"Barnaby Rudge! Fiddlesticks! That ain't his name nor nothing like it.

He's Peter Piper. He's out the poorhouse or something. He ain't like other folks. He's crazy, or silly-witted, or somethin'. How-de-do, Peter?" said Alfaretta, as Dorothy, closely followed by the little Babc.o.c.ks and the "apparition" himself, dashed down into the dust-clouded dairy where Mrs. Chester stood still, gazing in bewilderment at the demolished dog-churn.

Anybody might have easily been startled by the appearance of the unfortunate creature who had, also, come into the cellar; especially a girl whose head was already filled with the image of another storied "natural," as Dorothy's was. He was tall and gaunt, with an unnaturally white face and a ma.s.s of hair almost as white in color, though not from age. His narrow, receding forehead was topped by a hat bestowed upon him by some parading political band of the autumn previous, and was gay with red c.o.c.k feathers and a glittering buckle polished to the last degree. His clothing was also, in part, that of a parader: a brilliant-hued coat worn over his ordinary faded suit of denim. In one hand he carried the same burnt-out torch bestowed upon him with his hat, and by the other he led a cow that might once have been a calf. He did not speak, though he evidently heard and understood Alfaretta's greeting, for he turned his protruding eyes from Dorothy to her and answered by a foolish smile.

"Why, Peter Piper, what you bringin' old Brindle up here for? Who told you to?"

Again Peter grinned and answered nothing, but he turned his gaze from Alfaretta to Mr. Chester, who had come to the window above, and stared until the gentleman fidgeted and broke the spell by saying:

"Good-afternoon, lad. 'Peter Piper,' are you? Well, I'm glad to see you;" then added in a voice only Dorothy, who had run in to stand beside him, could overhear. "Wonder if he's any relation to the man who p.r.i.c.ked his fingers picking pickled peppers!"

"Looks as if he might be, doesn't he? Only, Dad, I feel so sorry for him."

"Oh! I'm sorry for him, too. I am sincerely. But--I'm a trifle sorry for myself, as well. I wonder--is this the beginning of things! What a power the press certainly is, if one little advertis.e.m.e.nt--Why, Martha, Martha! Come up here, please! Come right away."

Mrs. Chester promptly obeyed, surprised by the mingled mirth and vexation expressed by her husband's face. And came not only Martha but the trio of Babc.o.c.ks, behind her. At which father John frowned and observed:

"I was speaking to Mrs. Chester."

"Yes, I heard you," answered Alfaretta, coolly: at which all the Chesters laughed, and she joined heartily in, not dreaming that what her host afterwards called her "perfect ease of manner" was the cause of the fun.

"Well, John, what is it? You seemed to want me."

"My dear, I always do. Never more than now when I wish you to tell me--Did you rewrite that advertis.e.m.e.nt sent to the local newspaper yesterday?"

"Rewrite it? No, indeed. Why should I? You understand such things better than I. So I just sealed it, with money inside to pay--By the way, there should be considerable change due us. I don't believe one advertis.e.m.e.nt in a country paper would cost a whole dollar: do you?"

Mr. Chester laughed now in earnest.

"No, I do not. Not that I sent, anyway. Martha, why didn't you look? Why didn't you? My dear, you wanted it brief and I made it so. But if such brevity brings such an answer, so soon, why--it will fairly rain cows before we're many hours older. Cows! _And_ horses! _And_ pigs! But worst of all, I've made the new Skyrie folks ridiculous in the eyes of their future townsmen."

"Tell it, John. Tell it exactly as you wrote it."

So he did; and though the lady was dismayed she couldn't help smiling under her frown, and it was a momentary relief to hear Alfaretta calmly explaining:

"That there cow don't belong to n.o.body. All her folks are dead. I mean all the folks she belonged to. She's a regular pest, ma says, an'

'twould be a real kindness to kill her. But n.o.body won't. She's too old for beef, or the butcher would; and she makes out to get her livin'

without botherin' n.o.body _much_. She goes onto folkses' lawns an'

nibbles till she's driv' off--summer times an' in winter, why 'most anybody 't has a barnyard and fodder give her a little. Pa he says she's a relict of a glorious past and is due her keep from a--a kermune--ity she's kep' in hot water as many years as she has. Ma she says she can recollect that old Brindle ever since she was a little girl, an' that cow has got more folks into lawsuits than any other creatur', beast or human, in Riverside villages--Upper or Lower.

"Last one took her in an' done for her was Seth Winters, that lives up-mounting here, an' goes by the name o' 'Learned Blacksmith.' He's another crank; but ma she says he's a practical Nanarchist, 'cause he lives up to his idees. He's rich, or he was; but he's give his money away an' just lives in his old shop an' the woods, same as poor folks.

He treats Peter Piper same as he does old Brindle. Keeps 'em both to his place, if they want to stay; an' don't hinder 'em none when they clear out. Pa an' him both say how 'freedom' is the 'herintage' of every livin' thing, an' they both take it. Ma she says there's consid'able difference in their ways, though; 'cause Seth he works, constant, an' pa he never does a stroke. Say, Peter, did Seth Winters send you an'

Brindle up here?"

Peter did not answer. As if the question had roused some unsettled matter in his clouded mind, he frowned, studied the earth at his feet, and slowly walked away. A pitiable object in the sunset of that fair summer day, with his bedraggled scarlet feathers, and his scarlet leather uniform that must have been uncomfortably burdensome in the heat.

But Brindle tarried behind and foraged for her supper by nibbling the gra.s.s from the overgrown dooryard.

