“It won’t hurt her, will it?” asked Mary cautiously.
“Me ’urt Lizzie?” shouted Mr. Peterkin. “What do you think?”
So Mr. Peterkin constructed a beautiful baby walker out of tough vines, a couple of boards, and a piece of the canvas sail. It was something like a swing, and was suspended from the branch of a tree at such a height that Ann Elizabeth’s feet could easily touch the ground without having to hold up the whole weight of her own body. She pranced around delightedly, and the whole thing seemed to be a huge success.
“Well, that’s some good that came out of ’Enry and Maggie anyway!” remarked Jean, as she admired Mr. Peterkin’s handiwork.
But there were others who were not so pleased. Pink and Blue stood looking on, and it was more than they could bear to see Ann Elizabeth the center of all eyes.
“Ba-ba bye-bye, too!” said Blue.
“Ba-ba fwing!” added Pink.
Their lower lips began to drop lower and lower, trembling piteously. Large tears rolled silently down their cheeks. A more pathetic sight would be difficult to imagine.
“But you already know how to walk, twinsies,” said Mary sensibly.
“Ba-ba go bye-bye too,” persisted Blue.
“Ba-ba fwing,” wept Pink.
Their lower lips continued to drop farther and farther, and suddenly they let out twin howls that echoed dismally through the jungle.
“It’s no use trying to persuade them, once they make up their minds!” said Mary. “I guess you’ll just have to build two more baby walkers, Mr. Peterkin.”
Mr. Peterkin behaved very nicely, indeed. With scarcely a murmur he went to work, and before the day was over the delighted twins were dangling in baby walkers too.
Jean and Prince Charley had looked on with interest all the while that Mr. Peterkin worked.
“And now,” said Jean politely, when the three baby walkers were finished, “will you please make one for Charley?”
“ ’Ow’s that?”
“A baby walker for Charley, please.”
“For that monkey?”
“If you please.”
“Sliver my timbers!” yelled Mr. Peterkin, “an’ strike me red, white, an’ blue! if you catch me making a baby walker for a monkey! No, sir! no baby walkers for no monkeys! What’s ’e got ’is tail for, may I hask?”
So Charley never got his baby walker, and it must be admitted that the twins soon tired of theirs, but Ann Elizabeth’s legs were greatly strengthened and benefited by hers. One day she was sitting on the tarpaulin outside of the tepee when she saw Mr. Peterkin coming through the jungle with his milk, and, rising on unsteady legs, she took her very first steps to meet him. Mr. Peterkin thought that that was the smartest thing a baby had ever been known to do. After a while even Mary got a little tired of hearing Mr. Peterkin tell about it.
“Of course all babies learn to walk sometime,” she said sensibly. “I suppose you did the same thing yourself when you were a baby, or you’d still be going around on fours.”
“But look ’ere!” cried Mr. Peterkin. “The little beggar walked to me, she did. It weren’t just a hordinary first step. She got right up an’ came awalkin’ to me, an’ “Pitty!’ she says, areachin’ for my chin, ‘Pitty!’ “
Jean had had some hopes of finding out what was in Mr. Peterkin’s chest, now that he had grown so tender hearted. On one of her cleaning days she baked Mr. Peterkin a beautiful pie full of sliced bananas and pieces of cocoanut whipped up with gulls’ eggs and sugar. It seemed like a wonderful mixture to Jean, and all it needed was a bit of flavoring, but unfortunately she couldn’t find either vanilla or nutmeg in Mr. Peterkin’s cupboard. However, there was plenty of garlic, and, knowing that this was the honest seaman’s favorite flavor, Jean put it in with a lavish hand.
The pie came out of the oven a beautiful, golden brown, and, when Jean set it before Mr. Peterkin at luncheon, she felt that this was the very moment to ask him about his chest.
“Hah!” said Mr. Peterkin, rubbing his hands together with delight, and preparing to plunge his knife into the pie. “Blow me down, if it ain’t a tart, an’ w’at a tart at that!”
“Mr. Peterkin,” said Jean hurriedly, “sometime will you let me see what’s in your chest? Really I think I ought to clean it out for you. You know moths might get in or rust corrupt. May I?”
