Radio mirror (Nov 1935-Apr 1936)

RADIO MI RROR banish such worries. She must plunge into the business at hand, see to it that the orphans were kept happy and healthy. She woke up the morning of the eighth day feeling that she was well along in getting things running smooth. Alter lunch, she stretched out on the deep, wide sofa in the living room and half fell asleep. She didn't hear Steve come tiptoeing in. It was only when he stood over her, his arms piled high with bundles, that she opened her eyes. "Steve, you look like Santa Claus." "These," Steve said proudly, "are rattles, guaranteed to fit any mood." "Steve, be serious," Penelope said, sitting up, "you mustn't throw your money around like — like a drunken sailor!" "It's your own fault. You won't let me bring you presents and I've got to have some emotional outlet. And that reminds me," he went on, "a Mrs. Foster who adopted one of our boys four years ago is in the library. The kid has found out he's not really their child and he's taking it pretty hard." PENELOPE jumped to her feet. "I'll see her right now," she said over her shoulder as she ran across the hall into the other room. Mrs. Foster was sitting down, her face in her hands. Between sobs of anguish, she told the story. Her young nephew had told Bobby, the orphan she had adopted, that he had come from the Home and had mocked him. "Now Bobby just sits and broods," she explained. "He won't play or talk." Penelope saw that there was only one thing to do. "Will you send Bobby and Stuart to see me?" Before an hour was up, the maid was announcing that the two boys were waiting in the living room. Penelope hurried in to talk to them. "Which is Bobby and which is Stuart?" she asked. "I'm Stuart," one of the boys said proudly, then in disdainful tones, "Bobby, that's him," pointing to his companion who was looking down at his feet. "Well," Penelope said, "I'm glad to know you. I understand you both were adopted from here." "Not me!" Stuart said, puffing up with pride. "But Bobby's adopted." "Hmmm," Penelope mused, "you look good enough to be an adopted, Stuart. I'd never have guessed you weren't." "Oh, do adopteds always look good?" Stuart asked, a little crestfallen. "Our babies do," Penelope assured him. "We're very particular here. That's why Bobby's father and mother came to us when they wanted a little boy. They looked at twenty-nine babies before they found just the right one!" Bobby looked incredulous. "Twentynine? Gosh!" He turned to Stuart. "I guess' that'll show you us adopteds are pretty smart. You heard what she said. I was picked. Your mom and dad had to take what they got." When the two boys walked out, a few minutes later, it was Bobby whose chest was out. Penelope sank back in a chair, exhausted. She was still sitting there when Steve came back. She waved a hand and smiled wanly at him as he sauntered into the room. "I got those two small kids straightened out," she told him. "Swell," Steve answered. "How about dinner tonight in celebration?" Penelope shook her head slowly. "I'd love to, but I'm so tired my legs ache. I have some reports to write up anyway." Steve's face fell. "I can see this job is 62 The Adventures of Penelope (.Continued from page 34) going to interfere with your social life. I'll have to think up more business to see you about during office hours." "Steve, don't be silly. You know I'll always have time for you, only tonight I just couldn't keep my eyes open. You understand, don't you?" "Sure, that's one thing you can count on me for, always," Steve answered. By herself once more, Penelope wasn't so sure that Steve did understand. Now that she was divorcing John, he had every right to expect formal consideration as a suitor. And — and she just couldn't. Her one, big worry at the moment was Mickey, the cripple she'd made her jack of all trades and who lived in the hope that soon someone would adopt him. The first week it had seemed that somebody would appreciate his willingness to work, his happy disposition. Now that nearly a month had gone by without anyone taking an interest, he was disappointed and discouraged. At last it was midnight and Penelope had to go to bed without having arrived at a solution. In the morning, before she could even finish breakfast, she had another caller. The maid announced, "Mrs. Crowder is in the library." Penelope finished her coffee, put aside the paper, and went out to greet her. "Penelope, which is the best baby you've got?" "Well," Penelope hesitated, "there really isn't any best baby. But why?" "I want to adopt one. Oh, not for myself. I have two for each of my three husbands. This is for my daughter, Charlotte. I'm sorry to say things haven't been going well for her lately. She's married, you know, and — well, she doesn't seem to settle down. I thought if she had a child she might . . . the doctor says she can't have one of her own." "But does she want a baby?" "Oh, I always did have to make up her mind for her." "All right." Penelope shrugged, "I'll have Mickey show you into the nursery." SHE watched Mrs. Crowder plunge up the winding staircase with grave misgiving. She hated the idea of giving a baby to her, but she had no real reason for refusing. Miss MacDumfre'y joined her. "What'd that old battle axe want?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she added, "Steve Van Brunt's outside. He's got the monthly accounts." Penelope turned. Steve was walking down the hall, a big ledger under his arm. The smile he summoned up was only a shadow of his usual grin. "I hate to tell you this," he greeted mournfully. "I know, we're in debt. Is it bad?" "Bad! We're in the red two thousand three hundred and fifty-seven dollars." Penelope gasped with relief. "That isn't so terrible. We can make that up." "But the plumbers want to be paid." "All right. I'll send them my personal check this morning. How much is it?" "Over two thousand," Steve said, "and you can't even pay that Penelope, you haven't that much in the bank!" "Steve! You're crazy. What are you talking about?" The walls and ceiling and stairs swam crazily in front of Penelope. "Did he — did John — ■" She couldn't finish. "Nothing dishonest," Steve hurried to explain, "but he invested your money in flamboyant stocks." "Don't be so bitter about John," Penelope pleaded. "He's your best friend." "You mean he was. Good God, Pene lope, I can't like him, remembering what he's done to you, how he took you away from me!" Fear, craven fear, crept up inside her. This was the scene she had tried to avoid. And then Miss MacDumfrey came back into the hall. "Mr. and Mrs. Henry Franz are here to look at babies. The poor people the doctor said had just lost their daughter." "Coming right away," Penelope said. Before Steve could stop her she had slipped past him to meet the young couple, the wife red eyed from weeping, the husband vainly trying to console her. "We thought maybe — well, maybe we might find a baby to take the place of our Susie," the husband explained. "The doctor says we can't expect to have another one of our own." LET'S go right up to the nursery," she suggested, leading them to the stairs, up to the ball-room. She stood to one side, waiting, while the mother walked down between the two rows of cribs, stopping and looking, walking ahead, looking again. Suddenly she was calling, laughing, sobbing. "Henry, Henry! Come here, quick! Look at her, the one in this crib!" Penelope and the husband hurried over. The mother leaned down and picked the baby up. "Just like our Susie," she cried. "Isn't she, Henry?" She turned to Penelope. "Can't we have this baby, please?" Brushing away a tear, Penelope nodded, "Certainly, and though we don't usually allow it, you can take her home right now with you." "We'll never forget your kindness," the mother promised, taking Penelope's hand. "Henry and I can be happy again." Penelope fought back her tears and led them to the door. In the hall, they ran into Mrs. Crowder hurrying towards the nursery. She stopped and stared, horrified, then pulled Penelope aside. "What was that woman doing with that child? That child she was carrying?" "That's Mrs. Franz," Penelope explained. "She just lost her own daughter and now she's found one just like her to take her place." "But she can't! Not that one. I've picked that one especially for my daughter. I must remind you, Penelope, that I'm a trustee and I expect first choice." Penelope felt the color rush up into her cheeks. Remembering the joy with which Mrs. Franz had held the baby, she said grimly, "Listen to me, I'm the head of St. Vincent's. Anyone who takes that child away from Mrs. Franz does it over my dead body!" Bridling, Mrs. Crowder snapped, "I suppose there's nothing more to say, except— " and she paused dramatically, "I won't be able to open my house for the tea and fair this year. Nor can I contribute my annual donation. Good day." With a last defiant toss of her fat chins, Mrs. Crowder flounced from the room. Penelope was too chagrined to cry. Miss MacDumfrey found her leaning against the door, laughing. "I've just burned my bridges and crossed my Rubicon," Penelope said, "I've told Mrs. Crowder she could go to blazes!" Yet it was worthwhile. Penelope knew that in this tangled problem of running St. Vincent's, she had found the answer to her own personal troubles. Helping others to find joy and real living she could set the past, with its heartbreak, to one side and look ahead to a future that held promise of a new life.