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"If all the socks I've sent to thee Should be delivered home to me, Ah, well! the bureau would not hold So many socks as there would be, If all my socks came home to me"?And before they were aware, they were going off into gales of laughter. It came time for the concert, but no one suggested starting. Each succeeding anecdote heightened the merriment so that the undergrads streaming by said patronizingly, "Pipe the old duffers!" "Remember, boys, the Hallowe'en we girls hid from you, and you had to furnish the supper because you didn't find us by nine o'clock?" They all began talking at once about it, the men protesting that the girls had come out from the hiding place before nine. "If you girls hadn't nigged on the time, we'd have found you," the men were arguing. There was a perfect bedlam of voices. Youth, which up to this time had eluded them, had slipped, slyly, unbidden, into their midst. Mother was thrilling to her finger tips. "It was a night almost as warm as this," the judge said, "and the moon was as gorgeous as it is to-night." Mother, in the stunning black and white silk, jumped to her feet. "Let's do it again!" she cried with an impulsive sweep of her hands. "To-night! It's the nearest to Youth we'll ever come in our whole lives." She turned to the men on the steps. "The rules are the same, boys. Give us fifteen minutes' start, and if you can't find us by nine, we'll come back here and you'll buy the supper. If you find us, we'll buy it. Come on, girls." As Joan of Arc may have led her armies, so Mother's power over the others seemed to hold. In a wave of excitement, they rose to her bidding. Light of foot, laughing, the five women hurried across one corner of the campus. In the shadow of the oaks Mother stopped them. "Is the same house still standing?" she asked breathlessly of Em. "Yes, but others are built up around it now." "Come on, then!" With unerring feet, down to the same house where they had hidden twenty-nine years before, Mother led them. "What if someone sees us?" giggled Nettie. "We should worry!" said the head of the English Department, which was really the most remarkable thing that happened that night. There it was—a house no longer new—but still standing, and as dark as the others near it. Evidently the occupants had gone to the concert. By the light of the moon they could see its high cellar window, still yawning foolishly open, waiting for them, just as it had waited before. Against the window they placed a sloping board and climbed slowly up, one by one. Em went first, then Myra, and Nettie, and Julie, and, last, Mother. At least, Mother's intentions were good. The window was about eighteen by twenty; and Mother, quite eighteen by twenty herself, stuck half way in and half way out. Up the street they could hear the old whistle—the boys calling to each other. Laughing hysterically, tugging desperately at her, the other four, after strenuous labor, pulled Mother down into the cellar, where, groping around in the dark, she found the cellar stairs and sat down. They were all shaking with laughter-spasms, that kind of digestion-aiding laughter which comes less often according to the ratio of the number of years you are away from Youth. For some time, whispering and giggling nervously and saying "Sh!" constantly to each other, they sat in the black cellar. SUDDENLY, an electric light snapped on over Mother's head and the door above her opened. "What are you doing in my cellar?" snarled a voice as gruff as the biggest bear's in "Goldlilocks." The giggling died as suddenly as though it had been chloroformed. Cold as ice, Mother rose and faced the darkness above her. Then she said with all her Woman's Club dignity—which is a special de luxe brand of dignity—"If you will allow us to come up there I think we can make a very satisfactory explanation." "You can explain to the town marshal," answered the sour voice, and the owner of it slammed the door. They sat down dismally and waited. They heard the telephone ring and then the wooden shutter of the cellar window was banged down and fastened. "He needn't have done that," Mother said stiffly. It is claimed that house-breakers are often sensitive about their honor. During the long wait every fiber of Mother's brain concentrated on one word—disgrace. If the papers got hold of it! Even if they wrote it up as a joke! Imagine—to be written up as a joke at fifty-two! There were footsteps overhead, and then the gruff voice, "Come up out of there now!" Slowly they filed up the narrow dark stairs. Mother went first. As she had led them into this sickening dilemma, so would she be the first to face the music. "May we have some lights?" she asked frigidly. "Certainly." LIGHTS were turned on. Three men stood there: A fat one with tortoise-shell glasses; a little, wrinkled, dapper one, and a tall one with a Van Dyke beard—all fiery red from silent convulsions brought on by ingrowing laughter. As the women filed in, the pent-up laughter rolled forth from the men in shrieks and howls. Then the shouting and the tumult died, for Nettie and Julie were smothering the fat one with someone's sofa pillows, Myra and Em were taking care of the bearded one, and Mother was shaking the little one, while he motioned feebly with his hands that he was ready for peace. "Kamarad!" gasped the fat judge when he could get his breath. "Anyway, you'll admit we were speaking the truth when we said we could have found you." "Now, let's dig out," said the doctor, whose respiratory organs were again working, "before the folks that own this house come home from the concert and send us all up." Breaking out into hilarious laughter at intervals, they walked down to the store at the foot of the hill, and there the girls bought a lunch to make angels weep. It consisted of buns, bananas, wienies, chocolate candy, and dill pickles. Across pastures, crawling under barb-wire fences, went the cavalcade, to build a bonfire down by old Salt Creek. Gone were the years and the family ties. Forgotten were the hours of failure and the hours of triumph. They were the old crowd, singing "Solomon Levi." Youth was in their midst. And the moon, bored to the point of ennui, at the countless hordes of students it had seen roasting wienies in that identical spot, brightened at the novel sight of the old duffers taking hold of hands to dance around the huge fire. As chimes from the campanile striking twelve came faintly through the night, Youth suddenly dropped her festive garments and fled, a Cinderella that could not stay. The little straggling procession started soberly back across the meadow. Julie's rheumatism was beginning to manifest itself. The head of the English Department was painfully aware that in the place where she had stowed that awful collection of indigestibles there was chaos where there should have been cosmos. Far, far behind the others came the judge and Mother; not from any sentimental memory of their past friendship, but because, being the possessors of too, too solid flesh, they were frankly puffed-out. FATHER swung off the steps of the train at Oxford and took Mother's grips. "Well, did you get your thrill, Mother?" "I most certainly did." Mother was smiling to herself. They walked down the Pullman to Father's section, which he had chosen with careful regard to Mother's comfort. "And you—did you have a good time?" Mother questioned when they were seating themselves. "Fine—just fine!" Father was enthusiasm personified. A quick little tug at Mother's heart reminded her that The Thing was still alive. "Were there many of your old class-mates back?" she parried, giving herself time to bring out the real question. "Two, just two." Father was glowing at the happy memory of some unuttered thing. "Just old Jim Baker and I. Jim's kind of down and out—works around the University Cafeteria." "Was—?" It was coming. Mother braced herself. "Was Laura Drew there?" "Yes." Father's face shone with the light of unspoken pleasure. "Yes, she was there." The Thing seemed to bite at Mother's throat and wrap a strangling tail around her heart. With the pleasure with which we turn the knife in our wounds, she asked in a tense little voice: "Is she—does she seem the same?" Father drew his rapt gaze from some far-away vision to look at Mother. "The same?" he repeated, a trifle dazed. Then he said cheerfully, "Why—maybe—I don't know. I didn't see her." "Didn't see her?" "No. I didn't see much of anybody." Father grew confidential. "The fact is, old Jim Baker and I played checkers 'most all the time for the three days. He got off every morning at eleven and we'd go around to his room. By George! It was nip and tuck for two days. But the last day—I beat him." "Checkers!" Mother breathed but the one word, but the ingredients of which it was composed were incredulity, disgust, merriment, and several dozen others. Then she laughed, a bubbling, deliciously girlish laugh, and The Thing relaxed its hold on her heart, turned up its toes, and died. Surreptitiously, Mother reached down and pulled off the expensive suede shoes. "Now," she announced, "there's one grateful bunion in the world." Then she fixed herself for the long ride to the west. "Henry," she laid a plump hand on Father's arm, "you are such a comfort to me. Won't it be nice to get home and settle down to being a grandfather and a grandmother?"