Dorothy

  CHAPTER XV

  THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT

  "What does it mean? What does it mean!" cried the astonished girl,scarcely believing the words that were printed so plainly yet seemed soimpossible. "It's my own name. I'm Dorothy Chester, called Dorothy C.It's about me--I see it's about me--there couldn't be another right herein Baltimore--and money--all that money--who? Where? What? O long boy,talk, talk, tell!"

  He was really as excited as she. For once he forgot caution and wasindifferent to the opinion of his mistress, whether that were good orill. He could not read very well. He had had to study that advertisementslowly before he could make out even its sentences, and to do a deal ofthinking before he could actually comprehend their meaning. But he knewthat it concerned his new friend even more than himself, and laying hishand upon her shoulder to steady her while he answered, began:

  "I did go to market. She went, too. She had to get some things for him,an' soon's the stores was open. I sold the stuff. Some of the things shebought was wrapped up and a pair o' shoes was in this here. I ain't gotbooks. I want 'em. I keep every scrap o' paper ever gets this way, an' Ilearn out o' them. She fired _this_ away, for cattle-beddin'--'cause shecan't read herself--an' 'twould save a speck of straw. I called itwicked waste, myself, so I hid it. Then whilst I was milkin' I begun tostudy it out. Thinks I, mebbe I can learn a hull new word afore I getthrough; an' I hit fust off on that there 'Dorothy,' 'cause 'twas yournan' had so many 'O's' it looked easy. I read that, then I read thenext--some more--I forgot to milk--I thought you'd never wakeup--an'--Pshaw! Pshaw--_pshaw_--PSHAW!!"

  Only by that word could the excited lad begin to express his fierceemotions; while for a brief time Dorothy was silent, trying tounderstand. Finally, and almost calmly, she said:

  "I don't know a thing about this printed stuff except that it must meanme. I can't guess who would pay money for me, for just a little girl;though maybe father John would if he had it. But he hadn't. He was poor,he said, real poor; even if we did live so nice and cozy. He hadn'tanything but what he earned and out of that he had to buy the foodand clothes and pay on the house. I don't believe he ever hadfive hundred dollars in all his life, at one time. Think of it!Five--whole--hundred--dollars! Fifty--thousand--cents! My!"

  Jim regarded her with awe. Such erudition as this almost took away hisbreath. That anybody, a little girl so much younger than himself, could"reckon" figures at such lightning speed was away beyond his dreams.More than that it convinced him that now she must be saved, restored topeople who valued her at such enormous price. His simple rule of "rightor wrong" resolved itself into two questions: Should he be loyal to hisemployer and help to keep this valuable Dorothy on the truck-farm, andshow its owner how to get all that money? Because it wasn't sheherself, who had brought the girl here, and if she took Dorothy back thereward would be hers. He reasoned that out to the end.

  On the other hand: If Dorothy belonged to somebody who wanted her somuch, shouldn't he help to restore her to that person and save them--orhim--the money?

  It was a knotty problem; one almost too profound for the mind of thishonest farm-boy. He would do right, he must; but--which was "therightest right of them two"?

  Dorothy settled it. Dorothy who was the most concerned in the affair andhad so much more wisdom than he. She had ceased to wonder at the strangeadvertisement and had now decided how to turn it to the best account.She was almost positively glad for all her misadventures and sufferingsince it could result in infinite good to another; and that other nonebut the "long boy" she had laughed at in the beginning. With a littlejoyful clap of her hands, she exclaimed:

  "I know how! I know how! You have _been_--you can find the way--youmust help me back to Baltimore, to my folks, to these Kidder-Kiddery menthat offer all that money. I never heard of them. I can't imagine whythey want to pay so many good dollars for a girl, just a girl they can'teven know. I wouldn't trust them. I wouldn't go into anybody's 'office'again for all the world. But you take me, show me the way to the cityand I'll show you the way to Baltimore Street. I know it. I know itquite well. I've been there on a street car. Then I'll stand outsidewhile you go in and ask for the money. If they won't give it to you,bring them to the street and show them--ME! I ought to call myself incapital letters, same as I'm printed there, if I'm so expensive as that!Think of it, Jim Barlow! If you get that five hundred dollars you canlive somewhere else and study all the time and go to college and bePresident, just exactly as I told you! Oh! Oh! O--Oh! Let's start now,this minute! I can't wait, I cannot!"

