Christmas gold, p.462
Christmas Gold, page 462
"The trousers?—why"—
Granny held up the beautiful jacket. There was nothing else in the paper.
"Why—he's made a mistake. He never put them in, I am sure."
"You couldn't have lost 'em?" asked Granny mildly.
"Lost them—and the bundle tied with this strong twine! Now, that's mean! I'll have to run right back."
Off went Joe like a flash. He hardly drew a breath until his hand was on Mr. Brigg's door-knob.
"Well, what now, Joe?" asked the astonished Mr. Briggs.
"You didn't put in the trousers!"
"Didn't? Dan done 'em up. Dan!"
Dan emerged from a pile of rags under the counter, where he was taking a snooze.
"You didn't put in Joe's trousers."
"Yes I did."
"No you didn't," said Joe, with more promptness than politeness.
Dan began to search. A sleepy-looking, red-headed boy, to whom Saturday night was an abomination, because his father was always in the drag, and cross.
"I'm sure I put 'em in. Every thing's gone, and they ain't here."
"Look sharp, you young rascal!"
"He has lost 'em out."
"Lost your grandmother!" said Joe contemptuously; "or the liberty pole out on the square! Why, the bundle was not untied until after I was in the house."
"Dan, if you don't find them trousers, I'll larrup you!"
Poor Dan. Fairly wide awake now, he went tumbling over every thing piled on the counter, searched the shelves, and every available nook.
"Somebody's stole 'em."
Dan made this announcement with a very blank face.
"I know better!" said his father.
"You are sure you made them, Mr. Briggs," asked Joe.
"Sure!" in a tone that almost annihilated both boys.
"If you don't find 'em!" shaking his fist at Dan.
Dan began to blubber.
Joe couldn't help laughing. "Let me help you look," he said.
Down went a box of odd buttons, scattering far and wide.
"You Dan!" shouted his father, with some buttons in his mouth, that rendered his voice rather thick. "Just wait till I get at you. I have only six buttons to sew on."
"They're not here, Mr. Briggs," exclaimed Joe.
"Well, I declare! If that ain't the strangest thing! Dan, you've taken them trousers to the wrong place!"
A new and overwhelming light burst in upon Dan's benighted brain.
"That's it," said Joe. "Now, where have you taken them?"
"I swow!" ejaculated the youth, rubbing his eyes.
"None o' your swearin' in this place!" interrupted his father sternly. "I'm a strictly moral man, and don't allow such talk in my family."
"Tain't swearin'," mumbled Dan.
Mr. Briggs jumped briskly down from the board, with a pair of pantaloons in one hand, and a needle and thread in the other. Dan dodged round behind Joe.
"You took 'em over to Squire Powell's, I'll be bound!"
Another light was thrown in upon Dan's mental vision.
"There! I'll bet I did."
"Of course you did, you numskull! Start this minute and see how quick you can be gone."
"I will go with him," said Joe.
So the two boys started; and a run of ten minutes—a rather reluctant performance on Dan's part, it must be confessed—brought them to Squire Powell's. There was no light in the kitchen; but Joe beat a double tattoo on the door in the most scientific manner.
"Who's there?" asked a voice from the second story window.
"Dan Briggs!" shouted Joe.
"Guess not," said the squire. The sound was so unlike Dan's sleepy, mumbling tone.
"There was a mistake made in some clothes," began Joe, nothing daunted.
"Oh, that's it! I will be down in a minute."
Pretty soon the kitchen-door was unlocked, and the boys stepped inside.
"I didn't know but you sent these over for one of my girls," said the squire laughingly. "They were a leetle too small for me. So they belong to you, Joe?"
"Yes, sir," said Joe emphatically, laying hold of his precious trousers.
"Look sharper next time, Dan," was the squire's good advice.
"I wish you'd go home with me, Joe," said Dan, after they had taken a few steps. "Father'll larrup me, sure!"
"Maybe that will brighten your wits," was Joe's consoling answer.
"But, Joe—I'm sure I didn't mean to—and"—
"I'm off like a shot," appended Joe, suiting the action to the word; and poor Dan was left alone in the middle of the road.
