ICE CREAM.I love to talk of my fav’rite theme,So of course my subject is Ice Cream!My Mother says that my eyes just beamWhenever I eventhinkIce Cream!When I’ve sewed a’speciallylong, hard seam,She takes me to town to get Ice Cream!Sometimes the clouds in the blue sky seemLike heaping saucers of white Ice Cream!And often when I’m asleep, I dreamOf millions of platters of pink Ice Cream!
ICE CREAM.I love to talk of my fav’rite theme,So of course my subject is Ice Cream!My Mother says that my eyes just beamWhenever I eventhinkIce Cream!When I’ve sewed a’speciallylong, hard seam,She takes me to town to get Ice Cream!Sometimes the clouds in the blue sky seemLike heaping saucers of white Ice Cream!And often when I’m asleep, I dreamOf millions of platters of pink Ice Cream!
ICE CREAM.I love to talk of my fav’rite theme,So of course my subject is Ice Cream!My Mother says that my eyes just beamWhenever I eventhinkIce Cream!When I’ve sewed a’speciallylong, hard seam,She takes me to town to get Ice Cream!Sometimes the clouds in the blue sky seemLike heaping saucers of white Ice Cream!And often when I’m asleep, I dreamOf millions of platters of pink Ice Cream!
ICE CREAM.
ICE CREAM.
I love to talk of my fav’rite theme,So of course my subject is Ice Cream!
I love to talk of my fav’rite theme,
So of course my subject is Ice Cream!
My Mother says that my eyes just beamWhenever I eventhinkIce Cream!
My Mother says that my eyes just beam
Whenever I eventhinkIce Cream!
When I’ve sewed a’speciallylong, hard seam,She takes me to town to get Ice Cream!
When I’ve sewed a’speciallylong, hard seam,
She takes me to town to get Ice Cream!
Sometimes the clouds in the blue sky seemLike heaping saucers of white Ice Cream!
Sometimes the clouds in the blue sky seem
Like heaping saucers of white Ice Cream!
And often when I’m asleep, I dreamOf millions of platters of pink Ice Cream!
And often when I’m asleep, I dream
Of millions of platters of pink Ice Cream!
“You certainly know it perfectly, and you recite very nicely,” said Miss Larkin. “Marjorie, you may say yours next.”
“Mine is a jolly-sounding one,” said Midget; “that’s why I like it. It’s called
“THE MERRY PRINCE.”The gay Prince Popinjay Peacock-FeatherWould play on his lute for hours together;And feathery-weathery afternoonsHe’d warble hilarious, various tunes.He’d airily, merrily roam the street,And sing to all he might chance to meet;And if any were grumpy or gloomy or glum,Along the Prince Peacock-Feather would come,And sing them an affable, laughable lay,Until they were gleeful, and glad, and gay,They’d forget their bothers, and pothers, and wrongs,When they listened to Popinjay’s popular songs.So let’s be light-hearted, every one,Like this frolicksome, rollicksome Prince of Fun!
“THE MERRY PRINCE.”The gay Prince Popinjay Peacock-FeatherWould play on his lute for hours together;And feathery-weathery afternoonsHe’d warble hilarious, various tunes.He’d airily, merrily roam the street,And sing to all he might chance to meet;And if any were grumpy or gloomy or glum,Along the Prince Peacock-Feather would come,And sing them an affable, laughable lay,Until they were gleeful, and glad, and gay,They’d forget their bothers, and pothers, and wrongs,When they listened to Popinjay’s popular songs.So let’s be light-hearted, every one,Like this frolicksome, rollicksome Prince of Fun!
“THE MERRY PRINCE.”The gay Prince Popinjay Peacock-FeatherWould play on his lute for hours together;And feathery-weathery afternoonsHe’d warble hilarious, various tunes.He’d airily, merrily roam the street,And sing to all he might chance to meet;And if any were grumpy or gloomy or glum,Along the Prince Peacock-Feather would come,And sing them an affable, laughable lay,Until they were gleeful, and glad, and gay,They’d forget their bothers, and pothers, and wrongs,When they listened to Popinjay’s popular songs.So let’s be light-hearted, every one,Like this frolicksome, rollicksome Prince of Fun!
“THE MERRY PRINCE.”
“THE MERRY PRINCE.”
The gay Prince Popinjay Peacock-FeatherWould play on his lute for hours together;And feathery-weathery afternoonsHe’d warble hilarious, various tunes.He’d airily, merrily roam the street,And sing to all he might chance to meet;And if any were grumpy or gloomy or glum,Along the Prince Peacock-Feather would come,And sing them an affable, laughable lay,Until they were gleeful, and glad, and gay,They’d forget their bothers, and pothers, and wrongs,When they listened to Popinjay’s popular songs.
The gay Prince Popinjay Peacock-Feather
Would play on his lute for hours together;
And feathery-weathery afternoons
He’d warble hilarious, various tunes.
He’d airily, merrily roam the street,
And sing to all he might chance to meet;
And if any were grumpy or gloomy or glum,
Along the Prince Peacock-Feather would come,
And sing them an affable, laughable lay,
Until they were gleeful, and glad, and gay,
They’d forget their bothers, and pothers, and wrongs,
When they listened to Popinjay’s popular songs.
So let’s be light-hearted, every one,Like this frolicksome, rollicksome Prince of Fun!
So let’s be light-hearted, every one,
Like this frolicksome, rollicksome Prince of Fun!
“I don’t wonder you like it,” said Miss Larkin, smiling. “You’re a Princess of Fun, yourself.”
“So you are, Mopsy!” cried King. “I’ll call you that, after this. Here goes for mine now, Miss Larkin, and then it’s all over. Mine is one of those nonsense songs. Maybe you won’t care for it, but we all love nonsense.”
