"Why, that is Arlo Junior. What can he be doing out of doors so
early? And look at those cats following him. Did you ever!"
Janice Day stared wonderingly from her front bedroom window at
the boy crossing the street in the dim pre-dawn light, with a cat
and three half-grown kittens gamboling about him. Occasionally
Arlo Junior would shake something out of a paper to the ground
and the cats would immediately roll and frolic and slap playfully
at one another, acting as the girl had never seen cats act
before.
The pleasantly situated cottage belonging to Mr. Broxton Day
stood almost directly across the way from the Arlo Weeks' place
on Knight Street. Therefore Janice often said that, "the days
and nights and weeks are very close together!"
Knight Street, as level as the palm of one's hand, led straight
into Greensboro, where it crossed Market and Hammond Streets,
making the Six Corners--actually the heart of the business
district of this thriving mid-western town.
The Day cottage was a mile and a half from the Six Corners and
the Farmers & Merchants Bank in which Mr. Broxton Day held an
important salaried position. Besides his house and his situation
in the bank, Mr. Day considered another of his possessions very
important indeed, although he did not list it when he made out
his tax return.
This that he so highly valued possessed the very brightest hazel
eyes in the world, wore a wealth of free brown hair in two plaits
over her shoulders, and was of a slender figure without bordering
upon that unfortunate "skinniness" which nature abhors as she
does a vacuum.
Janice possessed, also, even teeth that flashed when she smiled
(and she smiled often), a pink and white complexion that the sun
was bound to freckle if she was not careful, and a cheerful,
demure expression of countenance that went a long way toward
making her good to look upon, if not actually good looking.
In a spick and span blue-checked bungalow apron, she stood at her
window just as Dawn swept a brush of partially-hued color across
the eastern horizon. Having had it in her mind when she went to
bed the night before to arise early, she had of course awakened
long before it was really time to get up to make sure that daddy,
for once, got a proper breakfast.
For the Days, father and daughter, were dependent on hired
service, and such service in the form of Olga Cedarstrom was
about as incapable and stupid as fate had yet produced.
Having caught the first glimpse of that mischievous youngster,
Arlo Weeks, Junior, with the cats, Janice raised her window
softly as far as the lower sash would go, to peer out at the
strange procession. The boy and the cats entered the Day's side
gate and disappeared around the comer of the kitchen ell.
"Now! what can that rascal be about? If he does anything to
bother Olga there will be trouble. And everything here goes
crossways enough now, without Arlo Junior adding to it, I
declare!"
Janice could very clearly remember when the cottage had been a
real home instead of "just a place to stay"; for her mother had
been dead only a year. The experiences of that year had been
trying, both for the sorrowing widower and the girl who had been
her mother's close companion and confidant.
Janice was old enough and well trained enough in domestic affairs
to have kept house very nicely for her father. But she had to go
to school, of course; an education was the most important thing
in the world for her. And the kind of help that came into the
Days' kitchen often balked at being "bossed by a slip of a
gur-r-rl," as one recent incumbent of the position had said.
Olga Cedarstrom was stupid and often cross in the morning; and
she was careless and slatternly in her ways. But she did not
object when Janice came down early to get her father's breakfast,
and serve it daintily, as her mother had taught her.
Only, Olga could not be taught to do these things. She did not
want to learn. She said she had a "fella" and would be married
soon; and under the circumstances she did not consider that she
needed to learn anything more about domestic work!
Janice did not wish to go down into the kitchen so early, for
that would awaken Olga who would come from her room, bleary-eyed
with sleep and with her temper at a saw-tooth edge, to ask, "why
she bane get oop in de middle of de night?"
Janice had washed and dressed and read her morning Bible chapter,
which she always managed to find time for, even when she did not
get up as early as on this occasion. For her age, and perhaps
because of her mother's death, which still seemed recent to
Janice, she was rather serious-minded. Yet she was no prig, and
she loved fun and was as alert for good times as any girl of her
age in Greensboro.
The talk she had had overnight with daddy had perhaps put her in
a rather more serious mood than usual. The talk had been all
about her mother and the hopes the mother and father had had and
the plans they had made for their little girl's future.
