An Old-Fashioned Girl (7 page)

Tom was Polly’s rock ahead for a long time, because he was always breaking out in a new place, and one never knew where to
find him. He tormented yet amused her; was kind one day, and a bear the next; at times she fancied he was never going to be
bad again, and the next thing she knew he was deep in mischief, and hooted at the idea of repentance and reformation. Polly
gave him up as a hard case; but was so in the habit of helping anyone who seemed in trouble, that she was good to him simply
because she couldn’t help it.

“What’s the matter? Is your lesson too hard for you?” she asked one evening, as a groan made her look across the table to
where Tom sat scowling over a pile of dilapidated books, with his hands in his hair, as if his head was in danger of flying
asunder with the tremendous effort he was making.

“Hard! Guess it is. What in thunder do I care about the old Carthaginians? Regulus wasn’t bad; but I’m sick of him!” And Tom
dealt “Harkness’s Latin Reader” a thump, which expressed his feelings better than words.

“I like Latin, and used to get on well when I studied it with Jimmy. Perhaps I can help you a little bit,” said Polly, as
Tom wiped his hot face and refreshed himself with a peanut.

“You? Pooh! Girls’ Latin don’t amount to much, anyway,” was the grateful reply.

But Polly was used to him now, and, nothing daunted, took a look at the grimy page in the middle of which Tom had stuck. She
read it so well, that the young gentleman stopped munching to regard her with respectful astonishment, and when she stopped,
he said, suspiciously, “You are a sly one, Polly, to study up so you can show off before me. But it won’t do, ma’am; turn
over a dozen pages, and try again.”

Polly obeyed, and did even better than before, saying, as she looked up, with a laugh, “I’ve been through the whole book;
so you won’t catch me that way, Tom.”

“I say, how came you to know such a lot?” asked Tom, much impressed.

“I studied with Jimmy, and kept up with him, for father let us be together in all our lessons. It was so nice, and we learned
so fast!”

“Tell about Jimmy. He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

“Yes; but he’s dead, you know. I’ll tell about him some other time; you ought to study now, and perhaps I can help you,” said
Polly, with a little quiver of the lips.

“Shouldn’t wonder if you could.” And Tom spread the book between them with a grave and businesslike air, for he felt that
Polly had got the better of him, and it behooved him to do his best for the honor of his sex. He went at the lesson with a
will, and soon floundered out of his difficulties, for Polly gave him a lift here and there, and they went on swimmingly,
till they came to some rules to be learned. Polly had forgotten them, so they both committed them to memory — Tom, with hands
in his pockets, rocked to and fro, muttering rapidly, while Polly twisted the little curl on her forehead and stared at the
wall, gabbling with all her might.

“Done!” cried Tom, presently.

“Done!” echoed Polly; and then they heard each other recite till both were perfect.

“That’s pretty good fun,” said Tom, joyfully, tossing poor Harkness away, and feeling that the pleasant excitement of companionship
could lend a charm even to Latin Grammar.

“Now, ma’am, we’ll take a turn at algi
bb
era. I like that as much as I hate Latin.”

Polly accepted the invitation, and soon owned that Tom could beat her here. This fact restored his equanimity; but he didn’t
crow over her, far from it; for he helped her with a paternal patience that made her eyes twinkle with suppressed fun, as
he soberly explained and illustrated, unconsciously imitating Dominie Deane, till Polly found it difficult to keep from laughing
in his face.

“You may have another go at it any time you like,” generously remarked Tom, as he shied the Algebra after the Latin Reader.

“I’ll come every evening, then. I’d like to, for I haven’t studied a bit since I came. You shall try and make me like algebra,
and I’ll try and make you like Latin; will you?”

“Oh, I’d like it well enough, if there was anyone to explain it to me. Old Deane puts us through double-quick, and don’t give
a fellow time to ask questions when we read.”

“Ask your father; he knows.”

“Don’t believe he does; shouldn’t dare to bother him, if he did.”

“Why not?”

“He’d pull my ears, and call me a ‘stupid,’ or tell me not to worry him.”

“I don’t think he would. He’s very kind to me, and I ask lots of questions.”

“He likes you better than he does me.”

“Now, Tom! It’s wrong of you to say so. Of course he loves you ever so much more than he does me,” cried Polly, reprovingly.

