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BETTY AT FORT BLIZZARD
by
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
Author of "Betty's Virginia Christmas," "Papa Bouchard," "The
Jugglers," "Little Jarvis," Etc.
With Illustrations in Color and from Pen Drawings by Edmund Frederick
[Frontispiece: Anita walked down the stairs and came face to face with
Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence. (missing from book)]
Philadelphia & London
J. B. Lippincott Company
1916
Copyright, 1916, by John Wanamaker
Book News Monthly
Under title "Colonel Fortescue's Betty"
Copyright, 1916, by J. B. Lippincott Company
Published September, 1916
Reprinted October 20, 1916
TO
ELEANOR T. WOOD
THE GENTLE LADY
WHOSE PATH THROUGH LIFE IS RADIANT
WITH GOOD DEEDS
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
BY
THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. "MISS BETTY" IN A NEW RÔLE
II. A PRETTY MAID AND A GAMECHICK
III. THE HEART OF A MAID
IV. "GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART, GOOD-BYE"
V. UNFORGETTING
VI. SOME LETTERS AND KETTLE'S ENLISTMENT
VII. THE PLEADING EYES OF WOMEN
VIII. LOVE, THE CONQUEROR
IX. THE REVEILLE
ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOR
Anita Walked Down the Stairs and Came Face to Face
with Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence . . . . . . Frontispiece
Broussard Lifted Gamechick by the Bridle and the Next
Moment Cleared Both Mare and Girl
The Last Glimpse Broussard Had of Anita Was, As She
Stood, Her Arm About Gamechick's Neck
"This Was Enclosed in a Letter to Me From Mr. Broussard,"
said the Colonel
FROM PEN DRAWINGS
The Black Mare Suddenly Threw Her Head Down and Her Heels Up
"Miss Anita is in there with Mr. Broussard, an' He got
on His Courtin' Breeches, an' They's Just as Quiet as
a Couple of Sleepin' Babies"
"Never Mind, Dear, Darling Daddy, I Love You Just the Same"
Mrs. McGillicuddy Sat Majestically Upright in the Buggy,
While the Sergeant Bestrode the Peaceful and Amiable Dot
"Neither You nor Your Child Shall Suffer for the Present"
Kettle Dropped the Reins, and Grasping Corporal
Around the Neck Hung on Desperately
"Don't Call Your Father 'the Poor old Chap,'" Said
Mrs. Fortescue Positively
BETTY AT FORT BLIZZARD
CHAPTER I
"MISS BETTY" IN A NEW RÔLE
Colonel John Hope Fortescue, commanding the fine new cavalry post of
Fort Blizzard, in the far Northwest, sat in his comfortable office and
gazed through the big window at the plaza with its tall flagstaff, from
which the splendid regimental flag floated in the crystal cold air of
December. Afar off was a broad plateau for drills, an aviation field,
and beyond all, a still, snow-bound world, walled in by jagged peaks of
ice. It seemed to Colonel Fortescue, who was an idealist and at the
same time a crack cavalry officer, that the great flag on the giant
flagstaff dominated the frozen world around it, and its stars were a
part of the firmament. When the sun rose and the flag was run up, then
indeed it was sunrise. And when the sun descended in majesty, so the
flag descended in glory.
As the last pale gleam of splendor touched the flag, the sunset gun
cracked out suddenly. Colonel Fortescue and his right-hand man for
twenty years, Sergeant Patrick McGillicuddy, rose to their feet and
stood at "attention," as the flag fell slowly. Then it was reverently
furled, and the color sergeant, with the guard, started toward the
Colonel's quarters, all whom they passed making way for them and
saluting the furled colors.
Colonel Fortescue continued to look out of the window, while Sergeant
McGillicuddy, getting some belated mail together, passed out of the
office entrance of the fine new commandant's quarters. Two
horsewomen--Mrs. Fortescue, she who had been Betty Beverley, and her
seventeen-year-old Anita--followed by a trooper as escort, were coming
through the main entrance. Colonel Fortescue's eyes softened as he
watched his wife and daughter, Mrs. Fortescue as slim as when she was
Betty Beverley of old in Virginia, and riding as lightly and gracefully
as a bird on the wing.
