Carl and the Cotton Gin by Sara Ware Bassett
CHAPTER I. THE McGREGORS
CHAPTER II. CARL TELLS A STORY
CHAPTER III. A TRAGEDY
CHAPTER IV. PROBLEMS
CHAPTER V. A TANGLE OF SURPRISES
CHAPTER VI. THE WEB WIDENS
CHAPTER VII. THE COMING OF THE FAIRY GODMOTHER
CHAPTER VIII. THE ROMANCE OF COTTON
CHAPTER IX. NORTH AND SOUTH
CHAPTER X. A LESSON IN THRIFT
CHAPTER XI. A FAMILY CONGRESS
CHAPTER XII. A CLUE
CHAPTER XIII. HAL REPEATS HIS VISIT
CHAPTER XIV. SPINNING YARNS
CHAPTER XV. TIDINGS
CHAPTER XVI. A RELUCTANT ALTRUIST
CHAPTER XVII. AN ORDEAL
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SOLUTION OF MANY MYSTERIES
CHAPTER XIX. UNRAVELING THE SNARLS
CARL AND THE COTTON GIN
SARA WARE BASSETT
With Illustrations by William F. Stecher
Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1924
Copyright, 1924, by Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved
Published September, 1924
Printed in the United States of America
CARL AND THE COTTON GIN
CHAPTER I. THE McGREGORS
Mrs. McGregor waited a moment.
But you aren't coming, protested she fretfully. You never seem to
come when you're wanted. Drat the child! Where is he? Carl!
Yes, Ma! Yes, Ma! the woman mimicked impatiently.
It's easy enough to shout Yes, Ma; but where are youthat's
what I want to know. You're the slowest creature on God's earth, I
believe. A tortoise would be a race horse compared with you. What under
the sun are you doing?
The boy entered, a good-humored grin on his face.
He was thin, lanky, and blue-eyed, and a rebellious lock of tawny
hair that curled despite all he could do waved back from his forehead.
He might have been fourteen years old or he might have been seventeen;
it was hard to tell whether he was an overgrown younger boy or an
under-sized older one. Whatever his age, however, he could certainly
boast a serene disposition, for his mother's caustic comments failed to
ruffle his temper. Having heard them ever since babyhood he was quite
accustomed to their acid tang; moreover, he had learned to gage them
for what they were worth and class them along with the froth on a soda
or the sputter of a freshly lighted match. The thing underneath was
what mattered and he knew well that beneath the torrent of words his
mother was the best mother on earth, so what more could a boy ask?
Therefore he stood before her, whistling softly and waiting to see
what would happen next. For something surely would happen; it always
did when Mrs. McGregor rolled up her sleeves, and they were rolled up
now, displaying beneath the margin of blue gingham a powerful arm
terminating in a strong hand and slender, capable fingers.
Years ago she had come to Mulberry Court with a large brood of
children and it had been a long time before she could number one friend
among her neighbors. The chief complaint entered against her was that
she was not sociable, and if you were not sociable at Mulberry Court it
meant you were lofty, uppish, considered yourself better than other
folks. What it really meant, however, was that you did not hang out of
your window and chatter to the inhabitant of the opposite tenement; or
loiter in the doorway or on the sidewalk to gossip with the women who
lived on the floors below.
At the outset Mrs. McGregor had let it be understood that she had no
time for gossip and it was this decree that had earned for her the
stigma of not being sociable, the acme of all crimes at Mulberry Court.
Of course she had not proclaimed her policy in so many words. No,
indeed! Yet she might as well have done so for the business-like manner
in which she hastened home from market and shot up the stairs published
her philosophy more forcefully than any words could have done.
She's just too good for the rest of us, announced Mrs. O'Dowd
sarcastically to the little circle who were wont to await her verdict
on every newcomer to the district. Proud and snappy and stuck-up, I
call her. Not much of an addition to the house, if you ask my opinion.
This snapshot judgment, hasty as it was, was promptly accepted by
the other women, for was not Julie O'Dowd the social dictator of the
community? Had she ever been known to be wrong? With one accord
Mulberry Court turned its back on the new arrival who so flagrantly
defied the etiquette of the place.
Indeed had not Mrs. O'Dowd's baby fallen ill the seal of disapproval
put on Mrs. McGregor might have rested on her all her days, and she and
her entire family been completely ostracized by the neighborhood. But
little Joey O'Dowd, the youngest of Julie's flock, was seized with
pneumonia, and although the flock was a large one Julie was too genuine
a mother to feel she could spare one out of her fold. Was not Joey the
littlest of all, the pet of her household? All the motherhood in her
revolted at the thought of losing him. Strangely enough until the
present moment she had escaped great crises with her children. She was
well schooled in the ways of whooping cough, measles, and chicken pox
and could do up a cut finger with almost professional skill; but in the
face of crucial illness she was like a warrior without weapons.
Overwhelmed with terror, therefore, by the immediate calamity, she
did in benumbed fashion everything the doctor directed and still Joey
was no better; if anything he grew steadily worse. Motionless he lay in
his crib, his great staring eyes giving forth no flicker of
recognition. There was not much hope, the neighbors whispered, after
they had tiptoed in to look at him and tiptoed out again. He was as
good as gone. Julie could never save him in the world.
The whispers, humanely muffled, did not reach the panic-stricken
mother but she was not blind to the despairing head-shaking and these
suddenly awakened her to the realization that according to general
opinion the battle she was waging was a losing one. It was a terrible
discovery. What should she do? She must do something. Wild-eyed she
plunged into the hall, a vague impulse to seek help moving her; and it
was just as she paused irresolute at the head of the stairs that she
came face to face with Mrs. McGregor ascending to her fifth-floor flat.
Now Mrs. McGregor was a born nurse, whose skill had been increased
by constant practice. With a wisdom that amounted almost to genius she
had brought her large family through many an appalling conflict and
emerged victorious. Sickness, therefore, had no terrors for her.
Instantly the mother in her read and interpreted the desperation in
Julie's face and without a word she slipped through the open door into
the room where Joey lay. One glance of her experienced eye showed that
there was plenty to be done. The interior was close and untidy, for
Mrs. O'Dowd in her distraction had cast aside every consideration but
Mrs. McGregor stooped down over the crib.
What she saw there or did not see she at least kept to herself, and
when she straightened up it was to meet the searching gaze of her
neighbor with a grave smile.
He's going to die, moaned Julie, wringing her hands. He is going
to diemy babyand I can't help it!
Although for a long time the two women had lived beneath the same
roof, these were the first words Mrs. O'Dowd had ever addressed to Mrs.
Might I touch him? the latter inquired gently.
Like a suspicious animal Julie stiffened jealously.
I'll not hurt him, Mrs. McGregor hastened to say, not taking
offense at the other's attitude. I just want to raise him up so he can
breathe better. Then she added reassuringly, I'd not give up if I
were you. You must keep on fighting to the very last minute. There is
much we can do yet to make him comfortable.
We can bathe him a little for one thing, if you would heat some
Dumbly Julie turned to obey.
I've a big family of my own, went on Mrs. McGregor in
matter-of-fact fashion, and I've seen so many children pull through
when they looked fit to die that I've learned never to quit hoping.
You'll get nowhere in a fight if you haven't courage.
I had courage enough at first, whispered the baby's mother in a
shaking voice, but I've lost my nerve now. I'm frightenedandand
Tears came into her eyes.
Of course you are, came with quick sympathy from Mrs. McGregor.
We all are apt to lose our nerve when we are worn out. I don't wonder
you're tired. You've had no sleep day or night, I'll be bound.
Not much. The neighbors were kind about offering but somehow I
couldn't leave Joey with 'em. Besides, how can you sleep when you are
worried half out of your mind?
I know! I know! nodded the other woman. Still you can't go on
forever without rest. Next you know you will be down sick yourself and
then where will your baby beto say nothing of your other children. A
mother has got to think ahead. Now listen. Would you trust me to watch
the baby while you curled up on the sofa and got a wink or two of
sleep? I'll promise to call you should there be an atom of change. Do
now! Be a sensible woman. And how would you feel about my giving the
little chap a drop of medicine? A Scotch doctor in the old country once
gave me a prescription that I've tried on both Timmie and Martin and it
did 'em worlds of good at a time just like this. It might do nothing
for your child, mind. I'm not promising it would. Still, it couldn't
hurt him and it might cure.
Julie's dulled mind caught the final word. Cure! Alas, she
had given up hope that anything in the world could do that. The
reaction that came with the suggestion was so wonderful that it left
Now see here, burst out Mrs. McGregor misinterpreting her silence,
use your common sense. Do I look as if I had come to poison your baby?
Why, woman, I love children better than anything on earth. They're a
precious lot of bother, there's no denying, and sometimes I get that
impatient with one or the other of 'em I could toss him out the window.
But for all their hectoring, and their noise, and their dirttheir
meddling, and smashing, and mending, I'd not be without them.
While speaking she had been touching the baby with a hand so
yearning and tender that it could not be stayed. She had raised his
head, smoothed his pillow, straightened the coverings that lay over
him. It was amazing how quietly and deftly her hands moved. Even the
child seemed conscious of her healing presence, for all of a sudden his
wee fingers curled about one of hers and he smiled faintly.
See! exclaimed Mrs. McGregor, the baby is not afraid to trust
Nor am I any longer, put in Julie with eager surrender. Do as you
like with Joey. You know better than I.
Oh, it isn't that, the visitor protested, rising. It is just that
it's sometimes well not to leave a stone unturned. You might regret not
having taken the chance. I'll slip upstairs and get the medicine. It
won't take a minute.
If you'll be that kind.
The Scotchwoman needed no second bidding. She was gone and back
again in a twinkling, the magic green bottle in her hand.
Now if I might have a cup of hot water, said she. I've a dropper
here. We'll see what a spoonful of this mixture will do for the wee
laddie. What is his name?
Mrs. O'Dowd's eyes had brightened and they now beamed on her
It's a nice name, replied Mrs. McGregor, beaming in turn. I
always liked the name of Joseph. Well, Joey boy, we'll see if we can
make you well. Here, little fellow!
Gently she forced the liquid between the baby's lips.
Now we'll sponge him a bit, put on a fresh slip, and give him some
But won't he
Catch cold? Not if he is shielded from the draught. He'll like the
air and feel the better for it. It will help him to breathe.
Noiselessly she went to work and within an hour both Joey and his
surroundings took on a different aspect.
Now, said she to the grateful mother, you roll up in that
comforter and take a nap. Don't worry about the baby. I'll be right
here. Will you trust me?
It's not that I won't trust you, murmured she. But you're so
heavenly kind. Not another soul has done for me what you have and I'm a
hundred times better acquainted with 'em, too. Of course I know they
have all they can do without taking on the cares of others. I'm not
blaming them. You yourself can't have much time to spare. Haven't you
other things to do?
Of course I have, came with curt honesty from Mrs. McGregor. I've
six children and they leave me little time for idling. But when I do
take time away from 'em, I plan to take it to some purpose. Just now I
have nothing more important to do than nurse this baby. It's my first
job. So don't be worrying about my work. Luckily it is Saturday and
Mary, Carl, and Timmie will look after the little tots and get the
dinner. I told 'em to when I was there just now. Martin and Nell seldom
give any trouble, and should James Frederick wake up, one of the boys
is to run down and tell me.
Julie placed a hand impulsively on that of the other woman.
I can never thank you, murmured she brokenly.
Oh, don't be talking of thanks, Mrs. McGregor interrupted, cutting
her short. My dosing may do no good and before the day is out you may
be calling me a meddlesome old harridan. Wait and see what happens. I'm
not one that sets much store by thanks, anyhow. After all, what does it
amount to but a string of words? If we can cure the baby it will be all
the thanks I want.
If the sentiment the final phrase so modestly expressed was genuine
Mrs. McGregor at least received the boon she craved, for as if by magic
the baby began to mend that very night and before the week passed was
out of danger and on the high road to recovery. Julie's gratitude was
touching to see.
'Twas Mrs. McGregor saved Joey, declared she to every person she
met. She's as good as any doctorbetter, for Joey might have died but
for her. Should I go through life kneeling to her on my bended knees I
never could thank her enough.
Julie O'Dowd did not go through life, however, kneeling before Mrs.
McGregor on her bended knees; but she did a more practical and
efficacious thing. Everywhere she went she sounded the praise of her
neighbor; talked of her kindness, her wisdom, her unselfishness, until
not only Mulberry Court, but the area adjoining it began to view the
gaunt, austere figure from quite a different angle. Shyly the women
began to nod a greeting to the stranger.
It's just her way to be curt and quick, explained they to one
another. She doesn't mean a thing in the world by it. Julie says she's
sharp and prickly as a chestnut burr, but with the sweetest of hearts
Indeed it was not long before Mrs. McGregor proved her right to this
generous summary of her character. Other neighbors gained courage to
consult her about their children and in time about their troubles in
Ask Mrs. McGregor, became the slogan of Mulberry Court. She'll
And she unfailingly did. She it was who prescribed medicines; gave
advice; suggested plain, common-sense remedies for every variety of
dilemma. Nevertheless she wasted no words about it. She had no time to
fool away, she let it be known. Whatever she did had to be done with
pitiless directness. Often her council was delivered through a crack in
the door or even given through the door itself; and there were
instances when it was shouted through the keyhole. But no matter where
the words came from they were always helpful and friendly and the
neighbors came to understand the manner accompanying them and did not
Her children understood it too. Mary, Carl, Timmie, Martin,
four-year-old Nell, and even wee James Frederick (whom Mrs. McGregor
unfailingly addressed by his full name) all understood and worshipped
their quick-tongued mother. Together with the rest of Mulberry Court
they also had supreme faith in whatever she did and said, and were
certain that every calamity under the sun could be set right if only
she were consulted and her advice followed.
And yet loyal as they were, there was one point on which neither
Carl nor Mary agreed with their mother. Of course she was rightshe
must be right; wasn't she always so? Yet notwithstanding this belief
they could not but feel that it would be a far better arrangement for
them to leave school and go into the cotton mills where their father
had worked for so many years. Ever so many of the boys and girls they
knew worked there. Why should they remain in the High School struggling
with algebra, geometry, history, Latin, English and bookkeeping when
they might be earning money? It seemed senseless. Certainly the family
needed money badly enough. Were there not always endless pairs of shoes
to be bought? Caps, mittens, suits, stockings, and underclothing to
purchase; not to mention food and groceries? And then there was the
Ah, Mary and Carl knew very well about the rent, the bills, and all
the other worrisome things. Even Timmie, who was only nine, knew about
them; and once Martin, aged six, had startled his elders by proclaiming
on a sunny May morning, This is rent day, isn't it, Ma? in a tone of
awe, as if the date marked some gruesome ceremony.
You came to understand about rent day when toward the end of the
month there were no pennies to be had, and you were forced to wait for
the shoes or rubbers you needed.
That rent day was a milestone to be dreaded even Nell vaguely
guessed and when it had passed in safety all the McGregors, both big
and little, joined in a general rejoicing.
Ma was the magician who accomplished that happy miracle. Ma always
contrived to accomplish everything, so of course she managed rent day
along with the rest of the wonders she performed. She made no secret,
either, of how she did it. She sewed! Yes, she sewed for a dressmaker
who sent her marvelous dresses to embroider. For Ma was very clever
with her needle and right out of the blue sky could make the most
beautiful flowers and figures with colored silks. She could also do
beading and she was teaching Mary how to do it. Already Mary could do
quite nice embroidery and exquisite plain sewing.
Ma was very proud of this.
But what Mary did chiefly when she was not at school was to help
with the housework so her mother would be free to sew. That was the
important thing. Ma must not roughen her hands or the silks she worked
with would be spoiled. So Mary cooked and scrubbed like a real little
housewife; took care of the younger children and kept them quiet so
they would not interrupt their mother.
And between school hours Carl and Tim helped also. They built the
fires, wiped the dishes, ran errands, and brought home any bits of
discarded wood they found in the streets. In fact, there was not one
drone in the McGregor hive. Even James Frederick had learned to lie in
his crib and play by himself when everybody was busy.
It was a happy family, the McGregors. Its members, it is true, did
not have everything they wanted. They never expected that. Those who
had mittens lacked new caps, and those who had caps were often forced
to wear patched shoes and made-over stockings. Martin's reefer
frequently did duty for Nell, and Mrs. McGregor's cape for Mary.
However, all that did not matter. They were happy and that was the
chief thing, happy in spite of patched clothing, coats that were
outgrown, rubbers that were either sizes too small or dropped off at
every step, and shoes that were common property. The little flat was
sometimes hot in summer and cold in winter but it took more than that
to dampen the McGregors' spirits.
When they had lentil soup, how steaming and delicious it was! When
meat stew, what a dish for the gods! And who could have asked for a
greater treat than a thick slice of Mary's fresh bread coated over with
molasses or peanut butter?
Every month a long blue envelope containing a check from Uncle
Frederick arrived and that, together with what Mary and her mother
earned, kept the household going. But they seldom saw Uncle James
Frederick Dillingham. He was always sailing to India, China, or South
America. Sometimes letters came from him and picture postcards showing
strange countries and people in foreign dress. But the check never
failed to make its appearance and as it was highly important that it
should, everybody agreed that since Uncle Frederick could not come
himself he was almost as satisfactorily represented by this magic bit
of blue paper. The check brought things and perhaps if Uncle Frederick
himself had come he wouldn't. You could not tell about uncles you had
In the meantime the blue paper kept stew in the kettle and the
shelter of Mulberry Court above their heads, and what better service
could an uncle render his relatives?
Hence Uncle Frederick's name came to be mentioned constantly in the
Remember, Timmie, those are your Uncle Frederick Dillingham's
rubber boots and be thankful to him for them, the boy's mother would
observe when she brought home the purchase. Or Uncle Frederick is
presenting you with those stockings, Carl. See you don't forget it.
And the children did not forget. Gradually their unknown uncle came
to assume in their imagination a form that would have surprised him had
he been suddenly confronted by it. It was that of a benevolent-faced
fairy clad in robes of purple and ermine, and wearing on his head a
crown resplendent with gems of myriad colors. In his hand he carried a
scepter terminating in a star that far outshone the jewels he wore, a
scepter all powerful to work miracles. He was the good angel of the
McGregor home, the Aladdin to whom they owed all sorts of blessings.
And yet withal Uncle James Frederick Dillingham was one and the same
person who sailed the Charlotte to India, China, South America,
or some other ephemeral port. How paradoxical was this dual rôle, how
alluring and how ridiculous!
CHAPTER II. CARL TELLS A STORY
It was April. Already spring was in the air. The grass in the parks
was turning green, forsythia bloomed golden, and boys were playing
marbles on the streets and sidewalks. Even Mulberry Court, shut in as
it was, felt the impulse of the awakening season. The landlord came,
looked over the premises, and after viewing the general shabbiness
became reckless enough to order a broken windowpane to be reset, some
of the tumble-down ceilings to be repaired, and the fire escapes and
window frames to be repainted.
Painting at Mulberry Court was a terrible ordeal. As there was not
an inch of the place that was not crowded to the limit of its capacity,
painting meant that milk bottles, improvised ice chests, and woodpiles
must be put somewhere else; and where that somewhere could be was an
enigma. Furthermore, to add to this difficulty there were the
childrendozens of them tumbling over one another and surging in and
out the doors, a fact that rendered painting a precarious undertaking.
Youthful investigators examined the moist pigment; chubby fingers drew
hieroglyphics in it; while the less curious forgot it altogether and
carried away on their garments imprints of vermilion and black that
transformed their otherwise dingy garments into robes of oriental
Carl McGregor was no exception to the rule for wherever calamity
lurked he was sure to be in its vicinity.
I'd know you'd never rest until you got a patch of red paint on
yourself, announced his mother, surveying him as he started toward the
door. As, if buying you sweaters ain't enough without your leaning
plumb up against the fire escape and stamping a whole decalcomania of
red stripes on your back like as if you were a convict.
Is there paint on me, Ma?
Is there? I suppose you had no notion of it.
I hadn'thonest Injun.
Well, aside from the fact that you're barred up and down neat as if
the lines were ruled there's nothing the matter with you, returned his
mother with a faint smile.
Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Ma. Truly I am.
Sorry? I'll be bound you are. You are always a bundle of regrets
when it is too late to help anything. However, you need weep no tears
for that sweater needed washing anyway. You're that rough on your
clothes that none of 'em keep clean more than a minute. I'll get some
gasoline and soak it out in the shed and it will be like new. Peel it
off and give it to me.
I'm sorry, Ma, the boy repeated.
It's no great matter, sonny. Children must be children. I'm past
expecting them to be grown-ups, his mother said kindly. If you hadn't
been getting into the paint you most likely would have been getting
into something else. You have a genius for such mishaps. I'm glad it
was no worse.
Reassured, Carl grinned.
I do seem to have a good many he hesitated, then added,
Misfortunes, do you call 'em? Sure that's a pretty polite word to
apply to the things that manage to happen to you, sniffed Mrs.
McGregor. I suppose it was a misfortune when you tumbled underneath
the watering cart; and a misfortune when you sat down in the wet tar! A
misfortune when you sent the snowball through the schoolroom window; to
say nothing of the creamcake you treated Jakie Sullivan to that
well-nigh killed him.
I didn't know the creamcake was going to make him sick.
No; 'twas just your misfortune. You seem to attract adventures like
that. Why, if I was to let you go into the cotton mills as you are
always begging to do you'd have every machine there out of order in
less than a week and yourself hashed up into little pieces into the
She had touched upon an unlucky subject for instantly, with flaming
face, the lad confronted her.
No, I wouldn't. I wish you would let me go into the mills, Ma. You
might let me try it. Ever so many boys no older than I are working
there and earning oodles of money. If we had more money we could
We could be having an automobile, no doubt, and going to Palm Beach
winters, was the grim response. Well, Palm Beach or not, you're not
going into any mill so long as we can keep body and soul together
without your doing it. You are going to get an educationyou and Mary
tooif it costs me my life. I'm not going to have you grow up knowing
nothing and being nothing. Some day you'll see I was right and thank me
I thank you now, Ma, declared Carl soberly. But that doesn't make
me relish Latin and history any better.
No matter if it doesn't. What you like is of no consequence, Mrs.
McGregor announced, with a majestic sweep of her hand. The chief thing
is that you exercise your mind and learn how to use it. The Latin
itself amounts to nothing. It is like boxing gloves or a punching bag,
a thing that serves its turn to limber up your brain. It is learning to
think that counts.
Carl's face brightened.
The teacher was saying something like that just the other day,
asserted he eagerly. He was telling us about some of the people who
had done great things in the world and explaining how long and how hard
they had to work at them. The inventors, for instance, had to think and
think about the things they invented. It didn't just come to them all
in a minute as I used to believe it did.
Although his mother did not look up from her sewing she nodded
There was Eli Whitney, continued Carl, coming nearer. I
remembered about him because of the mills here. He invented the cotton
gin, you know. Mr. Kimball told us that Whitney went through Yale and
then started down South to be a tutor in somebody's family without any
idea of ever being an inventor. But when he got to where he was going
the people who had hired him had changed their minds and found somebody
else and poor Eli Whitney was out of a job.
A shabby trick!
Yes. Still, it was lucky for him, just the same, responded Carl,
because on the way down he had met the widow of General Greene and she
was sorry for him and asked him to her house. He'd just been vaccinated
because there was lots of smallpox in the South and he was feeling
rotten. You know how sore your arm gets and how sick you are sometimes.
Remember Martin? Well, anyhow, Mrs. Greene either knew what it meant to
be vaccinated or else she was kind of ashamed of the way her part of
the country had treated Eli Whitney. Or maybe she was just kind-hearted
like you. Anyhow she invited Mr. Whitney to come to Savannah when she
saw how mean he felt and the fit he threw at finding himself so far
from home without money or a job.
Well, wouldn't you have thrown a fit? I think Mrs. Greene was a
peach, went on Carl, passing serenely over the reproof. She was
mighty kind to take a stranger into her house when he had no friends.
By this time Mr. Whitney had decided to be a lawyer and while he
was making his home at Mrs. Greene's he began to read all the law books
he could lay hands on. Then one day Mrs. Greene busted her embroidery
Oh, you know, Ma, fretted Carl, at being interrupted. She smashed
the thing and
What had that to do with it?
Everything; because, you see, Eli Whitney mended it so nicely that
Mrs. Greene was pleased into the ground and thought he was the smartest
person ever. His father had had a shop at home where as a boy he had
learned to use tools. But of course Mrs. Greene didn't know that. All
she knew was that he made a corking job of her embroidery frame and so
one day when some Georgia gentlemen were there at dinner and were
telling how hard it was to get the seeds out of cotton she up and said,
'You should ask Mr. Whitney how to do it; he can do anything,' and to
prove it she toted out her embroidery frame to show them.
Oh, say, Ma, don't keep bothering me when I'm trying to tell you a
story, Carl complained peevishly. You know what I mean well enough.
Much as ever, was the grim reply.
The lad grinned.
Well, anyhow, the Georgia cotton men talked to Eli Whitney,
explaining how the cotton stuck to the seeds and got all broken to bits
when you tried to get them out; and how it took nearly a whole day to
separate a pound of cotton fiber from the seeds. And then the cotton
planters went on to tell how there was lots and lots of land in the
South where you couldn't raise rice but could raise cotton if it wasn't
such a chore (a warning glance from his mother caused Carl hastily
to amend the phrase) such a piece of work to get the seeds out. Eli
Whitney listened to their talk and after the men had gone he thought
he'd try to make some sort of a machine that would clear cotton of the
And did he?
You betcha! I mean, yes, he did. Whitney was no boob. (This time
Mrs. McGregor failed to protest; perhaps she decided it was useless.)
He had, as I told you, made wheels and canes and knives and nails in
his father's workshop at home. He had even made a violin. So he wasn't
at all fussed about trying to make a cotton gin. I guess he had a hunch
he could do it.
A what? gasped Mrs. McGregor involuntarily.
A hunch means he knew he could turn the trick.
The mother shook her head ruefully.
And me almost killing myself to give you an education! she
ejaculated beneath her breath.
Well, anyway, Ma, slang or no slang, I'd be telling you nothing at
all about Eli Whitney if I hadn't gone to school, so cheer up,
asserted Carl impishly.
He heard his mother laugh. Mrs. McGregor had the good old Scotch
sense of humor and when her flashing smile came it was always a delight
to the beholder.
You're a good boy, Carl, if you do speak the language of an
orang-outang, she answered. Where you pick up such a dialect I cannot
Oh, it's easy enough to pick it up, Ma. The stunt is not to. Why,
what I've been saying just now is nothing to what I could say if I let
myself go. I've been holding in because of you. I could have had you so
locoed you couldn't have understood a thing I meant if I hadn't
beenbeen considerate. But I know you don't like slang so I try to cut
it out. You may not believe it but I do tryhonest, I do.
I believe you, laddie, returned his mother kindly. It's hard, I
know, with all the other boys talking like barbarians. Now go on about
Mr. Whitney. Did he contrive to make the machine the Georgia gentlemen
Yes, siree! continued Carl with enthusiasm. Mrs. Greene gave him
a room to work in down in the basement of her house and he set right
about the job. Unluckily he had never seen any cotton growing because
he had always lived in the North, you know. In fact, he had never laid
eyes on cotton at all until it was made into cloth, so of course he
hadn't much of an idea what he was up against, and the first thing he
had to do was to scurry round and get specimens of cotton with the
seeds in it. It wasn't so easy to do just then, either, because it was
not the season for cotton-gathering and he had to hunt and hunt to get
some of the last season's crop. I believe he finally got what he needed
from a warehouse in New Orleans. Anyhow, he got the cotton pods
somewhere and found out better where he stood. And that reminds me, Ma,
that the teacher told us there were ever so many different kinds of
cotton; and that the Upland cotton, growing in the South, had green
seeds that stuck likelike anything to the white part. You
could hardly separate the two without ruining the cotton fibers and you
can see that as they were to be spun they must not be broken.
Mr. Whitney did have a puzzle to work out.
You've said it, Ma! He sure had, beamed Carl. Well, he kept
fussing round, and fussing round, and by and by he managed to get
together a simple sort of contrivance that would do what he wanted it
to. It was no great shakes of a machine. Any blacksmith or wheelwright
could have made it if he had happened to think of it first. In fact,
lots of other people did make gins like it. That is why Whitney never
got rich, the teacher said.
But didn't he get his invention patented? inquired Mrs. McGregor,
laying aside the tulle she was beading.
Not until it was too late. You see, Mrs. Greene was so set up to
think Mr. Whitney had done the deed she had predicted he would that she
had to go blabbing all over town how clever he was. And the minute
people heard that a cotton gin was really made that would take out the
seeds they came begging to see the wonderful machine and find out how
it worked; and of course Mr. Whitney had to show it off. He hadn't a
notion people would be so low-down as to snitch his idea and go to
making cotton gins of their own. But that's exactly what they did do
and as soon as Mr. Whitney and Mr. Miller who was helping him got wise
to the fact, they locked the new cotton gin up. But do you s'pose that
did any good? Not on your life! The cotton raisers were crazy to get
the machine because everybody needed it so badly. On the plantations
there wasn't enough work to keep the negro slaves busy and it cost a
lot to feed them. The planters figured that if something profitable
could be found for them to do they would earn their keep. They
certainly could not do this picking the seeds out of cotton because it
took them such an age to pick enough to make a pound. The darkies could
gather the crop all right. It had to be gathered by hand. What was
needed was something that would take the seeds out and make it possible
to raise and sell big quantities of cotton. So Whitney's gin exactly
filled the bill. It was just what the whole South had been waiting for
and if such a thing existed people were bound to have it. Naturally
when Whitney wouldn't show it to them and locked it up, they thought he
was almighty stingy and some of the meanest of the bunch broke into the
place where he kept it and carried it off.
Rotten, wasn't it? They ought to have been hung; but they weren't.
Instead, the model of the cotton gin got abroad and all the South
started to making cotton gins until they were all over the place.
I'm afraid Mr. Whitney wasn't a very business-like man, ventured
He wasn't. Most generally inventors aren't, I guess. Still, how was
he to know they were going to swipe his idea? Of course he and Mr.
Miller went straight to work and tried to pick up the pieces. Mr.
Whitney went home to New Haven and set about making cotton gins on a
larger scale than he could make them at Mrs. Greene's; but even then he
could not make them fast enough. And on top of all his factory burned
down and for a while he couldn't make any gins at all. It seemed as if
hard luck pursued him whichever way he turned.
It certainly did seem so!
He and Mr. Miller, who had now gone in as his partner, spent no end
of money in lawsuits, and Mr. Miller got so worn out and discouraged
fighting the infringers that finally he died, leaving Eli Whitney to
carry on the battle alone. And it was a battle, too, to get any
satisfaction out of the people who were making use of his idea. I
believe that North Carolina and Tennessee did pay him something, and
after a while South Carolina and Georgia did. In all he received about
ninety thousand dollars; but the lawsuits he had been compelled to go
through to get it ate up a good slice of the receipts. Besides, some
more had to go for the factory that got burned and other expenses. So
he didn't get much out of the deal, I guess. But the South did. The
Whitney gin whooped up their cotton trade in great style. Every year
the planters grew more and more cotton because now that they could get
the seeds out it paid to raise it, and by and by they were exporting
millions of bales. Cotton is now one of our biggest exports, the
teacher said. We grow billions of pounds of it and for the most part it
is the green seed, Upland cotton, cleaned by a gin founded on Whitney's
idea. That's why I say it does you no good to go to school, concluded
Carl. Whitney went through Yale college and invented his cotton gin
before he had been out of the university a year, and what good did it
do him, I'd like to know?
He did a lot to help the world along, sonny.
Oh, I suppose he did, admitted the boy. But for all that he
didn't get the spondulics. That is why I want to go into the factory.
So I can get some cash to help out here at home. S'pos'n we didn't have
Uncle Frederick Dillingham or your sewing money? And anyhow, I don't
want you to be always sewing. I want you to have pretty clothes, ride
round in an automobile, and be a lady!
Oh, Carlie! Can't one work for a living and still be a lady, my
Of course she can, Ma. You're a lady right now. Still, I do wish
you didn't have to make those silly dresses all the time. Well, no
matter. You just wait until I get through school. You shall be wearing
dresses like those and somebody else shall be sewing the beads on.
A suspicious moisture gathered in Mrs. McGregor's eyes.
You're a good boy, Carl, answered she gently, even if you do
slaughter your mother tongue. Now be off with you. All this palaver
about Mr. Whitney has almost made you late for school, and left me
hardly knowing whether I am sewing frontwards or backwards. Still, it
isn't a bad thing to have a son that knows something.
It was evident from Mrs. McGregor's tone that she might have said
more but for the stern belief that she must not flatter her children.
Therefore to cut short the danger of such a crime she brusquely hurried
Carl out of the kitchen, merely calling after him:
Don't forget to bring home a yeast cake to-night or you'll get no
bread to-morrow. Put your mind on it, now. If you remembered the
errands I ask you to do half as well as you remember about cotton gins
and the like you'd save layers of shoe leather.
It was a characteristic farewell. Mrs. McGregor would not have been
Mrs. McGregor had she not uttered it. All this Carl understood and,
undaunted by the words, he bent to kiss his mother on the cheek.
I suppose you wouldn't have time to stop into the Harlings on your
way, suggested she, with a twinkle in her eye.
I was planning to stop there a minute as I went along.
I'll be bound you were. One might as well try to keep a fly out of
the molasses as to keep you away from the Harlings. Well, since you are
going that way anyhow, you can carry over a bowl of broth. I made it
yesterday a-purpose. Tell Mrs. Harling it will only need to be heated
up for herself and Grandfather Harling.
CHAPTER III. A TRAGEDY
It was in the corner block beyond Mulberry Court that the Harlings
lived, and had you asked Carl McGregor or his chum Jack Sullivan who
Hal Harling was you would have received in return for your ignorance a
withering stare, a sigh of pity, or possibly no reply at all. Any one
who did not know Hal Harling was either to be scorned or condoled with,
as the case might be. Yet each boy would have found it difficult to put
into words who and what this distinguished personage really was.
Hal Harling was the embryo political boss of the district; the
leader of the gang; the hero of every boy who lived within a radius of
half a mile of the dingy flat on Broad Street. He was a tall,
jovial-faced, thick-set fellow with the physique of a prize fighter and
such an abundance of careless good humor that it bubbled contagiously
from his round blue eyes and smiling lips. One would have said he was
the last person in the world to take offence and indeed on first glance
one might safely have made the assertion. But with this gay,
happy-go-lucky disposition went a highly developed desire for fair play
which at times suddenly converted the balmy, easy-going young autocrat
into an enemy pitiless and terrible.
Let some brute stone a kitten; torment a boy smaller than himself;
snatch an apple from the stall of the old woman at the corner and, with
a justice whose speed was incredible, Hal Harding descended upon the
miscreant and pommeled into him a lesson in squareness that he did not
soon if forget.
The fact that the youthful avenger was usually on the right side
increased, if anything, the number of street brawls he was mixed up in,
for alas, Mulberry Court and all the outlying vicinity teemed with so
great a multitude of injustices that he who set himself to straighten
them out found ample provocation for continual blows. As he trod the
narrow streets and alleys this champion of the weak encountered one
challenge after another with the result that it was a common sight in
the neighborhood to see Hal Harling the center of an angry scuffle.
Partisanship was instant. A passer-by did not need to investigate
the broil. Ten cases out of eleven the victim of the squabble was
getting what was coming to him, in popular opinion.
Hal Harling was giving it to him good and plenty, a sympathetic
observer would afterward relate. I don't know what the fuss was about
but I didn't interfere for I'll wager Hal was right; he usually is.
