“Now what was that?” cried Ike, jumping up. Before he was on his feet a broken soap-dish had followed the mug. Up flew the sash, and Ike was out of the window. “What are you doing that for? What do you mean by that?” he yelled, to which the dark and silent house opposite naturally made no reply. Ike was out in the road now, and both his parents were after him. The elder Armstrong had been so suddenly wakened from a doze that he was under the impression of a fire somewhere, and let out a noble shout to that effect. Mrs. Armstrong, convinced that a dynamite bomb had missed fire, gathered her skirts tightly around her ankles—as if bombs could run under them like mice—and helped by screaming alternately “Police!” and “Murder!”
Henriette gloated silently over the confusion. It did her soul good to see Ike Armstrong running along the sidewalk after supposititious boys.
The Armstrongs did not return to the organ. Henriette heard their footsteps on the gravel, she heard the muffled sound of voices; but not again did the tortured instrument excite her nerves, and she sank into a troubled slumber. As they sat at breakfast the next morning, and Henriette was calculating the share due each cup from the half-pint of boiled milk, the broken bell-wire jangled. Pauline said she would go.
“It can’t be any one to call so early in the morning,” said Henriette; “you may go.”
“‘SOMEBODY THREW THESE THINGS AT OUR WINDOW’”
It was young Armstrong, in his Sunday clothes. Pauline’s only picture of him had been in his work-a-day garb; it was curious how differently he impressed her, fresh from the bath and the razor, trigly buttoned up in a perfectly fitting suit of blue and brown, with a dazzling rim of white against his shapely tanned throat, and a crimson rose in his button-hole. “How handsome he is!” thought Pauline. She had never been satisfied with her own nose, and she looked at the straight bridge of his and admired it. She was too innocent and ignorant herself to notice how innocently clear were his eyes; but she thought that they looked true and kind, and she did notice the bold lines of his chin and jaw, and the firm mouth under his black mustache. Unaccountably she grew embarrassed; he was looking at her so gravely, almost sternly, his new straw hat in one hand, and the other slightly extended to her and holding a neat bundle.
He bowed ceremoniously, as he had seen actors bow on the stage. “Somebody threw these things at our window last night,” said he; “I think they belong to you. I couldn’t find all the pieces of the china.”
“They weren’t all there,” stammered Pauline, foolishly; and then a wave of mingled confusion and irritation at her false position—there was her monogram on the ivory brush!—and a queer kind of amusement, swept over her, and dyed her delicate cheek as red as Armstrong’s rose. And suddenly he too, flushed, and his eyes flashed.
“I’m sorry I disturbed your sister,” said he, “but I hope she will not throw any more things at us. We will try not to practise so late another night. Good-morning.”