Old Mr. King was rapidly exclaiming: "No, no; bless you, did you think I'd come at you in such a way? Why, this boy here"--thrusting Joel forward--"has got an invitation for him. Now, then Joel, my boy, speak up."

And Joel did speak up; and in a minute they were all there in the little shop, and the fat grocer was bustling around to work a chair out from behind the counter. But as the big store cat and several parcels were on it, it took a bit of time. Meanwhile, old Mr. King sat down upon a box of soap, while Joel hung over his shoulder.

A woman came in with a jug to be filled with mola.s.ses, and a small girl for a box of matches. But the little grocer told them to wait, and after he had placed the chair and gotten Mr. King off from the soap-box and into it, he bustled to a door at the head of the shop.

"Ma," he cried, putting his head into the room to which it opened, "do you know where Jack is?"

"He's upstairs," said a voice, evidently "Ma's."

"Well, tell him to come down," said the fat grocer.

"All right, Ichabod."

"Jack's to home," announced the grocer, coming back with the air of imparting a piece of news, just as much as if every word had not been heard. "Well, now, Mis. Jones, I'll fill your jug." He took it from her and she settled herself comfortably, during the slow process, to watch the stately, white-haired figure in the chair to her heart's content; her example being followed by the small girl who had, of course, been obliged to wait for the box of matches.

A pair of feet could be heard coming through the room just mentioned.

"I don't know what your Pa wants you for," said a woman's voice; "most likely for an errand."

So Jack, free from his sling, for Doctor Fisher had found him surprisingly quick at recovery, bolted through the doorway, and into the shop, and without a bit of warning brought up against old Mr. Horatio King and Joel.

"Great Scott!" he cried, scared out of his usual shyness.

"Yes," said Joel, sociably bobbing his face into Jack's, "I've come to ask you to supper. Mrs. Sterling told me to, most particularly, you know."

"Dear me, Joe!" exclaimed old Mr. King, "do give it to him more slowly"; for Jack's head of light hair was wagging from one to the other of the visitors in great distress.

"I am," said Joel; "awful slow, Grandpapa."

"It doesn't look much like it," said the old gentleman, bursting into a laugh. The fat grocer over at the mola.s.ses barrel, looked across anxiously at the group, and for once in his life wished Mrs. Jones, although one of his best customers, anywhere but in his shop.

[Ill.u.s.tration: He stood in the middle of the little shop. ]

"Well, try again, Joel," said Mr. King. So Joel began once more, and before long, Jack Parish understood fairly that Mrs. Sterling had actually invited him to supper on the following night with the Comfort committee, just as if he were not the son of Ichabod Parish, the little grocer on Common Street, but were one of the rich boys of Joel Pepper's set.

"Pa," he shouted (he wanted some one of his own family to help understand this puzzle), "do come here."

The fat grocer, hearing this cry, could stand it no longer trying to stamp out his curiosity; so deserting the mola.s.ses barrel and forgetting to turn the spigot, he bore off the jug.

"There, Mis. Jones, there you are"--depositing it with a thump on the counter, and waddled over to his son and the visitors.

When he comprehended the matter, as after an infinite deal of pains he did, his astonishment knew no bounds. It absolutely struck him speechless, and there he stood in the middle of the little shop, lost to the fact that he was a small grocer on an obscure street. He was the father of Jack, hitherto obliged to go with boys of the neighborhood, not of specially nice families, with manners and aims to match, now--oh, joy!--with a chance for something better, that might reach to unknown heights. He might even become an alderman! The little grocer's breast heaved with delight, but even in that blissful moment, his first thought was of his wife.

"Won't your mother be proud, Jack!" he made out to utter.

"Your mola.s.ses is all runnin' out," proclaimed the small girl who was waiting for the box of matches.

And Jack springing to help his father, who bounded to the mola.s.ses barrel, old Mr. King and Joel took themselves off without any further embarra.s.sment to the little grocer, who surely never could in all this world express his grat.i.tude as he wanted to.

"Be at my house to-morrow afternoon, and we'll go over together," said Joel, with longing glances at the center of bustle around the mola.s.ses barrel.

"Oh, Grandpapa, how I do wish I could have staid and helped clean up!" Joel burst out, as they left the shop.

"Oh, my goodness, Joel!" exclaimed old Mr. King; "such a messy job! How can you!"

"It would have been such fun," mourned Joel, wishing he could have free access to just such a small grocer's shop, and thinking that Jack was the luckiest fellow alive.

"When I grow up, I'm going to have a shop like that," he declared, after marching on in silence down the next block and surveying with favor all the surroundings of the narrow street.

"I thought you were going to sell tin, like your Mr. Biggs, of Badgertown,"

said Mr. King mischievously.

Joel hung his head. "I was, but I think a shop would be nicer after all; you can have everything in it, you know, Grandpapa."

"Even mola.s.ses," put in Mr. King. "Well, I wouldn't decide the matter just now, Joel, my boy--which you will be when you are grown up. There's plenty of time yet ahead of you."

Jack Parish, with his hair carefully oiled by his anxious mother, and his very best clothes on, a circ.u.mstance calculated to invest him with dread and rob him of every bit of comfort to begin with, presented himself at Mr.

King's mansion on the next afternoon. His countenance was long, and he looked so worried that Joel, rushing out to meet him, involuntarily e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "Oh, dear me!" in dismay.

After regarding each other uncomfortably for a minute, in which Jack began to wish himself, a thousand times, back in the little shop, Joel burst out, seizing his arm:

"Come up into my room--Dave's and mine," and over the stairs they went.

"Is this your room?" gasped Jack, forgetting his discomfort and staring all about.

"Yes, it is," said Joel; "Dave's and mine. See my tennis racket, Jack.

Isn't it prime!"--darting over to pull it out of a corner.

"I should say it was," declared Jack, fingering it lovingly as Joel thrust it into his hand with a, "Do you play?"

"A little," said Jack. He did not think it necessary to add that he was the champion player of the Common Street team on the dingy little open s.p.a.ce given up to goats and tenement-house children.

"That's good!" exclaimed Joel, with shining eyes, and clapping him on the back; "we'll have a bout together sometime. And here are my boxing-gloves."

He seized them and struck an att.i.tude. "Come on, Jack," he cried in huge delight.

So Jack did come on, and when he emerged, why, there were the fencing foils to try; and when this was all over, and both boys sat down, flushed and panting, why, Jack's best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and his oiled hair didn't look so badly, to Joel's way of thinking.

David now ran in.

"It's time to get ready to go to Mrs. Sterling's supper," he said, with a nod to Jack.

"So it is," cried Joel, beginning to run here and there for his other shoes and clothes.

Jack turned away with a feeling that it wasn't good manners to be looking on, and glanced out of the window.

"Come over and look at our b.u.t.terflies," cried Joel, running over to a cabinet against the wall, "they're just beauties."

"Oh, have you collected b.u.t.terflies?" cried Jack, whirling around, greatly excited.