WHERE IS BUDDY?
"He that stoppeth his ear to the cry of the poor, shall also cry
himself and shall not be heard."--Prov. xxi, 13
It took the combined efforts and intelligence of all to alleviate the
suffering of the child injured at the very moment of its arrival at
the farm, through Peter's wanton carelessness. Yet no blame could
attach to himself, he declared, for at the time of the accident the
little fellow was sitting on his sister's lap.
"Whut war yo' a-doin'," Peter asked of the distressed little girl.
(Cynthy was her name.) "Must hev ben jest a-settin' thar a-sleepin'
er a-gawpin' et sumpin'."
"Thar hain't nawthin' much ter gawp at aroun' hyar," retorted the
girl, angered at the injustice of the accusation. "'Tain't likely
I'd go an' drep my little brother thet-a-way jest a-purpose. Whyn't
yo'-all tell me yo' war a-gwine ter raise hell a-jumpin' hurdles?"
For Cynthy and little Buddie came from some point in Kentucky. There
could be no question as to their station in life. They were clad in
coarse garments and had sharp, pinched faces. Cynthy was bare-foot
but she carried a pair of new, very stout shoes tied together by
their strings, and a small bundle of clothes. These were now
deposited upon the floor in a corner of the room.
Just how these two poor waifs came into Peter Grimes' clutches he
alone knew. What he expected to gain by housing them was another
mystery. When Maria, disturbed out of her usual lethargy by the
unexpected advent of the baby, ventured a question, Peter gruffly
told her to "shet up."
But clothes and conditions mattered not to Mollie. The cries of a
baby in excruciating pain pierced her tender little heart like a
knife. As Maria and Cynthy worked over the tortured little one
Mollie watched helplessly, her pitying spirit shining in her starry
eyes. When Peter came in from the barn and took hold of the broken
arm to set it, the baby screamed once and mercifully lost
consciousness.
Without uttering a sound Mollie dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
The others paying no attention, Stephen ran to her and half-carried,
half-dragged her out the door. He had a vague idea that he must get
her up the ladder and into the barn loft. But the fresh air revived
her. As soon as she opened her eyes she sat up and demanded to know
what was being done to the baby. Stephen did not know, but he told
her they were probably mending its broken arm and it would be all
right in a little while.
"Oh, I do hope they'll let him stay up in the loft with us," Mollie
exclaimed. "I like that little girl. She is so good to the baby.
She and I could take turns looking after him. I'd call him Moses."
"He didn't come in the bull rushes."
"No, but there were the cowberry bushes growing right by the gate.
He almost fell into them. And his sister was right there beside him."
Stephen could not see the connection but agreed to think it over and
tell Mollie later whether or not Moses would be a suitable name for
the newcomer.
"I reckon he has a name already," he observed, after a moment of
serious thought. "I don't guess we ought to choose a new one until
we know for sure."
"Well, anyway, I'm going to ask his sister if I may call him Moses,"
declared Mollie with her characteristic persistency in clinging to an
idea. "If I can call you Splutters I can call him Moses."
Before the argument could be continued both children were summoned to
the house. Peter wanted his supper; Maria wanted help. Cynthy,
seated in a low chair, crooned over the moaning baby in an attempt to
lull him to sleep. Mollie placed dishes upon the table according to
Maria's direction. Stephen ground coffee in a mill which he held
between his knees while he turned the crank that sent the crushed
kernels down into a small receptacle in the bottom of the square box
to which the grinding apparatus was affixed.
The usual menu of fat salt pork, boiled potatoes, corn bread,
molasses and coffee was prepared. There was not enough table ware to
go around, so the children did not eat until after Peter and Maria
had finished. The portion of food remaining for the little ones was
too meagre to endanger their digestions. After the meal Mollie
helped Maria with the dishwashing while Stephen performed his usual
chores about the barn. The baby was asleep now, so Cynthy was sent
to carry feed to the chickens.
