The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cinder Pond, by Carroll Watson Rankin This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Cinder Pond Author: Carroll Watson Rankin Illustrator: Ada C. Williamson Release Date: May 15, 2011 [EBook #36119] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CINDER POND *** Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell, and Marc d'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) THE CINDER POND BY CARROLL WATSON RANKIN AUTHOR OF "DANDELION COTTAGE," "THE CASTAWAYS OF PETE'S PATCH," ETC. ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADA C. WILLIAMSON NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY To SALLIE and IMOGENE CONTENTS I. THE ACCIDENT II. PART OF THE TRUTH III. JEANNETTE'S QUEER FAMILY IV. WHAT WAS IN AN OLD TRUNK V. THE SEWING LESSON VI. MOLLIE VII. A MATTER OF COATS VIII. A SHOPPING EXPEDITION IX. THE FLIGHT X. THE ARRIVAL XI. A NEW LIFE XII. A HELPFUL GRANDFATHER XIII. BANISHED FRIENDS XIV. AT FOUR A.M. XV. ALLEN ROSSITER XVI. AN OLD ALBUM XVII. A LONELY SUMMER XVIII. A THUNDERBOLT XIX. WITH THE ROSSITERS XX. A MISSING FAMILY XXI. OLD CAPTAIN'S NEWS XXII. ROGER'S RAZOR XXIII. A NEW FRIEND FOR JEANNE XXIV. MOLLIE'S BABIES XXV. THE HOUSE OF DREAMS XXVI. A PADLOCKED DOOR XXVII. THE PINK PRESENT NEXT SHE HAD FLOWN AT HIM AND HAD KISSED BOTH OF HIS BROAD RED CHEEKS. THE PERSONS OF THE STORY JEANNETTE HUNTINGTON DUVAL: Aged 11 to 14: The Principal Cinder. Small Cinders from the Cinder Pond. MICHAEL: Aged 8 to 10 SAMMY: Aged 4 to 7 ANNIE: Aged 3 to 6 PATSY: A Toddling Infant LÉON DUVAL: Their Father. MOLLIE: A Lazy but Loving Mother. MRS. SHANNON: A Cross Grandmother. CAPTAIN BLOSSOM: A Faithful Friend. BARNEY TURCOTT: A Bashful Friend. WILLIAM HUNTINGTON: A Grandfather. CHARLES HUNTINGTON: A Polished Uncle. MRS. HUNTINGTON: A Polished Aunt. Their Perfect Children. HAROLD: Aged 12 PEARL: Aged 15 CLARA: Aged 14 JAMES: A Human Butler. MR. FAIRCHILD: Both Polished and Pleasant. MRS. FAIRCHILD: A Grateful Parent. ROGER FAIRCHILD: An Only Son. MRS. ROSSITER: A Motherly Mother. ALLEN ROSSITER: The Family "Meeter." ILLUSTRATIONS NEXT SHE HAD FLOWN AT HIM AND HAD KISSED BOTH OF HIS BROAD RED CHEEKS—Frontispiece THE SEWING LESSON JEANNE, LEFT ALONE WITH THE STRANGERS, INSPECTED THEM WITH INTEREST SHE ALMOST BUMPED INTO A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE THE CINDER POND CHAPTER I THE ACCIDENT The slim dark girl, with big black eyes, rushed to the edge of the crumbling wharf, where she dropped to her hands and knees to peer eagerly into the green depths below. There was reason for haste. Only a second before, the very best suit of boys' clothing in Bancroft had tumbled suddenly over the edge to hit the water with a most terrific splash. Now, there was a wide circle on the surface, with bubbles coming up. It was an excellent suit of clothes that went into the lake. Navy-blue serge, fashioned by Bancroft's best tailor to fit Roger Fairchild, who was much too plump for ready-made clothes. But here were those costly garments at the very bottom of Lake Superior; not in the very deepest part, fortunately, but deep enough. And that was not all. Their youthful owner was inside them. That morning when Jeannette, eldest daughter of Léon Duval, tumbled out of the rumpled bed that she shared with her stepsister, the day had seemed just like any other day. It was to prove, as you may have guessed, quite different from the ordinary run of days. In the first place, it was pleasant; the first really mild day, after months of cold weather. In the second place, things were to happen. Of course, things happened every day; but then, most things, like breakfast, dinner, and supper, have a way of happening over and over again. But it isn't every day that a really, truly adventure plunges, as it were, right into one's own front yard. To be sure, Jeanne's front yard invited adventures. It was quite different from any other front yard in Bancroft. It was large and wet and blue; and big enough to show on any map of the Western Hemisphere. Nothing less, indeed, than Lake Superior. Her side yard, too, was another big piece of the same lake. The rest of her yard, except what was Cinder Pond, was dock. In order to understand the adventure; and, indeed, all the rest of this story, you must have a clear picture of Jeanne's queer home; for it was a queer home for even the daughter of a fisherman. You see, the Duvals had lived on dry land as long as they were able (which was not very long) to pay rent. When there were no more landlords willing to wait forever for their rent-money, the impecunious family moved to an old scow anchored in shallow water near an abandoned wharf. After a time, the scow-owner needed his property but not the family that was on it. The Duvals were forced to seek other shelter. Happily, they found it near at hand. Once on a time, ever so far back in the history of Bancroft, the biggest, busiest, and reddest of brick furnaces, in that region of iron and iron mines, had poured forth volumes of thick black smoke. It was located right at the water's edge, on a solid stone foundation. From it, a clean new wooden wharf extended southward for three hundred feet, east for nine hundred feet, north for enough more feet to touch the land again. This wharf formed three sides of a huge oblong pond. The shore made the fourth side. The shallow water inside this inclosure became known, in time, as "The Cinder Pond." After twenty years of activity, the furnace, with the exception of the huge smoke-stack, was destroyed by fire. After that, there was no further use for the wharf. Originally built of huge cribs filled with stone, planked over with heavy timbers, it became covered, in time, first with fine black cinders, then with soil. As it grew less useful, it became more picturesque, as things sometimes do. By the time the Duvals helped themselves to the old wharf, much of its soft black surface was broken out with patches of green grass, sturdy thistles, and many other interesting weeds. There were even numbers of small but graceful trees fringing the inner edge of the old wharf, from which