THE SATURDAY GANG
The place Billy called the Fo’castle was a tiny room in the sloping
windmill tower. It was level with the second floor of the house, and a
narrow, railed bridge connected it with a door in his mother’s room.
Under it was the above-ground cellar, overhead the big tank. Still
higher whirled the great white wings that pumped the beauty-giving
water to lawn and gardens.
The little room was rude and bare, but Billy loved it. He thought the
massive beams like the ribs of a ship, and planned to hang between
them all his ship pictures. Anything relating to the sea fired his
imagination. It gave him a sense of manliness to sleep there alone;
and when the heavier gusts of night wind rocked the tower, and each
revolution of the big wheel splashed the water against the tank,
as waves lap a ship’s side, he dreamed himself on the ocean, called
himself “Captain.”
He woke early the next morning. This was rare for him; he usually slept
like a bear in midwinter. Perhaps the creaking of the windmill all
through the night made his slumber light. Another noise had disturbed
him, the sewing machine. Its whirr had come up to him from the open
window of the living-room. He knew mother and sister were sewing hard,
that on the morrow the poor little stranger might be suitably clad.
_He_ had brought upon them this extra work! And this was only the
beginning. If the child’s mother was not found they must buy clothes as
well as food; and this would take a lot of his sister’s money.
“Jiminy! If they don’t let me work this vacation, I’ll have to run
away,” he thought as, through the uncurtained window, he watched the
evening star sink below the western hills. While he was wondering if
people lived in the star he fell asleep; yet waked later to hear the
busy machine.
“Golly! They’re working all night. I--ought to--help--to-morrow. I--”
He slept again with his good resolution half made.
Yet the impression of the night had been deep enough to wake him before
the sun rose. He dressed quickly, astonished the chickens with an early
breakfast; put fresh sand in the coop; climbed the windmill tower to
oil the bearings of the big wheel; and put the lawn mower in order, but
remembered in time that to use it would wake the sleepers.
What more might he do to hasten the Saturday work? He could not chop
the kindling or fill the wood boxes. The weeding! It was behind. Both
mother and sister had reminded him repeatedly, but he had forgotten.
Only yesterday his sister had made tidy the flower beds that flanked
the house; but the melons, the vegetables,--they were not done, and
that would make no noise.
The Bennetts’ was one of the oldest places in town, and the most
beautiful. It was near the heart of the growing village ambitiously
calling itself a city. Level lawns protected by high hedges and shaded
by many trees, spread amply around the house and back to the first
terrace, where a tangle of berry vines covered trellises that shut off
a lower level devoted to vegetables. Beyond this was the chickens’
domain, rock-dotted acres that sloped sharply to where Runa Creek
boiled over its stony bed. Here mother hens fluttered and scolded while
web-footed broods paddled in the edges of the stream.
Once Billy’s attention was fixed he was as earnest at work as at play.
He slaughtered the weeds rapidly, and had several clean beds behind him
when his mother called him to breakfast.
“What happened to you, Billy?” she asked when he entered the kitchen.
“For a second I was frightened when I went to wake you and found you
gone.”
“Thought I’d eloped? I ought to when I’ve brought you an extra mouth to
feed.” He was splashing and spluttering in the lavatory off the kitchen.
“Never mind, son; we expected to take some one.”
“Yes; but some one who could take care of himself. And you didn’t
expect to open dressmaking parlors.”
“No matter, Billy. I think she was sent to us; and we shall find a way.
Are the chickens fed?”
“Yes, long ago. And, mamma, you needn’t ask me that every morning; I’m
going to remember. Truly!” he added, as he came toward her, rosy and
shining, and saw her doubtful smile. “The vegetables are most weeded,
too.”
Mrs. Bennett put down the pan of batter-cake dough and gave him his
good-morning kiss. His head was level with hers. “Thank you, my big
boy. Mother will soon have a man to look to. Go in and get your
breakfast; you must be nearly famished.”
“Yes, I could eat a graven image.”
“I hope my breakfast won’t be quite so--”
“Rocky?” he interrupted. “You bet not. It’ll be just bully, that’s
what!”
“Oh, Billy!” she said, despairingly; and he knew in spite of her smile
that she disliked his words. “The little girl is looking for you. She
is lonely; you must amuse her.”
Billy was suddenly overcome with bashfulness when the child, quite
composed, came forward to meet him. A bath, a shampoo, and new clothes
had transformed her from a tangled, smudged little girl to a lovely
miss with a high-bred air foreign to the childish manners Billy
understood. He recognized Edith’s gown in the pretty frock mother and
daughter had sat late to make over; but the neat ties and hose, all the
little things it takes to make a girl look pretty, where had they come
from?
