Five Little Peppers Grown Up

M >> Margaret Sidney >> Five Little Peppers Grown Up

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"I am glad I sent Jasper ahead to the hotel; I much rather pop in on the
boys by myself," soliloquized the old gentleman in great satisfaction.
"Ah, here it is," beginning to mount the stairs.

"Come in," yelled a voice, as he rapped with his walking-stick on the
door of No. 19, "and don't make such a piece of work breaking the door
down--oh, beg pardon!" as Mr. King obeyed the order.

A tall figure sprawled in the biggest chair, his long legs carried up to
the mantel, where his boots neatly reposed; while a cloud of smoke
filling the room, made Mr. King cough violently in spite of himself.

"'Tis a nasty air," said the tall young man, getting his legs down in
haste from the mantel, and himself out of the chair, though with much
difficulty; "take a glass of water, sir," hobbling over to a side table,
and pouring one out, to work his way with it to old Mr. King.

"Thank you," said the old gentleman, when he could speak, and accepting
it quickly, "you say truly, the air is beastly," glancing around the
room in displeasure at the plentiful signs of its inmates' idea of
having a good time at college. "Are Joel and David Pepper soon to be
in?" As he spoke, he lifted up the cover of a French novel thrown on the
lounge near him, and dropped it quickly as he read the title.

"Hey? oh! I see--a little mistake," exclaimed the tall youth, going
unsteadily back to his chair. "Their room is 19, in the extension. I am
Robert Bingley, sir."

"I'm very glad," cried old Mr. King heartily, "for I don't mind telling
you, my young friend, that I shouldn't want Joel's and David's room to
look like this."

"I don't blame you in the least, sir," said Bingley, nowise abashed,
"but you needn't worry, for the Peppers aren't my kind. You must be
Grandfather King?" he added.

"Yes, I am," said old Mr. King, straightening up, and throwing back his
white hair with a proud gesture. "So you've heard about me?" he asked,
in a gratified way.

"I should rather think we had," said Bingley, "why, all of us know about
you, sir." Here he got out of his chair again. "You won't care to, after
you know all, but I should like to shake hands with you, sir."

"Most certainly," responded the old gentleman heartily, "although your
room isn't to your credit." Thereupon he bestowed a courtly hand-shake
upon the young man, with the utmost cordiality, making Bingley, who
seemed to have a good deal of trouble with his legs, to retreat to his
chair in a high state of satisfaction.

"It was mean of me to ask you such a favor, sir," said Bingley, gazing
up at the ceiling, "before I had told you all, but I couldn't help it,
some way, and I knew you wouldn't touch my hand after you'd heard. Well,
I was one of a gang who went to Joe Pepper's room last week for the
purpose of lamming him."

"You went to Joe Pepper's room for the purpose of lamming him?" repeated
old Mr. King, darting out of his chair.

"Yes, sir"--Bingley still kept his gaze glued to the ceiling--"but we
didn't do it, though; Joe lammed us."

"Oh!"

"So the rest of the gang are going for him to-night; I'm not able to,"
said Bingley, trying to appear careless.

"Joel to be in such business--how could he!" fumed old Mr. King. "A
gentleman--and I thought so much of his turning out well. It will kill
his mother--oh, how could he?" turning fiercely on Bingley.

"See here, now," cried that individual, tearing his gaze from the
ceiling, to send a sharp glance at the white-haired old gentleman, "Joe
is all right; straight as a brick. You can bet your money on that, sir."

"Oh--oh!" cried Mr. King, more and more horrified, "is this what you all
come to college for? I should consider, sir," very sternly, "it a place
to keep up the dignity of one's family in, and that of such a venerable
institution," waving both shapely hands to include the entire pile of
buildings by which they were surrounded.

Bingley gave vent to an uncontrollable laugh. "Beg pardon, sir, but the
dignity isn't worth a rush. We are in the old hole, and all we look out
for is to have a good time, and scrape through."

"Old hole--and scrape through! Oh, dear--oh, dear!" groaned old Mr.
King.

