“Probably she wants one of us,” whispered Dorothy, who was sixteen, to Polly, who was eighteen.
Sydney, who was fifteen, waited eagerly. He thought Aunt Kate might have heard of the picture on the barn door and mean to give him a chance to become a great artist. Any one could see that the picture meant a man on horseback, with a pipe in his mouth, and that the man was Michael, their gardener, even if Tom did pretend to think it was the town pump.
Oliver stood up on a round of his chair; he was short, and he had such a little, squeaky voice that he had to get up high to make people notice him.
“She may want one of the youngsters,” said Polly doubtfully. “She said Trixie was a quaint child.”
“I’m not a quaint child,” said Trixie, as if her feelings were hurt. “And I’m not the one who can leave home just as well as not. So many things disagree with Bevis, and the Bantam rooster pecks my chicks.”
“You sha‘n’t go,” said Papa Plummer, patting her head. They all knew that Trixie was a home body. Once, when she tried to stay at Aunt Sarah’s, they had to bring her home in the middle of the night.
“If she wants me,” said Tom, “I’m her man.” But Tom was eating his dinner just as if nothing had happened.
Tom was twelve, and had learned that you can’t have everything you want in this world, and that the things you get sometimes turn out better than the things you want and can’t get.
Another one of the Plummers was quietly eating his dinner. That was because he was sure that Aunt Kate didn’t want him. None of the others had even thought of Sonny Boy. It was a matter of course, they would have said, that Aunt Kate didn’t want Sonny Boy.
Sonny Boy was ten. His name was Peter, but Mamma thought that too large a name for a small boy. Besides, there was another Peter Plummer—his cousin—who lived on Pippin Hill. Both Peters were named for Grandpa Plummer.