"I expected to hear you say somethin' like that," replied Mrs. Stout.

"But I want you to understand just this much, Peter Stout; that club's goin' to be the talk of the town, and do more for it than any crowd of men have ever done so far."

"Won't have to do much," grunted Peter, with his mouth full of beefsteak.

"You're just right about that. This town has got the laziest set of men, outside of their own affairs, that I ever heard of. When they're through work for the day, they just set 'round and smoke, and tell each other that the town ain't the same as it used to be; and that this thing would be done, or that thing 'tended to, if the right men was in office. Who elects the selectmen, I should like to know? And then they talk about who's goin' to be the next President, and who's goin' to be next governor, and let the town that they live in, that's right under their lazy noses day and night, go to rack and ruin. I say the right way is to do _somethin'_ even if you make a mess of it tryin'."

"Hear, hear!" cried Peter, as he clapped his hands. "That's a great speech, Emmy, and all true."

"True, I guess it is, true as gospel," replied Mrs. Stout, and then turning on her oldest son asked, sharply, "Henry Warren Stout, are you eatin' b.u.t.ter on bread, or bread on b.u.t.ter?" Before the boy had time to reply he was. .h.i.t in the eye with a bread pill from the hand of Paul Jones, whereupon Wendell Phillips fell off his chair convulsed with laughter.

"We're goin' to give a play," said Mrs. Stout, after she had boxed Paul Jones's ears, and the commotion had ceased.

"A play!" Peter put down his knife and fork, masticated and swallowed the food that was in his mouth, and sat staring at his wife in astonishment.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Stout, "and we're all goin' to be in it. It'll be the biggest thing this town ever saw or heard of."

"You, goin' on the stage?" said Peter, with a grin, and then he gave way to hearty laughter.

"I don't see what there is to laugh about, Peter Stout; ain't we got as much right to give a play as anybody?" asked Mrs. Stout, indignantly.

"Yes, it's all right, and if the play is as funny as the idea, it'll make a hit," said Peter, his mirth subsiding.

"It ain't goin' to be funny," retorted Mrs. Stout. "It's goin' to be a cla.s.sic."

"A cla.s.sic," he repeated, wonderingly. "What's that?"

"A cla.s.sic," replied Mrs. Stout, knowingly, "is somethin' you ought to know about, and--and don't."

"Oh," said Peter, still in doubt.

"I hope you're satisfied now."

"I guess so; I'll wait till I've seen the play before I say anything more about it."

"I guess you'd better," said Mrs. Stout, triumphantly. "Paul Jones, take your fingers out of that sauce." Paul Jones obeyed, and licked the sauce from his fingers.

"Ma, is your club goin' to have a ball-nine?" asked Wendell Phillips. He played first base on the Manville Juveniles, which was the only club he knew anything about.

"No, we ain't, Wendell," his mother replied. "Don't you boys get any silly notions about clubs into your heads."

"Ma'd make a bully catcher," suggested Henry Warren.

"Stop your nonsense about baseball or you'll all go to bed," commanded Mrs. Stout, in a tone that the youngsters could not fail to understand.

The silence that followed was broken by the ringing of the door-bell.

The boys jumped from their chairs and started on a race for the door.

"Boys!" said Mrs. Stout, sharply, and the three came to a sudden stop.

"Set down." They obeyed, and wistfully watched their mother as she started for the front door.

"Why, Miss Wallace!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout when she opened the door and saw who was there. "Come right in."

"Thank you," replied Miss Wallace, "but I haven't time. I called to ask if Henry was feeling any better."

"Better?" Mrs. Stout did not understand.

"I hope--"

"He ain't any better'n he ought to be, nor any worse'n some other boys I know of," said Mrs. Stout.

"But is he not sick?" asked Miss Wallace.

"Sick? Good land! No; he's eatin' his supper now," replied Mrs. Stout.

Miss Wallace sighed, some one had been lying. "Who said he was sick?"

asked Mrs. Stout, suspiciously.

"I understood--" Miss Wallace began, and then hesitated for a moment.

"He was absent this afternoon," she continued, "and I understood Paul and Wendell to say that he was sick."

"Absent was he, from school?" said Mrs. Stout. "And them two boys lied about it? It won't happen again, Miss Wallace." At that moment a man walked past. Mrs. Stout peered into the darkness for a moment, and then called out:

"h.e.l.lo, is that you, Willie Flint?"

"Yes. Oh, good evening, Mrs. Stout," replied Will, whom it proved to be, as he turned and retraced his steps.

"I thought I knew your walk," said Mrs. Stout. "Won't you come in?"

"No, thanks."

"How's your mother?"

"Nicely, but I must be going, good--"

"Don't you be in such a hurry, Willie Flint," Mrs. Stout interrupted, and then added, "This is Miss Wallace here, and I guess you'd better beau her home; it's a pretty dark night for young women to be runnin'

'round alone."

Barbara almost hated Mrs. Stout for saying that. She had remained silent because, for one reason, there had been no chance for her to speak, and another reason was that she hoped--she did and she did not--that Will would not follow Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Barbara was not unlike other young women in many ways.

"Good evening, Mr. Flint," she said, determined to make the best of it whatever the outcome might be.

"_Is_ that you, Bar--Miss Wallace?" said Will as he came into the yard and up the walk to the steps. Mrs. Stout noticed that he had started to say Barbara.

"I'll 'tend to those boys, Miss Wallace. Good night," she said abruptly, and shut the door.

"Good night," replied Barbara and Will, as they turned and went down the walk together.

"Who was it, ma?" the boys asked in chorus when Mrs. Stout returned to the dining-room, but their mother ignored them.

"Peter Stout," she began in a tone that made him jump, "Henry didn't go to school this afternoon, and Paul and Wendell told Miss Wallace that he was sick."