A STRANGE ADMISSION
The days went by, and summer was near its end. Then, with the vacation
drawing to a close, there came a surprise for Henry Burns, in the form
of a letter from his aunt. It was she with whom he lived, in a
Massachusetts town; but now she wrote that she had decided to spend the
winter in Benton, and that he must enter school there at the fall term,
along with Tom Harris and Bob White. "Then I stay, too," exclaimed Jack
Harvey, when he had read the important news--and he did. The elder
Harvey, communicated with, had no objection; and, indeed, there was a
most satisfactory arrangement made, later, that Jack Harvey should board
with Henry Burns and his aunt; an arrangement highly pleasing to the two
boys, if it added later to the concern and worry of the worthy Miss
Matilda Burns.
The days grew shorter and the nights cool; and, by and by, with much
reluctance, the canoes were hauled ashore for the last time, of an
afternoon, and stored away in a corner of the barn back of the camp; and
fishing tackle for summer use was put carefully aside, also. There were
lessons to be learned, and fewer half-days to be devoted to the sport
for which they cared most.
The pickerel in the stream and the trout in the brook sought deeper
waters, in anticipation of winter. The boys spent less and less of their
time in the vicinity of the old Ellison farm.
Tim and Young Joe Warren stuck mostly by the camp, and drew the others
there on certain select occasions. For Little Tim, by reason of long
roving, had a wonderful knowledge of the resources of the country around
the old stream. He had a beechnut grove that he had discovered, three
miles back from the water, on the farther shore; likewise a place where
the hazel bushes were loaded with nuts, and where a few butternut trees
yielded a rich harvest. Young Joe and he gathered a great store of
these, as the nights of early frost came on; and they spread a feast for
the others now and then, with late corn, roasted in questionable fashion
over a smoky box-stove that heated the camp stifling hot.
October came in, with the leaves growing scarlet in the woods and sharp
winds whistling through the corn and bean stacks. Henry Burns and his
friends had seen but little of the Ellisons, who were out of school for
the winter, caring for the farm; but now the night of the 31st of
October found Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, George Warren, Bob White and
Tom Harris seated in the big kitchen of the Ellison farmhouse.
It was plainly to be seen that, although the Ellisons had been reduced
in circumstances through the loss of the mill, there was still an
abundance of its kind yielded by the farm. On a table were dishes of
apples and fall pears; two pumpkin pies of vast circumference squatted
near by, close to a platter of honey and a huge pitcher of milk.
It was dark already, though only half-past seven o'clock, and the lights
of two kerosene lamps gleamed through the kitchen windows.
As hosts on this occasion, John and James Ellison presently proceeded to
introduce their city friends to the delights of milk and honey; a dish
composed of the dripping sweet submerged in a bowl of creamy milk, and
eaten therewith, comb and all.
"Never hurt anybody eaten that way," explained John Ellison, "and this
is the real thing. The milk is from the Jersey cows in the barn, and the
honey's from the garret, where there's five swarms of bees been working
all summer."
They need no urging, however.
"Poor Joe! He'll die of grief when I tell him about this," remarked
George Warren, smacking his lips over a mouthful.
"Why didn't you bring him along?" asked John Ellison. "I wanted you all
to come."
"Arthur's off down town, and Joe's gone to the camp with Tim Reardon,"
explained the eldest of the Warren brothers. "Tim and Joe'll be
sky-larking around somewhere later. They're great on Hallowe'en night,
you know. They've got a supply of cabbage-stumps to deliver at the
doors."
And thus the talk drifted to Hallowe'en, the night when, if old
romances could only be believed, there are witches and evil spirits
abroad, alive to all sorts of pranks and mischief.
In the midst of which, and most timely, there came suddenly a sharp tap
at one of the windows. They paused and turned quickly in that direction.
James Ellison sprang to the window and peered out.
"Nothing there," he said; "one of those big beetles, I guess, attracted
by the light."
They fell to eating again, when presently another smart rap at the
window startled them.
John Ellison laughed. "It's some of fat old Benny's nonsense," he said.
"He wouldn't come in, because you city chaps were coming. He's rigged a
tick-tack; I can see the string of it. Wait a minute and I'll just steal
'round the other door and catch him at it. You fellows go on eating, and
don't pay any attention. I'll catch him."
They resumed the feast; and again the sharp rap sounded upon the window
pane, caused by the clicking of a heavy nail--suspended from the window
sash by a pin and string, and yanked by somebody at the end of a longer
string attached--swinging in against the glass.
