“land, I can’t make ’em weigh more’n they do. You goin’ to take tin, or
a broom, or money, Mis’ Hinman?” he turned around to her.
“I’ll take a broom,” said Mrs. Hinman; “I got to; mine’s all worn down
to th’ handle. What you got new in tin, Mr. Beggs?”
“A full assortment.” He threw open the side of the red cart, and she
stuck in her head, still in its sweeping-cap, to gloat over its shining
contents. “My! I guess you have been stockin’ up!”
“’Tis a pretty good lot,” said Mr. Beggs, affecting indifference. “You
said a broom, didn’t ye, Mis’ Hinman?” He stepped up on the hub of the
nearest wheel and handed down one. “That’s prime,” he declared.
“I d’no’s I will take a broom,” said Mrs. Hinman, discontentedly, and
not looking at it, but with her eyes glued to the shining interior of
the cart, “but then I’ve got to, for by’m by I’ll have to sweep with
the handle. How much is that skimmer?” with an abrupt finger pointing
to the article.
“Twenty cents,” said Mr. Beggs.
“That’s dretful dear,” said Mrs. Hinman; “well, let’s see your broom,”
so she pulled away her head from its close proximity to the fascinating
door and put out her hand. “Hain’t you got one that ain’t so thin along
th’ edge?” running her fingers over it. “’Tain’t near as good a one as
th’ one I bought last of you, Mr. Beggs.”
“I thought this was pretty fair for a broom,” said the ragman, who had
stepped down from the hub of the wheel. He now hopped up again, and
after careful examination of his stock in trade, so far as brooms were
concerned, got back to the ground again, with one in his hand. “There,
if you like that any better you’re free to choose,” he said obligingly.
“This one’s all uneven--seems so there ain’t no two wisps alike,” said
Mrs. Hinman, turning the broom over and over and pinching it here and
there; “when I buy a broom, I want one, Mr. Beggs.”
“All right,” said the ragman, so he mounted the hub of the wheel again.
“There,” he said, coming down with a great clatter, “now, take your
pick an’ go over th’ hull lot,” and he deposited the entire bunch on
the grass.
When the trading was done, so far as Mrs. Hinman was concerned, who
went carefully over and over the collection of brooms laid out for
her inspection on the grass, she finally decided that she wouldn’t
take a broom at all, but some article of tin. And it took so long to
pick these over and select from the lot, that Em’line finally broke
in--“Well, I know I ain’t goin’ to stand here all day. Are you goin’ to
pay me my money or not, Mr. Beggs?”
“If you’re satisfied,” said the ragman.
“I’ll sell ’em to you anyway,” said Em’line, “an’ that’s enough.” So
Mr. Beggs took out an old leather bag from his trousers’ pocket and
counted out the money, which she seized and stalked into the house,
grumbling all the way over the grass.
“And now,” said Mr. Beggs, stowing away the two bags of rags on his
cart, “if you’ve got through turnin’ over that tin, marm, I’ll just
start on my way.”
“Can’t you throw in that?” asked Mrs. Hinman, diving into the cart to
hold up a little tin plate with big letters all around its edge; “I
sh’d admire to have it to give John’s little boy.”
“No, I can’t,” Mr. Beggs shook his head, decidedly; “an’ John Hinman
jest a-rollin’ in money!” he declared wrathfully to himself.
“I’ll take the skimmer,” decided Mrs. Hinman, tossing back the little
tin plate scornfully into the cart; “tain’t wuth twenty cents, but if
you won’t take no less--”
“I won’t take no less,” said Mr. Beggs, picking up his brooms from
the grass, and piling them up on the cart, “as I’m a-givin’ it to
you now ’most a cent an’ a half off; your rags don’t come to more’n
a leetle over eighteen cents. I don’t give skimmers _entirely_ away,
Mis’ Hinman.” Then he slammed to the door of the red cart. “Now, then,
boys,” to Joel and David, who had been standing quite still hanging on
every word, “hop up lively.”
“Are you going?” screamed Joel, all awake to the fact that now was
the time when those leather reins were to be put into his hands,
and beginning a wild scramble for the top of the cart, little Davie
pitching after.
