Part 20 (1/2)

Don't wipe your shoes. Come right in. There's other folks been caught in this rain, too.”

She stepped back, still speaking, and invited them into the kitchen.

Polly and Frieda, stumbling a little, blinded as they were by the water dripping from their hair, followed her. As they entered the room, there was a moment's silence, then a burst of laughter and exclamations.

”For the love of Mike!”

”Where did you rain down from?”

”O dear, O dear! You ridiculous boys!”

”What a guy you do look, Polly!”

And slowly out of the babel of voices came a deep solemn: ”_Donnerwetter!_” It was not a lady-like expression for a nice little German girl to use, but she knew that to American ears it sounded more harmless than her usual expletives, and, besides, she felt that if ever an occasion had warranted emphasis this was it. She and Polly, dripping, draggled, ragged, confronted with Algernon, Max, Bert and Archie, almost as wet, grouped about Amanda B. Mills' kitchen stove!

Mrs. Mills' astonishment at the boisterous greeting given her latest guests by the earlier ones was so manifest that Polly hastened to make all clear with introductions.

”How do you happen to be here?” she asked, as she finished, and Archie had made a Chesterfieldian bow, though the blue from his Andover cap had run into his fair hair.

”Fis.h.i.+ng,” answered Bert. ”We drove out from town with our old nag, hitched her to a tree and fished. Thunder and lightning always rile the beast, and she just broke her tie-strap and oozed off home, and left us in her wake. We got this far, walking, but the road was such a juicy mess we decided to stop and telephone for some one to come out after us.”

”That's what I am going to do. Where is the telephone, Mrs. Mills?”

”O, do allow us to have the pleasure,” begged Max. ”They said they'd send out the 'light bearers' wagon,' and it's warranted to hold six.

Besides it will be here in twenty minutes, and a private equipage would take longer.”

”Well--it's awfully kind of you, I'm sure! Aren't you afraid we'll make you wetter, though, if we ride in the same carriage? I am flooding the floor at this moment. It's terrible, Mrs. Mills. Isn't there a shed we could go into, and not make such a lot of work for you?”

”Deary me, Miss Osgood, it's a pleasure to me to have you here. But I wisht you'd come into the parlor, all of you, you and your friends. I'll lay papers down on the carpet, and you can just walk in.”

They all protested, but as it soon became clear that it was as much a desire to display the beauties of her room as hospitality that prompted the invitation, they yielded and filed damply along the newspaper path into the gaudy parlor. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had come up, and the sun was s.h.i.+ning through the flowers in the lace curtains at the windows, and striking the bright pink morning-glory of the graphophone, which was the most conspicuous object in the room. Mrs.

Mills, preceding her wet guests, turned the track a little past the telephone, resplendent in oak and nickel, so that the whole procession could be inside the room at once. Then she called their respectful attention to her framed marriage certificate, and a similar doc.u.ment declaring the late Jacob Quincy Mills a Grand Something or Other in some lodge. Beneath these, on a shelf, were two tall lava jars filled with pampas gra.s.s, a pink china vase and a wreath of Easter lilies made of spangled paper.

”I'd like to show you the pictures in the family alb.u.m,” said Mrs. Mills hospitably, resting her hand upon the fat plush volume on the center table, ”but I don't see how more'n two or three of you can look at it at a time.” She frowned a moment, puzzled. Then her face lighted. ”I'll just set the graphophone goin' for the rest of you to entertain yourselves with,” she said eagerly, and in a moment the room was filled with the wheezing and strident strains of ”You Look Good to Father,”

against which Mrs. Mills raised her own voice in explanatory remarks to Archie and Frieda, who happened to be within the alb.u.m's range:

”This is Mr. Mills' sister's first husband. That was their baby that died. This here is Miss Evelyn Mills of Chicago. She's a singer there at the Orpheum. She was my husband's own cousin, once removed. This was my father's aunt,--” and so on.

”Look at Algernon,” whispered Max to Polly. ”He's as contented as a lamb. He's learning all there is to know about poultry, and doesn't even know that infernal machine is going or that Mr. Mills had any relatives.” And sure enough Algernon, standing beside the bookcase, on a portion of the newspaper track, was reading, even devouring, the pages of a scientific farming journal, with an expression of perfect satisfaction on his face.

The long half hour came at last to an end. Mrs. Mills conducted the procession back to the kitchen, helped tuck the girls into the robes, and disclaiming all right to their earnest thanks, watched the wagon out of sight.

”Which is worse, a soaking or a fourth-cla.s.s phonograph?” queried Archie from his corner.

Bert, humming ”Waltz me Around Again, Willie,” paused to remark:

”Why, I rather liked that. Didn't the rest of you?”

Polly s.h.i.+vered, not with cold alone.