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diff --git a/31748-h/31748-h.htm b/31748-h/31748-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6293eab --- /dev/null +++ b/31748-h/31748-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8918 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" > +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pemrose Lorry, Camp Fire Girl, by Isabel Katherine Hornibrook</title> + <style type="text/css"> + body {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;} + p {margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:0; text-align:justify;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size:x-small; text-align:right; text-indent:0; + position:absolute; right:2%; padding:1px 3px; font-style:normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration:none; + background-color:inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + .pncolor {color:silver;} + h1,h2 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal;} + h1 {font-size:1.6em; margin-top:4ex; margin-bottom:2ex;} + h1.pg {text-align:center; font-weight:bold; font-size: 190%; margin-top:0ex; margin-bottom:0ex;} + h2 {font-size:1.4em; margin-top:4ex; margin-bottom:2ex;} + a {text-decoration:none;} + div.toc a {text-decoration:underline;} + div.loi a {text-decoration:underline;} + hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver; clear:both;} + div.figcenter {text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em;} + .fss {font-size:smaller;} + table.books {border:1px solid black; padding:10px; font-variant:small-caps;} + .b {font-weight:bold;} + hr.hr20 {border:none;border-bottom:1px solid black; width:20%; text-align:center;} + .fs08 {font-size:0.8em;} + p.center {text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + p.caption {font-size:smaller;} + div.titlepage {} + div.titlepage p {text-align:center;} + .fs20 {font-size:2.0em;} + .fs16 {font-size:1.6em;} + .mb60 {margin-bottom:60px;} + .fs12 {font-size:1.2em;} + .mb40 {margin-bottom:40px;} + .i {font-style:italic;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps;} + hr.hr10 {border:none;border-bottom:1px solid black; width:10%; text-align:center;} + .c {text-align:center;} + table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; clear:both;} + td.tcol1 {text-align:right; padding-right:1ex; vertical-align:top;} + td.tcol2 {text-align:left; padding-right:20ex; font-variant:small-caps; vertical-align:top;} + td.tcol3 {text-align:right; vertical-align:bottom;} + td.center {text-align:center;} + td.fs12 {font-size:1.2em;} + td.fs08 {font-size:0.8em;} + td.tar {text-align:right;} + td.loi {text-align:left; padding-right:2ex; vertical-align:top; padding-bottom:5px;} + .fs14 {font-size:1.4em;} + span.h2fs {font-size:smaller;} + div.bquote {font-size:90%; margin:5px 5%;} + div.bquote p {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} + .tar {text-align:right} + .mr30 {margin-right:30px;} + table.poetry {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:.7em; margin-top:.7em;} + table.poetry p {margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;} + .mb20 {margin-bottom:20px;} + + .center { text-align: center; } + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, Pemrose Lorry, Camp Fire Girl, by Isabel +Katherine Hornibrook, Illustrated by Nana French Bickford</h1> +<pre> +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 <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Pemrose Lorry, Camp Fire Girl</p> +<p>Author: Isabel Katherine Hornibrook</p> +<p>Release Date: March 23, 2010 [eBook #31748]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEMROSE LORRY, CAMP FIRE GIRL***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3 class="center">E-text prepared by Roger Frank<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.fadedpage.com)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='cover'></a><img src='images/illus-cvr.jpg' alt='' /> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h1>PEMROSE LORRY<br /><span class='fss'>CAMP FIRE GIRL</span></h1> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<table summary='' class='books'> +<tr><td align='center'>By Isabel Hornibrook</td></tr> +<tr><td><hr class='hr20' /></td></tr> +<tr><td><p class='fs08'>DRAKE OF TROOP ONE<br /> +SCOUT DRAKE IN WAR TIME<br /> +COXSWAIN DRAKE OF THE SEASCOUTS<br /> +PEMROSE LORRY: CAMP FIRE GIRL</p> +</td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i1'></a><img src='images/illus-fpc.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +Not a remote sign of a biplane decorated the sky overhead.<br /><span class='sc'>Frontispiece.</span> <i>See page</i> 171. +</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='titlepage'> +<p class='fs20'>PEMROSE LORRY</p> + +<p class='fs16 mb60'>CAMP FIRE GIRL</p> + +<p class='fs12 mb40'>BY<br />ISABEL HORNIBROOK</p> + +<p class='fs08'>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY</p> + +<p class='fs12'>NANA FRENCH BICKFORD</p> + +<div style='margin:40px auto; text-align:center;'> +<img alt='emblem' src='images/illus-em1.jpg' /> +</div> + +<p>BOSTON<br />LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY<br />1921</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='titlepage fs08'> +<p class='i'>Copyright, 1921,</p> + +<p class='sc'>By Little, Brown, and Company.</p> + +<hr class='hr10' /> + +<p class='i'>All rights reserved</p> + +<p class='mb40'>Published October, 1921</p> + +<p>Norwood Press<br />Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co.<br />Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='c fs08'>TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER, VETERAN AUTHOR,<br /> +WHO FIRST HAD AN ADMIRATION FOR THE<br /> +WISE WOMAN WHO SAVED THE CITY,<br /> +THIS STORY IS DEDICATED.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='c fs12'>PREFACE</p> + +<p><span class='sc'>This</span>, the first story written upon the +latest and unique conquest of the age, the +conquest of empty Space, with the subsequent +reaching out to the Heavenly Bodies, +has the permission of the conquering inventor, +Professor Robert H. Goddard.</p> + +<p>May it bring to every Camp Fire in +America, and to boys as well, the romance +of the transcendent achievement, beside +which all dressing of fiction pales!</p> + +<p>The Author also acknowledges her indebtedness +to Professor Frank G. Speck +for permission to reprint the music of the +Leaf Dance.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<table summary='TOC'> +<tr><td colspan='3' class='center fs12'>CONTENTS</td></tr> +<tr><td class='fs08'>CHAPTER</td><td colspan='2' class='tar fs08'>PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>I.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Quaker Gun</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_1'>1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>II.</td><td class='tcol2'>Gimcrack Ice</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_2'>20</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>III.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Wrong Side of Her Dream</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_3'>31</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>IV.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Second Wreck</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_4'>40</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>V.</td><td class='tcol2'>She Saved a City</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_5'>49</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VI.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Hotspur</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_6'>60</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VII.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Pinnacle</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_7'>69</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VIII.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Usurper</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_8'>78</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>IX.</td><td class='tcol2'>Jack at a Pinch</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_9'>86</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>X.</td><td class='tcol2'>Camp Fire Sisters</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_10'>98</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XI.</td><td class='tcol2'>Mother Earth’s Romance</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_11'>109</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XII.</td><td class='tcol2'>Old Round-Top</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_12'>124</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XIII.</td><td class='tcol2'>Cobweb Weed</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_13'>134</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XIV.</td><td class='tcol2'>Stoutheart</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_14'>147</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XV.</td><td class='tcol2'>Airdrawn Aëroplanes</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_15'>160</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XVI.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Council Fire</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_16'>174</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XVII.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Novel Santa Claus</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_17'>190</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XVIII.</td><td class='tcol2'>Reprisals</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_18'>207</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XIX.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Record Flight</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_19'>229</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XX.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Search</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_20'>244</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXI.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Man Killer</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_21'>262</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXII.</td><td class='tcol2'>A June Woman</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_22'>280</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XXIII.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Celestial Climax</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_23'>296</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<table summary='LOI'> +<tr><td colspan='3' class='center fs12'>ILLUSTRATIONS</td></tr> +<tr><td class='loi'>Not a remote sign of a biplane decorated the sky overhead</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_i1'><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='loi'>“Oh! de-ar Mammy Moon–what a shock she’ll get”</td><td class='tcol3'><span class='fs08'>PAGE</span>    <a href='#link_i2'>2</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='loi'>“Keep cool! Don’t stir! I’ll reach you in a moment!”</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_i3'>86</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='loi'>The man looked up at her, some dash of whimsical fire mastering weakness</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_i5'>268</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='c fs16'>PEMROSE LORRY</p> +<p class='c fs14'>CAMP FIRE GIRL</p> + +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_1'></a>1</span><a id='link_1'></a>CHAPTER I<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>A Quaker Gun</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>And</span> will the Thunder Bird really lay +its egg upon the moon? Such a hard egg, +too! Will it–really–drop a pound +weight of steel upon the head of the Man +in the Moon?... Oh! de-ar Mammy +Moon–what a shock she’ll get.”