TEACHER JOHNSTON RESIGNS
September passed laden with summer perfumes and song and, beneath a
blanket of hoar frost, October awoke to send her hazy heralds far
across wooded upland and open. Slowly those wreathing mists kissed
leaf and fern, as though whispering: "Rest sweetly, until spring
brings you back once again."
So it seemed to the boy, as from the brow of a hill he watched the
dawn-haze drift toward the newly-open sun-gates of the eastern sky;
for autumn always brought a feeling of sadness to Billy. He missed
the twitter of the birds, the thousand and one notes of the wild
things he loved and which always passed out and away from his world
with the summer. The first hoar frost had come; soon the leaves
would turn golden and crimson, the fern-clumps crumple and wither
into sere, dead, scentless things. Then with shortening days and
darkening skies those leaves and plants would sag to earth and the
gaunt arms of the bare trees would lift empty nests toward
snow-spitting skies.
No more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden stars above the
marshlands at the foot of the Causeway. The season of green and blue
had lived and died and in its place had been born a season of drab
and brown. Summer was gone. The song-birds had migrated. Soon the
green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the bronze woodcocks
would whistle away from the bog-lands, for seldom did they tarry
after the first frost. Along the creek the red-winged black-birds
would be sounding their up-and-away notes. No happy carol to welcome
the first glow of dawn! No wonder Billy sighed. Then he lifted his
head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle of wings. Up
from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild ducks came speeding, white
backs flashing as they pitched downward in unbroken formation towards
the calling bay-waters.
Billy caught his breath quickly and a glad smile drove the shadow
from his face. "Canvasbacks!" he murmured, "They've come early. I
bet anythin' the flocks I heard comin' in through the night was
canvasbacks, too--an' redhead! I must go right over after breakfast
an' tell Teacher Stanhope; he'll be sure to say 'Let's go get 'em.'
Oh, gee!"
He turned back toward the house, then paused as the mellow
"whirt-o-whirt" of a quail sounded from the sumach which bordered the
meadow across the road. "Old Cock quail," he cautioned softly, "I
wouldn't give that covey-call too often if I was you. Joe Scraff
jest might hear you. Only note safe fer you to whistle is 'Bob
White'--but you won't be whistlin' that till spring comes ag'in."
It may be that the white-throated leader of the brown covey in the
stubble sensed the murmured warning of his friend, for he did not
whistle again. The smile still on his lips, Billy vaulted the rail
fence and sought the path to the house.
He found his father, mother and Anson seated at the breakfast table
and as he took his place he was conscious of a foreboding of
impending storm. The conviction was strengthened when his father's
foot, reaching sympathetically underneath the table, touched his ever
so gently. With perfect sangfroid he speared a strip of bacon with
his fork and held his breath as he waited for the worst. Two taps of
that foot meant "On your guard," three taps "Watch out for dodging."
He received two taps and sighed relievedly; then as his mother arose
to bring the coffee-pot from the stove he felt three quick and
distinct pressures and ducked his head just in time to miss a
swinging, open-handed slap from Mrs. Wilson's heavy hand.
Anson, sitting slit-eyed and gleeful close beside him, received the
slap with a force that knocked his face into his porridge bowl.
As Mrs. Wilson recovered her balance and squared away for a surer
stroke, Croaker swooped in through the open door and, with many
muffled croaks, alighted in the center of the table. In his black
beak he held another glittering gold piece, which he dropped in front
of Mrs. Wilson's plate. Then picking up a fat doughnut from the
platter he hopped to the motto _God Bless Our Home_ and perching
himself on its gilt frame proceeded to appease his morning's hunger.
Silence fell upon the family after the first gasp of surprise at
sight of the gold piece. Even Anson checked his wailing to sit with
his pale eyes wider open than ever they had been before and it was he
who broke the silence which had fallen--broke it with a husky,
fear-ridden voice as he cried:
"Fer goodness sake, Ma, don't touch that gold! It's bewitched, I
tell you!"
His mother glared at him. "Humph!" she snorted, "you're bewitched
yourself, you poor coward you! Now then, another word out o'
you--and you get the strap. Ain't I told you, Anson, time and ag'in,
that this dear crow has found old Scroggie's pile? You git up from
this table to once; go out and stay within callin' distance; I'll
want you back here presently."
