[Illustration: 9090]
RIP! drip! drip! that was the sound that woke Sister Julia the next
Saturday morning. It was the splash of water dropping from the eaves of
the cottage on to the tin roof below. As soon as she heard it she gave
a little half sigh, for what did it foretell but a rainy Saturday? and a
rainy Saturday in that little cottage was likely to prove rather a
sorry affair. In the first place it was a small cottage at any time,
and doubly so on a rainy holiday, when three restless children must find
their amusement within doors. In the second place, these three little
people had a fashion of regarding a rainy Saturday as a sort of personal
grievance, and accordingly indulged in considerable fretfulness.
On this particular morning Master Harry Murray hearing the ominous
splashing, tumbled out of bed and flattened his gloomy little face
against the pane.
“Is it raining?” called Nan, in a most woe-begone voice, from her bed in
her own room.
“Raining? I should think so!” Harry called back. “It's raining cats and
dogs, and it is not going to stop for a minute all day. Besides, there's
an awful fog. It's pretty hard lines, it strikes me, to study all the
week with the sun shining bright, and then have it rain on your only
holiday. I just wish I could have the managing of things in this old
world for a while.”
“I don't, then,” called Nan; “it would be an awful hard world for girls.
You wouldn't think of a thing but just what would please the boys.”
Harry did not hear all of this, for he had flounced back into bed,
drawing the blanket tight over his head, as though he meant to stay
there for the rest of the day at any rate. Soon certain familiar odours,
suggestive of a favourite breakfast, began to steal through his room,
and his head gradually appeared above the covers, as though he were
debating in his mind whether on the whole it would not be better to get
up. A moment later the debate came to an end, for he heard his father's
voice, and pricking up his ears it was easy enough to hear what he was
saying.
“Look here, mother!” were the words that reached him, “the next time
Harry is so late to breakfast he must go without it; I mean it, mother.
The boy seems to be losing all regard for discipline. You can't manage a
boy without discipline, no more'n a crew.”
So it was not strange that Harry no longer questioned the advisability
of getting up, but springing out of bed and dressing in a jiffy managed
to put in an appearance at the table just as everyone else had finished.
Mrs. Murray dropped some cakes on the griddle especially for him, and
the lazy little fellow fared much better than he deserved. Mrs. Murray
had a very soft spot in her heart for this only boy of hers, and Captain
Murray's threat that another time Harry should go fasting set that soft
spot to aching, and made her anxious to fortify him against such an
emergency by heaping his plate high on this particular morning.
“Now I propose,” said Sister Julia, after breakfast, when the children
were moping and growling in the sitting-room, “that we have regular
lessons to-day, and then you can take the first clear day as a holiday
instead.”
“No, sir-ree,” answered Harry, decidedly. “You don't catch me studying
on Saturday for nobody.”
He felt rather ashamed of this speech as soon as it was uttered, but
this was not a day when he was going to ask any one's pardon, not
he--not even Sister Julia's, though he was very fond of her.
“You ought to be made to study every moment till you learn enough
grammar to know that you ought never to use two negatives in one
sentence,” said Regie, indignant at the way in which Harry had spoken.
“What do you say to that proposition yourself, Regie?” asked Sister
Julia. .
“Well, to tell the truth, I don't feel much like it,” said Regie; “my
head aches a little.”
“And mine aches like everything,” and Nan threw herself on to the lounge
and plunged her face into the sofa pillow, as though smothering itself
were preferable to life on a rainy Saturday.
“Oh, dear me! what a disconsolate little trio,” cried Sister Julia; “the
wisest thing doubtless for me to do will be to take refuge in my own
room and write some letters. When your troubles grow insupportable, come
up, and we'll all try to be as miserable as possible together.”
In their hearts that little trio must have felt very much ashamed of
themselves, but they continued to mope and fret for another hour. By
this time Mrs. Murray had gotten through with her morning work, and
notwithstanding the rain, had gone in the buggy with Captain Murray to
take some milk and fresh eggs to a sick woman down at the Branch.
“Oh, look here!” called Harry, wandering into the kitchen, and
discovering that he was monarch of all he surveyed, “we've got
everything to ourselves, we ought to have a regular good time, and do
something unusual.”
“Let's play tag through the doors,” cried Nan, proposing a game they
were seldom allowed to indulge in because of the general disturbance and
racket.
