CHAPTER X

ON THE WAY HOME

PRACTICAL-MINDED Kitty was dismayed. She always looked ahead quicker and farther than Kingdon or Marjorie, and though her gentle little heart ached for the poor Simpsons, it would never have occurred to her to invite them into her own home.

But then, too, Kitty, as a younger sister, had always agreed to the plans of the older ones, unless by her common-sense she could argue them down. And in this instance there was no opportunity for argument. King and Midget had proved themselves heroes, and were even now receiving the applause that was their due. Since, therefore, the die was cast, Kitty had no intention of being left out of the glory of it.

Seizing Rosy Posy by the hand, the two ran to King’s side, and the four Maynards received an ovation that would not have done discredit to a returning war-veteran.

To be sure, the admiring audience was largely composed of the citizens of this lowly locality, but their appreciation was as deep and their voices were as strong as those of the aristocrats on the other side of the bridge.

“And as we’re going to do this,” said Kitty, when the cheers had subsided, “we’d better get about it before all those children catch their death of cold.”

It was five o’clock now, and the sun was getting low, and the March wind high.

The seven small Simpsons had on no hats or wraps, nor, for that matter, did the four small Maynards, so Kitty’s suggestion was really on the side of wisdom and prudence.

“Right you are, little Miss,” said the burly overseer, “and as you children are so kind as to take these sufferin’ folks to your own house, I’ll see to it that what few sticks of furnicher they’ve saved is taken care of.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Marjorie; “then we can go right home. I’m so afraid our baby will catch cold. And Mrs. Simpson’s babies, too,” she added, considerately. “Come on, Rosy Pet; come with Middy.”

Rosamond put her cold little hand in Midget’s, and Kitty said, “We must all run; that’s the way to get warm. Come on.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mrs. Simpson, who had not yet really accepted her invitation; “I’m thinkin’ it ain’t right for us to go to your ma’s house, an’ her away from home. It ain’t for the likes of us to go into a grand house with carpets and pictures. And I’m thinkin’ we’d ought to go to the poorhouse, after all.”

For a moment Marjorie felt relieved. After her impulsive invitation, a sort of reaction had left her wondering how it would all turn out. And now she had a chance to retract and reconsider her offer.

But again the woebegone look on Mrs. Simpson’s tearful face, and the forlornness of the seven shivering children smote her heart, and she couldn’t help saying:

“It _is_ right, Mrs. Simpson. You know how kind my mother is to you, and now she’s away, _I’m_ head of the house.”

Unconsciously, Marjorie drew up her plump little figure to its full height, and her air of authority carried its own conviction.

“Yes, indeed,” chimed in King. “And I know my father would say just what I say; come ahead, Mrs. Simpson, and welcome!”

As a matter of fact, King was not moved so much by the certainty that his father would say this, as by his natural impulse to back up Marjorie’s invitation, and also assert his own position as “head of the house” equally with herself.

Something of this same spirit imbued Kitty, and she said:

“Indeed, I think we’d be very selfish not to share our home with these poor, afflicted people. Mrs. Simpson, don’t you bother about anything at all; you just bring your children and come right along with us. Father often says to us, ‘Children, in a ’mergency you must think for yourselves, and think quickly.’ So now we’ve thought, and we did it as quick as we could; so you just come on and say no more about it.”

Kitty did not mean to be crisp of speech, but Mrs. Simpson was still looking uncertain, and diffidently hanging back, and Kitty was anxious to get home.

“Yes; come on,” said King, realizing himself the need for immediate action.

“Well, I’ll go, just for to-night,” said Mrs. Simpson, looking scared at her own decision. “I’ll go, as I haven’t a roof where to lay my head—I mean—a—a——”

The poor woman was really incoherent from shock and excitement. Always frail, she had overworked her strength to keep her family clothed and fed, and now she was nearly at the end of her endurance.

“Here, ma’am, I’ll go with you,” said a kind-hearted neighbor, one of the few now left in the rapidly thinning crowd. He took the poor woman by the arm, saying, “You Simpson children come along, now,” and then waited respectfully for the Maynards to lead the way. So King marched boldly ahead, followed by Midget and Kitty, with the tired Rosy Posy between them. Next came Mrs. Simpson and her escort, and then the seven Simpson children, shy and awkward now, by reason of a sudden realization of where they were going.

