Kitabı oku: «The Automobile Girls Along the Hudson: or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XXIII – AN OLD ROMANCE
Bab had hardly reached her room before she was summoned to the door by Stephen, looking so serious and unhappy that she felt at once something had happened.
“Bab,” he said, “I am afraid you are not done with your day’s work yet for the Ten Eyck family. I am about to ask you a favor, and I must confide something to you that has been a secret with us now for three generations. First, are you afraid to go with me over to the right wing? John and Mary will go, too, and you need really have nothing to fear, but the dread – ” he paused and bit his lip.
“Why, no, Stephen, I am not afraid,” replied Bab, “and I promise to guard faithfully any secret you want to tell me,” she added, giving him her hand in token of her pledge. She suspected they were going to visit the old man she had seen wandering about the house and forest.
“I will tell you the secret as we go along,” Stephen said, leading the way to the end of the hall, where they found Mary and John waiting. The four started down a long passage opening into the right wing of the building. “We are going, now,” continued Stephen, “to visit a very old man who lives in the right wing. He is my great-uncle, Stephen Ten Eyck. When he was quite a young man he met with a sorrow that unhinged his mind and he – well, he committed a crime. It was never proved that he had done it, but the Ten Eyck family knew he had. However, his most intimate friend took the blame upon his shoulders.”
“Why did he do that?” asked Bab.
“Because, Bab,” replied Stephen, “they both loved a girl, and the girl’s name was Barbara Thurston. She must have been your great-great-aunt. Did you ever hear of her?”
“If I ever did, I have forgotten,” answered Bab. “You see, after father’s death, we had no way to learn much about his family and mother knew very little, I suppose.”
“Well, Barbara Thurston was engaged to marry my great-uncle. They were all staying at the same hotel, somewhere in the Italian lake country – Barbara and her mother and my great-uncle Stephen and his friend. One day the friend persuaded Barbara to go out rowing with him. There was a storm and the boat upset, and Barbara was drowned. It was said that the friend and the boatman swam ashore and left her, but that is hard to believe. Anyway, when my uncle got the news, something snapped in his brain and he killed the boatman with an oar. The friend made his escape and the flight proved to the authorities that he had committed the crime. The Ten Eycks all knew that Uncle Stephen had done it, but it seemed of little use, I suppose, to tell the truth, because the slayer, Uncle Stephen, had gone clean crazy, and his friend could not be found. They have never seen each other since, until – ”
Stephen paused.
“Until when, Stephen?”
“Until to-night, Barbara. Can you guess who the friend is?”
“The hermit?” asked Barbara, with growing excitement.
“Yes,” replied Stephen; “the poor old hermit who has lived near his friend all these years without ever letting anybody know.”
“And your uncle has been living in the right wing ever since?” asked Bab.
“Yes. It was his father’s wish that the right wing be absolutely his for life and that the secret be kept in the family. The old fellow has never hurt a fly since the night he killed the Italian boatman. His attendant is as old as he, almost, and sometimes Uncle Stephen gets away from him. Have you ever seen him?” Stephen looked at her curiously.
“Yes,” replied Bab, “several times.”
“And never mentioned it? Really Bab, you are great.”
“Oh, I finally did tell the girls, only last night. I was just a little frightened. Your Uncle Stephen called me by name. But, by the way, none of you knew about the name before. How was that?”
“To tell the truth, I had never heard the girl’s name in my life, and it was so long ago that Uncle Stephen had forgotten it. It was the hermit who revealed the whole thing. He took refuge here from the fire, and after you girls had gone upstairs he sent for Uncle John. It seems the hermit has been with Uncle Stephen most of the afternoon, keeping him quiet and away from the fire. The poor old fellow was scared, he said, but he is himself again and they both want to see you. But that is not the chief reason you are sent for. Uncle Stephen insists that he has something he will tell only to you. All day long he has been calling for you, and Uncle John Ten Eyck thinks it may quiet him if you will consent to see him for a few minutes.”
The two had paused outside of a door at the end of the passage, to finish the conversation, while Mary and John had gone quietly inside. Presently John opened the door.
“It’s all right, sir,” he whispered. “You and the young lady may come in.”
