THE SURPRISE
“Well, what do you want to play?” Billy asked, after the hubbub had a
little subsided.
“Let’s go to the park and play football,” Jimmy responded quickly.
“But the girls and small fry can’t come in on that. Besides, that
little city kid’ll be lonesome if I leave her.”
“Well I’m not going to stay an’ play kid games,” Jimmy retorted
loftily, and turned away.
“Me neither,” George endorsed.
“All right,” Billy acquiesced with a nonchalant tact; “I thought Sour’n
Shifty’d make good surveyors, Pretty; but I guess you can do that an’
your own job too, can’t you?” Billy turned to Harold, while George
watched to see what Jimmy did.
“Surveyors? What’s your scheme?” Jimmy was quickly interested.
“Why, I’d planned a big stock concern, like business men. We’ll build a
railroad, telegraph line--that comes first, though; we’ll have gold and
copper mines, and a wharf. And next we’ll launch the steamer we’ve been
making.”
“_If_ she steams,” Harold put in sagely.
“That big sand pile the kids made last week for a fort can be the
Sierras, and we’ll tunnel, and have a loop, and--”
“But where does our fun come in? Girls don’t build railroads,” Bess
complained.
“No; but you can ask concessions, and buy stocks, and keep hotel in the
shack, an’ board us men. Make more money ’n we do. They always do, you
know; not the fellers that works, but the smart ones that work _them_.
I’m hungry enough to eat May Nell right now!” He snapped his teeth
together with a ferocious grin as the little girl came near; and she
laughed back at him more joyously than her mother would have believed
possible could she have known; for this wholesome out-of-door frolic
was a boon to the child, white from life within brick walls.
They were a happy lot. Each held some high-sounding position, the name
coined in Billy’s busy brain. His box of abused tools came forth; the
much mended wheelbarrow, picks, shovels wobbly from use as well as
abuse, improvised things that only an imagination as large as Billy’s
could have named tools,--something for each one there.
Along the ridge of soft sand left by receding waters Billy let his
first contract to Harold, who immediately marshalled the “kindergarten”
with their broken fire shovels, kitchen spoons, what not, and set them
to digging briskly. “Straight to the line, mind you,” he sang out from
time to time, as he set his pins along the line the “engineers had
run.” Max was superintendent of telegraph construction; and Charley
Strong, “the Strong Man,” and Jackson contracted for the tunnel. They
were to start from each side, meet exactly in the middle in sixty
days,--a minute stood for a day,--or pay five million dollars fine.
And over all Billy kept a watchful eye, cast the glamour of his eager
spirit.
What matter if the telegraph poles that were to be just twelve
feet--that is, twelve inches--fell short or long sometimes.
“Their knifes bin too dull, and she must quick be done,” Max apologized
to Billy on his inspection trips.
“We’ll play there’s a strike in the saw-mills, Dutchy, and this is scab
labor,” Billy excused amiably. And for a fact the white cotton string
carried the messages quite safely from the “Front,” where Jimmy and
George laid out the “line” over wonderful grades, across impossible
gorges; and “wired” back for further orders. Harry Potter was the
operator at the “Front,” and Vilette,--“Women do operate, you know,”
she said,--Vilette was the proud holder of “the key” at Headquarters,
where Clarence Hammond strutted around as Messenger; and because he was
the “son of the Boss,” bullied his Cousin Harry unmercifully.
“Geegustibus! You kids are doin’ a fine job,” Billy encouraged, as he
walked by the line of little bending, sweating backs. “There never
was a railroad built on the square like this. Contractors on time;
men a-workin’ that’s got brains an’ ain’t afraid to use ’em. Jiminy
crickets, it’s fine!”
Every back bent a little lower. Every face flushed a little rosier
under its coat of grime. Praise from Billy was all they asked.
“Well, I must get at my job, too. That’s thinking up things. You
fellers do your work an’ get your money; but I got to rustle that money
or bust.”
“O Billy, it hurts the ears of my mind to hear you say those vulgar
words.” May Nell, playing “man” for the first time in her life, looked
up from the “rod of grade” that she was piling deftly with a broken
shingle. The color from sun and exercise added much to her beauty. She
was neither blowsy nor smudged like the other children, and her lawn
frock was as spotless as in the morning.
