A MESS OF FISH
The next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Wood’s boarders found a capital
mess of fresh perch and pickerel on the table, and she remarked to them:
“You are eating Mr. Vernon’s fish.”
“How’s that?” asked Val.
“Why,” said Mrs. Wood, “Puff Evans came to the door with them, ready
cleaned, by the time we were up, and left them with his respects to Mr.
Vernon. He said, too, that the boat was all right and ready for use.”
“And so you cooked them for me,” said Bar. “Well, thank you for that,
and I must say it looks well on Puff’s part. Shall we bring home
whatever fish we catch?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Wood, “and Puff may bring as many pickerel as he
pleases. They’re always welcome.”
They were, indeed, that morning, for it seemed as if the previous
night’s disturbance had distributed unusually keen appetites all around
the table.
Bar and Val were quite ready to take advantage of Puff’s hint about the
boat, and George Brayton frankly declared his regret at not being able
to go with them.
“Only, Mr. Vernon,” he added, “you must not let your fishing prevent
you from doing something with your grammar.”
“I won’t,” said Bar, and then even Mrs. Wood became interested in so
very unusual a method of attempting the intricacies of the Latin tongue.
At that very hour, however, a brace of active-looking youths were
slowly descending the hillside from the cow pastures, and one said to
another:
“Hiram Allen, that was very remarkable conduct on the part of Solomon’s
dun heifer.”
“Very,” replied Hy; “but, Zeb, don’t you suppose they suspect us?”
“Of course they do,” said Zeb; “but I’ve the dun heifer’s word of honor
that she won’t tell how she got into the Academy.”
“No, she won’t tell,” said Hy, thoughtfully, “but it would be a rough
thing on you and me if we got found out.”
“Solomon took care of that with his customary wisdom,” said Zeb; “he
came right over to our house and made himself sure that I had been in
my peaceful couch all the time.”
“We’d better keep it, even from the boys, unless it’s Bill Jones,” said
Hy.
“Of course,” replied Zeb, “the dun heifer, though a brute, is far more
trustworthy than any human being.”
Every breakfast-table in Ogleport was busy with the bell mystery that
morning, and the unanimity with which all minds seemed in search of a
clue which would guide them in the direction of Deacon Fuller’s house
was a high testimonial to the well-earned fame of the deacon’s heir.
It was only, however, at the coffee-urn of the Academy principal that
anything like gloom interfered with the pervading cheerfulness of tone
which the common difficulty seemed to be met.
Euphemia would have been as smiling as a June sunrise about it, and
even the doctor would speedily have recovered from his temporary
depression, but Mrs. Dryer failed to discern any ray of comfort.
“It’s a piece of outrageous and unparalleled defiance,” she assured
her husband and stepdaughter, for the three-and-thirtieth time.
“Your influence and authority in this community will be permanently
compromised unless you succeed in probing this matter to the very
bottom and bringing the lawless perpetrators to condign justice. Why,
Dr. Dryer, that unfortunate heifer might have pulled down the bell.”
“I am compelled to admit the possibility of such a termination of her
efforts to liberate herself,” moodily responded the doctor, unmindful
of Effie’s suggestion:
“Or to get at the apples.”
“The entire operation,” he continued, “is enveloped in impenetrable
mystery. I am anxious to ascertain if Mr. Brayton has evolved any
probable solution. He afterwards ascended to the belfry to remove the
rope from its attachments.”
“Brayton!” scornfully exclaimed Mrs. Dryer. “If you don’t learn
anything till you get it from him! Why, I’m expecting every day to hear
that the boys have begun to call him George.”
“Dorothy Jane----”
“It’s no use, Doctor; you won’t have a cow or a bell or an Academy, or
anything else, before the end of this term, if you don’t manage somehow
to accomplish something.”
There was no denying that the exigency was one that called for special
exertion, but Effie Dryer had seen George Brayton prying around the
Academy building very early that morning, and she would have given more
than her stepmother seemed disposed to for a statement of his views
concerning the heifer and the bell. It had already been ascertained
that the peck measure was the doctor’s own, but no one had succeeded in
identifying what remained of the green apples.
Meantime, on his way back from his errand of gratitude that morning,
Puff Evans had been hailed by Pat Murphy from the door of the
grist-mill.
“The top o’ the mornin’ to yez. It’s sorry I am to hear the bad news
about yer boat.”
“My boat?” responded Puff.
“Yis,” said Pat, “and the master towld me to offer yez the pick of his
lumber yon, ave ye was minded to build another.”
“And what for?” asked Puff. “Isn’t the boat a good one?”
“Sure enough,” said Pat; “she’s only too good for a Rodney lawyer. I
hope she’ll upset wid him the day he puts his foot in her.”
By this time Puff began to comprehend the state of his neighbor’s mind
on the boat question, and he at once proceeded to an explanation which
made the kind-hearted Irishman break out into all sorts of encomiums
upon the “young jintleman from the city.”
“It’s all right,” said Puff.
“Thrue for you,” said Pat, “an’ it’s mesilf would like to do the
good turn for him. He’ll have frinds to the fore in Ogleport, or I’m
mishtaken.”
“’Deed he will,” said Puff, very emphatically, for him, “and I’ll teach
him all there is to learn about boatin’ and fishin’ in these parts.”
“It’s yersilf knows it all thin,” said Pat, and he went back to his
grist with a muttered:
“Wondher ave Zeb Fuller and the b’yes know about that same.”