Captain Cy did not reply to the request for the box. It is doubtful if he even heard it. Mrs. Oliver's astonishing letter had, as he afterwards said, left him “high and dry with no tug in sight.” Mary Thomas was dead, and her daughter, her DAUGHTER! of whose very existence he had been ignorant, had suddenly appeared from nowhere and been dropped at his door, like an out-of-season May basket, accompanied by the modest suggestion that he assume responsibility for her thereafter. No wonder the captain wiped his forehead in utter bewilderment.
“Don't you think you'd better send for the box?” repeated the child, shivering a little under the big coat.
“Hey? What say? Never mind, though. Just keep quiet for a spell, won't you. I want to let this soak in. By the big dipper! Of all the solid brass cheek that ever I run across, this beats the whole cargo! And Betsy Howes never hinted! 'Probably you would be glad to take—' Be GLAD! Why, blast their miserable, stingy—What do they take me for? I'LL show 'em! Indiana ain't so fur that I can't—Hey? Did you say anything, sis?”
The girl had shivered again. “No, sir,” she replied. “It was my teeth, I guess. They kind of rattled.”
“What? You ain't cold, are you? With all that round you and in front of that fire?”
“No, sir, I guess not. Only my back feels sort of funny, as if somebody kept dropping icicles down it. Those bushes and vines were so wet that when I tumbled down 'twas most like being in a pond.”
“Sho! sho! That won't do. Can't have you laid up on my hands. That would be worse than—Humph! Tut, tut! Somethin' ought to be done, and I'm blessed if I know what. And not a woman round the place—not even that Debby. Say, look here, what's your name—er—Emmie, hadn't I better get the doctor?”
The child looked frightened.
“Why?” she cried, her big eyes opening. “I'm not sick, am I?”
“Sick? No, no! Course not, course not. What would you want to be sick for? But you ought to get warm and dry right off, I s'pose, and your duds are all up to the depot. Say, what does—what did your ma used to do when you felt—er—them icicles and things?”
“She changed my clothes and rubbed me. And, if I was VERY wet she put me to bed sometimes.”
“Bed? Sure! why, yes, indeed. Bed's a good place to keep off icicles. There's my bedroom right in there. You could turn in just as well as not. Bunk ain't made yet, but I can shake it up in no time. Say—er—er—you can undress yourself, can't you?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Course I can! I'm most eight.”
“Sure you are! Don't act a mite babyish. All right, you set still till I shake up that bunk.”
He entered the chamber, his own, opening from the sitting room, and proceeded, literally, to “shake up” the bed. It was not a lengthy process and, when it was completed, he returned to find his visitor already divested of the coat and standing before the stove.
“I guess perhaps you'll have to help undo me behind,” observed the young lady. “This is my best dress and I can't reach the buttons in the middle of the back.”
Captain Cy scratched his head. Then he clumsily unbuttoned the wet waist, glancing rather sheepishly at the window to see if anyone was coming.
“So this is your best dress, hey?” he asked, to cover his confusion. It was obviously not very new, for it was neatly mended in one or two places.
“Yes, sir.”
“So. Where'd you buy it—up to Concord?”
“No, sir. Mamma made it, a year ago.”
There was a little choke in the child's voice. The captain was mightily taken back.
“Hum! Yes, yes,” he muttered hurriedly. “Well, there you are. Now you can get along, can't you?”
“Yes, sir. Shall I go in that room?”
“Trot right in. You might—er—maybe you might sing out when you're tucked up. I—I'll want to know if you're got bedclothes enough.”
Emily disappeared in the bedroom. The door closed. Captain Cy, his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the length of the sitting room. The expression on his face was a queer one.
“I haven't got any nightgown,” called a voice from the other room. The captain gasped.
“Good land! so you ain't,” he exclaimed. “What in the world—Humph! I wonder—”
He went to the lower drawer of a tall “highboy” and, from the tumbled mass of apparel therein took one of his own night garments.
“Here's one,” he said, coming back with it in his hand. “I guess you'll have to make this do for now. It'll fit you enough for three times to once, but it's all I've got.”
A small hand reached 'round the edge of the door and the nightshirt disappeared. Captain Cy chuckled and resumed his pacing.
“I'm tucked up,” called Miss Thomas. The captain entered and found her in bed, the patchwork points and diamonds of the “Rising Sun” quilt covering her to the chin and her head denting the uppermost of the two big pillows. Captain Cy liked to “sleep high.”
“Got enough over you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
“That's good. I'll take your togs out and dry 'em in the kitchen. Don't be scared; I'll be right back.”
In the kitchen he sorted the wet garments and hung them about the cook stove. It was a strange occupation for him and he shook his head whimsically as he completed it. Then he took a flat iron, one of Mrs. Beasley's purchases, from the shelf in the closet and put it in the oven to heat. Soon afterwards he returned to the bedroom, bearing the iron wrapped in a dish towel.
“My ma always used to put a hot flat to my feet when I was a young one and got chilled,” he explained. “I ain't used one for some time, but I guess it's a good receipt. How do you feel now? Any more icicles?”
“No, sir. I'm ever so warm. Isn't this a nice bed?”
“Think so, do you? Glad of it. Well, now, I'm goin' to leave you in it while I step down street and see about havin' your box sent for. I'll be back in a shake. If anybody comes to the door while I'm gone don't you worry; let 'em go away again.”
He put on his hat and left the house, walking rapidly, his head down and his hands in his pockets. At times he would pause in his walk, whistle, shake his head, and go on once more. Josiah Dimick met him, and his answers to Josiah's questions were so vague and irrelevant that Captain Dimick was puzzled, and later expressed the opinion that “Whit's cookin' must be pretty bad; acted to me as if he had dyspepsy of the brain.”
Captain Cy stopped at Mr. Lumley's residence to leave an order for the delivery of the box. Then he drifted into Simmons's and accosted Alpheus Smalley.
“Al,” he said, “what's good for a cold?”
“Why?” asked Mr. Smalley, in true Yankee fashion. “You got one?”
“Hey? Oh, yes! Yes, I've got one.” By way of proof he coughed until the lamp chimneys rattled on the shelf.
“Judas! I should think you had! Well, there's 'Pine Bark Oil' and 'Sassafras Elixir' and two kinds of sass'p'rilla—that's good for most everything—and—Is your throat sore?”
“Hey? Yes, I guess so.”
“Don't you KNOW? If you've got sore throat there ain't nothin' better'n 'Arabian Balsam.' But what in time are you doin' out in this drizzle with a cold and no umbrella? Do you want to—”
“Never mind my umbrella. I left it in the church entry t'other Sunday and somebody got out afore I did. This 'Arabian Balsam'—seems to me I remember my ma's usin' that on me. Wet a rag with it, don't you, and tie it round your neck?”
“Yup. Be sure and use a flannel rag, and red flannel if you've got it; that acts quicker'n the other kinds. Fifteen cent bottle?”
“I guess so. Might's well give me some sass'p'rilla, while you're about it; always handy to have in the house. And—er—say, is that canned soup you've got up on that shelf?”
The astonished clerk admitted that it was.
“Well, give me a can of the chicken kind.”
Mr. Smalley, standing on a chair to reach the shelf where the soup was kept, shook his head.
“Now, that's too bad, Cap'n,” he said, “but we're all out of chicken just now. Fact is, we ain't got nothin' but termatter and beef broth. Yes, and I declare if the termatter ain't all gone.”
“Humph! then I guess I'll take the beef. Needn't mind wrappin' it up. So long.”
He departed bearing his purchases. When Mr. Simmons, proprietor of the store, returned, Alpheus told him that he “cal'lated” Captain Cy Whittaker was preparing to “go into a decline, or somethin'.”
“Anyhow,” said Alpheus, “he bought sass'p'rilla and 'Arabian Balsam,' and I sold him a can of that beef soup you bought three year ago last summer, when Alicia Atkins had the chicken pox.”
