Comanche braves,' he says, 'an' we're gettin' ready for the war-path.'
"'Ye look more like zebras,' says I, 'escaped from a menagerie.'
"'Wait till we get our feathers on,' he says, 'an' Pete,' he adds, 'will
you do me back? There's a place in the middle that I can't reach.'
"Wid that he turns a pink an' white surface a yawnin' for decoration,
an' presses a can o' axle grease in me hands. And I'll be darned if them
young imps hadn't covered their skins with axle grease and red brass
polish, an' for variety, a touch o' bluing they'd got off Nora in the
kitchen. An' they smelt--Gee! they smelt like a triple extract harness
shop. I tole them I thought they'd be havin' trouble when they was ready
to return to the haunts o' the pale-face; but Master Bobby said their
clothes would cover it up.
"I done the job. I don't set up to be a mural artist, and I ain't
braggin', but I will say as Master Bobby's back beat any signboard ye
ever see when I finished the decoratin'. I fastened some chicken
feathers in their hair, and I hunted out some tomahawks in the lumber
room, an' they let out a war-whoop that raised the roof, an' scalped me
out o' grattytood.
"'Now see here,' says I to Master Bobby, 'in return for helpin' along
yer innocint amusements, will ye promise to do yer scalpin' in the
paddock, an' not come near the stables? 'Cause me floor is clean,' I
says, 'and I don't want no blood spattered on it. 'Tis hard to wash up,'
I says. I was, ye'll observe, gintly turnin' their thoughts into another
channel, like their mother recommended. An' they promised sweet as
cherubs. She was right; they're spirited la-ads, an' they won't be
driven. 'Tis best to use diplomacy.
"I left them crawlin' on all fours through the bushes by the duck pond,
shootin' arrers in the air as innocint as ye please. I dunno, though,
how long 'twill last. I tole Billy to keep an eye on them, and I s'pose
when I get back, I'll find his head decoratin' the hitchin'-post an' his
hair danglin' from their belts."
A movement of farewell on the club veranda brought the men back to their
official selves. Peter straightened his hat, stiffened his back, and
gathered up the reins.
"So long, Mike," he remarked as he backed into the driveway. "I'll see
ye to-morrow at the Daughters o' the Revolution; and if ye hear of
anyone," he added, "as is wantin' a combination coachman an' first class
nursemaid, give them my address. I'm lookin' for an easier place."
"Peter," said Mrs. Carter, as they trotted out of the club-house gateway
and swung on to the smooth macadam of the homeward road, "I meant to ask
you what the children were doing this morning. Have they been amusing
themselves?"
"Yes, they've been amusin' themselves. They was playin' Indian, ma'am,
with chicken feathers in their heads." He wisely suppressed the
remainder of the costume. "I found them some tomahawks in the lumber
room, an' the last I see o' them they was in the paddock scalpin' each
other as happy as ye please."
"Those delicious boys!" murmured their mother. "I never know what they
will think of next. It is such a relief to get them into the country,
where they can have plenty of room to play and I can be sure they are
not in mischief. They are so exuberant, that when we are stopping in a
summer hotel I am always uneasy for fear they may disturb the guests."
The carriage had turned into the Willowbrook grounds, and was decorously
rolling along between the smooth green lawns bordered by coloured
foliage, the two ladies reclining against the cushions in placid
contemplation of the summer noonday, when suddenly an ebullition of
shouting and crying burst out across the shrubbery in the direction of
the stables. It was not the mere joyous effervescence of animal spirits
that had been gladdening Willowbrook for the past two weeks. There was
an unmistakable note of alarm, a hoarser undertone, as of men joining in
the tocsin. Peter pulled the horses sharply to their haunches and
cocked his head to listen, while the ladies leaned forward in a flutter
of dismay.
"Something has happened to my precious boys! Drive on quick, Peter,"
Mrs. Brainard gasped.
Peter used his whip and they approached the house at a gallop. The
trouble was evident by now. Heavy clouds of smoke were curling up from
among the willow trees while the cry of "Fire! Fire!" filled the air.
"Thank heaven it ain't the stables!" ejaculated Peter, as his eye
anxiously studied the direction. "'Tis the waggon-shed--an' the
buckboard's in it an' all the farmin' tools."
People were running from every side. Two men from Jasper Place came
puffing through the hole in the hedge, dragging a garden hose behind
them, while the house servants, bare-headed and excited, swarmed out
from the back veranda.
