“SIT THERE AND BE QUIET”“SIT THERE AND BE QUIET”
The Indians did not speak save for an occasional word of direction from the squaw. The sun had set when they turned the canoe toward the shore. Nakanit pulled the canoe upon the sand beyond reach of the tide, and the squaw led the way to a little opening among the trees, and there Anne was surprised to find another wigwam, very much like the one they had left that morning. The squaw spread the blankets, gave the girls the corn cakes with strips of dried fish for their supper, and they had water from a near-by brook.
Anne was soon fast asleep, quite forgetful of her strange surroundings and of the friends in Province Town.
Meanwhile those friends had now nearly given up the hope of finding her.
Amanda Cary’s jealousy had vanished the moment she heard of Anne’s disappearance.
“I do not know what I shall do with the child,” Mrs. Cary said anxiously, when Amanda cried herself to sleep on the night after Anne left home, and when, on the next morning, she began sobbing bitterly at the mention of her playmate’s name.
“Amanda’s ashamed; that’s what’s the matter with her,” declared Amos boldly.
Amanda’s sobs stopped, and she looked at her brother with startled eyes. What would become of her, she wondered, if the Stoddards shouldever find out that she, Amanda, was the one to blame; that Anne had not deserved any punishment.
“Amos, don’t plague your sister,” said Mrs. Cary. “You know she loves Anne, even if the girl did slap her. Amanda has a good heart, and she does not hold resentment,” and Mrs. Cary looked at Amanda with loving eyes.
At her mother’s words Amanda began to cry again. She thought to herself that she could never tell the truth, never. “Everybody will hate me if I do,” she thought, and then, remembering Anne and hearing her father say on the second day after her disappearance that there was now little hope of finding the runaway, she felt that she must tell Mrs. Stoddard.
“I’ll wager I could find Anne,” said Amos as he and Amanda sat on the door-step. “She’s started for Brewster.”
“Oh, Amos!” Amanda’s voice was full of delight. “I shouldn’t wonder if she had.”
“But Captain Stoddard says he followed the Truro path and no sign of her; and other people say that wolves would get her if she started to walk.”
Amanda’s face had brightened at Amos’sassertion that he knew he could find Anne, and now she asked eagerly:
“What makes you think you could find her, Amos?”
“You won’t tell?” and Amos looked at his sister sharply.
“I promise, hope to die, I won’t,” answered Amanda.
“Well, I’ll tell you. I think she started for Truro, and will go by the meadows and over the hill instead of the regular path. I know the way I’d go, and I know I could find her; but father just shakes his head and won’t let me try.”
“Amos, you go,” said Amanda. “Promise you’ll go. I’ll tell you something if you won’t ever tell. It’s something awful!”
“I won’t tell,” said the boy.
“I made Anne run away! Yes, I did. I was angry when she told me about going to Boston again, and going in a chaise, and I pushed her——”
“And then you came home and told mother that yarn!” interrupted Amos;“and mother went and told Mrs. Stoddard, and so Anne got punished and didn’t know what for. You’re a nice sister to have!” and the boy’s face expressed his disgust.
“But, Amos, I didn’t s’pose Anne would run away,” pleaded Amanda.
“Hmph!” muttered Amos. “Well, she has, and whatever happens to her will be your fault.”
“O-ooh—dear,” wailed the little girl. “What shall I do?”
“Nothing,” answered Amos relentlessly; “only of course now I’ve got to find her.”
“And you won’t ever tell about me,” pleaded Amanda.
“I’d be ashamed to let anybody know I had a sister like you,” answered Amos.
“Amos, you’re real good,” responded Amanda, somewhat to her brother’s surprise. “When will you start?”
“Right off,” declared the boy. “I’ll put a jug of water and something to eat in my boat, and I’ll go round to Truro—Anne must have got that far—and I’ll keep on until I find her and tell her how ashamed I am of you.”
“And say I’m sorry, Amos; promise to tell her I’m sorry,” pleaded Amanda.
“Lots of use being sorry,” said the boy.“When they miss me you can tell them just where I’ve gone and that I’ll be home Saturday night, anyway, or let them hear from me if I don’t come.”
“I do believe you’ll find her, Amos,” declared Amanda.
“Sure!” answered the boy.
Amos was so frequently in his boat that no one gave any especial attention when they saw him push off from shore and row steadily in the direction of Truro. He was not missed at home until supper time; then, as the little family gathered around the table, Mrs. Cary said:
“’Tis time Amos was here. He’s not often late for his supper.”
