Flibbertigibbet sat rigid on the bench, her eyes turned neither to right
nor left but staring straight at the pile of smoking corn-meal cakes
trickling molasses on her tin plate. She was counting: "One, two, three,
four, five," and the prospect of more; for on treat nights, which
occurred once a week, there was no stinting with corn-meal cakes, hulled
corn, apple sauce with fried bread or whatever else might be provided
for the three hundred orphans at the Asylum on ----nd Street, in the
great city of New York.
Freckles grew nervous as she watched. What _was_ Flibbertigibbet doing?
Her fingers were busy untying the piece of red mohair tape with which
her heavy braid was fastened in a neat loop. She put it around her
apron, tying it fast; then, blousing the blue denim in front to a pouch
like a fashion-plate shirt waist, she said in an undertone to her
neighbor on the right:
"Gee--look! Ain't I got the style?"
"I ain't a-goin' ter look at yer, yer so pizen mean--dirt ain't in it,"
said 206 contemptuously, and sat sideways at such an angle that she
could eat her cakes without seeing the eyesore next her.
"Stop crowdin'!" was the next command from the bloused bit of "style" to
her neighbor on the left. Her sharp elbow emphasized her words and was
followed by a solid thigh-to-thigh pressure that was felt for the length
of at least five girls down the bench. The neighbor on the left found
she could not withstand the continued pressure. She raised her hand.
"What is the trouble with 205?" The voice from the head of the table was
one of controlled impatience.
"Please 'um--"; but she spoke no further word, for the pressure was
removed so suddenly that she lost her balance and careened with such
force towards her torment of a neighbor that the latter was fain to put
her both arms about her to hold her up. This she did so effectually that
205 actually gasped for breath.
"I'll pinch yer black an' blue if yer tell!" whispered Flibbertigibbet,
relaxing her hold and in turn raising her hand.
"What's wanting now, 208?"
"A second helpin', please 'um."
The tin round was passed up to the nickel-plated receptacle, that
resembled a small bathtub with a cover, and piled anew. Flibbertigibbet
viewed its return with satisfaction, and Freckles, who had been watching
every move of this by-play, suddenly doubled up from her plastered
position against the wall. She saw Flibbertigibbet drop the cakes quick
as a flash into the low neck of her apron, and at that very minute they
were reposing in the paunch of the blouse and held there by the mohair
girdle. Thereafter a truce was proclaimed in the immediate vicinity of
208. Her neighbors, right and left, their backs twisted towards the
tease, ate their portions in fear and trembling. After a while 208's
hand went up again. This time it waved mechanically back and forth as if
the owner were pumping bucketfuls of water.
"What is it now, 208?" The voice at the head of the table put the
question with a note of exasperation in it.
"Please 'um, another helpin'."
The sister's lips set themselves close. "Pass up 208's plate," she said.
The empty plate, licked clean of molasses on the sly, went up the line
and returned laden with three "bloomin' beauties" as 208 murmured
serenely to herself. She ate one with keen relish, then eyed the
remaining two askance and critically. Freckles grew anxious. What next?
Contrary to all rules 208's head, after slowly drooping little by
little, lower and lower, dropped finally with a dull thud on the edge of
the table and a force that tipped the plate towards her. Freckles
doubled up again; she had seen through the man[oe]uvre: the three
remaining cakes slid gently into the open half--low apron neck and were
safely lodged with the other four.
"Number 208 sit up properly or leave the table."
The sister spoke peremptorily, for this special One Three-hundredth was
her daily, almost hourly, thorn in the flesh. The table stopped eating
to listen. There was a low moan for answer, but the head was not
lifted. Number 206 took this opportunity to give her a dig in the ribs,
and Number 205 crowded her in turn. To their amazement there was no
response.
"Number 208 answer at once."
"Oh, please, 'um, I've got an awful pain--oo--au--." The sound was low
but piercing.
"You may leave the table, 208, and go up to the dormitory."
208 rose with apparent effort. Her hands were clasped over the region
where hot corn-meal cakes are said to lie heavily at times. Her face was
screwed into an expression indicative of excruciating inner torment. As
she made her way, moaning softly, to the farther door that opened into
the cheerless corridor, there was audible a suppressed but decided
giggle. It proceeded from Freckles. The monitor warned her, but,
unheeding, the little girl giggled again.
A ripple of laughter started down the three tables, but was quickly
suppressed.
"Number 207," said the much-tried and long-suffering sister, "you have
broken the rule when under discipline. Go up to the dormitory and don't
come down again to-night." This was precisely what Freckles wanted. She
continued to sniff, however, as she left the room with seemingly
reluctant steps. Once the door had closed upon her, she flew up the two
long flights of stairs after Flibbertigibbet whom she found at the
lavatory in the upper dormitory, cleansing the inside of her apron from
molasses.
Oh, but those cakes were good, eaten on the broad window sill where the
two children curled themselves to play at their favorite game of "making
believe about the Marchioness"!
"But it's hot they be!" Freckles' utterance was thick owing to a large
mouthful of cake with which she was occupied.
"I kept 'em so squeezin' 'em against my stommick."
"Where the pain was?"
"M-m," her chum answered abstractedly. Her face was flattened against
the window in order to see what was going on below, for the electric
arc-light at the corner made the street visible for the distance of a
block.
"I've dropped a crumb," said Freckles ruefully.
"Pick it up then, or yer'll catch it--Oh, my!"
