the whole suit had been gone over in this slow way, "'cause there ain't
any. Fact! Well, do you want it?"
"How much is it?" asked Ben.
"Nine-fifty. It's worth three dollars more, but we're closing them out,
as I told you, and we don't give room to remnants. It's a bargain if
ever there was one. Fact! Do you want it?"
"Yes, if she says so," said Ben. And now his spirits quite rose, for it
was a good thing, and he was not ashamed to show it to Madam Van Ruypen,
or to any one else, as his selection. So the salesman flung the suit
over his arm, and skipped off, followed by Ben. And they shot down the
elevator and went back down all the aisles. There she sat, stiff and
immovable, in her chair.
"Oh, only one?" she asked, as the salesman held up the bargain.
"I didn't know you wanted two," gasped Ben; "you didn't say so."
"Oh, I suppose I did not mention it. But have you been all this time
picking out a paltry one?" She didn't even offer to touch the suit, and
scarcely glanced at it.
"Do you like it?" asked Ben. "See, it's thick and warm, isn't it?"
lifting the sleeve for her to see it the better.
"Oh, I suppose it will serve its purpose, and be warm enough," she said
carelessly. "Well, now," to the salesman, "will you go back and bring
another one, a smaller size, and stay, still another, for there must be
some more boys in the family? There ought to be. No, you don't need to
go, Ben; he can pick them out. Just the same quality, mind," and she
dismissed the little man.
When he had disappeared, she cast an approving glance at the suit thrown
across the counter. "Very well chosen," she said. "And now, see here,
run down to the neckwear counter--or stay," and she raised her black
glove.
A small army of salesmen seemed to rush to the scene, so many appeared.
"What is it, madam?" for all knew, at least by sight, the wealthy old
lady, who, try as hard as she might, never seemed to be able to make
much impression on the Van Ruypen money-bags. "Take this boy to the
different departments that he selects, and let him buy what pleases
him," she said to the first salesman that reached her.
"Yes, madam," he said, well pleased, and leading off with Ben. But just
then a floor-walker touched him on the shoulder, "Mr. Moses wants you,"
he said, "about those vests."
"Oh, all right," said the salesman; "here, Perkins," and beckoning to a
tall young man, who appeared to Ben very much dressed up, he turned the
boy over to him, and went off.
"Well, what do you want?" asked Mr. Perkins, leisurely surveying Ben's
sturdy figure from his greater height.
"A red woollen tippet, I think," said Ben.
"A red woollen tippet!" repeated the salesman, nearly falling backward.
"Oh, we haven't got one in the store!"
"Haven't you?" asked Ben, very much disappointed, for he had set his
heart on seeing that the boy who was to have those good warm clothes
should have a red woollen tippet to tie around his throat, and perhaps
go over his cap, and down around his ears, if it was very cold. Anyway,
the ends were to tuck in the jacket. Ben knew just exactly how that
tippet was to look when it was all fixed, ready for a sharp, cold, snowy
day.
"Well, I can suit you," said the salesman, noting the disappointed tone;
"we've got silk scarfs, nice ones, all--"
"Oh, I don't want a silk scarf," said Ben, quickly.
"Some of them are plaid; you don't know how fine they are. This way,"
and he stepped off.
But as Ben stood quite still, there was nothing for the salesman to do
but to come back, which he did, quite discomfited.
"Have you got any caps?" asked Ben, leaving the red tippet out of the
question as an impossibility in this shop.
"Caps? Oh, yes, this way," and away they went, down aisles, up in
elevators, and into the department where nothing but headgear showed
itself.
This time, knowing there were to be three boys provided for with suits,
Ben picked out the same number of good, strong caps, the salesman all
through the process plainly showing his disgust and disappointment at
what he thought was to be a fine purchase, turning out to be such a poor
trade. But Ben knew nothing of what was going on in the other one's
mind, and would have cared still less, had he known, all his attention
being absorbed in the bargain he was making for Madam Van Ruypen. At
last the business was concluded.
"Do you keep gloves?" he asked, as they turned away.
"Yes," said the salesman, sullenly, and slapping the three cloth caps
together disdainfully.
"Mittens?" asked Ben.
"No, indeed," said Mr. Perkins, emphatically. "Mittens, the very idea!"
then he winked at a young man, who looked as if a wrinkle, by any
chance, never existed in his clothes, and whose hair was evidently just
fresh from the barber's. "We don't keep anything but first-class goods."
The other young man made no attempt to conceal his broad smile. And by
this time Ben had considerable attention down the long store. He
couldn't help but see it, and he held his head high, and his blue eyes
flashed.
