The sitting room in the Morton home was cheerful with sunshine. It brightened the conventional flowers of the old crimson Brussels carpet into a semblance of life. It caught the gold outline of the wall paper and lingered there—even the somber steel engravings reflected the light from the polished glass over them. Mrs. Morton sat in her low rocking chair by the window reading a letter from her husband.
She had read it through for the second time, and still she gazed at the lines as if she could not quite comprehend their meaning. Her sewing had dropped from her lap unheeded. Ernest, coming in search of her, called three times before she noticed him.
“Yes, Son,” she answered absently at last.
“What’s the matter, Mother? Nothing wrong with Father is there?”
Ernest had recognized his father’s writing on the closely written sheets.
“No, dear, just some perplexing business. Sit down and I’ll read it to you—but don’t mention the matter to anyone yet.”
Ernest came close to his mother, putting his arm affectionately about her shoulders.
“Don’t look so solemn, Mother,” he protested.
“Am I looking solemn? Well, I do feel worried. Listen to this:
“My dear Wife,
“I was glad to get your letter of the 8th with the welcome news that you are all well and that Marian is getting about again. I have important news for you and for Frank. I am writing to him by the same mail. I have bought the ranch! A really choice one, I believe, and so cheap it must surely double in value in ten years. There is an entire section, and good water for house and stock—a wonderful big spring in a little rocky dell shaded by a great oak tree hundreds of years old. It will charm you all. Chicken Little will want to set up housekeeping under it immediately and you and Marian would find it a lovely cool nook for a summer afternoon. The big spring widens into a brook twenty feet belowand goes singing away over the stones. A good-sized spring house has been built over it and crocks of butter and milk and great melons are set right in the cold running water. You never saw such a refrigerator. The place has magnificent orchards, peach, apple and cherry with grapes and blackberries also.
“Tell Chicken Little I saw a flock of quail in the apple orchard. Our baby quail got tangled in the long grass as he tried to scurry away and I picked him up. He was a jolly soft little brown ball with the brightest eyes. I would have liked to bring him home to the child but I was afraid I couldn’t care for him. Tell her though I have a most astonishing present for her and she can never guess what it is, if she lies awake every night till I come. But to return to the ranch—it has two hundred acres of fine farming land, unlimited pasture, and a heavily timbered creek crossing it diagonally. The details I must give you when I get home. You have never seen a lovelier sight than the prairies at this time of year—I counted thirty-seven different kinds of flowers in one spot. Chicken Little would love the little sensitive plants that curl up their leaves when you touch them and open them again when they think you are gone. But I have forgotten the houses—there are two—which I suppose you and Marian will consider the most important of all.”
“But——” Ernest interrupted, “why does he keep talking as if we were going, too? I thought he was just buying this for Frank and Marian.”
“So did I—just wait—he explains in a moment.
“One is a roomy, comfortable farm house of two stories, the other a snug five-roomed affair just across the road from the first. Both houses are a little old-fashioned, but could easily be remodeled. One word as to the climate, then I have something for you to think over. Kansas is exactly the place for Marian—not so hot as Arizona, no startling change from hot days to cold nights as I found in Colorado. Now, dear, I want to know if you would be willing to consider coming out here to live also. The ranch is almost too big a thing for Frank alone and as you know I find my practice pretty hard work for a man of my age, but we’ll talk all this over when I come home. Tell Ernest for me that he would never have weak eyes here. There is fishing and hunting enough to keep any boy out doors, not to mention having a horse of his own.”
“O Mother,” Ernest interrupted again, “wouldn’t that be jolly?”
“Jolly, to leave our home and friends?”
Mrs. Morton’s face was tragic and the tears flooded her eyes.
“Why, Mother—I didn’t think—don’t cry. Of course we won’t go if you don’t want to.” And Ernest stroked his mother’s hair awkwardly.
Mrs. Morton smiled through her tears.
“I mustn’t give way—it’s foolish. But it was so unexpected—and I’m afraid—perhaps we ought to do it on Frank and Marian’s account—and your father’s. It is hard for him to be up nights so much. We’ll see.”
Mrs. Morton kissed Ernest and picked up her sewing again.
Dr. Morton came home a week later sunburned and vigorous—full of the wonderful country he had been seeing. His trunk was a perfect treasure house of gifts for the family. Ernest’s eyes shone when the canvas-covered case his father held out to him was found to contain a small shot gun. He had been begging for one for the past two years, but had been refused because he was too young.
“I think I can depend upon you to handle this with the greatest care, Ernest,” said his father impressively. “I wouldn’t have bought it for you if I hadn’t felt assured you could be trusted.”
