161
Three days elapsed before Katy and Jane could settle down to the quiet, daily life of the ranch. If Gertie had found them disappointingly mute that first evening, she never had to complain again. They went over and over the thrilling events of the night and the picnic the next afternoon, till Gertie got sick of hearing what “Mamie said” and howhelooked and how wonderful the serenade had been. Indeed, these events seemed to grow in importance the farther off they were. Gertie was seldom pettish, but Katy’s seventeenth repetition of what Grant Stowe’s cousin said to her while they were fishing left her cold.
“Shut up, Katy, I’m sick of hearing about it. I don’t care what he said and I just know he thought you were a silly little girl trying to seem grown up162when you aren’t! You know Mother wouldn’t like you to act so, and I guess Mrs. Morton’d be ashamed of you, too, if she knew.”
“Gertie Halford, if you dare tell!”
“Thank you, I’m no tattle tale! I intend to forget all about it as soon as ever I can. But I know Sherm thought you were silly from something he said.”
Chicken Little related the most presentable of their doings to Marian. Marian didn’t say much at the time, but some days afterwards she told them tales of the adventures of her own early teens. She ended a little meaningly: “Do you know, I believe girls can be sillier from thirteen to sixteen than at any other age? They’re exactly like that little buff cochin rooster you laugh at, because he tries to crow and strut before he knows how. I hope you girls won’t be in a hurry to grow up. There are so many nice things you can do now that you will have to give up after a while.”
July was growing unpleasantly hot. The mornings were dewy and fresh, but by noon they were glad to hunt a shady place. The apple orchard was a favorite haunt, and the Weeping Willows when the wind was from the right direction. They took books and crochetting, sometimes the checker board or dominoes, and spent the long summer afternoons there, with Jilly tumbling over their feet and Huz163and Buz dozing alongside or lazily snapping at the plaguing flies.
They had been picking blackberries mornings for Mrs. Morton’s preserving. The rescued litter of pigs was also taking much time. The mother pig had developed an appetite that was truly appalling. It seemed to take endless gallon pails of sour milk and baskets of fruit parings to satisfy her. Dr. Morton would not let them feed corn in summer.
“Dear me,” said Katy, “how big do little pigs have to be before they can be turned into the corral with the others?”
“Oh, six or eight weeks, I guess.”
“They are getting awfully smelly!” remarked Gertie, holding her nose, “and they aren’t a bit pretty any more.”
“I know and Father said last night we’d have to begin and feed the pigs some, too, before long.” Chicken Little sighed. This speculation in pigs had its unpleasant side.
“I guess we’d have to bring a lot more stuff if Ernest and Sherm didn’t help us out. They give them things to eat lots of times. But I think Jim Bart might keep the pen a little cleaner,” Katy observed.
“He’s so busy he doesn’t have time.”
Another morning occupation was bread-making. Dr. Morton had offered a brand new dollar to the164girl who would bring him the first perfect loaf of bread. They were taking turns under Mrs. Morton’s teaching, but it did seem as if more things could happen to bread. Katy would have had her perfect loaf, if she hadn’t let the dough rise too long. The loaves were beautiful to look at, but slightly sour, alas! Chicken Little spoiled her prize batch by sitting down to read and letting it burn.
Gertie’s first and second were very good, but a trifle too solid. Katy won out on her third, and produced a loaf so light and crisply brown that Marian said she was envious.
The others wanted to stop when Katy secured the dollar, but Mrs. Morton persuaded them to persist until they could equal Katy’s.
“You may send one to Captain Clarke, if you wish.”
This stimulated their waning interest and they tried to produce that perfect loaf. A week went by before Mrs. Morton nodded approval, saying: “Yes, that is nice enough for a present. I am sure the Captain will like it.”
The girls had planned to take it over on the ponies, but Mrs. Morton wanted to send over two gallons of blackberries also, which was more than they could manage.
“I am sending Ernest and Sherm down the creek this evening on an errand,” said Dr. Morton, “and165they can stop at Captain Clarke’s and leave the things. You girls can go some other time.”
Chicken Little decided to send some of her spare pinks. She came in with a great handful just as the boys were ready to start.
“Where is your loaf, Chicken Little?” asked her mother.
“O dear, I forgot to wrap it up. It won’t take a minute.”
“Take one of the fringed napkins to wrap it in, then put paper around that,” called her mother.
