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The Invention Series
CARL AND THE COTTON GIN
by
SARA WARE BASSETT
With Illustrations by William F. Stecher
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1924
Copyright, 1924,
by Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved
Published September, 1924
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE MCGREGORS 1
II CARL TELLS A STORY 17
III A TRAGEDY 31
IV PROBLEMS 45
V A TANGLE OF SURPRISES 60
VI THE WEB WIDENS 71
VII THE COMING OF THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 79
VIII THE ROMANCE OF COTTON 97
IX NORTH AND SOUTH 112
X A LESSON IN THRIFT 124
XI A FAMILY CONGRESS 140
XII A CLUE 160
XIII HAL REPEATS HIS VISIT 180
XIV SPINNING YARNS 193
XV TIDINGS 219
XVI A RELUCTANT ALTRUIST 228
XVII AN ORDEAL 237
XVIII THE SOLUTION OF MANY MYSTERIES 250
XIX UNRAVELING THE SNARLS 259
ILLUSTRATIONS
"MR. CARL MCGREGOR," ANNOUNCED HE IN A STENTORIAN
TONE _Frontispiece_
_Page_
"THE COTTON IS SENT TO FACTORIES TO BE GINNED" " 129
"BUT THAT ISN'T OUR BASKET, MOTHER," CARL SAID. "THIS
IS MUCH BIGGER" 155
"I'VE HUNTED FOR YOU AND YOUR RED CAR EVER SINCE" 253
CARL AND THE COTTON GIN
CHAPTER I
THE McGREGORS
"Carl!"
"Coming, Ma!"
Mrs. McGregor waited a moment.
"But you aren't coming," protested she fretfully. "You never seem to
come when you're wanted. Drat the child! Where is he? Carl!"
"Yes, Ma."
"_Yes, Ma!_ _Yes, Ma!_" the woman mimicked impatiently. "It's easy
enough to shout _Yes, Ma_; but where are you--that's what I want to
know. You're the slowest creature on God's earth, I believe. A tortoise
would be a race horse compared with you. What under the sun are you
doing?"
The boy entered, a good-humored grin on his face.
He was thin, lanky, and blue-eyed, and a rebellious lock of tawny hair
that curled despite all he could do waved back from his forehead. He
might have been fourteen years old or he might have been seventeen; it
was hard to tell whether he was an overgrown younger boy or an
under-sized older one. Whatever his age, however, he could certainly
boast a serene disposition, for his mother's caustic comments failed to
ruffle his temper. Having heard them ever since babyhood he was quite
accustomed to their acid tang; moreover, he had learned to gage them
for what they were worth and class them along with the froth on a soda
or the sputter of a freshly lighted match. The thing underneath was
what mattered and he knew well that beneath the torrent of words his
mother was the best mother on earth, so what more could a boy ask?
Therefore he stood before her, whistling softly and waiting to see what
would happen next. For something surely would happen; it always did
when Mrs. McGregor rolled up her sleeves, and they were rolled up now,
displaying beneath the margin of blue gingham a powerful arm
terminating in a strong hand and slender, capable fingers.
Years ago she had come to Mulberry Court with a large brood of children
and it had been a long time before she could number one friend among
her neighbors. The chief complaint entered against her was that she was
not sociable, and if you were not sociable at Mulberry Court it meant
you were lofty, uppish, considered yourself better than other folks.
What it really meant, however, was that you did not hang out of your
window and chatter to the inhabitant of the opposite tenement; or
loiter in the doorway or on the sidewalk to gossip with the women who
lived on the floors below.
At the outset Mrs. McGregor had let it be understood that she had no
time for gossip and it was this decree that had earned for her the
stigma of not being sociable, the acme of all crimes at Mulberry Court.
Of course she had not proclaimed her policy in so many words. No,
indeed! Yet she might as well have done so for the business-like manner
in which she hastened home from market and shot up the stairs published
her philosophy more forcefully than any words could have done.
