They darted away in search of the fire. The glare of the lightning showed them their way, and presently they came into the glare of the flames. The bolt had descended through the harness room.
"Quick! Cattle first!" shouted Old Tilly, clearly. "We must save the cattle, anyway!"
"You go to them, you two—I'm going to the pump," called back Kent, decisively. He remembered there was a pump just outside the barn, and he was sure he had seen two or three pails standing about near it—yes, there they were! He caught them up with a sweep as he leaped by. It was the work of a moment to fill two pails and a moment more to dash them down by the floor in one corner where the scattered hay was burning. Again and again he made flying leaps to the pump and back.
Meanwhile the other two boys were releasing the frantic cattle. It was no simple thing to do—the poor creatures were so terrified. There were two steers and a gentle-faced heifer. The boys had made acquaintance with them the night before, and the poor things greeted them now with piteous lows of appeal.
"So, boss—so boss—so-o!" soothed Jot at the heifer's head. His trembling fingers caressed the smooth, fawn-colored nose, as, with the other hand, he untied her. She crouched back at first and refused to pass that terrible flaming something on the way to safety outside. But Jot pulled her along, talking to her all the way.
In less time than it takes to tell of it, the cattle were out of danger.
"Now the hens—hurry, hurry, Jot! I'm going to help Kent. It mustn't get to the hay upstairs!"
Thanks to Kent's steady, tireless work, there was little danger of that now. Already the flames were greatly subdued, and only sputtered aimlessly under the regular showers of water that fell upon them. The two boys toiled over them patiently till just a blackened corner told that they had been there in the trig little barn.
It had been a short, sharp battle. A moment's indecision, a very little less determined effort and presence of mind, and nothing but a miracle could have saved the barn. And then the house! It stood so near—what could have saved it?
It was an hour or more before Old Tilly would allow the live stock brought back into the barn. They hovered anxiously over the blackened embers, for fear they might spring into life again. But at last there seemed no danger, and presently the building settled back to quiet again, and the tired rescuers tried to snatch a little sleep in the hay. Jot woke the others in the first dim daylight.
"Fire! Fire!" he screamed.
"Where? Where is it?" cried Kent, springing to his feet.
"Put—it—o-ut," mumbled Old Tilly.
It was only a nightmare, but the boys could not doze again after it.
It was just as the sun was rising clear and beautiful that the boys came out from the barn, and as they caught sight of each other's blackened faces in the dazzling light, they each gave way to a roar of laughter. "Well, we all seem to be in the same boat," said Kent, making for the pump and filling the pails one after the other. "Here's a pail apiece; that ought to do it for us." Then he went to one of the wheel baskets and brought back a crash towel and a generous piece of soap. "Now lay to on yourselves, boys, and then we will see what we can scare up for breakfast. I suppose there's no getting into the house, so we'll have to depend on ourselves." But here Kent noticed how particularly quiet Old Tilly was.
"What's up, lad?" he said, as he plunged his face down into one of the dripping pails, and then after scrubbing and sputtering for a while he reached out blindly for a, towel, which one of the others tossed into his hands. When his eyes were free, he drew a long breath, saying, "Water fixes a fellow all right." But as he did this he noticed something that made him exclaim sharply. It was the sight of Old Tilly washing himself with one hand, while around the wrist of the other a grimy handkerchief was bound. "Why didn't you say you were hurt?" he said, coming over to Old Tilly's side. "What is it, anyway?"
"Oh, it's nothing," said Old Tilly, with an impatient nod of his head."Maybe it's where the lightning ran down," he said, with a laugh.
"Lightning!—not much! Come, out with it. What is it?"
"Oh, it's just a tear on an old nail. One of those steers got a little ugly, and I jumped back too suddenly. It's nothing."
"We'll have to take your word for it," said Kent. But he very soberly turned to the lunch baskets. It was just as they had packed up everything neatly and were mounting their wheels to ride away, that a wagon came rumbling down the grassy road and turned in to the farmyard. A young man with a limp felt hat was on the seat with a woman wearing a brown straw hat, while a tiny girl in a pink sunbonnet was nestled down between them.
"Halloo!" said the man, as he saw the boys. "Just leavin'?"
"Yes, sir," said Old Tilly, respectfully. "We took the liberty of sleeping in your barn last night. You see the storm kept us there all night."
"Well, the storm kept us, too," said the young farmer, reaching for the little child and setting her down by the pump, and then helping the woman to alight.