And then in an exaggerated declamatory style, and with dramatic gestures, Kingdon recited
TWO OLD KINGS.Oh! the King of KanoodledumAnd the King of Kanoodledee,They went to seaIn a jigamaree—A full-rigged jigamaree.And one king couldn’t steerAnd the other, no more could he;So they both upsetAnd they both got wet—As wet as wet could be.And one king couldn’t swimAnd the other, he couldn’t, too;So they had to float,While their empty boatDanced away o’er the sea so blue.Then the King of KanoodledumHe turned a trifle pale,And so did heOf Kanoodledee,But they saw a passing sail!And one king screamed like funAnd the other king screeched like mad,And a boat was loweredAnd took them aboard;And, My! but those kings were glad!
TWO OLD KINGS.Oh! the King of KanoodledumAnd the King of Kanoodledee,They went to seaIn a jigamaree—A full-rigged jigamaree.And one king couldn’t steerAnd the other, no more could he;So they both upsetAnd they both got wet—As wet as wet could be.And one king couldn’t swimAnd the other, he couldn’t, too;So they had to float,While their empty boatDanced away o’er the sea so blue.Then the King of KanoodledumHe turned a trifle pale,And so did heOf Kanoodledee,But they saw a passing sail!And one king screamed like funAnd the other king screeched like mad,And a boat was loweredAnd took them aboard;And, My! but those kings were glad!
TWO OLD KINGS.Oh! the King of KanoodledumAnd the King of Kanoodledee,They went to seaIn a jigamaree—A full-rigged jigamaree.And one king couldn’t steerAnd the other, no more could he;So they both upsetAnd they both got wet—As wet as wet could be.And one king couldn’t swimAnd the other, he couldn’t, too;So they had to float,While their empty boatDanced away o’er the sea so blue.Then the King of KanoodledumHe turned a trifle pale,And so did heOf Kanoodledee,But they saw a passing sail!And one king screamed like funAnd the other king screeched like mad,And a boat was loweredAnd took them aboard;And, My! but those kings were glad!
TWO OLD KINGS.
TWO OLD KINGS.
Oh! the King of KanoodledumAnd the King of Kanoodledee,They went to seaIn a jigamaree—A full-rigged jigamaree.
Oh! the King of Kanoodledum
And the King of Kanoodledee,
They went to sea
In a jigamaree—
A full-rigged jigamaree.
And one king couldn’t steerAnd the other, no more could he;So they both upsetAnd they both got wet—As wet as wet could be.
And one king couldn’t steer
And the other, no more could he;
So they both upset
And they both got wet—
As wet as wet could be.
And one king couldn’t swimAnd the other, he couldn’t, too;So they had to float,While their empty boatDanced away o’er the sea so blue.
And one king couldn’t swim
And the other, he couldn’t, too;
So they had to float,
While their empty boat
Danced away o’er the sea so blue.
Then the King of KanoodledumHe turned a trifle pale,And so did heOf Kanoodledee,But they saw a passing sail!
Then the King of Kanoodledum
He turned a trifle pale,
And so did he
Of Kanoodledee,
But they saw a passing sail!
And one king screamed like funAnd the other king screeched like mad,And a boat was loweredAnd took them aboard;And, My! but those kings were glad!
And one king screamed like fun
And the other king screeched like mad,
And a boat was lowered
And took them aboard;
And, My! but those kings were glad!
“I don’t see much sense to it,” admitted Miss Larkin, “but you have all done as I asked you to, and you’ve done it very nicely. Now you may each have a little cake, and then go and get dressed. And oh, children, do, please, be good while my visitors are here.”
“We will, we truly will!” was the earnest reply.
CHAPTER IXWILLING HELPERS
Verysoon after half-past four, the Maynard quartette walked sedately into the drawing-room and seated themselves. Miss Larkin, herself just about to start for the station, regarded them critically.
“You look lovely,” she declared, “all of you. And, beside being dressed prettily, you all look unusually good. In fact, I’m ’most afraid you looktoogood to be true! But you will keep yourselves tidy till we return, won’t you? Don’t romp, or pull off hair-ribbons.”
“Touch those wonderful constructions!” exclaimed King, pointing to the unusually wide and elaborate bows that adorned the heads of his three sisters; “perish the thought! Nay! I will constitute myself chief protector of those marvels of headgear, and just as you see them now, so shall they stay to dazzle the eyes of the admiring Mortimers!”
When King declaimed in this highfalutin style, he was very funny, and even Miss Larkin smiled, though still a little anxious about their behavior.
“Well,” she said, with a sigh, “I must go. I leave you in charge, King; you’re the oldest. Can’t you read aloud or do something to amuse yourselves quietly? If you don’t, you’ll get to tumbling around before you know it.”
“Oh, we’ll be good, Miss Larkin,” declared Marjorie. “Skip along, now, or you’ll be late at the train.”
With a final glance round the pretty room, and at the pretty children, Miss Larkin went away.
“We’ll give her a surprise,” said Marjorie, as, from the window, she watched the carriage roll down the drive. “She really ’spects we’re going to tear around and get all tumbled up ’fore she comes back. Now, let’s be extra special careful to keep quiet and let her find us just as she left us.”
“It’s easy enough,” agreed Kitty, “if you only make up your mind to it. But don’t anybody read aloud—I hate it. If we want to read, let’s read to ourselves.”
“Don’t read,” said Midget, sociably; “let’s just talk.”
And so, perhaps unconsciously a little subdued by the atmosphere of the drawing-room, they sat quietly and conversed like model children.
Nurse Nannie looked in, and seeing all was well, left Rosy Posy with the others.
The baby, looking adorable in her dainty white frock, white socks and slippers, and white hair-ribbon, was perched demurely on a chair, holding one of her best dolls in her arms.
Midget, near the window, sometimes lifted the curtain a trifle to see if the returning carriage was yet in sight.
