INTRODUCING SPUNK
In the soft April twilight Cyril was playing a dreamy waltz when Bertram
knocked, and pushed open the door.
“Say, old chap, you'll have to quit your mooning this time and sit up
and take notice.”
“What do you mean?” Cyril stopped playing and turned abruptly.
“I mean that Will has gone crazy, and I think the rest of us are going
to follow suit.”
Cyril shrugged his shoulders and whirled about on the piano stool. In a
moment his fingers had slid once more into the dreamy waltz.
“When you get ready to talk sense, I'll listen,” he said coldly.
“Oh, very well; if you really want it broken gently, it's this: Will has
met Billy, and Billy is a girl. They're due here now 'most any time.”
The music stopped with a crash.
“A--GIRL!”
“Yes, a girl. Oh, I've been all through that, and I know how you feel.
But as near as I can make out, it's really so. I've had instructions to
tell everybody, and I've told. I got Kate on the telephone, and she's
coming over. You KNOW what SHE'LL be. Dong Ling is having what I suppose
are Chinese hysterics in the kitchen; and Pete is swinging back and
forth like a pendulum in the dining-room, moaning 'Good Lord, deliver
us!' at every breath. I would suggest that you follow me down-stairs so
that we may be decently ready for--whatever comes.” And he turned about
and stalked out of the room, followed by Cyril, who was too stunned to
open his lips.
Kate came first. She was not stunned. She had a great deal to say.
“Really, this is a little the most absurd thing I ever heard of,” she
fumed. “What in the world does your brother mean?”
That she quite ignored her own relationship to the culprit was not lost
on Bertram. He made instant response.
“As near as I can make out,” he replied smoothly, “YOUR brother has
fallen under the sway of a pair of great dark eyes, two pink cheeks, and
an unknown quantity of curly hair, all of which in its entirety is his
namesake, is lonesome, and is in need of a home.”
“But she can't live--here!”
“Will says she shall.”
“But that is utter nonsense,” cut in Cyril.
“For once I agree with you, Cyril,” laughed Bertram; “but William
doesn't.”
“But how can she do it?” demanded Kate.
“Don't know,” answered Bertram. “He's established a petticoat propriety
in you for a few hours, at least. Meanwhile, he's going to think. At
least, he says he is, and that we've got to help him.”
“Humph!” snapped Kate. “Well, I can prophesy we sha'n't think alike--so
you'd notice it!”
“I know that,” nodded Bertram; “and I'm with you and Cyril on this. The
whole thing is absurd. The idea of thrusting a silly, eighteen-year-old
girl here into our lives in this fashion! But you know what Will is when
he's really roused. You might as well try to move a nice good-natured
mountain by saying 'please,' as to try to stir him under certain
circumstances. Most of the time, I'll own, we can twist him around our
little fingers. But not now. You'll see. In the first place, she's the
daughter of his dead friend, and she DID write a pathetic little letter.
It got to the inside of me, anyhow, when I thought she was a boy.”
“A boy! Who wouldn't think she was a boy?” interposed Cyril. “'Billy,'
indeed! Can you tell me what for any sane man should have named a girl
'Billy'?”
“For William, your brother, evidently,” retorted Bertram, dryly.
“Anyhow, he did it, and of course our mistake was a very natural one.
The dickens of it is now that we've got to keep it from her, so Will
says; and how--hush! here they are,” he broke off, as there came the
sound of wheels stopping before the house.
There followed the click of a key in the lock and the opening of a heavy
door; then, full in the glare of the electric lights stood a plainly
nervous man, and a girl with startled, appealing eyes.
“My dear,” stammered William, “this is my sister, Kate, Mrs. Hartwell;
and here are Cyril and Bertram, whom I've told you of. And of course I
don't need to say to them that you are Billy.”
It was over. William drew a long breath, and gave an agonized look into
his brothers' eyes. Then Billy turned from Mrs. Hartwell and held out a
cordial hand to each of the men in turn.
“Oh, you don't know how lovely this is--to me,” she cried softly. “And
to think that you were willing I should come!” The two younger men
caught their breath sharply, and tried not to see each other's eyes.
“You look so good--all of you; and I don't believe there's one of you
that's got nerves or a heart,” she laughed.
Bertram rallied his wits to respond to the challenge.
“No heart, Miss Billy? Now isn't that just a bit hard on us--right at
first?”
“Not a mite, if you take it the way I mean it,” dimpled Billy. “Hearts
that are all right just keep on pumping, and you never know they are
there. They aren't worth mentioning. It's the other kind--the kind that
flutters at the least noise and jumps at the least bang! And I don't
believe any of you mind noises and bangs,” she finished merrily, as she
handed her hat and coat to Mrs. Hartwell, who was waiting to receive
them.
Bertram laughed. Cyril scowled, and occupied himself in finding a chair.
William had already dropped himself wearily on to the sofa near his
sister. Billy still continued to talk.
“Now when Spunk and I get to training--oh, and you haven't seen Spunk!”
she interrupted herself suddenly. “Why, the introductions aren't half
over. Where is he, Uncle William--the basket?”
“I--I put it in--in the hall,” mumbled William, starting to rise.
“No, no; I'll get him,” cried Billy, hurrying from the room. She
returned in a moment, the green covered basket in her hand. “He's been
asleep, I guess. He's slept 'most all the way down, anyhow. He's so used
to being toted 'round in this basket that he doesn't mind it a bit. I
take him everywhere in it at the Falls.”
There was an electric pause. Four pairs of startled, questioning,
fearful eyes were on the basket while Billy fumbled at the knot of the
string. The next moment, with a triumphant flourish, Billy lifted from
the basket and placed on the floor a very small gray kitten with a very
large pink bow.
“There, ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, Spunk.”
The tiny creature winked and blinked, and balanced for a moment on
sleepy legs; then at the uncontrollable shout that burst from Bertram's
throat, he faced the man, humped his tiny back, bristled his diminutive
tail to almost unbelievable fluffiness, and spit wrathfully.
“And so that is Spunk!” choked Bertram.
“Yes,” said Billy. “This is Spunk.”