Herbert took the two nickels, and turned to Florence.
“See here, Florence,” he said, in a tone
of strong complaint. “This business is all
done and paid for now. What you want to hang around
here any more for?”
“Yes, Florence,” his partner faithfully
seconded him, at once. “We haven’t
got any more time to waste around here to-day, and
so what you want to stand around in the way and everything
for? You ought to know yourself we don’t
want you.”
“I’m not in the way,” said Florence
hotly. “Whose way am I in?”
“Well, anyhow, if you don’t go,”
Herbert informed her, “we’ll carry you
downstairs and lock you out.”
“I’d just like to see you!” she
returned, her eyes flashing. “Just you
dare to lay a finger on me again!” And she added,
“Anyway, if you did, those ole doors haven’t
got any lock on ’em: I’ll come right
back in and walk right straight up the stairs again!”
Herbert advanced toward her. “Now you pay
attention, to me,” he said. “You’ve
paid for your ole poem, and we got to have some peace
around here. I’m goin’ straight over
to your mother and ask her to come and get you.”
Florence gave up. “What difference would
that make, Mister Taddletale?” she inquired
mockingly. “I wouldn’t be here when
she came, would I? I’ll thank you to notice
there’s some value to my time, myself; and I’ll
just politely ask you to excuse me, pray!”
With a proud air she crushingly departed, returning
to her own home far from dissatisfied with what she
had accomplished. Moreover, she began to expand
with the realization of a new importance; and she was
gratified with the effect upon her parents, at dinner
that evening, when she informed them that she had
written a poem, which was to be published in the prospective
first number of The North End Daily Oriole.
“Written a poem?” said her father.
“Well, I declare! Why, that’s remarkable,
Florence!”
“I’m glad the boys were nice about it,”
said her mother. “I should have feared
they couldn’t appreciate it, after being so cross
to you about letting you have anything to do with
the printing-press. They must have thought it
was a very good poem.”
“Where is the poem, Florence?” Mr. Atwater
asked. “Let’s read it and see what
our little girl can do when she really tries.”
Unfortunately Florence had not a copy, and when she
informed her father of this fact, he professed himself
greatly disappointed as well as eager for the first
appearance of The Oriole, that he might felicitate
himself upon the evidence of his daughter’s heretofore
unsuspected talent. Florence was herself anxious
for the newspaper’s debut, and she made her
anxiety so clear to Atwater & Rooter, Owners & Propreitors,
every afternoon after school, during the following
week, that by Thursday further argument and repartee
on their part were felt to be indeed futile; and in
order to have a little peace around there, they carried
her downstairs. At least, they defined their action
as “carrying,” and, having deposited her
in the yard, they were obliged to stand guard at the
doors, which they closed and contrived to hold against
her until her strength was worn out for that day.
