Well, isn't that just like a man, expecting the woman to remember everything he did? :-) One also can't imagine a modern father making a child account for everything he/she spent for his allowance, either."Oh, Dorothy!" called Jim from his room.
But above the clash of the duelists' rapiers on her page Dorothy was not able to hear, and she only crammed the book deeper into the cushions of the lounge and said, "Oo-oo-oo!" in a shiver of excitement.
Presently he called again: "Dearest cousin!"
Her eyes brightened as she whipped over a page.
Another pause, and then Jim stuck his head out of his door and looked down upon her where she sat curled on the hall floor, her elbows digging into the seat of the lounge and her fingers running madly through her pompadour. "Dot!" he exploded.
"He 's killed him! he 's killed him! he 's dead!" cried Dorothy, in a rapture of innocent glee.
"He 's not, either. He comes to life in the next chapter and behaves like kymo," said the superior Jim.
"Don't tell me—don't! Oh, you mean thing! Well, what is it you want?" This last because her cousin had quietly taken the book from her and was now sitting on it.
"D' you chance to remember how much we paid for Grace's birthday present?"
"Four dollars."
"Really? How nice! 'Picture for G., four dollars.'" He began to scribble in a sad-looking little account-book, but paused at Dorothy's objection: "You did n't pay four. I paid my half."
"Oh! that 's so. Too bad. Four dollars would be a fine starter. See here, Dot, dad has called for my month's accounts and I 'm straightening 'em out. You 'll help a fellow?"
"Oh, yes." Dorothy was very amiable so long as her book served as throne for Jim. "How much out are you?"
"How much?" This with some impatience.
"Yes. What do you have to account for?"
"My month's allowance, I told you!"
"But I mean—here, read me what you 've written."
Jim, plainly annoyed at her stupidity, held the book aloft and read in a teasing tone, "'Picture for G., two dollars,'" then stopped and looked quizzically at her over the top of the book.
"Jim, I should think you 'd make up your mind to keep track as you go along."
"So I did."
"You did?"
"Certainly. Did that very thing. Had the usual scene with dad, came upstairs, sat down at my desk, made a good resolution that I his time I would put down every blessed thing as I bought it, swelled with self-esteem, chucked the book into the back corner of my desk, and never thought another word about it from that day to this. Was ever a fellow so put upon? There I was, with the best intentions in the world, and, as you see,"— he threw out his hands,— "balked on every side!"
"You old goose! And can't you remember a thing?"
"Yes," he replied after thinking a moment. "Yesterday I bought a postal card, and the day before some banjo strings."
"Put them down quick! Now try again."
"It's your turn."
"Well, there was the dance, you know."
"That 's so. How much?"
"One-ninety—no, one-eighty."
"T'is done. Go on."
"It's your turn."
"I 'll give it to you. Please hurry." He waited with pencil uplifted and eying her closely. Each item as it fell from her lips was instantly noted in the book, and he was ready for another.
"Did n't you have your wheel mended?"
"I did. How much?"
"I don't know. Fifty, perhaps."
"Fifty. Go on."
"No—wait. I remember; it was sixty-five."
"Rectified. Sixty-five. Continue."
"And—urn—um—you bought a new cleek."
"That's down. Go on."
"Some golf-balls."
"How many? How much?"
"I don't know. Don't you?"
"Yes. What else?"
"Some car-fares, probably."
"Probably. How many, should you guess?"
"Why, I have n't the faintest idea."
"Call it seventy-five. Go on."
"That tie you 're wearing."
"Fifty. Go on."
"Newspapers, maybe?"
"There must have been. 'Papers, ten cents.' Go on."
"But, Jim, I can't think of another thing!"
An accusing silence followed, the pencil wiggling impatiently in the air. "Really, Dorothy," he complained, as she offered no further suggestions, "you must n't be so slow. Dad 'll be crazy."
"I 'll get my accounts, too!" cried Dorothy, inspired, and returned in a minute with her neat, well-kept book, with the aid of which, and by dint of much brain-racking, they finally succeeded in getting an imposing list of items. Then came the balancing, a distressing matter.
"You should have two sixty-three left. Have you got anywhere near that?" asked Dorothy.
He thrust a hand into his pocket, extracted one dime and one penny, and held them out on his palm, looking at her reproachfully.
"What! Only eleven cents? Is that all? Do we have to make up all the rest?"
"'Make up'! Indeed we won't, mademoiselle. We 'll have to account for it."
