Patty’s
Motor Car
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF
TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES,
THE MARJORIE SERIES, ETC.
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1911
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Published, September, 1911
Printed in U.S.A.
DEDICATED
WITH LOVE
TO
KATHARINE CARLETON
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I AFTERNOON TEA 9
II AN ABLE HELPER 24
III A LECTURE 40
IV THE HUNDREDTH QUESTION 52
V A SUMMER HOME 66
VI THE AWARD 81
VII A NEIGHBOUR 97
VIII SWIFT CAMILLA 110
IX MONA AT HOME 124
X THE COURTESY OF THE ROAD 137
XI THE FIRST ARRIVALS 152
XII A MOONLIGHT RIDE 165
XIII PATTY’S INGENUITY 177
XIV A BIRTHDAY BREAKFAST 190
XV A MORNING SWIM 203
XVI A CHANGE OF PARTNERS 216
XVII A DINNER AND A DANCE 229
XVIII MONA INTERFERES 242
XIX PHILIP’S PICNIC 254
XX A NARROW ESCAPE 267
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I
AFTERNOON TEA
Patty was curled up in her favourite big easy-chair in her own study.
Though called a study, because it had been used as such during her
schooldays, the pretty room was really more like a _boudoir_. Her desk
was still there, but was now filled with programmes, friendly letters,
and social correspondence instead of school themes or problems. The
general colouring of the room was green, but the sash curtains of thin
yellow silk, and the heap of yellow sofa cushions, did much to lighten
the effect, and gave the room a sunshiny air, even on a dull day. The
couch, and the two big, soft, cuddly chairs were upholstered in
yellow-flowered chintz, and on the pale green walls hung Patty’s
favourite pictures, and many curios or souvenirs of her year spent
abroad.
It was the first of March, so the room was brightened both by a big
bowlful of yellow daffodils and a blazing wood fire. The two things
Patty liked best in life were warmth and colour, and so to-day she was
sitting near the fire, with the splendid yellow glory of the daffodils
in full view.
But she was not looking at them, for she was poring over a book. When
Patty read she usually pored, for she was eager and enthusiastic over
any story in which she was interested.
But to-day, she was not reading a story. She pored intently, and then,
throwing back her head, she would stare blankly at the ceiling, thinking
hard.
Then, perhaps, she would fly to her bookcase, tumble out two or three
books, swiftly turn their pages, and then back to her big chair and the
original book.
It was a very small book, with a paper cover, but it seemed to be most
engrossing.
Two or three hours passed, and still Patty pored over the little book,
rarely turning a page. Absent-mindedly, she rubbed her head until the
hairpins fell out, and her golden hair fell around her shoulders, as
bright a glory as the daffodils. Vacantly she stared into the fire or
out of the window, and at last she flung her little book across the room
and exclaimed aloud:
“It’s no use! I can’t do it!”
And then Nan, her pretty stepmother, appeared at the open door.
“Patty!” she cried; “in a kimono! And it’s nearly four o’clock! Don’t
you know it’s my day?”
“Nan,” said Patty, with an anxious look in her eyes, “what is it, of
which the poor have two and the rich have none?”
“Gracious, Patty! What a question! I don’t know, I’m sure. Are you going
in for more philanthropy? Because, if so, do wait for a more convenient
season.”
“No; it isn’t philanthropy. It’s——I say, Nan, how could a headless man
write a letter?”
“He couldn’t.”
“And does a bookworm eat straight through a book, or zigzag?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard the Bookworm is only a fabled animal, like a
griffin. Or, no; I think it’s an extinct species, like the Dodo.”
“Oh, Nan! You are so deliciously ignorant.”
“No more so than you, or why do you ask me these things? Now, Patty,
stop this nonsense, and get dressed. What _are_ you doing, anyway?”
“Oh, Nan, the loveliest scheme ever! Let me tell you about it.”
“No, not now. I must go down to the drawing-room. And you must follow
just as soon as you can. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear, you old Loveliness. But just tell me when London——”
But Nan had run away from the fire of questions, and Patty drew herself
up out of her chair, stretched and yawned like a sleepy kitten, and then
proceeded to make her toilette with expedition and despatch.
But as she sat in front of her dressing table, piling her gold hair into
a soft crown above her pretty face, she frowned at her own reflection.
“You’re a stupid idiot,” she informed herself. “You don’t know anything!
And you haven’t an ounce of brains! Now, _what_ is it of which the poor
have two, the rich have none, schoolboys have several, and you have one.
Well, I can’t think of a thing but mumps or measles; and, of course,
they’re not the answer, and you couldn’t have one measle, anyhow.”
As she dressed, Patty took hasty glances in the little book, and finally
she left her room and walked slowly downstairs, murmuring, “Divide nine
into two equal parts, which, added together, make ten.”
But when she reached the drawing-room door, all the puzzling problems
flew out of her mind, and she went in gracefully to greet Nan’s guests.
As Patty was not yet out in society, she did not have her name on the
card with her stepmother’s, but she always assisted Nan in receiving,
and informally asked a number of her own friends to call, too.
