THE GREEN UMBRELLA AGAIN
"Boom! Boom! Boom-te-boom!" rolled the solemn drums, and Scalawag in a
sort of decorous dance, keeping perfect time, insisted upon following
the procession.
"My goodness me, Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Tess. "This is awful!
Everybody's laughing at us! _Can't_ you turn him around?"
"Oh, dear! He won't turn around, or do anything else, till that band
stops," declared Sammy. "This is what Neale meant. He thinks he's in the
circus again and that he must march to the music."
"I do declare," murmured Dot, "this pony of ours is just as hard to make
_stop_ as Mrs. Heard's Jonas-pony is hard to make _go_. I wish it was
Jonas we had here now, don't you, Tess? He'd be glad to stop."
"And Ruthie told us to come right back 'cause there's going to be
ice-cream, and we can scrape the paddles," moaned Tess. "Dear me! we'll
be a _nawful_ long time going out to this fun'ral!"
The situation was becoming tragic. The thought of the pleasures of
scraping the ice-cream freezer paddles was enough to make Sammy turn to
desperate invention for release.
"Here, Tess," he commanded. "You hold these reins and don't you let 'em
get under Scalawag's heels."
"Oh, Sammy! what are you going to do?" queried Tess excitedly, but
obeying him faithfully.
"I'm going to slide out behind and run around and stop him."
"Oh, Sammy! You can't!" Dot cried. "He'll just walk right over you. See
him!"
Everybody along the street was laughing now. It really was a funny sight
to see that solemnly stepping pony right behind the line of carriages.
Sammy would not be deterred. He scrambled out of the phaeton and ran
around to Scalawag's head.
"Whoa! Stop, you old nuisance!" ejaculated the boy, seizing the bridle
and trying to halt the pony.
But the latter knew his business. He had been taught to keep up his
march as long as the band played. If it had suddenly changed to a lively
tune, Scalawag would have stood right up on his hind legs and pawed the
air!
Therefore, the pony had no idea of stopping while the band played on. He
pushed ahead and Sammy had to keep stepping backward or be trod on. It
was a funny sight indeed to see the small boy try to hold back the fat
pony that plowed along just as though Sammy had no more weight than a
fly.
"Oh Sammy! he'll step on you," Tess cried.
"Oh, Sammy! he'll--he'll bite you," gasped Dot.
"Oh, Sammy!" bawled a delighted youngster from the sidewalk, "he'll
swaller you whole!"
"Look out for that pony, boy!" called an old man.
"What's the kid trying to do--wrastle him?" laughed another man.
Tess' cheeks were very, very red. Sammy wished that the street might
open and swallow him. Dot was too young to feel the smart of ridicule
quite so keenly. She hugged up the Alice-doll to her bosom and squealed
just as loud as she could.
After all, Dot was the one who saved the situation. Her shrill cry was
heard by an old gentleman in the last carriage. He was a very grand
looking old gentleman indeed, for when he stood up to look down upon the
obstinate pony and the small boy struggling with him, as well as the two
little girls in the basket phaeton, they saw that he had medals and
ribbons on his breast and a broad sash across the front of his coat.
"Halt!" commanded General MacKenzie, and although he was at the rear of
the procession instead of the front, the word was passed swiftly along
to the band, and everybody stood still, while the droning of the
instruments ceased.
Instantly Scalawag stopped keeping time, and shook his head and coughed.
Sammy had pulled at his bit so hard that it interfered with the pony's
breathing.
"What under the sun's the matter with that little pony?" demanded the
veteran officer, putting on his eyeglasses the better to see Scalawag
and the whole outfit.
"If you pl-please, sir," stammered Sammy, "he belongs to a circus
and--and he just can't make his feet behave when he hears a band."
"And do you children belong to a circus, too?" asked the old gentleman
in vast surprise.
"Oh, no, sir," Tess put in. "And Scalawag doesn't belong to one now. But
he can't forget. If you'll have your band wait, please, until we can
drive up this other street, Scalawag will forget all about it."
"Please do, sir," begged Dot. "For we don't really want to go to the
seminary; we go to school here in Milton," which peculiar association of
ideas rather stagged General MacKenzie.