“He won’t be here for supper,” announced Amanda; “he’s gone to find Anne!”
“My soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Cary; “gone to find Anne, indeed. What possesses the children of this settlement is more than I can answer. And you, Amanda! Here you are all smiles and twinkles, as if you thought it a great thing for your brother to start off like this.”
“He’s gone by boat, I vow,” said Mr. Cary.
“Yes, he means to row to Truro, and catch up with Anne. And he said to tell you he’d be back, or get you news of him in some way, by Saturday,” and Amanda nodded smilingly, as if she were quite sure that her father and mother would be quite satisfied with Amos now that she had given them his message.
“Amos shall have his way in one thing,” said Mr. Cary. “As soon as he is back, aye, if he comes Saturday or not, I’ll put him aboard the first craft that can get out of harbor, and the farther her port the better. A year on shipboard is what the boy needs.”
“You wouldn’t send the boy with a strange captain?” Mrs. Cary questioned anxiously.
“Indeed I will. So long as he’s on board a ship we shall know where he is,” declared Amos’s father. “We can do nothing now but wait. Find Anne, indeed! who knows where to look for the poor child?”
“Amos knows,” said Amanda.
But Mr. and Mrs. Cary shook their heads. They did not feel much anxiety as to Amos’s safety, for the boys of the settlement were used to depending on themselves, and many boys no older than Amos Cary or Jimmie Starkweather had made a voyage to the West Indies, or to some far southern port; but they were displeased that he should have started off without permission.
Saturday came, but Amos did not appear, but toward evening a Truro man brought Mr. Cary word that Amos had been in Truro, and had started for Brewster that morning.
“He’s a sailor, that boy!” declared the Truro man admiringly. “He hoisted that square foot of sail-cloth, and went out of harbor at sunrise with a fair wind. He said he had ’business in Brewster,’” and the Truro man laughed good-naturedly. “But he’s a smart boy,” he added.
Mr. Cary made no answer, but his stern face softened a little at the praise of Amos. Nevertheless he was firmly resolved that Amos should be sent on a long voyage. “The harder master he has the better,” thought the father. “I’m too easy with him.”
When Amos hoisted his “square foot of sail” and headed for Wellfleet, he saw a canoe some distance ahead of him.
“Two squaws paddling and one doing nothing,” thought the boy. “Wonder where they’re bound?” But it was no unusual sight to see Indian canoes in those waters, and Amos did not think much about it. But his course brought him nearer and nearer to the graceful craft, and all at once he noticed that the figuresitting in the canoe was a little white girl. At that very moment Anne turned her face toward him.
“Amos!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet.
There was an angry exclamation from the squaw, a yell from Nakanit, and in an instant the girls and woman were in the water. Anne’s jump had upset the delicately balanced craft. The baskets bobbed and floated on the water. Anne’s bundle was not to be seen, while Anne herself, clutching at the slippery side of the canoe called “Amos! Amos!” in a terrified voice.
But it was no new experience for either the squaw or Nakanit. In a moment Anne felt a strong grasp on her shoulder. “Keep quiet,” commanded the squaw. “Let go the canoe.” As Anne obeyed she saw Nakanit close beside her, and, while the squaw kept her firm grasp on Anne’s shoulder, the girl righted the canoe, and easily and surely regained her place in it. The squaw lifted Anne in, and quickly followed her. Amos had brought his boat as near as possible and now rescued the baskets and floating paddles, and handed them to Nakanit.
The squaw scowled at Anne, and when the girl bewailed her lost bundle muttered angrily.
“Want to get in my boat, Anne?” asked the boy.
Before Anne could answer the squaw with a strong sweep of her paddle had sent the canoe some distance from the boat, while Nakanit called back some word to Amos, evidently of warning not to follow them. But Anne turned her head and called “Amos! Amos!” For the scowling faces of her companions frightened her, and she wished herself safely in Amos’s boat.
The breeze had now died away, and Amos was soon left some distance behind. Anne did not dare turn her head to see if he were following the canoe, which was now moving ahead rapidly as the Indians swiftly wielded their paddles.
“Go to Brewster,” announced the squaw after a little silence.
Anne, huddled up in her wet clothes, frightened and unhappy, nodded her head in answer. Then, remembering that the squaw had bidden her to sit still, and that her jump had upset the canoe, she ventured to say: “I’m sorry I jumped.”
