CHAPTER VII--IN THE SCHOOLHOUSE
Susan and Gentilla were at play in the garden, walking Indian fashion upone path and down the other between the rows of summer vegetables. Thelittle girls held their arms outstretched to keep their balance, and,now and then, with shrill little screams, one or the other would almost,but not quite, topple over.
Occasionally Gentilla, unsteady on her feet, made a misstep among thebeets and peas, and once she sat down upon a cabbage. But, as she was aslight as a feather, it certainly did the cabbage no harm, and perhaps agreat deal of good for all we know to the contrary.
"Gentilla," said Susan, struck with a happy thought, "let's go play onthe schoolhouse steps."
"Yes, let's," said Gentilla agreeably. She did not know where theschoolhouse steps were, but she would have gone as willingly to theNorth Pole if Susan had suggested it.
She and Susan had become warm friends. Gentilla spent almost every dayat the house on Featherbed Lane, and Grandmother and Grandfather andeven Miss Liza had grown fond of the little gypsy girl because of herhappy disposition and loving little ways. Gentilla was not a greattalker, but she made smiles and a dimple and funny little bobs of herhead take the place of speech. She liked to steal up behind you andplace a kiss as soft as thistledown in the palm of your hand. She rubbedgently up against one as a little kitten would, and by her pats and whatSusan called "smoothings" told you how much she loved you without asingle word.
"She is a good child," said Grandmother. "I can hardly believe that sheis a real gypsy child. She doesn't seem like one to me."
"She does wind herself round your heart," confided Miss Liza. "If Ilived alone I would almost think of adopting her, though I don't knowwhether her people would be willing to part with her."
"Mr. Whiting says they are a little jealous because we do so much forGentilla, and not for their own little girls. He thinks we haven't beenvery wise," answered Mrs. Whiting. "And now that you have made Gentillathese aprons, I don't know what they will say."
From the shady back porch, where Grandmother and Miss Liza sat rockingand sewing together, it looked as if two Susans, one large and onesmall, were walking down the path toward them. For Gentilla wore, fittedto her small person, a dress Susan had outgrown, and on her feet a pairof Susan's shoes, the toes well stuffed with cotton.
"Grandmother, we are going to play," called Susan. "And I want towhisper in your ear."
"Can't you say it out loud?" inquired Grandmother mildly. "It isn'tpolite to whisper, Susan."
"I only wanted to ask if I might pack a lunch in my little basket forus," said Susan. "It isn't a secret. I just as lief have Miss Lizahear."
Susan reappeared in a moment, basket in hand, carrying Snowball andFlip.
"Let me see what you took, Susan," said Grandmother.
In the basket were two molasses peppermints and two lumps of sugar."Just enough for Gentilla and me," said Susan contentedly. "Phil hasgone to Green Valley with his mother."
Down the lane they started, Gentilla carrying Snowball, Susan with Flipand the basket of lunch.
"There is no use looking in there to-day," announced Susan, waving herhand toward the office. "Grandfather has gone fishing, and Snuff hasgone with him. This is good weather for fishing. Grandfather said so,and he knows everything."
"Everything," echoed Gentilla loyally.
"Yes, he does," Susan chattered on. "When I was little, I used to wonderwhy he wasn't a king. There are always plenty of kings in fairy stories,but there don't seem to be any round here. Did you ever see a king?"
Gentilla shook her head solemnly, but Susan was not looking at her.
"Gentilla," said Susan, staring at the schoolhouse door, "it's open!"
Never before had Susan seen the schoolhouse door unlocked. Many timeshad she shaken it and rattled the knob, and all of no avail. But now thedoor actually stood ajar, and, with a push that sent it wide open,Susan, followed by Gentilla, stepped over the threshold.
The air in the schoolroom was close and warm, and dust lay thick uponthe floor and danced in the beams of sunlight that filtered through thegrimy window-panes.
Susan walked about, surveying the battered desks covered with scratchesand ink-spots and ornamented with initials cut into the wood. The doorof the rusty stove stood open, and within lay a heap of torn papers. Thefaded maps were not interesting, and Susan began to think the schoolroommore attractive when peeped at from the porch than when actually withinit.