The young woman gave a relieved look around, first at the barn and then at the house, and said delightedly:
"Oh, Jim, how good it does seem to see everything safe! I can't believe my eyes hardly." And she added, turning to the boys with a slightly embarrassed laugh, "I never was very good to stay away from home nights, and we didn't mean to stay last night, but the rain kept us. It just seemed to me that with every clap of thunder we'd find everything burned to ashes, and the whole place gone."
Tears came into her eyes, as she turned and gave her hand to the little child. "Well, I'm going in to get breakfast," she said, a glad, tremulous light showing across her face. "You better bring these boys in to breakfast, Jim. If they've just slept in the barn they must be hungry." Then turning back again with a heartier laugh, "I feel that glad to see everything, even to the chickens, just as we left them, that I wouldn't object to asking the President of the United States to breakfast. You ain't from around here, are you?" she asked, looking at the boys. "I thought not. And you're hungry, I'll wager," she said, as she bustled away with the little girl tugging at her skirts, not waiting for the boys to disaffirm, as they most assuredly would have done had a chance been given them, for they were not in the least hungry. But then, what was a cold luncheon taken from a bicycle basket compared with a warm breakfast that might include ham and eggs?
"She's awfully nervous, Nancy is," said the young farmer, a trifle apologetically; "she would have it at brother Ed's that she was being burned out of house and home. We oughtn't to have stayed, but brother Ed urged us to go home with him. She's always that way when she's away. We've ridden nineteen miles since daybreak, and she believed every mile that we were going to see a burned-down house at the end."
"Well," said Old Tilly in a quiet way, so as not to alarm the young farmer, "I guess she was about right this time. If we hadn't happened here—" Then he slipped back into the barn, and the young farmer followed after, and Old Tilly pointed to the blackened corner, while the other two drew near interestedly.
"You see how it struck," Old Tilly said quietly, "but we put it out after a while. It is well we happened to be right here."
The young farmer was gazing at the burned place, with his jaw dropped and a look of terror coming into his blue eyes.
"It did strike! I should say it did!" he cried excitedly. "What willNancy say?"
[Illustration: "I should say it did strike!" he cried, excitedly.]
Then as a realization came to him that it was owing to the boys that they had a roof over their heads, he turned first to one lad and then to the other, and shook their hands heartily. There were tears in his eyes, but he did not seem conscious of them. "I don't know what Nancy 'll say," he reiterated, as he shook one hand after the other up and down like a pump handle. "We'll have to be everlastingly obliged to you for the rest of our days," he said, trying to laugh a little. But his voice choked, and he turned away to hide his emotion. Then he dropped down upon a corn-cutter and insisted on hearing the story from beginning to end, although Old Tilly declared time and again, with the other two joining in, that "It was nothing."
"You call it nothing? Well, you wait until you've worked half a lifetime, as Nancy and me have done, to get a place, and then see what you think about it. I guess Nancy 'll believe it's something."
Then he stopped as a clear call, "Breakfast! Breakfast!" came ringing out to them from the open door beyond the pump. "Perhaps we'd better not say anything about it until after breakfast. She's had a powerful uneasy night, and it's been a good bit of a ride over, too."
To this the boys assented, and the four walked across the yard to the kitchen door, where the little girl was shyly waiting for them.
"Ain't you the young chap that beat in the bicycle slow race?" askedNancy, when she caught a sight of Tilly's face as he removed his hat.
The other two boys laughed, and the farmer, looking squarely at his visitor, said:
"Well, I thought I'd seen you somewhere."
And then they settled down to breakfast in the happiest frame of mind, evidently, that could be imagined. But all the time Old Tilly kept one hand down at his side, a little out of sight, and the boys noticed that he took upon his plate only such things as he could very easily manage with one hand. The breakfast, for a hurried one, was very satisfactory indeed. Jot and Kent ate with full appreciation of it.
But had they watched closely, they would have seen how Old Tilly's face now flushed and then grew pale, and that occasionally he brought his lips together as though striving to control himself.
But, all unmindful of what the boy was undergoing, Nancy presided merrily over the table, and kept prompting Jim to fill up the plates as they needed it, and pressed this and that upon the boys' attention.
"I don't feel as if I should ever want to go away again," she cried. "It's so good to be at home. I've been through every room in the house and taken a view of them all." And then she said laughingly, turning to the boys, "Not that there are so very many of 'em, but they're all we've got, you know. After breakfast we're going out to the barn, ain't we, Polly?" she added.
But now Kent noticed that Jot's face had suddenly sobered; he was looking at Old Tilly anxiously; he had seen. His hand come up from beneath the table, and he was sure that the handkerchief was spotted with red. "I say—Old Tilly—" Jot got to his feet hastily.
But Old Tilly's face was white, and he was swaying from side to side.Old Tilly was fainting away.
"I—I'm awake now. What's the matter? Who's sick?"
Old Tilly sat up dizzily. He had lost consciousness only for a moment, but his face seemed to be growing whiter and whiter. Jot and Kent hovered over him anxiously.
"You got kind of faint, Old Till—just for a minute. You're all right now," Kent said.
"Of course I'm all right!—I always was! I don't see what you're making such a fuss about!" But the pale face belied his words.
Kent lifted the clumsily bandaged hand and unwound the handkerchief. It was stained with blood.
"Oh, what have you done, Kent! You shouldn't have taken the bandage off!" exclaimed Jot, in fright. "See how the blood is dripping from the cloth!"
"It's nothing, I tell you!" growled Old Tilly. "Wind the thing up again!It's only a nail tear!"
Old Tilly was swaying again, and they forced him gently back. The little woman looked up startled.
"What is it, Jim? How did it happen?" she quavered.
Jim's face looked very sober. "I guess I better fetch the doctor," he said. "He hurt it on a nail, he says. I won't stop to harness up—Old Betty's used to bein' rode bareback."
He hurried away, followed by his wife. Jot was examining the torn wrist tenderly. Some new, untried strength seemed to spring into the brown, boyish face. It took on the lines of a man's.
"It's an artery, Kentie. I know, because the blood leaps up so when the handkerchief is off. It can't have been bleeding all night. I don't understand."
"It bled some last night," said Old Tilly, "but I stopped it. I guess I hit it someway just now against the table. It began again worse than ever. Cover it up, can't you? It's—all—right!"
"It isn't all right! Get me a little stick, quick, Kentie! No, that fork'll do. Hand it here. This bleeding's got to stop."
It seemed odd that it should be Jot—little, wild, scatter-brained Jot— who should take the lead in that calm, determined way. What had come to the boy? With pale face and set teeth he quietly bound the handkerchief tightly above the wrist, and, inserting the fork handle in the knot, twisted it about. The bleeding lessened—stopped.
"There! Now, if I keep a good grip on it—oh, I say, Kentie, wasn't I afraid I couldn't work it!" he said, breathing hard.
"I don't see how you did work it! I don't see how you ever thought of it, Jot Eddy!"
"Well, I did. I read how it was done, up in the consultery. Father may laugh, but I'm going to be a doctor!"
Kent's face was full of new-born respect. He suddenly remembered that it was Jot who had set "Rover's broken leg and nursed the little sick calf that father set such store by.
"I guess father won't laugh." Kent said soberly. Jot was sitting on the edge of the lounge holding the fork in a firm grasp. Old Tilly opened his eyes and nodded approvingly.
"That's what I tried to do myself with the handkerchief—bind it tight. It wasn't very bad at first, but I jerked it or something. I didn't want you fellows' good time spoiled."
"That's just like you!" burst out Kent. "You never tell when you get hurt, for fear other folks'll be bothered."
The little woman crept back into the kitchen and went quietly about her work.
The doctor soon came, and in a brief time the artery was taken up and the hand deftly bandaged.
"Which of you fellows made that tourniquet with the fork?" the doctor asked brusquely.
Kent pointed proudly to Jot.
"Oh, it was you, was it? Well, you did a mighty good thing for your brother there. He'd have lost plenty of blood before I got here if you hadn't."
The whole of that day and the next night the boys remained at "Jim's." The doctor had positively objected to Old Tilly's going on without a day's quiet.
And the little woman—the little woman would not hear of anything else but their staying! She had been out to the barn with Jim and seen the blackened corner. After that she hovered over the three boys like a hen over her chickens.
"For—to think, Jim!—it was saving our home he got hurt!" she cried.
The boys talked things over together, and Kent and Jot were for turning about and going straight home. But not so Old Tilly.
"I guess! No, sir; we'll go right ahead and have our holiday out. It's great fun cruising round like this!"
"But your hand, Old Tilly—the doctor said—"
"To keep it quiet. He didn't say to sit down in a rocking-chair and sing it to sleep. I guess if I can't ride a wheel with one hand, my name isn't Nathan Eddy!"
"It isn't'" laughed Kent. "It's Old Tilly Eddy!"
But in the middle of the night a ghost appeared suddenly over Old Tilly. The pale moonlight introduced it timidly as Jot, in his white shirt. He sat down on the bed.
