The Duck-footed Hound Part 19

Duckfoot was tonguing at Old Joe's magic sycamore. Presently Glory joined him. Harky wondered. Duckfoot, who had been roaring constantly and furiously, suddenly began to yap like a puppy, and Glory trilled her tree bark. It seemed that even hounds were bewitched when girls horned in on c.o.o.n hunts, but they had Old Joe up once again.

Reaching the sycamore, Harky discovered the two hounds alternately barking up the tree and cavorting around each other, with far more emphasis on the latter. A sudden suspicion entered Harky's mind. It was a good thing Duckfoot had run ahead of Glory or neither would have reached Old Joe's witch tree.

Harky felled a smaller tree. The lesser branches he sliced off at the trunk, the larger ones he stubbed to serve as hand- and foot-holds. With some effort, he leaned his ladder tree against the sycamore and turned to Melinda. The time for explaining was here.

"Can you shinny up behind me?" he demanded.

"Y--, yes, Harold."

There was something in her voice that had not been there before, a quaver that did not belong. Harky held the lantern high and turned toward her. Melinda's hat was missing, her dark hair plastered wetly against her head. Her clothes were soaking wet, her lips were blue with cold and her teeth chattered. Scratches left by the blackberry canes streaked her young cheeks.

"What in tunket happened to you?" Harky demanded.

"I fell in when we crossed the log," Melinda apologized. "I'm sorry."

"You can't climb when you're shiverin' that way," Harky said crossly.

"You might fall and I don't want to carry you out of here. I'll warm you."

He unb.u.t.toned her wet jacket, slipped it off her trembling shoulders, and at the same time opened his own coat. He drew her very near and b.u.t.toned his coat around the pair of them. A sudden electric shock coursed through him and all at once he was very pleasantly warm.

Harky put both arms around her and looked down at her upturned face. A stray star beam lighted it gently. Presently Melinda said,

"I'm warm now, Harold."

"Not warm enough," said Harky, who was astounded to discover that there was something more pleasant than looking for c.o.o.ns' dens. "I'll warm you some more. And call me Harky, huh?"

"Aren't we going to climb to Old Joe's den?" she asked shyly.

"Best not tonight," said Harky, who wouldn't have considered abandoning what he was doing for a dozen Old Joes. "We have to get you warm. Will you come c.o.o.n hunting with me again, Melinda?"

"I'm afraid not, Harky," she said in a troubled voice.

"Why?"

"I simply cannot go anywhere too often with any boy who lets his father's corn stand in the shock when it should be brought in and husked."

"I'll bring it in," Harky promised recklessly. "I won't do a lick of hunting until it's all in and husked! How about a kiss, Melinda?"

"Oh, Harky!"

"Please!"

"M-mmm!"

It occurred to Harky, but only very vaguely, that Miss Cathby's foothold in the Creeping Hills was too solid ever to dislodge. But let what may happen. In years to come, Old Joe would still prowl on Willow Brook, hounds of Precious Sue's lineage would trail him, and Mundees would follow the hounds. Nothing could stop any part of it.

Harky had a feeling.