She picked up the gold piece and, fondling it lovingly, waited until
Anson had passed outside. Then with characteristic deliberation she
placed it safely away beneath her saucer, thereby signifying that the
incident was closed for the time being.
It was not until Billy had finished his breakfast and was about to
slip quietly out that his mother spoke again. Then fixing him with
cold, accusing eyes, she said: "I want 'a know what you had to do
with scarin' the new teacher so he won't never come back to the
Valley School ag'in, Willium."
Billy, who had anticipated what was coming, gave a well-feigned start.
"Why, Ma," he cried, in amazement, "you don't mean to say he's gone?"
"Yes, he's gone an' I s'pose you're satisfied, you and your outlaw
companions in crime. Cobin Keeler stopped by this mornin' and he
told us the teacher left his writ' resign in his hands. He declares
he won't risk his life among a lot of young savages."
"I think that Mr. Johnston went a little too far there," Wilson
ventured.
"You shet right up, Tom!" commanded his wife. "Ain't it nuthin' to
you that your son grows up wild and uneddicated?"
"But he had no right to call us savages, Ma," protested Billy.
"Oh, hadn't he then! Well, who up and deliberately stole his horse,
I'd like to know?" Mrs. Wilson held her breath waiting for the
answer.
"Nobody stole his horse," replied Billy. "The poor thing was so lean
an' hungry that it weaved when it walked; all we did was sneak it out
o' the school-yard an' hide it where there was good pasture."
"Well, maybe that ain't stealin' it, but if it ain't what would you
call it, Willium?"
"I'd call it bein' kind to dumb animals," spoke up Wilson, his eyes
meeting the angry ones of his wife.
"Listen, Ma," said Billy gently. "That old Johnston was awful mean
to us kids, there's no mistake about that. He whipped us fer
nothin', an' what's worse, he was always sneerin' at us fer being
low-born an' ignorant, an' that meant sayin' things ag'in our folks.
But we was willin' to stand all that, cause we'd promised Teacher
Stanhope that we'd do our best to put up with the teacher in his
place. But, Ma, if you could'a seen that poor ol' horse, so starved
that every rib showed like the ridges in your wash-board, lookin'
over that school-yard fence at the long grass an' beggin' with his
hungry eyes fer jest a bite--"
Billy paused and rolled a bread crumb. When he looked up his eyes
were dark. "Anse has told you that it was me who sneaked him out o'
the yard, an' led him away where he could feed an' rest an' get the
sores made by the hard saddle an' hickory healed, an' Anse didn't lie
fer once. I did do it, an' I'd do it ag'in.
"What's more, Ma, that ol' horse is goin' to stay right where he is,
belly-deep in clover, till it gets so cold we'll have to stable him.
Then he's goin' to have all the good hay an' oats he wants."
Mrs. Wilson could scarcely believe her ears. "You don't mean that
havin' took him you had any thoughts of keepin' him, Willium?" she
managed to say.
"Yes, Ma'am; I mean jest that. You see, Ma, that ol' horse don't
belong to Teacher Johnston any more. We bought him."
"Bought him!" exclaimed man and woman in a breath.
Billy nodded. "Me an' Jim Scroggie bought him from Mr. Johnston, an'
we got a receipt provin' our ownership, too, you bet. This is how we
did it. 'Long 'bout the second er third day after ol' Thomas
disappeared me an' Jim met up with Johnston walkin' home from school
to Fairfield where he boards. Jim had fifty dollars, all his own,
an' we'd planned jest what we'd say to the teacher.
"First off when he sees us, he asks us if we'd happened to find any
tracks of his horse. It was funny to see his snakey eyes callin' us
liars at every polite word we said to him. Finally he comes right
out flat-footed an' tells us that he knows we had somethin' to do
with ol' Thomas wanderin' off, an' he says he's goin' to make our
fathers pay fer his loss."
"Course we got real scared then--leastwise Johnston thought we
was--an' Jim he ups an' tells him that we fergot to latch the gate
an' let the horse out. Then Johnston got real mean--meaner than I
ever see him get, an' that's sayin' quite a lot. He said he would
turn back with us an' interview--that's the word he used, whatever it
means--interview our fathers.
