Part 3

“Positively, he grows worse and worse,” Aunt Adelaide was saying as I entered the room. “Yesterday he was openly impertinent to me, and flatly refused to accompany Meta to dancing-school. I do not wish to bring the affair to his father, who is rather severe at times, but I declare there is no managing the boy. He won’t study, he has no manners, and he resents interference in any direction.”

It was Geoffrey, of course—and I felt sorry. So did mother. The mocking note had quite died from her voice, as she answered simply and kindly,—

“I think you are a little unjust, Adelaide. Geoffrey requires tactful handling, I know. He is apt to be sullen at times; he is not bookish; but in his own way, along the mechanical line, it seems to me that he is really clever.”

Aunt Adelaide sighed. “Heaven forbid his being an inventor! One is misfortune enough for any family.”

Mother merely smiled that little quiet smile of hers, and asked how Meta was progressing with her music. She will never discuss father with either Aunt Adelaide or Uncle George;—but the attack was not to be so easily repelled, and Aunt Adelaide returned to it a moment later by asking bluntly if there had been any further news of Mr. Perry, and whether we had given up all hope of finding the contract.

“George says the whole affair is entirely typical of poor Dudley,” she declared. “He has not an ounce of patience with it.”

And then, after a few further generalities, Aunt Adelaide prepared to leave, quite unconscious that she had said anything to wound or offend any one, and I was sent upstairs to fetch Georgie.

I knew that there was trouble as soon as I opened the nursery door. For Bobs in his little old flannel dressing-gown was sitting up very straight and white-lipped in mother’s big bed pretending to look at a picture-book; while Georgie, with red face and hands thrust deep in his knickerbocker-pockets, was standing by the window, pretending to look out.

“I’ll tell you something more you don’t know,” said Robin, glancing up from his book after a moment’s silence. They had neither of them seen me enter the room. “Shall I?”

“I know more’n you do!” chanted Georgie, monotonously.

“You don’t know what a Chimera is; and you don’t know what a Gorgon is; and you don’t know what a Hippogrif is; and you don’t know what a Ninkum is! You wouldn’t if you saw one! And you don’t know what a Siren is; and you don’t know what Syrian is, now neither! Do you?”

George seemed rather overpowered by this erudite outburst; but he reiterated stubbornly:—“I know more’n you do!”

“What’s a Very Imp?” asked Bobs, excitedly. “You don’t know! And what’s a Jabberwock? and what’s a Mockturtle?”

“You eat it in soup,” answered Georgie, brightening up a bit. “We had it the night the General came, and William let me taste some out of a teaspoon in the butler’s pantry,—so there!”

“_Nonsense!_” Bobs’ scorn was withering. “Maybe you’d eat a Ninkum in fish-cakes! _We_ don’t! A Mockturtle was once a real turtle, and——”

But here I thought it best to interfere. “Aunt Adelaide is going, Georgie,” I said. “You had better come downstairs, now.”

As soon as Georgie saw me he put his finger in his mouth and began to cry and asked to be taken down to mamma, for Bobsie was rude to him and said he didn’t know things.

“That certainly is not very polite,—to company!” I answered for Robin’s best good; and took Georgie by the hand and led him away. But just as we reached the foot of the stairs we heard the unrepentant Robin sing out triumphantly,—

“I’ll tell you some more things you don’t know, too. You don’t know what a Crusader is, nor a Centaur, nor you don’t know _nothing_!”

Georgie was quite overcome by this last taunt. He clenched his fist savagely. “I just guess I do know sompfin’,” he sobbed. “I’m going to ask mamma if I don’t.” And he broke away from me, and ran into the parlour.

Of course, Aunt Adelaide soothed him, and assured him that he knew a great deal for a little boy of his age, but that he must be patient with his little sick cousin.

So Georgie stopped crying and looked virtuous; while Aunt Adelaide explained to mother that she knew just how it was in regard to Robin, and thought it only natural that he should be pettish and quarrelsome, and that she would bring Georgie soon again to cheer him up! After which our visitors departed in quite a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction; and mother went downstairs to the kitchen,—very mad,—to superintend the preparation of luncheon; and I ran up to the nursery,—very mad,—to try and soothe Robin’s ruffled spirits.

