VIRGINIA HELPS AGAIN
When Obadiah received the formal notice from the hospital authorities
of the acceptance of his gift, being unversed in the ways of
philanthropists, he sent for Hezekiah and handed him the letter. "I
want nothing to do with this matter," he snapped.
The lawyer bowed with great complacency.
"You may be interested to know, as you didn't take the trouble to
find out," the mill owner sneered, "that this fellow, Joseph Tolliver
Curtis, is employed by the State Board of Health. He spent his time
prior to the accident riding up and down the river taking samples of
the water to make a case against me."
"Ahem," coughed the lawyer.
"If that fellow were getting a cent out of the agreement," Obadiah
threatened, "I would break it."
"No, you wouldn't," replied the lawyer calmly. "I drew it and it's
enforceable. If necessary I would go into court myself to make you keep
it."
Obadiah glowered, but his eyes fell before those of his attorney.
"Well," he growled finally, "we won't quarrel over it. You handle
the matter." A look of distress came into his face. "I'll sign the
checks but I don't want to talk about it."
So, even though her father refused to discuss the subject Virginia
took up the matter of furnishing the room with great enthusiasm. She
sought advice from many persons but particularly from Joe Curtis, who was
deemed, through sad experience, capable of expressing the desires of
injured motorcyclists, and Miss Knight, who by long service had learned
those things which were not good for them.
After prolonged discussion, Virginia and Joe decided that the room
should be papered in an old fashioned design with a background of
egg-shell blue. The windows were to be curtained with a fine net
having a filet edge, and the furniture was to be of massive mahogany.
Pictures portraying sporting scenes believed suitable by Joe and of
gentle landscapes considered appropriate by the girl were to adorn the
walls in equal number. A harmonizing smoking set was added, and the
floor was to be strewn with Oriental rugs. Thus furnished, it was
confidently argued, the room would be restful and agreeable to the most
discriminating of motorcyclists.
When this plan was presented with pride to Miss Knight, she addressed
the pair in a sarcastic manner, "Did you by chance have in mind the
furnishing of a bridal suite? Haven't you forgotten a breakfast room
and a pipe organ?"
Reduced to a fitting condition of humbleness they sat at her feet, so
to speak, as she discoursed. "The room set aside is bright and cheery.
Its walls, windows and floor need no treatment. Put in a double enameled
bedstead--a brass one if you like. Have an enameled dresser and a plain
rocker and chairs of similar type. You may have a plain wardrobe and
an enameled medicine table, too. That's all." She smiled at them. "I
have conceded a lot, too."
"You have beautiful taste, Miss Knight. Don't you think so, Joe?"
remarked Virginia with great solemnity.
The motorcyclist nodded a vigorous agreement.
Thus encouraged the nurse became didactic. "The furnishing of a room
for the sick," she lectured, "is not a matter of taste. It is a
question of cleanliness. Give me a clean place with plenty of fresh
air and sunshine--nothing else counts." Before such simplicity the
pretentious plans faded, and in the end the wisdom of the nurse prevailed.
When Virginia left the ward that day it had grown extremely warm.
"Hotter than fiddlers in Tophet," Miss Knight called it.
"Where are those poor babies?" Virginia asked, as from a distant part
of the building came the petulant sound of infants protesting in the only
way they could against the high temperature.
"They are in the Free Dispensary,--the cases which are brought in from
the outside. They would wring your heart," the nurse answered.
Distress showed in Virginia's face. "I am going there and see if I can
help," she cried, and with a parting smile at Miss Knight she hurried
to the Dispensary.
Doctor Jackson nodded to her as she entered. "Every degree that the
temperature rises means more sick babies," he worried.
The peevish, fretful cries of the infants and the troubled looks of the
worn mothers filled the girl with pity. "How dreadful, Doctor. The poor
darlings. I wish I could help them," she said.
The medical man glanced at her with new interest. "Miss Dale, didn't
you give that concert at the Lucinda Home?" he asked.
When she answered him in the affirmative he came over to her. His duck
suit was rumpled and his collar wilted. His hair was mussed where he
had mopped it back. In his hand was a clinical thermometer and an
odor of drugs surrounded him. "Miss Dale," he urged, "why don't
you get up a picnic and take these mothers and babies into the country
for a few hours? You entertained the old ladies but you would save lives
if you could arrange to get some of these babies into a cool place for
awhile." He became apologetic. "I don't mean to be insistent but I am
interested in my work and if I can keep any of them from dying in this
heat spell, I want to do it. You understand me, don't you?"
