Jarley was in a blue mood the night before Thanksgiving.  Things hadn’t gone quite to suit him during the year.  He had lost two of his most profitable clients ­men upon whom for two years previously he had been able to count for a steady income.  It is true that he had lost them by winning their respective suits, and had made two strong friends by so doing; but, as he once put it to Mrs. Jarley, the worst position a man could possibly get himself into was that of one who is long on friends and short on income.  He did not underestimate the value of friends, but he didn’t want too many of them; because beyond a certain number they became luxuries rather than necessities, and his financial condition was such that he could not afford luxuries.

“I love them all,” he said, “but I haven’t money enough to entertain a quarter of them.  The last time Billie Hicks was up here he smoked sixteen Invincible cigars.  Now, I am very fond of Billie Hicks, but with cigars at twenty cents apiece I can’t afford him more than one Sunday in a year.  He’s getting a little cold because I haven’t asked him up since.”

“Why don’t you buy cheaper cigars?  At our grocery store they have some very nice looking ones at two for five cents,” suggested Mrs. Jarley.

“I don’t wish to have to move out of the house,” said Jarley.

Mrs. Jarley failed to see the connection.

“Very likely you don’t,” said Jarley; “but if I smoked one of your two-and-a-half-cent grocery cigars in this house, you’d see the point in a minute.  If you will get me a yard of cotton cloth, and let me put it in the furnace fire, you’ll get a fair idea of the kind of atmosphere we’d be breathing if I allowed a cigar like that to be lit within fifty feet of the front door.”

“But you can get a good cigar for ten cents, can’t you?” Mrs. Jarley asked.

“Yes ­very good,” assented Jarley; “but Billie would probably smoke thirty-two of those, and carry three or four away with him in his pockets.  I’d lose even more that way.  It’s a singular thing about friends.  They have some conscience about Invincible cigars, but they’ll take others by the handful.”

Jarley was also somewhat blue upon this occasion because none of his inventions ­the little things he thought out in his leisure moments, and out of some of which he had hoped to gain a deal of profit ­had been successful.  The public had refused to place any confidence whatsoever in his patent reversible spats, which, when turned inside out, could be made useful as galoches; and the beaux of New York actually rejected with scorn the celluloid chrysanthemum, which he had hoped would become a popular boutonniere because of its durability and cheapness.  An impecunious young man with care could make one fifteen-cent chrysanthemum of the Jarley order last through a whole season, and it could be colored to suit the wearer’s taste with the ordinary paint-boxes that children so delight in; but in spite of this the celluloid chrysanthemum was a distinct failure, and Jarley had had his trouble for his pains, to say nothing of the cost of the model.  But worst of all the failures, because of the prospective losses its failure entailed, was the Jarley safety lightning razor.  Its failure was not due to any lack of merit, for it certainly possessed much that was ingenious and commendable.  The affair was not different in principle from a lawn-mower.  Six little sharp blades set on a cylinder would revolve rapidly as the pretty machine was pushed up and down the cheek of the person shaving, and leave the face of that person as smooth as a piece of velvet; but in announcing it to the world its inventor had made the unfortunate statement that a child could use it with impunity, and some would-be smart person on a comic paper took it up and wrote an undeniably clever article on the futility of inventing a razor for children.  The consequence was that the safety razor was laughed out of existence, and the additions to his residence which Jarley was going to pay for out of the proceeds had to be abandoned.

“I don’t like a blue funk,” he said, “and generally I can find something to be thankful for at this season; but I’m blest if this year, beyond the fact that we’re all alive, I can see any cause for celebrating my thankfulness.  I haven’t enough of it to last ten minutes, much less a day, what with the positive failure of my inventions, the loss of income from what I once considered safe investments that have gone to the wall, and the reduction of my professional earnings, not to mention the fact that almost at the beginning of my professional year I am as tired physically and mentally as I ought to be at the finish.”

“Oh, well, say you are thankful, anyhow,” suggested Mrs. Jarley.  “You will convince others that you are, and maybe, if you say it often enough, you will convince yourself of the fact.”

“Thanks,” said Jarley.  “It’s possibly a good suggestion, but I don’t believe in pretending to be what I’m not.  It might convince me that I am thankful for something, but I don’t want to be convinced when I know I’m not.”

Which shows, I think, how very blue Jarley was.

