A brief silence followed. Then Ned asked, “What are cabbits?”
“Cabbits are vegetables,” replied Laurie.
“I never heard of them,” said Polly, wrinkling her forehead.
“Neither did any one else,” laughed Ned. “He just made them up to rhyme with rabbits.”
“A cabbit,” said Laurie, loftily, “is something between a cabbage and a carrot.”
“What does it look like?” giggled Polly.
Laurie blinked. “We-ell, you’ve seen a—you’ve seen an artichoke, haven’t you?” Polly nodded and Laurie blinked again. “And you’ve seen a—a mangel-wurzel?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then I don’t see how I can tell you,” said Laurie, evidently relieved, “because a cabbit is more like a mangel-wurzel than anything else. Of course, it’s not so deciduous, and the shape is different; it’s more obvate than a mangel-wurzel; more—” he swept his hands vaguely in air—“more phenomenal.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Ned, grinning. “How’d you like to have to put up with an idiot like that all your life, Polly? The worst of it is, folks sometimes mistake him for me!”
“Yes, it’s awful, but I manage to bear up under it,” Laurie sighed.
“How did you ever come to think of making those funny rhymes?” Polly asked.
“Oh, we had measles once, about four years ago,” said Ned. “We always had everything together—measles, whooping-cough, scarlet fever, everything. And when we were getting over it they wouldn’t let us read and so we made up rhymes. I forget whose idea it was. I’d make up one line and Laurie would make up the other, or the other way round. The idea was to have the last word of the first line so hard that the other fellow couldn’t rhyme to it. But I guess I only stuck Laurie once. Then the word was lemon.”
“You didn’t really stick me then,” Laurie denied. “I rhymed it with demon. You said they didn’t rhyme, but I showed you a rhyming dictionary that said they did.”
“The dictionary said it was an imperfect rhyme, Laurie, and—”
“Just the same, a rhyme’s a rhyme. Say, Ned, remember the one we made up about Miss Yetter?” Ned nodded and grinned. “Miss Yetter was our nurse. We thought it was pretty clever, but she didn’t like it.
“When feeling ill send for Miss Yetter.If you don’t die, she’ll make you better.”
“She was quite insulted about it,” laughed Ned, “and told Dad; and he tried to lecture us, but we got laughing so he couldn’t. We made rhymes all the time for a while and nearly drove folks crazy; and finally Dad said if we didn’t stop ithe’d whale us. And I said, ‘All right, sir, we’ll try not to do it’; and Laurie, the chump, butted in with, ‘’Cause if we do, we know we’ll rue it!’ We nearly got the licking right then!”
“Youarefunny!” laughed Polly. “Is your mother—haven’t you—”
“She died when we were kids,” answered Laurie. “I just remember her, but Ned doesn’t.”
“You think you do. You’ve just heard Dad, and nurse talk about her. We were only four when Mother died.”
Laurie looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue the matter. Instead he asked, “Your father’s dead, isn’t he, Polly?”
“Yes, he died when I was eight. He was a dear, and I missed him just terribly. Mother says I look like him. He was very tall and was always laughing. Mother says he laughed so much he didn’t have time for anything else. She means that he wasn’t—wasn’t very successful. We were very poor when he died. But I guess he was lots nicer than he would have been if he had just been—successful. I guess the most successful man in this town is Mr. Sparks, the banker, and no one has ever seen him laugh once. And Uncle Peter was successful, too, I suppose; and he was just as sour and ill-tempered as anything. He wasn’t my real uncle, but I called him that because Mother said it would please him. It didn’t seem to.”
“Was that Mr. Coventry?” asked Laurie. “The mis—I mean the man who lived in the big square house over there?”
“Yes. And I don’t mind your calling him the miser, because that is just what he was. He was Mother’s half-brother, but he didn’t act as if he was even a quarter-brother! He was always just as horrid as he could be. When Father died he wrote Mother to come here and he would provide her with a home. And when we came, we found he meant that Mother was to live here and pay him rent. She didn’t have enough money to do that, and so Uncle Peter made the front of the house into a store and bought some things for her and made her sign a mortgage or something. When he died, we thought maybe he had left Mother a little; but there wasn’t any will, and not much property, either—just the big house on Walnut Street and this place and about two thousand dollars. When the property was divided, Mother got the other heirs to let her have this as her portion of the estate, but she had to pay four hundred and fifty dollars for it. That took about all she had saved and more, and so we haven’t been able to do much to the house yet.”
“It doesn’t look as if it needed much doing to,” said Ned, critically.
“Oh, but it does! It needs a new coat of paint, for one thing. And some of the blinds are broken.And there ought to be a furnace in it. Stoves don’t really keep it warm in winter. Some day we’ll fix it up nicely, though. As soon as I get through high school, I’m going to work and make a lot of money.”
“Attaboy!” approved Ned. “What are you going to do, Polly?”
“I’m learning stenography and typewriting, and Mr. Farmer, the lawyer,—he’s the one who got the others to let Mother have the house when Uncle Peter’s estate was settled,—says he will find a place for me in his office. He’s awfully nice. Some stenographers make lots of money, don’t they?”
“I guess so,” Ned agreed. “There’s a woman in Dad’s office who gets eighteen dollars a week.”
Polly clasped her hands delightedly. “Maybe I wouldn’t get that much, though. I guess Mr. Farmer doesn’t pay his stenographer very high wages. Maybe I’d get twelve dollars, though. Don’t you think I might?”
“Sure!” said Laurie. “Don’t you let any one tell you any different. Didn’t folks think that your Uncle Peter left more money than was found, Polly?”
“Oh, yes; but no one really knew. The lawyers looked everywhere. If he did have any more, he must have hidden it away pretty well. They looked all through the house and dug holes in the cellar floor. It was very exciting. Mother thinkshe lost what money he had speculating in stocks and things. He used to go to New York about four times a year. No one knew what he did there, not even Hilary; but Mother thinks he went to see men who deal in stocks and that they got his money away from him.”
“Who is Hilary?” Laurie inquired.
“Hilary was a colored man that Uncle had had a long time. It seemed to me that if Uncle had had much money, Hilary would have known about it; and he didn’t.”
“Where is he now? Hilary, I mean,” added Laurie, somewhat unnecessarily.
“I don’t know. He went away a little while after Uncle Peter died. He said he was going to New York, I think.”
“You don’t suppose he took the money with him, do you? I mean—”
“Oh no!” Polly seemed quite horrified. “Hilary was just as honest as honest! Why, Uncle Peter died owing him almost forty dollars and Hilary never got a cent of it! The lawyers were too mean for anything!”
“There’s a fellow named Starling living there now,” Laurie said. “His father’s rented the house for three years. Bob says that he’s going to find the money and give it to your mother.”
Polly laughed. “Oh, I wish that he would! But I guess if the lawyers couldn’t find it henever will. Lawyers, they say, can find money when nobody else can! Is he nice?”
