A MORNING CALL OF MONKEYS.
Then a mighty din arose. With an answering yell the half-drunken teamster flew at his assailant, using his whip continually, but not wisely, for both wrath and liquor blinded him. Else would the result have been worse for Jim.
The startled Cap’n Jack tossed his crutches out of the wagon and recklessly tumbled after them; then picked them up to lay about him in an aimless effort to subdue the fighters. But he managed to hit nobody for, as he afterward stated, “they didn’t stan’ still long enough.”
Shrieking for peace Melvin jumped to the ground, upsetting the cage of monkeys, whose frantic yells and jabberings added a strange note to the racket, until their own wild antics forced their cage out of the wagon. Then, terrified by their fall, they became quiet enough till the Captain caught the bars of their little prison-house on his crutches and tossed it out of the way of the feet of the mules, which were also becoming excited.
Still pleading uselessly for peace, Melvin managed to drag poor Gerald out of the road to a safer place, then warmed himself by seeking to warm his poor friend. So engaged did he become in trying to reanimate the motionless form that he scarcely heard what was going on about him or knew when the frightened mules set out on a lively trot for home, leaving their owner behind them but carrying away the row-boat, well strapped to the wagon-box.
Then suddenly, upon the uproar of angry voices, jabbering monkeys, the rumble of the disappearing wagon, and the screeching of an owl in the tree-top, broke another sound. A man came merrily whistling out of the woods, his gun over his shoulder, his dog at his heels.
“Shut up, Towse! What in Bedlam’s here!” cried the newcomer, running up. A moment later, when he had recognized the befused and battered teamster, demanding: “Who you fightin’ with now, By Smith? Never really at peace ’cept when ye’re rowin’, are ye?”
This salutation surprised the contestants into quiet, and the man addressed as “By” laughed sheepishly, and picked his hat out of the mud. Then he turned and discovered the loss of his wagon. At this his fury burst forth again and he slouched upon poor Cap’n Jack with uplifted fists and the demand:
“Whe’s my team at, you thief? You stole my wagon! What you done with my wagon you——”
But a hand laid across his lips prevented his saying more.
“There, there, Byny, that’ll do. Lost your wagon, have you? Well, it serves you right. A fellow that takes the pledge ’s often as you do an’ breaks it as often. Now, sober up, or down, and tell what all this rumpus means and who these folks are.”
There was something very winning about this newcomer, with his frank manner and happy face, which smiled even while he reproved, but no words can well describe the utter carelessness of his attire and his general air of a ne’er-do-well. The lads, Melvin and Jim, began to explain, but a lofty wave of the cripple’s crutch bade them yield that point to him.
“I’m Cap’n Jack Hurry, of the Water Lily; a yacht cruisin’ these here waters an’—an’——”
The excited old man paused. The man with the gun was laughing! As for that he, Cap’n Jack, saw nothing laughable in the present situation.
“Cruising in the woods, you mean, eh? Good enough! Haven’t tumbled out of a balloon, have ye? Look ’s if ye’d got soused, anyhow, and ’d ought to get under cover.”
Then Jim took up the tale and in a moment had explained all. He finished by asking:
“Is there any house near where we can take this boy? He’s been overcome with the wet and has done a lot of rowin’, to-day, that he ain’t used to. Is it far to Deer-Copse?”
“Yes, a good mile or more. But my house ain’t so far. We’ll take him right there. Fetch some them saplings piled yonder. Get that blanket’s tumbled out By’s wagon. Fix a stretcher, no time.”
Laziness seemed stamped all over this man’s appearance but he wasn’t lazy now. It seemed he might have often made such stretchers as this he so promptly manufactured by tying the four corners of the blanket upon the crossed saplings. The blanket was wet, of course, but so was poor Gerald; and in a jiffy they had laid him upon it and started off through the woods.
The hunter carried the head of the stretcher by hands held behind him and Jim the foot. Melvin courageously shouldered the cage of monkeys which he would gladly have left behind save for Gerald’s partnership in them. The Cap’n wearily stumped along behind, sodden and forlorn, more homesick than ever for his old city haunts.
“Byny” was left behind, his fare still uncollected, to trudge home on foot to his belated milking. Even the lads who had been so furious against him had now utterly forgotten him in this prospect of shelter and help for Gerald. His condition frightened his mates. Neither knew much about illness and nothing of Gerry’s really frail constitution, nor that it had been mostly on his account the Water Lily had been built.
