"I wonder," meditated Gus, "where the surplus will land next?"
"It has been most everywhere except to the police court," said Bobby.
"'Spect 'twill land there next!"
His prophecy was fulfilled. Mrs. Jenkins washed the lucrative garment
late one afternoon and left it on the line all night. The next morning,
to the great consternation of the family and the wild distress of
Amarilly, the beloved surplice, that friend of friends in time of need,
had vanished. Other clotheslines in the vicinity had also been deprived
of their burdens, and a concerted complaint was made to the police, who
promptly located the offender and brought him summarily to trial. Mrs.
Jenkins was subpoenaed as a witness, which caused quite a ripple of
excitement in the family. Divided between dread of appearing in public
and pride at the importance with which she was regarded by her little
flock, Mrs. Jenkins was quite upset by the occasion. She hadn't attended
a function for so long that her costuming therefor was of more concern
than had been Amarilly's church raiment.
Mrs. Hudgers loaned her mourning bonnet and veil, which was adjusted at
half mast. They appeared in direct contradiction to the skirt of bilious
green she wore, but the Jenkinses were as unconventional in attire as
they were in other things.
The family attended the trial _en masse_, and were greatly elated at the
prominence their mother had attained. The culprit was convicted and the
surplice duly restored. The misfortune was not without profit. Mrs.
Jenkins received thirty-five cents as a witness fee.
They had managed to pay their household expenses through the summer, but
when the rent for August was due there was not quite enough cash on hand
to meet this important item of expenditure. Noting the troubled brows of
Mrs. Jenkins and Amarilly at breakfast time, the Boarder insisted on
knowing the cause.
"We're broke, and the rent's overdue," tersely explained Amarilly.
"I'm broke, too," sighed the Boarder, "except what I've got in the
savin's bank towards--"
"Lily Rose," suggested Amarilly softly.
"Yes," he admitted, with a beaming look. "But when I go broke, all other
things failin', I allers tackle a pawnbroker."
"We ain't got nothin' to pawn," sighed Amarilly.
She recalled the lace waist, but that, like the Lily Rose fund, was
sacred. There was always, to-day, yesterday, and forever, the surplice,
and her scruples regarding that article had of necessity become case-
hardened; still, Amarilly hesitated. A pawnshop seemed lower than a
police court.
"It's been everywhere else," she said loudly to the accusing, still,
small voice, "and it might jest as well go the limit. 'T won't bring
much, but 'twill help."
Through byways and highways Amarilly sought the region of the three-
balled porticoes. The shop of one Max Solstein attracted her, and she
entered his open door. Max, rat-eyed and frog-mouthed, came forward
propitiatingly.
"What'll you gimme on this?" came with directness from the small
importuner.
He took the garment, shook it, and held it up for falcon-gaze
inspection.
"Not worth much. A quarter of a dollar."
Amarilly snatched it from his grasp and fled. Not because of his low-
figured offer; she had fully expected to have to "beat him up." But when
she had entered, a youth who had all the recognized earmarks of a
reporter was lounging in the doorway. At sight of the uplifted garment
he had come eagerly forward, scenting a story. She knew his kind from
snatches of conversation she had heard between the leading lady and Lord
Algernon. In the lore of the stage at Barlow's, reporters were "hovering
vultures" who always dropped down when least wanted, and they had a way
of dragging to light the innermost thoughts of their victims.
"You read your secrets," Lord Algernon had dramatically declared, "in
blazoned headlines."
Hitherto Amarilly had effectually silenced her instinctive rebellion
against the profaning of St. John's surplice, but she had reached the
limit. No Max Solstein, no threatening landlord, no ruthless reporter
should thrust the sacred surplice into the publicity of print.
She darted from the shop, the reporter right at her heels, but the
chasing of his covey to corner was not easily accomplished. He was a
newly fledged reporter, and Amarilly had all the instinct of the lowly
for localities. She turned and doubled and dodged successfully. By a
course circuitous she returned to Hebrew haunts, this time to seek, one
Abram Canter, a little wizened, gnome-like Jew. Assuring herself that
there was no other than the proprietor within, Amarilly entered and
handed over the surplice for appraisal.
Once more the garment was held aloft. At that psychological moment an
elderly man of buxom build, benevolent in mien, and with smooth, long
hair that had an upward rolling tendency at the ends, looked in the shop
as he was passing. He halted, hesitated, and then entered. Of him,
however, Amarilly felt no apprehension.
"Looks like Quaker Oats, or mebby it's the Jack of Spades," she thought
after a searching survey.
"My child, is that yours?" he asked of Amarilly, indicating the garment
by a protesting forefinger.
"Sure thing!" she acknowledged frankly.
"Where did you get it?"
If he had been a young man, Amarilly would have cheerfully reminded him
that it was none of his business, but, a respecter of age, she loftily
informed him that it had been "give to her."
"By whom?" he persisted.
Perceiving her reluctance to answer, he added gently:
"I am a bishop of the Episcopal Church, and I cannot endure to see a
surplice in such a place as this."
A bishop! This was worse than a reporter even. St. John would surely
hear of it! But she felt that an explanation was due the calling of her
interlocutor.
She lifted righteous eyes to his.
"My mother works for one of the churches, and the minister, he give us
this to cut up into clo'es fer the chillern, but we didn't cut it up.
I'm agoin' to leave it here till the rent's paid, and we git the money
to take it outen hock."
The bishop's eyes softened, and lost their look of shocked dignity.
"I will advance you the money," he offered. "I would much prefer to do
so than to have it left here. How much money do you need to pay your
rent?"
"We need five dollars," said Amarilly, "to pay the balance of it. But I
wouldn't take it from you. I ain't no beggar. I don't believe, nuther,"
she continued, half to herself, "that Mr. St. John would like it."
"Who is Mr. St. John?" he asked curiously. "I know of no such rector in
this diocese. My child, you have an honest face. Since you won't accept
a gift of money, I will lend, you the amount. I want you to tell me all
about yourself and this surplice."
"Well, mebby he'd want me to," reflected Amarilly.
"Gimme back that surplus," she said to the Jew, who seemed loath to
relinquish his booty.
As she walked up the street with the bishop, she frankly related the
family history and the part Mr. Meredith and the surplice had played
therein.
The bishop had generous instincts, and a desire to reach the needy
directly instead of through the medium of institutions, but he had never
known just how to approach them. His presence in this unknown part of
the city had been unpremeditated, but he welcomed the chance that had
led his steps hither to perform an errand of mercy. He handed Amarilly
five dollars, and wrote down her address. He was most reluctant to
receive the surplice as security, but Amarilly's firm insistence was not
to be overcome. She returned home, rejoicing in the knowledge that she
had the price of their happy home in her pocket. The bishop had given
her his card, which she laid in a china saucer with other bits of
pasteboard she had collected from Derry Phillips, Mr. Vedder, and Pete
Noyes. The saucer adorned a small stand in the dining-room part of the
house.
"It's the way Mrs. Hubbleston kep' her keerds," Amarilly explained to
the family.
Meantime the bishop was walking in an opposite direction toward his
home, wondering if he should find he was mistaken in his estimate of
human nature; and a query arose in his mind as to what he should do with
the surplice if it were left on his hands.