Neal dropped into the hammock that was hung across the corner of the
porch and waited for Edith to come. This was where she was apt to
sit in the morning, with her work or a book.
Bob lay on the grass near, panting with the heat. He had just had an
exciting chase after a bird that would perch occasionally on a low
bush, then flap its wings triumphantly, and fly away just as naughty
Bob drew near. He thought it a most mistaken arrangement of affairs
that birds were able to fly. Now, disgusted, he had apparently given
up the game, but lay with one eye open awaiting further developments.
Presently Edith came out, followed by the children with their toys.
She had her work-basket, for she continued to take care of their
clothes, notwithstanding Mrs. Franklin's remonstrances.
She was not particularly pleased to see Neal in her favorite corner.
She said to herself that she would have liked to have one day at
least free from the Gordons. Edith felt cross with herself and every
one else this morning.
Neal rolled out of the hammock when he saw her, and sprang to draw up
her chair with extreme politeness.
"And you would like this little table for your basket, wouldn't you?"
he said, lifting it across the porch.
"Thank you," said Edith, mollified in spite of herself. Then she
stiffened again.
"Where are Ben and Chester?" she asked, with a severe glance at Bob.
"I saw them around at the side door."
"It does seem a shame that they should be banished from the front of
the house. For years they have had the use of this piazza; and now,
just because Bob chooses to monopolize the place, they feel that they
must go."
"Very foolish feelings," said Neal, who had returned to his hammock.
"If they only had a little spirit they would soon show Bob his proper
place. Why don't they give him a good shaking when he nips their
legs?"
"Because they are larger than he, and because they are too polite to
do it in their own home."
Neal laughed. He had a hearty, contagious laugh, and Edith could not
refrain from joining in it.
"They set you a very good example," he said. "Come, now, Edith,
confess that you hate the Gordons, from Bob up."
Edith colored.
"How silly you are!" she said, with supreme dignity. "Why should I
trouble myself to dislike you?"
"Why, indeed? There's no accounting for tastes. Then, 'love me,
love my dog.' But I say, Edith, it rather pays to make you mad. You
grow two inches visibly, while I shrink in proportion. It is just as
if you had some of that cake in your pocket that Alice came across in
Wonderland, don't you know?"
"Oh, Neal, tell us about it!" cried Janet, dropping her dolls and
flinging herself on the end of the hammock. "I just love your
stories."
"It is more than can be said of your big sister, Janet, my child.
Bob and I are in disgrace."
"Bob's no good," said Willy; "he won't play."
"His coat is too thick," remarked Neal. "Bob wishes it were the
fashion to wear short hair in summer. I say, Edith, where are you
going?" for she had put up her work.
"I think I shall take the buggy and go down to see Gertrude Morgan.
I'm tired of it here."
"Thank you," said Neal, meekly.
"Children, you can stay here," she continued. "I sha'n't be gone
more than an hour or two."
The children did not object. They counted upon having Neal for a
companion, and he was all-sufficient.
But when the old buggy rounded the corner, and, instead of coming up
to the house, rattled down the drive on the farther side of the
"heater-piece," Neal sprang out of the hammock with a bounce and ran
across the grass. Bob wanted to follow, but he ordered him back. He
reached the fork in the avenue before Edith did.
"You're pretty cool, to go off this way when I'm going with you."
"And you are very cool, to come when you are not invited," said
Edith, wrathfully, as Neal climbed into the carriage without waiting
for her to stop.
"I know. It's pleasant to be cool on such a hot day as this."
"Where is your hat?"
"I'm under the impression it is on the hall table; but no, it may be
in my room. On second thoughts, it is probably in the cellar. In
fact--"
"Oh, hush!" said Edith, laughing involuntarily. "Where are you going
in this plight?"
"To see Miss Gertrude Morgan."
"Indeed you are not. I have no intention of driving to Brenton with
a hatless boy."
"'"Then we'll go to the woods," says this pig;'" and seizing the
reins, he turned abruptly, as they reached the gate of Oakleigh, into
a rocky, hilly lane that led up through the woods.
