[Illustration: “READY FOR ANYTHING, IN THE SHAPE OF FUN.”]
SILVER RAGS
BY
WILLIS BOYD ALLEN
Author of “PINE CONES”
“Like beggared princes of the wood,
In silver rags the birches stood.”
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY
FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS
COPYRIGHT, 1886,
BY
WILLIS BOYD ALLEN
TO
THE LITTLE PRINCESS
ISADORE
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Overboard! 7
II. Where is the Watch? 21
III. The Trial 41
IV. Fire! 52
V. In the Den 74
VI. A Small Hero 92
VII. Oak Leaves and Hay 110
VIII. Poor Tom! 129
IX. A Mountain Camp 137
X. The Storm 158
XI. The Great Base-Ball Match 172
XII. Hunted to Earth 185
XIII. Found at Last 196
XIV. Quiet Days at The Pines 207
XV. Good-bye! 216
SILVER RAGS.
CHAPTER I.
OVERBOARD.
“Help! Help!”
It was a girl’s voice, clear and sharp with distress. The cry echoed
over Loon Pond, and rang through the woods which surrounded its dimpled
waters.
In a small, flat-bottomed boat, about fifty yards from the shore,
crouched a young girl of perhaps sixteen years, her face blanched with
terror as she gazed into the depths beneath and uttered again and again
that piercing cry:
“Help! O quick, quick! Help!”
Something dark rose slowly to the surface of the pond, and a small
white hand waved frantically in the air a moment, then sank,
struggling, out of sight. Again it came up, this time more quietly,
and again disappeared, while the occupant of the boat screamed louder,
her voice breaking into sobs. The only oar to be seen was floating
quietly on the water, almost within reach.
“Help!”
Would no one come? The birches that crowned the hill-top close by
shivered in the sunlight; on the farther shore, the pines stood
motionless in dark, silent ranks.
Just as the object in the water rose for the third and last time,
scarcely breaking the surface, the bushes hiding the nearest bank
suddenly parted, and a boy dashed out into the pond which was shallow
at this point, with a smooth, sandy beach.
“Hold on, Kittie, I’m coming!” he shouted lustily, splashing ahead with
all his might, and making the water fly in every direction.
Presently he sank deeper, and began to swim with such powerful strokes
that half a dozen of them brought him nearly alongside the boat.
“There, there, Randolph!” screamed Kittie Percival, pointing to the
sinking form.
Randolph gave one look, doubled over in the water, and with a desperate
effort dived headlong in a line to cut off the drowning girl before
she reached the bottom. After a few seconds which to Kittie seemed
days, he reappeared, holding his helpless burden, and clutched the
stern of the boat. The poor girl’s head lay back on his shoulder,
white, cold, and motionless.
“Haven’t--you--got--an oar?” puffed Randolph.
“It fell out when I wasn’t noticing,” sobbed Kittie, “and floated off.
We both leaned over to reach it, and Pet fell into the pond.”
“All right, I’ll swim for it. Here goes.” And allowing his feet to
rise behind him, with one arm around the girl and the other hand
still grasping the boat, he struck out, frog-fashion, for the shore.
Presently he resumed his upright position, but found the water was
still over his head. A dozen more pushes, and the second experiment
was successful. He announced that he felt bottom under his feet, and
presently the bow of the boat grated on the sand. Kittie now jumped
into the water beside him, regardless of skirts and boots, and assisted
him in raising the unconscious girl, from whose garments and long,
bright hair the water streamed as they lifted her tenderly in their
arms, and carried her to the shore.
While they were thus engaged, a third actor appeared on the scene,
no other than “Captain Bess” Percival herself, whom, with her sister
Kittie, the readers of _Pine Cones_ will remember.
“O Kittie, Kittie, what has happened? Did she fall overboard? Is she
alive?”
“We don’t know,” panted Randolph, answering her last question. “She was
just going down the third time. Where shall we take her?”
“Up to the Indians’ tent,” said Bess. “It’s only a few steps from here.
I left Tom and Ruel there, while I came to look for you. Here, let me
help.”
“Bring her lilies,” added Kittie sadly. “Poor little Pet, she had only
gathered two!”
The mournful procession took up its march through the woods, Bess and
Randolph carrying Pet between them. Kittie followed, with the lilies,
helping when she could.
Pet Sibley was a girl slightly younger than her companions, who lived
near the Percivals in Boston. When the invitation came from uncle Will
Percival in June for them to spend their summer vacation, or a part
of it, with him and aunt Puss--as the children called his wife--at
The Pines, the girls begged permission, which was heartily granted,
to bring their friend Pet with them. She was a frank, good-hearted
girl, with light, rippling hair, blue eyes, and a sunny disposition
which always looked on the bright side of everything and perhaps was
a bit too forgetful of the earnest in life. If that, and her evident
pleasure in her own pretty face, were faults, they were very forgivable
ones; for she was sweet and true at heart, after all. The fun of the
whole thing was, that she had never lived in the country. She was a
thoroughly city-bred girl; had travelled in Europe when she was a wee
child, had lived two or three years in hotels and “apartments,” and
knew absolutely nothing of field and forest. A more complete contrast
to sober, thoughtful Kittie, and energetic “Captain Bess,” could hardly
be imagined. So it came about that, as often happens with people of
widely varying dispositions, all three loved one another dearly.
Randolph was in the second class at the Boston Latin School, and had
won three prizes that spring, two for scholarship, and one for drilling.
On this particular morning Ruel, a guide, trapper, and man-of-all-work
at Mr. Percival’s farm in the heart of the Maine woods, had taken the
young folks off for a tramp to Loon Pond, a pretty sheet of water some
four miles long by one and a half broad. They had enjoyed themselves
immensely--Randolph, Tom, and the three girls--running races along the
forest paths, gathering mosses, ferns and queer white “Indian pipes,”
or listening to Ruel’s quaint sayings as he talked of birds and wild
creatures of the wood, with not a little philosophy thrown in.
At the distance of about a furlong from the pond, they had come out
upon a little clearing, on the further edge of which was a rude tent
of canvas. In the doorway sat an Indian squaw, with one tiny brown
pappoose in her arms, and another playing on the grass near by. The
father of the babies she said, on inquiry, was off somewhere in the
woods. She had a few baskets for sale, and while Bess and the two boys
stopped to look at these and play with the babies, Kittie and Pet had
run on ahead, and having reached the shore of the pond, had come upon
an old boat, apparently used for a long time past by no one, except
perhaps the Indian when he was not too lazy to fish. Into this boat
they had climbed, screaming and laughing, girl-fashion, and hastily
pushing it off with the one oar which lay in the bottom, had been
trying to collect a bunch of lilies to surprise the rest, when the
accident happened as Kittie described it.
It took but a few minutes for the mournful little group to reach the
camp, though the distance seemed miles. Pet showed not the slightest
sign of life and her pretty hair almost touched the ground as it hung
over Randolph’s shoulder and swayed to and fro as he walked.
Ruel’s quick eye was the first to catch sight of them, and to take in
the situation.
“Bring her here,” he said sharply, springing to his feet and wasting no
time in questions. “Now turn her on her face--so--there, that’ll do.
Poor little gal! I dunno whether we c’n bring her to, but we c’n try,
anyhow.”
“Shall I run for the doctor, Ruel?” asked Tom, trembling from head to
foot.
“No doctor nearer’n six mile,” said the guide grimly. “By the time he’d
git here we shouldn’t need him, either ways. Bess, you’n’ Kittie take
her inside the tent--here, let me lift her--git her wet clothes off an’
roll her in blankets. Grab ’em up anywhere you c’n find ’em. I’ll fix
it with the Injuns. Randolph, you’re wet’s a mink yourself. Take Tom
with you and run fer home. Mis’ Percival will give ye some hot tea and
put ye to bed.”
“But what shall I do, Ruel?” asked Tom again.
“You git a couple of them big gray shawls of your aunt’s an’ bring
’em in the double team to the back road, where this path comes
out--remember it?”
“Yes, Ruel, but--”
“Git Tim to put the horses in, and drive. He’ll hurry ’nuff, once git
him goin’.”
Tom and Randolph were off like a flash, and Ruel turned to the squaw,
who had been standing motionless, after having picked up her pappoose
that Ruel had tipped over when he jumped up.
“Say, Moll, can’t ye take holt and help the gals a little?”
The squaw came forward crossly enough, mumbling and grumbling to
herself, and, entering the tent, pulled the flap down behind her. Once
inside, she worked harder than any of them, with hands as gentle and
skilful as those of a hospital nurse.
Fifteen minutes passed. It was a hot day in late June, and Ruel wiped
his brow repeatedly as he paced to and fro before the tent. The Indian,
he knew, would bear no interference, and her knowledge and experience
were invaluable.
[Illustration: “SHE HAD ONE PAPPOOSE IN HER ARMS.”]
“Any signs of life?” he asked aloud, when he could bear the suspense no
longer.
Kittie put a white face out between the hangings, and said “No.”
Twenty minutes. A thrush from a thicket near by, sang a few notes, and
stopped. The air went up in little waves of heat, from the tree-tops.
It was very still.
Suddenly there was an exclamation inside the tent; both girls cried out
at once, and were hushed by the guttural tones of the Indian.
Another long silence, almost unendurable to the big-hearted man
outside, who felt in some way accountable for what had happened.
He hid his face in his hands, and walked slowly off toward the thicket
where the thrush had sung.
Again there was a stir within the tent.
“See!” cried Bess joyfully. “She moved her eyelids! She’s alive! She’s
alive!”
