  One evening, soon after the bazaar, the McGuires were dining with the Irvings, and naturally were discussing the very successful entertainment. “And I think,” Mr. Irving remarked, “that the young chap who took the part of ‘April Fool’ was one of the hits of the evening. He was so merry and good-natured, and yet so full of quips and pranks, why, he nearly fooled me two or three times!” “Oh, pshaw, Grandpa,” said Betty, saucily, “it would be easy enough to fool you; you’re so—so honest and good-natured, you know.” Mr. Irving looked at the roguish, smiling face with pretended severity. “Indeed, Miss Curlyhead! So you think it easy to fool your simple-minded old grandfather, do you? Well, little lady, you’re greatly mistaken! In fact, you’re quite wrong! Fool me! Humph! Why, when I was in college, the boys said I was the only one they could never play a practical joke on!” Mr. Irving looked very proud of his record for shrewdness, but his eyes twinkled as he saw Betty’s incredulous smile. “All right, Miss Mischief,” he went on, “if you doubt my word, try it. I’ll wager you a hat you can’t get off a joke upon your unsuspecting old grandfather that I don’t see through before it reaches its climax. Fool me, indeed!” “I don’t want to fool you, Grandpa,” said Betty, demurely, “only I think I could—that’s all.” “You little rogue, you do, do you? Well, the burden of proof rests with you.” “You know you wagered a hat,” said Betty, smiling; “did you mean it?” “Well, my child, I’ll own up that I said ‘wager a hat,’ because that’s a slang phrase—or at least it was in my youth—that doesn’t mean anything in particular, and I said it without thinking. But I’ll stand by it. You shall have the prettiest hat in Boston if you succeed in playing even the mildest little joke on your old grandfather.” “Now, Father,” said Mrs. McGuire, “I don’t think practical jokes are nice at all; and I don’t think you ought to put Betty up to such nonsense.” “As a rule, my dear, I agree with you; and I don’t want Betty to get the habit of doing such things. But this is an exceptional case. And, too, a good-natured joke does no harm, especially if the victim invites it himself.” “I think you’re safe, Grandfather,” said Jack. “I don’t believe Betty or anybody else could fool you. You’re too quick.” “Thank you for that compliment, my boy,” said Mr. Irving; “and then, too, remember that I am forewarned.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Irving, laughing at the conversation; “I think your chances for a new hat from Grandfather are slim, Betty dear.” “I really don’t need a new hat—just now,” said Betty, thoughtfully, “but, all the same, I’d like to win that one, and I’m going to try.” Betty’s dark head wagged in a determined fashion, and, after a little further chaff, the subject was dropped. But the next day Betty took it up again with Jack. “I want to play a perfectly splendid joke on Grandpa,” she said, “one that he will remember all his life.” “Well,” returned Jack, “you’re modest in your desires, aren’t you!” “But I do want to, Jack. Think what fun it would be! Now, help me think of something, do!” “Let me see; I can’t think of things in a minute, you know. But here’s one thing; next Friday is the first of April—you might play an April Fool Joke.” “Oh, yes,” cried Betty, gleefully, “that’s just the thing! Anything is allowable on April Fool’s Day. Now, what shall it be?” “Betty, if you want a really fine affair, we must give some thought to it. Neither do we want any simple joke that we’d make up ourselves. But let’s try something classic. Now there’s an old story called ‘Trajan’s Jest,’ or somebody’s, and I’ll look it up, and perhaps we can adapt it to modern times.” “Oh, Jack, I don’t want any old Roman performance, with togas and sandals!” “No, goosey, not that. But just wait till I think it all out. Oh, Betty, it’ll be fine! Just you wait!” So Betty waited while Jack looked into some reference books, and when he found what he wanted, they soon had their heads together over the volume. After an hour of reading, chattering, laughing, and planning, Jack said: “And so, you see, it’s all clear sailing, if you girls can only carry it out in the right way.” “Oh, we can!” cried Betty. “Dorothy is so very dramatic, and Jeanette will be lovely in her part. Mine is the hardest.” “Of course it is; but it’s your joke, you know. Shall we tell Mother about it?” “I’d rather not—till it’s over. It’s all right, you know; she wouldn’t disapprove, but she’d think we couldn’t do it.” “It seems as if you ought to tell her.” “THESE TWO YOUNG WOMEN SAT BEHIND ME IN THE STREET-CAR AND OVERHEARD MY CONVERSATION WITH A FRIEND” “Oh, I’ll tell her that we’re going to play the joke. Here she comes now. Come in, Mother!” Mrs. McGuire came into the library where the children were. “What is it, dear?” she said. “Why, we’ve planned the joke for