THE MARTIN-BOX NEIGHBORS
Marian picked her way up the shore to the board bridge, with Finnegan
prancing behind her. She felt a little abashed as she remembered her
rather tart indifference to young Burford's cordial invitation of the
week before. But all her embarrassment melted away as she crossed the
little bridge and met Sally Lou's welcoming face, her warm clasping
hands.
"You don't know how hungry I have been to see you," vowed Sally Lou,
her brown eyes kindling under the scarlet bonnet.
"We've been counting the hours till we should dare to go to call on
Miss Northerner, haven't we, kiddies? This is my son, Edward Fairfax
Burford, Junior, Miss Hallowell. Three years old, three feet square,
and weighs forty-one pounds. Isn't he rather gorgeous--if he does
belong to me! And this is Thomas Tucker Burford. Eighteen months
old, twenty-six pounds, and the disposition of an angel, as long as he
gets his own way. And this is Mammy Easter, who came all the way from
Norfolk with me, to take care of the babies, so that I could live here
on the contract with Ned. Wasn't she brave to come out to this cold,
lonesome country all for me? And this martin-box is my house, and it
is anxious to meet you, too, so come right in!"
[Illustration: ON THE EDGE OF THE OPPOSITE BANK STOOD THE QUAINTEST,
PRETTIEST GROUP THAT HER EYES HAD EVER BEHELD.]
Marian climbed the high, narrow outside steps that led to the tiny
play-house on stilts, and entered the low, red doorway, feeling as if
she had climbed Jack's bean-stalk into fairyland. Inside, the
martin-box was even more fascinating. It boasted just three rooms. The
largest room, gay with Mother Goose wall-paper and rosy chintz, was
obviously the realm of Edward, Junior, and Thomas Tucker. The next
room, with its cunning miniature fireplace, its shelves of books, its
pictures and photographs, and its broad high-piled desk, was their
parents' abode; while the third room boasted fascinating white-painted
cupboards and sink, a tiny alcohol stove, and a wee table daintily
set.
"Aren't you shocked at folks that eat in their kitchen?" drawled Sally
Lou, observing Marian with dancing eyes. "But all our baking and heavy
cooking is done for us, over on the quarter-boat. I brought the stove
to heat the babies' milk; and, too, I like to fuss up goodies for Ned
when he is tired or worried. Poor boys! They're having such an
exasperating time with the contract this week! Everything seems
possessed to go awry. We'll have to see to it that they get a lot of
coddling so's to keep them cheered up, won't we?"
"Why, I--I suppose so. But how did you dare to bring your little
children down here? They say that this is the most malarial district
in the State."
"I know. But they can't catch malaria until May, when the mosquitoes
come. Then I shall send them to a farm, back in the higher land. Mammy
will take care of them; and I'll stay down here with Ned during the
day and go to the babies at night. They're pretty sturdy little tads.
They are not likely to catch anything unless their mother is careless
with them. And she isn't careless, really. Is she, Tom Tucker?" She
snatched up her youngest son, with a hug that made his fat ribs
creak. "Come, now! Let's brew some stylish afternoon tea for the lady.
Get down the caravan tea that father sent us, Mammy, and the preserved
ginger, and my Georgian spoons. And fix some chicken bones on the
stoop for Miss Northerner's puppy. This is going to be a banquet, and
a right frabjous one, too!"
It was a banquet, and a frabjous one, Marian agreed. Sally Lou's tea
and Mammy's nut-cakes were delicious beyond words. The bright little
house, the dainty service, Sally Lou's charming gay talk, the babies,
clinging wide-eyed and adorable to her knee, all warmed and heartened
Marian's listless soul. She was ravished with everything. She looked
in wonder and delight at the high sleeping-porch, with its double
mosquito bars and its duck screening and its cosey hammock-beds. ("Ned
sleeps so much better here, where it is quiet, than on that noisy
boat," Sally Lou explained.) She gazed with deep respect at the tiny
pantry, built of soap-boxes, lined with snowy oil-cloth. She marvelled
at the exquisite old silver, the fine embroidered table-linen, the
delicate china. And she caught her breath when her eyes lighted upon
the beautiful painting in oils that hung above young Burford's desk.