Soon a new voice was heard behind the canvas--a low, troubled moan,
then a pitiful crying, like that of a beaten child. Poor little Pet,
it was hard, coming back to life again! She writhed in agony for a
few minutes, crying and catching her breath brokenly. But at last
her sweet blue eyes opened. “Mamma!” she said, with trembling lips,
looking about wonderingly at her strange surroundings.
“O Pet, darling, I’m so glad!” sobbed Kittie, falling on her knees and
kissing the pale face again and again. “You’re all safe and alive! It
was my fault, taking you out--of course you thought it was like the
Public Gardens--oh, dear, and here are your two lilies!” And Kittie
burst out crying afresh at sight of them.
While she had been talking, Pet had gazed at her and the dark face of
the Indian alternately. Slowly came back the memory of the walk in
the woods, the first view of the shining lake, the laughing scramble
into the boat, the fair lily faces, looking up at her. Then, the
terrible moment when she felt herself falling down, down, with all the
world flying away from her, and only the thick, green, stifling water
pressing against her face.
She tried to put up her little hands to shut out the picture, but she
was too tightly rolled in the blanket. Then she looked up and--laughed!
At the same moment the Indian threw back the tent-flap, and beckoned to
Ruel, who was hurrying toward her at the sound of the voices. Pet lay
swathed in cloths and blankets of all colors, as old Moll had snatched
them from bed and floor, so that up to her chin she looked like a
gay-colored little mummy. Her head, with its long golden hair, rested
in Bessie’s lap; and a smile was on her lips.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Ruel, taking off his woodsman’s cap. Then he
dropped into his old-fashioned, easy drawl once more, and commenced
active preparations for the homeward trip.
“I--think I--can--walk--” whispered Pet faintly, wriggling a little in
her cocoon.
“Wall, I’ve no doubt you c’d fly, ef we’d let ye,” remarked the guide,
busying himself in wringing out her wet clothes and rolling them into
a bundle; “but I guess we’ll hev the fun of carryin’ of ye, this time.
Tom’ll be back soon--”
“Here he comes, now!” interrupted Bess, as the boy hurried forward with
his arms full of shawls.
“Is she--is she--?” he stammered, halting a few paces distant.
“She’s all right, my boy,” said Ruel kindly. “She’s ben a laughin’, and
is all high fer walkin’ home, ef we’d let her.”
The boy’s face twitched with emotion, and in spite of himself he could
not prevent two or three tears from rolling over his cheeks.
“Here’s some cordial,” he managed to say, “that aunt Puss said
would--would be good for her. And uncle Will himself was at home, and
will meet us at the cross-road with his team.”
Before leaving the tent, Ruel, at Tom’s request, tried to make Moll
accept a small sum for her services. But she would not take a cent.
“These Injuns are queer people,” said Ruel, leading the way with Pet
in his arms, toward the road. “Sometimes they do act like angels from
heaven, an’ sometimes--they don’t! You never know whar to hev ’em.”
“Where does this family come from?” asked Tom, trudging beside Ruel and
holding twigs aside from Pet’s face.
“From up North somewhars. They won’t tell who they are, and I shall be
glad, fer one, when they leave.”
“I shall be thankful to them as long as I live, for what that woman did
for Pet,” said Kittie warmly.
“Wall, that’s so; she was a master hand, an’ no mistake. Give me an
Injun fer any kind of a hurt you kin git in the woods.”
Right glad were they all to find uncle Will and his noble grays,
waiting for them at the road. Just what the kind old man had suffered,
sitting there helplessly for the last five minutes, no one will ever
know--except perhaps his gentle wife Eunice--“aunt Puss”--with whom he
talked the whole matter over, after the children had gone to bed that
night.
In a moment he had Pet in his trembling arms, and with Ruel at the
reins they were all soon comfortably disposed in the big wagon, and
rattling homeward.
How they drove up to the door of the farm-house, with Pet waving her
slender white hand feebly, between Bess and Kittie; how aunt Puss,
strong woman as she was, broke down utterly at sight of her, and
afterward hugged her, and cried over her, and “cosseted” her, the
rest of that memorable day, need not be described. Enough to say that
Pet steadily regained her strength, and by night was able to sit with
the rest under the broad elms before the house and listen to uncle
Percival’s stories.
It was not until bedtime that as the girls were going slowly up-stairs,
arm in arm, she stopped suddenly, and exclaimed “My watch!”
“Your watch?” echoed the others. “Why, what’s the matter with it?”
“It’s lost!”
“Lost?”
“I wore it to the pond this morning. It was that lovely little watch
that mamma gave me last Christmas, gold and blue enamel, with my name
in it. There was a chain, too, and a tiny key. Oh, dear, what shall I
do! Where can it be? It couldn’t have fallen out, for ’twas hooked into
my button-hole, just as tight!”
“I can tell you what’s become of your watch, Pet,” exclaimed Randolph,
from the hall below.
“What?”
“The Indians!”