His mother gasped. Whatever was coming over the boy, she wondered. Never before had she been able to get a dose of medicine down him without a struggle. There could be only one answer. He was sick—sicker than he let on.
She set the glass on the little table and let the strap slip to the floor. She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him about so that the light fell full on his face. She saw that it was really pale—yes, and wistful. Anse had told her about having seen Billy kiss the pup and cry over it. Now a lump came into her throat as she looked into the grey, unwavering eyes. With a sob, she threw her arms about his neck and drew him close to her. Billy patted her shoulder and let her cry. He could not guess her reason for it, but for that matter he could not understand why he was crying too, unless indeed it was his great and worshipful love still working overtime.
Mrs. Wilson subsided at last and wiped her eyes on her apron. Then she took Billy's face between her hands and kissed him on the freckled nose. "I know how much you miss your own Ma, Willium," she said, "and I know I kin never take her place, but I love you, an' it worries me awful to think anythin' might happen to you."
"Nuthin's goin' to happen to me, Ma," Billy assured her. "I'm feelin' bully. Don't you worry none."
Mrs. Wilson sighed. "Well, if you're sure you don't need these here salts—" she lifted the glass and stood hesitating, "why, I don't s'pose there's re'lly any call fer you to take 'em. It seems too bad to waste 'em, though."
Billy turned toward Anson's bed, from which, for the second time, he was sure had come a faint titter. "I was thinkin'," he said in answer to his mother's quick look, "that it wouldn't hurt Anse none to have a dose. He does grit his teeth somethin' awful when he's asleep."
"You don't tell me, Willium! Why then, salts is jest what he needs. I'll wake him up an' give 'em to him."
* * * * *
It was long after his mother had left the loft and Anse's wails of protest and wild promises of vengeance had given place to the regular breathing of peaceful sleep that Billy lay awake, gazing wide-eyed through the dark.
Above him bent a face with tender blue eyes and red, half-smiling lips beneath a crowning glory as golden as frost-pinched maple leaf. And she would be at school in the morning! It was while pondering on how he might contrive to wear his Sunday clothes on the morrow that Billy fell asleep to dream that he was old man Scroggie's ghost and that he was sitting in the centre of Lake Erie with the big hardwoods bush on his knees, waiting forherto come that he might present it all to her.
It was broad daylight when Anson, in response to an angry call from the bottom of the stairway, sat up in bed. Vaguely he realized that in some dire way this glad morning proclaimed a day of doom, but his drowsy senses were still leaping vast chasms of dreamland—striving to slip from the control of saner reasoning and drift away with a happy abandon of dire results to follow. What boy has not had the same experience, even although he knew that a razor-strop, wielded by a vigorous hand, would in all probability accomplish quickly what his drowsy will had failed to accomplish? Anson was just dropping off into the lulling arms of Morpheus when that extra sense, possessed by all boys in a measure and by certain boys in particular, warned him back to wakefulness and a realization of his danger.
He was out of bed and pulling his braces over his shoulders by the time the heavy footsteps of his mother sounded at the top of the stairs.
"You, Anse!" came Mrs. Wilson's voice. "Have I gotta limber you up with the strap, after all?"
"Comin', Ma," responded Anse, sleepily.
"Well, you'd best come quick, then. You'll be gettin' enough hidin's today—if that new teacher's any good—without me havin' to wear my arm out on you 'fore breakfast."
Anson stood still, fumbling the buttons. So that was it! School! He knew it was some awful catastrophe. Where was Billy? He glanced across at the other bed. Billy was not in it. He went slowly downstairs, washed himself, and went in to breakfast. Billy was not there. His father was just getting up from the table.
"Where's Bill?" Anson asked him.
"Down feedin' his pets, most likely," answered his father as he went out. A moment or two later Billy came in. The boys seated themselves in their places and ate their breakfast in silence.
"Is our dinner up, Ma?" Billy asked, as he pushed back his chair.
Mrs. Wilson nodded. "It is. Two pieces of bread an' butter an' a doughnut an' a tart fer each of you. Is it enough?"
"I guess so," Billy replied indifferently.
Anson eyed him suspiciously, then turned to his mother. "I wish't you'd do our dinners up separate, Ma," he whined.
"Why?" asked Mrs. Wilson, in surprise.
"Well, 'cause Bill hogs it, that's why," complained Anson. "Last time we had tarts I didn't get none. An' it's the same with pie an' cake."
Mrs. Wilson gazed sternly at Billy. "Willium, do you take Anson's tarts and pie?" she asked ominously.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Billy, promptly.
"There now!" exulted Anson, glancing triumphantly at his mother, who sat staring and incredulous at the unabashed offender.
Billy looked gravely down at his accuser, then apprehensively at his judge. As no immediate sentence seemed forthcoming he turned toward the door.
"Stop!" Mrs. Wilson had risen suddenly from her chair and stood pointing an accusing finger at Billy.
"You'll ketch it fer this, an' don't you ferget it," she stormed, "an' if I ever hear of you gobblin' up Anson's share o' the lunch ag'in, you young glutton, you'll go to school fer a month without any lunch a'tall."
Billy turned. "I didn't say I ate Anson's pie an' cake, Ma," he said gently. "I didn't take it 'cause I wanted it."
"Then why did you take it a'tall, I want'a know?"
"I took it 'cause I thought it was bad fer him. You see, Ma, Anse suffers turrible from indigestion," Billy explained. "'Course maybe you don't notice it same as I do, 'cause you don't sleep in the same room with him. But Ma, he groans an' gasps all night—an' he has the most awful dreams—now don't you Anse?" he asked, turning to his brother.
Anson started to whimper. "I do have bad dreams," he confessed miserably, "but pie an' tarts ain't to blame fer it."
"Silence, you!" Mrs. Wilson reached for the dinner-pail and proceeded to extract from it one tart, one doughnut. "I guess maybe your brother's right," she said grimly. "If that's the way you carry on nights we'll hold you off pastry fer a while. Now then, grab that pail and off to school with both o' you!"
Billy was outside first and waiting for Anson at the road gate when he came down the path, dejectedly wiping his eyes and vowing inaudible threats at the agent of his new woe.
"Now, then," said Billy as he came up, "maybe you'll begin to see that it don't pay to blab so danged much."
"It was dirty mean of you," sniffled Anson. "You know how much I like pie an' tarts; an' here I am havin' to lug yourn an' gettin' none fer myself. Fer two cents I'd chuck this dinner-pail in the crick."
"An' fer two cents I'd punch that crooked eye of yourn straight," cried Billy, his temper rising. "You'd best close your mouth while the closin's good, an' if anythin' happens to that pail you're goin' to hear from me."
They passed on in silence until the hardwood grove came in sight. Here Billy paused. "You go on, Anse," he said. "I'm goin' over to the menagerie fer a look over things. An' see here." He grabbed his brother's shoulder and swung him about. "I'm goin' to tell you something an' if you so much as peep it to Ma I'm goin' to pass the word to Ringdo an Croaker that they're free to do what they like to you; see?"
Anson shuddered. "Aw, who's goin' to peep?' he returned.