"Oh!"
They went all through the list, revising prices, amending and re-amending, with occasional appeals to other authorities for greater accuracy—as when Jim flew down the back stairs to ask the cook what would be a likely price for bakers' crullers, or Dorothy manoeuvered in the lower hall till she had enticed her aunt out of the library, only to demand of that astonished lady, "Quick, Aunt Mary! Did Jim buy that belt last month or this?"
"Dorothy," called the dreaded uncle from the library, "what is that boy up to? I told him to come down and show me his accounts."
"Oh, he 'll be down presently, I guess," said Dorothy, and tore upstairs to report dolefully, "You got it last month, and uncle 's in a stew for you to come down."
"Well, I 'm in a stew, too!" said Jim, in a hurt tone. "Then I 'm still a dollar shy, Dot. How 'll I fix it?"
"Can't you think of anything you 're in the habit of getting?"
After reflection, he timidly suggested that perhaps he 'd had his skates sharpened; but as it was May, they decided not to record that expense.
"However," he cried in triumph, "I did lend you forty cents!"
"But I paid you!"
"Well, I must have lost some," he continued. "Yes, I 'm sure of it. 'Lost, sixty cents.' There! That balances to a cent. How pleased and proud dad will be! Thank you, Dot. An revoir!"
Fifteen minutes later he came running back upstairs, to find his mother on the lounge with Dorothy, and down he sat between the two with a force that was positively unpardonable.
"Would n't accept my accounts," he announced indignantly. "Wanted dates. Dates! Ever hear anything more unreasonable? As if I 'd sit down and make up a lot of bogus dates! Why, 't would be cheating! What are you laughing at, mother?"
"Was I laughing? I did n't mean to."
"Well, would it be fair?"
"I suppose not."
"Of course it would n't. And he pounced on that item 'bout Dot, and said, 'Mm .' — no, not like that—'Gmm!'—that 's more like it—you know the way he does—'Gurrnm'! So you lent Dolly forty cents? Did n't she pay you?' And I 'm such a guileless dunce I had to giggle right out, 'n' say, 'Course she did. She always does.' And then he said 'Gurrum' again, like the radiators when the steam 's coming into 'em. And he fished out a bill from Bancroft's and stuck it under my nose. I thought that bill was paid ages ago! Pretty idea sending my bills to another man! Why was n't it sent to me, I 'd like to know?"
"Why, it was, Jim! " cried Dorothy of the accurate memory. "They sent it 'way back in March. Don't you remember?"
"No, I don't. Then why did n't they send it to me again?"
"Possibly they thought it more profitable to send it to your father," suggested Mrs. Saybrooke, mildly, and her son sniffed.
"Well, he produced that and handed it out with such an air. He said, 'What do you make out of that?' I said I could n't see that I made anything; I thought I had lost on it. He said, very impressive-like, 'No, I am the loser,' and I said, 'All the better,' and then he sailed into me. The usual oration, you know : wasteful habits—ignorance—value of money—not grudging me all I wanted—only I should n't waste it, till finally he ended by saying the only way to keep me from wasting money was not to give me any to waste, and I should n't have any allowance at all this month! Now!"
"Whew!" said his listeners.
"I almost hated dad for that!"—with a vengeful click of his teeth.
"Oh, no, you did n't, Jim!" his mother protested, turning to look at her son.
He considered. "Well, no; no, I did n't hate him; but," with sudden animation, "I wish I had hated him!"
"But I 'll fix him," he prophesied direfully. "You 'll see!" After prolonged mental search for a means of bothering his father, he struck his knee in a rapture. "I 've got it! I 'll behave! How that will faze him!" And he retired happily to bed, hugging to his bosom the thought of his sinister revenge.
For a time his plan worked beautifully, and Mr. Saybrooke, coming out of his room the following morning, was startled and gratified to have his neck caught in a strangling if affectionate clasp while a jovial voice sang, "Hello, old blessing!" in his ear. Before leaving for his business the stern father had proffered a handful of car tickets, and in the course of the next few days the culprit's mother employed him on various odd tasks and errands, these little expedients saving him from absolute penury, although living was nevertheless a serious problem. Still the stricken one waked with an incipient grin trembling on his mouth, went to bed with a giggle, and was all through the day "the sweetest little being ever walked on two legs," as he confidentially informed his cousin, adding that he could "feel the improvement sticking out all over him like quills upon the fretful porcupine."