</p> + +<p>The girl, the fifteen-year-old Camp Fire +Girl–all but sixteen now–to whom +Mammy Moon had been the fairy foster-mother +of her childhood, ever since she +lay, wakeful, in her little cot, looking up +at that silvery face of a burnt-out satellite, +picturing it the gate of Heaven and her +mother’s spirit as bathed in the soft, lunar +radiance behind it, caught her breath +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_2'></a>2</span> +with a wild little gasp whose triumph was +a sob upon the still laboratory air.</p> + +<p>“Lay its egg in a nest of the moon! A +dead nest! It will do more than that, +little Pem!” Toandoah, the inventor, +turned from fitting a number of tiny sky-rockets +into the supply chamber of a larger +one,–turned with that living coal of fire +in his eye which only the inventor can know, +and looked upon his daughter. “Yes, it +will do more than that! The Thunder +Bird will lay its golden egg for us–if it +drops its expiring one upon the moon. +It will send us back the first record from +space, the very first information as to what +it may be that lies up–away up–a +couple of hundred miles, or so, above us, +in the outer edges of the earth’s atmosphere +of which less is known at present than of +the deepest soundings of the ocean. Our +Thunder Bird will be the–first–explorer.”</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i2'></a><img src='images/illus-002.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“Oh! de-ar Mammy Moon–what a shock she’ll get.” <i>Page</i> 2. +</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3'></a>3</span>The man’s eyes were dim now. For a +moment he saw as in a prism the work of +his fingers, those little explosive rockets–the +charges of smokeless powder–which +being discharged automatically in flight, +would send the Thunder Bird upon its +magic way, roaring its challenge to the +world to listen, switching its rose-red tail +of light.</p> + +<p>Then–then as the mist cleared those +deep, glowing eyes of his became to his +daughter a magic lantern by which she saw +a series of pictures thrown upon the sheeting +whitewash of the laboratory wall, +culminating in one which was almost too +dazzling for mortal girl of fifteen–though +born of a great inventor–to bear.</p> + +<p>“And to think,” she cried, rising upon +tiptoe, swaying there in the February sunlight, +“just to think that it’s a Camp Fire +Girl–a Camp Fire Girl of America–with +the eyes of the world upon her, who +will push the button, throw the switch +upon a mountain-top, launch the Thunder +Bird upon its glor-i-ous way, send off–send +off the first earth-valentine to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span> +Mammy Moon!... Oh! Toandoah–oh! +Daddy-man–it’s too much.”</p> + +<p>Pemrose Lorry clasped her hands. Her +blue-star eyes, blue at the moment as +the tiny blossoms of the meadow star-grass +for which some fairy has captured +a sky-beam, were suddenly wet.</p> + +<p>A slim, girlish figure in forest green–last +sylvan word in Camp Fire uniforms +which she was trying on–she +hung there, poised upon an inner pinnacle, +while sunbeams racing down +the whitewash did obeisance before her, +while spectroscope, lathe and delicate +balances, brilliant reflectors, offered +her a brazen crown.</p> + +<p>“Well–well, it’s coming to you, +Pem–you sprite.” Her father shot +a sidelong glance at the nixie green as +he fitted another little rocket into its +groove in the larger one’s interior, +where the touch of a mechanical appliance, +like the trigger of a gun, in the +Thunder Bird’s tail, would ignite it in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5'></a>5</span> +flight. “You alone, girl as you are, know +the full secret of the Thunder Bird, as +you romantically call it, the principle +on which I am working, child–in so +far as you can understand it–in creating +this model rocket for experiments +and the master sky-rocket, the full-fledged +Thunder Bird, later, to soar +even to the moon itself–Mars, too, +maybe–you alone know and you have +kept it dark. You’ve plugged like a +boy at your elementary physics in high +school, so’s to be <i>able</i> to understand and +sympathize–you’ve lived up to the +name I gave you–”</p> + +<p>“My chowchow name!” interjected the +girl, winking slily.</p> + +<p>“Well! it is a mixture.” Her father +echoed her chuckle. “But I guess you’ve +been son and daughter both, you good +little pal–you sprite of the lab.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Toandoah–oh! Daddy-man–I’m +so glad.”</p> + +<p>Here there was a little laboratory +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span> +explosion, a rocket of feeling fired off, as +the owner of that hybrid name, Pemrose, +came down from her pinnacle and, +perching upon a low tool-chest at the +inventor’s side, took the humbler place +she loved,–fellow of her father’s heart.</p> + +<p>“I–I used to wish I was all boy until +I became a Camp Fire Girl; that bettered +the betty element a little,” she confided, +the spice of her mixed cognomen floating +in her eye.</p> + +<p>It was a joke with her, that chowchow +name–original mixture–and how she +came by it.</p> + +<p>Her father, Professor Guy Noel Lorry, +Fellow of Nevil University,–Toandoah, +the inventor, she called him,–wearing +his symbol, a saw-toothed triangle, +embroidered with her own upon her ceremonial +dress–had at one time almost +prayed for a son, a boy who might +help him to realize the dream, even +then taking hold upon his heart, of conquering +not the air alone but space–zero +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span> +space, in which it was thought +nothing could travel–so that old Earth +might reach out to her sister planets.</p> + +<p>He planned to call the boy Pemberton +after his own father.</p> + +<p>Likewise the mother of the maiden in +green now seated upon the tool-box had +longed for a daughter and aspired to +name her Rose, in tender memory of a +dear college chum, a flower no longer +blooming upon earth.</p> + +<p>And when the little black-haired mite +in due time came, when she opened upon +her father eyes blue as the empyrean he +hoped to conquer, he had cried out of a +core of transport lurking in the very heart +of disappointment: “Oh! by Jove, I +can’t quite give up my dream: let’s name +her Pemrose. If she had been a boy, +I’d have called her Pem.”</p> + +<p>The young mother blissfully agreed–and +did not live long to call her anything.</p> + +<p>Grown to girlhood, the sprite of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span> +laboratory, who had looked through a +spectroscope at seven, clapping her small +hands over the fairy colors–pure red, +orange, green, blue, violet, separated by +little dark, thread-like lines, each representing +some element in that far-away +upper air which her father hoped to +master–preferred for herself the boyish +Pem to the oft-worn Rose.</p> + +<p>But in order to square accounts with +what she called the “betty” element in +her, she evened things up on becoming +a Camp Fire Girl by choosing a name +all feminine wherewith to be known by +the Council Fire.</p> + +<p>Wantaam, signifying Wisdom–a Wise +Woman–was the title she bore as one +who wore the Fire Maker’s bracelet upon +her wrist and had pledged herself to tend +as her fathers had tended and her fathers’ +fathers since time began, that inner, +mystic flame which has lit man’s way +to progress from the moment when he +forged a bludgeon to conquer his own +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9'></a>9</span> +world, until, to-day, when he was inventing +a Bird to invade others.</p> + +<p>And it was that Wise Woman who +spoke now; she, of all others, who knew +the secret of the magic Thunder Bird; +and who, trustworthy to the core, had +“kept it dark.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! if I’ve ‘plugged’ hard in the +past over those fierce first principles of +mechanics, electricity, optics, heat and the +rest–and those ‘grueling’ laws of gravitation–that’s +just nothing, a scantling +compared to the way I’m going to study +and make a hit when I get on into college,” +she cried; “so–so that, some day, I can, +really, work with you, Toandoah–you +record-breaking inventor–oh! dearest +father ever was.”</p> + +<p>Laughingly, passionately she flung an +arm around the neck of the man in the +long, drab laboratory coat, half strangling +him as he bent over the two-foot +model rocket, testing it with his soul +in his finger-tips, from its cone-shaped +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10'></a>10</span> +steel head to its steering compartment, +thence to the supply chamber with all +the little propelling rockets in it, down +to its complicated nozzle, or tail.</p> + +<p>“Why–why! there’s no knowing +what you and I may be doing yet, +when we strain our wits to cracking, +is there, Daddy-man?” she exulted +further. “You say, yourself, that once +space is conquered, that horribly cold +old zero space outside the earth’s atmosphere, +anything devised that will move +through it, as our Thunder Bird can do, +then–then there’s no limit! We might +be shooting a passenger off to the moon +now, provided the Man in the Moon +would shoot him back,” gayly, “if only +the master sky-rocket, twelve times as +large as this little model you’re working +on for experiments, were ready. The +re-al moon-going Thunder Bird! Oh, +dear!” Her little fingers restlessly intertwined. +“How–how I can har-rdly wait +to throw the switch upon a mountaintop +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11'></a>11</span> +and–watch it <i>tear</i>, as the college +boys say!”</p> + +<p>“Sometimes–sometimes I’m inclined +to think it will never ‘tear’; that another +than I will be the first to reach +the heavenly bodies.” Toandoah sighed. +“For where are the funds coming from, +Pem, the little bonanza–fairy gold-mine–necessary +to gorge our Thunder Bird +for its record flight–fit it out for its +novel migration to the moon, eh?” The +inventor clasped his hands behind his +head, whistling ruefully. “Funds, child! +Already, it has pecked through the biggest +slice of mine!”</p> + +<p>“Ah! but–ah! but–” the girl suddenly +flashed upon him a sky-blue wink–“ah! +but the third <i>nut</i> hasn’t been +cracked yet, remember, for the Bird to +peck at that. Isn’t it in four weeks +from now–oh! in five–” the slight +figure swaying like the blue-eyed grass +upon its tall green stem, blown by a wild +breeze–“in five weeks from now that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12'></a>12</span> +the third drawer will be opened, containing +the third and last installment of Mr. +Hartley Graham’s queer, queer drawn-out +will. When it is–oh! when it is–maybe, +then, at last, there will be something +coming to the University, our University, +to benefit your inventions, Daddy.”</p> + +<p>“My child! when that third nut is +cracked, ’twill only benefit a ‘nut’.” The +man chuckled drily now. “In other +words, the remainder of Friend Hartley’s +fortune, all that his sister, Mrs. Grosvenor, +hasn’t already got, will still be +held in trust by me, as executor of the +will, for–for that griffin of a younger +brother of his who cleared out over twenty +years ago and hasn’t sent a line to his +family since.”</p> + +<p>“Was Mr. Treffrey Graham–really–such +a–zany?” Pem asked the question +for the nineteenth time, her black +eyebrows arching.</p> + +<p>“My word! ‘Was he?’ A–a regular +hippogriff he was, child! A hot +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span> +tamale, like that Mexican fruit which burns +you if you bite into it! At college one +could hardly come near him without +getting scorched by his tricks. Remember +my telling you about my putting +in an appearance in class one day–Physics +3–boasting of the latest thing in +student’s bags, setting it down beside me–and +not seeing it again for three weeks? +The terrible Treff, of course! The climax +came, as you know, when he locked a +gray-haired professor into the padded cell +for opposing baseball too early in the season, +while the campus was still soft.”