There were two other watchers besides the Colonel. These two stood at
the drawing-room window. One was tall and black and kind-eyed, with
the unquenchable kindness of the colored race. His official name was
Solomon Ezekiel Pickup, but ever since Mrs. Fortescue, as Betty
Beverley, had taken him, a little waif, forlorn and homeless and
friendless, he had been simply Kettle, being as black as a kettle. He
had watched and adored the baby days of "Marse Beverley," the straight
young stripling now training to be a soldier at West Point, and Anita,
the violet-eyed daughter, the adored of her father's heart, but Kettle
had not come into his own until the two-year-old baby, John Hope
Fortescue II, had arrived in a world which did not expect him, but
welcomed him the more rapturously on that account. The new baby had
taken everybody by surprise, and immediately acquired the name of the
After-Clap. He coolly approved of his father and mother, and thought
Anita an entertaining person when she got down on the floor to play
with him. Naturally he was indifferent to his twenty-year-old brother,
whom he had never seen, but Kettle--his own Kettle--was the beloved of
the After-Clap's heart. Next to Kettle in his affections was Mrs.
McGillicuddy, the six-foot-two wife of Sergeant McGillicuddy, who had
eight children, of assorted sizes, and still found time to do a great
deal for the After-Clap.
Mrs. Fortescue, riding briskly across the plaza, and seeing Kettle, so
black, holding in his arms the laughing baby, so white, smiled and
waved her hand at them. Then, catching sight of the Commanding
Officer, standing at the window of his office, she smiled at him. But
Colonel Fortescue was not smiling; on the contrary, he was frowning as
his eyes fell upon Mrs. Fortescue's mount, Birdseye, a light built
black mare, with a shifty eye and a propensity to make free with her
hind feet. More than once Colonel Fortescue had reminded Mrs.
Fortescue that it was somewhat beneath the dignity of a Commanding
Officer's wife to ride a kicking horse. But Mrs. Fortescue had a
sneaking affection for Birdseye and much preferred her to Pretty Maid,
the brown mare Anita rode, and who was considered as demure as Anita,
and Anita was very demure, and very, very pretty. At least, so thought
Lieutenant Victor Broussard, watching her out of the tail of his eye,
as he passed some distance away. It was not so far away, however, that
Anita could not see the handsome turn of his close-cropped black head,
and his eyes full of laughter and courage and impudence. As some
things go by contraries, the glimpse of Broussard made Anita dismount
quickly from Pretty Maid and flit within doors to avoid the sight of
him. Once indoors, Anita ran where she could catch a last look of
Broussard's young figure, his cavalry cape thrown back, before he
turned the corner and was gone.
Colonel Fortescue, at the office window, returned a salute, without a
smile, to Mrs. Fortescue's greeting from afar. His teeth came together
with a snap.
"It's the last time," he said aloud--meaning that Mrs. Fortescue would
have to submit to his judgment in horses and let Birdseye alone.
What happened next turned the Colonel's resolution to adamant. A
trooper was leading Pretty Maid away and another trooper was about to
do the same for Birdseye when the black mare suddenly threw her head
down and her heels up. Mrs. Fortescue kept her seat, while the mare,
backing, and kicking as she backed, knocked over a couple of the
passing color guard, and only by adroitness the color sergeant saved
the flag from being dropped to the ground. Meanwhile, the two
troopers, falling backward, collided with the chaplain, a small, meek
man, as brave as a lion, who stopped to look and was ignominiously
bowled over. Sergeant McGillicuddy, just coming out of the office
entrance, made a dash forward and grabbed Birdseye by the bridle. The
mare, still unable to unseat Mrs. Fortescue or to break away from the
wiry little Sergeant, yet managed to scatter all the official mail in
the Sergeant's hand on the snow. Kettle, who could not have remained
away from "Miss Betty" under such circumstances to save his life,
dropped the baby on the drawing-room floor and rushed out. This the
After-Clap resented, shrieking wildly.
[Illustration: The black mare suddenly threw her head down and her
heels up.]
