Little Miss Grouch | Page 3

you didn't tell me anything of the sort. Why, he's old enough to be your father."
"Older!" she asseverated spitefully. "And hatefuller than he is old."
"Why do such a thing?"
"I didn't do it."
"Then he did it all himself? I thought it took two to make an engagement."
"It does. Father was the other one."
"Oh! Father is greatly impressed with our acrobatic friend's eligibility as son-in-law?"
"Well, of course, he's got plenty of money, and a splendid position, and all that. And I--I--I didn't exactly say 'No.' But when I saw it in the newspapers, all spread out for everybody to read--"
"Hello! It got into the papers, did it?"
"Yesterday morning. Father put it in; I know he did. I cried all night, and this morning I had Marie pack my things, and I made a rush for this old ship, and they didn't have anything for me but a stuffy little hole 'way down in the hold somewhere, and I wish I were dead!"
"Oh, cheer up!" counseled the Tyro. "I've got an awfully decent stateroom--123 D, and if you want to change--"
"Why, I'm 129 D. That's the same kind of room in the same passage. Do you call that fit to live in?"
Now the Tyro is a person of singularly equable temperament. But to have an offer which he had made only with self-sacrificing effort thus cavalierly received by a red-nosed, blear-eyed, impudent little chittermouse (thus, I must reluctantly admit, did he mentally characterize his new acquaintance), was just a bit too much.
"You don't have to accept the offer, you know," he assured her. "I only made it to be offensive. And as I've apparently been successful beyond my fondest hopes, I will now waft myself away."
There was some kind of struggle in which the lachrymose maiden's whole anatomy seemed involved, and then a gloved hand went out appealingly.
"Meaning that you're sorry?" inquired the Tyro sternly.
Some sounds there are which elude the efforts of the most onomatopoeic pen. Still, as nearly as may be--
"Buh!" said the damsel. "Buh--huh--huh!"
"Oh, in that case." The Tyro turned back.
There was a long pause, while the girl struggled for self-command, during which her squire had time to observe with some surprise that she had a white glove on her left hand and a tan one on her right, and that her apparel seemed to have been put on without due regard to the cardinal points of the compass. Through the veil she perceived and interpreted his appraisal.
"I'm a dowdy frump!" she lamented, half-voiced. "I dressed myself while Marie was packing. But you needn't be so--so supercilious about it."
"I'm not," protested he, conscience-stricken.
"You are! When you look at me that way I hate you! I'm not sorry I was nasty to you. I'm glad! I wish I'd been nastier!"
The Tyro bent upon her a fascinated but baleful regard. "Angel child," said he in sugared accents, "appease my curiosity. Answer me one question."
"I won't. What is it?"
"Did you ever have your ears boxed?"
"Never!" she said indignantly.
"I thought as much."
"You'd like to do it, perhaps."
"I'd love to. It would do me--I mean you--so much good."
"Maybe I'll let you if you'll help me get away. I know they'll find me!" At the prospect the melancholy one once more abandoned herself to the tragedy of existence. "And you don't do a thing but m-m-make fu-fu-fun of me."
Contrition softened the heart of the Tyro. "Oh, look here, Niobe," he began.
"My name isn't Niobe!"
"Well, your nature's distinctly Niobish. I've got to call you something."
"You haven't! You haven't got to ever speak to me again. They'll find me, and catch me, and send me back, and I'll marry that--that Creature, if that's what you want."
This was the argumentum ad hominem with a vengeance. "I want? What on earth have I got to do with it?"
"Nothing! Nobody has anything to do with it. Nobody gives a--a--a darn for me. Oh, I wish I were back home!"
"Now you're talking sense. The pilot-boat is your play."
"Oh! And you said you'd help me." And then the last barrier gave way, and the floods swept down and immersed speech for the moment.
"Oh, come! Brace up, little girl." His voice was all kindness now. "If you're really bound to get away--"
"I am," came the muffled voice.
"But have you got any place to go?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"My married sister's in London."
"Truly?"
"I can show you a cablegram if you don't believe me."
"That's all right, then. I'll take a chance. Now for one deep, dark, and deadly plot. If the pilot-boat is after you, they'll look up your name and cabin on the passenger list."
"I didn't give my real name."
"Oho! Well, your father might wire a description."
"It's just the kind of thing he would do."
"Therefore you'd better change your clothes."
"No. I'd better not. This awful mess is a regular disguise for me."
"And if you could contrive to stop crying--"
"I'm