Part 11

“Piny, Piny Twilliger. Let me in; I’ve come to take your place and let you get dressed. Martin had a message that the cream wouldn’t be here for half an hour yet. There wasn’t another soul ready, so Gincy asked me to come.”

Nancy Jane unlocked the door to let in—was it really Piny? The tall figure was attired in a bright red muslin much beruffled. A brilliant bow with generous outstanding loops surmounted the dozen or more puffs of hair, and excitement lent additional colour to cheeks that were always flushed.

Nancy Jane hurried over to the Hall and up to her room. She didn’t even take time to ask Gincy why she had sent Piny Twilliger to guard the precious cream. It wouldn’t do to say much about kinfolk. But all the time she was hurrying into her white dotted lawn, she wondered if anything would happen to their eatables. Surely some of the girls would be ready in a few minutes.

It was almost a quarter of eight when Nancy Jane ran down the front stairs. She rapped lightly at several doors, but there was no response. Evidently everybody who belonged to the Mountain Society had gone. It was only a short distance to the Industrial Building, and she ran across the campus toward the lights. There was the buzzing of excited voices—the front walk seemed thronged with students. What could have happened? Nancy Jane felt an awful premonition of disaster. Of course it was the cream. Piny must have left her post and some of the boys carried it off.

“Is that you, Nancy Jane?” It was Mallie’s voice. “The cake’s gone—every scrap! Some one rapped on the door and Piny went out; it was the boys with the cream, and while they were talking some one tore the screen and jumped in the side window and took every smitch of cake off the table. Piny’s rushing ’round like a hornet and vows she’ll find out who did it before she sleeps a wink to-night. But I don’t believe she can; it’s either eaten up or hidden by this time.”

Nancy Jane listened in dismay. All their lovely frosted cake gone! She ran into the room looking for Piny—somehow she wanted to hear the whole story from her lips.

But among the babel of voices Piny’s could not be heard. She had disappeared completely and did not hear Martin’s angry comment. “I shouldn’t wonder if she had hidden it herself; she’d think that was a great joke.”

“Hush, Martin,” said Talitha, “Piny isn’t mean if she is fond of a joke.” But Martin’s eyes continued to flash as he walked out into the dark, around the building, and looked up at the outside stairs. They were built more as a fire-escape, but the boys on the upper floor often used them. Martin stood in the shadow of the wood-working department and eyed the row of lighted windows. A dark object was crouched on the upper step and as he eyed it intently, it rose and began a noiseless descent.

Martin edged as close as he dared. It passed the lower window and he saw, to his utter amazement, that it was Piny Twilliger, who seemed in great haste to get down. He intercepted her as she reached the ground. “What is it, Piny?” he whispered.

“I’ve found them!” she gasped, “and the cake isn’t eaten yet. Get all the boys together you can. Some will have to watch the door of their room—it’s Seth Laney and that crowd. You’d better get the Shackley boys and go up on the outside—that’s the only way you’ll get in. While the rest are making an awful racket in the hall to attract their attention, you can climb in the window.”

“You do beat everything!” exclaimed Martin, quite conscience-smitten to think he had ever suspected Piny. “You’re a regular general! You bet we’ll get that cake,” and he ran around the building and into the big front entrance like a shot.

It took only a minute to plan the campaign as outlined by Piny. There was an instant siege—within ten minutes an unconditional surrender—and the cake was saved. Borne down in triumph by Martin and Abner, they paused in front of her with a low bow. “Madam,” they said, “the honour belongs to you. Have a piece.”

But Piny laughingly refused to be made a heroine of, and waited until every one else was served. She blushed furiously when they toasted her in lemonade for her presence of mind and courage. “I reckon hit wan’t much,” she said, modestly disclaiming all honours. “I’d promised to watch things, an’ I wan’t goin’ to be beaten nohow.”

The spread was a great success. Afterwards, Abner walked back to the Hall with Gincy and Lalla. “You helped me a lot,” he assured the latter. “I worked up all those notes you gave me and they seemed to strike the nail on the head. I don’t see how you ever thought of them.”

“That wasn’t anything,” said Lalla, “you had a dozen points a good deal better than mine. I’m glad the decision was unanimous for you, though; it was a bigger honour.”

