A NEW FACE
Sube had invented a new face. This was not an infrequent occurrence, but
it was usually a notable one. Within the week he had presented his
family with the "squirrel-face," the "teakettle-spout," the
"double-tongue," and one or two minor productions, so they were not
entirely unprepared to have him announce that he could make a face like
the king of beasts.
During the next few days Mrs. Cane found a lion-face staring at her from
all sorts of unexpected places, generally accompanied by a low snarl and
a bloodthirsty licking of chops. And on one occasion Mr. Cane had been
surprised into boxing the beast's ears and threatening to skin it alive
and make a rug of its pelt if it ever sprang out at him again.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the lion-face disappeared and its
haunts knew it no more, for Sube had turned to other matters. He was
organizing a drum corps. The new enterprise was brought to the attention
of his family by a demand for a bass drum.
"A bass drum!" his father exploded with a sound not wholly unlike that
vast instrument. "What next! I de-clare, that boy beats--"
He gave up in despair.
Sube's mother had stronger nerves and was much less explosive. "What
could you possibly do with a bass drum?" she asked.
"I got to have one for my drum corpse," replied Sube with the air of a
man of affairs.
His father gave way to another explosion. "Well, there will be another
kind of corpse around here if you ever attempt to perform in this
neighborhood!" he threatened.
"Where's the drum your uncle Ned gave you?" asked his mother.
Sube glanced apprehensively at his father. This drum had been heard from
before. "It's put away," he mumbled; hastily adding, "That's a snare
drum, anyway. What we need is a bass drum!"
The mere thought of a drum was annoying to his father, who declared in a
menacing tone: "I hereby warn you that if I ever find a drum on the
premises, snare, bass, kettle or any other kind, I'll kick a hole
through it! Now don't forget that!"
"Kettle? Did you say kettle?" Sube asked eagerly. "What's a kettle
drum?"
"Never mind what it is," retorted his father. "The less you know about
drums, the better off you'll be."
"It wouldn't bother you just to have me _know_ about it, would it?" Sube
persisted.
"That's right! Stick to it!" growled his father. "I suppose I may as
well tell you. It's like a brass kettle with a drumhead over the top.
Now run along and don't bother me any more."
"But how do you play it?"
"What a question! Why, with sticks, of course!"
But Sube was not to be put off. "How many? One? Or two?" he asked as he
edged towards the door.
"Two, of course!" responded his father.
"Like a snare drum?" Sube called back as he tarried in the doorway.
Seeing that he was about to be relieved of his son's presence Mr. Cane
amplified a little. "More like two small bass drumsticks," he explained.
"Now run along and don't bother me again to-day, for I am very busy."
Sube followed his mother into the kitchen. "How'm I goin' to get a bass
drum?" he teased. "Mompsie, how'm I goin' to get--"
"Whatever put this drum business into your head?" she asked. "You know
any kind of noise affects your father!"
"We won't make any noise round here," he assured her. "Honest we won't.
But we want to march in the Decoration Day parade."
"Why don't you get up a nice little company of soldiers," suggested his
mother. "I'll fix a uniform for you, and perhaps your father would let
you carry his sword. But I will not help you to get any more drums or
other noise-making things. A nice little company of soldiers would be
just the thing; and I think your father would drill you once or twice to
show you how--"
"Dad drill _me_! I guess not! I don't want any 'nice little comp'ny of
soldiers,' anyway. I want a drum corpse!"
"You talk to the other boys about a nice little company of soldiers.
That would be just the thing!"
But Sube was not interested in soldiery. The depths of his being had
been sounded by the throb of the Henderson Martial Band. Creative
instincts had been aroused that only expression could satisfy. He
abandoned the quest of the drum and left the house. At the barn he
found Gizzard Tobin waiting for him.
"Well, what luck?" called Gizzard as Sube approached.
"Nuthin' doin'," muttered Sube. "Dad said he'd kick a hole through any
drum he caught on the premises, and my mother wouldn't do a thing for a
drum corpse. She wanted me to get up a pimply little company of
soldiers."
"Rotten," voted Gizzard. "What we goin'--"
"Say! But I got onto one good thing!" Sube suddenly recalled. "It's
another kind of a drum!"
And Gizzard learned with interest the details of the construction and
operation of the kettle drum.
"Hey!" he cried suddenly. "I know where there's a brass kettle! It's a
blinger, too!"
"Where?"
"In my gran'mother's parlor! There's a spinning-wheel and a bed-warmer
and a lot of ol' fashioned junk!"
"But she won't let you take it."
"Who's goin' to ask 'er?" sneered Gizzard. "I'll jus' sneak in there and
borrow it!"
"Aw, you don't dare!"
"I don't, don't I? Well, you jus' come on and watch me. I'll show you
whether I do or not!"
A little later a shiny brass kettle was handed out of one of Grandma
Tobin's parlor windows and was slipped into a sack, which was carelessly
slung over Sube's shoulder when Gizzard emerged from the kitchen door
with two cookies in his hand. That same day Cathead's banjo disappeared,
to be found a year later minus the head, which the mice had doubtless
devoured. But the new drum corps was still without a bass drum.
Next day, however, Gizzard brought glad tidings. "Hey!" he shouted from
afar. "I'm onto a bass drum!"
"Better get off," cautioned Sube; "you might bust it."
"I know where there is one, jus' the same!"
"Where?" Sube was in earnest now.
