A TRANSACTION IN MUMPS
“Don't you come near me,” screamed Billy, sauntering slowly and deliberately toward the dividing fence; “keep way f'om me; they's ketchin'.”
Jimmy was sitting on his front steps and the proverbial red flag could not have excited a bull to quicker action. He hopped down the steps and ran across his own yard toward Billy as fast as his short, fat legs, could carry him.
“Git 'way f'om me; you'll ketch 'em if you teches me,” warned Billy; “an' you too little to have 'em,” and he waved an authoritative hand at the other child. But Jimmy's curiosity was aroused to the highest pitch. He promptly jumped the fence and gazed at his chum with critical admiration.
“What's the matter,” he inquired, “you got the toothache?”
“Toothache!” was the scornful echo, “well, I reckon not. Git back; don't you tech 'em; you ain't ol' 'nough to have 'em.”
Billy's head was swathed in a huge, white cloth; his usually lean little cheeks were puffed out till he resembled a young hippopotamus, and his pretty grey eyes were almost invisible.
“You better git 'way f'om me an' don't tech 'em, like I tells you,” he reiterated. “Aunt Minerva say you ain't never had 'em an' she say fer me to make you keep 'way f'om me 'cause you ain't a ol' chile like what I is.”
“You ain't but six,” retorted angry Jimmy, “and I'll be six next month; you all time trying to 'suade little boys to think you're 'bout a million years old. What's the matter with you, anyhow? You 'bout the funniest looking kid they is.”
Billy theatrically touched a distended cheek. “These here is mumps,” he said impressively; “an' when you got 'em you can make grown folks do perzactly what you want 'em to. Aunt Minerva's in the kitchen right now makin' me a 'lasses custard if I'll be good an' stay right in the house an' don't come out here in the yard an' don't give you the mumps. Course I can't tech that custard now 'cause I done come out here an' it ain't honer'ble; but she's makin' it jes' the same. You better git 'way f'om me an' not tech 'em; you too little to have 'em.”
“Are they easy to ketch?” asked the other little boy eagerly; “lemme jest tech 'em one time, Billy.”
“Git 'way, I tell you,” warned the latter with a superior air. To increase Jimmy's envy he continued: “Grown folks tries to see how nice they can be to chillens what's got the mumps. Aunt Minerva ain't been impedent to me to-day; she lemme do jest 'bout like I please; it sho' is one time you can make grown folks step lively.” He looked at Jimmy meditatively, “It sho' is a plumb pity you ain't a ol' chile like what I is an' can't have the mumps. Yo' ma 'd be skeered to spank you, skeered she 'd injuh yo' mumps. Don't you come any closter to me,” he again warned, “you too little to have 'em.”
“I'll give you five peewees if you'll lemme tech 'em so 's I can get 'em,” pleaded the younger boy.
Billy hesitated. “You mighty little—” he began.
“And my stoney,” said the other child eagerly.
“If you was a ol' little boy,” said Billy, “it wouldn't make no diffunce; I don't want to make yo' ma mad an' Aunt Minerva say for me to keep 'way f'om you anyhow, though I didn't make her no promises.”
Jimmy grew angry.
“You're the stingiest Peter they is, William Hill,” he cried; “won't let nobody tech your old mumps. My cousin in Memphis's got the measles; you just wait till I get 'em.”
Billy eyed him critically.
“If you was ol'—” he was beginning.
Jimmy thought he saw signs of his yielding.
“And I'll give you my china egg, too,” he quickly proposed.
“Well, jest one tech,” agreed Billy; “an' I ain't a-goin' to be 'sponsible neither,” and he poked out a swollen jaw for Jimmy to touch.
Ikey Rosenstein at this moment was spied by the two little boys as he was Walking jauntily by the gate.
“You better keep 'way f'om here, Goose-Grease,” Jimmy yelled at him; “you better get on the other side the street. Billy here's got the mumps an' he lemme tech 'em so's I can get 'em, so's my papa and mama'll lemme do just perzactly like I want to; but you're a Jew and Jews ain't got no business to have the mumps, so you better get 'way. I paid Billy 'bout a million dollars' worth to lemme tech his mumps,” he said proudly. “Get 'way; you can't have em.”
