The “chatter meeting” (as she called it) was held in the summer-house that cost ten thousand dollars, and that stood among Mrs. Potiphar’s roses in the side garden back of the lawn. And it resolved to send a committee to wait on Mr. Thingumbob—for Queer Church was the only church in Manoa, and they all went there on Sundays.
They weren’t a bit afraid of him—not they! He had lots of boys and girls of his own, and one of them had such rosy cheeks that he looked as though the angel had forgotten to bring him to the front door and had stuck him in the apple-tree, whence, when he was ready to be picked, his father had taken him down.
To be sure True was the head of the delegation, and it started off, twenty strong, on Saturday morning. How the people at the Manse opened their eyes as the troop came in, just as grave as you please, and asking to be shown up to the study. Well, so did the minister when he saw them. He laid down his pen and he said: “How do you do, gentlemen and ladies! Pray be seated!” So they all sat down wherever they could, and waited for True to begin.
“Mr. Thingumbob,” she said, “why can’t we be somebodies in church, too?”
“I don’t know, my dear. Aren’t you somebodies now?”
“O-dear-bless-me-no,” says True, all in a breath.
“Well, what would you like to do?” asked Mr. Thingumbob.
“Why, we’d just like to have one week all to ourselves in the church, and one Sunday all to ourselves, to have sermons, and sing hymns, and all such things.”
The pastor looked very queer—just like his church. Now that had in it everything to make a church pleasant—but it was all for big people. Said he “True, I guess I’ll try it. You stay here with me and let the rest of these youngsters go.”
So the black-eyed ten-year-older stayed and talked and planned, and then how they laughed, and then they talked some more and laughed some more, and then it was dinner-time. And away went True.