The squaw’s scowl disappeared, and she gave a grunt of approval, and then, evidently, repeatedAnne’s words to Nakanit, for the Indian girl smiled and nodded. Anne began to realize that they were really kind and good-natured, and that she had no reason to be afraid.
“I was surprised to see Amos,” she continued.
The squaw nodded again, and repeated, “Go to Brewster.”
Anne could now hear the sound of the oars, and knew that Amos was rowing toward them. The paddles began to move more swiftly, and the sound of the oars grew more indistinct. Anne realized that Amos could not keep up with the canoe. But she was sure that he would follow them, and it made her feel less uneasy.
“Amos is a good boy,” she explained to the squaw, but there was no response. “I’d like to tell him that you’ve been good to me,” continued Anne.
At this the squaw, with a word to Nakanit, held her paddle motionless, and very soon Amos was close beside them.
“Tell him,” commanded the squaw.
So Anne told her little sorry of adventure, and said, “And they are going to take me right to Rose Freeman in Brewster. Nakanit’s mother talks English.”
Amos listened in amazement. “I told Amanda you’d started for Brewster,” he responded, “and I sent word to father that I was going there, so I might as well go. I’ve got things to eat. Amanda’s sorry,” he added, looking rather shamed as he spoke his sister’s name.
The squaw now dipped her paddle again, and the canoe and boat moved forward. Anne began to think about her lost bundle, and to remember how neatly Rose Freeman dressed. “She will be ashamed of me,” thought the girl, looking down at her wet and faded skirt and bare feet.
“Say, don’t we stop anywhere for dinner?” asked Amos. “It’s getting hot work rowing all this time.”
The squaw looked at the boy sharply, and then turned the canoe toward the shore. They landed on a beach, close by the mouth of a stream of clear water. A little way from the beach they found shade under a branching oak-tree.
“I’ll build a fire,” suggested Amos, “and I’ll get some clams; shall I?” and he turned toward the squaw.
She nodded, and seemed rather surprisedwhen she saw that the boy understood her own way of getting fire, and when he asked for a basket and soon returned with it well filled with clams, which he roasted in the hot sand under the coals, she evidently began to think well of him. Amos shared his bread and a piece of cold beef which he had brought from home with his companions, and, with a quantity of blueberries that Nakanit had gathered while Amos roasted the clams, they all had enough to eat, and Amos said everything tasted better than if eaten in the house, at which the squaw nodded and smiled.
Anne found a chance to whisper to Amos: “Don’t tell her I ran away.”
“All right, but I fear she knows it,” replied the boy.
It was in the early evening when the canoe, closely followed by Amos’s rowboat, left Wellfleet harbor behind them and headed for Brewster. The squaw had decided that it would be easier to go on than to wait for another day, and Anne and Amos were glad to go on as soon as possible.
At first Amos had wondered why the squaw had promised to take Anne to Brewster, andhad decided that probably the Indians were bound in that direction when they fell in with Anne. This was really one reason, but it was Anne’s mention of the name of Freeman that had made the squaw willing to do the girl a service. For the Freemans of Brewster had been good friends to the Mashpee Indians, and the squaw felt bound to help any friend of theirs.
She had questioned Amos sharply as to his reason for following Anne, and Amos had told her the truth: that his sister had not treated Anne fairly, so that Anne had been punished, and had run away. “So, of course,” added the boy, “I had to come after her and be sure that she was all right.”
The squaw understood, and evidently thought well of Amos for his undertaking. Anne felt much happier to know that a friend was close at hand, and that Amos on his return home would tell her Aunt Martha Stoddard that she was safely in Brewster. But the lost bundle troubled her a good deal. As she sat in the swiftly moving canoe and watched the steady dip of the paddles she thought that the Indians had been very good to her.“If I had my bundle now I would give Nakanit the cape and the beads; indeed I would,” she said to herself.
The midsummer moon shone down upon the beautiful harbor. Every wooded point or sloping field was plainly outlined in the clear water, and there was the pleasant fragrance of pine and bayberry mingled with the soft sea air. It was much pleasanter than journeying in the sun. The squaw and Nakanit began to sing, and although neither Anne nor Amos understood the words, they were both sure that the musical notes told of birds flying over moonlit water.
It was midnight when the squaw turned the canoe toward shore. It proved to be the mouth of a small inlet up which they went for some distance, Amos keeping close behind.
“Look, Anne!” he exclaimed as the Indians stopped paddling. “There is a camp-fire. I do believe it’s the Mashpee village.”
