Joan's freshman year at Stanford

Front matter

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT

By

Dorothy Plummer

Chapter One

I nez, look. Isn’t this wig on crooked?”

“Dora, please hook me up.”

“There, I’ve found my shawl! Bunny was sitting on it.”

Joan leaned back in the makeup chair and closed her eyes. It was her first moment of rest that day. In spite of the relaxation, however, her heart beat high and every nerve tingled. Around her, the babel of voices went on.

“Don’t forget, your entrance is after I say, ‘Be polite if it hurts.’ ”

“Miss Hamlin, do I take a bow with the rest?” Knock at the dressing room door. “Box for Joan.”

ii

More flowers! Joan straightened up and wiped cold cream from her eyes.

“Just a minute.” Miss Hamlin, the high school dra¬ matics teacher drew her back. “No time for interrup¬ tions. Bunny, take them for her. Curtain goes up in less than an hour and I’ve most of the cast yet to do.”

Joan sighed and closed her eyes again. This was the hardest part of all, this interval of waiting.

“If I could go on right now,” she murmured, “I wouldn’t be a bit nervous.”

“I wonder!” Miss Hamlin laughed. “At any rate, you’d bring down the house. Look at yourself.”

Joan sat up, glanced into the big mirror and gasped at her reflection. It was hard to realize that this crea¬ ture with hair screwed back, face a mask of powder and one eye deeply shadowed with blue pencil was Joan Whitney, and would soon be winsome Lovlya of the senior play. She dropped back hurriedly.

“Dear me, how dreadful,” she giggled. “I don’t think I’ll ever have any self-respect again.”

Another knock. “Programs, Miss Hamlin.”

“Oh, let’s see them!” Everyone crowded about.

“Aren’t they darling with that cunning little woodcut of Joan in costume at the top.”

When Joan looked into the mirror again, it was to see herself transformed into a winsome and provocative Balkan peasant girl. Bronze curls caught back into a gay kerchief and a bright, embroidered provincial dress made her naivete complete.

“My, what a complexion!” She turned her head this way and that. “Just like a marshmallow, with all the tan covered up.”

Miss Hamlin smiled. “Don’t be too vain. Wait until you see the rest of the cast. Dora next.”

Joan, thanking her with a smile, slipped from the chair and hurried over to a table where the box of flowers waited. On the top, a card offered best wishes from Mother and Dad and the lifted lid revealed an old-fashioned bouquet: pink camellias, violas and lilies of the valley in a ruffle of silver lace. The per¬ fect accessory to her quaint white net second-act costume. Such a happy little surprise was so typical of them both. In her turn, she would manage to smile at them during the play, and, if it were pos¬ sible, would give them cause to be proud of her to¬ night.

Humming softly, Joan laid the bouquet in a window where the air was fresh and ran out into the hallway in search of Don, who was to play opposite her lead. At the turn of a corner, the two came upon each other and stepping back, they both gasped,

“Joan!”

“Don!”

For Don was no less transformed than she. A uni¬ form of royal blue and white, glittering with medals and braid, had turned him into a splendid prince. For a moment, they stood, gazing at each other.

“What a really distinguished man he will be,” Joan thought to herself, for the uniform and the striking makeup displayed to advantage his tall, lithe figure

T 3 and broad shoulders, and his well-set head with its pensive eyes.

“The eyes of a dreamer,” Joan’s mother had at one time remarked, “and the long, tapering hands of an artist.”

“Look!” Don exclaimed finally, pulling a paper from his pocket and offering it to his partner as they seated themselves on a chest just outside the wings. “Evening T imes”

“Oh!” Joan unfolded it quickly. “Is it in, Don? Did you find it?”

He indicated a paragraph. Joan read the headlines,

ALL IS READY

FOR OPERETTA

Fresno High School Students To Present Original Comedy Drama

and under it,

“Two Times Three,” a comedy of Balkan peasant life, written by a group of the senior girls, will be presented this eve¬ ning in the auditorium of the Fresno High School by the senior class. The cast will include many of Fresno’s most talented young people. Lovlya, the lead¬ ing character, will be portrayed by Joan Whitney, whose dramatic ability this city has already, on several occasions, had opportunity to enjoy.