they cast most beautiful reflections into the still waters of the Cinder Pond. No quieter, more deserted spot could be imagined. Jeannette's father, Léon Duval, built a house for his family on the southwest corner of the crumbling dock, three hundred feet from land. When you have never built a house; and when you have no money with which to buy house-building materials, about the only thing you can do is to pick up whatever you can find and put it together to the best of your small ability. That is precisely what Léon Duval did. Bricks from the old furnace, boards from an old barn, part of the cabin from a wrecked steamboat, nails from driftwood along the shore, rusty stove pipe from the city dump ground; all went into the house that, for many years, was to shelter the Duvals. When finished, it was of no particular shape and no particular size. Owing to the triangular nature of the wharf, at the point chosen, the house had to ramble a good deal, and mostly lengthwise—like a caterpillar. For several reasons, it had a great many doors and very few windows. For as long as Jeanne could remember, she had lived in this queer, home-made, tumble-down, one-story cabin; perched on the outside—that is, the lake side—of the deserted wharf. On the day of the mishap to Roger Fairchild's navy-blue suit, Jeanne, having put on what was left of her only dress, proceeded to build a fire in the rusty, ramshackle stove that occupied the middle section of her very queer home. Then, without stopping to figure out how many half-brothers it took to make a whole one, she helped three of these half- portions, all with tousled heads of reddish hair, into various ragged garments. Perhaps, if all the Duvals had risen at once, the house wouldn't have held them. At any rate, the older members of the family stayed abed until the smaller children had scampered either northward or eastward along the wharf, one to get water, one to get wood. And then came the adventure. Roger didn't look like an adventure. Most anyone would have mistaken him for just a plump boy in very good clothes. He carried himself—and a brand-new fish-pole—with an air of considerable importance. He had risen early for some especial reason; and the reason, evidently, was located near the outer edge of the Duval dock; because, having reached a jutting timber a few feet east of the Duval mansion, he proceeded to make himself comfortable. He seated himself on the outer end of the jutting timber, attached a wriggling worm to the hook that dangled from the brand-new pole, and then, raising the pole to an upright position, proceeded to cast his baited hook to a spot that looked promising. He repeated this casting operation a great many times. Unfortunately, he failed to notice that the outward movement made by his arms and body was producing a curious effect on the log on which he sat. Each time he made a cast, the squared timber, jarred by his exertion, moved forward. Just a scrap at a time, to be sure; but if you have enough scraps, they make inches after a while. When the insecurely fastened log had crept out five inches, it took just one more vigorous cast to finish the business. Roger, a very much surprised young person, went sprawling suddenly into the lake. Straight to the bottom of it, too; while the log, after making the mighty splash that caught Jeannette's attention, floated serenely on top. Jeannette, whose everyday name was Jeanne, promptly wrenched a great fish net that was drying over the low roof of her home from its place, gathered it into her arms, and rushed to the edge of the dock. She was just in time. The boy had come to the surface and was floundering about like a huge turtle. Jeanne threw a large portion of the big net overboard, keeping a firm grasp on what remained. "Hang on to this," she shouted. "Don't pull—just hold on. There! you couldn't sink if you wanted to. Now just keep still —keep still; I tell you, and I'll tow you down to that low place where the dock's broken. You can climb up, I guess. Don't be afraid. I've pulled my brother out four times and my sister once—only it wasn't so deep. There, one hand on that plank, one on the net. Put your foot in the crack—that's right. Now give me your hand. There—stand here on my garden and I won't have to water it. My! But you're wet." Roger was wet. But now that he was no longer frightened, he was even angrier than wet. To be saved by a girl—a thin little slip of a girl at that—was a fearful indignity. A fellow could stand falling in. But to be saved by a girl! To make it worse, the dock was no longer deserted. There were folks gathering outside the tumble-down shack to look at him. A fat, untidy woman with frowzy reddish hair. A bent old woman with her head tied up in a filthy rag. A small dark man with very bright black eyes. Two staring children. The morning sun made three of the tousled heads blazed like fire. But the boy's wrath blazed even more fiercely. To be saved by a girl! And all those staring people watching him drip! It was too much. Without a word of thanks, and with all the dignity that he could muster, plump young Roger marched past the assembled multitude—it seemed like that to him—straight along the dock toward the shore, leaving behind him a wet, shining trail. With much difficulty, because of his soggy shoes, he climbed the rough path up the bank to Lake Street, crossed that thoroughfare to clamber up the exceedingly long flight of stairs—four long flights to be exact—that led to the street above. A workman going down met him toiling up. "Hey!" the man called cheerfully. "Looks like you'd had an accident. Fell in somewheres?" There was no response. Roger climbed steadily on. By sneaking through backyards and driveways, he managed at last to slip into the open door of his own home, up the stairs, and into his own pleasant room, where he proceeded, with some haste, to change his clothes. He owned three union suits. He had one of them on. One was in the wash. The other should have been in his bureau drawer—but it wasn't. To ask for it meant to disclose the fact that he had been in the lake—a secret that he had decided never to disclose to anybody. With