Noex post factoresolution could cure that lie, though of course it is a privileged one to a girl.
Dic made no reply, save to remark: "I'll see Miss Sukey to-morrow. If I wanted to 'take hold' of her, as she calls it, I would do so, but—but I'll see her to-morrow."
The answer startled Rita. She did not want to be known as a tale-bearer. Especially did she object in this particular case; therefore she said:—
"You may see her if you wish, but you shall not speak to her of what I have told you. She would think—"
"Let her think what she chooses," he replied. "I have never 'taken hold' of her in my life. Lord knows, I might if I wanted to. All the other boys boast that they take turn about, but—. She would be a fool to tell if it were true, and a story-teller if not. So I'll settle the question to-morrow, and for all time."
A deal of trouble might have been saved had Rita permitted him to make the settlement with Sukey, but she did not. The infinite potency of little things is one of the paradoxes of life.
"No, you shall not speak of this matter to her," she said, moving close to him upon the log and putting her hand upon his arm coaxingly. "Promise me you will not."
He would have promised to stop breathing had she asked it in that mood. It was the first he had ever seen of it, and he was pleased, although, owing to an opaqueness of mind due to his condition, it told him nothing save that his old-time friend was back again.
"If you tell her," continued the girl, "she will be angry with me, and I have had so much trouble of late I can't bear any more."
At last she was on the straight road bowling along like a mail coach. "After I spoke to you as I did the other night—you know, when Tom—I could not eat or sleep. Oh, I was in so much trouble! You and I had always been such real friends, and you have always been so good to me—" a rare little lump was rapidly and alarmingly growing in her throat—"I have never had even an unkind look from you, and to speak to you as I did,—oh, Dic,—" the lump grew too large for easy utterance, and she stopped speaking. Dic was wise in not pursuing the ebb, but he was foolish in not catching the flood. Butperhaps if he would wait, it might ingulf him of its own accord, and then, ah, then, the sweetness of it!
"Never think of it again," he said soothingly. "Your words hurt me at the time, but your kind, frank letter cured the pain, and I intended never to speak of it. But since you have spoken, I—I—"
The girl was frightened, although eager to hear what he would say, so she remained silent during Dic's long pause, and at length he said, "I thank you for the letter."
A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment came from her breast.
"It gave me great pleasure, for it made me know that you were still my friend," said Dic, "and that your words were meant for Tom, and not for me."
"Indeed, not for you," said Rita, still struggling with the lump in her throat.
"Let us never speak of it again," said Dic. "I'm glad it happened. It puts our friendship on a firmer basis than ever before."
"That would be rather hard, to do, wouldn't it?" asked the girl, laughing contentedly. "We have been such good friends ever since I was a baby—since before I can remember."
The direct road was becoming too smooth for Rita, and she began to fear she would not be able to stop.
"Let us make this bargain," said Dic. "When you want to say anything unkind, say it to me. I'll not misunderstand."
"Very well," she replied laughingly, "the privilege may be a great comfort to me at times. I, of course, dare not scold mother. If I look cross at Tom, mother scolds me for a week, and I could not speak unkindly to poor father. You see, I have no one to scold, and I'm sure every one should have somebody to explode uponwith impunity now and then. So I'll accept your offer, and you may expect—" There was a brief pause, after which she continued: "No, I'll not. Never again so long as I live. You, of all others, shall be safe from my ill temper," and she gave him her hand in confirmation of her words.
In all the world there was no breast freer from ill temper than hers; no heart more gentle, tender, and trustful. Her nature was like a burning spring. It was pure, cool, and limpid to its greatest depths, though there was fire in it.
Dic did not consider himself obliged to release Rita's hand at once, and as she evidently thought it would be impolite to withdraw it, there is no telling what mistakes might have happened had not Tom appeared upon the scene.
Tom seated himself beside Dic just as that young man dropped Rita's hand, and just as the young lady moved a little way toward her end of the log.
"You are home early," remarked Rita.
"Yes," responded Tom, "Doug Hill was there—the lubberly pumpkin-head."
No man of honor would remain in a young lady's parlor if at the time of his arrival she had another gentleman visitor unless upon the request of the young lady, and no insult so deep and deadly could be offered to the man in possession as the proffer of such a request by the young lady to the intruder.
After a few minutes of silence Tom remarked: "This night reminds me of the night I come from Cincinnati to Brookville on the canal-boat. Everything's so warm and clear like. I set out on top of the boat and seed the hills go by."
"Did the hills go by?" asked Rita, who had heard the story of Tom's Cincinnati trip many times.