"Well, give me the money--" Mr. Perkins held out his hand, the one with
the big ring on.
"I don't pay for them," said Ben.
"Well, I guess you do, young man," declared Mr. Perkins, in a high key,
designed to impress the onlookers. "You've bought these caps," and he
gave them another disdainful slap together, "and you'll pay for them,
and now, right sharp off!" he added in a very unpleasant way.
"But I haven't bought them for myself," said Ben.
"Hey? Oh! What are you talking about?" Mr. Perkins whirled around at
him. "Who sent you here, anyway?" glaring down at him.
"I haven't been sent," said Ben; "I came with the one who is going to
buy them."
"Well, who is he? Take me to him." Mr. Perkins craned his neck this way
and that, trying to see the friend of his customer.
"If you will follow me, you will see for yourself," said Ben, stepping
off. When he paused by Madam Van Ruypen's chair, Mr. Perkins was in a
bad state. His long limbs seemed wobbling under him, and his usually
glib tongue appeared to be fastened to the roof of his mouth. He
delivered up the caps with a limp and feeble hand, then cast an
appealing eye down at Ben.
"Very good," said the old lady, without a glance at them. "Put them with
these other articles," pointing to the suit left on the counter. "Now,
then, Ben, are these all the things you can find here, pray tell?"
"Yes," said Ben, "they don't seem to keep what I want in this shop."
"Let me look again," cried Mr. Perkins, in great distress, "I think
maybe I can find something to suit you. Don't go yet, I almost know we
can find something," he kept on in such misery, saying the same thing
over and over, that Madam Van Ruypen stared at him in amazement.
Meanwhile, the other young man, who had followed Ben and Mr. Perkins
with his eye till they arrived at Madam Van Ruypen's chair, soon spread
the astounding news that the boy who wanted mittens had good reason to
hold his own against everybody, and was by no means a person to be
safely laughed at. "And Perkins is having a fit," he wound up, to the
group of salesmen unencumbered by customers.
"I don't think you can," said Ben, quickly; "I must try some other
shop."
"But just come and let me show you some things," begged Mr. Perkins, in
a frenzy.
"Oh, go along, Ben," said Madam Van Ruypen; "you might as well, for I
must wait here until the other man brings down those extra suits."
So Ben had nothing to do but to move off with Mr. Perkins. When they had
turned into a convenient corner, "See here," said the salesman, and his
face paled, "you won't tell on me, will you?" His mouth twitched, and
anxious wrinkles seemed to run all over his face, making him suddenly
quite old and worn.
"What do you think?" said Ben, indignantly, and he turned on his heel in
contempt.
"You see," Mr. Perkins hurried after him, and spoke as if his throat
were parched, the words came out so jerkily, "I couldn't stay here a
minute, you know, if the old man knew I'd treated any one belonging to
her badly."
"I don't belong to her," said Ben.
"Well, you came with her," said Mr. Perkins, quite willing now to
believe Ben much higher up yet, if that were possible, in the social
scale. "And I've got a mother," he swallowed hard with a kind of choke,
"and three sisters, and--"
"You needn't be afraid," Ben stopped the rest; "I give you my word I'll
not speak of it."
"Honest Injun, now?" said Mr. Perkins, anxiously.
"I've given you my word," said Ben; "that's all I'll say," looking at
him squarely.
Mr. Perkins drew a long breath, and the wrinkles seemed to drop right
out of his face. "Thank you," he said. "Now, if you'll come this way,
I'll show you some things that you want."
When the two joined the old lady there was quite a little array of
articles in Mr. Perkins's hands, which he did not slap disdainfully
together. To be sure there were no mittens; but there were some thick
cloth gloves, and a stout, large handkerchief, and some heavy stockings.
And as the other two suits had been brought down from the top floor,
there was quite a respectable pile of purchases to be done up and put in
the handsome brougham waiting at the door.
And Mr. Perkins insisted, also, on seeing them out, although the first
salesman, by his manner, proclaimed it quite unnecessary, and the tall
young man's "Thank you" was said last of all, and he appeared to look
only at Ben.
"Quite a gentle-mannered young man," observed Madam Van Ruypen, as the
carriage door was closed; "such a contrast to the ordinary, pert
creature. I shall make an excuse to shop there again, and I shall insist
upon having him wait upon me. Well, now, Ben, while we are driving to
Birdsall's, where you can, maybe, get the articles you couldn't find
here, let us think up some boys to give these things to." She pointed to
the big bundle on the opposite seat, which, more for the pleasure of
actually carrying it home, than because of the Christmas rush, she had
decided to take with her.
