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SIX GIRLS AND BOB
* * * * * *
BOOKS BY
MARION AMES TAGGART
THE SIX GIRLS SERIES
SIX GIRLS AND BOB. A Story of Patty-Pans
and Green Fields. 330 pages.
SIX GIRLS AND THE TEA ROOM. A Story.
316 pages.
SIX GIRLS GROWING OLDER. A Story.
331 Pages.
SIX GIRLS AND THE SEVENTH ONE. A
Story. 358 pages.
BETTY GASTON, THE SEVENTH GIRL.
A Story. 352 pages.
SIX GIRLS AND BETTY. A Story. 320 pages.
SIX GIRLS GROWN UP. A Story. 343 pages.
These volumes are attractively illustrated and bound
uniformly. Price, $1.50 each.
* * * * * *
[Illustration: "THIS SUNNY LITTLE MAIDEN WAS BENDING ABSORBED OVER THE
GAS RANGE"]
SIX GIRLS AND BOB
A Story of Patty-Pans and Green Fields
by
MARION AMES TAGGART
Author of "The Little Grey House," "The
Wyndham Girls," "Miss Lochinvar," etc.
Illustrated by William F. Stecher
[Illustration: logo]
W. A. Wilde Company
Boston Chicago
Copyright, 1906
By W. A. Wilde Company
All rights reserved
SIX GIRLS AND BOB
_To Gertrude
In Loving Remembrance_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FOURTH FLOOR, EAST 11
II. FIRE, AND OTHER ESCAPES 27
III. KEREN-HAPPUCH, THE FIRST 43
IV. AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE 58
V. TAKING POSSESSION 75
VI. MAKING THE BEST OF IT 91
VII. THE DOVE'S ALIGHTING 105
VIII. GRETTA 121
IX. JUNE'S PERFECT DAYS 135
X. HAPPIE'S TEMPTATION 151
XI. HAPPIE'S CHOICE 167
XII. LAURA'S PHILANTHROPY 184
XIII. HUMILITY, CALVES AND GINGER POP 202
XIV. AN ARK ADRIFT? 217
XV. THE PROMISE OF THE GREEN BRANCH 234
XVI. A PRANK---- 251
XVII. AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 267
XVIII. THE BITTENBENDER TRUNK 282
XIX. DISPOSSESSION AND POSSESSION 298
XX. AT THE SUBSIDENCE OF THE WATERS 315
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"THIS SUNNY LITTLE MAIDEN WAS BENDING ABSORBED
OVER THE GAS RANGE" _Frontispiece_ 14
"'HOW DO YOU DO, MARGERY?'" 51
"'CAN'T YOU EVER COME TO SEE ME?'" 129
"HE FOLLOWED LAURA TO THE FRONT DOOR" 191
"THE GIRLS CROWDED AROUND TO SEE WHAT WAS REVEALED" 290
SIX GIRLS AND BOB
CHAPTER I
THE FOURTH FLOOR, EAST
"HOW can you get twelve feet into eight feet, no matter how good you
are in arithmetic?" asked Happie Scollard, a trifle impatiently.
"You'd have to be pretty poor in arithmetic to try it. Even home-taught
children ought to know something about putting greater into lesser,"
observed Bob. "Would you mind telling us what you're driving at,
Keren-happuch, my dear?"
Happie groaned. "This room is quite squeedged enough with us six
Scollards in it, without crowding in my dreadful name, Robert, my
dear," she retorted. "What I was driving at was a harmless little
_humorous_ joke. This kitchen is eight feet wide, and we have twelve
feet, we six, haven't we? I was wishing we had more space to stand on;
that's all."
"That's right; always make _humorous_ jokes," approved Bob. "I've heard
lots of jokes that hadn't a touch of humor. Yours isn't so very--but
never mind! You know we needn't put all the twelve feet into the eight.
This room is nine feet long. What's the matter with putting a few of
our feet down the length of it? Say seven of the twelve, for instance?"
Happie laughed. "I hadn't thought of dividing them that way," she said.
"But the worst of standing any of your feet lengthwise of the room is
that it brings some of you in between the range and the sink, and then
I can't stir the fudge. Though to be sure if you all stand widthwise I
can't get to the closet."
