long, feathery grass in the field moved with a motion distinct from
that caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger-striped back emerge,
covering long leaps of terror. Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid
of Uncle Jonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind the first leaping,
striped back, and he knew there were more cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan.
There were even motions caused by unseen things, and he reasoned,
“Kittens afraid of Uncle Jonathan.” Then Johnny reflected with a great
glow of indignation that the Simmonses kept an outrageous number of
half-starved cats and kittens, besides a quota of children popularly
supposed to be none too well nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then
it was that Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination slapped the past
of old romance like a most thorough mustard poultice over the present.
There could be no Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws (that
is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows, no sojourning under
greenwood trees and the rest, but something he could, and would, do and
be. That rainy day when Johnny Trumbull was a good boy, and stayed in
the house, and read a book, marked an epoch.
That night when Johnny went into his aunt Janet's room she looked
curiously at his face, which seemed a little strange to her. Johnny,
since he had come into possession of his grandfather's watch, went every
night, on his way to bed, to his aunt's room for the purpose of winding
up that ancient timepiece, Janet having a firm impression that it might
not be done properly unless under her supervision. Johnny stood before
his aunt and wound up the watch with its ponderous key, and she watched
him.
“What have you been doing all day, John?” said she.
“Stayed in the house and--read.”
“What did you read, John?”
“A book.”
“Do you mean to be impertinent, John?”
“No, ma'am,” replied Johnny, and with perfect truth. He had not the
slightest idea of the title of the book.
“What was the book?”
“A poetry book.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In Uncle Jonathan's library.”
“Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?” said Janet, in a mystified way.
She had a general impression of Jonathan's library as of century-old
preserves, altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one from the
other except by labels. Poetry she could not imagine as being there
at all. Finally she thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and
Chaucer. The library might include them, but she had an idea that
Spenser and Chaucer were not fit reading for a little boy. However,
as she remembered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny could
understand much of them. Probably he had gotten hold of an early
Victorian, and she looked rather contemptuous.
“I don't think much of a boy like you reading poetry,” said Janet.
“Couldn't you find anything else to read?”
“No, ma'am.” That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's
theological library, had peered at his father's old medical books
and his mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform
editions of standard things written by women.
“I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys,” said Aunt
Janet, reflectively.
“No, ma'am,” said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as
was the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it.
“I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John,” said
Janet. “I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night,
John.”
“Good night. Aunt Janet,” replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good
night, which was one reason why he liked her.
On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood
open. She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny.
“Are you going to bed?” said she.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting
his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to
have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to
do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he
could oblige her.
“Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?” asked she.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“What was the book?” Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she
spoke.
“Poetry.”
Cora laughed. “Poetry is odd for a boy,” said she. “You should have
read a book of travels or history. Good night, Johnny.”
“Good night, mother.”
Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up
from his study. But his father did not see him. And Johnny went to bed,
having imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more
knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had
ever known during much longer lives than his.
Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling nearly led him astray
in the matter of Lily Jennings; he thought of her, for one sentimental
minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea
peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover,
she was a girl, and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of another
boy who would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy.
He wished for a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin
Hood's. But he could think of nobody, after considerable study, except
one boy, younger than himself. He was a beautiful little boy, whose
mother had never allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although
he had been in trousers for quite a while. However, the trousers were
foolish, being knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which
revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold
Carruth, and that was against him, as being long, and his mother firm
about allowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in
the very exclusive private school which Johnny attended.
Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beautiful little boy,
would have had no standing at all in the school as far as popularity was
concerned had it not been for a strain of mischief which triumphed over
curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a much-kissed rosebud of a mouth.
Arnold Carruth, as one of the teachers permitted herself to state when
relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was “as choke-full of mischief
as a pod of peas. And the worst of it all is,” quoth the teacher, Miss
Agnes Rector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden sympathy for
mischief herself--“the worst of it is, that child looks so like a cherub
on a rosy cloud that even if he should be caught nobody would believe
it. They would be much more likely to accuse poor little Andrew Jackson
Green, because he has a snub nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never
knew that poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn his
lessons. He is almost too good. And another worst of it is, nobody
can help loving that little imp of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I
believe the scamp knows it and takes advantage of it.”
