the aid of a couple of friends, got Uncle Sam into the thing and
lowered him from a window. One of the friends, who had thoughtfully
brought a camera along, took a picture of the majestic descent and
turned it over to the _Pork Ferry Sentinel_, which printed it,
subsequently, with a complete account of the situation.
So that any element of secrecy for which the boys had hoped lay
shattered in a thousand pieces.
"You can't get away with anything in this life," Julian remarked
gloomily. "At least _I_ can't."
He and Tom had been roundly scolded: by their parents, by their
employers, by the girls. The little boys, however, showed the proper
perspective and regarded them as heroes. And Joe was deeply envious.
"Here I just simply went to bed, just for a little cat-nap, all dressed
and everything," he told them. "I even took the alarm clock with me
to make certain. I stuffed it in between two pillows, right under my
ear (because I didn't want my folks to know, _you_ know), and then
what did I do! When the doggone clock went off, I just reached in and
shut it off! In my _sleep_ I mean! How about that! To think you can
double-cross yourself like that, in your own sleep!"
* * * * *
"I think I'll stay mad at them another day," Portia said. "It's getting
hard to do it; I keep forgetting, but I'm going to try."
"All right, then I will, too," Lucy said cheerfully. "Madame Vavasour
says Librans are apt to be too kind-hearted for their own good."
She and Portia had been consulting, as they often did, _Mme. Vavasour's
Gypsy-Witch Fortune Teller_; a useful volume they had found in Mrs.
Brace-Gideon's library. The only parts they really read were those
concerning people born under the sign of Libra, as Portia and Lucy both
had been, within a week of one another, early in October.
"You are inordinately fond of luxury," Madame Vavasour had informed
them. "All the appointments and appurtenances of the _haut monde_--Lucy
had some trouble reading _haut monde_ out loud, but it didn't
matter--are to you as the glowing candle-flame is to the fluttering
moth. Visits to elegant spas and watering places, luxurious railroad
travel, fine horses, fine wines and impeccable _cuisine_, are hardly
less than necessities to one of your elegant and pleasure-loving
tastes. If you are a member of the fair sex, you will concern yourself
with naught but the most exquisite gems, the finest furs, the
handsomest members of the opposite sex--"
"The heck with the handsomest members of the opposite sex," Portia had
interrupted. "What I like is the part about fine horses and luxurious
railroad travel."
"Well, I don't mind about the exquisite gems and finest furs," Lucy
confessed, giving herself a sideways glance in the mirror. She was
fairly sure she was going to be pretty when she grew up; in fact, she
thought she might be starting to be already.
However, they knew that section of the _Gypsy-Witch Fortune Teller_ by
heart, so they skipped it today and went on to the section called: "The
Inner Sanctum: Mme. Vavasour's Incomparable and Invaluable Compendium
of Mystic Insights. Supernaturally-Directed Counsels on Matters of
Health, Money, and the Heart; also a Definitive Listing of the True
Meaning and Prophecies of Dreams."
"Wow!" Lucy said the first time she read it. "And look; she's got
twelve pages, a page for each month, for every single sign of the
Zodiac. They tell you what to expect and what to do about it and all."
"Now how could she know, though," Portia had objected. "I mean how
could she know about _now_? The book came out in 1889, for goodness'
sake!"
"I don't know. She probably had some sort of secret power or something:
after all she was right about our characters, wasn't she? Luxury-loving
and generous and kind-hearted, and all. You know that's the way we
are, Portia, even if some people don't realize it."
"Well, I guess so. I hope so," Portia said a little dubiously. She was
the one who had the book today--they were very strict about taking
turns--and as she riffled through the pages, she was stopped for a
moment by the Dream section. She usually was.
"Listen; did you know that if you dream about darning socks, it means
you're going to find money in the street?"
"No. And I don't think that's very useful information; how can you make
yourself dream about darning socks? I never dreamed about that in my
whole life."
"I don't think I ever did, either. Well, here we are: 'Advice to
Librans for the Month of August.'"
Portia began to read aloud. August, in Madame Vavasour's point of
view, was rather a poor month for Librans. Caution was the keynote.
They would have to be careful all month long; careful of their health,
careful of their possessions, careful about accidents, suspicious
of Good Offices proffered by any but their Nearest and Dearest, and
constantly on the lookout for Traducers--"Whatever they are," Lucy said.
"Traitors, probably, like Julian and Tom and Joe," was Portia's opinion.
Above all, Librans were to be careful about money and valuables.