It was far from being an imposing-looking parade. Kingdon, though valiant-hearted, was secretly a little dubious about the whole proceeding. It had been Marjorie’s idea, and he had willingly subscribed to it, but it certainly was a great responsibility.

It was right—yes, he felt sure it was right—but it seemed to open up such a bewildering array of future consequences, that he couldn’t even dare to think about them.

Then suddenly he realized that he was lonely. Why should he walk alone? He turned to join the other three, feeling the necessity of sympathetic companionship, but at the sight of the three girls behind him, he burst into a peal of laughter.

“Oh! if you could see yourselves!” he cried, for he hadn’t before noticed their appearance. “Mops, you’re just covered with smoky smudges—your dress is more black than white! And Kit, how _did_ you get torn so?”

The girls stood still and looked at each other. Never before in their short lives, had they been through an occasion so momentous as to render them entirely oblivious of everything else. But the fire and its thrilling scenes, followed by this absorbing responsibility of the Simpsons’ entire career, had left them no time to think of themselves or each other.

“Goodness gracious me!” exclaimed Marjorie, as she looked at the awful wrecks of her two sisters’ once immaculate costumes; “am I as bad as that?”

“Your face is even blacker than Kit’s,” declared King, after looking critically at each. “Rosy Posy, you seem to have met a waterspout somewhere.”

“Ess,” said the little one, forlornly. “Nassy old big man frowed water on me out o’ a long hose fing.”

It was quite evident that a careless fireman had deluged the child, and King looked greatly concerned.

“She’ll get pneumonia in those wet clothes,” he said; “we must hurry home faster. Come, Baby, brother’ll carry you.”

“Do, p’ease,” she said; “I’se so tired an’ wet.”

A chubby five-year-old is no light burden for a boy, but King picked up his little sister, and trudged on faster.

“Oh, King!” said Marjorie, hurrying her steps to keep up with him, “I’ve just thought of it! The Mortimers will be there when we get home!”

“I’ve thought of it all along,” said King, with a gloomy shake of his head. “I don’t know what’ll happen, Mops; but we’ve got to brave it out now.”

“But how can we? What _will_ Miss Larkin say?”

“You ought to have thought of that sooner,” said Kitty. “I did. I thought of her first thing. But you two didn’t ask my advice.”

Poor Kitty couldn’t help this little fling. Often her judgment was better than theirs, but being older, King and Marjorie never asked her opinion until it was too late.

“And think how we look!” wailed Marjorie, her mind going ahead, as they neared home.

“I’ve been thinking of it,” said King, grimly, as he shifted the baby to his other arm. “I say, Mops, we’re in no end of a mess, and I don’t know what we’re up against. But there’s one comfort; it isn’t mischief, and we haven’t done anything wrong.”

“It isn’t mischief,” agreed Midget; “that’s sure. But I’m not so sure we haven’t done wrong. When I asked Mrs. Simpson, it seemed the only thing to do; and it seemed—it seemed——”

“Grand and noble,” suggested King.

“Yes, it did! Sort of splendid, and ‘love thy neighbor as thyself,’ you know. But now——”

“Now,” said Kitty, “we’ve got to face the music. We’ve got to go in the house, looking like ragpickers ourselves, and taking with us a crowd of people who look—well, nearly as bad! and then, we’ve got to face Miss Larkin and her grand company!”

“We can’t!” exclaimed Marjorie, stopping short, quite appalled at the picture Kitty drew so graphically.

“We’ve got to!” declared King. “Come on, Mops, I can’t carry this baby much farther. Rosy Posy, you’re a bunch of sweetness, but you’re an awful heavy one.”

“Is I?” said the little one, apologetically, as she nestled close to the big brother whom she adored, and patted his grimy face with her equally grimy little hand.

“Let me carry the little girl,” said the big man, who, just behind, was looking after Mrs. Simpson.

But Rosamond was shy, and utterly refused to go to the arms of a stranger.

“Never mind,” said King, wearily. “We’re almost home now. I can manage her.”

They turned in at the front gate, and the procession started up the Maynard driveway.

