CHAPTER IV
THE VILLAGE NUISANCE
At Sherwood Hall Polly was greatly missed, and her playmates felt less interest in their games now that she was not with them.
In all the village there was no one so lonely as Aunt Judith. She missed the merry chatter of happy, cheery Rose. Bright, and merry she had been, even although there were many things that she longed for, and could not have, most of all, some one to love her.
Now, as Aunt Judith busied herself about the cottage, or out in the tiny garden, she realized how much the child's hands had helped.
"She used to dust for me," she would say to herself, as she moved about the tiny sitting room, putting it in order.
"She always fed the chickens," she murmured, one morning, on her way out to the coop.
She stooped to open the door, when a shrill voice shouted at her.
"Look out! Look out! The ol' rooster's mad!"
Aunt Judith was startled, and Gyp was delighted.
"Why were you meddling with the hens?" she asked, in quick wrath.
"Don't hurt 'em to be watched, does it?" was the saucy answer.
Aunt Judith looked at the imp-like figure astride the fence.
"You're a nuisance!" she cried, "I wish the town was rid of you!"
"Ding-te-ding-te-dingle-te-ding!" sang Gyp, in an almost ear-splitting solo.
"Ding-te-ding—I tell ye what, if ye put jest the tip of yer finger between them slats, that 'ere ol' rooster 'll bite it almost off'n yer!" he remarked, "I know, 'cause I TRIED it."
"You keep your fingers away from the coop, and yourself out of my yard," cried Aunt Judith, "or I'll have you arrested."
"Wow!" shrieked Gyp, and slipping from the fence, he ran to the woods, lest Aunt Judith should immediately put her threat into effect.
The one, and only thing that Gyp feared was a policeman.
A wild little ragamuffin, living in an old hut that was home only in name, with parents as ignorant as himself, he was viewed with contempt by every child in the town, and feared by them, as well.
There was nothing that he dared not do—if no policeman were in sight.
It was well known by everyone that when Gyp once became interested in anything, he would not let it alone until something occurred that he thought more attractive.
Aunt Judith, shading her eyes with her hand, waited until she felt sure that Gyp did not intend to return. Then locking the door, and closing the windows, she made her way down the avenue toward the parsonage.
She felt unusually lonely, and the parson's wife was always glad to see her.
The walk was a long one, and when Aunt Judith had reached the parsonage, she paused for a moment to enjoy the light breeze before opening the little gate. "I saw you coming," said a pleasant voice, "and I guess you felt the heat on the way. Come in, and sit down under the big maple trees. It's cooler than it is in the house."
As she spoke, the parson's wife took Aunt Judith's arm, and led her to a rustic seat, and seating herself beside her, commenced to talk of bits of parish news.
Aunt Judith's mind was far away with Rose, and her answers became more, and more wide of the mark.
"I think the boys of the choir sing BEAUTIFULLY," chirped the little woman, "but they really should have new cotta's, but the society feels that it really can't afford it."
"Yes'm," said Aunt Judith.
"And there are some that think we ought to have an organist. Mrs. Bingley volunteers to play until we're able to hire some one, but she isn't much of a player. She says she can't play any music unless it's written in ONE flat. She says it's the only key she knows. She says two flats make her uneasy, but THREE flats makes her simply WILD!"
"Well, if I DON'T let them out of the coop they'll be sick, and if I DO let them out, they're likely to get lost."
The parson's wife stared uneasily at Aunt Judith. Then thinking that she must have been needlessly startled, she again spoke.
"As I said before, what makes her WILD is three flats," she said.
"But the chicken-coop is ALL slats," said Aunt Judith, "what DO you mean by THREE?"
"Don't you feel well?" the little woman asked anxiously, leaning toward
Aunt Judith, and looking up into her shrewd face.
"Why, yes," Aunt Judith replied, "only I'm lonesome without Rose, and some anxious about the hens."
A sigh of relief escaped the other woman's lips, but she did not explain.
"She's so worried about her own affairs that she simply didn't notice what I was talking about," she thought.
