UNCLE ADAM AND MORTON.
The days slipped quietly away, and Sara managed, in the midst of all her
duties, to read with the children at least one hour of each, and to get
a little time besides for her own deeper studies.
She found she could take the old school-books which she had thought once
so thoroughly learned, and dig new treasures from them; while the books
from Miss Prue's, nearly all of a scientific character, were read and
re-read with ever deepening interest.
But it was not the printed page alone that Sara studied. She had always
been fond of long walks, and in these her keen eyes, directed
everywhere, lost nothing that nature had to show her.
The shapes of the clouds, and their relation to the weather, the
different phases of the sea, all the queer collection of weed and
mollusk that it cast ashore, the formation and colors of the cliffs, the
different shades and granulations in the sands of beach and pine grove;
everything gave her active, hungering mind food for thought and
speculation.
She seldom returned empty-handed from these strolls, and a rude little
set of corner shelves she and her brother had managed to nail together,
was rapidly filling with the oddest and prettiest of her findings. She
managed, also, to interest the children in these things, and taught them
a lesson some people never learn,--how to use their eyes.
Thus, living close to nature's heart, they could not be absolutely
miserable, though want did press them closely.
Sara had enjoined secrecy on the children in regard to the money. She
was naturally reticent, and dreaded the gossip of the little town, which
made a nine-days' wonder of every small happening; and had besides that
self-respecting pride which dislikes to thrust its misfortunes on a
careless world. But perhaps more than all, a certain loyalty to the dead
mother closed her lips. She would not have her blamed for her
foolishness now she could not defend herself, poor thing! And they would
manage somehow till father returned.
If worse came to worst, she could borrow of Squire Scrantoun, though she
felt she could not resort to that humiliation except in case of actual
necessity. So long as a potato or herring was left in store, she would
wait for relief; but one thing did cause her most anxious thought, and
that was how to procure milk for the little one.
As she stood one morning counting over the few pennies left in the old
blue teapot, and wondering what she should do when they were gone, the
door was flung open, and Morton, flushed and bright-eyed, entered and
threw something at her feet.
It was a wild goose, limp and drabbled, and Sara looked up in surprise
at the boy.
"You didn't shoot it, Morton?"
"No; but I killed it!" exultantly. "I've got the 'honk' so I can do it
nearly as well as Uncle Adam Standish; and this morning I was down in a
nice little cove, when I saw this old fellow light on the water close
by. Then he paddled out and began feeding along the beach. So I 'honked'
to him, and he answered, and I kept on, and he came closer. I'd first
broken off this piece of rock to bring home and show you that bit of
crystal in it, when I thought I'd use it, and I rose up and let fly!
Well, it toppled him over, and I jumped out and caught hold of him
before he could get away, and wrung his neck--and there's the goose, and
here's the rock!"
He pointed triumphantly to each, while Molly executed a sort of scalp-
dance about the group, snapping her fingers and smacking her lips, as
she cried, "Won't we have a dinner, though? And I'm so sick of herring!
You'll cook it for dinner, won't you, Sara?"
The young girl hesitated a moment, her eyes going from one eager face to
the other with a deprecating glance. No one knew better than she how
delightful this change of diet would be; but she quickly put aside her
own desire, and said gently,
"I'm so proud of you, Morton! Molly and I can't complain with such a man
to look after us, can we? But look at this. I have only a few pennies
left, and I was wondering what we should do for milk for baby. Now, if
we can all be unselfish, and let you sell this goose to Mrs. Norris or
Miss Prue, it will buy milk for some time yet. Don't you see, dear?"
The boy's face flushed darkly, and all the brightness died out of it,
while Molly's became as blank as the wall.
"It's all the baby's fault," he said bitterly. "We'd have had plenty of
money but for him. Let him suffer too!"
"Morton!"
His head drooped at the grave tone, and Molly choked back something she
was about to say.
"Could you really bear to see that little darling suffer, Morton? You
know you couldn't! We all know he never meant to do such mischief. Look
at his innocent little face this minute; could you see it grow thin and
pale for lack of the food he craves?"
Morton gave one look, and melted.
"I didn't really mean it," he stammered; "only I'm awful hungry, Sara."
"My brave soldier! I know you are. But you're going to be the help and
standby of us all till father comes home. I'll bake the potatoes to-day,
you like them so, and you may have a wee bit of baby's milk to eat with
them."
