GETTING REGULATED
Monday morning Phil went to work at the bank. As Riverdale was a small
town, Spaythe’s Bank might be expected to be a small institution, but
it was more important than the size of the town really warranted. The
beet sugar factory drew many farmers to Riverdale, who deposited the
money received for their beets with Mr. Spaythe. The factory itself
had large deposits in the bank and the town merchants did a thriving
business. Aside from this there were many prosperous plantations and
wealthy country gentlemen in the neighborhood, all of which contributed
to the importance and prosperity of Spaythe’s Bank.
Three assistants, or clerks, were employed, and Mr. Spaythe directed
them in person. The cashier and paying teller was an elderly, quiet man
named Boothe. Eric Spaythe told Phil that Boothe was a mere machine,
and had not a single thought or idea beyond his duties at the bank. Ned
Thurber had held the position of head bookkeeper, but on his withdrawal
Eric was promoted to that important position and Phil became his
assistant.
Eric was Mr. Spaythe’s only child and it was the banker’s earnest
hope that the boy would, one day, succeed him. As is often the case,
however, father and son were totally unlike in disposition and
character, and those who knew them best were disposed to doubt Eric’s
ability to step into his father’s shoes. He was a jolly, pleasure
loving young fellow, now in his twentieth year, and Phil liked him and
had always found him to be a congenial companion. Short and stout,
with a round pink face and merry blue eyes, Eric Spaythe was a general
favorite at Riverdale, especially with the women and girls. His one
defect seemed to be that he was wholly irresponsible, and never
serious. At school he had proved a bad scholar, although the boy was
bright enough in other ways, and two years ago his father had taken him
from High and placed him in the bank to learn the business.
The most important point of difference between Eric and his father
was that the young man was a natural spendthrift, whereas Mr. Spaythe
had always been frugal with his money. We may well suppose that
this characteristic of Eric was a thorn in the banker’s flesh; but
he realized that the boy was young and so did not despair of being
able to instill in him a knowledge of the importance of husbanding
his means. For this reason he allowed Eric a very small salary, and
wondered how the boy could purchase so many fine clothes and articles
of fashionable attire with so little money. The tradesmen knew, of
course, but considered the banker’s son well entitled to credit.
Phil was accorded a kindly reception at the bank. Mr. Boothe turned
his expressionless eyes full upon the new clerk and shook his hand
automatically. Eric was delighted to have his old friend associated
with him, and elated, as well, by his own promotion to be head
bookkeeper. Mr. Spaythe, keenly interested in the important changes
in his force of employees, left his private office to overlook the
counting room and satisfy himself that the boys understood their
duties. Eric protested that he was quite competent to fill Ned
Thurber’s place, having been his assistant for the past two years;
and, indeed, the banker’s son seemed adequately able in business ways,
if he could be induced to keep his mind on his work. After inspecting
his entries now and then Mr. Spaythe seemed satisfied with his son’s
ability and turned his attention to Phil, who really needed a guiding
hand. His extra course in bookkeeping at the high school now stood
him in good stead, and he was intelligent enough to quickly grasp his
instructions.
“If at any time you are in doubt, Eric will post you,” said the
banker; but for several days he made it a point to frequently
examine the ledgers and assure himself that the work was progressing
satisfactorily. Afterward, so well did both Eric and Phil accomplish
their tasks, that Mr. Spaythe left them much to their own devices and
kept himself shut up in his private office, as formerly.
The mechanical cashier was not an especially companionable man. Mr.
Boothe began each day with a “good morning” to his fellow employees and
ended it with a brief “good night.” During the day he said nothing,
unless required to answer the questions of the bank’s customers. His
accounts were always absolutely accurate, and Mr. Spaythe knew he was
justified in relying implicitly upon his cashier to do his duty.
That was a happy Saturday afternoon for Phil when he brought home his
first week’s wages and deposited the new ten dollar gold-piece in
Cousin Judith’s hand.
“That will help some, won’t it?” he inquired, anxiously.
“It will help a great deal,” was the reply.
About this time Marion Randolph came home from college for the long
vacation. She was the eldest daughter of the house, and about the same
age as Phil and Phœbe. Judith, looking from her window, saw Marion
on the lawn the morning after her arrival and noted her slender,
angular form, her delicate, refined face and well-bred poise. She at
once decided Marion would be a valuable acquaintance for Phœbe, and
decided to bring the two girls together.
“Let us call on the Randolphs this afternoon,” she suggested to
Phœbe. “Since they are recent arrivals at Riverdale it is really
our duty to call upon them formally. They are likely to prove pleasant
acquaintances.”
“I’ve really nothing fit to wear, Cousin Judith,” replied the girl.
