At other times she laughed as she had never laughed before in all the five years or more that Johnnie had lived in the Barber flat; and broke out in jolly choruses. If Big Tom came in, she did not stop singing until he bade her to, and the moment he was gone, she was at it again, with a few dance steps thrown in, the blue eyes sparkling mischievously, and dimples showing in cheeks that were pink.

She also had dreamy spells; and if left undisturbed would sit at the window by the hour, her eyes on the sky, her slender hands clasped, a smile, sweet and gentle, fixing her young mouth. And Johnnie knew by that smile that she was thinking thinks--that the kitchen was occupied by people whom he did not see. He guessed that one of these was of Royal blood; and came to harbor hostile thoughts toward a certain young Prince, since never before had Cis failed to share her visions with Johnnie. For the first time he found himself shut out.

Once he caught her talking out loud. "I wish," she murmured, "I wish, I wish--"

"Who're you talkin' to?" he asked.

She started, and blushed. "Why--why, I'm talking to you," she declared.

"Well, then, what is it y' wish?" he persisted. "Go ahead. I'm listenin'."

But it had slipped her mind, she said crossly. Yet the next moment, in an excess of regret and affection, "Oh, Johnnie, you're so dear! So dear!" she told him, and gave him a good hug.

He worried about her not a little those days; and though from a natural delicacy he did not discuss her with Mr. Perkins, he did ask the leader an anxious question: "Could a girl be hurt by pinnin' a hot wad of braid right against the back of her brain?"

Mr. Perkins looked surprised. "They all do it," he pointed out.

(Evidently he did not surmise whom Johnnie had in mind.)

"But s'pose a girl ain't used to it," pressed Johnnie.

"They get used to it," a.s.sured Mr. Perkins.

But Cis got worse and worse. One day soon after this, Johnnie came upon Edwarda, face down on the blue-room floor, and in a harrowing state of dishevelment--Edwarda, the costly, the precious, the not-to-be-touched!

And when, on Cis's return, he tested her affection for the new doll by swinging it unceremoniously by one leg in Let.i.tia fashion, "Don't break her," Cis cautioned indifferently; "because I'm going to give her away one of these days to some poor little girl."

He gasped. She was going to give away _His namesake_!

Then his eyes were opened, and he found out the whole sad truth--this one Sunday afternoon. Big Tom was out, and Cis was more restless than usual. She would not hunt in goat skins with Johnnie and Crusoe, nor capture the drifting _Hispaniola_ along with Jim Hawkins. She had no taste even for a lively ma.s.sacre. And as Johnnie was equally determined neither to bury Cora again nor float upon a death barge with the Maid of Astolat, they compromised upon Aladdin and the Princess Buddir al Buddoor.

The occasion selected was that certain momentous visit to the bath, with Aladdin and Johnnie placed behind a door in order to catch a glimpse of the royal lady's face as she came by. Cis was in attendance upon the Princess, the dismantled blue cotton curtains trailing grandly behind her and getting trodden upon by the Grand Vizier (in a wheel chair). A great crowd of ladies and slaves surrounded these celebrities as they wound through silent streets, between shops filled with silks and jewels and luscious fruits. The air was heavy with perfume. David, Goliath and Buckle bore aloft palms with which they stirred this scented breeze.

Going on before, were the four millionaires, likewise a band dispensing music----

It happened--even as the Princess lifted the mist of her veil to display her sweet, pale beauty. Cis came short unexpectedly. A strange, sorrowful, and almost frightened look was in her blue eyes. She held out helpless, trembling hands to Johnnie. "Oh, what's the use of my trying to pretend?" she cried. "Johnnie, I can't see them any more! I can't see them! I can't see them!"

Then, a burst of weeping. Old Grandpa also began to weep. At that Cis stumbled toward the door of her room, colliding on the way with the end of the cookstove, since one slender arm was across her eyes, and shut herself from sight. For some minutes after that the sound of her m.u.f.fled sobbing came from that closet over which she had so recently been proudly happy.

Johnnie first quieted the little old soldier by rolling him to and fro between Albany and Pittsburgh. Then he went to stand at Cis's door, where he listened, his head bent, his heart full of tender concern. Very wisely he said nothing, asked no questions. It was not till the sobbing ceased that he strove to comfort her by his loving, awkward, boyish attentions.

"Cis, can't I fetch y' a cup of nice, sugared cold tea?" he called in.

"'R a saucer with some hot beans?"

"Oh, no," she quavered.

Now he knew what had brought about all those differences in her; he understood what her grief was about. It was indeed the hair. Yet the hair was only an outward sign of the hidden tragedy--which was that, for good and all, for ever and ever, she was to be shut out from all wonderful, living, thrilling thinks.

"She's gittin' grown-up," he told himself sorrowfully.

CHAPTER XX

THE HANDBOOK

OUT of a hip-pocket one morning Mr. Perkins produced a book--a small, limp, gray-colored volume upon the cover of which were two bare-kneed boy scouts, one of whom was waving a pair of flags. Also on that cover, near its top, were the words, _Boy Scouts of America_. "I wonder if you wouldn't like to look through this," he observed.

"Oh, gee!" Up from the sagging neckband of the big shirt swept the red of joy, and out leaped Johnnie's hands. "Does this tell all 'bout 'em, Mister Perkins? And, my goodness, don't I wish you could leave it here over night!" For some time he had been feeling that there was a lack of variety in his long program of preparation to be a scout; but here was something more definite than just the taking of a bath or the regular working of his muscles.

