mild misdemeanours as abstracting fishing bait from the kitchen. Peter
felt keenly that Mr. Carter ought to know, but he shrank from the idea
of telling. For one thing, he hated tale-bearing; for another, he had a
presentiment as to the direction Bobby's punishment would take.
As an indirect result of his thirteenth birthday, the boy was to have a
new horse--not another pony, but a grown-up horse--provided always that
he was good. Mr. Carter, being occupied with business out of town, had
not been able to give the matter his immediate attention; and poor Bobby
had been dwelling on the cold heights of virtue for nearly a month. He
had undergone, a week or so before, a mild attack of three-day measles
which he had borne with a sweet gentleness quite foreign to his nature.
Peter had openly scouted the doctor's diagnosis of the case.
"Rats!" he remarked to Annie, after viewing the boy's speckled surface.
"That ain't measles. It's his natural badness working out. I knew it
weren't healthy for him to be so good. If Mr. Carter don't make up his
mind about that horse pretty soon the boy'll go into a decline."
But at last the question was on the point of being settled. Mr. Carter,
having visited every horse dealer in the neighbourhood, had, in his
carefully methodical manner, almost made up his mind. The choice was a
wiry little mustang, thin-limbed and built for running; he could give
even Blue Gypsy some useful lessons in speed, and she had a racing
pedigree four generations long. Peter had fallen in love with the
mustang; he wanted it almost as much as Bobby. And he realized that
these next few days were a critical period; if the boy were discovered
in any black offence, the horse would be postponed until his fourteenth
birthday. His father had an unerring sense of duty in the matter of
punishments.
It was Saturday and Mr. Carter would be out on the noon train. Peter
drove to the station to meet him, still frowning over the question of
Bobby and the revolver. He finally decided to warn the boy; there would
be time enough to speak if the offence were repeated. Mr. Carter proved
to be in an unusually genial frame of mind. He chatted all the way out
on matters pertaining to the stables; and as they drew up at the
_porte-cochère_ he paused to ask:
"Ah, Peter, about this new mustang for Master Bobby, what do you think?"
"He's a fine horse, sir, though I suspicion not too well broke. But he's
got a good pair o' legs--I should say two pair, sir--an' sound wind.
That's the main thing. We can finish his trainin' ourselves."
"Then you advise me to get him?"
"I should say that ye wouldn't be makin' no mistake. I'll be glad, sir,
to see Master Bobby with a horse of his own. He's gettin' too heavy for
Toddles."
"Very well. I'll do it. You may have Blue Gypsy saddled immediately
after luncheon and I will ride over to Shannon Farms and close the
deal."
At two o'clock Blue Gypsy stood pawing impatiently before the library
door with Peter soothingly patting her neck. Mr. Carter paused on the
steps to survey her shining coat with the complaisant approval of
ownership.
"Pretty good animal, isn't she, Peter?"
"She is that," said Peter, heartily. "You'd search a long time
before----"
His sentence broke down in the middle as his eye wandered to the stretch
of lawn beyond the hedge. Patrick was visible hurrying toward them, a
white envelope waving in his hand, plainly bent on gaining the hole in
the hedge and Mr. Carter's side before that gentleman's departure.
Peter tried to cover his slip and induce his master to mount and ride
off; but it was too late.
"Here, Peter, just hold her a minute longer. I think that note is for
me."
Patrick with some difficulty squeezed himself through the hole--it had
been made originally by Mr. Harry so that he might run over and call on
Miss Ethel without having to go around; and Mr. Harry was thin. Patrick
emerged with hair awry and puffing. He stood anxiously mopping his brow
while Mr. Carter read the note. Peter likewise eyed his master with a
touch of anxiety; he had a foreboding that the contents of the letter
meant no good to the cause of the new mustang.
Mr. Carter ran his eye down the page with a quickly gathering frown and
then faced the man.
"You saw my son shoot the guinea fowl?"
"No, sir--that is, sir, I ain't sure. Mr. Jasper he asked me who I
thought the boys was, and I told him I didn't get close enough to see,
but I fancied one was Bobby Carter, because they run this way, and I
thought I recognized Master Bobby's legs as he crawled under the hedge.
I told Mr. Jasper it was only guess, but he was mad because she was one
of his prize hens, and he said he'd just drop a line to you and let you
investigate. It was dangerous, he said, if Master Bobby was playin' with
firearms, and you'd ought to know it."
"Yes, certainly; I understand."
Mr. Carter raised his voice and called to the boy who was visible
sprawling on a bench by the tennis-court.
"Bobby! Come here."
He pulled himself together with obedient haste and advanced to meet his
father, somewhat apprehensively, as his eye fell upon Patrick.
"Bobby, here is a note from Mr. Jasper. He says that some boys were
shooting at a target on his beach this morning and killed one of his
prize guinea fowls. He is not sure, but he thinks that you may have been
one of them. How about it?"
Bobby looked uncomprehending for a moment while he covertly studied
Patrick. The man's air was apologetic; his accusation was evidently
based upon suspicion rather than proof.
"I went crabbing with Bert Holliday this morning," said Bobby.
"Ah!" his father's face cleared, though he still maintained his stern
tone. "I gave you strict orders, you remember, never to touch my
revolver when I was not with you?"
"Yes, father."
"You never have touched it?"
"No." Bobby's tone was barely audible.
"Speak up! I can't hear you."
"No!" snapped Bobby.
"Don't act that way. I am not accusing you of anything. I merely wish to
know the truth." Mr. Carter turned to Patrick, who was nervously
fumbling with his hat. "You see, Patrick, you were mistaken. Tell Mr.
Jasper that I am sorry about the guinea fowl, but that Master Bobby had
nothing to do with the shooting."
He dismissed the man with a nod, and mounted and rode away.
Peter watched him out of sight, then he turned and crossed the lawn to
the tennis-court. Bobby was back on his bench again engaged in carving
his name on the handle of a racket, though his face, Peter noted, did
not reflect much pleasure in the work. He glanced up carelessly as Peter
approached, but as he caught the look in his eye, he flushed quickly,
and with elaborate attention applied himself to shaping a "C."
Peter sat down on the end of the bench and regarded him soberly. He was
uncertain in his own mind how he ought to deal with the case, but that
it must be dealt with, and drastically, he knew. Peter was by no means
a Puritan. The boy could accomplish any amount of mischief--go crabbing
instead of to Sunday-school, play fox and geese over the newly sprouted
garden, break windows and hotbeds, steal cake from the pantry and
peaches from Judge Benedict's orchard, and Peter would always shield
him. His code of morals was broad, but where he did draw the line he
drew it tight. Bobby's sins must be the sins of a gentleman, and Peter's
definition of "gentleman" was old fashioned and strict.
Bobby grew restless under the silent scrutiny.
"What do you want?" he asked crossly. "If you don't look out you'll make
me cut my hand."
He closed the large blade with an easy air of unconcern, and opening a
smaller one, fell to work again. The knife was equipped with five blades
and a corkscrew; it was one of the dignities to which Bobby had attained
on his recent birthday. Peter stretched out his hand and, taking
possession of the knife, snapped it shut and returned it.
"Put it in yer pocket an' pay attention to me."
"Oh, don't bother, Pete. I'm busy."
"Your father will be home before long," said Peter, significantly.
"Well, fire ahead. What do you want?"
"Ye told a lie--two o' them, to be accurate. Ye were one o' them boys
that shot the chicken an' ye did have the pistol."
"I didn't shoot his old chicken; it was Bert Holliday. And anyway he
didn't mean to; it flew straight in front of the target just as he
fired."
"He had no business to be firin'. But it's not the chicken I'm mournin'
about; it's the lie."
"It's none of your business," said Bobby, sullenly.
"Then I'll make it me business! Either ye goes to yer father an' tells
him ye lied, or I will. Ye can take yer choice."
"Peter," Bobby began to plead, "he'll not give me the mustang--you know
he won't. I didn't mean to touch the revolver, but Bert forgot his air
rifle, and the boys were waiting to have a shooting match. I won't do it
again--honest, Peter--hope to die."
"It ain't no use, Master Bobby. Ye can't wheedle me. Ye told a lie an'
ye've got to be punished. Gentlemen don't tell lies--leastways, not
direct. They hires a lawyer like Judge Benedict to do it for them. If ye
keep on ye'll grow to be like the Judge yerself."
Bobby smiled wanly. The Judge, as Peter knew well, was his chiefest
aversion, owing to an unfortunate meeting under the peach trees.
"You've told lots of lies yourself!"
"There's different kinds o' lies," said Peter, "an' this is the kind
that I don't tell. It ain't that I'm fond o' carrying tales," he added,
"but that I wants to see ye grow up to be a thoroughbred."
Bobby changed his tactics.
