HIGBY AND THE OWLS
Until the coming of Bethany and Dallas the Judge had never seen Titus in
contact with other boys and girls.
The boy had been brought up alone; when he wanted playmates he went
abroad to seek them. He very seldom brought a boy home to play with him.
The Judge had often remarked this, and had attributed the absence of
children from his own house as an outward sign of Mrs. Blodgett’s inward
dislike of “clutter.” However, since his adoption of Bethany and Dallas
he had noticed that boys and girls came about the house quite freely.
There was therefore some other reason for their previous absence; and in
his new interest in boy and girl study he decided that one child alone
in a home is not a sufficient nucleus for a play place. He cannot gather
round himself as great a variety of interests as several children can.
Another thing the Judge marveled at was the amazing strength of youthful
character. Titus when alone had been submissive, patient, self-effacing.
As soon as these other children had been introduced into the house he
became self-assertive, particular as to his rights, and yet not
disagreeable.
Even little Bethany had a strong character. Little men and women—grown
people in miniature, the Judge often thought to himself as he gazed at
the three young heads about his table.
Dallas’ success as a member of his family had so far exceeded his most
sanguine expectations. The Judge had written a rather amusing letter to
Mr. Folsom on the subject of his adoption of the boy, and had told him
firmly that although he was keeping Dallas he was to be the last child
of adoption. He wished no others. Alas! the Judge was no prophet.
Mr. Folsom, in his delight, had come to Riverport, and had had a
three-days’ visit at the Judge’s and many long conversations with
Dallas. The Judge could not but acknowledge that Dallas was in part a
changed boy. He could not expect him to make himself over all at once,
but the lad was certainly more sincere. He was still polite, exceedingly
polite, but he did not bore himself and other people by doing things
that were against his nature.
For instance, he had given up his ceaseless companionship of Titus. The
two went their respective ways. They did not quarrel, neither did they
harmonize and to the Judge’s amusement they even went to school at
separate times.
If there was a question of championship Titus was at Dallas’ side, and
one day the Judge did hear a species of altercation between the two
boys—an altercation that had ended in a reconciliation. Titus had Dallas
penned in a corner out in the garden under the Judge’s study balcony.
“Look here, if you don’t try to drop your blamed old English accent I’ll
stop fighting for you,” he said. “I ’most got my nose broken to-day.
Can’t you say ‘fast’? It isn’t ‘fost.’”
“Fast, fast,” said Dallas, submissively.
“Now say ‘last.’”
Dallas said “last” and “mast” and many other words, until at last he got
out of patience and rebelled. “I don’t want to lose my English accent. I
am proud of being English.”
“Then you do your own fighting,” said Titus, furiously.
“What makes you think I can’t fight,” said Dallas, and his pale cheeks
grew pink. “I’m taller than you.”
“Taller,” sneered Titus; “you’re soft like a stick of candy.”
He began his sentence on his feet, but finished it on his back in a bank
of snow.
He was up like a flash and standing before Dallas, who was ejaculating,
“You little black lead pencil.”
Titus’s wrath was all gone, to the Judge’s amazement, and he was
gurgling in his throat: “How did you do it? Teach me that trick—come on,
Dallas, teach me.”
The English boy’s contempt faded, and he smiled complacently at the
changed face before him.
“I will tell you something,” he said, grandly. “Once my father was to
figure in a wrestling match on the stage. Now, he was a good all-round
athlete, but he was not satisfied with himself. We were in New York at
the time. You have heard of Billy McGee, the trainer?”
Titus caught his breath. “O, yes—yes.”
“Well, he got Billy McGee to come and train him. It cost a fearful sum,
but father gave it. Billy taught my father, and my father taught me. So
you needn’t fight my battles any more.”
Titus’s face was glowing. “I say,” and he linked his arm in Dallas’s,
“tell me some of those tricks of throwing. I don’t know a thing.”
The Judge groaned. The boys were walking away together arm in arm. “O,
this glorification of brute strength,” he muttered, “the bane of the
rising generation,” and holding out a finger to the pigeon, who was
bowing and cooing to him, he stepped into the house. He must talk to
these boys on the subject of fighting, and seating himself in his
favorite chair he began to prepare a fatherly or grandfatherly speech.