“Guess I’ll go back now,” said the stranger man, a little abashed at the sight of the great house, brilliantly lighted, that was partly visible through the trees. “You all right, now, Mis’ Simpson?”

“Yes,” said the trembling woman, frightened herself, and weak from fatigue and exhaustion.

“Here, you Sam,” said the man to the oldest boy; “come here and take a-hold of your ma. She’s pretty near faintin’. Get her to bed’s soon’s you can. Good-bye, all!”

With an embarrassed gesture, he snatched off his old cap, replaced it as suddenly, and turning, fled down the path in an actual spasm of stage-fright.

Though Mrs. Simpson had not heard the children’s discussion on the way home, he had, and he knew that warm-hearted as the little Maynards were, they had a serious situation confronting them when they opened their own front door.

This, and his own embarrassment at the sight of unaccustomed grandeur, made him seek refuge in panic-stricken flight.

Some of the young Simpsons were almost ready to follow him, but the braver ones were on tiptoe of glad expectation at the thought of going into the beautiful house. They knew the Maynards pretty well, and having always found them kindly and pleasant, had no fear save such as was engendered by the awe of wealth and luxurious surroundings.

“Set down the baby, and let me think a minute,” said Marjorie to her brother, as they were within a few yards of the house. “We’ve got to take the Simpsons in, of course, but do you think Miss Larkin would like it better if we all went round to the side door? You see, we all look like the dickens, and she’s so particular about those Mortimer people.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said King. “This is an emergency. It’s an accident, a tragedy, a very special occasion. She will have to forgive our appearance, ’cause we couldn’t help it. We were doing our best to be helpful to people in trouble, and if we got all messed up by it, it isn’t our fault. And, besides, it’s our house, and the Simpsons are our comp’ny. We’ve more right there than Miss Larkin and her comp’ny. So, if she has any sense, she’ll understand all this. And so, I say, go right in the front door, and do our best.”

“I think all that, too,” agreed Midge, “but I only thought if it would hurt Larky’s feelings to see us girls looking so disreputable, we might spruce into clean clothes before we saw the Mortimers.”

“What do you think, Kit?” said King, with a sudden remembrance of Kitty’s good sense in a dilemma.

Kitty, much elated at being appealed to, answered at once:

“I think King’s right. It’s our house, and this is our whole show. Miss Larkin has company to-night, and that’s her whole show. We needn’t interfere with each other at all. ’Course it’s too bad that we look so dirty and all, but who wouldn’t, after they’d been managing a whole fire? And so I say, let’s march right in, and not act as if we’d been doing anything wrong. We haven’t, and I don’t see, Mops, why you act as if we had.”

“It isn’t wrong,” said Marjorie, still standing still, and digging her patent-leather toe thoughtfully into the hard ground of the drive; “but I do want to spare Larky’s feelings all I can. She was so particular about our keeping clean, and you know, we truly meant to, and now, look at us!”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Kitty; “we’d have kept lovely and clean if we’d stayed at home. But we went out, and got into this—this predickerment, and ’course we got smoky and all. We can get washed and dressed after we tell Larky all about it. Come on, do; I’m awful hungry, and I’m tired, too.”

“All right,” said Marjorie, still a little doubtful; “come on, then. You can walk now, can’t you, Posy Pet?”

“Ess; I’s all wested now. Take hold my hand.”

So the four Maynards, hand in hand, walked on, and then mounted the broad steps of their own front verandah.

“Come on, Mrs. Simpson,” said Marjorie, over her shoulder. Her voice was full of the kindest hospitality and welcome. In doubt about Miss Larkin’s attitude in the matter, she might be; in doubt about the wisdom of making their entrance before strange guests, without first repairing their toilets, she might be; but in Marjorie’s honest little heart there was not a shadow of doubt that she was doing right in offering the shelter of her home to these unfortunate refugees.

She felt sure that had her parents been at home they would have done the same thing, and in their absence her own sense of responsibility asserted itself, and upheld her in her present action.

The eight Simpsons trudged up the steps behind the Maynards, and as they all stood in front of the long glass doors, whose heavy lace panels only partly screened the brightly lighted hall, King rang the bell.