off. All he could talk about that day was “that clever little girl of
Job Lansing's” who was going to make a real store at the summit and
keep the mountain trade where it belonged.
“Where are you, Uncle?” called Ellie, as she came back into the store.
“I'm hiding!” said Job. “Ashamed to be seen. Enlarge the store! It's
more than likely I'll have to mortgage it. And you drumming up trade
that way. It isn't ladylike.”
“Well, it simply has to be done. He'll give us some good advertising
down the road to-day. I wish there was some one I could send down the
creek. I wonder if you couldn't ride down, yourself.”
But Job Lansing pretended not to hear.
Ellie did not feel as brave as her words indicated. She knew that
their trade from day to day came from the Indian settlement, and
looked disconsolately out of the window. But in a moment she gave an
exclamation of joy and found herself shaking her uncle's arm. “Here
they come, Uncle, dear! Here they come!”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“The squaws! They're here in full force. Mary, the old darling, she's
brought the whole tribe, I do believe!”
Ellie busied herself at the counter, trying to appear at ease when
the Indian women filed into the store and stood gazing about them.
She was impatient to know if they were pleased, but their impassive
faces told nothing. She would just have to let them take their time.
So she pretended not to notice them as they drew near to the counter,
fingering the beads and dress-goods.
“How do you like my new dress, Mary?” Ellie turned on them suddenly.
The squaws approached slowly and began to feel the cloth. Mary took
hold of the beads and said, “Uh!” Then in a moment, “How much?”
Ellie's impulse was to throw her arms around Mary and hug her, but she
was very dignified and grown-up as she answered calmly: “We don't sell
the beads. They are not for sale!”
“Well of all things! Not for sale!” muttered Job, as he slipped through
the rear door into the store-room and slammed it vehemently.
“They are not for sale, but we give a string of them to any one who
buys a dress.”
Five of the squaws bought dresses, and each time a long string of beads
was passed over.
In the afternoon, Ellie's watchful eyes caught the first glimpse of
them as the same squaws, accompanied by others, rounded the curve in
the path and came single file up the steep short-cut to the store.
Ellie counted her profits that night and was satisfied. Still, there
were some twenty or twenty-five squaws in the settlement who had never
been inside the store, and she made up her mind that they must be
persuaded to come.
The next week a large packing-case arrived. Ellie was the one to wield
the hatchet this time, for her uncle was still in an ungracious mood.
The box was larger than she expected, but this was explained when it
was opened. Two large dolls were inside--one with curly short hair and
boyish face, and the other a real “girly” doll. A letter explained
that with an order for children's ready-to-wear clothes it might be an
advantage to have dolls on which to display them.
“I wonder!” said Ellie, to herself. “Look here, Uncle,” she called, as
the old man came into the store; “see what they've sent me! Look at
these pink and white dolls, when we're trading with Indians. Isn't it a
joke?”
“A coat of brown paint is what you want,” said old Job, laughing a
cynical laugh.
“You've hit it, Uncle! You certainly have dandy ideas! I shouldn't have
thought of it.”
Then in a moment he heard her at the telephone giving a number. It
was the Prescott ranch. “Hello, is that you, Louise? Can you come up
to-day? I need you. All right. And Lou, bring your oil paints. It's
very important.”
It was with much giggling and chattering that the two girls began their
transformation of the pink-and-white dolls. Their bisque faces were
given a thin coating of brown paint. The old man watched them from
across the store and almost gasped as he saw them rip off the wigs.
Then they retreated to the kitchen. He was so curious that he made
several trips to the door and peeked through a crack.
What he saw was the two girls bending over a pot on the stove, which
they were stirring furiously. Once in a while Ellie raised the stick
with something black on the end, and finally the two dripping dolls'
wigs were hung over the stove to dry. Of course the boiling had taken
all the curl out of the hair, but that was what they wanted, for the
two dolls were now brown-faced, dark-haired figures. They were arrayed
in the ready-to-wear clothes, and the girls stood back to survey them.
“They look fine, Ellie! That is, yours does; but my girl here doesn't
look quite right.”
Job Lansing was pretending to be busy. He turned and at once broke into
a roar of laughter. “Well, when did you ever see a blue-eyed Injin?”
“Oh that's it, Ellie. Your doll had brown eyes, but mine are blue. What
shall we do? It looks silly this way.”
