MISS DOYLE INTERFERES

“Daddy,” said Patricia Doyle at the breakfast table in her cosy New York apartment, “here is something that will make you sit up and take notice.”

“My dear Patsy,” was the reply, “it’s already sitting up I am, an’ taking waffles.  If anything at all would make me take notice it’s your own pretty phiz.”

“Major,” remarked Uncle John, helping himself to waffles from a fresh plate Nora brought in, “you Irish are such confirmed flatterers that you flatter your own daughters.  Patsy isn’t at all pretty this morning.  She’s too red and freckled.”

Patsy laughed and her blue eyes danced.

“That comes from living on your old farm at Millville,” she retorted.  “We’ve only been back three days, and the sunburn sticks to me like a burr to a kitten.”

“Pay no attention to the ould rascal, Patsy,” advised the Major, composedly.  “An’ stop wavin’ that letter like a white flag of surrender.  Who’s it from?”

“Kenneth.”

“Aha!  An’ how is our lad?”

“Why, he’s got himself into a peck of trouble.  That’s what I want to talk to you and Uncle John about,” she replied, her happy face growing as serious as it could ever become.

“Can’t he wiggle out?” asked Uncle John.

“Out of what?”

“His trouble.”

“It seems not.  Listen—­”

“Oh, tell us about it, lassie,” said the Major.  “If I judge right there’s some sixty pages in that epistle.  Don’t bother to read it again.”

“But every word is important,” declared Patsy, turning the letter over, “—­except the last page,” with a swift flush.

Uncle John laughed.  His shrewd old eyes saw everything.

“Then read us the last page, my dear.”

“I’ll tell you about it,” said Patsy, quickly.  “It’s this way, you see.  Kenneth has gone into politics!”

“More power to his elbow!” exclaimed the Major.

“I can’t imagine it in Kenneth,” said Uncle John, soberly.  “What’s he in for?”

“For—­for—­let’s see.  Oh, here it is.  For member of the House of Representatives from the Eighth District.”

“He’s flying high, for a fledgling,” observed the Major.  “But Kenneth’s a bright lad and a big gun in his county.  He’ll win, hands down.”

Patsy shook her head.

“He’s afraid not,” she said, “and it’s worrying him to death.  He doesn’t like to be beaten, and that’s what’s troubling him.”

Uncle John pushed back his chair.

“Poor boy!” he said.  “What ever induced him to attempt such a thing?”

“He wanted to defeat a bad man who now represents Kenneth’s district,” explained Patsy, whose wise little head was full of her friend’s difficulties; “and—­”

“And the bad man objects to the idea and won’t be defeated,” added the Major.  “It’s a way these bad men have.”

Uncle John was looking very serious indeed, and Patsy regarded him gratefully.  Her father never would be serious where Kenneth was concerned.  Perhaps in his heart the grizzled old Major was a bit jealous of the boy.