Peter went over and inspected the sleeping infant. The sleep had
been induced by Maria, through the medium of her stock remedy for all
bodily ills, corn liquor. After the second spoonful had been
administered it became evident that the child would rest quietly for
some time.
Peter glowered down upon the maimed little creature. Had it been a
bird with a broken wing he would have kicked it out of his way with
one sweep of his huge booted foot. Because it was a child he had
been forced to repair its injury to the best of his crude ability.
He had no confidence in his surgery. If those splints got awry the
bone would come out of the socket again and he would have the whole
thing to do over.
"Drat th' brat!" he exclaimed aloud, mentally cursing himself for
having accepted the baby. "I mought ha' knowed how 'twould be, him
not payin' more'n 'nough fer one. 'Tain't likely him an' her'll ever
git back in these hyar parts, nuther." He crossed to the door and
spat viciously at a tree in the yard.
Mollie, polishing away upon a heavy plate with a towel that resembled
a scrub cloth, watched both Peter and the baby from out the corners
of her eyes. Not a word of the man's soliloquy was lost to her keen
ears. Later she would repeat them to Splutters and he would think
out their probable meaning. Meanwhile she continued to listen.
"Them's Dave Green's young-uns," Peter suddenly announced to Maria,
who had not ventured to make another inquiry after her first rebuff.
"Dave an' Layunie's aimin' ter go ter Indyanner."
Maria dropped her jaw and stared, open-mouthed, awaiting further
enlightenment. None coming she replenished her snuff dip and slumped
into a chair, leaving the final touches of the cleaning-up process to
Mollie.
Peter had enjoyed his salt pork and potatoes and felt more loquacious
than usual. He cut a fresh mouthful of tobacco and settled himself
in a chair by the door.
"Them's th' travellinest folks I ever seed," he went on in a low
grumbling tone as if personally aggrieved by the peregrinations of
the persons he had just mentioned. "They hain't got no home an' they
hain't got no money, nor they won't hev es long es they're traipsen'
frum hell ter Jerusalem a-lookin' fer work whilst other folks takes
keer o' the'r young-uns. Ef they think they're a-goin' ter git me
ter do hit fer nawthin' they're a-goin' ter git mighty fooled, thet's
all."
He turned his head slightly and cast another scowling glance in the
direction of the sleeping baby.
"Didn't Dave pay yo' no money?" queried Maria, meekly. She seemed a
little uncertain as to whether he expected her to say something or
not.
Apparently he did, for he replied to her question with some degree of
civility.
"Yes, fer th' gal, but ef I'd ha' knowed he war a-goin' ter work off
a leetle set-along child on me I'd never hev driv inter town ter
fotch 'em."
"An' our cow-brute's jest a-goin' dry," drawled Maria reflectively.
The thought suggested by the words did not soothe Peter's ill-humor.
"Wisht I'd left him set p'int-blank whar I seed him fust, thar et th'
railroad station," he said. "I come nigh a-doin' hit. But thar war
folks a-comin' an' th' gal would hev set up a hullabaloo so I jes'
brung him along."
"Wa'n't Dave thar!"
"Him an' Layunie'd went. I didn't git thar afore th' train fer th'
no'th pulled out. Th' gal said her Pappy 'lowed hit would be all
right fer ter leave th' least one, bein' es she war a-comin' ter keer
fer him."
"Shucks!" ejaculated Maria. "Hit'll take more'n her ter keer fer him
like he is now. Ef he gits a fever ter-night----"
A commotion out in the yard interrupted the speaker. Ambrose was
yelling as if he were being killed. Vigorous slaps sounded between
the yells. Interpreted with the yells came Cynthy's shrill tones.
"I'll larn yo' ter fling rocks et me, yo' mis'ble pole-cat. Co'se I
killed th' ole snake. Think I want yo' racin' atter me that-a-way?
Ef yo'r Mammy doan larn yo' nawthin' I'll show yo' whut happens ter
shirt-tail young-uns in Kaintucky."