"How could you put seven one way and five the other? They'd have to go
in twos, because we've each got two feet, don't you see?" asked Polly
suddenly. She had been turning Bob's suggestion over in her mind and
had announced her discovery with her usual serious manner. In all her
nine years of life with her nonsense-loving elder brother and sisters,
Polly had not learned that they were not always to be taken literally.
"Good for you, pretty Polly!" exclaimed Bob. "I believe you're right!
And you know how many are left when you take seven from twelve, don't
you? What's the matter with Happie? Isn't she all right?"
"This is a dear little kitchen, Happie. We all said so when we came to
look at the flat! And we were so glad it was sunny!" said Margery, the
sweet seventeen years-old sister who mothered the little band during
their mother's daily absence.
"I'm still glad, sweet Peggy," said Happie. "But when we looked at the
flat, we didn't realize how very tiny this kitchen was--we hadn't
put the saucepans and things into the cupboard, you see! But I'm not
breaking my vows. I'm still thankful that we have our funny, cozy
little drawn-out fourth floor home. But it is a little kitchen for six,
and everybody always packs into it when I make fudge."
"You ought to be flattered," said Bob. "How is it coming on this time?"
"Not as fast as usual; there isn't much pressure on the gas," replied
Happie, lifting her pan to peer anxiously at the fragrant brown mass it
held.
She was a pretty creature, not with a regular and easily defined
prettiness, but with a charm of feature, coloring and expression that
was more potent than orthodox beauty. She had brown hair, that in the
shade looked the color of a ripe chestnut. In the sun it turned a
splendid copper color, as if the chestnut had blazed up in the brazier.
It was hair all crinkles and wrinkles, trying to curl as nature meant
it to, and as its owner distinctly meant it not to curl. It waved
around rosy cheeks in which the dimples came and went so fast that
they looked as if they too were curly, like the hair, and it shaded
brown eyes that could laugh and flash and cloud sorrowfully, but which
ordinarily shone with a warm, steady light that put one in mind of a
glowing hearth fire. Happie could not have had a more appropriate name
than her nickname, for she was a veritable ray of sunshine, brave and
cheerful and unselfish, good with that natural tendency to noble aims
and thoughts that seems in rare natures to be at one with the tendency
of flowers to clothe themselves in fragrance and beauty. She could get
angry, and sometimes did, but she never could do unkind or mean things;
she was a loyal, pure-hearted, clever little woman of fourteen, with
so many talents that she had no special one, and her mother felt that
when the time came for her to earn her bread, as all the Scollards must
do, it might be hard to decide for what too-versatile Happie was best
fitted.
Just now this sunny little maiden was bending absorbed over the gas
range, her face decidedly red, her sweet lips deserving the epithet
for purely external reasons, as well as for their pleasant curves,
while her right hand stirred the mixture in a pan which her left hand
slightly lifted above the circular blue flame.
Margery--Margaret--reclined against the drop shelf which was the
space-economizing substitute for a kitchen table. She was a graceful
young creature, with a serious look on her madonna-like face, brought
there by her early acquaintance with responsibility and anxiety.
Bob, next to Margery in seniority, sat astride of the only chair the
tiny kitchen admitted. A fine, square-shouldered specimen of a boy
nearing sixteen he was; open-browed, bright-eyed, overflowing with fun,
yet with a certain steadiness of manner that spoke him trustworthy, as
became a boy who had been left the head of a family by his father's
death four years before.
Laura, Happie's successor in the birth record of the family Bible,
toyed elegantly with a fork, but cast rapid, furtive glances at
the fudge, betraying the shallowness of the indifference which an
over-weening sense of the dignity of her twelve years impelled her to
assume. She was a pale, thin girl, with a discontented and sensitive
mouth, and an abundance of foolish affectations that made her seem like
an alien among the cheerful, sensible young Scollards.
Mary--Polly, as she was always called, was the most stolidly
sensible little creature of the family. A round-faced, broad-browed,
sweet-tempered, plump little body was Polly, never in anybody's way,
always to be relied upon for an errand, very fond of housewifely tasks
of which she assumed her full share in the household, though she
boasted but nine years of age.
Penelope, baby Penny, ended the Scollard list, winding up the ranks at
four years, an imaginative, lively little person, not prone to scrapes,
but fond of mischief, and with an ability to amuse and to take care of
herself remarkable, considering there were five older children ready
and glad to spoil her with petting.