“Where did you put the bread, Mother?”
“In the bread box, of course, child, where did you suppose?”
“There isn’t anything but old bread in the box.”
“Well, ask Annie.”
“She’s gone to Benton’s.”
“Well, I think you’re old enough to find four loaves of bread in a small pantry.” Mrs. Morton got up, disgusted.
Sherm stood waiting with the tin pail of berries and the bunch of flowers in his hands. Ernest was holding the team out at the road.
When Mrs. Morton disappeared Sherm remarked placidly: “Well, I guess I might as well take these things out. I’ll come back for the bread.”
Mrs. Morton could be heard exclaiming about166something in the kitchen. Sherm smiled a fleeting smile and departed.
Sounds of hurried footfalls, of boxes and pans being moved, came from the kitchen. Somebody ran hastily down cellar. “It isn’t here, Mother.” Jane’s tone was emphatic.
“What do you suppose is the matter?” exclaimed Katy. She departed to see, followed by Gertie. The sound of fresh disturbances floated in from the cuisine. Dr. Morton grew curious and went out to investigate. Sherm came back as far as the front door and stood waiting.
Presently, Mrs. Morton entered, flushed and annoyed.
“It’s the queerest thing I ever heard of–that entire baking of bread has vanished. Annie is perfectly honest and she knew we were expecting to send a loaf to the Captain. You haven’t seen any tramps about, have you, Sherm? You don’t suppose the dogs could—” Mrs. Morton glanced suspiciously at Buz asleep on the path outside.
“Nonsense, Mother, the dogs couldn’t get away with whole loaves of bread and leave no trace. They are not overly fond of bread, anyhow.”
“Possibly Annie may have put it in some unheard-of place–girls are so exasperating. I’ll go look again.”
A third search was no more successful than the167previous ones had been. They were obliged to send the boys on without the bread.
Both Chicken Little and Gertie mourned, for they had combined forces in this baking and were immensely proud of their effort.
“We never can get it so nice again–I just know!”
Mrs. Morton had been studying. “You don’t suppose the boys could have meddled with it, do you?”
Katy looked up with a gleam in her eye. “They were laughing about something fit to kill just before supper and they wouldn’t tell what it was.”
“But why–I don’t see.” Mrs. Morton was puzzled.
“To tease the girls, possibly. But I don’t see how they could make away with four big loaves without being noticed.”
“If Ernest Morton took that bread, I’ll never forgive him as long as I live!” Chicken Little’s jaw set ominously. “You just watch me get even.”
“Come now, Chicken Little, we’re merely guessing the boys took it. Annie may have put it away in a new place, forgetting that you would want it to-night,” her father tried to pacify her.
Gertie didn’t say much, but it was plain that she sympathized with Jane. An hour later the three girls went out to the road to watch for the boys’ return. The lads were evidently taking their time.168Nine o’clock came–half-past nine–still no boys! Mrs. Morton came out and sent the girls in to bed. They were just dropping off to sleep when the lads drove up.
At breakfast the next morning the entire family fell upon Ernest and Sherm and demanded news of the bread. Annie had returned and assured Mrs. Morton that it had been safely stored in the bread box before she left the house the evening before.
“Bread? What bread?” asked Ernest, rather too innocently.
“Ernest Morton, you did something with that bread I was going to send the Captain. You have got to tell me where you hid it.”
“Chicken Little Jane Morton, I give you my word of honor I didn’t touch your old bread and I don’t know where it is.”
Ernest assumed a highly injured air. Sherm took a hasty swallow of water and nearly choked.
The family had come near believing Ernest, but Sherm’s convulsed face roused their suspicion afresh.
“If you didn’t, you got Sherm to,” said Katy shrewdly. “That’s what you were laughing about last night–I know it was.”
“That’s like a girl always suspecting a fellow of being up to some deviltry. Maybe you think we’ll keep on feeding your old pigs if you treat us this way.”
169Dr. Morton scanned the boys closely, but did not say anything.
Jane and Katy turned on Sherm.
“Did you take the bread?” Chicken Little had fire in her eye.
Sherm tried guile. “Chicken Little, do I look hungry enough to steal your bread? Mrs. Morton has been feeding me on good things ever since I came, why should I want to make away with four loaves of bread?” Sherm was almost eloquent.
“Nevertheless,” observed Katy, “you don’t deny that you took it.”