Around the standard of such a personality it was inevitable that the
inhabitants of the community, especially the male ones, should rally;
and foremost in the ranks of admiring worshippers were Jack Sullivan
and Carl McGregor, either one of whom would willingly have rolled up
his own sleeves in defense of his idol. They tagged at his heels, ran
his errands, and walked on air whenever they won his commendation. If
he called them down it was as if they had been rolled in the dust.
And yet despite the incense burned at his shrine Hal Harling kept a
level head and an estimate of himself that was appealingly modest. In
fact he was a very human boy with the same love of pranks and mischief
that delighted other boys. He loved a joke dearly. It was fun, for
example, to let an orange down on a string and dangle it before little
Katie Callahan's window and then jerk it back out of Katie's reach when
she snatched for it. Or it amused him to drop peppermint balls through
the Murphy's letter box and hear the children inside the room chase
them as they rolled about the floor. Later he saw to it that Katie got
the orange and the Murphy youngsters the candy. All his jokes were like
that, their playful hectoring ending in kindness. He was too
kind-hearted to enjoy causing pain.
What wonder that such a hero had his satellites?
On the other hand, he had his enemies tooscores of themfor a
justice dealer is never without opponents. As a rule these persons were
the victims of his various avalanches of wrath, those to whom at one
time or another he had meted out punishment and denounced as cowards.
For the disapproval of these cravens Hal Harling did not care a button.
He much preferred they should be numbered among his enemies rather than
his friends and he said so frankly. Nevertheless, his mother, timid by
nature and of a peace-loving disposition, shook her head.
You can't afford, Hal, to antagonize folks the way you do, she
would protest. The time may come when you'll be sorry.
For answer the giant would shrug his shoulders.
I'm not afraid of anybody, he would reply proudly.
The statement was not made in a spirit of bravado; rather it
reflected the self-respect of one consciously in the right.
But you to be more careful. Such people are capable of working you
Let them try.
But they are. They can do all sorts of underhanded things you would
not descend to, whimpered Mrs. Harling. It worries me all the time to
see you so regardless.
There, there, Mother! Quit fussing about me, pleaded the big
fellow kindly. I'm all right and can look after myself.
I know you can when the fight is a fair one, agreed his mother.
But you never can tell what weapon a coward will use.
Hal laughed contemptuously and, realizing that her counsel had
failed of its aim, Mrs. Harling said no more.
Up to the present the calamities she periodically predicted had not
occurred and as those who loved her son rallied round him with
ever-increasing loyalty, and those who disliked him kept their
distance, she gradually ceased to protest. What was the use of wasting
her strength on conditions she could not help? Poor soul! She needed
every atom of energy she possessed to meet the trials that beset her
For Mrs. Harling was a helpless invalid and together with her
bedridden father lived day after day imprisoned in the small tenement
overlooking the rushing, hurrying world of which she was no part. Each
morning Louise, Hal's younger sister, made tidy the house, packed up a
luncheon, and the two started for Davis and Coulter's spinning mills
where all day they helped to operate the busy machinery. It was a
noisy, monotonous occupation; a stretch of dull, wearisome hours, and
frequently the boy and girl were so tired at night they had scarcely
energy to move. And yet they toiled at the humdrum task gratefully,
rejoicing in their wages which not only kept body and soul together but
provided for the feeble mother and the aged grandfather.
The past winter had been a hard one in Baileyville, the
manufacturing village where they lived. Most of the mills were running
on half time and many of the employés had been turned away for lack of
work. In consequence worry and uncertainty hung over everybody. Who
would be the next to go, they speculated. One never could predict where
the axe would fall, or be sure he might not be the victim elected to
meet its merciless stroke.
Thus far both Hal and Louise had been retained at their posts; but
the fear that some of the older operatives who had been longer in the
employ of the company might take precedence over them constantly
menaced their peace of mind.
Corcoran, the foreman under whom they worked, was a harsh,
unreasonable bully who rather enjoyed his post as executioner,
authority having exaggerated in him all the meannesses that lurked in
his small, vindictive nature. Only the week before, Hal, enraged by his
discourtesy and injustice to one of the women, had blurted out to his
face a rebuke for his roughness. It was, to be sure, an unwise act and
one that not only did the poor girl whose cause he championed little
good but jeopardized his own position; yet to save his soul he could
not have checked his indignation.
You shouldn't have said it, declared Louise, who had been an
eyewitness of the encounter. Of course I was proud of you as could be;
and you said nothing but what Corcoran deserved. Still it isn't safe to
do that sort of thing. It may lose you your job.
I don't care if it does, returned Hal, whose rage had not yet
cooled. Corcoran may fire me if he wants to. But he isn't going to
bully any girl as he bullied Susie Mayonot when I'm round.
But don't you see, dear; we can't afford to lose our jobs,
continued his sister gently. Too much depends on our keeping them. We
must have the money.
I'm not worrying, laughed Hal with confidence. If Corcoran should
give me the sack I could get another place without any trouble, I'll
bet I could.
Places are not so easy to find, asserted the more prudent Louise.
There are lots of men in Baileyville who have been out of work for
months. You ought not to be in such a hurry to rush into a quarrel,
I was right; you say so yourself.
Yes, perhaps so. Still
Don't you think somebody ought to have called Corcoran down?
Of course he was unfair andand rude.
Rude! interrupted her brother scornfully, he was contemptible,
I know it. But
If fewer people stood for brutes there would be fewer brutes in the
It isn't our business to round Corcoran up.
It is my business to stop any man who is impolite to a woman,
replied Hal. Besides, Corcoran knew well enough he was wrong. You
notice he did not put up any defense. He just walked off and has never
mentioned the affair since.
That is what frightens me.
What do you mean?
I'm afraid he isn't through.
Nonsense! He's through all right. He hasn't uttered a yip and it is
now over two weeks ago that the thing happened. Quit your worrying,
kiddie. There'll be no comeback from Corcoran.
The reassuring words, so confidently spoken, did much to allay
Louise's fears. Uneventfully the days slipped by, and with every one
that passed the boy and girl breathed more freely. Not only were they
skilled workers but they were earnest and ambitious to give of their
best. Moreover they had behind them an untarnished record for faithful
attendance at the mills. Such service, argued they, must be of value,
and when matched against much of the grudging, incompetent labor about
them should be of sufficient worth to keep them on Davis and Coulter's
payroll. All they asked was fair play and to be judged on their merits.
This demand seemed reasonable enough; but alas, the world is not always
a just dealer and when on a Saturday morning not long before Christmas
Louise Harling looked into her pay envelope a cry of dismay escaped
The fate she had feared had overtaken her. Davis and Coulter
informed her that after the fifteenth of the month, which fell a week
hence, the firm would not need her services.
Instantly two thoughts rushed to her mind. One was whether Hal had
also received similar notice; and the other was that all the holiday
plans she had so fondly cherished must now go by the boards. She would
have no money to buy presents or a Christmas dinner. The holiday season
was a dreadful time of year to be without a penny. Try as she would to
conceal her disappointment her lip trembled.
When Hal met her that night and they started home she could hardly
utter a syllable. It was not alone her own trouble that depressed her.
She longed and yet dreaded to hear what had befallen her brother. Were
a calamity like hers to come to him then indeed had misfortune
descended upon the Harling household. How would the invalid mother and
the feeble old grandfather get on without money? How would medicines be
procured? Or the rent be paid?
Hal, however, was to all appearances his serene self. He talked and
jested quite in his usual manner and if he were keeping something back
he certainly succeeded in doing so to perfection. Perhaps, argued she,
he had not been discharged at all. If not, why should this disgrace
have come to her? For in a measure it was a disgrace. When you lost
your job in the mill all Baileyville knew it and discussed the
circumstances, weighing the justice or injustice of the act. Certainly,
thought Louise to herself, she had toiled as faithfully as she knew
how. Had there been fault with her work at least she was not conscious
of it. It was mortifying, galling, to be turned away without a word of
What's the matter, Sis? Hal questioned, at last noticing that his
chatter failed to elicit its usual a gay response.
Louise hesitated, shrinking from putting her tidings into words.
You look as if you'd seen a ghost, old girl, smiled her brother
facetiously. What's up?
I've beenthey don't want
Hal halted, aghast.
You don't mean to say they've asked you to quit?
The boy's eyes blazed.
It's Corcoran, the cur! He's done it to get back at me for what I
said to him.
You think so?
But why choose me? I had nothing to do with the squabble.
That's just the point. He's smart enough to know it would hit me a
darn sight harder to have you lose your job than to lose my own,
blustered her brother wrathfully.
I wish I was sure it was only that.
Because then I wouldn't care so much. I should know there was
nothing the matter with my work.
Of course there isn't. You're one of the best operators they've got
in the mill. Hines, one of the bosses, told me so only the other day.
Really? The girl's face brightened. Why didn't you tell me?
Oh, I don't know. Forgot it, I guess, smiled Hal. It was not his
way to pass on compliments. Had the criticism been adverse he would
have told it quickly enough.
Well, I'm awfully glad he said so.
Yes, it was very decent of him. Everybody knows though that you're
a fine workereven old Corcoran himself, I'll be bound, although he
wouldn't admit it. You're quick, careful, prompt and never absent. What
else do they want? Oh, Corcoran was behind this, all right. It wasn't
your work sacked you. It was plain spite.
I'm thankful for that! sighed Louise.
I'm not. It makes me hot, burst out Hal.
Still, it is better than losing your place because your work was so
poor you couldn't hold the job, smiled the girl.
I can't see it that way. This is just low down and unfair.
But I don't mind that. I know I wasn't to blame.
You bet you weren't. I wish I had Corcoran here. I'd shake the
daylights out of him.
Whose daylights are going to be shaken out now? inquired a
laughing voice, and the brother and sister turned to see Carl McGregor
Old Corcoran up at the works, snarled Hal. He's given Louise the
Carl did not speak. He knew only too well how genuine was this
disaster. In the sympathetic silence that followed the three young
persons seemed to draw closer together.
It isn't as if Loulie had done anything to deserve such a slam,
Hal suddenly declared. He's just taking out his spite on me and he's
chosen this means of doing it. To light on a woman! I'd a hundred times
rather he'd shipped me. But it's like him.
Moodily the three walked on.
Of course, I must get some other place right away, Louise said
presently, as if thinking aloud. I don't know just what. I've never
worked anywhere but in the mills and I have no other trade. To be
turned away from Davis and Coulter won't be much of a recommendation
for me either, I'm afraid.
Oh, you can get a hundred jobs, announced Hal, with a confidence
he did not feel. Don't you fret.
I don't know. His sister shook her head. Scores of Baileyville
girls are idle.
The statement met with no denial. Who could combat it? It was only
Not girls like you, Carl ventured, determined to be optimistic.
Girls exactly like me, Carlie, smiled Louise.
Oh, you won't be idle, murmured Hal.
I can't beI simply can't. We've got to have money.
Once again her companions found themselves unable to refute the
They had turned into the main thoroughfare of the town and were
threading their way along a sidewalk teeming with the throng of
Saturday shoppers that is such a characteristic part of the life of a
mill town. The street beside them was black with trucks, motor cars,
and the congested traffic of a manufacturing center.
Suddenly there was a cry from Carl.
Jove! exclaimed he. Look at that kid!
In his horror he put out his hand to clutch his friend's arm. But
his fingers closed on empty air.
Hal Harling was gone!
What followed happened so quickly that it was more like the
shiftings of a moving picture than an incident in real life.
Hal bounded into the seething maelstrom of the street, caught up a
little boy midway in the stream of rushing vehicles and held him aloft
The baby had obviously been pursuing a small black puppy whose
dangling leash told a story of escape from captivity. Making the most
of his freedom the dog had run recklessly along and the child had
dashed after him, too intent on recapturing his pet to heed whither the
chase took him. It was little short of a miracle that he had not been
killed and for his rescue from such a fate he had the quick wit of Hal
Harling to thank.
A second later all passing on the street had stopped and crowds of
spectators surged around the young hero. Above the tense stillness
could be heard Hal's comforting voice:
Sure we'll find your dog for you, little chap. Don't cry. You say
he's called Midget. That's a fine name for a dog, isn't it? See!
Somebody over there on the sidewalk has him already. We'll go and get
As the two chubby arms closed about Hal's neck into the center of
the crowd catapulted a frenzied nursemaid who madly rushed up to young
He's not hurt a mite, Hal announced, reassuringly. I guess he ran
away from you, didn't he?
He was leading the dog and the leash slipped out of his hands,
gasped the affrighted girl. Before I'd a notion what he was going to
do he was off after the puppy. I'm weak as a rag. If anything had
happened to him
But it didn't, smiled Hal.
No, thanks to you, and to the good Lord!
Then, seizing the child in her arms, she said:
There, Billie, you see what comes of running out of the yard after
Midget. You might have been killed but for this kind gentleman.
Indeed he might! He would have been. I saw the whole thing myself,
broke in a policeman who had joined the group.
I'm glad he's all right, reiterated Hal, as he gave the child into
the maid's care.
A man approached leading Midget and interest being for the moment
diverted from himself Hal made his escape.
In a doorway he spied Louise and Carl.
Oh, it was wonderful of you, Hal! his sister murmured.
It was just lucky, Hal returned a bit gruffly. Come on! Let's get
out of this push. We'll be late for supper if we don't hike along.
And it was characteristic of Hal Harling that this was the only
allusion he made to the adventure.
CHAPTER IV. PROBLEMS
Although temporarily buoyed up by the episode of the afternoon Carl
McGregor returned home with spirits at a lower ebb than they had been
for many a day. To be out of work was a very real tragedy in the world
in which he lived. He knew only too well how indispensable was money
and that the necessity of it was even greater in the Harling home than
in his own. The Harlings, alas, had no absent Uncle Frederick to fall
back upon. On the contrary the entire upkeep of their home and family
fell upon the young shoulders of the boy and girl who toiled at the
spinning mills. Now with Louise out of the race Hal would be left alone
with all the burden, and whether he would be able to carry so heavy a
one was a question. Undoubtedly he would not be forced to bear it for
long. Louise would find employmentshe must find it. Did not the need
compel it? And was she not far too capable a worker to be out of a
place? Why, scores of people would seek her help eagerly when once it
was known her assistance was available.
Sound as these arguments were, however, facts did not bear them out.
Apparently nobody in Baileyville wished help, no matter how excellent
its quality. Every night the report from the Harlings was the
sameLouise could find nothing to do. Even Mrs. McGregor who was
ordinarily able to straighten out every sort of tangle had no remedy
for the present pitiable dilemma. The only employment it was in her
power to secure for the girl was fine sewing and Louise, restricted by
her factory training, could not sew. A week went by and still nothing
presented itself. Mrs. Harling and the aged grandfather, from whom the
calamity had been kept as long as it was possible to conceal it, at
length took up the worry.
Whatever is going to become of us now? bewailed each in turn.
Where's the food and rent coming from?
Every day he looked more harrowed and distressed, and the smile that
had formerly come so spontaneously came now with an effort. He had
taken on an extra job evenings, that of delivery boy for the local
grocer. It did not bring in much, to be sure, and it kept him on his
feet at the end of the day when often he was too tired to stand.
However, all these disadvantages were lost sight of in the few
additional dollars derived from the makeshift.
Mother says you can't keep this up, old chap, remarked Carl
dismally. She says you will be getting tired out and sick and then
where will you be?
But we've got to have the cash, kid! Got to have it, don't
you see? It was I who landed us in this plight and I'm the one to get
us out. It's nobody's fault but mine.
I suppose Corcoran wouldn't
Take Louise back if I were to humble myself, flared Hal. Do you
think for a moment I'd ask him? Do you imagine I'd gratify him by
letting him know how hard he'd hit us? Not on your life! For all he
knows the Harlings are rich as mud and don't care a hurrah for his old
job. I want him to think that too. If he pictures me eating out of his
hand he's mistaken.
Carl looked grave.
It is all very well to be proud, affirmed he, smiling at his
friend's characteristic attitude of mind. But sometimes you can't
afford to be too cocky. If, as you say, you pitched into Corcoran and
But I wasn't wrong, broke in Hal. I meant every word I said; it
was the truth and I'd say it again if I got the chance. You'd have said
the same yourself if you'd been there. The thing that got his goat was
that it was true.
But you can't go round telling people the truth about themselves,
old man, observed Carl with a wisdom far beyond his years. They won't
stand for it.
I'll bet I would. I'd a darn sight rather a person told me straight
to my face what he thought of me than whispered it behind my back.
That's what I'm trying to do now, grinned Carl.
Young Harling's lips curved into a smile.
Why, so you are, kid, returned he. I didn't recognize the stunt
at first. You're a mighty white little chap, Carl. Maybe I was wrong to
light into Corcoran as I did. Of course he is my superior and I really
had no business to sarse him, even if he was wrong. But he is such a
cad! It made my blood boil to hear him berate that poor little Mayo
girland for something she did not do, too.
Well, if you were in this mess what would you do? Come now. Give me
some of your sage advice.
You don't suppose you ought to go to
Corcoran and apologize? interrupted Hal hotly. No, I don't. I'd
starve before I'd do that.
But how about your grandfather, your mother, and Louise?
I shan't let them starve, if that's what you mean. You can bet your
life on that, cried Hal. If anybody goes without it will be myself.
You seem to be doing it all right.
How do you know?
Don't you suppose I've eyes in my head? You're thin as a rail
Huh! That's only because I've been chasing round with bundles. I
was too fat, anyway; didn't get enough exercise at the mills.
Straight goods, I didn't. Just stood and fed stuff into that loom
from morning till night. You don't call that exercise, do you?
I noticed that by night you were often all in, exercise or no
exercise, was the dry response. Well, you've got to go your own gait,
I'll bet a hat you wouldn't go and bow down to Corcoran.
The thrust told.
Bow down to him? I'd crack his nut!
Hal chuckled with satisfaction at his chum's loyalty.
There you are, you see! declared he. You are every whit as rabid
as I am when it comes to the scratch.
I'm afraid I'm more rabid when things hit you and Louise, murmured
The two walked on without speaking, the mind of each busy with the
problem in hand.
Carl's imagination circled every mad avenue of escape from the
Harlings' financial crisis. If only he were rich! If only somebody
would suddenly leave him some money! If onlyhis brain halted in the
midst of its absurd gyrations.
If he were not rich; if he had no fairy fortune to pass over to Hal
and Louise, what was to hinder him from performing for them a far more
genuine service of friendship and affection? Instead of offering them
money that was dropped into his hand why should he not test out his
real regard for them by earning it? Many a boy his age, aye, younger
than he, earned money. Why should he be free of responsibility when
Hal, who was only a few years older, was weighed down with it?
Just why it had never occurred to him that if he earned money he
might with propriety hand it over to his own hard-working mother is a
question. Often with eyes fixed on the clouds we lose sight of the
things just beneath our noses. Perhaps that was the explanation of
Carl's lack of thought. Be that as it may, certain it was that he
parted from his chum afire with the generous impulse of making a
personal effort to reinforce the Harlings' slender income.
He was only a stone's throw from home and what led him to turn the
other way, pass into Beaver Street, and go south toward Orient Avenue
he could not have told. Possibly he was still thrilling with newly
awakened altruism and was not yet ready to have his roseate dreams
disturbed. Or he may have been pondering so deeply how to put his
impulses into action that he failed to heed just where he was going. At
any rate before he realized it there he was in the fashionable section
of the village, walking along between rows of bare and stately elms and
great rambling houses glimpsed from behind high brick walls.
He had not been in this part of Baileyville for months. There was
nothing to take him there. What connection had his life with those
fortunate lives that made leisure and luxury things to be taken for
granted? Even now he started at finding himself in a location so
incongruous; or rather at finding so incongruous a person as himself in
an environment so out of harmony with his thought and station.
He whirled about to start homeward and it was just at this instant
that a trim racing car drew up beside him and a man's voice inquired
Lost your way, youngster?
Carl glanced at the speaker.
He was a gray-haired, clean-shaven man, with fresh color and keen
blue eyes. Although muffled to the chin in a raccoon coat that almost
met the fur of his cap there was a splendid vigor about him that
breathed health, energy, and the rewards a temperate life brings.
Everything about him seemed clearness personifiedeye, complexion,
I've not lost my way, thank you, sir, Carl answered. I just got
to thinking and have wandered farther from home than I meant to.
Are you going back to town now?
Jump in and I'll give you a lift.
Raising the fur robes invitingly the stranger reached to open the
Carl was almost too surprised to speak.
You're very kind, sir, he contrived to stammer. I should be glad
of a ride. I don't often get one. Besides, I ought to have been at home
The honesty of the reply apparently pleased the motorist for,
smiling, he tucked the lad in and asked:
Where do you live?
At Mulberry Court, sir.
I'm afraid I don't quite know where that is.
Very likely not. It's a little tenement house off Minton Street.
Maybe you never were there.
I guess I never was, the man replied simply.
It's a nice place to live, continued Carl, glowing with local
pride. Of course it isn't like this. We've no trees. But in winter
trees aren't much good anyway; and in summer we can go to the parks.
To this philosophic observation his companion agreed with a nod and
they sped on in silence.
The vast stretches of snow, so unsightly in the city's narrow
thoroughfares, were on every hand white and sparkling, and each little
shrub rearing its head out of the spangled fields was laden with
The boy drew a long breath, drinking in the crystal air.
Gee! he burst out impulsively. This is great. I feel cheered up
The man driving the car shot him a quiet smile.
I'm glad to hear that, said he. So you were out of spirits, were
I was fussed within an inch of my life, owned Carl with engaging
In wrong somewhere?
Oh, I'm not; but my chum is.
What's the matter?
Why, you see his sister has just been fired from Davis and
Coulter's mills. It wasn't her fault at all, either. Her brother gave
the foreman, Corcoran, a jawing because he got too fresh with one of
the girls. Corcoran didn't say a word at the time but a couple of weeks
later he took out his spite on Hal Harling's sister, Louise. I suppose
he was mad and decided on this way to get even.
Maybe he thought he'd take Hal's pride down and make him come
crawling to him on his knees to get Louise back into the mills. It is a
rotten time to be out of work. Louise has tried and tried to get
another job and can't land a thing. But whether she does or not, her
brother isn't going crawling to Corcoran. He's not afraid of the old
tyrant. Hal Harling isn't afraid of anything. Why, only the other day
he tore into the street and saved a little runaway chap from being
mashed to jelly under a lot of automobiles. The baby was chasing a dog
and got into the middle of High Street before he realized it. He would
certainly have been killed had it not been for Hal.
Whose baby was it? questioned the man beside him in an odd voice.
Oh, I don't know. We didn't wait to see. Hal was anxious to get out
of the crowd and we were late home anyway. So Harling gave the kid to
the nursemaid and lit out.
There was a muffled: I see! from his listener.
And where do you come in in all this tangle? queried the stranger
I? Why, you see Hal Harling is my a sudden reserve fell upon
the lad. It was impossible to explain to anybody just what Hal Harling
was to him. I chase round with the Harlings a lot, explained he.
They are almost like my own family.
Oh, so that's it!
I'd decided just now to hunt for a job and see if I couldn't make
good the money Louise is missing. She can't seem to find a darn thing
to do, poor kid. She's been out of work over a week now and they've got
to have money or Mrs. Harling and Grandfather Harling will starve to
death. Of course I'm not so much, continued Carl modestly. But I'm
willing to work and I'm sure I could earn something.
The owner of the velvet-wheeled car did not speak at once. Then he
You don't go to school to-morrow, do you?
Saturday? Not on yourno, sir.
Then you'd be free to come to my office to-morrow morning and see
me, wouldn't you?
Do you think you could give me a job? Sure I'd come! ejaculated
Carl with zest.
Good! Come to the Berwick building, Number 197 Dalby Street,
to-morrow at ten o'clock. Give your name andby the by, what is your
Carl McGregor, sir.
A fine old Scotch name. Well, you write it on a card or a piece of
paper and give it to the man you will find at the door. Maybe I shall
be able to do something for you.
The car rolled up to the curb and stopped.
You've been mighty kind, sir, said Carl, as he leaped out. You've
brought me nearly home.
Oh, I was going this way anyway, smiled the man in the fur coat.
You won't have far to walk now, will you?
Only a block. I'll be home in a jiffy.
You won't forget about to-morrow.
Laughing at something that evidently amused him very much the
stranger started his engine.
As for Carl, he raced home as fast as ever his feet would go.
Already he was late for supper, a fact always annoying to his mother,
who considered tardiness one of the most flagrant of sins. To be sure
he was not often late, for miss what other functions he might he seldom
missed his meals. To-night, however, the table had been cleared, the
dishes washed, and only a saucepan of corn-meal mush, steaming on the
back of the stove, remained as a souvenir of the feast.
For goodness' sake, Carl, wherever have you been? asked Mrs.
McGregor, as he entered, panting from his run up the long flights of
stairs. I've been worried to death about you. Go wash your hands and
come and eat your supper right away. You know I don't like you out
I know it, Ma, the boy responded penitently. I'm mighty sorry.
I'd no idea, though, that it was so late.
Where've you been?
To walk? Just to walk? Mercy on us! Not just walking round for
I'm afraid so, yes.
Who was with you?
For an instant Mrs. McGregor looked searchingly at her son.
Well, did you ever hear the like of that! commented she,
addressing the younger children who clustered about their brother with
curiosity. What set you to go walking?
I don't know, Ma. Just a freak, I guess.
A foolish freakworrying the whole family, delaying supper, and
what not. Now come and eat your porridge without more delay. Mary, go
bring the milk; and, Timmie, you fetch a clean saucer from the pantry.
Martin, stop pestering your brother until he eats something; he'll play
with you and Nell by and by. Such a noisy lot of bairns as you are! If
you're not careful you'll wake James Frederick.
Nevertheless, in spite of her grumbling, the mother regarded her
brood of clamoring youngsters with affectionate pride. They were indeed
a husky group, red-cheeked, high-spirited, and happy; their chatter, as
she well knew, was nothing more than the normal exuberance of
While Carl hungrily devoured his big bowlful of cereal his mother
continued her sewing. She was working on a film of blue material
a-glitter with silver beads that twinkled from its folds like stars.
Every now and then little Nell, fascinated by the sparkle of the
fabric, would start toward the corner where her mother sat in the ring
of brilliant lamplight.
Instantly one of the older brothers or sisters would intercept the
child, catching up the wriggling mite and explaining softly:
No, dearie, no! Nell must not trouble mother. Mother's working.
It was an old, oft-repeated formula which every one of the little
group had heard from the time he had been able to toddle. Familiar,
too, was the picture of their mother seated in the circle of light, her
basket of gayly hued spools beside her, and a cloud of shimmering
splendor wreathing her feet. Sometimes this glory was pink; sometimes
it was blue, lavender, or yellow; not infrequently it was black or a
smoky mist of gray. The children always delighted in the brighter
colors, crowding round with eagerness whenever a new gown was brought
home to see what hue the exciting parcel might contain.
Oh, nothing but a sleepy old gray one this time! Timmie would
bewail. And gray beads, too! Do hurry up, Ma, and get it done so we
can have something else.
But let the paper disclose a brilliant blue or a red tulle and
instantly every child clapped his hands.
Exultantly they examined the scintillating jet or iridescent
Oh, this is the best yet, Ma! Carl would cry. It's a peach of a
Their ingenious admiration did much to transform their mother's
tedious task into a fine art and helped her to regard it with dignity.
Certainly its influence on the characters of her children was
inestimable. Not alone did it answer their craving for beauty, but far
better than this æsthetic gratification was the education it gave them
in thoughtfulness and unselfishness. Consideration for their mother,
restraint, independence, all emerged out of the yards of foolish gauze
and the frivolous spangles.
Therefore Mrs. McGregor sewed on serene in spirit and if, as
to-night, her task barred her from secrets her children might amid
greater leisure have bestowed on her, the circumstance was accepted as
one of the unavoidable disadvantages attending constant occupation.
It was regrettable she had not more time to talk with her sons and
daughters separately. Confidences were shy and volatile things that
could not be delivered in a hurry or hastily fitted into the chinks of
a busy day. Confidences depended on mood and could not be regulated so
that they would be forthcoming in the few seconds snatched between one
duty and another.
As a result it came about that after Carl had swallowed his supper,
frolicked with the younger children and helped Mary put them to bed,
brought in the kindlings and coal for the morning fire, it was time for
him to tumble in between the sheets himself, and he did so without
mentioning to his mother or any one else his adventures of the
afternoon or his morrow's appointment with the stranger.
One does not always wish to relate his affairs before five small
brothers and sisters whose little ears drink in the story and whose
tiny tongues are liable artlessly to repeat it.
In the McGregor household there was affection and happiness; but,
alas, there was no such thing as privacy.
CHAPTER V. A TANGLE OF SURPRISES
Morning, to which Carl had looked forward for a moment with his
mother, brought, alas, even more meager opportunity for imparting
secrets than had the night before, for as was the custom of the
McGregor family the new day was launched amid a turmoil of confusion.
Hence it came about that although Carl made several valiant attempts to
waylay his mother in the pantry, or corral her in her room, he was each
time thwarted and was never able to get beyond a vague introduction to
the topic so near his heart. At length a multitudinous list of errands
to the butcher, grocer, and baker was handed him and there was no
alternative but catch up his hat and coat and speed forth upon these
commissions. And no sooner were they all fulfilled than the hour for
his appointment with the stranger arrived and, palpitating with the
interest of his mission, he set forth to the address to which he had
It was in the down-town part of the village and so busy was he
dodging trucks and hurrying pedestrians that he paid scant heed to
anything but the gilt numbers that dotted the street. In and out the
crowd he wove his way until above a doorway the magic characters he
sought stared at him.
There may have been, and probably were, signs announcing the nature
of the business in which this mysterious friend was engaged but if so
Carl was blind to them. All that concerned him was to find the place
that sheltered his remarkable acquaintance and ascertain the sequel of
the day before.
Therefore he walked timidly into the hallway and seeing at the other
end of it an oaken door panelled with ground glass that bore the
hieroglyphics of his quest he turned the heavy brass knob and walked
The room was spacious and its rich furnishings and atmosphere of
stillness were in such marked contrast to the hubbub of the street that
he paused on the heavy rug, abashed. There was, however, no time for
retreat even had his courage failed him for the door behind him had no
sooner clicked together than a boy in a gray uniform came forward. As
he approached his eye swept with disapproval the shabby visitor and he
said, with an edge of sharpness crisping his tone:
What can I do for you?
I want to see aagentleman, stammered Carl. I don't know his
name. I forgot to ask it. But he told me to come to this number to-day
at ten o'clock and give him my name on a piece of paper. I've got it
Awkwardly he searched his pockets, the waiting messenger watching
his every movement.
It was a grimy morsel of parchment that was at length produced; but
the instant the supercilious page read the name scrawled upon it his
attitude changed from superiority to servility.
This way, sir, if you please, said he, wheeling about.
Carl followed his guide, feeling, as he tagged across the silencing
rug, deplorably small, and painfully conscious of both his hands and
feet. He and his conductor passed through another door, threaded
labyrinthian aisles flanked by gaping clerks and faintly smiling
stenographers, and came at length to a third door which the youth
preceding him opened with a flourish.
Mr. Carl McGregor, announced he in a stentorian tone.
All the blood in Carl's body rushed to his face.
The room before him was small and on its warmly tinted walls a few
pictures, some of which his school training led him to recognize as
Rembrandt reproductions, lent charm and interest to the interior. But
these details were of minor importance compared to the thrill he
experienced at discovering behind a great mahogany desk the mysterious
stranger of his motoring adventure.
Yes, it was hethere could be no question about that. And yet, now
that his hat and heavy fur coat were removed he appeared surprisingly
slender and youthful. His eyes, too, seemed bluer, his cheeks redder,
and his mouth more smiling.
Well, shaver, you're prompt, announced he, pointing to the clock
with evident satisfaction.
You said ten, sir.
So I did. Nevertheless, I often say ten and get quarter past ten or
even eleven o'clock. Sit down.
He motioned toward a huge leather chair at his elbow and slipping
into it the boy perched with anticipation on its forward edge.
Well, what about that Miss Harling we were talking of yesterday?
Has she a position yet?
Since last night, you mean? I don't know, sir. I haven't seen any
of the Harlings to-day. But I hardly think so.
The stranger pursed his lips.
Too bad! Too bad! he murmured. And you are still for helping the
family out by taking a job, are you?
If I can get one; yes, sir.
Just what kind of work had you in mind?
WhyIIhadn't thought about it.
I suppose you go to school.
Yes, sir. That's the dickens of it. My mother makes me. I'd a great
deal rather go into Davis and Coulter's cotton mills. Lots of boys and
girls my age do go there, and that is where my father worked before he
died. But Ma is hot on education. She says I've got to have one, and
she insists on sewing at home on all sorts of fool flummeries for some
dressmaker so I can. It's rotten of me not to be more pleased about it,
While Carl fumbled with his cap the man at the desk tilted back in
his chair, regarding him narrowly.
Your school work can't leave you very much time for anything else,
Oh, yes, it does, the lad hastened to retort. I have Saturdays
andandspare hours at night. I'd even work Sundays if there was
anything I could do.
At that rate I am afraid you would not find much time for skating
or baseball. People have to have fresh air and exercise, you know, to
I don't have to play, protested Carl with great earnestness.
Anyhow I get heaps of exercise and fresh air doing errands. Besides,
we live up five flights.
His listener turned aside his head.
If it comes to exercise I get all I want right at home, persisted
the boy. I've a crew of little brothers and sisters, too, and when I'm
not busy I help take care of them so Ma can sew. Just you try doing it
once if you are looking for exercise. And then I wheel the baby out.
There was a twinkle in the eye of the man at the desk but he said
Isn't it going to bother them at home if you take a position? How
does your mother feel about it?
I haven't had a chance to ask her, Carl blurted out with honesty.
All last evening she was rushing to finish that spangled thing; and
this morning she had the kids to dress and I had errands to do. It's
awful hard to get a chance to talk to Ma by herself. Some of the
children are always clawing at her skirts and bothering her.
You do believe, though, in talking things over with your mother.
Sure! We always tell Ma everything if we can get a chance. So does
all Mulberry Court, for that matter. Ma's that sort.
The stranger toyed with an ivory letter-opener thoughtfully.
Now I'll tell you what we'll do, began he at last. To-day is
Saturday, isn't it?
Well, if your friends, the Harlings, are not straightened out by
Monday morning I will let you begin a week from to-day as errand boy in
Bully! cried the delighted applicant.
If, on the other hand, continued the gentleman at the desk,
speaking slowly and evenly, and not heeding the interruption, Miss
Harling finds work and the family do not need your aid, you must agree
to put in your free time at home helping your mother as you have been
doing in the past. Is that a bargain?
What's the matter?
It just seems to me we might as well settle it definitely now that
I am to come here next week. To-day is Saturday and I don't believe
Louise will find work before Monday morning. Of course she can't do
anything about getting a job Sunday.
Although there was a perceptible tremor of disappointment in the
boy's voice the stranger appeared not to notice it. Rising, he put out
his hand with a kindly smile.
I am afraid the agreement I have made with you is the best I can do
at present, said he. I will be true to my part of it if you will be
true to yours. I promise you that if the Harlings' affairs do not take
an upward turn by Monday you shall come to their rescue.
Thank you, sir.
I wouldn't worry any more about this, if I were you, sonny,
concluded the man. Go home and try to be satisfied. I'll keep the
place for you, remember. It is Carl McGregor, isn't it, of
Mulberry Courtthe top flat.
And did you tell me these friends of yours, the Harlings, lived
Oh, no, sir! I wish they did. The Harlings are at Number 40 Broad
Street. It is the corner house. They took the tenement because there
was sun, and because it entertains Grandfather and Mrs. Harling to look
out the window. They can't ever go out and it cheers them up to have
something to see. It costs more to live there than where we do, but Hal
and Louise decided it was worth it.