“Bob? Yes, he’s a dandy chap. You ought to know him, Polly; he’s your next-door neighbor.”
“Back-door neighbor, you mean,” interpolated Ned.
“I think I saw him in the garden one day,” said Polly. “His father is an engineer, Mae Ferrand says, and he’s building a big bridge for the railway. Or maybe it’s a tunnel. I forget.”
“Is Mae Something the girl with the molasses-candy hair you were with at the high school game?” Laurie asked.
“Yes, but her hair isn’t like molasses candy. It’s perfectly lovely hair. It’s like—like diluted sunshine!”
Laurie whistled. “Gee! Did you get that, Neddie? Well, anyway, I like dark hair better.”
“Oh, I don’t! I’d love to have hair like Mae’s. And, what do you think, she likes my hair better than her own!”
“Don’t blame her,” said Laurie. “What do you say, Ned?”
“I say I’ve got to beat it back and get into football togs. What time is it?”
“Look at your own watch, you lazy loafer. Well, come on. I say, Polly, would your mother let you go to the game with me Saturday? That is, if you want to, of course.”
“Oh, I’d love to! But—I’ll ask her, anyway. And if she says I may, would you mind if Mae went too? We usually go together to the games.”
“Not a bit. I’ll be around again before Saturday and see what she says.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she said yes,” remarked Polly. “I think she must like you boys. Anyway, you’re the first of the Hillman’s boys she has ever let me invite out here.”
“Really? Bully for her! Wait till I say farewell to Antoinette, ‘most beauteous of rabbits!’ What does she twitch her nose like that for?”
“I think she’s asking for some cabbits,” replied Polly, gravely.
“She’s making faces at you, you chump,” said Ned, rudely. “Come on.” They returned through the little living-room, empty save for a big black cat asleep in a rocking-chair, and found Mrs. Deane serving the first of the afternoon trade in the shop beyond. They said good afternoon to her very politely, and Polly went to the door with them. Outside on the walk, Ned nudged Laurie, and they paused side by side and gravely removed their caps.
“We give you thanks and say farewell, Miss Polly.”
“The visit’s been, indeed, most jolly!”
There was a cut in the football squad that afternoon and more than a dozen candidates were retired, leaving twenty-eight players for the first and scrub teams. Ned survived, as, indeed, he expected to; for, while he knew his limitations, neither the coach nor the captain appeared to. Perhaps they were sometimes puzzled over flashes of ineptitude, or perhaps they put them down to temporary reversals of form; at least, Ned’s talent was never seriously questioned by them. He had settled down as a regular half-back on the scrub eleven, although twice he had been called on in practice scrimmages to take Mason’s place at left half on the first squad. He was too light to make much headway in bucking plays, and his inability to start quickly handicapped him frequently in running; but as a kicker he was dependable and had developed a quite remarkable accuracy at forward passing. Against a light opponent or a slow one he could be counted on to play a fairly good game, although so far he had not been allowed the opportunity. With him on the scrub team was Hop Kendrick at quarter, and,for a time, Kewpie at center. But Kewpie had trained down at last to a hundred and sixty-five pounds and was handling his weight and bulk with a new snappiness, and a few days after Ned became a part of the scrub outfit Kewpie was elevated to the first team, and a much disgruntled Holmes took his place on the second.
With the defeat of Wagner School, Hillman’s ended her preliminary season. In that contest, played at home, the Blue showed a new aggressiveness and much more speed; and, while she was able to score only one touch-down, and Pope failed miserably at goal, every one was well satisfied. Wagner had a strong team, and a victory over it was no small triumph. Hillman’s line held splendidly under the battering-ram tactics of the adversary, and her backs were fast and shifty. On attack, the Blue failed to gain consistently; but in the third period, with a captured fumble on Wagner’s thirty-three yards for encouragement, Pope got free for half the distance, and Slavin and Mason, alternating, worked the enemy’s left side until the ball lay on the five-yard line. Then a fake attack on Wagner’s right, with Pope carrying the ball through on the left of center, brought the only score of the day. Kewpie proved himself that afternoon, for he was a veritable Rock of Gibraltar on defense and a hundred and sixty-five pounds of steel springs on attack. The Blue team was far from a perfectmachine yet, but it seemed that Mulford had found his parts and that only a generous oiling was needed.
Laurie and George Watson escorted Polly and Mae Ferrand to the game, and, although aware of the covert grins and whispered witticisms of acquaintances, enjoyed themselves hugely. Mae proved to be a very jolly, wholesome sort of girl, and her knowledge of what may be termed “inside football” was stupendous and made both Laurie and George rather ashamed of their ignorance. Between the halves, Ned, arrayed in a trailing gray blanket, joined them and promptly became involved with Mae in a very technical argument that no one else could follow. From the fact that Ned retired with a rather dispirited expression when the teams came on again, Laurie surmised that the honors had gone to Mae.
The following Monday evening, while the enthusiasm produced by the victory over Wagner School was still undiminished, a second mass-meeting was held in the auditorium to devise means of replenishing the football treasury: Three of the remaining five games were to be played away from Orstead, and in two cases the distance to be traveled was considerable and the expenses consequently large. As Joe Stevenson said, introducing the subject for discussion, if Hillman’s charged admission to her home games, it would be possible to get through a season withoutasking for assistance from the student body. “But you fellows know that that isn’t the school policy. We are allowed to sell tickets for the Farview game only, and, while we make about four hundred and fifty dollars as our share, that doesn’t go very far against the season’s outlay. We have to pay from seventy-five to a hundred and twenty-five dollars to every team that comes here to play us. When we go away we seldom make enough to pay our expenses. In the Highland game, because it cost us almost nothing for fares, we did. At the present moment we have a cash balance on hand of forty-three dollars, and our liabilities, including Mr. Mulford’s salary for the remainder of the season, are about eight hundred dollars.
“The manager estimates that we’ll have to incur added expenses for about a hundred and twenty dollars for Farview game tickets and new supplies. In short, we shall have to pay out, before the season ends, about nine hundred dollars. Against that we have on hand forty-three dollars, and in prospect something like five hundred, leaving us about three hundred and fifty in the hole.
“There has been talk of cutting out the Lansing and Whittier games, but that wouldn’t make enough difference. Besides, it would give us a black eye to cancel games as late as this. We might save perhaps seventy dollars if we did,but it would cost us ten times that in public estimation. As far as I can see, fellows, if we’re going to have a football team, we’ve got to pay for it. We’ve asked permission to charge admission, even a nominal one, to all games, but the faculty is against it. And we have asked to have a regular assessment made against each student. To many of us that would seem the fairer and most satisfactory way of meeting the emergency. But the faculty doesn’t like that any better than the other proposition. So I guess it’s up to us, each and every one of us, to dig down and produce the coin.
