CHAPTER XIV
“COUSIN POLLY dear,� called Anne Lewis, tripping up the Larkland path a few days later, “here’s the wool you said you’d need to-day. And where is Cousin Mayo? David wants to know if he’ll lend us a wagon Saturday, to haul up our potatoes.�
“Mayo will let David know about it. He is away from home now,� said Mrs. Osborne, in her quiet voice.
“Those pigeons keep him on the go, don’t they?� said Anne.
Mrs. Osborne answered only with a smile. “Come, dear; sit down,� she said. “Stay to dinner.�
“No, thank you, Cousin Polly. We want to can a lot of butterbeans to-day,� said Anne. “I’ll just run to the kitchen and say ‘howdy’ to Chrissy; I haven’t seen her for a long time.�
Anne went to the kitchen, which, according to Village custom, was a cabin back of the dwelling house, and stopped at the door.
“Well, Chrissy, how are you?� she said pleasantly.
The old woman, usually good-humored and talkative, turned a glum face toward her young visitor. “Uh! I ain’t nothin’ to-day,� she groaned. “’Scuse me a minute, Miss Anne. I got to git a dish out de dinin’ room.� She went out of the back kitchen door and took the long way around to the house.
“Goodness, Chrissy!� Anne said when she came back. “Why did you go that roundabout way? Why didn’t you come out this door?�
Chrissy looked around, and then said in a cautious undertone, “Miss Anne, dat doorstep’s cunjered.�
“Cunjered!� laughed Anne.
“Cunjered,� Chrissy repeated solemnly. “Solomon Gabe was here yestiddy. He tol’ Miss Polly he come to bring her shoes dat Lincum patched, but I knows better. He come grumblin’ an’ mumblin’ ’roun’ here; an’ he was puttin’ a spell on dat step, dat’s what he was doin’.�
“What kind of spell?� asked Anne, still mirthful.
“A spell to hurt me, Miss Anne; to give me a misery, maybe to kill me, if I tromp on it.�
“But I came in this door and it didn’t hurt me,� said Anne.
“Naw’m. It can’t hurt you, ’cause ’twa’n’t laid in yore name. ’Twas put dar for me.�
“Why do you think Solomon Gabe—he looks mean enough for anything!—put a spell for you?�
“He’s mad with me, Miss Anne. I—I can’t tell you de why an’ de wherefore. Dey say de birds o’ de air will let ’em know if I tell anything. Miss Anne, don’t you breath what I done said.� The old woman groaned. “Uh, dese is trouble times, trouble times! Who is dem folks comin’ up de walk, Miss Anne? Dey ain’t de kind o’ folks dat come visitin’ to Larkland.�
Anne had joined her Cousin Polly in the hall when the three rough, loud-talking men—Jake Andrews, Bill Jones, and Joe Hight—came stamping up the front steps. Mrs. Osborne met them with the cordiality that a Virginia country house has for any guest, even the unexpected and unknown. Wouldn’t they come in and let Chrissy bring them some fresh water? She was sorry her husband was not at home.
“We saw him go away,� said Andrews, shortly. “They said he was carrying pigeons to Richmond, to fly back home.�
“Oh! Yes,� she said in a noncommittal way.
“Was he?� asked Andrews, fixing his beadlike black eyes on her face.
Anne saw her cousin flush; the rude manner ofthe men was enough to bring an indignant color to her cheeks.
Mrs. Osborne hesitated a minute, then said quietly: “That is the way pigeons are trained. They are taken away hungry, and they fly back to the place where——�
Andrews cut short her explanation. “How fast do they fly?�
“My husband had a bird come six hundred miles last week,� she said. “It made that flight in fifteen hours.�
“H’m! What made you think so—that it came in that time?�
“Oh! my husband knows all his birds. And there is always a note fastened to the leg, telling where it came from and where it is going, so if any one catches it he will turn it loose to finish its flight.�
“Ah!� said Andrews. “If a pigeon was coming from Richmond, it would be here now. We’ll see if any of them have notes fastened to their legs, to prove what you say.�
Mrs. Osborne’s eyes blazed in her white face. “What have you to do with my husband’s birds?� she demanded.