Dr. Morton looked at the boy keenly and was pleased to see the way he drew up his shoulders and looked his father in the eye as he replied:
“I think you can trust me, Father, I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure I can,” said his father heartily. “Thefirst thing you must remember is never to leave it loaded. Half the accidents occur because somebody ‘didn’t know it was loaded.’ It’s a simple matter to open it and slip out the shells before you put it away.”
Dr. Morton took the shiny steel weapon across his knee and, opening it, slipped the shells quickly in and out, with Ernest and Jane watching intently beside him.
“I believe I could do that,” Chicken Little remarked complacently.
“You’d better not try, Miss Meddlesome Matty,” ejaculated Ernest sharply. “Don’t you ever let me catch you touching it!”
The child looked rebellious but her father added sternly:
“Ernest is quite right, little daughter, you must never under any circumstances try to handle this gun—but I have something for you that will keep you busy. No,” as she jumped up eagerly, “you must wait till the last this time.”
“I just can’t wait much longer, Father. I’m all going round inside. Please hurry!”
But for some reason her father wouldn’t hurry. He brought out two gay Navajo blankets for Mrs. Morton and Marian and a wonderful Mexican bridle for Frank.
“You’ll have plenty of use for it on the ranch.You’ll be in the saddle half your time I fancy,” he told the latter.
He even unwrapped a little Indian basket, which he asked Mrs. Morton to send to Alice. Still there was nothing for Chicken Little. She hung on the arm of his chair and fidgeted. Finally, he looked round at her quizzically:
“Why, my parcels are all gone and there doesn’t seem to be anything for you. Dear me, did I forget it?”
Just then Ernest got up and went out into the hall, coming back presently, leaving the door open behind him. In spite of themselves the family all looked toward the door. Chicken Little looked too, but saw nothing. A moment later the queerest voice called:
“Chick-en Lit-tle! Chick-en Lit-tle! Poor Pete! Scat! Go off an’ die!”
The words seemed to come from the floor and sounded as if they were fired out of a popgun.
Chicken Little jumped down from her father’s chair and stood for an instant spellbound in the middle of the floor.
Then she fell upon the newcomer with a shout.
“Oh, it’s a parrot! Ernest, it’s a parrot!”
But Polly eyed her distrustfully.
“Scat—go off and die!” he exclaimed, promptly retreating toward the door.
At a safe distance he began to call again:
“Chicken Little—Chicken Little!”
“Why, Father, how does he know my name?”
“Father’s taught him, silly—he makes him say it before he feeds him. He’ll call you every time he wants his grub.” Ernest could not resist airing his superior knowledge.
“Go get him a cracker, Chick, and he will make friends with you fast enough.”
Pete caught the word cracker and observed plaintively—“Poor Pete—give Pete cracker. Bust my buttons—cracker—cracker!” Then remembering his latest lesson he called engagingly once more: “Chicken Little!”
“I am afraid it will be a sad nuisance,” Mrs. Morton said, laughing in spite of herself at the bird’s absurd talk.
“Let Chicken Little take care of it herself—she’s old enough,” Dr. Morton replied.
“Yes, she’s old enough, but somebody will have to see that she does it!”
“Pete will see to that—he’ll make life a burden for her with his ‘Chicken Little’ if he is neglected.”
Mrs. Morton sent the pretty Indian basket on to Alice with a letter telling her that Frank and Marian were going West to their new home early in September. She did not mention Dr. Morton’s new plan. She could not bear to admit even to herselfthe possibility of their all going. Her home meant much to her. She looked about the handsome, comfortable rooms of the old house and she felt that she loved every nook and cranny of it, though they had owned it but five years. She thought, too, of Alice’s disappointment should her old home again pass on to strangers. They had taken great pride in restoring the place, which had been much run down when they bought it. The flower garden was her especial pride and care. It was lovely now with clove pinks, sweet williams, mignonette, and a dozen more old-fashioned blossoms, as she looked up from her letter to rest her eyes lovingly upon it. She had lain awake nights wondering if it was her duty to give up this home and her friends for the unknown ranch life. It would be giving up more still. The nearest church would be nine miles away—the children would have only an ungraded district school. She shook her head. No, she must take plenty of time to think all this over.
A day or two after his father’s return, Frank caught up with him just outside the gate. “Heard about Gassett?”
“No—has he had a relapse?”
“No such luck, he has started a suit against Alice to recover those certificates.”
“How did you hear?”