"All right then. Now listen. This mornin' I tied my Sunday clothes up an' throwed 'em out our winder. Then I got up an' sneaked 'em over to the menagerie. I'm goin' to wear 'em to school. Never you mind why, it's none of your business. When I blow into school this mornin' dressed to kill I don't want you to look too darned surprised, that's all. Now if you'll keep your mouth shut tight about that I promise not to let my witch-coon an' witch-crow eat you while you sleep; an' I'll tell you what else I'll do, I'll give you my tart an' my doughnut. Is it a bargain?"
Anson nodded eagerly.
"All hunky. Now you move along, an' if you happen to meet Fatty Watland, er Maurice, er any other boys, don't you let on a word about this."
"I won't," promised Anson. "Cross my heart, Bill."
Billy ducked into the path through the grove and Anson resumed his reluctant pace toward the Valley School. On the bridge across Levee creek he came up with Elgin Scraff. Elgin was standing with his arms on the bridge rail, looking dejectedly down into the water.
"Hello," Anson accosted. "Goin' to school?"
Elgin lifted his head slowly. "Yep, you?"
Anson nodded and set the dinner-pail down on the bridge.
"Where's Bill?"
"He'll be along soon. Here he comes now; no 'taint neither, it's Fatty Watland. Wonder where he's been up that way?"
Watland came puffing up, his round face red and perspiring. "Gee!" he panted, "I've been all the way to the store. Had to get some sulphur fer Ma. She found a wood-tick that old Sport scratched off him on the floor, an' she swears it's a bed-bug; an' now she's goin' to burn this sulphur in all the rooms."
A grin rippled across his face and grew into a chuckle. "I bet I sleep in the barn fer a week. I sure hate the smell of sulphur."
"Come on," said Elgin, "let's move on down to the sehoolhouse." Side by side the three passed on up the hill and down into the valley.
The sehoolhouse stood with a wide sloping green before it and a tangle of second growth forest behind it. It was not an old building, but had the appearance of senile old age. Its coat of cheap terra-cotta paint had cracked into many wrinkles; its windows looked dully out like the lustreless eyes of an old, old man. The ante-room roof had been blown off by a winter's gale and replaced inaccurately, so that it set awry, jaunty and defiant, challenging the world. Its door hung on one hinge, leaning sleepily against a knife-scarred wall. A rail fence ran about the yard which was filled to choking with a rank growth of smart-weed. In one corner of the yard was a well with a faded blue pump holding the faded red arm of a handle toward the skies, as though evoking high heaven to bear witness that it was never intended to lead such a lonely and useless existence.
The boys approached the building slowly and as they neared its sombre portals silence fell upon them. They opened the creaking gate and entered the building much after the manner of heroes who must stand blindfolded against a wall and wait the word "Fire!" They had to go through with it, that was all.
The building held all the unmistakable odors of a school room. The smell of chalk dust, mouldy bread crusts, mice, dirty slates and musty books rose up to smite the arrivals. Four rows of pine seats, blackened with ink-daubs and deeply scarred by pocket-knives, ran the entire length of the building. A big box stove stood in the centre of the room, its wavering pipe supported by wires from the ceiling.
Walter Watland looked about for a good place in which to conceal his package of sulphur and decided that in the empty stove he had discovered the place of all places. So, while Anson and Elgin were investigating the teacher's desk and picking out their seats, he proceeded to hide his sulphur in the stove's black depths. Then he went outside with his companions to await the coming of the new teacher.
Scarcely had the three seated themselves on the top rail of the yard fence than from all directions other pupils of the Settlement began to arrive. Sand Sharkers, sullen and defiant, holding themselves apart, came in one big group.
Jim Scroggie entered the school yard with his sister by his side. He paused a moment to let his eyes stray to the faces of the three hopefuls on the fence, conjecturing with a boy's intuition that in this trio he saw some of the ring-leaders of the school. Jim wore a smart tweed coat and knickerbockers, and a shirt of grey flannel with a soft silk tie. His sister, Lou, was dressed daintily in white, with soft blue collar that matched the glorious depths of her eyes. She smiled now, and the three on the fence immediately underwent a change of heart. Elgin Scraff was the first to slide down and approach the new boy in a spirit of fellowship.
"Hello," he said genially. "I've got a crackin' good seat. You kin set with me if you like."
Jim shook his head. "Promised Billy Wilson I'd sit with him," he said. "Kin you tell me where he's goin' to sit?"
Elgin was about to answer when he caught a gasp from the watchers on the road. "Teacher's comin'!" went forth the cry.
Down the hill came a thin, rangy bay horse, astride which, an open book in his hand, sat Mr. G. G. Johnston. As he drew up in front of the gate he closed the book and turned his frowning eyes on the building. Utterly ignoring the awed, watching faces he shook his head grimly and, looking to neither right nor left, rode in through the open gate. Not until he had unbridled his horse and turned him loose to seek a breakfast as best he knew how, while he investigated the school's interior, did the boys and girls outside give way to their feelings.
Then Maurice Keeler whistled. "Whew! Ain't he the old human icicle?" he asked.
"You bet!" came the spontaneous answer.
"Gosh," cried Elgin Scraff, "there goes the bell! Come on everybody; let's get our medicine."
Just as the boys and girls were settling down in their seats and Jim Scroggie was glancing anxiously doorward Billy strode in. He was resplendent in his Sunday best and wore a wild thorn blossom in his button hole. He glanced quickly about the room and caught the glint and sunlight for which he hungered—a smile from the lips of Lou Scroggie. Then he seized Jack LaRose by the scruff of the neck, jerked him from the seat near the door and motioned Jim Scroggie over. "We'll set here," he whispered. "It's close to the outside in case we have to make a quick get-away."
The new teacher paid no attention to the little scrimmage between LaRose and Billy. He stood on the platform, tall, spare, hard-featured and stern, and let his black eyes bore into the souls of the pupils, one after the other. Not until the silence of suspense was almost unbearable did he speak; then clearing his throat he gave forth in stern tones the following edict:
"Boys and girls, I am your teacher. I shall expect you to obey me implicitly. If you do not, I shall punish you. I am here to teach you; you are here to learn and profit from my teaching. I have heard bad reports of most of you, but for the present I shall refrain from mentioning any names. When in the school-room you will be allowed to address me as 'Sir.' Outside the school-room you will not address me in any manner whatsoever."
He paused to survey the rows of uplifted faces and let his words sink home. Then lifting a long hickory pointer from his desk, and holding it much as a conjuror might hold his wand, he gripped the edge of the desk with one bony hand and leaning forward, said:
"Boys and girls, from what has been told me I surmise that my predecessor has spoiled you. I do not censure him; undoubtedly he worked according to his lights. I have been twenty years a teacher. I am your superior in strength, wisdom and intellect; and this I want you always to keep in mind. I shall tolerate neither familiarity nor disobedience. You will do well to obey me without question and do, worthily, the tasks I set for you. I believe in administering punishment to wrong-doers, severe punishment. It is not my purpose to deceive either you or the ratepayers of this school; therefore, I will admit that I like neither this district nor its people. That, however, will not prevent me from fulfilling my duty to the best of my ability."
He ceased speaking and drew himself up slowly, pursing his stern lips. "That is all I have to say for the time being," he said. "We shall endeavor to air this building, after which we will form classes. Will the fat boy with the rumpled hair and dirty neck, the one who is whispering to the boy behind him, be good enough to step forward?"
