"There's capital letters on the dern thing," he explained, "but I couldn't find 'em."
"She'll never know the diff," ventured Gizzard. "It's a long time since she went to school, and I'll bet she's forgot all about 'em."
That afternoon Biscuit Westfall delivered the note; but not until he had received the strongest kind of assurance (including a five-cent piece) that it had been sent by Professor Ingraham, the principal of the school. And from an ambush of shrubbery on the opposite side of the street Sube and Gizzard watched him ascend Mrs. Burton's front porch and ring the bell. Mrs. Burton herself opened the door. She greeted Biscuit cordially, as she was very fond of him. His gentle, dutiful, sweetly pious nature appealed to her. She took the letter with effusive thanks, and learning that an answer was expected, adjusted her spectacles and read it.
She turned it over and glanced at the back. Then she read it a second time.
"Did Professor Ingraham write this?" she asked with a puzzled expression, tapping the missive with an index finger.
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" Biscuit assured her, thinking that he was speaking the truth.
"Strange," she mused. "What can he possibly want of that old drum?"
"He wants it for the school entertainment," Biscuit explained. "There's a rehearsal this afternoon, and he wanted me to take it to the schoolhouse just as quick as I could get it there."
Overwhelmed by Biscuit's unmistakable sincerity Mrs. Burton invited him to step inside and wait while she brought the drum down from the attic. But he could not think of such a thing. His innate thoughtfulness would not permit.
"I'm afraid my feet are too muddy," he said. "I'll wait right here."
Mrs. Burton withdrew. A few moments later the door opened and a huge bass drum rolled out on to the porch.
"I guess it'll have to be tightened a little," she said as she surrendered it to Biscuit. And as he staggered down the walk under his awkward burden,she called after him, "Now you take real good care of it, won't you, Karl?"
Biscuit assured her that he would.
In further pursuance of the supposed instructions from Professor Ingraham, Biscuit delivered the drum at the vestibule of the schoolhouse which, fortunately, was not far away. It was, however, removed a short time afterwards by parties unknown, and was next found in the Canes' barn, where it remained until Decoration Day, silent and shrouded in mystery and horse-blankets.
The evening that it arrived there Sube besought his mother for a grenadier's tall fur cap.
"So you have decided to have a little company of soldiers, have you?" she asked.
"Sort of," he replied evasively.
But Mrs. Cane did not pursue the inquiry. She realized that boys love to be secretive about the most trivial matters, and turned her attention to the contriving of the grenadier's cap. This was finally accomplished to Sube's satisfaction by the coiling of a long fox boa round a form of milliner's wire. Epaulettes of gilt paper, and a pair of red flannel stripes on his intensely civilian knickerbockers completed his uniform.
All things seemed to coöperate to furnish that truly funereal aspect without which no Decoration Day in a small town is complete.
In the first place Hon. E. Dalrymple Smythe of Rochester and Washington, D. C., had accepted an invitation to be the orator of the day. This was a distinct victory over Palmyra and Shortsville, which had to be content with a mere assemblyman and a more mere district attorney—persons of purely local reputation—while Tyre basked in the regal presence of a personage of national fame. Colonel Smythe's voice had occupied more newspaper space than any other east of the Mississippi River. Coughdrops and codliver oil had been named for him. Correspondence schools featured his method of making ANY man a convincing public speaker in thirty days without leaving his own fireside. He was the editor of the ten volume work, "The World's Most Flowery Orations," offered at the low introductory price for thirty days only.
At his first word women wept; at his second, men;and at his third, even the little children burst into uncontrollable sobbing. And Tyre was to have the pleasure of shedding its Decoration Day tears before this master of the lachrymal glands.
A touch of realism was added to the day's program by the funeral of Captain Elias Roy, a past-Commander of the G. A. R. The captain had died the week before, but the body had been held over for burial on Memorial Day; and Colonel Smythe had kindly consented to say a few words at the grave.
The weather fitted the occasion admirably. Gray clouds hung low obscuring the sun and imparting a dreary chill to the atmosphere. Nature herself seemed to have put on mourning.
As usual, it fell to the lot of Mr. Cane to entertain the guest of honor, but as the colonel was to come in the morning and depart in the evening this was not regarded as an onerous duty.
When the colonel stepped from the morning train in the wake of a white-jacketed pullman porter, he was an impressive sight. His glossy silk hat was flawless; his Prince Albert, molded after the latest whim, showed the sought-after sweeping lines; taken altogether he resembled rather an advertisement for ready-to-wear clothes than a fence-mending congressman.
A citizens' committee took him nervously to its official bosom and led him down the platform to two "hacks" the tops of which had been folded back for the dual purpose of affording the colonel a better view of the town, and giving the populace a better view of the colonel. Several persons had volunteered to transport the official party around town in their automobiles, but the committee had declined with thanks, considering that carriages were more dignified and also more deliberate. An automobile would have exhausted the sights of Tyre in about ten minutes, whereas the committee was planning to devote in the neighborhood of two hours of carriage-riding to that delightful task. But Colonel Smythe pleaded fatigue and the necessity of reposeful preparation for the exertions of the afternoon.
He was accordingly taken directly to the home of his host. A few moments later he was stretched at length on the uncompromising bed in the guest chamber, quite unmindful of Mrs. Cane's best lace bedspread, his eyes closed, his mind at rest, his body totally relaxed. How deliciously quiet it was! Even the birds had ceased their springtime chatter. Sleep seemed about to overcome him when he became dimly conscious of a distant throbbing sound.