"Well, they seemed to go by," answered Tom. "Of course, they didn't move. It was the boat. But I jest seed them move as plain as I see that cloud up yonder."
That Tom had not profited by Billy Little's training and his mother's mild corrections now and then (for the Chief Justice had never entirely lost the habits of better days), was easily discernible in his speech. Rita's English, like Dic's and Billy Little's, was corrupted in spots by evil communication; but Tom's—well, Tom was no small part of the evil communication itself.
Dic had heard the Cincinnati story many times, and when he saw symptoms of its recurrence, he rose and said:—
"Well, Tom, if youseedthe hills go by, you'llseedme go by if you watch, for I'm going home," and with a good night he started up the river path, leaving Rita and her brother Tom seated on the log.
"So Doug Hill was there?" asked Rita.
"Yes," responded Tom; "and how any girl can let him kiss her, I don't know. His big yaller face reminds me of the under side of a mud-turtle."
"I hope Sukey doesn't allow him nor any one else to kiss her," cried Rita, with a touch of indignant remonstrance. Tom laughed as if to say that he could name at least one who enjoyed that pleasant privilege.
Rita was at that time only sixteen years old, and had many things to learn about the doings of her neighbors, which one would wish she might never know. The Chief Justice had at least one virtue: she knew how to protect her daughter. No young man had ever been permitted to "keep company" with Rita, and she and her mother wanted none. Dic, of course, had for years been a constant visitor; but he, as you know, was like one of the family. Aside from the habit of Dic's visits, and growing out of them, Madam Bays had dim outlines of a future purpose. Dic's father, who was dead, had been considered well-to-do amonghis neighbors. He had died seized of four "eighties," all paid for, and two-thirds cleared for cultivation. Eighty acres of cleared bottom land was looked upon as a fair farm. One might own a thousand acres of rich soil covered with as fine oak, walnut, and poplar as the world could produce and might still be a poor man, though the timber in these latter days would bring a fortune. Cleared land was wealth at the time of which I write, and in building their houses the settlers used woods from which nowadays furniture is made for royal palaces. Every man on Blue might have said with Louis XIV, "I am housed like a king." Cleared land was wealth, and Dic, upon his mother's death, would at least be well able to support a wife. The Chief Justice knew but one cause for tenderness—Tom. When Rita was passing into womanhood, and developing a beauty that could not be matched on all the River Blue, she began to assume a commercial value in her mother's eyes that might, Madam B. thought in a dimly conscious fashion, be turned to Tom's account. Should Rita marry a rich man, there would be no injustice—justice, you know, was the watchword—in leaving all the Bays estate to the issue male. Therefore, although Mrs. Bays was not at all ready for her young daughter to receive attention from any man, when the proper time should come, Dic might be available if no one better offered, and Tom, dear, sweet, Sir Thomas de Triflin', should then have all that his father and mother possessed, as soon as they could with decent self-respect die and get out of his way.
As time passed, and Rita's beauty grew apace, Mrs. Bays began to feel that Dic with his four "eighties" was not a price commensurate with the winsome girl. But having no one else in mind, she permitted his visits with a full knowledge of their purpose, and hoped that chance or her confidential friend, Providence, might bring a nobler prizewithin range of the truly great attractiveness of Tom's sister.
Mrs. Bays knew that the life she and her neighbors were leading was poor and crude. She also knew that men of wealth and position were eagerly seeking rare girls of Rita's type. By brooding over better things than Dic could offer, her hope grew into a strong desire, and with Rita's increasing beauty this motherly desire took the form of faith. Still, Dic's visits were permitted to continue, and doubtless would be permitted so long as they should be made ostensibly to the family.
Tom's remarks upon Sukey and Sukey's observations concerning Dic had opened Rita's eyes to certain methods prevalent among laddies and lasses, and as a result Sukey, for the time, becamepersona non gratato her old-time friend. Rita was not at the time capable of active jealousy. She knew Sukey was pretty enough, and, she feared, bold enough to be dangerous in the matter of Dic, but she trusted him. Sukey certainly was prettily bedecked with the pinkest and whitest of cheeks, twinkling dimples, and sparkling eyes; but for real beauty she was not in Rita's class, and few men would think of her fleshly charms twice when they might be thinking of our little heroine.
Thus Tom and Sukey became fountain-heads of unhallowed knowledge upon subjects concerning which every young girl, however pure, has a consuming curiosity.