“Paint 'em black!” chuckled the old man.
“Of course!” said Ellie. Then in a tone loud enough to carry across the
store, “Isn't Uncle quick to notice things?” Ellie meant him to hear
what she said, but she was none the less sincere, for she did have a
high regard for her uncle's ability. She had said to Louise often in
the last few days, “When I get Uncle started, there'll be no stopping
him.” Still, the remark had been sent forth with a purpose.
Job Lansing gave the girl a quick glance. She was daubing brown paint
on the girl-doll's eyes. He was pleased by her praise and no less by
her readiness to take his advice.
The little dresses and suits sold quickly. Mrs. Matthews bought a
supply, and told others about them.
But they were mostly white women who purchased these things; and while
Ellie was glad to get their trade, she still had the fixed idea that
[Illustration: =“'Isn't this great! They're here, every one of them!
You're awfully good to let us use the phonograph'.”=] (_page 250_)
she must get the squaws in the habit of coming in to do their own
shopping.
The quick sale of the new goods made a deep impression on Job Lansing,
and he seemed especially pleased at the sales made to the white women
at the mines. One morning he approached his niece with the suggestion
that she had better keep her eyes open and find out what the women
around the mountains needed. Ellie had been doing this for weeks. She
had a big list made out already, but she saw no need of telling her
uncle. She looked up, her face beaming.
“That's a capital idea, Uncle. I think we might just as well sell them
all their supplies.” Ellie was exultant. She knew her troubles were
over, that her plan was working out.
Still, she wasn't quite satisfied. A few of the shy squaws had been
induced to come up and look at things from the outside, peering into
the shop through the door and windows. But there were probably twenty
who had not been in the store. If only she could persuade them to come
once, there would be no more trouble.
The final stroke which brought the Indians, both men and women, into
the store was a bit of good luck. Ellie called it a miracle.
It was after a very heavy rain-storm in the mountains that Jennings,
the stage-driver, shouted to her one evening: “Do you mind if I leave
a big box here for young Creighton over at the Scotia mine? The road's
all washed out by Camp 3, and I don't dare take this any farther. It's
one of those phonygrafts that makes music, you know. And say, Miss
Ellie, will you telephone him that it's here?”
“Yes,” answered Ellie in an absent-minded way. “I'll telephone him. She
was still half dreaming as she heard young Creighton's voice at the
other end of the line, but at once she became eager and alert. “I want
to ask a favor of you, Mr. Creighton? Your phonograph is here. They
can't take it up on account of the washout. May I open it and play on
it. I'll make sure that it is boxed up again carefully.”
“Why, certainly, Miss Ellie! I'll be glad to have you enjoy the music.
The records and everything are in the box. Perhaps I'll come over and
hear it myself.”
The next evening, about eight o'clock, Will Creighton arrived on
horseback, and found such a throng of Indians close about the door that
he had to go in by the kitchen. He heard the strains of the phonograph
music and had no need to ask the cause of the excitement. All the
squaws were inside the store. Occasionally one would extend a hand and
touch the case or peer into the dark box, trying to discover where the
sound came from.
Creighton approached Ellie, who was changing a needle. She turned her
flushed face to him with a smile. “Isn't this great! They're here,
every one of them! You're awfully good to let us use the phonograph.
I've ordered one like it for ourselves. These blessed squaws do enjoy
music so much!”
Job Lansing was standing near the machine, enjoying it as much as any
one. A new record had been put on, the needle adjusted, and the music
issued forth from that mysterious box. It was one of those college
songs, a “laughing” piece. And soon old Job was doubled over, with
his enjoyment of it. The squaws drew closer together. At first they
scowled, for they thought that the queer creature in the polished case
was laughing at _them_. Then one began to giggle, and soon another and
finally the store was filled with hysterical merriment. Sometimes it
would stop for a moment, and then, as the sounds from the phonograph
could be heard, it would break forth again.
Ellie stood for hours, playing every record four or five times, and
when she finally shut up the box, as a sign that the concert was over,
the taciturn Indians filed silently out of the store and went home
without a word.
But the girl knew that they would return. She had won!
Another triumph was hers when the springtime came again. One day her
uncle approached her and hesitatingly said, “Ellie, we're going to be
awfully cramped when our new summer goods arrive. Guess I'd better have
Hoan ride over and give me an estimate on an addition to the store.”