"Now, isn't this jolly?" said he, leaning back in his corner of the
buggy. "Just the place for a hot day."
"Oh, I must go back!" exclaimed Edith, suddenly. "It has just
occurred to me you have left the children."
"They're all right. They've got Bob, and we sha'n't be gone long.
Great Scott! what a road this is. I don't believe these wheels will
stay on long. Why don't you use the surrey?"
"Because the surrey is not mine, and this is."
"So that's your line of march, is it? I suspected as much. But I
think you are pretty hard on Hessie. She means well and she's not a
bad sort, though I say it as shouldn't."
Edith made no answer.
"Why don't you try and make the best of things? I always do. It
doesn't really pay to do anything else."
"Very good philosophy. But if you have come out merely to lecture me
on my duties as a step-daughter I think we may as well turn round and
go home again."
"Oh, come off, Edith! You're a nice girl in the main, and I think
it's a howling shame for you to make yourself so mighty offish and
disagreeable to Hessie. Why, if any one ought to mind it--her
marrying, I mean--I'm the one. It makes a big difference to me."
"Will you let me get out and walk home, if you have not the grace to
drive me there? You have no manner of right to talk to me this way."
"I know I haven't, and I'm awfully sorry if I've offended you. I'm
afraid I have. You'll forgive me, Edith, please! Don't go home.
I've put my foot in it, like the great awkward fellow I am. But I
hate to see things all at sixes and sevens the way they are, and I
thought perhaps if I told you what Hessie really is you would feel
differently. If you only knew what a good sister she's been to me!
You know our father and mother died when I was a little duffer, and
Hessie's been an A1 sister ever since. Our grandmother didn't take
much stock in me because I was a boy, and Hessie always stood up for
me. It's natural I should take her side. I hate to see any one
dislike her. But I see it's no use, and I'm sorry I spoke. But say
you will excuse me, Edith. You don't like it, and I ought not to
have said anything, and I apologize."
This was Neal in a new light. Edith was astonished. She had
supposed that he was only a rollicking boy, too lazy to amount to
anything, and too fond of a joke to think of the more serious side of
life.
She hesitated. She was very angry with him. Of course he had no
business to speak to her on this subject, but he was evidently sorry.
His brown eyes looked very repentant, and there was not a shadow of
the usual smile in them.
"Come now, Edith," he urged, "do it up handsomely, and forgive and
forget. Give me your hand on it."
And Edith did so, and with difficulty repressed a shriek at the
hearty squeeze that was given it. And just as they had reached this
point in their conversation there was a sudden crash. Off went the
wheel, and down went buggy, Edith, and Neal in a heap in the lane.
Fortunately the horse stood still. They were in the depths of the
wood, two miles from any house. A few startled birds fluttered among
the trees, and a gray squirrel paused in his day's work to view the
scene.
Neal and Edith crawled out from the debris.
"Here's a pretty how-d'y' do," said Neal, surveying the wreck.
"Edith, I greatly fear you'll never drive in that buggy again."
He unhitched the horse, and then removed the remnants of the vehicle
to the side of what road there was, and partially hid them in the
bushes.
"On that rock we split," said he, solemnly, pointing to a big stone
that rose high above a rut. "If I hadn't been so busy apologizing,
Edith, we wouldn't have gone to pieces. However, perhaps now you
will use the surrey."
It was a dangerous speech, but Edith tried not to mind it, and she
helped Neal to clear away the stuff. Then they started for home,
Neal leading Robin, the old horse, while together they carried the
cushions and a lap-robe that had been under the seat.
[Illustration: "THEN THEY STARTED HOME, CARRYING THE CUSHIONS BETWEEN
THEM" (Missing from source book)]
Neal, his spirits raised by the accident, was in his gayest humor,
and the quiet air rang with his laughter as they trudged home in the
heat. Edith quite forgot her previous displeasure, and was so like
her old self that Neal in his turn was surprised, and thought she was
almost as nice as Cynthia. He had never seen her in this mood before.
When Neal abruptly deserted the children in his pursuit of Edith they
were at first too much amazed to do anything but stand perfectly
still and watch him. Then, as the back of the buggy disappeared
behind the trees, their wrath found words.
