"Hullo, Martha!" said Radcliffe.
Mrs. Slawson bowed profoundly. "Hullo yourself! I ain't had the pleasure
of meetin' you for quite some time past, an' yet I notice my absents
ain't made no serious alteration for the worst in your appearance. You
ain't fell away none, on account of my not bein' here."
"Fell away from what?" asked Radcliffe.
"Fell away from nothin'. That's what they call a figger o' speech. Means
you ain't got thin."
"Well, _you've_ got thin, haven't you, Martha? I don't 'member your
cheeks had those two long lines in 'em before."
"Lines?" repeated Martha, regarding herself in the mirror of an étagère
she was polishing. "Them ain't _lines_. Them's dimples."
Radcliffe scrutinized her critically for a moment. "They're not like
Miss Lang's dimples," he observed at last. "Miss Lang's dimples look
like when you blow in your milk to cool it--they're there, an' then they
ain't there. She vanishes 'em in, an' she vanishes 'em out, but those
lines in your face, they just stay. Only they weren't there before,
when you were here."
"The secret is, my dimples is the kind that takes longer to vanish 'em
out when you once vanished 'em in. Mine's way-train dimples. Miss Lang's
is express. But you can take it from me, dimples is faskinatin',
whatever specie they are."
"What's _faskinatin'?"_
"It's the thing in some things that, when it ain't in other things, you
don't care a thing about 'em."
"Are _you_ faskinatin'?"
"That's not for me to say," said Martha, feigning coyness. "But this
much I will confess, that some folks which shall be nameless, considers
me so. An' they'd oughter know."
"Is Miss Lang faskinatin'?"
"Ask your Uncle Frank."
"Why must I ask him?"
"If you wanter know."
"Does he know?"
"Prob'ly. He's a very well-informed gen'l-man on most subjecks."
"I do' want to ask my Uncle Frank anything about Miss Lang. Once I asked
him somethin' about her, an' he didn't like it."
"What'd you ask him?"
"I asked him if she wasn't his best girl."
"What'd he say?"
"He said 'No!' quick, just like that--'No!' I guess he was cross with
me, an' I know he didn't like it. When I asked my mother why he didn't
like it, she said because Miss Lang's only my governess. An' when I told
Miss Lang what my mother, she told me, Miss Lang, she didn't like it
either."
"Now, what do you think o' that?" ejaculated Martha. "Nobody didn't seem
to like nothin' in that combination, did they? You was the only one in
the whole outfit that showed any tack."
"What means that--_tack?"_
"It's a little thing that you use when you want to keep things in
place--keep 'em from fallin' down. There's two kinds. One you must
hammer in, an' the other you mustn't."
"I wisht Miss Lang _was_ my Uncle Frank's best girl. But I guess she's
somebody else's."
"Eh?" said Martha sharply, sitting back on her heels and twisting her
polishing-cloth into a rope, as if she were wringing it out. "Now, whose
best girl do you think she is, if I may make so bold?"
Radcliffe settled down to business.
"Yesterday Miss Lang an' me was comin' home from the Tippydrome, an' my
mother she had comp'ny in the drawin'-room. An' I didn't know there was
comp'ny first-off, coz Shaw he didn't tell us, an' I guess I talked
kinder loud in the hall, an' my mother she heard me, an' she wasn't
cross or anythin', she just called to me to come along in, an' see the
comp'ny. An' I said, 'No, I won't! Not less Miss Lang comes too.' An' my
mother, she said, 'Miss Lang, come too.' An' Miss Lang, she didn't
wanter, but she hadter. An' the comp'ny was a gen'l'man an' a lady, an'
the minit the gen'l'man, he saw Miss Lang, he jumped up outer his chair
like a jumpin'-jack, an' his eyes got all kinder sparkly, an' he held
out both of his hands to her, an' sorter shook her hands, till you'd
think he'd shake 'em off. An' my mother, she said, 'I see you an' Miss
Lang are already 'quainted, Mr. Van Brandt.' An' he laughed a lot, the
way you do when you're just tickled to death, an' he said, ''Quainted?
Well, I should say so! Miss Lang an' I are old, old friends!' An' he
kep' lookin' at her, an' lookin' at her, the way you feel when there's
somethin' on the table you like, an' you're fearful 'fraid it will be
gone before it's passed to you. An' my mother she said to the other
comp'ny, 'Miss Pelham, this is Radcliffe.' An' Miss Pelham, she was
lookin' sideways at Miss Lang an' Mr. What's-his-name, but she pertended
she was lookin' at me, an' she said (she's a Smarty-Smarty-gave-a-party,
Miss Pelham is), she said, 'Radcliffe, Radcliffe? I wonder if you're
any relation to Radcliffe College?' An' I said, 'No. I wonder if you are
any relation to Pelham Manor?' An' while they was laughin', an' my
mother she was tellin' how percoshus I am, my Uncle Frank he came in. He
came in kinder quiet, like he always does, an' he stood in the door, an'
Mr. What's-his-name was talkin' to Miss Lang so fast, an' lookin' at her
so hard, they didn't neither of 'em notice. An' when my Uncle Frank, he
noticed they didn't notice, coz they was havin' such fun by themselves,
he put his mouth together like this--like when your tooth hurts, an' you
bite on it to make it hurt some more, an' then he talked a lot to Miss
Pelham, an' didn't smile pleasant an' happy at Mr. What's-his-name an'
Miss Lang, when my mother, she interdooced 'em. An' soon Miss Lang, she
took me upstairs an' she didn't look near so tickled to death as Mr. Van
Brandt, he looked. An' when I asked her if she wasn't, she said: 'O'
course I am. Mr. Van Brandt was a friend o' mine when I was a little
girl. An' when you're a stranger in a strange land, anybody you knew
when you was at home seems dear to you.' But she didn't look near so
pleased as he did. She looked more like my Uncle Frank, he did before he
got talkin' so much to Miss Pelham. An' now I guess the way of it is,
Miss Pelham's my Uncle Frank's best girl an' Miss Lang's Mr.
What's-his-name's."
"Well, now! Who'd believed you could 'a' seen so much? Why, you're a
reg'ler Old Sleuth the Detective, or Sherlock Holmes, or somebody like
that, for discoverin' things, ain't you?"
"I don't want Miss Pelham to be my Uncle Frank's best girl, an' I don't
see why that other man he don't have her for his, like she was
first-off, an' leave my Miss Lang alone."
"It all is certainly very dark an' mysterious," said Mrs. Slawson,
shaking her head. "You don't know where you're at, at all. Like when you
wake up in the black night, an' hear the clock give one strike. You
couldn't tell, if your life hung in the ballast, if it's half-past
twelve, or one, or half-past."
Radcliffe pondered this for a space, but was evidently unable to fathom
its depth, for presently he let it go with a sigh, and swung off to
another topic.
"Say, do you know our cook, 'Liza--the one we uster have--has gone
away?"
"So I gathered from not havin' saw her fairy-figger hoverin' round the
kitchen as I come in, an' meetin' another lady in her place--name of
Augusta, Beetrice said."
"Yes, sir! Augusta's the new one. I guess Augusta don't drink."
"Which, you are suggesting 'Liza does?"
"Well, my mother, she don't know I know, but I do. I heard Shaw tellin'
'bout it. It was 'Liza's day out, an' she went an' got 'toxicated, an' a
p'liceman he took her up, an' nex' mornin' my Uncle Frank, they sent to
him out of the station-house to have him _bail her out_."
"My, my! She was as full as that?"
"What's bail her out?" inquired Radcliffe.
Mrs. Slawson considered. "When a boat gets full of water, because o'
leakin' sides or heavy rains or shippin' seas, or whatever they calls
it, you bail her out with a tin can or a sponge or anythin' you have by
you."
"Was Liza full of water?"
"I was describin' _boats_," said Martha. "An' talkin' o' boats, did I
tell you we got a new kitten to our house? He's a gray Maltee. His name
is Nixcomeraus."
"Why is his name Nix--why is his name _that_?"
"Nixcomeraus? His name's Nixcomeraus because he's from the Dutchman's
house. If you listen good, you'll see that's poetry--
"'Nixcomeraus from the Dutchman's house!'
"I didn't make it up, but it's poetry all the same. A Dutchman gen'l'man
who lives nex' door to me, made him a present to our fam'ly."
"Do you like him?"
"The Dutchman gen'l'man?"
"No, the--the Nix--the _cat_?"
"Certaintly we like him. He's a decent, self-respectin' little fella
that 'tends to his own business, an' keeps good hours. An' you'd oughter
see how grand him an' Flicker gets along! Talk o' a cat-and-dog
existence! Why, if all the married parties I know, not to speak o' some
others that ain't, hit it off as good as Flicker an' Nixcomeraus, there
wouldn't be no occasion for so many ladies takin' the rest-cure at
Reno."
"What's Reno?"
"Reno? Why, Reno's short for merino. Like I'd say, Nix for Nixcomeraus,
which is a kinder woolen goods you make dresses out of. There! Did you
hear the schoolroom bell? I thought I heard it ringin' a while ago, but
I wasn't sure. Hurry now, an' don't keep Miss Lang waitin'. She wants
you to come straight along up, so's she can learn you to be a big an'
handsome gen'l'man like your Uncle Frank."
When Radcliffe had left her, Martha went over in her mind the items he
had guilelessly contributed to her general fund of information. Take it
all in all, she was not displeased with what they seemed to indicate.
"Confidence is a good thing to have, but a little wholesome doubt don't
hurt the masculine gender none. I guess, if I was put to it, I could
count on one hand with no fingers, the number o' gen'l'men, no matter
how plain, have died because 'way down in their hearts they believed
they wasn't reel _A-1 Winners._ That's one thing it takes a lot o' hard
usage to convince the sect of. They may feel they ain't gettin' their
doos, that they're misunderstood, an' bein' sold below cost. But that
they're ackchelly shopworn, or what's called 'seconds,' or put on the
_As Is_ counter because they're cracked, or broke, or otherwise slightly
disfigured, but still in the ring--why, _that_ never seems to percolate
through their brains, like those coffee-pots they use nowadays, that
don't make no better coffee than the old kind, if you know how to do it
good, in the first place.
"On the other hand, ladies is dretful tryin'! They act like they're the
discoverers of perpetchal emotion, an' is _on the job_ demonstratin'.
You can't count on 'em for one minit to the next, which they certaintly
was never born to be aromatic cash-registers. An' p'raps that's the
reason, bein' natchelly so poor at figgers, they got to rely to such a
extent on corsets. I'm all for women myself. I believe they're the
comin' man, but I must confess, if I'm to speak the truth, it ain't for
the simple, uninfected, childlike mind o' the male persuasion to foller
their figaries, unless he's some of a trained acrobat.
"Now, the harsh way Miss Claire has toward Mr. Ronald! You'd think he
had give himself dead away to her, an' was down on his knee-pans humble
as a 'Piscerpalian sayin' the Literny in Lent, grubbin' about among the
dust she treads on, to touch the hem o' her garment. Whereas, in some
way unbeknownst to me, an' prob'ly unbeknownst to him, he's touched her
pride, which is why she's so up in arms, not meanin' his--worse luck!
An' it would have all worked out right in the end, an' will yet, _if_
this new party that Radcliffe mentioned ain't Mr. Buttinsky, an' she
don't foller the dictates of her _art_ an' flirt with him too
outrageous, or else marry him to spite herself, which is what I mean to
pervent if I can, but which, of course, it may be I can't."