 CHAPTER IX. THE REFERMATION OF KID MCCOY Miss McCoy of Texas had been subjected to the softening influences of St. Ursula's school for three years without any perceptible result. She was the toughest little tomboy that was ever received and retained in a respectable boarding school. Marguerite was the name her parents had chosen when the itinerant bishop made his quarterly visit to the mining camp where she happened to be born. It was the name still used by her teachers and on the written reports that were mailed monthly to her Texas guardian, but KID was the more appropriate name that the cowboys in the ranch had given her, and KID, she remained at St. Ursula's in spite of the distressed expostulation of the ladies in charge. KID's childhood had been picturesque to a degree rarely found outside the pages of a Nick Carter novel. She had possessed an adventurous father who drifted from mining camp to mining camp making fortunes and losing them. She had cut her teeth on a poker chip and drunk her milk from a champagne glass. Her father had died quite opportunely while his latest fortune was at its height and had left his little daughter to the guardianship of an English friend who lived in Texas. The next three turbulent years of her life were spent on a cattle range with Gardie and the ensuing three, the quiet confines of St. Ursula's. The guardian had brought her himself, and after an earnest conference with the Dowager had left her behind to be molded by the culture of the East. But so far the culture of the East had left her untouched. If any molding had taken place, it was KID herself who shaped the clay. Her spicy reminiscences of mining camps and cattle ranches made all permissible works of fiction tame. She had given the French dancing master, who was teaching them a polite version of a Spanish waltz, an exposition of the real thing as practiced by the Mexican cow-punchers on her guardian's ranch. It was a performance that left him sympathetically breathless. The English writing master, who came weekly in the spring and autumn to teach the girls a correct trot, had received a lesson in bareback writing that caused the day's query. Was the young lady trained in a circus? The KID was noisy and slangy and romping and boisterous. Her way was beset with reproofs and demerits and minor punishments, but she had never yet been guilty of any actual felony. For three years, however, St. Ursula's had been holding its breath waiting for the crash. Miss McCoy, from her very nature, was bound to give them a sensation some time. When it lasted came, it was of an entirely unexpected order. Rosalie Patton was the KID's latest roommate. She wore her roommates out as fast as she did her shoes. Rosalie was a lovable little soul, the essence of everything feminine. The Dowager had put the two together in the hope that Rosalie's gentle example might calm the KID's tempestuous mood. But so far, the KID was in her usual spirits while Rosalie was looking worn. Then the change came. Rosalie burst into Patty Wyatt's room one evening in a state of wide-eyed amazement. What do you think, she cried? KID McCoy says she's going to be a lady. A what? Patty emerged from the bath towel with which she had been polishing her face. A lady! She's sitting down now, running pale blue baby ribbons through the embroidery in her nightgown. What's happened to her? was Patty's question. She's been reading a book that Mamertel brought back. Rosalie settled herself Turk fashion on the window seat, disposed the fold of her pink kimono in graceful billows about her knees, and allowed two braids of curly yellow hair to hang picturesquely over her shoulders. She was ready for bed and could extend her call until the last stroke of the light's out bell. What kind of a book? asked Patty, with a slightly perfunctory note in her voice. Rosalie was apt to burst into one's room with a startling announcement and then, having engaged everybody's attention, settled down to an endless meandering recital sprinkled with anticlimaxes. It's about a sweet young English girl whose father owned a tea estate in Asia, or maybe Africa, but anyway where it was hot, and there were a lot of natives and snakes and centipedes. Her mother died and she was sent back home to boarding school when she was a tiny little thing. Her father was quite bad, he drank and swore and smoked. The only thing that kept him from being awfully bad was the thought of his sweet little golden-haired daughter in England. Well, what of it? Patty inquired, politely suppressing a yawn. Rosalie had a way of trailing off into golden-haired sentiment if one didn't holler up sharp. Just wait, I'm coming to it. When she was seventeen she went back to India to take care of her father, but almost right off he got a sunstroke and died. And in his deathbed he entrusted Rosamund, that was her name, to his best friend to finish bringing up. So when Rosamund went to live with her guardian and took charge of his bungalow and made it beautiful and home-like and comfortable, she wouldn't let him drink or smoke or swear any more. And as he looked back over the past, he was eaten with remorse at the thought of the wasted years, Patty glibly supplied, and wished that he had lived so as to be more worthy of the sweet womanly influence that had come into his wicked life. You've read it, said Rosalie. Not that I know of, said Patty. Anyway, said Rosalie, with an air of challenge, they fell in love and were married. And her father and mother, looking down from heaven, smiled a blessing on the dear little daughter who had brought so much happiness to a lonely heart. Um, yes, agreed Rosalie doubtfully. There was no amount of sentiment that she would not swallow, but she knew from mortifying experience that Patty was not equally voracious. It's a very touching story, Patty commented. But where does kid McCoy come in? Why, don't you see? Rosalie's violet eyes were big with interest. It's exactly kid's own story. I realized at the minute I saw the book, and I had the awfulest time making her read it. She made fun of it at first, but after she'd really got into it, she appreciated the resemblance. She says now it was the hand of fate. Kid's story? What are you talking about? Patty was commencing to be interested. Kid has a wicked English guardian just like the Rosamund in the book. Anyway, he's English, and she thinks probably he's wicked. Most ranch men are. He lives all alone with only cow punchers for companions, and he needs a sweet womanly influence in his home. So kid's decided to be a lady and go back and marry Gardie and make him happy for the rest of his life. Patty laid herself on the bed and rolled in glee. Rosalie rose and regarded her with a touch of asperity. I don't see anything so funny. I think it's very romantic. Kid exerting a sweet womanly influence, Patty gurgled. She can't even pretend she's a lady for an hour. If you think she can stay one. Love, pronounced Rosalie, has accomplished greater wonders than that. You wait and see. And the school did see. Kid McCoy's reformation became the sensation of the year. The teachers attributed the felicitous change in her department to the good influence of Rosalie. And though they were extremely relieved, they did not expect it to last. But week followed week and it did last. Kid McCoy no longer answered to kid. She requested her friends to call her Marguerite. She dropped slang and learned to embroider. She sat through European travel and art history nights with clasp tans and a sweetly pensive air where she used to drive her neighbors wild by a solid hour of squirming. Voluntarily she set herself to practicing scales. The reason she confided to Rosalie and Rosalie to the rest of the school. They needed the softening influence of music on the ranch. One eyed Joe played the accordion and that was all the music they had. The school saw visions of a transformed Marguerite dressed in white sitting before the piano in the twilight singing softly the rosary while Gardie watched her with folded arms and the cowboys with bowie knives sheathed in their boots and larriots peacefully coiled over their shoulders gathered by the open window. Linton services that year instead of being forcibly endured by a rebellious kid were attended by a sweetly reverent Marguerite. The entire school felt an electric thrill at sight of Miss McCoy walking up the aisle with downcast eyes and hands to merely clasping her prayer book. Usually she looked as much in place in the stained glass atmosphere of Trinity Chapel as an unbroken Bronco Colt. This amazing reform continued for seven weeks. The school was almost beginning to forget that there was ever a time when kid McCoy was not a lady. Then one day a letter came from Gardie with the news that he was coming east to visit his little girl. Subdued excitement prevailed in the South Corridor. Rosalie and Marguerite and an assemblage of neighbors held earnest conferences as to what she should wear and how she should behave. They finally decided upon a white muslin and blue ribbons. They pondered a long time over whether or not she should kiss him, but Rosalie decided in the negative. When he sees you, she explained, the realization will sweep over him that you are no longer a child. You have grown to womanhood in the past three years, and he will feel unaccountably shy in your presence. Said Marguerite with a slightly doubtful note. I hope so. It was on a Sunday that Gardie arrived. The school, in a body, flattened its nose against the window watching his approach. They had rather hoped for a flannel shirt and boots and spurs, and in any case for a sombrero. But the horrible truth must be told. He wore a frock coat of the most unimpeachable cut with a silk hat and a stick and a white gardenia in his buttonhole. To look at him, one would swear that he had never seen a pistol or a lariat. He was born to pass the plate in church. But the worst is still to tell. He had planned a surprise for his little ward. When she should come back to the ranch, it would be to a real home. A sweet womanly influence would have transformed it into a fitting abode for a young girl. Gardie was not alone. He was accompanied by his bride, a tall, fair, beautiful woman with a low voice and gracious manners. She sang for the girls after dinner, and as sixty-four pairs of eyes studied the beautiful presence, sixty-four—no, sixty-three—of her auditors decided to grow up to be exactly like her. Marguerite did the honors in a state of dazed and comprehension. Her make-believe world of seven weeks had crumbled in an hour, and she had not had time to readjust herself. Never, she realized it perfectly, could she have competed in femininity with Gardie's wife. It wasn't in her, not even if she had commenced practice from the cradle. They went back to the city in the evening, and before the entire school, Gardie padded her on the head and told her to be a good little kitty and mind her teachers. His wife, with a protecting arm about her shoulders, kissed her forehead and called her dear little daughter. After even song on Sundays, came two hours of freedom. The teachers gathered in the Dowager's study for coffee and conversation, and the girls presumably wrote letters home. But that night the South Corridor followed no such peaceful occupation. Marguerite McCoy experienced a reversion to type. In her own picturesque language, she shot up the town. The echoes of the orgy at last reached the coffee-clatch below. Miss Lorde came to investigate, and she came on her tiptoes. Miss McCoy, arrayed in a some-time picture hat cocked over one ear, a short gymnasium skirt, scarlet stockings, and a scarlet sash, was mounted upon a table giving an imitation of a clog dance in a mining camp while her audience played ragtime on combs and clapped. Marguerite, get down! Someone suddenly warned in frightened tones above the uproar. You needn't call me Marguerite, I'm Kid McCoy of Cripple Creek. Her eye caught sight of Miss Lorde towering above the heads crowded in the doorway, and she quite suddenly climbed down. For once Miss Lorde was without words. She stared for a space of three minutes. Finally she managed to articulate, Sunday evening in a church school. The audience dispersed, and Miss Lorde and Miss McCoy remained alone. Rosalie fled to the farthest reaches of Paradise Alley and discussed possible punishments with Patty and Connie for a trembling hour. Lights out had rung before she some encouraged to steal back to the dark and south corridor. The sound of smothered sobbing came from Marguerite's bed. Rosalie sank down on her knees and put her arm around her roommate. The sobbing ceased while Marguerite rigidly held her breath. Kid, she comforted, don't mind Lorde, she's a horrid snooping old thing. What did she say? I'm not to leave bounds for a month. Have to learn five psalms by heart and take fifty demerits. Fifty? That's a perfect shame. You'll never work them off. She had no right to make a fuss when you'd been good so long. I don't care, said Kid fiercely, as she struggled to free herself from Rosalie's embrace. She'll never have a chance again to call me her sweet little daughter. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Patty Cunningham Chapter 10 Patty Dreamily Assured Herself of This is a Librebox Recording All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham Just Patty by Jean Webster Chapter 10 Onions and Orchids Patty Dreamily Assured Herself of this important truth for the twentieth time, as she sat by the open-school room window, her eyes on the billowing whiteness of the cherry tree which had burst into blossom overnight. It was particularly necessary that she should finish her lessons with dispatch, because it was Saturday, and she was going to the city with Mademoiselle's party to spend an hour in the dentist's chair. But the weather was not conducive to concentrated effort. After an hour of half-hearted study, she closed her geometry and started upstairs to dress, leaving the stay-at-homes to another hour of work. She started upstairs, but she did not get very far on the way. As she passed the open door that led to the back porch, she stepped outside to examine the cherry tree at close range. Then she strolled the length of the pergola to see how the wisteria was coming on. From there it was just a step to the lane, with its double row of pink-tipped apple trees. Before she knew it, Patty found herself sitting on the stone wall at the end of the lower pasture. Behind her lay the confines of St. Ursula's, before her, the world. She sat on top of the wall and dangled her feet out of bounds. The very most scandalous crime one could commit at St. Ursula's was to go out of bounds without permission. Patty sat and gazed at the forbidden land. She knew that she had no time to waste if she were to catch the hearse and the train and the dentist's chair. But still she sat and dreamed. Finally, far across the fields on the high road, she spied the hearse bowling merrily to the station. Then it occurred to her that she had forgotten to report to Mademoiselle that she was going and that Mademoiselle, accordingly, would not be missing her. At the school, of course, they would think she had gone, and likewise would not be missing her. Without any premeditated iniquity, she was free. She sat a few moments longer to let the feeling penetrate. Then she slid over the wall and started, a joyous young mutineer seeking adventure. Following the cheery course of the brook, she dipped into a tangled ravine and stretch of woodland, raced down a hillside and across a marshy meadow, leaping gaily from hummock to hummock, occasionally missing and going in. She laughed aloud at these misadventures and waved her arms and romped with the wind. In addition to the delicious sense of feeling free was the added delicious sense of feeling bad. The combination was intoxicating. And so, always following the stream, she came at last to another wood. Not a wild wood like the first, but a tame domesticated wood. The dead limbs were cut away, and the ground was neatly brushed up under the trees. The brook flowed sedately between the fern-bordered banks under rustic bridges and widened occasionally into pools carpeted with lily-pads. Mossy paths set with stepping stones let off into mysterious depths that the eye could not penetrate. The leaves were just out enough to half hide and to tantalize. The grass was starved with crocuses. It looked like an enchanted wood in a fairy tale. This second wood, however, was bordered by a solid stone wall and on top of the wall, by four strands of barbed wire. Signs appeared at intervals, three were visible from where Patty stood, stating that these were private grounds and that trespassers would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Patty knew well to whom it belonged. She had often passed the front gates which faced on that other road. The estate was celebrated in the neighborhood. In the United States, for the matter of that, it comprised five hundred acres and belonged to a famous, or infamous, multimillionaire. His name was Silas Weatherby, and he was the originator of a great many wicked corporations. He had beautiful conservatories full of tropical plants, a sunken Italian garden, an art collection, and picture gallery. He was a crusty old codger, always engaged in half a dozen lawsuits. He hated the newspapers, and the newspapers hated him. He was in particularly bad repute at St. Ursula's, because in response to a politely couch note from the principal asking that the art class might view his Botticelli and the botany class his orchids, he had ungraciously replied that he couldn't have a lot of school girls running over his place. If he let them come one year, he would have to let them come another, and he didn't wish to establish a precedent. Patty looked at the note trespassing signs and the barbed wire, and she looked at the wood beyond. They couldn't do anything if they did catch her, she reasoned, except turn her out. People weren't jailed nowadays for taking a peaceable walk in other people's woods. Besides, the millionaire person was attending a director's meeting in Chicago. This bit of neighborhood gossip she had gleaned that morning in her weekly perusal of the Daily Press. Saturday night at dinner they were supposed to talk on current topics, so Saturday morning they glanced at the headlines and an editorial. Since the family were not at home, why not drop in and inspect the Italian garden? The servants were doubtless more polite than the master. She selected a portion of the wall where the wire seemed slack and wriggled under, stomach-wise, tearing only a small hole in the shoulder of her blouse. She played with the enchanted wood half an hour or so. Then, following a path, she quite suddenly left the wood behind and popped out into a garden. Not a flower garden, but a kitchen garden on a heroic scale. Neat plots of sprouting vegetables were bordered by current bushes, and the hole was surrounded by a high brick wall against which pear trees were trained in the English fashion. A gardener was engaged with his back toward Patty and setting out baby onions. She studied him dubiously, divided between a prompting to run, and a social instinct of friendliness. He was an extremely picturesque gardener, just in knickerbockers and leather-gaters, with a touch of red in his waistcoat, and a cardigan jacket and a cap on the side of his head. He did not look very affable, but he did look romantic. Even if he chased her, she was sure that she could run faster than he. So she settled herself on his wheelbarrow and continued to watch him while she pondered an opening remark. He glanced up suddenly and caught sight of her. The surprise nearly tipped him over. Good morning, said Patty pleasantly. Uh! Granted the man, what are you doing here? Watching you plant onions. This struck Patty as a self-evident truth, but she was perfectly willing to state it. He grunted again as he straightened his back and took a step toward her. Where'd you come from? he demanded gruffly. Over there, Patty waved her hand largely to westward. Huh! he remarked, you belong to that school? St. Something or other? She acknowledged it. St. Ursula's monogram was emblazoned large upon her sleeve. Do they know you're out? No, she returned candidly. I don't believe they do. I am quite sure of it, in fact. They think I've gone to the dentist with Mamzell, and she thinks I'm at school. So it leaves me entirely at leisure. I thought I'd come over and see what Mr. Weatherby's Italian garden looks like. I'm interested in Italian gardens. Well, I'll be, he commenced, and came a trifle nearer and stared again. Did you happen to see any no trespassing signs as you came through? Mercy, yes. The whole place is peppered with them. They don't seem to have impressed you much. Oh, I never pay any attention to no trespassing signs, said Patty easily. You'd never get anywhere in this world if you let them bother you. The man unexpectedly chuckled. I don't believe you would, he agreed. I've never let them bother me, he added meditatively. Can't I help you plant your onions? Patty asked politely. It struck her that this might be the quickest route to the Italian garden. Why, yes, thank you. He accepted her offer with unexpected cordiality and gravely explained the mode of the work. The onions were very tiny, and they must be set right side up with great care because it is very difficult for an embryonic onion to turn itself over after it has once got started in the wrong direction. Patty grasped the business very readily and followed along in the next row three feet behind him. It turned out sociable work by the end of fifteen minutes they were quite old friends. The talk ranged far over philosophy and life and morals. He had a very decided opinion on every subject. She put him down as scotch. He seemed a well-informed old fellow, though, and he read the papers. Patty had also read the paper that morning. She discoursed at some length upon whether or not corporations should be subject to state control. She stoutly agreed with her editor that they should. He maintained that they were like any other private property and that it was nobody's damned business how they managed themselves. A penny, please, said Patty, holding out her hand. A penny? What for? That dam! Every time you use slang or bad grammar, you have to drop a penny in the charity box. Damn is much worse than slang! It's swearing! I ought to charge you five cents, but since this is the first offence, I'll let you off with one. He handed over his penny and Patty gravely pocketed it. What sort of things do you learn in that school? He inquired, but the show of curiosity. She obligingly furnished a sample. The perimeters of similar polygons are as their homologous sides. You will find that useful, he commented, with a suggestion of a twinkle in his eye. Very, she agreed, on examination day. After half an hour, onion planting grew to be wearying work, but Patty was bound to be game and stick to her job as long as he did. Finally, however, the last onion was in and the gardener rose and viewed the neat rose with some satisfaction. That will do for today, he declared. We've earned a rest. They sat down, Patty, on the wheelbarrow, the man on an upturned tub. How do you like working for Mr. Weatherby, she inquired? Is he as bad as the papers make out? The gardener chuckled slightly as he lighted his pipe. Well, he said judiciously. He's always been very decent to me, but I don't know as his enemies have any cause to love him. I think he's horrid, said Patty. Why, asked the man with a slight air of challenge? He