"Only the twist in my legs. I wish it wasn't so cold. If the sun would
only get warm!"
"We'll get to the good land today, Fluke," soothed Flea, "and ye can eat
all ye want, and sleep with a pile of covers on--as big--as big as that
there vault yonder."
"But we ain't in the good land yet, Flea," groaned Flukey, "and we're
all hungry. I wish I could 'arn a nickel. If ye didn't love the pig so
much, Flea, we could sell him. He's a growin' thinner and thinner every
minute, and Snatchet be that starvin' he could eat another mut bigger'n
himself."
The girl made no answer to this, but tucked Squeaky's pink nose under
the blue-shirted arm and sat mute.
Flukey, encouraged, went on. "Nobody'd buy Snatchet--he's only a poor,
damn, shiverin' cuss."
"If we selled Prince Squeaky, some'un'd eat him," mourned Flea. "He
ain't goin' to be e't, I says!"
So forceful were her tones that Flukey offered no more suggestions; but
stared miserably at the sun as it rose up from the east, dispersing the
cold, gray morning fog. Presently Flea stood up and said decisively:
"We've got to eat. Ye stay here while I hunt for somethin'."
She darted away before Flukey could remonstrate. For a long time the boy
lay on the damp ground, his face drawn awry with pain, watching the
wagons going back and forth on the road below. The pangs of hunger and
the night of rheumatism had told upon his young strength. His mind went
back to the hut on Cayuga Lake, and he thought of how when their absence
had been discovered Granny Cronk had cried a little, and how Pappy Lon
had cursed and grown more silent than ever. The tender heart of the sick
boy yearned toward the old squatter woman, who had been the only mother
he and Flea had ever known. In his loneliness he stroked Squeaky on the
snout and muttered tender words to the lean dog lying under his lame
leg. After a short time he saw Flea, with a small bundle in her hand,
picking her way among the graves. Flukey lay perfectly quiet until his
sister offered him a bun.
"I could only buy four, 'cause I only had a nickel."
"Give Squeaky and Snatchet one, will ye, Flea?" ventured Flukey.
"Yep. I said, when I buyed 'em, there'd be one apiece."
"Somethin' has made ye pale, Flea," said Flukey after each of the four
had devoured breakfast. "Ye didn't--"
"I see Lem Crabbe's scow down by the river."
Flukey uttered an exclamation and sat up with a groan. "He's comin'
after ye, Kid," he breathed desperately.
"Nope, he ain't," assured Flea; "he's takin' lumber down to New York.
And he didn't see me. And we'll stay in this here graveyard till he's
gone. He's waitin' for the steam tug to come. I guess he poled from
Albany down when he couldn't use his mules."
"Were Pappy Lon with him?" asked Flukey, drawing up his knees.
"I dunno; I didn't wait to see. I had to 'arn this nickel."
"Ye didn't steal it, Flea?"
"Nope; I had it give to me for holdin' a horse. Ye believe me, Fluke?"
"Yep, I believe ye. And ye say as how we can't go on now to the good
land? We has to stay here?"
"For awhile," replied Flea. "When Lem Crabbe goes to New York, then we
go, too."
* * * * *
While hundreds of birds made ready for a long night in the elm trees,
the twins turned silent. Flukey lay with his eyes closed in pain. The
girl broke the quietude now and then by muttering softly the names on
the gravestones over which her eyes roved:
"EVERETT BRIMBECOMB
ONE YEAR OLD
BELOVED SON OF AGNES AND HAROLD BRIMBECOMB.
RESTING IN JESUS"
Flea read this over several times, and turned to Flukey.
"Who's Jesus, Fluke?" she asked.
The boy raised his head and opened his eyes languidly. "What? What'd ye
say, Flea?"
"Who's Jesus?" she asked again, pointing to the inscription on the
stone.
"I dunno. I guess he's some old feller layin' down in there with that
kid."
Thus the day had passed and the night fell. Flukey dropped into a deep
sleep, and Flea, huddling to the cold earth, settled closer to her
brother in the sheltering darkness. Suddenly the girl aroused as if from
a bad dream. She sat up, feeling for the pig and Snatchet, and placed
her hand on Flukey's quiet body and lay down. Once more came the sound.
It was the faint, distant hoot of an owl, stealing out through the tall
trees. Nearer and nearer it came, until Flea sat bolt upright. Instantly
into her mind shot the picture of a shriveled woman from the squatter
country. A cold perspiration broke over her.