"Let's go outside," said she to Gentilla, who had followed her aboutlike Mary's lamb. "Then we'll sit down and eat our lunch." The lunchbasket, guarded by Flip and Snowball, had been left on the porch steps.
Susan turned the knob of the schoolhouse door, which had swung shutbehind them, and pulled. The door wouldn't open. Susan tugged until shegrew red in the face.
"You try, Gentilla," said she.
Gentilla obligingly gave a pull, and toppled over backward upon thefloor.
"Don't cry," said Susan, helping her to her feet. "We will just climbout of the window."
But the windows, swollen and stiff, were no more accommodating than thedoor.
Susan climbed up on the window-sill, and, covered with dust and dirt,pushed and pulled until she was quite out of breath.
"I can't," she gasped. "I can't open it. What shall we do?"
Gentilla's face puckered up at sight of Susan's distress. She ran backto the door and beat upon it with her soft little fists.
"You open, you open," called Gentilla, in a pitiful little pipe thatwould have moved a heart of stone.
Susan wanted to cry. There was a big lump in her throat, and it was onlyvigorous winking and blinking that kept the tears from falling down hercheeks.
But Susan was repeating to herself something she had overheardGrandmother say to Miss Liza that very afternoon.
"Susan is a real little mother to Gentilla," Grandmother had said.
And, at the time, Susan had thought, "If Gentilla ever falls into thefire or tumbles down the well, I must be the one to pull her out."
And she had almost hoped that something of the kind might happen, sothat she might show how brave she was, and how devoted to her littlefriend.
Surely now the time had come. Perhaps they would have to stay forever inthe schoolhouse. Without anything to eat they would grow thinner andthinner and thinner until there would be nothing left of them at all. Atthis doleful thought, one tear rolled down Susan's nose and splashed onthe dusty boards. But only one! For she swallowed hard, gave herself alittle shake, and then took Gentilla by the hand.
"Come," said she, drawing her gently away from the door. "We will stayby the window, and when anybody goes by, we will knock and shout andcall, and some one will let us out, I know."
So the two little girls stationed themselves by the front window andlooked longingly out at the sunny road, the dancing leaves, and oh,cruelest of all, the lunch basket on the porch steps, still guarded bythe faithful Flip and Snowball.
Susan, her face streaked with dirt, polished off the window-glass asbest she could with her pocket handkerchief.
"Grandmother will find us," said she hopefully. "Or else Grandfatherwill. Don't you be afraid, Gentilla."
But in her heart she thought:
"Grandfather has gone fishing, and perhaps he won't be home till blacknight. And I didn't tell Grandmother where we were going; I know Ididn't tell her where we were going."
These sad thoughts were interrupted by the welcome sound of wheels.
"Knock and scream, knock and scream!" called Susan excitedly.
And they fell to work with a will, Susan redoubling her efforts when shesaw that it was Mr. Drew, hastening home behind little brown Molly.
But the _clip_, _clap_, _clip_, _clap_, of Molly's hoofs drowned all thenoise they made, and Mr. Drew, with not a glance toward the schoolhouse,drove out of sight.
Susan looked blankly at Gentilla.
"Oh, what a long time we've been here," said she forlornly. "It must benearly
night."
"Nearly night," echoed Gentilla.
She sat down on the floor with her back against the wall, leaving Susanalone on guard. She shut her eyes, her head nodded once or twice, andwhen Susan next glanced at her she lay on the floor sound asleep.
"Oh, Gentilla, wake up! I'm afraid to stay here alone. Wake up!" beganpoor Susan, who at that moment would have welcomed the company of even afly buzzing on the window-pane. But the thought of Grandmother's speechsilenced her.
"I won't wake her up, and I won't cry either," thought she. And pressingher face against the window, she bravely watched the empty road for afive minutes that actually seemed to her two hours long.
All kinds of dreadful thoughts began to come to Susan's mind. Were therebears in the woods, and at nightfall would they come lumbering out, and,pushing the door open, squeeze her and Gentilla to death in a mightybear hug? What if Grandfather had made a mistake and the Indians had notall gone away years ago! Suppose they should carry her off and stain herbrown with berry juice, like the little girl in her story book, so that,even if Grandfather should see her, he would never know that it was hisblack-eyed Susan, but would think she was a real true little Indiangirl.
