Little Miami river was crossed without mishap, and the Padgetts and
Breakaways took dinner together.
Robert Day could not help noticing the difference between his
grandmother's wagon and the wagons of the Virginians. Their wagon-beds
were built almost in the shape of the crescent moon, bending down
in the centre and standing high at the ends, and they appeared half
as long again as the Ohio vehicle. The covers were full of innumerable
ribs, and the puckered end was drawn into innumerable puckers.
The children took their dinners to the yellow top of a brand-new
stump which, looked as if somebody had smoothed every sweet-smelling
ring clean on purpose for a picnic table. Some branches of the felled
tree were near enough to make teeter seats for Corinne and Thrusty
Ellen. Jonathan and Robert stood up or kneeled against the arching
roots. Dinner taken from the top of a stump has the sap of out-door
enjoyment in it; and if you have to scare away an ant, or a pop-eyed
grasshopper thuds into the middle of a plate, you still feel kindly
towards these wild things for dropping in so sociably.
Jonathan and Thrusty Ellen were rather silent, but such remarks as
they made were solid information.
“You don't know wher' my fawther's got his money,” said Jonathan.
This was stated so much like a dare that Robert yearned to retort
that he did know, too. As he did not know, the next best thing was to
pretend it was no consequence anyhow, and find out as quickly as
possible; therefore Robert Day said:
“Ho! Maybe he hasn't any.”
“He has more gold pieces 'n ever you seen,” proceeded Jonathan
weightily.
“Then why don't he give you some?” exclaimed aunt Corinne with a
wriggle. “I had a gold dollar, but I b'lieve that little old man with
a bag on his back stole it.”
Jonathan and Thrusty Ellen made round eyes at a young damsel who had
been trusted with gold.
[Illustration]
“My fawther calls 'em yeller boys,” said Jonathan. “He carries 'em
and his paper money in a belt fastened round his waist under all his
clothes.”
“You don't ought to tell,” said Thrusty Ellen. “Father said we
shouldn't talk about it.”
“_He_ won't steal it,” said Jonathan, indicating Robert with
his thumb. “_She_ won't neither,” indicating aunt Corinne.
Aunt Corinne with some sharpness assured the Virginia children that
her nephew and herself were indeed above such suspicion; that Ma
Padgett and brother Tip had the most money, and even Zene was well
provided with dollars; while they had silver spoons among their goods
that Ma-Padgett said had been in the family more than fifty years!
Jonathan and Thrusty Ellen accepted this information with much
stolidity. The grandeur of having old silver made no impression on
them. They saw that Grandma Padgett had one pair of horses hitched to
her moving-wagon instead of three pairs, and they secretly rated her
resources by this fact.
It was very cheerful moving in this long caravan. When there was a
bend in the 'pike, and the line of vehicles curved around it, the
sight was exhilarating.
Some of the Virginians sat on their horses to drive. There was singing,
and calling back and forth. And when they passed a toll-gate, all the
tollkeeper's family and neighbors came out to see the array. Jonathan
and Robert rode in his father's easiest wagon, while Thrusty Ellen, and
her mother enjoyed Grandma Padgett's company in the carriage. As they
neared Richmond, which lay just within the Indiana line, men went ahead
like scouts to secure accommodations for the caravan. At Louisburg,
the last of the Ohio villages, aunt Corinne was watching for the boundary
of the State. She fancied it stretched like a telegraph wire from pole
to pole, only near the ground, so the cattle of one State could not stray
into the other, and so little children could have it to talk across,
resting their chins on the cord. But when they came to the line and
crossed it there was not even a mark on the ground; not so much as a
furrow such as Zene made planting corn. And at first Indiana looked
just like Ohio. Later, however, aunt Corinne felt a difference in the
States. Ohio had many ups and downs; many hillsides full of grain basking
in the sun. The woods of Indiana ran to moss, and sometimes descended to
bogginess, and broad-leaved paw-paw bushes crowded the shade; mighty
sycamores blotched with white, leaned over the streams: there was a
dreamy influence in the June air, and pale blue curtains of mist hung
over distances.
