A SECRET AMBITION REVEALED.
As Lieutenant Purcell and Morey clambered out on the bank the military
man began laughing heartily.
“I suppose they are a pretty wide fit,” remarked Morey holding out
Marsh Green’s loosely hanging trousers with one hand.
“I was laughing at my mistake in thinking you were a ‘pot’ fisher,”
explained the soldier. “But I’d known if I had seen your rod--it’s a
beauty.”
Morey handed Lieutenant Purcell his father’s old split bamboo, silver
ferruled, and colored a rich brown from long use.
“Since we caused you to lose your own rod I want you to take mine,”
said Morey promptly. “It is a little heavy and old-fashioned but it has
landed many a fine fish. It was my father’s.”
“Your father is dead?”
“Yes sir. My mother lives--Aspley Place is our home.”
“Well, I want to shake hands with you, sir, and to say again I am
heartily sorry I lost my head. Losing my rod serves me right. I
couldn’t think of taking yours. It’s a beauty,” he added, taking the
rod in his hands.
“But I want you to,” exclaimed Morey. “My father was a sportsman. He
loved his horse, rod and gun. I don’t know what Amos meant. I reckon
it’s the first time a trout was ever taken out of Aspley Creek in a
net. I’ll feel better if you’ll take the rod. If you don’t,” he added,
his eyes snapping, “I’ll take it and break it over that nigger’s back.”
Amos, skulking within earshot--the rock still in his hand--hurried away
among the pines.
“I insist that the fault was all mine. But I’ll compromise. I am
stationed near Linden, some miles from here, on special duty. It was a
long drive over here and a man will be waiting for me some miles down
the stream. I’d like to fish the creek down to my rendezvous. If you
lend me your rod I’ll send it to you tomorrow.”
“At least,” said Morey, giving ready assent, “you will consider
yourself as having at all times, for yourself and friends, the use of
the creek. And when you are nearby,” he continued, pointing among the
trees toward the west, “my mother will be glad to have you call at
our home. A real fisherman will always find a welcome there. I’ve got
better pants at home,” laughed Morey.
The soldier shrugged his shoulders and laughed in turn. Then he lifted
the lid of Morey’s broken creel and saw the two small trout. In turn
he exposed his own catch--seven beautiful fish, one weighing at least
a pound and a quarter. Before Morey could stop him the lieutenant had
dumped his own string into the boy’s basket.
“With my compliments to your mother, my boy.”
The pride of the Marshalls rose in the water-soaked, ragged boy’s heart.
“On one condition, sir; that you will take dinner with us this evening.”
The man hesitated.
“Not today, thank you. I’m deuced glad to meet a son of one of our old
families--I’m a Virginian myself--but, not today.”
“You are stationed at Linden, you say?”
“For a time. I may leave any day. If I do I hope we may meet again.
Won’t you take my card?”
He handed Morey a card reading: “Lieutenant Fred Purcell, U. S. Signal
Corps, Fort Meyer, Virginia.”
“It will be a favor to me if you’ll take the rod,” insisted Morey.
“The obligation is all mine,” insisted the stranger. “And, if we meet
again I hope I can find opportunity to return the favor in some way.”
When the two finally parted company Morey had little reason to suspect
how much that statement meant, nor how soon he was to avail himself of
Lieutenant Purcell’s kind offices.
A half hour later Morey reached his home and entered the musty, quiet
horse lot. There was hardly a breath of air and the sun lay on the
place with almost midsummer heat. A few chickens pecked in silence but
no other living thing was in sight. Until then the boy had not realized
how desolate and run-down was the place where once the activities of
a busy plantation centered. There were hardly signs even, of the farm
implements that had rotted away for years. The yard seemed abandoned.
With a little lump in his throat the boy hurried forward, his long,
ragged trousers gathering new dust and weight as he did do. As he
climbed the broken-down fence and got a view of the big, paintless,
loose-boarded house beyond he almost sighed. But there at least were
flowers and he could hear the hum of bees among the hollyhocks by the
garden fence. There he could see Marsh, his old hat well down on his
head, bent over his hoe, as the colored man rose at times among the
rank weeds. Beyond the garden patch, in the low meadow, he could see,
too, old Betty and Jim the mule. Amos was not in sight.
“Old Marsh is getting pretty careless,” said Morey to himself. “There’s
a good many things he ought to do around here. Lazy niggers,” he mused.
It did not occur to Morey that he might do some of these things
himself. Such had not been the lad’s training. With another sigh he
made his way to Marsh Green’s cabin. Never before had it looked so poor
and desolate.
“Marsh ought to fix up his old place,” Morey muttered. Then he turned
and looked at the big house. The wide shingles, green with moss, were
missing in many places. The big chimney, with one side of the top
missing, stood like a monument to the departed glories of other days.
On the grey-green roof a few chimney bricks lay where they had fallen.
But, around the far corner where the gallery showed, the honeysuckle,
crawling over the columns and roof, hung a deep green curtain of new
fragrance. And, through the crookedly hanging shutters which were the
color of dead grass, he saw fresh white curtains.
For the first time in his life the sight of the bricks on the roof
annoyed Morey. With a sharp reprimand on his tongue he was about to
call to the busy Marsh when a sound fell upon his ear. There was some
one in the cabin. Stealing around behind the crumbling shack Morey
cautiously approached it and peered through a crack. Amos, crooning
to himself, was standing in the middle of the hard, clay floor with
Morey’s Richmond trousers held up, before him in his outstretched hands.
Amos’ eyes were set. On his solemn black face there was a look
of longing. His temptation was too great. Squatting on the floor
the colored boy emptied the contents of the trousers’ pockets
on the clay; seventy-five cents in money--dimes, nickels and a
shining quarter--Morey’s key ring, a silver pencil case, note-book,
handkerchief, rubber eraser and his new pocket knife, the last thing he
had bought in Richmond.
Each thing the colored lad fondled, felt and smelled. Then he opened
the knife, tested it and held it off at arm’s length. Gradually he
returned each object to its place, the knife last of all. He sprang to
his feet, and Morey was just about to call out, but stopped. The black
boy, giving way to temptation, plunged his hand again into a pocket of
the trousers and pulled out the new knife. He shoved the knife into his
own pocket and dropped the trousers where Morey had left them.
Chuckling to himself, Morey, a few moments later, sauntered into the
cabin.
“Amos,” said Morey, “did that man hurt you when he pushed you over?”
“Push me?” said Amos. “He done hit me wid his fis’.”
“Did he hurt you?” persisted Morey, doffing Marsh’s unwieldly trousers.
For answer Amos produced and exhibited the mossy boulder that he had
carried from the creek.
“Don’ mak no diffunce ’bout dat. But ef dat man ebber comes dis way,”
and he shook his head belligerently, “yo’ don’ need ast him no sich
quesson. He ain’t gwine to be hurted--he gwine to be kilt--da’s right.”
“Anyway don’t stab him,” said Morey putting on his own trousers.
“I ain’t no stabbin’ colored boy,” began Amos with dignity, “an’ I
ain’t gwine hit no pusson when he ain’t lookin!”
“Good. Never do any thing behind another man’s back.”
The colored boy shifted a little uneasily but Morey only laughed and
said no more. As the two boys passed out of the cabin Morey pointed to
the distant home.
“Amos,” he said, “why don’t you get up there and take those bricks
down?”
“Yo’ ma don’ tell me to take no bricks down. How I gwine to git ’way up
dar? ’Sides, I ain’t got no time--.”
“Well, I tell you--”
“Miss Marshall, don’ tell me--.”
“Git, boy!” snapped Morey nodding toward the house.
But Amos hung back, digging his toes into the dust, with a defiant look
on his face. Morey began to feel in his pockets and his face assumed a
puzzled look.
“I reckon I must have dropped my new knife in the cabin,” said Morey,
turning back.
There was a swift pat-pat of bare feet and, as Morey glanced over his
shoulder he saw Amos in a cloud of dust loping at the top of his speed
toward the house.
Morey followed the flying colored boy who in a few minutes was
scrambling up the kitchen roof. Mammy Ca’line was in the kitchen
ironing and singing softly to herself. Throwing the now stiff trout on
a table Morey said:
“Here you are, Mammy, trout for supper.”
“Ain’t you all gwine to Major Carey’s dis ebenin’?”
Morey’s jaw fell. He had forgotten about the proposed call.
“Anyway,” he said, “we aren’t going there for supper.”
“Wha’ fo’ yo’ gwine den? Yo’ ma’ she always stay fo’ eatin’.”
“Where is mother?” asked Morey.
“Sh! sh!” whispered Mammy Ca’line, “yo ma been gettin’ her beauty
sleep, chile.”
“You cook the fish, Mammy; we’ll go after supper.”
The old colored woman looked up with a shrewd smile.
“Yo’ all bettah go ’long to Major Carey’s tomorrow, lessen yo’ git
’nother mess o’ fish. Major Carey ain’t gwine to turn no one way from
de table. De Carey’s has fish when dey wants dem. We all has ’em when
we kin get ’em.”
Morey grew thoughtful. But, passing on into the hall he made his way
lightly upstairs, that he might not disturb his mother, and entered his
own little room.
It certainly looked restful, after his day’s activity, and throwing
himself on the big, high-posted bed, he prepared to rest. But Morey was
not used to passing the daylight hours thus and in a few minutes he was
up and busy. His unpacked trunk was before him and he squatted on the
floor beside it.
About five o’clock Mrs. Marshall, fresh and smiling, dressed in white
and with a spray of honeysuckle in her dress, softly opened the
door. On the floor, fast asleep, lay Morey. About him, in the direst
confusion and disorder, were books, circulars, catalogues and newspaper
clippings. The floor was littered with what had apparently been the
principal contents of the boy’s trunk.
Mrs. Marshall picked her way among them; automobile catalogues, price
list of motors, advertisements of balloon manufacturers, descriptions
of aeroplane and dirigible balloon motors; newspaper clippings relating
to airships and their flights; motor-boat pictures. By the unconscious
boy’s arm lay a paper backed volume, “Aeroplanes; their Manufacture
and Use.” Not less than fifty such items constituted the litter on the
floor.
Mrs. Marshall touched Morey on the forehead. He sprang up, rubbed his
eyes and yawned.
“Is this your school library?” asked his mother, laughing.
“Some of it,” answered Morey soberly. “I borrowed the rest.”
Mrs. Marshall looked surprised.
“Does this interest you?” she went on, picking up a picture of a
revolving gyroscopic motor as if it were dynamite.
“Interest me?” exclaimed Morey. “I reckon it interests any one in my
business.”
“Your business?”
“Surely. That’s what I’m goin’ to be.”
Mrs. Marshall could only look at him, dazed and bewildered.
“Haven’t had time to tell you,” smiled Morey. “I’m an aviator. I’m
going to make an aeroplane this summer.”