DESTRUCTION THREATENS THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE.
“Now,” said Mr. Tisbett, “see here, young man, ef you’re a-goin’ to
ride along with me, you’ve jest got to set still. My senses, that ma of
yourn would give me fits ef anythin’ was to happen to you; though why
she should, I don’t see.”
“Let me have the whip,” cried Johnny, wriggling for the possession of
that article.
“No, you don’t!” declared Mr. Tisbett. “Whoa, there!” this to his
horses. “Now, that Mis’ Lambert wants to go to th’ deepo, I’ll be
bound,” pulling up to a big white house a little back from the road.
“Yis’m,” as a handkerchief waved frantically out of one of the
small-paned windows.
“I want to go to Hubbardville, Mr. Tisbett,” said the woman who held
it.
“Well, if you’re a-goin’ to Hubbardville,” observed the stage-driver,
whipping out a big silver watch, “I take it you better be steppin’
lively, Mis’ Lambert. I’m on my way to th’ deepo now, an’ I don’t come
back this way.”
“Mercy me!” exclaimed Mrs. Lambert, darting away from the window; and
in a minute or two she came out, catching her paisley shawl by its
two ends to tuck them under her arm, while she endeavored to pin her
bonnet-strings.
“Susan,” she called over her shoulder to some one in the entry, “I’ve
forgot my bag.” Then she took out one of the pins which she had hastily
put into her mouth for just such emergencies, and pinned up the long
ribbons that might be said to have seen better days.
“I wish folks would be ready when they hail th’ stage,” observed Mr.
Tisbett to Johnny, not careful in the least to lower his voice from his
ordinary tone. Then he roared out, “Come, Mis’ Lambert, I shall have to
go without you.”
“I’m coming!” said Mrs. Lambert quickly.
“Your bonnet ain’t on straight, ma,” said Susan, coming with the bag to
the doorstone.
Mrs. Lambert put up both hands, and twitched it the wrong way, thereby
letting the paisley shawl slip to the ground.
“That’s worse than ’twas before!” exclaimed Susan, giving the bonnet a
pull that carried up one set of her mother’s puffs as neatly as if she
had been scalped, and sent a side-comb flying to the ground.
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Lambert, putting out her hand for the comb, and
beginning to look around for the shawl. “There, fling it on my arm; I
c’n put it on in th’ stage.”
Mr. Tisbett rattling his whip against the dashboard, she stepped off
the stone at the same minute that Susan twitched the puff into place.
“You tell your pa he’ll find his clean shirt an’ stock on th’ bedroom
bureau,” she called, looking back, “this aft’noon.”
“Yes,” said Susan.
“An’ don’t forgit th’ meat bilin’ in th’ pot.”
“No,” said Susan.
“Air you goin’ to git in?” asked Mr. Tisbett sarcastically, by
this time holding the stage-door open, “or air ye goin’ to hold
conversations only? Please let me know, ma’am, for I’m goin’ to start
this ere stage.”
Here was Johnny’s opportunity. He seized the whip, and brought it
smartly down on the off horse, with the result that Mr. Tisbett was
laid flat on his back on the roadside,--round went the wheels, up flew
the horses’ heels, and, in a cloud of dust, Johnny was driving down the
turnpike.
“Th’ stage is goin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Lambert, starting in dismay, and
huddling up her bag and shawl in a small heap together on her arm; “now
I sha’n’t get to Hubbardville. Oh, be you hurt?” as Mr. Tisbett picked
himself up, and plunged down the road after his vehicle.
He roared to some farmers at work in a field to help in the chase,
pointing frantically to the lumbering stage ahead; but they had already
stared at it, and now stopped to listen to him without stirring a
muscle, as he dashed on. The only thing he could think of by way of
possible comfort, was that the horses, through force of habit, might
take it into their heads to go straight to the depot, which proved to
be the case; Johnny being so paralyzed with the grandeur of driving,
that he held the reins steadily all the way.
The only passenger in the stage, a woman with a big bandbox, got out
more dead than alive, as the horses swung up to the little station; and
the men collected there waiting for the train to come, wrenched Johnny,
notwithstanding his howls, from his seat and down to the platform.
“Who is that boy?” demanded the passenger when she could get her breath.
“He b’longs to Mrs. Fargo, one o’ th’ rich folks that’s stayin’ here
this summer,” said one man, rolling his quid over to the other cheek.
“Rich, is he?” the woman set down her bandbox, and advanced to Johnny.
“Well, I’m goin’ to shake that boy, ’cause I know his folks won’t; an’
I want to see it done.” And before any one could put up a hand, she
seized Johnny’s sailor-collar, and shook him smartly. Then she picked
up her bandbox, patted out her dress in satisfaction, and sat down to
wait for the train.
Mr. Tisbett, running along quite blown, came up just then, as Johnny
ran to the woman.
“You shook me,” said Johnny, with blazing cheeks.
“I know it,” said the woman grimly; “an’ if I had time before the train
comes, an’ wasn’t so beat out with th’ shock, I’d do it again.”
