We are the Dudley Grahams,—four children and a mother. We are very poor and keep a boarding-house; not because we like boarders, but because when dear father died a three thousand dollar life assurance and this house were our only “available assets,” as Uncle George, who was executor, explained: “and so you must take boarders.” We do; but it isn’t always pleasant.

The three thousand dollars did not last long, either; for there were a great many debts to be met that nobody had known anything about, and we had to have the library repapered and a new carpet in the hall, to impress the people who came to look for rooms. “We must be very polite and charming, too,” said Ernie, “and talk as hard as we can all the time, and then perhaps they won’t notice how shabby the rest of the things are.” But I fancy they did; because it was over two months before we could get anybody to stop with us, and the money in the bank grew less and less, while Uncle George grew more grim and disapproving, and said that dear father had been “criminally careless,” and that no man should be permitted to have a family, if he did not know enough to provide for it. But, at last, Miss Brown came; and then Mrs. Hudson and the Hancocks, and now we are really beginning to get along.

Father was Uncle George’s only brother. He was an inventor, and a true genius; but, unfortunately, nobody ever discovered this, except just us. He knew all about air-currents, the contractile bladders of fish, and the flight of birds. There is a great, ghostly, flying-machine in the workshop in the attic with dusty yellow sails, and a really wonderful motor. Haze, who sleeps in the workshop since he was obliged to give up his room to the boarders, often dreams that he is taking trips at night. He says the dreams are quite horrible, and calls them “nightmares”; but if only dear father had lived to perfect the machine, we are sure it would have been a success. And that would have been so pleasant, for father never had any successes, except just once,—which we did not profit by, as I will tell later.

Haze is my chum. He is fifteen, and I am seventeen; but sometimes we feel a hundred, because there are so many things to worry about. Dearest mother never worries. She is too Irish for that;—all she cares for, she says, is that her children shall be happy, and good, and clever, and have everything they want. Somehow she seems to believe that we are what she wishes us to be, too,—so that one would feel ashamed to appear discontented. But, oh, if you love your family the way I do, it is hard, hard, hard to be poor!

However, to return to our mutton,—in this instance Haze,—his real name is John Hazard, though he is never called John or Jack, only Hazard, or Haze, or Hazey, especially the last two, because they fit so well. For, though he is very clever and half through High School already, he is not a bit practical, never sees what goes on about him, and is always forgetting things. He does not care about athletics, either. He hasn’t the build, he says (his legs being too thin), nor the time nor the money. He is in his Junior year this term, the youngest in his class, and at present he is cramming like mad, so that he can take the final examinations next fall, and “begin to help the family.” That means giving up college, his fondest dream. It is mighty noble of Hazey; but, I must confess, not at all becoming. His face seems to grow smaller day by day, and his eyes, behind his goggly glasses, bigger. Dear Haze! he doesn’t even have time to talk to me any more, and that is why I thought of starting a diary. My cousin Meta has kept one for over a year,—a dainty little volume with gold clasps and a red morocco binding. This is just an ugly old account book of father’s that I found in the workshop. The first few pages are full of the most amazing aËrial computations; but there is plenty of room left for writing,—and one must have somebody to confide in!

After Hazard comes Ernestine. She is twelve, and is frequently called Ernie,—which name suits her just as well as Haze’s names do him; for she is really more of a boy than a girl, we think, despite her charming blue eyes and rose-leaf complexion. Ernie is very, very pretty, has sweet ways and a really lovely disposition; but, for all this, she is rather a trying child, for she is continually getting into scrapes, tearing her frocks, breaking the furniture, etc.,—and she always means so well that it is hard to scold her.

Geof is Ernestine’s chum, just as Hazard is mine. He is Uncle George’s son, but so much more like a brother than a cousin that I am going to describe him here. He is fourteen years old, and the direct opposite of Haze in nearly every way. He is a handsome fellow, big for his age, and rather sullen sometimes. That, I think, is because he is not happier at home. He goes to a fashionable school, plays football and hockey, and is perfectly hopeless in his studies. Uncle George maintains he could do better if he would. Aunt Adelaide, who is Geoffrey’s stepmother, says it is a case of “inherent stupidity.” Mother thinks neither is right, and that there is something radically wrong with the school methods. Altogether it is not pleasant for Geof, who wants to give up studying and go into business. This enrages Hazard.

“A fellow with your chances!” he says.

“I’d swap them for yours,” answers Geof, who is not brilliant at an argument. And Haze snorts derisively.

After Ernie comes Robin; he is six, and our baby. He has never been strong, because when he was a tiny mite of a thing a careless nurse dropped him and injured his hip. He has bright, dark eyes, and you can always tell when he is coming by the little hopping sound he makes with his crutch. It reminds one of a bird, so his name suits him, too. I love Robin better than anything in the world; and I am never going to marry, so that I can stay with him and take care of him always. But this is a secret.