</p> + +<p>“Mer-rcy! And kept him there for +ages–in that stuffy little room, all +wadded and lined with brown burlap, +used for analyzing sound–the prof not +able to make himself heard!”</p> + +<p>The listener, girl-like, drew fresh excitement +from a faded tale.</p> + +<p>“Yes–that meant expulsion, of +course, and his family, one and all, turning +a cold shoulder on Treff, before he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14'></a>14</span> +went away for good–nobody knew +where. His engagement was broken off. +His brother Hartley saw to that–married +the girl himself.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder–I wonder if the Terrible +Treff ever married?” Pem musingly +nursed her chin,–and with it a wildfire +interest in the “hot tamale.”</p> + +<p>“I heard he did. Somebody said so–somebody +who met him out West, +years ago–that he was a widower, with +a little son. But–apparently–he has +no more use for his family.”</p> + +<p>“No more–no more than his sister, +Mrs. Grosvenor, has for us since you +were made executor of that outlandish +will, left, piecemeal in three drawers, to +be opened on the first three anniversaries +of Mr. Graham’s death–and not +her husband!” Now it was an entirely +new breeze of excitement, a stiffening, +pinching draught, which swept the +forest-green figure upon the tool-chest +until its voice grew thin and sharp and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15'></a>15</span> +edged as the blades in the box beneath +it. “Oh-h, yes! she’s at daggers dr-rawn +with us now–on her high ropes all the +time, as you’d say. And–and she +sneers at your inventions, father! She +calls the rocket, the rocket,” half-hysterically, +“the moon-reaching rocket,–a +Quaker gun–a Quaker gun that’ll never +be fired, never go off–never hit anything!... +<i>Oh-h!</i>”</p> + +<p>With her hand to her green breast at +the insult, the girl bounded, blindly as a +ball, from her box, across the laboratory–and +on to a low platform.</p> + +<p>Through her raging young body there +shot like a physical cramp the knowledge +that Quakers, noble-hearted Friends, did +not use any guns; that the mocking term +was but a by-word, a jesting synonym +for all that was impotent–non-existent +in reason and power–a dummy.</p> + +<p>Savagely she applied her eye to the tall, +ten-foot spectroscope rearing its brazen +height from this low pedestal.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span>Without, beyond the glaring white-washed +laboratory, was a February world, +equally white, of zero ice and snow.</p> + +<p>Through the spectroscope she saw a +world in flames–blood-red.</p> + +<p>It was not more flaming than her +thoughts.</p> + +<p>Her father’s transcendent invention +just a faddist’s dream! The Thunder +Bird a joke–a <i>Quaker Gun</i>!</p> + +<p>“Bah!” Convulsively her little teeth +bit into her lower lip as she adjusted the +telescope portion of the instrument for +analyzing light–reducing it to prismatic +hues–a little.</p> + +<p>And now, lo! a world brilliantly jaundiced–her +orange–the snow being a +wonderful reflector of the sun’s divided rays.</p> + +<p>“Father! Father-r! I used to love +Una Grosvenor. Now I h-hate her! +If her mother made that hor-rid speech +about a Quaker gun, she repeated it, before +all the boys and girls in our Drama +Class, too! If I see her this afternoon +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span> +at the Ski Club, the skiing party out at +Poplar Hill, I shan’t speak to her. And +we used to be so chummy! Why–” +the girl fluttered now, a green weathercock, +upon the two-foot platform–“why, +we used to stand side by side and measure +eyelashes, to see which pair was going to +be the longer. I’ll wager mine are now!”</p> + +<p>With a veering laugh the weathercock +was here bent forward, striving to catch +some brazen glimpse of a winking profile +in the polished brass of the spectroscope.</p> + +<p>Her father laughed: this was the Rose +side of her–of his maiden of the patchwork +name–the Rose side of her, and +he loved it!</p> + +<p>“But–but Poplar Hill! Poplar Hill! +Why! that’s away outside the city +line–out at Merryville,” he exclaimed, +a minute later, in consternation. “Goodness! +child, you’re not going off there +to ski to-day–in a zero world, everything +snowbound, no trolley cars running?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! the trains–the trains aren’t +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span> +held up, father.” The coaxing weathercock +now had a green arm around the +neck of the man in the long, drab coat. +“And I just couldn’t give up going! I’m +becoming such a daring ski-runner, Daddy-man; +you’ll be proud of me when you +see! Why! I can almost herring-bone +uphill; and I’m getting the kick-turn +‘down fine.’ Darting, gliding, stemming, +jumping downhill–oh! it’s such perfect +fun, such creamy fun; I’m not a +girl any longer, I’m just a swallow.”</p> + +<p>“One swallow doesn’t make a summer; +all this doesn’t change the weather.” The +inventor glanced anxiously through a window.</p> + +<p>“No, but it’s such a very short train-run. +Pouf! only six miles on the two +o’clock express bound north, why–why! +the very train that you and I will be taking, +later, Daddy-man, along in May, when +you try out experiments with that little +model rocket you’re working on now, +upon old Mount Greylock–highest +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span> +mountain of the State. Oh-h! if ever a +girl’s thumb itched, mine does to press +the little electric button and start it off, +to fly up a couple of hundred miles, or so, +to send you back your golden egg, siree–the +first record from space. Oh! +through all the fun of slope and snow I’ll +be thinking of that the entire time to-day–the +whole, enduring, livelong time. +Yes!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20'></a>20</span><a id='link_2'></a>CHAPTER II<br /><span class='h2fs'>GIMCRACK ICE</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>She</span> was thinking of it two hours later–having +gained her coaxing point–seated +in the well-nigh empty parlor +car of the north-bound express, that green-aisled +Pullman being the first car behind +the cab and plodding engine which, +regardless of schedule, crept along slowly +and warily to-day upon ice-shod rails.</p> + +<p>But as she caressed the honorable thumb–the +little girlish member which would +press the button while all the world wondered–and +peered out through a window +fairly frosted, lo! again she saw a landscape +dimly in flames–blood-red–as +viewed through the spectroscope of her +own raging thoughts.</p> + +<p>For ice was within the car, as without.</p> + +<p>There–there, seated almost on a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span> +line with her, on the other side of the +moss-green aisle, and only three other +distant passengers in the compartment, +was the girl whose caricaturing tongue +had repeated the indelible insult about a +Quaker gun; whose mother considered +her father a mere chuckle-headed dreamer, +with his visions of bridging the absolute +zero of space–just a mild three hundred +degrees, or so, lower than the biting breath +of Mother Earth at the present moment–and +reaching worlds far away amid +the starry scope.</p> + +<p>Pemrose had kept her word about not +speaking. She just dropped one pointed +little icicle in the shape of a nod upon +her one-time friend as she sank into her +own swivel chair and threw off the heavy +coat with which she had covered her ski-runner’s +silken wind-jacket and belted skiing +costume of pure, creamy wool, with +its full freedom of knickerbockers.</p> + +<p>“There’s Una–Una Grosvenor!” +Her face frosted over at the thought. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span> +“Oh, mer-rcy! how I hate her–shall +everlastingly hate her–for passing on +that sneer about the Thunder Bird.... +And I know-ow her eyelashes +aren’t as long as mine now!”</p> + +<p>Mingled spice was in the furtive glance +which Toandoah’s little pal, his maiden +of the chowchow name, threw across the +narrow train-aisle at the delicate young +profile opposite, outlined against a crusted +window.</p> + +<p>“And she still has that funny little +near-sighted stand in one of her dark +eyes, too–Una! Although they’re pretty +eyes–I’ll admit that!” mused the critic +further. “Goodness! won’t she open them +one of these days when the world is all +ringing with talk of Dad and his rocket: +when the Thunder Bird, the finished, full-fledged +Thunder Bird, undertakes its +hundred-hour flight to the moon.... +For, oh! I know-ow that it will go, some +day–some day.” The girl stared passionately +now into the future in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23'></a>23</span> +frostscript of the pane near her. “Man would +not let it fail, God <i>could</i> not let it fail–just +for lack of funds–however that +third nut may turn out–that third section +of a queer will!”</p> + +<p>And now the mulled world outside +changed again, shading from blood-red to +fairy rose-color as seen through the spectroscope +of hope.</p> + +<p>She became lost in the most magnificent +dream that ever entranced a Camp +Fire Girl yet–with any hope of fulfillment.</p> + +<p>Standing of a starless night upon a lofty +mountain-top, she was looking up at +Mammy Moon, dear, silver-footed Queen, +so near to the heart of every Earth-daughter!</p> + +<p>In the darkness she felt the eyes of the +whole world upon her–she but a satellite +reflecting her father’s light–its joint ear +was bent to catch the wild, triumphal +song-sob of her heart.</p> + +<p>And at the words: “Ready! Shoot!”, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24'></a>24</span> +Toandoah’s battle-cry, she was pressing +the electric button which, connected with +a switch in the Thunder Bird’s tail, would +start it off, pointed directly for the moon, +to light up that silver disc with a bright +powder-flash visible here on earth.</p> + +<p>She was mesmerized by its wild, red +eye. She was watching it switch its rosy +tail feathers, two hundred feet long, that +dashing explorer, as, roaring, it leaped +from its mountain platform at incredible +speed for an incredible flight.</p> + +<p>She was echoing the college boys’ untamed +slogan: “Watch it tear; oh! +watch it tear–the fire-eater.”</p> + +<p>She....</p> + +<p>But what–what was this? Was she +tearing with it? Was she, she herself, +just a shocked girl, at the heart of its +rapid-fire explosions?</p> + +<p>Was she being hurled with it through +space, blank space, Absolute Zero, below +what human instrument could register,–or +human girl encounter and live?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25'></a>25</span>All she knew was that she was being +flung, first forward, then backward; and +then, oh, horrors! against the train window +near her where glass was all splintering +and crashing, through which ice and +water, mad, mad water and ice, were +rushing together.</p> + +<p>There was an awful, punching jolt, a +frenzied shriek of steam, a splashing, hissing +roar–that, surely, could not be the +steel Thunder Bird’s challenge, unless it +had suddenly become a wading goose–and, +lo! she was hurled straight out of +her dream across a Pullman aisle, fast +flooding, right into the girl with whom +she had once vainly measured eyelashes,–between +whom and herself had existed +that thin bridge of ice but one little +minute before.</p> + +<p>Alas! poor human ice that couldn’t +stand a moment under the blows of +Nature’s ice-hammer.</p> + +<p>Both pairs of girlish lashes were stark +with terror now.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26'></a>26</span>“Una! Una! <i>Una!