Bobs in his little old flannel dressing-gown was sitting up very
straight and white-lipped in mother’s big bed pretending to look at a
picture-book; while Georgie, with red face and hands thrust deep in his
knickerbocker-pockets, was standing by the window, pretending to look
out.
“I’ll tell you something more you don’t know,” said Robin, glancing up
from his book after a moment’s silence. They had neither of them seen me
enter the room. “Shall I?”
“I know more’n you do!” chanted Georgie, monotonously.
“You don’t know what a Chimera is; and you don’t know what a Gorgon is;
and you don’t know what a Hippogrif is; and you don’t know what a Ninkum
is! You wouldn’t if you saw one! And you don’t know what a Siren is; and
you don’t know what Syrian is, now neither! Do you?”
George seemed rather overpowered by this erudite outburst; but he
reiterated stubbornly:—“I know more’n you do!”
“What’s a Very Imp?” asked Bobs, excitedly. “You don’t know! And what’s
a Jabberwock? and what’s a Mockturtle?”
“You eat it in soup,” answered Georgie, brightening up a bit. “We had it
the night the General came, and William let me taste some out of a
teaspoon in the butler’s pantry,—so there!”
“_Nonsense!_” Bobs’ scorn was withering. “Maybe you’d eat a Ninkum in
fish-cakes! _We_ don’t! A Mockturtle was once a real turtle, and——”
But here I thought it best to interfere. “Aunt Adelaide is going,
Georgie,” I said. “You had better come downstairs, now.”
As soon as Georgie saw me he put his finger in his mouth and began to
cry and asked to be taken down to mamma, for Bobsie was rude to him and
said he didn’t know things.
“That certainly is not very polite,—to company!” I answered for Robin’s
best good; and took Georgie by the hand and led him away. But just as we
reached the foot of the stairs we heard the unrepentant Robin sing out
triumphantly,—
“I’ll tell you some more things you don’t know, too. You don’t know what
a Crusader is, nor a Centaur, nor you don’t know _nothing_!”
Georgie was quite overcome by this last taunt. He clenched his fist
savagely. “I just guess I do know sompfin’,” he sobbed. “I’m going to
ask mamma if I don’t.” And he broke away from me, and ran into the
parlour.
Of course, Aunt Adelaide soothed him, and assured him that he knew a
great deal for a little boy of his age, but that he must be patient with
his little sick cousin.
So Georgie stopped crying and looked virtuous; while Aunt Adelaide
explained to mother that she knew just how it was in regard to Robin,
and thought it only natural that he should be pettish and quarrelsome,
and that she would bring Georgie soon again to cheer him up! After which
our visitors departed in quite a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction; and
mother went downstairs to the kitchen,—very mad,—to superintend the
preparation of luncheon; and I ran up to the nursery,—very mad,—to try
and soothe Robin’s ruffled spirits.
Nor did it take me long to learn the cause of the disagreement,—for
Bobsie was only too eager to confide. It seems that among his other new
possessions Georgie has a nursery governess who is teaching him to read,
and though Robin did not mind about the pony, and never once thought of
envying the fur-lined overcoat and cap, he could not bear to be told
that Georgie knew more than he did! The idea is really ridiculous to any
one who knows the two children; but, on the whole, it had been an
excellent thing for Master Robin to face, for now he is determined to
learn to read, too,—a proposition we could never get him to entertain
before, as he always said “he perferred to lie still and listen.” I am
to give him lessons each morning, and if he sets his mind to it, I am
sure he will get on rapidly.
Just think! dearest Haze walked home from school this afternoon,—though
it is over three miles,—and bought a string for my mandolin with his car
fare. Not many brothers would think of a thing like that.
Sunday, December 7.
Mrs. Hudson’s room is not yet rented. We have not even had any answers
to our advertisement. The strain is beginning to tell on us all more or
less, I think; and yesterday morning Hazard carried out his intention of
calling at Uncle George’s office and applying for a position. I wish he
hadn’t. Mother agrees with me that it was a mistake. Indeed, she was
quite shocked and hurt at what she considered his lack of confidence in
her. She told him very gravely that he had no right to take a step of so
much consequence without her consent, and that the little he can make
will in no way compensate for the loss of his education. Poor Hazey! he
was so disappointed. He had expected the news would be received very
differently. He did not say much, but thrust his hands deep into his
trouser pockets, threw back his head, and strolled whistling from the
room. I followed up to the workshop as soon as I was able, and I _think_
he had been crying.
“Well, tell me about your position, Haze,” I began, in as sprightly
tones as I could muster; for we had not heard any of the details yet.
“There’s nothing to tell,” answered Hazard, gruffly. “I’m to run
errands, post letters, and that sort of thing, at three dollars a week.”
“Oh, Hazey!” I gasped, for it was a shock. Hazard is certainly clever,
and we had always expected such different things for him.
“Yes,” says Haze, bitterly. “It’s Uncle George’s idea, and I _suppose_
he knows what he is about. I gave him every opportunity, and put the
matter to him squarely. There was no use in false modesty; so I told
him, first thing, that I had had a year of Greek, and two years of
Latin, and led my geometry class; but that we needed money at home, and
so I had determined to sacrifice my future, and rent my brains at their
highest market value.”
“Did you really say all that?” I asked.
“Yes, I did,” answered Hazard, a little defiantly. “Perhaps it was a
mistake, but I wanted to make things plain. Uncle George didn’t answer
just at first. He looked me up and down in that way he has, and then he
said,—‘Young fellow, you’ve got a lot to learn yet. If any other
cockerel came crowing to me in my office, I’d show him the door.
Understand one thing. I haven’t any use for _talent_ in my business’
(though I had been most particular, Elizabeth, to use the word
_brains_). ‘Can you remember what’s told you? Can you sweep out a room,
and not forget the corners? Can you jump when sent on errands? Then
apply to Mr. Bridges in the outside office. I believe we’re losing a boy
to-day. Perhaps you are bright enough to fill his place,—though you
don’t look it.’
“Well, I applied, and got the position,” concluded Haze, “and that’s all
there is to it.”
There did not seem much for me to say, since Haze was not in a mood to
be grateful for platitudes. Uncle George was certainly severe, but maybe
he meant it for a lesson; and from something that happened this
afternoon I am tempted to think it was not entirely wasted.
We were all gathered in the workshop after dinner, Geoffrey, Ernie, and
myself, wrapped in golf-cloaks and overcoats, disputing about our
favourite apostles, when Haze, who had been rather subdued and
“broodful” the greater part of the day, entered the room. He had a
notebook under his arm.
“Going to study, Hazey?” I asked him, for he intends to keep up his
Latin, and mother has promised to help.
“No,” he answered, with really appalling solemnity. “I have written my
first Poem.”
“Your first What?” roars Geof.
“Poem,” admitted Haze, blushing a bit.
“My hat!” murmurs Geof. “This is so sudden! But go on, old chap. Let’s
have it,—don’t mind me.”
“If you treat the matter with respect,” says Haze, suddenly on his
dignity, “I’ll read it to you. Otherwise I won’t.”
“Fire ahead,” urged Geoffrey, who was simply on the _qui vive_ to hear.
“We’re as respectful as you please. We’ll listen, and then criticise.”
“No larks, mind,” warned Hazard. “According to my own ideas this is the
real stuff.”
And, as we settled ourselves to attention in the flying-machine, he
began, in what I can only call an “uplifted” sort of voice,—
THE YOUNG MAN AND THE WORLD.
The young man faces the stern, cold world,—
“Oyster!” he says, “O oyster!——”
There was an hysterical gurgle from Geof, and a fierce “Keep quiet,
can’t you!” from Ernestine.
“I’ve told you,” says Hazard, interrupting himself to look severely over
his glasses, “that it is perfectly indifferent to me whether you hear
this thing or not. I don’t care a hang for your literary opinions,—and
I’ll not be guyed about it.”
“Go on,” pleaded Geoffrey, with a watery, sidelong look at me. “Who’s
guying you?”
So Haze began afresh,—
THE YOUNG MAN AND THE WORLD.
The young man faces the stern, cold world,—
“Oyster!” he says, “O oyster!
Open thy shell, and show me thy pearl,
Like the hidden wealth of a cloister.”
The cold world answers never a word.
The youth is bound, if he can,
To take up his pickaxe and work for himself,
Till he prove that he _is_ a man!
“Ho! ho!” exploded Geof, unable to restrain himself a moment longer.
“Pickaxe is good! That’s the way to get after ’em! Bully for you, old
boy!”
“What do you think, Elizabeth?” says Hazard, haughtily ignoring this
demonstration, and turning somewhat coldly to me.
“I’m not sure that you could say hidden wealth of a ‘cloister,’” I
answered. “Somehow it doesn’t sound exactly historical.”
“_‘Oyster!’ he says, ‘O oyster!’_” murmured Geof.
Whereat Ernie, who had controlled herself beautifully up to that moment,
gave vent to one enthusiastic whoop, and disappeared backward into the
flying-machine.