She turned her head slowly and looked off into the dark end of the
cemetery, over which hung a mist. Through this veil the pale moon
watched the earth with steady gaze. From among the monuments and
time-scarred headstones, looming darkly in the forbidding silence, an
apparition arose, and to Flea's vivid imagination it seemed as if
voiceless gray ghosts were peopling God's Acre on all sides. She
recoiled in horror as the strange, wild cry drew nearer.
A hysterical sensation burning in her throat tightened it so she could
not speak to Flukey, nor could she drag her eyes from the thing moving
toward her. Snatchet growled; but Flea pressed his jaws together with a
snap, and the sound died in his throat. Squeaky moved slightly among the
dead leaves, then became quiet again. The phantom-like figure passed
almost near enough to touch the rigid girl. Its lips opened, and a
hoarse, owl-like cry aroused the sleepy birds above.
"It's Screechy!" murmured Flea, dropping back in fear. "She's come
seekin' Flukey and me! The bats be flyin' in her head!"
Screech Owl, ignorant of the children's proximity, went straight on,
gliding over the graves until she stopped before the stone mansion at
the edge of the graveyard. A light shone from the room, and the woman
stole directly under it. A tall, handsome young man, his gaze centered
thoughtfully upon the dark aspect, stood in the window. Flea saw
Screechy hold out her arms toward him with an appealing gesture. He
lifted his hand suddenly and drew down the shade, and his broad
shoulders were silhouetted against it in sharp, black lines. After that
the breathless girl saw the woman turn and stumble past her without a
sound.
"The bats left her head the minute that there winder got dark!" gasped
the watcher. Tremblingly she drew closer to Flukey, until sleep
overpowered her.
* * * * *
The next day passed slowly, the cold rain lasting until almost
nightfall, and yet the children dared not venture into the town. Flea
fumed and fretted; for the earning of the nickel had whetted her
ambition to earn more. Now she dared not go near the river where work
could be found; but she knew that as soon as the tug appeared Lem
Crabbe would go to New York. Probably by this time the scow was far on
its way down the river. This was the decision at which the squatter
twins arrived after weary hours of waiting. So, when the twilight again
fell over the dead, they rose stiffly from their hiding place and limped
to the road.
"We'll go back to the graveyard tonight, if this ain't the good land,"
murmured Flea. "We'll be safe there from Lem, Fluke."
"Wish we was rich like we was that fair-day, Flea," replied the boy,
scarcely able to walk.
"I wish so, too. If we had that yeller gold-piece we coughed up for that
damn brown hen, we'd eat. But I'd ruther have Snatchet, Fluke."
"I'd ruther have him, too; but we need money--"
"And when we get it," interrupted Flea, "Snatchet'll have a hunk of
meat, and Prince Squeaky a bucket of buttermilk, and ye'll have liniment
for yer legs, Fluke."
"Ye'll eat yerself first, Flea," said Flukey. "I saw ye when ye give the
pig a bit of yer biscuit yesterday mornin'."
"We'll all eat in the good land," replied Flea hopefully.
By this time they had come to the gateway and turned into the street.
Harold Brimbecomb's beautiful home was brilliantly lighted. It appeared
the same to Flea as on the night before, when she had seen Scraggy make
her melancholy play before it.
Flea had refrained from speaking of her midnight fright to Flukey; for
he would but tell her that, like all girls, she was afraid, and a slur
from her brother was more than she could bear.
Flea and Flukey had never been taught to pray, "Lead us not into
temptation." Now, with aching hearts and empty stomachs, they turned in
silence to the richly lighted houses. Flukey dragged himself resolutely
past Brimbecomb's as if he would avoid the desire that suddenly pressed
upon him to ply the trade in which he had been darkly instructed. But he
halted abruptly before the next house, the curtains of which were pulled
up halfway. The long windows reached to the porch floor. Through the
clear glass the children saw a table dressed in all the gorgeousness of
silver and crystal. At the spectacle a clamor for food set up in both
aching stomachs, and the two passed as if by one accord to the porch. As
they peered into the window with longing eyes, Squeaky was held tightly
under Flea's arm; but Snatchet, resting wearily on Flukey's, suddenly
sat up. He, too, had scented something to eat, and thrust in and out a
lean red tongue over pointed, tusky teeth.
"It's time for me to steal, Flea," whispered Flukey, turning feverish
eyes toward his sister.
"If you do it, Flukey, I'll do it with ye."
With no more ado, Flukey's practiced fingers silently slid up the sash.
Two youthful bodies stepped through: the opening. In absolute quiet,
they stood raggedly forlorn, savagely hungry, before the tempting table.
There, was plenty to eat; so without a word the squatter girl placed
Squeaky before a glass dish of salad. His small pink nose buried its tip
from sight, and the food disappeared into the suckling's empty stomach.
