(Mr. and Mrs. Ducklow have secretly purchased bonds with money that
should have been given to their adopted son Reuben, who has sacrificed
his health in serving his country as a soldier, and, going to visit
Reuben on the morning of his return home, they hide the bonds under the
carpet of the sitting-room, and leave the house in charge of Taddy,
another adopted son.)
* * * * *
Mr. Ducklow had scarcely turned the corner of the street, when, looking
anxiously in the direction of his homestead, he saw a column of smoke.
It was directly over the spot where he knew his house to be situated. He
guessed at a glance what had happened. The frightful catastrophe he
foreboded had befallen. Taddy had set the house afire.
"Them bonds! them bonds!" he exclaimed, distractedly. He did not think
so much of the house: house and furniture were insured; if they were
burned the inconvenience would be great indeed, and at any other time
the thought of such an event would have been a sufficient cause for
trepidation; but now his chief, his only anxiety was the bonds. They
were not insured. They would be a dead loss. And, what added sharpness
to his pangs, they would be a loss which he must keep a secret, as he
had kept their existence a secret,--a loss which he could not confess,
and of which he could not complain. Had he not just given his neighbors
to understand that he had no such property? And his wife,--was she not
at that very moment, if not serving up a lie upon the subject, at least
paring the truth very thin indeed?
"A man would think," observed Ferring, "that Ducklow had some o' them
bonds on his hands, and got scaret, he took such a sudden start. He has,
hasn't he, Mrs. Ducklow?"
"Has what?" said Mrs. Ducklow, pretending ignorance.
"Some o' them cowpon bonds. I rather guess he's got some."
"You mean Gov'ment bonds? Ducklow got some? 'Tain't at all likely he'd
spec'late in them without saying something to _me_ about it. No, he
couldn't have any without my knowing it, I'm sure."
How demure, how innocent she looked, plying her knitting-needle, and
stopping to take up a stitch! How little at that moment she knew of
Ducklow's trouble and its terrible cause!
Ducklow's first impulse was to drive on and endeavor at all hazards to
snatch the bonds from the flames. His next was to return and alarm his
neighbors and obtain their assistance. But a minute's delay might be
fatal: so he drove on, screaming, "Fire! fire!" at the top of his voice.
But the old mare was a slow-footed animal; and Ducklow had no whip. He
reached forward and struck her with the reins.
"Git up! git up!--Fire! fire!" screamed Ducklow. "Oh, them bonds! them
bonds! Why didn't I give the money to Reuben? Fire! fire! fire!"
By dint of screaming and slapping, he urged her from a trot into a
gallop, which was scarcely an improvement as to speed, and certainly
not as to grace. It was like the gallop of an old cow. "Why don't ye go
'long?" he cried, despairingly.
Slap! slap! He knocked his own hat off with the loose end of the reins.
It fell under the wheels. He cast one look behind, to satisfy himself
that it had been very thoroughly run over and crushed into the dirt, and
left it to its fate.
Slap! slap! "Fire! fire!" Canter, canter, canter! Neighbors looked out
of their windows, and, recognizing Ducklow's wagon and old mare in such
an astonishing plight, and Ducklow himself, without his hat, rising from
his seat and reaching forward in wild attitudes, brandishing the reins,
and at the same time rending the azure with yells, thought he must be
insane.
He drove to the top of the hill, and, looking beyond, in expectation of
seeing his house wrapped in flames, discovered that the smoke proceeded
from a brush-heap which his neighbor Atkins was burning in a field near
by.
The revulsion of feeling that ensued was almost too much for the
excitable Ducklow. His strength went out of him. For a little while
there seemed to be nothing left of him but tremor and cold sweat.
Difficult as it had been to get the old mare in motion, it was now even
more difficult to stop her.
"Why, what has got into Ducklow's old mare? She's running away with him!
Who ever heard of such a thing!" And Atkins, watching the ludicrous
spectacle from his field, became almost as weak from laughter as Ducklow
was from the effects of fear.
At length Ducklow succeeded in checking the old mare's speed and in
turning her about. It was necessary to drive back for his hat. By this
time he could hear a chorus of shouts, "Fire! fire! fire!" over the
hill. He had aroused the neighbors as he passed, and now they were
flocking to extinguish the flames.
