THE CINDER POND
BY
CARROLL WATSON RANKIN
AUTHOR OF "DANDELION COTTAGE," "THE CASTAWAYS OF PETE'S PATCH," ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADA C. WILLIAMSON
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1915
To SALLIE and IMOGENE
[Illustration: NEXT SHE HAD FLOWN AT HIM AND HAD KISSED BOTH OF HIS
BROAD RED CHEEKS.]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE ACCIDENT
II. PART OF THE TRUTH
III. JEANNETTE'S QUEER FAMILY
IV. WHAT WAS IN AN OLD TRUNK
V. THE SEWING LESSON
VI. MOLLIE
VII. A MATTER OF COATS
VIII. A SHOPPING EXPEDITION
IX. THE FLIGHT
X. THE ARRIVAL
XI. A NEW LIFE
XII. A HELPFUL GRANDFATHER
XIII. BANISHED FRIENDS
XIV. AT FOUR A.M.
XV. ALLEN ROSSITER
XVI. AN OLD ALBUM
XVII. A LONELY SUMMER
XVIII. A THUNDERBOLT
XIX. WITH THE ROSSITERS
XX. A MISSING FAMILY
XXI. OLD CAPTAIN'S NEWS
XXII. ROGER'S RAZOR
XXIII. A NEW FRIEND FOR JEANNE
XXIV. MOLLIE'S BABIES
XXV. THE HOUSE OF DREAMS
XXVI. A PADLOCKED DOOR
XXVII. THE PINK PRESENT
THE PERSONS OF THE STORY
JEANNETTE HUNTINGTON DUVAL: Aged 11 to 14: The Principal Cinder.
Small Cinders from the Cinder Pond.
MICHAEL: Aged 8 to 10
SAMMY: Aged 4 to 7
ANNIE: Aged 3 to 6
PATSY: A Toddling Infant
LÉON DUVAL: Their Father.
MOLLIE: A Lazy but Loving Mother.
MRS. SHANNON: A Cross Grandmother.
CAPTAIN BLOSSOM: A Faithful Friend.
BARNEY TURCOTT: A Bashful Friend.
WILLIAM HUNTINGTON: A Grandfather.
CHARLES HUNTINGTON: A Polished Uncle.
MRS. HUNTINGTON: A Polished Aunt.
Their Perfect Children.
HAROLD: Aged 12
PEARL: Aged 15
CLARA: Aged 14
JAMES: A Human Butler.
MR. FAIRCHILD: Both Polished and Pleasant.
MRS. FAIRCHILD: A Grateful Parent.
ROGER FAIRCHILD: An Only Son.
MRS. ROSSITER: A Motherly Mother.
ALLEN ROSSITER: The Family "Meeter."
ILLUSTRATIONS
NEXT SHE HAD FLOWN AT HIM AND HAD KISSED BOTH OF
HIS BROAD RED CHEEKS _Frontispiece_
THE SEWING LESSON
JEANNE, LEFT ALONE WITH THE STRANGERS, INSPECTED
THEM WITH INTEREST
SHE ALMOST BUMPED INTO A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE
THE CINDER POND
CHAPTER I
THE ACCIDENT
The slim dark girl, with big black eyes, rushed to the edge of the
crumbling wharf, where she dropped to her hands and knees to peer
eagerly into the green depths below.
There was reason for haste. Only a second before, the very best suit of
boys' clothing in Bancroft had tumbled suddenly over the edge to hit the
water with a most terrific splash. Now, there was a wide circle on the
surface, with bubbles coming up.
It was an excellent suit of clothes that went into the lake. Navy-blue
serge, fashioned by Bancroft's best tailor to fit Roger Fairchild, who
was much too plump for ready-made clothes. But here were those costly
garments at the very bottom of Lake Superior; not in the very deepest
part, fortunately, but deep enough. And that was not all. Their youthful
owner was inside them.
