A BROKEN SIDEWALK
"Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
A JOT?
The Akond of Swat."
MISS BILLY entered the study with an agitated whirl of ribbons and
hair. Her hat was off, her face flushed, and every curl stood on end.
"What do you think I have discovered?" she said in indignant tones.
Beatrice looked up calmly from her mother's chair. Mr. and Mrs.
Lee were spending the day away from home, and the elder daughter
responded to the question with a little air of authority that was
particularly exasperating to Miss Billy in her present mood:
"If you had asked what you had _lost_ I should know," she said
coolly. "Your temper has evidently gone astray."
"I know I'm foolish to blaze up so suddenly," admitted Miss Billy;
"but it's the injustice of the thing that made me hot. Mrs. Canary
has just been telling me how much rent the Caseys paid for this
house."
"How much was it?" inquired Beatrice. "Less than we are paying?"
"Fifteen dollars instead of twenty," said Miss Billy indignantly.
"But of course I wouldn't say a word about it if old Mr. Schultzsky
had made the repairs he promised. He hasn't lived up to his agreement
at all. We paid for having the house painted; father furnished the
screens; Theodore mended the gate, and I propped up the back fence,
myself. That window upstairs is still broken, and when Ted reminded
him of it he grunted and remarked that the cold weather was over.
The doorbell is out of order, the step is broken, and that walk in
front of the house is a disgrace to the world. The whole tottering
skeleton of a house will fall in a heap some day. If we pay twenty
dollars a month for rent, as we agreed, he is going to do the things
he agreed to."
"How are you going to bring this law of equality about?" inquired
Theodore.
Miss Billy hesitated. The conferences with the landlord in the past
had not met with any visible amount of success. Still there were
forces which had not as yet been brought to bear. Miss Billy decided
quickly, as was her custom.
"What he needs is some one to tell him a few unvarnished truths," she
said energetically. "Father is too easy to deal with him, and mother
is too ladylike. I'm going to interview him myself."
"Billy the Bold!" exclaimed Theodore. "My heart swells with pride at
your courage. Where and when is the interview to take place?"
"I don't know," said Miss Billy dubiously. "I don't believe he has
an office, and I hate to go inside that mouldy old shell across the
street. I have my suspicions about his living there, anyway. He looks
as though he slept in that old buggy of his."
"You might advertise and arrange a meeting that way," suggested
Theodore. "'Sprightly maiden of sixteen wishes to meet a scholarly
and refined gentleman of sixty-five. Object, new sidewalk, and what
may follow.'"
"I've half a mind to tackle him to-day," said Miss Billy musingly.
"The rent is due, and I might soften the blow with a generous bill.
I believe I'll try it. Give me the rent money, Theodore. I'll get a
promise out of him, or die in the attempt!"
"Do you mean to say you're going to pay him the rent yourself, and
express your sentiments then?" asked Theodore.
"Yes, I do," returned Miss Billy stoutly.
"What shall you say to him?" asked Beatrice, with a note of
admiration in her usually even voice, for Miss Billy never looked
prettier than when she stood in her face-the-world attitude, with
eyes big and earnest and face aglow.
"She will arm herself with the butcher-knife and the rent money,"
jeered Theodore, "and meet him at the door. And, withering him
beneath her stern and forbidding glance, she will say: 'Move at the
peril of your life. Mend the doorbell, put in the glass and fix the
front walk before you speak a word. Stand and deliver.' And he will
remark, like Riley's tree-toad, 'Don't shoot, I'll come down'; and
ask, yea, beseech her to permit him to go for his tack hammer."
"Well, we need the improvements badly enough," said Beatrice,
"but I don't think you'd better try it, Wilhelmina. It seems so
bold,--somehow. Besides, you won't get anything out of him."
"Just you wait and see," said Miss Billy confidently.
It was about an hour later that Mr. Schultzsky's thin horse stopped
at the gate, and Mr. Schultzsky himself shuffled up the narrow walk
to the front door.
"Here comes your victim, Sisterling," announced Theodore cheerfully.
"Do you feel that you need me for a witness, or to preserve the
dignity of the occasion?"
Billy took off her sweeping-cap, and slowly adjusted the safety pins
at the back of her shirt-waist.
"Just let him wait a while," she said. "That'll show him that the
bell is out of order." But in spite of her savage words she met him
at the door smilingly.
"Good-morning, Mr. Schultzsky," she said cordially. "Will you come
in?"
For answer Mr. Schultzsky held out his monthly account.
"Oh, the rent bill!" responded Miss Billy. "You're like the stork,
Mr. Schultzsky, that always comes around with a big bill. But I want
to talk with you a few minutes. Won't you come in?"