The Little Mother examined Phœbe’s wardrobe and selected a simple,
white gown. It needed mending in places, but Judith caught up the
rents with her deft needle and added some pretty ribbons of her own to
the costume. A season of dressmaking had already begun in the house,
but Sue and Becky were most in need of respectable raiment, and so
Phœbe’s turn had not yet arrived.
When, late in the afternoon, Miss Eliot and Phœbe Daring set out to
make their call, there was nothing that the most critical could find
fault with in their personal appearance. Phœbe had the reputation of
being “the prettiest girl in Riverdale,” and seemed justly entitled to
it that day, while Cousin Judith’s sweet face was sure to win approval
anywhere.
Mrs. Randolph and her daughter Marion received their neighbors very
graciously. The former was a languid, weary looking woman who had
secluded herself in this little village in order to escape the demands
of society and organized charities, which had nearly reduced her to a
state of nervous prostration. Marion was an intelligent, active girl,
with none of her younger sister’s assumption of airs and graces. She
seemed to Phœbe to be perfectly frank and natural in her ways,
possessing ideas that were healthy, broad and progressive. During the
interview, Marion developed a liking for Phœbe that pleased Miss
Eliot greatly.
“Come and see me,” said Phœbe, shyly, when about to depart. “We are
such near neighbors that you can run in at any time.”
“I will, indeed,” was the ready promise, and Marion kept it faithfully.
Thereafter, there was seldom a day when the two girls were not
together. Marion came most frequently to see Phœbe, for there was a
certain air of conventional stiffness about the great house that both
the girls felt and objected to. Sometimes, Doris came with her sister,
and was turned over to the tender mercies of mischievous Becky, who
teased her visitor in a shameful manner. Usually Doris was all unaware
that she was being ridiculed for her primness and stilted expressions,
but Cousin Judith was quick to comprehend the situation and took Becky
to task for her impoliteness. With all her graceless ways the child
was warm-hearted and easily influenced, for good as well as for evil,
and she promised the Little Mother to treat Doris nicely and avoid
offending her ears by using slangy expressions. Becky intended to keep
her word thus given, but at times lapsed irrepressibly into the old
ways, so that she was a source of constant anxiety to Judith.
Since Phœbe had chosen to make a friend of Marion, her twin was
bound to follow her lead. Phil found the college girl a delightful
comrade. He did not care much for girls, as a rule, excepting of course
his own sisters, but Marion proved as frank and as keenly intelligent
as any boy. She knew all about modern athletics, although too frail of
physique to indulge in such sports herself. Likewise she had a fairly
practical knowledge of business methods, politics, public institutions
and reform movements, and talked well and interestingly upon all
subjects of the day. Aspiring to become a poet, she read bits of
original verse to her new friends which they considered so remarkable
that it was a marvel to them she was not already famous.
“There is only one thing lacking about Marion,” Phil confided to his
twin; “she lacks any sense of humor. Seems to me she can’t appreciate
anything funny, at all. The only things she laughs at are the mistakes
of other people. Isn’t it queer, when she’s so bright in all other
ways?”
“I think,” returned Phœbe, musingly, “that is a characteristic
of all the Randolphs. Doris and Allerton are the same way, and I’ve
wondered if Mrs. Randolph was ever in her life amused enough to laugh
aloud.”
“Marion is good company, though,” added Phil, “and I like her.”
“She’s splendid!” agreed Phœbe; “and her poetry reminds me so much
of Mrs. Browning.”
“Me too,” he said, laughing. “I never can understand a word of it.”
Others called on Marion and she soon became a popular favorite in the
village. Especially, was she attracted to Janet Ferguson, and as Janet
was a warm friend of the Darings, this made it pleasant for all the
young people. When the famous lawn party was given at the Randolph
residence the occasion was one long remembered, for no such elaborate
entertainment was ever before known in Riverdale.
The festivity was designed to celebrate Marion’s birthday, as well as
to introduce her socially to the young folks of the town.
“Of course it cannot be very exclusive,” observed her mother, when the
invitation list was being prepared; “otherwise you would have but a
mere handful.”
“I do not wish to be exclusive here,” returned Marion, gravely. “My
desire is to study character and human nature, to assist me in my
literary work. One cannot write of humanity without knowing something
of the rank and file, you see; and there are many respectable, if
humble, families in Riverdale.”
Mrs. Randolph scanned the list critically.
“Is it possible that you intend to ask the entire family of Darings?”
she inquired.
“Yes, dear. I am inviting Rebecca and Donald for Doris and Allerton,
you see, and I cannot well leave out that little fairy elf, Sue. So
they must all come.”
“Do you know, Marion, those Darings--the younger ones, I refer to--are
very ill-bred children?”
“Their manners are not strictly conventional, I believe.”