Ikey had promptly stopped at the gate.
“What'll you take, Billy, to lemme get 'em?” he asked, his commercial spirit at once aroused.
“What'll you gimme?” asked he of the salable commodity, with an eye to a bargain.
Ikey pulled out a piece of twine and a blue glass bead from his pocket and offered them to the child with the mumps. These received a contemptuous rejection.
“You can do perzactly like you please when you got the mumps,” insinuated Jimmy, who had seemingly allied himself with Billy as a partner in business; “grown folks bound to do what little boys want 'em to when you got the mumps.”
Ikey increased his bid by the stub of a lead pencil, but it was not until he had parted with his most cherished pocket possessions that he was at last allowed to place a gentle finger on the protuberant cheek.
Two little girls with their baby-buggies were seen approaching.
“G' 'way from here, Frances, you and Lina,” howled Jimmy. “Don't you come in here; me and Billy's got the mumps and you-all 'r' little girls and ought n' to have 'em. Don't you come near us; they 're ketching.”
The two little girls immediately opened the gate, crossed the yard, mid stood in front of Billy. They inspected him with admiration; he bore their critical survey with affected unconcern and indifference, as befitted one who had attained such prominence.
“Don't tech 'em,” he commanded, waving them off as he leaned gracefully against the fence.
“I teched 'em,” boasted the younger boy. “What'll you all give us if we Il let you put your finger on 'em?”
“I ain't a-goin' to charge little girls nothin',” said the gallant Billy, as he proffered his swollen jowl to each in turn.
A little darkey riding a big black horse was galloping by; Jimmy hailed and halted him.
“You better go fast,” he shrieked. “Me and Billy and Frances and Lina's got the mumps and you ain't got no business to have 'em 'cause you're a nigger, and you better take your horse to the lib'ry stable 'cause he might ketch 'em too.”
The negro boy dismounted and hitched his horse to the fence. “I gotter little tarrapim—” he began insinuatingly.
And thus it came to pass that there was an epidemic of mumps in the little town of Covington, and William Green Hill grew rich in marbles, in tops, in strings, in toads, in chewing gum, and in many other things which comprise the pocket treasures of little boys.
THE INFANT MIND SHOOTS
Miss Minerva had bought a book for Billy entitled “Stories of Great and Good Men,” which she frequently read to him for his education and improvement. These stories related the principal events in the lives of the heroes but never mentioned any names, always asking at the end, “Can you tell me who this man was?”
Her nephew heard the stories so often that he had some expression or incident by which he could identify each, without paying much attention while she was reading.
He and his aunt had just settled themselves on the porch for a reading.
Jimmy was on his own porch cutting up funny capers, and making faces for the other child's amusement.
“Lemme go over to Jimmy's, Aunt Minerva,” pleaded her nephew, “an' you can read to me to-night. I 'd a heap ruther not hear you read right now. It'll make my belly ache.”
Miss Minerva looked at him severely.
“William,” she enjoined, “don't you want to be a smart man when you grow up?”
“Yes 'm,” he replied, without much enthusiasm. “Well, jes' lemme ask Jimmy to come over here an' set on the other sider you whils' you read. He ain't never hear 'bout them tales, an' I s'pec' he'd like to come.”
“Very well,” replied his flattered and gratified relative, “call him over.”
Billy went to the fence, where he signaled Jimmy to meet him.
“Aunt Minerva say you come over an' listen to her read some er the pretties' tales you ever hear,” he said, as if conferring a great favor.
“Naw, sirree-bob!” was the impolite response across the fence, “them 'bout the measliest tales they is. I'll come if she'll read my Uncle Remus book.”
“Please come on,” begged Billy, dropping the patronizing manner that he had assumed, in hope of inducing his chum to share his martyrdom. “You know Aunt Minerva'd die in her tracks 'fore she'd read Uncle Remus. You'll like these-here tales 'nother sight better anyway. I'll give you my stoney if you'll come.”
“Naw; you ain't going to get me in no such box as that. If she'd just read seven or eight hours I wouldn't mind; but she'll get you where she wants you and read 'bout a million hours. I know Miss Minerva.”
Billy's aunt was growing impatient.
“Come, William,” she called. “I am waiting for you.”