"Indeed I do, Doctor Jackson. I will be only too glad to get up a
picnic." A note of anxiety crept into her voice. "There isn't much
time to prepare. If it is to do good, we must have it at once."
"Tomorrow, by all means," urged the physician. "Let's go to it."
His enthusiasm filled her with energy. "It will be dandy," she cried,
her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "It will be difficult to arrange for,
but we can do it."
The young medical man gave this pretty girl, flushed with interest
and confidence, a look of frank admiration. "That's the ticket," he
shouted, tossing professional dignity to the winds for the moment.
"You can make things hum. Hop to it, kiddo." Then more seriously,
"Let me know late this afternoon the arrangements you have made. Call
me by phone. I'll get word to the mothers if I have to carry it myself
this evening."
Virginia's head was awhirl with vague plans when she left the hospital.
On the way she espied Mrs. Henderson hurrying down the street in utter
disregard of the fiery heat.
"Get in, Hennie," called Virginia, when Ike stopped the car. "I must
talk to you and I want to make you as comfortable as I can."
"Don't mind me, child," protested the widow. "I am a hardened sinner
whom it behooves to become accustomed to heat."
In a few words the girl explained the plan for the picnic.
"It is a splendid thing to do," Mrs. Henderson agreed. "Of course
I'll be glad to help. Good gracious, sick babies all around us and at
our church we are dawdling over a new bell rope and a lock for the front
door."
"It is such a relief to know that you are going to help," exclaimed
Virginia; "but away down in my heart I knew that you would."
"There, there, dearie, I'm an old crank who is always minding other
people's business--and getting kicked for it," she ended petulantly.
"Hereafter," she affirmed emphatically, "I am going to attend to my
own affairs." A great energy filled her and she turned to Virginia, her
own words forgotten. "What can I do? If you will let Serena help me,
I will attend to the refreshments."
"Hennie, you are a dear--that much is settled." Virginia sighed with
relief. "Now where can we have the picnic? Parks which have bands and
dancing won't do at all."
"You are right. These mothers and babies need rest and quiet. A grove
by the river would be ideal."
"Oh, surely, that is where we must go." The girl waxed enthusiastic.
"The babies can roll upon the grass and play together."
"Fiddlesticks," objected Mrs. Henderson. "If you put babies on the
ground they will eat bugs, and if you allow them to roll they will go
into the river."
"But they must be entertained."
"Proper entertainment for babies," observed the childless widow sagely,
"is eating and sleeping with crying to while away leisure moments."
She leaned towards Ike. "Young man, do you know of a shady place along
the river where we can have a picnic?"
"Yas'm," responded the ever courteous chauffeur. "Elgin's Grove is
er nice place fo' er picnic or a barbecue. Heaps o' shade an' de aiah
is mighty cool."
"Who goes there?"
"Ah ain' heard about nobody gwine dyah lately, Ma'm."
"What made people stop going?" asked the widow, suspiciously.
"Dey fou't dyah. Er man got killed in er fight an' de she'iff close
de gamblin' house. Ain' nothin' to go dyah fo' now."
"It is very strange that I never heard of the place."
"Maybe dey done specify it to you by de common folk's name?"
"What's that?"
"Some folks calls it Faro Beach."
Mrs. Henderson gasped. The name recalled shocking stories of a river
resort where games of chance had flourished in open disregard of the law
until a murder had awakened public conscience and it had been closed. "I
wouldn't think of going there," she objected, and suddenly she began
to laugh. "We are creatures of convention. What difference does it make
what the place was? Indeed, if they were gambling now it wouldn't hurt
these mothers and their babies." Her manner became decisive. "Virginia,
as soon as you have your lunch, go and see the place. If it is what we
want, make arrangements for the use of it. We don't care about its
history."
Strange as it may seem, when Virginia arrived at Elgin's Grove that
afternoon she found that Ike's description was not exaggerated.
Great oaks towered towards the blue sky shading a green sod, clear
of underbrush, rolling towards the river. The buildings were good,
although locked, and there was a well with a pump at which Ike, much
oppressed by the heat, refreshed himself, and recommended the water to
Virginia as of superior quality, in these words. "It tast'tes lak
de water f'om de seep back o' ma ole home in Tennessee. Dats de
fines' water in de worl'."
The owner of the grove, a farmer, living a bachelor existence, after
listening in a cold and suspicious manner to Virginia's enthusiastic
description of the purposes of the picnic, suddenly thawed. Refusing pay
for the grove, he announced his personal desire to be present. Having
been straightway invited by Virginia, he agreed to unlock a building to
afford shelter in case of rain, mow among the trees to scare out the
snakes, and to clean out the well to insure a pure water supply. "Coming
on the _Nancy Jane_?" he asked her.
