"Oh no!" she answered, gravely.
Jimmie was silent for a time, during which he glanced shyly and
furtively up at her face. It was evident that he was somewhat
embarrassed. Finally he said, "When I grow up to be a man--"
"Oh, that is some time yet!" said the beautiful lady.
"But when I _do_, I--I should like to marry you."
"Well, I will remember it," she answered; "but don't talk of it now,
because it's such a long time; and--I wouldn't wish you to consider
yourself bound." She smiled at him.
He began to brag. "When I grow up to be a man, I'm goin' to have lots
an' lots of money, an' I'm goin' to have a grea' big house, an' a
horse an' a shot-gun, an' lots an' lots of books 'bout elephants an'
tigers, an' lots an' lots of ice-cream an' pie an'--caramels." As
before, she was impressed; he could see it. "An' I'm goin' to have
lots an' lots of children--'bout three hundred, I guess--an' there
won't none of 'em be girls. They'll all be boys--like me."
"Oh, my!" she said.
His garment of shame was gone from him. The pail was dead and well
buried. It seemed to him that months elapsed as he dwelt in happiness
near the beautiful lady and trumpeted his vanity.
At last there was a shout. "Come on! we're going home." The picnickers
trooped out of the grove. The children wished to resume their jeering,
for Jimmie still gripped his pail, but they were restrained by the
circumstances. He was walking at the side of the beautiful lady.
During this journey he abandoned many of his habits. For instance, he
never travelled without skipping gracefully from crack to crack
between the stones, or without pretending that he was a train of cars,
or without some mumming device of childhood. But now he behaved with
dignity. He made no more noise than a little mouse. He escorted the
beautiful lady to the gate of the Earl home, where he awkwardly,
solemnly, and wistfully shook hands in good-by. He watched her go up
the walk; the door clanged.
On his way home he dreamed. One of these dreams was fascinating.
Supposing the beautiful lady was his teacher in school! Oh, my!
wouldn't he be a good boy, sitting like a statuette all day long, and
knowing every lesson to perfection, and--everything. And then
supposing that a boy should sass her. Jimmie painted himself
waylaying that boy on the homeward road, and the fate of the boy was a
thing to make strong men cover their eyes with their hands. And she
would like him more and more--more and more. And he--he would be a
little god.
But as he was entering his father's grounds an appalling recollection
came to him. He was returning with the bread-and-butter and the salmon
untouched in the pail! He could imagine the cook, nine feet tall,
waving her fist. "An' so that's what I took trouble for, is it? So's
you could bring it back? So's you could bring it back?" He skulked
towards the house like a marauding bushranger. When he neared the
kitchen door he made a desperate rush past it, aiming to gain the
stables and there secrete his guilt. He was nearing them, when a
thunderous voice hailed him from the rear:
"Jimmie Trescott, where you goin' with that pail?"
It was the cook. He made no reply, but plunged into the shelter of the
stables. He whirled the lid from the pail and dashed its contents
beneath a heap of blankets. Then he stood panting, his eyes on the
door. The cook did not pursue, but she was bawling:
"Jimmie Trescott, what you doin' with that pail?"
He came forth, swinging it. "Nothin'," he said, in virtuous protest.
"I know better," she said, sharply, as she relieved him of his curse.
In the morning Jimmie was playing near the stable, when he heard a
shout from Peter Washington, who attended Dr. Trescott's horse:
"Jim! Oh, Jim!"
"What?"
"Come yah."
Jimmie went reluctantly to the door of the stable, and Peter
Washington asked:
"Wut's dish yere fish an' brade doin' unner dese yer blankups?"
"I don't know. I didn't have nothin' to do with it," answered Jimmie,
indignantly.
"Don' tell _me_!" cried Peter Washington, as he flung it all
away--"don' tell _me_! When I fin' fish an' brade unner dese yer
blankups, I don' go an' think dese yer ho'ses er yer pop's put 'em. I
_know_. An' if I caitch enny more dish yer fish an' brade in dish yer
stable, _I'll_ tell yer pop."