a sigh for his own discomfort, young Roger dressed himself in dry garments, over his wet union suit. "But what," said Roger, eying the heap of sodden clothing on the floor, "shall I do with those?" Finally he hung the wet suit in the closet, with his dry pajamas spread carefully over them. He concealed his wet shoes, with his socks stuffed inside, far back in a bureau drawer. CHAPTER II PART OF THE TRUTH Roger, with his rather long hair carefully brushed, sauntered downstairs to the nicely furnished dining-room, where his mother was eating breakfast. Mrs. Fairchild was a most attractive little woman. Like Roger, she was blue-eyed and fair. She was taller, however, than Roger and not nearly so wide. "Good morning," said she, with a very pleasant smile. "I guess we're both late this morning. Your father's been gone for twenty minutes." "Good morning," shivered Roger. "Dear me!" said Mrs. Fairchild, catching sight of her son's remarkably sleek head. "I do wish you wouldn't put so much water on your hair when you comb it. It isn't at all necessary and it looks horrid—particularly when it's so long. Do be more careful next time." "I will," promised Roger, helping himself to an orange. "It must have taken you a great while to dress. I thought I heard you stirring about hours ago." "Yes'm," returned Roger, looking anywhere except at his pretty mother. "I'm glad you remembered to put on your old clothes, since it's Saturday. But—why, Roger! What is that?" "That" was a thin, brownish stream, scarcely more than an elongated drop—trickling down the boy's wrist to the back of his plump hand. Roger looked at it with horror. His drenched, fleece-lined underwear was betraying him. Mrs. Fairchild pushed up his coat sleeve, turned back the damp cuff of his blue cotton shirt, and disclosed three inches of wet, close-fitting sleeve. She poked an investigating finger up her son's arm. Then her suspicious eye caught a curious change of color in the bosom of his blue shirt. It had darkened mysteriously in patches. She touched one of them. Then she reached up under his coat and felt his moist back. "Roger, how in the world did your shirt get so wet? Surely you didn't do all that washing yourself?" "No'm." "Have you been outdoors?" "Yes'm." "Watering the grass?" "No'm." "Hum—Katie says somebody dug a hole in my pansy bed last night. It's a splendid place for worms. Have you, by any chance, been trying your new pole?" Silence. "Have you, Roger?" "Ye—es'm," gulped Roger. "Did you fall in?" "Ye—es'm." "How did you get out?" "Jus—just climbed out." "Roger Fairchild! You're shivering! And that window wide open behind you! Come upstairs with me this instant and I'll put you to bed between hot blankets. It's a mercy I discovered those wet clothes. I'll have Katie bring you some hot broth the moment you're in bed." Roger, under a mountain of covers, was thankful that he hadn't had to divulge the important part Jeanne Duval had played in his rescue. All that morning, when his mother asked troublesome questions, he shivered so industriously that the anxious little woman fled for more hot blankets or more hot broth. The blankets were tiresome and he already held almost a whole boyful of broth; but anything, he thought, was better than telling that he had been pulled out of the lake in a smelly old fish net; and by a girl! A small girl at that. But, in spite of his care, the truth, or at least part of it, was to come out. The very next day, a small red-headed, barefooted, and very ragged boy appeared at the Fairchilds' back door. He carried a fish-pole in one hand, a navy-blue cap in the other. Inside the cap, neatly printed in indelible ink, were Roger's name and address; for Roger, like many another careless boy, frequently lost his belongings. "My sister," said Michael Duval, handing the cap and the pole to the cook, "sent these here. She pulled 'em out of the lake—same as she did the fat boy what lives here." "How was that, now?" asked Katie, with interest. "Wiv a fish net. It was awful deep where he fell in—way over your head." "Wait here, sonny. I'll tell the missus about it." But when Katie returned after telling "Missus," she found no small red-headed boy outside the door. Michael had turned shy, as small boys will, and had fled. Neither Katie nor Mrs. Fairchild, gazing down the street, could catch a glimpse of him. But Mrs. Fairchild managed to extract a little more information from Roger, now fully recovered from his unlucky bath. Yes, the water was deep—ten miles deep, he guessed—because it took an awful while to come up. Yes, he had been pulled out by somebody. Perhaps it might have been a girl. A big girl. A perfectly tremendous girl. A regular giantess, in fact. She had reached down with a long, long arm, and helped him up. A fishnet? Oh—yes (casually), he believed there was a fish net there. "Where," asked Mrs. Fairchild, "was that dock?" "Oh, I dunno—just around anywhere. There's a lot of docks in Bancroft—a fellow doesn't look to see which one he's on." "But, Roger, where does the girl live? We ought to do something for her. I'm very grateful to her. You ought to be too. Can't you tell me where she lives?" "Didn't ask her," mumbled Roger. "I just hiked for home." "And you don't know her name?" "No," said Roger, truthfully. "I didn't ask her that, either. I'm glad I got my pole back, anyhow." "Roger," said his mother, earnestly, "hereafter, when you go fishing, I shall go with you and sit beside you on the dock and hold on to you. Another time there might not be a great big, strong girl on hand to pull you out. We must thank that girl." "I hate girls," said Roger, who had finally escaped from his persistent mother. "And small ones—Yah!" The girl that he thought he hated most was eleven years of age, and small at that. Yet, because of her carefree, outdoor life, she was wiry and strong; as active, too, as a squirrel. Also, she did a great deal of thinking. Little Jeanne Duval loved the old wharf because it was all so beautiful. She liked the soft blackness of the cindery soil that covered the most sheltered portions of the worn-out dock. She liked the little sloping grass-grown banks