Part 13

“No, I don’t think it’s best,” said Mother Pepper, decidedly. “You’ve all been good children I know, and--”

“We’ve made the biggest pile of kindlings, Dave and me,” cried Joel, excitedly flying over to her; “look in the woodshed, Mammy.”

“So I believe,” cried Mrs. Pepper, in a pleased way; “I’ll look in the woodshed, Joe and Davie,” and she beamed at them both.

“And I read to Grandma,” said Phronsie, bobbing her yellow head over her mush-bowl at her mother. “I did; and Grandma, she liked it, she did.”

“That’s a good child,” cried Mrs. Pepper, going over to her baby.

“Well, now you may all have the afternoon to play in, for I am going to take care of Grandma myself.”

“Oh, whoopity!” screamed Joel, making for the door.

X

THE STAGE RIDE

“G’lang there, whoa!” Mr. Tisbett brought up in fine style with one of his best flourishes in front of the well-worn gate to the Little Brown House, and swept it with a confident gaze.

But instead of seeing Joel and David, nearly overcome with joy, rush out of the house and run wildly down the pathway, there was absolutely nobody stirring that he could see, and all was quiet except the droning of the bees in the meadow across the road.

“Beats all natur where they be.” The stage-driver, unable to get any satisfaction by staring, took off his old straw hat and violently scratched his head. This afforded him some peace of mind, but the silence continuing, except for the bees and the twitters of an inquisitive bird or two hopping to a near-by branch by the roadside to see what it was all about, he sat back on the old leather-covered seat and drew a long breath.

“Whew!” Then he laid the well-worn reins down and clambered from his perch to the ground, and with a “Stand still there,” to his horses,--a command they were always perfectly willing to obey,--he slouched up to the old green door and gave two emphatic raps, but nobody answered them.

Now by this time Mr. Tisbett was convinced that the most important business in all this world was to get Joel and David and start them on that long-promised ride over to Cherryville on top of his stage-coach. The invitation, with a message “to be lively and not keep me waiting,” had been sent to them only the afternoon before. Mr. Tisbett had left it at the village store to be delivered to one of the Pepper children or their mother, it being the day when Mr. Atkins expected some coats to be called for. But Phronsie had been sick and fretfully clung to Mother Pepper, and as Polly had a great deal more work to do than usually fell to her share, the coats were not called for, of course. And as a consequence, Mr. Atkins promptly forgot all about the matter until shutting-up time came.

“Oh, good gracious, Jonah!” he exclaimed, slapping the counter and looking up with a very distressed face; “if I haven’t clean forgot all about Mr. Tisbett’s takin’ them Pepper boys to ride to-morrow.” He ran to the door and looked up and down the long dusty road. There wasn’t a sign of a person, to say nothing of a stray boy.

“They’d be thick as a swarm if you didn’t want ’em,” said the storekeeper, discomfited. “I declare, I’ll go myself.” He pulled off his old linen coat on the way to his home, which was entered by a door from the shop leading into the ell.

“I’m goin’ out, Sarah,” he said in a high sharp key, not made pleasanter by smelling the hot beefsteak pie he knew was being borne to the supper table at this very moment.

“Hey?” Mrs. Atkins set down the pie in its place before his plate and stared at him.

“I said I was goin’ out,” repeated the storekeeper, irritably, and turning his back to the pie, while he wriggled into his out-of-door coat hanging behind the kitchen door.

Mrs. Atkins deserted the supper table to run over and look at his face. “You goin’ out before supper?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Atkins, sharply, and pulling his coat sleeves down; “’cause I know I won’t do it after, for no one,” it being the storekeeper’s nightly habit to fall asleep after his evening meal in the big easy-chair, and when he awoke from that, he would have neither inclination nor time to make evening calls. “I’ll tell you about it when I get home, Sarah,” and he crammed his hat on his head and started for the door.

Sarah Atkins ran around him to get there first. “You’ll tell me now, Silas,” she said quietly; “where on earth are you goin’ without your supper?”

“Down to Mis’ Pepper’s,” said the storekeeper, brought to bay.

“Down to Mis’ Pepper’s?” repeated his wife. “Has anything happened there?”

“No,” said Mr. Atkins, and then the story came out.

Just then there was a vigorous knocking set up at their front door. It was so imperative that both the storekeeper and his wife hastened with all speed to answer it.

“I thought you was never comin’.” Little Sally Brown stood there on the step with a very injured countenance.

“You only just knocked,” said Mrs. Atkins, exasperated. “Now what do you want?”

