Part 13 (1/2)
On the whole Rosie was jubilant. ”I'm sure I don't know why it is,” she said to Janet McFadden, ”but people are pretty nice to me, aren't they?”
”Nice?” echoed Janet with long-drawn emphasis. ”Well, I should think they are!... Say, Rosie, listen:”--Janet paused a moment--”do you think Tom and me and you and Jarge could all go together? Do you think Jarge'd mind?”
Rosie considered the request carefully before answering. Then she spoke as kindly as she could: ”I'm sure I don't know, Janet. Perhaps he'd like it all right, but, then again, perhaps he wouldn't. Don't you know, men are so queer nowadays. Anyway, though, I tell you what: I'll ask him.”
”Will you, Rosie?” Janet's grat.i.tude was almost pathetic.
Later, in presenting the case to George himself, Rosie's manner lost its air of Lady Bountiful, and she pleaded Janet's cause with an earnestness for which Janet would have wors.h.i.+pped her.
”Aw, now, Jarge, please! Poor Janet won't be in our way and she would love to be with us. Tom Sullivan don't talk much and he's got red hair, but he's awful nice, really he is. I told you he was trying to get me a ticket before you invited me. And besides, Jarge, if we get tired of them we can give them the slip for a little while.”
As soon as Rosie paused for breath, George said: ”Of course we'll let Janet and Tom Sullivan come with us if you want them. This is to be your party and you're to have things your own way.”
Rosie looked her adoration. ”Oh, Jarge, you're just too kind to me, really you are!”
The new dress was a great success. It was a little rosebud dimity, pink and pale green, which Ellen designed in pretty summer fas.h.i.+on to make the most of Rosie's well-turned little arms and graceful neck. On a ten-cent bargain counter Ellen had found a hat of yellow straw which was just the thing to shape into a little bonnet and trim with a wreath of pink rosebuds and two soft green streamers which hung down on either side.
Ellen planned and worked and was happier than Rosie herself over each new effect. Mrs. O'Brien, hovering about, beamed with approval.
”Ellen's an artist with her needle,” she declared over and over again.
”She is indeed. How she does remind me of me own poor dead sister Birdie! There was a milliner in Dublin would have give her two eyes to get Birdie into her shop.”
Mrs. O'Brien was right. Ellen was an artist with her needle and took all an artist's joy in her own creation. As she worked on Rosie's costume, she showed none of that impatient, overbearing selfishness which marked her so disagreeably at other times, but was gentle, frank, and affectionate. Once when she p.r.i.c.ked Rosie's shoulders by accident she kissed the hurt away, and Rosie, surprised and touched, threw her arms impulsively about her neck.
”Why can't you always be like this to me, Ellen? I'd just love you dearly if you were.”
Ellen laughed a little shamefacedly. ”Ain't I nice all the time, Rosie?
Well, I'm afraid it's that old business college. It gets on my nerves.
I suppose I ought to be studying now, but I'm not going to. I'm not going to stop until I finish this for you.”
On the afternoon of the picnic, Ellen was so proud of Rosie's appearance that for once she forgot her haughtiness to George Riley. ”Now tell the truth, George, aren't you glad it's Rosie instead of me?”
George gave Ellen one sick look, gulped, then said bravely: ”Rosie sure is mighty pretty!”
”Pretty? I should say she is! See her now. Don't she look like a little flower--a sweet-pea or something? And do you know, George, if I was to dress that way, with my size and my height, I'd look like a guy! Yes, I would.”
CHAPTER XI
THE TRACTION BOYS' PICNIC
They started off in time to make the half-past-five boat. George was at his dressiest, so close-shaven that he looked almost skinned and resplendent in new tan shoes, green socks, a red tie, and a pink s.h.i.+rt.
It was a striking combination of colour and one that made Ellen clutch at her mother in despair. George carried a shoe-box of sandwiches, for Rosie, always a thrifty little housewife, insisted that whatever money they had to spend was not going for the commonplace necessaries of life.
Janet McFadden and Tom Sullivan, with a similar shoe-box, were waiting for them at the corner. Janet, in her old black sailor hat, looked dreadfully neat and clean, but for some reason even dingier than usual.
It was Janet's first view of Rosie's finery. Shaking her head slowly, she gazed at Rosie several moments before she spoke. Then she said:
”Well, Rosie O'Brien, I must say you certainly do look elegant!”