It was a magical bit of color: a dreamy Italian garden, walled in
ancient carved and mellowed stone, its slopes and borders a glory of
roses, flaunting in splendid bloom; and past its flowery gates, a
glimpse of blue, calm sea. She could hardly turn her eyes away from
the lovely vista. It was as restful as an April breeze. And across the
lower corner she read the clear tracing of the signature, a
world-famous name.
Sally Lou followed her glance.
"You surely think I'm a goose, don't you, to bring my gold teaspoons,
and my wedding linen, and my finest tea-set down to a wilderness like
this? Well, perhaps I am. And yet the very best treasures that we own
are none too good for our home, you know. And this _is_ home. Any
place is home when Ned and the babies and I are together. Besides, the
very fact that this place is so queer and ugly and dismal is the best
of reasons why we need all our prettiest things, and need to use them
every day, don't you see? So I picked out my sacredest treasures to
bring along. And that painting--yes, it was running a risk to bring so
valuable a canvas down here. But doesn't it just rest your heart to
look at it? That is why I wanted it with us every minute. You can look
at that blue sleepy sky, and those roses climbing the garden wall, and
the sea below, and forget all about the noisy, grimy boats, and the
mud, and sleet, and malaria, and the cross laborers, and the broken
machinery, and everything else; and just look, and look, and dream.
That is why I carted it along. Especially on Ned's account, don't you
see?"
"Y-yes." At last Marian took her wistful eyes from the picture. "I
wish that I had thought to bring some good photographs to hang in
Rod's state-room. I never thought. But there is no room to pin up even
a picture post-card in his cubby-hole on the boat. I must go on now. I
have had a beautiful time."
"There goes your brother this minute! In that little red launch, see?
He is going up the ditch. Ring the dinner-bell, Mammy, that will stop
him. He can take you and your dog up to Gates's Landing and save you
half an hour's muddy walk."
Mammy's dinner-bell pealed loud alarm. Roderick heard and swung the
boat right-about. His sober, anxious face lighted as Marian and Sally
Lou gayly hailed him.
"I'm glad that you've met Mrs. Burford," he said, as he helped Marian
aboard and hoisted Finnegan astern with some difficulty and many
yelps; for Finnegan left his chicken-bones only under forcible urging.
"She is just about the best ever, and I hope you two will be regular
chums."
"I love her this minute," declared Marian, with enthusiasm. "Where are
you bound, Rod? Mayn't Finnegan and I tag along?"
Rod's face grew worried.
"I'm bound upon a mighty ticklish cruise, Sis. It is a ridiculous
cruise, too. Do you remember what I told you last week about the law
that governs the taxing of the land-owners for the making of these
ditches?"
"Yes. You said that when the majority of the land-owners had agreed on
doing the drainage work, then the law made every owner pay his tax,
in proportion to the acreage of his land which would be drained by the
ditches, whether he himself wanted the drainage done or not. And you
said that some of the farmers did not want the ditches dug, and that
they were holding back their payments and making trouble for the
contractors; while others were making still more trouble by blocking
the right of way and refusing to let the dredges cut through their
land. But how can they hold you back, Rod? The law says that all the
district people must share in the drainage expenses, whether they like
to or not, because the majority of their neighbors have agreed upon
it."
"The law says exactly that. Yes. But there are a lot of kinks to
drainage law, and the farmers know it. Burford says that two or three
of them have been making things lively for the company from the start.
But just now we have only one troublesome customer to deal with. And
she is a woman, that is the worst of it. She is a well-to-do,
eccentric old lady, who owns a splendid farm, just beyond the Gateses.
She paid her drainage assessment willingly enough. But now she says
that, last fall, the boys who made the survey tramped through her
watermelon-field and broke some vines and sneaked off with three
melons. At least, so she indignantly states. Maybe it is so; although
the boys swear it was a pumpkin-field, and that they didn't steal so
much as a jack-o'-lantern. Furthermore, she has put up barb wire and
trespass notices straight across the contract right of way; and she
has sent us notice that she is guarding that right of way with a gun,
and that the first engineer who pokes his nose across her boundary
line is due to receive a full charge of buckshot. Sort of a shot-gun
quarantine, see? Now we must start dredging the lateral that crosses
her land next Monday, at the latest. It must be done at the present
stage of high water, else we'll have to delay dredging it until fall.
