AIRY’S SECOND CALL ON THE JUDGE
Airy was arriving at 100 Grand Avenue, via the stable.
Like a little dark shadow, she flitted up the driveway to the open door
of the harness room. Brick was there, seated on an overturned tub,
polishing a silver-mounted bridle and whistling vigorously. Bylow lay at
his feet, only lazily moving one ear in the direction of Airy.
He knew who was coming. In fact, with his doggish sense of smell he knew
before he saw her.
“Good evening,” said Airy, suddenly.
“Hello!” exclaimed Brick, starting to his feet. “Lord-a-massy, I thought
it was a ghos’. How be you, Airy?”
“Very well, thank you,” she said, mincing her words.
“Set down,” said Brick, hospitably, pushing a stool toward her.
“Thank you,” she said, leaning against the doorway, “I can’t set—I mean,
sit down—with a stable boy. I’m a-goin’, a-going, I should say, to be a
lady.”
“Aint you give up that nonsense yet?” he said, agreeably, and dropping
his bridle he got up and lounged toward her.
“I never shall give it up,” she said, solemnly.
“There always was somethin’ creepy about you, Airy,” said Brick,
uneasily. “I say charms when I’m round wid you.”
“What kind of charms?” she asked, seriously.
“O, ‘Debbil, debbil, nevvah die,’ an’ ‘The bogie’s got a lantern hangin’
out for me dis night.’”
“Brick,” said the little girl, severely, “if you say charms you’ll never
be a gentleman.”
“Don’t want to be a gen’l’man,” he replied, stoutly. “Kin’ Providence
had a little coffee in de wattah when he made dis chile. I’se a-goin’ to
stay cullid.”
“Well, I’m going to be a lady,” said the little girl, severely, “and I’m
not going to waste time talking to trash like you. I just promised
mother to run and see how you be.”
Brick grinned. He did not care for her thrusts. “Tell your mummy,” he
said, “that I’m a-comin’ down to call. Kin you see my buttins? Do the
light strike ’em dere?” and he moved anxiously nearer the hanging
electric globe.
“Yes,” said Airy, scornfully surveying the breast of his coat, which was
one mass of brass buttons; “you look like the button drawer at Moses &
Brown’s turned upside down.”
“I sewed ’em on myself,” he went on, unheedingly. “Young Mass’ Tite he
guv me de buttins. I guess they ben’t quite plumb, but I’ve got ’em.”
“I guess you have to work here,” she remarked.
Brick groaned.
“You won’t like that,” she went on, scornfully.
“Like it, honey—Brick hates it like pison—but, golly! de grub—dat’s what
keeps dis niggah heah.”
“You’ll get tired of it an’ run away,” she continued.
“Mebbe,” he said, with a yawn, “but look-y-there, missie,” and he drew a
crackling greenback from his pocket and shook it in her face. “Mass’
Tite, he call dat earnest money. Chile alive, Brick had one pound
chocolate drops yesterday, two pounds caramel creams to-day, an’ he’s
a-goin’ to have a bag of jaw-breakers to-morrow, if he’s a spared nig.
Ice cream we gets at table.”
“Ketch me givin’ my servants ice cream when I have a house,” she said,
disdainfully.
“You’re goin’ to make a rattlin’ fine lady,” said Brick, with a comical
glance. “Don’t you come fo’ me to work under yeh.”
“I wouldn’t have you,” she said; then, catching sight of a new collar on
Bylow, she asked, suddenly, “Who give him that?”
“Mass’ Tite, missie. When he begged fo’ to keep me, Roblee, de ole man
coachman, he was mad, an’ I guess de Jedge was half mad. But Mass’ Tite,
he begged. ‘Well,’ says de Jedge, ‘de dog mus’ go.’ ‘Grandfathah,’ says
Mass’ Tite, ‘I’m a-goin’ fo’ to make a gen’l’man of dat dere dog.’ Says
de Jedge, ‘Ye can’t do it.’ Says Mass’ Tite, ‘Gimme a chance.’ So he go
downtown, he buy dat fine plated collah, he talk to de dog, he brush
him, he show him folks wid good cloes on; he says, ‘Don’ go fo’ to be no
tramp dog no longer;’ an’, ’pon my honnah, dat dog, between de collah,
an’ de talkin’, an’ de showin’, an’ de brushin’, and de good grub, an’
de warm room—why, he’s goin’ fo’ to be a ruspectable dog.”
Airy said nothing, but she looked interested, and Brick went on with his
vivacious play of hands, mouth, eyes, teeth, and tongue.
