me all wrong. It--it's good news, sonny."
Like a flash Freddy's face cleared.
"What about, Bert? Good news about what?"
"Why--ah--why, the ac's goin' big, like I tole you. An'--an' say, boy,
out at one place--out at K.C., it--why, it stopped the show!"
"Stopped the show!" breathed Freddy in awe. "Oh, Bert, we never done
that before!"
"An' so--so she--ah, Florette--y'see, kid, account of the ac' goin' so
big, why, she--has to--go away--for a little while."
"Go away, Bert! Where?"
"To--to--Englund, an'--Australia."
"To Englund, an'--Australia?"
"Yeah, they booked her up 'count o' the ac' goin' so great."
"Oh, Bert!"
"Yeah. An' lissen. She's booked for fifty-two weeks solid!"
"Fifty-two weeks! Oh, Bert, that ain't never happened to us before!"
"I know. It's--great!"
Bert blew out his breath loudly, mopped his forehead. He could look at
Freddy now, and he saw a face all aglow with love and pride.
"When she comin' to get me, Bert?" the child asked confidently.
"Why--why, Freddy--now--you---"
Bert could only flounder and look dismayed.
"She ain't goin' off an' leave me!" wailed the child.
"Now, lissen! Say, wait a minute! Lissen!"
"But, Bert! Bert! She--"
"Say, don't you wanna help Florette, now she's got this gran' bookin'
an' all?"
"Sure I do, Bert. I wanna he'p her with her quick changes like I
useter."
"You he'p her! Say, how would that look in all them swell places she's
goin' to? W'y, she'll have a maid!"
"Like the headliners, Bert?"
"Sure!"
"A coon, Bert?"
"Sure! Like a li'l musical com'dy star."
"Honest?"
"Honest!"
"But, Bert, w'y can't I go, too?"
"Aw, now, say--w'y--w'y, you're too big!"
"What-ta y' mean, Bert?"
"W'y, kid, you talk's if you never bin in the p'fession. How ole does
Miss Le Fay look? Nineteen, tha's all. But with a great big boy like
you taggin' on--W'y, say, you'd queer her with them English managers
right off. You don' wanna do that now, Freddy?"
"No, but I--"
"I knew you'd take it sensible. You always bin a lot of help to
Florette."
"Did she tell you, Bert?"
"Sure!"
"A' right. I'll stay. When--when's she comin' to tell me goo'-by?"
"Why--why--look-a-here. Brace up, ole man. She had to leave a'ready."
"She's gone?"
"Say, you don' think bookin' like that can wait, do you? It was take
it or leave it--quick. You didn't wan' her to throw away a chancet
like that, huh, Freddy? Huh?"
Freddy's head sank on his chest. His hands fell limp. "A' right," he
murmured without looking up.
The big man bent over the child clumsily and tried to raise his
quivering chin.
"Aw, now, Freddy," he coaxed, "wanna come out with me an'--an' have a
soda?"
Freddy shook his head.
"Buy ya some candy, too. Choc'late drops! An' how about one o' them
li'l airyplane toys I seen in the window down the street? Huh? Or some
marbles? Huh? Freddy, le's go buy out this here dinky li'l ole town.
What-ta ya say, huh? Le's paint this li'l ole town red! What-ta ya
say, sport?"
Freddy managed a feeble smile.
"How come you so flush, Brudder Johnsing?" he asked in what he
considered an imitation of darky talk. "Mus' 'a' bin rollin' dem
bones!"
"Tha's a boy!" shouted Bert with a great guffaw. "There's a comeback
for you! Game! Tha's what I always liked about you, Freddy. You was
always game."
"I wanna be game!" said Freddy, stiffening his lips. "You tell
Florette. You write to her I was game. Will ya, Bert?"
A bell rang.
"Aw, I gotta go dress for supper, Bert. They dress up for supper
here."
"A' right, kid. Then I'll be goin'----"
"Goo'-by, Bert. You tell her, Bert."
