Then There Were Five (19 page)

CHAPTER XII

The Principle of the Thing

The Braxton station looked just like any other medium-sized station. It was a long, low, ugly building, flanked by a long, low, ugly platform. The black and white sign saying Braxton stuck up from the edge of the roof like a ticket in a hatband.

There were a few people on the platform already, staring vacantly at the two pairs of railroad tracks which stretched endlessly away to the right and to the left, straight and shining as the strings on a giant banjo.

Mona and Willy stayed in the carriage, Oliver climbed up on an empty baggage truck which at once became a landing barge. Randy and Rush went inside the station.

It was a stale, brown place, with a slot machine, a magazine stand, and a cast-iron stove that looked as if it had been there since the Civil War. A long bench, worn smooth with the sitting of multitudes, ran round the wall, and behind the ticket window a narrow-faced man in a green eyeshade seemed to be doing sums in a book.

“All stations smell exactly alike, I wonder why,” Randy said. “I could be led in blindfold in a large city, and I'd know it was a station right away.”

“Yes, and there's always a man behind the ticket window that looks just like that,” whispered Rush. “I don't think they're really alive. The railroad companies probably order them from Sears, Roebuck, or someplace: ‘One ticket agent, complete with sleeve garters, and eyeshade—$24.98.'”

Randy went over and looked at the magazine stand. All the comic books had names like
Biff, Crash, Bang,
and
Boom.
All the photography magazines had names like
Pix, Flix,
and
Nix.
The candy bars in their paper wrappers also had interesting names such as “Nummy Bar” and “Vita-munch.” Randy looked at them longingly, but she had no money.

Rush had a penny. He dropped it into the slot machine, pulled a lever, and waited for something to come out. Nothing came. He pulled the lever again. Then he started to bang the side of the machine and shake it.

At this the man in the eyeshade came to life, or at least his voice did.

“That never does any good,” said he, without looking up. “Everybody always tries it and it never does any good.”

They stared at him.

“Why, has it been out of order a long time?”

“Yep. Quite a while, now, quite a while. Since March, April, I guess.”

“Well, it's a gyp,” grumbled Rush. “It's not the loss of a penny that I mind. It's the principle of the thing.”

Randy liked the sound of that.

“I bet lots of people have lost pennies in that machine,” she said. “And it's not right. They probably don't mind about the money so much. It's the
principle
of the thing.”

“Well, I been after the fella to fix it. After him and after him, but he keeps puttin' it off.”

“I should think you could fix it yourself,” Rush told him, “with a pair of pliers and a screw driver.”

“Daresay I could. But like you said, it's the principle of the thing.” The ticket agent looked up from under the eyeshade and smiled at them. He had a nice smile.

“Listen,” suggested Randy. “Why don't you just paste a little sign on the machine saying ‘out of order' or something?”

“Never thought of it,” confessed the ticket agent. “But it ain't a bad idea. I'll take care of it right after I'm finished with the five-forty-five. Thanks for the suggestion, and as soon as she's fixed I'll see that your money's refunded.”

“Oh, that's okay,” Rush said.

And Randy said as they went out, “I bet Sears, Roebuck would never sell him for only $24.98. He's too nice.”

There was a sudden change among the waiting people on the platform. One minute they were drooped about their suitcases, yawning, shifting from foot to foot, longing to say good-bye; and the next they were alert, straightening quickly, and smiling. “It's coming! It's coming!” Suitcases were picked up, hats straightened, kisses bestowed upon cheeks. All of them, the ones who were leaving and the ones who were staying, looked far, far along the humming tracks toward the tiny black feather of smoke. All felt the same small stab of excitement. Something is going to change, something will be different in a minute.

Oliver tumbled down from his landing barge, Willy and Mona leaped from the surrey. Mona took Oliver's hand, and suddenly felt Randy take hold of her other one. They stood close together watching the engine approach, growing larger and larger; towering above them with its Cyclops eye and its mane of smoke. Together they winced in the terrible moment when it flew past them, hot as a hundred furnaces, and loud as a burst volcano. Its fiery breath blew their hair, rocked them on their feet, and filled their eyes with cinders. It was heaven.