Under the circumstances I imagine it is, assented the stranger.
Well, we will wish them luck.
I hope they have it!
So do I. As he spoke the man pressed a bell in answer to which the
uniformed page appeared.
Show this young gentleman out, Billie, said he. Good-by,
The farewell was cordial and in its cadence rang so disconcerting a
finality that try as he might Carl could not repress a conviction that
in spite of his suave promises his new-found friend did not really
expect to see him again.
I guess there are folks like that, meditated he, as he walked
dispiritedly home. They are awful pleasant to your face and give you
the feeling they are going to do wonders for you. But when it comes to
the scratch they slide from under. This chap is one of that slick
bunch, I'll bet a hat.
It was not a cheering reflection and with every step lower and lower
ebbed his hopes. It chanced that his pathway to Mulberry Court led past
the corner of Broad Street (or if it did not really lead him there his
subconscious mind did) and once in the vicinity what more natural than
that he should drop in at Number 40 to pass the time of day?
Grandfather Harling loved to have visitors. He said they cheered him
But to-day neither the old gentleman nor any of the Harling family
needed cheering. Carl found them in such high spirits that for a time
it was difficult to get any of the group to talk coherently.
What do you suppose has happened, Carl? cried Louise, the instant
he was inside the door. The most wonderful thing! You never could
guess if you guessed forever.
If it is as hopeless as that I shan't try, laughed Carl.
But it is amazing, a miracle! put in Mrs. Harling.
We can't understand it at all, quavered Grandfather Harling, who
was quite as excited as the rest.
Well, what is it? the boy demanded.
You'll never believe it, laughed Louise with shining eyes. I've
had a letter. You couldn't guess who it's from!
She held a square white envelope high above her head.
I'm going to have it framed and hand it down to my
You might let me see it, coaxed Carl, putting out his hand.
Oh, it is far too precious to be touched. It is going to be an
archive, an heirloom, you know.
Oh, come on and tell a chap what's happened, urged Carl, his
patience beginning to wane.
Well, think of this! I've had a note from Mr. Coulternot from the
firm, understand, but from the great J. W. himself, written by his own
hand. He says he hears that through some error my name has been dropped
from the Davis and Coulter payroll, and he not only asks me to come
back to the mill but sends me a cheek for double the sum that I have
lost by being out. Can you beat that?
Oh, Louise, how bully! I am glad! But how do you
That's exactly what we don't know. It seems like magic, doesn't it?
I never knew before that Mr. Coulter kept such close track of what went
on at the mills. He doesn't come there often because he is always at
the down-town office. When he does visit the mills he simply strolls
through them as if they belonged to somebody else rather than to
himself. Of course he doesn't know one of the workers and I've always
fancied he didn't care much about us. But this proves how wrong I was
to think so. He does care, you see, and means everybody shall have a
square deal. I shall go back Monday and work harder than ever for him.
You will work your fingers off for such a man as that, you know.
It certainly is white of him! Carl agreed.
It is nothing but justice, asserted Mrs. Harling proudly. Still,
justice isn't a common commodity in this world.
Evidently it isn't Mr. Coulter's fault if it isn't, Mother, Louise
replied. And isn't it nice, Carl, that I am not to go back to work
under Mr. Corcoran. Oh, I forgot to tell you that. That is almost the
best of all. No! I am to be in the shipping department where the work
is lighter and the pay better. Won't Hal be tickled to death when he
hears it? He'll be more convinced than ever that he did the right thing
to lay Corcoran out.
I think he did. Still, it was a dangerous experiment and this
should be a warning to him, put in Mrs. Harling. Hal must learn to be
more careful with his temper, his tongue, and those fists of his. If he
isn't he is going to get into serious trouble some day.
Carl, however, was not listening to Mrs. Harling's moralizing.
I wish I knew how Mr. Coulter found out about Louise, murmured he,
Well, this was certainly a most satisfactory termination to the
Harlings' troubles. He was genuinely glad the affair had turned so
fortunately. And yet in his heart lurked a vague regret. This would
mean that probably he would never see or hear from the mysterious hero
of the red racing car again. Could the stranger have had any knowledge
of what was to happen and did that information account for his jaunty
adieu? Of course such a thing was impossible. And yet how odd and
puzzling it all was!
CHAPTER VI. THE WEB WIDENS
Wherever did you disappear to? inquired his mother when, hungry
but triumphant, Carl came home. I've been looking everywhere for you.
I didn't know you wanted me this morning, Ma, the boy replied, an
afterglow of happiness still on his face.
I didn't really want you but I wanted to know where you were. I've
asked you time and time again when you go out to tell me where you're
I wanted to, Mother, but it was such a long story. Last night you
were too busy to hear it; and this morning there was no chance to talk
to you either.
He heard his mother sigh.
It's a pretty kind of a life I lead if my own children can't get a
minute to talk to me.
But you are busy, Ma. You know you are.
I certainly do. Nobody knows it better, replied the woman with a
sad shake of her head.
Carl, sensing the regret in her tone, hastened to say:
Well, at least the family is not so thick around here now as usual.
Where is everybody?
Mary is out with James Frederick; Timmie has gone to the park to
coast; and Martin and Nell are at the day nursery.
Then we have it all to ourselves.
For a second or two, yes.
Drawing up a kitchen chair he sat down beside his mother.
It's nice to have them gone sometimes, remarked he. The kids make
such a racket.
They'll not always be making it, returned Mrs. McGregor
philosophically. And anyway, the three of them put together can never
equal the hullabaloo you used to make when you were their age.
I'm quiet enough now, grinned Carl sheepishly.
Quiet, you call it, do you? Quiet! And you prancing home from every
ball game with a black eye or else the clothes half torn off you! She
chuckled mischievously. But you're not telling me where you've been.
Up to some deviltry, I'll be bound, or you wouldn't be so anxious to
get it off your conscience.
I haven't been up to any high jinks this time, Ma, protested the
lad soberly. You'll see when I tell you.
Slowly he related his story while his mother bent over her needle,
spangling with brilliants a gauze of azure hue. She was a wonderful
listener, sympathetic in her intentness.
When the boy had finished her hand wandered to touch his rough
A kind deed is never amiss in the world, observed she briefly. If
we would but pass on to other folks the kindness people do to us the
world would soon become a pleasanter place. I'm thankful to know Louise
has her job back, or rather that she has a better one. She's a good
girl and deserves it. Besides, with Christmas coming, it would be hard
to be without money.
And Mr. Coulterwasn't he great? And wasn't it all funny?
Funny is hardly the word; but I'll agree that Mr. Coulter was
great. It is always great for a big man to take on his soul the
troubles of those needier than himself. Well, he's done a good deed
this day and may he be the happier for it. And he will benever fear!
I wonder how he got wind of the trouble Louise was in? You don't
suppose She halted a moment as if suddenly struck by a new
thought; then she laughed and shrugged her shoulders, Of course it
couldn't behow ridiculous! Well, anyway, it is splendid everything
has come out so well. And now that you're here, sonny, would you mind
fetching some coal from the shed and starting up the fire for dinner?
Mary'll be back soon and 'twould be a nice surprise for her to find the
So it would! answered Carl, leaping up to do his mother's bidding.
I'm not forgetting you'd like to do a bit of coasting or skating
to-day, Mrs. McGregor continued. If you will fit in a few errands
early in the afternoon I'll let you off at two o'clock for a holiday.
That will be great, Ma! Butbut don't you
It will be all right, sonny. Tim has had his play this morning and
he shall help the rest of the day. Hush a minute! Isn't that Mrs.
O'Dowd's knock? Very like she's up to ask me to run down and see little
Katie who is laid up with a sore throat. Well, I'll go but I won't be
long. Meantime if you can lend Mary a hand dinner will be through the
quicker and you will be off to play the earlier.
Thus it happened that before two o'clock Carl McGregor was one of
the shouting throng of boys that crowded the small pond in Davis Park.
Amid swirling skaters and a confusion of hockey sticks he moved in and
out the thick of the game. So intent was he upon the sport that he
might have continued playing until dark had not a boy at his elbow
There goes Hal Harling! Hi, Hal! Come on down!
Harling! Harling! cried the other boys, taking up the call.
Come on and play, Hal! You can have Sanderson's skates. He's going
Can't do it! laughed the giant, waving his hand.
Oh, come on, old top!
Not to-night, fellers! Got to go home.
I've got to see Harling! Carl exclaimed, hurriedly loosening his
You're not going, too!
Got to. So long! Hold on, Hal! I'm coming with you.
Scrambling up the bank, Carl overtook his friend.
Hullo, Carlie! What struck you to quit? asked he unceremoniously.
Time I was getting home. Besides, I wanted to see you.
A smile passed between them.
To tell the truth, I hoped I'd spy you somewhere, kid. I've got
great news! Corcoran has been fired! What do you know about that?
The old man himselfno other!
Jove! Why, I thought you said he'd been at the mills all his life.
So he has.
Butbutto fire him now!
Well, he hasn't actually been fired, amended young Harling, but
so far as I'm concerned it amounts to the same thing. He's been
transferred to another department and he isn't to be a boss any more,
poor old chap!
But aren't you glad? questioned Carl with surprise.
Why, yes, in some ways, returned Hal thoughtfully. Yes, of course
I'm glad not to have him sarsing the girls and pestering me. Still, I'm
sort of sorry for him.
But I thought you
I know! I know! I'm not saying he wasn't an awful old screw. But
somehow I don't believe he meant to be so flinty-hearted. You see, he
came and talked to me to-daytalked like a regular human being. You
could have knocked me over. It seemsa funny thingthat kid I picked
up out of the street the other day was his.
Yep! Can you beat it? Of course I hadn't a notion who the little
tike belonged to; but even if I had I should have done the same thing.
You wouldn't let a kid like that be run over no matter who his father
ButbutCorcoran! gasped Carl. How did he know it was you who
rescued his baby?
Somebody told him. He said it cut him up terribly because of the
way he'd treated Louise.
Served him right.
Maybe! But he was cut up, poor old cuss! You'd have been sorry for
him yourself, if you'd heard him. He isn't all brute by any means. Why,
when he spoke about his little boy
I know. It was a low-down trick and he said so himself. But he
declared it was an ill wind that blew nobody good, and he hinted that
maybe in consequence of the trouble she would be better off than if it
Carl bit his tongue to keep it silent. How he longed to impart to
his chum the good tidings that would greet him when he reached home!
But he must not spoil Louise's pleasure by telling the story of her
good luck for her.
Oh, somehow things do seem to come round right if you wait long
enough, mumbled he.
So mother says, echoed Hal moodily. But you get almighty sick of
waiting sometimes. Even knowing you were right doesn't put pennies in
your pocket. He laughed with a touch of bitterness.
Again Carl was tempted to break the silence and reveal the wonderful
secret, and again he clamped his lips together.
Hal would hear the tidings soon enough now and his spirits would
soar the higher because of the depths to which they had descended. It
was always so. This broad range of mood was one of his chief charms.
Ah, how well he knew his friend and how accurately did he forecast
what would happen!
It was not five minutes after the two parted at the corner before
Hal Harling came leaping up the McGregors' stairway and gave a loud
knock at their door.
Oh, you old tight-jaw! announced he, when on entering, he beheld
Carl grinning at him from across the room. You might have put me out
of my misery.
The boy laughed.
It wasn't my secret! I'd have been a cur to butt in on Louise's
So you would!
Quietly Mrs. McGregor glanced up from the sea of delicate blue gauze
foaming about her.
A ready tongue is a gift of silver, but a silent one is a treasure
of pure gold, observed she quaintly.
CHAPTER VII. THE COMING OF THE FAIRY
With the Harlings safely out of their difficulties Christmas, as
Carl jestingly observed, was free to approach and approach it did with
a speed incredible of belief. A big blizzard a week before it, which
transformed the suburban districts into a wonderland of beauty, merely
worked havoc however in Baileyville, causing muddy streets and slippery
pavements, and wrecking the skating in the park.
Snow doesn't seem to be made for cities, remarked Mrs. McGregor in
reply to Carl's lamentations. It is an old-fashioned institution that
belongs to the past. Here in town there is neither a place for it nor
does it do an atom of good to anybody unless it is the unemployed who
hail the work it brings.
I hate the snow, wailed Timmie. It isn't snow, anyway; it's just
Ah, laddie, you should see one of the snowstorms of the old
country! protested his Scotch mother reminiscently. Then you would
not say you hated the snow. It turned everything it touched white as a
What's a Tartary lamb, Mother? inquired Tim with interest.
A Tartary lamb? Ask your big brother; he goes to school.
I never heard of a Tartary lamb, Ma, flushed Carl.
Mary had a little lamb, began Nell, who had caught the phrase.
So she did, darling, laughed her mother as she picked up the child
and kissed her, and its fleece was white as snow, too, for the song
says so; but it wasn't a Tartary lamb, dearie. It was just a common
What is a Tartary lamb, anyway, Ma? Mary demanded.
Mrs. McGregor paused to put a length of silk into her needle.
Long ago, began she, before there were ships and trains, to say
nothing of automobiles and aeroplanes people had to stay at home in the
places where they happened to be born. Of course they could go by coach
or on horseback to a near-by city, but they could not go far; nor
indeed did they think of going because they did not know there was
anywhere to go. Nobody did any traveling in those days and as a result
there were no maps or travel books to set you thinking you must pack up
your traps to-morrow and start for some place you never had seen. But
by and by the compass was invented, larger and better ships came to be
built, and men got the idea the world was round instead of flat (as
they had at one time supposed), a discovery that comforted vastly the
timid souls who had always been afraid of falling off the edge of it.
Therefore, when it was at last proved that should you sail far, far
away your ship, instead of dropping off into space, would circle the
great ball we live on and come home again, some of those who were
brave, adventurous, and had money enough set out on voyages to see what
there was to be seen in other lands than those they had been brought up
in. Frenchmen thought it would be a grand thing to discover new
countries for France; Englishmen wanted new territory for England. So
it was all over the world. Thus this one and that one began to travel.
Just as Columbus came to America, Ma, put in Tim.
Exactly, dear, nodded his mother. Now you can imagine what a hero
such a traveler became; how people admired his daring; and how half of
them wished they were going with him and the other half rejoiced that
they weren't. And when he came back there was great excitement to hear
where he had been and what he had seen! Every word he spoke was passed
from mouth to mouth, each person who repeated it adding to the story
until it grew like a snowball. And as was inevitable the more raptly
the populace listened the more marvelous became the stories.
Like Jack Murphy when he gets home from the circus, put in Tim.
Yes, very much like Jack Murphy, I am afraid; only sometimes these
travelers really believed the tales they told. Sometimes the stories
had been passed on to them by the natives of the strange countries they
visited, and how could they know that all which was told them was not
true? Such a tale was the legend of the Tartary lamb.
Tell it to us, Mother, urged Mary.
Well, it actually isn't much of a story, my dear. You see, when the
travelers from England, France, and other western countries went to the
East for the first time, they saw cotton growing, or if they did not
really see it, they heard there was such a thing. Now cotton was
entirely new to the voyagers and it seemed unbelievable that such a
plant could be. Some of the eastern natives told the visitors that in
each pod grew a little lamb with soft, white fleece. Orientals were
very ignorant in those days. The Tartars went even farther and said the
lamb bent the stalk he lived on down to the ground and ate all the food
within reach; and when he had nibbled up all the grass and roots around
him he died, and then it was that people took his fleece and twisted it
into thread, which was woven into garments. Thus the legend became
established and the belief in the Tartary lamb became so firm that for
several hundred years people even in England thought that in the Far
East there grew this wonderful plant with a vegetable lamb sprouting
from the top of it.
How silly of them! sniffed Carl.
No sillier than lots of the things we now believe, probably,
replied his mother. Aren't we constantly discovering how mistaken some
of our cherished beliefs were? That is what progress is. We learn
continually to cast aside outgrown notions and adopt wiser and better
ones. So it was in the past. The world was very young in those days,
you must remember, and people did not know so much about it as we do
now. And even we, with all our wisdom, are going to be laughed at years
hence, precisely as you are laughing now about those who believed the
story of the Tartary lamb. Men are going to say: 'Think of those
poor, stupid old things back in nineteen hundred and twenty-three who
believed so-and-so! How could they have done it?'
Carl was silent.
When you consider this you will understand how it was that the
eager readers of the past devoured with wide-open eyes the tale-telling
of Sir John Mandeville; and should you ever read that ancient story, as
I hope you will sometime, you will be less surprised to hear that even
he declared that he had seen cotton growing and that when the pod of
the plant was cut open inside it was a little creature like a lamb. The
natives of the East ate both the fruit of the plant and the wee beast,
he explained. In fact he said he had eaten the thing himself.
Why, the very idea! gasped Mary.
What a lie! Carl burst out.
I'm afraid Sir John was either not very truthful or he had a great
imagination, smiled Mrs. McGregor. Still, you see, he was not alone
in his belief about the Tartary lamb. So many other people believed the
yarn that he probably thought he was telling the truth. And as for
eating itwell, he just had a strain of Jack Murphy in him. Besides,
there were no schools in 1322 to teach Sir John Mandeville better. And
anyway, who was to contradict the fable? Sir John had been to the East
and the other people hadn't. Why shouldn't they believe what he and
other travelers told them?
He did sort of have them, didn't he? grinned Carl.
How long was it before the public stopped believing such a
ridiculous story? demanded Mary.
About three hundred years, answered her mother. In the meantime
much traveling had been done by the peoples of all nations and learning
had made great strides. Scientific men began to whisper there could be
no such thing as the lamb of the Tartars; it was not possible. Cotton
was merely a plant. You can imagine what discussions such an assertion
as that raised. The public had come to like the notion of the Tartary
lamb and did not wish to give it up; besides, if the story were all a
myth, it put the travelers who had told it in a very bad light, and
shook the confidence of readers in some of the other tales they had
published. Science always upsets us. None of us like to be jolted out
of the beliefs we have been brought up with and exchange them for
others, no matter how good the new ones are. So it was in sixteen
hundred. The populace resented having the Tartary lamb taken away from
Mrs. McGregor laughed.
It was a pity Sir John Mandeville and the rest did not live long
enough to learn how mistaken they had been, mused Mary.
Poor old Sir John! I guess it was as well for him that he didn't,
for in his day he was, you see, quite a celebrity. He might not have
relished living to see his fame evaporate. At least he had the courage
to make a trip to a strange and distant land, and for that we should
respect him since it took nerve to travel in those days. Moreover he
did his part and was a link in a civilization that went on after he was
gone. So the history of the world is built up. Each generation builds
on the blunders of the one before itor should.
How queer it makes you feel; and how small! Mary reflected.
Well, it just seems as if we didn't count for much, sighed the
On the contrary, dear child, we count for a great deal, instantly
retorted her mother. Each one of us can have a share in the vast plan
of the universe and help carry it forward.
By doing all we can during our lifetime to make the world better,
was the answer. Good men and good women make a good world, don't they?
And the better the world the farther ahead will be its civilization.
Progress is not all in wonderful discoveries of science, in fine
architecture, or in great books; much of it lies in the peoples of the
globe learning to live peacefully together and help one another.
Kindness to our neighbor, therefore, helps civilization. It cannot
avoid doing so if we live it on a large enough scale.
I never thought of that before, meditated Carl.
But you can see it is so, laddie, responded his mother. A lack of
kindness and fairness in nations causes wars, and wars put the world
backward. It is in the peaceful times that nations grow. You know
yourself that you cannot build up anything when somebody else is
waiting to knock it down the minute you have it finished. Under such
conditions it hardly seems worth while to build at all. So it is with
nations the world over. When they are snarling jealously at one
another's heels, and coveting what the other possesses, how can
progress be made?
I suppose when they get mad they forget about the work of the
world, Tim announced.
That is just the trouble, agreed his mother. Engrossed in their
own little squabbles, they lose sight of the splendid big thing they
were put here to do. In other words they forget their job, which is to
make the world and themselves better.
Slowly she glanced from one earnest face into another.
Well, I've read you quite a sermon, haven't I? smiled she. And it
was all because of the Tartary lamb. Now suppose we talk of something
elseChristmas. It will be here now before we know it. What shall we
do this year? Shall it be a tree? Or shall we hang our stockings, go
without a tree, and put the money into a Christmas dinner?
Inquiringly she studied her children's faces.
I suppose a tree does cost quite a lot before you are through with
it, reflected the prudent Mary.
And we have the municipal tree in the park, anyway, Carl put in in
an attempt to be optimistic.
But that tree isn't ours, our very own tree, Tim began to wail.
It is lots bigger than any tree we could have, Timmie, asserted
his older brother. And think of the lights! They are all electric. We
couldn't have lights like those here at home.
I know, grieved Tim. But it isn't our treejust oursin our
A Christmas tree costs ever so much money, Timmie, Mary explained
gently. Mother can't buy us a tree always and a dinner, too.
Oh, I could manage a small tree, perhaps, interrupted Mrs.
McGregor, touched at seeing the child so disappointed. There are
little ones at the market.
But I don't want a little one, objected Tim stubbornly. I want a
big, big Christmas tree.
Big as the ceilingbig as Mulberry Court, interrupted Martin,
extending his chubby arms to their full length.
I wants a big tree, too, lisped Nell.
Mrs. McGregor sighed to herself. Evidently it was not going to be as
easy to coax her flock away from their established traditions as she
had at first supposed. Each year she had made a stupendous effort to
keep Christmas after the old fashion; and each season the ceremony,
before it was over, made appalling inroads on her slender purse. This
time it had been her plan to curtail expenses and put what was spent
into the more substantial and lasting things. But now as she glanced
about her her heart misgave her. Even Carl and Mary, valiantly as they
fought for economy, and grown up though they were, could not altogether
conceal the fact that they were disappointed; and as for the younger
children, they were on the brink of tears.
Well, we won't decide to-day, announced their mother
diplomatically. We will think it over until to-morrow. By that time
perhaps some way can be found
A knock at the door interrupted her.
Run to the door like a good boy, Timmie, said she. Very likely
it's the boy from the corner grocery with the bundles of wood I
Tim rose with importance. Visitors to the fifth floor of Mulberry
Court were so few that to admit even so prosaic a one as the grocer's
boy never ceased to thrill him.
To-day, however, it was not the grocer's boy who stood peering at
him from the dim hallway. In fact, it was no one he had ever seen
before. A little old man stood there, a man with ruddy cheeks, a stern
mouth, and blue eyes whose sharpness was softened by a moist, far-away
expression. From beneath a nautical blue cap strayed a wisp or two of
white hair. Otherwise, he was buttoned to his chin in a great coat,
fastened with imposing brass buttons, dulled by much fingering.
Apprehensive at the sight, Tim backed into the room. Brass buttons,
in his limited experience, meant either firemen or policemen and either
of these dignitaries was equally terrifying.
You don't know your Uncle Frederick, do you, sonny? observed the
The voice, more than the words, brought Mrs. McGregor to her feet in
an instant, and what a rush she made for the door! Gauze, spangles,
scissors, and spool flew in all directions and the children, deciding
that some unprecedented evil had befallen, stampeded after her.
Open-mouthed, they watched, while in the arms of the little old
gentleman she laughed, cried, and uttered broken nothings quite
unintelligible to anybody.
Who ever would have thought to see you, Frederick! gasped she at
last, as wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron she dragged her
visitor into the room. Children, come here one by one and speak to
your Uncle James Frederick Dillingham. This is Carl, the oldest onea
good boy as ever lived (if he is always tearing his clothes). The next
is Mary; she's going on thirteen and is quite a little housekeeper even
now. Timmie, who let you in, is nine. And here are Martin and Nellthe
mites! James Frederick is asleep but when you see him you'll see the
finest baby you ever set your two eyes on. Kiss your uncle, children.
You know it's him you have to thank for many, many things.
Slowly the children advanced, wonder (and if the truth must be told)
no small measure of chagrin in their crestfallen countenances.
Was this apparition the fairy prince of their imaginingsthis
little gray man with his long coat and oilskin bundle? Why, he might be
Mike Carrigan, the butcher; or Davie Ryan, the proprietor of the fruit
stand, for anything his appearance denoted. Their dreams were in the
dust. Still, youth is hopeful and they did not quite let go the
expectation that when the long coat that disguised him had been removed
and the magic bundle opened Uncle Frederick Dillingham would issue
forth in a garb startling, resplendent, and more in accordance with
their mental pictures of him. But to their profound disappointment,
when the great coat was tossed aside, it concealed no ermine-robed
hero; nor was there crown or scepter in the bundle. Instead there stood
in their midst a very plain, kindly little man arrayed in a shiny suit
of blue serge that was almost shabby. The buttons, to be sure, had
anchors on them; but they were dim, lusterless old anchors that looked
as if they had been sunk in the depths of the sea until their golden
glory had been tarnished by the washings of a million waves.
Nell eyed him and at length began to cry.
Policeman! she whimpered, hiding her face in her mother's skirt.
Hush, girlie! Don't be silly, protested Mrs. McGregor hurriedly.
Your uncle is no policeman, though he may get one if you don't stop
At that the little old man laughed a hearty, ringing laugh, so good
to hear that in spite of themselves the whole family joined in it.
After that, everything was easy. Uncle James Frederick Dillingham
tucked his coat, cap, and bundle away in a corner and allowed his
sister to seat him in the rocking-chair before the stove.
Put another shovelful of coal on the fire, Carl, said she briskly.
And Mary, do you slip out to the market and fetch home a beefsteak and
some onions. You were ever fond of a steak smothered in onions,
Frederick. Timmie, you shall set the table with a place for your uncle
Frederick at the head, remember. And Nell, trot to the shed, darling,
and bring mother a nice lot of potatoes. Go softly so not to waken
Promptly her host sprang to obey her.
Well, well, Brother, murmured she, I've scarcely got my breath
yet. I never was so surprised in all my born days as to see you
standing there on the mat! Wherever did you come from? We've not heard
from you for weeks and I had begun to fear something might have gone
Captain Dillingham patted her hand with his horny one.
We had a long trip home, Nellie, because of strong head winds,
explained he. Then, too, there were ports to stop at and cargo to
unload. Add to this a fracas with the engine and you'll readily
understand why I had only scant time for letter writing. I never was
any too good at it, at best, you know.
Men never are, returned Mrs. McGregor cheerily over her shoulder
as she hustled out of the pantry with a clean tablecloth. But it
matters not now; the ship is safe in port and you are here in time for
Christmasa miracle that's never happened before in all my memory.
But, began her brother doubtfully.
But what? Surely you're not going to say you are putting straight
off to-morrow for India or some other heathen spot! No shipowners would
be so heartless as to ask you to do that. Besides, very like the
Charlotte must need repairing after such a stiff trip. Oughtn't her
seams to be caulked or something?
Captain Dillingham's eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth
You're quite knowing in nautical matters, Nellie, observed he with
amusement. Aye, the Charlotte will have to lay to and be
overhauled some. She had a tough voyage. Still, she don't mind it much.
She's a thoroughbred that takes what comes without whimpering. That's
the lady of her. I never have to offer excuses or apologies for
herno, siree! Tell her what you want done and you can count on her
doing it every time.
I'm sorry you didn't have a better voyage home, ventured his
Oh, the voyage was all right enough. You can't expect a marble
floor to sail on in December. Indeed a trip such as that would be
almost too tame for me. I like the kick of the sea. Still, heavy winds
that hold you back all the way over as these held us, are trying. You
make but slow progress against them. Nevertheless the Charlotte
put up a stiff fight and don't you forget it.
Had you any storms this trip?
Storms? Oh, I believe we did strike a gale or two, now I come to
think of it. I recall there was a nasty typhoon in the Indian Ocean
that kept us busy for a while. But such happenings are all in the day's
work and after they are over are forgotten.
Carl, busy at his task of slicing the bread, gasped. Gales and
typhoons! And the Indian Ocean to boot! And his uncle mentioned them
all as if they were no more than flies on the wall. He had seen the
Indian Ocean on the mapan area of blue edged about with patches of
pink, green, and yellow; but he certainly had never expected to meet in
the flesh anybody who had sailed its waters.
Uncle Frederick Dillingham suddenly began to take on in his eyes an
aspect quite new; an aspect so alluring that when contrasted with the
myth of purple and ermine the latter tradition shriveled into something
very minor in importance. Was not the master of a ship a far more
intriguing character than a dull old king who did nothing but sit on a
crimson velvet throne and wave a scepter?
You'll have much to tell us, Frederick, declared Mrs. McGregor,
putting the potatoes into the oven. The children know little of
foreign lands. Nor do I know as much of them as I would. 'Twill be
grand to hear where you've been and what you've seen.
Did you go to China, Uncle Frederick? Carl inquired timidly.
Aye! And to India and Japan, laddie.
The boy's eyes glowed with excitement.
Oh, wouldn't I like to sail on a big ship to some place that was
different from Mulberry Court! cried he.
The places I've been in lately were certainly different from
Mulberry Court! sighed Captain Dillingham. And perhaps had you seen
them you would be as glad as I am to be at Mulberry Court.
Maybe! I'd like a peep at something else, though.
Maybe some day you'll be having it, returned the sea captain
jocosely. Who knows! I may be taking you to India with me when you're
Frederick! came from Mrs. McGregor in a horrified tone.
You wouldn't like to see the shaver starting off for India, Nellie?
And why not? laughed her brother. India is a fine country. Besides,
traveling the world is a great way to study its geography. I'll be
willing to wager, now, that not one of these older children, though
they have been to school since they were knee high, could tell me
offhand where the Suez Canal is.
Consternation greeted the assertion and there was dead silence.
There! What did I tell you? returned Captain Dillingham
triumphantly. And should I try them on the Bay of Biscay or the Ganges
it would be no better.
The stillness was oppressive.
Aren't theredidn't I read somewhere that there are crocodiles in
the Ganges? Carl managed to stammer.
His uncle chuckled.
There's hope for you, son, he answered. To know there are
crocodiles in the Ganges is something. Perhaps I shall make a tourist
of you yet. But you will have to know a little more about this globe of
ours before I can do it, I'm afraid.
I hate geography, announced Tim, who had been listening and now
with disconcerting frankness proclaimed his aversion in no uncertain
terms. All it is is little squares of color.
Captain Dillingham glanced toward his sister and met her wry smile.
That's what books do for you, acclaimed he. They make the romance
of the Orient nothing but patchwork. Then to Tim he continued, I can
teach you better geography than that, laddie. Countries aren't just
little pieces of pink, yellow, or blue paper laid together. They are
people, rivers, mountains; tea, sugar, and cotton; ivory, elephants,
and carved temples.
The children had drawn closer around his knee.
Tell us about the elephants, pleaded Tim, with shining eyes.
There, you see! You are begging already for a lesson in
geographymuch as you dislike it! teased his uncle.
There can be no geography lessons now, objected Mrs. McGregor.
The steak is done and mustn't be spoiled with waiting. Show your uncle
where to sit, Mary. And, Timmie, bring the salt. It's been forgotten.
You'll have to bring a chair from my room, Martin. Remember James
Frederick and go on your toes.
Now, Frederick, smiled his sister mischievously, admit that even
in India you've seen nothing better than this beefsteak.
'Twill take no coaxing to make me admit that, my dear, returned
Captain Dillingham. Not all the sultans of the east could produce a
dish as royal as this one.
CHAPTER VIII. THE ROMANCE OF COTTON
From the moment of Uncle James Frederick Dillingham's arrival there
began for the McGregor children an era of delight. The newly found
relative, they soon discovered, was not only all they had pictured, but
He did not, it is true, actually live at Mulberry Court, for because
of the crowded conditions of the McGregor home he took a room near-by;
nevertheless he might as well have lived there for he only used his own
room to sleep in and stow away his luggage. Each morning just before
breakfast his step would be heard on the stairs and off would race the
children in merry rivalry to see who would reach the door first and
have the honor of admitting him. Once inside the cosy kitchen he made
it his headquarters and it did not take long to find out that he was a
valuable asset there.
For example who could fry fish so deliciously as he? And who could
make such chowder? And as for washing dishes and wiping them he was
quicker than any of the young folks. To behold an officer in gold braid
presiding at the dishpan at first caused a protest from Mrs. McGregor;
but when the little old man asserted that it was a treat to be inside a
home and handle a mop and soap-shaker what could one say? So he mixed
the foaming suds and dabbled in them up to his elbows, and when his
sister witnessed the general frolic into which his leadership suddenly
transformed the dishwashing she no longer objected. The center of an
admiring group of youngsters Uncle Frederick scrubbed pots and pans
until they shone like mirrors, and all to a chain of the most wonderful
What marvel that there were quarrels as to who should help him and
actual bribes offered for the coveted pleasure? The children's chatter
never tired him. On the contrary he was in his element when they
swarmed about his chair and perched on his knee. As for his namesake,
James Frederick, there was not another such baby to be found in all the
world, he declared. Often he would sit with the little fellow in his
arms, crooning to him fragments of old sea chanties whose refrains were
haunting to hear. Or he wheeled the baby out with as much pride as if
he were treading the decks of the Charlotte.
To see him one would have imagined that he had always lived at
Mulberry Court. How naturally, for example, he wandered into the
market, bringing back with him mysterious bundles which on being opened
disclosed lamb chops, sweet potatoes, and oranges. And what a feast big
and little McGregors had when such parcels made their advent in the
kitchen! Or he would venture into the shopping district and appear with
his pockets bulging with rubbers, mittens, and caps. Oh, there never
was such an uncle! His purse seemed lined with gold; or if it were not
lined with this precious metal at least the supply of pennies it
contained was unending.
And not only was there one of these shiny pennies for each child in
the family but before long the train of benefactions lengthened until
there was scarce a boy or girl to be found in all Mulberry Court who
did not have tucked away in his mitten a golden disc with the shining
face of Abraham Lincoln upon it. So it was that he became uncle not
alone to the wee McGregors but to the community as well.
Now of course it followed that such a visitor could not be more than
a short cycle of hours in the neighborhood without making the
acquaintance of the Harlings, and running in to amuse the shut-ins with
his tales of foreign lands. For he was a rare story-teller, was Uncle
Frederick. Never was there a better. And with running here and running
there was it to be wondered at that he found himself as busy if not
busier than he had been when aboard the Charlottea very lucky
thing too, for he confided that he always got fidgety for his ship if
he was idle when on shore.
Now he had no chance to become nervous or fretful. Much travel had
rendered it easy for him to establish contacts with persons. In
consequence all types of human beings interested him and with a charm
quite his own he swept aside the preliminaries and by simple and direct
methods made straight for the hearts of those he met. He reached them,
toothere was no doubt about that. Had he chosen he could have
astounded Mulberry Court with all he knew about Julie O'Dowd, the
Murphys, and the Sullivans. Why, he even knew all about Davis and
Coulter's mills before he had been in Baileyville twenty-four hours!
Now this delightful relative could not but increase in the community
the prestige of the McGregor family. To have a connection so popular,
traveled, and prosperousa man of rank, and adorned with brass
buttons, what a luster all this shed over the inhabitants of the fifth
floor of Mulberry Court! Carl, Mary, Tim, Martin, were no longer rated
as little street Arabs; suddenly they became the nieces, nephews
(probably the heirs) of Captain James Frederick Dillingham who
commanded the Charlotte and had sailed to every port under the
sun. How the neighbors gossiped, congratulating themselves that they
had discovered Mrs. McGregor's virtues in time to be included in her
circle of acquaintances! Oh, they had always known she was a lady!
Wasn't her ancestry stamped upon her very face?
As for the Captain himself, his career, when contrasted with the
humdrum life of Mulberry Court, was like that of a returned Columbus.
