muddy gravel which the inlet, at low tide, left bare--and had given the
men permission to shoot. One Saturday afternoon Patrick and Peter and
Billy were gathered on the beach amusing themselves with a rifle and a
fresh box of cartridges. The target was a good two hundred yards away.
With a light rifle, such as the men were using, it was a very pretty
shot to hit one of the outer rings, the bull's-eye, through anything but
a lucky fluke, being almost impossible.
"Mr. Harry's givin' us a run for our money," Peter grumbled, after
splashing the water behind the target several times in a vain attempt to
get his range. "Ye'd better keep out, Billy. This ain't no easy steps
for little feet."
But Billy, with his usual aplomb, insisted upon trying. After his
second shot Peter derisively shouted:
"Look out, Pat! It ain't safe to stand behind him; he's likely to hit
'most anything except the mark."
Billy good-naturedly retired and engaged himself in keeping score. The
rivalry between Peter and Patrick was keen. The latter was the older
hand at rifle-shooting, but Peter was the younger man and possessed the
keener eye. As soon as they became accustomed to their distance they
pulled into line, and the contest grew spirited. Presently Vittorio, a
garden hoe in hand, came loping across the meadow, attracted by the
shots. When he saw what was toward, he dropped down on the bank and
interestedly watched the match. Patrick had been ahead, but his last
shot went wild and splashed the water to the left of the target. Peter
made the inner ring and pulled the score up even. He was in an elated
frame of mind.
"Hello, Tony!" he called with unwonted affability as he paused to
reload. "See that shot? Pretty near hit the bull's-eye. You don't know
how to shoot--no? Eye-talians use knives. Americans use guns."
Vittorio smiled back, pleased at being so freely included in the
conversation.
"I shoot-a more good dat. You no shoot-a straight; no hit middle." His
tone was not boastful; he merely dropped the remark as an unimpassioned
statement of fact.
Peter had raised the rifle to his shoulder; he lowered it again to
stare.
"What are ye givin' us?" he demanded. "Ye think ye can shoot better'n
me?"
Vittorio shrugged. He had no desire to hurt Peter's feelings, but at the
same time he saw no occasion to lie.
"Course I shoot-a more good dat," he responded genially. "I shoot-a long
time. You no learn how like-a me."
"Here," said Peter, stretching the rifle toward the man, "let me see ye
do it, then! Either put up or shut up. I'll show ye that it ain't so
easy as it looks."
Vittorio sprang to his feet with an air of surprised delight.
"You let-a me shoot? Sank you! Sank you ver' moch." He took the rifle in
his hand and caressed the barrel with a touch almost loving. His eyes
were eager as a child's.
"Here, you, Tony," Peter warned, "don't get funny with that gun! Point
it at the target."
Vittorio raised the rifle and squinted along the barrel; then, as an
idea occurred to him, he lowered it again and faced the three men with
his always sunny smile. He had a sporting proposition to make.
"You shoot-a more good me, my name Tony. I shoot-a more good you, my
name Vittorio Emanuele, same-a de king. You call me Vittorio, I
understand, I come; you call me Tony, I no understand, no come."
Peter, whatever his prejudices, was true to his ideals.
"It's a bargain, Tony. Ye beat me shootin' and I'll call ye any bloomin'
thing ye please--providin' I can twist me tongue to it."
Vittorio's eyes sought Patrick's. He removed the pipe from his mouth and
grunted.
"All-a right!" said Vittorio. "We shoot-a free time. First me, den you,
den you, den me again, like dat."
Without more ado he threw the gun to his shoulder, and, scarcely seeming
to sight, fired, and snapped out the empty cartridge. As the smoke
cleared the three strained forward in open-mouthed astonishment. He had
hit the target squarely in the centre.
"By gum! he's done it!" Peter gasped; then, after an astonished silence,
"Nothin' but luck--he can't do it again. Gi' me the gun."
Peter's surprise had not steadied his nerves; his shot went far astray,
and he silently passed the rifle to Patrick. Patrick laid down his
pipe, planted his feet firmly, and made the inner ring. He passed the
rifle on to Vittorio, and resumed his pipe. Patrick was a phlegmatic
soul; it took a decided shock to rouse him to words.
"Let's see ye do it again," said Peter.
Vittorio raised the rifle and did it again. His manner was entirely
composed; he scored bull's-eyes as a matter of course.