"A false alarm! a false alarm!" said Ducklow, looking marvelously
sheepish, as he met them. "Nothing but Atkins's brush-heap!"
"Seems to me you ought to have found that out 'fore you raised all
creation with your yells!" said one hyperbolical fellow. "You looked
like the Flying Dutchman! This your hat? I thought 'twas a dead cat in
the road. No fire! no fire!"--turning back to his comrades,--"only one
of Ducklow's jokes."
Nevertheless, two or three boys there were who would not be convinced,
but continued to leap up, swing their caps, and scream "Fire!" against
all remonstrance. Ducklow did not wait to enter his explanations, but,
turning the old mare about again, drove home amid the laughter of the
by-standers and the screams of the misguided youngsters. As he
approached the house, he met Taddy rushing wildly up the street.
"Thaddeus! Thaddeus! Where ye goin', Thaddeus?"
"Goin' to the fire!" cried Taddy.
"There isn't any fire, boy."
"Yes, there is! Didn't ye hear 'em? They've been yellin' like fury."
"It's nothin' but Atkins's brush."
"That all?" And Taddy appeared very much disappointed. "I thought there
was goin' to be some fun. I wonder who was such a fool as to yell fire
just for a darned old brush-heap!"
Ducklow did not inform him.
"I've got to drive over to town and get Reuben's trunk. You stand by the
mare while I step in and brush my hat."
Instead of applying himself at once to the restoration of his beaver, he
hastened to the sitting-room, to see that the bonds were safe.
"Heavens and 'arth!" said Ducklow.
The chair, which had been carefully planted in the spot where they were
concealed, had been removed. Three or four tacks had been taken out, and
the carpet pushed from the wall. There was straw scattered about.
Evidently Taddy had been interrupted, in the midst of his ransacking, by
the alarm of fire. Indeed, he was even now creeping into the house to
see what notice Ducklow would take of these evidences of his mischief.
In great trepidation the farmer thrust in his hand here and there, and
groped, until he found the envelope precisely where it had been placed
the night before, with the tape tied around it, which his wife had put
on to prevent its contents from slipping out and losing themselves.
Great was the joy of Ducklow. Great also was the wrath of him when he
turned and discovered Taddy.
"Didn't I tell you to stand by the old mare?"
"She won't stir," said Taddy, shrinking away again.
"Come here!" And Ducklow grasped him by the collar.
"What have you been doin'? Look at that!"
"'Twan't me!" beginning to whimper and ram his fists into his eyes.
"Don't tell me 'twan't you!" Ducklow shook him till his teeth chattered.
"What was you pullin' up the carpet for?"
"Lost a marble!" sniveled Taddy.
"Lost a marble! Ye didn't lose it under the carpet, did ye? Look at all
that straw pulled out!" shaking him again.
"Didn't know but it might 'a' got under the carpet, marbles roll so,"
explained Taddy, as soon as he could get his breath.
"Wal, sir,"--Ducklow administered a resounding box on his ear,--"don't
you do such a thing again, if you lose a million marbles!"
"Hain't got a million!" Taddy wept, rubbing his cheek. "Hain't got but
four! Won't ye buy me some to-day?"
"Go to that mare, and don't you leave her again till I come, or I'll
_marble_ ye in a way you won't like."
Understanding, by this somewhat equivocal form of expression, that
flagellation was threatened, Taddy obeyed, still feeling his smarting
and burning ear.
Ducklow was in trouble. What should he do with the bonds? The floor was
no place for them after what had happened; and he remembered too well
the experience of yesterday to think for a moment of carrying them about
his person. With unreasonable impatience, his mind reverted to Mrs.
Ducklow.
"Why ain't she to home? These women are forever a-gaddin'! I wish
Reuben's trunk was in Jericho!"
Thinking of the trunk reminded him of one in the garret, filled with old
papers of all sorts,--newspapers, letters, bills of sale, children's
writing-books,--accumulations of the past quarter of a century. Neither
fire nor burglar nor ransacking youngster had ever molested those
ancient records during all those five-and-twenty years. A bright thought
struck him.
"I'll slip the bonds down into that worthless heap o' rubbish, where no
one 'ull ever think o' lookin' for 'em, and resk 'em."
