little chair, with dry socks and warm slippers on his feet, before he would have had time to say Jack Robinson, if he had wanted to try. He said “Thank you, ma’am,” instead; and said it so gratefully that Mrs. Bhaer’s eyes grew soft again, and she said something merry, because she felt so tender, which was a way she had.
“There are Tommy Bangs’ slippers; but he never will remember to put them on in the house; so he shall not have them. They are too big; but that’s all the better; you can’t run away from us so fast as if they fitted.”
“I don’t want to run away, ma’am.” And Nat spread his grimy little hands before the comfortable blaze, with a long sigh of satisfaction.
“That’s good! Now I am going to toast you well, and try to get rid of that ugly cough. How long have you had it, dear?” asked Mrs. Bhaer, as she rummaged in her big basket for a strip of flannel.
“All winter. I got cold, and it wouldn’t get better, somehow.”
“No wonder, living in that damp cellar with hardly a rag to his poor dear back!” said Mrs. Bhaer, in a low tone to her husband, who was looking at the boy with a skillful pair of eyes that marked the thin temples and feverish lips, as well as the hoarse voice and frequent fits of coughing that shook the bent shoulders under the patched jacket.
“Robin, my man, trot up to Nursey, and tell her to give thee the cough-bottle and the liniment,” said Mr. Bhaer, after his eyes had exchanged telegrams with his wife’s.
Nat looked a little anxious at the preparations, but forgot his fears in a hearty laugh, when Mrs. Bhaer whispered to him, with a droll look:
“Hear my rogue Teddy try to cough. The syrup I’m going to give you has honey in it; and he wants some.”
Little Ted was red in the face with his exertions by the time the bottle came, and was allowed to suck the spoon after Nat had manfully taken a dose and had the bit of flannel put about his throat.
These first steps toward a cure were hardly completed when a great bell rang, and a loud tramping through the hall announced supper. Bashful Nat quaked at the thought of meeting many strange boys, but Mrs. Bhaer held out her hand to him, and Rob said, patronizingly, “Don’t be ‘fraid; I’ll take care of you.”
Twelve boys, six on a side, stood behind their chairs, prancing with impatience to begin, while the tall flute-playing youth was trying to curb their ardor. But no one sat down till Mrs. Bhaer was in her place behind the teapot, with Teddy on her left, and Nat on her right.
“This is our new boy, Nat Blake. After supper you can say how do you do? Gently, boys, gently.”
As she spoke every one stared at Nat, and then whisked into their seats, trying to be orderly and failing utterly. The Bhaers did their best to have the lads behave well at meal times, and generally succeeded pretty well, for their rules were few and sensible, and the boys, knowing that they tried to make things easy and happy, did their best to obey. But there are times when hungry boys cannot be repressed without real cruelty, and Saturday evening, after a half-holiday, was one of those times.
“Dear little souls, do let them have one day in which they can howl and racket and frolic to their hearts’ content. A holiday isn’t a holiday without plenty of freedom and fun; and they shall have full swing once a week,” Mrs. Bhaer used to say, when prim people wondered why banister-sliding, pillow-fights, and all manner of jovial games were allowed under the once decorous roof of Plumfield.
It did seem at times as if the aforesaid roof was in danger of flying off, but it never did, for a word from Father Bhaer could at any time produce a lull, and the lads had learned that liberty must not be abused. So, in spite of many dark predictions, the school flourished, and manners and morals were insinuated, without the pupils exactly knowing how it was done.
Nat found himself very well off behind the tall pitchers, with Tommy Bangs just around the corner, and Mrs. Bhaer close by to fill up plate and mug as fast as he could empty them.
“Who is that boy next the girl down at the other end?” whispered Nat to his young neighbor under cover of a general laugh.
“That’s Demi Brooke. Mr. Bhaer is his uncle.”
“What a queer name!”
“His real name is John, but they call him Demi-John, because his father is John too. That’s a joke, don’t you see?” said Tommy, kindly explaining. Nat did not see, but politely smiled, and asked, with interest:
“Isn’t he a very nice boy?”
