A Pair of Them

SUNSHINE LIBRARY.

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY, NEW YORK.

“WHY, YES, BONNY-GAY! I’VE COME.” See page 77.

A PAIR OF THEM

BY EVELYN RAYMOND

New York. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. Publishers.

Copyright, 1901, By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

CHAPTER I WHERE THE HOUSES ARE BIG

“It’s a queer kind of a name, though it suits you,” observed the Gray Gentleman, thoughtfully. “How came you by it?”

Bonny-Gay flashed the questioner a smile, hugged Max closer and replied:

“I was born on a Sunday morning. That’s how.”

“Ah, indeed? But I don’t quite understand.”

“Don’t you? Seems easy. Let’s sit down here by ‘Father George’ and I’ll explain. If I can.”

The Gray Gentleman was very tall and dignified, yet he had a habit of doing whatever Bonny-Gay asked him. So he now doubled himself up and perched on the low curb surrounding[2] the monument, while the little girl and the big black dog dropped easily down beside him. Then he leaned his head back against the iron railing and gazed reflectively into the face of the big bronze lion, just opposite.

Both the child and the man were fond of the wonderful lion, which seemed a mighty guardian of the beautiful Place, and he, at least, knew it to be a world-famous work of art. Bonny-Gay loved it as she loved all animals, alive or sculptured, and with much the same devotion she gave to Max. The park without either of these four-footed creatures would have seemed strange indeed to her, for they were her earliest playmates and remained still her dearest.

“Now you can tell me,” again suggested the Gray Gentleman.

“It was Easter, too. All the people were going to the churches, the bells were ringing, the organs playing, and everything just beautiful. Nurse Nance began it, my mother says. ‘For the child that is born on the Sabbath Day is lucky, and bonny, and wise, and gay.’ But my father says there isn’t any ‘luck’ and a child like me isn’t ‘wise,’ so they had to leave[3] them out and I’m only Bonny-Gay. That’s all.”

“A very satisfactory explanation,” said the Gray Gentleman, with one of his rare smiles, and laying his hand kindly upon the golden curls. “And now, my dear, one question more. In which of these beautiful houses do you live?”

As he spoke, the stranger’s glance wandered all about that aristocratic neighborhood of Mt. Vernon Place, to which he had returned after many years of absence to make his own home. Since he had gone away all the small people whom he used to know and love had grown up, and he had felt quite lost and lonely, even in that familiar scene, till he had chanced to meet Bonny-Gay, just one week before. Since then, and her ready adoption of himself as a comrade, he had had no time for loneliness. She was always out in the charming Square, as much a part of it as the Washington monument, which the little folks called “Father George,” or the bronzes, and the smooth lawns. She seemed as bright as the sunshine and almost as well-beloved, for the other children flocked about her, the keeper consulted her and the keeper’s dog followed her like a shadow.

[4]With a toss of her yellow locks she pointed her forefinger westward.

“There, in that corner one, all covered by vines, with places for the windows cut out, and the chimneys all green, and I think it’s the prettiest one in the whole place, when it has its summer clothes on. Don’t you?”

The Gray Gentleman’s glance followed the direction of the pointing finger.

“Yes. It is a very lovely home and a very big one. I hope you are not the only child who lives in it.”

“But I am. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Do you hope it?”

“You would be lonely, I should think.”

“Lonely? I? Why—why—I just never have a single minute to myself. There’s my thirteen dolls, and the parrot, and the two canaries, and the aquarium, and my pony, and—Oh! dear! you can’t guess. That’s why I have to come out here—to rest myself.”

“Ah, so! Well, I should judge that you spend the most of your time in ‘resting,’” commented the other. “Whenever I come out you’re always here.”

[5]Bonny-Gay laughed; so merrily that Max lifted his head and licked her cheek. That reminded her of something and she asked:

“Have you seen him get his second dinner?”

“Not even his first!”

“You haven’t? How odd!” Bonny-Gay shook out her skirts and proceeded to enlighten her comrade’s ignorance. She took it for granted, or she had done so, that he knew as much about things as she herself; but if not, why, there was a deal to tell. Max’s history first. She began by declaring:

“He’s the smartest dog in the world. Everybody knows that. He’s lived in the Place nine years. That’s one year longer than I have. All the children’s big brothers and sisters have played with him, same’s we do now. He never lets a tramp come near. He never steps on a flower bed or lets us. If we forget and go on the grass he barks us off. He gets his first dinner at our house. When the clocks strike twelve he goes to the gardener and gets his basket. Then he walks to our back entrance, puts the basket down, stands up on his hind feet and pushes his nose against the ’lectric bell. That rings up the cook and—she’s a[6] man just now—he—she takes the basket and puts in some food. Then Max walks down that side street, about a square, and sits on the curb to eat it. ‘Just like a beggar,’ the gardener says, ‘’cause he likes to feed his own dog his own self.’ I would, too, wouldn’t you?”

“If I owned the ‘smartest dog in the whole world’ I presume I should.”

“Max feels ashamed of it, too; don’t you, dear?”

The dog replied by dropping his black head from Bonny-Gay’s shoulder to the ground and by blinking in a deprecating way from that lowly position.

“Then, in a few minutes, he comes back to the gardener with the empty basket and stands and wags his tail as if he were the hungriest dog that ever was. Then the keeper says: ‘Yes. You may go, Max!’ And off he trots, away down the other way, to some place where his master lives and gets a second basket full. That he brings back here, and the man puts a paper on the ground under the bushes and he eats again. Just like folks to their own table, that time; don’t you, Max Doggie, smart doggie!”

[7]The handsome animal shook his wavy fleece and sprang up, ready for a frolic and evidently aware that he had been the subject of discussion.

“No, not yet, sir. The best thing hasn’t been told. Listen, please, Mr.——”

The stranger waited a moment, then inquired:

“Mr. what, Bonny-Gay? I wonder if you know my name.”

“Not your truly one, but that doesn’t matter.”

“What do you happen to call me, if you ever speak of me when I’m not here?”

The little girl hesitated an instant, then frankly answered:

“Why, just the ‘Gray Gentleman.’ ’Cause you are all gray, you see. Your hair, and your moustache, and your eyes, and your clothes, and your hat, and your gloves, and—and—things.”

“Exactly. Trust a child to find an appropriate nickname. But I like it, little one. Go on, about Max and the best thing yet.”

“That splendid dog has—saved—his—master’s[8] life! As true as true!” cried Bonny-Gay, impressively.

“Indeed! Wonderful! How was it?”

“It was pay-day night and Mr. Weems, that’s his name, had a lot of money. And some bad men knew it. And they came, do you believe, right in the middle of that night, and broke a window in Mr. Weems’s house; and Max heard them and flew—and flew—”

The Gray Gentleman stooped and searched for the dog’s wings.

“Well, ran, then,” laughed Bonny-Gay, “and he drove them all off and they had revolvers or something and one was shot and a policeman caught him and Max was shot and the gardener would have been killed—”

“Only he wasn’t,” interrupted somebody, coming from behind them.

So the child paused in her breathless description of a scene she had often pictured to herself and looked up into the face of the hero of the affair, himself.

“Why, Mr. Weems! you almost frightened me! and you please tell the rest.”

But though the gardener smiled upon her he nodded his head gravely.

[9]“Guess it won’t do for me to think about that just now, or any other of our good times, old Max! Good fellow, fine fellow! Poor old doggie! It’s going to be as hard on you as on me, I’m afraid.”

By this time Bonny-Gay saw that something was amiss. She half fancied that there were tears in the keeper’s eyes, and she always afterward declared that there were tears in his voice. As for Max, that sagacious animal sank suddenly upon his haunches, looked sternly into his master’s face, and demanded by his earnest, startled expression to know what was wrong. Something was. He knew that, even more positively than did Bonny-Gay.

“It’s an outrageous law. There ought to be exceptions to it. All dogs—Well, there’s no other dog like Max. Ah! hum. Old doggie!”

The Gray Gentleman was tempted to ask questions, but the little girl was sure to do that; so he waited. In a few minutes she had gotten the whole sad story from her old friend, the gardener, and her sunny head had gone down upon the dog’s black one in a paroxysm of grief.

A moment later it was lifted defiantly.

[10]“But he shan’t. He shall not! Nobody shall ever, ever take our Max away! Why—why—it wouldn’t be the Place without him! Why—why—the children—Oh! Nettie! oh! Tom!” and catching sight of a group of playmates Bonny-Gay darted toward them, calling as she ran: “They’re going to take him away! They’re going to take him away!”