Jimmy went back to his own porch and the other boy joined his kinswoman.
“Why wouldn't Jimmy come?” she asked.
“He—he ain't feeling very well,” was the considerate rejoinder.
“Once there was a little boy who was born in Virginia—” began Miss Minerva.
“Born in a manger,” repeated the inattentive little boy to himself, “I knows who that was.” So, this important question settled in his mind, he gave himself up to the full enjoyment of his chum and to the giving and receiving secret signals, the pleasure of which was decidedly enhanced by the fear of imminent detection.
“Father, I can not tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet,—” read the thin, monotonous voice at his elbow.
Billy laughed aloud—at that minute Jimmy was standing on his head waving two chubby feet in the air.
“William,” said his aunt reprovingly, peering at him over her spectacles, “I don't see anything to laugh at,”—and she did not, but then she was in ignorance of the little conspiracy.
“He was a good and dutiful son and he studied his lessons so well that when he was only seventeen years old he was employed to survey vast tracts of land in Virginia—”
Miss Minerva emphasized every word, hoping thus to impress her nephew. But he was so busy, keeping one eye on her and one on the little boy on the other porch, that he did not have time to use his ears at all and so did not hear one word.
“Leaving his camp fires burning to deceive the enemy, he stole around by a circuitous route, fell upon the British and captured—”
Billy held up his hands to catch a ball which Jimmy made believe to throw.
Miss Minerva still read on, unconscious of her nephew's inattention:
“The suffering at Valley Forge had been intense during the winter—”
Billy made a pretense behind his aunt's upright back of throwing a ball while the other child held up two fat little hands to receive it. Again he laughed aloud as Jimmy spat on his hands and ground the imaginary ball into his hip.
She looked at him sternly over her glasses:
“What makes you so silly?” she inquired, and without waiting for a reply went on with her reading; she was nearing the close now and she read carefully and deliberately.
“And he was chosen the first president of the United States.”
Billy put his hands to his ears and wriggled his fingers at Jimmy, who promptly returned the compliment.
“He had no children of his own, so he is called the Father of his Country.”
Miss Minerva closed the book, turned to the little boy at her side, and asked:
“Who was this great and good man, William?”
“Jesus,” was his ready answer, in an appropriately solemn little voice.
“Why, William Green Hill!” she exclaimed in disgust. “What are you thinking of? I don't believe you heard one word that I read.”
Billy was puzzled; he was sure she had said “Born in a manger.” “I didn't hear her say nothin' 'bout bulrushes,” he thought, “so 'tain't Moses; she didn't say 'log cabin,' so 'tain't Ab'aham Lincoln; she didn't say 'Thirty cents look down upon you,' so 'tain't Napolyon. I sho' wish I'd paid 'tention.”
“Jesus!” his aunt was saying, “born in Virginia and first president of the United States!”
“George Washin'ton, I aimed to say,” triumphantly screamed the little boy, who had received his cue.
A FLAW IN THE TITLE
“Come on over,” invited Jimmy.
“All right; I believe I will,” responded Billy, running to the fence. His aunt's peremptory voice arrested his footsteps.
“William, come here!” she called from the porch.
He reluctantly retraced his steps.
“I am going back to the kitchen to bake a cake and I want you to promise me not to leave the yard.”
“Lemme jes' go over to Jimmy's a little while,” he begged.
“No; you and Jimmy can not be trusted together; you are sure to get into mischief, and his mother and I have decided to keep the fence between you for a while. Now, promise me that you will stay right in my yard.”
Billy sullenly gave her the promise and she went back to her baking.
“That's always the way now,” he said, meeting his little neighbor at the fence, “ever sence Aunt Minerva got onto this-here promisin' business, I don' have no freedom 't all. It's 'William, promise me this,' an' it's 'William, don't ferget yo' promise now,' tell I's jes' plumb sick 'n tired of it. She know I ain't goin' back on my word an' she jest nachelly gits the 'vantage of me; she 'bout the hardest 'oman to manage I ever seen sence I's born.”
“I can nearly all time make my mama do anything 'most if I jus' keep on trying and keep on a-begging,” bragged the other boy; “I just say 'May I, mama?' and she'll all time say, 'No, go 'way from me and lemme 'lone,' and I just keep on, 'May I, mama? May I, mama? May I, mama? 'and toreckly she'll say, 'Yes, go on and lemme read in peace.'”