Bethany came in and, seeing that he did not wish to be disturbed, sat
down on the rug with Sukey.
Higby brought in the afternoon mail, and with a stifled yawn laid it on
the table and departed.
Poor old Higby! He was a very early riser, and at the close of every day
he began to get sleepy, and immediately after the seven o’clock dinner
of the household he retired to his room. Jennie, the parlor maid, took
upon herself his duty of going to the hall door when there was a ring.
On this particular day the Judge composed his speech, then went down to
dinner with Bethany. Somewhat to his dismay, somewhat to his relief, and
just a little to his amusement, Titus and Dallas came to the table like
two brothers. Their eyes were on each other, their attentions were for
each other; they scarcely saw the Judge and Bethany.
Ah! the enthusiasm of youth, and shaking his head the Judge requested
them both to accompany him to his study after dinner. Upon arriving
there he talked to them very seriously on the evil of picking quarrels
with other boys and the demoralizing effects of an appeal to brute
force.
The boys were listening attentively and respectfully, when their minds
were most forcibly withdrawn by a succession of blood-curdling shrieks
from the floor above.
With one accord they all sprang to their feet and ran out to the hall.
“B-b-burglars! Th-th-thieves! F-f-fire! M-m-murderers!” rang out in
stammering tones.
Poor old Higby, in the fine dressing-gown that the Judge had given him
at Christmas, and in a pair of bedroom slippers to match that Mrs.
Blodgett had made for him, was running downstairs, screaming at the top
of his voice, and with eyes starting from his head.
“R-r-ring up the police,” he went on, “c-c-catch them alive!”
“Higby,” commanded the Judge, firmly, “calm yourself and tell us what is
the matter.”
The old man gained some degree of composure upon arriving in the hall
and seeing himself surrounded by friends.
“They ’m-m-most killed me,” he said, wildly, stepping up and down and
clasping his head with his hands. “They t-t-tried to dig their knives in
me, but I r-r-ran like a fox.”
Though considerably older than the Judge, his head was not white, but
was covered with a thin crop of grizzled hair.
“O, blood!” he moaned, miserably, bringing down one hand and extending
it toward the Judge, “blood! blood!”
There were red streaks on his hands, and the Judge looked at them
seriously.
“Higby, begin from the first. What has happened to you?”
The man began to step backward and to stammer violently.
“S-s-sir, I was in m-m-my room, b-b-back through the upper hall in the
L.”
“Turn him round, some one,” called Mrs. Blodgett, who was hurrying up
from below. “He’s backing downstairs.”
Titus sprang forward, took him by the sleeve, and led him past the group
of frightened maids to a safe corner by the hall window.
From there he went on with his story.
“W-w-was in m-m-my room in my bed, s-s-sound asleep, d-dreaming of home
and m-m-mother. S-s-sir,” and he turned to the Judge, “w-w-we lived in a
little house b-b-by a running brook, n-n-near a w-w-wood. I woke up,
s-s-sir, c-c-crying. Then I heard a s-s-sound, sir, l-l-like the sounds
of o-o-old times.”
“Well?” said the Judge, encouragingly.
“I-I-I got up, sir; I put on m-m-my gown a-a-and s-s-slippers; I-I-I
went out in the h-h-hall, sir.”
“And what happened?”
“Th-th-the burglars must h-h-have been waiting, s-s-sir. They j-j-jumped
on me from behind. Th-th-they struck me on the h-h-head with their sharp
knives, s-s-sir.”
“Did you see them?” asked the Judge, sharply.
“I-I-I thought I saw one, sir. He was all in b-b-black, sir, and he
d-d-dug his knife in me.”
The Judge looked mystified. If it had been the middle of the night he
would have believed Higby’s story, but early in the evening he could not
for a moment suppose that any thieves would rush out and attack a person
who was simply walking along a hall. However, he turned to the boys.
“Come upstairs with me and we will make a thorough search.”
“Wait a minute, please, sir,” said Dallas. “May I ask Higby what the
sound was that drew him from his bed?”
“T-t-the sound of owls, sir,” stammered Higby, “of little ow-ow-owls
sittin’ on the trees an’ hootin.’”
Dallas gave Titus a queer look, and the latter immediately burst out
laughing.