Billy looked at her thoughtfully, wondering why her fearless criticism
did not displease him; lifted his battered hat and mussed again his
tousled hair. “All right, Fair Ellen, I’ll try to obey the--”
“Lady of the Lake?” she finished quickly in a question. “Do you know
that, too? I love it.”
“‘One burnished sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,’”
she quoted glibly. “I know a lot more of it. Do you?”
A scream from “the shack” stopped further quotations. Billy ran up the
hill to learn the trouble. Only Evelyn was there in the little house
built, half of boards, half of willow twigs woven lattice-wise, against
a huge smooth rock. Beside this rock also ascended a cobble chimney;
and the fireplace, roughly plastered, served its purpose well. Billy
had made it all, and Edith wished the house fireplace would draw as
well.
He found Evelyn on her knees before a hot fire, bravely trying to hold
level one of the several pots that were sizzling there. Her drooping
hair smothered her small hot face, and perspiration stood like dew on
her anxious little upper lip.
“What’s the matter, Kiddie? Gee! Those big girls ought not to leave
you alone with that fire; you’ll be cooked before the grub!” he
grumbled while he mended the fire and propped the kettle. “Yum, yum!
Things a-doin’ here. Makes a feller’s stomach feel like just before
Thanksgiving dinner.”
Evelyn relieved of her fear of the tottering kettle, roused to her
charge. “Go ’way, Billy! Thank you, Billy. You mustn’t stay here!
They’ll scold me. They said for me not to let you come; an’--”
“Why not, I’d like to know? Isn’t this my shack? And shall I let a kid
burn up?”
“But it’s a secret,” she whispered in smothered distress. “Please to
go!”
And Billy seeing sweet potatoes sticking out of hot ashes, and other
luxuries in evidence, concluded that some business was “doin’ among
the girls,” where he wouldn’t be welcome. He went back to the “Front,”
where some of the contractors were having a violent altercation over
the meaning of certain specifications. The Boss soon arbitrated
successfully, and things moved “lively” for a short time, when the
banging of a dishpan announced dinner at “the hotel.”
“Right this way, ladies and gentlemen,” Bess called from the edge of
the far terrace. “A dinner fit for the gods, ambrosia and nectar; gifts
from Flora and Fornax! Come up to the garden of the gods and goddesses
and feast together!”
Bess, though not quite twelve, was a striking girl, larger than most
women; with a mind as unusual as her body. Poetry, music, mythology,
she fed upon these as a plant upon the sunshine. She was not satisfied
with ordinary speech, but continually wove into the most commonplace
events the glamour of romance and poetic words. A wise mother had stood
between her and the jeers of the thoughtless, that she might have
a normal girlhood; and Billy’s mother and sister helped to make it
possible for her to play comfortably with those of her own age. Yet
it was a surprise to the stranger to see this dark-eyed, magnificent
woman-creature in short skirts romping with children.
To-day she was happy. It had fallen to her to general this great feast
that Billy’s mates had planned for the celebration of his birthday. All
had contributed. Not only the girls had cooked--Jean had baked a big
cake, Jackson had made the candy, and Jimmy and George had sneaked up
from the “Front,” and set up the long table in the arbor.
According to plan, Billy’s mother had called and detained him while
the score of laughing youngsters gathered and stood silently around
the table. When he was running across the lawn again, his face washed
and hair combed, matters he thought might well have been omitted when
time was so precious, he was struck by the strange stillness. What had
happened to stop every tongue at once? He ran on faster, through the
trellis gate, and halted, transfixed. A shout greeted him. Each one
waved a small flag, and sang lustily--
“Where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?”
He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s
great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen;
at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,--they usually ate from vine
leaves at their out-of-door feasts,--at the paper napkins folded
fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His
eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He
opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He
tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally
appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he
sang back--
“I’ve not been to seek a wife,
You can bet your old sweet life,
For I’m a young thing and cannot leave my mother.”
A gleeful yell greeted his paraphrase. While they ate it all came out,
how they had planned and executed. Harold had peas and strawberries
hidden in his mysterious basket, freshly gathered by his own hands
that morning. George and Jimmy had furnished and dressed the chickens,
and the girls had roasted them--with a little supervision from Mrs.
Bennett--in the Yukon camping stove that belonged to Harry’s mother.
Bess had given the dishes, blue and white enamel, strong as well as
good to the eye, and ready for many another frolic.
