Far over the hills, the wayward,
White feet of the children run,
Now gleaming in the shadows,
Now glistening in the sun--
And always travelling dayward
As they flit by one by one.
--_Vanderlyn's Songs of the Past._
It was curious how much interest Mr. Sanders began to take in the home
life that the mere presence of Adelaide brought to old Jonas Whipple's
house. He would walk in without knocking, sometimes just about tea-time,
and the child would invariably ask him to stay. Then after tea, he would
challenge old Jonas for a game of checkers, and Adelaide thought it was
great fun to watch them, they were so eager to defeat each other. Mr.
Sanders had long been the champion checker-player in that part of the
country, and he was very much astonished to find that old Jonas was
himself an expert. Sometimes Adelaide would watch the game, and the two
men invariably appealed to her to settle any question or doubt that
arose, such as which of the two made the last move, or whether old Jonas
had slipped a man from the board.
Most frequently, however, Adelaide was busy with her own affairs, and
when this was the case, the two men sat quietly together, sometimes
talking and sometimes listening.
"The Bishop is here," Adelaide would say to Cally-Lou. Then it seemed
that Cally-Lou would make some reply that could only be heard through
the ears of the imagination, to which Adelaide would respond most
earnestly: "Why of course he isn't asleep, 'cause I saw him wink both
eyes just now"--and the conversation would go on, sometimes
good-humouredly, and sometimes charged with pretended indignation. If
there had been any telephones, Mr. Sanders would inevitably have said:
"You can't make me believe thar ain't some un at the other eend of the
line."
I would say it was all like a play on the stage, only it wasn't as small
as that. A play on the stage, as you well know, has its times and
places. It must come to an end within a reasonable time. The curtain
comes down, the audience files out, laughing and chatting, or wiping its
eyes--as the case may be--the actors run to their cheerless rooms to
strip off their tinsel finery, then the lights are put out, and
everything is left to the chill of emptiness and gloom. But this was not
the way with the play at old Jonas's home. It began early in the
morning--for Adelaide was a very early riser--and lasted until bed-time;
and, sometimes, longer, as Lucindy could have told you. Old Jonas had a
way of covering his bald head with a flannel night-cap, and tucking the
bed-covering about his face and ears, so that light and sound, no matter
where they came from, would have as much as they could do to reach his
eyes and ears; and, while he lay very still, as though he were sound
asleep, he was sometimes awake for a very long time, thinking old
thoughts and new ones, remembering people he had pinched in money
matters, and thinking of those he intended to pinch.
After Adelaide came to live with him he had few thoughts of this kind,
and less desire to sleep. Frequently he lay awake for hours at a time,
wondering if the child was comfortable. Adelaide slept in a poster bed,
one of the old-fashioned kind, and many a night, when everything was
still and dark as the gloomy plague that fell over Egypt, old Jonas
would slip from under his carefully tucked cover, steal into the room
where the child slept, and listen by her bedside to convince himself
that she was really breathing, so softly and shyly did she draw her
breath. And sometimes he would put out his hand and feel--oh, ever so
gently!--if she had kicked off the covering.
[Illustration: "Old Jonas would listen by her bedside to convince
himself that she was really breathing"]
Now, it frequently happened that Lucindy, the cook, had the same spells
of uneasiness, and it chanced one night that they were both at the
child's bed at the same time. Old Jonas was feeling, and Lucindy was
feeling, and their hands met; the cold hand of old Jonas touched
Lucindy's hand. This was enough! Lucindy said not a word--indeed, words
were beyond her--she said afterward that she came within one of uttering
a scream and dropping to the floor. But the fright that had weakened
her, had also given her strength to escape. She stole back to her place
on tip-toe, declaring in her mind that she would never again enter that
room at night unless she had torch-bearers to escort her.
It was contrary to all her knowledge and experience that old Jonas
should concern himself about the child at his time of life, and with his
whimsical habits and methods. In trying to account for the incident, her
mind never wandered in the direction of old Jonas at all. To imagine
that he was at the bedside of the child, investigating her comfort, was
far less plausible than any other explanation she could offer. And then
and there, the legend of Cally-Lou became charged with reality, so far
as Lucindy was concerned; and it had a larger growth in one night, from
the impetus that Lucindy gave it, than an ordinary legend could hope to
have in a century.
