CHAPTER IX.
CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.
Christmas time was approaching, and the Wards’ house was to be full to overflowing of young people for a week or two. Donald was to have a college friend of his with him for several days. Eunice and Cricket were to have their little Kayuna friends, Edith Craig and Hilda Mason, to visit them; and, at the last moment, Mrs. Somers had written, begging that Will and Archie might be taken in, if possible, as Edna had just come down with scarlet fever, and they had to go away. Five extra people in an already rather full house made a great deal of planning and arranging necessary, but I almost think that the children enjoyed the bustle it all made as much as the expected visit.
Donald had an extra bed put up in his room for his friend. Eunice was to share the spare room with Edith Craig, and Hilda was to have Eunice’s cot, according to the first plan; but when Will and Archie had to be arranged for, mamma could think of nothing else to do but to give them the girls’ room, and put up two more cots in the spare room—fortunately a large one—so that all four girls could sleep there. The children were ready to stand on their heads with delight at this arrangement.
“So boarding-school-y!” beamed Cricket, surveying the room, when the beds were all ready. It looked, for all the world, like a hospital ward. “Oh, what fun we’ll have! You were such an angel, mamma, to arrange for us all to be together.”
“I hope I won’t regret it,” said mamma, laughing, but looking a little dubious.
“Indeed, you won’t,” promised Eunice. “We’ll be good, truly. Only it will be such fun to plan jokes on the boys; and they can’t do much to us when we are all together, you see.”
“Remember, I don’t like practical jokes, dear,” said mamma. “They are dangerous things.”
“Oh, we’ll tell you all the things we do,” promised Cricket, “and we truly won’t do anything you think we’d better not. Please don’t say we can’t play any jokes.”
Christmas fell on Thursday, and the guests were to arrive the next day. Christmas itself was the gala day it always is in a house full of happy young people. It began, of course, with the usual excitement over the stockings, big and little, that hung on the back-parlour mantel. Then there were the presents that were too big to go into stockings to be oh-ed and ah-ed over. Then came the church service and the Christmas dinner, and in the evening, a little party at a neighbouring house.
The girls from Kayuna arrived Friday afternoon. Doctor Ward took Eunice and Cricket to the station to meet them, and in due time four broadly smiling girls walked into the house, where the little guests were warmly welcomed by mamma and Marjorie.
Edith Craig was a tall, fine-looking girl, a year older than Eunice, and, being the eldest of five children, she was very mature for her years. She was really very companionable for Marjorie as well as for Eunice. Cricket she regarded as a mere infant, and her motherly ways towards that young lady were very amusing. All the family were very fond of Edith, however; she was a bright, jolly, sensible girl, who seemed equally happy whether she was exchanging confidences with Eunice, or sitting with Mrs. Ward and chatting over her embroidery, or romping with Cricket, or giving Doctor Ward intelligent attention when he was talking of some late medical discovery, or playing duets with Marjorie, or frolicking with the children in the nursery. A well-bred, adaptable girl is always charming.
Cricket thought that Hilda had grown very much in the four months since she had seen her, but her bronze curls were as smooth, and her clothes as trim, and she was as plump and pretty as ever.
The little hostesses had planned enough for the ten days’ visit to fill a month, as children generally do; but that was very much better than not having enough to do. Saturday, the first day, was a lovely beginning, for Mrs. Drayton had planned one of Emily’s pleasant little matinée parties. Ten children, including the four of the Ward party, were invited to lunch with Emily and go to the matinée afterwards, to see “Robin Hood.” This was an especially great treat for Eunice and Cricket, for they were seldom allowed to go to the theatre, and their little guests rarely had the chance. The lunch was perfect; Mrs. Drayton and Emily were as delightful as they always were; “Robin Hood” was charmingly given, and the day was a perfect success.
They found when they reached home that Will and Archie had just arrived, and as Donald’s friend had come also, the whole party collected around the dinner table.
Doctor Ward looked around beamingly on the flock, as he flourished his knife over the big turkey.
“Cricket, this is an improvement on your orphan asylum, I think,” he said. “How is it? Do you prefer the babies?”
“I really think, now that I’ve had experience,” said Cricket reflectively, “that I like middle-aged people, like ourselves, better. We aren’t so much trouble, I’m sure.”
There was a shout at Cricket’s “middle-aged people.”
