Saturday.
Dear Enemy:
Will you be after dining with us at seven tonight? It's a real dinner
party; we're going to have ice-cream.
My brother has discovered a promising young man to take charge of the
boys,--maybe you know him,--Mr. Witherspoon, at the bank. I wish to
introduce him to asylum circles by easy steps, so PLEASE don't mention
insanity or epilepsy or alcoholism or any of your other favorite topics.
He is a gay young society leader, used to very fancy things to eat. Do
you suppose we can ever make him happy at the John Grier Home? Yours in
evident haste,
SALLIE McBRIDE.
Sunday.
Dear Judy:
Jimmie was back at eight Friday morning, and the doctor at a quarter
past. They and the carpenter and our new farmer and Noah and our two
horses and our eight biggest boys have been working ever since. Never
were building operations set going in faster time. I wish I had a dozen
Jimmies on the place, though I will say that my brother works faster
if you catch him before the first edge of his enthusiasm wears away. He
would not be much good at chiseling out a medieval cathedral.
He came back Saturday morning aglow with a new idea. He had met at
the hotel the night before a friend who belongs to his hunting club in
Canada, and who is cashier of our First (and only) National Bank.
"He's a bully good sport," said Jimmie, "and exactly the man you want
to camp out with those kids and lick 'em into shape. He'll be willing to
come for his board and forty dollars a month, because he's engaged to a
girl in Detroit and wants to save. I told him the food was rotten, but
if he kicked enough, you'd probably get a new cook."
"What's his name?" said I, with guarded interest.
"He's got a peach of a name. It's Percy de Forest Witherspoon."
I nearly had hysterics. Imagine a Percy de Forest Witherspoon in charge
of those twenty-four wild little savages!
But you know Jimmie when he has an idea. He had already invited Mr.
Witherspoon to dine with me on Saturday evening, and had ordered oysters
and squabs and ice-cream from the village caterer to help out my veal.
It ended by my giving a very formal dinner party, with Miss Matthews and
Betsy and the doctor included.
I almost asked the Hon. Cy and Miss Snaith. Ever since I have known
those two, I have felt that there ought to be a romance between them.
Never have I known two people who matched so perfectly. He's a widower
with five children. Don't you suppose it might be arranged? If he had
a wife to take up his attention, it might deflect him a little from us.
I'd be getting rid of them both at one stroke. It's to be considered
among our future improvements.
Anyway, we had our dinner. And during the course of the evening my
anxiety grew, not as to whether Percy would do for us, but as to whether
we should do for Percy. If I searched the world over, I never could
find a young man more calculated to win the affection of those boys.
You know, just by looking at him, that he does everything well, at least
everything vigorous. His literary and artistic accomplishments I suspect
a bit, but he rides and shoots and plays golf and football and sails a
boat. He likes to sleep out of doors and he likes boys. He has always
wanted to know some orphans; often read about 'em in books, he says, but
never met any face to face. Percy does seem too good to be true.
Before they left, Jimmie and the doctor hunted up a lantern, and in
their evening clothes conducted Mr. Witherspoon across a plowed field to
inspect his future dwelling.
And such a Sunday as we passed! I had absolutely to forbid their
carpentering. Those men would have put in a full day, quite irrespective
of the damage done to one hundred and four little moral natures. As it
is, they have just stood and looked at those shacks and handled their
hammers, and thought about where they would drive the first nail
tomorrow morning. The more I study men, the more I realize that they are
nothing in the world but boys grown too big to be spankable.
I am awfully worried as to how to feed Mr. Witherspoon. He looks as
though he had a frightfully healthy appetite, and he looks as though he
couldn't swallow his dinner unless he had on evening clothes. I've made
Betsy send home for a trunkful of evening gowns in order to keep up our
social standing. One thing is fortunate: he takes his luncheon at the
hotel, and I hear their luncheons are very filling.
Tell Jervis I am sorry he is not with us to drive a nail for the camp.
Here comes the Hon. Cy up the path. Heaven save us!
Ever your unfortunate,
S. McB.