Chapter XIV: In Doctor Fisher’s Gig 397 (2)

Such an uproar as they had when they got home. The shoes were admired and admired again, Mrs. Pepper protesting that she couldn’t have done better if she had gone herself; as indeed she couldn’t. And she praised the children heartily for their good behavior. As for Phronsie, she danced around the old kitchen till the “red-tops” seemed only little specks of color.

“I’m going to have ’em to sleep with me anyway, Polly,” she declared, as Polly insisted on taking them off at last.

So to bed Phronsie trudged, grasping the precious shoes tightly to her breast. And when Polly went to get into the big bed with her mother, she peeped the last thing at Phronsie and laughed right out. One small, red-topped shoe was clasped in the little well hand; the other, tucked up on the pillow, had settled right down over her nose.

III

THE LITTLE TIN PLATE

“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, out in the “Provision Room.” “What’s that?”

A loud noise struck her ear, and she dropped the end of the big bag, out of which she was getting some potatoes for dinner and stopped to listen. There it was again.

“Oh, my goodness me!” Polly gave a merry little laugh, “It’s at the door,” and dropping the tin pan she had brought for the potatoes, she skipped nimbly over the big bag. “P’raps it’s somebody come to call;” for Polly dearly loved to be elegant, and nothing could have been so truly magnificent as to have callers in their very best clothes come and rap at the old green door. She had often imagined how they would look. And now, “Perhaps--just perhaps,” she thought, as she skipped along over the rickety steps leading up to the kitchen, “that there is one really and truly come to see us!”

She raced through the kitchen and threw open the old door, the color flying up to her brown hair, and her eyes sparkling. A man was standing on the old flat stone, and pressed up close to the green door.

“Oh, Mr. Beggs!” cried Polly, the color dropping all out of her cheek in her disappointment. He wasn’t a caller, not a bit of it, only the ragman who drove through Badgertown once in a while, and collected the rags and old bottles at the houses. And in return he gave tinware of every description and brooms and wooden pails. There, off by the old gate, was his big red cart, waiting in the road.

“Yes, I’ve come.” Mr. Beggs pushed back his flapping straw hat from his forehead, and pulling out a big red cotton handkerchief from the pocket of his much-worn linen coat that flapped around his legs, he wiped his forehead vigorously. “Call’ated your Ma was ready maybe to trade to-day.”

“We don’t have many rags, Mr. Beggs,” said Polly, stifling her disappointment. “You know Mamsie told you not to trouble to stop often because--”

“I know--I know,” said Mr. Beggs, interrupting. Then he leaned against the door-casing to rest on one foot while he talked. “But then I alwus d’rather stop, for you might get ready to trade. An’ tain’t no trouble to me, cause it rests th’ horse. Is the boys to home?”

“No,” said Polly, “they went off to dig flag-root.”

“Pshaw, now.” The ragman pushed the old straw hat farther off from his head till it began to look like a new background for it. “Why couldn’t they have dug flag-root any other day, pray tell,” he exclaimed in vexation; “I was a-goin’ to take ’em to ride on my cart.”

“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, just as much distressed, and clasping her hands, “now, isn’t that too bad, Mr. Beggs!”

“’Tis,” said Mr. Beggs, gloomily. “I got to go all down round about here, an’ over to the Hollow.”

Polly couldn’t say anything. To go “all down round about here and over to the Hollow” on top of the red cart was such an enchanting thing, and now the boys must lose it all!

“An’ I ain’t comin’ this way agin this summer,” said Mr. Beggs, as if the other statement was not as bad as it possibly could be.

“O dear me!” said Polly again.

“I s’pose you an’ th’ little gal wouldn’t go, now.” The ragman pointed a dingy thumb into the kitchen to indicate Phronsie.

For one wild moment Polly thought, “Oh, Mamsie wouldn’t care, and I never get the chance if the boys are home.” And she took one rapturous step to get Phronsie from the bedroom where she was washing “Baby”; then she turned and stood quite still. “No,” she said.

“Well, you come right along,” said Mr. Beggs, well pleased to see her start for Phronsie. “I’ll wait for ye an’ th’ little gal,” and he was already slouching down to the old gate.

“I can’t go,” called Polly after him.

“Yes, come right along,” the ragman kept saying, so of course he couldn’t hear any one else talk.

“I can’t go, and Phronsie can’t either.” Polly panted it out as she went flying down the path after him, and she took hold of the end of his old brown linen coat as he had one foot on the trace preparing to jump up to his seat.

“Pshaw, now!” exclaimed Mr. Beggs, pausing to regard her ruefully. “Ye can’t?”

“No,” said Polly. She couldn’t trust herself to look at the dear, delightful tin things hanging all down the side of the cart. What a lovely music they must make jingling together as the old horse jogged along on his way! And the brooms stuck up at the corners, and smelling so nice and new, and the quantities of other things, they might be the most beautiful in all the world hidden within, that Mr. Beggs would take out when customers were ready to buy. And she must give it all up!

“Pshaw, now--yer Ma won’t care, an’ I ain’t a-comin’ this way agin this summer.” Mr. Beggs didn’t take his foot from the trace while he argued it out. “An’ I’m goin’ all down round about here, an’ home by the Hollow.”

“O dear!” Polly turned off and threw herself down on the grass just beside the road. “I must go,” she cried passionately to herself. “I’ve never been, and I can’t get the chance again.” Then Mamsie’s face seemed to hop right up before her, saying only one word, “Polly.”

“So run along an’ git your bunnit, an’ bring th’ little gal.” Mr. Beggs, seeing everything now fixed to his satisfaction, mounted his cart, and took up the well-worn leather reins.

“No,” said Polly. She was standing by the cart now. “I can’t go, Mr. Beggs. I thank you, sir, very much, but Mamsie wouldn’t like it; that is, I can’t ask her.” The brown eyes seemed to say more than the words, for the ragman, giving a long whistle to vent his regrets, clacked to the old horse, and away the red cart rumbled down the dusty road, leaving Polly standing on the grass by its side.

