Amarilly of Clothes line Alley

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"Good-by, Mr. Derry," said the little girl artlessly. "And thar's
something I'd like to say to you, if you don't mind."

"You may say anything--everything--to me, Amarilly."

"When you go to eat, won't you order jest as ef I was with you--nothin'
more?"

His fair boyish face reddened slightly, and then a serious look came
into his dancing eyes.

"By Jove, Amarilly! I've been wishing some girl who really meant it, who
really cared, would say that to me. You put it very delicately and
sweetly. I'll--yes, I'll do it all the time I'm gone. There's my hand on
it. Good-by, Amarilly."

"Good-by, Mr. Derry."

Amarilly walked home very slowly, trying to think of a way to realize
again from the surplice.

"I'm afeerd I won't find a place to rent it right away," she sighed.

Looking up, she saw the Boarder. A slender, shy slip of a girl had his
arm, and he was gazing into her intent eyes with a look of adoration.

"Oh, the Boarder is in love!" gasped Amarilly; her responsive little
heart leaping in sympathetic interest. "That's why he's wore a blue
necktie the last few days. Lord Algernon said that was allers a sure
sign."

She tactfully slipped around a corner, unseen by the entranced couple.

That night, as he was lighting his after-supper pipe, the Boarder
remarked casually:

"I'd like to rent the surplus fer an hour to-morrer, Amarilly."

"Why, what on airth can you do with it?" was the astonished query.

The Boarder looked sheepish.

"You see, Amarilly, I'm akeepin' stiddy company with a little gal."

"I seen you and her this arternoon. She's orful purty," said Amarilly
reflectively. "She looked kinder delikit, though. What's her name?"

"Lily--Lily Rose. Ain't that a purty name?"

"Beautiful. The lily part jest suits her. She's like a flower--a white
flower. But what do you want the surplus fer?"

"You see," began the Boarder, coming by circuitous route to his subject,
"gals git notions in their heads sometimes when they air in--"

"Love," promptly supplied the comprehending little girl.

"Yes," he assented with a fiery blush. "And she wants fer me to hev my
likeness took so I kin give it to her."

"Thar ain't nothin' foolish about that!" declared Amarilly.

"No; but I never sot fer one yet. I wouldn't mind, but you see she's got
it in her head that I am good-looking--"

"Well, you be," corroborated Amarilly decisively.

"And she wants me fer to dress up like a preacher. I told her about
Hallie Hudgers lookin' so swell in the surplus, and she wants, as I
should dress up in it and set fer my likeness in it."

"I think it would be fine!" approved Amarilly. "You sure would look
nicer nor Hallie did."

"Well, I wouldn't look like a dead one," admitted the Boarder. "But I
was orful afraid you'd laugh. Then I kin rent it fer an hour to-morrer
ef it ain't got no other dates."

"You can't _rent_ it. You can take it fer an hour, or so long as you
like," she assured him.

"You'll hev to take a quarter anyway, fer luck. Mebby 'twill bring me
luck awinnin' her."

The photograph of the Boarder in saintly attire was pronounced a great
success. Before the presentation he had it set in a frame made of gilt
network studded with shells.

Lily Rose spent her leisure moments gazing upon it with the dream-
centred eyes of a young devotee before a shrine.

The next wearing of the surplice was more in accord with its original
design. In the precinct adjoining the one in which lived and let live
the Jenkins family, a colored Episcopal church had recently been
established. The rector had but one surplice, and that had been stolen
from the clothes-line, mayhap by one of his dusky flock; thus it was
that Amarilly received a call from the Reverend Virgil Washington, who
had heard of the errant surplice, which he offered to purchase.

Naturally his proposition was met by a firm and unalterable refusal. It
would have been like selling a golden goose to dispose of such a
profitable commodity. He then asked to rent it for a Sunday while he was
having one made. This application, being quite in Amarilly's line of
business, met with a ready assent.

"You can hev it fer a dollar," she offered.

The bargain was finally closed, although it gave Amarilly more than a
passing pang to think of the snowy folds of Mr. St. John's garment
adorning an Ethiopian form.

One day there came to the Jenkins home a most unusual caller. The novel
presence of the "mailman" at their door brought every neighbor to post
of observation. His call was for the purpose of leaving a gayly-colored
postal card addressed to "Miss Amarilly Jenkins." It was from Derry, and
she spent many happy moments in deciphering it. His writing was
microscopic, and he managed to convey a great deal of information in the
allotted small space. He inquired solicitously concerning the surplice,
and bade her be a good girl and not forget the two words he had taught
her. "I have ordered all my meals as though you were with me," he wrote
in conclusion.