"Then Jim he begged him not to do that. 'We'll pay you whatever's
right fer your horse, sir,' he says, but Johnston jest snorted.
'Where would you get fifty dollars!' he says, but Jim, he nudged me
to keep quiet, an' said: 'I've got fifty dollars of my very own,
right here, sir. We'll buy your horse an' take chances on findin'
him, if you'll sell him to us.'
"'Gimme the money,' says Johnston.
"So we give him the money but we made him give us what Jim calls a
regular bill o' sale receipt fer it. An' so, you see, Ma, we've got
Mr. Johnston there, an' he won't ever lay the rod on poor ol' Thomas
no more."
Mrs. Wilson, arms folded on the white table-cloth, was gazing out of
the window now. Perhaps she saw a poor old horse, belly deep in
luscious grass, making up for the fasts of hard and stern days,
mercifully behind it forever now and enjoying life to the full--the
new life which Billy had helped to purchase.
At any rate, her voice had lost much of its harshness as she asked:
"But what about the wild animal that broke into the school an' tore
the teacher's clothes fair off his back an' chased him up the road?
That's the thing that scared him so he quit the school ferever. Now,
Willium, what did you have to do with that?"
Billy sat silent, striving to keep back the grin that would come in
spite of him. Wilson, on pretext of getting his pipe, got up and
left the room.
"I'm waitin', Willium."
"Well, Ma, you see ol' Ringdo got out of his cage yesterday mornin'.
I've kept him shut up a lot an' what with feedin' on meat an' rich
stuff that old swamp coon was playfuller than usual, I guess. It
seems Teacher Johnston had took a notion to get down to the school at
eight o'clock instead of nine as he usually does. When Teacher
Stanhope taught school Ringdo used t' often go there an' get apples
an' stuff that the teacher saved for him. Yesterday when he got
loose he must've been lonesome fer Mr. Stanhope, an' he went to the
school. He got in an' found Johnston alone, I guess, an' maybe tried
to get friendly. Mr. Johnston must have kicked him er hit him. All
I know about it is what I seen fer myself.
"I was goin' down the path to the road, Anse with me, when the
teacher went past, runnin' fer all he was worth. Come to think of it
his coat had been clawed some, an' I remember now his face was
bleedin' from a scratch er two. He didn't see us an' he didn't stop.
He kept right on goin'. Anse an' me went on to the school, an' there
we found Ringdo jest finishin' the teacher's lunch. I brought him
back an' put him in his cage. That's all, Ma, an' it's every blessed
word true."
Mrs. Wilson remained thoughtful. Billy, watching her with furtive
speculation, hoped from the relaxing lines in her brow that all was
well with the world once more. Hope became an assurance with her
next words.
"You kin have that Jim Scroggie over to supper tonight, Willium, if
you want to."
Billy's heart jumped with joy. He wanted to hug his mother, but
restrained the desire and sat gazing pensively at his plate.
"What's the matter, don't you want him?" asked his mother. "I
thought maybe you'd like to have him, seein's you're such cronies an'
there must be some good in him in spite of his looks. I could have
them partridges that Joe Scraff sent over roasted with bacon strips
across 'em, an' baked potatoes, an' maybe I might boil an apple
dumplin'."
Billy sighed. "That's awful good of you, Ma, an' I sure would like
to have Jim over to supper, but he's so fond of his sister he won't
go anywheres without her, you see."
"Well," flared his mother, "can't he fetch her along with him, if he
wants to? What's to hinder him from fetchin' her? She's a sweet
little thing an' I'd be proud to have her."
Billy closed his eyes and took tight hold of his chair seat. He knew
that if he did not summon all his self restraint he would surely
spoil all he had accomplished through strategy. He longed to swoop
down on his mother and hug her, slap her on the back and yell in her
ear that she was a brick. But experience had taught him caution.
And besides, Billy reasoned, there was still something more to be
accomplished.
"I say we kin have Louie over, too, Willium," Mrs. Wilson suggested
once again.
"Yep, we could do that, I s'pose," said Billy, "only--" He frowned
and shook his head. "I guess we best not ask either of 'em, Ma.
Maurice might hear of it, an' wonder why he wa'n't asked too. He's
awful funny that way, you know."