Ellie suppressed the desire to cry out, “I told you so!” Instead she
said very calmly: “Why, that's a fine idea, Uncle. Business _is_
picking up, and it would be nice to have more room. I'm glad you
thought of it.”
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS
1. Why does the story begin so abruptly?
2. What is the character of Job Lansing?
3. What is the character of Ellie?
4. How does the author explain that Ellie has views that do not
harmonize with her uncle's views?
5. What advantage does the author gain from the setting of the
story?
6. How does the author make the story seem real?
7. Why did the author introduce subordinate characters?
8. Divide the story into its component incidents.
9. At what point is the reader's interest greatest?
10. At what point is Ellie's success certain?
11. Which incident has the greatest emphasis?
12. How does the author make Ellie the principal character?
13. What is the effect of the quick conclusion?
14. How does the author make use of conversation as a means of
telling events?
15. On what one idea is the story founded?
SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION
1. Re-Arranging the House 11. Our Piazza
2. Fixing Up the Office 12. The Flower Garden
3. Increasing Sales 13. Selling Hats
4. The New Clerk 14. Building Up Trade
5. The Old Store Made New 15. Father's Desk
6. Our Dooryard 16. Making Study Easy
7. A Back-Yard Garden 17. Making a Happy Kitchen
8. Making Over the Library 18. A Successful Charity Fair
9. Father's Stable 19. The Window Dresser
10. Decorating the School Room 20. A Good Advertisement
DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING
Write about a subject with which you are familiar, and with
which your readers are familiar. Make your principal character a
young person. Make your story concern the contrast of two
methods of accomplishment, one of which will represent the old
and least successful method; the other, the new and more successful.
Write a series of three or four briefly told incidents that will lead
to a climax. Make free use of conversation. Notice that the author
of _Getting Up to Date_ has left out much that might have been said,
and has thereby made the story crisp and emphatic. Make your
own story condensed and to the point. Pay particular attention to
writing a strong ending.
THE LION AND THE MOUSE
By JOSEPH B. AMES
_(1878-). An American engineer and author. After his graduation
from Stevens Institute Mr. Ames at first devoted himself entirely
to engineering. He has been prominent in promoting the work of the
Boy Scouts. Among his books are the following:_ The Mystery of Ram
Island; Curly of the Circle Bar; Curly and the Aztec Gold; Pete the
Cowpuncher; Under Boy Scout Colors; Shoe-Bar Stratton; The Emerald
Buddha.
=Realism and romance may be combined in a story of school life as
well as in a story of any other kind. _The Lion and the Mouse_
tells, in part, of ordinary, everyday events, and in part, of
events that are distinctly out of the ordinary. The characters are
the characters of school life,--two boys of entirely different
natures but, after all, one at heart,--and subordinate characters
who belong in the realm of real life. Many of the events of the
story are commonplace enough. On this basis of reality there has
been founded a story of quick event, a story of the unusual,
entirely probable, centering around character and character
development.=
Big Bill Hedges scowled out of the locker-room window and groaned
softly. There was something about that wide, unbroken sweep of snow
which affected him disagreeably. If only it had been crisscrossed by
footprints, or the tracks of snow-shoes or toboggans, he wouldn't have
minded it nearly so much. But there it lay, flat, white, untrodden,
drifting over low walls and turning the clumps of shrubbery into
shapeless mounds. And of a sudden he found himself hating it almost as
much as the dead silence of the endless, empty rooms about him. For it
was the fourth day of the Christmas vacation, and, save the kitchen
staff, there were only two other human beings in this whole great
barracks of a place.
“And neither of them is really human,” grunted Hedges, turning
restlessly from the window.
With a disgusted snort he recalled the behavior of those two, whom so
far he had met only at meal-time. Mr. Wilson, the tutor left in charge
of the school, consumed his food in a preoccupied sort of daze, rousing
himself at rare intervals to make some plainly perfunctory remark. He
was writing some article or other for the magazines, and it was all too
evident that the subject filled his waking hours. And “Plug” Seabury,
with his everlasting book propped up against a tumbler, was even worse.
But then Hedges had never expected anything from him.
