CHAPTER I
Peanut Calls to Arms
Nobody who had seen Art Bruce in a scout suit would ever have recognized him in his present costume. He had on black silk knee-breeches. On his low shoes were sewed two enormous buckles, cut out of pasteboard, with tinfoil from a paper of sweet chocolate pasted over them to make them look like silver. Instead of a shirt, he wore a woman’s white waist, with a lot of lace in front, which stood out, stiff with starch. His jacket was of black velvet. Instead of a collar, he wore a black handkerchief wrapped around like an old-fashioned neck-cloth, the kind you see in pictures of George Washington’s time. On his head was a wig, powered white, with a queue hanging down behind. As he came out of the boys’ dressing room into the school auditorium Peanut Morrison emitted a wild whoop.
“Gee, look at Art!” he cried. “He thinks he’s George Washington going to deliver his last message to Congress!”
Everybody looked at Art, and Art turned red. “Shut up,” he said. “You wait till you’re all dolled up, and see what you look like!”
“Yes, and you’d better be getting dressed right away,” said one of the teachers to Peanut, who scampered off laughing.
Art stood about, very uncomfortable, watching the other boys and girls come from the dressing rooms, in their costumes. It was the dress rehearsal for a Colonial pageant the Southmead High School was going to present. They were going to sing a lot of old-time songs, and dance old-time dances (the girls doing most of the dancing). The stage was supposed to represent a Colonial parlor. Several people had loaned the school old mahogany furniture, the light was to come largely from candles, and finally, while the party was supposed to be in full blast, a messenger was going to dash in, breathless, announce the Battle of Lexington, and call the men-folks of Southmead to arms. Then the men would run for their guns, say good-bye to the women, and march off. Art couldn’t see why they should march off in all their best clothes, and had said so to the teacher who got up the play, but she had pointed out that they couldn’t afford to hire two costumes for all the boys, so they’d just have to pretend they went home for their other clothes. Art was not yet satisfied, however.
The girls were in funny old costumes with wide skirts and powdered hair. They were all having a much better time than Art was.
“Gee, they like to dress up,” thought Art, as he watched Lucy Parker practicing a courtesy before her own reflection in a glass door, and patting her hair.
Peanut didn’t have to dress up in these elaborate clothes. He was the messenger who rushed in to announce the call to arms. He was also his own horse. Putting a board across two chairs just behind the door leading to the stage, he took a couple of drumsticks and imitated a galloping horse, beginning softly, as if the horse was far away, and drumming louder and louder till the horse was supposed to reach the door. Then he cried “Whoa!”, dropped the drumsticks, and dashed out upon the stage. Peanut had been rehearsing his part at home, and the imitation of the galloping horse was really very good.
As soon as everybody was dressed, the rehearsal began, with the music teacher at the piano, and the other teachers running about getting the actors into place. Lucy Parker was supposed to be giving the party in her house, and the other characters came on one by one, or in couples, while Lucy courtesied to each of them. The girls courtesied back, while the men were supposed to make low bows. There weren’t many lines to speak, but Dennie O’Brien was supposed to be a visiting French count, with very gallant manners, and he had to say “Bon soir, Mademoiselle Parker” (Lucy’s ancestors had lived in Southmead during the Revolution, so she kept her own name in the play), and then he had to lift her hand and kiss it. Dennie had never been able to do this at any of the rehearsals yet without giggling, and setting everybody else to giggling. But this time the teacher in charge spoke severely.
“Now, Dennis,” she said, “this is a dress rehearsal. You go through your part right!”
“Yes’m,” Dennie answered, feeling of the little black goatee stuck on his chin to see if it was on firm, and trying to keep his face straight.
When his turn came to enter, he got off his “Bon soir, Mademoiselle Parker” all right, and bowed over her hand without a snicker. But, just as he kissed her fingers, his goatee came off and fell to the floor. Everybody laughed, except Lucy. She was mad at him, because she wanted the play to be a great success, and before he could lift his face, she brought her hand up quickly and slapped his cheek a good, sounding whack.
Dennie jumped back, surprised. Then he picked up his goatee, while Lucy stamped her foot. “You great clumsy—boy!” she exclaimed.
“Serves you right, Dennis,” said the teacher.
“Well, I can’t help it if it won’t stick,” Dennie answered. “Gee, I’ll bite your old hand next time!” he muttered to Lucy.
She ignored him, and the rehearsal proceeded. Art entered next, with Mary Pearson on his arm. Mary dropped a courtesy, and Art bowed.
The teacher clapped her hands for the rehearsal to stop. “Oh, Arthur,” she said, “don’t bow as if you had a ramrod down your back!”
“Well, I feel’s if I had,” said Art.
“But don’t act so!” the teacher laughed. “Now, try it again.”
Art tried once more to put his hand on his breast, and bow gracefully, but he certainly felt like a fool in these clothes, and made a poor success of it.
“Boys are all clumsy,” he heard Lucy whisper to one of the other girls.
After the guests had all arrived, they sang several old-time songs, and then four boys and four girls danced the minuet. Art didn’t have to take part in this. He was supposed to sit and chat in the background, which was easy. After the minuet, however, everybody had to get up and dance a Virginia Reel. While they were in the middle of the dance, Peanut’s galloping horse was heard; the dance stopped, the cry of “Whoa!” was shouted at the door, and Peanut, in clothes made dusty by sprinkling flour on them, dashed into the room, breathless, and panted, “War has begun! We have fought the British at Lexington and Concord! Every man to arms! The enemy must be driven out of Boston!”