Realizing that Aunt Judith's mind was so full of her own interests that, for the time, she could think of nothing else, she dropped church matters, and asked when she had heard from Rose.
And while in the cool shade of the large trees, they talked of the tiny cottage, its garden, the chickens, and most of all, Rose, matters near the hen-coop were becoming rather lively.
Aunt Judith watching to see if Gyp intended to return, did not dream that he was watching her.
He saw her enter the cottage, and waited until she left the house to saunter down the avenue.
Then he ran across the little open field from the wood, and, crouching behind the back fence, near the coop, again waited until he felt sure that she was not simply in the house of some neighbor, but, instead, had gone to the "square."
Then springing over the fence like a monkey, he told a few facts to the old rooster.
"Ye're a mean ol' thing!" he cried, "jest a mean ol' critter ter bite a feller's finger like ye did mine. I'll pay yer fer what ye done! Look at this, an' see how ye like it!"
At that moment, and to the utter astonishment of the rooster, and his family, Gyp sprang up and down in a series of wild jumps, shouting, and yelling to the limit of his strength.
"Yow-ow! Hoope-high-jinks!" shrieked Gyp, his wiry arms, and legs flying in more directions than seemed possible, his shoes, that were many sizes too large for him, clattering on the hard-trodden earth of the hen-yard.
"How-re-ow-re-owl!" he roared, dodging this way, and that, in order to keep directly in front of the frightened rooster.
The rooster ducked, and dodged in vain, for Gyp managed to do his outrageous dance exactly in front of him, wherever he might be.
The hens kept up a perpetual squawking, and ran wildly about, while the downy chicks huddled in fear under the huge leaves of a burdock plant, and uttered little frightened peeps that, however, were unheard in the din that Gyp and the hens created.
Then suddenly something happened.
With a wild whoop, and an extra high jump, he lost his balance, and fell against the little gate.
He was not hurt, but he was surprised, and, for a moment, sat absolutely still, while the hens, led by the big rooster, ran over him, and out into the field beyond.
"I s'pose she'll say I let 'em out. I DID, an' I DIDN'T!" he said with a chuckle.
"Long's they're out, they might as well have a good run for once," he cried, and shouting "Shoo! Shoo!" and brandishing his arms, he rushed after them.
When he had tired of chasing the hens, he hurried away to the other end of the avenue, with the bright idea of learning if there might be a chance for mischief there.
A fine kite disappeared from Harry Grafton's lawn, a ball that Rob Lindsey had been playing with could not be found, while at Sherwood Hall the lawn mower was searched for, and discovered in the brook.
Old Martin dragged it forth, remarking as he did so:
"It looks like the work of old Nick, or that wild lad, Gyp."
No one had seen Gyp around the place, but, for the matter of that, no one had seen him flying a kite, or playing with a ball.
The articles had disappeared, however, and, as usual, everyone thought
Gyp the culprit.
"It took work, and time to make that kite," said Harry, "I wouldn't think any one would be mean enough to take it."
"Unless it was Gyp," said Rob, "he's mean enough for anything, and I wouldn't wonder if the same chap that went off with your kite, took my ball along at the same time."
Both boys were urged to hunt carefully before accusing any one, but thorough search failed to bring forth either kite or ball.
Then Leslie missed a book that she had left on the piazza, and Dollie
Burton lost her loviest doll.
Poor little Dollie! She could not be comforted, and promises of a new doll caused a fresh outburst of tears. It wouldn't be the same one that she had loved so, and she refused to have a new one until later, when her grief would be less fresh.
It was in vain that Blanche told her that a new doll would be as dear as the old one, the little girl refused to play, and her cherub face looked very sad, the dimples failing to show, because the smiles would not appear.
"That bad boy, Gyp, has took it," she wailed.
"Oh, Dollie, he might take a kite, or a ball from Harry, and Rob, but he wouldn't want a doll! Just think! What would HE do with a doll?"
"He's got little sisters, you said he had," Dollie replied, "p'raps he stole it for them. I wouldn't care if he'd just took my old one, but he was a bad boy to take my best one. I'll tell him so! You'll see!"
It was a baby's threat, and Blanche did not dream that her wee sister would do anything of the sort.