“His lawyer came to me to get Alice’s address.And what do you think? Dick Harding told me this morning that Gassett tried to get him to take the case. Foxy, wasn’t it? Dick declined promptly.”
“Alice would do well to get Dick for her lawyer.”
“I imagine Uncle Joseph will attend to that.”
“Still, I think I’ll drop her a hint.”
But Alice had evidently not forgotten Dick Harding or Dr. Morton’s remark about his being a good lawyer. Before the doctor’s letter could reach her, a formal missive from Uncle Joseph requested Dick Harding to defend Alice’s side and to get an older lawyer to help him.
Dick went promptly to work. Dr. Morton sent down the box of letters and papers Alice had left in his charge and Dick went over them carefully, but did not find what he was hoping for.
“It is a queer mix-up,” he wrote Alice. “I cannot understand why there isn’t a scrap of writing anywhere from Mr. Gassett to your father. There surely must have been some correspondence between them on business matters. Many things in your father’s letters to your mother show this—but the letters are missing. It hardly seems likely your father would have destroyed them all. Do you suppose that he could have left them at the store and that they have fallen into Gassett’s hands, too? Or could your mother have accidentally destroyed them? I remember though you said she was mostcareful to keep old letters. I have a queer feeling about all this—that the missing letters and papers still exist and will turn up yet. But feelings don’t go in law courts. Is there an attic to the old house or any secret closet where they could possibly have been concealed?”
Alice talked the matter over with Uncle Joseph and he started rummaging among his papers to see if he could find anything in her father’s old letters that would help. There were few references to business matters in these and no reference to Mr. Gassett except a mere mention of the fact that he had gone into partnership with him.
“It’s no use, Alice. I am afraid we’ll have to let Gassett have the stuff though I hate like sixty to give up,” he said after his fruitless search.
“Well, I’m not ready to own beat yet—I have one last hope,” Alice replied bravely.
That night she sat down and wrote a letter to Mrs. Morton.
Chicken Little found Pete Parrot a great joy and a great nuisance. Dr. Morton was right about his reproaching her if she neglected him. When Pete began to call “Chicken Little,” Mrs. Morton would exclaim, “Why, Jane, haven’t you fed Pete today?”
Pete had a wonderful appetite. He ate when he was hungry and he ate when he was lonesome and he ate when he was bored. Further Pete was deceitful. He would call Chicken Little persistently when he had food enough in sight to feed a small regiment of parrots. He seemed to prefer her to anyone else from the start. When he heard the front door open, he promptly croaked, “Chicken Little.” When they let him loose he would follow her about the house, a trick that cost him dear later.
And Jane was devoted to Pete. She loved to talkto him. Pete would cock his head on one side and listen attentively, breaking out occasionally with “Bust my buttons” or “Go off and die.” Sometimes he would listen solemnly for several minutes and then laugh his harsh croaking laugh.
One afternoon near the close of school Jane, coming in, heard her mother’s voice calling from the sitting room and Pete echoing the call from upstairs.
“What is it, Mother?”
“I have some pleasant news for you, little daughter, Katy’s cousin, May Halford, is to have a party next Saturday and here is a nice little note inviting you and your doll. I think May must have written it herself. It is very prettily done—I wish my little girl could write as neat a one.”
“But she’s two years older than I am, Mother.”
“Yes, but you are not too young to learn to write neatly. I noticed your copy book had three great blots in it this month.”
“Grace Dart jogged me—she wanted me to look at Johnny Carter. He had the back of his hand all covered with transfer pictures.”
“Well, you must learn not to let your attention wander in school. Johnny Carter seems to be a very mischievous boy.”
“What can I wear to the party, Mumsey?” Chicken Little wished to change the subject.
“I think you may wear your blue poplin and thewhite shoes if it’s a nice day. But you must be a little lady and not romp—the poplin won’t wash, you know.”
“Couldn’t I wear a white dress?—they almost always play rompy games at May’s.”
“My dear, it is high time for you to learn to take care of your clothes and Mother knows best what little girls should wear.”
Chicken Little puckered up her mouth rebelliously but Pete walked in the door at this moment calling “Chicken Little” so plaintively that she had to pick him up and comfort him. She took him out in the yard and relieved her mind to him.
“Pete, if I ever have any little girls, I’m always going to let them wear exactly what they please—and I’m never going to tell them to be little ladies. Anyhow I guess I can wear my white shoes and there haven’t any of the other girls got any yet.”
Pete eyed her in silence.
“I shall take my Christmas dolly—she’s the prettiest.”
Pete cocked his head on one side and began to climb up in her lap. He had caught sight of Ernest and Carol coming in the front gate, and the boys often teased him.
