Monitress Merle | Page 7

it? I think I'll ask first and see if anybody
else is going to give in our names. Perhaps Iva or Nesta may. It would
be much nicer than seeming to poke ourselves forward."
"If we don't hustle a little we'll never get there! That's my opinion!
You're too good for this wicked world, Mavis! I've often told you so!"

declared Merle, running into the house and putting down her books
with a slam. "Angel girls are all very well at home, but school is a
scrimmage and it's those who fight who come up on top! Don't laugh!
Oh, I enjoy fighting! I tell you I want most desperately and
tremendously to be made a monitress, and if I'm not chosen, well--it
will be the disappointment of my life! I'm not joking! I mean it really
and truly. I've set my heart upon it."
Mavis, who had a very fine sense of the fitness of things, and who did
not think sisters should nominate one another, returned early to school
that afternoon and hunted up Iva Westwood. She found her very
enthusiastic about the election.
"We've never had anything of the sort before at 'The Moorings,'" purred
Iva. "We're beginning to wake up here, aren't we? I'm going to give in
your name as a candidate, Mavis! I'm just writing it now."
"Thanks! Won't you put Merle too?"
"Oh, I will if you like." (Iva's voice was not too enthusiastic.) "I
suppose it doesn't matter how many we nominate. Somehow I never
thought of Merle."
"She's a splendid leader, and A1 at games. You should have seen her at
Whinburn High!"
"Oh, I daresay! Well, to please you I'll put her name on my list. It can
do no harm at any rate."
"Thanks ever so!"
"Old Muriel's canvassing like anything downstairs among the kids!"
"Is canvassing allowed?"
"Well, it hasn't been forbidden. Nesta and I are too proud to go and beg
for votes, but Mu doesn't care in the least; rather enjoys it, in fact. She's
sitting in the playroom, with Florrie Leach and Betty Marshall on her

knee, 'doing the popular,' and giving away whole packets of sweets. If
Merle really wants--hello! here's Merle herself!"
Mavis turned quickly, for her younger sister, looking flushed and
excited, had burst suddenly into the room and was speaking eagerly.
"Mavis! Have you a shilling in your pocket? I left my purse at home!
Do lend it to me! What for? I want to tear out and buy some sweets. Oh
yes, I've time. I shall simply sprint. Hand it over, that's a saintly girl!
Thanks immensely!"
Merle departed like a whirlwind, slamming the door after her. Iva
Westwood pulled an expressive grimace and laughed.
"So she's trying the popular trick too! Well, sometimes it works and
sometimes it doesn't. I think Edith Carey has a good chance myself.
The kids are rather fond of her. Have you written your nominations yet,
Mavis? Then come along, and we'll drop them inside the box."
As the first bell rang at 2.25 and the girls began to assemble in the big
schoolroom, Muriel Burnitt walked in followed by a perfect comet's tail
of juniors, some of whom were hanging on to her arms. Each was
sucking a peppermint bull's-eye, and each wore a piece of pink ribbon
pinned on to her dress.
"Muriel's favours!" they explained, giggling loudly. "We're all of us
going to vote for her. Isn't it fun?"
Mavis glanced round for Merle, hoping her expedition to the
sweet-shop would not have made her late, and to her relief saw her
sitting on the opposite side of the room, in company with Beata and
Romola Castleton, Fay Macleod, and a number of other new girls
whose acquaintance she had evidently just made. They were passing
round chocolates, and seemingly enjoying themselves. Merle waved a
hand gaily at her sister, beckoning her to join the group, but at that
moment Miss Mitchell entered the room, and all seated themselves on
the nearest available benches while the roll-call was taken.

"We will meet here at four o'clock for the election," said the mistress,
as she closed the register and dismissed the various forms to their
classrooms.
The first day of a new term always seems intolerably long, and with
such an interesting event as a ballot before them most of the girls felt
the hour and a half to drag, and turned many surreptitious glances
towards wrist watches. Merle in especial, who hated French translation,
groaned as she looked up words in the dictionary, and made several
stupid mistakes, because her thoughts were focussed on the election
instead of on the matter in hand. Once she yawned openly, and drew
down a reproof from Mademoiselle, whereupon she heaved a
submissive sigh, controlled her boredom, and