“I didn’t know you helped Abner,” remarked Gincy as they sat in her room waiting for the warning bell to ring. “I’m so proud of him and grateful to you. Miss Howard says you do splendidly in your work this term, Lalla.”

“You always say such nice things,” answered Lalla, evading Gincy’s eye. “There isn’t another girl in Bentville who has encouraged me the way you have. I guess I remember, and—” She broke off suddenly. Perhaps after all she would better tell Gincy the truth about the debate.

Gincy listened, her hard-working hands tightly clasped, and a sinking at her heart. It was just plain cheating and the Gooch family had never done anything like that. Of course Abner didn’t know or he never would have used the paper Lalla gave him—that was one comfort. Then Gincy thought of Raphael. Perhaps after all the medal really belonged to him; but how could she straighten it all out? Why were there so many tangles in life, anyhow?

“Gincy,” said Lalla, abruptly changing the subject, “that Mr. Gantley has come back. Talitha told me this evening and I forgot to tell you. The college folks found him up in that shack on the mountain, and they told him he’d got to go to work or they’d lock him up, and then they gave him a job in the garden. You needn’t worry about the family any more.”

Lalla ran to her room at the sound of the bell, leaving Gincy in a brown study. If she told it might get Lalla and Abner into all kinds of trouble. Perhaps they would even have the debate all over again with a new subject, or Abner might have to give up the medal in disgrace. There were so many terrible possibilities, Gincy slept little that night. Early the next morning she arose fully decided on a course of action. Miss Howard should settle it; she could hardly wait to find her.

The little teacher listened patiently. “I’ll tell you this evening. Come to my room at half-past seven; meanwhile don’t worry.”

Somewhat comforted, Gincy went about her work. Promptly at seven she presented herself at Miss Howard’s door. “I just couldn’t wait another minute,” she said by way of apology.

“You don’t need to,” was the assurance. “It’s all right. Professor Ames says the decision might not have been unanimous, but Abner would have received the medal anyhow on his main argument. It isn’t necessary that anything be said about it except to Lalla. We want her to cultivate higher ideas of honour than those she has been used to at home.”

Gincy left the room jubilant; a great burden had rolled off her mind. She could go to bed with a clear conscience and make up the sleep she had lost the night before.

XVII KID SHACKLEY GETS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD

THE Shackley cabin stood high and dry above the bed of Goose Creek; for, while there was nothing to fear from the narrow, trickling stream of summer, the moody, tempestuous torrent of spring threatened everything within reach, and Enoch Shackley was a cautious man.

It was ten o’clock, but the flickering of flambeaux, the sound of hurrying feet over the bare floor of the long living-room, the uneasy tugging of old Bob at his chain, and a saddled mule in front of the door, indicated some unusual nocturnal adventure.

Presently, far in the distance could be heard the creak of a jolt wagon and the sound of voices singing “Sourwood Mountain.”

The cabin door suddenly flew open and Kid Shackley appeared. He was a chunky, muscular boy, a worthy successor of his father, when the blacksmith should grow too old to follow his trade. “They’re comin’, mammy! Good-bye, I’ll tell you and pappy all ’bout hit when I git back. Looks like a feller kin hear ter Kingdom Come in the night time.”

His place in the doorway was filled by a tall, gaunt figure in a meagre dress of blue calico, who peered out anxiously after him. “Ain’t ye hongry, son? Whar d’ye reckon ye’ll git yore breakfast?”

“Sam Gooch ’lows we’ll be at Redbird somewhar near the Twilligers—Eli’s kin. Likely they’ll want ter go on ’count of Piny. We’ll get ter the Branch ’bout sun-up.”

Kid was in the saddle now, facing the newcomers. The jolt wagon with its oxen threading along the stony bed of Goose Creek—a lantern hung in front of the driver—cast long shadows which seemed to multiply like those of a mysterious moving caravan. They filled the gorge.

“G’lang, Billy,” and Kid was slowly descending the steep incline to join the travellers who suddenly halted.

“Come on, come on!” chorused the voices from below.

Kid greeted the half-dozen occupants of the wagon in true mountain fashion. “Howdy, Dan Gooch,” to the man guiding the oxen, “you’re here on time. I heerd our rooster speakin’ up a spell back. He reckoned ’twas mornin’ by the clatter.”

