FOR a long time (it seemed to Jimmy) after the last hoof-beat of the
ill-tempered horse with the cropped tail had died away on the gravelled
drive Barbara sat with the child in her arms, his curly head close
against her cheek; her gray eyes bright with tears resolutely held in
check.
“Aren’t you gettin’ some tired of holdin’ me?” inquired Jimmy, with a
stealthy little wriggle of protest. “You know I’m six, an’ Peg says I’m
hefty for my age.”
Barbara laughed faintly, and the little boy slipped from her arms with
alacrity and stood before her, eyeing her searchingly.
“I bought you a birfday present with my fi’ cents,” he said, “but you
wouldn’t wait to see it.”
“You bought me a birthday present?” cried Barbara. “Why, Jimmy Preston!
Show it to me; I can’t wait a minute longer.”
Jimmy walked soberly across to the table. The first glow of his
enthusiasm had vanished, and he frowned a little as he untied the pink
string.
“Maybe you won’t like it,” he said modestly. “It’s a picture, an’—an’
it—sparkles. I fought—no; I mean I _thought_ it was pretty, an’ that
you’d like it, Barb’ra.”
“Like it, boy! I should say so! It’s the most beautiful birthday
present I ever had.” Barbara spoke with convincing sincerity and her
eyes suddenly wrinkled with fun—the fun Jimmy loved. “I’d really like
to kiss you six times—and one to grow on, if you’ll allow me, sir,” she
said.
Jimmy considered this proposition for awhile in silence. “You don’t
kiss Peg,” he objected at last.
“Mercy no! I should hope not!” laughed Barbara.
She seized the child firmly and planted four of the seven kisses on his
hard pink cheeks. “Now two more under your curls in the sweet place,”
she murmured. “And the last one in the sweetest place of all!” And she
turned up his round chin and sought the warm white hollow beneath like
a homing bee.
“I guess I’ll be some sweeter after I eat six popcorn balls,” observed
Jimmy, disengaging himself. “The molasses didn’t spill much.”
“Well, I’m glad of that!” cried Barbara. “I guess I’d better get to
work. You run out and bring in some chips from the woodpile, and I’ll
have that molasses boiling before you can spell Jack Robinson.”
“J-a-c-k,” began Jimmy triumphantly; but Barbara chased him out of
doors with a sudden access of pretended severity.
“You’re getting altogether too clever for me, Jimmy Preston!” she
said. Then her face clouded swiftly at the recollection of Stephen
Jarvis’s parting words.
“What do you propose to do with the boy?” he had asked.
“Take care of him,” she had replied defiantly, “and save the farm for
him.”
It was then that Jarvis had risen, crushing his gray felt hat angrily
between his hands.
“You’re likely to find it impossible to do either the one or the
other,” he said coldly. “The boy is a chip of the old block. As for the
farm, I’ve been trying to make you understand for the last half hour
that it does not belong to you, unless you can meet the payments before
the date I set; and you’ve just told me you can’t do that.”
“Let me pop the corn, Barb’ra!” begged Jimmy, sniffing ecstatically at
the molasses which was beginning to seethe and bubble fragrantly in the
little round kettle. “I like birfdays,” he went on sociably; “don’t;
you, Barb’ra? I mean I like _birthdays_. Did I say that right, Barb’ra?”
“Yes, dear,” said his sister absent-mindedly. She was drawing out the
little round mahogany table. “I’m going to put on the pink china,” she
announced, with a defiant toss of her dark head. The defiance was for
the Honorable Stephen Jarvis.
“It’s beginning to pop!” cried Jimmy excitedly, as he drew the
corn-popper back and forth on the hot griddles with a busy scratching
sound.
“Don’t let it burn,” warned Barbara. “How would you like some little
hot biscuits, Jimmy, and some strawberry preserves?”
“Strawberry ’serves?” he echoed. “I didn’t know we had any ’serves.”
“Well, we have. I’ve been saving ’em for—for your birthday, Jimmy.”
“Oh, I’m glad!” cried the little boy, redoubling his efforts. “See me
work, Barb’ra. Don’t I work hard?”
“Yes, indeed, dear.” She hesitated, then added in a low voice, “You
always will work hard; won’t you, Jimmy?”
The child watched her gravely while she shook the crisp white kernels
into a bowl. He was thinking of her question.
“Do you think I’ll have to go to school much longer, Barb’ra?” he
asked. “It takes such a long time to go to school.”
The girl wheeled sharply about.
“What put that notion into your head?” she demanded. “Of course you’ve
got to go school till—till you’re educated—like father.” Her voice
faltered a little, and a dark flush crept into her cheeks.