“Well, now, little Jeannie—” began Mr. Peterkin amiably, raising the first forkful of pie to his lips.
“Yes—yes?” said Jeannie eagerly.
But, at the first taste of pie, Mr. Peterkin’s eyes suddenly seemed to start from his head. He gave a loud, strangling cough and started for the door. This was a very bad omen, indeed. Jean sniffed at the pie and it did smell strongly of garlic, but after all if garlic was Mr. Peterkin’s favorite flavor—
“No!” roared Mr. Peterkin. “Don’t you never look in that chest no ’ow! Do you ’ear? An’ mind you’ve fed that tart to the goats an’ gulls before I get back.”
Away went Mr. Peterkin to the jungle. Only one thing was clear to Jean. There was something about the combination of bananas, cocoanut, sugar, and garlic that brought out the worst in a reformed man. That was the second “No!” she’d had out of Mr. Peterkin, and it proved to Jean that the battle wasn’t entirely won yet. She looked wistfully at the brass-bound chest and wondered if it were lost forever.
It was about this time that Mary consulted her calendar one day and saw that Christmas was approaching.
“We haven’t any place to hang our stockings,” said Jean.
“Oh, we can fix up something. We must have a real Christmas for the babies’ sakes. It would be awful if they grew up without knowing about Christmas.”
“And we can make presents for them too! And, Mary, let’s give Mr. Peterkin and Halfred presents!”
“Why, of course!” said Mary. “What did you think?”
After that the tepee buzzed with mystery and excitement. The girls were busy making presents out of clam and cocoanut shells, palm leaves, moss, clay, and sticks, anything they could find which gave them an idea for a gift.
“W’at’s this? W’at’s this?” inquired Mr. Peterkin, arriving one day with his milk while they were in the midst of their preparations.
“Oh, Mr. Peterkin, it’s for Christmas!” said Mary, and Jean sang:
“We live on an island
And not on an isthmus,
But we can have Christmas
And Christmas and Christmas!”
“Christmas!” said Mr. Peterkin. “Blow me down! I’d forgotten there was such!” He kept saying over and over “Christmas! Strike me pink!” and before he left that day, he had invited them all to his house to hang up their stockings over his stove and to eat Christmas dinner from his table!
“But no garlic in the pudding!” he warned.
Jean blushed, but naturally Mary paid no attention to such a silly remark.
“I’m so glad,” she said. “I want the babies to get used to things as they are at home—and Christmas in a tent is rather odd! Thank you, Mr. Peterkin.”
“Don’t mention it, Miss,” said Mr. Peterkin, and Jean added sensibly, “Christmas is nice anywhere, Mary.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lost in the Storm
THE day before Christmas Mr. peterkin invited Mary over to bake and opened his precious larder to her. On his shelves he had a barrel of flour, a small keg of molasses, a tin of raisins, and ever so many things that could be turned into Christmas by a clever girl like Mary. Mr. Peterkin himself declared that he was going out to shoot a fowl for roasting.
“But mind, no garlic!” he warned.
“Whatever does he mean?” thought Mary. “It must be some kind of joke.”
As Mary hurried along the jungle path to Mr. Peterkin’s, she wondered if she should leave Jean all alone with the babies today. There was such a queer look in the sky. The sweet, fair blue was hidden by sulphur-colored clouds which cast a sinister glare over the familia
r landscape. But Mary knew that the babies were safe in their pen, and that Jean was busy finishing a beautiful cocoanut ashtray for Mr. Peterkin—and, of course, there was no cause to worry about them.
She took possession of the shanty with such a bustle of rattling pans, sifting of flour, and boiling of kettles that Halfred could scarcely find a corner in which to perch in peace.
Mary was all excited because she had decided to undertake the making of a bag pudding. She had often helped Aunt Emma to make such a Christmas treat, and knew just how to flour the cloth, pour in the pudding, tie it all up in a great ball, and drop it into boiling water. But to do it all alone was something which required not only skill but courage. Mary had both, and so, she went busily to work.
“Of course, pudding won’t do for the babies,” she said to herself, “but I’ll make a nice custard for them out of gulls’ eggs and goats’ milk. It will be much more suitable.”
