“Mumsy dear,” said Judith, “I’m going over to Buck Hill this morning and sell all kinds of things to my cousins and their guests.”

“Judith, you are not! How can you go near those people when they treat you like the dust under their feet?”

“But, Mumsy, they don’t. People can’t treat you like dust under their feet unless you are beneath them, and I’m not in the least teensy weensy bit beneath the Bucknors of Buck Hill. Now they might treat me like the dust in the air—the dust they have to breathe when the wind blows—breathe that or stop breathing altogether. They might not like to breathe me in. I might be a little thick for them, but breathe me they must. I did not make myself kin to them. I just am kin to them. I don’t know that it makes any great difference to me to know that I am. I rather like to think that, way back yonder, what is now me had something to do with building Buck Hill, 99 because it is beautiful. The part that’s me may have planned the garden. Who knows?

“But I’m not going there to sell things because they are my cousins. I’m not going to mention such a disagreeable subject. I’m too good a salesman for that. I am merely going there because I think I might make some money. They have a house party on and when people go visiting they always forget their tooth brushes and hairpins. I don’t exactly enjoy having Mildred Bucknor pretend I’m not around when I know I’m very much in evidence. She had that way with her at school and then it would have hurt me, if I had not been perfectly conscious of the fact that she couldn’t tell the difference between nouns and verbs in Latin and got gender and case and tense all mixed up.

“Yes, Mumsy, I’m going to Buck Hill and clear about five dollars, even though I may have to take a good snubbing. I want to go less than ever since Jefferson Bucknor was so nice to me yesterday evening. I didn’t tell you he helped boost my basket on the trolley and actually took the can of buttermilk in his own aristocratic hands and swung it on to the platform. Well, he did, and he made his sister furious—and he bored a pretty girl with whom 100 he is supposed to fall in love—one of the house party. I don’t want poor Mr. Jeff Bucknor to have to take up for me—which he is sure to do if the hammers begin to knock—but even to spare his feelings I will not quit trying to sell my wares.”

“Judith, you must not lower yourself.”

“I’m not lowering myself one bit, Mumsy. Just look at it this way: Suppose I had a shop in Ryeville. Wouldn’t I serve any customers who came to the shop, whether they were kin and refused to admit kinship or not—whether they called me red-head, when everybody knows my hair is auburn, or not? I’d hardly refuse to sell to those persons who did not consider me their social equal and did not ask me to house parties or to dances when my feet are just itching to dance. I’d sell to any and everybody who came in the shop. Exactly! Well, now you see I have a shop on wheels. I must go to any and every body who might have use for my wares. I’d have a very limited clientele if I stuck to those who considered me on their level and whom I considered on mine. So give me your blessing, Mumsy, and wish me well.”

“Judith, how you do run on! Aren’t you afraid that that Jeff Bucknor will think you are running after him?” 101

“Not in the least. He’s not that kind of a man. I know by the way his ears are set and the way his hair grows on his forehead and the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners as though he never missed a joke. People who never miss jokes don’t go around thinking other persons are running after them all the time. I know by the way he looks out of his eyes. It isn’t only his eyes that look at you but there is something behind them that looks at you. I reckon if I were a sissy girl I’d say his eyes were soulful, but you see I’m not. I tell you, Mumsy, my Cousin Jeff is a powerful likely young man and I’m quite proud of him. Too bad he doesn’t know he’s my kin.”

Mrs. Buck sighed. “I guess he wouldn’t claim relationship with you if he did know. Those Bucknors of Buck Hill are a proud-stomached lot. They’ve been dusting me on the pike ever since I was a little girl—dusting me and never even seeing me.”

“Did you ever speak to them?”

“Of course not. I was never one to put myself forward.”

“Well, why should they speak to you any more than you speak to them? Aren’t you as good as they are? Surely, and a great deal prettier. You are as much prettier than Mrs. 102 Bucknor as a day lily is prettier than a cabbage rose,” declared Judith.

