THE LOST CARVING-KNIFE.
There was a great deal of chattering going on at the breakfast table
next morning, seldom less than two people talking at once.
"Look here, Ida," cried Guy; "next time you come waking me up in the
middle of the night, I'll have a sponge of cold water ready for you;
see if I don't!"
"I tell you it was Elsie's fault," was the answer. "She declared she
heard some one turning the grindstone."
"Well, so I did," persisted Elsie, who did not like her word being
doubted. "I heard it quite plainly; and there was a light in the
tool-house."
"Are you sure you were not dreaming?" asked Mrs. Ormond.
"Yes, quite sure, mother."
"Did you grind any of your tools last night, Brian?"
"Oh no, aunt. I haven't touched the grindstone for a week at least.
Besides, I'm too fond of bed to get up and sharpen chisels at two
o'clock in the morning."
The speaker was a sturdy, good-natured boy, two years older than Guy,
and greatly distinguished this term by having received the cap of the
Rexbury Grammar School football team.
"You two girls are a couple of noodles," went on Guy. "I suppose you
thought it was a ghost working at the stone?"
"Well, look here," cried Ida, anxious to turn the conversation; "who let
Bob in last night? Elsie says she didn't, but he was in the house when I
came over to your room."
"He was fastened up when I crossed the yard about eight o'clock last
night," said Brian.
"Where did you find him this morning, Jane?" asked Ida, turning to the
parlour-maid.
"He was outside, chained up to his kennel, miss," was the answer.
"Outside! But when he was once in the house he couldn't possibly get out
again. He came running up the stairs, and I couldn't think what it was
for a minute."
"He was in his kennel when we came down this morning, miss," said Jane.
Guy burst out into a roar of laughter.
"Well, I'm blest!" he cried. "You are a pair! First there's Elsie's yarn
about that grindstone, and now you try to stuff some silly story into us
of Bob's running about the house when he was outside all the time."
"But he _was_ in the house," cried Ida, flushing. "He came upstairs to
me, and I sent him down again."
"Then if he was in the house, will you tell me how he could have got out
again before the servants came down to open the door? You girls must
have eaten something for supper last night that didn't agree with you,
and both had nightmare. Next time you get it, don't come across to our
door."
"Now, now!" interrupted Mrs. Ormond, who saw that Ida was about to make
an angry retort, and judged that the discussion had gone far enough.
"Come, you boys will be late if you don't make haste with your breakfast.
Are you going to play football this afternoon, Brian?"
"Yes, aunt; it's a match."
"Shall you want to take your things with you?"
"No, thank you. The game's on our ground, so I shall come home to
change."
Mr. Ormond, who had not been paying much attention to the conversation,
now laid aside the newspaper he had been reading, at the same time
remarking,--
"I see that the _Arcadia_ left the docks in London yesterday bound for
Australia, so I suppose by this time Mr. William Cole has begun his
first experience of being 'rocked in the cradle of the deep.'"
"Was the _Arcadia_ the ship he was going out on?" asked Ida.
"Yes," replied her father; "that was the one in which he had booked his
passage."
"'Old King Cole was a merry old soul,'" chanted Guy, with his mouth half
full of toast and butter. "I wish he hadn't gone. I'm sure we shan't
ever have such a nice man again."
"He was a civil, sharp young fellow," said Mr. Ormond. "I suppose
he hopes to do better in the Colonies than by staying on in the old
country. Well, it's very possible he may get on. He's a handy sort of
chap, and can turn his hand to all kinds of jobs."
William Cole, the subject of these remarks, had, until about a
week previous to the commencement of this story, been gardener and
man-of-all-work at the Pines. Being easy-going, and clever with his
hands, he had been a great favourite with the children. Whether it was
to clean a bicycle, splice the broken joint of a fishing-rod, blow
birds' eggs, or cut the fork of a catapult, William was always the
man to whom to apply; and he never failed in the performance of these
services to win the entire satisfaction of his youthful admirers.
"I am sorry he's gone," said Ida. "He was always so polite, and never
grumbled when you asked him to run an errand."
"It's time we were off," exclaimed Brian, glancing at the clock.--"Will
you excuse me, aunt? I've got to find my books."
The children rose from the table, and rushed out into the hall, where a
fresh dispute, though of a friendly nature, occurred between Ida and Guy
with regard to the ownership of a certain book-strap. There was a good
deal of racing up and down stairs, and at length the bang of the front
door proclaimed the fact that they had all started--the boys for the big
school in the centre of the town, and the girls for one a little nearer
home.
"It seems strange that both Ida and Elsie should have had such queer
fancies last night," said Mrs. Ormond to her husband as they remained
seated together at the breakfast table.
"What was it? I didn't quite catch what they were saying."
"Why, Elsie says she was awakened by hearing the grindstone turning in
the tool-house. She went down to see if it was Brian sharpening his
chisels, but she got frightened, so returned and woke Ida. Then Ida
declares that, when she went across to the boys' room to see if they
were awake, Bob was in the house, and came running up the stairs to her;
but Jane says that, when they came down this morning, Bob was outside in
his kennel."
"I expect Ida was more than half asleep," answered her father, "and
thought she saw the dog. I know I've still gone on dreaming when I've
been roused up suddenly out of a sound sleep. What Elsie heard was, no
doubt, the wind."
"But she says there was a light in the tool-house."
"Oh, nothing but the reflection of the moonlight on the glass, you may
depend. If there had been any one about who had no business there, the
dog would have barked."
The boys were rather late in getting back to dinner, and when they
arrived they were in a hurry to get the meal over and be off again.
Brian had to change and walk to the football ground, while Guy intended
to go with him and watch the game.
"Whom is the match against?" asked Mrs. Ormond.
"Against Newford College, mother," was the reply. "We ought to lick 'em
this time. We've got a ripping strong team."
"I expect you'll come back with that nice red and white shirt of yours
mud all over, Brian," said Ida.
"Oh, that doesn't matter so long as we win," answered her cousin.
"If the ladies will excuse it, I think I'd better serve you first,
Brian," said Mr. Ormond, as the cover was removed, disclosing a couple
of roast fowls. "Then you'll have time to get into your war paint.--My
dear," the speaker continued, addressing his wife, "I wish I could have
the proper poultry-carver instead of this big knife."
"Isn't it laid?" inquired Mrs. Ormond.--"Jane, you should have put the
smaller carving-knife."
"Please, 'm," answered the maid. "I meant to do so, but I can't find
it."
"Can't find it! Doesn't Sarah know where it is?"
"No, ma'am; she says she remembers it being brought in the last time
it was sent out to be cleaned, but we can't find it now. We turned the
cupboard out just before dinner-time."
"Are you sure that Henry hasn't had it to clean, and left it behind in
the tool-house when he brought in the other knives?"
"Yes, 'm; we've looked there."
"Oh, never mind," said the master of the house; "I'll make this knife do
now; you'll find the other somewhere."
"But there's no reason why it should have been lost," replied Mrs.
Ormond. "I can't imagine where it's gone to."
"I say," cried Guy, "perhaps it was the poultry-carver that Elsie's
ghost was grinding last night! Ha! ha! That's where it went!"
"I never said it was a ghost, you stupid," answered Elsie, a good bit
nettled.
"Well, some one said it was."
"You said so yourself, Guy; and it's not fair to put it off on me."
"You were the person who heard it; and so, if it was a ghost, it was
your ghost."
"It _isn't_ my ghost!" cried Elsie, thumping the table, and getting
very red. "It isn't a ghost at all, so shut up, Guy."
"How d'you know it wasn't a ghost? If you didn't see what it was, it
might as well be a ghost as anything else."
"Come now," interrupted Mrs. Ormond; "I think we discussed this matter
quite enough at breakfast, so now you'd better let it rest. Your father
thinks that it was nothing but the wind whistling through some crack
that Elsie mistook for the noise of the stone."
"But, mother--" began the little girl.
"Never mind, Elsie," interrupted Mrs. Ormond; "we won't talk about it
any more just now. There's nothing to be ashamed of in mistaking one
sound for another, especially when you wake up in the middle of the
night, and everything seems strange."
Elsie subsided, but she was far from satisfied, especially as Guy
covertly pulled a face at her across the table. She ate her dinner in
silence, and as soon as the meal was over left the room and went outside
in a pet. As the tool-house had been uppermost in her mind lately, she
naturally found her way there, and sat down on an old hamper to think.
Though sensitive, she was a courageous child, and she did not like
being made fun of, especially when the taunt implied that she had been
frightened at nothing.
There before her stood the grindstone, looking exactly the same as it
had always done. The girl rose, walked over to it, and put her foot on
the treadle.
"Squeak! squeak!" Yes, that was exactly the noise she had heard in the
night, coupled with the grate of the stone against the hard metal. She
felt more than ever sure that she had not been mistaken.
At that moment the door opened, and Brian appeared. In his short blue
knickers, and with the gaily coloured shirt showing beneath his coat, he
looked what he was--a thoroughly manly boy. He and Elsie were always the
best of good comrades, and the latter was always ready to tell Brian her
troubles, feeling sure of a sympathetic hearing.
"Are my football boots out here?" he asked.
"Yes, they're over there. And, I say, Bri, I _did_ hear the grindstone
turning last night, and it's too bad of them to say I didn't."
"Well, if you did, you did," answered Brian consolingly. "There's no
reason to fret yourself about such a trifle."
"But Guy tries to make out I was frightened at nothing, and I wasn't."
"Not you," grunted Brian, dragging on his boots. "You're a good plucked
un, I know."
"D'you really think so?" answered Elsie, much relieved. "Bri, you're a
brick. I hope you'll kick ten goals this afternoon."
"I shall be content if I kick two," answered the boy, stamping his feet
on the flagstones to settle them into his stiff boots. As he went out he
paused for a moment to look at the grindstone. On the wooden framework
were some dark spots; he examined them more closely, and scratched one
with his nail.
"Humph!--candle-grease!" he muttered.
[Illustration]