“There’s one thing,” he added, with a sigh of relief at the thought ­“I’ll have a day of rest to-morrow anyhow.  I’ve bought Jack a football, and he can take it out on the tennis-court and play with it all day, with intervals for meals.”

“Why did you do that?” asked Mrs. Jarley, with a gesture not so much of indignation as of disapproval.  “I think football is such a brutal game; and if Jack has a football at his present age, when he’s in college he’ll want to play.  I don’t want to have my boy wearing his hair like a Comanche Indian, and coming home with broken ribs and dislocated limbs.”

“We’ll let the broken ribs of 1904 and the wig of the same period suffice for the evils of that year,” retorted Jarley.  “It’s the present I’m looking after, not the future ten or twelve years removed.  If Jack hasn’t that football to-morrow he’ll have me, and I’ve no desire in the present condition of my physical well-being to be used by him as a plaything.  Deprived of the leathern ball, he might use me as a football instead, and I must rest.  That’s all there is about it.  Besides, if he becomes an aspirant for football honors now it will be a good thing for him.  He’ll take care of himself and try to improve his physique if he once gets the notion in his head that he wants to go on a university eleven.  I want my boy to learn to be a man, and the football ambition is likely to be a very useful aid in that direction.  He knits reins very well with a spool and a pin now, and I think it’s time he graduated in that art, unless the woman of the future, of whom we hear so much, is to take man’s place to such an extent that the man will have to take up woman’s work.  If I thought the masculine tendency of our present-day girls was likely to go much further, I might consent to the effemination of Jack simply to secure his comfort as a married man of the future; but I don’t think that, and in consequence Jack is going to be brought up as a boy, and not as a girl.  The football goes.”

This remark was another indication of Jarley’s depression.  He rarely combated Mrs. Jarley’s ideas, and when he did, and with a certain air of irritation, it was invariably a sign of his low mental state.

“When you say that the football goes, do you mean that it stays?” queried Mrs. Jarley, who was a little tired herself, and could not, therefore, resist the temptation to indulge in a bit of innocent repartee.

“I do,” said Jarley, shortly.  “Goes is sometimes a synonym for stays.  When I feel stronger I may invent a new language, which will have fewer absurdities than English as she is spoke.”

And with this Jarley went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just man who is truly weary.

If he had foreseen the result of his football investment it is doubtful if his sleep would have been so tranquil ­unless, perchance, he were fashioned after that rare pattern of mankind, Louis XVI. of France, who called for his six or seven course dinner with a mob of howling, bloodthirsty Parisians in his antechamber, and who on the eve of his execution slept well, despite his knowledge that within fifteen hours his head would in all probability be lopped off by the guillotine to gratify the lust for blood which was the chief characteristic of the promoters of the first French Republic.

At six on the morning of Thanksgiving Day Jarley was sleeping peacefully, but the youthful Jack was not.  Thanksgiving Day was not a holiday in his eyes, but a day set apart for work, thanks to his father’s indulgence in providing him with a football.  He had gone to bed the night before with the ball hugged tightly to his breast; and along about ten o’clock, when Jarley himself had gone into the nursery to put that treasured good-night kiss upon the forehead of his sleeping boy, tired as he was and blue as he was, he had difficulty in repressing the laughter that manifested itself within him, for Jack lay prone, face upward, with the football under the small of his back, and seemingly as comfortable as though he were resting upon eider-down.

“That is certainly a characteristic football attitude,” Jarley said, when Mrs. Jarley had come to see what had caused her husband’s chuckle.

“Yes ­and so good for the spine!” returned Mrs. Jarley.

The attitude was changed, but the ball was left where Jack would see it the first thing on awaking in the morning.  At six, as I have said, Jarley was sleeping peacefully, but Jack was not.  He had opened his eyes some minutes before, and on catching sight of his treasured football he began to grin.  The grin grew wider and wider, until apparently it got too wide for the bed, and the boy leaped out of his couch upon the floor.  The first thing he did was to pat the ball gently but firmly, very much as a kitten manifests its interest in a ball of yarn.  Then his attentions to his new plaything grew more pronounced and vigorous, and within fifteen minutes it had been chased out of the nursery into the parental bedchamber.  Still Jarley slept.  Mrs. Jarley was merely half asleep.  She tried to tell Jack to be quiet; but she was not quite wide awake enough to do so as forcibly as was necessary, and the result was that instead of abating his ardor, Jack plunged into his sport more vigorously than ever.

