CROAKER BRINGS A GIFT
It was Sunday. Anson, with eyes close-shut and suds dripping from
his freckled nose, was having his weekly ear and neck cleansing, his
mother's strong hands applying the coarse wash-cloth. Billy stood
by, anticipating his turn, his eyes straying occasionally to the long
"muzzle-loader" hanging on the deer-prong rack. Tomorrow the
duck-season opened and he was wondering how he was going to contrive
to sneak the old gun down and give it a thorough cleaning. Suddenly
he became aware that operations in the vicinity of the wash-basin had
become suspended. He glanced across to find his mother's gaze fixed
sternly upon him. Anson was looking mightily pleased.
"I want'a know how you got them ink blots on your good clothes. Have
you been a'wearin' 'em to school?" asked Mrs. Wilson.
So that was it? Anson had "peached"! Billy swallowed hard. His
mind reviewed the days of the past two weeks. Again he saw a pair of
blue eyes, misty with love and feeling; heard a voice whose cadence
was sweeter than honey saying, "My! Billy, you are so different from
any other boy I've ever met; and you always wear such nice clothes,
too." Oh those wonderful, joy-filled days! What boy would not have
risked far more than he had risked to win such commendation from the
girl of all girls.
"Well?" His mother's voice dispelled the vision. "Are you goin' to
answer me, Willium?"
Billy squared his shoulders. Yes, he would do as she would wish. He
would confess. But the best of intentions go oft awry and Billy's
present ones were suddenly sidetracked by a giggle from Anson, a
giggle freighted with malice, triumph and devilish joy at his
predicament.
Now, a boy may make up his mind to die a hero, but no boy cares to be
ushered out by gibes and "I-told-you-so's." Billy promptly adopted
new tactics. "This ain't my suit, Ma," he said.
Mrs. Wilson started so at his words that she rammed the cake of soap
into Anson's mouth.
"Not yourn? Then whose is it?" she cried in amazement.
"It's Anse's. We must have got 'em mixed when we was dressin'."
"Willium, are you lyin' to me? If you are it's goin' to be the
costliest lie you ever told."
Billy returned her angry gaze without a flicker of an eyelid. The
reproach in his grey eyes was enough to make any mother ashamed of
having doubted, and, as a matter of natural consequence, anger her
the more. "How do you know that's Anson's suit?" she shot at Billy,
between rubs. "How do you know it, you young imp, you?"
Billy moved forward, halting a safe distance from his mother.
"You'll remember, Ma, that Anse's pants has two hip pockets, an mine
only one."
"Yes, that's so."
"An' his coat has two inside pockets, an' mine only one."
"I remember that, too. Well?"
Billy removed the coat he was wearing and passed it over to his
mother. She turned it inside out, and inspected it closely.
"That's Anson's coat all right," she affirmed. "Now twist about so's
I kin see them hip pockets in the pants."
Billy did so. Then, there being nothing more left to do, he stepped
back to watch the fireworks.
Stunned into inaction by the ease and suddenness with which Billy had
turned the tables against him Anson had only time to take one longing
glance toward the door. His mother had lifted the razor-strop from
its nail and as he made a frenzied leap toward safety her strong hand
gripped him by the wet hair. "Swish" fell the strop and Anson's wail
of woe rent the Sabbath air. In vain he squirmed, cried, protested
his innocence.
Having gotten nicely warmed up to her work Mrs. Wilson turned a deaf
ear to his wails. "You would try to put off your dirty tracks on
your brother, would you?" Swish-swish. "I'll teach you to wear your
good clothes to school. I'll teach you to lie to me, you bad,
deceitful, ungrateful boy, you!
"Now," she panted, having reached the limit of her strength, "you go
upstairs with Willium and change clothes. Not another word, er I'll
start in on you all over ag'in. Off you go, both o'you. And
Willium," she called after them, "when you get into your own suit,
don't you ferget to come here fer your scrubbin'."
When Billy reached the loft, Anson was standing in the center of the
room, smashing with clenched fists at the empty air. Billy sat down
on his bed and grinned. "You will run straight into trouble, in
spite of all I say, Anse," he said gently. "It's all your own fault;
you will be a tattle-tale."
Anson turned on him. "You mean sneak!" he gasped, "you've been
wearin' my Sunday clothes 'stead of your own, an' I didn't know it."
Billy nodded. "You see, Anse, I knowed that sooner or later you was
bound to tell Ma, so I played safe, that's all."
Anson, still sniffling, finished his undressing. Billy nursed his
knee in his hands and watched him. "'Course," he remarked, at
length, "you'll be for tellin' Ma soon's she calms down a bit an' is
ready to listen, but Anse I wouldn't do it if I was you."
