While Sube was disposing of his insubordinate follower Fretful Mollie had obtained momentary control over her tingling nerves and become perfectly quiet. But as he returned to her side she gave a tremendous lunge and struck out savagely with bothhind feet, scattering the tonsorial artists right and left.
As the clipper-man leaped to a place of safety, his clippers still in his hand, he grabbed Sube roughly by the coat-collar.
"I caught y'u that time, y'u little rascal!" he cried angrily.
Sube squirmed uncomfortably. "What'd I do?" he muttered. "I ain't done athing!"
The clipper-man snatched off Sube's cap and gave it a throw as he charged, "Y'u slung some'pm at that mare. I seen y'u do it myself."
Seeing that the crime was neatly fastened on Sube, Dick Bissell, who had been keeping discreetly close to the door, now drew nearer. If anybody was to be punished for his misdeeds he wanted to be in the front row. He anticipated that Sube would receive a sound cuffing and perhaps a kick or two; but he was as much surprised as Sube at the form his punishment took. For without the slightest warning the clipper-man mowed a clean swath from Sube's brow to his crown, and giving him a vigorous shove towards the open door, admonished him to get out and stay out under pain of having his eyebrows cut off.
As Sube recovered his balance he paused, andpassed a bewildered hand over his head. He resembled nothing quite so much as a youth grown prematurely bald. And at the risk of losing his eyebrows he turned and faced his assailant.
"Ain't you goin' to cut the rest of it?" he asked huskily.
"Didn't I tell y'u to get outa here?" growled the clipper-man with a menacing gesture.
But Sube stood his ground. "I didn't do a thing to your ol' horse!" he cried desperately.
"Well, one o' yer gang done it, and that's the same thing!" muttered the clipper-man, supplementing his questionable logic by unquestionable profanity.
At this point Dick Bissell undertook to interject some of his humor into the situation.
"Nancy'll never love 'im if he looks like—" he began; but he never finished the remark.
For Sube's fist struck him squarely in the mouth in a maniacal effort to drive the cruel words back down his throat. And that was the way the fight started.
For a time Sube appeared to be possessed of the strength of a young Samson. He pounded his antagonist all over the place with an insane fury, drawing blood from lip and nose, and planting several blows where they were destined to leave a dark crescent "shiner." But judged from a purely physical standpoint Sube was no match for Dick Bissell; and as his mental demands for blood began to be satisfied his wonderful offensive began to flag. He allowed himself to be drawn into the clinch that Dick had from the first been trying to work.
An instant later the back of Sube's head bumped the floor, and he began to stop Dick's blows with his face. Then it dawned on him for the first time that he was actually fighting Dick Bissell. He knew of course that he couldn't thrash Dick; he had known it for years; and he couldn't understand how he ever happened to undertake such a monumental task. The mere thought weakened him.
Dick must have felt Sube relax; for suddenly he seized both of Sube's wrists and pinioned his arms across his breast.
"You're—a fine—lookin' thing!" he panted. "Nancy oughta—see y'u NOW!"
Dick had unconsciously touched the magic spring that loosed the maniac, and Sube flung him aside as if he had been a new-born babe. The two boys gained their feet at almost the same instant. Then Sube launched an attack on the larger boy that far surpassed in fury his initial charge. He hit, hescratched, he bit, and kicked; and again he exhausted his strength and went under in a clinch. And this time he couldn't come back. Dick hammered him roundly, and when he could spare the breath taunted him unfeelingly about Nancy, and threatened to lick him to a frazzle right before her loving eyes.
But Sube was too far gone to respond. He was very near that blissful country which prize-fighters call "Out."
The stablemen enjoyed the fight immensely. And the result was quite to their liking. Dick Bissell was their kind. They wanted him to win even if he was fighting a boy scarcely half his size. But they enjoyed the "little feller's bu'st o' speed" and taking their cue from Dick, interjected a few taunts from the sidelines about what Nancy would think of him if he got licked.
Sube had plenty of friends at the ringside, but they dared not interfere because of what might happen to them when Dick Bissell caught them alone. And doubtless if they had taken a hand the stablemen would have driven them off.
But there was one friend who did not falter. He was a little late in reaching the place of battle, but when he came, he came like a thunderbolt. He struck Dick amidships with the full force of hisseventy pounds, knocking the astonished boy halfway across the barn.
Then with a show of flashing teeth and a few great guttural oaths he cleared the barn of human incumbrances, and then—he went humbly to his master craving indulgence for having again been guilty of disobedience.
Sube struggled to his feet, groggily murmuring, "Good boy, Sport." And with a boy's first instinct on emerging from a fight began to hunt for his cap. Sport quickly found it and brought it. Then Sube noticed for the first time that he was alone, and that the big barn door was closed. But he had no idea that it had been barred in the interest of public policy to keep what the stablemen regarded as a mad dog from running at large.