As they came near he cuddled up close against Jane, calling vigorously, “Scat!—Go off and die!”
The boys laughed and Ernest held out his slate pencil which the parrot nipped fiercely.
On the afternoon of the party Katy and Gertie came by for Chicken Little. They were crisp and dainty as usual in ruffled white dresses with blue and pink sashes and hair ribbons. Chicken Little looked from them to her own silken finery regretfully.
Katy began by cheering her the wrong way.
“My, you’ll have to be awful careful with your dress, Jane. I guess it would spoil it if you dropped ice-cream on it.”
“I’m glad white will wash,” added Gertie complacently, smoothing down her ruffles.
Chicken Little hugged her doll tighter and ignored these remarks.
“I’m glad it didn’t rain today ’cause Mother wouldn’t have let me wear my white shoes if it had.”
“It rained hard enough last night—you’ll have to watch out for puddles. Father said everything was soaked this morning,” replied Katy.
“It’s dried awful fast—May’s going to have the party on the lawn. Her mother’s set a table out under the trees,” said Gertie.
“Yes, and she’s going to have a prize for the prettiest doll. We’re each to write a name on a piece of paper and put it in a hat and then they’ll count them and give it to the doll that has the most.”
“Mother made a new dress for Minnie andpainted her cheeks where I washed the pink off, but I don’t s’pose she’ll get the prize—she’s so old. Maybe your Victoria will, she has such pretty blue eyes.”
Chicken Little looked down at Victoria’s blue eyes and yellow curls appraisingly.
“Marian says she thinks Victoria is one of the prettiest dolls she’s ever seen.”
“She is pretty but I don’t think her dress is near as pretty as Grace Dart’s. Her doll’s got the loveliest pink silk and a hat and parasol to match. It’s a—what do you s’pose those boys are laughing at?”
Katy broke off her sentence to ask hastily, pointing across the street.
Two boys stood there chuckling, apparently staring straight at the little girls.
The three little girls stopped for an instant indignant.
“Oh, come on,” said Chicken Little, “it’s the Howard twins and they’re awful mean. Just pretend we don’t see them.”
But the boys had started toward them.
The little girls had half a mind to run when one of the boys called: “Where did you get your bodyguard?”
They looked hastily behind them—there was no one in sight.
Katy was provoked.
“You think you’re awful smart, don’t you?” she called back.
The boys were shaking with laughter and were now half-way across the street. The larger one began chanting: “Mary had a little lamb,” and the other added quickly: “His fleece was green as grass——”
The children stopped and looked around again. This time Gertie spied a small green body hovering close to Jane’s white shoes.
“Poor Pete,” it remarked plaintively.
“Why Pete—you naughty bird—how did you come to follow me? What can I do? Get down, Pete—you’ll spoil my dress.”
Pete was trying to climb Jane’s skirts. He did not like the looks of the strange boys.
“Dear me, we’ll have to take him back home,” said Gertie.
“We’ll take him for you. Can he talk?”
Before Chicken Little could reply something leaped into the midst of the little group and Pete gave a heart-rending squawk. The children jumped and screamed but before they fairly understood what had happened, Pete and a big gray cat were in mortal combat. Fur and feathers flew for several awful seconds accompanied by wails from the little girls and shouts from the boys who wanted to save the parrot but hated to spoil the fight.
The Howard boys made one or two ineffectual efforts to grab Pete getting nips and scratches for their pains. Chicken Little, terrified for Pete’s life, tried to seize the cat and received a vicious scratch on the arm. The others pulled her away.
A crowd was quickly gathering. Rescue came opportunely in the shape of Pat Casey who had the good sense to arm himself with a stick. A few smart blows loosened the cat’s grip and it slunk away. Pete, much disheveled and shorn of some of his gayest feathers, stood blinking dazedly for a minute. Then, catching sight of Chicken Little, he hopped feebly toward her, croaking hoarsely: “Bust my buttons.”
The children set up a shout.
“I guess the cat pretty nearly did bust ’em,” remarked Pat laughing.
Poor Pete was cuddled and fussed over to his heart’s content. Pat offered to take him home for Chicken Little, and after much coaxing and scolding, Pete finally consented to hop on Pat’s arm and permit himself to be carried homeward.
The little girls went on to the party pink with excitement. They could hardly wait to tell of Pete’s adventure. Everybody wished they had brought the parrot with them. However, the doll contest soon absorbed their attention.
Chicken Little’s Victoria proved a great favorite,but Grace Dart’s Stella was beautiful to see in her rose pink silk. The children Oh-ed and Ah-ed over her hat and parasol.
