Project Gutenberg's The Corner House Girls at School, by Grace Brooks Hill This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Corner House Girls at School Author: Grace Brooks Hill Illustrator: R. Emmett Owen Release Date: April 11, 2007 [EBook #21034] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL *** Produced by Hilary Caws-Elwitt and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL BY GRACE BROOKS HILL AUTHOR OF "THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS," "THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS," ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY R. EMMETT OWEN GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1915 By BARSE & CO. Printed in the United States of America Agnes stooped lower and shot up the course, passing Trix not three yards from the line. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A Goat, Four Girls, and a Pig CHAPTER II. The White-headed Boy CHAPTER III. The Pig is Important CHAPTER IV. Neale O'Neil Gets Established CHAPTER V. Crackers—and a Toothache CHAPTER VI. Agnes Loses Her Temper and Dot Her Tooth CHAPTER VII. Neale in Disguise CHAPTER VIII. Introductions CHAPTER IX. Popocatepetl in Mischief CHAPTER X. The Ice Storm CHAPTER XI. The Skating Race CHAPTER XII. The Christmas Party CHAPTER XIII. The Barn Dance CHAPTER XIV. Uncle Rufus' Story of the Christmas Goose CHAPTER XV. Sadie Goronofsky's Bank CHAPTER XVI. A Quartette of "Lady Bountifuls" CHAPTER XVII. "That Circus Boy!" CHAPTER XVIII. Snowbound CHAPTER XIX. The Enchanted Castle CHAPTER XX. Trix Severn in Peril CHAPTER XXI. A Backyard Circus CHAPTER XXII. Mr. Sorber CHAPTER XXIII. Taming a Lion Tamer CHAPTER XXIV. Mr. Murphy Takes a Hand CHAPTER XXV. A Bright Future Other books from GROSSET & DUNLAP THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL CHAPTER I A GOAT, FOUR GIRLS, AND A PIG When Sam Pinkney brought Billy Bumps over to the old Corner House, and tied him by the corner of the woodshed, there was at once a family conclave called. Sam was never known to be into anything but mischief; therefore when he gravely presented the wise looking old goat to Tess, suspicion was instantly aroused in the Kenway household that there was something beside good will behind Master Sam's gift. "Beware of the Greeks when they come bearing gifts," Agnes freely translated. "But you know very well, Aggie, Sammy Pinkney is not a Greek. He's Yankee—like us. That's a Greek man that sells flowers down on Main Street," said Tess, with gravity. "What I said is allegorical," pronounced Agnes, loftily. "We know Allie Neuman—Tess and me," ventured Dot, the youngest of the Corner House girls. "She lives on Willow Street beyond Mrs. Adams' house, and she is going to be in my grade at school." "Oh, fine, Ruth!" cried Agnes, the twelve-year-old, suddenly seizing the eldest sister and dancing her about the big dining-room. "Won't it be just fine to get to school again?" "Fine for me," admitted Ruth, who had missed nearly two years of school attendance, and was now going to begin again in her proper grade at the Milton High School. "Eva Larry says we'll have the very nicest teacher there is—Miss Shipman. This is Eva's last year in grammar school, too, you know. We'll graduate together," said Agnes. Interested as Tess and Dot were in the prospect of attending school in Milton for the first time, just now they had run in to announce the arrival of Mr. Billy Bumps. "And a very suggestive name, I must say," said Ruth, reflectively. "I don't know about that Pinkney boy. Do you suppose he is playing a joke on you, Tess?" "Why, no!" cried the smaller girl. "How could he? For the goat's there." "Maybe that's the joke," suggested Agnes. "Well, we'll go and see him," said Ruth. "But there must be some reason beside good-will that prompted that boy to give you such a present." "I know," Dot said, solemnly. "What is it, Chicken-little?" demanded the oldest sister, pinching the little girl's cheek. "Their new minister," proclaimed Dot. "Their what?" gasped Agnes. "Who, dear?" asked Ruth. "Mrs. Pinkney's new minister. She goes to the Kaplan Chapel," said Dot, gravely, "and they got a new minister there. He came to call at Mrs. Pinkney's and the goat wasn't acquainted with him." "Oh-ho!" giggled Agnes. "Light on a dark subject." "Who told you, child?" asked Tess, rather doubtfully. "Holly Pease. And she said that Billy Bumps butted the new minister right through the cellar window—the coal window." "My goodness!" ejaculated Ruth. "Did it hurt him?" "They'd just put in their winter's coal, and he went head first into that," said Dot. "So he didn't fall far. But he didn't dare go out of the house again until Sam came home after school and shut Billy up. Holly says Billy Bumps camped right outside the front door and kept the minister a prisoner." The older girls were convulsed with laughter at this tale, but Ruth repeated: "We might as well go and see him. If he is very savage——" "Oh, he isn't!" cried Tess and Dot together. "He's just as tame!" The four sisters started for the yard, but in the big kitchen Mrs. MacCall stopped them. Mrs. MacCall was housekeeper and she mothered the orphaned Kenway girls and seemed much nearer to them than Aunt Sarah Maltby, who sat most of her time in the big front room upstairs, seldom speaking to her nieces. Mrs. MacCall was buxom, gray-haired—and every hair was martialed just so, and all imprisoned in a cap when the good lady was cooking. She was looking out of one of the rear windows when the girls trooped through. "For the land sakes!" ejaculated Mrs. MacCall. "What's that goat doing in our yard?" "It's our goat," explained Tess. "What?" "Yes, ma'am," said Dot, seriously. "He's a very nice goat. He has a real noble beard—don't you think?" "A goat!" repeated Mrs. MacCall. "What next? A goat is the very last thing I could ever find a use for in this world. But I s'pose the Creator knew what He was about when He made them." "I think they're lots of fun," said roly-poly Agnes, giggling again. "Fun! Ah! what's that he's eatin' this very minute?" screamed Mrs. MacCall, and she started for the door. She led the way to the porch, and immediately plunged down the steps into the yard. "My stocking!" she shrieked. "The very best pair I own. Oh, dear! Didn't I say a goat was a perfectly useless thing?" It was a fact that a limp bit of black rag hung out of the side of Billy Bumps' mouth. A row of stockings hung on a line stretched from the corner of the woodshed and the goat had managed to reach the first in the row. "Give it up, you beast!" exclaimed Mrs. MacCall, and grabbed the toe of the stocking just as it was about to disappear. She yanked and Billy disgorged the hose. He had chewed it to pulp, evidently liking the taste of the dye. Mrs. MacCall threw the thing from her savagely and Billy lowered his head, stamped his feet, and threatened her with his horns. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mrs. MacCall!" cried Ruth, soothingly. "That won't bring back my stocking," declared the housekeeper. "Half a pair of stockings—humph! that's no good to anybody, unless it's a person with a wooden leg." "I'll get you a new pair, Mrs. MacCall," said Tess. "Of course, I'm sort of responsible for Billy, for he was given to me." "You'll be bankrupt, I'm afraid, Tess," chuckled Agnes, "if you try to make good for all the damage a goat can do." "But it won't cost much to keep him," said Tess, eagerly. "You know, they live on tin cans, and scraps, and thistles, and all sorts of cheap things." "Those stockings weren't cheap," declared the housekeeper as she took her departure. "They cost seventy-five cents." "Half your month's allowance, Tess," Dot reminded her, with awe. "Oh, dear, me! Maybe Billy Bumps will be expensive, after all." "Say! Ruth hasn't said you can keep him yet," said Agnes. "He looks dangerous to me. He has a bad eye." "Why! he's just as kind!" cried Tess, and immediately walked up to the old goat. At once Billy stopped shaking his head, looked up, and bleated softly. He was evidently assured of the quality of Tess Kenway's kindness. "He likes me," declared Tess, with conviction. "Glo-ree!" ejaculated a deep and unctuous voice, on the heels of Tess' declaration. "Wha's all dis erbout—heh! Glo- ree! Who done let dat goat intuh disher yard? Ain' dat Sam Pinkney's ol' Billy?" A white-haired, broadly smiling old negro, stooped and a bit lame with rheumatism, but otherwise spry, came from the rear premises of the old Corner House, and stopped to roll his eyes, first glancing at the children and then at the goat. "Whuffor all disher combobberation? Missee Ruth! Sho' ain' gwine tuh take dat ole goat tuh boa'd, is yo'?" "I don't know what to do, Uncle Rufus," declared Ruth Kenway, laughing, yet somewhat disturbed in her mind. She was a dark, straight-haired girl, with fine eyes and a very intelligent face. She was not pretty like Agnes; yet she was a very attractive girl. "Oh! we want to keep him!" wailed Dot. She, too, boldly approached Billy Bumps. It seemed as though the goat knew both the smaller Kenway girls, for he did not offer to draw away from them. "I 'spect Mr. Pinkney made dat Sam git rid ob de ole goat," grumbled Uncle Rufus, who was a very trustworthy servant and had lived for years at the old Corner House before the four Kenway sisters came to dwell there. "I reckon he's a bad goat," added the old man. "He doesn't look very wicked just now," suggested Agnes. "But where can we keep a goat?" demanded Ruth. "Dot used to think one lived in the garret," said Tess, smiling. "But it was only a ghost folks thought lived there—and we know there aren't any such things as ghosts now." "Don' yo' go tuh 'spressin' ob you' 'pinion too frequent erbout sperits, chile," warned Uncle Rufus, rolling his eyes again. "Dere may hab been no ghos' in de garret; but dere's ghos'es somewhars—ya-as'm. Sho' is!" "I don't really see how we can keep him," said Ruth again. "Oh, sister!" cried Tess. "Poor, dear Billy Bumps!" exclaimed Dot, with an arm around the short, thick neck of the goat. "If yo' lets me 'spressify maself," said Uncle Rufus, slowly, "I'd say dat mebbe I could put him in one oh de hen runs. We don't need 'em both jest now." "Goody!" cried Tess and Dot, clapping their hands. "Let's, Ruthie!" The older sister's doubts were overborne. She agreed to the proposal, while Agnes said: "We might as well have a goat. We have a pig 'most every day. That pig of Mr. Con Murphy's is always coming under the fence and tearing up the garden. A goat could do no more harm." "But we don't want the place a menagerie," objected Ruth. Dot said, gravely, "Maybe the goat and the pig will play together, and so the pig won't do so much damage." "The next time that pig comes in here, I'm going right around to Mr. Con Murphy and complain," declared Agnes, with emphasis. "Oh! we don't want to have trouble with any neighbor," objected Ruth, quickly. "My! you'd let folks ride right over you," said Agnes, with scorn for Ruth's timidity. "I don't think that poor cobbler, Mr. Murphy, will ride over me—unless he rides on his pig," laughed Ruth, as she followed Mrs. MacCall indoors. Tess had an idea and she was frank to express it. "Uncle Rufus, this goat is very strong. Can't you fashion a harness and some kind of a cart for him so that we can take turns riding—Dot and me? He used to draw Sam Pinkney." "Glo-ree!" grumbled the colored man again. "I kin see where I got my han's full wid disher goat—I do!" "But you can, Uncle Rufus?" said Tess. "Oh, yes, chile. I s'pect so. But fust off let me git him shut up in de hen-yard, else he'll be eatin' up de hull ob Mis' MacCall's wash—ya'as'm!" The poultry pens were fenced with strong woven wire, and one of them was not in use. Into this enclosure Mr. Billy Bumps was led. When the strap was taken off, he made a dive for Uncle Rufus, but the darky was nimble, despite his years. "Yo' butt me, yo' horned scalawag!" gasped the old colored man, when once safe on the outside of the pen, "an' I won't gib yo' nottin' ter chew on but an old rubber boot fo' de nex' week—dat's what I'll do." The old Corner House, as the Stower homestead was known to Milton folk, stood facing Main Street, its side yard running back a long way on Willow Street. It was a huge colonial mansion, with big pillars in front, and