Try as they would, they could get no satisfaction from the boys.
“Well, I know they did and I’m going to make ’em wish they hadn’t.” Chicken Little puckered up her brow to think hard.
“Of course they did or Sherm would have denied it instanter. Let’s think up something real mean.” Katy stood ready to second any effort.
Gertie had been in a brown study. “The boys are going off some place to-night. I heard Ernest ask your mother if she had cleaned that spot off his Sunday suit, where somebody spilled ice cream on him at the party.”
“I bet they’re going to see Mamie Jenkins ... they’re trying to sneak off without our knowing it.” Jane’s indignation was not lessened by this news.
170Katy leaned forward and whispered something.
Jane and Gertie clapped their hands.
“All right, the very thing.”
At dinner the boys were rather surprised to find that the young ladies had dropped the subject of the bread. They were inclined to take it up again, but nobody seemed interested. Ernest was a little vexed to have his father say before them all: “It will be all right about Sherm’s riding the bay, only don’t stay out late, boys.”
The girls went upstairs soon after dinner and there was much giggling from their room for the next two hours.
“Where ever can we put the clothes where they can’t find them? They make such a big bundle.”
“O Chicken Little, I’ve thought of something that will be better than hiding!” Katy’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she unfolded her scheme. “Let’s hurry and fix a cord.”
“There’s a hook there already we can use. Mother had a hanging basket outside the window one summer.”
“We can pretend to take a walk,” added Katy.
“Pshaw, I want to hear them–it will be half the fun,” Gertie objected.
“I said pretend–we will sneak back through the orchard. Of course, we’d have to be here to do it, Goosie.”
171That night Mrs. Morton had an early supper at the request of the boys. Immediately after, they armed themselves with sundry pitchers of hot water and retired upstairs. The girls also disappeared.
All went well for some minutes except that Ernest cut himself in his haste to shave. Presently, a call for mother floated downstairs. Mrs. Morton had gone across the road to visit with Marian. Receiving no reply, Ernest called again lustily. Dr. Morton, coming in just then, replied:
“Your mother is not here, what do you want?”
“Send Chicken Little then.”
“She’s gone for a walk with Katy and Gertie.”
“Thunderation! I’ve got to have somebody. Won’t you please call Mother?”
At this moment three girlish forms slipped into the grape arbor immediately below the boys’ window, and concealed themselves in its deepest shadow.
Mrs. Morton came patiently home to attend to the needs of her favorite son.
“What is it, Ernest?”
“Where did you put our Sunday clothes?”
“Dear me, aren’t they in the closet?”
“In the closet? Do you suppose I’d call you home if they were in the closet? They aren’t anywhere!” Ernest’s tone verged on the disrespectful.
Mrs. Morton toiled upstairs with a sigh. Was there to be a repetition of the bread episode?
172Ernest had spoken the truth, the aforesaid clothes were not anywhere. The boys exchanged glances both wrathful and sheepish. Ernest had already exhausted every swear word that his mother’s presence permitted. Sherm, also restrained by her presence–he had retired to bed while she searched their room and closet–thought all the exclamations he hesitated to utter. Three young young ladies in the arbor beneath listened to such fragments of conversation as floated down to them with unholy glee.
“Well, Ernest, they’re certainly not here; I’ll go look in Chicken Little’s room.”
Ernest accompanied her. Sherm scrambled out of bed and speedily resumed his ordinary wearing apparel. He was startled to perceive a bulky object suddenly darken their window. It was a peculiar-looking bundle from which coat sleeves and trousers’ legs dangled indiscriminately. He had no difficulty in recognizing their missing clothes. He rushed to the window and raised the screen, calling to Ernest excitedly. He half expected to see the things disappear as mysteriously as they had come, but the bundle remained stationary. It had been raised to the window by means of a pulley contrived from an old clothes line and the hanging basket hook. The end of the cord was hidden in the arbor.
The boys secured their possessions, hastily assuring themselves that they were all there. Mrs. Morton173started thankfully downstairs, but had barely reached the foot when a vigorous exclamation and a loud “Mother!” recalled her.
Mrs. Morton had never seen Ernest so furious. Sherm didn’t say much, but his face was wrathfully red.
“What now?”
“Look at this!” Ernest’s voice was tragic as he held the garment up to view. His trousers’ legs had been neatly stitched across twice on the sewing machine. Sherm’s, ditto. All four pair of sleeves were also carefully stitched with a tight tension, so they could not be readily ripped out.
