menu_book Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII. THE RETURN OF THE TREASURES. When Tilda Jane sprang into the sleigh, she had uttered a dismayed, Where's Perletta? Then she had speedily forgotten her, for the wild Irishman Handy Andy, Lord Scatterbrain, had wriggled from Hank's embracing arm and was springing, prancing, and licking her in

spasms of dancing delight. The pigeon, too, hearing Tilda Jane's voice, was beating himself about a box at Hank's feet, and was calling hoarsely for recognition. Poor might! He was nearly starved when I got him, exclaimed Hank, and I didn't take time to give him

more than half what he wanted. There are fresh pills at home, cried Tilda Jane, and diving under the rug, she brought little housetop from his prison and wrapped him in her apron. Run in the house, Tilda, said Hank, when they reached their own gate. I'll just drive down to the drug store and telephone Mr. Weismuth.

Grandpa was standing in the wide open front door. Hello, Father, cried Hank, call your pup. And he put Handy Andy out in the snow. Andy, Andy, said Grandpa in a voice that crackled when he tried to raise it. The pup cared little for his tones.

They were dulcet to him, and tearing up the sidewalk he sprang at the old man, ran up his legs and his back, and fell down, rolled over and over, jumped in the air, agitating and extending his pleading pink tongue, till at last Grandpa took compassion and, stooping down, lifted him in his arms. The little dog rarely barked.

Grandpa had scarcely heard his pretty puppy voice. He was thoroughbred, the old man used to say to himself proudly, only currs bark. But just now he had to change his opinion, for Handy Andy in his excitement was yelping like the various curr. Grandpa turned, and walking with one crutch only, hitched himself into the kitchen.

He had his pet alone for the space of two minutes, and after looking carefully about to be sure he was not watched, he took the little wriggling head between his hands and pressed his face against it. An instant later Tilda Jane and the pigeon with poacher in close attendance burst into the kitchen.

Oh, my darling bird, said the little girl, he is almost famished. Wait, housetop, wait till I get your pills. And sitting down she reached a hand toward the plate on the table. The half-starved bird was so excited that she could scarcely persuade him to keep still long enough to get the pills down his throat.

Crying hoarsely, flapping his full-grown wings and embracing and blinding her with them, he seemed to reproach her for not making more haste. Tilda Jane at last wound her apron firmly round his wings and then, dipping each pill in water, slipped it down his throat. With gurgling coos of delight he received them, and after feeling his protruding crop,

Tilda Jane gave him a drink and set him in his box that she had hung on the kitchen wall. Little housetop snuggled down at once upon the straw, and with his sleepy brown eyes opening and shutting alternately napped and watched his friends in the kitchen. Poacher had gone under the stove with Gippie, who was usually undemonstrative, but who now was taking part in the family rejoicing.

Being or rather smelling Poacher, Gippie had fallen into a mild rapture and was now lying beside him, excitedly licking the particles of snow off his tired feet. Grandpa chuckled as his eye fell on them and he looked affectionately down at the pup, who had at last gone to sleep on his knee. Tilda Jane was bustling about the kitchen, putting tea in the teapot and blissfully surveying

her reunited family. Hank had just come stamping into the room. Well, I've made Mr. Wey Smith comfortable, also given Milkweed something to consider. That mare just talked this morning. She knows what's going on about as well as we do.

I declare, if she didn't watch Poacher and then put her own young nose to the ground, she's a gem. A cup of tea, Tilda? That'll go right to the spot. I had a good dinner at Cascopod, but I'm ready for something more.

Now tell us about it, said the little girl, when Hank sat with his flowered cup, labeled a present to a friend in his hand. And first, oh, Hank, where's Perletta? The young man buried his face in his big cup and did not reply. I thought when I didn't see her in the sleigh, continued the little girl anxiously, she must

be walking behind. Then when she wasn't there, I knew you must have dropped her somewhere. When will she be here, Hank? He shook his head. I don't know, Sissy.

Oh, Hank, what did you tell her to do? Well, Sissy, I caught up to her at just twelve o'clock this morning. I should have got her sooner, but Milkweed cast a shoe and I had to go to a blacksmith's. And then Poacher had some trouble with the trail, it being what they call cold. What was she doing when you reached her, asked Tilda Jane.

Poking along the road, about a mile beyond Carrickhunk, her broad-acred feet, planking up and down like machinery, puppy in a basket on her arm, her bundle slung on her back and the pigeon tucked in the front of her coat. She walked all night, only stopped at Cascapod for breakfast and a rest, then plotted on through Carrickhunk district.

She knew I was coming, for she kept looking over her shoulder as I sailed up the long straight road through the woods behind her. You'd have thought she'd stop, but she didn't. I never said a word till I reached her. Then I remarked, as pleasant as you please, the top of the morning to you, handy Andy,

wild Irishman, the top of the morning black pigeon. I never spoke to her. She turned round with a grin. My but she's strong to travel all night and not to turn a feather. Without a word, she handed me the basket and the pigeon.

Then my dear hearers, wasn't she going to pack herself in beside me? I wheeled milkweed round and set off away from her, and she yelled after me, Hank, Hank, at first. Mr. Hank, Mr. Hank. I never could get her to say Mr. Hank, murmured till the Jane who was listening, with a troubled

face. She said it this morning, remarked Hank grimly, or I'd never have stopped. When the sweet sound of my name with a handle to it came floating on the breeze, I turned round and cried out, Did anyone call me? I did, she bellowed, with all the starch gone out of her.

I want to tell you I was running away like lethal teal to Jane. Well, run right on, I yelled back. Don't mind me, but you've come after me, she shouted. I thought you would. I came after the pup and the pigeon, I roared good and loud.

We did have a servant girl, we ain't got one now. Oh, Hank, said till the Jane reproachfully, she hates to be called a servant. Now look here, sissy, said Hank decidedly. There's a lot of sweet, mealy-mouthed pity in this world that ruins people. Servant?

What is there in that word to scare anyone? Ain't I a servant? Don't I mind Mr. Wey Smith? Ain't you a servant? And a good little one to father and me.

Why don't even the president say he's the servant of the people? Everybody serves somebody, but good land. We're all getting so stuck up that soon we'll be a nation of masters with no one to boss, but pigs and horses. That's so, said grandpa, striking the arm of his chair vigorously.

That's so, boy. It used to be in the old days. In those times servant was servant and master was master. Now we're all ladies and gentlemen. But won't you let Proleta come back?

cried till the Jane in dismay. Hank looked at his father. You speak, dad. See, said the old man kindly, I'm easy in my mind and I don't want to be hard. You like that cracked simpleton.

If Hank don't object, I'll agree to her return. But mind, no more cosseting. If she comes, tis a servant, plain servant with wages. If she don't like it, she can get out. We've got to have someone to do the work and there ain't many girls going, but tis mostly

to oblige you. So say I, remarked Hank warmly, and as she ran away of her own accord, let her come back on her own accord. But she's so foolish, so provoking, said the little girl, no one will tell her. She won't know what to do.

Don't you believe it, said Hank. She's got some sense in that cracked pate of hers. And see here, sissy, I thought of you and your good heart, and I looked up the Humane Society in Carraconk. Their agent has an eye on her.

She'll be watched and reported to us, but I told them not to interfere unless they had to. For my private opinion is that Proleta is stumping her way back here as fast as she can. Even a pig knows where the litter and fodder are best.

Tilda Jane became slightly reassured, but her face was still anxious and unhappy, and the two men looked apprehensively at each other. That pup's tired out, isn't he, remarked Hank with a view to changing the subject. Dead beat, replied Grandpa. He wouldn't look at his toys, and he's been in my room twice, scratching at the bed for

me to put him on it. Tilda Jane, I'm feared he's torn a hole in the quilt. Let him tear fifty, said the little girl affectionately. It's so joyful to have him back. I guess I'll give him some supper and put him to bed, said Grandpa.

Maybe a little medicine, too. His throat isn't as bad as I feared it would be, but he's rattling considerable. Dad, exclaimed Hank, look at his sides. He's as plump as a dumpling. Proleta crammed him good.

For the love of puppyhood, put him to bed fasting even from pills. See him shake. He's dreaming over the past night and day. I say that was a moving experience for a pup. He's fagged out.

Mind as well as body. Grandpa rose and limped into his bedroom. Where's my red dressing gown, Sissy, he called. The pup don't like this old bed quilt for a cover. Tis too plain and dark.

Tilda Jane got up and found the gown, then came back to her seat by the fire. Ain't you going to give us any supper, Sissy, asked Hank, interrupting her train of thought. She jumped up. Oh dear, I was forgetting and you must be dreadfully hungry. Hank, you won't be too cross with Proleta when she comes back.

The young man's eyes twinkled. I'll be all sugar and honey and roses. You just wait, Sissy. I wish she could come home before bedtime, murmured Tilda Jane as she moved about the room. She had her wish.

She and Grandpa and Hank sat pretty late by the dining room fire that night, going over and over their experiences of the day. For they had to tell Hank everything that had happened during his absence. He was greatly pleased to hear that Mr. Weismuth had called and got Tilda Jane to relate every detail connected with the visit.

