Part 8 (1/2)

”R-r-i-g-h-t D-r-e-s-s!”

Heads and arms repeated their swift motions.

”Hold it! _Hold_ it!” rasped the voice. ”Who said _'Front?'_ Here, Redhead!”

Hinpoha hastily resumed the position she had abandoned too soon.

”Now, FRONT! Again, RIGHT DRESS! FRONT! R-r-r-e-a-d-y! M-a-r-r-k t-i-m-e, M-a-h-k! One-two-three-four! F-or-r-d HUNCH! Wake _up_ there, Redhead!”

Hinpoha jumped and caught pace with the rest of her squad, who were several steps ahead, and then it dawned on her that ”F-o-r-r-r-d Hunch!”

must mean ”Forward March!”

”One-two-three-four! Left! Left! Left! Left! You with the plaid tie, get in step!”

Migwan shuffled her feet and fell into rhythm.

”One-two-three-four!” The drill sergeant rapped out a jarringly emphatic accent against a tree with her staff.

She was a college gymnasium teacher home on her summer vacation; her name was Miss Raper. She had a tremendous reputation for rigid discipline in her cla.s.ses. She had been trained in military drilling by an army drill officer and had acquired all his mannerisms, from the way of shouting his orders in such a way that it was next to impossible to understand them, to his merciless habit of calling out by name every one who made the slightest error.

”HALT! GUIDE RIGHT! Head to the front, there, Black Eyes! R-r-e-a-d-y!

LEFT WHEEL!”

The squads wheeled in decidedly shaky order.

”Again! LEFT WHEEL! Hold your pivot there! _H-o-l-d y-o-u-r p-i-v-o-t!_ Stand still, you Redhead, and wheel in place! Again! Left Wheel!”

So the endless tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp went on under the blistering July sun; the squads perspired and panted, muscles ached from the continued exertion and heels began to feel as though pounded to pulp from the violence with which they marked the accent.

But never a word of complaint did anyone breathe. They gloried in their discomfort. For this hot dusty road over which they toiled and perspired so was the road to glory, the avenue down which the girls of Oakwood, led by the Winnebagos, would march to triumph over their sworn rivals, the Hillsdale-ites.

Agony had gone through the town and picked out the most promising girls, whom, with the addition of the Winnebagos, she formed into a company.

They drilled for an hour every morning with Miss Raper in the wide dirt road that ran along the foot of the hill behind Carver House.

The hour drew to a close with a final strenuous series of left and right wheels and the Winnebagos sought the shade of the trees along the roadside and fanned themselves with leaves.

”How did we do to-day, Miss Raper?” inquired Agony, as the drill sergeant prepared to depart.

”I congratulate you,” replied Miss Raper with sarcastic wit. ”I never saw it done worse.”

The company recognized the fact that it was a tactical error to try to draw any praises to themselves from Miss Raper. Yet they did not consider themselves abused, nor did they harbor any hard feelings toward her on account of her sharp tongue. They realized that she was a ”crackerjack” trainer, and for the sake of winning that contest they were willing to endure her caustic comments meekly.

”I'll never get left and right wheel correctly,” sighed Oh-Pshaw with a discouraged air. ”No matter which one she says, I always go in the opposite direction. I get so fussed when she looks at me that I can't tell my left foot from my right.”

”Never mind, you'll get it in time,” said Migwan soothingly. ”I had the same trouble at first, but I'm getting sort of used to her now.”

”I'm awfully stupid about things like that,” mourned Oh-Pshaw, ”and I'm afraid I'll never get over getting fussed. I never _could_ stand up in front of anybody and perform; the minute I see people looking at me I forget everything I know and stand there like a dummy.”

”Cheer up, child,” said Migwan, ”it isn't nearly as bad as you make out.