If Rob was glad and thankful for her success, Frances was triumphantly glorying in it. She never had been an especially clever child, while Rob had been a brilliant little creature, the pride of her teachers, who invariably brought her forward when the credit of the school was to be maintained—this was in their early childhood, and during the irregular periods when Rob had been at school. Now the humdrum girl had devised the scheme which was to make clever Rob's fortune, as if the moth had unexpectedly furnished the wick to the candle, and Frances was as proud as she was delighted in its results.
The Rutherford boys hailed Rob a story-teller with irreverent glee. Contributions from one or another of Battalion B poured in daily—sometimes from all three at once. Maria Edgeworth's Moral Tales—to supplement Rob's, if "her grey matter gave out," Basil's accompanying note stated; a bunch of rattan-rods, slates, primers, spectacles, and a cap for herself. Even a false front came from Bruce—most frankly false, with a muslin parting, and yellow in color, because, he explained, he "thought yellow would contrast prettily with her dark eyes, and her cap would hide its not matching her own brown locks." Bartlemy illuminated a set of mottoes to adorn the walls of what the boys called "Rob's auditorium." "Little Children Must Never Tell Stories," "Listen to My Tale of Woe," "As Tedious as a Twice-Told Tale," "Young Robin Grey Came a-Courtin' We," "Truth is Stranger (Here) Than Fiction," "Plain Tales for the Bills," three for a side of the room. Rob hung these brilliant productions, and piled up all her other tributes from Battalion B in a small, unused room under the "lean-to" roof, where twice a week she retired to prepare her story for the next recital.
In spite of the boys' ridicule, in spite of Aunt Azraella's croaking, Rob's experiment was proving more successful each week. But the pleasantest part of it all to Rob was when her father appealed to her as a capitalist to aid in launching the invention.
"It is all done, Rob, practically finished," said Mr. Grey, laying a trembling hand on the girl's shoulder one morning at the end of two hours' close work together.
"Don't get excited, Patergrey; you know it is forbidden you," cried Rob, beginning to quiver in sympathy. "Yes, it's done. Sit down; you look pale—let me get you a tablet."
"Rob, you've been my right hand—my extra pair of hands—all the way through," said her father, impatiently waving away the suggestion of a tablet. "You've had so much faith, dear son Rob, and have understood so clearly that you have helped me in that way almost more than in any other. Now I am going to ask you to help me still further. Have you any special use for the first hundred and twenty-five dollars from your story-telling?"
"So many special uses that I've no special use—no, Patergrey," laughed Rob. "There are so many things to be done with it that I can't see one for the crowd of them. It is all for Mardy and Wythie, though. They go without so slyly that I want every penny of this to buy things for them."
"You generous Rob-of-mine!" exclaimed her father. "Then would it disappoint you to lend me rather more than half of your wealth, to launch the bricquette machine? It requires a very small capital, but it needs that to start it on its journey into the world. I should rather like to have my girl's money—the very first that she ever earned—do this for the invention in which she has had such a share through its entire growth."
"Like it, Patergrey! I'd love it!" cried Rob, her eyes dilating, her cheeks flushing. "I'll get the money now—I've hidden it in my twine-bag, real country fashion. How strange for my money to launch the machine! Can it do it, really, Patergrey?"