"MITTENS"
There was a loud and imperative knock at the study door. Stowellgrowled to himself at the interruption, took a deep breath andbellowed, "Come in!"
Then his eyes went back to the book on his knees. The knock wasunmistakably that of "Chick" Reeves, and with "Chick" Stowell neverstood on ceremony. But when a full minute had passed after the doorhad closed, without any of "Chick's" customary demonstrations, such asthe overturning of chairs, the wafting of pillows across the room, orthe emitting of blood-curdling whoops, Stowell became alarmed for hisfellow freshman's health, and so, after many groans and much exertion,he sat up and put his head around the corner of the big armchair. Whathe saw surprised him.
The visitor was a stranger; a tall, raw-boned youth of about seventeen,with a homely, freckled face surmounted by a good deal of tousled,hemp-colored hair. His eyes were ridiculously blue and his cheeks heldthe remains of what had apparently been a generous tan. Altogetherthe face was attractive, if not handsome; the blue eyes looked candidand honest; the nose was straight and well-made; the mouth suggestedgood nature and strength of purpose. But it is not to be supposed thatJimmie Stowell reached these numerous conclusions on this occasion.On the contrary, the impression he received was of an awkward,illy-clothed boy holding a small paper parcel.
"Hello!" said Stowell.
The visitor had evidently been at a loss, for the back of the armchairhad hidden his host from sight, and he had turned irresolutely towardthe door again. Now he faced Stowell, observing him calmly.
"Hello!" he answered. He crossed the study deliberately, unwrapping hisparcel as he went.
"Er--want to see me?" asked Stowell, puzzled.
"If you please." There was no evidence of diffidence in the caller'smanner, and yet Stowell found it hard to reconcile his appearancewith that commanding knock at the portal. The blue-eyed youth threwback the wrapping from his bundle and held it forth. Stowell took itwonderingly. Five pairs of coarse blue woolen mittens met his gaze. Hefrowned and viewed the caller suspiciously.
"What is it," he growled, "a joke?"
"Mittens," answered the other imperturbably. "I'm selling them."
"Oh, I see." He handed them back. "Well, I never wear them." He turnedtoward his chair. "Hang these peddlers!" he said to himself.
"They're very warm," suggested the other.
"They look it," answered Stowell, grimly. "But I wear gloves."
"Oh, excuse me." The visitor began to wrap them carefully up again."That's what everybody says. I wish I'd known it before."
"But, Great Scott!" exclaimed Stowell, "you didn't really think thatany one wore that sort of thing nowadays? Why they look like--likesocks!"
"Yes, I suppose they do. But up our way we generally wear them. Yousee, they're warmer than gloves."
"Where do you come from?"
"Michigan."
"Michigan! Well, what are you doing here, then?"
"Studying." He looked surprised at the question.
"Do you mean that you're in college?" asked Stowell, in amazement. Theother nodded.
"I'm a freshman." Stowell's perplexity increased. "I thought," theother went on, "that I could sell some of these around college. Ididn't know about you all wearing gloves. I--I guess I'll have to giveit up." There was disappointment in his voice.
"Are you doing this to make money?" Stowell asked.
"Yes, I'm only asking sixty cents. Does that seem too much?"
Stowell thought it was a good deal too much, but he didn't say so, andthe other went on.
"They're regular lumberman's mittens, you know, made of best woolenyarn and mighty warm. Of course, they don't cost me that much, but Ihave to make something on them."
"Oh, that's reasonable enough," said Stowell, hurriedly, "and, I tellyou what you do. I'm dead broke this morning, but you come in later inthe week and bring me a couple of pairs and I'll have the money foryou."
But to his surprise the other shook his head smilingly.
"You just want to help me," he said. "You wouldn't wear them, I guess.But I'm thankful to you." He placed his parcel under his arm and movedtoward the door.
"Well, but hold on," cried Stowell. "Don't be an ass! Look here-- Bythe way, what's your name?"
"Shult."
"Well, now you bring those along and I'll wear them. You say they'rewarm; that's what I want, something warm. And--look here, have you gotthem in any other color?"
"No, they're always blue, you know."
"Oh!" Stowell felt that he had displayed unpardonable ignorance. "Yes,of course. Well, you bring a couple of pairs, say, Wednesday, will you?"
"All right," answered Shult. "Good morning."
