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Parts Catalogue 647697EN 08.2018
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Manitou Work Platforms ATJ 46 160 ATJ 180 ATJ RNC 2RD T4 S1 Genuine Parts
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He ran to his mother's machine, and opening a drawer took out a
pair of large shears. Bee ran toward him quickly.
"You must not do that, Percival," she cried. "Oh, where is your
mother?"
"My mother has gone into town," answered Percival with a swagger.
"I'll settle with her. Now, Beefly, you cut off that hair."
"I will not, Percival," answered Bee emphatically. "Do wait until your
mother comes back. Do, Percival; like a dear fellow."
But Master Percival raised the shears, and—snip! Off went a curl.
Another and another followed; the lad watching the result of the
snipping in the mirror. As the last clip sounded Bee gave a gasp at
the result.
"What will your mother say?" she cried, wishing herself anywhere
but in the Medulla sitting room. "Oh! what will she say?"
"It's all right," declared Percival sturdily, though it must be confessed
that he was slightly dismayed himself. "At least it would be if it were
even. Do cut it straight for me, Beefly."
He thrust the shears into her hand as he spoke, and turned his back
to her. "Now hurry, and cut it even," he said.
"Percival, are you here?" Mrs. Medulla opened the door at this
unfortunate moment, and walked in. "I have brought you something
nice from town. Guess—Why!"
She stopped short at sight of the pair. Like a culprit Beatrice stood
with the shears in her hand, while Percival seemed stricken dumb.
The lady's gaze concentrated upon her son's clipped head. For a
long instant the three stood as though incapable of speech; then the
mother spoke, and Bee shivered at the severity of her tones:
"Beatrice, what are you doing with those shears? Surely you did not
cut Percival's hair?"
 Chapter XX
Bee Is Disappointed in Percival

"If lives were always merry,

Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief."

—Henry Van Dyke.