“Some sugar--” said Sally; “two pounds--” Mr. Atkins, when he saw who the visitor was, had retreated a few steps with premonitions of a call to the store.

“Sugar?” he now cried sharply; “at this time of night--the store’s all shet up.”

“Yes,” said Sally, “we’ve got comp’ny.”

This piece of news, ordinarily exciting enough to be followed up, was cut in twain by Mr. Atkins suddenly crying out, as he pressed forward eagerly, “See here, you’ll go to Mis’ Pepper’s for me, Sally?”

“No,” said Sally, decidedly; “I’m goin’ home.”

“You’ll go to Mis’ Pepper’s for me, or you’ll get no sugar _from_ me,” declared the storekeeper, just as decidedly, Mrs. Atkins during this colloquy exclaiming--“So she can--Sally can tell Mis’ Pepper,” joyfully to herself, as she followed the other two all the way through the kitchen to the shop door. For Sally, wisely concluding to take the best that was offered her, finally assented to Mr. Atkins’s proposal, and seized the paper of sugar, saying, “Yes, I’ll go.”

“Be sure you’ve got the message right,” said Mr. Atkins, holding her arm until she had gone over the message three times to make certain that there could be no mistake. “Mr. Tisbett is comin’ to-morrow mornin’ to take Joel and David to Cherryville. Be ready sharp at eight o’clock.”

At last the weary storekeeper and his wife were back in their kitchen. “Now that’s done,” and he took off his out-of-door coat and hung it up with an air of relief.

“The pie’s all cold,” declared Mrs. Atkins, in vexation, and she twitched it off the table.

“Bring it back, Sarah,” said her husband; “I’m hungry as a wolf.”

“It’s cold as a stone,” said Mrs. Atkins, pausing to turn a vexed face.

“Well, cold or hot, I’m goin’ to have some,” said Mr. Atkins, dropping into his seat at the supper table and laying hold of his knife and fork.

So the beefsteak pie was dumped down on the table in front of his plate once more, and Mrs. Atkins slipped into her seat to pour out the tea.

Meantime Sally Brown ran like a good one up the hill and down again, fully intending to drop the parcel of sugar at home and then off over cross lots to the Little Brown House, but dashing into the kitchen she found herself in the midst of the entire family gathered around a common centre, so, dropping the brown-paper bundle on the table, she burst in among the group to hear what the excitement could be.

“Oh, ain’t it too cunnin’ for anythin’!”

“Yes,” said another voice, “it’s cute as can be!” And there was “Cousin Callena’s” little girl, part of the company, simpering and bridling with delight, and holding up a big doll in a pink satin dress and a red hat and white lace veil.

Sally’s mouth opened wide, but she had no time nor breath to scream. The minute Cousin Callena’s little girl saw her, she lowered the doll immediately to put both arms around it. “You shan’t see it,” she declared, with all the triumph of possession.

“For shame, Flora!” cried her mother, “when you’ve come visitin’.”

But Flora, not considering it necessary to part with her usual manners just because she was visiting, kept on hugging her doll and swaying back and forth, repeating in a sing-song voice, “You _shan’t_ see it--you shan’t.”

“I will,” declared Sally, passionately, and with very red cheeks trying to thrust herself nearer for a better view.

“And so you may,” said Cousin Callena, very much ashamed, and reaching over she first bestowed a smart slap on Flora’s shoulder; then she twitched the doll out from her arms. “There, now, I’ll take it myself. Come over here, Sally, and I’ll show it to you.”

Flora gave a loud scream, but, seeing it was useless to follow her mother, she threw herself flat on the floor and sobbed and kicked her heels all the while the resplendent doll in the pink satin dress and red hat and white lace veil was being exhibited in another corner of the kitchen.

And when Sally Brown next remembered the message to the Peppers, it was along toward the middle of the following morning. She had “eaten and slept” on nothing but that magnificent doll, being unable to get it out of her thoughts for a moment. When the message did flash through her mind, she started, and without a word to any one, raced off across lots as fast as she could to the Little Brown House. It was as silent and empty as when the stage-driver had visited it.

“Oh, well, Mr. Tisbett’s taken Joel and Davie,” said Sally to herself, running all about the Little Brown House, and peeping into the west window where Mrs. Pepper usually sat sewing. “An’ the rest have gone, too,” she added enviously; “an’ I hain’t never been a stage-ridin’,” and she disconsolately got herself back home.

It was just about this time that Mrs. Pepper, sewing away for dear life over in Grandma Bascom’s cottage, looked up.