This was Nan’s last reception day for the season, so it was a little
more elaborate than others had been.
Patty wore an embroidered white _chiffon_, which delicate material
clouded bows and bands of pale-blue satin. It was a lovely frock, and
just suited Patty’s blonde fairness. She went around among her mother’s
friends, greeting them with pretty courtesy, and chatting easily with
them. But, after a time, her own young friends came, and, with the two
Farringtons and Kenneth Harper, Patty went to the library, where they
could be by themselves.
Soon, Mr. Hepworth came, bringing Christine Farley.
Christine had been in New York only a few weeks, but already she had
lost much of her painful shyness, and, though still easily embarrassed
by the presence of strangers, she usually managed to preserve her poise
and self-control.
She greeted Patty with shining eyes, for the Southern girl was warmly
affectionate, and adored Patty.
“And are you all settled, now, Christine, and ready to receive callers?”
Patty asked.
“Yes, I am. I have a lovely room; not large, but sunny and pleasant, and
I will gladly welcome you there at any time. And Mr. and Mrs. Bosworth
are such kind people. Oh, I shall be very happy there.”
“And the work?” asked Mr. Hepworth. “How does that come on?”
“It’s all right,” said Christine, soberly, but nodding her head with
satisfaction.
Though shy in society, she was most practical and unembarrassed about
her art study. Not over-conceited, but perfectly aware of the extent of
her own talent, and also of her own ignorance. And she had a calm
determination to improve the one and conquer the other.
Christine was pretty, in her soft Southern way. She was small, and
dainty in all her effects. Her oval face was serious, almost sad in its
expression, but, if she were interested in a subject, it would light up
into sudden beauty.
Her clothes betokened her artistic tastes, and she never wore dresses of
the fashionable type, but soft, clinging gowns in dull, pastel colours.
A bit of old embroidery or unusual jewelry added an effective touch, and
Christine always looked well dressed, though her clothes cost far less
than Patty’s. The two girls were absolutely unlike, and yet they were
fast becoming great friends. But Christine possessed almost no sense of
humour, and Patty feared she could never be really chummy with any one
who lacked that.
Elise was not very fond of Christine, for she didn’t understand her at
all, and secretly thought her rather stupid. But the boys, Roger and
Kenneth, liked the Southern maiden, with her soft, pretty accent, and,
of course, Mr. Hepworth was her friend.
So the whole group was fairly congenial, and they formed a pleasant
little circle in the library, to drink their tea.
“Sorry I’m late,” said a cheery voice, and Philip Van Reypen joined
them.
“Oh! how do you do?” cried Patty, jumping up to greet him. “Miss Farley,
may I present Mr. Van Reypen? I think the rest are all acquainted.”
There were general greetings all round, and then Philip took his place
with the rest.
“My aunt is here,” he said, to Patty. “A little later, perhaps, she
wants to meet Miss Farley.”
“So she shall,” said Patty, remembering Miss Van Reypen’s offer to help
Christine in some way. “Will you have tea?”
“Will I have tea?” echoed Philip. “That’s exactly what I’m here for.
Please, yes.”
“Then here you are,” said Patty, handing him a cup; “and, incidentally,
do you know how a bookworm goes through a book?”
“Ugh! what an unpleasant subject,” said Elise, with a shrug of her
shoulders. “Patty, do talk of something else.”
“I can’t,” said Patty, solemnly; “I _must_ know about the manners and
customs of a well-conducted bookworm.”
“Do you mean a real bookworm, or a studious person?” asked Mr. Hepworth,
who often took Patty’s questions very seriously.
“I mean the—the entomological sort,” said Patty, “and I’m in dead
earnest. Who knows anything about the bookworms that really destroy
books?”
“I do,” announced Kenneth, “but nothing would induce me to tell. Theirs
is a secret history, and not to be made known to a curious world.”
“Pooh!” said Roger, “that’s all bluff. Patty, he doesn’t really know
anything about the beasts. Now, I do. A bookworm is a grub.”
“No,” said Philip, “the book is the bookworm’s grub. And pretty dry
fodder he must often find it.”
“I know what you’re going to do, Patty,” said Kenneth, in an aggrieved
voice; “you’re going to set up a pair of pet bookworms in place of Darby
and Juliet. Please understand that I am distinctly offended, and I
prophesy that your new pets won’t be half as interesting as the
goldfish.”
“Wrong again, Ken,” returned Patty; “no new pets could ever be so dear
to my heart as those sweet, lovely goldfish. But, if you people don’t
tell me about bookworms, I’ll have to look in the Encyclopædia; and, if
there’s anything I do hate, it’s that. Christine, aren’t you up on
bookworms?”
“No,” said Christine, in a shy whisper. She couldn’t yet become
accustomed to the quick repartee and merry nonsense of these Northern
young people.
“I used to have a pet bookworm,” began Roger, “but he got into a
cook-book and died of dyspepsia.”
“Tell us what it’s all about, Patty?” said Mr. Hepworth, seeing she was
really serious in her questioning.
