THE LOST OYSTER SUPPER
Thanksgiving came and went its turkey-lined way rather lonesomely.
Christmas preparations also lacked their usual zest.
"Everything seems to have caved in round where Ernest was," Chicken
Little confided to Marian. "You see, we always talked everything over
and planned our Christmas together. Sherm takes Ernest's place in lots
of ways, but, of course, he isn't interested in what I'm making for
Mother, or in helping me make $5.25 go clear round the family and piece
out for Katy and Gertie besides."
"If sympathy is all you need, Jane, I can lend you a listening ear."
Marian crocheted another scallop.
"I'd be thankful for a few suggestions, too, I can't think of anything
to send Ernest. When he has to have everything regulation, and the
government furnishes him with every single thing it wants him to have,
why--it's awful."
"Yes, I agree with you--I've been racking my brains for Ernest, too.
Mother is patiently knitting him a muffler, which I know he won't be
permitted to wear, but I haven't the heart to discourage her--she gets
so much comfort out of it. Uncle Sam should be more considerate of fond
female relatives. He might at least tolerate a few tidies and
hand-painted shovels or a home-made necktie."
"Or a throw or a plush table cover with chenille embroidery. Mamie
Jenkins is making one for Mr. Clay. He will be too cross for words. He
loathes Mamie, though he tries not to show it, and plush is his special
abomination. He says it reminds him of caterpillar's fuzz." Chicken
Little's eyes danced maliciously.
Marian looked at her young sister-in-law meditatively.
"Mamie doesn't seem to be dear to your heart just now. Is she too
popular or too affected or too dressy?"
"Oh, she's just too utterly too too all around. I do have lots of fun
with her--she can be awfully nice when she wants to be, but----"
"But?"
"Oh, I don't know--she swells up so, lots of times over things I'd be
ashamed to tell--they're so silly."
"Yes, I guess Mamie's pretty cheap, but as long as you make friends with
her, don't rap her behind her back. It was all right to tell me--I
quizzed you anyhow. I wish you didn't see so much of her."
"Why, she's the only girl at school I can go with, who is anywhere near
my own age. The Kearns twins aren't even clean--I don't like to go near
them."
"I shouldn't think you would. Our public school system has its drawbacks
as well as its virtues. Well, Jane, be nice to Mamie, but don't--don't
be like her."
"You needn't worry; she's going to town to school after Christmas, so I
sha'n't see much more of her."
Mrs. Morton was still far from well, and she hung on Ernest's letters
almost pathetically. Ernest, boy fashion, was inclined to write long
letters when he had something interesting to tell and preserve a stony
silence when he didn't. Life at the academy was monotonous and he had to
work hard to keep up with his studies. Further, his father and Frank
suspected he was having many disagreeable experiences which he kept from
his family. These were still the days of rough hazing at the academy and
Ernest, being a western boy, big and strong and independent, was likely
to attract his full share of this unpleasant nagging. He revealed
something of his experiences in a letter to Sherm. Sherm showed the
letter to Chicken Little and Chicken Little, vaguely worried, told her
father. Dr. Morton talked it over with Frank.
"There isn't a thing you can do about it, Father. Most of it does the
boys more good than harm anyway. I talked to a West Pointer once about
the hazing there. He said some of it was pretty annoying and at times
decidedly rough, but that if a fellow behaved himself and took it
good-naturedly they soon let him alone. He said it was the best training
he had ever known for curing a growing boy of the big head. Don't
worry--Ernest has sense--he's all right."
To Chicken Little, Ernest confided, two weeks before Christmas, that he
was getting confoundedly tired of having the same things to eat week
after week. "Say, Sis, if you and Mother would cook me up a lot of
goodies for Christmas, I'd like it better than anything you could do.
Send lots, so I can treat--a turkey and fixings."
This letter did more for Mrs. Morton's health than the doctor's tonic.
She tied on her apron and set to making fruit cake and cookies and every
delicious and indigestible compound she could think of that would stand
packing and a four-days' journey. Chicken Little and Sherm spent their
evenings making candy and picking out walnut meats to send. Dr. Morton
made the nine-mile trip to town on the coldest day of the season to
insure Ernest's getting the box on the very day before Christmas.
