When Ronnie entered the house, he was whistling a tune through the space between his two front teeth. In the living room he found Phil sprawled out on the couch with his head propped up against a pillow and a comic book in his hands. Phil turned a page and looked up at Ronnie. “Hi!” he said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Down in the village.” Ronnie went over to Dad’s desk to see if there might be some important-looking papers as a result of the meeting that afternoon. “Don’t you get tired of lying around all the time?” he asked Phil.
“Not me.” Phil shifted his position. “It’ll take me another month to rest up from a year of school. What’re you looking for?”
“Oh—nothing. Maybe a deed to the village property.”
“Nothing like that—yet. Gramp’s lawyer arrived soon after you got booted away from the window, and they got nowhere from then on!”
“How’d you know what happened to me?”
“Because I was listening from the other side—from the hall! Soon’s the lawyer arrived, Gramps began demanding a lot more money for the property than the Seaway wanted to give, and they argued about that for a while and thenMr. Evans left. I’m telling you all this because I know you’re going to ask me anyway.”
Ronnie nodded. “Sure I want to know about it. Where’s Dad?”
“Out in the barn, I think.”
Ronnie turned and headed for the kitchen, where he was met with a frown from Mrs. Butler, who did the housework and prepared the meals for the Rorths.
Mrs. Butler was a huge woman with a heavy-set jaw and a sharp, straight nose and piercing eyes that darted rapidly from one place to another.
“Now don’t you be running off somewhere!” she warned Ronnie. “Supper’s nearly ready to serve up, and if it’s like usual I’ll have to hunt the four corners of the farm to find everyone.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean no ma’am.”
“If you’re going out back, take a look at the gas tank for me, will you? I don’t think it’s been exchanged in a month.”
The indicator showed the tank to be almost half-full. Ronnie passed this information on to Mrs. Butler and then hurried toward the barn, chasing a dozen chickens out of his path.
His father was sitting on the homemade, bicycle-propelled grindstone sharpening one of the blades to his haymower. He didn’t look up from his work as Ronnie came to a stop at his side and stood watching him.
“Want me to spell you, Dad?” Ronnie shouted above the racket.
Mr. Rorth slowed down his pumping and then climbed off. “All right,” he answered. “I’m on the last one, but my legs are getting tired.”
Ronnie climbed onto the seat and started turning the pedals. The eight-inch-diameter stone began to whirl. Sparks shot in every direction as Mr. Rorth laid the edge of the blade against the stone.
A few minutes later, he signaled the boy to stop. “There, that’s better,” he said, running his finger cautiously along the edge of the blade. “Now if the weather holds out, I can get the north field cut and maybe into the loft.”
“You’re going to have company in the morning, Dad,” Ronnie said.
“Nowwho’s coming?” Mr. Rorth sounded annoyed. “I wasted the whole afternoon on this property deal when I should have been haying. Now who’s going to take over another half a day?”
Ronnie sympathized with his father. It wasn’t an easy job teaching agriculture in the local high school during the winter and then trying to run a sixty-acre farm during the growing season. Ronnie wanted to say, “I’ll give you a hand, Dad,” but he couldn’t summon enough will power to do it because he was looking forward so eagerly to starting his business venture.
Instead, he answered his father’s question. “Mr. Caldwell, Dad.”
“Caldwell? Never heard of him.”
“Me neither, until a little while ago. He came driving into the village while Bill and I were there, and he asked us to show him all around. And after we’d done that, he said he’d an idea he wanted to see you about—you and Grandfather.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure Grandfather can take care of it by himself.”
Mrs. Butler’s voice bellowed from the rear door. “Comeand get it! Come and get it before I throw it down the sink.”
Mr. Rorth grinned to himself. “Nice wholesome creature, that Mrs. Butler. But heaven knows what we would do without her.”
Mr. Rorth wiped his hands free of grease and started toward the barnyard door. Ronnie snapped off the overhead bulb and followed. “Dad,” he said, hurrying to catch up, “Dad, if you need me with the haying, I’ll help.”
Mr. Rorth thought it over. “I guess not. Thanks, son. Maybe after I get it cut, you can help load the truck. And I’ll probably need a hand getting it up into the loft, the same as last week.”
Ronnie went into the dining room to wait for the others to arrive. He stood in front of the sideboard, idly tinkling the bullet-sized glass crystals that hung in a circle of dewdrops from the rim of one of the Rorth candlesticks. A ray of light from the ceiling chandelier struck one of the crystals, and a rainbow of colors danced before the boy’s eyes.
