"There, up she goes!" sang Mr. King, swinging her into position on his
lap. "Now then, Polly, my child, we are all ready for the wonderful
tale. Stay, where is Joel?"
"Joel went upstairs a little while ago," said Jasper quickly. "Well,
now, Polly, do begin."
"I'll tell how we went to buy Phronsie's shoes," said Polly, drawing up
an ottoman to Mr. King's side. "Now, boys, bring your chairs up."
"Joel ought to know that you are going to tell a story, Polly," said
Mr. King. "One of you boys run out and call him at the foot of the
stairs."
"He's in Mamsie's room," said Ben. "I suppose when she gets through
with him, he'll come down."
"Oh! ah!" said the old gentleman. "Well, Polly, then perhaps you would
better proceed."
So Polly began on the never tiresome recital, how Phronsie fell down
the stairs leading from the kitchen to the "provision room" in the
little brown house, with the bread-knife in her hand; and how, because
she cut her thumb so that it bled dreadfully, mother decided that she
could at last have a pair of shoes bought especially for her very own
self; and how Deacon Brown's old horse and wagon were procured, and
they all set forth, except mother, and how they rode to town, and how
the Beebes were just as good as gold, and how the red-topped shoes
fitted as if they were made for Phronsie's feet, and how they all went
home, and how Phronsie danced around the kitchen till she was all tired
out, and then went to bed carrying the new shoes with her, and how she
fell asleep with--
"Why, I declare," exclaimed Polly, reaching this denouement in a
delightfully roundabout way, "if she isn't asleep now!"
And indeed she was. So she had to be carried up to bed in the same old
way; only this time it was Jasper instead of Polly who held her.
"Don't you believe we'd better put it off till some other night?"
whispered Percy to Van on the way upstairs to bed, the library party
having broken up early. "A fellow doesn't want to see a burglar on top
of the time Joel has had."
"No, no," said Van; "it'll be good for him, and knock the other thing
out of his head, don't you see, Percy? I should want something else to
think of if I were Joel. You can't back out; you promised, you know."
"Well, and I'll do it," said Percy testily.
"It's no use trying to sleep," declared Joel, in the middle of the
night, and kicking the bed-clothes for the dozenth time into a roll at
the foot, "as long as I can see Mamsie's eyes. I'll just get up and
tackle that Latin grammar now. Whew! haven't I got to work, though!
Might as well begin at it," and he jumped out of bed.
Stepping softly over to the door that led into David's little room, he
closed it carefully, and with a sigh, lighted the gas. Then he went
over to the table where his schoolbooks ought to have been. But
instead, the space was piled with a great variety of things--one or two
balls, a tennis racket, and a confusion of fishing tackle, while in
front, the last thing that had occupied him that day, lay a book of
artificial flies.
Joel set his teeth together hard, and looked at them. "Suppose I shan't
get much of this sort of thing this summer," he muttered. "Here goes!"
and without trusting himself to take another look, he swept them all
off down to the floor and into a corner.
"There," he said, standing up straight, "lie there, will you?" But they
loomed up in a suggestive heap, and his fingers trembled to just touch
them once.
"I must cover up the things, or else I know I'll be at them," he said,
and hurrying over to the bed, he dragged off the cover-lid. "Now," and
he threw it over the fascinating mass, "I've GOT to study. Dear me,
where are my books?"
For the next five minutes Joel had enough to do to collect his working
instruments, and when at last he unearthed them from the corner of his
closet where he had thrown them under a pile of boots, he was tired
enough to sit down.
"I don't know which to go at first," he groaned, whirling the leaves of
the upper book. "It ought to be Latin--but then it ought to be algebra
just as much, and as for history--well there--here goes, I'll take them
as they come."
With a very red face Joel plunged into the first one under his hand. It
proved to be the Latin grammar, and with a grimace, he found the page,
and resting his elbows on the table, he seized each side of his stubby
head with his hands. "I'll hang on to my hair," he said, and plunged
into his task.
And now there was no sound in the room but his hard breathing, and the
noise he made turning the leaves, for he very soon found he was obliged
to go back many lessons to understand how to approach the one before
him; and with cheeks growing every instant more scarlet with shame and
confusion, the drops of perspiration ran down his forehead and fell on
his book.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, "it's horribly hot," and pushing back his book,
he tiptoed over to the other window and softly raised it. The cool air
blew into his face, and leaning far out into the dark night, he drew in
deep breaths.
"I've skinned through and saved my neck a thousand times," he
reflected, "and now I've got to dig like sixty to make up. There's Dave
now, sleeping in there like a cat; he doesn't have anything to do, but
to run ahead of the class like lightning--just because he"--
"Loves it," something seemed to sting the words into him. Joel drew in
his head and turned abruptly away from the window.
"Pshaw! well, here goes," he exclaimed again, throwing himself into his
chair. "She said, 'I'd work myself to skin and bone but I'd get through
creditably.'" Joel bared his brown arm and regarded it critically. "I
wonder how 'twould look all skin and bone," and he gave a short laugh.
"But this isn't studying." He pulled down his sleeve, and his head went
over the book again.
Outside, a bright blue eye applied to the keyhole, gave place to a
bright brown one, till such time as the persons to whom the eyes
belonged, were satisfied as to the condition of the interior they were
surveying.
"What do you suppose he's doing?" whispered the taller figure, putting
his face concealed under a black mask, closely to the ear of the other
person, whose countenance was similarly adorned.
"Don't know," whispered the second black mask. "He acts dreadfully
queer, but I suppose he's got a novel. So you see it's our duty to
break it up," he added virtuously.
The taller figure shook his head, but as it was very dark on their side
of Joel's door, the movement was unobserved.
"Well, come on," whispered the second black mask. "Are you ready?"
Yes.
"Come then."
"O, dear, dear!" grunted Joel, "I'd rather chop wood as I used to,
years ago, to help the little brown house out," swinging his arms up
over his head. "Why"--
And he was left in darkness, his arms falling nervously to his side,
while a cautious step across the room made his black eyes stand out in
fright.
"A burglar--a burglar!" flashed through his mind. He held his breath
hard and his knees knocked together. But Mamsie's eyes seemed to look
with scorn on him again. Joel straightened up, clenched his fist, and
every minute expecting to be knocked on the head, he crept like a cat
to the further corner, even in this extremity, grumbling inwardly
because Mr. King would not allow firearms. "If I only had them now!" he
thought. "Well, I must get my club."
But there was no time to get it. Joel creeping along, feeling his way
cautiously, soon knew that there were two burglars instead of one in
the room, and his mind was made up.
"They'll be after Grandpapa's money, sure," he thought. "I have got to
get out, and warn him."
But how? that was the question.
Getting down on all-fours, holding his breath, yet with never a thought
of danger to himself, he crept along toward the door leading into the
hall, then stopped and rested under cover of the heavy window drapery.
But as quick as a flash, two dark figures, that now, his eyes becoming
more accustomed to the darkness, he could dimly distinguish, reached
there before him, and the key clicking in the lock, Joel knew that all
hope from escape by that quarter was gone.
Like a cat, he sprang to his feet, swung the drapery out suddenly
toward the figures, and in the next second hurled himself over the
window-sill, hanging to the edge, grasping the blind, crawling to the
next window, and so on and over, and down, down, by any friendly thing
he could grasp, to the ground.
Two black masks hung over the deserted window-edge.
"Joe--Joe! it's only we boys--Percy and Van. Joe--Joe!"
"He'll be killed!" gasped Van, his face as white as Joel's robe
fluttering below them in his wild descent. "Stop him, Percy. Oh! do
stop him."
Percy clung to the window-sill, and danced in distress. "Stop him!" he
was beyond uttering anything more.
"Yes, oh, Joe! don't you see it's only Percy and Van?" cried Van
persuasively, and hanging out of the window to the imminent danger of
adding himself to Joel's company.
Percy shoved him back. "He's 'most down," he said, finding his breath.
"Now we'll run downstairs and let him in."
Van flew off from the window. "I'll go; it's my scrape," and he was
unlocking the door.
"I'm the oldest," said Percy, hurrying to get there first. "I ought to
have known better."
This made Van furious, and pushing Percy with all his might, he
wriggled out first as the door flew open, and not forgetting to tiptoe
down the hall, he hurried along, Percy behind him, to hear the noise of
men's feet coming over the stairs.
Van tried to rush forward shouting, "Thomas, it's we boys--Percy and
Van." Instead, he only succeeded in the darkness, in stumbling over a
chair, and falling flat with it amid a frightful racket that drowned
his voice.
Old Mr. King who had been awakened by the previous noise, and had rung
his burglar alarm that connected with Thomas's and Jencks's rooms in
the stable, now cried out from his doorway. "Make quick work, Thomas,"
and Percy saw the gleam of a pistol held high in Thomas's hand.
Up with a rush came bare feet over the back stairs; a flutter of
something white, and Joel sprang in between them. "It's Percy--it's
Percy!" he screamed, "don't you see, Thomas?"
"I'm Percy--don't shoot!" the taller burglar kept saying without
intermission, while the flaring of candles and frightened voices, told
of the aroused household.
"Make quick work, Jencks!" shouted Mr. King from his doorway, to add to
the general din.
Thomas, whose blood was up, determined once for all to put an end to
the profession of burglary as far as his master's house was concerned,
now drew nearer, steadying his pistol and trying to sight the nearest
fellow. This proved to be Van, now struggling to his feet.