Donald Bishop will interpret the role of Prince Delitu, ardent suitor of the fair Lovlya. He has also designed the set¬ tings for the production, which show re¬ freshing originality and an able grasp of modem stagecraft.

*4

“And look, right under it,”

SENIOR DAY PROVES GREAT SUCCESS

The Senior Day held at Fresno High School yesterday was one of the most interesting in the history of that institu¬ tion. The track meet between the sen¬ iors and the school-at-large was full of tense moments. Preceding the meet, a mock funeral procession, carrying in state a coffin, supposed to contain the goat of the seniors, was buried with great ceremony. Later,—.

“Pardon me, Joan,” Don interrupted, “but read that.” His finger indicated a paragraph tucked down in a corner of the page.

Mr. Holman, Principal of the Fresno High School, is proud to report that eighty-two percent of his graduates are planning to attend college in the fall.

The great majority of these will register at the Fresno State College. A few, how¬ ever, plan to go further afield. Of these,

Joan Whitney and Donald Bishop will matriculate in Stanford University.

Joan’s course is undecided, but Don will register in the art department.—

“But Don,” Joan dropped the paper in her surprise, “I thought you had decided to enter the law school.”

“That’s true. But dad must have known that I was agreeing to a career in law only to please him; that I would have much preferred some form of art. And finally, just yesterday, he suggested the change himself.”

J 5

“Well, he’s a peach!” Joan gasped.

She realized what a sacrifice it must have been for Mr. Bishop, who had grown with the town to be one of its outstanding lawyers and a citizen interested in all worth while municipal enterprises, to have given up the thought of having D. W. Bishop, and below it, D. W. Bishop fr. printed some day on the frosted glass of his office door. In addition he had been for many years a widower and all his affection now centered in his son. Yet, cheerfully recognizing and accepting this parting of the ways between his boy’s interests and his own, he had himself suggested the break.

Don, caught again into the excitement of the moment, jumped up and stepped over to the cur¬ tain.

“House is filling,” he whispered excitedly. “I see your folks and my dad sitting in front to the left. And the Kenyons and the Bangs next to them—all six of the Bangs.”

“Let me look!” Joan stretched on tiptoe to see through the tiny hole in the curtain. “Oooh, doesn’t everyone look nice! Betsy Bangs in that adorable white organdie run with black velvet and Mrs. Erling in peach chiffon printed in gray. And—. It just looks like a flower garden. My, they’re com¬ ing in fast.”

Bunny Bangs, strolling past with some of the boys, caught sight of Joan and Don and dashed over. “Let

/6 me see! Please! Oh, look, there’s mother! I’m going to whistle.”

“No, no!” Joan and Don dragged her forcibly from the hole.

“Come on,” Don took each girl by a hand. “Back you go to the dressing rooms. Give the boys a chance to get the stage in order. I want to look it over a bit myself, too.”

In the girls’ dressing room, all was now excitement and confusion. Tables and chairs were strewn with a mass of clothing and props; bouquets stood about in bottles and here and there from the walls, Joan was confronted with her own eyes laughing back at her from left over posters of the evening’s entertainment. In the midst of this. Miss Hamlin stood, giving the girls a final inspection while Grace Kenyon, who had mis¬ placed her slippers, crept about on her hands and knees peering under tables and chairs in search of them.

“I know I’ll never find them,” she wailed. “What shall I do?”

Joan was about to join her in the hunt, when they were all brought to attention by Miss Hamlin.

“Five minutes more, girls,” she announced. “Better be sure you’re ready to go on. And have your props handy.”

Someone clutched at Joan’s elbow. She turned to find Bubbles Harris at her side.

“Why, Bubbles, what’s the matter?”

The pink of Bubbles’ made-up checks stood out

J 7 abruptly against her real pallor and there were tears in her eyes. Joan drew her out into the hall.

“Joan—all those people—I—I’m afraid to face them,” she wailed. “I just can’t. Oh, what will Mother and Dad think?”

Joan put her arms around the panic stricken girl. “Nonsense, why you probably know ’most everybody out there. It’s just this standing around waiting that makes you feel so. Once you start, you’ll be quite all right. Come on, now.”

