# St. Nicholas/Volume 32/Number 5/Reserve Fund

* related authors: Charles David Williams.
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The Reserve Fund
By Belle Moses.
Tom leaned against the mantel and whistled a particularly flat and doleful tune; Beatrice, with sad dignity, sank down into her mother’s place behind the coffee-pot; and little Willie took advantage of the moment of natural regret to solace his soul with orange marmalade.
“Now, boys,” said Beatrice, “we are going on just the same as usual, remember; it ’s perfectly splendid that mother was able to take the holiday, and I intend to keep things in such order here at home that father won't have a chance to miss her, if I can help it.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Tom, with brotherly candor; “for a day or two, maybe, you ‘ll get on first-rate, and father ‘ll bow and scrape and compliment, and write mother about the way Bee has taken hold—dear girl!—and the boys, bless ’em!‘ are not a bit of trouble—”
“Mother and I made some very nice plans last night,” said Beatrice; “of course, I ’m to manage the house-money.”
“Oh?” Tom groaned.
“And everything I save from the week’s allowance is to be put aside as a reserve fund, and dropped in here for safe-keeping”; and Beatrice produced a little tin drum with a slit in the top.
Little Willie looked at the tin drum and shook his head.
“Tom ’s a dreadful tease,” said his sister; “my reserve fund is for very pleasant things. Mother said that all we saved from the house-keeping would be due to our good management, and should be divided among us when she comes home—to spend in any way we like.”
The boys grinned—“our good management” appealed to them. Clever Bee!
“I don’t suppose,” said Tom, reflecting, “that you could give a rough guess as to the size of that reserve fund. I don’t like to start off with too big a notion about the reward; I ’d like a kodak—”
“And I need a new pair of roller-skates dreadfully,” declared little Willie.
Beatrice pulled a stray curl, and glanced at the brothers in a shamefaced way. “I suppose you ’ll think me silly,” she began; “but there’s a lovely little gold bracelet, with the sweetest little padlock and key, just like Kitty Browne’s necklace, and I ’ve set my heart on it—” She paused; there was an indulgent, charitable smile on the boyish faces. “Oh, well,” she finished, “there may not be any reserve fund—there’s no telling in this family. Tom!” ber tone was now pitched in a business key, “mother left a check with me; please have it cashed at the bank; it will be much easier to calculate when I have the money in hand,” and she gravely handed her brother the pink slip.
“Whew!” whistled Tom; “it’s a lot!”
“Nonsense! You forget there are a good half-dozen of us, counting the servants, and it will be four weeks. I’m going to divide the money into four piles, and I think we ‘ll come out nicely.”
“But where ’s the reserve fund?” struck in Willie, airing the new words.
“Give it time—give it time; it’s a thing which grows by what we feed on,” laughed Tom, as he pocketed the check and went off.
​“You ridiculous boy!” exclaimed Beatrice, later in the day, as Tom approached her, groaning under the weight of the bicycle-cap he carried with both hands. It was nearly full of pennies, five-cent pieces, silver coins, and a few gold pieces, and Tom poured them with a great flourish and rattle inte his sister’s lap.
“I thought of the reserve fund,” he explained, “and the size of that opening in the little drum, so I brought you convenient change—don't you like it?”
“I don’t know where to keep it,” said Beatrice, wringing her hands.
“In a bag,” suggested Tom; “it ’ll vanish soon enough; those little round things are slippery.”
“Go away while I count it,” commanded Bee, running her fingers through the pile. She was feeling for a twenty-five-cent piece, which she meant to drop as a beginning into the little drum; but she did not wish her brother’s sharp eyes to find her out, so she slipped the coin in her pocket so quietly that he did not notice the movement. She poured the rest of the money into her leather housekeeping satchel, which she carried to her room; and when Tom's back was turned she ran downstairs to offer the first donation to the reserve fund. She didn’t even draw the savings-bank from its hiding-place behind the dining-room clock, but hurriedly dropped her quarter and went off to attend to some household matters. Then there was an hour’s practising to be done, for Bee was conscientious, so it was nearly time to dress for dinner before she could find a leisure moment in which to arrange her finances.
She went to work behind her closed door, for she knew her inquisitive brothers would otherwise offer suggestions; but after a half-hour’s earnest calculation she came out into the hall with trouble in her bright face, and ran against Tom, who had just flung one leg over the banister, preparatory to a rapid descent.
“Hello! What's up?” he asked, struck by her expression.
“Hush!" whispered Beatrice, cautiously; “come into my room and I ‘ll tell you; I don’t want Willie to hear, he’s such a chatterbox.”
Tom swung his leg back again, and followed his sister. “Well—what’s the trouble?” he said.
“Tom, I ’ve gone over the money carefully, and there are ten dollars missing.”
“What!”
Beatrice nodded, “Yes, counting the quarter I slipped out for the reserve fund. I would n't have told you but for this; so we are really nine dollars and three quarters short.”
“I don’t see how you make it,” cried Tom, excitedly. “Let me count; girls are no good at calculation, anyhow.”
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders as Tom went to work, but the result was the same. Tom’s face was as grave as her own when he had finished.
“I wish to goodness you had n't given me the job!” he growled, rumpling his hair in his perplexity. “But I counted it before I left the bank.”
“I wish I had n’t!” echoed Beatrice, dismally.
“Humph! I dare say you would n't have done it as well.”
“Maybe not,” said Bee, meekly, showing her crushed spirit.
