The Rosie World Part 18

She took a peep at him from the corner of her eye. Heaven knows he did not look fierce. He was a plain, lean, little man, of indeterminate colouring, with spa.r.s.e hair, spa.r.s.er mustache, and faded blue eyes, that had a patient, far-away look in them. His face was thin and worn, with lines that betokened years of labour borne steadily and without complaint. He was a silent man and pa.s.sed for thoughtful, though contemplative would better express his cast of mind. He looked at things and people slowly and quietly, as if considering them carefully before committing himself. Then, when he spoke, it would be some slight remark, brief and commonplace.

When Rosie began: "Say Dad," he waited patiently. After several seconds had elapsed, he turned his head slightly and said: "Well, Rosie?"

He gave her a faint smile, and patted her hand affectionately.

Ordinarily, at this place, Rosie would have slipped an arm about his neck, but tonight she held back.

"Say, Dad," she opened again, in a coaxing, confidential tone, "did you have a good run today?"

The world in general supposes, no doubt, that, to a motorman, one day's run must be much like any other. Rosie knew better.

Jamie very deliberately relit his pipe before answering. Then he said: "Yes, it was all right, Rosie."

Rosie waited, as she knew from his manner that something more would finally come. Jamie gazed about thoughtfully, then concluded: "They was a flat wheel on the rear truck."

Rosie was all sympathy. "Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry! It must ha' been horrid riding all day on a flat wheel."

Jamie took a puff or two, then announced: "I didn't mind it."

"Well, Dad, did you report it?"

Jamie scratched his head, as if in an effort to remember, and at last said: "Sure."

After a decent interval, Rosie began again: "Say, Dad, what'd you think of a man who chased his wife with a hatchet?"

Rosie thought it would be a little indelicate to come right out with butcher-knife. Hatchet was near enough, anyway. Rosie's idea was that her father would betray himself by defending the husband. When he did, she expected to tell him that she knew all. Her imagination did not carry her beyond this. She was prepared, however, for something horrible.

Jamie O'Brien turned his head almost quickly. "With a hatchet, did you say, Rosie?"

"Yes, Dad, with a hatchet."

"That's bad. And is it some one around here that we know?"

"No, it ain't anybody. I was just saying, what would you think of a man who did that?"

"And it ain't some one we know?"

With a wave of his pipe, Jamie dismissed all hypothetical hatchets, and returned to the more sensible contemplation of the sky line.

Rosie felt that she was being trifled with. She gazed at her father meaningly.

"Well, what would you say to a man who chased his wife with a butcher-knife?"

Again Jamie took an exasperating time to answer, and again his answer took the form of the question: "Is it some one we know, Rosie?"

Rosie threw discretion to the winds. "I'm sure you ought to know whether it's some one we know!"

Jamie blinked his eyes slowly and thoughtfully. "I don't seem to place him, Rosie."

Rosie left him in disgust. Brutality is bad enough, but hypocrisy is worse. She went as far as the kitchen door, then turned back. She would give him one more chance.

Again smiling, she put her arms about his neck. "Say, Dad, if you was to get awful mad at me, what would you do?"

"At you, do you say, Rosie? Well, now, I don't see how any one could get awful mad at you."

Rosie's patience was about exhausted, but she restrained herself. "But, Dad, if I was to do something awful bad--steal ten dollars, or run away from home!"

Jamie looked at Rosie, then at the sky line, then at the soap-box, then back at Rosie. Surely now a brutal threat was coming.

"Why, Rosie dear, I don't think you'd ever do anything like that!"

Huh! What kind of an answer was that for a father to give his child?

Rosie straightened her back, and without another word departed. She felt that her worst fears were justified. Any man as difficult to trap as Jamie O'Brien was a dangerous character.

She nursed her resentment the rest of the evening. Just before she went to sleep, however, she decided, as a matter of scrupulous justice, to suspend final judgment until she should have seen for herself that d.a.m.ning evidence of his brutality, namely, the scar on her poor mother's right shoulder. Yes, she would find some excuse for seeing it at once.

The next morning, while her mother was preparing to go to market, of itself the opportunity came.

"Rosie dear," Mrs. O'Brien called down from upstairs, "I need your help.

One of me corset strings is busted."

Rosie found her mother seated at the bureau, half dressed, fanning herself with a towel. A full expanse of neck and shoulders was exposed, so that Rosie, busied at her mother's back, was able to scan minutely all that there was to scan. She looked and looked again, and by patting her mother affectionately, was able to add the testimony of touch to that of sight.

In due time her mother departed, and Rosie, left alone, turned to the mirror and gazed into it several moments without speaking.

"Well!" she said at last. "What do you know about that!"

She shook her head at the round-eyed person in the mirror, and the round-eyed person nodded back, as deeply impressed with the inexplicability of things as Rosie herself.

CHAPTER XVI

WHAT EVERY LADY WANTS

All morning Rosie moved about the house preoccupied and silent, heaving an occasional sigh, murmuring an occasional "Huh!"

At dinner she paid scant attention to her mother's market adventures, and with difficulty heard Terry's orders concerning a new paper customer. Her mind was too fully occupied with a problem of its own to be interested in anything else.

On the whole it was a strange problem, and one that, after hours of thought, remained unsolved. By mid-afternoon Rosie was ready to cast it from her in disgust but she found that she could not. Like a bad conscience, it stayed with her, d.o.g.g.i.ng her steps even on her paper route.

It had the effect of colouring everything that she saw or heard. When she handed a paper to Mrs. Donovan, the policeman's wife, who exclaimed: "What do you think of the beautiful new hammock that Mr. Donovan has just gave me?" Rosie remarked in a tone that was almost sarcastic: "Oh, ain't you lucky!" and to herself she added cynically: "And I'd like to know who gave you that black-and-blue spot on your arm!"

She found one of the Misses Grey pale and haggard under the strain of a hot-weather headache. Rosie forced her unwilling tongue to some expression of sympathy; but, once on her way, she told her disgruntled self that what she had wanted to say was: "Well, Miss Grey, I must say, if I didn't know you was an old maid, I'd ha' taken you for a happy married woman!"

Near the end of the route, she found old Danny Agin waiting, as usual, for his paper. His little blue eyes twinkled Rosie a welcome, and his jolly cracked voice called out: "How are you today, Rosie?"

For a moment Rosie gazed at him without speaking. Then she shook her head, and sighed.