“I mean people who aren’t little things, like Zaidie and Helen, or grown up, like mamma,” explained Cricket defensively. “Just scattered along, like all of us, I mean.”
The days flew by on wings. Edith was sufficiently companionable to Marjorie for the latter to be included in many of the little doings that mamma planned for the younger girls. Will and Archie sometimes accompanied them also, and sometimes were off on their own account.
Archie was as much of a tease as ever, and with the four girls right under his thumb, so to speak, he had a most congenial employment in tormenting them. Indeed, the various tricks on both sides formed a large part of the entertainment.
The second night of his arrival, Archie carefully made apple-pie beds, in which he was an adept, for the occupants of the spare room, and the girls soon found it wisest not to go to bed on any night without carefully examining everything in the room. One night all the sheets were thickly strewn with salt, which, being white, did not show at a casual glance, but was painfully apparent when they lay down. Again, he cut up the splints of a number of whisk brooms, and the straws he scattered on the mattress under the sheet. Did you ever go to bed under the same circumstances? It is not comfortable. Another night, he lined the pillow-cases with white paper, carefully basted on the ticking. Once, by an ingenious arrangement of some nails tied together with string and hung outside the window one windy night, a weird sound, like a clanking chain, was made, and the girls had a lively hunt for the mysterious noises that kept them all awake.
Mamma watched the fun carefully, but let them go on, as long as it was all good-natured. And indeed, the girls found many a way to repay their ingenious tormentor. They sewed up the sleeves of his night-shirt securely, not only of the one he was wearing, but of all he had with him, and Will’s also, lest Archie should borrow. They filled his tooth-powder bottle with soda, and stuffed the fingers of his best gloves with cotton.
One night, when Archie had been particularly bad all day, Cricket took her revenge by creeping stealthily into his room after he was asleep—having been kept awake herself, for the purpose, by the united efforts of the other three—and very cautiously pasted postage stamps over his eyelids. Like most boys, when once asleep, he rivalled the “Seven Sleepers,” and he never stirred during the performance. Adorned with the stamps, he peacefully slept on all night, while Cricket jubilantly crept back to bed. By morning, the stamps stuck as tightly as if they had been nailed there.
When Archie awoke, to his horror, he could not open his eyes. He felt of them, but the stamps stuck so close that he could not imagine what was the matter, and called out in alarm to Will. Will, of course, when he once opened his own sleepy eyes, was nearly in convulsions of laughter over the blue one-cent stamp adornment on Archie, but, in pretended fright, advised him not to touch his eyes till he could call his uncle. He summoned Doctor Ward in hot haste. Archie, really much disturbed in mind over this strange disorder, was lying perfectly still when his uncle entered. The doctor, entering into the joke, told him that it was nothing serious yet, only a strange growth that had come during the night—perhaps from cold—and he would get his surgical instruments and remove it. Archie groaned at the sound, but his uncle assured him that it would not hurt him much, if he kept perfectly quiet and did not touch his eyes, while he got his instruments. Then the doctor stepped to the bathroom, and came back with a sponge and warm water, and, after much preparation, he began swabbing Archie’s eyes, talking all the time, till Archie was nearly frantic.
“By Jupiter, uncle! How long will I have to keep my eyes bandaged after this operation? What ails the confounded things, anyway? They feel all right, now, if only I could get them open.”
“There!” said his uncle at last, “now try, very carefully, if you can open your eyes. Slowly, mind.”
Archie raised his eyelids, and looked about him.
“Why, they’re all right,” he cried in great surprise. “They don’t hurt a bit. Did you cut something off, uncle? Didn’t it bleed? Here, you idiot,”—to Will, who was rolling on the floor in convulsions of laughter,—“what’s the matter with you?”
“Oh! oh!” gasped Will. “Did it bleed, uncle? That’s too much! The dear, brave little boy! He never whimpered.”
Archie, in a state of raging indignation, flung a pillow at him.
Doctor Ward held up one of the stamps by a pair of nippers.
“A nocturnal visit of a certain household insect, usually harmless, is plainly the cause of your trouble, my boy,” he said, “but as I told you, I do not consider it serious. Bathe your eyes in warm water. Also, I recommend temporary seclusion, and the cultivation of a calm and forgiving frame of mind.”
Another pillow went whack at Will, as a partial relief to Archie’s helpless rage. He only wished he dared throw one at his uncle, as Doctor Ward went out, laughing.
No remarks were made at breakfast time relative to the situation. Archie gazed haughtily past Cricket, and devoted himself ostentatiously to Hilda, whom, usually, he rather snubbed. Like most people who love to tease, he could not easily endure a joke on himself. So he scorned Cricket’s overtures of peace, and even meditated refusing to join the skating party planned for that day. The skating party, however, had been in prospect for several days, and as even Donald and his friend, Mr. Herrick, were to join it, Archie could not quite make up his mind to this sacrifice, even for the sake of punishing Cricket. In this trait Zaidie and Archie were comically alike. Both usually took revenge by making themselves thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I suppose Archie will treat me with an air of cold familiarity all day,” said Cricket, in confidence to Will, as he took her skates, and Archie walked on ahead with Hilda. Hilda was delighted. Archie had usually so little to say to her.
Will went off in a shout of laughter at Cricket’s remark. She thought it was at the memory of the morning.
“I don’t think he ought to mind just a little joke like that, when he just piles jokes on other people,” went on Cricket, in an injured tone. “Look at all the things he’s done to us, and we smile at him just the same.”
The skating party was a grand success. They went out of town, on the street cars for several miles, to the lake, which was a glittering sheet of ice. The day was clear and not too cold. Everybody skated well, but Archie particularly excelled. He was up in every kind of fancy figure, and in the delight of showing off, his wounded feelings were gradually soothed—at least outwardly.
“But I’ll get even with that little minx,” he said, grimly, to himself. “She’s altogether too fresh,” forgetting, as practical jokers generally do, that he had had the first innings.
They returned home in time for half-past one luncheon, with the appetites of anacondas. No one noticed that Archie whipped into the dining-room, instead of going up-stairs with the others, when they first came in, chattering, and laughing, and glowing with exercise. In ten minutes time the luncheon-bell rang.
“Waffles! hurrah!” cried Will, boyishly, as Jane brought in his favourite dish.
“Auntie, you’re a brick!” chimed in Archie. “Miss Scricket, don’t you take all this syrup on yours, for I want some myself, and there isn’t much in the syrup jug,” and Archie peered in.
“You don’t need any, being so sweet yourself,” returned Cricket, pouring out a liberal supply of the clear, delicious-looking syrup from the jug that stood by her plate.
The next instant the family were startled by a most unmannerly gulp from Cricket, who clapped her hands over her mouth and bolted from the table without the ceremony of an “Excuse me” to mamma. Everybody looked after her in surprise; then mamma, excusing herself, hastily followed her to the butler’s pantry, whither she had retired. The sickest, forlornest-looking child imaginable held up a white face.
“It was—the—syrup,” she managed to say “It’s sour or something. Oh, I’m so sick at my stomach!”
Not waiting to investigate the matter at that moment, mamma called Sarah, who carried poor little Cricket up-stairs in her arms. A very unhappy hour followed. As soon as mamma could be spared, she flew down-stairs to the dining-room.
Archie stood by the window, drumming on the window-pane. He turned around as his aunt entered.
“Yes, I did it,” he said. “It’s castor-oil. I slipped in and emptied the syrup jug just before luncheon, and put some castor-oil in, out of a bottle in uncle’s office. It won’t hurt her, will it? I didn’t think she’d get more than a taste of the stuff.”
“It’s nothing serious, only you’ve given poor little Cricket a pretty bad quarter of an hour, my boy. It chances that oil of any kind, even salad oil, makes her deathly sick. She never eats salad or lettuce, if it is dressed; but of course you did not know that.”
Archie looked uncomfortable.
“Of course I didn’t, auntie, or I wouldn’t have been such a brute.”
“Surely not. It was just the ‘chances of war.’ It is always so with practical joking. Each goes a step farther than the other, till some one—generally the weaker party—gets the worst of it. Suppose you drop it now, dear?”
“See here, auntie,” said Archie, awkwardly, “I—you know—well, Cricket really owes me one now. Let her go on and do me up, if she wants to. I’d a jolly lot rather she would; and I won’t do another single thing after that. Did she bluster much?”
“No,” said Mrs. Ward, smiling. “Cricket is always ‘game,’ as you boys say, and would not let me blame you. But let me say one more word, my lad. Since you love to play jokes and tease people, as well as you do, don’t you think you might be a little generous, and let them have the same sport with you, without losing your temper? Turn about is always fair play, my boy.”
Archie looked slightly shame-faced—a most unusual state of affairs for him. But, as Mrs. Ward never nagged the children, a few words from her always had their due weight.
In a couple of hours, Cricket was ready to join the girls, who were clustered about the cosy open fire in mamma’s room, laughing and chattering over their embroidery. Now that the violent nausea, which the least taste of oil always gave her, was over, Cricket was rather disposed to look upon the whole thing as very funny, after all. She was really rather amazed when the girls sympathised with her and energetically heaped abuse upon Archie.
“It wasn’t anything,” she insisted. “I’d have done it myself, if I’d have thought of it. Of course it isn’t very pleasant to have your stomach sick at itself; but he didn’t know I don’t like oil. But, oh, mamma, I’ve thought of such a nice little trick to play on him now!”
“It’s time to stop, dear,” said Mrs. Ward. “Don’t let’s carry it any further.”
“Please, mamma, it’s such a little joke, and it wouldn’t hurt him a bit; and I do think he deserves a good taking-down,” pleaded Cricket. “He’ll crow over me, always, if I don’t; he’ll call me ‘’fraid cat,’ and I’m not a ‘’fraid cat;’ I’ll leave it to anybody.”
“Let’s hear the joke,” said mamma judicially, remembering Archie’s own words; and Cricket unfolded her little scheme.
“I thought of that when I was sickest,” she finished triumphantly. And mamma said she might do it.
That evening the boys had planned to go and make a formal call on May Chester. Formal calls were rather a new experience for both of them, and each felt as important as a little dog with a new collar. They went up-stairs, to get ready, directly after dinner, and were gone an unconscionably long time.
“I know those boys will try to sneak down-stairs, and get out without being seen,” said Eunice, getting impatient for their appearance.
“They can’t do it. I’m on the lookout with my little eye,” chirped Cricket, from the portières. “Isn’t it funny how ashamed boys always are of being dressed up! ’Sh! there they come now. Edith, you know you’re to go out and ask them to come in a moment. They won’t suspect you.”
“Slip out in the hall as if you were looking for something, and meet them by accident,” advised Eunice.
Edith obediently sauntered out into the hall, and met the boys as directed. After a moment’s conversation, she succeeded in coaxing them into the parlour, for approval from the family. Archie came in with a lofty expression, as if making formal calls on young ladies, with pale yellow kid gloves on, was an every-night affair. Will looked somewhat conscious.
“Is that your new suit, Archie?” asked Mrs. Ward. “How well it fits!”
“Seems to me,” said Cricket, screwing up her face critically, “it sort of wrinkles across the shoulders,” patting his back patronisingly.
Archie wheeled around to a mirror hastily.
“Wrinkles, Miss Scricket! You ought to be wrinkled yourself! It fits like a—a house-afire,” he said indignantly, nearly twisting his neck off.
“And we all know how perfectly a house-afire fits,” observed Marjorie.
Cricket continued patting Archie’s back, and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. By the time he had reached the doorway she had succeeded in what she was trying to do, for as he went out, after waving a light yellow hand patronisingly to the girls, there was pinned across his back a broad slip of paper with good-sized printed letters on it:
“I’m such a little boy; please to send me home early.”
“There!” remarked Cricket with much satisfaction, as the front door shut, “I think Archie will be pleased to have May Chester see that. I winked at Will—he won’t tell; and he helped him on with his overcoat very carefully. I peeked to see.”
“I’d like to see his face when he finds it out,” said Hilda.
“Oh, wouldn’t I!” cried Cricket fervently. “And, mamma, Archie can do anything he likes to me now—I won’t pay him off again. I’ll tell him so.”
Half an hour later, Donald came in.
“Here’s something I picked up on the doorstep,” he said. “Probably a circular or something thrown down. Why, what’s this?”
He held it up. A burst of laughter from the girls greeted it. It was that identical paper, which had probably been rubbed off by the overcoat, and had worked down.
Cricket looked perfectly blank for a moment, and then joined in the laughter.
“If Archie only knew it,” she cried, “wouldn’t he crow! Joke’s on me now, for sure!”