Part 14

“Look out--you set still,” roared Mr. Tisbett at Joel. “If you don’t, I’ll put you off, an’ you won’t go neither,” which had such good effect that Joel crowded up closely to Davie. “Oh, I will sit still, I will, Mr. Tisbett,” as they rumbled off, trying to make up for lost time on the way to the store where they were to pick up the other passengers and the parcels.

When this place was reached, there was a little detention to allow an old gentleman with crutches to get helped in and settled comfortably by his daughter, who was the only other passenger. And then their trunk, a small black leather one, was swung on behind, and the various parcels (for Mr. Tisbett, of course, carried the express to the different families between Badgertown and Cherryville) were packed in, and with a “good-by, Joel and David,” from Mr. Atkins, who came out on the steps to see them off, away they went again, not to stop except once or twice to give the horses a breathing spell, until they drew up at Cherryville Centre.

“It’s a dull day enough,” observed Mr. Tisbett, sociably, on one of these resting spells, and crossing his legs leisurely, “for trade, that is. Beats all how that Mis’ Sprigg’s tongue goes,” he pointed backward with his tongue toward the open window.

Joel, who cared little for Mrs. Sprigg’s tongue, now began to use his own, clamoring freshly to be allowed to drive, or at least, to hold the reins when the horses were resting.

“When you’re bigger, ye may,” said Mr. Tisbett, pushing back his straw hat from his forehead.

“I am bigger,” said Joel, straightening up.

“I see,” said the stage-driver with a loud “so ye be.”

“Then can’t I take ’em?” cried Joel, triumphantly.

“Well, ye’ll be bigger yet in a little while--you wait and see,” said Mr. Tisbett. “You’ll grow faster ef you’re quiet.”

“Will I?” cried Joel, eagerly.

“Yes, indeed,” the stage-driver nodded emphatically. “You’ll be as big as Ben if you don’t look out. That’s his cap, ain’t it, you’ve got on your head?”

Joel, at this, reminded of his head and what it carried, clapped his hands to it. “Yes, ’tis,” he nodded.

“Well, now, seem’ you’ve got Ben’s cap on your head, you ought to have some sense like Ben has, _in_ your head.” The stage-driver, at that, raised the reins and “g’langed” to his horses, and away they went once more settling down to work.

Suddenly all three up on the top seat began to be aware that there was a lively commotion down within the old stage, and a long crutch waved out of the window, besides various cries in as many different voices, made Mr. Tisbett think he must pull up his horses and get down and investigate, which he did at once, thrusting his red face in the window. “What in creation--” But he got no further, the young woman who had waved her father’s crutch to attract attention and stop the coach, vying with Mrs. Sprigg to make herself heard. The old gentleman said nothing, but his eyes blazed.

“One of you ladies, at a time,” begged Mr. Tisbett, waving his hands deprecatingly. “I’d be delighted to hear it all, if one of you would wait for th’ tother--”

But that was precisely what neither would do, but Mrs. Sprigg got her story in shrilly above the other woman.

“My cat’s gone--he’s let it out o’ th’ basket.”

“Indeed, I did not.” The old gentleman was so indignant, he found his voice.

“Pa hasn’t touched her old cat,” cried the young woman, angrily. “The very idea!”

“He’s done nothin’ but poke th’ basket all the while with his crutch,” declared Mrs. Sprigg, “ever sence he got in, an’ th’ cover’s flew up, an’ see there!” She held up the basket, and sure enough, the cover was up, and no cat there.

“Well, the cat’s under th’ seat prob’ly,” said Mr. Tisbett, in the midst of the babel of tongues. “I’ll wait while you get down an’ get her, Mis’ Sprigg, but you must hurry up.” With that he rested one foot on the step and his hands on the window casing, while with many mutterings about neighbors who wouldn’t keep their meddling sticks and crutches to themselves, and just as emphatic answers that there hadn’t been any meddling sticks and crutches, and that the rickety old cover was to blame for the whole performance, Mrs. Sprigg slid off from the old leather swinging seat and began to prowl about in the dark corners for her straying pet, when, without a bit of warning, out shot something big and furry over Mr. Tisbett’s head, clawing the straw hat as it went, to land a dozen feet away on the roadside, and disappear over the stone wall.

“My land o’ Goshen!” exclaimed the stage-driver, pushing back his straw hat where it had been thrust over his eyes, as Mrs. Sprigg’s face came up to the window. “Oh, my cat!” she screamed wildly, and rattling the door to get out; “catch him--catch him!”