They could not be too careful, and were to Lie Low. "This month will
not be profitable or eventful to those of you born under the Sign of
the Scales," Madame Vavasour concluded. "Expect little in the way of
pleasure or enrichment. It will be vexing, nay, onerous to you who so
highly value the Good Things of Life; but attempt to accept this period
of retrenchment with Patience and Humility. Wait and Hope, and guard
with care those valuables already in your possession."
Portia threw the book down.
"What valuables; my tooth braces?" she demanded sarcastically. "Lucy,
I wish we'd never read it. Now we have nothing to look forward to but
being bored!"
"Oh, pooh, I don't believe a word of it. I don't _really_ believe she
had any secret power. Neither do you. I think she was just writing
about some dead old boring August in eighteen-eighty-whatever-it-was."
"Do you really?"
"I really do. But I still think she was very good about character,"
Lucy said....
The girls were sitting on the window seat in Portia's room with
the door closed. It was a dull, gray day, and Foster and Davey had
thunderously invaded the house, bringing with them a fresh supply of
boys their own age. They seemed to be doing an extraordinary amount of
shouting and pounding up and downstairs.
"Boys just have to be noisy," Lucy observed critically. "They just
naturally have to be noisy, the way a chicken has to have feathers. I
don't know why."
"Daddy always says what Mark Twain said about them--you know, the Tom
Sawyer man--_he_ said that what a small boy is, is a 'loud noise with
dirt on it'.... Listen to Gulliver, too, but of course he can't help
it; he's a boy himself."
"They should take lessons from Mousenick," Lucy said, stroking the
tiny cat, asleep beside her. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could keep him
a kitten forever?"
"I wish we could." Portia stood up, stretching and yawning. "And I wish
there was something to _do_."
There seemed to be nothing whatever to do. It was that sort of day.
The big boys had gone off somewhere; but of course it didn't matter to
her because she and Lucy were mad at _them_; and the little boys were
busily unraveling peace inside the house.... Portia wandered over to
the mirror and looked at herself.
"And I wish I didn't have these _freckles_," she complained.
"It is too bad." Lucy agreed wholeheartedly. "Isn't there a cure for
them? Some kind of cold cream or something? Listen; what about that
stuff of Mrs. Brace-Gideon's: that Princess Something-or-other's
Elixir of whatcha-macallit that was supposed to give you a 'pearly
complexion'? Has your mother thrown it away?"
"Why no, I don't think so, yet. But she will any minute because Mr.
Horton's about ready to paint the bathroom, finally. Why, that's a good
idea, Lucy, and if the stuff is all dried up, we'll just add water to
it. Maybe after all these years it will be stronger, too...."
At this moment the door of Portia's room burst open, and small boys
came flooding in, wearing Indian war bonnets and whooping like yahoos.
"I'm Big Chief Fang!" Foster shouted happily. "We've come to scalp you!
We've come to _tomahawk_ you and _scalp_ you!"
"No, you have not! You get right out of my room!" commanded Portia,
giving him a whack with the _Gypsy-Witch Fortune Teller_. She and
Lucy, being older, larger, and more impressive, were able to sweep them
out of the room and close the door.
"They won't stay out, though," Portia said, as she and Lucy leaned
against the door and heard the scuffles and giggles going on outside.
"We'll just have to make a break for the bathroom. It has a real lock
on it, thank goodness."
They held the door fast a moment longer, then released it suddenly,
leaping away as it flew open and the little tribe of aborigines came
spilling in, in a tangle.
The girls sprinted down the hall, laughing and lively now, leaped into
the bathroom, and closed and locked the door, just in time.
"Heck, no fair," objected Big Chief Fang in the hall. "You're not
supposed to use locks. Come on out!"
"Never!" sang Portia.
"Never, never, never!" sang Lucy.
"Oh, well, who cares! _Stay_ in there then; stay all year. All you'll
have to eat is withered-up old pills," said Big Chief Fang.
"Oig," said another Indian who sounded like Davey.
"Come on, you guys; let's go and ask my mother for a cooky," invited
the Chief, and away they all thundered, down the hall and down the
stairs.
"Peace at last," said Lucy. Then she caught a glimpse of herself in
the mirror above the basin. "Heavens, is my skin really that color?
_Green?_"
"Oh, no, it makes everybody look like that. But that's not where she
kept her medicines. They're over here in this wall thing."
Portia tugged at the handle of the little cabinet door.
"You should have seen Jule searching for Mrs. Brace-Gideon's safe in
here. In a _bath_room, im_a_gine! _Honest_ly!"
"Honestly," echoed Lucy.
"Now, what's the matter with _this_ door? The rainstorm's made
everything stick all over again."