Mrs. Morton looked aghast. “It will take an hour to get that out!”
“Confound those kids! Mother, you can just make those smarties come rip that stitching out!”
“My son, whom are you addressing?”
“Well, Mother, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but this is a little more than I can stand! Wait till I get my hands on Jane!”
“You would do well to remember, Ernest, that you started this practical joking yourself. I hope it will be a lesson to you to refrain from such pranks in future.”
“We didn’t do anything but carry the bread over to the Captain without telling them. That’s where they wanted it to go.”
174Mrs. Morton gasped. “Did you take the whole baking?”
“Sure, wasn’t that what you wanted?”
Mrs. Morton considered a moment before replying.
“Well, Ernest, you boys have brought this annoyance upon yourselves–I think you will have to accept the consequences. I am too tired to fuss with the stitching to-night. If you go to Jenkinses you will have to wear your every day suits.”
“But Mother!”
Mrs. Morton was already descending the stairs; she did not respond.
Ernest turned in despair to Sherm, who was examining the neat stitching ruefully.
Sherm grinned; “Guess we might as well take our medicine. Score one for the kids!”
“I think they might take a joke the way it was intended.”
“They seem to have taken the joke and a few other things besides.”
Sherm chuckled. Ernest laughed, too, a little sulkily.
“We’re elected to stay at home all right, but I’ll get ahead of them if it takes a month!”
By the time the boys had rearrayed themselves and come downstairs, the occupants of the grape arbor had vanished. They didn’t return until the175enemy had departed for a ride to soothe its ruffled feelings.
The girls retired to bed early, as innocent young people should.
“Did you have a good time at Mamie’s last night?” asked Chicken Little at breakfast the next morning.
“Mamie’s? We didn’t go to Mamie’s.”
“No? I thought you intended to.” This from Katy.
“You girls do get the queerest notions in your heads,” observed Ernest loftily.
Gertie giggled. The boys looked at Gertie; they hadn’t suspected Gertie. Katy also giggled, likewise Chicken Little. There is something exceedingly contagious about giggling.
Ernest became even loftier.
“You girls seem to spend about half your time cackling–I hope you know what you are cackling about.”
“We do,” retorted Chicken Little, still sweetly.
Ernest and Sherm exchanged glances. After breakfast Ernest asked his mother if she had told the girls what happened the night before.
“Not a word. They didn’t ask me.”
“Humph!” The boy was puzzled.
At noon they took another tack.
“I forgot to tell you that Mamie sent her regards176to you and Katy,” Ernest remarked casually.
“She said she was sorry you didn’t come, too,” added Sherm.
Jane lifted her eyebrows at Katy. Katy shook her head.
“By the way, Sis, I forgot to tell you that Captain Clarke invited us all to come over to supper to-morrow night. He said to tell you he appreciated that bread very much. And while I think of it, if you can spare a little of your valuable time, I’d thank you to rip that stitching out of our clothes. I want to wear mine to the Captain’s.”
“All right, we’ll rip out the stitching if you’ll bake us a batch of bread as good as the one you took.”
“Not much, Mary Ann! We took the bread to the Captain, all right.”
“Yes, but we only intended to send one loaf–and, besides, you made us a lot of trouble.”
“Mother, haven’t the girls got to take out that stitching?”
“I think Jane’s proposition is a fair one, Ernest,” observed Dr. Morton dryly.
The boys retired to their room early that night where they worked most industriously with scissors and penknife and clothes brush. They had paid a hurried visit to Chicken Little’s room when they first came upstairs. This visit did much to sweeten their hour of labor.
177The girls were spending the evening at Frank’s. They were late in getting home. The night was hot and they hated to go to bed until it began to cool off. Dr. and Mrs. Morton were sitting on the front porch.
“Go to bed, children. Father was just starting over to call you.” Mrs. Morton kissed them each goodnight.
Dr. and Mrs. Morton followed them in and had barely settled themselves for the night, when an unearthly shriek rent the air, followed by another and yet another.
“What in thunder are those children up to now?” Dr. Morton spoke in the tone of one who considered that patience had ceased to be a virtue.
“O Mother, come quick–there’s snakes or frogs or something in our bed and we haven’t any light!”