“They can’t get here till five, Mopsy,” said her brother; “and it’s only twenty minutes to five now.”
“I know it,” said Midge; “but it always seems to hurry people up, if you look out the window for them.”
“It doesn’t, though,” argued Kitty; “if they don’t know you’re looking.”
“No,” agreed Midget, amiably. Then she suddenly added, “Oh, King, look at all that smoke! It burst up all at once! Something is on fire!”
“I should say so!” cried King, going to the window. “Not very far away, either. Come out on the piazza.”
“Fires are always farther away than they seem,” said Kitty, as they went out at the front door and stood on the verandah, looking toward the smoke.
“Hullo, there’s flame, too,” said King. “Must be about as near as Bridge Street, anyhow. Let’s go down to the gate.”
Toward the gate they went, for what is so fascinating as a fire?
Kitty took Rosy Posy by the hand, and, mindful of their best clothes, the children didn’t run, but walked quickly to the entrance of their own grounds.
“Where’s the fire?” called King to a man who rushed by.
“Dunno,” was the answer. “Summers down on Bridge Street, I guess. You can see from the corner.”
So, of course, the Maynards went on to the corner of the block, from which point of vantage a much better view of the fire could be had.
It was a real conflagration, and no mistake. Smoke rose in volumes, and occasionally whirls of flame darted up through it. Never before had the children seen such a spectacle.
Thrilling with excitement, they went another block, and then some one passing them cried out, “Why, it’s Simpson’s old tumble-down house! Good thing for the town to have that go!”
“Oh, King!” cried Marjorie, her face white with horror, “it’s Mrs. Simpson’s house! How terrible! We must go and see if we can help them.”
“Sure!” exclaimed King. “Why, Mr. Simpson’s back in the hospital, you know. Whatever will she do, with all those children!”
The Simpsons were a poor family, who were special beneficiaries of the Maynards. Mr. Simpson, after an injury, had recovered sufficiently to leave the hospital, but a relapse had sent him back there again, and his wife, with seven children, had a hard time to get along at all. They lived in a large, but old and dilapidated, frame house in a poor quarter of the town.
Mr. and Mrs. Maynard had been very kind to them, and the Maynard children had often carried gifts of food or clothing to the needy family. Learning, then, that it was the Simpsons’ house that was burning, King and Marjorie started on a dead run, and Kitty followed, as fast as Rosy Posy’s toddling steps would allow.
“Oh,” cried Marjorie, as she ran; “the poor, dear people! I think only rich folks’ houses ought to burn down, not poor widows’, who haven’t any other shelter.”
“She isn’t a widow,” returned King, for he and Midget were running hand in hand.
“It’s all the same,” she responded. “Mr. Simpson is in the hospital, so she’s as poor as a widow, anyway. We must do all we can to help them, King.”
“’Course we must. If Father and Mother were only here, they’d do lots. We must do whatever they’d do.”
By this time, they were nearing the burning house. A rather inefficient fire department was doing its best, but it was easily to be seen the whole house was doomed.
A crowd of men and boys were excitedly rushing about, jostling each other as they tried to save some of the furniture from the flames. But the broken and battered chairs and tables seemed scarcely worth saving, and their efforts were mostly expended in shouting orders to each other, which were never, by any chance, carried out.
Kingdon was indignant at their actions, and, throwing off his coat, began at once to lend whatever aid a fourteen-year-old boy could compass, and inspired by his enthusiasm, others began to do better work, and many of Mrs. Simpson’s poor belongings were saved from destruction.
Marjorie went straight to the poor woman, herself, and found her sitting in a broken rocking-chair, with two children in her lap. She was watching the destruction of her forlorn home, and the tears ran down her pale cheeks, as she realized the magnitude of this, her latest disaster.
“There, there,” said Marjorie, patting her shoulder, “don’t cry so, Mrs. Simpson. Be thankful you and the children escaped with your lives. You might have all been burned to a black, you know!”
But this tragic suggestion was of no comfort.
“Better so, Miss,” she replied, with fresh wails of grief. “Ah, yes, ’twould have been far better. Me, with me good man in the hospital, and seven homeless children, what can I ever do now?”
The question was, indeed, unanswerable, and the neighbors, many of them also poverty-stricken stood about volubly but uselessly sympathetic.
“Here, take these boxes, Mops,” called King. “They’re tied up, and they may have valuables in.”
Marjorie took a pile of boxes from her brother, and Mrs. Simpson, looking at them with interest, said:
“Yes, I’m glad to save those; they’re bits of ribbons and silks for patchwork.”
As the poor woman had now no beds to put patchwork quilts on, the boxes did not seem so very valuable, but King hadn’t waited to learn; he had returned to the house for other things. The firemen handed them out, or threw them from the windows, and those that King received he handed over to Marjorie and Kitty, who stacked them up in nondescript-looking heaps.
Kitty had stood Rosy Posy up against Mrs. Simpson, and bade her stay there.
“Look after her, please,” she said to the half-distracted woman, “and then I can help save your things. Be good, won’t you, Baby, and stay right there till sister comes back.”
“Ess,” acquiesced little Rosamond, and, sinking down on the ground, began to dig in the dirt with an iron spoon she found near by. Blissfully happy with this occupation, and pausing now and then to watch the novel spectacle of the burning house, Rosy Posy staid just where Kitty had told her, and Mrs. Simpson found it as easy to look after three babies as two.
The other five Simpson children were scattered among the crowd, the older ones realizing their misfortune, the others enjoying it as a new and startling form of entertainment.
“Well,” said a fireman, as he rather perilously made his own escape from the falling walls, “there she goes! That’s the last of her!” And then all that was left of the building collapsed into the flames, and nothing more of house or furniture could be saved.