"That's what our set do," said Bingley, to give him time to recover,
"Joe and Davina--ah, I mean David--don't train in our crowd; the other
one, Whitney"--

"Don't tell me that he does," interrupted Percy's grandfather sharply.
"It wouldn't be possible."

"No, he doesn't affect us," said Bingley coolly, "it's all he can do to
take care of those eyeglasses of his; and he'd muss his clothes. Whitney
is something of a softy, sir."

Old Mr. King drew a long breath of relief. But he looked so troubled,
that Bingley for the life of him couldn't keep up his assumed
carelessness.

"Sit down again, do, sir," he begged involuntarily, "and I will tell you
all about it," and Mr. King, resuming his chair, presently had a graphic
account of Joel's course in college, with a description of the trouble
in his room, till the whole thing was laid bare.

"How I wish I had been here to see my boy," exclaimed the old gentleman,
with sparkling eyes; "I might have helped him a bit." He stretched out a
handsome fist and looked at it as admiringly as any college athlete
could view his own. "Well," dropping his arm, "I am interrupting you,
Mr."--groping for the name.

"Bingley, sir."

"Ah, yes; Bingley. Well, Mr. Bingley, pray go on. Did you not say that
another attempt was to be made on my grandson?"

Bingley nodded. "To-night after he comes from the Association rooms," he
added.

"We shall see--we shall see," exclaimed the old gentleman drily, in a
manner that delighted Bingley and made him tingle all over to "be in at
the death" himself.

"Dobbs has planned it to"--

"Dobbs?" interrupted the old gentleman sharply, "what family? Not the
Ingoldsby Dobbs, I trust"--

"This chap's name is Ingoldsby Dobbs," said Bingley; "he's a high-flyer,
I tell you! Lives up to his name, I suppose he thinks."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," mourned Mr. King; "I have known his father ever
since we were boys; he's capital stock. Well, go on, Mr. Bingley, and
let me know what this young rascal is up to," he added, with extreme
irritation.

"He is going to have his men close in on Joe in the middle of the park.
Pepper often comes that way to 'Old Brick'--short, you know, for 'Old
Brick Dormitory'--with a poor miserable cuss--excuse me, sir--he's
trying to get up on to sober legs. There are twenty fellows pledged to
do the job, I've found out."

Bingley didn't think it worth while to mention how the plan was
discovered, nor that heavy vengeance was vowed upon his head if he
divulged it.

"I gave it away to Whitney. I couldn't get at Davi--er, Dave, to see if
it wasn't possible to keep Joe away from that meeting."

"It would come some time--it better be to-night," said the old gentleman
briefly. "Well, is that all?"

"Yes, sir; only that they are to toss a cloak over Joe's head, and carry
him off for a little initiation fun."

"Ah!" Old Mr. King sat quite straight. "Thank you, Mr. Bingley," he
said, getting out of his chair. He didn't offer to shake hands, and
Bingley, though pretending not to notice any omission of that sort, felt
considerably crest-fallen about it.

The moment the door was shut and he heard Mr. King go down the stairs,
Robert Bingley ran his fingers through his hair, giving a savage pull at
the innocent locks.

"Curse my luck!" he growled, taking out the angry fingers to shake them
at his legs, "tied here by these two beggars, and he thinks that I'm
sneaking out of standing up for Joe!"

Old Mr. King fumed to himself all the way down the stairs, becoming more
angry with each step. When he reached the lower hall he turned and
passed through the building instead of going out, and meeting a young
collegian on a run, asked, "Have the goodness to tell me, sir, does Mr.
Ingoldsby Dobbs room in this building?"

"No. 23-4-5 in the extension," said the undergraduate, not slackening
speed, and pointing the direction. So the old gentleman climbed the
staircase to the wing, and presently rapped on the door marked 23.

Uproarious shouts of laughter greeted him as he opened the door in
response to a loud "Come in!" The noise stopped as suddenly as it was
possible for the inmates of the room to check it when they saw the
visitor, but not before "We'll season Pepper well and make the deacon
howl!" came distinctly to his ears.

