FullReads

I don’t know who fetched the disease to the Old Home House. All I’m sartain of is that ‘twan’t long afore all hands was in that condition where the doctor’d have passed ’em on to the parson. First along it seemed as if the Thompson-Small syndicate had been vaccinated–they didn’t develop a symptom. But one noon the Dowager sails into the dining-room and unfurls a brown paper bundle.

“I’ve captured a prize, my dear,” says she to the Duchess. “A veritable prize. Just look!”

And she dives under the brown paper hatches and resurrects a pink plate, suffering from yaller jaundice, with the picture of a pink boy, wearing curls and a monkey-jacket, holding hands with a pink girl with pointed feet.

“Ain’t it perfectly lovely?” says she, waving the outrage in front of the Duchess. “A ginuwine Hall nappy! And in SUCH condition!”

“Why,” says the Duchess, “I didn’t know you were interested in antiques.”

“I dote on ’em,” comes back the Dowager, and “my daughter” owned up that she “adored” ’em.

“If you knew,” continues Mrs. Thompson, “how I’ve planned and contrived to get this treasure. I’ve schemed– My! my! My daughter says she’s actually ashamed of me. Oh, no! I can’t tell even you where I got it. All’s fair in love and collecting, you know, and there are more gems where this came from.”

She laughed and “my daughter” laughed, and the Duchess and “Irene dear” laughed, too, and said the plate was “SO quaint,” and all that, but you could fairly hear ’em turn green with jealousy. It didn’t need a spyglass to see that they wouldn’t ride easy at their own moorings till THEY’D landed a treasure or two–probably two.

And sure enough, in a couple of days they bore down on the Thompsons, all sail set and colors flying. They had a pair of plates that for ugliness and price knocked the “ginuwine Hall nappy” higher ‘n the main truck. And the way they crowed and bragged about their “finds” wa’n’t fit to put in the log. The Dowager and “my daughter” left that dinner table trembling all over.

Well, you can see how a v’yage would end that commenced that way. The Dowager and Barbara would scour the neighborhood and capture more prizes, and the Duchess and her tribe would get busy and go ’em one better. That’s one sure p’int about the collecting business–it’ll stir up a fight quicker’n anything I know of, except maybe a good looking bachelor minister. The female Thompsons and Smalls was “my dear-in'” each other more’n ever, but there was a chill setting in round them piazza thrones, and some of the sarcastic remarks that was casually hove out by the bosom friends was pretty nigh sharp enough to shave with. As for Milo and Eddie, they still smoked together behind the barn, but the atmosphere on the quarter-deck was affecting the fo’castle and there wa’n’t quite so many “old mans” and “dear boys” as there used to was. There was a general white frost coming, and you didn’t need an Old Farmer’s Almanac to prove it.

The spell of weather developed sudden. One evening me and Cap’n Jonadab and Peter T. was having a confab by the steps of the billiard-room, when Milo beats up from around the corner. He was smiling as a basket of chips.

“Hello!” hails Peter T. cordial. “You look as if you’d had money left you. Any one else remembered in the will?” he says.

Milo laughed all over. “Well, well,” says he, “I AM feeling pretty good. Made a ten-strike with Mrs. T. this afternoon for sure.

“That so?” says Peter. “What’s up? Hooked a prince?”

A friend of “my daughter’s” over at Newport had got engaged to a mandarin or a count or something ‘nother, and the Dowager had been preaching kind of eloquent concerning the shortness of the nobility crop round Wellmouth.