"Why, why," stammered Bee, so astonished by the lady's words that

she could scarcely speak. She glanced down at the incriminating
shears which she held in her hand, then at Percival, expecting that
the lad would instantly tell how the affair had occurred, and so
absolve her from blame. To her amazement the boy did not utter a
word, but stood gazing at his mother as though fascinated. It came
to Beatrice with something of a shock that he was frightened.
"Which one of you did it?" demanded Mrs. Medulla, turning first to
the boy and then to the girl. "Why, oh why, was it done? Don't you
know, Beatrice, that this will end all engagements for the winter?
Percival knew it. He would not have the hardihood to do such a thing
by himself. It must have been you. You should not have done it. No
manager wants a boy without curls."
"Oh," murmured Bee. She looked at Percival beseechingly, but the
boy, usually so ready with excuses still stood mute.
"Have I been mistaken in you after all, Beatrice," went on the lady,
surprised at the girl's continued silence. "You seemed to have such
an excellent influence upon Percival heretofore that it grieves me to
find that my estimate of your character is wrong. I did not dream
that you would incite him to mischief of any sort. I can not
understand it. A thing of this nature, upon which so much depended,
should not have been done without consulting me. Percival has not
been kept in curls and knickerbockers without a reason. I know he
has rebelled at times, but he knew the necessity. Didn't you know
this, Beatrice?"
"No;" uttered Bee helplessly. "I didn't know. I—"
"You did know, however, that you should have kept him from such
an act until my return," said the mother, who was very near tears.
"Why did you not?"
It has been said that Beatrice was possessed of that peculiar sense
of honor that is common among boys, where one will suffer an
unjust accusation rather than tell upon another. She was like a boy
in many ways: frank, direct, and scornful of tattling; so now she
stood silent while the lady waited, perplexed by what seemed to be
an obstinate refusal to answer.
"I shall have to report this to your father, Beatrice," she said
presently, with sorrow. "Perhaps he will be more successful in
obtaining an explanation from you than I have been. We will go to
him. Percival, do you remain where you are. I will deal with you
upon my return."
She caught Beatrice by the arm and hurried her out of the house,
through the fields to her own home. Doctor Raymond sat with Adele
in the library. He glanced up in some astonishment at their abrupt
entrance.
"Doctor Raymond," began Mrs. Medulla at once, her usually even
tones tense with excitement, "do you know what your daughter has
done?"
"Nothing serious, I hope, madam," he replied with a quick glance at
Beatrice.
"It is serious, doctor. Very serious for us. She has cut off Percival's
curls. Do you realize the meaning of such an act? It means that no
manager will book him for an engagement. People don't care for a
boy musician without curls."
Involuntarily Doctor Raymond's eyes wandered to Adele, who sat
watching the scene with troubled countenance. She was daintily
arrayed as was her custom, and looked sweet, charming, and
ladylike. All that a girl should be she appeared to be. A slight, a very
slight sigh escaped him. Slight as it was, however, his daughter
heard it. She saw plainly what was passing in his mind, and it was all
that she could do to restrain control of herself.
"If Beatrice did this I can not believe that she realized the full import
of the action," he said gravely. "And while I do not wish to palliate
the offense, I fear that you exaggerate the effect upon your
engagements. Your son plays wonderfully well, Mrs. Medulla, and
should not be dependent upon the mere adjunct of curls for an
audience."
"Doctor Raymond," spoke the lady earnestly, "I know whereof I
speak when I say that it will be years before Percival can appear
before an audience again. As an Infant Prodigy he was remarkable.
As a boy no manager will take him. There is no between-period with
performers. One must be a prodigy, or a man genius, to command
attention. I can not understand why Beatrice should do it, and I can
get no explanation from either her or Percival."