“Aunt Minerva won't give in much,” said Billy. “When she say 'No, William,' 'tain't no use 'tall to beg her; you jest wastin' yo' breath. When she put her foot down it got to go just like she say; she sho' do like to have her own way better 'n any 'oman I ever see.”
“She 'bout the mannishest woman they is,” agreed Jimmy. “She got you under her thumb, Billy. I don' see what womans 're made fo' if you can't beg 'em into things. I wouldn't let no old spunky Miss Minerva get the best of me that 'way. Come on, anyhow.”
“Naw, I can't come,” was the gloomy reply; “if she'd jest tol' me not to, I coulder went but she made me promise, an' I ain't never goin' back on my word. You come over to see me.”
“I can't,” came the answer across the fence; “I'm earning me a baseball mask. I done already earnt me a mitt. My mama don't never make me promise her nothing, she just pays me to be good. That's huccome I'm 'bout to get 'ligion and go to the mourner's bench. She's gone up town now and if I don't go outside the yard while she's gone, she's going to gimme a baseball mask. You got a ball what you bringed from the plantation, and I'll have a bat and mitt and mask and we can play ball some. Come on over just a little while; you ain't earning you nothing like what I'm doing.”
“Naw; I promis' her not to an' I ain't ever goin' to break my promise.”
“Well, then, Mr. Promiser,” said Jimmy, “go get your ball and we'll th'ow 'cross the fence. I can't find mine.”
Billy kept his few toys and playthings in a closet, which was full of old plunder. As he reached for his ball something fell at his feet from a shelf above. He picked it up, and ran excitedly into the yard.
“Look, Jimmy,” he yelled, “here's a baseball mask I found in the closet.”
Jimmy, forgetful of the fact that he was to be paid for staying at home, immediately rolled over the fence and ran eagerly toward his friend. They examined the article in question with great care.
“It looks perzactly like a mask,” announced Jimmy after a thorough inspection, “and yet it don't.” He tried it on. “It don't seem to fit your face right,” he said.
Sarah Jane was bearing down upon them. “Come back home dis minute, Jimmy!” she shrieked, “want to ketch some mo' contagwous 'seases, don't yuh? What dat y' all got now?” As she drew nearer a smile of recognition and appreciation overspread her big good-natured face. Then she burst into a loud, derisive laugh. “What y' all gwine to do wid Miss Minerva's old bustle?” she enquired. “Y' all sho' am de contaritest chillens in dis here copperation.”
“Bustle?” echoed Billy, “What's a bustle?”
“Dat-ar's a bustle—dat's what's a bustle. Ladies useto wear 'em 'cause dey so stylish to make they dresses stick out in the back. Come on home, Jimmy, 'fore yuh ketch de yaller jandis er de epizootics; yo' ma tol' yuh to stay right at home.”
“Well, I'm coming, ain't I?” scowled the little boy. “Mama needn't to know nothing 'thout you tell.”
“Would you take yo' mama's present now, Jimmy?” asked Billy; “you ain't earnt it.”
“Wouldn't you?” asked Jimmy, doubtfully.
“Naw, I would n't, not 'thout I tol' her.”
“Well, I'll tell her I just comed over a minute to see 'bout Miss Minerva's bustle,” he agreed as he again tumbled over the fence.
A little negro boy, followed by a tiny, white dog, was passing by Miss Minerva's gate.
Billy promptly flew to the gate and hailed him. Jimmy, looking around to see that Sarah Jane had gone back to the kitchen, as promptly rolled over the fence and joined him.
“Lemme see yo' dog,” said the former.
“Ain't he cute?” said the latter.
The little darkey picked up the dog and passed it across the gate.
“I wish he was mine,” said the smaller child, as he took the soft, fluffy little ball in his arms; “what'll you take for him?”
The negro boy had never seen the dog before, but he immediately accepted the ownership thrust upon him and answered without hesitation, “I'll take a dollar for her.”
“I ain't got but a nickel. Billy, ain't you got 'nough money to put with my nickel to make a dollar?”
“Naw; I ain't got a red cent.”