Lucindy lost no time in mentioning the matter to Adelaide the next day.
"La, honey! I had de idee dat you wuz des a-playin' when I hear you
talkin' to Cally-Lou; I got de idee dat she wuz des one er de
Whittle-Come-Whattles dat lives in folks' min', an' nowhar else. Dat 'uz
kaze I ain't never seed 'er; my eyeballs ain't got de right slant, I
reckon. But las' night, I tuck a notion dat you had done kick de kivver
off, an' in I went, gropin' an' creepin' 'roun' in de dark--not dish yer
common dark what you have out'n doors, but de kin' dat your Nunky-Punky
keeps in de house at night; an' de Lord knows ef I had ez much money ez
what dey say he's got, I'd have me ten candles an' a lantern lit in
eve'y blessed room. Well, I went in dar, des like I tell you, an' I put
out my han'--des so--an' I teched somebody else's han', an' 'twant
your'n, honey, kaze 'twuz ez col' ez a frog in de branch. I tell you
now, I lit out fum dar--hosses couldn't 'a' helt me--an' I come in de
back room dar whar I b'long'ded at, crope back in bed, an' shuck an'
shiver'd plum' tell sleep come down de chimberly an' sot on my eyeleds.
"Nobody nee'n'ter tell me dey aint no Cally-Lou, kaze I done gone an'
felt un her. Folks say dat feelin's lots better'n seein'. What you see
mayn't be dar, kaze yer eyeballs may be wrong, but what you feels un,
it's blidze ter be dar. Well, I done put my han' on Cally-Lou! Yes,
honey, right on 'er!" Lucindy told her experience to many, including old
Jonas, who glared at her with his ferret-like eyes, and moved his jaws
as if he were chewing a very toothsome tidbit; and the oftener she told
it, the larger it grew and the more completely she believed in
Cally-Lou.
Many shook their heads, while others openly avowed their disbelief. On
the other hand a large number of those who came in contact with Lucindy
and heard her solemn account of the affair, were greatly impressed.
Adelaide showed not the slightest surprise when Lucindy recounted her
astonishing adventure. She seemed to be glad that the cook had now
discovered for herself about Cally-Lou, but she seemed very much
distressed, and also irritated, that the Chill-Child-No-Child (as she
sometimes called her) should be so thoughtless as to wander about in the
darkness with nothing on her feet and little on her body. With both
hands Adelaide pushed back her wonderful hair that was almost hiding her
blue eyes.
"I don't know how often I have told Cally-Lou not to go gadding about
the house at night, catching cold and making Nunky-Punky pay a dollar
apiece for doctor's bills. No wonder she slept so late this morning!"
Adelaide not only talked like she was picking the words out of a big
book, as Lucindy declared, but there were times, as now, when all the
troubles and responsibilities of maternity looked out upon the world
through her eyes. Old-fashioned, and apparently as much in earnest as a
woman grown, it was no wonder that Lucindy gazed at her like one
entranced!
Adelaide made no further remark, but turned and went from the kitchen
into the house. All the doors were open, the weather being warm and
pleasant, and Lucindy presently heard her asking Cally-Lou why she
continued to disobey the only friend she had in the world. Cally-Lou
must have made some excuse, or explanation, though Lucindy couldn't hear
a word thereof, for Adelaide, speaking in a louder tone, gave the
Chill-Child-No-Child a sound rebuke.
"I don't care if you do feel that way about it," said she; "Nunky-Punky
can look after me, if he feels like it, and so can Aunt Lucindy, but I'm
the one to look after you. Be ashamed of yourself! a great big girl like
you going around in the dark, barefooted and bareheaded. Seat yourself
in that chair, and don't move out of it till I tell you, or you'll be
sorry."
Lucindy, listening with all her ears, lifted her arms in a gesture of
admiration and astonishment, exclaiming to herself, "I des wish you'd
listen! Dat sho do beat my time!"