They entered a large room, furnished with heavy old-fashioned chairs and tables. There were bowls of flowers about and Bab heard afterwards that the poor, crazed old man loved flowers and arranged them himself. Standing near the window was the hermit. When he saw Bab his face was radiated by such a beautiful smile that tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. Lying on a couch, somewhat back in the shadow, was Stephen’s uncle of the same name. His attendant, also an old man, who had been with him from the beginning, was sitting beside him.
Stephen Ten Eyck the elder opened his eyes when the door closed. He also smiled, as the hermit had done, and Bab felt that she could have wept aloud for the two pathetic old men.
“My little Barbara has come back at last,” Uncle Stephen said, taking her hand. “I am very happy. And my old friend Richard, too,” he went on, stretching the other hand toward the hermit. “Dick,” he went on, “I always loved you so. I don’t know which I loved the most, you or sweet Barbara here. Heaven is good to bring me all these blessings at once. Don’t cry, little girl,” he added, tenderly, for the tears were rolling down Barbara’s cheeks and dropping on his hand. “But I must not forget,” he exclaimed suddenly. “I have something to tell you, Barbara, before it clouds over here,” he tapped his brow. “Go away all of you. This is for her ears alone. It is a secret.”
The others moved off to a corner of the room and the old man went on whispering mysteriously. “We were the last who saw him, you and I. He followed me that night. Do you remember? He fell. He is lying at the foot of the stairs now. There is a gash in his head and – blood!” “Press the panel in the attic – ” The old man’s voice died away in a gasp.
“Which panel?” asked Bab, in an agony for fear he would not finish.
“The one with the knot hole in the right hand corner,” he added and fell back on the couch.
Bab tried to make him tell more, but his mind was clouded over and he had already forgotten she was there.
“Has he finished?” asked Stephen.
“Yes,” replied Bab, “but come quickly. We have no time to lose. José is lying somewhere, dead or half dead, in the secret passage.”
Too much excited and amazed to say good-night to the hermit, the callers rushed down the passage, followed by the two servants. At the foot of the attic stairs they waited while John brought lights, and for the second time that day Bab climbed into the vast old attic.
“Thank fortune the partition is down,” exclaimed Stephen. “I suppose Uncle Stephen forgot to slide it back, he was in such a hurry to get away from José.” Bab had explained the situation, to Stephen while they waited for the candles. “Which panel did he say, Bab?”
“This must be it,” she answered; “the panel in the right-hand corner that has a knot hole in it. Here is the knot hole all right. We are to press it, he said.”
They pressed, but nothing happened.
“Press the knot hole, why don’t you?” suggested Bab.
One touch was enough. The panel opened and disclosed a long passage cut apparently through the wall. There were several branch passages leading off from the main one, marked with faded handwriting on slips of paper, one “To the Cellar,” another “To the Library” and finally the last one “To the Right Wing.”
“This must be the one,” said Stephen, as they groped their way along single file. “Be careful,” he called; “there should be a flight of steps along here somewhere.”
Presently they came to the steps. Up through the dense blackness they could faintly hear a sound of moaning.
“All right, José, old fellow, we are coming to you,” cried Stephen, while Bab’s heart beat so loud she could not trust herself to speak.
Groping their way down the narrow stairway, they came to a landing almost on a level with the ceilings of the first floor rooms. At the far end of the passage they could hear a voice calling faintly.
“He probably fell the length of the steps, and dragged himself across,” exclaimed Stephen, holding his lantern high above his head.
They found José stretched out by a narrow door opening directly into the right wing. There was a gash just above his temple which he himself had bound with his handkerchief and his leg appeared to be broken at the ankle.
“José, my poor boy,” cried Stephen, “we have found you at last!”
José smiled weakly and fainted dead away.
The two men carried him back up the flight of steps, not daring to try the experiment of the passage leading to the library.
“I suppose Uncle Stephen has known these passages since he was a child,” said Stephen in a low voice to Bab as they passed through the attic, “and when his attendant is asleep, no doubt he steals off and wanders about the house. I believe he has always had a mania that he was being pursued by the Italian boatman; and when José followed him, right on top of his meeting with you, it was too much for the old fellow.”
“He’s a dear old man,” returned Bab, “and how he must have suffered all these years; that is, whenever his memory returned.”
“And think of the hermit, too, who sacrificed his entire career for you, Miss, just because you never learned to swim.”
Bab smiled. “If my Aunt Barbara had lived by the sea as I have, she would never have had to wait for boatmen and lovers to pull her out of the deep water. Swimming is as easy as walking to me.”