Mrs. Morton hurriedly lit a lamp and went to the rescue, followed by the doctor armed with a stick.
Holding the lamp aloft they went into the room, the three girls, who had retired in a panic to the head of the stairs, bringing up the rear. Katy had scrambled into bed and out again in haste, dragging the coverlet and sheet half off on the floor. The interior of the bed was fully exposed to view. It was already occupied–not by snakes, but by a handful of fat, squirming, little polliwogs.
“Ugh, I thought it was a snake–they were so178slimy and cold!” Katy shivered at the recollection.
Dr. Morton grimly gathered up the polliwogs, then, leaving his wife to restore order, went into the boys’ room and held a conversation behind closed doors. No report of what was said ever reached the girls, but the practical jokes ended then and there.
179
Their late unpleasantness had made the young people unusually polite to each other. Irritating subjects were carefully avoided the next day. When they set out for the Captain’s, Sherm gallantly handed Katy in to the front seat to sit beside Ernest, while he sandwiched himself between Jane and Gertie. The boys had finally concluded that the real joke was on them and were trying to make up.
The Captain received them at the gate.
“I can’t be grateful enough for that bread. I haven’t had such bread since I was a boy at home. I believe I am indebted to both Chicken Little and Gertie for the treat. Wing Fan is consumed with envy and asked me to-day if I would ask the honorable miss to tell him how she make the so wonderful bread.”
180“I’d be delighted to,” replied Chicken Little, “only it took more than telling for Gertie and me. We tried ever so many times before we got it just right, but, of course, Wing understands more about cooking than we did.”
“Well, judging by the bread, you seem to know a good deal about cooking.”
Sherm could not resist. “Yes, and the girls are first rate at sewing, too!”
This was too much for them all. They laughed until the Captain begged to be let in on the fun.
Their host had an unexpected treat for them. “You are to help me christen my new row boat. It came four days ago, but I have been saving it until you could all go with me.”
He led the way down the creek to a long, deep pool, where a blue and white skiff floated gaily at anchor. A piece of white cardboard was tacked over the name so they could not see it.
“I covered it up to see if you could guess it. I’ll give one of those Siamese elephants to the one who gets it first.”
A lively contest followed. The girls suggested all the poetical names they could think of from Sea Rover to Bounding Billow. The boys, after a few wild guesses, settled down to the names of places in the neighborhood, and women’s names.
The Captain laughed at their wild hazards.
181“It isn’t the name of any ship or famous naval hero?” Ernest asked this question for the second time.
The Captain shook his head. “Some of your neighborhood guessers were the nearest. There’s one thing I’m sure of, Chicken Little won’t guess it.”
This was hint enough for Sherm. “Chicken Little,” he sang out instantly.
“Bright boy, the elephant is yours.”
“Did you really?” Chicken Little eyed the long strip of cardboard that concealed the name, incredulously.
The Captain took out his penknife and deftly ripped the covering off. There it was–the letters an inch tall in white paint: “Chicken Little.”
“I think we should have a proper christening ceremony while we are at it. Ernest, would you mind stepping up to the house and asking Wing for a bottle of ginger ale?”
When Ernest returned with the bottle of amber-colored liquid, Captain Clarke turned to Gertie.
“We must divide the honors, will you break the bottle over the bow while Sherm pushes off? Champagne is customary, but this is better for a prohibition state, and for young folks in any state.”
Gertie took the bottle and waited for directions. The others looked on curiously. Sherm untied the182boat, and, holding the cord in his hand, also waited.
“Perhaps we’d better consider Ernest the crew; that cord is hardly long enough to permit theChicken Littleto float off in style, and we don’t want to have to swim, to bring her back. Jump in, Ernest; you know how to handle an oar in fresh water, don’t you?”
“I think I can manage it.”
Captain Clarke explained to Gertie exactly how to strike the blow that should send the ginger ale foaming over the bow, and repeated the formal words of christening until she knew them by heart. Gertie was so interested she forgot to be shy, and performed her office with much spirit, repeating the “I christen thee,Chicken Little,” as solemnly as if she were standing beside a battleship instead of a blue-and-white row boat. It was a pretty ceremony, but it took so long that Wing Fan came to announce supper before they were all fairly packed away in the boat for their promised ride. The six were a snug fit.
