Part 14 (1/2)

Smitten with horror, William reopened the door and charged down the cellar stairs after Clematis, who closed his caitiff mouth and gave way precipitately. He fled from one end of the cellar to the other and back, while William pursued; choking, and calling in low, ferocious tones: ”Good doggie! Good ole doggie! Hyuh, Clem! Meat, Clem, meat--”

There was dodging through coal-bins; there was squirming between barrels; there was high jumping and broad jumping, and there was a final aspiring but baffled dash for the top of the cellar stairs, where the door, forgotten by William, stood open. But it was here that Clematis, after a long and admirable exhibition of ingenuity, no less than agility, submitted to capture. That is to say, finding himself hopelessly pinioned, he resumed the stoic.

Grimly the panting and dripping William dragged him through the kitchen, where the cook cried out unintelligibly, seeming to summon Adelia, who was not present. Through the back yard went captor and prisoner, the latter now maintaining a seated posture--his pathetic conception of dignity under duress. Finally, into a small shed or tool-house, behind Mrs. Baxter's flower-beds, went Clematis in a hurried and spasmodic manner. The instant the door slammed he lifted his voice--and was bidden to use it now as much as he liked.

Adelia, with a tray of used plates, encountered the son of the house as he pa.s.sed through the kitchen on his return, and her eyes were those of one who looks upon miracles.

William halted fiercely.

”What's the matter?” he demanded. ”Is my face dirty?”

”You mean, are it too dirty to go in yonduh to the party?” Adelia asked, slowly. ”No, suh; you look all right to go in there. You lookin' jes'

fine to go in there now, Mist' Willie!”

Something in her tone struck him as peculiar, even as ominous, but his blood was up--he would not turn back now. He strode into the hall and opened the door of the ”living-room.”

Jane was sitting on the floor, busily painting sunsets in a large blank-book which she had obtained for that exclusive purpose.

She looked up brightly as William appeared in the doorway, and in answer to his wild gaze she said:

”I got a little bit sick, so mamma told me to keep quiet a while. She's lookin' for you all over the house. She told papa she don't know what in mercy's name people are goin' to think about you, Willie.”

The distraught youth strode to her. ”The party--” he choked. ”WHERE--”

”They all stayed pretty long,” said Jane, ”but the last ones said they had to go home to their dinners when papa came, a little while ago.

Johnnie Watson was carryin' Flopit for that Miss Pratt.”

William dropped into the chair beside which Jane had established herself upon the floor. Then he uttered a terrible cry and rose.

Again Jane had painted a sunset she had not intended.

XV

ROMANCE OF STATISTICS

On a warm morning, ten days later, William stood pensively among his mother's flowerbeds behind the house, his att.i.tude denoting a low state of vitality. Not far away, an aged negro sat upon a wheelbarrow in the hot sun, tremulously yet skilfully whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a boat, labor more to his taste, evidently, than that which he had abandoned at the request of Jane. Allusion to this preference for a lighter task was made by Genesis, who was erecting a trellis on the border of the little garden.

”Pappy whittle all day,” he chuckled. ”Whittle all night, too! Pappy, I thought you 'uz goin' to git 'at long bed all spade' up fer me by noon.

Ain't 'at what you tole me?”

”You let him alone, Genesis,” said Jane, who sat by the old man's side, deeply fascinated. ”There's goin' to be a great deal of rain in the next few days maybe, an' I haf to have this boat ready.”

The aged darky lifted his streaky and diminished eyes to the burnished sky, and laughed. ”Rain come some day, anyways,” he said. ”We git de boat ready 'fo' she fall, dat sho.” His glance wandered to William and rested upon him with feeble curiosity. ”Dat ain' yo' pappy, is it?” he asked Jane.

”I should say it isn't!” she exclaimed. ”It's Willie. He was only seventeen about two or three months ago, Mr. Genesis.” This was not the old man's name, but Jane had evolved it, inspired by respect for one so aged and so kind about whittling. He was the father of Genesis, and the latter, neither to her knowledge nor to her imagination, possessed a surname.

”I got cat'rack in my lef' eye,” said Mr. Genesis, ”an' de right one, she kine o' tricksy, too. Tell black man f'um white man, little f'um big.”