<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br/> <span class='ph3'>THE SMALL BOY AT THE KEYHOLE</span></div>
<p>At the top of the stairs Benny tried to open the door, but as it did
not give at his pressure, he knocked lustily, and called “Aunt Jane,
Aunt Jane!”</p>
<p>“Isn’t this the bell?” hazarded Mr. Smith, his finger almost on a small
push-button near him.</p>
<p>“Yep, but it don’t go now. Uncle Frank wanted it fixed, but Aunt Jane
said no; knockin’ was just as good, an’ ’twas lots cheaper, ’cause
’twould save mendin’, and didn’t use any ’lectricity. But Uncle Frank
says—”</p>
<p>The door opened abruptly, and Benny interrupted himself to give eager
greeting.</p>
<p>“Hullo, Aunt Jane! I’ve brought you somebody. He’s Mr. Smith. An’
you’ll be glad. You see if yer ain’t!”</p>
<p>In the dim hallway Mr. Smith saw a tall, angular woman with graying
dark hair and high cheek bones. Her eyes were keen and just now
somewhat sternly inquiring, as they were bent upon himself.</p>
<p>Perceiving that Benny considered his mission as master of ceremonies
at an end, Mr. Smith hastened to explain.</p>
<p>“I came from your husband’s brother, madam. He—er—sent me. He thought
perhaps you had a room that I could have.”</p>
<p>“A room?” Her eyes grew still more coldly disapproving.</p>
<p>“Yes, and board. He thought—that is, <i>they</i> thought that
perhaps—you would be so kind.”</p>
<p>“Oh, a boarder! You mean for pay, of course?”</p>
<p>“Most certainly!”</p>
<p>“Oh!” She softened visibly, and stepped back. “Well, I don’t know. I
never have—but that isn’t saying I couldn’t, of course. Come in. We can
talk it over. <i>that</i> doesn’t cost anything. Come in; this way,
please.” As she finished speaking she stepped to the low-burning gas
jet and turned it carefully to give a little more light down the narrow
hallway.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” murmured Mr. Smith, stepping across the threshold.</p>
<p>Benny had already reached the door at the end of the hall. The woman
began to tug at her apron strings.</p>
<p>“I hope you’ll excuse my gingham apron, Mr.—er—Smith. Wasn’t that the
name?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” The man bowed with a smile.</p>
<p>“I thought that was what Benny said. Well, as I was saying, I hope
you’ll excuse this apron.” Her fingers were fumbling with the knot at
the back. “I take it off, mostly, when the bell rings, evenings or
afternoons; but I heard Benny, and I didn’t suppose ’twas anybody but
him. There, that’s better!” With a jerk she switched off the dark blue
apron, hung it over her arm, and smoothed down the spotless white apron
which had been beneath the blue. The next instant she hurried after
Benny with a warning cry. “Careful, child, careful! Oh, Benny, you’re
always in such a hurry!”</p>
<p>Benny, with a cheery “Come on!” had already banged open the door before
him, and was reaching for the gas burner.</p>
<p>A moment later the feeble spark above had become a flaring sputter of
flame.</p>
<p>“There, child, what did I tell you?” With a frown Mrs. Blaisdell
reduced the flaring light to a moderate flame, and motioned Mr. Smith
to a chair. Before she seated herself, however, she went back into the
hall to lower the gas there.</p>
<p>During her momentary absence the man, Smith, looked about him, and
as he looked he pulled at his collar. He felt suddenly a choking,
suffocating sensation. He still had the curious feeling of trying to
catch his breath when the woman came back and took the chair facing
him. In a moment he knew why he felt so suffocated—it was because that
nowhere could he see an object that was not wholly or partially covered
with some other object, or that was not serving as a cover itself.</p>
<p>The floor bore innumerable small rugs, one before each chair, each
door, and the fireplace. The chairs themselves, and the sofa, were
covered with gray linen slips, which, in turn, were protected by
