That Little Beggar

by Edith King Hall

Now, generally the little beggar murmured much and loudly when he was interrupted by Briggs. On this occasion, however, he showed no disinclination to go with her, but on the contrary went with alacrity.

"I think he is really becoming fond of her," Granny remarked with some satisfaction when they had gone. "Perhaps, after all, I shall not have to send her away at Christmas, as I feared I should have to if she and Chris did not understand each other better. I shall be very glad if I can let her stay, for although she has an unsympathetic manner—yes, I must say that she strikes me as being extremely unsympathetic to the darling at times; don't you think so, my dear?—yet I know that she is thoroughly reliable and trustworthy."

"I wonder if Chris's readiness to go with her had anything to do with his 'surprise'," I answered. "It looks to me a little suspicious, I must own. I hope he has not any mischievous idea in his little head."

"Oh, no, my dear!" she replied, almost reproachfully; "the darling is as good as gold. There never was a better child when he likes. No, no, he is not at all inclined to be troublesome to-day; I think you are mistaken."

I kept silence, for I saw that dear old Granny was not altogether pleased at my suggestion. Nevertheless, in spite of her reassuring words, I did not feel convinced that the little beggar was not going to give us some fresh proof of his remarkable powers for getting into mischief. And further events justified my fears.

I will tell you how this happened.

About half an hour later I was taking a stroll in the garden, when, turning my steps in the direction of the pond, I suddenly came upon Chris, accompanied by Briggs. That something was amiss was at once evident. Briggs was walking along, with her air of greatest dignity—and that, I assure you, was very great indeed,—whilst Chris, by her side, was also making his little attempt at being dignified.

But it was the sorriest attempt you can imagine!

Dripping from head to foot, water running in little rivulets from his large straw hat upon his face, water dripping from his clothes soaked through and through, and making little pools on the garden-path as he pursued his way—a more forlorn, miserable-looking little object it was impossible to conceive.

In spite of this, however, he would not let go of that attempt at dignity. With his hands in his pockets, and his head thrown back, he whistled as he walked along, with the most defiant expression he could assume upon that naughty little face of his.