The captain entered the house quietly and tiptoed to the door of the bedroom. Emily was asleep, and the sight of the childish head upon the pillow gave him a start as he peeped in at it. It looked so natural, almost as if it belonged there. It had been in a bed like that and in that very room that he had slept when a boy.
Gabe, brimful of curiosity, brought the box a little later. His curiosity was ungratified, Captain Cyrus explaining that it was a package he had been expecting. The captain took the box to the bedroom, and, finding the child still asleep, deposited it on the floor and tiptoed out again. He went to the kitchen, poked up the fire, and set about getting dinner.
He was warming the beef broth in a saucepan on the stove when Emily appeared. She was dressed in dry clothes from the box and seemed to be feeling as good as new.
“Hello!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “You're on deck again, hey? How's icicles?”
“All gone,” was the reply. “Do you do your own work? Can't I help? I can set the table. I used to for Mrs. Oliver.”
The captain protested that he could do it himself just as well, but the girl persisting, he showed her where the dishes were kept. From the corner of his eye he watched her as she unfolded the tablecloth.
“Is this the only one you've got?” she inquired. “It's awful dirty.”
“Hum! Yes, I ain't tended up to my washin' and ironin' the way I'd ought to. I'll lose my job if I don't look out, hey?”
Before they sat down to the meal Captain Cy insisted that his guest take a tablespoonful of the sarsaparilla and decorate her throat with a section of red flannel soaked in the 'Arabian Balsam.' The perfume of the latter was penetrating and might have interfered with a less healthy appetite than that of Miss Thomas.
“Have some soup? Some I bought purpose for you. Best thing goin' for folks with icicles,” remarked the captain, waving the iron spoon he had used to stir the contents of the saucepan.
“Yes, sir, thank you. But don't you ask a blessing?”
“Hey?”
“A blessing, you know. Saying that you're thankful for the food now set before us.”
“Hum! Why, to tell you the truth I've kind of neglected that, I'm afraid. Bein' thankful for the grub I've had lately was most too much of a strain, I shouldn't wonder.”
“I know the one mamma used to say. Shall I ask it for you?”
“Sho! I guess so, if you want to.”
The girl bent her head and repeated a short grace. Captain Cy watched her curiously.
“Now, I'll have some soup, please,” observed Emily. “I'm awful hungry. I had breakfast at five o'clock this morning and we didn't have a chance to eat much.”
A good many times that day the captain caught himself wondering if he wasn't dreaming. The whole affair seemed too ridiculous to be an actual experience. Dinner over, he and Emmie attended to the dishes, he washing and she wiping. And even at this early stage of their acquaintance her disposition to take charge of things was apparent. She found fault with the dish towels; they were almost as bad as the tablecloth, she said. Considering that the same set had been in use since Mrs. Beasley's departure, the criticism was not altogether baseless. But the young lady did not stop there—her companion's skill as a washer was questioned.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but don't you think that plate had better be done over? I guess you didn't see that place in the corner. Perhaps you've forgot your specs. Auntie Oliver couldn't see well without her specs.”
Captain Cy grinned and admitted that a second washing wouldn't hurt the plate.
“I guess your auntie was one of the particular kind,” he said.
“No, sir, 'twas mamma. She couldn't bear dirty things. Auntie used to say that mamma hunted dust with a magnifying glass. She didn't, though; she only liked to be neat. I guess dust doesn't worry men so much as it does women.”
“Why?”
“Oh, 'cause there's so much of it here; don't you think so? I'll help you clean up by and by, if you want to.”
“YOU will?”
“Yes, sir. I used to dust sometimes when mamma was out sewing. And once I swept, but I did it so hard that auntie wouldn't let me any more. She said 'twas like trying to blow out a match with a tornado.”
Later on he found her standing in the sitting room, critically inspecting the mats, the furniture, and the pictures on the walls. He stood watching her for a moment and then asked:
“Well, what are you lookin' for—more dust? 'Twon't be hard to find it. 'Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.' Every time I go outdoor and come in again I realize how true that is.”
Emily shook her head.
“No, sir,” she said; “I was only looking at things and thinking.”
“Thinkin', hey? What about? or is that a secret?”
“No, sir. I was thinking that this room was different from any I've ever seen.”
“Humph! Yes, I presume likely 'tis. Don't like it very much, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I think I do. It's got a good many things in it that I never saw before, but I guess they're pretty—after you get used to 'em.”
Captain Cy laughed aloud. “After you get used to 'em, hey?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. That's what mamma said about Auntie Oliver's new bonnet that she made herself. I—I was thinking that you must be peculiar.”
“Peculiar?”
“Yes, sir. I like peculiar people. I'm peculiar myself. Auntie used to say I was the most peculiar child she ever saw. P'raps that's why I came to you. P'raps God meant for peculiar ones to live together. Don't you think maybe that was it?”
And the captain, having no answer ready, said nothing.
That evening when Asaph and Bailey, coming for their usual call, peeped in at the window, they were astounded by the tableau in the Whittaker sitting room. Captain Cy was seated in the rocking chair which had been his grandfather's. At his feet, on the walnut cricket with a haircloth top, sat a little girl turning over the leaves of a tattered magazine, a Godey's Lady's Book. A pile of these magazines was beside her on the floor. The captain was smiling and looking over her shoulder. The cat was curled up in another chair. The room looked more homelike than it had since its owner returned to it.
The friends entered without knocking. Captain Cy looked up, saw them, and appeared embarrassed.
“Hello, boys!” he said. “Glad to see you. Come right in. Clearin' off fine, ain't it?”
Mr. Tidditt replied absently that he wouldn't be surprised if it was. Bailey, his eyes fixed upon the occupant of the cricket, said nothing.
“We—we didn't know you had company, Whit,” said Asaph. “We been up to Simmons's and Alpheus said you was thin and peaked and looked sick. Said you bought sass'p'rilla and all kind of truck. He was afraid you had fever and was out of your head, cruisin round in the rain with no umbrella. The gang weren't talkin' of nothin' else, so me and Bailey thought we'd come right down.”
“That's kind of you, I'm sure. Take your things off and set down. No, I'm sorry to disappoint Smalley and the rest, but I'm able to be up and—er—make my own bed, thank you. So Alpheus thought I looked thin, hey? Well, if I had to live on that soup he sold me, I'd be thinner'n I am now. You tell him that canned hot water is all right if you like it, but it seems a shame to put mud in it. It only changes the color and don't help the taste.”
Mr. Bangs, who was still staring at Emily, now ventured a remark.
“Is that a relation of yours, Cy?” he asked.
“That? Oh! Well, no, not exactly. And yet I don't know but she is. Fellers, this is Emmie Thomas. Can't you shake hands, Emmie?”
The child rose, laid down the magazine, which was open at the colored picture of a group of ladies in crinoline and chignons, and, going across the room, extended a hand to Mr. Tidditt.
“How do you do, sir?” she said.
“Why—er—how d'ye do? I'm pretty smart, thank you. How's yourself?”
“I'm better now. I guess the sass'parilla was good for me.”
“'Twan't the sass'p'rilla,” observed the captain, with conviction. “'Twas the 'Arabian Balsam.' Ma always cured me with it and there's nothin' finer.”
“But what in time—” began Bailey. Captain Cy glanced at the child and then at the clock.
“Don't you think you'd better turn in now, Emmie?” he said hastily, cutting off the remainder of the Bangs query. “It's after eight, and when I was little I was abed afore that.”
Emily obediently turned, gathered up the Lady's Books and replaced them in the closet. Then she went to the dining room and came back with a hand lamp.
“Good night,” she said, addressing the visitors. Then, coming close to the captain, she put her face up for a kiss.
“Good night,” she said to him, adding, “I like it here ever so much. I'm awful glad you let me stay.”
As Bailey told Asaph afterwards, Captain Cy blushed until the ends of the red lapped over at the nape of his neck. However, he bent and kissed the rosy lips and then quickly brushed his own with his hand.
“Yes, yes,” he stammered. “Well—er—good night. Pleasant dreams to you. See you in the mornin'.”