"I'm giving it to you," explained Mr. Perkins.

"Oh!" Johnnie pinched the gray book hard. "It's my own? Aw, thank y'!

And ain't I lucky, though! This is seven I got now, countin' the d'rect'ry! And I'll learn ev'ry word in this one, Mister Perkins!"

To emphasize this determination to be thorough, before they started to look through the handbook he had to know all there was to tell about the picture on the front cover. "What's this one kid standin' on?" he asked.

"And what's the scraggly thing behind him? And what's the other boy holdin' against his eyes? And what country do the flags belong t'?"

When at last Mr. Perkins began to turn the pages, he went too fast to suit Johnnie, who was anxious not to pa.s.s over any sc.r.a.p of scout knowledge, hated to skip even a sentence, and wanted full time on each engrossing picture. They touched on the aim of the scout movement, the knowledge all scouts should have, their daily good turns (an interesting subject!), their characteristics, how troops are formed and led, the scout oath, and the laws. This brought them to merit badges, which proved so attractive a topic, yet discouraged Johnnie so sadly at the first, that they got no farther.

Johnnie was cast down because, on looking into the badge question, he believed he could never qualify for merit in any particular line. For certainly he knew nothing about Agriculture, or Angling, Archery, Architecture, Art, Astronomy, Athletics, Automobiling, or Aviation. "And so I don't see how I'll ever be a merit-badger," he told Mr. Perkins wistfully, when he had gone through the list of the A's.

Sometimes of late, in Johnnie's opinion, the scout leader had seemed to be as absentminded as Cis; and now he was evidently not thinking of the matter in hand, for he asked a question which appeared to have nothing whatever to do with merit badges. Also, it was a most embarra.s.sing question, since it concerned a fact which Johnnie had been careful, all these past weeks, to suppress. "Can you cook?" he inquired.

For a moment Johnnie did not answer, being divided in his mind as to what to say, but sat, his very breath suspended, searching a way out of his dilemma. Then he remembered the laws Mr. Perkins had just read to him--in particular he remembered one which deplored the telling of lies.

He understood that he must live up to that law if he were ever to hold any badge he might be able to earn. "I--I help out Cis sometimes," he admitted. "Y' see, she goes t' the fac'try awful early. And--and if I didn't know how t' cook, why, maybe--if I was t' go 'way from here--maybe I'd almost starve t' death."

"At the same time," reminded Mr. Perkins, "you're doing Miss Narcissa a daily good turn."

That aspect of the matter had not occurred to Johnnie, who at once felt considerably better. "And also I earn my keep," he added proudly.

"Earning your keep comes under the ninth law," pointed out Mr. Perkins.

"A scout is thrifty. He pays his own way."

Now the leader seemed to be in the proper mood to hear even the worst, and this Johnnie decided to admit. "I--I sweep, too," he confessed; "and make beds, and--and wash dishes." Then he set his small jaws and waited, for the other was again thoughtfully turning the pages of the book. He could hear the hard thump-thumping of his own heart. He began to wish that he had not been tempted to tell. He saw himself forever barred out of those ranks he so yearned to join just because he had been guilty of doing girl's work.

Mr. Perkins stopped turning pages and looked up with a smile. "With some study, you might be able to get the Personal Health Badge," he said; "but I guess, after all, that the easiest one for you will be the merit badge for cooking."

_The merit badge for cooking?_ Then without a doubt cooking was something which boy scouts deigned to do! And it was not just girl's work! Nor did he have to be ashamed because he did it! On the contrary, he could be proud of his knowledge! could even win honors with it! Oh, what a difference all this made!

Something began to happen to the amazed Johnnie. Relieved at the thought that he was neither to be dropped nor despised for his kitchen work, happy with the realization that he was not unlike those boys of the never-to-be-forgotten marching twos, suddenly he felt a change of att.i.tude toward cooking. What he had hated so long now did not seem hateful. "I can cook mush," he boasted with satisfaction, "and meat, and beans, and potatoes, and cabbage, and biscuits and gravy, and tea and coffee, and--and prunes."

"Great!" said Mr. Perkins. "I don't believe one of my scouts can cook as well as you can. Why, you're _sure_ to get your badge on that list of yours!" And pointing to a small and very black picture at the middle of a page, "This is the device," he explained. "When a boy gets it, he's allowed to wear it on his blouse."

Johnnie looked. And looked closer. Next, to make certain that he was not mistaken, he pinned the picture with a calloused forefinger. "A--a kettle?" he asked incredulously. "Scouts wear a pitcher of a--a _kettle_?"

"Dandy idea, isn't it?" returned Mr. Perkins; "--the big, black, iron kettle that soldiers and miners and hunters have used for hundreds of years! Like yours over there!"

Slowly Johnnie faced round. On the back of the stove was the bean-kettle, big, black and of iron, heavy to lift, hard to wash, and for years--by Cis as well as Johnnie--cordially loathed. "Soldiers and miners and hunters," he repeated, as if to himself; "and scout kids wear pitchers of 'em." That remarkable change of att.i.tude of his now included the kettle. He knew that he would never again hate it. When he turned back to the leader, he was his old confident self. "Do boy scouts ever wear ap.r.o.ns?" he inquired. "And does anybody laugh at 'em?"