that had formed at the inner sides of the dock, where it touched the Cinder Pond. She liked to lie flat, near the steep, straight outer edge of the dock, to look into the green, mysterious depths below. Anything might be down there, in that deep, deep water. The Cinder Pond was different. It was shallow. The water was warmer than that in the lake and very much quieter. There were small fish in it and a great many minnows. And in one sunny corner there were pollywogs and lively crawfish. Also bloodsuckers that were not so pleasant and a great many interesting water-bugs. Then there were flowers. Wherever there was a handful of soil, seeds had sprouted. Each spring brought new treasures to the old dock; each year the soil crept further lakeward; though the planking was still visible at the Duval corner of the wharf. The flowers near the shore were wonderful. Pink and white clover, with roses, bluebells, ox-eyed daisies, black-eyed Susans, wild forgetmenots, violets. And sometimes, seeds from the distant gardens on the high bluff back of the lake were carried down by the north wind; for, one summer, she had found a great, scarlet poppy; another time a sturdy flame-colored marigold. What she liked best, perhaps, was a picture that was visible from a certain point on Lake Street. That portion of the so- called street, for as far as the eye could reach, was road—a poor road at that. There were no houses; and the road was seldom used. From it, however, one saw the tall old smoke-stack, outlined against the sky, the long, low dock with its fringe of green shrubbery reflected in the quiet waters of the Cinder Pond; and beyond, the big lake, now blue, now green, or perhaps beaten to a froth by storm. Jeanne loved that lake. Seen from that distance, even the rambling shack that her father had built was beautiful, because its sagging, irregular roof made it picturesque. Jeanne couldn't have told you why this quiet spot was beautiful, but that was the reason. On the portion of the dock that ran eastward from the Duval house, there were a number of the big reels on which fishermen wind their nets. These, seen from the proper angle, made another picture. They were used by her father, Barney Turcott, and Captain Blossom. Barney and "Old Captain," as everybody called Captain Blossom, were her father's partners in the fishing business. Two of them went out daily to the nets, anchored several miles below the town of Bancroft. The third partner stayed on or near the wharf to sell fish to the chance customers who came (rather rarely indeed) on foot; in a creaking, leisurely wagon; or perhaps in a small boat from one of the big steamers docked across the Bay. Jeanne's playfellows were her half-brothers Michael, aged eight, Sammy, aged five, and Patsy, who was not quite two. Also her half-sister Annie, whose years were three and a half. Jeanne and her father were French, her stepgrandmother said. Her stepmother, Mollie, and all her children were mostly Irish. "But," said Jeanne, a wise little person for her years, "I love those children just as much as if we were all one kind." CHAPTER III JEANNETTE'S QUEER FAMILY Although it was picturesque, the Duval shack was not at all nice to live in. Perhaps one person or even two neat persons might have found it comfortable, but the entire, mostly untidy Duval family filled it to overflowing. The main room, which had been built first, was kitchen, parlor, and dining-room. It contained a built-in bunk, besides, in which Mrs. Duval slept. South of it, but with no door between, was Léon Duval's own room. Around the corner, and at some little distance, was a fish-shed. North of the main room, toward land, there was a small bedroom. North of that another small bedroom. Doors connected these bedrooms with the main room and each contained two built-in bunks, filled with straw. Jeannette spent a great deal of time wondering about her family. First, there was her precious father. He belonged to her. His speech was different from that of Mollie, her stepmother. It differed, too, from the rough speech of the other fishermen that sometimes dried their nets on the dock, or came there to make nets. Even Old Captain, who lived in part of an old freight car on the shore near the smoke-stack, and who was very gentle and polite to little girls, was less careful in his speech than was Léon Duval. Her father's manners were very nice indeed. Jeanne could see that they sometimes surprised persons who came to buy fish. Sometimes, when the old grandmother wished to be particularly offensive, she called Jeanne's father "a gentleman." Old Captain, too, had assured her that Léon Duval was a gentleman. No one, however, accused Mollie of being a lady. Slipshod as to speech, untidy, unwashed, uneducated, and most appallingly lazy, Mollie shifted the burden of her children upon Jeanne, who had cared for, in turn, each of the four red- headed babies. Fortunately, Jeanne liked babies. Mollie and her mother, Mrs. Shannon, did the housework, with much assistance from the children. In the evening Mr. Duval sat apart, in the small room next to the fish-shed, with his book. He read a great many books, some written in French, some in English. He obtained them from the city library. He read by the light of a lamp carefully filled and trimmed by his own neat hands. This tiny room, with no floor but the planking of the dock, with only rough boards, over which newspapers had been pasted, for sidewalls and ceiling; with no furniture but a single cot, a small trunk, a large box and three smaller ones, was always scrupulously clean. It was Léon Duval's own room. Like Léon himself, it was small and absolutely neat. Jeannette and Old Captain were the only two other persons permitted to enter that room. In it the little girl had learned to read, to do small problems in arithmetic, even to gain some knowledge of history and geography. She had never gone to school. First, it was too far. Next, Mollie had needed her to help with the children. Besides she had had no clothes. Mollie's own children had no clothes. To do Mollie justice, she was quite as kind to Jeannette as to her own youngsters. In