Читать книгу: «Marjorie at Seacote»
CHAPTER I
KITTY'S DINNER
"Kitty-Cat Kitty is going away,
Going to Grandma's, all summer to stay.
And so all the Maynards will weep and will bawl,
Till Kitty-Cat Kitty comes home in the fall."
This affecting ditty was being sung with great gusto by King and Marjorie, while Kitty, her mood divided between smiles and tears, was quietly appreciative.
The very next day, Kitty was to start for Morristown, to spend the summer with Grandma Sherwood, and to-night the "Farewell Feast" was to be celebrated.
Every year one of the Maynard children spent the summer months with their grandmother, and this year it was Kitty's turn. The visit was always a pleasant one, and greatly enjoyed by the small visitor, but there was always a wrench at parting, for the Maynard family were affectionate and deeply devoted to one another.
The night before the departure was always celebrated by a festival of farewell, and at this feast tokens were presented, and speeches made, and songs sung, all of which went far to dispel sad or gloomy feelings.
The Maynards were fond of singing. They were willing to sing "ready-made" songs, and often did, but they liked better to make up songs of their own, sometimes using familiar tunes and sometimes inventing an air as they went along. Even if not quite in keeping with the rules for classic music, these airs were pleasing in their own ears, and that was all that was necessary.
So, when King and Midget composed the touching lines which head this chapter and sang them to the tune of "The Campbells are Coming," they were so pleased that they repeated them many times.
This served to pass pleasantly the half-hour that must yet elapse before dinner would be announced.
"Well, Kit," remarked Kingdon, in a breathing pause between songs, "we'll miss you lots, o' course, but you'll have a gay old time at Grandma's. That Molly Moss is a whole team in herself."
"She's heaps of fun, Kitsie," said Marjorie, "but she's chock-a-block full of mischief. But you won't tumble head over heels into all her mischiefs, like I did! 'Member how I sprained my ankle, sliding down the barn roof with her?"
"No, of course I wouldn't do anything like that," agreed the sedate Kitty. "But we'll have lots of fun with that tree-house; I'm going to sit up there and read, on pleasant days."
"H'm,—lucky,—you know what, King!"
"H'm,—yes! Keep still, Mops. You'll give it away."
"Oh, a secret about a present," cried Kitty; "something for the tree-house, I know!"
"Maybe 'tis, and maybe 'tain't," answered King, with a mysterious wink at Marjorie.
"Me buyed present for Kitty," said Rosamond, smiling sweetly; "gold an' blue,—oh, a bootiful present."
"Hush, hush, Rosy Posy, you mustn't tell," said her brother. "Presents are always surprises. Hey, girls, here's Father!"
Mr. Maynard's appearance was usually a signal for a grand rush, followed by a series of bear hugs and a general scramble, but to-night, owing to festive attire, the Maynard quartette were a little more demure.
"Look out for my hair-ribbons, King!" cried Midget, for without such warning, hair-ribbons usually felt first the effects of the good-natured scrimmage.
And then Mrs. Maynard appeared, her pretty rose-colored gown of soft silk trailing behind her on the floor.
"What a dandy mother!" exclaimed King; "all dressed up, and a flower in her hair!"
This line sounded singable to Marjorie, so she tuned up:
"All dressed up, and a flower in her hair,
To give her a hug, I wouldn't dare;
For she would feel pretty bad, I think,
If anything happened to that there pink!"
Then King added a refrain, and in a moment they had all joined hands and were dancing round Mrs. Maynard and singing:
"Hooray, hooray, for our mother fair!
Hooray, hooray, for the flower in her hair!
All over the hills and far away,
There's no one so sweet as Mothery May!"
Being accustomed to boisterous adulation from her children, Mrs. Maynard bore her honors gracefully, and then they all went out to dinner.
As Maiden of Honor, Kitty was escorted by her father; next came Mrs. Maynard and Kingdon, and then Marjorie and Rosy Posy. The table had extra decorations of flowers and pink-shaded candles, and at Kitty's place was a fascinating looking lot of tissue-papered and ribbon-tied parcels.