“We need three hundred and fifty dollars at least. That means that every fellow in school must pony up four dollars, or, rather, that the average must be four dollars each. Some of you can’t give so much, probably, and a few can give more. I’d like to hear from you, please. Don’t be afraid to say what you think. We want to get together on this matter and thrash it out, if it takes until ten o’clock. Any one who has any suggestion to offer or anything to say will be heard. Come on, somebody!”
There were plenty of speakers: Dave Brewster, the baseball captain, Dan Whipple, senior class president, Lew Cooper, upper middle class president, Dave Murray, the manager of the team, Craig Jones, for the lower middlers, and many others, Some subscribed to the donation scheme,others opposed it. Cooper suggested an appeal to the school alumni. Brewster pointed out that the effort would cost money and that the result would be uncertain and, in any case, slow. An increase in the price of tickets to the Farview game was discussed and the idea abandoned. An hour passed and the meeting was getting nowhere. Some of the younger boys had already withdrawn. A tall, lantern-jawed youth had charged the football committee with extravagance, and Dave Murray had bitterly resented the allegation. Ned, who, with Laurie and Lee Murdock, was seated near the back of the hall, had shown signs of restiveness for some time and had been muttering to himself. Now, to the surprise of his companions, he jumped to his feet and demanded recognition:
“Mr. Chairman!”
“Mister—” Dan Whipple pointed a finger at Ned and nodded.
“Turner,” prompted Kewpie from a front seat.
“Mr. Turner,” encouraged the chairman.
“I’d like to say that I never heard so much talking and saw so little action,” began Ned, impatiently. “What’s the matter with some one saying something useful instead of just chewing the rag?”
“You tell ’em,” piped a small junior, above the applause and laughter.
“All right! I’ll tell you fellows that you’rea lot of pikers to hesitate to pledge three or four hundred dollars to keep your team going. Where I come from we had to have a new grand stand two years ago, and we called a meeting like this and we raised seven hundred dollars in thirty-five minutes in cash and pledges. There were a lot more of us, but half of us would have felt like Rockefellers if we’d ever found a whole half-dollar in our pockets! Some of us gave as high as five dollars, but not many. Most of us pledged two dollars; and those who didn’t have two dollars went out and worked until they’d made it, by jingo! And we got our grand stand up inside of two weeks, in time for the big baseball game.”
There was real applause this time, and those in the front of the hall had swung around to have a look at the earnest youth who was calling them names.
“That’s one way of getting the money,” continued Ned, warming up finely, “but there’s another. Out my way—”
“Say, where do you come from?” called some one.
“I come from California,” answered Ned, proudly. “Maybe you’ve heard of it!”
“Attaboy!” shouted Kewpie. “Swing your leg, Nid!”
“When we want to raise some money out there and folks are too stingy to give it outright, wetake it away from them another way. We get up a fête. We give them a good time and they pay for it. Why not try it here? I don’t know how many folks there are in this burg, but I reckon there are enough to part with three or four hundred dollars. Give them an excuse to spend their money and they’ll spend it!”
Ned sat down amid loud applause, and Dave Brewster was recognized, although half a dozen others were clamoring for speech.
“Turner’s said something, fellows,” declared Brewster. “The idea’s worth considering. We’ve never tackled the town folks for money, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t come across. They’ve come to our games for years without paying a cent, except for the Farview game, and it wouldn’t hurt them to give a little to a good cause. I don’t know what sort of a fête Turner has in mind, but I should think we might get up something that would do the business.”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Kewpie, “I move that a committee of three be appointed by the chair, to include Nid,—I mean Mr. Turner,—to consider the—the matter of giving a fête to raise the money.”
“Seconded!”
“You have heard the motion,” droned Whipple. “All those in favor will so signify by saying ‘Aye.’ Contrary, ‘No.’ Moved and carried. Iwill appoint the presidents of the senior and upper middle classes and Mr. Turner to the committee, three in all. Is it the sense of this meeting that your committee is to report to it at a subsequent meeting, or is it to have authority to proceed with the matter if it decides that the scheme is a good one?”
“Full authority, Mr. Chairman!” “Let ’em go ahead with it!” “Sure! That’s what we want. Let’s have action!”
“Is there any other business? Then I declare the meeting adjourned!”
Whipple captured Ned on the way out. “We’d better get together right away on this, Turner,” he said. “Can you meet Cooper and me at my room to-morrow at twelve?”
Ned agreed, and he and Laurie and Lee went on. “What I’d like to know,” remarked Laurie, after a moment’s silence, “is how you’re going to have a fête in a place like this. The weather’s too cold for it.”
“Maybe it will be warmer,” answered Ned, cheerfully. “Besides, we don’t have to have it outdoors.”
“It wouldn’t be a fête if you didn’t,” sniffed the other.
“Well, what’s the difference? Call it anything you like. The big thing is to get the money.”
“You had your cheek with you to talk the way you did,” chuckled Laurie.
“He talked sense, though,” asserted Lee, warmly.
“Of course. The Turners always do.” Laurie steered Ned toward the entrance of East Hall. “Well, good night, Lee. See you at the fête!”
Upstairs, Ned tossed his cap to the bed, plumped himself into a chair at the table, and drew paper and pencil to him. “Now,” he said, “let’s figure this out. I’ve got to talk turkey to those fellows to-morrow. What’s your idea, partner?”
“Hey, where do you get that stuff?” demanded Laurie. “Why drag me into it? It’s not my fête. I don’t own it.”
“Shut up and sit down there before I punch your head. You’ve got to help with this. The honor of the Turners is at stake!”
So Laurie subsided and for more than an hour he and Ned racked their brains and gradually the plan took shape.
“It’s like this,” explained Ned. He and Laurie and Polly and Mae Ferrand were in the little garden behind the shop. The girls were on the bench and the boys were seated on the turf before the arbor, their knees encircled with their arms. A few yards away Antoinette eyed them gravely and twitched her nose. On the porch step, Towser, the big black cat, blinked benignly, sometimes shifting his gaze to the branches of the maple in the next yard, where an impudent black-and-white woodpecker was seeking a late luncheon.
“There are two sub-committees,” continued Ned, earnestly. “Whipple and Cooper are the Committee on Finance and Publicity, and Laurie and I are the Committee on Arrangements. I told them I had to have help and so they took Laurie in.”
“No thanks to you,” grumbled Laurie, who was, however, secretly much pleased.
“It’s going to be next Saturday afternoon and evening, and this is Tuesday, and so there isn’t much time. We were afraid to make it any laterbecause the weather might get too cold. Besides, the team needs the money right off. I looked in an almanac and it said that next Saturday would be fair and warm, so that’s all right.”
“But don’t you think almanacs make mistakes sometimes?” asked Polly. “I know ours does. When we had our high-school picnic, the almanac said ‘showers’ and it was a perfectly gorgeous day. I carried my mackintosh around all day and it was a perfect nuisance. Don’t you remember, Mae?”