Grandpa,” said Betty, her eyes dancing with fun, “and it’s going to take a lot of acting. And, Mother, I don’t want to tell you about it till it’s all over. You don’t mind, do you?” “No, child; that is—I suppose, of course, it’s nothing wrong or impolite.” “Oh, no; it’s all perfectly correct and proper. Dorothy and Jeanette and I are to do it, but Jack planned it all. And, Mother, we’ll want the big carriage on Friday afternoon.” “All right, deary; now, mind, you are quite sure, aren’t you, I wouldn’t disapprove?” “Yes, Mother,” and Betty’s honest eyes were clear and frank. “It’s a jolly joke, but there’s nothing wrong about it, is there, Jack?” “Not a thing,” said Jack, chuckling. “I’ll look out for the girls, Mother. The whole affair won’t take an hour.” “Very well, then; go on. Your grandfather will be as pleased as yourselves if it succeeds.” There was much more planning, and then, when the whole affair was explained to Dorothy and Jeanette, they entered into the scheme with glee. “It’ll be just like amateur theatricals!” cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. “We must rehearse our parts. Oh, won’t it be fun?” “Can you dress up to look like a young lady?” said Jack. “Not a disguise, you know, but just make yourself look as if you were eighteen or twenty years old?” “Oh, yes,” declared Dorothy. “I’m almost sixteen, anyhow. And I’ll wear one of sister Ethel’s dresses, and do my hair up high. I’ll wear a hat of hers, too, one of her prettiest ones.” “Oh, not too fancy, you know,” warned Jack. “You must dress plainly.” “All right; I’ll wear a small hat and a dotted veil. Oh, I’ll look grown up; never fear.” “Jeanette will, too,” said Betty; “she looks older than she is, anyhow. What’ll you wear, Jean?” “I’ll wear one of Mother’s gowns,” said Jeanette, smiling. “She’s so small and slender, her things just about fit me. Black, I think, with white collar and cuffs.” “I’ll wear a long cloak,” said Betty, “and a thick, dark veil, so Grandpa can scarcely see my face at all.” “And glasses,” said Jack. “I’ll get you a pair of dark spectacles, so he won’t see your eyes at all. Now let’s write the letter.” Then, all suggesting, but Jack doing most of it, the following letter was composed, and was copied by Jeanette:
“Was there a Roger Arundel in Grandpa’s class?” asked Betty, looking admiringly at the letter. “I don’t know of any,” said Jack; “I made up the name.” “Then of course there wasn’t,” said Betty. “Why didn’t you choose a name from his class list?” “Oh, I didn’t quite like to do that. It didn’t seem right. But it won’t matter. You girls will have to manage the Roger Arundel item. Now, are you sure you understand your parts? Come on, let’s rehearse. I’ll be Grandpa.” They rehearsed for an hour or more, and declared they understood their parts perfectly. “But you must disguise your voice more, Betty,” said Jack. “Talk as if you had a cold in your throat.” So Betty tried again and succeeded in achieving a hoarse, harsh whisper. “That’ll do,” said Jack, approvingly. “Talk like that and you’ll be all right.” At last the first of April came, and the other girls came over to Betty’s to start off together on their escapade. Mrs. McGuire had been taken into the secret at the last moment, thus having had no chance inadvertently to give a hint to the unsuspecting victim. She helped the three girls to make themselves look as much as possible like full-grown young ladies. And, indeed, the fact that they all wore long dresses and had their hair done up high so changed their appearance that little further disguise was necessary. Dorothy wore a tailor-made suit of her sister’s. It was of dark-blue cloth and somewhat worn, an old one having been chosen on purpose. A small blue straw hat, with a few roses, was very becoming, and the effect of it, with its carefully adjusted veil, was to make her look fully nineteen or twenty years old. Jeanette, in a plain little black suit and white shirt-waist, looked a very demure young lady. Her trim black hat showed no touch of color, and her sad little face assumed a pathetic expression that made Jack laugh. “You’ll do, Jeanette!” he exclaimed; “you’re just a picture of ‘a young lady in reduced circumstances.’” But Betty was the most disguised of all. This was necessary, for Mr. Irving scarcely knew the other two girls, anyhow, and the success of the scheme all depended on his not recognizing Betty. She wore a plain, dark dress borrowed from Dorothy’s sister. Over this was a long coat, rather loose and full, of tan-colored cloth. Her hair was drawn tightly back and done in a knot, and she wore large, dark spectacles. Already there was no resemblance left to Betty, but Mrs. McGuire added a thick, dark-brown veil, which was draped loosely over her face in old-fashioned style, and tied bunchily around her neck. “He’ll never know you in the world, Betty!” declared