Part 6 (1/2)
”Flint, you are a misanthrope! You have searched out this G.o.d-forsaken stretch of sand just for the purpose of getting away from your kind.
Now I have hunted you to your lair, and I propose to stay with you for a fortnight; but I am not to be dragooned into saying that I think your resort is a scene of beauty, for I don't; but that is a jolly, old, gray, tumbled-down building over there--a barn, I suppose.”
”No, sir; that is the Nepaug Inn. As it has neither porters, waiters, nor electric bells, you are expected to shoulder your own luggage and march upstairs--second room to the right. Whoa, there!” he called out to the old horse a full minute after the animal had come to a dead halt in front of the inn door. The noise, however, served its purpose in bringing Marsden to the door, and loading the old inn-keeper with imprecations for their unlucky experience with the mola.s.ses, Flint left him to struggle with the contents of the wagon, while he himself escorted Brady up the narrow, sagging stairs, and ensconced him in a room next his own,--a room whose windows looked out like his over the purple stretch of ocean, now opalescent with reflection of the clouds.
”Where do you take your bath?” Brady asked, looking round somewhat helplessly.
”In there, you land-lubber!” answered Flint, pointing out to sea; ”isn't the tub big enough?”
Brady laughed, a hearty, boyish, infectious laugh. ”All right,” he said, ”only it seems rather odd to come East for pioneering. Did you know, by the way, that I am to be in New York this winter?”
”No!”
”Yes. Our house is just establis.h.i.+ng a branch office there, and I am to be at the head of it.”
Flint chuckled.
”Bison establis.h.i.+ng a branch office in New York! The humor of the thing delights me.”
”I don't see anything so very funny about it,” answered Brady, rather testily; ”but I have no stomach for a quarrel till I have had some supper--unless you sup _out there_,” he added with a lordly wave of his hand towards the ocean in imitation of Flint's gesture. ”I hope, at any rate, our evening meal is not to be of farina. The a.s.sociations might be a little too strong even for my appet.i.te.”
CHAPTER IV
THE DAVITTS
”The short and simple annals of the poor.”
After taking leave of Flint and his companion in misfortune, Winifred quickened her pace. The lengthening shadows warned her that if she intended to return to the White House before supper was over, she had no time to lose.
”Come, Paddy!” she said, laying her hand with a light, caressing gesture on the s.h.a.ggy red-brown head of the Irish setter, which had kept closer guard than ever since the meeting with the strangers in the road,--”come, Paddy! we must make a sprint for it.”
The dog, glad enough to be allowed the luxury of a gallop, set off pell-mell, and Winifred followed at a gait which soon brought her, flushed and out of breath, before the unpainted house where the Davitt family made their abode. It was not characterized by great order or tidiness. Clothes-lines, hung with underwear of various shapes and sizes, decorated the side-yard, and proclaimed Mrs. Davitt's calling.
A whole section of the front fence had taken itself off. The gate swung aimlessly on one rusty hinge, and a brood of chickens wandered at will over the unmown gra.s.s before the house: yet the place was not wholly unattractive, for it bore evidences of human love and happiness; and, after all, these are the objects for which the most orderly and elegant mansions exist, if indeed they are so fortunate as to attain them. These are the essence of a home.
An old dory filled with geranium and nasturtium brightened the centre of the yard. Beneath the wide spreading maples, which lent their unbought adornment to the shabby old house, hung a child's swing, and near by stood a rickety express-cart, to which an unlucky goat was tethered by a multi-colored harness made of rope, tape, and bits of calico. The driver of this equipage, a tow-headed lad of some five years old, stood with his thumb in his mouth, gazing with open-eyed amazement at the young lady who thought it worth while to walk so fast.
”Good afternoon, John!” said Winifred, when she had regained her breath. ”Is your mother at home?”
The practice of answering questions is an acquired habit, and comes only after long acquaintance with society. Children left in a state of nature rarely think it necessary or even safe to commit themselves so far. John Davitt only pulled his thumb out of his mouth, poked his pink toes deeper into the gra.s.s, and gave a hitch at the single suspender supporting the ragged knickerbockers which formed two-thirds of his costume.
”Oh!” continued the visitor, not in the least disconcerted by the lack of response to her advances, ”you don't want to leave your goat long enough to go and ask about your mother, do you? Well, I should not like to be asked to leave my colt if I were driving. People should do their own errands, I think, and not be bothering other folks with their business. You will not be afraid of my dog if I leave him here while I go into the house, will you?”
”Whath hith name?” asked John, discovering for the first time that he had a tongue and knew its use.
”Paddy,” answered the visitor.
”I uthed to have a brother Paddy. He died.”
”Then you must make friends with the dog for his sake. Would you like to see how my Paddy can chase a stone?” With this Winifred picked up a large pebble, and threw it far down the road. Paddy, with a bark of animated enjoyment, made after it, with wagging tail and ears laid back against his head. John laughed loud, wrinkled up his little pug nose and showed his white teeth.
”Now when he brings it back, you throw it again, and I will go in and try to find your mother; I think I see her now,” she added, as she turned the angle of the house and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Davitt, seated in the wooden rocking-chair beside the kitchen-table, paring potatoes.