And the two little boys, hurrying around by the back way, found her so, just as the red cart turned the corner of the road.

“Joel!” cried Polly, turning around. “Oh, I thought you’d gone to dig flag-root.”

“So we did,” grumbled Joel, “but Davie forgot the knife.”

“I did, Polly,” confessed little Davie, hanging his head.

“Never mind, now,” cried Polly, in such a twitter she jumbled up her words, “the ragman--Mr. Beggs--oh, Joe, run after him--”

“Where?” cried Joel, his black eyes roving wildly. To have Mr. Beggs with them was an event not to be missed. “Where, Polly?” twitching her sleeve.

“There,” Polly cried, just as wildly and pointing in the direction in which the ragman had disappeared; “oh, run, Joe,--he’s been here to take you and Davie to ride on his cart.”

It wasn’t necessary to tell Joel to run after that, and even Davie showed a nimble pair of heels, and presently they were lost to view, and Polly was left alone to go in and get the potatoes for dinner.

Joel roared so hard at every step of the road in pursuit of the red cart that when he finally did come up with it, he had little breath left. Mr. Beggs had slackened speed at the beginning of the hill, and was now ruminating sourly over his failure to give pleasure to the Little Brown House people, when he heard a faint piping sound that made him crane his neck to look around the stack of brooms to see where it came from. “We’re going,” gasped Davie, running to the side of Joel, both boys having anxious hands outspread.

“Jerusalem, and th’ natives!” ejaculated the ragman, pulling the old horse up straight. “I thought you was a-diggin’ flag-root.”

“We were,” gasped David. But it wasn’t until they were both fairly on the cart and beside Mr. Beggs on the seat, that breath could be wasted to relate the whole, “Only I forgot the big knife.”

“I’ll drive,” declared Joel, promptly. To talk about digging flag-root was well enough when there was nothing greater as a subject, but now--and he made a dash at the leather reins.

“Not yit,” said the ragman, holding them fast in his horny hand. “Well, I never!” and he slapped his knee with the other fist. “Ain’t this just--well, Jerusalem, an’ th’ natives--’tis!”

“When can I, say?” Joel pounded Mr. Beggs’s knee, and fastened his black eyes pleadingly on the face under the old straw hat. Little Davie had lapsed into a state of silent bliss, and was hanging to the edge of the seat where it turned up on the outside. “Say, Mr. Beggs, when will you let me drive?”

“You be still,” said Mr. Beggs, turning a pair of ruddy cheeks on which a broad smile of satisfaction played; “I’ll let you drive when the time comes.”

“When is it coming?” asked Joel, in impatience.

“’Tain’t never comin’,” said Mr. Beggs, “if you ain’t still, an’ behave yourself.”

Joel, very much alarmed at this, sank back in his seat, and kept still till it seemed to him that the ragman had forgotten his promise, so he slid forward and began to clamor again.

“Can I--you said you would,” he teased, stretching out both brown little hands.

“I said when ’twas time,” replied Mr. Beggs, coolly.

“’Tisn’t ever going to be time,” declared Joel, quite gone in despair.

The ragman burst out laughing, but seeing Joel’s face, and also that little Davie on the other side was leaning forward much disturbed since something that Joel didn’t like was being said, he added kindly, “now, Joel, I’ll let you take th’ reins when we come to that house. See it?” and he pointed off with his whip.

“Where--where?” cried Joel, eagerly, and jumping up to his feet.

“Sit down,” cried Mr. Beggs, pulling him back. “Land o’ Goshen, you’ll be out an’ break your neck; then you never’d go with me agin, an’ what would your Ma say?”

“Well, where is the house?” cried Joel, struggling to get a sight of it. “I can’t see it.”

“You will in a minnit--there, now, look.”

It wasn’t necessary to advise this as Joel’s black eyes were doing their best to acquaint their owner with an idea as to how soon the little brown hands could hold those reins. And at last he squealed right out, “Oh, there ’tis--oh, goody! I’m going to drive, Dave, I am, soon’s we git up to that house,” pointing to a red farm-house set back from the road and in between two tall poplars.

When they arrived, he was in great excitement, not caring in the least for the pleasure of hearing Mr. Beggs calling out, “_Ra-ags--Ra-ags_,” in a tone that began in a sort of a roar, and ended in a little fine squeal that seemed to vanish into thin air; but it always brought every farmer’s wife and daughter to the window or door, eager to turn the last year’s or half year’s supply of carefully hoarded rags and old bottles to good account. For sometimes, if Mr. Beggs could not dispose of his tinware and brooms and pails which, of course, he much preferred to do, he would count out pennies and five-cent pieces, so that new ribbons or a bit of lace would be possible for such as cared for finery.

But little Davie, if it were possible to add to his bliss as he sat there clinging to the edge of his seat on the top of the red cart, now experienced that increase of delight, and he hung entranced as Mr. Beggs bawled again impressively, “_Ra-ags--Ra-ags!_” as they came almost up to the poplars.

A woman thrust her head in a sweeping-cap out of the side door. “The ragman’s here, Em’line!” she screamed. Then she ran out to the grass-plot. “Here, stop, Mr. Beggs,” she called frantically, waving both hands.

“All right, marm,” said the ragman, pulling up his old horse. “I’m a-stoppin’; you needn’t screech so.”

“You said I might drive when we got here.” Joel turned on him perfectly furious, his black eyes flashing.

“Well, an’ so you may,” replied Mr. Beggs, composedly, preparing to get down over the wheel. “But we ain’t a-goin’ to run over Mis’ Hinman. When we start from here, Joel, you can have them lines. Now, then, both o’ you boys can git down an’ stretch your legs, while I dicker with th’ women folks.”

Joel, seeing that this was all he could get, suffered himself to be helped down from the cart, and little Davie followed, for both of them hung absorbed over the exciting bargaining and exchange that now took place.