Bubbles smiled uncertainly. The dressing room door opened and Grace bounced out in her little highheeled slippers.

“Found ’em, thank my stars!” she whispered, taking Bubbles’ hand. “Come, we two go on together.”

Just then Don, dashing down the corridor, caught up with them and the group was off to the stage en¬ trance, lost shoes and stage fright quite forgotten.

At the end of the first act, the success of the play was assured. At the end of the second, wave upon wave of applause beckoned the cast to a round of curtain calls; first, the entire group; then, all the principals; and finally, Lovlya alone. Flushed, smiling, her eyes shining, she bowed to right, to left, to the balcony, then looked down at her parents and waved.

“Speech! Speech!” someone called and others re¬ peated it. Joan caught her breath, then smiled back at them bravely until they were silent.

“Dear everybody,” she said breathlessly, “thank you so much—for liking our play. We’ve done our best— all of us—and we’re so happy if it has pleased you.”

She made a movement as if to bow; then, with the kindly faces of her neighbors raised to her, hesitated. “We want you to be even more proud of us, when we leave high school. And we know you’ll be wishing us well wherever we are and whatever we do. We’ll al¬ ways try our best, I’m sure, to be worthy of your loyalty. Thank you.”

Then, she did bow, to a storm of applause, and as she beckoned, the whole cast came on again.

In the meantime, ushers had been coming up the aisles with flowers and now the girls’ arms were filled with bouquets. Joan and the rest had never before realized how many friends they had. She was so happy that it seemed life could never again hold anything half so perfect as this. And yet, there was Stanford, ready to welcome her in the fall; Stanford and her big brother, an outstanding senior on the Campus. She laughed aloud in sheer joy.

In a minute, they were off the stage and making hur¬ ried changes of costume; then, the group assembled again for the last act.

There was a rush to the dressing rooms on the falling of the final curtain, while eyes sparkled in anticipation of the fun ahead. For the senior class, the evening was only half over; the remainder of it was to be spent at

7 9

Oasis, the graceful Georgian Colonial house set in the midst of broad fig and prune orchards which Don and his father called home. Everyone knew from experi¬ ence what a party there meant. A student band from the state college, dancing in the drawing rooms; after¬ ward, supper by candle light from the big girandoles that would twinkle merrily over the silver and the fancy icings on the cakes and the salads that were almost too wonderful to disarrange.

Soon, the winding, palm-fringed avenue was dotted with lights from cars. Then, the halls were a hubbub of gay voices as the guests began to arrive. Finally, greetings and congratulations having taken place along the receiving line, the dancing was under way.

Later in the evening, Mr. Bishop discovered Joan, by herself, curled up in a big chair in the library.

“Tired?” He smiled, remembering how, from his seat with the patrons and patronesses, he had watched her being whirled from one partner to another during the last hour or more.

“No. Not really. But I never can resist taking a peek at all of your wonderful books. Even the lovely bind¬ ings make me feel scholarly. I’m going back in a minute, though.”

Mr. Bishop settled himself in a chair near her. “Are you glad to be through with your high school days, Joan?”

Joan was thoughtful a moment. “I’m not sure. Sometimes, the future seems so perfect—college, new friends, everything different and interesting. Then again, it means I must leave all this. Do you suppose we’ll ever all be together again?”

She paused for a moment, while her fingers touched some tiny jade figures perched on teakwood stands on the table beside her. Then, glancing up with a confid¬ ing smile, “Maybe, too, I’m a little frightened. Every¬ thing will be so new and strange.”

“Frightened? With that big brother of yours at Stanford ? Why, he’ll have everything so well adjusted for you that you’ll never have to worry that little head of yours about anything.”

“I’m sure he will. No, I’m not afraid of that part of college. But I hear that scholarship standards are very high over there. Do you suppose I’ll be able to make my grades?”

“Joan!” Mr. Bishop looked reproving. “And you an honor student in High! Of course you will, and outside activities, besides. But be sure you mix them both. It’s the student with personality and initiative as well as brains who is truly successful in college.”