Rita had heard of the "kissing games" played by the youngsters, and a few of the oldsters, too, at country frolics, corn-huskings, and church socials; but as I have told you, the level-headed old Chief Justice had wisely kept her daughter away from such gatherings, and Rita knew little of the kissing, and never telling what was going on about her. Tom and Sukey had thrown light upon the subject for her, and she soon understood, feared, and abhorred. Would she ever pity and embrace?
A year after the small happenings I have just related, great events began to cluster about Dic. They were truly great for him and of course were great for Rita.
Through Billy Little's aid Dic received an offer from an eastern horse buyer to lead a drove of horses to New York. The task was difficult, and required a man of health, strength, judgment, and nerve. The trip going would require two months, and the horses must be kept together, fed, cared for, and, above all, protected night and day from horse thieves, until after the Alleghanies were crossed. The horses were driven loose in herds of one hundred or more. Three men constituted a crew. In this instance Dic was to be in charge, and two rough horse-boys would be his assistants. It would have been impossible todrivethe horses over the fenceless roads and through the leagues of trackless forest; therefore, they were led. The men would take turns about riding in advance, and the man leading would continually whistle a single shrill note which the horses soon learned to follow. Should the whistling cease for a moment, the horses would stop and perhaps stampede. This might mean forty-eight hours of constant work in gathering the drove, with perhaps the loss of one or more. If you will, for one hour, whistle a shrill note loud enough to reach the ears of a herd of trampling, neighing horses, you will discoverthat even that task, which is the smallest part of horse "leading," is an exhausting operation.
The work was hard, but the pay was good, and Dic was delighted with the opportunity. One of its greatest attractions to him was the fact that he would see something of the world. Billy Little urged him to accept the offer.
"A man," said he, "estimates his own stature by comparing it with those about him, and the most fatal mistake he can make is to underestimate his size. Self-conceit is ugly, but it never injured any one. Modesty would have ruined Napoleon himself. The measure of a man, like the length of a cloth-yard, depends upon the standard. Go away from here, Dic. Find your true standard. Measure yourself and return, if you wish. This place is as good as another, if a man knows himself; if he doesn't, he is apt to be deceived by the littleness of things about him. Yet there are great things here, too—greater, in some respects, than any to be found in New York; but the great things here are possibilities. Of course, possibilities are but the raw material. They must be manufactured—achieved. But achievement, my boy, achievement! that's the whole thing, after all. What would Cæsar Germanicus and Napoleon have been without possibilities? A ready-made opportunity is a good thing in its way, but it is the creation of opportunity out of crude possibilities that really marks and makes the man and stamps the deed. Any hungry fool would seize the opportunity to eat who might starve if he had to make his bread. Go out into the world. You have good eyes. It will not take long to open them. When they are opened, come back and you will see opportunities here that will make you glad you are alive."
"But, Billy Little," replied Dic, who was sitting with Rita on the sycamore divan, while their small elderly friend sat upon the grass facing them, "you certainlyhave seen the world. Your eyes were opened before you came here, and it seems to me your learning and culture are buried here among the possibilities you speak of."
"No, Dic," answered Billy, "you see, I—well, I ran away from—from many things. You see, you and I are cast in different moulds. You are six feet tall, physically and temperamentally." Rita thought Billy was the most acute observer in Christendom, but she did not speak, save with her eyes. Those eyes nowadays were always talking.
"Six feet don't amount to much," responded Dic. "There is Doug Hill, who is six feet three, with no more brains than a catfish. It is what's at the top of the six feet that counts. You have more at the top of your five feet four than the tallest man on Blue, and as I said, you seem to be buried here. Where are the possibilities for you, Billy Little? And if you can't achieve something great—poor me!"
"There are different possibilities for different men. I think, for example, I have achieved something in you. What say you, Rita?"
The girl was taken unawares. "Indeed you have, glorious—splendid—that is, I mean you have achieved something great in all of us whom you have tried to influence. I see your possibilities, Billy Little. I see them stamped upon the entire Blue River settlement. La Salle and Marquette, of whom Dic read to me from your book, had the same sort of opportunities. Their field was broader, but I doubt if their influence will be more lasting than yours."
"Rather more conspicuous," laughed Billy.
"Yes," answered Rita, "your achievements will not be recorded. Their effect will probably be felt by all of us, and the achievement must be your only reward."
"It is all I ask," returned Billy. Then, after a pause,he spoke in mock reproof to Dic, "Now, hang your head in shame."
"I suppose it's my turn," Dic replied.
"The achievements of picturesque men only should be placarded to the world," said Billy. "The less said about a little old knot like me the better for—better for the knot."
"You are not a knot," cried Rita indignantly.
"Rita," said Dic, "you know the walnut knot, while it shows the roughest bark, has the finest grain in the tree."
