CHAPTER III

The Spirit of Mad Anthony

Jean Carruth stood thus for about one minute absolutely rigid, her face the color of chalk and her eyes blazing. Then several things happened with extreme expedition. The position of the closed umbrella in her hands reversed with lightning-like rapidity; one quick step _forward_, _not_ backward, was made, thus giving the intrepid little body a firmer foothold, and then crash! down came the gun-metal handle across Jabe Raulsbury's ample-sized nasal appendage.

The blow, with such small arms to launch it, was not of necessity a very powerful one, but it was the suddenness of the onslaught which rendered it effective, for not one sound had issued from the child's set lips as she delivered it, and Jabe's position placed him at a decided disadvantage.

He resumed his seat with considerable emphasis, and clapping his hand to his injured feature, bellowed in the voice of an injured bull:

"You--you--you little devil! You--you, let me get hold of you!"

But Jean did not obey the command or pause to learn the result of her deed. With a storm of the wildest sobs she turned and fled from the barnyard, down the driveway leading to the road, and back to the spot where she had left Baltie in his misery, her tears nearly blinding her, and her indignation almost strangling her; back to the poor old horse, so sorely in need of human pity and aid.

This, all unknown to his little champion, had already reached him, for hardly had Jean disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence, than a vehicle came bowling along the highway driven by no less a personage than Hadyn Stuyvesant, lately elected president of the local branch of the S. P. C. A. Poor old Baltie's days of misery had come to an end, for here was the authority either to compel his care or to mercifully release him from his sufferings.

Perhaps not more than twenty minutes had elapsed from the time Jean started across the fields, to the moment of her return to the old horse, but in those twenty minutes Mr. Stuyvesant had secured aid from Mr. Fletcher's place, and when Jean came hurrying upon the scene, her sobs still rendering breathing difficult, and her troubled little face bathed in tears, she found three men standing near Baltie.

"Oh, Baltie, Baltie, Baltie, I'm so glad! So glad! So glad!" sobbed the overwrought little girl, as she flew to the old horse's head.

Mr. Stuyvesant and the men stared at her in astonishment.

"Why little girl," cried the former. "Where in this world have _you_ sprung from? And what is the matter? Is this your horse?"

"Oh, no--no; he isn't mine. It's old Baltie; don't you know him? I went to tell Jabe Raulsbury about him and he--he--" and Jean paused embarrassed.

"Yes? Well? Is this his horse? Is he coming to get him? Did you find him?"

"Yes, sir, I _found_ him," answered Jean, trembling from excitement and her exertions.

"And is he coming right down?" persisted Mr. Stuyvesant, looking keenly, although not unkindly, at the child.

"He--he--, oh, _please_ don't make me tell tales on anybody--it's so mean--but he--"

"You might as well tell it right out an' done with it, little gal," broke in one of the men. "It ain't no state secret; everybody knows that that old skinflint has been abusing this horse shameful, for months past, an' I'll bet my month's wages he said he wouldn't come down, an' he hoped the horse 'd die in the ditch. Come now, out with it--_didn't_ he?"

Jean would not answer, but there was no need for words; her eyes told the truth.

Just then the other man came up to her; he was one of Mr. Fletcher's grooms.

"Aren't you Mrs. Carruth's little girl?" he asked.

But before Jean had time to answer Jabe Raulsbury came running along the road, one hand holding a handkerchief to his nose, the other waving wildly as he shouted:

"Just you wait 'till I lay my hands on you--you little wild cat!" He was too blinded by his rage to realize the situation into which he was hurrying.

Again Anthony Wayne's spirit leaped into Jean's eyes, as the dauntless little creature whirled about to meet the enemy descending upon her. With head erect, and nostrils quivering she stood as though rooted to the ground.

"Great guns! How's _that_ for a little thoroughbred?" murmured the groom, laughing softly.

Reaching out a protecting hand, Mr. Stuyvesant gently pushed the little girl toward the man who stood behind him, and taking her place let Jabe Raulsbury come head-on to his fate. Had the man been less enraged he would have taken in the situation at once, but his nose still pained severely from the well-aimed blow, and had also bled pretty freely, so it is not surprising that he lost his presence of mind.

"Go slow! Go slow! You are exactly the man I want to see," said Mr. Stuyvesant, laying a detaining hand upon Jabe's arm.

"Who 'n thunder air you?" demanded the half-blinded man.

"Someone you would probably rather not meet at this moment, but since you have appeared upon the scene so opportunely I think we might as well come to an understanding at once, and settle some scores."

"I ain't got no scores to settle with you, but I have with _that_ little demon, an' by gosh she'll know it, when I've done with her! Why that young 'un has just smashed me over the head with her umbril, I tell ye. _There_ it is, if ye don't believe what I'm a tellin' ye. I'm goin' ter have the _law_ on her and on her Ma, I tell ye, an' I call you three men ter witness the state I'm in. I'll bring suit agin' her fer big damages--that's what I'll do. Look at my _nose_!"

As he ceased his tirade Jabe removed his handkerchief from the injured member. At the sight of it one of the men broke into a loud guffaw. Certainly, for a "weaker vessel" Jean had compassed considerable. That nose was about the size of two ordinary noses. Mr. Stuyvesant regarded it for a moment, his face perfectly sober, then asked with apparent concern:

"And this little girl hit you such a blow as that?"

