The committee of three, which included Portia Graham, Veronica and Ethel Laird, an Acasia House freshman, duly met on the following evening. After two hours of good hard work they succeeded in preparing a letter of protest which suited them. It was a drastic letter, written out of the adamant hardness of youth against injustice. The Silverton Hall freshmen hailed it with acclamation and vowed that it ought to be placed on record with the world’s great documents. The Acasia House contingent were no less enthusiastic. There were twenty of them, which, with the six at Wayland Hall, swelled the number of protestants to fifty-eight. This represented two-thirds of the class.

It was a week from the time the letter was written and copied before it was signed by the loyal two-thirds. Portia made haste prudently, never allowing the precious document to be out of her sight during the signing process. Each freshman was also pledged not to mention it outside the class. During that period of time, Marjorie and Elaine were carefully scouting about for signers among the doubtful contingent. It was indeed a hard detail.

She and Elaine made a list of the names of the twenty doubtfuls and divided it between them. That made only ten apiece, but, oh, that ten! She finally managed by dint of inquiry to obtain three signatures from three girls who lived off the campus and did their own light house-keeping. They appeared to be pleased with her call, which she made one snowy December afternoon, and became willing signers. She promptly told Ronny of them, who as promptly pricked up her ears. These were the very girls Ronny was always ready to help. This brought her list down to seven. Five of these she learned were devoted supporters of Lola Elster. Thus, only two of her original ten were left. One of these two was a Miss Savage, who lived at Alston Terrace, the most distant house from Hamilton Hall on the campus. She roomed with her sister, a junior, and recited French in Marjorie’s class. The other, a Miss Greene, Marjorie knew only by sight. She lived in the town of Hamilton and a chauffeur brought her and came for her with a limousine every afternoon.

How to get in touch with them she did not know. She was certain that Leila Harper could help her in this, but she was under promise of silence. The freshmen signers were growing a trifle impatient, as they wished to have the affair out of the way before going home for Christmas. Elaine had secured six of her ten signatures. The other four she reported as hopeless. She volunteered to see Miss Savage, whom she had met socially on several occasions.

“I don’t believe I will be able to get that Miss Greene’s signature,” Marjorie confided to Ronny. “I am never anywhere near her. I never see her with any of the Sans or Miss Elster’s friends. She is not chummy with them. Still, I dislike going up to her and asking her to sign when I don’t know her even to bow to.”

“I would not trouble myself about her,” advised Ronny. “I do not like her looks. I heard, quite a while ago, that she was very distant. It is too bad you had to bother with that list. Still, I would have accepted it had I been asked to do so. The end is worth the pains in this case.”

Marjorie nodded. “Oh, I didn’t much mind. I am glad I slid through without any fussing. Right is right, only one can’t always make the other person see it. I will go over to Silverton Hall today after classes and tell Portia I can’t get hold of Miss Greene. Perhaps she can.”

Shortly after four that afternoon, Marjorie walked slowly down the main drive, intending presently to strike off across the campus in the direction of Silverton Hall. She had not gone far when she heard the crunch of a footstep behind her. Involuntarily she turned her head to encounter the cold stare of two pale blue eyes. “Oh!” was her soft-breathed interjection. The eyes belonged to Miss Greene. More, Miss Greene was about to address her.

“Are you Miss Dean, the young woman who is getting signatures for a protest against Miss Reid’s management of basket ball?” she asked icily.

“Yes,” Marjorie unhesitatingly answered, measuring the questioner with a calm, uncritical glance. “I have not your signature. Do you wish to sign the paper we shall presently send Miss Reid?”

“Where is this paper?” counter-questioned Miss Greene. “I wish to see it. I have never heard of anything more outrageous! Miss Reid is a dear friend of mine.”

Marjorie colored hotly at the other’s tone. Raising her head she coolly stared Miss Greene straight in the eye. “I have not the paper with me. In any case you would not care to sign it. It is in the form of a letter to Miss Reid and is just. The outrageous part of the affair lies in Miss Reid having shown favoritism, not in the freshmen having resented it. Good afternoon.” She continued on down the drive, leaving an angry freshman behind her.

