deserted corridors, how gladly they recovered their garments! Mrs.
Peterkin, indeed, was disturbed by the eagerness of the marshals; she
feared they had some pretext for getting the family out of the hall.
Mrs. Peterkin was one of those who never consent to be forced to
anything. She would not be compelled to go home, even with strains of
music. She whispered her suspicions to Mr. Peterkin; but Agamemnon
came hastily up to announce the time, which he had learned from the
clock in the large hall. They must leave directly if they wished to
catch the latest train, as there was barely time to reach it.
Then, indeed, was Mrs. Peterkin ready to leave. If they should miss
the train! If she should have to pass the night in the streets in her
turban! She was the first to lead the way, and, panting, the family
followed her, just in time to take the train as it was leaving the
station.
The excitement was not yet over. They found in the train many of their
friends and neighbors, returning also from the Carnival; so they had
many questions put to them which they were unable to answer. Still
Mrs. Peterkin's turban was much admired, and indeed the whole
appearance of the family; so that they felt themselves much repaid for
their exertions.
But more adventures awaited them. They left the train with their
friends; but as Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza were very tired,
they walked very slowly, and Solomon John and the little boys were
sent on with the pass-key to open the door. They soon returned with
the startling intelligence that it was not the right key, and they
could not get in. It was Mr. Peterkin's office-key; he had taken it by
mistake, or he might have dropped the house-key in the cloak-room of
the Carnival.
"Must we go back?" sighed Mrs. Peterkin, in an exhausted voice. More
than ever did Elizabeth Eliza regret that Agamemnon's invention in
keys had failed to secure a patent!
It was impossible to get into the house, for Amanda had been allowed
to go and spend the night with a friend, so there was no use in
ringing, though the little boys had tried it.
"We can return to the station," said Mr. Peterkin; "the rooms will be
warm, on account of the midnight train. We can, at least, think what
we shall do next."
At the station was one of their neighbors, proposing to take the New
York midnight train, for it was now after eleven, and the train went
through at half-past.
"I saw lights at the locksmith's over the way, as I passed," he said;
"why do not you send over to the young man there? He can get your door
open for you. I never would spend the night here."
Solomon John went over to "the young man," who agreed to go up to the
house as soon as he had closed the shop, fit a key, and open the door,
and come back to them on his way home. Solomon John came back to the
station, for it was now cold and windy in the deserted streets. The
family made themselves as comfortable as possible by the stove,
sending Solomon John out occasionally to look for the young man. But
somehow Solomon John missed him; the lights were out in the
locksmith's shop, so he followed along to the house, hoping to find
him there. But he was not there! He came back to report. Perhaps the
young man had opened the door and gone on home. Solomon John and
Agamemnon went back together, but they could not get in. Where was the
young man? He had lately come to town, and nobody knew where he lived,
for on the return of Solomon John and Agamemnon it had been proposed
to go to the house of the young man. The night was wearing on. The
midnight train had come and gone. The passengers who came and went
looked with wonder at Mrs. Peterkin, nodding in her turban, as she sat
by the stove, on a corner of a long bench. At last the station-master
had to leave, for a short rest. He felt obliged to lock up the
station, but he promised to return at an early hour to release them.
"Of what use," said Elizabeth Eliza, "if we cannot even then get into
our own house?"
Mr. Peterkin thought the matter appeared bad, if the locksmith had
left town. He feared the young man might have gone in, and helped
himself to spoons, and left. Only they should have seen him if he had
taken the midnight train. Solomon John thought he appeared honest. Mr.
Peterkin only ventured to whisper his suspicions, as he did not wish
to arouse Mrs. Peterkin, who still was nodding in the corner of the
long bench.
Morning did come at last. The family decided to go to their home;
perhaps by some effort in the early daylight they might make an
entrance.
On the way they met with the night-policeman, returning from his beat.
He stopped when he saw the family.
[Illustration]
"Ah! that accounts," he said; "you were all out last night, and the
burglars took occasion to make a raid on your house. I caught a
lively young man in the very act; box of tools in his hand! If I had
been a minute late he would have made his way in"--
The family then tried to interrupt--to explain--
"Where is he?" exclaimed Mr. Peterkin.