"I am going home if you don't stop that sort of talking," said Billy, pleased to his toes, but pretending to be annoyed.
A fortnight before Dic's intended departure for New York an opportunity presented itself of which the young man, after due consideration, determined to take advantage. He walked over one evening to see Tom, but, as usual, found Rita. After a few minutes in which to work his courage up, he said:—
"There is to be a church social at Scott's to-morrow night—the Baptists. I wonder if you would like—that is, would want to—would be willing to go with me?"
"I would be glad to go," answered the girl; "but mother won't let me."
"We'll go in and ask her, if you wish," he replied.
"There's no use, but we can try. Perhaps if she thinks I don't want to go, she will consent."
Into the house they went, and Dic made his wants known to the head of the family.
"No," snapped the good lady, "she can't go. Girls of sixteen and seventeen nowadays think they are young ladies."
"They are dull, anyway," said Rita, referring to church socials. "I have heard they are particularly dull at Scott's—the Baptists are so religious. Sukey Yates said they did nothing but preach and pray and sing psalms andtake up a collection at the last social Scott gave. It's just like church, and I don't want to go anyway." She had never been to a church social, but from what she had heard she believed them to be bacchanalian scenes of riotous enjoyment, and her remarks were intended to deceive.
"You should not speak so disrespectfully of the church," said the Chief Justice, sternly. "The Lord will punish you for it, see if He doesn't. Since I think about it, the socials held at Scott's are true, religious, God-fearing gatherings, and you shall go as a punishment for your sacrilegious sneers. Perhaps if you listen to the Word, it may come back after many days." Margarita, Sr., often got her Biblical metaphors mixed, but that troubled her little. There was, she thought, virtue in scriptural quotations, even though entirely inapplicable to the case in point.
"Come for her to-morrow evening, Dic," said Mrs. B. "She shall be ready." Then turning to Rita: "To speak of the Holy Word in that manner! You shall be punished."
Dic and Rita went out to the porch. Dic laughed, but the girl saw nothing funny.
"It seems to me just as if I had told a story," she said. "One may act a story as easily as tell it."
"Well, you are to be punished," laughed Dic.
"But you know I want to go. I have never been to a social, and it will not punish me to go."
"Then you are to be punished by going with me," returned the stalwart young fisherman. She looked up to him with a flash of her eyes—those eyes were worse than a loose tongue for tattling—and said:—
"That is true."
Dic, who was fairly boiling with pleasant anticipations, went to town next day and boiled over on Billy Little.
"I'm going to take Rita to Scott's social this evening," he said.
"Ah, indeed," responded Billy; "it's her first time out, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I envy her, by George, I do, and I envy you," said Billy. He did not envy Dic; but you may remember my remarks concerning bachelor hearts and their unprotected condition in this cruel world. There may be pain of the sort Billy felt without either envy or jealousy.
"Dic, I have a mind to send Rita a nice ribbon or two for to-night. What do you think about it?" asked Billy.
"She would be delighted," answered Dic. "She would accept them from you, but not from me."
"There is no flattery in that remark," answered Billy, with a touch of sharpness.
"Why, Billy Little, what do you suppose I meant?" asked Dic.
"I know you spoke the truth. She would accept a present from the little old knot, but would refuse it from the straight young tree."
"Why, Billy Little, I meant nothing of the sort."
"Now, not another word," interrupted Billy. "Give these ribbons to her when you ride home, and tell her the knot sends them to the sweetbrier." Then turning his face to the shelves on the wall, and arranging a few pieces of goods, he hummed under his breath his favorite stanza, "Maxwelton's braes," and paid no further attention to his guest.
Rita came out as Dic rode up to the gate. He did not dismount, but handed her the ribbons across the fence, saying: "Billy Little sends you these for to-night. He said they were from the knot to the sweetbrier."
The girl's suppressed delight had been troubling her all day. Her first party, her first escort, and that escort Dic! What more could a girl desire? The ribbons were too much. And somebody was almost ready to weep for joy.She opened the little package and her eyes sparkled. When she felt that speech was entirely safe, she said:—
"The little package is as prim and neat as Billy Little himself. Dear, sweet, old Billy Little."
Dic, whose heart was painfully inflamed, was almost jealous of Billy, and said:—
"I suppose you would not have accepted them from me?"
"Why not?" she responded. "Of course I would." Her eyes grew wide when she looked up to him and continued, "Did you get them for me and tell me that Billy Little sent them?"
"No," answered Dic, regretfully, as he began to see possibilities, even on Blue. One possibility, at least, he saw clearly—one that he had lost.
