Rosiedid not see George that night, but she brought up the subject next day at dinner. It was Sunday, so the whole family was assembled.
"Are you selling many tickets, Jarge?"
"Yes, a good many, and one of my customers give me back two."
"Oh, Jarge, did he really? What are you going to do with them?"
George glanced timidly in the direction of Ellen. It was plain at once what he wanted to do with them. It was also plain that Ellen was not going to give him much encouragement. To get the support of the family, George made his invitation public. "I was hoping that Ellen would like to go with me."
Ellen glanced up languidly. "Thanks, Mr. Riley, but I don't see how I can."
George, swallowing hard, forced out the question: "Why not?"
"Well, if you insist on knowing, it's this: I don't care to make a guy o' myself going out with a fella that don't come up much above my shoulder."
Mrs. O'Brien threw up astonished hands andcried out: "Fie on you, Ellen, fie, for sayin' such a thing!"
Rosie blazed and spluttered with indignation: "Ellen O'Brien, you ought to be ashamed o' yourself to talk like that to a nice fella like Jarge Riley! If you had any sense you'd know that he's worth a whole cart-load of the dudes that you and Hattie Graydon run after!"
Rosie got up from her chair and, stepping over to George's place, slipped her arm about his embarrassed neck. Then she put her cheek against his. "Don't you care what that old Ellen says, Jarge. You're not little at all! You're plenty big enough! Besides, little men are much nicer!"
Ellen laughed maliciously. "It's a pity George don't ask you."
The red again surged up George's neck; he gulped; sent one hurt glance in Ellen's direction, then spoke to Rosie: "Rosie, I've got tickets for the Traction Boys' Picnic and I'd love like anything to take you. Have you got anything else on for Friday night next week?"
"Friday night, did you say, Jarge? Why, for Friday night they ain't nuthin' 'd suit me better! Thanks ever so much!"
Rosie, still behind George's chair, shot an annihilating glance at Ellen. That young woman, a trifle piqued perhaps but still amused, tossed her head and laughed.
"Ma, I don't think it's right the way Rosie'sgetting a grown-up fella and me not even engaged yet! I don't think you ought to allow it!"
"Ellen, Ellen, your tongue's entirely too long!" Mrs. O'Brien looked at her reprovingly, but Ellen, in a sudden change of mood, heeded her not. She was gazing at Rosie with speculative eyes. When she spoke, it was in a tone from which all banter and ill-humour had vanished.
"Ma, if Rosie does go with George Riley, there's just one thing: she's got to have a new dress. The poor kid hasn't a stitch to her back. She ought to have a little pink dimity. She's just sweet in pink. Lucky, too, there's a sale on tomorrow at the Big Store. So you needn't say a word—I'm going to get her something. And I'll trim her a hat, too."
Mrs. O'Brien protested that she hadn't the price of a ten-cent hat, let alone a dress, but Ellen, as usual, was firm, and Rosie knew that she was now destined to go to the picnic prettily costumed. Rosie would have liked to nurse a while longer her indignation against Ellen but, as Ellen was the only person in the house who knew how to trim a hat out of little or nothing and how to whip together a pretty little dress, Rosie was forced to change her manner of open hostility to one of a more friendly reserve.
On the whole Rosie was jubilant. "I'm sure I don't know why it is," she said to Janet McFadden, "but people are pretty nice to me, aren't they?"
"Nice?" echoed Janet with long-drawn emphasis."Well, I should think they are!... Say, Rosie, listen:"—Janet paused a moment—"do you think Tom and me and you and Jarge could all go together? Do you think Jarge'd mind?"
Rosie considered the request carefully before answering. Then she spoke as kindly as she could: "I'm sure I don't know, Janet. Perhaps he'd like it all right, but, then again, perhaps he wouldn't. Don't you know, men are so queer nowadays. Anyway, though, I tell you what: I'll ask him."
"Will you, Rosie?" Janet's gratitude was almost pathetic.
Later, in presenting the case to George himself, Rosie's manner lost its air of Lady Bountiful, and she pleaded Janet's cause with an earnestness for which Janet would have worshipped her.
"Aw, now, Jarge, please! Poor Janet won't be in our way and she would love to be with us. Tom Sullivan don't talk much and he's got red hair, but he's awful nice, really he is. I told you he was trying to get me a ticket before you invited me. And besides, Jarge, if we get tired of them we can give them the slip for a little while."
As soon as Rosie paused for breath, George said: "Of course we'll let Janet and Tom Sullivan come with us if you want them. This is to be your party and you're to have things your own way."
Rosie looked her adoration. "Oh, Jarge, you're just too kind to me, really you are!"
The new dress was a great success. It was alittle rosebud dimity, pink and pale green, which Ellen designed in pretty summer fashion to make the most of Rosie's well-turned little arms and graceful neck. On a ten-cent bargain counter Ellen had found a hat of yellow straw which was just the thing to shape into a little bonnet and trim with a wreath of pink rosebuds and two soft green streamers which hung down on either side.
Ellen planned and worked and was happier than Rosie herself over each new effect. Mrs. O'Brien, hovering about, beamed with approval.
"Ellen's an artist with her needle," she declared over and over again. "She is indeed. How she does remind me of me own poor dead sister Birdie! There was a milliner in Dublin would have give her two eyes to get Birdie into her shop."
Mrs. O'Brien was right. Ellen was an artist with her needle and took all an artist's joy in her own creation. As she worked on Rosie's costume, she showed none of that impatient, overbearing selfishness which marked her so disagreeably at other times, but was gentle, frank, and affectionate. Once when she pricked Rosie's shoulders by accident she kissed the hurt away, and Rosie, surprised and touched, threw her arms impulsively about her neck.
"Why can't you always be like this to me, Ellen? I'd just love you dearly if you were."
Ellen laughed a little shamefacedly. "Ain't I nice all the time, Rosie? Well, I'm afraid it's thatold business college. It gets on my nerves. I suppose I ought to be studying now, but I'm not going to. I'm not going to stop until I finish this for you."
On the afternoon of the picnic, Ellen was so proud of Rosie's appearance that for once she forgot her haughtiness to George Riley. "Now tell the truth, George, aren't you glad it's Rosie instead of me?"
George gave Ellen one sick look, gulped, then said bravely: "Rosie sure is mighty pretty!"
"Pretty? I should say she is! See her now. Don't she look like a little flower—a sweet-pea or something? And do you know, George, if I was to dress that way, with my size and my height, I'd look like a guy! Yes, I would."
Theystarted off in time to make the half-past-five boat. George was at his dressiest, so close-shaven that he looked almost skinned and resplendent in new tan shoes, green socks, a red tie, and a pink shirt. It was a striking combination of colour and one that made Ellen clutch at her mother in despair. George carried a shoe-box of sandwiches, for Rosie, always a thrifty little housewife, insisted that whatever money they had to spend was not going for the commonplace necessaries of life.