Grandfather’s cane came thumping into the room and stopped behind the boy. “You watch your step with that candlestick!” Grandfather warned. “Doesn’t pay to monkey around with it for no good purpose. There’s little enough of the old Rorth glassware left in the world, and those two candlesticks are the prize of the lot.”
“I won’t harm it, Grandfather.”
“I know. I know. I’ve heard you say that before—with disastrous results. Those sticks, next to the village, are the pride of my life. Now you wouldn’t want to haveeverythingtaken from me, would you, lad?”
“No, Grandfather.” He turned away from the sideboard and looked up at his grandfather. “Grandpa,” he said, “Dad told me once there was a story about the candlesticks. Will you tell me about it? Dad said you were the one to tell me if I was to know.”
Grandfather’s gray eyes twinkled for a moment. “Remember how not so long ago you used to come sit a spell in my room after supper, and we’d talk about the village and about your Great-great-grandfather Ezra and about the Glassworks?”
Ronnie nodded.
“Well, maybe if you were to slip in for a while tonight, we could talk about the candlesticks.”
“And maybe about the locked-up building, too, huh, Grandpa?”
The old man frowned. “That’s best forgotten, lad, best forgotten.”
Phil was already seated at the table, and Mrs. Butler was glaring in Ronnie’s direction, warning him to do the same. He helped Grandfather into his special armchair at the head of the table, and then slipped around and sat down next to Phil. Grandfather said grace, Mrs. Butler brought in the corned beef and cabbage, and Mr. Rorth made a late entrance to take his place opposite Grandfather. Mr. Rorth’s face was drawn into a frown. “I wish,” he exclaimed irritably, “the Seaway would hurry up and buy the land so I could get on with the farm work.”
A loud snort from Grandfather warned him that he had not worded his feelings in quite the way the old man would understand. “What I mean is,” he hurried to correct himself, “what I mean is that we haven’t got a ghost of a chanceof saving it, so we might as well be done with the whole thing.” But it was too late. Grandfather had already risen to his feet, his hand turning white as he clenched the handle of his cane. His face was a fiery red against his snow-white hair, and the vein on his right forehead popped from the surface like a big purple knot.
For a moment he was so angry his words wouldn’t come out straight. “You, why, you—you’re a traitor to the Rorths! The village is the soul, the heart, thelifeof this family, and you throw it away in a few idle words. Why, why this boy here,” he pointed to Ronnie, “has a greater appreciation for what the village means. Far greater. I can’t understand it. I just can’t understand it.” He sank back down into his chair, breathing rapidly.
For a minute there wasn’t a sound in the room. Ronnie could hear a cricket chirping mournfully in the cellar. Then his father looked up from his plate. “I’m sorry,” he said to Grandfather. “I really didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
Grandfather grunted, but said nothing.
After supper Ronnie and Phil helped Mrs. Butler with the dishes. “Folks down in town are mighty sad knowing the old deserted village isn’t to be spared,” she said as she wrapped up some of the table scraps to take home to her cats. “Mighty sad. It’s surprising how many folks there have a fond spot in their hearts for the place. Fact is, there’s talk going around to do something about saving it—if there’s a way to get it done.”
Ronnie pricked up his ears at this. “Gosh, do you think they can?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, boy, sometimes public opinion is powerful strong magic when it comes to something like this.The government doesn’t like to rouse up public sentiments if they can help it.”
There was a lot to what Mrs. Butler had said, and Ronnie stored the information away for later use. Maybe a combination of raising money for the dam and getting the townspeople interested might just turn the trick. Now, more than ever, he was anxious to get started on his venture.
Mrs. Butler had her scraps wrapped, and turned now to putting away the dishes Phil had dried. “You know,” she said, “either I’m getting daffy in my old age, or something mighty queer’s going on around here.”
“How come, Mrs. Butler?” Phil asked.
“Well, I’ll let you figure it out. This afternoon I put a blanket out on the line to air. A little while ago I went out to get it, and it was gone. I even got a flashlight to follow the line down to the barn, thinking maybe I’d put that blanket farther away from the house than I’d figured.”
“And it wasn’t there?” Phil asked.
“Nowheres about. Not even on the ground, figuring maybe the wind might have taken it—if there’d been a wind. Asked your pa, asked your grandpa if they’d taken it.”
“Golly, that is strange,” Ronnie agreed.
“Some tramp, probably,” Mrs. Butler grumbled, going to the closet to get her coat. But something in her voice told Ronnie she didn’t believe it.