CHAPTER VII.

CAMP COMFORT.

“BUTTONS,” said Lucy to her cousin Preston, “you’ll have to go to the door.”

“Yes,” said Sadie, “as Buttons is the only servant we keep, he must answer the bell.”

Preston obeyed, laughing. A droll little image of dirt and rags stood at the door, holding a ten-quart tin pail.

“Good morning,” said Preston, surprised at the shrewd, unchildlike expression of her face, for she was perhaps twelve years old and looked forty. The little girl seemed equally surprised. “What’s them things?” said she, pointing to Preston’s spectacles. “What do you wear ’em for?”

“Do you want anything, little girl?” asked he, frowning, or trying to frown.

“I say, what do you wear glasses for? _You_ ain’t an old man.”

“No matter what I wear them for—” very sternly. “Do you want anything, child?”

“Yes, I came to ax you for some swifts.”

“What do you mean by swifts?”

“Lor now, don’t you know what swifts is? Swifts is something folks reels yarn on.”

“Well, we haven’t any in this house, little girl, and if that’s all you came for, you’d better run home.”

“Hain’t got no swifts?” shuffling forward with her small, bare feet, and peeping into the house through her straggling locks of hair. “Well, you’ve got a spin-wheel, hain’t ye?”

“No, we’ve nothing you want. You’d better go.”

By that time Mary and Fanny were at the sitting-room door, curious to see the stranger.

“How d’ye do? Do you children live here all alone? Guess I’ll come in,” said the waif, brushing past Preston, who did not choose to keep her out by main force, and entering the sitting-room where the breakfast-table was spread. “I live over t’other side of Bluff. My name’s Pancake.”

“Oh, I know who you are then,” said Fanny, not very cordially; for she had heard her father speak of a poor, half-starved, vagrant family of that name; harmless, he believed, but not very desirable neighbors.

“My name’s _Pecy_ Pancake,” added the waif obligingly, and bent her snub nose to sniff the burnt trout.

“_Peace_, probably,” said Preston, aside.

“No, _Pecielena_. Hain’t you got no lasses cake? Oh, what cunning little sassers;” handling the salt glasses. “Where’s the cups to ’em? How came you children to come here alone?”

“We came because we _chose_,” said Mary, with crushing emphasis.

“We _wished_ to come,” said Fanny, trying to be as dignified as Mary, though she felt her inferiority in this respect always.

In no wise disconcerted, Miss Pecielena Pancake started on a tour of observation about the room.

“You look like you’d been burnt out or somethin’. Who does your work? Got any cow? Oh, you hain’t? Well, _I’ve_ got a cow. This here is my milk bucket. I’ll fetch ye some milk.”

“No, no, no,” exclaimed Lucy, in alarm. “Our milk is to be brought from town.”

“Is, hey? Well, I’ll fetch you some sour milk; five cents a quart.”

“Don’t take the trouble,” said Sadie mildly; “we are not fond of sour milk.”

After a long inspection of the room, Pecy gazed observantly out of the window.

“Look here! What’s them things hanging up in the trees? Look like fish-nets. I’ve seen folks in Rosewood swing in just such; be they swings?—Well, I reckon I must be a-goin’. But we paster our cow this side the river, and I’ll call agin when I come to milk.”

“Is it possible that creature is really gone?”

“Hope she stayed just as long as she wished to,” said Lucy, shutting the door forcibly.

“Oh, she’s only half civilized, and doesn’t know any better,” returned the more charitable Sadie.

“Young ladies,” said Preston, flourishing his arms preparatory to a speech, “it seems you have settled in a refined and cultivated neighborhood—_very!_ I never knew before why you couldn’t stay at home; but I now see that Laurel Grove is unworthy of you. You pined for the advantages of elevated, intellectual society, such as can be found only at Old Bluff.”

“Buttons,” said Lucy, shaking the broom at him, “we permit no impertinence from servants. Go, pump a pail of water directly, and then you may wipe the dishes.”

Preston “struck an attitude” again.

“Honored ladies, there’s a limit to all things. Buttons will cook, he will answer door-bells, he will scrub, if need be; but wipe dishes he will not, _no_, not if you flay him alive! Farewell! Once again, farewell!”

“Don’t go, Preston,” entreated Mary, as her brother mounted his “steed,” the bicycle; “do stay to dinner.”