Supper was served on the uncovered veranda. A stream of late afternoon sunshine filtered through the trees, and, with the lengthening shadows, cast a sunflecked pattern of branch and foliage on the white linen tablecloth and shining glass and silver. Some of Chicken Little’s own clove pinks, mingled183with feathery larkspur and ribbon grass, filled a silver bowl in the center of the table.
“How did you keep them fresh so long?” Chicken Little asked curiously.
“Wing Fan performed some kind of an incantation over them. You’ll have to ask him.”
Wing was delighted to have Jane notice them. “Velly easy keep–put some away in box with ice all same butter.”
Captain Clarke had been the first person on the creek to put up ice for summer use and Wing was the proud possessor of a roomy ice box.
“It seems like home to have ice again.” Katy was stirring the sugar in her tea for the sheer satisfaction of hearing the ice tinkle against the sides of the glass. A sudden thought disturbed her. “Though there couldn’t be anything nicer than your spring house for keeping things. I don’t believe our melons at home ever got so nice and cold all through as yours do down in the spring stream.”
“That’s a wonderful spring you have over on the place.” Captain Clarke came to Katy’s rescue. “And that big oak above it is the finest tree in this part of the country. I’ll venture it has a history if we only knew it.”
“Yes, Father is very proud of the old oak. He says it is at least two hundred years old. He wouldn’t take anything for it,” Ernest replied.
184“Everybody calls Kansas a new country,” said Sherm, “but I guess it is pretty old in some ways. Kansas had a lot of history during the war.”
“Yes, and lots of the people who helped make the history are living down at Garland now. The old Santa Fe trail runs clear across our ranch. You can tell it still–though it hasn’t been traveled for almost twenty years–by the ruts and washouts. And even where the ground wasn’t cut up by the countless wheels, it was packed so hard the blue stem has never grown there since. It is all covered with that fuzzy buffalo grass. In winter this turns a lighter brown than the prairie grass and you can see the trail for miles, distinctly.” Ernest loved history and politics.
“What was the Santa Fe trail? I have heard you speak of the trail so much and I never knew what you meant.” Katy asked eagerly.
The Captain answered: “The old trans-continental wagon road to the gold fields of California. You know there was a time when Kansas didn’t have anything so civilized as a railroad and people traveled by wagon and horseback–even on foot, all the way to the coast.”
“Yes,” added Ernest, “and lots of them died on the way or got killed by Indians.”
“Indians?” said Katy, “why, we haven’t seen a single Indian and Cousin May said she’d be afraid185to come out here because there were lots of them still about.”
“Not in this part of Kansas–you needn’t lose any sleep. The Kaw reservation isn’t so very far away and parties sometimes come this way to revisit their old hunting grounds, but the Kaws were a peaceable tribe even in their free days.”
“There are lots of Indian mounds and relics around here,” put in Chicken Little. “Father got those arrow heads, and that stone to pound corn, and his tomahawk heads out of a mound over on Little John.”
“Yes, and there’s a tree on the main street in town that used to be a famous meeting place for the Indians. Oh, we must take you all to see the old Indian Mission. It was used as a fort, too, more than once, they say. The walls are fully two feet thick.”
“Whew, I didn’t know you had so many interesting things round here!” exclaimed Sherm.
“We are so used to them we hardly think of them as being interesting. Have I ever told you about the hermit’s cave?”
“Hermit’s cave? No, where is it?”
“On the side of that big bluff just west of town. Oh, that’s some story. The hermit lived there until about ten years ago. Some said he was a Jesuit priest who lived a hermit’s life to become more holy,186and others that he was an Italian Noble who had fled from Italy to escape punishment for a crime. Nobody ever really knew much about him except that he was highly educated and read books in several different languages. But the cave is still there, in the ledge of rocks near the top of the bluff.”
“Oh, I’d love to see it.” Gertie liked romantic things.
“So would I,” Katy added.
“Me too,” echoed Sherm.
“Count me in,” said the Captain, “or rather let me take you all to town some day to explore these marvels.”
“They really aren’t much to see–they’re more interesting to tell about. But I’d be glad to see them all again myself,” Ernest replied.
Wing Fan had prepared so many good things for them that none of the party felt energetic enough for rowing immediately after supper. They were glad to linger over the peach ice cream which was Wing’s crowning triumph, and nibble at the Chinese sweetmeats about which they were rather doubtful.
“I don’t believe I ever tasted such good ice cream,” exclaimed Katy.
