Book: The Shagganappi

E >> E. Pauline Johnson >> The Shagganappi




"What!" yelled the big foreman. "Our little Jack o' Lantern out in this
blizzard? You better believe we'll go with you, Tom. And what's more,
we'll go right now. Hustle up, boys." And Alick Duncan strode out again,
with a frown of anxiety knitting his usually jovial face.

"Lantern's there all right," he shouted, as they neared the bank above
the danger spot. He was a few yards in advance of Jack's father and
"Old Mack." Then suddenly he stood stock still, gave vent to a long,
explosive whistle, and yelled, "Well, I'll be gin-busted! Look a' there,
boys!" And following his astounded gaze, they saw, on the brink of the
river, an old grey horse, with down-hanging head, his back to the gale,
and about his neck a boy's coat, from the knotted sleeves of which was
suspended a lighted lantern.

Tom Moran was at the animal's side instantly. "His mother was right," he
cried. "Something has happened to Jacky." And he began searching about
wildly.

"Now look here, Tom," said the big foreman, "keep your boots on,
and take this thing easy. If that horse knows enough to stand there
a-waiting for the boy, he knows enough to help us find him. We'll just
pretend to lead him home, and see what he'll do." And relieving the
horse of the lantern, he tied the little coat closer about the long
throat, and, using it as a halter, induced the grey to follow him. Down
the bank from the danger spot they went, round the bend to the footpath,
along the trail for fifty yards. Then the horse stopped. "Come on here!
Get up!" urged the big foreman, as he strained at the coat sleeve. But
the horse stood perfectly still, and refused to be coaxed further. "I'll
bet Jack o' Lantern is around here somewhere. Jack o'--oh, Jack o'!" he
shouted, for Tom Moran's throat was choked. He could not call the boy's
name.

"Jack o' Lantern--where are you?" reiterated Alick Duncan. But there was
no reply.

Meanwhile "Old Mack" had been snooping around the hollows at one side of
the trail, and Jacky's father was peering about the ledges opposite.
Presently he stopped, leaned over, and with love-sharpened eyesight, saw
a little, dark heap far below lying in the snow. "There's something
here, boys," he called brokenly.

Alick Duncan sprang to the ledge, looked over, made a strange sound with
his throat, and with an icy fear in his great heart, that never had
known fear before, he laid his big hand on Tom Moran's shoulder and
said, "Stay here, Tom. I'll go. It will be better for _me_ to go." And
slipping over the ledge, he dropped down beside the unconscious boy.
In another minute he was rubbing the cold hands, rousing the dormant
senses. Presently Jacky spoke, and with a shout of delight the big
foreman lifted the boy in his huge arms, and, struggling up the uneven
ledge, he shouted, "He's all O.K., Tom--just kind of laid out, but
still in the fight."

With the familiar voice in his ears, Jacky's senses returned, for,
lifting his head, he cried, "Oh, Mr. Duncan, did Grey-Boy take the
lantern to the danger-spot?"

"Bet your boots he did, son," said Tom Moran, stretching down his arms
to help the big foreman lift his burden. "We found him standing still
and firm as a flag pole, with that light hoisted under his chin."

"Thank goodness!" sighed the boy. "Oh, I was _so_ afraid he'd go home
with it, instead of to the river." Then, with a little gasp, "Mr.
Duncan, I told you once Grey had as much sense as a man. He saved you."

"No, Jack o' Lantern," said the big foreman gently, as he wrapped his
great coat around the half-frozen boy, "no, siree, it was you, and your
quick wits, that did it. Old Grey got the lantern habit, but it would
have done no good had you not had sense enough to sling the light around
his neck; and you leaving yourself to freeze here without a coat--bless
you, youngster! The mill hands and this big Scotchman won't forget
_that_ in a hurry."

And it was on faithful old Grey's back that the injured boy rode
home--home to warm blankets, warm supper, and the warm love of his
mother, but also to the knowledge that one of the smaller bones in his
ankle had broken when he heard that snapping sound. But it did not take
so long to mend, after all, and one day in the early spring the big
foreman appeared, his shrewd eyes twinkling with fun, although he made
the grave statement that Andy had at last consented to sell old Grey.

"It isn't true! It can't be true!" gasped Jacky. "Sell Grey-Boy after
what he did to save the mill hands? Oh! I _can't_ believe Andy would do
such a thing." And his thin little face went white, and his poor foot
dragged as he stood erect, as if to fight for the horse's rights.

"But Andy has sold him, nevertheless," grinned Alick Duncan, "sold him
to me and the other mill hands, and we're going to give him away."