Generous little Gertie worked hard for Victoria even going so far as to tell the children that Victoria was such a good doll—she most never cried. Katy was inclined to favor Stella. More than one little girl loyally voted for her own child. Others offered to vote for their friends’ dolls if they in turn would vote for theirs.
The dolls were examined and compared most critically. Many of the little mothers took the matter very much to heart and resented any criticism. Gertie picked her Minnie up and cuddled her tenderly after a thoughtless child had hurt dolly’s feelings by exclaiming, “What a homely doll!”
Chicken Little’s eyes shone as she saw the many admiring glances Victoria received. She naively showed her off, putting her to sleep and waking her up to display her blue eyes and long fringed lashes or making her cry “Mamma” when the other children asked to hold her. She looked at Stella a little enviously. It would be so nice to have Victoria get the prize. Jane had never had a prize except once in Sunday School for learning the most Scripture texts. May Halford was displaying the mysterious box wrapped in white paper that contained it and everyone was eager to know what it was.
Many were the guesses. Several children felt the box, but May kept the secret. Chicken Little looked at it longingly. It might be a hat and parasol like Stella’s—it might be a silk dress. She wished she knew.
When the little white slips of paper were finally passed around each little girl was asked to write the name of the doll she admired most and fold it up so no one could see. Jane looked sober. She was tempted to do something she felt would not be quite nice. She had firmly resolved to vote for Gertie’s doll because Gertie had been so sweet about Victoria, but suppose Victoria needed just one more vote to get the prize. Chicken Little bit the end of her pencil and thought hard. She looked at Gertie holding Minnie close with a wistful look in her eyes. Gertie would be sorely disappointed if Minnie didn’t get a single vote. Then she looked at Grace Dart, who was already putting on airs, and hardened her heart.
She moistened her pencil and wrote a big V, then paused and looked at Gertie again. Gertie was writing Victoria she could tell by the way she made the V. Jane closed her lips firmly.
“I guess I won’t be mean if she doesn’t get the prize,” she said to herself.
She wrote Minnie very plainly, folded it up quickly and dropped it in the hat lest she should change her mind.
Stella got the prize by one vote. Chicken Little held her head high and had her reward. The little girls who had voted for Victoria crowded round her in wrath.
“She’s ever so much prettier than Grace’s doll! It’s just her clothes made them vote for her.”
“Yes, May’s mother said your doll was the prettiest.”
“I don’t think it was fair to vote for the clothes. Mrs. Halford said the prettiest doll!”
These remarks were very consoling but did not comfort her as much as Gertie’s words:
“I’m so sorry Vic didn’t get it, Jane. If you hadn’t voted for Minnie it would have been a tie.”
“How do you know I voted for Minnie?” demanded Chicken Little.
“Oh, just ’cause and I’m real glad. I didn’t expect Minnie to get it, but I’d felt awful bad if she hadn’t had a single vote.”
The prize proved to be a most tempting one, a tiny brush and comb and cunning hand glass in a little satin-lined box. Chicken Little sighed in spite of herself.
The arrival of the milkman created a diversion. Mr. Akers was a jolly soul and most of the children knew him. The jingle of his bell sent them all rushing to the gate to show their dolls. Mr. Akers greeted them heartily.
“Well, I declare this is about the gayest flock of birds I’ve seen for some time. A party? Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t asked.”
It took them some time to make him understand about the doll prize. He was called upon to inspect each doll first, then the two rivals were held up for his opinion.
Mr. Akers took his time. He took off his spectacles, polished them carefully on his sleeve, and made a second critical survey.
“You want me to tell you which is the purtiest, eh? Well, now they’re both purty. I don’t know as I ever saw handsomer dolls—or better behaved,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye. “But if you really want my honest opinion I believe I like this one’s face the best,” pointing to Victoria, “though the other one there has a leetle the gayest clothes. The dressy one got the prize you say. Now it seems like they both ought to have a prize.”
Mr. Akers fished a handful of coins out of his pocket and selecting a brand new dime which shone brightly among its dingier companions, presented it to Victoria with a flourish.
The children were delighted and Chicken Little started home comforted to tell the family that May’s mother and Mr. Akers thought Victoria was the prettiest anyway.
The walk home proved almost as disastrous as thewalk to the party. The streets seemed entirely dry by this time and the three little girls, chattering gaily about their good time, forgot to notice where they were going.