"It was more than a possibility," he said to himself, as he rode homeward. "It was a ready-made opportunity, and I did not see it. The sooner I go to New York or some place else and get my eyes opened, the better it will be for me."
The church social opened with a long, sonorous prayer by the Baptist preacher, Mr. Wetmore. Then followed a psalm, which in turn was followed by a "few words." After the few words, Rev. Wetmore said in soft, conciliatory tones, "Now, brethren, if Deacon Moore will be so kind as to pass the hat, we will receive the offering."
Wetmore was not an ordained minister, nor was he recognized by the church to which he claimed to belong. He was one of the many itinerant vagabonds who foisted themselves upon isolated communities solely for the sake of the "offering."
Deacon Moore passed his hat, and when he handed it to Wetmore that worthy soul counted out two large copper pennies. There were also in the hat two brass buttonswhich Tom, much to Sukey's amusement, had torn from his clothing for the purpose of an offering. Sukey laughed so inordinately at Tom's extravagant philanthropy that she convinced De Triflin' he was a very funny fellow indeed; but she brought upon her pretty flaxen head a reprimand from Wetmore.
"Undue levity," said he, "ill becomes even frivolous youth at this moment. Later you will have ample opportunity to indulge your mirth; but for the present, the Lord's business—" at the word "business" he received the hat from Deacon Moore, and looked eagerly into it for the offering. Disappointment, quite naturally, spread itself over his sallow face, and he continued: "Buttons do not constitute an acceptable offering to the Lord. He can have no use for them. I think that during the course of my life work in the vineyard I have received a million buttons of which I—I mean the Lord—can have no possible use. If these buttons had been dollars or shillings, or even pennies, think of the blessings they would have brought from above."
The reverend man spoke several times with excusable asperity of "buttons," and after another psalm and a sounding benediction the religious exercises were finished, and the real business of the evening, the spelling-bee and the kissing games, began.
At these socials many of the old folks took part in the spelling-bee, after which they usually went home—an event eagerly awaited by the young people.
There was but one incident in the spelling-bee that touched our friends, and I shall pass briefly over that part of the entertainment preceding it. The class, ranging in years from those who lisped in youth to those who lisped in age, stood in line against the wall, and Wetmore, spelling-book in hand, stood in front of them to "give out" the words. It was not considered fair to give out a word notin the spelling-book until the spelling and "syllabling" of sentences was commenced. All words were syllabled, but to spell and syllable a sentence was not an easy task, and by the time sentences were reached the class usually had dwindled down to three or four of the best spellers. Of course, one who missed a word left the class. Our friends—Billy Little, Dic, Rita, and Sukey Yates—were in the contest.
The first word given out was metropolitan, and it fell to Douglas of the Hill. He began: "M-e-t—there's your met; r-o—there's your ro; there's your metro; p-o-l—there's your pol; there's your ro-pol; there's your met-ro-pol; i—there's your i; there's your pol-i; there's your ro-pol-i; there's your met-ro-pol-i; t-e-n—there's your—" "t-a-n," cried the girl next to him, who happened to be Sukey Yates, and Douglas stepped down and out.
A score or more of words were then spelled without an error, until Constantinople fell to the lot of an elderly man who stood by Rita. He began: "C-o-n—there's your Con; s-t-a-n—there's your stan; there's your Con-stan; t-i—there's your ti; there's your stan-ti; there's your Con-stan-ti; n-o—there's your no; there's your ti-no; there's your stan-ti-no; there's your Con-stan-ti-no; p-e-l—there's your pell; there's your no—"—"p-l-e—there's your pell" (so pronounced); "there's your Con-stan-ti-no-ple," chimed Rita, and her elderly neighbor took a chair. Others of the class dropped out, leaving only our four acquaintances,—Dic, Billy, Sukey, and Rita. Dic went out on "a" in place of "i" in collectible, Sukey turning him down. Rita had hoped he would win the contest and had determined, should it narrow down to herself and him, to miss intentionally, if need be. After Dic had taken a chair, judgment fell to and upon Sukey. She began "j-u-d-g-e—there's your judge;" whereupon Billy Little said, "Sink the e," and Sukey sank, leaving Billy Little and Rita standing against the wall, as if they were aboutto be married. Billy, of course, was only awaiting a good opportunity to fail in order that the laurels of victory might rest upon Rita's brow.
"We will now spell and syllable a few sentences," said Wetmore. "Mr. Little, I give you the sentence, 'An abominable bumblebee with his tail cut off.'"
