OFF FOR NEW YORK
“Seems’s if Europe time wouldn’t ever, ever come,” complained Weezy
again and again. For it was settled now that they were to go in June at
the beginning of the summer vacation.
The golf cape for the bisque Araminta had long been finished, and Weezy
having nothing in particular to do spent hours in watching the hands of
the clock.
“They go creep, creep, creepmouse, just as slow as ever they can,” she
said to Kirke one morning. “Can’t you put some of that oil on them? I
’spect that would make them turn ’round quicker.”
Kirke was in the yard cleaning his wheel, and Weezy on the doorstep
dividing her attention between him and the hall clock behind her.
“Don’t look at the hands for five minutes, Weezy. See if that doesn’t
make them travel faster,” returned Kirke, setting down his little
oil-can with a knowing smile. “How would you like it yourself to have
anybody staring at you every second?”
Weezy laughed. It was pleasant to have Kirke at home again. For weeks
he had spent half his time out of school hours at the ranch, for of
course he must see that well finished. After quite a long illness, Yeck
Wo had recovered and come to the aid of Sing Wung, who could drill hard
pan well enough, but would not light another fuse.
“It will never do to trust Sing Wung with gunpowder again,” Mr. Keith
had said in confidence to the boys; “he is too excitable, he loses his
head.”
From first to last the sinking of the well had caused Mr. Keith great
anxiety, and it was a matter of rejoicing to him that the explosions
were now safely over and the hard pan penetrated to a copious supply of
water beneath.
“Shot stares at me and stares at me, and barks for nothing; but I don’t
mind,” said Weezy, stroking the little terrier as he frisked up to her
to be petted.
Kirke smiled approvingly. Shot was, indeed, a privileged character in
these days and received few rebukes. He might even have been allowed to
accompany his master to the Old World had not Captain Bradstreet looked
upon the proposal with disfavor. Dogs were a nuisance in travelling, he
said. They were a trouble and an expense, and always liable to get lost
or stolen.
This settled it, and after mature reflection Kirke arranged to leave
his dog and his burro with Manuel Carillo, a humble Spanish boy whom
he liked very much. Manuel was fond of animals and would be kind to
these, Kirke felt sure.
Kirke and Molly made numerous calls in the next few weeks, remarking to
their friends,--
“We came to bid you good-by before we sail for Europe.”
And everybody said, “Oh, how I wish I were going too!”
Vacation came at last, and with it the long-looked-for day of
departure. The party was to go by rail to New York, and after resting
in that city a week take the steamer for Havre, France.
In New York the Rowes were to visit Mrs. Tracey, Mrs. Rowe’s sister,
and she had promised to provide a nurse-girl to go to Europe with them
and assume the care of little Donald.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when the travellers arrived at the
railway station at Silver Gate City. Captain Bradstreet and Mr. Rowe
checked the baggage, while Mrs. Rowe entered the car followed by The
Happy Six.
“I’ve seen a worse-looking half-dozen before now, Mr. Rowe,” whispered
the captain, looking after the children with a proud smile.
“But never a merrier one, I’ll warrant, Captain,” returned Mr. Rowe,
his eyes fixed on bright-eyed Weezy, who led the procession.
At her heels strutted little Donald in his first sailor-suit. Then
came flaxen-haired Paul and his brunette sister, and behind them fair,
freckled Molly and brown, wide-a-wake Kirke.
After they were all seated and the car had begun to move, Molly gave a
deep sigh of satisfaction.
“We’ve started on our travels, Polly, do you know it?” she said with
a playful pinch of her friend’s arm. “Doesn’t it seem too good to be
true?”
That first day’s ride was bliss to The Happy Six. They entertained
themselves by gazing from the car window, telling stories and getting
acquainted with some young girls bound for Chicago.
But when at the approach of night the colored porter came to make up
the sleeping-berths, Donald cried for his own little “cribby,” and
objected to going to bed in “a cupboard with a curtain to it.”
“’Tisn’t a cupboard, it’s a berth, you dear little _niggeramus_,”
explained Weezy; and when the others laughed at the miscalled word, she
thought they were laughing at Donald.
The little maid was drowsy herself by this time, and quite willing to
be helped to her own berth above that of her little brother, where
she undressed behind the swaying draperies, grumbling in an undertone
because the train wouldn’t stop jolting while she put on her pink
“slumber-wrapper.” She awoke next morning grumbling at the heat of the
car.
Kirke was dressed and stood waiting to take her down in his arms.
“Yes, it’s warm, but what are you going to do about it, Miss? We’re
crossing the desert, you see, and didn’t think to take along any good
cool air for you to breathe.”