Dollie had a good memory, however, and Gyp sometimes passed the house.
She was as determined as any older child might have been, to give Gyp the scolding that she thought he deserved.
Oddly enough, he passed the house the next morning.
His restless black eyes were looking furtively about as if in search of something that he might snatch. Little Dollie, for the moment, had forgotten the lost doll.
With a long, flowering branch in her hand, she was walking up and down the driveway, looking more like a doll than anything else, in her dainty frock, her white socks, and bronze slippers.
"Sing a song o' sixpence, A pocket full of rye,—"
"Oh, YOU, YOU—wait for me!" In her wrath, the wee girl had forgotten his name.
Gyp stood still, and waited, open mouthed, while Dollie ran toward him.
He thought her the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and wondered that she wished to speak to him.
"You naughty, BAD boy!" she cried, striking at him with the flowering branch. "Naughty, BAD boy! You bring it back to me!"
Again the flowers hit him, but they gave nothing worse than a love pat.
"What'll I bring ye?" he asked awkwardly, "I ain't got anything you'd want. Ye look like them fairies I've read 'bout."
[Illustration with caption: "Ye've lost yer dolly, hev ye?">[
"DIDN'T you take my best doll?" she asked, her anger gone, and her red lips trembling.
Two big tears ran down the pink cheeks.
Then the strangest thing happened. Gyp, the imp, the one who apparently had no feeling, stooped, and peeping into the lovely little face, spoke very gently:
"Ye've lost yer dolly, hev ye? I ain't seen it, but I'll try ter find it for yer."
"Oh, WILL you?" she cried, smiling through her tears, "then I'm sorry I whipped you with this branch, and come! Let's bofe of us hunt together."
She offered him her little hand, and very carefully he took it.
He walked as if on air. Who else had ever offered him a hand? Who had ever spoken kindly? This lovely little girl had smiled at him, and had wished to be with him while he searched.
How he worked!
Like a little wild creature he crawled under shrubs, and, using his fingers like claws, tugged at grass, and twigs, as if his only interest were to find the doll.
"Was yer near the brook when ye was playin' with it?" asked Gyp.
"Oh, oh, I WAS, but I'd forgotten it. Didn't anyone hunt there! Let's go, quick, maybe we'll find her!"
She gave him a sunny smile, and in delight, he again took the wee hand she offered him, and together the ragged boy, and the wee, dainty girl hurried away to the brook.
It was a bit of the same brook that ran through the garden at Sherwood
Hall.
Just as they reached the brook something backed up from the water's edge.
"Oh, Beauty! Beauty! What ARE you doing?" cried Dollie.
The puppy growled, and continued dragging something up the little bank.
"Here Mr. Puppy! Gim me that!" cried Gyp.
"Why, it's my lovely Aurora!" cried Dollie, dancing wildly about.
Gyp, fearless because the little dog was only a pup, tugged at the body of the doll, while Beauty held firmly to its pink skirt.
The muslin frock gave way under the strain, and the puppy, with a bit of the muslin in his mouth, rolled over on the grass, while Gyp, doubting if the bedraggled doll would be accepted, held it out, dripping, for Dollie to look at.
"IS it the doll what ye lost?" he asked.
"Oh, yes; yes it is," cried Dollie, "and I love her just as much as I did before she was drownded!"
Regardless of her own dainty frock, she hugged the dripping doll to her breast.
"You're a GOOD boy to help me," she said, "I said I was sorry I hit you, and I am. I just WISH I hadn't."
"I'd rather ye'd hit me, than any other person touch me," Gyp muttered, and then, for fear that someone at the house might SEND him off, he turned, and ran away. Little Dollie looked after him.
"I wonder if he heard me SAY he was good," she whispered.
Then with soft eyes she looked at the vanishing figure.
"He 'most always ISN'T good, but this time he was," she said.
Beauty, like most little dogs, had a habit of running off with any article that he could snatch, and hiding it.
Tiring of the doll he had dropped it in the brook, and then, when he happened to remember it, had dragged it forth, intending, doubtless, to give it another good shaking.