It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did profit unworthily by his
beauty and engagingness, albeit without calculation. He was so young,
it was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, of deliberate
trading upon his assets of birth and beauty and fascination. However,
Johnny Trumbull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive to the
situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and Arnold Carruth only, about Robin
Hood and his great scheme.
“You can help,” said this wise Johnny; “you can be in it, because nobody
thinks you can be in anything, on account of your wearing curls.”
Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug at one golden curl which
the wind blew over a shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner
of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese cedars, during an
intermission.
“I can't help it because I wear curls,” declared Arnold with angry
shame.
“Who said you could? No need of getting mad.”
“Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls
cut off,” said Arnold. “You needn't think I want to have curls like a
girl, Johnny Trumbull.”
“Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short
stockings, either.”
“Like to!” Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one half-bared, dimpled
leg, then of the other.
“First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and
throw these in the furnace-I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear
these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny Trumbull.
My mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some
things.”
“Most women are queer,” agreed Johnny, “but my aunt Janet isn't as queer
as some. Rather guess if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd
cut 'em off herself.”
“Wish she was my aunt,” said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. “A feller needs
a woman like that till he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my
curls if I was to go to your house, Johnny?”
“I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she
might. She has to be real careful about doing right, because my uncle
Jonathan used to preach, you know.”
Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured pain. “Well, I s'pose
I'll have to stand the curls and little baby stockings awhile longer,”
said he. “What was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?”
“I am going to tell you because I know you aren't too good, if you do
wear curls and little stockings.”
“No, I ain't too good,” declared Arnold Carruth, proudly; “I
ain't--HONEST, Johnny.”
“That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you tell any of the other
boys--or girls--”
“Tell girls!” sniffed Arnold.
“If you tell anybody, I'll lick you.”
“Guess I ain't afraid.”
“Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'd been licked.”
“Guess my mamma would give it to you.”
“Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped, would you, then?”
Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened himself with a quick
remembrance that he was born a man. “You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny
Trumbull.”
“Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is--” Johnny spoke in emphatic
whispers, Arnold's curly head close to his mouth: “There are a good many
things in this town have got to be set right,” said Johnny.
Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in his lovely blue eyes
under the golden shadow of his curls, a fire which had shone in the
eyes of some ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood in
the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull, although this small
descendant did go about curled and kissed and barelegged.
“How'll we begin?” said Arnold, in a strenuous whisper.
“We've got to begin right away with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.”
“With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?” repeated Arnold.
“That was what I said, exactly. We've got to begin right there. It is an
awful little beginning, but I can't think of anything else. If you can,
I'm willing to listen.”
“I guess I can't,” admitted Arnold, helplessly.
“Of course we can't go around taking away money from rich people and
giving it to poor folks. One reason is, most of the poor folks in this
town are lazy, and don't get money because they don't want to work for
it. And when they are not lazy, they drink. If we gave rich people's
money to poor folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good. The rich
folks would be poor, and the poor folks wouldn't stay rich; they would
be lazier, and get more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things
like that in this town. There are a few poor folks I have been thinking
we might take some money for and do good, but not many.”
“Who?” inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones.
“Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's awful poor. Folks help
her, I know, but she can't be real pleased being helped. She'd rather
have the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't get some of
your father's money away and give it to her, for one.”
“Get away papa's money!”
“You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as that, Arnold Carruth?”
“I guess papa wouldn't like it.”
“Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. It is not what your
father would like; it is what that poor old lady would like.”
It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at Johnny.
“If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we
begin,” said Johnny.
Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. “Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful
poor,” said he. “We might take some of your father's money and give it
to him.”
Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. “If,” said he, “you think my father
keeps his money where we can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth.
My father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that
he has to keep in the bank till they are.”