two wings thrown out behind. For years before the Kenway girls and Aunt Sarah Maltby had come here to live, the premises outside—if not within—had been sadly neglected. But energetic Ruth Kenway had insisted upon trimming the lawn and hedges, planting a garden, repairing the summer- house, and otherwise making neat the appearance of the dilapidated old place. On the Main Street side of the estate the property of Mr. Creamer joined the Corner House yard, but the Creamer property did not extend back as far as that of the Stower place. In the corner at the rear the tiny yard of Con Murphy touched the big place. Mr. Murphy was a cobbler, who held title to a small house and garden on a back street. This man owned a pig—a very friendly pig. Of that pig, more later! Perhaps it was the fruit that attracted the pig into the Stower yard. The Kenway girls had had plenty of cherries, peaches, apples, pears, and small fruit all through the season. There were still some late peaches ripening, and when Agnes Kenway happened to open her eyes early, the very next morning after the goat came to live with them, she saw the blushing beauty of these peaches through the open window of the ell room she shared with Ruth. Never had peaches looked so tempting! The tree was a tall seedling, and the upper branches hung their burden near the open window. All the lower limbs had been stripped by Uncle Rufus. But the old man could not reach these at the top of the tree. "It will be a mean shame for them to get ripe and fall off," thought Agnes. "I believe I can reach them." Up she hopped and slipped into her bathrobe. Just enough cool air entered the room to urge her to pull on her hose and slip her feet into slippers. The window was at the back of the big house, away from the Willow Street side, and well protected from observation (so Agnes thought) by the shrubbery. Below the window was a narrow ledge which ran around the house under the second story windows. It took the reckless girl but a moment to get out upon this ledge. To tell the truth she had tried this caper before—but never at such an early hour. Clinging to the window frame, she leaned outward, and grasped with her other hand a laden, limb. The peaches were right before her; but she could not pluck them. "Oh! if I only had a third hand," cried Agnes, aloud. Then, recklessly determined to reach the fruit, she let go of the window frame and stretched her hand for the nearest blushing peach. To her horror she found her body swinging out from the side of the house! Her weight bore against the limb, and pushed it farther and farther away from the house-wall; Agnes' peril was plain and imminent. Unable to seize the window frame again and draw herself back, she was about to fall between the peach tree and the side of the house! CHAPTER II THE WHITE-HEADED BOY "The Corner House Girls," as they had come to be known to Milton folk, and as they are known to the readers of the first volume of this series, had occupied the great mansion opposite the lower end of the Parade Ground, since the spring before. They had come from Bloomingsburg, where their father and mother had died, leaving them without guardianship. But when Uncle Peter Stower died and left most of his property to his four nieces, Mr. Howbridge, the lawyer, had come for the Kenway sisters and established them in the old Corner House. Here they had spent the summer getting acquainted with Milton folk (making themselves liked by most of the neighbors), and gradually getting used to their changed circumstances. For in Bloomingsburg the Kenways had lived among very poor people, and were very poor themselves. Now they were very fortunately conditioned, having a beautiful home, plenty of money to spend (under the direction of Mr. Howbridge) and the opportunity of making many friends. With them, to the old mansion, had come Aunt Sarah Maltby. Really, she was no relation at all to the Kenway girls, but she had lived with them ever since they could remember. In her youth Aunt Sarah had lived in the old Corner House, so this seemed like home to her. Uncle Rufus had served the aforetime owner of the place for many years, too; so he was at home here. And as for Mrs. MacCall, she had come to help Ruth and her sisters soon after their establishment in the old Corner House, and by this time had grown to be indispensable. This was the household, saving Sandyface, the cat, and her four kittens—Spotty, Almira, Popocatepetl and Bungle. And now there was the goat, Mr. Billy Bumps. Ruth was an intellectual looking girl—so people said. She had little color, and her black hair was "stringy"—which she hated! Now that she was no longer obliged to consider the expenditure of each dollar so carefully, the worried look about her big brown eyes, and the compression of her lips, had relaxed. For two years Ruth had been the head of the household and it had made her old before her time. She was only a girl yet, however; her sixteenth birthday was not long behind her. She liked fun and was glad of the release from much of her former care. And when she laughed, her eyes were brilliant and her mouth surprisingly sweet. The smaller girls—Tess (nobody ever called her Theresa) and Dorothy—were both pretty and lively. Dot was Ruth in miniature, a little, fairy-like brunette. Tess, who was ten, had a very kind heart and was tactful. She had some of Ruth's dignity and more of Agnes' good looks. The twelve year old—the fly-away—the irrepressible—what shall we say about her? That she laughed easily, cried stormily, was always playing pranks, rather tomboyish, affectionate—utterly thoughtless—— Well, there is Agnes, out of the bedroom window in her bathrobe and slippers just at dawn, with the birds chirping their first chorus, and not a soul about (so she supposed) to either see or help her in her sudden predicament. She really was in danger; there was no doubt of it. A scream for help would not bring Ruth in time; and it was doubtful if her older sister could do anything to help her. "Oh—oh—OH!" gasped Agnes, in crescendo. "I—am—go—ing—to—fall!" And on the instant—the very sweetest sound Agnes Kenway had ever heard (she admitted