The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThree Young KnightsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Three Young KnightsAuthor: Annie Hamilton DonnellRelease date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #10901]Most recently updated: December 23, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Prepared by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE YOUNG KNIGHTS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Three Young KnightsAuthor: Annie Hamilton DonnellRelease date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #10901]Most recently updated: December 23, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Prepared by Al Haines
Title: Three Young Knights
Author: Annie Hamilton Donnell
Author: Annie Hamilton Donnell
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #10901]Most recently updated: December 23, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Prepared by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE YOUNG KNIGHTS ***
Produced by Prepared by Al Haines.
By Annie Hamilton Donnell
The last wisp of hay was in the Eddy mows. "Come on!" shouted Jot."Here she goes—hip, hip, hoo-ray!"
"Hoor-a-ay!" echoed Kent. But of course Old Tilly took it calmly. He planted his brown hands pocket-deep and his bare, brown legs wide apart, and surveyed the splendid, bursting mows with honest pride.
"Yes, sir, that's the finest lot o' hay in Hexham county; beat it if you can, sir!" he said approvingly. Then, being ready, he caught off his own hat and cheered, too.
"Hold on, you chaps; give the old man a chance to holler with you!" Father Eddy's big, hearty voice cried above the din, and there was the flaring, sun-browned "wide-awake" swinging with the other hats.
"Hooray for the best hay in town! Hooray for the smartest team o' boys!Hooray for lib-er-tee!"
"Hooray! Hooray!"
They were all of them out of breath and red in the face, but how they cheered! Liberty—that was something to cheer for! After planting-time and haying, hurrah for liberty!
The din softened gradually. With a sweep of his arm, father gathered all the boys in a laughing heap before him.
"Well," he said, "what next? Who's going to celebrate? I'm done with you for a fortnight. I'm going to hire Esau Whalley to milk and do the chores, and send you small chaps about your business. You've earned your holiday. And I don't know but it's as good a time as any to settle up. Pay day's as good one day as another."
He drew out a little tight roll of bills and sorted out three five-dollar notes gravely. The boys' eyes began to shine. Father 'most always paid them, after haying, but—five dollars apiece! Old Tilly pursed his lips and whistled softly. Kent nudged Jot.
[Illustration: He sorted out three five-dollar notes gravely.]
"There you are! You needn't mind about giving receipts!" Father Eddy said matter-of-factly, but his gray eyes were a-twinkle under their cliffs of gray brows. He was exulting quietly in the delight he could read in the three round, brown faces. Good boys—yes, sir—all of them! Wasn't their beat in Hexham county—no, sir! Nor yet in Marylebone county or Winnipeg!
"Now, on with you—scatter!" he laughed. "Mother and I are going to mill to celebrate! When you've decided what you're going to do, send a committee o' three to let us know. Mind, you can celebrate any way you want to that's sensible."
The boys waited till the tall, stoop-shouldered figure had gone back into the dim, hay-scented barn, then with one accord the din began again.
"Hoo-ray! Hoo-ray for father!"
"Father! father! hoo-ray!"
"Hoor-a-ay!"
It died away, began again, then trailed out to a faint wail as the boys scuttled off round the barn to the orchard. Father smiled to himself unsteadily.
"Good boys! good boys! good boys!" he muttered.
"Come on up in the consultery!" cried Kent excitedly.
"Yes, come on, Old Till; that's the place!" Jot echoed.
The "consultery" was a platform up in the great horse-chestnut tree. When there was time, it could be reached comfortably by a short ladder, but, in times of hurry, it was the custom to swing up to it by a low-hanging bough, with a long running jump as a starter. To-day they all swung up.
"Oh, I say, won't there be times!" cried Kent. "Five apiece is fifteen, lumped. You can celebrate like everything with fifteen dollars!"
"Sure—but how?" Old Tilly asked in his gentle, moderate way. "We don't want any old, common celebration!"
"You better believe we don't!"
"No, sir, we want to do something new! Camping out's old!"
"Camping's no good! Go on!" Jot said briefly. It was always Old Tilly they looked to for suggestions. If you waited long enough, they were sure to come.
"Well, that's the trouble. I can't 'go on'—yet. You don't give a chap time to wink! What we want is to settle right down to it and think out a fine way to celebrate. It's got to take time."
For the space of a minute it was still in the consultery, save for the soft swish of the leaves overhead and roundabout. Then Jot broke out—a minute was Jot's utmost limit of silence.
"We could go up through the Notch and back, you know," he reflected. "That's no end of fun. Wouldn't cost us all more'n a fiver for the round trip, and we'd have the other ten to—to—"
"Buy popcorn and 'Twin Mountain Views' with!" finished Kent in scorn. "Well, if you want to dress up in your best fixin's and stew all day in a railroad train—"
"I don't!" rejoined Jot, hastily. "I was thinking of Old Till!"
Tilly's other name was Nathan, but it had grown musty with disuse. He was the oldest of the Eddy trio, and "ballasted" the other two, Father Eddy said. Old Tilly was fourteen and the Eddy twins—Jotham and Kennet—were twelve. All three were well-grown, lusty fellows who could work or celebrate their liberty, as the case might be, with a good will. Just now it was the latter they wanted to do, in some untried way.
It was a beautiful thinking-place, up in the consultery. The birds in the meshes of leaves that roofed it over twittered in whispers, as if they realized that a momentous question was under consultation down below and bird-courtesy demanded quiet.
Jot fretted impatiently under his breath,
"Shouldn't think it need to take all day!" he muttered. "You're as slow as—as—"
"Old Tilly!" laughed Kent. The spell of silence was broken, and the birds overhead broke into jubilant trills, as if they were laughing, too.
"I guess the name fits all right this time," Old Tilly said ruefully. "I can't seem to think of anything at all! My head clicks—the mowing machine wheels have got into it, I guess!"
"Wheels in mine, too!" Kent drawled lazily.
"Wheels!"
Jot sprang to his feet in excitement. In his haste he miscalculated the dimensions of the consultery. There was a wild flutter of brown hands and feet, and then the chestnut leaves closed calmly over the opening, and there were but two boys in the consultery. One of those parted the leaves again and peered down.