  Jim listened intently. With a slowly growing wonder and delight on hishomely features, with a widening of his blue eyes, and--at last with aburst of tears. He was ashamed of them, instantly, but he couldn't havehelped shedding them at that supreme moment any more than he could havehelped breathing. It was as if the girl's words had opened wide thegates of Paradise--the Paradise of Knowledge--and let him look within.

  Then the cottage door opened and Miranda Stott looked forth. The sightof her restored him to the present and the practical side of life. Thefive hundred dollars wouldn't be his, of course. That notion ofDorothy's was as wild as--as the flight of that chicken-hawk sailingover the barnyard. Nor could he start at once, as she demanded. He hadlived here for years and he still owed his employer allegiance--to acertain extent. Less than ever would he leave her alone with all thisfarm work on hand as well as a sick son. He must find somebody to takehis place. Then he would help Dorothy back to town, but they'd have tobe careful.

  Dorothy, also, had seen Mrs. Stott at the door, but now had a strangeindifference to her. How could anybody hurt a girl who was worth fivehundred dollars to somebody? She stopped Jim as he was moving away anddemanded:

  "Are you ready? Can we start now--when she's shut the door?"

  "Not yet."

  Her face saddened and he hastened to add:

  "S-ssh! Don't say nothin'. We'll go. I've got to think it over--how. An'to hunt somebody to work. But--we'll go--_we'll go_!"

  He hastily turned away from the sight of her reproachful eyes nor did heblame her for the angry: "You mean boy!" which she hurled after him ashe went into the house. But he made a chance soon to talk with her,unheard by Miranda, and to lay his plans before her.

  "I know a feller'll come, I guess. He was in the county-farm an' jobsround, somewheres. He don't live nowheres. I seen him loafin' round themwoods, yonder, yesterday, an' I'll try find him. If I do I'll coax himto stay an' help whilst I'm gone. Noonin' I'll leave you get the grub,whilst I seek him. Go 'long, just's if nothin' was different an' I'llhelp you."

  Dorothy had made sundry "starts" already, but had feared to go allalone. If Jim would only go with her and knew the way it would be allright, but the day seemed interminable; and when her friend disappearedat noon she was so frightened that she retreated to her barn bedroom andshut the door upon herself. She could not lock it, for its one fasteningwas on the outside; but she called Tiger to come inside with her andfelt a sort of protection in his company, sharing her chunk of brownbread with him, even giving him by far the larger portion.

  Then Jim came back and, missing her, guessed where to find her.

  "Open the door a minute. Lemme in."

  "Oh! I'm so glad you've come! It seems--awful. That house so tight shut;that man in it; that dreadful woman that looked at me so--so angry! Iwant to get away, I must--_I must_!"

  Tired with his breathless run to the woods and back, the youth droppeddown on the floor to recover himself; then informed her:

  "I found him. He was fishin' in the run. He'll fish all day if he's let.He'll come. He ain't got all his buttons----"

  "Wh-a-t?"

  "His buttons. His wits. He ain't so smart as some of us, but he can hoean' 'tend cattle first-rate. We'll go, to-night, soon's it's dark. I'lltie some rags on your feet so's they won't get sore an' give out. I'llhave to muzzle Tige, or, if I can, I'll give him some them powders inhis milk she'd ha' used to make you dopy, if you'd give trouble. Shewon't miss us first off
, an' when she does--Why, we'll be gone. Be you agood, free traveler?"

  "Why, I don't know. I never traveled," answered Dorothy, perplexed. Ifthey were going to walk, or run, as his talk about trying on ragssuggested, how could they travel? To her "travel" meant a journey byboat or rail, and surely neither of these conveniences were visible.

  "Pshaw! Fer a smart girl you're the biggest fool!" returned thefarm-boy testily. He was tired, body and brain; he was trying to makesafe plans for her comfort, yet she couldn't understand plain English."What I mean is--can you walk, hoof it, good? Course, we can't go noother way. If you can we'll strike 'cross lots--the nighest. If youcan't we'll have to take to the road, on the chance of bein' took up."