“Oh, how you do talk, Judy! Of course, when I say they didn’t ever speak I mean they never went out of their way to speak. When we had deaths over here they kind of acted neighborly like and sent word to call on them if we needed anything, but we never did, as my mother and I always saved mourning from time to time. I guess they’d have been a little more back-and-forth friendly if it hadn’t have been for your Grandfather Buck. He was kind of difficult like when he was drinking and that was most times. He was either drinking or getting over drunks as a general thing. Then he was mighty lazy and shiftless.”

“Poor Mumsy! You’ve had a right hard time with us Bucks. Grandfather Buck was so lazy he worried you to death and I’m so energetic I know I annoy you terribly. But all this talking isn’t selling toilet articles to house parties. By the way, I got a ’phone message from my motormen. They want six suppers this evening. That means I must run into Ryeville and buy some more baskets and lay in provisions of all kinds. I wish I’d been triplets, or at least twins. I could accomplish so much more.” 103

“Land sakes, Judy! Surely you do enough as it is. All six dinners at once?”

“Oh no! Two on the six, two on the six-thirty and two for the seven. I’m afraid I’ll wear the path into a ditch. I’m glad to see the beets are big enough to eat and before you know it we’ll have some snap beans and peas. I’m going to get a little darkey to work the garden, because I simply can’t give the time for it. Besides, my time is really too valuable for digging just now. Did I tell you I had taken the contract to develop all the amateur photographic films for Baker & Bowles? I saw them about it the other day. They have an awful time getting it done right and they knew I had done a lot of that work for school, so they asked me to try. Of course I couldn’t let such a chance slip and since I can do it at night I accepted. It will take only one or two evenings a week. They furnish all the chemicals and it pays very well. I’ll do it through the summer anyhow, until school starts.”

“What a child! What a child!” was all Mrs. Buck could say. “I don’t believe even the Norse sailor could have beat her.”

Again the old men on the hotel porch were treated to a sight of Judith Buck. She parked her little blue car directly across the street from 104 the Rye House and began the business of shopping.

“What you reckon that Judy gal is up to now?” queried Judge Middleton. “I betcher she’s goin’ in the butcher shop.”

“I betcher she ain’t,” said Pete Barnes for the sake of argument. “I betcher she’s going in the Emporium to buy herself a blue dress.”

“Maybe,” ruminated Major Fitch. “I always did hold to women folks that had sense enough to wear blue. That blue that Miss Judith Buck wears is just my kind of blue too—not too light and not too dark—kinder betwixt and between, like way-off hills or—”

“Kittens’ eyes,” suggested Colonel Crutcher with a twinkle.

“Cat’s foot! Nothin’ of the kind! Anyhow, that kind of blue is mighty becomin’ to Miss Judith.”

They all agreed to this and when Judith appeared again with her arms laden with bundles to be stowed in the back of the car the old men called in chorus:

“Hiyer, Miss Judith?”

“Hiyer, yourselves?” she answered.

“Come over and tell us the news,” they begged, and she ran across the street and perched on the railing of the Rye House, while 105 she recounted what news she had picked up on her peddling trip of the day before.

“Uncle Peter Turner has gone over to cook and wash dishes for the ladies at Mr. Big Josh Bucknor’s. They haven’t had a servant for weeks. They thought Miss Ann Peyton was coming but she turned in at Buck Hill, I saw her. She has been visiting the Throckmortons and left there in a hurry. Old Aunt Minnie, over at Clayton, has just had her hundredth descendant. She had sixteen children of her own and all of them have had their share of children and grandchildren. I know it’s so because I just sold one of the great-granddaughters some hair straightener and a box of flea powder and she thought of getting some talcum powder for the new baby, but decided to use flea powder instead.”

The old men laughed delightedly. “Tell us some more,” they demanded.

“The widow Simco, at Nine Mile House, asked me what had become of Mr. Pete Barnes. I sold her some henna shampoo and a box of bronze hairpins.”

Pete grinned sheepishly, but straightened his cravat and pulled his whiskers in a way men have when complimented by the fair sex.

“How’s your business?” asked Major Fitch. 106

“Which business?” asked Judith. “I’ve got so many you’ll have to say which one. But all of them are coming on pretty well. I must be going. So long!” She was up and away like a blue flash.

