Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII. AN ATTEMPTED TRICK. How far are we from Nikitus? inquired Tilda Jane of her chariot-tear one hour later. A matter of a mile, he replied, beating his disengaged hand upon his knees. He was sulky and cold, and Tilda Jane averted her glance from him to his small brown nag,
who was trotting along as cheerfully as if there were a reward at the end of the drive for him. He was a curious little horse. Surely there never before was one with such a heavy coat of hair. He looked like a wild animal, and with gladness of heart she noted his fat sides.
The full-cuts might be mean and untidy, but they certainly were good to this faithful friend and her mind went off in puzzled reflection. He was pursuing the same line of thought of an hour before. No one was perfect, yet no one was wholly bad. It was good in everybody and everything.
Ocher was a bad dog in some respects, and she cast a glance at him as he came trotting sleek and thoughtful behind the sleigh, but what a noble character he was in other respects. He was a crank, and she pressed closer the small animal beside her, but he had his good points and he was certainly a great comfort to her. Her heart was much lighter now, that she was drawing nearer to the train that was to take
her to Ciscasset, and in raising her little weary head gratefully to the sky. She noted in quick and acute appreciation an unusually beautiful sunset. The colours were subdued. The sky was as hard and as cold as steel, but how clear, how brilliantly clear and calm. She would have fine weather for her arrival in her new home.
She was glad that she was not to stay here. She felt herself quite a travelled orphan now, and somewhat disdainfully classed through rough settlement as backwoodsy. The houses were uninviting and far apart, the roads and yards were desolate, the men were in the woods, the women and children were inside huddling around the fires.
Middle Marsden was a quiet place, but it had not seemed as much out of the world as this. She hoped Ciscasset would be cheerful. Her travels had given her a liking for meeting new faces and for enjoying some slight excitement. Not as much as she had had during the last few days. No, not as much as that.
It was too trying for her, and she smiled faintly as she called up her last vision of her little careworn face in the cracked looking-glass in the log cabin. What's the matter? she asked abruptly. The sleigh had come to a sudden standstill, and the boy was holding the lines in dogged silence.
Why don't you drive on? she asked. Now you just looky here, he replied in a rough and bullying tone. I ain't a-goin' one step further. I'm most froze, and the station's right ahead. You follow your nose a spell, and you'll get there.
Give me the shawl and fifty cents and get out. For one moment Tilda James sat in blank amazement. Then she looked from his dirty obstinate face to the plump pony. The latter showed no signs of fatigue. He could go for miles yet.
If he had made a plea for the harness, she would not so much wonder, for it was patched and mended with rope in a dozen places. Then her blood slowly reached boiling point. She had stood a good deal from these fall cuts. The shawl was worth five dollars, that she knew, for she remembered hearing the matron
tell how much it had cost her. She had overpaid them for this drive, and she was not prepared to flounder on through the snow and perhaps miss her train. Her mind, fertile in resources, speedily hit upon something. She must get this bully out of the sleigh, and she fixed him with a glance more determined
than his own. He had on a rough, homespun suit of clothes and a homemade cap to match it. This cap was pulled tightly over his ears, but it was not untied enough to resist Tilda James' quick and angry fingers. Plucking it off, she threw it over a snake-fence into a snowbank, saying at the same time,
If you're going to turn me out, I'll turn you out first. The boy was furious, but the cold wind smote his head, and postponing retaliation, he sprang first for his cap, shouting warningly, however, as he swung his leg over the fence. I'll make you pay for this, you! Tilda Jane neither heard nor cared for the offensive epithet applied to her, with feet
both hands grasping the lines, gippy beside her and poacher racing behind. She was sweeping down the road. She had never driven a horse before in her life, but she adored new experiences, and she had carefully watched every motion of the young lout beside her. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
He gaped speechless for a few minutes, but the sound of the sleigh bells had made him turn sharply as he was picking up his cap. Then he restored the covering to his head, ran to the fence, and bawled helplessly, Stop, Thar, stop, stop! Tilda Jane was skimming gaily around a turn in the road toward the sunset.
He thought he heard a jeering laugh from her, but he was mistaken. Having got what she wanted, she was going obliviously on her way. The boy had been an obstacle, and she had brushed him aside. With his slower brain he was forced to pause and deliberate. Had she stolen their rig?
Stupid as he was, the conviction forced itself upon him that she had not. She could not take the rig on the train anyway, and plucking up courage and shivering in the that had seized upon him during his deliberations, he meditatively and angrily began to plod over the route that he had recommended to her. Three quarters of an hour later he drew into the station yard.
The train had come and gone, and his eager eyes went to the pony tied safe and sound under the shed, with not only the lap-rope over his back, but also the striped shawl. It was the first and last time that he would have the pleasure of wearing it. At the sound of the bells when he turned the sleigh, the telegraph operator came to the station door.
Here's fifty cents for you, left by a black-eyed girl. Without a thank you, the boy held out his hand. I guess you don't like that black-eyed girl much, said the young man teasingly. She saw, and the boy broke into an oath. Shut up, said the young man with a darkening face.
Then with some curiosity he went on, what did she do to make you talk like that? Split me out, replied the boy with another volley of bad language. You young hound, said the man witheringly, if she split you out I'll bet you deserved it. I'll not touch your dirty hand.
If you want your money, go find it. And throwing the fifty cents in a snowdrift, he went back into the warm station and slammed the door behind him. Uzaya's troubles were not over, and he had still to learn that the way of the transgressor is a tiresome one.
He fumbled desperately in the snow, for he wanted fifty cents above all things in the world just then. But he was destined not to find it, and at last, cold, weary, and yet with all his faults, not inclined to wreak his wrath on the pony who stood patiently watching him. He threw himself into the sleigh and sped gloomily homeward.
His mother had the shawl, but he had nothing for his trouble, for he counted as nothing And worse than nothing, his experience of the maxim that one sly trick inspires another.
