POOR TOM!
That Ruel was a good weather-prophet, there could be no doubt. Long
before blue eyes and brown were opened at The Pines, the sun was
shining over hill and valley, and birds singing in every thicket, to
welcome the bright day.
Plans were eagerly discussed at breakfast, and by eight o’clock the
great wagon was before the door, ready for a start. Tom alone hung back
and refused to go, saying he wanted to walk over to the Pond; so they
drove off without him, toward the Pineville Station.
The horses, who had just enjoyed a rainy day’s rest in their stalls,
stepped off merrily. How sweet the air was! The girls and Randolph
drew in long breaths, and shouted and sang till they were tired. Mr.
Percival listened, and watched them with kindly eyes, now and then
engaging in the conversation himself.
“Aren’t there any boys and girls around here except ourselves?” asked
Randolph as they whirled along over the road, here carpeted with pine
needles.
“O there are plenty in Readville and Jamestown,” replied his uncle,
touching the glossy flank of the off horse with his whip. “There’s a
good-sized school in each town, and they draw the young folks together,
from all parts.”
“What do they do for fun, I wonder?”
“Well, just now they’re full of base-ball. The boys do the hard work,
out in the sun, and the girls make caps and badges for them and watch
them play. There’s a club in each town, I’m told.”
“How nice!” exclaimed Bess. “I do so like to see real exciting games!”
“Don’t you believe we could drive over sometime, Uncle?” asked Kittie.
“Yes indeed, yes indeed; take you over to-morrow if you like--or send
you with Ruel.”
“They’d be glad enough to git the boys to play with ’em,” remarked
Ruel, chiming in as his name was spoken. “They always think city boys
must know how, because they’ve seen the big clubs.”
[Illustration: “HE WAS OFTEN AWAY FROM THE HOUSE, ALONE.”]
It might as well be added right here that the boys did go over to
Readville, though not on the following day; and the village club were
so well pleased with their playing, that they invited the new-comers to
join their nine, during vacation, and to take part in any matches that
might occur. Randolph, indeed, so gained in favor by his pleasant ways
and cool head that he was regularly elected Captain. Tom did well, too,
being a more graceful player than his cousin, but not so reliable in an
emergency. All this I have mentioned, to explain how the great Match
Game came about, of which we shall hear before long.
Meanwhile the ride to the railroad progressed pleasantly. An excursion
to Bessie’s mountain (where she had lighted the birch-tree torch during
the thunder-storm) was planned in all its details.
“Pet will soon be rested,” said Kittie in gleeful tones, “and then
we’ll have our picnic. Ruel, you must take plenty of matches, and your
axe.”
“What’s the axe fer?”
“O tables, and a tent, perhaps.”
“And birch bark,” added the guide.
“Birch bark? I thought you cut that off with penknives. O, can we get a
lot, to carry home?”
“Don’t see why not, ef you c’n stan’ the work.”
“Has Pet another watch?” asked Randolph suddenly. “She said something
about it in her last letter to you, Bess, didn’t she?”
“No. Her father thinks it was careless of her to lose it, now that it’s
certain it didn’t go into the pond when she fell overboard.”
“I should like to know what’s the matter with Tom,” broke in Kittie.
“He’s acted queer, ever since that day.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Percival soberly. “I’m troubled about the boy. He isn’t
his old merry self at all.”
“What did he say about the Indians that afternoon, Uncle?”
“Said he believed they took the watch and hid it; and that he hadn’t
seen it himself, and knew nothing about it.”
“Was that at the trial?”
“Just before. He wasn’t in the house when we examined the Indians.”
“Well, he thinks everything of Pet,” said Randolph. “I guess he feels
bad about her losing it, and that’s what ails him. Hulloa, see that
crow on the fence just ahead there!”
“He’s gone, he’s gone! O what are those little birds fluttering round
him?”
“Them’s king-birds,” said Ruel. “They can’t put up with crows, nohaow.”
