But now, at last, was the doughty Colonel energetic.
“No, sir. I mean, no, madam! I go to Ottawotta? I allow my faithful Billy to set foot on that soil? No, ma’am. I will not. I will simply bid you good day. And young miss, let me tell you, what your relative here seems to have forgot; that no old Marylander, of first quality, would ha’ turned a guest loose to shift for himself in such a way as this. But—what can you expect? Times ain’t what they were and you cayn’t count on anybody any more. I bid you all good day, and a pleasant v’yage. As for Billy an’ me, we’ll bestow ourselves where we are better appreciated.”
Poor Mrs. Calvert was distressed. Not often in her long life had the charge of inhospitality been laid at her door, and she hastened to explain that she wished him still to remain with them,only——
With a magnificent wave of his not too clean hand and bowing in the courtliest fashion, the disappointed visitor stepped grandly over the gang-plank, and a moment later was ordering, in his saddest tones:
“Billy, lie down!”
Billy obediently shook his harness, disordered by the efforts of the lads to straighten it, and crumpled himself up on the sward. The Colonel majestically placed himself upon the back of “his only friend;” commanded: “Billy, get up!” and slowly rode away up-slope to his own deserted melon-patch.
“Now, isn’t that a pity!” cried Dorothy, with tears in her eyes. “I didn’t care for him while he was here, though Billy was just charming—for a mule! But I do hate quarreling and he’s gone off mad.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish!” said Mrs. Bruce, fervently. Then shaded her eyes with her hands to stare out toward the broader water in search of the missing fishermen, while the pretty Water Lily began to move away from the little wharf which had become so familiar.
Meanwhile, out beyond the mouth of the river, within the shelter of a tree-shaded cove, the would-be fishermen were having adventures of their own. It was a spot which Cap’n Jack knew well and was that he had intended to reach when the little red “Stem” of the Water Lily was lowed away from her. Here was a collection of small houses, mere huts in fact, occupied by fishermen during the mild seasons. Here would always be found some old cronies of his, shipmates of the oyster-boats that plied their trade during the cold months of the year.
The truth was that the “skipper” was not only lonely, so far from his accustomed haunts, but he wanted a chance to show these old mates of his how his fortunes had risen, to hear the news and give it.
“Are there any fish here?” demanded Jim, when they rested on their oars just off shore.
“More fish ’an you could catch in a lifetime! Look a yonder!”
So saying, the captain raised his broken spy-glass to his good eye—he had the sight of but one—and surveyed the cove. Around and around he turned it, standing firmly on the bottom of the “Stem,” his multitude of brass buttons glittering in the sun, and his squat figure a notable one, seen just then and there. At last, came a cry from shore.
“Ship ahoy!”
“Aye, aye! Port about!” roared the Captain, and dropped to his seat again. He had succeeded in his effort to attract attention, and now picked up the oars and began to pull in. Until now he had generously allowed the lads to do the rowing, despite considerable grumbling from Gerald, who was newer to that sort of work than he had pretended. But Cap’n Jack did not care for this; and he did succeed in impressing a small company of men who were industriously fishing in the cove.
Most of these were in small boats, like the “Stem,” but a larger craft was moored at the little wharf and about it were gathered real sailors fresh from the sea. At sight of them, the three lads forgot fishing in eagerness to meet these sailors, who had come from—nobody could guess how far! At all events, they must have seen strange things and have many “yarns to spin,” which it would be fine to hear.
Events proved that the sailors had never heard of “Cap’n Jack,” and were duly impressed by the importance he assumed. On his tongue, the Water Lily became a magnificent yacht and he its famous Commodore, and though there were those among the fishermen who did know him well, they humored his harmless pretensions and added to his stories such marvelous details that even he was astonished into believing himself a much greater man than he had pretended.
That was a gala day for the three lads. Somebody proposed lunch and some fishermen prepared it; of the freshly caught fish, cooked over a beach-wood fire, and flanked by the best things the hosts could offer. Over the food and the fire tongues were loosened, and the sailors did “yarn it” to their guests’ content. At last the talk turned upon animals and one sailor, who was no older than these young landsmen, remarked:
“Speakin’ of monkeys, I’ve got a dandy pair right down in the hold now. Want to see ’em?”
Of course they did! They were in a mood to wish to see anything and everything which came from afar. For, during the “yarns,” in imagination they had followed these men of the sea into wonderful lands, through tropical forests, and among strange people, till even Jim’s fancy was kindled. As for Melvin and Gerald, their eyes fairly shone with eagerness, and when the sailor returned to the little camp-fire, bringinga wooden cage containing the monkeys, each was possessed of a desire to own them.
“For sale?” asked Gerald.
“Course. I always bring home a few. Last trip I did a hundred and fifty for a Baltimore department store. Fact! Head of the firm ordered ’em. He sold ’em for two-fifty a-piece, and they went like hot cakes. Women went crazy over ’em, I heard, and, course, it was good business for him. A woman would go in the store, out of curiosity to see the monks. See something else she’d buy, and finally be talked into buying one o’ them. Reckon I’ll lay alongside that same store and try for another consignment.”
“How much?” asked Melvin. He was thinking that if so many “women went crazy” over such animals as pets, it would be a nice thing to buy this pair and present them to Dorothy. She did love animals so!
“Oh! I don’t know, exactly. This is the last pair I’ve got—they are extra clever—could be taught to speak just as well as children, I believe, only, course, a sailor don’t have time to fool with ’em.” He might have added that not only was this his “last pair” but his only one; and that though the transaction he described was a fact, he was not the dealer who had supplied the monkey market. Besides—but there was no need to tell all he knew about monkeys to these two possible purchasers.
“Jim, don’t you want to take a chance? Go thirds with us in ’em?”
“No, Gerald. I don’t. I mean I can’t. I’ve only a little bit left in my purse on the boat, and I’ve got to get back to New York State sometime. Back to the Water Lily mighty sudden, too, seems if. Must ha’ been here a terrible time. Shucks! I clean forgot our folks were waiting for their fish-dinner while we were eatin’ our own. Come on! We must go! and not a single fish to show for our whole morning!”
“Wait a minute. It’s so late now it can’t matter. They’d have had their dinner, anyway. You won’t join?” again asked Gerald.
“Can’t.”
“I will, if he doesn’t ask too much. What’s the price, sailor? We’ll take them if it isn’t too high,” said Melvin.
The man named a sum that was greater than the combined capital of Gerald and Melvin. Then, although he wasn’t a purchaser himself, Jim tried his usual “dickering” and succeeded in lowering the price of the simians, “clever enough to talk English,” to ten dollars for the pair.
“All right! Here’s my fiver!” cried Gerald, reluctantly pulling out a last, dilapidated bill from a very flat pocket-book.
“And mine,” added Melvin, tendering his own part.
“Now, we must go, right away!” declared Jim, hastily rising.
He thought the sailor who had promptly pocketed the ten dollars of his friends was suspiciously kind, insisting upon carrying the cage of monkeys down to the “Stem,” and himself placing it securely in the bottom of the boat. The little animals kept up a chattering and showed their teeth, after a manner that might be as clever as their late owner claimed but certainly showed anger.