There came a yell of surprise shortly; and, in a moment, there appeared
John Ellison clutching the culprit by the collar. Which culprit, to
their astonishment, proved to be, not Benny Ellison but Young Joe.
"Here he is," laughed John Ellison, dragging in his prisoner. "What'll
we do with him?"
"Clean him," suggested George Warren, winking at the others. "He's got a
dirty face."
True enough, Young Joe had, in the course of his evening's adventures,
acquired a streak of smut across one cheek.
Roaring at the suggestion, they seized the struggling captive, lifted
him up bodily to the sink, where they held him face upward under a
stream of water, pumped with a vigour. When they had done with him,
Young Joe's face was most assuredly clean.
"Now," said John Ellison, as they set Joe on his feet again, "there's a
towel. Dry up and come and have some honey."
Young Joe, grinning, and with a joyous vision of honey and pumpkin pie
before him, obeyed with alacrity.
"Say," he said, cramming a spoonful of the mess into his mouth, and
gulping it with huge satisfaction, "can Tim come in? He's out there."
"Sure, bring him in," assented John Ellison.
A few shrill whistles from Young Joe brought his companion to the door;
and Tim Reardon was soon likewise equipped with bowl and spoon--but not
before he had got his ducking at the kitchen pump, which he took with
Spartan fortitude.
Honey and milk, pies and fruit soon disappeared rapidly at the renewed
attack. A fresh pie, added largely for the benefit of Young Joe and Tim,
went the way of the others. Young Joe gave a murmur of surfeited delight
as the last piece of crust disappeared; while Little Tim was gorged to
the point almost of speechlessness, and could hardly shake his head at
the proffer of more.
"Well," said George Warren, at length, "what are you two chaps doing
around here, anyway--I'll bet Joe smelled the food, clear down to the
camp."
Young Joe, in reply, turned to John Ellison, and motioned toward the
farmyard. "Give us one of those pumpkins?" he asked.
The pumpkins referred to lay in a great golden heap beside one of the
barns; and there were a few scattered ones lying out in the corn-field
beyond.
"Why, sure," responded John Ellison. "Have as many as you want." And he
added, with a sly wink at George Warren, "We give a lot of them to the
pigs. You're welcome."
Young Joe, lifting himself out of his chair with some effort, due to the
weight of pie and honey stowed within, disappeared through the door. He
returned, shortly, carrying a large handsome pumpkin on his shoulder.
"What are you going to do with it?" asked John Ellison.
Young Joe grinned. "Going to give it to Witham," he said.
In preparation for this act of generosity, Young Joe proceeded to carve
upon one side of the pumpkin a huge, grinning face. Having finished
which, with due satisfaction to artistic details, he stood off and
admired his own handiwork.
"Looks a little like Witham," he said. "Only it looks better-natured
than he does."
"You'd better let Witham alone," said George Warren, assuming the
patronizing tone of an elder brother. "He's in a bad humour these days."
"Not going to do any harm," replied Young Joe. "Going to put it up on
the flag-pole, eh Tim? Come along with us?"
"Why, if it's got to be done," said Henry Burns, speaking with the
utmost gravity, "I suppose we might as well go along and see that it's
done right and shipshape;" and he arose from his chair. So, too, the
others, save John Ellison.
"You fellows go ahead," he said, "and then come back. I don't feel like
playing a joke on Witham. I'm too much in earnest about him."
"That's so," returned Henry Burns. "I don't blame you. We'll be back in
no time."
They went down the hill, soon after, carrying the pumpkin between them
by turns. They cut across the field on the hill slope, crossed the old
bridge over the brook, and went on up the road toward the Half Way
House.
"Look out for Bess Thornton," said Jim Ellison, who had accompanied
them. "She and the old woman are here now for the winter, keeping house
for Witham."
"She won't let on, if she comes out," said Tim.
But they saw nothing of her. Tired out with her day's work, the girl had
gone to bed and was soundly sleeping.
They arrived presently at a little plot of grass in front of the inn,
from the centre of which there rose up a lofty flag-pole. It had been
erected by some former proprietor, for the patriotic purpose of flying
the American flag; but, to Colonel Witham's thrifty mind, it had offered
an excellent vantage for displaying a dingy banner, with the
advertisement of the Half Way House lettered thereon. This fluttered now
in a mournful way, half way up the mast, as though it were a sign of
mourning for the quality of food and lodging one might expect at the
hands of Colonel Witham.
A dim light shone in the two front office windows of the inn, but the
shades were drawn so that they could not see within. Other than the
lamplight, there seemed to be a flickering, uncertain, intermittent
gleam, or variation of the light, indicating probably a fire in the open
hearth.