Having assured himself that Taddy was standing by the wagon, he paid a
hasty visit to the trunk in the garret, and concealed the envelope,
still bound in its band of tape, among the papers. He then drove away,
giving Taddy a final charge to beware of setting anything afire.
He had driven about half a mile, when he met a peddler. There was
nothing unusual or alarming in such a circumstance, surely; but, as
Ducklow kept on, it troubled him.
"He'll stop to the house, now, most likely, and want to trade. Findin'
nobody but Taddy, there's no knowin' what he'll be tempted to do. But I
ain't a-goin' to worry. I'll defy anybody to find them bonds. Besides,
she may be home by this time. I guess she'll hear of the fire-alarm and
hurry home: it'll be jest like her. She'll be there, and trade with the
peddler!" thought Ducklow, uneasily. Then a frightful fancy possessed
him. "She has threatened two or three times to sell that old trunkful of
papers. He'll offer a big price for 'em, and ten to one she'll let him
have 'em. Why _didn't_ I think on't? What a stupid blunderbuss I be!"
As Ducklow thought of it, he felt almost certain that Mrs. Ducklow had
returned home, and that she was bargaining with the peddler at that
moment. He fancied her smilingly receiving bright tin-ware for the old
papers; and he could see the tape-tied envelope going into the bag with
the rest. The result was that he turned about and whipped his old mare
home again in terrific haste, to catch the departing peddler.
Arriving, he found the house as he had left it, and Taddy occupied in
making a kite-frame.
"Did that peddler stop here?"
"I hain't seen no peddler."
"And hain't yer Ma Ducklow been home, nuther?"
"No."
And, with a guilty look, Taddy put the kite-frame behind him.
Ducklow considered. The peddler had turned up a cross-street: he would
probably turn down again and stop at the house, after all: Mrs. Ducklow
might by that time be at home: then the sale of old papers would be
very likely to take place. Ducklow thought of leaving word that he did
not wish any old papers in the house to be sold, but feared lest the
request might excite Taddy's suspicions.
"I don't see no way but for me to take the bonds with me," thought he,
with an inward groan.
He accordingly went to the garret, took the envelope out of the trunk,
and placed it in the breast-pocket of his overcoat, to which he pinned
it, to prevent it by any chance from getting out. He used six large,
strong pins for the purpose, and was afterwards sorry he did not use
seven.
"There's suthin' losin' out o' yer pocket!" bawled Taddy, as he was once
more mounting the wagon.
Quick as lightning, Ducklow clapped his hand to his breast. In doing so
he loosed his hold of the wagon-box and fell, raking his shin badly on
the wheel.
"Yer side-pocket! It's one o' yer mittens!" said Taddy.
"You rascal! How you scared me!"
Seating himself in the wagon, Ducklow gently pulled up his trousers-leg
to look at the bruised part.
"Got anything in your boot-leg to-day, Pa Ducklow?" asked Taddy,
innocently.
"Yes,--a barked shin!--all on your account, too! Go and put that straw
back, and fix the carpet; and don't ye let me hear ye speak of my
boot-leg again, or I'll boot-leg ye!"
So saying, Ducklow departed.
Instead of repairing the mischief he had done in the sitting-room, Taddy
devoted his time and talents to the more interesting occupation of
constructing his kite-frame. He worked at that until Mr. Grantly, the
minister, driving by, stopped to inquire how the folks were.
"Ain't to home: may I ride?" cried Taddy, all in a breath.
Mr. Grantly was an indulgent old gentleman, fond of children: so he
said, "Jump in;" and in a minute Taddy had scrambled to a seat by his
side.
And now occurred a circumstance which Ducklow had foreseen. The alarm of
fire had reached Reuben's; and, although the report of its falseness
followed immediately, Mrs. Ducklow's inflammable fancy was so kindled by
it that she could find no comfort in prolonging her visit.
"Mr. Ducklow'll be going for the trunk, and I _must_ go home and see to
things, Taddy's _such_ a fellow for mischief. I can foot it; I shan't
mind it."
And off she started, walking herself out of breath in anxiety.
She reached the brow of the hill just in time to see a chaise drive away
from her own door.
"Who _can_ that be? I wonder if Taddy's ther' to guard the house! If
anything should happen to them bonds!"
Out of breath as she was, she quickened her pace, and trudged on,
flushed, perspiring, panting, until she reached the house.