"Away?" cried the boy, with startled, agonized eyes.

"Yes, lad," answered the big foreman seriously; and placing his strong
hand on Jacky's head, he added, "Give him away to the bravest little
chap in the world--a chap we all call Jack o' Lantern."

For a moment the boy stood speechless, then held out his arms--for the
old grey horse had come slowly up to the shanty, and with downbent head
was laying his soft, warm muzzle against Jacky's ear.



The Barnardo Boy


The only thing that young Buckney could say to express his surprise at
the wonderful stone buildings was "Blow me!" He had expected to find
that the great Canadian city of Montreal would be just a few slab
shacks, with forests on all sides, and painted Indians prowling,
tomahawk in hand, in search of scalps. When he left the big Atlantic
liner with twenty other raw English lads of his own street-bred sort, he
thought he was saying good-bye to civilization forever. And here, all
around him, arose the massive stone-built city, teeming with life, with
gayety, wealth, and poverty, carriages, horses, motor cars--why, it was
just like London, after all! And once more "Buck" said, "Blow me!"

"What's that he says, father?" asked a slender young lady who had
accompanied her father, the great surgeon, to help him select a
Barnardo boy to assist the stableman.

"Oh, it's an English street expression," smiled the surgeon. "I expect
he'll have dozens of queer sayings."

"Never mind," said the young lady; "he has a nice face, and his eyes
lock terribly straight at one. I think we'll take him, father?"

Her voice rose in a question, but it took Buck just two seconds to
know she need not have asked it. The great surgeon would have taken
an elephant if she had expressed a liking for it.

"Keep on the right side of her and you'll stand in wid de old man,"
whispered the boy next to him.

"Don't yer t'ink I sees dat?" sneered Buck. "Yer must t'ink I lef' my
h'yes in Lunnon." And the shrewd young street arab arose to his feet,
touched his cap with his forefinger, and said:

"H'all right, sir; I 'opes I'll suit."

That was the beginning of it, yet, notwithstanding Buck had made up his
mind that whatever happened he would _make_ himself "suit," still he met
with a serious discouragement the very next morning, when his unwilling
ears overheard a conversation between the surgeon and the stableman. The
latter was saying:

"I hope you will excuse me speaking, Doctor, but I think you've made a
mistake getting this here green Barnardo boy to help with the horses.
They never do know nothin', those English boys, and you can't teach
'em."

"Well," hesitated the doctor, "we'll have to give him a trial, I
suppose. Miss Connie took a fancy to him."

"Oh, _Miss Connie_, was it?" repeated the stableman, in quite another
tone. "Then that settles it, sir." And it did.

"So I owes dis 'ere 'ome to 'Miss Connie,' does I?" remarked Buck to
himself. "Den if dis is so, I's good for payin' of her fer it." Only
he pronounced "pay" "py."

But it was a long two years before the boy got any chance to "py" her
for her kindness, and when the chance did come, he would have given his
sturdy young life to avert it. By this time, much mixing with Canadians
had blunted his London street-bred accent. To be sure he occasionally
slipped an "h," or inserted one where it should not be, but he was fast
swinging into line with the great young country he now called "home."
He could eat Indian corn and maple syrup, he could skate, toboggan, and
ply a paddle, he could handle a horse as well as Watkins, the stableman,
who was heard on several occasions to remark that he could not get along
without the boy.

In the holidays, when Miss Connie was home from school, Buck was
frequently allowed to drive her, or sit in his cream and brown livery
beside her while she drove herself. These were always great occasions,
for no refined feminine being had ever come into his life before. If
he ever had a mother--which he often doubted--he certainly had no
recollection of her or her surroundings. To be sure the women about the
"Home" in far-off England were kind and good, but this slim Canadian
girl was so different. She looked like a flower, and he had never heard
her speak a harsh, unlovely word in all those two years. Once as he
stood at the carriage door, the rug over his arm, waiting for Miss
Connie to descend the steps for her afternoon drive, an impudent little
"Canuck" jeered at him in passing.

"Hello, Hinglish!" he yelled. "We're a Barnardo boy, we h'is, fer all
our swell brass buttons."

Buck winced. How he hated Watkins on the box to hear this everlasting
taunt cast at him. But a sweet voice from the steps called:

"You are quite right, my boy. He is a Barnardo boy. I wish we were all
as great and good as Dr. Barnardo. I am proud to have one of his boys
in my household."

The young urchin shrank away, abashed, for it was Miss Connie's voice.
Buck pulled himself together, touched his hat, and opened the carriage
door. But the girl paused on the steps, and her voice was very sincere
as she said: "I mean it, Buckney" (she always called him "Buckney").
"I am very proud to have you here."

