# The Girls of Central High on the Stage/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII
THE HAND HELD OUT
When Jess came out of the house there was a group of her schoolmates—and not all of them boys—at the foot of the Whiffle Street hill. Being towed by Chet's big kite had become a game that all hands wanted to try. But the sun was getting warmer and the icy street would soon be slushy and the skates would cut through.
"I've had enough," said Bobby Hargrew, removing her skates when she spied Jess. "The policeman has warned us once, and he'll be mad next time he comes around if we're here still."
"Better get your skates, Jess, and try it just once," urged Chet Belding, who was very partial to his sister's closet chum.
"I can't, Chet," replied Jess. "I must do my Saturday's marketing."
"Hullo! here's Short and Long!" cried Bobby, as a very short boy with very brisk legs came sliding down the hill with a big bundle under his arm.
​Billy Long was an industrious youngster who only allowed himself leisure to keep up in athletics after school hours, because he liked to earn something toward his family's support.
"Stop and try a ride, Billy," urged Lance Darby, holding the cord of the tugging kite.
"Can't. Going on an errand."
"Hey, Billy! how's your dyspepsia?" demanded another of the boys.
Billy grinned. Bobby exclaimed:
"Now, don't tell me that Short and Long ever has trouble with his digestion—I won't believe it!"
"He sure had a bad case of it yesterday," drawled Chet Belding. "At least, so Mr. Sharp said. Billy spelled it with an 'i'."
"Let me use your knife a minute, please?" asked Bobby, who was still struggling with a refractory strap. "No! just toss it to me."
"That's all right," returned the small boy, with a grin, as he walked over and carefully handed Bobby the knife. "I don't take any chances with girls in throwing, or catching. All my sister can do is to throw a fit, or catch a cold!"
"Ow! isn't that a wicked statement?" cried Bobby. "You know it isn't so. But you're right down ignorant, Billy. You're just as bad ​as Postscript was in Gee Gee's class one day this week."
"Who's 'Postscript'?" demanded Lance. "That's a new one on me."
"Why," said Bobby, her black eyes twinkling, 'I mean Adeline Moore. That's a postscript, isn't it?"
"What happened to Addie?" asked Jess, as the others laughed.
"Why, she got befuddled in reciting something about an Indian uprising that came in our American History hour. It's all review stuff, you know.
"'What is it that you call an Indian woman, Adeline?' Gee Gee asked, real sharp.
"And Addie jumped, and stammered, and finally said:
"'A squaw, please, Miss Carrington.'
"'And what do you call her baby, then?' snapped Gee Gee.
"'A—a squawker,' says Addie, and the poor thing got a black mark for it. Wasn't that mean?"
"Miss Grace G. Carrington was in one of her moods," observed Chet, when the laugh had subsided.
"She's subject to moods," Lance drawled.
"No, she's not!" cried Bobby Hargrew. ​"She only had one mood—the imperative—and we girls are all subject to that," and she sighed, for Bobby was frequently in trouble with the very strict assistant principal of Central High whom she disrespectfully referred to as "Gee Gee."
Jess and her friend had left the others now and were approaching Market Street. Like everybody else on the walks, they had to be careful how they stepped, and it was with many a laugh and gibe that Bobby Hargrew beguiled the way. Jess, however, was serious once more.
"Are you really going in for that prize Mrs. Kerrick is going to put up for us?" demanded Bobby.
"Do you know what it's for?"
"No—I haven't heard that," said the younger girl. "But for two hundred dollars I'd learn tatting—or darn socks. Daddy says I ought to learn to darn his. What's it all about, anyway? I suppose Laura knows?"
"Yes. It's a play. The girl who writes the best one, that can be acted by us boys and girls of Central High, is to get the prize."
"Gee! won't that be nuts for Miss Gould?" cried Bobby. "You know, she tried us out in blank verse the other day, and I made a hit. My stately lines were spoken of with commen​dation. And when she told us to bring in a rhyme, or poetry—whichever we had the courage to call it—I wanted to read mine out loud. But she wouldn't let me. She said she had not intended to start a school for humorous poets."
"What did you hand in?" asked Jess, smiling.
