Fifteen minutes after Mr. and Mrs. Lemuel Livermore, accompanied by
their daughter Selma, had driven away from their comfortable West Side
residence, for the purpose of attending an annual family gathering at
the house of Mrs. Livermore's widowed mother, Mrs. Pease, on the
opposite side of Central Park, the Livermore domestics were stirred by a
more than usually imperative ring at the front door-bell. It was
Christmas Eve, a season when mercantile delivery wagons may appear at
any hour. Presents had been arriving all the afternoon, and the sight of
a large van backed up against the curbstone occasioned no surprise.
"What are they bringing us now?" inquired Bates, the butler, who rarely
condescended to open the door in the absence of the family, from his
pantry.
"It looks to me something like a sofa," replied the smiling housemaid,
who generally knew by instinct when the ringer was to be young and
good-looking, "and the delivery gentlemen want to know where to put it."
"A sofa, is it?" exclaimed the butler, coming forward. "I'd like to know
who has been silly enough to make a present of a sofa to a family who
have already more household goods than they know what to do with.
They'll be sending in a porcelain bath-tub next," he added with a grunt,
as he unbolted the second half of the front door to make room for a
cumbrous piece of furniture, just then ascending the steps apparently
upon four lusty legs. "Here, you fellows, wipe your feet and put it in
the parlor, and when the family comes home I bet somebody'll get a
blessing."
The sofa was, in point of fact, a well-fed lounge, corpulent and plushy
and be-flowered, and when, its wrappings removed, it occupied the
center of the Livermore pink and white drawing-room, the Livermore
bric-à-brac and bibelots and bijouterie appeared to turn a trifle pale
and to shrink within themselves, as though a note of discord had
distressed them.
"Lord!" said the housemaid frankly, as she regarded the latest unwelcome
acquisition, "but it is a beast!"
"Sets the room off, don't it?" remarked the fattest and most optimistic
of the furniture men, as he consulted a memorandum in his hat. "Come in
handy, won't it, when the missus wants to snatch a nap in the
afternoon?"
The butler and the housemaid exchanged a glance of tolerant pity, but
such benighted ignorance of social use was beyond enlightenment.
"Best give it a good brush-up to bring out the colors," the optimist
admonished, surveying his late burden admiringly.
"I wouldn't touch it with the tongs," declared the housemaid, and the
butler prophesied, "It won't stop long to gather dust where it is when
the missus sets eyes on it once."
"Well," moralized the other, with a comprehensive glance about the room,
"it's certainly a fact that rich folks does come in for all the luck."
And so saying he withdrew, accompanied by his mate, and the bolts were
shot behind them.
"Our dinner will be getting cold," observed the butler. "Go down, Mary
Anne, and tell the cook I'm coming, and I'll bring down the decanters.
That sherry's hardly fit to serve upstairs again."
The housemaid sniffed.
"Be careful, Mr. Bates," she cautioned him. "The old butler, Auguste,
was discharged because he found so many bottles of champagne that were
unfit to serve upstairs."
"Auguste," rejoined the butler, "was a French duffer. He ought to have
known that even broad-minded gentlemen always count champagne."
"Shall we leave the lights all burning in the parlor?" asked the
housemaid.
"Certainly," replied Bates; "it wouldn't do for the missus to stumble
over that thing in the dark."
"Lord!" said the housemaid, with a parting glance across her shoulder.
"Lord! but it _is_ a beast."
"An out and out monstrosity," the butler agreed.
Time passed; the servants went their ways; the parlor gas purred
soothingly; the bric-à-brac engaged in whispered consultation. Whatever
happened, the monstrosity should be made to feel its isolation--and it
did. It stood a thing apart from its environment; it seemed to sigh, and
presently its plebeian breast began to heave as with emotion. A crack
developed in its tufted side, a pair of eyes appeared within the crack.
The gas purred on; sounds from the servants' hall below suggested that
the sherry had begun to express itself in terms of merriment. The crack
grew wider until the sofa opened like a fat and flowery trunk. The eyes
became a head, the head a man, who sat upon the sofa's edge and looked
about him.
