Then There Were Five (20 page)

And the discussion turned into one of the Melendys' favorite games, known as the comparison game. It went like this: somebody left the room, or at any rate went out of earshot. While he was gone the rest of them decided upon a person known to them all, either by fame or by personal acquaintance. When the one who was “it” came back he was allowed only to know whether this mysterious subject was male or female. Then he asked his first question: “What color is he like?” After he had been told he asked the next person: “What animal is he like?” Or what vegetable, bird, jewel, flower, or tree. Even what kind of weather. It was surprising how interesting it was, and how quickly one could guess the identity of the person in question. Cuffy's color, for instance, was unmistakably white; and she was like a pigeon, and like a pussycat, and like a pearl, and like a big, healthy cabbage rose. Oren, on the other hand, had been compared to a weasel, a chicken hawk, a parsnip, and the color of mustard yellow.

Mark turned out to be good Golden Bantam corn, a setter dog, a meadow lark, a maple tree, and many other pleasant, reasonable things. They had left Mark by now, though, and were describing what seemed to be the most fascinating creature in the world. She was a female, and Randy and Rush (Oliver scorned this game) agreed that she was like a velvety, purple pansy, like a dark sapphire, like a song by Brahms (Rush contributed that, of course) … Mona was “it” and she wondered secretly, and hopefully, if the person in question might not be herself. They had played it that way once or twice just as a joke on the unsuspecting questioner.

“What sort of vegetable is she like?” asked Mona, with a self-conscious toss of her silky hair.

It was Randy's turn to answer.

“Oh, not like any vegetable in the world! Never, never like a vegetable!”

Mona's hopes flagged. Once long ago they had used Mona for the subject, and they had agreed, quite easily, that she was like a cucumber. A cucumber! It was the sort of thing you could never forget.

But Rush did not see eye to eye with Randy. “She is like an onion,” he said dreamily. “This person is like a very smooth, white, pearly onion.”

“Rush!”
cried Randy. “An
onion!
How can you ever, ever say such a terrible thing!”

The battle was on, and of course the character turned out not to be Mona at all. It was Hedy Lamarr.

At this point Father's voice was heard calling them.

“Where are you all, anyway?”

“In the Office, Father, do you want us?”

“No, I'll come up. What are you doing?”

“Oh, just fighting,” Mona said. “But it's not serious.”

Father came up the stairs. He looked around the Office.

“Where's Mark?”

“He went over to Oren's farm.”

“Good. I hoped I'd catch you alone.” Father declined to sit down. He stood up, with one elbow on the piano, as though he were about to make a speech.

“Have we done something bad?” said Oliver.

“No, no. Or at least not as far as I know. It's about—”

“Is it something about my birthday?” inquired Oliver. “Would you like me to leave the room?”

“No, not this time. You can stay. As a matter of fact, it's about Mark.”

“Oh.”

They waited. Father picked up a sheet of music and looked at it carefully without seeing it. He put it down again.

“What do you think of Mark?”

“Why, we think he's swell. We think he's just about the swellest guy we ever met,” Rush said. Mona and Randy agreed ardently, and Oliver said, “Did you know he can walk on his hands?”

“I see. And what do you think should be done about him?”

“Why, Father!” said Mona. “That's what we were going to ask you!”

“I know what should be done about him,” announced Oliver. “He should just go on living with us.”

“Oliver's right,” Randy said. “That's what we all think. Couldn't we sort of adopt him?”

“Or really adopt him?” added Rush.

“If it's going to be too expensive, we can do without allowances,” Randy said.

“You can have practically
all
my radio money for his support,” offered Mona wealthily. “I'll only keep enough for train money and ankle socks and things.”

“And I'll get more piano pupils when school opens, and I can contribute, too,” said Rush.

“Mark will be a help, too,” said Oliver, who was a very practical boy. “He knows a lot about farming.”

“And he can teach us all about nature,” added Randy enthusiastically. “He knows
everything
about it. We'll learn all the right names of funguses—”

“Fungi,” corrected Father absently.