"Why did you do it, my daughter?" asked the scientist.
But Beatrice was past speaking. Something in her throat choked her.
She looked down suddenly to find that she still held the shears in
her hand. How could any one believe otherwise than that she had
cut the boy's curls when she held the telltale scissors in her hand?
"Why?" asked her father again, but still she did not answer. "Do you
remember what I said about my forgiveness of your carelessness
depending upon your future conduct, Beatrice?"
Bee nodded, battling hard to keep back the tears. She did not wish
to get Percival into trouble, yet she was not willing that her father
should think that she would be capable of doing anything that would
bring harm to Mrs. Medulla. Presently, obtaining the mastery of her
emotion, she crossed swiftly to his side and laid her hand timidly
upon his arm.
"Father," she cried pleadingly, "please don't ask me to tell you
anything about the matter. I—I can't."
"Why, Beatrice?"
The girl did not reply. She only gazed at him with mutely appealing
eyes.
"Is it because it would involve another in the telling?" he asked
abruptly, stirred, perhaps, by a remembrance of his own youth.
"Yes," whispered Bee. "Please, please, father, don't ask anything
more."
"Suppose we let the affair rest until tomorrow, Mrs. Medulla,"
suggested he, turning to the lady. "It is my opinion that neither
Beatrice nor Percival realized what they were doing. Perhaps both
are laboring under some natural agitation in consequence as the
matter seems to be fraught with more serious results than they
thought. You would better go to your room, my daughter."
"Yes, oh, yes;" assented Bee quickly. "I'd like—I'd like—" And she
burst into tears.
"Excuse me a moment, madam, I beg," said the scientist rising. He
drew his daughter's hand through his arm, and quietly led her from
the room, up the stairs to her own chamber.
"I do not believe, Beatrice, that you are any more concerned in this
matter than is Percival," he remarked as he opened the door for her.
"I can see that you consider it right to shield him as well as yourself
by refusing an explanation. I shall ask you nothing further
concerning it. I can only say how deeply I regret that you should
have done anything that would give pain to Mrs. Medulla."
"Father, father," sobbed Bee, turning to him appealingly, "it isn't, it
isn't as you think. Oh, do trust me a little."
"Do you think you have proved worthy of being trusted, Beatrice?"
"No;" admitted the girl humbly. "I don't deserve it at all when I was
so careless; but this is different. You ought not to judge me harshly
until you know all about it."
"I do not wish to judge you harshly in anything, my child. In the
present instance nothing can be done until the circumstances are
known. As you refuse to tell them you must accept whatever
judgment your actions call for. I think if I were you I should lie down
for a time. You seem quite warm and a little upset. Try to compose
yourself."
"I will, father." Bee entered the room with a sigh. He had not yet
forgiven her the loss of the butterfly, she could see. She sat down
and buried her face in her hands as the door closed behind him, and
gave way to a flood of tears.
For what lay at the bottom of her bitterness? It was the knowledge
that with just a little more carefulness on her part none of this
trouble would have come upon her. Grief when caused by one's own
carelessness is harder to bear than that which comes from
unfortunate circumstance, so now Bee took herself to task severely.
"Mrs. Medulla told me that I was liable to spoil everything," she
mused with some bitterness. "Oh, dear! just when things were going
nicely I had to spoil it all by a few moments of carelessness. And if
Percival doesn't explain his mother will never like me again; while
father—" She choked. Her heart ached with longing for her father's
forgiveness.
"Poor father," she exclaimed suddenly as she went to the mirror to
put up her hair. "If he is as disappointed in me as I am in Percival I
know just how he feels. I knew that Percival was a spoiled child, but
I didn't think he was a coward. I wonder if I seem as different to
father? If I do I don't wonder that he prefers Adele."
And with this Bee laid down upon the bed, and through sheer
exhaustion fell asleep.
 Chapter XXI
How the Day Ended

