The Camp Fire Girls at School by Hildegard G. Frey

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"It's all my fault," said Dick Albright, nearly beside himself; "I
should have known better than to let her go. She didn't think of the
danger, but I did, and I should have prevented her. Was there ever such
a fool as I?"

Gladys and Migwan were kneeling beside Sahwah and opening her coat. "She
is not dead," said Gladys, feeling her pulse. "We must get her home. She
is possibly only stunned." Sahwah moved slightly and groaned, but she
did not open her eyes. A passing automobile was hailed and she was
carried to it as carefully as possible and taken home.

"A slight concussion of the brain," said the hastily summoned doctor,
after he had made his examination, "and a fractured hip. The hip can be
fixed all right, but the concussion may be worse than it looks. That is
an ugly contusion on her head." The next few days were anxious ones in
the Brewster home. Sahwah gave no sign of returning consciousness, and
her fever rose steadily. Mrs. Brewster felt her hair turning gray with
the suspense, and the Winnebagos could neither eat nor sleep. Poor Dick
was frantic, yet he dared not show himself at the house for fear every
one would point an accusing finger at him as the one responsible for the
misfortune.

But Sahwah, true to her usual habit of always doing the unexpected
thing, progressed along just the opposite lines from those prophesied by
the physician. After a few days her fever abated and the danger from the
concussion was over. Sahwah's head had demonstrated itself to be of a
superior solidness of construction. But the hip, which at first had not
given them a moment's uneasiness, steadfastly refused to mend. Dr.
Benson looked puzzled; then grave. The splintered end of that hip bone
began to be a nightmare to him. He called in another doctor for
consultation. The new doctor set it in a different way, nearly killing
Sahwah with the pain, although she struggled valiantly to be brave and
bear it in silence. Nyoda never forgot that tortured smile with which
Sahwah greeted her when she came in after the process was over. A week
or two passed and the bones still made no effort to knit. Another
consulting physician was called in; a prominent surgeon. He ordered
Sahwah removed to the hospital, where he made half a dozen X-ray
pictures of her hip. The joint was so badly inflamed and swollen that it
was impossible to tell just where the trouble lay. Sahwah fumed and
fretted with impatience at having to stay in bed so long. Surgeon after
surgeon examined the fracture and shook their heads.

At last a long consultation was held, at the close of which Mr. and Mrs.
Brewster were called into the council of physicians. "We have
discovered," said Dr. Lord, a man high up in the profession who was
considered the final authority, "that the ball joint of your daughter's
hip has been fractured in such a way that it can never heal. There is
one inevitable result of this condition, and that is tuberculosis of the
bone. If not arrested this will in time communicate itself to the bones
of the upper part of the body and terminate fatally. There is only one
way to prevent this outcome and that is amputation of the limb before
the disease gets a hold on the system."

"You mean, cut her leg off?" asked Mrs. Brewster faintly.

"Yes," said Dr. Lord shortly. He was a man of few words.

Sahwah was stunned when she heard the verdict of the surgeons. She knew
little about disease and it seemed wildly impossible to her that this
limb of hers which had been so strong and supple a month ago would
become an agent of death if not amputated. She was in an agony of mind.
Never to swim again! Never to run and jump and slide and skate and
dance! Always to go about on crutches! Before the prospect of being
crippled for life her active nature shrank in unutterable horror. Death
seemed preferable to her. She buried her face in the pillow in such
anguish that the watchers by the bedside could not stand by and see it.
After a day of acute mental suffering her old-time courage began to rear
its head and she made up her mind that if this terrible thing had to be
done she might as well go through with it as bravely as possible. She
resigned herself to her fate and urged her parents to give their consent
to the operation. Poor Mrs. Brewster was nearly out of her mind with
worry over the affair.

"When will you do it?" asked Sahwah, struggling to keep her voice
steady.

"In about a week," said Dr. Lord, "when you get a little stronger."

Nyoda went home heartsick from the hospital that day. Sahwah had asked
her to write to Dr. Hoffman, her old friend in camp, and tell him the
news. With a shaking hand she wrote the letter. "Poor old Dr. Hoffman,"
she said to herself, "how badly he will feel when he hears that Sahwah
is hurt and he can do nothing to help her."