“I am glad you’ve learned wisdom in your old age,” replied Stephen as they paused at the door of the bedroom given to José.
“There is one thing I cannot believe,” declared Bab, “and that is that the hermit swam off and left Aunt Barbara to drown.”
“Who knows?” answered Stephen. “People lose their heads strangely sometimes.”
It was Alfred, destined to be a great doctor, who set José’s leg that night.
CHAPTER XXIV – GOOD-BYE TO TEN EYCK HALL
Four days had passed since the exciting happenings of that eventful day that had begun with the disappearance of José, and had ended with his discovery.
“I have much to be thankful for,” said the major to Miss Sallie, who was reclining in a steamer chair on the piazza. She had not left her bed until the afternoon of the third day, and was still a little shaky and nervous.
“I can’t think what they are, John,” she replied severely. “You have had nothing but misfortunes since we came to stay under your roof. I hope they may end when we leave.”
“The first one,” said the major, smiling good-humoredly, “is that I have had the privilege of knowing how splendid American women can be in time of danger. I always admired the women of my country, but never so much as now,” he added, looking fondly at his old friend.
“Yes,” assented Miss Sallie proudly, “my girls are about as fine as any to be found in the world, I think. They are wholesome, sensible, and never cowardly. Undoubtedly they saved Ten Eyck Hall for you, Major, by their combined efforts, and by Bab’s bravery in watering the roof when the sparks began to fly.”
“You were just as wonderful as the girls, Sallie, my dear. They tell me you superintended the digging of the trench and managed your men with the coolness of a general; and that when the fire leaped over the trench you were there with the bucket brigade to put it out. The girls were no whit less courageous in your day than they are now, Sallie.”
“And what is the second blessing you have to be thankful for, John?” interrupted Miss Sallie.
“That José is the boy I took him to be – a good, honest, noble fellow.”
“I must say I liked him from the first moment I set eyes upon him,” said Miss Stuart.
“Yes,” continued the major; “his father might well be proud of him. He deserves the highest commendation for his forbearance and unselfishness in regard to that brother of his.”
“How is the brother, by the way?” asked Miss Sallie.
“You know he was taken to the hospital the day after he was brought here; well, the boys went over in the car yesterday. Antonio is much better. His sister is tending him. He is very repentant, she says, and has consented to go to school and turn over a new leaf. In fact, I myself have had a long talk with him. I can see that there is great good in the boy. It has simply been perverted by evil associations.”
“Ah, Major,” exclaimed his old friend, smiling indulgently as she tapped his arm with her fan, “you are truly the most optimistic soul in the world. I hope all your golden dreams about this wretched boy’s future will come true. But what about his sister!”
“José is anxious for her to go to a school in America. He believes she could not endure the restraint of a European school after her free, open-air life. She is only too anxious. She wants to cultivate her voice, and the old grandmother appears really relieved at the turn affairs have taken. She was willing to concede anything to keep the grandson out of jail.”
“Then my Ruth will not be able to gratify her whim to educate the Gypsy girl,” pursued Miss Sallie.
“Not exactly,” replied the major. “José’s father is very well-to-do, as the world goes, but Ruth is to take charge of Zerlina’s education and look after her generally. She has asked José to allow her that privilege, as she put it.”
Just then the girls came around the corner of the piazza, after a stroll in the garden.
“How fresh and delicious the air is since the rain!” exclaimed Barbara. “There is still a faint smell of burning. Do you think all the trees in the forest will die, Major?”
“Old Adam says they will not,” answered the major. “A three months’ unbroken drought will dry up almost anything but trees. Now, while the underbrush and dried fern burned like tinder, the fire hardly touched the trees. It was those dead bramble hedges dividing the fields and the dried meadow grass that did the most damage, because the sparks from them ignited the garage and the roof of the stable.”
“I am glad papa and Mrs. Thurston were not uneasy about us,” observed Ruth. “If they had read the papers before you telegraphed, Major, they would have been frantic, I suppose.”
“Make way for the Duke of Granada,” called Jimmie’s cheerful voice from the hall, and presently he appeared, pushing José, done up in bandages and lying flat on his back, on a rolling cot used by some invalid of the Ten Eyck family long since dead and gone.
“José, my boy,” exclaimed the major, going to the foot of the cot to ease it as it passed over the door sill, “do you think this is safe?”
