THE RABBIT FOOT CHARM
The place which old Harry O'Dule called home was a crumbling log
cabin on the shore of Levee Creek, just on the border of the Scroggie
bush. Originally it had been built as a shelter for sheep, but with
the clearing of the land it had fallen into disuse. O'Dule had found
it on one of his pilgrimages and had promptly appropriated it unto
himself. Nobody thought of disputing his possession, perhaps because
most of the good people of Scotia inwardly feared the old man's
uncanny powers of second sight, and the foreshadowing--on those who
chose to cross him--of dire evils, some of which had been known to
materialize. Old Harry boasted that he was the seventh son of a
seventh son.
"It's born under a caul was I," he told them. "An' minny a mystery
has been cleared up in ould Ireland be meself, I'm tellin' ye."
At which some laughed and some scoffed. Deacon Ringold had sternly
advised the old man to return to the country where black magic was
still countenanced, as there was no place for it in an enlightened
and Christian community such as Scotia, a suggestion that old Harry
took in seeming good humor. But the fact that the deacon lost two
milk cows and four hogs, through sickness during the fortnight which
followed, had caused considerable discussion throughout the
settlement.
O'Dule had cut a window in the cabin, installed an old stove, table
and chairs, and succeeded in making the place home-like enough to
suit his simple taste. To-night he stood by the stove, frying
potatoes and humming an Irish song. On the table lay a loaf of bread
and some butter in a saucer, while close beside it a coal oil lamp
gave a smoky light to the room. In the center of the table reposed a
huge blue-grey cat, its amber eyes on Harry and its forepaws curled
contentedly beneath its furry breast. All about the room hung the
skins of wild animals--deer, bear, lynx and coon. A pile of skins
lay in one corner. This was O'Dule's bed.
"Och! Billy O'Shune can't ye whistle t' me,
Av the gurril ye loved on the Isle 'cross the sea--
Shure it's weary I am av that drear, sorry song
So stop liltin', through tears, wid a visage so long--
Come, it's me ears a glad ditty would hear--
Av love 'neath th' skies av ould Ireland, dear--
Come, let us be glad--both togither, me lad--
There's good fish in the sea as has iver been had--
--Och, Billy O'Shune--
That's not much av a chune."
So hummed old Harry as he stirred the potatoes and wet his vocal
chords, occasionally, from the jug at his feet.
Suddenly a knock fell on the door.
"In ye come," invited the Irishman and there entered Billy and
Maurice.
"Sit ye down, lads, sit ye down," cried the hospitable Harry.
"Begobs, but it's a fine brace av byes ye are, an' no mistake. Wull
ye be afther suppin' a bit wid me? The repast is all but spread an'
it's full welcome ye are, both."
"We've had our supper," said Billy. "Thought we'd like to see you
fer a minute er two, Harry," he added gravely, as he and his chum
seated themselves.
"Alone," said Maurice, significantly.
"Faith an' ain't I alone enough to suit ye?" laughed Harry. "Would
ye have me put the cat out, thin? Now, phwat is ut?"
The boys glanced at each other. "You tell him," whispered Billy, but
Maurice shook his head. "No, you," he whispered back.
Billy braced himself and took a long breath. "We've made up our
minds t' find old man Scroggie's will," he said.
"An' money," said Maurice. "We want you to help us, Harry."
"God love us!" ejaculated Harry, dropping the knife with which he was
stirring the potatoes and reaching for the demijohn. "An' fer why
should ye be out on that wild goose chase, now?"
"'Cause we want Teacher Stanhope to have what belongs to him," said
Billy warmly.
"Do ye now? God love him but that was a hard slap in th' face he got
fer playin' the man's part, so ut was. Only this night did I say as
much to Caleb Spencer. Ut's meself would like t' see him get what
was his by rights, byes."
"We knew that," cried Billy, eagerly; "that's why we come to you,
Harry. You say you've found buried treasure in Ireland; won't you
help us find the lost will an' money?"