There was nothing stiff about Peanut, and nobody laughed when he came on covered with flour. He was really panting. He gasped out his first sentence, and ended with a thrilling shout. Then he dashed forth again, and his horse was heard galloping rapidly away.
“Peanut has the artistic temperament,” one of the teachers whispered to another, who nodded.
No sooner had Peanut gone than the men on the stage piled after him, and while the women huddled whispering in excited groups, they grabbed guns and came back on the stage, when there were good-byes and pretended tears, and Lou Merritt, dressed up like a Revolutionary minister, gave the departing soldiers his blessing.
“Just the same, it’s silly,” Art cried, as the rehearsal was over. “Nobody ever marched off to war in silk pants and pumps. Why can’t we put on our own old clothes, with high boots, when we go for the guns? Even if we don’t have Continental uniforms, the old clothes will look more sensible than these things.”
“Sure!” cried Peanut, to the teacher. “Look here, Miss Eldridge, here’s a picture of the Concord statue of the Minute Man. Just long pants stuck into his boots. Let ’em just do that, and sling blanket rolls over their shoulders, like Scouts. Then they’ll look like business.”
“I guess you are right, boys,” she said. “Well, try it again. Who lives nearest? You, Joe, and you, Bert. Run and borrow a few old blankets from your mothers.”
Ten minutes later Peanut once more galloped up to interrupt the Virginia Reel, the men rushed out for their guns, and pulled on their own trousers, slung blanket rolls over their shoulders, discarded their powdered wigs, and came back looking much more like minute men going to war. They formed a strong contrast now to the girls, in their fine clothes. Art felt easy at last, with a blanket roll covering his frilled shirt and a gun in his hand. He gave commands to his company in a firm voice, no longer halting and awkward. He even had a sudden inspiration, which undoubtedly improved the play, though that wasn’t why he carried it out.
Lucy Parker, she who had been so contemptuous of boys, was acting for all she was worth in this scene. Prattie was supposed to be her lover, and she was clinging to him with one hand while bidding him good-bye, and mopping her eyes with the other. Art, as captain of the minute men, suddenly strode over to her, grabbed Prattie, dragged him away, and put him into line with the other soldiers. Lucy looked indignant, and forgot to wipe her eyes. Art glanced at her triumphantly, and Miss Eldridge cried, “Do that on the night of the play, Arthur! That’s fine—only don’t glare at Lucy.”
This inspiration rather restored Art’s spirits. He had got square with Lucy Parker, anyhow! He and Peanut dressed as quickly as they could, and left the school building, walking home up the village street, where sleigh-bells were jingling. Art grew glum again.
“Hang the old rehearsals!” said he. “It’s too late to go skating.”
“I like ’em,” Peanut replied. “It’s lots o’ fun.”
“You’re an actor, I guess,” said Art. “Gee, you come puffing in just as if you were really out of breath!”
“I am,” said Peanut. “I get to thinking about galloping up on the horse so hard while I’m drumming that I really get excited. Why, how can you help it?”
“Guess you can’t,” Art answered. “But I can. I’m not built that way. Play acting doesn’t seem real to me, it seems sort of—sort of girls’ stuff.”
“Thank you,” said Peanut.
“Oh, I don’t mean you, of course,” Art laughed. “But dancing, and all that—golly, I feel as if I was wasting time. Wish vacation was here, so we could get away somewhere into the wilds again.”
“Sure, so do I,” answered Peanut, “but me for having all the fun I can while I’m in civilization. Where are we going to hike this summer, by the way?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Art. “I was thinking about it in study period—that’s why I flunked my history recitation. Got a good idea, too.”
“Out with it,” said Peanut.
“The White Mountains,” said Art. “It came to me while I was looking at that picture of the Alps which hangs on the side wall. These mountains about Southmead, they’re not really mountains—only hills. But we’ve had a lot of fun climbing ’em. Think what fun it would be to climb real mountains. We can’t get to the Alps or the Rockies, but Mr. Rogers told me once it wouldn’t cost any more to hike over the White Mountains than it cost us to go to the Dismal Swamp.”
“Me for them,” cried Peanut. “That means saving twenty-five dollars between now and July. Wow! I’ll have to do some hustling!”
“You’ll have to cut out some candy,” laughed Art.
“I’ve not bought any candy since—since yesterday,” the other replied. “Whom’ll we take with us on this hike?”
“Anybody that will go,” said Art. “Guess I’d better call a scout meeting right away, and put it up to the fellers.”
“Sure, to-night,” cried Peanut. “I’m going home now to see if the old hen’s laid an egg to sell!”
“You’ll need a lot of eggs to save twenty-five dollars,” said Art.
“Not so many, with eggs at fifty-five cents a dozen,” Peanut replied. Then he turned in at his gate, and began to skip sideways up the path, hitting the soles of his shoes together in such a way that he exactly imitated the galloping of a horse. “Whoa!” he cried at the door, and as he entered the house, Art could hear him shouting at his mother, “To arms! The war has begun. We have fought the British at Lexington and Concord!”
Then Art grinned as he heard Mrs. Morrison reply, “Have you? Well, now you split some kindlings.”