“I s’pose we’d better be,” said Mr. Beggs, grimly, “unless we spend th’
mornin’ here. Well, good day, Mis’ Hinman.”
But she neither saw nor heard him, busy as she was picking her way
across the grass, her new skimmer grasped in her hard old hand.
“She beats th’ Dutch _an’_ Tom Walker!” exclaimed Mr. Beggs. It was
all that escaped him, but as he repeated it over and over, perhaps no
more was needed. And as the old horse had been somewhat revived by his
long rest, he now concluded to show off his best speed. Joel sat up
as straight as he could, his brown little hands thrust stiffly out,
grasping the old leather reins in a great state of excitement, and
crying out, “G’lang, there--g’lang!” while little Davie plunged into
terror, clung with one hand to the edge of his seat, and the other to
Joel’s jacket to keep him from falling out.
“Ye’re enjoyin’ it, ain’t ye?” Mr. Beggs leaned over to peer at Joel’s
red cheeks.
“It’s prime!” cried Joel. “G’lang there--see him go, Dave, I’m
driving,” he announced.
“Isn’t he going _very_ fast?” asked little Dave, timidly, not being
able to look around, having all he could do to hold on with both hands.
“Gee--whiz!” sang Joel, wishing Polly was there to see him, and how he
was exactly as big as Ben.
“Oh, don’t, Joel,” begged Davie, “make him go any faster.”
“Phoo! that’s nothin’,” said Joel, magnificently; “I’m going to take
the whip,” and he broke away from David’s clutch to lean forward.
“Oh, don’t!” screamed little Davie. “Oh, Mr. Beggs, don’t let him,” he
implored.
“You needn’t worry,” said Mr. Beggs, settling Joel back with a big
hand; “nobody takes that whip on this cart but Peter Beggs.”
“I don’t want the whip,” said Joel, grasping the reins tighter than
ever; “g’lang there--see me drive, Dave!”
“An’ you’re goin’ to drive on th’ way home,” said Mr. Beggs, leaning
over to fling the words to little Davie.
“You’re going to drive on the way home--oh, goody!” screamed Joel, as
away the old horse jogged, so surprised at such unwonted jollity back
of him that he forgot to slow down to his accustomed gait.
It was well along toward noon when Phronsie, who had been watching for
a long time in the front yard, scrambled over the flat door-stone.
“They’re coming, Polly,” she screamed.
“Oh, no, I guess not, Pet,” said Polly, who had been summoned several
times to hurry and welcome the boys--“we shall hear them fast enough.
Run out and play, child.”
“But they are, Polly, coming, really and truly,” declared Phronsie, in
an injured voice, and her lip trembled. So Polly flung down the broom
where she was sweeping and taking Phronsie’s hand, ran out to see. And
sure enough, there they were, the old horse coming up in front of the
gate in grand style, and Joel waving both hands and hooraying with all
his might from the high seat of the red cart, little Davie between him
and Mr. Beggs, and--oh, most wonderful sight--holding the reins and
driving! Polly and Phronsie ran as fast as they could to the road.
“I drove ’most all the way over there,” screamed Joel, before he
clambered over the wheel.
“Did you, Joey?” cried Polly, in a transport, while Mr. Beggs, now out
on the ground, helped little David down. “And to think, that Davie
drove home!” as he ran up to her, his blue eyes shining with excitement
and his cheeks as pink as could be.
“I didn’t drive all the way,” said little Davie, rubbing his hands
together and trying not to think that they smarted.
“Well, you drove some,” said Polly, happily; “just think of that,
Davie.”
And just then, whether it was that the old horse felt the excitement
of the morning too much for his nerves, no one knew, but he started
suddenly, and before Mr. Beggs could even shout out “whoa!” or clutch
the leather reins dangling over the harness, away he went with a few
clumsy jerks, and off flew Em’line’s bag of rags, the strings untying
and a good part of the ravellings and snippings of her wedding clothes
scattered in the dusty road.
