PETER’S NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
WHEN Victoria and Sophy reached the house after their conversation with
Peter, they found Honor and Katherine still struggling with the parlor
curtains. Two windows were finished, and Katherine was in the act of
mounting the step-ladder at the third, when her younger sisters appeared.
At the same moment Blanch thrust her head in the doorway at the back of
the hall.
“I forgot to tell yers,” said she, “there ain’t no bread in the house for
supper.”
“Oh, Blanch!” cried Honor, turning to look at her, while she steadied the
ladder. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I never thought of it. I thought yers’d know it yerselves.”
“How could we know it? I can’t spend all my time looking into the
bread-box, and I had no idea the last baking would have given out so
soon. You will have to make some biscuits or some corn bread.”
“I ain’t never made any. Of course I know how to make ’em, but as I ain’t
never made any, yers mightn’t like ’em.”
“Very well,” replied Honor, with as much majesty of demeanor as she could
assume when embracing a step-ladder. “I will show you how presently.”
Though Honor was not as tall as Katherine, and was very slight, she could
be extremely dignified when she chose.
Blanch’s head disappeared, and the door closed with a bang.
“Why, Honor, do you know how yourself?” asked Victoria.
“No, I haven’t the least idea, but I’m not going to tell her so. I will
look it up in the recipe book. It is a curious thing about B. Lafferty.
She never will acknowledge that she can’t do a thing. She is the most
conceited person, as well as the most aggravating, that I ever met.”
Katherine at the top of the ladder laughed as she adjusted the curtain.
“You must be taking lessons from her,” she said, “telling her that you
would show her how to make biscuits. I wonder what they will be like! It
is bad enough to have had to give up dining late to suit Miss B.
Lafferty’s fancies, without having to go without bread for supper.”
“You take my place at the ladder, Vic,” said Honor, with the air of one
who had determined to defy fate, “and I will find the recipe book and
_make the biscuits_!”
“How did school go to-day?” asked Victoria, when Honor had left them.
“Oh, beautifully! Minnie Chase pinched Bertha Hickens, which naturally
had the effect of making Bertha howl loudly, and that frightened Carry
Deane so badly that she began to cry, which so affected Tommy Deane that
he began to cry, and presently the whole school was weeping and in an
uproar. Lessons had to be stopped for at least twenty minutes while Honor
and I wiped eyes and patted shoulders and scolded Minnie for being the
cause of it all. Oh, it went beautifully! Another tack please, Vic, and a
good big one. There, that is the last! Dear me,” continued Katherine,
standing in the middle of the room and looking about her, “they don’t
look as they ought to, but I can’t help it! Honor won’t have the man from
Fordham, so we shall have to go with crooked curtains. I must rush now,
for I have a music lesson to give. I would so much rather stay at home
and practise!”
Honor had been wrestling with her recipe books and her biscuits for more
than an hour, Katherine had given her music lesson and returned, and
Victoria, aided by Sophy,—who was perhaps more of a hindrance than a
help, but whom it pleased to be called into service,—had performed
various household duties, and still Peter did not come back.
It was no unusual matter for him to be off in the woods and meadows for
hours at a time, and therefore his sisters were not in the least alarmed
by his absence, especially as Victoria suspected that he had acted upon
her suggestion and had gone to consult the Fordham florist.
When the clock struck six, however, and he had not yet come, they began
to wonder as to his whereabouts, and Sophy went to one of the
second-story windows and took up her station there. The sun had set, but
a young moon was shining brightly, and she could see plainly the
beautiful lawn, dotted with the fine old trees now quite bare of leaves,
across which Peter might be expected to come if he had gone to Fordham by
the electric car, as Victoria supposed.
Sophy watched for some time in silence, but at last her scrutiny was
rewarded.
“Here he comes,” she cried, “and he is carrying something, and there’s
somebody with him! Who do you s’pose it is? It is a boy, and he looks
raggedy, and it’s a dog! I really think it’s a truly dog! Vic, where are
you?”
Sophy, in great excitement, ran from her post of observation and hurried
down the stairs. The front door was thrown open, and Peter entered,
tenderly carrying a good-sized yellow dog, whose leg was bound up and
whose head lay limply upon his arm, and accompanied by a boy who, as
Sophy had said, was “raggedy.”
