"I don't b'lieve you've heard about the drownding."

"What d'ye mean?" Jerry's head lifted, yet his response was less dramatic than Elisha had hoped for.

"You know that Raymond girl, up to the Cottage. Well, she--"

With a cry, Jerry pounced upon his informer. The terrified Elisha struggled to free himself, gasping disconnected protests. "'Twasn't me--I didn't do it--Snake River--"

"If you're lying to me," warned Jerry, coming to his senses and loosening his hold, "you'll be sorry. Mighty sorry."

Elisha crossed his heart in proof of his veracity. "And if you don't b'lieve me, go over to Cole's and ask them."

The advice seemed good. Jerry took to his heels. It was a mistake, of course, either one of 'Lish Snooks' lies, or else a mistake. Yet a horrible doubt rose in the midst of his a.s.sertions of confidence, like the head of a snake lifted amid a bed of flowers.

At the Cole farmhouse every one was astir. Mrs. Cole who had just returned from Dolittle Cottage, and was going back to spend the night, after attending to some necessary household tasks, was crying softly as she worked and talked.

"Those poor children! Seems as if they couldn't take in what had happened. They're dazed like. The one that looks delicate, Ruth, had a bad fainting spell, and the plump little one, she breaks down and cries every now and then, but the other two, they sit around white and still, not saying a word or shedding a tear. 'Tain't natural. The Lord meant tears to ease our hearts, when the load's too heavy to bear. It worries me when I see folks taking their trouble dry-eyed."

"How are they going to let their folks know, ma?" asked Rosetta Muriel, her voice strangely subdued. The sudden tragedy had stirred her shallow nature to its depths. Though a small mirror hung against the wall at a convenient distance, she did not glance in its direction. For an hour she had not smoothed her hair, nor pulled her ribbon bow into jaunty erectness, nor indicated by any other of the familiar forms of self-betrayal the all-absorbing importance of her personal appearance.

Her hands lay idle in her lap, and her face was pale, under her dishevelled hair.

"Joe'll drive over to the station with a telegram the first thing in the morning," Mrs. Cole replied. "We could telephone by going to Corney Lee's, but I don't know why the poor souls shouldn't have one more night of quiet sleep, for they can't take anything earlier than the morning train anyway. And, besides, a telegram kind of brings its own warning, but to go to the 'phone when the bell rings, and hear news like this, must be 'most more than flesh and blood can bear."

Her gaze wandered to the boy standing by the door. "You'll go over with the rest of the men in the morning, won't you, Jerry?" she asked. "I guess there won't be many sleeping late to-morrow."

Jerry had refused a chair, but had stayed on, listening to such meagre information as was to be had, the discovery of the overturned canoe, and later of Peggy's hat, stained and water-soaked. As to the cause of the catastrophe no one could be sure, though Mrs. Cole hazarded a guess.

"That little Dorothy was as full of caper as a colt, and anything as ticklish as a canoe ain't safe for a child of that sort."

Looking at Jerry, the good woman was almost startled by the drawn misery of the boy's white face. She had not credited him with such keen sensibilities.

"You'd better go home and get to bed, Jerry," she said kindly. "The men are going to start as soon as it's light enough, and you'd ought to get a good sleep first."

Jerry slipped through the door without replying. Indeed he had hardly spoken since he had uttered his threat against 'Lish Snooks. As he stepped out into the night, he began to run, though his face was not set toward home, and his confused thoughts recognized no especial destination. But fast as he ran, the realization of what had happened kept pace with him, and when at last he tripped over a tangle of vines, and went sprawling, he made no effort to rise, but lay motionless, his hot tears falling on the gra.s.s.

He could never tell her. That was the bitterest drop in his cup of grief. The words he might have said yesterday could not be spoken now.

It had been in his power to make her glad, to bring a sparkle into her eyes. He had had his chance and refused it. Alas! the sorrowful wisdom that one day had brought, a wisdom that had come too late for him to profit by it.

He did not know how long he lay there, his tears mingling with the falling dew. He struggled to his feet at last, limping a little, for the fall had been severe, and went on his way, still without conscious purpose. And when long after a silvery expanse shone ahead of him, he did not realize for the moment that his aimless wanderings had brought him to Snake River. He stumbled on till he reached the edge of the stream and saw in the black shadow of the trees a dugout half filled with water. For the first time in his night of wandering, a vague purpose took shape in his throbbing brain.

This was Snake River. And here was his boat awaiting him. He would take it and drift down the stream, meeting the men in the morning. There was no moon, but the night was clear and starlit, and except for the shadows cast by the trees on the bank, the river looked a luminous highway.

Though he did not know the hour, he felt sure that it could not be long before the east began to grow light with the first promise of the sunrise. It would not be worth while to go home.

He fell to bailing the awkward craft, and found a certain relief in the necessity for methodical work. The water trickled in again, to be sure, but less rapidly than he could empty it out. He plugged the largest crevice with his handkerchief, untied the rotting rope, and pushed out from under the shadows into the centre of the stream. Then he let the current have its way, using an oar now and then to keep the dugout from floating ash.o.r.e, or going aground on one of the numerous islands which started out of the water as if to bar his progress. Except as he roused himself for this purpose, he sat huddled on his seat without moving, his head resting on his folded arms.

The birds discovered that the morning was coming before Jerry found it out. Jubilant notes of welcome to the new day sounded above his head. He straightened himself, and made an effort to throw off the lethargy which had succeeded his paroxysms of grief. The horizon in the east was banded with yellow, and overhead the sky blushed rosily. He looked about him and tried to locate himself.