The boys waited now for a moment, till Henry Burns, who had volunteered,
went quietly up toward the hotel, to reconnoitre. He came back
presently, saying that there was a side window, shaded only by a blind,
half-closed on the outside, through which he had been able to make out
old Granny Thornton and Colonel Witham seated by the fire.
"Run up the pumpkin," he said; "I'll go back there again and keep watch.
If Witham starts to come out, I'll whistle, and we'll cut and run."
He went back to the window, and took up his place there.
"Cracky!" exclaimed Young Joe; "who's going to shin that pole? It's a
high one. Wish I hadn't eaten that last piece of pie. How about you,
Tim?"
"I can do it," asserted Tim, stoutly.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Harvey. "There's the halyards. What more do you
want? You cut a hole through the pumpkin, George, clear through the
middle, so we can pass an end of the rope, and I'll see that it goes up,
and stays."
The pumpkin being duly pierced, one free end of the halyard was passed
through the hole. Then Harvey proceeded to tie a running knot, through
which he passed the other free end of rope. They took hold with a will,
and hoisted. Quickly, the golden pumpkin was borne aloft; when it
brought up at the top of the pole, the running knot drew tight, and the
pumpkin was fast--with the difficulty presenting itself to whomever
should seek to get it down, that the harder one pulled on the loose end
of rope, the tighter he would draw the knot that held the thing high in
air.
Now it shone forth in the darkness like an evil sort of beacon, its
silly grotesque face grinning like a true hobgoblin of Hallowe'en; for,
having scooped out its pulp and seeds, they had set a candle therein and
lighted it just before they sent it aloft.
"Great, isn't it?" chuckled Young Joe. "Now let's get Henry Burns, and
give Colonel Witham notice." But, strangely enough, Henry Burns did not
respond to their whistles, low at first, then repeated with louder
insistence.
"That's funny," said George Warren. "Wait here a minute and I'll go and
get him." But, to his surprise, when he had approached the corner of
the inn, where he could see Henry Burns, still crouching by the
half-opened blind, the latter youth turned for a moment and motioned
energetically for him to keep away.
"Come on," whispered George Warren, "the thing's up; we want to get
Witham out to see it."
But Henry Burns only turned again and uttered a warning "sh-h-h," then
resumed his place at the window.
George Warren crept up, softly.
It was not surprising that Henry Burns had been interested by what he
saw in the old room of the inn, and by what he at length came to hear.
At first glance, there was Colonel Witham, fat and red-faced, strangely
aroused, evidently labouring under some excitement, addressing himself
vigorously to the old woman who sat close by. His heavy fist came down,
now and then, with a thump on the arm of the chair in which he sat; and
each time this happened poor old Granny Thornton jumped nervously as
though she had been struck a blow. Her thin, peaked face was drawn and
anxious; her eyes were fixed and staring; and she shook as though her
feeble old frame would collapse.
Henry Burns, surprised at this queer pantomine, gazed for a moment,
unable to hear what was being said. Then, the voice of Colonel Witham,
raised to a high pitch, could be clearly distinguished. What he said
surprised Henry Burns still more.
"I tell you I'll have her," cried Colonel Witham; "you've got to give
her to me. What are you afraid of? I won't starve her. Where'll she go
when you die, if you don't? Let her go to the poorhouse, will you?"
And he added, heartlessly, "You can't live much longer; don't you know
that?"
Old Granny Thornton, half lifting herself from her chair, shook her head
and made a reply to Colonel Witham, which Henry Burns could not hear.
But what she said was perhaps indicated by Colonel Witham's reply.
"Yes, I do like her," he said. "She's a flyaway and up to tricks, but
I'll take that out of her. I'll bring her up better than you could. I
need her to help take care of the place."
Again the woman appeared to remonstrate. She pointed a bony finger at
Colonel Witham and spoke excitedly. Colonel Witham's face flushed with
anger.
"I tell you you've got to give her to me," he cried. "I'll swear you put
her in my charge. I'll take her. It's that, or I'll pack you both off to
the poorhouse. I'll make out the papers for you to sign. You'll do it;
you've got to."
Old Granny Thornton sprang from her chair with a vigour excited by her
agitation. She clutched an arm of the chair with one hand, while she
raised the other impressively, like a witness swearing to an oath in
court. And now, her voice keyed high with excitement, these words fell
upon the ears of Henry Burns:
"You'll never get her, Dan Witham. You can't have her. She's been here
too long already. She's going back, now. I can't give her away,
because--because she's not mine to give. She's not mine, I tell you.
