A BARGAIN AND A PROMISE.
DURING the next few days work went on rapidly in the Decker home:
or, more properly speaking, in the room over Job Smith's barn.
Jerry developed such taste in the manufacture of furniture, or of
"skeletons," that Nettie grew alarmed lest there should never be found
clothing enough to cover them. However, matters in that respect began
to look brighter. Mrs. Job Smith, as she grew into an understanding of
the plan, dragged out certain old trunks from her woodhouse chamber and
looked them over. There were treasures in those trunks, which even Mrs.
Job herself had forgotten. A gay chintz dress of Job's mother's, which
had been saved by her daughter-in-law "she couldn't rightly tell for
what, only Job set store by it because it was his old mother's." Nettie
fairly clapped her hands in delight over it, and then blushed crimson
when she remembered it was not hers.
"Well, now," said Mrs. Job, "I'll just tell you what it is. If you see
anything in life to do with these rolls of things, here is a bundle of
old muslin curtains, embroidered, you know, and dreadful pretty once, I
suppose, but they are all to pieces now. Mrs. Percival, a lady I used
to clear starch and iron for, gave them to me; paid me in that kind of
trash, you know, though what in the world she thought I could ever do
with them is more than I could imagine. But I was younger then than I
am now, and was kind of meek, and I lugged home the great roll and said
nothing; only I remember when I got home I just sat down on a corner
of the table and cried, I was so disappointed. I had expected to be
paid in money, and I had planned two or three things to surprise Job,
and they had to be given up. Well, as I was saying," she added, in a
brisker tone, having roused from her little dream of the past to watch
Nettie's fingers linger lovingly and wistfully among the rolls of soft
muslin, "they have never been the least mite of good to me. I have just
kept them because it didn't seem quite the thing to throw such pretty
soft stuff into the rag-bag, and they were dreadful poor trash to give
away; and Sarah Jane, she is tired of having them in the attic taking
up room, and if there is anything in life can be done with these things
in this trunk, I wish you would just go shares, and make some things
for me too. Sarah Jane would like it, first-rate."
This sentence fairly made Nettie catch her breath. The treasures in
that trunk were so wonderful to her. "I could make such lovely things!"
she said, almost gasping out the words; "but, O Mrs. Smith, you can't
mean it! I'm afraid I oughtn't to."
"Why, bless your heart, child, I tell you I don't know of a single
useful thing in that trunk; not one; it is just a pack of rubbish, now,
that's the truth; and if Sarah Jane has begged me once to let her sell
it to the rag pedlers, I believe she has twenty times."
The bare thought of such a sacrifice as this almost made Nettie pale.
Also it settled her resolution and her conscience. She reached forward
and plunged into the delights of the despised trunk with a satisfied
air. "I will make you some of the prettiest things you ever saw in
your life," she said, with the air of one who knew she could do it. And
Mrs. Smith laughed, and watched her with admiring eyes, and told Sarah
Jane that she believed the child could do some things that other folks
couldn't.
It was after the day's work was done, and the little girls were asleep,
and Nettie sat in the back door waiting for father and Norm, and
wishing that they had not gone down town again, that she had a chance
to say the few little words which she had made up her mind to say to
Jerry. While her hands had been busy over long seams of rag carpeting,
and over the wonderful trunk full of treasures, her thoughts had, much
of the time, been busy with other matters. Yesterday at noon she had
been sure that she should never go to that Sabbath-school again. By
night, after the quiet talk under the trees with Norm and the little
girls, she had not been so sure of it. The little girls could not go
without her, and they had learned sweet lessons that very day, which
had filled their young heads full of wondering thoughts, and they had
asked questions which had at least amused Norm, and which might set
him to thinking. In any case, ought she, because she had not been
happy in her class, to deprive the little girls of the help which the
Sabbath-school might be to them? Then how badly it would look to Norm,
and to her mother, if she went no more. And what would Jerry think? On
the whole, the longer she thought about it, the more she felt inclined
to believe that her decision might have been a hasty one, and it was
her duty to continue in that Sabbath-school, and even in that class,
at least until the superintendent placed her in some other. It was a
good deal of a trial to her to decide the question in this way, but she
could not make any other seem right.
There had also been another question to decide, which had been harder,
and cost her more tears than the other. She was a very lonely little
girl, and it seemed hard to give up a friend. But this, too, seemed to
be the only right thing to do, so she made it known to Jerry in the
moonlight.
