“I—I—bless my soul! I will replace what I have destroyed! I—I assure you, I will!” the unfortunate Quimby groaned, as soon as he could be heard. “I—what can I say, to express my sorrow—I—” and suddenly ceasing to revolve, he snatched Mr. Stanwood’s hat, and started for the door.
“Where are you going!” his friend questioned as gravely as he could.
“More Charlotte Russes!” he responded incoherently, and with an agonized face.
“If I may be permitted to make a suggestion,” said Mr. Stanwood with labored gravity, “I should say, some little change in your toilet would be quite appropriate before going on the street, and moreover, that my hat will not fit your head!”
At this, Quimby dropped the hat he held as if it had been red-hot, glanced at the chair whereon he had so lately distinguished himself, took up the tails of his coat one in each hand, revolved again, and then without a word darted from the room.
As well as she could from laughing, Cyn called after him, telling him not to mind about getting the Charlotte Russes, and to hurry back, but he made no response.
“Poor Quimby!” said Mr. Stanwood, wiping the tears of excessive mirth from his eyes. “He is such a good fellow, it is too bad he always is in hot water.”
“Yes,” assented Cyn, removing the chair with the remains of what had been clinging to it from sight, Nattie following it with a somewhat rueful glance. “Shall we wait for him? I fear our dinner is getting cold.”
“I don’t think we had better,” Nattie, who had long been filled with a similar presentiment, responded. “There is no knowing whether he will return or not, and it’s no use in having everything spoiled.”
“I do not think he will expect us to wait,” Mr. Stanwood said.
“Well then,” said Cyn, “here is a chair for you, Mr. Stanwood. It’s all right, so you need not look before sitting. Luckily you are taller than we, and need no books to raise you. Now the question is, what shall we give you to eat from? Ah! here is the bread plate! Nat, can’t you find another wooden cover? No? Then spread a piece of brown paper over ‘Scribner’s.’ How fortunate we have an extra knife and fork; you don’t mind their being oyster forks? I thought not! Nat and I will use the same spoon, so you can have a whole one. Nat, you and I will have to drink from that cracked tumbler.”
“Allow me,” interrupted Mr. Stanwood. “Do you know,” solemnly, “a cracked tumbler is and always was the height of my ambition.”
“Well then, we are all right!” said the jovial Cyn. “But I fear,” she added, helping to steak, “if Quimby comes before we finish, he will have to go foraging for his own dishes!”
Mr. Stanwood was praising the steak, which he certainly ate as if the admiration was genuine, when a timid rap announced Quimby’s reappearance on the scene. In complete change of raiment, smelling like a field of new-mown hay, and figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes, he entered.
“I—I beg pardon,” he said, looking not at those he addressed, but humbly at the Duchess, who had been walking the floor impatiently and indignantly, but was now contentedly chewing. “I—I assure you I shall be delighted to go out and get Charlotte Russes to replace those I so wantonly destroyed. Will you—may I be allowed?”
“Not on any account,” said Cyn, quickly. “Besides, the stores are closed today.”
“So they are, so they are!” he exclaimed, putting his hand to his head dejectedly.
“But we can exist without Charlotte Russes, I think,” Nattie said. She had quite recovered her good humor, and was reconciled even to Mr. Stanwood’s company; indeed, had secretly confessed he was really an acquisition. Such is the power of good beefsteak!
“Some other time we will talk about it,” Cyn said. “And now, we must improvise you a cup, plate, knife, fork, and spoon. I know you must be hungry after your exploit.”
Quimby blushed.
“I—you shall have fifty Charlotte Russes tomorrow!” he ejaculated. “But the articles you mention—I—have in my room, and will bring them. You see I—sometimes have a little private lunch myself, you know,” and departing, he in a moment returned with his dinner accoutrements which Cyn commanded him to put down at once, lest he demolish them.
“Let me see,” she added, as he meekly deposited his burden on the nearest piece of furniture—which happened to be the piano. “I can make room for you here, next me, I think.”
“No! no!” he exclaimed quickly; “if you will be so kind, I—I would rather sit on that little stool in the corner, where I can do no damage, you know!”
“Oh! we must not make a martyr of you!” laughed Nattie, as she cut a pie with a very dull knife, which caused the very unsteady table to shake, so that everyone’s coffee slopped over.
“No, indeed; there is plenty of room here,” added Mr. Stanwood, steadying his cracked tumbler. But Quimby shook his head.
“Now, really—I—I shall feel much more comfortable if I may—if you will allow me to sit on the stool. I—I am used to it, you know! ’Pon my word, I—I mean all right, but some way I always make a mess of it!”
Cyn would have remonstrated further, but Mr. Stanwood said, “We had better let him be happy in his own way; I suppose he will not be easy unless we do!”
And so Quimby, much to his satisfaction, was allowed to eat his share of the feast on a low stool, in the corner, like a naughty schoolboy.
Visitors were destined to be numerous today, for hardly had Quimby been served, when a knock at the door was followed by the appearance of Jo, who tiptoed into the room, and in a mysterious whisper, said,
“I saw Quimby enter this room, bearing utensils that could only be used for one purpose! I smelt a savory odor! and here I
