A Man and a Woman
Onthe same day that the Morning Glory Club was born, it happened that Will Flint met Barbara Wallace on her way to school, and he eagerly grasped the opportunity to renew a friendship which had begun at Barbara's home, in his college town, a year before she came to Manville.
"I'm mighty glad to see you, Miss Wallace," he said, with boyish enthusiasm.
"Thank you," she replied. "And may I ask how you happen to be at home at this time in the year?"
The smile on his face disappeared.
"I'll walk with you a few minutes if you don't mind, and try to explain," he said. Will tried to tell the truth and spare himself at the same time, but did neither well.
"I'm sorry, and in your senior year, too," said Barbara, when he had finished.
"Yes, that's the worst part of the whole affair. I—I don't know why I told you, Miss Wallace, but you asked me, and—you see I don't have any one to tell such things to—never did. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but father has spenthis life trying to save sinners by preaching—somehow it didn't work on me; and mother, she's good, of course, but—I can't say it just the way I want to—I guess it's sympathy I need."
Barbara knew that his earnestness was genuine, but the timidity and hesitancy of the big fellow amused her.
"One can do very little without it," she said, trying to refrain from laughter, and then quickly added: "I suppose that you have already planned for the future."
"No, I haven't decided what I shall do—hardly thought of it, in fact. I shall stay at home for awhile, and then—I don't know—there's nothing I'm fitted for. I suppose that I might saw wood, or work on the roads."
"That would never do for a clergyman's son," replied Barbara.
"Would be rather funny, wouldn't it? Anyway, I've got nothing else to do at present except think about it—I guess something will turn up."
"Wouldn't it be better to find something yourself instead of waiting for it to come to you?"
"I guess you're right, Miss Wallace; but here's your school and forty kids waiting for teacher tolet them in. I won't forget your question. Good-bye." Will raised his cap and walked away.
The children loved Barbara, and usually ran to meet her like a drove of stampeded animals, but on this morning, when they saw her coming accompanied by a stranger, they remained huddled on the steps of the schoolhouse.
"Who's that man?" one of the little girls asked when Barbara arrived within speaking distance.
"Mr. Flint," she replied, with her usual candour.
"Is he a real good man?" piped another. Barbara was not sure, but did not wish to say so. Without making a reply she unlocked the door and went in, followed by her flock, and was soon deep in the morning's work: trying to make the youngsters believe that the earth is round, explaining such perplexing words as pare, pear, and pair, and proving that twelve times twelve makes one hundred and forty-four,—if you do it right.
During the day the question that the little girl had asked, "Is he a real good man?" frequently came into Barbara's mind. She did not know the answer, and wondered why she thought of it at all.
Miss Wallace boarded with Mrs. Tweedie. She was a quiet little woman, but one whose appearance and personality had been, for someunexplainable reason, the cause of not a little comment among the people of Manville. Her eyes—Mrs. Tweedie thought that blue eyes lacked strength; and her hair did not please Mrs. Doctor Jones because it was neither yellow nor red. According to Mrs. Thornton's standard for feminine contours, her form was "positively dumpy;" and everybody knew that Mrs. Deacon Walton had told Mrs. Undertaker Blake, confidentially, that she "always suspicioned folks that didn't have any more to say about things and people than Miss Wallace did." Many other women were of the same opinion.
On the other hand, the men who knew her thought that she was the right sort; and those who were not acquainted wished that they were. Mr. Tweedie especially was captivated by her quiet manner, and did everything possible for her comfort; and Barbara—perhaps it was because she pitied him—showed in many ways her appreciation of his thoughtfulness. Thomas, the "Tweedie Indian," as he was sometimes appropriately called, declared that "She's the best teacher in town, but when she licks a feller it hurts." Men and women will disagree sometimes—especially about another woman.
There was no real sympathy between Mrs. Tweedie and her boarder, but Barbara was a college graduate, and Mrs. Tweedie had heard that her family was of the best. Education and blood Mrs. Tweedie worshipped. If the devil had presented himself to her with his family history under his arm she would have welcomed him. Besides, taking boarders is a much more genteel way of piecing out an insufficient income than taking in washing.
