THE RUSE THAT FAILED
Out behind the wood-shed Maurice Keeler, by the dim light of a smoky
lantern, was splitting kindling for the morning's fire when something
clammy and twisting dropped across the back of his neck.
"Holy Smoke! Bill, take it away!" he yelled, as his chum's laugh
fell on his ears.
"Gosh! you ain't got no nerve a'tall, Maurice! It's only a
milk-snake. I picked it up on my way home from the store. I'm goin'
to put it in the menagerie."
Maurice sat down weakly on a block and wiped his face on his sleeve.
"Hang it all, Bill!" he complained, "what do you see in snakes to
make you want'a handle 'em so? I'm scared to death of 'em; I own it."
"I s'pose this feller an' ol' Spotba'll fight to a finish," said
Billy, "but I aim to keep one snake of each kind, so let 'em scrap it
out. It won't hurt that old womper to get a good drubbin' anyway."
He held the newly captured snake along his arm, its head resting in
the palm of his hand. The dim light was sufficiently strong for
Maurice to note the cold gleam in its eyes, and he shuddered. "Some
day you'll try your monkey-shines on a puff-adder er a black-snake,"
he prophesied, "an' then you'll wish you hadn't gone clean crazy."
Billy grinned and dropped the snake into his jacket pocket. "I
brought your Ma's groceries," he said. "Is she in the house?"
"Yep; she's cannin' thimble-berries. Jest wait till I get an armful
of kindlin', an' I'll go in with you."
Billy put the basket down again. "Say, what did she want with all
that hoarhound candy?" he asked curiously.
Maurice chuckled. "Why, Missis Spencer told her what great stuff it
was to use in doin' up thimble-berries; sorta takes the flat taste
off 'em. So Ma, she's goin' to try it."
Billy whistled. "But fifty sticks, Maurice! It's almost more'n
she'll need, don't you think?"
"'Course it's a lot too much. S'pose we try on' get hold of some of
it, Bill?"
"Suits me," agreed Billy, "but jest how? That's the question."
Maurice stooped and filled his arms with a load of kindling. "I
dunno how," he replied, "but you usually find out a way fer
everythin'. What's the matter with you lettin' on you lost part of
that candy?"
Billy shook his head. "No good, she'd be onto us bigger'n a barn.
Tell you what we might do. We might take bad colds an' sorta work on
her sympathies."
"Humph! an' be kept close in the house fer a week er so, an' have to
take physic an' stuff. No good, Bill!"
"No, ours won't be them kind of colds," Billy explained. "They'll be
the dry-cough, consumption kind, that either cure up quick er slow.
All we gotta do is dig up an Injun turnip out o' the bush an' nibble
it. It'll pucker our throats up so tight we'll be hoarse enough to
sing bass in the choir."
Maurice let his kindling fall. "Gee!" he exclaimed, "I've got a
piece of Injun turnip in my pocket right now. Ain't that lucky!"
"How'd you come to have it?"
"Dug it up to fool Fatty Watland with. Was goin' to tell him it was
a ground-nut. I've had it in fer him ever since he shoved me off the
bridge into the creek."
"Let's have it."
Billy took the Indian turnip from his chum and with his knife scraped
off a portion of white, pungent pulp. "Now then, put this on the
back of your tongue, an' leave it there," he directed.
Maurice grimaced as he licked the bit of pulp from the knife blade.
"'Course we both know this danged thing is pisin," he said,
uncertainly. "Maybe we're fools, Bill?"
"There's no maybe about it, far's you're concerned. Do as I tell
you; slide it 'way back so's it'll tighten your throat. That's
right," as Maurice heroically obeyed. "Now, let's get up to the
house."
"But you haven't took yourn!" cried Maurice.
"Don't need to take mine," Billy informed him. "What's the use of me
takin' any; ain't one bad cough enough?"
Maurice squirmed in torture. Already the burning wild turnip was
getting in its work. His throat felt as though it were filled with
porcupine quills. He tried to voice a protest against the injustice
Billy had done him but it ended in a wheeze.
"Fine," commended Billy. "A cold like that oughta be good fer half
the hoarhound, anyway. Let's go in afore the thing wears off. You
take the basket, I'll carry the kindlin' fer you."
He led the way to the house, Maurice following meekly with the
market-basket, eyes running tears and throat burning.
Mrs. Keeler was bending over a kettle on the stove, from which the
aroma of wild thimble-berries came in fragrant puffs.
"So you're back at last, are you?" she addressed Billy, crossly.
"Thought you'd never come. I've been waitin' on that sugar an' stuff
fer two hours er more. Now, you go into the pantry and get somethin'
to eat, while I unpack this basket. I know you must be nigh starved."
