"Algernon Paul," called Mrs. Holmes, shrilly, "let the kitty alone!"
Every one else on the premises heard the command, but "Algernon Paul,"
perhaps because he was not yet fully accustomed to his new name, continued
forcing Claudius Tiberius to walk about on his fore feet, the rest of him
being held uncomfortably in the air by the guiding influence.
"Algernon!" The voice was so close this time that the cat was freed by his
persecutor's violent start. Seeing that it was only his mother, Algernon
Paul attempted to recover his treasure again, and was badly scratched by
that selfsame treasure. Whereupon Mrs. Holmes soundly cuffed Claudius
Tiberius "for scratching dear little Ebbie, I mean Algernon Paul," and
received a bite or two on her own account.
"Come, Ebbie, dear," she continued, "we are going now. We have been driven
away from dear uncle's. Where is sister?"
"Sister" was discovered in the forbidden Paradise of the chicken-coop, and
dragged out, howling. Willie, not desiring to leave "dear uncle's," was
forcibly retrieved by Dick from the roof of the barn.
Mr. Harold Vernon Perkins had silently disappeared in the night, but no
one feared foul play. "He'll be waitin' at the train, I reckon," said Mrs.
Dodd, "an' most likely composin' a poem on 'Departure' or else breathin'
into a tube to see if he's mad."
She had taken her dismissal very calmly after the first shock. "A woman
what's been married seven times, same as I be," she explained to Dorothy,
"gets used to bein' moved around from place to place. My sixth husband had
the movin' habit terrible. No sooner would we get settled nice an'
comfortable in a place, an' I got enough acquainted to borrow sugar an'
tea an' molasses from my new neighbours, than Thomas would decide to move,
an' more 'n likely, it'd be to some new town where there was a great
openin' in some new business that he'd never tried his hand at yet.
"My dear, I've been the wife of a undertaker, a livery-stable keeper, a
patent medicine man, a grocer, a butcher, a farmer, an' a justice of the
peace, all in one an' the same marriage. Seems 's if there wa'n't no
business Thomas couldn't feel to turn his hand to, an' he knowed how they
all ought to be run. If anybody was makin' a failure of anythin', Thomas
knowed just why it was failin' an' I must say he ought to know, too, for I
never see no more steady failer than Thomas.
"They say a rollin' stone never gets no moss on it, but it gets worn
terrible smooth, an' by the time I 'd moved to eight or ten different
towns an' got as many as 'leven houses all fixed up, the corners was all
broke off 'n me as well as off 'n the furniture. My third husband left me
well provided with furniture, but when I went to my seventh altar, I
didn't have nothin' left but a soap box an' half a red blanket, on account
of havin' moved around so much.
"I got so's I'd never unpack all the things in any one place, but keep 'em
in their dry-goods boxes an' barrels nice an' handy to go on again. When
the movin' fit come on Thomas, I was always in such light marchin' order
that I could go on a day's notice, an' that's the way we usually went. I
told him once it'd be easier an' cheaper to fit up a prairie schooner such
as they used to cross the plains in, an' then when we wanted to move, all
we'd have to do would be to put a dipper of water on the fire an' tell the
mules to get ap, but it riled him so terrible that I never said nothin'
about it again, though all through my sixth marriage, it seemed a dretful
likely notion.
"A woman with much marryin' experience soon learns not to rile a husband
when 't ain't necessary. Sometimes I think the poor creeters has enough to
contend with outside without bein' obliged to fight at home, though it
does beat all, my dear, what a terrible exertion 't is for most men to
earn a livin'. None of my husbands was ever obliged to fight at home an' I
take great comfort thinkin' how peaceful they all was when they was livin'
with me, an' how peaceful they all be now, though I think it's more 'n
likely that Thomas is a-sufferin' because he can't move no more at
present."
Her monologue was interrupted by the arrival of the stage, which Harlan
had gladly ordered. Mrs. Holmes and the children climbed into it without
vouchsafing a word to anybody, but Mrs. Dodd shook hands all around and
would have kissed both Dorothy and Elaine had they not dodged the caress.
"Remember, my dear," said Mrs. Dodd to Dorothy; "I don't bear you no
grudge, though I never was turned out of no place before. It's all in a
lifetime, the same as marryin', and if I should ever marry again an' have
a home of my own to invite you to, you an' your husband'll be welcome to
come and stay with me as long as I've stayed with you, or longer, if you
felt 'twas pleasant, an' I'd try to make it so."
The kindly speech made Dorothy very much ashamed of herself, though she
did not know exactly why, and Gladys Gwendolen, with a cherubic smile,
leaned out of the stage window and waved a chubby hand, saying: "Bye bye!"
