any hoss critter ter save his strength. I reckon he ain’t out of reach
yit. He never war no great hand ter exert hisself, Jake warn’t,” drawled
the blacksmith.
“Well, he’s gittin’ further off while we’re argefyin’,” objected Dan
Gooch testily. “I ’low hit’s time we war gittin’ down ter bizness. Some
of you fellers take the trails ’tween you, and Sam and I’ll go ’long the
creek. We’ll meet whar the old schoolhouse war, and if you’ve run down
any game you kin bring hit along.”
At nine o’clock the party straggled in from different directions
empty-handed. Eli Twilliger was the last one. His had been a hard,
rough climb. Thin and wiry, sure of foot as a wild cat, and as ready to
pounce upon the object of his search, not a man knew so well the hiding
places those mighty hills afforded. His shirt was torn, his hands and
face bore scratches received in a careful search through the narrow
subterranean passages which honeycombed the cliffs. Tired and hungry, he
was in an ugly mood as with long strides he made toward the group
gathered at the edge of the pine thicket.
Dan Gooch turned toward him with a warning finger which he resented.
“What’s do-in’?” he growled. “Hev you caged the varmint and air makin’ a
show of him?” He peered curiously over the intervening shoulders and was
suddenly silenced.
In sight of the charred, smouldering ruins from which still issued little
puffs of smoke, Talitha, nothing daunted by her ill fortune, had gathered
her little flock. Smiles had begun to cover their tear-stained faces.
It was a delightful novelty to sit on that mossy, sun-flecked bank and
prepare the day’s lessons. Billy Gooch shared his large slate with the
youngest of the Twilligers, and two small girls bent industriously over
the same book.
The eyes of the rough mountaineers moistened, their hands tightened upon
their rifles ominously. There was a stir among the foremost, and Si
Quinn faced them. His face was like a thunder cloud. One crutch waved
so threateningly that those nearest shrank back. “What air you goin’ ter
do ’bout hit? Thet’s what I want ter ask. You might hev knowed you
couldn’t ketch that feller; he wan’t brung up in the mountings fer
nothin’. Hit was as big a piece of devilment as I ever heerd of, but
mebbe hit won’t be the worst thing could hev happened, except fer the
leetle gal losin’ the money she put inter hit. Let’s go ter work and put
up somethin’ thet won’t shame us. You-all know thet old shack warn’t no
way fitten fer a schoolhouse. I can’t help you ter cut a stick of timber
much as I’d give fer the strength ter do hit, but I’ll give ’nough ter
make up fer all Tally lost—”
“Sho now, Si, we ain’t goin’ ter let you do hit,” interrupted the
blacksmith. “We’ll jest count your advice wuth thet much, and I reckon
hit air. If we ain’t robustious ’nough ter put up another schoolhouse
and git what Tally needs for our young-uns, I ’low we’re a sorry lot—”
“How you do go on, Enoch,” jibed Eli Twilliger, pushing his way to the
front. “Air you intendin’ ter take the stump fer the next ’lection?
Let’s git down ter bizness. Thar ain’t nothin’ I can see ter hinder us
from startin’ ter-morrow mornin’, and if the weather is fair Tally shall
hev her schoolhouse in two weeks. Ain’t thet so, boys?”
For answer, a shout went up that started the echoes from their
hiding-places in the hills. Talitha and her flock looked up at them
wonderingly. She was too far away to comprehend what good fortune was to
be hers, but she could rejoice that something had restored the men to
good humour. Greater than sorrow at the frustrating of her plans and the
loss in which her small savings had been invested, was her horror at the
revival of the old feud spirit. She had learned at the Bentville school
the terribleness of it. In agony she had watched her father the previous
night as he cleaned and loaded his rifle. Jake Simcox had done a
despicable, cowardly thing, but she could not wish him dealt with
according to the code of mountain justice.
At noon she sent the children home and walked slowly beside the
schoolmaster. There were many questions she wished to ask him, but she
kept silent, knowing that he would speak of his own accord or not at all.
“Hit war jest as I ’lowed,” he said at last. “Jake took time by the
forelock and mighty well he did.”
“Oh, I’m so glad they didn’t find him!” exclaimed Talitha in a tone that
struck the schoolmaster oddly.
“What’s thet, leetle gal! Mighty queer talk fer the gran’darter of a
Bills.” The faded eyes twinkled.
“I can’t help it, it isn’t right; and it’s a terrible thing for folks to
remember all their lives!”