"Hello, Jot!"
No answer. Old Tilly's laugh froze on his face.
"Jot! Hello!" he cried, preparing to swing himself down.
"Hello yourself!" came up calmly.
"Oh! Are you killed?"
"'Course! But, I say, you needn't either o' you sit up there any longer gloomin'. I've thought of the way we'll celebrate. It's great!"
The crisp branches creaked as the others swung down to the ground in haste.
"You haven't!" cried Kent.
"What is it, quick!" Old Tilly said. Old Tilly in a hurry!
"Wheels!" announced Jot, deliberately. "You chaps had 'em in your head, and that put 'em into mine. Yes, sir, we'll celebrate on wheels!"
"Why, of course! Good for you!" shouted Kent. But Old Tilly weighed things first in his mind.
"That would be a go if we had enough to 'go' round. But you twinnies wouid have to ride double, or spell each other, or something."
"Spell nobody!" scornfully cried Jot.
"N-o, no, b-o-d—"
"Shut up, Kent! That's all right, Old Till. Benny Tweed'll lend me his bike just like a book—I know Ben! Besides, he owes me a dollar and I'll call it square. There!"
Old Tilly nodded approvingly. "Good!" he said. "Then we'll take a trip off somewhere. That what you meant?"
"Sure! We'll go Columbus-ing—discovering things, you know."
"Like those fellows—what's their names?—who did errands for people, and had wonderful things happen to them while doing them!" put in Kent, enthusiastically.
"Errands? What in the world—knights? He means knight-errants!" exclaimed Old Till, laughing.
"That's a good one—'Did errands for folks!'" Jot mocked.
"Well, what did they do then, Jotham Eddy?"
"Why, they—er—they—they rode round on splendid horses, all armed— er—aaple-pie—and—"
"Apple-pie—armed with apple-pie!"
Old Tilly came briskly to the rescue.
"Never mind the errands or the pie!" laughed he. "We'll be reg'lar knights and hunt up distressed folks to relieve, and have reg'lar adventures. It will be great—good for Jot! We won't decide where we're going or anything—just keep a-going. We'll start to-morrow morning at sunrise."
"Hoo-ray for to-morrow morning!"
"Hoo-ray for sunrise!"
"Hoo-ray for Jot!" finished Kent, generously forgetting mockeries.
The plan promised gloriously. When father and mother came home from the mill they fell in with it heartily, and mother rolled up her sleeves at once to make cakes to fill the boys' bundle racks. They would buy other things as they went along—that would be part of the fun.
In the middle of the night Jot got out of bed softly and padded his way across to the bureau, to feel of the three five-dollar bills they had left together under the pincushion for a paper weight. He slid his fingers under carefully. What! He lifted the cushion. Then he struck a match—two matches—three, in agitated succession.
The money was gone!
Jot gasped with horror. The last match went out and left him standing there in the dark. After one instant's hesitation he made a bound for the bed. "Kent! Kent! Wake up!" he whispered shrilly. He shook the limp figure hard.
"Thieves! Murder! Wake up, I tell you, Kent! We're robbed!"
"M-m—who's rob—Oh, say, lemme alone!" murmured poor Kent, drowsily.
Jot shook him again.
"I tell you thieves!" he hissed in his ear. "The money's gone! Do you hear? It isn't under the pin-cushion where we left it! It's gone! We've been robbed, Kent Eddy!"
The limp figure strengthened as if electrified and rose to a sitting position. Kent's eyes flew open.
"What?" he cried.
"Get up quick, Kentie, and we'll wake Old Tilly up! Maybe we can catch 'em!"
"Catch who? I wish you'd talk English, Jot Eddy!"
Old Tilly was slumbering peacefully, oblivious to thieves and five-dollar bills alike. It took a long time to wake him and longer yet to make him understand the dire thing that had happened.
"Get up! Get up! We've got to catch 'em!" concluded Jot.
"Yes, the thieves—catch the thieves, you know!" Kent explained. "I don't s'pose you'll lie there all night and let 'em cut off with our money, if you are Old Tilly!"
Then something funny happened. Anyway, it seemed funny to Old Tilly. He buried his face in the pillow and choked with laughter.
"It's gone to his head!" whispered Jot, in alarm.
"No, to his t-toe!" giggled Old Tilly, purple in the face.
"Yes, sir, he's crazy as a loon. Let's call father, Jot!"
"Hold on!—wait! It's all right, boys! The money is, and I am, and everybody is! Just wait till I get my laugh out, won't you?"
"No, sir, but we'll wait till you get out o' bed and that's this very minute!" Jot exclaimed wrathfully. He was dancing up and down with impatience.
Old Tilly slowly brought a lean, shapely leg into view from beneath the sheet. To the boys' amazement it was covered with a long black stocking. Old Tilly, like the other boys, had been barefooted all day.
"Thought I might as well get a good start in dressing!" he chuckled."Nothing like being read—"
"Oh, come off!"
"Well, I wish it would; there's something in the toe that hurts. Ow!"
He drew off the stocking and gravely examined the snug little wad in the toe.
"The money!" cried Kent.
"Yes, sir, the money!" Jot echoed in astonishment.
"Why, so it is!" Old Tilly said in evident surprise. "Then the thieves didn't get away with it, after all! I call that a lucky stroke—my getting partly dressed overnight! No, hold on, you little chaps—don't get uppy! I'll explain, honest I will! You see, I got up after a while and put the money there for safe-keeping. I'd like to see the thief that would look there for it! He'd get a good kick if he did!"
It was half an hour later when the trio settled back into sleep again. In the east already there were dim outriders of day trailing across the darkness.
Without further incident the three knights-errant got under way next day. In a glare of July sunshine they rode away in search of adventures, while Father and Mother Eddy in the kitchen doorway looked after them a little wistfully.
"Bless their hearts!" mother murmured tender-wise.
"Good boys! Good boys!" said father, coughing to cover the break in his voice.
"I say, this is great!" called Jot, who led the van, of course. "This is the way to do it!"
[Illustration: "I say, this is great!" called Jot.]