</i> Ac-ci-dent! +Tr-rain accident! Gone through–through +into–the–lake!” moaned +Pemrose, half stunned, yet conscious, as +she was ten seconds before, that they +had been crossing frozen water.</p> + +<p>Water! A pale pond, now plainly +seen through awful, swirling, wave-blocked +window-gaps! Yet across its wan +and shattering crust there shone a trail +of fire, red fire, heart fire–vivid at that +moment as the Thunder Bird’s pink tail +feathers switching through the space of +horror–and somewhere in that stretched +consciousness which is beyond thinking, +Toandoah’s daughter knew that it was +the Camp Fire training in presence of +mind.</p> + +<p>“Una! M-mer-rcy! Una! Water’s +r-rushing in-n–in so fast–through +windows–doors ahead–m-may dr-rown +right here, ’less we can f-fight it–get out,” +was her struggling cry as, paddling desperately +like a little dog, she found herself +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27'></a>27</span> +topping the flood, that lashing, interned +lake-water, now blotting out window-frames +on one side of the car–groping +with icy fingers for the painted ceiling of +the Pullman–then undulatingly sinking +below them on the other.</p> + +<p>For it was a case just half-a-minute +before, while Pem was still sanguinely +loosing the Thunder Bird, of small pony-wheels +on the big express engine striking +a frog in the rails, an icy groove, and +skidding,–then recklessly plunging down +four feet, those runaway ponies, from the +low bridge which they were crossing on +to the ice, dragging the engine, the cab +and the two front cars with them.</p> + +<p>And now–now–to the inventor’s +daughter, the girl-mechanic, who had +plugged so hard at her high school +physics that she might understand her +father’s work, came a thought that was +worse, worse even than the hiss of the imprisoned +flood, tossing her like a cork: the +engine might explode–the sneezing, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span> +sobbing engine, with the steam condensing +in its boilers–wreck the car she was in–she +and Una!</p> + +<p>No! She did not think of herself alone. +All the frail girlish ice was a gimcrack +now.</p> + +<p>But the terrors of the swamped car, +that snuffling threat of steam ahead–a +deep bass uz-z-z!–momentarily made +a gimcrack of other things too–of everything +but the desperate instinct to get +out–free, somehow.</p> + +<p>Calling upon Una to follow, she headed +for a dripping window-gap, to seize the +moment when the flood, now lower upon +that side, might give her a chance to +paddle through–scramble through–escape +on to the cracking ice, before the +opening was again blotted out.</p> + +<p>But together with the cruelty of glass-splinters, +ice-spars scratching her set face, +came the shock of an inner splinter: an +inkling, somehow, that Una was helpless, +could not follow, that, battered by +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29'></a>29</span> +concussion, tossing like a log upon the +flood’s breast, her senses had almost left +her.</p> + +<p>Many waters cannot quench love–the +love of a daughter for her genius-father.</p> + +<p>In that moment–that moment–there +leaped up in the breast of Toandoah’s +child the fire, the red fire, which alone +can carry anything higher, be it rocket or +girl’s heart.</p> + +<p>They had called her father’s invention +a joke, a Quaker gun, Una and her mother.</p> + +<p><i>Never</i> should they say that of his +daughter’s pluck: that it was a dummy +which would hit no mark,–or only to +save itself!</p> + +<p>“Una!” Wildly she seized the other +girl’s creamy flannels, buoyed like a great, +pale water-lily upon the imprisoned lake-water. +“Catch–c-catch me by the belt–Una! +I–I’ll try-y to save you! +Oh-h! s-stick ti-ight now.”</p> + +<p>And the daughter of the man, still +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30'></a>30</span> +sitting afar in his quiet laboratory, fitting +little powder charges into a model +Thunder Bird, set herself to battle through +the swirling gap of that half-covered window-frame–clutched +and hampered now–yet +upholding, even if it was her daring +death-thought, Toandoah’s honor in the +flood.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31'></a>31</span><a id='link_3'></a>CHAPTER III<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>The Wrong Side of Her Dream</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>The</span> ice had been thick-ribbed, product +of a bitter winter, but it could not +withstand the shock of a hundred and +eighty tons of leaping locomotive–it +splintered in all directions.</p> + +<p>Of the whole long train, however, only +two cars and the cab had followed the +engine’s plunge when those skidding pony-wheels +turned traitor, and were now ice-bound +and flooded in the middle of a small +lake, while the remainder of the fast express, +with one coach actually standing +on its head, hanging pendent between +the ice and the bridge, was not submerged.</p> + +<p>It was as if a steel bar were hurled +violently at that solid ice, when one end +only would pierce the crust and the remainder +be left sticking, slanting, up.</p> + +<p>When Pemrose, a Camp Fire Girl of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span> +America, greater at that moment than +when her hand should loose the Thunder +Bird, because she was determined that +whatever might be said of her father’s +invention, nobody should ever say that +his daughter’s courage was a Quaker gun, +paddled through the window-gap of that +swamped Pullman, towing Una, she found +herself in such a vortex of zero water and +shattered ice that all the strength behind +her gasping breath turned suddenly dummy.</p> + +<p>“S-stick tight, Una! Oh-h! stick +tight,” was the one little whiff that speech +could get off before it froze–froze stiff +behind her chattering teeth, in the pinched +channel of her throat.</p> + +<p>And then–then–she was clinging to +the jagged spur of an ice-cake, her left +hand convulsively clutching Una’s flannels, +while the eddies in the half-liberated water +around them, spreading from a blue-cold +center to a white ring, made horrid eyes–goggle-eyes–which +stared at them.</p> + +<p>To Pem–little visionary–plunged +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span> +from her dreams of pressing the magic +button on a mountain-top, of watching +the Thunder Bird tear, tear away moonward, +switching its long tail of light, the +whole thing seemed an illusion–the +wrong side of her dream.</p> + +<p>It was as if she had soared with that +monster rocket, Toandoah’s invention, +outside the earth’s atmosphere, were being +hurled about in the horrible vacuum of +space, its unplumbed heart of cold, so far–so annihilatingly far below the balmy +zero point of old Mother Earth on a +February day when two light-hearted girls +were going skiing.</p> + +<p>She was growing numb.</p> + +<p>In vain did her waterproof wind-jacket, +the ski-runner’s belted jacket of thin and +trusty silk, defend, like a faithful wing–a +warm, conscious wing–the upper +part of her body.</p> + +<p>The deadly water was encroaching, +clasping her waist with an icy girdle,–stealing +under it, even to her armpits.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34'></a>34</span>And the petrifying little hand which +had left its fistling in the train,–the +thick mitten that should have grasped +the balancing stick in all the wild swallow-fun +of climbing, stemming, darting amid +slope and snow upon a wintry hillside–could +not hold on very long to the glacial +spur.</p> + +<p>The ice-cake was threatening to slip +away, to seesaw, turn turtle and waltz +off, to the tune of blood-curdling sounds: +screams for help here, there, everywhere, +always with the background of that menacing +hiss of steam in the great engine’s +boilers–that low, sneezing uz-z-z! as if it +were taking cold from its bath–the engine +that, at any moment, might explode.</p> + +<p>Frantically she would have struck out, +the little girl-mechanic, and fought the +whole ice-pack to get away from that +threat, to reach a solid crust, but she +knew that she could not “swim” two, +herself and Una.</p> + +<p>Yet would they go under–one or +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35'></a>35</span> +both–perish in water not deep because of +the starving cold, even if–if the +engine...?</p> + +<p>Her teeth snapped together upon the +thought, its diddering horror. Surely, it +was as bad a predicament as could be +for a girl!</p> + +<p>But, suddenly, through all the horripilation +there seemed to shine a light.</p> + +<p>Somehow, Pem was conscious of it in +the poor numb sheath of her own girlish +being–and beyond.</p> + +<p>And she knew that her stark lips were +praying: “Oh! Lord–oh! Father–help +me-e to hold on. Don’t let us–go–under! +I want–I want so-o to live to +see Daddy’s rocket go off!... He ...”</p> + +<p>The stiff sobs tumbled apart there, as +it were.</p> + +<p>But the Light remained, the Presence, +so near as it seemed to Pem at the moment–even +as she had felt it before +upon a mountain-top, or at some matchless +moment of beauty–that she almost +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36'></a>36</span> +lisped confusedly: “Daddy in Heaven!” +as once, a two-year-old, she had prattled +it at her father’s knee.</p> + +<p>Then what–what? Another voice +prattling near her–chattering icily! A +bully human voice!</p> + +<p>“Gosh! Something r-rotten in the +State of Denmark,” it gasped. “Jove! +I like excitement, but I’d rather be warm +enough to enjoy it. Oh! Dad, if there +are any others left in that car, the one +on end, you help ’em. I must attend to +these girls.”</p> + +<p>“T-take her first–Una!” flickered +Pem, a spicy flicker still, as she felt a strong +grasp on her shoulder and looked up into +the face of a broad-shouldered youth in +a gray sweater; the engine might explode, +but, to the last, they should not say of +Toandoah’s daughter that her courage was +a Quaker gun.</p> + +<p>“Jove! but you’re game,” flashed the +youth. “Well, keep up–hang on–I’ll +be back in a minute!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37'></a>37</span>The minute was three.</p> + +<p>He had to lift the second girlish victim +almost bodily out of the water and drag +her with him as he wriggled and crawled +over the broken ice-pack, to reach a firm +spot, where he picked her up and–with +all the vigor of an athletic eighteen-year-old–carried +her to the shore, now not +more than twenty yards off.</p> + +<p>“Humph! I was just in time, wasn’t +I?” he ejaculated on the transit. “By +George! You’ve got pep, if ever a girl +had–I’ll wager you pulled your friend +out of the parlor-car and held her up! +Some horripilation, eh?” breezily. “Now–now +what have you and I ever done +that the Fates should wish this on to us–that’s +what I’d like to know?”</p> + +<p>It was what the daring little ski-runner, +Pem, herself, had been vaguely wondering; +she liked this jolly wit-snapper who preferred +his excitement warm.</p> + +<p>“Ha! there goes the engine exploding,” +he gasped a moment later, as he set her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38'></a>38</span> +down. “Bursting inward! Now, if it had +done the mean thing, burst outward, piling +up the agony, doing a whole lot of +damage, ’twould have been quicker about +it.... Oh–you! Dad,” to a gray-bearded +man, with a gray traveling cap +pulled down almost to his eyes. “Here, +I’ll hand over these girls to you now! +Will you look after them? I’d better +go back.”</p> + +<p>Simultaneously there was a low, sullen +roaring, the crack of doom, as condensed +steam sucked in the heavy steel casing of +the locomotive’s boilers and shattered it +like an eggshell.</p> + +<p>In Pemrose it shattered something too.</p> + +<p>Wildly she looked into the eyes of the +man in the tourist’s cap and was conscious +that in one of them horror was frozen +into a fixed stand, as it was in one of +Una’s, as he helped her up a snowy bank.