“Now ain’t she likely?” quavered old Judge Middleton. “There ain’t many pretty gals like her’d stop an’ gossip with a bilin’ of ol’ has-beens like us.”

“Yes, that’s the truth,” said Colonel Crutcher. “Did you see Bob Bucknor’s oldest girl going by in her father’s car while Miss Judy was cheering us up? She had a young blood in with her—that young Harbison from Louisville. He nearly fell out of the car, rubbering at Miss Judy. That Bucknor miss hardly more than glanced this way, but she was showing the whites of her eyes in that glance. My granddaughter, Betty, was telling me only last night that the only reason Judy Buck wasn’t asked to join their dancing club was that the Bucknor gals got their backs up about asking her and kind of talked them down—calling Judy common and poor white trash and such like. Betty says the girls all like her better than they do the Bucknors, but you know how it is with the folks from Buck Hill—they just naturally 107 take the lead in social matters and nobody ever has crossed them. I wish I had a house of my own. I tell you I’d give that Judy Buck a comin’ out party that would make your hair curl,” declared the Colonel.

“Well, I’ve got a house, but it wouldn’t be big enough to ask all the people I’d want to have to Miss Judy’s ball,” spoke up Major Fitch.

“By golly, I got a idee!” exclaimed Pete Barnes, letting his chair that had been tilted against the wall drop on all four legs and bringing his feet, which had been draped over the railing, to the floor at the same time with a resounding stamp. “I got an idee for sure.”

“Well?” asked Major Fitch.

“Let’s all of us ol’ ones get together an’ hire the skating rink an’ give Miss Judy Buck a party that this county won’t ever forget.”

The other chairs came down on all fours and the veterans of the Rye House porch drew together in solemn conclave. Old tongues clicked and old beards wagged, while Pete Barnes’ idea took constructive shape.

“We’ll ask all the neighborhood and even some out of the neighborhood. We’ll have the band up from Louisville and a caterer from 108 there and do the thing up brown,” chuckled Pete.

“Maybe society will hold back when we ask them to come to old Dick Buck’s granddaughter’s ball,” suggested one.

“Don’t tell ’em whose ball it is until they get there. That’s the way to catch the snippy ones. Let’s don’t even tell Miss Judy. It might make her kind of shy. Just let ’em all get to dancin’ an’ kinder warmed up an’ then when we got ’em where they can’t back out without bein’ mighty rude we’ll up an’ make speeches an’ let the county know how we stand for that girl an’ what she is an’ how proud we are of her,” suggested Judge Middleton.

“We’ll get all the old boys in town to come in on it. I mean our crowd, and there won’t be one who will give the secret away. And we’ll give that gal a rush that would turn her pretty red head if it belonged to anybody else—but there is no turning a wise head like hers.”

“We won’t let any women in on it either,” said Pete.

“Not even the Widow Simco?” asked Major Fitch.

“The women oughter have looked after the gal long ago, and now we men folks will take 109 it on us. What’ll we call the ball?” asked Mr. Barnes, ignoring the Major’s thrust.

“Call it a dayboo party, but jes’ don’t say whose it is,” suggested Colonel Crutcher. “There’ll be plenty of jokes about it an’ the smart Alecks will try to get the laugh on us because they’ll be a thinkin’ we don’t know what dayboo means an’ we’ll take the laugh an’ keep it ’til we need it. Lets go get the invites struck off over to the Ryeville Courier right now.”

The old men got busy immediately, although it was a lazy morning in June and the Rye House porch was shady and cool. Recruits were mustered in until they numbered ten, all anxious and eager to share expense and glory. First, the skating rink was engaged for the following Friday night. A caterer in Louisville was next called up by telephone and supper ordered, “with all the fixin’s” that the latest thing in debut parties demanded. The band was engaged and the invitations set up in type and printed before the noon whistles blew for dinner. To be sure, the invitations did somewhat resemble notices of an auction sale, but what did it matter to the old men of Ryeville, who were undertaking this party for their 110 favorite girl? This was the card: