Part 14 (1/2)
The Little White Feller rarely laughed, but now--”You--you Jolly boy!” he choked, ”you'll find him under a hay-stack fast aslee-- No, no!” suddenly grave and solicitous of the other's feelings, ”in the dictionary, I mean. _Words_, don't you know?”
”Oh, get out!” grinned the Jolly boy, in glee at having made the Little White Feller laugh out like that, reg'lar-built. ”Hand him over, then, but you'll have to do the spellin'.”
”Rec-om-pense,--p-e-n-_s_-e,” Morry said, slowly, ”I found it in a magazine,--there's the greatest lot o' words in magazines! Look up 'rec,' Jolly,--I mean, please.”
Dictionaries are terrible books. Jolly had never dreamed there were so many words in the world,--pages and pages and pages of 'em! The prospect of ever finding one particular word was disheartening, but he plunged in st.u.r.dily, determination written on every freckle.
”Don't begin at the first page!” cried Morry, hastily. ”Begin at R,--it's more than half-way through. R-e,--r-e-c,--that way.”
Jolly turned over endless pages, trailed laboriously his little, blunt finger up and down endless columns, wet his lips with the red tip of his tongue endless times,--wished 'twas over. He had meant to begin at the beginning and keep on till he got to a w-r-e-c-k,--at Number Seven they spelled it that way. Hadn't he lost a mark for spelling it without a ”w”? But of course if folks preferred the r kind--
”Hi!” the blunt finger leaped into s.p.a.ce and waved triumphantly.
”R-e-c-k,--I got him!”
”Not 'k,'--there isn't any 'k.' Go backwards till you drop it, Jolly,--you dropped it?”
Dictionaries are terrible,--still, leaving a letter off o' the end isn't as bad as off o' the front. Jolly retraced his steps patiently.
”I've dropped it,” he announced in time.
Morry was breathing hard, too. Looking up words with other people's fore-fingers is pretty tough.
”Now, the second story,--'rec' is the first,” he explained. ”You must find 'rec-om' now, you know.”
No, Jolly did not know, but he went back to the work undaunted.
”We'll tree him,” he said, cheerily, ”but I think I could do it easier if I whistled”--
”Whistle,” Morry said.
With more directions, more hard breathing, more wetting of lips and tireless trailing of small, blunt finger, and then--eureka! there you were! But eureka was not what Jolly said.
”Bully for us!” he shouted. He felt _thrilly_ with pride of conquest.
”It's easy enough finding things. What's the matter with dictionaries!”
”Now read what it means, Jolly,--I mean, please. Don't skip.”
”'Rec-om-pense: An equi-va-lent received or re-turned for anything given, done, or suff-er-ed; comp-ens-a-tion.'”
”That all?--every speck?”
”Well, here's another one that says 'To make a-mends,' if you like that one any better. Sounds like praying.”
”Oh,” sighed Morry, ”how I'd like to know what equi-valent means!”
but he did not ask the other to look it up. He sank back on his pillows and reasoned things out for himself the best way he could.
”To make amends” he felt sure meant to _make up_. To make up for something given or suffered,--perhaps that was what a Rec-om-pense was. For something given or suffered--like legs, maybe? Limp, no-good-legs that wouldn't go? Could there be a Rec-om-pense for _those?_ Could anything ever ”make up”?
”Supposing you hadn't any legs, Jolly,--that would go?” he said, aloud, with disquieting suddenness. Jolly started, but nodded comprehendingly. He had not had any legs for a good many minutes; the telescoping process is numbing in the extreme.
”Do you think anything could ever Rec-om-pense--make up, you know?