How could he fail to be enveloped in a halo of fascination? For
Mulberry Court was dingy and dull. Probably not one of its toiling
throng was destined ever to see much beyond the city's muddy streets,
crowded sidewalks, cheap shops, and seething tenements. But at least,
even right here in Baileyville, it was possible to glimpse through
other eyes the wonders denied them.
Therefore when Captain Dillingham came to call one did the next best
thing to really going to Indiaone went there by proxy and saw in
imagination white-turbaned natives, resplendent temples, sun-flooded
tropics arched by turquoise skies. Even the Murphys could do that, and
without it costing them a cent, either. The Captain told Julie O'Dowd
stories of China while she ironed Joey's dresses, and the tediousness
of the task was forgotten in the enchantment of the tale. As for
Grandfather Harling, after the stranger's first visit he strained his
ears for a second, and when with a cheery Ahoy! the knob turned and
the small gray man entered, it seemed as if the very sunlight came with
him. And Mrs. Harling welcomed his coming too for even the men's talk
of cargoes, commerce, shipping, and stevedores had its lure for her.
In fact, all the neighborhood agreed that the dapper little captain
had a way with him.
Why, he could actually talk about dried codfish, I do believe, and
make you think there was nothing on earth like it! exclaimed Julie
O'Dowd to Mrs. Murphy. I never saw such a man! And so kind withal.
Simple as a child, too. You don't catch him prating about his doings.
Why, Mike Sullivan who went once to New York talked more about it than
does this critter all his circlings of the globe.
Aye, the Captain was modest. Everybody agreed to that. Nevertheless
he certainly had at his tongue's end an astonishing amount of
information which came hither when occasion arose for him to use it.
Carl had an illustration of that one day when he chanced to drop a
remark about the Tartary lamb.
Tartary lamb, eh! commented his uncle, catching up the phrase
quickly. And how, pray, did you hear of the Tartary lamb?
Mother told us.
A funny idea, wasn't it? Uncle Frederick spoke as if Tartary lambs
were topics of everyday conversation. And yet no stranger than some of
the notions we hold now, I imagine. We do not know all there is to be
known ourselvesnot by a good sighteven though we do think ourselves
very up-to-date. With all the learning the ages have rolled up handed
to us in a bundle we should blush were we not better informed than poor
Sir John Mandeville, who had no books to speak of. Had he been able to
read Herodotus, for example, he would then have learned from that Greek
writer who lived so many centuries ago that there was in India a wild
tree having for its fruit fleeces finer than those of sheep; and that
the natives spun cloth out of them and made clothing for themselves.
Herodotus tells many other interesting facts about cotton and its uses,
too. A present, he remarks, sent to the king of Egypt, was packed in
cotton so that it would not get broken. That sounds natural, doesn't
it? He even makes our clever inventor, Eli Whitney, appear unoriginal
by describing a Greek machine that separated cotton seeds from the
Then the cotton gin wasn't new, after all, frowned Carl.
The idea of it was not new, no; but the device Whitney and his
friend Mr. Miller produced was a fresh method for getting this age-old
result. Up to 1760 the same primitive ginning machine was used in
England as had been used in India for many, many years. Think of that!
But as civilization grew and people not only wove more cloth but made
an increasing variety of kinds the demand for material to make it
increased. And old Herodotus is by no means the only early historian to
mention cotton. Other writers went into even more details than he,
describing the plant, its leaves and blossoms, and telling how it was
set out in rows. Apparently as long ago as 519 B.C. the Persians were
spinning and weaving cloth and dyeing it all sorts of colors, using for
the purpose the leaves and roots of tropical plants. It therefore
followed that when the officers of Emperor Alexander's army returned
from the East they brought back to Greece tales of the cotton plant,
and Greeks and Romans alike began to use the material for awnings much
as we do now.
How funny! smiled Carl. I'll bet they were glad to have something
to shade them from the sun. I shouldn't relish spending the summer in
Greece or Italy.
I guess you wouldn't. Baileyville may be hot in July but it is
nothing to what Rome must have been. The stone seats of the Forum were
like stove covers; and because the rich old Romans enjoyed comfort
quite as much as anybody else, lengths of cotton cloth were stretched
across certain parts of the structure to shade it. Even your friend
Julius Cæsar was not so toughened by battle that he fancied having the
hot sun beat down on his head; he therefore ordered a screening of
cloth to be extended from the top of his house to that of the
Capitoline Hill so when he rode hither he could be cool and sheltered.
Oh, the Romans knew a good thing when they saw itnever fear! In the
meantime Greeks and Romans alike were using the newly discovered
material for tents, sails, and gay-colored coverlets.
Didn't cotton grow in any other country beside India, Uncle
Frederick? interrogated Mary.
We do not really know about that, was her uncle's reply.
Certainly it was found in other placesEgypt, Africa, Mexico, and
America; but whether it was native to these lands or had been
transplanted to them it is impossible to say. We do know, however, that
the ancient Egyptians depended chiefly on flax for their cloth and
imported cotton from other countries, so although the plant did grow
there they could not have had much of it. The little they had was
cultivated, I believe, almost entirely as a shrub and used merely for
But loads of cotton come from Egypt now, declared Carl. The
teacher told us so.
Indeed it does, nodded Captain Dillingham. I have brought many a
bale of it back in my ship, so I know.
Really! ejaculated his listeners.
Yes; Egypt, India, and the United States are the great
cotton-producing countries of the world. India comes first on the list;
then we ourselves, with our vast southern crops; then Egypt. And it is
because India raises such great quantities of cotton and is obliged to
ship it to England for manufacture afterward buying it back againthat
Gandhi and his followers who are eager for India to be independent of
England are raising little patches of cotton, weaving their own cloth
on hand looms, and refusing to purchase that of English make. It
certainly seems fair enough that the wealth derived from this crop
should remain in India and not be spent for things the people of India
do not like. However, all that is too big a question for you and me.
Did you ever see cotton growing, Uncle Frederick? asked Tim, who
had drawn near.
Oh, often, sonny. As a general thing the plant is like a Christmas
tree in shape. The perennial plants, or those that come up every year,
frequently grow to be six or eight feet tall; but the annual ones
remain little three or four-foot bushes. Still each grows into pyramid
form, having the wider branches at the bottom. The leaves are not
unlike the lilac; and there is a deep, cup-shaped pod having points
that turn up like fingers and hold the cotton in tightly. But no matter
whether perennial or annual, the cotton plant must have a hot, humid
climate to thrive, and if the land is not naturally moist it must be
irrigated as it is in Egypt.
I thought things like cotton just grew wild, Uncle Frederick, said
No, indeed, laughed his uncle. You cannot gather big crops of
anything unless you are willing to work for them. The Lord does not
mean to make life too easy for us. He gives us all these things and
then He has done His part; we must do the rest. The world is a place of
opportunities, that is all. If we are too lazy to take them, or too
stupid, it is our own fault. Many a man gets nowhere because he fails
to grasp this idea. So, sonny, you do not get your cotton all grown for
you, and with the seeds picked out. You are given the root and if you
wish a big cotton crop you must plant seeds, or better yet set out
cuttings, cultivate and care for the plants. Every minute your mind
must be on the thing you are trying to raise. You must watch, for
instance, for pests of insects; diseases that will spoil your plants;
blights caused by fungi; and above all for sudden changes in the
weather. Should it turn scorching hot just when your cotton shoots are
up and beginning to spread their roots the result will be fatal. Or an
early frost will work ruin. Sometimes, you know, we have a spell of hot
weather in the late winter that fools the growing things into thinking
spring has come, and the poor misguided plants begin to put out their
leaves. Then, like a mischievous joker, old Winter comes back and nips
the trusting little creatures. Cotton doesn't fancy that sort of joke.
Nor does it like too much wet weather, for then the cotton gets damp
and sodden and cannot be picked. Should it be gathered in this
condition it would mold and mildew, and become a wreck.
It sounds to me as if cotton raising was pretty hard work, sighed
Oh, no harder than are most other things, Timmie, returned Uncle
Frederick. Generally speaking cotton plants sail along safely enough
unless a pest attacks them. That is their greatest menace. When a pest
descends on the crop the grower does lose courage, I can tell you. It
is queer to think what damage a crowd of tiny insects can do, isn't it?
Some of them will bore through the pods as if in pure spite and spoil
the cotton fiber at the time it is just beginning to forma detestable
trick! Others, fattening on the tender green leaves near the top of the
plant, will turn into caterpillars, creep down the stalk, and devour
every leaf as they go along. This leaves the roots of the plant
unprotected from the sun and speedily every particle of moisture on
which the growth is so dependent is dried up. So the plants shrivel and
die. Then there are beetles, locusts, grasshoppers, and all the rest of
the army of trouble-makers who wait to steal a march on the unwatchful
planter. All these rebels must be kept their distance if you would
harvest a big cotton crop.
I guess I never would have any cotton, remarked the disheartened
Oh, yes, you would, son, laughed his uncle. Surely you wouldn't
let yourself be beaten by a lot of bugs and worms, would you? Should
you live in a climate where cotton could be raised you would pitch in,
fight the pests, and be as proud of your snowy field as many another
man is. For when the pods are ready for gathering there is no prettier
sight. It is like a huge bowl of popcorn.
I'd like to see a cotton field, ventured Mary.
You'd have to go to India, the southern part of your own country,
Australia, Brazil, Egypt, or the South Sea Islands then, Captain
Dillingham responded. That is, if you wanted to see the best of
itthat which is strongest of fiber.
But isn't cotton all alike? queried the girl, with parted lips.
No, indeed, child! There are many different kinds of cotton. Some
have seeds of one color, some of another; some seeds come out easily,
some do not; some cotton is strong fibered, some is weak and snaps at a
touch; some has long fibers and some short. Each variety has its name
and is peculiar to a given country.
Oh! came in chorus from his audience.
For instance, the most delicate or fine quality of thread is
produced from the Sea Island cotton, and usually this type is quite
expensive; it has so many seeds and they take up so much room in the
pod that after they have been removed only a small quantity of cotton
remains and that makes it costly. Almost every other kind gives more
lint (or picked cotton) than does this variety. The Egyptian cotton is
somewhat on this same order. India, China, Arabia, Persia, Asia Minor,
Africa, and the Coromandel Coast all have a common type of plant which
probably first grew in the latter place and was transplanted from there
to the other countries.
In Cuba a sort of cotton vine is found that has very large pods and
a great number of seeds. Some of the fibers of this plant are long and
some short. It is not a very good kind of cotton to cultivate because
the long fibers get tangled up with the seeds and often break when
being separated. Moreover the short fibers are all mixed in with the
This gives you some notion of the different species of cotton. Were
I to tell you of all the kinds you would be tired hearing about them. I
myself get interested because I carry so much cotton in my shipbales
upon bales of it. Sometimes I take cotton out from America to countries
that either do not have any, or do not have as much as they want;
sometimes I bring back here varieties that we cannot raise in the
What kind of cotton do we raise in the United States? Mary asked.
The bulk of our cotton is long-stapled and is called Georgian
Upland, was the response. The whole plant is rough and hairyleaf,
branch, and pod. Some persons think that originally it came from
Mexico. However that may be, here it is, and although we raise some
little of other sorts we have far more of this than anything else. We
can thank it, too, for much of the wealth of this country of ours for
Texas, Georgia, Alabama, North and South Carolina, Mississippi,
Louisiana and Arkansas are all big cotton-growing States. Florida,
Tennessee, Indian Territory, Missouri, Virginia, Kentucky, Kansas, and
Oklahoma also lie in the cotton belt and ship substantial crops.
The little man rose.
I could go on talking cotton forever, jested he. Think of a
sacred cotton tree often as high as twenty feet, growing along the
coast of the Indian Ocean, the cotton from which is used only for
weaving cloth for the turbans of Hindoo priests! And think of still
another exquisitely fine Indian cotton called Dacca cotton that is spun
and woven into fragile oriental muslins and Madras Long Cloth. It
almost makes your mouth water to grow cotton, doesn't it?
Well, at least you can go and see it grown, Uncle Frederick, and
that is more than we can do, piped Tim.
True, sonny, nodded the captain. But still you who stay at home
and do not see it grown have your share in its benefits. You wear, use,
and eat cotton products.
How? questioned the wondering Tim.
Don't you have cotton cloth for clothing, bedding, and no end of
other comforts? Of course you do.
Buteating cotton faltered Tim. I don't do that.
There are medicines made from the cotton root; cottonseed oil for
cooking and to use on salads, you may not be aware, comes from the
meaty kernel inside the cotton seed.
I didn't know that, Tim answered.
Oh, cotton has many by-products, returned his uncle. The lint
that cannot be used for spinning is made into cotton wadding to pad
quilts, skirts, and coat linings; and cotton waste is excellent for
cleaning machinery. Ripe cotton fiber furnishes an almost pure
Cotton certainly seems to do its part in the world, Mary murmured
thoughtfully. But I'm not sure, added she, with a mischievous little
smile, that I know just what cellulose is.
CHAPTER IX. NORTH AND SOUTH
Where do you and the Charlotte go when you leave here,
Frederick? his sister inquired as the family sat at breakfast the next
New Orleans, I suppose; we touch there for a cargo of cotton, was
Then you'll see the crop gathered, won't you, Uncle Frederick?
Mary put in.
Hardly that, lassie, replied her uncle kindly. All the work will
be done before I arrive. However, I shall not mind that for I have seen
southern cotton fields in their prime before now.
It grows everywhere in the South, doesn't it? Mary ventured.
One could hardly say that, my dear, Captain Dillingham responded
with a mild shake of his head. On the contrary the cotton belt of the
United States is comparatively small considering the vast crops it
Why don't they make it bigger and plant more cotton? questioned
Cotton, as I told you, sonny, has its own ideas as to where it will
grow. Let it be planted farther north than forty-five degrees and it
will only thrive under glass; or try to cultivate it farther south than
the thirty-five degree line and it will also balk. This, you see,
leaves a rather narrow zone that answers its demands in the way of
temperature and soil. For the kind of soil cotton likes has to be
considered also. If the land is too sandy the moisture will soon dry up
and the plants shrivel; or if there is an undue proportion of clay the
excess moisture will not drain off and the plants will run to wood and
leaves. Therefore you have the problem of getting the right proportions
of clay, loam and sand in a climate where the temperature holds
Why, I shouldn't think any spot on earth would fill that bill,
We do succeed in getting just such areas, however, returned
Captain Dillingham. North and South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama,
Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, Florida, Tennessee, Indian Territory,
Missouri, Virginia, Kentucky, Kansas, and Oklahoma all contrive to
answer the requirements to a greater or less degree. These States boast
soils that are blends of clay, sand, and loam in the desired
proportions; and while some of them are better than others both soil
and temperature are such that cotton can be grown in them. Given these
two assets the rest of the conundrum is up to the planter.
I should think most of it was answered for him when he has these
two important factors, Mrs. McGregor asserted.
But to have climate and land is not enough, protested her brother.
Once he possesses the land the owner must take care of it. It cannot
be allowed to run out but must be plowed up, fertilized, and the crop
tended like any other farm product. Before cotton growers realized
this, not much attention was paid to these laws and in consequence the
crop of many a southern plantation suffered. Now cotton-raising is done
far more scientifically. The old stalks are gathered and destroyed; the
land is plowed and fertilized, and afterward seed-planting machines go
up and down the rows, scattering five or six seeds into each hole, with
a space of not more than a foot between the holes. Then the seeds are
covered over lightly and left to sprout.
How long is it before they come up? interrogated Carl.
About ten or twelve days, was the reply. A couple of days later
the first leaf appears and then trouble begins. April sees the Carolina
planters thinning their shoots in order to have sturdy plants from
which to select the ones eventually allowed to grow. States farther
south get at the task earlier. After the thinning process is over the
plants are hilled up like potatoes and the spaces between the rows,
where the last season's crop previously grew, is plowed to keep the
soil open and free for drainage. Men afterward travel through the open
rows hoeing up the loose soil and heaping it around the young plants to
strengthen and protect them; then, since nothing more can be done
immediately everybody takes a rest and waits.
Then what happens? piped Tim.
Oh, after a time the same process is repeated. The earth by this
time has become crusted over and must be opened up again; the hauling,
too, takes place once more. Hauling is the name given to bedding up the
plants with loose earth. Often there are four or five haulings.
By July the plants have grown sufficiently to show which one in each
hill is to be the most thrifty and this one is left to grow while the
other shoots are pulled up. After that, given sunny days and occasional
light showers, the crop should prosper. Should there, however, be too
much heat, or too great a quantity of rain, things will not move so
How long does cotton have to grow before it is ready for picking?
The plants bloom approximately the middle of Junesometimes
earlier, sometimes later, according to the climates of the various
States. Two months after that the crop is ready to be gathered. You
must not, however, run away with the notion that cotton-picking is a
hurried process. Often it goes on from the end of August until into
November or December. It is a long-drawn-out, tedious, monotonous task.
Whole families join in the harvesting for since there is always some
low and some tall cotton (some annual and some perennial varieties) the
children can share with their elders in the work and thus earn quite a
sum of money. In fact, in the old days before child labor laws
protected the kiddies, and while cotton-picking was done by slaves,
many a poor little mite toiled cruelly long in the fields. Even the
older negroes were driven with whips and compelled to keep at work
until utterly exhausted.
His audience gasped.
Yes, nodded their uncle, I am afraid that urged forward by the
desire to garner a big crop before rain should fall and spoil it, the
cotton growers practiced much cruelty. No doubt, too, the same tyranny
reigned in India. Wherever work must be done by hand and labor is cheap
and plentiful, human beings come to be classed to a great extent as
machines. Plantation owners become so interested in the money they are
to make that they forget everything else. Of course labor was never as
cheap in our Southern States even during slave days as in India and
therefore until the advent of the cotton gin cotton was not one of our
You mean because the seeds had to be picked out by hand? Carl
Yes. There was, to be sure, the primitive kind of gin resorted to
in India for cleaning certain black-seed varieties. Two kinds of this
black-seed, or long-stapled cotton, grew in the Sea Islands and along
the coast from Delaware to Georgia; but it could not be made to thrive
away from the moist ocean climate. Hence on inland plantations a
different and more vigorous variety of plant (one having green seeds
and short staples) was propagated. This kind was known as Upland
cotton. It was a troublesome product for the planters, I assure you,
for its many seeds clung so tightly to the lint that it was almost out
of the question to remove them. The simple little gin copied from India
and successfully used on the black seed variety was entirely
impracticable on this Upland growth since it tore the fibers all to
They did need a cotton gin, didn't they! Carl ejaculated.
Very badly, indeed, agreed Captain Dillingham. Well, the only
substitute for machinery was fingers; and when I tell you that it often
took an entire day to get out of a three-pound batch of cotton a pound
or so that was clear of seeds you will understand what a slow process
At that rate I shouldn't think it would have paid anybody to raise
cotton, sniffed Carl.
It didn't, returned his uncle. Moreover it rendered the product
very expensive, for it required a great number of slaves to clean any
considerable quantity of cotton. I often think of the toil and misery
that went into the cotton-growing of those slavery days. After working
for a long stretch of hours in the blazing sun the negroes came in at
night worn out. But were they allowed to rest? Perhaps some of them who
had considerate owners were; but many, many others less fortunate were
set to picking out seeds and lest they fall asleep at their task
overseers prodded them with whips.
That was slavery, son, declared Captain Dillingham. Do you wonder
that Abraham Lincoln thought it would be worth even a war to rid this
country of such an evil? Understand, I am not condemning all slave
owners. Undoubtedly there were kind and humane ones just as there are
to this day employers who are fair with their help. But urged on by
commercial greed the temptation of the planters was to force the slaves
to do more than was right, and as a result a great deal of cruelty was
practiced. Had the primitive method of picking cotton by hand continued
it is probable that slavery might have died a natural death without
recourse to war, for many of the Southerners were reaching a point
where the returns from cotton and tobacco were not sufficient to feed
the army of slaves that swarmed over the plantations. To use a common
phrase the slaves were eating their heads off. It was just at this
juncture, however, that Eli Whitney came along with his cotton gin and
in a twinkling the South became revolutionized and the problem of the
legion of idle, profitless slaves was settled. They would now be idle
and profitless no longer. Vast quantities of cotton could henceforth be
planted and the negroes could cultivate and gather it. With Eli
Whitney's gin to do the slow and hindering part of the process
cotton-raising could be made a paying industry.
Mr. Whitney bobbed up in the very nick of time, didn't he? smiled
For the financial prosperity of the South he did, her uncle
responded. But to the welfare of the negroes his advent was a fatal
stroke. Slaves immediately were more in demand than they ever had been
before. No mechanical device could take their place. Cotton must be
planted, cultivated, and harvested by hand and the larger the cotton
fields became, the harder the slaves were worked. The cotton crop
became the staple product of the South. Many a Southerner who took up
arms against the Union did so because he honestly believed that to free
the slaves would mean the economic ruin of his section of the country.
I never thought of that side of the question before, Mrs. McGregor
Nor I, rejoined Carl.
Nevertheless it is a fact none of us here in the North should
forget, continued Captain Dillingham. To the southern planter our
point of view appeared unfair and grossly one-sided. It was easy enough
for the North to say the slaves should be freed. They had no cotton
fields and their prosperity was not dependent on the negroes. But to
let the slaves go meant ruin for the South. It was not alone, you see,
that their owners wished the profit derived from buying and selling
them; they needed them to work. Never had the South had such an
opportunity to coin wealth as that now opening. What wonder its
residents were angry at having this dazzling prospect for
fortune-making snatched away? Remember and take these facts into
consideration when you think harshly of those who took up arms to
There was an instant's pause.
Of course, however, none of this justifies slavery or makes it more
right. The entire principle of it was wrong; it was un-Christian,
unjust, and cruel, and the only honorable thing to do was to bring it
to an end in this country. But that is another story altogether. What
we are talking about now is the cotton itself; and to get a big view of
this subject it is well to consider what was happening in the world
just at this time, and why cotton was such a desirable commodity.
Over across the ocean James Watts's steam engine, combined with the
flying shuttle of John Kay, the spinning jenny of Hargreaves, the
water-frame of Arkwright, and the self-acting loom of Crompton, was
working as great a revolution in England's cloth-making industry as Eli
Whitney's cotton gin had done in the South. In other words the hand
loom had been supplanted by the more modern device of the steam-driven
spinning mill. This meant that in future cloth would no longer be made
in small quantities in the homes, women of the families spinning the
thread and weaving it whenever they could steal a bit of time from
other household duties. No! Cloth was to be made in factories on a much
larger scale, and sold to the public.
No wonder the fact set everybody to raising cotton! declared Mrs.
No wonder indeed! nodded her brother. From a vintage so small
that even President Jefferson scarcely knew America had a cotton crop
at all this product of the South leaped forward by bounds. The year
preceding Eli Whitney's invention the United States exported less than
one hundred and forty thousand bales; but the year afterward the
shipment had soared to nearly half a million. The following year it was
a million and a half; the year after that six million.
Gee whizz! commented Carl. That was some record, wasn't it?
Rather! agreed his uncle.
How much do we export now, Uncle Frederick? Mary asked.
From nine to twelve million bales of five-hundred pounds each are
raised annually in the South, returned Captain Dillingham. Of this
about ninety per cent. is Upland cotton, the green seeds of which have
to be taken out by a gin similar to the one Eli Whitney invented.
Approximately about half this vast crop is exported.
I had no idea we raised so much cotton, mused Carl.
We raise quantities of it, son, Uncle Frederick said. Now you can
understand better why the South was so resentful at being compelled to
free the slaves. With cotton so much in demand the prices of slaves had
greatly increased. The planters had untold wealth almost within their
grasp. It was all very well for the North to assert that slavery was a
barbarous practise. Who was to tend the cotton fields when the slaves
The South did have something on its side, didn't it? Mary
A great deal, when once you put yourself in the Southerner's place.
We in the North are liable to emphasize only the cruelty of slavery and
are often unable to understand how enlightened and Christian men could
keep slaves and fight to keep them. You see there were reasons.
Of course, as I said before, all the cotton-raising in the world
could not make the thing right. It was wrong from start to finish.
Nevertheless it does explain why some of our people felt the freeing of
the slaves so unjust and such a blow to their prosperity that they
threatened secession from the Union.
And it was because Abraham Lincoln would not allow them to secede
that the war was fought! announced Carl triumphantly.
Precisely! You cannot allow part of a country to rise up and walk
out any more than you can let some of the wheels of a watch announce
they are not going to turn any more, laughed his uncle. It requires
every part to make the watch go; and it takes the united strength of a
people to make a nation. North and South were all beloved children of
one land, and Abraham Lincoln, like the father of a big family, was not
going to let any of the household break away from the organization to
which it belonged. It meant a struggle to do the two things
necessaryfree the slaves and preserve the Union; but quarrels are
sometimes necessary in families. After they are over there is a more
perfect understanding. So it has been with this one. Both sides paid a
fearful price but as a result we now have one nation, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.
That's the oath of allegiance! cried Carl, Mary, and Tim in
chorus, as they leaped to their feet and stood at salute.
We say it at school every morning, continued Tim, but I never
knew before what it meant.
You will know better now, won't you? Captain Dillingham replied.
Every time you say those words remember the brave men of the South who
really believed they had a right to establish a government of their own
and protect the prosperity of their part of this great land. If you do
this you will learn to honor both sides alike, each of which fought so
devotedly for the cause he cherished. And now that the war is over the
entire country has the South to thank for one of its greatest sources
of wealthcotton. The South raises it; the North, with its many mills,
transforms the raw product into a finished commodity. How is that for
team work? Could there be better proof of how vitally each section
needs the other?
CHAPTER X. A LESSON IN THRIFT
That evening Carl resumed the cotton-raising subject by idly
remarking, I suppose since the invention of the cotton gin and the
abolition of slavery most of the drudgery connected with the cotton
industry has disappeared.
His uncle smiled.
Hardly that, I am afraid, sonny, replied he. Even under the best
possible conditions the cultivation and gathering of the cotton crop
entails drudgery. This cannot be helped. In the first place cotton
demands steady heat to make it grow; and you know what it means to work
all day in the broiling sun. Of course the negroes are to a certain
degree accustomed to this; and moreover they belong to a race that
finds hot weather less hard to bear than do many other persons.
Nevertheless heat is heat, and say what you may, a hot sun pouring down
on one's head does not make for comfort. In addition there is the
monotony of the harvesting. As I told you before, this has to be done
by handthere is no escape from that; and since it must be, the
dullness of the task is an unavoidable evil.
Carl mused thoughtfully for a moment.
I don't see, observed he presently, that after all the negroes
are much better off than they were in slave days.
Oh, yes, they are, Captain Dillingham instantly responded.
Remember they now receive wages; their hours of work have also been
shortened and regulated; and overseers have become more humane and now
invent little ways of breaking the monotony and making the time pass
Oh, there are various things that can be done to achieve this end.
Sometimes fresh buttermilk or some other refreshing drink is passed
down the rows; or on a cool day hot coffee is served. Any little change
such as singing or whistling interrupts the sleepy effect of one
continual process and shifts the mood and spirits of those toiling into
another groove. This is very beneficial. All our students of industrial
methods will tell you that the worst flaw of our present system is the
effect monotony has on the minds of those constantly subjected to it.
Performing without deviation the same mechanical act day after day
deadens the brain and even, in certain cases, produces insanity. It
also kills ambition and creates hopeless, indifferent persons.
Therefore, made wiser by psychology we realize the importance of
stirring the mind out of a fixed rut, or rather a stupidity that verges
on somnambulism, and keeping it alert and active. Sheep growers, for
example, try in every way to divert the minds of their shepherds lest
the continual watching of a slowly moving flock paralyze their minds
and get them locoed.
Your mother will tell you that. That is why a shepherd's pipe is
such a splendid thing. To pick out a tune and listen to it starts the
mind out of its trance and promotes mental exercise. It does what
gymnastics do for the body.
But all our factories keep men at a single task, Carl objected.
You mean the piece-work system? Aye, I know, nodded his uncle.
And as we grow wiser, and come to care more for our fellows, we begin
to wonder whether so much specializing is as fine a notion as we at
first thought it. It makes for efficiency, for without question a man
who does just one thing over and over becomes expert at his particular
job; but does he not in time, because of his very expertness, lapse
into a machine whose hands move automatically and whose mind is idle?
Such a result is fatal both to his intellect and his will. He becomes
passive until at length all initiative is destroyed. For many years the
colored people of the South reaped precisely this harvest of mental
inertia. Now, thank heaven, they are rousing out of the lethargy that
has been their inheritance and their brains are getting to work. It
will, however, take years, perhaps generations, for some of them to
work up to a normal mental activity and intelligence; but if they
persist results will surely come. Many of them have already shaken off
their intellectual fetters so that not only are their bodies free but
their minds are also. That is why I feel that all our citizens should
do everything in their power to help them, and try and make up to them
for the injustices they have suffered. It is not enough to take them
out of physical slavery; we should break the chains of their mental
imprisonment as well by giving them schools, trades, and such other
training as is within their mental scope.
I'm afraid I never thought of the negroes that way, confessed
A great many persons older than you do not, Captain Dillingham
returned kindly. But when you do think of them from that angle you
cannot but honor the more highly those colored persons who have
achieved positions of importance. There are now in our country colored
lawyers, doctors, teachers, poets, and writers. Who can tell what their
background has been or measure the mental exertion that has brought
them where they are to-day? Wherever we meet them we should give them a
hand up. We owe it to them because of our own greater opportunity.
The little man stopped to light his pipe.
Now see where talking about picking cotton has led me, grumbled he
whimsically. A pretty distance I've wandered from my subject! Well,
you mustn't touch me off on the topic of the colored race again. I have
seen many abuses of the negroes in my day, both on shipboard and
ashore, and the subject turns me hot. Just how the evils of
cotton-gathering are to be avoided I do not know. We must wait, I fear,
until some clever individual bobs up with a scheme that does away with
hand harvesting of cotton. In the meantime the only remedy left us is
to vary the work of the men and women who toil at it as much as is
I wish, Uncle Frederick, you would tell us just how the cotton is
gathered, said Mary, who had joined the group.
Captain Dillingham flashed the girl one of his rare smiles.
I don't know, my dear, just how much more there is to tell,
declared he. Of course, if you have ever picked currants or
blackberries you will realize something of the constant bending and
stooping that goes with the industry and will understand how hard it is
on the back. Then there is the continual standing, a tiresome business
at best. Besides, mechanically as the task is rated, it is not such an
easy one after all, for the cotton fibers stick firmly to the inside of
the pods and as a result the unskilled person who tries to detach them
in a hurry will probably succeed only in extricating a bare half of
what is inside. And like as not he will break the fibers he does get
out so that their value will be sadly decreased. The trade has its
tricks, you see. Furthermore an amateur generally has fragments of
husks and leaves scattered through his cotton, all of which have to be
removed and make extra work later on.
Then cotton-gathering is not really such brainless work as it might
be, is it, Uncle Frederick, Mary asserted.
Oh, it requires a knack that comes through practice, conceded her
uncle quickly. As soon as the pods crack open and show white it is a
sign the workers must be on hand for the picking, and early in the
morning they assemble that they may have a long day to work while the
sun is on the crop. For as I told you there can be no cotton-harvesting
without sun to dry off the night's moisture. The moment a bag or basket
is filled it is emptied into something larger and the picker starts
afresh. Before evening comes and the dew falls, the day's crop is
hurried under cover that it may not absorb any dampness. Here it is
packed into receptacles banded with the owner's name or private mark,
and made ready to be carried to the ginning factory.
Don't the planters have their own cotton gins? queried Carl in
[Illustration: The cotton is sent to factories to be ginned.
Oh no, son! That would be an unnecessary and expensive luxury. Just
as corn is sent to the miller to be ground, so the cotton is sent to
factories to be ginned, weighed, and baled for shipment. You see the
cotton grown on any one plantation and cultivated under uniform
conditions will be practically of the same ripeness and weight; it will
also be, in all probability, of the same variety. This fact is
important when ginning and selling it, and greatly increases its value.
Such conditions, however, do not always prevail for there are districts
(and also countries) where small cotton farms exist whose output is not
large enough to make an entire bale. In such cases the product of
several farms has to be combined and this makes a bale mixed in
quality. This is true of part of the cotton that comes from India.
There many of the natives, owing to lack of commercial and industrial
enterprise, raise small batches of cotton. Often it takes a great many
of these little lots to make up a bale.
Do the natives of India take the seeds out of their own cotton?
Some of them do, using the primitive gins so long known in India.
The Chinese also gin much of their own cotton by amateur gins. But it
goes without saying that much of the cotton fiber is broken by these
methods. For the more perfect the gin the less loss results. Even with
our best machinery however, a certain amount of injury is done which
cannot be avoided.
Then Eli Whitney's gin isn't so perfect, ventured Carl.
Its method is as perfect a one as we have, answered Captain
Dillingham, and up to date nothing better has been found. Those
handling large quantities of cotton are almighty thankful to have
anything as good, I can tell you. In India, China, and oriental
countries, though, where the lots are small the people, as I say, still
cling to their primitive foot gins. Here in America we have several
types of gin all made on the same general principle but differing
slightly as to detail. Some of these are better than others. By this I
mean some are less brutal and cause a smaller degree of waste. Indeed I
believe Whitney's own gin and those of its kind known as saw gins are
considered to do the most damage to the fiber. This sort of gin
consists of a series of circular saws set into a revolving shaft in
such a way that the cotton fed into the machine is separated from its
seeds in an incredibly short space of time. Afterward a whirling brush
cleans the saws of the fiber clinging to them. It is an effectual
system but a merciless one and is best adapted to short staple cotton
which is strong and does not snarl. The best gins use only long, smooth
blades to clear the cotton and it follows that these do the fiber far
How does a ginning factory look, Uncle Frederick? Carl inquired.
You mean the inside? I never went through but one. I was waiting
for a cargo at Norfolk once and as there happened to be a ginning plant
near where I was staying I visited it. Generally peaking I suppose they
are pretty much alike. The cotton is brought to them, as I said, in
clearly marked, or branded bags or baskets, and is tossed from the
wagons directly into hoppers. Afterward the contents of the hoppers is
loaded into freight elevators and shot to one of the upper stories of
the factory, there to be piled up and await its turn for ginning.
When the time comes to gin that particular batch it is heaped into
a hopper and borne to the gins below by means of traveling racks.
How many gins are there to a factory? questioned Mary.
That depends on the size of the factory and the amount of work
brought there to be done, was the reply. A fair-sized factory in a
busy district will have half-a-dozen gins or more; and when you know
that one gin will clean from three hundred to three hundred and fifty
pounds of cotton an hour you will see that it will take a pretty big
supply to keep such a lot of machinery moving. There is a separate
hopper for each gin and if the supply fed into it comes too fast it can
be stopped and switched to other gins. Once in the clutch of the
relentless knives the cotton is shredded apart and the seeds drop out
and fall into a traveling basket. From this basket they are forced
through a tube to an oil mill which usually stands in another part of
Cottonseed oil! murmured Mary, recognizing an old friend. We
often use it to fry things. It's good on lettuce, too. But somehow I
never thought that it was really made from the seeds of cotton.
We often accept terms without thinking much about them, don't we?
Captain Dillingham agreed. But cottonseed oil is a genuine by-product
What is a by-product? smiled Mary ingenuously.
A by-product is something made from the leavings, put in Carl
without hesitation. Hash is a by-product of corned beef.
A laugh greeted the assertion.
Technically speaking a by-product is something that is turned to
account from what would otherwise have been waste. Every person who
manufactures on a large scale tries to think what he can do with what
is left after he has made the thing he started out to make. This he
does for two reasons: first he wishes to turn back into money every
ounce of material for which he has paid; secondly he desires to get rid
of stuff which would otherwise accumulate and (if not combustible)
force him into the added expense of carting it away. In other words he
seeks to convert his waste into an asset instead of a liability.
Therefore all big producers tax their brains to invent things that can
be made from their waste, and such commodities are called by-products.
Many of these things require no ingenuity for frequently they are
articles much needed in other trades. Masons, for example, are only too
thankful to have the hair taken from tanned leather to hold their
plaster together; and those who dry and salt fish can easily turn the
fish skins into glue. The by-products of great packing houses and
tanneries are legion. Often such dealers will have at hand such a
supply of usable stuff that they will establish other factories where
their unused materials can be converted into cash. The sale of these
products often increases very materially the profits of a business.
Such a product is cottonseed oil. As millions more seeds mature each
year than can possibly be used for planting why not turn them to
account? Often there are from sixty-five to seventy-five pounds of
seeds to a hundred pounds of cotton. Think how rapidly they would
accumulate if something could not be done with them. During the war
when we were unable to get olive oil from Italy and fats of all kinds
were scarce we were thankful enough to fall back on the cottonseed oil
made in our own country. At the oil mills machines are ready to clean
the cotton seeds of lint, hull them, separate hull from kernel, and
press the oil from the kernel itself. This oil is then bottled,
labelled, and shipped for sale, making quite an independent little
industry, you see. What is left of the crushed kernels is removed from
the hydraulic presses and is remolded into small cakes to be used
for he paused, glancing quizzically toward Carl and Mary.
For what? the boy asked.
I've not the most remote idea, Carl returned.
Nor I! echoed Mary.
For cattle to eat, went on Captain Dillingham, completing his
Even the hulls, he continued, are, I believe, utilized in some
way; and as I previously told you the lint which clings to the seeds is
passed through a second sort of gin, gathered into a bundle, and
afterward put through a carding engine which combs it out and prepares
it so it can be made into wadding for coverlids, quilted linings, and
quilted petticoats. All the gins then collect whatever material is left
and this, being absolutely too poor for any other purpose, is sold as
cotton waste to be used for cleaning machinery and polishing brass and
nickel trimmings. Were we individuals half as thrifty as are
manufacturers in salvaging the odds and ends that come our way we might
save ourselves many a penny. Every year we Americans throw away enough
food and wearing apparel to maintain a small army. We are, alas, a very
wasteful people and are constantly becoming more so. Our ancestors used
to lay aside buttons, string, papers, scraps of cloth and use them
again. They made over clothing, fashioned rag rugs, conserved
everything they could lay hands on. Their attics were museums where
were horded every sort of object against the time when it might be
needed. But do we follow their example? No, indeed! In fact, we go to
the other extreme and hurry out of the house, either to a junk dealer
or a rummage sale, everything we cannot find immediate use for. To a
certain extent our mode of living has forced us to this course. Most of
us reside in cramped city quarters where there are no spacious attics
in which to garner up articles against a rainy day. Modern apartment
dwellers boast neither attic nor cellar, to say nothing of a farmer's
barn loft. Moreover, we all must scramble so fast to earn our daily
bread that we have no time to make over the old; it is cheaper, we
reason, to purchase new than to fuss with remodelling. Neither are
materials what they were in the old days. Few of the fine old silks and
woolens that would wear for a generation are to be had at present. Also
we have more money than our forebears and this has much to do with our
wholesale wastefulness. With plenty of everything at hand, why save?
And the policy the individual is following on a small scale the nation
is adopting on a much vaster one. We are using up our forests, our
mines, all our resources with no thought of the morrow. We ought to
stop and think about this before it is too late but I doubt if we ever
Captain Dillingham paused.
There is such a thing, he added, as people and nations being too
prosperous for their own good. But to return to the cotton gin. The
cotton, having been cleared of its seeds, is now known as lint, and
this is bundled together until enough of it is collected to be properly
baled for the spinning mills.
What is proper baling? inquired Carl.
Why, the rough baling simply gathers the cotton together into a big
Well, what's the matter with that?
Nothingso far as it goes, laughed the Captain. I should be
sorry, however, to see many such bales coming aboard my ship.
Well, you know what cotton is, answered Uncle Frederick. After it
has been picked to pieces in the gins it comes out a nice, white,
fluffy mass that takes up no end of room. Were it to be transported in
this condition a few hundred pounds of it would fill a ship or freight
car and cost the owner so much that it would not be worth his while to
transport it. Moreover, it would be bothersome to handle when it
arrived at the spinning mills. Therefore before cotton is shipped it
has to be reduced in bulk so that it will not take up so much space.
But how can it be, Uncle Frederick? asked Mary, open-eyed.
What do you do when you wish to make some soft material into a
small parcel, my dear?
Oh, roll it upsqueeze it together, was the instant response.
Well, there you have your answer! responded Uncle Frederick.
Balers treat cotton lint in the same fashion; only, as they are not
strong enough to accomplish this end with their hands, they resort to
powerful machines, or compressors, to carry out the process for them.
By means of enormous pressure they crush down the billowing lint until
four feet of it can be reduced to a thickness of not more than seven
I wouldn't want to fall into that machine! chuckled Carl.
There wouldn't be much left of you if you should, I can assure you
of that, Captain Dillingham said. Cotton, however, does not raise any
such protest. It is pressed and pressed and pressed, and while still in
the presses iron bands are put round it to hold it so it can be
compactly transported. An American bale of some five hundred pounds
will usually have six or seven of these iron bands round it. Certain of
these bales are merely rough ones; others are cylindrical. I believe
the latter sort are more generally preferred. To make them the cotton
is gradually pressed and rolled by powerful presses until a bale four
feet long and about two feet through is obtained. These cylindrical
bales weigh a trifle less than the othersabout four hundred and
twenty-six poundsand because they have been pressed so hard they keep
in place without either iron bands or cloth covers. When they arrive at
the mills the cotton from them can be unrolled and much more easily fed
into the machines. If they are covered it is merely to keep them
Do all bales of cotton have to weigh the same? inquired Carl.
You mean is there a standardized weight for all bales?
No, there is no universal standard for bales of cotton. The bales
from different countries differ quite considerably. For example a
Brazilian bale usually weighs only from a hundred and seventy-five to
two hundred and twenty pounds; the Turkish from two hundred and fifty
to three hundred and twenty-five pounds; those coming from India do
better, averaging about three hundred and ninety pounds. Should you
handle this imported cotton you would notice that the bales from India
are very heavily banded, often as many as thirteen bands encircling
them. This is partly because the long staple of this variety of cotton
must not be injured by heavy pressure, and partly because they have not
in India the excellent facilities for compressing lint that we have
here. The Egyptian bales are the largest transported; they run as high
as seven hundred pounds and have about eleven bands to hold them.
It must be a stunt to get them aboard ship, grinned Carl.
I've taken my turn at the job, responded the captain drily. We
swing them down into the hold by means of cranes and have now learned
to land them quite neatly. Nevertheless, even though they are only
bundles of cotton wool I should not fancy having one of them drop on my
head, concluded he with a twinkle.
CHAPTER XI. A FAMILY CONGRESS
Meantime while the McGregors discussed cotton and the sunny southern
fields in which it grew, Christmas was approaching and Baileyville,
shrouded in wintry whiteness, began to feel the pulse of the coming
holiday. Shop windows along the main street were gay with holly and
scarlet. Every alluring object was displayed to entice purchasers and
such objects as were not alluring were made to appear so by a garnish
of ribbon or flashing tinsel. There were Christmas carpet sweepers,
Christmas teakettles, Christmas coal hods and how surprised and
embarrassed they must have been to find themselves dragged out of their
modest corners and, arrayed in splendor, set forth before the public
gaze. Nothing was too mundane to be transformed by the holiday's magic
into a thing mystic and unreal. Even such a prosaic article as a
washtub, borrowing luster from the season's witchery and in shining
blue dress became a thing to covet and dream about.
Then there was the army of foolish trifles that owed their existence
merely to the season's glamor and would have had no excuse for being at
a time when the purchaser's head was level and his judgment sane. And
in addition to all these there were the scores upon scores of gifts
useful, fascinating, desirable, but beyond range of possibility at any
ordinary period of the year.
Oh, it was a time to keep one's balance, the Christmas holidays! The
very stones of the streets glistened golden and the crisp air breathed
enchantment. If one's nerves were not frayed and on edge he jostled his
neighbor with a smile and took his share of jostling in good part. Was
not every man a brother; and did not a great throbbing kindliness
emanate from all humanity?
It seemed so to Carl McGregor as the wonderful day of days drew
near; and so also it seemed to all the wee McGregors. They were on
tiptoe with excitement and could hardly be made to stand still long
enough to have their neckties tied or their pinafores buttoned.
Have you children decided yet what you want to do? questioned
their mother one morning, as she struggled to hold the wriggling Tim
until his hair could be made presentable for school. Christmas is but
a week away now and we must come to some decision as to our plans. We
can't have everything, you know. Shall it be a turkey and no tree? Or
shall it be a tree and no turkey? And if it is a tree shall it be a big
or a little one? We must vote on all these questions.
I want ice-teem, lisped Nell.
Mercy on us! ejaculated Mrs. McGregor, in consternation, as this
fresh avenue for outlay presented itself. Nell is for ice cream and a
And turkey! went on the little one imperturbably. Me wants
Ice-treem! Ice-treem! cooed James Frederick.
The mother's face clouded. A tree, turkey, ice cream and presents
were far beyond the range of the family purse.
I'd rather have stockings and turkey, Mary declared.
And cranberry sauce and nuts, put in Tim.
And celery and sweet potatoes, added Carl. A real dinner,
Would you rather do that than have the tree?
Silence greeted the question.
Into every mind flashed the picture of a tree towering to the
ceiling and a-glitter with lights and ornaments. Even Carl, despite his
fourteen years, could not entirely banish the vision. But the dinner,
the dinner! After all the tree would only be a thing to look at; food
could be eaten and enjoyed, and Carl was a healthy boy at an age when
he was possessed of a particularly healthy appetite. Tempting as was
the tree the aroma of browned turkey rose in his nostrils.
I vote for turkey, announced he at last.
No tree? No Christmas tree? murmured Martin, his lip quivering.
You have a tree at kindergarten, silly, and so does Nell, declared
the elder brother quickly.
'Tain't like having it hereour really own tree, bewailed Martin.
Couldn't we have a simpler dinner, Mother, and manage to get a
tree? interrogated Mary. It is fun to trim it and the little children
love it so.
Girls always like things that look pretty, piped Tim in disdain.
And all boys care about is to eat and eat, Mary shot out with
Hidden away in a corner behind his newspaper Captain Dillingham
chuckled. He was vastly amused by this family congress.
Meantime Mrs. McGregor, in order to avert the battle she saw rising,
said, Suppose we put it to vote. Are you ready for the question?
Yes! responded her flock in chorus.
All right. Shall it be presents and turkey, or presents and a
I want mince pie, proclaimed Martin flatly.
But we are not talking of pie, dear, answered his mother
patiently. It is the turkey we're voting on.
I want turkey and a tree and presents and
ice-teem and pie! Nell asserted shamelessly.
Stockings and turkey, Ma! Stockings and turkey! shouted Carl.
Listen, dears! began their mother. As I told you before we can't
have everything. I wish we could but we just plain can't, so that ends
it. Therefore we must choose what we think we will get the most
pleasure out of. Now who is for turkey? Raise your hands!
Every hand came up.
And who is for a tree?
Again every hand was raised.
Helplessly Mrs. McGregor sank back into her chair.
Oh, dear, sighed she. Don't you see we are getting nowhere? I
told you only a minute ago we couldn't have both.
Uncle Frederick came out from behind his paper.
See here, you young savages, began he, laughing good-humoredly,
listen to me! If you do not get down to business and use some sense,
Christmas will be here and you will have nothing at all.
A wail ascended from Nell and Martin.
Your mother can give you either turkey or a tree; but she can't
give you both. In my opinion she is almighty good to do so much.
He saw the children flush uncomfortably. Carl dropped his eyes and
Mary slipped a hand into her mother's.
Now instead of clamoring at her like a lot of ungrateful little
brutes and wanting the whole earth, why don't you show her you are
grateful for what she's doing? went on Captain Dillingham in a sharper
Oh, it's all right, Frederick, interrupted Mrs. McGregor
hurriedly. I don't want
The captain, however, was not to be stopped.
Your mother is ready to give you turkey or a tree. How many
are for turkey?
Carl and Tim raised their hands.
And who is for the tree?
Instantly Mary, Martin, and Nell raised their hands.
It is the tree, as I see it, acclaimed he.
But it isn't fair, Tim objected. James Frederick didn't vote.
At this everybody laughed and whatever tension there was vanished.
Oh, James Frederick would vote for the tree, Mary said. He is so
little he couldn't eat turkey if we had it, could he, Mother?
I'm afraid he couldn't, smiled her mother. He hasn't teeth
Then it is a tree! A tree! cried Martin exultantly.
Wait! Captain Dillingham put up his hand. We haven't finished
with this matter yet. You've got your tree from your mother; now I can
give you a turkey if you decide you want me to. But first you are to
listen to what I have to say. A Christmas tree and a turkey mean a
great deal for one family to have in these days when so many people are
having so little. The O'Dowds, for example, are to have neither a
Christmas dinner nor a tree; I happen to know that. Joey has been sick
and there are doctor's bills to pay. Beside that, Mr. O'Dowd has been
out of work and has no money to spend this year.
The little McGregors regarded their uncle with solemn faces.
Oh, dear! breathed Mary sympathetically.
Carl scowled soberly; then his face glowed with a sudden idea.
Couldn't we he hesitated awkwardly.
Oh, Uncle Frederick, if you were really going to buy a
turkey, couldn't we give it to them? flashed Mary, smiling toward her
brother. Would you mind giving it away to somebody else? You see, if
you were going to buy it anyway she regarded her uncle timidly,
we could have something else for dinner, couldn't we, Mother? Perhaps
corn chowder. We all like that. And maybe we could have a pudding and
Bully, Mary! I'm with you! Carl rejoined.
I'd like to do that, too, agreed Martin. I wouldn't mind so much
about the turkey if we had the tree.
What do you say, Tim? inquired Captain Dillingham.
I don't see why we should give our turkey to somebody else,
grumbled Tim sullenly. We never have one all the yearnever! You know
we don't, Mother.
No, dear; I'm afraid we don't, Mrs. McGregor said.
Then why should we give ours away, went on Tim in an argumentative
tone. Don't we want turkey as much as the O'Dowds, I'd like to know?
Don't be such a pig, Tim, cut in Carl with brotherly directness.
If we were hard up, wouldn't you like somebody to send you something
Tim colored, his brother's question bringing home to him
We could have such fun doing it, Timmie, coaxed Mary. Think how
we could trim up the basket, and what a surprise it would be! Why, it
would make no end of sport.
Tim's expression softened.
Instantly Mrs. McGregor, who was quick to interpret her children's
moods, saw the battle was won.
We can plan together what shall go into the basket, said she
briskly. Each of us might contribute the thing he likes best.
The turkey shall be mine! Uncle Frederick declared.
I choose cranberry sauce! Carl announced.
Celery! Oh, could I put in celery, Mother? Mary inquired. The
tops are so pretty and I love it so!
Her mother nodded.
Somebody must give the plain things so I will donate potatoes,
squash, and onions, she said.
Don't forget nuts! We must have nuts and raisins, Mary added.
I'd like to give those, Tim whispered.
You shall, son.
A friendly little glance passed between the boy and his mother.
Pie! I want pie! asserted Nell, who although too young to
understand what was going on, nevertheless grasped the notion that food
was the prevailing topic and plunged into the subject with enthusiasm.
Bless your heart, dearie, you shall have pie! laughed her mother.
I'll make a couple of apple pies and they shall be your present.
There ought to be candy. Please let me send candy! May I? begged
Martin for whom the world held only two articles really worth
whilecandy and ice cream.
There was general merriment at this suggestion.
Precious little candy would ever get to anybody else if you had the
giving of it, Martie, teased Mary.
Yes, Martin shall give the candy, Mrs. McGregor consented.
We'll paste his mouth up before he goes to buy it, Carl drawled.
Don't you s'pose I could keep from eating it if once I set out to?
scowled Martin defiantly.
No, I don't!
Well, I could, so now! The boy drew himself up proudly.
James Frederick ought to send something, Mother, reminded the
care-taking Mary. We don't want him left out.
Oh, we mustn't leave out the baby! agreed Captain Dillingham. He
and I will get together and talk the matter over. There are still
several things needed.
Oh, it will be splendid! cried Mary, clapping her hands. Do get a
real big turkey, won't you, Uncle Frederick? And we'll trim it up with
a necklace of cranberries the way they do in the market.
Huh! There you go again, sniffed Tim. All girls seem to think of
is necklaces and bows of ribbon.
Mary smiled brightly.
What's the harm in making it pretty if you can just as well? asked
she. I do love pretty things. Why, I believe I could eat stewed whale
if it was on a pretty dish.
I couldn't; I'd hate whale, responded the stolid Timothy.
Oh, I didn't mean I'd really eat whale, silly, explained Mary.
Then what did you say you would for?
Mary was just imagining, dear, put in Mrs. McGregor, coming to the
She is always imagining, glowered Tim. Only the other day she was
trying to make me imagine my salt fish was chicken.
I'll bet she didn't succeed, taunted Carl.
Not on your life she didn't! was the instant answer. I know salt
fish when I see it.
No matter, dear, soothed Mrs. McGregor, affectionately touching
her daughter's arm. If her imagining Mary can convert salt fish into
chicken it is an asset that will stand her in good stead all through
life. And if you, Tim, prefer to keep your salt fish just salt fish,
why you have a perfect right to do so. I will say, however, that the
person who has the power to make believe has an invaluable gift. Many's
the time I've made believe and it has helped me over more than one hard
spot. We all have to masquerade to a greater or less degree. It is
simply meeting life with imagination and seeing in the humdrum
something that associates it with finer and more beautiful things. For
a moment she was silent; then she added in her quick, businesslike
accents, And now to this dinner! There must be a basket to hold it, of
A big market basket, Mother, lined with red paper. Do line it with
red, pleaded Mary.
It shall be lined with red, little lady! And trimmed with holly,
too! replied Uncle Frederick. I will undertake to furnish both
decorations along with the turkey.
Why not put in Santa Claus napkins? I saw some paper ones the other
day and they were tremendously festive, suggested Mrs. McGregor.
I think the best plan is for us all to go together and buy the
dinner, the Captain suddenly announced.
Shouts of approval greeted the plan.
But the baby! demurred his sister.
We can wheel James Frederick in the carriage and take turns staying
outside the shops with him, said Carl.
And if we have the carriage we can bring home our stuff in it, put
Poor baby! How would you like to have a big ten-pound turkey piled
on top of you? questioned Mary indignantly.
Oh, James Frederick won't mind, Tim responded comfortably. And
anyhow, he's got to do his bit toward making other people happy. As far
as I can see he isn't denying himself anything, for he couldn't eat a
turkey if it was set right under his nose. So it's his part to tote
home the parcels in his flivver; he seems to be the only member of the
family that has one.
Thus it was agreed and on the day before Christmas it would have
done one good to witness the cavalcade of McGregors issuing forth on
their altruistic pilgrimage. First went Mary, leading Nell by the hand;
then Carl with Martin's mitten firmly clutched in his. Next came Mrs.
McGregor with Tim, and bringing up at the rear was Uncle Frederick
wheeling his namesake, the baby. What a tour it was! Certainly there
never had been such a turkey as the one the reckless captain boughta
turkey so plump of breast, so white of skin, so golden of claw! Why, it
was a king of birds! And then the shining coral of the cranberries, the
satin gleam of the onions, the warm brown of the potatoes! As for the
celeryits delicate green and faint canary tips were as good as a
bouquet of flowers. Just to view its crispness was to make the mouth
water. And the nuts, raisins, candy, oranges! Once in their vicinity
Captain Dillingham cast aside all caution and wildly purchased one
dainty after another. He seemed to have gone quite mad and it was not
until his sister very positively informed him that not another bundle
could be carried that he consented to be dragged away from the counters
Then staggering beneath their load of whity-brown parcels, the
family hastened out to the baby carriage where Mary stood guarding
Put the turkey down near his feet, cried she excitedly, as she
lifted the baby in order to make more room. The other things can be
packed in round him.
But he'll be stifled! objected Mrs. McGregor.
Oh, no, he won't, Ma! contradicted Tim. He'll probably be
uncomfortable. Christmas comes but once a year, though, so he ought to
be able to survive being cramped.
Oh, James Frederick is perfectly used to having his coupé turned
into an express wagon, Mother, Carl explained. Don't worry about him.
Often he rides home from down-town buried a foot deep in bundles. All
that fusses me is whether the carriage will stand the strain. If it
should part in the middle and the front wheels go off on an independent
route it would be
Both inconvenient and embarrassing, concluded Captain Dillingham
with a laugh.
Fortunately, however, James Frederick's chariot was staunchly
constructed and reached Mulberry Court without mishap, its precious
contentsincluding the patient owner of the vehiclebeing borne
triumphantly aloft to the McGregor flat. Once upstairs the basket,
scarlet paper, and holly were produced, and Mary with deft fingers went
to work to fashion a receptacle worthy of the bounties with which the
O'Dowds were to be surprised. At last into this garish hamper were
packed the viands and afterward a card bearing holiday greetings was
tied to the handle with a flaring red bow.
Now the worst task is to come, declared Mrs. McGregor, and that
is to land the present at Julie's door without being caught. They are
proud people, the O'Dowds, and I wouldn't for worlds have them know
from whom the dinner comes. Timmie is not strong enough to take it and
Carl is too clumsy. Should he start to run away, like as not he would
stumble and bring all Mulberry Court to see what the racket was.
Why can't I carry it? inquired Captain Dillingham.
You! One sight of your gold buttons would be enough, Frederick.
Besides, you're none too agile in making a getaway.
I fancy some boy could be found to leave it if I paid him,
suggested the captain.
The very thing! There's a score of 'em on the street. Fetch in the
fastest runner you see, Timmie. No matter whether you know him or not.
In fact, get one you don't know. 'Twill be all the better.
Away sped Tim only to return an instant later with a grimy, Italian
youngster at his heels.
Captain Dillingham explained the errand.
At the sight of the gleaming quarter of a dollar the Italian
grinned. He would leave a bomb or a live ox at anybody's door for a
quarter, affirmed he with an ingratiating smile.
Therefore the precious basket was entrusted to him and to judge by
the scampering that followed its thud before the O'Dowds' door he was
quite as fleet of foot as Tim had asserted.
Wouldn't you like to see their faces when they find it? whispered
Carl who, with Mary, was hanging over the banister, straining his ears
for every sound.
There was not, however, much to hear.
After the furious knock somebody ventured into the hall. Then
Julie's voice, high-pitched with excitement and consternation,
exclaimed, Mercy on us! With that she dragged the basket into her
abode and banged the door.
It was a brief drama but one entirely satisfying to the McGregors.
Over and over again did Carl and Mary enact the scene to the intense
delight of the family.
Now mind, should Mrs. O'Dowd come up here with questions, you are
to be careful what you say, cautioned their mother. There's to be no
hinting, winking, or smirking. Should Julie say anything, leave it to
your uncle or me to answer. All the fun would be spoiled if you gave
the secret away.
Oh, yes, agreed Carl. The sport is to keep folks guessing.
But no sooner were the words out of his mouth is than there was a
rapping at the hall door.
Oh, Ma! I'll bet that is Mrs. O'Dowd now! gasped Mary.
It can't be! She'd not track us down so quick as this, replied
Mrs. McGregor, flustered and half rising.
Most likely it's the Christmas tree, Mother, Tim suggested. They
promised to send it early this afternoon.
Again came the knock.
I'm half afraid to open the door lest it be Julie, faltered Mrs.
McGregor. Be still a minute, all of you, till I think what I'll say to
But when, amid a tense hush, the door was finally opened, neither
Julie O'Dowd nor the watched-for Christmas tree was on the threshold.
Instead they saw a holly-decked basket so exactly a replica of the one
they had given away that a cry of disappointment greeted it.
She's sent it back! cried Mary.
[Illustration: But that isn't our basket, Mother, Carl said. This
is much bigger. Page 155.]
She was offended and wouldn't take it! murmured Mrs. McGregor. I
feared as much.
But that isn't our basket, Mother, Carl said. This is much
bigger. Besides, we had no apples or candy bags in the one we sent.
Critically studying the gift, the family clustered around.
It isn't our basket, Mother, Mary presently asserted. See, this
one is red.
There must be some mistake, then, Mrs. McGregor declared. They've
left it at the wrong place.
But our name is on it! cried Tim.
Where? Where? What a bumping of heads there was as everybody bent
to read the card.
Yes, our name is on it plain as day! replied Mrs. McGregor with a
puzzled expression. Then, inspired by a solution of the mystery, she
wheeled round on her brother.
How much do you know about this, Frederick?
Not a thing, NellieI give you my word! Dearly as I should have
liked to send you such a gift, my purse wasn't quite good for it,
flushed the captain.
And what wonder, with all you've spent this day, returned his
sister quickly. Then we'll count you out. But where could it have come
We don't need to leave it in the hall until we find out, do we,
Mother? Mary ventured mischievously.
No, I suppose we don't, was the retort. Timmie, you and Carl drag
it indoors. Don't try to lift it, for you'll only be straining
yourselves and maybe drop it. Let's get it into the kitchen. There may
be some clue when we have a better light.
But examine it as they would, no hint as to the mysterious sender
could be found.
I guess he believes with Carl that the sport of giving a present is
to keep the other person guessing, Tim remarked wickedly.
A general laugh at Carl's expense greeted the observation.
Hush! cautioned Mrs. McGregor. There's somebody in the hall.
He won't get away this time, Carl cried, springing up and throwing
open the door.
Good heavens, man! You nearly knocked me down! cried Hal Harling,
amazed by the suddenness of his welcome. What's the matter with you?
Trying to trap a burglar? Then, glancing at the object about which the
household were clustering, he added, Jove! Have you got one, too?
What do you mean?
Why, just now somebody left a basket exactly like this at our flat.
I thought maybe you folks had something to do with it and came straight
over here to see. But you seem to be favored by a similar gift. They
are alike as two peas. Who sent them?
That is precisely what we want to know, Carl replied.
You've no idea?
Not the most remote.
Hasn't Captain Dillingham?
I'm not guilty, if that is what you mean, the sea captain
Straight goods? Hal insisted.
Hang, die, and choke to death! laughed the little old man.
Butbutsomebody sent the thing! blustered Hal. Why, there is
everything on earth in it. Food enough to last a week. And ours has a
shawl for my mother and some felt slippers for my grandfather in the
bottom. And there are gloves for Louise and me. It came from somebody
who knew all about us. It was no haphazard present.
Can you beat it! murmured Carl. Whoever do you suppose
I can't suppose. We thought it was you, announced Hal. There's a
knock at the door. Shall I go?
Leaping forward he turned the knob, and in came Mrs. O'Dowd.
I've had the most wonderful basket sent me that ever began
she; then her eye fell upon the hamper in the center of the floor.
Glory be to goodness! she ejaculated. Wherever did you get that?
We don't know, Carl answered.
And we've one just like it and can't find out who sent us ours,
put in Hal Harling.
Well, I thought for sure as you were the folks that sent me mine,
declared Julie. But if they are being scattered broadcast and you are
getting one yourselves I reckon it is safe to say you don't know much
about where mine came from. Well, all I can say is may the sender of
them have a blessed Christmas. Owing to O'Dowd being out of work, we
were to have a pretty slim celebration this year. The children were
like to get nothing at all. And then just when I was trying to comfort
myself with thinking how glad I should be that Joey was well, and that
we all had our health even if we did lack a turkey and the fixings,
along comes this windfall. Why, it is as if the heavens opened and
dropped it straight down at our door. It does you good to know there
are kind hearts in the world, doesn't it?
One and all the McGregors smiled. If they wanted thanks for the
self-denial they had practised they certainly had them in the gratitude
that beamed from Julie's face.
Well, it will be a royal Christmas for all of us, won't it? went
on the little woman, bustling out. I must hurry back downstairs. The
children are that crazy they are like to eat the turkey raw, claws,
neck and feathers!
I'll come with you, Mrs. O'Dowd, said Hal. Good-by, and a Merry
I'm mighty glad we sent that dinner to the O'Dowd's! commented
Carl soberly, when the door was shut and the McGregors were alone. I'd
be glad we did it even if we had no dinner of our own, he added, his
eyes alight with a grave happiness.
And I, too, whispered Tim.
CHAPTER XII. A CLUE
The next morning, fluttering excitedly round a Christmas tree
spangled with tinsel and aglow with lights, the McGregors received
their presents; and not they alone, for Julie O'Dowd, with her five
youngsters, swelled the party, together with the Murphys and the
Sullivans from the floors below. There was popcorn for everybody and
satiny striped candy, and from the mysterious basket an orange for each
guest was produced.
When we have so much ourselves it would be wrong to keep it all,
Mrs. McGregor had asserted; and her household fully agreed with her.
Therefore the neighbors were summoned in to share in the festivity.
And after the visitors had trailed down the long stairway, shouting
back their pleasure and gratitude, the wonderful dinner the hamper
contained was prepared, and what a delightful ceremonial that was! Did
ever any such tantalizing aroma drift upon the air as ascended from the
browning turkey? Or did ever potatoes so fill their jackets to
bursting? As for the celeryit was like ivory; and the cranberry jelly
as transparent and glowing as a huge ruby. And, oh, the browning crust
of the mince pies! So many hungry little McGregors swarmed round the
stove it was a marvel some of them were not burned to death on hot
stove covers or the oven door. One could scarcely baste the turkey
without falling over two or three of them.
However, nobody was scalded or blistered and when at length the
great bronzed bird was borne from the oven a procession of exultant
children followed in the wake of the huge platter, every one of them
shouting for the wishbone or a drumstick.
Was the creature a centipede he would hardly have drumsticks to
satisfy you! laughed their mother. Who ever saw such a lot of
cannibals! Was anybody to hear your hubbub they'd think you had never
had a mouthful to eat in all your lives. I don't believe your uncle
ever saw worse heathen in the South Sea Islands.
Nevertheless, in spite of her caustic comment, it was plain that the
mother was enjoying her children's pleasure and that Uncle Frederick
was enjoying it too.
Well, went on Mrs. McGregor, if you do not get filled up to-day
it will be your own fault. I shall put no check on anybody. You may eat
all you'll hold.
Profiting by this spacious permission the McGregors fell to and what
a feast they had! Never had they dreamed of such a meal. Even Carl and
Martin, whose capacity appeared to be limitless, were at length forced
to confess that for once in their lives they had had enough; as for Tim
he sank back in his chair almost in tears because he could not find
room for another mouthful.
I couldn't squeeze down a single 'nother thing if I was paid for
it, wailed he. And I did so want a second helping of pudding! Why
didn't you stop me, Ma, when I started out on that giant sweet potato?
His mother shrugged her shoulders.
You must learn to make your own choices, said she. Perhaps 'twill
teach you next time not to covet all you see. And now, before we begin
to clear up, I want to make sure you are all content. There must be no
regrets. I don't want to hear to-morrow that you wish you had had
so-and-so. So think well before the food is whisked into the pantry.
Has everybody had enough?
A chorus of muffled groans arose.
What do you think we are, Ma? Tim managed to murmur.
Indeed I don't know, was the grim retort. I've often wondered. So
you think you couldn't eat a morsel more?
Think! We know we couldn't, gasped Carl.
Then sit still a second, all of you, till I take a good look at
you! commanded their mother. That I should live to see the day when I
would dish up a meal without some amongst you yammering for another
helping! I'm almost tempted to take an affidavit with your signatures
in black and white and preserve it in the family Bible.
With arms akimbo she viewed her grinning flock.
Well, since you're beyond urging, we may as well turn to the
dishesthat is, if anybody can stagger up and help.
Reaching over she began to remove the food from the table.
Mary sprang to aid her.
Let me carry the things into the pantry, Tim said. Maybe if I
walk round some it will shake down what I've eaten.
Are you laying to eat another course? derided Carl.
Aw, quit it! growled Tim. I'll bet I haven't made way with any
more than you have. Here, fork over that pie! I'll put it in the
Can we trust you with it? called Captain Dillingham.
Tim put up his hand.
Say, I wouldn't touch that pie if you were to go down on your knees
and beg me to, Tim declared. Millions wouldn't hire me!
Give it to him, Carl; he sounds perfectly safe, asserted the lad's
mother. And put those apples and figs away, too, dear, if you are
going into the pantry. Mary, you and Carl pile the dishes. What an army
of them there are! I believe we have out every plate we own. Martin, do
take the babies into the next room where they will be out from under
foot. And watch that Nell doesn't eat the candles off the tree. She's
always thinking they are candy, the witch!
You must let me help, urged Uncle Frederick, rolling up his
Oh, you must not work to-day, Frederick, his sister protested. It
is a holiday and you are on shore leave. Besides, it never seems right
to me to see the captain of a ship working.
Oh, the captain of a ship knows the galley quite as well as the
bridge, responded Uncle Frederick. Seizing a towel he stationed
himself beside Mary who was elbow deep in the dishpan. All hands to
the pumps! cried he sharply.
It was a ringing command and instantly Tim and Carl leaped forward
to obey it.
What a dish-wiping team the three made!
Mary could scarcely wash fast enough to keep up with them.
In the meantime Mrs. McGregor was here, there, and everywhere,
putting to rights the disordered house; and so effectual was her touch
that by the time the last plate was on the shelf tranquillity reigned
and except for lurking candy bags and stray bits of red ribbon it
almost seemed as if there had never been such an event as a Christmas
Now why can't we all go over to the Harlings, Ma? Carl inquired.
They will be through their dinner by this time. Hal asked if we
But not all of us! objected Mrs. McGregor. Why, we're a caravan!
Nobody minds caravans on Christmas, pleaded Carl. Grandfather
Harling would love to see the children. We haven't had them there for
ever so long.
I suppose we might go. It isn't very far, his mother meditated.
Oh, do let's! Tim put in. I'll wheel James Frederick.
You? You couldn't wheel anything, so full are you of turkey and
plum pudding! If you get there yourself you will be doing well, was
the curt retort. However, if you all want to go, I'll not hinder you.
Scurry and get your caps, coats, and mittens.
Off flew the youngsters in every direction; off, too, flew Mrs.
McGregor with Nell and Martin at her heels and the baby in her arms.
Owing to excitement and the general holiday confusion it was some
time before there were two rubbers, two mittens, a cap, coat, and
muffler for everybody; on the very brink of departure a full equipment
for Martin could not be found and to his unbounded delight he was
compelled to set forth in one arctic and one rubber boota novel
combination that greatly heightened his pleasure in the trip and made
him the envy of all his younger brothers and sisters. Whether his
satisfaction would have outlived a long journey is uncertain for the
rubber boot proved to be not only too large but treacherously leaky.
Notwithstanding the fact, however, he was a sufficiently good sport to
make the best of his unfortunate bargain and clatter up the long, dim
flights that led to the Harlings' suite with as much spirit as the
And oh, such a welcome as the family received when they did arrive!
It would have warmed the heart to see the little ones rush to
Grandfather Harling, clinging round him like a swarm of bees and
clamoring for a story. And a story they gotand not only one but two,
three, for Grandfather was a rare story-teller and a great lover of
children. Meantime the elders gossiped together, their chief topic of
speculation being the sender of the wonderful Christmas dinners.
If you hadn't got one, Carl, I should almost be tempted to think
old Corcoran had sent ours to ease his conscience, Hal announced. But
of course he wouldn't have been stretching his philanthropy so far as
Mulberry Court, I'm afraid.
Oh, I'm sure the dinner couldn't have come from Mr. Corcoran, put
in Louise quickly. It wouldn't be a bit like him to tie the nuts up
with fancy ribbon, and tuck in the presents. No, somebody sent that
dinner who really cared, and took pains to have it pretty and tempting.
Mr. Corcoran might order us a dinner at the market but he never would
have packed the basket himself asasMr. X did.
Well, all I can say is that Mr. X, whoever he is, is a corker; and
may he live long and prosper! Hal declared.
He will prosper, murmured Mrs. Harling in her soft voice. Such a
man cannot help it.
I do wish, though, we knew who he is, don't you? Mary asked. I'd
just like to thank him.
I fancy Mr. X is not the sort that covets thanks, her mother
replied. Some people take their pleasure in doing a kind deed. I
imagine Louise's Mr. X is one of that sort.
So they talked on, until suddenly glancing out of the window, Mrs.
McGregor exclaimed in consternation, Why, it is snowing!
Sure enough! A thick smother of flakes whirled down into the
deserted streets and cutting short Grandfather Harling's story, the
visitors bundled themselves into their wraps.
I hope the children won't take cold, said Mrs. Harling anxiously.
Take cold? Mercy, no! They are tough as nuts, every soul of them,
answered their mother. Having no automobiles they gain it in their
health. Poverty has its blessingsI'll say that! Now, Carl, you hold
onto Nell and don't let her down on all fours; she is such a fat little
blunderbuss! And Mary, keep Martin in the path if you can, or he will
lose that huge rubber boot. Uncle Frederick is going to wheel the baby.
And remember, Tim, there are to be no snowballs or snow down anybody's
neck. You will have plenty of time for that sort of fun to-morrow, if
you call it fun. And, children, do try to go down the stairs quietly.
Don't forget there are other people on earth besides yourselves. A
Merry Christmas, everybody!
And three cheers for Mr. X! Hal added boyishly.
Hal Harling, don't you dare set this brood of mine cheering in the
hallway! They'll raise the roof, ejaculated Mrs. McGregor, putting up
a warning finger. Not but what I'd gladly cheer the person who sent
those dinners; but we mustn't do it here.
Well, it was a jim-dandy dinner, anyway, chuckled Hal. We'll be
eating that turkey for days. It was big as an ostrich!
Maybe you drew an ostrich by mistake, grinned Carl. Who knows?
Oh, it would have taken hearts less merry than these to be dampened
by the storm! Home plodded the McGregors, shouting gaily amid the
My, it is going to be a real blizzard! Mrs. McGregor predicted.
Every tree and bush is laden already.
The little shrubs in the park look like cotton bushes, replied
Uncle Frederick over his shoulder. Look, youngsters! You were asking
about cotton when it is ripe. That is much the way it looks. He
motioned toward the vista of bending foliage.
How pretty it is! said Mary.
And in reality cotton is prettier by far, for there is always the
blue of the sky, the gold of the sunshine, and the green of the
country. It is as if one had a snowstorm in summer.
There was little opportunity for further talk for the trodden snow
narrowed into a ribbon and the walkers were obliged to thread the
drifts single file. At last, however, Mulberry Court came into view and
with a stamping of feet and a brushing of caps and coats the family
were within its welcoming portals. Then James Frederick was dug out of
his carriage, shaken, and borne crowing and rosy up the stairs.
The flat proved to be warm and comfortable and while Mary lighted
the lamps her mother poked up the fire and sprinkled on more coal.
Now let's sit down everybody and have a nice, jolly evening, said
she when the outer garments were all stowed away. Come, Carl, draw up
the rocker for Uncle Frederick. And, Timmie, there's room for you here
beside me. What's the matter, laddie?
For answer Tim glanced at the steely blue hands of the clock now
pointing to six.
Aren't we going to have any supper? questioned he in an aggrieved
Supper! exploded his mother. Surely you are not looking for
anything more to eat to-day. You yourself declared only a little while
ago that you couldn't eat another morsel.
It wasn't a little while ago; it was hours, Tim affirmed. We've
been to walk since then and I'm hungry.
Hungry! Did you ever hear the likes! Hungry! And the bairn
swallowing down turkey until I expected every second he would have
I'm hungry, too, rejoined Carl with shame-faced candor.
So am I! piped Martin.
Well, I never saw your match! cried their mother, holding up her
hands. One would think you were cobras, anacondas, or something else
out of the zoo. Still, I don't see as I can let you starve. If you're
hungry there's the pantry with its shelves groaning aloud with food.
Run in and help yourselves.
Her family needed no second bidding. Above everything else they
loved a meal where all superfluous accessories such as knives, forks,
and napkins were done away with, and where there was no one at one's
elbow to caution or demand the time-worn pleases and thank you's.
To forage in the pantry unrestrained was like being let loose in the
vales of Arcadia. One after another they emerged, bearing in their
hands the spoils most attracting their fancy.
You're not going to devour that whole cross section of squash pie,
are you, Tim? asked Mary, aghast.
Sure I am, retorted the unabashed Timothy. That is, unless you
want part of it.
Of course I don't. But I should think you'd die!
I don't expect to die, returned her imperturbable brother. And if
I do I'll at least have had one everlasting good feed.
Tim! expostulated his horrified mother.
Well, I will have, repeated the boy. And anyhow, I don't believe
I've eaten so much more than other folks. I notice you don't mention
little Carlie here. He's worried down some food to-day, and like as not
Hal Harling has, too. What's more, I'll bet a hat Hal won't go
supperless to bed.
At that moment a rap came at the door and Mary sprang forward to
admit the very young gentleman in question.
You see, I'm returning your call on schedule time, grinned he,
shaking the snow from his outer garments. I can't stay but a moment;
but I had to come and tell you what's happened. What do you think of
that? Diving into his pocket he held forth a handsome watch and chain.
Who've you been robbing? drawled Carl.
I don't wonder you say so, kid. Can you beat it? Did you ever see
such a beauty?
ButbutHal, where on earth did you get a thing like that?
Well may you ask, kid! Think of me hitched to a gold watch! Oh,
it's mine all right. Have a look inside the back cover. There's my
name, you see, in perfectly good English.
Where did you get it, Hal? demanded Mrs. McGregor, as the
gift traveled from one admiring hand to another.
You'd never guess, any of you. It came from my worst enemy. The
big fellow threw back his head and laughed a ringing laugh.
But that tells us nothing. You have a million enemies, blurted out
It certainly is from our friends we learn the truth, Hal replied
with cheerfulness. You're not a flatterer, are you, Carlie?
But I can't imagine who should present you with a gold watch, Carl
mused, ignoring the comment.
Oh, you're not half bright to-day. What's the matter with you?
hectored Hal, who was enjoying the sensation he had created.
He's eaten too much turkey, Tim piped.
I guess that's it, agreed young Harling. Come, gather your wits
together. Louise guessed the conundrum. You ought to be as smart as she
Vaguely Carl studied his friend's face.
Of course it couldn't be from Corcoran, ventured he, as if
And why not?
Why, becausewhy Corcoran wouldn'twhy should Corcoran give you a
present like that?
The very words I said myself!
Do you mean to say it was Corcoran?
Well, it wasn't from Corcoran himself. But he had the buying of it.
The watch came from the Corcoran kid and Midget, the dog.
Oh! Carl gasped, a wave of understanding flooding his face. It
was because of what you did that day. I'd almost forgotten.
So had I. Corcoran thanked me up at the works some time afterward;
you remember I told you about it. Well, I thought that was the end of
the matter, Hal explained. But evidently the Corcorans thought they
wouldn't leave it there. So with a flourish he held up the gift.
Oh, Hal, I think that was splendid of them, Mrs. McGregor
declared. You deserve it, too. Carl said you might have been killed
Nonsense! That's Carlie's yellow journalism. He told you a great
yarn, I've no doubt. You ought to be on one of the daily papers, kid.
But you did take an awful chance, you know you did, insisted Carl
Oh, you have to take a chance now and then to put a little spice
into life. It was no great stunt I did, Hal protested. I just
happened to do it before anybody else did, that's all.
I guess that's your way of putting it, laddie, Mrs. McGregor said
with an affectionate smile. Well, we're certainly glad you have the
watch. It will be fine and useful. Just see you do not get it smashed
to bits in some of the scraps you are mixed up in.
Do you think I am going to stand dumb as an oyster and let somebody
land a blow over my vest pocket hard enough to smash that watch, Mrs.
McGregor? interrogated the giant. Pray, where would I be while he was
Gentlemen with gold watches should keep out of the prize ring, put
in Uncle Frederick mischievously.
Oh, sir, one has to have a watch to call time on the other feller,
Put it on and let's see how you look, Hal, Tim begged.
Yes, do! echoed Mary.
All right, I'll dress up in it since you say the word, answered
Hal, with an impish grimace. You may as well see me in it and get used
to the sight; then you won't be taking me for an alderman when you meet
me on the street.
He slipped the chain through his buttonhole and the watch into his
Don't I look for all the world like the Lord Mayor of London or one
of the Common Council?
You look like an old sport, Carl asserted, giving his chum a blow
on the chest.
Harling accepted the knock much as a kitten might have accepted a
Just for that I've half a mind not to tell you the rest of what I
came for, grinned he. I've something else to say that will set your
hair on end. But you're that rude that you don't deserve to be told
Oh, what is it, Hal? Mary cried.
Another secret! Tim ejaculated.
It isn't exactly a secret, Hal said. It's a clue.
A clue! To what, for pity's sake? Carl murmured.
You are thick, to-nightno mistake! laughed Hal. Why, what have
we been arguing over all daytwisting and turning this way and that?
What have we been speculating over until our brains are weak? Tell me
You haven't a clue about the Christmas baskets! gasped Mrs.
I've a theory, nodded Hal, with tantalizing solemnity.
Tell us! Tell us! cried a chorus of voices.
It's only a theory, remember, and it doesn't hitch up in every
detail, went on Hal, quite serious now. But it is worth considering.
Well, it isn't much of a story, so don't get your hopes up. But the
fact is that when we emptied our basket I turned it upside down
Because you were still hungry! cut in Carl.
Exactly! How well you read me. Yes, being still famished, I thought
I'd see if some last morsel of food did not lurk under the papers. So I
emptied out everything and what should I find scrawled in pencil across
the bottom of the basket but the word 'Coulter.'
Coulter! shouted the McGregors in disappointed accents.
What has that to do with it? Carl demanded.
WhyHal looked crestfallenwhy, Mr. Coulter of Davis and
Coulter is one of my bosses, isn't he?
Y-e-s, I suppose he is. But he isn't mine. The two baskets were
exactly alike and must have come from the same person; and certainly
Mr. Coulter wouldn't send us a basket. Oh, you'll have to guess again,
Sherlock Holmes, concluded Carl with a shrug.
Your father used to work for Mr. Coulter at the mill, Mrs.
McGregor put in in a subdued voice.
But Dad died two years ago and Mr. Coulter never has troubled to
send us anything before. Why should he begin now? Carl argued.
Did you examine our basket? It was Captain Dillingham who spoke.
No, but we can. It's out in the pantry. Run and fetch it, Martin,
that's a good boy. I'm willing to bet a hat, though, ours has no
'Coulter' written on it. Yours got scrawled on somehow at the market.
The name doesn't mean anything. Here's Martin now. Get out your
glasses, you old detective, and look and see what you can find. If you
can find Coulter on our basket, I'll eat my head, Carl hazarded with
You hear him, witnesses, Hal said, holding up an impressive
Then taking the basket from Martin, he inverted it.
Will you never acknowledge, oh, you unbeliever, that I am wiser
than you? he presently jeered. Come! Look at the thing yourself over
here under the lamp. If that word isn't 'Coulter' I'll eat both your
head and mine.
Jove! It is Coulter! was all Carl could stammer.
What did I tell you!
But why should Mr. Coulter send a Christmas basket to us?
speculated Carl in an awed whisper.
I'm not telling you why. I've not got as far as that, Hal
answered. All I said was that the name, Coulter, was written on both
baskets and that the natural conclusion is that Mr. Coulter was their
I don't believe it. Why, it would be ridiculous, Carl protested.
Mr. Coulter probably never so much as heard of us in all his life. Why
should he? I'm sure we don't know him.
I'm afraid your theory isn't quite sound, Hal, rejoined Mrs.
McGregor. While it is possible that for some reason of his own Mr.
Coulter, for whom you work, may have sent you a Christmas basket there
is not one shred of anything to link him up with us. Mr. McGregor, it
is true, was in Davis and Coulter's employ many years; but he was only
one of many hundred workmen and scarcely knew old Mr. Coulter by sight.
Since the old gentleman has died and the son has come into the firm the
last thread that bound us to the company has been snapped. Old Mr.
Coulter is gone, and McGregor, with his twenty-five years of service in
the mills, is forgotten. As for this young John Coulter who has taken
his father's placeI've never set eyes on him.
But why should the name be on each of the baskets? Hal insisted,
still unwilling to surrender the idea he cherished.
Ask the market man, laddie. It's a question for him. My notion is
that in the rush somebody put it there by mistake, replied Carl's
mother. The marvel isn't that Coulter was written on the baskets; the
marvel is that some word in Choctaw or Egyptian wasn't on 'em. Why, if
you'd seen those clerks down at the store going round as if their heads
were clean off their bodies you wouldn't wonder queer things were
written on the hampers we got. I'm amazed they arrived at all.
But somebody sent them, Hal affirmed.
I'll join you there! Somebody sent them, nodded Mrs. McGregor. Up
to that point your arguments are perfectly logical. Those baskets never
came of themselves. But as for Mr. John Coulter being their giverwhy,
you are mad as a March hare to think it for a moment. What would he be
doing with all his college education and his years of study in Europe
sending the likes of us Christmas presents? He has plenty of presents
to give in his own family, I guess.
Well, maybe you're right and the name only happened, Hal conceded.
Still, it's queer, isn't it? Queer that the name should be Coulter, I
It's a coincidence for you because you chance to work for him; but
to us it means nothing.
Yes, I can see that now, Hal agreed. Then I guess there is
nothing left before going home but to see Carlie carry out his little
My wager? Carl repeated.
You were going to eat your head if the name of Coulter was on the
bottom of this basket, remember.
Oh! Carl grinned a sickly grin.
Going to default?
No, not defaultmerely postpone the ceremony, Carl declared.
Oh, you old crawler! Well, if you are going to put off the show I
must be getting home or Mother will think I have been waylaid and my
watch stolen. So long, everybody, and pleasant dreams. Then thrusting
his face back into the room through the narrowing crack of the door, he
added with elfish leer, Just the same, I still think that Coulter had
something to do with those baskets.
Before a protest could be raised the door banged and he was gone.
CHAPTER XIII. HAL REPEATS HIS VISIT
Whoever the mysterious Mr. X was he succeeded in keeping his
identity a secret much better than did the donors of the O'Dowd's
Christmas dinner. A secret when shared by too many becomes no secret at
all and so, alas, it proved in this case. And yet no deliberate
prattling divulged the story. Its betrayal was purely accidental.
On the morning following the holiday, which, by the way, chanced to
be Sunday, Mrs. O'Dowd came up to borrow the McGregor's can opener. In
Mulberry Court somebody was always borrowing. An inventory of each
family's possessions gradually became public property, so that all the
neighbors knew exactly where to turn for anything needed. In fact, the
residents of the house so planned their purchases that they would not
overlap what the dwelling already contained. Nobody thought, for
example, of buying a washing machine since the Murphys had one; nor did
any one see cause for investing in a wringer, when a perfectly good one
was owned by the McGregors. Even such small things as egg beaters,
double boilers, and ice picks, all had an established place of
residence and were used in a community spirit. All day long from
morning until night little boys and girls trailed up and down the long
flights of stairs either to borrow or to return to their rightful
owners articles that had been a-visiting. It almost required a card
catalogue to keep track of where one's things were.
Do you know who has the egg beater? Mrs. McGregor would
interrogate on a baking day.
And some of the children whose function it was to procure or carry
hence the egg beater generally recalled its whereabouts.
It's down to Murphys', Ma, Martin would shout. Don't you remember
that Thursday she was making custard?
Oh, yes; Mrs. McGregor did recollect. It flashed into her mind at
the time that with eggs so high the Murphys might well do without
custard. Nevertheless, she had not said so. One did not venture to
criticize one's neighborseven if the gossip connected with the
various borrowings did entail first-hand information concerning their
affairs. For by common consent it was not Mulberry Court etiquette to
borrow without stating exactly the service required of the article in
question. When, for instance, you sent an emissary to ask for the
O'Dowds' ironing board you said:
Can Ma take the ironing board so she can iron out Mary's dress
'cause she's got to have her white one clean to speak a piece in at
Then the O'Dowds knew exactly why the ironing board was needed and
just how necessary it was to have it, and not only did they promptly
deliver it up, but the next time you met them they inquired how Mary
got on speaking her piece and whether she was frightened or not. In
this way a friendly interest was created.
To have borrowed the ironing board and not have detailed the
accompanying facts would have been a heinous crime and would have
exempted any person from loaning it. Under such circumstances it would
have been perfectly excusable to send back word by the messenger:
Mrs. O'Dowd is sorry but she is using the ironing board herself
But when Mary was to speak a piece, that was quite a different
Mulberry Court had a pride in its tenants.
Mary McGregor certainly must not appear in a dress that had not been
freshly ironed. Why, the people on the street would think Mulberry
Court bereft of all sense of propriety! No, indeed. Mary McGregor must
make a fitting showing if the whole house had to turn to to achieve the
desired result. And if by any chance her family could not iron her
dress, why somebody else must. Mulberry Court would make a proper
showing no matter at what personal sacrifice.
And the same self-respecting spirit came to the fore on all great
occasions. When the Sullivan's baby was christened was not Mrs.
Sullivan arrayed in Mrs. McGregor's bonnet, Mrs. O'Dowd's coat, and
Mrs. Murphy's skirt, that she might make a truly genteel impression?
There was the dignity of Mulberry Court to be maintained.
Thus it followed that borrowing was no unusual act and therefore
when on Sunday morning Mrs. O'Dowd presented herself at the McGregor's
door and announced that she was going to have a chowder of canned corn
for dinner and wanted the can opener, beyond a conversation as to the
nourishment corn chowder contained; the brand of canned goods one
bought; the price of it per can; the quantity of milk required and the
price of that milk per quart, nothing further was said, unless it was,
perhaps, to mention the crackers and inquire whether the O'Dowds used
pilot biscuit or oysterettes. But of course the can opener was not
denied and while Mary went to fetch it and Mrs. McGregor continued
cutting Nell's hair Mrs. O'Dowd, with arms akimbo, reviewed the
pleasures of the day before and compared Christmas dinners.
Such a feast as we had, declared she. Such turkey! It melted in
your mouth and ran down your throat almost before you had the chance to
taste it. And the sweet potatoes! You'd believe, actually, they were
just dug up out of the ground! Had you sweet potatoes in your basket,
Sure we had! returned the small boy, not to be outdone.
And then the celery! It was that handsome it was fit to be set on a
bonnetI'm telling you the truth.
Mary gave the celery, lisped Nell.
Hush! Martin cried. You weren't to tell that.
I didn't tell what I gave. Ma told me not to and I haven't,
announced wee Nell proudly.
But you're not to tell what anybody gave, Martin commanded. I
haven't told a thing, have I, Ma? concluded he in triumph.
Hush, Martin, hush! cautioned his mother quickly. Pay no heed to
them, Mrs. O'Dowd; sure after the holiday they hardly know what they're
Butbut Mrs. O'Dowd glanced keenly about, viewing the guilty
faces and the indignant looks the older children centered on the two
small culprits. She was a quick-witted woman and instantly put two and
So it was Mary sent the celery, was it? repeated she. And who,
pray, bought the turkey? The temptation the question presented was too
great for the youthful conspirators.
Uncle Fwedewic! Uncle Fwedewic! cried Nell and Martin in a breath.
He bought it wiz his very own money, Nell went on to explain
before she could be stopped.
Oh, the game was all up now! Of what use was it to pretend anything
after that? Martin heaved a sigh of delight. For days the secret had
trembled on his tongue, making life uncomfortable and unnatural.
Constitutionally it was his habit to let slip from that artless member
anything that lurked at its tip and as a result he held secrets in
abhorrence. Now the truth was out and he for one was glad it was. He
would no longer be dreading an encounter with the O'Dowds or be under
the trying necessity of acting a part.
The candy was mine, he announced calmly. I gave it and Uncle
Frederick paid the man.
Julie ventured over the threshold.
So it's you we have to thank for our dinner! she exclaimed.
You don't have us to thank, put in Mrs. McGregor quickly.
But you surely wouldn't have me be taking a dinner like that and
not thanking you for it, said Julie. And neither O'Dowd nor I had an
inkling! Think of our coming up here Christmas morning and all of you
keeping so mum!
We'd have kept mum longer, if it hadn't been for Nell and Martin,
Carl asserted. I don't see why they couldn't shut up, Ma.
A secret's no easy treasure to have in one's possession, Mrs.
O'Dowd put in quickly. And you must remember they are but mitesNell
and Martin. Indeed, in my opinion, it's a miracle they didn't blurt it
out long before this. You wouldn't get a child of mine to hold his
peace any such while; neither the big ones nor the little could do it.
Well, well! It was a happy day you gave us and you certainly deserved
the dinner you got yourselves. And you had no notion when you sent ours
you were to have one of your own.
No! When it came we thought for a moment you had sent our present
back, Carl explained.
In other words, you were going without your dinner to give it to
us, commented Julie.
We had our tree, Mary interrupted. We didn't need both things.
It's few would have done what you did, Julie remarked quietly.
O'Dowd and I will not be forgetting it, either.
Tears came into the eyes of the little woman and as if words failed
her she wheeled about and disappeared down the dim hallway.
At least, she was not put out by our doing it, commented Mrs.
McGregor, after her neighbor had gone. I feared some she might be. But
evidently she accepted the gift just as we meant it. So that's settled!
Now if we could only find out where our own dinner came from and say as
much to its giver, I'd be entirely content. I've taxed my brain until
my head is fair aching and still I'm no nearer having an idea where
that basket of ours came from than the man in the moon.
I guess you will just have to rate it as coming from the fairies,
smiled her brother, and let the matter rest there; that is, unless Hal
Harling gets another inspiration.
Another inspiration! Sure the inspiration he had wasn't worth
much, sniffed Mrs. McGregor. Unless he can provide a better one than
that I sha'n't be listening to him.
You may as well not be slandering him, for here he is now, Carl
cried, jumping up to admit his chum whose footfall he had heard on the
I'm not slandering him, Mrs. McGregor continued, imperturbably
greeting the visitor. In fact, what I've said about him I'd as lief
say to his face. I'm telling them, laddie, said she, turning brightly
to Hal, that I have scant opinion of you as a detective.
The big fellow laughed good-humoredly.
They are not putting me on the Scotland Yard force yet, I must
own, he admitted. But how do you know that I won't track down Mr. X
yet? Give me time. No great mystery can be solved all in a minute.
I've let you sleep on it and so far as I can see you are no better
off this morning than you were last night, was the crisp retort.
I'm not, and that's the truth, Hal returned, pulling off his coat.
I'm simply going to bury the matter the way a dog buries a bone, and
then some day I'll dig it up and go to work at it again.
I guess that's as good a scheme as any, Captain Dillingham
declared. Sometimes if you do not fuss at a riddle it solves itself.
Come, sit down and talk to us while Nell gets her hair cut. It may help
to keep her quiet.
The child, seated on the table and muffled to her neck in her
mother's apron, brightened.
Tell story, commanded she. Hal tell story.
I? Not on your life! protested the big fellow in consternation. I
never told a story in all my days. Your uncle Frederick will tell you
Uncle Frederick will do nothing of the sort, growled the captain,
as he puffed contentedly at his pipe. It's Hal who is going to tell
the story. He is going to explain to us exactly what they do with the
bales of cotton when they reach the mill.
That? Oh, I can tell you that, all right, for I see it done from
morning to night, year in and year out. But I don't call that a story,
It will be a story to us, no matter what it is to you, for remember
that although I have often loaded cotton and carried it hither and
thither round the world I've never seen what became of it after we
thumped it down on the dock.
Haven't you? That's funny! smiled Hal. And yet after all I don't
know as it is, either. How should you know what is done with it? I
shouldn't have if I hadn't happened to spend my days at Davis and
Coulter's. Well, then, as soon as we get the bales we first weigh them
and make a record of each. Then they are opened up and the matted
material is spread out so the coarsest of the dirt, such as leaves,
sand, stems, and bits of dry pods will be loosened and fall out. To
accomplish this we have opening machines of various kinds with beaters,
fans, and rollers and by these methods the cotton is cleaned and
pressed into a flat sheet or lap. Afterward we start in to mix the
varieties in the different bales.
What for? questioned Carl.
Oh, because to get good results you have to have a blend of
varieties, Hal explained.
But isn't cotton cotton? inquired Mary.
Not a bit it isn't, grinned young Harling. Some cotton is far and
away better than another. Often it has had better care, better weather,
or better soil; or maybe it has grown more evenly and therefore has
less unripe stuff mixed in with it. Or perhaps it was a finer, more
highly cultivated kind in the first place. There are a score of
explanations. Anyhow it is better, and because it is we do not use it
all by itself. Instead we use it to grade up some that is less fine in
quality. After the bales have been classified we take a little of this
and a little of that until we have struck a good average. It goes
without saying that we never mix two extremes, or put the best and the
worst together. That wouldn't do at all. We aim to produce a mean
between these two qualities. All this mixing is not, however, done by
hand, as you might think to hear me talk. No, indeed! We have
bale-breakers or cotton-pullers to do the work. We simply put several
sheets or laps of different quality cotton one on top of another and
then let the spikes of the machines tear it into fragments and mix it
Oh! Mary murmured.
Afterward comes the scutching, went on Hal, which is really only
a continuation of the same process although the scutching machine makes
the laps of cotton of more even thickness. Next we card the material to
find out where we stand. It is brushed or combed outwhichever you
prefer to call it, and the remaining dirt and short, unripe fibers are
removed. This leaves the real thing, and the machine gathers it up and
twists it into a sort of rope about an inch in diameter called a
What a funny name! Tim remarked.
I suppose it is when you stop to think of it, Hal answered. Well,
anyhow, that's what a sliver is. In some mills they draw the cotton out
into these long strands and double together four or eight slivers
before they are carded. The carding lengthens or stretches them to the
size of one and therefore you get a greater uniformity of size. Beside
that, all the crossed or snarled fibers are arranged so that they lie
out straight and smooth, and when this is done the material is ready
for the bobbin and fly frames.
And what, for goodness' sake, might those be? demanded Captain
I certainly am a great hero coming here and knowing so much, Hal
answered with amusement. I think you will understand them better, sir,
if you forget what they're called and remember only what they do. They
actually combine three processes: slubbing, intermediate, and roving,
and their aim is to draw the sliver out until it is thinner, more
uniform, and cleaner for spinning. Surely that is simple enough. The
spinning is done on a mule or a ring framesometimes the one is
preferred, sometimes the other. Generally speaking, the thread from one
of these machines is what is used for weaving purposes. Sometimes,
though, it happens that an order comes for a crackajack fine yarn of
the best possible quality and then another combing or carding process
follows which takes out everything shorter than fibers of a specified
length. As a result about seventeen per cent. of waste is thrown out,
as great a percentage as in all the other processes put together.
Naturally it is a pretty expensive operation and it makes the yarn thus
turned out high in price.
I suppose such yarn goes only into the finest quality goods,
observed Captain Dillingham.
Exactly! was Hal's answer.
It all sounds simple as rolling off a log, Carl affirmed.
If it seems so to you, just you think back over the problem
Arkwright and some of the other inventors, the fruit of whose labors we
are now reaping, had to solve, put in Uncle Frederick. Even I, who am
ignorant as an Egyptian mummy concerning cotton manufacture, can
appreciate to some extent what they were up against. You must remember
that no material is stronger than its weakest part. You have, for
instance, a thin place in a string; it matters not how strong that
string may be in other spots; pull it taut and it will snap. The thick
places do not help make the string strong as a whole. So it is with
thread. You have to draw it out until every portion of it is as strong
as every othera pretty little conundrum! It is the drawing, twisting,
and doubling which makes the thread first uniform and then strong. Try
working-out devices that shall do all these thingsdevices that shall
twist and then double without untwisting, for example. You'll find it
worse than a three-ringed circus.
That's right, sir! Hal agreed heartily. I remember when I first
went into the mills how puzzled I was at seeing the bobbins whirling in
opposite directions. It seemed as if one was simply undoing what
another had done. I thought they all ought to turn the same way. It was
months before I got through my head what they were up to.
I hadn't thought of the twisting and doubling part, Carl murmured.
You decide with that thrown in maybe the answer to the puzzle isn't
so easy, eh? responded Hal with a teasing smile.
I might have to ponder over it, Carl confessed suavely.
Ponder! I guess you would. What's more, you'd have a good smart
headache before you were through your pondering, I'll bet!
jeered Hal, tweaking his chum's hair.
CHAPTER XIV. SPINNING YARNS
All good things, alas, come to an end and the McGregor's Christmas
holidays were no exception to this immutable law. A day arrived when
Carl, Mary and Tim were obliged to return to school, and following
swift on the heels of this dire occasion came a yet more lamentable one
when Uncle Frederick Dillingham was forced to go back to his ship and
sail for China. The latter calamity entirely overshadowed the former
and was a very real blow not only to Mulberry Court, where the captain
had become an object of universal pride and affection, but also to the
Harling family who had come to depend on his daily visits for cheer and
I don't see why somebody else can't sail your ship to China, Uncle
Frederick, and let you stay here, wailed Mary.
Somebody else sail my ship! gasped the captain, every syllable of
the phrase echoing consternation. Why, my dear child, I would no more
turn the command of the Charlotte over to another person than
you would exchange your mother for somebody else's. The Charlotte
kind of belongs to me, don't you see? She is mywell, I reckon I can't
just explain what she is. All I can say is that where she goes I goif
I am alive.
Butbut the sea is so terrible, objected the timid Mary. So
For answer Captain Dillingham burst into a peal of laughter.
Dangerous? Why, lassie, there isn't a quarter a part the danger on
the water there is on land. I have come nearer to being killed right
here in Baileyville than ever I have while cruising in mid-ocean. Folks
take their lives in their hands every time they cross a city street.
Then, too, aren't there high buildings to topple over; flagpoles to
snap asunder, signs to blow down; chimneys to shower their bricks on
your head; not to mention the death-dealing currents that come through
telegraph and telephone wires? Add to this threatening collection trees
and snow-slides and slippery pavements and you have quite a list of
horrors. Danger! Why, the land is nothing but maelstrom of catastrophes
compared with which the serenity of the open sea, with nothing but its
moon and stars overhead, is an oasis of safety. Of course there are
certain things you must be on your guard against while on the
waterfogs, icebergs and gales. But where can you find a spot under
God's heaven entirely free from the possibilities of mishap of some
sort? I'd a hundred times rather take the risks the sea holds than run
my chances on land. Besides, aren't we a city, same as you? Just
because we are afloat and you can boast the solid ground under your
feet is it a sign we are not citizens with laws and duties? with the
wireless singing its messages to us wherever we go we certainly are not
cut off from the rest of the world.
For a moment he paused to catch his breath.
No, siree! continued he. We folks on shipboard simply belong to a
floating republic, that's all. It's our country same as this is yours,
and we love it quite as much as you do.
I never thought of the ocean that way, Mary returned with a
thoughtful smile. It's always seemed to me a big, big place without
anyany streets or
But we have streets, lassie, cried her uncle, instantly catching
her up. Regular avenues they are. Travel 'em and you'll meet the
passing same as you would were you to drive along a boulevard. They are
the ocean highways, the latitudes and longitudes found to be the best
paths between given countries. In some cases the way chosen is shorter;
or maybe experience has proved it to be freer from fog or icebergs.
Anyhow, it has become an accepted thoroughfare and is as familiar to
seafaring men as if it had been smoothed down with a steam roller and
had a signpost set to mark it. Never think, child, of the ocean as a
lonely, uncharted waste of water. It is a nice quiet place with as much
sociability on it as a man wants. You don't, to be sure, rub elbows
with your neighbors as you do ashore; but on the other hand you don't
have to put up with their racket. Pleasant as it is to be on land the
hum of it gets on my nerves in time, and I am always thankful to be
back aboard ship.
We'll miss you dreadfully, Frederick, his sister remarked.
But remember I'll be putting in at various ports off and on,
returned the captain, and be mailing you letters, postals and trinkets
of one sort and another. Moreover, you're all going to write to me, I
hopeeven Martin. For if there's any one thing a sailor man looks
forward to it's the mail that awaits him in a foreign port. I must own
that with all the virtues the sea possesses the landlubber has the best
of us on mail service. Rural free delivery is one blessing we can't
boast. No blue-coated postmen come sauntering down our watery streets
to drop letters and papers into our boxes. We have to call for these
ourselves same as you might have to go to a post-office here ashore if
the government wasn't as thoughtful and generous as it is. Our
post-offices are sometimes pretty far apart, too, and I'm driven to
confess we don't always get our mail as often as we'd like. That's one
of the outs of seafaring. So when we do touch shore and go looking for
letters it is disappointing not to find any. Don't forget that. After
I'm gone you will get busy with your school, and your sewing, and your
fun, and you will not think so often about Uncle Frederick. He put up
a warning hand to stay the protest of his listeners. You won't mean
to, continued he kindly, but you'll do it all the same. It's human
This sinister prediction, however, did not prove true.
For days after Captain Dillingham said good-by to Baileyville,
Mulberry Court, the Harlings and the McGregors were inconsolable.
The house isn't the same with Uncle Frederick gone, is it, Mother?
No, it isn't. We miss him very much.
I should say we did! Such a lot of things happen all the time that
I want to tell him, Carl broke in. Why, only this morning the teacher
gave me a book to look up something and the first page I opened to had
a lot about foreign trade. A month ago I wouldn't have cast my eye over
it a second time but now, because of Uncle Frederick, that sort of
thing interests me. So I read along down the left-hand column and what
should it be about but the first spinning mills! I wished Uncle
Frederick could have read it.
You must write him about it, flashed Mary. What did it say,
Oh, I don't know, her brother answered awkwardly. I'm not sure
that I can remember exactly. I wasn't learning it to recite.
But you read it, didn't you?
Sure I did, Miss Schoolmarm!
Then you must remember some of it, Mary persisted.
Oh, I remember scraps of it. It said at the outset that nobody
really knew when people began to spin. Most likely they got the idea
from pulling out fibers of cotton or wool long as they could make them
with their fingers, and then twisting the stuff together into larger
and longer threads. As they could do this better if they had the end
fastened to something, they got the notion of using a stick or some
sort of spool or spindle to wind the thread up on as they made it. They
would go walking round with a mass of material under one arm and this
crude spindle with the thread on it under the other. The book said that
even now in certain foreign countries there were peasants who did this.
It was during the reign of Henry VII that spindles and distaffs first
appeared in England. Afterward people improved on the idea and made
spinning wheels. The people of India had had these long before, so you
see they weren't really new; but they were new to England. To judge
from the book they weren't any great shakes of spinning wheels; still
they were better than nothing. Later on the English got finer ones such
as were used in Savoy and these not only had a spindle but a flyer and
bobbin. It was most likely these Saxony wheels that started inventors
trying to make something that would be better yet.
Holding the plug he was whittling for his double-runner up to the
light, Carl halted.
I think you've done pretty well, son, remarked his mother over the
top of her sewing.
I think so too, Carl returned with unaffected candor. I had no
idea when I started that I could remember so much. I guess it was
because I was interested in the story and wasn't trying to learn it.
When you think you're learning things, you get to saying them over and
over until by and by what little sense there is in 'em seems to
evaporate. At least, that's the way it is with me. If I could just read
and not keep thinking that I was trying to learn I'd get on twice as
well. Even this page of stuff would have looked different if I'd
been going to learn it. You see, you never have the chance to learn
what you want to at school; it's always what they pick out for you.
Naturally you don't care as much about it as you would if it was what
you'd chosen yourself.
Mrs. McGregor could not resist smiling in sympathy with this
philosophy of education, novel as it was.
Now what the teacher sent me to look up in that book, went on
Carl, was some old foreign treaty. Of course I read it over because
she made me. But do I remember a line of it? Nix! I told her what the
book said as fast as I could, so to get it off my soul before I forgot
it. I don't see what she cared about it for anyway, for it didn't seem
to hitch up to anything. But this spinning business hitched right up to
Uncle Frederick, Hal Harling and what we've been talking about. I don't
see why Miss Dewey couldn't have let me alone to learn about that.
Probably she didn't dream you were interested in it, said Mary.
How should she, pray?
I know it. I suppose she didn't, answered Carl with fairness. She
certainly is no mind reader; and I didn't mention it.
Then don't go blaming poor Miss Dewey, Mary retorted. Besides,
what kind of a school would she have if every child in it refused to
learn anything but what he cared about. She would have fifty kids all
going fifty different ways.
Carl sighed. Plainly the flaws of the educational system were too
many for him. Nevertheless he attempted a modest defense of his theory.
No, she wouldn't, contradicted he. Some of 'em don't want to
learn anything anyhow, and since they have to they are as well pleased
to learn one thing as another. Billie Tarbox, for instance, hasn't any
preferences; he just hates all highbrow stuff alike. And the Murphys
and Jack Sullivan wouldn't care a hurrah what they learned. All Jack
wants to do when he grows up is to run a steam roller and if he can do
that he'll be perfectly satisfied.
But he'll have to learn something before he can, observed Mrs.
No, he won't, Ma. Mike Finnerty who lives in his block runs one and
he doesn't know a thing, Carl replied simply.
On the contrary, I think you'll find Mr. Michael Finnerty knows
much more than you give him credit for, retorted Mrs. McGregor. He
probably knows more than he himself realizes. He may not have learned
about engines out of books; but if not he has learned about them from
actual contact with them. All learning does not come from between book
covers, sonny. Experience is a wonderful teacher. Books simply give us
the same result without making us stumble along to learn everything
ourselves. They are somebody else's experience done up in a little
bundle and handed to us as a shorter cut. Mr. Michael Finnerty has had
to take the long way round to get his education, that is all. For
education is nothing but a training which enables us to live and be
useful to others; and if when we're through we can't do that all the
book learning in the world isn't going to be worth much to us.
Why, Mother, I thought you were terribly keen on schools,
ejaculated Mary, aghast.
So I am, my dear. A fine mind thoroughly trained is a glorious
tool; but far too often people forget that it is simply a tool. Just
sharpening and polishing it and never turning it to account for other
people isn't what it was made for. Learn all you can so you will be
able to help the world along the better. But don't just soak up and
soak up what books tell you and then store it away in your head like so
much old lumber.
But what can you do with what you read, Ma? Carl questioned,
laying down his whittling and facing his mother.
Precisely what you have been doing this morning, for one thing,
was the quiet answer. Pass it on to somebody else who hasn't read it.
Mary and I, for example, hadn't read about England and the early
spinning wheels. We hadn't the time to; nor had we the book. You've
managed to tell us quite a lot.
Maybe I could tell you some more, if you wanted me to, said Carl,
urged on by altruistic impulse.
Of course we do, his mother replied.
Carl took a long breath and considered thoughtfully.
Well, what knocked me was that at first the English government
didn't want any cotton cloth made, began he.
Why not? I should think they would have been delighted! Mary put
Oh, the English made a lot of woolen goods, and they had a hunch
that cotton cloth might cut into the trade for wool and fustians. So
Parliament passed a law placing a five-pound fine on any of the British
who wore things made of colored calico. As the restriction also covered
the use of painted, dyed or stenciled cottons it knocked out all these
products for hangings, bedspreads, or coverings.
How horrid of them! said Mary indignantly.
They were darned afraid of their trade being interfered with, you
see, explained her brother. I believe you could use an all blue
calico and of course there was no objection to making cotton cloth into
underclothes; also you were allowed to use a cloth woven of cotton and
wool. But you mustn't wear any pretty figured cotton dresses. When the
people heard that they kind of rose up, and when the government found
out they wouldn't stand for such a law, in 1736, after amending it,
they made another one letting folks wear any kind of decorated cloth
they had a mind to, so long as its warp was entirely of linen yarn.
This provided England with a market for her flax. But once the law was
passed the delighted manufacturers began to turn out colored cloth by
the bushelful, making any amount more than they could sell just because
they were allowed to. This led to another difficultywhere were they
going to get enough linen warp? The cottagers who worked at home with
their little spinning wheels could not begin to turn out the supply
that was needed, and weavers of cloth went traveling everywhere over
England buying up all the linen thread people would sell and begging
for more. And not only did they want linen warp but they wanted it
stronger and coarser so they could weave heavier cloth. Now the
spinning wheels only turned out single thread. What was to be done?
Well, what was to be done? echoed Mary.
It was trying to find an answer to all this weaving muddle that set
John Kay to inventing his flying shuttle, replied Carl. Until then it
had taken two people to send the heavy shuttles with the warp on them
across the looms. His new flying shuttle did the same work with only
one person to operate it. You'd think that an improvement in weaving,
wouldn't you; and you'd have the right, if you worked out the idea, to
believe the weavers would be pleased?
Certainly, returned his mother.
Well, instead of being pleased, the workmen were crazy, Carl
Because they were such blockheads they were afraid Kay's invention
was going to put them out of their jobs. In fact, they got so soured on
poor old Kay that his life was actually in danger and he had to get out
of England. There's gratitude for you! concluded the boy with a shrug.
But later on they learned better, I suppose, and sent for him to
come back, Mary suggested. That's the way people always do.
These people didn't, was Carl's grim retort. Not on your
tin-type! They never got Kay back again in spite of all he'd done for
them. Instead, he died somewhere abroad without receiving much of
anything for his invention. Wouldn't that make you hot? In the
meantime, about 1738, a chap called Lewis Paul got out a double set of
rollers that would draw out thread and twist ita stunt previously
done by hand. So it went. Here and there men all over England, knowing
the need of better spinning devices, went to it to see what they could
do. John Wyatt, who, like Paul, was a Birmingham native, tried spinning
by means of rollers; and for ever so long it was a question whether it
was he or Paul who should be credited with the invention of the roller
and flyer machine. After twenty years I believe Paul was granted the
patent. In point of fact, though, Arkwright thirty years before had
tried to get a patent on spinning by rollers, and no doubt both Lewis
Paul and John Wyatt got the suggestion from him. Anyhow, the idea
spread like wildfire and immediately no end of people went to work
fussing with rollers, flyers, and spindles. As a result, many small
things were added to improve the spinning contrivances in use at the
time. Then in 1764, or thereabouts, along came James Hargreaves, a
Lancashire Englishman, with a machine that would spin eleven threads at
His listeners gave a little gasp.
That was some stride ahead, wasn't it? commented Carl, as proudly
as if he himself had done the deed. Yes, siree! Hargreaves's spinning
jenny was a big step forward. And as usual it raised a row. When he got
it all perfected five years later and went to take out a patent on it,
his right to it was questioned and his life made miserable. But,
anyhow, people couldn't say he built on Arkwright or Paul, for whether
they liked it or not they had to admit his idea was quite new. His
jenny only spun cloth rovings, however. The rovings had to be prepared
first; that is, the cotton had to be carded and given its first twist.
After that Hargreaves was ready for it and could lengthen, twist, and
spin into yarn eleven threads of it.
I hope the ungrateful workmen did not get after him as they did
after John Kay, Mary murmured.
They did! At least, although they did not drive him out of England
they drove him out of Lancashire. So he went to Nottingham; and after
arming himself with his patent he and a Mr. James built a spinning mill
there, one of the first to be built in England.
That must have made his fortune and repaid him for all his hard
labor, remarked Mrs. McGregor, as she held up a violet cloud of
spangled tulle and examined it critically.
The book said he didn't make much money, Carl announced. He
wasn't as poor as John Kay and did not die in want; but he certainly
never became rich.
I suppose now that they had spinning factories England was
satisfied, said Mary.
Satisfied? repeated Carl with scorn. Satisfied because there was
one little measly spinning factory? You bet your life people weren't
satisfied! To be sure some of the hardest of the inventing was done.
But don't for a minute imagine you are through with Richard Arkwright.
He was still on the job.
You told us about him before.
Trying to get a patent on spinning by rollers? Yes, I did. Well, he
was still alive and of course when everybody was talking about spinning
he couldn't help hearing the gossip even if he did happen to be a
barber. In fact while he traveled round buying and selling hair for
wigs he must have met no end of people and talked with them, so I guess
he heard more of the news of the day than did lots of other men.
Barbers always seem to be sociable chaps. He was quite a mechanic, too,
in his way; machinery had always interested him.
In spite of his making wigs and toupees for ladies and gentlemen?
laughed Mrs. McGregor mischievously.
Sure, Ma! He had been born in Lancashire just as Hargreaves had and
so he probably was particularly interested in Hargreaves. When anybody
from your own part of the world does anything smart you always are all
ears about it, you know. So Arkwright found out all he could by
gossiping about Hargreaves's spinning jenny, and no one was quicker to
see what such an invention would mean to England than he. The idea was
almost like a magnet to him. He hunted up Mr. Highs, who had
experimented a lot with spinning machinery, and talked with him; he
also met John Kay, who at one time had helped Highs. And because he was
such an intelligent listener and seemed to understand machinery so well
these men babbled to him about their hobby. Having heard all they had
to say Arkwright went off by himself and set quietly to work to try out
on a small scale certain notions of his own. These notions had to do
with spinning cotton by drawing rollers, and they worked perfectly.
That was enough for him. He announced his success, got his patent, was
knighted by the crown, and became rich. How's that for a yarn? Isn't it
like the story of Puss-In-Boots?
It is certainly magical, declared Mrs. McGregor, who had dropped
her work in her absorption. I am glad, too, to know there was one
inventor who prospered.
I am afraid he was the only oneat least of those interested in
spinning, replied Carl gravely.
All the others both before and after him lost out so far as money
Who did come after Arkwright? queried Mary.
CromptonSamuel Crompton, was the prompt reply. He was a little
boy when Arkwright was tooting round the country trading hair and wigs.
The two men may even have happened to see one another somewhere. That
wouldn't be impossible, you know. Anyway, during the time that
Arkwright was fighting the right to his roller patent; going into
partnership with rich men who could finance his schemes; and building
his chain of mills at Nottingham, Cromford, and Matlock, Crompton was
growing up. As some of these mills were worked by horse power and some
by water power, the name of 'water frame' clung to Arkwright's
invention. Crompton, like everybody else who lived at the time, saw the
rivalry between Hargreaves's jenny and Arkwright's water frame. It was
of course silly that there should have been rivalry, for the two
machines did quite different sorts of work. Arkwright's water frame was
better for making the warp and long threads of cloth; and Hargreaves's
jenny turned out better weft, or the kind of thread that went from side
to side. It was only a matter of the sort of thread you needed,
Then they certainly needn't have been jealous of one another,
commented Mrs. McGregor.
Fortunately in time they found that out and realized that each loom
had its advantages; to-day both are usedone for one purpose, one for
another. But no matter how many enemies Arkwright had everybody,
whether they liked him or not, was compelled to admit that he gave the
spinning industry a tremendous boost and did more toward starting our
present factory idea than did any one else. Not only was he a tireless
worker, but he was quick as a flash to see what was needed. Maybe he
wasn't any too scrupulous whose property he took; but at least he took
the things he seized more for the public good than his own, I really
believe. For instance, there was Lewis Paul's carding engine; he
introduced that into Lancashire and added to it a stripping comb, or
doffer, that made it about fifty per cent. better than it ever had been
before. That is what he did to everything he touched. He swooped down
on any machine he saw and then proceeded to improve it. It didn't
matter to him who it belonged to. Of course you can't do that, even if
you are an inventor, grinned Carl. Naturally it got Arkwright in
wrong and he was given some pretty hard names. Still he did a lot of
good for all that. And, anyway, whatever he was, I take my hat off to
him because he began to study writing, spelling, and arithmetic when he
was fifty years old. That gets me!
Poor soul! He probably had no chance for an education when he was
younger, remarked Mrs. McGregor.
No, he hadn't. But picture it! Jove! If I had gone that long
without books, and had been able to invent all sorts of things into the
bargain, darned if I wouldn't have stuck it out, Carl said.
But you told us Arkwright became rich and was knighted, replied
Mrs. McGregor. No doubt this resulted in his meeting educated people,
gentlemen and ladies, in whose company he felt ashamed, uncomfortable,
and at a disadvantage.
I'd feel that way, wouldn't you? nodded Mary. I do feel so even
when I am with Uncle Frederick, and my teacher, andand you, Mother.
Don't include me, dear, protested her mother sadly. Alas, I know
little enough. But it does help you to understand how that poor,
hard-working Richard Arkwright suffered. Often, I'll wager, he was
angry at himself for his lack of education even though it was not his
fault. I don't wonder, snubbed as he probably was at times, that he
determined he would learn something.
His hard-earned education did not do him much good, Mother, for he
died when he was sixty, said Carl.
Well, at least he lived long enough to see his success, Mary put
He was luckier than Crompton, replied her brother.
Oh, tell us about Crompton. Do you remember anything about him?
Crompton was one of the most important of the spinning inventors,
continued Carl. But he did not set out to be an inventor any more than
Arkwright did. To be sure he wasn't a barber or anything as ordinary as
that. He was a musician, a person of quite another sort, you see. His
family were better bred and started him out with a good educationthe
very thing Arkwright lacked. Crompton might easily have mixed with the
class Arkwright wanted to mix with but he wasn't as good a mixer.
Instead of gossiping with everybody he met, as Arkwright had done,
Crompton kept by himself and lived quietly at home with his mother.
A sensible lad! Mrs. McGregor whispered.
Maybe, grinned her son. Still, it made people call Crompton
unsociable. I guess, though, most geniuses are that. They always seem
to be so in books; and Crompton certainly was a genius. He hadn't an
ounce of brain for business but he had no end of ideas; and it was
those that got him on in life. For you see, although the Cromptons were
what Ma would call 'gentle people', they were not rich. They were
comfortably off, though, and if the father had not died when the
children were small they might have been very well off indeed. As it
was, Mrs. Crompton had to help out the finances by carding, spinning,
and weaving cloth at home when her other work was done. Ever so many
other women did it, so it was considered an all right thing to do.
Since Kay's flying shuttle had made it possible to spin more stuff the
weavers, as I told you, were scouring the country for all the warp and
weft they could lay hands on, so everybody who could spin thread was
sure of a market. The prices offered, and the difficulties the weavers
were having to get material enough, were common talk at every English
cottage fireside. So of course it wasn't strange that Mrs. Crompton,
along with the rest of her neighbors, heard this gossip and also heard
about Hargreaves's spinning jenny. Now Samuel helped his mother to spin
evenings when he wasn't playing at the village theater and she decided
it would be nice to get one of these spinning jennies for him to use.
So she did, and it wasn't long before he could not only use it, but
could turn out weft enough for cloth to clothe the whole Crompton
Then I don't see but the Cromptons were nicely taken care of, Mary
That wasn't the point, smartie! her brother objected. Of course
they were well enough off themselves, but the village of Bolton where
they lived was strong on its muslins and quilt materials and what the
people wanted was to be able to spin fine muslins such as were imported
into England from India and China. If such goods could be made by
uneducated Orientals why should not people as clever and ingenious as
the English make them?
They couldn't do it; I don't know why, answered Carl. They just
could not contrive to draw fine enough thread. Of course Samuel
Crompton had always seen the Bolton goods since he was a little boy and
so knew as well as did everybody else in the town what a wonderful
thing it would be if finer thread could be made. So after his mother
got her spinning jenny for him he began to fuss round with it simply to
find out whether he could make it any better or not. He experimented
five years and at the end of that time he had made a 'muslin wheel'
that was something like Arkwright's water frame and something like
Hargreaves's jenny and yet wasn't like either of those things.
Therefore, as a joke, it was called a 'mule.'
Oh, I'm awfully glad he made it! ejaculated the sympathetic Mary.
Five years was such a long time to work. Wasn't it splendid of him!
Other people, I'm sorry to say, were not of your opinion, Carl
replied. As I said before, the spinners and weavers were a crazy,
jealous lot. You remember how they treated Kay and Hargreaves? Well,
they hadn't improved any and were still just as mad at spinning
inventions and spinning inventors as they were before. Everything that
did away with hand labor was, they argued, an enemy and was going to
put them out of business.
But how could they expect they were going to stop the progress of
the world? asked Mrs. McGregor.
They didn't think it was progress; they were just that stupid,
returned Carl. And I guess even if they had thought so it would have
been the same. They were determined to use nothing that reduced the
number of hand workers. So they set themselves to take out their
vengeance on all spinning machinery, and in order to put an end to it
mobs of workers went about smashing to atoms every spinning jenny they
could find that had more than twenty spindles.
How nasty! breathed Mary.
How stupid! rejoined her mother.
Now, of course, Samuel Crompton wasn't going to have his new
'muslin wheel' smashed to bits so he did not tell anybody what he had
invented. He simply took the thing to pieces and hid the parts round
his workroom. Some of them he put in the ceiling, some he tucked away
under the floor.
Bully for him! Mary cried. It was a regular kid trick.
I know it, agreed Carl. He wasn't really a kid, though, because
he was twenty-seven years old at the time and was married and his wife
had just come to live at the big Crompton homestead. Well, after a
little while, things settled down and then Samuel Crompton dragged out
the parts of his hidden muslin wheel, put them together, and he and the
lady he had married went to work making the finest and strongest yarn
they could. Such fine thread had never before been made in all England
and you better believe when it began to appear it created a stir.
Everybody in Bolton went round trying to find out where it came from
and after the tidings spread about that the Cromptons were the people
who were producing the mysterious yarn, the town swelled with pride.
How was the thread made? That was the next question!
And the Cromptons didn't tell, of course.
That's where you're wrong, Mary Ann! I wish they hadn't; but they
That was a pity, interrupted Mrs. McGregor.
You'd have thought they would have been wise enough not to,
wouldn't you? Carl observed. But I told you Samuel Crompton had no
great head for business. He was trusting and decent, just the way Eli
Whitney was. He had no idea people would steal his invention. So when
the mill owners and factory folks came surging to his house, he not
only let them see the loom but even allowed some of them to try it when
they wrote out a promise or pledged their word that they would pay him
for the privilege.
Mrs. McGregor shook her head.
I'm afraid, said she, that was all he ever heard of the money.
Of course it was, Ma! Evidently you know more about human nature
than poor Crompton did. He was utterly amazed when they wouldn't pay
up. And when there were others mean enough to hide in the room over his
workshop, bore holes in the floor, and spy down at the magic machine,
all was lost.
He held no patent, then?
He hadn't one thing to protect him. The sharks just came down on
him, grabbed his idea, and walked away with it unmolested, answered
Oh, that was pitifulpitiful! exclaimed Mrs. McGregor, laying
aside her work.
It was a darn shame! echoed her son.
And the Cromptons never got any money at all? asked Mary.
Not then, anyhow.
Well, at least Mr. Crompton had the joy of doing what he set out to
donobody could take that satisfaction away from him, mused Mrs.
Yes, but would that have consoled you for finding that people were
so low-down? answered Carl with scorn. I'll bet that one fact
disappointed him more than the loss of the money. It would me.
Greed, I regret to say, sonny, is at the bottom of most of the
evils of the world, retorted his mother sadly. What finally became of
Oh, the whole thing got on Crompton's nerves and he moved to
another town where he buried himself, Carl answered. After a while,
though, he came back to Bolton because he needed money and opened a
little factory there. It ran along for almost ten years, doing business
on a small scale. Imagine it! Then in 1800 some Manchester
manufacturers (who had probably got rich on his invention and whose
consciences troubled them most likely) collected a purse for him that
his mill might be enlarged. By this time as a result of various
improvements Crompton's idea had expanded until one of his looms had as
many as three hundred and sixty spindles, and another had two hundred
And years before the spinners had destroyed those that boasted more
than twenty, commented Mary thoughtfully.
I know it! Ironic, wasn't it? Poor old Crompton! He just didn't
seem to have any luck, asserted Carl.
It wasn't want of luck, my dear, so much as want of wisdomthe wit
to grasp opportunity when it came, contradicted his mother.
You mean 'there is a tide in the affairs of men', Ma, and all
that? Carl grinned. Who says I don't know Shakespeare when I meet
him? Anyhow, I guess Bill was right; he certainly was in this case.
Even the money the English government later collected and presented to
Crompton got dribbled away and lost in various unfortunate enterprises.
Crompton got poorer and poorer, and if it hadn't been that friends took
care of him he might almost have starved.
And did his star never rise again? inquired Mrs. McGregor.
Never! He just died in poverty and left other people to grow rich
on what he had done.
That is the world, I am afraid, was Mrs. McGregor's observation.
Still he had given humanity a hand up and done a great service to his
generation. That knowledge was better than all the fortunes he could
But he might so easily have had both, Ma, returned the practical
Carl. I call the help to humanity slim comfort when you've been
cheated out of what should have been yours. I shouldn't even have been
grateful had I been Crompton for the fine monument they set up to his
memory long after he was dead. What they ought to have done was to
treat him square while he was alive to enjoy it.
See that as you go through life you do not forget your own
philosophy, my son, cautioned his mother.
CHAPTER XV. TIDINGS
The following week brought a letter from Uncle Frederick and very
important the McGregors felt when they took it, adorned with its
English stamp, from the mail box in the hall. Mulberry Court did not
receive so many letters that the arrival of one was a routine affair.
No, indeed! When a real letter came to any of its residents the fact
was remarked upon by the recipient with a casualness calculated to veil
the pride he or she experienced.
Mrs. O'Dowd, for example, in passing through the hall would call
carelessly to one of her neighbors:
I've just had a letter from my sister Jane in Fall River. Plague
the girl! What can she be writing to me about?
Nevertheless, in spite of this ungracious observation Mrs. O'Dowd
was much pleased to be seen with the letter and overhear her friends
whispering among themselves:
Julie O'Dowd had a letter from Jane to-day. It was in a blue
envelope and looked like quite a thick one. What do you suppose the
girl had to say? Most likely Julie will tell us by and by.
And sure enough! The prediction was a true prophecy, for before the
day was out Julie had made an errand to every flat in the house and
before leaving had read to each family extracts from the letter,
interspersing the paragraphs with a running line of comment concerning
Jane and her history since babyhood. By evening the letter had become
blurred and dingy with much handling and Julie could recite it from
beginning to end.
Yet for all the interest evoked by Julie's letters and the other
rare epistles that found their way into Mulberry Court these missives
came after all only from American cities which lay within a radius of a
hundred miles of Baileyville. They had not traveled far, any more than
had the persons to whom they were addressed. They were not letters
written on thin foreign paper and bearing unfamiliar postmarks and the
fascinating stamps of other nations. Only the McGregors could boast
such splendor as that.
Realizing this, Mrs. McGregor would have been short of human if she
had not been a wee bit self-conscious and forced to suppress from her
voice the satisfaction that echoed in it when she observed in off-hand
Oh, by the way, I had a letter to-day from my brother who is in
China! It was a name to conjure with. What a medley of visions it
brought to the imagination!
And if you could not go to China, as none of Mulberry Court ever
expected to do, think of having a relative who did! And if you were not
blessed with such an illustrious connection why the next best thing was
to know some one who was. Even to know some one who had a brother in
China and who sent home letters from that magic realm imparted a
There was no denying the McGregors' foreign correspondence lent
prestige to Mulberry Court. Perhaps a Manila postmark was cut out and
bestowed on Mrs. Murphy, who tucked it away in a cracked cup and
displayed it on occasions to a visitor; or maybe the letter heading
from a Genoa hotel was given to Mrs. O'Dowd and furnished her with
conversation for a week. In outbursts of great generosity stamps or
postcards were donated to especially favored individuals.
Hence when on this particular morning the postman pressed Mrs.
McGregor's bell and she hastened down four flights to open her mail-box
a head protruded from almost every door as she made her way back
upstairs and there was ample opportunity for her to observe to
interested spectators, I seem to have a letter from England. Judging
from the postmark, my brother must be in Liverpool.
In this case the admiration with which the name was repeated might
not have found so ringing an echo in Mrs. McGregor's voice. She had
been to Liverpool. For all that, however, she maintained a dignified
front and bore the letter upstairs, sinking with delight into the first
chair that blocked her path when she arrived and calling to her
I've a letter from your Uncle Frederick, Timmie. Think of that! It
comes all the way from Liverpool with King George neat as a pin smiling
out of the corner of it. Yes, you may take the envelope, Carl, but
don't let the baby be fingering and tearing it. Show Martin the King's
picture. He's old enough now to learn how he looks. Mercy on us! What a
ream your Uncle Frederick has written. One would think it was a book! I
never knew him to write such a long letter in all my life. I hope he
isn't sick. Don't hang over my shoulder, Mary; it makes me nervous. And
don't let Nell come climbing up into my lap while I'm reading. Go to
Mary, like a good girl, darling; mother's reading a letter that came
all the way from England.
Thus did Mrs. McGregor preface the perusal of the document she held
in her hand. But when she had spread out the voluminous sheets and was
preparing to read them she was again interrupted:
Now, Timmie, don't you and Carl start quarreling the first thing
about the stamp. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Who had the
last one? Carl? Then this one goes to you and there must be no more
bickering about it. If there is I shall keep it myself. One would think
you boys were a pair of Kilkenny cats the way you squabble with each
other! Now are you going to be quiet and listen to what Uncle Frederick
has to say or are you not? Then don't let me hear another yip out of
either of you.
Instantly the room was so still you could have heard a pin drop and
to an accompaniment of crisply crackling paper Mrs. McGregor began:
LIVERPOOL, January 29, 1924.
DEAR SISTER NELLIE,
Well, here I am in England with the Atlantic rolling between me
Baileyville. We had a splendid voyage with the sea as smooth as
top of your sewing-machine. (Ain't that like your Uncle
to joke about the ocean! He's crossed it that number of times
no more to him than the pond in the park. Well, I'm glad he had
smooth trip, anyway.)
At Liverpool, where we docked, we ran into our first trouble,
there was a longshoremen's strike on and not a soul could he
to unload our cargo or lend a hand in loading us up again. For
three days we were tied plumb to the wharf with nothing to do
twirl our thumbs. So having business at Manchester I decided to
up there and stay with a Scotchman who was my first mate years
(Now wasn't that nice!) Old Barney turned the town inside out
was so glad to see me (I'll wager he was!) and among other
took me through some big cotton mills where a nephew of his was
working. For the benefit of the children I'm going to write a
about them. I could not but wish on top of what we all talked
that they might have been with me to see how wonderful the
machinery is. Were it actually alive it could not work with
brains. (Your Uncle Frederick always will have his joke!)
Indeed, the man who took us about told me that the self-acting
of to-day, founded on the invention of Crompton, is a product
hundreds of minds and I can well believe it. It isn't the
that is new, for apparently no one has ever improved on
idea; but since that time this machinist and that has added his
to make the device more perfect. (Now ain't you glad you read
Crompton, Carl? This letter would have been Greek to you if you
hadn't.) We saw mules as long as a hundred and twenty feet, and
from nine to ten feet wide carrying some twelve or thirteen
spindles, and turning out about two yards of thread in a
a minute. How is that? And all this clicking, humming, whirling
machinery was operated by a man and a couple of boys. Carl, Tim
I could have run the thing had we known how.
(Your Uncle Frederick don't forget you boys, you see!)
They told me it was Richard Roberts, a Manchester man, who in
improved the self-acting mule and brought it to its present
of practical working order. I take off my hat to him and to
on whose ideas he built up this marvelous invention. The thing
everything but talk, and maybe it's as well off without doing
Lots of folks would be.
(I must read Julie O'Dowd that; it will make her laugh. It
so like your uncle you'd think him in the room this minute.)
It draws out the carded cotton, puts in the necessary twist, and
spins the thread, easy as rolling off a log, levers, wheels,
springs, and a friction clutch all doing their part. I couldn't
help thinking if each of us humans played his rôle as well, and
the thing given him to do as faithfully, how much better a
should have. We don't begin to pull together for a result the
those wheels and pulleys did. Instead, each of us goes his own
never coöperating with his neighbor and in consequence we have
helter-skelter universe. (How true that is!)
Nevertheless in spite of usnot because of usthe world
I sometimes wonder how it does it. Crompton, for instance,
scarcely have recognized his old mule that gave subsequent
inventors their inspiration. Nor would Arkwright know his water
frame could he see what has happened to it. (Mark you, Carl,
speaks of Arkwright. All that would slide off you hadn't you
Of course there is a lot of rivalry between English and American
spinning machinery and I found that some of the mills here have
The reeling of the yarn after it is spun is done chiefly by
I do not mean they make it up into skeins by hand; they operate
machinery that winds it; also that which makes it up into
for the market. This process is also interesting to see.
are put in to separate the laps of the yarn; cardboards hold it
place; it is pressed flat; the bundle is tied; and the paper
wrapper bearing the name of the manufacturer as well as any
advertising he wishes to circulate, is whisked about it.
I was a little surprised to find they made no spool cotton on
of these machines. Up to date no machine has been invented that
will directly spin thread strong enough for sewing. All that
be a separate process and therefore the yarn is taken to other
machines where it is drawn finer and where several of the fine
threads can be twisted into one. The spinners know just how
fine threads to put together to get certain sizes of cotton. To
make number twelve, for example, they put together four strands
what is called 48's that have been doubled, or perhaps 50's,
the twist contracts the yarn.
After this has been twisted the proper number of times the
is passed over flannel-covered boards to be cleaned. Next it
travels through a small, round hole something like the eye of a
needle so that any knots or rough places can be detected. If
threads are found to be strong and without flaws two to half a
dozen of them are put together in a loose skein and they are
twisted in a doubling machine. Afterward the thread is
cleaned, and run off on spools or bobbins. That is the road
Mother's spools of cotton have to travel before they get to
How seldom we think of this or are grateful for it!
There are in addition other ways of preparing cottons for
embroidery, crocheting, or knitting, not to mention methods
finish cotton yarn so that it will look like woolen, linen, or
fiber. Because cotton is a cheaper material than any of these
often mixed with them to produce cheaper goods. You would be
to see how ingenious manufacturers have become in turning out
imitations. Cotton, for example, is mercerized by passing it
rapidly through a gassing machine not unlike the flame of a
burner. Here all the fuzz protruding from it is burned away,
when polished and finished it looks so much like silk you would
have trouble in telling whether it was or not. This sort of
used to make imitation silk stockings and many other articles.
Now I have told you quite a story, haven't I? And no doubt I
wasted good ink and paper doing it, for I presume Hal Harling
have told you the same thing quite as well if not a deal
You read him this document and ask him to fill in the gaps. But
least even if Hal can improve on my tale I have demonstrated
thing and that is that I have remembered you whenever I have
anything I thought you would be interested in.
I send much love to each of the family. Tell Mary, Carl, and Tim
take good care of Mother and the babies. Be sure to greet for
the Harlings, O'Dowds, Murphys, and all the neighbors at
Court. We leave Liverpool for the Mediterranean next week and I
will write you from Gibraltar or Naples. In the meantime do not
forget the good ship Charlotte or your affectionate
As if we could forget him! whispered Mrs. McGregor, folding up the
many sheets and replacing them in their envelope. It isn't all
children have the kind uncle you have. Carl, maybe you'd like to be
stepping over to the Harlings with this letter. Grandfather Harling
would delight to read it, I know. The days are long ones for him and
I'm sure he must miss your Uncle Frederick dropping in to bring him the
Only too ready to comply with her request Carl rose.
You can leave the letter until they all have seen it; then Hal or
Louise can bring it back. I want Mrs. O'Dowd to have it next. She's
mentioned by name in it and it will please her to read the words
Thus did Mulberry Court share its blessings!
CHAPTER XVI. A RELUCTANT ALTRUIST
As spring came and Carl was more out of doors playing ball and
tramping the open country his watchful eyes were continually scanning
passing motors for a possible glimpse of the mysterious red racing car
and its genial owner. The boy had never forgotten this delightful
stranger or quite abandoned the hope that he might sometime see him
again. But, alas, day succeeded day and never did any of the fleeting
vehicles his glance followed contain the person he sought. Neither was
the search for the sender of the Christmas baskets rewarded.
Spasmodically since mid-winter the Harlings and McGregors had
cudgeled their brains to discover this elusive good fairy until at
length, exhausted by fruitless effort, they agreed to inter Louise's
philanthropic Mr. X in a nameless grave. Despite that fact, however, he
was not forgotten and tender thoughts clustered about his memory.
In the meantime May followed on April's heels and presently June,
with her greenery and wealth of roses arrived, and then the startling
tidings buzzed through Baileyville that Mr. John Coulter was to be
married. The news thrilled young and old alike for was not young Mr.
Coulter the junior partner of Davis and Coulter; and was not Davis and
Coulter the heart and soul of Baileyville? Davis and Coulter meant the
mills and the mills meant the town itself. Without them there would
have been no village at all. Boys and girls, men and women toiled year
in and year out in the factories as their fathers and mothers, often
their grandfathers and grandmothers had done before them. If you were
not connected with Davis and Coulter's you were not of Baileyville's
Hence it followed that the prospective marriage of Mr. John Coulter
could not but be an event concerning which the entire community
gossiped with eager and kindly interest. The lady was from New York,
people said, and Mr. John had met her while doing war work in France.
Both of them had large fortunes. But the fact that appealed to the
villagers far more than this was the intelligence that the wedding was
to take place at the old Coulter homestead and be followed by a fête to
which all the mill people and their families were to be invited. How
exciting that was! And how exultant were those whose connection with
the mills insured them a card to this mammoth festivity!
Rumor whispered there were to be gigantic tents with games and
dancing; bands of music; fireworks; and every imaginable dainty to eat.
Some even went so far as to assert there would be boats on the
miniature lake and a Punch and Judy show. Oh, it was to be a fête
For weeks the town talked of nothing else; and as Carl McGregor
listened to these stories his regrets at not being numbered among Davis
and Coulter's elect waxed keener and keener. One did not enjoy being
left out of a function of such magnitude, a party to which everybody
else was going. Not only did it make you feel lonely and stranded but
it mortified you to be obliged to own you were not of the happy band
included in so magnificent a celebration.
Now if you'd only have let me take a job at the mills as I wanted
to, Ma, we might have been going to Mr. Coulter's party along with the
rest of the world, Carl bemoaned. I always told you I ought to go
into those mills the way the other fellows do. But you wouldn't hear to
it. Now see what's come of it. We are left high and dry. I'll bet we
are the only people in Baileyville who are not invited to that party.
Everybody is to be there. If even one member of a family works at the
mill that lets in the bunch.
Like the garden parties great families used to give their tenants
in the old country, Mrs. McGregor murmured reminiscently.
I don't know about the old country, replied Carl ungraciously,
but that is what Mr. Coulter is going to doask whole families. Gee,
but it makes me sore!
If your father had lived we would have been there, said the boy's
mother sadly. Your father used to be very good friends with old Mr.