Indeed, they tore about their cage in such a fury of speed that it nearly fell overboard and in the haste of embarking everyone forgot the original object of this trip, till Jim exclaimed:
“Went a-fishin’ and caught monkeys! Won’t they laugh at us?”
An hour later they brought up alongside the wharf which they had begun to think was their own, so familiar and homelike it had become. But there was nothing familiar about it now. The water lapped gently against the deserted pier and a forgotten painter dangled limply from the post at its end.
“Gone!” cried one and another of the lads, looking with frightened eyes over the scene.
“Gone! Somebody’s stole—my—ship!” groaned Cap’n Jack, for once in actual terror. For that the Water Lily could “navigate” without his aid under any circumstances was a thing beyond belief.
Then they found Dorothy’s note.
“Dear boys and Captain:“We’ve gone on to Ottawotta Run. Farmer Stillwell’s tug, that he owns half of, is towing us to the Branch. There some more men will be hired to pole us to Deer-Copse. Aunt Betty says you’re to hire a wagon, or horses, or somebody to bring you and the Stem after us. She will pay for it, or I will, that’s just the same. And, oh! I can’t wait to tell you! There’s aburied treasureup there that we must find! A regular ‘Captain Kidd’ sort, you know, so just hurry up—I mean take it easy, as Auntie advises; but come, and do it quick! Don’t forget to bring the fish. Mrs. Bruce says put them in a basket and trail them after you, if you come by boat; or, anyway, try to keep them fresh for breakfast. Dolly.”
“Dear boys and Captain:
“We’ve gone on to Ottawotta Run. Farmer Stillwell’s tug, that he owns half of, is towing us to the Branch. There some more men will be hired to pole us to Deer-Copse. Aunt Betty says you’re to hire a wagon, or horses, or somebody to bring you and the Stem after us. She will pay for it, or I will, that’s just the same. And, oh! I can’t wait to tell you! There’s aburied treasureup there that we must find! A regular ‘Captain Kidd’ sort, you know, so just hurry up—I mean take it easy, as Auntie advises; but come, and do it quick! Don’t forget to bring the fish. Mrs. Bruce says put them in a basket and trail them after you, if you come by boat; or, anyway, try to keep them fresh for breakfast. Dolly.”
“I reckon they’ll keep, seeing they aren’t caught yet. What fools we were to go off just then! How do you suppose, in this mortal world, those women and girls had gumption enough torun away with that house-boat? I’ll bet they did it just to get ahead ofme, ’cause I’d said plain enough I wouldn’t go to any old hole-in-the-woods. I simply wouldn’t. And I shan’t. I’ll get passage on one these fruit-scows going back to Baltimore and quit the whole thing. I will so;” declared Gerald, fuming about the wharf in a fine rage.
“Got money left for your ‘passage?’” asked Jim. He was pondering how best and soonest to “follow” the Water Lily, as he had been bid. They were all too tired with their rowing to do any more of it that day, and his pride shrank from hiring a wagon, for his own convenience, that he wasn’t able to pay for.
“What about your monkey, Gerry?” queried Melvin.
“Oh! I’ll—I mean—you take it off my hands till—later.”
“No, thank you. I’ve invested all I can afford in monkeys just now, don’t you know? But I’d sell out, only I do want to give them to her. She’s such a darling of a girl, to entertain us like this. She might have been born in our Province, I fancy, she’s so like a Canadian in kindness and generosity.”
It was a long speech for modest Melvin and an enthusiastic one. He blushed a little as he felt his comrades’ eyes turned teasingly upon him, but he did not retract his words. He added to them:
“Dorothy Calvert makes me think of my mother, don’t you know? And a girl that does that is an all right sort I fancy. Anyway, I’ve thought lots of times, since I found out it was she and not the rich aunt who was paying the expenses of our jaunt, that it was mighty unselfish of her to do it. Jim’s let that ‘cat out the bag.’ He was too top-lofty to take a cent of profit from that mine he discovered last summer for Mr. Ford, but all the girls were made small shareholders and got three hundred dollars a-piece for a send-off. Miss Molly, whose father I work for, put hers right into gew-gaws or nonsense, but I think Dolly’s done better. The least I can do to show her my appreciation is to give her the monkeys.”
“Speak for yourself, sir, please. Half that monkey transaction is mine, and I don’t intend to impoverish myself for any girl. I mean to train them till they’re worth a lot of money, then sell them.”
“Oh! no you won’t. You’re not half bad, don’t you know? You like to talk something fierce but it’stalk. If it isn’t, pick out your own monk and be off with it. You’ll have to leave me the cage for Dorothy because she’ll have to keepmymonk,hermonk,themonk in it sometimes.”
“Most of the times I guess. I don’t like the looks of the creatures anyway. They’re ugly. I wish you fellows had left them on that sailor’s hands. He just befooled us with his big talk.Why, sir, I got so interested myself I’d have hired out to any ship would have me if it had come along just then. Queer, ain’t it? The way justtalkcan change a fellow’s mind,” said Jim. “Hello, Cap’n! What you found now?”
The old man had been limping about on the bank where Billy had enjoyed himself, and which his teeth had shorn smooth as a mowing machine might have done. It was a field rarely used, which explains why Billy and Methuselah had been left to do as they pleased there. So Metty had carried thither all the trifling toys and playthings he had picked up during his trip. Shells, curious stones, old nails, a battered jew’s-harp, and a string of buttons, had been stored in an old basket which the pickaninny called his playhouse.
The playhouse caught the old man’s eye and the end of his crutch as well, and he glared angrily upon the “trash” which had come in his way. Also, he lifted the crutch and flung Metty’s treasures broadcast. Among them was an old wallet, still securely strapped with a bit of leather. Captain Jack had a notion he’d seen that wallet before, but couldn’t recall where. Opening it he drew out a yellowed bit of old-fashioned letter-paper on which a rude picture was sketched. There were a few written words at the bottom of the sketch, but “readin’ handwrite” was one of the accomplishments the good captain disdained.
But his curiosity was aroused and he whistled to the lads to join him, holding up the paper as an inducement. They did so, promptly, and Jim took the extended paper, thinking it was another note from the absent “Lilies,” as the house-boat company had named itself.
Then he, too, whistled, and cried:
“Hello! Here’s a find! Has something to do with that fool talk o’ Dolly’s about ‘buried treasure.’ Somebody’s been bamboozlin’ her and this is part of it.”
The four heads bent together above the odd little document, which had been folded and unfolded so often it was quite frayed in places with even some of the writing gone.
The drawing represented a bit of woodland, with a stream flowing past, and a ford indicated at one point, with animals drinking. It was marked by the initials of direction, N, S, E, W; and toward the latter point a zig-zag line suggested a path. The path ended at the root of a tree whose branches grew into something like the semblance of a cross. Unfortunately, the writing was in French, a language not one understood. But, found as it was, evidently lost by somebody who had valued it, and taken in conjunction with Dorothy’s words—“buried treasure”—it was enough to set all those young heads afire with excitement. Even the Captain took the paper and again critically studied it; remarking as he replaced it in the wallet:
“Dretful sorry I didn’t fetch my readin’-specs when I come away from town. Likely, if I had I could ha’ explained its hull meanin’.”
