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Seventeen
CHAPTER XXVIII. RANNIE KIRSTED
Booth Tarkington
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       _ Observing the monotonously proper behavior
       of the sun, man had an absurd idea
       and invented Time. Becoming still more absurd,
       man said, ``So much shall be a day; such and
       such shall be a week. All weeks shall be the same
       length.'' Yet every baby knows better! How
       long for Johnnie Watson, for Joe Bullitt, for
       Wallace Banks--how long for William Sylvanus
       Baxter was the last week of Miss Pratt? No one
       can answer. How long was that week for Mr.
       Parcher? Again the mind is staggered.
       Many people, of course, considered it to be a
       week of average size. Among these was Jane.
       Throughout seven days which brought some
       tense moments to the Baxter household, Jane
       remained calm; and she was still calm upon the
       eighth morning as she stood in the front yard of
       her own place of residence, gazing steadily across
       the street. The object of her grave attention
       was an ample brick house, newly painted white
       after repairs and enlargements so inspiring to
       Jane's faculty for suggesting better ways of
       doing things, that the workmen had learned to
       address her, with a slight bitterness, as ``Madam
       President.''
       Throughout the process of repair, and until the
       very last of the painting, Jane had considered this
       house to be as much her property as anybody's;
       for children regard as ownerless all vacant houses
       and all houses in course of construction or radical
       alteration. Nothing short of furniture--intimate
       furniture in considerable quantity--hints that
       the public is not expected. However, such a
       hint, or warning, was conveyed to Jane this
       morning, for two ``express wagons'' were standing
       at the curb with their backs impolitely toward
       the brick house; and powerful-voiced men
       went surging to and fro under fat arm-chairs,
       mahogany tables, disarticulated bedsteads, and
       baskets of china and glassware; while a harassed
       lady appeared in the outer doorway, from time
       to time, with gestures of lamentation and
       entreaty. Upon the sidewalk, between the wagons
       and the gate, was a broad wet spot, vaguely
       circular, with a partial circumference of broken
       glass and extinct goldfish.
       Jane was forced to conclude that the brick
       house did belong to somebody, after all. Wherefore,
       she remained in her own yard, a steadfast
       spectator, taking nourishment into her system
       at regular intervals. This was beautifully
       automatic: in each hand she held a slice of bread,
       freely plastered over with butter, apple sauce, and
       powdered sugar; and when she had taken somewhat
       from the right hand, that hand slowly
       descended with its burden, while, simultaneously,
       the left began to rise, reaching the level of her
       mouth precisely at the moment when a little
       wave passed down her neck, indicating that the
       route was clear. Then, having made delivery,
       the left hand sank, while the right began to rise
       again. And, so well had custom trained Jane's
       members, never once did she glance toward either
       of these faithful hands or the food that it
       supported; her gaze was all the while free to remain
       upon the house across the way and the great
       doings before it.
       After a while, something made her wide eyes
       grow wider almost to their utmost. Nay, the
       event was of that importance her mechanical
       hands ceased to move and stopped stock-still,
       the right half-way up, the left half-way down, as if
       because of sudden motor trouble within Jane.
       Her mouth was equally affected, remaining open
       at a visible crisis in the performance of its duty.
       These were the tokens of her agitation upon
       beholding the removal of a dolls' house from one of
       the wagons. This dolls' house was at least five
       feet high, of proportionate breadth and depths
       the customary absence of a facade disclosing an
       interior of four luxurious floors, with stairways,
       fireplaces, and wall-paper. Here was a mansion
       wherein doll-duchesses, no less, must dwell.
       Straightway, a little girl ran out of the open
       doorway of the brick house and, with a self-
       importance concentrated to the point of shrewishness,
       began to give orders concerning the disposal
       of her personal property, which included (as she
       made clear) not only the dolls' mansion, but also
       three dolls' trunks and a packing-case of fair
       size. She was a thin little girl, perhaps half a
       year younger than Jane; and she was as soiled,
       particularly in respect to hands, brow, chin, and
       the knees of white stockings, as could be expected
       of any busybodyish person of nine or ten whose
       mother is house-moving. But she was gifted--
       if we choose to put the matter in the hopeful,
       sweeter way--she was gifted with an unusually
       loud and shrill voice, and she made herself
       heard over the strong-voiced men to such emphatic
       effect that one of the latter, with the dolls'
       mansion upon his back, paused in the gateway
       to acquaint her with his opinion that of all
       the bossy little girls he had ever seen, heard, or
       heard of, she was the bossiest.
       ``THE worst!'' he added.
       The little girl across the street was of course
       instantly aware of Jane, though she pretended
       not to be; and from the first her self-importance
       was in large part assumed for the benefit of the
       observer. After a momentary silence, due to her
       failure to think of any proper response to the
       workman who so pointedly criticized her, she
       resumed the peremptory direction of her affairs.