Susan gave a start of horror and almost screamed out loud. Up the roadthis moment there came prowling a big dark animal.
"Gentilla, Gentilla, here's a bear!" called Susan in a frenzy. "Wake upand help me! Here's a bear! Oh! Oh! He's coming after us! Gentilla!Gentilla!--Why, it's Snuffy! Snuffy! Snuffy! save me!"
And Susan's cries of fright changed into those of joy and hope as soonas she saw that the great brown bear was none other than shaggy,comfortable, homelike Snuff.
Snuffy's bright eyes caught sight of his familiars, Snowball and Flip,seated in lonely state upon the schoolhouse steps. The little basket,which, in days gone by, had often held goodies, as he well knew, excitedhis curiosity. Up the steps tripped Master Snuff to sniff delicately atthe refreshments, and then, to the joy of the prisoners, he saw theirfaces and heard their knocks and calls.
He barked furiously, and leaped up at the window. He ran to the door,scratching and whining to be let in, then back to the window where heechoed their cries for help by barkings so frantic that Grandfather,trudging leisurely along with his string of fish, wondered what Snuffhad cornered on the old school porch.
Snuff was wise enough to know that something was wrong, and thatGrandfather was needed to set it right.
Susan held her breath for fear he was leaving them to their fate as hegalloped down the walk, but it was only to circle round Grandfather andback again to the steps, where he halted, waiting for his master to joinhim.
"You rascal," called Grandfather. "I suppose you think I ought to carrythose dolls up to the house for Susan. Come along with me, sir."
But when Snuff recommenced barking and leaping at the window,Grandfather Whiting followed him up the walk, and a second later thetreacherous door was flung open and Susan was in his arms.
"My own Susan, what is it? What are you doing in here?" askedGrandfather tenderly, as a very dirty little girl clasped him tight, andsent a hot shower of tears down the back of his neck.
"The door wouldn't open, and I didn't wake her up, and I was afraid ofbears and Indians," sobbed Susan. "But I knew you'd come, I knew you'dcome! And Snuff shall have all the lunch, every bit, because he savedus."
And breathing hard, and winking fast, and holding tight to Grandfather'shand, Susan gladly rewarded Snuff, who devoured his treat in two bites,and then, waving his tail jauntily, ran on ahead to prepare Grandmotherfor their coming.
Halfway up the lane, the party met Miss Liza, homeward bound.
"Let me take Gentilla," said she, when she had heard the story. "I'llleave her at the camp. She is too little to understand, but Susan hashad quite a fright. They weren't gone from home an hour, though," sheadded, "but I suppose it seemed long to them."
Of course it did. Susan could never be made to believe that she andGentilla had not been imprisoned in the schoolhouse for hours and hours,perhaps half a day.
When she reached home, she enjoyed telling the story over and over.Grandmother was sympathetic, and gave Susan a lecture upon going intostrange places and shutting the door behind her. Grandfather wasconcerned with the fact that the door was open at all, and wanted toknow who had been tampering with town property.
Phil was the most satisfactory audience of all, for he bitterlyregretted having missed the adventure, and listened again and again toSusan's account of it with undiminished interest. She was able to bragand boast to him as she could to no one else, and before they separatedfor the night neither one was quite sure whether or not real bears andIndians had come out of the woods and been driven away by Susansingle-handed.
"We'll play about it," said Phil, rising slowly from the steps as heheard his mother for the third time call him to come home. "We'll taketurns being bears and Indians. We can play in my woodshed and we'll playit the first thing--"
"Phil!" came his father's voice.
Phil skipped down the path toward home with the speed of a grasshopper.
"To-morrow!" he called back as he hopped over the stone wall.
Something so exciting was to happen "to-morrow" that, for the timebeing, this adventure was to be cast in the shade. But Susan went to bedthat night feeling quite a heroine, and knowing there was no one in theworld Phil envied so much as herself.