Adelaide went off to play, and it might be supposed that she had
forgotten Cally-Lou; but a little before the hour was up, she went into
the house again, called Cally-Lou, and, after a little, came running out
again, laughing as gayly as if she had heard one of Mr. Sanders's jokes.
"What de matter, honey? Whar Cally-Lou?" Lucindy inquired.
"Why, she went fast asleep in the chair," cried Adelaide, laughing as
though it were the funniest thing imaginable, "and no wonder she fell
asleep after wandering about the house, pretending she wanted to make
sure that I was snivelling under that heavy cover. How can anybody get
cold such weather as this?"
Lucindy shook her head. "De han' dat totch mine was col', honey--stone
col'."
"Oh, Cally-Lou's hand! Well, she can sit by the fire and still be cold,"
responded Adelaide. "Cally-Lou is mighty funny," she went on, growing
confidential; "she says she is lonesome; she wants to play with growner
folks than me."
"Well, honey, I dunner whar she'll fin' um. Dar's Mr. Sanders; sholy he
ain't too young fer 'er!"
As though the mention of his name had summoned Mr. Sanders from the dim
and vague region where Cally-Lou had her place of residence, those in
the kitchen now heard his voice in the house. He had entered, as usual,
without taking the trouble to knock, and he came down the long hall,
talking and saluting imaginary persons, hoping in that way to attract
the attention of Adelaide. Nor was he unsuccessful.
"Well, I declare!" he exclaimed. "Here's Miss Sue Frierson!--an'
well-named too, bekaze ever'body knows that she'd fry a sun ef she had
one. Howdy, Miss Sue! Miss Susan-Sue! Ef you are well, why I am too! So
it's up an' hop to-day. Dr. Honeyman says she won't be well tell she's
better. She had company last night, an' she tried for to nod whiles she
was standin' up. It'd 'a' been all right ef her feet had n't 'a' gone to
sleep. Thereupon, an' likewise whatsoever--as the Peskerwhalian Bishop
says--she fell off'n her perch, an' had to be put to bed back'ards.
What? You don't know the Peskerwhalian Bishop? Well, his hardware name
is William H. Sanders, of the county aforesaid, Ashbank Deestrick, G. M.
"Cally-Lou? Well, I hain't seed the child to-day, but she's up an'
about; you'll hear her whistlin' fer company presently. Can't stay?
Well, good bye, Miss Susan-Sue; mighty glad I met you when I did. So
long, or longer!"
Bowing Miss Frierson out, though she was invisible to all eyes, Mr.
Sanders came back toward the kitchen talking to himself. "Well, well! I
hadn't seed my Susan-Sue in thirteen year, an' she's jest the same as
she was when she engaged herself to me--eyes like they had been jest
washed, an' the eend of her nose lookin' like a ripe plum! But sech is
life whar we live at. Howdy, Adelaide? Howdy, Lucindy? I hope both of
you have taken your stand among my well-wishers."
"La, Mr. Sanders, how you does run on! I b'lieve you er lots wuss'n you
used to be!"
"Well, Lucindy, it's mighty hard for to make a young hoss stand in one
place. He's uther got to go back'ards or forrerds, or jump sideways.
I've jest begun to live good. I feel a heap better sence I was born in
the country whar Miss Adelaide spends her time an' pleasure."
"Now, Bishop, tell me, please, if you were really talking to
Miss----Miss----"
"Frierson--Miss Susan-Sue Frierson." Mr. Sanders supplied the name to
Adelaide. He seemed to be filled with astonishment. "Did you hear me
talking?" he asked in a confidential whisper. "Why, I--I didn't know you
could hear me! Now, don't go and tell ever'body. She lives in our
country, an' she come for to see Cally-Lou."
"Well, I'm sorry Cally-Lou didn't see her. I had to punish her to-day,
and she's not feeling so well."
"Well, I reckon not!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders; "'specially ef you used a
cowhide, or a barrel-stave. What have you got to do to-day, and whar are
you gwine? I had a holiday comin' to me, an' so I thought I'd come down
here an' take you to the Whish-Whish Woods an' hunt for the Boogerman."
At once Adelaide was in a quiver of excitement. "Shall we camp out? Must
we take guns? How long shall we stay?"
