CHAPTER XVII
ON THE ROAD TO THE CIRCUS
"Ain't this grand, Dorothy? I never did see anybody so good as Mrs.Calvert! She wouldn't hear tell o' my working half the day, though Icould well's not, 'cause the circus don't take in till two o'clock. No,sir! She up an' give me the whole day an' said my pay was to go on justthe same as if I was hoein' them inguns 'at need it."
"Onions, Jim; not 'inguns,'" corrected Dorothy with a smile. "You areimproving fast. I haven't heard you call anybody 'Mis',' for Mrs., inever so long, and most of the time you keep tight hold of your g's. Yes,she is dear! but you deserve her kindness. Nobody else ever served herso faithfully, she says; not even those old colored servants who loveher and--impose on her, too! You look fine, to-day. Those 'storeclothes' are mightily becoming and I'm proud of you. But whatever shallwe do with a whole day?"
"Mrs. Calvert, she said we was to drive into the town, Newburgh, youknow, where the circus is to be at and to a livery stable that knowsher. Or the man who keeps it does. We was to put the horse up there an'leave it till time to go home again. Then we was to walk around the cityan' see the sights. 'Bout noon she reckoned 'twould be a good plan to goto what they call the 'Headquarters,' where General George Washingtonlived at, when he fit into the Revolution. I've been readin' about thatin the History she give me and I'd admire to stand on the spot he stoodon once. There's a big yard around the house and benches for folks tosit on, and a well o' water for 'em to drink; and nobody has to pay forsettin' nor drinkin', nary one. All the folks want you to do, and youdon't have to do it, you ain't really obleeged, is to go inside a rooman' write your name and where you come from in a 'Visitors' Book.' I'vebeen practicing right smart, ever since she told me that, an' I canwrite my name real plain. What bothers me is to tell where I come from.I don't much like to say the poorhouse, where I was took after my folksdied, and I hate to say Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. I haven't got no rightto say Riverside nor Deerhurst, 'cause I've only lately come _to_ themplaces, I've never come _from_ 'em. I----"
"O Jim! Stop 'splitting hairs'!"
Thus arrested in his flow of language, the youth carefully inspected hisclothing and failed to perceive the "hairs" in question. WhereuponDorothy laughed and assured him that she had merely used a figure ofspeech, and meant: "Don't fuss! Just write 'Baltimore,' as I shall, andhave done with it. Funny, Jim, but I just this minute thought that I'mthe one who doesn't know where I came from! Well, I'm _here_ now, andwhat's behind me is none of my business. But, boy, you mustn't put that'at' after places. It sounds queer, and I hate queer people. Ah! me!"
Jim drove carefully along the fine road with a full appreciation of thebeautiful scenery through which it ran, yet in no wise moved to expresshis admiration of it. He was too happy for words and his soaringthoughts would have amazed even Dorothy, familiar though she had becomewith his ambitions; and after driving onward for some time in thiscontented silence he became suddenly aware that his companion was not ashappy as he. Her eyes were fixed upon the road and her face had atroubled, preoccupied expression.
"Dolly Chester, what you thinkin' of? Don't you like it? Ain't you gladyou come?"
"Why--Jim! How you startled me! Of course I'm glad I come. The wholetrip is the most delightful thing; but--what I was thinking of, I'mafraid would make you sneer if I told."
"Tell an' see if it will. I ain't no great hand to make fun of folks--Idon't like to be made fun of myself. What was it?"
"The _Ghost_ that haunts Skyrie. _Jim--I've seen it!_ I myself with myown eyes."
He checked his horse in his amazement, and incredulously ejaculated:
"You--don't!"
"Yes, I do. I did. This very last night that ever was; and talk aboutliking this ride? Huh! I'm more glad than I can say to get away fromhome just this little while, even. Yet mother and father are left there,and if IT should come and frighten them while I'm not there--O Jim! ITscared me almost into a fit. Scared me so stiff and still I couldneither move nor speak. Now I'm rather glad I didn't. IT may not comeagain, though IT has two or three times."
They were nearly at the top of a long hill and, partly to rest theperfectly untired horse, partly to hear in silence this remarkablestory, Jim drew aside into the shade of a wayside tree and commanded:
"Silly Dolly! There ain't no such things; but--out with the hullbusiness, body an' bones!"
"I'm glad to 'out' with it. It's seemed as if I should burst, keeping itall to myself, and the worst is I feel that father wouldn't believe me.There's something else, too. Jim, do you believe that Peter Piper isreally harmless? He follows me everywhere I go. He doesn't come near thehouse because mother doesn't like him and shows that plain enough evenfor him to understand. She never did like beggars down home inBaltimore, and she's taken a fearful dislike to Peter."
"Stick to what you started to tell; not get a body's ideas all on edge,then switch off onto Peter Piper. As for that poor feller, he won'thurt nobody what don't hurt him. But _he_ ain't a ghost. Tell what yousaw."
"Will you promise not to laugh nor--nor disbelieve?"
"I won't laugh an' I will believe--if I can."
"You dear good Jim! I can always rely upon you to help me in mytroubles!" cried Dorothy, gratefully.
With comfortable complacency Jim replied: "That's so."
"You know Pa Babcock doesn't work for us any more. He left the next dayafter the 'Bee.' Sent Alfaretta around to tell us that 'he'd overdonehisself and was obliged to take a vacation.' Why, Jim Barlow, he wasengaged to work three days out of each week and he never got in morethan one. He was to 'find himself,' which father says means to furnishhis own food, and he never brought a single meal. Mother Martha had tocook extra for him every time. We weren't real sorry to have him leave,for we thought it would be easy to get another man, now that Skyrie hadbeen put in such good order. But it wasn't; besides, any that offeredasked from two to three dollars a day. Think of that! Why, of coursemother couldn't pay that, even if it was haying time and men scarce, asthey all told her. She said we must let all the farm alone except justthe garden patch and that field of corn which is to feed our stock nextwinter. Jim, life in the country 'isn't all catnip!' I never, neverdreamed that I could work so hard or do so much. Look at my hands, willyou?"
