The Girl Scout Pioneers | Page 2

table cover irradiated its fullness
into really graceful folds, falling over the orange box-here, on account
of the knob, no article was placed, and the rosette stood defiant over the
whole surrounding.
The girl placed the candle on a spot made clear for that small round, tin
stand, and then glancing anxiously at the door, stole over to make sure
that the bolt was shot, hurried back and proceeded to untie the knot of
string responsible for the drapery over the orange box. By the glare of
the candle's flame her fingers could be seen stained with oil, and grim,
as they expertly worked at the tied-up skirt, and finally succeeded in
pulling apart the ragged folds. Quickly she slipped one small hand
beneath the calico, and, obtaining her quest, drew back to examine it.
One, two, three green bills. Her savings and her fortune. Lights and
shadows crossing the youthful face betrayed the hopes, and fears
mingling with, such emotions as the girl lived through in this crowded
hour, but no sooner had she slipped the small roll of bills into the
flaring neck of her thin blouse, than a shaking at the door caused her to
kick the telescope bag under the bed, hastily readjust the cover of the
orange box, blow out the capering candle flame, and then open the door.
A woman young in face but old in posture scuffled in. She wore a
shawl on her head, although the season was warm April, and the
plentiful quantities of material swathed in her attire proclaimed her
foreign.
"Oh, Dagmar. I am tired," she sighed. "I thought you would come down
to fix supper for papa. You do not change your skirt? No?"

"I was going to, so I locked the door," replied the girl Dagmar. "But I,
too, was tired."
"Yes, it is so. Well, the mill is not so bad. It has a new window near my
bench, and I breathe better. But, daughter, we must go down. Keep the
door locked as you dress. Those new peoples may not tell which is the
right room." With a glance at the fair daughter, so unlike herself in
coloring, the working mother dragged herself out again, and soon could
be heard cliptrapping down the dark stairs that led to the kitchens on
the first floor of the mill workers, community lodgings.
Dagmar breathed deeply and clasped her hands tightly as her mother's
tired foottread fell to an echo. Love filled the blue eyes and an
affectionate smile wreathed the red lips.
"Poor mother!" she sighed aloud. "I hate to--"
Then again came that look of determination, and when Dagmar slipped
down the stairs she carried the telescope and her crochetted hand bag.
Her velvet tarn sat jauntily on those wonderful yellow curls, and her
modern cape flew gracefully out, just showing the least fold of her best
chiffon blouse. Dagmar wore strickly American clothes, selected in
rather good taste, and they attracted much attention in the streets of
Flosston.
Once clear of the long brown building, through which spots of light
now struck the night, out of those desperate rows and rows of
machine-made windows, Dagmar made her way straight to the corner,
then turned straight again to another long narrow street, her very steps
corresponding to that painful directness of line and plan, common to
towns made by mill-owners for their employees. Even the stars, now
pricking their way through the blue, seemed to throw down straight
lines of light on Flosston; nothing varied the mechanical exactness, and
monotonous squares and angles of streets, buildings, and high board
fences.
One more sharp turn brought the girl within sight of a square, squatty
railroad station, and as she sped toward it she caught sight of the figure

of another girl, outlined in the shadows. This figure was taller and
larger in form than herself, and as Dagmar whistled softly, the girl
ahead stopped.
"Oh, you got my note," said the other. "I am so glad. I was afraid you
would not come."
"I'm here," replied Dagmar, "bag and baggage, mostly bag," kicking the
accommodating and inoffensive telescope. "I hate to carry this thing."
"Oh, that's all right," replied the taller girl, who, under a street lamp,
showed a face older than Dagmar's and perhaps a little hard and rough.
Just that bold defiant look, so often affected by girls accustomed to
fighting their way through the everyday hardships of walled-in
surroundings.
"Tessie, I am afraid," confessed the younger girl. "I almost cried when
Mama asked me to fix supper."
"Oh, baby! You are too pretty, that's all's the matter with you. But just
wait. Hush! There's that crowd of nifty-nice, preachy, snippy scout girls.
Duck, or they'll be on our trail," and she dragged her companion around
the