At first it was rather soothing than otherwise, butas it became louder it began to be annoying. It seemed to come at regular intervals. Throb—throb—throb-throb-throb! He could no longer escape the conviction that it was a distant drumbeat. After a little he could no longer escape the conviction that it was not so distant. Then the piping of fifes could be heard. No tune could be detected, but still it was not a sound that would have been regarded as sleep-inducing.
Mr. and Mrs. Cane were nowhere about. Having the carriage at their disposal for the day they had gone for a little drive in the country. When they drew up before the house an hour later they were very much surprised to see their guest striding up and down the long veranda, his hands clasped behind his back beneath the skirts of his coat, his tall hat on the back of his noble head, and a fat cigar in the corner of his mouth.
"Couldn't seem to rest ... mind too active, I suppose ... thinking up a little something to say this afternoon ... brain works best when my feet are in motion," were a few of the fragments they caught as he strode back and forth.
Mrs. Cane expressed mild surprise. "Couldn't sleep!" she said. "It's so lovely and quiet—I don't see how you could fail to catch a few winks.Our other advantages sometimes fail us, but we can always rely on peace and quietude here in the country."
The colonel made no reply as he continued his beat. After a few rounds he brought up before Mrs. Cane and asked irrelevantly, "Is there a band or a drum corps in this town?"
"Oh, yes!" she assured him. "We have an excellent cornet band and a drum corps as well."
"You'll hear them both this afternoon," Mr. Cane volunteered. "They're sure to be in the parade."
"Where do they do their practicing?" pursued the colonel.
"Sube can tell you more about that than I can," replied the host, turning to Sube who had just put in an appearance. "Where does the band practice, Sube?"
"They used to practice in the barber shop, but now they're practicin' in the town hall," Sube told him.
"Now?" asked the colonel with an unexpected show of interest.
"Oh, no. Not rightnow," replied Sube. "They only practice nights."
"Hum," said the colonel. "Where does this drum corps practice?"
"At the Henderson farm," replied Sube promptly; "that's three miles out in the country."
"Any other musical organizations around here?" the colonel persisted.
"Sir?—No, sir," answered Sube. "But—"
"But what, my lad?" asked the colonel, noting Sube's apparent modesty.
"Nuthin'; but I was jus' wonderin'," mumbled Sube, "if you played in the Rochester band."
As the colonel rather frigidly replied that he most distinctly did not, Sube was nervously forced into the background by his parents, and a moment later was as unostentatiously as possible elbowed into the house.
Two o'clock saw the whole town in the opera house. Three-thirty saw them emerging red-eyed and melting. Three-forty saw the parade in process of formation and nearly ready to move.
The First Division was led by the hearse containing the mortal remains of Captain Roy, flanked on either side by an escort of G. A. R. veterans. Immediately behind the hearse was the Silver Cornet Band; and following close on the heels of the band were two carriages of chief mourners. Then came in order, the G. A. R. veterans bearing their tattered regimental colors; a carriage with Colonel Smythe,Mr. and Mrs. Cane, and the Village President; carriages filled with Village Trustees, Street and Sewer Commissioners, and the Committee on Arrangements wearing fluttering decorations on their breasts; and other prominent citizens in carriages.
The Second Division was made up of the local fire companies led by the Henderson Drum Corps.
Every man, woman and child in the township who was able to walk was eligible for the Third Division, and most of them were there.
While the parade was forming, Grand Marshal Richards from the back of his trusty charger discovered far back in the crowd a martial band to which no place had been assigned, and promptly dispatched one of his aides to conduct them to the head of the Third Division. As the strange band fell in line bystanders noted with interest the name on the head of the bass drum:
Then suddenly it dawned on them that the grenadier in charge was none other than Sube Cane, and that the jaunty kettle-drummer was a gentleman commonly called Gizzard Tobin. Little attention was paid to the assistant bass-drummer, Biscuit Westfall. But he was important. He wielded no stick, yet carried most of the weight of the drum; and he was there from a sense of duty rather than desire. Orders alleged by Sube to have come directly from Professor Ingraham were quite explicit. And as the several fifers and snare-drummers had little to do with the subsequent events of the day they shall remain nameless.
The costumes of Cane's Marital Band were military, but they were far from uniform.
At last the procession moved. The Silver Cornet Band blared out a funeral march several blocks long, at the termination of which the Henderson Drum Corps gave a muffled selection that ended only when the cemetery had been reached. As the vast multitude assembled around the grave the Silver Cornet Band renderedNearer My God to Theewith telling effect. And as the last sad notes died away Colonel E. Dalrymple Smythe removed his hat and began to clear his throat.
"My friends,—" he extended his arms and looked about helplessly, as if to create the impression thatbefore the open grave evenhiswords were powerless. However, it was his intention to remove that impression a little later. As he stood thus transfixed, a hubbub started somewhere back in the crowd. At first fitful and chaotic, it became more steady as it gathered force, and soon settled into a regular beat.
Pluff-a-luff—pluff-pluffpluff-a-luff—pluff-pluffpluff-a-luff—pluff-a-luff—pluff-a-luffpluff-PLUFF!
It was the refrain of slack drums and tin whistles. There was plenty of noise, and plenty of rhythm, but no suspicion of a tune. For some moments Colonel Smythe waited for order to be restored, hands still poised in mid-air. Then he recognized the sound as the one he had previously heard, and feeling certain that no power on earth could stop it, he proceeded with his remarks as best he could.
Several persons motioned frantically for Grand Marshal Richards to quell the disturbance. He nodded his head and dashed off; but he went in the wrong direction—and the band played on.
Then Willum Edson, the leader of the Silver Cornet Band, took the law into his own hands and rushed over to put a stop to the din. But beforehe could get there Sube had brought his selection to a close, and was conversing in a suppressed though audible tone, accompanied by violent gesticulations, with a group of boys who had gathered round his musicians.
