CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

THE PRETEND-GAME

The sun had set, but the western sky above the mountains was a glory of radiant colors when Ken leaped upon the low porch in front of a small log cabin and knocked eagerly upon the closed door. Instantly it was opened, and Josephine Bayley, in a blue bungalow apron, appeared. Her face gladdened at sight of the small lad who was holding up a string of glistening fish.

“Oh, Ken, did you catch those for me?” The young woman took the proffered gift and held it up in the soft crimson light that reflected back from the other side of the cañon.

“No’m, teacher, ’twasn’t me, though how I do wish it had been! It was-er— Oh, yes, Rattlesnake Sam caught them, and he said he’d like me to dress them after you’d seen how pretty they are with their scales on.” For one panicky moment the small boy had forgotten his friend’s assumed name, and he had been on the verge of saying “Mr. Edrington.” What a narrow escape that had been! For a second he was hardly conscious that Miss Bayley was speaking, then he realized that she was asking him if the “old gentleman” had liked the book she had loaned him. “Oh, yes’m, teacher, Miss Bayley. Rattlesnake Sam, he said ‘Great!’ when he saw it, and—and he told me he’d like the snake book, too, if you’d loan it to him. I’m going up to his camp next Saturday, so I could pack it along then if you could spare it.”

The girl-teacher laughed. “I can spare it all right until next spring. Since all of the snakes have hibernated for the winter, I can’t get near enough to one to see if he looks like his picture.” Then, at the small boy’s suggestion, she gave him the string of trout and he at once began, in a manner that showed his skill, to prepare them for the frying-pan. “Won’t you stay and share them with me, Ken?” the girl-teacher asked, really hoping that he would accept.

“Oh, no’m, thank you, I couldn’t. Dixie will be expecting me back, and—and—we’re sort of having trouble over at our house.”

“Ken! Trouble?” anxiously. “Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon and I would have gone to Dixie at once. I meant to ask you after school why my little leader-of-songs was absent, but you disappeared so quickly after the bell for dismissal rang that I could not, and then I looked for Carol, and saw that she and Jimmy-Boy were running for home as fast as his chubby legs could go. Tell me, dear, what is wrong? Can I help?”

Ken had finished preparing the small fish, and had placed them side by side on a platter that his teacher had brought out. He handed the dish to her, and having wiped his knife, he closed it before he replied.

“It’s a queerish kind of trouble,” he said. Then he told the story, beginning with Mr. Clayburn’s great kindness to them, and ending with the favor which he had asked them to do for him. “Of course Dixie’s right, she always is, but it’s awful uncomfortable having some one in the house who won’t speak pleasant when she’s spoken to.” Then the troubled expression vanished as the lad declared brightly, “I shouldn’t wonder, though, if by now Dixie has won the game.”

Miss Bayley looked puzzled. “What game, dear?” she inquired. The lad explained the pretend-game which Grandmother Piggins had originated when Sue had disliked her room-mate. “That blessed old lady,” the young teacher declared warmly. Then she added: “And that blessed sister of yours, too. Of course she has won the game, Ken, and I’ll prophesy that you’ll all be in school to-morrow with your guest. Please tell Sylvia Clayburn that the teacher of the Woodford’s Cañon school will be so glad to have her, either as a visitor or as a pupil, just as she may prefer.”

“Thanks, Miss Bayley, Dixie’ll be powerful grateful to you for sending that message, and now I must be goin’ along. It gets dark awful early, doesn’t it? Good-by, teacher!”

The lad had not gone far through the deepening dusk when he heard a sweet voice calling after him, “Ken, do you think your old hermit would let me go fishing with him some day?”

“I’ll—I’ll ask him,” was the lad’s reply; then he raced off into the darkness of the cañon.

Here was a new problem, and one which the small boy might have realized was ahead of him. If his beloved Miss Bayley ever saw Frederick Edrington, she’d know he wasn’t an “old hermit,” and, worse than that, she’d know that Ken hadn’t told the square-honest truth.

