Part 26 (2/2)
It was impossible to imagine a more appetizing supper than that which the three sat down to. Everything was prepared to a nicety, and the Knight could not say enough in praise of the raised biscuits and home made currant jell. As for the doughnuts, ”Such doughnuts can't be made without witchcraft, Jo,” he declared.
”Nonsense!” said the old lady. ”I don't put a thing into them that any good cook doesn't use. Making doughnuts always was an art by itself. You must both take some with you when you go.”
After supper the Knight wiped the dishes while the Witch washed them, Aunt Jo declaring it a shame that a man so domestically inclined should be compelled to wander from one end of the rainbow to the other just because of a foolish tender-heartedness in days gone by. While the pair discussed this fruitful topic the Boy dipped into the fascinating chapters of the ”Complete Wizard.”
”Time for bed,” announced the Knight an hour later; and he added for the Boy's ear: ”We must make an early start in the morning.”
”I for one shall sleep soundly,” Aunt Jo declared. ”I've run my legs off to-day, as I never use a broomstick on my holiday.”
She conducted her guests to a tiny bedchamber above stairs. ”I will leave a bag of doughnuts on the table, Henry,” said she, ”as I suppose you will be off before I am up. Good-night!”
When she had gone below the Knight said: ”We must be moving with the first streak of day. Aunt Jo's holiday ends with sun-up, and you would find her a vastly different old party, I can tell you.”
VI.
”I don't think I should be afraid of her,” said the Boy.
The Knight chuckled, and without further speech got into bed and was soon wrapped in a deep slumber. Next to a clear conscience and the open road, a good bed at night is something to set store by.
But the Boy could not sleep for the exciting pictures that danced in his head, and he was impatient for the morning light, that he might be on his way to Rainbow's-End. The moon peeped in the window; the breeze made a pleasant sound in the poplar trees; from somewhere came the music of a little brook. To all these gentle influences the Boy finally yielded.
He was awakened by a plucking at his sleeve.
”Time to be moving,” said the Knight in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. ”We can put on our shoes after we leave the house.”
They crept down the stair, which creaked in terrifying fas.h.i.+on, but a gentle snoring from the Witch's bedroom rea.s.sured them. After they had tiptoed out of the house and gained the road they discovered that they had forgotten the bag of doughnuts. The Knight declared that he would not return for a million doughnuts, but the Boy, remembering how delicious they tasted, stole back to the door and lifted the latch softly. Aunt Jo was still snoring, but, just as he laid hold of the doughnuts, Pluto the cat came leaping in from the kitchen, and the Boy had barely time to put the door between its sharp claws and himself. He ran down the path, vaulted the gate, and looked about for the Knight.
Away down the road was a rapidly diminis.h.i.+ng figure.
The Boy was a good runner, and he was fast overtaking the Knight, when the latter, who had been casting anxious glances over his shoulder as he ran, suddenly plunged into the bushes at one side of the road. The Boy thought it wise to follow his example.
And not a moment too soon. A small whirring sound grew louder and louder, and Aunt Jo went whizzing by on her high power autobroomstick, leaving in her wake a horrible reek of gasoline and brimstone. But not the Aunt Jo of the evening before. Her green eyes flashed behind the goggles, and her face was something dreadful to behold. On her shoulder perched Pluto, every hair erect, and spitting fire.
The Boy gasped, and hoped he had seen the last of the terrible hag, when the whirring noise announced that she was coming back. She stopped her broomstick directly opposite the hiding-place and began cutting small circles in the air, the while peering sharply about.
As the Boy plunged into the thicket, he fell. As he lay there, something cold pressed against his hand.
It was Mowgli's nose. The dog's eyes questioned his master, who had cried out in his sleep.
”Oh, Mowgli!” he exclaimed, taking the spaniel by his s.h.a.ggy ears, ”did you dream _all_ that wonderful dream? Or did you stop at the woodchuck hole? What a shame, Mowgli, if there shouldn't really be a Knight of the Dusty Thoroughfare, and a Princess Aralia and a Witch who makes wonderful doughnuts!”
A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO
”_Nous ne trouvons guere de gens de bon sens que ceux qui sont de notre avis._”
--_La Rochefoucauld._
<script>