this fact afterward)—a boy's voice ejaculated: "No you're not! Hang on for one minute!" The side gate clicked. Feet scurried across the lawn, and under her as she glanced downward, Agnes saw a slim, white-faced youth appear. He had white hair, too; he was a regular tow-head. He was dressed in a shiny black suit that was at least two full sizes too small for him. The trousers hitched above his shoe-tops and the sleeves of his jacket were so short that they displayed at least four inches of wrist. Agnes took in these points on the instant—before she could say another word. The boy was a stranger to her; she had never seen him before. But he went to work just as though he had been introduced! He flung off his cap and stripped off the jacket, too, in a twinkling. It seemed to Agnes as though he climbed up the tree and reached the limb she clung to as quickly as any cat. He flung up his legs, wound them about the butt of the limb like two black snakes, and seized Agnes' wrists. "Swing free —I've got you!" he commanded. Agnes actually obeyed. There was something impelling in his voice; but likewise she felt that there was sufficient strength in those hands that grasped her wrists, to hold her. Her feet slipped from the ledge and she shot down. The white-haired boy swung out, too, but they did not fall as Agnes agonizingly expected, after she had trusted herself to the unknown. There was some little shock, but not much; their bodies swung clear of the tree—he with his head down, and she with her slippered feet almost touching the wet grass. "All right?" demanded the white-head. "Let go!" He dropped her. She stood upright, and unhurt, but swayed a little, weakly. The next instant he was down and stood, breathing quickly, before her. "Why—why—why!" gasped Agnes. Just like that! "Why, you did that just like a circus." Oddly enough the white-haired boy scowled and a dusky color came slowly into his naturally pale cheek. "What do you say that for?" he asked, dropping his gaze, and picking up his cap and jacket. "What do you mean— circus?" "Why," said Agnes, breathlessly, "just like one of those acrobats that fly over the heads of the people, and do all those curious things in the air——Why! you know." "How do I know?" demanded the boy, quite fiercely. It became impressed upon Agnes' mind that the stranger was angry. She did not know why, and she only felt gratitude —and curiosity—toward him. "Didn't you ever go to a circus?" she asked, slowly. The boy hesitated. Then he said, bluntly: "No!" and Agnes knew it was the truth, for he looked now unwaveringly into her eyes. "My! you've missed a lot," she breathed. "So did we till this summer. Then Mr. Howbridge took us to one of those that came to Milton." "What circus was it you went to?" the boy asked, quickly. "Aaron Wall's Magnificent Double Show," repeated Agnes, carefully. "There was another came—Twomley & Sorter's Herculean Circus and Menagerie; but we didn't see that one." The boy listened as though he considered the answer of some importance. At the end he sighed. "No; I never went to a circus," he repeated. "But you're just wonderful," Agnes declared. "I never saw a boy like you." "And I never saw a girl like you," returned the white-haired boy, and his quick grin made him look suddenly friendly. "What did you crawl out of that window for?" "To get a peach." "Did you get it?" "No. It was just out of reach, after all. And then I leaned too far." The boy was looking up quizzically at the high-hung fruit. "If you want it awfully bad?" he suggested. "There's more than one," said Agnes, giggling. "And you're welcome to all you can pick." "Do you mean it?" he shot in, at once casting cap and jacket on the ground again. "Yes. Help yourself. Only toss me down one." "This isn't a joke, now?" the boy asked. "You've got a right to tell me to take 'em?" "Oh, mercy! Yes!" ejaculated Agnes. "Do you think I'd tell a story?" "I don't know," he said, bluntly. "Well! I like that!" cried Agnes, with some vexation. "I don't know you and you don't know me," said the boy. "Everybody that I meet doesn't tell me the truth. So now!" "Do you always tell the truth?" demanded Agnes, shrewdly. Again the boy flushed, but there was roguishness in his brown eyes. "I don't dare tell it—sometimes," he said. "Well, there's nobody to scare me into story-telling," said Agnes, loftily, deciding that she did not like this boy so well, after all. "Oh, I'll risk it—for the peaches," said the white-haired boy, coming back to the—to him—principal subject of discussion, and immediately he climbed up the tree. Agnes gasped again. "My goodness!" she thought. "I know Sandyface couldn't go up that tree any quicker—not even with Sam Pinkney's bulldog after her." He was a slim boy and the limbs scarcely bent under his weight—not even when he was in the top of the tree. He seemed to know just how to balance himself, while standing there, and fearlessly used both hands to pick the remaining fruit. Two of the biggest, handsomest peaches he dropped, one after the other, into the lap of Agnes' thick bath-gown as she held it up before her. The remainder of the fruit he bestowed about his own person, dropping it through the neck of his shirt until the peaches quite swelled out its fullness all about his waist. His trousers were held in place by a stout strap, instead of by suspenders. He came down from the tree as easily as he had climbed it—and with the peaches intact. "They must have a fine gymnasium at the school where you go," said Agnes, admiringly. "I never went to school," said the boy, and blushed again. Agnes was very curious. She had already established herself on the porch step, wrapped the robe closely around her, shook her two plaits back over her shoulders, and now sunk her teeth into the first peach. With her other hand she beckoned the white-haired boy to sit down beside her. "Come and eat them," she said. "Breakfast won't be ready for ever and ever so long yet." The boy removed the peaches he had picked, and made a little pyramid of them on the step. Then he put on his jacket and cap before he accepted her invitation. Meanwhile Agnes was eating the peach and contemplating