The four sisters gathered from different parts of the house and surveyed
the newcomers, surprise mingled with disapprobation being unmistakably
depicted on the countenances of all, with the exception, perhaps, of
Sophy’s.
“I want some witch hazel,” said Peter, “and some kind of an ointment or
something. Vic, get it for me, will you? This dog’s leg is broken, and he
has a lot of wounds. This is Dave Carney. He’s going to stay to tea.”
“Peter!” said four voices.
“Well,” said he, “what’s the matter?”
“You look exactly as if you had been in a fight.”
“So I have.”
“Oh, Peter! But are you—are you going to fix the dog’s leg here?”
“Oh, I’ll take him down to the barn, if you like. I suppose you will all
make a terrible fuss, if I don’t. Isn’t he a nice dog? Some fellows were
hurting him, but we floored ’em, Carney and I.”
Carney, in the meantime, had retired to the least conspicuous position
that he could find. He stood far back by the door, and he twirled his
shabby cap in his hand, looking the while as though he would prefer to be
in any place but that in which he found himself.
Honor and Victoria, who were on the broad staircase, turned towards one
another. Honor’s pretty eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, and her
face said as plainly as though she had spoken, “What are we to do about
it?”
“I will get the witch hazel,” said Victoria, aloud, “and will bring it
down to the barn. You and—and your friend had better take the dog down
there now, Peter, and make a bed for him.”
“Bring some old rags,” commanded Peter, “and something nice and soft for
him to lie on. This would do,” he added, picking up a white chudda shawl
which hung over the back of one of the hall chairs.
“My best white shawl!” cried Katherine, springing forward just in time to
rescue it before it was wrapped about the suffering animal. “What are you
thinking of, Peter? Do take that dirty dog out of the house! I never saw
such a boy.”
Victoria, as she hurried up the stairs, sighed to herself.
“Oh, dear!” she thought. “I am afraid Katherine will say just the wrong
thing, and before we know it Peter will insist upon keeping the dog in
the house, and having the boy at the supper-table. Where did he pick them
up?”
But Peter, whatever may have been his first impulse, decided that, after
all, it would be the wiser course to repair to the barn, and here
Victoria found him with his new friend, when she and Sophy followed with
the remedies.
The dog was, without doubt, very much hurt; but he seemed to appreciate
all that was being done for him, and he looked lovingly at Peter as he
bathed his wounds and bound up his leg.
“How would you like to have your supper out here, Peter?” said Victoria,
who had been pondering the situation. “Then you could stay near the dog
and see that he is all right.”
“Well,” said Peter, slowly, “I don’t know but it would be a good plan.
What do you say, Carney?”
But Carney was too bashful to speak.
It was a happy solution of the difficulty, and Victoria and Sophy hurried
back to the house, and had soon packed a basket for the picnic in the
barn. Honor’s biscuits, made so early in the afternoon, had risen and
fallen again long since, and were now little lumps of hard and sodden
dough; but the sisters thought that the boys would doubtless enjoy them,
and they bestowed them with a generous hand.
“We can eat crackers ourselves,” said Katherine. “I don’t want to hurt
your feelings, Honor, but—but—_do_ look in the bread-box to-morrow,
please!”
Honor had seated herself in her place at the head of the table. The old
silver service and the delicate cups and saucers gleamed in the light
which fell from the candles. The table was covered with a cloth of the
finest damask, a silver _jardinière_ of ferns ornamented the centre, and
at the four corners stood tall silver candlesticks of massive design. No
one would ever have dreamed that the family who were to gather about this
table had not all the money they needed.
The eldest sister leaned back in her chair and sighed.
“It is perfectly dreadful,” she exclaimed, “that I don’t know the first
thing about cooking! What am I to do? I went into the kitchen determined
that that odious B. Lafferty should never suspect that I hadn’t made
biscuits every day of my life, but I couldn’t have impressed her that
way, for she stood looking at me with the most supercilious expression.
She insisted upon taking the dough and the roller right out of my hands.
She declared that she knew better than I did about making them, and the
worst of it was, I didn’t know whether she did or not, and these are the
result. Hear them!”
Honor lifted one of the biscuits and let it drop upon the table. It
sounded like the fall of a little stone.
