The Spirit of Mad Anthony
Jean Carruth stood thus for about one minute absolutely rigid, her
face the color of chalk and her eyes blazing. Then several things
happened with extreme expedition. The position of the closed umbrella
in her hands reversed with lightning-like rapidity; one quick step
_forward_, _not_ backward, was made, thus giving the intrepid little
body a firmer foothold, and then crash! down came the gun-metal handle
across Jabe Raulsbury's ample-sized nasal appendage.
The blow, with such small arms to launch it, was not of necessity a
very powerful one, but it was the suddenness of the onslaught which
rendered it effective, for not one sound had issued from the child's
set lips as she delivered it, and Jabe's position placed him at a
decided disadvantage.
He resumed his seat with considerable emphasis, and clapping his hand
to his injured feature, bellowed in the voice of an injured bull:
"You--you--you little devil! You--you, let me get hold of you!"
But Jean did not obey the command or pause to learn the result of her
deed. With a storm of the wildest sobs she turned and fled from the
barnyard, down the driveway leading to the road, and back to the spot
where she had left Baltie in his misery, her tears nearly blinding
her, and her indignation almost strangling her; back to the poor old
horse, so sorely in need of human pity and aid.
This, all unknown to his little champion, had already reached him, for
hardly had Jean disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence, than a
vehicle came bowling along the highway driven by no less a personage
than Hadyn Stuyvesant, lately elected president of the local branch of
the S. P. C. A. Poor old Baltie's days of misery had come to an end,
for here was the authority either to compel his care or to mercifully
release him from his sufferings.
Perhaps not more than twenty minutes had elapsed from the time Jean
started across the fields, to the moment of her return to the old
horse, but in those twenty minutes Mr. Stuyvesant had secured aid from
Mr. Fletcher's place, and when Jean came hurrying upon the scene, her
sobs still rendering breathing difficult, and her troubled little face
bathed in tears, she found three men standing near Baltie.
"Oh, Baltie, Baltie, Baltie, I'm so glad! So glad! So glad!" sobbed
the overwrought little girl, as she flew to the old horse's head.
Mr. Stuyvesant and the men stared at her in astonishment.
"Why little girl," cried the former. "Where in this world have _you_
sprung from? And what is the matter? Is this your horse?"
"Oh, no--no; he isn't mine. It's old Baltie; don't you know him? I went
to tell Jabe Raulsbury about him and he--he--" and Jean paused
embarrassed.
"Yes? Well? Is this his horse? Is he coming to get him? Did you find
him?"
"Yes, sir, I _found_ him," answered Jean, trembling from excitement
and her exertions.
"And is he coming right down?" persisted Mr. Stuyvesant, looking
keenly, although not unkindly, at the child.
"He--he--, oh, _please_ don't make me tell tales on anybody--it's so
mean--but he--"
"You might as well tell it right out an' done with it, little gal,"
broke in one of the men. "It ain't no state secret; everybody knows
that that old skinflint has been abusing this horse shameful, for
months past, an' I'll bet my month's wages he said he wouldn't come
down, an' he hoped the horse 'd die in the ditch. Come now, out with
it--_didn't_ he?"
Jean would not answer, but there was no need for words; her eyes told
the truth.
Just then the other man came up to her; he was one of Mr. Fletcher's
grooms.
"Aren't you Mrs. Carruth's little girl?" he asked.
But before Jean had time to answer Jabe Raulsbury came running along
the road, one hand holding a handkerchief to his nose, the other
waving wildly as he shouted:
"Just you wait 'till I lay my hands on you--you little wild cat!" He
was too blinded by his rage to realize the situation into which he was
hurrying.
Again Anthony Wayne's spirit leaped into Jean's eyes, as the dauntless
little creature whirled about to meet the enemy descending upon her.
With head erect, and nostrils quivering she stood as though rooted to
the ground.
"Great guns! How's _that_ for a little thoroughbred?" murmured the
groom, laughing softly.
Reaching out a protecting hand, Mr. Stuyvesant gently pushed the
little girl toward the man who stood behind him, and taking her place
let Jabe Raulsbury come head-on to his fate. Had the man been less
enraged he would have taken in the situation at once, but his nose
still pained severely from the well-aimed blow, and had also bled
pretty freely, so it is not surprising that he lost his presence of
mind.
"Go slow! Go slow! You are exactly the man I want to see," said Mr.
Stuyvesant, laying a detaining hand upon Jabe's arm.
"Who 'n thunder air you?" demanded the half-blinded man.
"Someone you would probably rather not meet at this moment, but since
you have appeared upon the scene so opportunely I think we might as
well come to an understanding at once, and settle some scores."
"I ain't got no scores to settle with you, but I have with _that_
little demon, an' by gosh she'll know it, when I've done with her! Why
that young 'un has just smashed me over the head with her umbril, I
tell ye. _There_ it is, if ye don't believe what I'm a tellin' ye. I'm
goin' ter have the _law_ on her and on her Ma, I tell ye, an' I call
you three men ter witness the state I'm in. I'll bring suit agin' her
fer big damages--that's what I'll do. Look at my _nose_!"
As he ceased his tirade Jabe removed his handkerchief from the injured
member. At the sight of it one of the men broke into a loud guffaw.