The combination of the kicking mare, the fallen troopers, the prostrate
chaplain, and the screaming baby at once determined Colonel Fortescue
to remain in his office; what he had to say to Mrs. Fortescue would not
sound well in public. Unlike Kettle, Colonel Fortescue had no fear
whatever for Mrs. Fortescue, and watched calmly from the window as
Sergeant McGillicuddy brought Birdseye to her four feet. Mrs.
Fortescue sprang to the ground and apologized gracefully to the
chaplain, assuring him that Birdseye was the best disposed horse in the
world, except when she was in a temper and her temper was merely
bashfulness and stage fright.
"Whatever it is," answered Chaplain Brown, smiling while he rubbed a
bruised shin, "it hurts. It hurts pretty badly, too."
Next, Mrs. Fortescue apologized profusely to the troopers who had been
knocked down by the bashful Birdseye. After their kind, they preferred
a kicker to a non-kicker, and accepted, with delighted grins, Mrs.
Fortescue's sweet words. But it was another thing when Mrs. Fortescue
had to face a frowning husband.
Mrs. Fortescue tripped into the Colonel's office, and going up to
Colonel Fortescue gave him two soft kisses and a lovely smile, and this
is what she got in return, in the Colonel's parade-ground voice:
"I supposed I had made myself perfectly clear, Elizabeth, in regard to
your riding that kicking mare."
"But, darling," replied Mrs. Fortescue, "I thought you wouldn't mind.
And please don't call me Elizabeth. It breaks my heart."
"I must ask--in fact, insist--that you shall not ride that mare again,"
answered the Colonel sternly, without taking any notice of Mrs.
Fortescue's breaking heart.
"And her name is Birdseye," plaintively responded Mrs. Fortescue.
"Don't you remember, the first horse you ever put me on was your first
Birdseye."
Mrs. Fortescue accompanied this information with a little pinch of the
Colonel's ear. The Colonel remained coldly unresponsive; he had
steeled his heart; the kisses and the pinch were hard to resist, but
hardest of all the look of wide-eyed innocence in the dark eyes
uplifted to his. Mrs. Fortescue would never see forty again, and her
rich hair had a wide streak of silver running from her right temple;
but she was the same Betty Beverley of twenty years before. The Betty
Beverleys of this world are dowered with immortal youth and change but
little, even under strange stars.
Mrs. Fortescue had never in her life been at the end of her resources
for placating men. She withdrew her arms from about her husband's
neck, and running lightly into the drawing-room took the After-Clap
from Kettle's arms, and, throwing him pick-a-back on her shoulders,
tripped with her beautiful man-child into the Colonel's office. Mrs.
Fortescue and the baby were the only persons who ever took liberties
with Colonel Fortescue.
The baby, charmed with his father's uniform, seized a shoulder strap
with one hand and grabbed the Colonel's carefully trimmed mustache with
the other, and lifted a pair of laughing eyes, wonderfully like his
mother's, into his father's face. Mrs. Fortescue, at first as demure
as any C. O.'s wife in the world, suddenly smiled the radiant smile
that began with her eyes and ended with her lips. The woman's cunning
was too much for the man's strength. Colonel Fortescue put his arm
around his wife, as she laid the baby's rose-leaf face against his
father's bronzed cheek. Husband and wife looked into each other's eyes
and smiled. With this baby their lost youth was restored to them.
Once more the Colonel was a slim young lieutenant, and Mrs. Fortescue
was holding in her arms another dark-eyed, rose-leafed baby, now a
young soldier in the gray uniform of a military cadet. They,
themselves, could scarcely realize the flitting of the years. This new
baby was a glorious surprise in their later married life. The baby's
little hand had led them backward to the splendid sunrise of their
married happiness.
"It is because I love you so that I can't--I won't let you ride that
black devil, Betty dear," said the Colonel.
"How ridiculous!" replied Mrs. Fortescue. "You know I can ride as well
as you can--can't I, After-Clap?"
"Goo-goo-goo-goo!" replied the baby, positively.
