DOTTY REBUKED.
One would have thought that now all Dotty's troubles were over; and so
they would have been, if she had not tried so hard to remember the
number. She said it over and over so many times, that all of a sudden it
went out of her mind. It was like rolling a ball on the ground, backward
and forward, till most unexpectedly it pops into a hole. Very much
frightened, Dotty bit her lip, twirled her front hair, and pinched her
left cheek--all in vain; the number wouldn't come.
"O, dear, what'll I do? I'd open that cellar door, where the driver is;
but he's all done up in a blue cape, and don't know anything only how
to whip his horses. And there don't anybody know where anybody lives in
this city; so it's no use to ask. For what do they care? They'd tell you
to look in the Dictionary. There's nobody in Portland ever told me to
look in a Dictionary. Here they are, sitting round here, just as happy,
all but me. They all live in a number, and they know what it is; but
they keep it to themselves,--they don't tell. It always makes people
feel better to know where they're going to. When I'm in Portland I know
how to get to Park Street, and how to get to Munjoy, and how to get to
Back Cove, with my eyes shut. But they don't make things as they ought
to in New York. You can't find out what to do."
So the stage rumbled, and Dotty grumbled. Presently a lady in an ermine
cloak got out, and Dotty did not know of anything better to do than to
follow. She certainly was on Fifth Avenue, and perhaps, if she walked
on, she should come to the number.
"There isn't any house along here that looks like auntie's," said she,
anxiously; "only they all look like it some. I never saw such a place as
this city, So many same things right over, and over; and then, when you
go into 'em, its just as different, and not the place you s'posed it
was."
Here Dotty ran up some steps, and rang a bell. She thought the damask
curtains looked familiar.
"No, no," cried she, running down again, as fast as the mouse ran down
the clock; "my auntie don't keep onions in her bay window, I hope!"
It was hyacinth bulbs, in glass vases, which had excited Dotty's
disgust.
"O, I guess I'm on the wrong side of the street; no wonder I can't find
the house. There, I see a chamber window open; _our_ chamber window was
open. I'm going to cross over and get near enough to see if there's a
little clock on the shelf that ticks like a dog wagging his tail."
No, there was no clock of any sort, and where the shelf ought to be was
a baby's crib.
"Well, any way, here's that beautiful church, with ivy round it; it's
ever so near auntie's; so I'll keep walking."
Dotty was right when she said the church was near auntie's--it was
within three doors; but she was wrong when she kept walking precisely
the wrong way. She crossed over to Sixth Avenue. Now, where were the
brown houses? She saw the horse-cars plodding along, and tried to read
the words on them.
"'Sixth Ave. and Fifty-Ninth Street.' Why, what's an _ave_? I never heard
of such a thing before; we don't have 'aves' in Portland. There are ever
so many people getting out of that car. While it stops, I'll peep in,
and see where it's going to. Perhaps there's a name inside that tells."
And, with her usual rashness, Dotty stepped upon the platform of the
car, and looked in. What she expected to see she hardly knew,--perhaps
"Aunt Madge's House," in gold letters; but what she really saw was, "No
Smoking;" those two words, and nothing more.
"Well, who wants to smoke? I'm sure _I_ don't," thought Dotty,
disdainfully, and was turning to step off the platform, when Horace
Clifford seized her by the shoulder.
"Where did you come from, you runaway?" said he, gruffly.
Close beside him were Aunt Madge and Prudy; all three were getting out
of the car.
"Thank Heaven, one of them is found," cried Aunt Madge, her face very
pale, her large eyes full of trouble.
Prudy kissed and scolded in the same breath. "O, Dotty Dimple, you'd
better believe we're glad to see you?--but what a naughty girl! A pretty
race you've led Horace, and he just wild about Fly!"
"H'm! what'd he go off for, then, and leave me there, sitting on a piano
stool? S'pose I's going to sit there all day? Didn't I want to go home
as much as the rest of you."
"And how did you get home? I'd like to know that," said Horace, walking
on with great strides, and then coming back again to the "ladies;" for
his anxiety about his little sister would not allow him to behave
calmly.
"I rode."
"You weren't in the car _we_ came in."
"N-o; I just happened to be peeking in there you know. But I came in an
_omnibius_."
"It is wonderful," said Aunt Madge, looking puzzled, "that you ever knew
what omnibus to take."
Dotty looked down to see if her boot was buttoned, and forgot to look up
again. "Well, _I_ shouldn't have known one _omnibius_, as you call it,
from another," said Prudy, lost in admiration. "Why, Dotty, how bright
you are! And there we were, so afraid about you, and spoke to a
policeman to look you up."
"I wouldn't let a p'liceman catch _me_," said Dotty, tossing her head.
"But haven't you found Fly yet?"
They were at home by this time, and Horace was ringing the bell.
"No, the dear child is still missing; but the police are on her track,"
said Aunt Madge, looking at her watch. "It is now one o'clock. Keep a
good heart, Horace, my boy. John shall go straight to the telegraph
office, and wait there for a despatch. Don't you leave us, dear; we
can't spare you, and you can do no good."
Horace made no reply, except to tap the heels of his boots together. He
looked utterly crushed. A large city was just as strange to him as it
was to Dotty, and he could only obey his aunt's orders, and try to hope
for the best. Dotty seemed to be the only one who felt like saying a
word, and she talked incessantly.
"O, what'd you send the p'lice after her for? To put her in the lockup,
and make her cry and think she's been naughty? It's the awfulest city
that ever I saw. Folks might send her home, if they were a mind to, but
they won't. They don't care what 'comes of you. There's cars and stages
going to which ways, and nothing but 'No Smoking,' inside. And I went
and peeped in at a window, and there was _onions_! And how'd I know
where to go to? There was a girl with a long curl, and she said, 'Go to
the 'pothecary's;' and what would Fly have known where she meant? And he
looked in a Dictionary, and put me in a stage,--I was going to tell you
about that when I got ready,--and asked me if I had ten cents, and I
had; and then I forgot what the number was, and that was the time I saw
the onions, or I should have gone right into somebody's else's house.
And I knew there was a church with ivy round, but Fly don't know; she's
nothing but a baby. And I should have thought, Horace Clifford, you
might have given her that money! That was what made her run off; you was
real cruel, and that's why I wouldn't mind what you said. And--and--"
"Hush," said Aunt Madge, brushing back a spray of fair curls, which the
wind had tossed over her forehead. "I don't allow a word of scolding in
my house. If you don't feel pleasant, Dotty, you may go into the back
yard and scold into a hole."
Dotty stopped suddenly. She knew her aunt was displeased; she felt it in
the tones of her voice.
"Dotty, the wind has been at play with your hair as well as mine.
Suppose we both go up stairs a few minutes?"
"There, auntie's going to reason with me," thought Dotty, winding slowly
up the staircase; "I didn't suppose she was one of that kind."
"No dear, I'm _not_ one of that kind," said Mrs. Allen, roguishly; for
she saw just what the child was thinking. "'I come not here to talk.'
All I have to say is this: Disobey again, and I send you home
immediately."
"Yes'm," said the little culprit, blushing crimson. "Now, brush your
hair, and let us go down." This was the only allusion Mrs. Allen ever
made to the subject; but after this, she and Dotty understood each other
perfectly. Dotty had learned, once for all, that her aunt was not to be
trifled with.
The child really was ashamed--thoroughly ashamed; but do you suppose
she admitted it to Horace? Not she. And he, so full of anguish
concerning the lost Fly, found not a word of fault; scarcely even
thought of his naughty cousin at all.