AN AFTERNOON OF ADVENTURE
The late spring air, however, was delicious. The trees rustled
pleasantly. The bees hummed and the birds twittered, and altogether
there were a hundred things to charm Janice into extending her walk.
Down at the foot of a side street a bit of water gleamed like a huge
turquoise. There seemed to be no dwellings at the foot of this street,
and Janice, with the whole afternoon before her, felt the tingle of
exploration in her blood.
Just off High Street was another store. It was in a low-roofed
building shouldering upon the highway, with a two-story cottage
attachment at the back. Two huge trees overshadowed the place and lent
a deep, cool shade to the shaky porch; but the trees made the store
appear very gloomy within.
Of all the shops Janice had observed in Poketown it seemed that this
little store was the most neglected and woeful looking. Its two show
windows were a lacework of dust and flyspecks. In the upper corners
were ragged spider webs; and in one web lay a gorged spider, too well
fed to pounce on the blue-bottle fly buzzing in the toils within easy
pouncing distance! Only glimpses of a higgledy-piggledy of assorted
wares were to be caught behind the panes. Across the front of the
building was a faded sign reading:
HOPEWELL DRUGG
GROCERIES AND DRY GOODS
Nothing about the shop itself would have held Janice Day's attention
even for a moment; but from within (the front door stood ajar) came the
wailing notes of a violin, the uncertain bow of the performer seeking
out the notes of "Silver Threads Among the Gold."
Yet, with all its uncertainty, the fiddler's touch groped for the
beauty and pathos of the chords:
"Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold."
Janice heard the haunting sweetness of the tune all the way down the
shaded lane and she wondered who the player might be.
There was a deep, grass-grown ditch on one side--evidently an open
drain to carry the overflow of water from High Street. As the drain
deepened toward the bottom of the hill, posts had been set and rails
laid on top of them to defend vehicles from pitching into the ditch in
the dark. But many of the rails had now rotted and fallen to the sod,
or the nails had rusted and drawn out, leaving the barrier "jest
rattling."
From a side road there suddenly trotted a piebald pony, drawing a low,
basket phaeton, in which sat two prim, little, old ladies, a fat one
and a lean one. Despite the difference in their avoirdupois the two
old ladies showed themselves to be what they were--sisters.
The thin one was driving the piebald pony. "Gidap, Ginger!" she
announced, flapping the reins.
She had better have refrained from waking up Ginger just at that
moment. A fickle breath of wind pounced upon an outspread newspaper
lying on the grass, fluttered it for a moment, and then, getting fairly
under the printed sheet, heaved it into the air.
Ginger caught a glimpse of the fluttering paper. He halted suddenly,
with all four feet braced and ears forward, fairly snorting his
surprise. As the paper began flopping across the road, he began to
back. The whites of his eyes showed plainly and he snorted again. The
wind-shaken paper utterly dissipated the pony's corn-fed complacency.
"Oh! Oh! Gidap!" shrieked the thin old lady.
"He--he's backin' us into the ditch, Pussy," cried her sister.
"I--I can't help it, Blossom," gasped the driver of the frightened pony.
The phaeton really was getting perilously near the edge of the
undefended ditch, when Janice ran out beside the pony's head, clutched
at his bridle, and halted him in his mad career. The paper dropped
into the ditch and lay still, and the pony began to nuzzle Janice's
hand.
"Isn't he just cunning!" gasped the girl, turning to look at the two
little old ladies.
From a nearby house appeared a lath-like man, who strode out to the
road, grinning broadly.
"Hi tunket! Ye did come purty nigh backin' into the ditch _that_ time,
gals," he cackled. "All right now, ain't ye? That there leetle gal is
some spry. Ginger ain't shown so much sperit since b'fore Adam!"
"Now, I tell ye, Mr. Cross Moore," declared the driver of the pony,
sharply, "we came very near having a serious accident. And all because
these rails aren't repaired. You're one of the_se_-lectmen and you'd
oughter have sense enough to repair that railin'. Wait till somebody
drives plump into the ditch and the town has a big damage bill to pay."