Peter's feelings by now were too complicated for words. He studied the
nonchalant Vittorio a moment in baffled bewilderment, then stepped
forward without remark to take his turn. He sighted long and carefully,
and scored the outer ring. He offered the rifle to Patrick, who waved it
away.
"I'm out."
"Don't back down," said Peter. "Ye've got two more tries. If ye let him
beat us he'll be so darned cocky there won't be no livin' with him."
Patrick copied the Italian's shrug and passed the rifle on. Vittorio
advanced for his third turn under the keenly suspicious scrutiny of six
eyes. They could not divine how such shooting could be accomplished by
trickery, but, still more, they could not divine how it could be
accomplished without. Vittorio sighted more carefully this time, but he
made his bull's-eye with unabated precision.
"Dat make-a free time," he observed, relinquishing the rifle with a
regretful sigh.
"Guess I've had enough," said Peter. "You're Vittorio Emanuele, same-a
de king, all right. We don't appear to trot in your class. How'd ye
learn?"
"All Italian mans know how shoot--learn in de army. I shoot-a long time.
Shoot-a Afric'."
"Africa!" said Peter. "You been in Africa?"
"Two time," Vittorio nodded.
"What'd ye shoot there--lions?"
"No, no lion." Vittorio raised his shoulders with a deprecatory air.
"Just man."
"Oh!" said Peter. His tone was noticeably subdued.
Mr. Harry Jasper, also attracted by the shooting, came strolling along
the beach to see how the match was going, but arrived too late to
witness Vittorio's spectacular exhibit. Mr. Harry considered himself a
pretty good shot; he had often beaten Peter, and Peter entertained a
slightly malicious desire to see him worsted once at his own game.
"Oh, Mr. Harry!" he called carelessly. "We've been tryin' our hands at
yer target, like ye said we might, an' this here new gardener-man come
along an' wanted to have a try. He's a surprisin' good shot for an
Eye-talian. Ye wouldn't believe it, but he beat Pat an' he beat me.
Would you mind shootin' with him once? I'd like to show him what
Americans can do."
Peter's tone was a touch over-careless. Mr. Harry glanced at him
suspiciously, and from him to Vittorio, who was looking on with amiable
aloofness, quite unaware that he was the subject of discussion. Mr.
Harry had not been entirely blind to the trials of David's peaceable
successor, and he was glad to see that the man was coming to the top.
"So he's beaten you? How does that happen, Peter? I thought you prided
yourself on your shooting."
"I'm a little out o' practice," said Peter.
Mr. Harry ran his eye over Vittorio's well-set-up figure.
"Served in the army, Vittorio?"
"Si, signore, five year."
"What corps--_Bersaglieri_?"
"Si, si!" Vittorio's face was alight. "I b'long _Bersaglieri_. How you
know?"
"Thank you for your interest, Peter," Mr. Harry laughed. "I don't
believe I'll shoot with him to-day. I'm a little out of practice
myself."
Peter's face was mystified.
"The _Bersaglieri_," Mr. Harry explained, "are the sharpshooters of the
Italian army, and a well-trained lot they are. You and I, Peter, are
amateurs; we don't enter matches against them when we know what we're
about."
"He didn't tell me nothin' about bein' a sharpshooter," said Peter,
sulkily. "He said he learned in Africa."
"Africa?" Mr. Harry echoed. "Did you go through the campaign in
Abyssinia, Vittorio?"
The man nodded.
"Surely not at Adowa?"
A quick shadow crossed his face.
"Si, signore," he said, simply; "I fight at Adowa."
"Good heavens!" Mr. Harry cried. "The fellow's fought against Menelik
and the dervishes." He faced the other three, his hand on Vittorio's
shoulder.
"You don't know what that means? You never heard of Adowa? It means that
this chap here has been through the fiercest battle ever fought on
African soil. He was beaten--the odds against him were too heavy--but it
was one of the bravest defeats in history. The Italians for three days
had been marching across burning deserts in a hostile country, on half
rations, and with almost no water. At the end of that time they
accomplished a forced march of twenty miles by night, across hills and
ravines so rough that the cannon had frequently to be carried by hand.
Then, as they were, worn out and hungry, hopeless as to the outcome,
they were asked to face an enemy six times larger than themselves--not a
civilized enemy, mind you, but howling dervishes--and they did it
without flinching. There's not a man who went through Adowa but came out
a hero."
Vittorio had watched his face; here and there he had caught a word. He
suddenly threw out his arms in a spasm of excitement, his eyes blazing
at the memory of the fight.
