Aunt Jane’s Nieces and Uncle John by L. Frank Baum



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CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING “MUMBLES”

Major Gregory Doyle paced nervously up and down the floor of the cosy sitting room.

“Something’s surely happened to our Patsy!” he exclaimed.

A little man with a calm face and a bald head, who was seated near the fire, continued to read his newspaper and paid no attention to the outburst.

“Something has happened to Patsy!” repeated the Major, “Patsy” meaning his own and only daughter Patricia.

“Something is always happening to everyone,” said the little man, turning his paper indifferently. “Something is happening to me, for I can’t find the rest of this article. Something is happening to you, for you’re losing your temper.”

“I’m not, sir! I deny it.”

“As for Patsy,” continued the other, “she is sixteen years old and knows New York like a book. The girl is safe enough.”

“Then where is she? Tell me that, sir. Here it is, seven o’clock, dark as pitch and raining hard, and Patsy is never out after six. Can you, John Merrick, sit there like a lump o’ putty and do nothing, when your niece and my own darlin’ Patsy is lost—or strayed or stolen?”

“What would you propose doing?” asked Uncle John, looking up with a smile.

“We ought to get out the police department. It’s raining and cold, and—”

“Then we ought to get out the fire department. Call Mary to put on more coal and let’s have it warm and cheerful when Patsy comes in.”

“But, sir—”

“The trouble with you, Major, is that dinner is half an hour late. One can imagine all sorts of horrible things on an empty stomach. Now, then—”

He paused, for a pass-key rattled in the hall door and a moment later Patsy Doyle, rosy and animated, fresh from the cold and wet outside, smilingly greeted them.

She had an umbrella, but her cloak was dripping with moisture and in its ample folds was something huddled and bundled up like a baby, which she carefully protected.

“So, then,” exclaimed the Major, coming forward for a kiss, “you’re back at last, safe and sound. Whatever kept ye out ’til this time o’ night, Patsy darlin’?” he added, letting the brogue creep into his tone, as he did when stirred by any emotion.

Uncle John started to take off her wet cloak.

“Look out!” cried Patsy; “you’ll disturb Mumbles.”

The two men looked at her bundle curiously.

“Who’s Mumbles?” asked one.

“What on earth is Mumbles?” inquired the other.

The bundle squirmed and wriggled. Patsy sat down on the floor and carefully unwound the folds of the cloak. A tiny dog, black and shaggy, put his head out, blinked sleepily at the lights, pulled his fat, shapeless body away from the bandages and trotted solemnly over to the fireplace. He didn’t travel straight ahead, as dogs ought to walk, but “cornerwise,” as Patsy described it; and when he got to the hearth he rolled himself into a ball, lay down and went to sleep.

During this performance a tense silence had pervaded the room. The Major looked at the dog rather gloomily; Uncle John with critical eyes that held a smile in them; Patsy with ecstatic delight.

“Isn’t he a dear!” she exclaimed.

“It occurs to me,” said the Major stiffly, “that this needs an explanation. Do you mean to say, Patsy Doyle, that you’ve worried the hearts out of us this past hour, and kept the dinner waiting, all because of a scurvy bit of an animal?”

“Pshaw!” said Uncle John. “Speak for yourself, Major. I wasn’t worried a bit.”

“You see,” explained Patsy, rising to take off her things and put them away, “I was coming home early when I first met Mumbles. A little boy had him, with a string tied around his neck, and when Mumbles tried to run up to me the boy jerked him back cruelly—and afterward kicked him. That made me mad.”

“Of course,” said Uncle John, nodding wisely.

“I cuffed the boy, and he said he’d take it out on Mumbles, as soon as I’d gone away. I didn’t like that. I offered to buy the dog, but the boy didn’t dare sell him. He said it belonged to his father, who’d kill him and kick up a row besides if he didn’t bring Mumbles home. So I found out where they lived and as it wasn’t far away I went home with him.”

“Crazy Patsy!” smiled Uncle John.

“And the dinner waiting!” groaned the Major, reproachfully.

“Well, I had a time, you can believe!” continued Patsy, with animation. “The man was a big brute, and half drunk. He grabbed up the little doggie and threw it into a box, and then told me to go home and mind my business.”

“Which of course you refused to do.”

“Of course. I’d made up my mind to have that dog.”

“Dogs,” said the Major, “invariably are nuisances.”