Sahwah had never dreamed how many friends she had until this misfortune
overcame her. Boys and girls, as well as old people and little children,
horrified at the calamity, came by the dozen to offer cheer and comfort.
Her room was filled to overflowing with flowers. Even "old Fuzzytop,"
whom Sahwah had tormented nearly to death, came to offer his sympathy
and present a potted tulip. Stiff and precise Miss Muggins came to say
how she missed her from the Latin class. Aunt Phoebe forgave all the
jokes she had made at her expense and sent over a crocheted dressing
jacket made of fleecy wool.

"Don't feel so badly, Nyoda dear," she said one day as Nyoda sat beside
her in the depths of despair. The usual jolly teacher had now no cheery
word to offer. The prospect of the gay dancing Sahwah on crutches for
the remainder of her life was an appalling tragedy. "I can act out 'The
Little Tin Soldier' quite realistically--then," went on Sahwah, her mind
already at work to find the humor of the situation. But Nyoda sat
staring miserably at the flowers on the dresser.

"Telegram for Miss Brewster," said the nurse, appearing in the doorway.

"A telegram for me?" asked Sahwah curiously, stretching out her hand for
the envelope. She tore it open eagerly and read, "Don't operate until I
come. Dr. Hoffman." "He's coming!" cried Sahwah. "Dr. Hoffman is coming!
He said if I ever broke a bone again he would come and set it! Poor
Doctor, how disappointed he'll be when he finds he can't 'set it'!"

Dr. Hoffman arrived the next day.

"Vell, vell, Missis Sahvah," he said anxiously as he saw her lying so
ominously still on the bed, "you haf not been trying to push somevon
across de top of Lake Erie, haf you?" Sahwah smiled faintly. A ray of
sunlight seemed to have entered the room with the doctor, also a gust of
wind. He had thrown his hat right into a bouquet of flowers and his hair
stood on end and his tie was askew with the haste he had made in getting
to the hospital from the train. "Now about this hip, yes?" he said in a
businesslike tone. Without any ceremony he brushed the nurse aside and
unwrapped the bandages. "Ach so," he said, feeling of the joint with a
practised hand, "you did a good job, Missis Sahvah. You make out of your
bone a splinter. But vot is dis I hear about operating?" he suddenly
exclaimed. "De very idea! Don't you let dem amputate your leg off! Such
fool doctors! It's a vonder dey did not cut your head off to cure de
bump!" His voice rose to a regular roar. Dr. Lord, coming in at that
moment, stopped in astonishment at the sight of this strange doctor
standing over his patient. "For vy did you want to amputate her leg
off?" shouted Dr. Hoffman at him, dancing up and down in front of him
and shaking his finger under his nose. "It is no more diseased dan yours
is. And you call yourself a surgeon doctor! Bah! You go out and play in
de sunshine and let me take care of dis hip."

"Who the dickens are you?" asked Dr. Lord, looking at him as though he
thought he were an escaped lunatic.

"Dis is who I am," replied Dr. Hoffman, handing him a card. "I vas in
eighteen-ninety-five by de _Staatsklinick_ in Berlin." Dr. Lord fell
back respectfully.

"I know someting about dot Missis Sahvah's bones," went on Dr. Hoffman,
"and I know dey vill knit if you gif dem a chance. If all goes vell she
vill valk again in t'ree months."

"I'd like to see you do it," said Dr. Lord.

"Patience, my friend," said Dr. Hoffman, "first ve make a little plaster
cast." When Mrs. Brewster came in the afternoon she found a strange
doctor in command and Dr. Lord and the nurses obeying his orders as if
hypnotized. When she went home that night, hope had come to life again
in her heart, where it had been dead for more than a week. Dr. Hoffman
spent the afternoon having X-ray photographs of the joint made, and sat
up all night trying to figure out how those bones could be set so they
would knit and still not leave the joint stiff. By morning he had the
solution.

The next day--the day the limb was to have been amputated--an operation
of a very different nature took place. Dr. Hoffman, looking more like a
pastry cook in his operating clothes than anything else, bustled around
the operating room keeping the nurses and assisting physicians on the
jump.

"Who's the Dutchman that's doing the bossing?" asked a pert young
interne of one of the doctors.

"Shut up," answered the doctor addressed, "that's Hoffman, of the
_Staatsklinick_ in Berlin, and the Royal College of Vienna. He was
Professor of Anatomy in the _Staatsklinick_ '95-'96, don't you
remember?" he said, turning to one of the other doctors. "He's a wizard
at bonesetting. He performed that operation on Count Esterhazy's
youngest son that kept him from being a cripple." The younger doctor
looked at Dr. Hoffman with a sudden respect. The case in question was a
famous one in surgical annals.