“I’ll catch him,” cried Joel, tumbling off from his seat and down over the wheel, followed by Davie, who never stopped to think of what had seemed to him before to be a dangerous proceeding, and racing after Joel’s heels, both boys were soon over the stone wall.

“They’ll scare him worse,” cried Mrs. Sprigg, now down by the side of the road, and in a thicket of straggling blackberry bushes, and she wrung her hands.

“Plague take your old cat!” exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, in a panic over the boys. “Come back here--your Ma won’t like it,” he shouted, but he might as well have saved his voice, for it was carried off by the wind long before it could reach the two little flying figures, as they dashed up to the edge of a clump of bushes. But just here the unexpected happened--the cat with long leaps was making her way within the thicket, when a dog running through the bushes came face to face with her, nearly knocking her over, and Joel, seizing that instant, had her, though kicking and struggling dreadfully, held fast in his arms.

“I’ve got her--I’ve got her!” he yelled clear across the field, his black eyes shining in triumph, and running as fast as he could for her kicking and clawing, Davie stumbling along by his side, begging him to let her go, and wild with fright as he saw a long bloody scratch on one of the little brown hands.

“No, sir--ee!” declared Joel; “there, now, I’ve got your other old hind leg,” this to the cat, and gathering up the long paws with a good grip. “You can’t scratch me any more,” and presently he somehow got over the stone wall.

“Now give that pesky animal to me,” commanded Mr. Tisbett. So Joel, although he much preferred to put the cat himself into the basket, was obliged to hand it over and stand quietly by, while it was crammed into its prison. And then Mr. Tisbett remarking--“We won’t have no more stoppings out of _this_ stage till you get to Cherryville,” produced a rope from underneath the seat and securely tied on the cover, making it fast with a generous number of knots, and no one but Davie took any notice of Joel’s bloody little hands.

It wasn’t till they got to Cherryville and stopped at the Inn for dinner, Mrs. Sprigg and her cat and her bandbox having been dropped at “Eliza’s,” that the old gentleman as soon as he was helped up to the long piazza to sink down in one of the big chairs, said, “Hey, look at that boy,” and he rapped on the floor with his crutch; then pointed to Joel.

Joel put his hands behind his little blue cotton blouse. He had wiped them pretty clean, but couldn’t succeed in getting off all the dingy stains.

Mrs. Christy, the landlady, was bustling in the doorway, preparatory to ringing the big dinner-bell. “What’s that?” she said, peering at Joel.

“Nothing,” he tried to say, squirming worse than ever. But little Davie piped out, “It was the cat.”

“Let me see your hands,” said Mrs. Christy, giving up all thoughts just then of ringing the dinner-bell. So Joel had to show them. “O dear me!” she exclaimed. “Now that’s too bad, the cat must have hurt you just awful.”

“Phoh, she didn’t hurt much,” said Joel, trying to edge off, little Davie having the hardest work not to let the tears roll down his cheeks.

“You come right here,” said Mrs. Christy, “an’ wash ’em good an’ clean, an’ I’ll give you some court-plaster. Then, says I, you’ll be all ready to set down an’ eat when Mr. Tisbett is. Come along and take off your cap,” she said to David.

Joel clapped his hands up to his head, then stared at Davie, his black eyes getting bigger than ever. Little Davie, having been unable all this time to look higher than Joel’s poor hands, now stared back at him.

“Oh--oh!” he screamed in the greatest consternation; “it’s gone--it isn’t there. Oh--oh!” and in a minute the whole long piazza was in an uproar that brought every lodger to the scene. Ben’s cap was not only not on Joel’s head--it was nowhere to be seen.

Joel cried steadily all through dinner, the tears running down his round cheeks, without the slightest thought of the boarders staring at him, as he sat back in his chair; and all attempts to make him partake of the nice things that the landlady and “Mandy” piled on his plate, failed, while little Davie softly sobbed next to him, until good Mrs. Christy and the stage-driver were almost at their wit’s end. Finally the old gentleman at the other end of the long table, laid down his knife and fork, and exclaimed “Hem--” in such a loud voice, everybody knew he was getting ready to say something quite important.

“Here, boy--look here. _Hem!_” It was so very loud now and commanding that even Joel stopped a moment. Seeing this, Davie listened with all his heart. Could anything help them out of this dreadful trouble? _Ben’s cap lost!_ “I’ve got something for you that you’ll like a great deal better’n your old cap; it was too big anyway for you.”