Janet McFadden and Tom Sullivan, with a similar shoe-box, were waiting for them at the corner. Janet, in her old black sailor hat, looked dreadfully neat and clean, but for some reason even dingier than usual. It was Janet's first view of Rosie's finery. Shaking her head slowly, she gazed at Rosie several moments before she spoke. Then she said:
"Well, Rosie O'Brien, I must say you certainly do look elegant!"
Tom Sullivan was so flustered by the close vision of Rosie's loveliness that, when he opened his mouth to say something, he could only splutter unintelligiblyand then blush furiously at his own embarrassment.
It is surprising, when one stops to think about it, how delightful a mere street-car ride downtown really is. As Rosie sat there with her plain but faithful friend on one side—hereafter she must always try to be especially kind and gentle to Janet—and on the other her sporty, grown-up escort, she had one of those rare moments of perfect content and happiness. Old gentlemen smiled at her absent-mindedly as she brushed aside the green streamers which the wind was forever blowing across her face; young girls examined her critically; a mother across the way distracted the attention of a weeping child by pointing her finger and saying: "Oh, Eddy, look over there at that pretty little girl! She's lookin' straight at you, and what'll she say if she sees you cryin'!"... It was really a lovely, lovely world, and Rosie honestly and truly hoped that everybody in it was happy.
They reached the boat at that delightful moment when the bell is ringing and the deckhands are threatening to pull in the gang-plank in spite of the rushing crowds still arriving. By the time they had pushed their way to the upper deck, the gang-plank was in, the band was striking up a gay march, and with a lurch and a turn theIsland Princesswas off.
"O-oh!" murmured Rosie happily, and Janet demanded tensely, of no one in particular: "Isn't this just grand!"
Mothers and wives bustled about to get folding chairs and campstools, but the young folk, scorning so soon to sit down, promenaded arm in arm. Tucking Rosie's hand under his elbow, George joined the ranks of the promenaders, and Janet and Tom Sullivan followed his lead at a respectful distance.
At the stern, seated off by themselves, was a group of picnickers who hailed George as an old friend and waved at him inviting arms and handkerchiefs.
"Let's go over and say 'Howdy,'" George suggested.
There were some ten of them, girls and young fellows about George's own age. George took off his hat to them all and, with a flourish, presented Rosie.
"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you my lady friend, Miss Rosie O'Brien. Rosie, won't you shake hands with my friend, Mr. Callahan, and Miss Higgins, and Miss McCarthy, and Miss Mahony, ..."
Rosie, feeling eighteen years old and perfectly beautiful, went the rounds to an enchanting chorus of, "Pleased to know you, Miss O'Brien," "You sweet little thing!" "Excuse me, Miss Rosie, but I must say George Riley knows how to pick out a pretty girl!..."
George then presented Janet, and Janet, too, went the rounds, looking like a sleep-walker with tight-set muscles and staring eyes.
"And this," concluded George, giving Tom Sullivana little push, "is Matt Sullivan's boy. You fellows all know Matt—he's on the East End run."
With blinking eyes and a crimson embarrassment that mounted to ears and scalp, Tom passed about a nerveless, sodden hand.
After a few more pleasantries, George, gathering together his forces, flourished his hat and said: "Well, so long, friends! See you later."
"Weren't they nice!" Rosie remarked enthusiastically, and Janet, in humble gratitude, said: "That was awful kind of you, Mr. Riley, introducing Tom and me."
"Kind nuthin'!" George declared. "Aren't you my friends, I'd like to know? Aren't all Rosie's friends my friends?"
Unable to express in words how deeply moved she was by the loftiness and nobility of this sentiment, Janet could only look at Rosie, sigh gloomily, and shake her head.
They ate their little picnic supper as soon as they landed, topped off with ice-cream, and then, unencumbered with shoe-boxes, sought out the allurements of sideshows, aërial and subterranean thrillers, and dancing pavilion. Rosie insisted that they go into nothing that cost over ten cents. By adopting this principle and making frequent excursions to the dancing pavilion, which was free, they were so well able to husband their resources that George's two dollars and Tom Sullivan's fifty cents carried them through the evening.
It seemed to Rosie she had never enjoyed so perfect a picnic. All the thrillers really thrilled. Capitana, the giantess snake-charmer, was actually a giantess, and the snakes she wound about her fat neck were fully as long and as spotted and as green as the posters made out. And so on through everything they tried.
"I've never had such a good time in my life!" Rosie declared, as they hurried off to the ten-o'clock boat.
"Me, too!" gasped Janet in solemn, sepulchral tones.
Looking at the strained expression of happiness on Janet's face, Rosie suddenly thought of something new that would fittingly crown the day's adventures. Out of her own abundance she would give Janet another crumb that would make her eternally grateful.
"Say, Jarge," she whispered coaxingly, "will you do something for me?"
George looked down at her indulgently. "Of course I will. Anything you want."
"Well then, listen, Jarge: Will you take Janet all the way home and be real nice to her and pretend she's your girl and pet her real, real hard. Nobody ever pets Janet, and she never has a good time except when she's with me. And I'll take Tom Sullivan."
George laughed a good-natured "All right," and Rosie, turning around, said to Janet: "Jarge don'twant me any more, do you, Jarge? He wants you, Janet, don't you, Jarge, want Janet? So will you let Tom Sullivan take me?"
"Oh, Rosie!" Janet threw incredulous eyes to heaven and clutched her hands together in a joy that was serious as grief.
Rosie pushed her up to George and George, capturing her cold fingers, drew them through his arm. Then Rosie, glowing all over in virtuous self-approval, dropped behind with Tom Sullivan.
Thewives and mothers, with sleepy, crying children, cluttered up the lower decks. The young people by some common instinct seemed all to be drawn to the quiet and moonlight of the upper deck. There Rosie's party found them, a thousand couples more or less, each couple sitting somewhat apart from its neighbours, but frightfully close to itself.
"I suppose they're all engaged," Rosie remarked to Tom Sullivan, and even in the moonlight Tom blushed furiously.
George and Janet found the unoccupied half of a deck bench, not too far from the rail, and Rosie and Tom seated themselves on campstools some distance behind. They were pretty far in on deck and so could see very little beyond the backs of the great half circle of couples. But backs, in their way, are very expressive, and Rosie soon found herself deeply interested in the romances of which these various backs were soon giving most unmistakable hints. Every couple that sat down seemed to go through precisely the same emotional experience. A properly equipped statistician could soon have reducedthe whole thing to a matter of minutes and seconds.
