“Performance?” asked Emily.
Kipper grinned wryly. “That’s what it were, Emily, no more ’n just a performance. Didn’t have time to explain ’bout it ’fore I done it and haven’t found time to explain ’bout it afterwards. But I done it so’s Tilly wouldn’t think you and me was getting too friendly right off. You got to work Tilly just right, remembering that she ain’t got any Aunt Twice to care for her, nor any Pa either, and she goes pea green over anyone liking anyone else what ain’t Tilly. Now, does that explain why I done what I done?”
Emily nodded, unable to speak. She knew now that she had found a friend after all, and her feet felt as if they were floating six inches above the ground.
“Well then,” said Kipper, “would you like to explain further why you done what you done? Meaning, who you’re aiming to pertect?”
“It-it was Mr. Bottle,” Emily said. “He pulled out his handkerchief and out popped the peppermint onto the floor. It rolled into Mrs. Meeching’s room, and I went after it.”
“So it were Mr. Bottle!” exclaimed Kipper. “Well, I’ll be a pickled perch, as Pa always says.”
“I couldn’t let Mrs. Meeching find the peppermint and blame poor Mr. Bottle for stealing it,” Emily said. “It might have killed him dead away!”
“Might have at that,” said Kipper. “What you done was a kind, brave thing, Emily, but you shouldn’t o’ had to do it.” His face flushed with anger. “Blamed peppermints! Don’t know why the snake lady keeps ’em ’round except for meanness, or to act as an evil spell. That’s what they are, Emily! No reason why she can’t ’low them poor old ones a taste or two now and then. She says it mints their choppers. Ha! Most o’ them ain’t got choppers excepting the ones they put by their beds at night. And as for Tilly—”
“What about Tilly?” Emily asked.
“Well, Tilly’s not a hardhearted girl, nor anything like that, but—” Kipper hesitated, and then began to sing softly still another made-up verse to “London Bridge,”
“Tilly tells for peppermints,
Peppermints, peppermints,
Tilly tells for peppermints,
Best be careful!”
“O’ course,” he added quickly, “ain’t right to be too hard on her, Emily. She don’t know any better, and the snake lady is most all the family she knows. But you best be careful ’round her, anyways. You best be careful ’bout everything. It ain’t just a shrimp nor a sardine what swims into a net, as Pa always says. But speaking o’ being careful, what are we to do ’bout this?” Kipper dipped into his pocket and brought out the peppermint that had been the cause of so much peril for Emily.
She shuddered at the sight of it. “What if Mr. Bottle goes to look for it and can’t find it? Won’t he die of fright all the same?”
“Them old folks’ memories ain’t too good,” Kipper said. “I expect he might just think he’s et it already and forgot when.”
“Then you eat it,” said Emily.
“Not me!” Kipper grinned ruefully. “If you got to know the truth, peppermints give me the pip.”
Emily giggled.
“Say, I know what I’ll do with the peppermint!” Kipper exclaimed. He shoved it back into his pocket. “I’ll give it to one o’ the little water rats, which is what Pa calls the urchins what live ’round the wharf. I’ll give it to Little Shrimper what carries water for him when I’m not ’round. But look, I best be going now. I ain’t expected to be here lest I’m doing a chore.”
“Will—will I see you soon again?” Emily asked.
“Not too soon, I’m ’fraid. Now you’re here, I ain’t going to be given as much work to do.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Kipper!” Emily cried.
“Now, ain’t your fault you come free,” Kipper said cheerfully. “Anyways, I’m building up a delivery business. I got two reg’lar customers now, and I’ll get more. So don’t you worry any ’bout it. Just mind and be careful!” With that warning, and a warm smile, Kipper left, and Emily was alone again.
It turned out to be five whole long dreary days before Kipper returned to the mansion. In the meantime, Emily made not one step of progress toward helping the old people. She began to wonder if they were all too sunk in despair and fearful old age ever to be helped. As for solving any of the mysteries, she was no further along than when she had first arrived. The only happy spot in her life was a conversation she had had with Aunt Twice about Mama and Papa, even though it was cut short by the arrival of Tilly again wanting to talk about her departed ma and pa.
As for the food, Emily still could not eat more than a few bites of the soup (or gruel, or stew, depending on the time of day), and none of the bread, so she was growing weaker and weaker. As a result, her work, instead of getting better, was growing worse. This meant that Tilly was having to work harder, and so despite her own healthy appetite, was getting tireder and tireder, and as a result, crosser and crosser. She grumbled continuously about the quality of Emily’s work and constantly referred to “them good ol’ days” when Kipper was hired to help with the chores.
It was early one afternoon, and Emily was at work in the laundry room. Steam poured from large tin wash boilers on the stove. Water drizzled down stone walls already blackened and mildewed by ten thousand earlier laundries. Baskets were heaped with mountains of dirty linens that seemed to Emily to grow taller and taller instead of shorter and shorter as she washed.
She was kneeling on the cold, damp stone floor before an iron wash tub, trying to rub the spots from a very dirty linen sheet. Her knuckles scraped painfully on the wicked zinc crimps of the washboard, and tears were again perilously close