“Dreadful sorry it wasn’t Greek, or even Latin! I could have ciphered the meaning then, if it has a meaning. But every-day French, shucks!”
“How do you know it’s French if you don’t know French?” demanded Gerry.
“Oh! I’ve seen it in Dr. Sterling’s library. I know a word or two an’ I plan to know more. Don’t it beat all? That just a little bit of ignorance can hide important things from a fellow, that way? I tell you there never was a truer word spoke than that ‘knowledge is power’.”
Melvin cried:
“Come off! That’ll do. Once you get talking about learning and you’re no good. Cap’n, you best stow that in your pocket and help us settle how to ‘follow our leaders’. For my part, I’ve no notion of sleeping out doors, now that it looks so likely to storm. What’ll we do?”
“Hoof it to the Landin’ and hire a conveyance. One that’ll carry us an’ the boat, too. That’s what she says, and if there’s a girl in the hull state o’ Maryland, or Annyrunnell, either, that’s got more sense in her little head nor my ‘fust mate’, Dorothy, you show me the man ’at says so, an’ I’ll call him a liar to his face.”
“That’s all right, Cap’n, only don’t get so excited about it. Nobody’s trying to take the windout of Dorothy’s sails. So let’s get on. I reckon I can punt along as far as that Landing, even with a cargo of monkeys. Then Gerry can take his and skip, and we’ll take the other to our folks.”
Melvin was laughing as he talked. Gerald’s angry, disgusted face had changed its expression entirely, since that finding of the curious map which made the possibility of the “buried treasure” seem so real.
“Oh! I won’t bother now. I reckon I’d ought to go on and ask Aurora if she wants to go home with me, or not. Popper and Mommer’d be sure to ask me why I didn’t bring her. We can settle about the monkeys later.”
“Huh! I tell you what I believe! ‘Wild horses couldn’t drag’ you back to town till you’ve found out all about what that Frenchy letter means and have had a dig for the ‘treasure’. I know it couldn’tme. There isn’t a word of sense in the whole business, course. Likely these whole States have been dug over, foot by foot, same’s our Province has, don’t you know? But my mother says there always have been just such foolish bodies and there always will be. Silly, I fancy; all the same, if Dorothy or anybody else starts on this business of digging, I’ll ply the liveliest shovel of the lot.”
Melvin but expressed the sentiments of all three lads. Even the old captain was recalling wonder-tales, such as this might be, and feelingthrills of excitement in his old veins. Suddenly, he burst out:
“Well, I’d be some hendered by my crutches but when you get to diggin’ just lemme know an’ I’ll be thar!”
They waited no longer then, but stepped back into the “Stem,” the caged monkeys viciously scolding and sometimes yelling, till the Captain fairly choked with fear and indignation. However, nothing serious happened. They reached Jimpson’s in a little while, and were fortunate in finding a teamster about to start home along the river road. His wagon was empty, the row-boat could be slung across it, there would be abundant room for passengers—including monkeys—a new sort of “fare” to him.
But they had scarcely got started on this part of their journey before the threatening storm was upon them. This “gust” was a fearful one, and they were exposed to its full fury. The driver shielded himself as best he could under his blankets but offered none to his passengers. The sky grew dark as night, relieved only by the lightning, and rivalled, in fact, that tempest which had visited them on the first day of their trip.
Fortunately, horses know the homeward way—though to be literal these horses were mules—and they travelled doggedly along, unguided save by their own instinct. Also, when they had ridden so far that it seemed to the drenched travellersthat they had always been so riding and always should be, there came a sudden slackening in the storm and an outburst of moonlight from behind the scattering clouds that was fairly startling.
After a moment of surprise Melvin broke the silence, asking:
“Do you have this kind of thing often in Maryland?”
“Sure. Down in Annyrunnell we do. ’S nothin’ but a ‘gust’. Most gen’ally has ’em if the day opens up hot, like this one did. But it’s purty when it’s over, and yender’s the turn to the Copse. My road lies t’other way. It’s a quarter a-piece for you white folks an’ fifty a-head fer the monks. I ’low ’twas them hoodooed the trip. Hey? What? Can’t pay? What in reason ’d ye hire me for, then? I ain’t workin’ for fun, I’d let you know. We’re honest folks in Annyrunnell an’ we don’t run up no expenses ’t we can’t meet. No, siree. You asked me to bring you an’ I’ve brung. Now you don’t leave this here wagon till I’ve got my money for my job.”
“Look here, farmer! What sort of a man are you, anyway? We went off fishing not expecting our house-boat would go on without us. We had nomon——”began Jim, about as angry as he had ever been in his self-controlled life.
“You had money enough to buy fool monkeys, didn’t you?”
Gerald answered promptly:
“That’s none of your business! Suppose we did. We paid it and it’s gone. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
Came the sullen answer: “Don’t smoke. Don’t wastemymoney. Pay up now, and get on. I want my supper, and it’s past milkin’ time a’ready.”
Melvin was shaking with chill, sitting there in his wet clothes, but the absurdity of the situation appealed to him, and he asked:
“Since we’ve spent all our money for monkeys, will you take a monk for pay?”
“No, siree. I’ve no use fer such vermin an’ you’ll get sick enough of ’em, ’fore you’re through.” With that the teamster drew his driest blanket about him, settled himself comfortably, and pretended to go to sleep. “Wake me up when you get ready to pay.”
Then began a fresh search in every pocket for the needed two dollars which would release them from this imprisonment.
“I haven’t got a penny!” declared old Cap’n Jack with tearful earnestness. “I spent every last one a-fixin’ up to look like a skipper’d ought to.”
“Ididhave a little, but I left it in my bunk. I was afraid I’d spend it if I didn’t almost hide it from myself,” wailed honest Jim.
“All I had, except what I paid the sailor, is in my other clothes; that bill I gave the sailor was one I always carried with me because my mother gave——”
Melvin didn’t finish his sentence. He couldn’t. He was shivering too much and that sudden memory of his idolized mother almost unmanned him. Suppose he were to contract pneumonia? Her constant dread was that he should be ill and die.
But it was Gerald who now suffered most. Because the morning had been so warm he had put on a white duck suit. He fancied himself in it and it was becoming; but it was also thin, and under present circumstances a costume of torment. If Melvin were shivering, Gerald was worse. He was shaking so that the ricketty wagon rattled and he felt as if he were dying.
“Oh! man alive! Don’t act the tyrant this way! Tell us where you live and I give you my word of honor I’ll go to your place the first thing to-morrow and settle. I’ll even pay double,” begged Jim; and when the farmer remained obstinately silent, leaped from the wagon and dragged Gerald after him. “Run, run! You’ll get warm that way! Run, I tell you, for your life!”