She's not mine!"
Then, her strength exhausted by the utterance, she sank back once more
into her seat.
Colonel Witham, his face blank with amazement, sought now to rouse her
once more. He arose and grasped her by an arm. He shook her.
"Whose is she, then, if she's not yours?" he asked. "Whom does she
belong to?"
What answer Granny Thornton made--if any--to this inquiry, was lost to
Henry Burns; for, at this moment, George Warren, stealing to the window,
tripped over a running vine and fell with a crash, amid a row of milk
pans that Henry Burns had carefully avoided.
Henry Burns got one fleeting glimpse of the two by the fire springing up
in alarm, as he and George Warren fled from the spot. A moment more, the
others had joined them in flight, whooping and yelling to bring Colonel
Witham to the door.
Looking back, as they ran, they saw presently a square patch of light
against the dark background of the house, where Colonel Witham had
thrown wide the front door; and, in the light that streamed forth from
within, the figure of the colonel stood disclosed in full relief. He was
gesticulating wildly, with angry gaze directed toward the grinning face
of the pumpkin.
Colonel Witham strode down from the piazza and walked rapidly to the
foot of the flag-staff. He seized the one end of the halyards that
dangled within reach, and jerked hard upon it, endeavouring to shake the
pumpkin from its lofty position. But it was of no avail. Every tug upon
the rope served only to tighten the knot. The colonel glared helplessly
for a moment, and then returned into the inn.
Again he emerged, bearing something in his hand, which he raised and
aimed directly at the gleaming face. A report rang out. The echoes of
the sound of Colonel Witham's shotgun startled the crows in all the
nests around. But the pumpkin stayed. The shot had only buried itself
within its soft shell. The colonel would not give up so easily, however.
Again and again he fired, hoping to shatter the pumpkin, or to sever the
rope that held it.
Presently a shot extinguished the light within; and it was no longer an
easy mark to see. Breathing vengeance upon all the boys for miles
around, Colonel Witham finally gave it up, and retired, vanquished, to
the inn, to await another day. The pumpkin was still aloft.
"Say, Henry," asked George Warren, as they started off up the hill
again, "what did you see in there, anyway? What did you want me to keep
away for?"
Henry Burns, sober-faced and puzzled, gave a groan of disappointment.
"Oh, if you'd only kept away for a moment," he exclaimed. "I can't tell
you now; wait till by and by."
"Jack," he added, addressing his friend, "I'm going down to Benton. Tell
John I couldn't come back. I've got something to do." And, to the
surprise of his companions, Henry Burns left them abruptly, and went
down the road at a rapid pace.
He had something to think over, and he wanted to be alone. What he had
heard puzzled and astounded him. There was a mystery in the old inn, of
which he had caught a fleeting hint. What could it all mean? He turned
it over in his mind a hundred different ways as he walked along; as to
what he had best do; whom he should tell of his strange discovery--what
was the mystery of Bess Thornton's existence?
Certainly the air was full of mystery and strange surprises, this
Hallowe'en night; and the old Ellison house up on the hill was not free
from it. An odd thing happened, also, there. For, passing by the old
cabinet where Benny Ellison hoarded his treasures, something impelled
Mrs. Ellison to pause for a moment, open the doors and look within.
She smiled as she glanced over the shelves, with the odds and ends of
boyish valuables arranged there; a book of stamps; some queer old
coloured prints of Indian wars; birds' nests; fishing tackle; a
collection of birds' eggs and coins. There were some two score of these
last, set up endwise in small wooden racks. She glanced them over--and
one, bright and shiny, attracted her attention. She took it up and held
it to the light. Then she uttered a cry and sank down on the floor.
Strangely enough, when John and Benny Ellison rushed in, at the sound of
her voice, she was sitting there, sobbing over the thing; and they
thought her taken suddenly ill. But she started up, at the sight of
Benny Ellison, and asked, in a broken voice, how he had come by it. And
when he had told her, she seemed amazed and strangely troubled.
"Then someone must have dropped it there recently," she exclaimed. "How
could that be? It must be the same. I never saw another like it. Oh,
what can it mean?"
Strangest of all to Benny Ellison, she would not return the coin to his
collection; but held it fast, and only promised that she would
recompense him for it. He went to bed, sullen and surly over the loss of
his treasure. Mrs. Ellison held the coin in her hand, gazing upon it as
though it had some curious power of fascination, as she went to her room
and shut the door.