“Now, I’ll make a suggestion,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Ellen, do you think you could make Mrs. Simpson and that smallest baby comfortable for the night?”
“I’m shure I cud, sor.”
“Very well. Take her away at once. Give her a cup of tea, and some supper, and then send her to bed. The poor soul is quite worn out, and no wonder.”
Realizing the authority of the strange gentleman, Ellen took Mrs. Simpson’s arm, and without another word, the two went away, the mother carrying with her the youngest child.
“Now,” went on Mr. Mortimer, “I next dismiss the three Maynards to a liberal use of soap and water. Don’t spare the soap; use sand, if necessary. But get yourselves clean and—I suppose you have other clothes?”
“Yes, sir,” serious Kitty assured him.
“Then get them on, as expeditiously as possible. And with the assistance of Thomas, I will assume the management of these six remaining Simpsons. Run away, now, ask no questions, but leave all to me.”
King and Midget felt as if a weight were lifted from their shoulders. It did not seem like ignobly shifting a responsibility, for Mr. Mortimer left them no choice in the matter. He gave commands evidently with the intention of having them obeyed.
And so, with a very earnest squeeze of his hand, Marjorie obeyed his decree, and went upstairs, with King and Kitty on either side of her.
“Well, if he isn’t a trump!” she cried, as they reached the upper hall.