MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE FRESHMAN

CHAPTER I.—A LONELY LOOKOUT.


“Oh, dear! I wish Jerry would come home! I want to see her! I’ve always
missed her terribly during vacations, but this summer I’ve missed her
more than ever. I’m simply starved for a sight of her dear jolly face!
Here it is, the twenty-fourth of August, and no Jerry Jeremiah Geraldine
Macy!”

Marjorie Dean had addressed this little series of wistful remarks to no
one in particular. She stood at one of the long French windows of the
living room, her nose flattened against the pane, little-girl fashion,
watching a very wet outdoors. All morning, the rain had been beating
down with a sullen persistency which Marjorie found distinctly
disheartening. She was as near to having a case of the blues as was
possible to one of her care-free, buoyant nature. Wet weather did not
often interfere with her happiness. Given her particular girl friends
within telephone call and she could discount a rainy day.

Today she was without that source of entertainment and consolation. None
of her chums had returned to Sanford from their summer outings. Susan
Atwell, Irma Linton, Muriel Harding, Constance Stevens, Jerry Macy—all
were missing from the town into which Marjorie had come, a stranger, but
of which she now was, to use her own expression, “a regular citizen.”

Marjorie’s thoughts were dwelling on her absent schoolmates as she
pensively watched the rain. She wondered if, wherever they were, they
were penned in by the rain too. It seemed rather queer to her that she
should be the only one of the sextette of girls, who had founded the
Lookout Club, to be spending the summer in Sanford. She was not a real
Sanfordite by birth. With the exception of Constance Stevens, the others
claimed Sanford as their native town.

Readers of the “Marjorie Dean High School Series” have already an
acquaintance with Marjorie Dean, and have followed her course as a
student at Sanford High School. They have seen her through both sad and
happy days, the events of which have been chronicled in “Marjorie Dean,
High School Freshman,” “Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore,” “Marjorie
Dean, High School Junior,” and “Marjorie Dean, High School Senior.”

“There goes that old mail carrier and he isn’t going to stop here!” This
time Marjorie’s tones were not wistful. Their disgusted energy indicated
her patent disappointment. Her red lips drooped in dejection as she saw
the unfeeling object of her hopeful anticipation plod stolidly past the
gate without so much as a glance at the mailbox at the foot of the
driveway.

“Not one single solitary letter,” mourned the watcher. “Why doesn’t
Jerry write?”

“When did you hear from Jerry last, Lieutenant?” Mrs. Dean had entered
the room in time to hear Marjorie’s plaint.

“Oh, Captain, I’m _so_ glad you came to the rescue! I was _so_ lonely!
You asked me when last I heard from Jerry. Why, it’s almost two weeks.
She wrote me it was awfully hot at the beach and—Are you going to stay
here awhile and talk to me, Captain?”

Marjorie interrupted herself with this question. Her downcast face had
begun to brighten.

“If you are,” she continued, “I’ll run up to my house and get Jerry’s
last letter. I’d love to read it to you.”

“I’ll oblige you by staying awhile.” Mrs. Dean sat down in her own
particular wicker rocker, her eyes resting fondly on Marjorie.

“You’re a dear. Be back in a minute.” A rush of light feet on the stairs
proclaimed that Marjorie had gone to her “house,” as she chose to call
her pretty pink and white room, for her letter.

“I can’t find it,” presently announced a disappointed voice from above
stairs. “Have you seen a square gray envelope with large writing on it
anywhere in the living room, Captain?”

“I am looking straight at one now,” came the reassuring information.
“You left it on the mantelpiece, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, thank you.” A moment and Marjorie was heard making a vigorous
descent of the stairs.

“I came down stairs at a positive gallop,” she said lightly, as she
crossed the room and secured her letter. “I was afraid I had left it in
the table drawer in the pagoda. If I had, that would have meant a wading
trip for me.