Chapter 5
Scrapes

After being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after Tom’s mishap, the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that grandma said she was afraid “something was going to happen to them.” The dear old lady needn’t have felt anxious, for such excessive virtue doesn’t last long enough to lead to translation, except with little prigs in the goody storybooks; and no sooner was Tom on his legs again, when the whole party went astray, and much tribulation was the consequence.

It all began with “Polly’s stupidity,” as Fan said afterward. Just as Polly ran down to meet Mr. Shaw one evening, and was helping him off with his coat, the bell rang, and a fine bouquet of hothouse flowers was left in Polly’s hands, for she never could learn city ways, and opened the door herself.

“Hey! What’s this? My little Polly is beginning early, after all,” said Mr. Shaw, laughing, as he watched the girl’s face dimple and flush, as she smelt the lovely nosegay, and glanced at a note half hidden in the heliotrope.

Now, if Polly hadn’t been “stupid,” as Fan said, she would have had her wits about her, and let it pass; but, you see, Polly was an honest little soul, and it never occurred to her that there was any need of concealment, so she answered in her straightforward way, “Oh, they ain’t for me, sir; they are for Fan; from Mr. Frank, I guess. She’ll be so pleased.”

“That puppy sends her things of this sort, does he?” And Mr. Shaw looked far from pleased as he pulled out the note, and coolly opened it.

Polly had her doubts about Fan’s approval of that “sort of thing,” but dared not say a word, and stood thinking how she used to show her father the funny valentines the boys sent her, and how they laughed over them together. But Mr. Shaw did not laugh when he had read the sentimental verses accompanying the bouquet, and his face quite scared Polly, as he asked, angrily, “How long has this nonsense been going on?”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t know. Fan doesn’t mean any harm. I wish I hadn’t said anything!” stammered Polly, remembering the promise given to Fanny the day of the concert. She had forgotten all about it, and had become accustomed to see the “big boys,” as she called Mr. Frank and his friends, with the girls on all occasions. Now, it suddenly occurred to her that Mr. Shaw didn’t like such amusements, and had forbidden Fan to indulge in them. “Oh, dear! How mad she will be. Well, I can’t help it. Girls shouldn’t have secrets from their fathers, then there wouldn’t be any fuss,” thought Polly, as she watched Mr. Shaw twist up the pink note and poke it back among the flowers which he took from her, saying, shortly, “Send Fanny to me in the library.”

“Now you’ve done it, you stupid thing!” cried Fanny, both angry and dismayed, when Polly delivered the message.

“Why, what else could I do?” asked Polly, much disturbed.

“Let him think the bouquet was for you; then there’d have been no trouble.”

“But that would have been doing a lie, which is most as bad as telling one.”

“Don’t be a goose. You’ve got me into a scrape, and you ought to help me out.”

“I will if I can; but I won’t tell lies for anybody!” cried Polly, getting excited.

“Nobody wants you to. Just hold your tongue, and let me manage.”

“Then I’d better not go down,” began Polly, when a stern voice from below called, like Bluebeard, “Are you coming down?”

“Yes, sir,” answered a meek voice; and Fanny clutched Polly, whispering, “You must come; I’m frightened out of my wits when he speaks like that. Stand by me, Polly; there’s a dear.”

“I will,” whispered “sister Ann”; and down they went with fluttering hearts.

Mr. Shaw stood on the rug, looking rather grim; the bouquet lay on the table, and beside it a note directed to “Frank Moore, Esq.,” in a very decided hand, with a fierce-looking flourish after the “Esq.” Pointing to this impressive epistle, Mr. Shaw said, knitting his black eyebrows as he looked at Fanny, “I’m going to put a stop to this nonsense at once; and if I see any more of it, I’ll send you to school in a Canadian convent.”

This awful threat quite took Polly’s breath away; but Fanny had heard it before, and having a temper of her own, said, pertly, “I’m sure I haven’t done anything so very dreadful. I can’t help it if the boys send me philopena presents, as they do to the other girls.”

“There was nothing about philopenas in the note. But that’s not the question. I forbid you to have anything to do with this Moore. He’s not a boy, but a fast fellow, and I won’t have him about. You knew this, and yet disobeyed me.”

“I hardly ever see him,” began Fanny.

“Is that true?” asked Mr. Shaw, turning suddenly to Polly.

“Oh, please, sir, don’t ask me. I promised I wouldn’t – that is – Fanny will tell you,” cried Polly, quite red with distress at the predicament she was in.

“No matter about your promise; tell me all you know of this absurd affair. It will do Fanny more good than harm.” And Mr. Shaw sat down looking more amiable, for Polly’s dismay touched him.

“May I?” she whispered to Fanny.

“I don’t care,” answered Fan, looking both angry and ashamed, as she stood sullenly tying knots in her handkerchief.

So Polly told, with much reluctance and much questioning, all she knew of the walks, the lunches, the meetings, and the notes. It wasn’t much, and evidently less serious than Mr. Shaw expected; for, as he listened, his eyebrows smoothed themselves out, and more than once his lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, for, after all, it was rather comical to see how the young people aped their elders, playing the new-fashioned game, quite unconscious of its real beauty, power, and sacredness.

“Oh, please, sir, don’t blame Fan much, for she truly isn’t half as silly as Trix and the other girls. She wouldn’t go sleigh-riding, though Mr. Frank teased, and she wanted to ever so much. She’s sorry, I know, and won’t forget what you say any more, if you’ll forgive her this once,” cried Polly, very earnestly, when the foolish little story was told.

“I don’t see how I can help it, when you plead so well for her. Come here, Fan, and mind this one thing; drop all this nonsense, and attend to your books, or off you go; and Canada is no joke in wintertime, let me tell you.”

As he spoke, Mr. Shaw stroked his sulky daughter’s cheek, hoping to see some sign of regret; but Fanny felt injured, and wouldn’t show that she was sorry, so she only said, pettishly, “I suppose I can have my flowers, now the fuss is over.”

“They are going straight back where they came from, with a line from me, which will keep that puppy from ever sending you any more.” Ringing the bell, Mr. Shaw despatched the unfortunate posy, and then turned to Polly, saying, kindly but gravely, “Set this silly child of mine a good example, and do your best for her, won’t you?”

“Me? What can I do, sir?” asked Polly, looking ready, but quite ignorant how to begin.

“Make her as like yourself as possible, my dear; nothing would please me better. Now go, and let us hear no more of this folly.”

They went without a word, and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the affair; but poor Polly did, for Fan scolded her, till Polly thought seriously of packing up and going home next day. I really haven’t the heart to relate the dreadful lectures she got, the snubs she suffered, or the cold shoulders turned upon her for several days after this. Polly’s heart was full, but she told no one, and bore her trouble silently, feeling her friend’s ingratitude and injustice deeply.

Tom found out what the matter was, and sided with Polly, which proceeding led to scrape number two.

“Where’s Fan?” asked the young gentleman, strolling into his sister’s room, where Polly lay on the sofa, trying to forget her troubles in an interesting book.

“Downstairs, seeing company.”

“Why didn’t you go, too?”

“I don’t like Trix, and I don’t know her fine New York friends.”

“Don’t want to, neither, why don’t you say?”

“Not polite.”

“Who cares? I say, Polly, come and have some fun.”

“I’d rather read.”

“That isn’t polite.”

Polly laughed, and turned a page. Tom whistled a minute, then sighed deeply, and put his hand to his forehead, which the black plaster still adorned.

“Does your head ache?” asked Polly.

“Awfully.”

“Better lie down, then.”

“Can’t; I’m fidgety, and want to be amoosed, as Pug says.”

“Just wait till I finish my chapter, and then I’ll come,” said pitiful Polly.

“All right,” returned the perjured boy, who had discovered that a broken head was sometimes more useful than a whole one, and exulting in his base stratagem, he roved about the room, till Fan’s bureau arrested him. It was covered with all sorts of finery, for she had dressed in a hurry, and left everything topsy-turvy. A well-conducted boy would have let things alone, or a moral brother would have put things to rights; being neither, Tom rummaged to his heart’s content, till Fan’s drawers looked as if someone had been making hay in them. He tried the effect of earrings, ribbons, and collars; wound up the watch, though it wasn’t time; burnt his inquisitive nose with smelling salts; deluged his grimy handkerchief with Fan’s best cologne; anointed his curly crop with her hair-oil; powdered his face with her violet-powder; and finished off by pinning on a bunch of false ringlets, which Fanny tried to keep a profound secret. The ravages committed by this bad boy are beyond the power of language to describe, as he revelled in the interesting drawers, boxes, and cases, which held his sister’s treasures.

When the curls had been put on, with much pricking of fingers, and a blue ribbon added, à la Fan, he surveyed himself with satisfaction, and considered the effect so fine, that he was inspired to try a still greater metamorphosis. The dress Fan had taken off lay on a chair, and into it got Tom, chuckling with suppressed laughter, for Polly was absorbed, and the bed-curtains hid his iniquity. Fan’s best velvet jacket and hat, ermine muff, and a sofa-pillow for pannier, finished off the costume, and tripping along with elbows out, Tom appeared before the amazed Polly just as the chapter ended. She enjoyed the joke so heartily, that Tom forgot consequences, and proposed going down into the parlor to surprise the girls.

“Goodness, no! Fanny never would forgive us if you showed her curls and things to those people. There are gentlemen among them, and it wouldn’t be proper,” said Polly, alarmed at the idea.

“All the more fun. Fan hasn’t treated you well, and it will serve her right if you introduce me as your dear friend, Miss Shaw. Come on, it will be a jolly lark.”

“I wouldn’t for the world; it would be so mean. Take ’em off, Tom, and I’ll play anything else you like.”

“I ain’t going to dress up for nothing; I look so lovely, someone must admire me. Take me down, Polly, and see if they don’t call me ’a sweet creature.’”

Tom looked so unutterably ridiculous as he tossed his curls and pranced, that Polly went off into another gale of merriment; but even while she laughed, she resolved not to let him mortify his sister.

“Now, then, get out of the way if you won’t come; I’m going down,” said Tom.

“No, you’re not.”

“How will you help it, Miss Prim?”

“So.” And Polly locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and nodded at him defiantly.

Tom was a pepper-pot as to temper, and anything like opposition always had a bad effect. Forgetting his costume, he strode up to Polly, saying, with a threatening wag of the head, “None of that. I won’t stand it.”

“Promise not to plague Fan, and I’ll let you out.”

“Won’t promise anything. Give me that key, or I’ll make you.”

“Now, Tom, don’t be savage. I only want to keep you out of a scrape, for Fan will be raging if you go. Take off her things, and I’ll give up.”

Tom vouchsafed no reply, but marched to the other door, which was fast, as Polly knew, looked out of the three-story window, and finding no escape possible, came back with a wrathful face. “Will you give me that key?”

“No, I won’t,” said Polly, valiantly.

“I’m stronger than you are; so you’d better hand over.”

“I know you are; but it’s cowardly for a great boy like you to rob a girl.”

“I don’t want to hurt you; but, by George! I won’t stand this!”

Tom paused as Polly spoke, evidently ashamed of himself; but his temper was up, and he wouldn’t give in. If Polly had cried a little just here, he would have yielded; unfortunately she giggled, for Tom’s fierce attitude was such a funny contrast to his dress that she couldn’t help it. That settled the matter. No girl that ever lived should giggle at him, much less lock him up like a small child. Without a word, he made a grab at Polly’s arm, for the hand holding the key was still in her pocket. With her other hand she clutched her frock, and for a minute held on stoutly. But Tom’s strong fingers were irresistible; rip went the pocket, out came the hand, and with a cry of pain from Polly, the key fell on the floor.