“I see,” says Hazey, with really magnificent aplomb, “that I have made a
mistake. You are not in the proper mood to appreciate the thing. But
whatever other criticisms you may make, at least you’ll be bound to
admit that it Sums the Situation.” With which remark he stalked from the
room.
Dear, precious fellow! Evidently he has been thinking,—but, why, oh why,
will he always take himself so seriously?
Monday, December 8.
This afternoon mother let Robin up in the big wicker rocking-chair in
the nursery window. He was so glad, poor darling;—for he has spent the
last three days in bed.
The street was full of snow; and the boys were having a fine time with
their shovels, their sleds, and a small black-and-tan terrier which
pranced here and there, yapping excitedly. Two of the taller fellows
were busy making a path in front of their house; a little chap with
glowing cheeks and a red cap had improvised a slide on the half-cleared
pavement; while others were engaged in a brisk snowball fight.
Bobsie, pale but delighted, watched everything with eager approbation.
“That’s the smartest dog!” he cried. “His name is Buster. Come and see,
Elizabeth. If he thinks they’re going to hit him with a snowball, he’ll
run away,—but, if he thinks they’re going to hit somebody else, he’ll
just stand and bark and wag his tail. You can’t fool Buster!”
“How do you know his name?” I asked.
“Pooh!” boasted Bobs, “that’s easy;—for a person who looks out of
windows as much as me. I know all the boys’ names, too, and where they
live, and whether they have sisters. I pertend that they are my friends,
and that I’m out there playing with them. You can hardly tell the
difference, sometimes! We have such fun.”
“I’m glad you do, darling,” I answered. “Which game do you like best to
play?”
“Oh, that depends on the time of year,” answered Robin, judicially.
“I’ve watched, until I know all about it. In summer there is Cat and
Prisoner’s Base; when fall comes we have football in the corner lot, and
some of us wear noseguards; then there’s snowballing and sliding all
winter; and in the spring, marbles, again. Only, John an’ me don’t play
for keeps, because our mothers wouldn’t like it.”
“Which is John?” I asked.
“He’s the little one with the red cap, who’s sliding,” answered Robin.
“I like him best, because he is such a kind boy. Why, one day, Ellie,
when my legs ached so I couldn’t pertend to go out, even for a few
minutes, John was the only one who missed me! The others kept right on
playing:—but he stopped all of a sudden, and looked up at the window,
and smiled. So now I’ve taken him for my chum:—wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, honey,” I answered. “I think he must be a very nice little boy.”
“He is,” agreed Robin, proudly. “The day we broke the baker’s window,
an’ the cop chased us, John ran faster than anybody. Of course, it was
easy for me. All I had to do was to pertend to dodge in here and slam
the door _quick_!... But watch! we’re going to give Buster a ride, now.
Isn’t that fun?”
The black-and-tan terrier seemed to think it was. He kept his place well
in the middle of the sled, tail up, tongue lolling, while two of the
boys seized the rope and, followed by the others, made madly off,—the
gay cavalcade disappearing noisily around the corner.
Robin dropped back among his pillows with a disappointed little sigh.
“I’m sorry they’ve gone so soon,” he said; “because, you see, I can’t
pertend to play, ’cepting only on this block.” Then he laid his cheek up
against my arm. “Sometimes those little boys must be sick, too, mustn’t
they?” he asked. “And I guess it’s pretty hard then, for they aren’t
used to it like me. There’s a lot in being used to a thing, isn’t there,
Ellie dear?”
* * * * *
Oh, if we could only feel that Robin was growing stronger! I pray for it
every night, and so do mother, and Haze, and Ernie, I know;—and we
“pertend” to think that he is, and tell each other that it is because of
the cold weather he feels wretched so much of the time:—but, in our
secret hearts—— Well, the doctor has ordered a new kind of cod-liver
oil. It is very nasty, and costs eighty-five cents a bottle. Perhaps it
will do Robin good!
Wednesday, December 10.
Ernie has distinguished herself again. How can she be so naughty, and
_never_ mean any harm! This time Geoffrey is implicated, too, but I can
only do justice to the affair by constructing it from the beginning,
piecing together the details as we learned them in yesterday evening’s
soul-thrilling confessional.
It seems that the two children were bitterly disappointed a week ago
Tuesday when they searched the cuckoo-clock for the lost contract, and
found nothing more exciting than a deserted mouse’s nest.
“I call it a giddy sell,” remarked Ernie, so near to tears that Geof was
honestly concerned. “No matter how good you try to be, nor how much you
try to help, everything turns against you.”
“Oh, cheer up,” said Geoffrey. Ernie never looks more bewitching than
when her blue eyes swim behind a veil of suspended woe. “What’s the good
of worrying, Bunnie?”
“I guess you’d worry,” returned Ernie, dolefully, “if Georgie were sick,
and your family were poor, and you were responsible for making them more
so! It’s all very well to say ‘cheer up,’ Geoffrey Graham, and I’m sure
I do most of the time, but this afternoon I want to do something _really
useful_.”
“Well then, see here,” says Geof, a bright idea striking him all of a
sudden. “I’ve got a plan. Come up to the workshop again, where we won’t
be interrupted, and I’ll tell you.”
“Is it something in which I can help?” asked Ernie, doubtfully.
“It’s a pretty big undertaking,” answered Geof, closing the workshop
door mysteriously. “I don’t believe a girl has ever been concerned in
such an affair before;—but, see here, why shouldn’t you and I together
_perfect Uncle Dudley’s flying-machine_?”
“Geoffrey!” cried Ernie, with sparkling eyes. “Could we? truly, do you
think?”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” answered Geof, seriously. “I’ve thought
a lot about the matter, without supposing I’d ever have the chance to
put it to the test. I’ve taken the motor out, and examined it. It is
certainly a stunner; and the steering apparatus seems simple enough. You
say Uncle Dudley really made one ascension?”
“Not exactly,” qualified Ernie. “The machine didn’t rise any distance at
all. Father was dreadfully disappointed. But later he cheered up and
said there was just one little detail that stood between him and ‘a
complete solution of the problem of aërial navigation.’ I remember his
very words, and how excited we all were.”
“That is what I have always understood,” answered Geof. “Uncle would
have perfected the thing if he had lived long enough. It’s magnificent
to contemplate,—and a beastly shame to think of the fruits of his genius
lying up here rusting in a totally unknown attic! Why can’t you and I
take the matter up where he left it, find out the root of the
trouble,—just one little detail, you say,—and let Mr. Perry and his old
dump-carts go hang?” It isn’t often that Geof waxes eloquent. When he
does he is worth listening to.
“We can! we can!” jubilated Ernie, clapping her hands. “Oh, Geof, it’s a
splendid scheme! Why has no one thought of it before?”
“I have thought of it, often,” answered Geoffrey; “but somehow, up to
to-day, it seemed impossible. What you’ve just told me throws an
entirely new light on the matter, and I think we are justified at least
in trying.”
“And if we don’t succeed,” says Ernie, “nobody need know anything about
it.”
“That’s so,” answered Geof. “We’ll have to do a lot of hard studying and
thinking, and we’ll keep the thing a deadly secret;—but I tell you, if
we do make it go, _it will be worth while_!”
And so the conspirators set to work. For a week they ransacked father’s
library, reading up on aëronautics generally, studying every pamphlet
and authority they could lay their hands on. There was one thing that
especially confused them. Each man supported a “totally different
theory,” as Ernie plaintively complained. It was extremely trying,
especially as dear father had worked almost entirely in his head,
leaving very few directions or specifications to guide them to the right
trail. At last Geof declared that he thought they would never get
anywhere through books; that their one hope lay in practical experiment.
Ernie quite agreed with him, and after that they spent hours in the
airship, mastering as they supposed the intricate details of motor,
steering apparatus, and machinery. Geoffrey even discovered what he
considered a slight error in the automatic system of shifting weights.
Finally, last Saturday morning, behind closed doors, the motor was taken
out and started up. It ran like a dream. They came to the bold
conclusion that nothing remained to hinder an experimental ascension!
[Illustration: And so the conspirators set to work]
All this time it must be understood mother and I had not the faintest
suspicion as to what was going on. We knew that there was “a secret” in
the workshop, “a beautiful surprise for the family.” Just how great a
surprise, however, we neither of us dreamed.
Yesterday afternoon was the time set for the ascension. How the two
children managed alone to raise the heavy machine from the workshop
floor to the roof by means of the trap-door and pulleys father had used
in the previous experiment will always remain a mystery. But they did!
At last it stood among the chimney-pots, with rakish sails and scarred
sides, looking for all the world like “a tipsy eagle-bird,” as Ernie
enthusiastically declared. Even by this time neither of the little
idiots seems to have had the least realisation of _what_ it was they
were attempting. On the contrary, they were quite wild with the frolic
and excitement of the thing.
Geof straightened out the sails, and opened the manœuvre valve.
_Tick-tock_, sounded the motor. The framework quivered response.