The back door was open. And towards it he staggered, bleeding and disheveled. He made his way into the clump of willows, where he lay for a time and rested while Sport licked affectionately at his hand whenever it came near enough for his rosy tongue to reach.
As he took a circuitous route homeward a little later he became conscious of a dull ache in his ear. Then he discovered that his lip was swollen. In another moment he became painfully aware thatsomething had happened to one of his cheeks. Next a skinned knuckle attracted his attention.
He considered these injuries too valuable to be wasted, and at once invented a new game to make use of them. He pretended that he was a wounded soldier returning from the wars, and gave himself up to such limps and groans as seemed to fit the fancy. He dragged himself up to the back door of his home, and after satisfying himself that the kitchen was empty, fell prostrate on the threshold, gasping:
"Water!—Water!—I must rinse these awful wounds!"
With an exaggerated effort he pulled himself to his feet and reeled across the kitchen, only to fall in an imaginary swoon at the foot of the back stairs. But hearing footsteps he revived sufficiently to crawl upstairs dragging a bullet-pierced leg lifelessly behind.
He had reached the room occupied jointly by himself and his brother Henry, where he had indulged in several additional swoons (in the performance of which he had now become quite an expert) when he was suddenly reminded of the accident to his clothes. He took them off and holding them at arm's length, sniffed at them judicially. Then he pronouncedthem guilty, and dropped them on the floor pending sentence.
He at once began to put on his best suit, but before he had finished he heard Henry coming. He kicked the offending garments under the bed and stepped into the hallway, pulling on his jacket as he went. He intercepted his brother at the head of the stairs.
"Hey, Cathead!" he called affably, addressing Henry by his nickname. "Know some'pm?"
"What?" grunted Cathead, who was fourteen, studiously inclined, and suspicious of anything Sube knew and he didn't, because it was usually inaccurate and often led into mischief.
"There's a new batch of cookies down in the pantry!"
Cathead's interest was aroused, but he tried to conceal it. "What you all dressed up for?" he demanded.
Sube had hoped to preclude any such inquiry, and made something of a mess of his reply. "Why—now—now, I'm—I'm goin' somewheres," he stammered.
"Where?"
"Never you mind where!" cried Sube with affected gayety. "Don't you wish't you knew! But let's go and get a cookie."
Cathead had half turned to go when he stopped abruptly and began to look around him. "Whew!" he exclaimed. "What in the dickens smells so?"
"It does smell kind o' funny, don't it?" Sube agreed.
"Funny? I should say it is funny! What is it?"
"I guess the air must be a little bad," mumbled Sube.
"A little? Say! It's awful in here!"
"But you ought to smell it out in the back yard," suggested Sube. "It's a lot worse out there!"
With a disdainful grimace Cathead turned towards the stairs. "You said some'pm about cookies," he remembered. "Lead me to 'em."
"They're in the pantry," said Sube as he started to follow Cathead down the stairs. But when he was halfway down he turned back. "Dern the luck!" he exclaimed with affected disgust. "I forgot some'pm. Got to go back. Now don't eat 'em all up before I get there!"
As Cathead reached the bottom of the stairs, Sube dived under the bed. And as Cathead entered the pantry, Sube darted up the attic stairs and threw the tainted clothes far into the darkness. From the splash that followed he feared they might have landed in the rain water tank, but that could not be helped now. As he rapidly slid down the attic stairs he was thoroughly in sympathy with those who shed their brothers' blood so far as disposing of thecorpus delictiwas concerned.
Sube had reached his room in safety when he heard Cathead angrily scuffing up the stairs; and, wishing to have the appearance of doing something, he stepped over to the bureau and picked up a hairbrush. But when he took off his cap the hairbrush dropped from his nerveless fingers. His mutilated scalp fairly screamed at him!
In the excitement of the fight he had forgotten all about it. But there was no time to lose. Cathead was at the door. Sube mechanically pulled his capfar on his head, and sank limply down on the bed as Cathead came into the room peevishly charging him with being the biggest fibber out of captivity.
"There wasn't a cookie there, and you know it!" he cried.
"Annie must've hid 'em," returned Sube feebly.
Cathead's anger subsided as he caught sight of his brother's livid countenance. "What's the matter of you?" he asked.
"Nuthin'."
"You're as white as paper," declared Cathead. Then catching sight of his brother's swollen lip which in the semi-darkness of the hallway had escaped his notice, he asked, "How'd you hurt your lip?"
The natural thing would have been to tell Cathead the truth, all the truth, and nothingbutthe truth. But Sube did not care to do this. Not that he was afraid Cathead would tell; he had no thought of that. In regard to their joint delinquencies Cathead had always been absolutely leak-proof. Sube simply did not wish to put himself in Cathead's power; so he took what he considered to be the easiest way.
"Huh? My lip?" he temporized as he tried to think of a plausible explanation. "Why,—why,I—I bumped 'at against the door," he got out finally.