Nor did it take me long to learn the cause of the disagreement,—for Bobsie was only too eager to confide. It seems that among his other new possessions Georgie has a nursery governess who is teaching him to read, and though Robin did not mind about the pony, and never once thought of envying the fur-lined overcoat and cap, he could not bear to be told that Georgie knew more than he did! The idea is really ridiculous to any one who knows the two children; but, on the whole, it had been an excellent thing for Master Robin to face, for now he is determined to learn to read, too,—a proposition we could never get him to entertain before, as he always said “he perferred to lie still and listen.” I am to give him lessons each morning, and if he sets his mind to it, I am sure he will get on rapidly.

Just think! dearest Haze walked home from school this afternoon,—though it is over three miles,—and bought a string for my mandolin with his car fare. Not many brothers would think of a thing like that.

Sunday, December 7.

Mrs. Hudson’s room is not yet rented. We have not even had any answers to our advertisement. The strain is beginning to tell on us all more or less, I think; and yesterday morning Hazard carried out his intention of calling at Uncle George’s office and applying for a position. I wish he hadn’t. Mother agrees with me that it was a mistake. Indeed, she was quite shocked and hurt at what she considered his lack of confidence in her. She told him very gravely that he had no right to take a step of so much consequence without her consent, and that the little he can make will in no way compensate for the loss of his education. Poor Hazey! he was so disappointed. He had expected the news would be received very differently. He did not say much, but thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets, threw back his head, and strolled whistling from the room. I followed up to the workshop as soon as I was able, and I _think_ he had been crying.

“Well, tell me about your position, Haze,” I began, in as sprightly tones as I could muster; for we had not heard any of the details yet.

“There’s nothing to tell,” answered Hazard, gruffly. “I’m to run errands, post letters, and that sort of thing, at three dollars a week.”

“Oh, Hazey!” I gasped, for it was a shock. Hazard is certainly clever, and we had always expected such different things for him.

“Yes,” says Haze, bitterly. “It’s Uncle George’s idea, and I _suppose_ he knows what he is about. I gave him every opportunity, and put the matter to him squarely. There was no use in false modesty; so I told him, first thing, that I had had a year of Greek, and two years of Latin, and led my geometry class; but that we needed money at home, and so I had determined to sacrifice my future, and rent my brains at their highest market value.”

“Did you really say all that?” I asked.

“Yes, I did,” answered Hazard, a little defiantly. “Perhaps it was a mistake, but I wanted to make things plain. Uncle George didn’t answer just at first. He looked me up and down in that way he has, and then he said,—‘Young fellow, you’ve got a lot to learn yet. If any other cockerel came crowing to me in my office, I’d show him the door. Understand one thing. I haven’t any use for _talent_ in my business’ (though I had been most particular, Elizabeth, to use the word _brains_). ‘Can you remember what’s told you? Can you sweep out a room, and not forget the corners? Can you jump when sent on errands? Then apply to Mr. Bridges in the outside office. I believe we’re losing a boy to-day. Perhaps you are bright enough to fill his place,—though you don’t look it.’

“Well, I applied, and got the position,” concluded Haze, “and that’s all there is to it.”

There did not seem much for me to say, since Haze was not in a mood to be grateful for platitudes. Uncle George was certainly severe, but maybe he meant it for a lesson; and from something that happened this afternoon I am tempted to think it was not entirely wasted.

We were all gathered in the workshop after dinner, Geoffrey, Ernie, and myself, wrapped in golf-cloaks and overcoats, disputing about our favourite apostles, when Haze, who had been rather subdued and “broodful” the greater part of the day, entered the room. He had a notebook under his arm.

“Going to study, Hazey?” I asked him, for he intends to keep up his Latin, and mother has promised to help.

“No,” he answered, with really appalling solemnity. “I have written my first Poem.”

“Your first What?” roars Geof.

“Poem,” admitted Haze, blushing a bit.

“My hat!” murmurs Geof. “This is so sudden! But go on, old chap. Let’s have it,—don’t mind me.”

“If you treat the matter with respect,” says Haze, suddenly on his dignity, “I’ll read it to you. Otherwise I won’t.”

“Fire ahead,” urged Geoffrey, who was simply on the _qui vive_ to hear. “We’re as respectful as you please. We’ll listen, and then criticise.”

“No larks, mind,” warned Hazard. “According to my own ideas this is the real stuff.”