"She's just too good for the rest of us," announced Mrs. O'Dowd
sarcastically to the little circle who were wont to await her verdict
on every newcomer to the district. "Proud and snappy and stuck-up, I
call her. Not much of an addition to the house, if you ask my opinion."
This snapshot judgment, hasty as it was, was promptly accepted by the
other women, for was not Julie O'Dowd the social dictator of the
community? Had she ever been known to be wrong? With one accord
Mulberry Court turned its back on the new arrival who so flagrantly
defied the etiquette of the place.
Indeed had not Mrs. O'Dowd's baby fallen ill the seal of disapproval
put on Mrs. McGregor might have rested on her all her days, and she and
her entire family been completely ostracized by the neighborhood. But
little Joey O'Dowd, the youngest of Julie's flock, was seized with
pneumonia, and although the flock was a large one Julie was too genuine
a mother to feel she could spare one out of her fold. Was not Joey the
littlest of all, the pet of her household? All the motherhood in her
revolted at the thought of losing him. Strangely enough until the
present moment she had escaped great crises with her children. She was
well schooled in the ways of whooping cough, measles, and chicken pox
and could do up a cut finger with almost professional skill; but in the
face of crucial illness she was like a warrior without weapons.
Overwhelmed with terror, therefore, by the immediate calamity, she did
in benumbed fashion everything the doctor directed and still Joey was
no better; if anything he grew steadily worse. Motionless he lay in his
crib, his great staring eyes giving forth no flicker of recognition.
There was not much hope, the neighbors whispered, after they had
tiptoed in to look at him and tiptoed out again. He was as good as
gone. Julie could never save him in the world.
The whispers, humanely muffled, did not reach the panic-stricken mother
but she was not blind to the despairing head-shaking and these suddenly
awakened her to the realization that according to general opinion the
battle she was waging was a losing one. It was a terrible discovery.
What should she do? She must do something. Wild-eyed she plunged into
the hall, a vague impulse to seek help moving her; and it was just as
she paused irresolute at the head of the stairs that she came face to
face with Mrs. McGregor ascending to her fifth-floor flat.
Now Mrs. McGregor was a born nurse, whose skill had been increased by
constant practice. With a wisdom that amounted almost to genius she had
brought her large family through many an appalling conflict and emerged
victorious. Sickness, therefore, had no terrors for her. Instantly the
mother in her read and interpreted the desperation in Julie's face and
without a word she slipped through the open door into the room where
Joey lay. One glance of her experienced eye showed that there was
plenty to be done. The interior was close and untidy, for Mrs. O'Dowd
in her distraction had cast aside every consideration but her baby.
Mrs. McGregor stooped down over the crib.
What she saw there or did not see she at least kept to herself, and
when she straightened up it was to meet the searching gaze of her
neighbor with a grave smile.
"He's going to die," moaned Julie, wringing her hands. "He is going to
die--my baby--and I can't help it!"
Although for a long time the two women had lived beneath the same roof,
these were the first words Mrs. O'Dowd had ever addressed to Mrs.
McGregor.
"Might I touch him?" the latter inquired gently.
Like a suspicious animal Julie stiffened jealously.
"I'll not hurt him," Mrs. McGregor hastened to say, not taking offense
at the other's attitude. "I just want to raise him up so he can breathe
better." Then she added reassuringly, "I'd not give up if I were you.
You must keep on fighting to the very last minute. There is much we can
do yet to make him comfortable."
"What?"
"We can bathe him a little for one thing, if you would heat some
water."
Dumbly Julie turned to obey.
"I've a big family of my own," went on Mrs. McGregor in matter-of-fact
fashion, "and I've seen so many children pull through when they looked
fit to die that I've learned never to quit hoping. You'll get nowhere
in a fight if you haven't courage."
"I had courage enough at first," whispered the baby's mother in a
shaking voice, "but I've lost my nerve now. I'm frightened--and--and
tired."
Tears came into her eyes.
