The Meadow-Brook Girls Under Canvas

CHAPTER VII

TOM­MY HAS A NIGHT­MARE

Har­ri­et rous­ing her­self from a sound sleep, did not know where she was for the mo­ment. Tom­my's cries of alarm how­ev­er, soon brought Har­ri­et to a re­al­iza­tion of her sur­round­ings. The girl bound­ed from her bed.

“Tom­my, oh, Tom­my! What is it?”

Tom­my fair­ly flew to what she sup­posed was the cot of her com­pan­ion and threw her­self full force up­on it. She fell up­on a soft body.

“Get off! Get in­to your own bed. What do you mean by jump­ing on me?” de­mand­ed an an­gry voice that Grace even in her great fright, knew at once did not be­long to her com­pan­ion. “Get out of here!” The words were ac­com­pa­nied by a vi­olent push. Tom­my Thomp­son was thrown from the cot to the floor, on which she land­ed heav­ily.

“Thave me!” she screamed. “Oh, thave me!”

“You get in here again and I will call the guardian,” de­clared the girl in­to whose cot Tom­my had thrown her­self.

“I heard thome­thing growl,” shiv­ered Tom­my.

“It is the sup­per you ate,” sug­gest­ed Har­ri­et “I don't won­der you heard growls. You ate more than any of the rest of us.”

“She's haunt­ed,” sug­gest­ed the girl on the cot. Then sud­den­ly she whis­pered: “Sh-​h-​h-​h!”

A guardian came hur­ry­ing in­to the tent, hold­ing a lantern above her head. Nei­ther Har­ri­et nor Tom­my had seen her be­fore. Tom­my sat in the mid­dle of the floor the pic­ture of woe. Har­ri­et stood near by with a look of deep con­cern in her eyes.

“Young ladies, I am amazed,” ex­claimed the guardian. “Miss Kid­der, what is the mean­ing of this?”

“I don't know. Pa­tri­cia had some dif­fi­cul­ty with one of these girls,” was the re­ply.

“She jumped on me,” an­swered Pa­tri­cia. “I don't know what for, but she knocked the breath right out of me.”

“You are the new girls, are you not?” asked the guardian, turn­ing abrupt­ly to Har­ri­et and Grace.

“Yes, we are the Mead­ow-​Brook Girls,” an­swered Har­ri­et.

“What ap­pears to be the trou­ble?”

“Some­thing star­tled my friend. What was it, Grace, dear?”

“Thome--thome­thing growled per­fect­ly aw­ful. It wath right by the head of my bed. It thound­ed like a wild an­imal,” ex­plained Grace wide-​eyed. “Yeth, and I could hear it'th teeth thnap. It wath go­ing to bite me.”

“Non­sense, child. You were dream­ing. Did you have a late sup­per?”

“We ate sup­per, af­ter mid­night,” ex­plained Har­ri­et.

“That ac­counts for it. Get back in­to bed, at once, girls. I am Miss Par­tridge, your guardian.”

“I am Har­ri­et Bur­rell. This is Grace Thomp­son,” in­tro­duced Har­ri­et, as she slipped back in­to her cot.

“Now that I un­der­stand I shall not be alarmed again,” said the guardian. “I trust you will be qui­et, Miss Thomp­son. Re­mem­ber you are dis­turb­ing oth­ers when you per­mit your­self to raise your voice.”

“Yeth'm,” an­swered Tom­my. The guardian tucked her in­to bed, then left the tent.

“Don't you dare to jump on me again,” warned Co­ra in a low voice.

“She didn't mean to,” an­swered Har­ri­et. “I am sure Grace is sor­ry that she dis­turbed you.”

“Yeth. Beg your par­don,” said Grace. “But what wath it that growled at me?”

“I tell you, you're haunt­ed,” an­swered Co­ra. Tom­my snug­gled down trem­bling. She had be­gun to be­lieve that she was haunt­ed. Af­ter this in­ter­rup­tion the girls slept sound­ly un­til late in the night, when all those in that part of the camp were again aroused by a se­ries of pierc­ing screams and cries for help. The cries sound­ed from the tent oc­cu­pied by Har­ri­et and Tom­my. Not on­ly Miss Par­tridge, but the Chief Guardian came run­ning to the scene.

