The Junior Warden
By nine o'clock the next morning, the girls were all at the cottage as
usual. Mrs. Mapes had given them materials for a simple cake and Jean
and Bettie were in the kitchen making it. Marjory, singing as she
worked, was running her Aunty Jane's carpet-sweeper noisily over the
parlor rug, while Mabel, whistling an accompaniment to Marjory's song,
was dusting the sideboard; at all times the cottage furniture received
so much unnecessary dusting that it would not have been at all
surprising if it had worn thin in spots.
When the doorbell rang suddenly and sharply, Marjory's tune stopped
short, high in air, and Mabel ran to the window.
"It's a man," announced Mabel.
"Mr. Milligan?" asked Marjory, anxiously.
"He's moved so I can't tell."
"Try the other window," urged Marjory, impatiently.
"It doesn't look like Mr. Milligan's legs--I can't see the rest of him.
They look neat and--and expensive."
"Probably it's just an agent; they're kind of thick lately. You go to
the door and tell him we're just pretend people, while I'm putting the
sweeper out of sight."
"Good morning," said Mr. Downing. "Are you--Why! this is a very cozy
little place. I had no idea that it was so comfortable. May I come in?"
"Ye-es," returned Mabel, eyeing him doubtfully, "but I think you're
probably making a mistake. You see, we're not really-truly people."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Downing, with an amused glance at plump Mabel. "Is it
possible you're a ghost?"
"I mean," explained Mabel, "we're just children and this is only a
playhouse, not a real one. If you have anything to sell, or are looking
for a boarding place, or want to take our census--"
"No," said Mr. Downing, "I don't want either your dollars or your
senses. My name is Downing and I'm not selling anything. I called on
business. Who is the head of this--this ghostly corporation?"
"It has four," said Mabel. "I'll get the rest."
Bettie and Jean, with grown-up gingham aprons tied about their necks,
followed Mabel to the parlor. Mr. Downing had seated himself in one of
the chairs and the girls sat facing him in a bright-eyed row on the
couch. Their countenances were so eager and expectant that Mr. Downing
found it hard to begin.
"I've come in," he said, "to talk over a little matter of business with
you. I understand that you've been having trouble with your
neighbors--exchanging compliments--"
"No," said honest Mabel, turning crimson, "it was apples and tomatoes.
The Milligans are the most troublesome neighbors we've ever had."
"So-o?" said the visitor, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise.
"Why, I understood that it was quite the other way round. I'd like to
hear your version of the difficulty."
Jean and Bettie, with occasional assistance from Marjory and much
prompting from Mabel, told him all about it. During the recital Mr.
Downing's attention seemed to wander, for his eyes took in every detail
of the neat sitting-room, strayed to the prettily papered dining-room,
and even rested lingeringly upon the one visible corner of the dainty
blue bedroom. Bettie had neglected to close the door between the kitchen
and the dining-room, which proved unfortunate, because the tiny scrap of
butter that Jean had left melting in a very small pan on the kitchen
stove, got too hot and with threatening, hissing noises began to give
forth clouds of thick, disagreeable smoke. Jean, the first of the girls
to notice it, flew to the kitchen, snatched a lid from the stove, and,
with a newspaper for a holder, swept the burning butter, pan and all,
into the fire. Then the paper in Jean's hand caught fire, and for the
instant before she stuffed it into the stove and clapped the lid into
place, fierce red flames leaped high.
To the visitor, prepared by Mrs. Milligan for just such doings, it
looked for a moment as if all the rear end of the cottage were in
flames; but Jean returned to her place on the couch with an air of what
looked to Mr. Downing very much like almost criminal unconcern. How was
Mr. Downing, who did no cooking, to know that paper placed on a
cake-baking fire _always_ flares up in an alarming fashion without doing
any real harm? He didn't know, and the incident decided the matter he
was turning over in his mind. The girls had found it a little hard to
tell their story, for it was plain that their visitor was using his eyes
rather than his ears; moreover, they were not at all certain that he had
any right to demand the facts in the case. When the story was finished,
Mr. Downing looked at the row of interested faces and cleared his
throat; but, for some reason, the words he had meant to speak refused to
come. He hadn't supposed that the evicting of unsatisfactory tenants
would prove such an unpleasant task. The tenants, all at once, seemed
part of the house, and the man realized suddenly that the losing of the
cottage was likely to prove a severe blow to the four little
housekeepers. Perhaps it was disconcerting to see the expression of
puzzled anxiety that had crept into Bettie's great brown eyes, into
Jean's hazel ones, into Marjory's gray and Mabel's blue ones. At any
rate, Mr. Downing decided to be well out of the way when the blow should
fall; he realized that it would prove a trying ordeal to face all those
young eyes filled with indignation and probably with tears.
"Ah-hum," said Mr. Downing, rising to take his leave. "I'm much obliged
to you young ladies. Hum--the number of this house is what, if you
please?"
"Number 224," said Bettie, whose mind worked quickly.
"Hum," said Mr. Downing, writing it on the envelope he had taken from
his pocket, and moving rather abruptly toward the door, as if desirous
to escape as speedily as possible with the knowledge he had gleaned.
"Thank you very much. I bid you all good morning."
"Now what in the world did that man want?" demanded Mabel, before the
front door had fairly closed. "Do you s'pose he's some kind of a lawyer,
or--" and Mabel turned pale at the thought--"a policeman disguised as
a--a human being? Do you suppose the Milligans are going to get us
arrested for just two apples--and--and a little poetry?"
"More probably," suggested Jean, "he's a burglar. Didn't you notice the
way he looked around at everything? I could see that he sort of lost
interest after while--as if he had concluded that we hadn't anything
worth stealing."
"Nonsense!" said Bettie. "I don't know what he does for a living, but he
can't be a burglar. He hasn't lived here very long, but he goes to our
church and comes to our house to vestry meetings. Sometimes on warm
Sundays when there's nobody else to do it, he passes the plate."
"Well," said Mabel, "I hope he isn't a policeman weekdays."
"It's more likely," said Marjory, "that he does reporting for the
papers. The time Aunty Jane was in that railroad accident, a reporter
came to our house to interview her, and he asked questions just as that
Mr. Downing--was that his name?--did. He took the number of the house,
too."
"Oh, mercy!" gasped Mabel, turning suddenly from white to a deep
crimson. "If those green apples get into the paper, I'll be too ashamed
to live! Oh, _girls_! Couldn't we stop him--couldn't we--couldn't we pay
him something _not_ to?"
"It's probably in by now," said Marjory, teasingly. "They do it by
telegraph, you know."
"He _couldn't_ have been a reporter," protested Mabel. "Reporters are
always young and very active so they can catch lots of scoons--no,
scoots."
"Scoops," corrected Jean.
"Well, scoops. He was kind of slow and a little bit bald-headed on
top--I noticed it when he stooped for his hat."
"Well, anyway," comforted Jean, "let's not worry about it. Let's rebuild
our fire--of course it's out by now--and finish our cake."
In spite of the cake's turning out much better than anyone could have
expected, with so many agitated cooks taking turns stirring it, there
was something wrong with the day. The girls were filled with uneasy
forebodings and could settle down to nothing. Marjory felt no desire to
sing, and even the cake seemed to have lost something of its flavor.
Moreover, when they had stood for a moment on their doorstep to see the
new steam road-roller go puffing by, Laura had tossed her head
triumphantly and shouted tauntingly: "_I_ know something _I_ shan't
tell!" After that, the girls could not help wondering if Laura really
did know something--some dreadful thing that concerned them vitally and
was likely to burst upon them at any moment.
For the first time in the history of their housekeeping, they could find
nothing that they really wanted to do. During the afternoon they had
several little disagreements with each other. Mild Jean spoke sharply to
Marjory, and even sweet-tempered Bettie was drawn into a lively dispute
with Mabel. Moreover, all three of the older girls were inclined to
blame Mabel for her fracas with the Milligans; and the culprit, ashamed
one moment and defiant the next, was in a most unhappy frame of mind.
Altogether, the day was a failure and the four friends parted coldly at
least an hour before the usual time.