"Good morning," murmured Stowell. The door closed behind his visitorand he went grinning back to his chair.
Half an hour later when "Chick" Reeves did come in, playfully tippingStowell and the armchair on to the hearth-rug by way of greeting,Stowell told him about the Michigan freshie who was peddling bluewoolen mitts, and told it so well that "Chick" sat on the floor andhowled with delight.
"And you are going to wear them?" he gurgled.
"Why, I'll have to," answered Stowell, ruefully. "I wanted to help thebeggar, and he wouldn't sell them to me unless I wore them."
"Then I'll have to have a pair, too."
"Oh, you'll need a couple of pairs," laughed Stowell, "one forweek-days and one for Sundays."
"Of course I will. A chap needs something nice for the theater. Wheredoes 'Mittens' hang out?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. His name's Shoot or Shult; you can find him inthe catalogue."
"I will. And, say, maybe he sells blue socks, too, eh? If thecooperative hears of it they'll have the law on him. Did you ask him ifhe had a license?"
"No." Stowell looked down at Reeves thoughtfully.
Then he said slowly, "Now, look here, 'Mittens,' as you call him, isall right. So don't go to having fun with him, hear?"
"Not me," grinned "Chick."
"Oh, no, you naturally wouldn't," growled Stowell. "But if you do I'llbreak your head for you."
Stowell had quite forgotten his strange visitor of the day before when,on Tuesday morning, he met him on the steps of University. Shult'sclothes looked more ill fitting than before, and it cost Stowell, whowas accompanied by two extremely select members of his class, somewhatof an effort to stop and speak to him.
"Hello, Shult," he said, "how are you getting along?"
The dealer in blue mittens flushed, whether with embarrassment orpleasure Stowell couldn't tell, and paused on his way down the granitesteps.
"Not very well," he answered. "I--I've sold three pairs so far."
"Hard luck," answered Stowell. "Don't forget mine, will you?"
"Oh, no; I'm--I'll bring them to-morrow. Do you want them long orshort?"
"Er--well, what would you suggest?" asked Stowell gravely.
"The long ones keep your wrists warmer, of course," said Shult.
"Of course, I'll take that kind," Stowell decided. "I've a friend, bythe way, fellow named Reeves, who said he'd take a couple of pairs. Hewas going to look you up. Seen him yet?"
"No, I haven't. I could--I could call on him if you think he'd like meto?"
"No, it wouldn't pay; you'd never find him in. I'll tell him to lookyou up. Where's your joint?"
"Joint?"
"Yes, your room, you know."
"Oh," said Shult. He gave an address that Stowell had never heard of."I'm usually in at night," he added.
They parted, and Stowell joined the two grinning freshmen inside. Theirnames were Clinton and Hazlett.
"Who's your handsome friend?" asked one.
"Looks like a genius," laughed the other. "What's his line?"
"Mittens," answered Stowell, gravely.
"What?"
"Mittens."
Then the green door swung behind him.
At four o'clock the next afternoon Clinton, Hazlett and Stowell weresitting in the latter's study. The fire ro
ared in the grate and anorthwest wind roared outside the curtained windows. There came aresounding thump on the door, and, without waiting a response, "Chick"Reeves bounded in. Standing just inside, he closed the portal, shookimaginary snowflakes from his cap, shivered and blew on his hands.
"Br-r-r," he muttered, "'tis bitter cold! The river is caked withchokes of ice! I can not cross the river to-night! Hark, how the windhowls round the turret!"
Then, with sudden abandonment of melodrama, he made his way to thegrate, spread his legs apart, and, with his back to the flames, grinnedbroadly upon Stowell. Gradually his grin grew into a laugh.
"You're an awful idiot," said Stowell.
"I know, I know," chuckled Reeves. "But I've got the biggest joke youever heard! It's--it's like a story. Listen, my children." He turned toStowell. "You remember 'Mittens'?" Stowell nodded.
"I've been to see him, and----"
"Did you buy some mittens?" asked Hazlett, who, with Clinton, had atlast heard of Stowell's _protege_.