Just before they turned into Front Street they passed a yard where men had been digging a well. A quantity of the yellow clay had been carelessly tossed over the fence upon the sidewalk to be hauled away. This, alas, had been thoroughly soaked by the previous night’s rain and when Chicken Little stepped upon it with her cherished white shoes, her small feet sank in up to her ankles. The white kid was sadly stained. Katy and Gertie did their best to help her get it off, but the white shoes were destined never to be white again. Mrs. Morton gave them a new lease of life by having them bronzed a few days later.
Chicken Little long remembered the day of the doll party. It would seem that Pete did also, for he never attempted to follow Chicken Little outside the yard again.
One hot day soon after the party Dr. Morton handed his wife a letter from Alice.
Mrs. Morton glanced through it while Olga cleared the table for the dessert.
“Poor Alice—she is worried because Mr. Harding can’t find either letters or papers to prove her claim to the bank stock. It does seem strange that all the letters from Mr. Gassett to her father should have completely disappeared.”
“Well,” said Dr. Morton drily, “if you want to know my opinion, I believe that Gassett got hold of them some way and destroyed them.”
“It doesn’t seem possible he would do anything so dishonest though I don’t like the man—he was so very rude the day he came here. Alice wonders if it could be possible there are any of her father’s papershidden away under the roof. You remember almost all of the closets run off under the roof. It is a wonder we don’t have rats with them all open that way.”
“It would be an unpleasant task to explore. I suppose there’s twenty years of dust and cobwebs stored up in those nooks and crannies. There are places where the roof slopes to form the gables where a man could hardly crawl through. I suppose I might hire some boy to go through and see if he can find anything.”
Ernest and Chicken Little had been interested listeners to this conversation.
“Say, Father, let me and the boys explore. We could put on some old clothes—it would be loads of fun.”
“That might not be a bad idea. You couldn’t come to any harm other than a few scratches and splinters. I don’t believe you will find anything, but Alice will be satisfied at any rate.”
“Can’t I go, too?” demanded Chicken Little.
“Oh, dear no,” her mother replied, “it would be horribly dirty and cobwebby—no place for little ladies to climb round in.”
Jane looked disappointed.
“Why not let the child go, Mother? Put an old dress on her and tie up her hair. She’d enjoy the fun as much as the boys.”
“Oh, well, there is that old blue calico in the rag bag you could slip on, I suppose.”
“Goody, goody!” Chicken Little didn’t wait to hear the subject discussed further lest her mother should change her mind. She started off to don the dress immediately.
Ernest ran over to get Sherm and Carol.
The boys were eager for the hunt.
“You mustn’t take matches in there. You might drop one and set the house afire. You can use the little lantern—that will be safe. Be careful you don’t come through the plastering—there must be some sort of an open space over the central part of the house though I don’t know where there’s any way to reach it. It will be stone dark if there is—there are no outside windows.”
While the exploring party was trying to decide whether to start in with the front room closet or begin with the one in the maid’s room at the back of the house, Katy and Gertie appeared on the scene. They promptly begged to go, too.
“Well, ask your mother and get some old clothes on,” Mrs. Morton consented finally after Chicken Little had teased for several minutes.
They were off and back in no time, arrayed in outgrown dresses that gave them the appearance of being all arms and legs.
“Mother said she wished she could come, too.She said it would be almost as much fun as exploring a desert island,” reported Katy.
It was finally agreed to try the front room closet first. This closet was a lofty, roomy looking affair for about six feet, then as the roof slanted sharply downward, faded away into darkness. It was floored and ceiled to within three feet of the point where roof and floor met, and it was only by getting down on hands and knees that the children could crawl, through the aperture left unboarded, into the narrow, unused spaces next the eaves.
Sherm and Ernest made the first venture, but their progress was soon cut off short by a partition. So they wriggled back adorned with cobwebs and sneezing from the dust they had stirred up.
“Let’s try the closet in Chicken Little’s room next—that’s one of the biggest.”
This time Carol and Katy did the scouting with the same results except that they found an open space between the roof and the uprights and lath and plaster of the partition, whichseemedto lead up to some sort of an attic over the main part of the house.
Carol hoisted Katy up on his shoulders to see if she could see anything but she lacked about a foot of reaching the top of the partition. Carol whistled to Ernest to come, but at this moment a voice called up from the foot of the stairs, “Ship ahoy!”
“It’s Dick Harding, I do believe!” exclaimed Chicken Little, and she flew down to investigate, closely followed by Gertie.
It was Dick Harding, resplendent in blue overalls and an old cap.
“I met your father down street and he told me what the clan was up to. This is a business I am mightily interested in, so I asked if I might come, too. How do you like my regimentals?”
