It was a stormy autumn afternoon, and Phil sat in his rocking-chair
before the red coal fire watching the clock upon the mantelpiece. He
hoped it would strike soon and tell him what time it was, for he was
expecting company, and he felt that he had already waited quite long
enough.
He looked round the nursery and saw that everything was in its place,
spick and span and ready for visitors, too. The big dapple gray
rocking-horse stood in his corner, his fore feet impatiently lifted and
an eager gleam in his brown glass eye. No doubt he was anxious to do his
part by giving the visitor as many rides as she wished.
The tin kitchen, with its gay blue oven, was polished until it sparkled
and glittered like precious stones. The kitchen was a favorite toy with
Phil. He never tired of making strange little messes of pounded crackers
and water, that smelled of the tins they were cooked in, and tasted no
one but Phil could say how, for no one but he would eat them.
His big electric train, running on real tracks, a present from
Great-Uncle Fred, was nicely set up in the middle of the floor, and
looked as if it could take you to Jericho and return in one afternoon.
Little black Pompey in a red-and-white striped minstrel suit, high hat
on head, looked anxiously from the cab of the engine, for, as engineer,
was he not responsible for the safety of a whole family of paper dolls
who occupied an entire passenger car and who seemed not at all concerned
at the delay in starting?
The nodding donkey, the dancing bear, the flannel rabbit with only one
ear, stood stiffly on parade. The box of tin soldiers and sailors lay
invitingly open.
Yes, everything was ready, even to the big sailboat that leaned against
the wall, canvas spread to catch the first salt breeze. And best of all,
there stood the low nursery table covered with a spotless white cloth, a
sight which promised such a pleasant ending to what was sure to be a
pleasant afternoon that Phil treated himself to a violent rocking as a
way of working off his emotion.
For Phil had been ill in bed, and this was his first taste of fun in two
whole weeks. He had looked forward mightily to this very moment, and his
mother's promise that he should have a party as soon as he was well had
helped, more than anything else, to make the big spoonfuls of black
medicine go down without a struggle.
Phil's cheeks were white and his face was thin, and he wore for warmth
his manly little blue-and-white checked bathrobe, since only last night
his cough had been croupy again. Not that Phil called it his bathrobe.
In admiring imitation of his father's lounging costume he called it his
"smoking-jacket," and he had even had the daring to slip a match or two
into the deep side pocket, in which he fervently hoped no one might pry.
If Phil's mother had even suspected such a thing, he and the matches
would have parted company speedily, he well knew. He meant to slip them
safely back as soon as the party was over, and no one would be the wiser
or harmed in the least by what he had done, he thought. He smiled to
himself as he fingered the forbidden objects that nestled so innocently
in his pocket and gave him such a jaunty grown-up feeling.
And, in Phil's secret heart, there was another reason why he was happy
this afternoon. Gentilla had gone away.
It was not that Phil didn't like Gentilla, for he did. He had played
happily with her and Susan through the long summer days that the little
girl had spent in Featherbed Lane. He had enjoyed, he thought, the long
stay Gentilla had made with the Whitings when her gypsy relatives had
disappeared in the night and had never been heard of from that time to
this.
But at last Gentilla's visit had come to an end. Mr. Drew knew of a Home
for little children who needed some one to love and care for them. And
so, one bright October day, the good minister took the little gypsy girl
to her new home where she would lead an ordered, comfortable life quite
different from the rough-and-tumble days she had known in gypsy van or
camp.
At parting, Phil had presented Gentilla with his treasured Noah's ark
because she loved it so. He would willingly have given her his express
wagon, in which he had treated her to many a ride, if his mother hadn't
explained that it would not go into Gentilla's tiny trunk which her kind
friends were filling for her with a neat little outfit. He stood upon
the station platform, loyally waving his hat until the train was quite
out of sight.
And it was not until then that he learned how pleasant it was to have an
undivided Susan for a playmate once again, a Susan who was always glad
to see him, who never whispered secrets and wouldn't tell, who never ran
away from him, and who, in short, was to be the chosen guest of honor
that very afternoon.
"It must be most supper-time," grumbled Phil. "I wish the clock would
strike, or Susan would come, or something would happen."
The clock on the mantel began a whirring and creaking that caused Phil
to spring to his feet and fasten his eyes upon the little Roman soldier
in helmet and shield, who stood alert, both day and night, atop the
clock, ready to strike the hours as they came. The whirring grew louder.