Amarilly laid the card away with her wedding waist. Then, with the
Boarder's aid, she indited an answer on a card that depicted the Barlow
Theatre.

The next event for Amarilly was an invitation to attend the wedding of
Mrs. Hubbleston, a buxom, bustling widow for whom Mrs. Jenkins washed.
In delivering the clothes, Amarilly had come to be on very friendly
terms with the big, light-hearted woman, and so she had been asked to
assist in the serving of refreshments on the eventful night.

"I've never been to a wedding," said Amarilly wistfully. "I've been to
most everything else, and I would like to see you wed, but I ain't got
no clo'es 'cept my hair-ribbons."

Mrs. Hubbleston looked at her contemplatively.

"My last husband's niece's little girl left a dress here once when she
was going home after a visit. She had hardly worn it, but she had
outgrown it, and her ma told me to give it away. I had 'most forgotten
about it. I believe it would just fit you. Let us see."

She produced a white dress that adjusted itself comfortably to
Amarilly's form.

"You look real pretty in white, Amarilly. You shall have this dress for
your own."

On the nuptial night Amarilly, clad in the white gown and with black
velvet hair-ribbons, went forth at an early hour to the house of
festivity.

Mrs. Hubbleston, resplendent in a glittering jetted gown, came into the
kitchen to see that things were progressing properly.

"Ain't you flustered?" asked Amarilly, looking at her in awe.

"Land, no, child! I have been married four times before this, you see,
so it comes natural. There goes the doorbell. It must be Mr. Jimmels and
the minister."

In a few moments she returned to the kitchen for sympathy.

"I am so disappointed," she sighed, "but then, I might have expected
something would happen. It always does at my weddings."

"What is it?" asked Amarilly, apprehensive lest the wedding might be
declared off.

"I've been married once by a Baptist minister, once by a Methodist, and
the third time by a Congregationalist; last time a Unitarian tied the
knot. So this once I thought I would have an Episcopal, because their
white robe lends tone. And Rev. Mr. Woodthorn has come without his. He
says he never brings it to the house weddings unless specially
requested. He lives clear across the city, and the carriage has gone
away."

"Oh, I have a surplus!" cried Amarilly enthusiastically. "I'll telephone
our grocer. Milt's ahelpin' him to-night, and he can ride over here on
the grocer's wheel and fetch it."

"Why, how in the world did you come by such a thing as a surplice?"
asked the widow in surprise.

Amarilly quickly explained, and then telephoned to her brother.

"He says he'll be over here in a jiffy," she announced. "And ain't it
lucky, it's jest been did up clean!"

"My, but that's fortunate! It'll be the making of my wedding. I shall
give you a dollar for the use of it, the same as those others did."

"No!" objected Amarilly. "Ill be more than glad to let you hev it arter
your givin' me this fine dress."

"I'll have Mr. Jimmels pay you for it. He can take a dollar out of the
fee for the minister. It will serve him right for not bringing all his
trappings with him."

Amarilly's sense of justice was appeased by this arrangement. She went
into the double parlors to witness the ceremony, which gave her a few
little heart thrills.

"Them words sounds orful nice," she thought approvingly. "The Boarder
and Lily Rose must hev an Episcopal fer to marry them. I wonder if I'll
ever get to Miss King's and Mr. St. John's weddin' or Mr. Derry's; but I
guess he'll never be married. He jokes too much to be thinkin' of sech
things." Then came the thought of her own wedding garment awaiting its
destiny.

"I ain't even hed a beau, yet," she sighed, "but the Boarder says that I
will--that red-headed girls ain't never old maids from ch'ice."

With this sustaining thought, she proceeded to the dining-room. She had
been taught at the Guild how to wait on table, and she proved herself to
be very deft and capable in putting her instructions into effect.

"Here's two dollars," the complacent bride said to Amarilly before
departing. "One is for serving so nicely, and one is for the surplice. I
told them in the kitchen to put you up a basket of things to take home
to the children."

Amarilly thanked her profusely and then went home. She deposited her two
dollars in the family exchequer, and proceeded to distribute the
contents of the basket.

"Now, set around the table here, and take what I give you. Thar ain't
enough of one thing to go hull way round, except fer ma. She's agoin' to
hev some of each. Yes, you be, ma. This here baskit's mine. Here's a
sandwich, some chicken, salid, jell, two kinds of cake, and some ice-
cream fer you. Bud can hev first pick now, 'cause he ain't so strong as
the rest of you. All right, Bud; take the rest of the ice-cream and some
cake."

"'Tain't fair! I'm a girl, and I'm younger than Bud. I'd orter choose
first," sobbed Cory.