“What I please, with him and them,� answered Andrews, throwing back his coat and showing a badge. “I’m an officer of the law, I am. AndI’m dog-tired of the old ’ristocrats that been running Charleburg County, and ain’t no better than other folks—and friends with Germans, in all sorts of meanness. Now, ma’am, are you ready to prove what you said about them pigeons?�
There was a brief silence. Mrs. Osborne’s face went from white to red and back again. At last she said quietly: “You need not wait, gentlemen. No birds will come home to Larkland to-day. There are none to come. My husband did not take them with him.�
“Where did he go?� demanded Andrews. “And who’s that strange man that’s been here with him?�
“I refuse to answer your impertinent questions,� she said, looking over his head. “Gentlemen, I bid you good day. Come, Anne.�
She marched like a royal procession through the hall, with Anne following her. They went into the sitting room, and Mrs. Osborne, with a red patch on each cheek, sat stiffly erect in a straight-backed chair and talked to Anne, jumping from one subject to another—Red Cross work, war gardens, Mr. Tavis’s rheumatism, Miss Fanny Morrison’s new hat—anything and everything except the one subject she and Anne had in mind.
“Which of your studies do you like best?� she asked.
“Pigeons,� answered Anne. “Oh!� she gasped, and hastily said, “Math,� which she hated.
Then, very embarrassed and puzzled and troubled, she went back to The Village. In the midst of her task and the merry chatter of her companions, her thoughts wandered often to that strange scene at Larkland. What did it, what could it mean? There was evidently some secret; so she must not discuss it with any one, not even Patsy. But what? and why?
By the middle of the afternoon, the task they had set themselves was finished. Anne went home with Patsy, and they dropped down on the shady lawn to enjoy their well-earned rest.
“I’m thirsty!� said Anne.
Patsy laughed. “That’s the first time you’ve seemed to know what you were saying to-day!� Then she called Emma, who brought fresh water, and filled and refilled for them the big old “house� dipper, a coconut shell rimmed with silver.
“Oh, for some lemonade!� sighed Patsy. “Sweet and cold, with ice tinkling in the glass!�
“Hush! You make me so thirsty!� said Anne. “We could get the lemons at Cousin Will’s store, but we ought not to use the sugar. Mr. Hooversays we must save more than we’ve been saving.�
“Dat Mr. Hoover shore is stingy wid his sugar,� grumbled Emma. “How come folks let him have it all, anyway?�
“He wants us to use less so there will be some for our Allies,� explained Anne.
“H’m!� snorted Emma. “I’ve always been havin’ all de sugar I could buy an’ pay for. Why can’t dem ’Lies git on like dey always done?�
Anne knew; she had read Mr. Hoover’s appeals. She said: “Our Allies used to get most of their sugar from Germany and Austria, the countries we are at war with. Now they can’t get that, so we must divide with them the sugar from Louisiana and Cuba and the Hawaiian Islands.�
“Wellum, course what you say is so; but I don’t believe a word of it,� said Emma. “An’ here Miss M’randa come this mornin’ an’ say I can’t have no sugar to make a cake for Sweet William’s birthday. Um, um, um! If my old man was livin’, he’d git sweetenin’ for dat cake an’ for you-all’s lemonade, too.�
“How could he get sugar?� asked Patsy.
“I ain’t say sugar,� answered Emma; “I say sweetenin’. I was talkin’ ’bout honey.�
“But we haven’t any honey,� said Anne.
“He’d git it, Amos would. He was a powerful hand for findin’ bee trees.�
“What is a bee tree?� “How did he find them?� asked Patsy and Anne.
“Shuh, Miss Patsy! You-all know what a bee tree is. It’s a tree whar bees home an’ lay up honey.�
“Oh, yes! But how can you find it?� inquired Anne.
“My old man was a notable bee courser,� said Emma. “Dis here’s de way he done: He put some sirup on a chip an’ he took some flour——�
“Flour! What for?� interrupted Patsy.
“I’m a-tryin’ to tell you what for,� said Emma. “Well’m, he’d go wid dat chip, like out yander whar de bees is on dem white clover blooms; an’ thar he’d stand. Presen’ly de bees come an’ sip de sirup. Whiles a bee’s a-sippin’, Amos takes an’ dusts it wid de flour, and den he watches to see whichaway it goes. It flies ’long home, an’ den comes back to git more sirup, an’ Amos he takes noticement how long it’s gone; dat gives him a sort o’ noration ’bout how fur off de tree is. Well, he follows Mr. Dusty-back fur as he c’n see it, an’ waits; an’ follows, an’ waits; takin’ de course twel he comes smang to de bee tree. An’ lawdy! de honey he got! We used to sell it, an’ give it ’way, an’ eat honey an’ honey cakes. Um-mm!�
She smacked her lips reminiscently.