“I bet you he is; knows lots and reads like any thing.”
“Who is the fat one next him?”
“There are Tommy Bangs’ slippers; but he never will remember to put them on in the house; so he shall not have them. They are too big; but that’s all the better; you can’t run away from us so fast as if they fitted.”
“I don’t want to run away, ma’am.” And Nat spread his grimy little hands before the comfortable blaze, with a long sigh of satisfaction.
“That’s good! Now I am going to toast you well, and try to get rid of that ugly cough. How long have you had it, dear?” asked Mrs. Bhaer, as she rummaged in her big basket for a strip of flannel.
“All winter. I got cold, and it wouldn’t get better, somehow.”
“No wonder, living in that damp cellar with hardly a rag to his poor dear back!” said Mrs. Bhaer, in a low tone to her husband, who was looking at the boy with a skillful pair of eyes that marked the thin temples and feverish lips, as well as the hoarse voice and frequent fits of coughing that shook the bent shoulders under the patched jacket.
“Robin, my man, trot up to Nursey, and tell her to give thee the cough-bottle and the liniment,” said Mr. Bhaer, after his eyes had exchanged telegrams with his wife’s.
Nat looked a little anxious at the preparations, but forgot his fears in a hearty laugh, when Mrs. Bhaer whispered to him, with a droll look:
“Hear my rogue Teddy try to cough. The syrup I’m going to give you has honey in it; and he wants some.”
Little Ted was red in the face with his exertions by the time the bottle came, and was allowed to suck the spoon after Nat had manfully taken a dose and had the bit of flannel put about his throat.
These first steps toward a cure were hardly completed when a great bell rang, and a loud tramping through the hall announced supper. Bashful Nat quaked at the thought of meeting many strange boys, but Mrs. Bhaer held out her hand to him, and Rob said, patronizingly, “Don’t be ‘fraid; I’ll take care of you.”
Twelve boys, six on a side, stood behind their chairs, prancing with impatience to begin, while the tall flute-playing youth was trying to curb their ardor. But no one sat down till Mrs. Bhaer was in her place behind the teapot, with Teddy on her left, and Nat on her right.
“This is our new boy, Nat Blake. After supper you can say how do you do? Gently, boys, gently.”
As she spoke every one stared at Nat, and then whisked into their seats, trying to be orderly and failing utterly. The Bhaers did their best to have the lads behave well at meal times, and generally succeeded pretty well, for their rules were few and sensible, and the boys, knowing that they tried to make things easy and happy, did their best to obey. But there are times when hungry boys cannot be repressed without real cruelty, and Saturday evening, after a half-holiday, was one of those times.
“Dear little souls, do let them have one day in which they can howl and racket and frolic to their hearts’ content. A holiday isn’t a holiday without plenty of freedom and fun; and they shall have full swing once a week,” Mrs. Bhaer used to say, when prim people wondered why banister-sliding, pillow-fights, and all manner of jovial games were allowed under the once decorous roof of Plumfield.
It did seem at times as if the aforesaid roof was in danger of flying off, but it never did, for a word from Father Bhaer could at any time produce a lull, and the lads had learned that liberty must not be abused. So, in spite of many dark predictions, the school flourished, and manners and morals were insinuated, without the pupils exactly knowing how it was done.
Nat found himself very well off behind the tall pitchers, with Tommy Bangs just around the corner, and Mrs. Bhaer close by to fill up plate and mug as fast as he could empty them.
“Who is that boy next the girl down at the other end?” whispered Nat to his young neighbor under cover of a general laugh.
“That’s Demi Brooke. Mr. Bhaer is his uncle.”
“What a queer name!”
“His real name is John, but they call him Demi-John, because his father is John too. That’s a joke, don’t you see?” said Tommy, kindly explaining. Nat did not see, but politely smiled, and asked, with interest:
“Isn’t he a very nice boy?”
“I bet you he is; knows lots and reads like any thing.”
“Who is the fat one next him?”