And then Jarley was awakened ­and what an awakening it was!  Not one of those peaceful comings-to that betoken the tranquil mind after a good rest, but a return to consciousness with every warlike tendency in his being aroused to the highest pitch.  Jack had passed the ball with considerable momentum on to the mantel-piece, which sent it backward on the rebound to no less a feature than the nose of the slumbering Jarley.

“What the deuce was that?” cried Jarley, sitting up straight in bed.  He had forgotten all about the football, and to his suddenly restored consciousness it seemed as if the ceiling must have fallen.  Then he rubbed his nose, which still ached from the force of the impact between itself and the ball.

“It was the ball did it, papa,” said Jack, meekly. “’Twasn’t me.”

In an instant Jarley was on the floor; and Jack, scenting trouble, incontinently fled.  The parent was angry from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, but as the soles of his feet touched the floor his anger abated.  After all, Jack hadn’t meant to hurt him, and having witnessed several games of football, he knew how innately perverse an oval-shaped affair like the ball itself could be.  Furthermore, there was Mrs. Jarley, who had disapproved of his purchase from the outset.  If he wreaked vengeance upon poor little Jack for his unwitting offence, Jarley knew that he would in a measure weaken his position in the argument of the night before.  So, instead of chastising Jack, as he really felt inclined to do, he picked up the ball, and repairing to the nursery, summoned the boy to him in his sweetest tones.

“Never mind, old chap,” he said, as Jack appeared before him.  “I know you didn’t mean it; but you must play in here until it is time for you to go out.  Papa is very sleepy, and you disturb him.”

“All right,” said Jack.  “I’ll play in here.  I forgot.”

Then Jarley patted Jack on the head, rubbed his nose again dubiously, for it still smarted from the effects of the blow it had sustained, and retired to his bed once more.  If he fondly hoped to sleep again, he soon found that his hope was based upon a most shifting foundation, for the whoops and cries and noises of all sorts, vocal and otherwise, that emanated from the next room destroyed all possibility of his doing anything of the sort.  At first the very evident enjoyment of his son and heir, as Jarley listened to his goings-on in the nursery, amused him more or less; but his quiet smile soon turned to one of blank dismay when he heard a thunderous roar from Jack, followed by a crash of glass.  Again springing from his bed, Jarley rushed into the nursery.

“Well, what’s happened now?” he asked.

Jack’s under lip curved in the manner which betokens tears ready to be shed.

“Nun-nothing,” he sobbed.  “I was just k-kicking a goal, and that picture got in the way.”

Jarley looked for the picture that had got in the way, and at once perceived that it would never get in the way again, since it was irretrievably ruined.  However, he was not overcome by wrath over this incident, because the picture was not of any particular value.  It was only a highly colored print of three cats in a basket, which had come with a Sunday newspaper, and had been cheaply framed and hung up in the nursery because Jack had so willed.  On principle Jarley had to show a certain amount of displeasure over the accident, and he did as well as he could under the circumstances, and retired.

For a while Jack played quietly enough, and Jarley was just about dozing off into that delicious forty winks prior to getting up when shrieks from the second Jarley boy came from the nursery.  This time Mrs. Jarley, with one or two expressions of natural impatience, deemed it her duty to interfere.  Jarley, she reasoned, had a perfect right to spoil Jack if he pleased, but he had no right to permit Jack to do bodily injury to Tommy; and as Tommy was making the house echo and re-echo with his wails, she deemed it her duty to take a hand.  Jarley meanwhile pretended to sleep.  He was as wide awake as he ever was; but the atmosphere was not full of warmth, and upon this occasion, as well as upon many others, his conscience permitted him to overlook the shortcomings of his elder son, and to assume a somnolence which, while it was not real, certainly did conduce to the maintenance of his personal comfort.  Mrs. Jarley, therefore, rose up in her wrath.  It was merely a motherly wrath, however, and those of us who have had mothers will at once realize what that wrath amounted to.  She repaired immediately to the nursery, and without knowing anything of the technical terms of the noble game of football, instinctively realized that Jack and Tommy were having a “scrimmage.”  That is to say, she was confronted with a structure made up as follows:  basement, the ball; first story, Tommy, with his small and tender stomach placed directly over the ball; second story and roof, Jack, lying stomach upward and wiggling, his back accurately registered on Tommy’s back, to the detriment and pain of Tommy.

