What Katy Did - Susan Coolidge (most read books of all time .TXT) 📗

well as not. And Elsie, dear, run into papa’s room first, and bring me the drawer out of his table. I want to put that in order myself.”

Elsie went cheerfully. She laid the drawer across Katy’s lap, and Katy began to dust and arrange the contents. Pretty soon Clover joined them.

“Here’s the cushion,” she said. “Now we’ll have a nice quiet time all by ourselves, won’t we? I like this sort of day, when nobody comes in to interrupt us.”

Somebody tapped at the door, as she spoke. Katy called out, “Come!” And in marched a tall, broad-shouldered lad, with a solemn, sensible face, and a little clock carried carefully in both his hands. This was Dorry. He has grown and improved very much since we saw him last, and is turning out clever in several ways. Among the rest, he has developed a strong turn for mechanics.

“Here’s your clock, Katy,” he said. “I’ve got it fixed so that it strikes all right. Only you must be careful not to hit the striker when you start the pendulum.”

“Have you, really?” said Katy. “Why, Dorry, you’re a genius! I’m ever so much obliged.”

“It’s four minutes to eleven now,” went on Dorry. “So it’ll strike pretty soon. I guess I’d better stay and hear it, so as to be sure that it is right. That is,” he added politely, “unless you’re busy, and would rather not.”

“I’m never too busy to want you, old fellow,” said Katy, stroking his arm. “Here, this drawer is arranged now. Don’t you want to carry it into Papa’s room and put it back into the table? Your hands are stronger than Elsie’s.”

Dorry looked gratified. When he came back the clock was just beginning to strike.

“There!” he exclaimed; “that’s splendid, isn’t it?”

But alas! the clock did not stop at eleven. It went on—Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen!

“Dear me!” said Clover, “what does all this mean? It must be day after to-morrow, at least.”

Dorry stared with open mouth at the clock, which was still striking as though it would split its sides. Elsie, screaming with laughter, kept count.

“Thirty, Thirty-one—Oh, Dorry! Thirty-two! Thirty-three! Thirty-four!”

“You’ve bewitched it, Dorry!” said Katy, as much entertained as the rest.

Then they all began counting. Dorry seized the clock—shook it, slapped it, turned it upside-down. But still the sharp, vibrating sounds continued, as if the clock, having got its own way for once, meant to go on till it was tired out. At last, at the one-hundred-and-thirtieth stroke, it suddenly ceased; and Dorry, with a red, amazed countenance, faced the laughing company.

“It’s very queer,” he said, “but I’m sure it’s not because of anything I did. I can fix it, though, if you’ll let me try again. May I, Katy? I’ll promise not to hurt it.”

For a moment Katy hesitated. Clover pulled her sleeve, and whispered, “Don’t!” Then seeing the mortification on Dorry’s face, she made up her mind.

“Yes! take it, Dorry. I’m sure you’ll be careful. But if I were you, I’d carry it down to Wetherell’s first of all, and talk it over with them. Together you could hit on just the right thing. Don’t you think so?”

“Perhaps,” said Dorry; “yes, I think I will.” Then he departed with the clock under his arm, while Clover called after him teasingly, “Lunch at 132 o’clock; don’t forget!”

“No, I won’t!” said Dorry. Two years before he would not have borne to be laughed at so good-naturedly.

“How could you let him take your clock again?” said Clover, as soon as the door was shut. “He’ll spoil it. And you think so much of it.”

“I thought he would feel mortified if I didn’t let him try,” replied Katy, quietly, “I don’t believe he’ll hurt it. Wetherell’s man likes Dorry, and he’ll show him what to do.”

“You were real good to do it,” responded Clover; “but if it had been mine I don’t think I could.”

Just then the door flew open, and Johnnie rushed in, two years taller, but otherwise looking exactly as she used to do.

“Oh, Katy!” she gasped, “won’t you please tell Philly not to wash the chickens in the rain-water tub? He’s put in every one of Speckle’s, and is just beginning on Dame Durden’s. I’m afraid one little yellow one is dead already—”

“Why, he mustn’t—of course he mustn’t!” said Katy; “what made him think of such a thing?”

“He says they’re dirty, because they’ve just come out of egg-shells! And he insists that the yellow on them is yolk-of-egg. I told him it wasn’t, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” And Johnnie wrung her hands.

“Clover!” cried Katy, “won’t you run down and ask Philly to come up to me? Speak pleasantly, you know!”

“I spoke pleasantly—real pleasantly, but it wasn’t any use,” said Johnnie, on whom the wrongs of the chicks had evidently made a deep impression.

“What a mischief Phil is getting to be!” said Elsie. “Papa says his name ought to be Pickle.”

“Pickles turn out very nice sometimes, you know,” replied Katy, laughing.

Pretty soon Philly came up, escorted by Clover. He looked a little defiant, but Katy understood how to manage him. She lifted him into her lap, which, big boy as he was, he liked extremely; and talked to him so affectionately about the poor little shivering chicks, that his heart was quite melted.

“I didn’t mean to hurt ‘em, really and truly,” he said, “but they were all dirty and yellow—with egg, you know, and I thought you’d like me to clean ‘em up.”