It must be remembered that in spelling these words and sentences each syllable was pronounced separately and roundly. B-o-m was a full grown, sonorous bom. B-u-m was a rolling bum, and b-l-e was pronounced bell with a strong, full, ringing, liquid sound. The following italics show the emphasis. Billy slowly repeated the sentence and began:—
"A-n—there's your an; a—there's your a; there's your an-a; b-o-m—there's yourbom; there's youra-bom; there's youran-a-bom; i—there's your i; there's yourbom-i; there's youra-bom-i; there's youran-a-bom-i; n-a—there's your na; there's youri-na; there's yourbom-i-na; there's youra-bom-i-na; there's youran-a-bom-i-na; b-l-e—there's your bell; there's yourna-bell; there's youri-na-bell; there's yourbom-i-na-bell; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell; there's youran-a-bom-i-na-bell; b-u-m—there's your bum; there's yourbell-bum; there's yourna-bell-bum; there's youri-na-bell-bum; there's yourbom-i-na-bell-bum; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell-bum; there's youran-a-bom-i-na-bell-bum; b-l-e—there's your bell; there's yourbum-bell; there's yourbell-bum-bell; there's yourna-bell-bum-bell; there's youri-na-bell-bum-bell; there's yourbom-i-na-bell-bum-bell; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell; there's youran-a-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell; b-e-e—there's your bee; there's yourbell-bee; there's yourbum-bell-bee; there's yourbell-bum-bell-bee; there's yourna-bell-bum-bell-bee; there's youri-na-bell-bum-bell-bee; there's yourbom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee; there's youran-a-bom-i-nabell-bum-bell-bee; w-i-t-h—h-i-s—there's your with-his; there's yourbee-with-his; there's yourbell-bee-with-his; there's yourbum-bell-bee-with-his; there's yourbell-bum-bell-bee-with-his; there's yourna-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his; there's youri-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his; there's yourbom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his; there's youran-a-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his; t-a-l-e—there's your—" But Rita chimed in at once: "T-a-i-l—there's your tail; there's yourwith-his-tail; there's yourbee-with-his-tail; there's yourbell-bee-with-his-tail; there's yourbum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's yourbell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's yourna-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's youri-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's yourbom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's youran-a-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; c-u-t—there's your cut; there's yourtail-cut; there's yourwith-his-tail-cut; there's yourbee-with-his-tail-cut; there's yourbell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's yourbum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's yourbell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's yourna-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's youri-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's yourbom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his -tail-cut; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell-bum -bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's youran-a-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; o-f-f—there's your off; there's yourcut-off; there's yourtail-cut-off; there's yourwith-his-tail-cut-off; there's yourbee-with -his-tail-cut-off; there's yourbell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's yourbum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's yourbell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's yourna-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's youri-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's yourbom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's youra-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's youran-a-bom-i-na-bell-bum-bell-bee-withhis-tail-cut-off," and Rita took her seat, filled with triumph, save for the one regret that Dic had not won.
Many of the old folks, including Billy Little, departed when the bee closed, and a general clamor went up for the kissing games to begin.
Rita declined to take part in the kissing games, and sat against the wall with several other young ladies who had no partners. To Dic she gave the candid reason that she did not want to play, and he was glad.
Doug Hill, who, in common with every other young man on the premises, ardently desired Rita's presence in the game, said:—
"Oh, come in, Rita. Don't be so stuck up. It won't hurt you to be kissed." Doug was a bold, devil-may-care youth, who spoke his mind freely upon all occasions. He was of enormous size, and gloried in the fact that he was the neighborhood bully and very, very "tough." Doug would have you know that Doug would drink; Doug would gamble; Doug would fight. He tried to create the impression that he was very bad indeed, and succeeded. He would go to town Saturdays, "fill up," as he called getting drunk, and would ride furiously miles out of his way going home that he might pass the houses of his many lady-loves, and show them by yells and oaths what a rollicking blade he was. The reputation thus acquired won him many a smile; for, deplore the fact as we may, there's a drop of savage blood still alive in the feminine heart that does not despise depravity in man as it really should.
"Come into the game," cried Doug, taking Rita by the arm, and dragging her toward the centre of the room.
"I don't want to play," cried the girl. "Please let loose of my arms; you hurt me," but Doug continued to drag her toward the ring of players that was forming, and she continued to resist. Doug persisted, and after a momentof struggling she called out, "Dic, Dic!" She had been accustomed since childhood to call upon that name in time of trouble, and had always found help. Dic would not have interfered had not Rita called, but when she did he responded at once.