Take what would be an average couple: They seat themselves like ordinary people in their right minds and, for a moment, that is what you suppose they really are. But only for a moment. Although they may be the only couple on the bench, almost immediately you see them crowding against each other as if to make room for a fat lady with a baby. Then to get more room the man drops his arm—the arm next the girl—over the back of the bench, where it lies a few moments lifeless and inert. The position is uncomfortable, evidently, for soon he tries to bring it back. Too late. The invisible fat lady with the baby has, in the meantime, wedged the girl right under the man's shoulder, and his arm and hand, in circling back, circle naturally about her. She, poor little soul, seems not to know what has happened. Her tired head sinks like a weary bird—sinks on his breast. She sleeps. At any rate, she looks like it. Then she wakes. She wakes gradually. Her profile slowly rises and, as it rises, lo! his descends until—until—Well, you know what always occurs when his profile meets her profile full-face.
Every time they saw it happen, Rosie held her breath for a moment, then murmured: "They must be engaged, too!"
Tom Sullivan stood it as long as he could, thenburst out: "Aw, go on! You don't have to be engaged to kiss!"
Rosie looked at him, scandalized and shocked. "Why, Tom Sullivan, how you talk! You ought to be ashamed o' yourself!"
"Well, you don't!" Tom insisted doggedly.
Rosie, drawing herself away from a person of such free-and-easy morals, returned to the backs of the last couple to see whether their little drama had completed itself. As she looked, the final act opened. The man whispered something—from what happened when all the other men had whispered something, Rosie decided he must be asking the girl if she were chilly. She, like all others before her, presumably was, for the man took off half his coat, the half near her, and drew it around her shoulders. What became of his shirt-sleeved arm, or what, in fact, thereafter became of the rest of both of them, no mere onlooker could ever know. The half-coat, raising high its collar, served as an effectual screen against the gaze of a curious world, and the only thing left for a student of human nature was to hunt a new couple.
One of the marvels of a picnic boat is that there are always new couples. Rosie found one immediately and was already engrossed in it when Tom Sullivan, clutching her excitedly, cried out:
"Look! Look! Didn't I tell you!"
Rosie looked, and what she saw seemed for a moment to make her heart stop. George Riley andJanet McFadden—think of it! How long the exhibit had been going on Rosie knew not, but Tom Sullivan had discovered them just as Janet's profile was rising and George's descending. In another instant——
"There!" shouted Tom Sullivan in triumph. "Didn't I tell you so! Now you can't say they're engaged!"
Rosie stood up hurriedly.
"This is a perfectly horrid boat and I wish I could get off! And I tell you one thing, Tom Sullivan: I'm going downstairs. I won't stay up here any longer. It's disgraceful, that's what it is!"
"Aw, don't go down!" Tom begged. "It's fun up here."
But Rosie was already started and Tom had to follow.
"Say, Rosie," he chuckled confidentially over her shoulder as she climbed down to the next deck, "did you see old Janet? Gee! I bet it was the first time a fella ever kissed her!"
Had Rosie seen old Janet? Yes, Rosie had, and the mere thought of the perfidious creature sent Rosie hot and cold by turns. Oh, to think of it! After all she had done for Janet out of the innocent kindness of her heart, to have Janet face about and treat her so! Why, she was nothing but a thief, a brazen thief!...
It was true that, in a sense, George did not belong to Rosie: he belonged to Ellen O'Brien if Ellenwould once make up her mind to possess him; but as between Rosie and Janet he certainly belonged to Rosie. And Janet knew it, too! And he knew it! Oh, what a weak character his was, thus to be tempted by the first fair face! Fair face, indeed! The first ugly face! Yes, ugly! Not even her own mother could call Janet anything else!
Rosie found uncomfortable places for herself and Tom among the wives and mothers who, heavy-eyed and dishevelled, were waiting impatiently to land. Shining over them was no glamour of moonlight. They were plain, homely, hard-worked women—exactly what Janet McFadden would be some day, if George Riley had but sense enough to know it. Rosie picked out the homeliest of them all and wished she had George down beside her so that she could say to him:
"Do you see that woman? Well, that's what your dear Janet's going to look like when she grows up!"
Rosie had a mental picture of herself at that same future period, with golden hair and lovely clothes and heaps and heaps of beautiful jewels. If she could only give George a glimpse of the great contrast which in a few years there would be between her and Janet, then he'd feel sorry! He'd probably get down on his knees and beg her pardon and she, flipping back some expensive lace from her wrist, would smile at him kindly and drawl out:
"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Riley. I never thinkof you any more. You know how it is when a person has so many wealthy friends. I'm sorry, but I got to go now, for my automobile is waiting. Good-bye...."
But meanwhile the moonlight was still shining on the upper deck and Rosie felt perfectly sure that, by this time, Janet was tucked away in George's coat. Rosie stood the suspense as long as she could, then jumped up to investigate.
"You wait here for me, Tom," she ordered; "I'll be back in just a minute."
She hurried off to the upper deck and, of course, found conditions exactly as she knew they would be. The only thing that showed above George's coat collar was the tilted edge of Janet's old black sailor hat. Rosie stepped up quite close to the guilty pair and cleared her throat, but they heeded her not.
"All right!" Rosie warned them in her own mind. "Just keep on and you'll both be sorry some day!"
Then she told herself for the fiftieth time what a fool she had been, and she made a mighty vow never again to loan a gentleman friend to any one whomsoever.
When she got back to Tom Sullivan, Tom had a bag of peanuts which he offered her at once. "You like peanuts, don't you, Rosie? It's my last nickel, except carfare. Aw, go on, take some."
Not to seem unfriendly, Rosie accepted a handful.Crunching the shells between her fingers comforted her a little. It was the sort of treatment she would like to give some people—at any rate, it was the kind they deserved. She didn't exactly name the peanuts, but she gave them initials. To the small ones she gave the initialJ, to the large ones G.
"Do you suppose those two are spoonin' up there yet?" Tom asked finally.
"What two?"
"Why, George Riley and Janet." And Tom Sullivan, who was supposed to be bashful, looked at Rosie with a meaning smile.
Rosie returned the glance with fire and daggers. "Don't you move your old chair any closer to me, Tom Sullivan!"
"Aw, now, Rosie——" Tom began, but Rosie cut him short, for the landing-bell was sounding and it was time for them to pick up their disreputable friends.
George and Janet were all for acting as if nothing unusual had happened, and Rosie scorned them afresh for the useless hypocrisy.
The journey home was stupid and unpleasant. The cars were crowded and people were ill-natured and rude and everything in general was horrid. The wind kept blowing Rosie's streamers into her eyes until she was ready to tear them off.... Would they never get home?
