The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary | Page 7

situation in black
and white, the old lady seemed to realize the iniquities of the case more
and more plainly; and as the letter grew her wrath grew also. The whole
came, in the end, to a threat--made in good earnest--to take a very
serious step indeed if any more "foolishness" developed.
Aunt Mary prided herself on her granite-like will. She had full faith in
her ability to slay her nearest and dearest if it seemed right and best to
do so.
She sealed her letter tight, stuck the stamp on square and hard, and bid
Lucinda convey it to Joshua and tell him never to quit it until he saw it
safe on to the evening train.
"She's awful mad at him for sure, this time," said Lucinda after she had
delivered her message, and while Joshua was considering the front and
back of the letter with a deliberateness born of long servitude.
"I sh'd think she would be," he said.
As nearly all of Jack's private difficulties were printed in every

newspaper in America, Joshua naturally was on the inside of all their
history.
"She scrinched up her face just awful over that letter," Lucinda
continued. "I'm sure I wish he'd 'a' been by to 'a' taken warnin'."
"He ain't got nothin' to really fret over," said Joshua serenely; "he
knows it, 'n' I know it, 'n' you know it, too."
"You don't know nothin' of the sort," said Lucinda. "She's madder'n
usual this time. She's good an' mad. You mark my words, if he goes off
on a 'nother spree this spring he'll get cut out o' her will."
Joshua laughed.
"You mark my words!" rasped Lucinda, shaking her finger in witchlike
warning.
Joshua laughed again.
"Them laughs best what laughs last," said Aunt Mary's handmaiden.
She turned away, and then returned to give Joshua a look that proved
that the peppery mistress had inculcated some cayenne into the souls of
those about her. "You mark my words--them laughs best what laughs
last, an' there'll be little grinnin' for him if he ain't a chalk-walker for
one while now."
Joshua laughed.
But, as a matter of fact, Jack's situation was suddenly become
extremely precarious.
"There ain't no sense in it," said Aunt Mary to herself, with an emphasis
that screwed her face up until she looked quite like Lucinda; "that life
those young men lead on their little vacations is to blame for everything.
Cities are wells of iniquity; they're full of all kinds of doin's that
respectable people wouldn't be seen at, and I'm proud to say that I
haven't been in one myself for twenty-five years. I'm a great believer in

keepin' out of trouble, an' if Jack'd just stuck to college an' let towns go,
he'd never have met the cabman and the Kalamazoo girl, an' I'd have
overlooked the cook an' the cat. As it is, my patience is done. If he goes
into one more scrape he'll be done too. I mean what I say. So my young
man had better take warnin'. Probably--most likely--pretty certainly."
Chapter Three
- Introducing Jack
It has been previously stated that Aunt Mary's nephew, Jack, was a
scapegrace, and as delightful as scapegraces generally are. It goes
without saying that he was good-looking; and of course he must have
been jolly and pleasant or he wouldn't have been so popular. As a
matter of fact, Jack was very good-looking, unusually jolly, and
uncommonly popular. He was one of the best liked men in each of the
colleges which he had attended. There was something so winning about
his smile and his eternal good humor that no one ever tried to dislike
him; and if anyone ever had tried he or she would not have succeeded
for very long. It is probably very unfortunate that the world is so full of
this type of young man, but that which should cause us all to have
infinite patience with them is the reflection of how much more
unfortunate it would be if they were suddenly eliminated from the
general scheme of things.
Like all college boys, Jack had a chum. The chum was Robert Burnett,
another charming young fellow of one-and-twenty, whose education
had been so cosmopolitan in design and so patriotic in practice that he
always said "Sacre bleu" and "Donnerwetter" when he thought of it,
and "Great Scott" when he didn't. He and Jack were as congenial a pair
as ever existed, and they had just about as much in common as the aunt
of the one and the father of the other had had to pay for.
In the February of the year of which I write, Washington, celebrating
his birthday as usual, gave all American students their usual chance to
celebrate with him. Celebrations were temptations