All eyes switched from the teacher to Fatty Watland. Fatty, his face very red, rose slowly and stood before the frowning Mr. Johnston.
"What is your name, boy?" asked the teacher.
"Walter Watland."
"Walter Watland—what?"
"That's all. Jest Walter Watland."
Mr. Johnston frowned darkly. "Walter Watland—what?" he repeated.
"Sir," prompted a voice from the back seat.
"Walter Watland, sir," panted Fatty, glimpsing the light in the nick of time.
"Very well, Walter, you may go home and get a pail of water. My experience with school wells," glancing out of the window to the blue pump, "has been that during the holidays they become a veritable death trap for frogs, mice and other vermin."
Walter moved quickly to execute the order. Mr. Johnston addressed the rest of the pupils. "School is now dismissed until we raise the windows and air the room."
Immediately thirty boys and girls leaped to their feet and windows went up with a bang.
"I think," Mr. Johnson's voice was heard above the din, "it would be a good plan to start a fire in that big stove. This place is positively vault like with dampness."
A number of the boys ran out to gather kindling and wood and soon a fire was crackling in the stove.
"Pupils will now take their seats," commanded the teacher, tinkling the bell on his desk. There was a hurried scramble as each boy and girl found his and her place.
"We will now have—" resumed the teacher, then paused to glare angrily at the stove. From every crack in its rusty sides was pouring forth a whitish-yellow smoke that gripped the throat and smelled like a breath from the very pit of darkness. Mr. Johnston attempted to proceed and failed dismally. He was choking, as was every boy and girl in the room.
It was Billy Wilson who acted promptly. Running to the stove he opened the door and lifted out the blazing wood and, at the risk of scorching himself badly, ran with it from the room.
It was nearly half an hour before Mr. Johnston summoned the boys and girls from the open windows to their seats. The room still smelled strongly of sulphur, but one might still breathe and live.
In the interval of waiting for the air to clear the new teacher's face had turned a ghastly white. His black eyes blazed; his thin lips were drawn back from his strong, irregular teeth. Gazing upon him, the boys and girls quaked in apprehension. Their fears were well founded. Never before in all his long career in administering knowledge to grubby and inferior minds had Mr. G. G. Johnston been subject to such deadly insult as had been offered him here. It was fully a minute before he could command his voice sufficiently to speak and when he did the words trickled through his stiff lips thinly.
"Boys and girls," he said at length, "one or more of you have been guilty of the most unpardonable misdemeanor that has ever come under my observation as a teacher. I realize that the dirty trick has been deliberately planned, the motive being perhaps to test me. You may believe me when I inform you that the one who placed that sulphur in the stove will have plenty of reason to regret having done it. I intend to flog him—or her—until he—or she—cannot stand. I shall now ask the one who is guilty of the offense to stand up."
Nobody stood. Anson was on the point of jumping to his feet and telling who had brought the sulphur into the room but, on second thought, sat still. The teacher had asked who had put it in the stove. Certainly it had not been Fatty Watland, because he had gone on an errand for the teacher long before the fire was started.
Mr. Johnston smiled darkly and nodded. "As I thought. The one who did it is too much of a coward to confess it," he grated, his voice shaking. "Well, there remains but one thing to do. If the guilty party is to be punished, I must punish you one and all."
There was the sound of the quick intaking of breath, and an audible long-drawn "Oh!" from the girls.
"I must punish each and every one of you," Mr. Johnston reiterated, picking up the pointer. "I shall begin on the boy who is smiling so defiantly in the back seat, if he will be good enough to step up here."
"I guess that's me," said Billy, jumping to his feet and starting for the platform.
"That's a nice smile you wear," said Mr. Johnston scathingly as he gazed down at Billy, his bony fingers caressing the long, supple pointer.
"Glad you like it," said Billy.
"Eh? What's that?" Mr. Johnston fairly recoiled in surprise and indignation at the affront to his dignity. "Silence! boys and girls," he shouted, as a titter ran through the schoolroom.
"Now young man," he said grimly, grasping one of Billy's hands and pulling it forward and out, "I'm going to drive that happy smile from your face."
"You're a'goin' to find that some job," said Billy quietly.
"Well, we'll see, young Mr. Impudence." The long pointer rose and fell. Billy caught the stroke full on his palm. His face whitened with pain, but the smile did not leave his lips.
"Your other hand," commanded Mr. Johnston.
He bent forward to grasp the hand which Billy raised slowly, thereby dodging a stone ink-bottle hurled by Maurice Keeler. At it was the bottle struck the blackboard and broke, deluging the teacher's face with a sable spray.
Billy turned quickly. "No more of that," he said. "This is my funeral—and the teacher's. Everybody else keep out of it."
He squared his shoulders and held out his hand. The pointer came down with all the strength that the man dared put behind it. Johnston peered closely into the boy's face. It was white and quivering but it still wore a smile.
"Take your seat," commanded the teacher. "Next boy forward!" One by one the boys walked up to receive their punishment. All took it bravely.
When, at last, the boys had all been attended to, Mr. Johnston paused for rest. "I shall now begin on the girls," he said, "but before administering punishment I am going to give the guilty boy, or girl, one more chance to confess. Will the one who put the sulphur in the stove stand up?"
As before, nobody moved.
Mr. Johnston smiled. "Very well. The girl with the handkerchief to her eyes, the one dressed in white and blue, five seats down, will come forward for punishment."
Billy felt his blood run cold. He could not believe his ears. The girl dressed in white and blue! Why, that was she—his angel—his light—his everything. And she was crying now. She was standing up, moving forward.
Like a flash Billy was on his feet. "Stop!" he cried, his voice ringing out like a challenge. "You don't whip her if I know it."
For the second time that morning Mr. Johnston received a violent shock to his dignity. Such rank insubordination he had never experienced before. The black eyes turned on Billy fairly darting sparks. "Take your seat, you impudent boy!" he thundered, "I see I have been too lenient with you. When I am through with the girls I shall flog you until you cry for mercy, and with you the boy who threw that bottle."
Billy was running up the aisle.
"Please sir, don't whip her," he said, pleadingly. "I'll own up. It was me that put the sulphur in the stove."
"You?" gasped Mr. Johnston. "You coward! to let your companions be punished for your despicable act. Oh," he exulted, removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves, "won't I make you pay for playing the sneak?"
Billy was giving no attention to the teacher. He was edging towards Lou Scroggie, who stood looking at him from dumb, pleading eyes.
"Go outside," he whispered. "Please do; I kin stand anythin', but I don't want you to see it."
She turned slowly away, then came back and put her hands on his shoulders. She did not speak but the look she gave him was enough. His heart laughed. He turned toward the teacher with so glad a light in his grey eyes that the schooled moulder of young souls gazed back at him in bewilderment.
Was this the brand of boy this Shagland Settlement bred, he wondered. If so, God help him and his precepts.
From the bottom of his heart he wished that he had never seen the place, never encountered the spirit of its woods-born. He knew his capabilities and for once in his life, he confessed to himself, he had over-estimated them. He wanted to give this boy now standing so fearlessly before him a whipping such as he would remember to his dying day, but to save his life he couldn't enter into the task with his old-time zest—not with those clear eyes looking so contemptuously into his very soul.