This appeal was not lost. The boy straightened up proudly. "Well, give
me the goose," he said resolutely; "I'll take it to Mrs. Norris. I saw
company driving up as I came by, so I guess she'd like it."
Molly made no remonstrance to this, except to draw down her round face
to a doleful length, and drawl out a ridiculous wail common among the
sailors,--
"'I'm bound away to leave you--
Good-by, my love, good-by!
I never will deceive you
No never, Mary Ann!'"
which she pointed by giving the stiffened foot of the defunct goose a
last fond shake in farewell. So it was with laughter and good feeling,
after all, that their dinner for that day was renounced.
But the little episode had given each a spirit of self-sacrifice, which
was to help them through many hard times, while it had put an idea into
Morton's head that he was not slow to act upon.
As soon as he had disposed of his goose to Mrs. Norris (who snapped it
up eagerly, and paid him well, its opportune arrival saving her the
great mortification of giving her friends a fish dinner), he sought out
old Adam Standish, the acknowledged sportsman of the village.
As usual, he found the heavily bearded, long-haired, keen-eyed old man
sitting on a bench before his cabin, and at the minute gazing down the
long barrel of a shot-gun which he had just been cleaning. "Hello,
uncle!" was Morton's greeting.
Every man is an "uncle" in Killamet, unless he is a "cap'n," or a
"squire."
"Hello!" said Adam, lowering his gun. "Oh! it's you, sonny? Come up and
have a seat," sweeping together the empty gun-shells, bits of rag and
wadding, small tools, etc., at his side. "How's your folks?"
"All right," remembering with a sudden sense of pleasure the money for
baby's milk safe in his pocket. "Been gunning lately?"
"Waal, some, a brace or two o' brants; jest hand me them pincers, Mort.
Why? Want to buy?"
"No; I want to shoot."
"Hey? You! He, he!"
"I killed one this morning, Uncle Adam."
"Whar'd ye get yer gun?"
"Didn't have none."
"Hey? Little boys shouldn't tell squibs."
"I'm not squibbing; I 'honked' to it from behind some rocks, and then
knocked it over with a stone."
"Ye did? Waal, purty good! purty good! Goin' to hev it fer dinner, I
s'pose?"
"N--no, I sold it to Mrs. Norris."
"Did, hey? What'd she giv ye?"
Morton told him, and the old man ruminated a while, as he industriously
cleaned, primed, and loaded his gun, while Morton waited, watching a
long, plume-like line of smoke along the distant horizon, which he knew
was from a Portland steamer. Finally Adam set down the gun with a
contented air, and observed,--
"Haow airly kin ye git up?"
"At three, if you say so."
"Waal, come along abaout four ter-morrer mornin', an' I'll take ye 'long
o' me."
"But I haven't any gun, Uncle Adam."
"Don't need none! I'm a-goin' to show ye what guns Is _fer_. When
you've got that idee bagged, it'll be time enough fer the weepon. I
ain't no patience," he went on, putting his hands on his knees and
bending forward impressively, "with these fellers what mangles their
game. I s'pose it's plain that the A'mighty made wild fowl to be shot,
but the man what breaks their wings and leaves 'em to crawl off an' die
in misery ain't human, he ain't! Make clean work o' it, or let 'em
alone, _I_ say," and he began gathering up his traps in a manner
that convinced Morton the conference was over.
So he said good-morning, and went whistling down the village street, the
wind from off the sea tempering the downpour of the sun on white cliff
and sand, and lifting the wide rim of his torn straw hat to caress his
ruddy cheek.
Away out on the bay was a schooner tacking against the wind, while just
rounding Rocky Point was a trim little yacht with all sail set, flying
straight in for Killamet beach.
"How pretty she rides!" he thought, and wondered, boy-like, if when he
was a big man he would sail his own craft,--the end and aim of every
fisher-boy along the Atlantic coast.
As he dreamed, he turned and walked down over the satiny sand of the
beach to the water's edge, and now could see that there were three
people in the yacht,--a little round man with big spectacles at the
rudder, a taller one, young and trim-looking in his tourist costume, who
stood boldly out on the bowsprit, while a beautiful woman with blond
hair leaned gracefully back in a steamer-chair.
With native courtesy Morton hastened to assist in securing the boat, and
was rewarded by a hearty "Thank you, my boy!" from the younger man, and
a brilliant smile from the lady, which covered him with blushes and
confusion. The older man seemed in a brown study, and only glared at him
absent-mindedly through his large glasses.