They reached the house together, the fat, overgrown Ambrose
incoherent; the mountain girl volubly expressing her resentment of
the treatment she had received at the hands of the youngster.
"He hit me with a rock----" she commenced, shrilly, as she reached
the door.
"Mammy, Mammy," bawled Ambrose.
But as Maria, without rising from her chair, reached forth her arms
to draw her son toward her, Peter raised his hand and slapped Cynthy
in the face with such force that the little girl reeled backward down
the step and into the yard.
"Mebbe thet'll larn yo' sumpin," he remarked fiercely. Then, as
Cynthy staggered to her feet, "None o' yer sass, now. Git out ter
th' shed whar yo' belong. G'wan. Yo' too," he added, catching sight
of Mollie, standing trembling just within the door. She had been
keeping as still as possible fearing to attract his attention by
passing him after she had finished with the dishes.
Now, at his words, she darted by like a flash and grasped Cynthy by
the hand. "Shall we take the baby!" she asked, bravely, feeling that
a safe distance separated her from the ogre.
"Do we-all hev ter sleep in th' barn?" gasped Cynthy, dully
comprehending what it all meant. "I cain't take keer o' Buddy lessen
I'm in th' house."
Peter rose to his feet. He took one writhing step in their
direction. The look in his face was murderous.
"Yo' heerd whut I said. Air yo' goin' ter move er hev I got ter giv
yo' sumpin' ter make yo'?" he thundered.
"But Buddy--my little brother----" protested Cynthy, anger mingling
with her sobs.
Mollie, remembering the terrible punishment that had been meted out
to Splutters the morning after his arrival, tugged frantically at
Cynthy's dress. Not wanting to desert the barefoot little stranger
she made every effort to drag her to safety. "Come, come," she
whispered. "He'll kill you. He will. He'll kill you."
The ogre was advancing. His great arm was raised. Another instant
and he would be upon them. Mollie was desperate. She gave another
tug at Cynthy's dress, then turned and ran with all her might in the
direction of the barn, Cynthy following.
For hours the two little girls lay with their heads close together by
the loft window, peering toward the house, listening for any sound
that would let Cynthy know her baby brother was awake and being
properly cared for. But no sound came. For a time Stephen shared
their vigil but the poor boy was too wearied by the heavy work
imposed upon him during the day to keep awake long. He finally
crawled off to his corner and fell asleep almost at once.
As darkness finally settled down upon the lonely farm the two little
watchers in the loft window succumbed to tired bodies and overwrought
nerves, and also fell asleep. It was a troubled sleep, broken by low
sobs from Cynthy; now and then a moan from Mollie, nervous starts and
subdued cries. For each was haunted in dreams by the terrifying
experiences through which they had passed and by forebodings of what
was to come.
Once in the night Mollie thought she awakened. But after a moment of
lying with her eyes wide open she decided that she was still asleep
and dreaming. She knew she was very tired and miserable and did not
want to wake up, so she just lay very still and watched the dream
events unfold before her eyes. Whatever it was, it was vague and did
not seem to greatly concern her.
She saw a house with a light within. The light was that of a pine
torch. It moved from room to room. She heard low voices. She saw a
tall, shadowy figure come out from the house and walk off into the
night. She heard a faint, sharp cry and dreamed that one of the baby
pigs had fallen and broken its leg. Then the dream passed on to
other vague and fragmentary illusions and at last, when an old
rooster crowed under the barn window she knew it was morning and that
she had slept all night.
Then came the morning chores and finally the children's entrance to
the house for something to eat. They looked anxiously about for the
baby. Buddy was nowhere in sight!
"Where is he? Where's th' baby!" asked Cynthy of Maria.
"Hain't yo-uns got hit?" the woman replied, somewhat nervously. "I
hain't seed hit sence I got up. Yo' better look out in th' barn."
They looked, wildly, frantically. But Buddy was not in the barn nor
could they find a trace of the baby anywhere.