"We can't play, hey!—I showed you, didn't I?—It's a fake drum corpse, is it!—Fooled you, didn't I?"
"Yaa-a-a-ah! But they shut you up!" taunted somebody. "You dassen't play again!"
"We dassen't, hey!"
And before the colonel was fully aware that he had the floor to himself Cane's Marital Band had begun its second number.
Again Willum Edson made a rush for Sube's band. But Sube refused to be cowed. No doubt he suspected the rival musician of professional jealousy, for he swung his drumstick with a flourish that surpassed any of his previous performances. And, pressing too close, Willum Edson received a vigorous thump in the pit of the stomach, whereupon he straightway lost his temper and gave the drum corps leader an angry shove.
Sube promptly fell over a headstone, marking the resting place of Experience, Third Wife of Carso Norton, pulling Biscuit and the bass drum on top ofhim. When he had regained his feet he discovered to his dismay a large triangular hole through the drumhead that took the MARIT entirely out of MARITAL.
He had time for the utterance of just one angry bleat in the direction of Willum Edson, when Nature took a hand in the conflict and let fall one of her torrential spring downpours. A mad scramble for cover followed.
The few who had brought umbrellas raised them, and then had to fight for the privilege of remaining under them. Those who had come in carriages hastened to get under the protection of the tops. The members of the Silver Cornet Band trailed their instruments to keep them from filling with water as they beat a hurried but organized retreat. The fire companies in their spotless parade uniforms broke ranks and scattered. Cane's Marital Band took refuge under a piece of canvas that had been spread over the pile of soil thrown from the open grave, with the exception of Sube and Biscuit, who were too much encumbered by the bass drum to secure a place and were compelled to look for other quarters.
At the first splash of rain the colonel rescued his silk hat from a bystander (who had attempted toprotect it by putting it under his coat) and casting dignity to the winds made a rush for his carriage. He clambered in beside Mrs. Cane and sat helplessly in the downpour while Mr. Cane and the Village President struggled with the ungainly top.
The driver was too much engaged with his plunging steeds to lend a hand, but he superintended the job with superb profanity. When finally the top had yielded to their efforts Mr. Cane, drenched and disgusted, pulled himself into the carriage as the colonel explained:
"Thatwas the noise! The identical noise! The noise that passed under my window and disturbed my rest! What in—What was it?"
As Mrs. Cane murmured that she hadn't the slightest idea, something in the crowd caught her eye. It was a tall grenadier cap that had become partly unwound and gave the appearance of having a tail. And nearby was a large bass drum with a hole through one head. A fleeting glance and it was gone. But a look at her husband told her that he too had seen it.
At this point the carriage became hopelessly involved in a jam of vehicles and stopped. As it stood there the downpour moderated, and finally settled into a gentle shower. And just before itstarted on again shouts and laughter could be distinctly heard. A most unseemly proceeding for the return from a funeral, and on Decoration Day of all days!
Mrs. Cane leaned out and looked forward, but she could distinguish nothing but a hooting, howling mob that seemed to be crowding round the hearse.
At length the carriage moved; and as it caught up with the hearse she beheld to her horror the cause of the shocking levity. Inside the hearse was an imitation lion pacing restlessly back and forth, as it lashed its bass drumstick tail in evident anger. There was something strangely familiar about the beast, and especially about the tawny mane of foxlike fur that was wrapped around its neck.
Suddenly the creature whirled about—and Mrs. Cane found herself looking directly into one of Sube's best lion-faces. She fell back into the cushions with a gasp. Then, perceiving that her guest was looking the other way and had not yet seen the horrible sight, she clutched her husband's arm.
"Drive on!" she pleaded desperately. "Drive on quickly!"
"But how can I?" he returned with a gesture of futility.
At that instant the colonel caught sight of thelion. His mouth fell open. He drew back in surprise. Then he did something that he had not done in years. He put aside all the care and sadness of the world; he surrendered what little dignity the downpour had left him, and throwing back his head, he bellowed with laughter.
A sudden shift in the jam of vehicles let the hearse move out of their sight, but the colonel followed it with his eyes as far as he could see it, leaning out of the carriage for one last look, and roaring and chortling until he was weak.
By the time the carriage had reached the Cane homestead Mr. Cane was beaming, in spite of his disheveled appearance.
"Yes, sir," he boasted, "that boy of mine is certainly a skeezix! Great sense of humor; he can get fun out of anything—even a funeral! What do you think of that boy of mine anyway, Colonel?"
"Ours!" Mrs. Cane corrected. "Ourboy!"
Cane's Marital Band never formally disbanded. Except as it was dissolved by the rain it is still legally extant. But it never assembled again after its initial appearance in public. However, its short term of activity furnished the town with a topic of conversation for some time to come; and although the subject was studiously avoided in the Cane household, it was freely discussed in the barn.
Sube was unable to explain just how he happened to get into the hearse. He didn't know, himself. And when pressed for particulars he instantly took the defensive.
"I guess I didn't want to get wet, did I?" he demanded.
"Wet! Say, you was soaked before you ever went near that hearse!" cried Gizzard, who was still suffering from a slight twinge of envy.
"Well, Hi Wilbur, who was drivin' it, hollered to me to shut the doors, and when I was shuttin' 'em I saw how nice and dry it was inside, so I toldBiscuit to bring the drum down here to the barn, and I climbed in and slammed the doors and had a bully ride! And say! I didn't tell you about the drum, did I?"
"No, you didn't," muttered Gizzard, as there materialized before his eyes a sadly ruptured drumhead. "What you goin' to do about it, anyway?"
"Goin'to do?—I've done it!"
"Done it! What'd you do?"