"So long, kid."
"Will ya tell her I was game, Bert?"
"Aw, she'll know!"
Madame Margarita d'Avala found herself in a situation all the more
annoying because it was so absurd. She had promised to sing at the
Misses Blair's School for the benefit of a popular charity, and she
had motored out from New York, leaving her maid to do some errands and
to follow by train. But it was eight o'clock and the great Madame
d'Avala found herself alone in the prim guest room of the Misses
Blair's School, with her bag and dressing case, to be sure, but with
no one to help her into the complicated draperies of her gown. There
was no bell. She could not very well run down the corridor, half nude,
shouting for help, especially as she had no idea of where the Misses
Blair kept either themselves or their servants. The Misses Blair had
been so fatiguingly polite on her arrival. Perhaps she had been a
little abrupt in refusing their many offers of service and saying that
she wanted to rest quite alone. Now, of course, they were afraid to
come near her. And, besides, they would think that her maid was with
her by this time. They had given orders to have Madame d'Avala's maid
shown up to her as soon as she arrived, and of course their maid would
be too stupid to know that Madame d'Avala's maid had never come.
Margarita d'Avala bit her lips and paced the floor, looked out of the
window, opened the door, but there was no one in sight. Well, no help
for it. She must try to get into the gown alone. She stepped into it
and became entangled in the lace; stepped out again, shook the dress
angrily and pushed it on over her head, giving a little impatient
scream as she rumpled her hair. Then she reached up and back,
straining her arms to push the top snap of the corsage into place. But
with the quiet glee of inanimate things the snap immediately snapped
out again. Flushing, Madame d'Avala repeated her performance, and the
snap repeated its. Madame d'Avala stamped both feet and gave a little
gasp of rage. She attacked the belt with no better luck. Chiffon and
lace became entangled in hooks, snaps flew out as fast as she could
push them in. Her arms ached, and the dress assumed strange humpy
outlines as she fastened it up all wrong.
She would like to rip the cursed thing from her shoulders and tear it
into a million pieces! She felt hysteria sweeping over her. She knew
that she was going to have one of her famous fits of temper in a
minute.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Madame d'Avala screamed aloud, stamping her feet up and
down as fast as they could go. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Damn! Damn! Damn!"
She did not swear in Italian, because she was not an Italian except by
profession. Her name had been Maggie Davis, but that was a secret
between herself and her press agent.
"Oh! Damn!" screamed Madame d'Avala again.
"Ain't it hell?" remarked an interested voice, and Madame d'Avala saw
a small pale face staring at her through the door which she had left
ajar.
"Come in!" she ordered, and a small thin boy entered, quite unabashed,
looking at her with an air of complete understanding.
"Who are you?" asked Madame d'Avala.
"Freddy."
"Well, Freddy, run at once and find a maid for me, please. Mine hasn't
come, and I'm frantic, simply frantic. Well, why don't you go?"
"I'll hook you up," said Freddy.
"You!"
"Sure! I kin do it better'n any maid you'd get in this helluva
school."
"Why, Freddy!"
"Aw, I heard you sayin' damn! You're in the p'fession,
huh? Me, too."
"You, too?"
His face clouded.
"Oh! And now--you have retired?"
"Yeah--learnin' to be a gem'mum. Lemme there," said Freddy, stepping
behind Madame d'Avala. "Say, you've got it all started wrong." He
attacked the stubborn hooks with light, deft fingers.
"Why, you can really do it!" cried Madame d'Avala.
"Sure! This ain't nothin'." Freddy's fingers flew.
"Careful of that drapery. It's tricky."
"Say, drapery's pie to me. I fastened up lots harder dresses than
this."
"Really?"
"Sure! Florette had swell clo'es. This'n's swell, too. My! ain't it
great to see a classy gown again!"
Madame d'Avala laughed and Freddy joined her.