"Don't you know the boys you are going to give the clothes to?"
exclaimed Ben, turning in great astonishment to gaze at her.
"Dear me, no," said Madam Van Ruypen, with a laugh, "but that doesn't
make any matter. There are boys enough who will like those things, I
haven't any doubt. I only thought, seeing you've been such a help to me
in buying them, that perhaps you'd think of the boys to fit them to.
Well, there's the City Missionary Society; they'll tell me, probably."
Ben removed his gaze from the white puffs and Roman nose, and looked
steadily out of the window. Gone seemed the city buildings and streets
to give place to country lanes, with here and there a farm-house to
break the stretch of long, snow-covered roads. If only he dared to say
his thought!
"And as long as you can't help me," Madam Van Ruypen's voice had a
little break in it, as if she were not, somehow, finding quite as much
satisfaction in the expedition as she had hitherto enjoyed, "why, I
suppose--"
"Why don't you send them to a country boy?" cried Ben, whirling suddenly
around on the green leather seat, his blue eyes shining.
"Hey, what--why--" began the old lady. Then there was an awful pause.
And just as Ben had made up his mind that the whole morning expedition
had been made a failure, and by him, she broke out, "I have the very
thing, and, Ben, there are three boys in that family. Only think, I've
forgotten them all this time, since I saw them up in the mountains last
summer."
Ben drew a long breath, and his face said, "Do tell me about them,"
though he couldn't say a word.
"There isn't much to tell," said the old lady in a shamefaced way, "for,
being boys, I didn't somehow get interested in them. Their mother did my
washing when I was at the hotel. Their father had died, you see."
"Oh," said Ben.
"And now it comes to me, though I didn't think much of it at the time,
that the people at the hotel said the boys, that is the two older ones,
had to walk three miles to school every day. It was only a little
settlement, you see." Madam Van Ruypen didn't add that she had sent some
money to the mother, on hearing this story, and then straightway forgot
all about the matter.
"So now, oh, Ben, just think what you've made me remember! And we'll
make the box just as big as we can. What do you want to buy now?" She
turned on him eagerly.
"Mittens," said Ben, promptly, "and a red woollen tippet."
VII
"WHERE'S PIP?" AND JASPER TURNED BACK
"Something is the matter!" cried Polly, hoarsely. "Oh, Ben, I know there
is!" She rushed up to him in the hall and seized his arm.
"Nonsense!" said Ben, but his cheek paled, and his blue eyes, usually so
steady, didn't look at her. If Polly were frightened, something dreadful
must have happened.
"There is, there is," repeated Polly, quite wildly, "for Aunty Whitney
has gone to Grandpapa. And there's a telegram come,--and, oh, Ben, can
it be Jasper?" With that Polly held so tightly to the sturdy arm she had
grasped that at another time Ben would have cried, "Hands off, Polly!"
This time he didn't even feel it.
"Oh, no, Polly," was all he could say reassuringly, yet his knees
knocked together and everything for a moment seemed to swim before his
eyes.
"I saw it myself. It was a telegram that Jane had," Polly was saying,
between little sobs that cut Ben through and through like a knife. "And
Christmas--" and she could get no farther.
"See here, Polly," Ben came to his senses enough to shake himself free,
then he threw his arms around her and held her fast, "don't let us act
like this until we know for sure. I'm going to find out" With that he
rushed off, and Polly, too wild with distress to be left alone, stumbled
after him down the hall, as he hurried to find Jane.
That individual was huddled down in a corner of the back hall which she
fondly supposed cleverly concealed her, her apron up to her eyes, and
mumbling something behind it to herself. Ben precipitated himself so
suddenly upon her that there was no time for recovery of her composure.
She dashed down the apron to look up at him and also see Polly at his
heels.
"O my!" she began, dreadfully frightened at the sight of the two she
most dreaded to meet at this moment.
"You might as well tell us, Jane," said Ben, swallowing very hard, and
he reached out and seized Polly's hand, "because we know some bad news
came. Now, what is it?" If Polly had pinched his arm in her fright, it
was nothing to the grip he now gave her fingers, without his knowing it,
while she threw her arm around his neck and held on.
"O my gracious!" Jane shook with fright, but she saw no way out of it
but to tell, so she added, twisting her apron-end into a ball, "Yes, it
did come, O me, O my!"
"It is about Jasper," said Ben, quietly.
"How'd you know, Master Ben?" cried Jane, in astonishment, remembering
how she had become possessed of the news which yet couldn't have
travelled through the house.