Then he wanted his father's account of it. And at eleven p.m. the old man was just telling how Mr. Weismuth had said they were old friends when a timid knock was heard at the front door. The knock was plainly perceptible, for they were sitting with the door into the hall wide open, and Hank with a shrewd nod of his head uttered a decided,

That's a tap of the goose's wing. Is it Proleta? cried Tilda Jane springing up and almost overturning Gippy from her lap. Yes, Sissy, but hold back. I'm the one to interview her. You may listen, if you like.

And with a mischievous face, Hank went tramping in a slow and ponderous fashion through the hall. Who's there? Tilda Jane and Grandpa heard him saying a loud and pompous voice. Me? he exclaimed an instant later. And who is me?

You know, said Proleta stubbornly from the outside. Just eleven o'clock bawled Hank with a magisterial air. Honest folks in bed and rogues are running. If you don't give me your name, how do I know you ain't a thief? We had one in the house last night, stole some valuable property that I've been all day recovering.

Proleta took some time to think this over. Then she said, I'm hum to bide. Through the door wide open. Why, it must be my long lost brother who ran away to sea ten years ago. He's the only one out of this home.

Oh, who are you? he uttered coldly as his eye fell on the somewhat bedraggled Proleta. You know, she said gruffly, quit your fooling. You're the dead copy of a girl we took from an orphan asylum, said Hank in pretended astonishment. The dead copy, enough to be her twin sister. Her name was Merleta or Gurleta or some such odd call word.

Ever hear of her? I'm her, said Proleta solemnly. Oh, no, you're not, said Hank, shaking his head. She ran away. She's come back, said Proleta in deep, almost manly tones.

I assure you, replied Hank gently, that she would never come back. She's running in search of a happy home. We're dreadful people in this house, fight all the time. I set store by fights, said Proleta, the strongest desire of whose heart was now that of pleasing. Do you want a place, asked Hank kindly?

Yes, sir, and Proleta leaned wearily against the doorpost. Even her iron constitution was beginning to feel the strain of the past day and night. How much wages do you want? Three dollars a week, replied Proleta promptly. I never give more than two, said Hank.

All right, sir, she said humbly. What is your character, asked Hank? Are you honest and willing? She bobbed her head. Never steal?

I never stole a pin's woof in my life, she exclaimed indignantly. Except livestock, muttered Hank. Then he said aloud, Where is your written character from your last mistress? I'm a little fussy about my servants. Proleta did not wince at the approprious epithet.

I never had no writings, she said seriously. My last boss was a man, and he wouldn't give me none. Have a care now, said Hank sternly, running down late employers isn't going to get you a berth here. I dare say that nice young man who hired you last found you such a traipsey-mopsy baggage

that he was glad to get rid of you. Proleta maintained a discreet silence, and Hank went on. Can you wash and iron and bake and scrub? Yes, sir, said Proleta meekly. And you dote on animals and old men and girls?

Because we've got specimens of all. I just hanker, ardor old men and children, she said with great humility. And as for dumb critters, I like them better than speaking ones. Come in, said Hank grandly. This is the place for you.

On second thoughts, no, he went on, barring the way, go round to the back door. I find it makes my servants top-loftical to come in the same door as I do. I'll let you in at the woodhouse door, and don't you ever let me see you use this front entrance. And he shut the door in her face.

On his way to the woodhouse, he peeped in the dining-room. His father sat with a broad grin on his face. Still did Jane look rather distressed. Mushy-hearted, muttered Hank. That's the way with girls and women, no discipline among themselves.

Well, Proleta ain't going to lovey-dovey this family while I'm round. And he lifted the hook on the back door. Proleta entered with great docility and stood expectantly before him. Hank stared at her, and she said slyly, What's the way upstairs, sir, and what room be I to have?

He chuckled inwardly, quite a witsnapper. Then he said, pointing to a rough stairway at the back of the woodhouse, Go up there and walk straight ahead. You'll find a room on the right that belonged to your unworthy predecessor. Take it and keep it neater than she left it.

Wait a bit till I get you a lantern. You might stumble, the house being strange to you. Could I set by the fire a spell and warm myself? She asked, gazing wistfully through the open door at the kitchen stove. He surveyed her red face and hands.

No, you can't. The blood is galloping through your veins and you're not cold. You are only trying to pry into family secrets. Go to bed. I'm main hungry, she said with increasing wistfulness.

Go upstairs, he said imperiously. My adopted sister will put a plate of cold vitals outside your door presently. Proleta, with the utmost politeness and amiability, obeyed him. She said, saying agreeably as she closed the stair door, Good night, sir.

Hank hurried into the dining room and shutting the door burst into one of his enjoyable fits of laughter. I've broke that plunging will. She'll not hank me again, nor will she run in search of a happy home. Even till DeJane was smiling now. It seemed good to hear her speak nice and respectful, she said, instead of so impudent and pert.