“Oh, Patsy!� said Anne, and “Oh, Anne!� said Patsy; and then both together, “Let’s do it!�
“Let’s go right away!� said Anne.
Heat and fatigue were forgotten. They ran into the house, and Anne scooped up a handful of flour while Patsy was getting sirup out of a preserve jar. They did not have enough confidence in the amiability of the bees to put the sirup on a chip; instead, they took a long stick, and Patsy held it with some trepidation while Anne stood by with the flour.
“Dust that big one; that big fat one!� Patsy whispered excitedly.
The bee buzzed and flirted its wings, and flew away from what must have seemed to it an avalanche of white dust. Anne and Patsy, on tiptoe to follow, watched eagerly to see the direction of its flight. It circled aimlessly about, and then buzzed back to the clover blossoms. The girls selected another fat bee and dusted it liberally; it flew off, buzzed about the clover field, and came back to sip the sirup.
“It’s all nonsense!� Patsy said crossly. “Let’s give up.�
“I don’t want to give up,� said Anne. “I reckon Amos did something Emma doesn’t know about. I wonder——�
“We certainly can’t chase all the bees in thefield,� said Patsy. “We might as well be trying to follow Dick. Come on! I want to scold Emma for sending us on a wild-goose chase.�
“Wild-bee chase,� corrected Anne, laughing.
Patsy was too warm and tired and cross to laugh. She went to the kitchen door and said sharply: “Emma, what made you tell us that foolishness about following bees to a tree? We’ve tried it, and the bees don’t go anywhere; they just buzz around on the clover and come back and eat some more sirup.�
“Ump-mm, Miss Patsy. You just ain’t done it right. Maybe you was coursin’ a bumbler or de wrong kind o’ bee.�
“It was a honey bee. Don’t you reckon I know honey bees?� Patsy replied indignantly. “Come out here and I’ll show you the kind it was. There! It was like that.�
“Um-hmm! Dat big fuzzy-end bee; dat’s a droner. You’ve got to chase a honey-maker. Thar’s one, Miss Anne; dat little fellow. Dust it wid de flour. Now you follow it.�
Ah! this little creature was no loitering drone. Instead of buzzing about the field, it took a straight, swift course, a “bee line,� to the northeast. Anne and Patsy followed as far as they were sure of its course, and then waited—waited what seemed a very, very long time, and thendusted another honey bee. A minute later, the first flour-coated little creature came flying back, to sip and fly away again. Again they followed, in growing excitement and glee. It led them across a field, through a swamp that they waded recklessly, across another field, and into woods where their progress was slow because they could see only a short distance ahead. They made up for it, however, by dusting several bees, and at last they had a line of little messengers going in the same direction.
They followed the swift-flying, busy creatures to—of all lovely, suitable places in the world—Happy Acres! Happy Acres, their dear garden plot in an old field surrounded by woodland. There was a big oak tree at the edge of that charming, beloved place, to which bees were coming from all directions. The girls forgot caution and ran close to the tree; there was a hole near the ground, and about eight feet up was a larger hole black with bees crawling in and out.
“Listen, Patsy!� exclaimed Anne. “It’s humming! the whole tree is humming like a beehive!�
Oh, there was no doubt of its being a bee tree!
They made their discovery a great sensation in The Village. Mr. Mallett, whose father had kept bees and who had a charm against stings, volunteered to get the honey.
The Village turned out that evening to watch the performance.
Mr. Mallett set to work calmly and like a veteran. He stopped the upper hole and started a smoldering fire of dry leaves and tobacco stalks near the lower opening. After the smoke stupefied the bees, he sawed and cut the upper hole, brushed aside the deadened bees by handfuls, and got out the honey stored in the great hollow tree; there were bucketfuls and bucketfuls of it. Anne and Patsy had a happy, important time dividing it among their friends and neighbors.
“They’re welcome to the honey,� laughed Anne. “But, O Patsy! aren’t you glad you and I had the glory of finding the bee tree?�
“That I am! And now hey for lemonade—cool, and tinkly with ice, and sweet, sweet, sweet!� rejoiced Patsy.