“I think Wing Fan must say magical words over everything he cooks–his things are so different and taste so good. I never thought I liked rice before, but his was delicious.”
And he brandished it fiercely.
And he brandished it fiercely.
187“Wing Fan knows all about the family history of rice. He talks to each grain separately,” laughed the Captain.
The boys didn’t praise Wing’s efforts in words, but their appetites kept Wing on the broad grin. He could not resist looking proudly at his employer when Sherm accepted his third saucer of cream.
The Captain invited them into the library to pick out Sherm’s elephant. They were all so interested in the curios and asked so many questions they came near forgetting the boat ride. Ernest picked out a ship’s cutlass the first thing. The Captain took it down for him to examine and he brandished it fiercely.
Captain Clarke smiled. “I fear you wouldn’t do much execution if you handled it that way, Ernest. A cutlass has tricks of its own. Here, this is the way.” He showed the boy how to get the proper hold and how to swing it.
Ernest struck an attitude. “Behold your sailor brother as he skims the briny deep, Chicken Little.”
“Pooh, naval officers don’t carry cutlasses, do they, Captain Clarke?”
“No, I believe the sword used now is straight. But this cutlass has a history I think might interest you.”
“Tell us.”
“If you like. It won’t take long. Boys, will you188draw up chairs for the girls?” Captain Clarke reached out his hand for a big easy chair nearby at the same moment that Sherm laid his hand upon it to draw it nearer for their host himself. The two hands rested in almost the same position on the opposite arms of the chair. They were singularly alike. Katy, the observing, noticed this instantly.
Captain Clarke studied Sherm’s hand for a minute, then his gaze shifted to his own.
“I doubt if my hand was ever as good looking as Sherm’s,” he said easily. “You have a hand that denotes unusual strength and will power, according to ‘palmology.’ You will have to live up to it.”
But Katy was persistent. “It’s almost exactly like yours, Captain Clarke, only yours isn’t so smooth and has more lines. Don’t you see it’s a square hand with unusually long fingers. The thumbs are shaped just the same, too.”
“You should be an artist, Katy, you are such a close observer,” replied the Captain.
They settled down comfortably for the story. Chicken Little noticed Sherm regarding his own hand rather critically and glancing from it to the Captain’s, who used frequent gestures as he warmed with his talk.
Gertie could not take her eyes from the cruel steel blade of the cutlass. “I wish there were no awful things to kill people with. I don’t believe189God meant people to kill each other in battle any more than to kill each other when they get mad.”
Captain Clarke smiled at her disturbed look. “That is one of the most terrible questions human beings have ever had to answer, little girl. I thought as you do once, Gertie, before the Civil War broke out. I loathed the histories and pictures of fighting. My schoolmates used to dub me a sissy because I hated the sight of blood. But when President Lincoln called for volunteers to save our country, when I realized that it was a choice between having one great free country with liberty in it for both blacks and whites, or letting our own race and kin leave us in hatred to continue the wickedness of human slavery right at our doors, it didn’t take me long to decide. War and all unnecessary suffering inflicted by human beings upon each other, are hideous. But have you ever thought how much more of such suffering there would be if parents didn’t inflict suffering upon their children to make them control their ugly passions? If our courts didn’t punish people for being cruel to other people? And when it isn’t a child or one or two grown men or women who try to be cruel or unjust, but a whole nation, what then? Surely other nations should come to the rescue of the right, even if it means war. You wouldn’t let a big dog kill a little one without trying to save it, would you, Gertie?”
190Gertie mutely shook her head.
“Neither should Christian nations allow weaker peoples nor any part of their own people to be unjustly treated, when it is in their power to prevent it. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ will some day be a question every nation must answer as well as every individual.”
“But most of the world’s wars have been to take other nations’ rights away from them, not to protect them,” objected Ernest.
“Yes, on one side, but in every war there has always been the side that fought to protect its loved ones and its homes from the brutality of conquerors. There is hideous wrong in every war, but the wrong is in the hearts of those who would rob and oppress those weaker than themselves, not in the patriots and heroes who resist. But I didn’t mean to deliver a lecture. I’d rather tell you about the brave boy who wielded this cutlass.”
Chicken Little drew her chair closer.