The family at the ranch had a quiet holiday week. The day after New
Year's, Jane was invited to come to town and stay over night to attend
an amateur performance of Fatinitza, a light opera the young people had
staged for the benefit of a struggling musical society. Chicken Little
was excitedly eager to go. Mrs. Morton deliberated for some time before
she gave her consent. Marian and Frank and Sherm all teased in her
behalf, before it was won.
Sherm drove her in, and Frank, having business in town the following day
with a cattle buyer from Kansas City, volunteered to bring her home.
Jane wore her Christmas present, a crimson cashmere with fine knife
plaitings of crimson satin for its adorning. Frank lent her his sealskin
cap and she felt very grand, and looked piquantly radiant, as she
revolved for her mother's inspection before slipping into her big coat.
Sherm, standing waiting, inspected her, too.
"Scrumptious, Lady Jane, you look like that red bird I've been trying to
catch out in the evergreen by the gate."
Mrs. Morton shook her head disapprovingly. "No compliments, Sherm, Jane
is just a little girl and she must remember that pretty is as pretty
does. Don't forget, dear, to thank Mrs. Webb for her hospitality when
you come away. Are you sure your ears are clean?"
"Oh, Mother, I'm not a baby!" Chicken Little protested indignantly. "You
talk as if I were about five years old."
"My dear daughter, your mother will speak to you as she sees fit. Have
you got the high overshoes? I think, perhaps, you'd better take Father's
muffler. Sherm, have you both buffalo robes?"
Chicken Little relieved her feelings by making a little moue at Sherm.
He winked discreetly in return.
"Why," she said disgustedly after they were started, "won't mothers ever
let you grow up? I am a whole inch taller than Mother now, and half the
time she treats me as if I didn't have the sense of a chicken."
"Well, you see you're the only girl in the family, and you've been the
littlest chicken so long your mother kind of likes to shut her eyes to
all those extra inches you've been collecting. By the way, Miss Morton,
I don't notice that muffler your mother mentioned, and I think you'll be
cold enough before we get to town to wish you had it."
"You don't suppose I was going to wear that clumsy thing? I can snuggle
down under the robes if I get cold."
"No, I didn't suppose, so I brought the red scarf Mother gave me
Christmas, for your ears. They'd be frosted sure without anything. Did
you think your pride would keep you warm, Chicken Little?"
Chicken Little was inclined to resent this delicate attention; Sherm
seemed to be putting her in the same class her mother had. But her ears
were already beginning to tingle as they left the timber and got the
full force of the wind on the open prairie. Sherm was swinging the bays
along at a good pace. The cutter glided smoothly over the frozen snow.
She submitted meekly while he awkwardly wrapped the muffler over her cap
with his free hand. The soft wool was deliciously comfortable. She
neglected, however, to mention this fact to him.
"Too stubborn to own up, Lady Jane?"
Jane stole a glance at the quizzical face turned in her direction. Then
she evaded shamelessly.
"Sherm, don't you just adore to skate?"
* * * * *
Chicken Little was in a pulsing state of excitement that evening as she
listened to the pretty, lilting music and watched gorgeously clad young
people, many of whom she recognized, moving demurely about the little
stage. To others it was merely a very creditable amateur performance; to
Chicken Little, it opened a whole new world of ideas and imagining. She
had been to a theatre but twice in her whole life, once to Uncle Tom's
Cabin and once to a horrible presentation of Hamlet, which resulted in
her disliking the play to the day of her death. She loved the light and
color and harmony of it all. She delighted in it so much that she sighed
because it would be so soon over.
"What are you sighing for, Jane? Don't you like it?" her hostess
inquired.
Chicken Little gave a little wriggle of joy. "Like it? I just love
it--it's like butterflies keeping house. Don't you wish everything was
like that--pretty and gay, with all the lovers getting things
straightened out right?"
"Dear me, Jane, do you get all that out of this poor little comic opera?
I must have you come in to all our amateur things if you love music so."