He stepped over to Joan and took her by the hand. “Come, your friends will be missing you. This isn’t a time to be serious.”

At midnight, supper was announced. The boys and girls gathered at one end of the dining room where there was a table covered with a buffet spread. Then they scattered to small tables.

“Tell me,” Hester, editor of the school paper, leaned across to Joan after they were all seated, “what did you think of when you were standing out in front of the curtain at the end of the second act all alone ? What is a celebrity’s reaction in the moment of her tri¬ umph?”

“Oh yes, do tell us,” the girls nearby encouraged her.

Joan laughed. “Now you’re teasing me, but I’m not that conceited.”

“No, really,” Hester urged.

“Well, if you must know,” Joan looked pensive, “I kept saying, ‘If only Hugh were here. I do wish Hugh could see his little sister now!’ ” She glanced up with a disarming smile. “Was that very vain?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Bishop answered her. “And when is this brother of yours returning from Stanford?”

“He isn’t coming home this summer, Mr. Bishop. He’s working during vacation in a law office in Palo Alto. I won’t see him until I arrive on the Campus this fall.”

The candles were burning low when Terry, president of the senior class, finally rose and lifted his glass.

“To our host, the best friend a senior class ever had.”

At once, there was a rustle as chairs were pushed back and the class rose to its feet. Then, a toast was drunk to the principal, the senior president, the senior class, to the leading lady, the leading man, the cast. Soon, arms were placed around their neighbor’s shoul¬ ders and with only the tapers illuminating softly the young faces, the high school and class songs were sung.

Suddenly, as eyes were growing a bit moist, all the lights went on again and here was Bill Winn, on a chair, ready to give the school victory cheer.

Chapter Two

H ello! How can you look so cool?” Don ran up the steps of the Whitney porch and, dropping to a seat near Joan, mopped his brow, “Hundred in the shade, but you’d never know it here.”

He glanced about him appreciatively at the oldfashioned verandah, vine-shaded, with its invitingly cushioned chairs and couches. As Joan leaned back, immaculate and comfortable, in the rustic swing, Don envied her quite openly.

“Didn’t last evening tire you one bit, Joan? Dad’s decision that I might ‘trade Blackstone for a sketch¬ book’ as he put it, was too much for me. I didn’t go to sleep till almost dawn and I’ve been driving about the

H country ever since breakfast trying to imagine having four whole years in a really fine art department.”

“I’m so glad for you, Don. I think your father realized that you’d never be happy in a law office. But what course are you going to take? Stage design, painting, architecture, illustration? Or a sample of each until you find out which you really want to spe¬ cialize in?”

“I already know and you should be able to guess.”

'‘How can I guess? This year, you did most of the illustrations for the year book, designed the sets for the play and painted a mural in the cafeteria. Too many clues. It might even be architecture, only I don’t think you’ve done much of that lately.”

“It is architecture. And I’ve done quite a bit. Right in your father’s office. I told you I was going over there. Don’t you remember?”

“You said that you dropped in once in a while, and I know that one day you had some of his books. But I didn’t know you were seriously interested.”

“Very seriously. Over a year ago, he fixed me up a space there with a drawing board and everything I needed and I got to work. He’s a grand critic. And full of new ideas. Gym was the only thing that kept me away after school. The rest of the time, I was hang¬ ing around causing him trouble.”

Joan laughed. “I can imagine how much trouble you were. He probably had as much fun out of it as you

2 5 did.” She sighed. “I only wish dad had as much of it to do as he would like.”

“Things are pretty slow in the building line around here, aren’t they?”

“Utterly.”

“Why doesn’t he open another section of that land he owns near Visalia? Remember the last time he sub¬ divided? The buildings went like hot cakes. The dis¬ play home was open one hour when it was sold.”

“It wouldn’t be any good, Don. He’s thought of everything. I know. Even cutting loose and trying some place else. But tell me, did I hear you say you’d been riding around ever since breakfast?”

Don nodded.

“Then, you haven’t had lunch.”

“Oh, bother lunch.”

“Why, Don Bishop!” Joan jumped to her feet. “It’s no wonder you’re feeling wasted away. Now, don’t move ’till I come back. No, I won’t listen,” and she ran into the house as Don tried to protest.