“Couldn’t; might starve.”

“Fie, Buttons,” cried the older girls, “you’re no gentleman!”

“A servant is not expected to be a gentleman.”

“But do dine with us, _Mr. Gray_.”

“Thank you, not to-day. Good-by, I’ll send Abbott to watch to-night.” Preston and his cousin Bert Abbott, being in college together, called each other by their surnames, to the no small amusement of Bert’s sister Lucy.

“He calls sleeping here ‘watching,’” laughed Sadie, as Preston glided away, bowing and waving his hand. “But here comes our grocer. Why, who is that with him?”

For as the wagon stopped at the gate, Mr. Fowler lifted a little girl over the wheels.

“Kittyleen! Kittyleen Garland! Dear me, where did you pick _her_ up, Mr. Fowler?”

For it was not to be supposed that Kittyleen came from home. She was an innocent little truant, whose mother never objected to her straying about the streets.

“Glad to see you, Kittyleen; you can go and play in the barn with Flaxie and Fanny,” said Lucy hospitably; and then, turning to Sadie, “Now, what shall we order for dinner?”

Sadie looked helpless.

“What would _you_ advise, Mr. Fowler? Our fathers said we might have _anything_, and they’d settle the bills; but I——”

“Lemons,” struck in Lucy, ashamed of Sadie’s weakness.

“A dozen, and some fresh butter. Lard,—perhaps ten pounds, for pies.”

“Anything else,” asked the grocer, deferentially, as he jotted these orders into a notebook. “I’ll bring them to-morrow—a real pretty situation here. What do you call it? Old Maid’s Hall?”

“No, a convent,” said Sadie quickly, “for we shall have to fast if you’re not coming back with our groceries till to-morrow.”

“Why, Miss Sadie, it’s all of two miles, and it won’t pay to come twice a day,” said the grocer, wiping his heated brows.

“Well, we shall have to fast, then. This is a convent, as I told you, and we are nuns—_Capuchin_ nuns—for you know Capuchin nuns are famous for fasting.”

“So they be,” laughed Mr. Fowler, though it was the first time in his life he had ever heard of a Capuchin nun; “so they be,” and rode away laughing, to tell Dr. Gray and Major Patten, whom he met in the village, “that those children were having a high old time down there at the cottage, and were bright as pins, every one of ’em.”

“They forgot to order meat, but hadn’t I better take down some Cape Cod turkey to keep off starvation?” He meant salt codfish.

“How do you suppose they’ll make way with ten pounds of lard, though?”

“Never mind,” replied Dr. Gray, throwing his head back to laugh; “they beg not to be interfered with, and we’ll let them have their own way for a while.”

Starvation was not likely to ensue for some days, as the young campers had been bountifully supplied by their mothers with bread, pies, cake, and cold meats.

“Oh, housekeeping is just play and takes no time at all,” said Sadie Patten; “now let’s get up some charades and rehearse for to-morrow night, and invite the three boys—Kittyleen must be amused, you know.”

The charade which follows was their first attempt of the sort at Camp Comfort, the music between the acts being supplied by Jack Townsend’s cornet and Sadie Patten’s harmonica.

A PANTOMIME.

The stage was out of doors. Two posts were driven into the ground, and between them hung the red table-cloth suspended from a fish-line. This was the drop-curtain.

The audience, in chairs, or on the ground, were directly in front of the stage. At a whistle from the invisible depths the drop-curtain was raised by Blanche Jones, revealing the manager, Preston Gray, who made a low bow, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with profound pleasure that I present to you the two stars of tragedy, Madame Graylocks, of the Tuscarora Opera Company, and Don Albertus of the Cannibal Islands.”

The two “stars” then step forward, to be greeted by the audience with deafening cheers. Miss Graylocks (alias Mary Gray), her face and hands well stained with walnut-juice, is clad in blue jacket, gray skirt and red-topped boots (Sadie Patten called them “galligaskins”), with a stove-pipe hat on her head. An ounce of black worsted floats down her shoulders for hair. She makes a deep courtesy, Don Albertus (Bert Abbott) a low bow.

He is an Indian chief, clad in a red and green dressing-gown, with a feather duster on his head for a war-plume. His face, like Madame Graylocks’, is a fine mahogany color.

