MISS BILLY
[Illustration: "That wasn't the way it happened," said a clear voice
above them. (_See page 67._)]
MISS BILLY
A NEIGHBORHOOD STORY
[Illustration]
_By_ EDITH KEELEY STOKELY _And_ MARIAN KENT HURD
_ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES COPELAND_
BOSTON [symbol] LOTHROP
PUBLISHING COMPANY
Published, April, 1905
COPYRIGHT, 1905,
BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
MISS BILLY
NORWOOD PRESS
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. NO. 12 CHERRY STREET 1
II. MISS BILLY 8
III. WAYS AND MEANS 22
IV. NEW NEIGHBOURS 37
V. A LOAD OF DIRT 44
VI. NEXT DOOR 55
VII. TRIALS 70
VIII. THE STORY OF HORATIUS 86
IX. BEATRICE 110
X. A BROKEN SIDEWALK 124
XI. WEEDS 142
XII. LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD 154
XIII. HARD LINES 170
XIV. TWO LETTERS 188
XV. "FRANCES" 200
XVI. THE CHILD GARDEN 213
XVII. THE LAWN SOCIAL 233
XVIII. MARGARET LENDS ASSISTANCE 250
XIX. PERSONAL PLEASURE 265
XX. FAIR SKIES 285
XXI. HALLOWE'EN 296
XXII. WAITING 317
XXIII. CONCLUSION 330
ILLUSTRATIONS
"That wasn't the way it happened," said a clear
voice above them _Frontispiece_
Page
"I have a leaning toward an up-to-date stable and
riding ponies, myself" 82
"Who are you?" he said 167
Marie Jean was gotten up in a style known as
"regardless" 240
She was telling him the history of the day 279
"All Oi do be nadin'," ... "is a check-rein from
the top av me head to me shoulder blades" 343
MISS BILLY
CHAPTER I
No. 12 CHERRY STREET
"The house looked wretched and woe-begone:
Its desolate windows wept
With a dew that forever dripped and crept
From the moss-grown eaves: and ever anon
Some idle wind, with a passing slap,
Made rickety shutter or shingle flap."
MARCH had gone out like a roaring lion, and April had slipped
demurely in, armed with a pot of green paint and a scrubbing brush.
There was not much to paint in Cherry Street. A few sparse blades
of grass, tenacious of life, clung here and there to curbstone and
dooryard; but there was plenty to scrub, and the Spring maid fell to
with a will.
In consequence, on this Saturday morning, the water rushed down the
gutters in torrents, while at the same time the small denizens of
Cherry Street were lifted into the seventh heaven of delight by the
sun's showing his jolly face through the clouds and inviting them
out to wade. To make their happiness, if possible, more complete, a
pine-wood wagon, creaking and groaning under its heavy weight, had
turned the corner by Coffey's saloon and was coming up the street.
The small Cherryites paused in blissful anticipation to watch its
progress, while miniature Niagara cataracts hissed and foamed about
their bare legs.
History repeats itself, and they argued with reason that when the
driver should reach the end of the block and find it a blind: a
street with no outlet, he would be covered with confusion and beat
his horses and swear horribly in trying to turn around.
So, as the creaking wagon drew nearer, the youthful Cherryites fled
ecstatically through the cold waters for the parquet seats on the
curbstone nearest the stage, and waited breathlessly for the rising
of the curtain.
But it was decreed that the Pine Wood Dramatic Company was to play to
empty seats after all, for round the corner by Coffey's loomed a star
of greater magnitude. It was Mr. Schultzsky, landlord and taxpayer of
all Cherry Street, with his humped shoulders and rusty silk hat, his
raw-boned grey nag and a vehicle popularly known as a "rattle-trap."
Not that Mr. Schultzsky was an unusual sight in Cherry Street.
Indeed, he dwelt therein, together with a strange little niece for
housekeeper, who had come from some far-off heathen land; but rent
day, always an interesting event, on this occasion held an added
charm from the fact that Tommy Casey had made it known to all whom
it might concern that his mother intended on this day to utter such
truths to Mr. Schultzsky as would make him tremble on his throne.
Therefore, almost before the iron-grey nag had come to a full stop,
the bare-legged Cherryites, precipitately deserting the Pine Wood
Drama, were gathered in a circle before Mrs. Casey's door awaiting
with fearsome ecstasy the promised crack of doom.
The Casey house, in the early history of the city, had been a proud
brick mansion of eight rooms, with green blinds, and flower beds
outlined in serrated points of red brick. But the street had risen
above the level of the yard, leaving the old house like a tombstone
on a sunken grave. The old-fashioned porches were dust-coloured and
worm-eaten, the fences fallen away, and the broken window panes
and missing slats of the blinds gave it a peculiarly sightless and
toothless appearance. Like a faithful friend, the old house shared
the fallen fortunes of its early owner, for Mr. Schultzsky had bought
it, as he had come into possession of nearly all his real estate, at
a tax title sale. Now, as he tied his horse and Tommy Casey heralded
his approach, Mrs. Casey with the baby tucked in the curve of one arm
turned the bread in the oven, slammed the oven door, whisked the
dust off a chair, and waited.
Presently the fickle April sunshine that poured in a broad band
through the kitchen door was shadowed, and the landlord stood at the
threshold. He did not wish Mrs. Casey a polite good-morning: this was
not Mr. Schultzsky's way. Instead, he gave a characteristic little
grunt, and opening an overfed pocket book, produced from among others
of its kind a monthly rent bill, and extended it without further
ceremony.
Mrs. Casey laid the baby in its cradle, brought her knuckles to her
hips, and invoking the spirit of a long line of oppression-hating
ancestors to her aid, opened the battle.
"Mr. Schultzsky," she began, her soft Irish half-brogue giving no
sign of the trembling within, "whin we moved here a year ago, there
was promises ye made us that ye've not kep'. The roof is l'akin'
worse than it did then,--the overfillin' of a tub in a bad rain,--an'
me wit' my man a coachman out late o' nights, havin' to get up out
o' me bed wit' the lightnin' flashin' an' lave me wailin' baby to
pull a tub up the ladder undher the roof! The windays are out, six of
thim,--not that we done it, mind you,--the floors are broke,--an' of
the whole eight rooms, foive of thim are not fit for a dacint fam'ly
to live in, wit' the paint all gone an' the paper smoky an' palin'
off. The front gate was gone before we ever came here, an' now the
fince posts has rotted off an' the fince is down. Here is Spring
clanin' on me, an' what can I do wit' a place like this? Fifteen
dollars a month, Mr. Schultzsky, we're payin' ye, an' the money
waitin' for ye as reg'lar as the month comes around. But now what
I have say to ye is this: we'll move the week out onless ye paper
an' paint the five rooms,"--Mrs. Casey counted the items off on her
fingers,--"put in a new kitchen floor, fix the six windays, patch the
roof, set up the fince, an' put a bit o' paint on the porches. It's
not that our place is any worse than the others in Cherry Street, but
the Caseys bein' good pay, an' knowin' it, is goin' to have things a
bit different, that's all."
Mr. Schultzsky considered. He took off his silk hat, carefully
wiped his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief, and replaced the
antiquated head-covering. He shuffled his rusty boots and thrust his
hands down into the pockets of his shining coat to gain time. His
small black eyes glittered craftily as he mentally added, subtracted,
and struck off the fraction of a per cent. Then he made his decision,
but he said not a word. He took from the recesses of his capacious
coat-tails a red card, some tacks and a small hammer. Without another
look at Mrs. Casey, and with as little regard for the group of
awe-stricken children, he passed around the house to the front door
and tacked up the sign.
Number 12 Cherry Street was for rent.