Janet McFadden, her dull black eyes fixed in a dream, heeded nothing. But at the corner wheretheir ways parted Rosie saw to it that she heard something. When Janet offered farewells, Rosie called out with unmistakable emphasis:
"Good-night,Tom!I've had a very pleasant time withyou!"
Like Janet, George Riley seemed to think that everything was as before. He himself was quiet, with the drowsy languor that follows an evening's excitement, and he seemed to be attributing Rosie's silence to the same cause.
When they got home, Rosie tried to show him his mistake. The gas in the little hallway was burning low, and George turned it high to light Rosie upstairs.
Rosie started off without a word.
"Aren't you going to kiss me good-night, Rosie?"
At that Rosie turned slowly about and gazed down upon him with all the hauteur of an offended queen. "There's just one thing I want to tell you, Jarge Riley: because you kiss Janet McFadden, you needn't think you can kissanygirl!"
"Why, Rosie!" George began. But Rosie was already gone.
"Because you kiss Janet McFadden, you needn't think you can kiss any girl."
Byten o'clock next morning Janet McFadden was at the door asking for Rosie. Rosie did not, of course, ever care to see Janet again, but as she had come Rosie could scarcely deny herself.
She found her one-time friend looking pinched and worried—conscience-stricken, no doubt—and little wonder.
"I'm going to the grocery, Janet. Do you want to come with me?"
Hardly outside the gate, Janet began: "You're not mad at me, Rosie, are you?"
"Mad?" Rosie spoke the word as if it were one with which she was unfamiliar.
"I didn't think you'd care, Rosie, honest I didn't. I thought you'd understand."
"Understand what?" There was a certain coldness in the tone of Rosie's inquiry, and Janet, feeling it, seemed ready to wring her hands in despair.
"Why, Rosie, all we talked about was you—honest it was! Jarge said you were just like his own little sister to him, and I told him I loved you more than I would my own sister if I had one."
"Huh!" Rosie grunted, recalling the tilt ofJanet's black sailor hat over George's shoulder. It had looked then as if they were talking about her, hadn't it now?
"Honest, Rosie!"
"Yes, of course. I suppose now you were talking about me when you——" Rosie pursed her lips and Janet, understanding her meaning, blushed guiltily.
"Aw, now, Rosie, listen: all I wanted was to have Tom Sullivan see."
"Well, he saw all right. So did I. So did everybody. And it was disgraceful, too!"
Janet groped helplessly about for words. "I don't exactly mean on account of Tom himself."
"Oh!"
"Please, Rosie," Janet begged; "don't talk to me that way.... You know Tom's mother, my Aunt Kitty. You know the way she makes fun of me because I'm ugly and lanky. She's always saying that I'm an old maid already and that I'll never get a boy to look at me. So I just wanted her to hear about a nice fella like Jarge Riley hugging me and kissing me."
Rosie looked at Janet in astonishment. She had certainly expected Janet to make up a better story than that.
"Well, I must say, Janet McFadden, this is news to me! Since when have you got so particular about what your Aunt Kitty thinks or doesn't think? I always supposed she was beneath your contemp'."
"No, no, Rosie, it isn't that! I don't care what she thinks or what she says either, if only she wouldn't go blabbing it around everywhere!" With a sudden gust of passion, Janet clenched her hands and breathed hard. "Oh, how I hate her!"
Rosie had nothing to say and, after a pause, Janet continued more quietly:
"It's this way, Rosie: You know my old man. He's all right except sometimes when he comes home not quite himself. You know what I mean."
Yes, Rosie knew. In fact, like the rest of the world, she knew a great deal more than Janet supposed about Dave McFadden's drunken abuse of his wife and child.
"He's all right when he's straight, Rosie, honest he is."
Never before had Janet confessed in words, even to Rosie, that her father wasn't always sober. It was the fiction of life that she struggled most valiantly to maintain that this same father was the best and noblest of his kind. Poor Janet! In spite of herself Rosie experienced a pang of the old pity which thought of Janet's hard life always excited. But Janet was not striving to appeal to her thus. Slowly and painfully she was forcing herself to lay bare the little tragedy that shadowed her days....
"When he comes home that way he says awful things to me. He says I got a face like a horse and arms as long as a monkey's. He'd never think of things like that if it wasn't for Aunt Kitty. Youknow he thinks everything Aunt Kitty says is wonderful because she's supposed to be the bright one of the family and used to be pretty. And, Rosie, she ain't got a bit o' sense. All she can do is make people laugh by making fun of somebody. She never cares how much she hurts any one's feelings. I—I know I'm ugly, but—can I help it?..." Janet's face was quivering and her eyes were swimming in tears. "I don't see why Aunt Kitty's got to talk about it, do you? Even if I am ugly, I guess—I guess I got feelings like anybody else.... It's only when dad's full that he starts in on it and begins to yell around until everybody in the building hears him. And I know just as well he'd never think of it if only Aunt Kitty would let up on me a little. So I thought—— Oh, you understand now, don't you, Rosie? That's the reason I did it, honest it is. You believe me, Rosie, don't you?"
Believe her? Who wouldn't believe her? Long before she had finished speaking, the citadel of Rosie's affections had been stormed and retaken and Rosie, abject and conquered, was ready to cry for mercy.
"And when I told Jarge Riley about it," Janet continued, "he was just as nice. He pretended he wanted to kiss me anyhow, but he didn't, Rosie, honest he didn't. It was only because I was your friend that he wanted to be nice to me...."
Of course, of course. At last Rosie was seeing things as they really were, and seeing them thusmade her heartsick when she remembered how she had spoken to kind old George Riley. How could she ever put herself right with him?... She would be carrying his supper up to the cars at six o'clock. There would be only an instant of time, but an instant would be enough for her to say: "Oh, Jarge, I've just been happy all day long thinking about the good time you gave me yesterday! Me and Janet have been talking about it. Thanks, thanks so much!" And George Riley, if she knew him at all, instead of recalling her foolish words of last night, would grin all over and gasp out: "Aw, Rosie, that wasn't nuthin' at all!" That was the sort of fellow George was!...
"But listen here, Rosie," Janet's voice was continuing in tones of humble entreaty; "if I'd ha' known it would ha' made you mad, I wouldn't have asked Jarge Riley—honest I wouldn't. You believe me, don't you, Rosie?"
Tears were in Rosie's throat and self-abasement in her heart. Words, however, came hard. Fortunately she could slip her arm about Janet's neck in the old sweet, intimate fashion and Janet would understand that all was well between them.
"And, Janet dear, are you sure that Tom'll tell his mother?"
"Yes, I'm sure, because I made him promise not to."
"Why, Janet!"