Suddenly, remembered Alfaretta:

"Ma she said I was to come home in time to get the cows in from pasture and milk 'em. She 'lowed she wouldn't get back up-mounting till real dark: 'cause she was goin' to stop all along the road, and get all the news she could an' tell what she knows, back. Ma she's a powerful hand to know what's doin', 'round. So, Baretta Babc.o.c.k! Claretta Babc.o.c.k! Put your toes together; even now, an' make your manners pretty, like I showed you teacher learned _me_, and say good-by."

With that the amusing girl drew herself up to her tallest, squared her own bare feet upon a seam of the carpet, and bent her body forward with the stiffest of bows. Then she took a hand of each little sister, and said--with more courtesy than some better trained children might have shown:

"I've had a real nice visit, Mis' Chester, an' I enjoyed my victuals.

I'll come again an' you must let Dorothy C. come to my house. I'm sorry I tipped Mr. Chester into the ditch an' that I couldn't done more toward cleanin' up that cellar that I did. Good-night. I hope you'll all have nice dreams. Too bad Peter Piper went off mad, but he'll get over it.

Good-night. Come, children, come."

So the three Babc.o.c.ks departed, and the silence which succeeded her deluge of words was soothing to her hosts beyond expression. They sat long on the west veranda of the little cottage, resting and delighting in the beauty of nature and in the presence of each other. Then Dorothy slipped away and after a little absence returned with a tray of bread and b.u.t.ter, a big pitcher of milk, and the jar of honey Mrs. Calvert had sent.

"Bread and honey! Fare fit for a prince!" cried father John, as the food appeared. "And princes, indeed, we are to be able to sit and feast upon it with all this glorious prospect spread out before us."

He seemed to have entirely recovered from the shock of his fall and on his fine face was a look of deep content. He had suffered much and he must still so suffer--both pain of body and of mind. Poverty was his, and worse--it was the lot of his dear ones, also. To live at all, he must run in debt; and to his uprightness debt seemed little less than a crime.

However, the present was theirs. They had no immediate needs; there was food for the morrow, and more; and leaning back in the old rocker Martha brought for him, he let his fancy picture what Skyrie should be--"Some time, 'when my ship comes in'! Meanwhile--Sing to us, Dolly darling! I hear a whip-poor-will away off somewhere in the distance, and it's too mournful a sound for my mood. Sing the gayest, merriest songs you know; and, Martha dear, please do let Dorothy bring another rocker for yourself. Don't sit on that hard bench, but just indulge yourself in comfort for once."

When they were quite settled again Dorothy sang; and in listening to her clear young voice both her parents felt their spirits soothed till they almost forgot all care. Indeed, it seemed a scene upon which nothing sordid nor evil would dare enter; yet, just as the singer uttered the last note of her father's beloved "Annie Laurie," there sounded upon the stone pathway below a heavy footstep and, immediately thereafter, an impatient pounding upon the kitchen door.

Since their arrival at Skyrie none of their few visitors had called so late in the day as this, and it was with a real foreboding that Mrs.

Chester rose and went to answer the summons. At a nod from her father, Dorothy followed the housemistress and saw, standing on the threshold, a rather rough-looking man, whose impatience suddenly gave place to hesitation at sight of the pair before him.

"Good-evening," said Martha, politely, though still surprised. Then, as he did not at once reply and she remembered the absurd advertis.e.m.e.nt in the _Local_, she asked: "Did you come to see about work, or selling us a horse, or anything?"

"H'm'm. A--Ahem. No, ma'am. 'Twasn't no horse errand brought me, this time, though I might admit I _be_ ruther in the horse-trade myself, being's I keep livery in Lower village. 'Twas a dog--a couple of dogs--sent me away up-mounting, this time o' day, a-foot, too, 'cause all my critters have been out so long they wasn't fit to ride nor drive, neither. Been two summer-boarder picnics, to-day, an' that took 'em.

'Shoemakers go barefoot,' is the old sayin', and might as well be 't liverymen use shanks-mares. I----"

By this time the housemistress had perceived that though the man was rough in appearance he was not unkindly in manner and that he was reluctant to disclose his errand. Also, if he had walked up the mountain he must be tired, indeed; so she fetched a chair and offered it, but only to have the courtesy declined:

"Thank ye, ma'am, but I--I guess you won't care to have me sit when I've told my job. 'Tain't to say a pleasant one but--Well, I'm the constable of Lower Riverside, and I've come to serve this summonses on that there little girl o' yourn. You must see to it that she's on hand at Seth Winterses' blacksmith shop an' justice's office, to-morrow morning at ten o'clock sharp. Here, ma'am, is the writ of subpoeny 't calls for her to be a witness in a case of a.s.sault an' battery. Leastwise, to bein' known to the critters what a.s.saulted and battered."

Before Mrs. Chester could really comprehend what he was saying or doing, the man had thrust a paper into her hand, and had vanished. He had never performed an official act of which he was more ashamed; nor can words properly express her amazement.

CHAPTER VII

AT THE OFFICE OF A JUSTICE

Fortunately the distance to the blacksmith's was not great, for Mr.

Chester could not be dissuaded from accompanying his wife and daughter thither, in answer to that astounding "summons." That the doc.u.ment was legal and not to be ignored, he knew well enough, though mother Martha protested vigorously against paying any attention to it.

"It's some absurd mistake, John. How in the world could our Dolly be a witness in any such affair? No, indeed. Not a step will any of us take toward that shop-office! A pretty justice of the peace a blacksmith must be, anyway! I never was so insulted in my life. Instead of going there, I'm going down cellar to clean it up and made ready for our b.u.t.ter-making."

"First--catch your cow, wife dear! A better one than that old Brindle who has deserted us already. And as for your going, why, of course, _you_ needn't. Dorothy C. is the important person in this case, and I'm as much her guardian as you."

"John, you mustn't! You couldn't walk so far on your crutches----"