CHET HELPS
The sun was flooding Billie Bradley's room when she awoke the next
morning, and she sat up in bed with the feeling that it must be very
late. She glanced at the little clock on the dresser and saw that its
hands pointed to half past eight.
"Oh, I'll be late to school," was her first thought. Then she checked
herself and laughed.
"School!" she said, stretching her arms above her head with a delicious
sense of freedom. "As the old man said: 'They ain't no sech animile.' I
guess I might just as well get up, though, for I feel as if I were
starving to death."
She was just putting her feet into very pretty bedroom slippers when she
remembered the tragedy--or so it seemed to her--of the day before.
The long night's rest had driven from her mind all thoughts of the
statue. Was it really only yesterday that she had broken it? The thing
seemed to have been on her conscience forever!
"'Girl Reading a Book,'" she said disdainfully, as she began to brush her
hair vigorously. "Horrid old thing! I suppose she was a grind anyway,
like Amanda Peabody."
The thought of Amanda did not serve to lift her spirits any, and it
was in a rather gloomy mood that she finally descended to the
breakfast table.
To make things worse, she found that all the rest of her family,
including Chet, had breakfasted bright and early, which meant that she
would have to eat her breakfast in lonely state.
The room was cheerful with sunlight, for Mrs. Bradley had often said that
a bright dining-room had more to do with making a happy home than any
other one thing. But this morning Billie did not even notice it.
She opened the swinging door to the kitchen and peeped in cautiously to
see whether Debbie, their black and much pampered cook, was in a good
enough mood to cook her some breakfast.
A cheerful aroma greeted her, and she sniffed at it longingly. Bacon and
eggs and--was it corn bread that Debbie was just taking out of the oven?
"Oh, Debbie, give me something to eat, quick," she cried. "I'm starving."
Debbie turned and favored her with a large black stare.
"Dem dat gets up at nine o'clock in de mo'nin'," she declared, "done
deserves to go hungry, Miss Billie, beggin' your pardon." Her tone
matched the severity of her gaze.
"Oh, but, Debbie," said Billie, using the coaxing tone that even black
Deborah, tyrant of the household, could never quite resist, "remember how
many mornings I have had to get up at seven and go out in the drizzling
rain and--"
"All right, honey, all right," said Deborah, her heart touched by this
reference to the hardships her young mistress had suffered. "You go in
'tother room an' don't bother Debbie an' she'll bring you in the
prettiest breakfast you ever did see."
Somewhat cheered by this promise, Billie retreated into the sun-flooded
dining-room, and, going over to a window under which flowers bloomed
gayly in boxes, looked out at the pretty view.
From where she stood she commanded a full view of the tennis court, on
which she could see that a warm set of singles was in progress. One of
the players was Chet, and as she watched she saw him fling his racket
high in the air.
"My set, Tom!" he cried. "That puts us even. Play you the rubber this
afternoon. So long!" and with his tennis balls in his hand and his racket
under his arm he sauntered over toward home.
"Dear old Chet!" murmured Billie fondly.
Then came the thought of that hundred dollars she must get some way or
other, and suddenly there flashed into her mind a little ray of hope.
"Maybe Chet could help," she thought, and then laughed at herself for
thinking it. Chet had just about as much chance of getting that hundred
dollars as she had herself.
At that moment Debbie came in with her fruit and cereal, and she turned
from the window with a sigh.
"I might as well eat," she thought resignedly, "for if I starve myself to
death or die of worry, there won't be anybody left to pay for that old
book worm."
Then her irrepressible imp of mischief reasserted itself and she laughed.
"Hello, look at the grand lady," a fresh young voice called to her from
the doorway. She turned with a spoon half way to her mouth to see her
brother laughing at her.
"What was that you called me?" she asked. As a matter of fact, her
thoughts had been so far away that she actually had not heard what he
said.
"Say, what's the matter?" asked Chet, flinging his tennis racket into one
chair and seating himself on the arm of another. "Are you sick?"