“What, are they fighting him now?”
“Teeth an’ claws. Look at him dive, to git out o’ their way!”
“Do crows do any good, Ruel?”
“Wal, I d’no. I s’pose, when you come right daown to it, the creeturs
ought ter be killed off. They do suck small bird’s eggs, an’ they’re a
powerful nuisance in a cornfield. But thar, I do hate to shoot anything
with wings on ’em, in these big woods.”
“Why, Ruel?” inquired the boy curiously.
“Wal, fer one reason, they’re good company, even those black rascals.
Many’s the time I’ve been off alone in the woods, in the winter, when
I couldn’t see nor hear a livin’ thing fer a week together. An’ some
mornin’ I’d hear a queer croakin’ noise near my cabin, an’ thar’d be a
crow--head on one side, a-talkin’ to a neighbor over’n a pine. Their
talkin’ ain’t anything like their reg’lar cawin’.”
“What does it sound like?”
“O, I d’no. Like a hoarse old man, talkin’ to himself, p’raps. Anyway,
it sounds sort o’ human, and I couldn’t knock ’em over, to save me.”
By this time the girls had found something else to interest them by the
roadside, in the tree-tops, or the sky overhead; and so the ride went
on, happily, toward Pineville.
But it is time to look back a little, and see what Tom is about, left
alone at The Pines.
* * * * *
As soon as the rest were gone, Tom glanced carelessly over his
shoulder, and sauntered off toward the woods. At a distance of about a
thousand feet from the house, he paused and looked curiously about him.
He had entered a clump of oaks and birches, just on the edge of the
pine forest; before him lay a little valley, into which he descended,
and leaving the path, followed the course of what was evidently in the
spring season a small stream, now entirely dry. Stepping cautiously,
to avoid treading upon dry twigs, he kept on down the ravine until he
reached a large bowlder, forming the outworks of a picturesquely broken
cliff whose fern-draped front towered some forty feet or more above his
head.
An aged beech-tree, rooted about half-way up the juncture of the
boulder and the cliff, had bent downward in the course of years, until
its lowermost branches almost touched the ground. Seizing the nearest
of these, and aiding himself by slight projections and crannies in the
ledge itself, Tom drew himself up to the thick end of the tree, upon
the curving trunk of which he seated himself, breathless. He was now
in a sort of cavity, formed by the fall of the bowlder in ages past,
which had given shelter to the young beech and collected soil for its
nourishment. Ferns grew thickly above, below, on every side, along the
shelving surfaces, which, projecting over Tom’s head, made a snug nook
some five or six feet deep. This hiding-place the boy flattered himself
was entirely his own discovery, and thither he was accustomed to betake
himself on long summer afternoons; then, stretching out comfortably
at full length in the green shade, he would fancy himself in a wild
country, flying from Indians; or would pull a book from his pocket, and
lose himself in tales of peril and adventure.
On this occasion, however, he had no book, and gave himself up to no
day dreams. Instead, he seemed worried and frightened, and peering
downward through the leaves, listened for any footstep that might be
approaching.
No, he was quite alone. Only a thrush, singing musically, near by; and
from beyond, the solemn, never-ceasing murmur of the pines.
With slow and careful movements, taking care not to disturb the loose
rocks or soil in the cavity, the boy turned and thrust his arm into a
narrow cleft that had been concealed by a clump of ferns.
When he drew back his hand, something bright gleamed in it. It was
round, and shone gayly in an innocent bit of sunlight that came
flickering down through the tree-tops. It was talking to itself, too,
in a very busy and wise little way, as Tom satisfied himself at once,
holding it to his ear and listening anxiously.
What would Pet have thought, as she whirled along in the North-bound
express from Boston that fair morning, could she have seen Tom
crouching on the shadowy ledge, trembling at every sound in the forest,
pale and frightened, clasping in his hand--her lost watch? Poor Tom!