“Kirke, Kirke, no teasing,” said the mother from her seat in front of
them where she sat with her bonnet on, entertaining Donald. “Weezy
means to be a good girl to-day, I hope, and not to fret at what can’t
be helped.”
“But I’m so sticky, mamma, and so dusty,” murmured the little girl when
she stood upon the floor.
“Yes, dear, so was I before I bathed. Look at Kirke.”
After one glance, Weezy forgot her grievances and laughed outright, for
dark rings of dirt had settled under her brother’s eyes and a speck of
soot upon the tip of his nose.
“The rest of us are ready for breakfast, Kirke, and you must hurry
to make yourself presentable. The conductor says we eat at the next
station.”
Concealing his grimy face behind his pocket-handkerchief, Kirke rushed
past the seated passengers to the men’s toilet-room, while Weezy
hastened to that of the women, where Molly assisted her in dressing. To
comb Weezy’s fine, fluffy hair was never an easy task, as she seldom
stood still half a minute at a time. To-day it was peculiarly trying,
because the motion of the train jolted her about even when she would
have been quiet.
“Oh, oh, Molly, you are most pulling my head off!” she wailed, at a
sudden lurch of the car that tangled her ringlets into the comb.
Whereupon, Molly nervously set about repairing the mischief, declaring
she was sorry, and hadn’t meant to hurt Weezy.
Which of the sisters suffered the more before the toilet was made, it
were difficult to tell; but I rather think it was Molly; and I suspect
that Molly told Pauline she did “hope the nurse-girl from New York
would take it upon herself to attend to that child’s hair.”
However, by dint of haste, Weezy was dressed at last, and on the
arrival of the train at the breakfast-station the whole party went out
to the dining-room and made a hurried meal.
“They are to put on a dining-car at noon, I’m happy to say, and we
shall have our dinner on the train,” remarked Mr. Rowe. “I dislike this
rapid eating.”
It was a nice dinner, well served, and The Happy Six enjoyed it
immensely. They supped that night from their luncheon-basket and called
it a picnic. They had adjoining tables by themselves, and the three
parents were at a table farther down the aisle. They were now beyond
the desert, at Laguna, where the train had been delayed for some hours
by an accident to the engine.
From the window at which Paul was seated they caught a glimpse of
the Indian city with its clustering adobe houses and brown church
surmounted by a cross.
“Not much of a city,” commented Paul, opening a box of sardines. “It
looks more like a village, a tiny, half-grown one into the bargain.”
“But for all that, papa says it holds thousands of Indians, just
thousands!” said Kirke. “They must be packed snug, like those little
fishes.”
“They’d pack better if they were longer lengthwise and shorter
widthwise,” laughed Paul, glancing at a group of thick-set Indians
parading along the track.
“Why are those red men like heavy biscuits?” asked Pauline, helping
Donald to orange marmalade.
“Because they’re ill-bred,” responded her brother. Pauline shook her
head.
“I know why they’re like heavy biscuits,” exclaimed Weezy confidently.
“Because you can’t eat ’em.”
“Very bright, little Miss Weezy, but not the answer,” returned Pauline
amid general merriment. “Kirke, you haven’t guessed. Tell me this
minute why those Indians are like heavy biscuits?”
“Because”--Kirke thoughtfully squeezed lemon juice upon his
sardine--“because every one of them is good for a shot.”
“No, no; you’re far from the mark! Molly, now it’s your turn.”
“Is it because they’re both such a miserable lot?” asked Molly
dubiously.
“Oh, you stupid guessers!” Pauline canted her head saucily. “Why,
listen now, my children. Those Indians and heavy biscuits are alike
because neither have been properly raised.”
“They’re ill-bred, then, aren’t they, just as I said,” retorted Paul,
twisting his neck to look at three Indian girls coming toward the car.
All wore blankets, not folded, but hanging from their necks by the
hems; and their flowing, black hair was straight and coarse, like a
horse’s mane.
“Out with your camera, Paul!” said Kirke, while Molly whispered,--
“Do look at their faces, a bright vermilion!”
“From their foreheads down to their chins. What a waste of good paint!”
Kirke whispered back.
“Let’s take them something to eat,” said Pauline, gathering up the
fragments of the luncheon.
“Yes, yes, so we will,” cried Molly.
And the gay little party hurried forth to feed the young squaws, and
buy some of the curious specimens of rocks they had brought to sell.
Paul seized the opportunity to take a “snap-shot” at the dusky damsels.