For a few moments, everyone was silent, thrilled by the grandeur and awfulness of the sight, for there is always something awesome about uncontrollable flames.
Then the firemen turned their attention to extinguishing smouldering embers. Some of the neighbors started to go home, and others lingered out of curiosity, to see what the Simpsons would do.
“They’ll have to go to the poorhouse,” said one man, unfeelingly; “here comes the overseer now.”
At sight of the overseer, and hearing the unsympathetic remark of the other, Mrs. Simpson’s woe broke out afresh.
“The poorhouse for me!” she cried. “Me, who was a Foster! Oh, don’t let me go there! I’ll work me finger-ends off to keep a home for my childhern, somehow! Oh, if my man could be here with me! Have pity on a poor lone woman. Don’t send me to the poorhouse.”
“But what else can you do?” said the overseer of the poor. He was not unkindly in speech or tone, but he could see no other future for the mother and her seven children. Not one of them was old enough to earn a living, and as Mrs. Simpson had been in sore straits before the fire, surely she was really destitute now.
But the look of agony on her ashen face was so tragic that Marjorie felt her own heart breaking.
“Mrs. Simpson,” she said, “you shall not go to the poorhouse! You shall come home with us!”
Everybody looked at the speaker in amazement. They all knew the Maynards, and had often had proofs of their kindness and generosity, but this declaration of Marjorie’s took them by storm.
And Midget, as she stood before them, her tearful eyes spilling drops that made little furrows on her smoke-begrimed cheeks; her dainty white serge frock, soiled and ruined by her work of assistance; her hair-ribbon awry, but still rampant; seemed like an angel of mercy to the stricken woman, and the other auditors.
“Yes,” she went on, “you shall go home with us, for a few days anyway, until we see what can be done. You and all the children shall at least have a roof to your head and a lamp to your feet.”
Marjorie’s enthusiasm was making her a little incoherent, and she looked appealingly at Kingdon. Loyalty to his sister stirred in the boy’s soul, and as he saw a look of incredulity on some faces, he determined to stand by her amazing offer, although filled, himself, with secret consternation at the idea.
“Sure,” he said, stepping to Marjorie’s side, and taking her hand. “My father and mother are away, but I know they would do a heap for the Simpsons if they were at home. And Mother told us to do whatever she would approve of, so I know it’s all right. We will take care of these stricken people”—this didn’t sound quite right, but King hurried on—“and give them a home beneath a roof which hasn’t yet burned down!”
It was characteristic of King to wax declamatory in exciting moments, and his loud tones, and the sight of the brother and sister standing nobly in their parents’ place, so moved the audience, that they at once gave three cheers for the Maynards.
CHAPTER XON THE WAY HOME
Practical-mindedKitty was dismayed. She always looked ahead quicker and farther than Kingdon or Marjorie, and though her gentle little heart ached for the poor Simpsons, it would never have occurred to her to invite them into her own home.
But then, too, Kitty, as a younger sister, had always agreed to the plans of the older ones, unless by her common-sense she could argue them down. And in this instance there was no opportunity for argument. King and Midget had proved themselves heroes, and were even now receiving the applause that was their due. Since, therefore, the die was cast, Kitty had no intention of being left out of the glory of it.
Seizing Rosy Posy by the hand, the two ran to King’s side, and the four Maynards received an ovation that would not have done discredit to a returning war-veteran.
To be sure, the admiring audience was largely composed of the citizens of this lowly locality, but their appreciation was as deep and their voices were as strong as those of the aristocrats on the other side of the bridge.
“And as we’re going to do this,” said Kitty, when the cheers had subsided, “we’d better get about it before all those children catch their death of cold.”
It was five o’clock now, and the sun was getting low, and the March wind high.
The seven small Simpsons had on no hats or wraps, nor, for that matter, did the four small Maynards, so Kitty’s suggestion was really on the side of wisdom and prudence.
“Right you are, little Miss,” said the burly overseer, “and as you children are so kind as to take these sufferin’ folks to your own house, I’ll see to it that what few sticks of furnicher they’ve saved is taken care of.”
“Oh, thank you!” cried Marjorie; “then we can go right home. I’m so afraid our baby will catch cold. And Mrs. Simpson’s babies, too,” she added, considerately. “Come on, Rosy Pet; come with Middy.”
Rosamond put her cold little hand in Midget’s, and Kitty said, “We must all run; that’s the way to get warm. Come on.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mrs. Simpson, who had not yet really accepted her invitation; “I’m thinkin’ it ain’t right for us to go to your ma’s house, an’ her away from home. It ain’t for the likes of us to go into a grand house with carpets and pictures. And I’m thinkin’ we’d ought to go to the poorhouse, after all.”
For a moment Marjorie felt relieved. After her impulsive invitation, a sort of reaction had left her wondering how it would all turn out. And now she had a chance to retract and reconsider her offer.
But again the woebegone look on Mrs. Simpson’s tearful face, and the forlornness of the seven shivering children smote her heart, and she couldn’t help saying:
“Itisright, Mrs. Simpson. You know how kind my mother is to you, and now she’s away,I’mhead of the house.”
Unconsciously, Marjorie drew up her plump little figure to its full height, and her air of authority carried its own conviction.
“Yes, indeed,” chimed in King. “And I know my father would say just what I say; come ahead, Mrs. Simpson, and welcome!”
As a matter of fact, King was not moved so much by the certainty that his father would say this, as by his natural impulse to back up Marjorie’s invitation, and also assert his own position as “head of the house” equally with herself.
Something of this same spirit imbued Kitty, and she said:
“Indeed, I think we’d be very selfish not to share our home with these poor, afflicted people. Mrs. Simpson, don’t you bother about anything at all; you just bring your children and come right along with us. Father often says to us, ‘Children, in a ’mergency you must think for yourselves, and think quickly.’ So now we’ve thought, and we did it as quick as we could; so you just come on and say no more about it.”