"Guns! why, tooby shore," replied Mr. Sanders, with an expression of
ferociousness new to his countenance; "as many as we can tote wi'out
sp'ilin' our complexions; an' we'll stay ontel we git him or his hide.
Lucindy'd better fix up a lunch for two--a couple of biscuits an' a
couple of buttermilks. Thar's no tellin' when we'll git back."
Now, old Jonas Whipple had the largest and the finest garden in town. It
was such a fine garden, indeed, that the neighbours had a way of looking
at it over the fence, and wondering how Providence could be so kind to a
man so close and stingy, and so mean in money-matters. And as your
neighbours can wonder about one thing as well as another, old Jonas's
wondered where all the vegetables went to. It was out of the question
that old Jonas should use them all himself; and yet, as regularly as the
garden was planted every year, as certainly as the vegetables always
grew successfully, let the season be wet or dry, just as regularly and
just as certainly, the various crops disappeared as fast as they became
eatable--and that, too, when nearly everybody in the community had
gardens of their own. It was a very mild mystery, but in a village, such
as Shady Dale was, even a mild mystery becomes highly important until it
is solved, and then it is forgotten. Only Mr. Sanders had solved it thus
far, and this was the main reason why he "neighboured" with old Jonas.
He had discovered that the vegetables went to the maintenance of a small
colony of "tackies" that had settled near Shady Dale--"dirt-eaters" they
were called. They were so poor and improvident that the men went in rags
and the women in tatters; and only old Jonas's fine garden was free to
them. In the early morning twilight they would slip in with their bags
and their baskets, and were gone before anybody but themselves had
shaken off the shackles of sleep.
* * * * *
Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-eight seemed to be very pale when Adelaide
and I found it under the honeysuckle vine, but in old Jonas's garden it
was particularly brilliant in its colours of green. Green is the
admiration of summer, and it has more beautiful shades than the rainbow.
Observe the marked difference between the cabbage and the corn, between
the squash and watermelon vines, between the asparagus and the cucumber,
between the red pepper plants and the tomato vines! These variations are
worth more than a day's study by any artist who is ambitious of training
his eyes to colour.
In old Jonas's garden in the summer we are speaking of, there were three
squares of corn, the finest that had ever been seen on upland. And it
was very funny, too: for old Jonas had planted early, and the frost had
come down and nipped the corn when it was about three inches high. The
negro gardener was in despair; in all his experience, and he was
gray-headed, he had never seen anything like this late frost, and he was
anxious for the corn to be ploughed up, so that it could be replanted.
Old Jonas wouldn't hear to the proposition, and the gardener went about
his business, wondering how a man could be so stingy about seed corn,
when he had seven or eight bushels stored away in the dry cellar.
But, as time went on, the gardener discovered that old Jonas had wisdom
on his side of the fence; the corn not only came up again after being
cut down, but it grew twice as fast, and almost twice as high as anybody
else's corn. In short, there had never before been seen, in that
neighbourhood, a roasting-ear patch quite as vigorous. Some of the
cornstalks were nearly fourteen feet high, and some of them had as many
as four ear-sprouts showing. The patch was so rank and healthy that it
attracted the attention of Mr. Sanders. He climbed the fence, and went
into old Jonas's garden to give it a close examination. A good breeze
was blowing at the time, and the sword-like leaves of the corn were
stirred by it, so that they waved up and down and from side to side,
whispering to one another, "Whish-whish!" That was enough for Mr.
Sanders. He thought instantly of Adelaide, and he named the roasting-ear
patch the Whish-Whish Woods, and that was where he proposed to go
hunting for the Boogerman, the awful, greedy creature that ate
Nunky-Punky's vegetables raw!
Lucindy didn't need any training in the quick-lunch line, and in less
than no time, if we may deal familiarly with the ticking of the clock,
she had cut two biscuits open and inserted in each a juicy slice of ham;
and while she was doing this, Adelaide ran to her armoury, where she
kept her weapons, offensive and defensive, and came running back with
two guns. They were cornstalk guns, but not the less dangerous on that
account. They were very long and, as Mr. Sanders said, they had about
them an appearance of violence calculated to make the Boogerman fall on
his knees and surrender the moment he was discovered. An ordinary gun
might miss fire--such things have been known before now--but a cornstalk
gun, never! All you have to do when you have a cornstalk gun, is to
point it at the destined victim, shut your eyes and say _Bang!_ in a
loud voice, and the thing is done. And if people or things--whatever and
whoever you shoot at--should be mean enough to remain unhurt, why, then,
that is their fault, and much good may their meanness do them!
