AN AFTERNOON OF ADVENTURE
The late spring air, however, was delicious. The trees rustled
pleasantly. The bees hummed and the birds twittered, and altogether
there were a hundred things to charm Janice into extending her walk.
Down at the foot of a side street a bit of water gleamed like a huge
turquoise. There seemed to be no dwellings at the foot of this street,
and Janice, with the whole afternoon before her, felt the tingle of
exploration in her blood.
Just off High Street was another store. It was in a low-roofed building
shouldering upon the highway, with a two-story cottage attachment at the
back. Two huge trees overshadowed the place and lent a deep, cool shade
to the shaky porch; but the trees made the store appear very gloomy
within.
Of all the shops Janice had observed in Poketown it seemed that this
little store was the most neglected and woeful looking. Its two show
windows were a lacework of dust and flyspecks. In the upper corners were
ragged spider webs; and in one web lay a gorged spider, too well fed to
pounce on the blue-bottle fly buzzing in the toils within easy pouncing
distance! Only glimpses of a higgledy-piggledy of assorted wares were to
be caught behind the panes. Across the front of the building was a faded
sign reading:
HOPEWELL DRUGG
GROCERIES AND DRY GOODS
Nothing about the shop itself would have held Janice Day's attention
even for a moment; but from within (the front door stood ajar) came the
wailing notes of a violin, the uncertain bow of the performer seeking
out the notes of "Silver Threads Among the Gold."
Yet, with all its uncertainty, the fiddler's touch groped for the beauty
and pathos of the chords:
"Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold."
Janice heard the haunting sweetness of the tune all the way down the
shaded lane and she wondered who the player might be.
There was a deep, grass-grown ditch on one side--evidently an open drain
to carry the overflow of water from High Street. As the drain deepened
toward the bottom of the hill, posts had been set and rails laid on top
of them to defend vehicles from pitching into the ditch in the dark. But
many of the rails had now rotted and fallen to the sod, or the nails had
rusted and drawn out, leaving the barrier "jest rattling."
From a side road there suddenly trotted a piebald pony, drawing a low,
basket phaeton, in which sat two prim, little, old ladies, a fat one and
a lean one. Despite the difference in their avoirdupois the two old
ladies showed themselves to be what they were--sisters.
The thin one was driving the piebald pony. "Gidap, Ginger!" she
announced, flapping the reins.
She had better have refrained from waking up Ginger just at that moment.
A fickle breath of wind pounced upon an outspread newspaper lying on the
grass, fluttered it for a moment, and then, getting fairly under the
printed sheet, heaved it into the air.
Ginger caught a glimpse of the fluttering paper. He halted suddenly,
with all four feet braced and ears forward, fairly snorting his
surprise. As the paper began flopping across the road, he began to back.
The whites of his eyes showed plainly and he snorted again. The
wind-shaken paper utterly dissipated the pony's corn-fed complacency.
"Oh! Oh! Gidap!" shrieked the thin old lady.
"He--he's backin' us into the ditch, Pussy," cried her sister.
"I--I can't help it, Blossom," gasped the driver of the frightened pony.
The phaeton really was getting perilously near the edge of the
undefended ditch, when Janice ran out beside the pony's head, clutched
at his bridle, and halted him in his mad career. The paper dropped into
the ditch and lay still, and the pony began to nuzzle Janice's hand.
"Isn't he just cunning!" gasped the girl, turning to look at the two
little old ladies.
From a nearby house appeared a lath-like man, who strode out to the
road, grinning broadly.
"Hi tunket! Ye did come purty nigh backin' into the ditch _that_ time,
gals," he cackled. "All right now, ain't ye? That there leetle gal is
some spry. Ginger ain't shown so much sperit since b'fore Adam!"
"Now, I tell ye, Mr. Cross Moore," declared the driver of the pony,
sharply, "we came very near having a serious accident. And all because
these rails aren't repaired. You're one of the _se_-lect-men and you'd
oughter have sense enough to repair that railin'. Wait till somebody
drives plump into the ditch and the town has a big damage bill to pay."