The sensitive, delicate mother of this flock had been left a widow
when Penny was a wee baby. There had been nothing for her gifted,
impractical husband to leave her but the memory of a perfect love and
a beautiful life, spent rather in the pursuit of ideals than of money.
Without a murmur this woman, strong of soul, though weak of body,
had taken up the burden of her profound grief and the support of her
children. She had many accomplishments, and her knowledge of languages
stood her in good stead. Every day she journeyed down the subway from
her fourth floor nest in an up-town apartment house, and earned her own
and her children's bread as the foreign correspondent of a large firm,
coming back weary every night during the hardest hours of the crowded
subway travel to her flat, where, after the dinner which her children
had prepared, she spent each evening giving them the lessons for which
she could no longer afford teachers. It was not strange that the
Scollards worshiped their mother with the love she so richly deserved,
the love of recognition of a noble woman, as well as the natural love
of children for their mother.
Happie's fudge boiled up suddenly, and suddenly Laura spoke, breaking a
silence that had lasted for several minutes.
"I think I should like to be called Laure," she said.
"Law! What for?" cried Happie, promptly, blowing away vigorously on the
spoonful of fudge which she had taken out to test.
"It's less common than Laura and more musical," said Laura pensively.
"Laure sounds elegant."
"It sounds silly," said Polly instantly.
"It sounds as if you could put your finger through it anywhere; I
don't like French names for American and English girls," added Happie.
"I like names that sound like beautiful music," said Laura, who really
was talented musically, but who was pitiably conscious of the fact. "I
was making up the loveliest little song--the sweetest air!--and I was
writing the words too. I said:
'She shone afar,
Like a golden star,
My angel Laure.'
And then I had to stop, because it ought to have been Laura, and Laure
wouldn't have rhymed. If only it was Laure now----"
"It wouldn't have rhymed, even if it had been," interrupted Happie, not
too patiently. "Can't you hear that _afar_ and _star_ don't rhyme with
_Laure_?"
"And what's the matter with writing songs and poems to some other girl
beside yourself?" suggested Bob. "You might have said: 'My angel Bar,'
for instance, and pretended the angel's name was Barbara. For goodness'
sake, don't be a goose, Laura! You're nearly in your 'teens, as you so
often remind us, and you ought to stop being so sentimental."
"You're not musical, Bob," said Laura, so pityingly, and with such an
air of shedding light on the whole question that they all shouted.
"Fudge's done!" announced Happie triumphantly, giving a few last,
furious beats to the mixture turning delightfully thick and sugary
in the pan. "Bring on the pans, Polly, and, Bob, will you put it out
on the fire escape till it gets cool enough to go on the ice without
melting our entire stock? I've got to rest and cool my face."
Her lieutenants meekly obeyed, and Happie dropped on the chair which
Bob vacated, fanning herself vigorously with a paper.
"I hope you haven't harmed your complexion, child," said Margery with
her elder sisterly air, as she surveyed Happie's flaming cheeks.
"Fireproof!" Happie replied carelessly. "Sunproof and freckleproof
too; you know I never burn or freckle as you do, Margery. That comes
of having golden hair and peach blossom tints. I'm betwixt and
between--coloring, age, height, cleverness, looks, everything, so I
just slip through, and nothing touches me. I don't care! I like being
fourteen and not having to think of skin or anything! I'd rather change
places with Penny than with you, Peggy, but the worst of it is in three
years I'll be as old as you are now."
"I like to feel that I am almost a young lady," said Margery placidly,
surveying with entire satisfaction the hem of her dress resting on the
floor as she leaned against the shelf. "I believe it is interesting to
be grown-up. At least I ought to be of more use to motherkins then. And
I should like to have a pretty house and entertain people beautifully,
so they'd be perfectly happy visiting me." And pretty Margery sighed
involuntarily, remembering the small flat which was her home, and which
promised no gratification of her hospitable instincts.
"I shouldn't care for that," said Laura, taking up the theme with the
readiness to discuss grown-up plans all little girls feel. "It doesn't
mean much, just to entertain! What I should want would be to give
people something better than dinners and visits. I mean to sing to
people, my own songs, and play to them my own music and all the other
composers'----"
"Why so modest, Laura? Why don't you say all the other _great_
composers?" inquired Bob blandly, withdrawing his head from the window,
having deposited the pans of fudge on the fire escape. "If it comes
to swapping ambitions, mine is to go to college, and it looks as if I
could go, now doesn't it? So Robert the Impatient, must make the best
of it."