"Do you know, Jerry, I have been thinking all day of something that I
ought to say to you?"
"All right," said Jerry, whittling away at the stick which he was
fashioning into a proper shape to do duty as a towel rack for Mrs. Job
Smith's kitchen towel. "Go ahead, this is a good time to say it."
And he held the stick up and took a scientific squint at it in the
moonlight. "This thing would work better if the wood were a little
softer. I am going to make one for your mother if it is a success, and
it will be. Now what is your news?"
"It isn't news," said Nettie, "it is only something that I have made
up my mind I ought to say. Jerry, I think, that is, I don't think, I
mean"-- And there she stopped.
"Just so," said Jerry, nodding his head gravely, "that is plain, I am
sure, and interesting; I agree with you entirely." After that, both of
them had to laugh a little, and the story did not get on.
"But I truly mean it," Nettie said at last, her face growing grave
again, "and I ought to say it. What I want to tell you is, that I have
made up my mind that you and I must not be friends any more."
Jerry did not laugh now, he did not even whistle. His knife suddenly
stopped, and he squared around to get a full view of her face.
"What!" he said at last, as though he did not think it possible that he
could have understood her.
"Yes," she said firmly, "I mean it, Jerry, and it is real hard to say;
you and I ought not to be friends, or, I mean we must not let folks
know that we are friends. We mustn't take walks together, nor work
together. I don't mean that I shall not like you all the same; but we
mustn't have anything to do with each other."
"Why not, pray? Have I done anything to make you ashamed of me? I'll
try to behave myself, I'm sure."
This was so ridiculous that Nettie could not help smiling a little.
"O, Jerry!" she said, "you know better than to talk in that way. It
sounds strange, I know, and it is real hard to do, but I am sure it is
right, and we must do it."
"But what in the world is the trouble? Can't you give a fellow a reason
for things? Is it your brother who doesn't like it?"
"O no! Norm likes you; and mother is as much obliged to you as she can
be, for getting him to go a-fishing. But, you see, it is bad for you to
be my friend."
"Oh-ho! I don't believe your influence is very hard on me; I don't feel
as though you had led me very far astray!"
"It isn't fun, Jerry, it is sober earnest. I have heard things said
that set me to thinking. I overheard the girls talk! those girls in the
class, you know, yesterday. I guess they did not know I was there. They
talked about me a good deal. They said I had a last year's hat on, and
that is true, and my dress was only gingham, and washed at that."
"Washed!" interrupted Jerry in bewilderment; "well, what of that? Would
they have had you wear it dirty?"
But Nettie hastened on; she did not feel equal to explaining to him
the subtle distinction between a brand-new dress and one that had been
"done up."
"They said a good deal more than that, Jerry, and it was all true. They
said I was nothing but a drunkard's daughter," and here Nettie found it
hard work to control the sob in her throat.
"That is not true," said Jerry, indignantly. "Your father has not drank
a drop in three days."
"Oh! but, Jerry, you know he does drink; and he has gone down town
to-night, and mother is sure that he will not come home sober. It is
all true, Jerry. I don't mean that I am going to give up. I shall try
for father all the time; and I think maybe he will reform, after a
while. And I won't forget our promise, and I know you won't; but it is
best for us not to act like friends. They talked about you, too; they
said you were handsome, and they used to like you; they thought you
were smart. But now you had begun to go with me, so you couldn't be
much. One of them said you were an Irish boy, that you had a real Irish
name. Are you Irish, Jerry?"
"Not much! Or, hold on, I don't know but I am. Why, yes, my
great-grandmother came from the North of Ireland. Father is proud of
it, I remember."
"Well, I don't care where you came from, you know. Nor whether you are
Irish, or Dutch, or what; I am only telling you what they said. They
told how you worked at Job Smith's for your board; and one of them said
your father had run away and left you."
"Well, he has; run three thousand miles away, and left me, as sure as
time. But he means to run back again, when he gets ready."
"I knew that wasn't true, Jerry; and I only tell you because I thought
you might want to speak about your father in a way that would show them
it wasn't so. But what I want to say is, that I know they will get all
over those feelings when they come to know you; and they will like
you, and invite you to places, if you don't go with me; but they won't
any of them have anything to do with me, on account of my father. And,
Jerry, I want you not to go with me, or talk with me any more."
