AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE.
While 'Tilda Jane wrote, Poacher suddenly made a stealthy movement,
and Gippie, deaf as he was, had enough of the dog spirit left in him
to know that some one was coming, and to elevate the tiny V-shaped
flaps over his ears.
The gate clicked, there was a rustling along the ribbon-grass
bordering the narrow path, and then 'Tilda Jane's writing-pad fell to
the ground, and she sprang up with a delighted scream.
For peering forward in the gathering gloom, she discovered Hank, the
long-absent Hank, moving heavily and awkwardly up the path toward her.
He had grown thin; his clothes hung loosely on him, and he was pale
and worried in appearance, but 'Tilda Jane did not criticise him. He
was the person who had most helped her in her search for a home, and,
springing toward him, she caught his arm and ejaculated: "Oh, Hank!
Mr. Hank--is it truly you I'm pinchin', or is it a ghost?"
He smiled faintly, and, in return, pinched her cheek. "I ain't a
ghost yet, though 'pon my word I didn't know but what I'd soon be
one." As he spoke, he threw himself wearily on the seat. "Well,
'Tilda, how does Ciscasset treat you? Coronation! You're getting
fat," and he scanned her in satisfaction. "I wouldn't know you for
the little runaway that held me up last March out at Marsden."
"I guess I'm gettin' fat 'cause I'm peaceful in my mind," said 'Tilda
Jane, demurely; "I don't have no one to fight. I'm jus' havin' the
softest time!"
"So father really treats you well?"
"Of course--don't I write you? He's jus' as sweet as a peach. He lets
me wash, an' scrub, an' cook, an' never says a word excep' not to
work too hard, an' if he wants to be jus' a little bit cranky, jus' a
teeny little bit, he goes in his room an' shuts the door till the bad
spirit gets out of him."
"Did he ever hurt you?"
"No, he never struck me--he usen't to like the dogs."
Hank had never been told of Poacher's adventure, but his attention
wandered to the dog, and he absently stroked his head.
"You've done the old man a lot of good," he said at last.
"I--no, sir," said 'Tilda Jane, earnestly. "I guess it's the dogs.
But he wants more good done to him. He's in a regular slouch of
despond sometimes, Mr. Hank."
"Is he?" said the young man, listlessly; "what's he desponding about?"
"About money, Mr. Hank. He lost some in the street, and never got
it back--then it costs something to keep me and the dogs. I feel
dreadful about it. I try to eat jus' as little as possible, but I'm
as hungry as a bear mos' all the time."
Hank's attention was aroused. "You must not stent yourself, sissy.
This is too bad. I'm to blame. I've been intending to send you some
money, but I've had a run of bad luck."
His face was so disturbed that 'Tilda Jane made haste to change the
subject.
"Oh, I'm so worked up to see you--I'm perfectly 'tossicated. I feel
jus' like the teakettle afore it boils, an' that 'minds me--I mus' go
set it on. You mus' be starvin'."
"No, I ain't hungry; I haven't had an appetite for a week. How much
did father lose?"
"Sixty dollars," said the little girl, reluctantly.
Hank relapsed into silence after this information. He was evidently
not inclined to talk, but 'Tilda Jane was brimful of questions, and
presently burst out with one of them.
"Mr. Hank, what did you do with that beauty horse of yours?"
"Had to sell it," he said, bitterly. "I've lost everything I had.
Those farmers are all against me. Every potato top among them. I'm
played out in this State. They'd like to jail me if they could."
"Jail you," said 'Tilda Jane, resentfully, "I guess I'd come and
pound at the door of the jail if they did."
"You ought to pound," said Hank, in an ungrateful and ungallant
tone, "'cause I ain't had a mite of luck since you crossed my path."
'Tilda Jane fell into blank astonishment for the space of one minute,
then she asked, wistfully, "Do you mean that--did I truly bring you
bad luck?"
"You truly did," he said, peevishly. "I'm all broken up in my
business, cleaned out, done for."
'Tilda Jane pushed the hair back from her forehead with a bewildered
gesture. Her benefactor was in trouble--perhaps ruined, and through
her. But this was no time for reflection, the urgency of the case
demanded action.
"Mr. Hank," she said, softly, "warn't it a roguey kind of a business,
anyway?"
"All business is roguey," he said, gruffly.
"I guess you don't mean that," she said, mildly. "I know you don't
mean that I've done you harm. I guess you're jus' in trouble like the
river in the spring, when the ice goes mixy-maxy every way."
He smiled slightly as he rose, and looked down into the shrewd little
face, "Well, ta, ta, 'Tilda--be a good girl."
"Where are you goin'?" she asked, helplessly.
"Blest if I know--somewhere to earn a living, to Canada, maybe."
"Don't you go through Vanceboro," she said, sharply, then she pressed
her hands to her head. "I think I'm crazy--are you Hank Dillson,
standin' there sayin' you're goin' to leave us like this?"
"Don't take on, 'Tilda," he said, consolingly. "I'm real sorry. I
wouldn't have come out of my way this much if I hadn't promised you,
and if you hadn't been such a nice little girl. Of course you haven't
hurt me. I guess you've done me good, for I've had a kind of disgust
with my business ever since you set foot in my life."
She paid no attention to the latter part of his speech. "You say
you've got to go, an' I can't keep you," she murmured, stupidly, "an'
you don't know where you're goin'."
"I don't know, an' I don't want to know. I'll loaf along till my
money gives out, then I'll go to work."
"Hank, do you think of Orstralia?"
"No, I ain't got dough enough to get that far."
"Do you mean bread?"
"No, I mean cash."
"Why don't you stay here?"
"Nothing to do that I know of. This is a one-horse place."
"Hank, you ain't seen your father," she cried, catching at his coat
sleeve, as he turned toward the gate.
"'Pon my word, I forgot the old man. I believe I'll go in for sixty
seconds. You say his health's better?"
"Yes," said 'Tilda Jane, hurriedly, "I didn't write you that he had a
fit not long sence, and it seemed to straighten him out. He goes to
town on his crutches every day, an' Gippie limps after him--oh, Hank
Dillson, Hank Dillson, I'm mos' loony about this business of your
goin' away."
Hank smiled wearily at her, and went slowly toward the house.
"How long can you stay?" she asked, running after him. "How long will
you give us?"
He took out his watch, and held it close to his face. "I guess I'll
take the eleven o'clock train. It's nine now--I thought I'd look up
some of the boys."
"Give us all the time," she said, pleadingly, "stay with your father
an' me. Oh, promise, will you?"
"All right," he said, obligingly. "I don't care if I do. I'm beat
out, anyway."
"I have to go some place, but I'll be back soon," she called after
him, then she threw up both hands and pressed them over her ears,--a
favourite gesture with her when she was doing hard thinking.
"Mr. Waysmith or Mr. Tracy," she repeated, half aloud. "Mr. Waysmith
or Mr. Tracy. Mr. Tracy," she said, at last, "he's most likely," and
whirling on her heel, she flew down the path, out the gate, and into
the street.
Poacher, silent, graceful, and swift, kept close to her, but the
battered Gippie soon gave up the chase with a howl of protest, and
went limping home.
Hank, to his surprise, had, on the whole, the most agreeable talk of
his life with his father. The old man was altered. He had been, at
the same time, the stiffest and the most demonstrative of parents,
the young man reflected. There really was a remarkable change for the
better in him, and yet, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, Hank
got up to take his leave.
They were nearly always absent from each other, they had got out of
the way of taking an active interest in each other's concerns--there
was not yet sufficiently firm footing and enough of it to bridge
to the shaky background of the past, and parting would be a mutual
relief.
Yet the old man's eyes twinkled wistfully as they followed his son to
the door. Hank had told him nothing of his troubles, yet his father
saw that he had lost flesh, that he had not a prosperous air, and he
acutely guessed that all was not going well with him. He would find
out from the young girl, and with a sigh he settled back in his chair.
"I'll try to come home soon again, father," said Hank, dispiritedly,
as he looked over his shoulder before closing the bedroom door, and
he was just shrugging his shoulders at the promise, when something
dark and panting caught at him in the unlighted kitchen, and made him
jump.