was quite willing to run his master down himself, but he would not permit an outsider to do it. He's so terribly stingy with his old conservatories. The Dowager, I mean Mrs. Trent, the principal, you know, wrote and asked him to let the botany class see his orchids, and he was just as rude as he could be. I'm sure he didn't mean it, the man apologized. Oh yes, he did, maintained Patty. He said he couldn't have a lot of schoolgirls running through and breaking down his vines, as if we would do such a thing. We have perfectly beautiful manners. We learn them every Thursday night. Maybe he was a little rude, he agreed, but you see, he hasn't had your advantages, Miss. He didn't learn his manners in a young lady's boarding school. He didn't learn them anywhere, Patty shrugged. The gardener took a long pull at his pipe and studied the horizon with narrowed eyes. It isn't quite fair to judge him the way you would other people, he said slowly. He's had a good deal of trouble in his life, and now he's old, and I dare say pretty lonely sometimes. All the world's against him. When people are decent, he knows it's because they're after something. Your teacher now is polite when she wants to see his conservatories, but I'll bet she believes he's an old thief. Isn't he, asked Patty? The man grinned slightly. He has his moments of honesty like the rest of us. Perhaps Patty grudgingly conceded, he may not be so bad when you know him, it's often the way. Now, there was Lordy, our Latin teacher. I used to despise her, and then, in the hour of trial, she came up to the scratch and was perfectly bully. He held out his hand, a penny. Patty handed him back his own. She kept me from getting expelled. She did, really. I've never been able to hate her since. And you know, I miss it dreadfully. It's sort of fun having an enemy. I've had a good many, he nodded. And I've always managed to enjoy them. And probably they're really quite nice, she suggested. Oh yes, he agreed. The worst criminals are often very pleasant people when you see their right side. Yes, that's true, said Patty. It's mainly chance that makes people bad. I know it is in my own case. This morning, for instance, I got up with every intention of learning my geometry and going to the dentists, and yet, here I am. And so, she pointed to moral, you always ought to be kind to criminals and remember that under different circumstances, you might have been in jail yourself. That thought, he acknowledged, has often occurred to me. I, we, that is, he resumed after a moment of amused meditation. Mr. Weatherby believes in giving a man a chance. If you have any convict friends who are looking for a job, this is the place to send them. We used to have a cattle thief taking care of the cows and a murderer in charge of the orchids. What fun, cried Patty. Have you got him now? I should love to see a murderer. He left some time ago. The place was too slow for him. How long have you been working for Mr. Weatherby? she asked. A good many years, and I've worked hard, he added, with a slight air of challenge. I hope he appreciates you. Yes, I think on the whole that he does. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose. And now, he suggested, should you like me to show you the Italian garden? Oh, yes, said Patty, if you think Mr. Weatherby wouldn't mind. I'm head gardener, I do what I please. If you're head gardener, what makes you plant onions? It's tiresome work, good for my character. Oh, Patty laughed. And then you see, when I have a tendency to overwork them and under me, I stop and think how my own back ached. You're much too nice a man to work for him, she pronounced approvingly. Thank you, Miss, he touched his hat with a grin. The Italian garden was a fascinating spot, with marble steps and fountains and clipped yew trees. Oh, I wish Connie could see it, Patty cried. And who is she? Connie's my roommate. She's awfully interested in gardens this year, because she's going to get the botany prize for analyzing the most plants. At least I think she's going to get it. It's between her and Karen Hershey. All the rest of the class have dropped out. May Van Arsdale is working against Connie to spite me, because I wouldn't stay in an old secret society that she started. She gets orchids from the city and gives them to Karen. Hmm, he frowned over this tangle of intrigue. Is it entirely fair for the rest to help? Oh yes, said Patty. They have to do the analyzing, but their friends can collect and paste. Every time anybody goes for a walk, she comes back with her blouse stuffed full of specimens for either Connie or Karen. The nice girls are for Connie. Karen's an awful dig. She wears eyeglasses and thinks she knows everything. I'm for Miss Connie myself, he declared. Is there any way in which I could help? Patty glanced about tentatively. You have quite a number of plants, she suggested, that Connie hasn't got in her book. You shall take back as many as you can carry, he promised. We'll pay a visit to the orchid house. They left the garden behind and turned toward the glass roofs of the conservatories. Patty was so entertained that she had entirely forgotten the passage of time until she came face to face with a clock in the gable of the carriage-house. Then she suddenly realized that St. Ursula's luncheon had been served three quarters of an hour before, and that she was in a starving condition. Oh goodness gracious, I forgot all about luncheon! Is it a very grave crime to forget about luncheon? Well, said Patty with a sigh. I sort of miss it. I might furnish you with enough to sustain life for a short time, he suggested. Oh, could you? she asked relievably. She was accustomed to having a table spread three times a day, and she cared little who furnished it. Just the milk, she said modestly, and some bread and butter and cookies. Then you see, I won't have to go back till four o'clock when they come from the station, and maybe I can slip in without being missed. You just wait in the pavilion, and I'll see what the gardener's cottage can supply us. He was back in fifteen minutes, chuckling as he lugged a big hamper. We'll have a picnic, he proposed. Oh, let's, said Patty joyously. She did not mind eating with him in the least, for he had washed his hands and appeared quite clean. She helped him unpack the hamper and set the table in the little pavilion beside the fountain. He had lettuce sandwiches, a pat of cottage cheese, a jug of milk, orange marmalade, sugar cookies, and gingerbread hot from the oven. What a perfectly bully spread, she cried. He held out his hand, another penny. Patty peered into an empty pocket. You'll have to charge it, I've used up all my ready money. The spring sun was warm, the fountain was splashing, the wind was sprinkling the pavilion floor with white magnolia petals. Patty helped herself to marmalade with a happy sigh of contentment. The most fun in the world is to run away from the things you ought to do, she pronounced. He acknowledged this immoral truth with a laugh. I suppose you ought to be working, she asked. There are one or two little matters that might be better for my attention. And aren't you glad you're not doing them? Bully glad. She held out her hand, give it back. The scent returned to her pocket and the meal progressed gaily. Patty was in an elated frame of mind, and Patty's elation was catching. Escaping from bounds, trespassing on a private estate, planting onions, and picnicking in the Italian garden with the head gardener, she had never had such a dizzying world of adventures. The head gardener also seemed to enjoy the sensation of offering sanctuary to a runaway schoolgirl. Their appreciation of the lark was mutual. As Patty, with painstaking honesty, was dividing the last of the gingerbread into two exact halves, she was startled by the sound of a footstep on the gravel path behind, and there walked into their party a groom, a crimson face gaping young man who stood mechanically bobbing his head. Patty stared back a touch apprehensively. She hoped that she hadn't got her friend into trouble. He was very possibly against the rules for gardeners to entertain runaway schoolgirls in the Italian garden. The groom continued to stare and to duck his head, and her companion rose and faced him. Well, he inquired with a note of sharpness, what do you want? Beg pardon, sir, but this telegram come, and Richard says it might be important, sir, and he says for me to find you, sir. He received the telegram, ran his eyes over it, scribbled an answer on the back with a gold pencil which he extracted from his pocket, and dismissed the man with a curt nod. The envelope had fluttered to the table and lay their face up. Patty inadvertently glanced at the address, and as the truth flashed across her, she hid her head against the back of the stone seat in a gale of laughter. Her companion looked momentarily sheepish, then he too laughed. You have enjoyed the privilege of telling me exactly how rude you think I am. Not even the reporters always allow themselves that pleasure. Oh, but that was before I knew you. I think now that you have perfectly beautiful manners. He bowed his thanks. I shall endeavor to have better in the future. It will be my pleasure to put my greenhouses at the disposal of the young ladies of St. Ursula's some afternoon soon. Really, she smiled. That's awfully nice of you. They repacked the hamper and divided the crumbs among the goldfish in the fountain, and now he inquired, which will you visit first? The picture gallery or the orchids? Patty emerged from the orchid house at four o'clock, her arms filled with an unprecedented collection for Connie's book. The big yellow foreign-hand coach was standing outside the stable being washed. She examined it interestedly. Should you like to have me drive you home on that? Oh, I'd love it, Patty dimpled. But I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise, she added on second thought. No, I'm sure it wouldn't be wise. She firmly turned her back. Her eyes fell on the road, and an apprehensive light sprang to her face. There's the hearse. The hearse? Yes, the school wagonette. I think I'd better be going. He accompanied her back through the vegetable garden and the enchanted wood, and held her flowers while she crawled under the fence, tearing a hole in the other shoulder of her blouse. They shook hands through the barbed wire. I've enjoyed both the onions and the orchids, said Patty politely, and particularly the gingerbread. And if I ever have any convict friends in need of employment, I may send them to you. Do so, he urged. I will find them a job here. She started off, then turned to wave goodbye to him. I've had a perfectly bully time. A penny, he called, Patty laughed and ran. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Patty Cunningham Chapter 11 Of Just Patty This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Patty Cunningham. Just Patty by Jane Webster Chapter 11 The Lemon Pie and the Monkey Wrench Evelynna Smith was a morbid young person who loved to dabble in the supernatural. Her taste in literature was for Edgar A. Poe. In religion, she inclined toward spiritualism. Her favorite amusement was to gather a few shattering friends about her, turn out the gas, and tell ghost stories. She had an extensive repertoire of ghoulish incidents that were not fiction, but the actual experience of people she knew. She had even one or two spiritual adventures herself, and she would set forth the details with wide eyes and lowered voice while her auditors held one another's hands and shivered. The circle in which Evelynna moved had not much sense of humor. One Saturday evening St. Ursula's school was in an unusually social mood. Evelynna was holding a ghost party in her room in the East Wing. Nancy Lee had invited her ten dearest friends to a birthday spread in center. The European History Class was celebrating the completion of the 30 Years War by a molasses candy-pull in the kitchen, and Kid McCoy was conducting a potato race down the length of the South Corridor. The entrance fee a postage stamp, the prize sealed up in a large band box, and warranted to be worth a quarter. Patty, who was popular, had been invited to all four of the functions. She had declined Nancy's spread because May Van Arsdale, her particular enemy, was invited, but had accepted the other invitations and was busily spending the evening as an itinerant guest. She carried her potato insecurely balanced on a teaspoon over one table and under another through a hoop suspended from the ceiling and deposited it in the wastebasket at the end of the corridor in exactly two minutes and forty-seven seconds. Kid McCoy had a stopwatch. This was far ahead of anyone else's record, and Patty lingered hopefully a few minutes in the neighborhood of the band box, but a fresh inrush of entries postponed the bestowal of the prize, so she left the judges to settle the question at their leisure and drifted on to Evelina's room. She found it dark except for the fitful blue flare of alcohol and salt burning in a fudge pan. The guests were squatting about on sofa cushions, looking decidedly spotty in the unbecoming light. Patty silently dropped down on a vacant cushion and lent polite attention to Evelina, who at the moment held the floor. Well, you know, I had a very remarkable experience myself last summer. Happening to visit a spiritualist camp, I attended a materializing seance. What's that? asked Rosalie Patton. A seance in which spirits appear to mediums in the material form they occupied during life, Evelina condescendingly explained. Rosalie was merely an invited guest. She did not belong to the inner cult. Oh! said Rosalie, vaguely enlightened. I didn't really expect anything to happen, Evelina continued, and I was just thinking how foolish I was to have wasted that dollar when the medium shut her eyes and commenced to tremble. She said she saw the spirit of a beautiful young girl who had passed over five years before. The girl was dressed in white, and her clothes were dripping wet, and she carried in her hand a monkey wrench. A monkey wrench, cried Patty. What on earth? I don't know any more than you do, said Evelina impatiently. I'm just telling what happened. The medium couldn't get her full name, but she said her first name commenced with an S, and instantly it came over me that it was my cousin Susan who fell into a well and was drowned. I hadn't thought of her for years, but the description answered perfectly. And I asked the medium, and after a little she said yes, it was Susan, and that she had come to send me a warning. Evelina allowed an impressive pause to follow while her auditors leaned forward in strained attention. A warning, breathed Florence Hissop. Yes, she told me never to eat lemon pie. Patty choked with sudden laughter. Evelina cast her a look and went on. The medium shivered again and came out of the trance, and she couldn't remember a thing she had said. When I told her about the monkey wrench and the lemon pie, she was just as much puzzled as I was. She said that the messages that came from the spirit world were often inexplicable, though they might seem to deal with trivial things, yet in reality they contained a deep and hidden truth. Probably some day I would have an enemy who would try to poison me with lemon pie, and I must never, on any account, taste it again. And haven't you, Patty asked? Never, said Evelina sadly. Patty composed her features into an expression of scientific inquiry. Do you think the medium told the truth? I have never had any cause to doubt it. Then you really believe in ghosts? In spirits, Evelina amended gently, many strange things happen that cannot be explained in any other manner. What would you do if her spirit should appear to you? Would you be scared? Certainly not, said Evelina with dignity. I was very fond of Cousin Susan. I have no cause to fear her spirit. The smell of boiling molasses penetrated from below. Patty excused herself and turned toward the kitchen. The spiritual heights on which Evelina dwelt, she found a trifle too rare for ordinary breathing. The candy was on the point of being poured into pans. Here, Patty, Priscilla ordered. You haven't done any work. Run down to the storeroom and get some butter to keep our hands from sticking. Patty obligingly accompanied the cook to the cellar, with not a thought in the world beyond butter. On a shelf in the storeroom stood tomorrow's dessert, a row of 15 lemon pies with neatly decorated tops of white meringue. As Patty looked at them, she was suddenly assailed by a wicked temptation. She struggled with it for a moment of sanity, but in the end she fell. While Nora's head was bent over the butter tub, Patty opened the window and deftly plumped a pie through the iron grating onto the ledge without. By the time Nora raised her head, the window was shut again, and Patty was innocently translating the label on a bottle of olive oil. As they pulled their candy in a secluded corner of the kitchen, Patty hilariously confided her plan to Connie and Priscilla. Connie was always game for whatever mischief was afoot, but Priscilla sometimes needed urging. She was, most inconveniently, beginning to develop a moral nature, and the other two, who as yet were comfortably un-moral, occasionally found her difficult to coerce. Priscilla finally lent a grudging consent, while Connie enthusiastically volunteered to acquire a monkey wrench. Being captain of sports, she could manage the matter better than Patty. On a flying visit to the stables, ostensibly to consult with Martin as to a remarking of the tennis courts, she singled out from his tool bench the monkey wrench of her choice, casually covered it with her sweater, and safely bore it away. She and Patty conveyed their booty by devious secret ways to Paradise Alley. A great many alarms were given on the passage, a great deal of muffled giggling ensued, but finally the monkey wrench and the pie, slightly damaged as to its meringue top, but still distinctly recognizable as lemon, were safely cached under Patty's bed to await their part in the night's adventure. Lights out, as usual, rang at 9.30, but it rang to deaf ears. A spirit of restless festivity was abroad. The little girls in the baby ward larked about the halls in a pillow fight until they were sternly ordered to bed by the dowager herself. It was close to ten o'clock when the candy-pullers washed their sticky hands and turned upstairs. Patty found a delegation of potato racers waiting with the news that she had won the prize. An interested crowd gathered to watch her open the box. It contained a tin funeral wreath that had been displayed that winter in the window of the village undertaker. Kid had bought it cheap owing to fly-specs that would not rub off. The wreath was hoisted on the end of a shinny stick and marched through the corridor to the tune of John Brown's body while Mademoiselle ineffectually wrung her hands and begged for quiet. Mr. enfant, it is ten o'clock. So you tranquille. Patty, mon Dieu, how you are bad. Marguerite McCoy, you do not listen to me? Nourverant, go to your room, this instant. You do not belong in my hall. Children, I implore, go to bed, all, tout de suite. The procession cheered and marched on until Miss Lorde descended from the east and commanded silence, Miss Lorde when incensed was effectual. The peace of conquest settled for a time over Paradise Alley and she returned to her own camp. But a fresh hubbub broke out when it was discovered that someone had sprinkled granulated sugar in liberal quantities through every bed in the alley. Patty and Connie would have been suspected had their own sheets not yielded a plentiful harvest. It was another half-hour before the beds were remade and the school finally composed to sleep. When the teacher on duty had made her last rounds and everything was quiet, Patty turned back the covers of her bed and cautiously stepped to the floor. She was still fully clothed except that she had changed her shoes for softer sold bedroom slippers, better fitted for nocturnal adventures. Priscilla and Connie joined her. Fortunately a full moon shone high in the sky and they needed no artificial light. Aided by her two assistants, Patty draped the sheets of her bed about her in two voluminous wings and fastened them securely with safety pins. A pillow slip was pulled over her head and the corners tied into ears. They hesitated a moment with scissors suspended. Hurry up and cut the nose, Patty whispered. I'm smothering. It seemed sort of too bad to spoil a perfectly good pillow slip, said Priscilla, with a slight access of conscience. I'll drop some money in the missionary box, Patty promised. The nose and eyes were cut. A grinning mouth and devilishly curved eyebrows were added with burnt cork. The pillow slip was tied firmly about her neck to allow no chance of slipping. The ears waved lopsidedly. She was the most amazing specter that ever left a respectable grave. These preparations had occupied some time. It was already ten minutes of twelve. I'll wait till the stroke of midnight, said Patty. Then I'll flutter into Evelina's room and wave my wings and whisper, Come, the monkey wrench in the pie, I'll leave on the foot of her bed so she'll know she wasn't dreaming. What if she screams, asked Priscilla. She won't scream. She loves ghosts, especially Cousin Susan. She said tonight she'd be glad to meet her. But what if she does scream, persisted Priscilla. Oh, that's easy. I'll dash back and pop into bed. Before anybody wakes, I'll be sound asleep. They made a reconnoitering excursion into the empty corridors to make sure that all was quiet. Only regular breathing issued from open doors. Evelina fortunately lived in a single, but unfortunately it was at the extreme end of the east wing in the opposite corner of the building from Patty's own domicile. Connie and Priscilla in bedroom slippers and kimonos tiptoed after Patty as she took her flight down the length of the alley. She sailed back and forth and waved her wings in the moonlight that streamed through the skylight in the central hall. The two spectators clung together and shivered delightedly. In spite of having been behind the scenes and assisted at the makeup, they received a distinct sensation. What it would be to one suddenly waken from sleep to a believer in ghosts, they were a bit apprehensive to consider. At the entrance to the east wing, they handed Patty her pie and monkey wrench and retreated to their own neighborhood. In case of an uproar, they did not wish to be discovered too far from home. Patty flitted on down the corridor past yawning doors into Evelina's room where she took up a central position in a patch of moonlight. A few sepical cums brought no response. Evelina was a sound sleeper. Patty shook the foot of the bed. The sleeper stirred slightly, but slept on. This was annoying. The ghost had no mind to make noise enough to disturb the neighbors. She laid the pie and the monkey wrench on the counterpane and shook the bed again with the insistence of an earthquake. As she was endeavoring to resume her properties, Evelina sat up and clutched the bed clothes about her neck with a frenzied jerk. Patty had just time to save the pie. The monkey wrench went to the floor with a crash. And the crash, to Patty's startled senses, was echoed and intensified from far down the hall. She had no chance to wave her wings or murmur calm. Evelina did not wait for her cue. She opened her mouth as wide as it would open and emitted shriek after shriek of such ear-splitting intensity that Patty, for a moment, was too aghast to move. Then, still hugging