"Of course you are," came with quick sympathy from Mrs. McGregor. "We
all are apt to lose our nerve when we are worn out. I don't wonder
you're tired. You've had no sleep day or night, I'll be bound."
"Not much. The neighbors were kind about offering but somehow I
couldn't leave Joey with 'em. Besides, how can you sleep when you are
worried half out of your mind?"
"I know! I know!" nodded the other woman. "Still you can't go on
forever without rest. Next you know you will be down sick yourself and
then where will your baby be--to say nothing of your other children. A
mother has got to think ahead. Now listen. Would you trust me to watch
the baby while you curled up on the sofa and got a wink or two of
sleep? I'll promise to call you should there be an atom of change. Do
now! Be a sensible woman. And how would you feel about my giving the
little chap a drop of medicine? A Scotch doctor in the old country once
gave me a prescription that I've tried on both Timmie and Martin and it
did 'em worlds of good at a time just like this. It might do nothing
for your child, mind. I'm not promising it would. Still, it couldn't
hurt him and it might cure."
Julie's dulled mind caught the final word. _Cure!_ Alas, she had given
up hope that anything in the world could do that. The reaction that
came with the suggestion was so wonderful that it left her speechless.
"Now see here," burst out Mrs. McGregor misinterpreting her silence,
"use your common sense. Do I look as if I had come to poison your baby?
Why, woman, I love children better than anything on earth. They're a
precious lot of bother, there's no denying, and sometimes I get that
impatient with one or the other of 'em I could toss him out the window.
But for all their hectoring, and their noise, and their dirt--their
meddling, and smashing, and mending, I'd not be without them."
While speaking she had been touching the baby with a hand so yearning
and tender that it could not be stayed. She had raised his head,
smoothed his pillow, straightened the coverings that lay over him. It
was amazing how quietly and deftly her hands moved. Even the child
seemed conscious of her healing presence, for all of a sudden his wee
fingers curled about one of hers and he smiled faintly.
"See!" exclaimed Mrs. McGregor, "the baby is not afraid to trust me."
"Nor am I any longer," put in Julie with eager surrender. "Do as you
like with Joey. You know better than I."
"Oh, it isn't that," the visitor protested, rising. "It is just that
it's sometimes well not to leave a stone unturned. You might regret not
having taken the chance. I'll slip upstairs and get the medicine. It
won't take a minute."
"If you'll be that kind."
The Scotchwoman needed no second bidding. She was gone and back again
in a twinkling, the magic green bottle in her hand.
"Now if I might have a cup of hot water," said she. "I've a dropper
here. We'll see what a spoonful of this mixture will do for the wee
laddie. What is his name?"
"Joey."
Mrs. O'Dowd's eyes had brightened and they now beamed on her neighbor.
"It's a nice name," replied Mrs. McGregor, beaming in turn. "I always
liked the name of Joseph. Well, Joey boy, we'll see if we can make you
well. Here, little fellow!"
Gently she forced the liquid between the baby's lips.
"Now we'll sponge him a bit, put on a fresh slip, and give him some
air!"
"But won't he----"
"Catch cold? Not if he is shielded from the draught. He'll like the air
and feel the better for it. It will help him to breathe."
Noiselessly she went to work and within an hour both Joey and his
surroundings took on a different aspect.
"Now," said she to the grateful mother, "you roll up in that comforter
and take a nap. Don't worry about the baby. I'll be right here. Will
you trust me?"
Julie hesitated.
"It's not that I won't trust you," murmured she. "But you're so
heavenly kind. Not another soul has done for me what you have and I'm a
hundred times better acquainted with 'em, too. Of course I know they
have all they can do without taking on the cares of others. I'm not
blaming them. You yourself can't have much time to spare. Haven't you
other things to do?"