"Well, you kin bet I jest will do it," promised Anson.
Billy stood up. "I'll tell you what I'm willin' to do, Anse," he
suggested. "If you'll keep mum about this thing, I'll let you come
duck-shootin' with me an' Maurice tomorrow."
Anson shook his head. "I don't want'a go duck-shootin'," he said.
"I know jest what you fellers 'ud do; you'd get me in all the
bog-holes an' make me carry your ducks. No sir, I'm goin' to tell
Ma."
Billy tried further inducements. "I'll give you my new red tie an'
celluloid collar," he offered.
"No!"
"Then," said Billy sorrowfully, turning toward the door, "I guess
there's only one thing fer me to do."
"An' what's that?" asked Anse, apprehensively.
"Go an' tell Croaker an' Ringdo the whole business, an' let that crow
an' swamp-coon 'tend to you."
"Hold on, Bill, wait a minute," Anson quavered. "I've changed my
mind, I'll take the tie an' collar an' call it square."
Billy turned and came back slowly to where he sat. "Anse," he said.
"I ain't wantin' to see you witch-chased, so I'll jest give you the
tie an' collar an' say not a word to Croaker er Ringdo; an' if you'll
tell me somethin' I want'a know I'll let you sleep with my
rabbit-foot charm underneath your piller."
Anson almost sobbed his relief. "I'll do it," he agreed. "What is
it you want'a know, Bill?"
"I want'a know all you know about them men that are workin' Hinter's
borin' outfit. Why ain't they ever seen outside that tall fence
Scroggie's built 'round the derrick, an' why did he build that fence,
anyways?"
Anson looked troubled. "Supposin' I don't know--" he began, but
Billy shook his head.
"I happen to know you do know. 'Course you needn't tell, if you
don't want to," he said. "You kin keep what you know to yourself an'
take your chances with witches. I was jest givin' you a last chance,
that's all."
He turned once more to the door but Anson jumped up and caught him by
the arm. "Bill," he gasped. "I don't know why Hinter built that
fence, cross my heart, I don't. But I'll tell you all I know about
the men who're runnin' the rig. I been workin' fer the tool-dresser
after school, fer a quarter a night. I've heard quite a lot o' talk
among them fellers. Blamed if I could make head er tail of most of
it but they mentioned a feller by the name of Jacobs an' they seem
plumb scared to death of him. Funny, too, 'cause he's never been
'round there a'tall. Nobody ever comes there but Hinter."
"How do you mean they seem scared of Jacobs?"
"I kin tell by what they say. One night I heard the big feller,
named Tom, say to Jack, the other man: 'If we don't strike the stuff
Jacobs is done fer, an' both of us'll go with him.' An' the one
named Jack he swore at him an' says: 'Shut your trap, Tom. One of
these days Jacobs is goin' to hear you blattin'; then you're goin' to
take a trip sooner than you expected.'"
Billy stood frowning. "Say, maybe Jacobs is the feller that fires
the boilers that runs the windlass," he hazarded.
"Nope, that man's name's Sanderson. He don't have anythin' to do
with the drillers. Nope, Bill, Jacobs hain't never been seen, but
I'm dead sure he's the boss of the outfit."
"All right, Anse. You kin learn a lot more by keepin' your ears an'
eyes open. Whatever you see an' hear, you're to tell me, see?"
Anson nodded.
"All hunky. Now, I'll jest peel off these duds, an' get inter my
own. Ma'll be gettin' uneasy."
But when Billy, dressed in his own suit, descended the stairs to peer
cautiously out, it was to find the room deserted. Mrs. Wilson's
voice, high-pitched and excited, came from the back yard.
"Willium! oh Willium!" she was calling.
With a bound he was outside and over beside her. She sat on the
block beneath the hop-vine, her face in her apron. She was rocking
to and fro and sobbing.
"Ma," cried Billy, "whatever is the matter?"
"Oh Willium," she cried, "my heart is breakin'. Oh to think how I
misjedged him!"
Billy's eyes opened wide. "Misjedged him?" he repeated.
"Oh the poor little dear! the poor little dear!" she wailed. "Me
hatin' him like I did, and him doin' all he has fer me. Oh, Willium,
I do feel so 'shamed, an' mean; I do so!"
Billy stared at his mother in amazement. "Jest what has Anse ever
did fer you, Ma?" he asked wonderingly.
"Anse!" she snorted. "Who's talkin' about Anse? It's Croaker I
mean. Look here what that darlin' crow brought me jest a few minutes
ago."
She opened her hand. In it lay a shining twenty-dollar gold piece.
Billy's mouth fell open in astonishment.
"Croaker brought you that?" he gasped. "Well, I'll be shot!" Billy
stood up and gazed about him. "Where's Croaker now?" he asked.
