Kitabı oku: «Hepsey Burke», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XIV
ON THE SIDE PORCH
In the evening, after his work was done, a day or two after his talk with Mrs. Maxwell, Jonathan went into the house and took a long look at himself in the glass, with the satisfactory conclusion that he didn’t look so old after all. Why shouldn’t he take Mrs. Betty’s advice and marry? To be sure, there was no fool like an old fool, but no man could be called a fool who was discriminating enough, and resourceful enough, to win the hand of Hepsey Burke. To his certain knowledge she had had plenty of eligible 161 suitors since her husband’s death. She was the acknowledged past-master of doughnuts; and her pickled cucumbers done in salad oil were dreams of delight. What more could a man want?
So he found that the question was deciding itself apparently without any volition whatever on his part. His fate was sealed; he had lost his heart and his appetite to his neighbor. Having come to this conclusion, it was wonderful how the thought excited him. He took a bath and changed his clothes, and then proceeded to town and bought himself a white neck-tie, and a scarf-pin that cost seventy-five cents. He was going to do the thing in the proper way if he did it at all.
After supper he mustered sufficient courage to present himself at the side porch where Mrs. Burke was knitting on a scarlet sweater for Nickey.
“Good evenin’, Hepsey,” he began. “How are you feelin’ to-night?”
“Oh, not so frisky as I might, Jonathan; I’d be all right if it weren’t for my rheumatiz.”
“Well, we all have our troubles, Hepsey; and if it isn’t one thing it’s most generally another. You mustn’t rebel against rheumatiz. It’s one of those things sent to make us better, and we must bear up against it, you know.” 162
Hepsey did not respond to this philosophy, and Jonathan felt that it was high time that he got down to business. So he began again:
“It seems to me as if we might have rain before long if the wind don’t change.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised, Jonathan. One—two—three—four—” Mrs. Burke replied, her attention divided between her visitor and her sweater. “Got your hay all in?”
“Yes, most of it. ’Twon’t be long before the long fall evenin’s will be comin’ on, and I kinder dread ’em. They’re awful lonesome, Hepsey.”
“Purl two, knit two, an inch and a half—” Mrs. Burke muttered to herself as she read the printed directions which lay in her lap, and then she added encouragingly:
“So you get lonesome, do you, Jonathan, durin’ the long evenin’s, when it gets dark early.”
“Oh, awful lonesome,” Jonathan responded. “Don’t you ever get lonesome yourself, Hepsey?”
“I can’t say as it kept me awake nights. ’Tisn’t bein’ alone that makes you lonesome. The most awful lonesomeness in the world is bein’ in a crowd that’s not your kind.”
“That’s so, Hepsey. But two isn’t a crowd. Don’t 163 you think you’d like to get married, if you had a right good chance, now?”
Hepsey gave her visitor a quick, sharp glance, and inquired:
“What would you consider a right good chance, Jonathan?”
“Oh, suppose that some respectable widower with a tidy sum in the bank should ask you to marry him; what would you say, Hepsey?”
“Can’t say until I’d seen the widower, to say nothin’ of the bank book—one, two, three, four, five, six—”
Jonathan felt that the crisis was now approaching; so, moving his chair a little nearer, he resumed excitedly:
“You’ve seen him, Hepsey; you’ve seen him lots of times, and he don’t live a thousand miles away, neither.”
“Hm! Must be he lives in Martin’s Junction. Is he good lookin’, Jonathan?”
“Oh, fair to middlin’. That is—of course—I well—I—I should think he was; but tastes differ.”
“Well, you know I’m right particular, Jonathan. Is he real smart and clever?”
“I don’t know as—I ought to—to—say, Hepsey; but I rather guess he knows enough to go in when it rains.” 164
“That’s good as far as it goes. The next time you see him, you tell him to call around and let me look him over. Maybe I could give him a job on the farm, even if I didn’t want to marry him.”
“But he doesn’t want any job on the farm, Hepsey. He just wants you, that’s all.”
“How do you know he does? Did he ever tell you?”
“Hepsey Burke, don’t you know who I’m alludin’ at? Haven’t you ever suspected nothin’?”
“Yes, I’ve suspected lots of things. Now there’s Jack Dempsey. I’ve suspected him waterin’ the milk for some time. Haven’t you ever suspected anythin’ yourself, Jonathan?”
“Well, I guess I’m suspectin’ that you’re tryin’ to make a fool of me, all right.”