"Prob'ly that's what makes you so pale," suggested Cathead. "Lay down a minute and you'll be all right."
Sube was glad to follow this advice.
"You ain't told me what you're all dressed up for," Cathead reminded him presently.
"I can't find my other clo's, I tole you," growled Sube. "I'll bet mama's gone and given 'em to the Salvation Army or something."
"How long since you couldn't find 'em?"
"Took 'em off jus' soon as I got home, and I ain't seen 'em since."
"That's funny," muttered Cathead as he began a cursory search for the missing garments. A moment later he called from the bathroom, "Hey, Sube, I've found out what smells so bad!"
"What?" asked Sube with a note of alarm.
"It's the water! Something must of got into the cistern. I'll bet it's another cat."
Sube gave one long futile breath that put into words would have said, "What next!" It was a bad matter. But it was not so pressing as a certain other bad matter. Something had to be done about his incompleted haircut—and done quickly. No explanation could be made that was not likely to lead to very unpleasant disclosures. His only salvation was areal haircut. And that of necessity involved the expenditure of a sum of money he did not possess.
Sube knew Cathead had money—Cathead always had money—and he at once began a series of flattering offers to sell anything he possessed. But Cathead was thrifty. The commercial instinct was strong in him. He realized that the time to buy is when the other fellow wants to sell; but he did not become over anxious. He said he was not in the market. Neither was he conducting a loan office. Of course, if it was made worth his while, why,—he might think of it.
This bickering nearly drove Sube mad. Time for the evening meal was drawing near. He could hear his father's voice downstairs. In his desperation he made up a job lot containing everything of his in which Cathead had ever betrayed an interest, and struck it off for thirty pieces of copper.
Cathead grasped the psychology of the moment. "I'll take you up," he said promptly. "Come on down stairs while I get the money out of my bank."
Sube went only too willingly. In the library he encountered his father.
"Where is your cap, Sube?" reminded Mr. Cane.
"Yes, I know it," Sube explained. "I didn't forget it; you see, I'm goin' right out again."
"But as long as you are in the house—"
"Yes, sir; I'll take it right off."
Sube made a feint at his cap with one hand as he snatched some coins from Cathead with the other, and darted for the door.
"Seward!" called Mr. Cane sternly. "Come here!"
Bang!The front door closed with sufficient violence to jar the entire house as Sube dashed up the street. Sube had heard his father's voice plainly in spite of the fact that he continued to assure himself that he had not.
He had proceeded only a short distance from home when Nancy Guilford and her mother loomed up before him. Sube rarely overlooked an opportunity to demonstrate to Mrs. Guilford his Chesterfieldian manners. But to-day he dodged past with nothing more than a bourgeois twitch at his cap; and railing under his breath at an unkind fate he sped on towards the barber shop.
But alas, he was too late. The door was locked, and the barber, in company with his wife, was just turning away as Sube came panting up.
"Mr. McInness! Mr. McInness!" he called feverishly as he caught sight of the retreating tonsorial.
Mr. McInness glanced back, then paused expectantly.
"I got here just in time!" Sube puffed. "I want to get my hair cut."
The barber scowled and looked at his watch. "Too late, son," he said. "You'll have to wait till to-morrow. It's after six."
"But Ican'twait till to-morrow," Sube returned in his most persuasive tone. "I got to get it cutnow!"
The barber shook his head. "Nuthin' doin', son," he said. "I run a union shop. If I didn't close up at six, the union'd be on my neck inside of thirty seconds." He made a move to start on. "You come back in the mornin' and I'll fix you up fine!"
Sube clutched desperately at the barber's sleeve. "I can't wait!" he pleaded. "Igotto get it done right now!"
"I can't take no chances!" declared the barber positively. "I've had the union after me twic't already. If you want to get it cut to-night, why, you'll have to go somewheres else."
"Where can I go?" asked Sube quickly.
"Well,—I don't know as I could tell you no place," responded the barber dubiously. "Every shop in town belongs to the union."
The agonized expression on Sube's face was too much for the barber's wife. "What seems to be the trouble?" she asked kindly. "Tell me about it."
Here was a chance for aid from an unexpected quarter; but it was fraught with danger. Mrs. McInness's sister was a teacher in the school Sube attended. He must have a care what he told her.
"It's on account of my father," he finally managed to say, as he assumed a martyred expression.
"Your father?" she asked clearly puzzled.
"Yes, ma'am. He's pretty bad to-night!"
"Why, he isn't sick, is he? I saw him on the street this afternoon."
"Not sick, exactly," Sube improvised cautiously. "The doctor says it's his mind—"
"His mind!" gasped Mrs. McInness. "Is his mind affected?"
"What?—Well—it's more his—his nerves! You see, he can't bear to look at anybody who needs a haircut. It makes him nervous, you see. And he told me to get my hair cut this afternoon, but Iwas so busy goin' to school and then goin' home and doin' all the work that I forgot it. And when he come home a few minutes ago and saw I hadn't got it cut, he ordered me out of the house and told me never to darken his door again till I'd got my hair cut!"