"Dat's right! Menelik bad king--bad war. No like-a dose peoples--me. I
shoot-a fast like dis." He snatched up the rifle and crouched behind a
rock; in pantomime he killed a dozen of the foe in as many seconds. He
threw the rifle away and sprang to his feet. "Not enough cartridges! No
can shoot-a more. Den I get-a wound; lie like-a dis." He dropped his
arms and drooped his head. "How you say? Tired? Yes, ver' tired like-a
baby. _Santissima Virgine!_ No can move, I bleed so moch. Sun ver'
hot--no water--ver' t'irsty. Den come-a dose peoples. Dey cut-a me up."
He tore open his shirt. A broad scar extended from his shoulder across
his breast. He lifted his hair and showed a scar behind his ear, another
on his forehead.
"Si, signore, all over my body dey cut-a me up!"
Mr. Harry frowned.
"Yes, yes, I know. It was terrible! You put up a great fight,
Vittorio--sorry you didn't do for 'em. You are brave chaps, you
Italians. It's a great thing to have gone through Adowa, something to be
proud of all your life. I am glad to know you were there." He glanced at
Peter sharply, then nodded and turned away.
Peter studied Vittorio, a new look in his eyes. The man's momentary
excitement had vanished; he was his old, placid, sunny self again.
"I guess we made a mistake," said Peter, and he held out his hand.
Vittorio obligingly shook it, since that seemed to be expected, but he
did it with smiling uncomprehension. He had never known that he had been
insulted, and he did not realize that amends were necessary. A pause
followed while the three men gazed at Vittorio, and Vittorio gazed at
the sun, slanting toward the western horizon.
"Six 'clock!" he exclaimed, coming to a sudden realization that duty
called. "I go water flower." He shouldered his hoe and turned away, but
paused to add, his eyes wistfully on the rifle: "You let-a me shoot some
ovver day? Sank you. Goo'-bye."
Peter looked after him and shook his head.
"An' to think he's a Dago! I s'pose if ye could understand what they was
jabberin' about, half the time, ye'd find they was talkin' as sensible
as anybody else. 'Tis funny," he mused, "how much people is alike, no
matter what country they comes from." He picked up the rifle and stuffed
the cartridges into his pocket. "Get a move on ye, Billy. 'Tis time we
was feedin' them horses."
VI
HELD FOR RANSOM
Peter, from being a care-free, irresponsible young groom, suddenly found
himself beset with many and multiform anxieties. It commenced with Joe's
falling through the trap-door in the ice-house and breaking his leg.
While he was in the hospital impatiently recovering, Peter was put in
command of the stables. The accident happened only a short time after
the burning of the waggon-shed, and Peter was determined to retrieve his
good name in Mr. Carter's sight. The axle grease episode remained a
black spot in his career. The three Brainard boys were still at
Willowbrook, but their visit was to come to an end in a week, and in the
meantime they, too, were in a chastened mood. Peter marked out a diamond
in the lower meadow, and with infinite relief saw them devote
themselves to the innocent pursuit of base-ball. If their enthusiasm
could only be made to last out the week, he felt that the waggon-shed
would be cheap at the price.
But though the boys were providentially quiescent, Peter's private
affairs were not moving so smoothly. He had another reason besides mere
ambition for wishing to prove himself capable of taking command in that
uncertain future when Joe should resign. Heretofore, the prospect of
being coachman, absolute ruler of three grooms and two stableboys, had
been sufficient goal in itself; but of late, visions of the coachman's
cottage, vine-covered, with a gay little garden in front, and Annie
sewing on the porch, had supplanted the old picture of himself haughtily
ordering about his five underlings. He had not, however, ventured to
suggest this dream to Annie. His usual daring impudence, which had
endeared him to her predecessors, seemed to have deserted him, and he
became tongue-tied in her presence. Peter had been possessed before by
many errant fancies, but never by an obsession such as this. He went
about his work blind to everything but the memory of her face. When he
peered into the oat-bin it was Annie that he saw; she smiled back at him
from the polished sides of the mail phaeton and the bottom of every
bucket of water. She made him happy and miserable, exultant and fearful,
all at once. Poor badgered Peter knew now what it felt like to be a
brook-trout when a skilful angler is managing the reel.
