HOBO TO THE RESCUE
Life at Dolittle Cottage had been anything but uneventful, even before
the arrival of Graham and his friend. But it must be confessed that the
presence of the two young men added appreciably to the agreeable
excitements and diversions of the days. For upwards of twenty-four hours
the girls had maintained the superiority of first arrivals, and then to
their surprise, found the tables turned and that they were being
introduced to spots whose charms they had never discovered, and to
pleasures as yet untried.
Jerry Morton bringing his fish as usual, looked askance at the two young
fellows, taking their ease in the porch hammocks, and received with
marked ungraciousness Peggy's suggestion that he should act as their
guide to some point where the fishing was good.
"I never could get on with swells," said Jerry, with his customary
frankness. "Let 'em fish out of your cistern. Them city dudes will catch
as much there as anywhere."
Peggy restrained her laughter with difficulty. It seemed rather hard
that Graham and Jack, attiring themselves in garments so old as barely
to be presentable should yet be designated by a term of such unbounded
contempt. Privately, Peggy thought Aunt Abigail had come nearer the
mark, and that the boys bore a more striking resemblance to tramps than
to city dudes.
Wisely she made no effort to defend her friends. "Of course, if you are
too busy," she said indifferently, "we can make some other arrangement.
Perhaps Mr. Cole would spare Joe--"
"Oh, I'll take 'em," interrupted Jerry, still sulkily, though he looked
a little ashamed of himself. "I'll show 'em where the fish are, and if
they come home with nothing but their tackle, don't blame me."
But the fishing excursion was more successful than Jerry's gloomy hints
gave ground for anticipating. The boys brought back so many fish that
thrifty Peggy racked her brains to find ways of disposing of them all.
Jerry, for his part, carried home a new idea of "city dudes" and their
ways. These clear-eyed, clean-minded young fellows had not treated him
as an inferior, nor had they committed the offence still less
pardonable, from Jerry's standpoint, of condescending to his level. As
fishermen, too, they had showed no mean skill, and from dislike and
mistrust, Jerry had at length been brought to grudging admiration and
reluctant respect.
The favorable impression was not all on one side, however. As Graham
cleaned his fish--the girls lightening his labors, by sitting around in
an appreciative circle--he suddenly checked his operations to exclaim:
"Say, do you know, that fellow's a wonder!"
"Who? Not Jerry Morton?" Ruth's tone was rather scandalized, for Ruth
did not share Peggy's faculty for finding all kinds of people
interesting, and had a not uncommon weakness for good clothes and
conventional manners.
"Yes, Jerry. Why, he's a walking encyclopedia! He knows everything about
the trees and plants growing around here, except their scientific names.
And it's the same way with birds. He's learned it all first-hand,
instead of out of books, you see. His eyes and his ears too, are as
sharp as an Indian's! Pity that there isn't a better prospect of his
amounting to something."
Peggy was delighted with the opportunity to discuss Jerry's case with
some one inclined to appreciate the boy's good qualities. "He's got
started wrong," she explained. "He's not really lazy, but he seems lazy
to the people here. They think he's worthless and he resents that, and
so he fancies he hates everybody. You see, he hasn't any father or
mother. He lives with his grandmother and she--"
"Dear me! How do you pick up so much about that sort of people?"
demanded Claire, suppressing a yawn rather unsuccessfully. Claire found
such topics of conversation far from entertaining, and was perfectly
willing that Peggy should realize this fact. But Peggy herself was too
interested to suspect that Claire was bored.
"Oh, I asked Mrs. Cole about him," she replied. "Graham, I wish you'd
talk to him if you get a chance, and try to wake up his ambition. It's a
shame for such a bright boy to grow up with the reputation of being a
loafer."
Graham shook his head. "Guess I wouldn't be much of a success as a home
missionary. You'd better try your hand on him yourself, Peggy."
"Me? Oh, I do," Peggy answered simply. "But, perhaps he'd think more of
it coming from a boy." And Graham reaching for another fish, reflected
that a girl like Peggy Raymond could not even go away for a summer
vacation without framing innumerable little plots for helping people,
with or without their cooperation. Ruth had told him of the
berrying-bee, and mentioned casually that Peggy was going to give Lucy
Haines lessons in algebra. At the same time she was puzzling her head
over the possibility of turning the good-for-nothing of the community
into a useful citizen. Humility was not Graham's dominant
characteristic, but for the moment the popular young collegian had a
queer and uncomfortable sense of amounting to very little.
Dorothy rescued him from this unwonted self-depreciation by bursting on
the scene with eyes distended to their widest. "Aunt Peggy, your old
hen's scolding--and scolding."