And away clattered Mr. Beggs after his horse, Joel whooping and
hallooing at his heels, and little Davie following as fast as he could.
“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands. She longed to
run, too, and help to catch good Mr. Beggs’s horse, but there was
Phronsie--no, she must stay and take care of her.
“Won’t he ever come back?” asked Phronsie, and the tears began to come.
“Oh, yes, Pet,” said Polly, cheerfully. “There, I’ll lift you up to the
gate, so you can see better--”
So Phronsie put up her little arms, and Polly lifted her and set her in
a good place on the old post. “Now then, says I, look sharp, Phronsie,
and pretty soon you’ll see Mr. Beggs and the boys coming back, and--”
“And will they bring the horsie with them?” asked Phronsie, folding her
hands in her lap.
“Yes, of course, child,” said Polly, promptly, and keeping a tight hold
of Phronsie’s little gown; “now watch, Phronsie,--here they come!”
“Here they come!” piped Phronsie, clapping her hands. Then she threw
her arms around Polly’s neck. “Oh, they _are_ coming back,” she cried;
“they truly are, Polly.”
“Yes, and they’re here,” said Polly, quickly setting Phronsie down on
the ground, “and now we’ve all got to help pick up those rags and put
them in the bags, just as soon as Mr. Beggs gets back and ties up his
horse, so he can’t run away some more.”
“I’m going to pick ’em up now,” declared Phronsie, running into the
middle of the road and sitting down in the dirt among the pieces of
Em’line’s wedding gowns.
“Oh, Phronsie!” exclaimed Polly, hurrying after. And just then up came
Mr. Beggs holding the bridle, with Joel on the other side of the
horse trying to be big enough to do the same thing, and little Davie
following the red cart.
“Oh, we’ll help, Dave and me,” cried Joel, when the old horse tied to
the gate post couldn’t run any more, and seeing Phronsie and Polly busy
over the rags scattered in the road, the two boys scampered off to the
scene of action. And presently when Mr. Beggs got there, every one of
the four pairs of hands was gathering up the pieces, oh, so fast--that
there really didn’t seem as if there would be anything for him to do.
“We’ll pick ’em all up,” screamed Joel at him, as he stood in the road,
and flying up to cram both fists full into the bag as it flopped half
empty where it had tumbled.
“Take care, Joe,” warned Polly, “don’t let any dirt get in--”
“I guess a little dirt ain’t a-goin’ to hurt ’em,” said the ragman and
very much pleased to think he didn’t have to get his fat body down to
pick up the snips.
Phronsie, who was busy as a bee, picking up the smallest pieces
and carrying them one at a time to tuck in the bag, was suddenly
interrupted by Joel calling out, “Look at Phron!” Then he burst out
into a laugh.
“Hush!” said Polly, warningly; “oh, Joey, how could you?” for Phronsie
suddenly deserted her snip of cloth and ran to hide herself in Polly’s
arms,--“there, Pet--”
“I didn’t mean to,” cried Joel, with a very red face. Then he threw
down his bits of cloth, and raced off to where Polly now sat on the
grass with Phronsie on her lap. “Oh, Polly, I didn’t mean to--” and he
burst into a loud sob.
When Phronsie found that any one else could feel badly, she lifted
her yellow head, and two tears that had made up their minds they were
coming out, concluded after all they wouldn’t. “Are you sick, Joey?”
she asked, patting his old jacket.
“Now I tell you what, Joel,” said Polly, briskly, “you take hold of
Phron’s hand. No--no, Phronsie, Joel isn’t sick. He’s going to take you
over to the bag, so you can help him pick them up. And that will be
helping good Mr. Beggs, too. You must, Joey,” she whispered in his ear.
[Illustration: EVERY ONE OF THE FOUR PAIRS OF HANDS WAS GATHERING UP
THE PIECES, OH, SO FAST!--_Page 73._]
So Joel lifted his stubby black head, and when he saw Phronsie with a
happy smile and heard her exclaim joyfully, “I’m going to help you,
Joey, and good Mr. Beggs, too,” he smiled too, and seized her hand and
raced her over to the big bag. And before long with all those brisk
little hands, why, how could those snips and bits of Em’line’s wedding
gowns do anything but hop back into their bag again. And it was tied
tightly together with the old strings, each of the children having a
turn at pulling the knot fast, and then Mr. Beggs tossed it up to the
top of his red cart. “There, I guess ye won’t come down agin, till I
take ye down,” he said.