The boy’s eyes were on her face.
“Of course father was—he was sick, Jimmy, sick and unhappy. You don’t
remember him as I do; but he——”
“Yes, I know,” the child said simply.
Then he threw his arms about Barbara and hugged her. He didn’t know why
exactly, except that Barbara liked his rough boyish caresses. And he
wanted to make her smile again.
She did smile, winking back the tears.
“I want you to study—hard, Jimmy,” she went on in a low tremulous
voice; “and grow to be a good man—the best kind of a man. You must! I
couldn’t bear it, if you——”
“Well, I won’t, Barb’ra,” promised the child gravely. He eyed his
sister with a sudden flash of comprehension as he added stoutly, “You
don’t have to worry ’bout me. I’m growin’ jus’ ’s fas’ ’s I can, an’ I
know mos’ all my tables, ’ceptin’ seven an’ nine an’ some of eight.”
Barbara laughed, and there was the same odd ring of defiance in the
sound. Then she opened a cupboard in the wall and took out a cake
covered with pink icing.
Jimmy’s blue eyes grew wide with wonder. “What’s that?” he demanded.
Barbara was setting six small candles around the edge; last of all she
planted one in the middle.
“You couldn’t guess if you tried,” she said gaily. “I just know you
couldn’t. You’re such a dull boy.”
“I can guess, too!” cried Jimmy with a shout of rapture. “It’s a cake!
It’s my birfday cake! An’ it’s got six candles on it an’ one to grow
on. I ’member last year it had only five an’ one to grow on; but I
growed that one all up. I want Peg to see it. Can I go out t’ the barn
an’ get him? Can I, Barb’ra?”
The girl hesitated as she cast a troubled eye on the table set daintily
with the pink china, and the few carefully cherished bits of old silver.
“You may ask Peg to come in and have supper with you, if you like,” she
said slowly. “Just this once—because it’s your birthday.”
Jimmy didn’t wait for a second bidding; he dashed out of the back door
with a boyish whoop, carefully studied from the big boys in school.
Peg (shortened from Peleg) Morrison had worked on the Preston farm for
so many years that he appeared almost as much a part of the place as
the shabby old house itself, or the rambling structures at its rear
known indeterminately as “the barns.” He slept over the carriage-house,
in quarters originally intended for the coachman. Here also he cooked
handily for himself on a rusty old stove, compounding what he called
“tried an’ tested receipts” out of a queer old yellow-leaved book
bound in marbled boards, its pages written over in Peg’s own scrawling
chirography.
“I wouldn’t part with that thar book for its weight in gold an’
di’mon’s,” he was in the habit of saying solemnly to Jimmy. “No, Cap’n,
I reelly wouldn’t. I begun to write down useful inf’mation in it when I
wasn’t much bigger’n you be now, an’ I’ve kep’ it up.”
“Vallable Information, by Peleg Morrison,” was the legend inscribed on
its thumbed cover. Jimmy admired this book beyond words, and quite in
private had started one of his own on pieces of brown paper accumulated
in the attic chamber where he played on rainy days.
“Hello, Cap’n!” observed Peg with a genial smile, as the little boy
thrust his yellow head in at the door of his quarters. “Say! I do
b’lieve you’ve growed some since I seen you last. It must be them
popcorn balls, I reckon. Pop-corn’s mighty tasty and nourishin’.”
“I haven’t eaten ’em—not yet!” said Jimmy breathlessly. “An’, Peg, I’ve
got a birfday cake—an’ it’s got six candles on it, an’ one to grow on;
an’—an’ it’s all pink on top; an’ Barb’ra, she’s made a whole lot of
biscuits; an’ we’ve got some strawberry ’serves, an’—an’ we want you to
come to supper; jus’ this once, ’cause it’s my birfday. Barb’ra said to
tell you. An’ she’s put on the pink dishes, too!”
“Wall, now, Cap’n, that surely is kind of Miss Barb’ry. But you see I
ain’t got my comp’ny clo’es on. M’ swallow-tail coat’s got the rear
buttons off, an’ m’ high collar ’n boiled shirt’s to m’ wash-lady’s.”
Peg winked humorously at Jimmy, in token that his remarks were to be
interpreted as being in a purely jocular vein.
“We don’t care ’bout clo’es—me an’ Barb’ra,” said Jimmy, grandly. “An’
I want you to see my cake wiv the candles burning. I’m goin’ to blow
’em out when we are all through wiv supper; then we’re goin’ to eat the
cake.”
“Wall, now I’ll tell you, Cap’n. I’ll mosey in ’long ’bout time you
get t’ the cake. I wouldn’t miss seein’ them candles blowed out fer
anythin’. You c’n tell Miss Barb’ry I’m obleeged to her fer th’
invitation—mind you say Miss Barb’ry, Jimmy. ’Cause that’s manners,
seein’ I’m hired man on this ’ere farm.”
“Does Barb’ra pay you lots o’ money?” asked Jimmy, with sudden grave
interest.
Peg puckered up his mouth judicially.
“You don’t want t’ git in th’ habit o’ askin’ pers’nal questions,
Cap’n,” he said, with a serious look in his kind old eyes. “‘Tain’t
reelly p’lite, you know. An’ the’s times when it’s kind o’ embarrassin’
to answer ’em. But, in this ’ere case, I’m pertickler glad to tell you,
Cap’n, that Barb’ry—I mean Miss Barb’ry—does pay me all I ask fur, an’
a whole lot besides. You see I hev special privileges here on this
place that ain’t come by ev’ry day, an’ I value ’em—I value ’em highly.
An’ that reminds me, Cap’n, that I’ve got a little present fer you,
seein’ you’re six, goin’ on seven, an’ big an’ hefty fer your age. Jest
you clap yer eyes onto that an’ tell me what you think of it. ’Tain’t
what you’d call reelly val’able now; but you keep it fer—say fifty
years an’ do what I’ve done with mine, an’ money won’t buy it f’om
you.”
“Oh, Peg!” gasped Jimmy, in a rapture too deep and pervasive for words,
“is it—a val’able inf’mation book?”
“That’s what it is, Cap’n,” chuckled Peg, holding off the book and
gazing at it with honest pride. “Y’ see, I couldn’t find th’ mate to
mine in looks; but this ’ere red cover beats mine all holler, an’ you
see I’ve put ‘Vallable Information by James Embury Preston’ on it in
handsome red letters. Take it, boy, an’ don’t put nothin’ into it ’at
won’t be true an’ useful, is the prayer o’ Peg Morrison.”
The old man’s tone was solemn and his blue eyes gleamed suddenly moist
in the midst of their network of wrinkles.
“The’s folks in this world,” he went on soberly, “‘at would be mighty
glad if they had a book like that, full o’ tried an’ tested rules—fer
conduct, as well as fer hoss liniment an’ pies an’ cakes. In the
front page o’ mine I put down more’n twenty years ago, ‘Never promise
anythin’ that you ain’t willin’ to set ’bout doin’ the nex’ minute.’
That’s a good sentiment fer man or beast. Ye c’n turn to a rule fer
mos’ anythin’, f’om what to do fer a colt ’at’s et too much green
clover, up to how to set on a jury. But I’ve took my time to it, an’
ain’t never wrote anythin’ down jus’ t’ fill paper. Now you trot along,
Cap’n; an’ I’ll be with you before you git them candles blowed out.”
“I—I’d like to shake hands, Peg,” said Jimmy fervently. “I’m too big
an’ hefty to kiss people for thank you. But I like this book better’n
anyfing—I mean anything.”
He put out his small brown hand on which babyish dimples still
lingered, and the old man grasped and shook it solemnly.
“You’re more’n welcome, Cap’n!” he said heartily. “An’ thinkin’ y’
might like to set down a few sentiments I got you a bottle o’ red ink
an’ a new steel pen. I like red ink m’self. It makes a handsome page.”
“I never s’posed I’d have a whole bottle of red ink,” said Jimmy, with
a rapturous sigh of contentment filled to the brim and running over.
“Don’t forget to come and see my cake,” he called out as the old man
convoyed him to the foot of the stairs with a nautical lantern.
“I’m goin’ right back up to put on m’ swallow-tail,” Peg assured him.
“You’ll see me in ’bout half an hour.”
Barbara knit her fine dark brows a little over the birthday book with
its quaint inscription.
“I shouldn’t like you to suppose that was the way to spell valuable
information,” she said crisply. “Suppose we put another card over this
one, dear. I’ll write it for you.”
Jimmy pondered this proposal in silence for a few minutes, then he
shook his head.
“I want my book to be ’zactly like Peg’s,” he said firmly. “It’s a
val’able inf’mation book; that’s what it is.”
He kept it by him all the while they were eating their supper off the
pink and white china Grandfather Embury brought from foreign parts,
while the seven candles cast bright lights and wavering shadows across
the table on the boy’s rosy little face and the girl’s darker beauty.
“Peg’s comin’ in’s soon’s he puts on his swallow-tail,” said Jimmy
placidly. “I like Peg better’n anybody, ’ceptin’ you, Barb’ra. He’s so
durned square.”
“You shouldn’t say such words, Jimmy,” Barbara said, with a vexed
pucker between her brows. “You must remember that you are a gentleman.”
“So is Peg a gentleman,” said Jimmy, valiantly ready to do battle for
his friend. “An’ he says durned.”
Barbara shook her head impatiently at the child.
“If you say that word again, Jimmy,” she threatened, “I shall be
obliged to forbid you going out to the barn at all.”
“I guess you don’t mean that, Barb’ra,” the little boy said firmly.
“Course I have to go out to the barn; but I promise I won’t say durned
’cept when I plough.”
A sound of hard knuckles cautiously applied to the back kitchen door
announced Mr. Morrison, attired in his best suit of rusty black, his
abundant iron-gray hair, ordinarily standing up around his ruddy,
good-humored face like a halo, severely plastered down with soap and
water.
“Good-evenin’, Cap’n,” he said ceremoniously, “I hope you fin’ yourself
in good health on this ’ere auspicious occasion, sir; an’ you, too,
Miss Barb’ry, as a near relation of the Cap’n’s. I hope I see you well
an’—an’ happy, ma’am.”
“See my cake, Peg,” shouted Jimmy, capering wildly about the old man.
“See the candles!”
Peg pretended to shade his eyes from the overpowering illumination.
“Wall, now, I mus’ say!” he exclaimed. “If that ain’t wo’th coverin’
ten miles o’ bad goin’ t’ see. That cert’nly is a han’some cake, Miss
Barb’ry, an’ the Cap’n here tells me you made it.”
Barbara smiled, rather sadly.
“Yes,” she said, “I made it. If you’ll blow out the candles now, Jimmy,
I’ll cut it and we’ll each have a piece.”
The little boy climbed up in his chair.
“I have to sit down when I blow,” he said seriously, and sent the first
current of air across the table from his puckered lips. “One of ’em’s
out!” he announced triumphantly.
“Give it to ’em agin, Cap’n!” cried Peg. “Give ’em a good one. That’s
right! Now the nigh one’s gone; but that off candle’s a sticker. I
dunno whether you’ll fetch that one or not, Cap’n.”
The child drew in a mighty breath, his puffed cheeks flushing to a
brilliant scarlet, and blew with all his might, the flame of the one
lighted candle waned, flared sidewise, and disappeared, leaving a
light wreath of smoke behind.
“There! I blowed ’em out, all by myself,” he exulted. “I’ve got a
strong wind in my breaf, haven’t I, Peg?”
“I declar’, I’d hate to have you try it on the roof o’ the barn, Cap’n.
The loose shingles’d fly, I bet,” Peg assured him jocularly.
Barbara was cutting the cake, her troubled eyes bent upon her task. Mr.
Morrison glanced at her anxiously.
“I seen a rig hitched out t’ the side door this afternoon,” he said
slowly. “‘Twant a—a sewin’-machine agent; was it, Miss Barb’ry?”
“No,” said the girl shortly; her look forbade further questions.
“I’ll tell you who ’twas, Peg,” said Jimmy sociably, as he began to
nibble the edges of his slice of cake. “It was the Hon’rable Stephen
Jarvis. An’ his horse’s tail is cut off short so’t it can’t switch
’round, an’ it makes him cross. I guess it would make me some cross,
too, if I was a horse. Wouldn’t it make you, Peg?”
“I reckon’t would, Cap’n,” said the old man, fetching a heavy sigh for
no apparent reason. He turned to Barbara, whose red lips were set in an
expression of haughty reserve.
“If I’d ’a’ knowed ’twas the Hon’rable Stephen Jarvis fer certain,”
he went on, with an effort after careless ease of manner, “I b’lieve
I’d ’a’ took the opportunity to talk over crops with him fer a spell.
We’re goin’ to have a first-rate crop o’ buckwheat this year, an’
winter wheat’s lookin’ fine. The’d ought to be plenty of apples, too. I
pruned the trees in the spring an’ manured ’em heavy last fall.”
Barbara gazed steadily at the table. She did not answer.
“I was thinkin’ some o’ plantin’ onions in the five acre field this
year,” went on Peg, an agitated tremor in his voice. “They’re a heap o’
work, onions is, what with weedin’ ’em an’ cultivatin’ ’em; but the’s
big money in ’em; white, red, an’ yellow sorts. What would you say to
onions, Miss Barb’ry?”
“There’s no use,” said the girl, “of our planting—anything.” She turned
her back abruptly on pretence of pulling down a window shade. “I’ll
speak to you to-morrow—about the work.”