"Yes, but listen. He lives in the queerest place you ever heard tellof; it's down on one of those side streets toward the bridge; a regulartenement-house with brats all over the front steps and an eloquent,appealing odor of boiled cabbage and onions in the air. Well, I askeda woman in a calico wrapper where Mr. Shult lived and she directed meup two flights of stairs; told me to knock on the 'sicond door to meroight.' I knocked, a voice called, 'Come in, Mrs. Brannigan,' and Iwent in, politely explaining that, despite certain similarities ofappearance, I was not Mrs. Brannigan. Well"--"Chick's" risibilitiesthreatened to master him again; he choked and went on. "Well, there was'Mittens.' He was sitting in a sort of kitchen rocker with a Latin bookon his knee and--and-- Say, _what_ do you think he was doing?"
"Grinding," said Clinton.
"Sawing wood," said Hazlett.
Stowell shook his head.
"You'd never guess," howled Reeves, "never in a thousand years! Hewas--was--oh, golly!--he was _knitting_!"
"_Knitting!_" It was a chorus of three incredulous voices.
"Yes, knitting! Knitting blue-woolen mittens!"
"By Jove!" muttered Stowell.
Clinton and Hazlett burst into peals of laughter.
"You--you ought to have seen his expression when he saw that I wasn'tMrs. Brannigan," went on "Chick," wiping the tears from his eyes. "Hestared and got as red as a beet; then he tried to get the thing out ofsight. Of course, I apologized for intruding when he was busy, and hesaid it didn't matter. And after a while he told me all about it. Seemshe lives up in the backwoods--or whatever you call 'em--in Michigan;up among the lumber-camps, you know. His father's dead, he told me,and his mother keeps a sort of hotel or boarding-house or something.Of course," added "Chick," with a note of apology in his voice, "thatisn't funny. But it seems that when he was a kid they taught him toknit, and made him do socks and mittens and things. I've forgotten alot of it, but he wanted to go to college and hadn't any money to speakof, and so they borrowed a little somewhere--enough for tuition--andnow he's trying to make enough on mittens to pay his board. He gets hisroom free for teaching some of the little Brannigans, I believe. He'sspunky, isn't he? But I thought I'd keel over on the floor when I sawhim sitting there for all the world like an old granny in the Christmaspictures, just making those needles fly. Maybe he can't knit!"
"And then what?" asked Stowell, quietly.
"Chick's" grin faded out a little.
"Why--er--that's all, I guess. I ordered two pairs of the funny thingsand came away."
Clinton and Hazlett were still chuckling. "Chick" looked from them toStowell doubtfully and began to wonder what ailed the latter's sense ofhumor.
"Knitting!" murmured Clinton, "think of it!"
"Yes," said Stowell, suddenly, "that's awfully funny, 'Chick.' Funniestthing I've heard for a long while. Do you know--" the tone made hisfriend stare in surprise--"I think you've got one of the most delicatehumorous perceptions I've ever met up with. You have, indeed. Onlyyou, 'Chick,' could have seen all the exquisite humor in the situationyou've described. You ought to be proud of yourself."
Clinton and Hazlett had ceased their chuckles and were looking over attheir host, their faces reflecting the surprise and uneasiness upon"Chick's."
"Here's a poor duffer," went on Stowell, "without money; father dead;mother takes boarders to make a living; wants to go to college andlearn to be something a little better than a backwoods lumberman. Hegets enough money together somehow--I think you said they borrowed it,'Chick'?"
That youth nodded silently.
"Yes, borrowed enough to pay the tuition fee. And then he's thrownon his own resources to make enough to buy himself things to eat. Isuppose even these backwoods beggars have to eat once in a while,Clint? And having learned how to knit blue-woolen mittens--awfullyfunny looking things, they are--he just goes ahead and knits them,rather than starve to death, and tries to sell them to a lot ofsuperior beings like you and me here, not knowing in his backwoodsignorance that we only wear Fownes's or Dent's, and that we naturallylook down on fellows who----"
"Oh, dry up, old man," growled "Chick." "I haven't been saying anythingagainst the duffer. Of course he's plucky and all that. You needn'tjump on a fellow so."
"Yes, he has got grit, and that's a fact," Clinton allowed. "Only, ofcourse, knitting--well, it's a bit out of the ordinary, eh?"
"I suppose it is," answered Stowell. "In fact 'Mittens' is a bit out ofthe ordinary himself. He's----"
There was a knock at the door, and, in response to Stowell'sinvitation, Shult, tall, ungainly, tow-haired, freckle-faced, enteredand paused in momentary embarrassment as his blue eyes lighted onReeves.
