DINING IN STATE.
“Impossible!” cried Beatrice, catching the angry boy in her arms, and
casting a defiant glance toward the irate Mr. Dolloway.
“Well, when a young one don’t know any better than to sass his elders
he’d ought to be spanked. So I done it. An’ I’ll do it again, if I ever
have occasion to.”
“Dolloway!”
Beatrice was surprised to hear how stern Mr. Brook’s voice could
become, and she was delighted to see the other old fellow wince
visibly. The sternness had gone home to the servant’s guilty heart, as
it should.
“Truth, sir. Begging your pardon for sayin’ so. Here was I, laying
myself out to entertain the boy; a telling stories till my jaws ached,
and answering questions by the thousand till I couldn’t talk no more.
Then I remembered the checker-board we’d brought along, and I tried to
learn him how to play. The sass he give me--beat all! He knows more’n
I do; more’n you do, sir; more’n the President of these United States
and Queen Victory into the bargain.”
“I--I--I don’t! I--never!” sobbed Robert.
“You did. You do--er you think you do! Didn’t you conteradict me plain
to my face about them moves? Didn’t you just as good as say I cheated?”
“Wull--wull--wull--you did!”
“Hush, Bob! Let the old man tell his story first.”
“If--if he gets his in fust--who’s a-goin’ ter b’lieve mine?” demanded
“Humpty-Dumpty,” with renewed energy. “Fust off he knocked me down
with the checker-board. Think I was goin’ ter stan’ that? I guess not!
So I hit him with my fist. That’s all they was to it. An’ I’d a been
satisfied nen to quit an’ begin over again, if he’d a played fair. But
he wouldn’t. Nen--he--he caught me up--an’--”
“Never mind, now. Try not to think about it. And if you have been
naughty you must apologize to Mr. Dolloway.”
“This--this is distressing!” exclaimed poor Mr. Brook, who hated a
quarrel. “Try, both of you, to forget all about it. You were probably
both almost starved. So I’ll order in the dinner at once, and that
will set us all straight. Come here, my little man. Here is a quarter
for you.”
But the “little man” was beyond the allurements of tips. He had
sustained an indignity which it seemed to him he could never forget. It
had been part of Mrs. Beckwith’s gentle rule that no physical violence
should ever be visited upon her children. In the street the boys had
taken their share of rough-and-tumble fighting with other boys, but in
their own home or at their schools neither had ever received a blow.
The fact and the method of Mr. Dolloway’s punishment was, therefore,
the more infuriating and humiliating to the really proud little boy,
who was at heart as “good” as his doting sister constantly declared him.
“Go, darling!” whispered Bonny. “Don’t make poor Mr. Brook feel any
worse. He is unhappy about his man’s rudeness to you. Go! Be generous,
and take it!”
This was putting the matter in a new light; and Robert despised
anything like want of generosity. He hesitated but a second longer,
till Bonny added, “Go, dear!” and then he marched straight to Mr. Brook
and laid his soiled hand confidingly upon that gentleman’s knee.
“Wull--I’ll take it to ’blige you, not him. I ain’t a takin’ no pay
fer what he done, an’ I’ll lick him yet, if I get big enough. Thank
you, sir. There comes the waiter man. He’s been in here a lot o’ times
a’ready. I guess it’s dinner, don’t you?”
“I guess it is. In fact, I know it is. Now, my son, what did you order?
And I hope you did not forget me. I’m as hungry as a bear.”
“Are bears hungry?”
“They have that reputation. I am not acquainted with any bears myself,
so I cannot speak from experience. Come, Dolloway, here is your
especial bit of venison steak again, I see. Come, draw up to the table,
all.”
Mr. Dolloway sniffed, “After you is manners for me, sir.”
“Stuff and nonsense, lad! Waive formality for once, and take a bit of
dinner with an old friend--not after him. Come.”
“No, no, sir; thank you, I never could relish my victuals with young
ones to the table.”
“Dolloway! sit up. That is enough of nonsense. And show the ill-taught
child how he should behave--if you know how yourself.”
To Beatrice’s surprise, Mr. Dolloway did not apparently resent this
speech of Mr. Brook’s, and he immediately obeyed it. She saw then
that, familiar and almost equal as the two had seemed to her, one was
still the master, the other the man.
The dinner began in silence, broken only by the host’s attempts at
conversation, which fell without much response; for Dolloway was
stubbornly speechless, and the young Beckwiths were too much impressed
by the strangeness of their surroundings to have leisure for words.