“Aren’t you going to say ‘Good-morning’ to me, Billy?” She put out the
slenderest little white hand, and looked into his face appealingly.
“Of course I am,” he replied promptly, with a squeeze of her hand that
made her wince. “At first I was scared; I thought you must be a fairy.”
“Oh, no, not a fairy; only Cinderella. Last night I was the poor little
cinder girl; now my fairy godmothers, two, have touched me with their
wands, needles, and I’m so fine even the Prince didn’t know me.”
“Well, the Prince will see that the glass slipper’s tied fast. He’s got
no ‘Ho, minions!’ to hunt for you if you turn Cinderella again.” He
stooped and fastened her tie.
She clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m glad you like fairies, too. Do you know
about Bagdad and Semiramide and Good King Arthur and Ivanhoe, and all
the other beautiful things in the world?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Dear me, mother,” Edith said when Mrs. Bennett came in with hot cakes,
“what shall we do with two children in dreamland?” Edith had not
touched her breakfast, but was waiting on the others.
“Three you should say. Don’t you live in the dreamland of music? Eat
your own breakfast, or you’ll be late for the train.”
“Train? Is she going away?” The small girl’s face grew sorrowful.
“Only for a day, dear. I’ll be back to-night.”
“She has a music class in Loma; and it isn’t dreamland, either,
teaching; but she has to earn grub for me, sister does.” The frank
statement of a truth he had grown accustomed to this morning roused a
feeling of shame, and he gazed steadily at his plate.
“Don’t look so, brother,” Edith said as she kissed him good-bye; “the
‘grub’ is making a fine boy, and I’m proud of him.” Yet as she tied her
veil at the mirror she saw the cloud still lingering on his face.
“Let him play to-day, mother,” she pleaded, when the two stepped into
the hall; “he can be a boy only once.”
“But you work hard, and he should do his part. You are spending your
youth for us, and I’m glad he begins to see it.” They spoke softly, yet
Billy knew partly what they said; and it made him still more thoughtful.
“You and Edith are fairies,” he said when his mother came again to the
room, “to rustle such pretty togs for the new sister in a night.” His
mother was piling his plate again with griddle cakes.
“My conscience! You can’t eat all--” May Nell stopped, conscious of an
unkindness. But the boy only laughed; he was used to comments on his
appetite.
“Good hearts need no fairy wings,” Mrs. Bennett replied to Billy
while she smiled at the little girl. “Jean told her mother about our
May Nell, and Mrs. Hammond came over with a generous lot of outgrown
things.”
“But Jean’s two times as big as May Nell.”
“Yes, now. Once she must have been about the same size, you know.” She
stood behind the child caressing her cheek.
“What is the matter with your hand?” May Nell asked as she drew the
work-worn hand down and patted it. “It doesn’t feel like my mama’s.
And you have only one ring, a plain one. Are your others in the bank?
My mama has ever so many,--diamonds, rubies, and such a big sapphire,
perfectly exquisite! And they look elegant on her hand,--she has a
perfectly beautiful hand.”
“There are other things besides gems, little girl.” Mrs. Bennett smiled
and began to clear the table.
“Her hand would be as pretty as any one’s if she didn’t have to work so
hard,” Billy thought loyally; and promised himself again that the first
money he earned should buy his mother a diamond ring.
“Take May Nell into the garden with you, Billy,” Mrs. Bennett said; “I
shall be busy with the Saturday work, and she will be happier in the
sunshine. And don’t speak of the earthquake,” she warned him aside;
“she must forget that as fast as possible.”
Outside the spring warmth and fragrance enfolded the children as a
mantle, opening their hearts to each other. Billy showed his flock
of pigeons, his white chickens and the house where they roosted and
brought forth their fluffy broods. Old Bouncer barked and capered about
them; and the little girl tried to decide which cat was the prettiest,
white Flash watching for gophers in the green alfalfa, or Sir Thomas
Katzenstein, his yellow mate, basking in the sun. “He isn’t yellow like
any other cat I ever saw; he’s shaded so beautifully.”
“Yes, sister says he’s rare, Persian or something; but I guess he’s
only a plain cat. He’s a lazy thing.”
“Why doesn’t your mama have a man to take care of the grounds?” she
questioned after she had told him something of her parents and home.
“She can’t, you know; she and sister have to work hard to make what we
spend now. I don’t do half enough myself.”
“Giving music lessons isn’t work. I’d love to do that.”
“You bet it’s work! ’Specially when she gets hold of a cub like me.”
“‘You bet’ isn’t nice,” the child chid gently, and waited a moment
before continuing. “My papa won’t let my mama work. He went to South
America to get rich. When he comes back, he wrote in a letter to me, I
shall be as rich as a princess.”
