Part 13

So Bob began to play again, and they all began to dance again, till at last the schoolmaster and the farmer both punched the butler until he promised; and then Bob left off playing. The three poor men went home in a terrible plight; and the schoolmaster begged little Ralph’s pardon, and the butler cleared the stain from Bob’s mother’s character, and Bob’s father went back to work, and Farmer Thornycroft soon afterwards took Bob on too, and he made the best farm-boy that ever lived.

* * * * *

The Story Lady rested a minute while the Story People were laughing and talking about what they had heard. As she began again, there was instant silence.

“The next story,” she said, “is that of a brave girl who lived in the work-a-day world.”

XXVIII

ANN CATCHES A THIEF

AS a rule the office in which Ann Carstairs was employed did not close until six o’clock, but at five-thirty on the December afternoon of this story Ann found herself alone.

At four, the heads of the firm left for the day; and the billing clerk and the stenographer, taking advantage of the absence of authority, helped themselves to an extra half hour.

“We have a little shopping to do,” the billing clerk explained as they passed Ann’s desk.

Before they reached the stair door, the inside salesman closed his desk with a snap, and seized his hat and coat.

“Wait a minute, girls,” he called; “I’ll take you down to Broadway in my machine.” As he followed them he said to Ann, “Good night, Miss Carstairs, don’t stay late!”

A few minutes after they had gone, Mr. Bradford, the bookkeeper, closed the safe and twirled the nickel knob gayly; “I’m off, too,” he announced. “I’m going to leave the vault for you to close to-night, Miss Ann.”

He shrugged himself into his overcoat and departed stiffly. He had worked hard over his books that afternoon, and his legs and arms were aching in unison with his head. He came back for a moment to turn off some of the big lights.

“No use wasting electricity,” he explained. “No one will be in this evening, and a little girl like you can’t use all this light.”

A minute later Ann heard the street door at the foot of the stairs close with a bang, and she was left all alone in the big office.

She was not sorry to be alone. The day had been hard, and her nerves had been near the breaking point all the afternoon. The switchboard was Ann’s special charge, but she also took care of the odds and ends of copy work and dictation for her busy associates. Odds and ends have a curious way of accumulating and Ann seldom had a spare moment.

“I’m just dead tired,” she declared aloud, raising her arms above her head in a vain effort to relieve their ache. “I’m always snowed under with work, yet no one seems to think I have anything to do. It’s just: ‘Miss Carstairs, will you copy that for me?’ ‘I’ll give you a letter now, Miss Carstairs, and you can run it off in your spare time.’ Spare time! Did any one ever see me with a moment to spare? They don’t think I amount to a row of pins, anyway. I’d just like to show them; I’d like to let Mr. Ross see that I do amount to something.”

Mr. Ross was the senior partner of the big manufacturing plant, and eighteen-year-old Ann admired him immensely. He was so calm, so quiet, and yet so forceful; a splendid business man, but one whose family’s wants and wishes were cared for before all else. Ann knew he must be an ideal father, for he possessed all the qualities that Ann’s own father had lacked.

Mr. Carstairs had been far from an ideal parent and had ended his selfish, careless life just as Ann was preparing to enter college. Ann and her mother had bravely gathered together what money remained, and Ann started off to a business school instead.

For three months she worked feverishly night and day, and at the end of that time, when their finances were in a precarious condition, she left the school to enter the manufacturing firm of Ross and Hayward. She had been there for nearly two years now, years of worry and careful planning to make the slender salary cover growing needs.

“We have almost proved that the necessities of life are unnecessary, so nearly have we come to getting along on next to nothing,” she had laughingly told her mother only the evening before.

But though she joked about it, the situation was becoming serious, and Ann had reached the place where she felt that she must steel herself to the point of asking for more wages.

“Do people always have to ask for an increase?” she wondered. “Everybody here treats me as if I were a child, except when it comes to giving me work. That’s a different matter.”

