Another Shoulder is Added
Thanksgiving and Christmas had come and passed. Constance's "candy
business" as she called it, throve and flourished spasmodically. Could
she have carried out her wishes concerning it, the venture might have
been more profitable, but Mammy, the autocrat, insisted that it should
be kept a secret, and the habit of obedience to the old woman's
dictates was deeply rooted in the Carruth family, even Mrs. Carruth
yielding to it far more than she realized.
So Constance made her candy during her free hours after school and
Mammy carried it into South Riveredge when opportunity offered. This
was sometimes twice, but more often only once, a week, for the
faithful old soul had manifold duties and was too conscientious to
neglect one. Sometimes all the packages were sold off as quickly as
they had been on that first red-letter day, but at other times a good
many were left over. Could they again have been offered for sale upon
the following day they might easily have been disposed of, but Mammy
could not go to South Riveredge two days in succession and,
consequently, the candy grew stale before another sale's day arrived,
was a loss to its anxious manufacturer, and caused her profits to
shrink very seriously. Things had been going on in this rather
unsatisfactory manner for about six weeks when one Saturday morning
little Miss Paulina Pry, as Constance sometimes called Jean, owing to
her propensity to get to the bottom of things in spite of all efforts
to circumvent her, came into her sister's room to ask in the most
innocent manner imaginable:
"Connie, who does Mammy know in South Riveredge?"
"Nobody, that I know of," answered Constance unsuspectingly.
"I thought she had a cousin living there," was the next leader.
"A cousin, child! Why Mammy hasn't a relative this side of Raleigh and
I don't believe she has two to her name down there. If she has, she
hasn't seen them since mother brought her north before we were born."
"I knew it!" was the triumphant retort, "and _now_ I'll get even with
her for telling me fibs."
"Jean, what do you mean?" cried Constance now fully alive to the fact
that she had fallen into a trap.
"I mean just this: I've been watching Mammy drive off to South
Riveredge every solitary week since before Thanksgiving, and I've
asked her ever so many times to take me with her; she lets me go
everywhere else with her and Baltie. But she wouldn't take me there
and when I asked her why not, she always said because she was going to
visit with her cousins in-the-Lord, and 'twan't no fit place for white
folks. I _knew_ she was telling a fib, and _now_ I'm going right down
stairs to tell her so," and Jean whirled about to run from the room.
Constance made a wild dive and caught her by her sleeve.
"Jean, stop! Listen to me. You are not to bother Mammy with questions.
She has a perfect right to do or go as she chooses," said Constance
with some warmth, and instantly realized that she had taken the wrong
tack, for the little pepper-pot began to liven up. Jerking herself
free she struck an attitude, saying:
"You are just as bad as Mammy! _You_ know where she goes, and what she
goes for, but you won't tell me. Keep your old secrets if you want to,
but I'll find out, see if I don't. And I'll get even too. You and
Mammy think I'm nothing but a baby, but you'll see. I'm most eleven
years old, and if I can't be told the truth about things now, I'd like
to know why," and with a final vigorous wrench Jean freed herself from
her sister's grasp and fled down the stairs, Constance murmuring to
herself as the little whirlwind disappeared: "I wonder if it wouldn't
be wiser to let her into the secret after all? In the first place it
is all nonsense to _keep_ it a secret, and just one of Mammy's
high-falutin ideas of what's right and proper for a Blairsdale.
Fiddlesticks for the Blairsdales say I, when certain things should be
done. I'm going to tell that child anyway. She is ten times easier to
deal with when she knows the truth, and she can keep a secret far
better than some older people I might mention. Jean; Jean; come back;
I want to tell you something."
But Jean had gone beyond hearing. "Never mind; I'll tell her
by-and-by," resolved Constance and soon forgot all about the matter
while completing her English theme for Monday. Could she have followed
her small sister her state of mind would have been less serene.
Jean's first reconnoiter was the dining-room. All serene; nothing
doing; mother up in her room. Eleanor gone out. Mammy in the kitchen
stirring quietly about. Jean slipped into the butler's pantry. There
on a shelf stood a big white box marked "Lord & Taylor, Ladies' Suit
Dept." Jean's nose rose a degree higher in the air as she drew near it
and carefully raised the lid. "Ah-hah! Didn't I know it! I guess her
cousins-in-the-Lord must like candy pretty well, for she has taken
that box with her every single time she's gone to South Riveredge,"
whispered this astute young person.
Now it so happened that as Mammy had advanced in years, she had grown
somewhat hard of hearing, and had also developed a habit quite common
to her race; that of communing aloud with herself when alone.
Jean was quite alive to this and more than once had caused the old
woman to regard her with considerable awe by casually mentioning facts
of which Mammy believed her to be entirely in ignorance, and, indeed,
preferred she _should_ be, little guessing that her own monologues had
given the child her cue.
Clambering softly upon the broad shelf which ran along one side of the
pantry, Jean gently pushed back the sliding door made to pass the
dishes to and from the kitchen, and watched Mammy's movements. The
kitchen was immaculate and Mammy was just preparing to set forth for
her Saturday morning's marketing, a task she would not permit any one
else to undertake, declaring that "dese hyer Norf butcher-men stood
ready fer ter beat folks outen dey eyesight ef dey git er chance."
As usual Mammy was indulging in a soliloquy.