"Isn't it funny," said sedate and philosophical Kitty, "I love to go to Grandma's, and yet I hate to leave you all, and yet, I can't do one without doing the other!"
"'Tis strange, indeed, Kit!" agreed her father; "as Mr. Shakespeare says, 'Yet every sweet with sour is tempered still.' Life is like lemonade, sour and sweet both."
"It's good enough," said Kitty, contentedly, looking at her array of bundles. "I guess I'll open these now."
"That's what they're there for," said Mrs. Maynard, so Kitty excitedly began to untie the ribbons.
"I'll go slowly," she said, pulling gently at a ribbon bow, "then they'll last longer."
"Now, isn't that just like you, Kit!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I'd snatch the papers off so fast you couldn't see me jerk."
"I know you would," said Kitty, simply.
The sisters were very unlike, for Midget's ways were impulsive and impatient, while Kitty was slow and careful. But finally the papers came off, and revealed the lovely gifts.
Mrs. Maynard had made a pretty silk workbag, which could be spread out, or gathered up close on its ribbon. When outspread, it showed a store of needles and thread, of buttons, hooks, tapes,—everything a little girl could need to keep her clothes in order.
"Oh, Mother, it's perfect!" cried Kitty, ecstatically. "I love those cunning little pockets, with all sewy things in them! And a darling silver thimble! And a silver tape measure, and a silver-topped emery! Oh, I do believe I'll sew all the time this summer!"
"Pooh, I wouldn't!" said Marjorie. "The things are lovely, but I'd rather play than sew."
"Sewing is play, I think," and Kitty fingered over her treasures lovingly. "Grandma will help me with my patterns, and I'm going to piece a silk teachest quilt. Oh, Mother, it will be such fun!"
"Call that fun!" and Marjorie looked disdainfully at her sister. "Fun is racing around and playing tag, and cutting up jinks generally!"
"For you it is," Kitty agreed, amiably, "but not for me. I like what I like."
"That's good philosophy, Kitty," said her father. "Stick to it always. Like what you like, and don't be bothered by other people's comments or opinions. Now, what's in that smallish, flattish, whitish parcel?"
The parcel in question proved to be a watch, a dear little gold watch. Kitty had never owned one before, and it almost took her breath away.
"Mine?" she exclaimed, in wonder. "All mine?"
"Yes, every bit yours," said Mr. Maynard, smiling at her. "Every wheel and spring, every one of its three hands, every one of its twelve hours are all, all yours. Do you like it?"
"Like it! I can't think of any words to tell you how much I like it."
"I'll think of some for you," said the accommodating Marjorie. "You could say it's the grandest, gloriousest, gorgeousest, magnificentest present you ever had!"
"Yes, I could say that," Kitty agreed, "but I never should have thought of it. I 'most always say a thing is lovely. Now, what in the world is this?"
"This" proved to be a well-stocked portfolio, the gift of King. There were notepaper and envelopes and a pen and pencils and stamps and everything to write letters with.
"I picked out all the things myself," King explained, "because it's nicer that way than the ready furnished ones. Do you like it, Kit?"
"Yes, indeedy! And I shall write my first letter to you, because you gave it to me."
"Oh, Kitty-Cat Kit, a letter she writ,
And sent it away, to her brother one day,"
chanted Marjorie, and, as was their custom, they all sang the song after her, some several times over.
"Now for mine," Midget said, as Kitty slowly untied the next parcel. It was two volumes of Fairy Tales, which literature was Kitty's favorite reading.
"Oh, lovely!" she exclaimed. "On summer afternoons you can think of me, sitting out in the tree-house reading these. I shall pretend I'm a Fairy Princess. These are beautiful stories, I can see that already."
Kitty's quick eye had caught an interesting page, and forgetting all else, she became absorbed in the book at once. In a moment, the page was turned, and Kitty read on and on, oblivious to time or place.
