During the next few years of Isabelle’s life she was more of a trial to her household than ever before, if such a thing were possible. She overplayed the tomboy, just as she did every rÔle she essayed.

From the moment Herbert Hunter came to her rescue in the affair of Tommy Page, he was exalted to the highest pedestal in her temple of worship. Boys knew what loyalty meant. Her hero had forced all the witnesses on that occasion to keep absolute silence about it—with police, arrest, and prison terms as alternatives. That he, “an older boy,” should condescend to champion her cause was a triumph for our heroine.

She scorned girls, she endured only the society of males from this time on. She could scarcely be forced into any costume but her riding clothes. She applied herself to sports until she played better than most boys. By disguising this fact, and pretending to be a mere novice, she was admitted to their games.

Herbert accepted her as Man Friday with considerable reluctance, but she made him feel that her very gratitude gave her a sort of hold on him. She was very useful, if you knew how to handle her; and sheer loss, if you did not. She abhorred authority. If you told her she must do a thing, she stubbornly refused. If you asked it as a favour, it was done instantly. If you dared her to do a thing, nothing could stop her. She was appallingly indifferent to danger. She terrified the more timid souls in Herbert’s crowd. But aside from the fact that she was good at their games, her main contribution was the original things she thought up for them to do.

She had, at fourteen, a fair acquaintance with American history, and she devised rare amusements, based on the primitive life of our pioneer forefathers. These games lasted for weeks. Bands of Indians preyed on the settlers; the settlers sent messengers to the tribal chiefs. There were periods of parleying, smoking of the peace pipe; there were war dances and uprisings.

The scene might run like this. The ship which was bringing the pilgrims, was wrecked off the beach, and the passengers took refuge in rowboats and canoes, from which they landed upon the unfriendly shores. Red men lay in wait for them, lurking behind sand forts. Occasionally when women settlers were absolutely necessary, Margie Hunter and the other girls were allowed to come along, but for the most part they were ruthlessly shut out. Isabelle, as author and stage manager, was indispensable and, therefore, safe.

It took much strategy on Isabelle’s part to effect her freedom. She assured Miss Watts that all the children went daily to play at the Hunters’, because there was a pool, and “You have the most fun there”; so when, of an afternoon, Miss Watts accompanied her to the Hunters’, and stayed chatting with the Hunter governess until it was time to go home, her charge was always wonderfully behaved until she was out of sight. Then she left the girls and sped off to her true companions. Margie threatened to tell on her, but Herbert took the matter in hand, and nothing came of the threat.

Of course Max and Wally had no idea of her associations; that was Miss Watts’ business. Isabelle played with the children of the right set, which was all that really mattered. That she swaggered and boasted and whistled about the house, these were annoying details, but she had always been a pest.

Wally protested once against her hoydenish manners.

“You talk like a jockey, Isabelle. You haven’t a grain of feminine charm.”

“Feminine charm! Ha!” snorted his daughter, with scorn.

“You’d better try to acquire a little. You’ll need it,” he warned her.

“Need it for what?”

“Need it for your business.”

“What is my business?”

“Getting married.”

She stared at him with an angry flush mounting her face. She turned and mounted the stairs, leaning over to shout as she went, with unmistakable emphasis:

Wally swore gently, and gave it up.

Isabelle’s life seemed to run in a series of crises. It was always mounting toward or descending from a climax. The present summer of her fourteenth year was no exception.

The historic American scenes were still highly popular, but Isabelle’s creative spirit was not yet satisfied. She was preparing the episode of John Smith and Pocahontas, to be played by Herbert Hunter and herself as principals, when it occurred to her that the scene ought to be played, by night, in the woods. She proposed it to Herbert but he scoffed at it. They never could manage. How could they get away at night? But Isabelle had it all planned.

Her idea was to pick out the spot in the woods, put up the tepees, collect the firewood, lay in supplies, and get everything ready in advance. Saturday night would be the best one for the encampment, because their parents always dined and danced at the club that night, so the coast would be clear so far as they were concerned.

“It isn’t parents, it’s servants that will get in our way,” objected Herbert.

“If you think how to get by them, Herbert, you can,” urged the temptress.

“How? Just tell me how I can get past old Mademoiselle when she sits in the hall outside my door?”

“Tell her you forgot something downstairs, and then run out.”

“Fat chance! She’d give the alarm and they’d all come on the jump.”

“Well, if I can get out, I should think you could,” she taunted him.

“How’d we get back in? Suppose parents got back before we did.”

Her inspiration flared like a torch.

“We’d sleep in the tents all night.”

“Gee!” said Herbert. This was sheer daring. It captured his imagination. He decided to submit it to the others. A council was called. They in turn were struck dumb by the idea that they should spend a night in the woods, untrammelled by authority.