"All zings is the same," he murmured to himself in broken English.
"Nothing is changed except that ze arrangements are in less taste zan in
my time. Ah, people do not know when zay have ze good fortune."
He sighed, and, rising, ventured one large foot, encased in a felt shoe,
upon the rug. He stood and gazed about him lovingly, as one who
contemplates inanimate things once dear. He moved with noiseless caution
to the nearest door and disappeared. Presently he returned, bearing a
salver laden with pieces of silver from the dining-room--an ice-pitcher,
an epergne, some dishes; these he proceeded deftly to roll in flannel
bags, depositing each with loving care in the interior of the
Monstrosity. Another expedition resulted in an equally attractive lot
of plate, to be bestowed as carefully. Next, stepping to the
mantel-piece, he selected a modest pair of Dresden images from the
assortment there displayed.
"These," he soliloquized, "are mine undoubtedly. I might have broken
them a thousand times and did not, and, therefore, they are mine."
He laid the figures tenderly and almost with a sigh beside the silver
and closed the heavy tufted lid upon them.
"I will go upstairs for ze last time," he mused, a trace of sadness on
his Gallic features, "and behold if Madame is still as careless with her
jewel-box as in old days. I will ascertain for myself if Monsieur still
sticks his scarf-pins in ze pin-cushion.... Ah, but it is depressing to
revisit once familiar scenes. It makes one shed ze tear."
The tall clock in the hall struck half-past eight.
Even as the clock struck the butler below was rising to propose a toast.
"'Here's to those that love us,'" it began, and went on: "'Here's to us
that love those,'"--but as this was not the way it should have gone on,
the butler paused and blinked in disapproval at the cook, who laughed.
"'Here's to those that love those that love those that love those,'" he
persisted solemnly, and might have continued the hierarchy still further
had not an electric summons from the front door interrupted him.
"Sakes!" cried the cook, "what can that be?"
"More presents," the housemaid suggested.
"Another monstrosity, I'll be bound," the butler chuckled, stumbling
from the room. "Let'sh all go shee about it."
He climbed the stairs unsteadily, and made his way along the hall with
noticeable digressions from an even course.
"'Here's to those that love us that love them,'" he caroled cheerily,
and when, with fumbling fingers, he had thrown the front door open, his
eyes, still blinking, failed to perceive for the moment that Mr.
Livermore himself stood on the threshold, surrounded by some half a
score of muffled figures.
"Bates," began Mr. Livermore, "I forgot my latch-key, and ..."
"Get away with you," cried cheerful Mr. Bates; "we've got all the
monstrosities we want already. 'Here's to them that love them that we
love' ..."
"Bates," said Mr. Livermore, "you're drunk."
"Shir," said Bates; "shir, I ashure you sherry was not fit to sherve
upstairs."
"Bates," said Mr. Livermore, "you are very drunk."
"Shir," said Bates, "shir, I ashure you it's all owing to that
monstrosity. Monstrosity not fit to sherve upstairs."
Meanwhile Mrs. Livermore had lost no time in pushing past her husband
into the hall, followed by Selma, followed by her widowed mother, Mrs.
Pease, and Mr. Bertram Pease, her brother, and Miss McCunn, to whom Mr.
Pease was supposed to be attentive, and Cousin Laura Fanshaw, and the
two Misses Mapes, and Mr. Sellars, and Doctor Van Cott, all old friends,
and a young gentleman by the name of Mickleworth, whom nobody knew much
about, except Selma, who, for reasons of her own, kept her knowledge to
herself. He had been invited to the family party as a chum of Cousin
Dick Busby's, and was to have come with Dick, but the latter gentleman,
at the last moment having received a more promising invitation, had sent
word that he was ill.
While Mr. Livermore drew Bates aside, the housemaid busied herself with
the ladies' wraps.
"You're through dinner early, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Livermore.
