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SANDY
by
ALICE HEGAN RICE
Author of _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_
New York, The Century Co.
1905
[Illustration: "Looking up, he saw a slender little girl in a long
tan coat and a whit tam-o'-shanter"]
TO MY AUNT
MISS MARY A. HEGAN
WHO USED TO TELL ME BETTER STORIES
THAN I SHALL EVER WRITE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE STOWAWAY
II ON SHIPBOARD
III THE CURSE OF WEALTH
IV SIDE-TRACKED
V SANDY RETIRES FROM BUSINESS
VI HOLLIS FARM
VII CONVALESCENCE
VIII AUNT MELVY AS A SOOTHSAYER
IX TRANSITION
X WATERLOO
XI "THE LIGHT THAT LIES"
XII ANTICIPATION
XIII THE COUNTY FAIR
XIV A COUNCIL OF WAR
XV HELL AND HEAVEN
XVI THE NELSON HOME
XVII UNDER THE WILLOWS
XVIII THE VICTIM
XIX THE TRIALS OF AN ASSISTANT POSTMASTER
XX THE IRONY OF CHANCE
XXI IN THE DARK
XXII AT WILLOWVALE
XXIII "THE SHADOW ON THE HEART"
XXIV THE PRIMROSE WAY
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Looking up, he saw a slender little girl in a long tan coat and a
white tam-o-shanter" Frontispiece
"He sent up yell after yell of victory for the land of his adoption"
"He smiled away his debt of gratitude"
"Then he forgot all about the steps and counting time"
"Burning deeds of prowess rioted in his brain"
"Sandy saw her waver"
"'It's been love, Sandy, ... ever since the first'"
CHAPTER I
THE STOWAWAY
An English mist was rolling lazily inland from the sea. It half
enveloped the two great ocean liners that lay tugging at their
moorings in the bay, and settled over the wharf with a grim
determination to check, as far as possible, the traffic of the
morning.
But the activity of the wharf, while impeded, was in no wise stopped.
The bustle, rattle, and shouting were, in fact, augmented by the
temporary interference. Everybody seemed in a hurry, and everybody
seemed out of temper, save a boy who lay at full length on the quay
and earnestly studied a weather-vane that was lazily trying to make
up its mind which way to point.
He was ragged and brawny and picturesque. His hands, bronzed by the
tan of sixteen summers, were clasped under his head, and his legs were
crossed, one soleless shoe on high vaunting its nakedness in the face
of an indifferent world. A sailor's blouse, two sizes too large, was
held together at the neck by a bit of red cambric, and his trousers
were anchored to their mooring by a heavy piece of yellow twine. The
indolence of his position, however, was not indicative of the state of
his mind; for under his weather-beaten old cap, perched sidewise on a
tousled head, was a commotion of dreams and schemes, ambitions and
plans, whose activities would have put to shame the busiest wharf in
the world.
"It's your show, Sandy Kilday!" he said, half aloud, with a bit of a
brogue that flavored his speech as the salt flavors the sea air. "You
don't want to be a bloomin' old weather-vane, a-changin' your mind
every time the wind blows. Is it go, or stay?"
The answer, instead of coming, got sidetracked by the train of thought
that descended upon him when he was actually face to face with his
decision. All sorts of memories came rushing pell-mell through his
brain. The cold and hungry ones were the most insistent, but he
brushed them aside.
The one he clung to longest was the earliest and most shadowy of the
lot. It was of a little white house on an Irish heath, and inside was
the biggest fireplace in the world, where crimson flames went roaring
up the big, dark chimney, and where witches and fairies held high
carnival. There was a big chair on each side the hearth, and between
them a tiny red rocker with flowers painted on the arms of it. That
was the clearest of all. There were persons in the large chairs, one a
silent Scotchman who, instinct told him, must have been his father,
and the other--oh, tricky memory that faltered when he wanted it to be
so clear!--was the maddest, merriest little mother that ever came
back to haunt a lad. By holding tight to the memory he could see that
her eyes were blue like his own, but her hair was black. He could hear
the ring of her laugh as she told him Irish stories, and the soft
drone of her voice as she sang him old Irish songs. It was she who
told him about the fairies and witches that lived up behind the
peat-flames. He remembered holding her hand and putting his cheek
against it when the goblins came too near. Then the picture would go
out, like a picture in a magic-lantern show, and sometimes Sandy could
make it come back, and sometimes he could not.