"Now, Dorothy, you mustn't go near her nest."
"I stood 'way off by the door and jus' looked at her an' she talked as
cross as anything."
"Oh, I wonder--What day is it, anyway?" Peggy disappeared through the
open door of the woodshed, to have her jubilant suspicions instantly
confirmed. The yellow hen was in a mood of extreme agitation, and a
shrill peeping from beneath her ruffled feathers furnished the
explanation of her disquiet.
Peggy herself was hardly more composed, and her excitement was
contagious. All plans for the remainder of the afternoon were instantly
forgotten till Peggy's chickens should be ushered from their egg-shell
prison-houses into the world of sunshine. Peggy had fortified herself
against this hour by asking advice of Mrs. Cole and Joe, and all the
other experts in the neighborhood, but now she realized the appalling
gulf between theory and practise. The demeanor of the yellow hen
convinced her that everything was going wrong, and she felt pathetically
unequal to doing ever so little toward making it come right.
Yet, in spite of Peggy's forebodings, one chicken after another was
rescued from beneath the wings of the perturbed foster-mother, and
placed in a carefully prepared basket set behind the kitchen stove. The
girls, eager for a peep at the new arrivals, failed to wax enthusiastic
after their curiosity had been satisfied. Amy voiced the general
disappointment when she said regretfully, "I hadn't an idea they looked
like that to start with. I thought they'd be fluffy and cute, like the
chickens on Easter cards." Peggy, who had herself found the appearance
of the wobbly, shrill-voiced mites a distinct shock, said bravely that
they would undoubtedly be prettier when they were older.
After six chickens had been placed in the basket, silence reigned in the
nest. The yellow hen settled down on her remaining eggs, emitting, at
intervals, an agitated cluck. Peggy vibrated between the woodshed and
the covered basket behind the stove, like an erratic pendulum. The other
girls, weary at last of waiting for more chickens, trooped to the
living-room, and Graham, who like many young gentlemen of twenty, could
on occasion conduct himself like a boy half that age, sought to create a
diversion by tickling his sister.
Ruth was agonizingly sensitive to this form of torture. A forefinger
extended with a threatening waggle was sufficient to rob her of every
vestige of self-control, while the play of her brother's fingers over
her ribs reduced her instantly to grovelling submission. To do Graham
justice, he was quite unable to appreciate the fact that this pastime
cost Ruth real suffering. He would have put his hand into the fire
before he would have struck his sister, yet he frequently subjected her
to misery compared to which a blow would have been welcome.
With a sudden freakish reversion to the prankishness of a growing boy,
Graham pointed his finger at Ruth, who instantly screamed. The girls
looking on, laughed, and there was some excuse for their amusement. The
spectacle of the sensible Ruth, shrinking and shrieking over nothing
more alarming than an agitated forefinger, was ridiculous enough to be
funny. Graham, encouraged by the laughter, took a step toward his sister
who instantly burst into incoherent appeals and protests.
"Oh, Graham, please, Graham! Oh, dear! Oh! Oh! Oh!"
Hobo, lying on the porch outside, leaped to his feet. Hobo keenly felt
the responsibility of the family he had adopted. He subjected all new
arrivals to a careful scrutiny which marked him sufficiently as the
guardian of the household. But never before in his three weeks of
domesticity, had the need for his services seemed as urgent as now.
Barking excitedly, Hobo ran to the nearest window, raised himself on his
hind-legs, his forepaws resting on the outer sill, and looked in. The
scene which met his eyes confirmed his worst suspicions. Ruth, standing
in the middle of the room, cowered and pleaded, while the teasing
brother prolonged the fun by touching her lightly now and then, finding
her writhing protests eminently diverting.
Outside, Hobo barked his warning. The girls turned to the window and the
laughter broke out afresh. The dog's eyes shone with a bluish light,
like burnished steel. The hair on his neck bristled threateningly. As
Graham looked up, Hobo's upper lip drew back in a menacing fashion,
showing his teeth.
"That dog would be an ugly customer in a fight," remarked Graham
casually, not averse to teasing a barking dog as well as a screaming
girl. He caught Ruth by the arm as she edged away, and tickled her
again. Ruth's responsive shriek was ear-splitting.
Hobo's head disappeared from the window. The dog ran back, crouching for
a spring. Unluckily the screen had been removed from that particular
window the previous day, when Peggy had discovered a break through which
the flies were entering, and the window itself had been lowered till the
necessary repairs could be made. Just as Graham was beginning to think
that the fun was losing its zest, a heavy body launched itself against
the glass.