Mr. Harding surveyed his blue overalls proudly. He followed the little girls upstairs and listened to Ernest’s report of their progress.
“Suppose you and I try that. I am taller than Carol and I think I could boost you high enough to get a look round. Got a light?”
They called to Carol and Katy to come out. Carol was quite ready to yield the place of honor.
“Gee, it’s hot and stuffy in there!” he groaned, fanning himself with an old shoe he had picked up from the floor of the closet.
“You’re so awful fat, Carol. I didn’t mind it,” said Katy frankly.
“Fat nothing—a shadow would smother in there. Your face looks red where it ain’t black, which is pretty much all over,” retorted Carol nettled. He didn’t enjoy being called fat.
Dick Harding followed Ernest in. There was just about room enough for him to get to his feet.He gave Ernest a lift to his shoulder. This brought the boy’s eyes about five inches above the partition. Ernest waved the tiny lantern about distractedly in an effort to pierce the gloom about him.
“Hold the lantern still and just look. Your eyes will grow accustomed to the dimness pretty soon and then you can see if there’s anything there.”
Ernest obeyed and in a few moments was able to see across to the slanting roof opposite.
“Not a thing but rafters and cobwebs,” he reported at last in disgust.
“Shift your lantern and look again carefully—we don’t want to miss anything. You don’t see any old boxes or piles of papers do you?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing that looks like a bundle of old letters? Take the lantern in the other hand and hold it out as far as you can.”
“Not a blamed thing but a piece of old board and it’s sticking up so there’s nothing under it.”
“Well, I really didn’t suppose there would be. It would be too difficult a place to reach, but I wanted to be sure,” returned Dick. “How many more closets are there?”
“Three.”
“It’s my turn next—and Gertie’s!” declared Chicken Little.
“All right, crawl along. Perhaps you won’tmind it if I follow, too,” Dick replied, smiling.
They took Ernest’s room next. Chicken Little slid past the coats and trousers and much accumulated junk which untidy Ernest had piled in on the closet floor. She knocked over a baseball bat in her haste and disappeared in under the eaves so promptly that Gertie felt quite deserted and decided she didn’t want to go into that nasty dark place.
It was all Dick could do to follow. In fact he was afraid he was going to stick, the passage was so narrow. His overalls were run through with slivers from the rough boards. Fortunately, only one penetrated his skin.
Chicken Little cheered him on by calling back.
“I’ve found some newspapers. Hurry up with the lantern.”
It was a triangular space made by the gable. Chicken Little couldn’t quite stand up and Dick could get no further than his knees. A big pile of dusty newspapers lay on the rafters. They had apparently been shoved carelessly in.
“Let’s get them out to the light. I’ll back out and you pass them through to me.”
Jane did as she was bid, handing out a few at a time but just as she lifted the last layer, gave a squeal.
“There’s something alive here!”
Dick started in again.
“Look out, Jane, it might be a house snake, though I didn’t know we ever had them here.”
“’Tisn’t any snake—it’s a mouse nest. There are four baby mice—I can feel them. I’m going to put them in my pocket.”
The children were so excited over the mice that they left the papers to Dick Harding.
He carried them to the window and ran through them hastily.
“Pshaw, nothing but old newspapers—wartime papers most of them, with long lists of men killed and wounded. Ugh—they certainly are gruesome!”
Dick dropped the pile and turned to have a look at the mice.
“Say,” he added a moment later, staring at the minute heap of paper and its tiny occupants which Chicken Little had deposited on a chair, “there’s writing on some of those scraps! They aren’t all newspapers. Are you sure you found everything there was, Chicken Little?”
Jane wasn’t sure, so Sherm took the lantern and went back to look. He found nothing, however, except a few scraps of paper.
In the meantime Dick Harding was running over the newspapers more carefully, taking them one at a time to see if any letters or documents could havebeen tucked away among them. He straightened up with a sigh of disappointment as he finished.
“Another fond hope blasted,” he complained. “I never loved a bug or flower but what ’twas first to fade away.”
The children looked at him in astonishment.
“No,” he replied to their look of inquiry. “I’m not crazed with the heat, but I was just dead sure we should find something. Let’s tackle the other two closets.”
The exploring party moved on and made a thorough search of the other closet ends, and the open spaces under the eaves, but without result. One empty and extremely dirty pasteboard box was all they got for their pains.
“There’s no other place about the house where anything could be hidden, is there?” asked Dick Harding of Mrs. Morton.
