A College Girl | Page 5

was the member of the family who had a
natural aptitude for mechanism; the one who mended toys, and on
occasion was even consulted about mother's sewing-machine and
escapes of gas, therefore he filled the place of engineer-royal and was
expected to take all structural difficulties upon his own shoulders. He
pondered, blinking his pale blue eyes.
"Can't send messages in the usual way--too difficult. If the cord were
double, we might have a bag and switch it across."
Ha! the audience pricked its ears and sat alert, seeing in imagination the
tiny cord swung high in space above the dividing ground, stretching
from window to window, fastened securely on the sills, "somehow,"
according to the girls, the boys critically debating the question of ways
and means, strong iron hoops, for choice, clamped into the framework
of the windows.
"How would the messages be sent?"
"In a bag, of course. Put the letter in the bag; then we'd pull and pull,
and it would work round and round, till it arrived at the opposite end."

A stealthy exchange of glances testified to the general realisation of the
fact that it would take a long time to pull, a much longer time, for
instance, than to run round by the road, and deposit the missive in the
letter-box, a still unforbidden means of communication. Every one
realised the fact, but every one scorned to put it into words. What was a
mere matter of time, compared with the glory and eclat of owning a
real live telegraph of one's own?
The first stage of the proceedings was to obtain the parental consent,
and this was secured with an ease and celerity which was positively
disconcerting. When mothers said, "Oh, yes, dears, certainly--certainly
you may try!" with a smile in their eyes, a twist on their lips, and a
barely concealed incredulity oozing out of every pore, it put the
youngsters on their mettle to succeed, or perish in the attempt. The
mothers obviously congratulated themselves on a project which would
provide innocent amusement for holiday afternoons, while they
inwardly derided the idea of permanent success.
"We'll show 'em!" cried Harry darkly. "We'll let 'em see!"
The next point was to decide on the window in each house which
should act as telegraph station. In the case of the Vernons there was
obviously no alternative, for the third-floor landing window possessed
qualifications far in excess of any other, but with the Garnetts two rival
factions fought a wordy combat in favour of the boys' room and the
little eerie inhabited by Lavender, each of which occupied equally good
sites.
"Stick to it! Stick to it!" were Harry's instructions to his younger
brother. "They can't put the thing up without us, so they're bound to
come round in the end, and if we've got the telegraph station, it will
give us the whip hand over them for ever. It's our room, and they've
jolly well got to behave if they want to come in. If they turn rusty, we'll
lock the door, and they'll have to be civil, or do without the telegraph.
Let 'em talk till they're tired, and then they'll give in, and we'll go out
and buy the cord."
And in the end the girls succumbed as predicted. Lavender's pride in

owning the site of the great enterprise weakened before the tragic
picture drawn for her warning, in which she saw herself roused from
slumber at unearthly hours of the night, leaning out of an opened
window to draw a frozen cord through bleeding hands. She decided that
on the whole it would be more agreeable to lie snugly in bed and
receive the messages from the boys over a warm and leisurely
breakfast.
These two great points arranged, nothing now remained but the erection
of the line itself, and two strong iron hoops having been fixed into the
outer sills of the respective windows a fine Saturday afternoon
witnessed the first struggle with the cord.
Vi Vernon and plain Hannah unrolled one heavy skein, threaded it
through their own hoop, and lowered the two ends into the garden,
where John stood at attention ready to throw them over the wall. Darsie
and Lavender dropped their ends straight into the street, and then
chased madly downstairs to join the boys and witness the junction of
the lines. Each line being long enough in itself to accomplish the
double journey, the plan was to pull the connected string into the
Garnett station, cut off the superfluous length, and tie the ends taut and
firm. Nothing could have seemed easier in theory, but in practice
unexpected difficulties presented themselves. The side street was as a
rule singularly free from traffic, but with the usual perversity of fate,
every tradesman's cart in the neighbourhood seemed