ON THE ROAD TO THE CIRCUS
"Ain't this grand, Dorothy? I never did see anybody so good as Mrs.
Calvert! She wouldn't hear tell o' my working half the day, though I
could well's not, 'cause the circus don't take in till two o'clock. No,
sir! She up an' give me the whole day an' said my pay was to go on just
the same as if I was hoein' them inguns 'at need it."
"Onions, Jim; not 'inguns,'" corrected Dorothy with a smile. "You are
improving fast. I haven't heard you call anybody 'Mis',' for Mrs., in
ever so long, and most of the time you keep tight hold of your g's. Yes,
she is dear! but you deserve her kindness. Nobody else ever served her
so faithfully, she says; not even those old colored servants who love
her and--impose on her, too! You look fine, to-day. Those 'store
clothes' are mightily becoming and I'm proud of you. But whatever shall
we do with a whole day?"
"Mrs. Calvert, she said we was to drive into the town, Newburgh, you
know, where the circus is to be at and to a livery stable that knows
her. Or the man who keeps it does. We was to put the horse up there an'
leave it till time to go home again. Then we was to walk around the city
an' see the sights. 'Bout noon she reckoned 'twould be a good plan to go
to what they call the 'Headquarters,' where General George Washington
lived at, when he fit into the Revolution. I've been readin' about that
in the History she give me and I'd admire to stand on the spot he stood
on once. There's a big yard around the house and benches for folks to
sit on, and a well o' water for 'em to drink; and nobody has to pay for
settin' nor drinkin', nary one. All the folks want you to do, and you
don't have to do it, you ain't really obleeged, is to go inside a room
an' write your name and where you come from in a 'Visitors' Book.' I've
been practicing right smart, ever since she told me that, an' I can
write my name real plain. What bothers me is to tell where I come from.
I don't much like to say the poorhouse, where I was took after my folks
died, and I hate to say Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. I haven't got no right
to say Riverside nor Deerhurst, 'cause I've only lately come _to_ them
places, I've never come _from_ 'em. I----"
"O Jim! Stop 'splitting hairs'!"
Thus arrested in his flow of language, the youth carefully inspected his
clothing and failed to perceive the "hairs" in question. Whereupon
Dorothy laughed and assured him that she had merely used a figure of
speech, and meant: "Don't fuss! Just write 'Baltimore,' as I shall, and
have done with it. Funny, Jim, but I just this minute thought that I'm
the one who doesn't know where I came from! Well, I'm _here_ now, and
what's behind me is none of my business. But, boy, you mustn't put that
'at' after places. It sounds queer, and I hate queer people. Ah! me!"
Jim drove carefully along the fine road with a full appreciation of the
beautiful scenery through which it ran, yet in no wise moved to express
his admiration of it. He was too happy for words and his soaring
thoughts would have amazed even Dorothy, familiar though she had become
with his ambitions; and after driving onward for some time in this
contented silence he became suddenly aware that his companion was not as
happy as he. Her eyes were fixed upon the road and her face had a
troubled, preoccupied expression.
"Dolly Chester, what you thinkin' of? Don't you like it? Ain't you glad
you come?"
"Why--Jim! How you startled me! Of course I'm glad I come. The whole
trip is the most delightful thing; but--what I was thinking of, I'm
afraid would make you sneer if I told."
"Tell an' see if it will. I ain't no great hand to make fun of folks--I
don't like to be made fun of myself. What was it?"
"The _Ghost_ that haunts Skyrie. _Jim--I've seen it!_ I myself with my
own eyes."
He checked his horse in his amazement, and incredulously ejaculated:
"You--don't!"
"Yes, I do. I did. This very last night that ever was; and talk about
liking this ride? Huh! I'm more glad than I can say to get away from
home just this little while, even. Yet mother and father are left there,
and if IT should come and frighten them while I'm not there--O Jim! IT
scared me almost into a fit. Scared me so stiff and still I could
neither move nor speak. Now I'm rather glad I didn't. IT may not come
again, though IT has two or three times."
They were nearly at the top of a long hill and, partly to rest the
perfectly untired horse, partly to hear in silence this remarkable
story, Jim drew aside into the shade of a wayside tree and commanded:
"Silly Dolly! There ain't no such things; but--out with the hull
business, body an' bones!"
"I'm glad to 'out' with it. It's seemed as if I should burst, keeping it
all to myself, and the worst is I feel that father wouldn't believe me.
There's something else, too. Jim, do you believe that Peter Piper is
really harmless? He follows me everywhere I go. He doesn't come near the
house because mother doesn't like him and shows that plain enough even
for him to understand. She never did like beggars down home in
Baltimore, and she's taken a fearful dislike to Peter."
"Stick to what you started to tell; not get a body's ideas all on edge,
then switch off onto Peter Piper. As for that poor feller, he won't
hurt nobody what don't hurt him. But _he_ ain't a ghost. Tell what you
saw."
"Will you promise not to laugh nor--nor disbelieve?"
"I won't laugh an' I will believe--if I can."
"You dear good Jim! I can always rely upon you to help me in my
troubles!" cried Dorothy, gratefully.
With comfortable complacency Jim replied: "That's so."
"You know Pa Babcock doesn't work for us any more. He left the next day
after the 'Bee.' Sent Alfaretta around to tell us that 'he'd overdone
hisself and was obliged to take a vacation.' Why, Jim Barlow, he was
engaged to work three days out of each week and he never got in more
than one. He was to 'find himself,' which father says means to furnish
his own food, and he never brought a single meal. Mother Martha had to
cook extra for him every time. We weren't real sorry to have him leave,
for we thought it would be easy to get another man, now that Skyrie had
been put in such good order. But it wasn't; besides, any that offered
asked from two to three dollars a day. Think of that! Why, of course
mother couldn't pay that, even if it was haying time and men scarce, as
they all told her. She said we must let all the farm alone except just
the garden patch and that field of corn which is to feed our stock next
winter. Jim, life in the country 'isn't all catnip!' I never, never
dreamed that I could work so hard or do so much. Look at my hands, will
you?"