Portia Graham received the account of the interview with troubled eyes. “Who do you suppose told her?” she asked Marjorie. “We were anxious to send the letter before news of it reached Miss Reid. She deserves it, you know. My sister graduated from here last June and she could not endure Miss Reid. Of course, Miss Greene will tell her, if she hasn’t already. We had best send the letter at once. A little early for a Christmas greeting, but it will give her food for reflection,” Portia finished sarcastically.

“There are no games to be played before Christmas, anyway,” returned Marjorie. “What we wish to prevent is another exhibition of how not to play basket ball as given by that limping team. Suppose Miss Reid ignores our letter?”

“Then we will take it higher,” was the quick response. “She won’t. She will probably send for the committee which I informed her in the letter would meet her to discuss the matter. I did not mention any names. Will you go with me if she sends for us? I would like Miss Lynne and Miss Harding, Elaine and Miss Cornell.”

“I will go and so will Ronny and Muriel.” Marjorie gave the promise for herself and friends.

Miss Greene now out of the question, and Elaine having obtained Miss Savage’s signature, there was no further time wasted. The letter was sent and the freshmen rested their case until a reply came. Reply, however, was not forthcoming. Up to the day when college closed for the Christmas holidays Miss Reid had made no sign save to haughtily ignore the justice-seeking freshmen when she encountered them on the campus. The six girls, who formed the committee for final action, quietly agreed that as soon as they returned from their holiday vacation they would immediately wait upon Miss Reid and demand justice.

Occupied with this matter, Marjorie had allowed her own affairs to slide for a time. The day before going home, she recalled with regret that she had intended to invite Leila Harper to spend the holidays with her. It was too late now. Still, there would be the Easter vacation. She would invite Leila for that, before going home. Leila’s bright blue eyes filled with tears when Marjorie delivered her invitation.

“You are a darling,” she said unsteadily. “I would accept in a minute, but I am going home with Vera. Easter, now you have asked me, I will accept with loud Irish rejoicing. Vera is almost as much of a stray as I. Her father is Roderick Mason, the portrait painter. They have a whopping old apartment in the Glendenning, on Central Park, west. It is part studio. Her mother died when she was three weeks old. Her father brought her up. He’s a fine man, but erratic. Whatever she asks him for he says: ‘Yes, yes; but don’t annoy me with it.’ He loves her when he happens to recall that he has a daughter,” Leila ended half bitterly.

“I wish Vera would spend Easter with us, too,” Marjorie said quickly. “I shall invite her before I go home. Come along. We will ask her now. I am going home on that eight-ten train in the morning, so I won’t have time then to see her.”

Leila’s face was aglow with a new-found happiness as she and Marjorie ran up the stairs to Vera’s room. There was that in Marjorie’s sweet cordiality which thawed the ice about her heart. Next to Vera, she had received Marjorie into her affections. In consequence, she was more in touch with Marjorie’s college affairs than the latter dreamed. Leila was in possession of the news of the freshman revolt against Miss Reid, but she kept it strictly to herself. She also honored Marjorie and her chums for being able to keep a secret. The news, in reality, had been published abroad by Miss Reid herself, who had showed the letter to Natalie Weyman, Leslie Cairns and even Lola Elster. These three had been furiously angry over the attempt to “put one over,” as Leslie Cairns had expressed herself.

“Let it go until we come back from our vacation. Don’t see any of them,” she stolidly advised Miss Reid. “I will find a way to settle them. Lola stays on the team. I heard this Miss Dean, Beauty, you know,” she sneered, “was trotting around with the paper. I know a way to even up scores with her. Leave it to me. Oh, yes. I’ll tell you one thing you may do. Write that snippy Miss Page and demand her resignation from the team. That will make the revolutionists wild. As soon as we come back make the freshies challenge us to play. I’ll see that they win next time and don’t you flunk, either. The soph’s team will have to do as I say. They all owe me money.”