"Good afternoon, young gentlemen," said old Mr. King, bowing his white
head; and holding his hat in his hand, he advanced to the table, around
which sat six or eight of them. "I beg of you not to go," as some of
them made a sudden movement to leave; "I should like to see you all,
though I called especially upon Mr. Ingoldsby Dobbs."

A tall, wiry youth with sallow face and high-bred nose, disentangled
himself from the group and came forward. "I don't remember where I have
met you, sir," he said, yet extending his hand, with his best manner on.

"Aristocratic old party," whispered one man to his neighbor, "Dobbsey
needn't be afraid to claim him."

"I am very thankful to say I never have met you before, young man,"
observed Mr. King coolly, not seeing the slender hand waiting for his,
"your father honors me with his friendship. This may tell you who I am,"
and he threw a card upon the table.

Young Dobbs' sallow face turned a shade paler as he picked up the card
and read it.

"Glad to see you--sit down, won't you?" he mumbled, dragging up a
comfortable chair. "Any friend of father's is welcome here," he went on
awkwardly, while the rest of the men stared at him, one of them
exclaiming under his breath, "First time Dobbs' cheek deserted him, I'll
wager."

The old gentleman looked first into Ingoldsby Dobbs' thin face, then
surveyed them all quite leisurely. "I understand you paid my grandson,
Joel Pepper, a call a short time since, when instead of abusing him,
some of you got your deserts."

The men started, and angry exclamations went around the room: "He's
turned coward, the mean sneak! We'll pay him up!" and remarks of a like
nature being quite audible.

Old Mr. King turned on them. "Silence!" he commanded. "My grandson Joel
doesn't know I am here. I heard the story since my arrival. If any one
says one word against him, I'll cane him from the top of the stairs to
the bottom," and he looked as if he could do it.

"'Twas Bingley, then," said Dobbs sullenly.

The old gentleman completely ignored him, addressing his words to the
crowd. "There are four men in this class who are going to be protected
from your insults. Those are my three grandsons and Mr. Robert Bingley;
and this is to be done without appealing to the college authorities
either. That puts a stop to your fine plan, Mr. Dobbs," at last looking
at him, "and any other idea of the same sort your fertile brain may
chance to think up. The first intimation of any hostility, and your
father and the fathers of these men here with you," waving his hand at
them all, "and of the others in this interesting plan, will be informed,
and you will be dealt with exactly like any other disturber of the
peace--villains in college or out of it ought to be served to the same
punishment, in my opinion. Now have any of you remarks to make?"

It was so like Joel's invitation to "Come on and have it out now," that
not a single man of them stirred.

"Then I will have the pleasure of bidding you good-by," said Mr. King,
and the next moment he was outside of No. 23, while perfect silence
reigned within.

Polly came slowly down Mrs. Higby's front stairs and looked at Phronsie
standing at the further end of the entry.

"What's the matter, Phronsie?" at last she asked.

For the first time in her life Phronsie seemed unable to answer Polly,
and she stood quite still, her gaze fastened on the big-flowered muslin
curtain that swung back and forth in the breeze that came through the
open window.

"Now, Phronsie," said Polly very decidedly, and going up to her, "you
must tell me what the matter is."

"I can't," said Phronsie, in a low tone, "don't ask me, Polly."

"Can't tell me everything?" cried Polly. "Dear me, what nonsense,
Phronsie. Come now, begin, there's a dear."

"But I am not to tell," persisted Phronsie, shaking her head. Then she
drew a long breath, and looked as if she were going to cry.

"Who has been telling you things?" cried Polly, her brown eyes flashing,
"that you are not to tell? It is Mrs. Cabot. I know it is, for there is
no one else here who would do it."

"Don't ask me," pleaded Phronsie in great distress, and clutching
Polly's gown. "Oh, don't say anything more about it, Polly."

"Indeed I shall," declared Polly. "No one has a right to command you in
this way, and I shall just speak to Mrs. Cabot about it."