And, as we settled ourselves to attention in the flying-machine, he began, in what I can only call an “uplifted” sort of voice,—

THE YOUNG MAN AND THE WORLD.

The young man faces the stern, cold world,— “Oyster!” he says, “O oyster!——”

There was an hysterical gurgle from Geof, and a fierce “Keep quiet, can’t you!” from Ernestine.

“I’ve told you,” says Hazard, interrupting himself to look severely over his glasses, “that it is perfectly indifferent to me whether you hear this thing or not. I don’t care a hang for your literary opinions,—and I’ll not be guyed about it.”

“Go on,” pleaded Geoffrey, with a watery, sidelong look at me. “Who’s guying you?”

So Haze began afresh,—

THE YOUNG MAN AND THE WORLD.

The young man faces the stern, cold world,— “Oyster!” he says, “O oyster! Open thy shell, and show me thy pearl, Like the hidden wealth of a cloister.”

The cold world answers never a word. The youth is bound, if he can, To take up his pickaxe and work for himself, Till he prove that he _is_ a man!

“Ho! ho!” exploded Geof, unable to restrain himself a moment longer. “Pickaxe is good! That’s the way to get after ’em! Bully for you, old boy!”

“What do you think, Elizabeth?” says Hazard, haughtily ignoring this demonstration, and turning somewhat coldly to me.

“I’m not sure that you could say hidden wealth of a ‘cloister,’” I answered. “Somehow it doesn’t sound exactly historical.”

“_‘Oyster!’ he says, ‘O oyster!’_” murmured Geof.

Whereat Ernie, who had controlled herself beautifully up to that moment, gave vent to one enthusiastic whoop, and disappeared backward into the flying-machine.

“I see,” says Hazey, with really magnificent aplomb, “that I have made a mistake. You are not in the proper mood to appreciate the thing. But whatever other criticisms you may make, at least you’ll be bound to admit that it Sums the Situation.” With which remark he stalked from the room.

Dear, precious fellow! Evidently he has been thinking,—but, why, oh why, will he always take himself so seriously?

Monday, December 8.

This afternoon mother let Robin up in the big wicker rocking-chair in the nursery window. He was so glad, poor darling;—for he has spent the last three days in bed.

The street was full of snow; and the boys were having a fine time with their shovels, their sleds, and a small black-and-tan terrier which pranced here and there, yapping excitedly. Two of the taller fellows were busy making a path in front of their house; a little chap with glowing cheeks and a red cap had improvised a slide on the half-cleared pavement; while others were engaged in a brisk snowball fight.

Bobsie, pale but delighted, watched everything with eager approbation.

“That’s the smartest dog!” he cried. “His name is Buster. Come and see, Elizabeth. If he thinks they’re going to hit him with a snowball, he’ll run away,—but, if he thinks they’re going to hit somebody else, he’ll just stand and bark and wag his tail. You can’t fool Buster!”

“How do you know his name?” I asked.

“Pooh!” boasted Bobs, “that’s easy;—for a person who looks out of windows as much as me. I know all the boys’ names, too, and where they live, and whether they have sisters. I pertend that they are my friends, and that I’m out there playing with them. You can hardly tell the difference, sometimes! We have such fun.”

“I’m glad you do, darling,” I answered. “Which game do you like best to play?”

“Oh, that depends on the time of year,” answered Robin, judicially. “I’ve watched, until I know all about it. In summer there is Cat and Prisoner’s Base; when fall comes we have football in the corner lot, and some of us wear noseguards; then there’s snowballing and sliding all winter; and in the spring, marbles, again. Only, John an’ me don’t play for keeps, because our mothers wouldn’t like it.”

“Which is John?” I asked.

“He’s the little one with the red cap, who’s sliding,” answered Robin. “I like him best, because he is such a kind boy. Why, one day, Ellie, when my legs ached so I couldn’t pertend to go out, even for a few minutes, John was the only one who missed me! The others kept right on playing:—but he stopped all of a sudden, and looked up at the window, and smiled. So now I’ve taken him for my chum:—wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, honey,” I answered. “I think he must be a very nice little boy.”

“He is,” agreed Robin, proudly. “The day we broke the baker’s window, an’ the cop chased us, John ran faster than anybody. Of course, it was easy for me. All I had to do was to pertend to dodge in here and slam the door _quick_!... But watch! we’re going to give Buster a ride, now. Isn’t that fun?”