the pie in her arms, she turned and ran. To her consternation, the cries were answered ahead. The whole house seemed to be awake and shrieking. She could hear doors banging and frightened voices demanding the cause of the tumult. She was making a quick dash for her own room trusting to the confusion and darkness to make good her escape, when Miss Lord, gaily attired in a flowered bathrobe, appeared at the end of the corridor. Patty was headed straight for her arms. With a gasp of terror, she turned back toward the shrieking Evelina. She realized by now that she was in a trap. A narrow passage led from the east wing to the servants' quarters. She dived into this. If she could reach the back stairs, it would mean safety. She pushed the door open a crack. And to her horror was confronted by a worse uproar. The servants' quarters were in a state of panic. She saw a Maggie dashing pass wrapped in a pink striped blanket while above the general confusion rose Nora's rich brogue. Help! Murder! I seen a burglar! She shut the door and shrank back into the passage. Behind her, Evelina was still hysterically wailing. I saw a ghost! I saw a ghost! Before her, the cry of burglars was growing louder. Utterly bewildered at this double demonstration, Patty flattened herself against the wall in the friendly darkness of the passage while she soulfully thanked Heaven that the proposed electric lights had not yet been installed. A dozen voices were calling for matches, but no one seemed to find any. She pantingly tugged at the pillow case nodded about her neck. But Connie had tied it firmly with a white hair ribbon. The knot was behind. In any case, even if she could remove her masquerade, she was lost if they found her, for she was still wearing the white dress of the evening and not even Patty's imagination could compass an excuse for that at twelve o'clock at night. The search was growing nearer. She caught the glimmer of a light ahead. At any moment they might open the door of the passage. The linen closet was the only refuge at hand, and that was very temporary. She felt for the door handle and slipped inside. If she could find a pile of sheets, she might dive to the bottom and hope to escape notice, being mostly sheet herself. But it was Saturday, and all the linen had gone down. A long, slippery, inclined chute connected the room with the laundry in the basement two floors below. Steps were already audible in the passage. She heard Miss Lord's voice say, Bring a light! We'll search the linen closet. Patty did not hesitate. In imagination she could already feel the pressure of Miss Lord's grasp upon her shoulder. A broken neck was preferable. Still hugging the lemon pie, in all her excitement she had clasped it firmly, she climbed into the chute, stretched her feet out straight in front, and pushed off. For two breathless seconds she dashed through space, then her feet hit the trap door at the bottom, and she shot into the laundry. One instant earlier the door from the kitchen stairs had cautiously opened, and a man had darted into the laundry. He had just had time to cast a glance of boundless relief about the empty moonlit room, when Patty and the pie catapulted against him. They went down together in a whirl of waving wings. Patty being on top picked herself up first. She still clutched her pie, at least what was left of it. The white meringue was spread over the man's hair and face, but the lemon part was still intact. The man set up daisily, rubbed the meringue from his eyes, cast one look at his assailant, and staggered to his feet. He flattened himself against the wall, with arms thrown wide for support. Holy gee, he choked! What in hell have I got into? Patty excused his language, as he did not appear to know that he was addressing a lady. He seemed to be laboring under the impression that she was the devil. Her pillow-slip by now was very much a skew. One ear pointed northward, the other southeast, and she could only see out of one eye. It was very hot inside, and she was gasping for breath. For a palpitating moment, they merely stared and panted. Then Patty's mind began to work. I suppose, she suggested, you are the burglar they are screaming about? The man leaned back limply and stared, his wide frightened eyes shining through a fringe of meringue. I, said Patty, completing the introduction, am the ghost. He muttered something under his breath. She could not make out whether he was praying or swearing. Don't be afraid, she added kindly. I won't hurt you. Is it a bloomin' insane asylum? Just a girl's school. Gosh, he observed. Hush, said Patty, they're coming this way now. The sound of running feet became audible in the kitchen above, while bass voices were added to the shrill soprano that had sounded the former toxin. The men had arrived from the stables. The burglar and the ghost regarded each other for a moment of suspended breathing. Their mutual danger drew them together. Patty hesitated an instant while she studied his face as it showed through the injustices of the meringue. He had honest blue eyes and yellow curls. She suddenly stretched out a hand and grasped him by an elbow. Quick! They'll be here in a minute. I know a place to hide, come with me. She pushed him unresisting down a passage and into a storeroom, boarded off from the main cellar, where the scenery of the dramatic society was kept. Get down on your hands and knees and follow me, she ordered, as she stooped low and dived behind a pile of canvas. The men crawled after. They emerged at the farther end into a small recess behind some canvas trees. Patty sat on the stump and offered a wooden rock to her companion. They'll never think of looking here, she whispered. Martin's too fat to crawl through. A small barred window led in some faint moonlight, and they had an opportunity to study each other more at leisure. The man did not yet seem comfortable in Patty's presence. He was occupying the farthest possible corner of his rock. Presently he rubbed his coat sleeve over his head and looked long and earnestly at the meringue. He was evidently at a loss to identify the substance. In the rush of events he had taken no note of the pie. Patty brought her one eye to bear down upon him. I'm simply melting, she whispered. Do you think you could untie that knot? She bent her head and presented the back of her neck. The man by now was partially reassured as to the humanness of his companion, and he obediently worked at the knot, but with hands that trembled. At last it came loose and Patty with a sigh of relief emerged into the open. Her hair was somewhat tousled and her face was streaked with burnt cork, but her blue eyes were as honest as his own. The sight reassured him. Gee, he muttered in a wave of relief. Keep still, Patty warned. The hunt was growing nearer. There was the sound of tramping feet in the laundry, and they could hear the men talking. A ghost in a burglar, said Martin, and finds scorn. That's a likely combination, ain't it now? They made an obligatory and superficial search through the coal-seller. Martin, jocularly inquiring. Did you look in the furnace, Mike? Here, Osaki Melad, you're small. Take a crawl up the pipes and see if the ghost ain't hidein' there. They opened the door of the property room and glanced inside. The burglar ducked his head and held his breath, while Patty struggled with an ill-timed desire to giggle. Martin was in a facetious mood. He whistled in the manner of calling a dog. Here, ghostie. Here, burgy. Come here, old fellow. They banged the door shut, and their footsteps receded. Patty was rocking back and forth in the species of hysterics, stuffing the corner of the sheet into her mouth to keep from laughing audibly. The burglar's teeth were chattering. Lord, he breathed, it may be funny for you, miss, but it means the penitentiary for me. Patty interrupted her hysterics and regarded him with disgust. It would mean expulsion for me, or at least something awfully unpleasant, but that's no reason for going all to pieces. You're a nice sort of burglar. Brace up and be a sport. He mopped his brow and removed another portion of icing. You must be an awful amateur to break into a house like this, she said contemptuously. Don't you know the silvers plated? I didn't know nothing about it, he said sullenly. I see the window open over the shed roof, and I clump up. I was hungry, and was looking for something to eat. I ain't had nothing since yesterday morning. Patty reached to the floor beside her. Have some pie. The manduck decide as it was poked at him. What's that, he gasped. He was as nervous as a mouse in a cage. Lemon pie. It looks a little messy, but it's all right. The only thing that mattered with it is that it has lost its meringue top. That's mostly on your head. The rest of it has spread over me and the laundry floor and Evelina Smith's bed and the clothes chute. Oh! he murmured in evident relief as he rubbed his hand over his hair for the fourth time. I was wondering what the blame stuff was. But the lemon's all here, she urged. You'd better eat it. It's quite nourishing, I believe. He accepted the pie and fell to eating it with an eagerness that carried out the truth of his assertion as to yesterday's breakfast. Patty watched him, her natural curiosity struggling with her acquired politeness. The curiosity triumphed. Do you mind telling me how you came to be a burglar? You make such a remarkably bad one that I should think you would have chosen almost any other profession. He told a story between bites. To one more experienced in police records it might have sounded a trifle fishy, but he had an honest face and blue eyes and it never entered her head to doubt him. The burglar commenced it sullenly. No one had ever believed him yet, and he wasn't expecting her to. He would like to have invented something a little more plausible, but he lacked the imagination to tell a convincing lie. So, as usual, he lamely told the truth. Patty listened with strained attention. His tail was somewhat muffled by lemon pie, and his vocabulary did not always coincide with her own, but she managed to get the gist of it. By rights he was a gardener. In the last place where he worked he used to sleep in the attic because the gentleman, he was away a lot and the lady, she was afraid not to have a man in the house. And a gas-fitter that he had always thought was his friend, give him some beer one night and got him drunk and took away the key of the back door. And while he, the gardener, was sound to sleep on the children's sandpile under the apple tree in the backyard, the gas-fitter entered the house and stole an overcoat and a silver coffee pot and a box of cigars and a bottle of whiskey and two umbrellas. And they proved it on him, the gardener, and he was sent up for two years. And when he come out no one wouldn't give him no work. And you can't make me believe, he added bitterly, that that beer wasn't doped. Oh, but it was terrible of you to get drunk, said Patty, shocked. It was an accident, he insisted. If you are sure that you'll never do it again, she said, I'll get you a job, but you must promise on your word of honour as a gentleman. You know I couldn't recommend a drunkard. The man grinned feebly. I guess you'll not be fined in anybody that will be wanting a jailbird. Oh, yes I will. I know exactly the man. He's a friend of mine and he likes jailbirds. He realises that it's only luck that made him a millionaire instead of a convict. He always gives a man a chance to start again. He used to have a murderer in charge of his greenhouses and a cattle thief to milk the cows. I'm sure he'll like you. Come with me and I'll write you a letter of introduction. Patty gathered her sheets about her and prepared to crawl out. What are you doing? He demanded quickly. You aren't going to hand me over. Is it likely, she