“Why, it’s a puzzle,—a sort of conundrum. This is it. Suppose a history
in three volumes is placed upon a bookshelf. Suppose each volume
contains just one hundred pages. And suppose a bookworm, starting at
page one of volume one, bores right straight through the books, covers
and all, to the last page of volume three. How many leaves does he go
through, not counting fly-leaves, or covers?”
“Patty, I’m surprised at you,” said Roger. “That’s too easy. He goes
through the three hundred pages, of course.”
“It does seem so,” said Patty, with a perplexed look, “but, as you say,
that’s too easy. There must be a catch or a quibble somewhere.”
“Well,” said Elise, “I never could do a puzzle. I don’t know why a hen
goes across the road, or when is a door not a door. But you’re a born
puzzlist, Patty, and, if you can’t guess it, nobody can.”
“Elise, you’re a sweet thing, and most complimentary. But I know you
have no talent for puzzles, so, my dear child, I’m not asking you. But,
you men of brains and intellect, can’t you help me out? I’m sure there’s
another answer, but I can’t think what it would be.”
“Why, Patty,” said Mr. Hepworth, thoughtfully, “I think Roger is right.
If the bookworm goes through all three volumes, he must go through three
hundred pages, mustn’t he?”
“No, indeed!” cried Christine, her shyness forgotten, and her eyes
shining as she constructed the picture of the books in her mind’s eye.
“Wait a minute; yes, I’m sure I’m right! He only goes through one
hundred pages. He goes only through the second volume, you see!”
Elise looked at Christine a little disdainfully.
“You don’t seem to have heard the conditions,” she said. “The bookworm
begins at the first page of the first volume and goes through to the end
of the last one.”
“Yes, I heard that,” said Christine, flushing at Elise’s tone, which was
distinctly supercilious. “But, don’t you see, when the books are set up
on a shelf, in the usual manner, the first page of the first volume is
on the right, just up against the last page of the second volume.”
“Nonsense!” cried Elise.
“But it is so, Miss Farley!” exclaimed Philip Van Reypen. “You’ve struck
it! Look, people!”
He turned to a bookcase, and indicated three volumes of a set of books.
“Now, see, the first page of volume one is right against the last page
of volume two. So the first page of volume two is up against the last
page of volume three. Now, what does Mr. Bookworm do? He starts here, at
the first page of volume one. He doesn’t go backward, so he doesn’t go
through volume one at all! He goes through volume two, and, as soon as
he strikes volume three, he strikes it at the last page, and his task is
done, his journey is over. He has fulfilled the conditions of the
original question. See?”
They did see, after awhile, but it was only the ocular demonstration
that proved it, for the facts were hard to describe in words.
Elise flatly refused to see it, saying it made her head ache to try to
understand it.
“But it was very clever of Miss Farley to reason it out so soon,” said
Philip.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” agreed Patty. “I didn’t know you had a bent for
puzzles, Christine.”
“I haven’t. But that doesn’t seem to me like a puzzle. I can’t do
arithmetical problems, or guess charades at all. But this seems to me a
picture of still life. I can see the insides of the books in my mind,
and they are wrong end to,—that is, compared to the way we read them.
You see, they really stand in the bookcase with the pages numbered
backward.”
“Bravo, Christine; so they do!” said Mr. Hepworth. “Patty, that’s the
answer, but, I confess, I was ’way off myself.”
“So say we all of us,” chimed in Roger. “I can only see through it, part
of the time, even now.”
“I think it a most clever catch question,” said Philip Van Reypen.
“Where did you find it, Miss Fairfield?”
“In a little book of puzzles; I’m trying to guess them all.”
“Let me help you, won’t you? I’m a shark on puzzles. I slipped up on
this one, I admit; but I can do the ‘transposed, I am a fish’ kind, just
lovely.”
“Ah, but my bookful isn’t that kind. They’re all of a catchy or
difficult sort.”
“Well, let me try to help, mayn’t I?” Mr. Van Reypen’s voice was gay and
wheedlesome, and Patty responded by saying, “Perhaps; some time. But now
I must take Miss Farley in to see Mrs. Van Reypen.”
These two were mutually pleased with each other, as Patty felt sure they
would be.
Mrs. Van Reypen assumed her kindest demeanour, for she saw Christine was
excessively shy. She talked pleasantly to her, drawing her out
concerning her life work and her life plans, and ended by asking the
girl to call on her some afternoon, soon.
Then she went away, and Patty drew Christine into a corner to
congratulate her.
“It’s fine!” she declared. “If Mrs. Van Reypen takes you up, she’ll do
lovely things for you. She’ll have you at her house, and you’ll meet
lovely people, and she’ll take you to the opera! Oh, Christine, do be
nice to her.”
“Of course I shall. I liked her at once. She isn’t a bit patronising.
But, Patty, your friend Elise is. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t like
me.”
“Nonsense, Christine, don’t you go around with thinks like that under
your pompadour! Elise is all right. She isn’t such a sunny bunny as I
am, but she’s a lot wiser and better in many ways.”
“No, she isn’t! She’s selfish and jealous. But I’m going to be nice to
her, and, perhaps, I can make her like me, after all.”
“I should say you could! Everybody likes you, and anybody who doesn’t
soon will!”