The in­te­ri­or of the tent was in an up­roar, but as the guardians neared the scene they were alarmed to dis­cov­er that the cries came from with­out rather than from with­in the tent.

Then a fur­ther startling dis­cov­ery was made. A lit­tle white clad fig­ure crouched on the ground a few feet out­side the en­trance to the tent She was scream­ing with ter­ror. Be­side her was Har­ri­et Bur­rell, shak­ing the scream­ing Tom­my.

“Stop it! Stop it!” com­mand­ed Har­ri­et.

“Yes, please do. You will have the camp in an up­roar,” com­mand­ed Mrs. Liv­ingston. “Come in­side at once. Miss Bur­rell, will you kind­ly as­sist your friend in? Miss Par­tridge tells me this young wom­an raised a dis­tur­bance once be­fore this evening. I fear the late sup­per was too much for her. Now, my dear,” added the Chief Guardian kind­ly. “Tell me all about it.”

Tom­my sat ter­ror-​strick­en on the edge of her cot. Pa­tri­cia Scott and Co­ra Kid­der like­wise were sit­ting on the edges of their cots. They did not ap­pear to be fright­ened. They looked bored and dis­gust­ed.

“It wath the motht ter­ri­ble thing,” breathed Grace.

“You must have been dream­ing. But tell me, what you think you saw,” urged Mrs. Liv­ingston.

“I didn't think I thaw it. I did thee it,” de­clared Tom­my firm­ly.

“You were dream­ing, Tom­my. You know you were,” said Har­ri­et, but Tom­my shook her head with em­pha­sis.

“It wath a big pink ele­phant. I thaw him. He walked right in at that door. Then--then--then--he thtepped up on the cot and walked on me with hith feet. He wath jutht go­ing to thtep on my face when I cried out.”

“Night­mare,” smiled Miss Par­tridge.

“It wath not,” protest­ed Grace. “Wait! When I cried out the pink ele­phant put hith trunk right around my neck. Look! You'll thee the mark of the trunk on my neck now.”

“Non­sense! There is no mark there, dear,” soothed Har­ri­et.

“I gueth I know! It ith my neck. Then the pink ele­phant lift­ed me right up. He wath growl­ing jutht like a bear all the time. Then he car­ried me right out doorth and dropped me on the ground. I heard thome thrange thingth too. I heard feet and wingth in the air. I thaw thome aw­ful thingth, and----”

“My dear, you have a won­der­ful imag­ina­tion,” de­clared Mrs. Liv­ingston, laugh­ing. “And what is more and worse still, you have eat­en too heav­ily. I shall see to it that you do not in­dulge in any late repasts af­ter this.”

“Then pleathe tell me, how did I get out doorth?” de­mand­ed Tom­my tri­umphant­ly. This was some­thing of a pos­er. Har­ri­et said Grace did not ap­pear to be ful­ly awake when she reached her lit­tle com­pan­ion.

“What do you know about this?” ques­tioned the guardian, turn­ing to Pa­tri­cia Scott.

“Noth­ing, what­ev­er,” replied Pa­tri­cia.

“Nei­ther do I,” an­swered Co­ra Kid­der. “I was awak­ened by a great up­roar for the sec­ond time to-​night. The noise at first sound­ed right here in the tent, then when I had sat up on my cot I dis­cov­ered that it was out­side. I hur­ried out think­ing I might be need­ed. I found that young wom­an shak­ing the lit­tle one. That is all I know about it, Miss Par­tridge.”

“I am sor­ry that you have been so dis­turbed,” said Mrs. Liv­ingston kind­ly. “I do not think Miss Thomp­son will have any fur­ther at­tacks of night­mare to-​night. If she does, of course we shall have to re­move her to some oth­er tent where she will not dis­turb any one ex­cept pos­si­bly a guardian. Now get back to bed, girls.”

The two guardians wait­ed un­til qui­et had once more been re­stored in the tent, then re­tired leav­ing the girls again in dark­ness. Tom­my was still trem­bling, but the keen edge of her fright had worn away.