Fanny Tweedie thought that Barbara was an awfully nice girl; though she was forced to admit after an acquaintance of two years that she did not wholly understand her. And Barbara liked Fanny because, though somewhat frivolous, she was companionable and amusing.
Barbara tolerated Mrs. Tweedie because boarding places in Manville were scarce. She did not care for the town, and disliked especially the manners of most of its people; but she kept her opinions to herself; which, as has been intimated, did not increase her popularity with the women.
Will Flint, son of the Rev. Elijah Flint, was a big, manly-looking fellow who might have been a greater success at college if his parents had not held the reins so tightly when he was a boy athome. His father had preached him a thousand sermons, and his mother had wept gallons of tears; yet here was the object of their labour at home in disgrace, his career at college ruined in his senior year.
Both said that Will had decided to leave college and engage in some sort of business. He had left, but to say thathedecided to leave was as far from the truth as right from wrong. The faculty decided, Will left. He was not all to blame, and nothing dishonourable had been done, but his frank explanations did not assuage in the slightest degree the grief of his parents. The disgrace in their eyes was an indelible stain, and a gloom that was deep and black had reigned in the parsonage since the day of his arrival. Outside, tongues were wagging at a furious rate. The sons and daughters of the clergy seem to be the special prey of gossips. They are supposed to be impervious to temptation, something better than the ordinary human. We forget that the same God made them that made the children of the butcher and the baker.
Late that afternoon, after Barbara had sent the last little urchin homeward, she stood at a window looking out over the fields at the autumnfoliage of the woods beyond. She had been there but a moment when Will Flint came down the road and turned into the path that led to the schoolhouse. When he saw her he stopped. Barbara did not know whether she was pleased or not to see him. It was time to go, however, so she put on her things, went out and locked the door, and started down the path.
"Hope you won't be vexed, Miss Wallace, because I came," said Will, "but I've been so confoundedly lonesome to-day that I—"
"I am not vexed," she said, quickly. His manner and frankness pleased her, and dispelled the doubt that was in her mind a moment before.
"I'm glad," he said as they turned and walked toward home. "The boys that I knew," he continued, "have gone away to work, or school. That is why I'm lonesome I suppose, and then the place seems different."
"But it's not," replied Barbara, and a smile played about her lips. He was only a big boy, after all.
"Everything seems to be smaller and shabbier."
"Things," said Barbara, "grow old like men and women."
"Yes, I know, but—I can't seem to say things the way I want to. I've been in the woods all day tramping and thinking; it's done me a lot of good, but—I guess I won't talk about myself any longer."
"But I am interested," said Barbara, earnestly, and then added, quickly, "in anybody who is perplexed."
"Thank you, but at present I'm nobody. I have yet to earn the right to be anybody, much less somebody."
"Very well, if you insist we will drop Mr. Flint."
"I wish that we could drop him out of sight for good," said Will, bitterly.
"What a wicked thought."
"If my thoughts—" Will checked himself suddenly and then asked: "Can't we find something else to talk about? I have it, the new woman's club, have you been invited to join?"
"Thenewwoman's club?" said Barbara, feigning surprise. "I had not heard of it."
"You're making fun of me."
"Indeed, it is you who are trying to joke at our expense."
"No, really, Miss Wallace, I meant the woman'sclub that mother and the rest are getting up. Are you going to join?"
"Yes; do you approve of such things?"
"Really, I—I don't know, and yet I ought to know something about it because father and mother have been debating the question for a week past. Mother is very enthusiastic, but my impression is that father thinks that the club is unnecessary if not really harmful. I shall expect a great boom in Manville society when it gets in running order," Will replied, and then suddenly burst out laughing.
"Tell me, please, I want to laugh, too."
"Manville society! Doesn't it strike you as being funny?"
"Yes, and no."
"A woman's answer."
"Sometimes her only defence."
"Pardon me."
The October sun was disappearing behind the trees toward the west; the night air was stealing up from the lowlands; and a frost-laden wind was coming over the hills.
"Isn't the air great?" said Will after they had walked without speaking for several minutes.
