"Does she have them often?" interrupted John gravely.

"Quite frequent." "'Aug. 3, Mister Vedder, Ticket Seller to the Theayter. 1 doller. Pade.' He wore it to a sheet and piller case party.

I didn't want fer to take nuthin' from him, cause he give us money when we hed the fever, but he wouldn't hev it that way.

"'Aug. 5. Pete Noyes. Gum.' He's the boy what sells gum to the theayter.

He was agoin' to a party whar you hev to be the name of a book. He wore the surplus so his name was the Little Minister. We took it out in gum-- spruce and pepsin. Iry swallered his'n every time, and Miss Hudgers was afeard he'd be stuck together inside.

"'Aug. 9-23. Vawdevil Theayter. 5 dollers. Pade.' They put it on fer a sketch.

"'Aug. 25. Mister Cotter. 25 cents. Pade.' He's a brakeman friend of the Boarder. He wore it to a maskyrade.

"'Aug. 27. Poleece. 35 cents. Pade.'"

"Police!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed John faintly.

"Some one swiped it offen our clo'es-line, and when the police ketched the thief, we was subpenyed, or ma was. She got thirty-five cents, and all on us 'cept Iry went to hear her."

"'Aug, 29. Bishop Thurber. 5 dollers. Pade.'"

"Bishop Thurber!" the name was repeated with the force of an expletive.

"Seems to mind that more'n he did the police," thought Amarilly.

"It's quite a story," she explained, "and though it was orful at the beginnin' it come out all right, jest as the plays all do. I jest thought, I shouldn't hev put that down in the account, cause we give back the five, so we didn't make nuthin' in a way. We wuz dead broke. I suppose," she ruminated, "you don't know jest how orful it is to be that."

"I don't, Amarilly, from my own experience," replied John sympathetically, "but I can imagine how terrible it must be, and I am very sorry--"

"Well, as long as it come out all right, it don't make no difference.

We'd got to pay our rent or else git put out, and I was up a stump till the Boarder said to tackle a p.a.w.nshop. I didn't hev nuthin' but the surplus to p.a.w.n, and I hated to p.a.w.n it on your account."

"I don't care, my child," was the fervent a.s.surance, "where you took it as long as it helped you in your troubles."

"Well, I was in a p.a.w.nshop, and the man was holdin' it up, and the bishop went by, and when he seen what it was he come in, and asked me all about it, and I told him. He took it worse than you do that I would p.a.w.n it, and to save it he lent me five dollers. Course I made him take the surplus till I hed the money to git it outen hock, and when we was able to pay fer it, Bud went arter it. Thar was a boy practicin' at the church next door, and he warn't singin' it right, and Bud he couldn't keep still noway, so he up and sings the soler, and when the man at the orgin hearn him, he fired the boy what was tryin' to sing, and hired Bud in his place. He's agoin' to sing to a recital at Grace Church day arter to-morrer, and git ten dollers. And we air goin' to make Bud bank all he gits cause he ain't so strong as the rest of us. He may need it some time. That's all the places the surplus went to. I guess I'll go outen the costumin' business now, 'cause I'll be startin' in with Mr. Derry soon."

CHAPTER XVI

There was one little ominous cloud in the serene sky of Mrs. Jenkins's happiness. She had nothing suitable for the occasion of the organ recital in the way of wearing apparel.

"I feel as if gloves was due you, Bud," she lamented, "but I kin't afford 'em. I guess I kin put my hands under my mantilly, though, and folks won't know."

"She'd orter hev 'em, and she'd orter hev a new hat, too," reflected Bud, and his song became a requiem. He manfully resolved to sacrifice his future to present needs and curtail the laundry fund. After some meditation he called upon the bishop, and asked if he might have an advance of half the amount he would receive for his solo.

The bishop readily a.s.sented, but sought the reason for the request.

"My mother is comin' to the recital, but she ain't got no fixin's. I'm goin' to buy her a hat."

"I am glad you think of your mother, my lad, but it would be well to let some older person select it for you. My housekeeper--"

Bud's refusal was emphatic. He knew the kind of hat his mother wanted, and he had noted her quickly suppressed look of disappointment at the sombre hat donated by Mrs. Hudgers on the day of the police-court attendance.

Upon receiving the five dollars he went directly to the Fashion Emporium, where the windows were filled with a heterogeneous a.s.sortment of gayly trimmed hats, marked enticingly with former and present prices.

"I want a hat kivered with flowers," he announced.

"Who for?" asked the young saleswoman.

"For my mother."

"How would you like a nice flower toque like this?" displaying a headgear of modest forget-me-nots.

"That's all faded. Ain't you got any red flowers? If you haven't, I know a store where they keep 'em."

The girl instantly sacrificed her ideas of what was fitting to the certainty of a sale, and quickly produced a hat of green foliage from which rose long-stemmed, nodding red poppies, "a creation marked down to three-ninety-eight," she informed him.

"That's the kind! I'll take it and a pair of white gloves, too, if you've got some big ones fer a dollar."

Bud hastened home with his purchases. His mother was quite overcome by the sight of such finery.

"I never thought to be dressed up again," she exclaimed on the eventful night, "No one has bought me nuthin' to wear sence your pa died. I feel like I was some one outen a book."

The entire family, save Iry, who was put to bed at a neighbor's, went to the recital. The Boarder took Lily Rose, who was quite fl.u.s.tered at her first appearance with the family.

John and Colette occupied a pew directly opposite the family. Mr. Vedder and Pete were also in attendance.

When the bishop came from the vestry and walked down the aisle to his pew, his eyes fell upon the worn, seamed face of Bud's mother, the weary patient eyes in such odd contrast to the youthful turban with its smartly dancing flowers. Something stirred in his well-regulated heart, and he carefully wiped his gla.s.ses.

At the signal from the choirmaster for the solo of the oratorio, Bud arose. An atom of a boy he looked in the vast, vaulted chancel, and for the first time he knew fear at the thought of singing. It was a terrible thing, after all, to face this sea of staring, dancing people. As lightning reaches to steel, the gay poppies nodding so nervously above his mother's white, anxious face sought the courage place within, and urged him on. He felt himself back in Clothes-line Park, alone with his mother and the blue sky.

The little figure filled itself with a long, deep breath. The high, clear note merged into one with the notes of the chorus. It touched the tones of the accompaniment in harmony true, and swelled into grand, triumphant music.

"He looks like he did arter the fever," thought Amarilly anxiously.

When he came down the aisle with the choir, the ethereal look had left his face, and he was again a happy little boy. He gave his mother a gay nod, and bestowed a wink upon the Boarder. He waited outside and the family wended their way homeward.

There had not been time to bring in the clothes before leaving, but a willing neighborhood had guarded the premises for them, so Clothes-line Park was shrouded in a whiteness that looked ghostly in the moonlight.

They made quite an affair of the evening in honor of Bud's song, and their introduction to Lily Rose. There were fried sausages, coffee, sandwiches, and pork cake.

"The organist told me," announced Bud at supper, "that he was agoin' to train my voice, and I could be soloist at Grace Church and git five dollars a Sunday, and after a while I could git ten."

"You'll be a millynaire," prophesied Bobby in awed tones.

"Guess we'll be on Easy Street now," shouted Cory.

"We won't be nuthin' of the kind," snapped Amarilly. "It's agoin' to all be banked fer Bud."