“I wouldn’t like it better,” screamed Joel, a great deal worse than before; “this was Ben’s, and I’ve--lost--it!”

“Lavinia,” said the old gentleman, giving his daughter a little key out of his waistcoat pocket, “you go to my trunk and get out that little black cap.” He dropped his voice so that no one else could hear.

“Not the one you’re taking to Jim!” said Lavinia, whispering back.

“You do as I say,” commanded the old gentleman, fiercely. If he could have reached his crutch, he would have pounded the floor with it, but it was left in the corner of the big dining room. So Lavinia went off with the little key in her hand, and presently she came back with a brand new black cloth cap in the other hand.

“Now stick that on that boy’s head,” said the old gentleman. “Now, says I, whatever your--name--is, boy, you take Ben, whoever--he--is, that cap. He’ll like it a great deal better because it’s a new one. And then come back and finish your dinner, Lavinia.”

So Lavinia stuck the new black cap on Joel’s head as she went by his chair, and was just slipping into her own, when out jumped the stage-driver from his seat and picked it off, going up to the old gentleman at the head of the table. “Thank ye, sir, kindly, but all th’ same, it’s me that’s goin’ to get a new cap fer Ben Pepper, seein’ his’n has blew off from Joel’s head while he’s my comp’ny,” and he was just going back to his place when a frowsy-headed stable boy walked right into the dining room without waiting to ask any one’s leave.

“He said,” pointing with his thumb out toward the road, “I was to give you this to once’t. You dropped it when you was chasin’ th’ cat, and him an’ his dog found it,” and he held out Ben’s cap.

XI

A LITTLE YELLOW CHICKEN

“Polly,” said Phronsie, “I wish we could have cake every day.” She held carefully, a small bit saved after nibbling slowly around the edge of the piece in her hand, “Why can’t we, Polly?”

“Why can’t we what, Phronsie?” Polly, rushing around the old kitchen, the dish-cloth, which she had forgotten to put down, still in her hand, picked up a small bowl from the table and, knocking off a spoon that it had concealed, sent it clattering to the floor. “O dear me, I do wish Joel would ever put his things up,” she exclaimed in vexation.

“I’ll pick it up,” cried Phronsie, forgetting her cake-crumb so that it went flying off to the floor, too. “Let me, Polly, do,” she begged, running over to the table.

“Oh, no, never mind, Pet,” exclaimed Polly, very much ashamed of her impatience; “there, I have it,--well, oh, what did you want, Phronsie? O dear me,” she cried again, “I wonder when these old dishes will ever be done!”

“I’ll do them,” cried Phronsie, running after her eagerly as she bore them off to the big pan of water waiting for them, the dish-towel flapping from Polly’s arm; “please, Polly, I’m so big; do let me.”

“Nonsense, you’re no bigger’n a chicken,” exclaimed Polly, merrily setting down Joel’s mush-bowl and spoon among the other things the Pepper family had used at their simple breakfast.

“I’m not a chicken,” said Phronsie, in a grieved little voice, and standing quite tall.

“Oh, yes, you are,” declared Polly, gayly. Then, as she caught sight of Phronsie’s face, she turned her back on the big dish-pan, and seized her for a good hug. “A sweet, puffy little chicken,--there, and there, Phronsie Pepper!”

“Am I just like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens?” asked Phronsie, slowly, a light breaking over her face.

“Yes, as like as two peas,” declared Polly, shaking her head decidedly. “Oh, you can’t think, Phronsie. You’re just exactly like one of Mrs. Henderson’s chickens, every single bit.” With that she gave her another hug.

“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, as Polly at last set her free, and flew off to her long-delayed dish-washing, only to find the water cold. “Am I, Polly?”

“Eh, what?” asked Polly, wrinkling up her brow in dismay. “Now what shall I do,--that old stove!-- And the fire’s out, of course. O dear me, Pet, what is it?”

“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, thrusting her face in between Polly and the dish-pan. “Am I, Polly?”

“The little yellow what?” asked Polly, all her thoughts on her delayed morning work, and her hurry to pull out all those basting-threads on the coats Mamsie had just finished for Mr. Atkins, to surprise Mrs. Pepper when she had come home from Deacon Blodgett’s where she had gone to help in the spring cleaning.

“You said I was like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens,” said Phronsie, her lip beginning to tremble, “and can’t I be like the little yellow one? Please make me, Polly.” A big tear she was trying to keep back wouldn’t stay in its place, but ran down over the round cheek.