Ann did not as a rule complain about the amount of work she had to do. Instead, she was rather proud of being able to accomplish so much in a single day. To-night, however, she was tired and all out of sorts. She felt, too, that her looks were all against her. Curly hair and freckles, added to a diminutive figure, gave her a decidedly childlike appearance.

“I wish,” she declared to herself, “I wish I were tall and had straight hair, and wrinkles around my mouth. What chance has anyone to advance when she is short and freckled? I just must make them sit up and take notice!”

She glanced around her with a proprietary look as she spoke. Her desk and switchboard were in the outer office near the head of the short flight of stairs leading from the street door, and commanded a view of the entrance door and the stairway leading to the upper floors. At the extreme end of the room was the entrance to the stock room, and beside it the great iron door leading to the vault where the business records were kept. In the dark corner by the vault door stood two tall piles of sales books. Since the bookkeeper had turned off the extra lights, the big office was lighted only by the globe above Ann’s head. The heavy presses and machinery in the factory, running at full speed, shook the building, and their roar and clatter sounded unusually loud now that the office was quiet.

The switchboard was never very busy after half-past five, and Ann leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment. She opened them almost immediately with a start, suddenly aware of another presence in the big office. The new janitor, a scraggly feather duster in his hand, stood by her desk.

“Did you want something?” Ann asked sharply.

She did not approve of the new janitor; his hair was too long and shaggy, his chin too stubbly, and his bushy eyebrows shaded eyelids that drooped. His appearance was in accord with his shiftless way of dusting and sweeping, Ann thought with disfavor. Her voice was decidedly sharp as she asked again, “Did you want something?”

“I wanted to see the cashier,” the man answered. His drooping eyelids gave a peculiar, leering expression to his face that filled Ann with repulsion. Then she braced herself; no matter how afraid she was, he must not know it.

“He has gone for the day. Come back in the morning,” she said, turning to her typewriter to cut the conversation short. The man hesitated for a moment, but her preoccupied air chilled him and Ann soon heard him walk away.

At that moment a tall young woman came hurrying down the stairs from the upper floor.

“I declare!” she cried, looking about the darkened office. “Everybody has gone home! And Mr. Bradford has locked the safe! Now will you tell me, Miss Carstairs, what I am going to do with all this money?”

She waved a green cardboard box in the air as she spoke, her voice rising higher and higher in her agitation.

“I have collected eight hundred dollars on those Liberty Bond payments, and here Mr. Bradford has locked the safe and gone home. I’m going to the country to-night and I can’t take all this money with me.”

“Sh! Miss Benson!” Ann warned, glancing quickly at the swing door that had not yet ceased swaying after the departing janitor. “Don’t tell any one. Can’t you put it in the vault? Mr. Bradford left it for me to lock to-night.”

“But,” Miss Benson objected, “something may happen to it and I am responsible. I can’t take it with me, though. I’ll have to put it in there, I guess.”

“See, Miss Carstairs,” she called a moment later from the depths of the vault, “I’m putting it beside the stamp box.”

With Miss Benson’s departure the big office suddenly seemed doubly large, and dim and empty. Ann shivered slightly, appalled by the fact that she was alone with eight hundred dollars in cash in the open vault. The factory machinery made such a din that none of the employees could hear if she called for help. What would she do if the janitor had overheard Miss Benson and should make up his mind to steal the money? She glanced sharply at the swinging door. It was quiet now.

She reassured herself. “I’m as nervous as Miss Benson. I’ll just shut that vault now, though, and have it over with. It is almost six o’clock anyway.”

At that moment a call came in on the telephone, the strident whir startling the girl with its suddenness.

“Ross and Hayward,” she answered mechanically into the receiver.

“Miss Carstairs,”--it was Mr. Ross speaking--“I left a couple of Liberty Bonds in my desk. Please tell Bradford to put them into the safe.”

“Mr. Bradford has gone for the day, Mr. Ross,” she answered, “but he has left the vault for me to close; I’ll put them in.”

“All right. Put them in the stamp box; I guess they’ll be all right there. Good night!”