As the day went on, the sky grew darker and darker, and Mary sometimes paused in her preparations to look anxiously out of the shanty window. She had just set the custards aside to cool and was cautiously turning the pudding in the boiling water, when the weather was again brought to her attention by a great clap of thunder that seemed to rock the island. This was followed by such a blast of wind and rain that Mary thought for a moment the shanty would be swept away.
She quickly put the pudding pot on the back of the stove so that it would not boil over, caught up an old sou’wester and slicker of Mr. Peterkin’s, and hurried out into the storm. It was almost as dark as night outside, and the rain came down in torrents. It was the only bad storm they had had, and Mary’s first thought was for the babies. Would the tepee weather this wind and rain? How could Jean handle all the babies alone?
“Oh, my children! My children!” cried Mary, as she hurried along. About halfway through the jungle, she met Mr. Peterkin. With his gun and two plump wild fowl still slung over his shoulder, he came crashing through the underbrush.
“W’ere’s my Lizzie?” he cried wildly.
“At the tepee,” shouted Mary. “Run!”
They ran, and, above the crashing of the storm and the rattling of palm leaves, they could hear the roar of the waterfall that came down near the tepee. Its usual pleasant gurgle had grown suddenly loud and menacing. As they came in sight of the tepee, they saw that the stream had already risen high enough to reach the tepee door, and was whirling away some of their shell and cocoanut dishes.
“Jean!” called Mary. “Jean! Jean!”
A pitiful crying was her only answer, and, running to the pen, she found Ann Elizabeth and Pink, dripping wet, clinging to the sides of it. But Jean, Jonah, Blue, and Prince Charley were nowhere to be found!
Mr. Peterkin grabbed the two babies up under his arms, and just in time, too, for the water was already rising inside the pen. Then he and Mary saved what they could of the furnishings of the tepee and took them to higher ground, before the rising torrent swept the tepee away.
“Oh!” cried Mary. “Oh! Oh!” It was all she could think of to say, as she stood with white face and clasped hands, watching the mass of canvas and bamboo, which had been the tepee, rushing away to the sea.
“I say! You’ll get your feet wet, Mary,” roared Mr. Peterkin, pulling Mary back from the rising stream.
“Jean! Jean!” called Mary. But her voice was lost in the noise of storm and stream and lashing trees.
They searched frantically for some time, but not a trace of the missing four could be found.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do!” cried Mary in despair.
“Now, lookee ’ere,” shouted Mr. Peterkin, “you an’ them babies is agoin’ to catch pneumony like that. You go to my shanty and get warm an’ dry an’ put them babies to bed in my bed, and I’ll go lookin’ for the others!”
It seemed the best thing to do, and so Mary obeyed. When Pink and Ann Elizabeth were warm, dry, and asleep in Mr. Peterkin’s bed, she put on the sou’wester again.
“Halfred,” she said to the parrot, “I’ve got to go and look for my Jean. You mind the babies now, will you?”
“Well, bless my soul and body!” said Halfred in surprise. But he moved from his perch on the phonograph, and took up a watchful position on the back of a chair near the bed.
“Good Halfred!” said Mary. “It’s a hard time for all of us!” And out she went again into the storm, calling: “Jean! Jean! Where are you? Where are you?” The wind still took her little voice and tossed it like nothing into the great sound of the storm. Rain and tears were all mixed on her pale cheeks. When she had gone a little way into the jungle, Mary met Mr. Peterkin coming back. He shook his head.
“’Tis no use,” he said. “They’re surely gone!”
“Oh, no!” said Mary. “I won’t give up yet!” Back into the jungle they went. Rain blinded them, mud slipped under their feet, vines tripped and tangled them, but still Mary pushed on, searching and calling.
Gradually the sky began to grow lighter, and the storm to abate. What a scene of desolation it was! Trees broken or torn up by their roots, streams swollen and muddy, plants broken and crushed by the deluge.
“Oh, what is to become of us?” cried Mary. “Jean and two babies lost! The tepee swept away! The lovely island spoiled!”
“Don’t you fret,” said Mr. Peterkin, “long as I’ve a ’ome, ’tis yours.”
“But you don’t like children,” sobbed Mary.