"Splendid!" replied Barbara, taking a deepbreath. "The fall is glorious." They had reached Mrs. Tweedie's gate and stopped.
"I want to thank you, Miss Wallace, for—" Will hesitated a moment, "for tolerating me to-day." Then he added, "Good night!" and walked quickly away.
Mrs. Tweedie happened to look out of her parlour window just in time to see Barbara and Will. The sight caused her to shrug her shoulders and wonder.
A Male Gossip
Sam Billingswas Manville's man of all work, and its most garrulous male gossip. At fifty he was a gray, wrinkled bachelor—through no fault of his own, however—living alone on the scanty income that he picked up through the kindness of his tolerant townsmen. Once Sam had been accused of having proposed to every single woman and widow in town, and had refused to deny or affirm the statement. He was still single, however, and as far from matrimony as he ever had been, except once, when through a misunderstanding on Sam's part, he became engaged to a loquacious old maid with whom he had indiscreetly walked home from meeting. But, fortunately for Sam, the lady died just before the date set for the wedding, leaving him free and more talkative than ever before.
On the morning of the day following the organization of the "Morning Glories" Sam went to the home of Mrs. Darling to put on storm-windows. Mrs. Darling was an attractive woman—to look at—but one of the light sort mentally, and much more interested in the affairs of others than herown. She had been invited to be present at the first meeting of the club, but the arrival of relatives from out of town had prevented her from going. She welcomed Sam cordially, when he came that morning, and invited him to have a cup of coffee before he began work. The morning was cold, the coffee good, and Sam was grateful, and before he had gulped down the last of it Mrs. Darling knew all that was going on in town.
"So Mrs. Browning has a baby at last?" she said as Sam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yep."
"Boy, or a girl?"
"One, or t'other, I forget which."
"Really."
"Yep, broke up the meetin' of the club so I heard."
"How dreadfully funny."
"And they say that Ezra Tweedie put his foot in it."
"How was that?"
"Why, he was the one that broke the glad news to the gatherin'."
"Oh. What did you say they named the club?"
"Four-o'clocks, or petunias—somethin' like that, it was the name of a flower anyway, I don't jest remember which."
"And Mrs. Tweedie was chosen president?"
"Yes, I knew she'd be."
"Who was it, did you say, that told you?"
"Well, I stopped in at the grocery on my way over, and then I had a bundle to take to Miss Sawyer's, and—Tommy Tweedie told me the rest. Now I guess I'll start in on the winders if you don't mind. I'm in a little mite of a hurry 'cause I've got to go over to Mis' Walton's this afternoon and give her a coat of paint."
"Very well, you'll find the windows in the attic," said Mrs. Darling, reluctantly. "Oh, you said that you were at Miss Sawyer's this morning, how is she?"
"Lookin' pretty fair," replied Sam with some embarrassment.
"I thought thatyouought to know."
"Where'd you say them storm-winders was?" Sam asked in an effort to change the subject.
"In the attic. Miss Sawyer would make somebody a good wife."
"I think likely, but—" Sam edged toward the door.
"I've heard, Sam, that you've been going there lately, and that you did not always have a bundle to deliver."
"You're kind of teasin', Mis' Darling, ain't yer?" replied Sam with a grin as he backed out of the room and went up-stairs in search of the storm-windows.
Mrs. Darling was not wholly satisfied with second-hand news, so she ran into Mrs. Thornton's, next door; and, while the baby with a new tooth was having his morning "sample," his mamma related her version of the story of the first meeting of the club.
In order to put on the front chamber windows, it was necessary for Sam to get out on the roof of the piazza. Just as he was climbing out of a window, Alick Purbeck, Mr. Stout's clerk, drove up, and when he saw Sam stopped.
"Hello, Sam," he called, "what you doin' up there?"
"Workin' for my health; doctor says I've got to have three meals a day."
"Doctor nothin'."
"No, Doctor Jones."
"Say, what's this I hear about Billy Flint?"
"Not knowin', I hesitate to say." Mrs.Darling's coffee had put Sam in a facetious mood.
"There was a man lookin' for him over to the store half an hour ago," said Alick, gravely.