Ann pulled out the plug and rose from her desk. Her rubber-soled shoes made no noise as she crossed the room. She found the bonds face down on Mr. Ross’s desk, and as she picked them up she could not fail to notice the denominations. She stared at them.

“Two thousand dollars!” she whispered awestruck. “If only they were mine!”

As she started to place them in the stamp box, its shabbiness caught her eye. She hesitated, then laid the bonds down.

“I’ll get a new box for the stamps,” she decided, snapping off the light as she left the vault.

Ann knew just where to find the particular box that she wanted and did not stop to turn on the light as she entered the stockroom. She was in the act of reaching up for the box, when the door stealthily opened. She shrank back against the shelves as the new janitor came in. He stopped for a moment and glanced around, then a minute later Ann heard the snap of the electric button as the light in the vault was turned on. She gasped in dismay. The bonds and the Liberty Loan money were all there in plain sight! For a brief moment the girl was paralyzed with fright. The janitor was after the money! She rushed forward. As she paused by the open doorway of the vault she had a momentary glimpse of the janitor with the green box in one hand, and heard the familiar crackly paper of the bonds as he hurriedly thrust them into his pocket. In a panic she caught the huge iron door and slammed it shut, hurriedly throwing the big bolt in place.

“I’ve got him,” she gasped exultantly; but the words had not left her lips before she was knocked from her feet by a sudden blow on her shoulder. As she fell, another stunning blow came upon her head.

A minute later, so it seemed to the girl, she opened her eyes to find Mr. Ross and his daughter, Margaret, bending over her.

“She’s coming to, now,” she could faintly hear Mr. Ross say. “Bathe her head some more.”

Then he added jokingly, “Well, now, Miss Ann, you certainly gave us a start. What were you trying to do?”

Ann’s head ached agonizingly. She lifted her hand to her forehead, and felt it gingerly. A lump as large as a walnut was there just above the temple. She became aware, now that the mist was fading from her eyes and the ringing from her ears, that the factory was quiet. All the noise of machinery had ceased.

“What time is it?” she asked; and then, without waiting for an answer, “Where did you come from?”

“It is after eight. We were driving by on our way to see a friend on the East Side, and I thought I would drop in and see if you had remembered to lock the safe.” Mr. Ross laughed. “Fortunate for you that I doubted your ability.”

Ann raised her head and looked about her; then she dropped it heavily back on the improvised pillow Miss Ross had tucked under her head.

“It was that old sales book that knocked me down. It must have been on the edge of the pile and tipped over when I slammed the door.” She felt the bump on her head again. “I suppose I hit the wrapping desk when I fell.”

“It wouldn’t take much to knock out a little thing like you,” Mr. Ross laughed.

Ann opened her eyes again, a thought flashed through her mind, and she sat bolt upright on the floor.

“Mr. Ross,” she said, “if I can prove to you that I was big enough to save you two thousand dollars, would you think me big enough to be given an increase in salary?”

“I surely would, Miss Carstairs!” Mr. Ross answered, becoming suddenly grave.

Ann’s voice shook with excitement.

“Your bonds are safe in the vault, Mr. Ross, together with eight hundred dollars that Miss Benson collected on Liberty Loan payments--and the new janitor!”

“You’re a brave girl,” said Mr. Ross, helping her to her feet. “The increase is yours; you have certainly earned it.”

* * * * *

“She was, indeed, a brave girl,” said the Story King, as the Story Lady paused; “and deserved all her good fortune.”

“The next,” went on the Story Lady, smiling, “is the story of a young man and a young woman whose only ambition in life was to help others.”

XXIX

JOHN AND MARGARET PATON AMONG SAVAGES

THE tropical island of Aniwa drowsed in the afternoon sunshine. Long, lazy swells rolling in from the Pacific broke on the outlying reefs, overflowed into the turquoise bay, and gently lapped the stretch of sandy beach. The softest of breezes stirred the palm trees and rustled the banana thickets.

Before the door of a low, thatched hut, nestling under a clump of date-palms, stood a fair-haired young woman anxiously watching a canoe which was making a perilous passage through the surf to the shelter of the bay. When at last it slid into smooth water she breathed a sigh of relief and went slowly down the hill toward the shore.