</p> + +<p>And, with that, her brain laid its last +egg for the present, as the Thunder Bird +would drop its expiring one upon the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39'></a>39</span> +dead surface of the moon, in the knowledge +that, the Fates notwithstanding, she was +still alive–still alive, to see the great +rocket go!</p> + +<p>And as for its completion–as to the +little gold mine necessary to gorge it for +its record flight–why! the third rich +nut of which she had spoken a little while +ago in her father’s laboratory, had not +yet been cracked: the third mysterious +drawer containing the third and last installment +of a dead man’s very strange +will had not yet been opened.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40'></a>40</span><a id='link_4'></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>The Second Wreck</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>That</span> third nut was cracked just five +weeks later in the firelit library of what +had been Mr. Hartley Graham’s home–the +home of a man who during his +lifetime, so it was occasionally said, had +been, in some ways, almost as eccentric +as his madcap brother–and concerning +the latter his college chums, those who +knew him long ago, were of the opinion +that he was a freak whose “head grew beneath +his shoulder.”</p> + +<p>The house, a white marble mansion on +Opal Avenue, finest of the old residential +streets in the University city of Clevedon, +was now occupied by the sister of the +two, the mother of Una, who had snapped +her fingers at the Thunder Bird, calling +it a joke, a dummy, a Quaker gun.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41'></a>41</span>That jeering nickname still rankled in +the breast of Pemrose, who looked more +like a colorless March Primrose, owing +to the lingering shock of that train wreck, +upon the spring morning in early April +when the family lawyer whose duty it +was to settle the affairs of the man who had +left three separate portions of his will in +as many drawers, to be opened on three +successive anniversaries of his death, drew +forth the last.</p> + +<p>She was not the only pale girl present.</p> + +<p>By her side was Una, neighbor again in +heart as in body, who laid one little agitated +fist on Pem’s knee while preparations +for reading the will were being made, +the two girls nestling together, as in +chummy days, three years before, when in +the peacock pride of thirteen they had +conceitedly measured eyelashes.</p> + +<p>And the remorseful affection mirrored +in that little near-sighted stand in one of +Una’s pretty dark eyes was only typical +of an entirely similar state of feeling in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42'></a>42</span> +the once scornful breasts of her father and +mother.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Grosvenor was no longer “on her +high ropes,” as Pem had said in her father’s +laboratory; to-day she seemed to be, +rather, on a snubbing-line which brought +her up short now and again, even in the +middle of a speech, when she looked at +the inventor’s blue-eyed daughter, his +trusty little pal–and that, sometimes, +with spray in her eyes, too.</p> + +<p>Also, her glances in the direction of +the inventor himself, Professor Lorry, with +whose name the world was already beginning +to ring, were appealing–not to +say apologetic.</p> + +<p>She was quite sure now that any man +who could turn out a daughter, not yet +sixteen, to behave in a fearful emergency +as Pem had done–without whom her +own daughter would not be here to-day, +as Una constantly kept repeating–could +never forge a gun, be it rocket or rifle, +that would hit no mark!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43'></a>43</span>She even expressed some agitated +interest in the great invention, inquiring +when the first experiments with the little +model Thunder Bird, upon a mountain-top, +were to take place.</p> + +<p>And as for her husband, he boldly declared +himself deeply interested in the +conquest of the upper air and space–so +far beyond the goal which any aviator +had dreamed of reaching yet.</p> + +<p>He even went so far as to say that he +would be glad to see the remainder of a +fortune, represented by that third section +of a will, go for the furtherance of the +professor’s wonderful moon-reaching, +planet-reaching scheme, instead of being +“hung up” awaiting the return of the +dead man’s younger brother who had +been such a queer flimflam fellow in youth,–whose +family did not even know whether +he was dead or alive.</p> + +<p>And, at first, while the shell of that +third nut was being solemnly cracked +by the reading of opening sentences of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span> +the will–oh! how the heart of Pemrose +jumped, like a nut on a hot shovel–it +did seem as if the kernel were going +to be a rich one for the Thunder Bird.</p> + +<p>For now, according to the testator’s +wish, if his brother, Treffrey Graham, +had not yet returned to claim his portion +of his elder brother’s wealth, then +the money–a little bonanza, indeed, a +solid fortune–was to be turned over, +forthwith, to the University of his native +city, to be used for developments in the +science of the air–the upper air and +what lay beyond it–chiefly for the +furtherance of any inventions that might +be put forward by the dead man’s trusted +friend, Professor Lorry.</p> + +<p>It was here that two pale girls, abruptly +transformed from April primroses to June +roses–oh! such pinkly blooming tea-roses–gave +simultaneously a wild little shriek.</p> + +<p>It was here that Pem, dazzled, saw the +Thunder Bird, with a clear sky, tear–tear +away moonward–and noticed at +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span> +the same time, through some little loophole +in the watch-tower of her excitement, +the figure of a man with a gray +tourist’s cap pulled down to his eyes, +rather waveringly crossing the street without.</p> + +<p>He circled to avoid an April puddle,–she +saw him clearly through the broad library +window, at a distance of some fifty yards, +beyond a flight of marble steps and a +graveled entrance.</p> + +<p>A queer little shiver, a horrid little shiver–a +snowflake in summer–drifted down +her spine!</p> + +<p>The figure had an icy background. +She had seen it before amid the terrors of +that February train-wreck. The boy who +saved her, the boy with the jolly tongue +in his head, humorous amid the “horripilation,” +had addressed it as Dad.</p> + +<p>And then–then, she caught her +breath sharply, as something blew upon +her, hot and cold together–and came +back to the library, to the present moment.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46'></a>46</span>For the gray-haired lawyer, with his +mouth opening gravely, wide as a church +door, with a little forward pounce of his +body upon the typewritten sheets, the +sheets that meant life or death–flight +or stagnation–for the Thunder Bird, +was beginning to read again.</p> + +<p>“Ah, but that’s not all, even yet!” +he said. “This curious will has dragged +its slow length over three years–and +now we haven’t finished with it, quite. +Here’s a codicil still to be read–its +last word, written later, just two days +before Mr. Graham’s death, so it seems.”</p> + +<p>Alack and alas! that was the moment +of the second wreck; the moment for one +jubilant girl of the dire breakdown, when +the Victory Express to Clover Land, goal +of blossoming success, crashed through +into zero waters of blankest disappointment,–almost +as bitter as those in which +she had held up her friend.</p> + +<p>For the last word of the strung-out +will set forth that, whereas it seemed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span> +borne in upon Mr. Hartley Graham, with +life drawing to a close, that he had not +been quite fair to his madcap brother in +youth, and that the latter would some +day return, the disposal of his wealth in +the other direction named–to the University +and for invention–should not +come into effect for at least twelve years +after the opening of that third drawer.</p> + +<p>“And so–and so, it’s all hung up for +another dozen years–unless Treffrey +Graham comes back to claim the money! +Well! I’m sorry, Professor Lorry; there’s +many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,” said the +lawyer, laying down the codicil with a +blue look; he was interested in invention, +progressive invention–he had never +thought that the Thunder Bird was a +Quaker gun.</p> + +<p>“And so it’s all hung up for the next +twelve years,” was the baffled cry which +went around the circle, with no single +note of longing for the wanderer’s return.</p> + +<p>It would not have been very flattering +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span> +to the terrible Treff, if he was alive and +present to hear, thought a gnashing Pemrose: +to the exile who had been such a +hazing firebrand at college, burning out +the fine flame of youth in the straw blaze +of senseless pranks,–a griffin and shatterpated +jester.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49'></a>49</span><a id='link_5'></a>CHAPTER V<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>She Saved a City</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>And so</span>–and so it’s all hung up for +another twelve years–the Thunder +Bird’s flight! For I don’t suppose there’s +much chance of the money coming from +another direction.”</p> + +<p>Pemrose Lorry echoed the cry, repeated +it desolately, hours later, standing +in her own room–a room that was +a sort of sequel to herself, as every Camp +Fire Girl’s nest should be.</p> + +<p>Her father had echoed it, as she sat +very close to him, driving home in the +Grosvenor’s limousine.</p> + +<p>“Well! so far this strung-out will has +been for us much cry and little wool, eh, +girlie,” he muttered; and for the first +time she heard discouragement in his +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50'></a>50</span> +voice; perhaps he had “banked” upon +that third nut more than he admitted.</p> + +<p>“So the money is hung up for the next +dozen years, as far’s any benefit to the +invention is concerned,” he went on presently, +just before his own home was +reached. “I’d better be putting my time +into something else, I guess,” with a raw +scrape in the tones. “How–how about +a machine for the manufacture of paper +clothing, eh, or airdrawn rugs–” sarcastically–“prosperity, +<i>riches</i>, in that! +Ha! Get thee behind me, Satan–but +don’t push!” added the inventor whimsically, +thrusting his head out of the auto +window,–with a sound that was neither +laugh nor groan.</p> + +<p>“Get thee behind me, Satan–and don’t +push!”</p> + +<p>Tears sprang to those blue eyes of Pemrose +now, as she recalled the half-piteous +tone in the voice.</p> + +<p>Toandoah was discouraged. Toandoah +was tempted–tempted to sacrifice the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51'></a>51</span> +highest claim of his intellect, his original +dream, or the dream whose originality he +had made practical, of reaching the heavenly +bodies; of being a pioneer in exploring +the Universe outside his own earth and its +enveloping atmosphere; of finding out the +secrets of that mysterious upper air, and +where it ended, of getting back a record +of it–the Thunder Bird’s golden egg, the +first record from space.</p> + +<p>And the girl in her buoyant young heart +of hearts felt that hope–nay, certainty–were +still there, green, springing, as +the first signs of happy springtime in the +world outside.</p> + +<p>How–how was she to make him feel it; +she his little Wise Woman, his laboratory pal?</p> + +<p>Her eye went to the emblems upon +her wall: a pine tree on a poster, typical +of strength, a banner with a sunburst, the +sun shedding warmth upon the earth.