Eight Cousins

“IT'S time to go to the station, Tom.”

“Come on, then.”

“Oh, I'm not going; it's too wet. Should n't have a crimp left if I went out such a day as this; and I want to look nice when Polly comes.”

“You don't expect me to go and bring home a strange girl alone, do you?” And Tom looked as much alarmed as if his sister had proposed to him to escort the wild woman of Australia.

“Of course I do. It's your place to go and get her; and if you was n't a bear, you'd like it.”

“Well, I call that mean! I supposed I'd got to go; but you said you'd go, too. Catch me bothering about your friends another time! No, sir!” And Tom rose from the sofa with an air of indignant resolution, the impressive effect of which was somewhat damaged by a tousled head, and the hunched appearance of his garments generally.

“Now, don't be cross; and I'll get mamma to let you have that horrid Ned Miller, that you are so fond of, come and make you a visit after Polly's gone,” said Fanny, hoping to soothe his ruffled feelings.

“How long is she going to stay?” demanded Tom, making his toilet by a promiscuous shake.

“A month or two, maybe. She's ever so nice; and I shall keep her as long as she's happy.”

“She won't stay long then, if I can help it,” muttered Tom, who regarded girls as a very unnecessary portion of creation. Boys of fourteen are apt to think so, and perhaps it is a wise arrangement; for, being fond of turning somersaults, they have an opportunity of indulging in a good one, metaphorically speaking, when, three or four years later, they become the abject slaves of “those bothering girls.”

“Look here! how am I going to know the creature? I never saw her, and she never saw me. You'll have to come too, Fan,” he added, pausing on his way to the door, arrested by the awful idea that he might have to address several strange girls before he got the right one.

“You'll find her easy enough; she'll probably be standing round looking for us. I dare say she'll know you, though I'm not there, because I've described you to her.”

“Guess she won't, then;” and Tom gave a hasty smooth to his curly pate and a glance at the mirror, feeling sure that his sister had n't done him justice. Sisters never do, as “we fellows” know too well.

“Do go along, or you'll be too late; and then, what will Polly think of me?” cried Fanny, with the impatient poke which is peculiarly aggravating to masculine dignity.

“She'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and she'll be about right, too.”

Feeling that he said rather a neat and cutting thing, Tom sauntered leisurely away, perfectly conscious that it was late, but bent on not being hurried while in sight, though he ran himself off his legs to make up for it afterward.