That morning when Jeannette, eldest daughter of Léon Duval, tumbled out
of the rumpled bed that she shared with her stepsister, the day had
seemed just like any other day. It was to prove, as you may have
guessed, quite different from the ordinary run of days. In the first
place, it was pleasant; the first really mild day, after months of cold
weather. In the second place, things were to happen. Of course, things
happened _every_ day; but then, most things, like breakfast, dinner, and
supper, have a way of happening over and over again. But it isn't every
day that a really, truly adventure plunges, as it were, right into one's
own front yard.
To be sure, Jeanne's front yard invited adventures. It was quite
different from any other front yard in Bancroft. It was large and wet
and blue; and big enough to show on any map of the Western Hemisphere.
Nothing less, indeed, than Lake Superior. Her side yard, too, was
another big piece of the same lake. The rest of her yard, except what
was Cinder Pond, was dock.
In order to understand the adventure; and, indeed, all the rest of this
story, you must have a clear picture of Jeanne's queer home; for it
_was_ a queer home for even the daughter of a fisherman. You see, the
Duvals had lived on dry land as long as they were able (which was not
very long) to pay rent. When there were no more landlords willing to
wait forever for their rent-money, the impecunious family moved to an
old scow anchored in shallow water near an abandoned wharf. After a
time, the scow-owner needed his property but not the family that was on
it. The Duvals were forced to seek other shelter. Happily, they found it
near at hand.
Once on a time, ever so far back in the history of Bancroft, the
biggest, busiest, and reddest of brick furnaces, in that region of iron
and iron mines, had poured forth volumes of thick black smoke. It was
located right at the water's edge, on a solid stone foundation. From it,
a clean new wooden wharf extended southward for three hundred feet, east
for nine hundred feet, north for enough more feet to touch the land
again. This wharf formed three sides of a huge oblong pond. The shore
made the fourth side. The shallow water inside this inclosure became
known, in time, as "The Cinder Pond."
After twenty years of activity, the furnace, with the exception of the
huge smoke-stack, was destroyed by fire. After that, there was no
further use for the wharf. Originally built of huge cribs filled with
stone, planked over with heavy timbers, it became covered, in time,
first with fine black cinders, then with soil. As it grew less useful,
it became more picturesque, as things sometimes do.
By the time the Duvals helped themselves to the old wharf, much of its
soft black surface was broken out with patches of green grass, sturdy
thistles, and many other interesting weeds. There were even numbers of
small but graceful trees fringing the inner edge of the old wharf, from
which they cast most beautiful reflections into the still waters of the
Cinder Pond. No quieter, more deserted spot could be imagined.
Jeannette's father, Léon Duval, built a house for his family on the
southwest corner of the crumbling dock, three hundred feet from land.
When you have never built a house; and when you have no money with which
to buy house-building materials, about the only thing you can do is to
pick up whatever you can find and put it together to the best of your
small ability. That is precisely what Léon Duval did. Bricks from the
old furnace, boards from an old barn, part of the cabin from a wrecked
steamboat, nails from driftwood along the shore, rusty stove pipe from
the city dump ground; all went into the house that, for many years, was
to shelter the Duvals. When finished, it was of no particular shape and
no particular size. Owing to the triangular nature of the wharf, at the
point chosen, the house had to ramble a good deal, and mostly
lengthwise--like a caterpillar. For several reasons, it had a great many
doors and very few windows.
For as long as Jeanne could remember, she had lived in this queer,
home-made, tumble-down, one-story cabin; perched on the outside--that
is, the _lake_ side--of the deserted wharf.
On the day of the mishap to Roger Fairchild's navy-blue suit, Jeanne,
having put on what was left of her only dress, proceeded to build a fire
in the rusty, ramshackle stove that occupied the middle section of her
very queer home. Then, without stopping to figure out how many
half-brothers it took to make a whole one, she helped three of these
half-portions, all with tousled heads of reddish hair, into various
ragged garments.
Perhaps, if all the Duvals had risen at once, the house wouldn't have
held them. At any rate, the older members of the family stayed abed
until the smaller children had scampered either northward or eastward
along the wharf, one to get water, one to get wood.
And then came the adventure.