Hobo was a large dog, and since he had become a member of the family at
Dolittle Cottage the hollows of his gaunt frame had been filling out
rapidly. With such a projectile hurled against a window, the result
could not be in doubt. There was a startling crash. Pieces of glass flew
in all directions, and Hobo, bleeding from several wounds, struggled
through the splintered aperture made by the force of his spring, and
leaped at the young man who had disturbed the peace of the cottage.
For all Hobo's injuries, there was plenty of fight in him yet, and the
consequences might have been serious if Peggy had not arrived upon the
scene at the critical moment. Her stern command, "Down, Hobo! Down,
sir!" emphasized by stamps of her foot had a magical effect. The poor,
bleeding, bewildered creature, who had stopped at nothing to protect a
member of the household which commanded his fealty, recognized in Peggy
the ultimate authority. The tense muscles, bent for a spring, instantly
relaxed. The lip dropped over the bared teeth. With a whimper the poor
brute crouched at Peggy's feet, and Peggy saw with sickened dismay that
the blood was oozing from gashes in the dog's neck.
"Graham!" she gasped. "Oh, Graham! He's hurt! He's bleeding dreadfully!"
Graham's temporary lapse into the sins of his youth was over. He was
again a young college man, and thoroughly ashamed of himself. The
amusement he had found in teasing Ruth suddenly seemed inexplicable, in
view of this tragic culmination. Flushing and awkward, he stood looking
on while Peggy bent over the wounded dog, unable to restrain her tears.
But when she attempted to remove a splinter of glass from the gash for
which it was responsible, Graham uttered a startled protest.
"I wouldn't try that, Peggy. He's likely to bite you."
"Oh, he won't bite me," Peggy returned confidently. "He knows I'm his
friend, don't you, poor old fellow?" Hobo, realizing that the loved
voice was addressing him, even though the trend of the question was
beyond his comprehension, gave a feeble flop of his tail, and raised to
Peggy's face eyes full of loyalty and trust.
The living-room became a hospital forthwith. Those of the girls who were
affected with unpleasant qualms at the sight of blood, fled
precipitately, while the others lent aid to Peggy, who had taken upon
herself the double role of operating surgeon and chief nurse. Several
ugly splinters of glass were removed from the bleeding neck, and the
wounds bathed and bandaged. Graham's usefulness in the operation was
confined to offering advice; for once, when he had extended his hand to
assist Peggy, the light of battle had again kindled in Hobo's eyes, and
a low, rumbling growl had voiced his objections to any ministrations
from so objectionable a source.
When Peggy's patient was swathed in bandages, till he looked as if he
might be suffering from a severe attack of sore throat, Peggy called him
out into the woodshed, where an inviting bed had been made ready for
him. Hobo stretched himself upon the folded rug with a groan startlingly
human. It was clear that the loss of blood had weakened him, and his
gaze directed to Peggy was full of pathetic questioning and dumb appeal.
"I believe I'll run over to the Coles, and ask them if there is anything
more we can do," Peggy said, looking as unhappy as she felt. "They know
so much about all kinds of animals. I've taken care of Taffy in his
attacks of distemper, and once he had a dreadful fight with another dog,
and came home all torn. But he didn't bleed like this."
"I'll walk over with you," said Graham, only too ready to show his
penitence, and Dorothy, who had an innate antipathy to being left
behind, also proffered her services as escort.
Accordingly the trio set forth, Dorothy declining to follow the path but
circling around the others, like an erratic planet, revolving about twin
suns. Graham, who felt personally responsible for the shadow clouding
Peggy's bright face, lost no time in apologizing.
"Peggy, it's a shame for me to upset things so. You'll all wish that we
had got discouraged over Mrs. Tyler's reception, and gone on without
stopping."
"Why, no, Graham," Peggy protested. "Nobody could have dreamed that
anything like this would happen."
Graham was not in a mood to spare himself. "Perhaps not, but there
wasn't any excuse for teasing poor Ruth almost into hysterics. It's the
kind of fun a red Indian might be expected to enjoy."
Peggy was so inclined to agree with this diagnosis that she found it
impossible to be as comforting as she would have liked. "I often wonder
how it is that we all think teasing is fun," she said. "Girls are just
as bad as boys. In fact, I think their kind of teasing is even more
cruel sometimes. It's queer, when we stop to think of it, that anybody
can get real satisfaction out of making some one else miserable, or even
uncomfortable."
"It's beastly," Graham declared with feeling. "I'm going to stop teasing
Ruth, that's sure. It seems so ridiculous to have her scream and wriggle
if I point my finger at her, that I can't realize that it isn't all a
joke. But, I suppose, it is serious enough from her point of view, and
I'm going to quit."