"Aw, now, there ain't many folks drives this way," defended Mr. Cross
Moore.
"There's enough. And think o' Hopewell Drugg's Lottie. She's always
running up and down this lane. Somebody's goin' to pitch head-fust inter
that ditch yet, Cross Moore, an' then you'll be sorry."
She was a very vigorous-speaking old lady, that was sure. The sister by
her side was of much milder temperament, and she was thanking Janice
very sweetly while the other scolded Selectman Moore.
"We thank you very much, my dear. You are much braver than _I_ am, for
I'm free to confess I'm afraid of all cattle," said the plump old lady,
in a somewhat shaken voice. "Who are you, my dear? I don't remember
seeing you before."
"I am Janice Day, Ma'am."
"Day? You belong here in Poketown? There's Days live on Hillside
Avenue."
"Yes, Ma'am," confessed Janice. "Mr. Jason Day is my uncle. But I am
Broxton Day's daughter."
"Why, do tell!" cried the plump little old lady, who had pink cheeks and
the very warmest of warm smiles, as she looked into the girl's hazel
eyes. "See here, Pussy," she cried to her sister. "Do you know who this
little girl turns out to be? She's Brocky Day's girl. Surely you
remember Brocky Day?"
But "Pussy" was still haranguing the town selectman upon his crimes of
omission and could not give her attention to Janice.
"Anyhow, dear, won't you come and see us? Pussy's disturbed a mite now;
but she'll love to have you come, too. We live just a little way out o'
town--anybody can tell you where the Hammett Twins live," said this
full-blown "Blossom." "Yes. My sister an' I are twins. And we're fond of
young folks and like to have 'em 'round us. There! Ginger's all right,
Pussy. We can drive on."
"You'd oughter fix them rails, Cross Moore," repeated the lean sister,
as the old pony started placidly up the hill again.
Mr. Moore languidly squinted along the staggering barrier. "Wa-al--I
reckon I will--one o' these days," he said.
He grinned in a friendly way at Janice as she started on. "Them Hammett
gals is reg'lar fuss-bugets," he observed. "But they're nice folks. So
you're Broxton Day's gal? I heard you'd arove. How do you like
Poketown?"
"I don't know it well enough to say yet, Mr. Moore," returned Janice,
bashfully, as she went down the hill.
There were no more houses, but great, sweeping-limbed willow trees
shaded the lower range of the hill. She came out, quite suddenly, upon a
little open lawn which edged the lake itself. Here an old dock stuck
its ugly length out into the water--a dock the timbers of which were
blackened as though by a fire, and the floor-boards of which had mostly
been removed. There was but a narrow path out to the end of the wharf.
Between the wharf and the opposite side of this little bay was a piece
of perfectly smooth water; the softly breathing wind did not ruffle the
bay at all. The long arm of the shore that was thrust out into the lake
was heavily wooded. Rows of dark, almost black, northern spruce stood
shouldering each other on that farther shore, making a perfect wall of
verdure. Their deep shadow was already beginning to creep across the
water toward the old wharf.
"What a quiet spot!" exclaimed Janice, aloud.
"'Iet spot!'" breathed the echo from the opposite shore.
"Why! it's an echo!" cried the startled Janice.
"'An echo!'" repeated the sprite, in instant imitation of her tone.
It was then that Janice saw the little girl upon the old wharf. At first
she seemed just a blotch of color upon the old burned timbers. Then the
startled visitor realized that the gaily-hued frock, and sash, and
bonnet, garbed a little girl of perhaps eight or nine years.
Janice could not see her face. When she rose up from where she had been
sitting and went along the shaking stringpiece of the dock, her back
was still toward the shore.
Yet her gait--the groping of one hand before her--all the uncertainty
and questioning of her attitude--shot the spectator through with alarm.
The child was blind! More than this, her unguided feet were leading her
directly to the abrupt end of the half ruined wharf!