Part 13 (2/2)

The clock on the mantel began a whirring and creaking that caused Phil to spring to his feet and fasten his eyes upon the little Roman soldier in helmet and s.h.i.+eld, who stood alert, both day and night, atop the clock, ready to strike the hours as they came. The whirring grew louder.

Slowly the little Roman soldier raised his arm and loudly struck his s.h.i.+eld once, twice. Two o'clock!

”Time for Susan,” said Phil joyfully.

He dragged a low cricket to the window, and, standing upon it, looked out at the sodden brown lawn, the leafless trees rocking in a late October gale, and the gray windswept sky. Big raindrops hurried nowhere in particular down the window-pane, and Phil amused himself by racing them with his finger. And presently he spied Susan.

”Come on, come on!” he shouted, knocking on the window, quite careless of the fact that Susan couldn't possibly hear him. ”I've been waiting forever. Come on!”

The little figure in blue waterproof cape and hood, Susan's pride, hurried down to the stone wall, through the gap, and across Phil's lawn.

Here was a puddle, and the blue waterproof hopped nimbly over it. Just one peep into the empty dog kennel, and Phil heard the side door shut, and knew that Susan would be there in a moment.

He waited impatiently, his eyes at the crack of the nursery door, since the cold halls were forbidden him. He heard Susan and his mother talking, and at last up she came, a box under her arm.

”See what I've brought,” said Susan. ”Grandmother sent it. And your mother gave me some, just now, too. We will each have a long string of them.”

Susan sat down on the hearth-rug and opened the box. It was full of b.u.t.tons, large and small, dull and bright, white and colored, and these she poured out in a little heap upon the floor.

”Grandmother sent a long thread for each of us,” and Susan pounced upon a small parcel at the bottom of the box. ”She told me how to do it, too.

You string the b.u.t.tons, as many as you like, and one of them is your 'touch b.u.t.ton.' You must never tell which one that is, because who ever touches that b.u.t.ton must give you one of his. Do you see?”

”But won't you even tell me, Susan?” asked simple Phil, who wanted to share all things with his friend, even to dark mysteries like ”touch b.u.t.tons.”

”Why, yes,” said Susan generously, ”if you will tell me yours.”

Phil nodded and rummaged in the b.u.t.ton heap.

”These are good ones,” said he, ranging them on the floor before him.

”I'm going to begin to string.”

Phil's taste was severe. He had chosen several large, dark, velvet b.u.t.tons, a bra.s.s military b.u.t.ton, a useful black b.u.t.ton or two that might have come from his father's coat, a flat silver disk as big as a dollar, and, as a lighter touch, all the b.u.t.tons he could find covered with a gay tartan plaid gingham.

Susan uttered cries of delight as she rapidly made her selection.

”Look at these blue diamonds,” she exclaimed rapturously over some gla.s.s b.u.t.tons that had seen better days. ”And here is one with beautiful pink flowers painted on it. Here is a white fur one off my baby coat, and these little violet-and-white checks are from Grandmother's gingham dress. I know they are.”

”Now this is the grandmother,” she went on, taking up a fat brown doork.n.o.b of a b.u.t.ton. ”I'll put her on my string first of all, so that she can take care of the rest of them. And next I'll put this little green velvet one so that it won't be lonesome.”

”Which is your touch b.u.t.ton?” asked Phil, after working busily in silence for a whole minute.

”Shh-h-h!” warned Susan, looking carefully about her before answering, as if a spy might be peeping through the keyhole or even hiding behind the one-eared rabbit. ”This one. It's my favorite, too.” And she touched a hard little rose-colored ball that looked uncommonly like a pill.

”Which is yours?”

Phil proudly displayed the military b.u.t.ton, and whirled away from Susan just in time to keep the secret from his mother who entered the room, bearing a tray.

”Are you ready for your refreshments?” she asked, setting her burden down upon the table. ”Oh, let me see your b.u.t.ton strings.”

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