"I'm going home," he announced in a whisper. "You other fellows can do as you like. Of course you can ride all right with one hand, if you're bound to. But I sha'n't ride with three hands any further from home! I'm going home! I—I feel as if I must!"
Old Tilly sat up in bed. "You sick, Jotham Eddy?" he cried.
"No—o, not sick—not reg'lar built! But I tell you I'm going home. It's no use saying anything—I've said it." "I believe you're sick; you're keeping something back, Jot."
"Well, what if I am? Didn't you keep something back yourself, till you fainted away doing it? I'm going—you and Kentie needn't, of course. I tell you I feel as if I must."
"He's sick, Kentie," Old Tilly said next morning. "There's something the matter with him, sure, or he wouldn't be so set. Don't you think he LOOKS kind of pale-ish?"
"Pale-ish!" scoffed Kent.
"Well, something's up. Mother put him in my care, and I'm going to take him home. I'd never forgive myself, and mother'd never forgive me, if anything happened to Jot away from home. I'm sorry on your account, Kentie."
"Oh, go ahead! I'm all right," rejoined Kent, cheerfully. "I'd just as soon. We've had a jolly good time of it so far, and we can take the rest of it out in going fishing or camping at home."
"Well, then we'll go right back home—on Jot's account. I feet as if I must take him to mother."
Poor Jot! It was hard to be taken home that way, when all the while wasn't he taking wounded Old Tilly home to mother? It was the only way he had been able to work it out, lying awake and worrying over the torn wrist. Something must be done to get Old Tilly home.
"I told the truth—I said I was keeping something back," thought Jot. "I said I wasn't sick, didn't I? And Old Till's got to go home. The doctor told me the sooner the better."
But it was a distinct sacrifice to Jot's pride to be "taken home to mother." He bore it remarkably well because of the love and anxiety in his sturdy little heart. He would do a good deal for Old Till.
They returned by a more direct route than they had come. On the way, they discussed their adventures. Jot counted them up on his fingers.
"Hand-organs, old churches, little old man's hay—pshaw! that wasn't an adventure!" Jot blushed hotly, as if caught in some misdeed.
"No, skip that," Old Tilly said quietly. "That just happened. Begin over again."
"Hand-organs, old churches (two adventures there, you know), picnics, slow races—"
"Skip that!" cried Old Tilly.
"No, sir! Slow races, burning barns, arteries—" "Oh, I say! I'll do the counting up myself! Besides, you left out the very first adventure, didn't you?"
"The very first one?"
"Yes, of course—losing all our money before we started!"
"Quits!" cried Jot, laughing. He did not appear sick at all. All the way home he watched Old Tilly with almost professional care. And Old Tilly, unknown to Jot, watched him.
"Say, Jot," he said that night, when they had gone upstairs to their own beds once more, "don't you feel a little better?" His face was white and tired, and he nestled in the pillows gratefully. It was good to be at home. "Don't you feel a good deal better?"
"Me?" asked innocent Jot. "I feel jolly! Never felt—oh, er—I mean— that is—"
"You're a rascal!" laughed Old Tilly, comfortably. "That's what you mean. Think I didn't surmise a thing or two? Well, honest, I didn't, at first. But on the way home I found out what you were up to. You looked altogether too healthy!"
There was a moment's silence, then Jot spoke meekly. "I felt sort of mean, but I couldn't help it, honest. And I told the truth, now, didn't I? I was going to own up to-morrow."
He went away into the next room and crept into bed beside Kent.
"Jot! Jot, I say!" called Old Tilly, presently. "Hope you don't thinkI'm mad. I don't mind. I—I like it."
There was an indistinct mumble of relief from Jot's quarter, followed by another silence. Then again Old Tilly's contented voice crept through the dark.
"Say, Jot, you asleep?"
"Yes, you?"
"Sound! It feels mighty good to be home, doesn't it?"
"Prime!"
"Good-night, old chap!"
"Same here!"
Then silence, unbroken. By and by Mother Eddy stole upstairs to her boys.
"Good boys, every one of them. God bless them!" she murmured. "Home isn't home without them. But young things must have their holidaying. And I guess from what they tell, they've made good use of theirs. And it isn't everyone does that; some of them just waste it. But this one's held something in it. I don't know just what. But every one of them seems—well, sort o' more manly-like. I'm glad their pa let them go. But home ain't home without boys in it. That's sure."
And she turned and went softly down the stairs.
End of Project Gutenberg's Three Young Knights, by Annie Hamilton Donnell