Max furnished the milk. “I haf gif mine cow much sugar to make dot milk
sweet for Pilly to-day,” he explained happily to Mrs. Bennett.
And so the story went on. All the wholesome things of the country that
children like had come from one and another. And each had been as happy
in giving as Billy could possibly be in receiving.
Bess, an only child, was usually present at the frequent
entertainments her parents gave, and was familiar with some of the
more formal table customs. She wished Billy’s dinner to have every
dignity, and to this end rose and proposed a toast to him. They drank
it standing, with cheers. And Billy, accustomed to having the largest
voice in every noise, stood and joined lustily; till Jackson, who
helped his father at the catering for lodge banquets, and knew a
thing or two, reached behind Jean and pulled the back of Billy’s coat
violently. “Pst! Set down!” he hissed, tragically.
And Billy, suddenly remembering who was being cheered, slid to his seat
sheepishly, a cold feeling down his back, uncomfortable heat in his
cheeks.
Jean changed the situation by proposing a toast to Billy’s new sister.
“Half-sister, step-sister, persister, or sister-in-law--” Jimmy began,
when Billy’s frown stopped him, and Bess interrupted with, “He thinks
he’s saying something witty: laugh everybody.”
But Jean spoke at once and heartily. “Here’s to our latest addition.
May she never be subtracted from us. Already she’s multiplied our joys,
yet we hope she’ll not have to divide our woes.”
Jimmy was the first to stand and cheer.
May Nell sat still and smiled modestly. Billy stared at her, feeling
still more foolish over his own mistake.
Presently Jimmy and George slipped away and quickly returned bearing a
huge freezer, Mrs. Bennett following. Now Billy knew what she had done
with the cream.
“It’s only your notion, Billy, that mother’s cream is best; but I’ve
been very happy making it for you.” She began at once to serve it.
“Billy, you’re a wise guy. This beats Maskey’s,” Harold declared.
“There isn’t any Maskey’s any more,” May Nell mourned; “just ashes and
old irons where used to be such oceans of goodies in such beautiful
boxes and dishes.”
All were silent for a little. Most of them had been more than once to
San Francisco’s celebrated dealer in sweets.
“Do you know how ice cream is made, May Nell?” Jimmy asked to break the
oppression.
“No; will you tell me?”
“First they feed the cow a barrel of sugar, then they freeze her, after
that milk her; and there you have your ice cream.”
May Nell looked incredulous. “And they feed her strawberries and
vanilla beans and chocolate for flavors, I suppose; but how do you
separate them when you milk? Will you show me the next time you fill
that big bucket?” She nodded her head toward the freezer, and was so
demure that not even Bess, still less Jimmy, knew whether she was
deceived or poking fun.
May Nell was astonished at the country appetites, astonished at her
own; yet the cream also disappeared; after which Bess, the magnificent,
rose, waved her hand theatrically toward Mrs. Bennett, and declaimed,
“Here’s to our mothers,
Better than all others,
Whose feet never tire,
Whose hearts never--”
Just then mischief took possession of Harry Potter. He dropped a paper
parcel behind Vilette, and a little green snake wriggled out and ran
under the table. Vilette only grinned, but May Nell saw it, screamed
and grew white.
“Oh, oh! It ran--across my--foot!” she gasped, and fell over.
Confusion followed. Harry was struck with a great fear. Was she dead?
He had never seen a girl do so before. Would they hang him?
But May Nell recovered almost before Mrs. Bennett had time to lift
her. “I often do--do--faint,” she apologized, “it isn’t--isn’t ’t all
dangerous.” She smiled at Mrs. Bennett, and the smile, the sweet, pale
little face with her hair a shining golden halo around it, made of her
an ethereal being almost unreal to the awestricken children. Yet she
was soon merry again, apparently as well as ever.
The hours passed in an uproar of fun. The table was dismantled, toys,
tools, and dishes put away, and the feast had sped into the past.
“It’s been the best ever,” Jean said, happily.
“A perfectly gorgeous occasion,” Bess supplemented.
“The bulliest time yet!” shouted Charley from the street.
“Mine stomach ist so full mine head cannot t’ink,” Max stammered to
Mrs. Bennett; “but it vas bravo!”
They all went off, a merry, noisy troop. And the disappearing sun was
the last to say to Billy “Good-night.”