Johnny clinched his small hands, and beat the air fruitlessly. “I’ll
tell Mr. King,” he howled.
“Hey? What’s that you say?” cried the woman.
“I’ll tell Mr. King,” screamed Johnny, quite red in the face.
“What’s that boy got to do with the Kings?” said the woman to Mr.
Tisbett; “hurry up and tell me, ’cause the train’s comin’. Mercy! I
wouldn’t ’a’ shook anybody they know, for nothin’.”
But there was no time to explain; and she was helped on the train, with
her bandbox, saying the last thing, “I wouldn’t have shook him for
nothin’, if I’d known”--
There was only one passenger for Mr. Tisbett’s stage,--an old colored
woman with a big-figured lace veil over her face and a variety of
bundles. The stage-driver settled her and her belongings within the
vehicle, then he turned off for Johnny.
“Yes, sir-ee!” dragging him along by his big collar; “you’re goin’ to
set inside, after that ’xploit. Now, marm,” as they reached the stage,
“will you have the goodness to keep an eye on that boy,” hoisting
Johnny in; “an’ where do you want to stop?”
“To Mr. Jasper King’s,” answered the woman. “Land! but ef here ain’t
Johnny Fargo! I done am s’prised”--
“O Candace!” screamed Johnny, tumbling all over her, “did you bring
some red-and-white drops?”
“Yes,” said Candace, “I did; but they’s fer”--
“Look out for him!” screamed Mr. Tisbett, clapping to the door to fly
to his seat. Then he gave the horses their heads, and presently swung
up to “The Oaks” in his usual fine style; for nothing but the best
flourish would satisfy him there.
Candace got out of the stage as leisurely as she could, with Johnny
hauling at her, and insisting that he must carry all the bundles; and
Mr. Tisbett drove off toward Hubbardville.
The big mansion was very still as Candace waddled up the
carriage-drive, with Johnny spilling portions of his armful as he
went along, and then hurrying back to pick them up. “Land!” exclaimed
Candace, toiling on, “if I ain’t glad to get here to see my bressed
folks an’ s’prise dem. I hain’t slept a week o’ nights sence dey done
lef dere ole home. Whew! Ise all out o’ bref.”
“We don’t want to buy anything,” said one of the maids coming out to
the side porch, and looking at the big bag on the old colored woman’s
arm, Johnny being back of the evergreens around one of the curves,
picking up the last article dropped.
“Who’s asked yer to buy anyting?” demanded Candace in scorn, and
seating herself on one of the steps, utterly unable to go farther. “Yer
speak to Mrs. Jasper King as quick as you kin, or to him.”
“Mrs. Jasper King isn’t home. They aren’t any of them home; they’ve
gone abroad,” said the maid.
“Whar’s abroad?” screamed Candace, letting her bag roll out of her
hands to the ground.
“Oh! over to England; and then they were going to Rome,” said the maid
coolly.
“O my bressed chilluns!” mourned Candace, swinging her heavy body
back and forth on the step, while she wrung her black hands. Johnny
staggered up with all the parcels.
“It’s Candace,” screamed Johnny. “Hannah, don’t you know, she lives
where I do when I’m home, and where Mr. King used to live before he
came here. Now will you give me some red-and-white drops?” He deposited
all the bundles on the floor of the porch, and hugged up to the big
black figure.
[Illustration: “‘O my bressed chilluns!’ mourned Candace.”]
Hannah ran to call Mrs. Higby, who sent her for Mrs. Fargo; but she had
gone over to Grandma Bascom’s, it being her morning for that duty, so
the maid hurried down the lane to the little cottage. “O Mrs. Fargo!”
she exclaimed, hurriedly entering. “Oh! where is she?” as the old lady
sat up against her pillows, the only occupant of the room.
“Hey?” said Grandma.
“Where is Mrs. Fargo?” called Hannah excitedly.
“I can’t hear what you say,” replied old Mrs. Bascom, putting one hand
behind her ear.
“I say I want to know where”--
“No, I don’t want anythin’,” said Grandma, dropping her hand, and
settling back into a good position again. “I’m pretty comf’able this
morning, Hannah.”
“Do you know where Mrs. Fargo went to?” cried Hannah in a loud, excited
key, and running everything together. “When did she leave here?”
“Hey?” cried Grandma.
So Hannah had to shout it all over again, till she was quite exhausted;
then she began to content herself with one word, “Fargo,” which she
said over and over.
“She’s just gone,” at last said old Mrs. Bascom.
“Where?” cried the maid, her mouth close to the old lady’s cap-frills.
“Down to th’ village to get me some med’cine,” said Grandma. So
Hannah flew out and over home, and Mrs. Higby sent one of the men in a
pony-cart for Mrs. Fargo. By this time Candace was in a truly dreadful
state with longing to see the face of this old friend. As that lady
used to go with members of the King household to the little shop on
Temple Place, the poor old black woman thought if she could only catch
a sight of Mrs. Fargo, she would somehow get nearer to her “bressed
chilluns.”
