THE GRIT OF MOSES JONES
An axe flew gleaming through the air and Montgomery vanished, the brass
bound box with him.
Katharine was too startled to move, and stood listening to the
distressing, almost blood-curdling groans which issued from the man's
lips, as, for a moment, he lay face downward before her. Then she
recognized the apparel of Moses Jones and bent over him pityingly.
"Why, Uncle Mose! What is the matter?"
For only answer more groans, which presently began to thrill her with an
unspeakable terror. What made him do that? What had befallen him? Was he
dying, and she alone with him, there in the strange forest? The thought
was torture, and, nerving herself to the task, she laid her hand upon
him, though her repugnance to the act was a fresh torment. It had always
been one of the girl's peculiarities that she could not bear to touch
any ailing thing. She would wait upon people who were ill most
cheerfully, even eagerly, but she hated to come in personal contact with
them. It had been so even in the case of her father whom she idolized,
and had been one of the small items in stepmother's list against her.
But she had heard so much upon the subject then, and of its enormity,
that she had set herself to overcome the failing, since failing it was.
And had poor Moses known it, she would almost rather have borne his pain
herself than to have helped him turn upon his back as she did. To do
more for him than this was impossible, and again she besought him to say
how he was hurt.
Finally, he opened his eyes and glanced about him, then angrily shook
his fist toward a projecting tree-root which had been hidden from his
sight by a group of ferns and over which he had stumbled.
"That's it! That's the mis'able thing 'at done it!" he cried, then
groaned again, but weakly. The pain had suddenly become so severe as to
turn him faint while the brilliant branches overhead began to dance and
sway before his dizzy sight as no wind could make them do. "I--I'm
gettin' light-headed. Help me up, Keehoty. I'm broke. I'm broke all to
smash. My leg--my side--oh, oh, ouch!"
[Illustration: "'I FEEL SO QUEER EVERY LITTLE SPELL, AN' I MUST GET
HOME'"]
His increasing pallor frightened Katharine till pity overcame
repugnance, and with a strength unknown before she clasped her arms
about his neck and struggled to lift him to his feet, all the while
protesting: "You mustn't be broken! You can't be. Just a little crooked
root like that and a big man like you. Not quite so hard, please! Not
quite so tight! 'Cause you're pulling me down instead of me you up.
There, that's better!"
Susanna had often declared that Moses was "just like ary other man,
scared to death if even his little toe ached," and it was true that he
was so unused to illness that his few attacks of it had always
frightened him. Yet now he realized that something far worse than
ordinary had befallen, and that he must rally his grit and his strength
together. With an heroic effort he got upon his feet--or foot, for one
was useless, and braced himself against the tree-trunk beside them.
"Now, sissy, go find an' fetch my axe that got flung off my shoulder
when I stumbled. I didn't think when I brought it to chop with 'twould
prove a crutch for broken bones. Oh, I wish we wasn't so far from home.
I wish you'd kep' in the right road an' not come flarrickin' clear off
here out the beaten track."
"Why--isn't this the right, the shortest way back?" asked Katharine,
surprised.
"No, 'tain't. I s'pose all trees look alike to city gals, but don't stop
to gabble. Find the axe. Pick up your basket. I feel so queer every
little spell, an' I must get home. That shin-bone's broke, true as
preachin', an' six seven my ribs, by the feel of 'em, for my foot
wobbles 'round as if it was hung on a string, an' my side! The axe,
Keehoty, the axe!"
She found and brought it, weeping bitterly. She had never felt so sorry
for anybody as for this brave old fellow who was now forcing himself to
overcome his own misery for the sake of others. For when she begged him
to stay still where he was and let her run to the village and bring
somebody to help he vigorously refused.
"Scare the hull community just 'cause I was fool enough to tumble down
and crack my leg? Me, an old woodman, that'd ought to have some sense.
An' Eunice! Why, 'twould scare Eunice out of a year's growth to see me
fetched home 'stead of walkin' there on my own pins. Half a loaf's
better'n no loaf, an' one leg's better'n none. As for my plaguey old
ribs--they can take care themselves. But once we get there you just clip
it to the doctor's an' have him come 'round an' patch me up. He'll have
to do it so's I can be workin' reg'lar, 'cause I'm the only man there
is. Besides, town meetin's comin' on, an'--My sake! I'm beat!"