The black-and-tan terrier seemed to think it was. He kept his place well in the middle of the sled, tail up, tongue lolling, while two of the boys seized the rope and, followed by the others, made madly off,—the gay cavalcade disappearing noisily around the corner.

Robin dropped back among his pillows with a disappointed little sigh.

“I’m sorry they’ve gone so soon,” he said; “because, you see, I can’t pertend to play, ’cepting only on this block.” Then he laid his cheek up against my arm. “Sometimes those little boys must be sick, too, mustn’t they?” he asked. “And I guess it’s pretty hard then, for they aren’t used to it like me. There’s a lot in being used to a thing, isn’t there, Ellie dear?”

* * * * *

Oh, if we could only feel that Robin was growing stronger! I pray for it every night, and so do mother, and Haze, and Ernie, I know;—and we “pertend” to think that he is, and tell each other that it is because of the cold weather he feels wretched so much of the time:—but, in our secret hearts—— Well, the doctor has ordered a new kind of cod-liver oil. It is very nasty, and costs eighty-five cents a bottle. Perhaps it will do Robin good!

Wednesday, December 10.

Ernie has distinguished herself again. How can she be so naughty, and _never_ mean any harm! This time Geoffrey is implicated, too, but I can only do justice to the affair by constructing it from the beginning, piecing together the details as we learned them in yesterday evening’s soul-thrilling confessional.

It seems that the two children were bitterly disappointed a week ago Tuesday when they searched the cuckoo-clock for the lost contract, and found nothing more exciting than a deserted mouse’s nest.

“I call it a giddy sell,” remarked Ernie, so near to tears that Geof was honestly concerned. “No matter how good you try to be, nor how much you try to help, everything turns against you.”

“Oh, cheer up,” said Geoffrey. Ernie never looks more bewitching than when her blue eyes swim behind a veil of suspended woe. “What’s the good of worrying, Bunnie?”

“I guess you’d worry,” returned Ernie, dolefully, “if Georgie were sick, and your family were poor, and you were responsible for making them more so! It’s all very well to say ‘cheer up,’ Geoffrey Graham, and I’m sure I do most of the time, but this afternoon I want to do something _really useful_.”

“Well then, see here,” says Geof, a bright idea striking him all of a sudden. “I’ve got a plan. Come up to the workshop again, where we won’t be interrupted, and I’ll tell you.”

“Is it something in which I can help?” asked Ernie, doubtfully.

“It’s a pretty big undertaking,” answered Geof, closing the workshop door mysteriously. “I don’t believe a girl has ever been concerned in such an affair before;—but, see here, why shouldn’t you and I together _perfect Uncle Dudley’s flying-machine_?”

“Geoffrey!” cried Ernie, with sparkling eyes. “Could we? truly, do you think?”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” answered Geof, seriously. “I’ve thought a lot about the matter, without supposing I’d ever have the chance to put it to the test. I’ve taken the motor out, and examined it. It is certainly a stunner; and the steering apparatus seems simple enough. You say Uncle Dudley really made one ascension?”

“Not exactly,” qualified Ernie. “The machine didn’t rise any distance at all. Father was dreadfully disappointed. But later he cheered up and said there was just one little detail that stood between him and ‘a complete solution of the problem of aërial navigation.’ I remember his very words, and how excited we all were.”

“That is what I have always understood,” answered Geof. “Uncle would have perfected the thing if he had lived long enough. It’s magnificent to contemplate,—and a beastly shame to think of the fruits of his genius lying up here rusting in a totally unknown attic! Why can’t you and I take the matter up where he left it, find out the root of the trouble,—just one little detail, you say,—and let Mr. Perry and his old dump-carts go hang?” It isn’t often that Geof waxes eloquent. When he does he is worth listening to.

“We can! we can!” jubilated Ernie, clapping her hands. “Oh, Geof, it’s a splendid scheme! Why has no one thought of it before?”

“I have thought of it, often,” answered Geoffrey; “but somehow, up to to-day, it seemed impossible. What you’ve just told me throws an entirely new light on the matter, and I think we are justified at least in trying.”

“And if we don’t succeed,” says Ernie, “nobody need know anything about it.”

“That’s so,” answered Geof. “We’ll have to do a lot of hard studying and thinking, and we’ll keep the thing a deadly secret;—but I tell you, if we do make it go, _it will be worth while_!”