"Dar now. Dat's all fix an' right, an' de minit I gits back I kin clap
it inter de oven," she murmured as she set her panfuls of bread over
the range for their second rising. "I gotter git all dis hyer wo'k off
my han's befo' free 'clock terday ef I gwine get ter Souf Riveredge in
time fer ter sell all dat mes o' candy."
Behind the window a small body's head gave a satisfied nod.
"'Taint lak week days. De sto'es tu'n out mighty early on Sattidays.
Hopes I kin sell eve'y bit and grain _dis_ time. I hates ter tote any
home agin, an' dat chile tryin' so hard ter holp her ma."
Over little Paulina Pry's face fell a shadow, and for a moment the big
eyes grew suspiciously bright. Then wounded pride caused them to flash
as their owner whispered to herself, "She _might_ have told me the
truth."
Then the kitchen door was shut, locked from the outside, and Mammy
departed.
Jean got down from her perch and stood for a few moments in the middle
of the pantry floor in deep meditation. Then raising her head with a
determined little nod she said under her breath, "_I'll_ show 'em."
To hurry out to the hall closet where her everyday hat, coat and
gloves were kept, took but a moment. In another she had put them on,
and was on her way to the stable. To harness Baltie was somewhat of an
undertaking, but by the aid of a box which raised her to the necessary
height this was done, the old horse nickering softly and rubbing his
head against her as she proceeded.
"Yes Baltie, dear. _You_ and _I_ have a secret now and _don't_ you
_tell_ it. If _they_ think they are so smart, _we'll_ show them that
_we_ can do something too."
At length the harnessing was done, and slipping back to the house Jean
went into the pantry, lifted up the box so plainly labeled "Ladies'
Suits" and sped away to the stable where she placed it carefully upon
the bottom of the phaeton, tucking the carriage rug around and about
it in such a manner that even the liveliest suspicion would have
nothing to feed upon.
Then opening the double doors she led Baltie through them, and out of
the driveway to the side street on which it opened, and which could
not be seen from the front of the house where the young lady knew her
mother and sister to be at this critical moment. Only a second more
was needed to run back and close the stable doors and the gates, and
all tracks were covered.
In that immediate vicinity the queer turnout was well-known by this
time, so no curiosity was aroused by its appearance.
As usual, Jean had not paused to mature her plans. Their inception was
enough for the time being; details could follow later.
Plod, plod, fell Baltie's hoofs upon the macadamized street as Jean
guided him slowly along. The day was cold, but clear and crisp, with
just a hint of wind or snow from the mare's tails overhead in the
blue.
Jean had no very clear idea of what her next step would be, and was
rather trusting to fate to show her. Perhaps Baltie had a better one
than his driver, or perhaps it was sense of direction and force of
habit which was heading him toward South Riveredge; Baltie's
intelligence did not appear to wane with his years. At all events, he
was going his usual route when Jean spied Mammy far ahead and in a
trice fate had stepped in to give things a twist. To pull Baltie
around and guide him into a street which led to East instead of South
Riveredge was the work of a second. Jean thought she could go back by
another street which led diagonally into South Riveredge but when she
reached it she found it closed for repairs. Turning around involved
more or less danger and she had a thought for that which lay at her
feet. So on she went, hoping to get into South Riveredge sooner or
later.
Like many suburban towns, Riveredge had certain sections which were
given over to the poorer element, and in such sections could always be
found enough idle, mischievous youngsters to make things interesting
for other people, particularly on Saturdays when they were released
from the restraint of school.
Jean had proceeded well along upon her way when she was spied by two
or three urchins upon whose hands time was hanging rather heavily, and
to whom the novel sight of a handsome, neatly-clad child, perched in a
phaeton which might have been designed for Noah, and driving a blind
horse, was a vision of joy.
"Hi, Billy, get on ter de swell rig," bawled one worthy son of McKim's
Hollow.
"Gee! Aint he a stunner! Say, where did yer git him?" yelled Billy,
prompt to take up the ball, and give it a toss.
"Mebbe he's de ghost av yer granfather's trotter," was the next
salute.
"Hi, what's his best time. Forty hours fer de mile?" asked a larger
lad, hanging on to the back of the phaeton and winding his heels into
the springs.
"Get down! Go away!" commanded Jean.
"Couldn't," politely replied her passenger.
"Say yer oughter have a white hawse wid all dat red hair," yelled a
new addition to the number already swarming after her.
"Git a move on," was the next cry, as a youth armed with a long stick
joined the crowd. Things were growing decidedly uncomfortable for Jean
whose cheeks were blazing, and whose eyes were flashing ominously.
Just then one urchin made a grab for the whip but she was too quick
for him, and once having it in her hand was tempted to lay about
vigorously. As though divining her thoughts, the smaller boys drew off
but he of the stick scorned such an adversary, although discretion
warned him not to lay it upon her. The old horse, however, was not so
guarded by law and the stick descended upon his flanks with all the
strength of the young rowdy's arms. He would better have struck Jean!
Never since coming to live in his present home had Baltie felt a blow,
but during all those four months had been petted, loved and cared for
in a manner to make him forget former trials, and in spite of his age,
renew his strength and spirits. True, he was never urged to do more
than jog, jog, jog along, but under the spur of this indignity some of
his old fire sprung up and with a wild snort of resentment he plunged
forward. As he did so, down came the whip across his assailant's head,
for Jean had forgotten all else in her wrath; she began to lay about
her with vigor, and the battle was on in earnest.
Perhaps John Gilpin cut a wilder dash yet it is doubtful.