“He’d better watch out or Brer Fox’ll get him. Them pesky varmints tuk nigh onto twenty little uns fer us last night. G’lang, Bright!” and the cracking whip and groaning wagon drowned the greetings of the others.

Kid fell in behind. There was no possible chance for conversation, so they sang old English ballads, and “The Old Time Religion,” which Talitha had taught them. As they rode along in the damp coolness, Kid watched the lumbering wagon ahead, full of indistinct figures, with a curious feeling of something new and strange about to enter his life.

Right and left, the great pine-covered mountains both guarded and threatened with their looming shapes. The highest part of the creek bed made the only passable wagon road, and that was poor enough. The air was full of moist odours, and above, the deep blue dome was pierced with twinkling points of light.

The night wore on until the twinkling lights were lost, and a greyness settled over the mountain world. They were travelling northwest, leaving range after range of the Cumberlands, broken only by the deep gorge of a river bed, behind them. Ahead, were the foothills, and beyond, Kid had never seen. He only knew from the glowing accounts of Pete, and Isaac, and Talitha—who had made him promise to come to Bentville—that the Blue Grass in all its richness lay very near the college.

Leaving the river bed they struck a mountain road which led, at long intervals, past lonely, unpainted cabins more humble than those in the small settlement at Goose Creek. Early as it was, people were astir, noisily harnessing their mules, or yoking oxen. Here and there a jaded saddle-horse or spirited colt was being pressed into service. They were all bound for the same place.

“Hit’s like a circus, er buryin’, er baptizin’—” and here words failed him. But he remembered Talitha’s description, and tried to imagine how it would seem to see thousands of people on one level, wooded space.

They had stopped singing now. A faint, rosy glow was spreading above the mountains back of them, and glimpses of a great rolling valley came from the front. The road ran steeply down, causing the occupants of the wagon to sway in their chairs. Dan Gooch plied the brake, vociferating to his oxen: “Hi thar, Bright! Steady, Star! See, yon’s Redbird!”

Sam Coyle straightened an inert figure. He had been half dozing, conscious of little except his broken rest. His journey to Bentville was prompted by a curiosity which had been growing ever since Abner had won the medal. There was a little pricking below the jealousy in his heart when he thought what a “sorry” father he had been. Dan Gooch was growing more enthusiastic every day over “larnin’.” Sam wondered if it were too late—here he glanced at his wife’s worn but radiant face. She was looking in the direction of Redbird, but he knew that her heart was going out to Martin and Talitha in Bentville, and that she had nothing to regret.

Billy and Sudie grew more excited each moment. “I’m that hongry I could eat a bear; I hope they’ll have one fer breakfast!” exclaimed the former.

“More like it’ll be a chicken,” laughed Kid as he guided Nick nearer the wagon. “I saw Zeb Twilliger in the hen yard a minute ago.”

A lank, high cheek-boned mountaineer came slouching toward the gate as they drove up. “Light and hitch,” he commanded hospitably. “I reckon yo’re bound fer Bentville. Piny’s been pesterin’ the life out o’ us ter come; she sent word agin this week, an’ I ’low ef she’s honin’ fer us, we’d shore ought ter go.”

“That’s what I told pappy,” interrupted Kid eagerly. “He and mammy bide in the Hollow till they’re fair mossy. Pete and Ike’ll come back plumb shamed of we-uns.” And then the boy flushed at what the words implied.

Sam Coyle failed to make his usual sarcastic retort to the thrust at Goose Creek. Indeed he was quite amiable to Kid on their way up to the door of the rather untidy looking cabin. There was plenty of bacon and cornbread, with coffee and fresh buttermilk for breakfast. The chickens were for their dinner and had been cooked the day before. “I never count on eatin’ chicken till I get a holt of the drumstick,” whispered Billy to Kid, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Twilliger was large and loud-voiced. The older children had all married and left home except Piny. “We’d planned ter keep her fer a spell yit, but I don’t reckon nothin’ ever’ll suit her ’round here now she’s taken ter schoolin’; she air a queer gal.”

“I wouldn’t let hit fret me,” said Mrs. Gooch with unexpected spirit, “the mountings air needin’ a few idees; I’m glad Gincy’s gittin’ ’em. I’m plumb wore out with the old ones. She and Tally’d much better be larnin’ out o’ books than marryin’ some no ’count chap thet goes r’arin’ ’round, shootin’ up things ginerally.”