“Pore leetle gal,” the old man nodded understandingly. “You warn’t
bigger’n Sudie, I reckon, time o’ the Amyx shootin’. ’Twar a shame ter
saddle you with sech mem’ries. I never did hev much use fer sech doin’s,
and I said so, but hit warn’t a grain o’ use. You might jest as well
talk ter a passel of hounds arter a Bushy tail. But chirk up, you won’t
see Jake in these parts agin. What we’re most consarned ’bout now is
whar you’re goin’ ter keep school when the ugly weather comes on.”
They had come to the parting of the ways, and here Talitha left the old
man hobbling painfully toward his cabin.
Si Quinn’s progress homeward was slow. He stopped now and then to regain
his breath and chuckle feebly to himself. “I reckon she thinks I’ve a
heart of stun ter take hit so ca’m, but I ’low Jake Simcox didn’t do sech
a bad thing. Hit war worse fer hisself than fer Goose Creek. Law,
what’ll the gal say when she hears of hit! I reckon I’d better be
sendin’ fer them school fixin’s ter-morrow.” He had reached the cabin
door, and now he shuffled inside, closing it carefully. Shadowed by
pines, the place was always gloomy enough even at mid-day with the
shutters thrown wide. Now he uncovered the coals on the hearth, laid on
a few small sticks, and swung the battered old tea kettle over the blaze.
Then he drew up his chair cosily before it, and thrusting his hand into
his trousers’ pocket brought forth a small leather bag. From it he
counted a number of bills, smoothing each one tenderly across his knee.
“She shall hev ’em,” he said aloud. “I’ll do without somehow, and hit
won’t be fer long. The old man’s nearin’ the end of the trail—” He
glanced around uneasily, with a vague consciousness of something—he knew
not what. In the far corner of the cabin a pair of eyes, bloodshot and
wild, glared at him from under a thatch of red hair.
The old man grasped the money. It disappeared in his shirt as he
staggered to his feet and faced the intruder.
“You needn’t be afeard, I ain’t goin’ ter tech hit.” The figure issued
from the corner lamely. In the light it was still more forbidding. A
bruise on the forehead made a disfiguring, parti-coloured lump on his
otherwise pale, drawn face. “I ain’t teched a thing, not even a crumb,
tho’ I’m ’most famished,” he growled.
“Hush, you crazy loon!” Si Quinn raised a warning finger.
“Aw, yes, I know,” sneered the young fellow recklessly. “The dogs air
arter the wolf and they kin hev him.” He threw up his arms wildly.
“Set down in thet cheer and be still,” commanded the old man.
Jake dropped obediently into a seat.
“I ’lowed you war out’n the kentry. Why didn’t you make tracks when you
had a chanct?”
“I did aim ter,” answered Jake Simcox, “but I fell, crawlin’ over thet
ledge by the Gulch, and I didn’t know nothin’ till this mornin’. I could
hear the men thrashin’ the bushes all ’round me, but I was jest out of
sight of ’em. I wish fer the land they’d tuk me then and thar and done
with hit.”
“The way of a transgressor is shorely hard,” exclaimed the old man
pityingly.
“I didn’t go fer ter fire the place, Si, I shore didn’t. I jest thought
ter burn the books and sech. Oh, I don’t know what made me do hit, ’less
I was plumb crazy!” Jake bowed his head in his hands and groaned in
agony.
The schoolmaster set the coffee pot upon the coals, where it simmered
gently. “Sho now, Jake,” he said kindly, “you’re all beat out. Draw up
and hev a bite; hit ain’t much but hit’ll put some heart in you. I don’t
cornsider thet jest burnin’ thet old shack war sech a turrible sin; hit
war the sperit you done hit in. You did ’low to burn all thet pore gal
spent most of her savin’s on, and thet was the meanest part of the hull
bizness. I allers said thet temper of yours would bring you ter grief.
Hit’s like a skeery hoss critter; when hit gits loose you never can
cal’late on all the didos hit’s goin’ ter cut up. Do you think thet if
you hed another chanct you hev got grit ’nough ter turn ’round in your
tracks?”
Jake reached a hand over the table and grasped the hard, shrivelled one.
“Oh, I shore would if I could only hev hit,” he answered humbly. “I
shore would, but hit’s too late.”
“Hit ain’t,” contradicted the old man cheerfully. “So long as you see
the error of your ways, I’ll see thet you git out of this bizness hopin’
hit’s a lesson you won’t forgit.”
Until Jake Simcox was able both mentally and physically to make the
journey, he remained in the schoolmaster’s cabin, hiding away in the
little loft at the least sign of danger.