The girl paused at the chamber door. “You won't have to unbutton my waist now,” she said. “This is my other one and it ain't that kind.”
The door closed. The captain, without looking at his friends, led the way to the dining room.
“Come on out here,” he whispered. “We can talk better here.”
Naturally, they wanted to know all about the girl, who she was and where she came from. Captain Cy told as much of the history of the affair as he thought necessary.
“Poor young one,” he concluded, “she landed on to me in the rain, soppin' wet, and ha'f sick. I COULDN'T turn her out then—nobody could. Course it's an everlastin' outrage on me and the cheekiest thing ever I heard of, but what could I do? I was fixed a good deal like an English feller by the name of Gatenby that I used to know in South America. He woke up in the middle of the night and found a boa constrictor curled on the foot of his bed. Next day, when a crowd of us happened in, there was Gatenby, white as a sheet, starin' down at the snake, and it sound asleep. 'I didn't invite him,' he says, 'but he looked so bloomin' comf'table I 'adn't the 'eart to disturb 'im.' Same way with me; the child seemed so comf'table here I ain't had the heart to disturb her—yet.”
“But she said she was goin' to stay,” put in Bailey. “You ain't goin' to KEEP her, are you?”
The captain's indignation was intense.
“Who—me?” he snorted. “What do you think I am? I ain't runnin' an orphan asylum. No, sir! I'll keep the young one a day or so—or maybe a week—and then I'll pack her off to Betsy Howes. I ain't so soft as they think I am. I'LL show 'em!”
Mr. Tidditt looked thoughtful.
“She's a kind of cute little girl, ain't she?” he observed.
Captain Cy's frown vanished and a smile took its place.
“That's so,” he chuckled. “She is, now that's a fact! I don't know's I ever saw a cuter.”
A week isn't a very long time even in Bayport. True, there was once a drummer for a Boston “notion” house who sprained his ankle on the icy sidewalk in front of Simmons's, and was therefore obliged to remain in the front bedroom of the perfect boarding house for seven whole days. He is quoted as saying that next time he hoped he might break his neck.
“Brother,” asked the shocked Rev. Mr. Daniels, who was calling upon the stranger, “are you prepared to face eternity?”
“What?” was the energetic reply. “After a week in this town, and in this bedroom? Look here, Mister, if you want to scare me about the future you just hint that they'll put me on a straw tick in an ice chest. Anything hot and lively 'll only be tempting after this.”
But to us, who live here throughout the year, a week soon passes. And the end of the week following Emily Thomas's arrival at the Cy Whittaker place found the little girl still there and apparently no nearer being shipped to Indiana than when she came. Not so near, if Mr. Tidditt's opinion counts for anything.
“Gone?” he repeated scoffingly in reply to Bailey Bangs's question. “Course she ain't gone! And, what's more, she ain't goin' to go. Whit's got so already that he wouldn't part with her no more'n he'd cut off his hand.”
“But he keeps SAYIN' she's got to go. Only yesterday he was tellin' how Betsy'd feel when the girl landed on her with his letter in her pocket.”
“Sayin' don't count for nothin'. Zoeth Cahoon keeps SAYIN' he's goin' to stop drinkin', but he only stops long enough to catch his breath. Cy's tellin' himself fairy yarns and he hopes he believes 'em. Man alive! can't you SEE? Ain't he gettin' more foolish over the young one every day? Don't she boss him round like the overseer on a cranberry swamp? Don't he look more contented than he has sence he got off the cars? I tell you, Bailey, that child fills a place in Whit's life that's been runnin' to seed and needed weedin'. Nothin' could fill it better—unless 'twas a nice wife.”
“WIFE! Oh, DO be still! I believe you're woman-struck and at an age when it hadn't ought to be catchin' no more'n whoopin' cough.”
Mr. Bangs and the town clerk were the only ones, except Captain Cy, who knew the whole truth concerning the little girl. Not that the child's arrival wasn't noted and vigorously discussed by a large portion of the townspeople. Emily had not been in the Whittaker house two days before Angeline Phinney called, hot on the trail of gossip and sensation. But, persistent as Angeline was, she departed knowing not quite as much as when she came. The interview between Miss Phinney and the captain must have been interesting, judging by the lady's account of it.
“I never see such a man in my born days,” declared Angie disgustedly. “You couldn't get nothin' out of him. Not that he wan't pleasant and sociable; land sakes! he acted as glad to see me as if I was his rich aunt come on a visit. And he was willin' to talk, too. That's the trouble; he done ALL the talkin'. I happened to mention, just as a sort of starter, you know, somethin' about the cranb'ry crop this fall; and after that all he could say was 'cranb'ries, cranb'ries, cranb'ries!' 'Hear you've got comp'ny,' says I. 'Did you?' says he. 'Now ain't it strange how things'll get spread around? Only yesterday I heard that Joe Dimick's swamp was just loaded down with “early blacks.” And yet when I went over to look at it there didn't seem to be so many. There ain't much better cranb'ries anywhere than our early blacks,' he says. 'You take 'em—' And so on, and so on, and so on. I didn't care nothin' about the dratted early blacks, but he didn't seem to care for nothin' else. He talked cranb'ries steady for an hour and a half and I left that house with my mouth all puckered up; it's tasted sour ever sence. I never see such a man!”
When Captain Cy was questioned by Asaph concerning the acid conversation, he grinned.
“I didn't know you was so interested in cranb'ries,” observed Tidditt.
“I ain't,” was the reply; “but I'm more interested in 'em than I am in Angie. I see she was sufferin' from a rush of curiosity to the head and I cured her by homeopath doses. Every time she opened her mouth I dropped an 'early black' into it. It's a good receipt; you tell Bailey to try it on Ketury some time.”
To his chums the captain was emphatic in his orders that secrecy be preserved. No one was to be told who the child was or where she came from. “What they don't know won't hurt 'em any,” declared Captain Cy. And Emily's answer to inquiring souls who would fain have delved into her past was to the effect that “Uncle Cyrus” didn't like to have her talk about herself.
“I don't know's I'm ashamed of anything I've done so far,” said the captain; “but I ain't braggin', either. Time enough to talk when I send her back to Betsy.”
That time, apparently, was not in the near future. The girl stayed on at the Whittaker place and grew to be more and more a part of it. At the end of the second week Captain Cy began calling her “Bos'n.”
“A bos'n's a mighty handy man aboard ship,” he explained, “and you're so handy here that it fits in first rate. And, besides, it sounds so natural. My dad called me 'Bos'n' when I was little.”
Emily accepted the title complacently. She was quite contented to be called almost anything, so long as she was permitted to stay with her new friend. Already the bos'n had taken charge of the deck and the rest of the ship's company; Captain Cy and “Lonesome,” the cat, obeyed her orders.
On the second Sunday morning after her arrival “Bos'n” suggested that she and Captain Cy go to church.
“Mother and I always went at home,” she said. “And Auntie Oliver used to say meeting was a good thing for those that needed it.”
“Think I need it, do you?” asked the captain, who, in shirt sleeves and slippers, had prepared for a quiet forenoon with his pipe and the Boston Transcript.
“I don't know, sir. I heard what you said when Lonesome ate up the steak, and I thought maybe you hadn't been for a long time. I guess churches are different in South America.”
So they went to church and sat in the old Whittaker pew. The captain had been there once before when he first returned to Bayport, but the sermon was more somnolent than edifying, and he hadn't repeated the experiment. The pair attracted much attention. Fragments of a conversation, heard by Captain Cy as they emerged into the vestibule, had momentous consequences.
“Kind of a pretty child, ain't she?” commented Mrs. Eben Salters, patting her false front into place under the eaves of her Sunday bonnet.
