Little Davie had
succumbed long ago, and now, crammed up in a small heap in the corner back
of the sofa, was rivaling the storm outside, in the flood of tears he
supplied.
Jasper crowded his hands in his pockets, marching up and down the long
room. Polly, who was swallowing hard, as if her throat hurt her, wouldn't
look at one of the boys. Little Dick was openly wailing in his mother's
arms.
"Oh, shut up that, kid, will you?" cried Percy, crossly, over at him.
"Percy, Percy," said his mother gently.
"Well, he needn't boo-hoo like a baby," said Percy; "we've all got to give
up the garden party."
"We can't have any garden party," mumbled little Dick between his sobs, and
crying all over his mother's pretty blue silk waist.
"There, there, dear," Mrs. Whitney said soothingly, "we'll have it the next
day, perhaps, Dicky boy."
"Next day is just forever," whimpered little Dick. "Oh, dear! boo-hoo-hoo!"
Percy started an impatient exclamation, thought better of it, and turned on
his heel abruptly. But Van burst out:
"And the flowers'll all be gone, so what's the use of trying to have it
then?"
"They won't," cried Joel, in an angry scream, and squaring round at him.
"They shan't, so there, Van Whitney!" When the door opened and in walked
Mr. King, and Phronsie clinging to his hand.
"Oh, hush, boys!" cried Polly hoarsely, a wave of shame rising in a rosy
flush up to her brow.
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