Pemrose Lorry, Camp Fire Girl Part 4

Her eye went to the emblems upon her wall: a pine tree on a poster, typical of strength, a banner with a sunburst, the sun shedding warmth upon the earth.

And then--then! To the little squat figure of a woman, as the Indians depicted her, with a torch in her hand, Wisdom's torch--her own emblem as Wantaam of the Council Fire.

But there was another representation of that Wantaam--that Wise Woman.

Pem had designed it herself, painted it herself upon a two-foot poster, gaining thereby a green honor-bead for handicraft.

And before that the girl, wrestling with the heavy disappointment of that tantalizing will, brought up--her hands clasped.

It was a curious scene: a lot of little tents with a wall around them, the same symbolic figure of the woman with the torch stood upon the wall, pointing a stiff arm at a man outside, a warrior, who had a knife in hand.

Underneath were printed in flaming characters two Indian words: "Notick!

Notick!" signifying: "Hear! Hear!"

"I always did feel fascinated by that Wise Woman who saved--a--city."

Pem looked adoringly at her handiwork. "A besieged Jewish city, away back in King David's time! To be sure, one reads of it in--in what's a bloodthirsty chapter of the Old Testament! And she saved the town by ordering the death of a rebel, a traitor, proclaiming that she, herself, was loyal and faithful to the king--so were her people--making Joab, David's captain, that man with the knife, outside the wall, listen when she cried to him: 'Hear! Hear!' She had more sense than the men about her--and one isn't told the least thing further about her, not even her name. That's what makes her mysterious--and fascinating.... Yet she saved a city!"

The girl drew a long breath--a suddenly fired breath.

Was it up to her now to save a city: the citadel of her father's courage--of that rose-colored conviction which is half the battle on earth or in the air? How was she to do it?

Her eye went wandering around the room. Trained to the eloquence of symbols, it lit on something. Just a sheen of pearls and a little loom upon a table--myriads of pearly beads, woven and unwoven, with here and there a ray of New Jerusalem colors, ruby, emerald, blazing through them--the New Jerusalem of hope.

"Ah-h!"

Breathlessly she caught it up, that something, four feet and a half of the beaded history of a girl,--pearl-woven prophecy, too!

Hugging it to her breast, that long leather strip, an inch and a half in width, on which her glowing young life-story was woven in pearls, with those rainbow flashes of color--the loom with it--she hurried out of the room.

Never, perhaps, did a professor's laboratory, the stern, hardware "lab."

of a mechanical engineer, react to anything so fairy-like as when Pem, scurrying down a flight of stairs to the workshop which her father had fitted up in his own house--not his University laboratory with the tall spectroscope--sat down to a table and began industriously to weave.

Turning from a bench where he sat fiddling with a steel chamber, part of the anatomy of a fledgling Thunder Bird, of one of those small model rockets which he was fitting up for experiments on a mountain-top, the inventor watched her listlessly.

"Hullo! What's the charm now, the thing of beauty? That--that looks such stuff as dreams are made of." Toandoah drew a long breath.

"No, it isn't dream-stuff, father; it's history, the history of your life and mine, all told in symbols, woven into a chain, a stole--see--to wear with my ceremonial dress. It--it's my masterpiece." Pem looked up, all girl, all Rose, now. "I didn't want to show it to you until it was finished. But now--now--don't you want to see it?"

Listlessly, still, her father drew near, his tall figure in its long, drab laboratory coat looming like a shadow behind her shoulder.

"See there--there's where it begins with the Flag I was born under, the Stars and Stripes," excitedly. "And look," softly, "that gold star stands for Mother who died when I was two. And there you are, Toandoah, with that queer Indian triangle having the teeth of a saw, the emblem of invention."

"What! That funny, squat figure, with something like a three-cornered fool's-cap on my head and the moon above it, looking through a tube!"

There was a laugh in the inventor's throat now; the grim "Get thee behind me, Satan!" look, with the cloud of that codicil to a will, were melting away from him. "Well, go on!" he encouraged smilingly.

"Artistic, anyhow! I believe you Camp Fire Girls would weave magic around a clock pendulum."

