# Dandelion Cottage/Chapter 18

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CHAPTER XVIII
The Junior Warden
BY nine o'clock the next morning, the girls were all at the cottage as usual. Mrs. Mapes had given them materials for a simple cake and Jean and Bettie were in the kitchen making it. Marjory, singing as she worked, was running her Aunty Jane's carpet-sweeper noisily over the parlor rug, while Mabel, whistling an accompaniment to Marjory's song, was dusting the sideboard; at all times the cottage furniture received so much unnecessary dusting that it would not have been at all surprising if it had worn thin in spots.
When the doorbell rang suddenly and sharply, Marjory's tune stopped short, high in air, and Mabel ran to the window.
"It's a man," announced Mabel.
​"Mr Milligan?" asked Marjory, anxiously.
"He's moved so I can't tell."
"Try the other window," urged Marjory, impatiently.
"It doesn't look like Mr. Milligan's legs—I can't see the rest of him. They look neat and—and expensive."
"Probably it's just an agent; they're kind of thick lately. You go to the door and tell him we're just pretend people, while I'm putting the sweeper out of sight."
"Good morning," said Mr. Downing. "Are you—Why! this is a very cosy little place. I had no idea that it was so comfortable. May I come in?"
"Ye—es," returned Mabel, eyeing him doubtfully, "but I think you're probably making a mistake. You see, we're not really truly people."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Downing, with an amused glance at plump Mabel. "Is it possible you're a ghost?"
​"I mean," explained Mabel, "we're just children and this is only a playhouse, not a real one. If you have anything to sell, or are looking for a boarding place, or want to take our census——"
"No," said Mr. Downing, "I don't want either your dollars or your senses. My name is Downing and I'm not selling anything. I called on business. Who is the head of this—this ghostly corporation?"
"It has four," said Mabel. "I'll get the rest."
Bettie and Jean, with grown-up gingham aprons tied about their necks followed Mabel to the parlour. Mr. Downing had seated himself in one of the chairs and the girls sat facing him in a bright-eyed row on the couch. Their countenances were so eager and expectant that Mr. Downing found it hard to begin.
"I've come in," he said, "to talk over a little matter of business with you. I understand that you've been having trouble ​with your neighbours—exchanging compliments——"
"No," said honest Mabel, turning crimson, "it was apples and tomatoes. The Milligans are the most troublesome neighbours we've ever had."
"So-o?" said the visitor, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Why, I understood that it was quite the other way round. I'd like to hear your version of the difficulty."
Jean and Bettie, with occasional assistance from Marjory and much prompting from Mabel, told him all about it. During the recital Mr. Downing's attention seemed to wander, for his eyes took in every detail of the neat sitting room, strayed to the prettily papered dining-room and even rested lingeringly upon the one visible corner of the dainty blue bedroom. Bettie had neglected to close the door between the kitchen and the dining-room, which circumstance ​proved unfortunate, because the tiny scrap of butter that Jean had left melting in a very small pan on the kitchen stove, got too hot and with threatening, hissing noises, began to give forth clouds of thick, disagreeable smoke. Jean, the first of the girls to notice it, flew to the kitchen, snatched a lid from the stove, and, with a newspaper for a holder, swept the burning butter, pan and all, into the fire. Then the paper in Jean's hand caught fire, and for the instant before she stuffed it into the stove and clapped the lid into place, fierce red flames leaped high.
