HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE
Sunday afternoon, Mr. Fletcher took his son for a long stroll in the
park. They joined the throng of people who promenaded up and down the
broad cement walk along the beach, and watched the antics of the
children with their transitory castles until this pleasure began to
pall. Then they retraced their steps westward to the big island and
explored the fascinating, winding paths along the shrubbery-covered
shores. Everywhere were signs of autumn. A light carpet of half-dried
leaves had already covered the ground. The song birds in the fast
yellowing, graceful willows were supplanted by silent, migratory groups
of somber juncos, who fled at their approach. Here and there, they
surprised a squirrel adding another peanut to his well-buried winter
cache. But a little later, a pair of lovers on a narrow peninsula bank
separated awkwardly as the two sauntered up, and John laughed joyously.
The spirit of summer was as yet far from dead.
Still they wandered on as their fancy pleased them. Far to the south of
the park, John collected an armful of cat-tails from a bit of marshland,
and Mr. Fletcher pointed out to him a strange, spotted lizard, which
scurried for shelter from the intruders. As they returned, they loitered
by the green, verandaed club house to count the fast diminishing fleet
of yachts, and joined an ironic audience who watched the struggles of
two motorboat owners with their craft, and a pair of rickety wagon
trucks. Sunset found them climbing the home steps to sink into the easy
porch chairs and wait blissfully until Mrs. Fletcher announced that
supper was ready.
Now by all the laws of small boy nature, John's eyes should have closed
that night five minutes after his head had touched the pillow. But then
it was that the inexplicable happened. Louise forced a disturbing
entrance into his thoughts with a strange insistency. Was she sleeping
peacefully or was she thinking of her rescue from the mercies of the
gang? Perhaps she had already forgotten him. Still, the boys hadn't.
They would probably spread the details of the love affair all over the
juvenile neighborhood. Would she walk with him if they did?
The big clock in the hall of the house next door struck ten. He
discovered that a wrinkle in the sheet chafed his back and smoothed it
out half angrily.
Why couldn't he go to sleep? Had Louise's mother been vexed at the
broken eggs? How pretty the girl's long ringlets had looked as she stood
on the sunlit corner that morning. Did she like to fish? An expedition
for two could be arranged in spite of the late season. He'd bait her
hook and take the fish off if she wished. Lunch could be prepared
beforehand and they wouldn't have to worry about meal time.
Again the timepiece next door chimed its message. He counted the
strokes--seven--eight--nine--ten--_eleven_! Only twice before had he
remained awake so late--once on a railroad trip, and once when Uncle
Frank had come to visit them. He rubbed his clenched fists in his eyes
and wondered if he dared light the gas to read. He could keep his
geography near as an excuse if anyone discovered him. Then, hastened
possibly by the soporific influence of that school book, sleep came at
last.
In the morning, John tried to analyze the causes for his mental rampage
as he drew on one toe-frayed stocking. Now that his mother had roused
him for the third and final time, he felt tired enough to sleep another
three hours. What had been the matter?
A love scene from that latest public library book flashed into his
perplexed brain and he sighed contentedly. Had not Leander sacrificed
long hours of precious slumber at the shrine of his beloved Philura? The
inference in his own case was both obvious and satisfactory.
To tell Louise of his infatuation seemed the next and most logical step.
He lacked the courage for a verbal declaration; therefore the message
must be in writing. But in what form? Letter writing to a girl was a
novel experience, and he had a horror of parental laughter if he asked
for advice.
"John!" his mother called from the stairway. "Aren't you ever going to
get dressed?"
He pulled on his second stocking hastily, with a call of "Down in a
minute, Mother."
His grandmother's old _Complete Letter Writer_ was in the library
bookcase. That ought to help him out of his predicament. Wasn't it the
_Complete_----"
"John!" came a second and more peremptory interruption of his thoughts.
"Get down here this minute."
He started, drew on his shoes, half-buttoned them, slipped into his
blouse, with boyish disregard for such matters as bathing, and scampered
down the stairs to the dining-room. After a hasty meal of oatmeal and
potatoes, he fled to the seclusion of the library. A moment of nervous
fumbling with the lock, a rapid turning of pages, and--
"From a son at an educational institution, to his father, engaged in
business at Boston, requesting--"
But he didn't want to borrow money from Louise. "Honored Parent!" Why,
"Honored Louise" would sound too ridiculous for anything.