Mrs. Twilliger bristled up instantly; the description fitted her eldest son-in-law too closely for her liking. However, Mrs. Gooch had an unexpected ally in the master of the house. “Thet’s my idee; Piny’s harum-scarum ’nough without gittin’ in with these chaps ’round yere. We hev ’nough o’ them fellers in the fambly a’ready.”

Breakfast over, every one hurried to get a good start for the last part of the journey to Bentville. The Twilliger outfit was a span of fat mules and a light wagon. They took the lead, and the oxen were soon far behind.

“You’d better push on, Kid,” advised Dan Gooch as the oxen toiled up the last foothill before reaching the valley. “Yon’s Bentville—almost in sight. Zeb Twilliger will be thar an hour ahead of us. Nick hez sperit ’nough ter ketch up ter ’em stid of pokin’ ’long so powerful slow.”

Kid took the advice. As he reached the top of the hill, he reined Nick in for a moment to look at the panorama of colour which spread below him. There were fields of corn and hemp threaded with a narrow, silver path of water. Beyond the valley, on a little plateau, was the white tower of a chapel. The trees were thick, but they could not entirely screen the angular outlines of the college buildings occupying the highest part of the little town.

The boy’s heart beat fast. He had never been more than ten miles away from home in all his life before. Somehow the blacksmith’s trade did not seem so alluring as it had yesterday; perhaps Pete and Isaac were right after all. He was proud of them anyhow.

Down, down toward the bridge which crossed Brushy Fork and the Big Hill Pike with the hard part of the journey behind him, Kid overtook the Twilligers. He exchanged a few remarks, then cantered past, and joined the long procession of vehicles and horsemen, all headed in the same direction. This beat a circus, it beat Talitha’s description carefully recalled from last year.

Kid was beginning to get excited. He passed team after team with a cheery hail, and forged straight up the hill. Nick did not need to be urged; he galloped directly into the crowd, and then past, only slowing down on the main street for Kid to gaze with fascinated eyes at the booths of popcorn, candy, peanuts, and ice cream. Everywhere were students spreading their wares in tempting proximity to the passersby. On all sides signs read: “This Way to the Campus.” “Visit the Chapel Tower.” “See the Industrial Building.” “Don’t Miss the Homespun Fair!”

Kid looked at everything with eager eyes. How could he ever see it all in a day! So far there were no familiar faces. Nick plodded along in the jam of teams quite subdued. There were lean, spiritless nags drawing “sorry” buggies, jolt wagons and oxen, mules and more mules. Kid watched them all—the black sunbonnets, the over-trimmed hats, the attractive young faces and those lacking purpose. Where were Martin, and Abner, and the rest? He looked up at the big boarding hall set back in a yard full of trees. A throng was pouring out of the side entrance. They were singing a rollicking class song which appealed to Kid’s music-loving heart. As they came toward him he saw Martin and Isaac leading the crowd.

Almost at the same instant they discovered him and made a rush forward. “Hello, Kid, you’re just in time; we’re going over to the Tabernacle this minute!” exclaimed Isaac.

“Didn’t any one else come?” asked Martin.

“You’ll see later,” Kid assured him with a grin, “but what’ll I do with Nick?”

They led him into a long, roped driveway which crossed a little rustic bridge. There, in the wooded part of the campus, were hundreds of teams hitched to the trees or eating from the backs of wagons. In a bag thrown across the saddle, Kid had brought feed for the mule. “Here’s a good place, it’s near the road and shady, too,” said Isaac. “We’ll come back after a while and find the rest of the folks. Now let’s hurry.”

The three boys started toward a huge, unpainted building with a large sign across the front, “The Tabernacle,” it read. People were standing near the two large entrances which were closed. “We’ll go around; I know the way,” said Martin. There were several doors securely locked, but one was ajar. The three slipped in. The room was full of piney odours from the banked-up platform. High up behind the seats for the graduates a dozen or more boys and girls were fastening festoons of flowers above a solid wall of green. Kid had never seen anything of the kind before. He stared at the sawdust on the floor which muffled their footsteps, at the semi-circle of raised seats which were soon to be filled with mountain people, then back again to the hurrying boys and girls in front.