“No,” said his little Royal Highness, in an authoritative way, “we'll
have private theatricals. We'll act out a play,” he added, when he saw
by Nan's puzzled frown that she did not quite take in his idea.
“Good for you!” cried Harry, “that'll be the greatest fun. But oh! what
do you suppose?” he exclaimed, suddenly lowering his voice to an excited
whisper,--“crouch! crouch down, both of you; this way, close to the
window.”
“What--what is it, Harry?” Nan asked, frightened at this strange
performance, and regarding Harry in much the same dazed, sympathetic
fashion as she had watched her little kitten endure the horrors of a fit
the day before.
“Drop, drop, both of you!” was Harry's hoarse answer. “Don't you see?
the Croxsons are coming.”
[Illustration: 0093]
Oh! that was it, the Croxsons were coming! Regie and Nan quickly obeyed
Harry's order.
“How many of 'em?” asked Nan, from her prostrate position.
“The whole five,” Harry answered, hopelessly; “but I don't believe they
can see any of us, and if Sister Julia only does not hear them knock,
and come down, they'll go away again and think no one's at home. Now,
don't let's say a word.”
There was the patter of two pairs of little feet without, and the
scuffle of three pairs of others, and then there came a vigorous
knocking at the kitchen door, again repeated after an interval of a few
moments. The children held their breath.
“Guess they're all out,” they heard Joe Croxson say, disconsolately.
“I think it's kind of mean to keep them out in the pouring rain,” Nan
whispered.
“And I know it is,” answered Regie. “I say, let 'em in,” and it was no
sooner said than done.
Immediately the Croxsons crowded in after the manner of a rubber ball
which may be forced through a very small aperture. They all contrived
somehow or other to get through the door at once, but straightway spread
out into so large a company that one could but wonder how they had
managed it. None of them spoke a word till they were safely within
doors, evidently deeming conversation of no importance in comparison
with simply “getting in.”
“We made up our minds you were all out,” said Joe Croxson, at last,
while the family were in the process of removing damp-smelling outer
garments.
“We thought we'd fool you a while,” Harry answered, with a nonchalant
air.
The Croxsons were too glad to have gained entrance to take such
treatment much to heart. “We've c-c-come to spend the morning, and
stay to d-d-dinner, if you want us,” said little Madge, who stuttered
dreadfully.
“I'm pretty sure it won't be convenient to have you stay to dinner,”
said Nan, who no sooner beheld the shabby little Croxsons disposing
themselves about the room with a permanent air, than with charming
inconsistency she straightway regretted her noble impulse to let them
all in. That they were a shabby little company no one could for a moment
deny. The three girls, the youngest little more than a baby, each wore a
ragged dress, and for an out-of-door wrap a faded and colourless strip,
which collectively had once formed a shawl of their mother's.
The mother herself had died five years ago, and since then the children
had managed for themselves as best they could. Their father was fireman
on one of the engines belonging to the local road that ran through
Moorlow, and the children were alone from morning till night. A poor
woman came in every morning to cook their oatmeal and “tidy up,” but
being poorly paid, the tidying up was always hasty, and never thorough.
They were rather a stupid-looking set of children, and no wonder! You
would hardly expect to find much that was bright in their faces, with so
little brightness in their lives; besides, none of them had ever been to
school, and Joe, who was the oldest of them all, knew little more than
his letters, although he had passed his eleventh birthday. Everyone felt
sorry for the Croxsons; and no doubt they would have fared better in one
of the large cities, where they would have been reached by some of
the organised charities, than in a little place like Moorlow. The rich
people, who came in the summer in search of rest and refreshment, did
not interest themselves in the villagers, and the villagers themselves
were mostly hard-working fishermen with little time or money to devote
to others. Had it not been for the Murrays the Croxsons would surely
have fared much worse. Mrs. Murray did them many a kind turn, and when
Madge had a fever the winter before, Harry or Nan had trudged backward
and forward every day with beef tea or some other nourishing food. So
there was one bright spot in their lives after all. Indeed, there was
more than one, for born by the sea they loved it dearly, and in warm
sunshiny weather they romped on the beach the whole day long, keenly
enjoying their perfect freedom, and pitying the children obliged to go
to school. Nan always spoke of them as the “poor little Croxsons,” and
it was this pathetic side of their history which made her second Regie's
motion to open the door.
