Instantly that brat of a Minnie Phelps simply tore down the sky with
her shrieks of derision. "Got his _lunch_ in it! In a _pail_!" She ran
screaming to her mother. "Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma! Jimmie Trescott's got
his picnic in a pail!"
Now there was nothing in the nature of this fact to particularly move
the others--notably the boys, who were not competent to care if he had
brought his luncheon in a coal-bin; but such is the instinct of
childish society that they all immediately moved away from him. In a
moment he had been made a social leper. All old intimacies were flung
into the lake, so to speak. They dared not compromise themselves. At
safe distances the boys shouted, scornfully: "Huh! Got his picnic in a
pail!" Never again during that picnic did the little girls speak of
him as Jimmie Trescott. His name now was Him.
His mind was dark with pain as he stood, the hangdog, kicking the
gravel, and muttering as defiantly as he was able, "Well, I can have
it in a pail if I want to." This statement of freedom was of no
importance, and he knew it, but it was the only idea in his head.
[Illustration: "'JIMMY TRESCOTT'S GOT HIS PICNIC IN A PAIL!'"]
He had been baited at school for being detected in writing a letter to
little Cora, the angel child, and he had known how to defend himself,
but this situation was in no way similar. This was a social affair,
with grown people on all sides. It would be sweet to catch the Margate
twins, for instance, and hammer them into a state of bleating respect
for his pail; but that was a matter for the jungles of childhood,
where grown folk seldom penetrated. He could only glower.
The amiable voice of Mrs. Earl suddenly called: "Come, children!
Everything's ready!" They scampered away, glancing back for one last
gloat at Jimmie standing there with his pail.
He did not know what to do. He knew that the grown folk expected him
at the spread, but if he approached he would be greeted by a shameful
chorus from the children--more especially from some of those damnable
little girls. Still, luxuries beyond all dreaming were heaped on that
cloth. One could not forget them. Perhaps if he crept up modestly, and
was very gentle and very nice to the little girls, they would allow
him peace. Of course it had been dreadful to come with a pail to such
a grand picnic, but they might forgive him.
Oh no, they would not! He knew them better. And then suddenly he
remembered with what delightful expectations he had raced to this
grove, and self-pity overwhelmed him, and he thought he wanted to die
and make every one feel sorry.
The young lady in white duck and a sailor hat looked at him, and then
spoke to her sister, Mrs. Earl. "Who's that hovering in the distance,
Emily?"
Mrs. Earl peered. "Why, it's Jimmie Trescott! Jimmie, come to the
picnic! Why don't you come to the picnic, Jimmie?" He began to sidle
towards the cloth.
But at Mrs. Earl's call there was another outburst from many of the
children. "He's got his picnic in a pail! In a _pail_! Got it in a
pail!"
Minnie Phelps was a shrill fiend. "Oh, mamma, he's got it in that
pail! See! Isn't it funny? Isn't it dreadful funny?"
"What ghastly prigs children are, Emily!" said the young lady. "They
are spoiling that boy's whole day, breaking his heart, the little
cats! I think I'll go over and talk to him."
"Maybe you had better not," answered Mrs. Earl, dubiously. "Somehow
these things arrange themselves. If you interfere, you are likely to
prolong everything."
"Well, I'll try, at least," said the young lady.
At the second outburst against him Jimmie had crouched down by a tree,
half hiding behind it, half pretending that he was not hiding behind
it. He turned his sad gaze towards the lake. The bit of water seen
through the shadows seemed perpendicular, a slate-colored wall. He
heard a noise near him, and turning, he perceived the young lady
looking down at him. In her hand she held plates. "May I sit near
you?" she asked, coolly.
Jimmie could hardly believe his ears. After disposing herself and the
plates upon the pine needles, she made brief explanation. "They're
rather crowded, you see, over there. I don't like to be crowded at a
picnic, so I thought I'd come here. I hope you don't mind."
Jimmie made haste to find his tongue. "Oh, I don't mind! I _like_ to
have you here." The ingenuous emphasis made it appear that the fact of
his liking to have her there was in the nature of a law-dispelling
phenomenon, but she did not smile.
"How large is that lake?" she asked.
Jimmie, falling into the snare, at once began to talk in the manner of
a proprietor of the lake. "Oh, it's almost twenty miles long, an' in
one place it's almost four miles wide! an' it's _deep_ too--awful
deep--an' it's got real steamboats on it, an'--oh--lots of other
boats, an'--an'--an'--"
"Do you go out on it sometimes?"
"Oh, lots of times! My father's got a boat," he said, eying her to
note the effect of his words.
She was correctly pleased and struck with wonder. "Oh, has he?" she
cried, as if she never before had heard of a man owning a boat.
Jimmie continued: "Yes, an' it's a grea' big boat, too, with sails,
real sails; an' sometimes he takes me out in her, too; an' once he
took me fishin', an' we had sandwiches, plenty of 'em, an' my father
he drank beer right out of the bottle--_right out of the bottle_!"
The young lady was properly overwhelmed by this amazing intelligence.
Jimmie saw the impression he had created, and he enthusiastically
resumed his narrative: "An' after, he let me throw the bottles in the
water, and I throwed 'em 'way, 'way, 'way out. An' they sank,
an'--never comed up," he concluded, dramatically.
His face was glorified; he had forgotten all about the pail; he was
absorbed in this communion with a beautiful lady who was so interested
in what he had to say.
She indicated one of the plates, and said, indifferently: "Perhaps you
would like some of those sandwiches. I made them. Do you like olives?
And there's a deviled egg. I made that also."
"Did you really?" said Jimmie, politely. His face gloomed for a moment
because the pail was recalled to his mind, but he timidly possessed
himself of a sandwich.
"Hope you are not going to scorn my deviled egg," said his goddess. "I
am very proud of it." He did not; he scorned little that was on the
plate.
Their gentle intimacy was ineffable to the boy. He thought he had a
friend, a beautiful lady, who liked him more than she did anybody at
the picnic, to say the least. This was proved by the fact that she had
flung aside the luxuries of the spread cloth to sit with him, the
exile. Thus early did he fall a victim to woman's wiles.
"Where do you live?" he asked, suddenly.
"Oh, a long way from here! In New York."