To carry through those plans necessitated the proper schooling of
Janice Day. She was already in the upper grade of the grammar
school. Even if the household affairs were all "at sixes and at
sevens," she must stick to her books, for she had ambitions. She
was quite sure she wanted to teach when she grew up.
There was another reason that spurred Janice Day to the point of
early rising, although daddy had not even hinted that he missed
the comfortable, daintily served breakfasts which he used to
enjoy when Mrs. Day was alive. It was something he had said
about an entirely different matter that started this serious
train of thought in the girl's mind.
She had expressed herself as so many of us do when we are in
difficulties, or when we see conditions we would like to have
changed: "Oh, if things were only different!"
Broxton Day had looked at her with his head held sideways and a
quizzical smile in his eyes as well as on his lips.
"Different? Do you want to know how to bring about a change? Do
something. Don't just talk, or think, or wonder, or wish, or
hope; but do! It is all right to say that good things become a
reality because somebody has a good thought. Actually, thinking
does not bring things about. It is doing. Do something in the
world, my dear. Don't wait for somebody else to set the example,
or to lead. Do what you can yourself while you are waiting for a
leader. Do something.
"Of course thought must precede action, and, furthermore, must
accompany action if action is not to run wild. But in the end
thought must become action and we must all of us--little girls,
as well as adults--do something if the conditions we do not like
are to be changed."
That was really what had got Janice Day out of bed so early on
this morning. Poor daddy! He sometimes had most awful meals
served to him. And the house was usually in a state of confusion
if it was not actually dirty.
Olga had come straight from a peasant cottage in her
country, and her idea of scrubbing the kitchen floor was to dash
pails of water over it and then sweep the water out of the back
door with a broom.
There was a Swedish colony established around the pickle
factories on the northern edge of the town, and Olga went over
there with her "fella" to a dance or downtown or to a picture
show almost every evening. No wonder she was not fit for work in
the morning.
When Janice had come up to bed the previous evening she had
brought with her the "treasure-box" which daddy usually kept in
the wall safe in the living room. It contained certain heirlooms
and trinkets that had been her mother's, and were now Janice's
most sacred possessions.
She had had to beg daddy for the treasure-box, for he, too,
prized its contents beyond words. But Janice was a careful girl,
and daddy trusted her, and he knew, too, that the mementoes of
her dead mother seemed to bring the woman closer to the little
daughter; and so, in the end, he had allowed Janice to carry the
treasure-box to her room to be kept for the night, but to be
returned to its usual place after the girl had had it by her and
looked at its contents for a while.
There were a few pieces of jewelry--more valuable for their
associations than for their intrinsic worth, the gold framed
photographs of Grandfather and Grandmother Avion, which clasped
like a little book, and the miniature of Janice's mother painted
on ivory when she was a girl by a painter who had since become
very famous.
This last was the girl's dearest possession--the memento of her
mother which she cared for above everything else. Daddy had put
it into her keeping with a reverence that could not fail to
impress Janice Day, young as she was. Broxton Day had worshipped
his wife for her higher qualities as well as having loved her for
her human attributes.
Something of this attitude toward his dead wife Janice, young as
she was, understood. She knew, for instance, that there was no
other woman in the world as a mate for Broxton Day now that her
mother was gone. All the more must she try, therefore, to fill
her mother's place in his life.
She had taken the miniature out of the treasure-box and was
looking with dimming eyes at it by the window when, shifting her
glance, she had seen Arlo Weeks, Junior, crossing the street.
This was her mother when she was a girl! What a sweet, demure
face it was. Janice did not realize that much of the expression
of the countenance in this miniature was visualized in the flesh
in her own face.
No wonder daddy had fallen in love with such a pretty, pretty
girl! So thought Janice Day. And--
What was Arlo Junior, the mischievous torment of the
neighborhood, doing with those cats? This sudden query shattered
her dream completely. She returned the miniature to the
treasure-box, and closed and latched the cover.