“Now you’re all safe,” exclaimed Polly, happily, looking up at it, and
bobbing her head at the big bump where it had settled, “and you can’t
come down again.”
“You can’t come down again,” shouted Joel, dancing a jig around the red
cart.
“You can’t come down again,” sang little Davie, flying away after him,
and then Phronsie had to pipe it out, as she picked up her red gown to
make a cheese in the road.
“And I’m sure I’m obleeged to all ye children,” said Mr. Beggs.
“You took them to ride--” said Polly; “oh, Mr. Beggs, you are so very
good!”
“You took us to ride,” said Joel and Davie together. “And can I go
again?” begged Joel, racing up to clutch his arm.
“Oh, Joel, for shame!” cried Polly, her cheeks very rosy.
But Mr. Beggs only laughed--“Yes, _sir--ee_--I ain’t comin’ this way
this summer agin, but sometime ye may. Well, thank ye all for pickin’
up them pieces.”
“I picked up, too,” announced Phronsie, who, seeing all the others
around Mr. Beggs, concluded not to make any more cheeses. So she got
up, and spatted her hands together to get off the dirt, and made her
way over to the group. “I picked up, too--I did--”
“That’s a fact,” Mr. Beggs bowed his old straw hat solemnly. Then he
said, “I wonder, now, if there ain’t somethin’ in my cart that’s just
waitin’ to hop out an’ stay with you.” And he threw open the door of
the cart to that beautiful shining array.
“Oh--oh!” they all crowded around, Joel getting dreadfully in the way,
until Mr. Beggs lifted Phronsie up and set her on his knee. “Now, then,
I wonder what you’d like, little gal?”
“Are you going to give it to her to keep?” screamed Joel, looking up
into the ragman’s face.
Mr. Beggs bowed again solemnly.
“To keep always?” cried Joel, not believing his ears.
“Yes, forever an’ ever. Amen,” said Mr. Beggs.
“Oh, hooray!” screamed Joel. Polly, scarcely less excited, held her
breath, unable to speak, while little David panted out, “Oh!” Phronsie
was the only one able to gaze unmoved at the beautiful shining things.
“I guess this is about th’ best thing for a little gal about your
size,” said Mr. Beggs at last, and reaching with his long arm over
Phronsie’s head into the interior of the cart, he brought out the
little tin plate with big letters all around its edge, from the corner
just where Mrs. Hinman had thrown it, and put it into her hand. “There,
that’s for you,” he said.
But it took some time to make Phronsie believe that the little tin
plate was really and truly hers. When she did, she sat down on the
grass by the side of the road, holding it tightly with both hands, and
Mr. Beggs looked back from the top of his red cart, the last thing
before he turned the corner of the road, to see her sitting there.
IV
IN DEACON BLODGETT’S BARN
“Yes, you must come, Joe; so hurry up.”
Ben slipped the last spoonful of mush and molasses into his mouth and
pushed back his chair.
“Oh, I don’t want to,” whined Joel, scraping his saucer, violently.
“Polly, I’m awful hungry.”
“Oh, you can’t be, Joe,” said Polly, hurrying off with her hands full
of dishes to be washed; “you’ve had two big saucers full.”
“They weren’t full,” said Joel, with an injured air, “only up to
there,” rapping his spoon against the side of the saucer. “See, Polly,
only just that much.”
“Well, that’s full,” said Polly, peering back over her armful. “If you
put any more in, you’d splash over the molasses.”
“I wouldn’t splash molasses,” declared Joel, on a high key, “and I’m
awful hungry.”
“Do say ‘awfully,’ Joe,” corrected Polly, with a little wrinkle in her
brow.
“And you’ve just got to come along,” said Ben, with a pat on his
shoulder that meant it. “See Davie! Aren’t you ashamed, Joe!”