The craft nosed stealthily up to the beach, where a stalwart, grave-faced white man sprang out; then the boat, propelled by the muscular arms of two kinky-headed blacks, slipped away and vanished around a little promontory.

“I’m glad you’re safe home, John,” the young woman cried, as the big man came swiftly toward her. “Is all well?”

“Very far from that, Margaret,” the newcomer answered, as he reached her side. “I’ve found a great deal of unrest throughout the island.”

“Because of the drought?”

“Yes,” he replied, and stood looking down upon her thoughtfully.

She came nearer and slipped her arm through his.

“I can see that you are anxious, John,” she said softly. “Do you fear an uprising?”

“Margaret,” he exclaimed, as they turned and began to climb the hill to the hut, “I should not have brought you here!”

“Oh!” she cried. “More than anything else I desired the privilege of helping you in your work. Do you mean that I have failed? That I have proved a burden rather than a help?”

“You know it is not that,” he replied quickly. “You have been wonderful, dear. But I should not have allowed you to leave old Scotland for the hardships and perils of these heathen isles.”

“It has not been easy,” she acknowledged; “but I have never once regretted coming.”

“I thought I was doing right to bring you,” he went on; “but now--now--”

“You feel,” she interposed, “that we are in real danger?”

“We shall be if the natives rise,” he replied. “I think you should know the truth, dear.”

Her blue eyes darkened, but there was no fear in them.

“But the people have come to feel we are their friends,” she protested. “Some of them love us. Surely they will not harm us.”

By this time they had reached the hut. He put her gently into a camp-chair before the door, and flung himself upon the white sand at her feet.

“A trading-ship touched on the other side of the island yesterday,” he told her.

“And paid for five hundred pounds’ worth of sandalwood with a barrel of rum, I suppose,” she commented.

“They were a little more generous this time,” he replied grimly. “They left several barrels.”

“No wonder then,” she said, “that the people are mad to-day.”

“They also left,” he continued, “in the mind of the old chief the impression that we missionaries are responsible for the drought.”

“Oh, too bad!” she exclaimed softly.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Old Namakei informed me just now that if another moon passes without rain the island will have no more of our God or of us.”

“What did you answer?” she asked.

“I told him,” and he smiled, “that I would dig in the earth and reveal a place where God’s rain is buried. He scoffed at first, but finally agreed to come with his warriors and help with the digging.”

“But, John,” she queried, “will you really be able to dig a well on this island?”

“Of course, I can’t be certain,” he answered; “but I’ve been studying the soil, and it seems probable. Anyway, it’s our one chance to appease the old chief’s ire and continue our work.”

John Gibson Paton had come out to the New Hebrides some years before, and settled on the cannibal island of Tanna.

He had begun at once to teach the people and had succeeded in greatly improving their condition, when a trading vessel had brought measles to the island. An epidemic followed, and the natives died like flies.

They were so bitterly angry against those who had brought the plague that they became suspicious of all white men, even the missionary who had always helped them, and he was finally obliged to flee for his life.

With great difficulty he escaped to a passing ship bound for Australia. From Australia, he went to his homeland, Scotland.

He had a wonderfully happy time on this visit among his friends and relatives, for he was married to the pretty Scotch lassie whom he had learned to love.

He felt that life would be very hard for her on the island of Tanna, and he decided to go, instead, to Aniwa, where the natives were less fierce and more intelligent. Besides, they had asked that a missionary be sent to them.

They were very glad when he came bringing his pretty wife, and they tried to learn all he told them.

All went well until the traders who came to the South Seas for sandalwood and cocoanuts and the rich tropical fruits, discovered that the natives were becoming more intelligent, and could not be cheated or swindled so easily since the missionaries were teaching them.

So the traders made up their minds to try to turn the blacks against Doctor Paton and his wife, and his native helpers.

They had not been able to do much until the time of the long drought, told about at the beginning of this story. You see, they depended almost entirely upon rain for fresh water to drink.