fact, she was kinder, because she admired the little girl's very pleasing face, her soft black eyes, and the dark hair that almost curled. She liked Jeanne. She was anything but a cruel stepmother. She had proved a poor one, nevertheless. Good-natured Mollie was thoroughly and completely lazy. She wouldn't work. She said she couldn't work. Mollie's ill-tempered mother was just about as shiftless; but for her there was some excuse. She was crippled with rheumatism. She was also exceedingly cross. Jeannette was fond of Mollie, but she disliked her stepgrandmother very much indeed. Most everybody did. Jeanne couldn't remember when there hadn't been a heavy, red-headed baby to move from place to place on the old wharf, as she picked flowers, watched pollywogs turn into frogs, or talked to Old Captain. She didn't mind carrying babies, but her father disliked having her do it. "Don't carry that child, Jeanne," he would say. "It isn't good for your back. Make him walk—he's big enough. If he can't walk, teach him to crawl. The good God knows that he cannot hurt his clothes." Old Captain and Léon Duval were great friends. At first they had been rivals in business, the Captain with a fish-shop in one end of his freight car, Duval with a fish-shop on the wharf. Before long, however, they went into partnership. A good thing for Duval, who was a poor business man, and not so bad a thing for the Captain. "What are you captain of?" asked Jeannette, one day, when her old friend was busy repairing a net. "Well," returned Old Captain, with a twinkle in his fine blue eye, "some folks takes to makin' music, some folks takes to makin' money, some folks takes to makin' trouble; but I just naturally takes to boats. I allus had some kind of a boat. Bein' as how it was my boat, of course I was Captain, wasn't I? So that's how." "Didn't you ever have any wives?" "Just one," replied Old Captain, who loved the sound of Jeannette's soft, earnest little voice. "One were enough. Still, I'm not complainin'. If I'd been real pleased with that one, maybe I'd have tried another. I was spared that." "Supposing a beautiful lady with blue eyes and golden hair should come walking down the dock and ask you to marry her," queried Jeanne. "What then?" "I hope I'd have sense enough to jump in the lake," chuckled Old Captain. "Oh then," cried Jeanne, seriously, "I do hope she won't come. I was only thinking how glad you'd be to have her boil potatoes for you so they'd be hot when you got home." "Most like she'd eat them all herself. An' she might make things hotter than I'd like." Old Captain's eyes were so blue that strangers looked at them a second time to make certain that they were not two bits of summer sky set in Captain Blossom's good, red face. Once his hair had been bright yellow. The fringe that was left was now mostly white. He was a large man; nearly twice as large, Jeanne thought, as her father. He was good, too. Of course, not twice as good as her good father, because she wouldn't admit that anybody could be better than her beloved "Daddy." As Captain Blossom said, some people take to music, others to boats. Old Captain, however, took to both; but he had but one song. Its chorus, bawled forth in the captain's big, rather tuneful voice, ran thus: "We sailors skip aloft to reef the gallant ship, While the landlubbers lie down below, below, BELOW; While the landlubbers lie down below." Jeanne hoped fervently that she was not a landlubber. One day, she asked Old Captain about it. "What," said he, "when you lives on a dock? No, indeed," he assured her. "You're the kind that allus skips up aloft." One evening, when the sun was going down behind that portion of the town directly west from the Duval shack; and all the roofs and spires were purple-black against a glowing orange sky, Jeanne seized Sammy and Annie; and, calling Michael to follow, raced up the dock toward the huge old furnace smoke-stack. She was careful never to go very close to that, because Old Captain had warned her that it was unsafe; so she paused with her charges at a point where the dock joined the land. She loved that particular spot because the dock at that point was wider than at any other place. It had been wider to begin with. Then, tons of cinders had been dumped into the Cinder Pond and into the lake, on either side of the wharf; filling in the corners. This made wide and pleasing curves rather than sharp angles, at the joining place. "Now, Mike," said she, "you sit down and watch the top of that chimney. And you sit here, Sammy, where you can't fall in. Look up there, Annie. What do you see?" "Birdses," lisped Annie. "Gee! Look at the birds!" exclaimed Michael. "Wait till I shy a rock at them." "No, you don't," replied Jeanne, firmly. "Those are Old Captain's birds. I'll tell him to thrash you if you bother them. He showed them to me last night. Now watch." Everybody watched. The birds were flying in a wide circle above the top of the old chimney. They had formed themselves into a regular procession. They circled and circled and circled; and all the time more birds arrived to join the procession. They were twittering in a curious, excited way. This lasted for at least ten minutes. Then, suddenly, part of the huge circle seemed to touch the chimney top. "Why!" gasped Michael, "they look as if they were pouring themselves right into that chimney like—like—" "Like so much water. Yes, they're really going in. See, they're almost gone. They're putting themselves to bed. They're chimney swallows—they sleep in there. See there!" Two belated birds, too late to join the procession, scurried out of the darkening sky, and twittering frenziedly, hurled themselves into the mouth of the towering stack. "They're policemen," said Michael. "They've sent all the others to jail." "Then what about that one!" asked Jeanne, as a last lone bird, all but shrieking as it scurried through the sky, hurled itself down the chimney. "That one almost got caught," said Sammy. "See, there's a big bird that was chasing it." "A night-hawk," said Jeanne. "Old Captain says there's always one late bird and one big hawk to chase it. Now we must hurry back—it'll soon be