“Oh no! Fools come ready-made, and there’s a glut in the market just now; seven—eight—nine—ten; no use makin’ more until the supply’s exhausted. But what made you think you wanted to marry? This is so powerful sudden.”
Now that the point was reached, Jonathan got a little nervous: “To—to tell you the truth, Hepsey,” he stuttered, “I was in doubt about it myself for some time; but bein’ as I am a Christian man I turned to the Bible for light on my path.” 165
“Hm! And how did the light shine?”
“Well, I just shut my eyes and opened my Bible at random, and put my finger on a text. Then I opened my eyes and read what was written.”
“Yes! What did you find?”
“I read somethin’ about ‘not a man of them escaped save six hundred that rode away on camels.’”
“Did that clear up all your difficulties?”
“No, can’t say as it did. But those words about ‘no man escapin’’ seemed to point towards matrimony as far as they went. Then I tried a second time.”
“Oh did you? I should think that six hundred camels would be enough for one round-up. What luck did you have the second time?”
“Well, I read, ‘Moab is my wash pot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe.’ You’ve seen ’em cast shoes at the carriages of brides and grooms, haven’t you, Hepsey? Just for luck, you know. So it seemed to point towards matrimony again.”
“Say, Jonathan, you certainly have a wonderful gift for interpretin’ Scripture.”
“Well, Scripture or no Scripture, I want you, Hepsey.”
“Am I to understand that you’re just fadin’ and pinin’ away for love of me? You don’t look thin.” 166
“Oh, we ’aint neither of us as young as we once was, Hepsey. Of course I can’t be expected to pine real hard.”
“I’m afraid it’s not the real thing, Jonathan, unless you pine. Don’t it keep you awake nights, or take away your appetite, or make you want to play the banjo, or nothin’?”
“No, Hepsey; to tell you the plain truth, it don’t. But I feel awful lonesome, and I like you a whole lot, and I—I love you as much as anyone, I guess.”
“So you are in love are you, Jonathan. Then let me give you some good advice. When you’re in love, don’t believe all you think, or half you feel, or anything at all you are perfectly sure of. It’s dangerous business. But I am afraid that you’re askin’ me because it makes you think that you are young and giddy, like the rest of the village boys, to be proposin’ to a shy young thing like me.”
“No, Hepsey; you aren’t no shy young thing, and you haven’t been for nigh on forty years. I wouldn’t be proposin’ to you if you were.”
“Jonathan, your manners need mendin’ a whole lot. The idea of insinuatin’ that I am not a shy young thing. I’m ashamed of you, and I’m positive we could never get along together.”
“But I can’t tell a lie about you, even if I do want 167 to marry you. You don’t want to marry a liar, do you?”
“Well, the fact is, Jonathan, polite lyin’s the real foundation of all good manners. What we’ll ever do when we get to heaven where we have to tell the truth whether we want to or not, I’m sure I don’t know. It’ll be awful uncomfortable until we get used to it.”
“The law says you should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth,” persisted the literal wooer.
“Now, see here, Jonathan. Would you say that a dog’s tail was false and misleadin’ just because it isn’t the whole dog?”
This proposition was exceedingly confusing to Jonathan’s intelligence, but after careful consideration he felt obliged to say “No.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Burke continued triumphantly, quickly following up her advantage. “You see a dog’s tail couldn’t be misleading, ’cause the dog leads the tail, and not the tail the dog. Any fool could see that.”
Jonathan felt that he had been tricked, although he could not see just how the thing had been accomplished; so he began again:
“Now Hepsey, we’re wanderin’ from the point, 168 and you’re just talkin’ to amuse yourself. Can’t you come down to business? Here I am a widower, and here you are a widowess, and we’re both lonesome, and we–”
“Who told you I was lonesome, I’d like to know?”
“Well, of course you didn’t, ’cause you never tell anything to anyone. But I guessed you was sometimes, from the looks of you.”
Hepsey bent her head over her work and counted stitches a long time before she looked up. Then she remarked slowly:
“There’s an awful lot of sick people in the world, and I’m mighty sorry for ’em; but they’ll die, or they’ll get well. I guess I’m more sorry for people who have to go on livin’, and workin’ hard, when they’re just dyin’ for somebody to love ’em, and somebody to love, until the pain of it hurts like a wisdom tooth. No, I can’t afford to be lonesome much, and that’s a fact. So I just keep busy, and if I get too lonesome, I just go and jolly somebody that’s lonesomer than I am, and we both feel better; and if I get lonely lyin’ awake at night, I light a lamp and read Webster’s Dictionary. Try it, Jonathan; it’s a sure anti-doubt.”