“—Fungi, and insects, and plants. He'll teach us all about trees and birds and—uh—
nature.
”

“Won't that be nice?” pleaded Oliver in such a desperate voice that Father couldn't help laughing. Nobody else laughed, though. They sat there, silent and beseeching, their imploring eyes upon his face.

“
Please,
Father!” entreated Randy.

“He'll have to go to an orphanage, or be adopted by strangers, or something, if you don't,” threatened Rush.

“Well,” said Father, at last. “It's a serious step to take, you know. It's one thing to adopt a baby, and another thing to adopt a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“It's better,” said Mona positively. “It's better because he can talk and walk and all, and he doesn't have to be fed by hand.”

“And you have a good idea of how he's going to turn out, too,” agreed Rush. “With a baby you'd never know. Why, it might grow up to be dishonest, or stingy, or mean to animals!”

“I'm not worried about the way Mark is going to turn out,” Father admitted. “It's all there in his face: honesty, and courage, and dependability. He knows how to work too, and he's intelligent.”

“There, you see?” cried Rush. “He'd even be a good influence for us!”

“Well…” Father sat down on the piano stool, and reflectively touched a key: E flat. He held his finger on it, and the sound died away slowly, quivering on the air as it diminished. When they could no longer hear it, Father took his finger off the key, and turned around and faced them.

“But perhaps he won't want to be adopted.”

“Father!” shrieked Randy ecstatically, and flung herself upon him. Rush said Father was swell, Mona said he was divine, and Oliver demonstrated his approval by jumping up and down rather heavily and saying. “Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Oh, boy!”

Father shook them all off, finally, and stood up. “I think I'll take a walk over to the farm and have a talk with Mark.”

“Are you going to tell him now?” asked Randy. “Are you going to invite him to be adopted?”

“Formally,” replied Father.

“What about Cuffy? Maybe she won't like it,” said Mona.

“Cuffy will like it, all right,” Father said. “She's been hinting at it for all she was worth for the last two weeks.”

“Oh, Father, you're a wonderful man!” sighed Randy.

“At times I'm inclined to share your opinion,” agreed Father, going down the stairs.

The Melendy children were so happy that they became quiet. Mona picked up her radio script and tried to study it. Oliver opened a book. Rush sat down at the piano and began playing softly. Randy climbed the steps to the cupola. It was very neat up there. The bed was smoothly made, the few clothes were hung up, and the bump-toed shoes stood exactly side by side in front of a chair, like the feet of an uneasy visitor. Mark will be a neat brother to have, thought Randy. She looked out the north window toward Carthage. In winter it will be too cold up here, she thought. Then he can have Clarinda's room. It will like to have somebody living in it after all this time.

Suddenly Mona had a dreadful idea. She came right out with it, interrupting Rush's music, Randy's reverie, and Oliver's third laborious reading of
Dr. Doolittle.

“Maybe he
won't
want to be adopted!” she said. “Maybe he'll be too proud or independent or something. Maybe he'll say no!”

“Don't be a goon!” Rush told her crossly. “Of course he won't say no.”

All the same the mood was spoiled. He started to play again, but this time he galloped into the Brahms Rhapsody, which was splendid music for restlessness or doubt.

It seemed hours before Father and Mark returned. They waited anxiously. Randy had gone up to the cupola again, and was the first to see them. There they were, coming down the drive. Father's arm was around Mark's shoulders and Mark was looking up at him, smiling and talking, nineteen to the dozen.

“What do you see up there, Sister Anne?” called Rush.

“It's okay!” shouted Randy joyfully. “I see them coming, now, and they look related as anything!”

But it turned out that the business of taking Mark into their family was not quite so simple as it seemed at first. The Melendys, it appeared, could not just pick Mark up like a stray puppy and bring him home with no questions asked. Questions were asked about everything, and by many different people.

First of all, there was the bank. The Carthage Bank had a most tender interest in the mortgage attached to Oren's farm. The State Department of Social Welfare had an interest in the destiny of Mark Herron. So had the county Children's Aid Society. Also there were sundry inquiries from private persons, such as the Delacey brothers, Cedric and Fitzroy, who wished to know the plans for the Meeker dogs and a certain Hampshire shoat among the livestock. Others inquired about the cows. Herb Joyner, Mr. Addison, and several other farmers wanted to engage Mark as hired boy. And there was even one elegantly worded document from a certain Waldemar Crown, offering all the comforts of his home to “this luckless child, this lonely orphan, deprived by ruthless circumstance of each child's birthright: the security of a home, and the guidance of a mature mind.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Rush, when Father read him the letter.

“It sounds like a cross between a sermon and a campaign speech,” Father said. “Who
is
this gentleman?”

“He's just an ordinary, everyday murderer and bank robber. At least that's what they say,” Rush explained airily.

“Oh, that's all, is it? Just one of the many drones one meets in the daily grind. And speaking of meeting, what's your connection with the fellow?”

“Maybe I'd better tell you.” Rush sat down and told Father the story of the still from beginning to end. Father looked almost cross.

“Listen, you young idiot, do you know you might have been peppered full of buckshot? Maybe seriously hurt? Don't ever let me hear of such an escapade again, understand?”

“Don't worry, Father,” said Rush. “There's not a chance. I'd never stick my neck out like that again.”

The first person to come and call on them was a Mrs. Golding, a children's worker from the Department of Social Welfare. Father received her in his study, and during the course of their conversation was interrupted four times. Once by Oliver, appearing with a large sheepshead which he had caught right in their own brook.

“I had quite a time getting him in,” said Oliver sociably, holding up the fish and allowing it to drip on the carpet. “You see, the line got caught around a dead branch that was sticking out of the water there, so I just thought I'd better wade right in and untangle it. Well, I did that, and
then
—”

“Yes,” said Father. “That's fine, Oliver, but perhaps you could tell me about it later.”

“Oh, I have plenty of time right now,” said Oliver cheerfully. “And maybe this lady would like to hear about it.”

“
Later,
Oliver,” Father told him firmly, and Oliver finally took the hint and started for the door. Just before he reached it, however, he turned and addressed himself to Mrs. Golding. “It's especially lucky that I caught this good big fish today. Because today is my birthday, and I'm eight years old.” He waited for Mrs. Golding's congratulations, received them graciously, and departed with his fish.

Father and Mrs. Golding continued their interview for some time, then suddenly past the partly open door drifted the unself-conscious figure of Mona. She had a strange dreamy expression on her face, was wearing a wreath of nasturtiums and carrying nasturtiums in her hands. She looked straight ahead of her like a sleepwalker, and as she walked she lifted one of the flowers and remarked in an eerie voice: “There's rosemary, that's for remembrance: pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: There's rue for you: and here's some for me: we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays…” She floated out of earshot.

Mrs. Golding was obviously startled. Indeed, she seemed alarmed. Father looked at her uncomfortably.

“My daughter Mona,” he explained. “She's really quite sound mentally, in spite of appearances. It's simply that she has every intention of becoming the American Sarah Bernhardt, and lately we've had to put up with great doses of Ophelia. That's the Mad Scene you just saw,” he added, perhaps unnecessarily.

Mrs. Golding was an understanding soul. She laughed till the tears came.

The next interruption was caused by Randy, who came in to ask for twenty cents.

“I need another ball of yarn for Mark's sweater,” said she. “And I'm already overdrawn on my allowance.”

Father hastily fished a quarter out of his pocket and gave it to her. Randy held up the half-finished green sweater and showed it to him.

“I have such a terrible time with dropped stitches,” she said, turning confidingly to Mrs. Golding. “Every night I find new ones and have to rip out yards of it. I feel like the wife of Ulysses ripping up the shirt every night, except that I haven't any suitors. Yet,” she added thoughtfully.