FullReads

In a corner, dispassionately aloof from all the bustle and argument, Papa Benson, that venerable dandy of the pink pajamas, pumped up the concertina, and drew melodiously on his ancient repertoire. To the inspiring strains of “In Her Hair She Wore a White Camellia,” “Oh, Buffalo Gals, Won’t You Come Out To-night?” and the “Mulligatawny Guards,” the good work progressed with sailorlike speed and system. The bare, dreary room grew gay with greenery. Stitched to the matting walls with sinnet there appeared letters, words, and finally complete inscriptions: PEAS ON ERTH AND GOODWILL TOWARDS MAN; DAISY KIRKE, THE SEAMAN’S STAR; MERRY CRISSMAS, and GOD BLESS OUR HOM.

Daisy clapped her hands with delight, and did not stint her praise or approval. Occasionally she would stand up on the “bridge” to anxiously point out a crooked letter, or call attention to a doubtful spelling; and her little heart overflowed with satisfaction at the brisk “Aye, aye, Miss!” that greeted her smallest criticism. Mr. Bob worked like a horse, and not only made things jump, but kept a sharp watch as well on the unguarded utterances of his mates. Once, at some remark of Mr. Tod’s, he flared up like a lion, and stepping close to Mr. Tod, with his fist clenched, said, “Drop that, Toddy–d’ye ‘ear–drop it!” and stared at him so fierce and splendid, that Mr. Tod fell back and mumbled something about “No offense,” and “It kinder ripped out unbeknownst, Bob, old cock!”

By the time it was all finished dusk was falling. The room had been beautifully swept out, and likewise the porch, and Mr. Bell was in the act of dancing a fascinating clog to Papa Benson’s “Soldier’s Joy” on the concertina, when Nantok rushed in, shouting that Mr. Kirke was coming. And, indeed, she had no sooner given the news than it was confirmed by the whaler’s crew, whose voices could be heard far across the water, lustily singing at their paddles.

A sort of consternation descended on the Band of Hope. “Hell!” exclaimed Mr. Dutton, and dropped his broom with a crash. There was a mad scurry to escape. The little president was forgotten in the pellmell rush, and from the height of her table she perceived her friends flying away without a word of farewell. No, not all. The faithful Mr. Bob, quiet and masterful even in that panicky moment of the missionary’s return, came up to her, and taking her hand in both his own, nuzzled it long and lovingly against his cheek.

“Little Daisy,” he said, and his voice sounded kind of strange and different, “I want you to give a message to your pa–a message from me, you say to ‘im–and that is, ‘e’ll never ‘ave no more trouble with the boys down the shore. And if any of them gets fresh, or gives ‘im any lip, or ‘oots–you tell ‘im this, Daisy–I’ll break every bone of ‘is body, so ‘elp me, Moses. And it h ain’t because of ‘im, or anythink the like of that, but because he’s the father of the darlingest little gal that h ever breathed, and the sweetest and the dearest.”

Daisy flung her arms around his neck and kissed him; and as her face pressed his, rough as mahogany and hairy as a mat, she felt it all wet with tears.

Daisy was still wondering what it was that could make Mr. Bob cry, when he suddenly let her go, and walked out of the door in his funny, heavy, lurching sea walk, looking straight before him, and unheeding the “Happy Noo Year, Mr. Bob!” she called after him in a pitiful little voice.

“Poor Mr. Bob!” said Daisy to herself; and then, happening to put her hand to her hair, she discovered that the red ribbon was gone!

“He must have stole it for a keepsake when I was kissing him!” she exclaimed. “Oh, you bad, bad Mr. Bob!”

But her eyes sparkled nevertheless, as she ran out to greet papa and mamma.