"Sure, Rosie. You see Aunt Kitty'll ask him allabout things and he'll tell about you and how pretty you looked and about Jarge Riley, and then Aunt Kitty'll begin making fun of me and that'll make Tom mad and he'll tell Aunt Kitty not to be so sure, and then she'll see he's holding back something and she'll tease until she gets it out of him.... Oh, Rosie, I tell you I know her just as well! I can just hear her! And when Tom tells her how mad you are, that'll make her believe the rest.... But honestly, Rosie, I didn't know you was mad till Tom told me."
"Tom!" Rosie was indignant at once. "Do you mean to say Tom Sullivan told you I was mad? Well, the next time you see Tom Sullivan you tell him for me to mind his own business!" Rosie paused a moment, then drew Janet closer to her. "Mad? What's eating Tom Sullivan? Friends like you and me, Janet, don't getmad!"
And Janet McFadden, shaking her head in horror that any one should even suggest such a thing, declared emphatically: "Of course not!"
A fewmornings later Rosie was seated on the front steps, shelling peas, when Janet passed the gate.
"Aren't you coming in?" Rosie called out.
At first Janet was not, but on Rosie's second invitation she changed her mind. As she reached the steps, Rosie discovered the reason of her hesitation. She had a black eye. She carried it consciously, but with such dignity, as it were, that Rosie could not at once decide whether Janet expected her to speak of it, or to accept it without comment.
Janet herself, after an introductory remark about the weather, broached the subject.
"What do you think about the eye I've got on me? Ain't it a beaut?"
It certainly was, and Rosie expressed emphatic appreciation.
"And how do you suppose I got it?" Janet pursued.
"I couldn't guess if I had to!"
Rosie's answer was tactful, rather than truthful. In her own mind she had very little doubt whencethe black eye had come. But it would never do to say that she supposed it had been given Janet by her father during one of the drunken rages to which he was subject. With one's dearest friend one may be frank almost to brutality, but not on the subject of that friend's family. There are reserves that even friendship may not penetrate. So, with an exaggeration of guilelessness, Rosie declared:
"I couldn't guess if I had to! Honest I couldn't!"
Janet had her story ready:
"You know how dark the halls in our building are. Well, I was just going downstairs, when a boy sneaked up behind me, and pushed me, and I slipped, and hit my face against the banister. And I think I know who it was, too!"
Rosie was by nature too simple and direct to simulate with any great success the kind of surprise that Janet was forever demanding of her. Fortunately this time it did not matter, for, while Janet was speaking, Rosie's mother had appeared with an armful of darning. Unlike Rosie, Mrs. O'Brien was always in a state of what might be termed chronic surprise. She paused now before seating herself, to remark in shocked tones:
"Why, Janet McFadden, what's this ye're tellin'? Mercy on us, ain't b'ys just awful sometimes! But I'm thinkin' your da'll soon settle that lad!"
Janet shook her head violently.
"Mrs. O'Brien, I wouldn't dare tell my fatherthat boy's name for anything! My father'd just murder him—honest he would! It just makes my father crazy when anybody touches me! He ain't responsible, he gets so mad—really he ain't! So you can see yourself I got to be mighty careful what I tell him. Besides, I ain't dead sure it was that boy, but I think it was."
Mrs. O'Brien's interest in the situation equalled Janet's own.
"I see exactly the place you're in, Janet, and I must say it's wise, the stand you take."
Mrs. O'Brien bit off a strand of darning cotton, and carefully stiffened the end.
"You see," Janet continued, "it's this way with me. I'm an only child, and you know yourself how men act about their only child."
"I do, indeed, Janet, and I feel for you." From her sympathetic understanding of Janet's problem, one would never have supposed that Mrs. O'Brien herself was the mother of a large family, and had been the child of a larger one. She held up a sock impressively. "You're quite right, Janet. Your da might do somethin' awful. There's no holdin' back some men when they take it into their heads that their only child has been mistreated."
Rosie sighed inwardly. She had very little of that histrionic sense that prompts people to assume a part and play it out in all seriousness. At first such a performance as the present one wearied her. Why in the world do people pretend a thing whenthey know perfectly well that they are pretending? Then, as the moments passed, she grew interested in spite of herself, for the acting of her mother and Janet was most convincing. At last she was not quite sure that it was acting. She was brought back to her senses by Janet's turning suddenly to her with the exclamation:
"Ain't they all o' them just awful, anyhow!"
No need to ask Janet of whom she was speaking. It was an old practice of hers, this glorifying her father in one breath, and in the next vilifying men in general. Rosie protested at once:
"Why are they awful? I think they're nice."
Janet looked at her in kindly commiseration.
"Well, then, Rosie, all I got to say is—you don't know 'em."
"I don't know them! Well, I like that!" Rosie was indignant now. "I guess I know them as well as you do!" Rosie paused, then concluded in triumph: "Don't I know my own brother Terry? I guess he's all right!"
"Terry," Janet repeated, with a significant headshake. "Now I suppose, Rosie, you think you and Terry are great friends, don't you?"
"I don't think so; I know so."
Janet laughed cynically.
"Yes, I suppose you and him are great friends as long as you run your legs off for him. But listen to me, Rosie O'Brien! Do you know what he'd do to you if you was to lose one of his paper customers?He'd beat the very puddin' out of you! I guess I know!"
"Janet, you're crazy!"
"Crazy? All right, Rosie, have it your own way. But I leave it to Mis' O'Brien if I ain't right."
That lady, being, as it were, pledged to Janet's support, instead of vindicating her own son, made the weak admission:
"Well, I must confess there's somethin' in what Janet says."
At Janet's departure, Rosie looked at her mother scornfully.
"Ma, don't you really know how Janet got that black eye?"
Mrs. O'Brien dropped her darning in surprise. At every turn life seemed to hold a fresh surprise for Mrs. O'Brien.
"Why, Rosie! What a question to ask your poor ma! Do I look like I was born yesterday?"
Mrs. O'Brien did not; but, even so, Rosie insisted upon a direct answer.
"Well, then, if you really must know, Rosie dear, I'll be glad to tell you. That brute of a Dave McFadden has been knockin' her down again."
Rosie clucked her tongue impatiently. "Maggie O'Brien, there's one thing I'd like to ask you. When Janet knew how she got that black eye, and you knew how she got it, and she knew perfectly well that you knew, why in the world did you both go pretending something else?"
Mrs. O'Brien looked at her daughter in patient despair.
"My, my, Rosie, what a child ye do be! Wouldn't it be awful of me to go insultin' poor little Janet by saying: 'Ho, ho, Janet, that's a fine black eye yir da has given you!'"
Rosie squirmed in exasperation. "But why do you got to say anything? Why do either of you got to say anything?"
"Why do I got to say anything?" In Mrs. O'Brien, surprise had now turned to amazement. "Why, Rosie dear, what's this ye're askin' me? Haven't I always got to say somethin'? Wasn't it for talkin' purposes that the Lord put a tongue in me head?"