"Annie! Annie!" called Mrs. Carter as the panting horses were dragged to
a standstill, "turn on the fire alarm. Go to the telephone and call the
engine house."
"Simpkins has done it, ma'am," called Annie over her shoulder, as she
hurried on. "Ow! What's that?" she added with a scream of astonished
terror, as a red and black striped figure, with a row of ragged feathers
waving in a fringe about its ears, burst from the shrubbery and butted
plump against her.
"Bobby!" gasped his mother, as after a moment of shocked hesitation she
recognized her son. Bobby waved his arms and set up a howl. An
expression of terror was plainly visible struggling through the
war-paint.
"Pete, Billy, Patrick! Quick! Quick! We can't untie him and he's
burning! We didn't mean to burn him," he added quickly. "It's an
accident."
"Burn what?" cried Mrs. Carter.
"Augustus," Bobby sobbed.
And to the horror-stricken group was borne a shrill falsetto wail:
"Help! H-e-l-p! They're burning me at the s-t-a-k-e!"--a wail apparently
of mortal anguish, though an unexcited listener would have detected in
the tones more of anger than of pain.
Mrs. Brainard, with a frenzied shriek, threw away her lavender parasol
and dashed in the direction of the sounds. Peter jumped from the box and
overtook her. He was first upon the spot. The waggon-shed roof was a
blazing mass; the straw pile beneath it was sending up a stifling cloud
of blue smoke, and the dry surrounding grass was crackling in a swiftly
widening circle. But in the centre of the conflagration there still
remained a little oasis of green, where a young willow sapling rose
defiantly from the flames. And as the smoke blew momentarily to one
side, the writhing figure of Augustus came to view lashed firmly to the
tree trunk, his hands above his head. With the arrival of spectators he
finished struggling and assumed an expression of stoicism that would
have done credit to a true Comanche.
"My boy! My boy!" shrieked Mrs. Brainard, running forward with
outstretched arms, as the smoke again closed around him.
Peter caught her. "Stand back, ma'am. For heaven's sake, stand back!
Ye'll ketch yer dress. He ain't hurt none; the fire ain't reached him.
I'll save him," and whipping out his knife, Peter dashed into the smoke.
He returned three minutes later, a mass of stripes and mingled grease
kicking in his arms.
Mrs. Brainard, who had closed her eyes preparing to faint, opened them
again and looked at Augustus. He was a muddy copper colour with here and
there a vivid touch of blue, and he exuded a peculiarly blent odour of
brass polish and smoke.
"Is--is he dead?" she gasped.
"He's quite lively, ma'am," said Peter, grimly struggling to hold him.
She opened her arms with a sob of relief, and received the boy, grease
and smoke and all; while the three remaining braves modestly tried to
efface themselves.
"Robert," said Mrs. Carter, laying a detaining hand on her son's
tri-coloured shoulder, "what is the meaning of this outrageous affair?"
Bobby dug his eyes with his greasy fists and whimpered.
"We just tied him to the stake and pretended to burn him. And then we
sat down to smoke a pipe of peace, and I guess maybe the straw caught
fire."
"It did--apparently," said his mother; her tone carried a suggestion of
worse to come.
Peter, having hastily organized a fire brigade, succeeded in saving the
buckboard and a few of the farming tools, but the building itself was
beyond salvation. The wood was dry and thoroughly seasoned, and the
feeble stream of water from the garden hose served to increase the smoke
rather than to lessen the flames. The men finally fell back in a
panting circle and watched it burn.
"Gee!" ejaculated Peter, "I'm glad it was the waggon-shed. It might have
been the stables."
"Or the house," added Mrs. Carter.
"Or Augustus!" breathed Mrs. Brainard.
The roof fell in with a crash, and the flames leaped up to surround it.
A mild cheer broke from the spectators; since there was nothing more to
be done, they might as well enjoy the bonfire. The cheer was echoed by
an answering shout at the end of the avenue, and a moment later the Sea
Garth volunteer hook and ladder company dashed into sight, drawn by two
foam-covered horses, the firemen still struggling into belated uniforms.
They came to a stand; half a dozen men tore off the nearest ladder and
dragged it to the burning building. There, they hesitated dubiously. It
was clearly an impossible feat to lean a thirty-foot ladder against a
one-story waggon-shed whose roof had fallen in. Their chief, an
impressive figure in a scarlet shirt and a rubber helmet, advanced to
take command. He grasped the painful situation, and for a moment he
looked dashed. The next moment, however, he had regained his poise, and
announced, in a tone of triumph; "We'll save the stables!"