In a few minutes, Joan was back with a tray. As Don jumped up and took it from her, he felt his appetite returning. The tray held a tall pitcher of iced lem¬ onade, a bowl of salad with crisp lettuce leaves and a plate of cheese crackers.

“Joan, you shouldn’t have.”

“Hush!” Joan’s expression reminded him again of winsome Lovlya. “I’m famished and you’re giving me an excuse. Being a celebrity seems to have affected my appetite. You serve us please.”

Joan, leaning back in the hammock again, rested her head among the cushions and gazed up at the bees blundering lazily in the honeysuckle. “You know, Don, I’m especially glad that you came today. Mother and dad won’t approve of my idea, so I’m going to try it on you. It’s about this summer. I want to find a job.”

“But Joan, your family always goes away for the summer, to Huntington Lake, or Tahoe, or Monterey. You’re not used to staying here through the hot months.”

“They always have. Yes, and they want to send me this year. But they’re making excuses about going themselves, and I know what that means. You see, for a long time now, dad’s securities have been paying very little. And we’ve been depending almost solely on them.”

Don’s face was serious as he thought for a moment. “I see. But after all, is the situation any more serious than it was last year?”

“Yes, it is. With two of us in college, dad will have a double load. Hugh is doing the best he can to help, but a law course is pretty hard. There isn’t much time left over for part time jobs. I’d feel happier if I could at least buy my own clothes. Can you think of any¬ thing I might be able to do, Don?”

2 7

“Well, if you really have your mind made up, I might approach dad. One of his stenographers goes on her vacation soon and when she comes back, the other will leave. So, he’ll be one short for several weeks. I know you were good at secretarial work in school.”

Joan’s face lighted up. “Do you really think there’s a chance? I hadn’t dreamed of anything so grand. Oh, Don, I’m getting all thrilled. But suppose he says ‘No’? Will you ask him? Right away?”

After Don’s departure, Joan spent the rest of the afternoon drifting about uncertainly. It would probably be days before she heard from Mr. Bishop, she told herself. And then, his reply might be unfavorable. Yet, she could not bring herself to remain too far away from the telephone. All during dinner, a pleasant affair served in the rose arbor, Joan listened for its tinkle and felt a growing sense of importance. She was grown up now and capable of making decisions. Even though the position should not be available, at least she would have tried for it, would have taken the first step toward financial independence. A doubt as¬ sailed her. Should her parents be told now? Oh dear, it seemed impossible to keep it to herself another min¬ ute. And yet, how much bigger thrill it would be to wait until she knew positively. That is, if Mr. Bishop offered her the position. If he didn’t— She played with her spoon abstractedly, gazing off into space.

“Joan,” her mother’s voice recalled her, “that’s your favorite fresh peach ice cream. I just wanted you to know, because I don’t believe you’ve tasted a thing you’ve eaten this evening.”

Joan glanced at her, met her eyes crinkled into a smile and laughed. Then, on the verge of confession, she jumped up, excused herself and rushed toward the house. It was the telephone. She was sure of it as she reached the side door, and slammed it after her. Its tinkle became a command as she answered.

“Hello?”

“Why yes, I’m sure mother would. She’s always glad to give recipes. I’ll tell her right away.”

Why did people want to call up around dinner time to ask such perfectly silly things ? Joan knew she was being unreasonable, but it relieved the tension of wait¬ ing, somehow, to fuss over even such an inoffensive old lady as Mrs. Haley.

It was not until two days later that Joan, roused from a nap in the hammock, answered the phone to hear Mr. Bishop’s voice. He told her that Don had spoken to him, and invited her to drop in at his office to talk the matter over.

So there was a chance! Joan cradled the receiver with trembling fingers and picked up her hat from the hall chair. She couldn’t wait, she told herself, as she hur¬ ried down the quiet, tree lined street; she just couldn’t wait the minutes that it would take to get there. Then, suddenly, she stopped and turned around and slowly retraced her steps. This would never do at all. If she was grown up, she must act like a mature per¬ son. Not come flying into Mr. Bishop’s office with her hair every which way, and her dress mussed, and not knowing at all what she was going to say. Once in her room, she took time and pains to make herself as attractive as possible; then, adjusting the pink scarf on her blue jacket dress, she went out again. This time, she turned in a different direction, and soon was riding up in the elevator to her father’s office.