</p> + +<p>And then–then! To the little squat +figure of a woman, as the Indians depicted +her, with a torch in her hand, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52'></a>52</span> +Wisdom’s torch–her own emblem as +Wantaam of the Council Fire.</p> + +<p>But there was another representation +of that Wantaam–that Wise Woman. +Pem had designed it herself, painted it +herself upon a two-foot poster, gaining +thereby a green honor-bead for handicraft.</p> + +<p>And before that the girl, wrestling with +the heavy disappointment of that tantalizing +will, brought up–her hands clasped.</p> + +<p>It was a curious scene: a lot of little +tents with a wall around them, the same +symbolic figure of the woman with the +torch stood upon the wall, pointing a stiff +arm at a man outside, a warrior, who +had a knife in hand.</p> + +<p>Underneath were printed in flaming +characters two Indian words: “Notick! +Notick!” signifying: “Hear! Hear!”</p> + +<p>“I always did feel fascinated by that +Wise Woman who saved–a–city.” +Pem looked adoringly at her handiwork. +“A besieged Jewish city, away back in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span> +King David’s time! To be sure, one +reads of it in–in what’s a bloodthirsty +chapter of the Old Testament! And she +saved the town by ordering the death of +a rebel, a traitor, proclaiming that she, +herself, was loyal and faithful to the +king–so were her people–making +Joab, David’s captain, that man with +the knife, outside the wall, listen when +she cried to him: ‘Hear! Hear!’ She +had more sense than the men about her–and +one isn’t told the least thing +further about her, not even her name. +That’s what makes her mysterious–and +fascinating.... Yet she saved a city!”</p> + +<p>The girl drew a long breath–a suddenly +fired breath.</p> + +<p>Was it up to her now to save a city: +the citadel of her father’s courage–of +that rose-colored conviction which is half +the battle on earth or in the air? How +was she to do it?</p> + +<p>Her eye went wandering around the +room. Trained to the eloquence of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54'></a>54</span> +symbols, it lit on something. Just a sheen +of pearls and a little loom upon a table–myriads +of pearly beads, woven and unwoven, +with here and there a ray of New +Jerusalem colors, ruby, emerald, blazing +through them–the New Jerusalem of +hope.</p> + +<p>“Ah-h!”</p> + +<p>Breathlessly she caught it up, that something, +four feet and a half of the beaded +history of a girl,–pearl-woven prophecy, +too!</p> + +<p>Hugging it to her breast, that long +leather strip, an inch and a half in width, +on which her glowing young life-story +was woven in pearls, with those rainbow +flashes of color–the loom with it–she +hurried out of the room.</p> + +<p>Never, perhaps, did a professor’s laboratory, +the stern, hardware “lab.” of +a mechanical engineer, react to anything +so fairy-like as when Pem, scurrying +down a flight of stairs to the workshop +which her father had fitted up in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55'></a>55</span> +his own house–not his University laboratory +with the tall spectroscope–sat +down to a table and began industriously +to weave.</p> + +<p>Turning from a bench where he sat +fiddling with a steel chamber, part of the +anatomy of a fledgling Thunder Bird, of +one of those small model rockets which +he was fitting up for experiments on a +mountain-top, the inventor watched her +listlessly.</p> + +<p>“Hullo! What’s the charm now, the +thing of beauty? That–that looks +such stuff as dreams are made of.” +Toandoah drew a long breath.</p> + +<p>“No, it isn’t dream-stuff, father; it’s +history, the history of your life and mine, +all told in symbols, woven into a chain, +a stole–see–to wear with my ceremonial +dress. It–it’s my masterpiece.” +Pem looked up, all girl, all Rose, now. +“I didn’t want to show it to you until +it was finished. But now–now–don’t +you want to see it?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56'></a>56</span>Listlessly, still, her father drew near, +his tall figure in its long, drab laboratory +coat looming like a shadow behind her +shoulder.</p> + +<p>“See there–there’s where it begins +with the Flag I was born under, the +Stars and Stripes,” excitedly. “And look,” +softly, “that gold star stands for Mother +who died when I was two. And there you +are, Toandoah, with that queer Indian +triangle having the teeth of a saw, the +emblem of invention.”</p> + +<p>“What! That funny, squat figure, with +something like a three-cornered fool’s-cap +on my head and the moon above it, looking +through a tube!” There was a laugh +in the inventor’s throat now; the grim +“Get thee behind me, Satan!” look, with +the cloud of that codicil to a will, were +melting away from him. “Well, go on!” +he encouraged smilingly. “Artistic, anyhow! +I believe you Camp Fire Girls would +weave magic around a clock pendulum.”</p> + +<p>“And here–here am I–Wantaam, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57'></a>57</span> +a Wise Woman. There’s the Thunder +Bird, see, the symbol of the great rocket. +Here are you and I, Dad, upon a mountaintop, +watching it tear–oh! tear away.”</p> + +<p>He laughed again at the two stiff, +woodeny figures, the comet-like streak +of fire above them.</p> + +<p>“And this–the quill fluttering down +attached to a kite! Humph! That +stands for the Thunder Bird’s diary, I +suppose, otherwise the golden egg–the +little recording apparatus coming down on +the wing of its black parachute.”</p> + +<p>The inventor laughed amusedly again, +glancing sidelong at <i>his</i> masterpiece, the +little five-inch openwork steel box, having +in it two tiny wheels with paper wound, +tapelike, on one and a pencil between +them. This carried in the head of the +Thunder Bird, big or little, would keep a +record of as high as it went by the pencil +automatically making marks so long as +there was any air-pressure, like a guiding +hand, to move it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58'></a>58</span>“Yes.” The weaver nodded. “And +here–here is the Will being read!”</p> + +<p>The girlish voice was lower now, the +girlish feet treading doubtful ground, as +she pointed again to those two quaint, +stubby figures, with a third one reading +from a parchment.</p> + +<p>But there was no doubt at all in the +young voice which presently gathered itself +for a climax.</p> + +<p>“And see–see there–those little +yellow dots I’m weaving in now; those +are gold pieces, father, the money that +<i>is</i> coming to us from somewhere for you +to finish your invention. Yes! and I’m +going on to weave in the moon, too, and +the little blue powder-flash before her face, +to show the Thunder Bird has got there. +For it is going to get there, you know!” +Pem’s blue-star eyes were dim now, but +in them was the wisdom of babes–the +wisdom oft hid from the wise and prudent.</p> + +<p>“Daddy-man!” She bowed her head +over the pearl-woven prophecy, speaking +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59'></a>59</span> +very low. “I could always tell you +my thoughts. Somehow, at that awful +time of the train-wreck, when we were +in the icy water, Una and I, before the +boy came, the big boy who saved us, +through–through all the ‘horripilation’, +as he called it, I seemed to see a light; +the–the Light of Light Eternal, as we +sing–God–and I knew, oh-h! I +knew-ew, at the last, that we weren’t going +to dr-rown.... I know just as certainly +now that you’re going to launch the Thunder +Bird, to go-o where nothing–Earthly–has +ever gone before.... Father-r!”</p> + +<p>Silence fell upon that passionate little +cry in the dim workshop.</p> + +<p>Only the beauty of the pearl-woven +thing upon the table spoke–the record +to go down to posterity.</p> + +<p>Then into the silence tiptoed the voice +of a man, whimsical, slightly, yet with +a touch of tender awe in it, too:</p> + +<p>“And none knew the Wise Woman +who saved the city!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60'></a>60</span><a id='link_6'></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>A Hotspur</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>Oh!</span> I’m so glad–just so glad I +don’t know what to do with myself–that +those experiments with the lesser +Thunder Bird, the smaller sky-rocket, +which won’t make the four-day trip to +Mammy Moon, but will only fly up a +couple of hundred miles, or so, and drop +its golden egg, the diary, to tell you +where that blank No Man’s Land of +space begins will still be carried out +this spring from the top of old Mount +Greylock. If they had been given up, +it would have broken my heart–so +it would!”</p> + +<p>It was evening now, late evening, in +the dining room of the professor’s home, +looking upon the green University campus.</p> + +<p>The girl with the grafted Rose in her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span> +name, grafted on to a foreign stem, was +pouring out her father’s after dinner +coffee–and her own full heart, at the +same time. “Ouch!” She shivered +a little. “I don’t like to think of that +‘diddering’ cold of empty space; not–not +since the train-wreck. I’m like the +big boy who saved us then, and was so +jolly; I’m out for excitement if I’m +warm enough to enjoy it, eh?”</p> + +<p>“Humph! Well, here’s somebody +who’s willing to take a chance on carrying +his warmth, his fun too, with him +into space.”</p> + +<p>The professor laughed as he drew a +sheet of thick letter paper, broad and +creamy, from his pocket.</p> + +<p>“Oh! is it somebody else ... you +don’t mean to say it’s another hotspur +applying for a passage in the real Thunder +Bird when you start the big rocket +off for the moon, eh?”</p> + +<p>The girl glanced over her father’s +shoulder.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62'></a>62</span>“Yes, one more candidate for lunar +honors! And this one is the limit for +a Quixote. Young, too, I should say!” +Again Toandoah’s deep chant of laughter +buoyed his daughter’s treble note, as he +began to read:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“Professor G. Noel Lorry,<br /> +    Nevil University.<br /> +My dear Sir,</p> + +<p>Having learned that you are perfecting an apparatus +that will reach any height–even go as far as +the moon–and that it will be capable of carrying +a passenger, I should like to volunteer for the trip.</p> + +<p>I have always wanted to say ‘Hullo!’ to the Man +in the Moon, on whose face I have often looked +from an aëroplane already; and I am ready to try +anything once–even if it should be once for all!</p> + +<p class='tar mr30'>Yours for the big chance,</p> +<p class='tar'>T. S.</p> + +<p>P. S. I respectfully apologize for not being able +just at present to give my full name, but will, with +your permission, furnish it later.”</p> +</div> + +<p>“Humph! Mr. T. S.! ‘With your permission,’ +where do you write from?” +Pemrose bent low over the primrose sheet. +“Oh! from Lightwood. Now,–now +where is that, Daddy?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span>“There’s a little, one-horse village of +the name among the Berkshire Mountains, +not far from fashionable Lenox.” +Her father smiled.</p> + +<p>“Lenox! How lovely! Why! that’s +where you and I are going to stay–stay +for a week or two–isn’t it, father, +<i>en route</i> for Greylock and the experiments. +You know the Grosvenors have +invited us–and they have a wonderful +old place up there. Una’s mother is +carrying coals these days–” Pemrose +winked–“coals of penitence in her +heart for ever having sneered at your invention, +Daddy.”</p> + +<p>“Hot ones, are they? Well! I wish +she’d hasten and spill them out before +she reaches Lenox.” The inventor +chuckled. “Let me see, she was born +there, I believe, at their mountain home–yes, +and one or other of her brothers, too.”