"We haven't had any dinner, Mary Anne," replied her mistress. "Mother's
range exploded, or something awful happened to the pipes just after we
sat down, and everything was ruined. So we brought the entire party here
in cabs. Tell cook she must give us some sort of a meal at once ...
canned tomato soup to begin with, followed by cold canned tongue, and ..."
"The breakfast fishballs," suggested Mary Anne.
"Excellent!" exclaimed her mistress. "And after that we might have ..."
"Marmalade," suggested Mary Anne.
"And buckwheat cakes," Selma interrupted.
"Of course," her mother acquiesced, "that will have to do ... with lots
of bread and butter.... And now," she added cheerfully, turning to her
guests, "we'll all go into the drawing-room and guess conundrums till
dinner is ready. How fortunate it was that we had had our oysters before
the accident!"
"My dear," said Mr. Livermore in a whisper, "I fear that Bates is
hopelessly intoxicated."
"Oh, Lemuel, what are we to do?" gasped the hostess, clutching the
hat-rack for support.
They were alone together in the hall and face to face with a dilemma.
"I give it up," said Mr. Livermore.
"You can't," rejoined his wife. "You'll have to think of something."
"Perhaps," suggested the gentleman foolishly, "an angel might be induced
to come down from heaven...."
But his words were truer than he thought; a figure which had been
creeping unobserved down the stairs now stood before them.
"Auguste!" gasped Mrs. Livermore, with an almost superstitious start.
"Yes, Madame," replied her former servant, while his benignant smile
brought reassurance; "it is I. I have taken ze liberty of dropping in to
wish Madame a merry Christmas."
"Thank Heaven!" cried the Hostess, restraining her impulse to fall upon
his neck. "Now you must stay and help us out of our difficulties. You
know exactly where all the silver is."
"Perfectly," replied the man respectfully, "and it will give me great
pleasure to once more serve Madame."
"Auguste," said Mr. Livermore, "let bygones be forgotten. Go quickly and
set the table, and put on everything to make it look attractive."
"Pardon, Monsieur," Auguste protested, "might it not seem out of place
to display too much silver at such a simple meal?"
"He is right," declared Mrs. Livermore, "Auguste is right. His taste was
always perfect--even in champagne."
Further discussion was prevented for the time by Selma's appearance at
the drawing-room door, convulsed with mirth. Close at her side stood Mr.
Mickleworth, also laughing.
"Oh, mamma!" cried the daughter of the house, "will you come and see
what somebody has sent us as a present? The ugliest thing conceivable,
an absolute monstrosity."
But the Livermores were thankful for the sofa, and the diversion which
it brought. As no one present could possibly have made such a choice,
they felt at liberty to abuse it to their hearts' content, and they
stood just then in dire need of something to abuse ... until the
fishballs filled the atmosphere with welcome fragrance.
Later, after Auguste had compounded his celebrated punch, they said some
most amusing things about the lounge.
"It would make a capital wedding gift," laughed Mr. Livermore, with a
sly glance at Mr. Bertram Pease, and Miss McCunn declared that she would
die single rather than begin married life in the society of the
monstrosity.
As time went on the spirit of the joyous season filled the company, and
Yule-tide pastimes were suggested.
"In my young days," said Mrs. Pease, growing distinctly sporty, "we used
to play hide-and-seek all over the old homestead, and whoever found the
person hiding was entitled to a kiss."
"Capital!" pronounced Doctor Van Cott, debating which of the Misses
Mapes a prosperous practitioner would be most fortunate in finding.
"Let's play it now," cried Uncle Bertram, knowing quite well whom he
himself should seek most diligently.
"Good!" put in Mr. Mickleworth, "I'll be It first. All go into the
little smoking-room, and when I say 'Coo' come out and look for me." To
Selma he added, in a whisper, "If you, while searching, should hum 'In
the Gloaming' softly, may I scratch to let you know where I am?"
Miss Livermore blushed.
Now, of course, the game was all a joke, not to be taken seriously, and
to make the situation funnier, Mr. Mickleworth, who, in his
boarding-house commonly kept his evening clothes in a divan box, went
direct to the monstrosity and climbed in, closing the lid upon himself.
But, as it happened, Mr. Mickleworth's box was old-fashioned and
unprovided with the latest patent catch, impregnable to those
unacquainted with the combination. His position, therefore, in the
lounge's dark interior must have been alarming for a moment, had he not
discovered an ample breathing hole, concealed from outward observation
by a fringe. Some bundles, hard and angular, occasioned but a trifling
inconvenience at his feet.
"Coo!" cried Mr. Mickleworth through the hole, when he had allowed
sufficient time to mystify his fellow players. But for a moment it
seemed to him that the others had not been playing fair, for there were
voices speaking close to him.
"Say, you're a slick one, Frenchy," somebody remarked in unfamiliar
accents. "You'll have your picture in the Gallery yet."
"Zat is all right," a foreign voice replied, "I know my business."
Now others appeared to join in the conversation, and it became evident
that the entire company had entered.
"Let me out!" cried Mr. Mickleworth, but in the general Babel no one
heard, and presently Mrs. Livermore's silvery notes were audible above
the rest.
"It was a very stupid mistake," she said. "You should have known such an
ugly thing could not be for us. Please take it away at once, and another
time be more careful about reading the address."
"I'm sorry, mum," retorted somebody, "but I do hope you won't go for to
report us to the firm? We're just pore workingmen."
"You have probably been drinking," put in Mr. Livermore magnanimously,
"and as it is Christmas we will overlook the error. Auguste, see that
they do not scratch the wood-work."
"Hurrah!" cried Selma joyfully. "It's going. The Monstrosity is being
taken away. I hope whoever gets it will appreciate its merits more than
we did."
"Let me out! Let me out!" cried Mr. Mickleworth, but by this time all
the guests were chattering louder than ever.
Doctor Van Cott and the two Misses Mapes joined hands and danced as King
David did before the Ark. Mr. Bertram Pease at the piano began to play
the first selection that occurred to him, which chanced to be the
Wedding March. The others clapped their hands and cheered.
"Let me out!" cried Mr. Mickleworth for the last time from his prison,
but an oily apron was now pressed tight against the hole, and he caught
the whispered observation:
"Say, Frenchy, you must have chucked the cat in by mistake."
He felt himself raised, jolted, tipped; he felt the chill of cold night
air as it found access through the crack. He realized that he was being
thrust feet first into a van and driven rapidly, he knew not where.
"And now," said Mr. Sellars, "I think we had better look for Mr.
Mickleworth."
"Let us begin in the butler's pantry," suggested Cousin Laura Fanshaw,
not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
The Christmas party sought high and low; they penetrated to the upper
floors, and not until Selma had sung "In the Gloaming" before every
closet door did they give up the quest.
"It's most mysterious," asserted the host.
"It's worse," his wife corrected him; "it's most ill-bred."
"Oh, we must look again," cried Selma, now in real distress; "he may be
lying somewhere faint and ill."
"Nonsense!" rejoined Mrs. Pease. "Leave him alone, and, my word for it,
he will make his appearance in a little while looking silly enough.
Lemuel, a glass of water, if you please."
While the good lady sank exhausted to a chair, her devoted son-in-law
hastened to the dining-room to supply her want.
"The ice-pitcher is not there," he said, returning. "I'll ring."
"But the pitcher must be in its usual place on the sideboard with the
other silver," his wife protested.
"But all the same, it isn't," he insisted. "There is nothing on the
sideboard; not a thing. Come see for yourself."
This gave occasion for the playful aphorism concerning the inability of
man to see beyond his nose, but presently a scream from Mrs. Livermore
confirmed her husband's statement.
"My pitcher!" she cried piteously. "My silver dishes! My epergne! Where
have they gone? Where is Auguste?"
"Auguste," said Mary Anne, who, scenting an excitement, now ran up the
kitchen stairs, "has also gone. He drove off with the sofa in the van."
"With the sofa?"