“Well, you’ve got to believe in something,” declared Ned. “Anyway, we’re going to have it at Bob Starling’s, and if it’s too cold outdoors, we’ll move inside.”
“You mean at Uncle Peter’s?” exclaimed Polly.
“Yes. We thought of having it at school first, but Mr. Hillman didn’t like it much; and besides, the fellows would be inside without having to pay to get there! You see, it’s going to cost every one a quarter just to get in.”
“And how much to get out?” asked Mae, innocently.
Ned grinned. “As much as we can get away from them. There’ll be twelve booths to sell things in—”
“What sort of things?” Polly inquired.
“All sorts. Eats and drinks and everything. We’re getting the storekeepers to donate things. So far they’ve just given us things that theyhaven’t been able to sell, a pile of junk; but we’re going to stop that. Biddle, the hardware man, gave us a dozen cheap pocket-knives, but he’s got to come across again. We’ve been to only eight of them so far, but we haven’t done so worse. Guess we’ve got enough truck for one booth already. And then there’ll be one of them for a rummage sale. We’re going to get each of the fellows to give us something for that, and I’ll bet we’ll have a fine lot of truck. Each booth will represent a college and be decorated in the proper colors: Yale, Harvard, Princeton, and so on. And—and now it’s your turn, Laurie.”
“Yes, I notice that I always have to do the dirty work,” said the other. He hugged his knees tighter, rolled over on his back for inspiration, and, when he again faced his audience on the bench, smiled his nicest. “Here’s where you girls come in,” he announced. “We want you two to take two of the booths and get a girl for each of the others. Want to?”
“Oh, it would be darling!” cried Polly.
“I’d love to!” said Mae.
“Only—”
“Only—”
“Only what!” asked Ned, as the girls viewed each other doubtfully.
“I’m not sure Mother would let me,” sighed Polly. “Do you think she would, Mae?”
“I don’t believe so. And I don’t believe Mama would let me. She—she’s awfully particular that way.”
“Gee!” said Ned, in disappointed tones, “I don’t see why not! It isn’t as if—”
“Of course it isn’t,” agreed Laurie. “Besides, your mothers would be there too!”
“Would they?” asked Mae, uncertainly.
“Of course! Every one’s coming! What harm would there be in it? You can do things for—for charity that you can’t do any other time! All you’d have to do would be to just stand behind the booth and sell things. It won’t be hard. Everything will have the price marked on it and—”
“You won’t need to go by the prices always, though,” interpolated Ned. “I mean, if you can get more than the thing is marked, you’d better do it! And then there’s the—the costumes, Laurie.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. We’d like each girl to sort of wear something that would sort of match the college she represented—sort of,” he explained apologetically. “If you had the Yale booth, you could wear a dark-blue waist, and so on. Do you think that would be possible?”
Polly giggled. “We might ask Stella Hatch to take the Harvard booth, Mae. With her hair, she wouldn’t have to dress much!”
“And you and Polly could take your first pick,”observed Laurie, craftily. “You’d look swell as—as Dartmouth, Mae!”
“Ingreen! My gracious, Ned! No, thank you! But Polly ought to be Yale. She looks lovely in blue. I think I’d like to be Cornell. My brother Harry’s in Cornell.”
“All right,” agreed Ned. “I wish you’d ask your mothers soon, will you? Do try, because we’ve just got to get girls for the booths. You’d have lots of fun, too. The Banjo and Mandolin Club is going to play for dancing for an hour at five and nine, and there’ll be an entertainment, too.”
“What sort?” asked Polly.
“We don’t know yet. Some of the gymnastic team will do stunts, I think, for one thing, and there’ll be singing and maybe Laurie will do some rope-swinging—”
“I told you a dozen times I wouldn’t! Besides, I haven’t any rope.”
“We can find one, probably,” replied his brother, untroubled. “We haven’t settled about the entertainment yet. And there are two or three other things we haven’t got to. Starling’s going to have his garden all fixed up, and he’s going to cover the old arbor with branches and hang Chinese lanterns in it and have little tables and chairs there for folks to sit down and eat ice-cream and cake.
“And that reminds me, Polly. Do you supposethat Miss Comfort would make some cakes for us?”
“Why, yes, Nid, but—but you’d have tobuythem. I don’t think you ought to expect her todonatethem.”
“We meant to buy them, of course, Polly. And we wondered if your mother would make some of those dandy cream-puffs.”
“I’m sure she will. How many would you want?”
“I don’t know. You see, there’s no way of telling how many will come. There are three thousand people in Orstead, but that doesn’t mean much, does it? The ‘Messenger’ editor’s agreed to put in an advertisement for us for nothing, and there’ll be notices all around town in the windows: we got the man who prints the school monthly to do them for just the cost of the paper. So folks ought to come, shouldn’t you think?”
“Oh, I’m sure they will!” agreed Polly, and Mae echoed her. “But it’ll be dreadfully hard to know how much cake and ice-cream and refreshments to order, won’t it?”
“Fierce,” agreed Ned. “I suppose the best way will be to reckon on, say, three hundred and order that much stuff. Only, how do you tell how much three hundred will eat?”
“Why, you can’t! Besides, Nid, three hundred people would only bring in seventy-five dollars!”
“In admissions, yes; but we’ve got to make them buy things when we get them in there. If every one spent a dollar inside—”
“But lots of them won’t. Do you think they will, Mae?”
Mae shook her head. “No, I don’t. Lots and lots will just come out of curiosity and won’t spend a cent. I know, boys, because that’s the way they act at the fairs here.”
Ned kicked at the turf gloomily. “Gee, that’s fierce!” he muttered.
“Well, we’d ought to get more than three hundred folks,” said Laurie. “Remember, it’s to be afternoon and evening too. I’ll bet there’ll be nearer six hundred than three.”
Ned brightened. “That’s so. And six hundred, even if they only averaged fifty cents apiece, would be three hundred dollars. And I guess if we can make three hundred, we can dig up the other fifty! Well, we’ve got to get busy, Laurie. I got them to give me a cut from practice this afternoon and I’ll have to make the most of my time,” he explained to the girls.
“Oh! And did they let you off, too, Nod?” asked Polly.
“No, we’re through with baseball,” Laurie answered. “No more till spring. I’m just fairly broken-hearted!”
“When will you know about helping us, Polly?” Ned asked.
“But don’t you think almanacs make mistakes sometimes?” asked Polly“But don’t you think almanacs make mistakes sometimes?” asked Polly
“I’ll ask Mother right away; and you’ll ask, too, won’t you, Mae? Can you stop in this evening? I do hope it’ll be all right!”
“So do we!” said Ned and Laurie, in a breath. “Rather!”
And the Committee on Arrangements hurried away.