Arnold smiled hopefully. “Guess that's the way my papa keeps HIS money.”
“It's the way most rich people are mean enough to,” said Johnny,
severely. “I don't care if it's your father or mine, it's mean. And
that's why we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.”
“Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?” inquired Arnold.
Johnny sniffed. “Don't be silly,” said he. “Though I do think a nice
cat with a few kittens might cheer her up a little, and we could steal
enough milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milkman, to feed
them. But I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and
kittens. I wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor
cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and
that have to go hunting around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats
hate water, too, and pick things up that must be bad for their stomachs,
when they ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers.
No, Arnold Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr. Jim Simmons's
cats and get them in nice homes where they can earn their living
catching mice and be well cared for.”
“Steal cats?” said Arnold.
“Yes, steal cats, in order to do right,” said Johnny Trumbull, and his
expression was heroic, even exalted.
It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet exultant, rang in their
ears.
“If,” said the treble voice, “you are going to steal dear little kitty
cats and get nice homes for them, I'm going to help.”
The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had stood on the other side of
the Japanese cedars and heard every word.
Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold Carruth was the angrier
of the two. “Mean little cat yourself, listening,” said he. His curls
seemed to rise like a crest of rage.
Johnny, remembering some things, was not so outspoken. “You hadn't any
right to listen, Lily Jennings,” he said, with masculine severity.
“I didn't start to listen,” said Lily. “I was looking for cones on these
trees. Miss Parmalee wanted us to bring some object of nature into the
class, and I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese cone on one
of these trees, and then I heard you boys talking, and I couldn't help
listening. You spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for that
cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all about the Simmonses' cats,
and I know lots of other cats that haven't got good homes, and--I am
going to be in it.”
“You AIN'T,” declared Arnold Carruth.
“We can't have girls in it,” said Johnny the mindful, more politely.
“You've got to have me. You had better have me, Johnny Trumbull,” she
added with meaning.
Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do?
Suppose Lily told how she had hidden him--him, Johnny Trumbull, the
champion of the school--in that empty baby-carriage! He would have more
to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did not
think Lily would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, befrilled girl,
gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal almost as much
as a boy would; but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an
uncertain creature as a girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny
had a weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather
wished to have her act as partner in his great enterprise. He therefore
gruffly assented.
“All right,” he said, “you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll
see what happens if you tell.”
“She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl,” said Arnold Carruth,
fiercely.
Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. “And
what are you?” said she. “A little boy with curls and baby socks.”
Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. “Mind you don't tell,”
he said, taking Johnny's cue.
“I sha'n't tell,” replied Lily, with majesty. “But you'll tell
yourselves if you talk one side of trees without looking on the other.”
There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese
gong which announced the close of intermission should sound, but three
determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments. The
first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two
boys raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toadstool, which
she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to be
taken into class.
It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class.
That fact doubtless gave her a more dauntless air when, after school,
the two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road,
flirting her skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made
her fluff of hair fly into a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw
hat.
“To-night,” Johnny whispered, as he sped past.
“At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses',” replied
Lily, without even looking at him. She was a past-mistress of
dissimulation.
Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, and the guests remarked
sometimes, within the little girl's hearing, what a darling she was.
“She never gives me a second's anxiety,” Lily's mother whispered to a
lady beside her. “You cannot imagine what a perfectly good, dependable
child she is.”
“Now my Christina is a good child in the grain,” said the lady, “but she
is full of mischief. I never can tell what Christina will do next.”
“I can always tell,” said Lily's mother, in a voice of maternal triumph.
“Now only the other night, when I thought Christina was in bed, that
absurd child got up and dressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tom
came home with her, and of course there was nothing very bad about it.
Christina was very bright; she said, 'Mother, you never told me I must
not get up and go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course, true. I
could not gainsay that.”
“I cannot,” said Lily's mother, “imagine my Lily's doing such a thing.”