And that (including mother, whom one can’t describe because she is too wonderful) is all there are of us, except the kitten, which is black and is named Rosebud, and the cook, who is also black and is named Rose. Of course, we did not name the kitten after the cook. It just happened that way.

As to Uncle George’s family,—whom we call the George Grahams,—they are very wealthy, and have a beautiful house, and horses, and plenty of servants. But we would not change with them. No, indeed!

When Uncle George comes to visit us of a Sunday morning, as he sometimes does to see how we are getting on, he is sure to stand in the middle of our shabby back parlour, and puff out his cheeks, and throw out his chest and say,—

“I don’t pretend to be a man of genius like your father. I went into business at fifteen years of age. I’ve pegged away a good forty years since then, and I guess I’ve managed to get pretty much what I want out of the world. Talent don’t pay, sir. No, sir; it’s common sense that pays.”

Aunt Adelaide, who is Uncle George’s second wife, is handsome and fashionable. She was a widow with one daughter when Uncle George married her. So you see that Meta is really no relation to either Geof or ourselves. She is six months older than I, and she and Geof do not get along so very well. She thinks him stupid because he does not like the things she likes, and he thinks her silly and affected. I am afraid she sometimes is.

Georgie is both Meta and Geof’s half-brother. He is a little younger than our Robin. He has very rosy cheeks, and beautiful clothes, and expensive toys. Once when he was sick for two weeks with German measles a trained nurse was engaged, and he had chicken broth and oranges every day. Sometimes I hate Georgie!—which is wicked.

Uncle George is devoted to his family, after his own fashion, and does not spare any expense where they are concerned; though he, himself, dresses plainly and never gives anything in charity. He says he does not believe in it, that no one ever gave anything to him.

One day when he was standing in the middle of our parlour with his cheeks puffed out as usual, Robin, who had been sitting in the window turning the pages of an animal picture-book, looked up.

“Did you ever wish you were a camel, Uncle George?” he asked.

“No; I can’t say I ever did,” answered Uncle George, condescendingly. “Why should I, now?”

“It would be so much easier for you to get into heaven,” chirped Robin. And, after a minute, when Uncle George had thought it over and began to understand, he laughed and really felt rather flattered. Dear father was so different!

I said I would tell about his one success, and how we did not profit by it as we should. It was a great pity, because most of the problems father worked on had no market value at all:—he was too brilliant to find it easy to consider commercial interests. But this was different,—something quite sellable and practical,—a mechanical attachment for dump-carts! How ever father came to think of it, he admitted that he did not know. He quite despised it, and was really rather ashamed even to explain the way it worked. But he made up his mind that for once a little money would be nice; so he took the model to Uncle George and asked for a loan. But Uncle George’s own affairs were rather involved just at that time, and besides he said he did not care for investments of such a nature. He never had much faith in father.

After that father was introduced to Mr. Perry, a lawyer and promoter, and a partnership was arranged between them by which father was to receive $500 down, and in one year’s time five per cent. of whatever income the invention continued to realize. The contract was drawn up, for father read it aloud to us one day at the lunch table.

“I’ll go around to Perry’s this afternoon,” he said, “and get this thing settled and off my mind.” We were all quite excited, for it was a long time since we had had anything to spend. I remember we sat in the window-seat in the dining-room and planned our winter clothes—Haze, Ernie, and I—for nearly two hours.

However, we none of us saw father when he came home. He went directly to his workshop, and about ten minutes later, as Rose was passing the door she thought she heard him call. So she peeped in, and saw him standing supporting himself with one hand on the table.

He tried to speak, but could only groan, and the next instant he fell to the floor. Dear father! it all seems like yesterday, now that I write it. Rose gave the alarm. Somehow we got him downstairs and into bed; but he did not recognise any of us, and the next morning at three o’clock he died.

Dr. Porter said the attack was brought on by worry and brain fatigue. It seems so sad, just on the eve of his first success! For nearly all the carts one meets throughout the city nowadays dump in father’s way, though the patent bears Mr. Perry’s name.

And we never found the contract! Mr. Perry says he knows nothing about it, and that he never signed any. He has his brother as witness to a verbal agreement entered into that same afternoon in his office by which father sold the model outright for five hundred dollars, which was paid to him the same date by check.

It is true that Mr. Perry paid father. We found the check in his waistcoat pocket; but it was only on account, we feel sure. Without the contract, however, we can prove nothing and are quite helpless.

Could father have lost it, or left it anywhere that afternoon? Even a little income would be very nice,—for then perhaps we would not have to take boarders.

There is Mrs. Hudson’s bell! She has rung twice. Rose won’t answer it. I must fly!