The room had grown still—a graveyard hush, broken only by a sob from the tenderest-hearted of the girls, who knew that Billy had lied to save one of their sex.
Johnston had turned to his desk and secured a shorter, stronger pointer. The veins between his shaggy eyebrows stood out clearly defined as he motioned Billy up on the platform.
It was just at this juncture that Fatty Watland arrived; smiling and panting, with the pail, borrowed from his mother, full of drinking water. It took him but a moment to learn from one of the boys what had transpired. It took him still less time to reach the platform. There, with much humiliation of spirit and many "sirs," he explained to the greatly surprised, and it must be confessed, secretly relieved Mr. Johnston, the true state of affairs.
There was no doubt in the world that Fatty regretted the part he had so unwittingly played in the day's disaster. He was sufficiently apologetic and low spirited to satisfy even the new teacher, who was content to let him off with a lecture.
Mr. Johnston then briefly stated to his pupils that a mistake had been made. He did not say that he was sorry. That would have been an untruth. He did say that Billy deserved another whipping for lying, but under the circumstances he would excuse him, as he had already received unmerited punishment.
At the close of his first day in the Valley School Mr. Johnston was forced to confess that he had considerable work before him. Had he been able to read the future and learn just what he would be obliged to undergo as teacher of that school, without doubt he would have climbed on the back of his thin horse and ridden straight away from Scotia Settlement, never to return. But he could not read what the future held, consequently he rode slowly towards Fairfield that first evening with the righteous feeling of one who had performed a difficult task well and satisfactorily—at least to himself.
Back in the schoolyard a real old fashioned indignation meeting was being held by thirty lusty boys and girls. That any man, teacher or no teacher, should come into their beloved Settlement and announce that he had no use for it or its people and go on his way unscathed was beyond all understanding. Something would have to be done about it; but what? It was Billy who climbed up on the school fence, called order and offered the one sure solution to the problem.
"I guess we don't want'a keep him, do we?" he asked of his companions.
"No. No!" came in chorus.
"All right; that's settled. But listen, now, every one of you. He's gotta go of his own accord. We're not goin' to be disobedient in any way. Fer a time we'll eat out'a his hand. Now wait—" as a groan of protest went up—"let me finish afore you get the high-jumps, you fellers. At the end of two er three weeks somethin' is goin' to happen to Mr. Johnston. I'm not goin' to say what that somethin' is right now, but you'll all know soon enough. And if after it happens he's got nerve enough to come back here I miss my guess, that's all."
"Hurrah!" shouted the delighted boys. "We knowed you'd find a way to fix him, Billy."
Billy climbed down from the fence and his supporters gathered about him, eager to secure the details of his plan but he shook his head. "You kin jest leave it all to me, an' one er two others I'm goin' to pick to help me," he said. "It's soon enough fer you to know how we do it when it's done. Now, everybody go home."
Apparently quite by accident he found himself standing beside Lou Scroggie and the two fell into step together. They were the last to take the winding path toward the main road. An embarrassed silence fell between them, a silence which remained unbroken until they reached the creek bridge. Then the girl said shyly: "Do you mind if I call you Billy?"
Billy had to stifle his emotion and swallow twice before he answered: "That's what I'd like you to call me. I'll bet you can't say it, though."
"Oh, I can so!"
"Well, let's hear you, then."
He bent his head and held his breath, oblivious to everything save the ecstasy of that moment.
"Billy," she half-whispered, then hiding her flushed face in her hands she turned and ran from him.
Billy did not follow. Something, perhaps the primitive man in him, cautioned the unwisdom of so doing. From the dim, far-back ages woman has run and man has pursued. But a few wise men have waited.
So Billy watched her passing like a ray of soft light across the valley and around the golden curve of the road. Then with his arms on the bridge-rail, his eyes gazing deep into the amber depths of the water, he lived anew every moment of her nearness, until the hoarse, joyful cry of a crow broke in on his reverie. Croaker, having grown lonely, had come down to meet him.
So with the bird perched on his shoulders, muttering a strange jargon of endearments and throaty chuckles in his ear, Billy turned up the path, thinking still of a pair of blue eyes and a voice that had called him "Billy."
It was Sunday. Anson, with eyes close-shut and suds dripping from his freckled nose, was having his weekly ear and neck cleansing, his mother's strong hands applying the coarse wash-cloth. Billy stood by, anticipating his turn, his eyes straying occasionally to the long "muzzle-loader" hanging on the deer-prong rack. Tomorrow the duck-season opened and he was wondering how he was going to contrive to sneak the old gun down and give it a thorough cleaning. Suddenly he became aware that operations in the vicinity of the wash-basin had become suspended. He glanced across to find his mother's gaze fixed sternly upon him. Anson was looking mightily pleased.
"I want'a know how you got them ink blots on your good clothes. Have you been a'wearin' 'em to school?" asked Mrs. Wilson.
So that was it? Anson had "peached"! Billy swallowed hard. His mind reviewed the days of the past two weeks. Again he saw a pair of blue eyes, misty with love and feeling; heard a voice whose cadence was sweeter than honey saying, "My! Billy, you are so different from any other boy I've ever met; and you always wear such nice clothes, too." Oh those wonderful, joy-filled days! What boy would not have risked far more than he had risked to win such commendation from the girl of all girls.
"Well?" His mother's voice dispelled the vision. "Are you goin' to answer me, Willium?"
Billy squared his shoulders. Yes, he would do as she would wish. He would confess. But the best of intentions go oft awry and Billy's present ones were suddenly sidetracked by a giggle from Anson, a giggle freighted with malice, triumph and devilish joy at his predicament.
Now, a boy may make up his mind to die a hero, but no boy cares to be ushered out by gibes and "I-told-you-so's." Billy promptly adopted new tactics. "This ain't my suit, Ma," he said.
Mrs. Wilson started so at his words that she rammed the cake of soap into Anson's mouth.
"Not yourn? Then whose is it?" she cried in amazement.
"It's Anse's. We must have got 'em mixed when we was dressin'."
"Willium, are you lyin' to me? If you are it's goin' to be the costliest lie you ever told."
Billy returned her angry gaze without a flicker of an eyelid. The reproach in his grey eyes was enough to make any mother ashamed of having doubted, and, as a matter of natural consequence, anger her the more. "How do you know that's Anson's suit?" she shot at Billy, between rubs. "How do you know it, you young imp, you?"
Billy moved forward, halting a safe distance from his mother. "You'll remember, Ma, that Anse's pants has two hip pockets, an mine only one."
"Yes, that's so."
"An' his coat has two inside pockets, an' mine only one."
"I remember that, too. Well?"
Billy removed the coat he was wearing and passed it over to his mother. She turned it inside out, and inspected it closely.
"That's Anson's coat all right," she affirmed. "Now twist about so's I kin see them hip pockets in the pants."
Billy did so. Then, there being nothing more left to do, he stepped back to watch the fireworks.
Stunned into inaction by the ease and suddenness with which Billy had turned the tables against him Anson had only time to take one longing glance toward the door. His mother had lifted the razor-strop from its nail and as he made a frenzied leap toward safety her strong hand gripped him by the wet hair. "Swish" fell the strop and Anson's wail of woe rent the Sabbath air. In vain he squirmed, cried, protested his innocence.