"What d' he have, a bill or a warrant?"
"Dunno."
"I hope Billy ain't in any scrape."
"Same here."
"There ain't nothin' crooked about him."
"That's what I say, but there's lots of folks in town that'll believe anything, 'specially now he's goin' 'round with Miss Wallace some, same's I heard this mornin' he was doin'."
"She's all right, too," said Sam, enthusiastically.
"You bet," replied Alick. "Did you hear about the woman's club?"
"Some."
"What they goin' to do?"
"Well," Sam drawled, "near's I can make out, they're goin' to improve themselves, where there's room for improvement, and scatter blessin's 'round to other folks while they're doin' it. I heard that yesterday they voted ten dollars for a pink tea, and one dollar seventy-five for foreign missions, and—" Sam was interrupted by Mrs.Stout, who had approached unobserved by either of the gossipers.
"You're lyin', Sam Billin's," she called, sharply. It was evident that she had overheard Sam's remarks.
"Hello, Mis' Stout," called Sam, unabashed, as he peeked over the edge of the roof. "I hear you're a bright and shinin' light inournew club."
"Don't you let me hear of you tellin' any more such whoppers, Sam Billin's. Lies breed fast enough in this town without any extra help from you," replied Mrs. Stout, as she looked up at his grinning face, and then turning to Alick, continued, "Ain't you got anything else to do, Alick Purbeck, 'cept sit behind a big cigar and listen to that shiftless critter up there? Go 'long now, or I'll talk your case over with Peter."
Alick drove away, and Sam went to work. Mrs. Stout started on her way, but had gone only a few steps when she met Mrs. Darling returning from Mrs. Thornton's.
"Good morning, Mrs. Stout," she said, "I'm so glad to see you, aren't you out early?"
"Good land! no; I'm goin' over to see your friend Mis' Thornton about her baby. Everybody's s'posed to be foolish over their first baby,but I guess from what I heard yesterday that she's overdoin' it. She's feedin' him on samples—turns up her nose at cow's milk—and I just made up my mind that she needed a talkin' to whether she wanted it or not."
"No doubt you are right, Mrs. Stout, but—"
"Right, I know I am—such nonsense. Of course you folks that ain't had no children, and don't want any, can't be expected to—" Mrs. Stout stopped suddenly and looked up. Sam was looking and listening with the earnest attention of an incurable gossip.
"Eavesdroppin', are you?" said Mrs. Stout, contemptuously, and then turning to Mrs. Darling added, "Don't you believe one word that scallywag up there tells you. He gets his news from wash-women and servant girls."
"Well," drawled Sam, "I've noticed that what you hear at back doors is most always nearer the truth than what you hear at the front, though it ain't quite so flatterin'."
The "Glories" Meet Again
Itwas Wednesday, and the morning was as bright and beautiful as the flower for which the new club had been named.
Across the road from Mr. Flint's church stood the dingy white parsonage, its windows glistening in the morning sunlight. It was there, and on this particular morning, that the second meeting of the "Glories" was to be held.
Mrs. Flint, with the apprehensiveness of a neat housekeeper, was trotting from one room to another, replacing a chair here, raising or lowering a curtain a fraction of an inch there, and now and then wiping away an imaginary spot of dust.
Will Flint was looking out one of the sitting-room windows, and rocking nervously with one leg thrown over the arm of his chair. He wanted to smoke and read, but smoking was not to be thought of in the parsonage.
"What's going to happen, mother?" he asked, as she came into the sitting-room in search of disorder and dust.
"Our club is to meet here this morning," Mrs. Flint replied, proudly.
"Guess I'll go for a walk," said Will, as he got up, stretched his arms, and yawned.
"I had hoped," sighed Mrs. Flint, regretfully, "that you would stay at home and meet the ladies."
"No, thank you, mother, I guess I'll be safer out-of-doors," he replied, with a laugh.
"Will," said Mrs. Flint, reprovingly.
"I beg your pardon, mother dear, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but—a houseful of women, it's impossible!"
Mrs. Flint suppressed another sigh. Since her son's return from college she could not accustom herself to his ways. She wanted to say, "Willie, be sure and return in time for dinner," but she realized that the boy had become a man, and remained silent.
