MARY BROWN SENDS A MESSAGE.
The next morning every one was up and stirring long before sunrise. The
Indians were well satisfied with a dollar apiece for their services,
which had been truly valuable, for they had conducted Chap right into
the arms of his friends, although the undertaking had been accompanied
by great danger to all concerned, and they took a hasty breakfast and
started off to continue their hunting expedition.
While the boys and Adam were still eating their morning meal, Mary
Brown came down to the river. She had a clean sun-bonnet and wore shoes
and stockings. These seemed to interfere a good deal with her comfort
in walking; but it was quite evident that she had dressed herself in
her best for this visit, and most people are willing to sacrifice some
comfort when they wish to look very well, indeed.
“Mother says she would have come down to see you,” said Mary Brown;
“but she’s got the rheumatism in her knee-bones, and can’t walk much.
She wanted to see you all, for there ain’t many people who come here,
and when they do come, they’re pretty rough.”
“I think we look pretty rough,” said Phil, smiling, as he glanced
around at the blue shirts and travel-stained garments of his companions.
“Clothes ain’t everything,” said Mary; “but if thar was a church here,
you’d do to go.”
“Where _do_ you go to church?” asked Chap, as he rose from his
breakfast.
“Me?” said Mary Brown, with a smile. “Why, I was never at church in my
life.”
Chap looked surprised, and although the others were gathering up the
breakfast things and preparing to depart, he continued to talk to Mary
Brown.
The girl had been very kind to him. Besides this, she interested him.
He had never before met with a young person of that kind.
“Have you never been anywhere but just here?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said she. “I’ve been up Indian River two or three times to
Cooper’s store with father, and once I went up to Titusville, but that
was a long time ago. I only remember that it was a great big place,
with lots of houses and ever so many people. There may have been girls
there, but I don’t remember seein’ any of ’em.”
“It must be dreadful to live in these woods always,” said Chap.
“There’s nothin’ dreadful about it,” replied Mary Brown. “The b’ars and
wild-cats and painters won’t trouble you if you don’t trouble ’em, and
the Indians that come along sometimes is just the same as tame white
men. But I would kind o’ like to see other places. Father’s travelled
about a good deal, and he’s telled me a lot of what he seed. He once
went up to Jacksonville, and he’s been to Tallahassee, and in some of
the places he says there are so many houses that they touch each other.
But I always thought he was makin’ fun when he told me this. Why, when
you had muddy feet, you’d either have to walk right through your house,
or else go round the whole town to get to your back door. I can’t
believe town-people is such fools as that.”
Chap laughed.
“I wish you could see a good big city for yourself,” said he.
“I’d like to,” replied the girl; and then changing the conversation,
she asked, “Have you got a sister?”
“Yes,” said Chap,--“one.”
“What is her name?”
“Helen,” answered Chap.
“Can she read?” asked the girl.
“Oh, yes,” said Chap.
“And write, too, I s’pose?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “she can do all that.”
“I’d like something awfully much,” said Mary Brown, “and I don’t reckon
it ’ud be real bothersome to anybody who knows how to write already.
I wish, after you git home, you’d ask your sister to write me a small
letter. I never got a letter in all my life. I can’t read, but father’d
read it to me.”
“She’ll do it,” said Chap, warmly. “I know she will. But where shall
she direct it? She can’t send a letter here.”
“Oh, there’s a post-office at Cooper’s store,” said the girl, “and when
father goes thar, they tells him if there’s a letter thar for him.”
Phœnix now called to Chap that they were nearly ready to start.
“Good-by!” said Chap, holding out his hand. “You’ve been a real trump,
and I’ll make Helen write you a letter. She’ll tell you just how we got
home.”
Adam and the other boys now came up, and shook hands with Mary Brown.
There had been some talk at breakfast of offering to pay her for the
provisions she had furnished the night before, but now it had been
determined not to do so for fear of offending her. She had evidently
offered what she had out of pure good will.
As The Rolling Stone was pushed off, Mary Brown stood upon the beach
and watched the departing boat.
“Don’t you forget the letter,” she called after Chap.
“No, indeed!” shouted Chap, heartily. “You needn’t be afraid of that.”
“Goin’ to write to her?” asked Adam, with a grin.
“No, I’m not,” said Chap, his face flushing a little, “but my sister
Helen is. It’ll be a piece of out-and-out charity. That poor girl never
got a letter in her life.”
“How are you going to send it?” asked Phœnix. “Per alligator?”
“No,” said Chap; “per land-shark; the man who keeps the store up the
river.”
The girl stood on the beach until the boat was nearly out of sight. She
then took off her shoes and stockings, and walked slowly homeward.
“I wish he’d brought his sister with him,” she said to herself, as she
plodded along toward the lonely house. “If I could ’a’ had jist one
look at another girl ’twould ’a’ been something.”
“I hope we’ll get to that store of Cooper’s early in the afternoon,”
said Adam, “for if we don’t my little bears’ll be out of milk ag’in.”
“That will be too bad,” said Phil, “for they’ve got on splendidly so
far. No matter what happened to the boat, they’ve always had their
regular meals.”
“Yes,” said Adam, “them rascals ’spected to make money out of these
bears, and they fed ’em up first-rate, but that’s the only good thing
they did do. They’ve made us lose pretty nigh two whole days, besides
comin’ within an inch of havin’ a reg’lar battle among ourselves. That
was about the last thing I thought could happen.”
“I suppose that part of it was my fault,” said Chap. “I oughtn’t to
have tried to get back the boat without letting you know about it.”
“It was just as much my fault,” said Phil. “If I hadn’t gone off, and
taken Phœnix, those fellows wouldn’t have tried to run off with the
boat.”
“If it comes to that,” remarked Adam, “you might as well say it was my
fault; for if I hadn’t them little bears, and gone to get milk for ’em,
nothin’ would ’a’ happened. But I say it’s nobody’s fault. We all did
the best we could, and there’s the end of it.”
When our party reached the main stream, they found a fair wind blowing
from the east. This was very favorable for them, and they reached
Cooper’s store about the middle of the afternoon.
“By the way,” said Phil, “it’s rather curious that we didn’t overtake
that dirty little Maggie, with the two boat-thieves aboard.”
“I reckon,” said Phœnix, “that as soon as she got out of that small
river she went down-stream, instead of going up, as we did; but she
must have made pretty good time to get out into Indian River before us;
for, of course, she couldn’t sail at night.”
“No,” said Adam, “but they started a good deal earlier than we did.
They didn’t stop to cook breakfast and bid good-by to girls.”
“Neither did we,” cried Chap, promptly,--“that is, we only waited for
breakfast. I didn’t keep you waiting a minute.”
“That’s so,” said Adam; “and as to that Maggie, I am pretty sure I saw
her when we got out into this river. She was about two miles down the
stream on the other side, with her sail down, and most likely anchored.”
“What was she doing there?” asked Phœnix.
“My ’pinion is,” said Adam, “that she was lyin’ there waitin’ for us to
come out. I think them fellers intend to follow us up to Titusville,
keepin’ out of our way as much as they kin. You see we’ve got their
guns, and they can’t do much till they get ’em.”
“I wish they had their old guns,” said Phil, “and were sailing down the
Indian River. I don’t think it’s very pleasant to have such fellows
sneaking after us.”
“I wish they had their guns, too,” said Adam, “and if I was only sure
they’d sail straight down the river, I’d go in for givin’ ’em back to
’em. But I don’t trust ’em. They’re mean, cowardly scoundrels, and if
they could take a crack at us with that rifle afore they went down the
river, they’d be quick enough to do it.”
“They haven’t anything to complain of,” said Phil, “for I’m sure we
treated them a great deal better than they deserved, or had any right
to expect.”
“I should say so,” cried Chap, vehemently. “If I’d been along, they
wouldn’t have got off so easily. Just imagine their pushing me
slam-bang into the water right off our own boat. It makes me boil over
to think of it. If ever I get a chance, I’ll pay them up for that.”
“I don’t suppose you ever will get a chance,” said Phœnix; “but if you
do, you’d better let them alone. You are rid of them now, and you ought
to be glad of it.”
“It seems to me, Phœnix,” said Chap, “that you are always telling
fellows to keep peaceable, and yet, whenever there’s a chance to fight,
you are the very first one to pitch in.”
Phœnix hesitated for a moment, and then he said,--
“Sometimes things are different from what they are at other times.”
“All right,” said Chap. “Those rascals are out of sight and reach now,
and I’ll be as peaceable as anybody; but if ever I get within three
feet of them, things will be different.”
And here the conversation on the subject closed.
“I think you are right, Adam,” said Phil. “It wouldn’t be safe to let
those fellows have their guns till we are off this river. They were
very angry when we made them go away without them.”
After some further conversation, it was agreed that, although it was
very desirable to rid themselves of the companionship of the Maggie
and her occupants, it would be wise to keep the guns taken from the
boat-thieves until they reached Titusville.
They had, perhaps, no legal right to do this; but they felt that, on
general principles of justice, they had a right to protect their lives,
and that this was the way to do it.
[Illustration]