“’Pon my word; poor old Higby,” gasped Titus. “You’ve been fooled.”
The manservant looked at him indignantly, while Dallas turned to the
Judge, who was waiting for an explanation.
“You told me not to keep my birds so closely, sir, so I let them do
pretty much as they please. I open my window every night at dusk. They
must have got in through some other window into the hall. It is a habit
of owls to pounce on anything furry or hairy.”
“I know that,” said the Judge, with a hearty laugh. “I’ve heard of their
descending on the fur caps of hunters. Well! well! poor old Higby,” and
he turned to him. “Come, now, get over your fright. Those were only
little birds that attacked you—Master Dallas’s little owls.”
Higby was in a speechless rage. He did not dare to get angry with the
Judge, but he did not for a moment believe that his assailant had been a
bird.
“Come, come,” said the Judge, humoring him; “to satisfy you we will make
a search.”
Quite a procession moved up the stairway—the Judge, holding Bethany’s
hand, in advance, the two boys and the servants following.
Upon arriving in the upper hall and traversing it to the L beyond, where
the servants’ bedrooms were over the kitchen and pantries, Dallas kept
looking sharply about.
One peculiarity of the Judge was that he liked plenty of light. At night
the electric lights were turned on in every hall and every room, whether
occupied or not.
“I do not see the culprits,” said Dallas, “but I will call,” and he gave
a tentative “Too whoo, whoo, whoo whoo!”
“Too whoo, whoo, whoo whoo,” said two little soft voices near them.
Dallas stuck his head out a window. “Ah, there are the miscreants,
sitting on the limb of that tree.”
The branches of the big, leafless old elm brushed the hall window, and
the little owls sitting there were calmly contemplating a rising moon.
The Judge let Bethany look at them, then he said: “See, Higby, there are
your burglars. There are no traces of any others here. No man would be
bold enough to pass through this lighted house, and if he did why should
he attack you?”
“I-I-I saw him,” burst from Higby, “a b-b-big black man.”
The Judge looked down at Bethany. She was tightly clasping his hand, and
the expression of her face was doubtful.
“They were owls that attacked you, Higby,” he said, decidedly; “don’t
let me hear any more nonsense about a burglar. Come downstairs,
children,” and he turned about.
Bethany would not let go his hand, even when they entered the study.
“I will read aloud a little to compose her thoughts before she goes to
bed,” the Judge reflected. “No fairy tales to stimulate her imagination,
but something that she will not understand,” and he took from his
bookshelves a volume of Milton’s works.
He seated himself by the table, drew his reading light toward him, and
began. After a time he looked down at the little figure sitting on the
stool at his feet.
“I suppose you don’t understand this, Bethany,” he said, patronizingly.
“O, don’t speak, don’t speak, Daddy Grandpa,” she said, impatiently;
“please go on.”
She had lifted her head. Her face had lost its dreamy expression. It was
glowing, radiant, and intensely interested. The Judge went on
mechanically:
“‘There the companions of his fall, o’erwhelmed
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire—’”
Why, the child was understanding what he read, he reflected with
surprise, or, rather, she was putting her own interpretation upon it.
“Bethany,” he asked after a time and slowly closing the book, “what do
you make of all this?”
“O, I think,” she said, eloquently, “that Satan must be the father of
that bad black man that struck Higby, and his home must be in the fiery
gulf.”
The Judge smiled. “Bethany, those were Dallas’s owls that attacked
Higby. There was no black man there.”
“But, Daddy Grandpa,” she said, incredulously, “little birds could not
be so bad.”
“I fear they were bad, Bethany. Birds are not all good. They are like
children. Some are good, some bad; but come, it is your bedtime.”
“It doesn’t feel my bedtime,” she said, quickly.
“But it is. Little girls ought to get to bed early.”
“Sometimes I sat up late when my mamma was alive,” she said, coaxingly.
“I think you would better go,” said the Judge.
“There is no one up there that I know,” she replied, drearily.
“How about Ellen and Susie; you tell me they live in the wall beside
your bed.”
“They have gone to the country to see the place where they are buried,”
she said, quickly.
The Judge was silent. Sometimes his studies of childhood mystified him.
Just now he was afraid that Higby’s foolish story had caused this
heretofore fearless child suddenly to become afraid to go upstairs to
bed.
