ROGER'S RAZOR
"This here is Saturday," said Old Captain, at breakfast time. "Our
cupboard is pretty bare of bacon, potatoes, and things like that. I'll
go up town after the fodder. Then this afternoon, me and you'll go to
see Mollie. Most ginerally I takes her somethin'--fruit like, or a
bouquet--old Mrs. Schmidt gives me a grand bunch for a quarter. It's
quite a walk to that there hospital, so don't you go a-tirin' of
yourself out doin' too much work; but I sure did enjoy my room last
night--all clean an' ship-shape."
"Wait till _tonight_!" said Jeanne. "You'll have _sheets_!"
"Will I?" returned Old Captain, a bit doubtfully. "Well, I _may_ get
used to 'em. They does dress up a bed."
In spite of the squealing kittens, in spite of the many small tasks that
Jeanne found to do, many times that morning her eyes filled with tears.
Poor daddy and Michael--to go like that. Curiously enough, the
remembrance of a drowned sailor, whose body had once been washed up on
the beach near the dock, brought Jeanne a certain sense of comfort.
The sailor had looked as if he hadn't _cared_. He was dead and he didn't
_mind_. He had looked peaceful--almost happy; as if his body was just an
old one that he had been rather glad to throw away.
"His soul," Léon Duval had said, when he found his small daughter in the
little crowd of bystanders on the beach, "isn't there. That is only his
body. The man himself is elsewhere."
"_Father_ doesn't care," said Jeanne, and tried to be happy in that
comforting thought.
That afternoon, they visited Mollie.
"This bein' a special occasion," said Old Captain, "I got _both_ fruit
and flowers. You kin carry the bouquet."
It took courage to carry it, but Jeanne rose nobly to the occasion. She
couldn't help giggling, however, when she tried to picture Mrs.
Huntington, suddenly presented with a similar offering. There was a
tiger lily in the center, surrounded by pink sweet-peas. Outside of
this, successive rings of orange marigolds, purple asters, scarlet
geraniums and candytuft, with a final fringe of blue cornflowers.
"If I meet that fat boy," thought Jeanne, wickedly, "I'll bow to him."
"Once I took a all-white one," confessed Captain Blossom, with a pleased
glance at the bouquet, "but the nurse, she said 'Bring colored
flowers--they're more cheerful.' 'Make it cheerful,' says I, to Mrs. S.
Now that there _is_ cheerful, ain't it?"
"Yes," agreed Jeanne, "it _is_. Even at Aunt Agatha's biggest dinner
party there wasn't a _more_ cheerful one than this. I'm sure Mollie will
like it."
But _was_ that Mollie--that absolutely neat white creature in the neat
white bed? There was the pale red hair neatly braided in a shining halo
above the serene forehead. The mild blue eyes looked lazily at the
bouquet, then at Jeanne. The old, good-natured smile curved her lips.
"Hello, Jeanne," she said, "you're lookin' fine. You see, I'm sick abed,
but I'm real comfortable--real comfortable and happy." Then she fell
asleep.
"It's the medicine," said the nurse. "She sleeps most of the time. But
even when she's awake, nothing troubles her."
"Nothin' ever did," returned Old Captain. "But then, there's some that
worries _too_ much."
They met Barney in the road above the dock. Jeanne held out her hand.
Big, raw-boned Barney gripped it with both of his, squeezed it hard--and
fled.
"You tell him," said Jeanne, with the little twisty smile that was not
very far from tears, "to come to dinner tomorrow--that _I_ invited him
and am going to make him a pudding. Poor old Barney! We've got to make
him feel comfortable. Tell him I bought a fork--no, a _knife_ especially
for him."
"Barney's as good as gold," returned Old Captain. "But, for a man of
forty-seven, he's too dinged shy. 'Barney,' says I, more'n once, 'you'd
ought to get married.' 'There's as good fish in the sea as ever come
out,' says Barney. 'Yes,' says I, 'but ain't the bait gittin' some
stale?'"
* * * * *
"Is it _really_ September?" asked Jeanne, one morning, studying the
little calendar she had found in her work-box.
"Today's the fourteenth," replied Old Captain. "What of it?"
"I'm worried," said Jeanne. "I came to make a _visit_, but I haven't
heard a word from Aunt Agatha or my grandfather about going back, or
_anything_. Of course, I _ought_ to be in school."