"Hi, there, Kitsie! Come out o' that!" cried King. "You can read all summer,—now you must associate with your family."
"I didn't mean to," said Kitty, shutting the book quickly, and looking round apologetically; "but it's all about a fairy godmother, and a lovely princess lady,—oh, Mopsy, it's fine!"
A pair of little blue enamelled pins was Rosamond's present, and Kitty pinned them on her shoulders at once, to see how they looked. All pronounced the effect excellent, and Rosy Posy clapped her little fat hands in glee.
"Mine's the prettiest present!" she said. "Mine's the booflest!"
"Yes, Babykins," said Kitty, "yours is the booflest,—but they're all lovely."
The Farewell Feast included all of Kitty's favorite dishes, and as most of them were also favorites with the other children, it was satisfactory all round.
"You must write to us often, Kit," said King; "I gave you those writing things so you'd be sure to."
"Yes, I will; but I don't know yet where you're all going to be."
"I don't know yet myself," said Mr. Maynard, "but it will be somewhere near the sea, if possible. Will you like the seashore, Kiddies,—you that are going?"
"I shall," said Marjorie, promptly. "I'll love it. May we go bathing every day? And can I have a bathing suit,—red, trimmed with white?"
"I 'spect you can," said her mother, smiling at her. "What color do you want, King?"
"Oh, I think dark blue would suit my manly beauty! What are you going to have, Father?"
"I think dark blue will be our choice, my boy. It swims better than anything else. But first we must find a roof to cover our heads. I've about decided on one,—if I can get it. It's a bungalow."
"What's a bungalow?" asked Marjorie. "I never heard of such a thing."
"Ho, ho! Never heard of a bungalow!" said King. "Why, a bungalow is a,—is a,–"
"Well, is a what?" asked Midget, impatiently.
"Why, it's a bungalow! That's what it is."
"Fine definition, King!" said his father. "But since you undertook to do so, see if you can't give its meaning better than that. What is a, bungalow?"
"Well, let me see. It's a house,—I guess it's a low, one-storied house, and that's why they call it bungalow. Is that it?"
"You're right about the one story; the rest is, I think, your own invention. Originally, the bungalow was the sort of a house they have in India, a one-storied affair, with a thatched roof, and verandas all round it. But the ones they build now, in this country, are often much more elaborate than that. Sometimes they have one story, sometimes more. The one I'm trying to get for the summer is at Seacote, and it's what they call a story and a half. That is, it has an upper floor, but the rooms are under a slanting roof, and have dormer windows."
"Sounds good to me," said King. "Do you think you'll catch it, Dad?"
"I hope so. Some other person has the refusal of it, but he's doubtful about taking it. So it may yet fall to our lot."
"I hope so!" cried Marjorie. "At the seashore for a whole summer! My! what fun! Can we dig in the sand?"
"Well, rather, my child! That's what the sand is there for. Kitty, you were at the seashore last summer. Did you dig in the sand?"
"Yes, every day; and it was lovely. But this year I'm glad I'm going to Grandma's. It's more restful."
They all laughed at Kitty's desire for rest, and Marjorie said:
"I didn't have such a restful time at Grandma's. Except when I sprained my ankle,—I rested enough then! But you won't do anything like that, Kit!"
"I hope not, I'm sure. Nor I won't fall down the well, either!"
"Oh, we didn't fall down the well. We just went down, to get cooled off."
"Well, I'm not going to try it. I shall sit in the tree-house and read every afternoon, and sew with Grandma in the mornings."
"Kit, you're a dormouse," said Kingdon; "I believe you'd like to sleep half the year."
"'Deed I wouldn't. Just because I don't like rambunctious play doesn't mean I want to sleep all the time! Does it, Father?"
"Not a bit of it. But you children must 'like what you like' and not comment on others' 'likes.' See?"
"Yes, sir," said King, understanding the kindly rebuke. "Hullo, Kit, here's one of your best 'likes'! Here's pink ice-cream coming!"
This was indeed one of Kitty's dearest "likes," and as none of the Maynards disliked it, it rapidly disappeared.
"Now, we'll have an entertainment," said King as, after dinner, they all went back to the pleasant living-room. "As Kitty is the chief pebble on the beach this evening, she shall choose what sort of an entertainment. Games, or what?"
"No, just a real entertainment," said Kitty; "a programme one, you know. Each one must sing a song or speak a piece, or something like that. I'll be the audience, and you can all be performers."
"All right," said King; "I'll be master of ceremonies. I'll make up the programme as I go along. Ladies and gentlemen, our first number will be a speech by the Honorable Edward Maynard. Mr. Maynard will please step forward."
Mr. Maynard stepped. Assuming a pompous air, he made a low bow, first to Kitty, and then to the others.
"My dear friends," he said, "we are gathered here together this evening to extend our farewells and our hearty good wishes to the lady about to leave us. Sister, thou art mild and lovely, and we hate to see thee go; but the best of friends must sever, and you'll soon come back, you know. Listen now to our advices. Kitty, dear, for pity's sake, do not tumble in the river,—do not tumble in the lake. Many more things I could tell you as I talk in lovely rhyme, but I think it is my duty to let others share the time."
Mr. Maynard sat down amid great applause, and Kitty said, earnestly, "You are a lovely poet, Father. I wish you'd give up your other business, and just write books of poetry."
"I'm afraid, Kitsie, we wouldn't have enough money for pink ice-cream in that case," said Mr. Maynard, laughing.
"The next performeress will be Mrs. Maynard," announced the master of ceremonies.
Mother Maynard rose, smiling, and with all the airs and graces of a prima donna, went to the piano. Striking a few preliminary chords, she began to sing:
"Good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty,
You're going to leave us now.
Merrily we say good-bye,
Say good-bye, say good-bye;
Merrily we say good-bye
To sister Kitty-Kit."
This had a pleasant jingle, and was repeated by the whole assembly with fine effect and a large volume of noise.
"Miss Marjorie Maynard will now favor us," was the next announcement.
"This is a poem I made up myself," said Midget, modestly, "and I think it's very nice:
"When Kitty goes to Grandma's
I hope she will be good;
And be a lady-girl and do
Exactly as she should.
'Cause when I go to Grandma's,
I act exceeding bad;
I track up 'Liza's nice clean floor,
And make her hopping mad!"
Marjorie's poem was applauded with cheers, as they all recognized its inherent truth.
"We next come to Miss Rosamond Maynard," King went on, "but as she has fallen asleep, I will ask that the audience kindly excuse her."
The audience kindly did so, and as it was getting near everybody's bedtime,—at least, for children,—the whole quartette was started bedward, and went away singing:
"Good-bye, Kitty, you're going to leave us now"—
CHAPTER II
TOM, DICK, AND HARRY
"Jumping Grasshoppers! What a dandy house!"
The Maynards' motor swung into the driveway of a large and pleasant looking place, whose lawn showed some sand spots here and there, and whose trees were tall pines, but whose whole effect was delightfully breezy and seashorey.
"Oh, grandiferous!" cried Marjorie, echoing her brother's enthusiastic tones, and standing up in the car, better to see their new home.
Seacote, the place chosen by Mr. Maynard for his family's summering, was on the southern shore of Long Island, not very far from Rockaway Beach. It was a sort of park or reservation in which building was under certain restrictions, and so it was made up of pleasant homes filled with pleasant people.
Fortunately, Mr. Maynard had been able to rent the bungalow he wanted, and it was this picturesque domicile that so roused King's admiration.
The house was long and low, and surrounded by verandas, some of which were screened by vines, and others shaded by striped awnings.
But what most delighted the children was the fact that the ocean rolled its crested breakers up to their very door. Not literally to the door, for the road ran between the sea and the house, and a boardwalk was between the road and the sea. But not fifty feet from their front windows the shining waves were even now dashing madly toward them as if in tumultuous welcome.