“It’s time to make Grandma some tea, Polly,” she said.

“O dear me, so it is,” said Polly, setting up the broom neatly and drawing a long breath. “Mamsie, it wouldn’t be near so hard to get this floor clean if these old hens wouldn’t keep coming in. There’s one now!” and Polly flew for the broom again to brandish it wildly after the marauder. “They get the feathers all over everything.”

“Shut the door then, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper.

“Oh, they come in just as easily in that hole over by the corner.” Polly pointed to it with her broom.

“Is there a hole there, Polly?” asked Mrs. Pepper, in surprise.

“Yes, Mamsie,” said Polly, “there is. I’m going to put that box up against it,” which was no sooner said than done, Polly dragging up an empty soap box for the purpose. “There, now, old hens, I guess you won’t get in,” she cried, rubbing her hands in satisfaction.

“Ben must mend that hole just as soon as he has a chance,” said Mrs. Pepper, snipping off her thread, while Polly set back the broom and ran over to the stove to get Grandma’s tea.

“Isn’t it good that Phronsie sleeps so long, Mamsie?” said Polly at last, while she was waiting for the old kettle to boil, and coming up to her mother’s chair.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper. She looked tired and worried, but she smiled. “She’ll be all right, I think,” she hastened to say.

“I guess she’s better because you brought her over to Grandma’s,” said Polly, with a happy little laugh, and balancing herself first on one set of toes and then on the other. “Isn’t she, Mamsie?”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Pepper, then she laughed too, a sound that made Polly happier yet. “I think the kettle has boiled, Polly.”

“I believe it has,” laughed Polly, skipping back to the old stove.

And then when Grandma had had her tea and eaten the toast that Polly had made to go with it, and Polly had washed and wiped the dishes, Phronsie on the other side of Grandma’s big bed turned over and put out her hand. “I’m so hungry, Polly,” she said.

“Oh, Pet, are you awake?” Polly ran around the old bed and covered her face with kisses; “and you’re all well, aren’t you, Pet?”

“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head as well as she could for Polly hugging her, “but I’m very hungry, Polly. I am truly.”

“Well, and you shall have something,” declared Polly, flying off into the kitchen to tell Mrs. Pepper all about it.

So Mamsie dropped her sewing and went in to look at Phronsie to see how she really was. And everything had to be told to Grandma, who by this time was in a bad fright lest Phronsie were worse. And then Grandma said Phronsie must have toast, too, and so Polly ran out to make that. And presently Phronsie was sitting up, propped against a pillow close to Grandma’s, and eating with great satisfaction all around a crispy, crinkly slice of toast that Polly brought to the side of the bed with a great flourish on a piece of paper, pretending it was a napkin.

And then Polly curled up at the foot of the bed and laughed, and told Phronsie a merry little story about Parson Henderson’s chickens that Phronsie always considered part of the eating process. And Grandma “ohed” and “ahed” through it all, although she hadn’t heard a word, and everything was getting on as fine as could be, and Mrs. Pepper out in the kitchen gave a sigh of relief as her needle flew faster than ever. “It surely hasn’t hurt Phronsie to bring her over, and Grandma needed us after that chill;” for Polly had run back through the lane after an early visit to the cottage, saying that “Grandma is awfully cold, and she can’t get warm, and she’s all huddled up over the stove.” And Mrs. Pepper had bundled up Phronsie in an old quilt and carried her over, telling Polly to bring the coat she was trying to finish and the work-basket. And then Ben and Joel and Davie had all hurried off to work together, for the two little boys were to help Ben at Deacon Blodgett’s on this morning.

“It’s so funny to lock the door,” said Polly to herself, as she swung the old key on her finger and skipped down the lane. “O dear me, wouldn’t it be nice to ever go off into the woods and pick flowers, and run--O dear me--and stay as long as I wanted to--just think--oh!” But here she was at Grandma Bascom’s, and ever so much work to be done.

“I’d stop for them boys to-morrow, I declare I would,” said Mr. Tisbett to himself, rattling off on the way to collect his customers, “ef I warn’t engaged to bring up them folks from the city to the Potter farm. That’s jest it--this busy season--it beats all to know when I can git another chance so good as this was to-day, and no one to take this ere seat with me.” He slapped his knees with his horny hand in his vexation, and set about his day’s work in no very pleasant frame of mind.

“John!” An old yellow wagon, drawn by an older horse, rattled around a curve. “I say, John, stop, will ye?”