"Say, you seen the teachers at this school?" he asked. "You seen 'em?"
Madame d'Avala nodded.
"Nice ladies," said Freddy in an effort to be fair. "But no class--you
know what I mean. Way they slick their hair back, an' no paint or
powder. Gee, Florette wouldn't wear their clo'es to a dog fight!"
"Nor I," said Madame d'Avala; "I love dogs."
"I tole Miss Eva she ought to put peroxide in the rinsin' water for
her hair like Florette useter, but it made her mad. I b'lieve in a
woman fixin' herself up all she can, don't you?" asked Freddy
earnestly.
"Indeed, I do! But tell me, who is Florette?"
So Freddy told her all about his mother, and about the good fortune
that had come to her.
"Fifty-two weeks solid! Some ac' to get that kinda bookin, huh?" he
ended.
"Yes! Oh, yes, indeed!"
"There y'ah now! Look at youse'f! See if it's a'right."
Madame d'Avala turned to the mirror. Her gown fell in serene, lovely
folds. It seemed incredible that it was the little demon of a few
minutes before.
"Perfect! Freddy, you're a wonder. How can I thank you?"
"Tha's a'right. You're welcome."
He was regarding her with worshipful eyes.
"You're awful pretty," he breathed.
"Thank you," said Madame d'Avala. "Are you coming to my concert?"
"No, they put us to bed!" cried Freddy in disgust. "Puttin' me to bed
at 8:30 every night! What-ta y' know about that! Jus' w'en the
orchestra would be tunin' up for the evenin' p'formance."
"What a shame! I'd like to have you see my act."
"I bet it's great. You got the looks, too. Tha's what it takes in this
p'fession. Make a quick change?"
"No, I wear the same dress all through."
"Oh! Well," he sighed deeply--"well, it's been great to see you,
anyway. Goo'-bye."
The great lady bent down to him and kissed his forehead.
"Good-bye, Freddy," she said. "You've helped me so much."
Freddy drew in a long breath.
"M-m," he sighed, "you know how I come to peek in your door like
that?"
"Because you heard me screaming 'damn'?"
"No, before that. Comin' all the way down the hall I could smell it.
Smelled so nice. Don't none of these ladies use perfume. I jus' knew
somebody I'd like was in here soon's I got that smell."
"Oh, Freddy, I like you, too! But I've got to hurry now. Good-bye. And
thanks so much, dear."
She started out the door.
"Oh, gee! I can't go to bed!" Freddy wailed.
"Come along, then!" cried Madame d'Avala, impetuously seizing his
hand. "I'll make them let you go to the concert. They must!"
They ran down the hall together hand in hand, Freddy directing the way
to the Misses Blair's study. Miss Eva and Miss Nellie and Mary were
there, and they looked at Freddy compassionately. And though Miss Eva
said it was most unusual, Miss Nellie agreed to Madame d'Avala's
request.
"For," said gentle Miss Nellie, drawing Madame d'Avala aside and
lowering her voice--"for we are very sorry for Freddy now. His
mother----"
"Oh, yes, she has gone to England."
"Why, no! She--is dead!"
"Oh, _mio povero bambino_! And how he adores her!"
"Yes."
"And what will he do then?"
"He can stay on here. But I am afraid he doesn't like us," Miss Nellie
sighed.
"Has he no one else?"
"No--that is, a stepfather. But his mother put him here to save him
from the stepfather's abuse, and--and all the coarsening influences of
stage life, if you understand."
"Ah, yes, I understand," said Madame d'Avala. "And yet I think I
understand the little one, too. He and I--we have the same nature. We
cannot breathe in the too-high altitudes. For us there must be dancing
in the valley, laughter and roses, perfume and sunshine--always
sunshine."
"Oh--er--yes," replied Miss Nellie, taken aback by this effusiveness,
which she could only explain as being foreign.
"It's 8:30," said Miss Eva, looking at her watch.
"Ah, then I must fly," cried Madame d'Avala.
