Part 45 (1/2)

”Now, see here, my son,” said Anderson, laughing. ”We are going to have a fine dinner, and I should be exceedingly glad to have you as my guest, but this time there must be no dining with me without your mother's knowledge.”

”Oh, Amy won't care.”

”Nevertheless, you must go home and obtain permission before I take you home with me,” said Anderson, firmly.

”I don't think you are very polite,” said Eddy; but it ended in his presently saying that, well, then, he would go home and ask permission; but it was not of the slightest use. ”They would all want me to stay, if they thought anything of me. I know Amy would. Amy said this morning I was the worst off of them all, because I had such a misfortunate appet.i.te.” The boy's ingenuous eyes met the man's fixed upon him with a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and compa.s.sion. ”You see,”

added Eddy, simply, ”all the things left over from the wedding, the caterers let us have; papa said not to ask him, and Amy wouldn't, but Aunt Anna did, and there was a lot, though folks ate so much. There was one gentleman ate ten plates of salad--yes, he did. I saw him. He was the doctor, so I suppose he wasn't ill afterwards. But there was a lot left. Of course the ice-cream melted, but it was nice to drink afterwards, and there was a lot of salad and cake and rolls. The cakes and rolls lasted longest. I got pretty tired of them. But now those are all gone, and the butcher won't let us have any more meat, though he trusted us two days after the wedding, because he heard papa paid the florist and the liveryman, but now he has stopped again. Of course we have things from here, but you don't keep meat.

Why don't you keep meat?”

The absurd pathos of the whole was almost too much for Anderson. He rose and went to the window and looked out as he replied that it was not unusual for a grocer to include meat in his stock of trade.

”I know it isn't,” said Eddy, ”but it would be so nice for us if you did, and all the poor people the butcher wouldn't trust. Did you ever get real hungry, and have nothing except crackers and little gingersnaps and such things?”

”No, I don't know that I ever did.”

”Well, it is awful,” said Eddy, with emphasis. He started up. ”Well,”

he said, ”I'm going to run right home and ask Amy. She'll let me come. What did you say you were going to have for dinner?”

”Roast beef,” replied Anderson.

”Goody!” cried the boy, and was off.

Anderson, left alone, sat down and thought disturbedly. The utter futility of any efforts to a.s.sist such a family was undeniable.

Nothing could be done. For a vivid instant he had an idea of rus.h.i.+ng to the market and setting up surrept.i.tiously a term of credit for the Carrolls, by paying their bills himself, but the absurdity of the scheme overcame him. The ridiculousness of his actually feeding this whole family because of his weakness in giving credit when not another merchant in the town would do so struck him forcibly. Yet what else could he do? He had done a foolish thing in allowing his thoughts and imaginations which were not those of a youth, and were susceptible of control had he made the effort, to dwell upon this girl, who had never even thought of him in the same light. It was romance gone mad. He, an older man who had pa.s.sed beyond the period when dreams are a part of the physical growth, and unrestrainable, had indulged himself in dreams, and now he must pay in foolish realities. He thought uneasily what a laughing-stock he would become if by any means the fact of his continued credit to this non-paying family were to become known, and he saw no earthly reason why it should not become known. However, no one could possibly suspect the reason for his unbusiness-like credulity. It was simply impossible that it should enter into any one's head to suspect him of a pa.s.sion for that little Carroll girl, as they would express her. If he had been extending sentimental credit to the Egglestons, people might have been quick to discover the reason in a lurking and extremely suitable affection for one of them, but this was out of the question.

However, Anderson had not a very long time for his reflections, for Eddy Carroll was back, beaming. ”Yes, Amy says I can come,” he announced.

”That is good,” Anderson replied, hospitably, but he eyed him sharply. ”You went very quickly,” said he.

”Got a ride on the ice wagon,” said he. ”The ice-man is a good feller. I asked him why he had stopped bringing us ice, and he said if he was running the business, instead of jest carting for the boss, he'd give us all the ice we wanted for nothing. He was going up past our house, and when we got there he gave me a big chunk of ice, and I went and got Marie, and we lugged it into the kitchen together. Lucky Aunt Anna or Charlotte didn't see me.”

”Why?” asked Anderson.

”Oh, nothing, only they wouldn't have let me take it. Say, Marie was crying. Her eyes looked as red as a rabbit's. I asked her what the matter was, and she said she hadn't been paid her wages. Say, isn't it too bad everybody makes such a fuss about being paid. It worries Aunt Anna and Charlotte awfully. Women are dreadful worriers, ain't they?”

”Perhaps they are,” replied Anderson, and got out a book with colored plates of South American b.u.t.terflies. ”I think you will like to look at these pictures,” said he. ”I have some letters to write.”

”All right,” said Eddy, and spread his little knees to form a place for the big book. ”I am glad I wasn't a girl,” he said, in pursuance of his train of thought. ”Golly, what a whopper b.u.t.terfly!”

”Yes, that is a big fellow,” said Anderson.

”I caught one once twice as big as that in a place where we used to live.”

”Don't talk any more, son,” said Anderson.

”All right,” returned Eddy, generously, and turned the pages in silence.

It was nearly noon when Sam Riggs came to the office door to announce Charlotte; but she followed closely behind, and saw her brother over the b.u.t.terfly-book. She was so surprised that she scarcely greeted Anderson.