“There’s another bag in the wood-chamber,” said Mrs. Hinman, as Em’line, a tall, thin maiden not over young, with her red hair done up in a hard twist like a door-knob on the back of her head, came hastily dragging after her a swelled-up bag over the grass. “You’ve forgot that.”

“I hain’t forgot it,” said Em’line, tartly, releasing the bag on the ground by the side of the red cart, “but I can’t get ’em both to once. My arm’s ’most broke with this one.”

Mrs. Hinman’s faded eyes took a new light. “You’ll give us good weight, Mr. Beggs,” she said greedily.

“I’ll give you th’ weight that ’tis,” said the ragman, lifting out from under his seat the long iron steelyards.

Em’line ran her eyes, a second edition of her mother’s, over the two little figures crowding up at the ragman’s elbow. “Can’t one o’ them boys git that other bag o’ rags?” she said.

“Oh, you don’t want to let ’em in th’ house,” said Mrs. Hinman, in dismay.

“They won’t do no hurt,” said Em’line, carelessly; “it’s in th’ wood-chamber.”

“But they’ve got to go through th’ kitchen,” protested her mother, “an’ you don’t know who they be.”

“Excuse me,” said the ragman, with great dignity, “but I don’t take folks a-ridin’ with me on this cart unless I do know who they be, Mis’ Hinman.”

“Well, they’re boys,” said Mrs. Hinman, holding to her point, notwithstanding her desire to get to trading.

“Yes, to be sure, they _is_ boys,” said Mr. Beggs; “I ain’t a-denyin’ that,” and running the hook of the steelyards through the tied strings of the bags, “but they’re Mis’ Pepper’s boys, an’ that makes a difference.”

“Not Mis’ Pepper over to Badgertown, who lives in that little brown house!” exclaimed Mrs. Hinman.

“Yes, marm;” with that the ragman lifted the steelyards and gave the bag a swing, endeavoring to slide the hook along the iron bar to adjust the weight, peering at it closely, while he held the whole thing aloft.

“Take care--it’s a-tetchin’ you,” screamed Mrs. Hinman, and trying to push the bag of rags away from the long linen coat.

Mr. Beggs turned on her an angry face. “When I weigh rags, I weigh ’em, Mis’ Hinman,” he said, “or else I never drive a trade with nobody.”

Thus admonished, Mrs. Hinman folded her nervous hands across her apron, and held herself in check.

“Well, are those boys a-goin’ in after that other bag?” said Em’line; “I know I ain’t,--my arm’s broke almost, draggin’ this one down.” But Mr. Beggs, not appearing to hear, and certainly Joel and David, so absorbed over the excitement of seeing the rags weighed that they couldn’t be expected to understand what was wanted of them, it really began to look as if Em’line would have to go after the other bag herself, if she wanted it brought down.

“Twelve--twelve an’ a ha-alf,” said Mr. Beggs, slowly moving the hook along a hair’s breadth.

“It’s more’n that,” broke in Mrs. Hinman, standing on tiptoe to peer over his arm.

“Of course it is,” declared Em’line; “it weighs a lot more. It most broke my arm a-draggin’ it along,” she added, as if bringing out a wholly new statement.

“Th’ bag’s fairly busting, it’s so full,” contributed her mother, indignantly.

“Rags weigh light; it takes a good many to make a pound,” said Mr. Beggs, oracularly, and squinting at the numbers on the iron rod.

“I don’t care if they is, an’ mine are good hefty ones--all them pieces after we got through with Sarah’s jacket, you know, Em’line,” she nodded across Mr. Beggs’s big back.

“Don’t I know, Ma?” said Em’line, thriftily; “of course, there’s lots o’ money in that bag o’ rags.”

“Twelve pounds an’ half an ounce,” declared Mr. Beggs, dumping the bag on the grass, and slipping out the iron hook from the strings. “There’s every bit as much as ’tis, an’ if you want to sell ’em to some other ragman, why, I don’t care,” he added squarely.

“Oh, we ain’t a-goin’ to sell ’em to no one else, Mr. Beggs,” Mrs. Hinman made haste to say in alarm; “only we did think there was a little more weight to ’em,--jest a leetle more.”

“That’s every scrap there is,” declared Mr. Beggs, pushing back his straw hat from his forehead, and beginning to put up his steelyards under his seat.

“An’ there’s another bag, you know,” cried Em’line. “Say, ain’t one o’ them boys goin’ to bring it down for me?”

“I d’no, I’m sure,” replied Mr. Beggs; “that’s as they say. I don’t invite folks to go a-ridin’ with me on my cart an’ then work ’em while they’re a-visitin’.”

“Well, don’t they want to?” said Em’line; “say, don’t you?” and she turned to Joel.

“Want to what?” demanded Joel, turning his black eyes on her, since the delights of weighing the rags was over.

“Go into th’ house an’ get another bag o’ rags,” said Em’line, wheedlingly.

“May I bring ’em out,” cried Joel, his black eyes sparkling; “may I?”

“Yes, if you’re a good boy,” said Em’line.

“Oh, whickets!” screamed Joel, springing off; “come on, Dave.”

“At th’ head o’ th’ stairs from th’ kitchen,” screamed Em’line after him, in a jubilant little shriek.

“An’ don’t tetch nothin’ in th’ kitchen,” Mrs. Hinman called shrilly. “You better go with ’em, Em’line,” she advised anxiously.

“There ain’t no need,” said Em’line, yet she went lazily over the grass and disappeared in the kitchen doorway. And presently down came Joel and David carrying between them a bag as much bigger as possible than the first one.

“There, now, I guess you’ll see rags, Mr. Beggs,” said Em’line, triumphantly following them; “them’s mine,” as the boys deposited the bag on the grass, and then stood up to draw a long breath.

“Whew!” whistled the ragman, and then to fill up conversation, he added, “I guess you’re goin’ to git married, Miss Em’line--”

Em’line simpered, and hung her head with the little hard knob of red hair at the back. “How’d you guess, Mr. Beggs?”