Having gotten nicely warmed up to her work Mrs. Wilson turned a deaf ear to his wails. "You would try to put off your dirty tracks on your brother, would you?" Swish-swish. "I'll teach you to wear your good clothes to school. I'll teach you to lie to me, you bad, deceitful, ungrateful boy, you!
"Now," she panted, having reached the limit of her strength, "you go upstairs with Willium and change clothes. Not another word, er I'll start in on you all over ag'in. Off you go, both o'you. And Willium," she called after them, "when you get into your own suit, don't you ferget to come here fer your scrubbin'."
When Billy reached the loft, Anson was standing in the center of the room, smashing with clenched fists at the empty air. Billy sat down on his bed and grinned. "You will run straight into trouble, in spite of all I say, Anse," he said gently. "It's all your own fault; you will be a tattle-tale."
Anson turned on him. "You mean sneak!" he gasped, "you've been wearin' my Sunday clothes 'stead of your own, an' I didn't know it."
Billy nodded. "You see, Anse, I knowed that sooner or later you was bound to tell Ma, so I played safe, that's all."
Anson, still sniffling, finished his undressing. Billy nursed his knee in his hands and watched him. "'Course," he remarked, at length, "you'll be for tellin' Ma soon's she calms down a bit an' is ready to listen, but Anse I wouldn't do it if I was you."
"Well, you kin bet I jest will do it," promised Anson.
Billy stood up. "I'll tell you what I'm willin' to do, Anse," he suggested. "If you'll keep mum about this thing, I'll let you come duck-shootin' with me an' Maurice tomorrow."
Anson shook his head. "I don't want'a go duck-shootin'," he said. "I know jest what you fellers 'ud do; you'd get me in all the bog-holes an' make me carry your ducks. No sir, I'm goin' to tell Ma."
Billy tried further inducements. "I'll give you my new red tie an' celluloid collar," he offered.
"No!"
"Then," said Billy sorrowfully, turning toward the door, "I guess there's only one thing fer me to do."
"An' what's that?" asked Anse, apprehensively.
"Go an' tell Croaker an' Ringdo the whole business, an' let that crow an' swamp-coon 'tend to you."
"Hold on, Bill, wait a minute," Anson quavered. "I've changed my mind, I'll take the tie an' collar an' call it square."
Billy turned and came back slowly to where he sat. "Anse," he said. "I ain't wantin' to see you witch-chased, so I'll jest give you the tie an' collar an' say not a word to Croaker er Ringdo; an' if you'll tell me somethin' I want'a know I'll let you sleep with my rabbit-foot charm underneath your piller."
Anson almost sobbed his relief. "I'll do it," he agreed. "What is it you want'a know, Bill?"
"I want'a know all you know about them men that are workin' Hinter's borin' outfit. Why ain't they ever seen outside that tall fence Scroggie's built 'round the derrick, an' why did he build that fence, anyways?"
Anson looked troubled. "Supposin' I don't know—" he began, but Billy shook his head.
"I happen to know you do know. 'Course you needn't tell, if you don't want to," he said. "You kin keep what you know to yourself an' take your chances with witches. I was jest givin' you a last chance, that's all."
He turned once more to the door but Anson jumped up and caught him by the arm. "Bill," he gasped. "I don't know why Hinter built that fence, cross my heart, I don't. But I'll tell you all I know about the men who're runnin' the rig. I been workin' fer the tool-dresser after school, fer a quarter a night. I've heard quite a lot o' talk among them fellers. Blamed if I could make head er tail of most of it but they mentioned a feller by the name of Jacobs an' they seem plumb scared to death of him. Funny, too, 'cause he's never been 'round there a'tall. Nobody ever comes there but Hinter."
"How do you mean they seem scared of Jacobs?"
"I kin tell by what they say. One night I heard the big feller, named Tom, say to Jack, the other man: 'If we don't strike the stuff Jacobs is done fer, an' both of us'll go with him.' An' the one named Jack he swore at him an' says: 'Shut your trap, Tom. One of these days Jacobs is goin' to hear you blattin'; then you're goin' to take a trip sooner than you expected.'"
Billy stood frowning. "Say, maybe Jacobs is the feller that fires the boilers that runs the windlass," he hazarded.
"Nope, that man's name's Sanderson. He don't have anythin' to do with the drillers. Nope, Bill, Jacobs hain't never been seen, but I'm dead sure he's the boss of the outfit."
"All right, Anse. You kin learn a lot more by keepin' your ears an' eyes open. Whatever you see an' hear, you're to tell me, see?"
Anson nodded.
"All hunky. Now, I'll jest peel off these duds, an' get inter my own. Ma'll be gettin' uneasy."
But when Billy, dressed in his own suit, descended the stairs to peer cautiously out, it was to find the room deserted. Mrs. Wilson's voice, high-pitched and excited, came from the back yard.
"Willium! oh Willium!" she was calling.
With a bound he was outside and over beside her. She sat on the block beneath the hop-vine, her face in her apron. She was rocking to and fro and sobbing.
"Ma," cried Billy, "whatever is the matter?"
"Oh Willium," she cried, "my heart is breakin'. Oh to think how I misjedged him!"
Billy's eyes opened wide. "Misjedged him?" he repeated.
"Oh the poor little dear! the poor little dear!" she wailed. "Me hatin' him like I did, and him doin' all he has fer me. Oh, Willium, I do feel so 'shamed, an' mean; I do so!"
Billy stared at his mother in amazement. "Jest what has Anse ever did fer you, Ma?" he asked wonderingly.
"Anse!" she snorted. "Who's talkin' about Anse? It's Croaker I mean. Look here what that darlin' crow brought me jest a few minutes ago."
She opened her hand. In it lay a shining twenty-dollar gold piece. Billy's mouth fell open in astonishment.
"Croaker brought you that?" he gasped. "Well, I'll be shot!" Billy stood up and gazed about him. "Where's Croaker now?" he asked.
"I dunno. He jest laughed an' sailed away ag'in. I don't know where he got it but I do know good gold when I see it, Willium. Twenty dollars! Ain't it splendid?"
"It sure is, but I can't help wonderin' where Croaker found it. Maybe you wouldn't mind lettin' me off Sunday School today, Ma," he suggested, "so's I kin trail off an' find that Croaker. Any crow that kin pick up gold pieces that way is worth watchin'. Kin I go look fer him, Ma?"
Mrs. Wilson, at this particular moment, was in the mood to grant almost any request. "Why Willium," she said eagerly, "go seek him and bring him back home. Never ag'in will I wish him dead, poor little feller. But," she added as though realizing that her softened mood had carried her a little too far, "you see you get back here in time for supper er I'm liable to tan you good."
Billy waited for no more. He was up and away like a shot. Mrs. Wilson, clutching her gold piece in one hand and brushing back her deranged hair with the other, went back into the house.
Anson, striving to keep his head above a shiny collar, about which was twisted a flaming red tie, was just issuing from the stairs. His mother opened her hand to display her gold piece, then closed it again. "You go right back upstairs and take off Willium's collar and tie," she commanded.
"It's my own collar an' tie," Anson declared, "Bill give it to me."