“How she does act, doesn’t she, Mrs. Higby?” cried Johnny, who now gave
up all thoughts of the red-and-white drops, and crowding up to compass
as much of this new excitement as possible.
“Hum! I don’t know as she’s any worse actin’ than some other folks not
a thousand miles away,” said Mrs. Higby. “Well, I wish to goodness your
ma would come;” and she hurried to crane her neck out of the window.
“Now, thank fortune,” she cried joyfully, “here she is! Now, Johnny,
you run off an’ play, that’s a good boy,” as Mrs. Fargo hurried in.
Johnny, thus dismissed, ran down the terraces, and over in the
direction of the little brown house. He was never allowed to go in it
without a maid, but this morning he determined to peep in one of the
windows, “Just to see if everything’s there,” he said; and then, after
that performance was over to his satisfaction, he began to play that
he was really going in, and that he lived there, just as the little
Peppers had told about so many times. And then he tried every door; and
at last, to his astonishment, found the one in the “Provision Room”
unlocked, as a careless maid who had been cleaning there that very
morning, under Mrs. Higby’s direction, had left it.
“Oh, goody!” cried Johnny gleefully, racing in; “now I’m a little
Pepper. I’m Joel--no, I don’t want to be Joel. I’m David--no, I don’t
want to be David, either. I’ll be Ben--I’ll be Ben and Joel and David
and all of ’em,” he declared, hurrying around. “Now, what shall I play
first? I’ll--I’ll”--
His eyes fell on the stove. “I’m going to have a baking-day all to
myself!” he cried in joyful tones, and capering in the middle of the
kitchen. “Oh, won’t that be fine! And when they see what splendid cakes
I can bake, they won’t care. Phooh! I can make better things than any
of ’em, I b’lieve. And I know how to make the fire too.” He was now so
busy that the old kitchen presented the appearance of being the scene
of the most active operations of a dozen small boys, as he brought
flour, trailing it all over the neat floor, and sugar and molasses from
the buttery, leaving a chain of sticky drops everywhere he stepped, to
run and get the rolling-pin and handsful of dishes.
“I better make my fire first,” he said in the midst of this, and
dropping everything where he stood. “Now I must get the paper and the
wood;” and he scuttled off to the “Provision Room” to bring them in.
Then, stuffing them into the stove as tightly as he could cram them,
Johnny backed off, and surveyed his work in great pride.
“Now, I know where the matches are kept,” he cried in a jubilant
voice--“in the little blue dish on the shelf;” so pulling up a chair,
he soon had them in his hand, and drawing one as he ran back, he had a
merry little light that made him crow gleefully.
“There, now, sir-ee!” he cried, holding this to a bunch of paper that
stuck up one end out of the stove; “you’ll burn, I guess, when _I_ get
hold of you. Yes, sir-ee!” but the fire running down the match-end and
nipping his fingers, he twitched them off, to wipe them hastily on his
blouse; what there was left of the match tumbling down back of him, in
a small heap of paper and shavings that wouldn’t go into the stove.
Johnny rubbed his hands together joyfully, and hopped up and down
before the stove. “Oh, what cakes I will bake!” he cried. “And perhaps
I’ll put white on top of some of ’em; I haven’t decided yet. And I’ll
make a gingerbread boy--I’ll make a dozen gingerbread boys--I’ll--”
Just here his little legs felt warm; and he backed off from the stove
and whirled around to cool off a bit, to see the heap of papers and
shavings on the floor, in the merriest little blaze imaginable, while
one small tongue of flame reached out and licked his blouse.
Johnny gave one scream and rushed out; the little tongue of flame
persisting in staying on his blouse, while the other little flames left
behind in the old kitchen, every second growing big and strong, were
having a jolly time of it.
“_Fire!_” screamed Johnny, leaving wide the “Provision Room” door as he
bounded off across the lane.
[Illustration: Johnny whirled around to see the heap of papers and
shavings on the floor in the merriest little blaze imaginable.]
“Hillo!” cried Patsy, who came around the palings to look at him, but
not hearing what he said as he rushed madly off for the terraces. “Oh,
murther--murther!”
He cleared everything between Johnny and himself by one or two bounds,
and soon had him rolling over and over on the grass. “Now, to make
_absolutely_ sure,” said Patsy at last, “I’m going to turn the hose on
ye. Been building a bonfire somewheres, I s’pose.”
“There’s more of it in there,” said Johnny, and finding his voice to
point a shaking finger in the direction of the little brown house.
“Where?”
“There.”
No need to ask now. Smoke was coming out of the little brown house
“Provision Room” door. Patsy yelled “_Fire!_” as loud as he could
scream, and dashed down to it. In less time than it takes to tell it,
every man on the place was busy, working with a will to save the little
brown house. The big mansion was deserted of all. Even Candace forgot
her misery and desolation, to waddle as fast as she could to the scene,
wringing her hands and crying as she went.