“Get up, Jack!” Mrs. Jarley cried.  “What on earth are you trying to do to Tommy?  Do you want to kill him?”

“Nome,” Jack replied, innocently.  “He wanted to play football, and I’m letting him.  He’s Harvard and I’m Yale.”

A smothered laugh from the adjoining room showed that Jarley was not so soundly sleeping that he could not hear what was going on.  Tommy meanwhile continued to wail.

“Well, get up, ­right away!” cried Mrs. Jarley.  “I sha’n’t have you abusing Tommy this way.”

“Ain’t abusin’ him,” retorted Jack, rising.  “I was ‘commodatin’ him.  He wanted to play.  When I don’t let him play I get scolded, and when I do let him I’m scolded.  ’Pears to me you don’t want me to do anything.”

Thus Thanksgiving Day began, not altogether well, but equanimity was soon restored all around, and everything might have run smoothly from that time on had not a cold drizzling rain set in about breakfast-time.  It was clearly to be an in-door day.  And what a day it was!

At ten o’clock the football came into play again.

At eleven the score stood:  one clock knocked off the mantel-piece in the library; three chandelier globes broken to bits; one plaster Barye bear destroyed by a low kick from the parlor floor; Tommy with his nose very nearly out of joint, thanks to a flying wedge represented by Jack; Mrs. Jarley’s amiability in peril, and Jarley’s irritability well developed.

At twelve the ball was confiscated, but restored at twelve-five for the sake of peace and quiet.

At one, dinner was served and eaten in moody silence, Jack having inadvertently punted the ball through the pantry, grazing the chignon of the waitress, and landing in the mayonnaise.  It was not a happy dinner, and Jarley began to wish either that he had never been born or that all footballs were in Ballyhack, wherever that might be.

“If it would only clear off!” he moaned.  “That boy needs a playground as big as the State of Texas anyhow, and here we are cooped up in the house, with a football added.”

“We’ll have to take it away from him,” said Mrs. Jarley, “or else you’ll have to take Jack up into the attic and play with him.  I can’t have everything in the house smashed.”

“We’ll compromise on Jack’s going to the attic.  I have no desire to play football,” returned Jarley; and this was the plan agreed upon.  It would have been a good plan if Jarley had expended some of his inventive genius upon some such game as football solitaire, and instructed Jack therein beforehand; but this he had not done, and the result was that at three o’clock Jarley found himself in the attic involved in a furious game, in which he represented variously Harvard, the goal, the goal-posts, the referee, and acting with too great frequency as understudy for the ball.  What he was not, Jack was, and the worst part of it was that there was no tiring Jack.  The longer he played, the better he liked it.  The oftener Jarley’s shins received kicks intended for the football, the louder he laughed.  When Jarley, serving as a goal-post, stood at one end of the attic, Jarley junior, standing several yards away, often appeared to mistake him for two goal-posts, and to make an honest effort to kick the ball through him.  Slowly the hours passed, until finally six o’clock struck, and Master Jack’s supper was announced.

The day was over at last.  Wearily Jarley dragged himself down the stairs and reckoned up the day’s losses.  In glass and bric-a-brac destroyed he was some twenty or thirty dollars out.  In mayonnaise dressing lost at dinner through the untoward act of the football he was out one pleasurable sensation to his palate, and Jarley was one of those, to whom, that is a loss of an irreparable nature.  In bodily estate he was practically a bankrupt.  Had he bicycled all morning and played golf all the afternoon he could not have been half so weary.  Had he been thrown from a horse flat upon an asphalt pavement he could not have been half so bruised; all of which Mrs. Jarley considerately noted, and with an effort recovered her amiability for her husband’s sake, so that after eight o’clock, at which hour Jack retired to bed, a little rest was obtainable, and Jarley’s equanimity was slowly restored.

“Well,” said Mrs. Jarley, as they went up-stairs at eleven, “it hasn’t been a very peaceful day, has it, dear?”

“Oh, that all depends on how you spell peace.  If you spell it p-i-e-c-e, it’s been full of pieces,” returned Jarley, with a smile; “but I say, my dear, I want to modify my statement last night that I had nothing to be thankful for.  I have discovered one great blessing.”

“What’s that ­a football?” queried Mrs. Jarley.

“Not by ten thousand long shots!” cried Jarley.  “No, indeed.  It’s this:  I’m more thankful than I can express that Jack is not twins.  If he had been, you’d have been a widow this evening.”