numerous squares of lace and worsted of generous size. The green silk
spread on the piano was nearly hidden beneath a linen cover, and the
table showed a succession of layers of silk, worsted, and linen, topped
by crocheted mats, on which rested several books with paper-enveloped
covers. The chandelier, mirror, and picture frames gleamed dully from
behind the mesh of pink mosquito netting. Even through the doorway into
the hall might be seen the long, red-bordered white linen path that
carried protection to the carpet beneath.</p>
<p>“I don’t like gas myself.” (With a start the man pulled himself
together to listen to what the woman was saying.) “I think it’s a
foolish extravagance, when kerosene is so good and so cheap; but my
husband will have it, and Mellicent, too, in spite of anything I
say—Mellicent’s my daughter. I tell ’em if we were rich, it would be
different, of course. But this is neither here nor there, nor what you
came to talk about! Now just what is it that you want, sir?”</p>
<p>“I want to board here, if I may.”</p>
<p>“How long?”</p>
<p>“A year—two years, perhaps, if we are mutually satisfied.”</p>
<p>“What do you do for a living?”</p>
<p>Smith coughed suddenly. Before he could catch his breath to answer
Benny had jumped into the breach.</p>
<p>“He sounds something like a Congregationalist, only he ain’t that, Aunt
Jane, and he ain’t after money for missionaries, either.”</p>
<p>Jane Blaisdell smiled at Benny indulgently. Then she sighed and shook
her head.</p>
<p>“You know, Benny, very well, that nothing would suit Aunt Jane better
than to give money to all the missionaries in the world, if she only
had it to give!” She sighed again as she turned to Mr. Smith. “You’re
working for some church, then, I take it.”</p>
<p>Mr. Smith gave a quick gesture of dissent.</p>
<p>“I am a genealogist, madam, in a small way. I am collecting data for a
book on the Blaisdell family.”</p>
<p>“Oh!” Mrs. Blaisdell frowned slightly. The look of cold disapproval
came back to her eyes. “But who pays you? <i>we</i> couldn’t take the
book, I’m sure. We couldn’t afford it.”</p>
<p>“That would not be necessary, madam, I assure you,” murmured Mr. Smith
gravely.</p>
<p>“But how do you get money to live on? I mean, how am I to know that
I’ll get my pay?” she persisted. “Excuse me, but that kind of business
doesn’t sound very good-paying; and, you see, I don’t know you. And in
these days—” An expressive pause finished her sentence.</p>
<p>Mr. Smith smiled.</p>
<p>“Quite right, madam. You are wise to be cautious. I had a letter of
introduction to your brother from Mr. Robert Chalmers. I think he will
vouch for me. Will that do?”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right, then. But that isn’t saying how <i>much</i>
you’ll pay. Now, I think—”</p>
<p>There came a sharp knock at the outer door. The eager Benny jumped to
his feet, but his aunt shook her head and went to the door herself.
There was a murmur of voices, then a young man entered the hall and
sat down in the chair near the hatrack. When Mrs. Blaisdell returned
her eyes were very bright. Her cheeks showed two little red spots. She
carried herself with manifest importance.</p>
<p>“If you’ll just excuse me a minute,” she apologized to Mr. Smith, as
she swept by him and opened a door across the room, nearly closing it
behind her.</p>
<p>Distinctly then, from beyond the imperfectly closed door, came to the
ears of Benny and Mr. Smith these words, in Mrs. Blaisdell’s most
excited accents:—“Mellicent, it’s Carl Pennock. He wants you to go
auto-riding with him down to the Lake with Katie Moore and that crowd.”</p>
<p>“Mother!” breathed an ecstatic voice.</p>
<p>What followed Mr. Smith did not hear, for a nearer, yet more excited,
voice demanded attention.</p>
<p>“Gee! Carl Pennock!” whispered Benny hoarsely. “Whew! Won’t my sister
Bess be mad? She thinks Carl Pennock’s the cutest thing going. All the
girls do!”</p>
<p>With a warning “Sh-h!” and an expressive glance toward the hall, Mr.