"Why, sakes alive!" cried his mother, "I never give Maurice a
thought. O' course we'll have him, too. An' if there happens to be
anybody else you'd like, you best say so now, Willium."
"I'd awful like to have Harry O'Dule, too."
Mrs. Wilson caught her breath, but whatever objections her mind
raised against the last named remained unuttered. All she said was.
"This is your party, Willium. Anybody else, now?"
"Elgin Scraff," spoke up Billy, promptly.
Mrs. Wilson looked out of the window and considered. "Let's see.
That leaves little Louie the only girl among all of you boys, so
we'll jest have to have another girl er two. How'd you like to have
Ann Spencer and Phoebe Scraff?"
Billy agreed with delight.
Mrs. Wilson pushed back her chair and arose from the table. "Now,
then, Willium, you get along out. I've got a whole lot to do afore
supper-time, and I guess maybe you best run across and ask Mrs.
Keeler to come over and help me. You kin go 'round and give the
invites to your friends."
She picked up the saucer and stood looking down at the gold piece
which Croaker had brought in. "I don't s'pose there's a particle of
use keepin' an eye on that crow?" she asked.
"Haven't I been keepin' an eye on him?" cried Billy, "an' you see
what he does. Jest as soon as I turn my back he plays sharp. I've
done my best to get him to show me where he finds that gold, but he
won't do it. But I'll catch him yet. I'll jest run along an' see
what he's at now; he's so quiet I know he's into some mischief."
He picked up his hat and bounded outside. He found Croaker seated on
the chicken yard fence, gravely surveying his ancient and mortal
enemy, the old game cock, and whispering guttural insults that fairly
made the rooster bristle with anger.
Billy shook his fist at the crow. "You old beggar," he said fondly,
"if that rooster was wise he'd go out with the rest of the chickens
an' scratch his breakfast, 'stead o' quarrelin' with you. He don't
know that you're doin' your best to starve him to death."
Billy knew that Croaker would hang close to his enemy all morning and
feeling reasonably sure that no further trips to the hidden treasure
would be made during his absence on his mother's errand he started
for Keeler's. At the road gate he met Cobin coming in, a pitchfork
on his shoulder. Keeler and Billy's father "changed works" during
wheat and corn harvest, and the former was coming over to help haul
in fodder.
"Ho, Billy!" he boomed, gripping the lad's arm in his huge hand, "you
won't steal Maurice away from the work I've set him to do this
mornin', I'll be bound. Back to the house you come with me, young
man. I want Maurice to finish his job."
"I don't want Maurice," Billy hastened to explain. "Ma wants Missus
Keeler to come over an' give her a hand, so I'm on my way to tell
her. Honest, Mr. Keeler, that's right."
"By Jimminy, you've fooled me so many times, Billy, I have an idea
you might jest do it ag'in." Mr. Keeler's grip tightened, and his
smile broadened. "Cross your heart, it's right?"
"Yep, cross my heart, an' spit on my thumb," grinned Billy.
Keeler's roaring laugh might have been heard half a mile away.
"Well, along you go," he shouted, lifting Billy bodily over the gate.
"You'll find Ma deefer than usual on account of a cold in the head,
so talk real close and loud to her."
Billy found Mrs. Keeler peeling onions in the cook-house and after
some trouble made her understand what was wanted. While she was
shedding her apron and hunting for her hat he went outside.
Maurice's school-books and slate lay on the bench beneath the hop
vine. Billy grinned as his eyes fell on them. He climbed to the top
of the gate-post and searched the surrounding fields for his chum,
locating him finally down near the ditch, a lonely and pathetic
figure seated on a little knoll, methodically topping mangles with a
sickle. His back was toward Billy and it took all the latter's self
restraint to refrain from giving the rally call, but he remembered
what he had promised Maurice's father. So he slid down from the post
and picking up the slate, produced a stub of slate-pencil from a
pocket and wrote a message in symbols. Then on the other side of the
slate he duplicated the message, adding the necessary key to the
code. This was the message that Billy wrote:
[Illustration: Billy's message]
When Mrs. Keeler came out, laden with bake-pans and other kitchen
utensils, Billy led her carefully across the stubble by a new route,
nor did she dream his motive in so doing was to keep the house
between them and the lonesome mangle-topper in the valley.