But the poor lad couldn’t. He sank down upon the wet earth and was fast lapsing into unconsciousness when the lash of the teamster’s whip fell smartly about him.
“I’ll warm you, ye young scamp! Cheat an honest man of his earnin’s, will you?”
But the whip went no further. With a yell as of some enraged animal, Jim flew at the man and gathered all the strength of his labor-trained muscles for one fierce onslaught.
Then a mighty din arose. With an answering yell the half-drunken teamster flew at his assailant, using his whip continually, but not wisely, for both wrath and liquor blinded him. Else would the result have been worse for Jim.
The startled Cap’n Jack tossed his crutches out of the wagon and recklessly tumbled after them; then picked them up to lay about him in an aimless effort to subdue the fighters. But he managed to hit nobody for, as he afterward stated, “they didn’t stan’ still long enough.”
Shrieking for peace Melvin jumped to the ground, upsetting the cage of monkeys, whose frantic yells and jabberings added a strange note to the racket, until their own wild antics forced their cage out of the wagon. Then, terrified by their fall, they became quiet enough till the Captain caught the bars of their little prison-house on his crutches and tossed it out of the way of the feet of the mules, which were also becoming excited.
Still pleading uselessly for peace, Melvin managed to drag poor Gerald out of the road to asafer place, then warmed himself by seeking to warm his poor friend. So engaged did he become in trying to reanimate the motionless form that he scarcely heard what was going on about him or knew when the frightened mules set out on a lively trot for home, leaving their owner behind them but carrying away the row-boat, well strapped to the wagon-box.
Then suddenly, upon the uproar of angry voices, jabbering monkeys, the rumble of the disappearing wagon, and the screeching of an owl in the tree-top, broke another sound. A man came merrily whistling out of the woods, his gun over his shoulder, his dog at his heels.
“Shut up, Towse! What in Bedlam’s here!” cried the newcomer, running up. A moment later, when he had recognized the befused and battered teamster, demanding: “Who you fightin’ with now, By Smith? Never really at peace ’cept when ye’re rowin’, are ye?”
This salutation surprised the contestants into quiet, and the man addressed as “By” laughed sheepishly, and picked his hat out of the mud. Then he turned and discovered the loss of his wagon. At this his fury burst forth again and he slouched upon poor Cap’n Jack with uplifted fists and the demand:
“Whe’s my team at, you thief? You stole my wagon! What you done with my wagonyou——”
But a hand laid across his lips prevented his saying more.
“There, there, Byny, that’ll do. Lost your wagon, have you? Well, it serves you right. A fellow that takes the pledge ’s often as you do an’ breaks it as often. Now, sober up, or down, and tell what all this rumpus means and who these folks are.”
There was something very winning about this newcomer, with his frank manner and happy face, which smiled even while he reproved, but no words can well describe the utter carelessness of his attire and his general air of a ne’er-do-well. The lads, Melvin and Jim, began to explain, but a lofty wave of the cripple’s crutch bade them yield that point to him.
“I’m Cap’n Jack Hurry, of the Water Lily; a yacht cruisin’ these here waters an’—an’——”
The excited old man paused. The man with the gun was laughing! As for that he, Cap’n Jack, saw nothing laughable in the present situation.
“Cruising in the woods, you mean, eh? Good enough! Haven’t tumbled out of a balloon, have ye? Look ’s if ye’d got soused, anyhow, and ’d ought to get under cover.”
Then Jim took up the tale and in a moment had explained all. He finished by asking:
“Is there any house near where we can take this boy? He’s been overcome with the wet andhas done a lot of rowin’, to-day, that he ain’t used to. Is it far to Deer-Copse?”
“Yes, a good mile or more. But my house ain’t so far. We’ll take him right there. Fetch some them saplings piled yonder. Get that blanket’s tumbled out By’s wagon. Fix a stretcher, no time.”
Laziness seemed stamped all over this man’s appearance but he wasn’t lazy now. It seemed he might have often made such stretchers as this he so promptly manufactured by tying the four corners of the blanket upon the crossed saplings. The blanket was wet, of course, but so was poor Gerald; and in a jiffy they had laid him upon it and started off through the woods.
The hunter carried the head of the stretcher by hands held behind him and Jim the foot. Melvin courageously shouldered the cage of monkeys which he would gladly have left behind save for Gerald’s partnership in them. The Cap’n wearily stumped along behind, sodden and forlorn, more homesick than ever for his old city haunts.
“Byny” was left behind, his fare still uncollected, to trudge home on foot to his belated milking. Even the lads who had been so furious against him had now utterly forgotten him in this prospect of shelter and help for Gerald. His condition frightened his mates. Neither knew much about illness and nothing of Gerry’s really frail constitution, nor that it had been mostly on his account the Water Lily had been built.
“My name’s Cornwallis Stillwell. Corny I’m called. That was my brother Wicky—Wickliffe, I mean—that tugged you up the Branch. He—he’s as smart as I ain’t. Ha, ha! But what’s the odds? He likes workin’, I like loafin’ an’ ‘invitin’ my soul’, as the poets say. All be the same, a hundred years from now. Won’t make a mite of odds to the world whether I hunt ’possums or he ploughs ’taters. I live on his farm an’ Lucetty runs it, along with the kids. Wicky calls it mine, ’cause it was my share of father’s property. But it ain’t. It’s only his good brotherliness make him say it. We et it up ages ago. Bit at it by way of mortgages, you know, till now there ain’t a mouthful lef’. I mean, they can’t another cent be raised on it. It’s Wicky’s yet, but I’m afraid it’ll sometime be Dr. Jabb’s. Wicky holds a mortgage on me, body and soul, and Doc holds one on Wicky, and so it’s a kind of Peter-and-Paul job. Be all right in a hundred years and there ain’t a man in old Maryland nor Anne Arundel can hold a taller candle to my brother Wickliffe Stillwell, nor a wax one, either. I can talk, can’t I? So can he—when he can catch anybody an’ make ’em listen. Here we be—most. That’s my castle yonder. Hope Lucetty ain’t asleep. If she is, she’ll wake up lively when she hears my yodel. Nicest woman in the world, Lucetty. A pleasin’ contrast to Lizzie, Wicky’s wife. That woman’d drivemecrazy but she suits him.”
All this information had not been given at once, but at intervals along the way through the forest where the travelling was smooth. But rough or smooth, the path had been a direct one, swiftly yet gently followed by this good Samaritan of the wilderness; and now, as he gave that warning cry he boasted, a light appeared in the windows of the whitewashed cabin they approached and, roused by the musical, piercing signal, Gerald stirred faintly on his litter.
“Comin’ to! Good enough! I knew he would, soon’s he came within hailing distance of Lucetty!”
Seen by moonlight the humble dwelling looked rather pretty, so gleaming was its whitewash and so green the vines that clambered about its door. In reality it had once been negro quarters, a low ceiled cabin of three rooms—and a pig-pen! The latter a most important feature of this home.