Late the third night after a hearty supper, Si Quinn filled his knapsack
with provisions and slung it across the young shoulders. “Hike over the
Ohiar line as quick as you kin,” he admonished, “and then find a job near
a school whar you kin git some larnin’. I’m goin’ ter give you this,”
putting a bill in the young fellow’s hand. “Hit’ll help you out till you
git work, if you’re savin’. I’d make hit more, but most of the rest is
goin’ fer books and maps fer Tally’s new schoolhouse they’re buildin’ fer
her.”
Jake looked up shamefacedly; the money seemed to burn his hand, but to
what straits might he be brought if he refused it. “I’ll pay hit all
back—every cent,” he faltered, “and I shan’t ever fergit what you’ve done
fer me.” Then he was swallowed up by the darkness.
VII
THE JAM SOCIAL
THE tiny, blue calcimined room with one window looking southward seemed
almost palatial in comparison with Gincy’s humble home quarters. Instead
of the overhanging mountains were the foothills and the college gardens.
She tried to picture the scene back home without her at this early hour.
Her mother milking Brindled Bet, Billy feeding the pigs, and her
father—she couldn’t be thankful enough he wasn’t like Sam Coyle—getting
ready to gather the “crap” in the south cove.
There was a slight stirring in the lower berth of the double-decker.
“Talitha,” she called out softly. “Air you awake?” But the voice which
answered was not Talitha’s.
“It’s Urilla,” it said hesitatingly.
Gincy leaned over and her eyes sought the occupant of the cot below.
Propped up on the pillow was the pale face of the girl who had arrived
yesterday. The solemn brown eyes looked straight up into hers
inquiringly as though not at all sure of a welcome. “I reckon you’re
some surprised,” she said. “You were asleep when I came in last night
and I aimed to keep pretty still.”
“Yes,” answered Gincy rather dazed. “But whar’s Talitha?”
Urilla shook her head. “Mrs. Donnelly sent me here—I had this room last
term. I reckon Talitha’s on this floor, though. The first and second
year girls are mostly together.”
Gincy swung down and began dressing without another word. She would
interview Talitha at breakfast; perhaps they could arrange to room
together after all. Urilla looked too sober for a roommate. “Whar you
from?” Gincy asked finally, rolling up her hair.
“Jackson County,” Urilla answered promptly. “I rode twenty miles
yesterday and the road was might rocky. Where’d you come from?”
“Over in Clay,” Gincy smiled into the tired face as she answered. “I
should think you’d be plumb tickled to be back. Seems like you couldn’t
stay away from here nohow, but I heerd you say your mammy war sick,” she
added, anxious not to appear lacking in friendly interest.
“Not bed sick, or I couldn’t have come. She’s up, but I keep studying
about her and wondering if Sallie—that’s my next sister—will keep her
from working. Mother’s had a spell of fever and don’t seem to get
strong.”
Apparently, Urilla was fumbling in the little trunk on the floor for some
article of wearing apparel, but Gincy saw the teardrops, and instantly
her tender heart warmed. She stooped over and took the pale face between
her two hard little palms. “You mustn’t fret, honey, mammy had the fever
a couple of years back, and she’s robustious as kin be now.”
Urilla looked the thanks her lips were unable to speak. In a minute she
had regained her composure, and by the time the breakfast bell sounded,
her few belongings were carefully hung in her half of the little closet,
the bedclothes airing, and the tiny dresser in perfect order.
Together they went down the long flights of stairs, but not to the same
dining-room. Gincy had been assigned to a table in the Annex where
Martin and Talitha ate, but the latter had not arrived. Silently she
waited for the blessing, and then catching Martin’s eye, “Whar’s
Talitha?” she inquired.
“I don’t know—exactly,” he answered with hesitation and truthfully, he
thought. She might be anywhere between Clover Bottom and Lost Creek by
this time.
Gincy ate her oatmeal without suspicion. Why should Martin know after
all, when he roomed halfway across the campus? Another thought came to
her. Perhaps Talitha had volunteered to go to one of the cottages that
she might stay in the hall. It was just like her to be so unselfish.
This was the morning for registering, and Gincy felt very new indeed. In
the absence of Talitha, Urilla and Kizzie Tipton offered to act as
escorts. It seemed hours before her end of the line reached the desk and
she was assigned to an examination in the Industrial Building a block
away. Her sunny face was quite woe-begone as they started.
“Don’t you fret,” admonished Urilla. “I know just how you feel, but you
needn’t be afraid.”