If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's, whom she dearly
loved, she might have wavered. That pathetic trust in herself might have
caused her to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and had been
excused, and was undressing for bed, with the firm determination to rise
betimes and dress and join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth. Johnny
had the easiest time of them all. He simply had to bid his aunt Janet
good night and have the watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his
mother at her desk and his father in his office, and go whistling to his
room, and sit in the summer darkness and wait until the time came.
Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His mother had an old school
friend visiting her, and Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls
falling in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be shown off
and show off. He had to play one little piece which he had learned upon
the piano. He had to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old he
was, and if he liked to go to school, and how many teachers he had, and
if he loved them, and if he loved his little mates, and which of them he
loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his aunt Dorothy, who was
the school friend and not his aunt at all, and would he not like to come
and live with her, because she had not any dear little boy; and he was
obliged to submit to having his curls twisted around feminine fingers,
and to being kissed and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before
he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist upon his lips, and
free to assert himself.
That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as having an actual horror of
his helpless state of pampered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of
the boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips and frown of
childish brows who stole out of bed, got into some queer clothes, and
crept down the back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was not
his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor, he heard the clink of
silver and china from the butler's pantry, where the maids were washing
the dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and he gave a little
leap of joy on the grass of the lawn. At last he was out at night alone,
and--he wore long stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of his
mother's toward that end. When he came home to luncheon he pulled them
out of the darning-bag, which he had spied through a closet door that
had been left ajar. One of the stockings was green silk, and the other
was black, and both had holes in them, but all that mattered was the
length. Arnold wore also his father's riding-breeches, which came over
his shoes and which were enormously large, and one of his father's silk
shirts. He had resolved to dress consistently for such a great occasion.
His clothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped clumsily down the
road.
However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jennings, who were waiting for
him at the rendezvous, were startled by his appearance. Both began to
run, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand, but Arnold's cautious
hallo arrested them. Johnny and Lily returned slowly, peering through
the darkness.
“It's me,” said Arnold, with gay disregard of grammar.
“You looked,” said Lily, “like a real fat old man. What HAVE you got on,
Arnold Carruth?”
Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous but triumphant. He
hitched up a leg of the riding-breeches and displayed a long, green silk
stocking. Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter.
“What you laughing at?” inquired Arnold, crossly.
“Oh, nothing at all,” said Lily. “Only you do look like a scarecrow
broken loose. Doesn't he, Johnny?”
“I am going home,” stated Arnold with dignity. He turned, but Johnny
caught him in his little iron grip.
“Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!” said he. “Don't be a baby. Come on.” And
Arnold Carruth with difficulty came on.
People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many lights were out
when the affair began, many went out while it was in progress. All three
of the band steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and dodged
behind trees and hedges when shadowy figures appeared on the road or
carriage-wheels were heard in the distance. At their special destination
they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter Van Ness always
retired very early. To be sure, he did not go to sleep until late, and
read in bed, but his room was in the rear of the house on the second
floor, and all the windows, besides, were dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was
a very wealthy elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given the
village a beautiful stone church with memorial windows, a soldiers'
monument, a park, and a home for aged couples, called “The Van Ness
Home.” Mr. Van Ness lived alone with the exception of a housekeeper and
a number of old, very well-disciplined servants. The servants always
retired early, and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet for his
late reading. He was a very studious old gentleman.
To the Van Ness house, set back from the street in the midst of a
well-kept lawn, the three repaired, but not as noiselessly as they could
have wished. In fact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, which was
wide open, and one woman's voice was heard in conclave with another.
“I should think,” said the first, “that the lawn was full of cats. Did
you ever hear such a mewing, Jane?”
That was the housekeeper's voice. The three, each of whom carried a
squirming burlap potato-bag from the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a
clump of stately pines full of windy songs, and trembled.
“It do sound like cats, ma'am,” said another voice, which was Jane's,
the maid, who had brought Mrs. Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot
water and peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with her.
“Just listen,” said Mrs. Meeks.
“Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundreds of cats and little
kittens.”
“I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You might go out and look, Jane.”
“Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!”