“My father didn’t let my mother work when he was alive; but he--he
died.” Billy bent lower over his weeding, and both were quiet.
It was May Nell who first broke the silence. She had been thinking. “It
isn’t so very bad to have to work, is it? Your mama looks happier than
my mama does. She said she’d rather wear calico and work ever so hard,
and have papa at home, than be the richest, _richest_ without him. She
cries a lot--my mama does. And now--she’s crying--for me.” The last
word was a sob.
“Here, here! You mustn’t do that,” Billy gently coaxed, rising and
taking her hand. “You’ll make me draw salt water, too. And it don’t
help, you know. I’ll tell you what--you can work some, gather the
flowers. I’ll show you how. Mother puts ’em fresh in all the rooms for
Sunday.” He bustled her up the terrace steps, brought scissors and
basket, and, starting her on her pleasant task, began to mow the lawn.
“All over the house does she put them?” the child asked after she had
snipped a fragrant heap.
“Yes. You see, she rents some of the rooms, and she says they must look
extra nice on Sunday so the men won’t mosey off to the saloons.”
“‘Mosey’? Does that mean ‘little Moses’?”
He had hardly recovered from his laugh when two little girls appeared
at the gateway. “There’s Twinnies! Come in, Kiddies, and see my new
sister,” he called, as they hesitated.
“We came--we came to bring these,” one ventured timidly, and lifted one
end of the basket they carried between them.
Billy peeped under the cover, not heeding the little girls’ protest.
“Golly, May Nell! The Queen of Sheba won’t be in it ’long side of you.”
Mrs. Bennett heard anxiety in the voices of the visitors, and came out.
“Mrs. Bennett, you must unpack it alone, mamma said.”
“Alone, mamma said,” came the second voice.
Mrs. Bennett seemed to know exactly what to do. She took out and
displayed to May Nell some of the generous gift of child’s wear sent by
Mrs. Dorr from the wardrobe of the twins, placed the basket within the
door, and introduced the children. Billy wondered what else might be in
the basket that made it “act so heavy; it couldn’t be shoes.” He looked
critically at May Nell’s small feet.
“This is Evelyn Dorr, and Vilette, her sister,” Mrs. Bennett was saying.
Billy laughed. “Mixed again, mamma. This is Vilette,” he drew one
bashful little girl nearer the stranger, “and _this_ is Evelyn, Echo,
we call her.”
Mrs. Bennett smiled at her mistake and went in, while Billy took up his
mower. The girls looked at one another in the mute scrutiny children
bestow on newcomers, May Nell the least embarrassed of the three.
“Are you as old as us? We’re seven,” Vilette said a bit loftily, as she
discovered herself taller than May Nell.
“We’re seven,” came the echo.
“Last November.”
“Last November,” piped Evelyn.
“I was ten in January, the twelfth,” May Nell replied, with no pride in
her tone; she was always older than those of her size. Yet she was not
prepared for the gasps and backward movement of the twins.
“Ten? You won’t think of playing with us, then. Ma thought you’d be
just our age.”
“Just our age.”
The little stranger girl smiled winningly. Her childish companions
had not been numerous enough to justify her in drawing such close
lines; and she liked the sweet, half timid faces that always looked so
earnestly into her own. “Surely, I’ll play with you. I’ll come to see
you some time when Mrs. Bennett says I may.”
A whoop startled her and she turned to see a handsome boy racing up on
a brown pony, also carrying a basket.
“Hello, Billy To-morrow! Why didn’t you do that mowing last night? You
said you were going to.” He dismounted, tied the pony to the post, and
went inside; and one saw that in spite of jeers the boys were friends.
“Something my mother sent yours. You mustn’t touch it,” he warned, as
Billy made a reach for it. “I was to land this safe in Mrs. Bennett’s
hands; and here goes!” He sprang from Billy’s outreached arms, ran into
the house and out again, before Billy had time to resume his mowing.
“Say, it’s a donation party, isn’t it?” Billy did not see Harold wink
at the twins, but picked up his mower and started across the lawn at a
trot.
“Here, let me do that,” Harold commanded; “you go and do the rest of
your work. We won’t get to play in all day. The Gang coming?”
“Said so, but they’re late. We’ve got an addition, the little
earthquake girl.” This last was a sibilant aside.
Harold turned and looked to where May Nell stood with the twins,
sorting her flowers. “Isn’t she a daisy, though? Little--why, she’s
only a baby.”
“Look out! She’s ten, an’ never been to school; but she’s read more
things ’n you ’n me put together, Pretty. Knows ’em, too.” Billy
introduced the two in characteristic fashion and went within.
“Mamma, Pretty’s finishing the lawn for me; can’t I rub the floors
right now? The Gang’s coming and we want to do a lot to-day.”
“Never mind the floors, Billy. You’ve worked hard already; run off and
have a good time.”
Another time he would have gone quickly enough, for he liked work as
little as the average boy, often shirked it; though when he forgot
himself in his task, the joy of doing it well held him to it. But May
Nell’s coming and the added expense still troubled him; and it was a
resolute face he turned to his mother. “No, mamma, you shan’t get down
on your marrow bones to these old floors. It’s only me that needs to go
on the knees, you know.” His eyes twinkled.
He knew it was he and his friends who were never denied “the run of the
house,” that brought in most of the gray film that settled so quickly
on the dark floors; it was not fair to leave this back-aching task
to his mother. He hustled out the rugs, found dusting cloth, wax, and
rubber, and set vigorously at it, working so fast that he was nearly
finished when she returned to the room.
“That’s enough, Billy. Jimmy Dorr and George Packard are coming.” She
was a sensible woman, yet she disliked to expose her boy to Jimmy’s
caustic tongue. But Billy was equal to more than Jimmy.
“Let ’em come. What do I care for Sour ’n Shifty? I’ll never desert
Micawber this near success.” He rubbed on calmly, and the two boys came
in at the open door.
“Hello, Billy! You washin’ floors?” There was a sneer in Jimmy’s voice.
“Sure.” Billy looked up from all fours and grinned. “I haven’t got
two able-bodied sisters like Vilette an’ Echo to work for me; and you
wouldn’t have me see my mother do it, would you?”
Mrs. Bennett did not know, as her son did, that the retort touched a
sore fact. Jimmy’s eyes darkened with the look that had earned for him
the name of “Sour.” Yet in spite of this he had a fine, strong face.
Billy went on with his rubbing, and his next words were comically
resigned. “Besides, I suppose I’ll have to get married some day; of
course she’ll be a new woman; might as well learn housework now.”
Jimmy’s face lost its scorn. Someway the sting of his sarcasm never
seemed to touch Billy, who could always strike back a surer if less
venomous blow. Perhaps that was the very reason why Jimmy, though
larger and older, sought Billy and heeded him as he did no other save
his own stern father.
“You don’t catch Billy asleep,” said George, siding with the victorious.
“We must go right back,” Jimmy declared, turning to the door of the
kitchen and thrusting a package within.
“Tremendous long visit,” Billy taunted; “what’d you come for? Another
donation for my new sister?”
George nudged Jimmy. “Hit again, Sour. Come on.” The two boys went out,
mysteriously embarrassed.
Billy went to the door and looked after them. No one was in sight.
Harold, the twins, and May Nell, too, were gone. What could it mean? He
looked back at the clock. Nearly ten. Usually the Gang gathered earlier
than this, hung around and hurried him with his work, many putting in
lusty strokes, that Billy, the favorite, might the sooner be released.
But now even Jean, his stanch second in all the fun going, was late.
He had expected to be late himself; he always was. But he, who planned
most of the sport in spite of doing more work than any of them, had
this day expected his schemes to be well launched before he could join
in them.
He was standing disconsolate, looking up the street for stragglers,
when his mother came in again.
“What’s the matter, Billy? Why don’t you go and play? You surely
deserve a fine holiday, my big, big son.” She put her arm around
him tenderly; and he saw that she remembered. He would be thirteen
to-morrow. He had been counting the days; but he thought mother and
sister had been too busy to think of it. It was coming--to-morrow,
Sunday! If he didn’t have a good time to-day it wouldn’t be any
birthday at all.
[Illustration: “What’s the matter with Billy To-morrow?”]
“Why doesn’t the Gang come, mamma?” he asked, returning the kiss he
knew was one ahead for his natal day.
“Suppose you go down to the creek,” she replied with a peculiar
smile. “May Nell and the twins went there some time ago. Harold, too.”
Billy ran off full of vague expectation born of his mother’s smile. No
one in all the country round, not even Harold Prettyman, whose father
had the finest farm in Vine County, had such a splendid place to play
as the Bennetts’ back lot that sloped down to Runa Creek. As Billy
slammed the gate and bounded out on a huge boulder that hung over the
creek, a sounding cheer greeted him from below.
“Hooray, Billy! Thirteen to-morrow! But this is the day we celebrate!”
There they all were; those who had come first to the house, and many
others: Jean, Bess Carter, Charley Strong, Max Krieber, Jackson Carter,
the little colored boy, standing aloof, and others, large and small.
All in a line they stood, and shouted up at him:
“What’s the matter with Billy To-morrow? He’s thirteen! Three and ten!
Most a man! He’s all right!”
For a minute Billy stood, dazed, his heart thumping hard. Then he threw
his cap in the air, sang out, “Bully for the Gang! This time it’s Billy
To-day!” and raced down the hill to join them.