"Yes, sir!" Kent cried in high feather, "it feels as if you were reg'lar old knights, you know! Isn't it jolly not to know what's going to happen next?"
Old Tilly's wheel slid up abreast of Kent's and proceeded sociably.
"Esau Whalley's farm 'happens next,' and then old Uncle Rod King's next," Old Tilly said calmly. "I guess we better wait till we get out o' this neck o' woods before we settle down to making believe!"
But three wheels driven by three pairs of sturdy, well-muscled legs get over miles swiftly, and by ten o'clock the boys had turned down an unfamiliar road and were on the way to things that happened. Before noon knightly deeds were at their hand. Jot himself discovered the first one. He vaulted from his bicycle suddenly, as they were bowling past a little gray house set in weeds, and the others, looking back, saw him carrying a dripping pail of water along the path to the kitchen doorsteps.
"The pail was out there on the well curb, asking to be filled," he explained brusquely, as he caught up with them, "and the old woman pumping into it didn't look as if lugging water agreed with her. Besides, I wanted a drink."
"You didn't get one," retorted Kent, wisely.
Jot cast a sidewise glance upon him.
"I said I wanted one, didn't I? Anybody can want a drink."
"And take your remedy. Dose: lug one pail o' water for an old woman.If not successful, repeat in ten min—"
Jot made a rapid spurt and left his teaser behind. When Old Tilly had come abreast of him again, he reached out a brotherly hand and bestowed a hearty pat on his arm.
"Good boy!" he said, and unconsciously his voice was like father's, miles back in the kitchen doorway. It was the way father would have said it.
"That's the way to do. We'll pick up 'errands' to do for folks. What's the use of being knights?"
And Old Tilly's turn came next, in the way of driving the cows out of somebody's corn patch and propping up the broken fence. If it took but a few minutes, what of that? It saved a bent old man's rheumatic leg's, and the gay whistle that went with it drifted into an open window and pleased a little fretful child.
"My turn next!" shouted Kent, gliding away from them out of sight over the brow of a hill.
"Good luck to you!" called Jot. "We're going into camp to take a bite.No use being in such a rush."
"When you come my way, drop in!" floated back faintly. They tilted their wheels against trees and threw themselves down in the shade to rest. Jot was ravenous with hunger.
"Cakes are all right to begin on," he said, regarding mother's bountiful store with approval. "But when I strike the next store you'll see the crackers and cheese fly!"
"I don't mind taking a hand in the scrimmage myself!" laughed Old Tilly, munching a fat cake. "I say, wasn't Kent foolish to go scooting off like that? Might as well have begun easy. I move we ride nights and mornings mostly, and loaf noons. There's a moon, 'silver mo-oo-on'—"
His voice trailed lazily into song. It was pleasant lounging in the shade and remembering the hay was all in and adventures ahead.
An hour or so later they moved on at a leisurely pace, looking for Kent. The general direction had been agreed upon, so they experienced no anxiety. It added to the fun to hunt for him.
"Where in the world did he go to?" queried Old Tilly, laughing. "He disappeared like a streak of lightning!"
"I see him—there, under that tree!" cried Jot, waving a salute. "He's lying down and enjoying life."
But it was a tired old man under the tree, and, from his forlorn face, he did not seem to be "enjoying life." He was very old, very shabby, very tired. His unkempt figure had collapsed feebly by the way apparently. What astonished the boys was the wheel that lay on its side near him. He did not look like a wheelman.
"Hold on. Old Till, I say!" called Jot in sudden excitement, forging ahead to his side. "I say, that looks like our wheel—mine and Kent's! I guess I know our wheel!"
Jot was riding the borrowed machine. Kent had the one they owned jointly.
"You're right, sonny; it looks that way!" rejoined Old Tilly, excited in his turn. "But we can't pounce on it and cut, you know. How do we know what Kent's up to?"
Jot grunted derisively. "Probably he's given it to the old duffer for a birthday present—hundredth anniversary!" he scoffed. "That would be taking his turn at doing knight-errands. Let's go right on and not disturb the poor old man—"
"Let's have sense!" remarked Old Tilly, briefly. "We'll forge on ahead and hunt Kent up before we arrest tramps for bike-lifting. When he says he's been robbed it'll be time to holler 'Stop, thief!'"
"Yes, come on!" Jot called back as he shot ahead. "I haven't a doubt but we'll find Kentie's got his bike tucked away all safe in the toe of his stocking!"
They came almost instantly into the outskirts of a snug little settlement. The road was flanked on both sides by neat white houses. Trig little children scurried out of their way, cheering shrilly. Somewhere there was music. [Transcriber's note: the word "trig", above, is as it appears in the original book.]
"Hark!" Jot cried.
"Hark yourself! That's a good hand-organ," Old Tilly said; and he hummed the familiar tune, and both wheels sped on to the time of it, as it seemed. The music grew louder. "Look up in that dooryard, will you! Jot Eddy, look at the chap that's grinding it!"
Jot uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
Up in one of the shady side yards stood Kent, turning the crank of a hand-organ! He was facing the highway where the other two boys were, but not a trace of recognition was in his face. Ranged in a semicircle before him was a line of little children shuffling their toes to the gay tune.
"It's Kent!" gasped Jot.
"Or his ghost—pretty lively one! Where in the world did he get that hand-organ? And what's he done with his bike? Why—oh!"
Old Tilly added two and two, and, in the light of a sudden inspiration, they made four. Yes, of course, that was it, but he would wait and let Jot guess it out for himself. Jot had other business in hand just then.
"Say, come on up there with the youngsters, Old Till!" he whispered excitedly. "Come on, quick! We'll make him smile! He can't keep his face with us tagging on with the children!"
They left their wheels beside the road and stalked solemnly up the path. The children were too intent on the music to notice them, and the figure at the crank did not change its stiff, military attitude. The tune lurched and swayed on.
Suddenly, with a sharp click, the music swept into something majestic and martial, with the tread of soldiers' feet and the boom of drums in it. The faces of the little children grew solemn, and unconsciously their little shoulders straightened and they stood "at attention." They were all little patriots at heart and they longed to step into file and tramp away to that splendid music.