“But that wasn’t egg, Philly—it was dear little clean feathers, like a canary-bird’s wings.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. And now the chickies are as cold and forlorn as you would feel if you tumbled into a pond and nobody gave you any dry clothes. Don’t you think you ought to go and warm them?”

“How?”

“Well—in your hands, very gently. And then I would let them run round in the sun.”

“I will!” said Philly, getting down from her lap. “Only kiss me first, because I didn’t mean to, you know!”—Philly was very fond of Katy. Miss Petingill said it was wonderful to see how that child let himself be managed. But I think the secret was that Katy didn’t “manage,” but tried to be always kind and loving, and considerate of Phil’s feelings.

Before the echo of Phil’s boots had fairly died away on the stairs, old Mary put her head into the door. There was a distressed expression on her face.

“Miss Katy,” she said, “I wish you’d speak to Alexander about putting the woodshed in order. I don’t think you know how bad it looks.”

“I don’t suppose I do,” said Katy, smiling, and then sighing. She had never seen the woodshed since the day of her fall from the swing. “Never mind, Mary, I’ll talk to Alexander about it, and he shall make it all nice.”

Mary trotted down stairs satisfied. But in the course of a few minutes she was up again.

“There’s a man come with a box of soap, Miss Katy, and here’s the bill. He says it’s resated.”

It took Katy a little time to find her purse, and then she wanted her pencil and account book, and Elsie had to move from her seat at the table.

“Oh dear!” she said, “I wish people wouldn’t keep coming and interrupting us. Who’ll be the next, I wonder?”

She was not left to wonder long. Almost as she spoke, there was another knock at the door.

“Come in!” said Katy, rather wearily. The door opened.

“Shall I?” said a voice. There was a rustle of skirts, a clatter of boot-heels, and Imogen Clark swept into the room. Katy could not think who it was, at first. She had not seen Imogen for almost two years.

“I found the front door open,” explained Imogen, in her high-pitched voice, “and as nobody seemed to hear when I rang the bell, I ventured to come right up stairs. I hope I’m not interrupting anything private?”

“Not at all,” said Katy, politely. “Elsie, dear, move up that low chair, please. Do sit down, Imogen! I’m sorry nobody answered your ring, but the servants are cleaning house to-day, and I suppose they didn’t hear.”

So Imogen sat down and began to rattle on in her usual manner, while Elsie, from behind Katy’s chair, took a wide-awake survey of her dress. It was of cheap material, but very gorgeously made and trimmed, with flounces and puffs, and Imogen wore a jet necklace and long black earrings, which jingled and clicked when she waved her head about. She still had the little round curls stuck on to her cheeks, and Elsie wondered anew what kept them in their places.

By and by the object of Imogen’s visit came out. She had called to say good-by. The Clark family were all going back to Jacksonville to live.

“Did you ever see the Brigand again?” asked Clover, who had never forgotten that eventful tale told in the parlor.

“Yes,” replied Imogen, “several times. And I get letters from him quite often. He writes beautiful letters. I wish I had one with me, so that I could read you a little bit. You would enjoy it, I know. Let me see—perhaps I have.” And she put her hand into her pocket. Sure enough there was a letter. Clover couldn’t help suspecting that Imogen knew it all the time.

The Brigand seemed to write a bold, black hand, and his note-paper and envelope was just like anybody else’s. But perhaps his band had surprised a pedlar with a box of stationery.

“Let me see,” said Imogen, running her eye down the page. “‘Adored Imogen’—that wouldn’t interest you—hm, hm, hm—ah, here’s something! ‘I took dinner at the Rock House on Christmas. It was lonesome without you. I had roast turkey, roast goose, roast beef, mince pie, plum pudding, and nuts and raisins. A pretty good dinner, was it not? But nothing tastes first-rate when friends are away.’”

Katy and Clover stared, as well they might. Such language from a Brigand!

“John Billings has bought a new horse,” continued Imogen; “hm, hm, hm—him. I don’t think there is anything else you’d care about. Oh, yes! just here, at the end, is some poetry:

“‘Come, little dove, with azure wing, And brood upon my breast,’

“That’s sweet, ain’t it?”

“Hasn’t he reformed?” said Clover; “he writes as if he had.”

“Reformed!” cried Imogen, with a toss of the jingling earrings. “He was always just as good as he could be!”

There was nothing to be said in reply to this. Katy felt her lips twitch, and for fear she should be rude, and laugh out, she began to talk as fast as she could about something else. All the time she found herself taking measure of Imogen, and thinking—“Did I ever really like her? How queer! Oh, what a wise man Papa is!”

Imogen stayed half an hour. Then she took her leave.

“She never asked how you were!” cried Elsie, indignantly; “I noticed, and she didn’t—not once.”

“Oh well—I suppose she forgot. We were talking about her, not about me,” replied Katy.

The little group settled down again to their work. This time half an hour went by without any more interruptions. Then the door bell rang, and Bridget, with a disturbed face, came up stairs.

“Miss Katy,” she said, “it’s old Mrs. Worrett, and I reckon’s she’s come to spend the day, for she’s brought her bag. What ever shall I tell her?”

Katy looked dismayed. “Oh dear!” she said, “how unlucky. What can we do?”

Mrs. Worrett was an old friend of Aunt Izzie’s, who lived in the country, about six miles from Burnet, and was in the habit of coming to Dr. Carr’s for lunch, on days when shopping or