"Thaddeus!" she called.
No Taddy answered. She went in. The house was deserted. And, lo! the
carpet torn up, and the bonds abstracted!
Mr. Ducklow never would have made such work, removing the bonds. Then
somebody else must have taken them, she reasoned.
"The man in the chaise!" she exclaimed, or rather made an effort to
exclaim, succeeding only in bringing forth a hoarse, gasping sound. Fear
dried up articulation. _Vox faucibus hæsit._
And Taddy? He had disappeared, been murdered, perhaps,--or gagged and
carried away by the man in the chaise.
Mrs. Ducklow flew hither and thither (to use a favorite phrase of her
own), "like a hen with her head cut off;" then rushed out of the house
and up the street, screaming after the chaise,--
"Murder! murder! Stop thief! stop thief!"
She waved her hands aloft in the air frantically. If she had trudged
before, now she trotted, now she cantered; but, if the cantering of the
old mare was fitly likened to that of a cow, to what thing, to what
manner of motion under the sun, shall we liken the cantering of Mrs.
Ducklow? It was original; it was unique; it was prodigious. Now, with
her frantically waving hands, and all her undulating and flapping
skirts, she seemed a species of huge, unwieldy bird, attempting to fly.
Then she sank down into a heavy, dragging walk,--breath and strength all
gone,--no voice left even to scream "murder!" Then, the awful
realization of the loss of the bonds once more rushing over her, she
started up again. "Half running, half flying, what progress she made!"
Then Atkins's dog saw her, and, naturally mistaking her for a prodigy,
came out at her, bristling up and bounding and barking terrifically.
"Come here!" cried Atkins, following the dog. "What's the matter? What's
to pay, Mrs. Ducklow?"
Attempting to speak, the good woman could only pant and wheeze.
"Robbed!" she at last managed to whisper, amid the yelpings of the cur
that refused to be silenced.
"Robbed? How? Who?"
"The chaise. Ketch it."
Her gestures expressed more than her words; and, Atkins's horse and
wagon, with which he had been drawing out brush, being in the yard
near-by, he ran to them, leaped to the seat, drove into the road, took
Mrs. Ducklow aboard, and set out in vigorous pursuit of the slow
two-wheeled vehicle.
"Stop, you, sir! Stop, you, sir!" shrieked Mrs. Ducklow, having
recovered her breath by the time they came up with the chaise.
It stopped, and Mr. Grantly, the minister, put out his good-natured,
surprised face.
"You've robbed my house! You've took--"
Mrs. Ducklow was going on in wild, accusatory accents, when she
recognized the benign countenance.
"What do you say? I have robbed you?" he exclaimed, very much
astonished.
"No, no! not you! You wouldn't do such a thing!" she stammered forth,
while Atkins, who had laughed himself weak at Mr. Ducklow's plight
earlier in the morning, now laughed himself into a side-ache at Mrs.
Ducklow's ludicrous mistake. "But did you--did you stop at my house?
Have you seen our Thaddeus?"
"Here I be, Ma Ducklow!" piped a small voice; and Taddy, who had till
then remained hidden, fearing punishment, peeped out of the chaise from
behind the broad back of the minister.
"Taddy! Taddy! how came the carpet--"
"I pulled it up, huntin' for a marble," said Taddy, as she paused,
overmastered by her emotions.
"And the--the thing tied up in a brown wrapper?"
"Pa Ducklow took it."
"Ye sure?"
"Yes; I seen him."
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Ducklow, "I never was so beat! Mr. Grantly, I
hope--excuse me--I didn't know what I was about! Taddy, you notty boy,
what did you leave the house for? Be ye quite sure yer Pa Ducklow--"
Taddy replied that he was quite sure, as he climbed from the chaise into
Atkins's wagon. The minister smilingly remarked that he hoped she would
find no robbery had been committed, and went his way. Atkins, driving
back, and setting her and Taddy down at the Ducklow gate, answered her
embarrassed "Much obleeged to ye," with a sincere "Not at all,"
considering the fun he had had a sufficient compensation for his
trouble. And thus ended the morning adventures, with the exception of an
unimportant episode, in which Taddy, Mrs. Ducklow, and Mrs. Ducklow's
rattan were the principal actors.