“You will have to take cooking lessons,” said Katherine. “They don’t
really cost much, and it would pay in the end.”
“They may not cost much, but when we have scarcely a cent in our pockets
and _owe bills_, we can’t afford lessons in anything. No, I shall have to
keep a sharp lookout on the bread-box, and trust to luck about other
things. I am afraid she only knows how to make two puddings, for when I
speak about the dessert, there is always some reason why it must be
either cornstarch or tapioca. I am perfectly certain they are the only
kinds she can make.”
“Why not give up having dessert?” suggested Victoria, as she adjusted the
cover of the basket. “It would save a little money.”
“Victoria!” exclaimed her sisters together.
“We are coming down pretty low, if we can’t have dessert,” said
Katherine. “What are you thinking of?”
“Only of saving money; and a lamp on the supper table would be cheaper
than candles,” said Vic, as she took up the basket and left the room.
“Come, Sophy. You carry the pitcher of milk. Don’t spill it, child.”
“I don’t know where Vic gets those scrimpy ideas,” said Katherine, when
they had gone. “She actually said again to-day that she thought we could
do without salad, that the sweet oil for the dressing was so expensive;
and when we went to Boston together the other day, she insisted upon
walking all the way from the station to Aunt Sophia’s, just to save five
cents! She was perfectly horrified at my getting those embroidered
handkerchiefs, and yet they were so cheap. It is a perfect bore to have
her so.”
Honor said nothing. She thought that Victoria went to an extreme,
perhaps; but it was better for the family purse than Katherine’s course,
and the suggestion about the candles contained a good deal of common
sense. A lamp would do just as well, and candles were expensive; but then
they made the table look so much prettier. How provoking it was, thought
Honor, to be obliged to do without so small and simple a luxury as
candles on the supper-table!
With an air of resignation, she rose and lighted a lamp, which she placed
upon the table. Then she blew out the candles, and removed them to the
mantelpiece.
“Oh, Honor!” cried Katherine. “Why do you do that? You are getting to be
as bad as Vic herself. You might at least leave them on the table
unlighted.”
“For the mere show of them?” said Honor. “Never! and Vic is right.
Candles are expensive. I wonder if there is anything else we can give
up.”
And she looked about with a gesture of despair.
“Sugar in our tea, I suppose,” said Katherine, with what she considered
fine sarcasm, “or even tea itself. Perhaps you would like to do without
forks. We can sell the silver, for instance. For my part, I shall never
give in to this stingy spirit that is taking possession of the rest of
you. I am sure we are not as poor as all that, and we are certainly
making money.”
Honor made no reply. When Katherine talked in this strain, it was useless
to argue with her, and presently Victoria and Sophy returned, and they
took their places at the table.
Dave Carney spent some time with Peter in the barn, and when he left, he
promised to return the next day, and see how the dog was progressing.
When Peter asked him where he lived, he returned an evasive answer. The
two boys, so differently placed in the world, found that they had much in
common. Dave knew almost as much as Peter did about the ways of animals
and birds, and was deeply interested in all that his new friend had to
say upon the subject, besides recounting many of his own experiences in
the woods.
When he came the next day, he offered to help Peter with his mushrooms,
and in return for this Peter, at Victoria’s suggestion, presented him
with a full suit of outgrown clothes which fitted him exactly; for
although he was older than Peter, he was of slighter build and was
shorter. Peter superintended his toilet when he tried on the garments at
the barn, fastening his collar for him, and even tying a blue cravat
about his neck. Finally he placed a brown cap upon his head.
“There,” said he, “you look like a regular dude.”
Dave surveyed himself in the little mirror and then glanced at his nice
trousers and whole shoes. A pleased smile stole over his face, and then
he looked at Peter.
“I’ll never forgit it,” said he.
It was finally arranged that Carney should come to Glen Arden every day
to do whatever came to hand, in return for his three meals and a small
sum weekly. He was to take part in the mushroom culture and to assist
Victoria with her violets, and also to carry coal for B. Lafferty. Even
Honor, who had at first disapproved of this arrangement, found him useful
in many different ways. He was always ready to go to the village upon an
errand, or to make himself useful about the house. In fact, Dave Carney
soon came to be regarded as an important and indispensable member of the
family, and as he ate with Blanch in the kitchen, that difficulty no
longer existed.