Mrs. Holmes alone seemed hard and unforgiving, as she sat sternly upright,
looking neither to the right nor the left.
"Rather unusual, isn't it?" whispered Elaine, as the ponderous vehicle
turned into the yard, "to see so many of one's friends going on the stage
at once?"
"Not at all," chuckled Dick. "Everybody goes on the stage when they leave
the Carrs."
"Good bye, Belinda," yelled Uncle Israel, putting his flannel bandaged
head out of one of the round upper windows. He had climbed up on a chair
to do it. "I don't reckon I'll ever hear from you again exceptin' where
Lazarus heard from the rich man!"
"Don't let that trouble you, Israel," shrieked Mrs. Dodd, piercingly. "I
take it the rich man was diggin' for eight cents in Satan's orchard, an'
didn't have no time to look up his friends."
The rejoinder seemed not to affect Uncle Israel, but it sent Dick into a
spasm of merriment from which he recovered only when Harlan pounded him on
the back.
"Come on," said Harlan, "it's not time to laugh yet. We've got to pack
Uncle Israel's bed."
Uncle Israel was going on the afternoon train, and in another direction.
He sat on his trunk and issued minute instructions, occasionally having
the whole thing taken apart to be put together in a different kind of a
parcel. As an especial favour, Dick was allowed to crate the bath cabinet,
though as a rule, no profane hands were permitted to touch this instrument
of health. Uncle Israel himself arranged his bottles, and boxes, and
powders; a hand-satchel containing his medicines for the journey and the
night.
"I reckon," he said, "if I take a double dose of my pain-killer, this
noon, an' a double dose of my nerve tonic just before I get on the cars, I
c'n get along with these few remedies till I get to Betsey's, where I'll
have to take a full course of treatment to pay for all this travellin'.
The pain-killer bottle an' the nerve tonic bottle is both dretful heavy,
in spite of bein' only half full."
"How would it do," suggested Harlan, kindly, "to pour the nerve tonic into
the pain-killer, and then you'd have only one bottle to carry. You mix
them inside, anyway."
"You seem real intelligent, nephew," quavered Uncle Israel. "I never
knowed I had no such smart relations. As you say, I mix 'em in my system
anyway, an' it can't do no harm to do it in the bottle first."
No sooner said than done, but, strangely enough, the mixture turned a
vivid emerald green, and had such a peculiarly vile odour that even Uncle
Israel refused to have anything further to do with it.
"I shouldn't wonder but what you'd done me a real service, nephew,"
continued Uncle Israel. "Here I've been takin' this, month after month,
an' never suspectin' what it was doin' in my insides. I've suspicioned for
some time that the pain-killer wan't doin' me no good, an' I've been goin'
to try Doctor Jones's Squaw Remedy, anyhow. I shouldn't wonder if my whole
insides was green instead of red as they orter be. The next time I go to
the City, I'm goin' to take this here compound to the healin' emporium
where I bought it, an' ask 'em what there is in it that paints folk's
insides. 'Tain't nothin' more 'n green paint."
The patient was so interested in this new development that he demanded a
paint-brush and experimented on the porch railing, where it seemed,
indeed, to be "green paint." In getting a nearer view, he touched his nose
to it and acquired a bright green spot on the tip of that highly useful
organ. Desiring to test it by every sense, he next put his ear down to the
railing, as though he expected to hear the elements of the compound
rushing together explosively.
"My hearin' is bad," he explained. "I wish you'd listen to this here a
minute or two, nephew, an' see if you don't hear sunthin'." But Harlan,
with his handkerchief pressed tightly to his nose, politely declined.
"I don't feel," continued Uncle Israel, tottering into the house, "as
though a poor, sick man with green insides instead of red orter be turned
out. Judson Centre is a terrible healthy place, or the sanitarium wouldn't
have been built here, an' travellin' on the cars would shake me up
considerable. I feel as though I was goin' to be took bad, an' as if I
ought not to go. If somebody'll set up my bed, I'll just lay down on it
an' die now. Ebeneezer would be willin' for me to die in his house, I
know, for he's often said it'd be a reel pleasure to him to pay my funeral
expenses if I c'd only make up my mind to claim 'em, an'," went on the old
man pitifully, "I feel to claim 'em now. Set up my bed," he wheezed, "an'
let me die. I'm bein' took bad."
He was swiftly reasoning himself into abject helplessness when Dick came
valiantly to the rescue. "I'll tell you what, Uncle Israel," he said, "if
you're going to be sick, and of course you know whether you are or not,
we'll just get a carriage and take you over to the sanitarium. I'll pay
your board there for a week, myself, and by that time we'll know just
what's the matter with you."
