“Anywhere—down-stairs—in the next room. Find somebody quickly.”
Hilda flew for the door, and ran plump into Mrs. Brummagen, who rushed in breathlessly. In a twinkling, the baby was in her arms. Mosina was holding her breath, and was purple in the face. Her mother promptly blew down her throat, and thumped her on the back, and in a moment the roar began again, but rather less vehemently. The colic was evidently passing over.
Poor little Mrs. Brummagen was in a state of excitement and apology bordering on distraction, at the idea of the young ladies staying there all day long, and taking care of Mosina all that time.
“An’ you eat—vat?” she demanded, tragically. “Der vas noding to eat. An’ you been here—four—five—six—hour!”
“We couldn’t find much to eat,” admitted Cricket, honestly. “We tried to cook the herrings, but they were rather tough, and we fried potatoes, only they wouldn’t fry. They seemed to burn, somehow.”
Mrs. Brummagen poured out a string of mingled German and English ejaculations, expressive of her distress.
“And, Mrs. Brummagen, we thought we’d help you a little and get your sheets all washed and ironed, but somehow it didn’t go right, and we made a dreadful mess of it. I guess you have to know how, if you wash and iron. It looks so easy, I thought any one could do it. The sheet is dreadfully dirty—the one we did, I mean,—and it’s all smoochy, too. Will it come out?” and Cricket shook out the damp sheet from the basket, and anxiously displayed it.
Mrs. Brummagen was more overcome than before.
“Ach, the dear chilt!” she cried. “Ya, it vill come out, ven I vash him mit soap.”
“I’m so glad,” said Cricket, greatly relieved. “Of course, mamma would have given you another one, though. Now, we must go, I think. Oh, Hilda! we forgot your cap! Mrs. Brummagen, we dressed up to play keeping house, but we were so busy doing it, that we forgot to play much.”