"Had my supper," shouted Billy. He threw the kindling into the wood
box and grinned encouragement at Maurice, who had sunk miserably down
on a stool.
Mrs. Keeler lifted the basket which Maurice had placed on the floor
at his feet. "What's the matter with you?" she asked, giving him a
shake.
Maurice looked up at her with tear-filled eyes, and tried to say
something. The effort was vain; not a sound issued from his swollen
lips. Billy promptly advanced to give first aid.
"Maurice's sick," he shouted in the deaf woman's ear.
"Sick? Where's he sick?" Mrs. Keeler lifted the basket to the table
and coming back to Maurice, put a berry-stained finger under his
chin. "Stick out your tongue!" she commanded. "Billy, you fetch
that lamp over here."
Maurice opened his mouth and protruded his stained and swollen tongue.
"Good gracious!" cried the mother, in alarm. "That good fer nuthin'
boy has gone an' caught the foot an' mouth disease from Kearnie's
sheep."
"It's jest a bad cold he's caught," Billy reassured her. "He's so
hoarse he can't speak."
"Well, it might as well be one thing as another," frowned the woman.
"That boy catches everythin' that comes along, anyway. I s'pose I'll
have to quit my preservin' to mix him up a dose of allaways."
Maurice shivered and gazed imploringly at Billy.
"If you had somethin' sweet an' soothin' to give him," Billy
suggested. "Pine syrup, er hoarhound, er somethin' like that, now--"
"Why, maybe you're right," agreed Mrs. Keeler, "an' I do declare!
I've got some hoarhound right here in this basket. Ain't it lucky I
sent fer it?"
The boys exchanged glances. The scheme was working! Mrs. Keeler
went back to the basket on the table and started to remove the
packages, one by one.
Billy addressed his chum in tones so low the deaf woman could not
hear. "Now, maybe you'll think I know what I'm doin'," he commenced,
then jumped guiltily, as a cry of indignation came from the other
side of the room. Mrs. Keeler was untying the parcels, one after
another, and emptying their contents in the basket. Billy stared.
Each of the parcels contained--_sawdust_.
She turned slowly, stern eyes looking above her glasses straight into
his startled and apprehensive ones.
"Well?" she said ominously, "I s'pose you think you've played a smart
trick, you young limb!"
Billy tried to say something. His lips moved dumbly. Moisture
gathered between his shoulder blades, condensed as it met cold fear,
and trickled in tiny rivulets down his shivering spine.
He glanced at the door. Mrs. Keeler's square form interposed itself
staunchly between him and that means of exit. His wild eyes strayed
to the face of his chum. Maurice was grinning a glad, if swollen,
grin. There was nothing to do but face the music.
Mrs. Keeler was advancing towards him now; advancing slowly like some
massed avenging force of doom. "I didn't do that," he finally
managed to articulate. "I didn't play no trick on you, Missus
Keeler."
His knees knocked together. Unconsciously, his hand felt gropingly
back toward the wood-box in search of some kind of support. Mrs.
Keeler's deafness was accountable for her misunderstanding of his
words. She brought her advance to a halt and stood panting.
"I didn't play no trick on you," Billy repeated.
"I heard you the first time," panted the indignant woman. "You said
if I teched you you'd _take a stick to me_. So you'd commit murder
on a woman who has been a second mother to you, would you! You'd
brain me with a stick out of that wood-box! Oh! Oh!" She lifted
her apron and covered her face.
In a moment Billy was beside her. "Oh Missus Keeler," he pleaded,
miserably. "I didn't say that. Don't think I'd do anythin' to hurt
you, 'cause I wouldn't. An' I wouldn't play no dirty trick on you.
You've been good to me an' I think a heap o' you, even if you do cuff
me sometimes. Mr. Spencer put up that basket himself while I was
over to the cottage, gittin' my supper."
Slowly the apron was lowered. Slowly the woman's hands dropped to
Billy's shoulders and she gazed into his uplifted eyes. Then she did
a thing which was quite characteristic of her. She bent and gave
each of the wide grey eyes upraised to hers a resounding kiss. Then,
roughly pushing him away, she reached for her shawl and hat hanging
on the wall.
"You boys stay right here and keep fire under that kettle," she
commanded. "I'm goin' to take that old Caleb Spencer's sawdust back
to him an' give him a piece of my mind." And picking up the basket
she went out, banging the door behind her.
The boys gazed at each other and Maurice's chuckle echoed Billy's,
although it was raspy and hoarse.
"Throat burnin' yet?" inquired Billy.
"You bet," Maurice managed to answer.
"Well, you go along to the milkhouse an' lick the cream off a pan of
milk. It'll settle that Injun turnip quick."