regarded him with scorn, how could I hand you over without handing myself over at the same time? The logic of this appealed to him and he followed meekly on hands and knees. She approached the laundry door and listened warily. The search had withdrawn to other quarters. She led the way along a passage and up a flight of stairs and slipped into the deserted kindergarten room. We're safe here, she whispered. They've already searched it. She cast about for writing materials. No ink was to be found, but she discovered a red crayon pencil and tore a sheet of paper from a copy book. Honesty is the best policy was inscribed in flowing characters at the top. She hesitated with her crayon poised. If I get you a nice job in charge of onions and orchids and things, will you promise never again to drink any beer? Sure, he agreed, but without much enthusiasm. There was a light of uneasiness in his eye. Nothing in his past experience tallied with tonight's adventure, and he suspected an ambush. Because, said Patty, it would be awfully embarrassing for me if you did get drunk. I should never dare recommend another burglar. She wrote her note on the window ledge by moonlight and read it aloud. Dear Mr. Weatherby, do you remember the conversation we had the day I ran away and dropped into your onion garden? You said you thought criminals were quite often as good as the rest of us, and that you would find a job for any convict friend I might present. This is to introduce a burglar of my acquaintance who would like to secure a position as gardener. He was trained to be a gardener and much prefers it to burglaring, but finds it difficult to find a place because he has been in prison. He is faithful, honest, and industrious, and promises to be sober. I shall appreciate any favor you may show him. Sincerely yours, Patty Wyatt. P.S. Please excuse this red crayon. I am writing at midnight by moonlight in the kindergarten room, and the ink's all locked up. The burglar will explain the circumstances, which are too complicated to write. Yours ever, P.W. She enclosed her note in a large manila envelope that had contained weaving mats and addressed it to Silas Weatherby Esquire. The man received it gingerly. He seemed to think that it might go off. What's the matter, said Patty? Are you afraid of it? You're sure, he asked suspiciously, that Silas Weatherby ain't a cop? He's a railroad president. Oh, the burglar looked relieved. Patty unlocked the window, then paused for a final moral lecture. I'm giving you a chance to begin again. If you are game and present this letter, you'll get a job. If you're a coward and don't dare present it, you can keep on being a burglar for the rest of your life for all I care, and a mighty poor one you'll make. She opened the window and waved her hand invitingly toward the outside world. Good-bye, Miss, he said. Good-bye, said Patty Corjalee, and good luck. He paused half in, half out, for a last reassurance. You're sure it's on the straight, Miss. Yank pitching me no curve. It's on the straight, she pledged her word. I ain't pitching you no curve. Patty crept upstairs the back way, and by a wide detour avoided the excited crowd still gathered in the east wing. A fresh hubbub had arisen, for Evelina Smith had found a monkey wrench on the floor of her room. It was shown to the scoffing Martin as visible proof that the burglar had been there. And it's me own wrench, she cried in wide-eyed amazement. Now what do you think of his nerve? Patty hurriedly undressed and tumbled into a kimono. Sleepily rubbing her eyes, she joined the assemblage in the hall. What's happened, she asked blinking at the lights. Has there been a fire? A chorus of laughter greeted the question. It's a burglar, said Connie, exhibiting the wrench. Oh, why didn't you wake me, Patty wailed? I've wanted all my life to see a burglar. Two weeks later a groom arrived on horseback with a polite note for the dowager. Mr. Weatherby presented his compliments to Mrs. Trent and desired the pleasure of showing the young ladies of the senior class through his art gallery on Friday next at four o'clock. The dowager was at a loss to account for this gratuitous courtesy on the part of her hitherto unneighborly neighbor. After a moment of deliberation, she decided to meet him halfway and the groom rode back with an equally polite acceptance. On Friday next, as the school hers turned in at the gates of Weatherby Hall, the owner stood on the portico waiting to welcome his guests. If there were a shade more impressimal in his greeting to Patty than to her companions, the dowager did not notice it. He made an exceptionally attentive host. In person he conducted them through the gallery and pointed out the famous Botticelli. Tea was served at little tables set on the western terrace. Each girl found a gardenia at her plate and a silver bonbon hier with the Saint Ursula monogram on the cover. After tea, their host suggested a visit to the Italian garden. As they strolled through the paths, Patty found herself walking beside him and the dowager. His conversation was addressed to Mrs. Trent, but an occasional amused glance was directed toward Patty. They turned a corner behind a marble pavilion and came upon a fountain and a gardener man intent upon a border of maiden hair ferns. I have a very remarkable new Swedish gardener, Mr. Weatherby casually remarked to the dowager. The man is a genius at making plants grow. He came highly recommended. Oscar, he called. Bring the ladies some of those tulips. The man dropped his watering can and approached had in hand. He was a golden-haired blue-eyed young chap with an honest smile. He presented his flowers first to the elder lady and then to Patty. As he caught her interested gaze, a light of comprehension suddenly leapt to his eyes. Her costume and makeup today were so very dissimilar to those which she had assumed on the occasion of their first meeting that recognition on his part had not been instantaneous. Patty fell back a step to receive her flowers and the others strolled on. I have to thank you, Miss, he said gratefully, for the finest job I've ever had. It's all right. You know now, Patty laughed, that I didn't pitch you no curves. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Patty Cunningham Chapter 12 of Just Patty This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham Just Patty by Jane Webster Chapter 12 The Gypsy Trail Heels together, hips firm. One, two, three, four. Irene McCullough, will you keep your shoulders back and your stomach in? How many times must I tell you to stand straight? That's better. We'll start again. One, two, three, four. The exercise droned on. Some twenty of the week's delinquents were working off demerits. It was uncongenial work for a sunny Saturday. The twenty pairs of eyes gazed beyond Miss Jelling's head, across ropes and rings and parallel bars, toward the green treetops and the blue sky, and twenty girls for that brief hour regretted their past badnesses. Miss Jelling's herself seemed to be a bit on edge. She snapped out her orders with a curtness that brought a jirkely quick response from forty waving Indian clubs. As she stood straight and slim in her gymnasium suit, her cheeks flushed with exercise, she looked quite as young as any of her pupils. But if she appeared young, she also appeared determined. No instructor in the school, not even Miss Lord in Latin, kept stricter discipline. One, two, three, four. Patty, why it? Keep your eyes to the front. It isn't necessary for you to watch the clock. I shall dismiss the class when I am ready. Over your heads. One, two, three, four. Finally, when nerves were almost at the breaking point, came the grateful order. Attention! Right about face. March. Clubs in racks. Double quick. Halt. Break ranks. With a relieved hoop, the class dispersed. Thank heaven there's only one more week of it, Patty breathed, as they regained their own quarters in Paradise Alley. Good-bye to Jim Forever. Connie waved a slipper over her head. Hooray! Isn't Jelling awful, Patty demanded, still smarting from a recent insult? She never used to be so bad. What on earth has got into her? She is pretty snappy, Priscilla agreed, but I like her just the same. She's so, so sort of spirited, you know, like a skittish horse. Earn, growled Patty. I'd like to see a good, big, husky man get the upper hand of Jelly once and just make her toe the mark. You two will have to hurry, Priscilla warned, if you want to get into your costumes up here. Martin starts in half an hour. We'll be ready. Patty was already plunging her face into an inky mixture in the wash bowl. The fancy dress-lawn fit, which St. Ursula's school held on the last Friday in every May, had occurred the evening before, and this afternoon the girls were redawning their costumes to make a trip to the village photographers. The complicated costumes that required time and space for their proper adjustment were to be assumed at the school and driven down in the hearse. Those more simple of arrangement were to go in the trolley car and be dawned in the cramped quarters of the gallery dressing room. Patty and Connie, whose makeup was a very delicate matter, were dressing at the school. They had gone as gypsies, not comic opera gypsies, but real gypsies, dirty and ragged and patched. They had daily dusted the room with their costumes for a week before the Fed. Patty wore one brown stocking and one black with a conspicuous hole in the right calf. Connie's toes protruded from one shoe and the sole of the other flapped. Their hair was unkempt and the stain on their faces streaked. They were the last word in realism. They scrambled into their dresses today with little ceremony and hitched them together anyhow. Connie cut up a tambourine and Patty a worn-out pack of cards and they clattered down the tin covered back stairs. In the lower hall they came face to face with Miss Jellings, clothed in cool muslin, and in a more affable frame of mind. Patty never held her grudges long. She had already forgotten her momentary indignation at not being allowed to look at the clock. You cross on my hand with silver? I tell you fortune. She danced up to the gymnasium teacher with a flutter of scarlet petticoats and poked out a dirty hand. Nice affortune, Connie added, with her persuasive rattle of the tambourine. Tall, dark a young man. You impudent little ragamuffins. Miss Jelly took them each by the shoulder and turned them for inspection. What have you done to your faces? Washed them in black coffee. Miss Jellings shook her head and laughed. You're a disgrace to the school, she pronounced. Don't let any policemen see you or he'll arrest you for vagabonds. Patty, Connie, hurry up, the hearse is starting. Priscilla appeared in the doorway and waved her gridiron frantically. Priscilla, late about finding a costume, at the last moment had blasphemously gone as St. Lawrence draped in a sheet with the kitchen broiler under her arm. We're coming. Tell him to wait, Patty dashed out. Don't you want a coat? Connie shrieked after her. No, come on, we don't need coats. The two raced down the drive after the wagonette. Martin never waited for laggards. He let them run and catch up. They sprang on to the rear step and half a dozen outstretched hands hauled them in head first. They found the photographer's waiting room a scene of the maddest confusion. When sixty excited people occupy the normal space of twelve, the effect is not restful. Did anyone bring a buttonhook? Lend me some powder. That's my safety pin. Where'd you put the burnt cork? Is my hair a perfect sight? Fasten me up, please. Does my petticoat show? Everybody babbled at once, and nobody listened. I say, let's get out of this. I'm simply roasting. St. Lawrence seized the gypsies by the shoulder and shoved them into the vacant gallery. They squeezed themselves with a sigh of relief onto a shaky flight of six narrow stairs before the breezes of an open window. I know exactly what ails jelly. Patty spoke with an air of carrying on a conversation. What, asked the others with interest? She's had a quarrel with that Lawrence Gilroy man who was manager at the Electric Lightplace. Don't you remember how he used to be hanging about all the time? And now he never comes at all. He was out every day in the Christmas vacation. They used to go walking together, and without any chaperone, too. You would think the Dowager would have made an awful fuss, but she didn't seem to. Anyway, you should have seen the way Ms. Jellings treated that man. It was perfectly dreadful. The way she jumps on Irene McCullough is nothing to the way she jumped on him. He doesn't have to work off demerits. He's a fool to stand it, said Connie simply. He doesn't stand it any more. How do you know? Well, I sort of heard. I was in the library alcove one day in the Christmas vacation reading The Murders in the Rue Morgue when Jelly and Mr. Gilroy walked in. They didn't see me, and I didn't pay any attention to them at first. I just got to the place where the detective says, Is that the mark of a human hand? But pretty soon they got to scrapping, so that I couldn't help but hear, and I felt sort of embarrassed about interrupting. What did they say, asked Connie, impatiently brushing aside her apologies. I didn't grasp it entirely. He was trying to explain about something, and she wouldn't listen to a word he said. She was perfectly horrid. You know, the way she is when she says, I understand it perfectly. I don't care to hear any excuse. You may take ten demerits and report on Saturday for extra gymnasium. Well, they kept that up for fifteen minutes, both of them getting stiffer and stiffer. Then he took his hat and went. And you know, I don't believe he ever came back. I've never seen him. And now she's sorry. She's been cross as a bear ever since. And she can be awfully nice, said Priscilla. Yes, she can, said Patty. But she's too cocky. I'd just like to see that man come back and show her her place. The masqueraders trooped in and the serious business of the day commenced. The school posed as a whole. Then an infinity of smaller groups disentangled themselves and posed separately, while those who were not in the picture stood behind the camera and made the others laugh. Young ladies, the exasperated photographer implored, will you kindly be quiet for just two seconds? You have made me spoil three plates. And will that monk on the end stop giggling? Now, all ready? Please keep your eyes on the stovepipe hole and hold your positions while I count three. One, two, three. Thank you very much. He removed his plate with a flourish and dove into the darkroom. It was Patty's and Connie's turn to be taken alone, but St. Ursula and her 11,000 virgins were clamoring for precedents on the ground of superior numbers, and they made such a turmoil that the two Gypsies politely stood aside. Karen Hershey, as St. Ursula, and 11 little junior A's, each playing the manifold part of a thousand virgins, made up the group. It was to be a symbolical picture, Karen explained. When the Gypsies' turn came a second time, Patty had the misfortune to catch her dress on a nail and tear a three-cornered rent in the front. It was too large a hole for even a Gypsy to carry off with propriety. She retired to the dressing room and fastened the edges together with white pasting thread. Finally, last of all, they presented themselves in their dirt and tatters. The photographer was an artist, and he received them with appreciative delight. The others had been patently masqueraders, but these were the real thing. He photographed them dancing and wandering on a lonely moor with threatening canvas clouds behind them. He was about to take them in a forest with a campfire and a boiling kettle slung from three sticks when Connie suddenly became aware of a brooding quiet that had settled on the place. Where is everybody? She returned from a hasty excursion into the waiting room divided between consternation and laughter. Patty, the hearse is gone, and the streetcar people are waiting on the corner by Martian Elkins. Oh, the beasts! They knew we were in here! Patty dropped her three sticks and rose precipitously. Sorry, she called to the photographer who was busily dusting off the kettle. We've got to run for it. And we haven't any coats, wailed Connie. Miss Wadsworth won't take us in the car in these clothes. She'll have to, said Patty simply. She can't leave us on the corner. They clattered downstairs, but wavered an instant in the friendly darkness of the doorway. There was no time, however, for maidenly hesitations. And taking their courage in both hands, they plunged into the Saturday afternoon crowd that thronged Main Street. Oh, Mama, quick, look at the gypsies! A little boy squealed as the two pushed past. Heavens, Connie whispered. I feel like a circus parade. Hurry, Patty panted, taking her by the hand and beginning to run. The cars stopped and they're getting in. Wait, wait! She frenziedly waved the tambourine above her head. An express wagon at the crossing blocked their progress. The last of the eleven thousand virgins climbed aboard without once glancing over her shoulder. And the car, unheeding, clanged away and became a yellow spot in the distance. The two gypsies stood on the corner and stared at one another in blank interrogation. I haven't ascent, have you? Not one. How are we going to get home? I haven't an idea. Patty felt her elbow jostled. She turned to find young John Drew Dominant Murphy, a protege of the school, and an intimate acquaintance of her own, regarding her with impish delight. Hey, youths, give us a song and dance. At least our friends don't recognize us, said Connie, drawing what comfort she could from her incognito. Quite a crowd had gathered by now, and it was rapidly growing larger. Pedestrians had to make a detour into the street in order to get past. It wouldn't take us long, said Patty, a spark of mischief breaking in. Breaking through the blankness of her face to earn money enough for a carriage. You thump the tambourine and all dance the sailor's hornpipe. Patty, behave yourself. Connie for once brought a dampening supply of common sense to bear on her companion. We're going to graduate in another week. For goodness sake, don't let's get expelled first. She grasped her by the elbow and shoved her insistently down a side street. John Drew Murphy and his friends followed for several blocks. But having gazed their fill and perceiving that the Gypsies had no entertainment to offer, they gradually dropped away. Well, what shall we do? Ask Connie when they had finally shaken off the last of the small boys. I suppose we could walk. Walk! Connie exhibited her flapping soul. You don't expect me to walk three miles in that shoe. Very well, said Patty. What shall we do? We might go back to the photographers and borrow some car fare. No, I'm not going to parade myself the length of Main Street again with that hole in my stocking. Very well, Connie shrugged. Think of something. I suppose we could go to the livery stable and it's on the other side of town. I can't flap all that distance. Every time I take a step I have to lift my foot ten inches high. Very well, it was Patty's turn to shrug. Perhaps you can think of something better? I think the simplest way would be to take a car and ask the conductor to charge it to us. Yes, and explain for the benefit of all the passengers that we belong at St. Ursula's school. It would be all over town by night and the Dowager would be furious. Very well, what shall we do? They were standing at the moment before a comfortable frame house with three children romping on the veranda. The children left off their play to come to the top of the steps and stare. Come on, Patty urged. We'll sing the Gypsy Trail. This was the latest song that had swept to school. I'll play an accompaniment on the tambourine and you can flap your soul. Maybe they'll give us ten cents. It would be a beautiful lark to earn our car fare home. I'm sure it's worth ten cents to hear me sing. Connie glanced up and down the deserted street. No policeman was in sight. She grudgingly allowed herself to be drawn up the walk and the music began. The children applauded loudly and the two were just congratulating themselves on a very credible performance. When the door opened and a woman appeared, a first cousin to Miss Lord. Stop that noise immediately. There's somebody sick inside. The tone was also reminiscent of Latin. They turned and ran as fast as Connie's flapping soul would take her. When they had put three good blocks between themselves and the Latin woman, they dropped down on a friendly stepping stone and leaned against each other's shoulders and left. A man rounded the corner of the house before them pushing a mowing machine. Here you, he ordered, move on. They got up meekly and moved on several blocks further. They were going in exactly the opposite direction from St. Ursula's school, but they couldn't seem to hit on anything else to do, so they kept on moving mechanically. They had arrived in the outskirts of the village by now, and they presently found themselves face to face with a tall chimney and a group of low buildings set in a wide enclosure. The water works an electric plant. A light of hope dawned in Patty's eyes. I'll tell you, we'll go and ask Mr. Gilroy to take us home in his automobile. Do you know him? Connie asked dubiously. She had received so many affronts that she was growing timid. Yes, I know him intimately. He was underfoot every minute during Christmas vacation. We had a snow fight one day. Come on, he'll love to run us out. It will give him an excuse to make up with jelly. They passed up a narrow, tarred walk toward the brick-building labeled office. Four clerks and a typewriter girl in the outer office interrupted their work to laugh as the two apparitions appeared in the door. The young man nearest them whirled his chair around in order to get a better view. Hello, girls, he said, with cheerful familiarity. Where'd you spring from? The typewriter, meanwhile, was making audible comments upon the discrepancies in Patty's hosiery. Patty's face flushed darkly under the coffee. We have called to see Mr. Gilroy, she said, with dignity. This is Mr. Gilroy's busy day, the young man grand. Wouldn't you rather talk to me? Patty drew herself up haughtily. Please tell Mr. Gilroy, at once, that we are waiting to speak to him. Certainly, I beg your pardon. The young man sprang to his feet with an air of elaborate politeness. Will you kindly give me your cards? I don't happen to have a card with me today. Just say that two ladies wish to speak with him. Ah, yes, one moment, please. Won't you be seated? He offered his own chair to Patty and, bringing forward another, presented it to Connie with a chesterfieldian bow. The clerks tittered delightfully at this bit of comedy acting, but the gypsies did not condescend to think it funny. They accepted the chairs with a frigid thank you, and sat stiffly upright staring at the wastebasket in their most distant society manner. While the deferential young man was conveying the message to the private office of his chief, public comment advanced from Patty's stockings to Connie's shoes. He returned presently, and with unruffled politeness, invited them to please step this way. He ushered them in with a bow. Mr. Gilroy was writing, and it was a second before he glanced up. His eyes widened with astonishment. The clerk had delivered the message verbatim. He leaned back in his chair and studied the ladies from head to foot, then admitted a curt, well, there was not a trace of recognition in his glance. Patty's only intention had been to announce their identity and invite him to deliver them at St. Ursula's door, but Patty was incapable of approaching any matter by the direct route when a labyrinth was also available. She drew a deep breath, and to Connie's consternation plunged into the labyrinth. You, Mr. Lawrence K. Gilroy, she dropped a curtsy, I come find you. So I see, said Mr. Lawrence K. Gilroy dryly, and now that you've found me, what do you want? I want teller your fortune. Patty glibly dropped into the lingo she and Connie had practiced on the school the night before. You cross on my hand with silver, I teller your fortune. This was no situation of Connie's choosing, but she was always staunchly game. Nice affortune, she backed Patty up. Tall young lady, very beautiful. Well, of all the nerve. Mr. Gilroy leaned back in his chair and regarded them severely, but with a gleam of amusement flickering through. Where did you get my name, he demanded. Patty waved her hand airily toward the open window and the distant horizon, as it showed between the colcheds and the dynamo building. Gypsy peoples, they learned signs, she explained lucidly. Sky, wind, clouds, all talk, but you no understand. I get message for you, Mr. Lawrence K. Gilroy, and we come from long a way off to teller your fortune. With a pathetic little gesture she indicated their damaged footgear. They're tired, we travel far. Mr. Gilroy put his hand in his pocket and produced two silver half-dollars. Here's your money, now be honest. What sort of a bunco game is this, and where in thunder did you get my name? They pocketed the money, dropped two more curtsies, and evaded inconvenient questions. We tell you fortune, said Connie, with business-like directness. She brought out the pack of cards, plumped herself cross-legged on the floor, and dealt them out in a wide circle. Patty seized the gentleman's hand in her two coffee-stained little paws, and turned it palm up for inspection. He made an embarrassed effort to draw away, but she clung with the tenacious grip of a monkey. I see a lady, she announced with promptitude. Tall, young lady, brown eyes, yellow hair, very beautiful. Connie echoed from the floor as she leaned forward and intently studied the Queen of Hearts. But she make a you a lot of trouble, Patty added, frowning over a blister on his hand. I see little quarrel. Mr. Gilroy's eyes narrowed. In spite of himself, he commenced to be interested. You like a her very much, pronounced Connie from below, but you never see her anymore, chimed in Patty. One, two, three, four months you no see her, no speak with her. She looked up into his startled eyes. But you think about her every day. He made a quick movement of withdrawal, and Patty hastily added a further detail. That tall young lady, she fair unhappy too. She no laugh no more like she used. He arrested the movement and waited with a touch of anxious curiosity to hear what was coming next. She feel fair bad, fair cross, fair unhappy. She thinks always about that little quarrel. Four months she sit and wait. But you never come back. Mr. Gilroy rose abruptly and strode to the window. His unexpected visitors had dropped from the sky at the psychological moment. For two straight hours that afternoon he had been sitting at his desk grappling with the problem, which they, in their broken English, were so ably handling. Should he swallow a great deal of pride and make another plea for justice? St. Ursula's vacation was at hand. In a few days more she would be gone. And very possibly she would never come back. The world at large was full of men, and Miss Jellings had a talking way. Connie continued serenely to study her cards. One more chance. She spoke with the authority of a Grecian Sibyl. You try again, you win. No try, you lose. Patty leaned over Connie's shoulder, eager to supply a salutary bit of advice. That tall young lady too much. She hesitated a moment for a fitting expression. Too much head in there. Too bossy. You make of her mind, understand? Connie, gazing at the round face chubby jack of diamonds, had received a new idea. I see another man, she murmured. Red hair and, and fat. Not too good looking, but... Very dangerous, interpolated Patty. You have no time to waste. He come soon. Now they had fabricated this detail out of nothing in the world, but pure fancy in the jack of diamonds. But as it happened they had touched an open wound. It was an exact description of a certain rich young man in the neighboring city who loaded Miss Jellings with favours, and whom Mr. Gilroy detested from the bottom of his soul. All that afternoon, mixed in with his promptings and hesitations and travail of spirit, had loomed large the fair plump features of his fancied rival. Mr. Gilroy was a common sense young businessman, as free as most from superstition, but when a man's in love he is open to omens. He stared fixedly about the familiar office, and out at the coal sheds and dynamo, to make sure that he was still on solid earth. His gaze came back to his visitors from the sky, in absolute anxious pleading bewilderment. They were studying the cards again in a frowning endeavour to rest a few further items from their overtaxed imaginations. Patty felt that she had already given him fifty cents worth, and was wondering how to bring the interview to a graceful end. She realised that they had carried the farce too impertinently far, ever to be able to announce their identity and suggest a ride home. The only course now was to preserve their incognito, make good their escape, and get back as best they could. At least they had a dollar to aid in the journey. She glanced up, mentally framing a paroration. I see good a fortune, she commenced, if. Her glance passed him to the open window, and her heart missed a beat. Mrs. Trent and Miss Sarah Trent, come to complain about the new electric lights, were serenely descending from their carriage, not twenty feet away. Patty's hand clutched Connie's shoulder in a spasmodic grasp. Sally in the dowager, she hissed in her ear, follow me. With a sweep of her hand, Patty scrambled the cards together in rows. There would be no chance to escape by the door. The dowager's voice was already audible in the outer office. Good-bye, said Patty, springing to the window. Gypsy's call, we must go. She scrambled over the sill and dropped eight feet to the ground. Connie followed. They were both able pupils of Miss Jellings. Mr. Lawrence K. Gilroy, open-mouthed, stood staring at the spot where they had been. The next instant he was bowing courteously to the principles of St. Ursula's, and striving hard to concentrate a dazed mind upon the short circuit in the West Wing. Patty and Connie left the car, and a number of interested passengers, at the corner before they reached the school. Circum navigating the wall until they were opposite the stables, they approached the house modestly by the back way. They had the good fortune to encounter no one more dangerous than the cook, who gave them some gingerbread, and they ultimately reached their home in Paradise Alley, none the worse for the adventure, and ninety cents to the good. When the long, light evenings came, St. Ursula's no longer filled in the interim between dinner and evening study, with indoor dancing, but romped about on the lawn outside. Tonight, being Saturday, there was no evening study to call the men, and everybody was abroad. The school year was almost over. The long vacation was at hand. The girls were as full of bubbling spirits as sixty-four young lambs. Games of blind man's bluff and pussy-once-a-corner and cross-tag were all in progress at once. A band of singers on the gymnasium steps was drowning out a smaller band on the port-corsair. Half a dozen hoop rollers were trotting around the oval, and scattered groups of strollers meeting in the narrow paths were hailing each other with cheerful calls. Patty and Connie and Priscilla, washed and dressed and chastened, were wandering arm in arm through the summer twilight, talking, a trifle soberly, of the long looked-forward to future that was now so oppressively close upon them. You know, Patty spoke, with a sort of frightened gulp, in another week, will be grown up. They stopped and silently looked back toward the gay crowd, romping on the lawn toward the big brooding house, that through four tempestuous, hilarious, carefree years had sheltered them so kindly. Grown-upness seemed to bear in state. They longed to stretch out their hands and clutch the childhood that they had squandered with so little thought. Oh, it's horrible, Connie breathed, with sudden fierceness. I want to stay young. In this unsocial mood they refused an offered game of hair and hounds, and evading the singers on the gymnasium steps. The song was the gypsy trail. They sauntered on down the pergola to the lane, sprinkled with fallen apple blossoms. At the end of the lane they came suddenly upon two other solitary strollers, and stopped short with a gasp of unbelieving wonder. It's jelly, Connie whispered, and Mr. Gilroy, Patty echoed. Shall we run? asked Connie in a panic. No, said Patty. Pretend not to notice him at all. The three advanced with eyes discreetly bent upon the ground, but Miss Jellings greeted them gaily as she passed. There was an intangible, excited, happy thrill about her manner. Something electric, Patty said. Hello, you bad little gypsies! It was a peculiarly infelicitous salutation, but she was smilingly unconscious of any slip. Gypsies! Mr. Gilroy repeated the word, and his benumbed faculties began to work. He stopped and scanned the trio closely. They were clothed in dainty muslin, three as sweet young girls as one would ever meet. But Patty and Connie, even in the failing light, were still noticeably brunette. It takes boiling water to get out coffee-stain. Oh! he drew a deep breath of enlightenment while many emotions struggled for supremacy in his face. Connie dropped her gaze embarrassedly to the ground. Patty threw back her head and faced him. He and she eyed each other for a silent instant. In that glance, each asked the other not to tell, and each mutely promised. The breeze brought the chorus of the gypsy trail, and as they sauntered on, Miss Jellings fell softly to humming the words in tune with the distant singers. And the gypsy blood to the gypsy blood ever the wide world over, ever the wide world over lasts, ever the trail held true, over the world and under the world, and back at the last to you, follow the Romany pattern. The words died away in the shadows. Connie and Patty and Priscilla stood hand in hand and looked after them. The school has lost jelly, Patty said, and I'm afraid that we're to blame, con-dear. I'm glad of it, Connie spoke with feeling. She's much too nice to spend her whole life telling Irene McCullough to stand up straight and keep her stomach held in. Anyway, Patty added, he has no right to be angry because, without us, he never would have dared. They kept on across the meadow till they came to the pasture bars, where they leaned in a row with their heads tipped back, scanning the darkening sky. Miss Jellings' mood was somehow catching. The little contra-tempts had stirred them strangely. They felt the thrill of the untried future, with romance waiting around the corner. You know, Connie broke silence after a long pause. I think, after all, maybe it will be sort of interesting. What, asked Priscilla. She stretched out her arm in a wide gesture that comprised the night. Oh, everything! Priscilla nodded understandingly, and presently added with an air of challenge. I've changed my mind. I don't believe I'll go to college. Not go to college, Patty echoed blankly. Why not? I think I'll get married instead. Oh, Patty laughed softly. I am going to do both. End of Chapter 12. End of Just Patty by Jean Webster. Recording by Patty Cunningham.