"And of himself," added Margaret with her gentle smile, and the half
motherly look that made her grown-up air and elder sisterly manner very
attractive.
"I'm going to have a hospital for hurt cats and dogs," announced Polly.
"I believe you will," laughed Happie. "I have so many dreams I couldn't
possibly say which was my pet one, but I suppose I'll just amount to
nothing, but keep house for all of you when you want to come home
between doing great deeds."
"Oh, you!" said Bob decidedly. "You don't have to do great things;
you're all right just being Happie! I guess you're sure to do great
things and never find it out."
"Yes," added Margery, lovingly. "You are not only Happie yourself, you
know, but you are our happiness--that's what mother says, and I wish it
could be said of me."
"Base flattery!" said Happie shaking her shining head. "It doesn't have
to be said of you, dear, because it's plain to be seen. I believe I'd
like a chicken farm when I grow up."
"Yes, and grow broilers for the market, and take to your bed every
time one had its head cut off--I think I see you!" cried Bob. "No
country, nor farming for me anyway. I want college, and then business
among people. Wouldn't I hate to live where I drove down once a day to
get the mail and to 'see the flyer go through,' as they used to up at
Pennyroyal last year? Do you remember how they used to talk about that
express train? And how they would talk horse while they waited for it?
No, sir; no country for me. I'd rather go to sea."
"The country is beautiful, but I should hate to give up all the city
advantages," said Margery thoughtfully.
"Why there wouldn't be any concerts, nor anything in the country!"
exclaimed Laura. "And who could you play and sing to? They would rather
hear that awful tune the man sings to the trained bears, and plays on
that horrid little pipe the poor things dance to! Why, I'd die if I
lived in the country!"
"I never knew, the Scollards had Irish blood, 'my angel Laure,' but
that was a bull all right," said Bob.
"Well, I _should_ die after I'd lived there long enough for it to kill
me," maintained Laura stoutly. And she could not see why her brother
and sisters laughed.
"I think mother looks as if she would be better if we could live in the
country," said Margery, her face clouding with anxiety. "She looks so
tired lately it worries me dreadfully."
"She couldn't support us in the country, she says, and a suburb costs
more than a flat, adding fare and coal to the rent," said Bob. "I too
think the blessed woman is not up to the mark, Margery."
"Ah, don't!" cried Happie sharply. "Where is Penny? I just missed her."
"'Way in the front with Dorée," said Polly. "She's watching somebody
moving in. There is a van at the door. I guess she couldn't have
smelled the fudge."
"I think so, too, Polly," laughed Happie. "My goodness, that clock's
stopped! It must be time we were getting dinner! Go see what time it
is, Polly, please."
"Quarter to six!" Polly called back from the middle of the flat.
"They're taking in a basket that looks as if it had a cat in it; I
wonder if it's yellow, too?"
The "too" of Polly's remark referred to the Scollards' own beloved
kitten, as yellow as a golden nugget, and named Jeunesse Dorée,
obviously from his color.
Margery and Happie did not stop to bestow a passing thought upon the
new inmates of the house, their fellow flat-dwellers, nor their cat,
but sprang to get out the agate saucepans for their cooking, and to
hurry away the implements of fudge-making, for it was fifteen minutes
past their time for beginning to get dinner, and they prided themselves
on not keeping their mother waiting when she came home at night from
her hard day's work.
Happie enveloped herself in an ample apron and fell to peeling potatoes
as if her life depended on getting them out of their jackets in a
twinkling. Margery quietly, but speedily, put the meat in its pan and
floured it delicately, then knelt before the oven, lighted its burners
and slid the pan into place, devoutly hoping that the tenants on the
lower floors would not require so much gas for their dinners that
night as to lower the pressure and retard further the Scollards' tardy
roasting.
Just behind her was the door of the dumb waiter, with the mouth-piece
of its whistle beside it. From this whistle there suddenly issued a
blood-curdling shriek, and Margery tumbled over backward, while Happie
jumped to her feet, upsetting potatoes, peelings, pan of water and all
on the spotless floor.
