Part 13 (2/2)

”That proves something,” she told herself, ”but just how much I can't tell. But I'll leave that to study out to-night. Must hurry on or I'll be late to my lecture.”

”That sled track went toward the dry dock,” she told herself a few moments later. ”To-night when I go home I'll try to trace it out and see where it went.”

Lucile was home early that day. Marian had not gone to school at all. She had stayed on the beach making sketches of the ice-jam on the lake front.

”I'll be going out again to-night,” she told Lucile. ”Wind's s.h.i.+fted.

It's offsh.o.r.e now and rising. There are certain effects of lights and shadows which you get on the rim of a body of fresh water which you don't in the sea ice. Sea ice is white, dull white, like snow. Fresh water ice is blue; blue as the sky sometimes. I want to catch it before it blows out again. But what brings you home so early, Lucile?”

”Cut my lecture. Headache,” she explained, pressing her temples. ”Nothing much though. And, Marian,” she exclaimed suddenly, ”what do you think?

That story!”

”Did he take it?”

”The editor of the Literary Monthly? No, better than that.”

”Could anything be better than that?”

”Lots of things.”

”What _is_ better?”

”Listen,” declaimed Lucile, striking a mock dramatic att.i.tude. ”He said, the literary editor did, that it was too good for his _poor little publication_! Fancy! 'His poor little publication!' My story too good! My story! A freshman's story!” She burst into sudden laughter, but stopped abruptly and sat down pressing her temples and groaning: ”My poor head!”

”You never can tell about it--about stories,” said Marian. ”Heads either.

You'll have to go to bed early to-night and get a good night's sleep.

There's been entirely too much excitement on board these last few nights.”

”He said,” Lucile went on, ”that the Literary Monthly didn't pay for stories. Of course I knew that. And he said that he thought I could sell my story; that he thought it was good enough for that. The technique was not quite perfect. There was too much explanation at the beginning and the climax was short, but the theme and plot were unusual. He thought that would put it over. He knew exactly the place to send it--'Seaside Tales,' a new magazine just started by a very successful editor. He knows him personally. He gave me a letter of introduction to him and I mailed the story to him right away. So you see,” she smiled folding her arms, ”I am to be an auth.o.r.ess, a--a second George Eliot, if you please!”

”But Seaside Tales is published right down town. Why did you mail it?”

”Do you think,” said Lucile in real consternation, ”that I would dare beard that lion of an editor in his den? The editor of a real magazine that pays genuine money for stories? Why I--I'd die of fright. Besides, one does not do it. Really one doesn't.”

”What was your story about?” asked Marian suddenly.

”Why, I--I wasn't going to tell, but I guess I will. It was about three girls living on a yacht in a dry dock. And, one night in a storm the yacht broke loose on the dry dock and went out into the water. Then it drifted out to sea. Then, of course, they had to get back to land. Wasn't that dramatic?”

”Yes, very!” smiled Marian. ”Goodness! I hope it never happens to the O Moo! Just think! Not one of us even knows how to start the engine.”

”I mean to have Dr. Holmes show me the very next time he and Mrs. Holmes come down.”

”He'll think you're crazy.”

”Maybe he will. But you never can tell.”

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