"Want to hear it?" cried Bobby, eagerly, digging into her pocket which—like a boy's—was always filled with a conglomeration of articles. "Listen here!" she added, drawing forth a crumpled paper. "This is called 'Such is Life' and really, I was hurt that Miss Gould considered it so lightly," and she began to read at once:
"'William Wright was often wrong And Thomas Goode was bad; While Griffith Smiley, odd to state, Was almost always sad. Jedediah Rich was very poor, While Ozias Poor was rich, And Eliphalet Q. Carpenter Earned his living digging ditch. Tom White was black Jim Black was white, And Jose Manuel Green was brown; While Ching Ling Blu was yellow, As was known all over town!'
I'd have made more of it," added Bobby, "only Miss Gould didn't seem to care for that kind of poetry. And I suppose if I tried my hand at a play that I would be unable to hit the popular taste," and she sighed.
​"I guess they won't demand verse from us in this play," giggled Jess. "And that is most atrocious, Bobby."
"Think so?" returned her friend, her eyes twinkling. "And you'll do a whole lot better when it comes to writing your own play, I s'pose?"
"It won't be in verse—blank, or otherwise," admitted Jess.
"You really are going to try for it?"
"Why, Bobby, I'd love to win that two hundred dollars. I don't suppose I can. All the girls will try, I expect, and Laura, or Nell Agnew, will get it. But I want that two hundred dollars worse than I ever wanted anything in my life!"
She spoke so earnestly that Bobby was impressed. The latter glanced at her sidewise and a shrewd little smile hovered about her lips for a moment, which Jess did not observe.
"Where are you bound for, Jess?" she asked abruptly.
"Marketing."
"You trade at Heuffler's market, don't you? That's right around the corner from father's store. Why don't you ever patronize our place for groceries. I'm drumming up trade." said Bobby, grinning.
​"I guess our trade wouldn't amount to much," said Jess, flushing a little.
"'Every little bit added to what you've got makes just a little bit more,'" quoted Bobby. "And let me tell you, Mr. Thomas Hargrew keeps first-class goods and only asks a fair profit."
Jess laughed; but she caught at the straw held out to her, too. She knew it would be useless to go to Mr. Closewick's, where they usually traded. Was it honest to try and obtain credit at another grocery?
"I am afraid your father wouldn't welcome me as a customer," said Jess, gravely. "Ours isn't always a cash trade. Mother's money comes so very irregular that we have to run a bill at the grocery and the market and other places."
"Come on and give us a sample order," urged Bobby. "Father will be glad to get another book account. Now, if you were running a store I'd patronize it! We Central High girls ought to work together—just like a lodge. Come on."
She fairly dragged Jess by the hand into the store on Market Street, over the door of which Mr. Hargrew's name was displayed. The clerks were busy at the moment, but Mr. Hargrew was ​at his desk in the corner. Bobby ran to him and whispered quickly:
"Here she is, Father. You remember what that Mrs. Brown said last night about old Closewick refusing her credit after her mother had traded there so long. And I am sure Jess is in trouble and needs help. Do wait on her, Father."
"If you say so, Bob," returned the big man, smiling down upon the girl who, he often said, "was as good as any boy." "You'll have to come into this store and share the business when you get older; and you might as well learn to judge customers now. And, if they need help——"
He came out to Jess Morse immediately, smiling and bowing like the suave storekeeper he was.
"Glad to see you, Miss. What can we do for you this morning?"
"Why—why," stammered Jess, "Bobby urged me to come in; but, really, Mr. Hargrew, it seems like asking a big favor of you, for we have never traded here much."
"We are always glad to make a new connection," said the storekeeper.
"But mother—we are obliged to ask for credit——"
​"And that is what I have to do very frequently myself," interposed Mr. Hargrew, still smiling. "What is it you wish, Miss Morse? Your credit is good here, I assure you. You have brought the very best of reference—my daughter's. Now, what is the first article?"
Jess could have cried with relief! Somehow she felt that Bobby and her father must know of her need, yet not a word or sign from either betrayed that fact. And one would scarcely suspect harum-scarum Bobby Hargrew of engineering such a delicate bit of business.
Nevertheless, Jess was vastly encouraged by this incident. She went into the meat shop and purchased a small piece of lamb for over Sunday and Mr. Heuffler did not ask her for his bill. She hoped that "something would turn up" and watched the mails very eagerly, hoping that a fugitive check might come. But the postman never came near the little cottage at the elbow in Whiffle Street, all that day.