After that came a succession of memories, but none of them held the
silent father and the merry mother and the little white house on the
heath. They were of new faces and new places, of temporary homes with
relatives in Ireland and Scotland, of various schools and unceasing
work. Then came the day, two years ago, when, goaded by some
injustice, real or imagined, he had run away to England and struck out
alone and empty-handed to care for himself. It had been a rough
experience, and there were days that he was glad to forget; but
through it all the taste of freedom had been sweet in his mouth.
For three weeks he had been hanging about the docks, picking up jobs
here and there, accommodating any one who wanted to be accommodated,
making many friends and little money. He had had no thought of
embarking until the big English liner _Great Britain_ arrived in port
after breaking all records on her homeward passage. She was to start
on her second trip to-day, and an hour later her rival, the steamship
_America_, was to take her departure. The relative merits of the two
vessels had been the talk of the wharf for days.
Sandy had made it a rule in life to be on hand when anything was
happening. He had viewed cricket-matches from tree-tops, had answered
the call of fire at midnight, and tramped ten miles to see the finish
of a great regatta. But something was about to take place which seemed
entirely beyond his attainment. Two hours passed before he solved the
problem.
"Takin' the rest-cure, kid?" asked a passing sailor as he shied a
stick at Sandy's shins.
Sandy stretched himself and smiled up at the sailor. It was a smile
that waited for an answer and usually got it--a smile so brimming over
with good-fellowship and confidence that it made a lover of a friend
and a friend of an enemy.
"It's a trip that I'm thinkin' of takin'," he cried blithely as he
jumped to his feet. "Here's the shillin' I owe you, partner, and may
the best luck ye've had be the worst luck that's comin'."
He tossed a coin to the sailor, and thrusting his hands in his
pockets, executed a brief but brilliant _pas seul_, and then went
whistling away down the wharf. He swung along right cheerily, his rags
fluttering, his chin in the air, for the wind had settled in one
direction, and the weather-vane and Sandy had both made up their
minds.
The sailor looked after him fondly. "He's a bloomin' good little
chap," he said to a man near by. "Carries a civil tongue in his head
for everybody."
The man grunted. "He's too off and on," he said. "He'll never come to
naught."
Two days later, the _America_, cutting her way across the Atlantic,
carried one more passenger than she registered. In the big life-boat
swung above the hurricane-deck lay Sandy Kilday, snugly concealed by
the heavy canvas covering.
He had managed to come aboard under cover of the friendly fog, and had
boldly appropriated a life-boat and was doing light housekeeping. The
apartment, to be sure, was rather small and dark, for the only light
came through a tiny aperture where the canvas was tucked back. At this
end Sandy attended to his domestic duties.
Here were stored the fresh water and hardtack which the law requires
every life-boat to carry in case of an emergency. Added to these was
Sandy's private larder, consisting of several loaves of bread, a bag
of apples, and some canned meat. The other end of the boat was
utilized as a bedroom, a couple of life-preservers serving as the bed,
and his own bundle of personal belongings doing duty as a pillow.
There were some drawbacks, naturally, especially to an energetic,
restless youngster who had never been in one place so long before in
his life. It was exceedingly inconvenient to have to lie down or
crawl; but Sandy had been used to inconveniences all his life, and
this was simply a difference in kind, not in degree. Besides, he could
steal out at night and, by being very careful and still, manage to
avoid the night watch.
The first night out a man and a girl had come up from the cabin deck
and sat directly under his hiding-place. At first he was too much
afraid of discovery to listen to what they were saying, but later his
interest outweighed his fear. For they were evidently lovers, and
Sandy was at that inflammable age when to hear mention of love is
dangerous and to see a manifestation of it absolute contagion. When
the great question came, his heart waited for the answer. Perhaps it
was the added weight of his unspoken influence that turned the scale.
