CHAPTER XXXI

TEA WITH AUNT PATSY.

ALONE in her lonely little house, in the closing twilight, Aunt Patsy had put up the leaf of her rickety pine table, and, having placed upon it a pewter plate and a cracked teacup, was busy preparing her humble supper,—bending over the hearth, toasting a crust of bread on a fork, beside a simmering teapot,—when the door was softly pushed open and somebody looked in.

“Who’s there?” shrieked the old woman, dropping her toast and starting up in affright.

“Nobody but me; don’t be scared, Aunt Patsy.” And the visitor glided into the room and softly closed the door again.

“You! Jack Hazard!” she exclaimed, recovering her self-possession. “Bless ye, lad, I’m always glad to see ye. But vicious boys have played so many mean tricks on me, I’m awful skittish! It’s gittin’ so dark I didn’t know ye at fust. Or is it that odd-lookin’ hat you’ve got on?”

Jack laughed, and said he thought it must be the hat that disguised him. “It’s a borrowed one; I’m great on borrowing hats! Did I ever tell you how I made free with Syd Chatford’s once? A very quiet and accommodating gentleman was kind enough to let me take this right off from his head; he’s standing out in the open field bareheaded now, waiting for me to return it.”

“What are ye talkin’? Set down, won’t ye, and keep a poor body company for a little while? You’re jest in time to take a cup o’ tea with me, and eat a piece of Mis’ Chatford’s pie ye brought me. I wish I had a candle; but I’m too poor to indulge in luxuries. I can start up a flash of fire, though.”

“Don’t start it up for me,” replied Jack. “I prefer to sit in the dark.”

“But we must have a trifle of a blaze, to see to eat by; besides, I want a glimpse o’ your face. Friends’ faces ain’t so common a sight with me that I can afford to miss seein’ ’em when they do look in. How’s Mis’ Chatford, and dear Miss Felton?”

“They seemed to be in their usual state of health when I last saw them. I have left Mr. Chatford’s; did you know it?”

“Left—Deacon Chatford’s! Why, lad, you astonish me!” And Aunt Patsy, who was putting some chips on the fire, turned and stared at her guest. “I thought you was kind of adopted by them.”

At this the cheery tone of voice in which Jack had spoken began to fail him. “I—I thought—I hoped so—too,” he murmured, standing beside the mantel-piece. “But I have left. I can never go back there again. I’m in a bad scrape, and even if I get out of it I can’t go back; for there’s a lie between Phin and me, and of course they believe Phin and blame me,” he went on with swelling passion in his tones. “I’ve just come in to say good by to you.”

“Good by, Jack? You can’t mean it! Where ye goin’?” And the amazed old woman and the agitated boy stood facing each other in the flickering firelight.

“I don’t know! I just want to see _her_ first,—I mean Miss Felton,—and get my dog; then I’m off; no matter where. I mustn’t be seen here. You couldn’t hide me, could you, if anybody should come in? There’s a constable after me.”

“A constable! Why, what _is_ the trouble? I’ll bar the door, the fust thing!” The door was barred, and then Aunt Patsy carefully arranged her dingy window-curtains so that no spying eye could look in. “Now, here is the wood-shed; you know that well enough, often as you have been in it to split my wood for me. The door is hooked on the inside. You might slip in here, if anybody comes; and then, if I give ye a signal, spring out of that door or out of the back winder, either. But I don’t see why anybody should be s’archin’ for ye in my house!”

“Peternot knows I come here sometimes,” said Jack. “But never mind. I’ve slipped through the officer’s hands twice to-day. I’ll risk him!”

“Is it Peternot!” exclaimed the old woman, angrily. “Tell me about it! Meanwhile ye must drink a cup o’ tea with me.”

In vain Jack protested that he did not drink tea, that he wasn’t hungry, and begged her not to trouble herself for him. She removed the pewter plate and cracked cup, and, reaching the top shelf of her closet, brought down the last remnants of an old-fashioned china tea-set, a couple of plates and cups and saucers, once fair and delicate but now much defaced by wear, the edges being nicked and the original colored figures and gilding mostly gone.

