Chapter VII: The Jam Social

THE tiny, blue calcimined room with one window looking southward seemed almost palatial in comparison with Gincy’s humble home quarters. Instead of the overhanging mountains were the foothills and the college gardens.

She tried to picture the scene back home without her at this early hour. Her mother milking Brindled Bet, Billy feeding the pigs, and her father—she couldn’t be thankful enough he wasn’t like Sam Coyle—getting ready to gather the “crap” in the south cove.

There was a slight stirring in the lower berth of the double-decker. “Talitha,” she called out softly. “Air you awake?” But the voice which answered was not Talitha’s.

“It’s Urilla,” it said hesitatingly.

Gincy leaned over and her eyes sought the occupant of the cot below. Propped up on the pillow was the pale face of the girl who had arrived yesterday. The solemn brown eyes looked straight up into hers inquiringly as though not at all sure of a welcome. “I reckon you’re some surprised,” she said. “You were asleep when I came in last night and I aimed to keep pretty still.”

“Yes,” answered Gincy rather dazed. “But whar’s Talitha?”

Urilla shook her head. “Mrs. Donnelly sent me here—I had this room last term. I reckon Talitha’s on this floor, though. The first and second year girls are mostly together.”

Gincy swung down and began dressing without another word. She would interview Talitha at breakfast; perhaps they could arrange to room together after all. Urilla looked too sober for a roommate. “Whar you from?” Gincy asked finally, rolling up her hair.

“Jackson County,” Urilla answered promptly. “I rode twenty miles yesterday and the road was might rocky. Where’d you come from?”

“Over in Clay,” Gincy smiled into the tired face as she answered. “I should think you’d be plumb tickled to be back. Seems like you couldn’t stay away from here nohow, but I heerd you say your mammy war sick,” she added, anxious not to appear lacking in friendly interest.

“Not bed sick, or I couldn’t have come. She’s up, but I keep studying about her and wondering if Sallie—that’s my next sister—will keep her from working. Mother’s had a spell of fever and don’t seem to get strong.”

Apparently, Urilla was fumbling in the little trunk on the floor for some article of wearing apparel, but Gincy saw the teardrops, and instantly her tender heart warmed. She stooped over and took the pale face between her two hard little palms. “You mustn’t fret, honey, mammy had the fever a couple of years back, and she’s robustious as kin be now.”

Urilla looked the thanks her lips were unable to speak. In a minute she had regained her composure, and by the time the breakfast bell sounded, her few belongings were carefully hung in her half of the little closet, the bedclothes airing, and the tiny dresser in perfect order.

Together they went down the long flights of stairs, but not to the same dining-room. Gincy had been assigned to a table in the Annex where Martin and Talitha ate, but the latter had not arrived. Silently she waited for the blessing, and then catching Martin’s eye, “Whar’s Talitha?” she inquired.

“I don’t know—exactly,” he answered with hesitation and truthfully, he thought. She might be anywhere between Clover Bottom and Lost Creek by this time.

Gincy ate her oatmeal without suspicion. Why should Martin know after all, when he roomed halfway across the campus? Another thought came to her. Perhaps Talitha had volunteered to go to one of the cottages that she might stay in the hall. It was just like her to be so unselfish.

This was the morning for registering, and Gincy felt very new indeed. In the absence of Talitha, Urilla and Kizzie Tipton offered to act as escorts. It seemed hours before her end of the line reached the desk and she was assigned to an examination in the Industrial Building a block away. Her sunny face was quite woe-begone as they started.

“Don’t you fret,” admonished Urilla. “I know just how you feel, but you needn’t be afraid.”

“I’m plumb ’shamed of my ignorance. I won’t be nowhar ’side of you-all,” Gincy answered disconsolately.

“You’ll be just where I was last year,” consoled Kizzie.

“Do you reckon so? Well, I’m bound ter work every minnit now I’ve got started.” Gincy’s mouth showed an even line of determination. She looked around curiously as they entered the big, brick building. On either side of the wide stairway were the rooms for cooking and sewing. Students were passing in and out.

“I’ve had cooking,” said Urilla, “and I’ve taught Sallie to make good bread.”

“I’d rather take sewing; it’s easier.” Kizzie’s black eyes twinkled.

“If I had my ruthers it would be cookin’,” declared Gincy. “I could help mammy a heap; hit’s better to move ’round some, too.”

A crowd was constantly passing up and down the stairs leading to the second floor. Some of the boys and girls had yellow slips in their hands; a few looked worried. In the large, upstairs classrooms there was a sprinkling of parents. Many had come a score of miles with ox teams and stood around anxiously awaiting the result of the examination.