Carlisle planned to call on her to-day, and to mollify her if
possible, but he's too sick. So I must elbow in myself, and see what
my shirt-sleeve diplomacy can do. I'm glad that I can take you along.
Perhaps you can help to thaw her out."
"Of all the weird calls to make! What is the old lady like, Rod?"
"Burford says that she is a droll character. She has managed her own
farm for forty years, and has made a fine success of it. Her name is
Mrs. Chrisenberry. She is not educated, but she is very capable, and
very kind-hearted when you once get on the right side of her. Yonder
is her landing. Don't look so scared, Sis. She won't eat you."
Marian's fear dissolved in giggles as they teetered up the narrow
board walk to the low brick farm-house. They could not find a
door-bell; they rapped and pounded until their knuckles ached.
Finnegan yapped helpfully and chewed the husk door-mat. At last, a
forbidding voice sounded from the rear of the house.
"You needn't bang my door down. Come round to the dryin' yard, unless
you're agents. If you're agents, you needn't come at all. I'm busy."
Meekly Rod and Marian followed this hospitable summons.
Across the muddy drying yard stretched rows of clothes-line,
fluttering white. Beside a heaped basket of wet, snowy linen stood a
very short, very stout little old lady, her thick woollen skirts
tucked up under a spotless white apron, her small nut-cracker face
glowering from under a sun-bonnet almost as large as herself. She took
three clothes-pins from her mouth and scowled at Rod.
"Well!" said she. "Name your business. But I don't want no
graphophones, nor patent chick-feed, nor golden-oak dinin'-room sets,
nor Gems of Poesy with gilt edges. Mind that."
Marian choked. Rod knew that choke. Tears of strangling laughter stood
in his eyes as he humbly stuttered his errand.
"W-we engineers of the Breckenridge Company wish to offer our sincere
apologies for any annoyance that our surveyors may have caused you. We
are anxious to make any reparation that we can. And--er--we find
ourselves obliged, on account of the high water, to cut our east
laterals at once. We will be very grateful to you if you will be so
kind as to overlook our trespasses of last season, and will permit us
to go on with our work. I speak for the company as well as for
myself."
The old lady stared at him, with unwinking, beady eyes. There was a
painful pause.
"Well, I don't know. You're a powerful slick, soft-spoken young man.
I'll say that much for you." Marian gulped, and stooped hurriedly to
pat Finnegan. "And I don't know as I have any lastin' gredge against
your company. Them melons was frost-bit, anyway. But if you do start
your machinery on that lateral, mind I don't want no more tamperin'
with my garden stuff. And I don't want your men a-cavortin' around,
runnin' races on my land, nor larkin' evenings, nor comin' to the
house for drinks of water. One of them surveyors, last fall, he come
to the door for a drink, an' I was fryin' crullers, an' he asked for
one, bold as brass. Says I, 'Help yourself.' Well, he did that. There
was a blue platter brim full, and if he didn't set down an' eat every
single cruller, down to the last crumb! An' then he had the impudence
to tell me to my face that they was tolerable good crullers, but that
he'd wager the next platterful would taste better than the first, an'
he'd like to try and find out for sure!"
"I don't blame him. I'd like to try that experiment myself," said Rod
serenely. The old lady glared. Then the ghost of a twinkle flickered
under the vasty sun-bonnet.
"Well, as I say, I ain't made up my mind yet. But I'll let you know
to-night, maybe. Now you'd better be goin'. Looks like more rain."
"Can't we help you with the clothes first?" asked Marian. The old lady
shook out a huge, wet table-cloth and stood on tip-toe to pin it
carefully on the line.
"You might, yes. Take these pillow-cases. But don't you drop them in
the mud. My clothes-line broke down last week, and didn't I spend a
day of it, doin' my whole week's wash over again!"
The strong breeze caught the big cloth and whipped it like a banner.
Finnegan, who had been waiting politely in the background, beheld this
signal with joy. With a gay yelp he bolted past Marian and seized a
corner of the table-cloth in his teeth.