“It was in ’65–soon after I was mustered out of service at the close of the war, I was offered the command of a freighter going round The Horn to the Orient. I hated to leave my wife and little boy for a year’s voyage, especially after being away so long during the war, but it was the only opening worth while I could find. I guess I had the get-rich-quick idea, too, but never mind, that has nothing to191do with the story. We had a terrible voyage. Storms and bad luck of every kind. The rigging was shrouded with ice for weeks–two men were frozen to death on watch. I don’t know that I blame the men as I look back. I had been so hardened myself by the terrible discipline and sights of war, I guess I didn’t take much trouble to make my crew see the necessity of some of our hardships. At any rate, they mutinied and would have killed me while I slept, but for my cabin boy. He was only sixteen, but he discovered the conspiracy and roused me. With the help of the other officers and a few loyal sailors we stood them off. Hot work it was.” The Captain stopped an instant, musing.
The young people waited, expectant. Captain Clarke held up the cutlass reverently. “Charlie used this to good purpose after he had fired his last round of ammunition. I was wounded–had propped myself against the rail and was aiming my last precious bits of lead at the ring-leader, when some one jabbed a bayonet at me from the side. Charlie knocked it up, cutting the dastard down with a second blow that was a marvel. Those two strokes saved my life and saved the ship. Do you wonder this ugly thing looks beautiful to me?”
“And the boy?” Katy asked softly.
“Commands a vessel of his own in the Pacific trade. I had a letter and a Satsuma jar from him a192few weeks ago. But we are neglecting theChicken Little! That will never do.”
A crescent moon was visible in the sky as they came back to the place where the boat was moored.
“I fear I detained you longer than I intended with my yarn,” said the Captain. “It will soon be dark and that moon is too young to be very useful.”
“Oh, it will give a good deal of light for two or three hours. I know every inch of the road, and even if I didn’t, the horses do,” Ernest replied.
“Will you boys take the oars together or one at a time? Chicken Little, you girls may take turns in the bow and the rest of us will make a nice tight fit here in the stern.”
The boys preferred to try their luck singly. Ernest picked up the oars awkwardly. He had had little experience in rowing and he felt self-conscious under the Captain’s eye. His first stroke sent a shower of drops flying over them.
“Here,” called Sherm, “that isn’t a hose you’re handling!”
“Anyhow, the drops feel lovely and cool.” Katy was inclined to defend Ernest.
“A longer, slower stroke will do the work better and not blister your hands so quickly,” admonished Captain Clarke. “Our future admiral must learn to row a boat skillfully. You boys are welcome to use it whenever you see fit.”
193Ernest set his lips together firmly and soon had the boat skimming along rapidly, though still rather jerkily, his strokes being more energetic than regular. The woods were already echoing with soft night noises, frogs croaked; the clicking notes of the katydids mingled with the whining of the wind through the boughs overhead. Part of the pool disappeared in the shadows; the rest broke into shimmering ripples with every stroke of the oars.
“Oh, I love the night time!” exclaimed Chicken Little. “Seems as if everything in the world had done its day’s work and was sitting down to talk it over–even the frogs. Don’t you s’pose they’re glad or sorry about things when night comes, just as we are?”
Sherm looked at Chicken Little, who was leaning over the side of the boat, trailing her hand in the water.
“Chicken Little, you work your imagination overtime–it will wear out if you aren’t careful.”
She rewarded him with a grimace.
“You are getting a much evener stroke, Ernest,” observed the Captain.
“I bet he’s getting a blister on his hand, too,” said Katy.
“Yes, Ernest, you’d better let me have a turn.” Sherm slid over to the rower’s seat and reached his hand for the oars, which Ernest yielded reluctantly.
194Sherm had spent one summer near Lake Michigan and was a better oarsman than Ernest. The boat skimmed along smoothly. “Good for you, Sherm, you have a strong, even stroke,” the Captain praised.
Presently the girls began to sing, Ernest and Sherm joining in. Captain Clarke listened happily to the young voices until they struck up “Soft and Low over the Western Sea.” They all loved it and were crooning it sweetly, but the Captain’s face went white as they sang: “Father will come to his babe in the nest.” “Don’t!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
They all looked at him in surprise. He regained his self-possession instantly, saying with a smile: “Go on–don’t mind my twinge of rheumatism–I slept in a draught last night. That is one of the loveliest things Tennyson has ever written.”
The young people finished the song and began another, but they wondered. The spell of the evening was broken. Soon after, they started home.