CHAPTER XIITHE HOUSE ON SPRUCE STREET
Inthe drawing-room they found only the two ladies.
Perhaps Mr. Mortimer had asked them to treat the children with more kindliness, and perhaps they themselves concluded they had been too harsh in their judgment, but at any rate, their reception was far less chilly than it had been an hour ago.
Mrs. Mortimer was positively gracious in her demeanor, and even smiled as she gave Marjorie her finger-tips, after the little girl had made her best curtsey.
Kitty followed, and King, though he had to fight down his resentful feelings, behaved with the winsome politeness which always characterized his “good manners.”
The children were consumed with curiosity to know how the Simpsons had been disposed of, but deemed it better to ask no questions. So the conversation was on trivial subjects, and Miss Larkin grew quite amiable, as she realized that, though belated, this was the scene into which she had desired to introduce her guest. The Simpson subject was ignored, until, just before dinner was announced, Mr. Mortimer returned, his eyes twinkling, and his whole expression betokening great amusement.
They went to the dining-room then, and not until the soup had been served, did he satisfy the children’s eager desire to know what had happened.
“I think I owe it to you, Miss Marjorie,” he began, “to tell you what I did with your guests.”
“Oh, if you please, Mr. Mortimer,” said Marjorie, with shining eyes.
“Well, you see, it was a hard nut to crack,” he went on, unable to resist delaying the tale in order to tease them a little bit. “There were six children, all of them hungry, tired, and sleepy. To feed them here, would have been a great tax on your servants, especially as you already had house-guests. I found that this town of yours, progressive as it is, has no orphan asylum, and besides, the Simpsons aren’t orphans, anyway.”
“Whatdidyou do?” cried Kitty, unable to conceal her interest.
“Why,” said Mr. Mortimer, slowly, as one who knows he is about to create a sensation, “Why, I put them up at the hotel.”
“What!” cried his wife and Miss Larkin in unison, while Kitty looked incredulous, King shouted in glee, and Marjorie giggled.
“Yes,” went on Mr. Mortimer, “it was really the only thing to do. It was that, or the Police Station—-and I’m not sure there is a police station in Rockwell. It seems to be a very small town, and without some of the institutions of a metropolis. But it boasts a fair-sized hotel, which, fortunately, is not over-crowded at the present time.”
King chuckled at this, for the scarcity of patronage at the “Rockwell House” was a local joke.
“And did you really put them there, as regular customers?” asked Marjorie, unable to believe such a proceeding possible.
“Well, I don’t know about regular customers; indeed, the landlord seemed to think the whole deal a little irregular. But, anyway, they’re there for the night.”
“The Simpson children, at a hotel!” cried King, nearly choking in his attempt to restrain his laughter.
And indeed, so incongruous was the idea, after having seen the young people in question, that even Mrs. Mortimer smiled, while Miss Larkin laughed in spite of herself.
“Oh!” said Kitty, whose vivid imagination pictured the scene, “IwishI had been there! Did you register them?”
This suggestion sent King and Midget into chuckles again, and Mr. Mortimer said, gravely:
“Of course I did; from Samuel down to Mary Eliza. And I fancy those six names will always be pointed to with pride by the worthy proprietor.”
“I hope, sir,” said King, suddenly remembering his position as “man of the house,” “that you directed him to send the bill to my father.”
“I’ll tell you what I did do,” said Mr. Mortimer, with a business-like air that somehow made King feel very manly at being thus addressed: “I told him the circumstances of the case. I told him of your generous offer of hospitality, and of the difficulties in the way of entertaining the whole Simpson family at your own home. I laid before him the fact that the town ought to take some interest in this calamity that has befallen one of its poorer families; and we finally arranged that he was to make his charges as moderate as possible, that Mr. Maynard would be responsible for half the bill, and that the city authorities should be asked to pay the other half. All of this, of course, subject to your father’s sanction; and agreed to by us, in order to meet the emergency.”
“You did fine!” exclaimed King. “Thank you, Mr. Mortimer. I know Father will say you did just right—unless he prefers to pay the whole bill himself.”
“He can do as he likes about that. He can settle the matter with the city authorities. But the hotel man—a mighty sensible chap, by the way—seemed to think the townspeople would stand quite ready to do their share, both individually and as a public measure.”
“I think they will,” said Marjorie, “for I remember when Mr. Simpson first went to the hospital, the town looked after the family, or something—I don’t know just what, but I know we only helped.”
“And so,” concluded Mr. Mortimer, “the small Simpsons are to-night enjoying the luxury of lodging in a hotel, whatever fate may bring them to-morrow.”
“You have been very kind,” said Marjorie, her eyes fairly brimming with gratitude. “I don’t know what we should have done if you hadn’t been here.”
“You would have had more room in your own house,” said Mr. Mortimer, smiling.
But Miss Larkin said, “Indeed we wouldn’t have put those children in our pretty guest rooms.”
“I don’t know,” said Kitty; “I think we would have had to do so. For I’m sure it never would have occurred to us to take them to the hotel!”
Again King shook with laughter.
“I’d like to see them,” he said; “imagine those scared-to-death youngsters, sitting up in the hotel dining-room!”
“Is there anybody to look after them?” asked Miss Larkin. “A matron, or anybody?”
“Well, of course, it isn’t a juvenile asylum,” said Mr. Mortimer; “but I persuaded the landlord’s wife to take an interest in the poor little scraps of humanity. They really seemed very lonesome and forlorn.”
“I don’t think they need to,” observed Kitty. “They’re much more comfortable, by this time, than they’ve ever been before in their lives. I don’t believe they ever have enough to eat, except when we take them Christmas dinners or Thanksgiving baskets.”