Even restaurant service, to which most young city folk become early
accustomed, was unknown to them, for their simple meals had always
been taken at home; and the deft movements of the waiter, perplexity
as to the use of the various utensils with which he provided them,
and a close observation of Mr. Brook and his manner of using the big
or little forks and spoons, occupied them to the exclusion of almost
everything else, even food.
“Try a few of those oysters. They are delicious, my dear, they are
indeed,” urged the entertainer, pushing the plate of half-shells gently
toward Bonny’s place.
Then she rallied herself. “I must not seem ungrateful, and the
food does smell so good! Only there is so much of it! One of these
‘courses,’ I suppose they are, would make enough for once at home. I
wish Motherkin had some oysters like these! And she shall. I will buy
some on my way back.” Then she turned to her host, and exerted herself
to be as entertaining as Bonny Beckwith certainly could be if she
willed, and before he knew it even Mr. Dolloway was laughing.
In that laugh the hatchet was buried; or rather the last ill-temper
which Robert had retained vanished, and he turned merrily toward his
enemy with the words: “My eye! This turkey is an awful good one, ain’t
it? I wish I could have you tell me what to order, every day!”
“When I was a boy I liked turkey,” answered Dolloway, graciously.
“Tell me ‘when you was a boy,’ please. If you will I won’t be sassy no
more, an’ I won’t beat you no more.”
“Some time. Not now. I did tell you all I knew, ’most.”
“He says you have horses of your own, Mr. Brook!” said “Humpty-Dumpty,”
suddenly remembering this communication and wishing to have it verified.
“Yes, I have a number; seven in the stables now, I think. But all are
not mine; one pair is my sister’s. Some day I hope you will come and
see them.”
“Ginger! Do you? Honest Injun?”
“Certainly. Why should you doubt it?”
“Oh--because I hit _him_, an’ I’m a ‘young one,’ an’--I’m gen’ally
doin’ somethin’ I hadn’t oughter. But if you mean it I’ll come, if my
mother will let me.”
“I shall ask her,” said Mr. Brook, cheerfully. “I have hopes she will
say ‘yes.’ Then Dolloway, here, shall teach you how to ride.”
“No, I sha’n’t teach nobody to break his neck.”
“Perhaps you may have a horse of your own, some day,” calmly pursued
Mr. Brook, undisturbed by Dolloway’s present rebellion against
authority.
Robert gasped. Such a “perhaps” literally took his breath away. Then he
asked:
“Could I ride him bareback?”
“I presume you would attempt it.”
“If I ’tempted it I’d do it. They ain’t no back down ter me; I’ve got
grit, I have. Bonny, here, she would ’a’ give up--kerflummux! a sellin’
those chrysms, but I made her hold on. If it hadn’t ’a’ been fer me she
wouldn’t ’a’ made nothin’, hardly.”
Bonny winced. The least said about chrysanthemums the better she liked
it now. But she answered: “How about the dozen which Miss Agnew
bought? Where were you at that time?”
Robert ignored the inquiry. He had now eaten all that his capacity
permitted, and he began to think of home. Not that homesickness
troubled him, but a longing to boast of that day’s experience over the
humdrum, matter-of-fact life which had probably gone on in the Second
Avenue flat.
“Say, Bon! It’s time fer a feller ter go! Motherkin’ll be gettin’
worried ’bout us.”
“If Mr. Brook will excuse us we will go at once, before the up-town
cars get crowded.”
“Golly! Will you ride? Eh?”
“Yes, dear. We are a long way from our own neighborhood now.”
“I know that. But I’ve walked it before, when I didn’t have no such
good dinner inside of me. I’d laugh if I couldn’t now!”
“Very well. We’ll try it, then.”
But they were not to be permitted. When they turned to bid their host
good-by, they found him with his hat on, ready to accompany them to the
street. “You must allow me to put you in a cab, my dears. Yes, yes.
Indeed, I shall permit nothing else. You are to say all kind things
to the family for me, and I will write your mother or you, after I
reach home and have seen Joanna. One thing, remember. I am not a new
acquaintance. I am an old and tried friend. You can trust me. You can
expect to see a great deal of me, if you will. Good-by.”
“Good-by.” “Good-by! Don’t forget about my visit to you!” “Thank you.
Good-by.”
Around whirled the cab, and off up the street sped--no, crawled--the
vehicle, among the lines of trucks and wagons, street-cars, hacks, and
carriages, till Beatrice felt she could have outstripped that pace on
her own light feet.