She gave the handle a mighty yank, and to her infinite amazement the
whole cabinet swung forward; swung outward toward her from the wall
like a heavy little door, which is exactly what it was.
And there behind it was the safe.
15
_The Safe_
Portia made one of those peculiar sounds that signify sudden and total
astonishment: something between a gasp and a squeal.
"It's it!"
"Mrs. Brace-Gideon's real live safe!" Lucy whispered in awe.
"I don't believe it, though. I just simply can't believe it," Portia
said.
"But it's real! My goodness, Portia, look at all those numbers and
little metal doorknobs. Why, it's the realest-looking thing I ever saw!"
Portia gave a leap. "Come _on_, then, we must tell Mother.... _Mother_,
oh, MOTHER!" shouted Portia, flinging the door open, storming along the
hall and down the stairs.
"Mo--_ther_!!"
"Portia, for heaven's sake!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, emerging from the
kitchen. "You sound like a trumpeting elephant! What in the world is
the matter!"
"We've found the safe, Mother! We've finally found it!"
"You've found the what?" said Mrs. Blake, utterly confused.
"Oh _Mother_, the _safe_! Mrs. Brace-Gideon's wall safe! The thing she
kept her money in; _you_ know."
"Her safe? Really? Are you sure?" said Mrs. Blake.
"Oh, _Mo_ther," Portia repeated impatiently. "Come and see for your own
self!" She took her mother's hand and pulled her, hurried her, to the
stairs.
"It's really true, Mrs. Blake, it really is, it's really true," Lucy
kept babbling, right at their heels as they ran up the steps. And right
at her heels came the members of the Indian band, with their mouths
full of cooky.
"In the _bath_room?" expostulated Mrs. Blake. "How could it possibly be
in the b--" But by then they had ushered her in, and she saw what they
had seen: the medicine cabinet swung out from the wall, and in the wall
the little metal door with its nickel knobs and dials, the little door
that had been hidden all these years!
"Why, I never--I absolutely never--" murmured Mrs. Blake, almost at a
loss for words. Then she said: "How do you suppose we'll get it open?"
Portia gave another of her leaps.
"Julian!" she exclaimed. "Jule has the combination, Mother; he found it
in the helmet!"
"He found it _where_?" begged poor Mrs. Blake, but nobody was there to
tell her; already they were tumbling and galumphing down the stairs.
The big front door flew open and stayed open. The children, led by
Portia, streamed across the lawn.
"Jul--i--an! Oh, _Jule_!" roared Portia, marveling even as she did so
at her own lung power.
But the big boys were nowhere to be seen; nowhere within earshot,
either, obviously.
"They must have gone to Gone-Away; where else _would_ they go?"
suggested Lucy.
So off they all went, jog-trotting along the wooded drive; Portia
first, her tooth braces blinking and her bangs standing straight up in
the wind; Lucy next, with her curls bouncing; and chugging along behind
them came the Indian braves, still eating as they ran.
* * * * *
As it happened, Julian and Tom and Joe had spent the afternoon at
Gone-Away, helping Mr. Payton build a stronger goatpen for the vagrant
Uncle Sam.
It was always interesting to build things at Gone-Away, because no new
material was ever used; it was necessary to improvise, and this in
itself was a challenge.
The goatpen in the first place had been an ingenious barricade
contrived of chicken wire, old doors, old bedsprings. And today the
boys and Mr. Payton had reinforced it with more doors, more bedsprings,
and a length of railing from the Delaneys' fallen porch. They had also
added a wrought-iron gate from somebody's forgotten driveway; and that
gave it a touch of elegance.
"Ma-a-a-a," said Uncle Sam, sounding perfectly disgusted. He stood on
his hind legs and stared at them balefully through the wrought-iron
gate.
"Yes indeed, sir, yes indeed," Mr. Payton replied to him. "This will
keep you in your place for a while. Until the next time. For there
will be a next time, I'll be bound," he added to the boys. "Uncle Sam
has the soul of a vagabond and the ingenuity of a born thief."
He removed his hat and blotted his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Let us go to my house and have a drink of water. Later my sister may
have something better to offer."
For some reason Mr. Payton's kitchen pump seemed to produce the
coldest, clearest water in the region, like the water of a mountain
spring. Perhaps, Julian thought, it was because they usually drank it
after they had been working hard or playing hard.
When the boys had had all they wanted, they drifted into Mr. Payton's
living room. It was very different from his sister's: barer. There were
many books piled up in piers, but very little furniture. There were no
pictures on the walls; only a piece of tacked-up wrapping paper with
words printed on it, and none of them could read the words because they
were written in Latin.