"_The Nancy Jane?_" questioned the girl.
"Yes, the steamboat that used to run here."
Virginia became interested. "I didn't know that steamboats ran on this
river."
"The _Nancy Jane_ ain't exactly running," admitted the farmer. "She
is tied up at South Ridgefield unless she's sunk since last week. The
_Nancy Jane_ is the best way to get to this grove and old Bill Quince
is the man to bring the old boat here. Bill Quince knows this river."
"Would it be safe to bring the babies on it?" Virginia asked, troubled.
The farmer chuckled softly. "You ain't in nigh as much danger of
drownin' on the old Lame Moose as of stickin'."
"That doesn't seem such a terrible calamity," laughed Virginia. "I
will see Mr. Quince and inquire about his boat."
"It's a nice trip, Ma'am," the farmer encouraged her. "Bill Quince
made it twice a day for two years a-carrying drunks, mostly, with nary
an accident. He is a fine man. A natural born sailor, Bill is. Takes
to the water like a duck. You won't make no mistake a trustin' Bill
Quince, I promise you, Ma'am."
"Dat Mr. Quince is er gran' man," Ike told Virginia, on their
journey home. "He done save de life o' er po' colored boy wot was
er fishin' off de bank by his house. De pole dat de boy cut f'om de
bresh ain' long 'nough to rech out to de deep water whar de big fishes
is. He done git hisse'f er plank an' puts one end under er log an'
rest'tes de middle on a rock at de aidge o' de bank. Den he clum
out on tother en' ovah de water. Long come 'nother boy an' rolls de
log. De fisherman draps in de river. He done sink de secon' time an'
give er scan'lous yell. Mr. Quince rest'tes hisse'f by de house
an' he hear 'im. Mr. Quince tek er quick look an' den he grab er pole
wid er i'on hook off de house an hooks de boy in de britches an'
hauls 'im out, jes as he sink de las' time. Den he stan's dat kid
on his haid an' let de water run outen him an' puts ointment on
his purson, whar de hook dig 'im. He ain' no time think 'bout de
floater money."
"What money?" inquired Virginia, much interested.
"De floater money. Mr. Quince bein' er river man, he catches de daid
wot floats down de river, an' de county dey give 'im ten dollars fo'
each floater he git. Dat boy jes de same as daid. If Mr. Quince catch
'm er minute later, er hol' 'im undah er minute, dat boy die an' Mr.
Quince git ten dollars. Dat man is er hero, Miss Virginy."
The girl shuddered. "Stop talking about dead people, Ike, you make
me nervous," she remonstrated, and, as they crossed the bridge, a
creepy Virginia thought she caught shadowy glimpses in the green depths
of a gruesome opportunity for Mr. Quince to win anew a reward from
his grateful county.
The habitation of Mr. Quince presented much of interest. It was airily
although damply situated at the point of a promontory where Hog Creek
emptied its limited flow into the Lame Moose River. The site was
desirable for a man of Mr. Quince's tastes and aspirations. Upon the
one hand, the river afforded a pleasant marine foreground for the
abattoirs and packing-houses, veiled in odoriferous smoke, upon the
opposite shore. On the other hand, the quiet waters of Hog Creek offered
a safe anchorage for the good ship _Nancy Jane_ and a fleet of skiffs
in various stages of decay.
Mr. Quince was a man of ingenuity and resourcefulness, and a natural
forager. On the day that he selected this site, for the sojournment
of himself and a stray youth who had elected to follow his fortunes,
Mr. Quince built a fire and cooked some fish. The next sun saw a brush
leanto constructed, shortly made impervious to rain by a covering of old
canvas. This structure was followed in turn, as freshets deposited their
beneficent fruits, by a board shack, a hut and at last a something which
a charitable public called a house.
While the evolution of Mr. Quince's fireside furnished much of
professional interest to sociologists, it was viewed by that soulless
corporation which owned the land, a railroad company, as an attempt
to establish adverse possession, by open, notorious, and hostile
occupancy. Divers ejectments, although temporarily successful, failed of
permanent effect and Mr. Quince dwelt in more or less of a state of siege.
Virginia found the riverman seated before his house, in a chair shaped
out of a barrel, and prevented from being mislaid by its permanent
attachment to a post in the ground. His experienced eyes watched the
surface of the river for signs of treasure trove awash. Upon the front of
his residence, conveniently at hand, hung the pole with the iron hook,
while, at the foot of a precipitous pathway, an old skiff bobbed, readily
available to meet emergencies of the deep.
The arrival of the automobile startled Mr. Quince. To this aquatic man,
a boat upon the river offered the more agreeable pathway to his home.
He arose nervously, as one suspecting ejectment proceedings. The wind
blew his patched overalls and flannel shirt about his tall, thin figure.
Ike, bowing respectfully, spoke words of greeting. "Howdy, Bill."
"Howdy," returned the mariner, calmed by the thought that it was
not the custom of courts to rely upon such instrumentalities as negro
chauffeurs and young maidens.
"We want to rent your boat for a picnic at Elgin's Grove tomorrow,"
called Virginia.
The tender of charter appeared to surprise Mr. Quince. He removed his
ancient hat and scratched his scalp.
"Where is your boat?" Virginia looked about as if expecting to discover
the _Priscilla_ or _Commonwealth_ at rest upon the bosom of Hog Creek.
The riverman pointed and the girl's eyes followed his finger.
On the creek floated a monument to the ingenuity of Bill Quince.
Contrary to accepted naval traditions, the _Nancy Jane_ was in two
parts. A rusty traction engine rested upon a decked scow almost square
in form. It was geared by belt, chains and sprockets to a water wheel
as wide as the scow and attached to its stern. This was the power plant,
and, coupled to the front of it, was a second scow of like width but
greater length. Decked over, railed, and covered by a wooden canopy, it
furnished the passenger accommodations of the craft.
Such disappointment as Virginia felt was swept aside by the profound
admiration of Ike for this vessel.
"Dat's er fine boat," he exclaimed. "Ah done had ma good times on
dat ole boat. When you gits out on de cool river on dat ship you feels
like er fightin' cock on er hot night."
Ike's reference to the cool river encouraged his mistress to continue
negotiations. "Can we rent it?" she asked.
"You kin rent it if you want to. They hain't no law again it," the
mariner agreed. "But I hain't sure that she's goin' to move none."
His sporting blood was aroused. "I'll bet two bits that old engine is
a-rusted tight."
Virginia desired certainty. "How am I going to find out if the boat will
go?" she worried.
Approaching the car, Mr. Quince rested an elbow upon the edge of the door
and a huge foot upon the running board. His thin jaw wagged incessantly
and his eyes viewed the distant reaches of the river as he pensively
ruminated upon the problem. At last a solution came to him. "We mought
hist 'er over by hand," he told Ike.
"Do what?" the girl inquired anxiously, puzzled at what was to be
"histed."
"See if we can turn the old engine over," explained Mr. Quince.
Ike having agreed to the suggestion, he and the riverman clambered down
the bank and across a plank to the deck of the _Nancy Jane_. A period
of silence ensued, broken by violent language when Mr. Quince put his
confidence in and his weight against a rotten lever. There followed the
sound of strong men grunting and breathing heavily. A sudden scramble
took place and with a great splash the wheel of the _Nancy Jane_ clove
the amber surface of Hog Creek.
Mr. Quince and Ike returned, perspiring freely.
"She turned," declared Mr. Quince with pride. "She hain't rusted up
much in nigh unto two year."
"Is it settled? We can rent the boat?" demanded Virginia, all business.
"I hain't so sure," replied the mariner doubtfully. "This yere river
bottom changes every day. I hain't took the _Nancy Jane_ to Elgin's
Grove in two year. I dunno as I knows where the old channel has gone. I
guess I plum forgot."
"Couldn't we get some one who knows the river?" Virginia failed to
reckon with the pride of seafaring men.
"There hain't no man knows the Lame Moose like I knows her," protested
Mr. Quince greatly offended. "I allers was the pilot of the _Nancy Jane_
and I still aims so to be."
Virginia smiled sweetly at the hurt riverman. "Please take us up in your
boat. It will be so much fun."
Mr. Quince surrendered. "I'll take the old boat to the grove if I have
to wait for the spring freshets to do it."
"It won't be dangerous, will it?" cried Virginia, disturbed by the
vigor of the mariner's remarks. "The boat won't sink, will it?"
"That wouldn't make no odds, nohow," Mr. Quince reassured her. "That
bottom of the Lame Moose is so near the top you wouldn't know no
difference."
It was finally agreed that the _Nancy Jane_ should await the arrival of
its passengers at a convenient place below the highway bridge at the
hour of ten on the next morning. But, before they left, Mr. Quince, after
inspecting the cars upon nearby switch tracks, announced, "I don't
seem to have no coal a layin' around handy, so I better have five bucks
on account in case I have to buy some."