“Pretty enough in the face,” sniffed Mrs. “Tad” Simpson, who was wearing her black silk for the first time since its third making-over. “Pretty enough that way, I s'pose. But, my land! look at the way she's rigged. Old dress, darned and patched up and all outgrown! If I had Cy Whittaker's money I'd be ashamed to have a relation of mine come to meetin' that way. Even if her folks was poorer'n Job's off ox I'd spend a little on my own account and trust to getting it back some time. I'd have more care for my own self-respect. Look at Alicia Atkins. See how nice she looks. Them feathers on her hat must have cost somethin', I bet you. Howdy do, 'Licia, dear? When's your pa comin' home?”
The Honorable Heman had left town on a business trip to the South. Alicia was accompanied by the Atkins housekeeper and, as usual, was garbed regardless of expense.
Mrs. Salters smiled sweetly upon the Atkins heir and then added, in a church whisper: “Don't she look sweet? I agree with you, Sarah; it is strange how Captain Whittaker lets his little niece go. And him rich!”
“Niece?” repeated Mrs. Simpson eagerly. “Who said 'twas his niece? I heard 'twas a child he'd adopted out of a home. There's all sorts of queer yarns about. I—Oh, good mornin', Cap'n Cyrus! How DO you do?”
The captain grunted an answer to the effect that he was bearing up pretty well, considering. There was a scowl on his face, and he spoke little as, holding Emily by the hand, he led the way home. That evening he dropped in at the perfect boarding house and begged to know if Mrs. Bangs had any “fashion books” around that she didn't want.
“I mean—er—er—magazines with pictures of women's duds in 'em,” he stammered, in explanation. “Bos'n likes to look at 'em. She's great on fashion books, Bos'n is.”
Keturah got together a half dozen numbers of the Home Dressmaker and other periodicals of a similar nature. The captain took them under his arm and departed, whispering to Mr. Tidditt, as he passed the latter in the hall:
“Come up by and by, Ase. I want to talk to you. Bring Bailey along, if you can do it without startin' divorce proceedings.”
Later, when the trio gathered in the Whittaker sitting room, Captain Cy produced the “fashion books” and spoke concerning them.
“You see,” he said, “I—I've been thinkin' that Bos'n—Emily, that is—wan't rigged exactly the way she ought to be. Have you fellers noticed it?”
His friends seemed surprised. Neither was ready with an immediate answer, so the captain went on.
“Course I don't mean she ain't got canvas enough to cover her spars,” he explained; “but what she has got has seen consider'ble weather, and it seemed to me 'twas pretty nigh time to haul her into dry dock and refit. That's why I borrowed these magazines of Ketury. I've been lookin' them over and there seems to be plenty of riggin' for small craft; the only thing is I don't know what's the right cut for her build. Bailey, you're a married man; you ought to know somethin' about women's clothes. What do you think of this, now?”
He opened one of the magazines and pointed to the picture of a young girl, with a waspy waist and Lilliputian feet, who, arrayed in flounces and furbelows, was toddling gingerly down a flight of marble steps. She carried a parasol in one hand, and the other held the end of a chain to which a long-haired dog was attached.
The town clerk and his companion inspected the young lady with deliberation and interest.
“Well, what do you say?” demanded Captain Cy.
“I don't care much for them kind of dogs,” observed Asaph thoughtfully.
“Good land! you don't s'pose they heave the dog in with the clothes, for good measure, do you? Bailey, what's your opinion?”
Mr. Bangs looked wise.
“I should say—” he said, “yes, sir, I should say that was a real stylish rig-out. Only thing is, that girl is consider'ble less fleshy than Emily. This one looks to me as if she was breakin' in two amidships. Still, I s'pose likely the duds don't come ready made, so they could be let out some, to fit. What's the price of a suit like that, Whit?”
The captain looked at the printed number beneath the fashion plate and then turned to the description in the text.
“'Afternoon gown for miss of sixteen,'” he read. “Humph! that settles that, first crack. Bos'n ain't but half of sixteen.”
“Anyway,” put in Asaph, “you need somethin' she could wear forenoons, if she wanted to. What's this one? She looks young enough.”
The “one” referred to turned out to be a “coat for child of four.” It was therefore scornfully rejected. One after another the different magazines were examined and the pictures discussed. At length a “costume for miss of eight years” was pronounced to be pretty nearly the thing.
“Godfrey scissors!” exclaimed the admiring Mr. Tidditt. “That's mighty swell, ain't it? What's the stuff goes into that, Cy?”
“'Material, batiste, trimmed with embroidered batiste.' What in time is batiste?”
“I don't know. Do you, Bailey?”
“No; never heard of it. Ketury never had nothin' like that, I'm sure. French, I shouldn't wonder. Well, Ketury's down on the French ever sence she read about Napoleon leavin' his fust wife to take up with another woman. Does it say any more?”
“Let's see. 'Makes a beautiful gown for evening or summer wear.' Summer! Why, by the big dipper, we're aground again! Bos'n don't want summer clothes. It's comin' on winter.”
He threw the magazine on the floor, rubbed his forehead, and then burst into a laugh.
“For goodness sake, don't tell anybody about this business, boys!” he said. “I guess I must be havin' an early spring of second childhood. But when I heard those women at the meetin' house goin' on about how pretty 'Licia Atkins was got up and how mean and shabby Bos'n looked, it made me bile. And, by the big dipper, I WILL show 'em somethin' afore I get through, too! Only, dressin' little girls is some off my usual course. Bailey, does Ketury make her own duds?”
“Why, no! Course she helps and stands by for orders, but Effie Taylor comes and takes the wheel while the riggin's goin' on. Effie's a dressmaker and—”
“There! See, Ase? It IS some good to have a married man aboard, after all. A dressmaker's what we want. I'll hunt up Effie to-morrow.”
And hunt her up he did, with the result that Miss Taylor came to the Whittaker place each day during the following week and Emily was, as the captain said, “rigged out fresh from main truck to keelson.” In this “rigging” Captain Cy and his two partners—Josiah Dimick had already christened the pair “The Board of Strategy”—took a marked interest. They were on hand when each new garment was tried on, and they approved or criticised as seemed to them best.
“Ain't that kind of sober lookin' for a young one like Bos'n?” asked the captain, referring to one of the new gowns. “I don't want her to look as if she was dressed cheap.”
“Land sakes!” mumbled Miss Taylor, her mouth full of pins. “There ain't anything cheap about it, and you'll find it out when you get the bill. That's a nice, rich, sensible suit.”
“I know, but it's so everlastin' quiet! Don't you think a little yellow and black or some red strung along the yards would sort of liven it up? Why! you ought to see them Greaser girls down in South America of a Sunday afternoon. Color! and go! Jerushy! they'd pretty nigh knock your eye out.”
The dressmaker sniffed disdain.
“Cap'n Whittaker,” she retorted, “if you want this child to look like an Indian squaw or a barber's pole you'll have to get somebody else to do it. I'm used to dressing Christians, not yeller and black heathen women. Red strung along a skirt like that! I never did!”
“There, there, Effie! Don't get the barometer fallin'. I was only suggestin', you know. What do you think, Bos'n?”
“Why, Uncle Cyrus, I don't believe I should like red very much; nor the other colors, either. I like this just as it is.”
“So? Well, you're the doctor. Maybe you're right. I wouldn't want you to look like a barber's pole. Don't love Tad Simpson enough to want to advertise his business.”
Miss Taylor's coming had other results besides the refitting of “Bos'n.” She found much fault with the captain's housekeeping. It developed that her sister Georgiana, who had been working in a Brockton shoe shop, was now at home and might be engaged to attend to the household duties at the Whittaker establishment, provided she was allowed to “go home nights.” Georgiana was engaged, on trial, and did well. So that problem was solved.
School in Bayport opens the first week in October. Of late there has been a movement, headed by some of the townspeople who think city ways are best, to have the term begin in September. But this idea has little chance of success as long as cranberry picking continues to be our leading industry. So many of the children help out the family means by picking cranberries in the fall that school, until the picking season was over, would be slimly attended.
The last week in September found us all discussing the coming of the new downstairs teacher, Miss Phoebe Dawes. Since it was definitely settled that she was to come, the opposition had died down and was less openly expressed; but it was there, all the same, beneath the surface. Congressman Atkins had accepted the surprising defiance of his wish with calm dignity and the philosophy of the truly great who are not troubled by trifles. His lieutenant, Tad Simpson, quoted him as saying that, of course, the will of the school committee was paramount, and he, as all good citizens should, bowed to their verdict. “Far be it from me,” so the great man proclaimed, “to desire that my opinion should carry more weight than that of the humblest of my friends and neighbors. Speaking as one whose knowledge of the world was, perhaps—er—more extensive than—er—others, I favored the Normal School candidate. But the persons chosen to select thought—or appeared to think—otherwise. I therefore say nothing and await developments.”
This attitude was considered by most of us to reflect credit upon Mr. Atkins. There were a few scoffers, however. When the proclamation was repeated to Captain Cy he smiled.
“Alpheus,” he said to Mr. Smalley, his informant, “you didn't use to know Deacon Zeb Clark, who lived up by the salt works in my granddad's time, hey? No, course you didn't! Well, the deacon was a great believer in his own judgment. One time, it bein' Saturday, his wife wanted him to pump the washtub full and take a bath. He said, no; said the cistern was awful low and 'twould use up all the water. She said no such thing; there was water a-plenty. To prove she was wrong he went and pried the cistern cover off to look, and fell in. Mrs. Clark peeked down and saw him there, standin' up to his neck.
“'Tabby,' says he, 'you would have your way and I'm takin' the bath. But you can see for yourself that we'll have to cart water from now on. However, I ain't responsible; throw me down the soap and towel.'”
“Humph!” grunted Smalley, “I don't see what that's got to do with it. Heman ain't takin' no bath.”
“I don't know's it's got anything to do with it. But he kind of made me think of Zeb, all the same.”
The first day of school was, of course, a Monday. On Sunday afternoon Captain Cy and Bos'n went for a walk. These walks had become a regular part of the Sabbath programme, the weather, of course, permitting. After church the pair came home for dinner. The meal being eaten, the captain would light a cigar—a pipe was now hardly “dressed-up” enough for Sunday—and, taking his small partner by the hand, would lead the way across the fields, through the pines and down by the meadow “short cut” to the cemetery. The cemetery is a favorite Sabbath resort for the natives of Bayport, who usually speak of it as the graveyard. It is a pleasant, shady spot, and to visit it is considered quite respectable and in keeping with the day and a due regard for decorum. The ungodly, meaning the summer boarders and the village no-accounts, seem to prefer the beach and the fish houses, but the cemetery attracts the churchgoers. One may gossip concerning the probable cost of a new tombstone and still remain faithful to the most rigid creed.
Captain Cy was not, strictly speaking, a religious man, according to Bayport standards. Between his attendance to churchly duties and that of the Honorable Heman Atkins there was a great gulf fixed. But he rather liked to visit the graveyard on Sunday afternoons. His mother had been used to stroll there with him, in his boyhood, and it pleased him to follow in her footsteps.
So he and Bos'n walked along the grass-covered paths, between the iron-fenced “lots” of the well-to-do and the humble mounds and simple slabs where the poor were sleeping; past the sumptuous granite shaft of the Atkins lot and the tilted mossy stone which told how “Edwin Simpson, our only son,” had been “accidentally shot in the West Indies”; out through the back gate and up the hill to the pine grove overlooking the bay. Here, on a scented carpet of pine needles, they sat them down to rest and chat.
Emily, her small knees drawn up and encircled by her arms, looked out across the flats, now half covered with the rising tide. It was a mild day, more like August than October, and there was almost no wind. The sun was shining on the shallow water, and the sand beneath it showed yellow, checkered and marbled with dark green streaks and patches where the weed-bordered channels wound tortuously. On the horizon the sand hills of Wellmouth notched the blue sky. The girl drew a long breath.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Isn't this just lovely! I do like the sea an awful lot.”
“That's natural enough,” replied her companion. “There's a big streak of salt water in your blood on your ma's side. It pulls, that kind of a streak does. There's days when I feel uneasy every minute and hanker for a deck underneath me. The settin' room floor stays altogether too quiet on a day like that; I'd like to feel it heavin' over a ground swell.”
“Say, Bos'n,” he said a few minutes later; “I've been thinkin' about you. You've been to school, haven't you?”
“Course I have,” was the rather indignant answer. “I went two years in Concord. Mamma used to help me nights, too. I can read almost all the little words. Don't I help you read your paper 'most every night?”
“Sartin you do! Yes, yes! Well, our school opens to-morrer and I've been thinkin' that maybe you'd better go. There's a new teacher comin', and I hear she's pretty good.”
“Don't you KNOW? Why, Mr. Tidditt said you was the one that got her to come here!”
“Yes; well, Asaph says 'most everything but his prayers. Still, he ain't fur off this time; I cal'late I was some responsible for her bein' voted in. Yet I don't really know anything about her. You see, I—well, never mind. What do you think? Want to go?”
Bos'n looked troubled.
“I'd like to,” she said. “Course I want to learn how to read the big words, too. But I like to stay at home with you more.”
“You do, hey? Sho, sho! Well, I guess I can get along between times. Georgiana's there to keep me straight and she'll see to the dust and the dishes. I guess you'd better go to-morrer mornin' and see how you like it, anyhow.”
The child thought for a moment.
“I think you're awful good,” she said. “I like you next to mamma; even better than Auntie Oliver. I printed a letter to her the other day. I told her you were better than we expected and I had decided to live with you always.”
Captain Cy was startled. Considering that, only the day before, he had repeated to Bailey the declaration that the arrangement was but temporary, and that Betsy Howes was escaping responsibility only for a month or so, he scarcely knew what to say.
“Humph!” he grunted. “You've decided it, have you? Well, we'll see. Now you trot around and have a good time. I'm goin' to have another smoke. I'll be here when you get back.”
Bos'n wandered off in search of late golden rod. The captain smoked and meditated. By and by the puffs were less frequent and the cigar went out. It fell from his fingers. With his back against a pine tree Captain Cy dozed peacefully.
He awoke with a jump. Something had awakened him, but he did not know what. He blinked and gazed about him. Then he heard a faint scream.
“Uncle!” screamed Bos'n. “O—o—o—h! Uncle Cyrus, help me! Come quick!”
The next moment the captain was plunging through the scrub of huckleberry and bayberry bushes, bumping into pines and smashing the branches aside as he ran in the direction of the call.
Back of the pine grove was a big inclosed pasture nearly a quarter of a mile long. Its rear boundary was the iron fence of the cemetery. The other three sides were marked by rail fences and a stone wall. As the captain floundered from the grove and vaulted the rail fence he swore aloud.
“By the big dipper,” he groaned, “it's that cussed heifer! I forgot her. Keep dodgin', Bos'n girl! I'm comin'.”
The pasture was tenanted by a red and white cow belonging to Sylvanus Cahoon. Whether or not the animal had, during her calfhood days, been injured by a woman is not known; possibly her behavior was due merely to innate depravity. At any rate, she cherished a mortal hatred toward human beings of her own sex. With men and boys she was meek enough, but no person wearing skirts, and alone, might venture in that field without being chased by that cow. What would happen if the pursued one was caught could only be surmised, for, so far, no female had permitted herself to be caught. Few would come even so near as the other side of the pasture walls.
Bos'n had forgotten the cow. She had gone from one golden-rod clump to another until she had traversed nearly the length of the field. Then the vicious creature had appeared from behind a knoll in the pasture and, head down and bellowing wickedly, had rushed upon her. When the captain reached the far-off fence, the little girl was dodging from one dwarf pine to the next, with the cow in pursuit. The pines were few and Bos'n was nearly at the end of her defenses.
“Help!” she screamed. “Oh, uncle, where are you? What shall I do?”
Captain Cy roared in answer.
“Keep it up!” he yelled. “I'm a-comin'! Shoot you everlastin' critter! I'll break your back for you!”