She said yes. During the silence that followed, Sandy, unable to
restrain his joy, threw his arms about a life-preserver and embraced
it fervently.
When they were gone he crawled out to stretch his weary body. On the
deck he found a book which they had left; it was a green book, and on
the cover was a golden castle on a golden hill. All the rest of his
life he loved a green book best, for it was through this one that he
found his way back again to that enchanted land that lay behind the
peat-flames in the shadowy memory. Early in the morning he read it,
with his head on the box of hardtack and his feet on the water-can.
Twice he reluctantly tore himself from its pages and put it back where
he had found it. No one came to claim it, and it lay there, with the
golden castle shining in the sun. Sandy decided to take one more peep.
It was all about gallant knights and noble lords, of damsels passing
fair, of tourneys and feasts and battles fierce and long. Story after
story he devoured, until he came to the best one of all. It told of a
beautiful damsel with a mantle richly furred, who was girt with a
cumbrous sword which did her great sorrow; for she might not be
delivered of it save by a knight who was of passing good name both of
his lands and deeds. And after that all the great knights had striven
in vain to draw the sword from its sheath, a poor knight, poorly
arrayed, felt in his heart that he might essay it, but was abashed. At
last, however, when the damsel was departing, he plucked up courage to
ask if he might try; and when she hesitated he said: "Fair damsel,
worthiness and good deeds are not only in arrayment, but manhood and
worship are hid within man's person." Then the poor knight took the
sword by the girdle and sheath and drew it out easily.
And it was not until then that Sandy knew that he had had no dinner,
and that the sun had climbed over to the other side of the steamer,
and that a continual cheering was coming up from the deck below.
Cautiously he pulled back the canvas flap and emerged like the head of
a turtle from his shell. The bright sunshine dazzled him for a moment,
then he saw a sight that sent the dreams flying. There, just ahead,
was the _Great Britain_ under full way, valiantly striving to hold her
record against the oncoming steamer.
Sandy sat up and breathlessly watched the champion of the sea, her
smoke-stacks black against the wide stretch of shining waters. The
Union Jack was flying in insolent security from her flagstaff. There
were many figures on deck, and her music was growing louder every
minute. Inch by inch the _America_ gained upon her, until they were
bow and bow. The crowd below grew wilder, cheers went up from both
steamers, the decks were white with the flutter of handkerchiefs.
Suddenly the band below struck up "The Star-Spangled Banner." Sandy
gave one triumphant glance at the Stars and Stripes floating overhead,
and in that moment became naturalized. He leaped to his feet in the
boat, and tearing the blouse from his back, waved the tattered banner
in the face of the vanquished _Great Britain_, as he sent up yell
after yell of victory for the land of his adoption.
[Illustration: "He sent up yell after yell of victory for the land of
his adoption"]
Then he was seized by the ankle and jerked roughly down upon the deck.
Over him stood the deck steward.
"You`re a rum egg for that old boat to hatch out," he said. "I guess
the cap'n will be wantin' to see you."
Sandy, thus peremptorily summoned from the height of patriotic
frenzy, collapsed in terror. Had the deck steward not been familiar
with stowaways, he doubtless would have been moved by the flood of
eloquent persuasion which Sandy brought to bear.
As it was, he led him ruthlessly down the narrow steps, past the long
line of curious passengers, then down again to the steerage deck,
where he deposited him on a coil of rope and bade him stay there until
he was sent for.
Here Sandy sat for the remainder of the afternoon, stared at from
above and below, an object of lively curiosity. He bit his nails until
the blood came, and struggled manfully to keep back the tears. He was
cold, hungry, and disgraced, and his mind was full of sinister
thoughts. Inch by inch he moved closer to the railing.
Suddenly something fell at his feet. It was an orange. Looking up, he
saw a slender little girl in a long tan coat and a white
tam-o'-shanter leaning over the railing. He only knew that her eyes
were brown and that she was sorry for him, but it changed his world.
He pulled off his cap, and sent her such an ardent smile of gratitude
that she melted from the railing like a snowflake under the kiss of
the sun.
Sandy ate the orange and took courage. Life had acquired a new
interest.