Peter told no one, not even Victoria, of the incident which led to his
acquaintance with Carney, and the boy knew this, and his gratitude
increased tenfold.
Peter made two warm friends that day. The dog soon recovered, and his
devotion to the boy who had saved his life was touching in the extreme.
When Peter was at home he never left him, and when he was at school he
wandered disconsolately about the house or place, taking up his position
at the head of the avenue when the time approached for his master to
return, and rushing to meet him when he appeared in the distance.
Since his recovery and owing to the numerous baths which Peter and Carney
gave him he had so far improved in appearance that the sisters consented
to his presence in the house; and they soon became greatly attached to
him, although he paid but little attention to any one but his master. He
was not a handsome dog, being tall and ungainly, with a coat of yellowish
bristly hair. He was unmistakably a mongrel, and perhaps for that very
reason was unusually intelligent. He knew each one of the family by name
almost immediately, and seemed to understand everything that was said to
him. Victoria declared that he was the brightest of the Starrs, and hence
came his name.
There was great discussion upon this point, and for days the newcomer
went unchristened. Apparently he had never had a name before, for
although they tried every title by which a dog could possibly be known,
he failed to respond, and only smiled roguishly at their efforts, for he
was a happy-hearted dog with a most cheerful smile. Nothing that was
suggested satisfied the critical Peter. Finally Honor said, “He will just
have to go without a name. He will have to be known as the Starr dog.”
“Or the dog Starr,” said Victoria, quickly. “Do you see? The dog-star! By
the way, what is the name of the dog-star. Let us look it up in the
Encyclopædia.”
They did so, and found that it was “Sirius,” and also that Sirius was the
brightest of the fixed stars.
“And this is the brightest of these Starrs,” cried Victoria, as she
hugged the long-suffering but none the less fortunate animal. “Do, Peter,
name him Sirius!”
And for a wonder Peter consented; and although “Sirius” was a difficult
name to call when one was in a hurry, for instance, it was such an
appropriate title that no one objected.
In the meantime the month of November drew to a close, and on the first
day of December the amount of mail for the family at Glen Arden was
unusually large. There was the grocer’s bill, and the butcher’s bill, and
there were other household accounts; but in addition to these there was
the one from the school-furniture store in Boston. It was addressed to
Honor, and with an exclamation of dismay she glanced at the amount.
Fifty-five dollars and eighty cents!
“Oh, Katherine!” she said, looking at her sister, and letting the bill
fall into her lap.
“What is the matter?” asked Katherine. “You look as if you had seen a
ghost.”
“I have,” said Honor, solemnly. “This is the bill for the schoolroom
furniture.”
“Well, you expected it, didn’t you? How much is it?”
“Fifty-five dollars and eighty cents!”
“I am sure that isn’t very much,” returned Katherine, easily. “Scarcely
more than fifty dollars.”
“But we haven’t got it. How are we going to pay for it, and why did you
get all these things?” groaned Honor, as she looked at the items. “Five
dollars for the globe, and we could easily have done without it, or used
a little cheap one. Five dollars for the blackboard! And all this for
copy-books and blank-books! You ought never to have bought them, and if
you did, you oughtn’t to have had them charged. And have you begun to
make any money with your typewriter yet?”
Katherine did not reply.
“Have you even learned to use it yet? Have you done _anything_ with it?
The money you spent on that typewriter might just as well have been
thrown into the river. Katherine, Katherine, how could you do it! I
verily believe we shall have to apply to Aunt Sophia for help.”
Katherine sprang from her seat.
“Never!” she said. “Honor, you are too absurd. I tell you, we are making
money with the school and the music scholars. As for the typewriter, you
are too disagreeable! Of course it will pay in time. I—I haven’t had time
to learn to use it yet.”
She dared not add that her ardor had been somewhat lessened by a small
paragraph which she had chanced to see in the newspaper. It was to the
effect that the use of the typewriter unfitted the fingers for the piano,
that they were apt to become stiff and to lose their accustomed skill. It
was only a newspaper paragraph, to be sure, but it had frightened
Katherine. She even acknowledged to herself that she regretted her
purchase, but she had no intention of making this known to her sisters.
And in the meantime, how should the bills be paid?