Miss Reid entertained great respect for the Cairns money, though at heart she was not fond of Leslie and her bullying ways. She was obliged to admit that Leslie Cairns was a born politician. This was not strange. Her father was Peter Cairns, the hardest-headed tyrant among a group of financiers who based all values on money.

“I believe you are right, Leslie, about the freshman team challenging the sophomore team directly after the holidays,” she reluctantly conceded. “If the freshman team should win, it would put a stop to this nonsense. I shall put a stop to it, at any rate, by simply ignoring it.” Miss Reid was carefully ignoring all recognition of the fact that Leslie had the upper hand and was dictating to her. This fact was not lost on Leslie.

“The freshman team must win,” she said, looking hard at the physical instructor. “If you can’t manage it, I will send for a coach who can. I can have him here for two weeks before the game. He can live in town and I’ll run him out here in my car every day to coach the team. I don’t mean Fulton. He is too namby-pamby. I mean a coach who will really train the team and at the same time keep off any freshmen who start to interfere.”

“That will not be necessary, Leslie.” Miss Reid’s tones were freighted with annoyance. “I believe I can be trusted to coach the freshman team so that they will—well, make a good showing at the next game.”

“Win the game?” was the significant question.

“Yes, win the game,” repeated Miss Reid. “Please recall that I selected that team; not the coach. It doesn’t include any of your pet aversions. I hope I am equal to this emergency.”

“I hope so,” returned Leslie, without enthusiasm. “Anyway, I shall keep an eye on the team myself. Now if Nat comes raving to you about Lola or me pay no attention to her. She wants to be a basket ball star and it’s an inconvenient time to aspire to it. Understand? What?” With this final characteristic interjection, Leslie sauntered out of the instructor’s room without troubling to say good-bye. It had not occurred to her to say “Merry Christmas” or wish Miss Reid the season’s compliments, although the conversation took place between them not more than two hours before Leslie left Hamilton to go to New York for the holidays.

Happily unconscious of any dark conspiracies against her welfare, Marjorie’s last night at the Hall was congenially spent. The Five Travelers had packed in the afternoon and were free to spend the evening together. They had decided to use the time in wrapping and directing a number of packages, containing simple remembrances for a few of the Hamilton students whose home addresses they had secured. These they could mail at the station the next morning. While the five girls talked and worked, their old friend, the chimes, entertained them with his ever beautiful Christmas repertoire. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” “Silent Night,” “Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Cheerful Adoration,” and other Yuletide favorites rang gloriously out on the still snowy air. The concert ended with “God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen,” which had been Brooke Hamilton’s pet carol.

“Thank you ever so much, old dear,” Marjorie made a childish little bow in the direction of her friend as the little prelude before the striking of eleven began. The ten-thirty rule was not being observed that night and no one cared.

“Yes; much obliged chimes,” echoed Jerry. “It will be quite awhile before we hear your melodious voice again. There, that’s my last package.” She laid an oblong bundle on a pile beside her with an audible sigh of satisfaction.

“Mine, too. Come on, Lucy, we must turn in. Shoo, shoo, Muriel. Go right straight to your room. It’s late. Didn’t you know it.” Ronny made a playful attempt to drive Muriel to the door. The latter braced her feet and stood her ground. Both girls were laughing as were also the three onlookers. The sound of mirth could be faintly heard in the hall.

Coming in from a motor ride with several of the Sans, Natalie Weyman heard the laughter as she passed Marjorie’s room on the way to her own. Her face clouded perceptibly. What a lot those girls seemed to find to laugh at, was her resentful thought. She was always hearing sounds of laughter from both Marjorie’s room and that of her friend across the hall. It was evident they did not quarrel much. For an instant Natalie wished she knew them better. Leslie and Dulcie were always so disagreeable unless they could have their own way. Remembering her grudge against Marjorie, her lips tightened. What she really wished was not to know Marjorie better; only to be even with her for what she considered an irreparable injury done her.