"I dunno. He jest laughed an' sailed away ag'in. I don't know where
he got it but I do know good gold when I see it, Willium. Twenty
dollars! Ain't it splendid?"
"It sure is, but I can't help wonderin' where Croaker found it.
Maybe you wouldn't mind lettin' me off Sunday School today, Ma," he
suggested, "so's I kin trail off an' find that Croaker. Any crow
that kin pick up gold pieces that way is worth watchin'. Kin I go
look fer him, Ma?"
Mrs. Wilson, at this particular moment, was in the mood to grant
almost any request. "Why Willium," she said eagerly, "go seek him
and bring him back home. Never ag'in will I wish him dead, poor
little feller. But," she added as though realizing that her softened
mood had carried her a little too far, "you see you get back here in
time for supper er I'm liable to tan you good."
Billy waited for no more. He was up and away like a shot. Mrs.
Wilson, clutching her gold piece in one hand and brushing back her
deranged hair with the other, went back into the house.
Anson, striving to keep his head above a shiny collar, about which
was twisted a flaming red tie, was just issuing from the stairs. His
mother opened her hand to display her gold piece, then closed it
again. "You go right back upstairs and take off Willium's collar and
tie," she commanded.
"It's my own collar an' tie," Anson declared, "Bill give it to me."
"Humph! That's jest like him, but why he should give you his best
tie and collar is beyond me. Do you think you deserve any gifts from
your brother after what you done to him? It jest goes to show you
what a real good heart that boy has. I declare, Anson, I do wish you
was more like him. Now you get your hair combed and your hat brushed
and get away to Sunday School."
"Yes, Ma'am; ain't you agoin', Ma?"
"I'll be long shortly; don't you wait fer me."
"But where's Bill? Ain't he agoin?"
"No, he ain't agoin'; and now, not another of your fool questions.
Slick your hair down and go at once. Do you hear me?"
Anson proceeded to obey orders without another word. As he picked up
his hat and turned to the door, Mrs. Wilson opened her hand and held
out the gold piece.
"Croaker found that and brought it to me," she said, proudly.
Anson's jaw dropped and he backed fearfully away.
"Don't you have nuthin' to do with it, Ma!" he cried. "That
Croaker's a witch crow, that's what he is! He's tryin' to tempt you
with gold!"
Mrs. Wilson stood, the picture of amazement. "Have you gone stark
and ravin' crazy, Anson?" she asked sternly. Then, anger mastering
her, she reached for the broom standing in the corner. Anson
promptly made his escape, but as he passed the open window, he gazed
wildly in at his mother and cried again: "Don't you have nuthin' to
do with that gold, Ma. If you do we'll all get burnt up in our beds,
er get clawed to tatters!"
Mrs. Wilson sank down on a chair. "Willium's right," she sighed.
"Anson's mind is gettin' a little unbalanced. I'll have to put him
on diet and feed him slippery-elm bark and alloways."
Sighing dolefully she arose, placed her treasured gold piece in the
clock for safe keeping, and tying on her bonnet, left the house. She
walked hurriedly down the path, thinking that perhaps she might be
late for the opening hymn. As she was about to open the gate, a
slender, sprightly old gentleman, dressed in long frock coat, stepped
out from the trees bordering the road, and gravely lifting his shiny
hat, bowed low, and said: "Your pardon, ma'am, I'm axin; but if ye'll
permit me."
"Harry O'Dule," she gasped, as he swung the gate wide, "is it re'lly
you?"
"Faith and who else ma'am," replied Harry. "The ould burrud wid new
feathers is ut. Faith ut's manny a year since I laid these duds
carefully by, thinkin' I'd be wearin' 'em niver ag'in until a day
whin I'd not be knowin' ut. But, Mistress Wilson, ma'am, ut's other
thoughts have been mine since I quit the dhrink. Pl'ase God but duty
is iver clearer wid clearer understandin' and so ut is. Some day
afore I die I'll glimpse me own skies and smell the burnin' peat, and
if that is to be mine thin must I live me life clane here and do me
duty like an Irishman av birth. So, ma'am, it's off I am to visit
the holy Father at Palmyria."
Mrs. Wilson held out her hand. "Harry O'Dule," she said, her voice
unsteady, "I always knowed you had the makin's of a man in you. I'm
gladder than I kin say."
Harry bowed low. Mrs. Wilson passed through the gate, beaming
commendation on him from misty eyes. He closed the gate slowly, his
clean shaven, wrinkled face working. He stood and watched her until
the bend in the road hid her. Then, placing his tall hat jauntily on
his grizzled locks, he turned and walked smartly in the opposite
direction.