Oh, Money! Money! Part 27

"Well, there aren't any other relations so near, anyway, so I can't help thinking about it, and wondering," she interposed. "And 'twould be MILLIONS, not just one million. He's worth ten or twenty, they say.

But, then, we shall know in time."

"Oh, yes, you'll know--in time," agreed Mr. Smith with a smile, turning away as another guest came up to his hostess.

Mr. Smith's smile had been rather forced, and his face was still somewhat red as he picked his way through the crowded rooms to the place where he could see Frank Blaisdell standing alone, surveying the scene, his hands in his pockets.

"Well, Mr. Smith, this is some show, ain't it?' greeted the grocer, as Mr. Smith approached.

"It certainly is."

"Gee! I should say so--though I can't say I'm stuck on the brand, myself. But, as for this money business, do you know? I'm as bad as Flo. I can't sense it yet--that it's true. Gos.h.!.+ Look at Hattie, now.

Ain't she swingin' the style to-night?"

"She certainly is looking handsome and very happy."

"Well, she ought to. I believe in lookin' happy. I believe in takin'

some comfort as you go along--not that I've taken much, in times past.

But I'm goin' to now."

"Good! I'm glad to hear it."

"Well, I AM. Why, man, I'm just like a potato-top grown in a cellar, and I'm comin' out and get some suns.h.i.+ne. And Mellicent is, too. Poor child! SHE'S been a potato-top in a cellar all right. But now--Have you seen her to-night?"

"I have--and a very charming sight she was," smiled Mr. Smith.

"Ain't she, now?" The father beamed proudly. "Well, she's goin' to be that right along now. She's GOIN' where she wants to go, and DO what she wants to do; and she's goin' to have all the fancy fluma-diddles to wear she wants."

"Good! I'm glad to hear that, too," laughed Mr. Smith.

"Well, she is. This savin' an' savin' is all very well, of course, when you have to. But I've saved all my life and, by jingo, I'm goin' to spend now! You see if I don't."

"I hope you will."

"Thank you. I'm glad to have one on my side, anyhow. I only wish--You couldn't talk my wife 'round to your way of thinkin', could you?" he shrugged, with a whimsical smile. "My wife's eaten sour cream to save the sweet all her life, an' she hain't learned yet that if she'd eat the sweet to begin with she wouldn't have no sour cream--'twouldn't have time to get sour. An' there's apples, too. She eats the specked ones always; so she don't never eat anything but the worst there is.

An' she says they're the meanest apples she ever saw. Now I tell her if she'll only pick out the best there is every time, as I do she'll not only enjoy every apple she eats, but she'll think they're the nicest apples that ever grew. Funny, ain't it? Here I am havin' to urge my wife to spend money, while my sister-in-law here--Talk about ducks takin' to the water! That ain't no name for the way she sails into Jim's little pile."

Mr. Smith laughed.

"By the way, where is Mr. Jim?" he asked.

The other shook his head.

"Hain't seen him--but I can guess where he is, pretty well. You go down that hall and turn to your left. In a little room at the end you'll find him. That's his den. He told Hattie 'twas the only room in the house he'd ask for, but he wanted to fix it up himself. Hattie, she wanted to buy all sorts of truck and fix it up with cus.h.i.+ons and curtains and j.a.panese gimcracks like she see a den in a book, and make a showplace of it. But Jim held out and had his way. There ain't nothin' in it but books and chairs and a couch and a big table; and they're all old--except the books--so Hattie don't show it much, when she's showin' off the house. You'll find him there all right. You see if you don't. Jim always would rather read than eat, and he hates s.h.i.+ndigs of this sort a little worse 'n I do." "All right. I'll look him up," nodded Mr. Smith, as he turned away.

Deliberately, but with apparent carelessness, strolled Mr. Smith through the big drawing-rooms, and down the hall. Then to the left--the directions were not hard to follow, and the door of the room at the end was halfway open, giving a glimpse of James Blaisdell and Benny before the big fireplace.

With a gentle tap and a cheerful "Do you allow intruders?" Mr. Smith pushed open the door.

James Blaisdell sprang to his feet.

"Er--I--oh, Mr. Smith, come in, come right in!" The frown on his face gave way to a smile. "I thought--Well, never mind what I thought. Sit down, won't you?"

"Thank you, if you don't mind."

Mr. Smith dropped into a chair and looked about him.

"Ain't it great?" beamed Benny. "It's 'most as nice as Aunt Maggie's, ain't it? And I can eat all the cookies here I want to, and come in even if my shoes are muddy, and bring the boys in, too."

"It certainly is--great," agreed Mr. Smith, his admiring eyes sweeping the room again.

To Mr. Smith it was like coming into another world. The deep, comfortable chairs, the shaded lights, the leaping fire on the hearth, the book-lined walls--even the rhythmic voices of the distant violins seemed to sing of peace and quietness and rest.

"Dad's been showin' me the books he used ter like when he was a little boy like me," announced Benny. "Hain't he got a lot of 'em?--books, I mean."

"He certainly has."

Mr. James Blaisdell stirred a little in his chair.

"I suppose I have--crowded them a little," he admitted. "But, you see, there were so many I'd always wanted, and when the chance came--well, I just bought them; that's all."

"And you have the time now to read them."

"I have, thank--Well, I suppose I should say thanks to Mr. Stanley G.

Fulton," he laughed, with some embarra.s.sment. "I wish Mr. Fulton could know--how much I do thank him," he finished soberly, his eyes caressing the rows of volumes on the shelves. "You see, when you've wanted something all your life--" He stopped with an expressive gesture.

"You don't care much for--that, then, I take it," inferred Mr. Smith, with a wave of his hand toward the distant violins.

"Dad says there's only one thing worse than a party, and that's two parties," piped up Benny from his seat on the rug.

Mr. Smith laughed heartily, but the other looked still more discomfited.

"I'm afraid Benny is--is telling tales out of school," he murmured.

"Well, 'tis out of school, ain't it?" maintained Benny. "Say, Mr.

Smith, did you have ter go ter a private school when you were a little boy? Ma says everybody does who is anybody. But if it's Cousin Stanley's money that's made us somebody, I wished he'd kept it at home--'fore I had ter go ter that old school."

"Oh, come, come, my boy," remonstrated the father, drawing his son into the circle of his arm. "That's neither kind nor grateful; besides, you don't know what you're talking about. Come, suppose we show Mr. Smith some of the new books."

From case to case, then, they went, the host eagerly displaying and explaining, the guest almost as eagerly watching and listening. And in the kindling eye and reverent fingers of the man handling the volumes, Mr. Smith caught some inkling of what those books meant to Jim Blaisdell.

"You must be fond of--books, Mr. Blaisdell," he said somewhat awkwardly, after a time.

"Ma says dad'd rather read than eat," giggled Benny; "but pa says readin' IS eatin'. But I'd rather have a cookie, wouldn't you, Mr.

Smith?"

"You wait till you find what there IS in these books, my son," smiled his father. "You'll love them as well as I do, some day. And your brother--" He paused, a swift shadow on his face. He turned to Mr.

Smith. "My boy, Fred, loves books, too. He helped me a lot in my buying. He was in here--a little while ago. But he couldn't stay, of course. He said he had to go and dance with the girls--his mother expected it."

"Ho! MOTHER! Just as if he didn't want ter go himself!" grinned Benny derisively. "You couldn't HIRE him ter stay away--'specially if Pearl g.a.y.l.o.r.d's 'round."