him gravely. She had to admit, now that she more closely inspected them, that the white-haired boy's garments were extremely shabby. Jacket and trousers were too small for him, as she had previously observed. His shirt was faded, very clean, and the elbows were patched. His shoes were broken, but polished brightly. When he bit into the first peach his eye brightened and he ate the fruit greedily. Agnes believed he must be very hungry, and for once the next-to-the-oldest Kenway girl showed some tact. "Will you stay to breakfast with us?" she asked. "Mrs. MacCall always gets up at six o'clock. And Ruth will want to see you, too. Ruth's the oldest of us Kenways." "Is this a boarding-house?" asked the boy, seriously. "Oh, no!" "It's big enough." "I 'spect it is," said Agnes. "There are lots of rooms we never use." "Could—could a feller get to stay here?" queried the white-haired boy. "Oh! I don't know," gasped Agnes. "You—you'd have to ask Ruth. And Mr. Howbridge, perhaps." "Who's he?" asked the boy, suspiciously. "Our lawyer." "Does he live here?" "Oh, no. There isn't any man here but Uncle Rufus. He's a colored man who lived with Uncle Peter who used to own this house. Uncle Peter gave it to us Kenway girls when he died." "Oh! then you own it?" asked the boy. "Mr. Howbridge is the executor of the estate; but we four Kenway girls—and Aunt Sarah—have the income from it. And we came to live in this old Corner House almost as soon as Uncle Peter Stower died." "Then you could take boarders if you wanted to?" demanded the white-haired boy, sticking to his proposition like a leech. "Why—maybe—I'd ask Ruth——" "I'd pay my way," said the boy, sharply, and flushing again. She could see that he was a very proud boy, in spite of his evident poverty. "I've got some money saved. I'd earn more—after school. I'm going to school across the Parade Ground there—when it opens. I've already seen the superintendent of schools. He says I belong in the highest grammar grade." "Why!" cried Agnes, "that's the grade I am going into." "I'm older than you are," said the boy, with that quick, angry flush mounting into his cheeks. "I'm fifteen. But I never had a chance to go to school." "That is too bad," said Agnes, sympathetically. She saw that he was eager to enter school and sympathized with him on that point, for she was eager herself. "We'll have an awfully nice teacher," she told him. "Miss Shipman." Just then Ruth appeared at the upper window and looked down upon them. CHAPTER III THE PIG IS IMPORTANT "My goodness! what are you doing down there, Aggie?" demanded Ruth. "And who's that with you!" "I—I got up to get a peach, Ruthie," explained Agnes, rather stammeringly. "And I asked the boy to have one, too." Ruth, looking out of the bedroom window, expressed her amazement at this statement by a long, blank stare at her sister and the white-haired boy. Agnes felt that there was further explanation due from her. "You see," she said, "he—he just saved my life—perhaps." "How is that?" gasped Ruth. "Were you going to eat all those peaches by yourself! They might have killed you, that's a fact." "No, no!" cried Agnes, while the boy's face flushed up darkly again. "He saved me from falling out of the tree." "Out of the tree? This tree!" demanded Ruth. "How did you get into it?" "From—from the window." "Goodness! you never! And with your bathrobe on!" ejaculated Ruth, her eyes opening wider. As an "explainer," Agnes was deficient. But she tried to start the story all over again. "Hush!" commanded Ruth, suddenly. "Wait till I come down. We'll have everybody in the house awake, and it is too early." She disappeared and the boy looked doubtfully at Agnes. "Is she the oldest sister you spoke of?" "Yes. That's Ruth." "She's kind of bossy, isn't she?" "Oh! but we like to be bossed by Ruthie. She's just like mother was to us," declared Agnes. "I shouldn't think you'd like it," growled the white-haired boy. "I hate to be bossed—and I won't be, either!" "You have to mind in school," said Agnes, slowly. "That's another thing," said the boy. "But I wouldn't let another boy boss me." In five minutes Ruth was down upon the back porch, too. She was neat and fresh and smiling. When Ruth smiled, dimples came at the corners of her mouth and the laughter jumped right out of her eyes at you in a most unexpected way. The white-haired boy evidently approved of her, now that he saw her close to. "Tell me how it happened!" commanded Ruth of her sister, and Agnes did so. In the telling the boy lost nothing of courage and dexterity, you may be sure! "Why, that's quite wonderful!" cried Ruth, smiling again at the boy. "It was awfully rash of you, Aggie, but it was providential this—this—You haven't told me his name?" "Why! I don't know it myself," confessed Agnes. "And after all he did for you!" exclaimed Ruth, in admonition. "Aw—it wasn't anything," growled the boy, with all the sex's objection to being thought a hero. "You must be very strong—a regular athlete," declared Ruth. "Any other boy could do it." "No!" "If he knew how," limited the white-haired boy. "And how did you learn so much!" asked Ruth, curiously. Again the red flushed into his pale face. "Practicin'. That's all," he said, rather doggedly. "Won't you tell us who you are?" asked Ruth, feeling that the boy was keeping up a wall between them. "Neale O'Neil." "Do you live in Milton?" "I do now." "But I never remember seeing you before," Ruth said, puzzled. "I only came to stay yesterday," confessed the boy, and once more he grinned and his eyes were roguish. "Oh! then your folks have just moved in?" "I haven't any folks." "No family at all?" "No, ma'am," said Neale O'Neil, rather sullenly Ruth thought "You are not all alone—a boy like you?" "Why not?" demanded he, tartly. "I'm 'most as old as you are." "But I am not all alone," said Ruth, pleasantly. "I have the girls—my sisters; and I have Aunt Sarah—and Mr. Howbridge." "Well, I haven't anybody," confessed Neale O'Neil, rather gloomily. "You surely have some friends?" asked Ruth, not only curious, but sympathetic. "Not here. I'm alone, I tell you." Yet he did not speak so ungratefully now. It was impressed upon his mind that Ruth's questions were friendly. "And I am going to school here. I've got some money saved up. I want to find a boarding place where I can part pay my board, perhaps, by working around. I can do lots of things." "I see. Look after furnaces, and clean up yards, and all that?" "Yes," said the boy, with heightened interest. "This other one—your sister—says you have plenty of empty rooms in this big house. Would you take a boarder?" "Goodness me! I never thought of such a thing." "You took in that Mrs. Treble and Double Trouble," whispered Agnes, who rather favored the suit of the white-haired boy. "They weren't boarders," Ruth breathed. "No. But you could let him come just as well." To tell the truth, Agnes had always thought that "a boy around the house would be awfully handy"—and had often so expressed herself. Dot had agreed with her, while Ruth and Tess held boys in general in much disfavor. Neale O'Neil had stood aside, not listening, but well aware that the sisters were discussing his suggestion. Finally he flung in: "I ain't afraid to work. And I'm stronger than I look." "You must be strong, Neale," agreed Ruth, warmly, "if you did what Aggie says you did. But we have Uncle Rufus, and he does most everything, though he's old. I don't just know what to say to you." At that moment the sound of a sash flung up at the other side of the ell startled the three young folk. Mrs. MacCall's voice sounded sharply on the morning air: "That pig! in that garden again! Shoo! Shoo, you beast! I wish you'd eat yourself to death and then maybe your master would keep you home!" "Oh, oh, oh!" squealed Agnes. "Con Murphy's pig after our cabbages!" "That pig again?" echoed Ruth, starting after the flying Agnes. The latter forgot how lightly she was shod, and before she was half-way across the lawn her feet and ankles were saturated with dew. "You'll get sopping wet, Aggie!" cried Ruth, seeing the bed slippers flopping, half off her sister's feet. "Can't help it now," stammered Agnes. "Got to get that pig! Oh, Ruth! the hateful thing!" The cobbler's porker was a freebooter of wide experience. The old Corner House yard was not the only forbidden premises he roved in. He always dug a new hole under the fence at night, and appeared early in the morning, roving at will among the late vegetables in Ruth's garden. He gave a challenging grunt when he heard the girls, raised his head, and his eyes seemed fairly to twinkle as he saw their wild attack. A cabbage leaf hung crosswise in his jaws and he continued to champ upon it reflectively as he watched the enemy. "Shoo! Shoo!" shouted Agnes. "That pig is possessed," moaned Ruth. "He's taken the very one I was going to have Uncle Rufus cut for our Saturday's dinner." Seeing that the charging column numbered but two girls, the pig tossed his head, uttered a scornful grunt, and started slowly out of the garden. He was in no hurry. He had grown fat on these raids, and he did not propose to lose any of the avoirdupois thus gained, by hurrying. Leisurely he advanced toward the boundary fence. There was the fresh earth where he had rooted out of Mr. Con Murphy's yard into this larger and freer range. Suddenly, to his piggish amazement, another figure—a swiftly flying figure—got between him and his way of escape. The pig stopped, snorted, threw up his head—and instantly lost all his calmness of mind. "Oh, that boy!" gasped Ruth. Neale O'Neil was in the pig's path, and he bore a stout fence-picket. For the first time in his experience in raiding these particular premises, his pigship had met with a foe worthy of his attention. Four girls, an old lady, and an ancient colored retainer, in giving chase heretofore, merely lent spice to the pig's buccaneering ventures. He dashed forward with a sudden grunt, but the slim boy did not dodge. Instead he brought that picket down with emphasis upon the pig's snout. "Wee! wee! wee!" shrieked the pig, and dashed headlong down the yard, blind to anything but pain and immediate escape. "Oh! don't hurt him!" begged Ruth. But Agnes had caught her sister around the neck and was hanging upon her, weak with laughter. "Did you hear him? Did you hear him?" she gasped. "He's French, and all the time I thought he was Irish. Did you hear how plain he said 'Yes,' with a pure Parisian accent?" "Oh, Neale!" cried Ruth again. "Don't hurt him!" "No; but I'll scare him so he won't want to come in here again in a hurry," declared the boy. "Let the boy alone, Ruth," gasped Agnes. "I have no sympathy for the pig." The latter must have felt that everybody was against him. He could look nowhere in the enemy's camp for sympathy. He dove several times at the fence, but every old avenue of escape had been closed. And that boy with the picket was between him and the hole by which he had entered. Finally he headed for the hen runs. There was a place in the fence of the farther yard where Uncle Rufus had been used to putting a trough of feed for the poultry. The empty trough was still there, but when the pig collided with it, it shot into the middle of the apparently empty yard. The pig followed it, scrouging under the fence, and squealing intermittently. "There!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil. "Why not keep him in that yard and make his owner pay to get him home again?" "Oh! I couldn't ask poor Mr. Murphy for money," said Ruth, giving an anxious glance at the little cottage over the fence. She expected every moment to hear the cobbler coming to the rescue of his pet. And the pig did not propose to remain impounded. He dashed to the boundary fence and found an aperture. Through it he caught a glimpse of home and safety. But the hole was not quite deep enough. Head and shoulders went through all right; but there his pigship stuck. There was a scurrying across the cobbler's yard, but the Kenway girls and their new friend did not hear this. Instead, they were startled by a sudden rattling of hoofs in a big drygoods box that stood inside the poultry pen. "What's that?" demanded Neale O'Neil. "It's—it's Billy Bumps!" shrieked Agnes. Out of the box dashed the goat. The opening fronted the boundary fence, beneath which the pig was stuck. Perhaps Billy Bumps took the rapidly curling and uncurling tail of the pig for a challenging banner. However that might be, he lowered his head and catapulted himself across the yard as true as a bullet for the target. Slam! the goat landed just where it seemed to do the most good, for the remainder of the pig shot through the aperture in the board fence on the instant. One more affrighted squeal the pig uttered, and then: "Begorra! 'Tis ivry last brith in me body ye've knocked out," came from the other side of the fence. "Oh, Agnes!" gasped Ruth, as the sisters clung together, weak from laughter. "That pig can't be French after all; for that's as broad an Irish brogue as ever I heard!" CHAPTER IV NEALE O'NEIL GETS ESTABLISHED Perhaps Billy Bumps was as much amazed as anybody when he heard what seemed to be the pig expressing his dissatisfaction in a broad Irish brogue on the other side of the fence. The old goat's expression was indeed comical. He backed away from the hole through which he had just shot the raider head-first, shook his own head, stamped, and seemed to listen intently to the hostile language. "Be th' powers! 'Tis a dirthy, mane thrick, so ut is! An' th' poor pig kem t'roo th' hole like it was shot out of a gun." "It's Mr. Murphy!" whispered Ruth, almost as much overcome with laughter as Agnes herself. Neale O'Neil was frankly amazed; but in a moment he, like the girls, jumped to the right conclusion. The cobbler had run to the rescue of his pet. He had seized it by the ears as it was trying to crowd under the fence, and tugged, too. When old Billy Bumps had released his pigship, the latter had bowled the cobbler over. Mr. Con Murphy possessed a vocabulary of most forceful and picturesque words, well colored with the brogue he had brought on his tongue from "the ould dart." Mr. Murphy's "Irish was up" and when he got his breath, which the pig had well nigh knocked out of him, the little old cobbler gave his unrestrained opinion of the power that had shot the pig under the fence. Ruth could not allow the occurrence to end without an explanation. She ran to the fence and peered over. "Oh, Mr. Murphy!" she cried. "You're not really hurt?" "For the love av mercy!" ejaculated the cobbler. "Niver tell me that youse was the one that pushed the pig through the fince that har-rd that he kem near flyin' down me t'roat? Ye niver could have done it, Miss Kenway—don't be tillin' me. Is it wan o' thim big Jarmyn guns youse have got in there, that the pa-apers do be tillin' erbout?" He was a comical looking old fellow at best, and out here at this early hour, with only his trousers slipped on over his calico nightshirt, and heelless slippers on his feet, he cut a curious figure indeed. Mr. Con Murphy was a red-faced man, with a fringe of sandy whiskers all around his countenance like a frame, having his lips, chin and cheeks smoothly shaven. He had no family, lived alone in the cottage, and worked very hard at his cobbler's bench. "Why, Mr. Murphy!" cried Ruth. "Of course I didn't push your pig through the fence." "It was Billy Bumps," giggled Agnes. "Who is that, thin?" demanded Mr. Murphy, glaring at Neale O'Neil. "That young felley standin' there, I dunno?" "No. I only cracked your pig over the nose with this fence paling," said the boy. "I wonder you don't keep the pig at home." "Oh, ye do, do ye?" cried the little Irishman. "Would ye have me lock him into me spare bedroom?" "I would if he were mine—before I'd let him be a nuisance to the neighbors," declared Neale O'Neil. "Oh, Neale!" interposed Ruth. "You mustn't speak so. Of course the pig is annoying——" "He's a nuisance. Anybody can see that," said the boy, frankly. "'Tis a smart lad ye ar-re," sneered Mr. Murphy. "Show me how ter kape the baste at home. The fince is not mine, whativer ye say. If it isn't strong enough to kape me pig out——" "I'll fix it for you in half a day—if you'll pay me for it," interrupted Neale O'Neil. "How will ye do ut? and how much will ye tax me?" queried the cautious cobbler. "I'd string a strand of barbed wire all along the bottom of the fence. That will stop the pig from rooting, I'll be bound." The old Irishman rubbed his chin reflectively. "'Twill cost a pretty penny," he said. "Then," said Neale O'Neil, winking at the girls, "let's turn Billy Bumps loose, and the next time the pig comes in I hope he'll butt his head off!" "Hi!" shouted Mr. Murphy. "Who's this Billy Bumps ye air talkin' so fast about?" "That's our goat," explained Agnes, giggling. Mr. Murphy's roving eyes caught sight of the billy, just then reflectively nibbling an old shoe that had been flung into the pen. "Is that the baste that shot me pig under the fince?" he yelped. Billy Bumps raised his head, shook his venerable beard, and blatted at the cobbler. "He admits the accusation," chuckled Agnes. "Shure," said Mr. Murphy, wagging his head, "if that thunderin' ould pi-rat of a goat ever gits a good whack at me pig, he'd dr-rive him through a knothole! Kem over and see me by and by, la-a-ad," he added, to Neale, his eyes twinkling, "and we'll bargain about that barbed wire job." "I'll be over to see you, sir," promised the white-haired boy. For Ruth had nudged his elbow and whispered: "You must stay to breakfast with us, Neale." The boy did so; but he successfully kept up that wall between the girls' curiosity and his own private history. He frankly admitted that he had gone hungry of late to save the little sum he had hoarded for the opening of the Milton schools. "For I'll have to buy some books—the superintendent told me so. And I won't have so much time then to earn money for my keep," he said. "But I am going to school whether I eat regularly, or not. I never had a chance before." "To eat?" asked Agnes, slily. "Not like this!" declared Neale, laughing, as he looked about the abundant table. But without asking him point-blank just what his life had been, and why he had never been to school, Ruth did not see how she was to learn more than the white-haired boy wished to tell them. The girls all liked him. Of course, Aunt Sarah, who was very odd, when she came to table did not speak to the boy, and she glared at him whenever he helped himself to one of Mrs. MacCall's light biscuit. But the housekeeper appreciated the compliment he gave her cooking. "I guess I don't make such bad biscuit after all," she said. "Sometimes you girls eat so little at breakfast that I've thought my days for hot bread making were over." Neale blushed and stopped eating almost at once. Although frank to admit his poverty, he did not like to make a display of his appetite. Ruth had been thinking seriously of the proposition, and after breakfast she told Neale that he might remain at the old Corner House—and welcome—until he found just the place he desired. "But I must pay you," said the boy, earnestly. "We don't really need to be paid, Neale," said Ruth, warmly. "There are so many empty rooms here, you know—and there is always enough for one more at our table." "I couldn't stop if I didn't do something to pay you," Neale said, bluntly. "I'm no beggar." "I tell you!" Ruth cried, having a happy thought. "You can help us clean house. We must get it all done before school begins, so as to help Mrs. MacCall. Uncle Rufus can't beat rugs, and lift and carry, like a younger person." "I'll do anything," promised Neale O'Neil. "But first I'll fix that Irishman's fence so his pig can't root into your yard any more." He was over at the cobbler's most of the day, but he showed up for the noon dinner. Ruth had made him promise to come when he was called. Mrs. MacCall insisted upon heaping his plate with the hearty food. "Don't tell me," she said. "A boy's always hollow clean down to his heels—and you're pretty tall for your age. It'll take some time to fill you up properly." "If I just let myself go, I really can eat," admitted Neale O'Neil. "And this is so much better cooking than I have been used to." There it was again! Ruth and Agnes wanted—oh! so much—to ask him where he had lived, and with whom, that he had never before had proper food given him. But although Neale was jolly, and free to speak about everything else, the moment anything was suggested that might lead to his explaining his previous existence, he shied just like an unbroken colt. "Just as if he didn't have any existence at all," complained Agnes, "before he ran through our side gate this morning, yelling to me to 'hold on.'" "Never mind. We will win his confidence in time," Ruth said, in her old-fashioned way. "Even if he had done something——" "Hush!" commanded Ruth. "Suppose somebody should hear? The children for instance." "Well! of course we don't really know anything about him." "And I am sure he has not done anything very bad. He may be ashamed of his former life, but I am sure it is not because of his own fault. He is just very proud and, I think, very ambitious." Of the last there could be no doubt. Neale O'Neil was not content to remain idle at all. As soon as he had finished at Mr. Murphy's, he returned to the old Corner House and beat rugs until it was time for supper. There was little wonder that his appetite seemed to increase rather than diminish—he worked so hard! "I don't believe you ever did have enough to eat," giggled Agnes. "I don't know that I ever did," admitted Neale. "Suppose you should wake up in the night?" she suggested. "If you were real hungry it would be dreadful. I think you'd better take some crackers and cheese upstairs with, you when you go to bed." Neale took this all in good temper, but Mrs. MacCall exclaimed, suddenly: "There! I knew there was something I forgot from the store to-day. Tess, do you and Dot want to run over to Mr. Stetson's after supper and bring me some crackers?" "Of course we will, Mrs. MacCall," replied Tess. "And I'll take my Alice-doll. She needs an airing," declared Dot. "Her health isn't all that we might wish since that Lillie Treble buried her alive." "Buried her alive?" cried Neale. "Playing savages?" "No," said Tess, gravely. "And she buried dried apples with her, too. It was an awful thing, and we don't talk about it— much," she added, in a whisper, with a nod toward Dot's serious face. Out of this trip to the grocery arose a misunderstanding that was very funny in the end. Ruth had chosen the very room, at the back of the house, in which the lady from Ipsilanti and her little daughter had slept, for the use of Neale O'Neil. After supper she had gone up there to make the bed afresh, and she was there when Tess and Dorothy returned home from the store, filled to the lips, and bursting, with a wonderful piece of news. "Oh, dear me, Ruthie!" cried Dot, being the leader, although her legs were not the longest. "Did you know we all have to be 'scalloped before we can go to school here in Milton?" "Be what?" gasped the oldest Kenway girl, smoothing up the coverlet of the bed and preparing to plump the pillows. "No," panted Tess, putting her bundle on the stand by the head of the bed. "'Tisn't 'scalloped, Tess. It's vac—vacilation, I believe. Anyway, it's some operation, and we all have to have it." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Ruth, laughing. "We've all been vaccinated, kiddies—and it wasn't such a dreadful operation, after all. All we'll have to do is to show our arms to the doctor and he'll see we were vaccinated recently." "Well!" said Dot. "I knew it had something to do with that 'scallop mark on my arm," and she tried to roll up the sleeve of her frock to see the small but perfect scar that was the result of her vaccination. They all left the room, laughing. Two hours later the house quieted down, for the family had retired to their several rooms. To Neale O'Neil, the waif, the big house was a very wonderful place. The fine old furniture, the silver plate of which Uncle Rufus took such loving care, the happy, merry girls, benevolent Mrs. MacCall and her odd sayings, even Aunt Sarah with her grim manner, seemed creatures and things of another world. For the white-haired boy had lived, since he could remember, an existence as far removed from this quiet home-life at the old Corner House, as could be imagined! He told Agnes laughingly that he would be afraid to leave his room during the night, for fear of getting lost in the winding passages, and up and dow...