“I'll tell you what we'll do,” suggested Jimmy; “we'll trade you a baseball mask for him. My mama's going to give me a new mask 'cause I all time stay at home; so we'll trade you our old one. Go get it, Billy.”
Thus commanded Billy ran and picked up the bustle where it lay neglected on the grass and handed it to the quasi-owner of the puppy.
The deal was promptly closed and a little black negro went grinning down the street with Miss Minerva's old bustle tied across his face, leaving behind him a curly-haired dog.
“Ain't he sweet?” said Jimmy, hugging the fluffy white ball close to his breast, “we got to name him, Billy.”
“Le's name her Peruny Pearline,” was the suggestion of the other joint owner.
“He ain't going to be name' nothing at all like that,” declared Jimmy; “you all time got to name our dogs the scalawaggest name they is. He's going to be name' 'Sam Lamb' 'cause he's my partner.”
“She's a girl dog,” argued Billy, “an' she can't be name' no man's name. If she could I'd call her Major.”
“I don't care what sort o' dog he is, girl or boy, he's going to be name' 'Sam Lamb'!” and he fondly stroked the little animal's soft head.
“Here, Peruny! Here, Peruny!” and Billy tried to snatch her away.
The boys heard a whistle; the dog heard it, too. Springing from the little boy's arms Sam Lamb Peruny Pearline ran under the gate and flew to meet her master, who was looking for her.
EDUCATION AND ITS PERILS
It was a warm day in early August and the four children were sitting contentedly in the swing. They met almost every afternoon now, but were generally kept under strict surveillance by Miss Minerva.
“'Twon't be long 'fore we'll all hafto go to school,” remarked Frances, “and I'll be mighty sorry; I wish we didn't ever hafto go to any old school.”
“I wisht we knowed how to read an' write when we's born,” said Billy. “If I was God I'd make all my babies so's they is already eddicated when they gits born. Reckon if we'd pray evy night an' ask God, He'd learn them babies what He's makin' on now how to read an' write?”
“I don' care nothing at all 'bout them babies,” put in Jimmy, “'tain't going to do us no good if all the new babies what Doctor Sanford finds can read and write; it'd jes' make 'em the sassiest things ever was. 'Sides, I got plenty things to ask God for 'thout fooling long other folks' brats, and I ain't going to meddle with God's business nohow.”
“Did you all hear what Miss Larrimore, who teaches the little children at school, said about us?” asked Lina importantly.
“Naw,” they chorused, “what was it?”
“She told the Super'ntendent,” was the reply of Lina, pleased with herself and with that big word, “that she would have to have more money next year, for she heard that Lina Hamilton, Frances Black, William Hill, and Jimmy Garner were all coming to school, and she said we were the most notorious bad children in town.”
“She is the spitefullest woman they is,” Jimmy's black eyes snapped; “she 'bout the meddlesomest teacher in that school.”
“Who telled you 'bout it, Lina?” questioned the other little girl.
“The Super'ntendent told his wife and you know how some ladies are,—they just can't keep a secret. Now it is just like burying it to tell mother anything; she never tells anybody but father, and grandmother, and grandfather, and Uncle Ed, and Brother Johnson, and she makes them promise never to breathe it to a living soul. But the Super'ntendent's wife is different; she tells ever'thing she hears, and now everybody knows what that teacher said about us.”
“Everybody says she is the crankiest teacher they is,” cried Jimmy, “she won't let you bring nothing to school 'cepting your books; you can't even take your slingshot, nor your air-gun, nor—”
“Nor your dolls,” chimed in Frances, “and she won't let you bat your eye, nor say a word, nor cross your legs, nor blow your nose.”
“What do she think we's goin' to her of school fer if we can't have fun?” asked Billy. “Tabernicle sho' had fun when he went to school. He put a pin in the teacher's chair an' she set down on it plumb up to the head, an' he tie the strings together what two nigger gals had they hair wropped with, an' he squoze up a little boy's legs in front of him with a rooster foot tell he squalled out loud, an' he th'owed spitballs, an' he make him some watermelon teeth, an' he paint a chicken light red an' tuck it to the teacher fer a dodo, an' he put cotton in his pants 'fore he got licked, an' he drawed the teacher on a slate. That's what you go to school fer is to have fun, an' I sho' is goin' to have fun when I goes, an' I ain't goin' to take no bulldozin' offer her, neither.”