"Of course I have," came with curt honesty from Mrs. McGregor. "I've
six children and they leave me little time for idling. But when I do
take time away from 'em, I plan to take it to some purpose. Just now I
have nothing more important to do than nurse this baby. It's my first
job. So don't be worrying about my work. Luckily it is Saturday and
Mary, Carl, and Timmie will look after the little tots and get the
dinner. I told 'em to when I was there just now. Martin and Nell seldom
give any trouble, and should James Frederick wake up, one of the boys
is to run down and tell me."
Julie placed a hand impulsively on that of the other woman.
"I can never thank you," murmured she brokenly.
"Oh, don't be talking of thanks," Mrs. McGregor interrupted, cutting
her short. "My dosing may do no good and before the day is out you may
be calling me a meddlesome old harridan. Wait and see what happens. I'm
not one that sets much store by thanks, anyhow. After all, what does it
amount to but a string of words? If we can cure the baby it will be all
the thanks I want."
If the sentiment the final phrase so modestly expressed was genuine
Mrs. McGregor at least received the boon she craved, for as if by magic
the baby began to mend that very night and before the week passed was
out of danger and on the high road to recovery. Julie's gratitude was
touching to see.
"'Twas Mrs. McGregor saved Joey," declared she to every person she met.
"She's as good as any doctor--better, for Joey might have died but for
her. Should I go through life kneeling to her on my bended knees I
never could thank her enough."
Julie O'Dowd did not go through life, however, kneeling before Mrs.
McGregor on her bended knees; but she did a more practical and
efficacious thing. Everywhere she went she sounded the praise of her
neighbor; talked of her kindness, her wisdom, her unselfishness, until
not only Mulberry Court, but the area adjoining it began to view the
gaunt, austere figure from quite a different angle. Shyly the women
began to nod a greeting to the stranger.
"It's just her way to be curt and quick," explained they to one
another. "She doesn't mean a thing in the world by it. Julie says she's
sharp and prickly as a chestnut burr, but with the sweetest of hearts
inside."
Indeed it was not long before Mrs. McGregor proved her right to this
generous summary of her character. Other neighbors gained courage to
consult her about their children and in time about their troubles in
general.
"Ask Mrs. McGregor," became the slogan of Mulberry Court. "She'll
know."
And she unfailingly did. She it was who prescribed medicines; gave
advice; suggested plain, common-sense remedies for every variety of
dilemma. Nevertheless she wasted no words about it. She had no time to
fool away, she let it be known. Whatever she did had to be done with
pitiless directness. Often her council was delivered through a crack in
the door or even given through the door itself; and there were
instances when it was shouted through the keyhole. But no matter where
the words came from they were always helpful and friendly and the
neighbors came to understand the manner accompanying them and did not
resent it.
Her children understood it too. Mary, Carl, Timmie, Martin,
four-year-old Nell, and even wee James Frederick (whom Mrs. McGregor
unfailingly addressed by his full name) all understood and worshipped
their quick-tongued mother. Together with the rest of Mulberry Court
they also had supreme faith in whatever she did and said, and were
certain that every calamity under the sun could be set right if only
she were consulted and her advice followed.
And yet loyal as they were, there was one point on which neither Carl
nor Mary agreed with their mother. Of course she was right--she must be
right; wasn't she always so? Yet notwithstanding this belief they could
not but feel that it would be a far better arrangement for them to
leave school and go into the cotton mills where their father had worked
for so many years. Ever so many of the boys and girls they knew worked
there. Why should they remain in the High School struggling with
algebra, geometry, history, Latin, English and bookkeeping when they
might be earning money? It seemed senseless. Certainly the family
needed money badly enough. Were there not always endless pairs of shoes
to be bought? Caps, mittens, suits, stockings, and underclothing to
purchase; not to mention food and groceries? And then there was the
rent.
Ah, Mary and Carl knew very well about the rent, the bills, and all the
other worrisome things. Even Timmie, who was only nine, knew about
them; and once Martin, aged six, had startled his elders by proclaiming
on a sunny May morning, "This is rent day, isn't it, Ma?" in a tone of
awe, as if the date marked some gruesome ceremony.