"Safe in the lock-up," answered the policeman.
"But he is the locksmith!" interrupted Solomon John.
"We have no key!" said Elizabeth Eliza; "if you have locked up the
locksmith we can never get in."
The policeman looked from one to the other, smiling slightly when he
understood the case.
"The locksmith!" he exclaimed; "he is a new fellow, and I did not
recognize him, and arrested him! Very well, I will go and let him out,
that he may let you in!" and he hurried away, surprising the Peterkin
family with what seemed like insulting screams of laughter.
"It seems to me a more serious case than it appears to him," said Mr.
Peterkin.
Mrs. Peterkin did not understand it at all. Had burglars entered the
house? Did the policeman say they had taken spoons? And why did he
appear so pleased? She was sure the old silver teapot was locked up in
the closet of their room. Slowly the family walked towards the house,
and, almost as soon as they, the policeman appeared with the released
locksmith, and a few boys from the street, who happened to be out
early.
The locksmith was not in very good humor, and took ill the jokes of
the policeman. Mr. Peterkin, fearing he might not consent to open the
door, pressed into his hand a large sum of money. The door flew open;
the family could go in. Amanda arrived at the same moment. There was
hope of breakfast. Mrs. Peterkin staggered towards the stairs. "I
shall never go to another Carnival!" she exclaimed.
THE PETERKINS AT THE FARM.
Yes, at last they had reached the seaside, after much talking and
deliberation, and summer after summer the journey had been constantly
postponed.
But here they were at last, at the "Old Farm," so called, where
seaside attractions had been praised in all the advertisements. And
here they were to meet the Sylvesters, who knew all about the place,
cousins of Ann Maria Bromwick. Elizabeth Eliza was astonished not to
find them there, though she had not expected Ann Maria to join them
till the very next day.
Their preparations had been so elaborate that at one time the whole
thing had seemed hopeless; yet here they all were. Their trunks, to be
sure, had not arrived; but the wagon was to be sent back for them,
and, wonderful to tell, they had all their hand-baggage safe.
Agamemnon had brought his Portable Electrical Machine and Apparatus,
and the volumes of the Encyclopaedia that might tell him how to manage
it, and Solomon John had his photograph camera. The little boys had
used their india-rubber boots as portmanteaux, filling them to the
brim, and carrying one in each hand,--a very convenient way for
travelling they considered it; but they found on arriving (when they
wanted to put their boots directly on, for exploration round the
house), that it was somewhat inconvenient to have to begin to unpack
directly, and scarcely room enough could be found for all the contents
in the small chamber allotted to them.
There was no room in the house for the electrical machine and camera.
Elizabeth Eliza thought the other boarders were afraid of the machine
going off; so an out-house was found for them, where Agamemnon and
Solomon John could arrange them.
Mrs. Peterkin was much pleased with the old-fashioned porch and
low-studded rooms, though the sleeping-rooms seemed a little stuffy at
first.
[Illustration]
Mr. Peterkin was delighted with the admirable order in which the farm
was evidently kept. From the first moment he arrived he gave himself
to examining the well-stocked stables and barns, and the fields and
vegetable gardens, which were shown to him by a highly intelligent
person, a Mr. Atwood, who devoted himself to explaining to Mr.
Peterkin all the details of methods in the farming.
The rest of the family were disturbed at being so far from the sea,
when they found it would take nearly all the afternoon to reach the
beach. The advertisements had surely stated that the "Old Farm" was
directly on the shore, and that sea-bathing would be exceedingly
convenient; which was hardly the case if it took you an hour and a
half to walk to it.
Mr. Peterkin declared there were always such discrepancies between the
advertisements of seaside places and the actual facts; but he was more
than satisfied with the farm part, and was glad to remain and admire
it, while the rest of the family went to find the beach, starting off
in a wagon large enough to accommodate them, Agamemnon driving the one
horse.
Solomon John had depended upon taking the photographs of the family in
a row on the beach; but he decided not to take his camera out the
first afternoon.