“I have never heard of any secret cupboards, Mr. Harding. The people who lived here before we bought the house might have found letters and destroyed them. But Alice said her mother, at the time of her father’s death, searched every place where business letters or papers could possibly be concealed.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to give up,” said Dick. “The worst of it is I’m afraid Alice can’t hold the stock without further evidence.”
“I am glad Alice has her Uncle Joseph to protect her,” said Mrs. Morton. “But what black faces and hands, children! Go wash up immediately.”
The party did seem a little the worse for wear. It was a warm day and trickles of perspiration had mingled with the dust till their faces resembled a cross-roads map.
Dick Harding looked from one grimy face to another with a twinkle in his eye.
“Suppose we all clean up and go downtown to get some ice-cream. I’ll stand treat. Won’t you come, too, Mrs. Morton?”
“I don’t think I care to risk the walk in the sun. I fear it will take some time to make these children presentable.”
Dick pulled out his watch. “Perhaps they might meet me at the ice-cream parlor at four. I certainly need to freshen up myself.”
It was so arranged and there was a prompt scattering homeward to get ready. An hour later, shiny from much soap and water, and very stiff and starchy as to waists and dresses, they flocked around Dick Harding.
“I can eat two saucers of cream and three pieces of cake and I’m sure I can depend upon you boys to do as well. We’ll limit the ladies to one saucer and two pieces of cake because they are supposed to be delicate. Is that right, Chicken Little?”
Dick joked and the children stowed away the dainties industriously. In the midst of the feast an idea struck Gertie.
“What became of the baby mice?”
Sure enough what had become of them? Nobody seemed to know.
“I guess we just left them up on the chair in the bedroom,” said Ernest.
“They weren’t big enough to run away,” observed Carol.
“Oh, dear, I hope nothing will hurt them—they were so cunning,” mourned Chicken Little. She hunted them up the minute she got home. The tiny heap of paper was where they had left it, but the mice were gone. Olga and Mrs. Morton denied having seen them.
Ernest and Jane hunted the room over, but the mice had disappeared.
When they fed Pete that night he seemed droopy and turned up his nose at his best beloved dainties.
“Has Pete been loose today?” asked Dr. Morton.
“Yes, but I don’t think he went out of the front room upstairs,” replied Mrs. Morton.
“Well, I’d be willing to wager Pete knows what became of the baby mice,” laughed the doctor. “Trim him up with flowers, Chicken, and he’ll make a nice green grave for the dear departed.”
A few days later Jane and Gertie were playing paper dolls in one of the window recesses upstairs and remembering the mice decided to have a doll funeral. But a funeral required mourning and they couldn’t find a scrap of black paper. While they were rummaging, they came across their find of old newspapers, which Mrs. Morton had stacked up on a table till Dr. Morton found time to look them over. Jane noticed that some of them had heavy black bands across the front page.
“Say, they’d be fine—we could paste them close together on white paper for the dresses and veils.”
She started off to ask her mother’s permission to use them.
“Why, I don’t know whether your father wants any of them or not. He spoke as if he would like to save a few—you might take the ones the mice nibbled.”
There were four or five of these and the children were soon busily engaged in cutting out the black strips. When Gertie unfolded the last one two letters fell out.
Jane pounced upon them with a shriek. “Oh, Gertie, do you s’pose?”
“Maybe they are—let’s take them to your mother quick!”
The little girls pattered downstairs to Mrs. Morton, thrilled with excitement.
“Don’t get so excited, children. Little ladies should learn to compose themselves.”
She slowly put on her spectacles and deliberately examined the envelopes.
“They do seem to be addressed to Mr. Fletcher, but there isn’t one chance in a hundred they are of any value. However, I’ll turn them over to Mr. Harding.”
“Oh, Mother, see what’s inside, quick!”
“My dear little daughter, I have no right to read other people’s letters. Mr. Harding is Alice’s lawyer and it is his place not mine to examine these. You little girls may get your hats and take them down to Mr. Harding’s office. I think I can trust you not to drop them.”
The children surprised Dick Harding by rushing in waving the letters breathlessly. They had run about half the way in their zeal. He was a more satisfactory listener than Mrs. Morton—he was excited, too. It took him about four minutes to run through the letters, Chicken Little and Gertie explaining how they came to find them while he read.
The first letter he dropped impatiently, muttering, “No good.” After a glance at the signature of the second he said “Ah” softly.
When he had finished it, he jumped up and seizing Chicken Little with one hand and Gertie by theother, spun them round the room so fast he made their heads swim.
“Blessed be paper dolls and little girls! One sentence in that letter will do the work or I am no lawyer! Go home and look through the other papers and see if you can find any more, though I don’t believe we need them.”