“My name’s Cornwallis Stillwell. Corny I’m called. That was my brother Wicky—Wickliffe, I mean—that tugged you up the Branch. He—he’s as smart as I ain’t. Ha, ha! But what’s the odds? He likes workin’, I like loafin’ an’ ‘invitin’ my soul’, as the poets say. All be the same, a hundred years from now. Won’t make a mite of odds to the world whether I hunt ’possums or he ploughs ’taters. I live on his farm an’ Lucetty runs it, along with the kids. Wicky calls it mine, ’cause it was my share of father’s property. But it ain’t. It’s only his good brotherliness make him say it. We et it up ages ago. Bit at it by way of mortgages, you know, till now there ain’t a mouthful lef’. I mean, they can’t another cent be raised on it. It’s Wicky’s yet, but I’m afraid it’ll sometime be Dr. Jabb’s. Wicky holds a mortgage on me, body and soul, and Doc holds one on Wicky, and so it’s a kind of Peter-and-Paul job. Be all right in a hundred years and there ain’t a man in old Maryland nor Anne Arundel can hold a taller candle to my brother Wickliffe Stillwell, nor a wax one, either. I can talk, can’t I? So can he—when he can catch anybody an’ make ’em listen. Here we be—most. That’s my castle yonder. Hope Lucetty ain’t asleep. If she is, she’ll wake up lively when she hears my yodel. Nicest woman in the world, Lucetty. A pleasin’ contrast to Lizzie, Wicky’s wife. That woman’d drive me crazy but she suits him.”
All this information had not been given at once, but at intervals along the way through the forest where the travelling was smooth. But rough or smooth, the path had been a direct one, swiftly yet gently followed by this good Samaritan of the wilderness; and now, as he gave that warning cry he boasted, a light appeared in the windows of the whitewashed cabin they approached and, roused by the musical, piercing signal, Gerald stirred faintly on his litter.
“Comin’ to! Good enough! I knew he would, soon’s he came within hailing distance of Lucetty!”
Seen by moonlight the humble dwelling looked rather pretty, so gleaming was its whitewash and so green the vines that clambered about its door. In reality it had once been negro quarters, a low ceiled cabin of three rooms—and a pig-pen! The latter a most important feature of this home.
Following the candle-light a woman appeared. She was slender to emaciation and her face almost colorless; but a beautiful smile habitually hovered about the thin lips and the blue eyes were gentle and serene. Evidently, she was among the poorest of the poor of this earth, but, also, the happiest.
“Why, Corny, dear! Back so soon? And you’ve brought me company I see. They are welcome, sure, but—what’s wrong here?”
Stepping outside the woman bent above Gerald and earnestly studied his face. Then she swiftly turned, ordering:
“Fetch him right in. Lay him there. Somebody light the kindlings in the stove. One of you fetch a pail of water from the well. Pour it into that tea-kettle, get it hot soon’s possible. Corny, fetch your good shirt. Haul that ‘comfort’ off the children’s bed—it’s warm from their little bodies, bless ’em! Now help me get these wet things off and dry ones on. Soon’s the water boils make a cup of ginger tea. Thank goodness there’s enough ginger left in the can. Don’t know how? Corny, you darling, you grow stupider every day! Hear me! One teaspoonful of ginger to the blue bowl of water. Hot as he can drink it. Look in the crock and see if there’s a single lump of sugar left. No? Then those blessed children have been into it again and the poor fellow’ll have to drink his dose without.”
Swift as the directions were given they were obeyed, yet there was not the slightest confusion or excitement. Jim and Melvin watched from the wooden bench against the wall while Cap’n Jack hovered over the broken stove, deriving what comfort he could from the blaze of kindlings within. He would have added a stick of wood from a near-by pile, but the master of the house laughed and shook his head.
“Can’t waste anything while Lucetty’s around. Why, that woman can make a kettle boil with just one blazing newspaper under it. Fact!”
“That’s all right, Corny, dear, but you’d best add ’t it was a big paper and a mighty little kettle. Now, that’s real nice. Your good shirt fits him to a T! And the ‘comfort’s’ a comfort indeed to his chilled body. Aye, my boy, you’re all right now. You’re visitin’ in Corny Stillwell’s house and you’ll be taken care of. Lie right still, I mean hold your head up if you can and swallow some this nice ginger tea. Set your circulation going quick. You’ve had a right smart duckin’ but you’re young and ’twon’t harm you. What? Don’t like it? Foolish boy! Come here, one you others, or both. They’s enough in this bowl for all of you, that old officer into the bargain. Have a swallow, Commodore?”
How this wise little woman chanced to hit upon the very title dearest to this old vagrant’s heart is a puzzle; but he beamed upon her as she said it and drained the last contents of the bowl without a shudder, even though most of the ginger had settled there and stung his throat to choking.
The bed upon which his hosts had placed Gerald was their own, and stood in one corner of the front room which was, also, kitchen, dining-room and parlor. It was of good size, with a rag carpet on its earthen floor and well ventilated by cracks between the clap-boarded sides. There were holes in the carpet and the Captain’s crutch caught in one, and lifted it, revealing the earth beneath. Seeing him look at it prompted the hostess to explain:
“We’re going to put down boards, sometime, when Corny dear can get them and the time to fix them. The little rough spots and rents are from the children’s feet. They are such active little things, especially Saint Augustine.”
Then she looked at her husband inquiringly and he nodded his head in approval. After which he disappeared into the third room, or lean-to, and was gone some time. When he returned he had a well-worn pewter tray in hand upon which he had arranged with careful exactness four chunks of cold suppawn and four tin cups of buttermilk. These he passed to his guests with a fine air of hospitality, and they accepted the offering in the same courteous spirit. All except Gerald, who had fallen asleep and whose portion was set aside till he should wake. Melvin choked over the tasteless cold pudding and the very sour buttermilk, but he would have choked still more and from a different cause had he suspected that he was helping to eat the family breakfast, for want of which six healthy youngsters would go hungry on the coming day.
Presently, Mrs. Lucetta rose and blew out the candle. Jim’s early training in poverty told him that its burning longer was an “extravagance” when there was such brilliant moonlight to take its place, and that his hostess felt it such. Also, reminded him that they should be leaving this hospitable house if they were to reach the Water Lily that night. Only, what about Gerald?
Rising, he asked:
“Mr. Stillwell, can you show us the way to Deer-Copse, or tell us I mean? Our house-boat must be there and our folks’ll be anxious. And don’t you s’pose we could carry Gerry there, just the same as we brought him here? I’m sure we’re more obliged to you and Mrs. Stillwell than I can very well say. You treated us prime—and——”
From the foot of the bed where she sat Mrs. Lucetta answered for her husband. Evidently she did most of his thinking for him.
“I’ve fixed all that. This sick boy must stay just where he is till he can walk to the Copse on his own feet. That won’t be to-morrow nor next day. So one of you other boys had best stay, too. He might be afraid of me——”
“Hear! hear! afraid of Lucetty! He’d be the first livin’ creatur’ ’t ever was, then!” interrupted Corny, with his hearty laugh.
“You can lead them the way better than tell it. On your way back you’d better call on Dr. Jabb and ask him to ride round.”
“Lucetty? A doctor? Just because a healthy boy got caught in a ‘gust’? Wh——”
“Yes, Corny, dear, but you see he isn’t our boy. It would be better, and of course, if these people can afford a boat of their own, they can pay for a doctor. I’d have to have that understood,” she finished with some hesitation and a flush of color rising in her pale cheek.
“Sure. It will be, but I hope, it can’t be, ’t Gerry’s really sick. If he is I’ll be the one to stay take care of him. Melvin, you go along with this gentleman an’ Cap’n Jack, and take care you don’t worry any of them about Gerry. Can’t be he’s really sick.”
“Yes, let’s set sail! It’s real comf’table here, Ma’am, but I’m anxious to get back to my bridge; an’ my clo’es—sea-farin’ men is apt to be rheumatic—they’re jest a speck damp——”
“Of course. Sorry we couldn’t offer you each a change. As it is you’d better go, soon as you can, too. What is in that box you brought along? Something alive, I know, for it keeps up such a queer noise.”
“They’re terribly alive, indeed, don’t you know? And I fancy they’re as hungry as I was. But,” as his hostess hastily rose, doubtless to seek further refreshments, Melvin added: “I shouldn’t know what in the world to give them. They’re just a pair of monkeys, Mrs. Stillwell, and I haven’t an idea, don’t you know, what they would or would not eat.”
“Monkeys! How lovely! Oh! please do leave them overnight, so that the children can see them. Why, Corny dear, it would be almost like going to a circus, as we did once before we were married. Down to Annapolis, you know. Do you remember?”
“Shall I ever forget? With you the prettiest show——”
“Corny, dear, there are strangers present. Family speeches don’t belong. Now be off.”
