BILLY TO-MORROW
_By the same Author_
THE IRON WAY. A Tale of the Builders of the West. With four
illustrations by John W. Norton. _Fifth edition._ Large 12mo, $1.50.
A. C. MCCLURG & CO.
PUBLISHERS
[Illustration: BILLY]
BILLY TO-MORROW
BY
SARAH PRATT CARR
AUTHOR OF “THE IRON WAY”
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
CHARLES M. RELYEA
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1909
COPYRIGHT
A C McCLURG & CO.
1909
Published September 4, 1909
The Lakeside Press
R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO
To One Boy,
strong, buoyant, and true,
generously loved, yet more generously loving,
this book is affectionately
dedicated.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE LITTLE EARTHQUAKE GIRL 1
II. THE SATURDAY GANG 22
III. THE SURPRISE 47
IV. THE TWO-LIGHT TIME 64
V. “THE FAIR ELLEN” 82
VI. “THE TRIUMPH OF FLORA” 96
VII. THE FIGHT 112
VIII. ON STORMY SEAS 128
IX. RED GOOSE FLESH 138
X. SIR THOMAS KATZENSTEIN 149
XI. GOOD-NIGHT IN THE FO’CASTLE 156
XII. THE CIRCUS 170
XIII. THE HIDDEN HUT 185
XIV. IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE 196
XV. AGAINST THE FIRE 207
XVI. THE BRIDGE TO SAFETY 228
XVII. BILLY TO-DAY 240
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Billy _Frontispiece_
The little earthquake girl 18
“What’s the matter with Billy To-morrow?” 44
Jimmy sprang for her 94
A faint sound caught his ear 118
May Nell plays teacher 140
“You’re George Rideout Smith’s kid, ain’t you?” 200
She scudded across the bending board 236
BILLY TO-MORROW
CHAPTER I
THE LITTLE EARTHQUAKE GIRL
As Billy Bennett wheeled around the corner he saw his mother in the
doorway. Also he saw Jean Hammond across the street speaking with Bess
Carter,--the Queen of Sheba, the children called her, she was so large
and dark and handsome, and had such a royal way, like a sure ’nough
queen, one said. Though why children who had never been out of Vine
County should know so much about queens no one thought to ask.
Billy suspected his mother was waiting for him; he must hurry, he
thought. Yet he couldn’t resist showing off a bit. He bent over his
wheel, went by the girls with a rush and a “Hello!” made a neat turn,
wheeled a figure “8” around a team or two, shouted, “Don’t frame up
anything there!” as he passed a second time, and whizzed through the
arch in his own high hedge with one wheel in the air.
He swung his book-strap in greeting to his mother while rolling more
slowly up the rose-bordered path to the veranda. He thought his
mother’s face looked tired; but the smile there welcomed him warmly,
and he forgot the tired look with her first words.
“I’m sorry to make you late with your mowing, Billy, but I must have
you go out to Mrs. Prettyman’s for some cream she promised me.”
“Do you need it right away?” Billy stood his wheel against the steps
and flung his books on the porch table.
“Not till evening; but there’s the lawn.”
“I’ll mow in the morning. Let me stay and visit Pretty--Harold, I
mean--till sundown; can’t I, mamma?” He patted her cheek with a vigor
that made her wink. “You know you can’t refuse your darling boy,” he
wheedled.
In spite of her smile there was a tinge of gravity in her silent moment
of consideration. “Very well, Billy. You know how short Saturday is,
and that to-morrow you’ll wish you’d cut the grass to-day. Yet I leave
it to you; do as you like.”
The boy gave her a squeeze that made her last words come in jerks.
“That’s a mean trick to play on a fellow,--chuck such a responsibility
on a twelve-year-old. Say I must or I mustn’t, mamma.” He caught her
hand and gently tweaked her fingers.
“You are not a baby, my son; you’ll soon be a man, and it’s time you
did your own thinking. Don’t be late for dinner.”
Billy took the can she held toward him, and made a face that was half
fun, half discontent, yet not unloving. As his mother turned indoors he
noticed again that she was pale, and that her shoulders drooped; and
a sudden heat rose in his heart against the widowhood and poverty that
made it necessary for her to work so hard. When he grew to be a man, he
told himself, he would buy her a diamond ring and a silk dress; and she
should sit all day in the big rocking chair and work no more.