“Dear me, yes, of course, you can be like the little yellow chicken, Phronsie,” promised Polly, bursting into a merry laugh, and throwing her arms around her again, quite in dismay at the tear. “Now, then, just think, Phronsie, how cunning he was when he hopped all around after his mother, and--”

“Just like this,” laughed Phronsie, her tears all gone; and tumbling to all fours, she began to bob over the kitchen floor as a very fat, yellow chicken would be supposed to get along on its quite new little legs.

“Hah--hah!” scud,--scud, scamper,--and two boys came bounding in. “See Phronsie!” screamed Joel to little David, who came plunging after.

“I’m Mrs. Henderson’s little yellow chicken,” announced Phronsie, lifting a flushed face, and having very hard work to keep her pink apron from tripping her up.

“Hoh,--hoh, come on, Dave,” screamed Joel, flinging himself flat on the floor; “we’ll be the old hens. No, I’m going to be the rooster. Cock-a-doodle-doo!” With that he gave a terrible crow, and sprawled after Phronsie.

Little David, who very much wished to be the rooster, smothered a sigh, and immediately became one of Mrs. Henderson’s old gray hens. And being perfectly familiar with their proceedings from the many visits the children had been allowed to make to the parsonage hen-coop, he was soon clucking at a great rate, and following Joel and Phronsie about till the old kitchen rang with the noise of a farm-yard.

“Goodness me!” cried Polly, turning away from the dish-pan where she was trying to believe the water was hot enough to make the dishes as nice as usual. “Oh, what fun!” She rested her hands for a moment on the rim. Dear me, didn’t she just long to be down on the floor, and be an old hen with the others rampaging around the kitchen! But Mamsie was coming soon, and there were those basting-threads,--and beside, the dish-water would then be cold as a stone. It would never do to even think of it. So she flew back again, and made a great bustle with the cups and bowls and spoons trying to shut out the delightful noise. This was the reason she didn’t hear what followed.

“Oh, whickets!” Joel couldn’t help saying what Mamsie had reproved him for. Here was what looked like a piece of cake. It couldn’t be, really, for cake didn’t come to the Pepper household often enough to be found on the floor. But it surely looked like it; and Joel lost sight of the fact that he was a rooster, and rubbed his eyes. Yes, it surely was, and white cake, too, with even a bit of sugar frosting clinging to it. And yes, really and truly, there was half a raisin hiding in the corner. And Joel forgot still more that he was Mrs. Henderson’s rooster, and he sat down and gobbled up the bit, wishing that his farm-yard would always yield such rich pickings. If it would, he’d be willing to be a rooster forever.

“Let’s play Mrs. Henderson is going to feed us now,” David was saying, over in the other corner, to the little yellow chicken.

“Yes,” gurgled Phronsie, in delight; forgetting how tired she was, if only Mrs. Henderson was going to give them all their breakfast, and beginning to hop again.

“Look at Joel,” cried Davie, pointing a finger over where the rooster still sat, absorbed in the delightful memory of swallowing that cake-bit. Then the old gray hen flapped over there followed with very uneven plunges by the little yellow chicken who tried desperately to keep up. “We’re going to have some corn,” he shouted. “Hurry up, Joe, Mrs. Henderson’s coming with our breakfast.”

Joel at that was brought to. “Huh!” he sniffed, “I’ve had cake,” just as Phronsie came tumbling up, a very sorry looking, hot little chicken. She heard the word “cake.” “Oh, Joel,” she cried in a pleased little voice, and, trying to sit straight, only succeeded in rolling over in a heap. Both boys hopped over to her and pulled her up.

“Oh, where is it, Joey?” she cried, holding out both hands.

“Where’s what?” cried Joel, “--oh, the corn. Come on, Dave, Mrs. Henderson’s calling us. Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Away he hopped, and David, supposing Phronsie in the merry chase, hopped after, flapping his wings and calling to his chickens in just that motherly way he had admired so often in the parsonage old gray hens. Phronsie left alone, sat quite straight for a moment, then, despairing of being heard in the babel, began to search diligently for the precious cake-bit, that had been slowly saved till the last, because of that very corner of frosting and that half a raisin.

“Where’s Phronsie?” cried David, missing her from the corn breakfast. Joel whirled around, sending keen glances over the old kitchen. “There she is,” spying her pink apron back of Mamsie’s big calico-covered rocking-chair. “Come on, Phron,” he called.