"Why, Biscuit brought the drum back here to the barn. I had all I could do to keep him from takin' it back to ol' lady Burton jus' it was. But I tol' 'im Mr. Ingraham wasn't through with it yet, so he left it." The boys grinned knowingly at each other as Sube continued: "Well, I washed the printin' off and jus' soon as it got dark I sneaked the drum up on Burton's front porch and turned the good side up, and then I rung the bell and ducked. I hid behind a tree and watched and pretty soon ol' lady Burton opened the door. When she got her eye on the drum she looked all around for somebody, and when she couldn't find anybody she took it inside.
"The next day she come to call on my mother, and I thought she'd come to squeal on me, and I listened at the door so's to know what to say; but she never said a word about the drum at all!"
"She didn't!" cried Gizzard delightedly.
"Never peeped about it!" Sube assured him. "But you'd ought to heard her rip ol' Prof Ingraham up the back!"
"What's he been doin'?" asked Gizzard.
"I don't know. I couldn't understand; but she called him all kinds of names! She said he was underbred and ign'rant and ill-mannered and illiterate and a lot of stuff like that, and I most b'lieve we'll have a new principal next year!"
"Say! She'd ought to gone to school to him for a while! He's the worst principal to chew about manners I ever saw."
"Gee! Do you s'pose vacation'll ever get here?" sighed Sube.
"It don't ack like it," replied Gizzard dubiously. "Last week was about six months long, and there was one day of vacation at that."
"Seems to me as if time was goin' backwards," complained Sube.
But it was not. It was going forward at its regular speed. The difficulty was that the boys' minds were outstripping it. In due time vacation arrived, and a long happy summer stretched itself out before them.
Mr. Cane believed in vacations. He also believed in teaching boys to be industrious. He still harbored the old-fashioned idea that every boy should be required to do some useful work every day of his life, Sundays excepted. And while Sube and his brothers with their more up-to-date point of view could see the fallacy of his position, they were unable to reform him with any amount of argument.
As Sube seated himself at the breakfast table one morning and glanced over his working orders for the day, a scowl came over his usually sunny countenance.
"What's the good of callin' it a vacation if a feller has to labor all the time?" he muttered.
Mr. Cane glanced at Sube over the top of his newspaper as he replied: "Now we are not going to open up that old discussion again. The way you boys take on over an hour's work around the place makes me sick! Why, when I was your age, Sube, I was glad to work from daylight until dark for just my board; and it wasn't any such board as you boys get, either."
"Yes, I'll bet you were glad," growled Sube.
"Certainly I was glad," his father assured him. "In those days boys expected to work. They weren't brought up with the idea of lolling at ease that you boys seem to have."
"Did you work every day?" asked Cathead.
"Every day."
"Every single day?"
"Certainly."
"Didn't you ever take a day off?"
"Oh, occasionally I'd take a day off to go fishing or do a little studying—"
"I don't s'pose they had circuses in those days," interjected Sube.
"Oh, perhaps once during the summer my father would take me to see a good dog and animal show," explained Mr. Cane as he folded his napkin and left the table.
"They didn't use to go in swimmin' in those days, did they?" Sube muttered, taking care that his father did not hear.
"Or play ball?" supplemented Cathead cautiously.
"Ain't that jus' like a man?" growled Sube as the door closed behind their father. "Give a feller a lot of work to do and not even let himkickabout it!"
"What you gotta do, anyway?" asked Cathead.
"Plenty," grunted Sube; "plenty."
"Well—I cut it the last time," ventured Cathead. "It's your turn."
"Yes, but it takes about half a day to cut the ol' lawn," grumbled Sube. "I'll bet your job won't take you half an hour. What you got to do, anyway?"
"Me? Oh, I got to thin the beets."
"Huh!—A snap!" sneered Sube, as he turned to his brother Sim, and asked: "What'd he give you?"
"Sproutin' p'tatoes," answered Sim.
"How many you got to do?"
"Two bushels."
"Nuthin' but a picnic," declared Sube. "I'm the only one that's got arealjob!"
After breakfast Sube repaired to the barn, where he found the lawn-mower waiting for him.
"Ha! There you are, you ol' grass-chewer, you!" he exclaimed malevolently. "Thought you'd catch me off my guard, didn't you?—Well this is the way I treat vill'uns likeyou!" He seized an oil can, and thrusting it between the blades of the lawn-mower as he would have plunged a dagger between the ribs of an enemy, he gave several vicious squirts. "There!" he cried. "Take that!—And that!"
He drew back a pace and contemplated his enemy witheringly. "'Nuff?—Oh! Ain't you? Ain'tyou, now?—Well take that, then!—And that!" He gave another cruel thrust into the very vitals of the defenseless machine, and then withdrew his dripping blade. "Youwillwaylay me just inside the door of this cave, will you!—You will, will you!—I guess you won't do that again—"
"Who you talkin' to?" came a voice at the door.
Sube jumped back, ready for another antagonist, as Cathead entered.
"Oh! It's you, is it?" asked Sube, about equally divided between relief and confusion. "I thought it was—that it might be—that—Why, I was jus' oilin' the machine!"
But Cathead did not press the point. He had other things in view. "Say, Sube," he began at once, "If you think thinnin' the beets is such a snap job, what'll you take to do 'em?"
Sube turned on his brother with a glare as he replied: "What d'you think I am! Don't you s'pose I got enough to do for one day?"
"Oh, you got enough to do without pay; but I was goin' to pay you," replied Cathead evenly.
"What do you want to do to-day?" demanded Sube.
"Nuthin' much. Do you want the job, or don't you?"
"I don't know yet. What'll you gimme?"
"I'll give you a dime. And it's an awful easy way to earn a dime, too," asserted Cathead suavely.