"From a merchant engaged in the hay and grain business in Baltimore, to
a wholesale dealer in New York, complaining that--"
Such prosaic details as hay and grain shortages were not for him. He
wanted a love letter, an epistle that would breathe the fire of
adoration in every line. Didn't the old book have any? The title said
_Complete_--What was this?
"From a young man--" He skipped the rest of the heading--such things
didn't have much to do with the real contents anyway.
"Beloved--"
That sounded better.
"When first I--"
The door opened suddenly. Mrs. Fletcher gazed down at him in
astonishment.
"Haven't you gone to school yet? It's five minutes of nine, now. What on
earth have you been doing?"
The book dropped to the floor. A scant five minutes later, he stumbled
breathlessly into the school room, only to find that roll call had been
finished and that "B" class was holding its English recitation. Miss
Brown frowned and made a mark in the record book on her desk, and went
on with the class work. Out came his theme pad and pencil. The fifteen
minute study period was his for the composition of that letter and he
set to work.
What did a fellow usually say to a girl, anyway? He'd never written one
before. He twisted in his seat and caught a glimpse of the adored one's
graceful curls, but even with this inspiration, ideas refused to come.
"B" division closed its composition books and began to recite under Miss
Brown's guidance,
And she, kissing back, could not know
That _my_ kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
For two long weeks they had been memorizing "The First Snow-Fall," but
were not as yet, letter-perfect in the verses. The teacher encouraged
them. Twenty odd juvenile voices resumed the choppy, monotonous chant.
John gripped his pencil with new life.
Poetry! That was the only way to express your sentiments! Why hadn't he
thought of it before? Once, in third grade, he had composed a
masterpiece:
Think, think, what do you think?
A mouse ran under the kitchen sink.
The old maid chased it
With dustpan and broom
And kicked it and knocked it
Right out of the room.
The slip of paper had been passed to a chum for appreciation, only to
have Miss O'Rourke pounce upon the effort and read it to an uproarious
class. His ears burned, even now, at that memory.
But there would be no second disaster. He began on the ruled sheet
boldly,
"Beloved Louise!"
Then came a pause. Oh for a first line! You couldn't start out with "I
love you." That would make further words unnecessary. What did people
usually put in poems? All about stars, and the warm south wind and
roses. A fugitive bit of verse echoed in his brain. "The rose--" He had
it now!
The rose is red,
The violet's blue,
This will tell you
I love you.
To be sure, the bit of doggerel had been inscribed on a card sent him by
Harriette in the third-grade valentine box, but Louise need never know
the secret of its authorship. And it expressed his feelings with such a
degree of nicety!
He scrawled a huge, concluding "John," folded the paper complacently,
and waved one hand to attract Miss Brown's attention.
"Please, may I go over to the school store and buy a copy book?"
"Are your lessons prepared for this afternoon?"
"Yes'm."
Consent was given. John rose, with the compact paper hidden in his right
hand, and sauntered carelessly down the aisle. At his old desk, he
paused with a fleeting glace at Louise as he dropped the note, and
walked on into the hall. There he stopped to peer into the room through
the half-closed door.
Louise covered the note with one hand and drew it toward her slowly and
with infinite caution. He watched her face breathlessly. Curiosity was
succeeded by surprise and then by anger. A little toss of her curls, a
glance at teacher, and she half turned toward the door. He could see
that her face was scarlet. What was she going to do?
Horror of horrors, she stuck out her tongue at him!
The ways of girls were beyond his comprehension. There was no cause for
offense in that note. He loved her. Why should she object to being told
about it?
He made his way moodily down the broad flight of stairs leading to the
basement. There, in the big, dimly lighted, cement-floored playroom,
where the children held forth on rainy days, he met a boy from another
room, who was likewise in no hurry to return. They hailed each other in
subdued tones.
"Been down long?"
"Oh, our teacher doesn't get mad unless you're gone half an hour. Want
to play marbles?"
John assented joyously. His friend chalked an irregular circle on the
floor, and presently the room resounded with shouts of "H'ist," and "No
fair dribblin'" until the grizzled school janitor sent them flying to
their rooms under threat of a visit to the principal's office.
At the doorway, he paused to summon his courage, for time had flown all
too rapidly in the basement. Louise showed not a sign of recognition as
he passed. Miss Brown broke the oppressive silence.
"Where's the copy book, John?"
His lower lip dropped in consternation. His excuse for leaving had been
completely forgotten. "A quarter of an hour after school" was the
sentence for the offense, and he opened his geography with a feeling of
thankfulness that it had not been more.