Tom planted his feet wide apart upon the smooth path and obstructed her advance.

“Take who away, Bonny-Gay? Where to? When?”

“Max! Our Max! He can never come here any more. This is his last day in our park—his very last!” and the child flung herself headlong upon the shaven grass, for once regardless of rules.

Not so regardless was Max, the trusty. It didn’t matter to him that this was Bonny-Gay, his best-loved playmate, or that her frantic sorrow was all on his account. What he saw was his duty and he did it, instantly. From a distance the Gray Gentleman watched the dog race toward the prostrate little girl and shake her short skirts vigorously, loosing them now and then to bark at her with equal vigor.

[11]Presently she sprang up and to the footpath, and again indulged in a wild embrace of the faithful canine. Indeed, he was at once the center of an ever-increasing company of small people, who seemed to vie with each other in attempts to hug his breath away and to outdo everybody in the way of fierce indignation. Finally, this assembly resolved itself into an advancing army, and with Tom and Bonny-Gay as leaders—each tightly holding to one of the dog’s soft ears, as they marched him between them—they returned to the spot where the lion calmly awaited them, and Tom announced their decision:

“We won’t ever let him go. There’s no need for you nor the law-men nor nobody to interfere. This dog belongs to this park; and this park belongs to us children; and if anybody tries to—tries to—to—do—things—he won’t never be let! So there! And if he is, we’ll—we’ll augernize; and we’ll get every boy and girl in all the streets around to come, too; and we’ll all go march to where the law-men live; and we won’t never, never leave go talking at them till they take it all back. ’Cause Max isn’t going to be took. That’s the fact,[12] Mr. Weems, and you can just tell them so.”

“Yes,” cried Nettie, “and my big brother goes to the law school and he’ll suesan them. And my big sister’s friends will help; and if he does have to, I’ll never, never—NEVER—play in this hateful old park ever again. I will not!”

“Whew!” whistled the Gray Gentleman, softly. “This looks serious. A children’s crusade, indeed. Well, that should be irresistible.” And this old lover of all little people looked admiringly over the group of flushed and indignant faces; and at the noble animal which was the very center of it, and whose silent protest was the most eloquent of all. His own heart echoed their indignation and he quietly resolved to make an effort on their and Max’s behalf.

But the dire, unspoken threats of the children, and the silent resolution of the Gray Gentleman, were useless. For when upon the next morning the sun rose over the pleasant Place, and the monument and the lion began to cast their shadows earthward, there was no Max to gambol at their feet, and over the[13] heart of Bonny-Gay had fallen her first real grief.

She was out early, to see if the dreadful thing were true; and the Gray Gentleman met her and scarcely knew her—without the smiles.

When he did recognize her he said, hopefully:

“We’ll trust it’s all for the best, my dear. Besides, you will now have more time for the thirteen dolls, and the parrot, and the two canaries, and—”

“But they—they aren’t Max! He was the only! We loved him so and now he’ll just be wasted on strangers! Oh! it’s too bad, too bad!”

The Gray Gentleman clasped the little hand in sympathy.

“I am very sorry for your sorrow, Bonny-Gay, and yet I can’t believe that Max is ‘wasted.’ No good thing ever is. Besides that, I have a plan in my head. With your parents’ permission, I am going to take you this day to visit your twin sister.”

“My—twin—sister! Why there isn’t any. Don’t you remember? I told you. I’m the only, only one. There never was any other.”

[14]“Nevertheless, I am obliged to contradict you. Very rude, I know, and I shouldn’t do so, if I were not so positive of what I claim. I hope you’ll love her and I think you will. After breakfast I’ll see you again. Good morning.”

With that he walked briskly away and Bonny-Gay saw him enter the big gray house in the middle of the Place. The house where the wooden shutters had always been up, ever since she could remember, until just this spring, when a few of the windows had been uncovered to let the sunlight in.

“My—twin—sister! How queer that is!” mused the watching child.

CHAPTER II WHERE THE HOUSES ARE SMALL

Mary Jane dropped her crutches on the floor and readjusted the baby. He had a most trying habit of not staying “put,” and sometimes the other children slapped him. Mary Jane never did that. She merely set him up again, gave his cheek a pat or a kiss, and went on about her business.