"Aw, now, there ain't many folks drives this way," defended Mr. Cross
Moore.
"There's enough. And think o' Hopewell Drugg's Lottie. She's always
running up and down this lane. Somebody's goin' to pitch head-fust
inter that ditch yet, Cross Moore, an' then you'll be sorry."
She was a very vigorous-speaking old lady, that was sure. The sister
by her side was of much milder temperament, and she was thanking Janice
very sweetly while the other scolded Selectman Moore.
"We thank you very much, my dear. You are much braver than _I_ am, for
I'm free to confess I'm afraid of all cattle," said the plump old lady,
in a somewhat shaken voice. "Who are you, my dear? I don't remember
seeing you before."
"I am Janice Day, Ma'am."
"Day? You belong here in Poketown? There's Days live on Hillside
Avenue."
"Yes, Ma'am," confessed Janice. "Mr. Jason Day is my uncle. But I am
Broxton Day's daughter."
"Why, do tell!" cried the plump little old lady, who had pink cheeks
and the very warmest of warm smiles, as she looked into the girl's
hazel eyes. "See here, Pussy," she cried to her sister. "Do you know
who this little girl turns out to be? She's Brocky Day's girl. Surely
you remember Brocky Day?"
But "Pussy" was still haranguing the town selectman upon his crimes of
omission and could not give her attention to Janice.
"Anyhow, dear, won't you come and see us? Pussy's disturbed a mite
now; but she'll love to have you come, too. We live just a little way
out o' town--anybody can tell you where the Hammett Twins live," said
this full-blown "Blossom." "Yes. My sister an' I are twins. And
we're fond of young folks and like to have 'em 'round us. There!
Ginger's all right, Pussy. We can drive on."
"You'd oughter fix them rails, Cross Moore," repeated the lean sister,
as the old pony started placidly up the hill again.
Mr. Moore languidly squinted along the staggering barrier. "Wa-al--I
reckon I will--one o' these days," he said.
He grinned in a friendly way at Janice as she started on. "Them
Hammett gals is reg'lar fuss-bugets," he observed. "But they're nice
folks. So you're Broxton Day's gal? I heard you'd arove. How do you
like Poketown?"
"I don't know it well enough to say yet, Mr. Moore," returned Janice,
bashfully, as she went down the hill.
There were no more houses, but great, sweeping-limbed willow trees
shaded the lower range of the hill. She came out, quite suddenly, upon
a little open lawn which edged the lake itself. Here an old dock stuck
its ugly length out into the water--a dock the timbers of which were
blackened as though by a fire, and the floor-boards of which had mostly
been removed. There was but a narrow path out to the end of the wharf.
Between the wharf and the opposite side of this little bay was a piece
of perfectly smooth water, the softly breathing wind did not ruffle the
bay at all. The long arm of the shore that was thrust out into the
lake was heavily wooded. Rows of dark, almost black, northern spruce
stood shouldering each other on that farther shore, making a perfect
wall of verdure. Their deep shadow was already beginning to creep
across the water toward the old wharf.
"What a quiet spot!" exclaimed Janice, aloud.
"'Iet spot!'" breathed the echo from the opposite shore.
"Why! it's an echo!" cried the startled Janice.
"'An echo!'" repeated the sprite, in instant imitation of her tone.
It was then that Janice saw the little girl upon the old wharf. At
first she seemed just a blotch of color upon the old burned timbers.
Then the startled visitor realized that the gaily-hued frock, and sash,
and bonnet, garbed a little girl of perhaps eight or nine years.
Janice could not see her face. When she rose up from where she had
been sitting and went along the shaking stringpiece of the dock, her
back was still toward the shore.
Yet her gait--the groping of one hand before her--all the uncertainty
and questioning of her attitude--shot the spectator through with alarm.
The child was blind! More than this, her unguided feet were leading
her directly to the abrupt end of the half ruined wharf!