All about the brick-paved school yard, on the walk, and in the street
gutters, were scattered oblongs of blue paper as he scampered from the
deserted building at noon. The boy picked one of the handbills up and
read with an odd thrill:
Professor T. J. O'Reilley's
PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW
_in_
Three Stupendous, Sidesplitting Parts
_at_
NEIGHBORHOOD HALL,
_Monday, October 4, at 4:15 p.m._
I
Punch and Judy. The old favorite as played before the Crowned Heads
of Europe. All the well-known characters, with added mirth
provoking innovations. Alone worth the price of admission.
II
Peck's Bad Boy and His Pal. Startling, amusing, and instructive
exhibition of ventriloquism by that amazing expert, Professor T. J.
O'Reilley. Hear the Bad Boy and his friend talk and joke as if they
were really alive. During this act Professor O'Reilley uses one of
his marvelous ventriloquial whistles and will explain its operation
to the audience.
III
Motion Pictures. Actual figures thrown on the screen that do
everything but talk. Thrilling display of the heroism of American
Soldiers during the Spanish-American War! See the landing of the
Regulars under fire! See men fall in actual battle before your very
eyes! Watch the charge up San Juan Hill--the thrilling infantry
skirmish!
_Followed by_
A Grand Distribution of Valuable Prizes! Glistening Ice Skates.
Rings, Dolls, Doll Carriages, and other Toys. In addition, every
man, woman, and child in the audience who does not win a gift, will
receive _absolutely free_, one of Professor O'Reilley's marvelous
ventriloquial whistles.
TWO HOURS OF AMUSING
AND INSTRUCTIVE ENTERTAINMENT!
_Admission only ten cents!_
Could he go? Of course, for the necessary dime was always forthcoming
from his mother when an itinerant showman rented the corner dance hall
for a one day performance.
On the corner of Southern Avenue, he overtook Bill, who had stopped to
play tops with an acquaintance.
"Going?" he asked, as his chum glanced at the blue slip in his hand.
"Bet your life," said Silvey decidedly. "Did you see the rings the man
showed in the school yard?"
John reminded him of the fifteen minute detention. "Were they pretty?"
"Pretty? They were just peaches--all gold and stones, and sparkled like
everything."
They parted at his front steps. John plodded thoughtfully homeward, for
his brain buzzed with a new and daring possibility. Would Louise
overlook the morning's fiasco and allow him to take her? He broached the
matter of finances to Mrs. Fletcher.
"But what do you want two dimes for? Tell Mother."
No, he wouldn't. But he had to have the two coins. Mrs. Fletcher studied
him curiously.
"Is there some little girl you want to take?"
An evasive silence followed her question. Nevertheless his brown eyes
pleaded his cause so eloquently that one o'clock found him sitting on
the front porch, jingling the money merrily in one hand.
The day was crisp and sunny, with an invigorating breeze from the lake,
which set the blood pulsing in his veins. Ordinarily, he would have
scampered off to play with Bill and Perry Alford or Sid on the way to
school, but not this time. He was waiting for some one.
Shortly a dainty, pink pinafored figure with the familiar curly ringlets
skipped past on the opposite side of the street. When she had gone
perhaps fifty yards, John walked down the steps and followed not too
rapidly. He must catch up quite as if by accident, for it would never do
to have the meeting occur seemingly of his own volition.
She saw him coming and halted at the corner drug store to gaze demurely
at a window display of gaily tinned talcum powder. As the boy came up to
her, a queer, choking sensation filled his throat.
"'Lo," he gulped nervously. Not a sign of recognition. Evidently "Rose
is red" still rankled.
"'Lo," he persevered. She raised her chin ever so slightly. "Those kids
won't throw any more cucumbers. I fixed 'em." Perhaps the memory of his
protection that Saturday would pave the way to peace.
"'Lo," she responded at last. They forsook the enticements of the drug
window and walked on in embarrassed silence.
"Had to stay after school this morning," he volunteered desperately.
"Why?"
Back to his folly again. What a dunce he was!
"Why?" she asked again.
"Oh, 'cause." Conversation dragged once more.
What could he talk to her about? He knew nothing of dolls and keeping
house and making clothes. And he didn't suppose she could tell "Run,
sheep, run" from "Follow the leader," either. He fumbled in his pocket
and brought out the folded blue circular with a show of nonchalance. She
eyed it curiously.