“Sshh,” warned the squaw in a sharp voice. At the sound of the boy’s voice a number of dark figures appeared to spring up from the ground, and the squaw called out a word of greeting. A moment later she was talking rapidly to several tall figures who came to meet her, evidently telling Anne’s story and that of Amos.
Anne could distinguish the word “Freeman” in the squaw’s talk.
Amos pulled his boat up on shore, and stood wondering what would happen next. He looked toward the wigwams and the smoldering camp-fires, and almost forgave Amanda, because his journey was bringing him into the Mashpee village.
One of the Indians gave him a little push, and pointed toward a wigwam. It was evident that the squaw was the only one who spoke English.
“Go with him,” she said to Amos.
“All right,” responded the boy; “here’s your bundle, Anne,” he said, holding it out toward her. “I fished it out of the water when you tipped over. Guess it isn’t much wet.”
Anne was almost too delighted to speak. She hugged the bundle in her arms and followed Nakanit up the path toward the village. This was evidently the squaw’s home, and her wigwam had many deerskins, blankets and baskets.
Nakanit led Anne toward the back of the wigwam where lay a pile of spruce boughs over which deerskins were thrown. In a few moments the Indian girl and Anne lay on this rude couch fast asleep.
When Anne awoke the next morning there was no one in the wigwam. Everything seemed very quiet. Anne’s first thought was for her beloved bundle that she had carefully set down beside her bed. It was not there. The little girl slid to her feet, and began looking about the wigwam. There was no trace of it. Anne began to feel very unhappy. It had been hard to make up her mind to give Nakanit her treasured corals and her pretty cape, but it was even harder to bear to have them disappear like this. She threw herself back on the bed and began to cry bitterly. She wished that Rose Freeman had never thought of asking her to come to Brewster, and that she was safe in Province Town with Aunt Martha.
She stopped crying suddenly, for she felt a hand smoothing her hair, and she looked up to find Nakanit sitting beside her, and at her feet rested the bundle. It was plain that the mischievous Indian girl had wished to tease the little white girl, but had relented at the sight of her tears.
“Oh,” exclaimed Anne, “I’m so glad!” and she began to unfasten the bundle, spreading out the blue cape and muslin dress, and laying“Martha Stoddard” down on the deerskins. Then she took up the string of coral beads and turning toward Nakanit fastened them around her neck. “I want to give you these for being good to me,” she said. The Indian girl understood the gift if not the words, and was evidently delighted. Hearing a noise at the entrance they looked up to see the squaw smiling in at them. She had heard Anne’s words, and now came toward the girls. Anne picked up her blue cape and held it out toward the squaw. “I wish I had something better to give you,” she said.
The squaw took it eagerly, and with a grunt of satisfaction, and then, turning to Nakanit, began chattering rapidly. Nakanit ran toward a big basket in the corner and came back with several pairs of soft moccasins. Kneeling before Anne she tried them on her feet until a pair was found that fitted.
“Now go with Nakanit to the lake,” said the squaw, and Anne followed Nakanit out of the wigwam through the woods to a clear little lake where the girls bathed, braided their hair, and then came back to eat heartily of the simple food the squaw gave them.
“Look, look, Aunt Hetty. Here are some Indians coming up the path, and I do believe that they have a little white boy and girl with them,” and Rose Freeman drew her aunt to the open window that looked down over a smooth green lawn to an elm-shaded village street.
Aunt Hetty’s well-starched dress rustled pleasantly as she hurried to join Rose.
“It’s old Nakanit and her daughter,” she said. “My mother taught her a good deal, and she often comes to see me. Those are surely white children. I wonder what the trouble is. Old Nakanit knows that the Sabbath is not a day for idle visits, and indeed, Rose, it does not become us to be stretching our heads out of the window. There, they are on the porch now. Why, Rose!” For with a quick exclamation the girl had run from the room and when Mrs.Freeman followed she found her with an arm about a little moccasined dark-eyed girl, saying: “Why, it is Anne; it is dear little Anne Nelson.”
“I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Freeman. “And did you fetch the child, Nakanit? Sit down and I will have Hepsibah bring you some cool milk and cake.”
Nakanit grunted appreciatively, and while the Indians were eating Anne told Rose all the story of her journey.
“I do not know why Aunt Martha shut me up and said that I could not visit you, Rose,” said Anne; “if I had been disobedient or careless I do not know it.”
