The Corner House Girls Growing Up Part 11

Dot told him proudly. And Tess said:

"Don't you think it is a pretty name? Dot found it all her own self. It was painted on a barn."

"What's that?" asked Neale suddenly. "What was painted on a barn?"

"The sailor-baby's name," Dot said proudly. "'Nosmo King Kenway.'"

"On a barn!" repeated the puzzled Neale. "Whose barn?"

When he learned that it was Mr. Stout's tobacco barn he looked rather funny and asked several other questions of the little girls.

Then he drew a sheet of paper toward him and with a pencil printed something upon it, which he pa.s.sed to Agnes. She burst into laughter at once, and pa.s.sed the paper on.

"What is it?" Dot asked curiously. "Is it a funny picture he's drawed?"

"It's funnier than a picture," laughed Luke, who had taken a squint at the paper. "I declare, isn't that a good one!"

"I don't think you folks are very polite," Tess said, rather haughtily, for the others were not going to show the paper to the little girls. On the sheet Neale had arranged the letters of the new baby's name as they were meant to be read--for he knew what was painted upon the inside of the doors of Mr. Stout's barn:

NO SMOKING

Ruth, however, would not let the joke go on. She took Dot up on her lap and explained kindly how the mistake had been make. For Nosmo _was_ a pretty name; n.o.body could deny it. And, of course, King sounded particularly aristocratic.

Nevertheless, Dot there and then dropped the sailor-baby's fancy name, and he became Jack, to be known by that name forever more.

After the smaller girls had disappeared stairward, Neale and Luke unfolded one of the card-tables and began a game of chess which shut them entirely out of the general conversation for the remainder of the evening.

The girls and Mrs. MacCall chatted companionably. They had much to tell each other, for, after all, the Corner House girls and Cecile Shepard had spent but one adventurous night together and they needed to learn the particulars of each other's lives before they really could feel "at home with one another," as Agnes expressed it.

Cecile and her brother could scarcely remember their parents; and the maiden aunt they lived with--a half sister of their father's--was the only relative they knew anything about.

"Oh, no," Cecile said, "we can expect no step-up in this world by the aid of any interested relative. There is no wealthy and influential uncle or aunt to give us a helping hand. We're lucky to get an education. Aunt Lorena makes that possible with her aid. And she does what she can, I know full well, only by much self-sacrifice."

Then the cheerful girl began to laugh reminiscently. "That is," she pursued, "_I_ can look forward to the help of no fairy G.o.dmother or G.o.dfather. But Luke is in better odor with Neighbor than I am."

"'Neighbor'!" repeated Ruth. "Who is he? Or is it a what?"

"Or a game?" laughed Agnes. "'Neighbor'!"

"He is really great fun," said Cecile, still laughing. "So I suppose he might be called a game. He really is a 'neighbor,' however. He is a man named Henry Harrison Northrup, who lives right beside Aunt Lorena's little cottage in Grantham.

"You see, Luke and I used always to work around Aunt Lorena's yard, and have a garden, and chickens, and what-not when we were younger.

Everybody has big yards in that part of Grantham. And Mr. Northrup, on one side, was always quarreling with auntie. He is a misogynist--"

"A mis-_what_-inest?" gasped Mrs. MacCall, hearing a new word.

"Oh, I know!" cried Agnes, eagerly. "A woman-hater. A man who hates women."

"Humph!" scoffed Mrs. MacCall, "is there such indeed? And what do they call a man-hater?"

"That, Mrs. MacCall, I cannot tell you," laughed Cecile. "I fear there are no women man-haters--not _really_. At least there is no distinctive t.i.tle for them in the dictionary."

"So much the worse for the dictionary, then," said the Scotch woman.

"And, of course, _that's_ man-made!"

"It was only the Greeks who were without 'em," put in Ruth, smiling.

"The perfectly good, expressive English word 'man-hater' is in the dictionary without a doubt."

"But do go on about Neighbor," Agnes urged. "Does he quarrel with you people all the time?"

"Not with Luke," Cecile explained. "He likes Luke. He is really very fond of him, although it seems positively to hurt him to show love for anybody.

"But a long time ago Mr. Northrup began to show an interest in Luke. He would come to the fence between his and Aunt Lorena's places, and talk with Luke by the hour. But if either I or aunty came near he'd turn right around and walk away.

"He never allows a woman inside his door and hasn't, they say, for twenty years. He has a j.a.panese servant--the only one that was ever seen in Grantham; and they get along without a woman."

"I'd like tae see intae that hoos," snapped Mrs. MacCall, shaking her head and dropping into her broad Scotch, as she often did when excited.

"What could twa' buddies of men do alone at housekeeping!"

"Oh, the j.a.p is trained to it," Cecile said. "Luke says everything is spick and span there. And Mr. Northrup himself, although he dresses queerly in old-fashioned clothes, has always clean linen and is well brushed.

"But he does not often appear outside of his own yard. He really hates to meet women. His front gate is locked. Luke climbs the fence when he goes to see Neighbor; but people with skirts aren't supposed to be able to climb fences; so Mr. Northrup is pretty safe. Even the minister's wife doesn't get in."

"But why do you call him Neighbor?" asked Ruth again.

"That's what he told Luke to call him in the first place. We were not very old when Luke's strange friendship with Mr. Northrup began. After they had become quite chummy Luke, who was a little fellow, asked the old gentleman if he couldn't call him Uncle Henry. You see, Luke liked him so much that he wanted to say something warmer than Mister.

"But that would never do. Mr. Northrup seemed to think that might connect him in people's minds with Aunt Lorena. So he told Luke finally to call him Neighbor.

"Of course, the old gentleman is really a _dear_--only he doesn't know it," continued Cecile. "He thinks he hates women, and the idea of marriage is as distasteful to him as a red rag is to a bull.

"He is going to leave Luke all his money he says. At any rate, he has promised to do something for him when he gets out of college if he manages to graduate in good odor with the faculty," and Cecile laughed.

"But if Luke should suggest such a thing as marrying--even if the girl were the nicest girl in the world--Neighbor would not listen to it. He would cut their friendship in a moment, I know," added the girl seriously. "And his help may be of great value to Luke later on."

If Cecile had some reason for telling the older Corner House girls and Mrs. MacCall this story she did not point the moral of it by as much as a word or a look. They were quickly upon another topic of conversation.

But perhaps what she had said had taken deep root in the heart of one, at least, of her audience.

CHAPTER IX

EVERYTHING AT SIXES AND SEVENS

Things sometimes begin to go wrong the very moment one wakes up in the morning.

Then there is the coming down to breakfast with a teeny, weeny twist in one's temper that makes some unfeeling person say: