"Now you're shoutin', Doc. Bust a machine, and the company pays for it.

Bust a man, the man pays for it or his wife and children or his friends or the county. That's not fair. A man's as much of a part of the cost of production as a machine!"

The Doctor toddled out, clicking his cane and whistling a merry tune and left Mr. Brotherton enjoying his maiden meditations upon the injustices of this world. In the midst of his meditations he found that he had been listening for five minutes to Captain Morton. The Captain was expounding some pa.s.sing dream about his Household Horse. Apparently the motor car, which was multiplying rapidly in Harvey, had impressed him. He was telling Mr. Brotherton that his Household Horse, if harnessed to the motor car, would save much of the power wasted by the chains. He was dreaming of the distant day when motor cars would be used in sufficient numbers to make it profitable for the Captain to equip them with his power saving device.

But Mr. Brotherton cut into the Captain's musings with: "You tell the girls to wash the cat for I'm coming out to-night."

"Girls?--huh--girls?" replied the Captain as he looked over his spectacles at Mr. Brotherton. "'Y gory, man, what's the matter with me--eh? I'm staying out there on Elm Street yet--what say?" And he went out smiling.

When the Captain entered the house, he found Emma getting supper, Martha setting the table and Ruth, with a candy box before her at the piano, going over her everlasting "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahs" from "C to C" as Emma called it.

Emma took her father's hat, put it away and said: "Well, father--what's the news?"

"Well," replied the Captain, with some show of deliberation, "a friend of mine down town told me to tell you girls to wash the cat for he'll be along here about eight o'clock."

"Mr. Brotherton," scoffed Ruth. "It's up to you two," she cried gayly in the midst of her eternal journey from "C" to "C." "He never wears his Odd Fellows' pin unless he's been singing at an Odd Fellows' funeral, so that lets me out to-night."

"Well," sighed Emma, "I don't know that I want him even if he has on his Shriner's pin. I just believe I'll go to bed. The way I feel to-night I'm so sick of children I believe I wouldn't marry the best man on earth."

"Oh, well, of course, Emma," suggested the handsome Miss Morton, "if you feel that way about it why, I--"

"Now Martha--" cried the elder sister, "can't you let me alone and get out of here? I tell you, the superintendent and the princ.i.p.al and the janitor and the dratted Calvin kid all broke loose to-day and I'm liable to run out doors and begin to jump and down in the street and scream if you start on me."

But after supper the three Misses Morton went upstairs, and did what they could to wipe away the cares of a long and weary day. They put on their second best dresses--all but Emma, who put on her best, saying she had nothing else that wasn't full of chalk and worry. At seven forty-five, they had the parlor illuminated. As for the pictures and bric-a-brac--to-wit, a hammered bra.s.s flower pot near the grate, and sitting on an onyx stand a picture of Richard Harding Davis, the contribution of the eldest Miss Morton's callow youth, also a bra.s.s smoking set on a mission table, the contribution of the youngest Miss Morton from her first choir money--as for the pictures and bric-a-brac, they were dusted until they glistened, and the trap was all set, waiting for the prey.

They heard the gate click and the youngest Miss Morton said quickly: "Well, if he's an Odd Fellow, I guess I'll take him. But," she sighed, "I'll bet a cooky he's an Elk and Martha gets him."

The Captain went to the door and brought in the victim to as sweet and demure a trio of surprised young women and as patient a cat, as ever sat beside a rat hole. After he had greeted the girls--it was Ruth who took his coat, and Martha his hat, but Emma who held his hand a second the longest, after she spied the Shriner's pin--Mr. Brotherton picked up the cat.

"Well, Epaminondas," he puffed as he stroked the animal and put it to his cheek, "did they take his dear little kitties away from him--the horrid things."

This was Mr. Brotherton's standard joke. Ruth said she never felt the meeting was really opened until he had teased them about Epaminondas'

pretended kittens.

For the first hour the talk ranged with obvious punctility over a variety of subjects--but never once did Mr. Brotherton approach the subject of politics, which would hold the Captain for a night session.

Instead, Mr. Brotherton spun literary tales from the shop. Then the Captain broke in and enlivened the company with a description of Tom Van Dorn's new automobile, and went into such details as to cams and cogs and levers and other mechanical fittings that every one yawned and the cat stretched himself, and the Captain incidentally told the company that he had got Van Dorn's permission to try the Household Horse on the old machine before it went in on the trade.

Then Ruth rose. "Why, Ruth, dear," said Emma sweetly, "where are you going?"

"Just to get a drink, dear," replied Ruth.

But it took her all night to finish drinking and she did not return.

Martha rose, began straightening up the littered music on the piano, and being near the door, slipped out. By this time the Captain was doing most of the talking. Chiefly, he was telling what he thought the sprocket needed to make it work upon an automobile. At the hall door of the dining room two heads appeared, and though the door creaked about the time the clock struck the half hour, Mr. Brotherton did not see the heads. They were behind him, and four arms began making signs at the Captain. He looked at them, puzzled and anxious for a minute or two.

They were peremptorily beckoning him out. Finally, it came to him, and he said to the girls: "Oh, yes--all right." This broke at the wrong time into something Mr. Brotherton was saying. He looked up astonished and the Captain, abashed, smiled and after shuffling his feet, backed up to the base burner and hummed the tune about the land that was fairer than day. Emma and Mr. Brotherton began talking. Presently, the Captain picked up the spitting cat by the scruff of the neck and held him a moment under his chin. "Well, Emmy," he cut in, interrupting her story of how Miss Carhart had told the princ.i.p.al if "he ever told of her engagement before school was out in June, she'd just die," with:

"I suppose there'll be plenty of potatoes for the hash?"

And not waiting for answer, he marched to the kitchen with the cat, and in due time, they heard the "Sweet Bye and Bye" going up the back stairs, and then the thump, thump of the Captain's shoes on the floor above them.

The eldest Miss Morton, in her best silk dress, with her mother's cameo brooch at her throat, and with the full, maidenly ripeness of twenty-nine years upon her brow, with her hair demurely parted on said brow, where there was the faintest hint of a wrinkle coming--which Miss Morton attributed to a person she called "the dratted Calvin kid,"--the eldest Miss Morton, hair, cameo, silk dress, wrinkle, the dratted Calvin kid and all, did or did not look like a siren, according to the point of view of the spectator. If he was seeking the voluptuous curves of the early spring of youth--no: but if he was seeking those quieter and more restful lines that follow a maiden with a true and tender heart, who is a good cook and who sweeps under the sofa, yes.

Mr. Brotherton did not know exactly what he desired. He had been coming to the Morton home on various errands since the girls were little tots.

He had seen Emma in her first millinery store hat. He had bought Martha her first sled; he had got Ruth her last doll. But he shook his head. He liked them all. And then, as though to puzzle him more, he had noticed that for two or three years, he had never got more than two consecutive evenings with any of them--or with all of them. The mystery of their conduct baffled him. He sometimes wondered indignantly why they worked him in shifts? Sometimes he had Ruth twice; sometimes Emma and Martha in succession--sometimes Martha twice. He like them all. But he could not understand what system they followed in disposing of him. So as he sat and toyed with his Shriner's pin and listened to the tales of a tepid schoolmistress' romance that Emma told, he wondered if after all--for a man of his tastes, she wasn't really the flower of the flock.

"You know, George," she was old enough for that, and at rare times when they were alone she called him George, "I'm working up a kind of sorrow for Judge Van Dorn--or pity or something. When I taught little Lila he was always sending her candy and little trinkets. Now Lila is in the grade above me, and do you know the Judge has taken to walking by the schoolhouse at recess, just to see her, and walking along at noon and at night to get a word with her. He has put up a swing and a teeter-totter board on the girls' playgrounds. This morning I saw him standing, gazing after her, and he was as sad a figure as I ever saw. He caught me looking at him and smiled and said:

"'Fine girl, Emma,' and walked away."

"Lord, Emma," said Mr. Brotherton, as he brought his big, baseball hands down on his fat knees. "I don't blame him. Don't you just think children are about the nicest things in this world?"

Emma was silent. She had expressed other sentiments too recently. Still she smiled. And he went on:

"Oh, wow!--they're mighty fine to have around."

But Mr. Brotherton was restless after that, and when the clock was striking ten he was in the hall. He left as he had gone for a dozen years. And the young woman stood watching him through the gla.s.s of the door, a big, strong, handsome man--who strode down the walk with clicking heels of pride, and she turned away sadly and hurried upstairs.

"Martha," she asked, as she took down her hair, "was it ordained in the beginning of the world that all school teachers would have to take widowers?"

And without hearing the answer, she put out the light.

Mr. Brotherton, stalking--not altogether unconsciously down the walk, turned into the street and as he went down the hill, he was aware that a boy was overtaking him. He let the boy catch up with him. "Oh, Mr.

Brotherton," cried the boy, "I've been looking for you!"

"Well, here I am; what's the trouble?"

"Grant sent me," returned the boy, "to ask you if he could see you at eight o'clock to-morrow morning at the store?"

Brotherton looked the boy over and exclaimed:

"Grant?" and then, "Oh--why, Kenyon, I didn't know you. You are certainly that human bean-stalk, son. Let's take a look at you. Well, say--" Mr. Brotherton stopped and backed up and paused for dramatic effect. Then he exploded: "Say, boy, if I had you in an olive wood frame, I could get $2.75 or $3.00 for you as Narcissus or a boy Adonis!

You surely are the angel child!"

The boy's great black eyes shone up at the man with something wistful and dream-like in them that only his large, sensitive mouth seemed to comprehend. For the rest of the child's face was boy--boy in early adolescence. The boy answered simply:

"Grant said to tell you that he expects the break to-morrow and is anxious to see you."

Mr. Brotherton looked at the boy again--the eyes haunted the man--he could not place them, yet they were familiar to him.

"Where you been, kid?" he asked. "I thought you were in Boston, studying."

"It's vacation, sir," answered Kenyon.

Brotherton pulled the lad up under the next corner electric lamp and again gazed at him. Then Mr. Brotherton remembered where he had seen the eyes. The second Mrs. Van Dorn had them. This bothered the man.

The eyes of the boy that flashed so brightly into Mr. Brotherton's eyes, certainly puzzled him and startled him. But not so much as the news the boy carried. For then Mr. Brotherton knew that Market Street would be buzzing in the morning and that the cyclone clouds that were lowering, soon would break into storm.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI