“Tingaling, aling, aling! Phome a ringin’ agin! I bet that’s Mr. Paul,” declared Caroline, the present queen of the Chatsworth kitchen. “I kin tell his ring ev’y time. I’m a goin’ ter answer it, Miss Molly.”
Molly, who was ironing the baby’s cap strings and bibs (work she never trusted any one to do), smiled. It was one of Caroline’s notions that each person had a particular way of ringing the telephone. She was always on the alert to answer the “phome,” and would stop anything she was doing and tear to be first to take down the receiver, although it always meant that some member of the family must come and receive the message which usually was perfectly unintelligible to the willing girl.
The telephone was in the great old dining room, because, as Mrs. Brown said, every one would call up at meal time and if you were there, you were there. Molly followed Caroline to the dining room, knowing full well that she would be needed when once the preliminaries were over. She gathered the cap strings and bibs, now neatly ironed and ready for the trip to Wellington that she would sooner or later have to take.
Still no news from the Hirondelle de Mer, that is, no news from Kent. The last boat load of sailors and passengers had been taken up, but none of them could say for sure whether the two Kentuckians had been saved or not. One man insisted he had seen the submarine stop and take something or some one on board, but when closely questioned he was quite hazy as to his announcement. Jimmy Lufton had kept the cables hot trying to find out something. The Browns and Jim Castleman’s sister had communicated with each other on the subject of the shipwrecked boys.
“‘Low!” she heard Caroline mutter with that peculiarly muffled tone that members of her race always seem to think they must assume when speaking through the telephone. “This here is Mrs. Brown’s res-i-d-e-n-c-e! Yessir! This here is Ca’line at the phome. Yessir! Miss Molly done made yo’ maw eat her breakfus’ in the baid. No, sir, not to say sick in the baid—yessir, kinder sick on the baid. Yessir! Miss Molly is a launderin’ of the cap ties fer the baby. We is all well, sir, yessir. I’ll call Miss Molly.”
Of course she hung up the receiver before Molly could drop her cap strings and reach the telephone.
“Oh, Caroline, why did you hang it up? Was it Mr. Paul?”
“Yassum! It were him. I done tole you I could tell his ring. I hung up the reception cause I didn’t know you was so handy, an’ I thought if I kep it down, it might was’e the phome somehow, while I went out to fetch you.”
Molly couldn’t help laughing, although it was very irritating for Caroline to be so intensely stupid about telephoning. Paul, knowing Caroline’s ways, rang up again in a moment and Molly was there ready to get the message herself.
“Molly, honey, are you well? Is Mother well? How is the baby?”