The cow didn't understand English it seemed, even such vigorous English as the captain was using. Emily dodged to the last pine. The animal was close upon her. Her rescuer was still far away.
And then the cemetery gate opened and another person entered the pasture. A small person—a woman. She said nothing, but picking up her skirts, ran straight toward the cow, heedless of the latter's reputation and vicious appearance. One hand clutched the gathered skirts. In the other she held a book.
“Don't be scared, dear,” she called reassuringly. Then to the cow: “Stop it! Go away, you wicked thing!”
The animal heard the voice and turned. Seeing that the newcomer was only a woman, she lowered her head and pawed the ground.
“Run for the gate, little girl,” commanded the rescuer. “Run quick!” Bos'n obeyed. She made a desperate dash from her pine across the open space, and in another moment was safe inside the cemetery fence.
“Scat! Go home!” ordered the lady, advancing toward the cow and shaking the book at her, as if the volume was some sort of deadly weapon. “Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Go away! You needn't growl at me! I'm not a bit afraid of you.”
The “growling” was the muttered bellow with which the cow was wont to terrorize her feminine victims. But this victim refused to be terrorized. Instead of screaming and running she continued to advance, brandishing the book and repeating her orders that the creature “go home” at once. The cow did not know what to make of it. Before she could decide whether to charge or retreat, a good-sized stick descended upon her back with a “whack” that settled the question. Captain Cy had reached the scene of battle.
Then the rescuer's courage seemed to desert her, for she ran back to the cemetery even faster than she had run from it. When the indignant captain, having pursued and chastised the cow until the stick was but a splintered remnant, reached the haven behind the iron fence, he found her soothing the frightened Bos'n who was sobbing and hysterical.
Emily saw her “Uncle Cyrus” coming and rushed into his arms. He picked her up and, holding her with a grip which testified to the nerve strain he had been under, stepped forward to meet the stranger, whose coming had been so opportune.
And she WAS a stranger. The captain knew most of Bayport's inhabitants by this time, or thought he did, but he did not know her. She was a small woman, quietly dressed, and her hair, under a neat black and white hat, was brown. The hat was now a trifle to one side and the hair was the least bit disarranged, an effect not at all unbecoming. She was tucking in the stray wisps as the captain, with Bos'n in his arms, came up.
“Well, ma'am!” puffed Captain Cy. “WELL, ma'am! I must say that was the slickest, pluckiest thing ever I saw anywheres. I don't know what would—I—I declare I don't know how to thank you.”
The lady looked at him a moment before replying. Then she began to laugh, a jolly laugh that was pleasant to hear.
“Don't try, please,” she said chokingly. “It wasn't anything. Oh, mercy me! I'm all out of breath. You see, I had been warned about that cow when I started to walk this afternoon. So when I saw her chasing your poor little girl here I knew right away what was the matter. It must have been foolish enough to look at. I'm used to dogs and cats, but I haven't had many pet cows. I told her to 'go home' and to 'scat' and all sorts of things. Wonder I didn't tell her to lie down! And the way I shook that ridiculous book at her was—”
She laughed again and the captain and Bos'n joined in the laugh, in spite of the fright they both had experienced.
“That book was dry enough to frighten almost anything,” continued the lady. “It was one I took from the table before I left the place where I'm staying, and a duller collection of sermons I never saw. Oh, dear! . . . there! Is my hat any more respectable now?”
“Yes'm. It's about on an even keel, I should say. But I must tell you, ma'am, you done simply great and—”
“Seems to me the people who own that cow must be a poor set to let her make such a nuisance of herself. Did your daughter run away from you?”
“Well, you see, ma'am, she ain't really my daughter. Bos'n here—that's my nickname for her, ma'am—she and I was out walkin'. I set down in the pines and I guess I must have dozed off. Anyhow, when I woke up she was gone, and the first thing I knew of this scrape was hearin' her hail.”
The little woman's manner changed. Her gray eyes flashed indignantly.
“You dozed off?” she repeated. “With a little girl in your charge, and in the very next lot to that cow? Didn't you know the creature chased women and girls?”
“Why, yes; I'd heard of it, but—”
“It wasn't Uncle Cyrus's fault,” put in Bos'n eagerly. “It was mine. I went away by myself.”
Beyond shifting her gaze to the child the lady paid no attention to this remark.
“What do you think her mother 'll say when she sees that dress?” she asked.
It was Emily's best gown, the finest of the new “rig out” prepared by Miss Taylor. The girl and Captain Cy gazed ruefully at the rents and pitch stains made by the vines and pine trees.
“Well, you see,” replied the abashed captain, “the fact is, she ain't got any mother.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon. And hers, too, poor dear. Well, if I were you I shouldn't go to sleep next time I took her walking. Good afternoon.”
She turned and calmly walked down the path. At the bend she spoke again.
“I should be gentle with her, if I were you,” she said. “Her nerves are pretty well upset. Besides, if you'll excuse my saying so, I don't think she is the one that needs scolding.”
They thought she had gone, but she turned once more to add a final suggestion.
“I think that dress could be fixed,” she said, “if you took it to some one who knew about such things.”
She disappeared amidst the graveyard shrubbery. Captain Cy and Bos'n slowly followed her. From the pasture the red and white cow sent after them a broken-spirited “Moo!”
Bos'n was highly indignant. During the homeward walk she sputtered like a damp firecracker.
“The idea of her talking so to you, Uncle Cyrus!” she exclaimed. “It wasn't your fault at all.”
The captain smiled one-sidedly.
“I don't know about that, shipmate,” he said. “I wouldn't wonder if she was more than half right. But say! she was all business and no frills, wasn't she! Ha, ha! How she did spunk up to that heifer! Who in the dickens do you cal'late she is?”
That question was answered the very next day. Bos'n, carefully dressed by Georgianna under the captain's supervision, and weighted down with advice and counsel from the latter, started for the schoolhouse at a quarter to nine. Only a sense of shame kept Captain Cy from walking to school with her. He spent a miserable forenoon. They were quite the longest three hours in his varied experience. The house was dreadfully lonely. He wandered from kitchen to sitting room, worried Georgianna, woke up the cat, and made a complete nuisance of himself. Twelve o'clock found him leaning over the gate and looking eagerly in the direction of the schoolhouse.
Bos'n ran all the way home. She was in a high state of excitement.
“What do you think, Uncle Cyrus?” she cried. “What DO you think? I've found out who the cow lady is!”
“The cow lady? Oh, yes, yes! Have you? Who is she?”
“She's teacher, that's who she is!”
The captain was astonished.
“No!” he exclaimed. “Phoebe Dawes? You don't say so! Well, well!”
“Yes, sir. When I went into school and found her sitting there I was so surprised I didn't know what to do. She knew me, too, and said good morning, and was I all right again and was my dress really as bad as it looked to be? I told her that Georgianna thought she could fix it, and if she couldn't, her sister could. She said that was nice, and then 'twas time for school to begin.”
“Did she say anything about me?” inquired Captain Cy when they were seated at the dinner table.
“Oh, yes! I forgot. She must have found out who you are, 'cause she said she was surprised that a man who had made his money out of hides should have been so careless about the creatures that wore 'em.”
“Humph! How'd she get along with the young ones in school?”
It appeared that she had gotten along very well with them. Some of the bigger boys in the back seats, cherishing pleasant memories of the “fun” they had under Miss Seabury's easy-going rule, attempted to repeat their performances of the previous term. But the very first “spitball” which spattered upon the blackboard proved a disastrous missile for its thrower.
“She made him clean the board,” proclaimed Bos'n, big-eyed and awestruck, “and then he had to stand in the corner. He was Bennie Edwards, and he's most thirteen. Miss Seabury, they said, couldn't do anything with him, but teacher said 'Go,' as quiet as could be and just looked at him, and he went. And he's most as tall as she is. He did look so silly!”
The Edwards youth was not the only one who was made to “look silly” by little Miss Dawes during the first days of her stay in Bayport. She dealt with the unruly members of her classes as bravely as she had faced the Cahoon cow, and the results were just as satisfactory. She was strict, but she was impartial, and Alicia Atkins found, to her great surprise, that the daughter of a congressman was expected to study as faithfully and behave herself as well as freckled-faced Noah Hamlin, whose father peddled fish and whose everyday costume was a checkered “jumper” and patched overalls.
The school committee, that is, the majority of it, was delighted with the new teacher. Lemuel Myrick boasted loudly of his good judgment in voting for her. But Tad Simpson and Darius Ellis and others of the Atkins following still scoffed and hinted at trouble in the future.
“A new broom sweeps fine,” quoted Mr. Simpson. “She's doin' all right now, maybe. Anyway, the young ones are behavin' themselves, but disCIPline ain't the whole thing. Heman told me that the teacher he wanted could talk French language and play music and all kinds of accomplishments. Phoebe—not findin' any fault with her, you understand—don't know no more about music than a hen; my wife says she don't even sing in church loud enough for anybody to hear her. And as for French! why everybody knows she uses the commonest sort of United States, just as easy to understand as what I'm sayin' now.”
Miss Dawes boarded at the perfect boarding house. There opinion was divided concerning her. Bailey and Mr. Tidditt liked her, but the feminine boarders were not so favorably impressed.
“I think she's altogether too pert about what don't concern her,” commented Angeline Phinney. “Sarah Emma Simpson dropped in t'other day to dinner, and we church folks got to talkin' about the minister's preachin' such 'advanced' sermons. And Sarah Emma told how she'd heard he said he'd known some real moral Universalists in his time, or some such unreligious foolishness. And I said I wondered he didn't get a new tail coat; the one he preached in Sundays was old as the hills and so outgrown it wouldn't scurcely button acrost him. 'A man bein' paid nine hundred a year,' I says, 'ought to dress decent, anyhow.' And that Phoebe Dawes speaks up, without bein' asked, and says for her part she'd ruther hear a broad man in a narrer coat than t'other way about. 'Twas a regular slap in the face for me, and Sarah Emma and I ain't got over it yet.”
Captain Cy heard the gossip concerning the new teacher and it rather pleased him. She appeared to be independent, and he liked independence. He met her once or twice on the street, but she merely bowed and passed on. Once he tried to thank her again for her part in the cow episode, but she would not listen to him.
Bos'n was making good progress with her studies. She was naturally a bright child—not the marvel the captain and the “Board of Strategy” considered her, but quick to learn. She was not a saint, however, and occasionally misbehaved in school and was punished for it. One afternoon she did not return at her usual hour. Captain Cy was waiting at the gate when Asaph Tidditt happened along. Bailey, too, was with him.
“Waitin' for Bos'n, was you?” asked the town clerk. “Well, you'll have to wait quite a spell, I cal'late. She's been kept after school.”
“Yes; and she's got to write fifty lines of copy,” added Bailey.
Captain Cy was highly indignant.
“Get out!” he cried. “She ain't neither.”
“Yes, she has, too. One of the Salters young ones told me. I knew you'd be mad, though I s'pose folks that didn't know her's well's we do would say she's no different from other children.”
This was close to heresy, according to the captain's opinion.
“She ain't!” he cried. “I'd like to know why not! If she ain't twice as smart as the run of young ones 'round here then—Humph! And she's kept after school! Well, now; I won't have it! There's enough time for studyin' without wearin' out her brains after hours. Oh, I guess you're mistaken.”
“No, we ain't. I tell you, Whit, if I was you I'd make a fuss about this. She's a smart child, Bos'n is; I never see a smarter. And she ain't any too strong.”
“That's so, she ain't.” The idea that Emily's health was “delicate” had become a fixed fact in the minds of the captain and the “Board.” It made a good excuse for the systematic process of “spoiling” the girl, which the indulgent three were doing their best to carry on.
“I wouldn't let her be kept, Cy,” urged Bailey. “Why don't you go right off and see Phoebe and settle this thing? You've got a right to talk to her. She wouldn't be teacher if it wasn't for you.”
Asaph added his arguments to those of Mr. Bangs. Captain Cy, carried away by his firm belief that Bos'n was a paragon of all that was brilliant and good, finally yielded.
“All right!” he exclaimed. “Come on! That poor little thing shan't be put upon by nobody.”
The trio marched majestically down the hill. As they neared the schoolhouse Bailey's courage began to fail. Miss Dawes was a boarder at his house, and he feared consequences should Keturah learn of his interference.
“I—I guess you don't need me,” he stammered. “The three of us 'll scare that teacher woman most to death. And she's so little and meek, you know. If I should lose my temper and rare up I might say somethin' that would hurt her feelin's. I'll set on the fence and wait for you and Ase, Whit.”
Mr. Tidditt's scornful comments concerning “white feathers” and “backsliders” had no effect. Mr. Bangs perched himself on the fence.
“Give it to her, fellers!” he called after them.
“Talk Dutch to her! Let her know that there's one child she can't abuse.”
At the foot of the steps Asaph paused.
“Say, Cy,” he whispered, “don't you think I better not go in? It ain't really my business, you know, and—and—Well, I'm on the s'lectmen and she might be frightened if she see me pouncin' down on her. 'Tain't as if I was just a common man. I'll go and set along of Bailey and you go in and talk quiet to her. She'd feel so sort of ashamed if there was anyone else to hear the rakin' over—hey?”
“Now, see here, Ase,” expostulated the captain, “I don't like to do this all by myself! Besides, 'twas you chaps put me up to it. You ain't goin' to pull out of the race and leave me to go over the course alone, are you? Come on! what are, you afraid of?”
His companion hotly denied that he was “afraid” of anything. He had all sorts of arguments to back his decision. At last Captain Cy lost patience.
“Well, BE a skulk, if you want to!” he declared. “I've set out to see this thing through, and I'm goin' to do it. Only,” he muttered, as he entered the downstairs vestibule, “I wish I didn't feel quite so much as if I was stealin' hens' eggs.”
Miss Dawes herself opened the door in response to his knock.
“Oh, it's you, Cap'n Whittaker,” she said. “Come in, please.”
Captain Cy entered the schoolroom. It was empty, save for the teacher and himself and one little girl, who, seated at a desk, was writing busily. She looked up and blushed a vivid red. The little girl was Bos'n.
“Sit down, Cap'n,” said Miss Phoebe, indicating the visitor's chair. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”
The captain accepted the invitation to be seated, but he did not immediately reply to Miss Dawes's question. He dropped his hat on the floor, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and then observed that it was pretty summery weather for so late in the fall. The teacher admitted the truth of his assertion and waited for him to continue.
“I—I s'pose school's pretty full, now that cranb'ryin' 's over,” said Captain Cy.
“Yes, pretty full.”
“Gettin' along first rate with the scholars, I hear.”
“Yes.”
This was a most unpromising beginning, really no beginning at all. The captain cleared his throat, set his teeth, and, without looking at his companion, dove headlong into the business which had brought him there.
“Miss Dawes,” he said, “I—I s'pose you know that Bos'n—I mean Emily there—is livin' at my house and that I'm taking care of her for—for the present.”
The lady smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “I gathered as much from what you said when we first met.”
She herself had said one or two things on that occasion. Captain Cy remembered them distinctly.
“Yes, yes,” he said hastily. “Well, my doin's that time wasn't exactly the best sample of the care, I will say. Wan't even a fair sample, maybe. I try to do my best with the child, long as she stays with me, and—er—and—er—I'm pretty particular about her health.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“Yes. Now, Miss Phoebe, I appreciate what you did for Bos'n and me that Sunday, and I'm thankful for it. I've tried to thank—”
“I know. Please don't say any more about it. I imagine there is something else you want to say, isn't there?”
“Why, yes, there is. I—I heard that Emmie had been kept after school. I didn't believe it, of course, but I thought I'd run up and see what—”
He hesitated. The teacher finished the sentence for him.
