Black, White and Gray - Amy Walton (online e book reader TXT) 📗

said; "that's as straight as I can make it."

"I don't see why you took so much trouble over it," said Philippa; "it wasn't your fault--it was the kitten's."

"Well, the kitten couldn't put it straight," replied Maisie. "It wasn't half so mischievous as Darkie at home, but I expect it feels strange here just at first. When it gets to know you, it won't be so naughty."

She looked a little anxiously at the kitten, who was purring contentedly in Philippa's arms.

"I hope," she added, "it will be a nice, well-behaved cat when it grows up."

"It _ought_ to be the nicest of the three," said Philippa; "that's very certain."

"Why?" asked Maisie.

"Well, you see," said Philippa, with her chin in the air, "it will have such advantages here. It will sleep on my bed, and have cream for its tea, and it will always wear a lovely ribbon on its neck, or perhaps a collar with a bell. And it will have nothing to do but play, and never be with common, low people."

Maisie looked thoughtful.

"The grey kitten's very nice and affectionate," she said, "though it isn't pretty. It won't have advantages though, because it's got to go and do hard work."

"What hard work?" asked Philippa.

"It's going to catch mice for old Sally's Eliza," replied Maisie, "so of course it can't sleep in any one's bed--it will have to be up all night. And I don't suppose it will have meals exactly except what it picks up. And I'm _sure_ it won't wear a collar and a bell, because that would frighten the mice away."

"Blanche will be better off than that," said Philippa; "she'll be a lady."

"We shall be able to see, shan't we," said Maisie, "what sort of cats they are when they grow up. And then we can settle which is the best-- Darkie, or Blanche, or the grey one."

"What do you mean by the best?" said Philippa. "Do you mean the prettiest?"

"Oh dear, no," said Maisie. She pondered the question for some minutes, and then added seriously: "I mean the one that's the greatest comfort to the person it belongs to."


CHAPTER FIVE.

THE ROUND ROBIN.

And now that the white kitten was settled in its new home, the time was come for the departure of the grey one, and the day fixed when it should be taken to old Sally's cottage. Maisie felt the parting a good deal, for it seemed to her that it was a very small weak thing to be sent out into the world to earn its living. It would have a very different life to Darkie and Blanche. They could dwell at ease, and need never catch mice except for their own pleasure; but the grey kitten had really hard work before it, and most likely would never be petted again after it left Fieldside. Maisie wondered whether the old cat, Madam, to whom she carefully explained everything, was at all worried and anxious about her children; but if so, she hid her feelings very well. Certainly she looked about a little after the white kitten had gone, and mewed once or twice in an inquiring sort of way, but she did not refuse comfort. On the contrary, when Maisie offered her some fish to distract her mind from her loss, she gobbled it up rather greedily, and even Darkie could not push his round head far into the dish.

"I expect," said Maisie, "if Madam could choose, she'd much rather send Darkie away and keep the grey one; Darkie bothers her so."

It was just after lesson time, and the children were making preparations to start with the kitten for old Sally's cottage. Dennis was tying down the lid of a small hamper, and Maisie stood near, peeping through the crevices to see whether the kitten was comfortable.

"There," said Dennis, as he tied the last knot; "I'm glad it's we that have got to choose, and not Madam, I wouldn't keep this mean-looking kitten for anything. Now Darkie will be a splendid cat."

"Let me carry it," said Maisie eagerly, and hugging the little basket with both arms, she followed Dennis rather sorrowfully out of the door which the kitten was not to enter again.

"I _do_ hope," she said on the way, "that they'll be kind to it."

"Oh, of course they will," said Dennis; "don't you remember old Sally said Eliza was quite silly over animals. That meant kind--extra kind."

Old Sally and her daughter Anne were busy when the children arrived, for they had a job of work given to them by Mrs Solace, who wanted some old cushions re-stuffed. On opening these, they had found that feathers instead of down had been used, and they both had a great deal to say on the subject. It was, however, almost impossible to talk without coughing and choking, for their cottage was quite full of fluff and feathers floating about in the air. The children stood in the doorway, and explained their errand as well as they could.

"They've brought the kitten, mother," screamed Anne.

Old Sally had just re-filled a cushion, and was holding it before her at arm's-length.

"Is it fat enough?" she screamed back at her daughter.

"It isn't fat at all," said Maisie, who with Dennis was untying the hamper; "it's a thin little kitten, but it's very good."

"Dear Miss Maisie," said Anne, with a chuckling laugh, "it's the cushion mother means, not the cat."

What with old Sally's deafness, and the increasing thickness of the air, in which the two old figures were dimly seen as through a woolly veil, conversation was really impossible. There were many questions Maisie would have liked to ask about the kitten's future comfort, but she saw that they would be useless; so she contented herself with quietly saying good-bye to her favourite, and dropping a few secret tears over it. Dennis, however, had made up his mind to know one thing, and he advanced a little way into the cottage, and shouted: "Is Tuvvy at work to-day?"

Anne was seen indistinctly to nod in answer to this. "He's got the sack, though," she said. "He won't be there not after next week."

The blow had fallen! Both the children left the cottage in low spirits, and for some time walked along in silence; Maisie grieving for the kitten, and Dennis with his mind full of Tuvvy's disgrace. He had so hoped Mr Solace would not send him away. And now the worst had come, and soon there would be no Tuvvy in the barn.

They had reached the middle of the rick-yard, and Maisie was casting her usual anxious glances round for the turkey-cock, when Dennis came to a sudden stop, and exclaimed:

"I know what I'll do!"

"What?" said Maisie, looking at him inquiringly. She wished he would not stand still just there, but he spoke in such a determined manner that she knew it must be something important; so she stood still too, and waited for him to speak.

"I shall go and ask Mr Solace to let Tuvvy stop," he said.

Maisie's look changed to one of admiration, and almost of awe. "Shall you, really?" she said softly. "Do you think he will?"

"I don't know," replied Dennis, beginning to walk on very quickly, "but I shall try to make him."

"But," said Maisie, after a minute's thought, "wouldn't it be best to ask Tuvvy first to leave off having bouts?"

Although she was a girl, and younger than himself, Dennis was quite ready to acknowledge that Maisie had very sensible ideas sometimes. He now stopped again, and stared at her. It would certainly be better to get Tuvvy's promise first, but he felt he must carry out the interview alone.

"Well," he said slowly, "if I do, where will you wait? I couldn't do it with you listening. Will you go back to old Sally's?"

But that, Maisie, remembering the fluff, quite refused to do. She would go and see Mrs Solace, she said, and this being settled, she went towards the house, and Dennis turned to the barn where Tuvvy worked.

As he entered, and saw the familiar thin figure bending over the carpenter's bench, he felt excited and nervous. How should he begin? As a rule, he did not talk much during these visits, and that made it more difficult now. He took his usual seat on a chopping-block near, and Tuvvy, after giving him one rapid sidelong glance, continued his work without speaking. He was making a ladder, and just now was arranging a heap of smoothly-turned rungs in neat rows. Dennis thought he had a rather shamefaced air, like the dog Peter when he knew he had done wrong. It was of no use to wait for him to make a remark, so he said carelessly:

"Is that going to be a long ladder?"

"Pretty tol'rable, master," answered Tuvvy, his long lean fingers moving nimbly amongst the pieces of wood.

"Shall you finish it in a week?" was Dennis's next question.

Tuvvy's dark eyes flashed round at him for a second, but he only answered, "Pretty nigh."

Dennis was silent for a little while. Then he gathered his courage for a great effort, for he felt that it was of no use to beat about the bush any longer.

"Mr Tuvvy," he said, "I'm so sorry you're going away."

"Thank ye, master," said Tuvvy; "so be I."

"Why do you?" asked Dennis.

"'Cause the gaffer sacked me," answered Tuvvy.

"But," said Dennis, his courage rising, now that he had got into the thick of it, "he wouldn't want you to go if he could help it. You're a clever workman, aren't you?"

"Folks say so," answered Tuvvy modestly.

"Well," said Dennis, "I mean to ask him to let you stop. Only you must promise me first not to have any more bouts."

Tuvvy was so taken by surprise, that he stopped working and turned his whole face round upon Dennis, who sat, an upright little figure, on the chopping-block, with a flushed and eager face.

"Thank ye kindly, master," he said, after a moment's survey; "you mean well, but 'tain't no use."

"Why not?" asked Dennis, in a resolute voice.

"I couldn't keep that there promise," said Tuvvy, "not if I was to make it. There's times when I can't get past the Cross Keys; I'm drawed into it."

"Why do you pass it, then?" asked Dennis.

"I don't pass it, master, worse luck. I go in."

"But I mean," said Dennis, getting still redder in the face with the effort to explain himself, "why do you go by the Cross Keys at all?"

"Well, I have to," said Tuvvy, "twice in the day. Once of a morning and once of a evening. I live at Upwell, you see, master."

Dennis had never known or cared where Tuvvy lived, and indeed it hardly seemed natural to think of him in any other place than at work in the barn. It was odd to think he had a home in Upwell.

"Then," he said thoughtfully, "you have to walk more than two miles each way."

"All that," said Tuvvy--"more like three."