Following the candle-light a woman appeared. She was slender to emaciation and her face almost colorless; but a beautiful smile habitually hovered about the thin lips and the blue eyes were gentle and serene. Evidently, she was among the poorest of the poor of this earth, but, also, the happiest.
“Why, Corny, dear! Back so soon? And you’ve brought me company I see. They are welcome, sure, but—what’s wrong here?”
Stepping outside the woman bent above Geraldand earnestly studied his face. Then she swiftly turned, ordering:
“Fetch him right in. Lay him there. Somebody light the kindlings in the stove. One of you fetch a pail of water from the well. Pour it into that tea-kettle, get it hot soon’s possible. Corny, fetch your good shirt. Haul that ‘comfort’ off the children’s bed—it’s warm from their little bodies, bless ’em! Now help me get these wet things off and dry ones on. Soon’s the water boils make a cup of ginger tea. Thank goodness there’s enough ginger left in the can. Don’t know how? Corny, you darling, you grow stupider every day! Hear me! One teaspoonful of ginger to the blue bowl of water. Hot as he can drink it. Look in the crock and see if there’s a single lump of sugar left. No? Then those blessed children have been into it again and the poor fellow’ll have to drink his dose without.”
Swift as the directions were given they were obeyed, yet there was not the slightest confusion or excitement. Jim and Melvin watched from the wooden bench against the wall while Cap’n Jack hovered over the broken stove, deriving what comfort he could from the blaze of kindlings within. He would have added a stick of wood from a near-by pile, but the master of the house laughed and shook his head.
“Can’t waste anything while Lucetty’s around. Why, that woman can make a kettle boil with just one blazing newspaper under it. Fact!”
“That’s all right, Corny, dear, but you’d best add ’t it was a big paper and a mighty little kettle. Now, that’s real nice. Your good shirt fits him to a T! And the ‘comfort’s’ a comfort indeed to his chilled body. Aye, my boy, you’re all right now. You’re visitin’ in Corny Stillwell’s house and you’ll be taken care of. Lie right still, I mean hold your head up if you can and swallow some this nice ginger tea. Set your circulation going quick. You’ve had a right smart duckin’ but you’re young and ’twon’t harm you. What? Don’t like it? Foolish boy! Come here, one you others, or both. They’s enough in this bowl for all of you, that old officer into the bargain. Have a swallow, Commodore?”
How this wise little woman chanced to hit upon the very title dearest to this old vagrant’s heart is a puzzle; but he beamed upon her as she said it and drained the last contents of the bowl without a shudder, even though most of the ginger had settled there and stung his throat to choking.
The bed upon which his hosts had placed Gerald was their own, and stood in one corner of the front room which was, also, kitchen, dining-room and parlor. It was of good size, with a rag carpet on its earthen floor and well ventilated by cracks between the clap-boarded sides. There were holes in the carpet and the Captain’s crutch caught in one, and lifted it, revealing the earthbeneath. Seeing him look at it prompted the hostess to explain:
“We’re going to put down boards, sometime, when Corny dear can get them and the time to fix them. The little rough spots and rents are from the children’s feet. They are such active little things, especially Saint Augustine.”
Then she looked at her husband inquiringly and he nodded his head in approval. After which he disappeared into the third room, or lean-to, and was gone some time. When he returned he had a well-worn pewter tray in hand upon which he had arranged with careful exactness four chunks of cold suppawn and four tin cups of buttermilk. These he passed to his guests with a fine air of hospitality, and they accepted the offering in the same courteous spirit. All except Gerald, who had fallen asleep and whose portion was set aside till he should wake. Melvin choked over the tasteless cold pudding and the very sour buttermilk, but he would have choked still more and from a different cause had he suspected that he was helping to eat the family breakfast, for want of which six healthy youngsters would go hungry on the coming day.
Presently, Mrs. Lucetta rose and blew out the candle. Jim’s early training in poverty told him that its burning longer was an “extravagance” when there was such brilliant moonlight to take its place, and that his hostess felt it such. Also, reminded him that they should be leaving thishospitable house if they were to reach the Water Lily that night. Only, what about Gerald?
Rising, he asked:
“Mr. Stillwell, can you show us the way to Deer-Copse, or tell us I mean? Our house-boat must be there and our folks’ll be anxious. And don’t you s’pose we could carry Gerry there, just the same as we brought him here? I’m sure we’re more obliged to you and Mrs. Stillwell than I can very well say. You treated us prime—and——”
From the foot of the bed where she sat Mrs. Lucetta answered for her husband. Evidently she did most of his thinking for him.
“I’ve fixed all that. This sick boy must stay just where he is till he can walk to the Copse on his own feet. That won’t be to-morrow nor next day. So one of you other boys had best stay, too. He might be afraid ofme——”
“Hear! hear! afraid of Lucetty! He’d be the first livin’ creatur’ ’t ever was, then!” interrupted Corny, with his hearty laugh.
“You can lead them the way better than tell it. On your way back you’d better call on Dr. Jabb and ask him to ride round.”
“Lucetty? A doctor? Just because a healthy boy got caught in a ‘gust’? Wh——”
“Yes, Corny, dear, but you see he isn’tourboy. It would be better, and of course, if these people can afford a boat of their own, they can pay for a doctor. I’d have to have that understood,” shefinished with some hesitation and a flush of color rising in her pale cheek.
“Sure. It will be, but I hope, it can’t be, ’t Gerry’s really sick. If he is I’ll be the one to stay take care of him. Melvin, you go along with this gentleman an’ Cap’n Jack, and take care you don’t worry any of them about Gerry. Can’t be he’s really sick.”
“Yes, let’s set sail! It’s real comf’table here, Ma’am, but I’m anxious to get back to my bridge; an’ my clo’es—sea-farin’ men is apt to be rheumatic—they’re jest a speckdamp——”
“Of course. Sorry we couldn’t offer you each a change. As it is you’d better go, soon as you can, too. What is in that box you brought along? Something alive, I know, for it keeps up such a queer noise.”
“They’re terribly alive, indeed, don’t you know? And I fancy they’re as hungry as I was. But,” as his hostess hastily rose, doubtless to seek further refreshments, Melvin added: “I shouldn’t know what in the world to give them. They’re just a pair of monkeys, Mrs. Stillwell, and I haven’t an idea, don’t you know, what they would or would not eat.”
“Monkeys! How lovely! Oh! please do leave them overnight, so that the children can see them. Why, Corny dear, it would be almost like going to a circus, as we did once before we were married. Down to Annapolis, you know. Do you remember?”
“Shall I ever forget? With you the prettiest show——”
“Corny, dear, there are strangers present. Family speeches don’t belong. Now be off.”
Yet like a happy girl she submitted to her husband’s parting kiss as if it were an ordinary, every-day matter, and as the trio passed out of sight she turned to Jim, explaining:
“I’m very gladyoustayed and not the other. Gerald’s fever is rising fast. He may get restless and Corny—Did he take his gun?”
“I believe so, ma’am. I think he picked it up as he went out the door.”
Lucetta sighed.
