Part 16 (1/2)

”Tom!” Rosie was indignant at once. ”Do you mean to say Tom Sullivan told you I was mad? Well, the next time you see Tom Sullivan you tell him for me to mind his own business!” Rosie paused a moment, then drew Janet closer to her. ”Mad? What's eating Tom Sullivan? Friends like you and me, Janet, don't get _mad_!”

And Janet McFadden, shaking her head in horror that any one should even suggest such a thing, declared emphatically: ”Of course not!”

CHAPTER XIV

ON SCARS AND BRUISES

A few mornings later Rosie was seated on the front steps, sh.e.l.ling peas, when Janet pa.s.sed the gate.

”Aren't you coming in?” Rosie called out.

At first Janet was not, but on Rosie's second invitation she changed her mind. As she reached the steps, Rosie discovered the reason of her hesitation. She had a black eye. She carried it consciously, but with such dignity, as it were, that Rosie could not at once decide whether Janet expected her to speak of it, or to accept it without comment.

Janet herself, after an introductory remark about the weather, broached the subject.

”What do you think about the eye I've got on me? Ain't it a beaut?”

It certainly was, and Rosie expressed emphatic appreciation.

”And how do you suppose I got it?” Janet pursued.

”I couldn't guess if I had to!”

Rosie's answer was tactful, rather than truthful. In her own mind she had very little doubt whence the black eye had come. But it would never do to say that she supposed it had been given Janet by her father during one of the drunken rages to which he was subject. With one's dearest friend one may be frank almost to brutality, but not on the subject of that friend's family. There are reserves that even friends.h.i.+p may not penetrate. So, with an exaggeration of guilelessness, Rosie declared:

”I couldn't guess if I had to! Honest I couldn't!”

Janet had her story ready:

”You know how dark the halls in our building are. Well, I was just going downstairs, when a boy sneaked up behind me, and pushed me, and I slipped, and hit my face against the banister. And I think I know who it was, too!”

Rosie was by nature too simple and direct to simulate with any great success the kind of surprise that Janet was forever demanding of her.

Fortunately this time it did not matter, for, while Janet was speaking, Rosie's mother had appeared with an armful of darning. Unlike Rosie, Mrs. O'Brien was always in a state of what might be termed chronic surprise. She paused now before seating herself, to remark in shocked tones:

”Why, Janet McFadden, what's this ye're tellin'? Mercy on us, ain't b'ys just awful sometimes! But I'm thinkin' your da'll soon settle that lad!”

Janet shook her head violently.

”Mrs. O'Brien, I wouldn't dare tell my father that boy's name for anything! My father'd just murder him--honest he would! It just makes my father crazy when anybody touches me! He ain't responsible, he gets so mad--really he ain't! So you can see yourself I got to be mighty careful what I tell him. Besides, I ain't dead sure it was that boy, but I think it was.”

Mrs. O'Brien's interest in the situation equalled Janet's own.

”I see exactly the place you're in, Janet, and I must say it's wise, the stand you take.”

Mrs. O'Brien bit off a strand of darning cotton, and carefully stiffened the end.

”You see,” Janet continued, ”it's this way with me. I'm an only child, and you know yourself how men act about their only child.”