"But couldn't you talk about something else besides that black eye?"
"I could not. Take me word for it, Rosie, that black eye was the one thing of all to talk about. Don't you see, dear, 'twas that was taking up Janet's entire attention, for it was on her mind as well as on her face. So not to make it awkward for the poor child, I simply had to talk and let her talk."
Rosie still shook her head obstinately. "Even if it was on her mind, I don't see why she had to go make up that silly story that nobody believes, and that she don't believe herself. She always does."
Mrs. O'Brien's face broke into a smile of understanding.
"Ah, Rosie, I see now what's troublin' you. You don't see why poor Janet wants to cover up that brute of a Dave."
This was exactly what was troubling Rosie, as she agreed readily enough.
"And, Ma," she continued, "do you suppose if my father beat me, I'd go around pretending he was the best ever? Well, I wouldn't!"
"Your poor da, did you say, Rosie? May God forgive you for havin' such a thought! Why, that poor lamb wouldn't hurt a fly—he's that gentle! Ah, Rosie, it's on yir knees ye ought to be every night of yir life, thankin' God for the kind o' father I picked out for you!"
"I am thankful, but I wouldn't be if he was like Dave McFadden. And I wouldn't pretend I was, either."
"Ah, it's little ye know about that, Rosie, for just let me tell ye—ye'd be exactly like Janet if ye were in Janet's shoes."
"I bet I wouldn't!"
"Rosie, ye couldn't help yirself. Ye'd have to stand up for him even if he was a brute."
"Why would I have to?"
"Because he's your da. Is it possible, Rosie dear, that ye don't yet know 'tis a woman's first duty to stand up for a man if he's her da, or her brother, or her husband, or her son? Mercy on us, where would we be if she didn't? Have ye everheard me, all the years of your life, breathe a whisper against Jamie O'Brien?"
"I should think not!" To Rosie this seemed a very poor example of the principle in question. "How could you? Dad never even beats the boys, let alone you and me!"
Mrs. O'Brien smacked her lips pensively. "No, he don't beat me." She sighed slowly. "I meannowhe don't."
Rosie looked at her mother with startled eyes. "Ma, what do you mean?"
Mrs. O'Brien sighed again, and took up her darning. "Nuthin' at all, Rosie. I don't know what I'm sayin'. I can't gab another minute, for I must finish this sock. So run off, like a good child, and don't bother me."
"But, Ma"—Rosie's voice dropped to a whisper, and a look of horror came into her face—"do you mean he used to—beat you?"
"Rosie dear, stop pesterin' me with your questions. Far be it from me to set child against father, and, besides, as you know yourself, he's behavin' now. What's past is past. I've said this much to you, Rosie, so's to give you a hint of the ragin' lions that these here quiet, soft-spoken little lambs of men keep caged up inside o' them. Oh, I tell you, Rosie dear, beware o' that kind of a man, for you never know when the lion in him is goin' to break loose and leap out upon you. Ah, I know what I'm sayin' to me everlastin' sorrow!"
"Why, Ma, are you crazy! Dad has never laid a finger on you, or on any one else, and you know he hasn't!"
Rosie scanned her mother's face in hope of discovering a little family joke, but Mrs. O'Brien met her gaze with sad, truthful eyes as guileless as a baby's.
"All right, Rosie dear, maybe your poor ma is crazy. But I wonder now ye've never noticed the scar on me right shoulder, nor asked the cause of it."
"What scar?"
"Have you never seen it, Rosie?"
Mrs. O'Brien began unbuttoning her waist to exhibit the scarred shoulder. Then she paused, thought a moment, and changed her mind.
"No. As ye've never noticed it, Rosie, it wouldn't be right of me to show it to you now. The sight of it might make you bitter. But you surprise me that you've never seen it. It's a foot long at least, and two fingers deep, and itches in rainy weather."
"Why, Ma!" Rose's eyes were fixed, and her mouth a round, blank question mark.
"Upon me word of honour, Rosie!"
For a moment Rosie was too shocked to go on. Then she gasped: "How—how did it happen?"
"How did it happen, do you ask? That, Rosie, is a secret that'll go with me to the grave. This much I'll tell you—'twas made with a butcher-knife.But who gave the blow, I wouldn't confess under torture. Now, Rosie dear, don't tempt me to say another word, for I'm done."
Mrs. O'Brien lifted her head high, took a long breath, and began a serious attack on the sock.
Rosie questioned further, but in vain.
Herown father!... All afternoon as she went about delivering papers, Rosie's mind kept going over this amazing revelation. Not for an instant did she question the truth of it. An exuberance of imagination very often led her mother to embroider fancifully the details of a story, but surely not this time. This time that scar, that awful scar, was evidence enough of what had taken place.
To think that Rosie had never even suspected that side of her father's nature! She shuddered at her own innocence. To her, her father had always seemed all gentleness and meekness. Gentleness and meekness, indeed! Why, with that raging lion ramping and tearing about inside of him he was little better than a wolf in sheep's clothing!
At first Rosie dreaded ever seeing him again. She doubted whether, at sight of him, she could conceal sufficiently the abhorrence that she felt. Then she began to want to see him, as one wants to see the animals in the carnivora building at feeding time. It is a racking experience, but one likes to go through it. Rosie's final decision was to takeone look at the beast, hear for herself the sound of its roar, then flee it forever.
A good time to see Jamie O'Brien was after supper, in the cool of the evening, when he slipped off his shoes, unloosened his suspenders, and sat him down in the peace and quiet of the back yard. He had a broken-down old arm-chair, which he knew how to prop against the ancient little apple-tree and support with a brick at its shortest leg. For one-half hour every summer evening, when the old chair was properly braced, and his sock feet were stretched out at ease on a soap-box, Jamie O'Brien knew comfort, utter and absolute. It was the moment when, like old King Cole, he called for his pipe.
"Rosie dear, like a good child, will you bring me me pipe and a few matches?"
Rosie, busied in the kitchen over the supper dishes, always knew just when this call was coming, and always had her answer ready: "All right, Dad. Just wait till I dry my hands and I will."
Tonight she gave the usual answer in the usual cheerful tone, for she felt that it behooved her to meet deceit with deceit if she was to catch the beast unaware. So she got Jamie his pipe, and later came out again and perched on the arm of his chair.
"Say, Dad," she began.
She took a peep at him from the corner of her eye. Heaven knows he did not look fierce. He was a plain, lean, little man, of indeterminate colouring,with sparse hair, sparser mustache, and faded blue eyes, that had a patient, far-away look in them. His face was thin and worn, with lines that betokened years of labour borne steadily and without complaint. He was a silent man and passed for thoughtful, though contemplative would better express his cast of mind. He looked at things and people slowly and quietly, as if considering them carefully before committing himself. Then, when he spoke, it would be some slight remark, brief and commonplace.
When Rosie began: "Say Dad," he waited patiently. After several seconds had elapsed, he turned his head slightly and said: "Well, Rosie?"
He gave her a faint smile, and patted her hand affectionately. Ordinarily, at this place, Rosie would have slipped an arm about his neck, but tonight she held back.
"Say, Dad," she opened again, in a coaxing, confidential tone, "did you have a good run today?"
The world in general supposes, no doubt, that, to a motorman, one day's run must be much like any other. Rosie knew better.
Jamie very deliberately relit his pipe before answering. Then he said: "Yes, it was all right, Rosie."
Rosie waited, as she knew from his manner that something more would finally come. Jamie gazed about thoughtfully, then concluded: "They was a flat wheel on the rear truck."
Rosie was all sympathy. "Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry! It must ha' been horrid riding all day on a flat wheel."
Jamie took a puff or two, then announced: "I didn't mind it."
"Well, Dad, did you report it?"
Jamie scratched his head, as if in an effort to remember, and at last said: "Sure."
After a decent interval, Rosie began again: "Say, Dad, what'd you think of a man who chased his wife with a hatchet?"
Rosie thought it would be a little indelicate to come right out with butcher-knife. Hatchet was near enough, anyway. Rosie's idea was that her father would betray himself by defending the husband. When he did, she expected to tell him that she knew all. Her imagination did not carry her beyond this. She was prepared, however, for something horrible.
Jamie O'Brien turned his head almost quickly. "With a hatchet, did you say, Rosie?"
"Yes, Dad, with a hatchet."
"That's bad. And is it some one around here that we know?"
"No, it ain't anybody. I was just saying, what would you think of a man who did that?"
"And it ain't some one we know?"
With a wave of his pipe, Jamie dismissed all hypothetical hatchets, and returned to the more sensible contemplation of the sky line.
Rosie felt that she was being trifled with. She gazed at her father meaningly.
"Well, what would you say to a man who chased his wife with a butcher-knife?"
Again Jamie took an exasperating time to answer, and again his answer took the form of the question: "Is it some one we know, Rosie?"
Rosie threw discretion to the winds. "I'm sure you ought to know whether it's some one we know!"
Jamie blinked his eyes slowly and thoughtfully. "I don't seem to place him, Rosie."
Rosie left him in disgust. Brutality is bad enough, but hypocrisy is worse. She went as far as the kitchen door, then turned back. She would give him one more chance.
Again smiling, she put her arms about his neck. "Say, Dad, if you was to get awful mad at me, what would you do?"
"At you, do you say, Rosie? Well, now, I don't see how any one could get awful mad at you."
Rosie's patience was about exhausted, but she restrained herself. "But, Dad, if I was to do something awful bad—steal ten dollars, or run away from home!"
Jamie looked at Rosie, then at the sky line, then at the soap-box, then back at Rosie. Surely now a brutal threat was coming.
"Why, Rosie dear, I don't think you'd ever do anything like that!"
Huh! What kind of an answer was that for a father to give his child? Rosie straightened her back, and without another word departed. She felt that her worst fears were justified. Any man as difficult to trap as Jamie O'Brien was a dangerous character.
She nursed her resentment the rest of the evening. Just before she went to sleep, however, she decided, as a matter of scrupulous justice, to suspend final judgment until she should have seen for herself that damning evidence of his brutality, namely, the scar on her poor mother's right shoulder. Yes, she would find some excuse for seeing it at once.
The next morning, while her mother was preparing to go to market, of itself the opportunity came.
"Rosie dear," Mrs. O'Brien called down from upstairs, "I need your help. One of me corset strings is busted."
Rosie found her mother seated at the bureau, half dressed, fanning herself with a towel. A full expanse of neck and shoulders was exposed, so that Rosie, busied at her mother's back, was able to scan minutely all that there was to scan. She looked and looked again, and by patting her mother affectionately, was able to add the testimony of touch to that of sight.
In due time her mother departed, and Rosie, left alone, turned to the mirror and gazed into it several moments without speaking.
"Well!" she said at last. "What do you know about that!"
She shook her head at the round-eyed person in the mirror, and the round-eyed person nodded back, as deeply impressed with the inexplicability of things as Rosie herself.
Allmorning Rosie moved about the house preoccupied and silent, heaving an occasional sigh, murmuring an occasional "Huh!"
At dinner she paid scant attention to her mother's market adventures, and with difficulty heard Terry's orders concerning a new paper customer. Her mind was too fully occupied with a problem of its own to be interested in anything else.
On the whole it was a strange problem, and one that, after hours of thought, remained unsolved. By mid-afternoon Rosie was ready to cast it from her in disgust but she found that she could not. Like a bad conscience, it stayed with her, dogging her steps even on her paper route.
It had the effect of colouring everything that she saw or heard. When she handed a paper to Mrs. Donovan, the policeman's wife, who exclaimed: "What do you think of the beautiful new hammock that Mr. Donovan has just gave me?" Rosie remarked in a tone that was almost sarcastic: "Oh, ain't you lucky!" and to herself she added cynically: "And I'd like to know who gave you that black-and-blue spot on your arm!"
She found one of the Misses Grey pale and haggard under the strain of a hot-weather headache. Rosie forced her unwilling tongue to some expression of sympathy; but, once on her way, she told her disgruntled self that what she had wanted to say was: "Well, Miss Grey, I must say, if I didn't know you was an old maid, I'd ha' taken you for a happy married woman!"
Near the end of the route, she found old Danny Agin waiting, as usual, for his paper. His little blue eyes twinkled Rosie a welcome, and his jolly cracked voice called out: "How are you today, Rosie?"
For a moment Rosie gazed at him without speaking. Then she shook her head, and sighed.
"You look all right, Danny Agin, just as kind and nice as can be, but I guess Mis' Agin knows a few things about you!"
Danny blinked his eyes several times in quick succession. "What's this ye're sayin', Rosie?"
"Oh, nuthin'. I was only saying what a nice day it was. Good-bye."
Rosie started resolutely away, then paused. She really wanted some one with whom to talk out her perplexity, and here was Danny Agin, a man of sound sense and quick sympathy, and her own sworn friend and ally.
Rosie turned back and, seating herself on the porch step at Danny's feet, looked up into Danny's face.
"What's troublin' you, Rosie dear?" Danny's tone was kind and invited confidence.
Rosie shook her head gloomily. "Danny, I'm just so mixed up that I don't know where I'm at. You know Janet McFadden? Well——"
Rosie took a long breath and, beginning at the beginning, gave Danny a full account of yesterday's discussion. She brought her story down to that very morning when her mother had called her upstairs to tie the broken corset string. At this point she paused and sighed, then looked at Danny long and searchingly.
"And, Danny, listen here:There wasn't any scar at all!I hunted over every scrap of both shoulders and I felt 'em, too, and they were just as round and smooth as a fat baby! And she said: 'A foot long at least and two fingers deep.' And she even said it itched in rainy weather! Now what do you know about that?"
Danny slowly shook out the folds of a large red handkerchief, dropped it over his head and face, and bowed himself as though in prayer. No sound came from behind the handkerchief, but Danny's body began to shake convulsively. Either he was sobbing, or——
"Danny Agin, are you laughing?"
Danny slowly raised his head and, drawing off the handkerchief, began wiping his eyes.
"Laughin', is it? Why, it's weepin' I am! Don't you see the tears?"
Rosie looked at him doubtfully. "I don't see what you're weeping about."
Danny shook his head mournfully. "It's a way I have, Rosie. A thought came over me while we was talkin' and off I went. And—and here it comes again!"
Danny reached for his handkerchief, but too late. The thought seemed to hit him full in the stomach, and back he fell into his chair, rolling and spluttering.
"Danny Agin, you are laughing!"
Danny wiped his eyes again. "Perhaps I am this time, Rosie. I'm took different at different times."
Rosie frowned on him severely. "Well, I think you were laughing the first time and you needn't deny it. And, what's more, I don't see anything to laugh at."
"Whisht now, darlint, and I'll tell you. I'll talk to you like man to man. 'Twas thought of the ladies."
"What ladies?"
"All o' them. They're all the same."
"Who are all the same?"
"The ladies, Rosie. Janet and your ma, and the rest o' them!"
"Danny, I don't see how you can say that. Ma and Janet are not a bit the same. They're exactly different. There's ma who's got a kind husband, and she goes telling that he chases her with abutcher-knife, and there's Janet whose father is a drunken brute, and she goes pretending he's the best ever."
"Precisely, Rosie. You couldn't have expressed it better. Now you'll understand me when I tell you that they all want the same thing, which is this: They want to be beat, and they don't want to be beat. Now let me say it to you again, Rosie: They want to be beat, and they don't want to be beat. There!"
Rosie put her hands to her head in distraction. "Danny Agin, I don't know what you're talking about!"
"I'm talkin' about the ladies."
"Well, then, what I want to know is this: How can they want a thing when they don't want it?"
It was Danny's turn to look distracted. "Rosie, Rosie, ye'll drive me mad with yir questions! If I could tell you how they do, I would and gladly. But I can't. All I can tell you is they do."
"But, Danny, what sense has a thing like that got? 'They want to be beat, and they don't want to be beat.' That's exactly like saying: It's winter and it's summer at the same time. It's not good sense to say a thing like that."
"Sense, Rosie?" Danny looked at her reproachfully. "It's not sense I'm talkin' about. It's not the logic of the ladies I'm impressin' on you, mind—it's their feelin's. I'm tellin' you the kind o' man every lady's on the lookout for—a fine brute of afella that would as soon knock her down as look at her, and yet would never raise a finger against her."
Rosie's hands dropped limply into her lap. "Danny Agin, do you know sometimes I get so mixed up that I feel just like I was crazy! That's how I feel now."
Danny nodded sympathetically. "Small wonder, Rosie. 'They want to be beat, and they don't want to be beat.' I defy any man to say that over fifty times and not go mad! And what would you say, Rosie, to a poor man havin' to live, day in and day out, for forty years with an everlastin' conthradiction like that? Ah, Mary's a fine woman, but I tell you, Rosie, in all confidence, I've had me own troubles. Many's the time I've seen her just achin' for a good sound beatin', but, if ever I'd laid the tip o' me finger upon her, her heart would ha' broke, and she'd ha' felt the shame of it the longest day of her life. And they're all the same, Rosie; take me word for it, they're all the same. They want their menfolks to be lions, and they want them to be lambs."
Lions and lambs!Her mother's very words! Upon Rosie the light began to break. "Why, Danny!" she gasped.
"Take yir own case, Rosie dear. There's yir own da, a meek lamb of a man——"
"But, Danny, I like my father because he's so kind!"
"Whisht, now, darlint, and listen. Wouldn't it be fine if he was the size of that sthrappin' polisman, Pete Donovan, with the lump of a diamond in his shirt front as big as an egg, and a great black mustache coverin' the red lips of him, and a roar in his voice that'd send the b'ys a-scatterin' for blocks around!"
The figure evoked was certainly one of heroic proportions, and Rosie, as she gazed at it, involuntarily gave a little sigh.
Danny chuckled. "Ha, ha, Rosie! Ye're like the rest o' them!"
"No, I'm not, Danny Agin! Honest I'm not! I'm glad my father's kind. I wouldn't love him if he wasn't, and you needn't think I would!"
Rosie struggled hard to convince Danny, but in vain. The more she protested, the louder Danny chuckled.
"Only think, Rosie dear, the pride in yir heart, if this great brute of a man, rampin' about like a lion, tearin' to pieces everybody that stood in his way, in yir own prisence, wee bit of a woman that ye are, should turn into a tame lamb!"
"Oh, Danny!"
In spite of herself, Rosie faced the world with something of the conscious air of a lion-tamer. Danny's chuckle recalled her to herself, and she watched him with growing resentment, as he continued:
"You see, Rosie, it's this way: The worse brutea man is, the greater glory he brings to the woman that tames him. Rosie, me advice to any young man that is courtin' a girl is to roar—not to roar at her, mind, but at everybody else when she's within hearin'. What a fine feelin' it must give a girl to have a roarin' bull of a young fella come softly up to her and eat out of her hand! And think of the great game it is to keep him tame! Rosie, take me word for it, these here soft-spoken men like yir own poor da and like meself—I take shame to confess it—make a great mistake. Many's the time it had been better for me peace of mind afterward had I let out a roar just for appearances' sake. I see it now."
Danny wagged his head and sighed.
"It's lucky for you, Rosie, that you have me to tell you all this, for ye'd never hear it from the ladies themselves. They never let out a whisper about it, but carry on just like Janet and yir own ma. Ah, don't tell me! I know them! They's some kind of a mystic sisterhood among them—I dunno just what, and in some few things they never give each other away."
"Don't they, Danny?"
"They do not."
Rosie regarded the old man thoughtfully. One could see the very processes of a new idea slowly working in her mind. Danny watched her curiously. At length he asked: "Well, Rosie, what is it?"
Rosie paused impressively before answering: "I was just thinking, Danny Agin, that you're right about yourself, but you're making a great mistake about my father." Rosie nodded significantly. "He's not as quiet as you think he is, in spite of his quiet ways. Sometimes he's just awful."