An Old-fashioned Girl | Page 4

comes."
"You don't expect me to go and bring home a strange girl alone, do
you?" And Tom looked as much alarmed as if his sister had proposed
to him to escort the wild woman of Australia.
"Of course I do. It 's your place to go and get her; and if you was n't a
bear, you 'd like it."
"Well, I call that mean! I supposed I 'd got to go; but you said you 'd go,
too. Catch me bothering about your friends another time! No, sir! " And
Tom rose from the sofa with an air of indignant resolution, the
impressive effect of which was somewhat damaged by a tousled head,
and the hunched appearance of his garments generally.
"Now, don't be cross; and I 'll get mamma to let you have that horrid
Ned Miller, that you are so fond of, come and make you a visit after
Polly 's gone," said Fanny, hoping to soothe his ruffled feelings.
"How long is she going to stay?" demanded Tom, making his toilet by
a promiscuous shake.
"A month or two, maybe. She 's ever so nice; and I shall keep her as
long as she 's happy."
"She won't stay long then, if I can help it," muttered Tom, who

regarded girls as a very unnecessary portion of creation. Boys of
fourteen are apt to think so, and perhaps it is a wise arrangement; for,
being fond of turning somersaults, they have an opportunity of
indulging in a good one, metaphorically speaking, when, three or four
years later, they become the abject slaves of "those bothering girls."
"Look here! how am I going to know the creature? I never saw her, and
she never saw me. You 'll have to come too, Fan," he added, pausing on
his way to the door, arrested by the awful idea that he might have to
address several strange girls before he got the right one.
"You 'll find her easy enough; she 'll probably be standing round
looking for us. I dare say she 'll know you, though I 'm not there,
because I 've described you to her."
"Guess she won't, then;" and Tom gave a hasty smooth to his curly pate
and a glance at the mirror, feeling sure that his sister had n't done him
justice. Sisters never do, as "we fellows" know too well.
"Do go along, or you 'll be too late; and then, what will Polly think of
me?" cried Fanny, with the impatient poke which is peculiarly
aggravating to masculine dignity.
"She 'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and
she 'll be about right, too."
Feeling that he said rather a neat and cutting thing, Tom sauntered
leisurely away, perfectly conscious that it was late, but bent on not
being hurried while in sight, though he ran himself off his legs to make
up for it afterward.
"If I was the President, I 'd make a law to shut up all boys till they were
grown; for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the world,"
said Fanny, as she watched the slouchy figure of her brother strolling
down the street. She might have changed her mind, however, if she had
followed him, for as soon as he turned the corner, his whole aspect
altered; his hands came out of his pockets, he stopped whistling,
buttoned his jacket, gave his cap a pull, and went off at a great pace.
The train was just in when he reached the station, panting like a
race-horse, and as red as a lobster with the wind and the run.
"Suppose she 'll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob, like every one else;
and however shall I know her? Too bad of Fan to make me come
alone!" thought Tom, as he stood watching the crowd stream through
the depot, and feeling rather daunted at the array of young ladies who

passed. As none of them seemed looking for any one, he did not accost
them, but eyed each new batch with the air of a martyr. "That 's her," he
said to himself, as he presently caught sight of a girl in gorgeous array,
standing with her hands folded, and a very small hat perched on the top
of a very large "chig-non," as Tom pronounced it. "I suppose I 've got
to speak to her, so here goes;" and, nerving himself to the task, Tom
slowly approached the damsel, who looked as if the wind had blown
her clothes into rags, such a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls,
and feathers was there.
"I say, if you please, is your name Polly Milton?" meekly asked Tom,
pausing before the breezy stranger.
"No, it is n't," answered the young lady, with