Mrs. Carter stepped forward with a voice of protest.
"Oh, no, I beg of you! It isn't necessary. The sparks are flying in the
other direction. My own men have fortunately been able to cope with the
fire, and while I am very much obliged for your trouble, there is no
necessity for further aid."
"Madam," said the chief, "the wind is likely to change at any moment,
and a single spark falling on that shingle roof would sweep away every
building on the place. I am sorry to be disobliging, but it is my duty
to protect your property." He waved her aside and issued his orders. For
the first time in her life Mrs. Carter found that she was not master on
her own place.
Five minutes later half a dozen ladders were resting against the main
edifice of the stables, while the bucket brigade was happily splashing
the contents of the duck pond over the shingle roof.
This precautionary measure was barely under way, when a second shouting
and clanging of bells announced the approach of the Sea Garth Volunteer
Hose Company No. 1. They did not possess horses and their progress had
of necessity been slower. Accompanied by an excited escort of barefooted
boys, they swept like a tidal wave across shaven lawns and flowered
borders.
"Keep them back! Keep them back!" wailed Mrs. Carter, in a sudden access
of helplessness. "Peter, William, stop them! Thank them and send them
home." She accosted the hook and ladder chief. "Tell them it's all over.
Tell them that you yourself have already done everything that's
necessary."
"Sorry, Mrs. Carter, but it's impossible. There hasn't been a fire in
this town for the last three months, and then it was only a false alarm.
They're sore enough as it is because we got here first. A little water
won't hurt anything; we're in need of rain. You go in the house, Mrs.
Carter, and trust to me. I won't let them do any more damage than
necessary."
The hose company bore down upon the scene of confusion that surrounded
the wrecked waggon-shed with an air of pleased expectancy. Their faces
fell as they caught sight of the pitiable size of the fire; but the new
chief, with quickly reviving cheerfulness, usurped dictatorship, and
soon had a generous stream of water playing upon the embers.
Mrs. Carter, with a last plaintive appeal to Peter to get rid of them,
resumed her natural aloofness; and she and Mrs. Brainard trailed their
smoke-grimed splendour toward the house, driving the vanquished braves
before them.
When, finally, the last spark was irretrievably dead, the duck pond was
nearly dry and everything else was wet, the firemen reloaded their
ladders and hose, their buckets and rubber helmets, and noisily trundled
away. The Willowbrook contingent sat down and mopped their grimy brows.
"Will you look at my flower-beds?" mourned Tom. "Walked right over 'em,
they did."
"An' will ye look at the clothes on the line?" cried Nora. "They walked
slap through them wid their dir-rty hands."
"Go and look at the carriage-house floor," Peter growled. "They turned a
three-inch stream o' water in at the front door; it looks as if the
flood o' Arrerat had struck us. If I ever ketch that lobster of a fire
chief out alone, I'll teach 'im 'is dooty, I will." He paused to examine
his person. "Gee! but I blistered me hands." He carried the examination
further. "An' these is me best pants," he muttered. "The next time I
helps along their innocint divarsions, I'll get me life insured."
IV
DIGNITY AND THE ELEPHANT
"Come in!"
Peter opened the library door and advanced with awkward hesitation.
Behind his respectfully blank expression there was visible a touch of
anxiety; he was not clear in his own mind as to the reason for this
peremptory summons to the house. It might mean that he was to be
rewarded for having saved Master Augustus's life and the contents of the
waggon-shed; it might mean that he was to be censured for any one of a
dozen innocent and unpremeditated faults. But Mr. Carter's expression as
he turned from the writing table banished all doubt as to the meaning of
the interview. His bearing contained no suggestion of honourable mention
to come.
"Close the door," he said dryly.
Peter closed the door and stood at attention, grasping with nervous
fingers the brim of his hat. Mr. Carter allowed a painful silence to
follow while he sat frowning down at a newspaper spread on the table
before him. Peter, having studied his master's face, lowered his
troubled eyes to the headlines of the paper:
COMANCHE BRAVES ON THE WAR PATH
FIRE THREATENS DESTRUCTION
TO JEROME B. CARTER'S ESTATE
"This has been a very shocking affair," Mr. Carter began, in a tone of
impressive emphasis. "The damage, fortunately, was slight, but the
principle remains the same as if every building on the place had burned.