But he felt better when he recalled that the young engineer very much disliked girls, and so, of course, he would keep in hiding, and equally of course it would not be very long before he would leave the mountain country.

How Ken wished that he had never agreed to let teacher think that Mr. Edrington was so old. To be sure, he hadn’t really told any lies. What he had said was that the man who had built the camp-fire had _said_ that his name was Rattlesnake Sam, and Mr. Edrington _had_ said that, and of course even teacher knew it was an assumed name. Then, when she had asked if the camper was old, Ken hadn’t _said_ he was old; he had replied that Rattlesnake Sam wasn’t a hundred yet. But, after all, he hadn’t been square-honest. He could hardly wait until Saturday to ask Mr. Edrington if he might tell teacher the whole truth.

When Ken neared the log cabin, he suddenly stopped and listened as though he were much surprised at what he heard. Surely that was Dixie singing, and Carol piping in at the chorus. Then, when the song was finished, there was a joyful clapping of small hands. What could it mean, he wondered. Ken had dreaded this home-coming, believing that he would find the girls both on the verge of tears after a long hard day of playing the pretend-game.

A bright light streamed out of the cabin window, beckoning the lad to approach. Before going around to the door, he glanced in, and was truly amazed at the pretty sight that he saw. His sisters were preparing the evening meal, Dixie at the stove and Carol placing on the table the best kept-for-company dishes. This, however, was not what amazed the boy, for he often beheld a similar scene when he returned home after dark. The unusual part of the picture was the small girl who sat on a low stool, holding two kittens, one snow-white and one spotted with black. The watchful mother-cat was lying on the bear-skin rug near by.

Ken actually blinked his eyes hard, and then opened them wide again to reassure himself that he was not dreaming. Could that smiling little girl be the disagreeable and unwelcome guest of but eight hours before? It was indeed Sylvia. She had awakened from her nap that afternoon greatly refreshed, and had been eager to again ride upon the mouse-colored burro. This time she had declared that she was not afraid to ride alone, and so the little hostess, after starting her down the road toward the apple-orchard, had returned to her task in the kitchen, but often she had looked out of the window, when Sylvia, with a merry halloo, had announced that she was returning.

So courageous did the small girl become that one time she had actually urged Pegasus to canter, and then, as she rode past the open door, her shout had been one of triumph. Dixie, skipping to answer the call, had been glad indeed to see that the pale face of their little guest was flushed with excitement and real pleasure. When at last Sylvia, weary but happy, had entered the kitchen, she had exclaimed, as she sank down in the big chair, “That was the best fun I ever had in my whole life!”

In the heart of Dixie there had been a prayer of gratitude because dear old Grandma Piggins’s pretend-game had been such a success, but of this she said nothing. “I’m glad, dear,” had been her quiet reply; “you may ride every day if you wish, while you are with us.”

Then, when Carol came home from school, Sylvia had at once said that she wished she could have the snow-white kitten. Almost unconsciously Carol had asked herself the question, “What would I do if I really loved Sylvia?” In a burst of generosity which delighted as much as it surprised Dixie, the small girl replied almost at once, “You may have Downy-Fluff for your very own pussy if—if you’d like to.”

Then the unexpected happened. The little guest, perhaps for the very first time in her short life, considered some one else’s wishes. “Why, Carol Martin,” she exclaimed, “your sister Dixie said you loved that pussy so much you wouldn’t want to give it away.”

“I do love Downy-Fluff,” the other little girl had replied.

“Then why did you say that I could have her for keeps?” To the small girl who had never had an unselfish impulse, this act was incomprehensible.

“Because I want to make you happy, Sylvia,” had been the quiet reply.

Then, before more could be said, Carol had announced that she was going out to the shed and bring Topsy and her pussy-babies into the cabin.

That had happened about an hour before the return of Ken, and during that hour there had been a brand-new emotion stirring in the heart of Sylvia Clayburn, which just before bedtime prompted the small girl to perform the first unselfish act of her eight years.