Little David had laid down his spoon on hearing Ben, and, slipping off
from his chair, was now over by the door, waiting.
“Oh, Davie,” cried Polly, with a glance at his saucer of mush, as she
set down her load by the waiting dish-pan, “you haven’t finished your
breakfast. Wait a minute for him, Ben.” And she ran over to the door.
“Come, Davie.”
“I don’t want it,” said little Davie; “truly, I don’t, Polly.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” contradicted Polly, taking hold of his jacket. “Come
back and finish your mush.”
“I wish I could have some more,” said Joel, enviously, as David, with
one eye on Ben, who stood cap in hand, sat down again and made his
spoon fly briskly.
“Don’t eat so fast,” said Polly; “misery me! You’ll choke yourself. No,
no, Davie,” as David pushed his saucer over toward Joel. “Joey’s had
enough.”
“I haven’t had near enough,” declared Joel, stoutly.
“Well, you aren’t going to have any more,” declared Polly, decidedly.
“Davie must eat all that up, else he can’t go and help Ben.”
So Joel, seeing he was not to get any more breakfast, flung himself on
the old kitchen floor and waved his legs in the air, shouting to Davie
to hurry up at every spoonful. Until at last, his face quite red, and
swallowing the last morsel, Davie hopped off from his chair and ran
over to Ben. “I’m through,” he announced happily.
“That’s a good boy,” said Ben, approvingly. “Now, then, we’re off.”
Seeing this, Joel took down his legs from the air, and hopped up,
racing after them, and banging the door as he went.
“O dear me!” cried Polly, in vexation, “now Joel’s forgotten to take
the molasses can.” Then she rushed over to a corner of the kitchen
where Joel had thrown it. It was his turn to-day to take it to the
store, to be filled, on the way to Deacon Blodgett’s, where the boys
were to work. Then on the way home it was to be called for, all ready
with a fresh supply for breakfasts in the Little Brown House.
“Where are you going, Polly?” It was Mother Pepper’s voice from the
bedroom, where she was getting off Phronsie’s soiled little pinafore,
down which trailed a sticky stream of molasses.
“Oh, Joe’s forgotten the molasses can, Mamsie,” called back Polly, and
starting on a run after the boys; “Jo-_el_!” she called, racing down
the path. But Ben, who hated above all things to be late to his work,
was hauling them along at a pretty pace. And the wind carried away her
voice, so they didn’t hear.
“O dear me!--well, I don’t care,” gasped Polly, feeling every nerve
tingle with delight in her healthy little body as she sped on, “if
I don’t catch up with them at all. If I only could work at Deacon
Blodgett’s,” she mourned, at the thought of the old dish-pan and the
hateful tasks indoors that awaited her at home, where she would be
cooped up all day. But she couldn’t even reach Deacon Blodgett’s, for
just then Ben turned.
“My goodness me!” as he spied her.
“It’s the molasses can,” panted Polly, her brown hair flying, and
swinging it at them as she raced up. “Joel forgot it--”
“Oh, Joe, how could you?” began Ben, reproachfully, as the two little
boys whirled about on the road.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Joel, digging his rusty little shoe into the
dirt, while his fingers worked nervously together, and his face got
very red.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Polly, wiping her hot face. “It was good to
run;” while Ben took the molasses can with a “Here, Joe.”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Joel, over again, and taking the can; “I
didn’t, Polly, truly.”
“Oh, I know it,” said Polly, smiling at him.
“Well, come along now,” said Ben, beginning to stride off faster than
ever to make up for lost time. So little David, divided between sorrow
for Polly having such a long hot walk, and fear that Joel was going to
cry, ran by the big brother’s side, doing his best to keep up with him.
Joel, on the other side of Ben, hurried on, clutching the molasses can,
to the turn in the road; then he suddenly spun around, and dashed back
after Polly’s fleeting footsteps.
“Wait!” he wailed. But Polly, all her thoughts intent on getting back
to those waiting dishes,--for Mamsie might stop and do them, oh,
dreadful thought!--was going at her best pace. And presently Polly
dashed up through the old gateway, up the path and over the flat
door-stone, and after her Joel as hard as he could run.