"Shut up, Co! You'll wake Iry, and then he'll hev to hev something, and
if he sleeps right through, thar'll be jest so much more fer you.
'Twon't hurt him to miss what he don't know about. All right, Cory, you
can hev cake and jell. That's a good boy, Bud, to give her two tastes of
the cream, and ma'll give you two more. Bobby? Sandwiches and pickle.
Milt? Chicken and salid. Flammy and Gus, pickle and sandwich is all
that's left fer you. The rest of this chicken is agoin' into the
Boarder's dinner pail to-morrer."

CHAPTER XI

Milton came home from the grocery one night with a telephone message
from Mr. Vedder requesting Amarilly to bring the surplice to his rooms
on the next day.

"How is business?" asked the ticket-seller kindly, when the little girl
appeared in answer to his summons.

"Fine! The surplus has brung in nine dollars and seventy-five cents
a'ready. It's kept things goin'."

"The theatre will open in a couple of weeks, and then you will have
steady work, though I wish we might get an easier and pleasanter
occupation for you."

"I'm agoin' to hev one, Mr. Vedder," and she proceeded to tell him of
Derry and her engagement at his studio.

"It kinder seems as if I b'longed to the theayter, and you've been so
orful kind to me, Mr. Vedder, that it'll seem strange-like not to be
here, but Mr. Phillips's work'll be a snap fer me."

"You've been a good, faithful little girl, Amarilly, and I shall want to
keep track of you and see you occasionally, so I am going to give you a
pass to every Saturday matinee during the winter."

"Oh, Mr. Vedder, there's been no one so good as you've been to me! And
you never laugh at me like other folks do."

"No, indeed, child! Why should I? But I never knew before that you had
such beautiful hair!"

"It's 'cause it's fixed better," said Amarilly with a blush. "But who
wants the surplus this time?"

"I do," he replied smiling. "I am invited to a sheet and pillow-case
party. I thought this surplice would be more comfortable than a sheet.
Here's a dollar for it."

"No," declined Amarilly firmly. "Not arter all you've done fer us. I
won't take it."

"Amarilly," he said earnestly. "I have no one in the world to do
anything for, and sometimes, when I get to thinking about it, I am very
lonely. So if you want to be kind to me, you will give me the pleasure
of helping you a little now and then. I shall not enjoy the party unless
you will take the money."

Amarilly cried a little that night, thinking how good he was.

"I hed orter like him best of all," she thought reproachfully.

Two or three days later Pete Noyes came to the house.

"Hello, Amarilly! I ain't seen yer in so long I'd fergit how you looked.
Say, why didn't you ever fix yer hair that way afore? It looks swell,
even if it is red!"

"I am older now," she explained in superior, lofty tones, "and of course
I hev to think more about my looks than I used ter."

He gazed at her with such ardent admiration that she was seized with an
impulse to don her white dress and impress his young fancy still
further.

"He ain't wuth it, though," her sober second thought decided.

"What does yer think I come fer, Amarilly?"

"I dunno, 'less Mr. Vedder sent you."

"He did, sorter. You see, I'm invited to one of them kind of parties
whar you dress up ter be the name of a book. One of the stock company is
givin' it fer her kids. I don't know the name of any book except
_Diamond Dick_ and _The Curse of Gold_, and I didn't know how to rig up
fer them. I went to Vedder, and he sez thar's a book what's called _The
Little Minister_, and I could rent yer surplus and tog out in it. He
said you would take tucks in it fer me."

"Sure I will. I'll fix it now while you wait, Pete."

"Say, Amarilly, I thought as how, seein' we are both in the perfesshun,
sorter, you'd come down on your price."

"Sure thing, Pete. I won't charge you nothin' fer it."

"Yes; I wanter pay. I'll tell you what, Amarilly, couldn't you take it
out in gum? I hed a hull lot left over when the theayter shut down.
It'll git stale ef I keep it much longer, and I'd like to git some of it
offen my hands."

"Sure, I will, Pete. We all like gum, and we can't afford to buy it very
often. That'll be dandy."

Thus it was that for the next fortnight the Jenkins family revelled in
the indulgence of a hitherto denied but dearly prized luxury. Their jaws
worked constantly and joyously, although differently. Mrs. Jenkins, by
reason of depending upon her third set of teeth, chewed cautiously and
with camel-like precision. The Boarder, having had long practice in the
art, craunched at railway speed. The older boys munched steadily and
easily, while Bud and Bobby pecked intermittently in short nibbles.
Amarilly had the "star method," which they all vainly tried to emulate.
At short and regular intervals a torpedo-like report issued from the gum
as she snapped her teeth down upon it. Cory kept hers strung out
elastically from her mouth, occasionally rolling it back.

The liberal supply of the luxury rapidly diminished, owing to the fact
that Iry swallowed his allowance after ineffectual efforts to retain it
in his mouth, and then like Oliver Twist pleaded for more.

"I declare fer it!" remarked Mrs. Hudgers to Amarilly. "That child's
insides will all be stuck together. I should think yer ma would be
afeard to let him chaw so much."

"He's ateethin', and it sorter soothes his gums," explained Amarilly.

During the summer season, Pete had pursued his profession at a
vaudeville theatre, and one day, not long after his literary
representation, he came to Amarilly with some good tidings.

"I hev another job fer yer surplus. Down to the vawdyville they're goin'
to put on a piece what has a preacher in it, and I tole them about yer
surplus, and the leadin' man, who is to be the preacher, says 'twould
lend to the settin's to wear it. I told him mebby you'd let him hev the
use on it fer a week fer five dollars. He said he could buy the stuff
and make a dozen fer that price, but they gotter start the piece
to-night so that'd be no time to make one. I'll take it down to them
to-night."

This was the longest and most remunerative act of the surplice, and
served to pay for a very long accruing milk bill. When the engagement at
the vaudeville ended, the Boarder came to the rescue.

"Thar's a friend of mine what brakes, and he wants the surplus to wear
to a maskyrade. I told him he could go as a preacher. He's asavin' to
git merried, so he don't want to give much."

"He shell hev it fer a quarter," said Amarilly, friend to all lovers,
"and I'll lend him a mask. I hev one the property man at the theayter
give me."

CHAPTER XII

"I wonder," meditated Gus, "where the surplus will land next?"

"It has been most everywhere except to the police court," said Bobby.
"'Spect 'twill land there next!"

His prophecy was fulfilled. Mrs. Jenkins washed the lucrative garment
late one afternoon and left it on the line all night. The next morning,
to the great consternation of the family and the wild distress of
Amarilly, the beloved surplice, that friend of friends in time of need,
had vanished. Other clotheslines in the vicinity had also been deprived
of their burdens, and a concerted complaint was made to the police, who
promptly located the offender and brought him summarily to trial. Mrs.
Jenkins was subpoenaed as a witness, which caused quite a ripple of
excitement in the family. Divided between dread of appearing in public
and pride at the importance with which she was regarded by her little
flock, Mrs. Jenkins was quite upset by the occasion. She hadn't attended
a function for so long that her costuming therefor was of more concern
than had been Amarilly's church raiment.

Mrs. Hudgers loaned her mourning bonnet and veil, which was adjusted at
half mast. They appeared in direct contradiction to the skirt of bilious
green she wore, but the Jenkinses were as unconventional in attire as
they were in other things.

The family attended the trial _en masse_, and were greatly elated at the
prominence their mother had attained. The culprit was convicted and the
surplice duly restored. The misfortune was not without profit. Mrs.
Jenkins received thirty-five cents as a witness fee.

They had managed to pay their household expenses through the summer, but
when the rent for August was due there was not quite enough cash on hand
to meet this important item of expenditure. Noting the troubled brows of
Mrs. Jenkins and Amarilly at breakfast time, the Boarder insisted on
knowing the cause.

"We're broke, and the rent's overdue," tersely explained Amarilly.

"I'm broke, too," sighed the Boarder, "except what I've got in the
savin's bank towards--"

"Lily Rose," suggested Amarilly softly.

"Yes," he admitted, with a beaming look. "But when I go broke, all other
things failin', I allers tackle a pawnbroker."

"We ain't got nothin' to pawn," sighed Amarilly.

She recalled the lace waist, but that, like the Lily Rose fund, was
sacred. There was always, to-day, yesterday, and forever, the surplice,
and her scruples regarding that article had of necessity become case-
hardened; still, Amarilly hesitated. A pawnshop seemed lower than a
police court.

"It's been everywhere else," she said loudly to the accusing, still,
small voice, "and it might jest as well go the limit. 'T won't bring
much, but 'twill help."

Through byways and highways Amarilly sought the region of the three-
balled porticoes. The shop of one Max Solstein attracted her, and she
entered his open door. Max, rat-eyed and frog-mouthed, came forward
propitiatingly.

"What'll you gimme on this?" came with directness from the small
importuner.

He took the garment, shook it, and held it up for falcon-gaze
inspection.

"Not worth much. A quarter of a dollar."

Amarilly snatched it from his grasp and fled. Not because of his low-
figured offer; she had fully expected to have to "beat him up." But when
she had entered, a youth who had all the recognized earmarks of a
reporter was lounging in the doorway. At sight of the uplifted garment
he had come eagerly forward, scenting a story. She knew his kind from
snatches of conversation she had heard between the leading lady and Lord
Algernon. In the lore of the stage at Barlow's, reporters were "hovering
vultures" who always dropped down when least wanted, and they had a way
of dragging to light the innermost thoughts of their victims.

"You read your secrets," Lord Algernon had dramatically declared, "in
blazoned headlines."

Hitherto Amarilly had effectually silenced her instinctive rebellion
against the profaning of St. John's surplice, but she had reached the
limit. No Max Solstein, no threatening landlord, no ruthless reporter
should thrust the sacred surplice into the publicity of print.

She darted from the shop, the reporter right at her heels, but the
chasing of his covey to corner was not easily accomplished. He was a
newly fledged reporter, and Amarilly had all the instinct of the lowly
for localities. She turned and doubled and dodged successfully. By a
course circuitous she returned to Hebrew haunts, this time to seek, one
Abram Canter, a little wizened, gnome-like Jew. Assuring herself that
there was no other than the proprietor within, Amarilly entered and
handed over the surplice for appraisal.

Once more the garment was held aloft. At that psychological moment an
elderly man of buxom build, benevolent in mien, and with smooth, long
hair that had an upward rolling tendency at the ends, looked in the shop
as he was passing. He halted, hesitated, and then entered. Of him,
however, Amarilly felt no apprehension.

"Looks like Quaker Oats, or mebby it's the Jack of Spades," she thought
after a searching survey.

"My child, is that yours?" he asked of Amarilly, indicating the garment
by a protesting forefinger.

"Sure thing!" she acknowledged frankly.

"Where did you get it?"

If he had been a young man, Amarilly would have cheerfully reminded him
that it was none of his business, but, a respecter of age, she loftily
informed him that it had been "give to her."

"By whom?" he persisted.

Perceiving her reluctance to answer, he added gently:

"I am a bishop of the Episcopal Church, and I cannot endure to see a
surplice in such a place as this."

A bishop! This was worse than a reporter even. St. John would surely
hear of it! But she felt that an explanation was due the calling of her
interlocutor.

She lifted righteous eyes to his.

"My mother works for one of the churches, and the minister, he give us
this to cut up into clo'es fer the chillern, but we didn't cut it up.
I'm agoin' to leave it here till the rent's paid, and we git the money
to take it outen hock."

The bishop's eyes softened, and lost their look of shocked dignity.

"I will advance you the money," he offered. "I would much prefer to do
so than to have it left here. How much money do you need to pay your
rent?"

"We need five dollars," said Amarilly, "to pay the balance of it. But I
wouldn't take it from you. I ain't no beggar. I don't believe, nuther,"
she continued, half to herself, "that Mr. St. John would like it."

"Who is Mr. St. John?" he asked curiously. "I know of no such rector in
this diocese. My child, you have an honest face. Since you won't accept
a gift of money, I will lend, you the amount. I want you to tell me all
about yourself and this surplice."

"Well, mebby he'd want me to," reflected Amarilly.

"Gimme back that surplus," she said to the Jew, who seemed loath to
relinquish his booty.

As she walked up the street with the bishop, she frankly related the
family history and the part Mr. Meredith and the surplice had played
therein.

The bishop had generous instincts, and a desire to reach the needy
directly instead of through the medium of institutions, but he had never
known just how to approach them. His presence in this unknown part of
the city had been unpremeditated, but he welcomed the chance that had
led his steps hither to perform an errand of mercy. He handed Amarilly
five dollars, and wrote down her address. He was most reluctant to
receive the surplice as security, but Amarilly's firm insistence was not
to be overcome. She returned home, rejoicing in the knowledge that she
had the price of their happy home in her pocket. The bishop had given
her his card, which she laid in a china saucer with other bits of
pasteboard she had collected from Derry Phillips, Mr. Vedder, and Pete
Noyes. The saucer adorned a small stand in the dining-room part of the
house.

"It's the way Mrs. Hubbleston kep' her keerds," Amarilly explained to
the family.

Meantime the bishop was walking in an opposite direction toward his
home, wondering if he should find he was mistaken in his estimate of
human nature; and a query arose in his mind as to what he should do with
the surplice if it were left on his hands.

CHAPTER XIII

Bud sat in the park,--Clothes-line Park, Amarilly had dubbed it--one
Monday afternoon, singing a song of gladness. The park was confined by a
clothes-line stretched between three tottering poles and the one
solitary poplar tree of the Jenkins estate. The line was hung with white
linen garments, and smaller articles adorned the grass plot within the
park.

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