"I'll be home in time for supper," said Will, as he took his hat and started for the door, then added, "Good luck, mother," and went out.
Mrs. Flint watched from the window, as he walked down the path and up the road, until he disappeared. She was about to turn away from the window when Mrs. Stout waddled into view, stopped in front of the parsonage, hailed AlickPurbeck, who was driving by, and the following conversation, which Mrs. Flint and all of her neighbours could hear, took place.
"How's your folks, Alick?" asked Mrs. Stout.
"Children ain't well."
"Too bad, what doctor've you got?"
"Jones."
"He don't know nothin'."
"He did my wife a lot of good."
"He don't understand children."
"Well, I've had him twice, and—"
"Take my advice and get another."
"I'll see."
"Has Sam Billin's been tellin' you any more trash about the woman's club?"
"Not a word. Get-ap."
The grocer's wagon rattled off down the street, and Mrs. Stout went to the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Flint was disgusted, but succeeded in concealing her feelings, and greeted Mrs. Stout smilingly.
"You are punctual, Mrs. Stout," she said.
"Yes," puffed Mrs. Stout, "I always make it a point to be on time; it pays and don't cost anything."
"Yes, come right in, punctuality is indeed avirtue, but one that is unappreciated by those who do not possess it."
"I declare," said Mrs. Stout, as she plumped into a chair, "I do believe I'm gettin' wheezy in my old age, just that little walk from my house has tuckered me out. How's the club gettin' along?"
"Splendidly, over twenty ladies have signified their intention to be present this morning. The committee on rules has completed its work—oh, by the way, you were on that committee, Mrs. Stout. Did you get my postal in regard to the meeting?"
"Yes, but I couldn't come. I'll agree to what you and Miss Sawyer have done, though."
"Very good of you, I'm sure."
"But you can't make women live by rule, any more'n you can mix cats and dogs without there bein' some fightin'." This remark wounded Mrs. Flint's cultured feelings, but before there was time to think of a fitting reply, Mrs. Stout, who was looking out of a window, exclaimed:
"Here's Miss Sawyer! and if she ain't walkin' with that gossipy old bach', Sam Billin's. I thought she wasawfulperticler about the company she kept."
"I dare say their meeting was purely casual," observed Mrs. Flint.
"Most prob'ly," said Mrs. Stout, "but you know how folks will talk."
Mrs. Flint did know, furthermore, she thought, that some folks talked more than others. Their conversation came to an end upon the entrance of Miss Sawyer, and the arrival of several other ladies in rapid succession. Among them was Mrs. Tweedie, who had Mrs. Doctor Jones in tow. Mrs. Jones was a meek little woman with a mind as changeable as a weather-vane, but she was a patient, willing worker, one of the sort always to be found washing dishes after a supper at the church long after her more brilliant sisters had gone home. Mrs. Tweedie always made friends of such women; they were useful, and seldom caused trouble. Another of the new members was Mrs. Deacon Walton, who lived on the edge of the town—"in the country," some of the village ladies said. Mrs. Walton was not sure that membership in a woman's club would be pleasing, proper, or profitable, but was willing to try it.
The ladies were all well acquainted, and immediately began talking in a delightfully happy manner. As the number increased, so did thechatter, which soon resembled the sounds of a bird store. Mrs. Tweedie, for a long time silent and thoughtful, gazed upon the gathering with pride. Success such as she had never dreamed of was within her grasp. Every woman who had been invited to come was present—wives of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, all were there, and at the signal for silence stopped talking and looked expectantly at their leader. Mrs. Tweedie looked over the assemblage gravely and leisurely before beginning to speak.
"Ladies of The Morning Glory Club," she began, "the founders of our organization would be indeed ungrateful if they did not appreciate the generous response to their appeal by so many of the first ladies of our town. We thank you, and, I must add, hope that you will concur with us in what has been done at a previous meeting. The records of the last meeting will be read by our secretary."