dark." As the old wharf, owing to the rotting of the thick planking under the cinders, was full of pitfalls, even by daylight, the children hurried back to their home, chattering about the swallows. "Will they do it again tomorrow night?" asked Michael. "Yes, Old Captain says they do it every night all summer long. That's their home. Early in the spring there's only a few; but as the summer goes on, there are more and more." "Will oo take us to see the birdses some nother nights?" asked Annie. "Yes, if you're good." "Does 'em take they's feathers off?" "Oh, Sammy! Of course they don't." "Does 'em sing all night?" "No, they sleep, and that's what you ought to be doing." CHAPTER IV WHAT WAS IN AN OLD TRUNK "Where you been?" demanded Mrs. Shannon, crossly, from the doorway of the shack. "Hurry up and put Sammy and Annie to bed and don't wake Patsy. Your pa wants you to say your lessons, Jeanne. I gotta go up town after yeast. Come along, Mollie, we can go now. Here's Barney with the boat." Her family tucked into bed, Jeanne slipped into her father's room. "Here I am," said she. "I'm not a bit sleepy, so you can teach me a lot." Jeanne seated herself on her father's little old leather trunk—the trunk that was always locked—and patted it with her hands. "There's my spelling book on the table, Daddy. There's a nice pink clover marking the place." Her father looked at her for a moment, before reaching for the book. He liked to look at her; it was one of his few pleasures. A soft clear red glowed in her dark cheeks and her eyes were very bright and very black. She was small and of slender build, but she seemed sufficiently healthy. "Father, why do I have to speak a different language from Mollie's?" (She had never called her stepmother by any other name, since her fastidious father had objected to "Maw.") "What difference does it make anyway, if I say I did it or I done it?" Here was rebellion! Her small dark father looked at her again. This time not so contentedly. "Arise from that trunk," said Mr. Duval, whose speech retained a slight foreign touch that most people found most pleasing. "I think I shall have to show you something that I have been keeping for you." Jeannette hopped up, gleefully. She had always wondered what that trunk contained. Now, it seemed, she was about to find out. From a crack in the wall, Mr. Duval fished a small key, fitted it to the lock, turned it, and lifted the lid. There was a tray containing a few packages of letters and a small box. Her father opened the little box and drew from it something that had once been white, but was now yellow. Something wonderfully fine and exquisite, with a strange, faint perfume about it. A lace handkerchief. Even Jeanne, who knew nothing of laces, felt that there was something especially fine and beautiful about the filmy thing in her hands. "Was it—was it—" "Your mother's," assented Mr. Duval. "Is it like anything of Mollie's? Well, your mother wasn't like Mollie. She was fine and exquisite like this little bit of lace. Now, here is something else for you to see." Mr. Duval placed in his daughter's hand a small oval frame containing a wonderful bit of painting. A woman's beautiful face. The countenance of a very young woman, with a tender light in her brown eyes. And such a pretty mouth. And oh! such dainty garments, so becomingly worn. "Your mother," said the little man, briefly. "Why!" gasped Jeanne. "She was a lady!" "Yes," admitted her father. "She was a lady." "And when she died, you married Mollie!" "When she died, I died too, I think. I was ill, ill. I walked through the streets with you in my arms one day, here in this strange town when your mother's sickness compelled her to leave the steamboat. You were two years old. In my illness, I fell in the street near the door of Mollie's mother's house, near the cemetery where they had laid your most beautiful mother. They took me in and cared for me and for you. For weeks I was very, very ill—a fever. I did not improve—I wanted to die. But slowly, very slowly I grew better. Your mother had married against her father's wishes. Her father, I knew, would not receive you; and I would ask no favors. "Mollie was young then and very good to you. I knew almost nothing about her except that she was giving you a mother's care. For that reason, when Mrs. Shannon said it was the thing to do, I married her. You understand, my Jeanne, it was not because I cared for her—it was just because I cared for nothing in the whole world. Perhaps not even very much for you. I seemed to be asleep—numb and weak. It was two years before I realized what I had done for myself. Then it was too late. Of course I could not take Mollie and her mother to the town where I had lived with your mother; so I was obliged to find work here. I tried to be good to Mollie. She has always been kind to you. And now do you know why I want your speech to be different from Mollie's?" "Yes, yes," cried Jeanne. "I'll never say 'I done it' again! Or 'I should have went' or 'I ain't got no money.' Oh, I wish I'd never said them. Daddy! Do you s'pose I could grow up to be a lady?" Her father looked at the eager young creature. "Yes," he said, "I believe there's a way. But it's a hard, heart-breaking way for one of us." "If you're the one," said Jeanne, "I guess I'll stay just me and not be a lady. Anyhow, a girl has to grow up first, doesn't she?" "Of course," returned Mr. Duval, with a sudden brightness in his dark eyes and something very like a note of relief in his tone. "There's still time for you to do a lot of growing. But these things had to be said. Now let us put the treasures away and do our spelling, or Old Captain will get here and put an end to our lessons." "Will you show me the picture again, some day, Daddy?" "Some day," he promised, opening the spelling book at the pink clover. The next day was bright, the weather was warm, and the little Duvals, to put it frankly, were very, very dirty. Jeanne, who had charge of the family while lazy Mollie dozed in one of the frowzy bunks, decided to give her charges a bath. There was a beautiful spot for the purpose along the edge of the Cinder Pond. The bottom