Snatchet, squatting on his haunches, snapped up a stuffed bird. Flea
began to eat; but Flukey, now too ill, leaned against the red-papered
wall.
Just at this critical moment the door opened, and Flea, greatly
frightened, started back to the window. She blinked, brushed a dark curl
from her eyes, and saw her Prince advancing toward her. He saw her, too;
but did not connect her with the bare-footed girl on Cayuga Lake, but
only with the boy who had kept from him the greased pig at the Dryden
fair. He glanced at Squeaky calmly eating the salad and smiled.
"Bless my soul, Ann!" he said, turning to a lady who had followed him
in, "we have company to dinner, or my name isn't Horace Shellington! Why
didn't you young gentlemen wait, and we should all have been seated
together?"
There was a whirling in Flukey's head, such as he had never felt before;
but Flea's ashen face brought back his scattered senses. He tried to
lift his arm to throw it about her; but dropped it with a groan.
Realizing the agony that had swept over her dear one, Flea gathered in a
deep breath and took his fevered hand in hers.
"It weren't him," she cried, lifting her eyes to her questioner and
sullenly moving her head toward the shivering boy at her side. "I e't
yer victuals--he didn't. If one of us goes to jail, I do--see?"
"Let me think," ruminated Horace, eying her gravely. "Six months is
about the shortest sentence given to a fellow for breaking into a house.
And what about the pig? I see him in the act of theft. Shall he go with
you?"
"He were hungry, that's why Prince Squeaky stealed," exclaimed Flea,
dropping Flukey's fingers. There was something in the kindly eyes of the
man that forced her forward a step. She thrust out her hand in appealing
anxiety. "We was all hungry," she continued, a dry sob strangling her.
"Flukey nor me nor the pig nor Snatchet ain't e't in a long time. We did
steal; but if I knowed it were yer house--"
A quizzical expression flashing into Shellington's eyes stopped her
words.
"You wouldn't have come in?" he queried.
Flea nodded just as Snatchet jumped to the floor with another plump
bird between his teeth. Flukey staggered to his sister's side.
"Let me tell ye how it was, Mister," he begged, his eyes bloodshot and
restless. "We be lookin' for a good land where boys don't have to steal,
and when they get sick they get well again."
Here Flea burst forth impetuously.
"He has such hellish rheumatiz that he can't set in no dark prison. I
can set weeks among rats and bugs what be in all prisons! I ain't afraid
of nothing what lives!"
Flukey interrupted her by taking her arm and pushing her back a little.
"I'm a thief by trade," he said; "but my sister ain't. She ain't never
stole nothin' in all her life, she ain't. Take me, will ye, Mister?"
"Sister!" murmured the gentleman, turning to Flea.
If nothing else had been said, the question would have been answered in
the affirmative by the vivid blush that dyed Flea's dark skin. Her
embarrassment brought another exclamation from Flukey.
"She's a girl, all right! She's only tryin' to save me. She put on my
pants jest to get away from Pappy Lon. I'll go to jail; but don't send
her!"
He swayed blindly, closing his eyes with a moan.
"The child is sick, Horace," said Ann. "I think he is very sick."
"Where did you sleep last night?" Shellington asked this of Flea.
"Out there," answered the girl, pointing over her shoulder, "down by a
big monument."
"Horace Shellington," gasped Ann, "they slept in the cemetery!"
The sharp tone of the girl's voice brought Flukey back to the present.
"We run away 'cause Pappy Lon were a makin' me steal when I didn't want
to," he explained, clearing his throat, "and he was goin' to make Flea
be Lem's woman. And that's the truth, Mister, and Lem wasn't goin' to
marry her, nuther!"
He rambled on in a monotone as if too sick for inflection. Flea placed
one arm about his neck.
"I'm a girl! I'm Flea Cronk!" she confessed brokenly. "And Flukey's
doin' all this for me! And he's so sick! I stealed from yer table--he
didn't! Will ye let him lay in yer barn tonight, if I go up for the
stealin'?"
Never had Horace Shellington felt so keenly the sorrows of other human
beings as when this girl, in her crude boy clothes, lifted her agonized,
tearless eyes to his. His throat filled. Somehow, his whole soul went
out to her, his being stirred to its depths. He put out one hand to
touch Flea--when voices from the inner room stopped further speech. A
light step, accompanied by a heavier one, approaching the dining-hall,
brought his thoughts together.
"Ann," he appealed, stepping to his sister's side, "you're always
wanting to do something for me--do it now. Let me settle this!"