"Mean old things!" exclaimed Janet. "They've gone off and left us,
an' I tickerlarly wanted Neal to tell us a story. What can we do?"
Bob joined the group, his tail disconsolately lowered. His master
had been very harsh and unfeeling to leave him at home, he thought.
The trio stood in a row on the top step of the piazza. Then, with a
feeble and melancholy wag of the tail, Bob again stretched himself on
the grass and prepared to make the best of a bad bargain.
The others were not so easily appeased.
"We've got nuffin' to do," grumbled Willy. "I wish we could play wif
de chickens."
"We can't do that," said Janet, decidedly. "We can't touch those
chickens if we don't want a turrible spanking. You know what papa
said."
"Maybe mamma wouldn't let him spank us."
The chickens presented a powerful fascination for Willy. He was
revolving in his mind the question as to whether it would or would
not pay to be spanked for the sake of having some fun with the chicks.
"No, no," said Janet, who had no fancy for a whipping. "We've got to
do somethin' else."
She paused. Slowly a gleam of mischief came into her eyes, and a
smile broke over her round and rosy face.
"Willy, we'll play barber."
"How do we do it?"
"I speak to be barber. Don't you remember when papa took you to have
your hair cut? Well, you be papa an' you bring Bob, an' we'll cut
his hair. Neal said it was turrible hot for him. Neal'll be glad
when he comes home an' finds it all nicely cut."
"Course he will. Only I'd like to be barber, Janet."
"No, I will. It is my game, so I can be barber. Get the hat and be
papa."
Willy obeyed, and presently returned in a large straw hat that had
once been his father's farm hat, and was now relegated to a back
closet for use in the children's games. Janet, meanwhile, had found
a large pair of scissors in Edith's basket, unfortunately left on the
porch, with which she was viciously snipping the air.
"We'll have some fun even if they did go off an' leave us," said she.
"Bring along Bob. Here's the chair."
But Bob refused to be brought. He lay stretched on his side, now and
then weakly wagging his tail in response to their commands, but
otherwise not stirring. It was too hot to move for any one but his
master.
"We'll have to do it there. We'll pretend he's a sick person that
has to have her hair cut off. They do sometimes, you know," said
Janet, with an air of superior knowledge. "You can be my 'sistant.
Here's a scissor for you;" extracting another pair from the too
convenient basket.
In a moment they were both hard at work. Snippity, snip, clip, clip,
went the two pairs of scissors. Bob's beautiful long black hair, the
pride of his master's heart and the means of securing a prize at the
last dog-show, lay in a heap on the grass.
"That's nice," said Janet, surveying the result with satisfaction.
"He must feel lovely and cool. Now let's do the other side."
But that was not so easy. Bob still refused to stir. They pulled
and punched and pushed, but he would not turn over.
"Well, we'll just have to leave it an' do it 'nother time," said
Janet at last, with a parting clip at ear and tail. "Let's go down
an' play in the brook."
And flinging the scissors on the grass, these two young persons
deserted the scene of their labors, and were soon building a fine dam
across the brook in the pasture. There they remained until the sound
of the bell on the carriage-house, rung to summon to dinner the men
at work in the distant fields, warned them that it was twelve o'clock
and almost time to go in themselves.
Edith and Neal plodded slowly homeward. It was very warm, for though
it was not sunny in the woods the trees shut off the air. They
turned in from the lane and walked up the avenue, Robin's hoofs
falling regularly on the gravel with a hot, thumping sound.
"Jiminy, this is a scorcher!" said Neal, wiping his forehead. "Here
comes Bob. He doesn't seem to mind the weather. No, it isn't Bob,
either. What dog is it? Great Scott, Edith, it is Bob! What has
happened to him?"
He dropped the reins, and Robin trudged off alone to his stall.
"Why, Neal, I never saw such a sight!" cried Edith.