"Oh, no, no," protested Phronsie, huddling up closer to Polly in dismay;
"please, Polly, don't say anything to her about it, please"

"Mamsie wouldn't ever allow you to be annoyed about anything," said
Polly, with increasing irritation, "and if Mrs. Cabot has said anything
to you, Phronsie, to make you feel badly, why, I must know it. Don't you
see, child, that I really ought to be told?"

Phronsie folded her hands tightly together, trying to keep them quiet,
and her cheeks turned so very white that Polly hastened to put her well
arm around her, saying quickly, "There, there, child, you needn't tell
me now if you don't want to. Wait a bit."

"I had rather tell it now," said Phronsie, "but oh, I do wish that
Grandpapa was here," she added sadly.

"Whatever can have been said to you, Phronsie?" exclaimed Polly in
dismay. "You frighten me, child. Do tell me at once what it was."

"Jasper isn't going to be at Mr. Marlowe's any more," said Phronsie,
with distinctness.

"Jasper isn't going to be at Mr. Marlowe's any more." repeated Polly
wildly, and holding Phronsie so closely that she winced. "Oh, what do
you mean! who has told you such nonsense?"

"Mrs. Cabot," said Phronsie; "she told me this morning--and I was not to
tell you, Polly. But I did not promise not to. Indeed I didn't."

"What perfect nonsense!" exclaimed Polly, recovering herself, and trying
to laugh, "well, Phronsie, child, didn't you know better than to believe
any story that Mrs. Cabot might tell? How in the world could she know of
Jasper's affairs, pray tell?" and she laughed again, this time quite
gaily.

"Ah, but," said Phronsie, shaking her head, "she had a letter from Mr.
Cabot; it came in this morning's mail; she opened it and said out loud
this dreadful thing about Jasper, and then she saw me, and she said I
was not to tell you."

Polly dropped Phronsie's arm and rushed down the hall.

"Where are you going?" cried Phronsie, hurrying after--"Oh, Polly!"

"I am going to make Mrs. Cabot tell me everything she knows," said Polly
hoarsely, and not looking back; "she shall let me have every syllable.
It can't be true!" She threw wide the door of Mrs. Higby's
"keeping-room" where that lady was engaged in putting a patch on the
chintz-covered sofa, and talking gossip with a neighbor at the same
time.

"I thought as this was a-going so fast, Mr. Higby sets it out so, and we
were all so comfortable to-day, I'd get at it kinder early," said Mrs.
Higby apologetically; "anything I can do, Miss Polly?" she asked, flying
away from her patch, and dropping her scissors on the floor.

"No," said Polly, turning back hastily. "Never mind, Mrs. Higby."

"Now 'twas something you wanted me for," cried Mrs. Higby, ambling
toward the door, "I ain't a mite busy, Miss Polly; that old patch can
wait. La! I can tell Mr. Higby to set on the other end till I get time
to attend to it. What was it, Miss Polly?"

Polly turned back, Mrs. Higby's tone was so full of entreaty. "Oh,
nothing, only if it isn't too much trouble, would you ask Mrs. Cabot to
come down stairs a moment, I want to see her."

"Oh, cert'in," cried Mrs. Higby, ambling off toward the stairs. And
presently Mrs. Cabot in a pink morning gown came down the hall toward
Polly, and put both arms around her.

[Illustration: "Phronsie, get a glass of water; be quick, child!"]

"What is it, dear?" she asked caressingly.

"Come out of doors," begged Polly, "I can't breathe here. Come, Mrs.
Cabot."

And Mrs. Cabot, her arms still around Polly, was drawn out to the old
porch, Phronsie following. Then Polly shook herself free.

"Is it true?" she began--"I made Phronsie tell me--that Jasper," she
caught her breath, but went on again hurriedly, "has left Mr. Marlowe?"

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Cabot in consternation, "what shall I do?
Yes; but I wasn't to tell you; Mr. King is coming back. Do wait, Polly,
and ask him about it."

"I shall not wait," declared Polly passionately, facing her. "Tell me
all you know, Mrs. Cabot; every single word."