Again the tune changed sharply, and still again. Then the organ-grinder slung his instrument with an experienced twist and twirl across his shoulders, and took off his cap.
"Look, will you? He's going to pass it round!" giggled Jot, under his breath. "He'll pass it to us, Old Till!"
"Keep your face straight, mind!" commanded Old Till, sharply.
The organ-grinder handed round his cap, up and down the crooked line of his audience. The two sober boys at one end dropped in a number of pennies, one at a time deliberately,
"Bless ye!" murmured the organ-grinder, gratefully. Jot's brown face tweaked with the agony of keeping straight, but Old Tilly was equal to the occasion. He assumed a benevolent, pitying expression.
"Hold on a minute!" he called. "Here's a nickel for your poor wife and children. How many you got?"
"Five, sir, your honor," the musician murmured thickly.
"Starving?"
"Sure—all but a couple of the little uns. They're up 'n' dressed, thank ye; bless ye!"
Jot made a strange, choking sound in his throat.
"Is the young gent took ill?" inquired the organ-grinder, solicitously.
"No, oh, no; only a slight attack of strangulating—he's liable to attacks. It was the music—too much for him!"' Old Tilly gravely explained, but his lips quivered and struggled to smile.
The whole little procession trailed slowly down the lane to the street. At the next house and at all the others in succession, it turned in and arranged itself in line again, prepared to listen with ears and dancing toes. Jot and Old Tilly followed on in the rear. They found it hard work to find pennies enough to drop into the organ-grinder's cap at every round. Toward the end they economized narrowly.
The small settlement came to an abrupt ending just over the brow of the hill. The houses gave out, and the musician and his audience swung about and retraced their steps. The children dropped off, a few at a time, until there were left only the three boys, who went on soberly together.
"Oh, say!" broke out Jot at last.
"'Tis not for the likes o' me to 'say,' your honor," the organ-grinder murmured humbly, and Jot gave him a violent nudge.
"Let's knock off foolin'!" he cried. "I say, where'd you get that machine, Kentie? Where'd you get it? And for the sake o' goodness gracious, where's your wheel?"
"'Turn, turn, my wheel,'" quoted Kent from the Fourth Reader. He was shaking with suppressed laughter, that turned into astonishment at Old Tilly's calm rejoinder. If it didn't take Old Till to ferret things out!
"It isn't liable to 'turn, turn,' while that old tramp has it," Tilly said calmly. "He isn't built for a rider. What kind of a trade did you make, anyway? Going halves?"
"No, going wholes!" Kent answered briefly, and would say no more. They went on down the sandy road. When they got back to the forlorn old figure under the tree, it was slowly rising up and regarding them out of tired, lack-luster eyes. The wheel still leaned comfortably in its place close by.
"Me—bring—money. Play—tunes. You—buy—food," Kent said very slowly and distinctly, pausing between every word. "He's a foreigner, you know," he explained over his shoulder to the boys. "He no understand. You have to talk pigeon English to him. See how he catches on to what I said?"
The old face had grown less dull and weary. A slow light seemed to illumine it. As the little stream of pennies dripped into the tremulous, wrinkled old hand, it suddenly flashed into a smile. Then a stream of strange words issued from the old man's lips. They tripped over each other and made weird, indistinguishable combinations of sound, but the boys translated them by the light of that smile. How pleased the old fellow was! How he fingered over the pennies exultantly!
"Tell the whole story, old man," Old Tilly said quietly as they mounted their wheels and glided off. "It looks like a reg'lar novel!"
"Yes, hurry up, can't you!" impatiently Jot urged. "Begin at the beginning, and go clear through to the end."
"You've helped folks. Why shouldn't I? There weren't any old ladies with empty water pails, or any cows in corn lots, so I had to take up with the poor old organ-grinder. That's all."
"All!" scoffed Jot, "Go on with the rest of it, Kent Eddy!"
"Isn't any 'rest,'" grunted Kent, "unless you count the organ-grinder; he had some-looked as if he'd rested. Well, sir"—Kent suddenly woke up—"but without any fooling, you ought to have seen that old chap when I came on him. He was all used up—heat, you know. There was a creek, back a ways, and the water kind of pulled him up. He couldn't talk English, but he offered me a black two-cent piece for pay. He turned his pocket out to find it. That set me to thinking I'd make him a little richer."
"Of course! Go on!" hurried Jot.
"Isn't any 'on.'"
"There's honor," Old Tilly cried softly. "I say that was splendid,Kentie! I like that!"
Kent flushed uneasily. Old Tilly's face looked like father's when he said his rare, hearty words of commendation.
"Well, the organ-grinder likes it, too!" Kent laughed. "Now he can have something to eat. Poor old fellow! He couldn't have gone through all those dooryards to save his life! He was 'most sunstruck. I told a motherly old lady about him, at one of the houses, and she's going to be on the lookout for him, and give him a snack of meat and bread."
They went on for half a mile quite silently. Then, without warning. Jot suddenly began to laugh. He tumbled off his bicycle and collapsed in a feeble heap.
"Don't anybody st-op me !" he cried. "It's dangerous! I'm having one o' my 'attacks'!"
The others joined in, and, for a little, the woods rang with boyish mirth.
"It was rich!" stammered Jot. "Passing the hat round capped it!"
"It was great!" laughed Old Tilly. "You're an actor, Kentie!"
"Me! What are you?"
"Well, I can't grind a hand-organ and pass round the hat like that!"
"I could!" Jot cried, suddenly sobering down and going through the motions of turning a crank with airy ease. "It's 'most too easy for me!"
The fun lasted until night. It was Saturday, and they rode until sunset without further stops.
"We'll rest awhile and then go on by moonlight," Old Tilly said. "It will be jolly and cool then. Besides, we don't want to be on the road to-morrow. I promised mother I'd see that you all kept Sunday."
"And go to church ?" Jot said.
"Yes, and go to church, it there's one to go to anywhere," Old Tilly rejoined quietly. "I told mother I'd see that you fellows went to church quiet and nice, if possible. She put in the extra collars and neckties on purpose."
A long rest, with a hearty lunch, and then they were off again in the clear moonlight. It was splendid. The trees, the road, the pale, ghostly houses—everything had a weird, charmed aspect. They might have been riding through fairyland. It was growing late, they knew, and at last they stopped, out of sheer weariness.
A great, square bulk loomed faintly before them in the waning moonlight. It might be a house—might be a mountain! Jot spurted on ahead to reconnoiter.
"House!" he shouted back. "Doors open—all quiet—guess it's on a picnic ground. I felt a stair that seemed to lead up to a balcony or something."
"Well, we're sleepy enough. We'll take anything we can get!" yawnedKent.
"Come on, then."
And, riding into what seemed a yard, they found a good place for their wheels under some bushes. The moon was too low to give them any light, but the boys found the doorway to the big building and went up the stairs, guided by their hands along the narrow passageway. They could only discern a queer little enclosure, topped by a little rail. They were too thoroughly tired out to be curious, and, feeling some narrow seats, they lay down, and, making themselves comfortable, were soon asleep.
Jot was dreaming that Old Tilly had made him go to church and the people were singing, when suddenly he opened his eyes. Was he dreaming? Over him floated a sweet hymn, one his mother loved to join in singing at church Sunday morning. The boy's eyes opened wider still at sight of flecks of sunshine dancing on the walls near, and, raising his head, he saw through the clear little panes of a long window, where the green leaves were dancing against the glass. The singing went on, and the boy raised himself in a wondering fashion upon his elbow. Where were they? Jot lifted his head still higher, and, glancing over the railing, he looked down upon a goodly company. The amazement on his face grew greater instead of less. They were in church!—that was sure. Jot looked back to his sleeping companions and held his breath as one of them stirred uneasily. What if he should roll off the bench? The hymn grew louder and sweeter, and Jot smoothed out his hair and straightened his necktie and sat up straight. The branches outside tapped the narrow, small paned window near him, and from the open windows below the sweet beauty of the summer morning stole in. But as the minister rose to give out his text, a sound from one of the boys back of him caused Jot to turn.
Jot turned in his narrow seat there in the church gallery as he heard a sound that made him think his brothers were waking. But Old Tilly had only stirred in his sleep and struck out a little jarringly against the back of the narrow gallery pew. Jot turned back and scanned the place they had so innocently taken for their quarters the night before. The gallery pew they were in was like a tiny half-walled room, with seats running around three sides and up to the queer door on the fourth side. The walls of the pews were almost as high as Jot's head if he had dared to stand up.
Kent stirred uneasily and threw out his arm with a smart rap against the side. Jot crept across to him in terror. "Sh! Sh! Keep quiet! don't breathe! You're in meeting!" he whispered. "The minister's down there preaching now! Oh, sh!"
"Lemme—" But Jot's hand cut off the rest. The other hand gently shookKent's arm.
"I tell you we're in meeting; don't make a sound!"
"Who's making a sound?" whispered Kent, now thoroughly awake. Was Jot taken suddenly crazy? Hark! who was that talking?
"If you don't believe me, raise your eye over that wall and sec what!" whispered Jot eagerly. He drew Kent up beside him and they peeped carefully over. Kent dropped back, as Jot had done, in sheer surprise. The two boys gazed at each other silently. It was too much for Kent, though, and, to suppress a laugh, he stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth.
Kent pointed to Old Tilly and smiled broadly.
"He promised mother he'd take us to meeting," he whispered, "and he's done it!"
"Yes, but she wouldn't like to see him asleep in church!" Jot whispered hack.
Below them the minister's deep voice tolled on solemnly. They could not catch all the words.
"Come on! I'm going to sit up like folks. I want to hear what he's saying," Jot whispered after awhile.
They smoothed their hair and tried to straighten collars and ties, and then suddenly some of the people down below in the body of the church glanced up and saw two boyish faces, side by side, in the gallery. The puzzle was beyond unraveling. The women prodded each other gently with their parasol tips and raised their eyebrows. The men looked blank. When had those youngsters got up there in that pew? One of the deacons scowled a little, but the two quiet brown faces allayed his suspicions. It wasn't mischief—it was mystery.
The sight that had met Jot's astonished eyes in the beginning was a quaint one. This was a new kind of a church! At home there were rows upon rows of red-cushioned seats, with the hymn books and fans in the racks making the only break to the monotony. Here the pews were all little square rooms with high partitions and doors. The hard board seats ran 'way round them all, so that in some of them people were sitting directly "back to" the minister! Rows on rows of the little rooms, like cells, jutted against each other and filled up the entire space below save the aisles and the pulpit.
[Illustration: This was a new kind of church.]
And the pulpit! Jot's eyes returned to it constantly in wondering admiration. There was a steep flight of stairs leading up to it on each side, and an enormous umbrella-like sounding-board was poised heavily above it. The pulpit itself was round and tail and hung above the heads of the congregation, making the practice of looking up at the good old minister a neck-aching process. Directly beneath the pulpit was a seat facing the people. It was empty now, but a hundred years ago, had the lads but known it, the deacons had sat there and the "tithing-man," whose duty it was to go about waking up the dozers with his long wand. It was called the Deacon's Seat, and if sometimes the deacons themselves had dropped off into peaceful naps—what then? Did the "tithing-man" nudge them sharply with his stick, or was he dozing, too?
There are still a few of these old landmarks left in the country. Now and then we run across them and get a distinct flavor of old times, and it is worth going a good many miles to see the inside of one of them. By just shutting one's eyes and "making believe" a little, how easy it would be to conjure up our dear old grandmothers in their great scoop bonnets, and grandfathers with their high coat collars coming nearly to their bald crowns! And the Deacon's Seat under the pulpit—how easy to make believe the deacons in claw-hammer coats and queer frilled shirt bosoms!
The people Jot and Kent saw were ordinary, modern people, and their modern clothes looked oddly out of date against the quaint old setting. Jot thought with a twinge of sympathy how hard the seats must feel, and how shoulders must ache against the perfectly straight-up-and-down backs. He felt a sudden pity for his great-grandmother and great-uncles and aunts.