"Within the garden's peaceful scene

Appeared two lovely foes,
Aspiring to the rank of queen,
The Lily and the Rose."

—Cowper.

Bee was awakened by Aunt Fanny bringing in her dinner. The sun
had set and the cool sweetness of the evening gave relief from the
heat of the day. All the events of the afternoon seemed unreal and
dreamlike in spite of her aching eyes. She arose and began to bathe
them, with a strange feeling of insensibility as though nothing could
ever make her cry again.
"Now, honey, I jest ain't a-gwine ter take dat dinnah back,"
remarked the negress determinedly, seating herself as Bee motioned
her to take the food away. "Dere ain't no use mopin' erroun' like
you-all is doin'. Yer pa fixed hit him own se'f, an' I ain't gwine ter
take hit back."
"Did you say that father fixed it?" asked the girl with quick interest.
"'Deed he did, Miss Bee. He done poured de tea, an' put two lumps
of sugah in de saucah jest like you does fer de world. Den he fixed
de thing on de tray, an' he say, 'Take dat to Miss Beatrice,' he say.
'Co'se I done hit; an' heah I is, an' heah I stays 'twel you eats hit."
"If father fixed it, I will eat it," said Bee. "You are not joking about it,
Aunt Fanny? You are sure that he did it, and not Adele?"
"Now, Miss Bee, yer knows dat Miss Adele ain't a-gwine ter bodder
her haid 'bout udder folks; specially ef dey ain't erroun'," returned
Aunt Fanny scornfully, with whom Adele was no favorite. "No'm; she
too busy wid sayin': 'How does ye like yer coffee, uncle deah? Am hit
sweet 'nuff fer ye?' Jest like buttah wouldn't melt in her mouf. No'm;
Miss Adele ain't a-bodderin' 'bout you all. Ner enny body elsen but
her own se'f."
"I don't know about that," demurred Bee, wishing to be just to her
cousin. "She certainly looks after old Rachel. I don't believe that she
has missed a day going down there for the past three weeks. We
must give her credit for that, Aunt Fanny."
"Huh!" snorted Aunt Fanny. "I reckon yer doesn't know ebberthing,
Miss Bee."
"What do you mean?" questioned Bee, pausing in the act of taking a
bite of bread.
"Nebber you min' what I means," returned the old woman
mysteriously. "Jest yer eat yer dinnah."
"But I want to know," insisted Bee. Before Aunt Fanny could answer,
however, Adele herself entered the room.
"Uncle William says for you to come right down, Bee. Percival and
his mother are there, and wish to see you."
"Percival," exclaimed Bee. "Why, I thought his mother would not
want him to see me any more?"
"You can't blame her, can you?" asked her cousin pertly. "Bee,
whatever got into you today? Percival looks dreadful with his curls
off. What made you cut them?"
Bee's eyes flashed. She did not reply for a full moment. When she
spoke she said merely:
"Perhaps you would not understand even though I should tell you
about the matter, Adele."
"Perhaps not. Bee Raymond, do you know that you are dreadfully
changed? When you came in the library this afternoon with that
bleached hair of yours flying you looked a perfect fright." Adele
giggled, and then added with some malice: "Uncle William thinks so,
too."
"Never mind," spoke Bee frigidly. "You have your good looks so what
does it matter? Just think what a calamity it would be if you were to
lose them!"
"I think you are just as mean as can be to even suggest such a
thing, Bee Raymond. I wouldn't lose my beauty for anything."
"I should hope not," said her cousin cuttingly. "There wouldn't be
anything left to you if you did."
"I couldn't be as ugly as you are if I did lose it," retorted Adele
angrily.
"Oh, I am getting horrid," exclaimed Bee rising, her better nature
coming to her aid. "Simply horrid! I beg your pardon, Adele. You
couldn't be anything but pretty, of course. Will you come down with
me?"
"Oh, it's all right," yawned Adele, quite appeased by Bee's apology.
"I dare say that I should feel just as you do were I in your place. No;
I won't go down. It's you they want to see. They are in the library
with Uncle William."
Bee went slowly down stairs. She felt reluctant to meet Percival, and
to have the subject of the hair cutting reopened. As she entered the
library the boy ran to her, and caught her hand.
"Beefly, you're a brick," he cried. "You see, when my mother came in
she was so angry that I was scared. I think I never was afraid of her
before in my life, so I let you take the blame. And you didn't tell on
me at all. You're a chum worth having. That was twice today that
you took my part."
"Perhaps, my boy, you would not mind telling just how the matter
occurred," suggested Doctor Raymond. "Beatrice has left us very
much in the dark concerning it."
"I don't mind in the least," answered Percival who seemed eager
now to explain everything. "Beatrice was not to blame at all. You see
—"
"Permit me to say a word first, Percival," interrupted his mother, who
had stood quietly by while he made his apologies. "Beatrice, you
must pardon me, also, as well as Percival. I did not understand
things until he explained them on my return home. I am truly sorry
that I spoke so hastily as I did before learning all the circumstances.
It seems, from what Percival tells me, that you did all that you could
to keep him from cutting his hair, and then shouldered the blame
rather than tell on him. My dear, I am very sorry for what I said. Can
you forgive me?"
"Don't speak of it, Mrs. Medulla," cried Bee warmly. "I was to blame
after all, because I ought to have held his hands, or kept him in
some way from those shears. And oh! where are they? I brought
them home with me."
"Then we are friends again, dear," said the lady kissing her. "Never
mind the shears. I don't mind if I never see them again. I—"
"Mamma, Doctor Raymond is waiting to hear the particulars," broke
in Percival, anxious to be heard. "You see, sir," turning to the
scientist who was listening amusedly, "ever since I came here the
boys have been making life miserable for me about the way I
dressed and wore my hair. Yesterday that big Jack Brown was having