This was well, as the sun was already setting when they reached the
beach.
"If this wagon were not so shaky," said Mrs. Peterkin, "we might drive
over every morning for our bath. The road is very straight, and I
suppose Agamemnon can turn on the beach."
"We should have to spend the whole day about it," said Solomon John,
in a discouraged tone, "unless we can have a quicker horse."
"Perhaps we should prefer that," said Elizabeth Eliza, a little
gloomily, "to staying at the house."
She had been a little disturbed to find there were not more elegant
and fashionable-looking boarders at the farm, and she was disappointed
that the Sylvesters had not arrived, who would understand the ways of
the place. Yet, again, she was somewhat relieved, for if their trunks
did not come till the next day, as was feared, she should have nothing
but her travelling dress to wear, which would certainly answer for
to-night.
She had been busy all the early summer in preparing her dresses for
this very watering-place, and, as far as appeared, she would hardly
need them, and was disappointed to have no chance to display them. But
of course, when the Sylvesters and Ann Maria came, all would be
different; but they would surely be wasted on the two old ladies she
had seen, and on the old men who had lounged about the porch; there
surely was not a gentleman among them.
Agamemnon assured her she could not tell at the seaside, as gentlemen
wore their exercise dress, and took a pride in going around in
shocking hats and flannel suits. Doubtless they would be dressed for
dinner on their return.
On their arrival they had been shown to a room to have their meals by
themselves, and could not decide whether they were eating dinner or
lunch. There was a variety of meat, vegetables, and pie, that might
come under either name; but Mr. and Mrs Peterkin were well pleased.
"I had no idea we should have really farm-fare," Mrs. Peterkin said.
"I have not drunk such a tumbler of milk since I was young."
Elizabeth Eliza concluded they ought not to judge from a first meal,
as evidently their arrival had not been fully prepared for, in spite
of the numerous letters that had been exchanged.
The little boys were, however, perfectly satisfied from the moment of
their arrival, and one of them had stayed at the farm, declining to go
to the beach, as he wished to admire the pigs, cows, and horses; and
all the way over to the beach the other little boys were hopping in
and out of the wagon, which never went too fast, to pick long
mullein-stalks, for whips to urge on the reluctant horse with, or to
gather huckleberries, with which they were rejoiced to find the fields
were filled, although, as yet, the berries were very green.
They wanted to stay longer on the beach, when they finally reached it;
but Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza insisted upon turning directly
back, as it was not fair to be late to dinner the very first night.
On the whole the party came back cheerful, yet hungry. They found the
same old men, in the same costume, standing against the porch.
"A little seedy, I should say," said Solomon John.
"Smoking pipes," said Agamemnon; "I believe that is the latest style."
"The smell of their tobacco is not very agreeable," Mrs. Peterkin was
forced to say.
There seemed the same uncertainty on their arrival as to where they
were to be put, and as to their meals.
Elizabeth Eliza tried to get into conversation with the old ladies,
who were wandering in and out of a small sitting-room. But one of them
was very deaf, and the other seemed to be a foreigner. She discovered
from a moderately tidy maid, by the name of Martha, who seemed a sort
of factotum, that there were other ladies in their rooms, too much of
invalids to appear.
"Regular bed-ridden," Martha had described them, which Elizabeth Eliza
did not consider respectful.
Mr. Peterkin appeared coming down the slope of the hill behind the
house, very cheerful. He had made the tour of the farm, and found it
in admirable order.
Elizabeth Eliza felt it time to ask Martha about the next meal, and
ventured to call it supper, as a sort of compromise between dinner and
tea. If dinner were expected she might offend by taking it for granted
that it was to be "tea," and if they were unused to a late dinner they
might be disturbed if they had only provided a "tea."
So she asked what was the usual hour for supper, and was surprised
when Martha replied, "The lady must say," nodding to Mrs. Peterkin.
"She can have it just when she wants, and just what she wants!"
This was an unexpected courtesy.
Elizabeth Eliza asked when the others had their supper.
"Oh, they took it a long time ago," Martha answered. "If the lady will
go out into the kitchen she can tell what she wants."