Certainly, for a "weaker vessel" Jean had compassed considerable. That
nose was about the size of two ordinary noses. Mr. Stuyvesant regarded
it for a moment, his face perfectly sober, then asked with apparent
concern:
"And this little girl hit you such a blow as that?"
Poor little Jean began to tremble in her boots. Were the tables about
to turn upon her? Even Anthony Wayne's spirit, when harbored in such a
tiny body could hardly brave _that_. The Fletcher's groom who stood
just behind her watched her closely. Now and again he gave a nod
indicative of his approval.
"Yes she did. She drew off and struck me slam in the face with her
umbril.," averred Jabe.
"Had _you_ struck her? Did she strike in self-defense?" Mr. Stuyvesant
gave a significant look over Jabe's head straight into the groom's
eyes when he asked this question. The response was the slightest nod
of comprehension.
"Strike her? _No_," roared Jabe. "I hadn't teched her. I was a-sittin'
there sortin' out my turnips 's peaceful 's any man in this town, when
that little rip comes 'long and tells me I must go get an old horse
out 'en a ditch: _that_ old skate there that's boun' ter die _any_
how, an' ought ter a-died long ago. I told her ter clear out an' mind
her own business that I hoped the horse _would_ die, an' that's what
I'd turned him out _to_ do. Then she drew off an' whacked me."
"Just because you stated in just so many words that you meant to get
rid of the old horse and had turned him out to die on the roadside. Is
_that_ why she struck you?"
Had Jabe been a little calmer he might have been aware of a change in
Hadyn Stuyvesant's expression and his tone of voice, but men wild with
rage are rarely close observers.
"Yis! Yis!" he snapped, sure now of his triumph.
"Well I'm only sorry the blow was such a light one. I wish it had been
struck by a man's arm and sufficiently powerful to have half killed
you! Even _that_ would have been _too_ good for you, you merciless
brute! I've had you under my eye for your treatment of that poor horse
for some time, and now I have you under my _hand_, and convicted by
your own words in the presence of two witnesses, of absolute cruelty.
I arrest you in the name of the S. P. C. A."
For one brief moment Jabe stood petrified with astonishment. Then the
brute in him broke loose and he started to lay about him right and
left. His aggressiveness was brought to a speedy termination, for at a
slight motion from Mr. Stuyvesant the two men sprang upon him, his
arms were held and the next second there was a slight click and Jabe
Raulsbury's wrists were in handcuffs. That snap was the signal for his
blustering to take flight for he was an arrant coward at heart.
"Now step into my wagon and sit there until I am ready to settle your
case, my man, and that will be when I have looked to this little girl
and the animal which, but for her pluck and courage, might have died
in this ditch," ordered Mr. Stuyvesant.
No whipped cur could have slunk toward the wagon more cowed.
"Now, little lassie, tell me your name and where you live," said Mr.
Stuyvesant lifting Jean bodily into his arms despite her mortification
at being "handled just like a baby," as she afterwards expressed it.
"I am Jean Carruth. I live on Linden Avenue. I'm--I'm terribly ashamed
to be here, and to have struck him," and she nodded toward the humbled
figure in the wagon.
"You need not be. You did not give him one-half he deserves," was the
somewhat comforting assurance.
"O, but what _will_ mother say? She'll be _so_ mortified when I tell
her about it all. It seems as if I just _couldn't_," was the
distressed reply.
"Must you tell her?" asked Mr. Stuyvesant, an odd expression
overspreading his kind, strong face as he looked into the little
girl's eyes.
Jean regarded him with undisguised amazement as she answered simply:
"Why of _course_! That would be deceit if I _didn't_. I'll have to be
punished, but I guess I _ought_ to be," was the naive conclusion.
The fine face before her was transfigured as Hadyn Stuyvesant
answered:
"Good! _Your_ principles are all right. Stick to them and I'll want to
know you when you are a woman. Now I must get you home for I've a word
to say to your mother, to whom I mean to introduce myself under the
circumstances," and carrying her to his two-seated depot wagon, he
placed her upon the front seat. Jabe glowered at him from the rear
one. His horse turned his head with an inquiring nicker.
"Yes, Comet, I'll be ready pretty soon," he replied, pausing a second
to give a stroke to the satiny neck. Then turning to the men he said:
"Now, my men, let's on with this job which has been delayed too long
already."
He did not spare himself, and presently old Baltie was out of the
ditch and upon his feet--a sufficiently pathetic object to touch any
heart.
"Shall I have the men lead him up to your barn?" asked Hadyn
Stuyvesant, giving the surly object in his wagon a last chance to
redeem himself.
"No! I'm done with him; do your worst," was the gruff answer.
"Very well," the words were ominously quiet, "then _I_ shall take him
in charge."
"Oh, _where_ are you going to take him, please?" asked Jean, her
concern for the horse overcoming her embarrassment at her novel
situation.
"I'm afraid he will have to be sent to the pound, little one, for no
one will claim him."
"Is that the place where they _kill_ them? _Must_ Baltie be killed?"
Her voice was full of tears.
"Unless someone can be found who will care for him for the rest of his
numbered days. I'm afraid it is the best and most merciful fate for
him," was the gentle answer.
"How long may he stay there without being killed? Until maybe somebody
can be found to take him."
"He may stay there one week. But now we must move along. Fasten the
horse's halter to the back of my wagon, men, and I'll see to it that
he is comfortable to-night anyway."
The halter rope was tied, and the strange procession started slowly
back toward Riveredge.