Part 35 (2/2)

Somehow, I guess the Senator hadn't quite figured on this part of the programme. I expect his plan was to be real polite and formal, stay only long enough to let the young people know he could stand it if they could, and then back out dignified.

Whatever Mother might have meant to do when she started, it was all off from the minute Sis let out that squeal. And no sooner had we got ourselves untangled and edged sideways into the cute little parlor, than Mother announces how she means to stay right here until it's time to start for the steamer. Did some one say dinner! Good! She'll stay to dinner, then.

At that Sis looks at Skid and Skid he looks at Sis. There was some real worry exchanged in them looks too; but young Mrs. Mallory ain't one to be stumped as easy as that.

”Oh, goody!” says she, clappin' her hands. ”But, Mother, what is it you do to make dumplings puff out after you've dropped them in the lamb stew?”

”Dumplings! Lamb stew!” says Mother. ”Gracious! Don't ask me, child. I haven't made any for years. Doesn't your cook know?”

”She doesn't,” says Sis. ”I am the cook, Mother.”

Well, that was only the beginning of the revelations; for while Sis and Mother was strugglin' with the receipt book, the Senator was makin' a tour of inspection around the apartment. It didn't take him so long, either.

”Ahem!” says he to Mallory. ”Very cozy, indeed; but--er--not exactly s.p.a.cious.”

”Four rooms and bath,” says Mallory.

”Was--er--that the bathtub in there?” says the Senator, jerkin' his thumb at the bathroot door. ”I fancied it might be--er--a pudding dish.

Might I inquire what rent you pay for--er--all this?”

”Forty a month, sir,” says Mallory.

”Ah! Economy, I see. Good way to begin,” says he. ”And if it is not too personal a question, your present salary is----”

”I'm getting twenty-five a week,” says Skid, lookin' him straight between the eyes.

”Then you have a private income, I presume?” says the Senator.

”Well,” says Mallory, ”my aunt in Boston sends me fifty dollars every Christmas and advises me to invest my savings in Government bonds.”

At that the Senator drops into a chair and whistles. ”But--but how do you expect,” he goes on, ”to--to----Pardon me, but I am getting interested. I should like to know what was your exact financial standing when you had the imp--er--when you married my daughter?”

He gets it, down to the last nickel. Skid begins with what he had in the bank when they starts for Atlantic City, shows the hole that trip made in his funds, produces the receipts for furniture, and announces that, after punglin' up a month's rent, there's something over seven dollars left in the treasury.

”Huh!” grunts the Senator. ”Hence the lamb stew, eh? I don't wonder! So you and Sis have undertaken to live in a forty-dollar apartment on a twenty-five-dollar salary, have you?”

”That's what it looks like, sir,” says Mallory.

”And who is the financial genius that is to manage this enterprise?”

says he.

”Why,” says Skid, ”Mrs. Mallory, I suppose. We have agreed that she should.”

”Sis, eh?” says the Senator, smilin' kind of grim. ”Well, you have my best wishes for your success.”

Skid he flushes some behind the ears; but he only bows and says he's much obliged. You couldn't blame him for feelin' cut up, either; for it's all clear how the Senator has doped out an appeal for help within thirty days, and is willin' to wait for the call. I'm no shark on the cost of livin' myself; but even I could figure out a deficit. There's a call to dinner just then, though, and we all gathers round the stew.

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