AN ORDER FOR A PARTY
“I SUPPOSE people do sometimes have to be away from their homes on
Christmas day.” Betty held the “extra-special” shade she had just
finished up against the light, and gazed pensively at the prancing
horses and the hospitable red roof of the inn.
“It has been done,” gurgled Madeline, her mouth full of pins, “and it
will be done again, with the Washington Square homestead rented and
Sorrento, Italy, a little inaccessible from Harding, U. S. A.”
“Poor, lonely lady! Come and eat your Christmas dinner with mummy and
me,” urged Babbie sympathetically. “Is it Tuesday or Wednesday that
college closes?”
“Not till Wednesday,” murmured Madeline, “and then it’s me for freedom
and the literary life!” She took the pins out cautiously, one by one.
“It’s dear of you to ask me for the vacation, Babbie, but I’ve got to
improve the shining hours. While the tea-room is shut, and Betty,
the cruel slave-driver, has gone to be clasped in the arms of her
adored and adoring family, I shall turn our palatial apartment into an
author’s paradise--papers everywhere, genius burning, and positively
no dusting allowed. If the wallpaper gets on my nerves I shall come
over and start a fire here, and try the effect of a desk with a secret
drawer in it on the imagination that Dick Blake rudely says I haven’t
got.”
“I’m sorry, Madeline, but I don’t think I can go home.” Betty was
swallowing hard to keep back the tears. She had thought it all out in
the night, and made up her mind not to care, but telling it made it
seem more final some way, and consequently worse. “Some of the orders
can’t be filled until the last minute, and some will surely be late
and have to be mailed. I haven’t made any payments to outsiders for
two weeks, because I couldn’t take time to go over the accounts. I
shouldn’t enjoy Christmas with all those things hanging over my head.”
“Then stop making those everlasting candle-shades and go to work on
the accounts this very minute,” commanded Babbie, with a tilt of her
determined chin.
“But if I do that,” Betty objected, “we can’t possibly fill our orders.
Besides, I don’t believe the tea-room ought to be closed during the
vacation. A good many girls stay over, and anyway it won’t seem
businesslike.”
“I’ll keep it open then,” declared Madeline magnanimously.
“Oh, you couldn’t ever manage, Madeline. You’d make a mess----” Betty
stopped short, with a swift effort to be tactful. “You’d ruin your
imagination, I mean, thinking up new sandwiches and paying grocer’s
bills.”
Babbie and Madeline exchanged despairing glances.
“I won’t dust our room, Madeline,” Betty promised, “not once in the
whole two weeks, and you may scatter papers wherever you like. And you
mustn’t think I mind terribly, Babbie. You’ve got to tend up to things
you do for a living or else---- Oh, dear! who is that knocking?”
“I’ll go,” Babbie offered, “because I’ve just washed the paint off my
hands.”
So Babbie Hildreth and not Betty, who had been sympathetic about lonely
evenings, opened the door for Young-Man-Over-the-Fence, and after a
frigid “Good-evening” stood frowning in disapproving silence while she
waited for him to explain himself.
“I came to ask--that is, I wanted to see about placing an order. I
suppose I shouldn’t have come this evening, only I was in a hurry to
get things settled right away. Is Miss--the young woman who sits at the
desk--could I see her?”
“I’m not sure,” Babbie told him coldly. “You can’t have dinner here,
you know. This tea-shop closes at six, and it’s nearly eight now.”
“I’m very sorry,” murmured Young-Man-Over-the-Fence contritely. Babbie
Hildreth in a blue gingham studio apron, with a distractingly becoming
dinner-gown peeping out from underneath it, was a sight calculated
to inspire contrition in the breast of any man who had unwittingly
incurred her displeasure. “I’ll come back in the morning--no, in the
afternoon,” he added humbly.
[Illustration: “THIS TEA-SHOP CLOSES AT SIX”]
“If it was an order for Tally-ho candle-shades,” Babbie told him,
still icily, “we’re not taking any more. We have all the work that we
can finish for Christmas already.”