Har­ri­et lay wide awake for some time. She heard faint whis­pers be­ing ex­changed be­tween Pa­tri­cia and Co­ra. Har­ri­et re­called a swift look that passed be­tween the two girls when Tom­my was telling her ex­cit­ing sto­ry.

“Those girls have had some­thing to do with this,” de­clared Har­ri­et to her­self. “But sure­ly, they were not to blame for Tom­my's hav­ing had the night­mare. Tom­my had on­ly her­self to blame for that. Still, how did she get out­side? That is what I should like to know. I think Miss Pa­tri­cia Scott and Miss Co­ra Kid­der could ex­plain some­thing of that if they were to tell the truth.”

Hav­ing reached this con­clu­sion, Har­ri­et Bur­rell went to sleep and slept un­til morn­ing with­out fur­ther in­ter­rup­tion. She was awak­ened by the morn­ing bell. Pa­tri­cia and Co­ra had al­ready dressed and gone out. Tom­my was asleep, deaf to the jan­gling morn­ing bell.

“Tom­my, Tom­my! Get up,” called Har­ri­et. Tom­my mut­tered. Har­ri­et went over and shook her un­til she was wide awake. “You have on­ly fif­teen min­utes to dress, dear.”

“I don't want to dreth. I want to thleep,” ob­ject­ed Tom­my. Har­ri­et pulled her out of bed, caus­ing Tom­my to sit down heav­ily on the floor. Mut­ter­ing and scold­ing, Grace dragged her­self about weari­ly and be­gan mak­ing her morn­ing toi­let. But she protest­ed with ev­ery move she made. Just be­fore the fif­teen minute time al­lowance had ex­pired, the two girls stepped out in­to a glo­ri­ous for­est morn­ing. Great trees tow­ered above them, the for­est birds were rais­ing their voic­es in a melo­di­ous cho­rus, fresh, pun­gent odors from spruce and hem­lock trees filled the air and some­where near at hand, a stream splashed and rip­pled mu­si­cal­ly.

“Glo­ri­ous!” breathed Har­ri­et. “Oh, isn't it won­der­ful, Grace, dear?”

Grace Thomp­son's eyes light­ed up ap­pre­cia­tive­ly, then they danced mer­ri­ly. All at once, Grace raised her voice shril­ly in the yell of the Mead­ow-​Brook Girls:

“Rah, rah, rah, Rah, rah, rah! Mead­ow-​Brook, Mead­ow-​Brook, Thith­boom ah!”

“Tom­my, Tom­my, you shouldn't have done that,” re­buked Har­ri­et.

Ful­ly a dozen girls sprang from their tents at­tract­ed by the new cry; then they be­gan laugh­ing when they saw Har­ri­et in her torn skirt and had got­ten a good look at Tom­my Thomp­son's imp­ish face.

“Young ladies, do you know what day this is?” re­mind­ed one girl who seemed old­er than any of the oth­ers out­side.

“Yeth. It ith the greatetht day I ev­er thaw and I'm go­ing to yell thome more af­ter I have my break­fatht,” de­clared Tom­my with an em­pha­sis that left no doubt in their minds as to her in­ten­tions.

“No, my dear young wom­an, this is Sun­day,” an­swered the pre­vi­ous speak­er. “You would do well not to for­get it, un­less you wish for a pleas­ant lit­tle in­ter­view with Mrs. Liv­ingston.”

“There! What did I tell you, Tom­my?” ex­claimed Har­ri­et.

“I don't care. It ith grand and I've got to make a noithe. Why don't they thtop the birdth from mak­ing a noithe on Thun­day, too?” re­tort­ed Grace as the two girls walked slow­ly to­ward the cook tent with the eyes of the camp up­on them.

“Yes, she is a per­fect fright,” sud­den­ly de­clared a voice that Har­ri­et rec­og­nized as be­long­ing to Pa­tri­cia Scott. “I should not think Mrs. Liv­ingston would per­mit her to pa­rade about in that gown.”

Har­ri­et's face flushed, but she did not even turn her head. Tom­my for­tu­nate­ly had not caught the words, for which Har­ri­et was thank­ful. She knew that Tom­my would have re­sent­ed the re­mark and made a scene there and then. The two girls en­tered the cook tent with some forty oth­er girls fol­low­ing on slow­ly be­hind them.