“Whoever said that?” cried Mr. Peterkin angrily. “I’m huncommon fond o’ young ’uns, I am!”
Suddenly there was a chattering in the trees above them, and a little brown animal swung himself down to Mary’s shoulder and put skinny arms around her neck.
“Charley!” cried Mary. “Oh, Charley, you beautiful, blessed monkey! Where are Jean and the babies?”
As if he understood, Charley jumped from Mary’s shoulder and began to go ahead of them through the woods. It was difficult to follow him, because, whenever Charley came to a fallen tree or a dense thicket, he jumped into the branches overhead and swung along with his hands and tail. But, scratched and torn and sorely discouraged, somehow or other Mary and Mr. Peterkin managed to follow him. Mary half suspected that the mischievous fellow was leading them a wild-goose chase, and yet they had no choice but to follow him. At last, chattering noisily, he disappeared under a ledge of rock that formed a sort of cave or shelter.
“ ’E’s ’aving ’is fun with us,” said Mr. Peterkin gloomily, but Mary stooped down and looked under the ledge. And there sat Jean and Jonah and Blue! Jean screamed.
“Don’t yell, Jeannie,” soothed Mary. “We’ve found you!”
“Oh, Mary!” cried Jean, jumping up and bumping her head on the ledge. “I’ve never been so lost and wet in my life. It was awful! I never thought I’d live to tell the tale! But did you rescue Ann Elizabeth and Pink?”
“Yes! Yes!” cried Mary. “Oh, Jean, I’m so thankful we found you! How did it happen?”
“Oh, Mary, Blue climbed out of the pen. You know what a climber he is, and I am sure that Charley helped him. I just caught a glimpse of them as they were disappearing into the jungle. I couldn’t leave Jonah, so I just grabbed him up and ran after them. And they were very naughty and kept me chasing them a long time, and then the storm came and we were lost. We went around and around, and couldn’t get out, and finally we found that ledge to sit under.”
“Well, I just hope you weren’t as scared as I was,” cried Mary.
“Scared?” shouted Jean. “Nobody’s ever been scareder in this world! Oh, Mary, I’m so tired of this old island! I want to go home where Father is!” Jean burst out crying, and there were tears in Mary’s eyes, too, as she repeated, “Home?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Jeannie passionately. “Of course it’s a nice island, and it’s better than the bottom of the sea—but, oh! I want Father or Aunt Emma and streets and automobiles and places where you don’t get lost in the jungle when it storms!”
“Jean,”
said Mary gravely, “we haven’t sung ‘Scots, Wha’ Hae’ for a long time. We’re—we’re kind of losing our grip.”
“Maybe—we—are,” gulped Jean.
There was a moment’s pause while Jean stifled her sobs in a very wet blue handkerchief. Then with a quavering voice she joined Mary’s clear treble:
“By oppression’s woes an’ pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do or dee!”
Mr. Peterkin looked at them in amazement, for some magic in the old battle song of the descendants of William Wallace always put new heart into Mary and Jean, and now they dried their tears like Scottish heroes.
“Well, blow me down!” exclaimed Mr. Peterkin.
“Oh, please don’t say ‘Blow me down,’ ” begged Jean, with chattering teeth. “I’ve had enough wind for one day! Let’s go to the tepee.”
“The tepee’s gone,” said Mary.
“Gone?” echoed Jean. “But where can we live?”
“Come! Come!” said Mr. Peterkin gruffly. “The shanty’s your ’ome, an’ ’igh time it were ye was in it, adryin’ of yourselves! Give me them babies, an’ move along now!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Chest
AS THEY sat about Mr. Peterkin’s stove that evening, Mary suddenly remembered.
“It’s Christmas eve, you know,” she said.
“Oh, Mary, did all our presents get washed away with the tepee?” asked Jean.
“I’m afraid so. We’ll have to make the best of it.”
“You ’ang up your stockings just the same,” said Mr. Peterkin mysteriously.
He was dandling Ann Elizabeth and Jonah on his knees, while the twins were pretending to be wild animals snapping about his ankles. Drying clothes steamed all about him, and, if ever anyone saw a more contented picture of a family man, I should be very much surprised.