"There's a good school here. You have clothes--an' can get more."
"I don't _want_ to go back to Aunt Agatha, you know. I'm sure she's
_very_ angry at me for running away. It took her a long, long time to
get over it after I went swimming in the fountain. I suppose this is
worse."
"Well, this here weren't exactly your fault."
"I'm bothered about my grandfather, too. I've written to him four times
and I haven't heard a _word_."
"You told them about your father--"
"No," confessed Jeanne, "I didn't. I _couldn't_ write about it to Aunt
Agatha--she despised him. And I heard James say that any bad news or
_anything_ very sudden would--would bring on another one of those
strokes. Of course they think I'm with daddy--I didn't think of that. I
didn't _mean_ to deceive anybody."
"Well," said Old Captain, "I guess your idee of not startling your
gran'-daddy was all right. But you'd better write your Aunt Agathy, some
day, an' tell her about your father. There's no hurry. I'd _ruther_ you
stayed right here."
"And I'd rather stay."
"Then stay you do. But before real cold weather comes we gotta fix up
some place ashore for you, where there's somebody to keep a good fire
goin'. Maybe me and Barney can build on an addition behind this here
car--say two good rooms with a door through from here. But there's no
need to worry for a good while yet. We're cozy enough for the present
and October's sure to be pleasant--allus is. About school, now. I guess
you'd better start next Monday. Whatever damage there is, for books or
anything else, I'll stand it. An' if there was music lessons, now--"
Jeanne made a face. Old Captain chuckled.
"Maybe," said he, "there wouldn't be time for that."
"I'm _sure_ there wouldn't," agreed Jeanne.
On Saturday, Jeanne went up town to buy food. But first she visited the
five-and-ten-cent store to buy an egg-beater. Just outside, she came
face to face with Roger Fairchild--and his mother.
Jeanne, an impish light in her black eyes (she was only sorry that she
wasn't carrying one of Mrs. Schmidt's outrageous bouquets), stopped
square in front of the stout boy and said:
"_Did_ you spoil your clothes?"
As before, Roger turned several shades of crimson. Jeanne did not look
almost fourteen, for she was still rather small for her years.
"_Did_ you?" persisted his tormenter.
"Yes, I did," growled Roger. "Hurry on, Mother. I gotta get a haircut as
soon as we've had that ice cream."
Jeanne explained the matter to Old Captain, who had heard about the
accident to Roger.
"He's one of the kind of boys you can _tease_," said Jeanne. "I'm afraid
I _like_ to tease, just a little. He looks like sort of a baby-boy,
doesn't he?"
Meanwhile, the boy's mother was questioning her curiously embarrassed
son.
"Roger," said she, "who _was_ that pretty child and what did she mean?"
"I dunno," fibbed Roger.
"Yes, you _do_. _What_ clothes?"
"Oh, old ones--don't bother."
"I _insist_ on knowing."
"Aw, what's the use--the ones that got in the lake and shrunk so I
couldn't wear 'em," mumbled Roger. "Come on, here's the ice-cream
place."
"How did _she_ know about your clothes?" persisted Mrs. Fairchild.
"Aw," growled Roger, "she was hangin' 'round."
"When you fell in?" demanded Mrs. Fairchild, eagerly. "Does she know
that noble girl that saved you? Does she--_does_ she, Roger?"
"Oh, I s'pose so," said Roger. "How should _I_ know--come on, your ice
cream'll get cold."
"But, Roger--"
"Say," said desperate Roger, whose chin was as smooth as his mother's,
"if you ever buy me a razor, I wish you'd buy _this_ kind--here in this
window. Look at it. That's a _dandy_ razor."
"A razor!" gasped Mrs. Fairchild. "What in the world--"
Roger gave a sigh of relief. His mother had been switched from that
miserable Cinder Pond child. He chatted so freely about razors that his
mother was far from guessing that he knew as little about them as she
did.
"Fancy you wanting a razor!" commented his astonished mother.
"There's no great rush," admitted Roger, feeling his smooth cheek, "but
I bet I'll get whiskers before you do."
"They'll be pink, like your eyebrows," retaliated Mrs. Fairchild, "but
never mind; my eyebrows grew darker and yours will."
"Gee!" thought Roger, "I'm glad I thought of that razor--that was a
close shave."