The blame on the surface rests with the boys who started the fire; and,"
he added, with a touch of grimness, "they have been fittingly punished.
But I find, upon looking into the matter, that the blame does not stop
with them. I have here a copy of a New York evening paper of
an--uh--sensational order, giving a grossly exaggerated account of the
incident. There is one particular, however, in regard to which they do
not exaggerate--exaggeration being impossible--and that is in their
description of the outrageous apparel which my son and my nephews were
wearing at the time."
Mr. Carter adjusted his glasses and picked up the paper, his frown
darkening as he glanced rapidly down the column. A facetious young
reporter had made the best of a good story.
"'Volunteer firemen--Gallant behaviour of Chief McDougal--Threatened
tragedy--H'm----" His eye lighted on the offending paragraph, and he
settled himself to read.
"'Conspicuous among those present were the authors of the conflagration,
Master Robert Carter, twelve-year-old son of Jerome B. Carter, and his
three cousins, sons of John D. Brainard, of Philadelphia. Whatever may
be said of Philadelphians in general, there is nothing slow about the
Brainard boys. In the character of Comanche braves the four were clothed
in simple but effective costumes of black and red war-paint. The paint,
we are informed, was composed of axle grease and brass polish, and had
been artistically laid on by one Peter Malone, who occupies the position
of head groom in the Carter stables. Young Malone has missed his
calling. His talents point to the field of decorative art.'"
A fleeting grin swept over Peter's face. It struck him, for the
hundredth time, that there was a singular absence of a sense of humour
in the Carter family. But he quickly recomposed his features. Mr. Carter
had laid the paper down again, and was waiting. Peter glanced dubiously
about the room, and finally ventured in a tone of conciliation:
"It weren't so shockin' as the paper made out, sir. They was wearin'
stri-ped bathin' trunks and a row o' chicken feathers in addition to the
grease."
Mr. Carter waved the remark aside as irrelevant.
"That has nothing to do with the point. The question which I am
discussing is the fact that you painted my son with axle grease. I am
not only shocked, but astonished. I have always entertained the highest
opinion of your sense of propriety and fitness. I should have believed
this story a pure fabrication on the part of an unprincipled reporter,
had I not heard it corroborated from Master Bobby's own lips. Before
passing judgment it is only right that I hear your version of the
affair. What have you to say?"
Peter shifted his weight uneasily. An invitation to tell a story rarely
found him wanting, but he liked to feel that his audience was with him,
and in the present instance Mr. Carter's manner was not surcharged with
sympathy.
"Well, sir," he began, with an apologetic cough, "If ye'll excuse me
mentionin' it, them three Brainard boys is young limbs o' Satan, every
one o' them. Their badness, so to speak, is catchin', an' Master Bobby's
got it. 'Tis demoralizin', sir, to have them about; I'm losin' me own
sense o' right an' wrong."
"Very well," said Mr. Carter, impatiently, "what I want to hear about is
this Indian business."
"Yes, sir, I'm comin' to it, sir. Yesterday mornin' I got an order early
to drive Mrs. Carter to the country club, an' when I went into the
carriage-house to see about hitchin' up, what should I find but them
four little div----"
Peter caught Mr. Carter's eye, and hastily altered his sentence.
"I found the four young gentlemen, sir, dressed in stri-ped bathin'
trunks, engaged in paintin' their skins with axle grease ready for the
war-path. They'd got two cans on before I seen 'em, and all I done was
Master Bobby's back an' Master Wallace's legs. I mistrusted it wouldn't
come off, sir, and I told 'em as much; but they was already so nearly
covered that it seemed a pity to spoil the sport. Ye see, I was mindin'
what their mother said about takin' a sympathetic interest in their
innocint divarsions."
"And this struck you as an innocent diversion?"
"Comparatively speakin', sir. None o' their divarsions strikes me as
fittin' for a Sunday-school."
"Go on," said Mr. Carter, sharply.
Peter fumbled with his hat. He was finding his employer's mood a trifle
difficult.
"It weren't my fault about the fire, sir. When I drove off they was
playin' in the paddock as innocint as ye please. How should I know that
as soon as me back was turned they'd be takin' it into their heads to
burn Master Augustus at the stake? It ain't no ordinary intilligence,
sir, that can keep up wid them. And as for the damage, there wouldn't
'a' been none, aside from losin' the waggon-shed, if it weren't for that
meddlin' fire department. Ye see for yerself the mess they made."
He came to a sudden pause, and then added with an air of reviving
cheerfulness:
"'T was bad, sir, but it might have been worse. We saved the buckboard,
an' we saved the garden tools, to say nothin' o' Master Augustus."
Mr. Carter grunted slightly, and a silence followed, during which Peter
glanced tentatively toward the door; but as his companion gave no sign
that the interview was at an end, he waited. Mr. Carter's eye had
meanwhile travelled back to the paper, and his frown was gathering anew.
He finally faced the groom with the deliberative air of a counsellor
summing up a case.
"And you think it consonant with the dignity of my position that a New
York paper should be able to print such a statement as that in regard to
my son?"
Peter smiled dubiously and mopped his brow, but as no politic answer
occurred to him, he continued silent.
"There is another matter which I wish to speak of," added Mr. Carter,
with a fresh assumption of sternness. "I am informed that you called the
boys, in their presence," he paused, as though it were painful for him
to repeat such malodorous words--"_damned little devils!_ Is that so?"
Peter sighed heavily.
"I don't know, sir. I might 'a' said it without thinkin'. I was excited
when I see the roof a blazin' and I may have spoke me mind."
"Are you not aware, Peter, that such language should never, under any
circumstances, be used in Master Bobby's presence?"
"Yes, sir, but if ye'll pardon the liberty, sir, there's times when the
Angel Gabriel himself would swear in Master Bobby's presence."
"That will do, Peter. I won't bandy words with you any further; but I
wish this to be a warning. You are now head groom--I was even
considering, as you know well, the advisability of advancing you still
further. Whether or not I do so will depend upon yourself. I regret to
say that this episode has shaken my confidence."
There was a sudden flaring of anger in Peter's eyes. He recalled the
long years of honest service he had given Mr. Carter, a service in which
his employer's interest had always been his own; and his Irish sense of
justice rebelled. It was on his tongue to say: "I've worked ten years at
Willowbrook, and I've always done my best. If my best is not good
enough, you'll have to look for another man. Good evening, sir."
But he caught the words before they were spoken. Since Annie had come to
Willowbrook, Peter's outlook on life had changed. If a secret dream
concerning himself and her and the coachman's cottage were ever to come
true, he must swallow his pride and practise wisdom. His mouth took a
straighter line, and he listened to the remainder of his master's homily
with his eyes bent sulkily on the floor.
"Had it been one of the other grooms who was guilty of using such
language before my son, and of committing such an--er--unpardonable
breach of decorum as to paint him with axle grease, I should have
discharged the man on the spot. Your past record has saved you, but I
warn you that it will not save you a second time. In future, I shall
expect you to set an example to the under stablemen. You never find me
forgetting the dignity of my position; let me see that you remember the
dignity of yours. You may go now."
Mr. Carter dismissed him with a nod, and turned back to the desk.
Annie was waiting in the kitchen to hear the history of the interview.
Peter stalked through the room without a word, his face set in ominous
lines. She followed him to the back veranda, and caught him by the coat
lapel.
"What's the matter, Petey? What are you mad at? Didn't he thank you for
savin' the things?"
"Thank nothin'," Peter growled. "Do the Carters ever thank you? All the
blame is fixed on me for the things them little divvels do--_damn_
little divvels--that's what they are. 'An' is it fittin',' says he,
'that ye should use such language before Master Bobby?' Lor'! I wish he
could hear the language Master Bobby used before me the time he fell
into Trixy's manger. I'd like to meet Mr. Carter in the open once, as
man to man. I'd knock him out in the first round with me right hand tied
behind me."
Peter was clearly fighting mad.
"I'd like to get a whack at that reporter what wrote that paper. Young
Malone has missed his callin', has he? I'd show him where young Malone's
talents lie; I'd knock him into the middle o' next week. 'Gallant work
o' Chief McDougal.' Bloomin' lobster in a rubber helmet. I'll teach him
his dooty if I ever ketch him out alone. It was me as saved the
buckboard an' all the tools, an' Master Augustus in the bargain--wish
I'd let him burn, I do. 'An',' says Mr. Carter, 'do ye think it
consonant wid the dignity o' me position,' he says, 'that me son should
be painted with axle grease--me--the Honourable Jerome B. Carter,
Esquire?' His dignity! Take away his money an' his dignity, an' there
wouldn't be enough of him left to fill a half-pint measure. I'll get it
back at him; you see if I don't. I risks me life and I burns me best
pants, an' that's all the thanks I get!"