And so the conspirators set to work. For a week they ransacked father’s library, reading up on aëronautics generally, studying every pamphlet and authority they could lay their hands on. There was one thing that especially confused them. Each man supported a “totally different theory,” as Ernie plaintively complained. It was extremely trying, especially as dear father had worked almost entirely in his head, leaving very few directions or specifications to guide them to the right trail. At last Geof declared that he thought they would never get anywhere through books; that their one hope lay in practical experiment. Ernie quite agreed with him, and after that they spent hours in the airship, mastering as they supposed the intricate details of motor, steering apparatus, and machinery. Geoffrey even discovered what he considered a slight error in the automatic system of shifting weights. Finally, last Saturday morning, behind closed doors, the motor was taken out and started up. It ran like a dream. They came to the bold conclusion that nothing remained to hinder an experimental ascension!

All this time it must be understood mother and I had not the faintest suspicion as to what was going on. We knew that there was “a secret” in the workshop, “a beautiful surprise for the family.” Just how great a surprise, however, we neither of us dreamed.

Yesterday afternoon was the time set for the ascension. How the two children managed alone to raise the heavy machine from the workshop floor to the roof by means of the trap-door and pulleys father had used in the previous experiment will always remain a mystery. But they did! At last it stood among the chimney-pots, with rakish sails and scarred sides, looking for all the world like “a tipsy eagle-bird,” as Ernie enthusiastically declared. Even by this time neither of the little idiots seems to have had the least realisation of _what_ it was they were attempting. On the contrary, they were quite wild with the frolic and excitement of the thing.

Geof straightened out the sails, and opened the manœuvre valve. _Tick-tock_, sounded the motor. The framework quivered response.

“Hold on there,” shouted Geoffrey, as he ran to attach the short length of anchor line to a hook in the stone coping at the front of the roof. “Don’t get in yet, Ernie. The place in the middle belongs to me. I’ve got to manage the steering gear.”

“All right,” Ernie answered, climbing over the side, nevertheless. “I’m just looking to see which of these levers starts her.”

And then,—no one will ever know how it happened, Geoffrey had his back turned, Ernie can’t explain,—there was a whiz, a whirr, deep in the interior regions of the old airship, a sudden tug on the mooring-line that sent Geof sprawling into the tin gutter, and with a swoop, entirely unprecedented, I believe, in the whole history of aërial ascensions, the apparatus had risen, perhaps some twenty feet! The voyage was begun. Ernie, alone in the flying-machine, circled and jibed above the chimney-pots!

Geof, regaining his feet, made one desperate grab for the safety-line. It slipped through his fingers, and swung to the left,—just out of reach beyond the stone coping.

“_Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy!_” he then bawled with such a panic of woe in his voice that mother, who had been sewing on Ernie’s new school-dress in the nursery while I read aloud to her and Robin from _Tanglewood Tales_, dropped her work to the floor and fled up the attic stairs.

I followed at top speed. Geof’s face, thrust on a long neck through the trap-door in the roof, stared whitely down upon us. His eyes and mouth were wide. He looked for all the world like a terror-stricken gargoyle.

“Ernie!” he gasped. “She got away from me. _She’s flying!_”

“Geoffrey!” says mother, stern as any Spartan, “are you mad?”

“No! no!” protested Geof. “Put your head out the window. You’ll see her! I tried to hold her down, but——”

“The flying-machine!” I cried, with one distraught, comprehensive look about the dismantled workshop.

At that moment a clamour rose to us from the street below.

“Have yez got er license?” bawled an infuriated Irish voice. “Come down out ov thot. I arr-rest yez!”

“It’s only a kid girl,” sang a shrill chorus of gamins. “I seen her petticoats!”

In another instant mother and I were on the roof, straining over the stone coping. Some fifteen feet below us, about on a level with the nursery window now, sailed Ernie. She sat quite rigid in the car, which laboured and beat a curiously straight course between the two rows of houses directly down the middle of the street. We could hear the _tick-tock_ of the motor and the excited comments of the crowd.

“Ernie!” I cried. “Oh, Ernie!”

Ernie’s pallid countenance was raised to us.

“_Good-bye, mother dear!_” she wailed in plaintive crescendo. “_Give my pinky ring to Mary Hobart, and——_”