at that place was really quite smooth and sandy. A tiny bit of beach had formed below the sloping bank of fine cinders and never were young trees more useful than those in the two clumps of shrubbery that screened this little patch of sandy beach. The shallow water was pleasantly warm. "Me first! Me first!" shrieked Annie, who had wriggled out of her solitary garment, and was already wading recklessly in. "Ladies first, always," said Jeannette. "Mike, you and Sammy go behind that bush and undress. Then you can paddle about until I'm ready to soap you. Here, Patsy! Keep out of the water until I get your clothes off. There, Annie, you're slippery with soap. Go roll in the pond while I do Patsy. Don't get too far away, Sammy, I want you next." "Annie make big splash," said that youngster, flopping down, suddenly. "Annie jump like hop-toad." "Now, Annie, you've hopped enough. You watch Patsy while I do Sammy. Sammy! Come back here. Michael! Bring Sammy back. Goodness, Sammy! How wet you are—don't put your hands on me." "Wonst," remarked Sammy, eying the big bar of yellow soap, thoughtfully, "I seen white soap—white and smelly. The time the boat with big sails on it was here." "Once I saw," corrected Jeanne. "Old Captain said that was a yacht. I liked that lady with little laughs all over her face. You remember, Michael. She took us aboard and showed us the inside. My! wasn't that grand! She showed us the gold beds and nice dishes and everything." "What for did the boat come?" asked Sammy. "They broke something and had to take it to a blacksmith to be mended. They stayed here most all day." "Sammy tried to eat their smelly soap," said Michael. "Aw! I didn't," denied Sammy. "I just licked it like I done the cheese that was on the cook's table. He gimme the cheese. But I'd ruther a-had the soap—it tasted better." "You sure needed soap," teased Michael. "I'd like to be all smiling on my face like that pretty lady," said Jeanne, wistfully. "And she hadn't any holes in her clothes." "Oo got a pretty face," assured Annie, patting it with one plump hand. "So have you when it's clean. Why don't you wash it yourself as I do mine? I'm sure you're big enough." "Nuffin to wipe it on," objected Annie. This was true. The family towel was a filthy affair when there was one. Even if Mollie had had money, it is doubtful if she would have spent it for towels. As for washing anything, it was much easier to tuck it into the stove or to drop it into the lake. Mollie simply wouldn't wash; and since Mrs. Shannon's hands had become crippled with rheumatism, she couldn't wash. Jeannette, however, washed her own shabby dress. Her father washed and mended his own socks and shirts. Also he had towels for his own personal use and those he managed to launder, somehow. Time and again he had provided towels and bed-linen for his family; but Mollie, who grew lazier with every breath she drew, had taken no care of them. One by one, they had disappeared. "I think," said Jeannette, wisely, "that it would be a very good thing if I knew how to sew. Then, perhaps, father could get me some cloth and I could make things. I'd love to have nice clothes." "Grown-up ladies," contributed Michael, "wears a lot of white things under their dresses—twenty at a time I guess. I seen 'em on a clothesline. The lady what was hangin' 'em up says, 'Don't you trow no mud on them underclothes.'" "Any mud," corrected Jeanne, patiently. "And saw, not seen." "The lady said 'no mud,'" insisted Michael. "Then maybe she wasn't a truly lady. Sometimes you see a truly lady in a little gold frame and she never says 'I done it.'" "How could she?" demanded practical Michael, to whom Jeanne had intrusted the cake of soap, in order that he might lather himself while she rinsed Annie's hair. For this process, Annie sat in the Cinder Pond, whose waters were so placid that, even when the lake outside was exceedingly rough, there were no treacherous waves to trouble small children. Both boys could swim. Jeanne, too, could swim a little, but was too timid to venture into very deep water. "There," said Michael, returning the precious cake. "Gimme the rag and I'll rub if I got to. Here, Sammy, I'll rub you first." "Aw, no," protested Sammy, backing away. "Let sister do it—she rubs softer." The bath lasted a good long time, because, the worst of the agony over, the happy youngsters wished to play in the water. It was only with great difficulty that Jeanne finally coaxed her charges back into their clothes. "I don't blame you," she mourned, "for hating them. I do wish you had some clean ones." Mollie was peeling potatoes outside the cabin door, when Jeanne returned home with her spotless family. She was peeling the vegetables wastefully, as usual. Mollie could go everlastingly without things; she couldn't economize or take care of what she had. Or at least she didn't. "Mollie," said Jeanne, "I've been thinking that I'd like to sew. Could you teach me, do you s'pose?" "Me? I couldn't sew," laughed Mollie, good-naturedly, her soft fat body shaking as she laughed. "I never did sew. Ma always done all that. I could tie a bow to pin on a hat, maybe, but sew—lordy, I couldn't cut out a handkercher!" Mrs. Shannon, in spite of the warm sunshine, sat inside, huddled over the stove. Her fingers were drawn out of shape with rheumatism. Her knees and her elbows were stiff. She sat with her back bent. Out of her shriveled, unlovely face her eyes gleamed balefully. "Granny," asked Jeannette, rather doubtfully, "could you teach me to sew?" "I could, but I won't," snapped the old woman. "Let your father do it—your his young one. If he'd make money like a man ought to, you could buy clothes ready-made. But he ain't no money-maker, and he never will be." Jeanne backed hastily out of the shack. Even when Mrs. Shannon said pleasant things, which was not very often, she had a rasping, unpleasant voice. Clearly there was no hope in that quarter. CHAPTER V THE SEWING LESSON Jeanne's father was out in the fishing boat with Barney; but Old Captain was mending a net near the door of his box- car. Perhaps he could help her with this new and perplexing problem. She would