"I don't care so much about the money," vapored Sube; "but I'm goin' to be awful tired when I get through cuttin' the lawn."
"Well, if you don't care about the money, what do you care about?" demanded Cathead.
And suddenly Sube remembered all the valuable property he had parted with in order to get a much-needed haircut, and that Cathead had steadfastly refused to be treated like an "uncle," but had insisted that he had bought everything outright.
"Let's see," muttered Sube; "you still got my automatic?"
This high-sounding weapon was an antique revolver with the cylinder missing, but it was the apple of his eye.
"Why, yes," agreed Cathead. "I'll give you that."
"And my billiard ball?" added Sube.
Cathead had very little use for this misshapen trophy of the fire in the People's Pool Parlor, and readily included it. And one by one Sube enumerated all the things of which he had previously been mulcted, and they all came back to him. Then Cathead took his fish-pole and hurried off to join Cottontop Sigsbee for a day's sport with the finny family.
A few moments later, as Sube was trundling the lawn-mower out of the barn door he was hailed by Sim.
"What you want?" asked Sube a little bit peevishly.
"I wanta talk to you a minute," replied Sim with a nervous laugh. "You see, I was jus' down lookin' at those p'tatoes, and, now—you know—now—you know I had to sprout a couple of bushels—"
Sim was at a loss for the words to express the desired meaning most effectively.
"What of it?" grunted Sube. "Are you through?"
"I should say I ain't!" cried Sim. "Why, I ain't started yet!"
"You better get busy, then," advised Sube as he started on with the mower.
"Wait a min-ute! Can't you?" cried Sim.
"I got work to do," asserted Sube as he brought the mower to a standstill. "If you got an'thing to say to me, make it snappy."
"That's what I'm tryin' to do," whined Sim, "if you'll only hold your horses long enough. Now—now I got a sore hand, and now—I can't sproutp'tatoes very good; and now—what'll you take to sprout 'em?"
Sube glanced at his brother sharply. "Where you wanta go to-day?" he demanded.
Sim squirmed uneasily as he scrutinized the palm of his injured hand, looking in vain for something that even remotely resembled a sore spot, and digging diligently with his thumbnail in the hope of unearthing one. "Nowheres much," he replied finally.
"All right then! What you yappin' about? Go on back and do your work," advised Sube as he made a move to proceed with the lawn-mower.
"Aw, wait a min-ute! Can't you? Give a feller a chance to say some'pm! Can't you?"
"Well?" Sube rested on his lawn-mower expectantly.
"Now—now Ted Horner's comin' for me at ha'past nine to see—now—to see if I can—now—can go out to their farm to spend the day."
"Well?"
"Why, now—now—I thought maybe I could get you—"
Sube opened negotiations without waiting for Sim to conclude his statements. "What'll you gimme?" he asked.
"What'll you take?"
"Well, what'll you gimme?"
"Well, what'll you take?"
"Look here!" cried Sube with exasperation. "Ain't I got to know what you pay before I can go to work for you?"
"Yes, and ain't I got to know what you charge 'fore I can hire you?" returned Sim feebly.
"Huh!" snorted Sube as he made a feint to go on with the lawn-mower.
Sim came to time. "Give you a dime," he offered magnanimously.
Without deigning to reply Sube started on with the mower. He had cut twice across the lawn before Sim appeared at the corner of the house.
"Hey, Sube! Give you fifteen!" he called.
"Nuthin' doin'," returned Sube as he went about his work with renewed vigor.
He had two more strips to his credit when Sim stayed his progress with an offer of twenty cents.
"I don't work for less'n a quarter," Sube announced loftily as he resumed his work.
"Hold on a minute! Can't you!" yelled Sim with unconcealed exasperation. And as Sube halted in a position from which he could begin activities again with very little effort, Sim continued more affably:"I only got twenty cents! I can't give you any more than I got, can I?"
"You had a quarter a couple of days ago," charged Sube with an air of suspicion. "What'd you do with the other nickel?"
"Spent it."
"What for?"
"Some new rubbers for my slingshot."
"Oh, that'll be all right!"
"Whatwill?"
"I'll take the twenty cents and the slingshot. Bring 'em to me before you start."
And the lawn-mower moved on with just a little more noise and a little more speed than before.
The handle of a slingshot protruded from Sube's hip-pocket, and money jingled as he walked a few minutes later when Gizzard Tobin, Biscuit Westfall and Stucky Richards swooped down on him as he humbly toiled. The new-comers had their tennis racquets, and Biscuit was resplendent in a new pair of white knickerbockers.
Sube fixed a disdainful glance on the snowy trousers, instantly recalling Nancy Guilford's partiality for such raiment, as he inquired, "What you all dolled up for?"
"Comp'ny," responded Biscuit cheerfully. "We got a missionary visitin' to our house. But say, see what I got!"
Sube raised his eyes to the speaker's hand and beheld a tennis ball with the unaccustomed advantage of a cover. "Where'd you get it?" he asked listlessly.
"Miss Carruthers give it to me. It's only 'bout a year or two old! Ain't it a peach! Hurry upand get the lawn done and then we'll have some doubles."
Sube pointed to Biscuit's shoes. "You can't play with those heels on, you know."
"Well, I can go barefoot, can't I?"
"Not if 'mama' knows it," twitted Sube with an offensive nasal accent on the mama, as he grasped the handle of the lawn-mower and resumed his task while his callers disappeared in the direction of the tennis court.
After a few moments Biscuit reappeared on a run, minus his shoes and stockings. "Hey, Sube!" he yelled. "The net ain't up! Where'll I find it?"
"I'll tend to that," growled Sube. "You go on back to the court."
