Part 15 (2/2)

”What is it?” asked Elliott.

”A message Johnny's mother wants sent. She's our hired man's wife and I must say at times she shows about as much brains as a chicken. You'd think she'd know our 'phone wouldn't be likely to work, if hers didn't. Now I shall have to go over to the Blisses' myself, I suppose.

The message seems fairly important. Where has your mother gone, Johnny?”

But Johnny didn't know; beyond a vague ”she wided away” he was non-committal.

”She might have stopped somewhere and telephoned for herself, I should think,” grumbled Harriet. ”I'll be back in a few minutes. Or will you come, too? If I can't 'phone from the Blisses' I may have to go farther.”

”I'll stay here, I think, and wash up my dishes. And after that I'll finish the peas.”

”Mercy me, I shan't be gone that long! We're sh.e.l.ling these to put up, you know. Don't bother about was.h.i.+ng your dishes, either. They'll keep.”

”Who's saying bother, now?” Elliott's dimples twinkled mischievously.

Harriet laughed. ”You and Johnny can mind the place. The men and Alma are all off at the lower farm and here goes the last woman. Good-by.”

Elliott went briskly about her program. She found soap and a pan and rinsed her dishes under the hot-water faucet. Then she sat down to the peas. Johnny, who had followed her about for a while, deserted her for pressing affairs of his own out-of-doors. Elliott pinched the pods as scientifically as she knew how and wondered whether, if she should sh.e.l.l peas all her life, her slender fingers would ever acquire the lightning nimbleness of the Gordons' fat ones. How long Harriet was gone!

She was thinking about this when she heard something that made her first stop her work to listen and then jump up hurriedly, spilling the peas out of her lap. The wailing of a terrified child was coming nearer and nearer. Elliott set down the peas that were left and ran out on the veranda. There was Johnny stumbling up the path, crying at the top of his lungs.

”Why, Johnny!” She ran toward him. ”Why, Johnny, what is the matter?”

Johnny precipitated himself into her arms in a torrent of tears. Not a word was distinguishable, but his wails pierced the girl's ear-drums.

”Johnny! Johnny, _stop it_! Tell me where you're hurt.”

But Johnny only sobbed the harder. He couldn't be in danger of death--could he?--when he screamed so. That showed his lungs were all right, and his legs worked, too, and his arms. They were digging into her now, with a force that almost upset her equilibrium. Could something be wrong inside of him?

”What's the matter, Johnny? Stop crying and tell me.”

Johnny's yells slackened for want of breath. He held up one brown little hand. She inspected it. Dirty, of course, unspeakably, but otherwise--Oh, there was a bunch on one knuckle, a bunch that was swelling. ”Is that where it hurts you, Johnny?”

Johnny nodded, gulping.

”Did something sting you?”

”Bee stung Johnny. _Naughty_ bee!”

The girl stared at the small grimy hand in consternation. A bee sting!

What did you do for a bee sting or any kind of a sting for that matter? Mosquitoes--hamamelis. And where did the Gordons keep their hamamelis bottle?

Johnny's screams, abated in expectation of relief, began to rise once more. He was angry. Why didn't she _do_ something? This delay was unendurable. His voice mounted in a long, piercing wail.

”Don't cry,” the girl said nervously. ”Don't cry. Let's go into the house and find something.”

Up-stairs and down she trailed the shrieking child. At the Cameron farm there were two hamamelis bottles, one in the bath-room, the other on a shelf in the kitchen. But nothing rewarded her search here. If only some one were at home! If only the telephone weren't out of order! Desperately she took down the receiver, to be greeted by a faint, continuous buzzing. There was nothing for it; she must leave Johnny and run to a neighbor's. But Johnny refused to be left. He clung to her and kicked and screamed for pain and the terror of finding his secure baby world falling to pieces about his ears.

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