Mrs. McInnes was dumbfounded. "Your father told you that!" she cried at length. "Why, I always thought he was one of the kindest men I ever knew!"
"He's kind in—in his office—and—and on the street," stammered Sube; "but the minute he gets home his nerves fly up and he loses control of himself—"
"And your father told you never to darken his door again?" she asked incredulously.
"Yes, ma'am," Sube replied with emotion as he stared hard at the toe of his shoe. "Not till I'd got my hair cut."
Mrs. McInness drew her husband aside and conversed with him in a low tone.
"Pretty fishy—" Sube heard him mumble.
"But when a person's mind is affected ... there's no telling—" he heard Mrs. McInness saying.
After a moment came the barber's bass rumbleagain: "That'd be rulable if he'd been in the chair, or even in the shop waitin', but—"
"LOOK HOW HE LEFT ME!""LOOK HOW HE LEFT ME!"
This gave Sube another idea. "When my father drove me out of the house," he said modestly, "I did my best to satisfy him. I ran as fast as I could to the nearest barber shop—that's Bill Grayson's. Maybe it ain't exactly the nearest, but it's the quickest because I don't have to turn any corners—you know I always come to your shop if I can. Well, I got to Bill Grayson's just before six o'clock. I got in the chair and Bill started on me with the clippers; but the minute the whistles blew, he fired me right out of the chair and wouldn't finish the job! Why! Jus' look here!" he cried dramatically, snatching off his cap. "Look how he left me! I don't dare go home like this!"
The barber and his wife were astounded.
"Bill Grayson done that to you!" exclaimed Mr. McInness.
"Yes, sir, he did," replied Sube virtuously.
Mrs. McInness turned quickly to her husband. "There!" she challenged. "He was in the chair at six o'clock and his hair was partly cut! You said that would be rulable yourself!"
"But he wasn't inmychair, or even inmyshop! There's somethin' doggone' funny about this. Justas like as not Bill Grayson has fixed a frame-up on me to get me in bad with the union. I ain't goin' to take no chances—"
"Joe McInness!" his wife bristled defiantly, "youmay belong to the union, butIdon't!—Give me the key to that shop! I'm going to finish clipping that boy's hair!"
Sube was a little late for supper, but he came in with a broad smile—broad though rather forced—and a neatly shingled head.
"Hey, everybody look at me!" he called cheerfully. "I've got the first shingle of the season, and I paid for it with my own money, too! And, mama, can I go to prayer meeting with Giz Tobin to-night? I'm all dressed for it."
Mrs. Cane had gladly given her consent when Cathead threw a bomb into the happy home circle.
"Sube wasn't at school this afternoon," he announced.
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Cane glaring at Sube. "Do you mean to say that after all I said to you—?"
Sube had begun to shrivel under his father's relentless gaze when Cathead interjected:
"But therewasn'tany school inhisroom! So many of the kids went to Mag Macdougall's funeralthat Miss Wheeler had to dismiss the room, didn't she, Sube?"
Sube huskily admitted that she did, while Cathead bemoaned the misfortune of his being in another room, and Mr. Cane showed signs of being relieved, although he was at the same time annoyed at Cathead's forwardness
There was something of a sensation at the breakfast table next morning when sube appeared with his best clothes on, and without waiting for interrogation modestly explained that his school suit had been incapacitated by his futile attempt to do the household a real service. He had arisen early and quietly taken the rake to the attic for the purpose of dragging the rainwater tank for the remains of an alleged dead cat.
He had not succeeded in locating the body, but had unfortunately lost his balance and fallen into the tank, from which he had escaped with his life only after a terrific struggle (although the tank was not over three feet deep), and he called Cathead to witness that he had carefully examined Exhibit A and found it to be a thoroughly saturated and badly polluted suit of school clothes.
"I declare!" complained Mr. Cane. "I never saw such a household as this. No sooner do we get rid of one scourge than another is upon us. Contaminated water is about the worst thing that can happen to a place. There's no telling when we'll get this thing cleared up. I suppose the plumber will be round here for the next month. I might as well make him a present of the house!"
"Oh, well," soothed Mrs. Cane. "It might be worse. We'll miss the rain water, of course, but we still have the city water to fall back on."
"Yes, but who wants to use that city water?" demanded Mr. Cane. "It's as hard as a rock! It makes my hands feel chapped just to think of it." Then turning to Sube he asked, "Didn't you find anything at all that might have made this trouble?"
Sube appeared to be searching his memory. In reality he was searching his imagination. Finally he replied, "No, sir; unless maybe it could of been that little piece of fur I found in one corner."
"There!" cried Mr. Cane. "Why didn't you tell me that before? I might have spent a hundred dollars having the plumber tear things to pieces in search of that same little piece of fur!"
"I wasn't sure," muttered Sube. "I didn't know jus'whatit was."