"Goo'-bye!" said Freddy wistfully.
"_Au revoir_," said Madame d'Avala, and electrified the Misses Blair
by adding, "See you after the show, kid."
"I am very lonely, too," said Margarita d'Avala after the
concert--"lonely and sad."
"You are?" Freddy cried in amazement. Then, practically, "What about?"
"It's about a man," confessed the lady.
"Aw, g'wan!" exclaimed Freddy incredulously. "Say," lowering his voice
confidentially, "lemme tell you something! They ain't a man on earth
worth crying for."
"How did you know?" asked Margarita.
"Flo--Florette used to say so." Then a cloud passed over his face.
"She used to say so," he added.
There was a moment's silence, while the lady watched him. Then
Freddy's mobile face cleared, his eyes shone with their old gay
confidence.
"Say, I'm telln' you!" said Freddy, spreading his feet apart,
thrusting his hands in his pockets. "I ain't got no use for men
a-tall! An' you take my advice--don't bother over 'em!"
Margarita laughed. She laughed so hard that Freddy had joined her, and
without knowing how, he was by her side, holding on to her hand while
they both rocked with merriment. When they could laugh no more he
snuggled up to the shoulder that smelled so nice. His face became
babyish and wistful. He stroked the satin of the lovely gown with one
timid finger, while his blue eyes implored hers.
"Ladies an' children is nicest, ain't they?" he appealed.
Suddenly the great Margarita d'Avala caught him in her arms and drew
him to that warm, beautiful breast where no child's head had ever
rested.
"Oh, Freddy, Freddy!" she cried. "You are right, and I must have you!"
"You kin, s' long's Florette's away," said Freddy.
WILD EARTH
By SOPHIE KERR
From _Saturday Evening Post_
The big department store so terrified Wesley Dean that he got no
farther than five steps beyond the entrance. Crowds of well-dressed
ladies milling round like cattle, the noise of many feminine voices,
the excessive warmth and the heady odour of powder and perfume--the
toilet goods were grouped very near the door--all combined to bewilder
and frighten him. He got out before the floorwalker of the centre
aisle could so much as ask him what he wanted.
Once outside he stood in the spring wind and meditated. There must be
other stores in Baltimore, little ones, where a man could buy things
in quiet and decency. Until the four-o'clock motor stage started for
Frederick he had nothing to do.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and started down the crowded
crookedness of Lexington Street. He reached the market and strolled
through it leisurely, feeling very much at home with the meats and
vegetables and the good country look of many of the stall keepers. Its
size amazed him; but then he'd always heard that Baltimore was a big
city, and so many people must take a lot to eat. He went on, all the
way through, and after a little hesitation struck down a quiet street
to the right. But he saw no shops of the sort he was looking for, and
he had thoughts of going back and braving the big store again. He
turned again and again, pleased by the orderly rows of
red-brick-with-white-trim houses, homey-looking places in spite of
their smallness and close setting. At last, right in the middle of a
row of these, he saw a large window set in place of the two usual
smaller ones, a window filled with unmistakable feminine stuff, and
the sign, small, neatly gilt lettered: Miss Tolman's Ladies' Shop.
Hemstitching Done.
There wasn't a soul going in or out, so he braved it, and was happier
still when he found himself the sole customer. The opening of the door
made a bell tinkle in a back room.
A girl came through parted green wool curtains, a girl so
flaxen-haired, with such blue eyes--like a friendly kitten--that
Wesley Dean almost forgot the errand that had brought him so far.
As for the girl, she was surprised to see a man, and particularly a
young country man, among the gloves and stockings, cheap pink
underthings, and embroideries of Miss Tolman's shop.
"You got any--any aprons?" he stammered.
"White aprons or gingham?" The girl's smile helped Wesley a great
deal. A very nice girl, he decided; but she made him feel queer,
light-headed.