"Let her alone, Hill," said Dic, as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances. "If she doesn't want to play, she doesn't have to."
"You go to—" cried Doug. "Maybe you think you can run over me, you stuck-up Mr. Proper."
"I don't want to do anything of the sort," answered Dic; "but if you don't let loose of Rita's arm, I'll—"
"What will you do?" asked Doug, laughing uproariously.
For a moment Dic allowed himself to grow angry, and said, "I'll knock that pumpkin off your shoulders," but at once regretted his words.
Doug thought Dic's remark very funny, and intimated as much. Then he bowed his head in front of our hero and said, "Here is the pumpkin; hit it if you dare."
Dic restrained an ardent desire, and Doug still with bowed head continued, "I'll give you a shillin' if you'll hit it, and if you don't, I'll break your stuck-up face."
Dic did not accept the shilling, which was not actually tendered in lawful coin, but stepped back from Doug that he might be prepared for the attack he expected. After waiting what he considered to be a reasonable time for Dic to accept his offer, Doug started toward our hero, looking very ugly and savage. Dic was strong and brave, but he seemed small beside his bulky antagonist, and Rita, frightened out of all sense of propriety, ran to her champion, and placing her back against his breast, faced Doug with fear and trembling. The girl was not tall enough by many inches to protect Dic's face from the breaking Doug had threatened; but what she lacked in heightshe made up in terror, and she looked so "skeert," as Doug afterwards said, that he turned upon his heel with the remark:—
"That's all right. I was only joking. We don't want no fight at a church social, do we, Dic?"
"I don't particularly want to fight any place," replied Dic, glad that the ugly situation had taken a pleasant turn.
"Reckon you don't," returned Doug, uproariously, and the game proceeded.
Partly from disinclination, and partly because he wanted to talk to Rita, Dic did not at first enter the game, but during an intermission Sukey whispered to him:—
"We are going to play Drop the Handkerchief, and if you'll come in I'll drop it behind you every time, and—" here the whispers became very low and soft, "I'll let you catch me, too. We'll make pumpkin-head sick."
The game of skill known as "Drop the Handkerchief" was played in this fashion: a circle of boys and girls was formed in the centre of the room, each person facing the centre. One of the number was chosen "It." "It's" function was to walk or run around the circle and drop the handkerchief behind the chosen one. If "It" happened to be a young man, the chosen one, of course, was a young woman who immediately started in pursuit. If she caught the young man before he could run around the circle to the place she had vacated, he must deposit a forfeit, to be redeemed later in the evening. In any case she became the next "It." A young lady "It" of course dropped the handkerchief behind a young man, and equally, of course, started with a scream of frightened modesty around the circle of players, endeavoring to reach, if possible, the place of sanctuary left vacant by the young man. He started in pursuit, and if he caught her—there we draw the veil. If the young lady were anxious to escape, it was often possible for her to do so. But thanks to Providence,all hearts were not so obdurate as Rita's. I would say, however, in palliation of the infrequency of escapes, that it was looked upon as a serious affront for a young lady to run too rapidly. In case she were caught and refused to pay the forfeit, her act was one of deadly insult gratuitously offered in full view of friends and acquaintances.
Dic hesitated to accept Sukey's invitation, though, in truth, it would have been inviting to any man of spirit. Please do not understand me to say that Dic was a second Joseph, nor that he was one who would run away from a game of any sort because a pretty Miss Potiphar or two happened to be of the charmed and charming circle.
He had often been in the games, and no one had ever impugned his spirit of gallantry by accusing him of unseemly neglect of the beautiful Misses P. His absence from this particular game was largely due to the fact that the right Miss Potiphar was sitting against the wall.
A flush came to Rita's cheek, and she moved uneasily when she saw Sukey whispering to Dic; but he did not suspect that Rita cared a straw what Sukey said. Neither did it occur to him that Rita would wish him to remain out of the game. He could, if he entered the game, make Doug Hill "sick," as Sukey had suggested, and that was a consummation devoutly to be wished. He did not wish to subject himself to the charge of ungallantry; and Sukey was, as you already know, fair to look upon, and her offer was as generous as she could make under the circumstances. So he chose a young lady, left Rita by the wall, and entered the game.
Doug Hill happened to be "It" and dropped the handkerchief behind Sukey, whereupon that young lady walked leisurely around the circle, making no effort to capture the Redoubtable. Such apathy was not only an infringement of the etiquette of the game, but might, if the injured party were one of high spirits, be looked upon as an insult.
