Dorothy at Skyrie Part 20

"And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow--I've been to bed some night, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: and I've got up in the morning and--_found--them--in--perfect--order_! What do you think of that?"

"Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you was abed."

"No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; nor can I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I had explained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up and held my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor 'cultivators'--even little ones like mine--run over the beds as something certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. I know it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost; because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farming business that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leave it. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father came here to get well--his only chance. We haven't enough money to move back to Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with the Ghost. It is the only way. But--O Jim! I've not only seen what IT has done in the garden, I've seen IT at work there. Seen IT with my own two eyes! Now, do you believe?"

"Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!"

Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry for Dorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomed labor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as he did with added gentleness:

"I think that that there Babc.o.c.k girl had ought to had her neck wrung 'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' I wish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.'

Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such a job to you. I--I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hire myself out to your folks."

"No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the best place to get on as you couldn't do with us."

This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that he had no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt his conscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late that there would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject and inquired:

"If you seen IT, what did it look like?"

"IT was tall, like a man. IT was all in some light-colored clothes and it worked as steadily as if IT were a machine. But it made very little noise. IT didn't want to be heard, I thought. When IT had finished IT sort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I saw IT crossing a field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is, that Alfaretta told of, and where she said IT lives part of the time. IT used to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps in now. So _she_ said."

"Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you go to takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!"

"Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe is on the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes to Skyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinks she's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners.

But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told n.o.body but you, Jim."

Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was still unconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked:

"Why didn't your folks see IT if you did?"

"Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go down into the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through those windows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from the garden. That's why."

"All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road and chirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret, Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, and soon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitable animal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggested was possible.

A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within a rude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of people that both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured:

"Another auction! Let's stop and listen."

It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stood on the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediately recognized the two young people and called out to them:

"h.e.l.lo, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on?

Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to the prettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on."

Then with a general sweep of his eye over the a.s.semblage, he added for the benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes, hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman's goods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebald mare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle or harness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how the kids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! How much am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow and orphans? How--much?"

"Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retorted that the bidder must be joking.

Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd and stood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull her down upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength, as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her clear treble:

"Thirty-five dollars!"

A silence that might be felt over that a.s.sembly, and no other bid followed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise"

but none was forthcoming. To n.o.body else in that company was the pretty, piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been born on the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was not strong enough for hard work, such as these other possible bidders required.

"Going, going, _gone_! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-five dollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?"

While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auction obligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to the back of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness could hardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her the happy possessor of that wonderful pony.

Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck, smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that sudden affection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that she noticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely asked her to "step aside and let us. .h.i.tch up."

Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now between the shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minutes later he announced:

"We're ready to go now, Dorothy."

"Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning the runabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in that direction."

"I--I guess we won't finish our trip to Newburgh, to-day, Dolly," he answered with a laugh.

"Why not?"

"Because--'cause you spent all _your_ money for the horse an' I spent all _mine_, all 't I've earned yet, for the rig. Which critter'll you drive home, Dorothy? Home it is where we'll eat that nice lunch o' Mrs.

Calvert's, 'cause I haven't got a cent left to buy them circus tickets.

Which one did you say?"

"My own!" cried the girl, exultantly, as she sprang into the rickety little phaeton and took up the pony's reins.

CHAPTER XVIII

THAT SOUTH MEADOW

When even before mid-day the two vehicles returned to Skyrie both Mr.

and Mrs. Chester were too astonished to do more than open their eyes and mouths and wait explanations.

These came with a volubility that was less wonderful in Dorothy than in Jim, but each of the pair seemed to trip the other up with a flood of words, till finally the listeners made out to sift the facts for themselves. Then, while they were wholly delighted by the possession of the pony, mother Martha's prudence was disturbed by the thought of debt, and she promptly demanded to know what Jim had paid for the phaeton and harness.

For a time he stubbornly declined to tell, and it was not till Mrs.

Chester brought out her own purse and insisted upon repaying him that he acknowledged:

"Well, if you must know, 'twasn't but fifteen dollars, all told. _True._ Like Dorothy here I took every cent I had with me an' now I'm powerful glad I did. As for takin' your money, same's sellin' it to you, I shan't. I'm makin' it a present to Dolly an' all of you. If it hadn't been for her I never'd have known Mrs. Calvert nor had the chance of my life. 'Tain't but little, seems if, to return for all you've brought to me. If you don't want to hurt my feelin's and make me stay clean away from Skyrie, you won't say another word on that subject. And I don't want to stay away. I can't, not till some--some things gets straightened out. So, I reckon I'd best go see if there's a good stall in that old barn to put--Say, Dorothy? What you goin' to name the critter, anyway?"

"James Barlow, she is not a 'critter.' She is a perfectly beautiful piebald pony and her name is--Portia!" After which alliterative statement Dorothy rushed toward the lad, intent upon hugging him in grat.i.tude for the gift from which none of them could dissuade him.

But he had had experiences in that line and ungallantly backed away, blushing furiously that these elder people should witness his embarra.s.sment, and covering his confusion by remarking:

"I'm going to the barn now, and you can come with me if you want to. If you do we can eat our dinner outside the door under that shady tree; then, as I've got the hull day give to me, I'd like to go see that mine in the south medder I've heard tell of."