Buck touched his hat. "Thank you, madam," was all he said, but his young
heart sang with gratitude. Would he _ever_ get the chance to show her
how he valued her kindness, he wondered. And then--the chance came.

Buck was never a heavy sleeper; his boyhood had been too bedless for
him to attach much importance to sleep now. Too often had the tip of
a policeman's boot stirred him gently, as he lay curled up near an
alley-way in London. Too often had rude kicks awakened him, when down in
the "slums" he huddled, numb with cold and hunger. His ears had grown
acute, his legs nimble in that dreadful, faraway life, and listening
while he slept became second nature. Thus he sat bolt upright in his
comfortable little bed above the carriage house when a soft creeping
footstep stole up the gravel walk from the stables to the kitchen. The
night was very warm, and the open window at his elbow was shutterless.
In the dark he could see nothing at first, then he made out the figure
of a man, crouching low, and creeping around the kitchen porch to the
doctor's surgery window. Immediately afterwards a low, gentle, rasping
sound fell on his ears. He had seen enough of crime in the old days to
know the man was filing something. Should he awaken Watkins? What was
the use? Watkins would probably jump up, exclaiming aloud. He always did
when awakened suddenly. Perhaps, after all, he could alarm the family
before the man got in. Then, to his amazement, someone opened the window
from the _inside_. By this time Buck had got his "night-sight." The man
inside was exactly like the man outside, and he had evidently effected
an entrance into the house some time during the day when the maids were
upstairs, and had probably concealed himself in the cellar. Both wore
masks. Instantly Buck was out of bed, dragging on his trousers. Then,
barefooted and shirtless, he slipped downstairs, slid the side door open
enough to squeeze through, and peered out. All he could see was the last
leg of a man disappearing through the window. They were both inside now.
Buck knew every room, hall and door in that house, for every spring
and fall he had helped the maids "clean house," taking up and laying
carpets. The knowledge stood him in good stead now. What window upstairs
would be open, he wondered. The bath-room, of course; it was small, but
he could wriggle through it, he told himself, or he would break every
bone in his body, at least, trying. All this time he was running and
crouching along the shadow of the high stone wall, that, bordered with
shrubs, made splendid "cover." He reached the kitchen, and, without
waiting to think whether it would bear him or not, seized hold of the
twisted vine trunks of the old Virginia creeper that partly covered the
house from ground to roof. Fortunately they held, and up he went like a
young squirrel, his bare toes clutching like claws in the tangle of the
stems and twigs. He gained the roof, crawled rapidly along, and reached
the bath-room window, only to find he could barely clutch the sill with
the tips of his fingers. Standing on tiptoe, he got a little grip, then
his bare toes and knees started to work; inch by inch up they went over
the rough stone wall, while his hands slipped further and further over
the sill, until they could seize the ledge on the inside. Twice his
knees slid back, then his toes refused to clutch. They grew wet, and
warm, and he knew the sickening slipping back was because of blood
oozing from his skin. But he was in the bath-room now, and didn't care.
Then, as he flung the door open, the whole downstairs hall was flooded
with light, and a strange choking sound came from below. Then the
doctor's voice, smothered but audible, begging, "Go back! Go back,
Connie! Lock your door!"

"You say one word aloud and I'll fire!" said a low voice, and Buck
reached the head of the stairs only to see Doctor Raymond lying half
dressed on the floor, his hands tied behind him, and a grasp of strong,
dirty fingers on his throat.

"Oh, you're killing him! You're killing my father!" cried Miss Connie,
in a half scream, as, too frightened to move, she stood huddled back
in a corner, gripping a large cloak about her.

Buck stared at the scene a fraction of a second. He could understand it
all. The doctor had been alarmed and had gone downstairs to investigate.
Miss Connie had been awakened and had followed her father, thinking
probably that he was ill. All this flashed through the boy's mind as
he flung out his weaponless hands in despair, but the gesture was the
salvation of the household. His fingers touched something cold, hard,
polished. It was a huge, heavy, brass bowl that held a fern. How often
his strong young fingers had cleaned that bowl with powder and chamois
skin, with never a thought that it would serve him well some time!
Now he grasped it, and creeping noiselessly around the large, square
"balcony" of the upstairs hall, he stood directly above the ruffian
whose fingers yet clutched the doctor's throat.

"Catch that girl!" the other man was saying. "She'll scream! Catch her,
I say, and gag her!"