“Poor things!” exclaimed Miss Larkin, who was exceedingly sympathetic, now that her dinner party was no longer interfered with. “To-morrow, we must see what we can do for them.”
“Do,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “I’m sorry for them, I’m sure. But now let’s talk of more agreeable matters.”
It seemed to Marjorie that the Boston lady was a bit heartless, but as the children were not expected to take much part in the conversation anyway, they behaved beautifully during the rather lengthy dinner, and thought out little plans of their own, while their elders were talking.
After dinner, they were excused, and, rather relieved at not being expected to go in the drawing-room again, they went upstairs.
They congregated for a few moments in the playroom, before going to bed, and discussed hastily some plans for the next day.
“I do think Mr. Mortimer was just lovely,” said Midget. “He makes up for his wife. She hasn’t any heart at all, I don’t b’lieve she’d have cared if this house had burned up, ’stead of the Simpsons’!”
“Never mind her, Mopsy,” put in King; “’tisn’t polite to jump on guests that way! But I tell you, girls, to-morrow we’ll stir up the town. I didn’t know that they ought to look after people that get burned out, but we’ll see that they do.”
“How?” queried Kitty, who loved to plan.
“Well, we’ll go and see that landlord man at the hotel, first. He’ll tell us what to do, I guess. You know, we oughtn’t to bother Mr. Mortimer any further in the matter.”
“All right,” said Marjorie, yawning; “and I’m awful sleepy, King. Let’s settle it all in the morning.”
“All right; good-night, girls,” and with a brotherly tweak at their curls, being careful not to pull their “dress-up” hair-ribbons, he was off to his own room.
Next morning, Marjorie came downstairs, ready for action.
It was Saturday, so there was no school, and the three Maynards decided to devote the day to seeing what they could do in aid of the Simpson family.
Mr. Mortimer smiled, when they thanked him over and over for his kindness of the night before, and then excused him from any further responsibility in the matter.
“Oho!” said he, “am I to be left out of this picnic?”
“It isn’t exactly a picnic,” said Kitty, “and we thought you’d rather be left out.”
“You’ve already done so much,” said King, “I’m sure we couldn’t expect you to do anything more. Besides, Miss Larkin says you’re all going driving this morning.”
“Yes, we are,” said his hostess. “I want to show you round this part of the country. Some of the drives are beautiful.”
Mr. Mortimer made a comical face at the children, as if to say he was not master of his fate, and must do as he was bid, and then they all went to breakfast.
While at the table, Marjorie was called to the telephone.
Mr. Adams, the father of Dorothy, talked to her, and told her that Mr. Jennings, of the hotel, had told him the whole story.
“And, Marjorie,” he said, “I am quite willing to let the Simpsons have that cottage of mine round on Spruce Street for a few months, anyway. It isn’t large, but it’s in good repair, and they’re welcome to the use of it for a time.”
“Oh, how good you are!” exclaimed Midget. “And what about furniture, Mr. Adams?”
“Well, my wife, and a few other ladies, are already talking that matter over. They think that many of our citizens will contribute some beds, chairs, and tables; and so, if you have any discarded things like that in your attic, you may donate them. But don’t give anything your mother might want to keep.”
“All right,” returned Marjorie. “I’ll go over to see Mrs. Adams after breakfast, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Midget felt very grown up at being consulted by Mr. Adams, and it was with an air of importance that she returned to the breakfast table. She told of Mr. Adams’ kindness in letting the Simpsons use his vacant house, which was really a pretty little cottage on a pleasant street.
“Whew!” said King, “they’ll have to brace up if they’re going to live in a house like that. Why, it’s an awful jolly little place.”
“It may be a good thing for them,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Teach them self-respect, and help them to try to keep their heads up.”
“Won’t it be fun to fix it up for them!” exclaimed Marjorie. “I shall give them my old bureau cover—my new one is nearly finished.”
“Ho!” said King; “they need lots of things much more than a bureau cover. Let’s ask Mr. Smith, the grocer, to give them a barrel of flour.”
“Don’t strike too high,” advised Mr. Mortimer; “ask him for a sack of flour, and you’re more likely to get it. Why don’t you children canvass the town? I’m sure you could wheedle more charity out of the shopkeepers and other citizens than all the city authorities together.”
“I’d like to,” said Marjorie, dubiously, “but I don’t know whether Father would approve of that. Once we were a Village Improvement Society, and we got into an awful fuss!”
“But that was quite different,” urged Kitty. “This is for charity—a noble cause. I’d just as lieve go round with a basket, and collect things for them.”
“Not literally a basket, my child,” advised Mr. Mortimer, “but surely it would do no harm to ask contributions from the people you know well.”
“I’ll tell you what!” exclaimed King. “Let the whole Jinks Club do it. We never have done anything charitable in the Club, and this is a good time to begin.”
“Well,” said Marjorie, “I think it would be fine. But let’s go and ask Mrs. Adams about it first. I guess she’s at the head of the Poor Society, and she’ll tell us what to do.”
So, after breakfast, the three Maynard “Jinkses” started out. They gathered in Delight on the way, and while the girls went to Dorothy’s house, King ran over for Flip Henderson.
Mrs. Adams not only approved their plan, but offered to loan a big wagon, a pair of horses, and a driver to transport any furniture or clothing that might be donated.
Then such fun as the Jinks Club had! They called on everybody they knew, and some that they didn’t know. They collected a fine lot of second-hand furniture, and clothing, as well as a liberal supply of provisions. Two or three kind-hearted people donated coal and wood; and though many of the contributors sent their gifts themselves, yet some had no means of doing so, and Mrs. Adams’ wagon carried many loads to the cottage on Spruce Street.
The Maynards went home to luncheon, jubilant.
“Such fun!” they cried, as they bounded in at the front door. “We’ve loads of things already in the house, and what do you think, Miss Larkin—the bureau that Mrs. Chester gave, exactly fits my bureau cover! Isn’t that fine?”
So enthusiastic were the children at luncheon, that Miss Larkin and Mrs. Mortimer were interested before they knew it.
“I’d like to go over and see the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, at last. “I really think you young people have done wonders.”
“Oh, we didn’t do it all,” said Midget. “Mrs. Adams and half a dozen other ladies have been working all the morning, too. And Mrs. Spencer sent a lot of lovely things. Why, the house is ’most full of furniture.”
“I never heard of such a town,” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing. “I think, James, it would be a fine place to live.”
“Yes,” Mr. Mortimer agreed; “if you’re sure to be burned out of house and home.”
The village people did, indeed, prove themselves generous. In the afternoon the enthusiasm spread to such an extent, that curtains were being put to the windows, and kerosene poured into the lamps. Some of the more impetuous ones wanted to move the family in that night, but it was deemed better to wait until Monday. Marjorie was allowed to tell Mrs. Simpson what had been done for her.
“My gracious land!” exclaimed the poor woman. “I can’t take it in, Miss Marjorie! A whole house! all furnished—for me? Oh, it’s too much! You’re too good! I don’t deserve it.”
“It’s because we’re so sorry for you, Mrs. Simpson,” said Midget. “Mr. Simpson has been in the hospital so long, I wonder how you ever got along at all. But now, with this house for a start, you can manage, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Marjorie; I’m thinkin’ Sam can get a job of some sort this spring. And I can do washin’ now, for Hannah can mind the babies. Oh, Miss Marjorie, it’s too good you are! You’re just like your father and your dear mother.”
And then, for the first time since the fire, Marjorie felt an absolutely clear conscience. She realized that she hadn’t done wrong—at least, not intentionally; and though the circumstances had greatly annoyed Miss Larkin, and had disturbed one of her guests, yet now, the whole affair had turned out all right.
Indeed, the matter was practically taken out of Marjorie’s hands; and though the Jinks Club did their full share of assisting, it was the grown-up citizens of Rockwell who escorted Mrs. Simpson and her children to their new home on Monday.
The house, though not lavishly, was completely furnished; the pantry was well stocked; so were the coal-bin and wood-box.
And though most of the Simpson children were too young to appreciate the kindness that had given them all this, poor, hard-working Mrs. Simpson showed gratitude true and deep enough to satisfy the most exacting.
“And while I humbly thank all you kind ladies,” she said, her voice choked with emotion, “I can’t forget that but for Marjorie Maynard, I’d have been in the poorhouse now!”
“Hooray for our Mopsy!” cried Flip Henderson, which turned into gay laughter what had threatened to be a tearful climax to the occasion.
CHAPTER XIIIA BIRTHDAY PLAN
“King,” said Marjorie, suddenly, “I have the beautifullest idea in the world!”
“Spring it,” said Kingdon, not looking particularly expectant. “Is it one of your crazy ones, or a really good one?”
“Oh, a really good one,” declared Marjorie, whose enthusiasm was never dampened by King’s preliminary lack of interest.
It was a rainy afternoon, and the children were amusing themselves in the living-room. Miss Larkin was up in her own room, writing letters, and the time really seemed ripe for an escapade of some sort.
“It’s a big idea,” went on Midget, “and you two must listen while I tell about it.”
King and Kitty put both hands behind their ears, and leaned forward in exaggerated anxiety to hear the plan.
“Hope it’s mischief,” said King; “I’ve been good so long I’m just about ready to sprout wings. Let’s cut up jinks.”
“No,” said Marjorie, severely; “it isn’t mischief, and we’re not going to cut up jinks. At least, not bad jinks. Not till Mother and Father come home, anyway. But I’m sort of hungry for a racket of some kind, myself. So let’s do this. You know next week Wednesday is Miss Larkin’s birthday.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Kitty; “how old is she?”
“Kit,” said her brother, “I’m ashamed of you! You mustn’t talk about grown-up people’s ages. You ought to know that.”
“Well, what’s the sense of a birthday, if it doesn’t mean how old you are?” demanded Kitty.
“Never mind that,” resumed Marjorie; “we mustn’t say a word about her age. I know that much myself. But, you see, we did upset her awf’ly when we bounced the Simpsons right into the middle of her grand dinner party, and I don’t think she ever got over it.”
“She’s been nice about it, though,” said King, thoughtfully.
“Yes, she has. Hasn’t scolded us hardly a bit about it. And that’s just why I think we might do something nice for her on her birthday, to sort of make up, you know.”
“Hooray!” cried King. “Thatisa good idea, Mops. Let’s have a regular celebration for her.”
“And let’s keep it secret,” said Kitty. “A surprise is most of the fun of a birthday party.”
“All right,” agreed Midget. “Only I don’t mean a party, you know. For a party, for her, we’d have to invite grown-ups—and we can’t do that. I mean just a celebration in the afternoon to show her that we remember her birthday.”
“And that we’re sorry we spoiled her dinner party,” added Kitty.
“Yep,” said King. “Now, what sort of a celebration have you thought of, Mopsy?”
“Well, I haven’t finished thinking yet, but I had a sort of idea of a parade.”
“With drums and banners?” cried King, eagerly.
“Oh, I’ll tell you,” broke in Kitty, “we’ll have floats!”
“Floats?” echoed the other two.
“Yes,” declared Kitty, warming to her subject; “floats, like they had in the big parade in New York.”
The magnitude of this idea nearly took away the breath of her hearers, but they rose to the occasion.
“Jiminy Crickets!” cried King, “you do beat all, Kit! ’Course we’ll have floats—gay ones, you bet!”
Marjorie’s eyes shone, as her imagination ran riot.
“We’ll get all the Jinks Club in it,” she said, “and we’ll each have a float. How shall we make the floats, Kit?”
“Oh, easy enough,” said that capable young person, with a toss of her head. “You just take an express wagon, or a doll’s carriage, or anything on wheels——”
“A soap box?” broke in King.
“Yes, a soap box—anything you can drag, you know. And then you decorate it all up fancy, like the big floats were.”
“Oh, Kitty!” cried Marjorie in rapture, “it will be perfectly elegant! Paper flowers and flags and bunting—oh!”
It was a grand scheme. Of course, it was all in honor of Miss Larkin’s birthday, but incidentally the Jinksies bid fair to get their own fun out of it, too.
“We’ll have a meeting of the Jinks Club to-morrow,” said Marjorie, “and we’ll have it over at Delight’s, so Miss Larkin won’t hear what we say. Do we all parade with these floats?”
“Yes,” said Kitty, who was always director of a costume party. “We must all dress up, you know, and then drag our float behind us, or push it, if it’s a doll’s carriage.”
“There are two express wagons down cellar,” said King; “Rosy Posy’s, and the one that used to be mine when I was a kid.”
From the dignity of his fourteen years, King looked back at his toy express wagon with disdain. But viewed as a “float,” it was a different matter.
“We’ll have to decorate the floats somewhere else besides here,” said Marjorie. “For if we set out to keep it secret from Miss Larkin, let’s do it.”
“All right; I guess Flip Henderson’s father will let us work on ’em in their barn. They only use the garage now, and the barn is pretty much empty.”
“Where’ll we get the other three floats?” asked Marjorie. “Our two express wagons, and Rosy Posy’s doll-carriage are all we have.”
“Dorothy has a doll-carriage,” said Kitty, “and Flip can find some sort of a rig.”
“Oh, yes,” said King. “We can fix up something, if it’s only a box on wheels; and then you girls can decorate it.”
“Shall we each make one float, or all make all of ’em?” asked Marjorie, who was thinking out details.
“Both,” said Kitty, enigmatically; “I mean, we’ll each plan out our own, and make it; and then, if we can help each other, we will.”
“I don’t know how the others will like it,” observed King; “they’ll be doing all this work for us, really.”
“No, they won’t,” said Midget; “it’s just a new sort of jinks, that’s all. Then, of course, we’ll all come in here, and have the celebration, and have a feast, and if they don’t like that—I don’t know why.”
“Shall we give her presents?”
“Yes, of course. Little things, you know. I’ve only got about thirty-five cents left of my allowance.”
“I’ve only ten,” said Kitty, “but I’ll make something for her—a pincushion, maybe.”
“H’sh! here she comes!” whispered King, warningly, and the plans were dropped for the present, as Miss Larkin came into the room.
“Well, little busy ones,” she said, “what are you doing now? Plotting some mischief?”
“No, Miss Larkin,” said Midget. “Truly it’s not mischief this time. Though King did say he was spoiling for some,” she added, with a laughing glance at her brother.
“Yes, I did,” he retorted; “and I think I’ll have some! Girls, let’s tease Larky!”
It was a strange thing, but the young Maynards always knew instinctively when Miss Larkin was in a mood to be teased, and would take it good-naturedly, or when she was in an austere mood, and would be angry if they trifled with her dignity.
But her indulgent smile at King’s words was the signal for a general attack.
“All right; what shall we do with her?” cried Kitty.
“I’ll tell you!” exclaimed Marjorie, and she ran across the hall to the drawing-room. “Come and help me, King,” she called back.
And in a moment the two returned, lugging a tall, heavy cathedral candlestick, which was one of their mother’s antique treasures.
It was of old brass, and was about six feet high. They stood this in the middle of the floor, and gravely announced that she was to be Joan of Arc, burnt at the stake.
“Here’s the stake,” said King, “and you’re the ill-fated Joan. You must meet your fate bravely. Step up, Joan!”
Miss Larkin, giggling at their nonsense, stepped up, and stood against the candlestick. Meantime Kitty had procured lots of string, and with this they bound the helpless martyr to the stake.
“Miscreant!” began King, who loved to speechify.
“Oh, no,” corrected Marjorie. “Joan of Arc wasn’t a miscreant—she was a martyr.”
“Well, martyr, then; Miss Martyr, I should say, we now bind thee to thy death pyre. Remember, oh remember, the misdeeds——”
“Oh, King,” cried Kitty, “you’re all wrong! I’ll make the speech. Oh, fair martyr, who art thus brought low, forgive thy tyrants——”
“Who have struck the blow!” chimed in King. “I say, what was Joan burned up for, anyway? I ought to know, but I don’t.”
“Oh, read up your history afterward,” cried Marjorie, impatiently. “Here, now we’ll build the fire round her!”
With a dozen sofa-pillows, they built a very respectable fire, and by putting the red ones on tops anybody could imagine a blazing flame.
“Now, you must burn and shrivel up,” commanded Kitty, and to their intense delight Miss Larkin entered quite into the spirit of the game.
“Burn me not up!” she cried; “I but did my duty!”
“Duty, forsooth!” shouted King. “You rode a white horse——”
“To Banbury Cross,” supplemented Kitty, as her brother paused for breath.
At this, Joan of Arc giggled so hard, that she almost choked, and her humane captors loosed her bonds and set her free.
“You’re a brick, Larky,” said King; “why, even Mother can’t play our romping games as good as you do. You’ll have to have a reward!”
A tremendous wink at his sisters reminded them of the coming celebration, and they made warning faces at him, for King was apt to tell secrets unintentionally sometimes.
But after dinner, apparently for no reason at all, Miss Larkin’s mood changed. She spoke in stern tones. She commanded the children to study their lessons quietly, and then go straight to bed.
“What’s up?” said King to Marjorie, making no sound, but moving his lips.
“Dunno,” she replied, in the same silent way, as they opened their schoolbooks.
Half an hour later, they filed quietly upstairs, and paused only for a moment’s whispered conversation on the landing.
“Now, whatdoyou s’pose ailed her?” asked King.
“I know,” said Kitty, confidently; “she was sort of ashamed of having played Joan of Arc with us, and it made her more strict than ever.”
“I guess that was it,” said Marjorie, with a sigh. “But the celebration’s off. I’m not going to make floats for an old crosspatch.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said King. “You know how she is. She’ll be sweet as pie on her birthday—you see if she isn’t. And, anyway, we’ll get as much fun out of the floats and things as she will.”
This was true enough, so they said good-night, and separated.
“It’s funny,” said Marjorie to Kitty, after they reached their own room; “Mother and Father are always just the same,—even—you know. But Miss Larkin is awful indulgent one minute, and strict as anything the next.”
“That’s ’cause sheisn’tMother and Father,” said Kitty, wisely. “She’s an old maid lady, you know, and she doesn’t know how to treat children properly.”
“You mustn’t say ‘old maid,’ Kit; it isn’t polite.”
“I don’t see why. But, I only mean, it takes a father or a mother to behaverightto children. You know how ours are.”
“Yes, I do,” said Marjorie, in a contented voice. “They’re just ’bout perfect. And I wish they’d come home.”
“Well, it’s no use wishing; they’ll be gone more’n two weeks yet.”
“Yes; so they will. And I guess we’ll have the celebration, Kit; it’ll fill up the time so.”
“All right,” said Kitty, sleepily, and then the two girls hopped into their two little white beds.
The next afternoon the Jinks Club met at Delight’s. As they were planning the celebration, they behaved quietly, as, indeed, they were always expected to do at Mrs. Spencer’s.
The Jinksies were quite ready to help with a birthday pageant for Miss Larkin.
They saw at once the possibilities of a lot of fun for themselves, and if, incidentally, it gave a grown-up lady pleasure, they had no objection, and, indeed, were rather glad.
“’Course we’ll build the floats in our barn,” said Flip Henderson. “It’ll be gay. I’ll use a wheelbarrow for mine. I know just how I’ll fix it! You needn’t laugh, either. Just wait till you see it!”
Though the idea of a wheelbarrow had made them laugh at first, they quickly realized its possibilities, and, too, Flip was an ingenious boy, and would doubtless fix it up beyond all recognition. Dorothy had a doll’s carriage, which she said she would use; and Delight said she would borrow a neighbor’s baby-carriage, as that would be just right for the float she already had in mind.
“Oh, won’t it be lovely!” cried Marjorie, hugging Delight in her enthusiasm. “Shall we know about each other’s floats or keep ’em secret?”
“Oh, let’s know about ’em,” said King; “it’s more fun, and then we can help each other. I know I couldn’t make one alone.”
He looked helplessly at his sisters, and Marjorie said:
“’Course you couldn’t. We’ll make paper flowers and whatever you need. Now, let’s decide on our floats. Shall we have ’em historical?”
“Oh, no!” cried Delight; “I thought you meant just pretty ones. Mine’s going to be fairies.”
“Lovely!” exclaimed Kitty. “I’ll have mine mermaids. I saw a beautiful one in New York with mermaids.”
“Huh!” said Flip, “you can’t make mermaids, Kit; you’re crazy. How would you do it?”
“I’ll bet she can!” said King, whose faith in Kitty’s inventive genius was unbounded.
“I know I can,” said Kitty, calmly. “I’ll just take some of Rosy Posy’s dolls—her biggest ones—and then I’ll make long taily things of green silk or something, and stuff ’em with sawdust, and stick the dolls’ feet in, and sew ’em round the waist. Oh, it’ll be as easy as pie!”
“I told you so,” said King, looking proudly at his small sister. “Now, what shall I have, Kit?”
“Oh, you must think of your own subject, and then I’ll help you rig it up.”
“All right,” said King; “my float will be sort of historical, after all. I’ll have the discovery of the North Pole.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Marjorie. “I’ll help you, too! We’ll make a whole Arctic region of cotton batting, like we had at the bazaar last winter!”
“I haven’t decided on mine yet,” said Flip, who was thinking hard. “The rest of you can choose first.”
“We’ve all chosen, but Dorothy and me,” said Midget; “and I know what mine’ll be. What’s yours, Dot?”
“I guess I’ll just have flowers,” said Dorothy, timidly. She was not so energetic as the others.
“Do,” said Kitty; “you’ll be sweet as a flower girl, and your float can be all flowers, with butterflies hovering over it, on sort of strings.”
“Oh,” cried Delight, with dancing eyes, “this will be a splendid show! We ought to let more people see it!”
“Say we do!” said Flip. “Let’s parade all the way down Broad Avenue from our house to yours. Everybody will be glad to look at us!”