“The doctor says it will not hurt him,” replied Jimmie. “He needs company, but we won’t let him stay long.”
José smiled up at the faces leaning over him.
“You have all been so good to me,” he said. “I want to thank you for your kindness and for believing in me when my character looked black enough to have condemned me without any more proof. And I want to thank you for my brother, too, and my poor little sister.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“There, there,” cried the major, pressing the boy’s hand. “It’s a little enough we have done, I’m sure. I only wish we could have saved you from your tumble,” he added, gazing sadly toward the right wing of Ten Eyck Hall.
“And is it really true that our friends are going to leave us this afternoon?” asked José.
“Yes,” answered the major; “all our girls and boys are going. We shall be lonesome enough when they are gone.”
There was the sound of a motor horn down the avenue.
“Ah, here comes Stephen at last. I was afraid he would be late,” said Major Ten Eyck, as his automobile pulled up at the door and Stephen, Martin and Alfred jumped out.
“I’ve got them, uncle,” cried Stephen. “They arrived this morning.” And he handed his uncle a registered package carefully done up and sealed with red sealing wax.
The major took the box and disappeared into the house while the boys exchanged significant looks.
“Stephen,” said Bab, as they strolled down to the end of the-piazza while the others were examining the morning papers and reading their mail, “did you ever ask José where he was the morning we went to see the hermit!”
“Oh, yes,” replied her friend; “or, rather, he told me without being asked. He was to meet his brother by appointment at the haunted pool. I suppose he was there too soon, because Antonio chose to inflict us with his antics before he went to see José, who heard a great deal of the nonsense, so he said, and there was a quarrel afterwards, a very bitter one, and José threatened to give Antonio over to the authorities unless he consented to give up his lawless life. Zerlina was hovering around later, and heard the pistol shots after the fight with the tramps. She thought, of course, it was a duel between her two brothers. That is why she paid you the mysterious visit and tried to read the note.”
“How does Antonio strike you?” asked Bab.
“Just as a mischievous boy might. I think he will outgrow his vicious tendencies now that he has been taken hold of. For one thing he no longer hates poor old José. I told him, plainly, what a fine fellow his brother was, and that it was only on José’s account we were not going to have him arrested. He seemed to be a good deal impressed, I think.”
“A note for you, Miss,” said John, handing Bab a three-cornered missive on a tray.
“Will Miss Barbara Thurston grant one last interview to an old admirer?” the note ran.
“It’s from your great-uncle,” exclaimed Bab, giving Stephen the note to read.
Stephen smiled as his eye took in the crabbed, old-fashioned handwriting.
“The poor old fellow can’t quite get the proper focus as to who you really are,” he said. “You appear to represent two Barbaras to him. But you will go over for a few minutes, won’t you, Bab? I doubt if Uncle Stephen will last much longer, and seeing you may be a great comfort to him.”
“Of course I will,” Bab replied. “If seeing me can bring a ray of pleasure into his life, I am glad enough to be able to do it. I should like to take him a few flowers. I know he loves them. Suppose we get some honeysuckle and late roses out of the garden before we go.”
Together they strolled toward the major’s garden, which the flames had spared, partly because it was protected by a high brick wall on three sides, and partly owing to a daily watering it had received from the gardener.
With Stephen’s penknife they clipped a bunch of dewy white roses with yellow centers, and a few sprays of honeysuckle whose fragrance was overpoweringly sweet.
The old man was watching for the young people at the window when the attendant opened the door for them. He came forward with some of the major’s grace and took Barbara’s hand in his.
“It was very good of you to come,” he said. “I heard you were going, and I wanted to say a last good-bye. I feel happier than I have felt in many years. You have forgiven me, have you not, little Barbara?” he went on, his mind confusing her again with that other Barbara whose tragic death had bereft him of his reason. “And you have brought me the roses, too?”
She nodded her head.
“Did they come from the bush near the arbor?”
“Yes,” she replied, wondering a little.
“Don’t you remember that it was our bush, the one we chose when you were here on a visit? Our white rose bush, Barbara. That you should not have forgotten, after all these years!” Then his memory came back. “But what am I saying?” he exclaimed. “My mind often gets confused. It was the likeness, I suppose. I want you to see this portrait of your grand-aunt.”
He went over to a desk near the window and drew from one of its drawers an old daguerreotype.
“It is very, very like,” he murmured, as he handed it to Barbara.
