III
Lucy took the telegram from the boy and told him to wait until she saw if there should be an answer. She tore off the envelope, unfolded the yellow slip of paper, read the message, gasped, blushed and turned and left the patient boy on the steps.
Into the house she rushed, calling to her mother. She thrust the telegram into her hands, exclaiming:
"Read that! Isn't it what we might have expected?"
"Mercy! What is it? Who's dead?"
"Nobody! It's better than that," was Lucy's astonishing reply.
Mrs. Putnam read the telegram, and then beamingly drew her daughter to her and kissed her. The two then wrote a message, after much counting of words, to be sent to Jimmy. It read:
"Of course. Mama will come with me. Telephone to papa."
When this reached Jimmy he was nonplused. He rubbed his forehead, studied the message, reread it, and then handed it to Mary with the suggestion:
"Maybe you can make it out. I can't."
Mary knitted her brows and studied the message in turn. At length she handed it back.
"It is simple," she decided. "She is a nice, sweet girl, and she wants me to meet her mama and papa. Or maybe she wants us to be chaperoned."
So Jimmy and Mary waited in the hotel parlor until Lucy should arrive. Reminded by Mary, Jimmy went to the 'phone and told Mr. Putnam that Lucy was coming to lunch with him.
"Well, that's all right, isn't it, Jimmy?" Mr. Putnam asked.
"Yes. But she told me to telephone you."
"Why?"
"I don't know. But won't you join us?"
"Is that other matter arranged, Jimmy?"
"N-no. Not yet."
"I told you I didn't want to see you until it was. As soon as you wake up, let me know. Good-by."
Jimmy, red, returned to the parlor, and there was confronted by a vision of white, with shining eyes and pink cheeks, who rushed up to him and kissed him and called him a dear old thing and said he was the cleverest, most unconventional man that ever was.
Limp, astounded, but delighted, James Trottingham Minton drew back a pace from Lucy Putnam, who, in her dainty white dress and her white hat and filmy white veil, was a delectable sight.
"I want you to meet Cousin Mary," he said.
"Is she to attend?"
"Of course," he answered.
They walked toward the end of the long parlor where Mary was sitting, but half way down the room they were stopped by Mrs. Putnam. She put both hands on Jimmy's shoulders, gave him a motherly kiss on one cheek, and sighed:
"Jimmy, you will be kind to my little girl?"
Jimmy looked from mother to daughter in dumb bewilderment. Certainly this was the most remarkable conduct he ever had dreamed of. Yet, Mrs. Putnam's smile was so affectionate and kind, her eyes met his with such a tender look that he intuitively felt that all was right as right should be. And yet—why should they act as they did?
Into the midst of his reflections burst Lucy's chum, Alice Jordan.
"I've a notion to kiss him, too!" she cried.
Jimmy stonily held himself in readiness to be kissed. If kissing went by favor he was pre-eminently a favored one. But Lucy clutched his arm with a pretty air of ownership and forbade Alice.
"Indeed, you will not. It wouldn't be good form now. After—afterward, you may. Just once. Isn't that right, Jimmy?"
"Perfectly," he replied, his mind still whirling in an effort to adjust actualities to his conception of what realities should be.
The four had formed a little group to themselves in the center of the parlor, Lucy clinging to Jimmy's arm, Mrs. Putnam eying them both with a happy expression, and Alice fluttering from one to the other, assuring them that they were the handsomest couple she ever had seen, that they ought to be proud of each other, and that Mrs. Putnam ought to be proud of them, and that she was sure nobody in all the world ever, ever could be as sublimely, beatifically happy as they would be, and that they must be sure to let her come to visit them.
"And," she cried, admiringly, stopping to pat Jimmy on his unclutched arm, "I just think your idea of proposing by telegraph was the brightest thing I ever heard of!"
It is to be written to the everlasting credit of James Trottingham Minton that he restrained himself from uttering the obvious remark on hearing this. Two words from him would have wrecked the house of cards. Instead, he blushed and smiled modestly. Slowly it was filtering into his brain that by some unusual, unexpected, unprecedented freak of fortune his difficulties had been overcome; that some way or other he had proposed and had been accepted.
"I shall always cherish that telegram," Lucy declared, leaning more affectionately toward Jimmy. "If that grimy-faced messenger boy had not gone away so quickly with my answer I should have kissed him!"
"I've got the telegram here, dear," said Mrs. Putnam.
"Oh, let's see it again," Alice begged. "I always wanted to hear a proposal, but it is some satisfaction to see one."
Mrs. Putnam opened her hand satchel, took out the telegram, unfolded it slowly, and they all looked at it, Jimmy gulping down a great choke of joy as he read:
"Please meet me and marry at Annex at two o'clock."
His bashfulness fell from him as a garment. He took the message, saying he would keep it, so that it might not be lost. Then he piloted the two girls and Mrs. Putnam to the spot where Mary had been waiting patiently and wonderingly.
"Mary," he said boldly, without a tremor in his voice, "I want you to meet the future Mrs. Minton, and my future mother-in-law, Mrs. Putnam, and my future—what are you to me, anyhow, Alice?"
"I'm a combination flower girl, maid of honor and sixteen bridesmaids chanting the wedding march," she laughed.
"And when," Mary gasped, "when is this to be?"
"At two o'clock," Lucy answered.
"Oh, Jimmy! You wretch! You never told me a word about it. But never mind. I bought the very thing for a wedding gift this morning."
Jimmy tore himself away from the excited laughter and chatter, ran to the telephone and got Mr. Putnam on the wire.
"This is Minton," he said.
"Who? Oh! Jimmy? Well?"
"Well, I've fixed that up."
"Good. And when is it to be?"
"Right away. Here at the Annex. I want you to go and get the license for me on your way over."
"Come, come, Jimmy. Don't be in such precipitate haste."
"You told me that was the only way to arrange these matters."
"Humph! Did I? Well, I'll get the license for you—"
"Good-by, then. I've got to telephone for a minister."
The minister was impressed at once with the value of haste in coming, and on his way back to the wedding party Jimmy stopped long enough to hand a five-dollar bill to the telegraph operator.
"Thank you, sir," said the astonished man. "I have been worrying for fear I had made a mistake about your message."
"You did. You made the greatest mistake of your life. Thank you!"
NATURAL PHILOSOPHY
BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND
Very offen I be t'inkin' of de queer folks goin' roun',
And way dey kip a-talkin' of de hard tam get along—
May have plaintee money, too, an' de healt' be good an' soun'—
But you'll fin' dere's alway somet'ing goin' wrong—
'Course dere may be many reason w'y some feller ought to fret—
But me, I'm alway singin' de only song I know—
'Tisn't long enough for music, an' so short you can't forget,
But it drive away de lonesome, an' dis is how she go,
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
Funny feller's w'at dey call me—"so diff'ren' from de res',"
But ev'rybody got hees fault, as far as I can see—
An' all de t'ing I'm doin', I do it for de bes',
Dough w'en I'm bettin' on a race, dat's offen loss for me—
"Oho!" I say, "Alphonse, ma frien', to-day is not your day,
For more you got your money up, de less your trotter go—
But never min' an' don't lie down," dat's w'at I alway say,
An' sing de sam' ole song some more, mebbe a leetle slow—
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
S'pose ma uncle die an' lef me honder dollar, mebbe two—
An' I don't tak' hees advice—me—for put heem on de bank—
'Stead o' dat, some lot'rie ticket, to see w'at I can do,
An' purty soon I'm findin' put dey're w'at you call de blank—
Wall! de bank she might bus' up dere—somet'ing might go wrong—
Dem feller, w'en dey get it, mebbe skip before de night—
Can't tell—den w'ere's your money? So I sing ma leetle song
An' don't boder wit' de w'isky, an' again I feel all right.
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
If you're goin' to mak' de marry, kip a look out on de eye,
But no matter how you're careful, it was risky anyhow—
An' if you're too unlucky, jus' remember how you try
For gettin' dat poor woman, dough she may have got you now—
All de sam', it sometam happen dat your wife will pass away—
No use cryin', you can't help it—dere's your duty to you'se'f—
You don't need to ax de neighbor, dey will tell you ev'ry day
Start again lak hones' feller, for dere's plaintee woman lef'—
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
Poor man lak me, I'm not'ing: only w'en election's dere,
An' ev'rybody's waitin' to ketch you by de t'roat—
De money I be makin' den, wall! dot was mon affaire—
An' affer all w'at diff'rence how de poor man mak' de vote?
So I do ma very bes'—me—wit' de wife an' familee—
On de church door Sunday morning, you can see us all parade—
Len' a frien' a half a dollar, an' never go on spree—
So w'en I'm comin' die—me—no use to be afraid—
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."