The servants were already installed, and the open doors seemed to invite the family to come in and make themselves at home.
"Let's go straight bang through the whole house," said King, "and then outdoors afterward."
"All right," agreed Marjorie, and in their usual impetuous fashion, the two raced through the house from attic to cellar, though there really wasn't any attic, except a sort of low-ceiled loft. However, they climbed up into this, and then down through the various bedrooms on the second floor, and back to the first floor, which contained the large living-room, a spacious hall, and the dining-room and kitchen.
"It's all right," said King, nodding his head in approval. "Now outside, Midget."
Outside they flew, and took stock of their surroundings. Almost an acre of ground was theirs, and though as yet empty of special interest, King could see its possibilities.
"Room for a tennis court," he said; "then I guess we'll have a big swing, and a hammock, and a tent, and–"
"And a merry-go-round," supplemented Mr. Maynard, overhearing King's plans.
"No, not that, Father," said Marjorie, "but we can have swings and things, can't we?"
"I 'spect so, Mopsy. But with the ocean and the beach, I doubt if you'll stay in this yard much."
"Oh, that's so; I forgot the ocean! Come on, Father, let's go and look at it."
So the three went down to the beach, and Marjorie, who hadn't been to the seashore since she was a small child, plumped herself down on the sand, and just gazed out at the tumbling waves.
"I don't care for the swings and things," she said. "I just want to stay here all the time, and dig and dig and dig."
As she spoke she was digging her heels into the fine white sand, and poking her hands in, and burying her arms up to her dimpled elbows.
"Oh, Father, isn't it gee-lorious! Sit down, won't you, and let us bury you in sand, all but your nose!"
"Not now," said Mr. Maynard, laughing. "Some day you may, when I'm in a bathing suit. But I don't care for pockets full of sand. Now, I'm going back to home and Mother. You two may stay down here till luncheon time if you like."
Mr. Maynard went back to the house, and King and Marjorie continued their explorations. The beach was flat and smooth, and its white sand was full of shells, and here and there a few bits of seaweed, and farther on some driftwood, and in the distance a pier, built out far into the ocean.
"Did you ever see such a place?" cried Marjorie, in sheer delight.
"Well, I was at the seashore last year," said King, "while you were at Grandma's."
"But it wasn't as nice as this, was it? Say it wasn't!"
"No; the sand was browner. This is the nicest sand I ever saw. Say, Mops, let's build a fire."
"What for? It isn't cold."
"No, but you always build fires on the beach. It's lots of fun. And we'll roast potatoes in it."
"All right. How do we begin?"
"Well, we gather a lot of wood first. Come on."
Marjorie came on, and they worked with a will, gathering armfuls of wood and piling it up near the spot they had selected for their fire.
"That's enough," said Marjorie, for her arms ached as she laid down her last contribution to their collection.
"You'll find it isn't much when it gets to burning. But never mind, it will make a start. I'll skin up to the house and get matches and potatoes."
"I'll go with you, 'cause I think we'd better ask Father about making this fire. It might do some harm."
"Fiddlesticks! We made a fire 'most every day last summer."
And, owing to King's knowledge and experience regarding beach fires, his father told him he might build one, and to be properly careful about not setting fire to themselves.
Then they procured potatoes and apples from the kitchen, and raced back to the beach.
"Why, where's our wood?" cried Marjorie.
Not a stick or a chip remained of their carefully gathered wood pile.
"Some one has stolen it!" said King.
"No, there's nobody around, except those people over there, and they're grown-ups. It must have been washed away by a wave."
"Pooh, the waves aren't coming up near as far as this."
"Well, there might have been a big one."
"No, it wasn't a wave. That wood was stolen, Mops!"
"But who could have done it? Those grown-up people wouldn't. You can see from their looks they wouldn't. They're reading aloud. And in the other direction, there are only some fishermen,—they wouldn't take it."