"Yes, ma'am; sitting on it."
"Robbed!" cried Mr. Livermore, with a lightning flash of keen
conviction, and the entire company repeated in a hollow chorus:
"Robbed!"
But Mr. Livermore's lightning, after the manner of such fluids, was not
satisfied to score a single bull's-eye.
"It was a deep conspiracy," he went on, becoming clairvoyant, "and ten
to one that Mickleworth young man was in the plot."
"You shall not say such horrid things of him, papa," cried Selma.
"A thief!" persisted Mr. Livermore, disregarding her. "A villain in
disguise! I don't believe that this impostor was ever Cousin Dick's old
chum."
"Oh, papa," Selma interrupted, trembling; "Dick himself introduced Mr.
Mickleworth to me at Southampton last summer. I did not tell you about
it till you could know him and see how nice he is."
"Nice?" gasped her mother. "Nice?"
"Yes, mamma," Selma cried, sobbing, but still undaunted; "awfully nice,
and he can write the most respectful little notes."
"Notes?" screamed her mother. "Selma, you stand there and tell me you
have corresponded with a burglar? Oh, that I should have lived to see
this day!"
Miss McCunn, much disturbed, had retired to the smoking-room, where Mr.
Bertram Pease did all he could to comfort her. Doctor Van Cott on the
stairs had put an impartial arm about each of the Misses Mapes. Cousin
Laura Fanshaw, behind a screen, wept copiously on Mr. Sellars's left
lapel.
"In my young days," said Mrs. Pease, "we kept a closer watch on both our
children and our silverware."
"Mother," cried Mrs. Livermore, "don't make things worse by being
aggravating. Poor Selma is suffering enough."
"I am not suffering at all," protested Selma stoutly. "My faith in
George remains unshaken."
"George!" ejaculated her mother. "Lemuel, do you hear?"
"I do," replied Mr. Livermore, "and I'll attend to George's case just as
soon as I can get Mulberry Street on the telephone."
"Stop!" cried his wife; "we must avoid a scandal."
The doorbell, which had taken such an active part in this eventful
evening, now rang again. A silence followed, while the form of Bates was
seen to pass through the hall. Then, almost with his accustomed dignity,
though somewhat pale and wet about the head, he reappeared.
"Mr. Mickleworth!" he announced.
"I knew it!" Selma cried, with jubilation.
And Mr. Mickleworth it was, in truth, though much disheveled as to
dress. A streak of mud lay on his rumpled shirtfront, and his evening
coat suggested active combat. From each shoulder hung a nosebag, such as
teamsters use for feeding horses in the street, and each bag bulged with
priceless silver heirlooms. Behind him came a stalwart minion of the
law, bearing the family ice-pitcher on a massive salver.
"Ah, ha!" cried Mr. Livermore complacently. "So, ho! 'Caught with the
goods on,' as you say officially. You have done well, officer, and this
night's work shall not go unrewarded."
"It wasn't me," the policeman protested ungrammatically; "this here
young feller did it all himself."
"That we already know," said Mrs. Livermore.
"Be quiet, my child, until we hear the story," put in Mrs. Pease, who
usually objected to her daughter's methods.
And the policeman told his tale.
"This here young chap," he said, with generous fervor, "must be a
regular Herculaneum. He burst the lock and stopped the van and knocked
two of the robbers out of time. When I came up he had the Frenchman by
the throat, a-rolling of him in the mud. All I had to do was to ring for
the patrol, and help him bring the stuff right back to you for
recognition."
"Ahem!" said Mr. Livermore. "Ahem! Ahem!"
"Papa," cried Selma, while tears of triumph made her eyes more bright,
"aren't you going to shake hands with George?"
And thereupon Mr. Livermore cordially enough did shake hands with
George.
"Papa," said Selma, "won't you tell George that his part in this night's
work shall not go unrewarded?"
"Oh, tell him that yourself," cried old Mrs. Pease impatiently.
In the drawing-room Mr. Bertram Pease was playing the Wedding March.