“I’m a-stoppin’ as fast’s I kin with my horses,” said Mr. Tisbett, pulling up his pair with a superior air. “What d’ye want, Mr. Potter?”

Mr. Potter guided his old horse up against the stage-driver’s pair, and bawled out, “Say, those folks ain’t a-comin’ to-morrow.”

“Them city ones?” asked the stage-driver.

“Yes,--a-comin’ Friday; just had a tel’gram.” Mr. Potter drew himself up with dignity to see the effect on the stage-driver. “’Twas brought by Hiram Pendleton’s son, an’ he come lickety-split--thought some one was dead, an’--”

“I don’t care about that,” said Mr. Tisbett, dismissing the narration by a wave of his hand as of no consequence whatever. “I’ll fetch ’em from Cherryville deepo Friday insted of to-morrow; that’s the idee, ain’t it?”

“Yes, ye see--” Mr. Potter stood up in his wagon, he was so anxious to get all the details of this change of plans in his city boarders well before the stage-driver’s mind, but that individual was already a good piece of his journey down the road, his horses kicking up a great dust while he cheered them on, for his spirits had risen very much indeed.

“Now I’ll take the Pepper boys to-morrow to Cherryville,” he declared, “an’ I’ve got to go round there to-night when I come home, so I’ll tell Mis’ Pepper.” This new plan almost made him forget his worry that otherwise would have seized him when he thought of the Little Brown House all so shut up and silent.

So all this is the reason why Joel and little David didn’t hear before that night that they were really and truly going to Cherryville on the morrow. Then the Little Brown House more than made up for being silent in the early morning!

“Oh, I wish you were going, Polly!” said Ben the next morning, when she ran out to the woodpile where he had to work that day to get some ready for Mamsie, and he rested his busy saw a moment.

“Oh, I’m going sometime,” said Polly, tossing back her brown hair, and trying to speak cheerily.

Ben’s face didn’t lighten a bit, as he took up his saw.

“And it’s too bad you can’t go,” said Polly. “Dear me!” and she clasped her hands tightly.

“Oh, I’m going sometime,” said Ben, repeating her words. Then he burst into a laugh. “But I’ve got to have this wood sawed first.”

“And I’ve got to wash those old breakfast dishes,” said Polly, skipping off to the kitchen door. “Misery me!” for there was Joel in a dreadful state of distress. He couldn’t find his cap; search for it high and low, it was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, I thought you were all ready, Joel!” cried Polly, in surprise.

“He was--he was,” gasped little Davie, tearfully, and getting in everybody’s way in his efforts to help along the search.

“Here comes the stage,” said Mrs. Pepper, looking out of the window. “Joel, run out and ask Ben to let you take his cap.”

“Oh, Mamsie,” began Polly, in dismay, who dearly loved, whenever any of them were going visiting, to have everything as fine as possible. But seeing Mrs. Pepper’s eyes, she didn’t finish with “Ben’s cap will be ever so much too big for him,” as Joel dashed off to ask him.

“You mustn’t keep Mr. Tisbett waiting,” said Mrs. Pepper, “so run along, boys,” as Joel raced back, cramming Ben’s worn cap on his head as he pranced down the path to be pulled up over the wheel by Mr. Tisbett, who performed the same good office for little David. At last a crack of the whip--and off they went.

Down to Badgertown Centre the old stage-coach swung along, the horses now at a “pretty pace,” as Mr. Tisbett called it, for he always made a good showing down the main street, till a sharp scream struck his ears.

“Hulloa there, what you about,” he called; “scaring the horses to death!” and he pulled them up shortly, and craned his neck at a woman running along the sidewalk, and shaking a small bandbox tied up with a cloth cover at him. “Stop--stop,” she gasped faintly.

“Ain’t I a-stoppin’?” said Mr. Tisbett, leaning both hands holding the old leather reins on his knees. “Gracious, ye don’t need to screech so, Mis’ Sprigg.”

“I was afraid,” panted the woman, coming up to the stage, “that--you--wouldn’t stop, Mr. Tisbett.” Her face was very red and the drops of perspiration rolled down either side.

“Well, I’m a-stoppin’ now,” said the stage-driver, while Joel and David peered around him to get as much as possible of the interview; “so if you’ll state what you want, I’ll be obleeged to ye, Mis’ Sprigg.”

“How much is’t to Cherryville?” asked Mrs. Sprigg, depositing her bandbox on the grass by the side of the road, and pulling out a big handkerchief to mop her hot face.