  "Oh! I'll walk, I'll travel, I'll 'hoof' it, fast as you want me to.Till I die and give out; but don't, don't go anywhere near the danger ofbeing took up!" cried Dorothy, pleading meekly.

  Again these two young Americans had failed to understand each other'sspeech. To the city-reared girl, being "taken up" meant being arrestedby the police; to the country-grown boy it was giving a ride to apedestrian by some passing vehicle. He looked at her a moment and letthe matter drop. Then he rose, advising:

  "You better go to work an' not waste time. To-morrow's Sunday. Wegen'ally pick all day, so's to be ready for Monday mornin' market. Stufffetches the best prices a-Monday. I'd like to leave her in good shapeagin I didn't get back. But I'll take you. You can trust me."

  And as she saw him return to that endless weeding in the garden, Dorothyknew that she could do so; and that it was his simple devotion to the"duty" she disliked that made him so reliable.

  "But oh! what a day this is! Will it never, never end? Do you know, JimBarlow, that it seems longer than all the days put together since I sawmy mother?"

  "Yep. I know. I've been that way. Once--once I went to--a--circus! OnceI got to go!" answered the lad, carefully storing the baskets of earlypease he had picked in the depths of the schooner. He made the statementwith bated breath, remembering the supreme felicity of the event. "Shewent. She'd had big prices an' felt good. She told me 'twas a-comin' an'I could; and--Pshaw! I never seen a week so long in all my born days,never! An' when it got to the last one of all--time just natchally drug!I know. But we'll go. An' say, Dorothy. The faster you pick an' pack an'pull weeds, the shorter the day'll be. That's the onliest way I everlived through that last one afore that circus," comforted Jim, himselftoiling almost breathlessly, in order to leave Miranda in "as goodshape" as he could. He knew how she would miss him, and that she haddepended upon him as firmly as upon herself.

  But all days come to an end, even ones weighted with expectations suchas Dorothy's; and at nightfall Jim announced that they might stop work.Leaving the girl to wait in the harness-room he went to the house,secured a whole loaf of bread and two of the sleeping powders he hadseen administered to the crying boy, and a bundle of rags, with somestring. In carrying the milk to the dairy he had reserved a basin full;and into this his first business it was to drop the powders. Then hecalled Tige to drink the milk, and the always hungry animal greedilyobeyed.

  "That seems dreadful, Jim! Suppose the stuff kills him? He isn't toblame and I should hate terribly to really hurt him," cried Dorothy,frightened by the deed to which she had eagerly consented but nowregretted--too late.

  Jim sniffed. He supposed that all girls must be changeable. This oneveered from one opinion to another in a most trying way and the onlything he could do was to pay no attention to her whimsies. He hadcarefully explained the action of these powders and their harmlessnessand wasn't going to do it the second time. Besides, he was delighted tofind them promptly affecting the mastiff, who might have hindered theirflight. So he merely motioned Dorothy to sit down on the door sill, atthe rear of the barn and out of sight from the cottage, then bade her:

  "Hold up your foot. I'll fix 'em. Then we'll go. We can eat on the road.Ain't so dark as I wish it was but she's asleep--right on the kitchenfloor--an' it's our chance. She's slept that way ever since he was sobad. He don't 'pear to know nothin' now. I'm sorry for her."

  "Why, that's real ingenious! That's almost like a regular shoe! And agood deal better than a shoe too small!" laughed the girl, wild withpleasure that her helper had, at last, begun to do something towardtheir trip. She found, too, that with these rude sandals tied on shecould walk much faster than in her tender bare feet, although Jimcautioned:

  "Ain't nothin' but rags an' paper. Remember that. Ain't no call to goscuffin' 'em out, needless."

  Whereupon Dorothy ceased to dance and prance, as she had been doing towork off some of her excitement, and became quite as sober as he coulddesire. Also, though she had been so anxious to start, it came withsuddenness when he said:

  "Ready. Come!"