While he was thinking she silently caressed the pigeon, which had hopped
up into her lap, but after a time she put up one of her tiny hands and
convulsively seized his large one. “Daddy Grandpa, read some more. You
have a honey voice.”
The Judge smiled broadly, then he took up a magazine from the table.
What would best put a little girl to sleep? Ah! the political situation
in the far East, and this time Bethany did go to sleep. Her head was
against his knee so he could not move, but through the doorway he hailed
Dallas, who was coming out of the sitting room opposite, where he and
Titus prepared their lessons.
“Dallas, send Mrs. Blodgett here.”
“Mrs. Blodgett,” he said, when she came puffing up the stairway and
stood before him, “have a bed moved in this little girl’s room and let
one of the maids sleep there in future. I don’t think that it is good
for her to be alone so much.”
Mrs. Blodgett nodded her head. “Just what I’ve been a-thinkin’, sir. I’m
willin’, I’m sure, to take her in my own room next door.”
“No, no; you need your sleep,” said the Judge. “You are getting older,
and you have brought up one family. Let one of the girls attend to this
child.”
“She do talk a lot to herself in her room, sir. I hears her laughin’ and
chattin’ with them two blessed little girls of yours.”
“Doesn’t she talk of other children?” asked the Judge.
“O, bless you, yes, sir, an’ she also talks to tables, an’ chairs, an’
carpets, an’ that ghost mouse. She do have a name for everything in her
room, an’ you’d think she had a whole menagerie to hear her growl an’
bark.”
“Must be the spotted dog,” said the Judge to himself with a smile, and
he again took up his magazine.
Mrs. Blodgett waddled away. “Sure an’ it’s a wonderful thing how at his
age he do take on the ways of a family man. He ought to ’a’ had a dozen
children.”
The Judge was instinctively a model person at managing children. To
begin with, he loved them; and to end with, he did not fuss over them.
Just now he was becoming intensely uncomfortable on account of this
solid little lump against his slightly rheumatic knee. If he took her up
and laid her on the sofa he might wake her, so he gave her a cautious
little push. She gently rolled over. He guided her head and assisted the
indignant pigeon to fly away. Now Bethany was comfortably stretched on
the floor sleeping soundly, her pretty mouth wide open, after the
fashion of civilized children.
The Judge had heard of Indian mothers closing the mouths of their babes,
so he bent over and gently brought the child’s lips together. To his
delight they stayed closed, and with a sigh of relief he stretched out
his long legs, took up his magazine, and looked enjoyably about him
before he went on with his reading.
He was intensely fond of his books; indeed, reading was almost a passion
with him, and the evening hours were the pleasantest part of the day.
Work was over, the children were safely in the house—for since Titus’s
accident he always had a little anxiety about boys and girls absent from
their own rooftrees—and he was free to amuse himself in this most
delightful of ways.
Alas for the Judge! He had not read five sentences when he heard a
shrill, insistent voice, not in this upper hall, but in the one below,
away down by the front door.
“I tell you I must see the Jedge. I hevn’t got no message.”
Strange to say, the voice, which was shrill and uncultured rather than
noisy, woke Bethany like the sound of a trumpet.
Instantly rousing herself she sat up and looked composedly at the Judge.
There was not the slightest sign of confusion about her, or any
bewildered look as of a child hastily aroused from sleep.
“Daddy Grandpa,” she said, quickly, “I’m the yellow spotted dog,” and
beginning to growl and snap horribly she went down on hands and feet and
crawled under a big table in a corner—a favorite play place because it
had a long, heavy cover whose sheltering folds concealed a castle, a
ship, a railway train, an ogre’s cavern, or any other fancy that Bethany
chose to indulge in.
The Judge looked after her submissively. His part was not to rebel, but
to await developments.
Then he turned his head to the doorway.
“Sir,” said Jennie, in a puzzled voice, “there’s a little poor girl
craving to see you.”
“Bring her up,” said the Judge, promptly, and he tried to think where he
had heard that shrill voice before.
Two minutes later he knew, for Airy Tingsby, the smart, pert girl, the
head of the Tingsby clan, and the one who had been so saucy and
impertinent to him, now stood within a few feet of his chair.