“I rather guess they will!” declared King. “All right, we’ll do that, and we’ll have Miss Larkin waiting for us on our verandah, and all march up in great style. Then, of course, you Jinksies will all come in to the celebration feast.”
“I s’pose we’ll have a Birthday Cake,” suggested Kitty.
“That’s going to be my float!” interrupted Marjorie. “I’ve just thought of it. A great, big cake, like a Jack Horner Pie, you know. And candles on it, and icing; and presents and things inside! Ellen will help me make it. I mean a great big one, as big as a barrel top. Then on an express wagon, or something like that, and decorated, it will be a float.”
“Fine!” agreed King. “If Larky doesn’t like her birthday this year, it won’t be our fault, will it?”
After some more animated discussion of the wonderful project, the Jinksies had their usual light refection of cookies and lemonade, and then departed for their homes.
“Meet in Henderson’s barn, at nine o’clock, to-morrow morning,” said King, as they separated. “Bring your doll-carts, girls, and Delight, if you can’t borrow Mrs. Phillips’ baby-carriage, I’ll fix you up a float. She may want it for her baby’s use, you know.”
“Well, I’ll see, King. I think she’ll let me have it, though.”
The laughing crowd went across the street, and then separated again as the Maynards turned in at their own gateway.
CHAPTER XIVHENDERSON PALACE
Allday Saturday the members of the Jinks Club were busy making their “floats.” Delight came in triumph, pushing a wicker baby-carriage ahead of her.
“Mrs. Phillips let me have it,” she said, “because she says the baby uses the go-cart ’most all the time now, anyway.”
In the carriage she had many rolls of tissue paper, and a big bundle of tarlatan, and gilt paper and wands, and all sorts of fascinating things. Delight loved to cut and paste, and long before the others began their work, she had flung off hat and coat, and was singing to herself as she made pink and white paper roses.
Kitty, too, was industrious, and she sat in a corner and sewed mermaids’ tails diligently, but she was able to do her share of the talking as well.
“What’s your float going to be, Flip?” she asked, not very clearly, by reason of some pins between her teeth.
“Now, don’t you all laugh at me,” began Flip, looking a little uncertain, “but as King says his float is historical, mine’s going to be, too. Mine’s the ‘Declaration of Independence.’ ”
“Laugh!” exclaimed Kitty; “I should say we wouldn’t! Why, that’ll be grand, Flip. How are you going to do it?”
“Well; it’s all done—that is, it’s partly done. I haven’t fixed up the wheelbarrow yet.”
It was hard not to laugh at Flip—he was so earnest, and yet so humorous of face.
“Wait, I’ll show you,” he said; and then, from an adjoining room in the barn, he wheeled in a broad, old-fashioned wheelbarrow, on which sat a Roger’s Group!
“That’s it,” he said, proudly. “I found that old bunch of statesmen up in the attic, and Mother said I could use it if I liked. Now, I say, when that dinky old wheelbarrow is all draped with a flag it’ll look pretty fine, hey?”
“Gorgeous!” said Midget, with enthusiasm. “Your float is all right, Flip. You just wind those legs and handles and the wheel with red, white, and blue bunting, and there you are!”
“Well, I thought I’d paint the wheel. Blue rim with white stars on it, and red and white spokes, hey?”
“Yes, better plan,” said King. “Stuff’ll get all twisted in the wheel. Now, here’s my express wagon, and here’s my North Pole. Who’ll help me build an Arctic Region?”
“I will,” said Delight, dropping her paper flowers into the baby-carriage. “I can do mine afterward. Let me help you, King. I know just how.”
“You’re a brick, Flossy Flouncy!” exclaimed King, as he watched Delight’s deft little fingers pile fleecy cotton batting round his North Pole in most realistic snowdrifts.
“I can’t do anything on my float to-day,” announced Kitty. “I have to get the mermaids done first, and they’re such a bother.”
“You make them too carefully,” said Dorothy, as she watched Kitty patiently sewing spangles over the green fish-tails that were to transform Rosamond’s dolls into mermaids.
“I don’t care,” said painstaking Kitty, “I like to have them nice. And Delight will help me fix the float, won’t you?”
“’Course I will. We’ll all help each other. Where’s your float, Dorothy?”
“Well, I’m going to take Mother’s old flower-stand, the kind with shelves, you know. She doesn’t use it now, and she says I may have it. And I’m just going to set it on a flat platform with wheels; Flip says he’ll make me one; and then just cram it all over with flowers. That’s all.”
“It will be lovely!” declared Delight; “there’s nothing so pretty as flowers.”
Under Miss Hart’s wise tuition, and because she was truly trying to be less selfish, Delight was becoming a veritable little sunbeam. Everybody liked her, and as she tried to be sweet and helpful, she found it was not difficult, after all.
And now, in all this business of fancy fixings and decorations, Delight’s nimble fingers and good taste were of great assistance.
Marjorie was working away at her “birthday cake.” It was a large pasteboard bandbox, round, of course, and low. She was covering it with white crêpe paper, and making tiny festoons of the paper round the edge to look like fancy icing.
On top she pasted gilt letters, which read, “To Miss Larkin, from the Jinks Club.” Inside were to be the presents, of course.
“But I don’t want you other Jinksies to give presents to Miss Larkin,” said Marjorie. “There’s no reason why you should, you know. Just us Maynards will give the presents; and we’re not going to give much.”
“Oh, pooh,” said Flip; “let us chip in, too; it won’t hurt us to give some little thing. Mother’ll get a handkerchief or something for me to give, I know.”
“Yes, let us,” said Delight. “In fact, my mother spoke of it herself. She said she’d get a little book for me to give.”