"Well, somebody did. Look, here are lots of footprints, and I don't believe they're all ours."
Sure enough, on the smooth white sand they could see many footprints, imprinted all over each other, as if scurrying feet had trodden all around their precious wood pile.
"Oh, King, you're just like a detective!" cried Marjorie, in admiration. "But it's so! These aren't our footprints!"
She fitted her spring-heeled tan shoes into the prints, and proved at once that they were not hers. Nor did King's shoes fit exactly, though they came nearer to it than Marjorie's.
"Yes, sir; some fellows came along and stole that wood. Here are two or three quite different prints."
"Well, where do they lead to?" said practical Marjorie.
"That's so. Let's trace them and get the wood back."
But after leading away from them for a short distance the footprints became fainter, and in a softer bit of sand disappeared altogether.
"Pshaw!" said King. "I don't so much care about the wood, but I hate to lose the trail like this. Let's hunt, Mopsy."
"All right, but first, let's bury these apples and potatoes, or they'll be stolen, too."
"Good idea!" And they buried their treasures in the nice, clean sand, and marked the place with an inconspicuous stick.
Then they set out to hunt their lost wood. The beach, though flat and shelving at the water's edge, rose in a low bluff farther back, and this offered among its irregular projections many good hiding-places for their quarry.
And, sure enough, after some searching, they came suddenly upon three boys who sat, shaking with laughter, upon a pile of wood.
The two Maynards glared at them rather angrily, upon which the three again went off in peals of laughter.
"That's our wood!" began King, aggressively.
"Sure it is!" returned the biggest boy, still chuckling.
"What did you bring it over here for?"
"Just for fun!"
"H'm, just for fun! And do you think it would be fun to carry it back again?"
"Yep; just's lieve as not. Come on, kids!" And that remarkable boy began to pick up the sticks.
"Oh, hold on," said King. "If you're so willing, you needn't do it! Who are you, anyway?"
"Well," said the biggest boy, suddenly straightening himself up and bowing politely to Marjorie, "we're your neighbors. We live in that green house next to yours. And we're named Tom, Dick, and Harry. Yes, I know you think those names sound funny, but they're ours all the same. Thomas, Richard, and Henry Craig,—at your service! I'm Tom. This is Dick, and this is Harry."
He whacked his brothers on the shoulder as he named them, and they ducked forward in polite, if awkward salutation.
"And did you really take our wood?" said Marjorie, with an accusing glance, as if surprised that such pleasant-spoken boys could do such a thing.
"Yes, we did. We wanted to see what sort of stuff you were made of. You know Seacote people are sort of like one big family, and we wanted to know how you'd behave about the wood. You've been fine, and now we'll cart it back where we found it. If you had got mad about it, we wouldn't touch a stick to take it back,—would we, fellows?"
"Nope," said the other two, and the Maynards could see at once that Tom was the captain and ringleader of the trio.
"Well," said King, judicially, "if you hadn't been the sort you are, I should have got mad. But I guess you're all right, and so you may take it back. But we don't help you do it,—see? I'm Kingdon Maynard, and this is my sister Marjorie. You fellows took our wood, and now you're going to return it. Is that right?"
"Right-o!" said Tom. "Come on, fellows."
The three boys flew at it, and King and Midget sat on the sand and watched them till the wood was restored to its original position.
"All right," said King; "you boys'll do. Now, come on and roast potatoes with us."
Thus, all demands of honor having been complied with, the five proceeded to become friends. The boys built the fire, and gallantly let Marjorie have the fun of putting the potatoes and apples in place.
The Craig boys had nice instincts, and while they were rather rough-and-tumble among themselves, they treated King more decorously, and seemed to consider Marjorie as a being of a higher order, made to receive not only respect, but reverent homage.
"You see, we never had a sister," said Tom; "and we're a little bit scared of girls."
"Well, I have three," said King, "so you see I haven't such deep awe of them. But Midget won't hurt you, so don't be too scared of her."