All new pupils were assigned to Room 2, and here Gincy discovered Abner, his yellow head bent over a sheet of paper covered with figures. Gincy regarded him with confidence. Abner was strong in arithmetic—the one study the mountain teachers had impressed upon their pupils. For herself she was not so sure. Her knowledge of geography was hazy. In grammar the parts of speech had been carefully reviewed, but she was in doubt about parsing, and diagramming looked to her like a jumble of words tumbling over a precarious footing of loose boards. She dropped into a vacant seat near the door while Urilla looked for a teacher who was not too busy to interview her. Presently, she returned, and Gincy found herself shaking hands with an attractive young woman whose near-sighted brown eyes held the friendliest look in the world.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Miss Gooch; you’re from Clay County? You’ll find a good many boys and girls from there. Urilla told me all about you at breakfast time and we’re going to help you get acquainted. You’ll be one of my specials on the third floor, I can tell that by looking at you.”

Gincy’s heart took sudden courage. If all the teachers were going to be like Miss Howard she certainly would be a “special” if she had to study all night to accomplish it. Miss Howard sat close and questioned her softly, not seeming to mind when she stumbled or failed entirely. Gincy had a musical voice and read the easy selections in a way which pleased the teacher, for she recommended elocution and sub-normal arithmetic on the little slip which Gincy bore away an hour later. The other studies were not wholly settled, but it seemed like a good beginning.

“Be sure to come to the Jam Social to-night,” had been Miss Howard’s parting words, and Gincy had promised readily, although not feeling at all sure what a “Jam Social” really was.

She wandered around from one building to another, nowhere encountering Talitha or any one who had seen her. Once inside the Hall again she went straight to the office to question Mrs. Donnelly.

From behind a desk piled high with mail, the dean answered, “She’s gone home, Miss Gooch.”

“Gone home! When?” Gincy’s voice sounded strange to her own ears.

“About two o’clock this morning. She slept with me last night and Martin saw her off.”

“But why? Was any one sick—or?” The dean shook her head and began to open her mail. Suddenly Gincy knew it all. Talitha had gone that she might stay. After working so hard, too. What would Sam Coyle say to her? Not willing to make any sacrifices himself—for his children’s good—he would be angry to have them generous with others. Gincy turned and went up to her room. How could she accept such a sacrifice? She wrestled with the problem for hours, then in despair thought of Miss Howard. The little teacher listened patiently with one soft hand covering the girl’s work-roughened one. When Gincy had ended with a sob in her voice, Miss Howard’s arm stole around her and held her close.

“Don’t worry, dear, Talitha will come back to us some time. She’s determined to have an education. She has chosen to give you your chance now; make the very best of it. It would be foolish for you to start home and disappoint her—it would be useless, too. She’s going to write you in a day or so.”

Somewhat comforted, Gincy went back to her room. On every side doors were ajar and girls unpacking. There was the merry chatter of friends long separated, and those newly found, which sent a delightful glow through the heart of the mountain girl. Few and far between were the opportunities for sociability back in the hills, and as she realized what she was gaining, a keen sense of Talitha’s loss smote her.

“You’d better get ready for the Social before dinner,” a voice called out from behind, and Kizzie overtook Gincy. “I’ll call for you and Urilla promptly at seven.”

“I’d forgotten hit, sure enough,” answered Gincy, quickening her steps.

Early in the evening the large chapel blazed forth a welcome to the returning students from its many windows. From every direction they came—in groups or singly. Above, was a starlit sky, and the air was full of a soft, sweet melody unlike anything Gincy had ever heard before. Her ears, used only to the thrum of the banjo, or a crude performance on a small reed organ, were thrilled with delight as the college band finished the overture from “William Tell.”

She glanced shyly at Urilla to see if her emotion was shared, but the quiet face betrayed nothing more than deep satisfaction at being once more among her beloved schoolmates.

The great auditorium was filling rapidly. Happy faces peered down from the galleries, girls and boys elbowed their way past, calling out hearty greetings to those they recognized. There was a short lull when the president made his welcoming speech; after that, it seemed to Gincy a thousand hives had swarmed. Abner and Martin caught the spirit at once and moved constantly from one group to another shaking hands, exchanging jokes, and growing merrier each moment. Gincy watched them astonished. Abner’s light hair was tossed back like a mane, his cheeks were rosy, his eyes alight with fun. Martin took it more quietly, but never had she seen such a look of pleasure in his face.

Gincy forgot her plain dress—plain even in comparison with the simple clothes around her—and the fact that she was surrounded by hundreds of strange faces. The spirit of youth—so often quenched in these young mountain people before it fairly shows itself—was clamouring for expression. She drew a long breath and decided to be one of the gay company.

An hour later as the three girls emerged from the building which the bell in the tower had suddenly hushed, Gincy felt that she had come into her own. Her timidity had vanished, and a pleasant presage of popularity made her innocently merry and once more her own natural self.