The S. P. Mystery

Jean Gordon rushed into the house, her face all aglow. There was some fire within which made her eyes bright and the sharp wind, which came from lakes not too far away, gave her rosy cheeks and nipped her nose as well.

Without stopping in the hall to take off her pretty red coat or the close little hat that left little but eyes, nose and mouth to be seen, she opened the door into the dining-room, from which the sound of her mother’s machine could be heard.

“O Mother! May I have the room in the attic for a club room?”

Jean had opened this door a little more decorously and now she closed it more softly than she had opened and closed the front door, whose bang her mother must have heard. With an amused smile Mrs. Gordon turned from her work. “Is this my dear hurricane, home from school?”

“It is,” laughed Jean. “Please excuse the front door, Mother. It slipped out of my hand. And I suppose I should not have shouted right out. Good afternoon, fair lady!” A deep courtesy was made in grave exaggeration before Jean ran to her mother and deposited a quick kiss upon her cheek.

“Your apology is accepted, Miss Gordon,” said Jean’s mother, with a pat upon the cold hand which Jean laid upon her chair. “Now, what is it that you want?”

“The attic room for a club,--please, Mother!”

“It is cold up there,” returned Mrs. Gordon, starting to baste the hem of a blouse which she was making for Jean.

“Oh, that is going to be precious!” exclaimed Jean, stopping to look at the garment. “I’ll be all fixed for school now. I don’t see what makes me get so shabby.”

“Nor do I,” said Mrs. Gordon with a comical look. “But clothes will wear out.”

Jean sat on the arm of her mother’s chair to continue the original subject. “There’s a radiator there, isn’t there, Mother? Couldn’t the heat be turned on?”

“I suppose so; but that one always turned hard, and it has not been used for a long time. But why the pressing need of a club room and who will clean it?”

Jean laughed. “Ay, there’s the rub! I hope you appreciate my smart remark, Mother. But March is almost time for house-cleaning, isn’t it? Besides, the club members will fix up the room. I promise not to bother you about it. There isn’t much in it. Why couldn’t we have the old chairs that are in the rest of the attic?”

“You could. You may. Tell me about the club. This is something new, isn’t it?”

“Rather; but if you don’t mind, Mother, I’ll tell you more about it tonight. There is a reason why I have to call up the girls right away!”

“Run along, then.” Mrs. Gordon looked after her daughter with a twinkle in the brown eyes that were so much like Jean’s. What new scheme did those children have now?

Jean pulled off her hat and hung it upon the hall rack, but without removing her coat she sat down at the little table near to telephone.

“No, Central, it’s one--O--two--O, please,--yes, X.”

A long pause made Jean tap her feet impatiently while she waited. Why didn’t Central ring again? But here came the “hello” Jean wanted. “Hello, Molly. I’m glad that’s you. Can you call up Phoebe and Bess and Fran for me and all of you come right over? There’s something I have to see you about right away. It’s terribly important and I want to get everybody here the first minute possible, or I wouldn’t ask you to telephone. I’ve just got to see you before the party tonight! Oh, good! Thank you so much. Tell them there’s a mystery and that’ll bring ’em. I’m going to get Nan over and start making fudge. Wasn’t it grand that we got out of school so early?”

Molly evidently agreed that it was “grand,” and in a moment the receiver was hung up, Jean hanging up her coat in the interval between calls.

Again Jean was sitting at the small table. “That you, Nan? Since I saw you something has happened and if you want your old Jean vindicated, as ’twere, come on over and help me out. Just walk right in, because I’ll probably be telephoning, or may be, anyhow. We’ll make some fudge before the girls get here. What? Oh, I’ll ‘splain’ when you get here. I’ve a great scheme,--only maybe you won’t like it, of course.”

Nan must have asserted her interest in Jean’s schemes, for Jean turned from the telephone with a dimple in one cheek fully evident and a funny quirk in her smile. Nan was her chum in chief, and a girl of some originality. What Jean could not think of, Nan proposed. Between them had some interesting experiences, though usually within the bounds imposed by their very sensible parents.