The landlord ignored the feeble joke, and gave a stolid grunt, which
Miss Billy interpreted as a refusal. "Well," she said, sitting down
on the doorstep, "if you won't come in I suppose I can talk to you
here. Mr. Schultzsky, perhaps you noticed that our doorbell is
broken."
The old man made no reply, and Miss Billy went on:
"The window upstairs has never been mended----"
Mr. Schultzsky shuffled his feet uneasily, but gave no other sign of
having heard her speech.
"And our front walk is so broken that it will be the death of
somebody some day," continued Miss Billy. She paused for a response,
but none came.
"When we came in here you promised to put the house in good repair
for us," said the girl desperately, "but you have not kept your word.
Everything that is new about the premises _we_ have added. Theodore
put up the fence, and has been puttering around the place ever since
we moved in; the bill for painting and papering the house was sent
to father (I never should have paid it if I had been in his place),
although you promised to have it done. The whole house is shaky on
its legs, and weak in its joints, and yet we are paying you big rent
for it. I found out to-day that you are charging us five dollars a
month more than you did the last tenants."
Did Miss Billy imagine it, or was there a gleam of avaricious triumph
in the half-closed eyes? "You are not dealing fairly with us!" she
exclaimed wrathfully. Then, in a more amiable tone, she added: "We
_want_ to be good tenants, you know; but aren't you going to make any
of your promises good?"
Mr. Schultzsky took out his dingy bandanna and mopped his forehead.
He made neither apology nor protest. "The rent is due," he said. Miss
Billy's cheeks glowed as she meekly handed out the bills. "Maybe
they'll make him more responsive," she thought to herself.
The landlord folded them, put them carefully into a huge wallet, and
placing the rent account against the side of the house, receipted the
paper in a queer cramped hand. Then thrusting it into her mechanical
grasp, he turned, and without another word, shuffled off down the
walk.
He hesitated at the gate and turned. "Good-morning, ma'am," he said.
Then climbing into the rattle-trap, he drove rapidly away. Miss
Billy, left alone on the doorstep, was torn by conflicting emotions.
Angry as she was, she could not fail to see the humour in her
ignominious defeat. And she was not the only one who was amused. The
screen in Theodore's window came down with a bang, and a boyish voice
chanted:
"B was once a little Bear,
Beary, wary, hairy, beary,
Taky cary, little bear."
Miss Billy at once retorted:
"G was once a little goose,
Goosy, moosy, boosey, goosey,
Waddly-woosy, little goose,"
and added, "Did you hear our conversation?"
"_Our_ conversation! I heard _yours_. Is Mr. Schultzsky going to fix
the premises, or did he raise the rent?"
"The old icicle!" scolded Miss Billy. "I couldn't get a word of
satisfaction out of him. When he skewered me with those sharp eyes of
his I couldn't talk."
"His glances would be in good demand in this family," remarked
Theodore. "I'm glad you got slammed, myself. You were so all-fired
smart about making an impression on him. I suppose you thought that
when you had an axe to grind he'd run at your bidding with the
cheerful expression of the lion on the Norway coat-of-arms. You've
got your come-up-ance, Miss Billy."
His sister deigned no reply.
"What are you going to do about the sidewalk?" inquired her tormentor.
"Fix it myself," said Miss Billy haughtily.
"I'd like to see you do it," said Theodore. "It will be the second
thing you've made a failure of on this bright and beautiful holiday."
"Wait and see," said Miss Billy, with determination in her step. She
made her way to the pile of packing boxes in the cellar. "They won't
make very good lumber," she said to herself, "but they're all I can
get without sacrificing my own modest and retiring income. Beside, I
suppose they will be easier to work with than heavy planking would
be." It took time and strength to knock the boxes to pieces, and
measure the boards; but Miss Billy was a born carpenter, and Ted's
parting words added impetus to the task. An hour later, Beatrice,
attracted by the noise of hammering in front of the house, looked
out of the window. Down on her knees on the front walk was Miss
Billy. She had on a chemistry apron made of gorgeous striped ticking,
which was much stained by chemicals used in the school laboratory.
A hideous garden hat was perched rakishly on her head, and a pair
of Theodore's old gloves protected her hands. Her face was flushed,
and her hair towsled; but two of the rotten planks in the walk had
already been replaced by clean new ones, and the young carpenter was
nailing down a third with great energy. Five of the Canarys and a
varied assortment of Murphys and Levis were grouped around the spot,
making a most appreciative audience.