“I bet we can squelch her,” cried Frances, vindictively.
“Yes, we'll show her a thing or two”—for once Jimmy agreed with her, “she 'bout the butt-in-est old woman they is, and she's going to find out we 'bout the squelchingest kids ever she tackle.”
“Alfred Gage went to school to her last year,” said Frances, “and he can read and write.”
“Yes,” joined in Jimmy, “and he 'bout the proudest boy they is; all time got to write his name all over everything.”
“You 'member 'bout last Communion Sunday,” went on the little girl, “when they hand roun' the little envellups and telled all the folks what was willing to give five dollars more on the pastor's sal'y just to write his name; so Alfred he so frisky 'cause he know how to write; so he tooken one of the little envellups and wroten 'Alfred Gage' on it; so when his papa find out 'bout it he say that kid got to work and pay that five dollars hi'self, 'cause he done sign his name to it.”
“And if he ain't 'bout the sickest kid they is,” declared Jimmy; “I'll betcher he won't get fresh no more soon. He telled me the other day he ain't had a drink of soda water this summer, 'cause every nickel he gets got to go to Mr. Pastor's sal'ry; he says he plumb tired supporting Brother Johnson and all his family; and, he say, every time he go up town he sees Johnny Johnson a-setting on a stool in Baltzer's drug store just a-swigging milk-shakes; he says he going to knock him off some day 'cause it's his nickels that kid's a-spending.”
There was a short silence, broken by Billy, who remarked, apropos of nothing:
“I sho' is glad I don't hafter be a 'oman when I puts on long pants, mens is heap mo' account.”
“I wouldn't be a woman for nothing at all,” Jimmy fully agreed with him; “they have the pokiest time they is.”
“I'm glad I am going to be a young lady when I grow up,” Lina declared, “I wouldn't be a gentleman for anything. I'm going to wear pretty clothes and be beautiful and be a belle like mother was, and have lots of lovers kneel at my feet on one knee and play the guitar with the other.”
“How they goin' to play the guitar with they other knee?” asked the practical Billy.
“And sing 'Call Me Thine Own,'” she continued, ignoring his interruption. “Father got on his knees to mother thirty-seven-and-a-half times before she'd say, 'I will.”'
“Look like he'd 'a' wore his breeches out,” said Billy.
“I don't want to be a lady,” declared Frances; “they can't ever ride straddle nor climb a tree, and they got to squinch up their waists and toes. I wish I could kiss my elbow right now and turn to a boy.”
UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER
“They's going to be a big nigger 'scursion to Memphis at 'leven o'clock,” said Jimmy as he met the other little boy at the dividing fence; “Sam Lamb's going and 'most all the niggers they is. Sarah Jane 'lowed she's going, but she ain't got nobody to 'tend to Bennie Dick. Wouldn't you like to go, Billy?”
“You can't go 'thout you's a nigger,” was the reply; “Sam Lamb say they ain't no white folks 'lowed on this train 'cepin' the engineer an' conductor.”
“Sam Lamb'd take care of us if we could go,” continued Jimmy. “Let's slip off and go down to the depot and see the niggers get on. There'll be 'bout a million.”
Billy's eyes sparkled with appreciation.
“I sho' wish I could,” he said; “but Aunt Minerva'd make me stay in bed a whole week if I want near the railroad.”
“My mama 'd gimme 'bout a million licks, too, if I projeckted with a nigger 'scursion she 'bout the spankingest woman they is. My papa put some burnt cork on his face in the Knights er Pythi's minstrels and I know where we can get some to make us black; you go get Miss Minerva's ink bottle too, that'll help some, and get some matches, and I'll go get the cork and we can go to Sarah Jane's house and make usselfs black.”
“I ain't never promise not to black up and go down to the depot,” said Billy waveringly. “I promise not to never be no mo' Injun—I—”
“Well, run then,” Jimmy interrupted impatiently. “We'll just slip down to the railroad and take a look at the niggers. You don't hafto get on the train just 'cause you down to the depot.”
So Miss Minerva's nephew, after tiptoeing into the house for her ink bottle and filling his pockets with contraband matches, met his chum at the cabin. There, under the critical survey of Bennie Dick from his customary place on the floor, they darkened their faces, heads, hands, feet, and legs; then, pulling their caps over their eyes, these energetic little boys stole out of the back gate and fairly flew down an alley to the station. No one noticed them in that hot, perspiring, black crowd. A lively band was playing and the mob of good-humored, happy negroes, dressed in their Sunday best, laughing and joking, pushing and elbowing, made their way to the excursion train standing on the track.
The two excited children got directly behind a broad, pompous negro and slipped on the car just after him. Fortunately they found a seat in the rear of the coach and there they sat unobserved, still and quiet, except for an occasional delighted giggle, till the bell clanged and the train started off. “We'll see Sam Lamb toreckly,” whispered Jimmy, “and he'll take care of us.”
The train was made up of seven coaches, which had been taking on negroes at every station up the road as far as Paducah, and it happened that the two little boys did not know a soul in their car.
But when they were nearing Woodstock, a little station not far from Memphis, Sam Lamb, making a tour of the cars, came into their coach and was promptly hailed by the children. When he recognized them, he burst into such a roar of laughter that it caused all the other passengers to turn around and look in their direction.
“What y' all gwine to do nex' I jes' wonder,” he exclaimed. “Yo' ekals ain't made dis side o' 'ternity. Lordee, Lordee,” he gazed at them admiringly, “you sho' is genoowine corn-fed, sterlin' silver, all-woolan'-a-yard-wide, pure-leaf, Green-River Lollapaloosas. Does yo' folks know 'bout yer? Lordee! What I axin' sech a fool question fer? 'Course dey don't. Come on, I gwine to take y' all off 'n dese cars right here at dis Woodstock, an' we kin ketch de 'commodation back home.”
“But Sam,” protested Billy, “We don't want to go back home. We wants to go to Memphis.”
“Hit don't matter what y' all wants,” was the negro's reply, “y' all gotta git right off. Dis-here 'scursion train don't leave Memphis twell twelve o'clock tonight an' yuh see how slow she am runnin', and ev'y no 'count nigger on her'll be full o' red eye. An' yo' folks is plumb 'stracted 'bout yer dis minute, I 'low. Come on. She am gittin' ready to stop.”
He grabbed the blackened hand of each, pushing Jimmy and pulling Billy, and towed the reluctant little boys through the coach.
“Yuh sho' is sp'iled my fun,” he growled as he hustled them across the platform to the waitingroom. “Dis-here's de fus' 'scursion I been on widout Sukey a-taggin' long in five year an' I aimed fo' to roll 'em high; an' now, 'case o' ketchin' up wid y' all, I gotta go right back home. Now y' all set jes' as straight as yer kin set on dis here bench,” he admonished, “whilst I send a telegraph to Marse Jeems Garner. An' don' yuh try to 'lope out on de flatform neider. Set whar I kin keep my eye skinned on yuh, yuh little slipp'ry-ellum eels. Den I gwine to come back an' wash yer, so y' all look like 'spectable white folks.”
Miss Minerva came out of her front door looking for Billy at the same time that Mrs. Garner appeared on her porch in search of Jimmy.
“William! You William!” called one woman.
“Jimmee-ee! O Jimmee-ee-ee!” called the other.
“Have you seen my nephew?” asked the one.
“No. Have you seen anything of Jimmy?” was the reply of the other.
“They were talking together at the fence about an hour ago,” said Billy's aunt. “Possibly they are down at the livery stable with Sam Lamb; I'll phone and find out.”
“And I'll ring up Mrs. Black and Mrs. Hamilton. They may have gone to see Lina or Frances.”
In a short time both women appeared on their porches again:
“They have not been to the stable this morning,” said Miss Minerva uneasily, “and Sam went to Memphis on the excursion train.”
“And they are not with Lina or Frances,”—Mrs. Garner's face wore an anxious look, “I declare I never saw two such children. Still, I don't think we need worry as it is nearly dinner time, and they never miss their meals, you know.”
But the noon hour came and with it no hungry little boys. Then, indeed, did the relatives of the children grow uneasy. The two telephones were kept busy, and Mr. Garner, with several other men on horseback, scoured the village. Not a soul had seen either child.