"Humph! That's jest like him, but why he should give you his best tie and collar is beyond me. Do you think you deserve any gifts from your brother after what you done to him? It jest goes to show you what a real good heart that boy has. I declare, Anson, I do wish you was more like him. Now you get your hair combed and your hat brushed and get away to Sunday School."
"Yes, Ma'am; ain't you agoin', Ma?"
"I'll be long shortly; don't you wait fer me."
"But where's Bill? Ain't he agoin?"
"No, he ain't agoin'; and now, not another of your fool questions. Slick your hair down and go at once. Do you hear me?"
Anson proceeded to obey orders without another word. As he picked up his hat and turned to the door, Mrs. Wilson opened her hand and held out the gold piece.
"Croaker found that and brought it to me," she said, proudly.
Anson's jaw dropped and he backed fearfully away.
"Don't you have nuthin' to do with it, Ma!" he cried. "That Croaker's a witch crow, that's what he is! He's tryin' to tempt you with gold!"
Mrs. Wilson stood, the picture of amazement. "Have you gone stark and ravin' crazy, Anson?" she asked sternly. Then, anger mastering her, she reached for the broom standing in the corner. Anson promptly made his escape, but as he passed the open window, he gazed wildly in at his mother and cried again: "Don't you have nuthin' to do with that gold, Ma. If you do we'll all get burnt up in our beds, er get clawed to tatters!"
Mrs. Wilson sank down on a chair. "Willium's right," she sighed. "Anson's mind is gettin' a little unbalanced. I'll have to put him on diet and feed him slippery-elm bark and alloways."
Sighing dolefully she arose, placed her treasured gold piece in the clock for safe keeping, and tying on her bonnet, left the house. She walked hurriedly down the path, thinking that perhaps she might be late for the opening hymn. As she was about to open the gate, a slender, sprightly old gentleman, dressed in long frock coat, stepped out from the trees bordering the road, and gravely lifting his shiny hat, bowed low, and said: "Your pardon, ma'am, I'm axin; but if ye'll permit me."
"Harry O'Dule," she gasped, as he swung the gate wide, "is it re'lly you?"
"Faith and who else ma'am," replied Harry. "The ould burrud wid new feathers is ut. Faith ut's manny a year since I laid these duds carefully by, thinkin' I'd be wearin' 'em niver ag'in until a day whin I'd not be knowin' ut. But, Mistress Wilson, ma'am, ut's other thoughts have been mine since I quit the dhrink. Pl'ase God but duty is iver clearer wid clearer understandin' and so ut is. Some day afore I die I'll glimpse me own skies and smell the burnin' peat, and if that is to be mine thin must I live me life clane here and do me duty like an Irishman av birth. So, ma'am, it's off I am to visit the holy Father at Palmyria."
Mrs. Wilson held out her hand. "Harry O'Dule," she said, her voice unsteady, "I always knowed you had the makin's of a man in you. I'm gladder than I kin say."
Harry bowed low. Mrs. Wilson passed through the gate, beaming commendation on him from misty eyes. He closed the gate slowly, his clean shaven, wrinkled face working. He stood and watched her until the bend in the road hid her. Then, placing his tall hat jauntily on his grizzled locks, he turned and walked smartly in the opposite direction.
Billy found Croaker just where he thought he would be—clinging to the latch of the menagerie door and peering with one black eye through the chink above it at the owls, the while he hurled guttural insults at them.
"Croaker," commanded his master, "get away from there!"
Croaker balanced himself by flopping one short wing and laughed at the hisses of the angered owls. He hopped from his perch to the peak of the shanty as Billy reached for him and there he sat, demurely turning his head from one side to the other and muttering low in his throat.
"Croaker, come down here, I want'a ask you somethin'." Billy's hand went into his pocket and the crow stood at attention. Then as the hand came away empty he emitted an angry croak and wobbled further along the ridge-board.
"Come, nice old Croaker, tell me where you found the gold," coaxed Billy.
Croaker turned his back and murmured a whole string of "coro-corrs," which to Billy meant just as plain as words could say it that he hadn't the slightest intention of telling anything.
"All right then, Croaker, I'll call Ringdo, an' feed him your dinner."
Now, for the swamp-coon, Croaker had all the jealousy and hatred a crow is capable of feeling and as a last resort, whenever he was obdurate and disobedient as he was now, his master could nearly always bring him to submission by the mere mention of Ringdo's name. At Billy's threat Croaker raised his head and poured forth such a jargon of heart-broken lamentation that the listening owls inside crouched low in terror, their amber eyes questioning the meaning of the awful sound.
Billy bent and patted an imaginary something on the ground. "Good ol' Ringdo," he said. "Nice ol' Ringdo." That was the last straw. With a croak of anguish Croaker swooped down and lit on his master's shoulder. Promptly five fingers gripped his feet.
"Now, you black beggar, I've got you," exulted Billy. This fact did not seem to worry Croaker in the least. His beady eyes were busy searching for signs of his enemy. Ringdo being nowhere visible, his neck feathers gradually lowered and his heavy beak closed. He snuggled close against Billy's face and told him in throaty murmurs how much he loved him. Billy laughed, and seating himself on a log, placed the crow on his knees.
"Croaker," he addressed the bird, "you must'a found ol' Scroggie's gold. He had the only gold money this country ever saw, so you must have found it some way. I don't s'pose it'll do Teacher Stanhope any good, 'cause it'll go to Jim Scroggie's father, but, Croaker, it's up to us to get that money an' turn it over; hear me?"
Croaker blinked and seemed to be thinking hard.
"You see," Billy went on, "maybe the will'll be where the gold is. You be a real good feller an' show me where you found the gold-piece."
"Sure I will," agreed Croaker. He hopped down and started pigeon-toeing across the glade, peering back to see if Billy were coming.
Billy followed slowly, hoping, fearing, trusting that Croaker's intentions were of the best. The crow was carrying on a murmured conversation with himself, flapping his wings, nodding his head sagely and in other ways manifesting his eagerness to accommodate his master. When he grew tired of walking he flew and Billy had to run to keep him in sight. Straight through the grove, across the green valley and on through the stumpy fallow went the crow, Billy panting and perspiring behind. Straight on to the pine-hedged creek and still on, until the lonely pine grove of the haunted house came into view.
"Oh, Jerusalem!" gasped Billy, "An' me without my rabbit foot charm." He realized where Croaker was leading him—straight to the haunted house. He wiped his streaming face on his sleeve and determined he'd go through with it.
Croaker paused for a moment in the edge of the grove to look back at Billy. The bird was plainly excited; his wings were spread, his neck feathers erect, and his raucous voice was scattering nesting birds from the evergreens in flocks.
With wildly beating heart Billy passed through the pines, the twilight gloom adding to his feeling of awe. Croaker had become strangely silent and now flitted before him like a black spirit of a crow. It was almost a relief when at last the tumble-down shack grew up in its tangle of vines and weeds. Once more into the daylight and Croaker took up the interrupted thread of his conversation with himself. He ducked and side-stepped and gave voice to expressions which Billy had never heard him use before.
"I wish he'd shut up," he murmured to himself, "but I'm scared to make him, fer fear he'll get sulky an' quit cold on the job."