"Never mind, what is it?" demanded Ben, sharply. "Be quick now, Jane;
you might as well tell us first as last."
"O me!" cried Jane, deserting the apron-end to wring her hands
desperately, "I wish I hadn't listened. Oh, I can't tell you, don't make
me!"
"Jane," Ben leaned over her as well as he could for Polly hanging to
him, "you've just _got_ to tell us, so you might as well be quick about
it. Don't you see you're only making us feel worse?"
As Ben wasn't given to long speeches, Jane had time to look up in
surprise at his face, and then she made up her mind to tell the whole
story.
"If you must know--but don't let 'em blame me 'cause I told you," she
burst out.
"You shan't be blamed," promised Ben. "Go on."
"Well, there's been a fire at the school, and Master Jasper's hurt,
burned, I guess, and--"
"Ben!" a voice rang through the hall.
"O mercy me!" Jane bounded to her feet, seized her feather duster, which
implement she had been wielding when the fatal telegram had been handed
in, and scuttled down the back hall.
"Ben, Ben! Does any one know where he is?" It was Aunty Whitney, whose
gentle voice was never heard on such a key, and she was actually running
down the hall, her pretty face all streaked with tears. "Oh, Ben, there
isn't a moment to lose. Father wants you to go with him to Jasper. I
can't tell you what for."
"I know," said Ben, quietly, while Polly stuffed her fingers into her
mouth to keep from screaming.
Mrs. Whitney didn't stop to express any surprise, but her face looked
relieved that he had heard the news.
"And you must catch the next train," she hurried on, her voice breaking;
"oh, Ben, you must."
"I'm ready," cried Ben. He gave Polly one kiss, then pulled her arms
away from his neck.
"Your mother says you can go, and she is getting your things together."
"I'll--I'll help put them up," said Polly, blindly staggering off after
him as he rushed down the hall.
"No, no, Polly," cried Mrs. Whitney, "your mother said you must stay
with me,--and Polly, I need you so badly." She opened her arms and Polly
ran into them, and though there wasn't very much comforting done, it was
good to be together.
And Thomas whirled up to the door, and Mr. King and Ben and Mr. King's
valet got into the carriage, into which portmanteaus were thrown, and
away the horses sprang in a mad rush to make the train. And it was all
done in such bewildering haste that the group in the hall scarcely knew
or understood anything until the big front door shut with a clang, and
they were alone. And nothing to tell of it all but that dreadful yellow
telegram lying on Mr. King's writing-table just where it had been
thrown.
"Fire at school dormitory early this morning. Your son Jasper
hurt. Come at once.
"JACOB A. PRESBREY."
Polly never knew for long weeks afterward just how she got through that
dreadful day, except that Joel and David had to be soothed, no one being
able so well as herself to stop the howls of the former, who, on hearing
the news, threw himself flat on the floor in a corner of Grandpapa's
writing room, refusing all comfort. Little David crouched closely to
him, and with never a word laid his head on his shoulder.
And afterward Polly found herself installed as Mrs. Whitney's little
nurse, sitting upon the bed most of the time, and smoothing the soft,
fair hair, as it lay on the pillow, with a trembling hand.
"You can't know what a comfort you are to me, Polly," every once in a
while Mrs. Whitney would say, and reaching up a hand to feel for Polly's
fingers.
"Am I?" said Polly, careful not to let the tears drop where they could
be seen.
"Yes, indeed! And oh, Polly, I don't really believe that we ought to
think the worst. God wouldn't let anything happen to our Jasper. He
wouldn't, Polly." But Mrs. Whitney clutched the pillow, and turned her
face into it and sobbed. And Polly smoothed her hair, and said not a
word.
And all those terrible hours passed away--how, no one could tell.
Outside they could hear Phronsie, who, of course, knew nothing of the
blow that had fallen upon the household, gayly laughing and chattering
away. She had been told that Grandpapa had gone away and that she must
not go into his room; so she hadn't seen Joel and David. But Mother
Fisher had hard work to keep the incessant calls for Polly from being
sounded over the halls and stairs, and at last she took Phronsie into
her room and closed the door.
"Now, Mother's baby," said Mrs. Fisher, seating herself on the wide
haircloth sofa, and drawing Phronsie into her lap. How often had Jasper
sat on this old sofa and told her his boyish confidences the same as her
own children! She gave a groan at the thought of what might be happening
now at that distant school.
"What is it, Mamsie?" asked Phronsie, in gentle surprise, and lifting a
soft little hand to her mother's cheek.