"Goodness knows," murmured Janice Day, "there are cats enough
around this house without Arlo Junior bringing any more upon the
premises. Sometimes I hear them squalling and fighting when I
wake up in the night."
With the treasure-box in her hand, she opened her bedroom door
and crossed the hall to the storeroom. The window of this room
was over the back porch. She heard a step on the porch flooring.
The door of the summer kitchen was seldom locked. Was Arlo
Junior down there?
That boy was constantly getting into trouble with the neighbors.
There was a regular feud between Olga Cedarstrom and Arlo Junior.
Olga had chased him half a block only the other day, threatening
him with a broom.
And the cats! Here they came from all directions--over
the back yard fences and from the barn. Fat cats, lean cats,
shabby "ash-barrel" cats, and pet cats with ribbons and collars.
Amazedly, Janice Day owned to herself that she had never seen so
many cats gathered in a more or less harmonious group before.
Instead of fighting or "mauling," they approached the back porch
of the Day house as though on pleasure bent. Was that Arlo Junior
giggling down there?
She put down the treasure-box and tried to open the window. But
the sash stuck. She distinctly heard the door below close and
footsteps receding from the porch.
Wishing to make sure that it was Arlo Junior who had been below,
the girl ran back to her bedroom. Yes! there he was scuttling
across the street in evident haste to get under cover.
"Now, isn't that odd?" murmured Janice. Suddenly a sound
floated up from below--an echoing wail that seemed wrenched from
the very soul of a tortured cat. The cry reverberated through the
house in a most eerie fashion.
Fortunately her father slept in the front of the house and there
was a closed door between the front and the back halls on both
floors. But Janice heard Olga's big, flat feet land upon the
floor almost instantly. That feline wail had evidently brought
the Swedish girl out of her dreams, all standing.
That sound sent Janice out of the room on a run. She must reach
the seat of trouble before Olga got to the place! Otherwise, the
trouble was bound to increase and become--what? Even Janice's
imagination, trained, as it was, by the succession of incompetent
and unwilling kitchen helpers, could not picture that.
Before Janice Day could reach the hall, Olga was padding down the
stairs to the kitchen. From the rear arose increasing howls.
The cats may have mysteriously gathered in apparent amity; but so
many of them shut up in that outer kitchen with no escape could
not possibly dwell for long in harmony.
There certainly was no harmony in these mounting wails. The
principle motif seemed to be furnished by the cat that had first
voiced his complaint. But now, as Janice plunged down the stairs
after Olga, the thin, high scream of the initial feline chorister
was crossed, in warp and woof, by basset strains.
The sounds rose and fell, as though proceeding from cats in
torment--an agonizing oratorio like nothing Janice had ever heard
before. She screamed to the Swedish girl, but her voice was
drowned by the caterwauling in the back kitchen. Olga wrenched
open the door. Janice, arriving to look over her shoulder at the
very moment she did so, saw the back kitchen practically filled
with cats.
When one cat loses its temper it seems as though every other cat
within hearing gets excited. In the corners, out of the way of
the battlefield, kittens and tabbies were rolling and playing
upon the dried twigs and leaves that Janice knew must be catnip
that Arlo Junior had flung upon the floor to bait the cats into
the kitchen. But the cats in the middle of the room were
preparing for the representation of a busy day at Donnebrook
Fair.
"Them cats! In de clean kitchen what I scrubbed last night only
I bane kill them cats!" And there was not a cat in the lot as
mad as Olga Cedarstrom.
There was a hod of coal beside her. Olga seized the good-sized
lumps of stove coal, one after another, and began volleying with
a strong overhand throw at the excited animals.
Olga proved to be an excellent shot. She hit a cat with almost
every lump of coal she threw. But she could not, after all, have
easily failed to do this, there were so many cats in the kitchen.
"Oh, don't! Don't, Olga! Stop!" shrieked Janice. "You will hurt
them"
"Hurt them?" repeated the girl. "I bane mean to hurt dem" and,
slam! went another lump of coal.
"But they can't get out!" gasped Janice.
"Den how dey get in, huh?" demanded Olga, and threw another lump
with terrific force.