The passengers began descending.

“Where's Cuffy?” Oliver kept bleating, over and over again. “Where's Cuffy? I don't
see
her, Mona, where is she?”

“Oh, goodness, Oliver, sh-sh. She'll be coming out in a minute, give her time.”

“Well, but where
is
she?”

All they saw of her at first was bundles. A whole solid façade of nothing but bundles. Then they saw the familiar bulging “satchel” hanging from her arm.

“Cuffy! Cuffy!” shrieked Oliver, beside himself, leaping and jumping. And then as he glimpsed her face, “She hasn't changed! She hasn't changed!”

But who was that behind her?

“Father!” yelped Oliver, by this time in a frenzy of joy.

They all were. They threw themselves upon Father and Cuffy. Father submitted helplessly, his arms weighted down with suitcases, and bundles were knocked off Cuffy.

“Great day!” she cried. “There goes the fruitcake!”

“Fruitcake!” Rush pounced. “How
is
Cousin Coral, by the way?”

“Recovered,” said Cuffy. “And talked out for the next year, I should think.”

“How were the poodles?”

“Dreadful. Fat and spoiled. Made me real homesick for Isaac and John Doe.”

Willy and Rush took charge of the suitcases, and such bundles as they could handle.

“Father!” said Mona. “There's a long pink ribbon hanging out of your briefcase. What in the world is it?”

Father looked down at Randy. Randy stared at the pink ribbon, and then at Father. Tremendous joy took hold of her.

“Ballet shoes!” she said, almost in a whisper. “Oh, Father!”

It was rather congested in the surrey. Cuffy sat in front with Oliver on her lap. Father sat in the back with Mona on one side and Rush on the other, and Randy on
his
lap. Suitcases and bundles took up the rest of the room.

“Do you have to go away again on Sunday night? Can't you just this once stay over, for a little while?” Randy asked the question more as a matter of routine than as an expression of hope.

But Father said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. This time I can stay over.”

“You
can?
” cried everyone. “How long can you?”

“Three weeks.”

Three weeks. Three whole weeks! Boy. Jeepers. Gosh. Hooray. Halleluiah. How divine.

“What will the President do without you?” Oliver wanted to know.

“Oh, he has my telephone number,” Father said grandly.

The town of Braxton dissolved unnoticed into the green fields and woods. The surrey seemed to fly. Everyone talked. Father had to be told all over again about Mark, the fire, the farm, and all the rest of it. And he in turn had to tell them about Washington and the people he saw. Cuffy had a lot to say concerning Mrs. Theobald and the poodles and Mrs. Theobald's friends. Willy reported upon the progress of the hens, the goat, Lorna Doone, and matters in general.

They were home before they knew it.

“Why, look,” cried Cuffy. “A welcome sign! Now, isn't that just lovely!”

“Only if I'd known you were coming I would have put ‘Father' on it, too,” said Randy. “You know I would have, don't you?”

“Sure, I know it,” said Father, and gave her a squeeze. “I'll be glad to get you off my lap, just the same, both my knees are asleep. How many pounds have you gained, anyway?”

As they were disentangling themselves and their luggage from the surrey, the front door opened and Mark came out. He had on a clean shirt that Rush had given him, and clean overalls, and his hair was still rakemarked from the comb. He was wearing his only shoes, too; big, bump-toed work shoes from which he had scraped the mud, and even made a stab at polishing. Seeing how he had made a great effort to present himself at his best, Randy felt an ache of sympathy. Let Father like him. Please let Father like him, she prayed inside. Cuffy was safe, no use wasting a prayer on her. She liked Mark already.

Mark came forward smiling his shy, friendly smile.

“Why, Mr. Melendy came too!”

“Yes, isn't it swell! Father this is Mark Herron.”

Father took Mark's hand, and looked into his face.

“How do you do, Mark. I've heard a great deal about you.”

Mark looked steadily back at Father and smiled again. “Gee, Mr. Melendy, I sure have heard a lot about
you
too!”

“We'll have a talk by and by,” Father said, and went into the house. Randy, skipping along behind with the fruitcake held tight against her chest, felt her heart lighten. Of course it's too soon to tell, she thought to herself, it's much too soon to tell, but I
think
it's going to be all right. I think he likes him.

And Rush coming up beside her suddenly whispered, “I think he likes him, don't you?”

That was the wonderful thing about Rush. He so often seemed to feel the way she did. How many girls had such a satisfactory brother?

Aloud she only said, “Yup,” and then she made a leap and a pirouette, and tossed the fruitcake right up in the air, because she couldn't help it.

“The house looks real clean,” said Cuffy in a tone of surprise. “I wouldn't of dreamed it would look this clean.”

“It
is
clean,” Mona said. “Run your finger along the banisters, Cuffy. Examine the baseboards. Look under the piano. The whole house is impeakable.”

“Impeccable,” corrected Rush.

“Okay, impeccable. And now—come out in the kitchen, Cuffy,” said Mona quietly, almost trembling with excitement. “Father, you come too.”

They all came, even Willy.

Cuffy pushed open the swing door and looked about her. The long rays of sun had lighted up the jars of preserves on the sill till they glowed like the glass in a church window.

“My lands,” said Cuffy. She went over to the sill and then to the shelves, picking up a jar here and there, and reading aloud from the labels. “Chowchow. Yellow tomato preserve. India Relish. Peaches. Plums. Plums. Plums.”

Then she came quietly over to the table and sat down on one of the wooden chairs. They watched her, disappointed.

“What's the matter, aren't you glad?” said Randy.

“Glad. Glad!” Cuffy gulped pathetically. “Why, when I think of you poor little things, all by yourselves, doing all this wonderful canning. Why, I could just lay my head right down on the table, and—”

“Don't you do it, Cuffy, don't you do it!” cried Oliver, who had a horror of tears. He leaped onto her lap and tried to tickle her.

“All by yourselves, all that hot work!” murmured Cuffy brokenly.

“Well, Mr. Titus helped,” said Mona uncomfortably.

“Helped!”
Rush gave a hoot. “Mr. Titus took over. The girls
helped.
You better save your tears for the rest of us, Cuffy. We haven't had a decent meal in days.”

Oliver gave up trying to tickle Cuffy. She was wearing her “good” corset which was as unyielding as the armor plating on a tank.

Anyway Cuffy felt better after she'd heard about Mr. Titus. She blew her nose and went back to examining the jars.

“Fine color,” she'd say. “Couldn't have done 'em better myself. Dill pickles: hm-m, wonder where he got the dill? Glad you put up all them tomatas. I'll put up a few more quarts myself, and we oughta have enough to last…”

They left her musing over the canning, and went out to conduct Father on the usual ceremonial grand tour. They showed him the sunflowers, and the big green footballs in the watermelon patch, and the red-stained apples that were bending the branches of the orchard.

As they were coming back across the grass Father said to them, “I'm very pleased with the way you've all done your jobs. The place looks fine: the lawns are smooth, the garden well-kept, the house clean, and then all that splendid canning! Yes, I'm very pleased. The way you've taken hold these past weeks shows real character.”

Rush walked close up to Willy and spoke to him quietly. “Jellyfish, huh?” was all he said.

“And though the quality of all your work is excellent,” Father was continuing, “and I am delighted to see that it is, I would still be happy even though the job had been amateurishly performed. Because it's not only the quality of the work that counts at a time like this. It's—”

“The principle of the thing!” shouted Rush and Randy in a bold duet.

CHAPTER XIII

The Best Birthday of All

Father did like Mark.

“Of course I really always knew he would,” Randy said. “Way down deep I knew it. I was just sort of ruffled on the surface.”

“You couldn't help liking Mark,” Rush said. “He's good. I don't mean good
acting.
I mean good material all the way through, like a—a good potato or something.”

“Potato, for heaven's sake!” cried Mona. “He's much more interesting than a potato. He's—let's see, Randy, what sort of vegetable
would
you compare him to?”