“If there isn’t Kid Shockley!” It was Abner’s voice.

“Why, hello!” called Pete, turning suddenly. “Where are the rest of the folks?”

“Come up here, Kid,” called out Talitha. “Here’s Gincy and Mallie and all of the girls.”

In a moment Kid felt as though he had been in Bentville a week. He was hailed cordially by all of the Goose Creek people and immediately set to work breaking branches for trimming, and hanging banners under the direction of Lalla. “We’ve got to be awfully quiet,” she whispered. “It’s only a half-hour before the doors are opened and two of the graduates have to rehearse yet.”

From his vantage ground above, Kid looked down at the critics on the front seat and the tall, dark young man who had begun to speak. What a contrast the clear, ringing tones were to those of the mountain orators he had heard. For a moment he almost forgot to help Lalla and stood, his arms full of pine branches, listening intently to the oration.

“Hurry, Kid,” reminded Lalla. “We’ve got to drag this litter out and just rush over to the chapel to see them form in line; there isn’t a minute to spare.”

The musical peal of a bell and the rat-tat-tat of a drum decided the matter. In less than five minutes the two were crossing the campus in the rear of a number of stragglers who were hurrying to see the long procession begin its march.

XVIII COMMENCEMENT TIME AT BENTVILLE

TALITHA, from her room in the hall, saw the oxen toiling up the hill just as the chapel bell was ringing. She had rushed over from the Tabernacle to dress and get back before the lines were formed. In fifteen minutes the bell would begin to toll and the procession start. Her father and mother must not miss it. She opened the door and sped down the corridor to Gincy’s room.

“Girls,” she called out, pounding on the door insistently, “the folks are almost here. Can’t one of you go down and bring them up to my room—your mother and my mother, Gincy? The rest can go on; you can tell them where to hitch.”

Gincy needed no second bidding; she fairly flew downstairs and out of doors. At the side gate she stood for a moment and peered into the faces of the crowd. Presently she spied the objects of her search. The big red ox and the one with the white star on his forehead were coming her way. Sudie and Billy waved their hands, her father smiled, and Sam Coyle’s indolent figure seemed to grow in stature. Only the two sunbonneted women on the back seat appeared quiet and indifferent, but Gincy knew that inwardly they were far from it.

“Talitha saw you from her room,” she said after the first greeting. “Jump right out and we’ll go up there; she’s rushing to get ready for the exercises and there are only a few minutes left.”

Gincy hurried them through the crowd and into the dormitory hall, which was alive with girls greeting friends and showing them around through the various rooms. Her mother and Mrs. Coyle were allowed one peep into the office of the dean, and the big east parlour with its Colonial furniture and handsome pictures—gifts from wealthy New England people—then they were whisked upstairs and into Number 45 to receive a warm greeting from Talitha.

“How do you like it?” she asked, seating them near the open windows. “You can look all around while Gincy’s hooking my dress.” Below, were the long, well-watered rows of the college garden—a wonderful sight to eyes accustomed to the small, dried-up mountain patch of vegetables.

“’Tis a sightly place,” remarked Mrs. Gooch, her face alive with interest.

Mrs. Coyle nodded. “And fraish air kin pass through ter let out all the odours,” her mind evidently intent on the airy location of the room. Then she glanced at the white tucked dress lying on the lower berth of the double-decker.

Her daughter followed the gaze. “Look at Gincy’s; hers has more tucks.” Talitha slipped the princess gown over her head, all the while smiling delightedly at the amazement in the faces of her guests.

They plied her with questions. How did she get in all those little pleats? Who helped her cut and fit it? Couldn’t they visit the sewing-room? To which Talitha responded as eagerly. “There, I’m almost ready; we’ll go on the first stroke of the last bell. After the exercises we’ll have dinner, and then I’m bound to show you everything on the grounds.”

“Look out of this window,” said Gincy, pointing to a stretch of trailing plants on the south side of the house. “Strawberries! Aren’t they splendid? Father’s got to have some just like them.”

“Abner and Martin have learned a lot about horticulture; they’ll tend to things,” said Talitha, noticing the look on her mother’s face which seemed to say as plainly as words: “Your father wouldn’t find time for anything of the kind.”