Beaten he was into the silence which he had dreaded, wherein he realized
his own agony. He had kept talking to prevent thinking, but had now
passed beyond that. By nods and glances he directed Kate along the
shortest way, but it seemed to the sufferer as if the familiar big stone
house grew steadily more distant rather than nearer.
Katharine never forgot that walk. To her, also, the distance seemed
interminable, and the firm clutch of his hand upon her shoulder for its
support almost to break her own bones. His face, when she now and then
glanced toward it, was pallid with suffering, but his lips were grimly
shut, defying his own misery. As he shaved only once a week, on Sunday
morning, his half-grown stubble of beard enhanced his pallor, but did
not add to his beauty; and Katharine, reared among city folks who made
such "Sunday habits" their every-day ones, felt something like disgust.
"I'm awful sorry for him, but--but he looks horrid. And he hurts me,
too. Oh, I wish we had never come into this dreadful forest, pretty as
it is; but, joy! there's a house. We'll be in the village soon and at
home. What will Aunt Eunice say? And where did that mean boy go?"
As Katharine's thoughts ran on this wise they were steadily though
slowly passing over the rough ground of the wood to the smoother fields
beyond; and as they came in sight of the Maitland barns, there was
Montgomery peeping around a corner and on the lookout for somebody. His
release from confinement at home had been the result of Aunt Eunice's
call, he having been permitted to walk home with her, and to spend the
day with Katharine. Alfaretta was recovered and able to do her own
dish-washing, and on the Monday the boy must return to school. So Madam
had made him array himself once more in his best attire and had duly
instructed him how young gentlemen of the Sturtevant race should conduct
themselves toward young ladies of the Maitland family.
Arrived at the stone mansion, Susanna had promptly sent the boy to the
woods to hunt up his playmate, if he desired her, and in any case to
remind Moses that he had gone off without killing the chicken for
dinner.
"You tell him to come right straight back here an' do it now, if he
wants a bite to eat. I ain't never wrung a fowl's neck nor chopped off
her head, nor Eunice hain't, nuther, an' we ain't a-goin' to begin at
our time o' life. Killin' poultry or pigs, ary one, is man's work an'
not woman's, an' so say to him 't if he wants his dinner he can come
kill it. He's gettin' so forgetful lately 't he can't remember nothin'
'cept fishin', an' though he took his axe along I 'low he'll do more
threshin' nut-trees for that young one than choppin'; an' you remember,
Montgomery Sturtevant, that you've got on your Sunday clothes; and no
matter if your rich city relations do give 'em to you without no trouble
to you nor your grandma, 'at you ought to take care of 'em and keep 'em
clean. Don't go climbin' trees with 'em on, but just pick up what's on
the ground an' you'll eat enough then, fat white worms an' all, to make
you sick. Katy, she can give you part her cookies, but don't you get
carryin' on with her little basket, 'cause it was her pa's, an' she's
goin' to set great store by it. Tell him it's half-past nine if it's a
minute, an' them old fowls what we're killin' off first is ruther tough.
I ought to have her in the pot right now, an' there she ain't caught
yet, runnin' 'round the hen-yard at loose ends, an' I'll try to catch
her an' that'll help, an--My suz! if that boy ain't half 'crost the
pastur' an' me not done talkin' to him. The sassy thing! If I'd had my
way makin' this world there wouldn't have been nobody in it 'cept girls,
an' them grown up and come to their gumption. But that hen--I'll try
catch her or she'll never be caught."
Which was very true; as also the fact that before the garrulous
housekeeper had more than suggested "chicken" and "chestnuts,"
Montgomery had vanished to set them in train. After all, there might be
compensations, he thought, for a day wasted upon a girl's society. There
still seemed to linger upon his palate the flavor of Aunt Eunice's
pullets, from which he had been despoiled by his first enforced call
upon her ward, and though he had regretfully heard Susanna say "chicken"
without the plural "s," he knew that, being himself "company," he would
get his full share of the fowl, which he trusted might be a large one.
Which explains his presence in the wood and his lingering in the
barn-yard now, where he could command a first view of any person issuing
from the forest on the shortest way home. He had retreated here after
what he had supposed was a robber had fallen at his feet, and at the
cost of a breathless run had preserved the mysterious brass bound box
from theft. He had now safely hidden it in the hay-mow, and awaited
Kate's return to tell her where. It had been almost beyond his power to
keep the secret from Miss Maitland, even thus long, but loyalty to the
discoverer had restrained him. And at last there she was coming across
the pasture, Uncle Moses with her; and what was most astonishing, the
pair were leaning upon one another in an intimacy which made Montgomery
feel rather jealous.
"F-f-f-fudge! I didn't know he liked g-g-girls! He's got his hand on her
s-s-shoulder, an' my, how they do just c-c-cr-creep! Even the pug dog
just bare w-w-waddles, like he's tuckered out," remarked the watching
lad to Sir Philip, who had taken advantage of the day's warmth to visit
the mouse-infested barn and now lay sunning himself on its southern
threshold.
But at the name of dog the Angora sniffed the air and withdrew with
dignity to his throne indoors. He had already learned that Punch knew a
good cushion when he saw it; and, though early provided with one for
himself, preferred the satin couch of Sir Philip to the carpet-covered
one which Susanna declared "plenty good enough for ary dog humbly as
that one." If Punch secured the cushion first he was not easily
dislodged, and since his one great battle the Angora shrank from
contest. Evidently Sir Philip judged discretion better than valor, and
the behavior of the two animals afforded the family much amusement.
Thus deserted of all society save his own thoughts, Monty fixed a keener
attention upon the slowly advancing pair, and presently exclaimed:
"F-f-fudge! Somethin's happened. Uncle Mose's leanin' on her; she's a
h-h-helpin' him! She's a w-w-w-wav-in' to me like blazes! That's no
'how-de-do' salute, that's a 'come r-r-right here' one! He's got his
axe, looks like, an's l-l-leanin' on it. F-fudge! I bet he's chopped his
foot 'stead of a t-t-tree!"
Monty's legs flew up and down like the rapidly revolving spokes of a
wheel as he hurried toward the man and girl. But after one hasty glance
at the feet of Mr. Jones, and seeing no blood on either, he knew that
whatever was amiss it was not what he had fancied. Without a word he
seized the axe from its owner's trembling hand and placed his own
sturdy little shoulder in its place. Katharine was not crying now, but
her anxiety altered her appearance strangely, and Moses was wholly past
speech. Every nerve of his tortured body was strained to reach a spot
where he could sink down and yield to the dreadful weakness which
assailed him. Even the hard floor of the barn seemed a paradise of rest,
and he fixed his eyes upon the wide doorway with a last effort of his
will.
He did reach it, but there both will and consciousness gave way to the
strain of the last hour, though the story of his pluck and endurance was
to make him more highly respected in his native town than he had ever
been before.
When he sank down fainting the children loosed their hold on either
side, Montgomery standing still in a frightened wonder, but Kate
hastening indoors for help. Rushing breathlessly into the sitting-room
where Miss Eunice was quietly arranging some yellow 'mums in a quaint
glass jar, she caught the lady's hand with a vehemence which sent the
flowers in one direction, the pretty jar in another.
"Oh, Aunt Eunice! Come quick, 'cause now he truly must be dead, after
all. Quick, quick!"
"Katharine--my dear! Why will you do such startling things? My precious
jar that has held flowers for us these generations just rescued from
destruction! And the poor flowers themselves--"
"Oh, don't bother! Please, please come. There's only Monty out there,
and I--I did what I could, but he's dead, anyway."
"Dead, child? Sir Philip dead?" asked Miss Maitland, her thoughts
instantly reverting to the only ailing member of the household.
"No, Aunt Eunice, but a person, a man--Uncle Moses."
Then, indeed, did Eunice's own hand tremble so that she set the jar she
had just preserved back on the mantel while her face paled in distress.
But she caught the girl's guiding hand firmly in her own, called to
Susanna in the kitchen, and on the brief journey to the "further barn"
learned the main facts of the affair.
Two hours later Katharine and Montgomery sat down in the kitchen to a
dinner of bread and milk, while over the rest of the house hung a
strange silence which made even its former quietude seem noisy by
contrast. Aunt Eunice had gone to lie down, being greatly shaken by the
sad accident, which, while being much less tragic than the death
Katharine had reported, was trouble sufficiently serious. In the kitchen
chamber above, Moses' own room, they could hear Susanna softly stepping
about in list slippers, only the jar of the floor beams betraying her
movements, and occasionally a muffled voice, strangely unlike the gruff
tones of the hired man, would float down to them. Sir Philip lay purring
himself to sleep, after a strenuous season of unrest, during which
nobody had had time to protect him from mischievous Punch. As for the
latter, he had been fatigued by his trip to and from the forest, as well
as his manoeuvres with the Angora, and now took his own rest by
sleeping with one eye open.