"Ah, Robare!" said the lady with an odd little accent, "I have now a
thought; it may be this boy could to us tell of some public-house near
by, to which we could go for this night."
All turned to Morton, who said hesitantly,--
"Yes, there is one, or at least there's Miss Zeba Osterhaus; she keeps
store in her front window, and has rooms up-stairs that she doesn't use.
Sometimes she takes in a painter fellow, or the goose-men."
"The what?" laughed the young man, advancing with a large portfolio,
which he had taken from the yacht as soon as she was made fast.
"Why, the men that come for the wild geese--gunning, you know."
"Ho, yes indeed! I'd like to be a 'goose-man' myself, for once in a way.
What do you say, uncle and aunt; can you make yourselves contented with
your geological and artistic prowls to-morrow, and let me off for a bit
of a shoot?" Both gave a ready assent, and the speaker turned to
Morton.
"And now, my boy, can you add to your favors by showing us the way to
this--What's her name?--you mentioned, and telling me, as we go along,
where I can get hold of a good guide and sportsman about here?"
As he spoke he attempted to slip a half-dollar into the boy's hand, but
it was sharply withdrawn.
"I'll tell you all I can, sir, without pay," flushing as he spoke; for a
sudden memory of the cruel needs at home made him almost regret yielding
to his first impulse of pride and self-respect.
The young man flushed a little also, and slid he silver piece back into
his own pocket rather quickly.
"Pardon me," he said in a graver tone than he had yet used. "I shall be
very grateful for your information."
"Well, sir, there's old Uncle Adam Standish, he's the best I know," said
Morton, as they led the way towards the village, followed by the others.
"He can hit his bird on the wing every time, and he can 'honk' so's to
fool any goose alive, and find the best blinds of anybody 'longshore."
"Really? He must be a genius!"
"Yes,"--wondering what a genius might be,--"if he'll only let you go
with him you'll have a good shoot."
"If he'll let me! Why shouldn't he? I expect to pay him for his
trouble."
Morton laughed.
"_That_ wouldn't make any difference. He doesn't seem to care much
for money; all he notices is how a man handles his gun. If you hold it
just to suit him, he'll go, and if you don't, he won't."
"How ridiculous! Well, do for goodness' sake tell me in what manner I
must handle the gun that I may please this Criticus."
Morton bridled with indignation.
"He ain't a cuss, Uncle Adam ain't. He's a nice man, and he knows what
he's about too. If you'd see some o' the fools that come down here to
shoot you'd be particular too, I guess. They're a good deal more apt to
hit their guide than the birds, I can tell you."
The young man laughed heartily.
"My boy, I hadn't the slightest intention of calling your relative
names; that was simply a title many men would be proud to bear."
"That's all right." in a mollified tone; "but he isn't any relation to
me. Everybody calls him uncle."
"Ah, I see. You make me feel wonderfully interested in this wise Adam,
and only in a fright for fear I won't hold my weapon to suit him;
couldn't you give me a lesson or two, now?"
Morton looked at the stranger askance; was he making fun of him? then
straightening his boyish shoulders, he said proudly, "I can tell you
something better than that. _I'm_ going gunning with Adam to-morrow
morning at four o'clock, and perhaps I can get him to take you along
too, if he likes your looks."
"Let us hope he may!" observed the other fervently. "What! is this the
place we're bound for?" looking dubiously at the weather-worn cottage
opposite, in whose gable end was a primitive bay-window, through which
could be seen half a dozen jars of barber-pole candy hobnobbing sociably
with boxes of tobacco, bags of beans, kits of salted mackerel, slabs of
codfish, spools of thread, hairpins, knives and forks, and last, but by
no means least, a green lobster swimming about in a large dishpan.
Morton wondered what this stranger could have expected better than this,
and remarked encouragingly,--
"She's got carpets on most all her rooms, and she hooks the nicest rugs
in Killamet,--all big flowers, or cats lying down,--the prettiest you
ever saw!"
"Aunt Felicie, do you hear that?" flinging the question over his
shoulder. "We are about to meet your rival! You paint flowers, and
she,--just hear the alarming word,--she 'hooks' them! Cats, too, and
dogs, did you say? Does the verb have a dishonest meaning here in
Killamet, my boy?"
Morton stared back wonderingly, not understanding much except that in
some way either he or Miss Zeba, or perhaps Killamet in general, was
being held up to ridicule, and that it was his business to resent it.