Smith tried to stop further revelations; but Benny was not to be
silenced.</p>
<p>“They’re rich—awful rich—the Pennocks are,” he confided still more
huskily. “An’ there’s a girl—Gussie. She’s gone on Fred. He’s my
brother, ye know. He’s seventeen; an’ Bess is mad ’cause she isn’t
seventeen, too, so she can go an’ play tennis same as Fred does. She’ll
be madder ’n ever now, if Mell goes auto-riding with Carl, an’—”</p>
<p>“Sh-h!” So imperative were Mr. Smith’s voice and gesture this time that
Benny fell back subdued.</p>
<p>At once then became distinctly audible again the voices from the other
room. Mr. Smith, forced to hear in spite of himself, had the air of one
who finds he has abandoned the frying pan for the fire.</p>
<p>“No, dear, it’s quite out of the question,” came from beyond the door,
in Mrs. Blaisdell’s voice. “I can’t let you wear your pink. You will
wear the blue or stay at home. Just as you choose.”</p>
<p>“But, mother, dear, it’s all out of date,” wailed a young girl’s voice.</p>
<p>“I can’t help that. It’s perfectly whole and neat, and you must save
the pink for best.”</p>
<p>“But I’m always saving things for best, mother, and I never wear my
best. I never wear a thing when it’s in style! By the time you let me
wear the pink I shan’t want to wear it. Sleeves’ll be small then—you
see if they aren’t—I shall be wearing big ones. I want to wear big ones
now, when other girls do. Please, mother!”</p>
<p>“Mellicent, why will you tease me like this, when you know it will do
no good?—when you know I can’t let you do it? Don’t you think I want
you to be as well-dressed as anybody, if we could afford it? Come, I’m
waiting. You must wear the blue or stay at home. What shall I tell him?”</p>
<p>There was a pause, then there came an inarticulate word and a choking
half-sob. The next moment the door opened and Mrs. Blaisdell appeared.
The pink spots in her cheeks had deepened. She shut the door firmly,
then hurried through the room to the hall beyond. Another minute and
she was back in her chair.</p>
<p>“There,” she smiled pleasantly. “I’m ready now to talk business, Mr.
Smith.”</p>
<p>And she talked business. She stated plainly what she expected to do
for her boarder, and what she expected her boarder would do for her.
She enlarged upon the advantages and minimized the discomforts, with
the aid of a word now and then from the eager and interested Benny.</p>
<p>Mr. Smith, on his part, had little to say. That that little was most
satisfactory, however, was very evident; for Mrs. Blaisdell was soon
quite glowing with pride and pleasure. Mr. Smith was not glowing. He
was plainly ill at ease, and, at times, slightly abstracted. His eyes
frequently sought the door which Mrs. Blaisdell had closed so firmly
a short time before. They were still turned in that direction when
suddenly the door opened and a young girl appeared.</p>
<p>She was a slim little girl with long-lashed, starlike eyes and a
wild-rose flush in her cheeks. Beneath her trim hat her light brown
hair waved softly over her ears, glinting into gold where the light
struck it. She looked excited and pleased, yet not quite happy. She
wore a blue dress, plainly made.</p>
<p>“Don’t stay late. Be in before ten, dear,” cautioned Mrs. Blaisdell.
“And Mellicent, just a minute, dear. This is Mr. Smith. You might as
well meet him now. He’s coming here to live—to board, you know. My
daughter, Mr. Smith.”</p>
<p>Mr. Smith, already on his feet, bowed and murmured a conventional
something. From the starlike eyes he received a fleeting glance that
made him suddenly conscious of his fifty years and the bald spot on the
top of his head. Then the girl was gone, and her mother was speaking
again.</p>
<p>“She’s going auto-riding—Mellicent is—with a young man, Carl
Pennock—one of the nicest in town. There are four others in the party.