“Just what it always was; a quarter,” said Mr. Tisbett. “The price ain’t changed any since yest’day when you asked me, Mis’ Sprigg.”

“I didn’t know but what you’d take less when you’d had a chance to think over what good customers we’d been when we lived over to Cherryville,” said Mrs. Sprigg, scanning the stage-driver’s face with her beady eyes. “We alwus travelled with you, Mr. Tisbett,” she added wheedlingly.

“And how much did you travel?” said Mr. Tisbett, scornfully, shifting his quid of tobacco to the other cheek; “once in a dog’s age, ye come over to Badgertown.”

Mrs. Sprigg drew herself up to her greatest height, which wasn’t much, and her beady eyes snapped.

“Well, I can’t stop here with my horses coolin’ their heels _all_ day,” said the stage-driver. “Are you goin’ to get in for Cherryville or stay where ye be?” And he shook the reins suggestively.

“I’ve got to go to Cherryville,” snapped the little woman, snatching up her bandbox from the grass. “My sister’s husband took sick, an’ Eliza--”

“I can’t stop to hear about Eliza,” retorted the stage-driver, impatiently, and dropping the reins to clamber down over the wheel. “I’ve got some customers to pick up, an’ some passels, an’ I hain’t no time to waste in talk. Now, then, Mis’ Sprigg.” He set her bandbox inside with a hasty hand, then took hold of her arm to help her into the coach. “Step lively, there!”

“Wait a minute--” she shook him off to peer down the road. “Oh, here she comes!”

Mr. Tisbett flew around also to see coming down the road, making the dust fly well at every step, a small girl holding a basket which she swung back and forth vigorously.

“Hold it straight,” screamed the little woman, and she stamped her foot on the grass. “Martha Sprigg, don’t you know no better!” But Martha not hearing, as there were several noises emanating from the basket, kept up the swinging, and at last reached her mother, who first gave her a smart slap, and then, after getting the basket away from her, a shake.

“You’ve pretty near killed him, I ’xpect,” declared Mrs. Sprigg, bending over the basket in concern, from which a loud and indignant “Mee--ow!” pealed forth. “Now you go right straight back home, you naughty girl, you, and sew up that seam to that sheet, just as I told you.”

Martha looked longingly at the stage-coach, and the two boys perched up on top, then her gaze fell down to her mother. “I want to go,” she said boldly.

Mrs. Sprigg, with her foot on the step, having first seen Mr. Tisbett deposit her precious basket inside, turned in astonishment. “Well, I never!” she ejaculated.

“Let th’ little girl go, can’t ye?” said Mr. Tisbett, good-naturedly, on seeing Martha’s face; “’twon’t cost nothin’. I’ll take her without charge.”

For one second Mrs. Sprigg relented, being unable to pass anything by that did not cost. “No, indeed,” then she cried decidedly; “it’ll cost over there to Eliza’s for eatin’, an’ Martha’s got to do th’ work to home. Go right straight back!” She whipped her skirts about her feet and skipped into the stage-coach.

“Well, there, ye see, I can’t take ye; your Ma won’t let me,” said Mr. Tisbett, apologetically, to the little girl, who stood twisting her small red hands together and wistfully regarding his face.

“Oh, let her come, do let her come,” begged Joel, leaning forward on his high seat at the imminent risk of falling off on his nose; Davie crowding up close to his shoulder trying to see, too, and crying, “Please, Mr. Tisbett, let her come--”

“Can’t,” said Mr. Tisbett, swinging himself up to his seat; “that cantankerous old woman won’t let me--” the last under his breath.

Martha, seeing her last hope which had flamed high at Mr. Tisbett’s words, disappear, gave a loud scream of disappointment and flung herself face downward on the grass. The stage-driver, just picking up the old leather reins, paused and looked over his shoulder. “See here, Marthy, don’t cry. I’ll take ye some other day.”

Mrs. Sprigg poked her head, with its green veil tied carefully over her Sunday bonnet, out of the window to listen greedily. Martha sat up on the grass suddenly to brush away the tears.

“Yes, I will,” said Mr. Tisbett. “You be a good girl an’ run home now, an’ I’ll come for ye some other day,” and he whirled back in his seat. “G’lang!” And Mrs. Sprigg was picking herself back from the opposite leather-covered seat and straightening her bonnet after the jerk of the old coach as the horses sprang off.

“Oh, we can’t leave her,” screamed Joel, at the end of the seat, trying to see Martha; little Davie in just as much distress, huddled up in the middle.