“Not invariably,” declared Patsy. “Mumbles is different. Mumbles is a good doggie, and wise and knowing, although he’s only a baby dog yet. And I just couldn’t leave him to be cuffed and kicked and thrown around by those brutes. When the man found I was determined to have Mumbles he demanded twenty-five dollars.”

“Twenty-five dollars!” It startled Uncle John.

“For that bit of rags and meat?” asked the Major, looking at the puppy with disfavor. “Twenty-five cents would be exorbitant.”

“The man misjudged me,” observed Patsy, with a merry laugh that matched her twinkling blue eyes. “In the end he got just two dollars for Mumbles, and when I came away he bade me good-bye very respectfully. The boy howled. He hasn’t any dog to kick and is broken-hearted. As for Mumbles, he’s going to lead a respectable life and be treated like a dog.”

“Do you mean to keep him?” inquired the Major.

“Why not?” said Patsy. “Don’t you like him, Daddy?”

Her father turned Mumbles over with his toe. The puppy lay upon its back, lazily, with all four paws in the air, and cast a comical glance from one beady bright eye at the man who had disturbed him.

The Major sighed.

“He can’t hunt, Patsy; he’s not even a mouser.”

“We haven’t a mouse in the house.”

“He’s neither useful nor ornamental. From the looks o’ the beast he’s only good to sleep and eat.”

“What’s the odds?” laughed Patsy, coddling Mumbles up in her arms. “We don’t expect use or ornamentation from Mumbles. All we ask is his companionship.”

Mary called them to dinner just then, and the girl hurried to her room to make a hasty toilet while the men sat down at the table and eyed their soup reflectively.

“This addition to the family,” remarked Uncle John, “need not make you at all unhappy, my dear Major. Don’t get jealous of Mumbles, for heaven’s sake, for the little brute may add a bit to Patsy’s bliss.”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever allowed a dog in the house.”

“You are not running this present establishment. It belongs exclusively to Patsy.”

“I’ve always hated the sight of a woman coddling a dog,” added the
Major, frowning.

“I know. I feel the same way myself. But it isn’t the dog’s fault. It’s the woman’s. And Patsy won’t make a fool of herself over that frowsy puppy, I assure you. On the contrary, she’s likely to get a lot of joy out of her new plaything, and if you really want to make her happy, Major, don’t discourage this new whim, absurd as it seems. Let Patsy alone. And let Mumbles alone.”

The girl came in just then, bringing sunshine with her. Patsy Doyle was not very big for her years, and some people unkindly described her form as “chubby.” She had glorious red hair—really-truly red—and her blue eyes were the merriest, sweetest eyes any girl could possess. You seldom noticed her freckles, her saucy chin or her turned-up nose; you only saw the laughing eyes and crown of golden red, and seeing them you liked Patsy Doyle at once and imagined she was very good to look at, if not strictly beautiful. No one had friends more loyal, and these two old men—the stately Major and round little Uncle John—fairly worshiped Patsy.

No one might suspect, from the simple life of this household, which occupied the second corner flat at 3708 Willing Square, that Miss Doyle was an heiress. Not only that, but perhaps one of the very richest girls in New York. And the reason is readily explained when I state the fact that Patsy’s Uncle John Merrick, the round little bald-headed man who sat contentedly eating his soup, was a man of many millions, and this girl his favorite niece. An old bachelor who had acquired an immense fortune in the far Northwest, Mr. Merrick had lately retired from active business and come East to seek any relatives that might remain to him after forty years’ absence. His sister Jane had gathered around her three nieces—Louise Merrick, Elizabeth De Graf and Patricia Doyle—and when Aunt Jane died Uncle John adopted these three girls and made their happiness the one care of his jolly, unselfish life. At that time Major Doyle, Patsy’s only surviving parent, was a poor bookkeeper; but Uncle John gave him charge of his vast property interests, and loving Patsy almost as devotedly as did her father, made his home with the Doyles and began to enjoy himself for the first time in his life.

At the period when this story opens the eldest niece, Louise Merrick, had just been married to Arthur Weldon, a prosperous young business man, and the remaining two nieces, as well as Uncle John, were feeling rather lonely and depressed. The bride had been gone on her honeymoon three days, and during the last two days it had rained persistently; so, until Patsy came home from a visit to Beth and brought the tiny dog with her, the two old gentlemen had been feeling dreary enough.

Patsy always livened things up. Nothing could really depress this spirited girl for long, and she was always doing some interesting thing to create a little excitement.

“If she hadn’t bought a twenty-five cent pup for two dollars,” remarked the Major, “she might have brought home an orphan from the gutters, or a litter of tomcats, or one of the goats that eat the tin cans at Harlem. Perhaps, after all, we should be thankful it’s only—what’s his name?”

“Mumbles,” said Patsy, merrily. “The boy said they called him that because he mumbled in his sleep. Listen!”

Indeed, the small waif by the fire was emitting a series of noises that seemed a queer mixture of low growls and whines—evidence unimpeachable that he had been correctly named.

At Patsy’s shout of laughter, supplemented by Uncle John’s chuckles and a reproachful cough from the Major, Mumbles awakened and lifted his head. It may be an eye discovered the dining-table in the next room, or an intuitive sense of smell directed him, for presently the small animal came trotting in—still traveling “cornerwise”—and sat up on his hind legs just beside Patsy’s chair.

“That settles it,” said the Major, as his daughter began feeding the dog. “Our happy home is broken up.”

“Perhaps not,” suggested Uncle John, reaching out to pat the soft head of Mumbles. “It may be the little beggar will liven us all up a bit.”

CHAPTER II

UNCLE JOHN’S IDEA

Two hours later Uncle John, who had been dozing in his big chair by the fire while Patsy drummed on the piano, sat up abruptly and looked around him with a suddenly acquired air of decision.

“I have an idea,” he announced.

“Did you find it in your dreams, then?” asked the Major, sharply.

“Why, Daddy, how cross you are!” cried Patsy. “Can’t Uncle John have an idea if he wants to?”

“I’m afraid of his ideas,” admitted the Major, suspiciously. “Every time he goes to sleep and catches a thought, it means trouble.”

Patsy laughed, looking at her uncle curiously, and the little man smiled at her genially in return.

“It takes me a long time to figure a thing out,” he said; “and when I’ve a problem to solve a bit of a snooze helps wonderfully. Patsy, dear, it occurs to me we’re lonely.”

“We surely are, Uncle!” she exclaimed.

“And in the dumps.”

“Our spirits are at the bottom of the bottomless pit.”

“So what we need is—a change.”

“There it goes!” said the Major ruefully. “I knew very well any idea of John Merrick’s would cause us misery. But understand this, you miserable home-wrecker, sir, my daughter Patsy steps not one foot out of New York this winter.”

“Why not?” mildly inquired Uncle John.

“Because you’ve spirited her away from me times enough, and deprived her only parent of her society. First you gallivanted off to Europe, and then to Millville, and next to Elmhurst; so now, egad, I’m going to keep the girl with me if I have to throttle every idea in your wicked old head!”

“But I’m planning to take you along, this time. Major,” observed Uncle
John reflectively.

“Oh. Hum! Well, I can’t go. There’s too much business to be attended to—looking after your horrible money.”

“Take a vacation. You know I don’t care anything about the business. It can’t go very wrong, anyhow. What does it matter if my income isn’t invested properly, or the bond coupons cut when they’re due? Drat the money!”

“That’s what I say,” added Patsy eagerly. “Be a man, Major Doyle, and put the business out of your mind. Let’s go somewhere and have a good romp. It will cheer us up.”

The Major stared first at one and then at the other.

“What’s the programme, John?” he asked stiffly.

“It’s going to be a cold winter,” remarked the little man, bobbing his head up and down slowly.

“It is!” cried Patsy, clasping her hands fervently. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“So we’re going,” said Uncle John, impressively, “to California—where they grow sunshine and roses to offset our blizzards and icicles.”

“Hurray!” shouted Patsy. “I’ve always wanted to go to California.”

“California!” said the Major, amazed; “why, it’s farther away than
Europe. It takes a month to get there.”

“Nonsense.” retorted Uncle John. “It’s only four days from coast to coast. I have a time-table, somewhere,” and he began searching in his pockets.

There was a silence, oppressive on the Major’s part, ecstatic as far as Patsy was concerned. Uncle John found the railway folder, put on his spectacles, and began to examine it.

“At my time of life,” remarked Major Doyle, who was hale and hearty as a boy, “such a trip is a great undertaking.”

“Twenty-four hours to Chicago,” muttered Uncle John; “and then three days to Los Angeles or San Francisco. That’s all there is to it.”

“Four days and four nights of dreary riding. We’d be dead by that time,” prophesied the Major.

Uncle John looked thoughtful. Then he lay back in his chair and spread his handkerchief over his face again.

“No, no!” cried the Major, in alarm. “For mercy’s sake, John, don’t go to sleep and catch any more of those terrible ideas. No one knows where the next one might carry us—to Timbuktu or Yucatan, probably. Let’s stick to California and settle the question before your hothouse brain grows any more weeds.”

“Yucatan,” remarked Mr. Merrick, composedly, his voice muffled by the handkerchief, “isn’t a bad suggestion.”

“I knew it!” wailed the Major. “How would Ethiopia or Hindustan strike you?”

Patsy laughed at him. She knew something good was in store for her and like all girls was enraptured at the thought of visiting new and interesting scenes.

“Don’t bother Uncle John, Daddy,” she said. “You know very well he will carry out any whim that seizes him; especially if you oppose the plan, which you usually do.”

“He’s the most erratic and irresponsible man that ever lived,” announced her father, staring moodily at the spread handkerchief which covered Uncle John’s cherub-like features. “New York is good enough for anybody, even in winter; and now that you’re in society, Patsy—”

“Oh, bother society! I hate it.”

“True,” he agreed; “it’s a regular treadmill when it has enslaved one, and keeps you going on and on without progressing a bit. The object of society is to tire you out and keep you from indulging in any other occupation.”

“You know nothing about it,” observed Patsy, demurely, “and that is why you love to rail at society. The things you know, Daddy dear, are the things you never remark upon.”

“Huh!” grunted the Major, and relapsed into silence.

Mumbles had finished his after-dinner nap and was now awakening to activity. This dog’s size, according to the Major, was “about 4×6; but you can’t tell which is the 4 and which the 6.” He was distressingly shaggy. Patsy could find the stump of his tail only by careful search. Seldom were both eyes uncovered by hair at the same time. But, as his new mistress had said, he was a wise little dog for one who had only known the world for a few months, and his brain was exceedingly alert. After yawning at the fire he rubbed his back against the Major’s legs, sat up beside Patsy and looked at her from one eye pleadingly. Next he trotted over to Uncle John. The big white handkerchief attracted him and one corner hung down from the edge of the reclining chair. Mumbles sat up and reached for it, but could not quite get it in his teeth. So he sat down and thought it over, and presently made a leap so unexpectedly agile that Patsy roared with merriment and even the Major grinned. Uncle John, aroused, sat up and found the puppy rolling on the floor and fighting the handkerchief as if it had been some deadly foe.

“Thank goodness,” sighed the Major. “The little black rascal has providently prevented you from evolving another idea.”

“Not so,” responded Mr. Merrick amiably. “I’ve thought the thing all out, and completed our programme.”

“Is it still to be California?” anxiously inquired Patsy.

“Of course. I can’t give up the sunshine and roses, you know. But we won’t bore the Major by four solid days of railway travel. We’ll break the journey, and take two or three weeks to it—perhaps a month.”

“Conquering Caesar! A month!” ejaculated the old soldier, a desperate look on his face.

“Yes. Listen, both of you. We’ll get to Chicago in a night and a day. We will stop off there and visit the stockyards, and collect a few squeals for souvenirs.”

“No, we won’t!” declared Patsy, positively.

“We might sell Mumbles to some Chicago sausage factory,” remarked the Major, “but not for two whole dollars. He wouldn’t make more than half a pound at twenty cents the pound.”

“There are other sights to be seen in Chicago,” continued Uncle John. “Anyhow, we’ll stop off long enough to get rested. Then on to Denver and Pike’s Peak.”

“That sounds good,” said Patsy.

“At Denver,” said Uncle John, “we will take a touring car and cross the mountains in it. There are good roads all the way from there to California.”

“Who told you so?” demanded the Major.

“No one. It’s a logical conclusion, for I’ve lived in the West and know the prairie roads are smoother than boulevards. However, Haggerty told me the other day that he has made the trip from Denver to Los Angeles by automobile, and what others can do, we can do.”

“It will be glorious!” prophesied Patsy, delightedly.

The Major looked grave, but could find no plausible objection to offer. He really knew nothing about the West and had never had occasion to consider such a proposition before.

“We’ll talk to Haggerty,” he said. “But you must remember he’s a desperate liar, John, and can’t be trusted as a guidepost. When do you intend to start?”

“Why not to-morrow?” asked Uncle John mildly.

Even Patsy demurred at this.

“Why, we’ve got to get ready, Uncle,” she said. “And who’s going? Just we three?”

“We will take Beth along, of course.” Beth was Elizabeth De Graf, a