"Scat!" cried Mrs. Chrisenberry, startled. "Where did that pup come
from? Shoo!"
Finnegan, unheeding, took a tighter grip, and swung his fat heavy body
from the ground. There was a sickening sound of tearing linen. Marian
stood transfixed. Rod, his arms full of wet pillow-slips, dashed to
the rescue. But he was not in time.
"Scat, I say!" Mrs. Chrisenberry flapped her apron.
Amiable creature, she wanted to play with him! Enchanted, the puppy
let go the table-cloth and dashed at her, under full steam. His sturdy
paws struck Mrs. Chrisenberry with the force of a young battering-ram.
With an astonished shriek she swayed back, clutching at the
table-cloth to steady herself. But the table-cloth and clothes-pins
could not hold a moment against the onslaught of the heavy puppy. By
good fortune, the basketful of clothes stood directly behind Mrs.
Chrisenberry. As the faithless table-cloth slid from the rope, back
she pitched, with a terrified squeal, to land, safely if forcibly, in
its snowy depths.
Marian, quite past speech, sank on the porch steps. Rod stood gaping
with horror. Mrs. Chrisenberry rose up with appalling calm.
"You! You come here. You--varmint!"
Finnegan did not hesitate. Trustfully he gambolled up; gayly he
seized her apron hem in his white milk teeth and bit out a
feather-stitched scallop. Mrs. Chrisenberry stooped. Her broad palm
landed heavily on Finnegan's curly ear.
Alas for discipline! Finnegan dodged back and eyed her, amazed. One
grieved yelp rent the air. Then, instantly repenting, he leaped upon
her and smothered her with muddy kisses. This was merely the lady's
way of playing with him. How could he resent it!
Then Rod came to his wits. He seized Mr. Finnegan by the collar and
cuffed him into bewildered silence. He caught up the wrecked
table-cloth and the miry pillow-slips, he poured out regrets and
apologies and promises in an all but tearful stream. Mrs. Chrisenberry
did not say one word. Her small nut-cracker face set, ominous.
"You needn't waste no more soft sawder," said she, at length. "I 'low
these are just the rampagin' doings I could look for every day if I
once gave you folks permission to bring your dredge on my land. So I
may's well make up my mind right now. Tell your boss that those
trespass signs an' that barb wire are still up, and that they'll most
likely stay up till doomsday. Good-mornin'."
"Well! I don't give much for my shirt-sleeve diplomacy," groaned Rod,
as they teetered away, down the board walk.
"I'm sorry, Rod." Then Marian choked again. Weak with laughter, she
clung to the gate-post. "It was j-just like a moving picture! And when
she vanished into the basket--Oh, dear--oh, dear!"
"You better believe it was exactly like a moving picture," muttered
Rod. "It all went so fast I couldn't get there in time to do one
thing. It went like a cinematograph--Zip! And off flew all our chances
for all time. Finnegan, you scoundrel! Do you realize that your
playful little game will cost the company a lawsuit and a small
fortune besides?"
Finnegan barked and took a friendly nip of Rod's ankle. Finnegan's
young conscience was crystal-clear.
"Let's take the launch down to Burford's and tell them our
misfortunes," said Rod. "I need sympathy."
The Burfords heard their mournful tale with shouts of unpitying joy.
"Yes, I know, it's hard luck. Especially with Marvin in the sulks and
Carlisle sick," said Ned Burford, wiping his eyes. "But the next time
you start diplomatic negotiations, you had better leave that dog at
home. I'm going over to the house-boat to tell Mr. Carlisle. Poor sick
fellow, this story will amuse him if anything can."
He jumped into the launch. A minute later Rod brought it alongside the
house-boat and Burford disappeared within.
"Mr. Carlisle, sir!" They heard his laughing voice at the chief's
state-room door. "May I come in? Will I disturb you if I tell you a
good joke on Hallowell?"
There was a pause. Then came a rush of feet. Burford dashed from the
cabin and confronted Rod and Marian. His face was very white.
"Hallowell! Come aboard, quick!" he said, in a shaking voice. "Mr.
Carlisle is terribly ill. He's lying there looking like death; he
couldn't even speak to me. Hurry!"