O'Dule transferred the potatoes from the frying pan to a cracked
plate. He sat down at the table and ate his supper without so much
as another word. The boys watched him, fear in their hearts that the
eccentric old Irishman would refuse their request.
After a time Harry pushed his stool back from the table. "Byes," he
said, producing a short black pipe from his pocket. "It's lend ye a
spade and lantern I'll do an' gladly; but it's yerselves would surely
not be axin' me t' test me powers ag'in a spirrut. Listen now. Old
Scroggie's ghost do be guardin' his money, wheriver it lies. That
you know as well as me. It's frank I'll be wid ye, an' tell ye that
ag'in spirruts me powers are as nuthin'. An' go widin the unholy
circle av the ha'nted grove to do favor t' aither man 'er divil I'll
not."
"But think of what it means to him," urged Billy. "Besides, Harry,
I've got a charm that'll keep ol' Scroggie's ghost away," he added,
eagerly.
"An' phwat is ut?" Old Harry's interest was real. He laid his pipe
down on the table and leaned towards Billy.
"It's the left hind foot of a grave-yard rabbit," said Billy, proudly
exhibiting the charm.
O'Dule's shaggy brows met in a frown. "Ut's no good a'tall, a'tall,"
he said, contemptuously. "Ut's not aven a snake-bite that trinket
wud save ye from, let alone a ghost."
Billy felt his back-bone stiffen in resentment. Then he noted that
the milk snake, which he had thought snugly asleep in his coat
pocket, had awakened in the warmth of the little cabin and slipped
from the pocket and now lay, soiled and happy, beneath the rusty
stove. He saw his opportunity to get back at O'Dule for his scoffing.
"All right, Harry," he said airily, "if that's all you know about
charms, I guess you haven't any that 'ud help us much. But let me
tell you that rabbit-foot charm kin do wonders. It'll not only keep
you from bein' bit by snakes but by sayin' certain words to it you
kin bring a snake right in to your feet with it, an' you kin pick it
up an' handle it without bein' bit, too."
"Och, it's a brave lad ye are, Billy bye," Harry wheezed, "an' a
brave liar, too. Go on wid yer nonsense, now."
"It's a fact, Harry," backed Maurice.
"Fact," cried O'Dule, angrily now. "Don't ye be comin' to me, a
siventh son av a siventh son, wid such nonsinse. Faith, if yon
worthless rabbit-fut kin do phwat ye claim, why not prove ut t' me
now?"
"An' if we do," asked Billy eagerly, "will you agree to use your
power to help us find the money an' will?"
"That I'll do," assented Harry, unhesitatingly. "Call up yer snake
an' handle ut widout bein' bit, an' I'll help ye."
"All right, I'll do it," said Billy. "Jest turn the lamp down a
little, Harry."
"Me hands are a bit unsteady," said Harry, quickly. "We'll l'ave the
light be as ut is, Billy."
"It ought'a be dark," protested Billy, "but I'll try it anyway." He
lifted the rabbit foot to his face and breathed some words upon it.
Then in measured tones he recited:
"Hokey-pokey Bamboo Brake--
Go an' gather in a snake--'
Slowly Billy lowered the charm and looked at Harry. The old man sat,
puffing his short pipe, a derisive grin on his unshaven lips.
"It's failed ye have, as I knowed ye wud," he chuckled. "Ye best be
lavin' now, both av ye, wid yer pranks."
"But," said Billy quickly, "the charm did work. It brought the
snake, jest as I said it would."
"Brought ut? Where is ut, thin?" Harry sat up straight, his little
eyes flashing in fright.
"It's under the stove. See it?"
Harry bent and peered beneath the stove. "Be the scales av the
divil!" he shivered, "is ut a big, mottled snake I see, or have I got
what always I feared I might get some day. Is ut the D.T.'s I've
got, I wonder? How come the reptile here, anyhow, byes?"
"You told me to bring it in, didn't you?" Billy inquired, mildly.
"Yis, yis, Billy. But hivins! ut's little did I think that cat-paw
av a charm had such power," groaned the wretched Irishman. "Ut's
yourself said ut would let you handle reptiles widout bein' bit.
Thin fer the love ov hivin pluck yon serpent from beneath the stove
an' hurl ut outside into the blackness where ut belongs."
Billy arose and moving softly to the stove picked up the harmless
milk snake, squirming and protesting, from the warm floor. O'Dule
watched him with fascinated eyes. The big cat had risen and with
back fur and tail afluff spit vindictively as Billy passed out
through the door.
When he returned O'Dule was seated on the edge of the table, his feet
on a stool. He was taking a long sup from the demijohn.
"Well, do you believe in my charm now?" Billy asked.
"I do," said Harry unhesitatingly.
"An' you'll help us, as you promised?"
"Did ye iver hear av Harry O'Dule goin' back on a promise?" said the
old man, reproachfully. "Help you wull I shurely, an' I'll be
tellin' ye how. Go ye over t' the corner, Billy, an' pull up the
loose board av the flure. Ye'll be findin' a box there. Yis, that's
right. Now fetch ut here. Look ye both, byes."
Harry lifted the little tin box to his knees and opened it. From it
he brought forth a conglomeration of articles. There were queer
little disks of hammered brass and copper, an egg-shaped object that
sparkled like crystal in the lamplight, a crotch-shaped branch of a
tree. As he handled those objects tenderly the old man's face was
tense and he mumbled something entirely meaningless to the watchers.
Finally, with an exclamation of triumph, he brought forth a piece of
metal the size and shape of an ordinary lead pencil.
"Look ye," he cried, holding it aloft. "The fairies' magic arrer, ut
is, an' ut niver fails t' fall on the spot where the treasure lies
hidden. Foind Scroggie's buried money ut would have long ago if ut
wasn't fer the ould man's spirrut that roams the grove. As I told ye
afore, ut's no charm ag'in the spirruts av the departed, as yon
grave-yard rabbit's fut is."
"But with the two of 'em," cried Billy eagerly, "we kin surely find
the will, Harry."
"It's right true ye spake," nodded Harry. "An' mebbe sooner than we
think. An' ut's the young t'acher wid the blindness that gets it
all, ye say?"
"Ol' Scroggie left it all to him," said Billy.
"Begobs, so I've heard before." Harry scratched his head
reflectively.
"Well, God love his gentle heart, ut's himself now'll hardly be
carin' phwat becomes o' the money, let alone he gets possession av
the thousand acre hardwoods, I'm thinkin'," he said, fastening his
eyes on Billy's face. "I'd be wishin' the young t'acher to be
ginerous, byes."
"He will," cried Billy, "I know he will."
"Thin God bless him," cried Harry. "Now grasp tight t' yer rabbit
fut, an' we'll be afther goin' on our way t' tempt Satan, over beyant
in the evil cedars."
Five minutes later the trio were out on the forest path, passing in
Indian file towards the haunted grove. The wind had risen and now
swept through the great trees with ghostly sound. A black cloud,
creeping up out of the west, was wiping out the stars. Throughout
the forest the notes of the night-prowlers were strangely hushed. No
word was spoken between the treasure-seekers until the elm-bridged
creek was reached. Then old Harry paused, with labored breath, his
head bent as though listening.
"Hist," he whispered and Billy and Maurice felt their flesh creep.
"Ut's hear that swishin' av feet above, ye do? Ut's the Black troup
houldin' their course 'twixt the seared earth an' the storm. The
witches of Ballyclue, ut is, an' whin they be out on their mad run
the ghoste av dead min hould wild carnival. Ut'll be needin' that
rabbit-fut sure we wull, if the ha'nted grove we enter this night."