And he abandoned the lawn-mower and went into the house. After a long wait he emerged from the back door and started towards the court. He did not turn back when Biscuit reminded him that he had forgotten the net, but proceeded silently to the nearest net post, to which he pinned a sheet of paper. Then he returned to his work on the lawn.
Three mystified boys scrambled to their feet and hurried over to examine the paper. It read.
GrOunD RuLeSALL tHe WOrK On tHe pLACe MuStBe FiniSHied BeFOre tHe teNiSNett iS Put uP.By OrDOR COmm
"Now what does he mean by that?" asked Biscuit.
"He means they can't nobody play on this here court till his work is done," interpreted Gizzard.
"Well, you don't catch me doin' any of his work!" cried Stucky. "I got enough of my own!"
"Me neither—" began Biscuit, when Gizzard interrupted.
"Listen here!" he shouted. "Quit your beefin' and listen here a minute! I got a scheme!"
"If it's a scheme for us to do his work you needn't tell it!" returned Biscuit. "I've done more work this mornin' than he does in a week—"
But Gizzard brushed him ungently aside. "Dry up! Dry up! Cut out the noise and listen a minute! Three people can't play any decent tennis! We gotta havefourif we want to play the game! It wouldn't take us five minutes to clean up his work—and it's his court, anyway!"
Biscuit yielded ungraciously. He grumbled all the way to the front lawn, and then suddenly became embued with enthusiasm, and took upon himself the honor of informing Sube that they were at his service.
Sube was apparently not expecting anything of the sort. "Do you fellows mean that you're go'n' to help me with my work?" he asked incredulously.
"Sure thing!" cried Biscuit cheerfully. "You don't s'pose we want to be playin' tennis out therewhile you're workin', do you? And besides, the court belongs to you!"
"Say!—You're good scouts, all right!" Sube exclaimed with unguarded admiration.
"What-all you got t'do?" inquired Gizzard.
"Well, you give this ol' mower a few shoves, Giz, and I'll show the other fellers what to do," responded Sube genially.
Gizzard seized the handles of the lawn-mower and assiduously applied himself to the task of depilating the lawn, while Stucky retired to the garden and began on hands and knees to thin the blushing beets to five inches, putting the thinnings into a basket for greens.
Biscuit followed Sube about whining repeatedly:
"What amIgo'n'ta do? Sube, what amIgo'n'ta do?"
"I don't know as youcando the only job that's left," Sube taunted with a triumphant gleam at the immaculate knickerbockers. "It's pretty pa'tic'lar work."
"I'll bet y'u I can do it! What is it?" cried the unsuspecting Biscuit. "Show it to me! I'll eat it alive!"
"Did you ever sprout any potatoes?" inquired Sube as he led the way to the cellar.
"No; but I'll bet y'u I can do it!"
"Well, we'll see about that," was Sube's dubious-sounding answer as he guided Biscuit towards the potato bin.
"Gee, but it's dark in here," whined Biscuit.
Sube stopped short. "Look here!" he warned. "If it's too dark for you down here in this cool cellar, you go on outdoors, and I'll do these p'tates myself—or let one of the other fellers do 'em."
"Oh, no!" Biscuit hastened to assure him. "It ain't dark at all any more. It jus' seemed so at first. I can seefinenow."
"Well, all right then," muttered Sube. "But if you're goin' to back out, I want to know it 'fore you begin."
"No, sir! I ain't go'n'ta back out," Biscuit asserted resolutely.
Sube picked up a potato from which several long white sprouts were dangling. "You jus' give 'em a simple twist of the wrist," he explained coördinating the action with the words, "and there you are!" He held up the beardless tuber for Biscuit's inspection. "Now, do you s'pose you can do that?" he asked.
"Of course I can," Biscuit replied disdainfully. "It's jus' like wipin' dishes; and I've wiped mymother's dishes ever since I was big enough to walk!"
This burst of confidence was destined to come back to plague Biscuit, although at the time of its utterance Sube appeared not to have heard it.
"Let's see you do a few," was all he said.
Biscuit was a little awkward, but he managed to denude a large potato of its foliage and handed it to Sube for approval. Sube examined it very carefully.
"That's pretty fair," he admitted; "but you must clean 'em off good. Chuck 'em in there," he added as he tossed the potato into a bushel basket.
"How many you got to do?" inquired Biscuit, plunging briskly into his task.
"Six bushels," replied Sube, with anticipation of the day when he would be called upon to sprout potatoes on his own account. "And when the basket's full dump it over there in the corner. As soon as you get the six bushels done you come out and help Stucky with the beets. It's awful hot out there in the sun." And Sube withdrew, leaving Biscuit in sole possession of the musty cellar.
On returning to the lawn Sube found Gizzard busy with the clippers. "What! Got her all cut!" he cried delightedly.
"You bet y'u!" replied Gizzard. "And I'm pretty near through with the clippin', too."
"Well, I'll put the ol' mower away and stick up the net. Chuck the clippers in the barn as you go by. Dad always gets sore if we don't put the tools away."
He had just finished stretching the net when Stucky walked out on the court.
"You're not done already!" beamed Sube.
"Youknowit!" was Stucky's self-important reply.
"What did you do with the greens?"
"Give 'em to Annie."
"Stucky, you're a brick church!"
"Where's Biscuit?" asked Gizzard who at that moment came panting up.
"Down cellar sproutin' p'tates," replied Sube. "But I had him leave the new ball outside. I was afraid he'd get it dirty."
"Wisht he'd hurry up," said Stucky. "We wanta get to playin'. Don't you s'pose he's done?"
"Oh, I wouldn't want to bother him right in the middle of a bushel," Sube remonstrated. "Let's have a little three-hander while we're waitin'. I'll stand the two of you."
