Part 21 (1/2)

The fourth morning, after reconnoitering and finding the bull still in undisputed possession of the field, an uncertain but daring thought dawned upon her busy brain, and when she returned home she casually asked Hope, ”Didn't folks one time have bull fights in Africa?”

”In Spain, you mean,” answered the other, always ready to share her small store of knowledge. ”Yes, they still have them, though it is very wicked.”

”How do they fight?”

”Oh, I don't know exactly, but I think a man rides around a big ring on horseback, flying a red flag until the bull is terribly mad, and then he has to kill it with his dagger or get killed himself. It is terribly cruel, teacher says.”

”Why does the bull get mad at the flag?”

”Because it is red, and they can't stand that color. Neither can turkey gobblers. Don't you remember you had on a red coat when Mr. Hartman's gobbler chased you?”

”Oh,” said Peace, much enlightened. She had received the information she sought, and was content.

”So the flag has to be red, does it?” she mused, as she stealthily climbed the stairs to the tiny, hot, cobwebby attic, where all the cast-off clothing was stored against a rainy day. ”I thought it was something like that, but I didn't know for sure. There's an old red dress that b'longed to me, and here is my old flannel petticoat. I don't b'lieve we will ever use this mess of cheesecloth again, either; it is so dreadfully streaked. But there is enough red in it yet.”

Gathering up an armful of worn-out garments, she crept down the stairway once more and slipped away to the lower pasture with her burden, where for the next half hour she might have been seen tying the scarlet strips to the fence rails in the corner farthest from the raspberry patch. When the last rag was fastened securely, she stepped back and viewed the result of her labor, sighing in deep satisfaction, ”There are twenty-one hunks in all. It ought to take him a good long time to tear them all to pieces, and maybe if we work fast we can get most of the bushes stripped while he is banging his head down here.”

Hurrying home, she quietly summoned Cherry and Allee, and the trio set out once more on their berry-picking excursion, finding their enemy too busy in the far end of the field to interfere with them, just as Peace had hoped.

”But he may come back here at any minute,” argued Cherry, loth to enter the field. ”I thought you said he was gone from the pasture.”

”I said from the _berries_. Don't stop to talk. As long as he doesn't hear us, we are all right. We will pick close to the fence, so we can get out quick. There must be _tons_ of berries right here in this clump.

Mercy, what a racket he makes!”

Then how the nimble fingers flew, and how fast the deep-tinted fruit fell into the s.h.i.+ning pails! But all the while the three pickers kept their eyes fastened on the grove of trees which hid the animal from sight, and three hearts pounded fearfully at every snort of the enraged brute.

”Are you sure he is tied?” whispered cautious Cherry, after an unusually loud bellow had made her jump almost out of her shoes.

”I didn't say he was tied. I said he wasn't apt to bother us this morning. Keep still and pick with all your might. One of the big pails in the wagon is full already.”

”But how do you know he will stay there if he isn't tied?” persisted Cherry, glancing apprehensively toward the trees again.

”He is too busy to think of coming over here now,” Peace a.s.sured her confidently, and that was all the satisfaction she could get, so she lapsed into silence, and worked like a beaver until the second big bucket was br.i.m.m.i.n.g over. Then the small taskmaster drew a deep breath of relief and said graciously, ”Now we will go home. These ought to make quite a little jelly. We must have as much as twenty quarts. They don't take as long as strawberries.”

Thankfully the sisters crawled through the fence and triumphantly bore their precious burden homeward, still hearing in the distance the angry mutterings of Deacon Skinner's bull.

”Just see the loads of berries we picked!” chorused three happy voices, as the rattling cart came to a standstill before the kitchen door.

”Faith can have all the jelly she wants, and you can make the leftover seeds up in jam, can't you?”

”Children!” cried Gail, white to the lips. ”Have you been in that pasture with Mr. Skinner's ugly bull?”

”Yes,” they confessed, ”but he never came near us.”

”I guess he didn't want to leave the grove,” added Peace, marching complacently away to wash her berry-stained hands.

”Don't you ever go there again,” commanded the oldest sister, still trembling with fright at what might have happened to the daring berry pickers, but she never thought to question them any further, and Peace's prank remained a secret for a short time longer.

The next day Deacon Skinner was early at the Hartman place, stalking angrily up to the low, green house, and, striding into the kitchen without the formality of knocking, demanded fiercely, ”What do you mean by plastering your fence all over with red rags? Your pasture fence?