"I don't know a thing about it," cried Mrs. Cabot in a frightened way,
"only Mr. Cabot writes that Mr. King has made Jasper leave Mr. Marlowe.
That's all I know about it, Polly," she added desperately, "and I wish
Mr. Cabot had been asleep before he wrote it. Phronsie, oh! get a glass
of water; be quick, child!" as Polly sank down on the old stone floor of
the porch.

CHAPTER XXI.

POLLY TRIES TO HELP JASPER.

"I think it was a mean shame," began Dick wrathfully.

"Dick--Dick!" exclaimed his mother gently.

Mr. Whitney tapped his knee with a letter he had just placed within its
envelope, then threw it on the table. "It's the best job I ever did," he
cried jubilantly, "to get Jasper out of that business."

Dick sent his two hands deep within their pockets. "Oh! how can you say
so?" he cried.

"And how can you question what your father does?" exclaimed Mrs.
Whitney. "Why, that isn't like you, Dick!" with a face full of reproach.

"Oh! let the boy say what he wants to, Marian," broke in her husband
easily. "So, Dicky, my lad, you don't think I did just the right thing
for Jasper--eh?"

He leaned back in his chair, and surveyed his young son with a twinkle
in his eye.

"No, I don't," declared Dick, beginning to rage up and down the room on
young indignant feet. "I say it's mean to meddle with a fellow's
business. I wouldn't stand it!" he added stoutly.

Mr. Whitney laughed long and loud, despite his wife's shocked, "Dicky,
don't, dear!"

"Well, if I didn't know that in a year's time Jasper will come to me and
say, 'I thank you!' I should never have gone through with the job in the
world," said his father, when he came out of his amusement. "It isn't
the pleasantest piece of work a man could select, 'to meddle,' as you
call it, with another's affairs."

"Jasper never will thank you in the world--never!" exclaimed Dick,
cramming his irritated hands deeper in their pockets, and turning on his
father.

"You see," said his father, nodding easily.

"And you see, papa," cried Dick, turning hastily in front of him,
looking so exactly like his father that Mrs. Whitney forgot to chide, in
admiring them both.

"And I think it's too bad," went on Dick. "Everybody pitches into
Jasper, and wants him to do things; and Grandpapa is always picking at
him. I'd--I'd fight--sometimes," he added.

"Softly--softly there, my boy," said Mr. Whitney; "you'll have plenty of
practice for all your fighting powers by and by; a fourteen-year-old
chap doesn't know everything."

"Well, I know one thing," declared Dick, more positively, "Grandpapa has
always been meddling with Jasper, and you know it, papa."

"That's because he expects great things from Jasper, and that he will
hold up the King name; we all do," replied his father.

Dick turned on an impatient heel. "And so he would have done, if you'd
let him be a publisher," he declared.

His father laughed again, and leaned out of his chair to pinch his son's
ear, but Dick, resenting this indignity, retreated to a safe position,
declaring, "And I'm going to be one when I'm through college--so!"

[Illustration: "I THINK IT WAS A MEAN SHAME' BEGAN DICK WRATHFULLY.]

"Mr. King's a-coming down the road, and Mr. Jasper!" screamed Mrs.
Higby, coming out suddenly to the porch. "I see 'em from the
keepin'-room window. My! what's the matter with Miss Polly?"

"Nothing," said Polly, opening her eyes; "that is, not much," and
sitting up straight. "Are Grandpapa and Jasper really coming?" she
asked.

"Dear me, Polly," exclaimed Mrs. Cabot, before Mrs. Higby could answer,
and putting shaking hands on Polly's shoulders, "I never was so
frightened in my life! I thought your arm was worse--and you so near
well! O, dear! are you sure you are right?" peering around into her
face. "Here comes Phronsie with the water--that's good!"

Polly took the glass and smiled up reassuringly into Phronsie's troubled
face. "Oh! how good that is, Phronsie," she cried. "There now, I'm all
right. Don't let Grandpapa or Jasper know," and she sprang to her feet,
while Mrs. Higby hurried off to see if her preparations for dinner were
all right, now that Mr. King had come back a day sooner than he wrote he
intended.