“And their language is that of the slums.”
“But they have had no mother to guide them, poor things,” explained
Marion. “At times they are very winning and companionable, and I am
sure they will behave nicely at my lawn fête.”
“Very well, dear,” sighed the lady; “invite them if you wish to. This
was once their home, you remember. After all, it would not be quite
right to exclude the Darings from your little affair.”
It may have seemed a “little affair” in the eyes of the blasé society
woman, but it was not so to the people of Riverdale, by any means. A
brass band of fifteen pieces came from the city by the noon train, and
their uniforms were so gorgeous as to create tremendous excitement.
Tents had been erected upon the lawn and a force of extra servants
employed to prepare and serve the refreshments. The ample grounds were
crossed in every direction by strings of unique Japanese lanterns, and
in the early evening there was to be dancing to the music of the band.
It was but natural that every young person in town who had received an
invitation was filled with joyful anticipation. “From five until nine,”
the cards read, and it was hard work for Cousin Judith to control the
younger Darings until the hour arrived. Sue insisted upon being dressed
directly after dinner, and when arrayed in her new muslin with the
cherry ribbons she found such difficulty in keeping still that Judith
was fearful Sue would ruin the frock before five o’clock. Rebecca had
a new gown, too, and Donald a new suit of clothes. When, finally,
the children observed several arrivals at the reception tent on the
lawn opposite, which they had carefully watched all afternoon from
the dining room window, Miss Eliot felt that she could restrain their
impatience no longer and away they trooped across the road.
Marion had asked Phœbe and Janet to assist her to receive, for she
did not know personally all whom she had invited, while the other girls
were of course familiar with every young person in the village. There
were no “regrets” that day, you may be sure, for the unusual occasion
could not well be disregarded. Eric Spaythe came early, in an elaborate
costume fresh from the tailor, and he paid especial attention to Marion
whenever her duties left her disengaged. Al Hayden, Toby Clarke, Jed
Hopkins and, in fact, every eligible youth in the village, assembled
in bashful groups and looked nervously at the bevies of girls and upon
their bewildering surroundings. In order to help Marion, Phil tried to
“break the ice,” as he said, by bringing the boys and girls together,
and when the band struck up a spirited twostep it relieved the strain
to a wonderful degree.
Mrs. Randolph kept out of sight, indulgently viewing the scene from a
window. Mr. Randolph had not appeared in Riverdale since he brought
his family there and settled them in their new home. He was a busy man,
with many extensive financial interests, and could not be away from
Boston for very long at a time.
Donald, Becky and Sue had promptly joined Doris and Allerton, and as
they were a little younger than the majority of Marion’s guests they
formed a group of their own.
“It distresses me,” said Doris, plaintively, “to realize how many poor
people are suffering, while we revel at this fête; and I cannot help
thinking how many deserving families might be relieved from want by
means of the money we are squandering to-day upon useless luxuries.”
“Aw, cut it out!” cried Becky, indignantly. “Do you want to spoil all
our fun?”
“My sister is religiously inclined,” observed Allerton; “yet there is a
place for everything, and this is not a funeral.”
“Oh, Allerton--how shocking!” exclaimed the girl.
“I don’t believe,” said Don, “you Randolphs would have spent a penny on
the poor if you hadn’t given this party; so what’s the odds?”
It suddenly occurred to Becky that this wasn’t a proper topic of
conversation under the circumstances, and might lead to a quarrel; so
she turned the subject by asking:
“What’s in that red-and-white striped tent?”
“Lemonade and ices,” said Allerton. “Will you have some?”
“Sure thing!” was the reply, and away they went, to be served by a maid
in a white cap and apron.
“Doesn’t it cost us anything?” inquired Sue, who found the lemonade
extremely good.
“Course not,” returned Becky, helping herself again from the big bowl
when the maid was not looking. “But if Doris had her way they’d collect
a nickel a glass for charity,--the kind of charity that doesn’t help
the poor a bit.”
“Let us go to the long tent, over there,” said Allerton, with eager
patronage. “I’ll show you the big birthday cake and the tables all laid
with favors and things. If we go in the back way no one will see us.”
Doris was not sure they were doing right to peep at the tables in
advance, but as none of the others hesitated to follow her brother she
decided to trail along after them.
It was, indeed, a pretty sight, and the Darings were awe-struck.
“When do we feed?” asked Don, hungrily.
“The collation is at half past six, I believe.”
“The what?”
“The collation.”
“Can’t you speak United States?” asked Don, indignantly; “or are you
trying to poke fun at me?”
“If you are too ignorant to understand simple language,” retorted
Allerton angrily, “you become an object of derision.”
Don glared at him.
“Take that back, you mollycoddle!” he cried, “or I’ll punch your head.”