This alternate hope and fear was sufficiently upsetting for one whose
whole mind should have been upon his duties, but it was nothing to the
state that followed. Their quarrel fell from a clear sky. He had taken
her, one Sunday afternoon, to a popular amusement resort, a trolley
ride's distance from Willowbrook, and had suggested refreshments in a
place he remembered from the year before. It was called the "Heart of
Asia," and represented, so the man with the megaphone announced, the
harem of a native prince. The room was hung with vivid draperies of gold
and crimson, and dimly lighted by coloured lanterns suspended from the
ceiling. The refreshments were served by maidens billed as "Circassian
Beauties," but whose speech betrayed a Celtic origin.
Peter picked out a secluded table and ordered striped ice-cream. He had
thought the place particularly conducive to romance, but Annie was too
excited over her first introduction to the glamour of the East to give
attention to anything but her surroundings.
"Ain't she wonderful?" Annie whispered, as a Circassian Beauty, in green
and gold, trailed across her field of vision.
Peter shrugged in blasé, man-of-the-world fashion.
"'Tis the paint an' powder an' clothes an' lights," he said sceptically.
"Out in the daylight, with her own clothes on, she wouldn't look so
different from you."
This was not a strictly politic rejoinder, but he meant it well, and for
the moment Annie was too dazzled to be in a carping mood. The gorgeous
creature drew near, and set their ice-cream upon the table. She was
turning away, after a casual glance to make sure that they had spoons
and ice-water and paper napkins, when her eyes lighted upon Peter. Her
second glance was not so casual; it lingered for a moment on his face.
Peter had never visited the place but once in his life, and that the
summer before, when he had spent an inconsequential half hour in
chaffing the girl who served him. The incident had completely faded from
his mind; but the girl had a diabolical memory and a love of mischief.
"Hello, Peter Malone!" she laughed. "You haven't been around much
lately. I guess you don't care for me any more."
Peter's face--for no reason on earth but that he felt Annie's
questioning eyes upon him--took on a lively red. Annie transferred her
gaze and studied the Circassian Beauty at close range. After some
further reminiscences, audaciously expansive on her part, gruffly
monosyllabic on Peter's, the girl withdrew with a farewell laugh over
her shoulder; and Annie's eyes returned to Peter, an ominous sparkle in
their depths.
"I've had all I want o' this place," she observed, pushing away her dish
of ice-cream.
Peter followed her outside, aware of a chilly change in the atmosphere.
He anxiously ventured on an explanation, but the more he explained, the
more undue prominence the incident acquired.
"Ye needn't be apologizin'," said Annie, in an entirely friendly tone.
"Ye've got a perfect right to go anywhere ye please, an' know anyone ye
please. It's none o' my business."
She bade him good-night with an air of cheerful aloofness, thanking him
politely for an "interestin' afternoon." Her manner suggested that there
was nothing to quarrel about; she had been mistaken in her estimate of
Peter, but that was not his fault; in the future she would be more
clear-seeing. This wholly reasonable attitude failed to put Peter at his
ease. He passed a wakeful night, divided between profanity when he
thought of the Circassian Beauty, and anxiety when he thought of Annie.
In the morning the plot thickened.
A fourth youngster was spending a few days at Willowbrook--another
Brainard, cousin to the three who were already there; but,
providentially, he was only thirteen months old, and had not learned to
walk. Peter accepted the arrival without concern, never dreaming that
this young gentleman's presence could in any degree affect his own peace
of mind. The baby, however, had lost his nurse, and while they were
searching a new one Annie volunteered to act as substitute. The morning
after her visit to the Heart of Asia saw her ensconced on a rustic bench
under an apple tree on the lawn, the perambulator at her side. The tree
was secluded from the house by a mass of shrubbery, but was plainly
visible from the stables. It was also closely adjacent to the grounds of
Jasper Place, and this morning, by a fortuitous circumstance, Vittorio
was clipping the hedge.
It had never entered Peter's mind to regard Vittorio as a possible
rival; but now it suddenly occurred to him that the man was good
looking--not according to his own ideals, but in a theatrical, exotic
fashion, sure to catch a woman's eye. It also occurred to him that
Vittorio's conversation was diverting--again from a woman's point of
view. There was something piquant in the spectacle of a
broad-shouldered, full-grown man conversing in the baby accents of a
child of three. Peter went about his work that day, bitterly aware of
the by-play going on under the apple tree. Annie had undertaken the
task of teaching Vittorio English, and the lessons were punctuated by
the clear ring of her merry laugh.
In the evening the man was enticed to the back veranda, where he sat on
the top step singing serenades to his own accompaniment on the mandolin,
while the maids listened in rapt delight. Even Miss Ethel added her
applause; overhearing the music, she haled Vittorio and his mandolin and
Italian love songs to the front veranda to entertain her guests. Peter,
who had never been invited to entertain Miss Ethel's guests, swallowed
this latest triumph with what grace he might. The irony of the matter
was that it had been Peter himself who had first rescued Vittorio from
social obscurity, and who had insisted to the other sceptical ones that
the man was "all right," in spite of the misfortune of having been born
in Italy instead of in Ireland. He had not hoped to be taken so
completely at his word.
In this sympathetic atmosphere Vittorio expanded like a flower in the
sunlight. He had suddenly become a social lion. His funny sayings were
passed from mouth to mouth, and everybody on the place commenced
conversing in Italian-English.
"Eh, Peta!" Billy hailed him one afternoon, "Mees Effel, she want-a go
ride. She want-a you go too. I saddle dose horsa?"
"Aw, let up!" Peter growled. "We hears enough Dago talk without them as
knows decent English havin' to make fools o' theirselves."
While Peter's private troubles were thus heavy upon him, his official
responsibility increased. Mr. Carter was called away on business. On the
morning of the departure, as they were starting for the station, Miss
Ethel ran after them with a forgotten umbrella. "Take care of yourself,
dad!" She kissed him good-bye, and stood on the veranda waving her
handkerchief until the carriage was out of sight. Mr. Carter settled
himself against the cushions with a sigh.
"What a world this would be without women!" he murmured.
"Yes, sir," Peter agreed gloomily, "an', beggin' yer pardon, what a hell
of a world it is with 'em, sir."
The following few days strengthened this opinion. Vittorio's education
progressed, while Annie still maintained her attitude of superior
aloofness. Her manner was friendly--exactly as friendly to Peter as to
any of the other men. The intangibility of the quarrel was what made it
hardest to bear. Could he have punched some one it would have eased his
mind, but in all fairness he was forced to acknowledge that the "Dago"
was not to blame. The advances were blatantly from Annie's side.
In the meantime, however, a new complication had developed, which acted
in a measure as a counter irritant. Mr. Carter's train was barely out
of hearing, when the most extraordinary amount of petty thieving
commenced. Nothing could be laid down anywhere about the place but that
it immediately disappeared. There had been a number of Armenian women in
the neighbourhood selling lace, and Peter would have suspected these had
not the list of stolen articles been so unusual. It comprised the
clothes-line, half a dozen sheets and the wash-boiler, six jars of jam
from the cellar, and some bread and cake from the pantry window, a
bundle of stakes for training the tomato plants, and Master Wallace's
spelling book (he was having to study through vacation, and he bore the
loss with composure), a Japanese umbrella-holder from the front veranda,
a pair of lap-robes from the stable, and last, most uncanny touch of
all, the family Bible! This had stood on the under shelf of the table in
the library window, where it could be reached easily from the outside;
but, as Peter dazedly inquired of the world in general, "Why the divvil
should anyone be wantin' to take a Bible? It can't do him no good when
it's stolen."
It was Annie who had discovered this last depredation in the course of
her daily dusting. As yet the family had not noticed the loss of any of
the articles, and Peter, fearing that the matter might reflect upon his
own generalship, had hesitated about reporting it; none of the things
were very valuable, and he had daily expected to find the thief. The
boys knew, however, and took an open delight in the situation. Anything
approaching a mystery was food and drink to them. They abandoned
base-ball, and gave themselves over entirely to a consideration of the
puzzle.
The day the lap-robes disappeared, they were gathered in a group outside
the stable, Peter tipped back in an old armchair pulling furiously at
his pipe, with a double frown the length of his brow, the four boys
occupying the bench in an excited, chattering row.
"Perhaps the place is haunted!" Master Jerome put forth the suggestion
with wide eyes.
"Haunted nothin'," Peter growled. "It was a pretty live ghost that got
off with them lap-robes durin' the two minutes the stable was empty."
"They were the old ones," Bobby consoled him. "At least it was kind of
him not to take the best ones when they were just as convenient."
"Do you fink it's gypsies?" Master Augustus asked the question with a
fearful glance over his shoulder. He had been told that gypsies carried
off bad little boys.
"I don't know what it is," Peter said sullenly, "but if I ever ketches
anybody snooping about this place who has no business to snoop----" The
sentence ended in a threatening silence.
The four boys looked at one another and shuddered delightedly.
"It's like a book," Master Wallace declared. "The miscreant has foiled
us at every turn."