</p> + +<p>“Ho! Was it–was it the unicorn; I–I +mean the oddity; the Thunder Bird’s +rival for all-l that money?” The girlish +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span> +hand shook now as it wielded the coffee-pot. +“Oh, dear! wouldn’t his horn be +exalted if he never came back?” With a +droll little catch of the breath. “Una and +I are as friendly as ever now, Dad,” ran +on the girlish voice, hurriedly leading off +from the neighborhood of the will. “And +she’s to be taken out of school early, when +we go, because she has been so nervous +since the train-wreck. So chummy we +are–oh, as chummy as in the old days +when we measured eyelashes and she +laughed at my ‘chowchow’ name!” The +speaker here shot the bluest of glances +through those twinkling lashes at their +reflection in a neighboring teapot, older +than Columbia herself.</p> + +<p>“Chowchow, indeed! It just suits you, +that compound. There’s a vain elf in +you somewhere, Pem, that sleeps in the +shadow of the Wise Woman.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe–maybe, there’s a nickum! +That’s Andrew’s word, Andrew’s word for +an imp, a tomboy. He’s the Grosvenors’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span> +Scotch chauffeur, you know, who talks +with a thistle under his tongue. Well! +nickum, or not!” the girl was a rosy +weathercock again. “I–I’m just dying +to get up to the mountains, to climb the +Pinnacle, the green Pinnacle, that rough, +pine-clad hill, with Una–and sit in the +Devil’s Chair!”</p> + +<p>“<i>What!</i> My Wise Woman sitting in +the Devil’s Chair! Why! ’twould take +a daredevil nickum, indeed, to do that.”</p> + +<p>The inventor threw up his hands, laughing +again, as he beat a retreat to his hardware +den, his laboratory, where there was +ever a magnet, potent by night or day, to +draw him back.</p> + +<p>Yet when still another six weeks had +passed and Pemrose, with all the green +world of spring in her heart, stood, breathless, +upon that Lenox pinnacle–a pine-clad +mountainette some thirteen hundred +feet above sea-level–lo and behold! there +was a nickum sitting coolly in the Devil’s +Chair.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66'></a>66</span>A brazen feat it was! For that Lucifer’s +throne was a curved stone seat, a natural +armchair, rudely carved out of the precipice +rock, more than a dozen sheer feet beneath +the crest where she stood with Una–Andrew +of the thistly tongue having driven the +two girls up to the foot of the peak on this +the third day after their arrival, with the +May flies, amid the mountains.</p> + +<p>“A nickum–oh! a nickum, indeed–a +daredevil nickum–sitting in the Devil’s +Armchair, with his feet dangling down–down +over the deep precipice! Look!”</p> + +<p>Pemrose pirouetted in excitement at the +sight.</p> + +<p>“Yes, and, goodness! he seems to be +enjoying it, too. Not turning a hair. +Oh! if ’twere I–I should be so-o dizzy.”</p> + +<p>With the more timid cry in her pulsing +throat, and that little appalled stand, a +star of mingled consternation and admiration +beaming, bewitched, in one dark eye, +Una turned from the spectacle–turned, +shuddering, from the hundred-and-odd feet +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67'></a>67</span> +of unbroken abyss extending from the +nickum’s knickerbockered legs, nonchalantly +swinging, to an awed grove of +young pine trees, rock-ribbed and bowlder-strewn, +far below.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I don’t want to look at him,” +she cried cravenly. “How will he–ever–climb +back up here again?”</p> + +<p>“Tr-rust him–” began Toandoah’s +daughter, then suddenly clutched her throat, +her widening eyes as round, as bright, as +staringly blue as the mountain lupine already +opening upon the world’s surprises, +in sunny spots, among the hills.</p> + +<p>Those eyes were now fastened to the +back of the nickum’s close-cropped head, +to his broad shoulders in a rough, gray +sweater, noting a certain “bully” shrug +of those shoulders at the surrounding +landscape, as if, monarch of all he surveyed, +he yet felt himself a usurper in his +present seat.</p> + +<p>“Something rotten–something rotten +in the State of Denmark!” crowed Pemrose +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span> +softly. “I wonder if he’s getting that off +now? Una! Una! It’s He ... He!”</p> + +<p>“Who? Who?”</p> + +<p>“The man–the boy–who saved us +after the train-wreck ... without whom +we mightn’t be here–now! Ah-h!” was +the softly tremulous answer, as the blue +eyes danced down the rock, with frankest +recognition, friendliest expectation, to that +daring, nonchalant nickum figure, now +coolly drawing up its toes for a climb.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span><a id='link_7'></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>The Pinnacle</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>It</span> was an exciting situation.</p> + +<p>Pemrose, who like the enthroned daredevil +liked excitement, if she was warm enough +to enjoy it, had not hoped for quite such a +tidbit when she came to the mountains,–at +least, short of the little Thunder Bird’s +record-breaking flight.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I did so want to run across him +again. I do so long to thank him! Why–why! +we might never have escaped +from that awful wreck, got out of the zero +water, but for him, Una.” The blue eyes +were wet now, frankly wet, bluebells by +a mountain brook–the little bursting +brooklet of feeling within.</p> + +<p>“I–I’d like to thank him, too!” +gushed Una, with that little fixed star +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70'></a>70</span> +twinkling most radiantly in one dark eye, +the slight stand which characterized it +only at intense moments when feeling +reached indefinite altitudes. “Oh! how +glad I am now,” she ran on breathlessly, +“that we made Andrew leave the car down +in a garage at the Pinnacle’s foot and bring +us up here for a sort of picnic supper,” +sending a sidelong glance scouting round +for the tall, capped figure of the grizzled +chauffeur who, a brief ten years before, +had been driving his “laird’s” car upon +Ben Muir, a heathery mountain of his +native Highlands.</p> + +<p>Trustworthy as day, a capable driver +and zealous Church Elder, he was one +to whose guardianship Una Grosvenor, +the apple of her parents’ eye, might safely +be intrusted with her visiting friend while +her father golfed and her mother lunched +and played bridge in complacent peace +of mind.</p> + +<p>“Oh! she’s all right with Andrew; +he’s such a true-penny!” was her father’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71'></a>71</span> +dictum. “Safer with him, up here, than +she would be with maid or housekeeper! +And, after that shock in the winter, the +doctor wants her to be out of doors among +the hills morning, noon and night–practically +all the time, if she can!”</p> + +<p>Ah! so far, so good. But just at this +unprecedented moment of excitement +Andrew, the true-penny, had encountered +another Scot, who emigrated before he +did, and was breezily “clacking” with +him at some distance from where two +breathlessly expectant girls gazed down +upon the black top of the nickum’s +head–and at his wheeling shoulders in +the great armchair.</p> + +<p>“Oh–oh! there he goes–see–curling +up his legs, drawing up his feet +carefully, turning in the seat–standing +up!” cried Pemrose, all Rose at this +crisis, prematurely blooming, as if it were +June, not May, as she stood on tiptoe to +meet a dramatic moment, reveling in the +thought that the daredevil did not know +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span> +what a surprise awaited him on top here, +what a welcome–heart-eager gratitude.</p> + +<p>She bit her lip, however, upon the impulsive +cry, for she saw two girls, younger +than herself, with a ten-year-old boy, who +had been watching the climber’s feat from +a near-by mound, turn and look at her +curiously.</p> + +<p>They were evidently acquainted with +the daring usurper of the Devil’s Chair.</p> + +<p>For, having drawn up his legs until +his knees touched his chin, then raised +himself to a standing position on the +grim stone seat, cautiously turning, his +strong fingers gripping the granite chair-arms, +when his back was to the precipice +beneath and his face almost touching +the twelve-foot, well-nigh perpendicular +rock which he had to climb, he actually +had the hardihood to wave his hand to +them.</p> + +<p>“Now–now comes the ‘scratch’!” he +shouted laughingly. “I’m going to hook +on to that ‘nick’ in the rock, there, just +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73'></a>73</span> +over my head, and draw myself up. Had +to ‘shy’ it coming down–for fear it +would catch in my clothing.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t I–didn’t I t-tell you it +was him?” burst forth Pem, with all +the vehemence of a little spring torrent, in +Una’s ear as she caught the ring of the +chaffing voice which had railed at the +Fates for “wishing a wreck on” to unoffending +youth, and was so boldly challenging +them now.</p> + +<p>And just as free and frank in her girlish +gratitude as that torrent bubbling impulsively +out of the earth, when the nickum +reached the crest again, she sprang forward, +hand outstretched, to meet him. +Her eyes, blue as the little fairy blossoms +of the star-grass now, were breeze blown +in the meadow of her gladness.</p> + +<p>It was nothing–nothing not to know +the name of one who had saved you from +death, she thought.</p> + +<p>By the rescue you knew him!</p> + +<p>And he knew her!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span>Those eyes, those keen, girlish eyes +which had looked through the spectroscope +a hundred times, in her father’s +laboratory, into the remote mystery of +that far-away upper air could not be +deceived.</p> + +<p>By the sudden, startled heave of his +shoulders, whose defiant shrug she remembered +so well, by the quick intake +of breath, as its climbing hiss sharpened +to a whistle–almost a rude whistle in +the excitement of the feat he had just +performed–by the little stare of breathless +surprise, of quandary, in his dark eyes, +glowing like Una’s, he recognized her ... +and passed her by.</p> + +<p>Recognized her as the girl whose “pep” +he had complimented for putting another’s +life before her own–and didn’t want +to have anything more in life to say to her!</p> + +<p>Well! the Heavens fell upon the Pinnacle +as Pem drew back–annihilated.</p> + +<p>Snubbed for the first time in all her +blue-sky life–and by a boy, too!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span>To be sure, indeed, the nickum, his +glance darting past her to Una, had gone +by with a slight inclination of his bare +head that was a stony bow.</p> + +<p>To be sure, when one of the girls of his +acquaintance questioned him about the +view from the Devil’s Seat, there was a +sort of creak in his voice as he answered:</p> + +<p>“It’s–a–corker! You can see +away off: far-rms, lakes, all the other +mountains–Mount Greylock, too, in the +distance! But–but it’s a cat’s-foot climb +down–there!” breaking off breathlessly, +as if feeling were making a cat’s-paw of +him.</p> + +<p>“Oh! you can really see Mount Greylock! +As far away as that! Well! I’m +going to try-y it, too,” ventured one of +his girlish companions whose age was +fourteen. “Summer and winter, I’ve done +a lot of climbing, up here!”</p> + +<p>“You try it! Any girl try sitting in +the Devil’s Chair! Why! there isn’t a +girl living who could do it,” crowed the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76'></a>76</span> +gray-shouldered youth: and now his tones +were lordly, as if he were picking himself +up after an inner tumble.</p> + +<p>“Hey! Is that so?” Pem–over-hearing–ground +the words between her +teeth.</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Have you never heard of Camp Fire,</p> +<p> What a shame! What a shame!