“Oh, my goodness me, Joe!” she cried, and then she sat right down on
the big old stone. “What have you come back home for?”
“I’m sor-ry, Polly,” panted Joel, stumbling up to fling himself,
molasses can and all, in her lap. “O dear me!--Boo--hoo--hoo! I
didn’t--didn’t--” He couldn’t get any further, for the tears rained all
down his round, hot cheeks.
“Oh, hush--Mamsie will hear you,” warned Polly, in great distress and
lifting his stubby black head. “Oh, misery me, Joe, how you look!”
For Joe’s face was streaked from top to bottom where his grimy little
hands had frantically tried to wipe away the tears, a few drops from
the molasses can oozing out as he had bumped it up and down in his mad
run, adding themselves to the general effect. “Now you must come right
around to the ‘Provision-Room’ door, and I’ll bring out a wet towel and
wash you up; for it will worry Mamsie dreadfully to think you didn’t
stay with Ben.”
“I don’t want to be washed up,” began Joel, perfectly overcome with all
this dreadful accumulation of woe, most of which was now the fear of
Mamsie’s being worried.
“Well, you are going to be,” declared Polly, getting off from the
door-stone; “the very idea, Joel Pepper; such a sight as you are!
Just think of going down to Deacon Blodgett’s in that way.” So Polly
hurried into the house, and Joel crept miserably around its corner, and
presently out through the “Provision-Room” door, there she was, towel
in hand, and in less time than it takes to tell it, there he was, too,
his round face all red and shining and spick-span clean.
“Now, Joe,” said Polly, setting a kiss on each red cheek, “you run
right straight down to Deacon Blodgett’s like a good boy, and don’t
forget to leave the molasses can at Mr. Atkins’s,--and don’t bump it.”
“I’m sorry,” began Joel, beginning again on what he had come back to
say.
“Well, you’ve said that ever so many times,” said Polly, “so don’t say
it again; only run along, because just think now you’ve been naughty to
run away from Ben and Davie.”
So Joel, feeling as if things that he’d got to be sorry for were piling
up too fast for his taste, gulped down his sobs, and started off, this
time holding the old molasses can up high with both hands.
“O dear me!” cried Polly to herself, “now he’ll tumble on his nose, I
know. Joe--don’t do so,” she screamed after him.
But as well try to stop the wind. And at last, Joel had put the
molasses can on the counter of Mr. Atkins’s shop, and sped out again,
wild to get to the work at Deacon Blodgett’s that now seemed the
loveliest thing in the world for a boy to do.
Ben turned a disapproving glance on him as he panted into the barn.
“Davie is up in the loft,” he said. “He’s picking over the nails. You
go up and help him, Joe.”
“I’m sorry,” gasped Joel, flinging himself up against Ben sawing away
for dear life on some hickory sticks.
“Take care--well, I sh’d think you would be, Joe, running off like
that,” said Ben, not stopping his work an instant.
“O dear--dear!” Joel twisted his small fists into his eyes, whirling
around so that Ben might not see him. And catching sight of this, Ben
threw down the saw, thinking, “I’ll tell Deacon Blodgett I stopped
a bit”--and the next thing Joel knew he had two strong hands on his
shoulders and he was spun about again.
“Now, says I,” exclaimed Ben, “what’s it all about, Joel?”
So the whole story came out, and at the end Joel scampered up over the
crooked stairs to the loft where little Davie, trembling first because
Joel had run away and then much worse because he had come back, and
something dreadful seemed to be the matter, was suddenly pounced upon
where he sat sorting out a big box of nails.
“I’ve come back!” announced Joel, in the most cheerful of tones, and
dropping to the floor by Davie’s side.
David gave a little scream of delight, and throwing his arms around
Joel, upset the big box and away flew half of the nails, crooked and
straight in the greatest confusion.
“There--now you see,” cried Joel, springing after them, and succeeding
in overturning the box again, thereby spilling out the most of the
remainder.