This especial old church, box-like and unchurchly without and ancient within, was rarely used for worship except in the summer months. Then there were services in it as often as a minister could be found to conduct them. The three young adventurers had stumbled upon it in the dark and overslept out of sheer physical weariness. It was up in one of the old choir pews in the high gallery they had wakened—or Jot had wakened—to the strains of the beautiful hymn his mother loved.
The whole explanation was simple enough when it was explained. Kent andJot worked it out slowly in their own minds.
Meanwhile Old Tilly slept on, and the sermon came to an end. There was another hymn and then the benediction. The people dispersed slowly, and once more the big house was deserted.
Then Jot woke Old Tilly. "I say," he cried, "I say, old fellow, wake up!"
"Yes, I'm coming in a minute!" muttered Old Tilly.
"You'll be late for church," remarked Kent dryly, with a wink at Jot.
Old Tilly stirred and rose on his elbow. Then he gave a bewildered look around him.
"You're in church. Didn't you promise mother you'd take us to church?"
"Yes."
"But you slept all through the service," said Kent, "and I shall tell mother so!"
"Kent Eddy, what are you trying to get at? How did we get here, anyhow?" said Old Tilly, rising cautiously; and then, as he looked down on the empty room below, standing to his full height, he said. "Well, if I ever!" a laugh breaking through his white teeth. "I should say we had been in church!" he added. "Why didn't you fellows wake me up? What did the folks think?"
"Oh, they only saw the two good boys sitting on the seat facing them!We didn't say we had another one smuggled in under beside us. But my!You did rap the seat awfully once with your elbow!"
"Well, I know one thing: my shoulder aches from lying on that narrow seat so long," said Old Tilly. "I say, let's go down to the wheels and the grub. I'm half starved!"
"All right," said Kent in rather a subdued way. The morning service had stolen pleasingly through him, and somehow it seemed to the little lad as though their ship had been guided into a wonderfully quiet harbor. And now he followed his brothers down the narrow stairs that they had so innocently groped their way up in darkness the night before. The three had agreed to leave the church and partake of the lunch that was in the baskets on the wheels, but now they found doing so not as easy of accomplishment as they had at first thought. When they tried the outer door they found to their dismay that it was locked. Old Tilly would not believe Kent, and he pushed the latter's hand off the door knob rather impatiently. "Let me get hold of it!"
But, rattle the door as he might, he could not stir the rusty lock.
"Well, we're locked in, that's sure!" said Kent, looking almost dismayed.
"I guess you're right, Jotham," Old Tilly said.
"But what in the world did they go and lock up for, when we got in just as easy as pie last night?" exclaimed Kent, disgustedly.
"Oh, ask something easy!" Jot cried. "What I want to know is, how we're going to get on the other side o' that door."
The care-taker, if one could call him that, of the old meeting-house, had taken it into his head to take care of it!—or it may have been that the key chanced to be in his pocket, convenient. At all events, the door was securely fastened. The three boys reluctantly gave up the attempt to force it.
"Windows!" Kent suddenly exclaimed, and they all laughed foolishly.They had not thought of the windows.
"That's a good joke on the Eddy boys!" Old Tilly said. "We sha'n't hear the last of it if anybody lets on to father."
"Better wait till we're on the other side of the windows!" advised Kent."Maybe it isn't a joke."
There were windows enough. They were ranged in monotonous rows on all sides of the church, above and below. They all had tiny old-fashioned panes of glass and were fastened with wooden buttons. It was the work of a minute to "unbutton" one of them and jump out.
"There!" breathed Jot in relief, as his toes touched sod again, "I feel as if I'd been in prison and just got out."
"Broken out—that's the way I feel. I wish we could fasten the window again," Old Tilly said thoughtfully.
Kent was rubbing his ankle ruefully.
"It was a joke on us, our mooning round that door all that time, and thinking we were trapped!"
"Oh, well, come on; it doesn't matter, now we're free again."
"Come along—here are our wheels all right," Old Tilly said briskly. "Let's go down to that little bunch of white houses there under the hill, and pick out the one we want to stay over night in."
"The one that wants us to stay in it, you mean! Come on, then."
It was already mid-afternoon. The beautiful Sunday peace that broods over New England's country places rested softly on new-mown fields and bits of pasture and woods. The boys' hearts were made tender by the service they had so unexpectedly attended, and as the beauty of the scene recalled again the home fields, they fell into silence. A tiny, brown-coated bird tilted on a twig and sang to them as they passed. The little throat throbbed and pulsated with eager melody.
Old Tilly listened to the song to its close, then swung round suddenly. His face was like father's when he got up from his knees at family prayers.
"That bird seems singing, 'Holy, holy, holy,'" Old Tilly said softly."Can't you hear?"
"Yes, I hear," murmured Jot.
The little white house they picked out sat back from the highway in a nest of lilac bushes. It reminded the boys a very little of home.
"Stop over night? Away from home, be ye? Why, yes, I guess me an' pa can take you in. One, two—dear land! there's three of ye, ain't there? Yes, yes, come right in! I couldn't turn three boys away—not three!"
The sweet-faced old woman in the doorway held out both hands welcomingly. She seemed to get at the history of the three young knights by some instinctive mind-reading of her own—the boys themselves said so little. It was the little old lady's sweet voice that ran on without periods, piecing Old Tilly's brief explanatory words together skillfully.
"Havin' a holiday, be you? I see. Well, young folks has to have their outin's. When they git as old as me an' pa, they'll be all innin's!" she ran on. Suddenly she stooped and surveyed them with a placid attempt at sternness. "I hope you've all be'n to meetin'?" she cried.
Jot's face twisted oddly.
"Yes," Old Tilly answered, subduedly, "we've been to church."
"I thought so—I thought so. Now come in an' see pa—poor pa' He was took again yesterday. He's frettin' dretfully about the hay. Pa—"
Her voice went on ahead and heralded their coming. "Here's three boys come to stop over night with us—three, pa. You're glad there's three of 'em, ain't you? I knew you'd be. When I'd counted 'em up, I didn't hesitate any longer! The littlest one looks a little mite like our Joey, pa—only Joey was handsome," she added innocently.