It was, indeed, even more like the present Bab than the miniature which the hermit had treasured during his years of solitude.
“I want you to keep this picture, Barbara,” said Stephen’s uncle. “I have another one, and it will be a pleasure to me, at the last, to know that it belongs to another Barbara Thurston. This ring must also be yours.” He drew from the desk a little black velvet case. “It was a ring I gave to her after we were engaged. Will you wear it for me!”
Barbara opened the case and slipped the ring on her finger. It was a very old ring of beaten silver with a sapphire setting.
“Thank you,” she said and gave him her hand.
“Good-bye, little Barbara!” cried the old man. “You have brought peace to me at last. You and my dear friend, Richard. I have changed a great deal, you see,” he was lapsing back into the old mania, “but you are as young and pretty as ever, Barbara.”
“It is time to go,” whispered Stephen, hurriedly. The attendant had already opened the door for them and they slipped out together.
“The hermit has promised to come and see him every day,” said Stephen, as they hastened through the passage. “Indeed, Uncle John has invited the hermit to live at Ten Eyck Hall for the rest of his days, and he has all but consented. He is a wonderful old man, I think, and whether he swam off and left ‘you’ or not, he has atoned for it after all these years.”
“Stephen,” replied Barbara, “I shall never believe that he did that, no matter if he were to tell me so himself.”
They reached the piazza just in time to hear Miss Sallie saying:
“Girls, I think we had better go up and get ready for the trip, before luncheon is announced. We want to start promptly, this time, even if we shall have such an excellent guard of young men. José, I am sorry you are not well enough to come in to our last meal,” she added, turning to the sick boy and taking his hand. “But we shall run up and say good-bye to you before we leave, and if ever you go as far west as Chicago, I want you to come and see us. Perhaps Ruth and I shall see you and your father this autumn when we are in Europe.”
“Indeed, I hope you will come to Madrid and visit at my home,” cried José. “Will you not arrange it?”
“That would be delightful” said Miss Sallie, “but we shall be over only for six weeks. We must return in time for Ruth’s school, you know.”
The last luncheon at Ten Eyck Hall was a very gay one. The dangers of the previous week were over and the mysteries cleared away.
The major fairly beamed on his guests across the hospitable board.
“It must have been Miss Sallie’s fault,” thought Mollie, watching his handsome face with a secret admiration. “He is certainly the dearest old man alive. I wonder if she isn’t sorry now?”
And as if in answer to her unspoken question, she heard Miss Sallie saying:
“John, I hope this is not the last visit you will let us make to Ten Eyck Hall. In spite of its fires and tramps I should like to come again.”
“I should be the happiest man in the world if you only would,” he answered. “I am greatly relieved that you haven’t got an everlasting prejudice against it.”
“When I settle down for the winter,” Jimmie Butler was heard to remark above the hum of conversation, “I mean to take up a certain study and not leave off studying it until I have graduated with diploma and honors.”
“What is it, Jimmie?” demanded the others.
“Prize fighting,” he replied. “I intend to learn wrestling and boxing, likewise just plain hair-pulling and scratching. Prize fighting in all its varieties for me before another year rolls round.”
“You will have to go into training, then, Jim,” exclaimed Alfred. “You will not be permitted to eat anything you like and not too much of anything else.”
“No more hot bread for you, Jimmie,” continued Stephen. “No more waffles and Johnnie-cakes. You will have to punch the bag mornings, when you would rather be sleeping, and give up theatres in the evenings for early bedtime. It’s a fearful life, my boy.”
“Be that as it may,” persisted Jimmie, “I’m going to learn how to deal a blow that will give a man a black eye the first time, and if ever I get hold of that wiry individual who gave me these in the woods, yonder,” he pointed to his red nose and discolored eye, “he’ll get such a ‘licking’ as he’ll remember to his last hour. Even Stephen’s giant won’t be a match for me.”
There was joyous laughter at this, followed by remarks from Martin and Alfred of a rather sarcastic character, such as “Give it to him, Jimmie! Give him a bump in the ribs!”
“I am going to have the woods patrolled, hereafter, in the summer time,” observed the major, “and all dangerous characters will be excluded. The next time we have a house party there will be no tramps to threaten my guests.”
“By the way,” said Stephen, “the giant tramp is in the hospital now. He was drunk when the fire started, and fell asleep. He was badly burned and almost suffocated, but his poor, long-suffering wife managed to save him somehow. The other two had left him to die.”
