" 'He always does'! Goodness! Do you know who--he--is?" demanded Nancy.
Pollyanna frowned and shook her head.
"I reckon he forgot to tell me one day. You see, I did my part of the introducing, but he didn't."
Nancy's eyes widened.
"But he never speaks ter anybody, child--he hain't for years, I guess, except when he just has to, for business, and all that.
He's John Pendleton. He lives all by himself in the big house on Pendleton Hill. He won't even have any one 'round ter cook for him--comes down ter the hotel for his meals three times a day. I know Sally Miner, who waits on him, and she says he hardly opens his head enough ter tell what he wants ter eat. She has ter guess it more'n half the time--only it'll be somethin' CHEAP! She knows that without no tellin'."
Pollyanna nodded sympathetically.
"I know. You have to look for cheap things when you're poor.
Father and I took meals out a lot. We had beans and fish balls most generally. We used to say how glad we were we liked beans--that is, we said it specially when we were looking at the roast turkey place, you know, that was sixty cents. Does Mr.
Pendleton like beans?"
"Like 'em! What if he does--or don't? Why, Miss Pollyanna, he ain't poor. He's got loads of money, John Pendleton has--from his father. There ain't nobody in town as rich as he is. He could eat dollar bills, if he wanted to--and not know it."
Pollyanna giggled.
"As if anybody COULD eat dollar bills and not know it, Nancy, when they come to try to chew 'em!"
"Ho! I mean he's rich enough ter do it," shrugged Nancy. "He ain't spendin' his money, that's all. He's a-savin' of it."
"Oh, for the heathen," surmised Pollyanna. "How perfectly splendid! That's denying yourself and taking up your cross. I know; father told me."
Nancy's lips parted abruptly, as if there were angry words all ready to come; but her eyes, resting on Pollyanna's jubilantly trustful face, saw something that prevented the words being spoken.
"Humph!" she vouchsafed. Then, showing her old-time interest, she went on: "But, say, it is queer, his speakin' to you, honestly, Miss Pollyanna. He don't speak ter no one; and he lives all alone in a great big lovely house all full of jest grand things, they say. Some says he's crazy, and some jest cross; and some says he's got a skeleton in his closet."
"Oh, Nancy!" shuddered Pollyanna. "How can he keep such a dreadful thing? I should think he'd throw it away!"
Nancy chuckled. That Pollyanna had taken the skeleton literally instead of figuratively, she knew very well; but, perversely, she refrained from correcting the mistake.
"And EVERYBODY says he's mysterious," she went on. "Some years he jest travels, week in and week out, and it's always in heathen countries--Egypt and Asia and the Desert of Sarah, you know."
"Oh, a missionary," nodded Pollyanna.
Nancy laughed oddly.
"Well, I didn't say that, Miss Pollyanna. When he comes back he writes books--queer, odd books, they say, about some gimcrack he's found in them heathen countries. But he don't never seem ter want ter spend no money here--leastways, not for jest livin'."
"Of course not--if he's saving it for the heathen," declared Pollyanna. "But he is a funny man, and he's different, too, just like Mrs. Snow, only he's a different different."
"Well, I guess he is--rather," chuckled Nancy.
"I'm gladder'n ever now, anyhow, that he speaks to me," sighed Pollyanna contentedly.