Amos listened, looking very flushed and unhappy, for he knew that it was Amanda’s story that had caused Anne’s punishment and made her a runaway. But he had promised his sister that he would not betray her, and now that Anne had reached Brewster in safety he resolved to keep silent. “But Amanda shall tell Mrs. Stoddard; indeed she shall,” the boy said to himself.
The Indians soon rose from the porch steps to depart, and as Anne said good-bye to them shefelt that she was parting from friends, and tried to tell them so.
“And you are going home to Province Town, and will tell Aunt Martha that I am safe,” she said to Amos. “You were real good to come after me, Amos, and you tell Amanda not to be sorry she slapped me; that it’s all right.”
Amos wriggled about uneasily at Anne’s message. He was almost resolved not to go home at all.
“I reckon I’ll stay with the Mashpees a while,” he answered.“There’s an Indian boy who talks English and he’s told me lots of things: how to set traps for foxes and woodchucks, and how to make fish-spears, and he can stay under water longer than I can. He’s fine. You ought to hear him tell stories. Last night he told me of a tribe of Indians who sent six of their bravest warriors out to sea in a canoe, without food or paddles, so as to prove to other tribes that their braves could not be harmed anywhere. And they were carried by the winds and waves to a wonderful island where there were friendly Indians; and they hunted wild deer, and made bows and arrows, and paddles, and caught wild birds, and when another summer came back they came to Cape Cod with many canoes, and skins, and much deer-meat, so that their tribe made them all great chiefs. And this boy who told me is one of the descendants of the very bravest chief, and he wants me to stay and be his brother,” and Amos looked as if he would like nothing better than to be adopted into the Mashpee tribe.
“What’s the Indian boy’s name?” questioned Anne.
“I don’t think much of his name,” said Amos, a little regretfully; “it’s ’Shining Fish.’”
“But you won’t stay with the Indians, Amos, will you?” pleaded Anne.
“I s’pose I’ll have to go home,” agreed Amos. “I wonder what Jimmie Starkweather will say when I tell him about living with Indians,” and Amos looked more cheerful at the thought of Jimmie’s surprise and envy when he should describe his adventures. “Nothing ever happens to Jimmie,” he added, in a satisfied tone.
After Amos and the Indians had started on their way back to the Indian village Rose and Anne followed Mrs. Freeman into the square comfortable house. Mrs. Freeman had heardall about Anne, and now, as she noticed the torn and soiled dress, the untidy hair and moccasin-covered feet, she whispered to Rose: “Take the child right up-stairs. I don’t want your uncle to see her looking so like a wild child of the woods.”
Rose nodded laughingly. Aunt Hetty Freeman was known as one of the best housekeepers in Brewster, and no one had ever seen her looking other than “spick and span,” as her husband often admiringly declared. Rose always said that she could tell just what part of the big house Aunt Hetty was in because she could hear her starched skirts rattle; and she realized that Anne’s untidy appearance was a real trouble to her kind-hearted aunt.
Anne looked at the broad stairway admiringly, and exclaimed at the sight of a tall clock on the landing. “It’s better than Boston, isn’t it, Rose?” she said, as Rose took her into the big comfortable room, with its high, curtained bed and chintz curtained windows.
“It’s a dear house,” answered the older girl, who was too loyal to her home to think any other place quite as good. “You are the bravest child I ever heard of,” Rose continued admiringly,drawing Anne down beside her on the broad cushioned window-seat; “to think of your starting out to come all the way alone to Brewster through the wilderness!”
“I guess I should have been lost but for the Indians,” replied Anne; “but when Aunt Martha said I could not come, that she did not want to hear more of any visit to Brewster or Boston, I had to run away. But now I’m sorry,” and Anne began to cry bitterly. Rose, too, looked very unhappy, for she realized that Captain and Mrs. Stoddard would be greatly troubled until they knew of the little girl’s safety. And, besides that, she was sure that her father would not be willing to take a runaway child to Boston. But Rose resolved not to worry about it, and not to tell Anne that she feared that she would be sent home to her Aunt Martha, instead of taking the wonderful journey to Boston.
So she comforted her little guest, and told her not to feel bad—that Aunt Martha and Uncle Enos would be only too happy to know that she was safe.
“And see, Anne, what my good mother sent you,” and Rose opened a small hair-coveredtrunk that stood near the tall chest of drawers, and took out a pretty dress of spotted percale, and some white stockings. Then there was a dainty white petticoat, and a set of underwear, all trimmed with a pretty crocheted edge.