Roger didn't _look_ like an adventure. Most anyone would have mistaken
him for just a plump boy in _very_ good clothes. He carried himself--and
a brand-new fish-pole--with an air of considerable importance. He had
risen early for some especial reason; and the reason, evidently, was
located near the outer edge of the Duval dock; because, having reached a
jutting timber a few feet east of the Duval mansion, he proceeded to
make himself comfortable.
He seated himself on the outer end of the jutting timber, attached a
wriggling worm to the hook that dangled from the brand-new pole, and
then, raising the pole to an upright position, proceeded to cast his
baited hook to a spot that looked promising. He repeated this casting
operation a great many times.
Unfortunately, he failed to notice that the outward movement made by his
arms and body was producing a curious effect on the log on which he
sat. Each time he made a cast, the squared timber, jarred by his
exertion, moved forward. Just a scrap at a time, to be sure; but if you
have _enough_ scraps, they make inches after a while.
When the insecurely fastened log had crept out five inches, it took just
one more vigorous cast to finish the business. Roger, a very much
surprised young person, went sprawling suddenly into the lake. Straight
to the bottom of it, too; while the log, after making the mighty splash
that caught Jeannette's attention, floated serenely on top.
Jeannette, whose everyday name was Jeanne, promptly wrenched a great
fish net that was drying over the low roof of her home from its place,
gathered it into her arms, and rushed to the edge of the dock.
She was just in time. The boy had come to the surface and was
floundering about like a huge turtle. Jeanne threw a large portion of
the big net overboard, keeping a firm grasp on what remained.
"Hang on to this," she shouted. "Don't pull--just hold on. There! you
couldn't sink if you wanted to. Now just keep still--keep _still_; I
tell you, and I'll tow you down to that low place where the dock's
broken. You can climb up, I guess. Don't be afraid. I've pulled my
brother out four times and my sister once--only it wasn't so deep.
There, one hand on that plank, one on the net. Put your foot in the
crack--that's right. Now give me your hand. There--stand here on my
garden and I won't have to water it. My! But you're wet."
Roger _was_ wet. But now that he was no longer frightened, he was even
angrier than wet. To be saved by a _girl_--a thin little slip of a girl
at that--was a fearful indignity. A fellow could stand falling in. But
to be saved by a girl!
To make it worse, the dock was no longer deserted. There were folks
gathering outside the tumble-down shack to look at him. A fat, untidy
woman with frowzy reddish hair. A bent old woman with her head tied up
in a filthy rag. A small dark man with very bright black eyes. Two
staring children. The morning sun made three of the tousled heads blazed
like fire. But the boy's wrath blazed even more fiercely. To be saved
_by a girl_! And all those staring people watching him drip! It was too
much.
Without a word of thanks, and with all the dignity that he could muster,
plump young Roger marched past the assembled multitude--it seemed like
that to him--straight along the dock toward the shore, leaving behind
him a wet, shining trail.
With much difficulty, because of his soggy shoes, he climbed the rough
path up the bank to Lake Street, crossed that thoroughfare to clamber up
the exceedingly long flight of stairs--four long flights to be
exact--that led to the street above. A workman going down met him
toiling up.
"Hey!" the man called cheerfully. "Looks like you'd had an accident.
Fell in somewheres?"
There was no response. Roger climbed steadily on. By sneaking through
backyards and driveways, he managed at last to slip into the open door
of his own home, up the stairs, and into his own pleasant room, where he
proceeded, with some haste, to change his clothes.
He owned three union suits. He had one of them on. One was in the wash.
The other _should_ have been in his bureau drawer--but it wasn't. To ask
for it meant to disclose the fact that he had been in the lake--a secret
that he had decided never to disclose to _anybody_. With a sigh for his
own discomfort, young Roger dressed himself in dry garments, _over_ his
wet union suit.
"But what," said Roger, eying the heap of sodden clothing on the floor,
"shall I do with those?"
Finally he hung the wet suit in the closet, with his dry pajamas spread
carefully over them. He concealed his wet shoes, with his socks stuffed
inside, far back in a bureau drawer.