"Oh, my pet," Mrs. Fisher drew Phronsie quickly to her breast, "you
mustn't mind Mamsie."
"But you made a funny noise here, Mamsie," and Phronsie touched her
mother's throat.
"Did I? Well, never mind, dear. Now I must tell you, you cannot have
Polly to-day, Phronsie."
"But I want Polly," said Phronsie, regarding her mother with grave
displeasure.
"Yes, I know, dear. But you cannot have her just to-day. Mother does not
think it is best."
Phronsie's lip quivered and her brown eyes closed to squeeze the tears
back. But despite all her efforts they would come, and two big ones
rolled down her cheeks.
"And Mamsie will be very much disappointed in her little girl if she
cries," went on Mrs. Fisher, "for Aunty Whitney needs Polly to-day. So
Phronsie must be brave and let Polly stay with her."
"Is Aunty Whitney sick?" asked Phronsie, with sudden interest, her eyes
flying open at once. For any one to be sick was to enlist her sympathy,
and she at once gave up all thoughts of having Polly to herself.
"Yes, that is, she will be, I am afraid, if Polly does not stay with
her," said Mother Fisher; "so you must be a good child, and not call for
Polly."
"I will be good," said Phronsie, sliding down from her mother's lap, and
folding her hands. "I will be good." She bobbed her yellow head. "And
Aunty Whitney will get all well, because Polly is there."
Meanwhile the train bearing Mr. King and Ben was speeding swiftly on its
way. For the first hour the old gentleman sat erect on his chair, gazing
straight before him at the flying landscape, and with never a word for
his companion. Then he suddenly turned with a little groan, and laid his
hand on Ben's shoulder. "You are such a comfort to me," he said
brokenly.
"Am I?" said Ben, all the color rushing to his face. He a comfort to
Grandpapa! He hadn't gotten over wondering what had given him this honor
of being allowed to go with him,--and now, to think of being a comfort!
"What I should have done without you, Ben, I cannot tell," Grandpapa was
saying, his hand slipping down until it rested on Ben's woollen glove,
"but, oh, my boy, I am so glad I have you."
Ben said never a word; he couldn't have spoken, it seemed to him, to
save his life, but he lifted his blue eyes to the white, drawn face, and
old Mr. King did not seem to feel anything lacking. And so, on and on;
the revolutions of the wheels, the flashing in and out of strange
cities, the long, steady, tireless plunge of the heavily laden express,
by river and lake, hill-top and plain, only rang one refrain through
every heart-throb, over and over, loud and clear above the reverberation
of the train,--"What shall we find at our journey's end?"
And when it was reached at nightfall, Grandpapa still had Ben's fingers
in his grasp; the valet rushed into the Pullman from another car,
gathered up the luggage, and out all the passengers poured from the
train. There on the platform was Dr. Presbrey himself.
"It is not so bad as we feared," were his first words, as he reached Mr.
King's side; and, without waiting for a word, for he saw the old
gentleman was beyond it, he led the way to his carriage.
"Stop a bit," Grandpapa made out to say through white lips, "a
telegram--tell them at home." He looked at Ben, but Dr. Presbrey sprang
back into the station, wrote it, sent it off, and was with them once
more; and then it was only a matter of moments and Jasper was reached,
at the master's house, where he had been carried after the fire.
"Don't go in," said one of a crowd of boys, who surrounded Ben on the
steps, old Mr. King being in advance, a medical man and one or two
teachers coming out of the house to meet the party. "Don't go in," he
repeated, laying detaining hands on him; "it's perfectly awful in there;
everybody's crying."
"He may want me," said Ben, hoarsely, nodding toward the white-haired
old gentleman ahead, and trying to free himself. The other boys closed
in around him.
"Oh, Dr. Smith won't let you get near him," volunteered one boy; "catch
him!"--which proved to be true. Old Mr. King was just at the moment
being ushered into the front parlor, and the medical man followed and
closed the door with such a snap that it was impossible for any one else
to even dream of entering.
"Now, what did I tell you?" said the boy, triumphantly.
"You're Ben, aren't you?" asked the first boy, who hadn't relinquished
his hold, the other boys drawing up.
"Yes," said Ben.
"Well, we've heard all about you, and the rest of you. King talked just
whole packs about you all."
"Don't," said Ben, and he put up his hand; everything seemed to turn
suddenly dark.
"Hush up, Grayson, can't you have some sense?" said a tall, dark-haired
boy, angrily, and by a speedy movement he had rescued Ben from the first
grasp. "Now, then, come over to my room," he pointed to a long building
on the west, "and I'll tell you all about it."