“And now,” concluded Azalea, “my heart is set on rescuing that poor Mr. Panther. Why, it will be like bringing a man from a mine—or taking him from the Bastille. Oh, we mustn’t wait. We must set about the rescue at once!”
“It won’t be so easy as you imagine,” said Miss Zillah, with a sigh. “When people get away down like that, they don’t seem to want to be disturbed. They enjoy their misery. You needn’t be surprised if after you get to the poor man, you find him quite unwilling to let you do anything for him.”
“Oh, we won’t even think of such a thing as that,” cried Azalea, with her usual impatience at the mention of obstacles. “When can we go to him, Keefe?”
“Not before Saturday, of course. We ought to take a physician with us, oughtn’t we?”
“Of course we ought,” said Azalea. “Carin, couldn’t we telegraph back home and get Doctor Stevenson to come up?”
So they wrote out a telegram which was sent to Bee Tree the following day and from there telephoned to the nearest telegraph station. But to their disappointment they received the reply from Dr. Stevenson that he had a very critical case in hand which he could not leave. Carin wired elsewhere, but without success, and they were on the point of postponing the visit when, on Friday, there dawned upon their view the familiar figure of Haystack Thompson, their old friend with the fiddle. With his “haystack” mop of hair in wilder confusion than ever—for it had grown grayer and more wiry every month—with his kind, keen, rolling eyes looking extraordinarily large, and his spare frame thinned, as it seemed, to the very bone, he appeared at the schoolhouse just before closing, and the moment Azalea’s eyes fell on him, she felt that he was the person to help them out. Just how he would do it she did not stop to think, but ever since she had known him she had counted on his power to help.
He was lending his aid to some one at that moment evidently, for by the hand he led a small boy whom neither Carin nor Azalea had seen before, but the moment that Azalea noticed Bud Coulter starting from his seat, she knew the newcomer for Skully Simms, the nephew of the Coulters’ hereditary enemy, and the boy who had on several occasions peeped in at the windows of the schoolroom which he dared not enter.
All week things had gone moderately well. The school now had twenty-four pupils, one of them a girl older than her teachers, another a married woman, Mrs. McIntosh, who, having brought her painfully shy little daughter to school had been obliged to stay with her. Mrs. McIntosh had at first meant only to look on, but the example set by the children had been too much for her, and she was now conning her first reader beside an eight year old girl. Azalea and Carin had almost ceased looking for trouble, and it was with a sharp shock of alarm that they saw Bud Coulter spring to his feet and shake a hard young fist in the direction of the quivering Skully.
“No Simms can’t come to this here school while I’m here!” he shouted. “You git out o’ here, Skully Simms, you hear?”
Simms cast one glance behind him as if for flight, but the firm hand of his friend Haystack Thompson upon his shoulder held him; then the second glance made him aware of all the children rising from their seats, of the flaming eyes and distorted mouth of Bud Coulter, and the next moment all of his fears vanished in a flare of the old inherited hate. He drew in his breath sharply through his teeth, leaped forward, all bunched up like an animal, and the next thing that anybody knew, the two boys were struggling together in the center of the schoolroom.