“Of course, I’ll give something, too,” said Dorothy Adams. “I’d like to. And I think it would be nice if we gave things to each other, too. It would fill up the pie—cake, I mean.”
“Ho!” said Flip; “’tisn’t our birthdays, Dot.”
“I don’t care,” said Dorothy, stoutly. She rarely made a suggestion, but when she did, she stood by it. “I mean just some little thing—a paper doll or a hair-ribbon.”
“Well,” said King, “I’d just love to have a paper doll; and as for a hair-ribbon, I need one awfully!”
Then they all laughed, but Dorothy would not be laughed down.
“Well,” she said, “your few little presents for Miss Larkin will just rattle round in that great big pie.”
“You’re right, Dot,” said Kitty, who generally saw matters very sensibly. “Let’s give each other presents, only not everybody to everybody else. I mean, let’s each give one present, and get one present.”
“Oh, Kit, you mix me up so,” groaned her brother. “Tell us more ’splicitly.”
“All right,” said Kitty, undisturbed, “here’s what I mean. S’pose Mops gives to Delight, and Delight to King, and King to Dorothy, and Dorothy to me, and me—I, to Flip, and then Flip to Midget—that makes one apiece all round, doesn’t it?”
“Katharine Maynard, you’re a genius!” declared her brother; “you’ve set my head whizzing, but I grasp your idea. Now, let me see, who is it gives me a paper doll?”
“Delight does,” returned Kitty, calmly; “and if you tease so, shewillgive you a paper doll, and it would serve you right, too!”
“Yes, it would,” said King, so meekly, that they all laughed. “And on whom do I bestow a diamond necklace, or some such little trinket?”
“On me,” said Dorothy, promptly; “Kitty said so.”
“All right,” said King, “your scheme, fair maidens, is a winner. Into the pie our gifts we’ll throw—ha, ha, ha, and ho, ho, ho!”
“King, you’re a lovely poet,” said Marjorie, “but won’t you come here now and help me fasten this pie on its wheels?”
“Certingly, certingly, my liege lady; hast any tackerinos?”
“No; but here’s a hammerino. Can’t you find some nails?”
“Ay, ay, in just a jiff!”
And sure enough, in a few moments Marjorie’s big birthday cake sat proudly on a board across an express wagon, which, though a toy, was a good-sized affair.
“Now for the fiddle-de-dees!” cried King, as he picked up a pile of paper roses and strewed them on the cake.
“Oh, King, stop! You’ll spoil it!” cried Marjorie, rescuing her treasures from her teasing brother. “But I wish you would help me put the candle-holders on.”
They had plenty of candle-holders left from Christmas trees, and the next question was, how many they should put on the cake.
“Put ’em all on,” said Flip, without hesitation.
“But there are seven dozen here in the box,” said Marjorie; “that would look as if we thought she was eighty-four years old!”
“She isn’t,” said Kitty, seriously; “so that won’t do.”
Marjorie looked thoughtful.
“I don’t think it’s polite to put the number of her age on,” she said, at last. “We don’t know it, of course, but even if we guess at it, it wouldn’t be polite.”
“No,” agreed Kitty, “you see, we might guess right.”
“I suppose she’s more’n twenty-one,” observed Flip.
“Yes, she is,” declared King. “She’s older than my mother, I know that.”
“Hush, King,” said Midget; “you mustn’t even talk about it. I guess we’ll have to leave the candles off.”
“Then it won’t be a birthday cake at all,” objected Delight.
“Well, I can’t help it,” said Marjorie, sighing; “it’ll have to be a Jack Homer Pie, then. I can’t be impolite to a lady on her own birthday!”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Kitty, slowly; and they all listened, for Kitty had a way of cutting Gordian knots for them. “You see, as we’re all going to get presents, it’s sort of our birthdays, too; not really, but just pretend. So let’s add up all our ages—that’ll make a lot, and then have that many candles. We can explain to Miss Larkin that we don’t mean she’s that old.”
“Be sure to explain that to her, Kit,” said her brother, gravely, after he had made a rapid calculation with the aid of his fingers and thumbs, “for it comes to about seventy!”
“Add in Rosy Posy,” reminded Marjorie. “She can’t be left out of a Maynard celebration.”
“All right; call it seventy-five. Got that many candles, Mops?”
“Yes, more’n that.”
“Well, put on seventy-five, and call it square.”
“But the cake is round,” said Delight, dimpling with fun.
“Oh, Flossy Flouncy, what a wit you are!” cried King. “All right, Mops, let’s bang the seventy-five candle-holders into place, immejit. My, it’s a lot, isn’t it?”
But they were finally all in place, and Marjorie’s float began to look really lovely. She had plenty of paper flowers to decorate with, and when the birthday came, she intended to wreathe the big cake with smilax, and festoon the sides of the float with the same pretty green.
“It isn’t such a lot of work, after all,” said Delight, as, when the noon whistle blew, the children put on their things to go home.
“Poor old Flossy Flouncy,” said King; “how can you say so? You’ve been helping everybody else so much, your own wagon is scarcely touched.”
“Oh, pooh!” said Delight, “I can finish that up this afternoon, or Monday afternoon, after school. What time is the parade, Marjorie?”
“Well, we want to start early, so as to have plenty of time for the celebration afterward. S’pose we say, leave the barn at three o’clock——”
“Oh, don’t say barn!” exclaimed Delight; “it doesn’t sound right. Say leave the——”
“Headquarters,” suggested King. “No; that sounds like a fire brigade. Leave the Castle or the Palace, I’d say.”