Bob, bounding merrily over the grass, overjoyed at seeing his master
return, was quite unconscious of the effect he produced. On one side
he was the same beautiful, glossy-coated creature he had ever been;
on the other, through stray, uneven bunches of hair gleamed touches
of whitish skin. His ears, which had measured a proud eighteen
inches from tip to tip, flapped on either side in ungraceful
scantness; and his tail, from which so short a time before had waved
a beautiful raven plume, now wagged in uncompromising stubbiness.
"Bob, Bob, what has happened to you? You look as if you had been in
a fire!"
Edith, with an awful foreboding in her heart, hurried towards the
house. Yes, her fears were realized! Two pairs of scissors and a
mass of black hair told the tale. She sank down on the steps and
covered her face.
"The children have done it," she murmured; "oh, Neal, we ought never
to have left them!"
Neal stood there perfectly silent. He had grown very white, and his
eyes looked dangerously dark.
"Confound those children!" he said at last, between set teeth; "you
had better keep them out of my way for a time, Edith. I'd just like
to murder them, the way I feel now."
"Oh, Neal, I am so sorry! I can't tell you how dreadfully I feel.
But we oughtn't to have both gone. You see, I didn't know you were
coming too."
"And I didn't know I was expected to act as child's nurse," said
Neal, angrily. "The dog is done for, as far as shows are concerned.
His coat will never be the same again; it ruins it to cut it." He
stopped abruptly.
"I guess I had better get out of the way," he said, presently. "I
can't answer for my temper. Come, Bob."
And he walked down across the grass and went off into the woods.
Edith, left alone, began to cry. She would not have had this happen
for the world. Again she said to herself, why had the Gordons ever
come there to disturb their peace of mind in so many ways? And where
were the children? They should be severely punished.
She looked for them all over the house, but, of course, they were not
to be found. After a long time she saw them coming slowly homeward.
They were wet and bedraggled, for the stones had been as obdurate as
Bob and refused to move. Willy had tumbled into the brook, and Janet
had followed, in a vain attempt to help him out.
And now they were met by an irate sister who, seizing them roughly,
dragged them up-stairs.
"You shall go straight to bed and stay there! You have ruined Neal's
dog, and he'll never get over it. You are bad, naughty children!"
"I think you're silly, Edith!" screamed Janet. "We didn't hurt him,
and we only cooled him off. You're mean to make us go to bed in the
middle of the day, an' you'd orter not drag us this way. Mamma
wouldn't."
"I don't care what your mamma would do; it's what I do."
Edith did not realize that a few words spoken calmly but sternly to
Janet and Willy would have more lasting effect than this summary mode
of punishment. The truth was, she was too angry to trust her tongue
at all, and this reference to Mrs. Franklin annoyed her. Everything
seemed against her, and the hot weather made things worse.
She ate her dinner in solitude, and then, when the afternoon had worn
on for an hour or two, she at last saw Neal coming across the fields.
Edith went to meet him.
"You want something to eat," she said. "Come in and I'll find you
something. Neal, I am so sorry."
"Oh, don't say anything. What's done can't be undone. Lend me your
shears after dinner and I'll finish things up with a flourish. I can
get him into better shape than he is. He looks like Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde just now. I'm as hungry as a hunter, so I don't mind
accepting your offer of a bite."
Edith went off to find something, and as she prepared a dainty meal
for the boy she thought to herself that he set her a good example.
She knew what pride he had taken in Bob's appearance, and she knew
how angry he had been at first. It must have been a hard battle for
him.
And it was. Edith was far from realizing what a temper Neal had. He
had felt that morning that his only safety lay in flight, and he had
tramped many miles through the woods in the endeavor to overcome his
anger.
After luncheon he took the scissors and set to work upon Bob's other
side. He could not repress a groan of dismay once or twice.
"If they had only done it decently!" he said. "In some places it
looks as if it had been torn out by the roots, they've cropped it so
close, and here again are these long pieces. Well, well, Bobby, my
boy, I fancy we were too vain of our appearance. Here goes!"
In a short time Bob had the appearance of a closely shaven French
poodle.
Edith watched the process for a few minutes, but presently went to
her room.
"I shall be held accountable for this too, I suppose," she said to
herself. "Oh, _why_ did those Gordons ever come!"