“Well, well, and to what do I owe the privilege of a visit from this dream of loveliness?” Her father turned at his desk and surveyed Joan with a real pride that belied his bantering tones.

“Dad, a marvelous thing has happened. You’d never believe. I’ve got a job, dad. At least, I think I’m about to have one maybe.”

“That’s worth congratulations, even with the ‘maybe.’ Tell us about it.”

“Well, the other day Don was over and I told him I wanted to find something to do this summer. He spoke to his father and now I’m invited over to Mr. Bishop’s office to talk it over. There may be steno¬ graphic work there for me.”

Mr. Whitney responded to Joan’s enthusiasm, but his face was troubled. “About how long do you sup¬ pose this work will last, Joan? I wouldn’t want it to interfere with your vacation. How does your mother feel about it? Does she think you should accept it at all?”

“I don’t know. And mother wasn’t home. But Dad, I’m not taking a vacation this year. Not if I can get this. Think of it! A job, earning money, buying my own clothes. Oh Dad, please, please don’t object.”

Mr. Whitney could not help but respond to the earnestness in her face. He smiled. “All right, Joan, go pay your call. Perhaps after all you may not come to an agreement. But good luck to you since you wish it that way.”

The offices of John Bishop were on the third floor of the old Deacon Building on Fresno Street, which faced the domed white Court House, graceful relic of the city’s early days. From the windows, one could see, far out beyond the roofs, the fertile country which produced the crops that the city depended on for its prosperity, or look down upon the pageantry below. Streams of dusty, inexpensive cars passed constantly, up one side of the street, down the other, with now and then a dark, shining one, driven by its uniformed chauffeur, or a gay sport model, filled with laughing boys and girls. On the busy sidewalks, brisk business men, farmers, and tired foreign women with children wove back and forth continuously. Twice weekly, the farmers and their families brought their produce to the free market in Court House Park. Here, while their wares were arranged at improvised stalls under the trees, the atmosphere was full of excitement and hub¬ bub.

3 *

Mr. Bishop’s offices, themselves, were old and shabby enough, but there was a feeling of solidity, of long¬ standing security, about them. Business flowed in and the big land deals were consummated there. In fact, much of Fresno’s, and the rest of the San Joaquin Val¬ ley’s most important legal business, was transacted across the worn oak desk in the inner office. Joan, although the Whitneys and the Bishops were life-long friends, had never before been there. She opened the door, with its prim black lettering, to be faced by two efficient-looking women behind desks across the room. She hesitated until the younger of the two glanced up at her.

“Mr. Bishop is busy just now. Will you be seated?”

Joan was glad of the chance to collect her wits and look about her. She had often had occasion to drop into the principal’s office at high school, and her father’s office was familiar to her, yet never before had she been so impressed as now. She was measuring herself by these two women sitting neat and cool and efficient, and deciding that never, never would she be able to take either of their places. Trying would only result in failure and it would really be better if she got up right now—

“Mr. Bishop will see you.” The younger woman glanced over at her and smiled.

At once, panic seized Joan, and then, it left her. She must make good. There wasn’t any other way out now. She must go in and succeed.

Mr. Bishop, smiling at her across his desk, somewhat

3 2 restored her poise. It was hard to think of him as an employer after having known him all of her life as a friend. The feeling was heightened by his inter¬ ested, personal remarks.

“How is your family, Joan ? I’ve missed my evenings with them during the last couple of weeks. We’ve a big case coming up over some water rights and it’s kept me working.”

“Dad has spoken of you several times. I think he’s mourning over his chess. He thinks there’s no player like you. But he knows you’ve been busy. Dad and mother are fine.”

“And Hugh? All going well with him?”

“Yes, thanks, Mr. Bishop. He’s so much interested in his work this summer. Being in the law office in Palo Alto is giving him some grand experience. Mother worries over his not having any vacation, but his letters sound full of pep.”