“And you can wear your moccasins these hot days,” continued Rose, “and you will look very nice indeed.”
Anne was soon dressed in the neat clothing, and, with her hair brushed and smoothly braided, she looked like quite a different child from the little girl who had journeyed with Nakanit.
“I am glad to look nice to go to Boston,” Anne said soberly, as they went down the stairs.
“Oh, dear!” thought the older girl; “how can I tell the poor child that I am almost sure that father will find a way to send her safely back to Province Town?”
Rose’s father and uncle spoke kindly to Anne as she came into the sitting-room, and Aunt Hetty’s skirts rustled briskly as she moved about the room, and then she went out in the shed and came back with a round, low basket in which lay two black kittens, which sheplaced in Anne’s lap saying: “There, little girls and little kittens always like each other; so you can have Pert and Prim for your own while you stay with us.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Anne delightedly, for the two little kittens began to purr happily as she smoothed their soft fur.
Rose found an opportunity to tell her father all about Anne’s reason for running away.
“She did not know why her Aunt Martha shut her up,” pleaded Rose.
But Mr. Freeman shook his head soberly. “We’ll have to send her home by the first chance to Province Town,” he answered, and Rose went back to her little friend feeling that all her pleasant plans for Anne’s visit must come to an end.
“But she shall have a good time here in Brewster,” resolved the girl.
“Shall we start for Boston on Tuesday or Thursday?” Anne asked the next morning, as she helped Rose put their pleasant chamber in order.
“Father has not decided,” replied Rose, feeling rather cowardly that she did not tell Anne the truth.
“It will be fine to ride in a chaise,” went on Anne happily, “and to stop in taverns, and see towns along the way. Your father is indeed good, Rose, to take me.”
“We must do up the dishes for Aunt Hetty,” said Rose briskly, “and then we can walk down the street, and maybe father will drive us about the town.”
While the girls were busy helping Aunt Hetty, Rose’s father was on his way to the Mashpee village to see Amos Cary and to give him a letter to take to Captain Stoddard. He found the boy just ready to start. Shining Fish had launched his canoe and was to go part of the way with his new friend, greatly to Amos’s delight.
“Anne wasn’t to blame.” Amos repeated this a number of times so earnestly that Mr. Freeman began to realize that the boy knew more than he was willing to tell, and to blame Amos.
“That Amanda,” Amos whispered to himself, as he blushed and stammered and evaded Mr. Freeman’s questions.
“I suppose I can trust you with this letter to Captain Stoddard?” said Mr. Freeman.
Amos lifted his head, and his blue eyes did not falter in meeting the stern look of the man.
“I’ll give it to him,” he replied, and Mr. Freeman felt quite sure that the letter would reach its destination.
When Amos’s boat drew near the landing at Province Town, he saw that his father, Amanda, and the Stoddards were all waiting for him. He felt himself to be almost like the chiefs of whom Shining Fish had told him, and quite expected to be praised and made much of; but as he sprang ashore he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
“March yourself straight to the house, young man. I’ll see that you pay for this fool’s errand,” said Mr. Cary.
Amos wriggled away from his father’s grasp. “I’ve got a letter for Captain Enos. Anne’s in Brewster,” he announced.
“Thank heaven!” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard. “And did you find her, Amos? You are a brave boy! Why, Mr. Cary, there’s not another boy in the village who thought of Anne’s going to Brewster, or man either for that matter,” and Mrs. Stoddard patted the boy’s shoulder affectionately, while Mr. Cary regarded Amos withpuzzled eyes, hardly knowing whether to blame or praise him.
While Captain Enos read the letter Amos briefly told the story of his adventures to the little group, saving all that Shining Fish had told him to relate to Jimmy Starkweather as soon as opportunity should occur.
“Well, go home to your mother,” said Mr. Cary in a more gentle voice, and Amanda kept close beside her brother as they turned toward home.
“You’ve got to tell Mrs. Stoddard,” said Amos. “Yes, you have,” he went on, almost fiercely, as Amanda began to whimper. “Everybody’s blaming Anne, and it’s not fair; you’ve got to tell.”
Amanda stopped short and looked at her brother accusingly. “You promised not to tell,” she said.
“Well, I haven’t,” answered the boy, “and I won’t. I’m ashamed to, beside the promise. Anne said, when I told her that you said you were sorry, that I was to tell you ’twas all right. She seemed to feel bad because you were sorry.”