They’re going down to the Lake for cake and ice cream, and they’re
all nice young people, else I shouldn’t let her go, of course. She’s
eighteen, for all she’s so small. She favors my mother in looks, but
she’s got the Blaisdell nose, though. Oh, and ’twas the Blaisdells
you said you were writing a book about, wasn’t it? You don’t mean
<i>our</i> Blaisdells, right here in Hillerton?”</p>
<p>“I mean all Blaisdells, wherever I find them,” smiled Mr. Smith.</p>
<p>“Dear me! What, <i>us</i>? You mean <i>we</i>’ll be in the book?”
Now that the matter of board had been satisfactorily settled, Mrs.
Blaisdell apparently dared to show some interest in the book.</p>
<p>“Certainly.”</p>
<p>“You don’t say! My, how pleased Hattie’ll be—my sister-in-law, Jim’s
wife. She just loves to see her name in print—parties, and club
banquets, and where she pours, you know. But maybe you don’t take
women, too.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, if they are Blaisdells, or have married Blaisdells.”</p>
<p>“Oh! That’s where we’d come in, then, isn’t it? Mellicent and I? And
Frank, my husband, he’ll like it, too,—if you tell about the grocery
store. And of course you would, if you told about him. You’d have
to—’cause that’s all there is to tell. He thinks that’s about all there
is in the world, anyway,—that grocery store. And ’tis a good store, if
I do say it. And there’s his sister, Flora; and Maggie—But, there! Poor
Maggie! She won’t be in it, will she, after all? She isn’t a Blaisdell,
and she didn’t marry one. Now that’s too bad!”</p>
<p>“Ho! She won’t mind.” Benny spoke with conviction. “She’ll just laugh
and say it doesn’t matter; and then Grandpa Duff’ll ask for his drops
or his glasses, or something, and she’ll forget all about it. She won’t
care.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know; but—Poor Maggie! Always just her luck.” Mrs. Blaisdell
sighed and looked thoughtful. “But Maggie <i>knows</i> a lot about the
Blaisdells,” she added, brightening; “so she could tell you lots of
things—about when they were little, and all that.”</p>
<p>“Yes. But—that isn’t—er—” Mr. Smith hesitated doubtfully, and Mrs.
Blaisdell jumped into the pause.</p>
<p>“And, really, for that matter, she knows about us <i>now</i>, too,
better than ’most anybody else. Hattie’s always sending for her, and
Flora, too, if they’re sick, or anything. Poor Maggie! Sometimes I
think they actually impose upon her. And she’s such a good soul, too!
I declare, I never see her but I wish I could do something for her.
But, of course, with my means—But, there! Here I am, running on as
usual. Frank says I never do know when to stop, when I get started
on something; and of course you didn’t come here to talk about poor
Maggie. Now I’ll go back to business. When is it you want to start
in—to board, I mean?”</p>
<p>“To-morrow, if I may.” With some alacrity Mr. Smith got to his feet.
“And now we must be going—Benny and I. I’m at the Holland House. With
your permission, then, Mrs. Blaisdell, I’ll send up my trunks to-morrow
morning. And now good-night—and thank you.”</p>
<p>“Why—but, Mr. Smith!” The woman, too, came to her feet, but her face
was surprised. “Why, you haven’t even seen your room yet! How do you
know you’ll like it?”</p>
<p>“Eh? What? Oh!” Mr. Smith laughed. There was a quizzical lift to his
eyebrows. “So I haven’t, have I? And people usually do, don’t they?