Kent nudged Jot delightedly. They were entering a quaint, old-fashioned room, and at the further end on a hair-cloth settle lay a withered morsel of an old man. His sun-browned face made a shriveled spot of color against the pillows.
"That's pa," the little old lady said, by way of introduction. "He was took yesterday, out in the field. It was dretful hot—an' the hay 'most in, too. He's frettin' because he couldn't 've waited a little mite longer, ain't you, pa? I tell him if the boys was here—" She broke off with a quiver in her thin, clear voice. Pa, on the couch, put out his hand feebly and smoothed her skirt.
"We had three boys—ma an' me," he explained quietly. "That's why ma was so quick to take you in, I guess. They was all little shavers like you be."
"Yes, jest little shavers," said ma, softly. "They hadn't got where I couldn't make over 'em an' tuck 'em in nights, when they was took away— all in one week. You wouldn't have thought 'twould have be'n all in one week—three boys—would you? Not three! I tell pa the Lord didn't give us time enough to bid 'em all good-by. It takes so long to give up three!"
Old Tilly and the others stood by in odd embarrassment. Jot was bothered with a strange sensation in his throat.
But the old lady's sorrowing face brightened presently. She bustled about the room busily, getting out chairs and setting straight things crooked in her zeal.
"I guess you're hungry, ain't you? Boys always is—an' three boys! Dear! how hungry three boys can be! I'm goin' out to get supper. Pa, you must do the entertainin'."
The bread was "just like mother's"—white with a delicious crust—and the butter yellow as gold, and Jot helped himself plentifully. "Ma," behind the tea urn, watched him with a beaming face.
"That's right!—I love to see boys eat! I tell pa sometimes I can just see our three boys settin' at this table eatin' one of ma's good meals o' victuals. You must have some of this custard, Joey." A faint essence of added tenderness crept into the wistful old voice at that name. The boys knew that Joey had been the little old lady's baby.
"Joey was a great hand for custard. Joey was a master hearty boy."
After supper, the boys wandered out around the tiny farm. It was at best a rocky, uneven place, but there were evidences of "pa's" hard work on it. Most of the grass had been mowed and carried into the barn, but there was one small field still dotted over with cocks of overripe hay. Old Tilly strode over and examined it with an air of wisdom.
"Too ripe," he commented. "I guess it won't be worth getting in, if it stays out here much longer."
"He meant to have it all in yesterday—she said he did. I mean that little old lady said so," Jot remarked.
"Well, if it isn't all in to-morrow, it's a goner," Old Tilly said decisively.
"Now, boys, there's lots o' good water out in the cistern," the old lady said, when they came back. "I've put the towels handy in the shed. It may be you'll sleep sounder if you have a nice sponge off."
Only too glad, the boys took to the shed, and then followed their guide to the airy room waiting. How the pillows fitted a fellow's head! as Jot said luxuriously. And the beds, how good they felt after those hard church pews! They were sound asleep in a moment.
The little old lady stole in to look at them. She held the lamp high in one hand and gazed down with wistful eyes into the three healthy brown faces. When she went back to pa, her face was wet with a rain of tears.
"They look so good, pa, lyin' there!" she said brokenly. "An' you'd ought to see how much like Joey the littlest one throws up his arm!"
The old man could not sleep. He kept asking if it looked like rain and kept fretting because he could not move his legs about freely.
"I've got to move 'em, ma," he groaned.-"I've got to practice before to-morrer, so's to get the hay in. I've got to get the hay in, ma!"
It was Jot, for a wonder, who slept the longest. He woke with a start of surprise at his strange surroundings. Then he sat up in bed, blinking his eyes open wider. The room was a large one with two beds in it. He and Kent had slept in one, and Old Tilly in the other. It was just before sunrise, and in the east a wide swathe of pink was banding the sky. Outside the window, a crowd of little birds were tuning up for a concert.
Jot rubbed his eyes again. There was no one else in the room. The other boys had vanished completely. He leaped out of bed with a queer sense of fright. Then he made a discovery.
"Come on—haying's begun," the note read. It was in Kent's angular, boyish hand, and Jot found it pinned conspicuously to the looking-glass frame. "Old Till and I are at it. Come on out."
So that was it? They were getting in the poor little morsel of an old man's hay. Jot jumped into his clothes with a leap and was out in the hay-field with them. He was inclined to be cross at being left dozing while the work began.
"I call that shabby mean," he protested. "Why couldn't you wake a fellow up? I guess I'd like a hand in helping the old man out, as well as either of you."
"Wake you up!" laughed Kent. "Didn't I tickle the soles of your feet?Didn't I pinch you? What more do you want?"
"You wouldn't wake up, Jot," Old Tilly said cheerfully. "I took a hand at it myself, but nothing this side of a brass band would 've done it this morning. We couldn't bring that in, you know, for fear of waking the folks. So Kent wrote you a letter."
The work went on splendidly. They were all in fine haying trim, and the cocks in the rough little field were tossed briskly into the rack. There were three loads, and the last one was safely stowed in the haymow before the little old lady in the house had stirred up her breakfast cake.
[Illustration: They were all in fine haying trim.]
"I hope she won't discover anything before we get away," Old Tilly said."It would be such fun to have it a reg'lar surprise!"
"Wouldn't it!" cried Jot.
"But she might think somebody'd come along in the night and stole it, don't you see?" Kent objected.
"No, sir, I don't see. I guess she'd see our trail. And besides, look up there in the mow! It doesn't look just exactly as it did before we began!"
A few minutes after the boys had glided away on their wheels, the little old lady hurried into "pa's" room.
"Pa, pa, it's all in, jest as nice as a new pin! Every spear's in!" she cried delightedly. "Them three boys did it before breakfast. I knew what they was up to, but I wasn't goin' to spoil their little surprise! I guess I know how boys like surprises. Don't you remember how Hilary an' Eben got the potatoes all dug that time an' surprised you? How innocent their little faces looked when you said, 'Hum-suz-a-day! how it makes my back ache thinkin' o' those potatoes!' Joey was a tittle thing in kilts, but he helped. He tugged 'em in, in his own little basket—I can see jest how proud he looked! But I evened up a little on the surprise. I guess when they come to open them bicycle baskets they'll see some things in the way of apple-pie that was not there earlier!"