"Why, what has happened, Joe?" said Granny as he bounced in the kitchen-door.
"Such a time as I've had to find 'them trousers,' as Mr. Briggs calls them! Dan had packed them off to Squire Powell's!"
"That Dan Briggs is too stupid for any thing," commented Florence.
"There's time to try them on yet," Joe exclaimed. "Just you wait a bit."
Joe made a rush into the other room.
"Don't wake up Dot," said Hal.
"Oh! I'll go as softly as a blind mouse."
"There, Granny, what do you think of that?"
"You want a collar and a necktie, and your hair brushed a little," said Florence with critical eyes.
"But aren't they stunners!"
Granny looked at him, turned him round and looked again, and her wrinkled face was all one bright smile. For he was so tall and manly in this long jacket, with its narrow standing collar, and the trousers that fitted to a charm.
"Oh," said Hal with a long breath, "it's splendid!"
"You bet! When I get 'em paid for, Hal, I'll help you out."
Florence sighed.
"O Flo! I can't help being slangy. It comes natural to boys. And then hearing them all talk in the store."
"Wa-a!" said a small voice. "Wa-a-a Danny!"
"There!" exclaimed Hal; and he ran in to comfort Dot.
But Dot insisted upon being taken up, and brought out to candle-light. The buttons on Joe's jacket pleased her fancy at once, and soothed her sorrow.
"I must say, Dot, you are a young woman of some taste," laughed Joe.
"Granny," said Kit, after sitting in deep thought, and taking a good chew out of his thumb, "when Joe wears 'em out, can you cut 'em over for me?"
"O Kit! Prudent and economical youth! To you shall be willed the last remaining shreds of my darling gray trousers, jacket, buttons and all."
They had a grand time admiring Joe. Charlie felt so sorry that she wasn't a boy; and Flo declared that "he looked as nice as anybody, if only he wouldn't"—
"No, I won't," said Joe solemnly.
Granny felt proud enough of him the next day when he went to church. Florence was quite satisfied to walk beside him.
"I wish there was something nice for you, Hal," said Granny in a tone of tender regret.
"My turn will come by and by," was the cheerful answer.
For Hal took the odds and ends of every thing, and was content.
"They're a nice lot of children, if I do say it myself," was Granny's comment to Dot. "And I'm glad I never let any of them go to the poor-house or be bound out, or any thing. We'll all get along somehow."
Dot shook her head sagely, as if that was her opinion also.
The story of Joe's Saturday night adventure leaked out; and poor Dan Briggs was tormented a good deal, the boys giving him the nickname of Trousers, much to his discomfort.
Joe discovered, like a good many other people, that whereas getting in debt was very easy, getting out of debt was very hard. He went along bravely for several weeks, and then he began to find so many wants. A new straw hat he must have, for the weather was coming warm, and they had such beauties at the store for a dollar; and then his boots grew too rusty, so a pair of shoes were substituted. He bought Dot a pretty Shaker, which she insisted upon calling her "Sunny cool Shaker." She was growing very cunning indeed, though her tongue was exceedingly crooked. Hal laughed over her droll baby words; and Kit's endeavor to make her say tea-kettle was always crowned with shouts of laughter.
Joe succeeded pretty well at the store, but occasionally all things did not work together for good. His margin of fun was so wide that it sometimes brought him into trouble. One day he inadvertently sold old Mrs. Cummings some ground pepper, instead of allspice. That afternoon the old lady flew back in a rage.
"I'll never buy a cent's wuth of this good-for nothin', car'less boy!" she ejaculated. "He does nothin' but jig around the store, and sing songs. An' now he's gone and spiled my whole batch of pies."
"Spoiled your pies?" said Mr. Terry in astonishment.
"Yes, spiled 'em! Four as good pies as anybody in Madison makes. Green apple too!"
"Why, I never saw your pies!" declared Joe.
"I'd like to make you eat 'em all,—to the last smitch!" and she shook her fist.
"But what did he do?" questioned Mr. Terry.