“To see if it was true?” she said. “It is. I told her to stay and write fifty lines.”
“You did? Well, now that's what I wanted to speak to you about. Course I ain't interferin' in your affairs, you know, but I just wanted to explain about Bos'n—Emmie, I mean. She ain't a common child; she's got too much head for the rest of her. If you'd lived with her same as I have you'd appreciate it. Her health's delicate.”
“Is it? She seems strong enough to me. I haven't noticed any symptoms.”
“Course not, else you wouldn't have kept her in. But I know, and I think it's my duty to tell you. Never mind if she can't do quite so much writin'. I'd rather she wouldn't; she might bust a blood vessel or somethin'. Such things HAVE happened, to extry smart young ones. You just let her trot along home with me now and—”
“Cap'n Whittaker,” Miss Dawes had risen to her feet with a determined expression on her face.
“Yes, ma'am,” said the captain, rising also.
“Cap'n Whittaker,” repeated the teacher, “I'm very glad that you called. I've been rather expecting you might, because of certain things I have heard.”
“You heard? What was it you heard—if you don't mind my askin'?”
“No, I don't, because I think we must have an understanding about Emily. I have heard that you allow her to do as she pleases at home; in other words, that you are spoiling her, and—”
“SPOILIN' her! I spoilin' her? Who told you such an unlikely yarn as that? I ain't the kind to spoil anybody. Why, I'm so strict that I'm ashamed of myself sometimes.”
He honestly believed he was. Miss Phoebe calmly continued.
“Of course, what you do at home is none of my business. I shouldn't mention it anyhow, if you hadn't called, because I pay very little attention to town talk, having lived in this county all my life and knowing what gossip amounts to. I like Emily; she's a pretty good little girl and well behaved, as children go. But this you must understand. She can't be spoiled here. She whispered this afternoon, twice. She has been warned often, and knows the rule. I kept her after school because she broke that rule, and if she breaks it again, she will be punished again. I kept the Edwards boy two hours yesterday and—”
“Edwards boy! Do you mean to compare that—that young rip of a Ben Edwards with a girl like Bos'n? I never heard—”
“I'm not comparing anybody. I'm trying to be fair to every scholar in this room. And, so long as Emily behaves herself, she shall be treated accordingly. When she doesn't, she shall be punished. You must understand that.”
“But Ben Edwards! Why, he's a wooden-head, same as his dad was a fore him! And Emmie's the smartest scholar in this town.”
“Oh, no, she isn't! She's a good scholar, but there are others just as good and even quicker to learn.”
This was piling one insult upon another. Other children as brilliant as Bos'n! Captain Cy was bursting with righteous indignation.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Well! for a teacher that we've called to—”
“And that's another thing,” broke in Miss Dawes quickly. “I've been told that you, Cap'n Whittaker, are the one directly responsible for my being chosen for this place. I don't say that you are presuming on that, but—”
“I ain't! I never thought of such a thing!”
“But if you are you mustn't, that's all. I didn't ask for the position and, now that I've got it, I shall try to fill it without regard to one person more than another. Emily stays here until her lines are written. I don't think we need to say any more. Good day.”
She opened the door. Captain Cy picked up his hat, swallowed hard, and stepped across the threshold. Then Miss Phoebe added one more remark.
“Cap'n,” she said, “when you were in command of a ship did you allow outsiders to tell you how to treat the sailors?”
The captain opened his mouth to reply. He wanted to reply very much, but somehow he couldn't find a satisfying answer to that question.
“Ma'am,” he said, “all I can say is that if you'd been in South America, same as I have, and seen the way them half-breed young ones act, you'd—”
The teacher smiled, in spite of an apparent effort not to.
“Perhaps so,” she said, “but this is Massachusetts. And—well, Emily isn't a half-breed.”
Captain Cy strode through the vestibule. Just before the door closed behind him he heard a stifled sob from poor Bos'n.
The Board of Strategy was waiting at the end of the yard. Its members were filled with curiosity.
“Did you give it to her good?” demanded Asaph. “Did you let her understand we wouldn't put up with such cruelizin'?”
“Where's Bos'n?” asked Mr. Bangs.
Their friend's answers were brief and tantalizingly incomplete. He walked homeward at a gait which caused plump little Bailey to puff in his efforts to keep up, and he would say almost nothing about the interview in the schoolroom.
“Well,” said Mr. Tidditt, when they reached the Whittaker gate, “I guess she knows her place now; hey, Cy? I cal'late she'll be careful who she keeps after school from now on.”
“Didn't use no profane language, did you, Cy?” asked Bailey. “I hope not, 'cause she might have you took up just out of spite. Did she ask your pardon for her actions?”
“No!” roared the captain savagely. Then, banging the gate behind him, he strode up the yard and into the house.
Bos'n came home a half hour later. Captain Cy was alone in the sitting room, seated in his favorite rocker and moodily staring at nothing in particular. The girl gazed at him for a moment and then climbed into his lap.
“I wrote my fifty lines, Uncle Cyrus,” she said. “Teacher said I'd done them very nicely, too.”
The captain grunted.
“Uncle Cy,” whispered Bos'n, putting her arms around his neck, “I'm awful sorry I was so bad.”
“Bad? Who—you? You couldn't be bad if you wanted to. Don't talk that way or I'll say somethin' I hadn't ought to.”
“Yes, I could be bad, too. I was bad. I whispered.”
“Whispered! What of it? That ain't nothin'. When I was a young one in school I used to whis— . . . Hum! Well, anyhow, don't you think any more about it. 'Tain't worth while.”
They rocked quietly for a time. Then Bos'n said:
“Uncle Cyrus, don't you like teacher?”
“Hey? LIKE her? Well, if that ain't a question? Yes, I like her about as well as Lonesome likes Eben Salter's dog.”
“I'm sorry. I like her ever so much.”
“You DO? Go 'long! After the way she treated you, poor little thing!”
“She didn't treat me any worse than she does the other girls and boys when they're naughty. And I did know the rule about whispering.”
“Well, that's different. Comparin' you with that Bennie Edwards—the idea! And then makin' you cry!”
“She didn't make me cry.”
“Did, too. I heard you.”
The child looked up at him and then hid her face in his waistcoat.
“I wasn't crying about her,” she whispered. “It was you.”
“ME!” The captain gasped. “Good land!” he muttered. “It's just as I expected. She's studied too hard and it's touchin' her brain.”
“No, sir, it isn't. It isn't truly. I did cry about you because I didn't like to hear you talk so. And I was so sorry to have you come there.”
“You WAS!”
“Yes, sir. Other children's folks don't come when they're bad. And I kept feeling so sort of ashamed of you.”
“Ashamed of ME?”
Bos'n nodded vigorously.
“Yes, sir. Everything teacher said sounded so right, and what you said didn't. And I like to have you always right.”
“Do, hey? Hum!” Captain Cy didn't speak again for some few minutes, but he held the little girl very tight in his arms. At length he drew a long breath.
“By the big dipper, Bos'n!” he exclaimed. “You're a wonder, you are. I wouldn't be surprised if you grew up to be a mind reader, like that feller in the show we went to at the townhall a spell ago. To tell you the honest Lord's truth, I've been ashamed of myself ever since I come out of that schoolhouse door. When that teacher woman sprung that on me about my fo'mast hands aboard ship I was set back about forty fathom. I never wanted to answer anybody so bad in MY life, and I couldn't 'cause there wasn't anything to say. I cal'late I've made a fool of myself.”
Bos'n nodded again.
“We won't do so any more, will we?” she said.
“You bet we won't! I won't, anyhow. You haven't done anything.”
“And you'll like teacher?”
The captain stamped his foot.
“No, SIR!” he declared. “She may be all right in her way—I s'pose she is; but it's too Massachusettsy a way for me. No, sir! I don't like her and I WON'T like her. No, sir-ee, never! She—she ain't my kind of a woman,” he added stubbornly. “That's what's the matter! She ain't my kind of a woman.”
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