Marjorie smiled in most friendly fashion, for she liked these boys, and especially Tom.
"How old are you?" she asked him, in her frank, pleasant way.
"I'm fourteen," replied Tom, "and the other kids are twelve and ten."
"King's fourteen,—'most fifteen," said Midget; "and I'll be thirteen in July. So we're all in the same years. I wish our Kitty was here. She's nearly eleven, but she isn't any bigger than Harry."
Harry smiled shyly, and poked at the potatoes with a stick, not knowing quite what to say.
"You see," King explained, "Midget is the best sort of a girl there is. She's girly, all right, and yet she's as good as a boy at cutting up jinks or doing any old kind of stunts."
The three Craigs looked at Marjorie in speechless admiration.
"I never knew that kind," said Tom, thoughtfully. "You see, we go to a boys' school, and we haven't any girl cousins, or anything; and the only girls I ever see are at dancing class, or in a summer hotel, and then they're all frilled up, and sort of airy."
"I love to play with boys," said Marjorie, frankly, "and I guess we'll have a lot of fun this summer."
"I guess we will! Are you going to stay all summer?"
"Yes, till September, when school begins."
"So are we. Isn't it funny we live next door to each other?"
"Awful funny," agreed Marjorie, pulling a very black potato out of the red-hot embers. "This is done," she went on, "and I'm going to eat it."
"So say we all of us," cried King. "One done,—all done! Help yourselves, boys!"
So they all pulled out the black, sooty potatoes, with more delighted anticipations than would have been roused by the daintiest dish served at a table.
"Ow!" cried Marjorie, flinging down her potato, and sticking her finger in her mouth. "Ow! that old thing popped open, and burned me awfully!"
"Too bad, Mops!" said King, with genuine sympathy, but the Craig boys were more solicitous.
"Oh, oh! I'm so sorry," cried Tom. "Does it hurt terribly?"
"Yes, it does," said Midget, who was not in the habit of complaining when she got hurt, but who was really suffering from the sudden burn.
"Let me tie it up," said Dick, shyly.
"Yes, do," said Tom. "Dick is our good boy. He always helps everybody else."
"But what can we tie it up with?" said Marjorie. "My handkerchief is all black from wiping off that potato."
"I,—I've got a clean one," and Dick, blushing with embarrassment, took a neatly folded white square from his pocket.
"Would you look at that!" said Tom. "I declare Dicky always has the right thing at the right time! Good for you, boy! Fix her up."
Quite deftly Dick wrapped the handkerchief round Marjorie's finger, and secured it with a bit of string from another pocket.
"You ought to have something on it," he said, gravely. "Kerosene is good, but as we haven't any, it will help it just to keep the air away from it, till you go home."
"Goodness!" exclaimed Midget. "You talk like a doctor."
"I'm going to be a doctor when I grow up," said Dick.
"He is," volunteered Harry; "he cured the cat's broken leg, and he mended a bird's wing once."
"Yes, I did," admitted Dick, modestly blushing at his achievements. "Are you going right home because of your finger?"
"No, indeed! We never stop for hurts and things, unless they're bad enough for us to go to bed. Give me another potato, and you open it for me, won't you, Dick?"
"Yep," and Marjorie was immediately supplied with the best of the potatoes and apples, carefully prepared for her use.
"Aren't there any other girls in Seacote?" she inquired.
"There's Hester Corey," answered Tom; "but we don't know her very well. She isn't nice, like you are. And I don't know of any others, though there may be some. Most of the people in the cottages haven't any children,—or else they're grown up,—big girls and young ladies. And there's a few little babies, but not many of our age. So that's why we're so glad you came."
"And that's why you stole our wood!"
"Yes, truly. We thought that'd be a good way to test your temper."
"It was a risky way," said King, thinking it over.
"Oh, I don't know. I knew, if you were the right sort, you'd take it all right; and if you weren't the right sort, we didn't care how you took it."
"That's so," agreed Marjorie.