“Well, Amos Cary, I won’t tell Mrs. Stoddard; so now!” declared Amanda angrily.“Anne is all right, and going to Boston in a chaise. You ought to be satisfied. Let them think what they want to, I don’t care. And you’ve got to go to sea. Father’s told Captain Nash that he can have you, and the ‘Sea Gull’ sails next week.”
“Truly, Amanda! Say, that’s great news. I do believe I’m the luckiest boy on the Cape. Are you sure, Amanda?” Amos’s eyes were shining, his shoulders had straightened themselves, and, for the moment, he quite forgot everything except the wonderful news.
“Do you want to go?” and Amanda’s voice was full of disappointment.
“Want to! Why, the ‘Sea Gull’ is bound for the West Indies her next voyage, and maybe the English will try and catch us,” and Amos’s voice expressed his delight. “Are you sure, Amanda?” he questioned eagerly, and turned toward his sister in surprise, for Amanda was crying. It seemed to the unhappy child that everything was going wrong. She did not want Amos to go away, and she had hoped that he would persuade his father to let him remain at home, and here he was rejoicing and triumphant. She was in great fear that Anne wouldtell the Stoddards the truth, and then Amanda hardly knew what might befall her. She wished that she was a boy and could go with Amos in the “Sea Gull.”
“It is indeed good news to know that our little girl is safe in Brewster,” said Mrs. Stoddard, as she read Mr. Freeman’s letter, “but what shall we do, Enos, about bringing her home? Mr. Freeman truly says that, while Rose is eager to take Anne to Boston, we may feel that it would not be right for her to go. It is indeed a puzzle, is it not? Whatever possessed Anne to turn upon Amanda in such fashion, and then to run off?” and the good woman shook her head dolefully.
“I’ll have to sail to Brewster and fetch her home,” responded the captain, but his face was very sober. He would have been glad if the Freemans had written that they would take Anne to Boston, for he did not want the child disappointed.
“Well, well, we’ll let her see how glad we are to have her safe home, shall we not, Enos? I’ll say no more to her about her naughtiness, and I am sure Mrs. Cary will tell Amanda to forgive Anne and be friends again, and all will go on pleasantly,” but they both felt sorry that it seemed best for the little girl whom they so dearly loved to have to give up the wonderful journey up the Cape to Boston in the Freemans’ fine chaise.
Amos Cary and Jimmy Starkweather lay on the warm sand in the narrow shadow cast by a fishing dory pulled up on the beach. No chief returning from far-off islands could have been more a hero than was Amos among the boys and girls of the settlement. They followed him about, and listened eagerly to all that he had to tell them of the Indians. Then, too, he was to go in the “Sea Gull” with Captain Nash, the swiftest schooner and the smartest captain sailing out of the harbor, and Jimmie Starkweather felt that Amos was having greater good fortune than any boy could hope for.
“Maybe the ‘Sea Gull’ can’t get out of port,” said Jimmie, digging his bare toes in the soft sand. “The English ships keep a sharp outlook for a schooner loaded down with salt fish. I’ll bet Captain Nash won’t get beyond Chatham.”
“Pooh!” responded Amos scornfully.“We can sail right away from their old tubs. But ’twill be great if they do follow us.”
“’Twould be just your good fortune,” said Jimmie. “I do wish my father would let me go with you, Amos. Who knows what adventures you may have!”
For a few moments the two boys did not speak; they lay looking out over the beautiful harbor, and their minds were full of vague hopes of adventure. Jimmie was the first to break the silence.
“You won’t see Shining Fish again, will you, Amos?”
“No; did I show you what he gave me?” And Amos pulled out a stout deerskin thong from inside his flannel blouse. The claw of a bird was fastened to the thong. “See! It’s a hawk’s claw,” exclaimed Amos; “and as long as I wear it no enemy can touch me. I gave Shining Fish my jack-knife,” continued Amos. “You’d like him, Jimmie; he knew stories about chiefs and warriors, and he had killed a fox with his bow and arrow. He told me about a chief of their tribe who lived long ago and was the strongest man that ever lived. He used to go on long journeys, way beyond Cape Cod,with his band of warriors, and once he met an unfriendly tribe, and they laughed when the braves told how strong their chief was. ‘Can he conquer a wild bull?’ one of them asked, and the brave answered, ’Aye, or two wild bulls.’