The walk to Farmer Cole's, enlivened by similar expressions of penitence
and good resolutions, was a very edifying excursion, and Peggy, in her
sympathy for Graham, almost forgot her anxiety concerning Hobo. She was
further relieved when the case was laid before Farmer Cole.
"Oh, he'll get over it all right," said that authority encouragingly.
"Being a cur dog, that way. Now, if you buy a highbred animal, and pay a
fancy price, it goes under at the least little thing. Never knew it to
fail. But to kill a cur, you've got to blow him up with dynamite."
"But they _do_ die," objected Peggy, who found it difficult to
accept the farmer's optimistic view, much as she wished to.
"Old age," said Farmer Cole. "That's all. A few scratches like that
ain't going to hurt a cur. But I paid through my nose for a blooded colt
a few years back, and 'twarn't a week before he cut himself on barbed
wire, and bled to death."
"It won't do any harm for her to use some of the salve," said Mrs. Cole,
and went to her medicine closet in search of the remedy. Rosetta Muriel
smoothed her hair, with a motion that set her bracelets jingling, and
cast a provocative glance at Graham. Rosetta Muriel admired Graham
extremely. In spite of his shabby clothing, there was about him the
indefinable air which Jerry had recognized and which had led him to
classify the young man as a "city dude."
"I should have thought that Raymond girl would have put on something
more stylisher," reflected Rosetta Muriel, casting a disapproving glance
at Peggy's gingham. "I haven't seen her in a nice dress yet." Had she
been in Peggy's place, she would have known better how to improve her
opportunities, she felt sure.
Owing to Hobo's injuries, the event which up to the time of the accident
had seemed to Peggy so tremendously important, had been quite cast in
the shade. She recalled it as Mrs. Cole brought out the salve. "Oh, I
didn't tell you. My chickens have hatched."
"Turned out pretty well, did they?" asked Mrs. Cole, smiling at Peggy
benevolently. Peggy was an immense favorite with the good woman, a fact
which Rosetta Muriel recognized with irritated wonder. She asked herself
frequently why it was that folks got so crazy over that Raymond girl,
"with no style to speak of."
"There's only six hatched yet. I've put them in a basket just as you
said. The old hen is on the other eggs."
"Maybe six will be all," said Mrs. Cole. "That thunder-storm day before
yesterday was pretty rough on eggs 'most ready to hatch."
Six chickens, instead of eighteen! An air-castle fell with such a crash
that it almost seemed to Peggy as if the little group about her must be
aware of its downfall. Then she took a long breath. "Well, even six, at
forty cents a pound, won't be so bad for a start," said Peggy to
herself.
Mrs. Cole looked admiringly after the young people as they took their
departure, Dorothy and Annie racing on ahead. "They're what I call a
handsome pair," she exclaimed.
Rosetta Muriel objected. "He's awful swell, but she ain't a bit. Look at
her gingham dress."
"Seems to me that her gingham dress is just the thing for running around
in the woods and fields," said Mrs. Cole, who did not often pluck up
courage sufficiently to oppose her own opinions to her daughter's
superior wisdom. "I've seen her fixed up in white of an evening, and
looking like a picture. But, as far as that goes," she concluded
resolutely, "there's so much to her face, just as if her head was
crammed full of bright ideas, and her heart of kind thoughts, that you
get to looking at her, and forget what she's wearing. An' I guess that
young man thinks so, too."
The closing sentence silenced the retort on Rosetta Muriel's lips. Her
mother had voiced her own suspicions. As a rule, the sophisticated
Rosetta Muriel had very little respect for her mother's opinions, but,
in this case, her views happened to coincide with some inward doubts of
her own. Rosetta Muriel wondered if it were possible, after all, that
sweetness and intelligence written in a girl's face, might count for
more than some other things.
Farmer Cole's optimism regarding Hobo was justified. For that very
evening as the young folks ranged themselves in a semi-circle for the
flash-light picture, on which Amy had set her heart, Hobo appeared,
looking very interesting in his big collar of bandages, and squeezed
himself into the very front of the circle, with a dog's deep-rooted
aversion to being left out of anything. Poor Hobo! He was inexperienced
in the matter of flash-lights, and that eventful day was to end in still
another shock. For when the powder was touched off and the room was
illumined by the lurid glare, high above the inevitable chorus of
screams and laughter, sounded Hobo's yelp of terrified surprise. He left
the room with his tail between his legs, and never again, while the
summer lasted, could he be induced to face Amy's camera.