“The Land o’ Goshen, ye be!” exclaimed the ragman, in great surprise; “well, who’s th’ man, pray tell?”

“It’s Isr’el Sawyer,” said Mrs. Hinman, quickly. “An’ we better be a settlin’ up this rag business, for I’ve got all my work a-waitin’ for me in th’ house.”

The ragman smothered something in his straggly beard that, if heard, would not be very complimentary to Isr’el Sawyer’s good judgment. “That’s so, Mis’ Hinman,” he declared briskly; “well, now, we must see what this ’ere bag weighs. ’Tis heftier, ain’t it?”

“I sh’d think ’twas,” cried Em’line, with greedy eyes, and an expansive smile.

“Well, now, bein’s you’re goin’ to git married, I s’pose we must make these rags come to as much as possible. Goin’ to take ’em out in tin?” All the while he was adjusting the iron hook in place on the steelyards and getting ready for the final swing of the bag.

“I guess not,” snapped Em’line; “I’m goin’ to have money an’ nothin’ else.”

“I’d just as lieves,” assented Mr. Beggs; “there she goes!” Then, when the bag ceased to tremble as it hung from the hook, and the final notch on the long bar had been decided on, “Fif--teen pounds an’ a quarter--”

“There’s twice as much,” cried Em’line, with an angry twitch at the steelyards; “let me weigh ’em myself.”

“No, sir--ee!” declared Mr. Beggs, quite insulted; “no one does th’ weighin’ on them steelyards but myself. You can see all you want to, an’ there ’tis, an’ you can’t make no more, not a mite, but fifteen pounds an’ a quarter. But I ain’t anxious to trade with you to-day, Miss Em’line,” and he slid out the hook from the strings of the bag; “so after you’ve picked out your tinware, Mis’ Hinman, or do you want a broom to-day, or do you want money, I ain’t partic’lar which, why, I’ll say good day to ye both.”

“There, now, you see, Em’line,” cried her mother, “how you bite your nose off to spite your face! Now you won’t sell them old rags at all, for another man won’t come along, like enough, who’ll buy ’em, in a dog’s age.”

Em’line stood biting her lips and tapping the ground with an irritable foot. “You can have ’em,” at last she said to Mr. Beggs.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to take ’em unless you’re satisfied,” said the ragman; “land, I can’t make ’em weigh more’n they do. You goin’ to take tin, or a broom, or money, Mis’ Hinman?” he turned around to her.

“I’ll take a broom,” said Mrs. Hinman; “I got to; mine’s all worn down to th’ handle. What you got new in tin, Mr. Beggs?”

“A full assortment.” He threw open the side of the red cart, and she stuck in her head, still in its sweeping-cap, to gloat over its shining contents. “My! I guess you have been stockin’ up!”

“’Tis a pretty good lot,” said Mr. Beggs, affecting indifference. “You said a broom, didn’t ye, Mis’ Hinman?” He stepped up on the hub of the nearest wheel and handed down one. “That’s prime,” he declared.

“I d’no’s I will take a broom,” said Mrs. Hinman, discontentedly, and not looking at it, but with her eyes glued to the shining interior of the cart, “but then I’ve got to, for by’m by I’ll have to sweep with the handle. How much is that skimmer?” with an abrupt finger pointing to the article.

“Twenty cents,” said Mr. Beggs.

“That’s dretful dear,” said Mrs. Hinman; “well, let’s see your broom,” so she pulled away her head from its close proximity to the fascinating door and put out her hand. “Hain’t you got one that ain’t so thin along th’ edge?” running her fingers over it. “’Tain’t near as good a one as th’ one I bought last of you, Mr. Beggs.”

“I thought this was pretty fair for a broom,” said the ragman, who had stepped down from the hub of the wheel. He now hopped up again, and after careful examination of his stock in trade, so far as brooms were concerned, got back to the ground again, with one in his hand. “There, if you like that any better you’re free to choose,” he said obligingly.

“This one’s all uneven--seems so there ain’t no two wisps alike,” said Mrs. Hinman, turning the broom over and over and pinching it here and there; “when I buy a broom, I want one, Mr. Beggs.”

“All right,” said the ragman, so he mounted the hub of the wheel again. “There,” he said, coming down with a great clatter, “now, take your pick an’ go over th’ hull lot,” and he deposited the entire bunch on the grass.

When the trading was done, so far as Mrs. Hinman was concerned, who went carefully over and over the collection of brooms laid out for her inspection on the grass, she finally decided that she wouldn’t take a broom at all, but some article of tin. And it took so long to pick these over and select from the lot, that Em’line finally broke in--“Well, I know I ain’t goin’ to stand here all day. Are you goin’ to pay me my money or not, Mr. Beggs?”

“If you’re satisfied,” said the ragman.

“I’ll sell ’em to you anyway,” said Em’line, “an’ that’s enough.” So Mr. Beggs took out an old leather bag from his trousers’ pocket and counted out the money, which she seized and stalked into the house, grumbling all the way over the grass.

“And now,” said Mr. Beggs, stowing away the two bags of rags on his cart, “if you’ve got through turnin’ over that tin, marm, I’ll just start on my way.”

“Can’t you throw in that?” asked Mrs. Hinman, diving into the cart to hold up a little tin plate with big letters all around its edge; “I sh’d admire to have it to give John’s little boy.”

“No, I can’t,” Mr. Beggs shook his head, decidedly; “an’ John Hinman jest a-rollin’ in money!” he declared wrathfully to himself.

“I’ll take the skimmer,” decided Mrs. Hinman, tossing back the little tin plate scornfully into the cart; “tain’t wuth twenty cents, but if you won’t take no less--”

“I won’t take no less,” said Mr. Beggs, picking up his brooms from the grass, and piling them up on the cart, “as I’m a-givin’ it to you now ’most a cent an’ a half off; your rags don’t come to more’n a leetle over eighteen cents. I don’t give skimmers _entirely_ away, Mis’ Hinman.” Then he slammed to the door of the red cart. “Now, then, boys,” to Joel and David, who had been standing quite still hanging on every word, “hop up lively.”

“Are you going?” screamed Joel, all awake to the fact that now was the time when those leather reins were to be put into his hands, and beginning a wild scramble for the top of the cart, little Davie pitching after.

“I s’pose we’d better be,” said Mr. Beggs, grimly, “unless we spend th’ mornin’ here. Well, good day, Mis’ Hinman.”

But she neither saw nor heard him, busy as she was picking her way across the grass, her new skimmer grasped in her hard old hand.

“She beats th’ Dutch _an’_ Tom Walker!” exclaimed Mr. Beggs. It was all that escaped him, but as he repeated it over and over, perhaps no more was needed. And as the old horse had been somewhat revived by his long rest, he now concluded to show off his best speed. Joel sat up as straight as he could, his brown little hands thrust stiffly out, grasping the old leather reins in a great state of excitement, and crying out, “G’lang, there--g’lang!” while little Davie plunged into terror, clung with one hand to the edge of his seat, and the other to Joel’s jacket to keep him from falling out.

“Ye’re enjoyin’ it, ain’t ye?” Mr. Beggs leaned over to peer at Joel’s red cheeks.

“It’s prime!” cried Joel. “G’lang there--see him go, Dave, I’m driving,” he announced.

“Isn’t he going _very_ fast?” asked little Dave, timidly, not being able to look around, having all he could do to hold on with both hands.

“Gee--whiz!” sang Joel, wishing Polly was there to see him, and how he was exactly as big as Ben.

“Oh, don’t, Joel,” begged Davie, “make him go any faster.”

“Phoo! that’s nothin’,” said Joel, magnificently; “I’m going to take the whip,” and he broke away from David’s clutch to lean forward.

“Oh, don’t!” screamed little Davie. “Oh, Mr. Beggs, don’t let him,” he implored.

“You needn’t worry,” said Mr. Beggs, settling Joel back with a big hand; “nobody takes that whip on this cart but Peter Beggs.”

“I don’t want the whip,” said Joel, grasping the reins tighter than ever; “g’lang there--see me drive, Dave!”

“An’ you’re goin’ to drive on th’ way home,” said Mr. Beggs, leaning over to fling the words to little Davie.

“You’re going to drive on the way home--oh, goody!” screamed Joel, as away the old horse jogged, so surprised at such unwonted jollity back of him that he forgot to slow down to his accustomed gait.

It was well along toward noon when Phronsie, who had been watching for a long time in the front yard, scrambled over the flat door-stone. “They’re coming, Polly,” she screamed.

“Oh, no, I guess not, Pet,” said Polly, who had been summoned several times to hurry and welcome the boys--“we shall hear them fast enough. Run out and play, child.”

“But they are, Polly, coming, really and truly,” declared Phronsie, in an injured voice, and her lip trembled. So Polly flung down the broom where she was sweeping and taking Phronsie’s hand, ran out to see. And sure enough, there they were, the old horse coming up in front of the gate in grand style, and Joel waving both hands and hooraying with all his might from the high seat of the red cart, little Davie between him and Mr. Beggs, and--oh, most wonderful sight--holding the reins and driving! Polly and Phronsie ran as fast as they could to the road.

“I drove ’most all the way over there,” screamed Joel, before he clambered over the wheel.

“Did you, Joey?” cried Polly, in a transport, while Mr. Beggs, now out on the ground, helped little David down. “And to think, that Davie drove home!” as he ran up to her, his blue eyes shining with excitement and his cheeks as pink as could be.

“I didn’t drive all the way,” said little Davie, rubbing his hands together and trying not to think that they smarted.

“Well, you drove some,” said Polly, happily; “just think of that, Davie.”

And just then, whether it was that the old horse felt the excitement of the morning too much for his nerves, no one knew, but he started suddenly, and before Mr. Beggs could even shout out “whoa!” or clutch the leather reins dangling over the harness, away he went with a few clumsy jerks, and off flew Em’line’s bag of rags, the strings untying and a good part of the ravellings and snippings of her wedding clothes scattered in the dusty road.

And away clattered Mr. Beggs after his horse, Joel whooping and hallooing at his heels, and little Davie following as fast as he could.

“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands. She longed to run, too, and help to catch good Mr. Beggs’s horse, but there was Phronsie--no, she must stay and take care of her.

“Won’t he ever come back?” asked Phronsie, and the tears began to come.

“Oh, yes, Pet,” said Polly, cheerfully. “There, I’ll lift you up to the gate, so you can see better--”

So Phronsie put up her little arms, and Polly lifted her and set her in a good place on the old post. “Now then, says I, look sharp, Phronsie, and pretty soon you’ll see Mr. Beggs and the boys coming back, and--”

“And will they bring the horsie with them?” asked Phronsie, folding her hands in her lap.

“Yes, of course, child,” said Polly, promptly, and keeping a tight hold of Phronsie’s little gown; “now watch, Phronsie,--here they come!”

“Here they come!” piped Phronsie, clapping her hands. Then she threw her arms around Polly’s neck. “Oh, they _are_ coming back,” she cried; “they truly are, Polly.”

“Yes, and they’re here,” said Polly, quickly setting Phronsie down on the ground, “and now we’ve all got to help pick up those rags and put them in the bags, just as soon as Mr. Beggs gets back and ties up his horse, so he can’t run away some more.”

“I’m going to pick ’em up now,” declared Phronsie, running into the middle of the road and sitting down in the dirt among the pieces of Em’line’s wedding gowns.

“Oh, Phronsie!” exclaimed Polly, hurrying after. And just then up came Mr. Beggs holding the bridle, with Joel on the other side of the horse trying to be big enough to do the same thing, and little Davie following the red cart.

“Oh, we’ll help, Dave and me,” cried Joel, when the old horse tied to the gate post couldn’t run any more, and seeing Phronsie and Polly busy over the rags scattered in the road, the two boys scampered off to the scene of action. And presently when Mr. Beggs got there, every one of the four pairs of hands was gathering up the pieces, oh, so fast--that there really didn’t seem as if there would be anything for him to do.

“We’ll pick ’em all up,” screamed Joel at him, as he stood in the road, and flying up to cram both fists full into the bag as it flopped half empty where it had tumbled.

“Take care, Joe,” warned Polly, “don’t let any dirt get in--”

“I guess a little dirt ain’t a-goin’ to hurt ’em,” said the ragman and very much pleased to think he didn’t have to get his fat body down to pick up the snips.

Phronsie, who was busy as a bee, picking up the smallest pieces and carrying them one at a time to tuck in the bag, was suddenly interrupted by Joel calling out, “Look at Phron!” Then he burst out into a laugh.

“Hush!” said Polly, warningly; “oh, Joey, how could you?” for Phronsie suddenly deserted her snip of cloth and ran to hide herself in Polly’s arms,--“there, Pet--”

“I didn’t mean to,” cried Joel, with a very red face. Then he threw down his bits of cloth, and raced off to where Polly now sat on the grass with Phronsie on her lap. “Oh, Polly, I didn’t mean to--” and he burst into a loud sob.

When Phronsie found that any one else could feel badly, she lifted her yellow head, and two tears that had made up their minds they were coming out, concluded after all they wouldn’t. “Are you sick, Joey?” she asked, patting his old jacket.

“Now I tell you what, Joel,” said Polly, briskly, “you take hold of Phron’s hand. No--no, Phronsie, Joel isn’t sick. He’s going to take you over to the bag, so you can help him pick them up. And that will be helping good Mr. Beggs, too. You must, Joey,” she whispered in his ear.

So Joel lifted his stubby black head, and when he saw Phronsie with a happy smile and heard her exclaim joyfully, “I’m going to help you, Joey, and good Mr. Beggs, too,” he smiled too, and seized her hand and raced her over to the big bag. And before long with all those brisk little hands, why, how could those snips and bits of Em’line’s wedding gowns do anything but hop back into their bag again. And it was tied tightly together with the old strings, each of the children having a turn at pulling the knot fast, and then Mr. Beggs tossed it up to the top of his red cart. “There, I guess ye won’t come down agin, till I take ye down,” he said.

“Now you’re all safe,” exclaimed Polly, happily, looking up at it, and bobbing her head at the big bump where it had settled, “and you can’t come down again.”

“You can’t come down again,” shouted Joel, dancing a jig around the red cart.

“You can’t come down again,” sang little Davie, flying away after him, and then Phronsie had to pipe it out, as she picked up her red gown to make a cheese in the road.

“And I’m sure I’m obleeged to all ye children,” said Mr. Beggs.

“You took them to ride--” said Polly; “oh, Mr. Beggs, you are so very good!”

“You took us to ride,” said Joel and Davie together. “And can I go again?” begged Joel, racing up to clutch his arm.

“Oh, Joel, for shame!” cried Polly, her cheeks very rosy.

But Mr. Beggs only laughed--“Yes, _sir--ee_--I ain’t comin’ this way this summer agin, but sometime ye may. Well, thank ye all for pickin’ up them pieces.”

“I picked up, too,” announced Phronsie, who, seeing all the others around Mr. Beggs, concluded not to make any more cheeses. So she got up, and spatted her hands together to get off the dirt, and made her way over to the group. “I picked up, too--I did--”

“That’s a fact,” Mr. Beggs bowed his old straw hat solemnly. Then he said, “I wonder, now, if there ain’t somethin’ in my cart that’s just waitin’ to hop out an’ stay with you.” And he threw open the door of the cart to that beautiful shining array.

“Oh--oh!” they all crowded around, Joel getting dreadfully in the way, until Mr. Beggs lifted Phronsie up and set her on his knee. “Now, then, I wonder what you’d like, little gal?”

“Are you going to give it to her to keep?” screamed Joel, looking up into the ragman’s face.

Mr. Beggs bowed again solemnly.

“To keep always?” cried Joel, not believing his ears.

“Yes, forever an’ ever. Amen,” said Mr. Beggs.

“Oh, hooray!” screamed Joel. Polly, scarcely less excited, held her breath, unable to speak, while little David panted out, “Oh!” Phronsie was the only one able to gaze unmoved at the beautiful shining things.

“I guess this is about th’ best thing for a little gal about your size,” said Mr. Beggs at last, and reaching with his long arm over Phronsie’s head into the interior of the cart, he brought out the little tin plate with big letters all around its edge, from the corner just where Mrs. Hinman had thrown it, and put it into her hand. “There, that’s for you,” he said.

But it took some time to make Phronsie believe that the little tin plate was really and truly hers. When she did, she sat down on the grass by the side of the road, holding it tightly with both hands, and Mr. Beggs looked back from the top of his red cart, the last thing before he turned the corner of the road, to see her sitting there.

IV

IN DEACON BLODGETT’S BARN

“Yes, you must come, Joe; so hurry up.”

Ben slipped the last spoonful of mush and molasses into his mouth and pushed back his chair.

“Oh, I don’t want to,” whined Joel, scraping his saucer, violently. “Polly, I’m awful hungry.”

“Oh, you can’t be, Joe,” said Polly, hurrying off with her hands full of dishes to be washed; “you’ve had two big saucers full.”

“They weren’t full,” said Joel, with an injured air, “only up to there,” rapping his spoon against the side of the saucer. “See, Polly, only just that much.”

“Well, that’s full,” said Polly, peering back over her armful. “If you put any more in, you’d splash over the molasses.”

“I wouldn’t splash molasses,” declared Joel, on a high key, “and I’m awful hungry.”

“Do say ‘awfully,’ Joe,” corrected Polly, with a little wrinkle in her brow.

“And you’ve just got to come along,” said Ben, with a pat on his shoulder that meant it. “See Davie! Aren’t you ashamed, Joe!”

Little David had laid down his spoon on hearing Ben, and, slipping off from his chair, was now over by the door, waiting.

“Oh, Davie,” cried Polly, with a glance at his saucer of mush, as she set down her load by the waiting dish-pan, “you haven’t finished your breakfast. Wait a minute for him, Ben.” And she ran over to the door. “Come, Davie.”

“I don’t want it,” said little Davie; “truly, I don’t, Polly.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” contradicted Polly, taking hold of his jacket. “Come back and finish your mush.”

“I wish I could have some more,” said Joel, enviously, as David, with one eye on Ben, who stood cap in hand, sat down again and made his spoon fly briskly.

“Don’t eat so fast,” said Polly; “misery me! You’ll choke yourself. No, no, Davie,” as David pushed his saucer over toward Joel. “Joey’s had enough.”

“I haven’t had near enough,” declared Joel, stoutly.

“Well, you aren’t going to have any more,” declared Polly, decidedly. “Davie must eat all that up, else he can’t go and help Ben.”

So Joel, seeing he was not to get any more breakfast, flung himself on the old kitchen floor and waved his legs in the air, shouting to Davie to hurry up at every spoonful. Until at last, his face quite red, and swallowing the last morsel, Davie hopped off from his chair and ran over to Ben. “I’m through,” he announced happily.

“That’s a good boy,” said Ben, approvingly. “Now, then, we’re off.”

Seeing this, Joel took down his legs from the air, and hopped up, racing after them, and banging the door as he went.

“O dear me!” cried Polly, in vexation, “now Joel’s forgotten to take the molasses can.” Then she rushed over to a corner of the kitchen where Joel had thrown it. It was his turn to-day to take it to the store, to be filled, on the way to Deacon Blodgett’s, where the boys were to work. Then on the way home it was to be called for, all ready with a fresh supply for breakfasts in the Little Brown House.

“Where are you going, Polly?” It was Mother Pepper’s voice from the bedroom, where she was getting off Phronsie’s soiled little pinafore, down which trailed a sticky stream of molasses.

“Oh, Joe’s forgotten the molasses can, Mamsie,” called back Polly, and starting on a run after the boys; “Jo-_el_!” she called, racing down the path. But Ben, who hated above all things to be late to his work, was hauling them along at a pretty pace. And the wind carried away her voice, so they didn’t hear.

“O dear me!--well, I don’t care,” gasped Polly, feeling every nerve tingle with delight in her healthy little body as she sped on, “if I don’t catch up with them at all. If I only could work at Deacon Blodgett’s,” she mourned, at the thought of the old dish-pan and the hateful tasks indoors that awaited her at home, where she would be cooped up all day. But she couldn’t even reach Deacon Blodgett’s, for just then Ben turned.

“My goodness me!” as he spied her.

“It’s the molasses can,” panted Polly, her brown hair flying, and swinging it at them as she raced up. “Joel forgot it--”

“Oh, Joe, how could you?” began Ben, reproachfully, as the two little boys whirled about on the road.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Joel, digging his rusty little shoe into the dirt, while his fingers worked nervously together, and his face got very red.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Polly, wiping her hot face. “It was good to run;” while Ben took the molasses can with a “Here, Joe.”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Joel, over again, and taking the can; “I didn’t, Polly, truly.”

“Oh, I know it,” said Polly, smiling at him.

“Well, come along now,” said Ben, beginning to stride off faster than ever to make up for lost time. So little David, divided between sorrow for Polly having such a long hot walk, and fear that Joel was going to cry, ran by the big brother’s side, doing his best to keep up with him.

Joel, on the other side of Ben, hurried on, clutching the molasses can, to the turn in the road; then he suddenly spun around, and dashed back after Polly’s fleeting footsteps.

“Wait!” he wailed. But Polly, all her thoughts intent on getting back to those waiting dishes,--for Mamsie might stop and do them, oh, dreadful thought!--was going at her best pace. And presently Polly dashed up through the old gateway, up the path and over the flat door-stone, and after her Joel as hard as he could run.

“Oh, my goodness me, Joe!” she cried, and then she sat right down on the big old stone. “What have you come back home for?”

“I’m sor-ry, Polly,” panted Joel, stumbling up to fling himself, molasses can and all, in her lap. “O dear me!--Boo--hoo--hoo! I didn’t--didn’t--” He couldn’t get any further, for the tears rained all down his round, hot cheeks.

“Oh, hush--Mamsie will hear you,” warned Polly, in great distress and lifting his stubby black head. “Oh, misery me, Joe, how you look!” For Joe’s face was streaked from top to bottom where his grimy little hands had frantically tried to wipe away the tears, a few drops from the molasses can oozing out as he had bumped it up and down in his mad run, adding themselves to the general effect. “Now you must come right around to the ‘Provision-Room’ door, and I’ll bring out a wet towel and wash you up; for it will worry Mamsie dreadfully to think you didn’t stay with Ben.”

“I don’t want to be washed up,” began Joel, perfectly overcome with all this dreadful accumulation of woe, most of which was now the fear of Mamsie’s being worried.

“Well, you are going to be,” declared Polly, getting off from the door-stone; “the very idea, Joel Pepper; such a sight as you are! Just think of going down to Deacon Blodgett’s in that way.” So Polly hurried into the house, and Joel crept miserably around its corner, and presently out through the “Provision-Room” door, there she was, towel in hand, and in less time than it takes to tell it, there he was, too, his round face all red and shining and spick-span clean.

“Now, Joe,” said Polly, setting a kiss on each red cheek, “you run right straight down to Deacon Blodgett’s like a good boy, and don’t forget to leave the molasses can at Mr. Atkins’s,--and don’t bump it.”

“I’m sorry,” began Joel, beginning again on what he had come back to say.

