These were some of the features so long concealed under the folds of his cloak of indolence that even he had almost forgotten their existence. Thus it was, in all seriousness, he cried out bitterly in protest when an attempt was made to lift the covering and lay bare the man beneath it. And his lamentations were perfectly genuine.
After leaving the store with a sack of provisions over his shoulder he grumbled his way across the dumps to Scipio’s house. He cursed the weight he was forced to carry, and anathematized the man who had driven him to so bestir himself. He lamented over this waste of his precious energies, he consigned Scipio and his children to eternity, and metaphorically hurled Jessie headlong to the depths of the uttermost abyss of the nether-world. But he went on. In spite of his foulest language and vilest epithets, it was his full intention to do his best for the children.
What he found on entering Scipio’s hut set his small eyes twinkling again. His unclean face creased up into a grin, and, softly tiptoeing to a far corner of the room, he deposited his sack with the greatest care. Then he stood up, and his eyes fixed themselves on a curious heap under the table. It was a tumbled pile of pale blue, dirty white, with a four-legged dash of yellow. And out of the heap he made the forms of two small sleeping children, each hugging in their arms an extremity of a yellow cur pup, also sound asleep, in the shaft of sunlight which flooded in through the open doorway.
Sunny rubbed his eyes and thought hard, nor did he find the process irksome. From the miserable camp pup he glanced at the grubby face of Jamie. Then his eyes passed on to Vada’s pretty but equally dirty features. And swift action at once followed his thought. He glanced at the dying fire in the cookstove, and saw the small clothes hanging on the chair in front of it. He felt them; they were quite dry. Then he tried the kettle on the stove; it still had water in it. Then he went to the fuel-box; yes, there was fuel.
Now with his fingers he replenished the fire, and noiselessly re-filled the kettle. Then he removed the clothes and put the chair aside. The children still slept on. He further investigated the resources of Scipio’s ménage. He found a wash-bowl and soap and a towel, three things he rarely sought for any purposes of his own. Then, after looking into the cupboard, he shook his head. It was deplorably bare of all but uncleanliness. And it was the former that caused his headshake, not the latter. With some pride he re-stocked the shelves with the liberal purchases he had made at Bill’s expense. He had provided everything that a man’s mind could conceive as being necessary for the interior of healthy childhood. True, he had made no provision for a yellow pup.
By this time the kettle was boiling, and it served him as a signal. In a harsh, untuneful voice he began to chant an old coon-ditty. The effect of his music was instantaneous as regards the more sensitive ears of the pup. Its eyes opened, and it lifted its head alertly. Then, with a quick wriggle, he sat up on his hind quarters, and, throwing his lean, half-grown muzzle in the air, set up such a howl of dismay that Sunny’s melody became entirely lost in a jangle of discords. He caught up his empty sack and flung it at the wailing pup’s head. It missed its aim, and in a moment the twins had joined in their yellow friend’s lament.
Sunny never quite understood the real cause of that dismal protest––whether it was the sight of him, his doleful singing, or the flinging of the sack. All he knew was that it was very dreadful, and must be stopped as quickly as possible. So, to that end, he began to cajole the children, while he surreptitiously let fly a kick at the pup.
“Say, you bonny kids, you ain’t scairt o’ poor Sunny Oak,” he cried, while a streak of yellow flashed in the sunlight and vanished through the door, a departure which brought with it renewed efforts from the weeping children. “It’s jest Sunny Oak wot nobody’ll let rest,” he went on coaxingly. “He’s come along to feed you supper. Say,” he cried, laboring hard for inspiration, “it’s such a bully supper. Ther’s molasses, an’ candy, an’––an’ lob-ster!”
Whether it was the smacking of his lips as he dwelt on the last word, or whether it was merely the fact that their fright was passing, matters little; anyhow, the cries of the twins died out as suddenly as they began, and their eyes, big and round, gazed wonderingly up at Sunny’s unkempt face.
“Who’s you, ugly man?” asked Vada at last, her brain working more quickly than her brother’s.