But at Richmond aunt Corinne and her nephew, both felt particularly
wide awake. They considered it the finest place they had seen since
the capital of Ohio. The people wore quaint, but handsome clothes.
They saw Quaker bonnets and broad-brimmed hats. Richmond is yet
called the Quaker city of Indiana. But what Robert Day and Corinne
noticed particularly was the array of wagons moved from street to
street, was an open square such as most Western towns had at that
date for farmers to unhitch their teams in, and in that open square a
closely covered wagon connected with a tent. It was nearly dark. But
at the tent entrance a tin torch stuck in the ground showed letters
and pictures on the tent, proclaiming that the only pig-headed man in
America was therein exhibiting himself and his accomplishments,
attended by Fairy Carrie, the wonderful child vocalist.
Before Bobaday had made out half the words, he telegraphed a message
to aunt Corinne, by leaning far out of the Brockaway wagon and
lifting his finger. Aunt Corinne was leaning out of the carriage, and
saw him, and she not only lifted her finger, but violently wagged her
head.
The caravan scouts had not been able to find lodging for all the
troops, and there was a great deal of dissatisfaction about the rates
asked by the taverns. So many of the wagons wound on to camp at the
other side of the town, the Brockaways among them. But the neighborly
Virginian, in exchanging Robert for his wife and daughter at the
carriage door, assured Grandma Padgett he would ride back to her
lodging-place next morning and pilot her into the party again.
“I thank you kindly,” said Grandma Padgett in old-fashioned phrase.
“It's growing risky for me to sleep too much in the open night air.
At my age folks must favor themselves, and I'd like a bed to-night,
if it is a tavern bed, and a set, table, if the vittles are tavern
vittles. And we can stir out early.”
So Thrusty Ellen and Jonathan rode away with their father,
unconscious of Robert and Corinne's superior feeling in stopping at a
tavern.
In the tavern parlor were a lot of sumptuous paper flowers under a
glass case. There were a great many stairs to climb, and a gong was
sounded for supper.
After supper Grandma Padgett made Zene take her into the stable-yard,
that she might carry from the wagon some valuables which thieves in
a town would be tempted to steal.
It was about this time that Corinne and Robert Day strayed down the
front steps, consulted together and ventured down the street, came
back, and ventured again to the next corner.
“He gave us the slip before,” said Robert, “but I'd like to get a
good look at him for once.”
“Would you da'st to spend your gold dollar, though,” said aunt
Corinne.
“Well, that's better than losin' it,” he responded.
It seemed very much better in aunt Corinne's eyes.
“We can just run down there, and run right back after we go in,
while Ma Padgett is busy.”
“Then we'll have to be spry,” said Robert Day.
Having passed the first corner they were spry, springing along the
streets with their hands locked. It was not hard to find one's way
about in Richmond then, and the tavern was not far from the open
square. They came upon the tent, the smoky tin torch, the crowd of
idlers, and a loud-voiced youth who now stood at the entrance
shouting the attractions within.
Robert dragged his aunt impetuously to the tent door and offered his
gold dollar to the shouter.
“Pass right in, gentlemen and ladies,” said the ill-looking youth in
his monotonous yell, bustling as if he had a rush of business, “and
make room for the crowd, all anxious to see the only pig-headed man
in America, and to hear the wonderful warblings of Fairy Carrie, the
child vocalist. Admission fixed at the low figure of fifteen cents
per head,” said the ill-looking youth, dropping change into Robert's
hand and hustling him upon the heels of Corinne who craned her neck
toward the inner canvas. “Only fifteen cents, gentlemen, and the last
opportunity to see the pig-headed man who alone is worth the price of
admission, and has been exhibited to all the crowned heads of Europe.
Fifteen cents. Five three cent pieces only. Fairy Carrie, the
wonderful child vocalist, and the only living pig-headed man standing
between the heavens and earth to-day.”
But when aunt Corinne had reached the interior of the tent, she
turned like a flash, clutched Robert Day, and hid her eyes against
him. A number of people standing, or seated on benches, were watching
the performances on a platform at one end of the tent.
“He won't hurt you,” whispered Robert.
“Go 'way!” whispered aunt Corinne, trembling as if she would drive
the mere image from her thoughts.
“It's the very thing I saw at the camp,” whispered Robert.
“Le's go out again.”
“I want my money's worth,” remonstrated Robert in an injured tone.
“And now he's pickin' up his things and going behind a curtain. Ain't
he ugly! I wonder how it feels to look that way? Why don't you stand
up straight and act right! Folks'll notice you. I thought you wanted
to see him so bad!”
“I got enough,” responded aunt Corinne. “But there comes the little
girl. And it's the little girl I saw in the wagon. Ain't she pretty!”
[Illustration]
“She ain't got a pig's head, has she?” demanded aunt Corinne.
“She's the prettiest little girl I ever saw,” responded Robert
impatiently. “I guess if she sees you she'll think, you're sheep-headed.
You catch me spendin' gold dollars to take you to shows any more!”
The shrill treble of a little child began a ballad at that time very
popular, and called “Lilly Dale.” Aunt Corinne faced about and saw a
tiny creature, waxen-faced and with small white hands, and feet in
bits of slippers, standing in a dirty spangled dress which was made
to fluff out from her and give her an airy look. Her long brown curls
hung about her shoulders. But her black eyes were surrounded with
brownish rings which gave her a look of singing in her sleep, or in a
half-conscious state. She was a delicate little being, and as she
sung before the staring people, her chin creased and the corners of
her mouth quivered as if she would break into sobs if she only dared.
Her song was accompanied by a hand-organ ground behind the scenes;
and when she had finished and run behind the curtain, she was pushed
out again in response to the hand-clapping.
Robert Day hung entranced on this performance. But when Fairy Carrie
had sung her second song and disappeared, he took hold of his aunt's
ear and whispered cautiously therein:
“I know the pig-headed man stole that little girl.”
Aunt Corinne looked at him with solemn assent. Then there were signs
of the pig-headed man's returning to the gaze of the public. Aunt
Corinne at once grasped her nephew's elbow and pushed him from the
sight. They went outside where the ill-looking youth was still
shouting, and were crowded back against the wagon by a group now
beginning to struggle in.
Robert proposed that they walk all around the outside, and try to
catch another glimpse of Fairy Carrie.
They walked behind the wagon. A surly dog chained under it snapped
out at them. Aunt Corinne said she should like to see Fairy Carrie
again, but Ma Padgett would be looking for them.
At this instant the little creature appeared back of the tent.
Whether she had crept under the canvas or knew some outlet to the
air, she stood there fanning herself with her hands, and looking up
and about with an expression which was sad through all the dusk.
Corinne and Robert Day approached on tiptoe. Fairy Carrie continued
to fan herself with her fingers, and looked at them with a dull gaze.
“Say!” whispered aunt Corinne, indicating the interior of the tent,
“is he your pa?”
Fairy Carrie shook her head.
“Is your ma in there?”
Fairy Carrie again shook her head, and her face creased as if she
were now determined in this open air and childish company to cry and
be relieved.
“Can't you talk?” whispered aunt Corinne.
“No,” said the child.
“Yes, you can, too! Did the show folks steal you?”
Fairy Carrie's eyes widened. Tears gathered and dropped slowly down
her cheeks.
Aunt Corinne seized her hand. “Why, Bobaday, Padgett! You just feel
how cold her fingers are!”
Robert did so, and shook his head to indicate that he found even her
fingers in a pitiable condition.
“You come with us to Ma Padgett,” exhorted aunt Corinne in an
excited whisper. “I wouldn't stay where that pig-man is for the world.”
The dog under the wagon was growling.
“If the pig-man stole you, Ma Padgett will have him put in jail.”
“Le's go back this way, so they won't catch her,” cautioned Bobaday.
The dog began to bark.
Robert and Corinne moved away with the docile little child between
them. At the barking of the dog one or two other figures appeared
behind the tent. Fairy Carrie in her spangled dress was running
between Robert and Corinne into the dark.