“There you go again, tryin’ to change the subject, just when I thought you was goin’ to say somethin’.” 169
“But you don’t really want to marry me. I’m not young, and I’m not interestin’: one or the other you’ve just got to be.”
“You’re mighty interestin’ to me, Hepsey, anyway; and—and you’re mighty unselfish.”
“Well, you needn’t throw that in my face; I’m not to blame for bein’ unselfish. I’ve just had to be, whether I wanted or not. It’s my misfortune, not my fault. Lots of people are unselfish because they’re too weak to stand up for their own rights.” She paused—and then looked up at him, smiling whimsically, and added: “Well, well, Jonathan; see here now—I’ll think it over, and perhaps some day before—go ’way, you horrid thing! Let go my hand, I tell you. There! You’ve made me drop a whole row of stitches. If you don’t run over home right now, before you’re tempted to do any more flirtin, I’ll—I’ll hold you for breach of promise.”
CHAPTER XV
NICKEY’S SOCIAL AMBITIONS
To Nickey, the Maxwells were in the nature of a revelation. At his impressionable stage of boyhood, and because of their freedom from airs and graces of any kind, he was quick to notice the difference in type—“some class to them; not snobs or dudes, but the real thing,” as he expressed it. His ardent admiration of Donald, and his adoration of Mrs. Betty, gave him ambition to find the key to their secret, and to partake of it.
He was too shy to speak of it,—to his mother last 171 of all, as is the nature of a boy,—and had to rely on an observant and receptive mind for the earlier steps in his quest. When Maxwell boarded with them, Nickey had discovered that he was won’t to exercise with dumb-bells each morning before breakfast. The very keenness of his desire to be initiated, held him silent. A visit to the town library, on his mother’s behalf, chanced to bring his eyes—generally oblivious of everything in the shape of a book—upon the title of a certain volume designed to instruct in various parlor-feats of physical prowess.
The book was borrowed from the librarian,—a little shamefacedly. The next morning Mrs. Burke was somewhat alarmed at the noise which came from Nickey’s room, and when there was a crash as if the chimney had fallen, she could stand it no longer, and hurried aloft. Nickey stood in the middle of the floor, clad in swimming trunks, gripping a large weight (purloined from the barn) in either hand, very red in the face, and much out of breath.
As the door unexpectedly opened he dived for bed and pulled the clothes under his chin.
“Land Sakes!” Hepsey breathed, aghast. “What’s all this about? If there’s a nail loose in the flooring I can lend you a hammer for the asking,” and she examined several jagged dents in the boards. 172
“Say ma,” urged Nickey in moving tones. “If I’d a pair of dumb-bells like Mr. Maxwell’s, I c’d hold onto ’em. I’ve pretty near smashed my feet with them things—gosh darn it,” he added ruefully, nursing the bruised member under the clothes.
“I guess you can get ’em, next time you go to Martin’s Junction; but if it’s exercise you want,” his parent remarked unsympathetically, “there’s plenty of kindlin’ in the woodshed wants choppin’.”
She retired chuckling to herself, as she caught a glimmer of what was working in her son’s mind.
The “reading habit” having been inculcated by this lucky find at the library, it was not long before Nickey acquired from the same source a veritable collection of volumes on the polite arts and crafts—“The Ready Letter-Writer”; “Manners Maketh Man”; “Seven Thousand Errors of Speech;” “Social Culture in the Smart Set,” and the like.
Nickey laboriously studied from these authorities how to enter a ball room, how to respond to a toast at a dinner given in one’s honor, how to propose the health of his hostess, and how to apologize for treading on a lady’s train.
In the secrecy of his chamber he put into practice the helpful suggestions of these invaluable manuals. He bowed to the washstand, begged the favor of the 173 next dance from the towel rack, trod on the window shade and made the prescribed apology. Then he discussed the latest novel at dinner with a distinguished personage; and having smoked an invisible cigar, interspersed with such wit as accords with walnuts and wine, after the ladies had retired, he entered the drawing-room, exchanged parting amenities with the guests, bade his hostess good night, and gracefully withdrew to the clothes-press.