"Not sure, eh? Well what did it look like?"
"Itlookedlike a rat," Sube fabricated.
"What did you do with it?"
"Threw it on the ash pile."
"Ican soon tell," declared Mr. Cane.
"But an ol' cat grabbed it and carried it away," romanced Sube.
The plumber came and scrubbed the tank, the clothes went to the cleaner, and Sube proceeded to school hardened and set for the cruel grinding of another day. And he was not disappointed. Miss Wheeler was very pressing in her demands for documentary excuses for his absence of the day before. But when Sube reached home at noon he found his father in no proper mood to frame diplomatic communications. To be exact, Mr. Cane was grouchy.
"I don't know what can be the matter with me," he complained as he took his place at the head of the table. "Do I look sick?"
Mrs. Cane made a very careful examination of his face, and noted the vigorous erectness of his body, while Sube's gaze was shifting uneasily back and forth from one parent to the other.
"You haven't looked so well in years," she declared at length. "What's the matter? Aren't you feeling well?"
"Never felt better in my life. Now I wonder what's getting into everybody."
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Mrs. Cane nervously.
"Everybody seems to think I'm sick," grumbled Mr. Cane. "Why, the thing began before I had reached my office this morning. The first person who spoke of it was Joe McInness, the barber. He stopped me on the street and asked very particularly how I was feeling to-day. I told him in an off-hand way that I was never better, and he seemed to be quite surprised. 'Why, I understood you were—were not feeling well,' he sort of stammered out.
"I laughed at him. 'Do I look sick, Joe?' I asked.
"'No, you don'tlookbad,' he said; 'but sometimes folks look perfectly well physically when they ain't well at all in—in other ways. And sometimes the worse off they are, the better theythinkthey are.'
"'Well, Joe,' I said as I started on, 'you can mark me down as sound mentally, morally and physically.'
"He looked at me and said, 'Judge, what day's to-day?'
"'Why, this is Thursday,' I said.
"'And what day of the month is it?' he asked in the strangest way. And, do you know, for the lifeof me I couldn't think what day of the month it was. At that, the idiot shook his head and went into his barber shop."
"That's the queerest thing I ever heard of," said Mrs. Cane. "You don't suppose he had been drinking, do you?"
"Why, I did think so until other people began to drop into the office and ask after my health. At first I was rather amused, and then it began to annoy me. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that I was afflicted with some insidious ailment that made me think I was brimming over with good health when I was really on my last legs. And the most incomprehensible feature of the thing was that I couldn't seem to convince them of my soundness of limb and mind!"
"Have you been seen going into any doctor's office lately?" asked Mrs. Cane apprehensively.
"Why, yes; I've been going to Dr. Richards' office frequently."
Sube sighed and took up the disposal of his neglected food as his father continued.
"We've been preparing for the defense of that case of Munger against the railroad company. You know Munger is trying to prove that his injuries are of a permanent nature, and we are perfectlycertain that he is malingering. I'm in there once or twice every day to consult the doctor's books. We are preparing a long hypothetical question—"
"What a town this is for talk!" exclaimed Mrs. Cane. "That's undoubtedly where the report started."
"There or in the barber shop."
"Yes, that barber shop is a regular clearing house for news!" said Mrs. Cane.
"Yes, it's as good as an afternoon card party," agreed her husband. "And," he added after a moment, "I'm going to have the place investigated this afternoon."
At this point something went wrong with Sube's throat. He began to choke and snort most distressfully, and several severe thumps on the back from Cathead were required to restore him to normal condition.
"Yes," Mr. Cane resumed, "I'm going to smoke that barber out. Why, the good-for-nothing ignoramus as much as informed me that I was mentally unsound! Askingmethe day of the week and month! That's what they always ask an alleged incompetent person who is being examined as to his sanity! The idea of that know-nothing presuming to askmesuch questions as that!"
"But how are you going to 'smoke him out' as you say?" asked Mrs. Cane.
"I've got that all fixed up with Dr. Richards. He's going to go in there and pump that barber dry!" replied Mr. Cane determinedly. "The doctor will drop in for a shave, and he'll find out where McInness heard this slanderous report—"
Sube was seized with another fit of coughing, and politely asked to be excused from the table. However, his epiglottic difficulties vanished as he caught up his cap and dashed out of the house. A few moments later he made his appearance in the McInness barber shop.
The barber grinned at him. "Want another haircut?" he asked maliciously.
Sube gazed searchingly at the lather-smeared occupant of the chair and, recognizing Dr. Richards' unmistakable features, realized he was too late, and turned towards the door with a worried look.
"Lookin' for your father?" asked the barber.
"Huh?—Yes," replied Sube. "Seen 'im?"
"Not sence this mornin'," returned the barber compassionately.
And before the door had closed Sube heard the barber saying:
"Too bad about the judge, ain't it?"