The little three-hander had become almost a set, and, strange to say, Biscuit had been entirely forgotten when his mother, accompanied by a slight, sallow gentleman in a black suit, drew up by the side of the street in a surrey from the livery.
"Boys!" she called.
The game stopped. There was momentary confusion among the players. Sube slipped the new ball into his pocket and carelessly kicked his sweater over a pair of shoes and stockings lying beside the court, before he appeared to be able to locate the speaker. When at last his eyes encountered Mrs. Westfall's, he snatched off his cap with elaborate gusto and sang out politely:
"Good morning, M's Westfall! Did you call us?"
"Yes," she replied sharply. "Where's Karl?"
"Ma'am?"
"Is Karl here?"
"Oh! No, ma'am."
"I gave him permission to come here and play tennis!" she cried with visible irritation. "Hasn't he been here?"
"No, ma'am. We ain't seen him this mornin'."
Mrs. Westfall was annoyed. "He's going driving with us!" she informed them. "Do you know where he is?"
"No, ma'am! He hasn't been around here!"
At that moment a movement at the rear of the house and in the immediate neighborhood of the cellar door caught Mrs. Westfall's eye. An animated mass of dirt and potato sprouts that might by some stretch of the imagination have been taken for a human being, emerged and paused to regard itself. For a moment it brushed desperately at the place where trousers might have been expected to hang had it been a male member of the human family. A cloud of stifling dust arose; and out of the midst of the cloud came a wail of distress that Mrs. Westfall recognized as the voice of her missing son.
Her astonishment gave way to annoyance, quickly followed by a surge of red anger. She handed the reins to her escort and leaped from the surrey with the agility of a tigress.
Sube involuntarily fell back a few steps muttering: "Why! That must be him! I wonder where he's been!"
But he need have no fear, for this was his day. He was immune from disaster of any kind. The enraged woman rushed past him, and seizing Biscuit by the nape of the neck, hauled him over her knee and repeatedly applied to his person a large red hand, utterly regardless of the nebulous masses of dust that arose at each stroke.
At first Biscuit put up a terrified resistance, attempting desperately to get a hearing for his plea of justification; but when the blows began to rain down on him he gave himself up to such solace as the human voice affords.
He cried; then he bawled; and as the chastisement proceeded he bellowed lustily. It was not so much the physical pain, nor the anguish of outraged innocence, although he felt both keenly, as it was the burning disgrace of being chastised in the presence of his fellows.
But his lamentations had little effect on his mother. She ceased her ministrations only when her strength was spent.
"There!" she gasped with her final blow. "You—dirty—boy!!—Look at your bare feet!"
Biscuit looked at them. They were indeed bare, and very, very dirty.
"You know you are forbidden to go barefooted!" she charged with a gesture that seemed to indicate that she contemplated a renewal of the assault. "And look at your beautiful new trousers! They'reruined!!"
Biscuit glanced down at them, at the same time keeping up a defensive blubbering.
"You deceived me!" she continued the arraignment. "You told me you wanted to come here and play tennis!—And you never came near here!—When I stop for you I find the other boys playing like little gentlemen, while you are off by yourself getting into—Goodness knows what!—Go home, you dirty boy, as fast as ever you can get there! I'll finish with you in private!"
The thing was beyond Biscuit; it was too much for him. The harm was done. It was too late for explanations. He made no attempt to reply, but limped, still blubbering, in the direction of his shoes, the coarse turf torturing his tender feet.
Mrs. Westfall followed menacingly at a little distance with further animadversions, when suddenly she remembered her guest, whose presence she had entirely overlooked in the stress of her emotions. She did not doubt that he was looking on with mortification and horror; and, accordingly, with such moderation of her angry voice as she could command, she added:
"Go home, you wicked boy, and pray to God to forgive you."
As the Westfall family withdrew, practical Sube whispered to his companions, "If Biscuit's on to his job he'll put on an extra pair of pants before he does any prayin'."
Fate gave indications of having designed Sube for a business career, and although he tried to keep out of the clutches of trade during vacation he was not entirely successful.
When, one morning, Mr. Gizzard Tobin, always Sube's friend and often his well-wisher, found Sube seated on the bottom of an upturned pail in his father's barn laboriously endeavoring to cut in two with a pair of lawn clippers a perfectly good tennis net, his modest inquiry as to Sube's purpose in so doing was met with the response that it was for "luc'ative bus'ness."
Regarding this explanation as somewhat indefinite he asked, "What bus'ness?"
"I told you it's for bus'ness," Sube informed him rather stiffly, and then recalling a phrase with which Annie had crushed the iceman a few moments before, he added, "But that is neither here nor there."
Gizzard was susceptible to high-sounding phrases,and he was accordingly impressed; but having nothing equally lofty in his own vocabulary he attempted no reply.
Sube snipped on in silence until the net dropped on the floor in two pieces. Then he tossed aside the clippers, and catching up the smaller piece of net spread it out before him very much as a tailor displays a handsome panting, and announced:
"Now we're ready for bus'ness."
"Bus'ness!" sneered Gizzard. "Bus'ness! I'd like to know what bus'ness uses a ol' piece of tennis net."
"Lots of bus'nesses uses nets," replied Sube with an air of superiority; "but that is neither here nor there."
At this second flight Gizzard began to feel that he was seriously handicapped by his lack of education. But he struggled as best he could against the overwhelming odds by asking rather peevishly:
"What bus'nesses uses nets? Name one!"
"Fishermen use nets; but that is neither here nor there. I'll tell you another—"
"I'm goin' home," muttered Gizzard, beginning to feel that he was entirely outclassed.