Kitty did not mean to be crisp of speech, but Mrs. Simpson was still looking uncertain, and diffidently hanging back, and Kitty was anxious to get home.
“Yes; come on,” said King, realizing himself the need for immediate action.
“Well, I’ll go, just for to-night,” said Mrs. Simpson, looking scared at her own decision. “I’ll go, as I haven’t a roof where to lay my head—I mean—a—a——”
The poor woman was really incoherent from shock and excitement. Always frail, she had overworked her strength to keep her family clothed and fed, and now she was nearly at the end of her endurance.
“Here, ma’am, I’ll go with you,” said a kind-hearted neighbor, one of the few now left in the rapidly thinning crowd. He took the poor woman by the arm, saying, “You Simpson children come along, now,” and then waited respectfully for the Maynards to lead the way. So King marched boldly ahead, followed by Midget and Kitty, with the tired Rosy Posy between them. Next came Mrs. Simpson and her escort, and then the seven Simpson children, shy and awkward now, by reason of a sudden realization of where they were going.
It was far from being an imposing-looking parade. Kingdon, though valiant-hearted, was secretly a little dubious about the whole proceeding. It had been Marjorie’s idea, and he had willingly subscribed to it, but it certainly was a great responsibility.
It was right—yes, he felt sure it was right—but it seemed to open up such a bewildering array of future consequences, that he couldn’t even dare to think about them.
Then suddenly he realized that he was lonely. Why should he walk alone? He turned to join the other three, feeling the necessity of sympathetic companionship, but at the sight of the three girls behind him, he burst into a peal of laughter.
“Oh! if you could see yourselves!” he cried, for he hadn’t before noticed their appearance. “Mops, you’re just covered with smoky smudges—your dress is more black than white! And Kit, howdidyou get torn so?”
The girls stood still and looked at each other. Never before in their short lives, had they been through an occasion so momentous as to render them entirely oblivious of everything else. But the fire and its thrilling scenes, followed by this absorbing responsibility of the Simpsons’ entire career, had left them no time to think of themselves or each other.
“Goodness gracious me!” exclaimed Marjorie, as she looked at the awful wrecks of her two sisters’ once immaculate costumes; “am I as bad as that?”
“Your face is even blacker than Kit’s,” declared King, after looking critically at each. “Rosy Posy, you seem to have met a waterspout somewhere.”
“Ess,” said the little one, forlornly. “Nassy old big man frowed water on me out o’ a long hose fing.”
It was quite evident that a careless fireman had deluged the child, and King looked greatly concerned.
“She’ll get pneumonia in those wet clothes,” he said; “we must hurry home faster. Come, Baby, brother’ll carry you.”
“Do, p’ease,” she said; “I’se so tired an’ wet.”
A chubby five-year-old is no light burden for a boy, but King picked up his little sister, and trudged on faster.
“Oh, King!” said Marjorie, hurrying her steps to keep up with him, “I’ve just thought of it! The Mortimers will be there when we get home!”
“I’ve thought of it all along,” said King, with a gloomy shake of his head. “I don’t know what’ll happen, Mops; but we’ve got to brave it out now.”
“But how can we? WhatwillMiss Larkin say?”
“You ought to have thought of that sooner,” said Kitty. “I did. I thought of her first thing. But you two didn’t ask my advice.”
Poor Kitty couldn’t help this little fling. Often her judgment was better than theirs, but being older, King and Marjorie never asked her opinion until it was too late.
“And think how we look!” wailed Marjorie, her mind going ahead, as they neared home.
“I’ve been thinking of it,” said King, grimly, as he shifted the baby to his other arm. “I say, Mops, we’re in no end of a mess, and I don’t know what we’re up against. But there’s one comfort; it isn’t mischief, and we haven’t done anything wrong.”
“It isn’t mischief,” agreed Midget; “that’s sure. But I’m not so sure we haven’t done wrong. When I asked Mrs. Simpson, it seemed the only thing to do; and it seemed—it seemed——”
“Grand and noble,” suggested King.
“Yes, it did! Sort of splendid, and ‘love thy neighbor as thyself,’ you know. But now——”
“Now,” said Kitty, “we’ve got to face the music. We’ve got to go in the house, looking like ragpickers ourselves, and taking with us a crowd of people who look—well, nearly as bad! and then, we’ve got to face Miss Larkin and her grand company!”
“We can’t!” exclaimed Marjorie, stopping short, quite appalled at the picture Kitty drew so graphically.
“We’ve got to!” declared King. “Come on, Mops, I can’t carry this baby much farther. Rosy Posy, you’re a bunch of sweetness, but you’re an awful heavy one.”
“Is I?” said the little one, apologetically, as she nestled close to the big brother whom she adored, and patted his grimy face with her equally grimy little hand.
“Let me carry the little girl,” said the big man, who, just behind, was looking after Mrs. Simpson.
But Rosamond was shy, and utterly refused to go to the arms of a stranger.
“Never mind,” said King, wearily. “We’re almost home now. I can manage her.”
They turned in at the front gate, and the procession started up the Maynard driveway.
“Guess I’ll go back now,” said the stranger man, a little abashed at the sight of the great house, brilliantly lighted, that was partly visible through the trees. “You all right, now, Mis’ Simpson?”
“Yes,” said the trembling woman, frightened herself, and weak from fatigue and exhaustion.
“Here, you Sam,” said the man to the oldest boy; “come here and take a-hold of your ma. She’s pretty near faintin’. Get her to bed’s soon’s you can. Good-bye, all!”
With an embarrassed gesture, he snatched off his old cap, replaced it as suddenly, and turning, fled down the path in an actual spasm of stage-fright.
Though Mrs. Simpson had not heard the children’s discussion on the way home, he had, and he knew that warm-hearted as the little Maynards were, they had a serious situation confronting them when they opened their own front door.
This, and his own embarrassment at the sight of unaccustomed grandeur, made him seek refuge in panic-stricken flight.
Some of the young Simpsons were almost ready to follow him, but the braver ones were on tiptoe of glad expectation at the thought of going into the beautiful house. They knew the Maynards pretty well, and having always found them kindly and pleasant, had no fear save such as was engendered by the awe of wealth and luxurious surroundings.
“Set down the baby, and let me think a minute,” said Marjorie to her brother, as they were within a few yards of the house. “We’ve got to take the Simpsons in, of course, but do you think Miss Larkin would like it better if we all went round to the side door? You see, we all look like the dickens, and she’s so particular about those Mortimer people.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said King. “This is an emergency. It’s an accident, a tragedy, a very special occasion. She will have to forgive our appearance, ’cause we couldn’t help it. We were doing our best to be helpful to people in trouble, and if we got all messed up by it, it isn’t our fault. And, besides, it’s our house, and the Simpsons are our comp’ny. We’ve more right there than Miss Larkin and her comp’ny. So, if she has any sense, she’ll understand all this. And so, I say, go right in the front door, and do our best.”
“I think all that, too,” agreed Midge, “but I only thought if it would hurt Larky’s feelings to see us girls looking so disreputable, we might spruce into clean clothes before we saw the Mortimers.”
“What do you think, Kit?” said King, with a sudden remembrance of Kitty’s good sense in a dilemma.
Kitty, much elated at being appealed to, answered at once:
“I think King’s right. It’s our house, and this is our whole show. Miss Larkin has company to-night, and that’s her whole show. We needn’t interfere with each other at all. ’Course it’s too bad that we look so dirty and all, but who wouldn’t, after they’d been managing a whole fire? And so I say, let’s march right in, and not act as if we’d been doing anything wrong. We haven’t, and I don’t see, Mops, why you act as if we had.”
“It isn’t wrong,” said Marjorie, still standing still, and digging her patent-leather toe thoughtfully into the hard ground of the drive; “but I do want to spare Larky’s feelings all I can. She was so particular about our keeping clean, and you know, we truly meant to, and now, look at us!”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Kitty; “we’d have kept lovely and clean if we’d stayed at home. But we went out, and got into this—this predickerment, and ’course we got smoky and all. We can get washed and dressed after we tell Larky all about it. Come on, do; I’m awful hungry, and I’m tired, too.”
“All right,” said Marjorie, still a little doubtful; “come on, then. You can walk now, can’t you, Posy Pet?”
“Ess; I’s all wested now. Take hold my hand.”
So the four Maynards, hand in hand, walked on, and then mounted the broad steps of their own front verandah.
“Come on, Mrs. Simpson,” said Marjorie, over her shoulder. Her voice was full of the kindest hospitality and welcome. In doubt about Miss Larkin’s attitude in the matter, she might be; in doubt about the wisdom of making their entrance before strange guests, without first repairing their toilets, she might be; but in Marjorie’s honest little heart there was not a shadow of doubt that she was doing right in offering the shelter of her home to these unfortunate refugees.
She felt sure that had her parents been at home they would have done the same thing, and in their absence her own sense of responsibility asserted itself, and upheld her in her present action.
The eight Simpsons trudged up the steps behind the Maynards, and as they all stood in front of the long glass doors, whose heavy lace panels only partly screened the brightly lighted hall, King rang the bell.
CHAPTER XIA FRIEND IN NEED
Now, while the Simpsons’ cottage had been burning, the occupants of the Maynard house had been in a state of great consternation. Miss Larkin and her two guests from Boston had arrived shortly after five o’clock, and Sarah met them at the door with a scared look on her face.
“Are the children with you, ma’am?” she said, as Miss Larkin stepped across the threshold.
“With me, Sarah? No, indeed. I left them in the drawing-room.”
“Well, they’re not there, ma’am; and they’re not in the house. I thought as how they must have run out to meet the carriage. Master King’s cap and the little girls’ hats is in their places, so they haven’t gone far.”
“Oh, I suppose they’re hiding, to tease us,” said Miss Larkin, in an annoyed tone. “They’ll probably jump out of the guest-room wardrobe, or something like that. Mrs. Mortimer, you must be prepared for childish pranks. The little Maynards are the most mischievous children I ever saw.”
Mrs. Mortimer smiled, and said nothing, but her expression seemed to indicate little tolerance for juvenile misbehavior. She had no children of her own, and so had not learned patience and forbearance as mothers have to.
But Mr. Mortimer was by nature more sympathetic with childish ways.
“Good for the kiddies!” he cried. “I like little folks with some fun in them. If they jump out of a cupboard at me, they’ll catch a rousing reception.”
He smiled broadly, and looked about for some laughing faces to appear suddenly.
“It’s nice of you to be so indulgent,” said Miss Larkin, but she herself was far from pleased. She had hoped to present four demure and prettily-dressed children, whose manners should seem above reproach even to exacting Mrs. Mortimer.
However, there was no sight or sound of the Maynard quartette, so the guests were shown to their rooms by Sarah, while Miss Larkin laid aside her own wraps, and then went to the kitchen to see that dinner was progressing properly.
“Where do you suppose the children are, Ellen?” she asked of the cook.
The good-natured face of the Irishwoman looked a little anxious, as she replied:
“Shure, I dunno, ma’am. I’m thinkin’ it’s not hidin’ they do be, fer they’d be fer bowsin’ out afore this. No, Miss Larkin, they must ’ave went out to meet the kerridge, an’ thin, their attintion bein’ divarted, they’ve wint som’ers else.”
“Oh, nonsense, Ellen; they wouldn’t go off like that, without hats, and with their best clothes on.”