Desperation was written on Sube's face as he turned from the barber shop and entered a nearby alley, where he sought to relieve his troubled spirit by kicking an old tin pail, smashing several bottles, and stoning a cat. But in spite of these pleasant diversions everything was going wrong, and everybody was against him.
"Even the weather's gone back on me," he muttered as a raindrop struck his face.
He was beginning to comprehend why some menturn outlaw. He stepped into a shed to make up his mind whether to get wet or to be late for school, although he knew in advance that it would never do for him to get wet. On entering the shed he observed a threshing outfit that had been stored for the winter. At the sight an idea began to sprout.
He turned and looked across the alley into the rear windows of Morton & Company, General Insurance, where his eye fell on a telephone standing on a desk not far from the back door. Whereupon the idea stepped from his brain fully grown and ready for action.
Without a moment's hesitation he pulled his cap on securely and made a dash for Morton's back door. It was unlocked. He opened it cautiously and peered inside. The office was vacant. He caught up the telephone and called for McInness's barber shop with a sharp nasal inflection that sounded not at all like himself.
"Is Doc Richards there?" he asked nervously as soon as he heard the barber's voice.
The barber turned from the telephone. "Are you here, Doc," he asked.
"They told me at his office he was there!" cried Sube in the strange voice.
"He wants to know what you want," returned the barber.
"Tell 'im he's wanted at Bert Shepperd's farm jus' fast as he can get there! There's been a awful accident! A man fell into a thrashin' machine and was all chewed up—"
"Who is this?" demanded the barber.
"Tell 'im to hurry up or he'll be too late!" shouted Sube as he slammed on the receiver and slipped quickly out of the door.
He proceeded to a point where he could command a view of the barber shop, and crouching behind an ash-barrel, watched for developments.
And as he watched he gave way to mutterings of a vengeful nature. "He'll pump Joe McInness dry, will he!—He will, hey!—An' then he'll tell my dad all about it, will he!—Well, I'll show 'im!—He can't come that onme—"
At this moment he saw Dr. Richards come hurrying out of the barber shop, struggling into his overcoat as he came; and as he stood, buttoning it, beside his runabout which stood at the curb, Sube heard him call to some one who had not yet come within his range of vision.
"Want to go for a little ride?"
An instant later the person thus addressed cameinto view. It was Sube's father. Sube saw him cast an inquiring glance at the sky from which the rain was no longer falling, and then clamber into the runabout. He could distinctly hear them laughing as they lighted cigars and drove rapidly away.
Sube stood up and brushed the moist ashes from his clothes. It was no use; everything was against him. He was both late and wet when he reached school, and his brow was more clouded than the sky; but it cleared wonderfully when a terrific downpour began shortly after he took his seat. As the deluge continued his spirits rose in spite of the fact that Miss Wheeler had notified him of her intention to detain him after school in retaliation for his unexcused tardiness.
As is often the case his mental exaltation took literary form, and, a forward pass having been fumbled, he was required to pick up from the floor and read aloud a cryptic epistle intended for the private consideration of Mr. Gizzard Tobin.
GizI dont wish nobody harm but I hope the rain keeps stinging down for therty days and therty nightsS C
Giz
I dont wish nobody harm but I hope the rain keeps stinging down for therty days and therty nights
I dont wish nobody harm but I hope the rain keeps stinging down for therty days and therty nights
S C
As a result of this outburst Sube was compelledto copy the wordthirtytwo hundred times to impress on his memory the correct way to spell it.
Sube's father was late for supper. He was very late; and he came in drenched to the skin. With him came Dr. Richards, also drenched.
"Wherehaveyou been!" cried Mrs. Cane. "You've caught your death of cold, I'm sure—"
"Oh, I've taken care of that!" was the doctor's cheery reply. "We stopped in my office and took a little—preventive."
"But where have you been?" persisted she.
"Where haven't we been!" exclaimed the doctor with an irrepressible chuckle at the innocent face of Sube. "In the first place I was in the barber shop being shaved, when a telephone message came that a man had been terribly injured by falling into a threshing machine out at the Shepperd farm."
The doctor cast a sly glance at Sube, and noting the boy's complete immersion in his magazine, winked slyly at his father and went on.
"I took Sam along with me for the ride—and it wassomeride! It began to pour just after we started and the trip was simply one big mudhole after another; and when we reached the Shepperd farm and asked about the accident they laughed us out of the house! They wanted to know what we expected them to be threshing in the merry month of May!"
Shouts of laughter from Mr. Cane and the doctor stopped the recital for a time.
"Do tell the rest," urged Mrs. Cane, "so I can laugh too."
"Well," the doctor resumed, wiping his eyes, "I called up my office, and the girl said that just about the time I started, Bill Morton's stenographer called up and warned her to look out for a fake call she heard somebody send in from Morton's private office."
"Oh! Who could have done such a thing!" gasped Mrs. Cane.