However, amid the subdued hilarity of the people on the sidewalks, Sammy
managed at last to turn Scalawag's head and drive him up Buchan Terrace,
and out of hearing of the droning of the band when the funeral
procession started again. But it certainly was a memorable occasion for
the little mistresses of Scalawag and for Sammy.
Thereafter, when they were driving out, they were continually on the
watch for a band, or any other music; and Dot even feared that the old
man on the corner who attracted attention to his infirmities, as well as
to the pencils he sold, with a small organette, would play some tune
that would remind Scalawag of his circus days.
Neale O'Neil would sometimes bring the pony around to the front of the
house and have Agnes start a band record on the music machine in the
parlor. Immediately Scalawag would try to go through his old tricks to
the delight of the neighborhood children.
"Well! it doesn't much matter, I suppose," Ruth sighed. "Every day is
circus day at the old Corner House. We have gained a reputation for
doing queer things, and living not at all like other folks. I wonder
that nice people here in Milton allow their children to play with our
little girls."
"Hech!" exclaimed Mrs. MacCall. "I should like to know why not? They're
the best behaved bairns anywhere, if their heids are fu' o' maggots,"
using the word, however, in the meaning of "crotchets" or "queer ideas."
Ruth was no "nagger." She was strict about some things with the smaller
ones; but she never interfered with their plays or amusements as long as
they were safe and did not annoy anybody. And with their multitude of
pets and toys, to say nothing of dolls galore, Tess and Dot Kenway were
as happy little girls as could be found in a day's march.
Besides, there was always Sammy Pinkney to give them a jolt of surprise;
although Sammy's mother said he was behaving this term almost like an
angel and she feared a relapse of the fever he had suffered the spring
before.
Neale O'Neil felt of the boy's shoulder blades solemnly and pronounced
no sign yet of sprouting wings.
"You are in no danger of dying young because of your goodness striking
in, Sammy," he said. "Don't lose heart."
"Aw--_you_!" grunted Sammy.
Ruth, seeing the practicability of it, was taking lessons in driving the
automobile and was to get a license shortly. Agnes felt quite put out
that she was not allowed to do likewise; but to tell the truth the older
folk feared to let the fly-away sister handle the car without Neale, or
somebody more experienced, in the seat with her.
"I don't care, Neale has killed a hen, scared innumerable dogs sleeping
in the road-dust, and come near running down Mrs. Privett. You know he
has! I believe I wouldn't do _much_ worse."
Ruth pointed out that she need not do much worse in Mrs. Privett's case
to have a very bad accident indeed.
"The difference between almost running a person down, and actually
hitting him, can be measured only before a magistrate," the older
sister said.
Ruth took her lessons from the man at the garage after luncheon, for she
did not attend school in the afternoon this term, taking the few studies
she desired in the morning.
One afternoon she drove over to Mr. Howbridge's house for tea, and as
the car jounced over the railroad crossing at Pleasant Street she
suddenly spied a familiar looking object bobbing along the sidewalk. It
was a huge green umbrella, and beneath it was the rather shambling
figure of the old gentleman whom she had saved from possible accident at
this very crossing some weeks before.
He was dressed quite as he had been when Ruth first saw him. If he saw
her, the car passed so rapidly that she did not see him bow. At Mr.
Howbridge's house she lingered for some time, for the lawyer always
enjoyed these little visits of his oldest ward.
Ruth did not return to the old Corner House until almost time for the
children to come home from school. Mrs. MacCall was in an excited state
when the oldest Corner House girl appeared.
"Hech, ma lassie!" cried the housekeeper. "Ye hae fair missed the
crankiest old body I've set my eyes on in mony a day!"
"Whom do you mean, Mrs. Mac?" asked Ruth, in surprise.
"Let me tell 't ye! I should be fu' used to quare bodies coomin' here,
for 'tis you bairns bring 'em. But this time 'twas ane o' _your_
friends, Ruthie--"
"But who was he?"
"Fegs! He'd never tell 't me," Mrs. MacCall declared, shaking her head.
"He juist kep' sayin' he had a reason for wishin' tae see ye. Ye could
nae tell from lookin' into his winter-apple face, whether 'twas guid
news or bad he brought."
