“I wonder who is ‘game’ now?” she cried, in a ringing voice.

Miss Archer’s eyes flashed with sudden inspiration.

“Here! give me a pencil, somebody; I’ve broken the point off mine,” she said, as she moved her chair to a table and drew a blank sheet of paper towards her.

Half a dozen were handed her, and, selecting one, she continued: 

“This is going to be a voluntary surrender.  I’m not going to wait to be summoned before my superior officer and ’given an opportunity.’”

She wrote rapidly for a few minutes, while her companions regarded her in curious silence.

“Hear now,” she finally commanded, as she threw down her pencil, and, lifting her paper with an impressive flourish, read: 

“To the Commander-in-chief at Hilton:  News of certain matters, pending at headquarters, just received by scout.  Wherefore this is to certify that the undersigned planned and led the attack on West Wing on the night of May the twentieth.  In view of the demands of honor, of admiration for, and the sentence menacing the valiant party at present held as hostage, I hereby make confession, and unconditional surrender, together with all munitions of war, and also herewith beg absolution for subordinates.

“Signed.  Caroline Webster Archer, “Capt.  Co.  S, Hilton Volunteers, U. S. A.”

“How will that do, my brave company of sophomores?” she cried, with laughing eyes, as she finished reading her effusion.  “I’m afraid it isn’t quite up to the mark in military technicalities, but, perhaps, it will answer our purpose.”

“It isn’t going to do at all, Carolina mia,” returned Rose Tuttle, with an emphatic nod of her head.  “If you assume that you were the captain in the fracas, I certainly was first lieutenant, and I’m going to stand by the cap. until the last gun is fired.  Give, me that paper.”

It was passed to her, and in a clear, bold hand she wrote: 

“The captain cannot be allowed to go to the front alone.

“Signed.  Rose Ashley Tuttle, First Lieutenant Co.  S, H. V., U. S. A.”

There were grave faces all about her as she read what she had written and then pushed the paper from her.

Presently a voice remarked: 

“Girls, good soldiers always follow their leader.”  Then another figure glided to the table and a third signature was appended to the document.

It was the “bugle call” that fired them all, and in less time than it takes to record it, the name of every other girl in the room was signed underneath, then inclosed in a bracket and the name “Private Co.  S, H. V., U. S. A.” written outside of it, after which the paper was passed back to Miss Archer.

“Company S, I’m proud of you!” she exclaimed, with crimson cheeks and something very like tears in her eyes.

“I—­I hope the professor won’t think it is too—­too flippant,” some one suggested, in a doubtful tone.