Well—er—perhaps I will just take a look at—the room, though I’m not
worrying any, I assure you. I’ve no doubt it will be quite right, quite
right,” he finished, as he followed Mrs. Blaisdell to a door halfway
down the narrow hall.</p>
<p>Five minutes later, once more on the street, he was walking home with
Benny. It was Benny who broke the long silence that had immediately
fallen between them.</p>
<p>“Say, Mr. Smith, I’ll bet ye <i>you</i>’ll never be rich!”</p>
<p>Mr. Smith turned with a visible start.</p>
<p>“Eh? What? I’ll never be—What do you mean, boy?”</p>
<p>Benny giggled cheerfully.</p>
<p>“’Cause you paid Aunt Jane what she asked the very first time. Why,
Aunt Jane never expects ter get what she asks, pa says. She sells him
groceries in the store, sometimes, when Uncle Frank’s away, ye know.
Pa says what she asks first is for practice—just ter get her hand in;
an’ she expects ter get beat down. But you paid it, right off the bat.
Didn’t ye see how tickled Aunt Jane was, after she’d got over bein’
surprised?”</p>
<p>“Why—er—really, Benny,” murmured Mr. Smith.</p>
<p>But Benny had yet more to say.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, sir, you could have saved a lot every week, if ye hadn’t bit
so quick. An’ that’s why I say you won’t ever get rich. Savin’ ’s what
does it, ye know—gets folks rich. Aunt Jane says so. She says a penny
saved ’s good as two earned, an’ better than four spent.”</p>
<p>“Well, really, indeed!” Mr. Smith laughed lightly. “That does look as
if there wasn’t much chance for me, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.” Benny spoke soberly, and with evident sympathy. He spoke
again, after a moment, but Mr. Smith did not seem to hear at once. Mr.
Smith was, indeed, not a little abstracted all the way to Benny’s home,
though his good-night was very cheerful at parting. Benny would have
been surprised, indeed, had he known that Mr. Smith was thinking, not
about his foolishly extravagant agreement for board, but about a pair
of starry eyes with wistful lights in them, and a blue dress, plainly
made.</p>
<p>In the hotel that night, Mr. John Smith wrote the following letter to
Edward D. Norton, Esq., Chicago:</p>
<div class='blockquote'><span class="smcap">My Dear Ned</span>,—Well, I’m here. I’ve been here exactly six
hours, and already I’m in possession of not a little Blaisdell data
for my—er—book. I’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. James, their daughter, Bessie,
and their son, Benny. Benny, by the way, is a gushing geyser of
current Blaisdell data which, I foresee, I shall find interesting,
but embarrassing, perhaps, at times. I’ve also seen Miss Flora, and
Mrs. Jane Blaisdell and her daughter, Mellicent.</div>
<div class='blockquote'>There’s a “Poor Maggie” whom I haven’t seen. But she isn’t a
Blaisdell. She’s a Duff, daughter of the man who married Rufus
Blaisdell’s widow, some thirty years or more ago. As I said,
I haven’t seen her yet, but she, too, according to Mrs. Frank
Blaisdell, must be a gushing geyser of Blaisdell data, so I probably
soon shall see her. Why she’s “poor” I don’t know.</div>
<div class='blockquote'>As for the Blaisdell data already in my possession—I’ve no comment
to make. Really, Ned, to tell the truth, I’m not sure I’m going to
relish this job, after all. In spite of a perfectly clear conscience,
and the virtuous realization that I’m here to bring nothing worse
than a hundred thousand dollars apiece with the possible addition of
a few millions on their devoted heads—in spite of all this, I yet
have an uncomfortable feeling that I’m a small boy listening at the
keyhole.</div>
<div class='blockquote'>However, I’m committed to the thing now, so I’ll stuff it out, I
suppose,—though I’m not sure, after all, that I wouldn’t chuck the
whole thing if it wasn’t that I wanted to see how Mellicent will
enjoy her pink dresses. How many pink dresses will a hundred thousand
dollars buy, anyway,—I mean <i>pretty</i> pink dresses, all fixed up
with frills and furbelows?</div>
<div class='blockquote'><span style="margin-left: 12em;">As ever yours,</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 17em;"><span class="smcap">Stan</span>—er—<span class="smcap">John Smith</span>.</span><br/></div>
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