"Father'll feel awfully bad; I hate to have him find it out."
Peter suppressed a grin.
"Boys ought always to be considerate o' their fathers' feelin's," he
conceded.
"And you know, Pete, that you want me to have the mustang. You said
yourself that it was a shame for a big boy like me to be riding
Toddles."
Peter folded his arms and studied the distance a moment with thoughtful
eyes; then he faced his companion with the air of pronouncing an
ultimatum.
"I'll tell ye what I'll do, Master Bobby, since ye're so anxious to save
yer father's feelin's. I'll agree not to mention the matter, an' ye can
take yer punishment from me at the end of a strap."
Bobby stared.
"Do you mean," he gasped, "that you want to whip me?"
"Well, no, I can't say as I _want_ to, but I think it's me dooty. If ye
was a stable-boy and I caught ye in a lie like that, I'd wallop ye till
ye couldn't stand."
"I never was whipped in my life!"
"The more reason ye need it now. I've often thought, Master Bobby, that
a thorough lickin' would do ye good."
Bobby sprang to his feet.
"Tell him if you want. I don't care!"
"Just as ye please. He's over to Shannon Farms now buyin' the mustang.
When he gets back an' finds his son is a liar and a coward, he'll be
returnin' that horse by telephone."
Bobby's flight was suspended while he hung wavering between indignation
and desire.
"There it is," said Peter. "I won't go back on me word. Either ye keeps
a whole skin an' rides Toddles another year, or ye takes yer lickin'
like a man an' gets the horse. Ye can have an hour to think it over."
He rose and sauntered unconcernedly toward the stables. Bobby stared
after him, several different emotions struggling for supremacy in his
freckled face; then he plunged his hands deep into his pockets and
turned down the lane with an attempt at a swagger as he passed the
stable door. At the paddock gate Toddles poked his shaggy little head
through the bars and whinnied insistently. But Bobby, instead of
bestowing the expected lump of sugar, shoved him viciously with his
elbow and scuffed on. He seated himself precariously on the top rail of
the pasture fence and fell to digging holes in the wood with his new
knife, cogitating meanwhile the two alternatives he had been invited to
consider.
They appealed to him as equally revolting. Only that morning he had
carelessly informed the boys that his father was going to buy him a
mustang--a brown and white circus mustang that was trained to stand on
its hind legs. The humiliation of losing the horse was more than he
could face. Yet, on the other hand, to be beaten like a stable-boy for
telling a lie! He had boasted to the Hartridge boys, who did not enjoy
such immunity, that he had never received a flogging in his life. He
might have stood it from his father--but from Peter! Peter, who had
always been his stanchest ally, who, on occasion, had even deviated from
the strict truth himself in order to shield Bobby from justice. The boy
already had his full quota of parents; he did not relish having Peter
usurp the rôle.
For thirty minutes he balanced on the fence, testing first one then the
other of the horns of his dilemma. But suddenly he saw, across the
fields where the high-road was visible, a horse and rider approaching at
a quick canter. He slid down and walked with an air of grim resolution
to the stables.
Peter was in the harness-room busily engaged in cleaning out the closet.
The floor was a litter of buckles and straps and horse medicine.
"Well?" he inquired, as Bobby appeared in the door.
"You can give me that licking if you want," said Bobby, "but I tell you
now, _I'll pay you back_!"
"All right!" said Peter, cheerfully, reaching for a strap that hung
behind the door. "I'm ready if you are. We'll go down in the lower
meadow where there won't be no interruption."
He led the way and Bobby followed a dozen paces behind. They paused in a
secluded clump of willows.
"Take yer coat off," said Peter.
Bobby cast him one appealing glance, but his face was adamant.
"Take it off," he repeated.
Bobby complied without a word, his own face growing white.
Peter laid on the strap six times. He did not soften the blows in the
slightest; it was exactly the same flogging that a stable-boy would have
received under the same circumstances. Two tears slipped down Bobby's
cheeks, but he set his jaw hard and took it like a man. Peter dropped
the strap.
"I'm sorry, Master Bobby. I didn't like it any better than you, but it
had to be done. Are we friends?" he held out his hand.
"No, we're not friends!" Bobby snapped. He turned his back and put on
his coat; then he started for the house. "You'll be sorry," he threw
over his shoulder.
During the next few days Bobby ignored Peter. If he had any business in
the neighbourhood of the stables he addressed himself ostentatiously to
one of the under men. The rupture of their friendship did not pass
unmarked, though the grooms soon found that it did not pay to be
facetious on the subject. Billy, in return for some jocular comments,
spent an afternoon in adding a superfluous lustre to already brilliant
carriage lamps.
The mustang arrived, was christened Apache, and assigned to a box stall.
He possessed a slightly vicious eye and a tendency to buck, as two of
the grooms found to their cost while trying to ride him bareback in the
paddock. Peter shook his head dubiously as he watched the unseating of
the second groom.
"We'll put a curb bit on that horse. I don't just like his looks for a
youngster to ride."
"Huh!" said Billy, "Master Bobby ain't such a baby as everybody thinks;
he can manage him all right."
Word came out from the house that afternoon that Bobby was to try the
new mustang. Billy saddled the horses--Apache, and Blue Gypsy for Miss
Ethel, and a cob for Peter--and led them out, while Peter in his most
immaculate riding clothes swaggered after. The maids were all on the
back porch and the family at the _porte-cochère_ to watch the departure.
Bobby would accept no assistance, but mounted from the ground with a
fine air of pride. Apache plunged a trifle, but the boy was a horseman
and he stuck to his saddle.
"Be careful, Bobby," his mother warned.
"You needn't worry about me," Bobby called back gaily. "I'm not afraid
of any horse living!"
Blue Gypsy never stood well, and Miss Ethel was already off. Bobby
started to follow, but he wheeled about to say:
"You come, Billy; I don't want Peter."
"Bobby, dear," his mother expostulated, "you don't know the horse; it
would be safer----"
"I want Billy! I won't go if Peter has to come tagging along."
Peter removed his foot from the stirrup and passed the horse over to the
groom. The cavalcade clattered off and he walked slowly back to the
stables. He felt the slight keenly. He could remember when he had held
Bobby, a baby in short dresses, on the back of his father's hunter, when
he had first taught the little hands to close about a bridle. And now,
when the boy had his first horse, not to go! Peter's feeling for Bobby
was almost paternal; the slight hurt not only his pride but his
affections as well.
He spent an hour puttering about the carriage room, whistling a cheerful
two-step and vainly pretending to himself that he felt in a cheerful
frame of mind. Then suddenly his music and his thoughts were interrupted
by the ringing of the house telephone bell, long and insistently. He
sprang to the instrument and heard Annie's voice, her words punctuated
by frightened sobs.
"Oh, Pete! Is that you? Something awful's happened. There's been an
accident. Master Bobby's been throwed. The doctor's telephoned to get a
room ready and have a nurse from the hospital here. You're to hitch up
Arab as fast as you can and drive to the hospital after her. Oh, I hope
he won't die!" she wailed.
Peter dropped the receiver and ran to Arab's stall. He led him out and
threw on the harness with hands that trembled so they could scarcely
fasten a buckle.
"Why can't I learn to mind me own business?" he groaned. "What right
have I to be floggin' Master Bobby?"
The young woman whom Peter brought back decided before the end of the
drive that the man beside her was crazy. All that she could get in
return for her inquiries as to the gravity of the accident was the
incoherent assertion:
"He's probably dead by now, ma'am, and if he is it's me that done it."
As they turned in at the Willowbrook gate Peter strained forward to
catch sight of the house. A strange coupé was drawn up before the
_porte-cochère_. He involuntarily pulled Arab to a standstill and looked
away, but the nurse reached out and grasped the reins.
"Here, man, what is the matter with you? Hurry up! They may want me to
help get the boy in."
Peter drove on and sat staring woodenly while she sprang to the ground
and hurried forward. Mrs. Carter and the maids were gathered in a
frightened group on the steps. He could hear Miss Ethel inside the
carriage calling wildly:
"Do be quick! His head has commenced to bleed again."
The driver climbed down to help the doctor lift him out. They jarred him
going up the steps and he moaned slightly. Peter cursed the man's clumsy
feet, though not for worlds could he himself have stirred to help them.
The boy's head was bandaged with a towel, and he looked very limp and
white, but he summoned a feeble smile at sight of his mother. They
carried him in and the servants crowded after in an anxious effort to
help.
Peter drove on to the stables and put up Arab. In a few minutes Billy
returned leading the two horses. He was frightened and excited; and he
burst into an account of the accident while he was still half way down
the drive.
"It wasn't my fault," he called. "Miss Ethel said it wasn't my fault.
