Part 20 (1/2)

Timoteo sighed heavily. He did not hate those American boys who looked so much nicer than he. He only had a sorrowful, hopeless feeling as he unfastened the cow and started homeward with her.

But when the cow lumbered in through the two white, strange gate-posts at home, she swerved aside a little, and Timoteo saw, standing under the tall red hollyhocks, his teacher, Miss Montgomery. She had a bright tin pail in her hand, and she wanted some milk.

Timoteo's eyes brightened.

”I go wash my hands clean, clean!” he cried, and, disappearing, came back a few minutes after, holding out his palms for Miss Montgomery's inspection.

She smiled, and gave him the pail.

”Poor little fellow!” she thought, as she watched him milking. ”I'm afraid some of our American boys don't have charity enough for him.”

Timoteo beamed with happiness as he returned the pail br.i.m.m.i.n.g with milk. He was Miss Montgomery's milkman regularly after that, and when, on Sundays, Miss Montgomery taught a Sunday-school cla.s.s of boys, Timoteo always slipped in and listened, though the teacher wondered sometimes if the boy could understand.

There were fair-haired American boys who looked down on Timoteo at school and who made him feel that a Spanish boy was an inferior.

Sometimes Timoteo almost felt as if some of the Chinese boys, in the small fis.h.i.+ng-village outside the town, were happier than he, for they did not seem to care to know anything but how to dry nets and dry fish. Herbert Page was one of the school boys who always felt superior to Timoteo. Timoteo did not wonder at it. He had a very humble opinion of himself, yet sometimes he wished Herbert would only look at him as he pa.s.sed by. Herbert would not have spoken rudely to Timoteo. That, Herbert would have considered degrading. He simply ignored the Spanish boys of the school.

One Sat.u.r.day morning, when Timoteo stood on the edge of the cliffs outside the town, he saw Herbert picking his way out over the long stretches of rocks to seaward; a basket on his arm and a stick in his hand.

”He go to get abalones, and think he can knock them off with a stick!” laughed Timoteo.

Herbert had not long lived in this vicinity, and he did not know the tenacity with which the large, oval-shaped sh.e.l.l, called abalone, or ear-sh.e.l.l, which is so well known and valued for its beautifully colored, irridescent lining, clings to the rock when the sh.e.l.l's inmate is living. At school, the day before, Timoteo had heard Herbert say that he intended going after abalones on Sat.u.r.day.

”He no get any,” prophesied Timoteo, gazing after Herbert's disappearing figure.

Timoteo himself was out abalone-hunting. This was one of the ways by which he occasionally earned a few cents, visitors to the town buying the large sh.e.l.ls for curiosities. But Timoteo had with him a long iron spike with which he intended to urge the abalone-sh.e.l.ls from the rocks.

The abalone has a large, very strong, white ”foot” inside its long sh.e.l.l, and there is a row of holes in the sh.e.l.l itself. It is conjectured that the abalone perhaps exhausts the air under the sh.e.l.l, and so causes the sh.e.l.l to cling more tightly to the rock than ever, through atmospheric pressure. It is very difficult to take an abalone from its rocky home, unless the creature is surprised.

Timoteo, however, was acquainted with abalones, and made good use of his weapon. He clambered far out over the wet rocks for hours, finding abalones now and then, and waging war on these thick, rough ovals that clung so tightly to the rock, the beautiful colors of the abalone-sh.e.l.ls entirely concealed. Timoteo saw nothing more of Herbert, during these hours of work.

Timoteo succeeded in getting three abalones, the last an especially large sh.e.l.l. He sat down on the rocks to rest, after the long struggle with this big abalone. The tide was rising. He would go home soon now.

While he sat there, it seemed to him that he heard the sound of outcries. At first he thought it was the gulls. Half in fun he shouted in reply. The distant cries seemed redoubled. Timoteo caught up his basket and long spike. He sprang to his feet.

”Where is it?” he thought, confused with the splash of waves and the toss of spray.

He listened. He sped, shouting, over the rocks in the direction from which the cries seemed to come. He stopped now and then to listen.

Yes, it was a human voice that cried for help. It was not the gulls.

”Adonde?” (Where?) ”Adonde?” shouted Timoteo, forgetting his English in his excitement.

The answering shouts grew more distinct. Timoteo climbed over the wet rocks till he found himself near a place where the sounds seemed to come from between two rocks. Timoteo saw a boy reach up part way between the two rocks. The boy could not crawl out. The hole between the rocks was not big enough.

”Timoteo!” screamed a voice, and Timoteo recognized Herbert.

”Say!” Herbert called, ”run for help, won't you? I was out here abalone-hunting, and I guess one of these big rocks must have been poised just right to topple over. Anyhow, in climbing down here I managed to topple it. It didn't fall on me, but it fell against the other rocks so that there isn't room for me to crawl out of here! I can't make the rock budge, now. And the tide's coming! I thought I'd drown, away out here, alone. You can't do anything with that spike.

It needs three or four men with levers. Run! The tide's up to my waist, now! There isn't room between these rocks to crawl out.”