"I don't love music so very much--I hate to practice. I shouldn't care
for their singing very much by itself, it's seeing the actors and
thinking how they feel--and their pretty clothes and----"
Mrs. Webb laughed.
"Chicken Little, I envy you--you are going to see so many things that
most people shut their eyes to."
Jane studied about this, but she hardly liked to ask what things Mrs.
Webb meant, because that lady seemed to expect her to know, and she felt
she would appear stupid not to. She lay awake a long time that night;
the music seemed to be splashing over her in little waves of melody.
Even after she had once fallen asleep, she awakened to find her brain
still humming the insistent measures. The next morning she went downtown
with her hostess and met Mamie Jenkins in a store.
"Why, Chicken Little, I didn't know you were in town? Your brother
didn't say anything about your being here."
"Frank? Is he in already?"
"Yes, I just saw him. Say, did you know a crowd of us are going out to
his house to-night to an oyster supper?"
"No, who's going?"
"Oh, a lot of the town boys and girls, and Grant Stowe and me. John
Hardy asked him if a crowd of us couldn't come out to-night and surprise
your sister, and Frank said come along, he'd have some hot oysters for
us. The boys have got a big bobsled from the livery stable. I bet we
have a lovely time. Why don't you and Sherm stay in and go out with
us--I guess there'll be room. Anyhow, you can always crowd more into a
bobsled, it's more fun when you're packed in."
Mamie giggled expressively.
Jane was surprised to learn that Sherm had come in with Frank and she
was also extremely doubtful whether her mother would approve of her
waiting to come out with the party. John Hardy's crowd was one of the
gayest in town and they were very much grown up. But her outing the
previous evening had given her a taste for grown-up things; she was
eager for the lark and resolved to tease Frank to let her stay in.
Frank studied the matter for several minutes, but finally consented
rather reluctantly. He saw Sherm was also keen for the fun.
"All right, Sis, that set are pretty old for a kid like you and I'll
have a time squaring myself with Mother. But you don't have many good
times and Sherm's steady enough to look after you. They are planning to
start early. I guess you'll get home by eight."
Frank left for the ranch about three o'clock to warn Marian of her
surprise party. Mrs. Webb had insisted that Sherm stay with them for an
early supper. The party had arranged to start at six. With a good team
they should reach the ranch easily by eight, have two hours for
merry-making, and get back to town by midnight.
The cold had moderated through the day; by five o'clock, the sky was
leaden gray and it looked like snow. Some of the fathers and mothers
were doubtful as to whether they ought to risk so long a drive. But the
weather was ideal, if it only didn't snow, and there might not be
another night during the holidays when they could all go.
The expedition had bad luck from the start. The livery man, disliking
the weather prospects, had had an inferior team harnessed to the big
sled. John Hardy and the other young men stood for their rights and
after a long wrangle, succeeded in getting what they wanted. But this
had consumed precious time. They drove out of the livery barn at
six-thirty instead of six, as they had intended. Then two or three of
the girls were not ready. One of the last called for, having sat with
her wraps on for over three-quarters of an hour, had finally removed
them and her party frock as well, in disgust, thinking the jaunt had
been given up on account of the weather. By the time she had dressed
herself afresh it was a quarter past seven. There was still one young
man to be picked up at the hotel. He, too, had grown tired of waiting
and had started out to hunt the sleigh. Ten minutes more were consumed
searching for him. The clock in the schoolhouse tower was striking the
half hour as the sleigh load passed the last house in the little town,
and turned into the country road leading to the ranch.
Sherm pulled out his watch. "Whew, Frank and Marian will have a nice
wait for us! We can't possibly make it till after nine."
The next two miles went with a dash. The moonlight was a dim gray half
light instead of the silvery radiance they had counted upon.
"Those clouds must be beastly heavy--there is scarcely a star to be
seen," ejaculated John Hardy, who was on the driver's seat with a
sprightly girl of nineteen for his companion. "What'll you bet the snow
catches us before we get home to-night?"
"I'll bet you it catches us before we get out to Morton's," retorted one
of the other young men.
"Well, I'm glad I am taking my turn at driving going out, if that's the
case. I shouldn't like the job of keeping the road on these prairies in
a nice blinding snowstorm."
"Oh, that's just because you're a town dude," said Grant Stowe
boastfully. "It is just as easy to follow a country road as a street in
town if you only know the country."
"All right, Grant, if it snows, we'll let you drive home."
"If it snows?" exclaimed one of the girls. "I felt a flake on my nose
this very minute."
The party surveyed the sky.
"Oh, you are just dreaming, Kate."
"Somebody blew you a kiss and it cooled off on the way," teased another.
"Just wait a minute, smarties. There--there was another!"
"Yes, I felt one, too!" exclaimed Mamie.
"You're right, it's coming." Sherm stared at the sky in some concern.
"Better whoop it right along, John," advised one of the young men
thoughtfully.
"I am not so sure that we shouldn't be sensible to turn round and call
this frolic off for to-night," John Hardy replied.
There was a chorus of No's.
"Nonsense, who's afraid of a little snow? Besides, we'd disappoint the
Mortons and Jane's mother would be frantic if she didn't come. Don't
crawfish, John Hardy."
"I'm equal to anything the rest of you are. I merely thought it might be
rough on the girls, and occasion some alarm to other fond relatives in
town, if we failed to get back to-night."
"Oh, stop your croaking!"
"There will be no trouble getting back."
"Of course not, the horses can find the way if we can't."
"Here, start something to sing and shut off these ravens!"
The crowd sang lustily for the next twenty minutes, then the snow began
coming down steadily and the majority of the young people commenced to
disappear under the robes and blankets.
"The pesky stuff is getting inside my collar!" exclaimed one of the men
who had insisted upon keeping his head out.
"Why don't you tear yourself from the scenery and come under cover?"
asked Mamie pertly.
"Yes, Smith, I'm only holding one of Mamie's hands. You may keep the
other warm."
"He's not either. Don't you believe him, Mr. Smith," Mamie protested.
John Hardy spoke to the girl beside him. He had been watching the road
ahead too closely for several minutes to do any talking.
"Hadn't you better go back with the others--there's no need for you to
get wet and cold."
"Oh, I am all right--it isn't cold--very."
"I am afraid it is going to be--the wind is rising and it's coming right
in our faces. We're a pack of fools to go!"
"We must be nearly half way there, aren't we?"
"I think so--I have never been out to the Morton ranch. Well, if worst
comes to worst, I guess they'll keep us all night."
The crowd was beginning to quiet down. By the time they had covered two
more miles the wind was blowing the snow in their faces with stinging
force. John Hardy was having trouble to keep the horses in the road.
They, too, recoiled from the snow drifting in their faces. He finally
persuaded his companion to go back under the robes. Sherm volunteered to
take her place.
"I don't like the look of things," said Hardy in a low tone as Sherm
climbed up beside him. "Can you tell where we are?"
Sherm stared at the snow-covered waste ahead and tried to recognize some
familiar land mark in the white gloom.
"Yes, I think so. That was Elm Creek you crossed some time back. We must
be about half way from Elm to Big John."
"How far now?"
"Three miles."
"Can you see the time?"
"Nine-twenty."
"The dickens, we ought to be there!"
"It oughtn't to be long now. Let me take the reins--your hands must be
cold."
"Just a minute till I start the circulation. I feel sort of responsible
for this gang, because I got up this fool enterprise." Hardy clapped his
hands together vigorously.
"It wouldn't be bad except for the wind!" Hardy said presently.
"That's the worst of Kansas, there always is a wind!" Sherm had not yet
been entirely converted to the charms of the sunflower state.
When Hardy took the reins again, Sherm still peered ahead, watching the
road. He had been finding something vaguely unfamiliar about the
landscape, though this was not strange since neither house nor tree nor
haystack was visible through the storm until they were almost upon it.
Then it loomed up suddenly shrouded and spectral. This feeling of
strangeness grew upon him and he felt uneasy.
"Stop the team a minute, Hardy." Sherm got down and went to the horses'
heads, peering all about. He scraped the snow away with his foot and
examined the ground.
He let out a shrill whistle of dismay, as he uncovered grass spears
instead of the hard-trodden road bed.
"Say, Hardy, we're off the road. I thought so from the way the sled was
dragging."
Hardy climbed hastily down with an exclamation that sounded profane. The
boys in the sleigh also piled hurriedly out. They soon assured
themselves of the sorrowful fact.
"What can we do?"
"Isn't there a house somewhere near where we can inquire?"
"What did you fellows go to sleep for when you were driving, anyhow?"
"You'll have to go back on your tracks till you find the road again."
Questions and offers of advice were numerous.
Sherm had walked a short distance back, exploring. He returned in time
to hear this last remark.
"The trouble is, Grant, the snow hasn't left us any tracks. Two hundred
yards back you can hardly see where we came."
The others began to wake to the seriousness of the situation.
"Haven't you any idea where we are, Dart?"
"Not the faintest notion, except that we are somewhere between Elm and
Big John. Perhaps Jane might know. She usually has a sixth sense for
direction.
"Chicken Little," he called, "do you mind getting out and seeing if you
can tell us where we are?"
Chicken Little was on the ground with a spring before Sherm could help
her. She strained her eyes through the gloom. She, too, examined the
ground, then, accompanied by Sherm and Hardy, waded through the snow for
several hundred yards in each direction, the men kicking the snow in the
hope of finding the track. Finally, Chicken Little gave it up.
"I don't know a blessed thing more than the rest of you. But I have the
feeling we must be near Charlie Wattles' place--you know that old
darkey. You see the wind was right in our faces most of the way, and it
isn't now. It's coming obliquely--course the wind may have changed.
Let's try heading west a while--and see if we can find the road. Let me
sit up there with you and Sherm; I might see something I'd recognize."
"Chicken Little, you'd freeze," objected Sherm.
"Not any sooner than you will, Sherman Dart."
"We can wrap her up in a blanket and she might help us--we have got to
get out of this some way. It's ten o'clock."
They drove about slowly for half an hour, but they could find nothing
that looked like a road. Some of the sleigh load were openly
apprehensive and inclined to blame Hardy for their plight, but for the
most part they were plucky and good-natured, trying to turn off their
growing fear with jests.
Chicken Little glued her eyes to the dimness ahead.
Sherm suggested that they give the horses their head.
"They'll try to go back to town if we do, and I don't believe they could
hold out--that off one is blowing pretty badly now. This snow is heavy
as mud to pull through." Hardy looked dubious.
"Turn due west, Mr. Hardy--we can't be far from Big John."
Hardy obeyed and they drove another half hour, seeing nothing save the
fluttering snowflakes and the snowy wastes opening out a few feet ahead
as they advanced.
"Chicken Little, your theory is all right, but it doesn't seem to work,"
Sherm remarked regretfully.
In the meanwhile, time had also been moving along at the ranch. The big
sitting room at the cottage was brightly lighted and glowingly warm from
an open wood fire. By eight o'clock, coffee was steaming on the back of
the kitchen stove, the extension table pulled out to its full length,
was set with soup plates and cups and silver. Piles of doughnuts and
baskets of apples and walnuts stood awaiting the sharp appetites the
Mortons knew the cold ride would bring to them. Marian had the milk and
oysters ready for the stew and sat down to rest a moment before the
arrival of the guests. She hardly noticed the clock until the hand
pointed to half-past eight.
"My, they're late!" she exclaimed.
Frank got up and went to the door. He encountered Dr. Morton just coming
in.
"When did you say those youngsters were coming? It's snowing like fury."
He paused on the porch to give himself another shake.
"I don't believe they'll try to come out to-night. I guess you've had
all your trouble for nothing. I only wish Chicken Little and Sherm had
come home with you."
Frank, being a good many years nearer to understanding the rashness of
youth than his father, disagreed with him.
"I bet they tried all right, but they may have had to give it up. I
wonder how long it's been snowing this way. I haven't been out since
supper."
Dr. Morton sat and visited for a half hour, then said he guessed he'd
better go back to Mother. She was worrying a little about her baby being
out such a night.
"She needn't," he concluded, "even a child like Jane would have sense
enough not to start on a nine-mile ride in such weather."
After his father had gone, Frank put on his coat and went down the lane
with a lantern. He came back presently and sat down by the fire without
saying anything.
Marian saw he was worried. "You don't think they've got lost, do you,
Frank?"
"I don't know what to think. I hope Father is right and they had sense
enough not to start. But I wish to goodness I hadn't let Jane stay in."
They sat there listening for every sound until the clock struck ten.
Frank had twice gone to the door, imagining he heard sleigh bells. He
got to his feet again at the sound of the clock.
"You might as well go to bed, dear. We sha'n't see them to-night, but
I'll sit up till eleven myself to make sure."
[Illustration: A half hour later when they were warmed]
Marian waited a little while longer, then took his advice. Frank sat by
the fire and pretended to read until five minutes of twelve, then he,
too, gave up the vigil as hopeless.
At ten minutes past two they both sat up with a start at the sound of
sleigh bells. An instant later there was a vigorous pounding on the
door.
Frank stared into the darkness for one confused instant, then leaped out
of bed, and wrapping a dressing gown about him, flung open the door.
Twelve numbed and snow-covered figures stumbled into the room. Two of
the men were half carrying one of the girls.
"Fire up quick, Frank, we're most frozen! And get some hot water!" Sherm
exclaimed, suiting the action to the word by stirring up the coals of
the dying fire and piling on wood.
It was not until a half hour later when they were warmed and fed, that
the Mortons had time to listen to any connected account of the night's
adventures. Frank had speedily summoned his father to prescribe for
frosted cheeks and fingers and toes. Later, it was discovered that John
Hardy had a badly sprained wrist. Marian and Mrs. Morton made the girls
comfortable and finished preparing the belated oyster supper.
"I am glad we didn't lose this oyster supper altogether," said Grant
Stowe feelingly. "I never tasted anything better."
"Same here," a half dozen laughing voices echoed.
"I wasn't so darned sure an hour ago that some of us were ever going to
taste anything again," said John Hardy soberly.
"Things didn't look exactly rosy, specially when we got spilled out,"
one of the girls added.
"What, did you have an upset?" Dr. Morton looked as if this were the
last straw.
"Yes, that's how Hardy sprained his wrist!"
"Chicken Little had just assured us that if we would drive a little
farther west, we should surely find something, when we struck the
sidehill and went over as neat as you please." Mamie enjoyed this thrust
at Jane.
"Well, we found something, didn't we?" defended Sherm.
"I should say we found out how deep the snow was."
"Yes, and the sidehill made Jane sure we were near the creek, and then
she saw the trees and----"
"Yes, and then she found it wasn't the creek at all, but the Wattles'
place."
"Whew!" exclaimed Frank, "you didn't get over to black Charlie's? Why,
that was three miles out of your road!"
"Yes, Frank, and you ought to have seen him. He was scared to death when
we came pounding on his door in the middle of the night." Chicken Little
giggled at the recollection.
"And there was a trundle bed full of pickanninies and they kept popping
their heads up. They were so ridiculous--with their little pigtails
sticking up all over their heads, and their bead eyes."
"Well, old Charlie warmed us up all right and started us back on the
road again," said John Hardy gratefully.
"And there's another thing sure," said Marian, interrupting this flow of
reminiscence, "you can't go back to town to-night, and you must be tired
to death, all of you. Mother Morton, if you will take the girls over
with you, Frank and I will make some pallets by the fire for these boys,
and let them get some sleep."
* * * * *
The real sport of this excursion came the next day when Frank Morton
hitched an extra team on in front of the livery horses and drove the
party back to town himself, to make sure they did not come to grief
again in the piled-up drifts. But Chicken Little and Sherm were not
along. They watched them drive off with never a pang of envy.
"I have had enough bobsled riding to do me for this winter," said Jane
wearily. Her evening at Fatinitza seemed a thousand years away.
"Ditto, yours truly!" And Sherm yawned luxuriously.