Jack. “You’re just all right! Now let’s hear your voice.” “Is this Mr. Irving?” said Betty, in such hoarse, raucous tones that they all shrieked with laughter. “That’ll do,” said Jack, critically; “but don’t overdo it. Remember, you don’t want Grandfather to suspect you. Now come on.” Jack and the three girls got into the carriage and were driven to Mr. Irving’s office in the city. It was half-past two when they reached the building. “Just right time to a dot,” said Jack, looking at his watch. “Go on up, Dorothy; are you nervous?” “Not a bit,” returned Dorothy, smiling, as she left the carriage. “Be sure to send the others in time.” “Trust me!” said Jack, and Dorothy entered the big building and went up in the elevator. She went to Mr. Irving’s offices, and was admitted by a clerk, who said Mr. Irving was in his private office, and asked the visitor’s name. “No name is necessary,” said Dorothy, in very grown-up tones. “I am expected.” She walked past the clerk and into the inner office. Mr. Irving looked at her in perplexity as she entered. “Miss Frances Arundel,” said Dorothy, looking a little shy, as she approached the desk. “Didn’t you get my note?” “Oh—’m—yes,” said Mr. Irving, hastily turning over some notes and letters before him. “I am a bit early,” went on Dorothy; “I wrote I would be here at three o’clock, but I was so anxious to secure a position, I came earlier. Can you employ me, sir?” She looked imploringly at Mr. Irving, who, to tell the truth, had quite forgotten the note he had received an hour or so before. He had read it hastily and intended, when the writer came, to turn her over to his clerk; but Dorothy’s earnest face arrested his attention, and he paused as he was about to ring the bell for his attendant. “You speak of Roger Arundel,” he said, glancing at the note he held in his hand. “I never knew any one by that name.” “You didn’t, sir?” Dorothy exclaimed, looking greatly surprised. “Why, wasn’t he in your class at college?” “No, he was not,” said Mr. Irving, decidedly. “What college did he attend?” “I don’t know,” faltered Dorothy, “but—it must have been some other William Irving, then. But, please, can’t you find me some employment? I am greatly in need of it!” Mr. Irving looked at the agitated girl, and felt sorry for her. “What can you do?” he said, not unkindly. “Have you had any experience in clerical work?” “Clerical work?” said Dorothy, opening her eyes. “Do you mean church work? I belong to the Sunday-school.” It chanced that Dorothy had never heard the word “clerical” used before, and she imagined it referred to the clergy. Mr. Irving bit his lips to keep from smiling. “I mean office work,” he said; “have you ever been in an office?” “Oh, no, sir; you see, we just lost our money lately. But I’m sure I could learn.” “Are you a stenographer? Can you type-write?” “No, not either. But I can write a good hand, and I’m quick at figures. Couldn’t I copy letters for you? I’m very tidy about my papers.” “H’m, well, we don’t have our letters copied by hand. I’m afraid, Miss Arundel, I can’t give you a position.” “Oh, please, sir,”—Dorothy’s lip quivered a little,—“we’re quite poor. Mother tried to take in sewing, but she’s ill now, and—and I’m the only support of the family. Do let me address envelopes or something!” Mr. Irving was very much embarrassed. He had never had an experience just like this before. Clearly, the girl was a refined little gentlewoman, and all unused to the business world. He judged her to be about eighteen or twenty, and wondered what he could do for her. He looked over the letter again. “You say your great-uncle spoke of me? Where is your uncle now?” “He’s—he’s not living, sir,” said Dorothy, looking down. “And I’m sure you’re the Mr. Irving he meant, because he said you were so kind-hearted.” Naturally this touched the old gentleman’s heart, and he truly wanted to help the girl. But in his office he employed only skilled workers, and there was no place for Dorothy. “Bless my soul, child,” he exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do with you! Arundel—Roger Arundel. No, he was not in my class, but he may have been in the college while I was there. However, I’d be glad to help you if I could,—but I can’t think of a thing for you to do.” “No?” said Dorothy, but with a hopeful inflection in her tone, as if perhaps he might yet think of something. “You see,” she went on, “I simply must get work. So of course I came here first, I felt so sure you’d help me if you could.” “Yes—yes; of course. Now, let me see—let me see. You say you’re good at figures?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, suppose you try adding up these columns.” Mr. Irving took down a book of accounts, and opened it at random. “Here now, here now,” he said, “don’t put your figures on the page; they may be wrong. Add these columns on a separate sheet of paper—so—and let me think what I can do for you.” Dorothy took the pad of paper and the pencil he gave her, and going to a seat at a side-table, she began to add. So excited was she over the way the plan was working, she could scarcely see the figures at all, but she added away industriously, now and then peeping at Mr. Irving. He was intently studying the note, and occasionally he would look off into space, as if trying to recall Mr. Roger Arundel! In a few moments the door opened, and the office boy said: “A lady to see you, sir.” “What name?” said Mr. Irving. “Here it is, sir; she just wrote it on this paper.” Mr. Irving took the paper from the boy, and read on it, “Miss Frances Arundel.” He gave a start and glanced at Dorothy. She was looking at him with horror-stricken face, and just then Jeanette came in at the door, closing it behind her, and leaving the office boy outside. Jeanette looked quietly at Mr. Irving, and said: “Did you get my letter?” “I got a letter from Frances Arundel, yes,” said the old gentleman, who was fast getting bewildered. “I wrote it,” said Jeanette, calmly. “I hope you can give me some work to do.” “You wrote it!” said Mr. Irving. “Then who is that lady there?” Jeanette turned a casual glance at Dorothy. “I don’t understand you, sir,” she said; “are you asking me who that lady is? Isn’t she your secretary or something?” “She says she’s Frances Arundel,” said Mr. Irving, grimly. “What!” cried Jeanette; “what nonsense! I am Frances Arundel. I wrote that letter you hold in your hand, and I have called to see if you can give me a position.” “You wrote this letter?” “Of course I did. I also wrote on the paper which I just gave to your office boy. If you will compare the two, you’ll find them the same penmanship.” This seemed sensible enough, and Mr. Irving looked at both papers, and as Jeanette had written the letter, a glance was sufficient to show that they were indeed by the same hand. “What does this mean?” said Mr. Irving, looking sternly at Dorothy. “Forgive me,” pleaded the little rogue, looking very sad and remorseful; “I oughtn’t to have done it, I know, but I overheard this lady in the street-car saying she was coming to see you to-day, to ask you for a position, so I thought I’d come ahead of her, and—and—maybe I could get it. I need it more than she does.” Dorothy cast a beseeching glance at Jeanette, who returned it with a haughty look. “I can’t help what she needs,” said Jeanette, turning away from Dorothy, who was pretending to be almost weeping. “I came to ask you for a position, not out of charity, but because my uncle was your chum at college, and—” “Wait a minute,” said Mr. Irving; “I never heard of Roger Arundel.” “Oh, you must have forgotten him, then,” said Jeanette, tossing her head, as if it were a matter of no moment. “But I’d like a position all the same. I’m a competent secretary, and can give satisfaction, I’m sure.” Mr. Irving was at his wits’ end. He looked at the two young ladies—Dorothy crumpling her handkerchief into her eyes, and looking very forlorn and pathetic; Jeanette rather haughty and dignified, with an air of standing her ground in spite of the impostor who was trying to take her place. “You are experienced, you say?” he said, turning to Jeanette, and thinking that, if she were indeed competent, he might find a place for her. “Yes, sir,” she replied, taking off her gloves; “shall I go right to work?” “Oh, bless my soul, no!” cried the flurried old gentleman. “I haven’t engaged you yet. I don’t do things on the jump like that. Look here, Miss—you first one—what’s your name?” “Mary Crane,” said Dorothy, saying the first name that came into her head, and feeling that she couldn’t keep up the game much longer. “Well, Miss Mary Crane, you go on with your adding, and I’ll look into your case later. It seems to me you were pretty sharp to pick up information on a street-car and put it to use so quickly! Did you overhear all that Arundel business, too?” “Yes, sir,” stammered Dorothy, who was, in truth, nearly choking with laughter. “Well, you’re a quick-witted young person, whatever else you may be. Now you go on and add. Miss Arundel, I’ll talk with you. You say you’ve had experience. Where have you worked?” Jeanette looked blank. This question had not been in her rehearsals, and she was not as quick at invention as Dorothy. While she hesitated, the door opened again, and Betty walked in unannounced. She closed the door behind her, and said, in a hoarse whisper: “Mr. Irving, I am Miss Arundel. I called to see you in hopes you could give me employment of some sort.” “Three of ’em!” exclaimed Mr. Irving. “Bless my soul!” And he sat helplessly looking at the three girls. He had no suspicion of Betty’s identity, for her long garments and thick veil and dark glasses were a complete disguise. The other two he had seen but once or twice, and of course did not recognize them in grown-up attire. Not a notion of a “joke” entered his mind, but he was mystified by what appeared to be a most extraordinary situation. “You are Miss Frances Arundel?” he said, looking directly at Betty. “Yes, sir,” she replied hoarsely, but steadily. “I came to see you about—” “I have your note,” said Mr. Irving, the paper being still in his hand. “I didn’t write you any note,” said Betty, in well-feigned surprise. “I just came in now, hoping I’d find you in, because I wanted to ask you—” “For employment, because I used to know your Uncle Roger!” Mr. Irving almost shouted. “Yes,” said Betty, seemingly pleased, “but how did you know about Uncle Roger?” “I tell you I have your note.” “And I tell you I wrote no note. Let me see it, please.” Betty scanned the letter, and then said, very gravely: “Mr. Irving, I didn’t write that. Some impostor must have represented me.” “Two of them, in fact,” said Mr. Irving; “here they are.” Betty looked at Dorothy and Jeanette, seeming to notice them for the first time. “Oh, I understand,” she said angrily; “these two young women sat behind me in the street-car, and they must have overheard my conversation with a friend to whom I confided my plan of coming to you. Did they claim to be Miss Arundel? Which of them did?” “Both!” said Mr. Irving, who had grown deeply interested in the queer affair. “They must have deceived each other as well as yourself.” Dorothy and Jeanette were the personification of discovered culprits. Dorothy’s face was buried in her handkerchief, and she shook convulsively, apparently with sobs, but really with suppressed laughter. Jeanette looked crestfallen, but still haughty and independent. Her manner seemed to say that she had been discovered, but she was ready to face the consequences. “I own up,” she said, as Mr. Irving seemed to want an explanation. “This other young lady and myself overheard Miss Arundel, and we both tried to get the position ahead of her. I’m sorry we failed.” Jeanette’s high and mighty air was almost too much for Betty, but, as a spasm of laughter seized her, she managed to turn it into a fit of coughing. “I have a fearful cold,” she said, still whispering hoarsely, “but it will be better soon. Did you say you had a position for me? I need money very much and I know you’ll help me, won’t you?” “Bless my soul! I don’t know!” exclaimed poor Mr. Irving, who was totally bewildered now by the trio of poverty-stricken girls. “I don’t give out positions. My assistants do that. What do you want, anyhow?” A short pause followed this sentence, and then, throwing off her veil with one hand, and pulling off her glasses with the other, Betty cried: “I want a hat, Grandpa! I want a hat!” “Bless my soul!” gasped Mr. Irving, dropping back into his chair. “Betty! bless my soul!” and then, as the other girls took off their veils and broke into bursts of laughter, Betty snatched up the desk calendar, which stood at April 1, and held it before her grandfather’s dazed eyes. Rapidly, then, it dawned upon him. The laughing girls, the date of April 1, and Betty’s demand for a hat, were the missing links to a full understanding of it all. “A perfect success, Betty!” cried Jack, coming up to the jolly group when he heard the laughter. “Was it!” cried Betty; “was it, Grandpa?” “You scamp!” he cried; “you rogue! you mischief!” and seizing Betty, he kissed her rosy cheeks in hearty appreciation of her clever practical joke. BETTY SNATCHED UP THE DESK CALENDAR AND HELD IT BEFORE HER GRANDFATHER’S EYES BETTY SNATCHED UP THE DESK CALENDAR AND HELD IT BEFORE HER GRANDFATHER’S EYES “Well, I should say it was!” exclaimed Mr. Irving, who was, as Mrs. McGuire had prophesied, quite as much pleased with the whole thing as were the jokers themselves. Then Dorothy and Jeanette were greatly complimented on their pretty acting; and Jack, as his share of the performance was explained, also received commendation from the old gentleman. “The very best joke ever!” Mr. Irving exclaimed, going off again and again in peals of laughter. “How did you get in, Betty? I’ve given orders to admit no one when I’m busy.” “Oh, I just told them I was Betty,” she replied. “The boy looked at me suspiciously at first, but when I spoke without my ‘cold,’ of course he knew me!” “You little witch! Nobody ever tricked me before! Now, you, each of you, and Jack too, can get the very best hats you can find in Boston and send the bill to me.” “Oh, goody, Grandpa, that will be great fun!” cried Betty. “But you go with us, won’t you, to pick them out?” “Yes, I’ll go right now.” “No; we can’t go in these rigs. But we’ll hurry home and put on our own frocks; then we’ll come back here for you, and we’ll all go hatting.” “Very well; don’t be long.” “No, sir; we’ll be back in half an hour.” And so they were. |
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