The Girls of Central High on the Stage: or, The Play That Took The Prize. Morrison Gertrude W.

you how hard I want to win it,” gasped Jess.

      “Well! I’m going to try for it, too,” laughed Laura, suddenly, seizing her friend’s arm and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “But I do hope, if I can’t win it, that you do!”

      “Thank you, Laura!” replied her friend, gravely.

      “And your mother’s a writer – you must have talent, too, for writing, Jess.”

      “That doesn’t follow, I guess,” laughed Jess. “You know that Si Jones talks like a streak of greased lightning – so Chet says, anyway – but his son, Phil, is a deaf-mute. Talent for writing runs in families the same as wooden legs.”

      “So you do not believe that even a little reflected glory bathes your path through life?” chuckled Laura.

      “I am not sure that I would want to be a professional writer like mother,” sighed Jess, her mind dwelling on the trouble they were in. “There is a whole lot to it besides ‘glory.’”

      “Well, if I can’t write the winning play, I hope you do, Jess,” repeated Laura, going on after her father.

      Jess returned to her work indoors. From the window, after a little, she caught sight of a whole string of boys sliding up the hill of Whiffle Street on their skates, the big kite which Chet and Lance had raised supplying the motive power.

      Chet beckoned her out to have a part in the fun; but much more serious matters filled Jess Morse’s mind. When her mother finally arose, and folded and sealed and addressed the packet containing her night’s work, Jess had to go out and mail it.

      “I really believe that is a good story, Jess,” said her mother, who was sanguine of temperament. She had a childish faith in the success of every manuscript she sent out; and usually when her chickens “came home to roost” her spirits withstood the shock admirably.

      “Now, don’t forget the list of things you were to get at Mr. Closewick’s,” added Mrs. Morse. Jess had kept her evening’s troubles strictly to herself. “I believe he sent in a bill, but you tell him how it is; we’ll have money in a day or two.”

      “But, Mother, we owe other stores, too,” murmured Jess.

      “I know it, child. But don’t remind me – ”

      “And the rent will be due. Mr. Chumley was here last night – ”

      “Not for his rent so soon?” cried the irresponsible lady.

      “But he is going to raise our rent – three dollars more after January first.”

      “Oh, how mean of him!” exclaimed Mrs. Morse.

      “I don’t see how we are going to get it, Mother,” said Jess, worriedly.

      “Well, that’s true. But we’ve got another month before we need to cross that bridge.”

      That was Mrs. Morse’s way. Perhaps it was as well that she allowed such responsibilities to slip past her like water running off the feathers of a duck.

      “And if Mr. Closewick shouldn’t want to – to trust us any longer, Mother?” suggested Jess. That was as near as she could get to telling the good lady what had really happened the night before.

      “Why! that would be most mortifying. He won’t do it, though. But if he does, we’ll immediately begin trading elsewhere, I don’t really think Mr. Closewick always gives us good weight, at that!”

      Jess could only sigh. It was always the way. Mrs. Morse saw things from a most surprising angle. She was just as honest – intentionally – as she could be, but the ethics of business dealing were not quite straight in her mind.

      And something must be done this very day to put food in the larder. What little Jess had brought in from Mr. Vandergriff’s store would not last them over Sunday. And her mother seemed to think that everybody else would be just as sanguine of her getting a check as she was herself.

      “I do wish you had been able to get steady work with the Courier,” spoke Jess, as she prepared to go out.

      “That would have been nice,” admitted her mother. “And I am in a position to know a good deal of what goes on socially on the Hill. I am welcome in the homes of the very best people, for your father’s sake, Jess. He was a very fine man, indeed.”

      “And for your own sake, too, Mamma!” cried Jess, who was really, after all, very proud of her mother’s talent.

      “It would have been nice,” repeated Mrs. Morse. “And certainly the Courier is not covering the Hill as well as might be. I pointed that out to Mr. Prentice; but he is limited in expenditures, I suppose, the paper being a new venture.”

      It was on the tip of the girl’s tongue to tell her mother of the visit of Mr. Prentice’s sister-in-law the evening before. But why disturb her mother’s mind with all that trouble? So she said nothing, kissed her fondly, and sallied forth to beard in their lairs “the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.” And, truly, there were few girls in Centerport that day with greater lions in their way than those in the path of Jess Morse.

      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 became 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: