In his excitement, his words had become so rapid that they almost tumbled over each other, and he said the last sentence in a rush. There were red spots on his cheeks, and a queer look in his black eyes. He had been listening to descriptions of this thing all day. A new hand, hot from the excitement in Chicago, had been among the workers. Apparently he had heard of nothing else, thought of nothing else, talked of nothing else, and dreamed of nothing else but the World’s Fair for weeks. Finding himself among people who had only bucolic and vague ideas about it, he had poured forth all he knew, and being a rather good talker, had aroused great excitement. Robin had listened with eyes and ears wide open. He was a young human being, born so full of energy and enterprise that the dull, prosaic emptiness of his life in Aunt Matilda’s world had been more horrible than he had been old enough to realize. He could not have explained why it had seemed so maddening to him, but the truth was that in his small, boyish body was imprisoned the force and ability which in manhood build great schemes, and not only build, but carry them out. In him was imprisoned one of the great business men, inventors, or political powers of the new century. But of this he knew nothing, and so ate his young heart out in Aunt Matilda’s world, sought refuge with Meg in the Straw Parlor, and was bitterly miserable and at a loss.
How he had drunk in every word the man from Chicago had uttered! How he had edged near to him and tried not to lose him for a moment! How he had longed for Meg to listen with him, and had hoarded up every sentence! If he had not been a man in embryo, and a strong and clear-headed creature, he would have done his work badly. But he never did his work badly. He held on like a little bulldog, and thought of what Meg would say when they sat in the straw together. Small wonder that he looked excited when his black head appeared above the edge of the straw. He was wrought up to the highest pitch. Small wonder that there were deep red spots on his cheeks, and that there was a queer, intense look in his eyes, and about his obstinate little mouth.
He threw up his arms with a desperate gesture.
“Everything,” he said again, staring straight before him, “that any one could want to learn about—everything in all the world.”
“Oh, Robin!” said Meg, in quite a fierce little voice, “and we—we shall never see it!”
She saw Robin clinch his hands, though he said nothing, and it made her clinch her own hands. Robin’s were tough, little, square-fingered fists, brown and muscular; Meg’s hands were long-fingered, flexible, and slender, but they made good little fists when they doubled themselves up.
“Rob,” she said, “we never see anything! We never hear anything! We never learn anything! If something doesn’t happen we shall be Nothings—that’s what we shall be—Nothings!” And she struck her fist upon the straw.
Rob’s jaw began to look very square, but he did not speak.
“We are twelve years old,” Meg went on. “We’ve been here three years, and we don’t know one thing we didn’t know when we came here. If we had been with father and mother we should have been learning things all the time. We haven’t one thing of our own, Rob, but the chickens and the Straw Parlor—and the Straw Parlor might be taken away from us.”
Rob’s square jaw relaxed just sufficiently to allow of a grim little grin.