Chapter Five.
An Old Trick.
It was very dull and dreary for the remainder of the month, typical November weather, with what the Trevors called a “pea-soup” atmosphere, deepening now and then into a regular fog. The Square gardens were soaking with moisture, the surrounding houses looked greyer and gloomier than ever, until it seemed impossible to believe that the sky had ever been blue, or that gay-coloured spring flowers had flourished in those black-looking beds.
Jack and Jill had the bad taste to approve of fogs. They were “ripping,” they declared. “So adventurous and jolly! Yesterday, when I was walking to school, a hansom drove on the pavement beside me. Think of that!” cried Jill in a tone of triumph. “The horse’s nose nearly touched my shoulder, and an old lady near me shrieked like anything. It was sport!”
Jack was rather envious of the hansom episode, but had had his own share of amusement. “I followed Johnston all the way home, and chaffed him with a pebble in my mouth to disguise my voice. He was nearly mad with rage, and whenever he turned round I simply bent double, and he went for another fellow, and there was no end of a game.”
“But how did it happen that you could see him when he couldn’t see you?” queried Jill, when Jack was forced to admit that he had made mistakes more than once; but it only added to the sport to see the consternation of innocent pedestrians when an accusing voice suddenly hissed in their ears, “Who sneaked the indiarubber from Smith’s desk?”
The twins were happily constituted to enjoy all things, and from their conversation it would have appeared that to be hopelessly lost in a fog would be the climax of earthly joy; but Betty hated the gloom of the long days, when the gas burned steadily from breakfast to bedtime, and was nervous about trusting herself alone in the streets. In her leisure moments she devoted herself to the preparation of Christmas presents, and turned over the contents of her scrap-drawers, debating how to make a dozen handsome articles with the least possible expenditure. It is to be feared that Betty’s gifts were arranged more to suit her own convenience than the tastes of the recipients. “This will make a book-cover for Jill. I don’t suppose she’ll ever use it, but it’s not big enough for anything else, so she’ll just have to like it!” This was the spirit in which she assorted her materials, and set to work thereon. Not the ideal attitude by any means, but one must make allowances for a girl with a small allowance and a large family connection, and must also enter it to the credit of this particular damsel that she grudged no work which could beautify the simple background. Poor Betty! For two whole gloomy afternoons did she work at a spray of roses on a linen work-bag, and on the third day a feeble gleam of sunlight showed itself, and lo, the roses were a harlequin study in pinks and orange!
“Is it at all trying? Is it enough to make you pitch the whole thing into the fire?” she demanded dramatically of the chairs and tables, as the horrible discovery burst upon her, and she proceeded to snap at the silk with her sharp little scissors, and viciously tear away the stitches. “Shan’t bother to fill them in any more! They’ll just have to do in outline, and if she doesn’t like it she can do the other thing!” she grunted under her breath; but that was only the impulse of the moment, and when it came to action each stitch was put in as carefully as before.
“What are you sewing away at those old things for?” Jill demanded, coming into the room and seating herself easily on the edge of the table. “It’s much easier to buy match-boxes and needle-books. You can get beauties for sixpence three-farthings at the Christmas bazaars, and it saves no end of fag. You can give me safety-pins if you like, for my clothes are all coming to pieces, and my pins disappear like smoke. Mary eats them, I believe! What are you going to give mother?”