The postman rapped at my door, and presently the trim little maid
brought me a big square letter on a tray. I knew that hand. Nobody but
Penelope writes in that scraggly style, plain, too, as a pikestaff, and
easy to read. “Darling Gertrude,” she began, “I am about to plead for a
visit. It seems a little bit of forever since I saw you and I want you
here in my country house where we’ll have time to enjoy one another,
talk of the past and present tenses to our hearts’ content, and perhaps
plan a happy future.
“Let me tell you whom you’ll meet: Mr. and Mrs. Burkhardt,—you remember
that sweet little girl bride who succeeded so well in blinding us—at
first; dear old General Bolton, and his youngest brother, who paints
almost as well as he talks; pretty Elsie Sterling and my cousin Bob.
You see I put them together, but so would you if you could look out
of my window and see them now. Bob has just mounted Elsie on White
Baron, and now as I write the words he’s up on Caper and off they
go. Well—we’ll borrow White Baron and Caper later on, you and I, and
perhaps as we canter along side by side we may feel ourselves back
again,—back—how many years? Never mind, we’ll not count. The years have
been happy to us both, I hope.
“But you’ll come—you must not say _no_, remember. Cordially your friend,
“Penelope T. Gerard.”
Indeed I would not say “No.” I would arrange and rearrange my summer
plans to meet Penelope once more.
It was scarce three years since I last saw her. She was then a bride
of but two months and I spent three days with her just as I was
leaving for Germany. During the interval our letters were more or less
frequent, and so in a way we each kept track of the other and felt as
close friends as we had been since our childhood.
So it was with infinite pleasure I wrote an acceptance.
“The Maples” is an unpretending rambling sort of a house, with piazzas,
and “corners,” and nooks where one would least expect them. There is
no rhyme or reason to the architecture, and an architect would shake
his head in sad consternation. However, if he were told that three
generations of Gerards had idled their summers happily away within
and without its walls, and that each owner had added his share to the
original pile, perhaps the exact architect would turn his critical
smile to one of content and count himself fortunate to be allowed to
enter this abode of happiness.
It was a sunny day when I first drove up the long maple-lined driveway
and there on the lawn, close to the entrance, was Penelope making tea
and laughing one of her old merry laughs as the General stood before
her. I suppose he was telling her one of his funny stories. I don’t
know, for of course I only saw them a moment before the carriage
stopped, and once more Penelope and I were together.
The General had known us both as girls, and soon we were talking over
old faces and scenes, and it seemed as though we had never been parted.
The rest of the party had gone for a long drive and would not be back
until seven o’clock. So we three talked on and on.
“Oh, it does seem so good to be here, Pen,” I said, and added, “As I
came up the driveway, the first thing I heard was your laugh. You know
how mamma used to like to hear you laugh.”
“Yes, I remember how irrepressible I was. But, Trudy, you too would
have laughed if you’d heard the General hang me.”
“Hang you?”
“Why, yes. Don’t you know the game?” Then seeing my bewilderment, she
went on. “You must learn it. It’s fine for two people. Especially when
one gets short of subjects to talk about.”
Here General Bolton threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Short
of subjects to talk about! I guess Trudy would as soon believe the
Atlantic had gone dry as to think your nimble tongue was ever still.
No, indeed! On the contrary, Trudy, she was bound she would make me
let out a secret, and I, old fool, would probably have fallen into her
trap, only she warned me by—but never mind how she warned me, or even
that will fail me next time. So I hung her. Yes, I caught her well.”
Then with a chuckle. “Tell her how, Pen, you know best how, for you
know you were _hung_, and well hung.” And again he laughed.
“That’s true. But try me again sometime, or rather, I’ll try you and
we’ll see who does the _hanging_. No, not now, you need not look so
eager.”
“Bah, you’re afraid.”
“No, indeed I am not. Just now however I mean to take Gertrude and show
her where her room is. She has been ever so patient.”
“But, my dear, please explain first about the _hanging_. It sounds so
sanguinary.”
“Well, it is. Now listen and I’ll explain, and then we’ll go indoors.
‘To hang a person with a word,’ is the name of the game. You take any
word you like in your mind and simply mention the number of letters it
has. The other party has to guess, by letters, without making twelve
misses. If she fails to guess without twelve wrong guesses, she is
_hung_ as I was. That doesn’t seem very clear to you, I suppose.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“I’ll take a word and show you. Now, General, I did not mean to give
you your battle now. But you may have it if you’re ready.”
“Steady, fire.”
“All right.” Then she whispered to me the word “Eyelet.”
“Well, I’ll hang you, General Bolton, with a word of six letters.”
“Bah, that’s easy. First, I’ll guess L.”
“Right. It has fourth place.” Then she explained to me, “You have to
tell the position of the letter.”
“M.”
“Wrong. That’s one. You help me keep count, Trudy. Remember, twelve
wrong guesses and I’ve hung him.”
“A.”
“Wrong. That makes two.”
“E.”
“Right. First place.”
“I.”
“Wrong. Three.”
“O.”
“Wrong. You see he’s trying the vowels. How many does that make?”
“Four.”
“Oh, you girls need not look so jubilant; four doesn’t make much. I’ll
guess U, next.”
“Five,” we both shouted.
“Well, T.”
“Right, and sixth place.”
“An e, an l, and a t. Let me see. Any n’s in it?”
“No. That makes six. Oh, we have you, General, that is half the number.”
“The battle is not won yet; no, nor lost yet. Well, I’ll guess G.”
“Seven.”
He looked down at the grass and drummed his fingers on his knee, then
said, “D.”
“Eight.”
“An e, an l, and a t. That’s a queer combination when all the other
vowels are out. Holloa! Is there another e?”
“Yes. Third place.”
“Oh, and another l?”
“Nine.”
“I hope this word is in the English language?”
“Oh, yes. It is English and it is used to-day, but a generation back it
was used more frequently.”
“A generation back! Bah!” and he straightened himself and rising strode
back and forth with his hands clasped back of him. “I have it! That is,
I am pretty certain. Has a y, hasn’t it?”
“Yes—second place.”
“Eyelet!” he shouted. “Bah, you thought you had me. Well, you almost
did. Those pesky vowels were at fault.”
“Never mind, I’ll hang you yet. I have another word in mind. But not
to-day. Come, Gertrude. You see it all now, I guess, and we must hurry
in, or Will and the others will be back before we are ready for dinner.
Good-bye for a time, General. Look to your guns. I shall be after you
again.”