“It’s no sayin’ what them childher wud or wuddent do, ma’am. There’s nothin’ I’d put past ’em; nothin’ at all, ma’am!”
“Well, but, Ellen—if they’re not in the house—if they’ve wandered away, we ought to send some one after them. It’s dark now, and they should be at home.”
“An’ where wud ye be sindin’ to, ma’am? Shure they might be over to Mis’ Spencer’s—I jist thought o’ that.”
“I’ll telephone over and find out. Meanwhile, go on with the preparations for dinner, Ellen; I still think they’re hiding in the house, the naughty little rascals.”
Greatly annoyed at the troublesome situation, Miss Larkin telephoned to Mrs. Spencer, and to one or two other neighbors, but could get no word of the children.
Then, hearing her guests coming downstairs, she returned to the drawing-room to receive them.
“I can’t understand it,” she said, as they came in; “if the children were hiding, they would appear by this time. They are not the kind to keep still very long. The cook thinks they are not in the house, but Sarah and I think they must be.”
“Jolly little scamps!” said Mr. Mortimer, rubbing his hands in glee. “When I was a child, I always loved to play practical jokes myself.”
“I didn’t,” said Mrs. Mortimer, as she seated herself stiffly on the satin sofa. “I think it very bad manners, and I’m surprised that Helen Maynard encourages such ways in her children.”
“Well, I must say it isn’t Helen’s fault,” said Miss Larkin, eager to do her friend justice; “Helen is really pretty strict with them, in her gentle way. But they are everlastingly inventing some new kind of mischief that no one ever heard of before. Like as not, they are out on the roof, or in some such crazy place.”
“The roof!” gasped Mrs. Mortimer, raising her hands in horror. “Won’t they fall off?”
“Oh, they’re not really there,” said Miss Larkin, “and they wouldn’t fall off if they were. But I don’t know exactly what to do. I can’t help feeling worried about them. Suppose they’ve all been kidnapped.”
“Kidnappers don’t often take four at a time,” said Mr. Mortimer, smiling. “I fancy they’re all right, wherever they are.”
It was at this moment the doorbell rang.
It did not occur to Miss Larkin that the children might be outside, and seating herself primly, she waited while Sarah admitted the guest, whoever it might be.
So Sarah opened the front door, and at sight of the four untidy-looking children, and the nondescript group behind them, she gave an uncontrollable shriek, and fell back, half-dazed, as what seemed like an endless procession of people marched in.
King and Marjorie, as ringleaders, went straight up to Miss Larkin.
“We brought these people home with us,” explained Marjorie, simply. “They are the Simpsons. Their house burned down, and their father is in the hospital, and they have no home to cover their heads, and so we brought them here. Father and Mother always look out for them and——”
But Marjorie quailed at last before the flush of anger on Miss Larkin’s face, and the look of frozen horror on the countenance of the strange lady, who, she knew, must be Mrs. Mortimer.
Suddenly she realized her own shocking appearance, and the dreadful spectacle of the crowd behind her.
But Kingdon rose to the occasion.
“And so, Miss Larkin,” he went on, slipping his comforting hand into Midget’s, “as Mopsy and I have to take Father and Mother’s place while they’re away, we invited Mrs. Simpson and her children to come here for a few days, until they get another home.”
“Here! A few days!” repeated Miss Larkin, and, looking helplessly about, she sank back into the chair from which she had risen, and, closing her eyes, seemed about to faint away.
“Ugh! how appalling!” said Mrs. Mortimer, in the tone one might use at seeing a dozen boa constrictors suddenly turned loose in one’s vicinity.
But there was also a note of contempt in her voice, which touched Marjorie’s self-respect. At any rate, she must not forget her own manners, whatever Miss Larkin’s guest might do. She turned to the strange lady, and curtseyed prettily.
“How do you do, Mrs. Mortimer?” she said; “I can’t shake hands until I’m tidied up.”
“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mortimer, with a slight shudder, but Marjorie, having made her greetings, turned to the other guest.
She was about to speak to him in the same formal manner, when he grasped her hand, and said, cordially:
“How do you do, Miss Marjorie? You have evidently had an adventure. Can I help you in any way?”
His genial tones as well as his actual words were such a comfort to Marjorie, that she regained at once her rapidly-disappearing composure, and felt that she had found, most unexpectedly, a helpful friend.
King, too, appreciated the gentleman’s good-will, and after a few words of greeting, felt his own courage fortified, and went over to where Miss Larkin sat, with her eyes still closed to the dreadful sight before her. “Now, look here, Larky,” he whispered, “you’re making it all worse by acting like that. Brace up to the ’casion, and let’s see what we can do.”
“What we cando!” echoed Miss Larkin, as she opened her eyes to treat Kingdon to an angry glare. “There’s nothing to do! You have disgraced me forever.”
“Indeed you have,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who seemed to resent the invasion quite as much as if she were, herself, in authority. “I have heard you children were mischievous, but I never could have dreamed of such a high-handed performance as this.”
“But it had to be high-handed,” urged Kitty, who took the guest’s speech very seriously. “There was no time for anything but a high-handed performance. Why, you know how fast a fire burns——” she said, turning to Mr. Mortimer, as to the one friend in sight.
“Indeed, I do,” he responded, heartily. “And now, that this rather unexpected event has occurred, some of its minor details must be attended to.”
The Maynards, despite their anxiety and worry, looked at Mr. Mortimer with open-eyed curiosity. They were not surprised at the attitudes of Miss Larkin and Mrs. Mortimer, but for a complete stranger to enter so into the spirit of their own intent, and, moreover, to have a lurking twinkle in his eye, that spoke well for his sense of humor, was, indeed, cheering.
