“Now this playing at the moving picture houses—that’s work I ought to do well. My father paid for my lessons for years—he hated to do it, for he didn’t want me to be a musician, but mother insisted. Mrs. Schmitz has helped me to make something from all that training.”
“A good friend does help a lot, doesn’t he?”
“Wonderfully. A little more than six weeks altogether I’ve played, most of the time evenings only, and I’ve made enough to buy all the clothes I need, to pay Mrs. Schmitz a little for my first month’s board and nursing, all she’ll let me pay. I’m in school, I’m learning a business—no matter if it is slowly—I have good health, am invited to join the Fussers, and—have a chance to play with Miss Carter. Gee! If any one had shown me all those pictures the night before I broke in here I’d have thought he was dippy.” There was a happy, boyish lilt in his tones, and he began to whistle as he stirred the steaming fruit.
Carefully into the glasses, as Sydney had seen Mrs. Schmitz put away her jellies, they dipped the marmalade, and afterward washed up the dishes and put the kitchen in order, rather proud of their morning’s work. Then they went to the nursery to help in the potting, the making of new beds, the “slipping,” or whatever work was most pressing.
That day and night they did little cooking. Anyone could live well more than one day on warmed-up things at Mrs. Schmitz’s home. Early in the evening Max wrote and posted his acceptance of the invitation to have his name proposed for the Fussers.
They went to bed early. Neither would acknowledge how lonely he was without Mrs. Schmitz; though each knew the other felt it.
The next afternoon a cheery voice came over the line.
“Have you all been well efer since I left you?” Mrs. Schmitz inquired. “It seems one year already. I come tonight; in about two hours now.”
“Let’s surprise her!” Max proposed. “Have a bang-up dinner. You boss, and I’ll help.”