“Better not,” warned Becky, composedly. “It isn’t polite at a party.”
“Take back your own words!” shouted Allerton, white with rage. “I’m no
mollycoddle, and I’ll fight you now, or any time.”
But Doris, startled and dismayed at this disgraceful scene, put her
hand on her brother’s arm and drew him away.
“Come, Allerton,” she said, with such dignity as she could command.
“You forget yourself.”
“I won’t forget him, if he does,” promised Don.
“Don’t,” answered Allerton, moving away but still furious; “I’ll settle
this with you some other time, when you are not my sister’s guest.”
Becky laughed and followed Doris, but outside the tent Allerton broke
away from the group and went to nurse his grievances alone. Don was
trying to think of a way to apologize to Doris when the girl gave him
such a look of mingled scorn and reproach that he turned away, thrust
his hands in his pockets and walked across the lawn whistling softly to
himself.
“Never mind,” said Becky, with cheerfulness, “they’ll get over it in a
minute. It isn’t any of our bread-and-cheese, anyhow.”
The incident, however, had disturbed gentle Doris greatly, and she was
so silent and reserved that Becky and Sue soon left her to her own
devices and set out to amuse themselves in any manner that might offer.
The band played stirring marches and gavottes. Laughter and merriment
were everywhere. All stiffness among the guests seemed to have
disappeared, for there were games of archery, lawn ten-pins, quoits and
various other devices for the amusement of those assembled. Some of
the girls had their fortunes told in the tent of a gypsy, while others
watched a big paper balloon that was being sent up.
It was nearly seven o’clock when Marion gathered her guests in the
banquet tent, and nearly all had found their places and were seated
when in rushed Sue Daring, her white gown streaming all down the front
with a sticky pink compound, and gasping with horror and despair she
flew to her sister Phœbe, who stared in amazement.
“Keep off, Sue--keep off! Good gracious, what has happened to you?”
Phœbe asked.
“I w-w-was helping myself to some l-l-l-lemonade, when the b-bowl
tipped over an’ ducked me,” was the wailing reply, while Phœbe held
her sister at arms’ length to protect her own dress.
There was a shout of laughter, at this, and poor Sue broke down and
began to cry.
“I’ll take her home,” whispered Phœbe to Marion.
“Come straight back, then,” pleaded the hostess; “and have Sue come,
too, as soon as she has changed her gown. There has been no harm done,
except to the poor thing’s own clothing.”
“Yes, there has,” sobbed Sue. “I b-b-broke the bowl!”
Phœbe led her away, and soon Judith was exclaiming at the child’s
dreadful plight. It was useless to think of her rejoining the party,
however, for there was not another dress in her limited wardrobe that
was proper for the occasion.
“Run back, dear,” said Cousin Judith to Phœbe; “your pleasure must
not be spoiled, and I’ll look after Sue and comfort her.”
That was not so easy, for Sue’s disappointment was very poignant
indeed. She knew it was her own fault, but that did not comfort her
for missing the supper and the dance. However, Judith assisted her
to exchange her sticky costume for a common gingham, and to wash
all traces of the deluge of lemonade from her face and hands. Then
she sat in the Little Mother’s window and listened to the shouts of
laughter and the music of the band and gazed at the myriad of twinkling
lanterns--and was more miserable than she had ever been before in all
her life.
Phœbe had soon rejoined the company and was now participating in
the fun. Sue’s accident had rather tended to increase the jollity
than otherwise, and was soon forgotten. There were pretty favors for
each guest, and as a finale to the delicious supper they all ate some
of Marion’s birthday cake and wished her many happy returns of the
day. Eric made a little speech which was witty enough to set them all
laughing, and Marion thanked the company very modestly for their kind
expressions of good will.
Donald sat opposite Allerton at the feast, and the two glared at one
another viciously, to Becky’s secret delight.
“Al’s getting to be quite decent,” she whispered to her brother. “I
wouldn’t be s’prised if he’d really fight.”
After the banquet came the dancing, and when the guests left the tent
to indulge in this amusement they found themselves in a veritable
fairyland. For the lanterns had all been lighted while they feasted,
and the scene was beautiful beyond anything they had ever before
witnessed.
The cards had said: “until nine,” but it was quite ten o’clock when
the Darings returned home, eager and excited, and breathlessly recited
their experiences to their smiling Little Mother. Sue had insisted on
sitting up to hear all about the affair, and the glowing reports made
her more miserable than ever.
“Did you have a good time, Don?” she asked, wistfully.
“Oh, so-so,” he replied. “It was a pretty fair show after I got rid of
the mollycoddle.”
“That’s the biggest word Don knows,” laughed Becky; but neither she nor
Sue betrayed the boy’s quarrel with Allerton.