“Of course we can't play that game now, and all our fun is spoiled,”
said Harry, seeming to utterly disregard the feelings of the Croxsons.
Fortunately they were not sensitive, and their stolid little faces
showed no signs either of pain or resentment.
“Oh, yes, we can,” answered Regie; “they'll be the audience.”
“The very thing!” cried Nan, enthusiastically. “Now, children,” turning
to the Croxsons, “we are going to have a play, and you'll be the
audience, won't you?”
Each little Croxson nodded in the affirmative, though they had not the
remotest idea what it was they were to be. They were literally clay in
the hands of the potter when they were at the Murrays'. They did not
care what was done with them, or to them, so long as they were simply
allowed to stay. Harry fancied the idea of an audience, and preparations
were at once begun.
[Illustration: 0096]
The clothes-horse was converted into scenery by covering it with a green
plaid blanket-shawl,' the ironing table was pressed into service as a
settee for the audience, and the five Croxsons were packed into it in
one tightly wedged row. From the commencement of the performance to
its tragic end they sat staring in open-eyed astonishment; for they
had never seen anything like it before--nor had any one else, for that
matter. The plot of the play beggars description. Suffice it to say that
Nan figured as the heroine, with a blue gingham apron for a train and
a dish towel for a turban. Harry, muffled in a red table cover, was
terrible as a sort of border ruffian, and Regie played the part of Nan's
gallant brother. In a greater part of the performance there was so much
action, so much rushing on and off the stage, that it was difficult to
gain a clear idea of what was really intended; but matters culminated in
a hand-to-hand scuffle between Harry and Reginald--a wooden spoon and
a toasting fork doing service as weapons. Finally Harry succumbed, and
fell to the ground with the rather inelegant exclamation, “Stabbed!
stabbed to the liver!” and Nan falling in a swoon to the floor was
enveloped in the green plaid shawl, which she accidentally pulled down
with her.
[Illustration: 0097]
“Oh, Harry! why did you give out?” cried Joe Croxson, never more excited
in his life.
“It was planned for me to die,” Harry answered, still lying motionless
on the floor. “I was Regie's sister's lover, and I'm a fraud and a
wretch.”
The play had lasted almost an hour, and to the great delight of all
concerned.
“P-p-please d-d-do it again!” begged little Madge. Rex and Nan were in
favour of a repetition, but for Harry the novelty was gone, and novelty
was everything with him.
“No, I've had enough,” he said, decidedly, and so the project had to be
abandoned. Meanwhile Harry's assertion that it was going to rain all
day was fast being contradicted, for it had stopped raining, and now and
then the sun shone out bravely through a rift in the clouds. With the
sunshine came a distaste for indoor fun, and there was a rush for hats
and coats preparatory to a rush out into the November air. Nan, with
tender thoughtfulness, had hung the Croxsons' wraps on chairs near the
fire, and now they were dry, and as fit for use again as it was possible
for such sorry clothes to be. At last all were ready, and Regie hurrying
to open the door that led to the porch from the kitchen, found it locked
and the key gone. The little party stared at each other. Harry was
missing, and nowhere to be seen. Of course he was the guilty one. Then
there was a stampede for the sitting-room door. Locked, too, and minus
the key. A suppressed titter from the head of the stairs made them all
look up.
“Why don't you go out?” Harry giggled; “I'd be ashamed if I couldn't
open a door.”
“Come down and give us those keys this minute,” demanded Nan, in a tone
most unlikely to accomplish her object. Harry only smiled provokingly.
All in vain the children begged and coaxed. Finally they scrambled
up the stairs to gain possession of them by main force if possible.
Meanwhile Nan, evolving a little scheme out of her own head, slipped
into Harry's room, appearing again in a trice with his Sunday suit in
her hand. Harry had great regard for that Sunday suit, and Nan knew it.
“Look here, Harry!” she cried, “I will throw this downstairs if you
don't give up those keys right away.”
“You dare!” called Harry, still engaged in a scuffle with the boys, “and
I know what I'll do.”
Alas! Nan dared, and the precious suit fell in a crumpled mass to the
floor below. By a sudden jerk Harry freed himself from his captors, and
rushing into Nan's room, dragged pillow and bed-clothes from the bed,
and then pitched them over the banisters. In a second they were followed
by bolster and mattress. The little Crox-sons and Regie looked on in
speechless astonishment The general encounter had reduced itself to
single combat between Harry and Nan.
