Rudder Grange — Ch. 4: Treating of a Novel Style of Burglar, pt. 2

“Pomona!

” said I, “what have you been doing?

” “I was a lookin' at the moon, sir, when pop!

the chair bounced, and out I went.

” “You shouldn't do that,” I said, sternly.

“Some day you'll be drowned.

Take off your wet things and go to bed.

” “Yes, sma'am--sir, I mean,” said she, as she went down-stairs.

When I reached my room I lighted the lamp, and found Euphemia still under the bed.

“Is it all right?

” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“There was no burglar.

Pomona fell out of the window.

” “Did you get her a plaster?

” asked Euphemia, drowsily.

“No, she did not need one.

She's all right now.

Were you worried about me, dear?

” “No, I trusted in you entirely, and I think I dozed a little under the bed.

” In one minute she was asleep.

The boarder and I did not make this matter a subject of conversation afterward, but Euphemia gave the girl a lecture on her careless ways, and made her take several Dover's powders the next day.

An important fact in domestic economy was discovered about this time by Euphemia and myself.

Perhaps we were not the first to discover it, but we certainly did find it out,--and this fact was, that housekeeping costs money.

At the end of every week we counted up our expenditures--it was no trouble at all to count up our receipts--and every week the result was more unsatisfactory.

“If we could only get rid of the disagreeable balance that has to be taken along all the time, and which gets bigger and bigger like a snow-ball, I think we would find the accounts more satisfactory,” said Euphemia.

This was on a Saturday night.

We always got our pencils and paper and money at the end of the week.

“Yes,” said I, with an attempt to appear facetious and unconcerned, “but it would be all well enough if we could take that snow-ball to the fire and melt it down.

” “But there never is any fire where there are snow-balls,” said Euphemia.

“No,” said I, “and that's just the trouble.

” It was on the following Thursday, when I came home in the evening, that Euphemia met me with a glowing face.

It rather surprised me to see her look so happy, for she had been very quiet and preoccupied for the first part of the week.

So much so, indeed, that I had thought of ordering smaller roasts for a week or two, and taking her to a Thomas Concert with the money saved.

But this evening she looked as if she did not need Thomas's orchestra.

“What makes you so bright, my dear?

” said I, when I had greeted her.

“Has anything jolly happened?

” “No,” said she; “nothing yet, but I am going to make a fire to melt snow-balls.

” Of course I was very anxious to know how she was going to do it, but she would not tell me.

It was a plan that she intended to keep to herself until she saw how it worked.

I did not press her, because she had so few secrets, and I did not hear anything about this plan until it had been carried out.

Her scheme was as follows: After thinking over our financial condition and puzzling her brain to find out some way of bettering it, she had come to the conclusion that she would make some money by her own exertions, to help defray our household expenses.

She never had made any money, but that was no reason why she should not begin.

It was too bad that I should have to toil and toil and not make nearly enough money after all.

So she would go to work and earn something with her own hands.

She had heard of an establishment in the city, where ladies of limited means, or transiently impecunious, could, in a very quiet and private way, get sewing to do.

They could thus provide for their needs without any one but the officers of the institution knowing anything about it.

So Euphemia went to this place, and she got some work.

It was not a very large bundle, but it was larger than she had been accustomed to carry, and, what was perfectly dreadful, it was wrapped up in a newspaper!

When Euphemia told me the story, she said that this was too much for her courage.

She could not go on the cars, and perhaps meet people belonging to our church, with a newspaper bundle under her arm.

But her genius for expedients saved her from this humiliation.

She had to purchase some sewing-cotton, and some other little things, and when she had bought them, she handed her bundle to the woman behind the counter, and asked her if she would not be so good as to have that wrapped up with the other things.

It was a good deal to ask, she knew, and the woman smiled, for the articles she had bought would not make a package as large as her hand.

However, her request was complied with, and she took away a very decent package, with the card of the store stamped on the outside.

I suppose that there are not more than half a dozen people in this country who would refuse Euphemia anything that she would be willing to ask for.

So she took the work home, and she labored faithfully at it for about a week, She did not suppose it would take her so long; but she was not used to such very plain sewing, and was much afraid that she would not do it neatly enough.

Besides this, she could only work on it in the daytime--when I was away--and was, of course, interrupted a great deal by her ordinary household duties, and the necessity of a careful oversight of Pomona's somewhat erratic methods of doing her work.

But at last she finished the job and took it into the city.

She did not want to spend any more money on the trip than was absolutely necessary, and so was very glad to find that she had a remnant of pocket-money sufficient to pay her fare both ways.

When she reached the city, she walked up to the place where her work was to be delivered, and found it much farther when she went on foot than it had seemed to her riding in the street cars.

She handed over her bundle to the proper person, and, as it was soon examined and approved, she received her pay therefor.

It amounted to sixty cents.

She had made no bargain, but she was a little astonished.

However, she said nothing, but left the place without asking for any more work.

In fact she forgot all about it.

She had an idea that everything was all wrong, and that idea engrossed her mind entirely.

There was no mistake about the sum paid, for the lady clerk had referred to the printed table of prices when she calculated the amount due.

But something was wrong, and, at the moment, Euphemia could not tell what it was.

She left the place, and started to walk back to the ferry.

But she was so tired and weak, and hungry--it was now an hour or two past her regular luncheon time--that she thought she should faint if she did not go somewhere and get some refreshments.

So, like a sensible little woman as she was, she went into a restaurant.

She sat down at a table, and a waiter came to her to see what she would have.

She was not accustomed to eating-houses, and perhaps this was the first time that she had ever visited one alone.

What she wanted was something simple.

So she ordered a cup of tea and some rolls, and a piece of chicken.

The meal was a very good one, and Euphemia enjoyed it.

When she had finished, she went up to the counter to settle.

Her bill was sixty cents.

She paid the money that she had just received, and walked down to the ferry--all in a daze, she said.

When she got home she thought it over, and then she cried.

After a while she dried her eyes, and when I came home she told me all about it.

“I give it up,” she said.

“I don't believe I can help you any.

” Poor little thing!

I took her in my arms and comforted her, and before bedtime I had convinced her that she was fully able to help me better than any one else on earth, and that without puzzling her brains about business, or wearing herself out by sewing for pay.

So we went on in our old way, and by keeping our attention on our weekly balance, we prevented it from growing very rapidly.

We fell back on our philosophy (it was all the capital we had), and became as calm and contented as circumstances allowed.