Croaker, mincing in and out among the rag-weeds, led straight across the yard to a tiny ramshackle building which at one time might have been a root-house. Billy, feeling that at any moment an icy hand might reach out and grip his windpipe, followed. It was a terrible risk he was running but the prize was worth it. His feet seemed weighted with lead. At last he reached the root-house and leaned against it, dizzy and panting. Then he looked about for Croaker. The crow had vanished!
A thrill of alarm gripped Billy's heart-strings. Where had Croaker disappeared to? What if old Scroggie's ghost had grabbed him and cast over him the cloak of invisibility? Then in all likelihood he would be the next to feel that damp, clutching shroud.
Suddenly his fears vanished. Croaker's voice, high-pitched and jubilant, had summoned him from somewhere on the other side of the building. As quickly as the weeds and his lagging feet would permit Billy joined him. Croaker was standing erect on a pile of old bottles, basking in the radiance of the colored lights which the sun drew from them. Undoubtedly in his black heart he felt that his master would glory in this glittering pile even as he gloried in it; for was there not in this heap of dazzling old bottles light enough to make the whole world glad?
But Billy gazed dully at the treasure with sinking heart and murmured: "You danged old humbug, you!" Croaker was surprised, indignant, hurt. He reached down and struck one of the shiniest of the bottles with his beak but even the happy tinkle that ensued failed to rouse enthusiasm in his master.
"O Croaker," groaned Billy, "why won't you find the gold fer me?" Croaker returned his master's look of reproach with beady, insolent eyes. "Cawrara-cawrara-cawrara," he murmured, backing from the pile, which meant, "Why don't you carry one of these beautiful shiny things home for me? Isn't that what I brought you here to do?"
Then, his master still remaining blind to the wealth of treasure disclosed to him, Croaker spread his wings and sailed away over the pine-tops. Billy, despair in his heart, followed. All fear of the supernatural was gone from him now, crowded out by bitter disappointment at his failure to find the hidden gold. He passed close beside the haunted house without so much as a thought of the ghost of the man who had owned it and on through the silent pines and shadowy, grave-yard silence.
Then, just as he drew near to the edge of the grove, he caught his breath in terror and the cold sweat leaped out on his fear-blanched face. Drifting directly toward him white as driven snow, came the ghost. It was bearing straight down upon him! His knees grew weak, refused to hold him, and he sagged weakly against a tree. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.
Billy had heard that when one comes face to face with death the misdeeds of the life about to go out crowd into one brief second of darting reality before one. He had never quite believed it but he believed it now. If only he might have his misspent life to live over again! Never again would he steal Deacon Ringold's melons or swap broken-backed, broken-bladed jack-knives for good ones with the Sand-sharks, nor frighten his brother Anson with tales of witches and goblins. But that chance was not for him. It was, perhaps, natural that his last earthly thought would be of her. Her sweet face shone through the choking mists—her trembling lips were murmuring a last "good bye." Did she know what a wonderful influence her entrance into his heart had exerted toward his reform? With an effort he opened his eyes. The white, gliding thing was almost upon him now. He tried to shake off frozen terror and run. He could not move a muscle. He groaned and shut his eyes tight, waiting for the icy touch of a spirit-hand. It found him after what seemed an eternity of waiting—but it was very soft and warm instead of clammy and cold and the voice which spoke his name was not in the least sepulchral.
"Billy."
A long shiver ran through his tense frame. He opened his eyes slowly.Shestood before him! Yes there was no doubt of it, she was there, blue eyes smiling into his, warm fingers sending a thrill through his numbed being.
He tried to speak, tried to pronounce her name, but the effort was a failure. All he could do was to drink in her perfect loveliness. More than ever like an angel she looked, standing all in white in the blue-dark gloom of the grove, her hair glowing like a halo above the deep pools of her eyes.
"Billy," she spoke again, "are you sick?"
With a supreme effort of will he shook off his numbness and the red flush of shame wiped the pallor from his cheeks. What would she think of him if she knew? The very anguish of the thought spurred him to play the part of hypocrite. It was despicable, he knew, but what man has not had to play it, sooner or later, in the great game of love?
"Fell out o' a tree," he managed to say. "Struck my head on a limb."
"Oh!" she cried commiseratingly. She came closer to him—so close that her very nearness made him dizzy with joy. With a tiny handkerchief she wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Come out into the light and let me see where you hurt yourself," she said, oh so gently.
"I don't think it left any mark," Billy stammered. "Anyways, I feel a whole lot better now. It was foolish for me to climb that tall tree. I didn't have to do it."
"Then why did you do it?" They were out into the hardwoods by now, in a long valley strewn with a net-work of sunbeams and shadows and he saw a hint of reproach in her big eyes as she asked the question. His heart leaped with sheer joy. She might just as well have said, "You have no right to run risks, now that you have me to consider."
They sat down on a mossy log. Her fingers brushed back his hair as her eyes sought vainly for marks or bruises.
"I asked you why you climbed the tree, Billy?"
Billy's mind worked with lightning speed.
"There was a little cedar bird's nest in a tall pine," he explained. "I saw a crow black bird fly out of it, and knew she had laid her egg in that nest."
"But why should she lay her egg in the cedar bird's nest; hasn't she a nest of her own?" asked Lou.
"No, crow black birds are too lazy to build nests. They take the first nest comes handy."
She looked her wonder. "But, Billy, you'd think they would want to enjoy building their own homes, wouldn't you?"
Billy shook his head. "The crow black bird don't want to be bothered with hatchin' an' feedin' her own young. That's why she lays in other bird's nests," he explained. "She jest lays her egg an' beats it out o' there. The other poor little bird waits for her to go. Then she goes back to her nest, glad enough to find it hasn't been torn to bits."
"And you mean to tell me that she hatches the egg laid by the mean, bad black bird, Billy?"
"Yep, she does jest that. She don't seem to know any better. Birds an' animals are queer that way. Why, even a weasel'll nurse a baby rabbit along with her own kittens if it's hungry."
The girl's eyes grew wider and wider with wonderment. "Isn't it strange?" she half whispered, "and beautiful?"
"It's mighty queer," Billy confessed. "But you see, if that little bird was wise, she'd scoop that crow black bird's egg out o' her nest, instead of hatchin' it."
"Why?"
"Because when the egg's hatched, the little black bird is so much stronger an' bigger than the cedar birdies he takes most of the feed the old birds bring in. He starves the other little birds an' crowds 'em clean out o' the nest."
"Then it was brave of you to risk climbing that tall tree to frighten that crow bird away," declared Lou. The admiration and commendation in the blue eyes watching him was more than Billy could endure.
"Say!" he burst out. "I lied to you, Lou, I didn't fall out o' no tree, I was jest scared plum stiff when you found me, that's all."
He hung his head and braced himself to meet what was justly coming to him. She would despise him now, he knew. He felt a gentle touch on his arm, and raised his face slowly. The girl's red lips were smiling. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
"I'm glad you told me, Billy," she said. "I—I hoped you might."
"Then you knowed I was scared?" he cried in wonder.
She nodded. "I suppose I should have called to you, but I had forgotten what I had heard about this grove being haunted and that I was dressed all in white. But when I came to you and saw your face I knew that you were frightened."
