Part 7 (1/2)

No embarra.s.sing questions were asked about Mart or Dave Branham, but I noticed that Mollie had purple and crimson ribbons clinched in one brown hand. The purpose of them was plain, and I whispered to the Blight:

”She's going to pin them on Dave's lance.” The Hon. Sam heard me.

”Not on your life,” he said emphatically. ”I ain't takin' chances,” and he nodded toward the Blight. ”She's got to win, no matter who loses.” He rose to his feet suddenly.

”Glory to the Brave--they're comin'! Toot that horn, son,” he said; ”they're comin',” and the band burst into discordant sounds that would have made the ”wild barbaric music” on the field of Ashby sound like a lullaby. The Blight stifled her laughter over that amazing music with her handkerchief, and even the Hon. Sam scowled.

”Gee!” he said; ”it is pretty bad, isn't it?”

”Here they come!”

The n.o.bles and ladies on the grandstand, the yeomanry and spectators of better degree, and the promiscuous mult.i.tude began to sway expectantly and over the hill came the knights, single file, gorgeous in velvets and in caps, with waving plumes and with polished spears, vertical, resting on the right stirrup foot and gleaming in the sun.

”A goodly array!” murmured the Hon. Sam.

A crowd of small boys gathered at the fence below, and I observed the Hon. Sam's pockets bulging with peanuts.

”Largesse!” I suggested.

”Good!” he said, and rising he shouted:

”Largessy! largessy!” scattering peanuts by the handful among the scrambling urchins.

Down wound the knights behind the back stand of the base-ball field, and then, single file, in front of the n.o.bles and ladies, before whom they drew up and faced, saluting with inverted spears.

The Hon. Sam arose--his truncheon a hickory stick--and in a stentorian voice asked the names of the doughty knights who were there to win glory for themselves and the favor of fair women.

Not all will be mentioned, but among them was the Knight of the Holston--Athelstanic in build--in black stockings, white negligee s.h.i.+rt, with Byronic collar, and a broad crimson sash tied with a bow at his right side. There was the Knight of the Green Valley, in green and gold, a green hat with a long white plume, lace ruffles at his sleeves, and buckles on dancing-pumps; a bonny fat knight of Maxwelton Braes, in Highland kilts and a plaid; and the Knight at Large.

”He ought to be caged,” murmured the Hon. Sam; for the Knight at Large wore plum-colored velvet, red base-ball stockings, held in place with safety-pins, white tennis shoes, and a very small hat with a very long plume, and the dye was already streaking his face. Marston was the last--sitting easily on his iron gray.

”And your name, Sir Knight?”

”The Discarded,” said Marston, with steady eyes. I felt the Blight start at my side and sidewise I saw that her face was crimson.

The Hon. Sam sat down, muttering, for he did not like Marston:

”Wenchless springal!”

Just then my attention was riveted on Mollie and little Buck. Both had been staring silently at the knights as though they were apparitions, but when Marston faced them I saw Buck clutch his sister's arm suddenly and say something excitedly in her ear. Then the mouths of both tightened fiercely and their eyes seemed to be darting lightning at the unconscious knight, who suddenly saw them, recognized them, and smiled past them at me. Again Buck whispered, and from his lips I could make out what he said:

”I wonder whar's Dave?” but Mollie did not answer.

”Which is yours, Mr. Budd?” asked the little sister. The Hon. Sam had leaned back with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his white waistcoat.

”He ain't come yet. I told him to come last.”

The crowd waited and the knights waited--so long that the Mayor rose in his seat some twenty feet away and called out:

”Go ahead, Budd.”