Joe and Tom sat on the horsehair sofa, looking blank and comfortably
worn-out. Julian, on the floor, had propped his back against the bed,
and Mr. Payton, bolt-upright on one of his bolt-upright little chairs,
was lighting his pipe, coaxing it and coaxing it along.
Julian sighed contentedly. It's good to work hard, then to rest, he
thought. His aimless eye caught sight again of the black letters
painted on the wrapping paper.
"Uncle Pin, what is that Latin thing?" he asked. "What does it say?
I've wondered for a long time, but I keep forgetting to ask."
Mr. Payton puff-puffed his pipe; it had come to life now, and he turned
his head to look at the paper on the wall.
"The words are very old, Julian. They were written hundreds of years
ago by a man who loved nature and who became a saint: Saint Francis of
Assisi. It's sort of a hymn of praise. They call it a canticle: the
canticle of the sun....
"'Praised be my Lord with all his creatures,' it says, 'and especially
our brother the sun who brings us the day and who brings us the light;
fair is he, and shining with very great splendor: O Lord he signifies
to us thee!
"'Praised be my Lord for our sister the moon, and for the stars, which
he has set clear and lovely in heaven.
"'Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and for air and cloud,
calms and all weathers, by which thou upholdest in life all creatures.
"'Praised be my Lord for our sister water, who is very serviceable unto
us, and humble and precious and clean.
"'Praised be my Lord for our brother fire, through whom thou givest his
light in the darkness; and he is bright and pleasant, and very mighty
and strong....'"
Mr. Payton read on in his calm quiet voice till he came to the end of
the canticle.
"I like that part about brothers and sisters," Tom said. "The sun
_would_ be a brother, and the moon _would_ be a sister...."
Nobody else said anything. Fatly had come to settle by Julian's leg. He
had turned on his purr at middle register; not his loudest purr. Still,
they could hear it.
And then they heard something else.
"Julian! Oh, _Ju_--ule!"
Julian sighed and stood up.
"Girls," he remarked, and went to the door. He opened it wide and
leaned out. "Here we are, Porsh," he called, "here at Uncle Pin's."
Portia and Lucy and the Indians blew breathless into the house.
"We've found it, Jule." Portia panted. "We've found the safe!"
"The safe? You mean the _safe_?"
"Mrs. Brace-Gideon's!" contributed Lucy.
"Oh, _brother_!" Julian shouted. "But I have to go home to get the
paper with the combination on it. I'll hurry back--I've got my
bike--and I'll meet you at your house--" Halfway through the door he
turned back. "_Where_ did you find it, though?"
When Portia told him he said, "See? What did I say?" Then he vanished.
"You come with us, Uncle Pin," Portia said. "And let's get Aunt
Minnehaha, too. We should all be there together when he opens it."
Julian, on reaching home, leaped from his bike, allowing it to fall,
leaped into the house, shouting the news to his mother, and attained
his room without having touched the stairs; or so it seemed.
There followed a few minutes of panic because he could not remember
what he had done with the slip. Collections of birds' nests and sea
shells were toppled about, drawers were pulled out and their contents
clawed into a muddle, the pockets of his coats and trousers were
searched; and then, of course, he found the slip exactly where he had
put it: in plain sight, on his worktable, with a fossil stone to hold
it down.
"I'll drive you back, Julian," his mother said. "It will save time, and
besides I wouldn't miss this event for anything!"
* * * * *
It was a peculiar gathering to assemble in anybody's bathroom: two
pretty women, five biggish children, assorted; five smallish ones,
boys, wearing war feathers; one elderly lady dressed in the fashion
of the Gay Nineties; one elderly gentleman with a distinguished beard
and clothes not much more recent. Also two dogs and one small kitten.
Though the room was large, it wasn't really large enough. The Indians
obligingly removed their shoes and stood in the bathtub.
"Now," said Julian.
They waited breathlessly.
Julian carefully wiped his fingers with a handkerchief. (He had seen
someone do this on TV.) Then he lightly touched the T-shaped hand on
the dial. He looked as though he had been doing this sort of thing all
his life.
"Now it's on zero, see?" He said. "That's where it has to be first. So.
Here we go. Six turns to the right. One ... two ... three ... four ...
five ... six. There, I heard the tumblers fall. Now two turns to the
left. One ... two...."
Slowly, meticulously, he followed exactly the instructions on the slip
of paper. At the last, after the "three whole turns R to eight," he
paused dramatically.
"Want me to go on?"
"Oh, hurry up! Hurry up!"
Julian grinned, put out his hand, and opened the small heavy door.