While more bread was toasting, Jack began his story.

“A trunk of money!” exclaimed Aunt Patsy, interrupting him. “In Peternot’s woods! I wonder! But go on, then I’ll tell _you_ something!”

When he came to his adventure with the squire, she broke forth again, “Jest like the mean old miserly curmudgeon! He’s tried for fifteen year to git my little morsel of a place away from me; but he hain’t done it yit, and he never will, long as I’m above the sod. But go on, go on, Jack; then I’ll tell _you_ a story!”

So Jack related all that had happened, down to his encounter with Percy Lanman; by which time the toast and tea were on the table, and the old lady, though excited by the narrative, bade him sit up and share her supper. “It’s a poor show, I know,” said she, “but it’s the best I have; and I shouldn’t have all this if ’t wa’n’t for you and Mis’ Chatford.”

“This toast is all I want,” said Jack. “I went to a house about two hours ago and got a bowl of bread and milk for ten cents. The woman didn’t want to take anything, but I thought I’d let her know I wasn’t a beggar, though I felt like one; for I’d just had a wild-goose-chase after the Huswick boys and my bag of money.”

“The Huswick boys! they’re as bad as Peternot himself, though in a different way,” said Aunt Patsy, sipping her tea in the dancing light of the fire, while Jack, sitting at the table to please her, nibbled his toast.

“I’ve done three silly things, one every time I put any trust in those rascals!” said Jack. “First, when I left ’em to guard the money while I ran for Mr. Chatford; next, when I went with ’em to get it back from the old squire; and again, when I went home last night, instead of sticking tight to Hank and Tug till we found Cub and the money.”

“That seems the weakest thing you have done,” said the old woman. “Though if they meant to rob you, your follerin’ on ’em up would have done no good.”

“I thought of that; and I imagined it would have a good effect if I took Hank’s word, and made him believe I thought there was a little honor in him. He may mean well by me still; but I’m pretty sure he is dodging me on purpose. I found Dock and Hod and Tug this afternoon; and they said Hank and Cub had cleared out for a day or two for fear they would be arrested for helping me break into Peternot’s house. Tug vowed he didn’t know where they were or what they had done with the money.”

“They’re playin’ you false,” said Aunt Patsy. “But don’t mind. Now I’ll tell you my story, and you’ll see you hain’t lost so much, and they hain’t gained so much, as you and they think.”

“What do you mean?” cried Jack.

The old woman took a sip of tea and went on. “I know about that money; at least, I know somethin’ about it. You’ve heard complaints agin my fust husband,—how bad characters used to come to our house, for one thing. I don’t deny but what there was somethin’ in that, though he was a good man to me; whatever else he was, he was good to me!” And the old woman wiped away a tear. “There was one Sam Williams,—I always telled my husband he’d better have nothin’ to do with him, for I was sure he’d come to some bad end; and sure enough he did; he escaped from a constable and was shot; died of his wound in jail. This was a year or two ’fore my fust husband died; and ’twas when the officers was arter him that he come to our house one night with a little trunk of money.”

“Half-dollars?” said Jack, eagerly interrupting her.

“I believe so, though I don’t remember for sartin about that. He wanted my husband to keep it for him; but I said, ‘Don’t ye have nothin’ to do with it, if you want to keep out o’ trouble.’ Well, he stayed with us from jest arter dark one evenin’ till jest afore day next mornin’; and that was the last we ever see of him. That must ’a’ been the trunk, and he hid it in the woods. If it was,” added Aunt Patsy, looking keenly at Jack across the corner of the table, “then either Mr. Chatford or the goldsmith has made a grand mistake.”

Again Jack anxiously demanded what she meant; but just as she was about to explain herself, there came a light rap at the door. He sprang to his feet in an instant.

“Hish!” she whispered, shaking her finger at him.

She hurriedly replaced the extra plate and cup and saucer in the closet, while Jack, stepping on tiptoes, took refuge in the wood-shed. The rap was repeated just as she reached the door.