"Going?" he asked.
She didn't know.
"I've got two tickets," eagerly. "Want to come with me?" The school yard
lay but a half-block ahead, so he went on hurriedly, "There's Silvey and
the bunch. I've got to see 'em. Meet you on this corner after school."
The truth of the matter was that not even his infatuation was equal to
passing that mob of shouting, yelling urchins with a girl by his side.
You might have guessed that something unusual was to occur, had you
passed Neighborhood Hall that afternoon. By the green mail box on the
corner, an envied seventh-grade boy, subsidized by an offer of free
admission, passed out more blue cards like the one John had found, and
advised that they be retained, for "Them's got programs on, and you'll
need 'em." On the broad pavement, excited little groups of boys read and
reread the announcements amid running choruses of approving comment. Now
and then, a fussy, important matron bustled past with a four-or
five-year-old following in her wake. Around the door, a baker's dozen of
boys with shaggy hair and sadly worn clothes besought the more
prosperous of the grown-ups, "Take us in, Mister [or "Missis" as the
case might be], we ain't got no dime."
Inside the great, raftered, brilliantly lighted hall were rows upon rows
of collapsible chairs, which slid and scraped on the slippery dance
floor as their owners took possession of them. John and Louise secured
seats in the third row, center, where they commanded an excellent view
of the tall, black cabinet where Punch and his family were soon to
appear. Around them, a babel of noise and confusion held sway. The place
was filling rapidly. Boys called to each other from opposite corners of
the room. A not infrequent shout of surprised anger arose as a seated
juvenile clattered to the floor through the agency of some
mischief-maker in his rear. Eighth-grade patriarchs, retained by the
same pay as the corner advance agent, darted here and there in the
aisles, striving to preserve order amid a great show of authority. Up on
the little balconies at each side groups of trouble-makers performed
gymnastics on the railings and banisters at seeming peril of their lives
until the colored janitor ordered them down. Every now and then, the
wailing of a heated, irritable infant rose above the din, to be quieted
more or less angrily by its mother.
John looked at his watch. "Most time to start," he whispered.
Indeed, the audience was beginning to grow restless. In the rear rows, a
claque started a steady handclapping, and cat-calls and hisses from
unmannerly boys became more and more frequent.
Then entered upon the stage Professor T. J. O'Reilley amid a storm of
relieved applause. The bosom of his stiff white shirt might have been a
trifle soiled, the diamond glistening therein, palpably false, and the
lapels of his full-dress coat, distressingly shiny, but to John and
Louise, he seemed a very prince of successful entertainers. He bowed
perfunctorily, issued a few words of admonition to the boisterous
element in the audience, and disappeared in the long, black cabinet.
Ensued a series of raps from somewhere in the folds of the cloth, and
subdued cries of "Oh, dear, dear, dear! Judy, Judy, Judy! Where is she?"
The familiar, hooked-nosed figure appeared on the little stage and John
sighed in ecstasy. What mattered if Punch's complexion were sadly in
need of renewal through his many quarrels--he was the same old Punch,
and his audience greeted him as such. Judy followed.
"He'll send her after the baby, now. You just see!" John whispered as
the marionettes danced excitedly back and forth.
"How do you know?" Louise's eyes were a-glisten.
"Haven't you ever ever been to a Punch and Judy show before?" asked John
in surprise.
In one corner of the hall, a row of badly nourished colored children
from the district just north of the "Jefferson Toughs," forgot the
family struggle for three meals a day and rent money in their present
bliss, grins appeared on the faces of the adults in the hall, and the
rest of the audience swayed and shouted and giggled as Punch made away
with first the baby, then friend wife, the policeman, the clown, and the
judge, and hung their bodies over the edge of the stage in time-honored
fashion.
A prolonged groan came from the depths of the cabinet.
"It's the devil," said John, squirming ecstatically on his hard chair.
"There he is, in one corner where Punch can't see him."
Punch lifted a victim from one side of the stage to the other.
"That's one," he counted.
The red-faced, lively little imp returned the corpse to its original
resting place. Some minutes of this comedy followed.
"Twenty-six," squawked the unsuspecting Punch in surprise, while the
audience roared appreciatively. "Did I kill so many? Hello, who are
you?"
"I," came the preternaturally deep voice as Louise quaked at the
make-belief reality of the scene, "am the devil!"
"Now they'll fight," breathed John, watching intently. "It'll be the
bulliest fight of all, and they'll throw each other down and hit each
other over the head forty-'leven times. Then the devil'll win."
But a puritanical mother had, on the tour preceding, written Professor
O'Reilley, objecting to the devil's conquest of the unrepentant old
reprobate, so that master of ventriloquism introduced a new character
into the ancient tale, and the devil went the way of Punch's other
victims.
"H-m-m," puzzled John with wrinkled brow. "This isn't the same--What's
that?"
"Open," ordered Punch of the long, flat object which appeared beside the
body of the devil.
"It's an aggilator," shrilled Louise as the mystery disclosed two
terrific rows of teeth and a long, red throat.
"Shut," ordered Punch. The jaws closed with a snap.
"Isn't it peachy?" whispered John.
"Open," ordered Punch once more. Again the jaws swung slowly and
impressively apart.
"Close," repeated Punch, as he stooped dangerously near the yawning
cavern.
The jaws snapped within a thirty-second of an inch of the arch-villain's
nose. Angered, Punch hit the beast with his little club, while the
audience screamed in delight. Ensued a fight which changed rapidly to a
pursuit back and forth over the bodies of Judy, the policeman, and the
rest of the company. At last Punch tripped and the animal seized upon
him and bore him, shrieking, below.
"Is that all?" asked Louise, as the little curtain descended.
"All?" John answered, as he glanced over the other delights promised by
the blue advertisement. "All? Why it isn't but a third over!"
Two assistants turned impromptu stage hands and shifted the Punch and
Judy cabinet to the rear of the stage. The professor stooped over a
battered trunk at the side, and brought out two life-sized dolls with
huge, staring eyes, and swinging arms and legs. He sat down on a chair
at the center of the platform.
"These," he said as he balanced the manikins on his knees, "are my two
little boys. They're usually very nice little fellows, but I'm afraid
they've been shut up so long in that dark trunk that they're feeling a
little angry. I'll have to see. Now [to the sandy-haired caricature on
his right], tell the people what your name is. No? Then we'll have to
ask your friend here. What's your name?"
"Sambo," mouthed the black-faced marionette.
"Gee!" whispered John, as he watched the professor's lips closely.
"How's he do it?"
"Now, tell all these nice little girls and boys how old you are."
"T-ten."
"Did you ever go to school?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now tell that little girl with the pink hair ribbon who's sitting in
the third row, what you learned yesterday."
"Ya-ya-ya," interrupted the younger member of the Peck family.
"Ya-ya-ya!"
"Why, George," admonished the ventriloquist. "Aren't you ashamed of
yourself, behaving in this way?"
"No, I ain't," protested George incorrigibly. "Ya-ya-ya, blackface!"
So it went for the space of a good half-hour. Pretty poor stuff, it may
seem now, oh, you grown-ups who have lost the magic eyes of childhood,
but snickers and shouts and giggles filled the hall while the dialogue
lasted. Finally the lay figures waxed so disputatious that Professor
O'Reilley consigned them to the darkness of the trunk from which they
came.
"Stay there until you behave yourselves," he scolded, as the groans grew
more and more subdued in protest against the captivity.
"Wish I could do that," said John. "Couldn't I get teacher mad, talking
at her from the blackboard?"
"Sh-sh," whispered Louise. "He's going to speak."
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. We have with us today for the
first exhibition in this part of the city, the most wonderful invention
of the glorious age in which you are living. After the hall is darkened,
I shall go down to the table where that lantern stands and throw upon
the screen actual moving pictures taken from real life. You will see the
landing of our brave troops upon the rock-bound shores of Cuba. You will
witness a thrilling battle with Spanish insurrectos [the professor was
getting his history a little mixed, but that mattered not a whit to his
audience], and brave men will fall before your eyes in the charge up San
Joon hill. I need not state that these pictures have been secured at an
almost fabulous cost, for Professor T. J. O'Reilley always makes it a
point to give his patrons the best of everything, regardless of expense.
The best of order must be kept while the hall is in darkness. Anyone
creating a disturbance at that time will be instantly expelled."
Thus did the professor conclude his introduction of the feature which,
later, was to drive him and his kind out of business.
A click, a sudden buzzing as if a giant swarm of bees were flying about
in the center of the hall where the long, cylindrical gas tanks stood,
and a six foot square of light flashed on the white curtain which had
been lowered to the stage.
The pictures flickered and jumped a great deal, and at times streaks on
the old film gave the idea that the boat loads of infantry were
approaching the shore in a torrent of rain, but the figures moved,
nevertheless, and unslung rifles, and formed into companies.
"The charge up the hill under fire," supplemented the operator. They had
no titles for the motion pictures in those days.
Amid a steady whirring, flashes of smoke appeared from the thickets
overhanging the shore. A soldier threw up his arms, another pitched
headlong into the sand, and the Americans swept up the slope in a charge
which brooked no obstacles. Little girls handclapped vigorously, while
the boys pounded on the floor with their feet and gave vent to weird
whistles of enthusiasm.
"And so San Joon was taken!"
"The hill wasn't on the water that way," John interrupted excitedly.
"I've got a book at home with maps and everything. Wasn't that way at
all."
"Let's pretend it was," Louise replied philosophically.
The lights flashed on in the hall to dazzle the eyes of the audience. A
chair squeaked. There was a sound of footsteps near the doorway.
"Keep your seats," cautioned Professor O'Reilley as he jumped up on the
stage. "The drawing for prizes will now take place. Ryan," to his
assistant, "bring them out on the stage as I call for them."
A babel arose. "Don't you wish you could win the skates, Jim?" "What'll
you do if you get a ring?" "And there's dolls and doll carriages, too."
The showman raised an arm as a signal for silence. "Will some boy step
up to draw the tickets from the hat?"
Four or five eager volunteers scrambled over the footlights. The
professor selected the largest of them.
"Number six-seventy-six!" John looked eagerly at the coupon which had
been handed him at the door. "Number six-seventy-six! Who has it?"
Harriette, the cast-off Harriette of last year, bobbed forward.
"Ah," boomed the deep voice. "A little girl, and a nice one, too."
Harriette stuck one finger in her mouth as she shifted sheepishly from
foot to foot. "But the skates are boy's. Isn't that too bad? Now, little
girl, do you think you will be satisfied with a nice, new dollar bill
instead? Will that buy a good enough pair of skates?"
"Jimmy!" John ejaculated enviously.
"Number three-forty-four!" he continued, as his volunteer assistant drew
out another slip. "And another little girl. Well, she gets this
beautiful Brazilian pearl ring, set with wonderful, glistening
rhinestones!"
The fortunate maiden scurried back to her mother as fast as her stocky
little legs could carry her.
"Number seven-hundred-fifteen! Number seven-hundred-fifteen!"
"Here!" shrieked John, as he nearly knocked the boy ahead of him over in
an excited effort to get to the front. "That's me!" Was it another pair
of skates, or a baseball bat, or the big, shining jack-knife which the
boys had told about?
"Number seven-fifteen is a boy, is it?" The professor's eyes twinkled.
"Ye--s--sir," stammered John, nervously.
"William," ordered the distributor of prizes as he half turned to the
exit in the wings. "Bring out that doll carriage!"
The house broke into vociferous mirth. Silvey, hailing him at the top of
his lungs, counseled him to "Give it to her! Give it to her!" Sid
DuPree's face grinned maliciously at him from the first row. Slowly he
stumbled down the aisle with the despised toy bumping after him, and
rejoined Louise.
He scarcely heard the numbers of the other prize winners as they were
called out. Nor did he pay attention to the professor's lecture on the
operation of the famous whistle which had so amused the audience that
afternoon.
Someway or other, he found himself out on the street with Louise. About
him, boys scampered home in the fast gathering dusk. One or two yelled
taunts about the doll carriage, and John was tempted to throw the
wicker-bodied pest into the street.
Louise was silent. She wanted to offer consolation, for she felt that
her escort was dangerously near tears over his humiliation, but she knew
not how to begin. They sauntered along. John eyed the little piece of
tape bound tin in the girl's hand with reawakening interest.
"Would you like it?" she asked graciously.
He murmured a husky "yes," and put the whistle in his mouth. After a few
uncertain "J-u-u-dys," he trudged on again in silence.
As they stopped in front of her apartment, John had an inspiration.
"Say, Louise," he began awkwardly, "I don't want this doll carriage.
Want it?"
And though his words were ungracious, she caught the spirit which lay
back of them and thanked him sweetly.
Thereupon, John skipped happily homeward to make his parents miserable
with divers attempts to imitate the noted T. J.'s Punch and Judy show.
Two days later, he left the noise-maker lying on the floor by his bed,
where Mrs. Fletcher confiscated it, and quiet reigned in the family
again.