“Hold on there,” shouted Geoffrey, as he ran to attach the short length
of anchor line to a hook in the stone coping at the front of the roof.
“Don’t get in yet, Ernie. The place in the middle belongs to me. I’ve
got to manage the steering gear.”
“All right,” Ernie answered, climbing over the side, nevertheless. “I’m
just looking to see which of these levers starts her.”
And then,—no one will ever know how it happened, Geoffrey had his back
turned, Ernie can’t explain,—there was a whiz, a whirr, deep in the
interior regions of the old airship, a sudden tug on the mooring-line
that sent Geof sprawling into the tin gutter, and with a swoop, entirely
unprecedented, I believe, in the whole history of aërial ascensions, the
apparatus had risen, perhaps some twenty feet! The voyage was begun.
Ernie, alone in the flying-machine, circled and jibed above the
chimney-pots!
Geof, regaining his feet, made one desperate grab for the safety-line.
It slipped through his fingers, and swung to the left,—just out of reach
beyond the stone coping.
“_Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy!_” he then bawled with such a panic of woe in
his voice that mother, who had been sewing on Ernie’s new school-dress
in the nursery while I read aloud to her and Robin from _Tanglewood
Tales_, dropped her work to the floor and fled up the attic stairs.
I followed at top speed. Geof’s face, thrust on a long neck through the
trap-door in the roof, stared whitely down upon us. His eyes and mouth
were wide. He looked for all the world like a terror-stricken gargoyle.
“Ernie!” he gasped. “She got away from me. _She’s flying!_”
“Geoffrey!” says mother, stern as any Spartan, “are you mad?”
“No! no!” protested Geof. “Put your head out the window. You’ll see her!
I tried to hold her down, but——”
“The flying-machine!” I cried, with one distraught, comprehensive look
about the dismantled workshop.
At that moment a clamour rose to us from the street below.
“Have yez got er license?” bawled an infuriated Irish voice. “Come down
out ov thot. I arr-rest yez!”
“It’s only a kid girl,” sang a shrill chorus of gamins. “I seen her
petticoats!”
In another instant mother and I were on the roof, straining over the
stone coping. Some fifteen feet below us, about on a level with the
nursery window now, sailed Ernie. She sat quite rigid in the car, which
laboured and beat a curiously straight course between the two rows of
houses directly down the middle of the street. We could hear the
_tick-tock_ of the motor and the excited comments of the crowd.
“Ernie!” I cried. “Oh, Ernie!”
Ernie’s pallid countenance was raised to us.
“_Good-bye, mother dear!_” she wailed in plaintive crescendo. “_Give my
pinky ring to Mary Hobart, and——_”
Mother turned. For a moment I thought she was going to jump off the
roof. But instead she sped, Geof and I at her heels,—it wasn’t running,
it wasn’t flying,—down the ladder through the workshop, down two flights
of stairs to the second story, where, throwing up a window, she reached
out in a vain attempt to grasp the short length of dangling anchor-line.
But already it was too late. The car and the crowd had passed by.
“This is terrible!” we gasped, and fled for the street.
Here high comedy reigned rampant, if any one had been in a mood to
appreciate the fact. Two policemen, one stout and red-faced, the other
tall and thin, beat down the block, their eyes aloft, bawling impossible
directions. A butcher’s boy, followed by a gang of enthusiastic street
urchins, had clambered to the roof of his cart, and moving slowly along
directly beneath the labouring machine, rose ever and again in a series
of ungainly but agile leaps, clutching hopefully at the surrounding
atmosphere. In the area-ways, and gathered on the neighbouring stoops,
were groups of excited people. Rose, escaped from the kitchen, had
climbed the hydrant in front of our house, where, supported by Mrs.
Hancock, she maintained a perilous equilibrium, the while she waved a
red cotton lunch cloth and bellowed,—
“_Whar yer boun’ fer, Miss Ernie? Fer de Law’s sake tell us whar yer
boun’ fer?_”
While Miss Brown, her head wrapped in her pink knitted shawl, ran back
and forth, clucking like a distraught hen.
“Is she any relation to you, mum?” the red-faced policeman demanded of
mother, jerking his thumb severely skyward as he spoke.
“My daughter,” came the distracted response.
“Then call her down,” commanded the minion of the law. “Oi can’t have
such goin’s-on on my beat!”
“She doesn’t know how to manage the machine,” mother said. “At any
moment it may fall with her. What is to be done?”
“Hi, Bill! ring in an al-lar-rum,—fer the hook-an’-ladder comp’ny, and
an amberlance!” shouted the policeman to his mate at the corner.