Beatrice thought for a few moments; then she looked up with a brighter face.
“I could manage to make it even,” she said, “by cutting down the expenses two dollars and a half a week. Four weeks would set us straight.”
“But that ’s a long, penurious road to travel,” objected Tom. “I say, Bee; let us live in plenty for three weeks, and skimp us all you want during the fourth—I’d rather have it in a lump. Then there’s mother’s coming home to look forward to; and, in the meantime, the reserve fund must be handsomely fed.”
“Well, I won’t worry for three weeks,” Beatrice promised. And she kept her word, proving herself a most efficient housekeeper, and adding so often to the reserve fund from surplus stock that the little drum rattled louder and louder each day it was shaken.
It was wonderful what a center of interest that little drum became, and how many pennies found their way there—the result of sacrifices on the part of the boys. Willie reduced his daily supply of chocolate to semi-weekly purchases, and Tom denied himself many things dear to his heart, that his somewhat limited allowance might go to swell the fund; be-​sides, he felt morally responsible for that inevitable week of privation, and determined to stand by poor Bee and see her through. All efforts to trace the lost money had been fruitless, and they just had to make the best of it; so they held a final consultation as the fatal fourth week drew near.
“Can you do it?” asked Tom, anxiously.
“Ye-es,” said Reatrice, doubtfully. “I ‘ve been compasing a sort of bill of fare which I ’m going to follow as well as I can. If we don’t eat over the margin, we may pull through.”
‘Let ‘s see it.”
Beatrice handed him a neatly written sheet of paper, “I ’m going to tack that up as a guide, philosopher, and friend,” she said, laughing.
“Roast beef,” read Tom. “You've got that down for Sunday, Monday, Thursday, and Friday—same piece?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Two roasts—first day, hot; second day, cold; third day, minced; fourth day, soup”— she checked them off on her fingers with a very important air.
“Oh!” said Tom, with respectful awe, “Here's another item—potatoes; and another four days’ investment. How will you relieve the monotony?”
“Boil them, cream them, bake them, fry them,” returned Beatrice, with professional brevity. “You can’t complain, Tom; you suggested one week of skimpiness—and—and—”
“Don’t mention that ten-dollar gold piece,” said Tom, shaking a threatening forefinger.
“A minute later, the contents lay in a heap on the table.”
“Thursday and Friday will be rather scrappy,’ I ’m afraid. Mary suggests stews—”
“Look here,” observed Tom, suspiciously; “have you told Mary anything?”
“Of course,” said Bee; “one has to take the cook into one’s confidence.”
“What did you tell her?”—wrathfully.
“Oh, I said that—that as mother would be home on Saturday, and we wanted to have a big dinner, we would n't do too much cooking this week,” and Beatrice burst into irresistible laughter at Tom's blank expression.
But it was a hard week, nevertheless, and ​Bee had her hands full, arranging little odd dishes to cover the short rations and appease the honest appetites; but she did not labor in vain, for on that last Friday night her father gave her an approving pat with his good-night kiss:
“Well done, daughter dear. When mother comes home to-morrow, if the reserve fund is n’t enough you may draw on me.”
“Did you know about it, father?”
“I presented the tin drum to the enterprise,” said Mr. Arnold, laughing.
All the next day passed in a fever of excitement. Mrs. Arnold was to arrive at dusk, and the young Arnolds made a restless trio while they waited, and appetizing whiffs were borne up from the kitchen, distracting at least two hungry souls.
“The fatted calf will be a rare treat.” said Tom, complacently.
“It is roast chicken,” said Willie, smacking his lips. “Hooray! there she is!” and he darted out at the gate, running hatless down the street, as he caught sight of his mother.
“Well, and what about the reserve fund?” asked Mrs. Arnold, as they sat about the table after dessert, while the maid removed the plates.
Beatrice rose and brought the little tin drum.
“Feel it,” she said proudly.
Mrs. Arnold shook it and smiled.
“Open it,” suggested Mr. Arnold. “Will, run for a screw-driver; we ’ll have to batter the stronghold.”
“Wait a minute,” said honest Tom, “I feel as if I did n’t deserve my share of the savings; at any rate, I won’t take as much as the others,” and he told the whole story of the ten-dollar gold piece.
“Nonsense!” declared Beatrice. “Poor Tom has suffered enough, already; has n’t he, mother?”
“I ’ll reserve my decision,” said Mrs, Arnold. “Here, Tom, pry open that slit in the top.”
A minute later, the contents lay in a heap on the table. Suddenly Beatrice gave a little shriek. She dived into the pile and held up to the astonished gaze of the family the ten-dollar gold piece! Then a rush of memory came over her, and at last she found her voice.
“I put it there myself!” she cried; “my very own self—on that first day when Tom brought up the money. I slipped it out, and dropped it in the drum without looking at it, thinking it was a quarter. I was so afraid the boys would see me, and I wanted to be the first to start the fund. Oh, dear! oh, dear! when I think of all we ‘ve gone through!” and Beatrice poured out her little tale of woe.
There was much laughing and kissing, and a final count of the savings, which had mounted to a respectable figure.
“I won’t draw on you, father,” said Beatrice, merrily. “We’ve more than enough for our needs.”
“And I think I ’ll take my full share,” Tom, grinning. “The next time, Bee —”
“Oh, please let bygones he bygones!” said Beatrice. “Here comes Kitty Browne, with apple-blossoms on her hat. I’m going to tell her all about our reserve fund, and that now I can get the bracelet to match her necklace!”