Several times Hepsey caught glimpses of him going through the dumb show of “Social Culture in the Smart Set,” and her wondering soul was filled with astonishment at his amazing evolutions. She found it in her heart to speak of it to Mrs. Betty and Maxwell, and ask for their interpretation of the matter.
So, one day, during this seizure of feverish enthusiasm for self-culture, Hepsey and Nickey received an invitation to take supper at the rectory. Nevertheless, Mrs. Burke thought it prudent to give her son some good advice in regard to his behavior. She realized, perhaps, that a book is good so far as it goes, but is apt to ignore elementals. So she called him aside before they started:
“Now, Nickey, remember to act like a gentleman, especially at the table; you must try to do credit to your bringin’ up.” 174
“Yes, I’ll do my level best if it kills me,” the boy replied.
“Well, what do you do with your napkin when you first sit down to the table?”
“Tie it ’round my neck, of course!”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t do anything of the sort; you must just tuck it in your collar, like any gentleman would. And when we come home what are you goin’ to say to Mrs. Maxwell?”
“Oh, I’ll say, ‘I’ll see you later.’”
“Mercy no! Say, ‘I’ve had a very nice time.’”
“But suppose I didn’t have a nice time,—what’d I say?”
For a moment Hepsey struggled to reconcile her code of ethics with her idea of good manners, and then replied:
“Why say, ‘Mrs. Maxwell, it was awfully good of you to ask me,’ and I don’t believe she’ll notice anything wrong about that.”
“Hm!” Nickey retorted scornfully. “Seems pretty much like the same thing to me.”
“Oh no! Not in the least. Now what will you wear when we go to the rectory?”
“My gray suit, and tan shoes, and the green tie with the purple spots on it.”
“Who’ll be the first to sit down to the table?” 175
“Search me—maybe I will, if there’s good eats.”
“Nonsense! You must wait for Mrs. Maxwell and the rector to be seated first.”
“Well,” Nickey exclaimed in exasperation, “I’m bound to make some horrible break anyway, so don’t you worry, ma. It seems to me from what them books say, that when you go visitin’ you’ve got to tell lies like a sinner; and you can’t tell the truth till you get home with the door shut. I never was good at lyin’; I always get caught.”
“It isn’t exactly lyin’, Nickey; its just sayin’ nice things, and keepin’ your mouth shut about the rest. Now suppose you dropped a fork under the table, what’d you say?”
“I’d say ‘’scuse me, Mrs. Maxwell, but one of the forks has gone, and you can go through my clothes if you want to before I go home.’”
“Hm!” Hepsey remarked dryly, “I guess the less you say, the better.”
Arrived at the rectory, Nickey felt under some restraint when they first sat down to the supper table; but under the genial manner of Mrs. Maxwell he soon felt at his ease, and not even his observant mother detected any dire breach of table etiquette. His conversation was somewhat spare, his attention being absorbed and equally divided between observation 176 of his host and consumption of the feast set before him. With sure tact, Mrs. Betty—though regarding Nickey as the guest of honor—that evening—deferred testing the results of his conversational studies until after supper: one thing at once, she decided, was fair play.
After the meal was over, they repaired together to the parlor, and while Hepsey took out her wash-rag knitting and Maxwell smoked his cigar, Mrs. Betty gave Nickey her undivided attention.
In order to interest the young people of the place in the missionary work of the parish, Mrs. Betty had organized a guild of boys who were to earn what they could towards the support of a missionary in the west. The Guild had been placed under the fostering care and supervision of Nickey as its treasurer, and was known by the name of “The Juvenile Band of Gleaners.” In the course of the evening Mrs. Maxwell took occasion to inquire what progress they were making, thereby unconsciously challenging a somewhat surprising recountal.
“Well,” Nickey replied readily, “we’ve got forty-six cents in the treasury; that’s just me, you know; I keep the cash in my pants pocket.”
Then he smiled uneasily, and fidgeted in his chair.
There was something in Nickey’s tone and look 177 that excited Mrs. Betty’s curiosity, and made his mother stop knitting and look at him anxiously over her glasses.
“That is very good for a start,” Mrs. Betty commended. “How did you raise all that, Nickey?”
For a moment Nickey colored hotly, looked embarrassed, and made no reply. Then mustering up his courage, and laughing, he began:
“Well, Mrs. Maxwell, it was just like this. Maybe you won’t like it, but I’ll tell you all the same. Bein’ as I was the president of the Juv’nul Band of Gleaners, I though I’d get the kids together, and start somethin’. Saturday it rained cats and dogs, so Billy Burns, Sam Cooley, Dimple Perkins and me, we went up into the hay loft, and I said to the kids, ‘You fellows have got to cough up some dough for the church, and–’”
“Contribute money, Nickey. Don’t be slangy,” his mother interjected.
