Part 19 (1/2)
”It wasn't I,--oh, indeed it wasn't I!” declared Freddy. ”I told Tad Dan was the biggest, strongest, finest fellow in the whole bunch. I never said a word about his being a newsboy or a bootblack, though I don't think it hurts him a bit.”
”And it doesn't,” said Jim, whose blood had been a ”true blue” stream before the Stars and Stripes began to wave. ”But there are some folks that think so.”
”Calling me fool, are you?” said Dud, fiercely.
”No, I didn't,” retorted Jim. ”But if the name fits you, take it. I don't object.” And he turned away, with a flash in his eyes most unusual for Sunny Jim,--a flash that Dud did not venture to kindle into angry fire.
But, though the storm blew over, as such springtime storms will, Dan had learned a lesson, and felt that he never again wished to venture on the dizzy heights where wise heads turn and strong feet falter. Though Dud and Jim, who both had pocket money in plenty, made arrangements at the Boat Club for the use of a little motor boat several times a week, Dan held his own line as second mate at Killykinick, and was contented to share old Neb's voyaging. They went out often now; for, under the old sailor's guidance, Dan was becoming an expert fisherman. And soon the dingy boat, loaded with its silvery spoil, became known to camps and cottages along the other sh.o.r.es. Poor old Neb was too dull-witted for business; but customers far from markets watched eagerly for the merry blue-eyed boy who brought fish, ”still kicking,” for their early breakfast,--clams, chaps, and lobsters, whose freshness was beyond dispute. Neb's old leather wallet began to fill up as it had never been filled before. And the dinners that were served on the ”Lady Jane,” the broiled, the baked, the fried fish dished up in rich plenty every day, shook Brother Bart's allegiance to Irish stews, and, as he declared, ”would make it aisy for a heretic to keep the Friday fast forever.”
Then, Dan had the garden to dig and weed, the cow to milk, the chickens to feed,--altogether, the days were most busy and pleasant; and it was a happy, if tired, boy that tumbled at night into his hammock swung beneath the stars, while old Jeb and Neb smoked their pipes on the deck beside him.
Three letters had come from Aunt Winnie,--a Government boat brought weekly mail to the lighthouse on Numskull n.o.b. They were prim little letters, carefully margined and written, and spelled as the good Sisters had taught her in early youth. She took her pen in hand--so letters had always begun in Aunt Winnie's schooldays--to write him a few lines. She was in good health and hoped he was the same, though many were sick at the Home, and Mrs. McGraw (whom Dan recalled as the dozing lady of his visit) had died very sudden on Tuesday; but she had a priest at the last, and a Requiem Ma.s.s in the chapel, with the altar in black, and everything most beautiful. Poor Miss Flannery's cough was bad, and she wouldn't be long here, either; but, as the good Mother says, we are blessed in having a holy place where we can die in peace and quiet. And Aunt Winnie's own leg was bad still, but she thanked G.o.d she could get around a bit and help the others. And, though she might never see him again--for she would be turned on seventy next Thursday,--she prayed for her dear boy nights, and dreamed of him constant. And, begging G.o.d to bless him and keep him from harm, she was his affectionate aunt, Winnie Curley.'
The other letters were very much in the same tone: some other old lady was dying or failing fast; for, with all its twilight peace, Aunt Winnie was in a valley of the shadow, where the light of youth and hope and cheer that whistling, laughing Dan brought into Mulligans' attic could not s.h.i.+ne.
”I've got to get her home,” resolved Dan, who was keen enough to read this loss and longing between the old-fas.h.i.+oned neatly-written lines. ”It's Pete Patterson and the meat shop for me in the fall and good-bye to St.
Andrew's and 'pipe dreams' forever! Aunt Winnie has to come back, with her blue teapot on her own stove and Tabby purring at her feet again or--or”
(Dan choked at the thought) ”they'll be having a funeral Ma.s.s at the Little Sisters for her.”
And Dan lay awake a long time that night looking at the stars, and stifling a dull pang in his young heart that the heights of which he had dreamed were not for him. But he was up betimes next morning, his own st.u.r.dy self again. Old Neb had a bad attack of rheumatism that made his usual early trip impossible.
”They will be looking for us,” said Dan. ”I promised those college girls camping at Shelter Cove to bring them fresh fish for breakfast.”
”Let them catch for themselves!” growled old Neb, who was rubbing his stiffened arm with whale oil.
”Girls,” said Dan in boyish scorn. ”What do girls know about fis.h.i.+ng? They squeal every time they get a bite. I'll take Freddy to watch the lines (Brother Bart isn't so scary about him now), and go myself.”
XIX.--A MORNING VENTURE.
After some persuasion from Captain Jeb, who declared he could trust matey Dan's navigation now against any wind and tide, Brother Bart consented to Freddy's morning sail with his st.u.r.dy chum.
”Sure I know Dan loves laddie better than his own life,” said the good old man anxiously, as he watched Neb's ragged sail flitting off with the two young fishermen. ”But it's only a boy he is, after all.”
”Mebby,” said Captain Jeb, briefly. ”But thar's boys wuth half a dozen good-sized men, and matey is that kind. You needn't scare about any little chap that s.h.i.+ps with him. And what's to hurt him, anyhow, Padre? You've got to let all young critters try their legs and wings.”
And Freddy was trying his triumphantly this morning. It was one of Dan's lucky days, and the lines were drawn in again and again, until the college girls' breakfast and many more silvery s.h.i.+ners were fluttering and gasping in old Neb's fish basket. Then Dan proceeded to deliver his wares at neighborly island sh.o.r.es, where summer campers were taking brief holidays.
Some of these islands, more sheltered than Killykinick, were fringed with a thick growth of hardy evergreens, hollowed into coves and inlets, where the waves, broken in their wild, free sweep, lapped low-shelving sh.o.r.es and invited gentle adventure.
On one of these pleasant outposts was the college camp; and half a dozen pretty girl graduates, in ”middies” and khaki skirts, came down to meet Dan. One of them led a big, tawny dog, who made a sudden break for the boat, nearly overturning Freddy in his leap, and crouching by Dan's side, whining and s.h.i.+vering.
”Oh, he's yours! We said he was yours!” went up the girlish chorus. ”Then take him away, please. And don't let him come back; for he howled all night, and nearly set us crazy. Nellie Morris says dogs never howl that way unless somebody is dead or dying; and she left her mother sick, and is almost frantic. Please take him away, and don't ever bring him near us again!”
”But--but he isn't mine at all,” replied Dan, staring at the big dog, who, s.h.i.+vering and wretched as he seemed, awoke some vague memory.
”Then whose is he?” asked a pretty spokesman, severely. ”He could not have dropped from the clouds, and yours was the only boat that came here yesterday.”
”Oh, I know,--I know, Dan!” broke in Freddy, eagerly. ”He belongs to that big man who came with us on the steamboat. He had two dogs in leashes, and this is one of them, I know, because I saw his brown spot on his head when I gave him a cracker.”