"My dad says Charley Burton used to have one, and it must be up in his
mother's attic now!"
Sube's face lengthened. "Gee! That's hard luck! Ol' lady Burton wouldn't
give me a crumb if I was starvin', nor you neither. She thinks we killed
that ol' cat of hers."
"Couldn't we get somebody else to ask her for it? Biscuit or somebody?"
"Who'd he tell her it was for?"
"Oh, a Sunday School entertainment or something."
"They don't use drums in Sunday School."
"Then he could tell her it was for a school doin's!"
The two boys looked at each other for a moment, then Sube turned and
darted out of the barn. "Be back in a minute!" he shouted as he started
for the house.
Presently he returned carrying under his coat an autograph album that
was one of Cathead's most cherished possessions. He ran through the
pages until he came to the signature of Professor Ingraham, the
principal of the school. At the first glance the name startled them; it
looked so much like its maker. But after a little it lost its terror and
presented nothing but pleasant possibilities.
"I don't know jus' what you think you're goin' to do with that,"
Gizzard, remarked at length.
"You see, there's lots of room above it," Sube suggested tentatively.
"'Yes, but she'd know the writin' was diff'rent," Gizzard hastened to
observe.
For a moment Sube was silent. Then he punched Gizzard jovially in the
ribs. "Not if I wrote it on the typewriter!" he cried.
Then he stuck out his stomach in imitation of a bass drum and marched
around saying:
"Boom!--Boom!--Boom! Boom! Boom!--Boom!--Boom!--Boom! Boom! Boom!"
"But who'll typewrite it?" asked Gizzard.
"I will--Boom!--Boom!--Boom! Boom! Boom!" and he brought up before
Gizzard with a flourish of his imaginary drumstick. "You watch me!"
"How can I watch you when you jus' 'boom' all the time?" asked Gizzard
peevishly.
"My mother's goin' to a party," Sube divulged presently, "and the minute
she's out of the house we'll sneak into my dad's den, and then I'll show
you if I can't typewrite on the typewriter! I'll show you! You jus'
wait!"
But as far as Gizzard was concerned Sube might as well have suggested
sneaking into a lion's den. "You don't need to show _me_," he declared.
"I'll wait right here!"
The cherished page was carefully removed from the album, and in due time
Sube disappeared into the house with it. After a long absence he came
out again bearing in his hand an envelope smeared with enough finger
prints to convict the whole underworld, but neatly addressed in
typewriting to:
miss? $burton/
%main 3/8-st
"There's capital letters on the dern thing," he explained, "but I
couldn't find 'em."
"She'll never know the diff," ventured Gizzard. "It's a long time since
she went to school, and I'll bet she's forgot all about 'em."
That afternoon Biscuit Westfall delivered the note; but not until he had
received the strongest kind of assurance (including a five-cent piece)
that it had been sent by Professor Ingraham, the principal of the
school. And from an ambush of shrubbery on the opposite side of the
street Sube and Gizzard watched him ascend Mrs. Burton's front porch and
ring the bell. Mrs. Burton herself opened the door. She greeted Biscuit
cordially, as she was very fond of him. His gentle, dutiful, sweetly
pious nature appealed to her. She took the letter with effusive thanks,
and learning that an answer was expected, adjusted her spectacles and
read it.
&dear )miss "burton/:
7willyou kindley lend
your son charleis basedrum to the school
entertianment and oblige
Yours affectionately
D.D. Ingraham
She turned it over and glanced at the back. Then she read it a second
time.
"Did Professor Ingraham write this?" she asked with a puzzled
expression, tapping the missive with an index finger.
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" Biscuit assured her, thinking that he was speaking the
truth.
"Strange," she mused. "What can he possibly want of that old drum?"
"He wants it for the school entertainment," Biscuit explained. "There's
a rehearsal this afternoon, and he wanted me to take it to the
schoolhouse just as quick as I could get it there."
Overwhelmed by Biscuit's unmistakable sincerity Mrs. Burton invited him
to step inside and wait while she brought the drum down from the attic.
But he could not think of such a thing. His innate thoughtfulness would
not permit.
"I'm afraid my feet are too muddy," he said. "I'll wait right here."
Mrs. Burton withdrew. A few moments later the door opened and a huge
bass drum rolled out on to the porch.
"I guess it'll have to be tightened a little," she said as she
surrendered it to Biscuit. And as he staggered down the walk under his
awkward burden, she called after him, "Now you take real good care of
it, won't you, Karl?"
Biscuit assured her that he would.
In further pursuance of the supposed instructions from Professor
Ingraham, Biscuit delivered the drum at the vestibule of the schoolhouse
which, fortunately, was not far away. It was, however, removed a short
time afterwards by parties unknown, and was next found in the Canes'
barn, where it remained until Decoration Day, silent and shrouded in
mystery and horse-blankets.
The evening that it arrived there Sube besought his mother for a
grenadier's tall fur cap.
"So you have decided to have a little company of soldiers, have you?"
she asked.
"Sort of," he replied evasively.
But Mrs. Cane did not pursue the inquiry. She realized that boys love to
be secretive about the most trivial matters, and turned her attention to
the contriving of the grenadier's cap. This was finally accomplished to
Sube's satisfaction by the coiling of a long fox boa round a form of
milliner's wire. Epaulettes of gilt paper, and a pair of red flannel
stripes on his intensely civilian knickerbockers completed his uniform.