You came to understand about rent day when toward the end of the month
there were no pennies to be had, and you were forced to wait for the
shoes or rubbers you needed.
That rent day was a milestone to be dreaded even Nell vaguely guessed
and when it had passed in safety all the McGregors, both big and
little, joined in a general rejoicing.
Ma was the magician who accomplished that happy miracle. Ma always
contrived to accomplish everything, so of course she managed rent day
along with the rest of the wonders she performed. She made no secret,
either, of how she did it. She sewed! Yes, she sewed for a dressmaker
who sent her marvelous dresses to embroider. For Ma was very clever
with her needle and right out of the blue sky could make the most
beautiful flowers and figures with colored silks. She could also do
beading and she was teaching Mary how to do it. Already Mary could do
quite nice embroidery and exquisite plain sewing.
Ma was very proud of this.
But what Mary did chiefly when she was not at school was to help with
the housework so her mother would be free to sew. That was the
important thing. Ma must not roughen her hands or the silks she worked
with would be spoiled. So Mary cooked and scrubbed like a real little
housewife; took care of the younger children and kept them quiet so
they would not interrupt their mother.
And between school hours Carl and Tim helped also. They built the
fires, wiped the dishes, ran errands, and brought home any bits of
discarded wood they found in the streets. In fact, there was not one
drone in the McGregor hive. Even James Frederick had learned to lie in
his crib and play by himself when everybody was busy.
It was a happy family, the McGregors. Its members, it is true, did not
have everything they wanted. They never expected that. Those who had
mittens lacked new caps, and those who had caps were often forced to
wear patched shoes and made-over stockings. Martin's reefer frequently
did duty for Nell, and Mrs. McGregor's cape for Mary. However, all that
did not matter. They were happy and that was the chief thing, happy in
spite of patched clothing, coats that were outgrown, rubbers that were
either sizes too small or dropped off at every step, and shoes that
were common property. The little flat was sometimes hot in summer and
cold in winter but it took more than that to dampen the McGregors'
spirits.
When they had lentil soup, how steaming and delicious it was! When meat
stew, what a dish for the gods! And who could have asked for a greater
treat than a thick slice of Mary's fresh bread coated over with
molasses or peanut butter?
Every month a long blue envelope containing a check from Uncle
Frederick arrived and that, together with what Mary and her mother
earned, kept the household going. But they seldom saw Uncle James
Frederick Dillingham. He was always sailing to India, China, or South
America. Sometimes letters came from him and picture postcards showing
strange countries and people in foreign dress. But the check never
failed to make its appearance and as it was highly important that it
should, everybody agreed that since Uncle Frederick could not come
himself he was almost as satisfactorily represented by this magic bit
of blue paper. The check brought things and perhaps if Uncle Frederick
himself had come he wouldn't. You could not tell about uncles you had
never seen.
In the meantime the blue paper kept stew in the kettle and the shelter
of Mulberry Court above their heads, and what better service could an
uncle render his relatives?
Hence Uncle Frederick's name came to be mentioned constantly in the
household.
"Remember, Timmie, those are your Uncle Frederick Dillingham's rubber
boots and be thankful to him for them," the boy's mother would observe
when she brought home the purchase. Or "Uncle Frederick is presenting
you with those stockings, Carl. See you don't forget it."
And the children did not forget. Gradually their unknown uncle came to
assume in their imagination a form that would have surprised him had he
been suddenly confronted by it. It was that of a benevolent-faced fairy
clad in robes of purple and ermine, and wearing on his head a crown
resplendent with gems of myriad colors. In his hand he carried a
scepter terminating in a star that far outshone the jewels he wore, a
scepter all powerful to work miracles. He was the good angel of the
McGregor home, the Aladdin to whom they owed all sorts of blessings.
And yet withal Uncle James Frederick Dillingham was one and the same
person who sailed the _Charlotte_ to India, China, South America, or
some other ephemeral port. How paradoxical was this dual role, how
alluring and how ridiculous!