"Just so," said Jerry, in an unconcerned voice. "Do you think I am
making this stick too long for the frame? Our kitchen towels are pretty
wide. Well, now, see here, Miss Nettie Decker, you would not make a
very honest business woman if you went back on a square bargain in
that fashion. You and I settled it to be partners in a very important
business; and partners can't get along very well without speaking to
each other. There is no use in talking. You are several days too late.
The mischief is done. I'm your friend and fellow-laborer and partner in
the cabinet business, and the upholstery line, and all the other lines.
You will find me the hardest fellow to get rid of that ever was. I
don't shake off worth a cent. I shall take walks with you every chance
I can get; and shout to you from the woodshed window when you are over
home, and wait for you to come out when I think it is about time you
should appear, and be on hand in all imaginable places. Now I hope you
understand what sort of a fellow I am."
If the boy had looked in Nettie's face just then, he would have seen a
sudden light flash over it which carried away a good deal of the look
of patient endurance which it had worn for the last few hours. Still
her voice was full of earnestness.
"But, Jerry, they will not have anything to do with you if you act
so. By and by they will not even speak to you. And they won't invite
you to their parties, nor anywhere. There is going to be a party next
week, and I think you would have been invited if you hadn't gone with
me Sunday; now I am afraid you won't be." And now Jerry whistled a few
rollicking notes.
"All right," he said in a cheery tone. "If there is any one thing more
than another that I don't like to go to, it is a girls' party where
they make believe act like silly, grown-up men and women. I know just
about what kind of a party those girls in that class would get up. If
you have been the means of saving me from an invitation, it is just
another thing to thank you for. Look here, Nettie, let us make another
bargain, sober earnest, not to be broken. I don't care a red cent for
the girls, nor their invitations, nor their bows; I would just as soon
they did not know me when they met me as not. If that is their game, I
shall like nothing better than to meet them half-way; girls who would
know no better than to talk the way they did about you, are not to my
liking. If because you wear clothes that are neat and nice and the best
you can afford, and because I am an Irish boy and work for my board,
are good reasons for not having anything to do with us, why, we will
return the favor and not have anything to do with them, for better
reasons than they have shown. Let's drop them. I thought some of them
would be good friends to you, maybe, and help you to have a nice time;
but they are not of the right sort, it seems. You and I will have just
as good times as we can get up. And we will bow to them if they bow to
us; if they don't we will let them pass. What is settled is, that we
are bound to work out this thing together. Understand?"
"Yes," said Nettie, with a little soft laugh, "I understand, and I
don't believe I ought to let you do it. But you don't know how nice it
is; and I can't tell you how lonesome I felt when I thought I ought not
to talk with you any more."
"I should like to see you help yourself," said Jerry, in a complacent
tone. "You would find it the hardest work you ever did in your life not
to talk to me, when I should keep up a regular fire of questions of all
sorts and sizes."
Then Nettie laughed outright, but added, after a moment of silence,
"But, Jerry, I think the worst of it is about father; and that is true,
you know. They might not think so much about the clothes, if it were
not for him."
"That has nothing to do with it," said Jerry sturdily. "You are not to
blame for your father's drinking liquor. Wouldn't you stop it quick
enough if you could? It is only another reason why they ought to be
friends to you. Besides, there wouldn't be so much of the stuff for
folks to drink, if Lorena Barstow's father did not make it."
"O Jerry! does he?"
"Yes, he does. Owns one of the largest distilleries in the country."
"Jerry, I think I would rather have my father drink liquor than make it
for other folks. At least he doesn't make money out of other people's
troubles."
"So would I, enough sight," said Jerry with emphasis. Then he lifted
up his voice in answer to Mrs. Job Smith who appeared in the adjoining
door. "All right, auntie, we are coming." And he carefully gathered the
chips he had whittled, into his handkerchief, and rose up.
"Going over now, Nettie? I guess auntie thinks it is time to lock up."
Nettie darted within for a few minutes, then appeared, and they crossed
the yard together. As they stepped on the lower step of Mrs. Smith's
porch, Jerry said: "Remember this is a bargain forever and aye, Nettie;
there is to be no backing out, and no caring for what folks say, or for
what happens, either now or afterwards. Do you promise?"
"I promise," said Nettie with a smile. And they went into the clean
kitchen. Before Jerry went to bed that night he took out of the fly
leaf of his Bible the picture of a tall man, and kissed it, as he said
aloud: "So you have run away and left your poor little Irish boy, have
you? But when you run back again, won't they all be glad to see you,
though!"