“Oh, goody! we can’t send this to the Belgians and Frenches,� said Sweet William. “Anne, I wish you and Patsy’d find a bee tree every week. Then I wouldn’t mind saving all my sugar. Emma says she’s going to make me a cake, a real cake. And I am going to eat honey, and eat honey, and eat honey!� He heaved a sigh of blissful content.
While Anne and Patsy were coursing the bees, Dick was on his way to the Old Sterling Mine.He had been there several times lately, looking about jealously to see if Mr. Smith were investigating the mine. He had not seen any one there again, and he had about decided that Mr. Smith was looking over the timber in the Big Woods and had merely stopped to see the old mine as a curiosity.
And so, on this pleasant autumn afternoon, Dick went up the hill from the creek, carefree and whistling merrily. Suddenly his tune changed to a sharp, dismayed exclamation, and he stopped to gaze at the ground; yes, there were footprints; and the tracks led—he followed swiftly and anxiously—to the mine opening.
“They’ve been here! They’ve been back to my mine!� he exclaimed.
Instead of pulling his improvised ladder from its hiding place beside the fence, he went to the mine hole and looked in. An old dead pine branch was hanging on the edge; it might have been tossed there by a gust of wind. Dick pulled it aside. It covered a ladder made of rough timber. Some one had been in the mine; might be there now!
Dick stood very still for several minutes, listening intently and looking sharply around. Then he descended the ladder, with a shivery feeling that some one might tumble a rock or send a shoton him from above or drag him down by the legs or thrust a knife through him from below. Nothing happened. He descended safely, and the tunnel ahead of him was black and silent. He lighted his candle and went to the main room. The odor of stale tobacco smoke hung about the place and there were a few scraps of torn newspaper here and there.
He went on toward the lower tunnel. At a sudden little noise, he jumped and put out his candle and stood on the alert. There was no glimmer in the murky darkness. All was still. The noise—if he had really heard any noise—was probably outside, the fall of a dead bough or the cawing of a crow.
He relighted his candle and went on and set to work, but his spade made a horribly loud noise. He felt as if some one were listening; creeping down the tunnel; slipping behind him. Cold chills ran over him; he peered into the darkness outside his little circle of light; he dropped his spade and crouched behind a projecting rock.
Oh, it was useless to try to work! He put his tools under a pile of old timbers and went back. Just as he was starting up the ladder, he noticed a pile of leaves between the foot of the ladder and the wall. It was not there the last time hewas in the mine. He kicked the leaves aside. Under them was an old iron mortar and pestle.
Something in the mortar glittered in the candlelight. Silver; silver, of course! Dick picked up some of the particles to examine. There was a little sharp pain and his finger began to bleed. Why, those particles were glass! And there were bottles and pieces of bottles. What on earth was any one doing here with a mortar and pestle, breaking up glass? It was the strangest, silliest, most absurd thing! Why, what—— Oh, the glass in the flour at Larkland mill! Had Germans, who put that glass in the flour, been hiding in the mine? Suppose they should come back and find him here!
He hastily pushed the leaves over the mortar and climbed out. It never entered his head then to question how German strangers would know of this deserted place almost forgotten by the community. He sped down the path, through the woods, took the path to Larkland, and hurried to the hayfield where he saw Mr. Osborne at work.
“Cousin Mayo!� Dick hardly had breath to speak. “I’ve been in the Old Sterling Mine and I found——�
“Silver!� his cousin interrupted, in humorous excitement.
“A mortar with broken glass in it. There were the pestle and some bottles.�
“What!� exclaimed Black Mayo, the fun leaving his face and voice.
“Some one had put a ladder in the hole. I found the mortar and pestle and bottles at the foot, covered with leaves. They weren’t there last week. Then I went down on my ladder.�
“You may have got on the track of something of far more importance than the silver in or out of that old mine,� Mr. Osborne said, frowning thoughtfully. “Have you seen or heard anything else that might mean mischief, at any time? Think! and think!�
“No, sir,� said Dick; then he exclaimed: “Oh, Cousin Mayo! I’d forgotten, but it was queer. The night before Broad Acres was burned, when Sweet William was undressing, mother asked him how he got oil on his blouse, and he said he reckoned it was from the little smelly sticks he got under the steps at Broad Acres. And that night, Emma—she was standing by me—let out a screech, ‘The devils—burning little Miss Anne!’�
“I wish you had told me these things before,� said Mr. Osborne. “Now, keep a still tongue and open eyes.�
“I certainly will,� promised Dick.