On Picket Duty, and Other Tales | Page 3

'Pretty,' thinks I; 'so
far so good.' The way she whacked the pillers, shooked the blankets,
and pitched into the beds was a caution; specially one blunderin' old
featherbed that wouldn't do nothin' but sag round in a pig-headed sort
of way, that would have made most girls get mad and give up. Kitty
didn't, but just wrastled with it like a good one, till she got it turned,
banged, and spread to suit her; then she plumped down in the middle of
it, with a sarcy little nod and chuckle to herself, that tickled me
mightily. 'Plucky,' thinks I, 'better 'n' better.' Jest then an old woman
came flyin' out the back-door, callin', 'Kitty! Kitty! Squire Partridge's
son's here, 'long with a friend; been gunnin', want luncheon, and I'm all
in the suds; do come down and see to 'em.'
"'Where are they?' says Kitty, scrambling up her hair and settlin' her
gown in a jiffy, as women have a knack of doin', you know.
"'Mr. Joe's in the front entry; the other man's somewheres round, Billy
says, waitin' till I send word whether they can stop. I darsn't till I'd seen
you, for I can't do nothin', I'm in such a mess,' says the old lady.
"'So am I, for I can't get in except by the [**] entry window, and he'll
see me,' says Kitty, gigglin' at the thoughts of Joe.

"'Come down the ladder, there's a dear. I'll pull it round and keep it
stiddy,' says her mother.
"'Oh, ma, don't ask me!' says Kitty, with a shiver. 'I'm dreadfully scared
of ladders since I broke my arm off this very one. It's so high, it makes
me dizzy jest to think of.'
"'Well, then, I'll do the best I can; but I wish them boys was to Jericho!'
says the old lady, with a groan, for she was fat and hot, had her gown
pinned up, and was in a fluster generally. She was goin' off rather huffy,
when Kitty called out,--
"'Stop, ma! I'll come down and help you, only ketch me if I tumble.'
"She looked scared but stiddy, and I'll bet it took as much grit for her to
do it as for one of us to face a battery. It don't seem much to tell of, but
I wish I may be hit if it wasn't a right down dutiful and clever thing to
see done. When the old lady took her off at the bottom, with a good
motherly hug, I found myself huggin' my rifle like a fool, but whether I
thought it was the ladder, or Kitty, I ain't clear about. 'Good,' thinks I;
'what more do you want?'
"A snug little property wouldn't a ben bad, I reckon. Well she had it,
old skin-flint, though I didn't know or care about it then. What a jolly
row she'd make if she knew I was tellin' the ladder part of the story!
She always does when I get to it, and makes believe cry, with her head
in my breast-pocket, or any such handy place, till I take it out and
swear I'll never do so ag'in. Poor little Kit, I wonder what she's doin'
now. Thinkin' of me, I'll bet."
Dick paused, pitched his cap lower over his eyes, and smoked a minute
with more energy than enjoyment, for his cigar was out and he did not
perceive it.
"That's not all, is it?" asked Thorn, taking a fatherly interest in the
younger man's love passages.
"Not quite. 'Fore long, Joe whistled, and as I always take short cuts

everywhar, I put in at the back-door, jest as Kitty come trottin' out of
the pantry with a big berry-pie in her hand. I startled her, she tripped
over the sill and down she come; the dish flew one way, the pie flopped
into her lap, the juice spatterin' my boots and her clean gown. I thought
she'd cry, scold, have hysterics, or some confounded thing or other; but
she jest sat still a minute, then looked up at me with a great blue splosh
on her face, and went off into the good-naturedest gale of laughin' you
ever heard in your life. That finished me. 'Gay,' thinks I; 'go in and
win.' So I, did; made love hand over hand, while I stayed with Joe;
pupposed a fortnight after, married her in three months, and there she is,
a tip-top little woman, with a pair of stunnin' boys in her arms!"
Out came a well-worn case, and Dick proudly displayed the likeness of
a stout, much bejewelled young woman, with two staring infants on her
knee. In his sight, the poor picture was a more perfect work of art than
any of Sir Joshua's baby-beauties, or Raphael's Madonnas, and