Slowly the little Roman soldier raised his arm and loudly struck his
shield once, twice. Two o'clock!
"Time for Susan," said Phil joyfully.
He dragged a low cricket to the window, and, standing upon it, looked
out at the sodden brown lawn, the leafless trees rocking in a late
October gale, and the gray windswept sky. Big raindrops hurried nowhere
in particular down the window-pane, and Phil amused himself by racing
them with his finger. And presently he spied Susan.
"Come on, come on!" he shouted, knocking on the window, quite careless
of the fact that Susan couldn't possibly hear him. "I've been waiting
forever. Come on!"
The little figure in blue waterproof cape and hood, Susan's pride,
hurried down to the stone wall, through the gap, and across Phil's lawn.
Here was a puddle, and the blue waterproof hopped nimbly over it. Just
one peep into the empty dog kennel, and Phil heard the side door shut,
and knew that Susan would be there in a moment.
He waited impatiently, his eyes at the crack of the nursery door, since
the cold halls were forbidden him. He heard Susan and his mother
talking, and at last up she came, a box under her arm.
"See what I've brought," said Susan. "Grandmother sent it. And your
mother gave me some, just now, too. We will each have a long string of
them."
Susan sat down on the hearth-rug and opened the box. It was full of
buttons, large and small, dull and bright, white and colored, and these
she poured out in a little heap upon the floor.
"Grandmother sent a long thread for each of us," and Susan pounced upon
a small parcel at the bottom of the box. "She told me how to do it, too.
You string the buttons, as many as you like, and one of them is your
'touch button.' You must never tell which one that is, because who ever
touches that button must give you one of his. Do you see?"
"But won't you even tell me, Susan?" asked simple Phil, who wanted to
share all things with his friend, even to dark mysteries like "touch
buttons."
"Why, yes," said Susan generously, "if you will tell me yours."
Phil nodded and rummaged in the button heap.
"These are good ones," said he, ranging them on the floor before him.
"I'm going to begin to string."
Phil's taste was severe. He had chosen several large, dark, velvet
buttons, a brass military button, a useful black button or two that
might have come from his father's coat, a flat silver disk as big as a
dollar, and, as a lighter touch, all the buttons he could find covered
with a gay tartan plaid gingham.
Susan uttered cries of delight as she rapidly made her selection.
"Look at these blue diamonds," she exclaimed rapturously over some glass
buttons that had seen better days. "And here is one with beautiful pink
flowers painted on it. Here is a white fur one off my baby coat, and
these little violet-and-white checks are from Grandmother's gingham
dress. I know they are."
"Now this is the grandmother," she went on, taking up a fat brown
doorknob of a button. "I'll put her on my string first of all, so that
she can take care of the rest of them. And next I'll put this little
green velvet one so that it won't be lonesome."
"Which is your touch button?" asked Phil, after working busily in
silence for a whole minute.
"Shh-h-h!" warned Susan, looking carefully about her before answering,
as if a spy might be peeping through the keyhole or even hiding behind
the one-eared rabbit. "This one. It's my favorite, too." And she touched
a hard little rose-colored ball that looked uncommonly like a pill.
"Which is yours?"
Phil proudly displayed the military button, and whirled away from Susan
just in time to keep the secret from his mother who entered the room,
bearing a tray.
"Are you ready for your refreshments?" she asked, setting her burden
down upon the table. "Oh, let me see your button strings."
She took both strings in her hand to look them over, and to the delight
of the children she touched both of the charmed buttons.
"Touch! Touch!" they cried, capering about like wild Indians. "You
touched the 'touch button.' You owe us one now."
"So I do," said Mrs. Vane, laughing. "I had forgotten all about 'touch
buttons.' I shall be more careful after this. You won't catch me again.
Now, Phil, there are your refreshments, so draw up to the table whenever
you are ready. I must go look for buttons to pay my debt!"
Mrs. Vane, still laughing, took the tray and went downstairs.
Susan and Phil found themselves ready for the refreshments and made
haste to set the little table with the green-and-white china tea-set.
The dinner plates were quite large enough to hold the sponge cakes, and
if the tea-cups seemed a trifle small, think how many more times the
brimming pitcher of lemonade would go round.
Phil set out four plates instead of two.
"We will each ask one company to come to the table," said he. "I want
the rocking-horse, he looks so thirsty, and your grandfather always
stops to give Nero a drink when we go riding."
