XII. THE RETURN OF “OLD KAZOOZER”
I'm much obliged to you, Peter,” said Booge after a minute, “but I'm afraid I can't stay. I got a telegram saying Caruso's got a cold and I've got to go to New York and sing grand opry.”
“You 're real welcome to stay,” said Peter, warming his hands over the stove. “I'd like you to stay. That feller is sure to come back.”
“He's got a court order,” said Booge. “I guess he heard you was so kind hearted you'd hand Buddy right over to him and say, Thank you, mister.' I surprised him.” Booge looked at Buddy, playing on the floor.
“Ain't it funny how you get attached to a kid?” he asked. “I was just as mad when that old kazoozer said he was going to take Buddy as if he was after my own boy, instead of yours.”
“I guess they think this ain't a good enough home for him,” said Peter.
He looked about the cabin with new interest. To Peter it had seemed all that a home need be, and he had been proud of it and satisfied with it, but now it looked poor and shabby. There were no chairs with tidies on them, no chairs at all; there was no piano lamp; nor even a hanging lamp with prisms; no carpet, not even a rug. It was not a “good home,” it was only a shanty-boat, not much better than any other shanty-boat, and it was not even Peter's shanty-boat. It was George Rapp's.
Booge was ramming his belongings into his valise.
“Not a good enough home?” he growled.
“What do they want for a home? A town hall or an op'ry house?”
“It's all right for you or me, Booge,” said Peter, “but what would be a good home for a couple of old hard-shells like us ain't what a boy like Buddy ought to have. I'll bet we 're eight miles from a Sunday school.”
“My, my!” said Booge. “I wouldn't have remained here a minute if I had thought I was that far from Sunday school.”
“And we 're two miles from a woman. A boy like Buddy ought to be nearer a woman than that. When I was a little tyke like him I was always right up against my ma's knee.”
“And look how fine you turned out to be,” said Booge.
“Well, a place ain't a home unless there's a woman in it,” said Peter gravely. “I can see that now. I thought when I built this boat I had a home, but I hadn't. And when I got Buddy I thought I had a home for sure, but I hadn't. I never thought there ought to be a woman. I went at it wrong end to. I'd ought to have looked up a woman first. Then I could have got a house. And the boy would tag on somewheres along after. Only it wouldn't have been Buddy. I guess I'd rather have Buddy.”
Booge snapped his valise shut and looked about for any stray bit of clothing belonging to him.
“You won't have him if you don't look out,” he said. “You'd stand there until that old kazoozer come back and took him, if I'd let you. Of course, if you 're the sort to give him up, I ain't got a word to say.”
“I ain't that sort!” said Peter hotly. “If that man comes back I've got the shot-gun, ain't I? Of course,” he said more gently, “unless Buddy wants to go. You don't want to go away from Uncle Peter, do you Buddy?”
“No!” said Buddy in a way that left no doubt.
“I can't do anything until that man comes back,” said Peter helplessly. “Maybe he won't come.”
“Don't you fret about that; he'll come,” said Booge, grinning. “He's got my address and number scratched on his face, and I'd ought to clear out right now, but you see how I've got to help you out when trouble comes. You 're like a child, Peter. You and Buddy would do for twins. When old kazoozer comes back he'll bring a wagonload of sheriffs and a cannon or something. What would you do if you come to me with a peaceable court order, and got throwed all over a toy wagon?”
“If he can shoot, I can shoot,” said Peter. “I bet! And get Buddy shot all full of holes? We've got to skedaddle and scoot and vamoose,—listen!”
In the silence that followed they could hear voices—a number of voices—and Buddy crept to Peter's side and clung to his knee, frightened by the tense expression on the two uncles' faces. Peter stood with one hand resting on the table and the other clutching Buddy's arm. Suddenly he put out his free hand and grasped his shot-gun. Booge jerked it away from him and slid it under the bunk.
“You idiot!” he said. “What good would that do you? Listen—have you got any place you can take the kid to if you get away from here?”
“I've got a sister up near town—”
“All right! Now, I'm going to sing, and whilst I sing you get Buddy's duds on, and your own, and be ready to skin out the back door with him. I can hold off any constable that ever was—long enough to give you a start, anyway—and then you've got to look out for yourself.”
Peter hurried Buddy into his outer coat and hat, and Booge searched the breadbox for portable food, as he sang in his deepest bass. He crowded some cold corn cake into Peter's pocket, and some into his own as he sang, and as his song ended he whispered: “Hurry now! I'm goin' to put out this lamp in a minute, and when it's out you slide out of that back door—quick, you understand?” He let his voice rise to his falsetto. “Sing it again, Uncle Booge!” he cried, imitating Buddy's voice. “No, Buddy's got to go to sleep now,” he growled and the next instant the shanty-boat's interior was dark. “Scoot!” he whispered, and Peter opened the rear door of the cabin and stepped out upon the small rear deck. He stood an instant listening and dropped to the ice, sliding in behind the willows, and the next moment he was around the protecting point, and hurrying down the slough on the snow-covered ice, with Buddy held tight in his arms. He heard Booge throw open the other door of the boat and begin a noisy confab with the men on the shore. Booge was bluffing—telling them they had lost their way, that they had come to the wrong boat, that there was no boy there. Peter had crossed the slough and was on the island that separated it from the river when he saw the light flash up in the shanty-boat window. He slipped in among the island willows and crouched there, listening, but he heard nothing for he was too distant from the boat to hear what went on inside, and he pushed deeper into the willows and sat there shivering and waiting.
It was an hour later, perhaps, when he heard Booge's voice boom out, deep and cheerful, repeating one song until his words died away in the distance:
Go tell the little baby, the baby, the baby,
Go tell the little baby we won't be back to-day;
Go tell the little baby, the baby, the baby,
Go tell the little baby they're takin' Booge away.
“Come now, Buddy,” said Peter, “we can go back to the boat. Uncle Booge says there ain't nobody there now.”