“What an idiocy,” he exclaimed, “when there were so many perfectly harmless amusements which I could have taken them to; but I didn’t think about it. I wanted to take them where they wanted to go, instead of wanting to take them where they ought to go and managing to make it pleasant for them.”
“And so there was a Providence in your friend’s hurt after all, you see,” said the minister.
“No, I don’t see it,” replied the President, “else I should have to accuse Providence of hitting the wrong man. I ought to have been the one to have had my eye plucked out or my hand plucked off. For I had been taught the good old Quaker rule, to avoid all games that are gotten up by men, for the purpose of beating each other; I’m going to stand by that rule after this, and I hope Schwarmer can be induced to draw the lines at the dangerous games.”
Ruth hoped so too, but her solicitude was not to be put aside. Every week she would have Ralph go with her to The Hill presumably for a walk, but in reality to see what the huge thing looked like. She feared it was going to be something objectionable and unhelpable.
“It doesn’t matter so much, does it dear, if he keeps it to himself—that is if it doesn’t slop over onto us?”
“Yes it does matter, Ralph—that is if it turns out to be an arena for pyrotechnics and that horrible Bombs is in it. If he is, it will be an advertisement for the blinding and demoralization of every youth within sight of it. Powder and dynamite will be the fashion and our Fourth of July horror will rage again. O Ralph! Ralph!”
“Here am I, dear! Trust! trust! We will be on the watch-tower. If Mr. Bombs comes we will see what we can do with him. There’s always something to be done if we can only keep a level head. You must not get too much excited over it, dear, you know the reason why. You remember the gardener’s wife, poor soul. Let’s stop and see her on our way down.”
“Yes, Ralph,” replied Ruth eagerly. “Perhaps she will know if Miss Schwarmer is coming up this Fourth. If there is anybody in the world who can influence that perverse Mr. Bombs rightly I believe it is she.”
Mary Langley, the gardener’s wife, had never recovered from the hurt and fright caused by the explosion of Mr. Bombs’ rocket. Hers was one of those double hurts for which materia medicae has no remedy. She recovered sufficiently to be able to attend to her household duties and to the wants of her two little children. Miss Schwarmer’s well filled purse had helped her thus far; but it could not tide her over the invalid line. Dreams of fiery serpents and the lost baby kept her from refreshing sleep night after night. Her husband ridiculed her in vain for her so-called woman’s weakness. Her hurt was too deep for money or ridicule to mend. She grew thinner and thinner, day after day, and ghostly white until it was rumored about town that she was going into a decline.
The Norwoods were ill prepared, however, for the frail spiritual looking creature who met them at the door.