"I'm not sure, ma'am. When I come away from home this morning I asked
Aunt Dolcey did she need anything, and she said 'yes, a couple of
aprons,' but she didn't say what kind."
The girl thought it over. "I reckon maybe if she's your auntie she'd
want white aprons."
Her mistake gave him a chance for the conversation which he felt a
most surprising wish to make.
"No'm, she's not my auntie. She's the old coloured woman keeps house
for me."
Oh, she was a very nice girl; something about the way she held her
head made Wesley think of his spunky little riding mare, Teeny.
"H'm. Then I think you'd be safe to get a gingham; anyway, a gingham
apron comes in handy to anybody working round a kitchen. We got some
nice big ones."
"Aunt Dolcey's not so awful big; not any bigger'n you, but heavier
set, like."
There is a distinct advance in friendly intimacy when one has one's
size considered in relation to a customer's needs, particularly when
the consideration shows how little a man knows about women's garments.
The girl reached beneath the counter and brought up an armful of
blue-and-white-checked aprons. She unfolded them deftly, and Wesley
saw that she had small strong hands and round wrists.
"These got bibs and nice long strings, cover you all up while you're
cooking. They're a dollar."
His gaze, intent on her rather than the aprons, brought her eyes to
his.
"Good-looking, but country," was her swift appraisal, adding to it,
"And what a funny mark he's got on his forehead."
It was true. His young hawklike face, tanned brown by sun and wind,
was made strangely grim by a dark vein on his brow, which lent a
frowning shadow to his whole visage. Yet the eyes she had looked into
were shy and gentle and reassuringly full of open admiration.
"If you think she'll like 'em I'll take two," he said after an
instant's pause.
"I'm sure she'll like 'em. They're good gingham and real well made. We
don't keep shoddy stuff. You could go into one of the big stores and
get aprons for fifty, sixty cents, but they wouldn't be good value."
The soft cadence of her voice gave Wesley a strange and stifled
feeling around the heart. He must--he must stay and talk to her.
Hardly knowing what he said, he burst into loquacity.
"I did go into one of the big stores, and it sort of scared
me--everything so stuffy and heaped up, and such a lot of people. I
don't get down to Baltimore very often, you see. I do most of my
buying right in Frederick, but I'd broke my disker, and if you send,
it's maybe weeks before the implement house will 'tend to you. So I
just come down and got the piece, so there won't be but one day lost."
The girl looked up at him again, and he could feel his heart pound
against his ribs. This time she was a little wistful.
"They say it's real pretty country out round Frederick. I've never
been out of Baltimore, 'cept to go down the bay on
excursions--Betterton and Love Point, and places like that. It makes a
grand sail in hot weather."
She handed him the package and picked up the two bills he had laid
down on the counter. There was plainly no reason for his further
lingering. But he had an artful idea.
"Look here--maybe I ought to get Aunt Dolcey a white apron, too. Maybe
she won't want the gingham ones at all."
The girl looked surprised at such extravagance.
"But if she doesn't you can bring 'em back when you come to Baltimore
again, and we'd exchange 'em," she argued mildly.
"No, I better get a white one now. She puts on a white apron
evenings," he added craftily.
A box of white aprons was lifted from the shelf and a choice made, but
even that transaction could not last forever, as Wesley Dean was
desperately aware.
"Look here, are you Miss Tolman?" he burst out. "I saw the name
outside on the window."
"Mercy, no! Miss Tolman's a kind of cousin of mine. She's fifty-two,
and she can't hardly get through that door there."
He disregarded the description, for the second bundle was being tied
up fast. He had never seen any one tie so fast, he thought.
"My name's Wesley Dean, and I got a farm in the mountains back of
Frederick. Say--I don't want you to think I'm fresh, but--but--say,
would you go to the movies with me to-night?"
It had come to him in a flash that he could disregard the seat in the
four-o'clock bus and go back to-morrow morning. Sweat stood out on his
forehead and on his curving, clean-shaven upper lip. His boy's eyes
hung on hers, pleading. All the happiness of his life, he felt, waited
for this girl's answer, this little yellow-haired girl whom he had
never seen until a quarter of an hour before.
"We-ell," she hesitated, "I--I don't like to have you think I'd pick
up like this with any fellow that come along----"
"I don't think so!" he broke in fiercely. "If I thought so I'd
never've asked you."
There was a strange breathless moment in the tiny cluttered shop, a
moment such as some men and women are lucky enough to feel once in a
lifetime. It is the moment when the heart's wireless sends its clear
message, "This is my woman" and "This is my man." The flaxen-haired
girl and the dark boy were caught in the golden magic of it and, half
scared, half ecstatic, were thrown into confusion.
"I'll go," she whispered breathlessly. "There's a little park a block
down the street. I'll be there at seven o'clock, by the statue."
"I'll be there, waiting for you," he replied, and because he could not
bear the strange sweet pain that filled him he plunged out of the
shop, jerking the door so that the little bell squealed with surprise.
He had forgotten his packages.
Also, as he remembered presently, he did not know her name.
He was at the feet of the statue in the park by half-past six, and
spent a restless half hour there in the cool spring twilight. Perhaps
she would not come! Perhaps he had frightened her, even as he had
frightened himself, by this inexplicable boldness. Other girls passed
by, and some of them glanced with a coquettish challenge at the
handsome tall youth with his frowning brow. But he did not see them.
Presently--and it was just on the stroke of seven--he saw her coming,
hesitantly, and with an air of complete and proper primness. She had
on a plain little shabby suit and hat, but round her throat was a
string of beads of a blue to match her eyes, an enticing, naive
harmony.
She carried the forgotten aprons, and handed them to him gravely.
"You left these," she said; and then, to regularize the situation, "My
name's Anita Smithers. I ought've told you this afternoon, but--I
guess I was kind of forgetful, too."
That made them both smile, and the smile left them less shy. He
stuffed the forgotten aprons into his overcoat pocket.
"I was so afraid you wouldn't come. Where can we go? I don't know
anything much about the city. I'd like to take you to a nice picture
show, the best there is."
She flushed with the glory of it.
"There's a real nice picture house only a little ways from here. They
got a Pauline Frederick film on. I'm just crazy about Pauline
Frederick."
By this time they were walking sedately out of the park, not daring to
look at each other. She watched him while he bought the tickets and
then a box of caramels from the candy stand inside.
"He knows what to do," she thought proudly. "He's not a bit of a
hick."
"D'you go to the pictures a lot?" he asked when they were seated.
"'Most every night. I'm just crazy about 'em."
"I expect you've got steady company, then?" The question fairly jerked
out of him.
She shook her head. "No, I almost always go by myself. My girl friend,
she goes with me sometimes."
He sighed with relief. "They got good picture shows in Frederick. I go
'most every Saturday night."
"But you don't live right in Frederick, you said."
He seized the chance to tell her about himself.
"Oh, my, no. I live back in the mountains. Say, I just wish you could
see my place. It's up high, and you can look out, ever so
far--everything kind of drops away below, and you can see the river
and the woods, and it takes different colours, 'cording to the season
and the weather. Some days when I'm ploughing or disking and I get up
on the ridge, it's so high up and far away seems like I'm on top the
whole world. It's lonesome--it's off the pike, you see--but I like it.
Here in the city everything crowds on you so close."
She had listened with the keenest interest.
"That's so. It must be grand to get off by yourself and have plenty
room. I get so tired of that squinched-in, narrow, stuffy shop; and
the place where I board is worse. I don't make enough to have a room
by myself. There's two other girls in with me, and seems like we're
always under-foot to each other. And there isn't any parlour, and we
got only one bureau for the three of us, and you can guess what a mess
that is. And the closet's about as big as a pocket handkerchief."
"Ain't you got any folks?"
The blue eyes held a sudden mist.