At three o'clock Miss Minerva, worn with anxiety and on the verge of a collapse, dropped into a chair on her veranda, her faithful Major by her side. He had come to offer help and sympathy as soon as he heard of her distress, and, finding her in such a softened, dependent, and receptive mood, the Major had remained to try to cheer her up.
Mr. and Mrs. Garner were also on the porch, discussing what further steps they could take.
“It is all the fault of that William of yours,” snapped one little boy's mother to the other little boy's aunt: “Jimmy is the best child in the world when he is by himself, but he is easily led into mischief.”
Miss Minerva's face blazed with indignation.
“William's fault indeed!” she answered back. “There never was a sweeter child than William;” for the lonely woman knew the truth at last. At the thought that her little nephew might be hurt, a long forgotten tenderness stirred her bosom and she realized for the first time how the child had grown into her life.
The telegram came.
“They are all right,” shouted Mr. Garner joyously, as he quickly opened and read the yellow missive, “they went on the excursion and Sam Lamb is bringing them home on the accommodation.”
As the Major, short, plump, rubicund, jolly, and Miss Minerva, tall, sallow, angular, solemn, were walking to the station to meet the train that was bringing home the runaways, the elderly lover knew himself to be at last master of the situation.
“The trouble with Billy—” he began, adjusting his steps to Miss Minerva's mincing walk.
“William,” she corrected, faintly.
“The trouble with Billy,” repeated her suitor firmly, “is this: you have tried to make a girl out of a healthy, high-spirited boy; you haven't given him the toys and playthings a boy should have; you have not even given the child common love and affection.” He was letting himself go, for he knew that she needed the lecture, and, wonderful to tell, she was listening meekly. “You have steeled your heart,” he went on, “against Billy and against me. You have about as much idea how to manage a boy as a—as a—” he hesitated for a suitable comparison: he wanted to say “goat,” but gallantry forbade; “as any other old maid,” he blurted out, realizing as he did so that a woman had rather be called a goat than an old maid any time.
The color mounted to Miss Minerva's face.
“I don't have to be an old maid,” she snapped spunkily.
“No; and you are not going to be one any longer,” he answered with decision. “I tell you what, Miss Minerva, we are going to make a fine, manly boy out of that nephew of yours.”
“We?” she echoed faintly.
“Yes, we! I said we, didn't I?” replied the Major ostentatiously. “The child shall have a pony to ride and every thing else that a boy ought to have. He is full of natural animal spirits and has to find some outlet for them; that is the reason he is always in mischief. Now, I think I understand children.” He drew himself up proudly. “We shall be married to-morrow,” he announced, “that I may assume at once my part of the responsibility of Billy's rearing.”
Miss Minerva looked at him in fluttering consternation.
“Oh, no, not to-morrow,” she protested; “possibly next year some time.”
“To-morrow,” reiterated the Major, his white moustache bristling with determination. Having at last asserted himself, he was enjoying the situation immensely and was not going to give way one inch.
“We will be married to-morrow and—”
“Next month,” she suggested timidly.
“To-morrow, I tell you!”
“Next week,” she answered.
“To-morrow! To-morrow! To-morrow!” cried the Major, happy as a schoolboy.
“Next Sunday night after church,” pleaded Miss Minerva.
“No, not next Sunday or Monday or Tuesday. We will be married to-morrow,” declared the dictatorial Confederate veteran.
Billy's aunt succumbed.
“Oh, Joseph,” she said with almost a simper, “you are so masterful.”
“How would you like me for an uncle?” Miss Minerva's affianced asked Billy a few minutes later.
“Fine an' dandy,” was the answer, as the child wriggled himself out of his aunt's embrace. The enthusiastic reception accorded him, when he got off the train, was almost too much for the little boy. He gazed at the pair in embarrassment. He was for the moment disconcerted and overcome; in place of the expected scoldings and punishment, he was received with caresses and flattering consideration. He could not understand it at all.
The Major put a hand on the little boy's shoulder and smiled a kindly smile into his big, grey, astonished eyes as the happy lover delightedly whispered, “Your aunt Minerva is going to marry me to-morrow, Billy.”
“Pants an' all?” asked William Green Hill.