Beatrice waited to see no more. She threw on a hat, and rushed to the
fence.
"Wilhelmina Lee!" she exclaimed angrily.
Miss Billy raised a moist and somewhat grimy face.
"What are you doing?" inquired Her sister.
"Mending the walk," answered Miss Billy, articulating with some
difficulty, for her mouth was full of nails.
"Well I should think you'd be ashamed," said Beatrice with spirit.
"I regret to say that I am a trifle ashamed," said Billy, removing
the nails. "I have a miserable kind of false pride that fills me with
dread lest any one of the Blanchard type see me doing honest labour.
That's why I put this apron on,--for a disguise, you know."
"You needn't worry about concealing your identity," responded
Beatrice angrily. "Nobody in the world but you would come out in full
view of the public to make an exhibition of herself."
Miss Billy turned to her childish audience. "The public don't seem to
be shocked," she said.
"If mother were home----" began Beatrice.
"Well, she isn't," responded Miss Billy coolly, "and I'm hoping to
finish this walk before she gets back. You'd better go in, Bea. The
chips may hit you."
"Although through life she'd stride and stalk,
She put some boards in father's walk,"
chanted Theodore, looking over the fence; "Goodness, Miss Billy,
have you done this much yourself? You are not only a model of
industry, but a talented carpenter. I suppose now I'll have to
acknowledge my defeat, and come and finish the job."
"You certainly will _not_ have to finish the job," retorted Miss
Billy, "although I shall be glad to hear your humble apology."
"Don't you want any help?"
"No," returned his sister stoutly.
"I'm sorry," said Theodore, hanging his coat on the fence, "for I'll
have to work 'agin your will.' It isn't that I distrust your ability,
Miss Billy, but I should hate to have the neighbours say 'Look at
that poor Lee girl laying a walk to save her brother's white and
shapely hands.'"
Miss Billy heaved a sigh of relief. "I have to confess that I shall
be glad of your help," she said. "I know now what it means to go
'agin the grain.' Every one of those boards grew in that way."
"Sit on the curbstone and boss the job," commanded Theodore, "while
your talented brother performs on the saw for a while. Miss Billy, in
spite of all that flumpy motion of yours, I am still proud of you.
You haven't much in the way of gait, but you have lots of grit."
The last visitor was John Thomas, who was returning from the grocery.
He stopped at the sight of Theodore, who was driving nails and
fitting boards, and sending Miss Billy into gales of laughter with
his droll remarks.
"Would you be likin' help?" inquired John Thomas timidly.
"No, no, indeed," responded Theodore promptly. "Shall I let your
ruthless hand have any share in this matchless work of art? Perish
the thought! Why, John Thomas, this walk is my masterpiece, the
work that shall live after me. Behold in me the Michael Angelo of
sidewalks. After my death people will gaze upon this construction
with tears and pride, and my monument will bear flattering mention of
my prowess."
"Although his gift was mainly talk,
He put some boards in father's walk,"
said Miss Billy, with a sly twinkle.
"That's too good to be impromptu," accused Theodore. "You made that
up in the privacy of your apartments, and have been waiting for the
chance to spring it on me. Now you observe what sisters' taunts are,
John Thomas."
"I know already," said John Thomas. "That darn Mary Jane----"
"Tut, tut, John Thomas," interceded Miss Billy. "Marie Jean is not as
bad as she is painted."
"Or powdered," added John Thomas with a sardonic grin.
"How's that for a highly coloured statement, Miss Billy?" asked
Theodore impudently.
Miss Billy tried to look severe, but the dimples would show in spite
of her efforts. John Thomas gazed at her merry face admiringly. "I
wisht you was my sister," he said. "You can make fun over people,
without making fun _of_ 'em. Mary Jane is the most provoking--say,
don't you want me to help you, honest?"
"Not now," said Theodore. "We have to go back to school this
afternoon, and there are no more planks left, anyway. I'll tell you
what you _can_ do, John Thomas. If you'll help me finish this, next
week, I'll turn in afterwards, and help you mend the broken planks in
yours."
"All right," assented John Thomas, not unwillingly.
"We'll show old Abraham Schultzsky-czaravitch that we don't need his
help," continued Ted; "and the people on Cherry Street how sidewalks
ought to look. What shall I do with those decrepit places near the
gate? There isn't another board in sight."
"Dear me," said Miss Billy. "We should have begun at the other end of
the walk, where the planks are in the worst condition. Some one will
be sure to go through those two old boards, and break a leg or two
before next week."
"Maybe it'll be old Moneybags himself," suggested Theodore cheerfully.
"I hope it will," said Miss Billy.