The Cricket Part 22

Margie Hunter knelt at his head.

"You aren't dead, are you, Tommy?"

"I'm all wet," he exclaimed, irritably.

Isabelle still stood on the spot where she had struck the blow. Her face was set and white.

"I guess we better get him in the house now," Herbert advised.

"What will we tell them?" Margie asked.

Herbert looked at Isabelle, then he swept them all with a chieftain's glance, and remarked:

"Tommy fell into the pool, an' nearly drownded himself. Get me?"

They nodded.

"Make a stretcher with crossed hands."

His men obeyed.

"Now, you girls, move him onto our hands."

They all worked except Isabelle, who never moved.

"Quit. I want to walk," said Tommy.

"All right, Tommy. You fell into the pool."

"I did not," said Tommy.

"Yes, you did, and if you leave it to us, we'll square it so you won't get licked," Herbert promised.

The stretcher men rose and bore the hero off toward the house, followed by the children, all except Isabelle. Her breath came in agonized gasps.

As they disappeared she threw herself down on her face and let her nerves have full sway. She did not cry tears, but her body shook in a nervous storm of excitement, and misery. She did not hear the swift feet that approached, she scarcely heard Herbert's embarra.s.sed voice saying:

"Say, Isabelle, it's all right. The chambermaid put him to bed and telephoned his mother to send him some clothes."

She raised her tragic face to him.

"Will the police take me?" she whispered.

Without meaning to do so at all, Herbert dropped down beside her.

"You didn't kill him. He's all right," he repeated.

Then as a nervous tremor shook her body, he patted her, awkwardly.

"You're all right, Isabelle, it was just an accident," he comforted her.

She shook her head, and the tears came. Herbert leaned over and planted a kiss under her right ear. She stopped crying. He did not know what more to say, so he just sat by. In that half hour of self-accusation, of reaction from terror, of the consciousness of the sympathy of a friend who had saved her from the police, Isabelle closed the chapter of childhood and stepped over into young girlhood.

CHAPTER TEN

During the next few years of Isabelle's life she was more of a trial to her household than ever before, if such a thing were possible. She overplayed the tomboy, just as she did every role she essayed.

From the moment Herbert Hunter came to her rescue in the affair of Tommy Page, he was exalted to the highest pedestal in her temple of worship.

Boys knew what loyalty meant. Her hero had forced all the witnesses on that occasion to keep absolute silence about it--with police, arrest, and prison terms as alternatives. That he, "an older boy," should condescend to champion her cause was a triumph for our heroine.

She scorned girls, she endured only the society of males from this time on. She could scarcely be forced into any costume but her riding clothes. She applied herself to sports until she played better than most boys. By disguising this fact, and pretending to be a mere novice, she was admitted to their games.

Herbert accepted her as Man Friday with considerable reluctance, but she made him feel that her very grat.i.tude gave her a sort of hold on him.

She was very useful, if you knew how to handle her; and sheer loss, if you did not. She abhorred authority. If you told her she must do a thing, she stubbornly refused. If you asked it as a favour, it was done instantly. If you dared her to do a thing, nothing could stop her. She was appallingly indifferent to danger. She terrified the more timid souls in Herbert's crowd. But aside from the fact that she was good at their games, her main contribution was the original things she thought up for them to do.

She had, at fourteen, a fair acquaintance with American history, and she devised rare amus.e.m.e.nts, based on the primitive life of our pioneer forefathers. These games lasted for weeks. Bands of Indians preyed on the settlers; the settlers sent messengers to the tribal chiefs. There were periods of parleying, smoking of the peace pipe; there were war dances and uprisings.

The scene might run like this. The ship which was bringing the pilgrims, was wrecked off the beach, and the pa.s.sengers took refuge in rowboats and canoes, from which they landed upon the unfriendly sh.o.r.es. Red men lay in wait for them, lurking behind sand forts. Occasionally when women settlers were absolutely necessary, Margie Hunter and the other girls were allowed to come along, but for the most part they were ruthlessly shut out. Isabelle, as author and stage manager, was indispensable and, therefore, safe.

It took much strategy on Isabelle's part to effect her freedom. She a.s.sured Miss Watts that all the children went daily to play at the Hunters', because there was a pool, and "You have the most fun there"; so when, of an afternoon, Miss Watts accompanied her to the Hunters', and stayed chatting with the Hunter governess until it was time to go home, her charge was always wonderfully behaved until she was out of sight. Then she left the girls and sped off to her true companions.

Margie threatened to tell on her, but Herbert took the matter in hand, and nothing came of the threat.

Of course Max and Wally had no idea of her a.s.sociations; that was Miss Watts' business. Isabelle played with the children of the right set, which was all that really mattered. That she swaggered and boasted and whistled about the house, these were annoying details, but she had always been a pest.

Wally protested once against her hoydenish manners.

"You talk like a jockey, Isabelle. You haven't a grain of feminine charm."

"Feminine charm! Ha!" snorted his daughter, with scorn.

"You'd better try to acquire a little. You'll need it," he warned her.

"Need it for what?"

"Need it for your business."

"What is my business?"

"Getting married."

She stared at him with an angry flush mounting her face. She turned and mounted the stairs, leaning over to shout as she went, with unmistakable emphasis:

"When you've bats in your belfry that flut, When your _comprenez-vous_ line is cut, When there's n.o.body home In the top of your dome, Then, your head's not a head; it's a nut!"

Wally swore gently, and gave it up.