Phoebe looked quite miserable at thought of her remissness, but Copernicus came bravely to the rescue.

"The windows can't be opened, Cousin Rebecca," he said. "Ef ye was to open one, 'twould blow yer head's bald as an egg in a minute."

"What!"

"Yes," said Phoebe, briskly, "I couldn't air the beds an' make 'em because we're going one hundred and thirty odd miles an hour, Rebecca."

"D'you mean to tell me, Copernicus Droop," cried the outraged spinster, "that I've got to go 'thout airin' my bed?"

"No, no," Copernicus said, soothingly. "The's special arrangements to keep ventilation goin'. Jest leave the bed open half the day an' it'll be all aired."

Rebecca looked far from pleased at this.

"I declare, ef I'd known of all these doin's," she muttered.

Unable to remain idle, she set to work "putting things to rights," as she called it, while Phoebe took her book to the west window and was soon lost in certain modern theories concerning the Baconian authorship of Shakespeare's works.

"Is these duds yourn, Mr. Droop?" asked Rebecca, sharply, pointing to a motley collection of goods piled in one corner of the main room.

"Yes," Droop replied, coming quickly to her side. "Them's some of the inventions I'm carryin' along."

He stooped and gathered up a number of boxes and bundles in his arms.

Then he stood up and looked about him as though seeking a safe place for their deposit.

"That's all right," said Rebecca. "Ye can put 'em right back, Mr. Droop.

I jest wanted to see whether the' was much dust back in there."

Droop replaced his goods with a sigh of relief. One box he retained, however, and, placing it upon the table, proceeded to unpack it.

Rebecca now turned her attention to her own belongings. Lifting one of her precious flower-pots carefully, she looked all about for a more suitable location for her plants.

"Phoebe," she exclaimed at length, "where ever can I set my slips?

They ought to be in the sun there by the east window, but it'll dirt up the coverin' of the settle."

Phoebe looked up from her book.

"Why don't ye spread out that newspaper you brought with you?" she said.

Rebecca shook her head.

"No," she replied, "I couldn't do thet. The's a lot o' fine recipes in there--I never could make my sweet pickle as good as thet recipe in the New York paper thet Molly sent me."

Phoebe laid down her book and walked over to her sister's side.

"Oh, the' must be some part of it you can use, Rebecca," she said. "Land sakes!" she continued, laughing. "Why, it's the whole of the _New York World_ for a Sunday--pictures an' all! Here--take this advertisin' piece an' spread it out--so."

She tore off a portion of the voluminous paper and carefully spread it out on one of the eastern settles.

"Whatever did you bring those slips with you for?" she asked.

Rebecca deposited the flower-pots carefully in the sun and slapped her hands across each other to remove the dust on them.

"One o' them is off my best honeysuckle thet come from a slip thet Sam Mellick brought from j.a.pan in 1894. This geranium come off a plant thet was given me by Arabella Slade, 'fore she died in 1896, an' she cut it off'n a geranium thet come from a lot thet Joe Chandler's father raised from slips cut off of some plants down to Boston in the ground that used to belong to our great-grandfather Wilkins 'fore the Revolution."

This train of reasoning seemed satisfactory, and Phoebe turned to resume her book.

Copernicus intercepted her as she pa.s.sed the table.

"What d'ye think o' this little phonograph, Cousin Phoebe?" he said.

One of Droop's boxes stood open and beside it Phoebe saw a phonograph with the usual spring motor and bra.s.s megaphone.

"I paid twenty-five fer that, secon' hand, down to Keene," said the proud owner.

"There!" exclaimed Phoebe. "I've always wanted to know how those things worked. I've heard 'em, you know, but I've never worked one."

"It's real easy," said Droop, quite delighted to find Phoebe so interested. "Ye see, when it's wound up, all ye hev to do is to slip one o' these wax cylinders on here--so."

He adjusted the cylinder, dropped the stylus and pushed the starting lever.

Instantly the stentorian announcement rang out from the megaphone.

"The Last Rose of Summer--Sola--Sung by Signora Casta Diva--Edison Record!"

"Goodness gracious sakes alive!" cried Rebecca, turning in affright.

"Who's that?"

Her two companions raised their right hands in a simultaneous appeal for silence. Then the song began.

With open eyes and mouth, the amazed Rebecca drew slowly nearer, and finally took her stand directly in front of the megaphone.

The song ended and Copernicus stopped the motor.

"Oh, ain't it lovely!" Phoebe cried.

"Well--I'll--be--switched!" Rebecca exclaimed, with slow emphasis. "Can it sing anythin' else?"

"Didn't you never hear one afore, Cousin Rebecca?" Droop asked.

"I never did," she replied. "What on the face of the green airth does it?"

"Have ye any funny ones?" Phoebe asked, quickly, fearful of receiving a long scientific lecture.

"Yes," said Droop. "Here's a n.i.g.g.e.r minstrels. The's some jokes in it."

The loud preliminary announcement made Rebecca jump again, but while the music and the songs and jokes were delivered, she stood earnestly attentive throughout, while her companions grinned and giggled alternately.

"Is thet all?" she asked at the conclusion.