"Oh, that fearful whistle!" Happie cried, crimson with anger and the
reaction from her fright. "If I lived here nine hundred and ninety-nine
years, I never should get used to it!"
"Nor I," murmured Margery feebly, scraping up Happie's scattered
peelings with the knife she had dropped, not rising, but turning her
discomfiture to profit as she sat. "It's so sharp and so sudden!"
"They ought to blow softly to announce that they are going to blow
hard," suggested Bob, as he opened the door to answer the summons. But
he had jumped himself.
"It may be a waiter, but it's certainly not a _dumb_ waiter," observed
Happie, pursuing a truant potato to the corner by the ice box.
"It makes me perfectly blasé," sighed Laura, holding her side as she
took the napkins from their drawer.
"Blasé! Oh, Laura, when will you learn to use words right, or to use
only those you understand?" laughed Margery pulling herself up by the
back of the chair.
Bob was leaning down the dumb waiter shaft, and a voice arose from its
depths.
"Groc'ries fer you!" it called in the unspellable accent of New York's
east side.
"I guess not," Bob called back. "Wrong whistle."
"From Lichtenzeit's," insisted the voice.
"No," called Bob.
"Top floor. Gordon," the voice shouted angrily. And as Bob leaned down
further to explain that he was a Scollard, the dumb waiter began to
ascend with rapid clatter, and further parley was impossible.
"It's not only not dumb, Happie, but it's not even a waiter," said
Bob turning away with a disgusted expression. "You see it's coming up
without waiting to find out where it's going. There isn't any one in
the house named Gordon."
The waiter stopped with a rattle of its ropes, and the voice below
called up: "Take 'em off; they're fer you."
"Look here, you chump," called Bob. "They're not mine. There isn't
a Gordon in this whole house." But as he spoke the door across from
the Scollards opened, and a boy appeared, grinning cheerfully at his
neighbor.
"You're not quite right there, old man," he said. "There is a Gordon in
the house, and I'm he. I'm one of him, at least--there's another, and
their mother. All right; I've got the stuff. Go ahead. Farewell, vale,
ta ta. Blow the left hand whistle next time."
The new boy straightened himself from delivering these last remarks
down the waiter-shaft and smiled anew at Bob. "We've just moved in. The
last of our household effects are even now bumping the paper off the
front hall--the van men find them bulky. Hope we'll meet again." He
cast his eye beyond Bob into the sunny kitchen where pretty Margery and
Happie were working like stingless bees.
"All right. Hope so, too," said Bob. And the doors shut simultaneously
on both sides of the dumb waiter.
"He looks the right sort," observed Bob.
"I'm sorry the flat across is let, though. It has been such a rest not
having the men blow our whistle for the one over there," sighed Margery.
Happie had beaten up a cake to be eaten with her blanc mange of
the morning's making. She was pouring the mixture into her sheet
of cup-shaped tins, and was not interested in the subject of new
neighbors. She paused with her bowl held sidewise in the air, and with
her spoon resting on its side as she guided the yellow mixture into its
destination. "I've got it!" she exclaimed jubilantly.
"Eureka, Keren-happuch, my dear," corrected Bob. "What have you got?"
"The name for our flat," said Happie. The Scollards had been trying
ever since they had taken possession of it to find a name for their
habitation, "because," Happie explained, "all residences of any account
had names, and she wanted her estate to be no exception."
"What is it?" asked Margery, and Laura paused in the doorway with the
bread plate in her hand to hear the answer.
"Patty-pans!" cried Happie triumphantly. "Don't you see that it
is exactly what the flat is like?" She held up her baking tins to
illustrate. "See," she went on, "how the rooms come along, one after
the other, just precisely like these patty-pan cups? This is The
Patty-Pans, or Patty-Pans-on-the-Hudson--only a few blocks off, at any
rate, and that doesn't matter!"
"It's the very thing!" cried Bob appreciatively, and Margery laughed
and agreed.
"It's not at all pretty," said Laura, whose sense of humor was
defective. But she got no further with her objection. The little
electric bell on the wall rang thrice, and all the Scollards in the
rear rushed through the narrow hall, and were met at the door by Polly
from the front, and Penny with Dorée in her arms.
This triple ring meant that the children's real day, the only part of
the day in which the sun fully shone for them, although it began after
sunset, had dawned, for it announced their mother's home-coming at
night.