The Adventures of Bobby Orde Part 19

Bobby worked eagerly. Soon he was in a warm glow, the cold wind forgotten, his cheeks like snow-apples, his eyes like stars.

"That's just a hundred," counted Mr. Kincaid, "and its a humming good boat load. It'll do. Now you take this demijohn and fill it from the spring-hole you'll find back of the house, and I'll get the sh.e.l.l-box."

The equipment was finally completed by two wooden sh.e.l.l-boxes to sit on, a short broad paddle and a long punting pole.

By now the sun had dipped below the horizon leaving nothing of its glory in the low-hung, hard clouds. All the world seemed clad in velvet-gray, with dark soft shadows. A gleam of light reflected from water as it showed in patches here and there. It matched and continued the pale green light of the heavens, as though the sky had flowed down and through the blackness of the marshes. The wind came now in heavy gusts, succeeded by intervals of comparative calm. During these intervals could be heard the cries of innumerable wildfowl.

Bobby stood at the end of the float, absolutely motionless, taking it in. His intellectual faculties were as though non-existent. All the sensitiveness of his nature, like the sensitiveness of a photographic plate, was exposed to that which took place before him. No little detail of the scene would he ever forget; and nothing of what its vastness and mystery and turmoil signified in the world of further meanings would be lost to him, though for many years he would not understand them.

But now, as the darkness of the shadows deepened, and the light of water and sky took on a deeper lucence before being extinguished, for the first time the sense of pain and the incompleteness of beautiful things entered his heart. The thing was wonderful; but it hurt. The sight of it filled him to the lips with a pa.s.sion of uplift; and yet something lacked. And the lack of that something was a pain.

Bobby had forgotten that he was cold, that he was alone, that he had come on an exciting and novel expedition. Mr. Kincaid had disappeared within the cabin.

A whistle of wings rushed in on the boy's consciousness with startling suddenness. Across the face of the evening indeterminate, dark bodies darted low. A prolonged swish of water sounded, and the placid faint light on the lagoon fifty yards away was broken and troubled. For a moment it shimmered, and was still. Absolute darkness seemed abruptly to descend on all the world. From the blackness Bobby heard the low conversational sounds of ducks newly alit.

"_Ca-chuck!_" said they "_ca-tu-kuk!_" and then an old drake lifted up his voice.

"_Mark!_" said he. "_Mark-quok, quok, quok!_"

"Oh, Mr. Kincaid!" whispered Bobby sneaking quietly through the door.

"There's a great big flock of ducks lit just outside."

"That so?" queried Mr. Kincaid cheerfully in his natural voice, "Well, we'll get after 'em in the morning. Don't you want any supper?"

Mr. Kincaid had a fire going in the little round stove. The light that leaked from it wavered and flickered over the bunks and the table shelves, and the diminished pile of decoys. Curly was asleep in the corner. Every few moments Mr. Kincaid removed the frying pan from the top of the stove, and turned over its contents with a fork. At such times the light flared up brilliantly, illuminating the whole upper part of the cabin. A lively sizzling arose from the frying pan; and a delicious smell filled the air. Bobby made out a tea-kettle at the back, and the phantom of light steam issuing from its spout.

In a little while Mr. Kincaid straightened up and with a clatter slid an iron stove cover over the opening. He lit a candle, stuck it in the mouth of a bottle, and moved down on the table shelf carrying the frying pan. Bobby then saw that the table shelf had been set with two-heavy plates, cutlery, and two granite-ware cups. The salt-rising bread and dutch bread were laid out with a knife beside them. A saucer contained a pat of b.u.t.ter; a bottle, milk; and a plate was heaped with doughnuts.

"Supper's ready," announced Mr. Kincaid cheerfully. "Sit up, Bobby."

The frying pan proved to contain two generous slices of ham; and four eggs fried crisp.

"What's the matter with this for a feast?" cried Mr. Kincaid; "sail in!"

The man and the boy ate, the flickering light between them. Outside howled the wind. Curly slumbered peacefully in the corner.

"This," proffered Mr. Kincaid after an interval, as he reached toward the basket, "is what my grandfather used to call a 'good competent pie.'

