“What fun, daddy!” she cried. “Now we’ll never need Bridget again. I don’t like her. You will be our cook, won’t you?”
Annie’s sarcastic laugh annoyed him.
“I used to do all the cooking when the Owl Club went camping,” he announced, entirely for Annie’s benefit.
“In Blakeville?” asked Annie, with a grin.
“Yes, in Blakeville,” he exploded, almost dropping the cigarette from his lips into the skillet. His blue eyes flashed ominously. Annie, unused to the turning of the worm, caught her breath.
Suddenly obsessed by the idea that he was master in his own house, he began strutting about the kitchen, taking mental note of the things that needed attention, with a view to reproving Bridget when she came back to the 21 fold. He burnt his fingers trying to straighten the stovepipe, smelt of the dish-cloths to see if they were greasy, rattled the pans and bethought himself of the eggs just in the nick of time. In some haste and embarrassment he removed the skillet from the fire just as Annie came out of the pantry with the bread and the coffee can.
“Where’s the platter?” he demanded, holding the skillet at arm’s length. “They’re fried.”
“They’ll be stone cold,” said she, “waiting for the coffee to boil. You ain’t got any water boiling.”
“I thought, perhaps, we’d better have milk,” he said, gathering his wits.
To his surprise—and to her own, for that matter—she said, “Very good, sir,” and repaired to the icebox for the dairy bottles. He was still holding the skillet when she returned. She was painfully red in the face.
Phoebe eyed the subsequent preparations for the meal with an increasing look of sullenness in her quaint little face. She was rather a pretty child. You would say of her, if you saw her in the street, “What a sweet child!” just 22 as you would say it about the next one you met.
Her father, taking note of her manner, paused in the act of removing his apron.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
“Can’t I go over to Mrs. Butler’s for luncheon?” she complained. “They’re going to have chicken.”
“So are we,” said he, pointing to the eggs.
“I want to go,” said Phoebe, stubbornly.
He coloured. “Don’t you want to stay home and eat what daddy has cooked?” he asked, rather plaintively.
“I want to go.”
He could only resort to bribery. “And daddy’ll take you down to see the nickel show as soon as we’ve finished,” he offered. The child’s face brightened.
Here Annie interposed.
“She can’t go to see them nickel shows; Miss Duluth won’t stand for it. She’s give me strict orders.”
“I’ll take good care of her––” began Phoebe’s father.
“Miss Duluth’s afraid of diphtheria and 23 scarlet fever,” said Annie, resolutely, as she poured out a glass of milk for him.
“Not likely to be any diphtheria this time of year,” he began again, spurred by the kick Phoebe planted on his kneecap.
“Well, orders is orders. What Miss Duluth says goes.”
“Ah, come now, Annie––”
“Say, do you want her to ketch scarlet fever and die?” demanded the nurse, putting the bottle down and glaring at him with a look of mixed commiseration and scorn.
“Good Heavens, no!” he ejaculated. The very thought of it brought a gush of cold water to his mouth.
“Well, take her to see it if you must, but don’t blame me. She’s your kid,” said Annie, meanly, with victory assured.
“Make her say ‘Yes,’ ” urged Phoebe, in a loud whisper.
He hedged. “Do you want to have the scarlet fever?” he asked, dismally.
“Yes,” said Phoebe. “And measles, too.”
The sound of heavy footsteps on the back porch put an end to the matter for the time being. Even Phoebe was diverted. 24
Bridget had come back. A little ahead of her usual schedule, too, which was food for apprehension. Usually she took the whole day off when she left “for good and all.” Never before in the history of her connection with Miss Duluth’s menage had she returned so promptly. Involuntarily the master of the house glanced out of the window to see if a rain had blown up. The sun was shining brightly. It wasn’t the weather.
The banging of the outer door to the kitchen caused him to jump ever so slightly and to cast a glance of inquiry at Annie, who altered her original course and moved toward the sitting-room door. In the kitchen a perfectly innocent skillet crashed into the sink with a vigour that was more than ominous.
A moment later Bridget appeared in the door. She wore her best hat and gloves and the dress she always went to mass in. The light of battle was in her eye.
“We—we thought we wouldn’t wait, Bridget,” said Mr.—er—What’s-His-Name, quickly. “You never come back till six or seven, you know, so––”
“Who’s been monkeyin’ wid my kitchen?” 25 demanded Bridget. She started to unbutton one of her gloves and the movement was so abrupt and so suggestive that he got up from his chair in such a hurry that he overturned it.
“Somebody had to get lunch,” he began.
“I wasn’t sp’akin’ to you,” said Bridget, glaring past him at Annie.
He gulped suddenly. For the second time that day his eyes blazed. Things seemed to be dancing before them.
“Well, I’m speaking to you!” he shouted, banging the table with his clenched fist.
“What!” squealed Bridget, staggering back in astonishment.
He remembered Phoebe.
“You’d better run over to the Butlers’, Phoebe, and have lunch,” he said, his voice trembling in spite of himself. “Run along lively now.”
Bridget was still staring at him like one bereft of her senses when Phoebe scrambled down from her chair and raced out of the room. He turned upon the cook.
“What do you mean by coming in here and speaking to me in that manner?” he demanded, shrilly. 26
“Great God above!” gasped Bridget weakly. She dropped her glove. Her eyes were blinking.
“And why weren’t you here to get lunch?” he continued, ruthlessly. “What do we pay you for?”
Bridget forgot her animosity toward Annie. “What do yez think o’ that?” she muttered, addressing the nursemaid.
“Get back to the kitchen,” ordered he.
Cook had recovered herself by this time. Her broad face lost its stare and a deep scowl, with fiery red background, spread over her features. She imposed her huge figure a step or two farther into the room.
“Phat’s that?” she demanded.
She weighed one hundred and ninety and was nearly six feet tall. He was barely five feet five and could not have tipped the beam at one hundred and twenty-five without his winter suit and overcoat. He moved back a corresponding step or two.
“Don’t argue,” he said, hurriedly.
“Argue?” she snorted. “Phy, ye little shrimp, who are you to be talkin’ back to me? For two cents I’d––” 27
“You