Well, Adelaide and Mr. Sanders took their lunch and were about to start
on their dangerous expedition, when they bethought themselves of
something that Lucindy had forgotten.
"Why, Lucindy!" cried Adelaide, "what is the matter with you?"
"Nothin' 't all dat I knows on, honey. I'm de same ol' sev'n an' six
what I allers been."
Then Mr. Sanders came to Adelaide's support. "Well, your mind must be
wanderin'," he said, "bekaze we ast you as plain as tongue kin speak for
to put us up a couple of buttermilks."
Lucindy threw her hand above her head with a gesture of despair. "I know
it, I know it! but I ain't got but one buttermilk. Dar's a jar full, but
dat don't make but one; an' what I gwine do when dat's de case?"
"Why, ef you've got a jar full, thar must be mighty nigh a dozen
buttermilks in it." And so, after much argument and explanation, Lucindy
found a bottle and a funnel and poured two glassfuls in it, one after
the other. Mr. Sanders, very solemn, counted as she filled the glass.
"That makes one," he said, as she emptied the first glass, "an'," when
she poured in the rest--"that makes two, don't it?"
"Yasser! La, yasser! you-all got me so mixified dat I dunner know which
eend I'm a standin' on. Two! yasser, dey sho is two in dar!"
Having everything needful in hand, the hunters took their way toward the
large garden. Don't think this garden bore any resemblance to the
ordinary gardens that are to be found in cities and towns. No! it was so
large that, standing at one end you had to shade your eyes--especially
when the sun was shining--to be able to see the boundary fence at the
other end. It held not only a supply of vegetables sufficient for fifty
families, but it contained an abundance of old-fashioned flowers, the
kind you see pictured in the magazines--roses, spice pinks, primroses,
mint, with its little blue flowers, lavender--oh, and ever so much of
everything! And it was all well kept, too, stingy as old Jonas was. In
this wide garden the Whish-Whish Forest grew and flourished, and toward
this the two hunters bent their steps.
At first they pretended they were not hunting. Nothing could have been
more innocent than the careless way in which they made their way toward
the home of the Boogerman. Hiding their cornstalk guns behind them as
well as they could, they sauntered along examining the flowers, and no
one would have supposed that they were after ridding the country of the
cruel monster that had terrorised the children for miles around. In not
less than seven or seventeen counties was his name spoken in whispers
when the sun had gone to bed and tucked his cloud-quilts around him. If
a child cried at night, or if a wide-awake little one uttered a
whimpering protest when bed-time came, the nurses--not one nurse, but
all the nurses--would raise their hands warningly, and whisper in a
frightened tone, "Sh-sh! the Boogerman is standing right there by the
window; if you make a noise, he'll know right where you are--and then
what will happen?"
Presently Adelaide and Mr. Sanders (who was still the Bishop, be it
remembered) came close in their saunterings to the edge of the
Whish-Whish Woods, and then they began to creep forward, making as
little noise as possible.
[Illustration: "They began to creep forward, making as little noise as
possible"]
"Bishop," said Adelaide, in a whisper, "you slip through the Woods one
way, and I'll slip through the other way. You can be a bishop and a
Injun, too, can't you?"
"Nothin' easier," replied the Bishop, trying to whisper in return; "I'll
jest take off my coat an' turn it wrongsud-out'rds, an' thar you are!"
Adelaide's ecstasy shone in her face, and with good reason, for the
middle lining of the Bishop's coat was fiery red. This was too good to
be true, and Adelaide wished in her heart that she had worn her hat with
the big red feather--oh, you know: the one she wore to Sunday School,
where all the other little girls were simply green with envy; of course
you couldn't forget that hat and feather!
