Half a Dozen Girls Part 33

"How's your ma? And who are these children?"

"This is Alan Hapgood," replied Polly, introducing her friends; "and this is Jessie Shepard."

"You don't say so! Henry and Kate Shepard's daughter, from out in Omaha?"

"Yes."

Miss Bean completed Jessie's embarra.s.sment by critically scrutinizing her from head to foot, then asking suddenly,--

"Do they dress much out in. Omaha?"

This unexpected question sent Alan, off to examine the stuffed poodle, while Miss Bean turned to Polly again.

"Did your ma send you?"

"No, ma'am," said Polly.

"Then what did you come for?" was the hospitable query.

"We were driving this way, and so we stopped to see you," answered Polly, with a feeling of shame at her own insincerity.

"Much obliged," returned Miss Bean, with grim sarcasm; then she added, "How's your Uncle Solomon? I always thought he and Miss Roberts would come round, if I only just put 'em in a way to think of it."

Miss Bean's questions bade fair to last indefinitely, but fortunately the dinner bell sounded, and the matron came back to lead her young guests into the great dining-room, at one end of which she had arranged a small table with seats for them, and for Miss Bean who was regarded with no small degree of envy, as she took her place in this honored circle. The matron seated herself with Alan, and Jessie at her left, Polly and Miss Bean at her right, and the simple dinner of boiled beef and vegetables was brought in. Except for an occasional request for food, the meal was eaten in silence, while the old people curiously watched the matron's group, and listened eagerly to the conversation they kept up. Polly, too, was silent, gazing with a curious fascination at the long line of aged faces, some peaceful, others querulous, but all so alike that the row of them seemed to become an endless perspective of white caps and wagging jaws. Her reverie was interrupted by Miss Bean, who leaned across the table to say reprovingly to Jessie, as she refused the boiled cabbage,--

"Folks that go a-visiting hadn't ought to be difficult with their victuals."

"Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to live in such a place?" exclaimed Polly, as they drove away, after being conducted over the establishment. "I'd work and scrimp, year after year, rather than, just sit down and be supported by the town."

"Yes," answered Jessie; "but I suppose they do have real good times, in their way."

"So does a cat that eats her milk, and then goes to sleep in the sun," returned Polly. "That may be their way, but I'm thankful it isn't mine."

"I presume all they care for is to have enough to eat, and to keep warm in winter and cool in summer," said Alan. "Some of them looked as old as the Rocky Mountains, and I don't see why they shouldn't live forever, doing nothing but sun themselves."

"I'd rather live a little shorter time, and live a little harder, while I'm about it," said Polly. "I think I prefer wearing out to rusting out."

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the town once more, and drove up the street to Polly's house. Mrs. Adams was at the gate, watching for them.

"At last!" she exclaimed. "I was really getting quite anxious about you, for fear Cob had run away, or you were lost. Aren't you hungry? Where have you been?"

"Oh, no, we aren't hungry," said Alan, as he jumped out to help Polly to the ground. "We've been to dinner at the poorhouse, and Jessie has disgraced us all, by refusing to eat cabbage."

CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. BAXTER TAKES A NAP.

They had all been at the Langs's that afternoon. The third of June was Florence's fourteenth birthday, and Mrs. Lang had celebrated the day by giving a little afternoon tea on the broad piazza, overlooking the grounds. It had been a pretty sight, with the dainty gowns of the girls, and the active figures of the few boys who had been favored with invitations to share in the games on the lawn. The ever-present amateur photographer had thought so too, apparently, and from his position in the street, he had already aimed his detective camera at them, when Alan discovered him and gave the alarm, only just in time to prevent his stolen success.

Polly and Jean walked home with the Hapgoods in the early twilight, and, refusing Mrs. Hapgood's invitation to go into the house, the girls settled themselves on the two high-backed seats at either side of the broad front porch, and gave themselves up to the luxury of talking over the event of the day.

"It must be fun to be able to have company, and do it up in such splendid style as Mrs. Lang does," said Jean a little enviously, as she pulled out the bunch of pink clover she had worn at her belt.

"It was lovely, wasn't it?" a.s.sented Molly. "Mrs. Lang doesn't do it often, but when she does have a party, it is always perfect."

"After all," said Katharine, "it's all from the outside, somehow.

I don't know whether you understand what I mean, but I know, myself."

"I'm glad you do, Kit," said her sister disrespectfully; "for it's certain that n.o.body else does. Remember that we are young, and explain yourself a little."

"I did really mean something, Jessie," said Katharine. "With Mrs.

Lang, it seems as if she set the day and gave her orders to the servants, and that's all there was about it. Of course she entertains charmingly, and all that; but it makes me feel, all the time, as if she did it to pay her debts, and not because she likes to have us there. When we go to--well, to Polly's, for instance, I. never think of that, for Mrs. Adams always acts as if she enjoyed us as much as we enjoy being there."

"She does," answered Polly, with conviction. "She says she never half grew up, for she likes young people now better than she does those of her own age."

"It must be horrid to have to give parties, whether you want to or not, just because somebody else has invited you," remarked Molly.

"That's the way they all do in society, though," said Jessie, with a knowing air.

"Well, if that's society, then. I don't want any of it," said Polly ungratefully, while she ran her fingers through her hair and stood it wildly on end. "I just want my friends, and I want them whenever I feel like it; but I don't care anything about having a crowd of people round in the way, just because it's fas.h.i.+onable, when I don't, care a snap for them. If I ever grow up and come out, as they call it, I'm going to like my friends for themselves, and not for their clothes and their parties and their good dinners. I can buy those at a hotel, if I get hungry."

"And when hotels fail, there is always the poorhouse," suggested Jean. "But, girls, do you ever want to be very, very rich, just for a little while?"

"I don't think I ever stopped to think much about it," answered Polly; "but I suppose it would be fun."

"'Tisn't so much that I want more things than I have," said Jean; "but, not often, only just once in a while, I do so wish I could go ahead and be real extravagant, spend ever so much money for all sorts of foolish things, have parties and fine clothes, and travel everywhere I wanted. I know perfectly well that I shouldn't enjoy myself half so much as I do now, when I have to work for all I get; but still, I'd like to try the other, just for a change."

"And then, after a little while, you'd be longing to get back again," returned Polly. "I don't believe life is all fun, even to people that are very rich. I never saw anybody yet that I wanted to change places with."

"Let's all tell what we would do, if we were very rich and could have just what we wanted," suggested Alan, from the step.

"All right, only do come in under cover, child," said Polly, in a maternal tone; "or else you'll be so stiff to-morrow that you can't move." And she tucked up the skirt of her best gown, to make room for the lad, who obediently settled himself between her and Katharine.

"Go it, Jean," he said; "you started us to wis.h.i.+ng, so it's only fair you should speak first. What would you do, if you could have your choice?"

"Study, till I knew everything there was to be known," returned Jean, without hesitation. "I'd go to college here, and then I'd go to Europe, to one city after another, and learn all I could in each."

"You'd be a perfect valley of dry bones, then," commented Polly.

"People that know everything are very stupid."

"I wouldn't be," said Jean. "I'd found colleges with my money, and go round lecturing to them, till they knew just as much as I did."

"H'm!" said Alan. "What will you do, Poll?" Polly laughed.

"It would be hard to choose, but I think I'd begin by adopting about twenty small boys. Then, if I had any time left, I'd--I'd-- oh, I think perhaps I'd like to write a book of poems."