“Well I says, ‘I’m runnin’ the Juv’nals, and you’ve got to do just what I say. I’ve got a dandy scheme for raisin’ money and we’ll have some fun doin’ it, or I miss my guess.’ Then I asked Sam Cooley how much money he’d got, and Sam, he had forty-four cents, Billy Burns had fifty-two cents, and Dimple had only two. Dimp never did have much loose cash, anyway. 178 But I said to Dimp, ‘Never mind, Dimp; you aint to blame. Your dad’s an old skinflint. I’ll lend you six to start off with.’ Then I made Billy Burns sweep the floor, while Sam went down to the chicken yard and caught my bantam rooster, Tooley. Then I sent Dimp after some chalk, and an empty peach basket, and a piece of cord. Then we was ready for business.
“I marked a big circle on the barn floor with the chalk, and divided it into four quarters with straight lines runnin’ through the middle. Then I turned the peach basket upside down, and tied one end of the string on the bottom, and threw the other end up over a beam overhead, so I could pull the basket off from the floor up to the beam by the string. You see,” Nickey illustrated with graphic gestures, “the basket hung just over the middle of the circle like a bell. Then I took the rooster and stuck him under the basket. Tooley hollered and scratched like Sam Hill and–”
“For mercy sake, Nickey! What will you say next?”
“Say, ma, you just wait and see. Well, Tooley kicked like everything, but he had to go under just the same. Then I said to the kids to sit around the circle on the floor, and each choose one of the four 179 quarters for hisself,—one for each of us. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘you must each cough up–’”
“Nicholas!”
“Oh ma, do let me tell it without callin’ me down every time. ‘You kids must hand out a cent apiece and put it on the floor in your own quarter. Then, when I say ready, I’ll pull the string and raise the basket and let Tooley out. Tooley’ll get scared and run. If he runs off the circle through my quarter, then the four cents are mine; but if he runs through Dimp’s quarter, then the four cents are Dimp’s.’
“It was real excitin’ when I pulled the string, and the basket went up. You’d ought to ’ve been there, Mrs. Maxwell. You’d have laughed fit to split–”
“Nicholas Burke, you must stop talkin’ like that, or I’ll send you home,” reproved Mrs. Burke, looking severely at her son, and with deprecating side-glances at his audience.
“Excuse me, ma. It will be all over in a minute. But really, you’d have laughed like sin—I mean you’d have just laughed yourself sick. Tooley was awful nervous when the basket went up. For a minute he crouched and stood still, scared stiff at the three kids, all yellin’ like mad; then he ducked his head and bolted off the circle through my quarter and flew up on a beam. I thought the kids would bust.” 180
Mrs. Burke sighed heavily.
“Well, burst, then. But while they were laughin’ I raked in the cash. You see I just had to. I won it for fair. I’d kept quiet, and that’s why Tooley come across my quarter.”
Mrs. Maxwell was sorting over her music, while Maxwell’s face was hidden behind a paper. Mrs. Burke was silent through despair. Nickey glanced furtively at his hearers for a moment and then continued:
“Yes, the kids was tickled; but they got awful quiet when I told them to fork over another cent apiece for the jack-pot.”
“What in the name of conscience is a jack-pot?” Hepsey asked.
Donald laughed and Nickey continued:
“A jack-pot’s a jack-pot; there isn’t no other name that I ever heard of. We caught Tooley and stuck him under the basket, and made him do it all over again. You see, every time when Tooley got loose, the kids all leant forward and yelled like mad; but I just kept my mouth shut, and leaned way back out of the way so that Tooley’d run out through my quarter. So I won most all the time.”
There was a pause, while Nickey looked a bit apprehensively at his audience. But he 181 went on gamely to the end of the chapter.
“Once Tooley made a bolt in a straight line through Dimp’s quarter, and hit Dimp in the mouth, and bowled him over like a nine-pin. Dimp was scared to death, and howled like murder till he found he’d scooped the pot; then he got quiet. After we made Tooley run ten times, he struck work and wouldn’t run any more; so we just had to let him go; but I didn’t care nothn’ about that, ’cause you see I had the kids’ cash in my pants pocket, and that was what I was after. Well, sir, when it was all over, ’cause I’d busted the bank–”
“Nicholas Burke, I am ashamed of you.”