“All right,” said Flip; “we’ve always called this place the barn, but we’d just as lieve change. Henderson Palace it is, at your service!”
“That’s better,” said Delight, smiling at him.
“Well, then,” went on Marjorie, “we’ll leave Henderson Palace at three o’clock next Wednesday, and, with our gorgeous floats, we’ll parade down Broad Avenue to Maynard Castle—how’s that?”
“All right,” said Kitty; “then we’ll storm Castle Maynard, and take the fair Lady Larkin captive.”
“If she’s in a good humor,” put in King.
“She’s bound to be, on her birthday,” said Midge. “Well, then we’ll make her and Rosy Posy queens of the feast, and then we’ll all celebrate together.”
“Sounds lovely!” said Dorothy. “And do we wear fancy dresses?”
“Sure!” said King. “Half the fun is in rigging up. We must each match our float, you know. I’ll be an Arctic explorer.”
“You can have Father’s fur motor-coat,” said Flip; “then you’ll look the part first-rate.”
“Good,” said King; “and I know where I can catch a pair of snowshoes. What’ll you be, Delight?”
“A fairy, of course. But can we go through the street in that sort of rigs?”
“Oh, yes,” said Marjorie; “just down Broad Avenue. Everybody knows us. And, anyway, it’s just like the pageant in New York; they went on the streets in fancy clothes.”
“It’s more like the Baby Parade in Asbury Park,” said Dorothy; “I saw that once, and the children wore all sorts of pretty costumes. And they had baby-carriages, decked out with every sort of thing.”
“All right, then,” said Midget, who was vigorously pulling on her gloves; “I guess I’ll fix up my fancy dress this afternoon, and finish up these float things Monday and Tuesday. We’ve time enough, anyway.”
“Yes,” said Delight, “that’s what I said. It doesn’t take long to make floats.” She tucked her arm through Marjorie’s, and the two skipped away, followed by Dorothy and Kitty.
“What have you children been doing all the morning?” asked Miss Larkin, as they were all seated at the lunch-table.
“Playing in Mr. Henderson’s barn,” said Marjorie, promptly.
This was well enough, but Miss Larkin, who was in high good humor, seemed possessed to ask questions.
“What did you play?” she said.
She really had no curiosity on the subject, she asked merely with a desire to appear interested in their interests, but it did seem a pity she should be so insistent to-day of all days.
“Oh, we played——” began Marjorie, and then she stopped. She had no inclination to be other than truthful, but the truth she did not want to tell.
“Well, we played——” supplemented King, with a desire to help Marjorie out of her quandary, but he, too, came to a standstill.
“Well, well!” said Miss Larkin, shaking a playful finger at the red-faced trio, “you must have been up to something naughty, if you can’t tell me about it. Oh, fie, fie, little Maynards!”
When Miss Larkin took this tone, she was particularly aggravating, and it was Kitty who threw herself into the breach, and saved the day by her ready wit.
“Larky, dear,” she began, and Miss Larkin smiled gaily at the nickname, “we truly weren’t up to any mischief, but we beg you as a special favor not to ask us what we were doing—because—well, because it’s a sort of a secret.”
“A secret, bless your hearts! Then, of course, I don’t want to know. All children love secrets. Keep yours, my dearies; I didn’t mean to be curious, I assure you.”
Now here was a nice spirit, indeed! Such a Larky was well worth making a celebration for, and the children’s spirits rose accordingly.
After luncheon, Ellen had to be interviewed.
With great secrecy, and much careful closing of doors, Marjorie and Kitty held a whispered consultation with the good-natured cook.
Ellen consented to all their requests. She agreed to make a birthday cake of real flour and eggs, besides the “float” cake, and she seemed more than willing to prepare a feast that would be acceptable to a hungry Jinks Club, as well as to the heroine of the occasion.
All was to be kept secret from Miss Larkin, so that the celebration might be a complete surprise.
“Ice cream, of course,” whispered Kitty.
“Sure, Miss Kitty,” said Ellen. “Wud ye like it pink an’ white, now; or wid a bit o’ choc’lit?”
“Just pink and white,” said Kitty, after a moment’s consideration; “and then choc’late on the cakes, Ellen. Little cakes, you know; all different colors.”
“Lave all to me, Miss Kitty; sure I’ll fix the table so grand as ye niver saw it afore. It’s likin’ Miss Larkin, I do be; though I’ll not deny she’s a bit quare at times. But she’s a kind lady, an’ I’m glad she’s goin’ to have a party.”
“Now, we must think up our presents,” said Midget, as the two girls went up to their own room. “What shall we give Miss Larkin?”
“Well, I’ll make her a pincushion, as I said. I can make a lovely one out of pink with lace over it, and little bows.”
“Yes, you’re good at those things, Kit. I can’t sew very well; I guess I’ll get her a bottle of violet water. Mother always thinks that’s a nice present. And then we must see about presents for each other, you know. I’m to give to Delight, so that’s easy. She likes everything. I guess I’ll take one of those lovely views Mother sent last, and frame it in passe-partout; she can hang it on her bedroom wall.”
“That’ll be lovely,” said Kitty. “You make those frames so neatly, Mops. But I have to think of something for Flip; that’s awful hard.”
“Oh, no, ’tisn’t; make some of that cocoanut fudge—the new recipe; and then fill a pretty box, and tie it up with a ribbon. He’ll love it.”
“That is a good idea; I believe I’ll do that. I won’t make it until Wednesday morning; I can do it before school, and then it’ll be fresh.”
“Yes,” agreed Midget, “and while you’re about it, Kit, make enough, so we can have some, too.”