Miss Sawyer timidly complied with the president's request, reading from a neatly written manuscript of daintily tinted and perfumed notepaper, the sheets of which were fastened together by a pale green ribbon. When Miss Sawyer had finished, the committee on rules presented theirreport in the form of a constitution and by-laws, which were accepted without debate. Then Mrs. Tweedie suggested that committees on ethics, art, literature, and the Lord knows what, be appointed. It was done. Everything that Mrs. Tweedie desired came to pass. She was in the clouds; never, even in her dreams, had she thought such power possible.
For an hour the meeting progressed, and during that time Mrs. Stout, for some unfathomable reason, remained silent. When she did rise to speak, she addressed the chair in such a perfectly proper manner that, for a moment, the ladies thought that by some strange process she had become civilized.
"Ladies," she said, "I'm treasurer of this club, and I've been doin' a lot of thinkin' since our last meetin'. We've got to have some money, and it'll take for ever and a day for dues at ten cents a month to amount to anything. We've got to run some kind of a show to raise money. This ethical and e-comical business is all right, but what we want now is dollars!"
"A very good suggestion," replied Mrs. Tweedie, who was feeling amiable enough at that moment even to agree with one whom she disliked. Theladies murmured their approval. "The chair awaits suggestions," continued Mrs. Tweedie. Upon that they, the suggestions, came like an avalanche—everything was proposed from a spelling-match to military whist. But Mrs. Tweedie frowned upon them all; only something new to Manville would suit her. She desired above all things to get as far away as possible from the provincial ways of the town.
"Whatever we give will cost something," remarked Mrs. Darling.
"We can't spend any money if we haven't got any," squeaked the deacon's wife.
"Assuredly not," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "The question is—"
"Why not settle this money business first," interrupted Mrs. Stout. "Mis' Darling says we've got to spend money whatever we do. I say we ain't, what we've got to buy we can get trusted for—everybody else does."
"Very true," said Mrs. Doctor Jones, warmly, "they do, and sometimes for a long time." The wives of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker looked as though they would like to say "amen." Others moved uneasily, until Mrs. Tweedie came to the rescue.
"The question is," she said, firmly, "what sort of an entertainment shall be given, not how we are to pay for it."
"Madam President," some one said from a corner.
"Mrs.—er—" Mrs. Tweedie craned her neck to see who had spoken. "Oh, Mrs. Thornton."
"What would the ladies say to theatricals?" asked the woman with a baby.
"Good!" exclaimed Fanny Tweedie. "A play, the very thing, what a sweet idea."
"Fanny," said her mother, reprovingly, yet she liked the idea herself.
"A play!" gasped Mrs. Flint, in dismay.
"I am inclined to think favourably of the idea," replied Mrs. Tweedie, turning to the parson's wife.
"But the Church, Mrs. Tweedie, have you forgotten what we owe to our creed?" asked Mrs. Flint, anxiously.
"Oh, no, indeed," said Mrs. Tweedie, with a benevolent smile, "but the barriers between the stage and the Church are not so high as they were."
"They ain't so high," added Mrs. Stout, "butwhat most folks can peek over if they stand on tiptoes, and their minister ain't lookin'."
Mrs. Flint felt certain that the end of all things was at hand.
"I'm sure," she said, "I have no idea what Mr. Flint will say."
"What difference would it make?" Mrs. Stout asked, bluntly. This remark was followed by the most embarrassing, painful silence in the history of the club.
When business was resumed, it was voted that a committee of five be appointed to select a play, and plan for its production.
The Reverend and Mrs. Flint had a long talk that night.
"And the unholy suggestion was made and adopted in my home!" thundered the reverend, forgetting that his audience consisted of only one.
Manville was waking up.
The Stouts at Home
TheStouts were common folks—most of us are, for that matter, in one way or another. Excepting Sundays, Mr. Stout ate his meals with the frock on that he wore at the store; he used his knife at table in a manner not prescribed by etiquette; and at all times his English was at variance with the best authority. But in his dealings with men he was as honest as his wife in her speech, and made money despite customers who did not pay their bills. His three sons were healthy urchins, who obeyed and respected their parents—just like other boys.
"How's that new club gettin' along?" Mr. Stout asked his wife while they were at supper on the day of the meeting at the parsonage.
"Fine; I ain't enjoyed myself for years the way I do at them meetin's," replied Mrs. Stout, enthusiastically.
"There won't be any need of a newspaper here now," observed her husband without looking up from his plate.
"I expected to hear you say somethin' like that," replied Mrs. Stout. "But I want you tounderstand just this much, Peter Stout; that club's goin' to be the talk of the town, and do more for it than any crowd of men have ever done so far."
"Won't have to do much," grunted Peter, with his mouth full of beefsteak.
"You're just right about that. This town has got the laziest set of men, outside of their own affairs, that I ever heard of. When they're through work for the day, they just set 'round and smoke, and tell each other that the town ain't the same as it used to be; and that this thing would be done, or that thing 'tended to, if the right men was in office. Who elects the selectmen, I should like to know? And then they talk about who's goin' to be the next President, and who's goin' to be next governor, and let the town that they live in, that's right under their lazy noses day and night, go to rack and ruin. I say the right way is to dosomethin'even if you make a mess of it tryin'."
"Hear, hear!" cried Peter, as he clapped his hands. "That's a great speech, Emmy, and all true."
"True, I guess it is, true as gospel," replied Mrs. Stout, and then turning on her oldest sonasked, sharply, "Henry Warren Stout, are you eatin' butter on bread, or bread on butter?" Before the boy had time to reply he was hit in the eye with a bread pill from the hand of Paul Jones, whereupon Wendell Phillips fell off his chair convulsed with laughter.
"We're goin' to give a play," said Mrs. Stout, after she had boxed Paul Jones's ears, and the commotion had ceased.
"A play!" Peter put down his knife and fork, masticated and swallowed the food that was in his mouth, and sat staring at his wife in astonishment.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Stout, "and we're all goin' to be in it. It'll be the biggest thing this town ever saw or heard of."
"You, goin' on the stage?" said Peter, with a grin, and then he gave way to hearty laughter.
"I don't see what there is to laugh about, Peter Stout; ain't we got as much right to give a play as anybody?" asked Mrs. Stout, indignantly.
"Yes, it's all right, and if the play is as funny as the idea, it'll make a hit," said Peter, his mirth subsiding.
"It ain't goin' to be funny," retorted Mrs. Stout. "It's goin' to be a classic."
"A classic," he repeated, wonderingly. "What's that?"
"A classic," replied Mrs. Stout, knowingly, "is somethin' you ought to know about, and—and don't."
"Oh," said Peter, still in doubt.
"I hope you're satisfied now."
"I guess so; I'll wait till I've seen the play before I say anything more about it."
"I guess you'd better," said Mrs. Stout, triumphantly. "Paul Jones, take your fingers out of that sauce." Paul Jones obeyed, and licked the sauce from his fingers.
"Ma, is your club goin' to have a ball-nine?" asked Wendell Phillips. He played first base on the Manville Juveniles, which was the only club he knew anything about.
"No, we ain't, Wendell," his mother replied. "Don't you boys get any silly notions about clubs into your heads."
"Ma'd make a bully catcher," suggested Henry Warren.
"Stop your nonsense about baseball or you'll all go to bed," commanded Mrs. Stout, in a tonethat the youngsters could not fail to understand.
The silence that followed was broken by the ringing of the door-bell. The boys jumped from their chairs and started on a race for the door.
"Boys!" said Mrs. Stout, sharply, and the three came to a sudden stop. "Set down." They obeyed, and wistfully watched their mother as she started for the front door.
"Why, Miss Wallace!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout when she opened the door and saw who was there. "Come right in."
"Thank you," replied Miss Wallace, "but I haven't time. I called to ask if Henry was feeling any better."
"Better?" Mrs. Stout did not understand.
"I hope—"
"He ain't any better'n he ought to be, nor any worse'n some other boys I know of," said Mrs. Stout.
"But is he not sick?" asked Miss Wallace.
"Sick? Good land! No; he's eatin' his supper now," replied Mrs. Stout. Miss Wallace sighed, some one had been lying. "Who said he was sick?" asked Mrs. Stout, suspiciously.