For, indeed, she was almost the very busiest small body in the world. Besides her own mother’s five other children there were the neighbors’ broods, big and little, with never a soul to mind them save their self-constituted nurse.

That very morning Mrs. Bump had paused in her washing to look up and exclaim:

“I never did see how the little things do take to her! She can do just wonders with them, that she can; and I reckon it was about the[16] best thing ever happened to her, that falling out the top window, like she did. Seemed to knock all the selfishness out of her. Maybe it’s that settled in her poor body. Yes, maybe it’s that, dear heart. Anyhow, her inside’s all right. The rightest there ever was. If this world was just full of Mary Janes, what a grand place it would be!”

Then, after a regretful sigh for this beatific state of things, the mother thrust her strong arms again into the suds, with a splash and a rub-a-dub-dub which told plainly enough from whom Mary Jane inherited her energy.

Just then Mrs. Stebbins thrust her head out of the window, next door, to remark:

“There was fifty-four of them gardens given out. My boy’s goin’ to raise cabbages.”

“You don’t say! Now, ain’t that fine? I wish I had a son to get one, but all my boys is girls, save the baby, and he don’t count. Though he’ll grow, won’t he, mother’s lamb? He’ll grow just as fast as he can and get a playground garden, good’s the next one, so he will, the precious!” chirruped Mrs. Bump, to the year-old heir of the house.

“Gah, gah!” cooed the baby; and emphasized[17] his reply by losing his balance against the wall and rolling over on his face. He was too fat and too phlegmatic to right himself, so Mary Jane hopped back across the narrow room and set him up again, laughing as if this were the funniest thing she had ever seen.

“Pshaw, daughter! If I was you and you was me, I’d leave him lie that way a spell. He don’t ’pear to have the sense the rest of you had, no he don’t, the sweet! Maybe that’s because he’s a boy. But even a boy might learn something after a while, if he was let. Only you’re so right on hand all the time he expects you to just about breathe for him, seems.”

“Now, mother, now! And you know he’s the biggest, roundest—”

“Pudding-headedest!” growled a masculine voice, at the narrow doorway.

Mrs. Bump wheeled round so sharply that her rubbing-board fell out of the tub and scared the baby, who promptly began to scream.

“Why father! You home? It can’t be dinner-time, yet. What’s happened? Anything wrong?”

“Is anything ever right?” demanded the man, sulkily.

[18]“Plenty of things,” answered the wife, cheerfully, though her heart sank.

“One of the right things is my getting kicked out, I s’pose.”

“Father! you don’t mean it! No.”

“I’m not much of a joker, am I?”

“No. That you’re not. But tell me, man.”

With a quiver in the usually cheerful voice, Mrs. Bump wiped the suds from her arms and went to her husband. Laying her hand kindly upon his shoulder she demanded, as was her right, to know the facts of the disaster that had befallen them.

“’Twon’t take long to tell, woman. The company’s cuttin’ down expenses and I was one of the expenses lopped off. That’s all.”

“Is that all—all, William Bump?”

The question was sternly put and the man cowered before it.

“It’s the truth, any way. No matter how it happened, here I am and no work.” With that he dropped his arms upon the window sill and his face upon his arms, and lapsed into a sullen silence.

Mrs. Bump caught her breath, whisked away a tear that had crept into her eye, and[19] returned to her tub. Mary Jane ceased staring at her parents, tipped the baby’s home-made go-cart on end, rolled him into it, righted the awkward vehicle, threw its leather strap over her shoulders, called to the children: “Come!” and hopped away upon her crutches.

Though she paused, for just one second, beside her father and imprinted a hasty kiss upon the back of his bent head. A kiss so light it seemed he could scarcely have felt it, though it was quite sufficient to thrill the man’s soul with an added sense of regret and degradation.

“We’re off to the park, mother, and I’ve taken a loaf with me!” she called backward, as she clicked out of sight.

Again the woman idled for a moment, looking through the open doorway toward the small, misshapen figure of her eldest child as it swung swiftly forward upon its “wooden feet.” The baby’s soap-box wagon rattled and bumped along behind, bouncing his plump body about, and drawn by Mary Jane in the only manner possible to her—with a strap across her chest. She needed both her hands just then to support herself upon her crutches; for her lower limbs were useless and swung heavily between[20] these crutches—a leaden weight from which she never could be free.