sport with me, teasing for a curl, and, and all that sort of thing.
When I tried to fight him I could not do anything because he
grabbed my hands. Beatrice came to my rescue, and maybe she
didn't put him to flight. You should have seen her." He chuckled at
the remembrance, then continued: "I told her that the baby business
ended then and there. That I wasn't going to be made fun of any
longer. I asked her to cut off my hair, but she wouldn't; so I did it. I
didn't think about the money part of it, or I would not have done it.
I can play just as well with trousers and short hair as I can with curls
and knickerbockers, and I told mamma so after she came back from
here. Wasn't Beatrice a trump, though, not to tell on me, and to take
the blame? Why didn't you tell, Beefly? I thought girls always did."
"Of course I wasn't going to tell if you wouldn't own up," returned
Bee. "That would be tattling."
"Any other girl would have done it," cried Percival. "I hate awfully to
go away and leave you."
"O Percival! are you going away?"
"Yes; I came to tell how the affair happened, and to say good-bye. I
am going back to New York to study. I am going to show people that
a boy can play as well as a man even though he isn't an Infant
Prodigy. I'll have to work hard, and throw no more fits if things go
wrong; but, Gee! I'd rather do it than to wear curls."
"You are right, my lad." Doctor Raymond shook his hand. "You will
come out all right. I am sure. Your playing can not fail to win you a
place in spite of your clothes. I wish you every success. I will leave
you to say good-bye to the girls while your mother and I have a few
words. You would like to see Adele too, I presume?"
"I suppose so," answered Master Percival dubiously. "Mamma said
that I must be very nice to make up for my misbehavior, so I
suppose that I must see Adele too. I don't care so much for her as I
do for Beatrice. She is too pretty to be jolly. Pretty folks don't make
very good chums. They think too much of themselves. I can't bear
any one who is spoiled, but—Yes; send her down."
Doctor Raymond smiled broadly as he and the lady left the room.
"I am so sorry that you are going, Percival," said Bee with a catch in
her voice. "I shall miss you so much. Oh, I wish you were not
going."
"I am coming back some day, Beefly," he declared earnestly. "Mind
you don't go away from here so that I can't find you. You must stay
right here."
"Yes;" answered Bee. "I shall always be right here whenever you
come. I hope it won't be long."
"And so you are going to leave us?" said Adele sweetly as she
entered the room. "I shall miss you very much, Percival. I am glad to
have had the pleasure of knowing you, and of hearing you play.
Perhaps we shall meet again."
"Thank you," answered the boy on his best behavior. "I am glad to
have known you, too. I have enjoyed our picnics very much, Adele."
"Picnics?" ejaculated Bee. "When did you ever have a picnic with
Adele?"
"Hasn't she told you?" asked the boy in surprise. "Every morning
that you studied with your father lately, she would bring a basket of
goodies and we went to the grove. It was fun, but it would have
been jollier if you had been there."
"Adele," cried Bee sharply, a remembrance of Aunt Fanny's words
coming to her, "were those the things you were to take to old
Rachel?"
"Yes, they were," answered Adele defiantly. "I got tired of carrying
them down to that cabin. I don't believe that old woman is sick,
anyway."
"Whether she was or not you should have taken those things to her,"
spoke Doctor Raymond, who had entered the room unperceived by
the young people. "If you were tired of taking them you should have
said so, and some one would have relieved you of the burden. As it
is, she deems us guilty of neglect when we promised her aid, and,
worse still, she may have suffered for the need of those very things.
Is there no confidence to be placed in girls? Is neither of you to be
trusted?"
Adele's face at first scarlet with mortification turned white under the
reproof. She gazed at him pleadingly, and then bursting into tears
ran to him and threw her arms about him.
"Do forgive me, Uncle William," she sobbed. "If you will, I'll never
neglect her again. Please, please try me just once more! Only once
more, Uncle William. Will you?"
Doctor Raymond's stern expression relaxed as the pretty penitent
clung to him.
"There!" he said with great gentleness. "Perhaps I demand too much
of you. I should remember that you are young and thoughtless, and
perhaps, too, you did not realize the gravity of what you were doing.
There, child! we will say no more about it, but you must be more
careful."
"And you do forgive me, uncle? You will let me try again?"
"Yes, child; of course I forgive you."
Bee listened to the foregoing conversation with amazement and
profound astonishment. She, too, had trespassed, but he had
promised forgiveness only if her future conduct merited it. What was
the reason that he found it so much harder to forgive her than
Adele? Did he exact more from her because she was his daughter?
He had told her that he had thought her different from other girls. If
that were the case then did he expect her to come up to a higher
standard? Puzzled, perplexed, she gazed at her father with such
steady directness that he turned his head and met her glance
squarely.
"Beatrice," he said, "I fear you do not understand many things."
But Bee smiled suddenly. She thought she had solved the enigma.
And with the thought came the resolve that she would meet his
expectations; that she would, if endeavor could bring it about, reach
the high standard he had set for his daughter. So she was able to
reply:
"I think that I do, father. It's all right."
Then with Percival she went out of the room.
 Chapter XXII
"I Shouldn't Want You To Be Anything But Pretty"
 "Let each art
Assail a fault or help a merit grow;
Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads,
Let love through good deeds show."