"Guess I must be just back of Denbeigh's farm. Yes, that's their windmill. I'd better row awhile. I'm a good way from Pine Knoll yet."

Again he bailed out the boat and took up the oars. The dugout moved ahead like a plodding farm-horse that feels the spur and responds reluctantly.

Morning was coming as radiantly as if there were no sorrow in the world.

With dull incredulity Jerry watched the sky kindle and the earth flash awake. It hurt him, all this glow and sparkle, this sweetness in the air, and the sound of the birds singing. He thought how Peggy would have loved it all and his throat ached, and he lifted his hand to his eyes to clear his vision. Then he pulled hard on his left oar, for the current was swinging him around toward a little island that rose suddenly out of the mist like an apparition.

All at once a figure stood out against the tangled green, a slender figure in white. Jerry dropped both oars, and put his hands before his eyes. When he looked again the vision had not vanished. Its hand moved in an appealing gesture.

Jerry found himself rowing frantically, a hope in his heart so like madness that he dared not let himself think what it was that he hoped for. The dugout crashed against the willow where Peggy had tied her canoe the afternoon before. And in the unreal light of the dawn, a pale, tremulous Peggy stretched out her arms with a cry. "Oh, it's Jerry! Oh, Jerry, how came it to be you?" It had been a night of weeping for many, but Peggy's tears had waited till now.

"Oh, such a time, Jerry! The canoe tipped over, and spilled Dorothy into the river, and I don't know how I ever got her out. And then we couldn't get away, and I screamed till I was hoa.r.s.e, but n.o.body came. Oh, Jerry!

I'm so glad!"

Jerry's answer seemed a trifle irrelevant. But he said the things he was certain could not be postponed another instant.

"Look here! I'm going back to school. I've been a coward, just like you said, but now I'm going to start out same as David did, and stick to it like that other fellow--I forget his name--and say! I'm--I'm sorry." He was out of breath when he finished, as if he had been straining every muscle to raise the weight, crushing, overwhelming, that had been lifted from his heart.

They picked up Dorothy without awaking her, and Jerry pulled hard for the bank. "We'll go straight up through the woods. There's a house not quarter of a mile back. Prob'ly they'll all be up and around. You see, the men were going to start early this morning, so's to--so's to--"

Jerry floundered, his pale face suddenly flushing scarlet, and Peggy understood.

"Oh, Jerry!" Her voice dropped to a shocked whisper. "Oh, Jerry, they thought we were drowned." Then she uttered a little pained cry. "And at home, too? Do they know?"

"Joe's going to telegraph first thing this morning."

"He mustn't," Peggy cried fiercely. "I can't bear it. I won't bear it to have mother hurt so." Unconsciously her arm tightened about Dorothy, till the child roused with a little cry.

Jerry looked at the sun. "I guess we'll be in time to stop him," he rea.s.sured her. "Don't you fret." And then, as the boat b.u.mped against the bank, "Here, I'll take the baby."

Jerry's conjecture proved correct. There was a light in the kitchen of the farmhouse, where the farmer's wife was preparing breakfast for the men hurrying through their morning tasks to be ready for the sombre duties awaiting them. At the sight of Jerry, with Dorothy in his arms, Peggy dragging wearily behind, the men guessed the truth, and the trio was welcomed with such shouts that Dorothy woke up in earnest. As for Peggy, she could hardly keep back the tears at the rejoicing of these total strangers over the safety of Dorothy and herself.

Jerry had thought this problem out in the toilsome climb from the river.

"Say, I want the fastest horse you've got. They're going to telegraph this morning to her folks and I've got to stop 'em."

The farmer nodded comprehendingly. "I've got a three-year-old that's a pretty speedy proposition. Ain't really broken, though. Think you can manage him, son?"

"'Course I can." In his new-born zeal for atonement, Jerry felt himself equal to the management of an airship. The three-year-old was accordingly interrupted in her breakfast, expressing her dissatisfaction by laying her ears close to her head. And as she was hurriedly saddled, Jerry added, "You'll get 'em home as soon as you can, won't you? I guess by their looks they're pretty near beat out."

"We sure will." The farmer cleared his throat, for his deep voice had suddenly grown husky. "Driving the two of 'em home alive and well is a good deal pleasanter job than I'd bargained for this morning. Now look out for this here vixen," he continued, dropping suddenly from the plane of sentiment to the prosaic levels, "for she'll throw you if she can."

And while Peggy was making an effort to eat the breakfast the farmer's wife insisted on her sharing, a clatter of hoofs under the window told of Jerry's departure.

CHAPTER XX

HOME SWEET HOME

"Joy cometh in the morning." At Dolittle Cottage white-faced, sad-hearted girls had crept up-stairs to bed, and some of them had slept and waked moaning, and others had lain wide-eyed and still through the long hours, thankful for the relief of tears which now and then ran down their hot cheeks and wet their pillows. But when the dawn came, nature had its way, and the last watcher fell into the heavy sleep of exhaustion.

Apparently they all waked at once. Down-stairs was a clamor of uplifted voices, strange, choking cries, sounds that almost made the heart stop beating. And then above the tumult, a shrill fretful pipe that to the strained ears of the listeners was the sweetest of all sweet music.

"Make Hobo stop, Aunt Peggy. He's a-tickling me with his tongue."