"Oh, my girl, my little girl! Leave her alone, you demons!" gasped the
helpless doctor. But just as the fingers loosed their brutal grasp
on the father's throat to reach for the frail, delicate flesh of the
daughter's, straight as a carpenter's leaden plumb there crashed on to
the top of the assailant's head a huge, polished brass bowl. The man
fell, limp, senseless as a corpse. His confederate whirled on his heel,
and fired his revolver twice rapidly above his head, just missing Buck.

Connie shrieked, and the next moment the big, unclean fingers had
locked themselves about her throat, and she was forced to her knees,
while a guttural voice said: "Scream, will you! Well, try it! _This_
is what you get!"

For weeks Buck's ears rang with that awful, smothered cry of his young
mistress, of the tortured voice of the doctor, helplessly choking, "Oh,
my girl! My daughter!" But by this time Buck was three steps from the
bottom, and the back of the burglar was toward him as he crouched over
the struggling girl, choking the screams in her delicate throat. Like a
vampire, Buck sprang from the third stair, landing on the man's back,
his legs worked inside the man's elbows, pinioning the scoundrel's arms
back like a trussed turkey, his arms went round the bull-like neck,
and his tough young fingers closed on a sinewy throat. He clung to the
creature's back like an octopus, while they rolled over and over, and
the terrified girl struggled up, regaining her breath.

"Quick! quick! Miss Connie! The telephone! The police! Ring! Ring!"
Buck managed to shout. Then, "Untie the doctor's hands and feet!"

But the burglar's arms were now gripping behind him, and digging, cruel
fingers pierced Buck's flesh. But the boy never relaxed his octopus
hold. The tighter the big nails clutched, the tighter his own boyish
fingers stiffened on the man's throat.

An eternity seemed to elapse. He saw Miss Connie fly to the telephone,
then her weak little hands struggled with the ropes on her father's
wrists. But before she could begin to loose them, four gigantic men in
blue uniforms were climbing in the open surgery window to encounter a
sight not soon to be forgotten. The doctor, bound and bruised, lay on
the floor; beside him, a man rapidly regaining consciousness and sitting
up in a dazed condition; a young girl, with brutal red marks about her
throat; and on the floor at her feet a man with a boy clinging to his
back like a barnacle to a boat, his young arms and bare legs binding the
fellow like ropes. It took those police officers but the twinkling of an
eye to have the two burglars handcuffed and cowed at the point of their
revolvers, and to hear the whole story of the rescued doctor.

"But who's this little duffer?" asked the inspector, gazing at Buck.
"Why, look at his knees and feet! They're dripping blood!"

"Got that shinning up the creeper and the stone-wall into the bathroom,"
said Buck, feeling terribly awkward to be seen in such a plight before
Miss Connie. So he stammered out his explanation, from the moment he had
awakened to this very instant.

"Dropped the Damascus bowl on his head, did you?" gasped the doctor.
Then, as he looked at Buck as if he saw him for the first time, he
beheld his bleeding feet and torn knees. "Officers," said the great:
surgeon, "you asked who he is. He's our boy! He's _my_ boy! I never had
a son of my own, but--but--Buckney goes to college next year, and he
goes as my adopted son. This night has shown me what he's made of."

Then, for the first time in all that dreadful night, Miss Connie
gave out. She sat weakly down, crying like a very little child. "Oh,
Buckney!" she sobbed, "they told us not to take a Barnardo boy; that
they were, half of them, just street arabs; that we--we couldn't trust
them. So, sometimes I've been afraid to hope _you_ were all right; and
now you have probably saved my life."

"No 'probably' about it, Miss Connie," said the officer; "he undoubtedly
has saved your life, and the doctor's too. But, come, child, don't cry;
get to bed--there's a good little girl. You've had a bad night of it."
Then, turning to his men, he commanded: "March those two choice
specimens to the police station at once. Well, good-night, doctor!
Good-night, Miss Connie." And looking at Buck he said, curiously,
"Good-night, youngster! So you're a Barnardo boy, eh?"

"Yes, sir," said Buck, lifting his chin a little. "I used to be ashamed
of it, but--"

"You needn't be," said the officer. "It's not what a boy _was_, but
what he _is_, that counts nowadays. Goodnight! I wish we had more
Britishers like you."

Then the door closed and the tramp of the policemen and their prisoners
died slowly away in the night.



The Broken String


Archie Anderson was lying on the lounge that was just hidden from the
front room by a bend of the folding doors. He was utterly tired out,
with that unreasonable weariness that comes from what most of his boy
chums called "doing nothing." He had been standing still, practising for
two hours steadily, and his throbbing head and weakening knees finally
conquered his energy. He flung himself down among the pillows, his
violin and bow on a nearby chair. Then a voice jarred on every nerve of
his sensitive body; it was a lady's voice in the next room, and she was
saying to his mother:

"And how is poor Archie to-day?"

"Poor Archie!" How he hated to be called "poor" Archie!

His mother's voice softened as she replied: "Oh, he's _pretty_ well
to-day; his head aches and he seems to be weak, but he has been
practising all the morning."

"He must be a great care and anxiety to you," said the caller.

Archie shuddered at the words.

"Only a sweet care," said his mother. "I am always hoping he will
outgrow his delicate health."

Archie groaned. How horribly like a girl it was to be "delicate."

"I think," went on the caller, raspingly, "that a frail boy _is_ a care.
One depends so on one's sons to be a strength to one in old age; to help
in their father's business, and things like that--unless, of course, one
has _money_."

The harsh voice ceased, and Archie felt in his soul that the speaker was
glancing meaningly about the bare little parlor of his father's house.
He could have hugged his mother as he heard her say: "Oh, well, Trig
and Dudley will help their father; and none of us grudge Archie his
inability to help, or his music lessons either."

"I should think his violin and his books and lessons would be a great
expense to you," proceeded the caller.

"Nothing is an expense that fills his life and helps him to forget he
is shut away from the other boys and their jolly sports, just because
he is not strong enough to participate in them," replied his mother,
with a slight chill in her voice at her visitor's impertinence.

Presently the caller left, and Mrs. Anderson, slipping through the
folding doors, saw Archie outstretched on the pillows. She bent over
him with great concern; her eyes read every expression of his face,
every attitude of his languid body.

"Archie, you didn't hear?" she asked, pleadingly.

"I'm afraid I did, motherette," he said, springing up with unusual
spirit.

He stood before her, a head taller than herself, his thin form frail as
a flower, his long, slim fingers twitching, his wonderful, wistful eyes
and sensitive mouth revealing all the artist nature of a man of thirty,
instead of a boy of fourteen. He was on the point of flaring out with
indignation against the visitor, but his lack of physical strength
seemed to crowd upon him just at that moment. He sank upon the lounge
again, and with his face against Mrs. Anderson's arm, said: "Thank you,
motherette, for fighting for me. Perhaps even with all this miserable
ill-health of mine I can fight for you some day."

"Of course you will, dear," she replied cheerily. "Don't you mind what
they say; you know 'Hock' always stands by you, and he's as good as your
mother to fight for you."

"Dear old 'Hock!' Decent old 'Hock!'" he said admiringly. "He's the best
boy in the world, but he is not _you_, motherette."

"There he is now!" said Mrs. Anderson, as a piercing whistle assailed
the window, followed by a round, red face, a skinning sunburnt nose, and
an assertive voice, saying, "I'll just come in this way, Arch." And a
leg was flung over the window sill. "It's easier than goin' 'round by
the door."

"Hock" prided himself on being a "sport," and he certainly looked one:
thick-knit legs, sturdy ankles, a short, chunky neck, hands with a grip
like a vise, a big, good-natured dimpling mouth, eyes that were narrow
and twinkling, muscles as hard as nails, and thirteen years old, but
imagining himself eighteen. He had been christened "Albert Edward," but
fortune smiled upon him, making him the champion junior hockey player of
the county, so the royal name was discarded with glee, and henceforth he
was known far and wide as "Hock" McHenry.

The friendship between Hock and Archie was the wonder of the town. Some
people said, "Hock is so coarse and loud and slangy, I don't see how
Archie Anderson can have anything to do with him." Others said: "Archie
is so frail and sensitive, and so wrapped up in his music, how _can_
Hock find anything in him that is jolly, and boyish, and congenial?"
But Hock's people and Archie's people knew that one supplied what the
other lacked. For so often this conversation between the two boys would
be overheard. Archie's plaintive voice would say: "Oh, Hock, it is so
good to have you around; you make me forget that I can't play hockey
and football with the rest of the kids! You play it for me as well as
for yourself. I'm such a dub; laid up sick half the time."

And Hock would frequently be heard to remark: "Say, Arch, do you know
if it weren't for you I'd grow into a regular tough. You kind of keep
me straight, and--oh, well, straight and all that!"

And so the odd friendship went on, Hock attending his school daily--the
acknowledged leader of all the sports and mischief that existed; Archie
getting to school about two days out of every five, yet managing through
his hours of illness to mount week by week, month by month, up, up, up
in his music.

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