“Then like as not he’ll forget all about the doctor. He wouldn’t mean to, not for a minute; only the dear fellow cannot resist the woods. He loves them so. I’ve known him to get up in the night and wander off, to be gone two or three days. But he always comes home so happy and rested. I’m glad to have him go.”
“Do you stay here alone those times, ma’am? It seems a pretty lonesome sort of place. I didn’t see any other houses nigh.”
“Yes, I stay alone, that is with six of the sweetest children ever lived. So, of course, though there are no houses near, I’m never lonely. I’m busy, too, and to be busy is to be happy.”
Jim wondered at the refined and cultured languageof this isolated countrywoman, until she explained, after a moment:
“I was a school teacher before we were married and we brought several books with us here. I teach the children now, instead of a larger school, and they’re so bright! I’ll have them recite to you in the morning.”
“What does Mr. Stillwell do, your husband, to tire him, so’t he needs the woods to rest him? Does he farm it?”
He had no sooner spoken the words than he was sorry; remembering the description of himself that Corny had given on their way out. And he was the more disturbed because his hostess left the question unanswered. In the silence of the room he began to grow very drowsy. His still wet clothing was uncomfortable and he would have been glad to replenish the scanty fire. But delicacy prevented this, so he settled back against the bench and was soon asleep. He was a sound sleeper always, but that night his slumber lasted unbroken for many hours.
He awoke at last in affright, throwing off a breadth of rag carpet which, in want of something better, Mrs. Stillwell had folded about him. Dazed by his sudden rousing from such a profound sleep he fancied he was again mixed in a wild battle with somebody.
Shrieks and cries, of laughter and of pain, shrill voices of terrified children, the groans of men, the anxious tones of a woman, all these mingledin one hubbub of sound that was horrible indeed.
Then something leaped to his shoulders and he felt his hair pulled viciously, while an ugly little face, absurdly human, leered into his and sharp little teeth seized upon his ear.
With a yell of distress he put up his hand to choke the creature, and saw on the other side of the room a bald-headed gentleman wrestling with a duplicate of his own enemy.
“Oh! oh! oh!” cried poor Lucetta, and could find nothing else to say; while a laughing face peered in from the field outside, enjoying the pandemonium within.
“Nothing but monkeys, dear! Do ‘let’s keep them over night just to show the blessed children’!” mocked the incorrigible Corny; while the indignant gentleman struggling in the kitchen with his long-tailed assailant, glared at him and yelled:
“Laugh, will you, you idle good-for-naught! I’ll have you in the lock-up for this! Rousing me out of bed with your tale of a sick boy and luring me into this! Let me tell you, Cornwallis Stillwell, you’ve played your last practical joke, and into jail you go, soon as I can get a warrant for you! I mean it, this time, you miserable, worthless skunk!”
Corny’s mirth died under the harsh words hurled at him and a grim closing of his square jaws showed that submission wasn’t in his mind. But it was a voice from the bed in the cornerwhich silenced both men, as Gerald awoke and regarded the scene.
“The monkeys are mine. I mean they are Melvin’s. No, Dorothy’s. Somebody take ’em to Dorothy, quick, quick! Oh! my head, my head!”
Jim’s fear of the simians vanished. With a signal to the man beyond the window he clutched the creature from his back and hurled it outward. Then he rushed to the irate doctor, grabbed his tormentor and hurried with it out of doors. A moment later the door of the cage, which the curious children had unfastened, was closed and locked and peace was again restored.
Then said Corny Stillwell: “I’ll lug those monkeys to the Lily. That was hot talk Doc gave me! It’s one thing to call myself a vagabond and another to have him say so. I’m for the woods, where I belong, with the rest of the brainless creatures!”
“Pshaw! He didn’t mean that. You won’t be locked up. The monkeys are ours, the blame is ours, don’t be afraid!” counselled Jim, with his hand upon his host’s shoulder.
But the other shook it off, indignantly. “Afraid?Afraid!I?Why thatisa joke, indeed!” and with that, his gun upon his back, the cage in his hand, he marched away.
Saint Augustine cocked his pretty head on one side and looked roguishly up into Jim Barlow’s face.
“Be you goin’ to stay to my house all your life? ’Cause if you be I know somethin’.”
“I hope you do. But, I say, let that celery alone. What’s the fun of pulling things up that way?”
“I was just helpin’. I helps Mamma, lots of times.”
Saint Augustine was the second son of Lucetta Stillwell and certainly misnamed. There was nothing saintly about him except his wonderful blue eyes and his curly, golden hair. This, blowing in the wind, formed a sort of halo about his head and emphasized the beauty of the thin little face beneath.
Ten days had passed since Jim and his mates had come to Corny Stillwell’s cabin and Gerald still lay on his bed there. He was almost well now, Dr. Jabb said, and to-morrow might try his strength in a short walk about the yard. His illness had been a severe attack of measles, whichhe had doubtless contracted before his leaving home, and lest he should carry the contagion to the “Lilies,” Jim hadn’t been near the house-boat all this time. He had been worried about the children of his hosts but the mother had calmly assured him:
“They won’t take it. They’ve had it. They’ve had everything they could in the way of diseases, but they always get well. I suppose that’s because they are never pampered nor overfed.”
“I should think they weren’t!” Jim had burst out, impulsively, remembering the extremely meagre diet upon which they subsisted. In his heart he wished they might have the chance of “pampering” for a time, till their gaunt little faces filled out and grew rosy. He had thought he knew what poverty was but he hadn’t, really; until he became an inmate of this cabin in the fields. To him it seemed pitiful, when at meal time the scant portions of food were distributed among the little brood, to see the eagerness of their eyes and the almost ravenous clutch of the little tin plates as they were given out. Even yet he had never seen his hostess eat. That she did so was of course a fact, else she would have died; but the more generous portions of the meal-pudding which were placed before him made him feel that he was, indeed, “taking bread from the children’s mouths,” and from the mother’s, as well.
Dr. Jabb had gone to the Water Lily, now peacefully moored in “the loveliest spot on theearth,” as Farmer “Wicky” had described it, and reported Gerald’s condition. He had also added:
“He won’t need much nourishment till his fever goes down; then, Madam, if you can manage it you’d best send food across to the cabin for him. Let a messenger carry it to the entrance of the field and leave it there, where the lad, Jim, can get it. May not be need for such extreme precaution; but ‘an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.’ Lucetta Stillwell is a noble woman, tied to a worthless husband whom she adores. They must be terribly poor, though she’s so proud you’d never guess it from her manner. I gave it to Corny hot and heavy, the other night, and at the time I felt every word I said. I don’t know. He’s no more capable of doing a man’s part in the world than that young pickaninny yonder,” pointing to Metty on the ground, fascinated by the jabbering monkeys in their cage near-by.
The doctor had said this to Mrs. Calvert very soon after Gerald was stricken, and had added a parting injunction:
“Don’t over-feed the sick boy and don’t begin too soon.”
Then he had ridden away and promptly forgot all about the case. So Mrs. Calvert delayed the shipment of food for several days, during which Jim had ample time to grow mortally sick of hasty-pudding, on his own account, and anxiouson that of Lucetta. But gradually he had won her to speak more freely of her affairs.