"Bill's stenographer didn't know who it was," replied the doctor, watching Sube out of the corner of his eye. "He was too quick for her! She didn't see him!"
Sube straightened up at once and for the first time appeared to take an interest in the story.
"We had already started!" laughed the doctor uproariously. "And such a time as we had!"
The doctor's laughter was infectious. Mr. Cane had been chuckling throughout the account of their adventures and now Mrs. Cane was beginning.
"The mud was a foot deep!" cried Mr. Cane,taking up the narrative, "and we had to get out and wade around in it twice while we changed a tire. And then to top off the adventure the engine got wet and went out of commission and we had to give up the ship andwalk home!!"
"But what is so funny about it?" insisted Mrs. Cane. "If I didn't know you were both teetotalers I should certainly think you men had been drinking."
The doctor subdued his laughter with an effort as he said: "It's Sube I'm laughing at!"
Sube's magazine fell to the floor; he half stood up, then dropped back into his chair stiff as a poker.
"Isn't he immense!" howled the doctor. "Isn't he delicious! That boy will makehismark in the world!"
"But what hasheto do with it?" asked Mrs. Cane, glancing at the boy's open mouth and popping eyes.
"Oh—oh, nothing to do withthat," stammered the doctor. "I was just laughing at the way he was sitting there reading. I wanted to come in and get a look at him!"
"A look at him?" asked she, mystified.
"Why, yes!" roared the doctor. "He's had his head shingled and I hadn't seen him!"
As soon as the doctor had gone Mrs. Cane hurried her husband to his room for dry clothing. Sube heard with bitterness the sound of their suppressed laughter.
"That's right," he muttered. "Laugh at some joke of ol' Doc Richards and then come down and whale the daylights out of me—"
He listened. They were coming down the stairs. As his mother entered the room he noticed that there were tears in her eyes, and that the corners of her mouth were twitching. His breath came faster as he observed his father's determined walk.
With a visible effort Mr. Cane controlled his voice. "Sube," he said, extending his hand in which money could be seen, "I want to reimburse you for that haircut you got yesterday."
Sube mechanically took the money as he braced himself for the jolt that he felt sure would follow. But his reckonings went wrong. His father passed a friendly hand over the resistless stubble and remarked cheerfully:
"Well, bullet-head, let's eat our supper."
Sube had invented a new face. This was not an infrequent occurrence, but it was usually a notable one. Within the week he had presented his family with the "squirrel-face," the "teakettle-spout," the "double-tongue," and one or two minor productions, so they were not entirely unprepared to have him announce that he could make a face like the king of beasts.
During the next few days Mrs. Cane found a lion-face staring at her from all sorts of unexpected places, generally accompanied by a low snarl and a bloodthirsty licking of chops. And on one occasion Mr. Cane had been surprised into boxing the beast's ears and threatening to skin it alive and make a rug of its pelt if it ever sprang out at him again.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the lion-face disappeared and its haunts knew it no more, for Sube had turned to other matters. He was organizing a drum corps. The new enterprise was brought to the attention of his family by a demand for a bass drum.
"A bass drum!" his father exploded with a sound not wholly unlike that vast instrument. "What next! I de-clare, that boy beats—"
He gave up in despair.
Sube's mother had stronger nerves and was much less explosive. "What could you possibly do with a bass drum?" she asked.
"I got to have one for my drum corpse," replied Sube with the air of a man of affairs.
His father gave way to another explosion. "Well, there will be another kind of corpse around here if you ever attempt to perform in this neighborhood!" he threatened.
"Where's the drum your uncle Ned gave you?" asked his mother.
Sube glanced apprehensively at his father. This drum had been heard from before. "It's put away," he mumbled; hastily adding, "That's a snare drum, anyway. What we need is a bass drum!"
The mere thought of a drum was annoying to his father, who declared in a menacing tone: "I hereby warn you that if I ever find a drum on the premises, snare, bass, kettle or any other kind, I'll kick a hole through it! Now don't forget that!"
"Kettle? Did you say kettle?" Sube asked eagerly. "What's a kettle drum?"
"Never mind what it is," retorted his father. "The less you know about drums, the better off you'll be."
"It wouldn't bother you just to have meknowabout it, would it?" Sube persisted.
"That's right! Stick to it!" growled his father. "I suppose I may as well tell you. It's like a brass kettle with a drumhead over the top. Now run along and don't bother me any more."
"But how do you play it?"
"What a question! Why, with sticks, of course!"
But Sube was not to be put off. "How many? One? Or two?" he asked as he edged towards the door.
"Two, of course!" responded his father.
"Like a snare drum?" Sube called back as he tarried in the doorway.
Seeing that he was about to be relieved of his son's presence Mr. Cane amplified a little. "More like two small bass drumsticks," he explained. "Now run along and don't bother me again to-day, for I am very busy."
Sube followed his mother into the kitchen. "How'm I goin' to get a bass drum?" he teased. "Mompsie, how'm I goin' to get—"
"Whatever put this drum business into your head?" she asked. "You know any kind of noise affects your father!"