"Yes. Or if I'm not, I ought to be," replied Billie ruefully, at which
peculiar remark Chet looked still more amazed.
"Now what particular thing is worrying you?" he asked in an argumentative
tone, leaning toward her. "Come, 'fess up, Billie. What have you been
doing when my back was turned? Robbing a bank?"
"Oh, much worse than that!" cried Billie unexpectedly, and her brother's
good-looking face began to take on an expression of alarm.
"Worse?" he queried. "There's only about one thing worse--and
that's murder."
"Oh, Chet, that's just what I did," she cried, her imp of mischief
uppermost. "I murdered a 'Girl Reading a Book.'"
"Well," said Chet, taking this startling bit of information more calmly
than would have been thought possible, "you don't seem very much worried
about it."
"Oh, but, Chet, I am!" once more the cloud banished the merry gleam in
Billie's eyes. "Wait till I show you."
She left her breakfast, ran upstairs, and was back in a minute with the
newspaper parcel.
"Here she is," she cried, displaying the contents tragically.
Chet fingered one or two of the broken bits. Then he looked at her
curiously.
"Go on, 'fess up," he commanded. "Tell yours truly all about it."
This Billie did in the fewest words possible and then sat down to the
bacon and eggs that Debbie had placed temptingly on the table. And
cornbread! Debbie's cornbread was a masterpiece.
When Billie had finished Chet looked grave.
"Well," he said, fingering the pieces thoughtfully, "it does seem as if
the only square thing to do would be to replace it."
"Oh, I must, Chet--I must!" she interrupted earnestly.
"But how?" he asked. "A hundred dollars is a lot of money."
"I know," agreed Billie miserably.
"I don't think Dad will be able to make it good just now," went on Chet,
in that sober tone that made people in North Bend feel confidence in
Chetwood Bradley, young as he yet was. "I heard him say the other day
that all his capital was tied up. And then it costs so much to live--"
"Oh, I know all that!" broke in Billie desperately, then added, looking
up at her brother appealingly: "Chet dear, I've got to find the money to
replace that statue some way! Won't you help me?"
"You bet your life I will," cried Chet, with a hearty boyishness that
made Billie's eyes glow. "I'll do everything I can, Sis. I tell you--" he
paused as a thought struck him.
"Oh, what?" she cried, grasping his arm as he started from the room. "Oh,
Chet, tell me."
"I'll show you in a minute," he promised, and was off, up the stairs,
taking them three at a time, judging from the noise he made.
In what seemed to Billie no time at all he was back again, holding
something in his hand that jingled.
"Here's a dollar and fifteen cents," he said, holding out to her all
his available wealth. "I almost forgot I had it. You can use it to start
the fund."
"Oh, Chet!" Billie's eyes were wet and she hugged him fondly. "You're the
very darlingest brother I ever had!"
"And the _only_ one--" Chet was beginning, when Billie interrupted him
by breaking away and putting a finger to her forehead.
"Let me think--"
"Impossible," he cried in a deep voice.
"Chet," she said, speaking quickly, "I have seventy-five cents myself,
and that with your dollar--"
"Dollar fifteen," Chet corrected gravely.
"Will make quite a respectable start to our fund." And she was off up the
stairs in her turn, making almost as much noise as Chet had done.
In a moment she was back again with the precious seventy-five cents and a
small tin box.
"Here's the bank," she cried gayly. "It will be real fun filling it up."
"Yes, but where are we going to get the money to fill it up with?" Chet
reminded her and her bright face fell again.
"Oh, we'll find a way," she said with a confidence she was far from
feeling. "Maybe Dad will help a little."
"Have you told him about it?" asked Chet.
"No. But I will to-night," she said, with a little sinking feeling. "I
hate to tell him, awfully, but I suppose I'll have to."
"Well, don't worry anyway," said Chet, patting her shoulder reassuringly.
"You know Dad says worry is a waste of time, because everything will all
be the same a hundred years from now."
But Billie's shake of the head was very doubtful.
"I don't see how that helps me any--_now_," she said.