“WHAT’S that sigh for, Polly dear?”
“I’m tired, mother, tired of working and waiting. If I’m ever going to
have any fun, I want it _now_ while I can enjoy it.”
“You shouldn’t wait another hour if I could have my way; but you know
how helpless I am;” and poor Mrs. Snow sighed dolefully, as she glanced
about the dingy room and pretty Mary turning her faded gown for the
second time.
“If Aunt Kipp would give us the money she is always talking about,
instead of waiting till she dies, we should be _so_ comfortable. She is
a dreadful bore, for she lives in such terror of dropping dead with her
heart-complaint that she doesn’t take any pleasure in life herself or
let any one else; so the sooner she goes the better for all of us,” said
Polly, in a desperate tone; for things looked very black to her just
then.
“My dear, don’t say that,” began her mother, mildly shocked; but a bluff
little voice broke in with the forcible remark,—
“She’s everlastingly telling me never to put off till to-morrow what can
be done to-day; next time she comes I’ll remind her of that, and ask
her, if she is going to die, why she doesn’t do it?”
“Toady! you’re a wicked, disrespectful boy; never let me hear you say
such a thing again about your dear Aunt Kipp.”
“She isn’t dear! You know we all hate her, and you are more afraid of
her than you are of spiders,—so now.”
The young personage whose proper name had been corrupted into Toady, was
a small boy of ten or eleven, apple-cheeked, round-eyed, and
curly-headed; arrayed in well-worn, gray knickerbockers, profusely
adorned with paint, glue, and shreds of cotton. Perched on a high stool,
at an isolated table in a state of chaos, he was absorbed in making a
boat, entirely oblivious of the racking tooth-ache which had been his
excuse for staying from school. As cool, saucy, hard-handed, and
soft-hearted a little specimen of young America was Toady as you would
care to see; a tyrant at home, a rebel at school, a sworn foe to law,
order, and Aunt Kipp. This young person was regarded as a reprobate by
all but his mother, sister, and sister’s sweetheart, Van Bahr Lamb.
Having been, through much anguish of flesh and spirit, taught that lying
was a deadly sin, Toady rushed to the other extreme, and bolted out the
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, at all times and
places, with a startling abruptness that brought wrath and dismay upon
his friends and relatives.
“It’s wicked to fib; you’ve whipped that into me and you can’t rub it
out,” he was wont to say, with vivid recollection of the past tingling
in the chubby portions of his frame.
“Mind your chips, Toady, and take care what you say to Aunt Kipp, or
you’ll be as poor as a little rat all the days of your life,” said
Polly, warningly.
“I don’t want her old money, and I’ll tell her so if she bothers me
about it. I shall go into business with Van and take care of the whole
lot; so don’t you preach, Polly,” returned Toady, with as much dignity
as was compatible with a great dab of glue on the end of his snub nose.
“Mother, did aunt say anything about coming this week?” asked Polly,
after a pause of intense thought over a breadth with three darns, two
spots, and a burn.
“Yes; she wrote that she was too feeble to come at present, as she had
such dreadful palpitations she didn’t dare stir from her room. So we are
quite safe for the next week at least, and—bless my soul, there she is
now!”
Mrs. Snow clasped her hands with a gesture of dismay, and sat as if
transfixed by the spectacle of a ponderous lady, in an awe-inspiring
bonnet, who came walking slowly down the street. Polly gave a groan, and
pulled a bright ribbon from her hair. Toady muttered, “Oh, bother!” and
vainly attempted to polish up his countenance with a fragmentary
pocket-handkerchief.
“Nothing but salt fish for dinner,” wailed Mrs. Snow, as the shadow of
the coming event fell upon her.
“Van will make a fool of himself, and ruin everything,” sighed Polly,
glancing at the ring on her finger.
“I know she’ll kiss me; she never _will_ let a fellow alone,” growled
Toady, scowling darkly.
The garden gate clashed, dust flew from the door-mat, a heavy step
echoed in the hall, an imperious voice called “Sophy!” and Aunt Kipp
entered with a flourish of trumpets, for Toady blew a blast through his
fingers which made the bows totter on her bonnet.
“My dear aunt, I’m very glad to see you,” murmured Mrs. Snow, advancing
with a smile of welcome; for though as weak as water gruel, she was as
kind-hearted a little woman as ever lived.
“What a fib that was!” said Toady, _sotto voce_.
“We were just saying we were afraid you wouldn’t”—began Mary, when a
warning, “Mind now, Polly,” caused her to stop short and busy herself
with the newcomer’s bag and umbrella.
“I changed my mind. Theodore, come and kiss me,” answered Aunt Kipp,
briefly.
“Yes’m,” was the plaintive reply, and, closing his eyes, Toady awaited
his fate with fortitude.