"What is the matter? Does your head ache?" asked Jill, one evening in March, observing that Jack sat with his head in his hands, an attitude which, with him, meant either pain or perplexity.
"No; but I'm bothered. I want some money, and I don't see how I can earn it," he answered, tumbling his hair about, and frowning darkly at the fire.
"How much?" and Jill's ready hand went to the pocket where her little purse lay, for she felt rich with several presents lately made her.
"Two seventy-five. No, thank you, I won't borrow."
"What is it for?"
"Can't tell."
"Why, I thought you told me everything."
"Sorry, but I can't this time. Don't you worry; I shall think of something."
"Couldn't your mother help?"
"Don't wish to ask her."
"Why! can't she know?"
"Nobody can."
"How queer! Is it a scrape, Jack?" asked Jill, looking as curious as a magpie.
"It is likely to be, if I can't get out of it this week, somehow."
"Well, I don't see how I can help if I'm not to know anything;" and Jill seemed rather hurt.
"You can just stop asking questions, and tell me how a fellow can earn some money. That would help. I've got one dollar, but I must have some more;" and Jack looked worried as he fingered the little gold dollar on his watch-guard.
"Oh, do you mean to use that?"
"Yes, I do; a man must pay his debts if he sells all he has to do it," said Jack sternly.
"Dear me; it must be something very serious." And Jill lay quite still for five minutes, thinking over all the ways in which Jack ever did earn money, for Mrs. Minot liked to have her boys work, and paid them in some way for all they did.
"Is there any wood to saw?" she asked presently, being very anxious to help.
"All done."
"Paths to shovel?"
"No snow."
"Lawn to rake, then?"
"Not time for that yet."
"Catalogue of books?"
"Frank got that job."
"Copy those letters for your mother?"
"Take me too long. Must have my money Friday, if possible."
"I don't see what we can do, then. It is too early or too late for everything, and you won't borrow."
"Not of you. No, nor of any one else, if I can possibly help it. I've promised to do this myself, and I will;" and Jack wagged his head resolutely.
"Couldn't you do something with the printing-press? Do me some cards, and then, perhaps, the other girls will want some," said Jill, as a forlorn hope.
"Just the thing! What a goose I was not to think of it. I'll rig the old machine up at once." And, starting from his seat, Jack dived into the big closet, dragged out the little press, and fell to oiling, dusting, and putting it in order, like one relieved of a great anxiety.
"Give me the types; I'll sort them and set up my name, so you can begin as soon as you are ready. You know what a help I was when we did the programmes. I'm almost sure the girls will want cards, and I know your mother would like some more tags," said Jill, briskly rattling the letters into the different compartments, while Jack inked the rollers and hunted up his big apron, whistling the while with recovered spirits.
A dozen neat cards were soon printed, and Jill insisted on paying six cents for them, as earning was not borrowing. A few odd tags were found and done for Mamma, who immediately ordered four dozen at six cents a dozen, though she was not told why there was such a pressing call for money.
Jack's monthly half-dollar had been spent the first week,—twenty-five cents for a concert, ten paid a fine for keeping a book too long from the library, ten more to have his knife ground, and five in candy, for he dearly loved sweeties, and was under bonds to Mamma not to spend more than five cents a month on these unwholesome temptations. She never asked the boys what they did with their money, but expected them to keep account in the little books she gave them; and, now and then, they showed the neat pages with pardonable pride, though she often laughed at the queer items.
All that evening Jack & Co. worked busily, for when Frank came in he good-naturedly ordered some pale-pink cards for Annette, and ran to the store to choose the right shade, and buy some packages for the young printer also.
"What do you suppose he is in such a pucker for?" whispered Jill, as she set up the new name, to Frank, who sat close by, with one eye on his book and one on her.