"And I never could understand why you should take the trouble to get
angry with me," Mrs. Fortescue kept on, "when you can't stay angry with
me to save your life."
Colonel Fortescue made a last stand.
"But if I didn't get angry with you sometimes, Betty----"
"'Betty' sounds cheerful," interrupted Mrs. Fortescue, and then there
was peace between them.
Mrs. Fortescue and the Colonel went up-stairs to dress for dinner, and
Kettle, on watch in the hall, took charge of the After-Clap, who
commanded to be taken back into the office. Kettle, as always,
promptly obeyed, and putting the baby on Sergeant McGillicuddy's desk,
allowed the After-Clap to wreck everything in sight.
It had not been originally designed that Kettle should be the
After-Clap's nurse. The colored mammy who had nursed Beverley and
Anita with tender devotions having gone to her well-earned rest, Mrs.
Fortescue had determined to be very modern with the After-Clap. A
smart young trained nurse, in a ravishing cap, was his first nurse.
But the baby showed such marked preference for Kettle, and Kettle
dogging the baby by day and night and thrusting superfluous services
and advice upon the nurse, she decided she would not stand being
"bossed by a nigger," and took a train for the East. Then, Mrs.
Fortescue determined to return to first principles and imported from
Virginia, at great cost and trouble, a colored mammy, most capable and
experienced. But the complications with Kettle grew more acute, and
the mammy, in a blaze of indignation, took even stronger ground than
the trained nurse, and declared she "warn't goin' to be bossed by no
black nigger." When she had shaken the snow of Fort Blizzard from her
feet, there was nothing left but to hand the baby over to Kettle and
Mrs. McGillicuddy, as coadjutor. After tending her own brood and
keeping a sharp eye on Anna Maria McGillicuddy, her eldest daughter,
who had reached the stage of beaux, and cooking the best meals for the
Sergeant that any sergeant could ask, Mrs. McGillicuddy still had time
to lend a helping hand with the After-Clap.
Kettle and Mrs. McGillicuddy had been good friends ever since the time,
nineteen years before, when she had become the little Sergeant's
two-hundred-pound bride. But in the twenty years, during which Kettle
had never left "Miss Betty" and Sergeant McGillicuddy had been Colonel
Fortescue's factotum, there had been a continual guerilla warfare
between Kettle and the Sergeant. The Sergeant alluded scornfully to
Kettle as "the naygur," while with Kettle the Sergeant was always "ole
McGillicuddy." Mrs. McGillicuddy was invariably on Kettle's side, and
one blast upon her bugle horn was worth ten thousand men in what Kettle
called his "collusions," with the Sergeant. Sergeant McGillicuddy had
performed prodigies of valor in fights with Indians; he had been
mentioned in general order, along with Colonel Fortescue, and was
commonly reputed to fear neither the devil nor the doctor. But he was
under iron discipline with Mrs. McGillicuddy, and Kettle, like
everybody else, knew it.
While the After-Clap was disporting himself with the articles on the
Sergeant's desk, under the full glare of the electric light, a shadow
passed the window. The next minute Sergeant McGillicuddy entered, the
lion in him aroused by the sight of the liberties taken with his desk.
"I say, you naygur," snorted the Sergeant wrathfully, "you take that
baby off my desk and out of this office. The C. O's office ain't no
day nursery."
"You go to grass," replied Kettle boldly.
The reason for Kettle's boldness was in sight. Mrs. McGillicuddy's
majestic figure was seen approaching from the region back of the
dining-room, and she had heard the Sergeant's remark about the C. O.'s
office being a day nursery.
"And it's you, Patrick McGillicuddy," cried Mrs. McGillicuddy, sailing
into the office, "the father of eight children, complaining of this
sweet blessed lamb."
"D' ye mean the naygur?" asked McGillicuddy.
Mrs. McGillicuddy, scorning to reply, seized the baby, and with Kettle
following marched out. It was not really judicious for the After-Clap
to be taken into the C. O.'s office.
The Sergeant began meekly to straighten up his desk, and Colonel
Fortescue, coming in later to glance over the evening newspaper, found
McGillicuddy gazing meditatively at the Articles of War, lying in a
volume on the table.