But Jim was human—very—and this docility could not last. One evening the exasperations of his impecunious state affected the boy's temper; he found relief in waxing riotous, and a paternal summons was quite disregarded as Jim raced noisily upstairs, drowning entreaties and commands in a merry catch trolled at the top of his lungs.
Mr. Saybrooke followed, clutching his paper. All was quiet on the second floor, and after calling in vain the harassed gentleman flung himself into an arm-chair in the sitting-room and tried to comfort himself with the stock reports. He was half-way down the column when a far-away voice called, "Whoop!"
"James, come here."
A head protruded from behind a corner of a bookcase and an anxious voice inquired, "Daddy dear, did you say, 'All 's out 's in free?'"
"I said, 'Touch home for Jim Saybrooke.' Come out here."
He came, finger in mouth and dragging a reluctant foot. "Am I 'it'?"
"You are. Does n't your conscience prick, old man?"
"No sir; it claws."
"It does, does it? Good enough! Go to your room and let it claw—no; go up to the loft and wait for me. Now, march!"
Click! went Jim's heels, up flew his hand in a military salute, and as he about-faced and marched off his father called after him, laughing, "Remember, now! just give yourself up to remorse."
As Jim passed out of the door he was unaffectedly sorry for his misbehavior, and grieved that he had not consistently carried out his scheme of revenge. When he reached the stair-foot he was grieving that his evening must be wasted, and as he opened the door of the loft, or clubroom which was the property of Dorothy, himself, and six kindred spirits, he was already planning what he would do when released.
But in the meantime he must find some occupation, and having lighted the lamp, he cast a searching eye about the big, oddly decorated room. What were those sheets of paper scattered on the piano? Why, surely, that two-step he was composing! He bore down upon the papers, gathered them together, and, putting on the soft pedal, played his composition over with increasing satisfaction. It was better than he had supposed. That place that had n't pleased him before—well, it was n't quite right, but he seemed almost to hear how it should go. Let 's see, now. The sheets of scribbled music were disregarded, and Jim's fingers wandered experimentally over the keys. Gradually, bit by bit, the thing came to him until he almost—not quite—wait—no—ah, good! and with a little squeal of triumph the inspiration came, and he bent over the keys delightedly, pounding out the desired chords. That was good—that certainly was good. He pounced on his score, smudging out the old notes and writing in the new. Those bars were repeated farther on; he looked for the place and made his correction. Now! He 'd play the whole thing over. He did, looking happier every minute. "Hooray! That sounds O.K.! I believe that's not half bad!" he cried, flirting ten gifted fingers in the air; and then, forgetting caution, he pressed the loud pedal and sailed into his two-step so vigorously that the room rang with the lively air. The last chords sounded with a superb crash, and, with his hands still resting on the keys, he drew a long, happy sigh.
"James," said a quiet voice.
If Mr. Saybrooke wished to startle his son, he must have been satisfied with the jump that young gentleman gave. Recovering himself, "Did you hear my two-step, dad?" he inquired excitedly, adding, "I did n't hear yours!"
"I am not deaf," said dad, with crushing literalness.
Jim smiled. "Let me play it to you again!" he begged, fingering his music longingly.
"No, I thank you. James, do you happen to remember why I sent you up here?"
"Yes," said Jim, leaving the piano and walking toward his father. " I was bad. That was why."
"What did I tell you to do?"
"You said I was to give myself up to remorse." He attempted to get his hands on those broad, unbending shoulders, but without success.
"And this is the way you do it?"
Jim hesitated a minute, looking from his father's severe face toward the piano and back again. Then he suddenly fled to his seat, caught up his stubby little pencil, and drove it wildly across the top of the first sheet of music. Gathering the rumpled pages together, he rose and presented them to his parent with a polite bow. Glancing down, Mr. Saybrooke read in great black letters:
REMORSE
TWO-STEP
"I am glad to know," he said, "that you obey me so literally. Now please go to bed."
The boy obeyed. The father 's unusually stern manner prevented his asking for his two-step back, though he looked at it, tightly rolled in Mr. Saybrooke's hand, with infinite wistfulness. "P'r'aps he 'll give it to me in the morning," he thought hopefully, saying good night in the hall. In the morning, Mr. Saybrooke seemd not to know that such things as two-steps existed; and oh, crowning anguish, though he searched into the most remote corners of his brain and nearly demolished the piano, Jim could not recall that particular little strain without which his whole composition was as naught.