"I don't know, sir," he answered stoutly, "what you mean: but if you
want to know whether Miss Zeba is a nice woman, I can tell you that;
she's just as good as gold, sir! and I suppose if folks don't like our
ways in Killamet they needn't come here, there's plenty of room outside,
I guess."
The young man turned and gave him a critical look, which soon grew
approving, then held out his hand. "This is the second time I've had to
ask your pardon; will you make up, and be friends? I like you, and if
they've got any more of your sort here, I shall like Killamet!"
Morton extended his hand readily enough, and felt it seized in a close,
strong pressure which pleased him, though he could not have told why,
and the young man turned again to his aunt.
"Here we are at--now, what is that name, my lad?"
"Miss Zeba Osterhaus, sir."
"Oh, yes! I believe I could remember it if I could once see it spelled,
however"--
The rest of his sentence was broken off by the sharp jangle of the bell
above the door, as Morton opened it; and the warning note brought Miss
Zeba herself from an inner room.
Whatever of fun had been dancing in the young man's eyes suddenly died
out at the sight of her. She was small, like a little child, but had the
wan, drawn, yet sweet-looking face of a middle-aged woman, while between
her shoulders she bore that fleshy symbol of Christian's burden, that
painful affliction, that almost intolerable deformity for a woman to
endure, a hump back.
Instantly the young man's hat was off, and the young man's voice grew
almost tender, as he said,--
"We beg pardon for disturbing you, but is this Miss Osterhaus?"
"Yes, sir," she responded, with a quaint little old-time courtesy,
directed with much precision, so as to include the three adults,
beginning with the lady.
"And have you a spare room, or two; do you ever take in strangers for a
few days?"
"Sometimes, sir, when they do be gentlefolk, like you," with a smiling
little nod; "a lone woman can't be too keerful."
The blond lady stepped forward and took up the word in her sweet foreign
voice.
"Ah, it will be such a kindness, and we are most easy to bear, I hope
you will find."
"Yes, as my aunt says, you will not find us hard to suit; we can put up
with a few inconveniences, if necessary. Might we look at your rooms?"
These were found to be so neat and cheerful--in spite of low roofs and
small windows--that a bargain was quickly consummated; and having
planned with Miss Zeba for a dinner in half an hour, the young man
turned to his little guide.
"Now," said he, with the fun leaping to his eyes again, "now for the
ordeal! Will you conduct me to this Diogenes of a gunner, and have him
tell you, without a lantern, whether I am the man he is looking for, or
no?"
"Yes, we'll go," said Morton in a matter-of-fact tone; "but I don't
think he's looking for you. He never goes a-nigh the post-office,
because he says he hates a crowd; so even if you'd written some one that
you were coming, he wouldn't know it."
"Ah, yes, I see; we will take him entirely by surprise, then; well,
'lead on Macduff!'"
"My name's Morton Olmstead, if you please, sir."
"And a good name too, laddie; I like it, and what's more I like you!
You're going to make a fine man some day, did you know it?"
Morton's eyes kindled.
"I mean to, sir. Sara says I can if I will; she says the good God
started me with a sound brain and a healthy body, and I ought to be able
to do the rest."
"She does, eh?" opening his eyes surprisedly. "And who may this wise and
epigrammatic Sara be, I'd like to know?"
Morton concluded to let the suspicious word go unchallenged. "Yes, sir,
she is wise and good. She's been to school lots, and she's my oldest
sister."
"Ah, indeed? That accounts for your unusually good English, I suppose. I
had wondered at it here."
Morton felt this to be a compliment, so turned red and squirmed, not
knowing just how to acknowledge it, and his friend, perhaps to relieve
him, asked kindly, "How old is Sara?" having already decided she was
nearing the thirties, at least.
"She's seventeen, sir."
"Is that all?" quickly. "Such a mere girl, and yet talks like a wise-
acre, eh? How does she look?"
"Well, she's tall, and walks straight and proud-like, and her hair's
kind of copper-colored where the sun shines on the waves in it, and her
eyes are big and brown, and can drag a lie right out of you, sir; but
when she laughs her teeth shine, and there's a dimple in one corner of
her mouth, and she looks pretty well."
"H'm, I should think likely," said the young man in a musing tone, then,
as Morton turned a sharp corner, "What, that way?"
"Yes, sir; there's Uncle Adam now, sitting on his bench smoking, and he
looks good-natured; aren't you glad?"