All the morning the boys wondered at the stream of wagons traveling their way. Then just at noon they found out what it meant. They came round a sharp curve in the road upon a beautiful grove on the shore of a lake. It was gay with flags and the bright dresses of women and children. Here and there an awning or tent dotted the green spaces. People were bustling about in all directions, laughing and shouting to each other, and every few minutes there were new arrivals.
"Hark! there's a band o' music! It's a circus!" cried Kent, excitedly.Jot had disappeared somewhere in the crowd.
"No-o, not a circus," Old Tilly said doubtfully. "It's some kind of a big picnic. See, there's a kind of a track laid out over there where that flag is. They're going to have some kind of athletics."
"Foot-races and hurdles and things! Oh, I say, can't we stay and see 'em?" Kent cried eagerly.
At that instant appeared Jot, waving his cap in great excitement.
"Come on—we're invited!" he shouted. "There's going to be lots of fun, I tell you! We can buy ice-cream, too, over in that striped tent, and there are boats we can hire to row out in, and—everything."
"Hold on a minute!" demanded Old Tilly with the sternness of authority. "How did you get your invitation? and what is it that's going on, anyway?"
"Tell quick, Jot—hurry! They're getting ready for a foot-race," fidgeted Kent.
"It's a Grangers' picnic, that's what. And a big jolly Granger invited us to stop to it. He asked if we weren't farmer boys, and said he thought so by our cut when I said, yes sir-ee. He wants us to stop. He said so. He says his folks have got bushels of truck for dinner, and we can join in with them and welcome."
"And thanking him kindly, I'll stop!" laughed Kent, in high feather. "Come on over there, Jot, and see 'em race." And the three young knights were presently in the midst of the gay crowd, as gay as anybody.
The afternoon was full of fun for them. They made plenty of acquaintances among the other brown-faced farmer boys, and entered into the spirit of the occasion with the hearty zest of boys out holidaying. They were a little careful about not being too free with their spending-money. "'Cause we're out on a long run, you know," Old Tilly said. But what they did spend went for their share of the entertainment given so freely to them by the big Granger who had taken them in tow. It was a day filled with a round of pleasure, as Jot had predicted.
The athletic contests on the primitive little race-track proved the greatest attraction of all. There were bicycle races after the foot-racing and hammer-throwing and high jumping. Jot longed to vault into his own wheel and whirl round the track dizzily, like the rest of them. He and Kent stood together close to the turning-point. They had somehow drifted away from Old Tilly.
A new race began, and up at the starting-place there seemed to be a good deal of hilarity. The hearty laughs were tantalizing.
"What is it? Why don't they come on and give us fellows a chance to laugh, too?" exclaimed Jot, impatiently.
Kent was peering sharply between his hands. He suddenly began to laugh.
"It's a slow race!" he cried. "They're trying to see who can get behind! Come on up further where we can see. It'll be great!"
"Come along, then—hurry!" shouted Jot.
"It's a free-for-all. Anybody can compete," somebody was saying as they passed. "But they've got to be slower than Old Tilly!"
"Can't do it!" whispered Jot. "Old Tilly can sit still on his bike."
"I hope he'll see the race," Kent panted. "It would be mean if he missed. Here's a good place—there they come. Look at 'em crawling along like snails! There's one chap clear behind. Yes, sir, he's standing still!"
Jot gave one look and uttered a shout:
"It's Old Tilly!"
"Jotham Eddy—no!"
"Look for yourself and see—ain't it?"
"Of course—no—yes, sir, it's Old Till, for a fact."
"And he's 'way behind—I told you there wasn't anybody slower'n OldTilly! He's beating as fast as anything."
"As slow as anything. Come on! Let's cheer him, Jot."
They caught off their caps and cheered wildly. Every-body else joined in, catching at the name and laughing over it as a good joke.
"Hurrah—hurrah for Old Tilly!"
"Hip, hip, 'n' a tiger for Old Til-ly!"
The time-keeper called time, and Old Tilly descended from his victorious wheel and bowed profoundly to his cheerers. He walked away to join the other boys with the exaggerated air of a great victor, and the people shouted again.
"Oh, I say, that was rich, Old Till," gasped Jot. "That was worth a farm!"
"What made you think of entering?" Kent laughed.
"Oh, I thought I would—I knew I could beat 'em," Old Tilly said modestly.
Sunset ended the festivities in the grove, and the boys mounted and rode away with the other tired people. Gradually they fell behind.
"Don't—rush—so; I've got to keep up my reputation!" said Old Tilly."Besides, I'm tired."
"Me, too."
"Same here. Let's camp out to-night in the woods. Why didn't we stay there and camp in that grove?"
"Well, we might have, but we won't go back," answered Old Tilly. "Come on, let's make for that pretty little brown house. Maybe we can buy our supper there."
But the little brown house was shut up tight. The curtains were all pulled down, and a general air of "not at home" pervaded even the clapboards and the morning-glory vine over the door. Only the neat little barn looked hospitable. Its doors stood open wide. A distant rumble of thunder suddenly sounded, and the sky darkened with ominous swiftness.
"Going to rain," Kent said.
"Sure," added Jot. "Look at those clouds, will you? We'd better get into a hole somewhere."
"We'll go into the barn," decided Old Tilly, after a minute's thought, "and if it rains all night, we'll stay there. We can't do any harm."
It rained all night. Shower after shower burst over them heavily, and there was a continual boom of thunder in their ears. A slight respite at midnight was followed by the most terrific shower of all. The boys huddled together in the hay, with awe-struck faces, but unafraid. They could not sleep in such a magnificent tumult of nature.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash of lightning, then a crash. The whole universe seemed tottering about them. Dizzy and stunned, they gazed at each other, unable to move for an instant. Then it was Jot who sprang up in tremulous haste.
"I smell smoke—we're afire!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," Old Tilly cried, striving to be calm, "it struck this barn."