en had dis­ap­peared in­to the kitchen, a small tent at the rear of the cook tent. They were gone for some time. Fi­nal­ly, Mrs. Liv­ingston and Miss Par­tridge re­turned. Miss Elt­ing was not with them. The Chief Guardian's face wore an ex­pres­sion of stern­ness such as none of the girls ev­er had ob­served there be­fore.

Har­ri­et ap­peared whol­ly to have lost her ap­petite. She was mak­ing a brave ef­fort to eat, but the food choked her. The meal was fin­ished in si­lence. At the con­clu­sion of the meal, Mrs. Liv­ingston rose and re­quest­ed the girls to come to or­der.

“Young ladies,” she be­gan, “a most se­ri­ous thing has oc­curred. I make no ac­cu­sa­tions. Miss Bur­rell, where is the key to your sup­ply box?”

“I hung it on a nail on the out­side of the tent pole just be­hind my work ta­ble, Mrs. Liv­ingston.”

The Chief Guardian turned to Miss Par­tridge.

“Do you mind bring­ing Miss Bur­rell's key and box, Miss Par­tridge?” she asked. The young guardian rose prompt­ly and left the tent. A few mo­ments lat­er, she re­turned bear­ing a gal­va­nized box, slight­ly larg­er than a bak­ing pow­der case. This she placed on the ta­ble be­fore the Chief Guardian, lay­ing a key be­side it. Har­ri­et saw that the box was hers, but she did not know why it had been brought to the tent.

Mrs. Liv­ingston un­locked the sup­ply box, then tilt­ing it so that the light from the hang­ing lamp near­by shone in­to the box, she peered in. Har­ri­et saw her grope in the box, saw her with­draw some small ob­ject and ex­am­ine it in the palm of her hand amid a breath­less si­lence. Then the Chief Guardian raised her eyes, fix­ing them on Har­ri­et Bur­rell with an in­quir­ing, sor­row­ful gaze.