That night the committee met again in Dan Whipple’s room in West Hall and satisfactory progress was reported all along the line. Ned read a list of donations from the town merchants, and announced that twelve young ladies from the high school would be on hand, appropriately attired, to take charge of the booths. Lew Cooper showed proofs of the poster that was to be displayed in windows and tacked on posts and fences, and of the four-inch, double-column advertisement to appear in the “Messenger.” Dan reported that Mr. Wells, the physical director, had promised to see that the best six members of the gymnastic team should exhibit afternoon and evening.
“That means, though,” he said, “that we’ll have to have some kind of a platform. Better make a note of that, Lew.”
“Platforms cost money,” answered Lew, dubiously. “Maybe we can borrow—I’ll tell you what! There’s one stored over in the field-house, one they use to set the dressing-tent on. It’s in two pieces,—sections,—but I guess it’s bigenough. We’ll see if we can’t get the use of it.”
“Good! Better ask Mr. Wells, Say, Hal, did you see Norris?”
Hal Pringle was Dan’s room-mate, and, while he was usually present at the meetings, he was careful to keep himself in the background unless called on for advice. Now he looked up from his book and nodded. “Yes, it ’a all right. They’ll play for an hour in the afternoon and an hour at night. I had to promise them eats, though.”
“Of course. Much obliged. Speaking of eats, fellows, what’s been done about the refreshments?”
“Nothing yet,” answered Ned. “I wanted to talk that over. How many sandwiches and how much salad will we want? And how many gallons of ice-cream and—”
“Whoa!” begged Dan. “Blessed if I know! How the dickens are we going to know how much food will be needed? What’s the rule about it? Or isn’t there any?”
“Depends on how many will attend the show,” said Lew. “Find that out—”
“How’re we going to find it out, you chump? How many do you suppose we can count on, Ned?”
“Maybe six hundred,” was the answer. “But if it should rain—”
“There you are! If it rained, we mightn’tget two hundred! I’ll say that’s a problem. We’d be in a fine fix if we found ourselves with two or three freezers of ice-cream on our hands and a lot of other truck. Look here, Tabby might know. Suppose you ask her, Ned. We’ve got to have enough and not too much.”
“It’ll be all right about the ice-cream,” said Laurie. “The man said we could return what we didn’t open if we got it back that night so he could pack it over. But the other things—”
“You talk to Tabby in the morning,” repeated Dan. “She’ll know if any one does. Now what else? What about the entertainment part of it, Mr. Chairman of the Committee on Arrangements? What have you got in mind besides the gymnastics?”
“We thought we might find some one who could sing or dance. But we don’t know many of the fellows.”
“Bully! There’s Cheesman, Lew. He’s a corker. And Kewpie isn’t so bad. He sings a funny song mighty well.”
“He couldn’t sing it in the afternoon, though, Dan: he’d be at the field.”
“That’s so! still, the game ought to be finished by four. We wouldn’t have the entertainment part until late, would we?”
“About four, I thought,” said Ned, “but Kewpie could come last. I’ll put him down, anyway.”
“Anything else besides songs?” asked Dan.
“Yes, only-” Ned dropped his voice and glanced at Pringle—“only it’s got to be kept a secret to make good.”
“Oh, Hal’s all right. He’s a sort of ex-officio member of the committee. Shoot, Ned!”
Four hectic days followed. To Laurie, since Ned was held for two hours each afternoon at the football field, fell most of the duties of the Committee on Arrangements, and he was a very busy youth. He badgered shopkeepers into parting with goods to be sold at the booths, helped Bob Starling trim up the old arbor in the garden of the Coventry place, made frequent trips to the Or stead caterer’s, engaged eight cakes from Miss Comfort and twelve dozen cream-puffs from the Widow Deane, spent two hours Wednesday helping Lew and Hal Pringle distribute posters throughout the village, and attended to a hundred other matters between-times. Of course, Ned aided when he could, and was helpful with advice and unfailing in suggestions; but recitations and football practice didn’t leave him much time, even though he conscientiously arose a full hour earlier every morning that week, and skimped studying so much that he got in trouble with three instructors in one day!
Miss Tabitha had proved as helpful as Dan Whipple had predicted. She had shaken her headat the idea of entertaining six hundred at the fête. “You mustn’t count on more than half that many,” she said. “I dare say all the boys will go, and they’ll make ninety. Then, if you get two hundred of the townsfolk, you’ll be doing very nicely. Don’t decide how much salad or how many sandwiches you want until Saturday morning. So much will depend on the weather. Even if you hold the affair indoors, lots of folks won’t come if it rains. You say you’ve ordered eight cakes from Martha Comfort and twelve dozen cream-puffs from Mrs. Deane?”
“Yes’m,” said Ned. “We wanted Mrs. Deane to make more, but she didn’t think she could.”
“Well, that’s a hundred and fourty-four cream-puffs, and—let me see—one of Miss Comfort’s cakes will cut into sixteen pieces, and eight times sixteen—”
“A hundred and twenty-eight, ma’am.”
“Well, and a hundred and twenty-eight and a hundred and forty-four—”
“Two hundred and seventy-two.”
“You’re real quick at figures, aren’t you? Seems as if, though, counting on three hundred, you’d be a little short. I’ll have Aunt Persis make one of her marble-cakes. That’ll help out, I guess.”
“Yes’m; thanks awfully,” answered Ned.
“Who is going to serve the refreshments?”
“Why—why—” Ned’s face fell. “I guess we hadn’t thought of that!”
“Well, it makes a heap of difference, because you can make a quart of ice-cream serve ten people or twenty, just as you’ve a mind to. I usually count on sixteen. Same way with a loaf of cake, and same way with salad. It’s awfully easy to waste salad when you’re serving it. Now, if you’d like me to, Ned, I’ll attend to serving everything for you. You just have the things set down there and I’ll look after them.”
“Oh, Miss Hillman, if you would! Gee, that would be great! It—it’ll be a lot of trouble, though, ma’am.”
“Well, I guess it won’t be the first trouble I’ve seen,” replied Miss Tabitha, dryly; “nor it won’t be the last!”
Thursday afternoon Laurie hurried over to the Coventry place as soon as a two-o’clock recitation was done. Bob was awaiting him at the gate, and conducted him around to the back of the big square house. Ned stared in surprise. The tangle of trees and vines and shrubbery had been trimmed to orderly neatness, the long, unkempt grass had been shorn to a yellow, but respectable, turf, and the old arbor showed new strips where Thomas, the Starlings’ man, had been at work on the decrepit frame. Near at hand lay piles of cedar and hemlock branches.
“Dad got a couple of the men to cut thosedown near the tunnel and haul them up here.” Bob explained. “Thomas is going to help us put them up. He made a peachy job of the garden, didn’t he?”
“You bet!” responded Laurie, heartily. “I wouldn’t have known the place! I say, Bob, this arbor’s longer than I thought it was.”
“Forty feet, about. Why?”
“I only ordered six tables and a dozen chairs from the caterer,” answered Laurie, dubiously. “Guess they aren’t enough; but he’s charging twenty-five cents apiece for them—”
“Twenty-five cents for a table? Isn’t that dirt-cheap?”