Ken was about to take Topsy and the kittens back to the shed when Sylvia, rising, went to Carol, and, holding out the snow-white kitten, said: “Here’s Downy-Fluff. She wants you to cuddle her good-night.” Then stooping, she picked up the less attractive pussy that was rubbing against her foot. Smiling at the astonished Carol, she said: “I’m going to have this one for my very own kitten. Dixie said I might, and anyway, I think Spotty’s kind of lonesome, ’cause nobody loves her nor wants her, the way they do Downy-Fluff.”

And Ken, listening, knew that his sisters had won the “pretend-game.”

Miss Josephine Bayley was not at all surprised the next morning to see the four little Martins appear above the ridge of the cañon road. Carol and Dixie were trudging side by side, while Ken, with a stick in his hand, was walking beside the mouse-colored burro, on which rode no less a small personage than Sylvia Clayburn, whose thin, sallow face was beaming above the yellow curls of the four-year-old, who sat in front of her.

When the schoolhouse was reached, Ken lingered behind to tie the burro in a grassy spot, and Dixie, taking their guest by the hand, led her into the little log schoolhouse.

“Miss Bayley,” she said to the young teacher, who at once approached them, “this is little Sylvia Clayburn. She thought she’d like to come just as company to-day. She’ll be going back to Genoa in two weeks, so maybe that wouldn’t be time to really start having lessons.”

“We are very glad to have Sylvia with us as a guest or as a pupil, just as she prefers,” Miss Bayley said, as she took the frail, claw-like hand of the child who had never been strong. “Carol, your seat is wide enough for two little girls, isn’t it? I am sure that Sylvia would rather sit with you than be alone, wouldn’t you, dear?”

To the surprise of the younger Martin girl, she found that she was actually pleased when Sylvia somewhat shyly nodded her head and slipped her hand trustingly into that of the other little maid. She no longer had to ask herself the pretend-game question, for she really did like their little guest, and she was even eager to have her for a seat-mate.

As usual the morning session began with singing, and the teacher said: “Now that it is nearly November, I am going to suggest that we begin to learn a Thanksgiving song. I have written the words on the board. I will sing it first, Dixie, that you may get the tune; then we will go over it all together.”

The pupils read the poem aloud, that they might become familiar with the words that told the many simple things which small boys and girls had to be thankful for. Then the teacher sang it, first alone, later with Dixie. There was a lilting little chorus that even Sylvia soon could sing, and the girl-teacher smiled as she glanced down at her. It was plain to note that this new experience—for Sylvia had never before been in a school-room—was greatly interesting the little guest.

Then the reading-hour began and Miss Bayley suggested the much-loved story of Cinderella. Each pupil, sufficiently advanced, read two pages, and, as the special fairy-tale reader was passed about, it at last came to Carol. When that little maid was seated again, Miss Bayley smilingly said, “Perhaps our little guest will read a page to us.”

No longer afraid, that small girl willingly read the story, with which she was familiar, and a flush of pleasure appeared in her pale face when the kind teacher said encouragingly, “You read very well indeed, Sylvia, just as though you were telling something that really had happened.”

The old grandfather’s clock was soon chiming ten, and then the pupils flocked out into the golden October day, where Sylvia, for the very first time in her short life, found herself actually playing games with children who were not from the best families.

Maggie Mullet caught her hand in a ring-around game, and at another time Sylvia actually chose Mercedes Guadalupe for a partner in a hide-and-seek game.

That noon found the small girl, whose chief diet had been candy and cake, so hungry that she gladly accepted the thick sandwich offered by Dixie, and ate it almost as ravenously as did Ken. It was during the lunch hour that Miss Bayley beckoned to Dixie from the open door of the log schoolhouse. Excusing herself, the glad-eyed little girl bounded away from the others, wondering what dear teacher had to tell her,—some plan, she was sure, for Carol’s birthday “s’prise.”