"Frightened! Oh gollies, I was so scared that I chattered my teeth loose. But honest Injun, Lou, I don't scare easy. I wouldn't like you to think that I'm a scare-cat about real things. I'm jest scared of ghosts, that's all."
Lou knit her brows in thought. "No," she disagreed, "if you had been that frightened you would not have come to the grove at all."
Billy looked his relief. "I don't think I'm quite as bad as I used to be," he said. "Why say, there was a time when you couldn't get me inside that grove. But lately I've been feelin' different about it. I don't s'pose there re'lly is such a thing as a ghost, is there?"
"No," she replied, "there's no such thing as a ghost, Billy."
A red squirrel came scampering across the open sod before them, pausing as he sensed their presence, then springing to the trunk of a sapling the better to look them over.
"Oh look at the dear little thing," cried the girl. "What do you suppose he's saying?" as the squirrel broke into a shrill chatter.
"Why he's callin' us all the mean things he knows, I guess," laughed Billy. "We're in his way, you see."
"Then let's get out of his way. I suppose he thinks we have no business here and maybe he's right. Where shall we go, Billy?"
Billy thought a moment. "Say, how'd you like to go out in my punt, on Levee Crick? I kin show you some cute baby mushrats an' some dandy black-birds' nests. It's not far away. We go 'cross that big fallow and through a strip o' hardwoods an' then we climb a stump fence—an' there's the crick. It's an awful fine crick, an' plumb full of bass an' pike. Say, will you go?"
He leaned toward her, waiting for her answer. His heart was singing with joy—joy that spilled out of his grey eyes and made his lips smile in spite of him. What a sweet and grand privilege it would be to carry this wonderful girl, who had so transformed his world, along the familiar by-ways that held such rare treasures of plant and wild life.
She was looking away across the forest to a strip of fleecy cloud drifting across the deep azure of the sky.
"I should like to go," she said at length, "if you are sure you don't think I will be a bother."
"Bother!" Billy's pulses were leaping, his soul singing. He reached down a hand and trustingly she put her's in it. Very soft and cool it felt to Billy's hot palm, as he assisted her from the log. Then side by side they passed down through the long green valley.
Erie Landon faced her father across the breakfast table, dimpled chin cupped in her brown hand. It was early morning; a red sun was just lifting above the Point to wipe away the white mists of the channel and the bay. The American yacht which had put into harbor the night before had cleared and was now but a white speck in the distance.
"She ought to make Cleveland before dark if this breeze holds," the light-house keeper said as he twisted the big cigar which the commodore had given him about in his fingers. "Just what word was it that lawyer chap, Maddoc, wanted us to get to Swanson, at the foot, Erie?"
"Why, he asked us to tell Swanson that he and a friend are coming to his place to stay for a couple of weeks duck-shooting, Daddy," Erie answered.
"When?"
"Early in October, Mr. Maddoc said."
"Humph! It does beat all what foolish ideas them big guns take. Think of them two comin' all the way from Cleveland here just to shoot ducks. Old man Swanson knows his book, too. He charges them sports awful prices; nine dollars a week each and makes 'em sleep two in a bed at that; and every fall that old ramblin' house of his is chuck kerbang full of shooters."
Landon was much improved in health. He spoke with little effort, the hollows in his cheeks were filling and his eyes were brighter than the girl had seen them for many a day. He gazed longingly down at the cigar, then glancing up to catch his daughter's reproachful look, sighed and laid it on the table.
"I'd love to smoke it," he confessed, "but you needn't worry, Chick. I'm through with tobacco till I'm my real self ag'in. But I feel so darned much better since I quit smokin' I simply want to smoke all the more."
"Poor old Daddy," Erie laughed, coming around to sit on the arm of his chair. "It does seem too bad you can't have your smoke. I'm sure you miss it dreadfully; but you see you are so much stronger and better I—well, I simply won't let you smoke just yet, that's all."
His face had brightened at the sound of her laughter. Now he patted her hand, as his eyes sought the window. Perhaps the old songs would come back even as the laughter had come and surprise him. Perhaps she was forgetting Stanhope. But no, much as he desired that this should be, he knew her too well for that.
With his eyes on the white sail, now a tiny dot on the horizon, his mind went back to that scene of a month ago, when he had told her of Hinter's proposal and of his consent to it. He would never quite forget the look that came into her face.
"I could never marry Hinter," she had said. "I love one man—and to him I shall be true, always."
"But he is blind, child. He has given you up," Landon had reasoned. And with her face aglow she had answered. "He is blind, but he can never give me up, because he loves me."
Reading in the dry, suffering eyes she had turned upon him a purpose stronger than life itself, what could he do but take her in his arms and ask her to forgive him for the old meddler he was? Perhaps he had erred in this. He did not want to think so. But she looked so much like her mother that morning it might be—
"Daddy."
He came out of his abstraction with a start and glanced at her, almost guiltily. "Yes, Chick."
"Have you told Mr. Hinter yet?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes," he answered. "I told him that same day. Told him that you said you could never be more to him than what you now are. Why do you ask, Erie?"
"I have wondered why he keeps coming here," she said slowly. "You scarcely need his companionship, now you are busy with your duties. But there," she broke off with a smile, "I have no right to doubt his sincerity; I am sure he has never spoken one word to me that he should not speak and I know he is really fond of you."
Landon knit his shaggy brows. "I don't know, Chick. I'm afraid he still hopes. He has as much as told me so. 'We've been too hasty with her,' he said, 'we must have patience.'"
Erie's face went very white. "He mustn't come here any more," she said quickly. "With your permission I shall tell him so, Daddy."
He was silent for a time. "Just as you like," he said at length. "If his comin' annoys you, dear, you tell him so."
She bent and kissed him. "Best Daddy ever was," she whispered. Then jumping up she ran to the stove and put the kettle on.
"I saw Billy Wilson yesterday when I was out sailing," she called, "and he had the sweetest little girl with him. Her name is Lou Scroggie and I fell in love with her on sight."
"Billy with a girl!" cried Landon in wonder.
"Yes. They were out in Billy's punt, gathering water-lilies, and, oh Daddy, they seemed so happy. I could have hugged them both. Billy told me that he and Maurice Keeler were going shooting ducks this morning and I asked him to come over here for breakfast as usual. The marsh shooting is all over by sunrise, you know."
Her father nodded. "I'll bet a cookie that was Billy's old muzzle loader I heard down in the duck-ponds about daylight," he laughed. "Maybe," he added hopefully, "he'll fetch us a brace of ducks."
"Why, there he is now," she cried, glancing through the window. "Maurice isn't with him, though. I know that old punt as far as I can see it. I must get the potatoes and bacon on; he'll be hungry as a bear."
Landon put on his hat and went down to the beach to welcome their visitor. "Well, Billy," he called as the punt appeared around the bend in the shore, "how many ducks did old Liza-Ann drop out of the sky this mornin'?"
"Two greys and a mallard," Billy answered over his shoulder. "Could'a killed more, but what's the use. They wouldn't keep; weather's too warm."
"Well now, I can't see why a dozen wouldn't keep as well as three," returned the keeper, as he pulled the punt high on shore.
"They would, I s'pose," laughed Billy as he stepped out, followed by Moll, the little spaniel, "but these three don't have to keep long; you see we're goin' to have these fer dinner."