“An’ dat ole coachman, he’s a-comin’ roun’ to like him. Jes’ wait till I
tells yeh. Befo’ he come, ole Roblee he miss his oats. Some one steal
’em. He don’t know how. Says he, ‘De oat bin aint nevvah open, only when
I takes out oats fo’ de hosses an’ de cow, an’ when I leaves it fo’ de
man who bring de oats to put ’em in. He’s as honest as I be.’ Yisterday,
says he to Bylow, ‘Dog, look at dat oat bin. I’m a-goin’ to leave it
open. Go in dat dark corner an’ watch. Ef you’s any good as watchdog
you’ll ketch de thief.’”
Airy held out a finger to Bylow, who licked it slightly, and Brick
continued:
“I give Bylow a sign, an’ he went an’ lay down—didn’t run after me no
moah. Late in de afternoon, when Roblee was a-drivin’ de Jedge, an’ I
was in de house smellin’ roun’ to see if I could get some cookies what
de girls was a-bakin’, I heard a hullabaloo in de stable. I runned, an’
Bylow he was a-rippin’ at de pants of de good man what brung de oats.”
“That man that brung them?” replied Airy, in a puzzled voice.
“Yes, missie, de good man knew when Roblee was away, he brung ’em an’ he
took ’em. He roared an’ he prayed, but Bylow went on a-rippin’, an’ I
led him in dis harness room an’ locked de door, an’ me an’ Bylow set
outside, an’ when de Jedge come he interviewed the crimminel. Says he,
‘What you bin stealin’ my oats fo’?’ Says de man, ‘I works hard an’ I’m
only half paid, an’ I’ve got a sick chile at home a-dyin’ fer want of
oranges an’ grapes, an’ I hevn’t got no money fo’ to buy ’em. Jedge, if
you hev me ‘rested, it’ll kill her.’ Says de Jedge, ‘You ought to ’a’
thought of yer daughtah befoh. Come in de house wid me,’ an’ he took him
in. In ten minutes I see de man a-comin’ out of de house wid a bag of
some knubby things undah one arm—they mought ’a’ bin petetters, they
mought ’a’ bin oranges—an’ undah de oddah he had one of Mis’ Blodgett’s
lemon pies, ’cause I see de marangue from it stickin’ to de paper, an’
he had oddah groceries, an’ he was cryin’, and he hadn’t no hand to get
his hankersniff, so I followed on behin’ wid Bylow, an’ when we got out
o’ sight of de house, an’ in sight of his cyart wid de waitin’ hoss, I
says, ‘Boss, shall I give yer a lend of my hankersniff?’ Says he, ‘Quit
yer foolin’, ye sassy black imp,’ an’ he begun to gathah up his lines.
Says he, ‘Ye’ve got a good place heah. I advise you to stick to it,’ an’
then he druv away, an’ I aint heard no talk of no policeman.”
“Good-bye,” said Airy, abruptly, “I’m a-goin’ in to see the Jedge,” and
she went slowly down the way she had come, and, going round to the front
of the house, rang the bell.
The Judge was expecting her this evening, and Jennie, having been
warned, made no protest.
Bethany had gone to bed. She remembered quite well the evening that Airy
was to return, and she could hardly wait to finish her dinner before
retiring to her room. The Judge smiled broadly at her haste. She did not
like Airy.
He put down his book when the young Tingsby girl entered the room, then
he took off his glasses and surveyed her in silence. He was shocked by
her appearance. She was always thin and delicate, but to-night there
were dark rings under her eyes, and her manner was subdued and languid.
However, her indomitable spirit shone forth from her black eyes, and the
Judge calmly returned her salutation, and asked her how she was getting
on.
“All right,” she said, coolly, “but I’ve been studyin’ all night an’ all
day.”
“That is a foolish proceeding,” he remarked, warmly.
“There’s such a heap to learn,” she said, wearily. “Seems as if I can’t
ever ketch up to it.”
“One thing at a time,” said the Judge. “You are young yet, and, I hope,
have many years before you. But you must not sit up at night.”
“Be I improved?” she asked, unheedingly.
“Yes,” he replied, promptly. “You have remembered your lesson. You came
in quietly. Your voice is low, but you really look too ill to talk this
evening. I will just tell you something I have been doing and then send
you downstairs to have something to eat and get one of the maids to go
home with you. I don’t want you to come here any more in the evenings.
Little girls should not be running the streets then. Come to see me in
the afternoon, if you wish.”
“Nothin’ would hurt me,” she said, peevishly.
The Judge got up and went to the mantelpiece. “Can you read writing?”
“Yes, sir, if it aint too scrawly.”
“Well, here is a letter that I have written to your mother. I want you
to read it, then to take it to her. Perhaps I would better read it to
you,” and he sat down again.
Airy languidly dropped her head against the cushions of her chair and
listened to him attentively enough at first, then eagerly, and at last
with a strained, frantic interest.