“We’re only renting them, you idiot!”
“Oh, I see. Well, six is enough, I guess; you don’t want to crowd them. Now let’s get busy with the green stuff. I’ll yell down cellar for Thomas. There’s a ball of twine, and I’ve got two hammers and a lot of tacks on the side porch. You take your coat off and I’ll—”
“We’ll have to have a step-ladder, Bob!”
“There’s a short ladder right beside you. Be right back.”
Laurie sat down on a wheelbarrow, after removing his coat and folding back the sleeves of his shirt, and looked around him. The garden was fairly large—larger in appearance since the clutter of shrubbery along the sides had been cleared away. Along the School Park edge rana tall hedge of lilac bushes. At the back was the high board fence, painted dark brown, that separated the garden from the Widow Deane’s humble property. On the other side was a rusty ornamental iron fence, mostly hidden by vines. Broad walks, in spite of Thomas’s efforts rather overrun with weeds, surrounded the central plot of ancient turf, and another ran straight down the middle of the garden, connecting with the arbor. Wires were to be strung from the trees and across to the arbor, and Chinese lanterns hung thereon. Laurie, half closing his eyes, sought to visualize the place as it would appear on Saturday. He did want the affair to be a success, both financial and artistic, both on account of the school and—well, for the honor of the Turners! While he was musing, two things happened simultaneously: Bob and Thomas appeared from the house, and a familiar voice came to him from the opposite direction.
“Nod!” called the voice. “Nod, will you please come here a moment?”
Laurie’s eyes sought the board fence. Over the top of it appeared the head and shoulders of Polly. He left the wheelbarrow and hurried through the arbor and down the walk beyond. Polly’s face indicated distress, whether mental or physical Laurie couldn’t determine. But Polly’s first words explained.
“I can’t stay here l-long,” she said. “I—I’mjust hanging by my elbows. I cl-climbed up on a board, and it’s fallen down!”
“I’ll get you a ladder!” cried Laurie, gallantly.
“N-no, never mind. I’m going to drop in a s-second. I just want to ask you what Brown’s color is. Nettie Blanchard is going to be Brown and—”
“Why, brown, of course!”
“Oh!” There was the sound of desperate scraping against the farther side of the fence, and Polly’s countenance became fairly convulsed with the effort of holding herself in sight. “Oh! She said it was pur-pur—”
Polly disappeared. There was a thud from the next yard.
“Purple!” The word floated across to him, muffled but triumphant.
“Are you hurt, Polly?” he called anxiously.
“Not a bit,” was the rueful response, “but I’m afraid the day-lilies are!” Then she laughed merrily. “Thanks, Nod! I didn’t think Nettie was right. She loves purple, you see!”
“Does she? Well, say, maybe she can be Williams. We weren’t going to have Williams, but its color is purple, I think, and if she is going to be disappointed—”
“She will look very well indeed in brown,” came from the other side in judicial tones; “and if we begin making changes, half the girls will want to be something they aren’t. Why, Pearl Faylesbegged to be some girls’ college neither Mae nor I had ever heard of, just so she could wear lavender and pale lemon!”
“Well, all right,” laughed Laurie. “She’d better stick to Brown—and brown! Good-by, Polly. I’ll drop in after a while and find out how things are getting on.”
He turned to find Bob viewing him quizzically from the end of the arbor, swinging a hammer in each hand. “Of course it’s all right, I dare say,” he announced, “but Ithoughtyou came here to fix up the arbor. Instead of that I find you talking to girls over the fence!”
“There’s only one girl,” replied Laurie, with dignity, “and we were talking business.”
“Oh, of course! Sorry I interrupted.”
“You needn’t be, and you didn’t. Quit grinning like a simpleton and give me a hammer!”
“Right-o! Come on, Thomas! It’s quite all right now!”
An hour later their task was done, and well done, and they viewed it with approval. To be honest, the major part of the work had been performed by the faithful Thomas, although it is not to be denied that both Laurie and Bob toiled conscientiously. Before they were through approving the result from various angles, Bob’s father joined them. Mr. Starling was an older edition of Bob—a tall, straight, lean-visaged man of forty-two or -three, with the complexion of onewho had lived an outdoor life. He had a deep, pleasant voice and a quiet manner not fully in accord with a pair of keen eyes and a firm mouth.
“I’d call that a good piece of work, boys,” he said, as he joined them. “And right up to specifications, too. Those paper lanterns come yet, Bob?”
“No, sir; I haven’t seen them.”
“Lanterns, Mr. Starling?” asked Laurie. “Do you mean Chinese lanterns? We’ve ordered a lot from the caterer, sir.”
“Tell him you won’t need them, then. I’ve got a hundred coming up from the city, Turner. They ought to be here, too. Thomas, call up the express company and ask about them.”
“That’s very kind, sir,” said Laurie, “but you needn’t have done it. You—you’re doingeverything!”
“Nonsense! Bob and I want to do our part, of course. Well, this wilderness certainly looks different, doesn’t it? That reminds me, Bob; the agent writes me that we may ‘make such improvements to the property as we desire.’ So, as I consider the absence of that arbor an improvement, I guess you can pull it down any time you like. I’m going to have a cup of tea, Turner. Will you join me? I believe there will be cakes, too.”
Laurie found Ned in rather a low frame of mind when he got back to Number 16 a half-hour before supper-time. Ned was hunched over a Latin bookand each hand held a firm grip on his hair. At Laurie’s arrival he merely grunted.
“Where does it pain you most?” asked Laurie, solicitously, subsiding into a chair with a weary sigh. Ned’s mood was far from flippant. He rewarded the other with a scowl, and bent his gaze on the book again. “Want to hear the latest news from the front?” persisted Laurie.
“No, I don’t!” his brother growled. “I’ve had all the news I can stand. Smug says that if I don’t get this rotten stuff by nine to-night, and make a perfect showing to-morrow, he will can me!”
“Mr. Cornish said that?” gasped Laurie. “What do you know about that? Why, I thought he was a gentleman!”
“He’s a—a brute! I can’t learn the old stuff! And I have a hunch that Mulford means to give me a try in the Loring game Saturday. And if I don’t get this, Cornish will fix it so I can’t play. He as good as said so.”
“Didn’t you tell him you’d been busy with the fête and everything?”
“Of course I did. Much he cared! Just made a rotten pun. Said I’d better keep my own fate in mind. Puns are fearfully low and vulgar!”
“Aren’t they? How much of that have you got?”
“Six pages. I—I’ve sort of neglected it the last two days. Some fellows can fake through,but I don’t have any luck. He’s always picking on me.”
Laurie whistled expressively. “Six pages! Well, never say die, partner. We’ll get down to supper early, and that’ll give us two hours before nine.”
“Us?” questioned Ned, hopefully.
“Sure. I’ll give you a hand. As the well-known proverb so wisely remarks, two heads are the shortest way home.”
Ned grinned, and stopped tormenting his hair. “Honest? That’s mighty decent, Laurie. I’ll do as much for you some day.”
“Hope you won’t have to. Wash your dirty face and let’s beat it!”
At half-past nine a more cheerful and much relieved Ned returned from the hall master’s study. “All right,” he announced to an anxious Laurie. “He was rather decent, too. Said he guessed that, in view of the manifold affairs engaging my attention just now,—you know the crazy way he talks,—he wouldn’t demand too much from me. Reckon he means to let me down easy to-morrow, eh?”
“Maybe, partner, and maybe not. Take my advice and, in the words of the Scouts, be prepared!”
Friday was a hectic day for Laurie and all others concerned with the fête. Difficulties that had remained in ambush all the week sprang outand confronted them at the last moment. Half a dozen things had been forgotten, and every member of the committee sought to exonerate himself. Tempers were short and the meeting in Dan Whipple’s room at nine o’clock was far from harmonious. All went to bed that night firmly convinced that the affair was doomed to be a flat failure. And, to add to that conviction, the night sky was overcast and an unsympathetic easterly wind was blowing. Ned, conscious of having imposed too many duties on Laurie, was grouchy and silent; and Laurie, convinced that he had been made a “goat” of, and that Ned was secretly blaming him for mistakes and omissions that were no fault of his, retired in high dudgeon.
And yet, the morning dawned fair and warm, with an almost cloudless blue sky over the world, and life looked very different indeed. Ned arose whistling, and Laurie somehow knew that everything would be all right. Fortunately, they had but two recitations on Saturday, and in consequence there remained to them three whole hours before dinner to devote to the affairs of the entertainment. They were busy hours, you may be sure. If Ned hurried downtown once, he hurried there half a dozen times; while Laurie, seated beside the driver of a rickety express-wagon, rounded up all kinds of things, from the platform at the field-house to the cakes at Miss Comfort’s.Dinner brought a respite; but as soon as it was over, Laurie was back on the job, while Ned joined the football-players.
Of course, what the Hillman’s School football team should have done that afternoon was to score a decisive victory over the visiting eleven. What it did do was to get thoroughly worsted. Loring was something of a surprise, with a heavier line and a faster bunch of backs than Hillman’s had expected. And Loring knew a lot of football, and proved the fact early in the game. At half-past two, by which time the second period was half over, the result was a foregone conclusion. Loring had scored two touch-downs and as many goals therefrom, and the Blue had never once threatened the adversary’s last white line. Gains through the opponent were infrequent and short, even Pope, who could generally be depended on to tear off a few yards when the worst came to the worst, failing dismally.
In mid-field, Mason and Slavin made some stirring advances around the Loring wings, and there were several successful forward passes to the home team’s credit; but, once past Loring’s thirty-yard line, Hillman’s seemed powerless. The third quarter went scoreless, and in the fourth, realizing doubtless that defeat was certain, Coach Mulford used his substitutes lavishly. Ned made his first appearance on the big team in that period, taking Mason’s place for some eight of the fifteenminutes. He did neither better nor worse than the other second- and third-string fellows, perhaps—although, when Pope was taken out and Deering substituted at full-back, he did his share of the punting and performed very creditably. But that fourth period gave Loring an opportunity to add to her score, and she seized it. Even with several substitutes in her own line-up, she was still far better than Hillman’s, and a goal from the field and, in the last few moments of the game, a third touch-down, resulted.
The Blue fought desperately and gamely with her back to the wall, in an effort to stave off that last score; but eventually Holmes, who had taken Kewpie’s place at center, weakened, and the Loring back piled through. The final score was 23 to 0, and what two hours before had been looked on as a victory or, at the worst, a tie, had become a cataclysm! Humiliated, if not disgraced, the home-team players trailed to the field-house with hanging heads, averting their eyes from the sight of Loring’s triumphal march around the gridiron.
Behold Fairyland!
Well, at least an excellent imitation of what Fairyland must look like. Overhead, a clear, star-sprinkled sky; below, scores of gaily-hued lanterns shedding their soft glow over a charming scene. Through the side gate, please, on School Park. Twenty-five cents to the boy on duty there, and you are inside, with the manifold attractions awaiting you. On three sides of the transformed garden are the college booths, each decked with bunting and flags of appropriate colors, and each presided over by a patriotically attired young lady who will gladly, nay, eagerly, sell you almost anything from a cake of soap (“Donated by the Town Square Pharmacy, H. J. Congreve, Prop’r.”) to a knitted sweater or a gingham house-dress (“Compliments of The New York Store, High Class Dry Goods”). Near at hand, Yale is represented by Miss Polly Deane, capped and aproned in blue, her eyes sparkling and her voice sweetly insistent: “Won’t you buy something, please, sir? Post-cards, two for five! These pictures are only fifty cents, all beautifullyframed and ready for hanging! Can I sell you something, ma’am?”
Beyond, gay with orange and black, is the Princeton booth; and still beyond, Dartmouth and Columbia and California; and then, a blur of brilliant crimson through the leafage, Harvard. And so on all around the garden, with merry voices sounding above the chatter of the throng that moves here and there. Down the center of Fairyland runs a leafy tunnel from within which blue and red and yellow and green rays twinkle. There, under the hanging lanterns, little tables and chairs are dotted on the gravel, and half a dozen aproned youths are busy bearing, not always without mishap, plates of salad and rolls and dishes of ice-cream and cake. Close to the back of the house is a platform illumined by a row of electric lights, the one glaring spot in the area of soft radiance.
“How’s it going?” asked a heavily-built youth of a slimmer one who had paused at the entrance to the arbor.
“Hello, Kewpie! Oh, bully, so far. We took in eighty-four dollars this afternoon, and we’ll do at least twice as well to-night. They’re still coming. Have you seen Whipple anywhere?”
“Yes, a minute ago, down at the Pennsylvania booth. She’s a mighty pretty girl, too, Nod. I bought a pocket-knife of her for a quarter, and got stung; but I don’t mind. I’m going back toget another pretty soon. When do I have to sing again?”
“You follow Wilson’s clog-dance. We’re switching you and Cheesman, Kewpie. His stuff is corking, but it’s pretty high-brow, and we thought you’d better bring up the end and make the audience feel cheerful.”
“All right; but it won’t feel very cheerful if those orchestra guys don’t do better than they did this afternoon. They were four or five notes behind me once! Nid said you had a new stunt this evening—something you left out this afternoon.”
“Yes; we couldn’t work it in daylight very well. It ought to go fine to-night, though.”
“What is it?”
“You wait and see. I’ve got to find Whipple. Say, if you see Ned, tell him I’ll be at the platform in five minutes and want him to meet me there. Everybody keeps getting lost here!”
On the way past the arbor, Laurie ran into George Watson, returning across lots balancing a couple of plates in one hand and holding a large slab of cake in the other, from which he nibbled as he went. “Hello!” he said, none too distinctly. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Wanted to bring me refreshments, I suppose.”
George looked at the empty plates, laughed, and shook his head. “Not exactly. I’ve been feeding Cornell.Somebody ought to take eats to those girls, Nod; they’re starving!”
“All right; you do it.”
“What do you think I am? A millionaire? I bought Mae a salad and an ice-cream, and I’m about broke. Lend me a half, will you? Thanks. Want an ice-cream? I’ll treat.”
“No, thanks. Have you seen Dan Whipple?”
“Sure! He’s over at the Pennsylvania booth, buying it out! Say, everything’s going great, isn’t it? Couldn’t have had a finer evening, either, what? Well, see you later. I’m hungry!” And George continued his way to the house, where Miss Tabitha, surrounded by willing and hungry helpers, presided sternly, but most capably, over the refreshments.
At eight o’clock the boy on duty at the entrance estimated the attendance as close to two hundred, which, added to the eighty-six paid admissions before supper, brought the total close to the first estimate of three hundred. It is safe to say that every Hillman’s boy attended the fête either in the afternoon or evening, and that most of the faculty came and brought Mrs. Faculty—when there was a Mrs. Faculty. Doctor Hillman was spied by Laurie purchasing a particularly useless and unlovely article in burnt wood from the auburn-haired Miss Hatch. Every one seemed to be having a good time, and the only fly in the ointment of the committee was the likelihoodthat the refreshments would be exhausted far too soon.
The Weather Man had kindly provided an evening of exceptional warmth, with scarcely enough breeze to sway the paper lanterns that glowed from end to end of the old garden, an evening so warm that ice-cream was more in demand than sandwiches or salad; and fortunately so, since ice-cream was the one article of refreshment that could be and was replenished. If, said Ned, folks would stick to ice-cream and go light on the other refreshments, they might get through. To which Laurie agreed, and Ned hied him to the telephone and ordered another freezer sent up.
At a few minutes after eight the Banjo and Mandolin Club took possession of the chairs behind the platform and dashed into a military march. Following that, six picked members of the Gymnastic Club did some very clever work, and Cheesman, a tall and rather soulful-looking upper middler, sang two ballads very well indeed, and then, as an encore, quite took the joy out of life with “Suwanee River”! Little Miss Comfort, present through the courtesy of the Committee on Arrangements, sniffled quite audibly, but was heard to declare that “it was just too sweet for anything!” A rather embarrassed junior attempted some card tricks that didn’t go very well, and then Wilson, garbed more or less in the character of an Irish gentleman returning fromDonnybrook Fair, and swinging a shillaly, did some jig-dancing that was really clever and won much applause.
There was a brief unofficial intermission while three anxious committee members made search for Kewpie Proudtree. He was presently discovered consuming his fourth plate of ice-cream in the seclusion of the side porch, and was haled away, protesting, to the platform. In spite of what may seem an over-indulgence in refreshment, Kewpie was in excellent voice and a jovial mood, and sang four rollicking songs in a manner that captured his audience. In fact, long after Kewpie had vanished from the public gaze and returned to his ice-cream, the audience still demanded more.
Its attention was eventually captured, however, by Dan Whipple, who announced importantly that it gave him much pleasure to say that, at a great expense, the committee had secured as an added attraction the world-famed Signor Duodelli, who, with their kind permission, would exhibit for their pleasure and astoundment his miraculous act known as the Vanishing Man, as performed before the crowned heads of Europe, to the bewilderment and applause of all beholders. “Ladies and gentlemen, Signor Duodelli!”
The Signor had a noticeable likeness to Lew Cooper, in spite of his gorgeous mustache and flowing robe of red and purple cheese-cloth.Yet it might not have been Lew, for his manner was extremely foreign and his gestures and the few words he used in directing the arranging of his “properties” were unmistakably Latin. The properties consisted of a kitchen chair, a threefold screen covered with black baize, and a coil of rope. There was also in evidence a short wand, but the Signor held that in his hand, waving it around most eloquently. The audience laughed and applauded and waited patiently until the chair had been placed exactly to the Signor’s liking, close to the back of the platform, and the screen beside it. Previously several of the lights had been put out, and those that remained threw their glare on the front of the stage, leaving the back, while discernible, less in evidence.
“Now,” announced the Signor, narrowly escaping from falling off the platform as he tripped over his robe, “I aska da some one coma up and giva da help. Any one I aska. You, Signor, maybe, eh?” The magician pointed his wand at Mr. Cornish, in the front of the clustered audience; but the gentleman laughingly declined. The Signor seemed disappointed. “No-o-o? You no geta da hurt. Some one else, eh?” He looked invitingly around, and a small junior, urged by his companions, struggled to the front. Unfortunately for his ambitions to pose in the lime-light, the Signor’s glance had moved to another quarter, and, ere the junior could get his attention,a volunteer appeared from the semi-obscurity of the kitchen porch. He was peculiarly attired, wearing a simple white garment having a strong resemblance to the old-fashioned night-shirt, that covered him completely from neck to ankles. He was bareheaded, revealing the fact that his locks were red-brown in hue.
“Ah!” exclaimed the Signor, delightedly. “You will helpa me,si? Right thisa way, Signor. I thanka you!”
“That’s one of the Turner fellows,” muttered a boy, while the small junior and his companions called “Fake!” loudly. However, the good-natured laughter of the audience drowned the accusation, and some two hundred pairs of eyes watched amusedly and expectantly while, with the assistance of two other volunteers, the youth in the white robe was tied securely to the chair.
“Maka him tight,” directed the Signor, enthusiastically, waving his wand. “Pulla da knot. Ha, thata da way! Good! Signors, I thanka you!”
The two who had tied the victim to the chair retired from the platform. The Signor seized the screen and opened it wide and turned it around and closed it and turned it again.
“You seea?” he demanded. “There is nothing that deceive! Now, then, I placea da screen so!” He folded it around the boy and the chair, leaving only the side away from the audience uncovered.He drew away the width of the platform, and, “Music, ifa you please,” he requested. The orchestra, whose members had moved their chairs to one side, struck up a merry tune, and the Signor, folding his arms, bent a rapt gaze on the blank, impenetrable blackness of the screen. A brief moment passed. Then the Signor bade the music cease, took a step forward, and pointed to the screen.
“Away!” he cried, and swung his arm in a half-circle, his body following with a weird flaring of his brilliant robes until, with outstretched finger, he faced the audience. “Ha! He come! Thisa way, Signor! Comea quick!”
As one man the audience turned and followed the pointing finger. Through the deserted arbor came a boy in a white garment. He pushed his way through the throng and jumped to the stage. As he did so, the Signor whisked aside the screen. There was the chair empty, and there was the rope dangling from it, twisted and knotted.