The Sergeant was not the modern educated non-com, with an eye to a
commission, but an old-timer, unlearned in books, but an expert in
handling men and horses.
"What is it, Sergeant?" asked the C. O.
"Just this, sir," replied the Sergeant respectfully, "I was thinkin' a
man ought to be mighty keerful when he picks out a wife."
"Certainly," replied the Colonel, gravely, who had exercised no
forethought at all, after once falling under the spell of Betty
Beverley's laughing eyes.
"When I got married I didn't act rash at all, sir, because I'm by
nature a timid man," continued the Sergeant, who was a valiant man, and
free. "I went to a palmist and paid him a dollar for my horrorscope.
I told him I wanted a little woman, about my size, who would follow me
around like a poodle dog. The palmist, he said, sir, he seen a little
woman in my hand as would follow me around like a poodle dog. Then I
went to a reg'lar fortune teller, and she told me the same thing, for a
dollar. And I went to a mind reader, the seventh daughter of a seventh
daughter, and she promised me the little woman, too. I bought a dream
book and there was the same little woman again, sir. Within a
fortnight after all this I met Araminta Morrarity, as is now Missis
Patrick McGillicuddy, and she is six-foot-two-and-three-quarters inches
in height, and tipped the scale then at a hundred and ninety-six
pounds--and I'm the lightest man in the regiment. Missis McGillicuddy
has been a good wife, sir--I ain't sayin' a word about that, sir."
"I should think not," replied Colonel Fortescue, to whom the Sergeant's
married life was known intimately for nineteen years, "Mrs.
McGillicuddy keeps all the soldiers' wives satisfied and is a boon to
the regiment."
"That's so, sir," the Sergeant agreed, "and the chaplain, he
compliments her on the way she marches them eight children and me to
the chapel every Sunday, rain or shine, me havin' the right of the
line, Missis McGillicuddy herself bein' the rear guard, the line
properly dressed, no stragglers, everything done soldier-like. But
Missis McGillicuddy don't follow me around like a poodle dog, as the
palmist, and the mind reader, and the dream book said she would. She's
hell-bent--excuse me sir--on havin' her own way all the time."
Just then a vision flitted past the door. It was Anita, dressed for
dinner, in a filmy gown of pale blue and white, the colors of the
Blessed Damozel. A light came into Colonel Fortescue's eyes as they
rested on this darling of his heart. The Sergeant had a pretty
daughter, Anna Maria by name, who was just Anita's age and of whom the
Sergeant was extravagantly fond. The two fathers, the Colonel and the
Sergeant, exchanged intelligent glances. Often, in their twenty years
of daily association, they talked together about things of which they
never spoke to any other man.
"Anna Maria is a fine girl," said the Colonel.
"Yes, sir," answered the Sergeant, "if she'd just get over the fancy
she has for Briggs, the artillery corporal. That man is bound to be
killed by a wheel runnin' over him. You know, sir, if there is
anything on earth that skeers me stiff it is a horse hitched to any
kind of a vehicle. I don't mind ridin' 'em because then the horse's
heels is behind me. But in a vehicle the horse's heels is in front of
me, and it makes me nervous. I have told Anna Mariar that she shan't
so much as look at Briggs unless he exchanges into the cavalry, so the
horse's heels will be behind him, and not in front of him."
The entrance bell rang, and Kettle went to the front door. Colonel
Fortescue could neither hear nor see the visitor, but the step and the
sound of a military cloak thrown on a chair indicated the arrival of a
junior lieutenant. Colonel Fortescue looked annoyed. The junior
officer running after Anita bothered him even more than Briggs, the
artillery corporal, bothered Sergeant McGillicuddy. Anita was but a
child--only seventeen; the Colonel had proclaimed this when he brought
Anita to the post. Colonel Fortescue did all that a father and a
Colonel could do to keep the junior lieutenants away from Anita, but no
method has yet been found to keep junior officers away from pretty
girls.
There were still twenty minutes before dinner, and the scoundrel, as
Colonel Fortescue classified all the juniors who, like himself, adored
Anita, seemed determined to stay until the musical gong sounded, and
later, if he were asked. This particular scoundrel, Broussard, was the
one to whom the Colonel most objected of all the slim, good-looking
scoundrels who wore shoulder straps, for Broussard had too much money
to spend, and spent it wildly, so the Colonel thought; he, himself, had
something handsome besides his pay, but he had also a sensible father
who held him down. Broussard had too many motors, too many horses, too
many dogs, too many clothes, too many fighting chickens, and, above
all, was too intimate with a certain soldier, a gentleman-ranker who
was disapproved, both of officer and man. A gentleman-ranker is a man
serving in the rank who might be an officer. This one, Lawrence by
name, was a bad lot altogether. The Colonel could add quite a
respectable number of demerits to Broussard's credit. And to make
matters worse, Broussard was a dashing fellow, the best rider in his
troop, and had a way with him that made Anita's eyes soften and her
tea-rose cheeks brighten when he came within her presence.
Meanwhile, Broussard was walking up the long and handsome drawing-room
toward the little glass room at the end, which had been fitted up for
Anita's birds, her doves and her canaries.
Anita, leaning backward in the cushioned window seat, held to her
breast a fluttering white dove. She did not see Broussard until he was
quite in the little room, and had closed the glass door after him. As
Anita gave Broussard her hand, a great wave of delicate color flooded
her face. This quickened the beating of Broussard's heart--Anita did
not blush like that for everybody. She had a gentle aloofness
generally toward men which was a baffling mystery to her mother.
Broussard, being frankly in love with Anita, lost all his importance
and presumption in her sweet presence, and was as gentle and modest as
the white dove that Anita still held to her breast. As he longed to
sit near her and ask her poignant questions, Broussard sat a long way
off and talked common-places, chiefly about birds, of which he showed a
surprising knowledge, gleaned that afternoon from the encyclopaedia, in
anticipation of his visit. Also, Broussard had, very artfully, secured
a traitor in the enemy's camp because it was well understood at Fort
Blizzard that Colonel Fortescue was the enemy of every subaltern at the
post who dared to raise his sacrilegious eyes to the Colonel's daughter.
This traitor was Kettle, into whose hand Broussard never failed to
place a quarter whenever they met, and at the same time to wink
gravely. Kettle knew the meaning both of the quarter and the wink.
Across the hall Kettle was arranging the dinner table, it being Mrs.
McGillicuddy's duty to put the After-Clap to bed. The dining-room door
was ajar, and Kettle kept an eye open to Broussard's advantage.
Presently, Mrs. Fortescue came down-stairs, dressed for dinner in a
gown of a jocund yellow, which Colonel Fortescue liked. As she passed
the open door of the handsome dining-room, Kettle beckoned to her
mysteriously. Mrs. Fortescue walked into the room and Kettle closed
the door after her.
"Miss Betty," whispered Kettle earnestly, "doan' you go into that there
apiary," by which Kettle meant the aviary. "Miss Anita is in there
with Mr. Broussard, an' he got on his courtin' breeches, an' they's
jest as quiet as a couple of sleepin' babies."
[Illustration: "Miss Anita is in there with Mr. Broussard, an' he got
on his courtin' breeches, an' they's jest as quiet as a couple of
sleepin' babies."]
A look of annoyance came to Mrs. Fortescue's expressive eyes. The
Colonel had imbued her with disapproval of the man of too many motors
and horses and dogs and clothes and fighting chickens.
Mrs. Fortescue waved Kettle away and marched into the hall, where she
met Colonel Fortescue coming out of his office.
"It's Broussard," she whispered to the Colonel.
Together they entered the long drawing-room. Broussard and Anita were
leaning forward; Anita's face was still deeply flushed. Her beloved
white dove fluttered, unnoticed, about her white-shod feet. When the
glass door opened and Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue entered the little
glass room, both Anita and Broussard started violently--a sign of
captive love.
Mrs. Fortescue was gracious, merely because she could not help it, and
the Colonel treated Broussard with the elaborate courtesy which a
Colonel shows to a subaltern and which makes the subaltern look and
feel the size of the head of a pin. Naturally, Broussard hastened his
leave-taking and received no invitation to remain, except from Anita's
eyes, shy and long-lashed.
When the Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue and Anita were sitting at the
softly-shaded round table in the dining-room, Anita's chair was close
to her father's--the two were never far apart when they could be close
together. Mrs. Fortescue wore around her white throat a locket with a
miniature in it of her boy soldier. He was to her what Anita was to
the Colonel, but being a stout-hearted woman she had sent her son away
to be a soldier and had worn a smile at parting. There was a strain of
the Spartan mother in this smiling daughter, wife, and mother of
soldiers.
"Did you have a pleasant visit from Mr. Broussard?" asked Colonel
Fortescue.
"Very pleasant, daddy dear. He knows so much about birds."
"I think," replied the Colonel, darkly, "Mr. Broussard's knowledge
comes chiefly from the study of fighting chickens."
"I hear he has cockfights on Sunday, in the cellar of his quarters,"
said Mrs. Fortescue, willing to give Broussard a slashing cut under the
fifth rib.
"Cocking mains, my dear," corrected the Colonel, and then kept on,
earnestly, to Anita.
"Yon can scarcely imagine the horrors of a cockpit. The poor
gamecocks, with cruel spurs upon their feet, tearing each other to
pieces, and blood and feathers all over the place."
"You seem wonderfully familiar with cockpits," remarked Mrs. Fortescue.
"It seems to me, when we went to our first post after we were married,
that you were sometimes missing on Sunday morning, and used to tell me
afterward about the grand time you had, and the superior fighting
qualities of the Savoys over the Bantams."
The Colonel scowled.
"I don't recall the circumstances, Elizabeth," he said.
"But I do, John," tartly responded Mrs. Fortescue.
Anita knew that when it was Jack and Betty the skies were serene, and
when it became John and Elizabeth there were clouds upon the horizon.
At this point Kettle, who was serving dinner, felt that his duty as
Broussard's ally was to speak.
"Miss Betty," said he with solemn emphasis, "Mr. Broussard doan' keep
them chickens in his cellar fur to fight; he keeps 'em to lay aigs fur
his breakfus'."
"That's queer," said the Colonel, "all of Mr. Broussard's chickens are
cock chickens."
This would have abashed a less ardent partisan, but it only stimulated
Kettle.
"Come to think of it, Miss Betty," Kettle continued stoutly, "them
chickens is cock chickens, but Mr. Broussard, he keep 'em for fryin'
chickens and bri'lers; he eats a cock chicken ev'ry mornin' fur his
breakfus', day in and day out."
"Oh, Kettle!" said Anita, in a tone of soft reproach. She disliked the
notion of a cockpit, but she was a lover of abstract truth, which
Kettle was not.
"Well, Miss Anita," Kettle began argumentatively, "the truth is, Mr.
Broussard, he jes' keep them chickens to' 'commodate the chaplain. The
chaplain, he's a gre't cockfighter, an' he say, 'Mr. Broussard, the
Kun'l is mighty strict, an' kinder queer in his head, an' he ain't no
dead game sport like me an' you, so if you will oblige me, Mr.
Broussard, jes' keep my fightin' chickens in your cellar, an' if the
Kun'l say anything to you, tell him them chickens is yourn. You
wouldn't mind a little thing like that, would you, Mr. Broussard?'
That's what I hee'rd the chaplain say."
"Kettle!" shouted the Colonel, and Mrs. Fortescue remarked candidly:
"You are a big story-teller, Kettle, there isn't a word of truth in all
you have been telling."
"That's so, Miss Betty," announced Kettle, brazenly. "Truth is, Mr.
Broussard ain't got no chickens at all in his cellar, he keeps ducks,
Miss Betty, 'cause the water rises in the cellar all the time."
Kettle's active help did not end with wholesale lying as a means of
helping Broussard. Within a week every time the After-Clap caught
sight of Broussard he would shout for "Bruvver." This, Kettle
carefully explained, was the baby's way of saying Broussard, but it
brought a good many quarters from Broussard's pocket into Kettle's palm.