Dr. Lord, angry as he was at Dr. Hoffman's arraignment of him before the
nurses and visitors, was yet a big enough man to realize that he had a
chance to learn something from this sarcastic intruder who had so
unceremoniously taken his case out of his hands, and swallowing his
wrath, asked permission to witness the operation. "Ach, yes, to be
sure," said Dr. Hoffman, with his old geniality. "You must not mind that
I vas so cross yesterday," he went on, "it vas because I vas so
impatient ven I hear you vanted to amputate dot girl's leg off. But I
forget," he said magnanimously, "you do not know how to set de badly
splintered bones so dey vill knit, as I do. Bring all de doctors in you
vant to, and all de nurses too. Ve vill haf a _Klinick_."

Thus it was that the large operating room of the hospital was crowded to
the very edge of the "sterile field" with eager medical men, glad of the
chance to watch Dr. Hoffman at work. "Who is that young girl in here?"
asked Dr. Lord impatiently, as the anaesthetic was about to be
administered.

"Some friend of the patient," explained the head nurse. "Hoffman let her
in himself." The young girl in question was Medmangi. Dr. Hoffman knew
all about her ambition to become a doctor and allowed her to come into
the operating room. So she began her career by witnessing one of the
most inspired operations of a widely famed surgeon.

When Sahwah came out of the ether she felt as if she were held in a
vise. "What's the matter?" she asked dreamily. "I feel so stiff and
queer."

"It's the cast they put you in," answered her mother.

Sahwah moved her arms carefully to see if they were in working order
yet. Lightly she touched the hard substance that surrounded her hip
bone. "They didn't cut it off, did they?" she asked in sudden terror.
She could not tell by the feeling whether she had two legs or one.

Dr. Hoffman, coming in in time to hear the question, snorted violently.
"Don't talk such nonsense, Missis Sahvah," he said, waving his hands
emphatically. "Dot limb is still vere it belongs, and vill be as good as
ever ven de cast comes off."

The watchers around the bed that day wore very different expressions
from what they had worn all week. Just since yesterday despair had given
way to hope and hope to assurance. Her mother and father and Nyoda
hovered over the bed with radiant faces, and the Winnebagos, after
seeing Sahwah's favorable condition with their own eyes, retired to
Gladys's barn to celebrate. The rules of the hospital forbade the amount
of noise they felt they must make. Dick Albright smiled his first smile
that day since the night of the accident.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE HONOR OF THE WINNEBAGOS.

"For High Style use the Preterite,
For Common use the Past,
In compound verbal tenses
Put the Participle last.
The Perfect Tense with 'Avoir'
With the Subject must agree
(Or does this rule apply to the
Auxiliary 'to be'?)."

Migwan, in high spirits, resolved the rules in her French grammar into
poetry as she learned them. Regular lessons were gotten out of the way
as quickly as possible these days to give more time to the study of
history. And to Migwan studying history meant not merely the memorizing
of a number of facts attached to dates which might or might not stay in
her mind at the crucial time; it was the bringing to life of bygone
races and people, and putting herself in their places, and living along
with them the events described on the pages. Taking it in this way,
Migwan had a very clear and vivid picture of the things she was
learning, and her answers to questions showed such a thorough knowledge
of her subject that she was regarded as a "grind" at history, while the
truth was that she did less "grinding" than the rest of the class, who
merely memorized figures and facts without calling in the aid of the
imagination. So Migwan learned her new history and reviewed her old, and
was as happy as the day was long.

As the time approached for the examination she felt more sure of herself
every day. The long hours of patient study were about to be rewarded,
and she would bring honor to the Winnebagos by winning the Parsons
prize. That little point about bringing honor to the Winnebagos was
keenly felt by Migwan. Ever since Sahwah had covered herself with
undying glory in the game with the Carnegie Mechanics, Migwan felt a
longing to distinguish herself in some way also. Sahwah's fame was
widespread, and when any of the Winnebagos happened to mention that they
belonged to that particular group, some one was sure to say, "The
Winnebago Camp Fire? Oh, yes, it was one of your number who won the
basketball championship for the school by making a record jump for the
ball, wasn't it?" The whole group lived in the reflected glory of Sahwah
the Sunfish. Now, thought Migwan resolutely, they would have something
else to be proud about. In the future people would say, "The Winnebagos?
Oh, yes, it was one of your girls who carried off the Parsons prize in
history!"

Migwan thrilled with the joy of it, and plunged more deeply into the
pages before her. She was a different girl nowadays from the pale,
anxious-faced one who had sat up night after night during the winter,
desperately trying to add something to the scanty income by the labor of
pen and typewriter. Now she was always happy and sparkling, and
performed her household tasks with such a will that her languid mother,
lying and watching her, was likewise filled with an ambition to be up
and doing. She was never cross with Betty these days, no matter how many
fits of temper that young lady indulged in. Professor Green often
stopped her in the hall to ask her how she was getting along in her
preparation, and offered to lend her reference books which would help
her in her study. Everybody seemed to be anxious for her to win the
prize, and willing to give her all the help possible.

Migwan did not make the mistake of studying until late the night before
the examination. She went to bed at nine o'clock, so as to be in fit
condition. When she closed her books after the final study she knew all
that was to be learned from them. The examination was held in the senior
session room after the close of school. Five pupils participated. One
was Abraham Goldstein, another was George Curtis, who liked Migwan very
well and hated Abraham cordially; the other two were girls. They all sat
in one row of seats; Migwan first, then George, then Abraham, and behind
him the two girls. The lists of questions were given out. "I hardly need
to say," said the teacher in attendance, "that the honor system will be
in force during this examination."

Migwan made an effort to still the wild beating of her heart and read
the questions through. They all appeared easy to her, as she had had
such a thorough preparation. George Curtis groaned to himself as he
looked them over, for there were two which he saw at a glance he would
be unable to answer. Abraham read his and looked thoughtful. Migwan
wrote rapidly with a sure and inspired pen until she came to the last
question. There she halted in dismay. The question was in the Ancient
History group and read, in part, "Who was the invader of Israel before
Sennacherib?" For the life of her she could not think of the name of the
Assyrian invader. Last night the whole thing had been as clear as
crystal in her mind. She thought until the perspiration stood out on her
forehead; she tried every method of suggestion that she knew, but all in
vain; the name still eluded her. While she was trying so desperately to
recall the name, George Curtis in the seat behind was watching her. By
chance he had caught a glimpse of her paper, and saw the figure 10
followed by an empty space, so he knew that it was the tenth question
she was having trouble with. This happened to be one he knew and he had
just written it out in a bold, black hand. He was out of the race for
the prize, for there were two whole questions left out on his sheet. By
certain signs of distress from the two girls behind him he knew that
they, too, were out, and it now lay between Migwan and Abraham. Abraham
was not very well liked by the boys since the affair of the statue.
George despised him utterly, and he could not bear to think of his
winning that prize.

He watched his chance. It came at last. The teacher dropped her pencil
behind her desk, and in the instant when she was picking it up he
reached out and pulled Migwan's hair sharply. When she turned around in
surprise he framed with his lips the name "Sargon." She understood it
perfectly. Then came a mental struggle which matched Sahwah's terrific
physical one that day in camp. On one side college stood with its doors
wide open to welcome her; she heard the plaudits of her friends who
expected and wanted her to win the prize; she saw the joy in her
mother's face when she heard the news; she heard the heartfelt
congratulations of Nyoda and the Winnebagos who would share in her
glory. On the other hand she heard just five ugly words echoing in her
ears. "_You didn't win it honestly!"_ She tried to stifle the voice of
science. "I knew it perfectly all the time," she said to herself, "and
it only slipped my mind for an instant." "But you forgot," said the
voice, "and if he hadn't told you you wouldn't have known."

Miserably she argued the question back and forth. It she didn't win the
prize Abraham would, and he could well afford to go to college without
the money. "He'd cheat if he had the chance," she told herself. "That
doesn't help you any," pricked the accuser. "You talk about the honor of
the Winnebagos. If you use that information you would be dishonoring the
Winnebagos! You're a cheat, you're a cheat," it said tauntingly, and a
little sparrow on the window sill outside took up the mocking refrain,
"Cheat! Cheat!" Stung as though some one had pointed an accusing finger
at her, Migwan flung down her pen in despair and resolutely blotted her
paper. She handed in her examination with the last half of the last
question unanswered, and fled from the room with unseeing eyes. And in
the instant when George was trying to tell Migwan the answer, Abraham,
who had also forgotten the name of Sargon, glanced over toward George's
paper and saw it written out in his easily readable hand. Without a
qualm he wrote it down on his own paper with a triumphant flourish.

There was great surprise throughout the school a few days later when the
grades of the examination were made public: Elsie Gardiner, 95; Abraham
Goldstein, 98, winner of the Parsons cash prize of $100.

Migwan felt like a wanderer on the face of the earth after losing that
history prize. She shrank from meeting the friends who had so
confidently expected her to win it, and her own thoughts were too
painful to be left alone with. If Hinpoha had been wandering in the
Desert of Waiting for the past few months, Migwan was sunk deep in the
Slough of Despond. She was at the age when death seemed preferable to
defeat, and she wished miserably that she would fall ill of some mortal
disease, and never have to face the world again with failure written on
her forehead. "Oh, why," she wailed in anguish of spirit, as has many an
older and wiser person when confronted with this same unanswerable
question, "why was I given this glimpse of Paradise only to have the
gate slammed in my face?" That spectre of the winter before, the belief
that success would never be hers, gripped her again with its icy hand.
And was it any wonder? Twice now the means to enter college had been
within her reach, and twice it had been swept away in a single day. But
while Migwan was thus learning by hard experience that there is many a
slip twixt the cup and the lip, she was also to learn from that same
schoolmistress the truth of the old saying, "Three times and out." In
the meantime, however, the skies were as gray as the wings of the
Thunderbird, and life was like a jangling discord struck on a piano long
out of tune.

But even if we _would_ rather be dead than alive, as long as we _are_
alive there remain certain duties which have to be performed regardless
of the state of our emotional barometers, and Migwan discovered with a
start one day that there were at least a dozen letters in her top bureau
drawer waiting to be answered. "It's a shame," she said to herself, as
she looked them over. "I haven't written to the Bartletts since last
November." The Bartletts were the parents of the little boy who was
traced by the aid of her timely snapshot. She opened Mrs. Bartlett's
letter and glanced over it to put herself in the mood for answering it.
She laughed sardonically as she read. Mrs. Bartlett, confident that
Migwan was going to use the reward money to go to college, discussed the
merits of different courses, and advised Migwan, above all things, with
her talent for writing, to put the emphasis on literature and history.
Migwan took a certain grim delight in telling Mrs. Bartlett what had
happened to her ambition to go to college. She had a Homeric sense of
humor that could see the point when the gods were playing pranks on
helpless mortals. She told the story simply and frankly, without any
"literary style," such as was usually present in her letters to a high
degree; neither did she bewail her lot and seek sympathy, for Migwan was
no craven.

Then, having told Mrs. Bartlett that she had made up her mind to give up
thoughts of college for several years at least, as her duty to her
mother came before her ambition, and had sealed and sent away the
letter, it suddenly came over her that the writing she had done all
winter and which she now considered a waste of time, had done something
for her after all; it had taught her the use of the typewriter, a
knowledge which she could turn to account during the summertime, and by
working in an office somewhere, she could possibly earn enough money to
enter college in the fall after all. And up went Migwan's spirits again,
like a jack-in-the-box, and went soaring among the clouds like the
swallows.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN AUTOMOBILE AND A DRIVER.

Along in the last week of May, Nyoda, on a shopping tour downtown,
dropped into a restaurant for a bit of lunch. As she was sitting down to
the table, another young woman came and sat down opposite her. The two
glanced at each other.

"Why, Elizabeth Kent!" exclaimed the latest arrival.

"Why, Norma Williamson!" exclaimed Nyoda, recognizing an old college
friend.

"Not Norma Williamson any more," said the friend, blushing as she drew
off her glove and displayed the rings on her fourth finger; "Norma
Bates."

"What are you doing to pass the time away?" asked the pretty little
matron when she had exhausted her own experiences of the last few years.
Nyoda told her about her teaching and the guardianship of the
Winnebagos. "Camp Fire Girls?" said Mrs. Bates. "How delightful! I think
that is one of the best things that ever happened to girls. If I were
not so frightfully busy I would take a group too--I may yet. But I wish
you would bring your girls out to visit us. We're living on the Lake
Shore for the summer. Camp Fire Girls would certainly know how to have a
good time at our place. We have a launch and a sailboat and horses to
ride and a tennis court. Can't you come out next Saturday?" Nyoda
thought perhaps they could. "I'll tell you what to do," said Mrs. Bates,
warming to the scheme. "Come out Friday after school and stay until
Sunday night. That will give the girls more chance to do things. We have
plenty of room."

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