We met a mowing-machine and Apache bolted. He threw the boy off against
a stone wall, and by the time I reached 'em, Apache was eating grass in
the next field and Master Bobby lying in the ditch with 'is head cut
open."
"I don't want to hear about it," Peter returned shortly. "Put them
horses up and get out."
He himself removed Apache's new saddle and bridle and drove him with a
vicious whack into the stall. Billy took himself off to find a more
appreciative audience, while Peter dropped down on a stool inside the
stable door, and with his chin in his hands sat watching the house. He
saw the nurse fling wide the blinds of Bobby's room and roll up the
shades; he wondered with a choking sensation what they were doing to the
boy that they needed so much light. He saw Annie come out and hang some
towels on the line. The whole aspect of the place to Peter's sharpened
senses wore an air of tragic bustle. No one came near to tell him how
the boy was doing; he had not the courage to go to the house and ask. He
sat dumbly waiting for something to happen while twilight faded into
dusk. One of the stableboys came to call him to supper and he replied
crossly that he didn't want any supper. Presently he heard a step
scrunching on the gravel, and he looked up to find Annie coming toward
him.
"Is--is he dead?" he whispered.
"He's not goin' to die. He's feelin' better now; they've sewed up the
hole in his head. The doctor did it with a thread an' needle just like
you'd sew a dress. He took ten stitches an' Master Bobby bled awful. He
never cried once, though; he just got whiter an' whiter an' fainted
away. Don't feel so bad, Pete, he's goin' to get well."
She laid her hand caressingly on his hair and brushed it back from his
forehead. He caught her hand and held it.
"It's me that's to blame for his gettin' hurt. He won't never speak to
me again."
"Yes, he will; he's wantin' to speak to you now. They sent me out to
fetch you."
"Me?" he asked, shrinking back. "What's he wantin' with me?"
"He's been out of his head an' callin' for you; he won't go to sleep
till he sees you. The doctor said to fetch you in. Come on."
Annie's manner was insistent and Peter rose and followed her.
"Here he is," she whispered, pushing him ahead of her into the darkened
room.
Bobby made a half movement to turn as the door creaked, but a quick pain
shot through his shoulder and he fell back with a little gasp.
"Take care, Bobby," the nurse warned. "You mustn't move or you will hurt
that bad arm." Her greeting to Peter was stern. "You may stay five
minutes, and mind you don't get him excited!" She bent over the boy to
loosen the bandage about his shoulder.
"You go out," said Bobby, querulously. "I want to see Peter alone."
"Yes, dear," she patted the bedclothes indulgently. "Remember, five
minutes!" she added as she closed the door.
The two left alone stared at each other rather consciously for a moment.
They both felt that the occasion demanded something heroic in the way of
a reconciliation, but it was the natural instinct of each to fly from
sentiment. The sight of Bobby's pale face and bandaged head, however,
had their effect on Peter's already overwrought nerves.
"I'm a blunderin' fool!" he groaned. "I don't know why I can't never
learn to attend to me own affairs. If I'd told yer father, as was me
dooty, he'd never uv given ye that spotted devil of a horse."
"You aren't to blame, Pete. I guess I was hurt for more punishment
'cause I didn't take the first in the right spirit." He fumbled under
his pillow and drew out the new five-bladed knife. "This is for a
remembrance, and whenever you use it you will think 'it was me that
cured Bobby Carter of telling lies.'"
Peter received the gift with an air of hesitation.
"I don't like to take it," he said, dubiously, "though I have a feelin'
that perhaps I ought, for with five blades to choose from ye'll be
cuttin' yer blamed young throat--I'd hate to be the cause of any more
accidents." He balanced it thoughtfully in his palm. "But I'm thinkin,"
he added softly, "that the corkscrew might be doin' as much damage to me
as the five blades to you."
Bobby grinned appreciatively, and held out his uninjured left hand.
"Pete," he said, "if I promise never, never to tell any more lies, will
you promise never, never to use that corkscrew?"
"It's a bargain!" said Peter, grasping the boy's hand. "And I'm glad
that we're friends again."
They stared at each other solemnly, neither thinking of anything further
to add, when Peter suddenly became aware of the ticking of the clock.
"Holy Saint Patrick!" he ejaculated. "Me five minutes was up five
minutes ago. I must be takin' me leave or that commandin' young woman
will come back and eject me."
He moved toward the door, but paused to throw over his shoulder:
"I'd already promised the same to Annie, so ye needn't be takin' too
much credit to yerself fer me conversion."
IX
MRS. CARTER AS FATE