"Bring us in what you have," said Mr. Peterkin, himself quite hungry.
"If you could cook us a fresh slice of beefsteak that would be well."
"Perhaps some eggs," murmured Mrs. Peterkin.
"Scrambled," cried one of the little boys.
"Fried potatoes would not be bad," suggested Agamemnon.
"Couldn't we have some onions?" asked the little boy who had stayed at
home, and had noticed the odor of onions when the others had their
supper.
"A pie would come in well," said Solomon John.
"And some stewed cherries," said the other little boy.
Martha fell to laying the table, and the family was much pleased,
when, in the course of time, all the dishes they had recommended
appeared. Their appetites were admirable, and they pronounced the food
the same.
"This is true Arab hospitality," said Mr. Peterkin, as he cut his
juicy beefsteak.
"I know it," said Elizabeth Eliza, whose spirits began to rise. "We
have not even seen the host and hostess."
She would, indeed, have been glad to find some one to tell her when
the Sylvesters were expected, and why they had not arrived. Her room
was in the wing, far from that of Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, and near the
aged deaf and foreign ladies, and she was kept awake for some time by
perplexed thoughts.
She was sure the lady from Philadelphia, under such circumstances,
would have written to somebody. But ought she to write to Ann Maria or
the Sylvesters? And, if she did write, which had she better write to?
She fully determined to write, the first thing in the morning, to both
parties. But how should she address her letters? Would there be any
use in sending to the Sylvesters' usual address, which she knew well
by this time, merely to say they had not come? Of course the
Sylvesters would know they had not come. It would be the same with Ann
Maria. She might, indeed, inclose her letters to their several
postmasters. Postmasters were always so obliging, and always knew
where people were going to, and where to send their letters. She
might, at least, write two letters, to say that they--the
Peterkins--had arrived, and were disappointed not to find the
Sylvesters. And she could add that their trunks had not arrived, and
perhaps their friends might look out for them on their way. It really
seemed a good plan to write. Yet another question came up, as to how
she would get her letters to the post-office, as she had already
learned it was at quite a distance, and in a different direction from
the station, where they were to send the next day for their trunks.
She went over and over these same questions, kept awake by the
coughing and talking of her neighbors, the other side of the thin
partition.
She was scarcely sorry to be aroused from her uncomfortable sleep by
the morning sounds of guinea-hens, peacocks, and every other kind of
fowl.
Mrs. Peterkin expressed her satisfaction at the early breakfast, and
declared she was delighted with such genuine farm sounds.
They passed the day much as the afternoon before, reaching the beach
only in time to turn round to come back for their dinner, which was
appointed at noon. Mrs. Peterkin was quite satisfied. "Such a straight
road, and the beach such a safe place to turn round upon!"
Elizabeth Eliza was not so well pleased. A wagon had been sent to the
station for their trunks, which could not be found; they were probably
left at the Boston station, or, Mr. Atwood suggested, might have been
switched off upon one of the White Mountain trains. There was no use
to write any letters, as there was no way to send them. Elizabeth
Eliza now almost hoped the Sylvesters would not come, for what should
she do if the trunks did not come and all her new dresses? On her way
over to the beach she had been thinking what she should do with her
new foulard and cream-colored surah if the Sylvesters did not come,
and if their time was spent in only driving to the beach and back.
But now, she would prefer that the Sylvesters would not come till the
dresses and the trunks did. All she could find out, from inquiry, on
returning, was, "that another lot was expected on Saturday." The next
day she suggested:--
"Suppose we take our dinner with us to the beach, and spend the day."
The Sylvesters and Ann Maria then would find them on the beach, where
her travelling-dress would be quite appropriate. "I am a little
tired," she added, "of going back and forward over the same road; but
when the rest come we can vary it."
The plan was agreed to, but Mr. Peterkin and the little boys remained
to go over the farm again.
They had an excellent picnic on the beach, under the shadow of a ledge
of sand. They were just putting up their things when they saw a party
of people approaching from the other end of the beach.
"I am glad to see some pleasant-looking people at last," said
Elizabeth Eliza, and they all turned to walk toward them.