She thrust out her little hands, now scarred and blistered by the use of
heavy, unfamiliar tools, compared with which her old home "garden set"
were mere toys.
For sympathy she received the assurance:
"Won't blister nigh so much, after a spell, and the skin gets tough. Go
on with the ghost, will you?"
"I am going on. It's all mixed up with Pa Babcock. If he hadn't left I
wouldn't have had to work in the garden nor mother in the cornfield.
That tires her awfully, and makes her fearfully cross; so that father
and I keep all little worries to ourselves that we can. He even tries to
help her hoe those terrible rows of corn that has come up so
beautifully and is growing so well. If only the weeds wouldn't grow just
as fast! But to see my mother handling a hoe and my father trying to do
so too, resting on his crutches and tottering along the row as he
works--Jim, it makes me wild! So of course I try to take all care of the
garden patch and--of course, I failed. Partly I was afraid to stay out
there alone, sometimes, for I might happen any time to look up and there
would be Peter Piper staring over the wall at me, or even inside it.
Then I have to run in and stop working for awhile. Mother would be angry
if she knew and drive him off with harsh words, and though I am afraid
of him, too, I can't bear to hurt his feelings. I am really so sorry for
him that often I carry my dinner out of doors with me and give it to
him, though mother Martha thinks I've taken it because I do so love to
eat out under the trees. I can't help feeling that he's hungrier than I
am; and I don't think it's wrong because I've never been forbidden nor
asked about it. Do you think it is, Jim dear?"
"I ain't judgin' for other folks and I 'low your victuals is your own,"
answered he.
"That's a horrid word, 'victuals!' It makes me think of 'cold' ones and
beggars at the back gate."
"All right. I won't say it again. Get back to that ghost."
"I'm getting. Why hurry so? We have the whole day before us."
"But, Dorothy Chester, _that circus takes in at two o'clock_!" warned
the careful lad.
"And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow--I've been to bed some
night, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: and
I've got up in the morning and--_found--them--in--perfect--order_! What
do you think of that?"
"Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you was
abed."
"No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; nor
can I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I had
explained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up and
held my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor
'cultivators'--even little ones like mine--run over the beds as
something certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. I
know it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost;
because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farming
business that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leave
it. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father came
here to get well--his only chance. We haven't enough money to move back
to Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with the
Ghost. It is the only way. But--O Jim! I've not only seen what IT has
done in the garden, I've seen IT at work there. Seen IT with my own two
eyes! Now, do you believe?"
"Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!"
Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry for
Dorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomed
labor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as he
did with added gentleness:
"I think that that there Babcock girl had ought to had her neck wrung
'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' I
wish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.'
Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such a
job to you. I--I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hire
myself out to your folks."
"No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the best
place to get on as you couldn't do with us."
This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that he
had no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt his
conscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late that
there would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject and
inquired:
"If you seen IT, what did it look like?"
"IT was tall, like a man. IT was all in some light-colored clothes and
it worked as steadily as if IT were a machine. But it made very little
noise. IT didn't want to be heard, I thought. When IT had finished IT
sort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I saw IT crossing
a field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is,
that Alfaretta told of, and where she said IT lives part of the time. IT
used to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps in
now. So _she_ said."
"Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you go
to takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!"
"Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe is
on the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes to
Skyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinks
she's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners.
But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told nobody but
you, Jim."
Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was still
unconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked:
"Why didn't your folks see IT if you did?"
"Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go down
into the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through those
windows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from the
garden. That's why."
"All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road and
chirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret,
Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, and
soon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitable
animal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggested
was possible.
A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within a
rude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of people
that both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured:
"Another auction! Let's stop and listen."
It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stood
on the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediately
recognized the two young people and called out to them:
"Hello, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on?
Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to the
prettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on."
Then with a general sweep of his eye over the assemblage, he added for
the benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes,
hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman's
goods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebald
mare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle or
harness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how the
kids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! How
much am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow and
orphans? How--much?"
"Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retorted
that the bidder must be joking.
Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd and
stood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull her
down upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength,
as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her clear
treble:
"Thirty-five dollars!"
A silence that might be felt over that assembly, and no other bid
followed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise"
but none was forthcoming. To nobody else in that company was the pretty,
piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been born
on the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was not
strong enough for hard work, such as these other possible bidders
required.
"Going, going, _gone_! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-five
dollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?"
While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auction
obligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to the
back of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness could
hardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her the
happy possessor of that wonderful pony.
Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck,
smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that sudden
affection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that she
noticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely asked
her to "step aside and let us hitch up."
Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now between
the shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minutes
later he announced:
"We're ready to go now, Dorothy."
"Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning the
runabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in that
direction."
"I--I guess we won't finish our trip to Newburgh, to-day, Dolly," he
answered with a laugh.
"Why not?"
"Because--'cause you spent all _your_ money for the horse an' I spent
all _mine_, all 't I've earned yet, for the rig. Which critter'll you
drive home, Dorothy? Home it is where we'll eat that nice lunch o' Mrs.
Calvert's, 'cause I haven't got a cent left to buy them circus tickets.
Which one did you say?"
"My own!" cried the girl, exultantly, as she sprang into the rickety
little phaeton and took up the pony's reins.