“Well!” said Nan, “mother will soon be home, and then we'll see what
will happen. Harry Preston Murray” (Nan always called Harry by his full
name when out of patience with him), “you have an awful temper!”
[Illustration: 8099]
“I'll teach you not to touch my clothes again, any way,” Harry answered,
carefully shaking and folding the precious trousers.
“But you don't know when to stop, Harry,” sighed Nan, coming down the
stairs and surveying the havoc wrought with real dismay. What would her
mother say and do about it? Harry began to have some misgivings of his
own on the subject.
“You will have to carry all those things up again,” she said, in a
half-pleading tone.
“And I'll help you, though you ought to be made to do it all yourself,”
added Regie.
Harry came to the conclusion that he _would_ have to carry them up again
sooner or later, and deemed it wise to commence before any one arrived
on the scene. Besides, there was an ominous sound of wheels down the
road. It might be Captain and Mrs. Murray. Joe Croxson had his own fears
regarding this possibility, and beckoning his brothers and sisters into
a corner, confided to them that he thought they had better take their
departure. “There's going to be a row,” he whispered, “when the old 'uns
come home. Harry 'll catch it, and if we don't look out we'll catch it
too.” To the little Croxsons a hint was sufficient. Owing to certain
personal experiences of a painful character, they seemed to live in a
constant dread of what they termed “catching it.” The keys had fallen
from Harry's pocket in the confusion, and hurriedly unlocking the door,
the whole five slipped out and stole noiselessly away, without so much
as saying “by your leave,” or “good-bye,” either to host or hostess.
Harry and Rex and Nan, toiling, tugging, and shoving the unwieldy
mattress upstairs, did not miss them till many minutes afterward.
Indeed, they were each too much absorbed with their own thoughts to
notice anything. Regie was the only one who saw any funny side to the
proceeding, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little. Nan was on
the verge of actual tears. The sight of her dainty little pillow shams
and coverlid so sadly rumpled was almost too much for her. Harry was
indignant over having to undo his own mischief, and did everything in
a jerky, disagreeable way. Finally the little bed was in some sort of
order, but as Nan was adjusting the pillow, Harry, giving her a shove
which sent her into the middle of the bed, exclaimed, “You are enough to
try the patience of a saint, Nan!”
It needed nothing more to bring Nan's threatening tears to the surface,
and lying just where Harry had pushed her, she burst into sobs and
tears. If there was one thing Harry hated more than another it was to
have Nan cry, and to add to his discomfort Sister Julia came hurrying
into the room. She had heard the romping in the hall, but never dreamed
that it needed investigation till Nan's crying reached her.
“Why, what is the matter?” she questioned.
“There's a great deal the matter,” Regie replied, calmly; “and I should
think Harry would be ashamed of himself.”
“Nan began it,” said Harry, with Adam-like self-excusing. “Harry got so
mad,” explained Regie, excitedly, “that he threw----
“Wait a minute, Regie, let Harry tell me himself.”
“Yes, I got so mad,” said Harry, using Regie's own words, “that I took
everything from Nan's bed and pitched it downstairs. Nan threw my Sunday
suit down first, or I would never have thought of it. But I helped bring
all the clothes up again, so I don't see what she wants to cry about it
now for.”
“I am not crying about that at all, Sister Julia,” sobbed Nan, without
raising her head; “I'm crying because he said 'I was enough to try the
patience of a saint.' I don't know what it means, but I think it's an
awful unkind thing for a brother to say.”
Sister Julia could hardly keep from smiling at this unexpected turn of
affairs. Harry and Regie laughed outright, which did not help matters
much.
Sister Julia motioned the boys from the room, and sitting down by Nan,
on the side of the bed, stroked the brown curls till the sobs grew few
and far between. Then she explained that “she was enough to try the
patience of a saint” was not such a very dreadful thing for Harry to
have said, and finally induced Nan to admit, smiling through her tears,
that both she and Harry were to blame, and that on the whole they had
had rather a funny time of it Presently Captain and Mrs. Murray came
home, finding everything in order about the house. Only you and Sister
Julia, little reader, ever heard the full history of that rainy Saturday
morning.
[Illustration: 0102]