“Yes, sir; that’s just it,” said Kitty, delighted to find some one who appreciated the need for immediate action. “We’ve asked these people here, and now we must provide for them.” She clasped her sooty little hands, as she looked confidently up into the kind face that smiled quizzically at her.
“Yes, that is so,” Mr. Mortimer agreed. And then he turned to Miss Larkin, who was still unable to cope with the situation.
“It seems to me,” he said, looking at his wife and his hostess, who were both fairly helpless with indignation, “that, if you will permit me, Miss Larkin, I will advise and assist the Maynard children in this rather trying matter. I am not surprised that you are a little overcome, and so at risk of seeming presumptuous, I am going to do all I can to bring about a more satisfactory state of affairs.”
“James,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “I think you are overstepping all bounds of propriety. I think that neither you nor Miss Larkin are called upon to interfere in this dreadful escapade of Mrs. Maynard’s children. Summon the servants, and let them do whatever may be necessary.”
Marjorie flushed crimson. She felt that a guest of Miss Larkin had no right to talk so about other guests who had been invited to the Maynard house by the Maynards themselves. But she also knew that a little girl must not express views contrary to those of a grown-up lady, so she said nothing.
“There, there, Hester,” said her husband, “don’t put your finger in this pie. One of our family is enough, and I propose to do all the interfering myself. Now, Kingdon and Marjorie, as I know nothing of your household, I’ll have to ask a few questions. Where did you propose to put these guests of yours to sleep to-night?”
“I don’t know what Midget thought,” said King, “and I hadn’t quite settled it in my own mind; but I thought Ellen or James would help us out. There’s an extra room in the attic that Mrs. Simpson could use, and then—I thought maybe James could fix some bunks somewhere for the children.”
“Yes,” said Marjorie, “there’s a big loft over the carriage-house——”
“But that’s too cold,” objected Kitty. “I thought they could sleep in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in that tone of biting sarcasm that was even more irritating than Miss Larkin’s dumb despair.
Meantime the household servants, though they had not been summoned, were hovering round in the hall.
Ellen, at risk of endangering the fine dinner she was preparing, had come to see if she could help her beloved young people in any way. Nannie, seeing Rosy Posy’s plight, had carried her off to the nursery, and Sarah, wringing her hands in dismay, was consulting in whispers with Thomas, as to what could be done to help Miss Marjorie and Master King out of this scrape.
As for the Simpsons themselves, they, of course, had no part in the discussion. Mrs. Simpson, in a sort of apathy, sat with her head drooped, and a baby in her arms; while two others, scarcely more than babies, clutched at her dress and hid their faces if any one looked at them. The other four stood behind their mother’s chair, wriggling awkwardly, and uncertain whether to cry or to feel pleased at being guests of the great house, even though of doubtful welcome.
“No, Miss Kitty, dear,” said Ellen, coming to the doorway of the drawing-room, “ye can’t be afther usin’ my kitchen fer bedrooms. But the pore woman can have my bed fer the night, an’ I’ll shlape on the flure or annywhere, so I will.”
“An’ I will, too,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes, for her warm heart sympathized with the anxiety of the children she loved.
“An’ I’ll see to some few of ’em,” said Thomas, from the background, “though I’m sure, Miss Marjorie, they’d all catch pewmonia a-sleepin’ in the carriage-loft.”
“Now, I’ll make a suggestion,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Ellen, do you think you could make Mrs. Simpson and that smallest baby comfortable for the night?”
“I’m shure I cud, sor.”
“Very well. Take her away at once. Give her a cup of tea, and some supper, and then send her to bed. The poor soul is quite worn out, and no wonder.”
Realizing the authority of the strange gentleman, Ellen took Mrs. Simpson’s arm, and without another word, the two went away, the mother carrying with her the youngest child.
“Now,” went on Mr. Mortimer, “I next dismiss the three Maynards to a liberal use of soap and water. Don’t spare the soap; use sand, if necessary. But get yourselves clean and—I suppose you have other clothes?”
“Yes, sir,” serious Kitty assured him.
“Then get them on, as expeditiously as possible. And with the assistance of Thomas, I will assume the management of these six remaining Simpsons. Run away, now, ask no questions, but leave all to me.”
King and Midget felt as if a weight were lifted from their shoulders. It did not seem like ignobly shifting a responsibility, for Mr. Mortimer left them no choice in the matter. He gave commands evidently with the intention of having them obeyed.
And so, with a very earnest squeeze of his hand, Marjorie obeyed his decree, and went upstairs, with King and Kitty on either side of her.
“Well, if he isn’t a trump!” she cried, as they reached the upper hall.
“Brick!” declared King.
“Yes, he is,” agreed Kitty, thoughtfully. “Except Father, nobody could be as nice as he is.”
“Nobody!” echoed the other two.
“And now,” said Marjorie, “let’s do the best we can to get dressed quick, and get downstairs in time for dinner. Let’s put on our best clothes, and our best manners, and perhaps that crosspatch lady will like us a little better.”
“She never will!” sighed Kitty, with conviction. “She hates us.”
“Oh, let’s get round her,” said King hopefully. “If we’re lovely and sweet and pleasant, she’ll have nothing to growl at.”
“And clean,” supplemented Kitty. “If you look in the mirror, you’ll see one reason why she was so disgusted.”
“Yes,” laughed King; “and if you girls look in the mirror, you’ll see two reasons!”
Midge and Kitty were truly scandalized when they saw their mirrored selves, and were glad of Nurse Nannie’s helpful hands to restore tidiness.
Rosy Posy was already bathed and tucked in her crib, where she sat up against a pillow, eating bread and milk with a sleepy disregard of the afternoon’s excitement.
And so, it was not more than half an hour later when three spick and span Maynards went downstairs again, in fresh attire, from hair-ribbons to slipper-bows, though, of course, King didn’t wear hair-ribbons.