Mitch Miller Part 12

"Mrs. Ha.s.son began by sayin' to ma: 'I think you have a very remarkable boy, and I don't want to see any harm come to him, and so I've come over here, Mrs. Miller, to talk about your boy and Zueline.' 'What's the matter?' says ma, in a scared way. 'Nothing,' says Mrs. Ha.s.son, 'except I never see a boy of his age so attached to a girl, so in love with her,' she says, 'for that's it; and it won't do.' And ma says, 'I never noticed it. Of course I knew they played together and was little sweethearts like children will be. All the children play together just like lambs, as you might say.' 'Well,' says Mrs. Ha.s.son, 'they are lambs; Zueline is a lamb and so is Mitch. But it's clear out of the way for children to have such a deep feelin' for each other--it scares me.

And while I don't think Zueline feels exactly the same way, it's not the thing for a girl of twelve to be so much taken up with a little boy; nor for a little boy to be so completely absorbed in a little girl. So I've come over to tell you that we must work together to separate 'em; and to begin with, I'm goin' to take Zueline away for a visit, and that will help to break it, and by the time she gets back, it will be over or nearly so; and if it ain't, we must work together to keep them away from each other. Zueline can't come here any more; and Mitchie mustn't come to our house, and they mustn't go to parties where they meet.' So ma said she thought so too."

Here Mitch grew still and he began to shake again, and I just lay there and looked at the stars and waited. Finally Mitch started again:

"Skeet, when I heard this, I grew cold all over--my whole body got p.r.i.c.kly, my brain began to tingle, the sweat started out on my face, I was just as weak as a cat. I just rolled over on my back as if I was dead. It was just the same as if you said to a feller: 'you have just a minute to live.' I lay there and heard 'em talk about church and a lot of other things, and then I heard Mrs. Ha.s.son say she had to go, and I heard her walk out, and down the walk, and I heard the gate click. She was gone. The thing was done. I had lost Zueline. And I'll never get over it. It don't make no difference if I live to be a thousand years old, I'll never get over it. I'll never love any one else; I'll never feel the same again. And when I went down-stairs and began to carry in the kindlin', ma came into the kitchen. And after a bit she said: 'Mitchie, I want you to do a lot in school this fall and winter. I want you to put your mind on it, for I think you're goin' to be a man in the world and I want you to get ready. And you mustn't waste so much time on Zueline. She's just a little girl and you're just a little boy; and she seems awful pretty to you now, but she ain't really pretty. She won't be a pretty woman. I can see that now, but you can't. She's goin' to have more or less of a hard face like her mother. And if she was the girl for you, and I could see it, I wouldn't say this. But I know she isn't. She won't be good enough for you. And, besides, this boy and girl business is all foolishness and you must stop it. I've already told Mrs. Ha.s.son that I think it ought to be stopped.' Do you see how good ma was? She wanted me to think it was her and not Mrs. Ha.s.son that was interferin'.

But I was cold all through, and turned to stone like. My eyes felt hard and tight like b.u.t.tons, and I laughed--Yep, I really laughed, and said to ma--'All right, ma. I'll obey you.' And she says: 'You're a good boy, and I love you most to death.' So then I couldn't sleep that night, and the next mornin' I started early for the farm, to get you to go now to see Tom Sawyer; for when a thing like this happens, the only thing to do is to go away, just as fur as you can."

Mitch had been talkin' slower and slower, and finally he gave a kind of long breath, and I knew he was asleep. I crawled to the edge of the roof and looked out at the river, at the red lanterns on the bridge which was reflected in the water, at the river, which I could see movin' like a tired snake, at the dark woods across the river. Then I slid back near to Mitch and fell asleep too.

CHAPTER XIX

Something woke me up. I don't know what. I didn't know where I was at first. There wasn't a sound except a dog barkin' way off. Mitch was sound asleep. Pretty soon I thought I heard somethin' way down the river. I kept lookin', past the bridge where the red lanterns hung, way down into the darkness of the river, between the woods. And all of a sudden I saw two lights, then more lights, then fire shot straight up from smokestacks. It was a steamboat. It must be the _City of Peoria_, from St. Louis.

I shook Mitch and got him to. He rubbed his eyes, then jumped up sudden and strong. He stood up and looked. "Skeet," he says, "there she is. Who knows Tom Sawyer may have seen her this week or last week? Tom Sawyer may have been on her. What would you think if Tom Sawyer was actually on her, takin' a trip? For he can go anywheres he wants to, havin' as much money as he has."

So we stood up and watched her. And pretty soon we could hear her puff, and see all the lights and see the fire and the sparks shoot out of the smokestacks; and as far as I could see, there wasn't no one but Mitch and me watchin' her and waitin' for her to come in. It seemed she'd never get in. She puffed and blowed. The current must have been awful strong. By and by we thought we could hear voices on her; we could hear the bell. And finally she came under the bridge, blowin' smoke and noise right against the floor of the bridge with a louder noise. That was about a half a mile away, it seemed. And pretty soon then she swung to right opposite the shed where we was, and nosed in. They threw down a gang plank and the men began to work, n.i.g.g.e.rs and such. We went down and watched 'em. The captain came along, and Mitch says to me, "Now we got to find out about the boat, and we've got to get a job on her and work our way. We must hang on to our money as long as we can." So Mitch went right up to the captain and says: "Can we get a job on this here boat, me and my chum?"

The captain says, "What can you do?"

"We can do anything," says Mitch.

"Can you peel potatoes, and carry water, and wait on table?"

"Yes, sir," says Mitch.

"All right," says the captain. "You're hired; ten cents a day and board.

Report in the mornin' at six o'clock."

"I'm ready now," says Mitch.

"Report in the mornin'," says the captain.

Then Mitch says: "Why can't we go on board now, and go to bed and be ready when six o'clock comes?"

Just then he began to holler at some n.i.g.g.e.rs carryin' some boxes, and he said to us, "Get out of the way there." We stepped aside, and the n.i.g.g.e.rs got between us and the captain, and when they was past the captain had disappeared. We couldn't see him nowheres. There was a man standin' there, a kind of boss, it seemed. So we asked him when the boat was goin' back to St. Louis, and he said to-morrow at noon. Then another boss spoke up and said, "No, we're goin' up to Copperas Creek, back Sat.u.r.day." "Who says so?" "Well, that's the talk." "You didn't get that from the captain." "No, but that's the talk."

"Gee," said Mitch, "what wouldn't you give to sleep on her? We could sleep on the deck. Let's wait and ask the captain."

We waited around for about an hour. But the captain didn't appear. Then Mitch says: "Come on, Skeet, we're hired, we belong on this boat, we have a right to get on her, let's climb around there up to the deck."

So we watched so n.o.body could see us. We climbed around, up the poles, over the railing, and got on to the deck. It was way off toward the bow and n.o.body was there. We looked at the river a bit. Things got quieter and quieter. Finally we lay down on the deck and fell asleep.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Susie Skinner]

And pretty soon I began to feel it was gettin' daylight. I didn't sleep very well. And by and by I felt somebody nudgin' me, and I opened my eyes, and there stood a man in a white ap.r.o.n with a white cap on. And he says, "Here, what you doin' here? You ain't got no right on this boat."

He nudged Mitch, and Mitch woke up. Then the man said, "Where do you boys belong? Did you get on at Bath, or Beardstown?"

"We got on here," says Mitch. "We're hired. The captain hired us to peel potatoes and carry water, and we're here ready to work."

"You are, are you?" says the cook, for it was the cook. "Well, then, come along. It's half past five, and time to go to work."

He took us to the kitchen and set us to work. First we both peeled potatoes. Then he set us doin' all sorts of things, carryin' dishes, bringin' his terbaker, and I had to carry water; and finally he made me wipe dishes which a girl was washin'. And such a lot of swearin' you never heard in your life. The cook was singin' a song which went somethin' like this, as far as I can remember:

There was a little girl, and she lived with her mother, And the world all over couldn't find such a nother, Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo, Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo.

She had hair on her head like thorns on the hedges, And the teeth in her jaws was a set of iron wedges, Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo, Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo.

And he was throwin' things into the skillet and callin' to the girl who was washin' dishes. She wore slippers that slipped back and forth on her feet; her ap.r.o.n was twisted; her hair was twisted in a little knot; she had on a bra.s.s ring, and he called her Susie. Then he'd sing:

There goes Susie Skinner, How in the h.e.l.l you know?

I know her by her ap.r.o.n strings, And her shoe strings draggin' on the floor, Gol dern her, And her shoe strings draggin' on the floor.

By and by breakfast was ready, and Mitch and me could hardly wait. We couldn't eat till all the pa.s.sengers was served, for they made us go in and take away the soiled dishes. And so when it came our turn, we just pitched into the liver and potatoes and the pancakes.

And it must have been about half past ten, and hot. It was hot like the sun under a burning gla.s.s, and the river smelled and the dead fish. Only a little breeze began to stir after a while, and then it was better. We had nothin' to do now, and stood by the railin' lookin' at the kids on sh.o.r.e. "Don't you bet they wish they were here?" said Mitch. "Well, we've struck it, at last, and by Sat.u.r.day, we'll see Tom Sawyer, and tell him all about our trip."

I began to hear the sound of a fiddle, and a lot of laughin'; so Mitch and me edged around the deck till we got toward the front right under the little cupola where the wheel was, where the captain stood when the boat was runnin'. And there sat a lot of men, the captain and several others, with some gla.s.ses and beer bottles; and a white-haired man, his name was Col. Lambkin, with his mustache curled and waxed up and all white too, was dancin' as nimble as a boy. This fiddler was playin'

somethin' awful devilish and quick, and the rest was pattin' their hands and feet while the old feller was dancin'. He was dressed in a fine, tight fittin' coat and had on varnished shoes, and a panama hat with a string b.u.t.toned into his lapel so his hat wouldn't blow away; and a diamond in his necktie, and one on his hand that I could see glitter as he danced.

We got up closer, and the captain saw us and said: "Come over here now and do a jig--come on."

The fiddler stopped playin' and looked around. It was John Armstrong.

First he looked at me, then he looked down at the floor, kind a funny like, and then he raised his eyes and looked at us again. We just stood there, not knowin' what to do. Then John said: "Wal, boys, when did you come?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: And There Sat a Lot of Men]

The captain said, "Do you know them kids, John?" John says: "Come over here, boys, and I'll introduce you to the captain." We walked over. John said: "This here is preacher Miller's boy over at Petersburg. And this here is the son of States Attorney Kirby. You know Hardy Kirby." The captain said "Yes." John went on, "Of course you do." And then the captain says: "I hired 'em to peel potatoes; they're goin' to St. Louis with me." "Is that so?" said John. "Well, they're good boys, and of course you'll fotch 'em back when you get through with 'em." "I don't know," says the captain, "I may sell 'em in St. Louis--or adopt 'em. I ain't got no boys of my own, and if they prove all right, good workers, I may keep 'em for good." John laughed. Kept laughin' at everything that was said. And finally they drank more beer and all talked together; and the old feller that was dancin' sat down, lit a fine cigar, and began to tell about New York. It turned out he was the fish commissioner and lived in Havaner; but he had traveled everywhere and was a regular gentleman. And finally he says to the captain--"Sing the 'Missouri Harmony.'" "I will," says the captain, "if John'll play the tune." So John played it and the captain sang.

I forgot to say that I can't remember nothin', or commit anything to memory. But I never see such a boy as Mitch. He could learn anything, and that's how I happen to write these songs down here. He wrote 'em out for me afterwards and handed 'em to me. Well, this is what the captain sang:

When in death I shall calm recline, O bear my heart to my mistress dear.

Tell her it lived on smiles and wine Of brightest hue while it languished here.

Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow, To sully a heart so brilliant and light,

But balmy drops of the red grape borrow To bathe the relict from morn till night.

He sang it in kind of a sing song. Then John kept tellin' stories and fiddlin'; and finally he struck up a tune that was more lively than any, and the white-haired gentleman got up and danced faster and gracefuler than ever. Then John told a story. Everybody was laughin'. By this time the captain had Mitch on his knee, and you never did see such fun and good friendship; and a man who'd been keepin' quiet except for laughin' pulled me over to him and said, "You look like your dad. Your dad is the best man in this county, the best lawyer and the best friend.

You be as good as your dad, and you're all right." I said, "Yes, sir,"

and was almost too happy to live.

Then the party kind a broke up. The old gentleman was talkin' to a fat man, who was pretty full of beer; and John was talkin' to the captain.

Mitch and me just sat there and watched. Then I heard John ask the captain, "When you goin' to pull out?" "Not till Sat.u.r.day," said the captain. "To-morrow or next day we may pull up to Copperas Creek; but we won't go back till Sat.u.r.day." "Wal," says John, "is that so? Not till a Sat.u.r.day?"