Inside the safe there was still another little door with a key in its
lock. Above, and on either side, the shelves and pigeonholes were empty.
"Turn the key! Turn the key!"
So Julian turned the key and opened the door to the interior cupboard
of the safe. Everyone pressed forward in a bunch. And then there was a
sort of collective groan in the room because that little cupboard, like
Mother Hubbard's famous one, was bare; bare even of dust.
"Well, I didn't think there'd be anything in it. I never did," said
Portia, disappointed to be right.
"But what about that little drawer _under_ the door?" Lucy asked.
"I can't get it open. It's locked and the key's gone."
"Try the one in the cupboard door...."
But the key didn't fit.
"Perhaps I can force it," Mr. Payton said, coming forward. "Since
returning to Gone-Away, I have become fairly expert at breaking locks.
Had to. Couldn't get into the Big House any other way." He turned to
Mrs. Blake. "With your permission?"
"But of course, of course!"
With the head of his heavy walking stick Mr. Payton dealt the lock a
number of sharp blows.
"I think perhaps now ... but I need something to pull it open with.
There is no handle."
Foster, with great presence of mind, stepped out of the bathtub and
handed Mr. Payton Baron Bloodshed's buttonhook, which had been
spending the summer in his pocket with other curious items.
"Maybe this'll do."
"Ah, excellent, Foster, thank you. Yes, yes indeed.... Look!"
Mr. Payton pulled open the little drawer, which was lined with blue
plush and filled with small labeled packets.
Hands reached out; Foster's grubby ones among them.
"No, wait a bit, wait a bit," Mr. Payton commanded. "I think the
privilege should go to Mrs. Blake."
But Mrs. Blake said: "I think it should go to Lucy and Portia. They're
the ones who found the safe."
Portia's fingers were shaking when she lifted the first packet out and
read the label: "Mamma's Garnet Parure."
"What's a parure?" said Foster.
It turned out to be a set of jewelry: a garnet necklace with earrings
and brooch to match, sparkling and dark and clear as wine.
"How _beautiful_!"
"Mine says: 'Great-Aunt Sophronisba's Brooch with Uncle Walter's
Hair!'" Lucy announced.
This turned out to be a large gold-framed pin enclosing a small
fine-woven mat of dark brown hair!
"Oh, yes, hair jewelry was much the fashion in my grandmother's day,"
Mrs. Cheever said.
"Did they ever use teeth?" Foster wanted to know, thinking of his own
old front ones, but Mrs. Cheever said she thought not.
The girls in greatest excitement went on opening the little packets.
Mrs. Cheever, Mrs. Blake, and Aunt Hilda hovered about them,
fascinated. Mr. Payton was interested, too. But the boys were rather
disappointed; jewelry didn't mean much to them.
"Here's 'Great-Grandfather Dadware's Signet Ring!'" said Portia,
holding up a massive ring with a carnelian intaglio set in gold.
"And here are 'Great-Grandmother Dadware's Cameo Bracelets,'" said
Lucy, displaying the lovely things: circlets of ovals, and on each oval
a little face was exquisitely carved.
There were necklaces of paste and pinchbeck and jet and amber; there
were gold earrings and silver ones, and ones made out of coral and
of turquoise. There were bracelets woven of golden wire, and many
brooches, and fine-link chains and lockets of gold and onyx. There were
seed pearls all gone black with age, and cold jade beads from which the
silken cord had rotted away. Many of the things were beautiful, and
some were ruined. All were very old.
The last packet contained the prettiest thing of all. "Great-great
Grandmother's Betrothal Ring." It looked like a cobweb heavy-set with
dew.
"Rose diamonds!" Aunt Hilda said. "Barbara, it can't be later than the
eighteenth century, and probably it's older!"
"Then I suppose these things were left behind in the safe just as
the furniture was left in the attic," Mrs. Blake speculated. "Partly
because they were too good to throw away; partly because of family
sentiment. And none of them to Mrs. Brace-Gideon's own personal taste."
"Oh, no indeed! Indeed they would not have been," Mrs. Cheever
asserted. "They would never have been costly enough. Or showy enough.
When it came to jewelry, Mrs. Brace-Gideon inclined toward the
flamboyant, didn't she, Pin?"
"Had a diamond that looked like a hotel doorknob," Mr. Payton said. "I
remember it well."
"And that emerald I told you about. And rubies; great clumps and clots
of rubies all mobbed together; and a pin, a gold pin shaped like an
eagle, with ruby eyes; and a water-lily pin as big as my hand, made out
of opals.... Oh, no, these never would have suited her!"
"Thank fortune," Mrs. Blake said, as she had said so often this summer.