THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR
Many times, as they journeyed homeward that night, Petite Jeanne cast
apprehensive glances over her shoulder. More than once, as some object
appeared to move in the darkness, she felt a great fear gripping at her
heart, and had it not been for the presence of her staunch companion she
would doubtless have gone fleeing into the night.
The cause of her fear, the gypsy god, was safely tucked away under her
arm. This did not allay her fear. It only served to increase it, for had
she not seen the shadow cast upon Angelo’s windowpane? And had she not
recognized that shadow as belonging to the very gypsy who had pursued
her in the darkness of that very morning?
“It is very strange about this gypsy god,” she said to Florence, as with
a sigh of relief she sank into the depths of her own easy chair in their
own little room. “One does not understand it at all. This god has been
in the possession of the gypsy tribe of Bihari, my gypsy stepfather. As
chief of the tribe he has watched over it for many years. Bihari is not
in America. If he were I should know. Good news travels far in the wide
world of the gypsies.
“And if he is not here, why is the God of Fire in this land? There can
be but one answer. The tribe of Bihari would never part with so
priceless a possession. It has been stolen and sent to America.”
“And then lost in the express.”
“You are quite right.”
“But who would steal it?”
“Who can say? Perhaps a gypsy who hates Bihari. There are many such.
Perhaps only some sight-seeing Americans. There are some who would steal
the Arch of Triumph in Paris as a souvenir if they could.”
“But is it so wonderful?” Florence’s tone was cold. Petite Jeanne had
placed the strange object of their discussion upon the mantel. There,
far from the glow of a fire, the thing seemed hideous, smoke-blackened,
dead.
“Who can tell all?” Petite Jeanne’s voice trailed off into a weary
silence.
When she spoke again it was as with the lips of a philosopher:
“Who can know all? The gypsies believe that the fire dance and this god
give them strength and courage, that their sick are healed, that by
these their fortunes are mended. There are those who have been to many
schools and who should know much more than the poor, wandering gypsies,
but they believe in even stranger things.
“I only know that this god, this God of Fire, is very old and that I
believe in his power because I was taught to do so as a child.
“But the gypsies of America desire this god!”
She sprang suddenly to her feet and began pacing the floor.
“Why,” exclaimed Florence, “they can’t even know it is here!”
“One of them does. He saw it smiling in the fire to-night. I saw his
shadow on the windowpane. He will tell others.”
“You saw him?”
“It could have been none other. I recognized him instantly. His coat,
his curious hat, his profile, were all visible.
“But we must guard this god well. We must keep him in hiding.” She went
to the door and locked it. “I must have him for our opera.”
“But you could have a model made of clay. You could use that on the
stage. No one would know. Few stage properties are real.”
“No! No!” The little French girl held up hands in protest. “Never! I
will dance only before the true God of Fire.”
“Then,” said Florence calmly, “you will run a great risk. Some of the
gypsies will attend the play. They are fond of drama. This one you saw
will see the god. He will have it at any cost.”
“It may be so,” said the little French girl, dropping into a chair and
folding her slender hands. “But truly, my friend, there is no other
course.”
“Well!” Florence sprang to her feet. “Since we are to have his
Reverence, or his Highness—or how do you speak of a god?—we must find
him a safe resting place. Where can we hide him?”
A careful scrutiny of their narrow quarters revealed no safe hiding
place.
“Your trunk? My dresser drawer? Under the mattress?” Petite Jeanne
sighed. “May as well set him up here in the middle of the floor.” She
placed the figure on the polished pine floor.
“But see!” Florence leaped forward. “Some one has cut a hole in the
floor. I wonder why?”
“Some dark secret’s hidden there,” the little French girl whispered.
Florence had spoken the truth. In the very center of the floor three
boards had been cut through twice. The pieces between the cuts, each
some ten inches long, had been rudely pried up by the aid of some
instrument. Something had undoubtedly been done; then the boards had
been pounded back in place.
“Here!” exclaimed Florence, reaching for a heavy iron poker that stood
by the fireplace. “Let’s have a look.”
Her first attempts to pry up the boards were unsuccessful. The poker
slipped, then bent. When Petite Jeanne supplemented her labors with a
broken case knife their labors were rewarded. The short length of board
sprang from its place.
Eagerly they pressed forward to look, and bumped their heads together
doing so. Then they dropped back in their places with a merry laugh.
The hidden secret was no secret at all. The house, being a very old one,
had been erected before the coming of electric lights. When installing
the lights the electricians had found it necessary to open the floors of
the upper rooms in order that they might install lights for the lower
floors.
“Oh!” Florence sighed. “What a disappointment!”
“No!” cried Petite Jeanne. “See what we have found!”
“Found! What have we found?” Florence stared.
“We have found a safe place of hiding for my ancient friend, the God of
Fire. How sweet! We have only to lift the boards, lower him to the laths
below, batten down the hatch once more, and there you have him as snug
as a diamond in a new setting.”
“You’re keen!” Florence put out a hand to pat her friend’s blonde head.
“Now we can sleep in peace.”
And so they did, awakening at a late hour to a world of sunshine and
high hopes. Nor is there reason to believe that his Highness objected in
the least to the darkness of his place among the beams and plaster.