“Yes, I do considerable of the work myself. You see it doesn’t come natural to Corny dear. He’s more a child than Saint Augustine, even, in some things.”
“Why, his brother said—Shucks!”
“What did his brother say, please?”
“Oh! nothin’. I didn’t mean——”
Lucetta laughed in her gentle, patient way:
“Of course you didn’t mean and you don’t need. I know Wicky Stillwell and his wife, Lizzie, from A to Izzard. Good people, the best in the world and the smartest. But they can’t see a fault in Corny—not that I can either, understand! Only they don’t see why it is our farm—it’s his, really—doesn’t pay better. But we can’t afford to hire and a woman’s not so strong as a man. Yet we’re happy. Just as happy as the days are long and we’ve never starved yet. It’s my faith that there’s bread in the world enough for every mouth which needs it. God wouldn’t be a Father and not so order it. That’s one compensation of this life of mine, that you fancied might be lonely. I can’t go to church, I’m too far away, so I just pretend that all this—around me—is one church and that He’s in it all the time. I named each of the children after some holy person and I hope each will grow like his namesake—in time.”
“Did you plant this celery?”
“Yes. There was a man rode around, distributing government seeds, came from some ‘Farmer’s Institute,’ I reckon, and he gave them. Corny said it was hardly worth while, celery’s such a trouble; but I did it on the sly. Corny loves celery, just loves it; when he’s been lucky with his gun and brings home some game. Then! Won’t it be grand to have it for a surprise? Makes me think, it ought to be hoed right now. I’ll fetch the hoe.”
“You’ll do nothin’ of the sort while I’m loafin’ around, idle. Gerry doesn’t need me only now and again and I’m pinin’ for a job. You sit an’ rest, or teach the kids. Let me just work for my board. If you’ll tell me where the hoe is, please?”
When found Jim looked at it with dismay. The handle was fairly good but the steel part was broken in half and practically worthless.
“Reckon Wesley, my eldest son, must have been using it. He’s always trying to ‘make something.’ I think he’ll be a great inventor by and by. But really, it doesn’t seem hospitable—itisn’t, to let you or any other guest work. I can manage very well, very well, indeed. You can sit and read. We have a Shakespeare—what the children haven’t destroyed—a Bible, and two volumes of Scott. We’re real proud of our library and I keep it in my wedding chest. I have to, the children are so bright and inquiring.”
“Too inquiring I think! ’Tain’t healthy for ’em to be quite so smart!”
Jim laughed, shouldered his hoe, and marched away across the little strip of grass between the house and garden—so-called. The ground for this Lucetta’s feeble hands had dug with a spade that matched in condition the hoe Jim had found. Melon seeds had been sown there and had duly sprouted. But the “inquiring” minds of the children had daily pulled them up to see if there were any melons at the root. The potatoes had received the same treatment, the corn ditto, and the wonder was that even a few plants had survived their efforts to “make ’em grow faster.”
Now here was Saint Augustine “helping” to transplant the celery which had until now escaped culture at their hands.
Jim worked as he had never done even in all his active young life. His heart ached with pity for the little woman who faced her hard life so bravely and so happily, and he was revolving many plans to help her, and to a greater extent than a few days of farm labor could do.
“’Cause I say, I know somethin’.”
“Well, what is it, Sainty?”
“Ain’t ‘Sainty’, but ‘Au—gus—tine’. Say it nice, like Mamma does. She cried last night.”
“Never!”
“Yep, she did! She cried an’ she talked to herself right outside the winder where I sleep. She kep’ callin’ ‘Corny! Corny! come home!’ Just that way she said it and he didn’t answer a word. Corny’s my papa, don’t you know? He goes offtimes and stays an’ Wesley says my mamma gets scared he will be killed with his gun. Say, I’m goin’ to run away and find him. I am so. Don’t you tell. But I am. I’m goin’ to find that monkey cage and I’m going to travel all around the world and show ’em to folks for money. That’s what my papa said, that morning when we let ’em out and he went away. He said, my papa said: ‘Suppose younkers we start a circus of our own?’ He said he’d always wanted to do it and he knows the best things they is. He’s terrible smart, my papa is. My mamma says so, and she knows. My mamma and my papa know every single thing there is. My papa he knows a place where a man that lived hunderds and millions years ago dug a hole an’ put something in it, I reckon money; and my papa says if he’d a mind to he could go and dig it right square up, out the ground, and buy my mamma a silk dress an’ me a little cart all redan’——”
“There, chatterbox! Get out the way! If you want to help, take that little bucket to the spring and bring it full of water, to sprinkle these plants.”
“All right,” cheerfully answered Saint Augustine, and ran swiftly away.
Alas! he did not run swiftly back! Jim forgot all about him but toiled faithfully on till little Saint Anne came out to call him to dinner. She was his favorite of all the children, a tender-heartedlittle maid with her mother’s face and her mother’s serene gentleness of manner.
“Your dinner’s ready, Mister Jim, and it’s a mighty nice one, too. My mamma said they was more that chicken than any sick boy could eat and you was to have some. Wesley said couldn’t we all have some but mamma said no, ’twasn’t ours. Chicken’s nice, ain’t it, with gravy? Sometimes, don’t you know? we have’possum, orrabbit, or somethingfine. Sometimes, too, if papa’s been to Uncle Wicky’s he fetches home a pie! Think o’ that! Yes, sir, apie! My Aunt Lizzie makes ’em. Mamma never does. I guess—I guess, maybe, she thinks they isn’t healthy. Mamma’s mighty partic’lar ’t we shan’t have ‘rich food;’ that’s what she calls Aunt Lizzie’s pies, and maybe your chicken, and the sick boy’s cream. My mamma dassent let us use any cream, ourselves. She has to keep it for papa’s butter.Shedon’t eat any butter. It doesn’t agree with her stummy. I guess she thinks it don’t with mine. I never have any. The sick boy has all he wants, don’t he? But Daisy cow don’t make such a terrible lot, Daisy don’t. Papa says she ought to have more eatings and ’t our pasture’s poor. Mamma says Daisy’s a real good cow. She don’t really know what we childern would do without her. Daisy gives us our dinners. Sometimes, on Sundays, mamma gives us a little milk just fresh milked, before she churns it into papa’s butter. It’s nicer ’an buttermilk, ain’t it? And I shallnever forget what Sunday’s like, with the sweet, doo-licious milk, an’ our other clo’es on. Each of us has other clo’es—think of that! You have ’em, too, don’t you? what your folks sent you from that boat where you used to live.”
“The boat where he used to live!” Little Saint Anne’s words spoke the thought of his own heart. The ten days since he had left it made the Water Lily seem far back in his life and gave him a wild desire to run off and find it again. Why should he, whom Gerald had openly despised, be chained to that boy’s bedside? Why should his own holiday be spoiled for a stranger, an interloper? There had been times, many of them, when he had almost hated Gerald, who was by no means a patient invalid. But whenever this feeling arose Jim had but to look at patient Lucetta and remember that, but for him, she would be alone in her care for her sick guest.