“Well, you’ve said that ever so many times,” said Polly, “so don’t say it again; only run along, because just think now you’ve been naughty to run away from Ben and Davie.”

So Joel, feeling as if things that he’d got to be sorry for were piling up too fast for his taste, gulped down his sobs, and started off, this time holding the old molasses can up high with both hands.

“O dear me!” cried Polly to herself, “now he’ll tumble on his nose, I know. Joe--don’t do so,” she screamed after him.

But as well try to stop the wind. And at last, Joel had put the molasses can on the counter of Mr. Atkins’s shop, and sped out again, wild to get to the work at Deacon Blodgett’s that now seemed the loveliest thing in the world for a boy to do.

Ben turned a disapproving glance on him as he panted into the barn.

“Davie is up in the loft,” he said. “He’s picking over the nails. You go up and help him, Joe.”

“I’m sorry,” gasped Joel, flinging himself up against Ben sawing away for dear life on some hickory sticks.

“Take care--well, I sh’d think you would be, Joe, running off like that,” said Ben, not stopping his work an instant.

“O dear--dear!” Joel twisted his small fists into his eyes, whirling around so that Ben might not see him. And catching sight of this, Ben threw down the saw, thinking, “I’ll tell Deacon Blodgett I stopped a bit”--and the next thing Joel knew he had two strong hands on his shoulders and he was spun about again.

“Now, says I,” exclaimed Ben, “what’s it all about, Joel?”

So the whole story came out, and at the end Joel scampered up over the crooked stairs to the loft where little Davie, trembling first because Joel had run away and then much worse because he had come back, and something dreadful seemed to be the matter, was suddenly pounced upon where he sat sorting out a big box of nails.

“I’ve come back!” announced Joel, in the most cheerful of tones, and dropping to the floor by Davie’s side.

David gave a little scream of delight, and throwing his arms around Joel, upset the big box and away flew half of the nails, crooked and straight in the greatest confusion.

“There--now you see,” cried Joel, springing after them, and succeeding in overturning the box again, thereby spilling out the most of the remainder.

“Oh, I’ll pick ’em up,” exclaimed Davie, in a transport, his little hands trembling in his efforts to recover them. Since Joel had come back, the whole world might be upset and it wouldn’t be any matter.

“So will I,” cried Joel, pawing wildly about in the straw scattered on the floor. So the two boys worked like everything, and presently were obliged to say that they had found all that they possibly could. And then setting the big box carefully between them, they set to work sorting out the good nails from the crooked ones.

“They’re ’most all crooked,” observed Joel, shifting a handful in one grimy little palm, and peering into the big box.

“There’s some good ones,” said little Davie, carefully picking out one as he spoke.

“I wish we could have the crooked ones,” said Joel. “P’r’aps Deacon Blodgett’ll give ’em to us. I mean to ask him.”

“Oh, no, you mustn’t, Joe,” cried little David, in alarm; “you know Mamsie told us never to ask for things.”

“Well, I’ll tell him we want ’em,” said Joel, patting a long crooked nail fondly before he laid it aside, “to build our rabbit-house with.” The Pepper boys had never had a rabbit, nor was there any expectation that they ever would possess one, but since Joel had said they ought to get a house ready, and perhaps then a rabbit would come, little Davie had worked as hard as he could to achieve it. Every bit of board was saved, and there were not many, because Polly had to have all that would burn nicely in the stove, of course. But, O joy!--Mr. Atkins, the storekeeper, finding all this out one day, presented the boys with some old boxes. Nails were the hardest things to get, and every stray one that came in their way was hoarded as a great treasure. But they came in very slowly. And now here was the Blodgett big box, and Joel was not to ask for a single crooked one!

“No, no, no!” Little Davie dropped his work to bring his hot face over towards Joel’s. “You mustn’t tell him, Joel; Mamsie wouldn’t like it.”

“That isn’t asking,” said Joel, bobbing his black head obstinately, and picking away furiously at the assortment of nails in his hand.

“Yes, it is,” said little Davie. “Oh, you mustn’t do it, Joe.”

“No, it isn’t either,” contradicted Joel, “and I shall tell him all about our rabbit-house, Dave. So there, now.”

“Then I don’t want any rabbit,” declared Davie, slipping back to his place on the floor, and wringing his hands.

“_Not want any rabbit!_” reiterated Joel, in amazement, and letting the nails stream through his fingers.

“No, I don’t,” said Davie, quite pale and sitting very still, “want any rabbit at all, Joel.”

“Then I don’t want any nails,” roared Joel,--“not a single smitch of a one.”

“Oh, I am so glad,” said little Davie, his pale face breaking into a smile, “’cause then, Mamsie won’t be sorry, Joel. She won’t, really.”

“And you’ll want a rabbit?” cried Joel, hanging on Davie’s lips.

“Yes, I will,” nodded David, “very much, if you won’t want the nails, Joel.”

“I won’t want one of the old nails,” said Joel, diving vigorously into the box-depths for a fresh handful.

“Boys!” called Ben, from below, “are you working up there?”

“Yes,” screamed Joel, quickly, and picking at the nails with all his might.

But little David’s fingers got in each other’s way so much, over this new panic, started by Ben’s voice, that he made very little headway, and mixed up the pile of nails dreadfully.

“You’re putting in crooked ones,” said Joel, twitching out one from the straight specimens. “Hah,--Hoh, just see that, Dave Pepper!”

“O dear me!” exclaimed poor little David, quite overcome with mortification.

“I’ll pick ’em out,” said Joel, generously. “There,--there ain’t a single bad one in, now.”

So David, after assuring himself that this was really so, began to breathe easily once more, and the two pairs of small fingers kept busily on at their task, till the first thing they knew, heavy steps were heard ascending the crooked stairs and a long face appeared, its keen gray eyes spying them at once.

“Well, boys!” said Mrs. Blodgett, walking along the floor of the loft, “now you must come in to dinner.”