Like pie, Bobby?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bobby, "but I mustn't eat the under crust."

"Right you are. Well, there's somebody here who'll eat it for you."

"Do you want it?" asked Bobby, wondering.

Mr. Kincaid laughed. "No, I mean Curly," he explained.

"Will Curly eat pie?" marvelled Bobby.

"Curly," said Mr. Kincaid impressively, "will eat anything you can throw down a hole."

It was a good pie, with lots of room between the crusts, and cinnamon on the apples, and sugar and nutmeg on top. When finally Mr. Kincaid pushed back his stool, Curly gravely arose and came forward to get his share of whatever had not been eaten.

"Now, dishes!" said Mr. Kincaid. "Will you wash or wipe, Bobby?"

"My, I'm full!" said Bobby in the way of indirect expostulation against immediate activity.

"The time to wash dishes is right away," said Mr. Kincaid briskly. "They wash easier; and when they're done you have a comfortable feeling that there's nothing more to be done--and a clear conscience. Did you ever wash dishes?"

"No, sir."

"Well, it's time you learned. Come on."

Bobby learned how to manipulate hot water, soap, and a dish-rag. Also how difficult it is to remove some sorts of grease.

"Condemned!" p.r.o.nounced Mr. Kincaid severely, returning him the frying pan.

But when the simple task was done, Bobby felt an unusual glow of competence and experience. He was really "camping out." A new ambition to learn came to him, an ambition to do his share and to understand other people's share. Naturally his mind turned first to accustomed things.

"Where's the wood pile?" he asked Mr. Kincaid. "Can't I fill the wood-box?"

"It's just behind the house," approved Mr. Kincaid.

Bobby turned the wooden "b.u.t.ton" that fastened the door from the inside.

At once it was s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hand and flung open. A burst of wind rioted in, extinguished the candle, flared up the fire in the stove, and hurled a loose paper against the roof.

"Whew!" cried Mr. Kincaid, coming to Bobby's a.s.sistance; "she's blowing _some_! When you come back, just kick on the door, and I'll open it for you."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "CONDEMNED!" p.r.o.nOUNCED MR. KINCAID SEVERELY, RETURNING HIM THE FRYING-PAN]

Bobby stood still a moment until his eyes should expand to the darkness.

He heard the repeated and rapid _swish, swish, swish_, of wavelets driven against the float, which rose and fell gently beneath his feet. A roar of wind filled the night. Occasionally it lulled. Then quite distinctly he could make out a faint grumbling diapason which he knew to be the surges beating against the distant coast.

The armful of wood he brought in was not very large, but Mr. Kincaid p.r.o.nounced it enough.

"And now, youngster," said he, "you'd better turn in. We're going to get up very early in the morning."

For as long as five minutes Bobby lay awake between the soft woollen blankets. This was his first experience without sheets. Mr. Kincaid had blown out the candle and was sitting back smoking a last pipe. Light from the dying fire in the stove threw his shadow gigantic behind him.

As the flames rose or died this shadow advanced or receded, leaped or fell, swelled or diminished; and all the other shadows did likewise. In the entire room Mr. Kincaid's figure was the only motionless object.

Soon Bobby's vision blurred. The dancing shadows became unreal, changed to dream creatures. Twice a realization, a delicious, poignant realization of the morrow brought him back to consciousness; and the dream creatures to the shadows. Then finally he drifted away with only the feeling of something pleasant about to happen, lying as a background to sleep.

He awoke in what seemed to him the middle of the night after an absolutely _black_ sleep. His first thought was that the broad of his back was shivering; his next that the tip of his nose was marvellous cold; his last that he was curled all up in a ball like a furry racc.o.o.n.

Then he heard the scratch of a match. A light immediately flickered. In two minutes the little stove was roaring and Mr. Kincaid was exhorting him to arise.

"Come on, now!" he called. "Duck time!"

Bobby dressed in his thickest winter clothes, which he had brought for the occasion. When, after breakfast, he put on his reefer and over that the canvas coat, he looked and felt like a coc.o.o.n.

"That's all right," Mr. Kincaid rea.s.sured him. "It's going to be cold, and you'll be mighty glad of them."