"We won't make any noise round here," he assured her. "Honest we won't. But we want to march in the Decoration Day parade."
"Why don't you get up a nice little company of soldiers," suggested his mother. "I'll fix a uniform for you, and perhaps your father would let you carry his sword. But I will not help you to get any more drums or other noise-making things. A nice little company of soldiers would be just the thing; and I think your father would drill you once or twice to show you how—"
"Dad drillme! I guess not! I don't want any 'nice little comp'ny of soldiers,' anyway. I want a drum corpse!"
"You talk to the other boys about a nice little company of soldiers. That would be just the thing!"
But Sube was not interested in soldiery. The depths of his being had been sounded by the throb of the Henderson Martial Band. Creative instincts had been aroused that only expression could satisfy. He abandoned the quest of the drum and left thehouse. At the barn he found Gizzard Tobin waiting for him.
"Well, what luck?" called Gizzard as Sube approached.
"Nuthin' doin'," muttered Sube. "Dad said he'd kick a hole through any drum he caught on the premises, and my mother wouldn't do a thing for a drum corpse. She wanted me to get up a pimply little company of soldiers."
"Rotten," voted Gizzard. "What we goin'—"
"Say! But I got onto one good thing!" Sube suddenly recalled. "It's another kind of a drum!"
And Gizzard learned with interest the details of the construction and operation of the kettle drum.
"Hey!" he cried suddenly. "I know where there's a brass kettle! It's a blinger, too!"
"Where?"
"In my gran'mother's parlor! There's a spinning-wheel and a bed-warmer and a lot of ol' fashioned junk!"
"But she won't let you take it."
"Who's goin' to ask 'er?" sneered Gizzard. "I'll jus' sneak in there and borrow it!"
"Aw, you don't dare!"
"I don't, don't I? Well, you jus' come on andwatch me. I'll show you whether I do or not!"
A little later a shiny brass kettle was handed out of one of Grandma Tobin's parlor windows and was slipped into a sack, which was carelessly slung over Sube's shoulder when Gizzard emerged from the kitchen door with two cookies in his hand. That same day Cathead's banjo disappeared, to be found a year later minus the head, which the mice had doubtless devoured. But the new drum corps was still without a bass drum.
Next day, however, Gizzard brought glad tidings. "Hey!" he shouted from afar. "I'm onto a bass drum!"
"Better get off," cautioned Sube; "you might bust it."
"I know where there is one, jus' the same!"
"Where?" Sube was in earnest now.
"My dad says Charley Burton used to have one, and it must be up in his mother's attic now!"
Sube's face lengthened. "Gee! That's hard luck! Ol' lady Burton wouldn't give me a crumb if I was starvin', nor you neither. She thinks we killed that ol' cat of hers."
"Couldn't we get somebody else to ask her for it? Biscuit or somebody?"
"Who'd he tell her it was for?"
"Oh, a Sunday School entertainment or something."
"They don't use drums in Sunday School."
"Then he could tell her it was for a school doin's!"
The two boys looked at each other for a moment, then Sube turned and darted out of the barn. "Be back in a minute!" he shouted as he started for the house.
Presently he returned carrying under his coat an autograph album that was one of Cathead's most cherished possessions. He ran through the pages until he came to the signature of Professor Ingraham, the principal of the school. At the first glance the name startled them; it looked so much like its maker. But after a little it lost its terror and presented nothing but pleasant possibilities.
"I don't know jus' what you think you're goin' to do with that," Gizzard, remarked at length.
"You see, there's lots of room above it," Sube suggested tentatively.
"'Yes, but she'd know the writin' was diff'rent," Gizzard hastened to observe.
For a moment Sube was silent. Then he punched Gizzard jovially in the ribs. "Not if I wrote it on the typewriter!" he cried.
Then he stuck out his stomach in imitation of a bass drum and marched around saying:
"Boom!—Boom!—Boom! Boom! Boom!—Boom!—Boom!—Boom! Boom! Boom!"
"But who'll typewrite it?" asked Gizzard.
"I will—Boom!—Boom!—Boom! Boom! Boom!" and he brought up before Gizzard with a flourish of his imaginary drumstick. "You watch me!"
"How can I watch you when you jus' 'boom' all the time?" asked Gizzard peevishly.
"My mother's goin' to a party," Sube divulged presently, "and the minute she's out of the house we'll sneak into my dad's den, and then I'll show you if I can't typewrite on the typewriter! I'll show you! You jus' wait!"
But as far as Gizzard was concerned Sube might as well have suggested sneaking into a lion's den. "You don't need to showme," he declared. "I'll wait right here!"
The cherished page was carefully removed from the album, and in due time Sube disappeared into the house with it. After a long absence he came out again bearing in his hand an envelope smeared with enough finger prints to convict the whole underworld, but neatly addressed in typewriting to: