TOM, TOMMY AND JANET
In a grove upon the bank of the log-choked river, Tom Locke lay
stretched on a carpet of brown pine needles, reading from a little
book. The sunshine, sifting through the trees, cast upon the ground
golden fleckings, which wavered and danced as a soft breeze stirred the
upper branches.
By turning his head and lifting his eyes, Tom could catch a glimpse,
through an opening, of the distant village and the mills below the dam,
silent and dozing in the peaceful warmth of the Sabbath afternoon. So
absorbed was he, however, that he rarely paused to give attention to
that view.
He scarcely heard the sounds of children’s voices in the grove; sounds
which gradually drew nearer. When at last he did take note, it was
because their close approach had aroused him, but, trusting he would be
left undisturbed in his glade, he resumed his reading.
Suddenly he was startled into full attention by a voice which called:
“Tommy, Tommy, where are you?”
The voice, clear, mellow, flute-like, gave him a singular thrill that
brought him up to a sitting position. The book dropped from his hand,
forgotten. No child’s voice was that; he had heard it before, coming
from lips whose fair curve and fullness he could not forget, and,
though he chided himself for his folly, its echoes had haunted him even
in his dreams.
He waited, breathless, expectant, desiring to hear the call repeated,
and that desire was quickly gratified.
“Tommy, Tommy, why don’t you answer me?”
He was tempted to answer, but that was unnecessary; for the branches
parted, and she appeared in full view, pausing instantly on beholding
him, her blue eyes wide with surprise, her flushed cheeks quickly
taking on a deeper tint.
She was dressed in white, an occasional ribbon adding a livening bit
of color, and the sight of her figure, poised against that dark-green
background, slender, startled, entrancing, set his heart thumping. Nor
was his voice quite natural as he hastily rose, bowed, and asked:
“Did you call me, Miss Harting?”
“Oh――oh, I beg your pardon!” she returned, laughing nervously. “You
gave me a start. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I’m glad I am,” he asserted. “Just now I’d rather be here than
anywhere else in the world. It is I who should beg your pardon for
startling you.”
There could be no question, his bearing and words marked the gentleman;
if doubts had troubled her, they fled at once. In the garb of the
baseball field he had looked well; in a suit of gray tweed, negligee
shirt, and russet shoes, he looked far better. His soft hat lay on the
ground near the book. She, too, felt her heart beating fast.
“When I sought this quiet spot,” he went on, as she still remained
silent, “I scarcely anticipated the pleasure of beholding a wood nymph.
And hark!――the pipes of Pan!”
The sound of music came from some spot near at hand.
“It’s Tommy’s harmonica,” she laughed. “Tommy,” she called again,
“where are you, you rascal?”
She was answered by an elfish burst of laughter, followed by a rustling
in the bushes and the appearance of a head of tousled, reddish hair,
a freckled, snub-nosed face, and a pair of mischievous, dancing eyes
that widened at the sight of Locke.
“Gee!” said the boy, coming into full view. “I didn’t know he was here.
Where’s the rest of the bunch, Miss Janet?” One soiled hand gripped the
harmonica.
“You see what you did by running away, Tommy,” said the girl, in mock
severity. “You made me disturb Mr. Locke.”
“For which offense, Tommy,” smiled the young man, “I’ll stand treat at
the candy store the first chance I get. While not in the least desiring
to encourage insubordination, I must say I’m glad you ran away.”
Janet flashed him a look, and her eyes dropped before his gaze. She
could feel the flush in her cheeks.
“I came out for a walk with some of the little fellows of my
Sunday-school class,” she hastened to explain. “Tommy Murphy is always
up to his pranks. One day he got lost in the woods, and they didn’t
find him until eleven o’clock that night.”
“Never got lost,” denied the boy instantly. “My old man give me a
larrupin’, ’n’ I jest run off to go West an’ fight Injuns, but it come
dark ’n’ I had ter camp in the woods, ’n’ they ketched me ’n’ took me
back home. My maw, she didn’t let my paw larrup me no more fer that,
fer she knowed I was desprut, an’ I’d said that I’d run erway ag’in if
I was thrashed any more. When a desprut man says that, folks better be
careful what they do to him.”
With some difficulty, Locke refrained from a delighted outburst of
laughter. “I quite agree with you, Tommy,” he said. “There have been
occasions when I was desperate myself.”
“I know, I know,” eagerly cried the little fellow. “I seen that fust
game you pitched ag’inst Bancrof’. Gee! You must ’a’ been desprut with
the bunch howlin’ at ye ’n’ you plumb off your pins; but you jes’ got
together an’ made ther Bullies’ look like er lotter shines. I see
all ther games. It don’t cost me nuthin’; I know er loose board, ’n’
I crawl t’rough the fence. Say,” he added, in sudden alarm over the
indiscretion of this confession, “you won’t gimme erway, will ye?”
“Never,” promised the pitcher solemnly. “I register an oath to be
silent as the grave.”
“Come, Tommy,” said Janet, “we must go back to the others.”
“Aw, w’ats the use o’ hurryin’?” objected the boy. “They’re comin’ this
way now.” He lifted his voice in a shrill shout: “Hey, fellers, come
on! This way. Here we be.”
There were answering calls, and the sound of running feet and crashing
bushes. Seeing a look of uncertainty upon the girl’s face, Locke
hastened to reassure her:
“Let them come, Miss Harting. This is as good a place as any for them
to amuse themselves.”
“But you――we have disturbed your reading.”
“There are things more interesting than books, and I was really a
bit lonely. See, there is a clean log on which you may sit, and, if
you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you. You’ll certainly be well
chaperoned. Of course, if you object to my company and――”
Making the grove ring with their whoops, six youngsters came bursting
into the glade. Tommy quickly satisfied their surprised curiosity
regarding the young man they found talking to their teacher.
“That’s Lefty,” he said. “We jes’ run ercrost him here by accidunt.
He’s ther greatest pitcher that ever bent er slant over the slab round
these parts. Me brudder Bill says so.”
“Aw, g’wan!” retorted a barefooted boy, who was a bit larger and
somewhat older. “My brudder Sam says Lefty ain’t so much, only he’s a
southpaw, an’ Bancrof’ ’s gotter lot of left-hand knockers; an’ that’s
how he bothers ’em.”
“Looker here, Jimmy,” said Tommy ominously, thrusting the harmonica
into his pocket, “your brudder Sam was talkin’ through his hat. Anyhow,
he dunno beans ’bout baseball.”
“He knows as much as your brudder Bill.”
“You’re another!”
The two boys flew at each other, Tommy getting in the first crack and
following it up hotly; but Locke’s strong hands quickly separated them
and held them apart.
“He said you warn’t no good as a pitcher,” panted Tommy. “Lemme go, an’
I’ll make him eat his words.”
“Aw, let ’im come,” sneered Jimmy, “an’ I’ll knock ther block off him.”
It was Janet who succeeded in shaming them into a temporary truce; but,
although they promised to fight no more on Sunday, both muttered dire
threats of what they would do to each other the first time they met on
a week day.
“Aren’t you ashamed to fight?” asked the girl, reprovingly.
“Nix,” replied Tommy. “A feller ain’t no good that can’t fight. Me
brudder Bill says that Lefty can fight jest as well as he can pitch,
an’ that’s goin’ some.”
“I am afraid,” said Janet to Locke, “that you have set a bad example.”
“But not willingly,” he quickly declared. “I hope you do not think I
would engage in a public fist fight from inclination. I assure you that
the knowledge that you witnessed that wretched affair has caused me no
little mortification.”
“You were justified,” she said. “I saw it all, and there was no manly
way by which you could have avoided it.”