She thrust out her little hands, now scarred and blistered by the use ofheavy, unfamiliar tools, compared with which her old home "garden set"were mere toys.
For sympathy she received the assurance:
"Won't blister nigh so much, after a spell, and the skin gets tough. Goon with the ghost, will you?"
"I am going on. It's all mixed up with Pa Babcock. If he hadn't left Iwouldn't have had to work in the garden nor mother in the cornfield.That tires her awfully, and makes her fearfully cross; so that fatherand I keep all little worries to ourselves that we can. He even tries tohelp her hoe those terrible rows of corn that has come up sobeautifully and is growing so well. If only the weeds wouldn't grow justas fast! But to see my mother handling a hoe and my father trying to doso too, resting on his crutches and tottering along the row as heworks--Jim, it makes me wild! So of course I try to take all care of thegarden patch and--of course, I failed. Partly I was afraid to stay outthere alone, sometimes, for I might happen any time to look up and therewould be Peter Piper staring over the wall at me, or even inside it.Then I have to run in and stop working for awhile. Mother would be angryif she knew and drive him off with harsh words, and though I am afraidof him, too, I can't bear to hurt his feelings. I am really so sorry forhim that often I carry my dinner out of doors with me and give it tohim, though mother Martha thinks I've taken it because I do so love toeat out under the trees. I can't help feeling that he's hungrier than Iam; and I don't think it's wrong because I've never been forbidden norasked about it. Do you think it is, Jim dear?"
"I ain't judgin' for other folks and I 'low your victuals is your own,"answered he.
"That's a horrid word, 'victuals!' It makes me think of 'cold' ones andbeggars at the back gate."
/> "All right. I won't say it again. Get back to that ghost."
"I'm getting. Why hurry so? We have the whole day before us."
"But, Dorothy Chester, _that circus takes in at two o'clock_!" warnedthe careful lad.
"And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow--I've been to bed somenight, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: andI've got up in the morning and--_found--them--in--perfect--order_! Whatdo you think of that?"
"Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you wasabed."
"No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; norcan I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I hadexplained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up andheld my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor'cultivators'--even little ones like mine--run over the beds assomething certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. Iknow it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost;because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farmingbusiness that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leaveit. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father camehere to get well--his only chance. We haven't enough money to move backto Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with theGhost. It is the only way. But--O Jim! I've not only seen what IT hasdone in the garden, I've seen IT at work there. Seen IT with my own twoeyes! Now, do you believe?"
"Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!"
Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry forDorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomedlabor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as hedid with added gentleness:
"I think that that there Babcock girl had ought to had her neck wrung'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' Iwish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.'Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such ajob to you. I--I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hiremyself out to your folks."
"No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the bestplace to get on as you couldn't do with us."
This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that hehad no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt hisconscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late thatthere would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject andinquired:
"If you seen IT, what did it look like?"
"IT was tall, like a man. IT was all in some light-colored clothes andit worked as steadily as if IT were a machine. But it made very littlenoise. IT didn't want to be heard, I thought. When IT had finished ITsort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I saw IT crossinga field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is,that Alfaretta told of, and where she said IT lives part of the time. ITused to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps innow. So _she_ said."
"Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you goto takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!"
"Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe ison the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes toSkyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinksshe's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners.But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told nobody butyou, Jim."
Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was stillunconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked:
"Why didn't your folks see IT if you did?"
"Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go downinto the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through thosewindows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from thegarden. That's why."
"All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road andchirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret,Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, andsoon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitableanimal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggestedwas possible.
A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within arude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of peoplethat both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured:
"Another auction! Let's stop and listen."
It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stoodon the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediatelyrecognized the two young people and called out to them:
"Hello, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on?Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to theprettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on."Then with a general sweep of his eye over the assemblage, he added forthe benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes,hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman'sgoods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebaldmare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle orharness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how thekids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! Howmuch am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow andorphans? How--much?"
"Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retortedthat the bidder must be joking.
Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd andstood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull herdown upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength,as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her cleartreble:
"Thirty-five dollars!"
A silence that might be felt over that assembly, and no other bidfollowed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise"but none was forthcoming. To nobody else in that company was the pretty,piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been bornon the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was notstrong enough for hard work, such as these other possible biddersrequired.
"Going, going, _gone_! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-fivedollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?"
While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auctionobligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to theback of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness couldhardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her thehappy possessor of that wonderful pony.
Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck,smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that suddenaffection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that shenoticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely askedher to "step aside and let us hitch up."
Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now betweenthe shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minuteslater he announced:
"We're ready to go now, Dorothy."
"Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning therunabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in thatdirection."
"I--I guess we won't finish our trip to Newburgh, to-day, Dolly," heanswered with a laugh.
"Why not?"
"Because--'cause you spent all _your_ money for the horse an' I spentall _mine_, all 't I've earned yet, for the rig. Which critter'll youdrive home, Dorothy? Home it is where we'll eat that nice lunch o' Mrs.Calvert's, 'cause I haven't got a cent left to buy them circus tickets.Which one did you say?"
"My own!" cried the girl, exultantly, as she sprang into the ricketylittle phaeton and took up the pony's reins.