Next, a number had to be looked up. “I do hate to call the Dudley’s,” Jean was thinking. She stood a moment, thinking, then went on a run through the hall and into the kitchen, neat and clean and orderly. Jean made a dash for the aluminum sauce-pan in which she always made her fudge. Another dash, and she had measured out the sugar, put a cup under the faucet for water, set out another pan, to receive the fudge when done, a bottle of flavoring extract and a big spoon. Then she looked for milk and butter, changing her mind a time or two about the ingredients.

While Jean was in the midst of these hurried proceedings, the kitchen door opened after a short rap and a girl with a blue coat over her head and shoulders came in, though stopping in the door to take off her rubbers. “My, it’s muddy in your back yard, Jean,” said she. “I just took a notion to come over this way, since you said fudge. Why aren’t you telephoning?”

The enveloping coat came off as Nan Standish talked, revealing a girl of about Jean’s height, the usual height of girls about fifteen. Nan’s clear eyes were blue and her hair fluffy and yellow. She was as light on her feet as Jean and came dancing over to where Jean stood. “Here, just skeedoodle, Jean Gordon. I’ll start this, while you do whatever else you want to do. I’m dying to know what it’s all about.”

“I’ve only got one more place to telephone, Nan. I’ve decided to use milk instead of water, since there seems to be plenty. So put in one cup to the three cups of sugar, already measured. See? I’ll be back in a minute and tell you all about it, the plan, I mean, not the fudge.”

“Yes, I’ve made fudge with you before. Trot along.”

Jean trotted. “Is this Mrs. Dudley?” she asked, when she had the proper number. “This is Jean Gordon. Would it be too much trouble to ask Leigh to come to the telephone?”

Jean’s tone was very formal now. She did not know Mrs. Dudley very well, and she stood just a little in awe of the Dudley formality as expressed in Leigh. But Phoebe would not enjoy a club without Leigh, and Leigh was a girl that any club would be glad to have. To do without Phoebe, too, was not to be thought of!

It was plainly not too much trouble to notify Leigh, for presently she came to talk with Jean. “A little meeting of a few girls, Jean,--to do something about something? That’s very clear!” Leigh’s low laugh came over the wire. “Why the mystery? Yes, of course, I’ll come, and stop for Phoebe, too. Oh, it may be fifteen minutes. I’ll have to tell Mother and get my wraps. I’m terribly curious.”

“Wasn’t that nice, Nan?” asked Jean, in the kitchen again. “Phoebe told me yesterday that Leigh is just shy, being new here this year, you know, and not knowing any of the girls before.”

“We-ell,” Nan replied, with a spoonful of the hot fudge to try it in a glass of cold water, “I do think that the Dudleys think pretty well of themselves, with that big place and all,--but I suppose, for that matter, all of our families do, and Leigh--gracious, Jean, this fudge is ready to come off! Is that the pan of cold water to set this in?”

The fudge cooling before being beaten, our two girls linked arms and ran upstairs to Jean’s room, where with many giggles Jean imparted her news to her friend. “Do you think it was so awful, Nan?” she asked. “I feel dreadfully guilty, yet I just did it on the spur of the moment and if you girls only do it, it will be a lot of fun.”

“Of course it will. I’m for it, Jean. Why haven’t we done it before?”

“But how about the name? Do you suppose--?”

“Oh, that will be all right. If I were you I’d tell them all about it. What is a secret society without a secret to keep? Jimmy has been awfully smart about his pin, and if we could keep it quiet about our plans--”

“Especially as we haven’t any,” laughed Jean.

“Yes, but they need not know that. Oh, there’s the doorbell! The girls are coming. I’ll slip down the back stairs and beat that fudge while you let them all in. But don’t do anything till I get there,--_please_!”

“Not a word, Nan. It shall remain a mystery till you come in. But don’t you want some help beating that fudge?”

“Not necessarily, Jean, but send anybody out you like.”