“Why don’t he show it, then?” muttered Tom, with a half-wistful, half-defiant glance toward the library door, which stood
ajar.

“You act so, how can he?” asked Polly, after a pause, in which she put Tom’s question to herself, and could find no better
reply than the one she gave him.

“Why don’t he give me my velocipede? He said, if I did well at school for a month, I should have it; and I’ve been pegging
away like fury for most six weeks, and he don’t do a thing about it. The girls get their duds, because they tease. I won’t
do that, anyway; but you don’t catch me studying myself to death, and no pay for it.”

“It is too bad; but you ought to do it because it’s right, and never mind being paid,” began Polly, trying to be moral, but
secretly sympathizing heartily with poor Tom.

“Don’t you preach, Polly. If the governor took any notice of me, and cared how I got on, I wouldn’t mind the presents so much;
but he don’t care a hang, and never even asked if I did well last declamation day, when I’d gone and learned ‘The Battle of
Lake Regillus,’ because he said he liked it.”

“Oh, Tom! Did you say that? It’s splendid! Jim and I used to say Horatius together, and it was
such
fun. Do speak your piece to me, I do so like ‘Macaulay’s Lays.’”

“It’s dreadful long,” began Tom; but his face brightened, for Polly’s interest soothed his injured feelings, and he was glad
to prove his elocutionary powers. He began without much spirit; but soon the martial ring of the lines fired him, and before
he knew it, he was on his legs thundering away in grand style, while Polly listened with kindling face and absorbed attention.
Tom did declaim well, for he quite forgot himself, and delivered the stirring ballad with an energy that made Polly flush
and tingle with admiration and delight, and quite electrified a second listener, who had heard all that went on, and watched
the little scene from behind his newspaper.

As Tom paused, breathless, and Polly clapped her hands enthusiastically, the sound was loudly echoed from behind him. Both
whirled round, and there was Mr. Shaw, standing in the doorway, applauding with all his might.

Tom looked much abashed, and said not a word; but Polly ran to Mr. Shaw, and danced before him, saying, eagerly, “Wasn’t it
splendid? Didn’t he do it well? Mayn’t he have his velocipede now?”

“Capital, Tom; you’ll be an orator yet. Learn another piece like that, and I’ll come and hear you speak it. Are you ready
for your velocipede, hey?”

Polly was right; and Tom owned that “the governor”
was
kind, did like him, and hadn’t entirely forgotten his promise. The boy turned red with pleasure, and picked at the buttons
on his jacket, while listening to this unexpected praise; but when he spoke, he looked straight up in his father’s face, while
his own shone with pleasure, as he answered, all in one breath, “Thankee, sir. I’ll do it, sir. Guess I am, sir!”

“Very good; then look out for your new horse tomorrow, sir.” And Mr. Shaw stroked the fuzzy red head with a kind hand, feeling
a fatherly pleasure in the conviction that there
was
something in his boy after all.

Tom got his velocipede next day, named it Black Auster, in memory of the horse in “The Battle of Lake Regillus,” and came
to grief as soon as he began to ride his new steed.

“Come out and see me go it,” whispered Tom to Polly, after three days’ practice in the street, for he had already learned
to ride in the rink.

Polly and Maud willingly went, and watched his struggles with deep interest, till he got an upset, which nearly put an end
to his velocipeding forever.

“Hi, there! Auster’s coming!” shouted Tom, as he came rattling down the long, steep street outside the park.

They stepped aside, and he whizzed by, arms and legs going like mad, with the general appearance of a runaway engine. It would
have been a triumphant descent, if a big dog had not bounced suddenly through one of the openings, and sent the whole concern
helter-skelter into the gutter. Polly laughed as she ran to view the ruin, for Tom lay flat on his back with the velocipede
atop of him, while the big dog barked wildly, and his master scolded him for his awkwardness. But when she saw Tom’s face,
Polly was frightened, for the color had all gone out of it, his eyes looked strange and dizzy, and drops of blood began to
trickle from a great cut on his forehead. The man saw it, too, and had him up in a minute; but he couldn’t stand, and stared
about him in a dazed sort of way, as he sat on the curbstone, while Polly held her handkerchief to his forehead, and pathetically
begged to know if he was killed.

“Don’t scare mother — I’m all right. Got upset, didn’t I?” he asked, presently, eyeing the prostrate velocipede with more
anxiety about its damages than his own.

“I knew you’d hurt yourself with that horrid thing. Just let it be, and come home, for your head bleeds dreadfully, and everybody
is looking at us,” whispered Polly, trying to tie the little handkerchief over the ugly cut.

“Come on, then. Jove! How queer my head feels! Give us a boost, please. Stop howling, Maud, and come home. You bring the machine,
and I’ll pay you, Pat.” As he spoke, Tom slowly picked himself up, and steadying himself by Polly’s shoulder, issued his commands,
and the procession fell into line. First, the big dog, barking at intervals; then the good-natured Irishman, trundling “that
divil of a whirligig,” as he disrespectfully called the idolized velocipede; then the wounded hero, supported by the faithful
Polly; and Maud brought up the rear in tears, bearing Tom’s cap.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Shaw was out driving with grandma, and Fanny was making calls; so that there was no one but Polly to stand
by Tom, for the parlormaid turned faint at the sight of blood, and the chambermaid lost her wits in the flurry. It was a bad
cut, and must be sewed up at once, the doctor said, as soon as he came. “Somebody must hold his head,” he added, as he threaded
his queer little needle.

“I’ll keep still, but if anybody must hold me, let Polly. You ain’t afraid, are you?” asked Tom, with an imploring look, for
he didn’t like the idea of being sewed a bit.

Polly was just going to shrink away, saying, “Oh, I can’t!” when she remembered that Tom once called her a coward.

Here was a chance to prove that she wasn’t; besides, poor Tom had no one else to help him; so she came up to the sofa where
he lay, and nodded reassuringly, as she put a soft little hand on either side of the damaged head.

“You are a trump, Polly,” whispered Tom. Then he set his teeth, clenched his hands, lay quite still, and bore it like a man.
It was all over in a minute or two, and when he had had a glass of wine, and was nicely settled on his bed, he felt pretty
comfortable, in spite of the pain in his head; and being ordered to keep quiet, he said, “Thank you ever so much, Polly,”
and watched her with a grateful face as she crept away.

He had to keep the house for a week, and laid about looking very interesting with a great black patch on his forehead. Everyone
petted him; for the doctor said, that if the blow had been an inch nearer the temple, it would have been fatal, and the thought
of losing him so suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at once. His father asked him how he was a dozen times a day;
his mother talked continually of “that dear boy’s narrow escape”; and grandma cockered him up with every delicacy she could
invent; and the girls waited on him like devoted slaves. This new treatment had an excellent effect; for when neglected Tom
got over his first amazement at this change of base, he blossomed out delightfully, as sick people do sometimes, and surprised
his family by being unexpectedly patient, grateful, and amiable. Nobody ever knew how much good it did him; for boys seldom
have confidences of this sort except with their mothers, and Mrs. Shaw had never found the key to her son’s heart. But a little
seed was sowed then that took root, and though it grew very slowly, it came to something in the end. Perhaps Polly helped
it a little. Evening was his hardest time, for want of exercise made him as restless and nervous as it was possible for a
hearty lad to be on such a short notice. He couldn’t sleep, so the girls amused him — Fanny played and read aloud; Polly sung,
and told stories; and did the latter so well, that it got to be a regular thing for her to begin as soon as twilight came,
and Tom was settled in his favorite place on grandma’s sofa.

“Fire away, Polly,” said the young sultan, one evening, as his little Scheherazade sat down in her low chair, after stirring
up the fire till the room was bright and cosy.

“I don’t feel like stories tonight, Tom. I’ve told all I know, and can’t make up any more,” answered Polly, leaning her head
on her hand with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He watched her a minute, and then asked, curiously, “What
were you thinking about, just now, when you sat staring at the fire, and getting soberer and soberer every minute?”

“I was thinking about Jimmy.”

“Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you would some time; but don’t, if you’d rather not,” said Tom, lowering
his rough voice respectfully.

“I like to talk about him; but there isn’t much to tell,” began Polly, grateful for his interest. “Sitting here with you reminded
me of the way I used to sit with him when he was sick. We used to have such happy times, and it’s so pleasant to think about
them now.”