In spite of the fiery red lining of his coat, the Bishop had an idea
that he didn't look fierce enough, so he took off his felt hat, knocked
in the crown, and put it on upside down. His aspect was simply
tremendous. No hobgoblin could have a fiercer appearance than the Bishop
had, and if Adelaide didn't shriek with pure delight it was because she
put her gun across her mouth and bit it. She bit so hard that the print
of her small teeth showed on the gun. Well, of course, after the Bishop
had transformed himself into such a ferocious-looking monster, he and
Adelaide were obliged to have another consultation, and it was while
this was going on that Adelaide came near spoiling the whole thing.
"Oh, Bishop!" she cried, with a great gasp, "how do you laugh when
you're obliged to, and when----" she gave another gasp, sank to the
ground, and lay there, shaking all over.
"You put me in mind, honey, of the lady in the book that leaned ag'in
the old ellum tree and shuck wi' sobs, ever' one on 'em more'n a foot
an' a half long, wi' stickers on 'em like a wild briar. It's a sad thing
for to say, but I'm oblidze to say it. The time has come when we've got
to part. Ef we go on this way, the Boogerman will come along an' put us
both in his wallet, an' then what'll we do? Things can't go on this
a-way. It may be for years an' it may be forever, as Miss Ann Tatum says
when she begins for to squall at her peanner, but the time to part has
come. You creep up yander by the fence, so you can see the Boogerman ef
he tries for to git away, an' I'll roost aroun' in the bushes. Ef I jump
him I'll holla, an' ef he come your way, jest shet your eyes an' give
him both barrels in the neighbourhood of eyeballs an' appetite. You
can't kill the Boogerman unless you hit him in his green eye--the other
is a dark mud colour."
Well, they separated, the Bishop beating in the bushes and underbrush,
as he called the crab-grass and weeds that had begun to make their
appearance in the corn-patch, and Adelaide creeping to her post of
observation as though she were stalking some wild and wary animal. She
could hear the Bishop rustling about in the thick corn, but couldn't
catch a glimpse of him. Once she heard him sneeze as only a middle-aged
man can sneeze, and she frowned as a general frowns when his orders have
been disobeyed. Presently she heard some one coming along the side
street, which, being away from the main thoroughfares, was little
frequented. Occasionally a pedestrian, or a farmer going home, or house
servants, who lived near-by, passed along its narrow length.
The moment she heard footsteps, Adelaide shrank back in the thick corn,
and held her cornstalk gun in readiness. Her hair might have been
mistaken for a tangle of corn-silks newly sunburned as it fell over her
face. The steps drew nearer, and, in a moment, a negro came into view.
He was a stranger to Adelaide, and that fact only made it more certain
that he was the Boogerman himself, who had jumped the garden fence in
order to elude Mr. Sanders, and was now sauntering along appearing as
innocent as innocence itself. When the Boogerman came opposite
Adelaide's hiding-place, she jumped up suddenly, aimed her gun and cried
_Bang!_ in a loud voice.
Now, as it happened, the passing negro was one who could meet and beat
Adelaide on her own ground. The cornstalk gun, with its imperative
_Bang!_ carried him back to old times, though he was not old--back to
the times when he played make-believe with his young mistress and the
rest of the children. Therefore, simultaneously with Adelaide's _Bang!_
he stopped in his tracks, his face working convulsively, his arms flying
wildly about, and his legs giving way under him. He sank slowly to the
ground, and then began to flop about just as a chicken does when its
head is wrung off.
The Bishop heard a wild, exultant shout from Adelaide: "Run, Bishop,
run! I've got him! I've killed the Boogerman! Run, Bishop, run!" Mr.
Sanders ran as fast as he could; and when he saw the negro lying on the
ground, with no movement save an occasional quiver of the limbs and a
sympathetic twitching of the fingers, his amazement knew no bounds.
"Why, honey!" he cried, "what in the world have you done to him?"
"I didn't do a thing, Bishop, but shoot him with my cornstalk gun; I
didn't know it had such a heavy load in it. Anyhow, he had no business
to be the Boogerman. Do you think he's truly--ann--dead, Bishop?"
"As dead," Mr. Sanders declared solemnly, "as Hector. I dunno how dead
Hector was, but this feller is jest as dead as him--that is ef he ain't
got a conniption fit; I've heern tell of sech things."
They climbed the garden fence, and went to where the Boogerman was lying
stretched out. "When a man's dead," said Mr. Sanders, "he'll always tell
you so ef you ax him."
"Boogerman! oh, Boogerman!" cried Adelaide, going a little closer.
"Ma'am!" replied the dead one feebly.
"When the Boogerman is dead," said Adelaide, "and anybody asks him if it
is so, he lifts his left foot and rolls his eyeballs. Are you dead?"
In confirmation of that fact, the foot was lifted, and the eyeballs
began to roll. Adelaide was almost beside herself with delight. Never
had she hoped to have such an experience as this. "Where shall he be
buried, Bishop?"
"Close to the ash-hopper, right behind the kitchen," promptly responded
Mr. Sanders.
"Get up, Boogerman!" commanded Adelaide. "You have to go to your own
fumerl, you know, and you might as well go respectably." Adelaide always
uttered a deliciously musical gurgle when she used a big word.
"Yes," said Mr. Sanders; "as fur as my readin' goes, thar ain't nothin'
in the fourteenth an' fifteenth amendments ag'in it."
Now, old Jonas's side-gate opened on this street, and on this gate
Lucindy chanced to be leaning, when the Boogerman, fatally wounded by
Adelaide's cornstalk gun, sank upon the ground and began to jump around
like a chicken with its head off. She was tremendously frightened at
first; in fact she was almost paralysed. So she stayed where she was,
explaining afterward that she didn't want to be mixed up "wid any er
deze quare doin's what done got so common sence de big rucus." Then she
saw Adelaide and Mr. Sanders climb the garden fence and stand over the
fallen negro, and curiosity overcame her fright. By the time the negro
was on his feet, Lucindy had arrived. She looked at him hard, jumped at
him, threw her arms around his neck, and squeezed him so tight that the
two of them kept turning around as if they were trying to keep time to a
smothered waltz; and all the while Lucindy was moaning and groaning and
thanking the Lord that her son whom she had not seen in four long years,
had come, as it were, right straight to her bosom.
She hugged him to the point of smifflication, as Mr. Sanders declared,
and she held him at arm's length, the better to see whether he had
changed, and in what particular. Then she turned to Mr. Sanders:
"Mr. Sanders, sholy you knows dis chil'--sholy you ain't done gone an'
disremembered Randall. Des like you seed him doin' des now, dat de way
he been doin' all his born days--constantly a-playin', constantly
a-makin' out dat what ain't so is so, an' lots mo' so. Many an' many's
de time sence Miss Adelaide been here has I had de idee dat ef Randall
wuz here, he'd be mo' dan a match fer Cally-Lou an' all de rest un um
dat slips out'n dreams an' stays wid us. Yasser, I sho has. But now he's
come, I des feels in my bones dat he gwine ter git in deep trouble 'bout
dem crimes what he run away fer."
"Randall is the chap that knocked Judge Bowden's overseer crossways an'
crooked, ain't he?" inquired Mr. Sanders.
"Yasser, he done dat thing," replied Lucindy: "an how come he ter do
it--him dat wuz afear'd er his own shadder--I'll never tell you. Let
'lone dat, he ain't gwin ter tell you; kaze I done ax'd him myse'f. I
speck he'll haf ter run away ag'in."
"You know me, don't you, Randall?" inquired Mr. Sanders.
"La! yasser, Mr. Sanders, I've been knowin' you sence I could walk
good."
"That's what I thought," said Mr. Sanders. "Well, my advice to you is to
stay an' face the music. Ef the man you hit makes a move we'll have him
right whar we've been a-tryin' fer to git him for two long years!"
They went toward the house, and entered the side-gate, attracting, as
they did so, the attention of two or three of the neighbours. The Bishop
had been so absorbed in what had occurred that he forgot to turn his
coat, or to right his hat.
"Did you see old Billy Sanders?" one woman asked another over the back
fence.
"I did," replied the other, "and I like to have dropped--I believe he is
going crazy."
"Going!" exclaimed the first woman, "he's gone! Done gone!"