Cy Whittaker's Place Part 12

"Well, auntie told me--"

"Auntie! Auntie who?"

"Auntie Oliver. She isn't really my auntie, but mamma and me lived in her house for ever so long and so--"

"Wait! wait! wait! I'm hull down in the fog. This is gettin' too thick for ME. Your auntie's name's Oliver and you lived in Concord, New Hamps.h.i.+re. For--for thunder sakes, what's YOUR name?"

"Emily Richards Thomas."

"Em--Emily--Richards--Thomas"

"Yes, sir."

"Emily Richards Thomas! What was your ma's name?"

"Mamma was Mrs. Thomas. Her front name was Mary. She's dead. Don't you want to see your letter? I've got it now."

She lifted one of the flapping coat sleeves and extended a crumpled, damp envelope. Captain Cy took it in a dazed fas.h.i.+on and drew a long breath. Then he tore open the envelope and read the following:

DEAR CAPTAIN WHITTAKER:

The bearer of this is Emily Richards Thomas. She is seven, going on eight, but old for her years. Her mother was Mary Thomas that used to be Mary Thayer. It was her you wrote to about keeping house for you, but she had been dead a fortnight before your letter come. She had bronchial pneumonia and it carried her off, having always been delicate and with more troubles to bear than she could stand, poor thing. Since her husband, who I say was a scamp even if he is dead, left her and the baby, she has took rooms with me and done sewing and such. When she pa.s.sed away I wrote to Seth Howes, a relation of hers out West, and, so far as I know, the only one she had. I told the Howes man that Mary had gone and Emmie was left. Would they take her? I wrote. And Seth's wife wrote they couldn't, being poorer than poverty themselves. I was afraid she would have to go to a Home, but when your letter came I wrote the Howeses again. And Mrs. Howes wrote back that you was rich, and a sort of far-off relation of Mary's, and probably you would be glad to take the child to bring up. Said that she had some correspondence with you about Mary before. So I send Emmie to you. Somebody's got to take care of her and I can't afford it, though I would if I could, for she's a real nice child and some like her mother. I do hope she can stay with you. It seems a shame to send her to the orphan asylum. I send along what clothes she's got, which ain't many.

Respectfully yours,

SARAH OLIVER.

Captain Cy read the letter through. Then he wiped his forehead.

"Well!" he muttered. "WELL! I never in my life! I--I never did! Of all--"

Emily Richards Thomas looked up from the depths of the coat collar.

"Don't you think," she said, "that you had better send to the depot for my box? I can get dry SOME this way, but mamma always made me change my clothes as soon as I could. She used to be afraid I'd get cold."

CHAPTER VI

ICICLES AND DUST

Captain Cy did not reply to the request for the box. It is doubtful if he even heard it. Mrs. Oliver's astonis.h.i.+ng letter had, as he afterwards said, left him "high and dry with no tug in sight." Mary Thomas was dead, and her daughter, her DAUGHTER! of whose very existence he had been ignorant, had suddenly appeared from nowhere and been dropped at his door, like an out-of-season May basket, accompanied by the modest suggestion that he a.s.sume responsibility for her thereafter. No wonder the captain wiped his forehead in utter bewilderment.

"Don't you think you'd better send for the box?" repeated the child, s.h.i.+vering a little under the big coat.

"Hey? What say? Never mind, though. Just keep quiet for a spell, won't you. I want to let this soak in. By the big dipper! Of all the solid bra.s.s cheek that ever I run across, this beats the whole cargo! And Betsy Howes never hinted! 'Probably you would be glad to take--' Be GLAD! Why, blast their miserable, stingy--What do they take me for? I'LL show 'em! Indiana ain't so fur that I can't--Hey? Did you say anything, sis?"

The girl had s.h.i.+vered again. "No, sir," she replied. "It was my teeth, I guess. They kind of rattled."

"What? You ain't cold, are you? With all that round you and in front of that fire?"

"No, sir, I guess not. Only my back feels sort of funny, as if somebody kept dropping icicles down it. Those bushes and vines were so wet that when I tumbled down 'twas most like being in a pond."

"Sho! sho! That won't do. Can't have you laid up on my hands. That would be worse than--Humph! Tut, tut! Somethin' ought to be done, and I'm blessed if I know what. And not a woman round the place--not even that Debby. Say, look here, what's your name--er--Emmie, hadn't I better get the doctor?"

The child looked frightened.

"Why?" she cried, her big eyes opening. "I'm not sick, am I?"

"Sick? No, no! Course not, course not. What would you want to be sick for? But you ought to get warm and dry right off, I s'pose, and your duds are all up to the depot. Say, what does--what did your ma used to do when you felt--er--them icicles and things?"

"She changed my clothes and rubbed me. And, if I was VERY wet she put me to bed sometimes."

"Bed? Sure! why, yes, indeed. Bed's a good place to keep off icicles.

There's my bedroom right in there. You could turn in just as well as not. Bunk ain't made yet, but I can shake it up in no time.

Say--er--er--you can undress yourself, can't you?"

"Oh, yes, sir! Course I can! I'm most eight."

"Sure you are! Don't act a mite babyish. All right, you set still till I shake up that bunk."

He entered the chamber, his own, opening from the sitting room, and proceeded, literally, to "shake up" the bed. It was not a lengthy process and, when it was completed, he returned to find his visitor already divested of the coat and standing before the stove.

"I guess perhaps you'll have to help undo me behind," observed the young lady. "This is my best dress and I can't reach the b.u.t.tons in the middle of the back."

Captain Cy scratched his head. Then he clumsily unb.u.t.toned the wet waist, glancing rather sheepishly at the window to see if anyone was coming.

"So this is your best dress, hey?" he asked, to cover his confusion.

It was obviously not very new, for it was neatly mended in one or two places.

"Yes, sir."

"So. Where'd you buy it--up to Concord?"

"No, sir. Mamma made it, a year ago."

There was a little choke in the child's voice. The captain was mightily taken back.

"Hum! Yes, yes," he muttered hurriedly. "Well, there you are. Now you can get along, can't you?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I go in that room?"

"Trot right in. You might--er--maybe you might sing out when you're tucked up. I--I'll want to know if you're got bedclothes enough."

Emily disappeared in the bedroom. The door closed. Captain Cy, his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the length of the sitting room. The expression on his face was a queer one.