“But it’s riding, all the same, Bon! Let’s play pretend it’s our own
carriage and we have been down town to buy a horse.”
“No; a house in the country.”
“Horses too. An’ we’re goin’ ter live ‘swell’ forever after. We’re
goin’ ter have turkey every day.”
“Every other day, dear; it would be better for our digestion.”
“What’s digestion?”
“It is the one thing which the impecunious young Beckwiths have in
perfection.”
“Pooh! What’s the use of saying words a mile long? An’ why don’t you
give a real answer?”
“I like to use long words. It’s the only luxury I can afford. And the
real answer is, the prime condition of our ‘insides,’ which allow us to
eat anything from ‘A to Izzard.’ There, let’s get out at this corner. I
want to invest a little of my money in a few oysters for Motherkin, as
well as to pay you the seventy-five cents I promised.”
They dismissed the cab at the corner of Third Avenue and hurried into
the nearest market, where Bonny selected with utmost care a dozen of
the very finest “bivalves” she could find; but when she offered the
promised reward to her little brother he surprised her by refusing to
take it.
“Why, Bob! Why not? Are you ill? What is the matter?”
“No, I ain’t ill. Can’t a feller do a gen’rous thing ’ithout his folks
’cusin’ him o’ bein’ sick? But, say! Wait a minute! I will take it,
too. I’ll take it an’ give it to my mother myself. I earned it fair an’
square, didn’t I?”
“Of course you did. And you are a perfect darling that you do not
wish to waste it on yourself. Mother will be delighted with your
unselfishness! If it weren’t in the street I’d kiss you, sweetheart!”
“Well, you needn’t. An’ I’ve got a quarter, anyway. That is more’n I’ve
had in a dog’s age before. Do you s’pose my mother will scold me for
running away from school?”
“As you draw near home your conscience begins to prick you, doesn’t it?
Mine does. I didn’t feel half as guilty before.”
There was such a sympathy in this matter that despite its being on the
“street” and a place where exhibitions of affection were out of place,
the brother and sister clasped hands with an eagerness that told how
much they really feared the quiet glance of disapproval which Mrs.
Beckwith would make her only punishment.
But it was not Beatrice’s habit to acknowledge herself worsted till
compelled; and she dashed into the little parlor of their flat crying,
as gayly as she could: “Fairy gifts, Motherkin! I’ve discovered the
secret of transmuting posies into pounds, petals into pennies, and
chrysanthemums into oysters! Behold--and believe!”
“Ahem! Miss Beatrice, this is truly fortunate. I had begun to despair
of seeing you.”
The girl wheeled suddenly about, and there, spectacles on nose and
music-roll in hand, sat the Professor of Voice Culture who was training
her for “her career,” and whom she had faithfully promised to meet
that day for “a particular reason of obligingness to me myself; that
may mean a much of benefit to the poor old Herr Doctor.”
Until that instant she had utterly forgotten the teacher’s request and
her promise, and the regret with which she now recalled it effectually
banished all affected hilarity. Dropping her package of “saddle rocks,”
she held out both hands to the shabby-looking German, with an accent
of such keen distress in her voice that he forgave her on the instant:
“Oh, sir! I am so sorry. But--I never thought of it, not once. Has it
made a great difference?”
“No, no,--not so great--but the mother--”
Bonny turned once more, this time to be confronted by another visitor,
and oddly enough another teacher, the head master of the parochial
institution where Robert was supposed to learn more refinement than he
could at the public schools of the city.
“My dear, Mr. Benton. He has called about Robert’s absence, fearing he
was ill. He also has a broken engagement to explain. Where have you
both been all day?”
“Mother! must I tell--now--before these?”
“I know of no reason why you should not. I hope my children have not
absented themselves from their duties for any cause which they would
be ashamed to mention.” There was both pride and pain in the widow’s
tone, and Bonny opened her lips to “make a clean breast of the matter,”
but a second thought restrained her. What she had done might have been
unwise, but she saw no reason to explain their actual poverty to “all
the world.” For the first time in her life she refused to answer her
mother’s question, and a spot of heightened color burned on each cheek
as she bowed and murmured: “I cannot give the reason now, dear. Please
do not press me;” and immediately quitted the apartment.
But alas for the Beckwith pride! In her haste Beatrice forgot that she
had left the garrulous “Humpty-Dumpty” behind her.