Poor little Jean began to tremble in her boots. Were the tables about to turn upon her? Even Anthony Wayne's spirit, when harbored in such a tiny body could hardly brave _that_. The Fletcher's groom who stood just behind her watched her closely. Now and again he gave a nod indicative of his approval.

"Yes she did. She drew off and struck me slam in the face with her umbril.," averred Jabe.

"Had _you_ struck her? Did she strike in self-defense?" Mr. Stuyvesant gave a significant look over Jabe's head straight into the groom's eyes when he asked this question. The response was the slightest nod of comprehension.

"Strike her? _No_," roared Jabe. "I hadn't teched her. I was a-sittin' there sortin' out my turnips 's peaceful 's any man in this town, when that little rip comes 'long and tells me I must go get an old horse out 'en a ditch: _that_ old skate there that's boun' ter die _any_ how, an' ought ter a-died long ago. I told her ter clear out an' mind her own business that I hoped the horse _would_ die, an' that's what I'd turned him out _to_ do. Then she drew off an' whacked me."

"Just because you stated in just so many words that you meant to get rid of the old horse and had turned him out to die on the roadside. Is _that_ why she struck you?"

Had Jabe been a little calmer he might have been aware of a change in Hadyn Stuyvesant's expression and his tone of voice, but men wild with rage are rarely close observers.

"Yis! Yis!" he snapped, sure now of his triumph.

"Well I'm only sorry the blow was such a light one. I wish it had been struck by a man's arm and sufficiently powerful to have half killed you! Even _that_ would have been _too_ good for you, you merciless brute! I've had you under my eye for your treatment of that poor horse for some time, and now I have you under my _hand_, and convicted by your own words in the presence of two witnesses, of absolute cruelty. I arrest you in the name of the S. P. C. A."

For one brief moment Jabe stood petrified with astonishment. Then the brute in him broke loose and he started to lay about him right and left. His aggressiveness was brought to a speedy termination, for at a slight motion from Mr. Stuyvesant the two men sprang upon him, his arms were held and the next second there was a slight click and Jabe Raulsbury's wrists were in handcuffs. That snap was the signal for his blustering to take flight for he was an arrant coward at heart.

"Now step into my wagon and sit there until I am ready to settle your case, my man, and that will be when I have looked to this little girl and the animal which, but for her pluck and courage, might have died in this ditch," ordered Mr. Stuyvesant.

No whipped cur could have slunk toward the wagon more cowed.

"Now, little lassie, tell me your name and where you live," said Mr. Stuyvesant lifting Jean bodily into his arms despite her mortification at being "handled just like a baby," as she afterwards expressed it.

"I am Jean Carruth. I live on Linden Avenue. I'm--I'm terribly ashamed to be here, and to have struck him," and she nodded toward the humbled figure in the wagon.

"You need not be. You did not give him one-half he deserves," was the somewhat comforting assurance.

"O, but what _will_ mother say? She'll be _so_ mortified when I tell her about it all. It seems as if I just _couldn't_," was the distressed reply.

"Must you tell her?" asked Mr. Stuyvesant, an odd expression overspreading his kind, strong face as he looked into the little girl's eyes.

Jean regarded him with undisguised amazement as she answered simply:

"Why of _course_! That would be deceit if I _didn't_. I'll have to be punished, but I guess I _ought_ to be," was the naïve conclusion.

The fine face before her was transfigured as Hadyn Stuyvesant answered:

"Good! _Your_ principles are all right. Stick to them and I'll want to know you when you are a woman. Now I must get you home for I've a word to say to your mother, to whom I mean to introduce myself under the circumstances," and carrying her to his two-seated depot wagon, he placed her upon the front seat. Jabe glowered at him from the rear one. His horse turned his head with an inquiring nicker.

"Yes, Comet, I'll be ready pretty soon," he replied, pausing a second to give a stroke to the satiny neck. Then turning to the men he said:

"Now, my men, let's on with this job which has been delayed too long already."

He did not spare himself, and presently old Baltie was out of the ditch and upon his feet--a sufficiently pathetic object to touch any heart.

"Shall I have the men lead him up to your barn?" asked Hadyn Stuyvesant, giving the surly object in his wagon a last chance to redeem himself.

"No! I'm done with him; do your worst," was the gruff answer.

"Very well," the words were ominously quiet, "then _I_ shall take him in charge."

"Oh, _where_ are you going to take him, please?" asked Jean, her concern for the horse overcoming her embarrassment at her novel situation.

"I'm afraid he will have to be sent to the pound, little one, for no one will claim him."

"Is that the place where they _kill_ them? _Must_ Baltie be killed?" Her voice was full of tears.

"Unless someone can be found who will care for him for the rest of his numbered days. I'm afraid it is the best and most merciful fate for him," was the gentle answer.

"How long may he stay there without being killed? Until maybe somebody can be found to take him."

"He may stay there one week. But now we must move along. Fasten the horse's halter to the back of my wagon, men, and I'll see to it that he is comfortable to-night anyway."

The halter rope was tied, and the strange procession started slowly back toward Riveredge.