Part 15 (1/2)
For two weeks Flea and Flukey lived on the fat of the land. The country afforded them haystacks, and the brooks, clear water. The children were never happier than when Squeaky's nose was hidden in a tin can of b.u.t.termilk, and the precious five dollars bought countless numbers of currant buns, sugar cakes, and penny bones for s.n.a.t.c.het. Now Flukey lifted his head proudly and walked with the air of a boy on the road to fortune, and Flea kept at his side with the prince hugged close in her arms. Through the long stretch of houseless roads s.n.a.t.c.het was allowed to rove at will, and Flukey relieved his sister of her burden. By the third day out toward the promised land the two little animals had become firm friends, and the queer quartet walked on and on, as straight as the crow flies, through the valleys and over the hills, wading the creeks and ferrying the rivers, until they awoke one morning without money or breakfast. The warm hay at night, much suns.h.i.+ne, and the absence of rain had reduced the swollen joint in Flukey's knee to normal size; but that day, as they trudged along, Flea noticed that he limped more than at any time during their journey from Tompkins County. Even now, with hunger staring wolf-eyed at them, there was no desire to return to Ithaca, no thought of renewing their life in the squatter's settlement; for, unknown to themselves, they were being swept on by a common destiny.
”Ye're gettin' lame again,” said Flea after awhile, the mother-feeling in her making her watch Flukey with concern. ”Last night a-laying' in the field didn't do ye any good. Let me lug Prince Squeaky.”
Without remonstrance, the boy surrendered the wriggling burden, and they started out once more.
”I wish we could find a nice, warm haystack,” Flea commented; ”it'd warm up yer bones. Will we get to one, Fluke, after awhile?”
”Nope, 'cause we're comin' to a big city.”
As he spoke, he motioned to where Tarrytown lay on the banks of the Hudson River, several miles distant. Then they were silent a time; for each young life was busy with the tragedy of living. Just what they would do for a place to sleep Flea could not tell, since under the compact made in the rock-cavern they would steal no more.
In the gathering twilight the two came upon the cemetery of Sleepy Hollow, and here, tired, hungry, and despondent, they sat down to rest.
”It's gettin' night,” said Flukey drearily. ”I wonder where we'll sleep?”
”Can't we squirm in this dead man's yard 'thout n.o.body seein' us?” asked Flea, casting her eyes over the graves. ”Ye can't walk no more tonight.
I ain't hungry, anyhow.”
”Ye lie, Flea!” moaned Flukey. ”Yer belly's as empty as Squeaky's or s.n.a.t.c.het's. I've got to get ye somethin' to eat.”
Nevertheless, without resistance, he allowed her to help him through the large gate, and they struck off into the older part of the cemetery. All through the night they lay dozing in the presence of the dead, Squeaky tied by the leg to a tree, and s.n.a.t.c.het snuggled warmly between the two children. The dawning of day brought Flukey new anguish; for both knees were swollen, and he groaned as he turned over.
Flea was up instantly. ”Be ye sick?”
”Only the twist in my legs. I wish it wasn't so cold. If the sun would only get warm!”
”We'll get to the good land today, Fluke,” soothed Flea, ”and ye can eat all ye want, and sleep with a pile of covers on--as big--as big as that there vault yonder.”
”But we ain't in the good land yet, Flea,” groaned Flukey, ”and we're all hungry. I wish I could 'arn a nickel. If ye didn't love the pig so much, Flea, we could sell him. He's a growin' thinner and thinner every minute, and s.n.a.t.c.het be that starvin' he could eat another mut bigger'n himself.”
The girl made no answer to this, but tucked Squeaky's pink nose under the blue-s.h.i.+rted arm and sat mute.
Flukey, encouraged, went on. ”n.o.body'd buy s.n.a.t.c.het--he's only a poor, d.a.m.n, s.h.i.+verin' cuss.”
”If we selled Prince Squeaky, some'un'd eat him,” mourned Flea. ”He ain't goin' to be e't, I says!”
So forceful were her tones that Flukey offered no more suggestions; but stared miserably at the sun as it rose up from the east, dispersing the cold, gray morning fog. Presently Flea stood up and said decisively:
”We've got to eat. Ye stay here while I hunt for somethin'.”
She darted away before Flukey could remonstrate. For a long time the boy lay on the damp ground, his face drawn awry with pain, watching the wagons going back and forth on the road below. The pangs of hunger and the night of rheumatism had told upon his young strength. His mind went back to the hut on Cayuga Lake, and he thought of how when their absence had been discovered Granny Cronk had cried a little, and how Pappy Lon had cursed and grown more silent than ever. The tender heart of the sick boy yearned toward the old squatter woman, who had been the only mother he and Flea had ever known. In his loneliness he stroked Squeaky on the snout and muttered tender words to the lean dog lying under his lame leg. After a short time he saw Flea, with a small bundle in her hand, picking her way among the graves. Flukey lay perfectly quiet until his sister offered him a bun.
”I could only buy four, 'cause I only had a nickel.”
”Give Squeaky and s.n.a.t.c.het one, will ye, Flea?” ventured Flukey.
”Yep. I said, when I buyed 'em, there'd be one apiece.”
”Somethin' has made ye pale, Flea,” said Flukey after each of the four had devoured breakfast. ”Ye didn't--”