"And here--here am I--Wantaam, a Wise Woman. There's the Thunder Bird, see, the symbol of the great rocket. Here are you and I, Dad, upon a mountaintop, watching it tear--oh! tear away."

He laughed again at the two stiff, woodeny figures, the comet-like streak of fire above them.

"And this--the quill fluttering down attached to a kite! Humph! That stands for the Thunder Bird's diary, I suppose, otherwise the golden egg--the little recording apparatus coming down on the wing of its black parachute."

The inventor laughed amusedly again, glancing sidelong at _his_ masterpiece, the little five-inch openwork steel box, having in it two tiny wheels with paper wound, tapelike, on one and a pencil between them. This carried in the head of the Thunder Bird, big or little, would keep a record of as high as it went by the pencil automatically making marks so long as there was any air-pressure, like a guiding hand, to move it.

"Yes." The weaver nodded. "And here--here is the Will being read!"

The girlish voice was lower now, the girlish feet treading doubtful ground, as she pointed again to those two quaint, stubby figures, with a third one reading from a parchment.

But there was no doubt at all in the young voice which presently gathered itself for a climax.

"And see--see there--those little yellow dots I'm weaving in now; those are gold pieces, father, the money that _is_ coming to us from somewhere for you to finish your invention. Yes! and I'm going on to weave in the moon, too, and the little blue powder-flash before her face, to show the Thunder Bird has got there. For it is going to get there, you know!" Pem's blue-star eyes were dim now, but in them was the wisdom of babes--the wisdom oft hid from the wise and prudent.

"Daddy-man!" She bowed her head over the pearl-woven prophecy, speaking very low. "I could always tell you my thoughts. Somehow, at that awful time of the train-wreck, when we were in the icy water, Una and I, before the boy came, the big boy who saved us, through--through all the 'horripilation', as he called it, I seemed to see a light; the--the Light of Light Eternal, as we sing--G.o.d--and I knew, oh-h! I knew-ew, at the last, that we weren't going to dr-rown.... I know just as certainly now that you're going to launch the Thunder Bird, to go-o where nothing--Earthly--has ever gone before.... Father-r!"

Silence fell upon that pa.s.sionate little cry in the dim workshop.

Only the beauty of the pearl-woven thing upon the table spoke--the record to go down to posterity.

Then into the silence tiptoed the voice of a man, whimsical, slightly, yet with a touch of tender awe in it, too:

"And none knew the Wise Woman who saved the city!"

CHAPTER VI

A HOTSPUR

"Oh! I'm so glad--just so glad I don't know what to do with myself--that those experiments with the lesser Thunder Bird, the smaller sky-rocket, which won't make the four-day trip to Mammy Moon, but will only fly up a couple of hundred miles, or so, and drop its golden egg, the diary, to tell you where that blank No Man's Land of s.p.a.ce begins will still be carried out this spring from the top of old Mount Greylock. If they had been given up, it would have broken my heart--so it would!"

It was evening now, late evening, in the dining room of the professor's home, looking upon the green University campus.

The girl with the grafted Rose in her name, grafted on to a foreign stem, was pouring out her father's after dinner coffee--and her own full heart, at the same time. "Ouch!" She shivered a little. "I don't like to think of that 'diddering' cold of empty s.p.a.ce; not--not since the train-wreck. I'm like the big boy who saved us then, and was so jolly; I'm out for excitement if I'm warm enough to enjoy it, eh?"

"Humph! Well, here's somebody who's willing to take a chance on carrying his warmth, his fun too, with him into s.p.a.ce."

The professor laughed as he drew a sheet of thick letter paper, broad and creamy, from his pocket.

"Oh! is it somebody else ... you don't mean to say it's another hotspur applying for a pa.s.sage in the real Thunder Bird when you start the big rocket off for the moon, eh?"

The girl glanced over her father's shoulder.

"Yes, one more candidate for lunar honors! And this one is the limit for a Quixote. Young, too, I should say!" Again Toandoah's deep chant of laughter buoyed his daughter's treble note, as he began to read:

"Professor G. Noel Lorry, Nevil University.

My dear Sir,

Having learned that you are perfecting an apparatus that will reach any height--even go as far as the moon--and that it will be capable of carrying a pa.s.senger, I should like to volunteer for the trip.