“No, it’s not candle-shades,” Young-Man-Over-the-Fence assured her
blandly. “It’s a bigger thing than that.” He paused impressively and
was rewarded when a gleam of curiosity crossed Babbie’s impassive
little face. “I’ll come back to-morrow afternoon,” he repeated.
“Wait a minute,” Babbie commanded swiftly. Betty had inspired her
with a sense of the importance of being businesslike, and here was a
big order that ought, perhaps, to be treated with special respect and
consideration. “I’ll tell Miss Wales that you’re here and possibly she
can see you more conveniently now. The name, please?”
“Robert Thayer, Junior, from the stocking factory,” he told her. “And
say, please, that I’ve come on business, about a Christmas party that I
want to arrange for.”
“I don’t think we do catering for parties,” Babbie told him, “and I
believe we are to close for the Christmas holidays. But I’ll tell her.”
A minute later Betty was shaking hands with Young-Man-Over-the-Fence,
alias Mr. Robert Thayer, Junior, of the stocking factory.
“It’s lucky I didn’t just cut in here to be cheered up, as I’d intended
to,” he explained with a sigh of relief. “That other member of the
firm is a suspicious person--or perhaps you’d warned her against me.
But her theories were unfounded. May we sit down? You see I’ve had an
inspiration, and I couldn’t wait to get it going.”
“That’s just like Madeline,” laughed Betty. “She wakes me up in the
middle of the night with her inspirations. Once she even wanted me to
dress and come over here with her to see whether we could make a big
horseshoe out of oats.” Betty pointed to the one over the fireplace.
“And then when I wouldn’t, she was days and days getting around to it.”
Mr. Thayer laughed appreciatively. “I understand that perfectly.
There’s everything in being in the right mood for things. Now to-night
I’m hot on the trail of a Christmas party. I was over in my office
directing invitations--they like to get formal invitations, you
know--when it suddenly struck me that if I had a regulation Christmas
party it would naturally be a regulation failure, like the others I’ve
tried. So I racked my brains for something extraordinary, and nothing
came. Then I looked over here and thought of all the extraordinary
things you’ve planned, and here I am to place an order for one
extraordinary party, with food, all guaranteed to please three hundred
assorted factory hands.”
Betty stared at him in amazement. “I don’t understand----” she began.
Young-Man-Over-the-Fence smiled his merry, reassuring smile. “As your
tea-shop is to the regulation kind of tea-shop, so is the Christmas
party I want to the regular thing. I want it to look something like
this room, to be--well----”
“Stunty,” supplied Betty quickly.
“Stunty--that’s a new one on me, but if it describes all this----” He
waved his hand comprehensively at the fire, at a grinning gargoyle with
its hanging lantern, and across to the dusky line of stalls.
“Features, Madeline calls the queer little touches,” Betty broke
in again. “I understand what you want. You want a party in Harding
style,--that will go off the way the spreads and Hallowe’en things and
freshmen frolics do. Madeline could think up something lovely. But I
don’t see--how did you happen to come to us?”
“Because I felt sure you could get me what I wanted.”
“But we don’t do things like that,” Betty objected.
“Then you ought to,” he told her. “There’s a field for it.” He laughed
merrily. “I’m the field. And--I dislike to mention anything so sordid,
but it pays very well, much better than tea and candle-shades, I’m
sure. In London once I remember my sister paid twenty pounds to a firm
for planning her a cotillion. I’d thought that would be about right for
this party.”
“Twenty pounds--why, that’s a hundred dollars!” cried Betty
incredulously.
The young man nodded. “That doesn’t include the refreshments, you
understand. It’s for the design only--the design for a stunty party
with features. And then think of all the pleasure you’ll be giving.
But--I forgot; the young lady who let me in said you were going to
close your shop for Christmas. Perhaps that means that you won’t be
here to run a party on Christmas eve.”
Betty smiled sadly. “We were just discussing that and we’ve decided--at
least, I’ve decided, to keep open during the holidays. But we’re very
busy.” She considered, frowning. “It all depends on whether Madeline
likes the idea,” she decided at last. “I’ll call her down, and you can
tell her about it.”
“Oh, wait one minute,” he begged, as Betty started off. “Tell me how to
make her like it, please. Is she the one who let me in?”
“No,” Betty told him, “but of course Babbie will have to approve too.”
She stopped to consider again. “I’d tell you how to make Madeline
like it if I knew myself, but I don’t. It just depends on how a thing
strikes her.”
But when Madeline and Babbie appeared, Betty did help by breaking the
ice, for she gravely presented “Mr. Fence” to the other members of the
firm, whereupon Madeline promptly told him about his pseudonym at the
Tally-ho, and then, rather abashed by her own temerity, lit the candles
in the stalls to show him how she had named them that very evening,
according to his suggestion.
So they were all, except Babbie, very friendly, when they sat down
again to discuss Mr. Thayer’s order; and Mr. Thayer seemed to have
decided that it was safest to ignore Babbie, for he addressed himself
entirely to Madeline, as he explained again what he wanted.
And of course, because it was absurd and unexpected, Madeline liked
the idea. She forgot how busy they were already, and how she hated
conducting rehearsals and working out details. She threw her Literary
Career to the winds.
“You want it on Christmas eve?” she began briskly. “Then we’ll have
a masque of the Christmas stockings to start off with. Isn’t that an
appropriate touch for the stocking-makers’ Christmas party? How old are
your youngest stocking-makers, please?”
“They say they’re fourteen, as the law requires,” explained Mr. Thayer
grimly, “but you’d never know it. Anyhow they’re small enough to do
beautifully for a masque of the Christmas stockings.”
“And then,” Madeline went on, staring hard at the shiny tip of Babbie’s
slipper, “and then--well, Twelfth Night isn’t till the sixth of
January, but probably the stocking-makers won’t object to anticipating
the date a little. We’ll have a pageant of Twelfth Night cakes and
Twelfth Night bakers. And we’ll choose and crown a King and Queen of
the Revels, in accepted Twelfth Night style. Does that sound promising
to you, Mr. Thayer?”
“It sounds great,” he assured her enthusiastically, “and I’m sure it
will be as good as it sounds.”
“The invitation card,” Madeline ordered calmly, “is to have a
beautifully frosted cake at the top and a stocking with a Santa Claus
head sticking out of it at the bottom. You’ll just have to throw away
the ones you got ready to-night. I’ll come around some time to-morrow
to look over my children.”
“Thank you. That will be great,” said Mr. Thayer eagerly, and suddenly
turned to Babbie, who had listened in silence to all Madeline’s
enthusiastic planning. “Won’t you please come too? It’s a queer place.
I think you’d like going through it.”
“I shall probably have to come,” Babbie told him rather ungraciously,
“because Madeline can’t go alone, and Betty will be too busy.”
“I’m sorry that I should be the means of inconveniencing you,” Mr.
Thayer told her gravely, holding out his hand. “Good-night.” And he was
gone, with only a nod for the others.
“Goodness, Babbie, but you’re chilly,” Madeline protested.
“Well, you’re absurd,” Babbie retorted. “You can never make such a
thing go in the world, Madeline. That sort of people won’t know how to
carry it through.”
“Of course not,” Madeline conceded. “I’ve thought of that. Some of
the children will do for Stockings, but for the Cakes and the Jester
and all that, I’m going to have college girls who stay here over the
holidays. I think I’ll go up now to see Georgia about who’ll be here.”
“Oh, what a splendid idea!” cried Betty eagerly. “I’d been wishing we
could make a Christmas for the left-overs.”
“I don’t believe they’ll want to bother with anything like this,”
objected Babbie. “Besides, only freaks stay over Christmas.”
“Bother!” Madeline took her up. “They’ll jump at it--the freaks
particularly, because they don’t get in on such gay doings very often.
Now, Betty, don’t you worry about my helping on the ‘extra-special’
order-list. I was afraid Mr. Thayer would be scared off if I explained
that I meant to dump all the finishing touches on the left-over girls.
They can make the costumes, too, Wednesday night and Thursday.”
“If he knew you better, he would have been sure that you’d never bother
with any finishing touches yourself,” Babbie remarked crushingly.
“How can you expect a person who has such splendid ideas to bother with
fussy little details?” put in Betty, who had listened in wondering
admiration to Madeline’s offhand suggestions. “I’m sure the college
girls will like to help. The only trouble is, if they do most of the
work who ought to have the hundred dollars?”
“What hundred dollars?” chorused the other two, and Betty explained
that the financial side of the Tally-ho’s biggest order was being
entirely overlooked.
“It ought not to be put in with the tea-room profits, except the bill
for the refreshments,” Babbie declared, “and I certainly ought not to
have any of it. I shan’t be any help. You and Madeline can divide,
because you made friends with him first, and she thought up the
entertainment.”
“But if the others sew for us----” began Betty.
“Oh, let’s wait and see how it comes out,” Madeline suggested easily,
slipping on her ulster. “You two can be planning Twelfth Night cakes
for refreshments, while I’m gone. Did you ever see them in London,
Babbie? They’re fearfully and wonderfully concocted.”
At the door she came back to make another suggestion. “All big
businesses have their pet charities. We might have the stocking people
for ours. We could just ask Mr. Thayer to pay the expenses, and make
him spend the rest of the money for a club-house--well, keep it toward
a club-house then, Miss Betty the practical.”
Next morning Madeline came back from her visit to the factory more
enthusiastic, if possible, than before. She had talked to the Italian
boy with the bandaged arm--he came down every day to have it dressed
by the company’s doctor--and he was from Sorrento and knew her father,
had posed for him once in the olive orchard behind the villa. Even
Babbie had been interested in the children, Italians, French, Poles,
Bohemians, Greeks, dark-eyed, swift-fingered, chattering eagerly to
“da pretta lada” in broken English, and all agog over the mysterious
Christmas party.
“They live all together down there somewhere.” Babbie pointed vaguely
off behind the kitchen. “They were nearly all brought over to this
country three years ago, when the factory was opened. It’s a real
foreign quarter, Mr. Thayer says, with old-country customs and pitiful
poverty and ignorance. It’s queer that we never knew anything about
them, isn’t it? The college is on that hill, and the factory on this,
and yet they’re so far apart that one has hardly heard of the other.”
“So the stocking people weren’t so terribly unpleasant after all?”
asked Betty slyly.
Babbie blushed faintly. “Well, you and Madeline made me cross. You gave
in so to his chin. I suppose I was disagreeable, but I was perfect
to-day, wasn’t I, Madeline?”
“Depends on what you mean by perfect,” Madeline told her. “If you
mean that you made everybody in the place from the social secretary,
or whatever Mr. Robert Thayer, Junior, calls himself, to the smallest
cotton-spinner of them all fall madly in l----”
Madeline and the rest of her sentence found themselves smothered under
a huge cushion, which Babbie pummeled viciously.
“Don’t bother me about that,” she commanded wrathfully. “One minute you
say I’m haughty and disagreeable, and the next----”
“The next,” Betty told her comfortingly, “we only say you’re such a
darling, that people can’t help seeing it, you silly child.”
“I don’t care,” sniffed Babbie tearfully. “I shan’t go over there
again, and I shan’t be here for his old party. So now!”
After which declaration of rights, Babbie did her hair low in her neck,
donned her most becoming afternoon dress, and asked a dozen adoring
freshmen to tea with her in the stall named “Jack o’ Hearts.” As
Babbie sat in the most secluded corner of the stall, it is doubtful if
anything but the tip of her ear, a nodding plume, and an absurdly small
hand stretched out to press more of Cousin Kate’s cookies upon a hungry
freshman, could have been visible to the staid young gentleman who had
his tea at a small table in the alcove opposite.
“He’s the new history professor,” one of the freshmen announced in a
sepulchral whisper. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“No, he isn’t,” snapped Babbie. “Isn’t the new history professor, I
mean. He’s something or other in a factory. So don’t be making plans to
move into a history course after midyears, Susanna.”