Now he was growing homesick again for the sight of dear faces and the pretty Water Lily, and to put that longing aside, he asked:
“Saint Anne, do you think you could carry a dish very carefully? If it had chicken on it could you hold it right side up and not lose a single bit? Because if you could, or can, I ’low the best thing you could do would be to ask mamma to send that nice dinner out here. Then we two would go down by the spring and sit under the persimmon tree and eat it. Just you and I together. Think of that!”
Saint Anne’s face lighted brilliantly, then instantly clouded. “None the rest? Not Wesley, nor Saint Augustine, nor Dorcas, nor Sheba, nor teeny-tiny David boy? Just me alone? I—I couldn’t. Mamma says it’s mean to be stingy of our things, so when I have two ’simmonses I always give one to who’s nearest. Not to give chicken would be meaner—‘meaner ’n pussley’! I don’t mind being hungry—not much I don’t mind it—but when any of us is selfish all papa has to do is say ‘Pussley, pussley!’ quick, just like that, an’ we stop right away. But—but I’ll bring yours, if mamma’ll let me, and I’ll turn my face right the other way while you eat it, so I shan’t be tempted to ‘covet my neighbor’s—anything that is his.’ That’s in my kittenchasm that we childern say to mamma every Sunday, after we’ve had our milk. I’ll run right away now.”
Quite sure that his request would be granted and hoping that the surplus of Gerald’s dinner would be plentiful, Jim went to the spring and filled the rusty bucket always waiting there. Then he plucked six big burdock leaves and arranged them on a boulder. The little maid of the sweet, serious eyes had taught him a lesson in unselfishness; and whether the portion coming to him were much or little, each child should have its share.
Then he looked up and saw Saint Anne returning. Upon her outstretched arms she balancedthe pewter platter, and upon this was set—Oh! glory! one whole, small chicken delicately roasted, as only Chloe could have prepared it. A half dozen biscuits flanked it and a big bunch of grapes. A tin cup fairly shone in its high state of polish, but its brilliancy was nothing as compared with the shining face of Saint Anne.
Behind her trailed four brothers and sisters, each stepping very softly as if in awe of the unexpected feast before them. The fifth child was missing, Saint Augustine, the mischief of the household, who was oftener under foot than out of sight.
“Where’s other brother, Saint Anne? Shall we wait for him? Did your mother save any for herself? Did Gerald need me?”
It was a long string of questions to be answered and the little girl counted them off upon her fingers.
“I don’t know where Saint Augustine is. Likely he’ll be ’round real soon. I guess we won’t wait—I mean the others needn’t—they look so watery around the mouth. No, mamma didn’t save any. She said she didn’t care for it. Funny, wasn’t that? As if anybody, even a grown-up mamma, could help caring! And the Gerald boy was asleep. I most wish he would be all the time, he—he speaks so sort of sharp like. Mamma says that’s cause he’s gettin’ well. Gettin’-well-folks are gen’ally cross and it’s a good sign. What you doing?”
Jim had pulled another burdock leaf and spread a bit of sweet fern upon it. He had an idea that Dorothy would have objected to the odor of burdock as mingled with a dinner. Then he carefully sliced with his pocket knife the daintiest portions of the little fowl and some of the bread. He added the finest of the grapes and turning to Dorcas and Sheba, said:
“Now, girlies, Saint Anne brought the dinner away out here, but it’s your job to take this much back to your mother. You are to tell her that this is a picnic and nobody would enjoy it unless she picnics, too. Will you tell her? Will you be real careful? If you will I promise you we others won’t eat a mouthful till you get back.”
They consented, but not too eagerly. They loved mamma, course; but they loved chicken, too. It required considerable faith on their part to go way back to the cabin and leave their dinners behind them, expecting to find them just as now.
However they started. Dorcas held the stem of the burdock leaf and Sheba its tip. Being somewhat shorter than her sister, Sheba’s end of the burden slanted downwards. The grass was hummocky. Their steps did not keep time very well. A fragment of Chloe’s well-flavored “stuffin’” slipped down upon Sheba’s fat fingers and—right before she knew it was in her mouth, yes, sir! Right before!
“Oh! Sheba! You’d oughtn’t not to have didthat!” reproved Dorcas, severely. Then she stumbled over a brier. She had watched her sister too closely to see where her own feet fell, and one little cluster of grapes rolled to the ground.
“I guess that was ’cause I was lookin’ for ‘the mote in your eyes’ ’t I got a ‘beam’ in mine so’s I couldn’t see right smart,” observed this Scripture-taught child, in keen self-reproach.
“Did you get a beam? I didn’t. I can see real good. Say, Dorcas, ’twouldn’t not do to give mamma grapes what have fell into dirty grass, would it? Mamma hates dirt so much papa laughs hard about it. And—and it isn’t not nice to waste things. Mamma says ‘waste not want not.’ I ain’t wantin’ them grapes but I can’t waste ’em, either. Mamma wouldn’t like that. These ain’t our kind of wild ones, we get in the woods. These are real ones what grew on a vine.”
They paused to regard the fallen fruit. How the sunlight tinted their golden skins. Theymusttaste—Oh! how doo-licious they must taste! As the elder, and therefore in authority, Dorcas stooped to lift the amber fruit; and, losing hold of the burdock leaf sent the whole dinner to the ground.
Then did consternation seize them. This was something dreadful. If mamma hadn’t been so terrible neat! If she’d only been willing to “eat her peck of dirt,” like papa said everybody hadto do sometime, they could pick it all up and squeeze it back, nice and tight on the big green leaf, and hurry to her with it.But——
“Yes, sir! There is! A yellow wiggley kittenpillar just crawled out of the way. S’posing he left one his hairs on that chicken? Just suppose? Why, that might make mamma sick if she ate it! You wouldn’t want to make poor darling mamma sick, like the Geraldy boy, would you, Sheba Stillwell? Would you?”
Poor little Sheba couldn’t answer. She was in the throes of a great temptation. She hadn’t the strength of character of Saint Anne. She didn’t at all like that suggestion of a “kittenpillar’s” hair and yet—what was one hair to such a wicked waste as it would be if they left all that fine food to spoil, or for the guinea-hen to gobble.
“The guinea-hen eats a lot. She eats kittenpillars right down whole;” pensively observed Sheba, when she had reached this stage of thought.
“She shan’t eat this, then!” declared Dorcas, promptly sitting down and dividing with great care all this delectable treat.
“Why, little ones, what are you doing? Why aren’t you back yonder with the rest? I don’t see Saint Augustine there, either. Do you know where he is?”
As this simple question interrupted them the conscience-stricken children began to cry. Oneglance into their mother’s troubled face had aroused all their love for her and a sense of their own selfishness.
“Why, babies dear, what’s the matter? Have you hurt yourselves?”
“Yes, mamma, we have. We’ve hurted the very insides of us, in the place where mutton-taller can’t reach an’ you can’t kiss it well again. Your dinner was sent to you and—and—we’ve et it up!”