Coulter and he would have seen to it that none of this household was
left out. But Mr. John we never knew. He was always away
studyingfirst at school, then at college, and then in Europe. Later
he started in to be a lawyer in New York and but for the war and his
father's death he'd most likely be doing that now. But when the old
gentleman died Mr. John gave up everything else and came home to take
his place in the firm as his father had wished he should. Folks say
that in spite of not caring much for the mills at first he has
persisted at his job until he has become genuinely interested in them.
I honor him for it, too, for a business life wasn't his real choice. Of
course being away so much as he has he is little known among the mill
people yet; but evidently he means to settle down here and is anxious
to get better acquainted. This wedding party shows that.
Well, there are some he won't get acquainted with, lamented Carl.
If you mean us I reckon he can worry along without, Mrs. McGregor
retorted, with a twinkle in her eye. He's managed to up to now.
We're just as good as anybody else, her son blazed.
Undoubtedly we are, was the good-humored answer. Nevertheless we
won't be missed in a crowd like that.
Don't you want to go to the party, Ma?
Why, to tell the truth, I haven't had time to think much about it,
sonnythat is, not to be disappointed. I'm not pretending, though,
that so many parties come my way that a fine one such as this wouldn't
be a treat. I can't remember the day I've been to anything of the sort.
It's a quarter of a century or more, certainlynot since I was a girl
and went to the balls the gentry gave in Scotland.
Oh, I do so wish we were going to Mr. Coulter's, Carl repeated.
I'll not deny I'd like to, confessed his mother a bit wistfully.
Still, were we to go what a stew we'd be in! It would mean days of
washing and ironing; new neckties and maybe shoes for you boys; and
hair ribbons and folderols for Mary and Nell. Before we were all
properly equipped it would cost a pretty penny. We'd have no right to
go without looking decent and being a credit to your father and to Mr.
Coulter who was good enough to ask us. So, you see, there are
advantages in everything. If we are not invited we shall have none of
the trouble and expense of it, concluded the woman philosophically.
I wouldn't mind the trouble, Mother, burst out Carl. I wouldn't
even care if I didn't have new shoes. Why, I'd go in my bathing suit.
Nodding her head his mother regarded him with withering censure.
Yes, I believe you would, she agreed, I believe you wouldif you
were permitted. But how lucky it is you have a mother. Without me you'd
be disgracing your name, Mr. Coulter, Baileyville, and Mulberry Court.
Carl grinned in sickly fashion.
I'd be having the time of my life! announced he, undaunted.
Going to an affair like that in your bathing suit, you mean? I'm
not so sure about that. You are always begging to be allowed to wear
that costume or grumbling because you cannot wear it. Once, I recall,
you actually suggested wearing it to church on a hot Sunday. I'm sorely
tempted sometime to let you have your way and see what would come of
it. Think, for instance, of your sailing into Mr. John Coulter's
wedding party in a get-up like that. You'd be ducked in the pond in a
I'd be ready for it, was the provoking answer.
Well, you aren't going to the Coulter party, as it happens, so
there'll be no question of what you'll wear, returned Mrs. McGregor
I know I'm not; but you don't have to rub it in, Ma, Carl
I didn't mean to rub it in, dear, was the gentle response. I was
merely stating facts. Maybe it's as well, too, that we're not going
ourselves, for with the Sullivans, Murphys, and O'Dowds all invited
we'll have as much as we can do to get them all creditably rigged out.
I shall let Julie wear my black skirtit just fits her; and Mrs.
Sullivan my best hat. My waist Mrs. Murphy shall take if I can get it
washed in time. Most likely, too, the O'Dowds will need your clothes
Need my clothes! Carl shouted.
Certainly. Julie can't hope to provide things for all that big
family to appear in at once. Somebody will have to turn to and lend a
But what'll I do while the O'Dowd boys wear my clothes? wailed
Why, you can stay in the house. It won't hurt either you or Tim to
take an afternoon of rest, came stoically from his mother.
But I don't want to take an afternoon of rest, Carl protested
wrathfully. Not on that day of all others. I'm going up to Coulters to
hang round outside and watch the fun. If I'm not invited I can at least
Carl McGregor! You'll do nothing of the sort. Hang round outside,
indeed! Haven't you any pride at all? If you're not asked to the party
I should hope you'd have the good taste to keep out of the way of it.
Hang round outside! You ought to be ashamed even to suggest such a
thing, said Mrs. McGregor with scorn. No, you'll do no lingering on
the outskirts of Mr. John's reception, you can make up your mind to
that. You'll stay politely at home as the rest of us plan to do and
keep under cover so folks won't be asking you why you're not up at
Coulters. I've some regard for the family dignity if you haven't. And
since you'll be at home anyway, you may as well take the chance to do a
kindly deed and let Frankie O'Dowd wear your clothes. You don't want to
grow up to be selfish.
My pants will be miles too long for that O'Dowd kid, responded the
unwilling altruist grudgingly.
Oh, his mother can baste them up so they'll do for one afternoon,
was the serene answer.
Huh! I don't envy Frank going to that party with two thicknesses of
trousers on his legs, Carl declared. If it's a hot day he'll melt.
Beggars cannot be choosers, Mrs. McGregor asserted. Likely
Frankie will be that tickled to go to the lawn party that he won't care
what he has on any more than you would. You'd go quicker than a wink in
basted-up trousers if you got the chance.
You bet I would! Why, I'd go ininin anything! was the
fervent affirmation. Somehow, Ma, it just seems as if I couldn't give
up the idea of going. I feel as if something must happen so we'd
Why, Carlyou silly boy! You don't mean to say you are actually
cherishing the thought you may be invited yet? his mother exclaimed
incredulously. Put it out of your head, son, like a sensible lad.
There isn't a chance of it, dear. The invitations were sent out last
week and had you been going to get one you would have received it days
ago. There'll be no more people asked now.
There might besome might have been forgotten by mistake. Or the
invitation might have got stuck in the letter box and delayed.
I'm afraid not, Carlie! his mother said gently. Mark my words,
all the invitations there are going to be to that garden party have
gone out. There won't be any more. The folks that haven't had theirs
already won't have none and if you're wise you will face that fact and
give up thinking about Mr. Coulter and his wedding.
The corners of Carl's mouth drooped but he stubbornly insisted:
Well, anyhow, Ma, don't you tell Frankie O'Dowd he can have my
clothes until the very last minute, will you? Promise me that.
Aye! I'll not mention the clothes yet awhile. I'll wait at least a
day or two. Most likely Julie or the Murphys will be up by that time
and ask for 'em.
And with this scanty comfort Carl was obliged to be content.
Even the concession that he would be allowed to wear his bathing
suit while at home was but feeble consolation. What did it matter what
he wore if he couldn't go to the Coulter fête?
CHAPTER XVII. AN ORDEAL
As the date for the Coulters' fête approached the weather was
breathlessly scanned in practically every home in Baileyville and
throbbing hearts almost ceased to beat lest the day be stormy or too
cold to wear the finery that awaited the great occasion. Could one have
taken off the roofs of the houses between his thumb and forefinger as
he would lift the cover off a sugar-bowl, what a bewildering array of
freshly starched muslins, clean shirts and collars, shining shoes, and
rose-encircled hats would have met his gaze!
Carl McGregor had spoken truly when he had affirmed to his mother
that everybody in the town was going to the wedding festival. All
Baileyville was on tiptoe with excitement. The schools were to be
closed for the afternoon, not alone to do Mr. Coulter honor, but
because it was quite evident that no children would be found in their
seats on the great day.
We McGregors would be the only kids in the whole place, I bet, if
they did have school, declared Carl gloomily. You see, Ma, it's just
as I told youeverybody's going to the Coulters'.
I should think, hating school as you do, you'd be thankful to have
a holiday, commented Mary.
Ordinarily I would, was the prompt reply. But what good is this
holiday going to do me, I'd like to know, with Frankie O'Dowd wearing
all my clothes, and Mother forbidding me to go out of the house in my
Well, at least you won't have to study, said his optimistic
sister, making an effort to comfort her morose companion.
I might as well study; it would take up my mind, fretted Carl.
I've nothing better to do.
His ill humor was so tragic that in spite of herself Mary laughed.
Well, you needn't grin so over it, Miss Superiority, or go
pretending you don't wish you could go to the lawn party.
Of course I'd love to go, Mary confessed honestly. But if we
can't I don't see any use in mourning about it and talking of nothing
I have to talk about it. I think of it every minute.
Put it out of your head.
Nonsense! You don't try. Why don't you set about doing something
and forget it instead of sitting round mooning and working yourself all
up? You can run down and get the mail right now. There's the bell.
Maybe it's a letter from Uncle Frederick.
Welcoming the diversion her brother rose with alacrity. He was in a
mood when any excitement, no matter how trivial, was a boon. Down the
stairs he ran only to return a second later with a square white
envelope in his hand.
Is it from Uncle Frederick? queried Mary eagerly.
Oh, I'm sorry, we haven't heard from him for ever so long. I do
hope nothing's the matter. Who is the letter from?
I don't know.
Something in the reticence of the reply caused the girl to glance
I'll take it in to Mother, volunteered she, holding out her hand.
It isn't for Mother, Carl answered slowly.
Not for Mother? How funny! None of the rest of us ever have
letters. Who is it for?
It happens to be mine.
Carl! Dismay and apprehension vibrated in the word.
Yes, it's mine, her brother repeated. His obvious attempt to carry
off the episode in jaunty fashion failed, however, and it was evident
by his tense tones that he echoed Mary's alarm.
But who on earth can be writing to you? demanded his sister.
IIdon't know. The boy fingered the envelope with uneasiness.
Mary came nearer.
Carl, what have you been up to now? asked she. That looks like
the teacher's writing. Aren't you going to be promoted or what is the
How do I know until I read the thing? snapped Carl.
You're not in any scrape?
Not that I know of.
I tell you I can't think of any. On my honor I can't.
Oh, well then, it's probably about your work. Most likely you're
behind the class in something and Miss Dewey wants to see you. Why
don't you buck up and find out what she has to say?
I'm going to in a minute.
You're afraid to open that letter. You've done something at school
you don't want Mother and me to know about.
I tell you I haven't.
Then why, for pity's sake, don't you read what Miss Dewey has
written instead of looking at the note as if it was a bomb? Maybe she's
inviting you to supper. She does ask the boys sometimes.
This possibility was so encouraging that the startled expression in
the lad's eyes gave place to a serener light. Perhaps after all the
missive did not portend the calamity that a note from school usually
did. Maybe his algebra was all right and he had not flunked his Latin.
The fates may have graciously intervened.
Courageously he tore open the envelope; then a sharp cry came from
Hurrah! he cried. Mother! Mother! Where are you?
Here, dear, in my room. Is anything the matter?
Carl rushed off unceremoniously, leaving the mystified Mary alone in
the middle of the kitchen.
Oh, Ma, he panted, what do you suppose? We're going, after
allevery one of us! Think of it! We're going!
Going where? Have you taken leave of your senses, sonny? What are
you talking about, pray?
We're going to the Coulters', Ma, asserted Carl, waving the white
envelope above his head in a frenzy of delight. Look! Here's the bid.
And across the bottom of the paper Mr. Coulter himself has written to
say that he's sorry the invitation has been so delayed and he hopes my
mother and all of useven the babywill come. Gee!
Quite exhausted, Carl dropped into a chair.
But why should Mr. Coulter send this invitation to you?
I don't know, I'm sure. Maybe Hal Harling or somebody told him how
disappointed I was at not being asked, returned Carl serenely.
Mercy! I hope not, ejaculated his horrified mother.
Why, it would be almost like asking Mr. Coulter for an invitation.
He wouldn't care, I guess, came comfortably from Carl. There's
plenty of room and there'll be food enough so a few people more or less
wouldn't bother him.
But I wouldn't think of going to a party, or letting you, if you
had demanded in so many words to be invited, returned Mrs. McGregor
with a toss of her head.
You don't mean to say, Ma, that you're thinking of not going, her
I certainly shall not stir a step to Mr. Coulter's until I find out
how we happened to receive this remarkable invitation.
I sha'n't, repeated his mother. Why, the bare idea of your trying
to get a card to that wedding reception!
I didn't try to, Mother; honest, I didn't, protested Carl. I
didn't ask anybody to do a thing for me. I was only fooling when I said
that. Of course Hal Harling knows well enough that I've been crazy to
go. He and Louise couldn't help seeing how sore I was about it. But I
never said anything else.
I'm thankful to hear that. One never knows what you will do.
Mrs. McGregor gave a sigh of relief and taking the card examined it.
Perhaps, she presently observed in a gentler tone, this
invitation has nothing to do with you. It may be possible that young
Mr. Coulter remembered how long your father worked in the mills and
thought it would be nice to ask us because of that. If so, it was very
thoughtful of him. And most likely the card was sent to you because he
happened to have heard your name. Goodness knows, with the messes
you're in, I should think all the town might be aware of it.
And you'll go, Ma? In his eagerness Carl brushed aside the
unflattering picture his mother's words presented.
If I find it's a bona fide invitation and not some of your
concocting I'll gonot otherwise. It would be ungrateful to snub Mr.
John if he is trying to be kind. But the thing that makes me doubtful
is that the envelope should be addressed to you. Why wasn't the
invitation sent to me? I am the head of the familyor at least I
attempt to be, amended she with an upward curve of her lips.
Oh, who cares, Ma, who the invitation was addressed to? cut in
Carl impatiently. The main thing is that it's come and we are going to
the party. I'd go had it been sent to James Frederick. What does it
matter? Say, Ma, isn't it lucky you hadn't loaned our clothes? We'll
need 'em ourselves now.
When is the wedding? Mary asked.
Do you mean to say you don't even know? inquired her brother with
You have! Then you are the only person in Baileyville who has, was
the sarcastic rejoinder. Well, if you must know, it's the day after
It will be a scramble to get ready, won't it, Mother? commented
the practical Mary.
There certainly will be a lot to do, Mrs. McGregor agreed.
However, I guess we can manage if everybody will turn to.
I'll help, announced Carl in a burst of magnanimousness. I'll
wash and iron all my own clothes.
I'd like a peep at the shirt you washed and ironed, taunted Mary
I fancy a peep would be enough, put in her mother, laughing. No,
son, your talent does not lie in washing or ironing. But you can take
care of the youngsters while Mary and I do it. And, Mary, we'll have to
get a bunch of fresh flowers for your best hat; those pink daisies are
too faded to wear. We'll get a new hair ribbon, too. And I must have
some other lace in the neck of my silk waist and
Oh, if you're going to talk ribbon, artificial flowers, and all
that rot I'm going over to Harlings, announced Carl, rising.
Indeed you're not, objected his mother. You're going to get out
the blacking bottle and start cleaning and polishing the shoes.
There'll be seven pairs to get ready and I want a fine shine on every
one of them.
But what's the use of doing it now? They'll get all dusty again
before the day after to-morrow, Carl grumbled.
Not if they're put away, came in even accents from his mother.
We'll just have to wear slippers, sneakers and things until Tuesday. I
guess we can get along. We can't go leaving everything until the last
minute or we shall be all up in a heap. We must begin directly to get
things done. I shall braid your hair, Mary, and Nell's right away, so
it will be well crimped. And Timmie, you and Carl and Martin have all
got to have baths. Yes, you have, whether you like it or not. If you
don't you can't go. That's all there is about that, so stop fussing.
Carl, you put some kettles of water on the stove to heat. You boys must
be scrubbed whether the rest of us are or not. You need it most. And
Mary, run like a good girl and see if you can hunt up a clean pair of
stockings for everybodystockings without too many holes. Mercy on us!
I wish Mr. Coulter had given us a little more noticeindeed I do!
I don't see who's going to know, in that push, whether I've had a
bath or not, persisted the argumentative Tim.
You don't? Have you happened to get a glimpse of that ebony ring
round your neck? interrogated his mother significantly. Anybody who
saw that would have some notion.
I hate a bath!
You look it.
Oh, shut up, Timmie, cautioned Carl in an undertone. Don't go
rowing at Ma now. If you do she may get her back up and not take you to
the party at all. I hate to be scrubbed within an inch of my life as
much as you do, but I'm not saying so to-day. I'd be boiled in oil
sooner than not go to this party. Besides, your neck is black. I'll bet
it will take sapolio to get it clean. But don't go yammering about it.
Just hop and do as Ma tells you. It's the only way.
Heeding the wisdom of his elder brother Tim ceased further protests
Indeed the hopping became very spirited and general during the short
interval that preceded the wedding day. And when at last that glorious
morning dawned cloudless and fair, what a scarlet, shining, spotless
cavalcade of McGregors its radiant light shone upon!
First there was Mrs. McGregor, hot but triumphant in a petticoat
that crackled like brittle ice beneath her black alpaca skirt and a
pair of white cotton gloves at the fingers of which she was continually
tugging. Both her hat and Mary's gleamed ebon under a recent coat of
blackingso recent that they entertained some concern lest it trickle
down their heated faces in disfiguring rivulets. Mary's white dress
rustled as crisply as did her mother's petticoat and her hair, crimped
and ironed until it was fuzzy as a bushman's, drifted out behind her, a
hempen whirlwind. New flowers on her hat and accompanying pink
streamers afforded her tranquil satisfaction as did also the string of
coral beads Uncle Frederick had once sent from Naples, a gift worn only
on very special occasions.
As for the boys, every hair of their heads had been plastered
securely into place, and blistered with scrubbing, they stood wretched
but hopeful in a row waiting with patience the moment when clean
shirts, creased trousers, and sparkling boots might be forgotten in the
delights the Coulter party promised.
Even Nell and the baby looked unnatural and reflected the general
discomfort and self-consciousness.
The getting-ready had been a fatiguing ordeal and everybody's nerves
were at the breaking point. Systematically Mrs. McGregor had proceeded
with the process, beginning with the eldest of the family, and as each
work of art was completed it was set aside much as a frosted cake is
set away to cool, and the next victim was summoned.
In the meantime those who had been finished, motionless in
chairs, were allowed the entertainment of watching each succeeding
martyr put through his round of torture. Yet diverting as this had
been, the waiting had been tedious, particularly for those who stood at
the head of the line.
Now, the rite over, everybody drew a long breath and struggled to
forget past miseries. Therefore when Hal and Louise Harling, who were
to augment the procession, arrived, every cloud was put to flight and
the delegation set forth in the highest of spirits.
What a pity it is Uncle Frederick Dillingham isn't here! commented
Mrs. McGregor, as they went along. And what a shame, too, that
Grandfather Harling and your mother, Louise, cannot see this day! It
would furnish them with something to talk of for weeks.
Hal and I will tell them all about it, returned the girl brightly.
Isn't it splendid you all could go? Poor Carl was so disappointed when
he thought he was to be out of it.
I know he was, nodded the lad's mother. In fact, it worried me
not a little lest it was because he made his disappointment so evident
that we got invited. I was afraid some well-meaning person might have
taken pity on him and begged him a card. Had not you and Hal declared
you had nothing to do with our being asked, I should not have stirred a
peg to the party, let Carl plead as he might. But now I feel more
comfortable about our going, although I must confess it puzzles me why
the invitation was sent to him instead of to me. It certainly seems a
little funny. However, it may have been an accident. Of course Mr.
Coulter has had a lot to think of and might well be forgiven one
mistake. It isn't likely he could remember my husband's name. He was
pretty good to think of us at all.
They say at the mills that Mr. John is very friendly and has ever
so many plans afoot for the workers. There is even talk of a recreation
building being put up on the factory grounds.
Not much like his father, who wouldn't spend a cent he didn't have
to, mused Mrs. McGregor.
No. Mr. John is different; everybody says so. Besides, he is
younger and belongs to a generation with other ideas.
Better ideas, I hope. If children didn't improve on their fathers
where would the world be? Then suddenly cutting short her
philosophical meditations Mrs. McGregor called imperatively:
Timmie, stop chasing those butterflies this minute. Do you want to
spoil the shine on your shoes before you even get to the party? You'll
have your collar ruined if you gallop round and get so hot. Come back
here and walk beside me. I'm resolved to land you all at Mr. Coulter's
looking like human beings, whatever happens afterward. Then if you
prefer to smooch your face with dirt and rumple up your hair, I can't
help it. But you shall stay clean until you're inside the gate.
Glaring for a moment on her subjects with subduing ferocity Mrs.
McGregor drew herself up and moved majestically in at the entrance of
the Coulter mansion.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SOLUTION OF MANY
Once inside the magic portal of the great estate, however, Mrs.
McGregor's task became increasingly difficult. What a bewildering scene
it was! The green lawns, terraced down to the lake, were dotted with
tents and from each one floated out tantalizing hints of the delights
within. The strains of a band and the laughter of dancers drifted forth
from one; waiters with heavily laden trays passed in and out of
another; around still a third swarmed children and one glimpsed through
the open doorway a marionette show. Under a gay red umbrella at the
edge of the garden women, fluttering like multi-hued butterflies,
ladled lemonade from giant punch-bowls.
Oh, a wonderland of myriad delights beckoned in every direction and
it was only by dint of extreme severity that Mrs. McGregor succeeded in
keeping her little army in formation and preventing its neatly ranged
ranks from becoming lost in the surrounding hubbub.
You're not to stir a step from this spot until I tell you you may,
commanded she. The very notion of your all racing off to enjoy
yourselves before you have so much as said a word of thanks to Mr.
Coulter who asked you here! Where are your manners? Are you forgetting
so quick that it is his wedding day? Aren't you going to wish him joy
as is proper to do when he has taken all this trouble to give you a
Her tone was withering in its rebuke and as if hypnotized by its
cadence the wriggling children thronging in her wake stood motionless.
In my day folks were grateful for what was done for them and
expected to say thank you to their elders. Now there seems to be
no such thing as politeness among youngsters. But to-day, whether you
will or no, before you do anything else we are going to hunt up Mr.
John and his bride and every one of you is to thank him for asking you
to his party. And Tim, you and Mary and Carl are to repeat the speech I
taught you. I pray you've not forgotten it already. You hope he and his
wife will have many days as happy as this one. Remember and don't get
mixed up and say the wrong thing.
With this final caution Mrs. McGregor wheeled about and marshalled
the miniature procession following her into a vast, rose-garlanded tent
at the right of the entrance. Two aisles roped off with laurel divided
it, and throngs of people were moving down one of these and returning
by the other. In the far distance one could see a canopy of green, a
figure misty in white tulle, and a bevy of bridesmaids in pink, blue,
yellow, and lavender.
This seems to be the right place, whispered Mrs. McGregor. We'll
fall right in behind this man and woman. Now mind your manners, all of
you. Poor though we are, we can be polite without it costing us a cent.
Timmie, you keep close at my heels with Mary. I've got all I can do to
handle the baby and Nell. Carl, see that you don't squeeze Martin's
hand too tight and get him peevish. Take hold of him gently. And don't
one of you dare to push. We must expect to move along slowly and wait
our turn. Yes, I know it's hot. But there'll be lemonade and ice cream
by and by. I guess you can stand the heat for a little while. What is
it, Tim? Your boots hurt? Nonsense! They're the same boots you always
wear, aren't they? Were you racing round playing ball in them it's
little notice you'd be taking of them, I reckon. Don't be silly and get
sulky now or next time I shall leave you at home.
To an accompaniment of these and similar admonitions the McGregor
host proceeded on its way along with the other guests.
Then at last when the receiving party was well in sight and Mrs.
McGregor and her family were making a decorous approach the anxious
mother was horrified to see Carl, forgetful of all else, rush from the
line and racing up to Mr. John Coulter, seize both his hands.
Oh! cried the boy, in a voice so shrill with ecstasy that its
accents penetrated to every corner of the great tent, Oh, Mr. Coulter,
I never dreamed it was you! Why didn't you tell me who you were? I'm so
glad to see you again! I thought I never would. I've hunted and hunted
for you and your red car ever since.
[Illustration: I've hunted for you and your red car ever since.
Plainly Mr. John Coulter, instead of being offended by this
unexpected onslaught, was delighted for he beamed down on the excited
lad, shook both his hands heartily, and laughed so the ring of it
echoed all about.
So you didn't guess the riddle, little chap, Mrs. McGregor heard
him say. Well, I didn't mean you should.
And to think it was you! Carl was still murmuring, as if in a
trance. Just to think it was you! Of course you were the one who got
Louise her new place.
Gee, but it was white of you! She's right here behind my mother.
Then inspired by sudden understanding he added, And the Christmas
dinners came from you, too.
Come, come, youngster, this is no moment to be confronting me with
all my crimes, the blushing bridegroom protested. Here's Mrs. Coulter
just married to mewhat is she going to think if you tell her how many
conspiracies I have been mixed up in? This, Marion, is one of my very
good friends, Carl McGregor. His father was for many years in our mills
and if I mistake not here is his whole family coming up to speak to
Indeed we are, sir, declared Mrs. McGregor, making a quaint
English curtsy, and it's scandalized enough I am to see my boy here
racing at you as if he was a wild beast and forgetting all the
etiquette I've taught him. He had a nice speech ready to say but where
it is now heaven only knows!
I'd far rather he said to me what he did, asserted Mr. Coulter.
You see, Carl and I are old friends.
I don't see, replied the mystified mother, but no doubt you are,
since you tell me so. I myself had no idea the lad know you from Adam.
And I hadn't either, Mother. Gee, but it is rich! To think I went
riding with you that day, Mr. Coulter, and speeled off all that guff,
and you never so much as raised an eyelash!
Carl! ejaculated his despairing parent.
Well, I hope this is not to be the end of our acquaintance,
youngster, Mr. Coulter returned, passing over Mrs. McGregor's rebuke.
Come and see Mrs. Coulter and me some day. And remember that if you
ever wish to enter the mills I will make a place for you.
That's bully of you, sir!
Carl! Mrs. McGregor was dumb with consternation. The very idea of
your speaking to Mr. Coulter like that! declared she, when at last she
could catch her breath. Come away before you say anything more to
disgrace the family. There's others waiting to give him their good
wishes and you seem to have forgotten all about yours, although
goodness knows you were drilled and drilled on the speech you were to
make. Yes, Mrs. Coulter, these are my childrenall six of them. The
baby's name? James Frederick, after his uncle. And this is Mary, and
Timmie, and Martin, and Nell. The oldest ones had nice things ready to
say to you but Carl has knocked 'em clean out of their heads. I hope
you'll not lay it up against us. No, marm, this tall boy and girl don't
belong to me, but I'm that fond of 'em I wish they did. They are our
neighbors, Hal and Louise Harling.
Instantly Mr. Coulter reached forward and greeted the young people.
The new job is going well? he asked, addressing Louise.
Oh, I'm so happy in it, Mr. Coulter.
That's good! And you, Harling?
I'm getting on splendidly, sir.
Excellent! There'll be a raise coming to you next monthquite a
substantial one. We've been looking you up.
Oh, sir, how can I
There, there! We mustn't stop to talk about it now. If you must
thank somebody for it thank this young scoundrel here. It was he put me
up to it.
There was time for nothing further. Swept onward by crowds that
surged behind, the McGregors, like chips on the crest of a mammoth
wave, were borne forward and out of the tent.
In the open air Mrs. McGregor wiped her perspiring brow.
Now, began she, turning accusingly on her son, perhaps you will
be so good as to tell us what all this is about. How came you to know
Mr. John Coulter well enough to be treating him like a long-lost
brother? And what had you to do with Hal and Louise and the Coulter
mills? I feel as if I were going crazy! One minute you don't even know
Mr. Coulter by sight and the next he is sending us a Christmas dinner
and you are fairly falling on his neck.
Carl shook with laughter.
Oh, Mother, it's all so richso perfectly corking! he cried. You
couldn't half appreciate it if I told you.
I could try, came curtly from Mrs. McGregor.
But her son did not heed her.
To think of that being Mr. John Coulter, chuckled he. And, oh,
the things I said to him! I tremble to recall them. I told him Corcoran
was a low-down skunk, I know that. And I gushed on a lot about Hal and
Louise. I only wish I could remember what I did say. Jove! He must have
split his sides laughing.
When? When did you do all this? interrogated the lad's mother
Oh, when was it? ruminated Carl, struggling to collect his
scattered wits. It seems ages and ages ago that all that happened. It
was before Christmas, I'm certain of that.
And you went riding with Mr. Coulter? I heard you saying something
You actually went to ride with him?
I sure did!
Well, all I can say is I should like to know when all these
miracles took place, repeated Carl's mother. Where was I, and why
wasn't I told? You might at least have mentioned it at home.
I know it, Ma, apologized Carl with disarming frankness. I did
try twice to tell you but the chance never seemed to come right; and by
and by it got to be so long ago that I forgot all about it.
Forgot you went motoring with Mr. John Coulter? Mrs. McGregor
spoke with incredulity.
You see I didn't know at the time that it was Mr. John Coulter,
I don't see! I don't understand anything about it, repeated the
Well, you will by and by. It is a long storytoo long to tell now.
When we get home you shall hear it from beginning to end. But now
Gee whizz! There goes Martin making for the pond! I'll head him off.
Away went Carl across the velvet lawn and with an unsatisfied air
Mrs. McGregor wheeled about to collect Nell and Tim, who were already
tugging at her skirts. She felt as if the events of the past half-hour
were a dream. Carl, her harum-scarum son, the catastrophe worker of the
family, was the acknowledged friend of Mr. John Coulter, one of the
richest and most revered citizens of Baileyville. And more than that he
appeared to possess the influence to have men removed from their jobs
and discharged employees reinstated in lost positions. He even had
power to have people's salaries raised. Would wonders never cease?
CHAPTER XIX. UNRAVELING THE SNARLS
How late the McGregors sat up talking that night it would have been
alarming to confess. It was so late that the streets became silent and
deserted and conversation had to be conducted in whispers lest it
arouse the O'Dowds, Sullivans, and Murphys.
And what tense, eager whispers they were!
Mrs. McGregor, her bonnet still in her lap, sat on the edge of a
chair too engrossed to so much as think of the shrimp pink tulle dress
she had planned to finish before she went to bed that night; nor did
she, in her usual methodical manner, take time to slip out of her best
skirt or put away her company shoes and gloves. She was far too excited
Happy, tumbled, and nodding the babies had been put to sleep and
afterward their elders, joined by Hal and Louise Harling, huddled in
the kitchen, closed the doors, and talked and talked. Every detail of
Carl's amazing story had to be told over and over again that his
listeners might enjoy to the full the marvel and humor of each
successive event. Everything was clear as crystal nowCorcoran's
transfer, Louise's reinstatement, Hal's increasing salary, the
Christmas dinners. Even the conundrum of the watch remained an enigma
It was, of course, Mr. Coulter who told Corcoran about your
rescuing his baby, Carl explained to his chum. I remember that I
happened to mention the accident to him.
But the thing I don't understand, he said with a puzzled air, is
how you could go to that office looking for a job and never so much as
suspect who Mr. Coulter was. There must have been signs up with the
firm's name on them.
I suppose there were, Carl answered. I don't know about that. You
see, I was too rattled and wrought up to notice much of anything.
Besides, I was some scared. It was such a swell joint and that bell-boy
(or whatever you call him) was so lofty and elegant that it froze the
blood in my veins. More than that I was crazy to get a position and was
so darned afraid they wouldn't take me that I wasn't thinking of
You're a bully little pal, Carl, Hal remarked, placing an
affectionate hand on the younger boy's shoulder.
Pooh! I did no more than you'd have done for me if I'd been in a
hole, replied Carl modestly. You'd move heaven and earth to help us
if we needed you.
You've said it, youngster!
Then what is there so remarkable in my trying to do the same for
you and Louise?
It was splendid of you, Carlie, whispered Louise.
Oh, I didn't do much, was the gruff retort. As it happened, I
didn't really do anything. But I wanted toyou can bank on that.
Evidently you convinced Mr. Coulter of the sincerity of your good
intentions, grinned Hal.
Mr. Coulter! Gee! Every time I think of him I have to laugh.
Picture my having the nerve to go reforming his mill for him and
complaining of his employees! And fancy me parading into his private
office asking him for work! Had I known what I was doing I should have
been petrified with fear. Smothered laughter convulsed the boys frame.
Well, as Ma says, ignorance is bliss and fools rush in where angels
fear to tread.
I guess Mr. Coulter sized up the situation all right, mused Hal.
Oh, he knew; he understood the whole thing. He told me so to-day,
Carl responded quickly. He's live wire enough not to let a joke slip
past him. He had his fun out of the affair and don't you think he
didn't. What's more, he didn't mean ever to let me find out what a boob
I'd been. He was just going to keep the secret to himself. Then this
wedding party came along and he happened to think we might like to
come. So he took a chance and sent the bid.
And that explains why the invitation came to you, reflected Mrs.
That's it, Ma. You have your little son Carlie to thank for your
card to the spree, the lad responded impishly. I'll be getting you
into high society some day if you're good.
If you don't get us all into jail or some other place before then
we'll be lucky, came brusquely from his mother.
Now isn't that gratitude for you? growled Carl with mock
indignation. Here I take my mother and all her family to a perfectly
good party and this is all the thanks I get for it.
Yes, this happened to be a perfectly good party, agreed Mrs.
McGregor mischievously. But it might have ended in some scrape or
other and like as not it would another time. One never can be sure
where your adventures will bring up.
Well, Ma, Mr. Coulter appreciates me if you don't.
Apparently he doesup to date. Just you take care that you go on
deserving his good opinion.
I mean to, Carl flashed. Say, folks, sha'n't we have something to
write Uncle Frederick now? I'll bet it will take ten sheets of paper to
retail the whole thing; and then he won't really have any idea of what
happened. None of you ever can. You just ought to have been there and
seen the play.
It's as good as a playas good as any moving picture, in my
opinion, Louise ventured.
What wouldn't I have given to be under the seat of that car and
listened when you were laying out poor old Cork! Hal ejaculated.
I laid him fine and flat, acknowledged Carl with candor.
Events have proved you did. Poor Cork! Still, Corks float, you
know, and he has. He isn't dead yet by any means, jested Hal. In
fact, he told me only a day or two ago that he liked his new job much
better than he did the old one so I guess nobody need waste pity on
I'm afraid he wasn't punished much, after all, sniffed Mrs.
Oh, he's had it borne in upon him that he was a brute, Ma; don't
you fret, declared Carl. Mr. Coulter never does things by halves.
When he starts in he finishes up a job in bang-up style. Corcoran's
learned his lesson; and if he has that is all that is necessary.
A clock struck softly.
Hal Harling! Do you realize it is twelve o'clock? Louise exclaimed
in dismay. We must go home this minute. The very idea of our staying
here and keeping the McGregors up until this hour! I'd no idea it was
so late. Why, you may be robbed of your precious Corcoran watch if you
don't hurry home out of the lonely streets. Good-night, everybody! And
blessings on you, Carlie! You've been a trump. I'm going to begin
to-morrow and work harder than ever for Mr. John Coulter.
Here's to him! Carl began. But a restraining hand was clapped over
Carl! Carl! For mercy's sake, remember that it's twelve o'clock and
everybody's abed and asleep. Don't go cheering for Mr. Coulter now. You
can go out in the field and do it to-morrow.
I'm afraid I'll be too busy to-morrow.
And what'll you be doing to-morrow, pray, that's of so much
Why, I'll have to be deciding whether I want to go to college, or
go to sea with Uncle Frederick; or go into Mr. Coulter's mills, was
the teasing answer. I seem to have three careers open to me. Maybe
I'll have to toss up a penny to find out which I'd better take. Will
you lend me the penny, Ma?
Indeed I won't, snapped his mother wrathfully. Three careers!
Humph! Still I'm not saying that if you could go into the mills with
Mr. Coulter to stand behind you you might not make your fortune. But
there's time enough to decide that later. We needn't argue it at twelve
o'clock at night.