“I’m plumb ’shamed of my ignorance. I won’t be nowhar ’side of you-all,”
Gincy answered disconsolately.
“You’ll be just where I was last year,” consoled Kizzie.
“Do you reckon so? Well, I’m bound ter work every minnit now I’ve got
started.” Gincy’s mouth showed an even line of determination. She
looked around curiously as they entered the big, brick building. On
either side of the wide stairway were the rooms for cooking and sewing.
Students were passing in and out.
“I’ve had cooking,” said Urilla, “and I’ve taught Sallie to make good
bread.”
“I’d rather take sewing; it’s easier.” Kizzie’s black eyes twinkled.
“If I had my ruthers it would be cookin’,” declared Gincy. “I could help
mammy a heap; hit’s better to move ’round some, too.”
A crowd was constantly passing up and down the stairs leading to the
second floor. Some of the boys and girls had yellow slips in their
hands; a few looked worried. In the large, upstairs classrooms there was
a sprinkling of parents. Many had come a score of miles with ox teams
and stood around anxiously awaiting the result of the examination.
All new pupils were assigned to Room 2, and here Gincy discovered Abner,
his yellow head bent over a sheet of paper covered with figures. Gincy
regarded him with confidence. Abner was strong in arithmetic—the one
study the mountain teachers had impressed upon their pupils. For herself
she was not so sure. Her knowledge of geography was hazy. In grammar
the parts of speech had been carefully reviewed, but she was in doubt
about parsing, and diagramming looked to her like a jumble of words
tumbling over a precarious footing of loose boards. She dropped into a
vacant seat near the door while Urilla looked for a teacher who was not
too busy to interview her. Presently, she returned, and Gincy found
herself shaking hands with an attractive young woman whose near-sighted
brown eyes held the friendliest look in the world.
“I’m so glad to meet you, Miss Gooch; you’re from Clay County? You’ll
find a good many boys and girls from there. Urilla told me all about you
at breakfast time and we’re going to help you get acquainted. You’ll be
one of my specials on the third floor, I can tell that by looking at
you.”
Gincy’s heart took sudden courage. If all the teachers were going to be
like Miss Howard she certainly would be a “special” if she had to study
all night to accomplish it. Miss Howard sat close and questioned her
softly, not seeming to mind when she stumbled or failed entirely. Gincy
had a musical voice and read the easy selections in a way which pleased
the teacher, for she recommended elocution and sub-normal arithmetic on
the little slip which Gincy bore away an hour later. The other studies
were not wholly settled, but it seemed like a good beginning.
“Be sure to come to the Jam Social to-night,” had been Miss Howard’s
parting words, and Gincy had promised readily, although not feeling at
all sure what a “Jam Social” really was.
She wandered around from one building to another, nowhere encountering
Talitha or any one who had seen her. Once inside the Hall again she went
straight to the office to question Mrs. Donnelly.
From behind a desk piled high with mail, the dean answered, “She’s gone
home, Miss Gooch.”
“Gone home! When?” Gincy’s voice sounded strange to her own ears.
“About two o’clock this morning. She slept with me last night and Martin
saw her off.”
“But why? Was any one sick—or?” The dean shook her head and began to
open her mail. Suddenly Gincy knew it all. Talitha had gone that she
might stay. After working so hard, too. What would Sam Coyle say to
her? Not willing to make any sacrifices himself—for his children’s
good—he would be angry to have them generous with others. Gincy turned
and went up to her room. How could she accept such a sacrifice? She
wrestled with the problem for hours, then in despair thought of Miss
Howard. The little teacher listened patiently with one soft hand
covering the girl’s work-roughened one. When Gincy had ended with a sob
in her voice, Miss Howard’s arm stole around her and held her close.
“Don’t worry, dear, Talitha will come back to us some time. She’s
determined to have an education. She has chosen to give you your chance
now; make the very best of it. It would be foolish for you to start home
and disappoint her—it would be useless, too. She’s going to write you in
a day or so.”
Somewhat comforted, Gincy went back to her room. On every side doors
were ajar and girls unpacking. There was the merry chatter of friends
long separated, and those newly found, which sent a delightful glow
through the heart of the mountain girl. Few and far between were the
opportunities for sociability back in the hills, and as she realized what
she was gaining, a keen sense of Talitha’s loss smote her.
“You’d better get ready for the Social before dinner,” a voice called out
from behind, and Kizzie overtook Gincy. “I’ll call for you and Urilla
promptly at seven.”
“I’d forgotten hit, sure enough,” answered Gincy, quickening her steps.