“So the unfriendly Indians laughed louder, and were glad, for they thought they could destroy the chief even without a battle. Well, they arranged that this brave chief was to go alone into a fenced-in place and meet two wild bulls, and if he conquered them the unfriendly tribe would own him the strongest chief in the world, and would be subject to him. It was great, Jimmie, to hear Shining Fish tell it. He said the great chief marched into the place where the bulls were, and they came dashing toward him, and their hoofs rang upon the ground, and their nostrils sent out sheets of flame, but the chief never flinched a step, and the bulls stopped short and trembled. Then the chief sprang upon the nearest, and seized him by the horns, and they wrestled until the bull fell to its knees tired out. Then he grabbed at the other, and threw it, and all the Indians began to wonder how any chief could be so strong.”
“S’pose it’s true?” questioned Jimmie.
“Sure!” answered Amos. “What’s Captain Stoddard doing to his boat?” he continued. Captain Enos was evidently not bound out on a fishing trip, for he was making his boat as tidy as possible.
“He’s going to sail over to Brewster to fetch Anne back,” answered Jimmie.
“But Anne is going to Boston with Rose Freeman,” said Amos.
Jimmie shook his head. “No, the Freemans won’t take her because she ran away,” he explained, and looked up in amazement, for Amos had sprung to his feet and was racing along the beach toward Captain Stoddard’s boat as fast as his feet would carry him.
Jimmie laughed. “I’ll bet Amos wants to go to Brewster,” he decided.
Amos did not want to go to Brewster. But he had instantly resolved that Anne must not be stopped from going to Boston. Even as he ran he could see that there was no time to spare in reaching Captain Enos, for he was already pushing off from shore.
“Captain Enos! Captain Enos!” he called frantically, and the captain looked toward him.“Wait a minute! wait!” yelled the boy, and the captain waited, saying good-humoredly:
“Never saw such a boy as that one. He can’t bear to see a boat put off unless he’s in it.”
“Captain Enos, you mustn’t bring Anne back,” said Amos as he ran out into the shallow water and grasped the side of the boat. “It wouldn’t be fair; it wasn’t her fault,” he added.
“Whose fault was it?” asked the captain.
“Wait!” commanded Amos, remembering his promise to his sister. “Wait just ten minutes, Captain Enos, before you start. I’ll be back,” and away went Amos up the beach and along the sandy path to the house.
“Amos is going to come out first rate, I can see that plain enough,” said Captain Enos, watching the boy’s flying figure, and he was not surprised when he saw Amos coming back with Amanda held fast by the hand.
The boy and girl stopped at the edge of the water.
“Tell him, Amanda,” commanded Amos.
“It’s my fault,” whimpered Amanda. “I got my mother to tell Mrs. Stoddard that Anne slapped me and ran off with the luncheon. And she didn’t. I slapped her.”
“Clear as mud,” muttered the captain; then in a louder tone, “Amos, you’re going to make a good American sailor, and we’re all going to be proud of you. And I guess Amanda’s going to do better after this,” and he pushed off from shore.
“But you won’t go to Brewster now!” called both the children.
“I’ll have to. Must go and tell the Freemans that we’re willing for Anne to go to Boston, and to tell Anne that her Aunt Martha knows the truth. You just run up and tell Mrs. Stoddard all about it, Amanda,” he answered; and, having sent his boat into deep water, the captain drew in his oars and began hoisting the big mainsail.
For a few moments the boy and girl stood watching him. Then, with a long sigh, Amanda turned to go toward the Stoddard house. Amos began to feel a little sorry for her.
“Say, Amanda, I’ll go tell her,” he called.
“You mind your own business, Amos Cary,” and Amanda turned toward him angrily.“I’ll tell Mrs. Stoddard myself, and then I’ll go home and tell my mother. I’ll tell everybody, and when everybody hates and despises me I reckon you’ll be satisfied,” and without waiting for any response she went on up the path.
Amos turned and went back to the shade of the boat, but Jimmie Starkweather was no longer there. He wished more than ever that he was back with Shining Fish. Then he remembered that in another week he would be on board the “Sea Gull.” He watched Captain Stoddard’s sloop until it was only a white blur against the distant shore, and then went up the beach toward home.
Captain Enos had a favoring wind and a light heart, for he was glad to know that their little maid had not been to blame. “She ran away because she had not been fairly treated. ’Tis what older people sometimes do,” he said to himself. “’Twas the very reason that sent our fathers out of England to America. I’ll not fetch Anne back, for she called to me from the window and would have told me all the story had I been willing to listen,” and then because his mind was at ease the captain began to sing an old song that he had learned as a boy. He had a musical voice, and the words drifted back pleasantly: