Sheba Blake: Aunt Jane's Nieces and Uncle John

L. Frank Baum

Aunt Jane’s Nieces and Uncle John

First published by Sheba Blake Publishing Corp. 2021

Copyright © 2021 by L. Frank Baum

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

L. Frank Baum asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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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.”