Early in the evening the large chapel blazed forth a welcome to the
returning students from its many windows. From every direction they
came—in groups or singly. Above, was a starlit sky, and the air was full
of a soft, sweet melody unlike anything Gincy had ever heard before. Her
ears, used only to the thrum of the banjo, or a crude performance on a
small reed organ, were thrilled with delight as the college band finished
the overture from “William Tell.”
She glanced shyly at Urilla to see if her emotion was shared, but the
quiet face betrayed nothing more than deep satisfaction at being once
more among her beloved schoolmates.
The great auditorium was filling rapidly. Happy faces peered down from
the galleries, girls and boys elbowed their way past, calling out hearty
greetings to those they recognized. There was a short lull when the
president made his welcoming speech; after that, it seemed to Gincy a
thousand hives had swarmed. Abner and Martin caught the spirit at once
and moved constantly from one group to another shaking hands, exchanging
jokes, and growing merrier each moment. Gincy watched them astonished.
Abner’s light hair was tossed back like a mane, his cheeks were rosy, his
eyes alight with fun. Martin took it more quietly, but never had she
seen such a look of pleasure in his face.
Gincy forgot her plain dress—plain even in comparison with the simple
clothes around her—and the fact that she was surrounded by hundreds of
strange faces. The spirit of youth—so often quenched in these young
mountain people before it fairly shows itself—was clamouring for
expression. She drew a long breath and decided to be one of the gay
company.
An hour later as the three girls emerged from the building which the bell
in the tower had suddenly hushed, Gincy felt that she had come into her
own. Her timidity had vanished, and a pleasant presage of popularity
made her innocently merry and once more her own natural self.
VIII
THE MASTER KEY
IT was nearly time for the rising bell, and Gincy propped herself up on
one elbow to watch the light creeping above the foothills and the ox
teams crawling along Big Hill pike.
Suddenly, she remembered her new duties as monitor of the third floor.
It was so hard lately to keep order during study hours and after the last
bell at night. Gincy could not help connecting it in some way with Nancy
Jane Ping and Mallie Green, the two recent arrivals from her own county.
They had been reproved time and again for an untidy room, but it seemed
to do no good.
“They’re always studyin’ up some foolishness to keep things upset,” she
declared disgustedly. Gincy had been feeling particularly lonely now
that Urilla had gone home for a whole week; things had been happening,
too. Miss Howard was at her wit’s end to discover the offenders, so sly
were they, but Kizzie Tipton and Lalla Ponder were always the victims.
Sometimes the bedding was piled in a heap in the middle of the floor, or
Lalla’s school hat was filled with water and her best dress missing only
to be found later folded under the mattress. The vandals covered their
tracks very neatly, and Miss Howard, knowing the excitable temperaments
around her, kept the matter as quiet as possible.
Gincy thought it over carefully until breakfast time, then decided to do
some special detective work for the reputation of the Hall. “Some fracas
between their kin, I reckon.” Gincy was used to the mountain feuds,
which, like a slumbering fire, always broke out in unexpected places.
“Mallie’s been left to run till she’s no ’count; why don’t she study to
get some learnin’ stid o’ hatchin’ up deviltry? Nancy Jane and she make
a team; looks like they don’t show good sense.” Gincy shook her head
sadly, thinking how hard she had worked for the privilege which others
esteemed so lightly. School had meant for her sacrifice, and long hours
of toil.
Saturday was a busy day in the Hall. Its many corridors were thoroughly
swept and mopped, the rooms carefully cleaned. Gincy was here and there
and everywhere on the third floor. By lunch time there was a sharp
twinge in her left ear which sent the blood throbbing to her temples.
Her own room was spotless. Urilla’s family photographs were tucked in
the wire rack where they would show to the best advantage, the ugly ink
spot on the chenille table spread was turned to the wall, and the small
stove was shining. But the occupant was not tempted by odours of fresh
gingerbread or turnip salad coming from below. Her work for the day was
done. She had counted on going to Lee’s Knob with a walking party for a
picnic supper. Suddenly, all ambition had left her. When she awoke from
her long nap her earache was gone, but there lingered in her memory a
curious dream. The room key had been stolen and Miss Howard was in
trouble.
Another bell rang. This time it was for dinner, but Gincy still felt
little inclination to move, and a curious absence of hunger. There were
loitering feet, then hurrying, then the distant clatter from the Annex
announced that the meal was in progress. Gincy surveyed the tired face
in the glass as she brushed her hair and resolutely choked back the
homesick hunger which the free life of the mountains had fostered.