The children themselves were weary. Katharine from the excitement of the
morning, and Montgomery from physical exercise. He had never done so
many useful things in his life as he had crowded into the space of two
short hours. It was he who had summoned the doctor, run back and forth
between that gentleman's office and Miss Maitland's house, carried a
plain statement of facts to Madam Sturtevant, as well as a highly
furbished one to every householder between the two mansions, and had
manfully attended to Mr. Jones's noon "chores." He had, indeed, already
a wild ambition to be engaged in the hired man's place, since the doctor
said that that sufferer would be laid up in bed for at least three
months.
"I'd r-r-rather do chores any day than go to s-s-school," he announced
to his companion, swallowing a large bit of bread at the same time, and
thereby causing that young person to tilt her nose upwards,
disdainfully.
"You ought to be as nice in your manners out here alone with me as you
would be in the real dining-room with Aunt Eunice and grown-up company,"
she reproved, daintily balancing her own spoon with an ease which the
other would scarcely admit to himself that he admired.
"F-f-fudge. You ain't c-c-com--pany no more. You belong, don't you?"
"I--I guess so. I begin to hope so, for this is the most delightfully
happening place I ever was in. Though I never was in, to stay, but one
other. First you fell over a precipice, and then I found a nest of
little turkeys all dead, out in the black currant-bushes, Susanna says
they are, that had stolen themselves--whatever that is. Then that
mystery of a brass bound box; and now Uncle Moses breaking his bones,
and so much going on. But--Montgomery Sturtevant! That box! What did
become of it? Would we dare, do you suppose we might go back to the
woods and find it? It was all your fault. If I hadn't let you carry
it--All this about poor Uncle Moses has put it out of my mind, but now
it comes back and it's more important than he is. I'm sure of it. We
must find it. Come, quick!"
Katharine pushed back from the table and; sprang to her feet, her
weariness forgotten in this fresh anxiety.
But Monty was neither anxious nor excited; at least, not about the box,
though he held it scarcely less important than she did. He was busy
over a "sum" in mental arithmetic, a branch of study he little favored,
though it had now come to assume considerable importance to him. Yet the
problem was beyond his capacity, though this keen-witted girl might
solve it. He'd try her. Therefore, still gurgling his milk, he
spluttered:
"S-s-s-ay, Katy! if a man, if a m-m-man can earn a dollar a day doin'
c-c-chores, all the c-c-chores, how much can a boy earn doin'
h-h-ha-half of 'em?"
"Not a single cent, if I had to pay him, and he were such a boy as you.
A boy so mean he'd take a brass bound box out of a girl's hands and lose
it for her, and then wouldn't budge to go get it. You do try me so,
Montgomery! And there's one thing I know. That is, that if I had the
management of you I'd break you of that detestable habit of stuttering,
or know the reason why. It's all nonsense. You can talk as well as
anybody else, only you're too lazy. Now, will you come?"
To her surprise and to her shame, also, he neither resented her sharp
speech nor her reply to his money question. Leaning forward, his blue
eyes took on an earnestness which effectually dispelled all notion of
vanity in their possessor, demanding:
"C-c-c-could you do it? C-c-can you? _W-w-w-wi-will you?_"
"Yes, I might, could, would, and should--if you'd go find my brass bound
box!"
"Cross your heart, honest Injun, h-h-hope to d-d-die?"
"No. Neither one. Just plain 'Yes.' I know a way. I've read all about it
in the Cyclopedia in the big bookcase. I hunted it up right away, that
first day after the first night when I--I mocked you. I made up my mind
then, and I never unmake minds, that if you'd be decent I'd cure you.
It's nothing but a dreadful bad habit, anyway, and easy done. But not
until you find my--the--Aunt Eunice's brass bound box."
He was gone and back in a flash.
Katharine, starting to follow, paused in the middle of the floor,
arrested by the sight of him standing in one doorway with the glittering
casket in his hands, and of Miss Maitland in another staring at that
which he held as if she saw a ghost.