“Will you have him arrested when he gets well, Major?” asked Ruth.
“No,” replied the major, somewhat confused. “I suppose I should, but he tells me he was despoiled of his living by a dishonest master, and I have concluded to make it up to him for being richer than he is by giving him something to do. We have several farms back in the country and I have put him in charge of the smallest one. It seems that farming is the very thing he wants to do more than anything else in life. He will have to travel a good distance before he can get anything to drink, and his wife is the happiest woman over the prospect you ever saw.”
“Major, major!” protested Miss Sallie. “What will you do next?”
“Ah, well,” exclaimed the major, “it is good to be able to give a man a chance to earn an honest living, especially if he wants to take it. And, when this poor wretch heard about that bit of land and little cottage back yonder in the hills, he looked as if he had had a glimpse of heaven. His wife told me that he had really tried, again and again to find something to do; but indoor life was very irksome to him because he had been brought up on a farm, and working in factories and foundries had been his undoing.”
“Stephen, how do you feel about it?” asked Alfred. “He was your opponent in the fight, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” replied Stephen. “He didn’t give me a black eye, and I am glad for him to earn an honest living. Uncle’s a brick.”
When the meal was over Major Ten Eyck rose from the table, clearing his throat as if he were about to make a speech, which indeed he was.
“I have something to say before this party breaks up, for myself and the boys. We want to express to you, how deeply grateful we feel to you, Miss Sallie and ‘The Automobile Girls,’ for what you have done for us.
“You have saved our old home for us, at the risk of your own precious lives, and there is nothing we can really do or say to show how much we appreciate it. The place has been in the family ever since there were any Ten Eycks to live in it. I was born here and I love it, and I hope to end my days here – ”
“Don’t speak as if you were on the brink of the grave, Major, I beg of you,” protested Miss Sallie. “You are not many years older than I am, and I certainly will not allow such mournful thoughts to trouble me so soon.”
“You will always be young, Sallie,” replied the gallant major.
“You are nothing but a boy yourself, John,” replied Miss Stuart, blushing in spite of herself, while the young people exchanged stealthy smiles at these elderly compliments.
“I was saying,” continued the major, who remained standing to finish his speech, “that there was nothing we could do, the boys and I, to show how we feel in this matter. But when you wear these little ornaments” (here the major handed Miss Sallie and each of the girls a little jeweler’s box) “we hope you will remember that we are your devoted friends always. It was Stephen’s idea, and there was not much time to get them, but the jeweler undertook a rush order for us, and I hope they are all right.”
“Hurray!” cried Jimmie, rolling his napkin into a ball and tossing it into the air.
There were cries of pleasure when the boxes gave up their treasures, small gold firemen’s helmets studded with pearls and a row of rubies on the curve of the brim.
As if this were not enough, John came in with a tray of bouquets, each one different, as on a former occasion. The major had picked and arranged the flowers himself for Miss Sallie and “The Automobile Girls,” as a last reminder of Ten Eyck Hall, he said.
“It is worth while going into the firemen’s business, if one is to be so well repaid,” exclaimed Ruth.
Bab felt particularly rich in souvenirs of her visit, with a picture of a new and hitherto unknown great-aunt, a ring and a beautiful pin.
“We are all much too excited to thank you properly, Major,” she said.
“I don’t want any thanks, my dear child,” replied the major. “I wish to avoid them.”
“Somebody should make a speech,” cried Jimmie’s voice above the jollity. “I think I’ll be the one.” He cleared his throat. “Major John Ten Eyck,” he said bowing toward the major, “I know these young ladies appreciate deeply the handsome souvenirs you have bestowed upon them, but youth and inexperience have tied their tongues. However, mine is loosened and I wish to thank you a thousand times for the souvenirs which I also am carrying away from Ten Eyck Hall, namely my beautiful ruby nose and my blue enameled eyes.”
There was more laughter and more exchange of jokes and fun, when Martin who had slipped out of the room for a moment, returned with a small bundle which he handed to Jimmie.
“We’ll give you a booby prize, Jimmie,” he said, “since the ladies have been awarded the first prize.”
Jimmie opened the bundle and drew forth a boxing glove which he put on immediately and chased Martin out of the room. This was the signal for the breaking up of the lunch party.