       She ran in and out of the house, her brow dark
       with frowns, her shoulders elevated; and by
       every means at her disposal she urged her audience
       to behold the frightful responsibilities of
       one who must keep a thousand things in her head
       at once, and yet be ready for decisive action at
       any instant.
       There may have been one weakness in this
       strong performance: the artistic sincerity of it
       was a little discredited by the increasing
       frequency with which the artist took note of her
       effect. During each of her most impressive
       moments, she flashed, from the far corner of her eye,
       two questions at Jane: ``How about THAT one?
       Are you still watching Me?''
       Then, apparently in the very midst of her
       cares, she suddenly and without warning ceased
       to boss, walked out into the street, halted, and
       stared frankly at Jane.
       Jane had begun her automatic feeding again.
       She continued it, meanwhile seriously returning
       the stare of the new neighbor. For several minutes
       this mutual calm and inoffensive gaze was
       protracted; then Jane, after swallowing the last
       morsel of her supplies, turned her head away and
       looked at a tree. The little girl, into whose eyes
       some wistfulness had crept, also turned her head
       and looked at a tree. After a while, she advanced
       to the curb on Jane's side of the street, and,
       swinging her right foot, allowed it to kick the
       curbstone repeatedly.
       Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to
       kick one of the fence-pickets.
       ``You see that ole fatty?'' asked the little girl,
       pointing to one of the workmen, thus sufficiently
       identified.
       ``Yes.''
       ``That's the one broke the goldfish,'' said the
       little girl. There was a pause during which she
       continued to scuff the curbstone with her shoe,
       Jane likewise scuffing the fence-picket. ``I'm
       goin' to have papa get him arrested,'' added the
       stranger.
       ``My papa got two men arrested once,'' Jane
       said, calmly. ``Two or three.''
       The little girl's eyes, wandering upward, took
       note of Jane's papa's house, and of a fierce young
       gentleman framed in an open window up-stairs.
       He was seated, wore ink upon his forehead, and
       tapped his teeth with a red penholder.
       ``Who is that?'' she asked.
       ``It's Willie.''
       ``Is it your papa?''
       ``NO-O-O-O!'' Jane exclaimed. ``It's WILLIE!''
       ``Oh,'' said the little girl, apparently satisfied.
       Each now scuffed less energetically with her
       shoe; feet slowed down; so did conversation, and,
       for a time, Jane and the stranger wrapped themselves
       in stillness, though there may have been
       some silent communing between them. Then the
       new neighbor placed her feet far apart and
       leaned backward upon nothing, curving her front
       outward and her remarkably flexible spine inward
       until a profile view of her was grandly semicircular.
       Jane watched her attentively, but without
       comment. However, no one could have doubted that
       the processes of acquaintance were progressing
       favorably.
       ``Let's go in our yard,'' said Jane.
       The little girl straightened herself with a slight
       gasp, and accepted the invitation. Side by side,
       the two passed through the open gate, walked
       gravely forth upon the lawn, and halted, as by
       common consent. Jane thereupon placed her
       feet wide apart and leaned backward upon nothing,
       attempting the feat in contortion just
       performed by the stranger.
       ``Look,'' she said. ``Look at ME!''
       But she lacked the other's genius, lost her
       balance, and fell. Born persistent, she
       immediately got to her feet and made fresh efforts.
       ``No! Look at ME!'' the little girl cried,
       becoming semicircular again. ``This is the way.
       I call it `puttin' your stummick out o' joint.'
       You haven't got yours out far enough.''
       ``Yes, I have,'' said Jane, gasping.
       ``Well, to do it right, you must WALK that way.
       As soon as you get your stummick out o' joint,
       you must begin an' walk. Look! Like this.''
       And the little girl, having achieved a state of
       such convexity that her braided hair almost
       touched the ground behind her, walked
       successfully in that singular attitude.
       ``I'm walkin','' Jane protested, her face not
       quite upside down. ``Look! I'M walkin' that
       way, too. My stummick--''
       There came an outraged shout from above, and
       a fierce countenance, stained with ink, protruded
       from the window.
       ``Jane!''
       ``What?''
       ``Stop that! Stop putting your stomach out
       in front of you like that! It's disgraceful!''
       Both young ladies, looking rather oppressed,
       resumed the perpendicular. ``Why doesn't he like
       it?'' the stranger asked in a tone of pure wonder.
       ``I don't know,'' said Jane. ``He doesn't like
       much of anything. He's seventeen years old.''
       After that, the two stared moodily at the
       ground for a little while, chastened by the severe
       presence above; then Jane brightened.
       ``_I_ know!'' she exclaimed, cozily. ``Let's play
       callers. Right here by this bush 'll be my house.
       You come to call on me, an' we'll talk about our
       chuldren. You be Mrs. Smith an' I'm Mrs.
       Jones.'' And in the character of a hospitable
       matron she advanced graciously toward the new
       neighbor. ``Why, my dear Mrs. SMITH, come
       right IN! I THOUGHT you'd call this morning. I
       want to tell you about my lovely little daughter.
       She's only ten years old, an' says the brightest
       THINGS! You really must--''
       But here Jane interrupted herself abruptly,
       and, hopping behind the residential bush, peeped
       over it, not at Mrs. Smith, but at a boy of ten or
       eleven who was passing along the sidewalk.
       Her expression was gravely interested, somewhat
       complacent; and Mrs. Smith was not so lacking
       in perception that she failed to understand how
       completely--for the time being, at least--calling
       was suspended.
       The boy whistled briskly, ``My country, 'tis
       of thee,'' and though his knowledge of the
       air failed him when he finished the second line,
       he was not disheartened, but began at the
       beginning again, continuing repeatedly after this
       fashion to offset monotony by patriotism. He
       whistled loudly; he walked with ostentatious
       intent to be at some heavy affair in the distance;
       his ears were red. He looked neither to the right
       nor to the left.
       That is, he looked neither to the right nor to
       the left until he had passed the Baxters' fence.
       But when he had gone as far as the upper corner
       of the fence beyond, he turned his head and
       looked back, without any expression--except that
       of a whistler--at Jane. And thus, still whistling
       ``My country, 'tis of thee,'' and with blank pink
       face over his shoulder, he proceeded until he was
       out of sight.
       ``Who was that boy?'' the new neighbor then
       inquired.
       ``It's Freddie,'' said Jane, placidly. ``He's in
       our Sunday-school. He's in love of me.''
       ``JANE!''
       Again the outraged and ink-stained countenance
       glared down from the window.
       ``What you want?'' Jane asked.
       ``What you MEAN talking about such things?''
       William demanded. ``In all my life I never
       heard anything as disgusting! Shame on you!''
       The little girl from across the street looked
       upward thoughtfully. ``He's mad,'' she
       remarked, and, regardless of Jane's previous
       information, ``It IS your papa, isn't it?'' she
       insisted.
       ``No!'' said Jane, testily. ``I told you five
       times it's my brother Willie.''
       ``Oh!'' said the little girl, and, grasping the fact
       that William's position was, in dignity and
       authority, negligible, compared with that which she
       had persisted in imagining, she felt it safe to tint
       her upward gaze with disfavor. ``He acts kind
       of crazy,'' she murmured.
       ``He's in love of Miss Pratt,'' said Jane.
       ``She's goin' away to-day. She said she'd go
       before, but to-day she IS! Mr. Parcher, where
       she visits, he's almost dead, she's stayed so long.
       She's awful, I think.''
       William, to whom all was audible, shouted,
       hoarsely, ``I'll see to YOU!'' and disappeared from
       the window.
       ``Will he come down here?'' the little girl
       asked, taking a step toward the gate.
       ``No. He's just gone to call mamma. All
       she'll do' ll be to tell us to go play somewheres
       else. Then we can go talk to Genesis.''
       ``Who?''
       ``Genesis. He's puttin' a load of coal in the
       cellar window with a shovel. He's nice.''
       ``What's he put the coal in the window
       for?''
       ``He's a colored man,'' said Jane.
       ``Shall we go talk to him now?''
       ``No,'' Jane said, thoughtfully. ``Let's be
       playin' callers when mamma comes to tell us to
       go 'way. What was your name?''
       ``Rannie.''
       ``No, it wasn't.''
       ``It is too, Rannie,'' the little girl insisted.
       ``My whole name's Mary Randolph Kirsted, but
       my short name's Rannie.''
       Jane laughed. ``What a funny name!'' she
       said. ``I didn't mean your real name; I meant
       your callers' name. One of us was Mrs. Jones,
       and one was--''
       ``I want to be Mrs. Jones,'' said Rannie.
       ``Oh, my DEAR Mrs. Jones,'' Jane began at
       once, ``I want to tell you about my lovely
       chuldren. I have two, one only seven years old, and
       the other--''
       ``Jane!'' called Mrs. Baxter from William's
       window.
       ``Yes'm?''
       ``You must go somewhere else to play. Willie's
       trying to work at his studies up here, and he says
       you've disturbed him very much.''
       ``Yes'm.''
       The obedient Jane and her friend turned to go,
       and as they went, Miss Mary Randolph Kirsted
       allowed her uplifted eyes to linger with increased
       disfavor upon William, who appeared beside
       Mrs. Baxter at the window.
       ``I tell you what let's do,'' Rannie suggested in
       a lowered voice. ``He got so fresh with us, an'
       made your mother come, an' all, let's--let's--''
       She hesitated.
       ``Let's what?'' Jane urged her, in an eager
       whisper.
       ``Let's think up somep'n he won't like--an'
       DO it!''
       They disappeared round a corner of the house,
       their heads close together. _