Yet like a happy girl she submitted to her husband’s parting kiss as if it were an ordinary, every-day matter, and as the trio passed out of sight she turned to Jim, explaining:
“I’m very glad you stayed and not the other. Gerald’s fever is rising fast. He may get restless and Corny—Did he take his gun?”
“I believe so, ma’am. I think he picked it up as he went out the door.”
Lucetta sighed.
“Then like as not he’ll forget all about the doctor. He wouldn’t mean to, not for a minute; only the dear fellow cannot resist the woods. He loves them so. I’ve known him to get up in the night and wander off, to be gone two or three days. But he always comes home so happy and rested. I’m glad to have him go.”
“Do you stay here alone those times, ma’am? It seems a pretty lonesome sort of place. I didn’t see any other houses nigh.”
“Yes, I stay alone, that is with six of the sweetest children ever lived. So, of course, though there are no houses near, I’m never lonely. I’m busy, too, and to be busy is to be happy.”
Jim wondered at the refined and cultured language of this isolated countrywoman, until she explained, after a moment:
“I was a school teacher before we were married and we brought several books with us here. I teach the children now, instead of a larger school, and they’re so bright! I’ll have them recite to you in the morning.”
“What does Mr. Stillwell do, your husband, to tire him, so’t he needs the woods to rest him? Does he farm it?”
He had no sooner spoken the words than he was sorry; remembering the description of himself that Corny had given on their way out. And he was the more disturbed because his hostess left the question unanswered. In the silence of the room he began to grow very drowsy. His still wet clothing was uncomfortable and he would have been glad to replenish the scanty fire. But delicacy prevented this, so he settled back against the bench and was soon asleep. He was a sound sleeper always, but that night his slumber lasted unbroken for many hours.
He awoke at last in affright, throwing off a breadth of rag carpet which, in want of something better, Mrs. Stillwell had folded about him. Dazed by his sudden rousing from such a profound sleep he fancied he was again mixed in a wild battle with somebody.
Shrieks and cries, of laughter and of pain, shrill voices of terrified children, the groans of men, the anxious tones of a woman, all these mingled in one hubbub of sound that was horrible indeed.
Then something leaped to his shoulders and he felt his hair pulled viciously, while an ugly little face, absurdly human, leered into his and sharp little teeth seized upon his ear.
With a yell of distress he put up his hand to choke the creature, and saw on the other side of the room a bald-headed gentleman wrestling with a duplicate of his own enemy.
“Oh! oh! oh!” cried poor Lucetta, and could find nothing else to say; while a laughing face peered in from the field outside, enjoying the pandemonium within.
“Nothing but monkeys, dear! Do ‘let’s keep them over night just to show the blessed children’!” mocked the incorrigible Corny; while the indignant gentleman struggling in the kitchen with his long-tailed assailant, glared at him and yelled:
“Laugh, will you, you idle good-for-naught! I’ll have you in the lock-up for this! Rousing me out of bed with your tale of a sick boy and luring me into this! Let me tell you, Cornwallis Stillwell, you’ve played your last practical joke, and into jail you go, soon as I can get a warrant for you! I mean it, this time, you miserable, worthless skunk!”
Corny’s mirth died under the harsh words hurled at him and a grim closing of his square jaws showed that submission wasn’t in his mind. But it was a voice from the bed in the corner which silenced both men, as Gerald awoke and regarded the scene.
“The monkeys are mine. I mean they are Melvin’s. No, Dorothy’s. Somebody take ’em to Dorothy, quick, quick! Oh! my head, my head!”
Jim’s fear of the simians vanished. With a signal to the man beyond the window he clutched the creature from his back and hurled it outward. Then he rushed to the irate doctor, grabbed his tormentor and hurried with it out of doors. A moment later the door of the cage, which the curious children had unfastened, was closed and locked and peace was again restored.
Then said Corny Stillwell: “I’ll lug those monkeys to the Lily. That was hot talk Doc gave me! It’s one thing to call myself a vagabond and another to have him say so. I’m for the woods, where I belong, with the rest of the brainless creatures!”
“Pshaw! He didn’t mean that. You won’t be locked up. The monkeys are ours, the blame is ours, don’t be afraid!” counselled Jim, with his hand upon his host’s shoulder.
But the other shook it off, indignantly. “Afraid? Afraid! I? Why that is a joke, indeed!” and with that, his gun upon his back, the cage in his hand, he marched away.