And Phil dragged his steed over to the table, where he rocked back and
forth for a moment bumping his nose against the edge of the table each
time. Indeed, with his open jaws and bright red nostrils, he looked as
if a whole trough of lemonade would be needed to slake his thirst.
"I'll take the bunny because he has only one ear," said tender-hearted
Susan.
As she stooped to pick up the rabbit, she uttered a scream and sent poor
bun flying half-way across the room. A small brown object, far more
frightened than Susan, sped like a streak of lightning along the wall,
and disappeared into the big closet where Phil kept his toys.
"What is it? What is it?" cried Phil, for Susan was jumping up and down
with her hands over her ears.
"It's on me! It's on me!" cried Susan, shuddering and shaking. "It's a
mouse! It's a mouse!"
"It isn't on you," said Phil. "Don't cry, Susan. I saw him go in the
closet. I'll fix him, you see."
With a bravery worthy of a better cause Phil opened the closet door,
struck one of his precious matches, threw it into the closet after the
mouse, and firmly shut the door.
"There now," said he. "I fixed him."
"What did you do?" quavered Susan, opening one eye. "Are you sure he
isn't on me? Look."
"I killed him," returned Phil briefly.
"How?"
"I burned him up," answered Phil in a deep voice.
"Really?" said Susan, awed. "But won't it set the house on fire?"
"No," said Phil stoutly. "It won't. I mean I don't think it will. Maybe
we had better look and see. You look, Susan."
On the floor of the closet stood an open Jack-in-the-box, and it was
upon poor Jack's hat that the match had alighted. Jack had bushy white
hair, and an equally bushy beard, and he was blazing merrily, grinning
like a hero all the while, when Susan opened the door.
Susan's heart stood still. Oh, if Mrs. Vane were only there!
"Run, Phil!" she called. "Run for your mother!"
And then with a presence of mind that, when he heard the tale,
Grandfather considered remarkable, she picked up the pitcher of lemonade
and emptied it over the blaze.
Phil ran screaming downstairs.
"The house is on fire and the mouse is burned up! Mamma, Mamma, come
quick! The mouse is on fire and the house is burned up!"
When Mrs. Vane reached the nursery, she found the fire out, the closet
floor covered with lemonade, Jack-in-the-box burned to a crisp, and
Susan, with shining eyes, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, but able
after a moment to tell her story.
"But, child," said Mrs. Vane, when she had made sure that the fire was
completely out and that the only article damaged was the unfortunate
Jack-in-the-box, "which one of you had matches, and what has become of
Phil? Who had the match, Susan?"
Ah, that was the question that Phil dared not face, and that had caused
him to hide himself securely behind the big sofa in the parlor where no
one went in cold weather except for a special reason.
But at last he was found, and, standing before his mother, listened with
drooping head to the truths his own conscience had already told him.
"I think you have found out for yourself, Phil, why a little boy should
never touch matches," said Mrs. Vane soberly. "If it hadn't been for
Susan, our house might have been burned to the ground. I'm sure I don't
know what your father would say if he were here."
Phil's eyes grew glassy at the very thought, but he said nothing.
Indeed, there was nothing he could say in excuse.
"You have spoiled your party, and ruined your Jack-in-the-box," went on
his mother. "And, now, after hiding so long in that chilly room, you
will have to go straight to bed so that you won't take cold."
At this Phil's tears burst forth, and Susan was moved to pity.
"Oh, dear," said she, with an arm about Phil's heaving shoulders, "he
will never touch the matches again, will you, Philly? Tell your mother
you won't."
"N-n-no," blubbered Phil dismally.
Mrs. Vane smiled down at the small sinner's comforter.
"It seems too bad that Susan shouldn't have her refreshments," she
remarked,--"especially since she put out the fire."
And in a very few moments Susan was sitting on the edge of Phil's bed,
and both were drinking hot chocolate and eating the party sponge cakes.
"Hadn't you better thank Susan for putting out the fire and saving our
house from burning down?" asked Mrs. Vane, as, a little later, she
helped Susan into her waterproof. She wanted to drive the lesson home,
and impress upon Phil's mind the danger they had so narrowly escaped.
"Thank you, Susan," returned Phil obediently. "But I'm going to do
something nice for you to-morrow," he added. "I'm going to give you my
'touch button,' you see."