Phronsie put out a worried little face around the calico valance. “I can’t find it,” she said.

“She’s lost something,” said Davie. With that he forgot he was an old gray hen, and sprang to his feet and ran over. Joel preferred to still be a rooster, so he hopped after, reaching the spot to hear David say, “She says she’s lost some cake.”

“Cake?” cried Joel, tumbling back to sit on his heels, and his black eyes stuck out.

“Yes,” said Davie, but he looked puzzled enough. “Oh, Phronsie, when did you have any cake?” he demanded incredulously. “We never have cake, you know. You’re playing.”

“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head very positively; “I did have some, really and truly. Polly gave it to me, and I lost it.” With that she began to feel carefully along the depths of the chair valance.

“O dear me!” it wasn’t in the least like a brave “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” that the big rooster now emitted, as Joel roared out something, and flew for Polly.

“Take care, Joe!” she warned, with her hands full of the dishes she was just going to pile on the shelves. “You ’most knocked off Mamsie’s cup!” and she turned pale with fright.

“I’ve eat it up!” wailed Joel, burying his black, stubby head in Polly’s apron.

“No, you haven’t broken it,” cried Polly, “don’t worry, Joe, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s eat, and I can’t give it back,” screamed Joel, burrowing deeper into her apron, thereby making all the dishes in Polly’s hands tremble violently.

“Joe Pepper,” cried Polly; “stop this minute. O dear me, every single thing will be smashed! What will Mamsie say?” At mention of Mamsie, Joel, although he still wailed on, stopped his struggling so that she was able to set the dishes safely on the table. “Now, see here.” She grasped his two shoulders and made him turn his face. “O dear me, what is the matter?” she cried aghast.

“I’ve eat it,” cried Joel, breaking into a roar, and not looking up, his black eyes raining tears.

“Eat what?” cried Polly, in great distress. “Stop screaming, Joe, and tell me this minute. What have you done?” She gave a great gasp, and instinctively turned a quick eye over to the corner where she could see David and Phronsie moving about, probably still as chickens, and not disturbed by Joel’s roars, supposing it a new phase of his playing at being a rooster.

“Oh, I’ve eat it,--don’t you understand, Polly?” screamed Joel, in a fresh burst, and stamping in his impatience; “and I can’t give it back.”

“Eat what?” demanded Polly, in bewilderment.

“The cake!” roared Joel. This time it was so very loud, no one could possibly think it was a rooster. So little Davie cried joyfully, “Oh, he’s found it, Phronsie,” and they both scuffed over.

“Oh, don’t let her come,” screamed Joel, in terror, and trying to hide behind Polly’s apron. But it was too late.

“He’s found it!” piped Phronsie, in a gleeful little voice, and holding up both hands. “Oh, give it to me, Polly, do.”

“Oh!” screamed Joel, huddling around Polly’s other side, and twirling her apron.

“Take care, Joe, you’ll break the strings,” she warned. “Now, children, you two go and sit down,” pointing to the wooden chairs ranged against the wall every day after breakfast was over, and the floor swept up, “just a minute, and I’ll come over to you.”

“But I want my cake, Polly, I do,” said Phronsie, reproachfully, and very much astonished at this delay, for Polly always attended to her at once. “Please, Polly, give it to me now,” she begged.

At this, Joel, on Polly’s other side, began to struggle in and out the apron depths worse than ever.

“Joe, be still,” commanded Polly, in her sternest tones. “If you don’t, you will have to go into the ‘Provision Room.’”

At these dreadful words little Davie’s cheek turned quite pale. What had Joel done? But Phronsie’s mind was all on her cake, and she continued to gaze at Polly in grieved astonishment, and to beg, “Please, Polly, give it to me now.”

“See here, Phronsie,” said Polly, at her wit’s end what to do; “you must be a good girl now, and do just as I say, else Mamsie will be so sorry when she comes home; so you must go and sit down in that chair till I go over to you.”

To make Mamsie sorry was as much worse than the loss of any cake could possibly be, and Davie saying, “Yes, come, Phronsie,” and taking her fat little hand, the two children went over to the spot indicated, and climbed up to the chairs just as Polly had told them to; little David with an awful feeling at his heart that Joel was in trouble.

“Now, Joel,” said Polly, mustering up as much cheer as she could, “you and I will go to the ‘Provision Room’ and--”

The two children over on their chairs with their ears pricked up for every word, heard “Provision Room,” and Davie screamed out, “Oh, don’t make him go there, Polly!”