“Never mind, ma; I’m most through now. When they found I’d busted the bank, they looked kind of blue, and Dimp Perkins said it was a skin game, and I was a bunco steerer.”
“What did you say to that?” Donald inquired.
“Oh, I just said it was all for religion, it was church money, and it was all right. I was just gleanin’ what few cents they had, to pay the church debt to the missionary; and they ought to be ashamed to have a church debt hangin’ over ’em, and they’d oughter be more cheerful ’bout givin’ a little somethin’ toward raisin’ of it.”
When Nickey had finished, there was an ominous 182 silence for a moment or two, and then his mother said sternly:
“What do you suppose Mrs. Perkins will say when she finds that you’ve tricked her son into a regular gambling scheme, to get his money away from him?”
“Mrs. Perkins,” retorted Nickey, thoroughly aroused by the soft impeachment. “I should worry! At the church fair, before Mr. Maxwell came, she ran a fancy table, and tried to sell a baby blanket to an old bachelor; but he wouldn’t take it. Then when he wasn’t lookin’, blessed if she didn’t turn around and tie the four corners together with a bit of ribbon, and sell it to him for a handkerchief case. She got two dollars for it, and it wasn’t worth seventy-five cents. She was as proud as a dog with two tails, and went around tellin’ everybody.”
Silence reigned, ominous and general, and Nickey braced himself for the storm. Even Mrs. Maxwell didn’t look at him, and that was pretty bad. He began to get hot all over, and the matter was fast assuming a new aspect in his own mind which made him ashamed of himself. His spirits sank lower and lower. Finally his mother remarked quietly:
“Nickey, I thought you were goin’ to be a gentleman.” 183
“That’s straight, all right, what I’ve told you,” he murmured abashed.
There was another silent pause—presently broken by Nickey.
“I guess I hadn’t thought about it, just that way. I guess I’ll give the kids their money back,” he volunteered despondently—“only I’ll have to make it up, some way, in the treasury.” He felt in his pockets, and jingled the coins.
Another pause—with only the ticking of his mother’s knitting needles to relieve the oppressive silence. Suddenly the worried pucker disappeared from his brow, and his face brightened like a sun-burst.
“I’ve got it, Mrs. Maxwell,” he cried. “I’ve got seventy-five cents comin’ to me down at the Variety Store, for birch-bark frames, and I’ll give that for the blamed old missionaries. That’s square, ’aint it now?”
Mrs. Betty’s commendation and her smile were salve to the wounds of her young guest, and Donald’s hearty laughter soon dispelled the sense of social failure which was beginning to cloud Nickey’s happy spirit.
“Say Nickey,” said Maxwell, throwing down his paper, “Mrs. Betty and I want to start a Boy Scout Corps in the parish, and with your resourceful genius 184 you could get the boys together, and explain it to them, and soon we should have the whole thing in ship-shape order. Will you do it?”
“Will I?” exclaimed the delighted recruit. “I guess so—but some of ’em ’aint ’Piscopals, Mr. Maxwell; there’s Sam Cooley, he’s a Methodist, and–”
“That doesn’t cut any ice, Nickey,—excuse my slang, ladies,” he apologized to his wife and Hepsey, at which the boy grinned with delight. “We’re out to welcome all comers. I’ve got the books that we shall need upstairs. Let’s go up to my den and talk it all over. We shall have to spend evenings getting thoroughly up in it ourselves,—rules and knots and first-aid and the rest. Mrs. Burke will allay parental anxiety as to the bodily welfare of the recruits and the pacific object of the organization, and Mrs. Maxwell will make the colors. Come on!”
With sparkling eyes, Nickey followed Donald out of the room; as they disappeared Hepsey slowly shook her head in grateful deprecation at Betty.
“Bless him!” ejaculated Hepsey. “Mixin’ up religion, with a little wholesome fun, is the only way you can serve it to boys, like Nickey, and get results. Boys that are ever goin’ to amount to anything are too full of life to stand ’em up in a row, with a prayer book in one hand and a hymnal in the other, 185 and expect ’em to sprout wings. It can’t be done. Keep a boy outside enough and he’ll turn out alright. Fresh air and open fields have a mighty helpful influence on ’em. The way I’ve got it figgered out, all of us can absorb a lot of the right kind of religion, if we’ll only go out and watch old Mother Nature, now and then.”