To-day his mother’s words had left a pang. He would soon be a man and
have to “think for himself.” Yes, and work, too. “Gee whiz! It’ll be
tough not to play any more,” he exclaimed under his breath as he bowled
along the tree-lined road that led to the Prettyman farm.
In the hours of joy that followed, joy known only to boys and farms
in conjunction, Billy,--and it was unusual for him,--more than once
recalled his mother’s words; heeded them to the extent of bidding
Harold a reluctant good-bye when the sun was still blazing high above
the horizon. But when, on his way home, he came to the branching of
the road his good resolution weakened. He looked back. The sun was
surely more than an hour high. He would have time to go up the hill
road to the “Ha’nt.” And, beside that, he wished to look at the river
where its divided flow encircled a tiny, shrub-grown island.
A certain wide lawn, starred with white clover and daisies came
unwelcome to his mind. He ought that moment to be chopping off clover
tops.
“Jiminy! I’ll have time in the morning,” he said aloud, and hurried
on, not slackening his speed till he came to a sharp turn that took
the road against the face of a rugged mountain. He hid his wheel and
can in a tangle of rose vine and snowdrop, and stood out on the edge
of the steep bluff that overhung the rushing river. There bloomed
the island. Near the centre a rocky point was aflame with gorgeous
poppies; and Billy could smell the fragrance of the snowy wild
heliotrope,--pop-corn the children called it.
The water would soon be low enough, he decided, though the end of the
suspension foot-bridge hung very near surface. The rains had come in
a sudden flood that year, delaying sport he had planned, in which the
island was to play an important part.
He went on, a little cautiously now, and shortly came in view of
the “Ha’nt,” a sinister though imposing house, built of cut stone,
close against the face of the most picturesque mountain of the range,
bounding Vina Valley. The windows were curtained with cobwebs and
dust. For years the wide front door had been nailed up with the same
sun-bleached boards; and “Keep out!” spoke from every gray splinter.
Billy knew by sight the two Italians who lived there, brothers yet
enemies. Each dwelt by himself in a corner of the great building. Each
cultivated alone his share of the straggling vineyard on the heights
above, too steep and rocky for a plough; though the lush acres on the
river bottom went fallow. If either overstepped his bounds they fought.
Billy had seen one of these encounters; and the fierce fire in their
dark faces, the passion in the foreign words they spoke,--oaths the boy
felt they must be,--sent him flying home, tinged his dreams for many a
night.
He was not more inquisitive than other boys, yet the mystery, the many
uncanny tales told of the old house, fired him with a desire to know
its secrets. Long before he was born a murder had left its stain there.
The owners, suspected but unconvicted, moved away; and for years the
house stared vacantly at passers. The coming of the Italians had only
increased its bad name. Late travellers on the lonely road declared
that shadowy forms and flickering lights passed the lower windows and
down into the cavernous basement; yet no sounds ever came from behind
the barred doors.
Rational people laughed at these stories, declared them the fancies of
brains fuddled by too long a stay at the saloons in town. But Billy was
not so easily satisfied. He wished to see for himself those shadowy
forms; to prove to the small, scared children that, contrary to general
belief, the brothers sometimes had guests. And he had a queer feeling
that some way the house would have a place in his life. He admired
its gloomy grandeur; planned the additions he would make if it were
his own, and the gardens, the hedges of roses, and banks of fragrant
smilax, that should grow there.
Now he crept through the brush by the roadside till he came close under
the west wall. The setting sun blazed red fire at him from the windows,
reminding him sharply of the hour.
“Golly! Wish’t I had time to stay an’ watch. But I won’t, Betsey; I’ll
go right now.”
Billy at work or at play was so absorbed that it was hard for him
to measure time; and he had a queer notion that it was some other
intelligence beside his own will that reminded him, often too late, of
duties waiting. This he named Betsey; and among the children Betsey
came to stand for Billy’s conscience.
Up on the hillside one of the brothers still plied the hoe; and now
the other came from the back door and walked down the road with his
milk can in his hand. Billy had “the creeps” for a minute, and cowered
closer; but no one saw him. Now was the time! He would never have such
a chance again.
“You keep still, Betsey! I’m going to watch!” he exclaimed, as if some
one had spoken.
Cautiously he crept nearer the door, stopping at each step to listen,
to look again at the worker above. He was at the very corner of the
house when voices sounded from within. He started, his breath coming
quicker. He caught no words, but knew by the “ginger” in the tones
that the speakers were angry. Shuffling steps came up the stairway and
turned toward the rear.
The boy scudded lightly across the narrow open space to the shelter of
a manzanita tree, and looked back again; but no one appeared. Did he
still hear the softly quarrelling voices? He fancied so. The sudden dip
of the sun behind a hill darkened the scene threateningly, and brought
a return of “the creeps.”
It was not the hour for ghosts, they must be real people. Billy
encouraged himself with that thought and wished he could wait for
further disclosures. Did the sun ever before go down so fast? He
hastened to find his wheel and can, and set out at his best pace.
As he came into the main road a rosy, wholesome looking girl was
flying by. “Hello, Jean!” he called after her; “that’s going some--for
a girl.”
She turned back and rode up by his side. “Why shouldn’t a girl ride as
fast as a boy?” She had a bright, frank face, and her brown eyes were
as honest as they were beautiful.
“Oh, I s’pose she can, only a fellow doesn’t expect it of her. How came
you out here? I thought you’d be watching for refugees.”
“That’s what I’m hurrying for. Mamma sent me on an errand to Mrs.
Black’s and I want to be back at the station in time to see the train
come in. I wish we were going to have a refugee. Wasn’t the earthquake
awful?”
“Yes. And the fire worse. Why can’t you have a refugee?”
“Our house isn’t big enough.”
“I guess ours’ll be a grown-up chap; but I wish he’d be a boy my size.
How do you guess poor old San Francisco looks to-day?”
“Oh, Billy, don’t ask me. I can’t bear to think of it. But I almost
forgot,--your mother said if I saw you to tell you to go by the store
and get a loaf of bread. There’s the train!”
The whistle shrilled up the narrow valley, echoing back and forth from
the steep green hills that bounded it.
“She’s at Vine Hill--miles away; we’ll beat her if we hurry.” His words
were a bit breathless.
Off they bounded, side by side, through the fragrant spring evening.
The red of the western sky touched to brighter rosiness their glowing
cheeks, tinted Jean’s wind-blown hair with gold. As they neared the
town she shot ahead in a last ambitious spurt, wheeled and faced him as
he came up.
“Anything else you can do better than a girl?” she jeered,
good-naturedly.
“Try a mile with this can and see where you come out in the race.”
“Why have you been away out in the country for milk?”
“This milk happens to be cream. I’ve been wondering what kind of a
dessert will take all this.”
Jean hid a queer little smile that she could not repress.
“I’ll wrestle with you first chance,” he challenged; “but you wouldn’t
have any show, your dress is so long. Why do you have ’em so?”
Jean’s face fell, and she didn’t look at Billy when she spoke. “My
mother says I mustn’t wrestle any more.”
“Why, I wonder? She used to watch us at it and laugh.”
“Yes; but--oh, Billy, it’s awful to have to grow up and be proper. I
begged mamma not to put my dresses down, but I’m past thirteen, and big
as she is. And--”
“That’s no giant. She isn’t bigger’n a kid. Will she let you come to
play? The Gang’s coming to-morrow.”
“Yes, I can come. Shall I bring Clarence, too?”
“Sure. All the kids. But Clarence especially,--he’s my son, you know.”
Billy grinned.
“And just worships you. Is your lawn mowed?”
“No; I’ll do it first thing to-morrow.” He tried vainly to change the
subject. “I--”
“Oh, Billy To-morrow! You won’t have half time enough to play. You’re a
regular Mexican,--always _mañana_!”
When the train snorted into the station the two were there, Billy with
his loaf under his arm, his can dangling. Most of the arrivals were
townsfolk home from visits to the stricken city; but a few, evidently
strangers, descended and stood by themselves.
“That bunch with the tickets, them’s the refugees,” Billy whispered to
Jean. “See? Mr. Patton’s talking to them. Mr. Brown’s going to take ’em
to their places in his hack. I wonder which is ours. Jiminy! See how
hard that poor little kid’s trying to bluff her tears!”
He indicated a fair-haired child, a baby in size, though her face gave
hint of more years than her slender body. She wore woman’s shoes, and
one was torn; a draggled skirt pinned up in front and trailing behind;
and a folded sheet drawn around her shoulders. Yet no incongruity
of dress could disguise the refined beauty of her face, or of her
uncovered hair.
A kindly man held her by the hand, yet he was evidently a stranger to
her.
“Billy, ask Mr. Patton to let her come to your house! There aren’t any
boys.” Jean’s voice trembled with eagerness.
“Sure! Take care of the truck, will you?” He dropped his burdens to
Jean’s willing hands, and darted forward.
Mr. Patton, who “placed” the refugees, was glad of Billy’s request, for
the child’s struggle for self-control had touched him; and he knew no
one would be a kinder mother to her than Mrs. Bennett.
Billy hurried away, and arrived at his home before the hack, bread and
cream safe in spite of threatened dangers.
“Ma! Mamma Bennett,” he burst out as he banged open the door; “she’s
coming,--our little earthquake girl! The cutest kid,--not so big as the
twins, but stylisher in the face.”
Mrs. Bennett was setting the table. She put down a pile of plates, and
a new anxiety came into her careworn face. “A child? I told Mr. Patton
I couldn’t take one.”
“But I asked for her, mamma.” Billy’s voice lost its exuberance. His
mother never had looked so tired, he thought for the second time that
day.
“Oh, Billy, how could you, when mother has so much to do?” It was his
sister, Edith, who spoke, her sweet face clouded with rare disapproval.
Yet she went on with the music lesson she was giving.
“I’ll help a lot. You shan’t have a bit more trouble, sister; nor
mamma, either.” He began to distribute the plates with noisy clatter.
“She’ll be afraid to sleep in the downstairs bedroom,” Mrs. Bennett
reflected, planning rapidly for the unexpected child whom she still had
no thought of turning from her door.
“Put her in my room and give me the Fo’castle; I’ve always wanted to
bunk there.”
“She may come with me, mother,” Edith said, pausing in the lesson with
finger uplifted on the beat; “Billy mustn’t go into that bleak tank
house.”
Mrs. Bennett crossed the room and laid a tender hand on her daughter’s
shoulder. “You’re not strong and need perfect rest. Besides, you
spoil the boy. It won’t hurt him to sleep there, and he must take the
consequences of his own act.”
“Yet let him sleep downstairs,” Edith persisted.
“No, no, the Fo’castle! I--Here they come!” Billy set down some cups
with dangerous haste and ran out.
[Illustration: The little earthquake girl]
In spite of noise and heedlessness there was something fine and true
about Billy; something that made old Bouncer whine when left behind;
something that called the kittens to rub against his legs; that made
the little children at school adore him, and men and women smile
heartily when they greeted him. It was this mysterious something that
brought a wan smile to the small tired face and tired eyes that looked
confidingly into his blue ones. He lifted her carefully down from
the carriage, and led her up the walk to where his mother and sister
came to meet them.
“Your nose is out of joint, Edith! I’ve got a new sister.” But his eyes
belied his blunt words.
“Yes, you shall be our dear little girl.” Mrs. Bennett took the forlorn
child in her motherly arms and kissed her. “You’re tired and hungry,
too, aren’t you?”
“Yes, thank you. But most my heart is hungry. Will you help me to find
my mama?”
The quaint words seemed incongruous for so small a child, as did her
self-control; and the accent on the last syllable of “mama” made her
seem almost foreign to Billy. Yet he admired her anew as she tried to
hold still her trembling lips, to restrain her tears; as she threw up
her head, winked hard, and felt vainly for a handkerchief.
“Here, you poor darling, take mine! And don’t be afraid--you’ll find
your mother before long.” Edith’s words were brave, but her own eyes
were moist.
“First you must eat, and rest, so that you can tell us about your
mother; then we’ll see what can be done.” Mrs. Bennett took the child
into the pleasant living-room where Billy had put a fourth place at the
table next his own.
“Say, little kid, what’s your name?” he asked, merrily, as he routed a
great white cat from his own chair and placed it before the fire for
the child.
“Mary Ellen Smith; but my mama calls me May Nell; and she says--she
says ‘kid’ is vulgar.” The last words were very shy.
“The child may eclipse you in refining Billy’s language,” Mrs. Bennett
said, with a smile, aside to Edith; and went into the kitchen to “dish
up” the dinner.
Edith finished her music lesson, dismissed her pupil, and made the
little girl tidy if comical, in one of her own frocks. And when the
four sat to eat, Billy’s voice rang above the rest in the little song
they sang in lieu of grace.