"Phronsie, you go and meet them; do, dear," begged Polly; and as
Phronsie ran off obediently, Polly walked up and down the porch with
hasty steps, holding her hands as tightly locked together as the injured
arm would allow. "Oh! if I only had time to think--but I ought to try,
even if I don't say just exactly the right words, for Mr. Marlowe may
not be able to take him back if I wait," and then Grandpapa came
hurrying out with, "Where's Polly?" and she was kissed and her cheeks
patted--he not seeming to notice anything amiss in her--he was so glad
to get back; and through it all, Polly saw only Jasper's face, and,
although everything seemed to turn around before her, she made up her
mind that she would tell Grandpapa just what she thought, and beg him to
change his mind, the very first instant she could.

And so, before the first greetings of the homecoming were fairly over,
Polly, afraid her courage would give out if she waited a moment longer,
put her hand on Mr. King's arm. "What is it, dear?" asked the old
gentleman, busy with Phronsie, who hung around his neck, while she tried
to tell him everything that had happened during his absence; and he
peered over her shoulder into Polly's face.

"Grandpapa," cried Polly in a tremor, "could you let me talk to you a
little just now? Please, Grandpapa."

"Well, yes, dear, after Phronsie has"--

"Oh! Phronsie will wait," cried Polly, guilty of interrupting; "I know
she will."

For the first time in her life, Phronsie said rebelliously, "Oh! I don't
want to wait, Polly. Dear Grandpapa has just got home, and I must tell
him things."

"So you shall, Phronsie," declared old Mr. King, drawing her off beyond
Polly's reach. "There, now you and I will get into this quiet corner,"
and he sat down and drew Phronsie to his knee. "Now, Pet, so you are
glad to get your old Grandpapa home, eh?"

Polly, in an agony at being misunderstood, followed, and without
stopping to think, she threw her arms around Phronsie and cried, "O,
Phronsie! do trust me, dear, and let Grandpapa go. I must see him now!"

Mr. King gave Polly's burning cheeks a keen glance, then he set Phronsie
on the floor abruptly. "Phronsie, see, dear, Polly really needs me.
Come, child," and he gathered up Polly's hand into his own, and marched
out of the room with her.

"Suppose we go in here," said the old gentleman, "and have our talk,"
unceremoniously opening the door of Mrs. Higby's best room as he spoke;
"nobody is likely to disturb us here."

Polly, not caring where she went, but with the words she must speak
weighing heavily on her mind, followed him unsteadily into the parlor,
and while he threw open a blind or two to light up the gloom that
usually hung over Mrs. Higby's best room, she busied herself trying to
think how she should begin.

"There, now, my dear," said Mr. King, coming up to her, and drawing her
off to a big haircloth sofa, standing stiffly against the wall, "we will
sit down here, and then we can go over it comfortably together and
settle what is on your mind," he added, feeling immensely gratified at
the impending confidence.

"Grandpapa," cried Polly in desperation, and springing from the sofa,
where he had placed her by his side, to stand in front of him, "I don't
know where to begin. Oh! do help me." She clasped her hands, and stood
the picture of distress, unable to say another word.

"Why, how can I help you to tell me, child," cried old Mr. King in
astonishment, "when I don't know in the least what it is you want to
say?"

"Oh! I know it," cried Polly, twisting her hands, unable to hold them
quite still. "O, dear! what shall I do? Grandpapa, it's just"--

"Well, what, my dear?" asked the old gentleman, and taking one of her
hands encouragingly. "Are you afraid of me? Why, Polly!"

Polly started at his tone of reproach, and threw her well arm around his
neck, exactly as Phronsie would have done, which so pleased the old
gentleman that it was easier for her to begin again to tell him what was
on her mind. But when she had gotten as far as "It's just this"--she
stopped again.

"Well, now, Polly," said Mr. King, sitting straight on the sofa, with
displeasure," I must say, I am surprised at you. I should never think
this was you, Polly, never in all the world," which so unnerved her,
that she plunged at once into what she had set herself to do, saying the
most dreadful thing that was possible.

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