Kirke purchased of them several bits of colored stone for his cabinet,
and remarked later to Paul that if those squaws couldn’t speak English,
they could tell a nickel from a dime with their eyes shut.
This meeting with the Indians was a pleasant experience to The Happy
Six,--a much pleasanter one than that which Kirke was doomed to pass
through on the morning they entered New York.
Kirke’s experience occurred in this wise: The night before they
reached New York he and Paul occupied a section at the front of the
sleeping-car next the door, Paul having the lower and Kirke the upper
berth.
After undressing, Kirke had rolled all his clothes together into a
bundle, which he placed at the foot of his berth, where he might lay
his hands on it in the morning; for he meant to be up early to see
whatever was to be seen.
But when he opened his eyes at sunrise, the bundle had mysteriously
disappeared.
“Paul has hidden it for a joke,” was his first thought; and he leaned
over the edge of his berth, and in an explosive whisper charged his
comrade with the theft.
“Taken your clothes? No; what did I want of your clothes?” answered
sleepy Paul, a little cross at being roused from a pleasant dream. “Why
don’t you ring for the porter?”
There was no mistaking the honesty of Paul’s tone. Kirke began to be
nervous. He pressed the electric bell by his window, and the colored
porter presently appeared.
“Want anything, sah?” he asked, thrusting his woolly head between
Kirke’s curtains.
“Yes, porter, I want my clothes! They were in a bunch at the foot of my
bed. Haven’t you seen them?”
“No, sah; but I’ll try to find them, sah.”
Meanwhile Mr. Rowe, Captain Bradstreet, and Paul had dressed in haste,
and were now ready to join in the search.
But though they hunted all through the car, their quest was in vain.
The missing garments were not to be found.
“The conductor thinks the thief must have sneaked in and stolen them
at the station where we stopped at midnight,” said Paul, coming back
to Kirke with the unwelcome news. “It seems the porter left the door
unlocked a minute while he ran out to send a telegram for somebody.”
“And here I am in my night-gown, Paul! What on earth am I going to
do?” groaned Kirke behind his curtains.
These were the only curtains now visible in the sleeper. The berths of
all the other sections had been put up for the day.
“It’s an outrageous shame, Kirke, an everlasting, heathenish shame!”
vociferated Paul; but in the midst of his condolence he had to burst
out laughing at the sad predicament.
Kirke relieved his own feelings by throwing a pillow at his friend. To
himself the situation was far from ludicrous, it was appalling. The
train was steaming on at the rate of forty miles an hour; it would soon
land him in New York. Then what?
“Your father has gone to look up your trunk and get out another suit
for you,” continued Paul, catching his breath.
“Good! But, oh dear, how can he open the trunk without the key? The key
was in my pocket!”
But the key was not needed; the baggage was not on that train.
A moment later, Mr. Rowe appeared at the section, carrying on his arm a
pair of checked blue-and-white overalls.
“Well, Kirke, I’ve done my best for you,” said he cheerily. “I’ve
bought these of a brakeman. By rolling up the hems, I think you can
manage to wear them.”
“Oh, those are a bonanza, Kirke.”
It was his mother’s voice at the boy’s elbow. “And I’ve brought you
other things to put on. We’ll leave you now to dress. Be as quick as
you can.”
As the train ran into the New York station, a rough-looking lad emerged
from the curtains clad in a brakeman’s overalls turned up at the
hem, Molly’s ulster, Mrs. Rowe’s overshoes, and Captain Bradstreet’s
smoking-cap.
“O Kirke, you look like”--Mrs. Rowe cut short Weezy’s comparison by a
warning glance.
“Like a California freak, Weezy. Why, I knew that; did it on purpose,”
retorted Kirke, assuming an air of bravado.
“Oh, no, Kirke, you look like a precious mosaic,” said Pauline lightly,
while the whole party managed to crowd closely about the nondescript
boy.
Partially screened by his friends, the “precious mosaic” of many colors
skulked along to a carriage and vaulted into it. Here the little
company separated for the present, the Bradstreets proceeding to a
hotel in the city, and the Rowes to the home of Mrs. Tracey, where they
were to remain till the sailing of the steamer.
“Auntie’ll think you’re bringing her an almshouse boy, mamma,” Kirke
said ruefully, as they alighted before the Tracey mansion.
To greet his aunt and cousins in such a plight, and to be laughed at
the livelong day, was an embarrassing ordeal to the lad; but he bore
it manfully, and if afterwards he made wry faces and stamped his foot,
he did it in the privacy of his own room, and nobody was the wiser.
And in the evening, with the arrival of his trunk, the prolonged and
disagreeable trial came to an end.