The patient brightened amazingly at the mention of the sanitarium, and was
more than willing to go. "I've took all kinds of treatment," he creaked,
"but I ain't never been to no sanitarium, an' I misdoubt whether they've
ever had anybody with green insides.
"I reckon," he added, proudly, "that that wanderin' pain in my spine'll
stump 'em some to know what it is. Even in the big store where they keep
all kinds of medicines, there couldn't nobody tell me. I know what disease
'tis, but I won't tell nobody. A man knows his own system best an' I
reckon them smart doctors up at the sanitarium 'll be scratchin' their
heads over such a complicated case as I be. Send my bed on to Betsey's but
write on it that it ain't to be set up till I come. 'Twouldn't be worth
while settin' it up at the sanitarium for a week, an' I'm minded to try a
medical bed, anyways. I ain't never had none. Get the carriage, quick, for
I feel an ailment comin' on me powerful hard every minute."
"Suppose," said Harlan, in a swift aside, "that they refuse to take the
patient? What shall we do then?"
"We won't discuss that," answered Dick, in a low tone. "My plan is to
leave the patient, drive away swiftly, and, an hour or so later, walk back
and settle with the head of the repair shop for a week's mending in
advance."
Harlan laughed gleefully, at which Uncle Israel pricked up his ears. "I'm
in on the bill," he continued; "we'll go halves on the mending."
"Laughin'" said Uncle Israel, scornfully, "at your poor old uncle what
ain't goin' to live much longer. If your insides was all turned green, you
wouldn't be laughin'--you'd be thinkin' about your immortal souls."
It was late afternoon when the bed was finally dumped on the side track to
await the arrival of the freight train, being securely covered with a
canvas tarpaulin to keep it from the night dew and stray, malicious germs,
seeking that which they might devour. Uncle Israel insisted upon
overseeing this job himself, so that he did not reach the sanitarium until
almost nightfall. Dick and Harlan were driving, and they shamelessly left
the patient at the door of the Temple of Healing, with his crated bath
cabinet, his few personal belongings, and his medicines.
Turning back at the foot of the hill, they saw that the wanderer had been
taken in, though the bath cabinet still remained outside.
"Mean trick to play on a respectable institution," observed Dick, lashing
the horses into a gallop, "but I'll go over in the morning and square it
with 'em."
"I'll go with you," volunteered Harlan. "It's just as well to have two of
us, for we won't be popular. The survivor can take back the farewell
message to the wife and family of the other."
He meant it for a jest, but even in the gathering darkness, he could see
the dull red mounting to Dick's temples. "I'll be darned," thought Harlan,
seeing the whole situation instantly. Then, moved by a brotherly impulse,
he said, cheerfully: "Go in and win, old man. Good luck to you!"
"Thanks," muttered Dick, huskily, "but it's no use. She won't look at me.
She wants a nice lady-like poet, that's what she wants."
"No, she doesn't," returned Harlan, with deep conviction. "I don't claim
to be a specialist, but when a man and a poet are entered for the
matrimonial handicap, I'll put my money on the man, every time."
Dick swiftly changed the subject, and began to speculate on probable
happenings at the sanitarium. They left the conveyance in the village,
from whence it had been taken, and walked uphill.
Lights gleamed from every window of the Jack-o'-Lantern, but the eccentric
face of the house had, for the first time, a friendly aspect. Warmth and
cheer were in the blinking eyes and the grinning mouth, though, as Dick
said, it seemed impossible that "no pumpkin seeds were left inside."
Those who do not believe in personal influence should go into a house
which uninvited and undesired guests have regretfully left. Every alien
element had gone from the house on the hill, yet the very walls were still
vocal with discord. One expected, every moment, to hear Uncle Israel's
wheeze, the shrill, spiteful comment of Mrs. Holmes, or a howl from one of
the twins.
"What shall we do," asked Harlan, "to celebrate the day of emancipation?"
"I know," answered Dorothy, with a little laugh. "We'll burn a bed."
"Whose bed?" queried Dick.
"Mr. Perkins's bed," responded Elaine, readily. The tone of her voice sent
a warm glow to Dick's heart, and he went to work at the heavy walnut
structure with more gladness than exercise of that particular kind had
ever given him before.
Harlan rummaged through the cellar and found a bottle of Uncle Ebeneezer's
old port, which, for some occult reason, had hitherto escaped. Mrs.
Smithers, moved to joyful song, did herself proud in the matter of fried
chicken and flaky biscuit. Dorothy had taken all the leaves out of the
table, so that now it was cosily set for four, and placed a battered old
brass candlestick, with a tallow candle in it, in the centre.
"Seems like living, doesn't it?" asked Harlan. Until now, he had not known
how surely though secretly distressed he had been by Aunt Rebecca's
persistent kin. Claudius Tiberius apparently felt the prevailing
cheerfulness, and purred vigorously, in Elaine's lap.
Afterward, they made a fire in the parlour, even though the night was so
warm that they were obliged to have all the windows open, and, inspired by
the portrait of Uncle Ebeneezer, discussed the peculiarities of his
self-invited guests.
The sacrificial flame arising from the poet's bed directed the
conversation to Mr. Perkins and his gift of song. Dick, though feeling
more deeply upon the subject than any of the rest, was wise enough not to
say too much.
"I found something under his mattress," remarked Dick, when the
conversation flagged, "while I was taking his blooming crib apart to chop
it up. I guess it must be a poem."
He drew a sorely flattened roll from his pocket, and slipped off the
crumpled blue ribbon. It was, indeed, a poem, entitled "Farewell."
"I thought he might have been polite enough to say good bye," said
Dorothy. "Perhaps it was easier to write it."
"Read it," cried Elaine, her eyes dancing. "Please do!"
So Dick read as follows:
All happy times must reach an end
Sometime, someday, somewhere,
A great soul seldom has a friend
Anyway or anywhere.
But one devoted to the Ideal
Must pass these things all by,
His eyes fixed ever on his Art,
Which lives, though he must die.
Amid the tide of cruel greed
Which laps upon our shore,
No one takes thought of the poet's need
Nor how his griefs may pour
Upon his poor, devoted head
And his sad, troubled heart;
But all these things each one must take,
Who gives his life to Art.
His crust of bread, his tick of straw
His enemies deny,
And at the last his patron saint
Will even pass him by;
The wide world is his resting place,
All o'er it he may roam,
And none will take the poet in,
Or offer him a home.
The tears of sorrow blind him now,
Misunderstood is he,
But thus great souls have always been,
And always they will be;
His eyes fixed ever on the Ideal
Will be there till he die,
To-night he goes, but leaves a poem
To say good bye, good bye!
"Poor Mr. Perkins," commented Dorothy, softly.
"Yes," mimicked Harlan, "poor Mr. Perkins. I don't see but what he'll have
to work now, like any plain, ordinary mortal, with no 'gift'."
"What is the Ideal, anyway?" queried Elaine, looking thoughtfully into the
embers of the poet's bedstead.
"That's easy," answered Dick, not without evident feeling. "It's whatever
Mr. Perkins happens to be doing, or trying to do. He fixes it for the rest
of us."
"I think," suggested Dorothy, after a momentary silence, "that the Ideal
consists in minding your own business and gently, but firmly, assisting
others to mind theirs."
All unknowingly, Dorothy had expressed the dominant idea of the dead
master of the house. She fancied that the pictured face over the mantel
was about to smile at her. Dorothy and Uncle Ebeneezer understood each
other now, and she no longer wished to have the portrait moved.
Before they separated for the night, Dick told them all about the midnight
gathering in the orchard, which he had witnessed from afar, and which the
others enjoyed beyond his expectations.
"That's what uncle meant," said Elaine, "by 'fixing a surprise for
relations.'" "I don't blame him," observed Harlan, "not a blooming bit. I
wish the poor old duck could have been here to see it. Why wasn't I in on
it?" he demanded of Dick, somewhat resentfully. "When anything like that
was going on, why didn't you take me in?"
"It wasn't for me to interfere with his doings," protested Dick, "but I do
wish you could have seen Uncle Israel."
At the recollection he went off into a spasm of merriment which bid fair
to prove fatal. The rest laughed with him, not knowing just what it was
about, such was the infectious quality of Dick's mirth.
"They've all gone," laughed Elaine, happily, taking her bedroom candle
from Dorothy's hand, "they've all gone, every single one, and now we're
going to have some good times."
Dick watched her as she went upstairs, the candlelight shining tenderly
upon her sweet face, and thus betrayed himself to Dorothy, who had
suspected for some time that he loved Elaine.
"Oh Lord!" grumbled Dick to himself, when he was safely in his own room.
"Everybody knows it now, except her. I'll bet even Sis Smithers and the
cat are dead next to me. I might as well tell her to-morrow as any time,
the result will be just the same. Better do it and have it over with. The
cat'll tell her if nobody else does."
But that night, strangely enough, Claudius Tiberius disappeared, to be
seen or heard of no more.