"Don't you want to be in the new bus'ness?" asked Sube in astonishment.
"Not unless I know what it is," murmured Gizzard as he tarried in the doorway.
"Why, it's catchin' wild animals!" shouted Sube in his enthusiasm. "We'll tangle 'em up in the net so's they can't get away and then we'll shut 'em up in cages and sell 'em!"
"That ain't a bus'ness," growled Gizzard sullenly; "it's nuthin' but a game."
"No, it ain't a game!" Sube insisted. "I tell you it's a reg'lar bus'ness, and there's money in it!"
But Gizzard had been the victim of bitter experience. "If you mean the trappin' bus'ness," he said, "there's nuthin' in it! I've trapped, and Iknow!"
"Trappin' bus'ness? Now who said an'thing about the trappin' bus'ness? I don't mean the trappin' bus'ness at all! I mean the bus'ness of catchin' stray cats!"
"But you said there was money in it," returned Gizzard with a trace of disappointment. "Who'd be fool enough to pay for stray cats?"
"P'fessor Silver would!" declared Sube jubilantly.
"Who's P'fessor Silver?"
"He's the ol' guy that's stayin' at M's Rude's. Wears those big round goggles—you know! Always sneakin' up on bugs and lookin' at 'em through a magnifyin'-glass."
"What'shep'fessor of?"
"Hobart College!"
"And he'll pay for ol' cats?"
"You're right he will! Fif-ty cents apiece!"
"Fif-tycents apiece? Aw, what'd he want of ol' cats enough to pay fif-ty cents for 'em?"
"That is neither here nor there," declared Sube, "so long as he does pay for 'em."
"S'pose that ol' net'd hold a cat?" questioned Gizzard.
"Would it hold a cat? Would it? Say, boy, that net'd hold a elephant! But that is neither here nor there, 'cause all we—"
But Sube did not finish what he started to say because of a peculiar interruption. For Gizzard, feeling that drastic action was necessary to offset Sube's continued use of his lofty new phrase, walked over and dealt the net a vicious kick. His foot caught in its tricky meshes and a quick jerk on Sube's part did the rest. In another instant Gizzard found himself prostrate on the floor with Sube standing over him yelling:
"You're a tiger or an elephant or some'pm and I'm a native tryin' to capture you!"
The proposition did not appeal to Gizzard, and he made an attempt to rise, but Sube easily tripped him again. Several subsequent attempts met the same fate. Then Gizzard, bellowing with rage, started in to kick the net to pieces. This he found to be a difficult task. The more he kicked, the more tangled he became, and the more angry he got. But he did not give up the struggle until he was wound up into a very fair semblance of a mummy.
Meanwhile Sube had been hopping about his victim, shouting orders to a couple of imaginary helpers called Sambo and Rastus, and pulling or throwing the net where it would do the most good. He thoroughly enjoyed the contest and warmly congratulated his catch at its termination.
"You certainly put up an elegant fight, Giz!" he exclaimed. "You'd make a bully tiger! And now I'll know what to do when I get a fierce ol' tomcat in there!"
But Gizzard was in no mood for compliments. "Let me up now," was all that he replied.
When the smoke of battle had cleared away a co-partnership was formed. The terms were quickly arranged on a fifty-fifty basis; but the more important matter of selecting a name required some little time and a great deal of discussion.
"Why not call it Tobin & Cane Cat Company?" suggested Gizzard with his customary modesty.
Sube shook his head. "That wouldn't do, 'cause we might want to catch other wild animals besides cats," he explained.
"What other wild animals? I'd like to know."
"Oh, any wild animals that happened to come prowlin' around."
"Name some of 'em," Gizzard persisted.
"Woodchucks, foxes,—skunks—"
"Say," interrupted Gizzard, "you can have my share of all the skunks you catch in that net! But I won't help you. You couldn't fool the p'fessor on a skunk, anyway! He'd jus' get out his little magnifyin'-glass and hold it over a skunk for about a minute— And besides—"
"All right," Sube agreed; "we won't catch any skunks if you don't want to. But we could! And hey! I got a name!"
"What?"
"Let's call it Cane & Tobin—Big Game!"
And although Gizzard felt that the euphonic effect of Tobin & Cane would have been an improvement, he acquiesced.
The new concern opened for business at once, and within half an hour had made its first capture. Thehunters were stealing cautiously past a neighbor's garden, carrying the net between them, when Sport, Sube's dog, chased a large tiger cat out from between the rows of corn and directly into the net. The boys did little except to drop the net and keep out of reach of the snarling, spitting, clawing beast until it had become involved beyond possibility of escape.
Carefully carrying the net on two sticks, they bore their prey to their place of business, where they made ready for his accommodation a cage that had once housed a thriving family of rabbits. Before attempting to incarcerate him, however, they formally christened him Gyp the Blood.
Gyp had not occupied the net for any great length of time, but he had become very much attached to it, and vigorously resisted all efforts to deprive him of its clinging comfort. Force and strategy were tried in vain. Then Sube suggested the use of hypnotism.
"You see," he explained, "if I could charm 'im like they do snakes, he'd be as gentle as a little rabbit, and I could untangle 'im from that net as easy as unrollin' a piece of paper."
"Snake charmin' is all right if it works; but if it don't work, you get killed! Go to it, if you can do it! Say, how do you charm a thing, anyway?"
"That's easy. You jus' look 'em in the eye andkinda whistle a little tune, and keep on lookin' 'em in the eye and gettin' closer and closer, and pretty soon without their knowin' what you're doin' at all—why, they're all charmed! But if they get on that you're charmin' 'em! Wow!—Then look out!"
Gizzard was greatly interested in the occult art. "How can you tell when you're done?" he asked eagerly.