"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you. I run in this mornin' and bought two ounces of allspice; for I hadn't a speck in the house. Seth's so fond of it in apple-pies. Well, I was hurryin' round; an' I lost my smell years ago, when I had the influenzy, so I put in the allspice; an' sez I at dinner, 'Seth, here's the fust green-apple pies. I don't believe a soul in Madison has made 'em yet! They're nice an' hot.' With that he tasted. 'Hot!' sez he, 'hot! I guess they air, and the've somethin' more'n fire in 'em too!' 'What's in 'em?' sez I; and sez he, 'Jest you taste!' an' so I did, an' it nigh about burnt my tongue off. 'Why,' sez I, 'it's pepper;' an' Seth sez, 'Well, if you ain't smart!' That made me kinder huffy like; an' then I knew right away it was this car'less fellow that's always singin' an' dancin' and a standin' on his head!"
Mrs. Cummings had to stop because she was out of breath. Joe ducked under the counter, experiencing a strong tendency to fly to fragments.
"I am very sorry," returned Mr. Terry. "It must have been a mistake;" and he tried to steady the corners of his mouth to a becoming sense of gravity.
"No mistake at all!" and she gave her head a violent jerk. "Some of his smart tricks he thought he'd play on me. Didn't I see him a treatin' Dave Downs to loaf-sugar one day; an' bime by he gave him a great lump of salt!"
Mr. Terry had heard the story of the salt, and rather enjoyed it; for Dave was always hanging round in the way.
"And he jest did it a purpose, I know. As soon as ever I tasted that pepper, I knew 'twas one of his tricks. And my whole batch of pies spil't!"
"No," said Joe, in his manly fashion: "I didn't do it purposely, Mrs. Cummings. I must have misunderstood you."
"Pepper an' allspice sound so much alike!" she said wrathfully.
"Well, we will give you a quarter of allspice," Mr. Terry returned soothingly.
"That won't make up for the apples, an' the flour, an' the lard, an' all my hard work!"
"We might throw in a few apples."
"If you're goin' to keep that boy, you'll ruin your trade, I can tell you!"
Still she took the allspice and the apples, though they had plenty at home.
"You must be careful, Joe," said Mr. Terry afterward. "It will not do to have the ill-will of all the old ladies."
Joe told the story at home with embellishments; and Hal enjoyed it wonderfully, in his quiet way.
Chapter VII.
The Old Tumbler, After All
Table of Contents
Hal's chickens prospered remarkably. Five motherly hens clucked to families of black-eyed chicks; and, out of fifty-eight eggs, he only lost seven. So there were fifty-one left. They made some incursions in his garden, to be sure; but presently every thing grew so large that it was out of danger.
There was plenty of work to do on Saturdays. Picking cherries and currants for the neighbors, and the unfailing gardening. It seemed to Hal that weeds had a hundred lives at least, even if you did pull them up by the roots. Sometimes he managed to get a little work out of Kit and Charlie, but they invariably ended by a rough-and-tumble frolic.
Florence succeeded admirably with her embroidering. She managed to earn some pretty dresses for herself, and added enough to Hal's store to enable him to purchase a suit of clothes, though they were not as grand as Joe's.
Hal and Granny took a wonderful sight of comfort sitting on the doorstep through the summer evenings, and talking over old times. Granny would tell how they did when his father, her own dear Joe, was alive, and how pretty his mother had been.
"Flo's a good deal like her," she would always say; "only Flo's wonderful with her fingers. She can do any thing with a needle."
"Flo's a born genius," Hal would reply admiringly.
"But I'm afraid Charlie'll never learn to sew."
"I can sew better myself," was Hal's usual comment.
And it was true. Hal had a bedquilt nearly pieced, which he had done on rainy days and by odd spells. I expect you think he was something of a girl-boy. But then he was very sweet and nice.
Florence stood by the gate one afternoon, looking extremely lovely in her blue and white gingham, and her curls tied back with a bit of blue ribbon. Dot had been in the mud-pie business; and, if it had proved profitable, she would no doubt have made a fortune for the family.
"Go in the house this minute, and get washed," commanded Florence. "What a naughty, dirty child you are!"
Then a carriage passed by very slowly. A young man was driving, and two ladies sat on the back seat. They looked as if they were going to halt.
Florence's heart was in her mouth. She drew herself up in her most stately attitude.
The young man turned; and the lady nearer her beckoned.
Florence stepped out slowly. She thought, with some pride, that, if they wanted a drink, she had a goblet to offer them.
"My little girl," said the lady, in a soft, clear voice, "can you direct us to a blacksmith's?"
"There is one on this road, rather more than a quarter of a mile farther."
"Thank you."
The other lady leaned over, and studied Florence. She had a worn, faded, and fretful look; but some new expression lighted up her sallow face.
"Oh," she sighed, "what a beautiful girl! Now, if I had a daughter like that! I wonder if she lives in that forlorn old rookery?"
"A princess in disguise;" and the young man laughed.
"She was unusually lovely. At her age I had just such hair. But ah, how one fades!"
The straggling auburn hair, very thin on the top, hardly looked as if it had once been "like fine spun gold."
"The trial of my life has been not having a daughter."
Mrs. Duncan had heard this plaint very often from her half-sister, who had married a widower nearly three times her age. He had made a very liberal provision for her during her life, but at her death the fortune reverted to his family again. She had always bewailed the fact of having no children; but boys were her abomination. Mrs. Duncan's house was too noisy, with its four rollicking boys; but now that George was growing to manhood he became rather more endurable.
"I do not believe the child could have belonged there," she commenced again.
"Because she was so pretty?" asked George.
"She doesn't look like a country girl."
"But some country girls are very handsome," said Mrs. Duncan.
"They do not possess this air of refinement generally. And did you observe that she answered in a correct and ladylike manner?"
"Aunt Sophie is captivated. A clear case of love at first sight. Why not adopt her?"
"It would be a charity to take her out of that hovel, if it is her home."
"I shouldn't think of such a thing now, Sophie, with your poor health," said her sister.
There are some natures on which the least contradiction or opposition acts instantly, rousing them to a spirit of defiance. For several years Mrs. Duncan had urged her sister to adopt a child; but she had never found one that answered her requirements. She was not fond of the trouble of small children. Now that Mrs. Duncan had advised contrarywise, Mrs. Osgood was seized with a perverse fit.
"I am sure I need a companion," she returned with martyr-like air.
"Take a young woman then, who can be a companion."
"Here is the blacksmith's," announced George. "I suppose you will have to find some place of refuge;" and he laughed again gayly.
"Where can we go?"
George held a short conversation with the smith.
"My house is just opposite, and the ladies will be welcome," the latter said. "It will take me about half an hour to repair your mishap."
George conducted them thither. The good woman would fain have invited them in; but they preferred sitting on the vine-covered porch. Mrs. Osgood asked for a glass of water. O Florence! if you had been there!
It happened after a while, that George and his mother walked down the garden. Mrs. Green felt bound to entertain this stranger cast upon her care, as she considered it.
Mrs. Osgood made some inquiries presently about the house they had passed, with a small stream of water just below it.
"Why, that's Granny Kenneth's," said Mrs. Green.
"And who is the child,—almost a young lady?"
"Why, that must be Florence. Did she have long yeller curls? If she was my gal she should braid 'em up decently. I wouldn't have 'em flyin' about."
"And who is Florence?"
Mrs. Osgood's curiosity must have been very great to induce her to listen to the faulty grammar and country pronunciations. But she listened to the story from beginning to end,—Joe, and Joe's wife, and all the children, figuring largely in it.
"And if Granny Kenneth'd had any sense, she would a bundled 'em all off to the poor-house. One of the neighbors here did want to take Florence; but law! what a time they made! She's a peart, stuck-up thing!"
If Florence had heard this verdict against all her small industries and neatnesses and ladylike habits, her heart would have been almost broken. But there are a great many narrow-minded people in this world, who can see no good except in their own way.
Mrs. Osgood made no comments. Presently the carriage was repaired, and the accidental guests departed. They had a long ride yet to take. George asked if there was any nearer way of getting to Seabury.
"There's a narrer road just below Granny Kenneth's,—the little shanty by the crick. It's ruther hard trav'lin', but it cuts off nigh on ter three miles."
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