"Oh, Mrs. Mac!" cried Ruth suddenly, "did he carry a green umbrella!"
"He did juist that," declared the woman, vigorously nodding. "And a most
disreputable umbrella it looked tae be. 'Gin ye judged the mon by his
umbrella, ye'd think he was come tae buy rags."
"Isn't he a character?" laughed Ruth.
"He's as inquisitive as a chippin'-sparrow," said the housekeeper, with
some disgust. "He wanted tae know ev'rything that had happened tae ye
since ye was weaned."
"Oh, dear! I'm rather glad I wasn't here then."
"Aw, but fash not yerself he'll nae be back. For he wull."
"No!"
"Yes, I tell 't ye. I seen it in the gleam of his hard eye when he went.
I gave him nae satisfaction as tae when ye might be home, not knowin'
who he was nor what he wanted o' ye."
"Oh, Mrs. MacCall, don't you remember?" and Ruth recounted the incident
at the railroad crossing nearly a month before.
"Huh, that's why he was so cur'ous, then. You saved his life," went on
the housekeeper dropping the broad Scotch burr, now that her excitement
was cooling.
"I don't know that I did. But perhaps he came to thank me for what I
tried to do."
"It seems as though he must want to know every little thing about you,"
the housekeeper declared. "And how he could corner you with his
questions! He should ha' made a lawyer-body. He made me tell him more
than I should about the family's private affairs, I have no doot."
"Oh, Mrs Mac! what do you suppose he wants!"
"To see you, belike. And he'll be back again."
"Goodness! I'm not sure I want to talk with him. He looked very odd to
me that day I met him. And so cross!"
"No doot of it. He's an ugly looking man. And from his speech it's easy
to see he's no friend of womenkind."
"He must be like that Neighbor Cecile was telling us about," sighed Ruth
and with that dropped the subject of the strange old man with the green
umbrella.
Ruth had heard from Cecile Shepard since she had gone back to the
preparatory school--in fact, had received two letters. They were not
such bright epistles as Cecile usually wrote; but they were full of her
brother. Not that Cecile mentioned Luke's differences with Neighbor, or
the reason thereof; but she seemed unable to keep from writing about
Luke.
Ruth was secretly as anxious to hear about the young man as his sister
was to write about him.
Ruth was heart-hungry. She felt that Luke might have taken her into his
confidence to a greater degree; and yet she suspected why he had not
done so.
Mr. Howbridge's talk of dowries for the sisters was always in Ruth's
mind. Of course, she knew that the Stower estate was rapidly increasing
in value. In a few years property that Peter Stower had purchased for a
song would be worth a fortune. The Kenways were likely to be very rich.
What if Luke Shepard had no money when he graduated from college? That
seemed a very small thing to Ruth. She would have plenty when she came
of age, and why could not her money set Luke up in some line of business
that he was fitted for?
Yet, there was a whisper in her heart that told Ruth that was not the
right way to begin life. If Luke was ambitious he must find a better
way. Nor could she help him, it seemed, in the least, for the young man
had given her no right to do so.
"Oh, dear me," Ruth finally decided, "it is awfully hard being a
girl--sometimes!"
No such questions and doubts troubled Agnes and Neale. Their course
through life seemed a smooth road before them. They told each other
their aspirations, and everything they planned to do in the future--that
glorious future after school should end--had a part for each in it.
Neale O'Neil did not hope to do anything in life which would shut Agnes
out; and the girl's thought marched side-by-side with his intentions.
Everything hereafter was to be in partnership.
"For you know, Neale, no matter what Ruth says, I really couldn't get
along without you."
"Crickey!" exclaimed the boy, "this old world certainly would be what
Unc' Rufus calls 'de valley ob tribulation' if you weren't right here
with me."
She smiled upon him gloriously, and used that emphatic ejaculation that
always horrified Ruth:
"You bet!"
"You're a good pal, Aggie," said the boy, with feeling.
"And since that morning I first saw you and we both tumbled out of the
peach tree," Agnes declared solemnly--"do you remember, Neale?"
"I should say I did!"
"Well, I _thought_ you were awfully nice then. _Now_, I know you are."
So, perhaps Agnes and Neale were growing up, too.