Their “unrivalled performance,” announces the manager, “is to be a charade in two syllables.”

FIRST SYLLABLE.

The stage is now observed to be strewn with sticks and twigs, to resemble the outskirts of a forest. No word is spoken; but as a tin pail hangs on a pole over something that looks like a fireplace, it would seem that the worthy couple are keeping house, and that the squaw is preparing dinner. But as yet there is no fire. The squaw collects branches and twigs, lays them crosswise under the tin pail. Her lord and master seats himself on the ground, watching her in scowling silence. The soup must boil; but how can she make a fire? She rubs two stones together Indian-fashion, but cannot strike a spark. She tries with all her might, dancing up and down and shaking her head dolefully. The chief laughs at her, offering no help, till she points in despair to the tin pail, reminding him that at this rate they must starve. He rises then, pushes her aside, and flashing his white teeth at her, seizes the two stones, rubs them just once together, and they instantly ignite (of course this is done by means of a match hidden in his sleeve.) The twigs are soon crackling under the pail. He points his finger disdainfully at the poor squaw, who cannot make a fire. She looks so brow-beaten and discouraged at this, so unlike the spirited Flaxie Frizzle of real life, that the audience laugh. Then the drop-curtain falls.

SECOND SYLLABLE.

The soup has boiled, the chief has dined, and now sits with hands folded, looking good-natured. The pail is empty and lying bottom upward on the grass. Enter his meek wife; takes the empty pail; returns with it full of water, slopping it as she walks. The thirsty chief points to his mouth. She produces a large iron spoon, fills it and gives him to drink, afterwards helping herself. They sit and sip from the spoon alternately, when a “pale face” (Preston) enters, with a jug. The chief starts up with eager delight. Pale Face swings the jug slowly, to show that it is full. The chief, smiling and obsequious, advances to shake hands. The squaw looks alarmed; shakes her head at the jug, and insists on giving Pale Face some water. Pale Face declines it; takes stopper out of jug and presents it to chief’s nose with an eloquent gesture, which means, “Now _isn’t_ that good?”

It is evidently whiskey, for the chief sniffs the stopper, laughs and dances, pointing to his mouth.

Squaw weeps; is evidently a good temperance woman; holds the pail to her husband’s lips. He pushes her away, and begs in dumb show for the whiskey.

Faithful squaw shakes her stovepipe hat, wrings her worsted hair, chases Pale Face around and around the stage, trying to make him give up the fatal jug. In vain; chief is allowed to get it; raises it joyfully to his lips.

Faithful squaw, becoming frantic, seizes the pail, and, overdoing her part, pours all the water over Pale Face, drenching him completely.

“Oo! Oo!” he gurgles. “If that isn’t just like you, Flaxie Frizzle!”

Blanche hurries down the drop curtain. Scene closes.

* * * * *

“I thought there was no talking in a pantomime,” laughed the audience.

THIRD SCENE.

_The Whole Word._

It now appears that the whiskey which Pale Face mischievously brought has wrought its dreadful work. The proud war-plume of the chief dangles ignominiously over his left ear; his copper-colored cheeks and nose are blazing red (painted with Chinese vermilion). He tries to walk; reels like a ship in a storm.

His devoted wife has certainly tried her very best to save him from this degradation; but, like any bad husband, he only hates her for it, and has made up his drunken mind to kill her. Seizing her by the yarn of the head, he is actually scalping her with the lemon-squeezer, when little Kittyleen, who can bear no more, cries out,—

“Stop, stop, you shan’t hurt my Flaxie!”

This timely interference does not save the squaw’s life, however,—or not entirely. Her head comes off,—or at any rate, the hat and the ounce of worsted. But ere she falls to rise no more, she turns—with remarkable presence of mind for a dying woman—and points to the whiskey-jug, scowling furiously at it, as if to assure the audience that it is the jug and _not_ the lemon-squeezer that has caused her death.

_Curtain falls._

Before any one had time to say, “Now guess the word,” Jack Townsend, known by the campers as “the Electric Light,” on account of his red head, exclaimed, “It’s _Fire Water_, isn’t it? That’s the Indian name for whiskey. I guessed it by the waterfall in the second syllable.”

“No wonder you did; there was water enough in that syllable to put out all the fire in the first one!” exclaimed Preston, springing for his bicycle, to fly home and change his wet clothes.