ask. So, with her family trailing behind, she paid a visit to the Captain. "Captain," said she, "can you mend anything besides nets?" "Men's pants," returned Old Captain, briefly. "Could you make anything? A shirt, you know, or—or an apron?" "Well," replied the Captain, doubtfully, "I could sew up a seam, maybe, if somebody cut the darned thing—hum, ladies present—the old thing out." "Could you teach me to sew a seam! You see, these children haven't a single clean thing to put on. If I could sew, I could make clothes for them, I believe, because I think Daddy would buy me some cloth." "Well now, Jeannie, if you could manage to get the needle threaded—that there's what gets me. Hold on—I got a big one, somewhere's—now where did I put that needle!" Old Captain rose ponderously to his feet, shuffled about inside his cabin and finally returned with a large spool of dingy thread, a mammoth thimble, and a huge darning needle. Also, he had found a piece of an old flour sack. "Now, sit down aside me here and I'll show you. First you ties a knot—Oh, no! First you threads the needle like this— Well, by gum, went in, didn't she? An' then you ties the knot—a good big 'un so she won't slip out. Then you lays the edges of the cloth together, like this, and you pokes the needle through—Here you, Sammy! You'll get your nose pricked!" The Sewing Lesson THE SEWING LESSON Inquisitive Sammy retired so hastily that he fell over backward. "Now, you pull up the slack like this—Hey, Mike! I did get you—Say, boys, you sheer off a bit while this here's goin' on. I'm plum' dangerous with this here tool." "What do you do with the thimble?" asked Jeanne, when she had removed placid Annie to a safe distance. "Durned if I didn't forget that. You puts it on this here finger—no—well now, you puts it on some finger and uses it to push the needle like that." "How do you keep it on?" asked Jeanne, twirling it rapidly on an upraised finger. "I guess you'd better use the side of this here freight car like I allus does," admitted Old Captain. "Just push her in like that. Now, you try." Jeanne sewed for a while, according to these instructions, then handed the result to her teacher. The Captain beamed as he examined the seam. "Ain't that just plum' beautiful!" said he, showing it to Michael. "That little gal can sew. But I ain't just sure them is the right tools—this here seam in my shirt now—well, it ain't so goldarned—hum—hum—ladies present—so tarnation thick as that there what I taught ye." At their worst, the good old Captain's mild oaths were never very bad. Unhappily Jeanne had heard far more terrifying ones from sailors on passing boats. As you see, Captain Blossom tried to use his very best language in the children's presence; but his best, perhaps, wasn't quite as polished as Léon Duval's. "I don't see any large black knots in your shirt seam," observed Jeanne. "Mine look as if they'd scratch." "Maybe they cuts 'em off," returned the Captain, eying the seam, doubtfully. "No, by gum! This here's done by machine. Yours is all right for hand work. But I tell ye what, Jeannie. You come round about this time tomorry and maybe, by then, I can find better needles. An' there was a sleeve I tore off an old shirt—maybe that'd sew better." "I've always wondered," said Jeanne, "how people made buttonholes. They're such neat things. Can you make buttonholes?" "To be sure I can. Nothin' easier. You cuts a round hole and then you takes half hitches all around it. I'm a leetle out of practice just now; but when I've practiced a bit—you see, you got to get started just right. But it's pretty soon to be thinkin' about the buttonholes." "Do you makes the holes to fit the buttons or do you buy the buttons to fit the holes?" "Well," replied the Captain, scratching his head, "mostly I makes the holes first like and then I fits the buttons to 'em. That's what I done on this here vest. You see, the natural ones was too small. Besides I lost the buttons, fust lick." Interested Jeanne examined Old Captain's shabby waistcoat. There was a very large black button to fit a very large buttonhole. Next, a small white button with a buttonhole of corresponding size. Then a medium-sized very bright blue button with a hole to match that. The other two buttons were gone, but the store buttonholes remained. "Three buttons—as long as they're big enough," explained Old Captain, "is enough to keep that there vest on. The rest is superfloo-us. Run along now, but mind you come tomorry and we'll have them other tools." "I will," promised Jeanne. "Me'll sew, too," promised Annie. "Me, too," said Sammie. "How about you, Mike?" laughed Old Captain. "Aw, I wouldn't sew. That's girls' work." The children had no sooner departed than Old Captain washed his hands and hurried into his coat. Feeling in his pocket to make sure that his money was there, he clambered up the steep bank, back of his queer house, to the road above. This was a pleasant road, because it curved obligingly to fit the shore line. The absence of a sidewalk did not distress Old Captain. Half an hour later, Jeanne's friend, having reached the business section of the town, peered eagerly in at the shop windows. There seemed to be everything else in them except the articles that he wanted. Presently, choosing the shop that had the most windows, he started in, collided with a lady and a baby carriage and backed out again. He mopped his bald pink head several times with his faded red handkerchief before he felt sufficiently courageous to make a second attempt. Finally he got inside. "Tarnation!" he breathed. "This ain't no place for a man—I'm the only one!" A moment later, however, he caught sight of a male clerk and started for him almost on a run. He clutched him by the sleeve. "Say," said Old Captain, "gimme a girl-sized thimble, a spool o' thread to fit, and a whole package o' needles." "This young lady will attend to you," replied the man, heartlessly deserting him. The smiling young lady was evidently waiting for her unusual customer to speak, so the Captain spoke. "Will you kindly gimme a girl's-size needle, a spool o' thread, an' a package o' thimbles." "What!" exclaimed the surpr...