  She glanced at Tiger, who very closely resembled a dead dog as he laybeside the basin on the floor, then toward the house. Utter silenceeverywhere; save for the fretful fussing of some hens, settling toroost, and a low rumble of thunder from the west where it now lookedquite dark enough to satisfy even Jim Barlow.

  They struck off across lots, past the teeming garden which the activeyoung farmer really loved and which he felt that he would never seeagain. He held Dorothy's hand in one of his, while the other carried astick and bundle thrown over his shoulder. The bundle was a bit of oldcloth, containing his beloved spelling book, the newspaper with thealluring advertisement, and their loaf of bread. Nothing else; and thusequipped, this uncouth, modern knight errant turned his back on all hehad ever known for the sake of a helpless girl, and with as true achivalry as ever filled the breast of ancient man-at-arms.

  For some distance neither spoke. The hearts of both were beating highwith excitement and some fear; but after a time, when no call hadfollowed them and they had reached the little run where Jim had soughtthe half-wit, the farm-boy said:

  "Best eat our grub, now. Can't travel fast on empty stummicks. Mebbeyour feet need fixin' over, too. I brung some more rags in my jumper,case them give out. Here's a good place to set. We can get a drink outthe brook."

  "I'd rather go on. I'm not a bit hungry!" pleaded Dorothy, who alreadyfelt as if her mother's arms were folding about her and who longed tomake this fancy prove the dear reality.

  "I be, then. I didn't eat no noonin', recollec'?" returned Jim, anddropped down on the bank with a sigh.

  "Oh! I'm sorry I forgot. Of course we'll stop--just as long as youwant," returned the girl, with keen self-reproach, and sat down besidehim. As she did so, there came a fresh rumble from the west and the palelight which had guided them so far was suddenly obscured, so that shecried out in fear: "There's going to be a fearful gust! We shall be wetthrough!"

  "Reckon we will; here's a chunk o' bread," answered the matter-of-factyouth, reaching through the gloom to place the "chunk" on her lap, and,to his surprise, to find her wringing her hands as if in fright or pain."Why, tell me what ails you now."

  "No-nothing--only--ouch! Don't--don't worry--it's--Ooo-oh!"

  Despite her fierce will to the contrary Dorothy could not restrain abitter groan. She had not meant to hinder their flight by any breakdownon her own part. She had intended to "travel," to "hoof it" just asrapidly and as "freely" as her guide could; but something had happenedjust now, though her feet had hurt her almost from the first moment oftheir walk; but this was worse, and reaching down she felt what shecould not see--one end of a great thorn or splinter projecting from theball of her foot.

  "What's the matter, I say?" demanded Jim, quite fiercely for him. He hadno fear but that her pluck would be equal to any strain put upon it, butof her physical endurance he wasn't so sure.

  "It's a thorn--or a splinter--and oh! it hurts! put your handhere--feel!" Yet as she guided his fingers to that queer thing stickingfrom her wonderful "sandals" she winced and almost screamed. "I guessyou mustn't touch it. I can't bear it. I've run something in and Idaren't pull it out--I can't--it's awful!"

  Indeed the agony was making her feel faint and queer and the boy felt,rat
her than saw, that she swayed where she sat as if she were about tosink down on the ground.

  Here was plainly another case of "duty" and an unpleasant one, fromwhich the lad shrank. He would much rather have borne any amount of painhimself than have inflicted more on this forlorn little girl whodepended upon him; but all he said was: "Pshaw!" as setting his teeth,he suddenly gripped her foot and--in an instant the great bramble wasout!

  It was heroic treatment and Dorothy screamed; then promptly faintedaway. When she came to herself she was dripping with water from thebrook, with which Jim had drenched her--not knowing what better to do;and from a sudden downpour of rain which came almost unhindered throughthe branches overhead.

  "Pshaw! I'd oughter 'a' took to the road. I hadn't no business to trythis way, though 'tis nigher!"

  That was the first thing Dorothy realized; the next that her foot wasaching horribly, but not in that sickening way it had before; and lastlythat, as the only means of keeping it dry, Jim had thrust their loafback into the bundle and was sitting upon that! A lightning flashrevealed this to her, but did not prepare her for her companion's nextwords:

  "We got to go back!"