Maurice scooted for the back door. He returned in a little while
with white patches of cream adhering to chin and nose. "Gosh!" he
sighed gratefully, "that was soothin'."
"What dye s'pose made Caleb Spencer put up that job on me?"
questioned Billy. "I never fooled him any. I did cut some letters
on his new bench, but he needn't feel so sore at that."
"Well, jest you wait till Ma asks him why he did it," laughed
Maurice, who now was almost normal again. "Ma's great on gettin'
explanations, she is."
Billy went down into his pocket and drew forth a furry object about
the size of a pocket knife and held it under his chum's eyes.
"Gollies!" exclaimed Maurice. "It's your rabbit foot charm. Where
d'you find it, Bill?"
"Found it this mornin' down by the pine grove near old Scroggie's
ha'nted house. Stood on this side of the creek an' sent ol' Moll
into the grove. She brought it to me. She's a great little dog,
Moll. Now we're ready to hunt ol' Scroggie's buried money an' lost
will."
"What! Tonight?"
"Sure. Do you want somebody else to stumble on it first? We've
gotta hunt tonight an' every night till we find it, that's all."
"But we can't go now. I dassent leave them preserves. If I do Ma'll
skin me. Anyways, ain't we goin' to let Elgin an' Fatty in on it,
Bill?"
"Naw, you know what they'd do. They'd let the cat out o' the bag
sure. They're all right fer light work sech as swipin' watermelon
an' helpin' make a seine-haul but they ain't no good at treasure an'
will huntin'."
"Maybe you're right," Maurice said, "but I'm goin' t' tell you I
ain't feelin' any too much like prowlin' 'round that ha'nted house
this night er any other night."
Billy pushed his friend into a chair and stood before him. "Now look
here, Scarecat," he said, "you're goin' to help me find that money
an' will, an' I'll tell you why. You know what happened to Mr.
Stanhope, the teacher, don't you? He's gone blind an' has had to
give up teachin' the school, hasn't he?"
Maurice nodded, his face grave.
"Well, what kind of a feller is he, anyway? Come, answer up."
"He's a mighty fine feller," cried Maurice enthusiastically.
"You're right, he is. Well, what's he goin' to do now? He can't
work, kin he?"
"Gollies, no. I never thought--'
"Well, it's time you did think. Now you know that ol' Scroggie left
him everythin' he owned, don't you?"
"'Course I do."
"Only he can't prove it, kin he?"
"No! Not without the will."
"Well, then?" Billy sat down on a corner of the table and eyed his
friend reproachfully.
Maurice squirmed uneasily, then he said: "'Course, Bill, it's up to
you an' me to find that will. But I'll be shot if I'd do what we'll
have to do fer anybody else in the world but him."
"Say, here's a piece of news fer you," cried Billy. "We're goin' to
get ol' Harry O'Dule to help us. He's the seventh son of a seventh
son. We're goin' over to his cabin to see him tonight."
"Gee! Bill, we oughta find it if we get Harry to help, but I can't
see how I'm goin' to get away," said Maurice ruefully.
Just here a step sounded on the gravel outside and a knock fell on
the door. Maurice opened the door and in stepped Anson.
He glanced suspiciously from one to the other of the boys, then said:
"Ma sent me to see what happened to you, Bill. She says come on home
to your supper."
"Had my supper," Billy informed him. "You go on back and tell Ma
that."
"You've gotta come, too."
"No, Anse, I promised Missus Keeler that me an' Maurice would keep
fire under that preservin' kettle till she gits back from the store.
I need the ten cents to buy fish hooks with, besides--'
"Gee! Bill, is she goin' to give you ten cents fer helpin' Maurice
keep fire on?" asked Anson eagerly.
"Well, she didn't 'zactly promise she would, but--"
"Say, fellers, let me stay with you an' we'll split three ways, eh?"
suggested Anson.
"No," said Billy, with finality.
"'Tain't enough fer a three-way split," said Maurice.
"Well, you can't hinder me from stayin', an' I figger I'm in fer a
third," said Anson, seating himself doggedly near the stove.
Billy's face cracked into a grin which he was careful to turn from
his step-brother. "How'd you like to do all the firin' an' get all
the reward, Anse?" he suggested. "I've got a milk-snake here that I
want'a get put safe away in the root-house afore Ma takes in the
lantern. Maurice'll come along an' help me stow him away."
"All right, I'll stay an' fire," agreed Anson. "But remember," as
the other boys reached for their hats, "I ain't agoin' to share up
what Missus Keeler gives me with you fellers."
"You're welcome to keep all she gives you fer yourself," said Billy.
"Sure," said Maurice. "She'll likely hold somethin' back fer me,
anyway. Don't ferget to keep a good fire on, Anse," he admonished,
as he followed Billy outside.