"Wot?" said Freckles who was on her hands and knees beneath the window
searching for the crumb that might betray them if found by one of the
sisters.
"Git up here quick if yer want to see--it's the Marchioness an' another
kid. Come on!" she cried excitedly, pulling at Freckles' long arm. The
two little girls knelt on the broad sill, and with faces pressed close
to the window-pane gazed and whispered and longed until the electric
lights were turned on in the dormitory and the noise of approaching feet
warned them that it was bedtime.
Across the street from the Asylum, but facing the Avenue, was a great
house of stone, made stately by a large courtyard closed by wrought-iron
gates. On the side street looking to the Asylum, the windows in the
second story had carved stone balconies; these were filled with bright
blossoms in their season and in winter with living green. There was
plenty of room behind the balcony flower-boxes for a white Angora cat to
take her constitutional. When Flibbertigibbet entered the Asylum in
June, the cat and the flowers were the first objects outside its walls
to attract her attention and that of her chum, Freckles. It was not
often that Freckles and her mate were given, or could obtain, the chance
to watch the balcony, for there were so many things to do, something for
every hour in the day: dishes to wash, beds to make, corridors to sweep,
towels and stockings to launder, lessons to learn, sewing and catechism.
But one day Flibbertigibbet--so Sister Angelica called the little girl
from her first coming to the Asylum, and the name clung to her--was sent
to the infirmary in the upper story because of a slight illness; while
there she made the discovery of the "Marchioness." She called her that
because she deemed it the most appropriate name, and why "appropriate"
it behooves to tell.
Behind the garbage-house, in the corner of the yard near the railroad
tracks, there was a fine place to talk over secrets and grievances.
Moreover, there was a knothole in the high wooden fence that inclosed
the lower portion of the yard. When Flibbertigibbet put her eye to this
aperture, it fitted so nicely that she could see up and down the street
fully two rods each way. Generally that eye could range from butcher's
boy to postman, or 'old clothes' man; but one day, having found an
opportunity, she placed her visual organ as usual to the hole--and
looked into another queer member that was apparently glued to the other
side! But she was not daunted, oh, no!
"Git out!" she commanded briefly.
"I ain't in." The Eye snickered.
"I'll poke my finger into yer!" she threatened further.
"I'll bite your banana off," growled the Eye.
"Yer a cross-eyed Dago."
"You're another--you Biddy!" The Eye was positively insulting; it winked
at her.
Flibbertigibbet was getting worsted. She stamped her foot and kicked the
fence. The Eye laughed at her, then suddenly vanished; and
Flibbertigibbet saw a handsome-faced Italian lad sauntering up the
street, hands in his pockets, and singing--oh, how he sang! The little
girl forgot her rage in listening to the song, the words of which
reminded her of dear Nonna Lisa and her own joys of a four weeks'
vagabondage spent in the old Italian's company. All this she confessed
to Freckles; and the two, under one pretence or another, managed to make
daily visits to the garbage house knothole.
That hole was every bit as good as a surprise party to them. The Eye was
seen there but once more, when it informed the other Eye that it
belonged to Luigi Poggi, Nonna Lisa's one grandson; that it was off in
Chicago with a vaudeville troupe while the other Eye had been with Nonna
Lisa. But instead of the Eye there appeared a stick of candy twisted in
a paper and thrust through; at another time some fresh dates, strung on
a long string, were found dangling on the inner side of the fence--the
knothole having provided the point of entrance for each date; once a
small bunch of wild flowers graced it on the yard side. Again, for three
months, the hole served for a circulating library. A whole story found
lodgement there, a chapter at a time, torn from a paper-covered novel.
Flibbertigibbet carried them around with her pinned inside of her blue
denim apron, and read them to Freckles whenever she was sure of not
being caught. Luigi was their one boy on earth.
_The Marchioness of Isola Bella_, that was the name of the story; and if
Flibbertigibbet and Freckles on their narrow cots in the bare upper
dormitory of the Orphan Asylum on ----nd Street, did not dream of
sapphire lakes and snow-crowned mountains, of marble palaces and
turtledoves, of lovely ladies and lordly men, of serenades and guitars
and ropes of pearl, it was not the fault either of Luigi Poggi or the
_Marchioness of Isola Bella_. But at times the story-book marchioness
seemed very far away, and it was a happy thought of Flibbertigibbet's to
name the little lady in the great house after her; for, once, watching
at twilight from the cold window seat in the dormitory, the two orphan
children saw her ladyship dressed for a party, the maid having forgotten
to lower the shades.
Freckles and Flibbertigibbet dared scarcely breathe; it was so much
better than the _Marchioness of Isola Bella_, for this one was real and
alive--oh, yes, very much alive! She danced about the room, running from
the maid when she tried to catch her, and when the door opened and a
tall man came in with arms opened wide, the real Marchioness did just
what the story-book marchioness did on the last page to her lover: gave
one leap into the outstretched arms of the father-lover.
While the two children opposite were looking with all their eyes at this
unexpected _denouement_, the maid drew the shades, and Freckles and
Flibbertigibbet were left to stare at each other in the dark and cold.
Flibbertigibbet nodded and whispered:
"That takes the cake. The _Marchioness of Isola Bella_ ain't in it!"
Freckles squeezed her hand. Thereafter, although the girls appreciated
the various favors of the knothole, their entire and passionate
allegiance was given to the real Marchioness across the way.