It took an enormous amount of planning and preparation. The problem of the best means of escape for each member was taken up and decided upon. The hour for meeting, and the place, were named. Governesses as a rule had their dinners early, with the children. Later, each boy was to complain of weariness or headache and go directly to bed. At nine o’clock they would make a getaway and meet at a certain spot, centrally located for them all. All of them had ponies, so they could ride to the trysting place. Blankets must be brought by each camper, and it was agreed that they would sleep in their clothes.

The day came. As the idea was to be kept secret from all girls, Isabelle had some trouble managing not even to see Margie Hunter, with whom she was, ostensibly, to spend the day. She induced Wally to drop her at the Hunters’ on the way to the club.

The boys were hard at work. They greeted her casually, as was their habit. It was the way they kept up the bluff to themselves that they had no use for girls. Isabelle was satisfied with their manners. She knew in her own mind that she was the brains of the whole concern, so why cavil at their bluff, male ways?

They worked like beavers all day long. They went without any luncheon. They lugged out the tents and set them up. They made beds of boughs. They laid fires ready for the torch. They cached the grub in a hollow tree out of the way of prowling creatures. They carried out pails of drinking water, and borrowed the kitchen utensils from Margie’s playhouse. It was late afternoon when they limped wearily back to the Hunters’ in search of food.

“Mother was awf’ly mad at you, Isabelle, because you kept luncheon waiting,” said Margie, snippily. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, we were playing, and we thought we’d go without any lunch. I hope there’s tea, though,” she added.

There was; and they put away quantities of bread and butter, with jam, and lemonade, which infuriated the cook, who had to supply the demand. They parted, later, with fervent farewells, sotto-voce remarks, and mysterious signs.

At home, Isabelle got ready for her supper without being told, and sat quietly with a book until she was called. A close observer might have noted that she never turned a leaf, that when a motor chugged off bearing her parents, she was seen to smile and sigh.

After supper, she complained of utter weariness and went to bed. Miss Watts looked in at half past eight; Isabelle was breathing evenly. A few moments later, she heard the governess close the door between their two rooms. Immediately she got up, dropped her night gown, worn over her riding clothes, and slipped out. A moment later she was in the stable, getting a saddle on her horse, tying her blanket to the horn. She managed her exit without interference, because Saturday night there were “doin’s” among the servants.

Once on the road, she let the pony run. She had never been out alone at night before. It was scary, she admitted to herself. Once an automobile, on the way to the club with somebody’s parents, caused her to dash off the road into the underbrush. Finally she reached the meeting place, and found two scared boys ahead of her. Shortly, the others arrived. There were no signs of hilarity over this adventure, they were all solemn and glum. Some of them were in Indian garb, with tomahawks; others in boy-scout hats, as pilgrims.

When they were all gathered they moved in a body to the camp. It was darker than pitch in the woods, so they had to lead the ponies, and they stumbled over tree trunks, and logs. Unseen things scuttled away underfoot, and terror began to spread like measles.

“Get the fire lighted, then we can see all right,” said Isabelle the dauntless.

They managed that finally and peered about them, as the weird shadows danced and made fantastic shapes.

“Let’s get the grub and eat,” said Herbert.

“Not yet, not till we do the play,” objected Isabelle. “Somebody bind up John Smith and the rest sit round the place where we’re going to execution him. The Indians can lurk——”

“Say, I ain’t goin’ to lurk in the dark, out there,” protested a brave, peering into the blackness.

“I am!” said Isabelle, marching upon unseen terrors among the trees.

“If you’re going to let a girl dare you!” cried Herbert, secretly glad that his rÔle required no heroic exposure.

The Indians reluctantly followed Isabelle Pocahontas into the shadows, stepping high, and jumping back with exclamations now and then.

The chopping block was brought out where John Smith’s head was to rest, then Pocahontas crept through into the firelight and the play was begun, but there was no real spirit in the affair. Isabelle felt this; so, to create a new interest, she urged John Smith to break bread with the Indians after he had been saved by her, and released. They hauled out the food, slightly the worse for squirrels; they cooked the bacon, eating it nearly raw, with hunks of bread. They had a thermos bottle of cold tea which they referred to as “rum.” There were plenty of doughnuts and a bakery pie.

The repast roused their spirits considerably. After it was finished, John Smith invited the Indians to spend the night, and everybody agreed to turn in. There was an obvious reluctance on the part of some to enter the dark tents. Things unseen rattled inside.

“Say! why not roll up in our blankets around the fire?” said doughty John Smith, the Pilgrim’s pride.

“Good boy—that’s the boy,” agreed the Indians.

So they curled up in a circle inside their covers, as near the blaze as they could lie, wide-eyed and on the watch. Each one secretly longed for his bed at home, and excoriated Isabelle with her devil’s gift of invention. But after a while the hard labour of the day began to tell, and as the fire grew fainter, one by one they dropped asleep, and the shadows closed in upon them completely.

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