—Edwin Arnold.

"Now how shall I get this to him?" pondered Bee the next morning
as she stood before the study door with a bowl of pansies in her
hand. Since old Rachel had told her that it had been a custom of her
mother's she had not failed to put a flower of some sort on her
father's table each morning. "Adele!"
"Yes?" answered Adele, coming to the hall. "What is it, Bee? Those
pansies?"
"Yes; do you mind putting them on father's table for me? I don't
know how to get them there this morning."
"Certainly I'll do it, Bee. But why don't you take them in yourself? He
has not gone in yet, and I won't tell."
"Father told me not to," returned Bee. "I don't want to go in until I
am worthy."
Adele laughed as she took the pansies.
"You know, Bee, if you were to go right in, and tease him a bit, he
wouldn't think anything more about your staying out," she said. "You
ought to take some lessons from me. I know just how to manage
him."
"We are different, Adele," answered Bee. "What would be all right
for you would not do at all for me. If you will just help me a little
about this you don't know how much I will appreciate it. I have been
wondering how it could be managed."
"What will you do when I am gone?" asked Adele.
"I don't know," answered Bee slowly. "Are you thinking of going
soon?"
"I suppose that I'll have to go when school begins," said Adele. "I
don't want to go a bit. It's poky at home without you. I'd rather stay
here."
"You would?" questioned Bee wonderingly. "I should think that you
would rather be with your father and mother. Now, why doesn't she
go home now?" she asked herself as her cousin went into the study.
"Uncle Henry is better, and I should think that she would want to see
him. I would not want to be away from father if he were ill."
So it came about that each morning Beatrice carefully arranged the
flowers, and Adele took them into the study from which Bee was
barred. The girl's eyes always grew wistful whenever her father
disappeared into the room, and she was obliged to busy herself
about the house in order not to dwell too much upon the fact of her
exclusion.
The summer was drawing to a close. There was a cool crispness in
the air that heralded the approach of Autumn. To Bee it seemed at
times as though a blight had fallen upon everything. There were no
longer Percival and his mother to visit, and while Doctor Raymond
continued to walk with her and Adele he seemed to withdraw more
and more into his own pursuits. The evenings were still devoted to
music, but here Adele was pre-eminent. Bee, however, retained her
place in the management of the household, jealously guarding the
privilege of looking after her father's comfort. Remembering that he
had spoken of her attention to neatness she became punctilious in
her dress, and about the appointments of the house. Her character
was deepening and developing; and from a merry-hearted, careless
maiden she was growing into a thoughtful and broad-minded girl.
"Adele," she said one morning rather sharply to her cousin who
dawdled on the couch with a book and a box of chocolates, "have
you been down to Rachel's today?"
"No," yawned Adele. "I haven't."
"Aren't you ready to go? The basket is fixed, and it is nearly eleven
o'clock. If we go for a walk with father after lunch there will be no
other time. You ought to go now."
"There's no hurry," protested Adele. "Do you know, Bee, I don't think
it is necessary to go every day?"
"It does not matter what you think, Adele. Father said to do it."
Bee's manner showed plainly that in her opinion that left nothing
further to be said.
"I'll manage Uncle William," remarked Adele with a conscious little
laugh, but nevertheless she rose from her reclining position. "It's a
perfect nuisance."
"I'll go. It is my place to do it after all. I should have gone long ago,
but I thought that you liked to do it."
"Well," hesitated Adele, "I promised Uncle William, you know, and
the old woman likes me to come. You need not go, Bee. I'll do it
myself."
She took the basket of food from Bee's hand, and left the room. Bee
saw her go out the gate walking very slowly.
"She doesn't like to go for some reason," mused the girl. "I must
take it upon myself to go down every morning. I must find the time
somehow. Oh, dear!" She gave an impatient shake to her shoulders.
Just as the mid-day meal was placed upon the table Adele returned,
looking cool and as daintily immaculate as though she had not been
out of the house.