To the visitor, prepared by Mrs. Milligan for just such doings, it looked for a moment as if all the rear end of the cottage was in flames; but Jean returned to her place on the couch with an air of what looked to Mr. Downing very much like almost criminal unconcern. How was Mr. Downing, who did no cooking, to know that paper placed on a ​cake-baking fire always flares up in an alarming fashion without doing any real harm? He didn't know, and the incident decided the matter he was turning over in his mind. The girls had found it a little hard to tell their story, for it was plain that their visitor was using his eyes rather than his ears; moreover, they were not at all certain that he had any right to demand the facts in the case. When the story was finished, Mr. Downing looked at the row of interested faces and cleared his throat; but, for some reason, the words he had meant to speak refused to come. He hadn't supposed that the evicting of unsatisfactory tenants would prove such an unpleasant task. The tenants, all at once, seemed part of the house, and the man realised, suddenly, that the losing of the cottage was likely to prove a severe blow to the four little housekeepers. Perhaps it was disconcerting to see the expression of puzzled anxiety that had crept into Bettie's great brown eyes, into Jean's ​hazel ones, into Marjory's grey, and Mabel's blue ones; at any rate, Mr. Downing decided to be well out of the way when the blow should fall; he realised that it would prove a trying ordeal to face all those young eyes filled with indignation and probably with tears.
"Ah hum," said Mr. Downing, rising to take his leave. "I'm much obliged to you young ladies. Hum—the number of this house is what, if you please?"
"Number 224," said Bettie, whose mind worked quickly.
"Hum," said Mr. Downing, writing it on the envelope he had taken from his pocket, and moving rather abruptly toward the door, as if desirous to escape as speedily as possible with the knowledge he had gleaned. "Thank you very much—I bid you all good morning."
"Now what in the world did that man want?" demanded Mabel, before the front door had fairly closed. "Do you s'pose he's ​some kind of a lawyer, or (Mabel turned pale at the thought) a policeman disguised as a—a human being? Do you suppose the Milligans are going to get us arrested for just two apples—and—and a little poetry?"
"More likely," suggested Jean, "he's a burglar. Didn't you notice the way he looked around at everything? I could see that he sort of lost interest after while—as if he had concluded that we hadn't anything worth stealing."
"Nonsense!" said Bettie. "I don't know what he does for a living, but he can't be a burglar. He hasn't lived here very long, but he goes to our church and comes to our house sometimes to vestry meetings. Sometimes on warm Sunday's when there's nobody else to do it, he passes the plate."
"Well," said Mabel, "I hope he isn't a policeman weekdays."
"More likely," said Marjory, "he does reporting for the papers. The time Aunty ​Jane was in that railroad accident, a reporter came to our house to interview her, and he asked questions just as that Mr. Downing—was that his name?—did. He took the number of the house, too."
"Oh mercy!" gasped Mabel, turning suddenly from white to a deep crimson. "If those green apples get into the paper I'll be too ashamed to live! Oh girls! Couldn't we stop him—couldn't we—couldn't we pay him something not to?"
"It's probably in by now," said Marjory, teasingly. "They do it by telegraph, you know."
"He couldn't have been a reporter," protested Mabel. "Reporters are always young and very active so they can catch lots of scoons—no, scoots."
"Scoops," corrected Jean.
"Well, scoops. He was kind of slow and a little bit bald headed on top—I noticed it when he stooped for his hat."
"Well, anyway," comforted Jean, "let's ​not worry about it. Let's rebuild our fire—of course it's out by now—and finish our cake."
In spite of the cake's turning out much better than anyone could have expected, with so many agitated cooks taking turns stirring it, there was something wrong with the day. The girls were filled with uneasy forebodings and could settle down to nothing. Marjory felt no desire to sing and even the cake seemed to have lost something of its flavor. Moreover, when they had stood for a moment on their doorstep to see the new steam road roller go puffing by, Laura, had tossed her head triumphantly, and had shouted tauntingly: "I know something I sha'n't tell." After that, the girls could not help wondering if Laura really did know something—some dreadful thing that concerned them vitally and was liable to burst upon them at any moment.
For the first time in the history of their housekeeping, they could find nothing that ​they really wanted to do. During the afternoon they had several little disagreements with each other. Mild Jean spoke sharply to Marjory and even sweet-tempered Bettie was drawn into a lively dispute with Mabel. Moreover, all three of the older girls were inclined to blame Mabel for her fracas with the Milligans; and the culprit, ashamed one moment and defiant the next, was in a most unhappy frame of mind. Altogether, the day was a failure and the four friends parted coldly at least an hour before the usual time.