As the other party drew near she recognized Ann Maria Bromwick! And
with her were the Sylvesters,--so they proved to be, for she had never
seen them before.
"What! you have come in our absence!" exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza.
"And we have been wondering what had become of you!" cried Ann Maria.
"I thought you would be at the farm before us," said Elizabeth Eliza
to Mr. Sylvester, to whom she was introduced.
"We have been looking for you at the farm," he was saying to her.
"But we are at the farm," said Elizabeth Eliza.
"And so are we!" said Ann Maria.
"We have been there two days," said Mrs. Peterkin.
"And so have we, at the 'Old Farm,' just at the end of the beach,"
said Ann Maria.
"Our farm is old enough," said Solomon John.
"Whereabouts are you?" asked Mr. Sylvester.
Elizabeth Eliza pointed to the road they had come.
A smile came over Mr. Sylvester's face; he knew the country well.
"You mean the farm-house behind the hill, at the end of the road?" he
asked.
The Peterkins all nodded affirmatively.
Ann Maria could not restrain herself, as broad smiles came over the
faces of all the party.
"Why, that is the Poor-house!" she exclaimed.
"The town farm," Mr. Sylvester explained, deprecatingly.
The Peterkins were silent for a while. The Sylvesters tried not to
laugh.
"There certainly were some disagreeable old men and women there!" said
Elizabeth Eliza, at last.
"But we have surely been made very comfortable," Mrs. Peterkin
declared.
"A very simple mistake," said Mr. Sylvester, continuing his amusement.
"Your trunks arrived all right at the 'Old Farm,' two days ago."
"Let us go back directly," said Elizabeth Eliza.
"As directly as our horse will allow," said Agamemnon.
Mr. Sylvester helped them into the wagon. "Your rooms are awaiting
you," he said. "Why not come with us?"
"We want to find Mr. Peterkin before we do anything else," said Mrs.
Peterkin.
They rode back in silence, till Elizabeth Eliza said, "Do you suppose
they took us for paupers?"
"We have not seen any 'they,'" said Solomon John, "except Mr. Atwood."
At the entrance of the farm-yard Mr. Peterkin met them.
"I have been looking for you," he said. "I have just made a
discovery."
"We have made it, too," said Elizabeth Eliza; "we are in the
poor-house."
"How did you find it out?" Mrs. Peterkin asked of Mr. Peterkin.
"Mr. Atwood came to me, puzzled with a telegram that had been brought
to him from the station, which he ought to have got two days ago. It
came from a Mr. Peters, whom they were expecting here this week, with
his wife and boys, to take charge of the establishment. He
telegraphed to say he cannot come till Friday. Now, Mr. Atwood had
supposed we were the Peterses, whom he had sent for the day we
arrived, not having received this telegram."
"Oh, I see, I see!" said Mrs. Peterkin; "and we did get into a muddle
at the station!"
Mr. Atwood met them at the porch. "I beg pardon," he said. "I hope you
have found it comfortable here, and shall be glad to have you stay
till Mr. Peters' family comes."
At this moment wheels were heard. Mr. Sylvester had arrived, with an
open wagon, to take the Peterkins to the "Old Farm."
Martha was waiting within the door, and said to Elizabeth Eliza, "Beg
pardon, miss, for thinking you was one of the inmates, and putting you
in that room. We thought it so kind of Mrs. Peters to take you off
every day with the other gentlemen, that looked so wandering."
Elizabeth Eliza did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
Mr. Peterkin and the little boys decided to stay at the farm till
Friday. But Agamemnon and Solomon John preferred to leave with Mr.
Sylvester, and to take their electrical machine and camera when they
came for Mr. Peterkin.
Mrs. Peterkin was tempted to stay another night, to be wakened once
more by the guinea-hens. But Elizabeth Eliza bore her off. There was
not much packing to be done. She shouted good-by into the ears of the
deaf old lady, and waved her hand to the foreign one, and glad to bid
farewell to the old men with their pipes, leaning against the porch.
"This time," she said, "it is not our trunks that were lost"--
"But we, as a family," said Mrs. Peterkin.
* * * * *