"Hello, Shult; come in," called Stowell. "Have you brought thosemittens?"
Shult had, and he undid them carefully, and crossing the study, handedthem to their purchaser.
"Ah," continued Stowell, drawing one of the heavy blue things on tohis hand, "long wrists, I see. That's fine. Like to see them, Bob?"Hazlett said that he would. Every one was very silent and grave.Reeves, after nodding to Shult, had busied himself with a magazine. Nowhe leaned over Hazlett's shoulder and examined the mittens with almostbreathless interest. Clinton craned his head forward and Stowell handedthe other pair to him for inspection. Shult stood silently by, hisembarrassment gone.
"Look as though they'd be very warm," said Hazlett, in the voice ofone hazarding an opinion on a matter of national importance. He lookedinquiringly, deferentially, up at Shult.
"Warm as toast," said the latter.
"Seem well made, too," said Clinton. Then he colored and glancedapologetically at Stowell. Stowell turned his head.
"Do you get these hereabouts, Shult?" he asked. There was a moment'shesitation. Then,
"I--I knit them myself," said the freshman, quietly.
"Not really!" exclaimed Stowell, in much surprise. "Did you hear that,Clint? He makes them himself. It must be quite a knack, eh?"
"I should say so!" Clinton exclaimed, enthusiastically. "It--it's anaccomplishment!"
"By Jove!" said Hazlett. They all stared admiringly at Shult.
"But, I say, don't stand up," exclaimed Stowell. "'Chick,' push thatchair over."
Shult sat down. He was very grateful to Reeves for not telling what hehad seen during his call, and grateful to the others for not laughingat his confession. It had taken quite a deal of courage to makethat confession, for he had anticipated ridicule. But instead theseimmaculately dressed fellows almost appeared to envy him his knowledgeof the art of knitting woolen mittens. He was very pleased.
"I wonder--" began Clinton. He glanced doubtfully at his host. "I thinkI'd like to have some of these myself. Have you--er--any more, Mr.Shult?"
"Oh, yes; I can make a pair an evening, anyhow. I--I didn't suppose youfellows would care for them."
"Nonsense," said Stowell. "They're just what a chap needs around here.I--I used to wear them when I was a boy; after all, there's nothinglike old-fashioned mitts to keep your hands warm
."
"Nothing!" said Clinton.
"Nothing!" echoed Hazlett.
"Nothing!" murmured Reeves.
"If you could let me have--ah--about two pairs----"
Clinton's request was firmly interrupted by his host.
"Nonsense, Clint, you'll need at least four. I'm going to have a couplemore myself."
"I dare say you're right. If you could let me have _four_ pairs, Mr.Shult, I--ah--should be very much obliged."
"And me the same," said Hazlett.
"Yes, certainly," answered Shult, flustered and vastly pleased. "Youshall have them right off."
"And let me see, 'Chick,'" said Stowell, "didn't I hear you say youwanted a couple more pairs?"
"Yes, oh, yes," Reeves replied explosively. "Er--two pairs, please."
Shult looked surprised. Fortune was favoring him beyond his wildesthopes. He muttered an incoherent answer. Then Stowell gravely paidhim for the two pairs of intensely blue and shapeless objects in hislap and Shult made the exact change after repeated searches in threedifferent pockets. At the door he turned.
"You are all very kind to me," he said, gravely and earnestly."I'm--I'm thankful to you."
Stowell murmured politely.
After the door had closed there followed several moments of silence.Then a smile crept over Stowell's face and was reflected on the facesof the others. But nobody laughed.
* * * * *
Possibly the reader recalls the epidemic of blue-woolen mittens thatraged in college that winter. One saw them everywhere. The fashionstarted, they say, among a certain coterie of correct dressers in thefreshman class and spread until it enveloped the entire undergraduatebody. None could explain it, and none tried to; blue-woolen mitts werethe proper thing; that was sufficient. At first the demand could notbe supplied, but before the Midyears were over the Cooperative Societysecured a quantity, and the furnishing stores followed its exampleas soon as possible. But blue-woolen mitts in sufficient quantitiesto fill the orders were difficult to find, and long before the shopshad secured the trade in that commodity, one Shult, out of Michigan,had reaped a very respectable harvest and found a nickname which,despite the lapse of years and the accumulation of honors, stillsticks--"Mittens."
THE END