Crossing to his locker, the boy pulled out a heavy sweater, stared at
it dubiously for a moment, and then let it dangle from his relaxed
fingers. For once the thought of violent physical exertion in the
open failed to arouse the least enthusiasm. Ever since the departure
of the fellows, he had skeed and snow-shoed and tramped through the
drifts--alone; and now the monotony was getting on his nerves. He flung
the sweater back, and, slamming the locker door, strolled aimlessly out
of the room.
One peep into the cold, lofty, empty “gym” effectually quelled his
half-formed notion of putting in an hour or two on the parallel bars.
“I'm lonesome!” he growled; “just--plumb--lonesome! It's the first time
I've ever wished I didn't live in Arizona.”
But the thought of home and Christmas cheer and all the other vanished
holiday delights was not one to dwell on now; he tried instead to
appreciate how absurd it would have been to spend eight of his twelve
holidays on the train.
A little further dawdling ended in his turning toward the library.
He was not in the least fond of reading. Life ordinarily, with its
constant succession of outdoor and indoor sports and games, was much
too full to think of wasting time with a book unless one had to. But
the thought occurred to him that to-day it might be a shade better than
doing absolutely nothing.
Opening the door of the long, low-ceiled, book-lined room, which he
had expected to find as desolately empty as the rest, he paused in
surprise. On the brick hearth a log fire burned cheerfully, and curled
up in an easy chair close to the hearth, was the slight figure of Paul
Seabury.
“Hello!” said Hedges, gruffly, when he had recovered from his surprise.
“You've sure made yourself comfortable.”
Seabury gave a start and raised his head. For a moment his look was
veiled, abstracted, as if his mind still lingered on the book lying
open in his lap. Then recognition slowly dawned, and a faint flush
crept into his face.
“The--the wood was here, and I--I didn't think there'd be any harm in
lighting it,” he said, thrusting back a straggling lock of brown hair.
“I don't s'pose there is,” returned Hedges, shortly. Unconsciously,
he was a little annoyed that Seabury should seem so comfortable and
content. “I thought you were upstairs.”
He dragged a chair to the other side of the hearth and plumped down in
it. “What you reading?” he asked.
Seabury's eyes brightened. “Treasure Island,” he answered eagerly.
“It's awfully exciting. I've just got to the place where--”
“Never read it,” interrupted the big fellow, indifferently. Lounging
back against the leather cushions, he surveyed the slim, brown-eyed,
rather pale-faced boy with a sort of contemptuous curiosity. “Do you
read _all_ the time?” he asked.
Again the blood crept up into Seabury's thin face and his lids drooped.
“Why, no--not all the time,” he answered slowly. “But--but just now
there's nothing else to do.”
Hedges grunted. “Nothing else to do! Gee-whiz! Don't you ever feel like
going for a tramp or something? I s'pose you can't snow-shoe, or skee,
but I shouldn't think you'd want to stay cooped up in the house all the
time.”
A faint, nervous smile curved the boy's sensitive lips. “Oh, I can skee
and snow-shoe all right, but--” He paused, noticing the incredulous
expression which Hedges was at no pains to hide. “Everybody does, where
I live in Canada,” he explained, “often it's the only way to get about.”
“Oh, I see.” Hedges' tone was no longer curt, and a sudden look of
interest had flashed into his eyes. “But don't you _like_ it? Doesn't
this snow make you want to go out and try some stunts?”
Seabury glanced sidewise through the casement windows at the sloping,
drifted field beyond. “N--no, I can't say it does,” he confessed
hesitatingly; “it's such a beastly, rotten day.”
His interest in Plug's unexpected accomplishments made Hedges forbear
to comment scornfully on such weakness.
“Rotten!” he repeated. “Why, it's not bad at all. It's stopped snowing.”
“I know; but it looks as if it would start in again any minute.”
“Shucks!” sniffed Hedges. “A little snow won't hurt you. Come ahead out
and let's see what you can do.”
Seabury hesitated, glancing with a shiver at the cold, white field
outside and back to the cheerful fire. He did not feel at all inclined
to leave his comfortable chair and this enthralling book. On the other
hand, he was curiously unwilling to merit Bill Hedges' disapproval.
From the first he had regarded this big, strong, dominating fellow with
a secret admiration and shy liking which held in it no touch of envy or
desire for emulation. It was the sort of admiration he felt for certain
heroes in his favorite books. When Hedges made some spectacular play
on the gridiron or pulled off an especially thrilling stunt on the
hockey-rink, Seabury, watching inconspicuously from the side-lines, got
all hot and cold and breathlessly excited. But he was quite content
that Hedges should be doing it and not himself. Sometimes, to be
sure, he wondered what it would be like to have such a person for a
friend. But until this moment Hedges had scarcely seemed aware of his
existence, and Seabury was much too shy to make advances, even when the
common misfortune of too-distant homes had thrown them together in the
isolation of the empty school.
“I--I haven't any skees,” he said at length.
Hedges sprang briskly to his feet. “That's nothing. I'll fix you up. We
can borrow Marston's. Come ahead.”
Swept along by his enthusiasm, Seabury closed his book and followed him
out into the corridor and down to the locker room. Here they got out
sweaters, woolen gloves and caps, and Hedges calmly appropriated the
absent Marston's skees.
Emerging finally into the open, Seabury shivered a little as the keen,
searching wind struck him. It came from the northeast, and there was a
chill, penetrating quality about it which promised more snow, and that
soon. By the time Seabury had adjusted the leather harness to his feet
and resumed his gloves, his fingers were blue and he needed no urging
to set off at a swift pace.
In saying that he could skee, the boy had not exaggerated. He was, in
fact, so perfectly at home upon the long, smooth, curved-up strips
of ash, that he moved with the effortless ease and grace of one
scarcely conscious of his means of locomotion. Watching him closely,
Hedges' expression of critical appraisement changed swiftly to one of
unqualified approval.
“You're not _much_ good on them, are you?” he commented. “I suppose you
can jump any old distance and do all sorts of fancy stunts.”
Seabury laughed. He was warm again and beginning to find an unwonted
pleasure in the swift, gliding motion and the tingling rush of frosty
air against his face.
“Nothing like that at all,” he answered. “I can jump some, of course,
but I'm really not much good at anything except just straight-away
going.”
“Huh!” grunted Hedges, sceptically. “I'll bet you could run circles
around any of the fellows here. Well, what do you say to taking a
little tramp. I've knocked around the grounds till I'm sick of them.
Let's go up Hogan Hill,” he added, with a burst of inspiration.
Seabury promptly agreed, though inwardly he was not altogether thrilled
at the prospect of such a climb. Hogan Hill rose steeply back of the
school. A few hay-fields ranged along its lower level, but above them
the timber growth was fairly thick, and Paul knew from experience that
skeeing on a wooded slope was far from easy.
As it turned out, Hedges had no intention of tackling the steep slope
directly. He knew of an old wood-road which led nearly to the summit by
more leisurely twists and curves, and it was his idea that they take
this as far as it went and then skee down its open, winding length.
By the time they were half-way up, Seabury was pretty well blown. It
was the first time he had been on skees in nearly a year, and his
muscles were soft from general lack of exercise. He made no complaint,
however, and presently Hedges himself proposed a rest.
“I wish I could handle the things as easily as you do,” he commented.
“I work so almighty hard that I get all in a sweat, while you just
glide along as if you were on skates.”
“I may glide, but I haven't any wind left,” confessed Seabury. “It's
only practice you know. I've used them ever since I was a little kid,
and compared to some of the fellows up home, I'm nowhere. Do you think
we ought to go any farther? I felt some snow on my face just then.”
“Oh, sure!” said Hedges, bluffly. “A little snow won't hurt us, anyhow,
and we can skee down in no time at all. Let's not go back just yet.”
Presently they started on again, and though Seabury kept silent, he was
far from comfortable in his mind. He had had more than one unpleasant
experience with sudden winter storms. It seemed to him wiser to turn
back at once, but he was afraid of suggesting it again lest Hedges
think him a quitter.
A little later, still mounting the narrow, winding trail, they came
upon a rough log hut, aged and deserted, with a sagging, half-open
door; but the two boys, unwilling to take off their skees, did not stop
to investigate it.
Every now and then during the next half mile trifling little gusts of
stinging snowflakes whirled down from the leaden sky, beat against
their faces, and scurried on. Seabury's feeling of nervous apprehension
increased, but Hedges, in his careless, self-confident manner merely
laughed and said that the trip home would be all the more interesting
for little diversions of that sort.