Sukey then became "It," and, dropping the handkerchief behind Dic, deliberately waited for him to catch her; when, of course, a catastrophe ensued. Meantime, the wall was growing uncomfortable to Rita. She had known in a dimly conscious way that certain things always happened at country frolics, but toseethem startled her, and she began to feel very miserable. Her tender heart fluttered piteously with a hundred longings, chief among which was the desire to prevent further catastrophes between Dic and Sukey.
Compared to Sukey, there was no girl in the circle at all entitled to be ranked in the Potiphar class of beauty. So, when Dic succeeded Sukey as "It," he dropped the handkerchief behind her. Then she again chose Dic, and in turn became the central figure in a catastrophe that was painful to the girl by the wall. If Rita had been in ignorance of her real sentiments for Dic, that ignorance had, within the last few minutes, given place to a knowledge so luminous that it was almost blinding. The room seemed to become intensely warm. Meantime the play went on, and the process of making Doug "sick" continued with marked success. Sukey always favored Dic, and he returned in kind. This alternation, which was beyond all precedent, soon aroused a storm of protests.
"If you want to play by yourselves," cried Tom, "why don't you go off by yourselves?"
"Yes," cried the others; "if you can't play fair, get out of the game."
The order of events was immediately changed, but occasionally Sukey broke away from time-honored precedent and repeated her favors to Dic. Doug was rapidly growing as "sick" as his most inveterate enemy could have desired. There was another person in the room who was also very wretched—one whom Dic would nothave pained for all the Sukey Potiphars in Egypt. The other person was not only pained, she was grieved, confused, frightened, desperate. She feared that she would cry out and ask Dic not to favor Sukey. She did not know what to do, nor what she might be led to do, if matters continued on their present course.
Soon after Tom's reprimand, Sukey found the duty of dropping the handkerchief again devolving upon her pretty self. She longed with all her heart to drop it behind Dic; but, fearing the wrath of her friends, she concluded to choose the man least apt to arouse antagonism in Dic's breast. She would choose one whom he knew she despised, and would trust to luck and her swift little feet to take her around the circle before the dropee could catch her.
Wetmore had been an active member, though a passive participant, in the game, since its beginning. When a young lady "It" walked back of him, he would eagerly watch her approach, and when she passed him, as all did, he would turn his face after her and hope for better things from the next. Repeated disappointments had lulled his vigil, and when Sukey, the girl of all others for whom he had not hoped, dropped the sacred linen behind his reverend form, he was so startled that he did not seize the precious moment. He was standing beside Doug Hill, and the handkerchief fell almost between the two. It was clearly intended for his reverence; but when he failed instantly to meet the requirements of the situation, the Douglas, most alert of men, resolved to appropriate the opportunity to himself. At the same moment Brother W. also determined to embrace it, and, if possible, "It." Each stooped at the same instant, and their heads collided.
"Let it alone, parson, it's for me," cried the Douglas.
Parson did not answer, but reached out his hand for the coveted prize. Thereupon Douglas pushed him backward,causing him to be seated with great violence upon the floor. At that unfortunate moment Sukey, who had taken speed from eagerness, completed her trip around the circle, and being unable to stop, fell headlong over the figure of the self-made parson. She had not seen Doug's part in the transaction, and being much disturbed in mind and dress, turned upon poor Wetmore and flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, "You fool."
When we consider the buttons in the offering, together with Sukey's unjust and biting words, we cannot help believing that Wetmore had been born under an unlucky star.
One's partner in this game was supposed to favor one now and then, when opportunity presented; but Wetmore's partner, Miss Tompkinson, having waited in vain for favors from that gentleman, quitted the game when Sukey called him, "You fool." Wetmore thought, of course, he also would be compelled to drop out; but, wonder of wonders, Rita, the most beautiful girl in the room, rose to her feet and said:—
"I'll take your place, Miss Tompkinson." She knew that if she were in the game, Sukey's reign would end, and she had reached the point of perturbation where she was willing to do anything to prevent the recurrence of certain painful happenings. She knew that she should not take part in the game,—it was not for such as her,—but she was confused, desperate, and "didn't care." She modestly knew her own attractions. Every young man in the circle was a friend of Tom's, and had at some time manifested a desire to be a friend to Tom's sister. Tom was fairly popular for his own sake, but his exceeding radiance was borrowed. The game could not be very wicked, thought Rita, since it was encouraged by the church; but even if it were wicked, she determined to take possession of her own in the person of Dic. Out of these severalimpulses and against her will came the words, "I'll take your place, Miss Tompkinson," and almost before she was aware of what she had done she was standing with fiercely throbbing pulse, a member of the forbidden circle.