There was a howl, higher and more blood-curdling than any that
had heretofore assailed their ears. One big cat scrambled up the
wall, and up the window panes, seeking an exit. One of the
creature's legs dragged limply.
"Olga Cedarstrom!" shrieked Janice, "you have broken that poor
cat's leg."
"I bane break all his legs!" rejoined this quite ferocious girl.
"How dese cats coom here? I bane sure you know!"
She turned to glare at Janice Day so savagely, a lump of coal
poised in her smutted hand, that the girl was really frightened.
She backed away from the angry woman.
Then she thought of something she might do to save the cats and
the back kitchen from complete wreck. Janice darted out of the
room to the porch. In a moment she had unlatched the
summer-kitchen door and flung it wide open.
Instantly there boiled out of the room cats big and cats little,
cats of all colors and every degree of fright. One of the last
to escape was the poor cat with the broken leg. There was
nothing Janice Day could do for it. She did not dare to try to
touch it.
She ventured back into the house to find Olga Cedarstrom still
breathing out threatenings and slaughter. Olga was in her
nightgown and a wrapper. She had not even stopped for slippers
when she came from her bed. Now she padded to the back stairs,
turning to shake her clenched fist at Janice and cry:
"I leave! I leave! I bane going to pack my troonk. The man pay
me oop to last night, and I leave!"
"I am glad of it!" gasped Janice, finding her voice again. "It
wasn't my fault, and it wasn't the poor cats' fault. I am glad
you are going, so there!"
But she became more serious as she prepared the nice breakfast
she had promised herself the night before her father should have.
She heard Olga go to the telephone in the hall. She called a
number and then talked in Swedish for several minutes to whoever
answered.
Janice's father came into the dining room just as his little
daughter brought in the breakfast. When he saw the steaming
coffee pot and the covered dishes and toast-rack his face
brightened. But he had to be told of the domestic catastrophe
impending.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "we couldn't get anybody any worse
than Olga, that is sure. I will see what they have at the
intelligence office, and I may send a woman up after you get home
from school this afternoon. I'll 'phone you first, daughter. I
don't have to see Olga, do I? She was paid last night."
No, Janice told him, he need not bother about a servant who was
on the point of going. Before it was time for Janice to leave
for school, a taxicab appeared, driven by a man of Olga's own
nationality. He went upstairs for the girl's trunk.
This he shouldered and carried out to the cab. Olga followed
him, wearing the red hat with the green plume which had so amused
Janice when the Swedish girl had arrived. She drove away in the
cab without even looking back at Janice Day.
The latter had tidied up the kitchen and dining room. The back
kitchen would have to remain as it was until later. And Janice
felt that she would like to get hold of Arlo Weeks, Junior, and
make him clean up that kitchen!
She changed to her school dress, strapped together the books she
had studied the night before, put on her hat, and stood a moment
in the hall, wondering if all would be right until she should
return at three o'clock.
And then for the first time, and suddenly, Janice remembered the
treasure-box.
She darted upstairs to her bedroom. How careless of her to have
left it there! She knew the simple combination of the wall safe
in the living room, and She determined to open the safe and put
the box away.
But when she entered her bedroom she found that the treasure-box
was not there. Instantly she remembered having taken it with her
when she ran into the storeroom to see what Arlo Junior was doing
with the cats.
In trying to open the window in the storeroom she had set the box
down on a trunk--on Olga's trunk.
Startled, indeed alarmed and shaking, Janice Day went as fast as
she could to, the storeroom. Olga's trunk was gone. She did not
see the treasure-box anywhere in the room.
She searched the room diligently. She ran from room to
room--Olga's, her own, even the other bedrooms. She halted at
last in her own room, sobbing and alarmed.
The treasure-box was gone. Olga's trunk had gone. Olga herself
had gone.
And the photographs of Grandfather and Grandmother Avion, the
old-fashioned jewelry, the diary her mother had kept as a little
girl, the miniature Janice thought so much of--all, all the
keepsakes her father had entrusted her with the night before,
seemed to have gone With Olga and the trunk.