Never before in the memory of living men had the islands been so long without rain. The people were terrified and ready for any outbreak.

But the young missionaries, sitting silently under the palms, realized that the traders might so excite the natives with their talk, and with the rum, that they might become murderers and revert to cannibalism.

“Where will you dig the well, John?” Margaret asked at length.

“On the slope over there.” He nodded toward the opposite hill. “I shall begin work to-morrow. Chief Namakei comes an hour after sunrise.”

“If you succeed in reaching fresh water, shall we be safe?”

“Yes, and if not, I hate to think of what may happen.”

“But anyway,” she declared, “I’m sure you will find God’s rain, John.”

Weary days and nights followed; days when the doctor and his band of native helpers dug from dawn to dark in the sandy soil; nights when the young white people, too anxious to sleep, sat under their palm trees and watched while the moon sank into the sea, and the volcano of Tann, “the lighthouse of the Pacific,” flung its blazing banners high against the heavens.

Two weeks passed and the diggers found no water. Then one day the continued drought left the old chief’s favorite water-hole quite dry. On the same day the side of the new well caved in.

The two troubles coming together turned the interest of Namakei to suspicion. When the digging began again he forbade his men to take part in the work, and, though he still watched the other toilers, his beady eyes had the look of a hawk’s just ready to pounce upon its prey.

The moon was full before the cave-in was repaired. The next morning the two remaining helpers did not report for duty, and old Namakei told the doctor that they would not come back.

“They are my prisoners,” he laughed. “If Missi Paton wish help in finding the buried rain, let his God give it.”

“His God will give it,” the missionary replied, calmly.

And alone Doctor Paton went on with his undertaking.

Two days, three days, passed, and still no water. Namakei assumed a more threatening attitude.

“The moon wanes!” he warned the missionary.

And then one morning when the doctor went down into the well he saw something gleaming at his feet. He bent down, gazing with eager eyes. It was water!

“But will it be fresh?” he asked himself, with fast-beating heart. On so tiny an island the sea water might easily penetrate the soil.

Very slowly he dipped his finger into the now fast-rising water and lifted it to his lips. And then suddenly he sank down in the dampness and wept like a child. The water was fresh and pure and sweet, God’s rain indeed.

By noonday the well was filled with the life-giving water, and from every part of the island the natives gathered to behold the miracle of the rain which had come up from the earth instead of down from the sky, and to do honor to Missi Paton who had given it to them.

And when he assured them that it would always be there so long as the island remained in the sea, and that drought would nevermore bring suffering and distress among them, they kissed his hands in gratitude.

Never again did the evil words of the traders against their beloved Missi have any weight with the natives of Aniwa, and never again did they turn away from the Christian religion and the Christian God; and, if you should visit the island to-day, you would be shown by the proud people the well where John Gibson Paton found by faith and prayer and labor the buried blessing so many years ago.

* * * * *

Again the Story People clapped their hands as the story ended, for they love to hear of nothing better than a brave and an unselfish deed.

“That is a good story,” said Mary Frances.

“Yes,” said the Story King; “the stories of those who risk their lives for others are the best of all our stories.”

“Yes,” agreed the Story Queen; “they are the best of all.”

“Now,” said the Story Lady, “we come to our fourth story.”

XXX

THE STRANGE GUEST

ON the summit of one of the heights of a wild country district along the Rhine, there stood many years ago an old castle. In this castle lived a beautiful maiden with her father and two elderly aunts.

Her father was a jolly old nobleman, very fond of his beer, and very fond of hearing himself talk, too. He enjoyed his own jokes better than anyone else, perhaps.

Even so, his dearest possession was his beautiful daughter, his only child. He loved her as the apple of his eye, and wished to give her all happiness.

She had little chance of being lonely, for there were always a large number of poor relatives visiting the nobleman, and indeed they made these visits so long that they sometimes stayed for years.

She often wondered, however, who might be living in the castle on the heights across the valley. She could just see the outlines of the walls and towers on clear days from the balcony outside her bedroom window.