Time passes, even for the poverty-stricken, and at last only one week remained before allowance-time. But such a week! A ball-game, a Dutch-treat lawn dance, and a concert, not one of which Jim felt that he could miss, and yet he had funds for only one half of one! He was thinking mournfully of these facts, one evening when he strolled in to dinner, and was pretty silent, till his father came in a few minutes later and handed him a roll of music, with the explanation, "I was passing Damon's to-day, and noticed that they had some new music in the window, so I brought you home a bunch of jigs, kid." Pleasant things do sometimes happen, it seemed, even to persons who had to economize, and the "kid" brightened, accepted his jigs gratefully. with a hearty "Thank you, dad!" and glanced them over, trying the opening bars in a repressed whistle, unreproved by his mother.
"That last march of Norton's," he murmured. "Glad to have that—good as any he 's written. I think. Hello! here's something that'll just suit you, Dot. A song of De Camp's, all about apple-blossoms and sunshine and fat little girls with dimples. No, I don't mean anything personal. Don't get mad. I like the looks of it, myself. What's this? Oh, dad! you know I loathe that thing. I shall take it back and exchange it for something good, you old smarty. Well, let 's see how this goes. ...Humph! Why— What!"
He had whistled the first bars, looked puzzled, glanced at the title, and then given a yell of astonishment.
Like lightning he slapped over the page and stared at the gorgeous red-and-black cover. No, there was no mistake. Dorothy, peeking over his shoulder, read in a megaphone voice:
REMORSE,
Two-step.
BY
J. C. SAYBROOKE.
"What is it? What J. C. Saybrooke? You did n't write it?" demanded his mother. But Jim, after hopping up and giving one little prance of delight, rolled the music into a speaking-tube and telephoned across the table in hollow tones:
"Dad! Explain!"
The young composer's cheeks were about as pink and his eyes as bright as they well could be; but when his father placed a check on the waitress's tray and ceremoniously directed, "Take it to Mr. James," he became a little more bewildered and eraptured than before.
"Thir—ty—five!" he said in hushed accents. "Dad, you 've got to tell what it 's all about."
Thus coerced, Mr. Saybrooke produced a letter and handed it to his wife, who mercifully relieved the curiosity of the family by reading aloud at once:
H. Broughton,
Music Publisher.
May 9, ———
My Dear Mr. Saybrooke: Yours of the 8th inst. received, and I hasten to assure you that I have not forgotten your name, your face, nor your old-time characteristic of being ever anxious to help out the under dog. In this last particular your letter proves that you can have changed little since the days of Sheldon School. Glad as I should be to do an old school-mate a favor, it is entirely contrary to my custom to buy and publish any inferior music, for reasons of personal interest; therefore when I tell you that I will print the two-step you forwarded you will understand that it is solely on the merits of the composition itself that it is accepted. It has a swing and spirit that will make it popular, I believe, and is, moreover, distinctly original. Your young protege has talent and should cultivate it. But why the singular title? I presume you have no objection to the substitution of one more suitable. If you will let me know the name of the composter I will at once forward the payment and bring out the two-step. Believe me, dear sir, heartily glad to be able to oblige an old friend. Cordially,
Herbert Broughton.
Only Jim seemed unimpressed by this surprising epistle; and he tore around the table to his somewhat embarrassed parent. "And then daddy had to own up!" he chuckled, strangling his sire with the right arm. "Had to own up that it wasn't anybody but bad little Jimmy, that he was the needy young 'composer,'"—change to the left arm,—"and that the only reason Jimmy was needy was that his daddy had cabbaged his pennies," hugging with both arms now. "Say, I can go to the concert and the ball-game and the dance too, can't I? Hooray! Great Caesar! I can't decide whether to sit down and eat, or go and play you 'Remorse'—I 'm so glad you did n't let him change the name!"
They finally persuaded him that eating was the thing to do; but in the first wait between courses he hied himself to the music-room and gave them "Remorse" in his very best manner. When he returned, Dorothy, who was n't musical but had some little skill with her pen, was declaring, "It would make a lovely moral tale. I mean to write it up and see if I can't earn thirty-five dollars."
"So it would," said her aunt, encouragingly. "You 'd better try it, dear."
But Jim, with a saucy but fond glance at his father, murmured, "The moral is all right, dad. I 'm going to save most of this money, and I 'll keep account of every penny of it!"
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