"I understood—" Miss Wallace began, and then hesitated for a moment. "He was absent this afternoon," she continued, "and I understood Paul and Wendell to say that he was sick."
"Absent was he, from school?" said Mrs. Stout. "And them two boys lied about it? It won't happen again, Miss Wallace." At that moment a man walked past. Mrs. Stout peered into the darkness for a moment, and then called out:
"Hello, is that you, Willie Flint?"
"Yes. Oh, good evening, Mrs. Stout," replied Will, whom it proved to be, as he turned and retraced his steps.
"I thought I knew your walk," said Mrs. Stout. "Won't you come in?"
"No, thanks."
"How's your mother?"
"Nicely, but I must be going, good—"
"Don't you be in such a hurry, Willie Flint," Mrs. Stout interrupted, and then added, "This is Miss Wallace here, and I guess you'd better beau her home; it's a pretty dark night for young women to be runnin' 'round alone."
Barbara almost hated Mrs. Stout for sayingthat. She had remained silent because, for one reason, there had been no chance for her to speak, and another reason was that she hoped—she did and she did not—that Will would not follow Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Barbara was not unlike other young women in many ways.
"Good evening, Mr. Flint," she said, determined to make the best of it whatever the outcome might be.
"Isthat you, Bar—Miss Wallace?" said Will as he came into the yard and up the walk to the steps. Mrs. Stout noticed that he had started to say Barbara.
"I'll 'tend to those boys, Miss Wallace. Good night," she said abruptly, and shut the door.
"Good night," replied Barbara and Will, as they turned and went down the walk together.
"Who was it, ma?" the boys asked in chorus when Mrs. Stout returned to the dining-room, but their mother ignored them.
"Peter Stout," she began in a tone that made him jump, "Henry didn't go to school this afternoon, and Paul and Wendell told Miss Wallace that he was sick."
"What!" exclaimed Peter, turning on his three sons, who sat trembling before him.
"Yes, she came to see if Henry was any better, and that let the cat out of the bag. They've got to be 'tended to," replied Mrs. Stout. "Tended to" in the Stout family meant something painful. The boys looked at each other in dismay, and then at their parents.
"I ain't got time now," said Peter, "but in the mornin'—" With that terrible, unspoken threat on his lips Peter put on his hat, and went back to the store. Mrs. Stout began clearing the table, and the boys silently filed out of the house and sat down on the front door-steps to talk it over.
"You've got to give me back that five cents I give you for sayin' I was sick, Paul," said Henry, "and you too, Wendell."
"I guess not," replied Paul and Wendell, quickly.
"I got found out, didn't I?"
"We said you was sick, didn't we?"
"I'm goin' to get a lickin', ain't I?"
"We're goin' to get one, too, ain't we?"
"I wouldn't lie for money."
"No; you'd get somebody to lie for you," said Wendell, scornfully.
"Yer little brothers," added Paul.
"I wouldn't steal, anyway," retorted Henry. For a moment they were silent.
"Hello, fellers," yelled a boy from the street.
"Hello, Tom," replied the trio.
"Don't make any noise," cautioned Henry as Tommy Tweedie came up to the steps.
"Why?" he asked as he sat down.
"I got caught," said Henry.
Tommy whistled his surprise.
"Did the kids (meaning Paul and Wendell) tell?" he asked.
"Nope; Miss Wallace come to see how sick I was."
"What'd your father say?" snickered Tom.
"Said he'd see us in the mornin'. Say, Tom, what's this club for that your ma and mine are gettin' up?"
"I dunno," replied Tommy, "only I heard pop say we was goin' to have a tablet, kind of a tombstone, you know, in the yard that told on it when the club was foundered or somethin' like that; and this mornin' he told Dora that he wished the tablet was goin' to be put up right away with the date the club died on it, too."
"Are they goin' to play ball?" asked Wendell.
"Women don't play ball," said Paul.
"My mother says," replied Tom, "that women do everything nowadays."
"Boys," said Mrs. Stout, sternly, from the doorway.
The three guilty ones filed solemnly into the house, and Tommy Tweedie slipped away into the darkness.