</p> +<p><i>If</i> you’ve never heard of Camp Fire,</p> +<p> You’re to blame! You’re to blame!</p> +<p> Then don’t take a nap,</p> +<p> For we’re on the map,</p> +<p> Ready to prove it with s-snap!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>She hissed the last word at the nickum’s +back, as he halted at some distance with +his companions.</p> + +<p>“Una! I’m going to do it,” she panted. +“I’m going to slide down that rock there, +turn round and sit in the Chair–then +draw myself up again, as he did. I’ve +got on sneakers. I know I can! I’ve +done some breakneck climbing with father–yes! +and with my Camp Fire Group, +too.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77'></a>77</span>“I–I’ll give you all my marshmallows +that we brought with us to toast at an +open fire, if you do!... Yes! and +one of my two little thistle pins–pebble +pins–that Andrew and his wife brought +me from Scotland, when they went home +last year, <i>if you do</i>.... Wasn’t he +just hor-rid? He didn’t want to speak +to us–to know us!”</p> + +<p>Una’s face flamed upon the bribe, and +was so pretty lit by that fixed star in the +eye, that it must have been a zero-hearted +nickum who could turn his back upon it.</p> + +<p>“Hold my hat,” said Pem: if she had +been a boy, the tone would have meant: +“Hold my coat while I thrash him!”</p> + +<p>Unhesitatingly she stepped to the precipice-brink +and measured the distance to +that Devil’s Chair very coolly and critically +with her eye.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78'></a>78</span><a id='link_8'></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>A Usurper</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Gathering</span> her short, green skirt about +her, for she wore, as on that February +day in her father’s laboratory, what he +called the “nixie green”, the sylvan Camp +Fire uniform, the inventor’s daughter +stretched herself breast downward, upon +the flat ledge of the Pinnacle’s crest.</p> + +<p>Working her body carefully backward, +without another glance at the precipice +beneath, she slid warily over the edge, +her face to the rock, and down the dozen +feet of almost smooth, nearly perpendicular +slab, until her feet touched the stone +seat of that curved armchair, a deep +embrasure in the mountain granite.</p> + +<p>It was not such a wildly difficult feat +then for a girl on her mettle to turn +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span> +cautiously until her tingling back was pressed +hard against the slab, and thus to lower +herself to a sitting position on the rocky +throne.</p> + +<p>For that Devil’s Chair was a spacious +one–fairly so! The seat extended outward +at least three feet and was roomy +enough to allow of two people standing +upright on it at the same time.</p> + +<p>And what a view old Lucifer must have +from it, was Pem’s first thought–provided +he didn’t, as an Irishman would +say, reside away from home!</p> + +<p>Off to the right and left stretched the +wonderful landscape of the Berkshire Hills, +Massachusetts’ Highlands–the Berkshire +mountains in May where, afar, a summit +snow-cap vied with the driven snows of +blossoming fruit trees, lower down; where +the pink-shot pearl of a lake gleamed, +opal-like, from an emerald setting, and +many a silver thread winding, expanding, +showed where some madcap river or brook +had become with spring a wild thing.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span>“Oh, hurrah! I can really see off to +Mount Greylock–old King Greylock–even +the steel tower upon it–oh! so +plainly,” murmured the madcap in the +Chair, and nestled triumphantly against +its rocky back.</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Greylock, cloud-girdled, from his purple throne,</p> +<p> A shout of gladness sends,</p> +<p>And up soft meadow slopes, a warbling tone,</p> +<p> Of Housatonic blends.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Yes! she felt as if they were two throned +dignitaries, she and Greylock; for she +wore the crown of derring do, and King +Greylock, still wearing a thin diadem of +snow, was enthroned for ever in her imagination +as the favored peak from which +the first experiments with her father’s +immortal rocket were to be made.</p> + +<p>Upon Greylock’s crest within a week +or two, maybe–at all events before summer +dog-day heat clogged and fogged the +air–her transcendent dream–or the first +part of it–would come to pass: her +yearning thumb would press the button +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81'></a>81</span> +and start the little Thunder Bird off, to +fly up a couple of hundred miles, or so, +with its diary in its cone-shaped head, +and send back that novel explorer’s log, +the little recording apparatus, attached +to a black silk parachute–the first, the +very first record from the outer realm of +space.</p> + +<p>No wonder that old Greylock sent her +back a shout of gladness now, as, squirming +in the Chair, she turned her gaze +away from the distant mountain to green +meadow slopes, to the right, where the +broadest silver ribbon, intertwined with +the matchless landscape, showed where +the Housatonic River, the blue Housatonic, +flowed and sang.</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear! I wouldn’t have missed +this for anything,” she exulted silently. +“But the idea of that perfectly horrid +boy actually daring me to do it! He +didn’t mean to, but he did–strutting +off, like that, crowing about his climbing! +As if a girl were–gingerbread! Well–” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span> +indignantly–“that was just one with +his passing Una and me when we only +wanted to thank him, felt as if we naturally +must thank him, for–for.... Bah! +I won’t think of the horrid wreck now! +Or of him, either! I’ll be taken up with +the view! Isn’t it exquisite–sublime? +Not interrupted as it is up there on the–Pinnacle’s–crest!...–Ah-h!”</p> + +<p>The little pinched exclamation came when–all +too suddenly–she changed the point +of view, and looked down.</p> + +<p>Beneath her yawned the precipice over +which her feet dangled–treading air, with +never a break between them and that grove +of dwarf pine trees more than a hundred +feet below, pointed by their glinting rocks.</p> + +<p>The little trees bowed to her, now, like +servants–green pages.</p> + +<p>But, somehow, their homage made her +feel uneasy; it put too great a distance +beneath her and them.</p> + +<p>The crown of daring which she wore +did not fit quite so easily.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83'></a>83</span>She began to feel like a usurper whose +head might at any moment be taken off.</p> + +<p>And, with that, she decided to vacate!</p> + +<p>Drawing up her feet much more gracefully +than her predecessor had done, she +curled her body in the seat and raised it +slowly until she was in a standing position, +grasping the stone arms of the chair, +turned–turned rather sickeningly, to be +sure, until her breast was against the +broad rock down which she had slid, +then reached upward for a handhold by +which to climb–to draw herself up.</p> + +<p>There was one. The nickum–churlish +climber–had pulled himself up by +it. Like him, she had fought shy of it, +sliding down, for fear it should catch in +her clothing.</p> + +<p>A little spur it was, projecting from a +slight fissure, what he called a “nick,” in the +rock, rather more than half-way up,–a +good seven feet from the rocky armchair.</p> + +<p>Breathlessly she reached upward, to +grasp it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84'></a>84</span>And, lo! her lips fell apart–like a +cleft stone.</p> + +<p>At the same time her heart slunk out of +her body and dropped into the precipice +behind her.</p> + +<p>Her fingers just missed that spur–fell +short!</p> + +<p>They touched it; they could not curl +over it–and grip.</p> + +<p>Flattening herself to a green creeper +against the rock which seemed spurning +her, wildly she stretched every tendril–every +sinew.</p> + +<p>In vain! Make as long an arm as she +could, this daring Pem, her five feet three +of slim girlish stature would not become +the five feet nine of the daredevil who +preceded her!</p> + +<p>Emergency balks at extension.</p> + +<p>That right arm, racked, fell limply back.</p> + +<p>The blue of her eyes, hooking to the +spur, if her fingers couldn’t, grew glazed +like enamel.</p> + +<p>She felt as if she were tumbling +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85'></a>85</span> +backward already, the daring essence of her, +to break her too spunky backbone among +those glowing pine-dwarfs far beneath.</p> + +<p>Spread-eagled against the rock’s cruel +breast, she turned a blanched face, a convulsed +face, upward!</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span><a id='link_9'></a>CHAPTER IX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Jack at a Pinch</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>Keep</span> cool! Don’t stir! I’ll reach +you in a moment!”</p> + +<p>As the cry, the reassuring cry, came +ringing down to her, Pemrose felt the +blood start again from where it was frozen +at the back of her neck and surge through +her flattened body, which, greenly spread-eagled +against that gray rock, the head +turned slightly aside, was not unlike the +quaint Indian figure of the Thunder Bird +upon a pedestal,–the emblem of her +father’s invention.</p> + +<p>As the first blind moment of terror +passed–the blankness of the discovery +that, strain as she might, she could not +reach that spur of the rock, the nearest +hand-hold, and draw herself up to safety–she +saw two rescuing figures loom out +on high.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i3'></a><img src='images/illus-086.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“Keep cool! Don’t stir! I’ll reach you in a moment!” <i>Page</i> 86. +</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87'></a>87</span>The first was that of the chauffeur, +Andrew, summoned by a piercing cry +from Una–Una whose delicate face was +white and square now as the marshmallows +in the box under her arm, with which she +had bribed her friend to the madcap feat +of sliding backward down a twelve-foot +rock and sitting in the Devil’s Chair.</p> + +<p>And Andrew the Scot saw the danger, +heard it skirling in his ears, for he had +been brought up among mountains.</p> + +<p>He did not quite see what good he could +do, that staid Church Elder, by joining +the girl in the Devil’s Seat.</p> + +<p>But he came of a Campbell clan which +never flinched.</p> + +<p>He was preparing to slide down, himself, +when an arm–a left elbow rather–thrust +him rudely back.</p> + +<p>“T-take hold of this rope-end. Throw +yourself flat on the ground there. Sit +on him, you girls, so that he may not +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88'></a>88</span> +be drawn over!” cried a voice, pointed, +vigorous.</p> + +<p>Pem knew that it was the fiery voice of the +nickum, the broad-shouldered youth, who +had sat in the chair before her, whose +crowing had been responsible for her feat.</p> + +<p>Her colorless face was turned upward +then and she had seen him push up the +lower folds of his sweater with his left +hand–even while its elbow sent the +chauffeur back–and while his right, +lightning-like, uncoiled a rope, a lariat, +worn under it around his waist.</p> + +<p>It was then that he shouted to her to +“keep cool”; and that she, turning her +head aside against the rock, became a +living effigy of the Thunder Bird.</p> + +<p>Not waiting to make the rope fast around +his own body–or his body fast to it–he +slid down.</p> + +<p>The next moment he was standing beside +her in the chair.</p> + +<p>“Ha! So the ‘pep’ was in the wrong +box that time,” he said coolly.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89'></a>89</span>“Yes. Last time it was in the ice-box,” +snapped she, as coolly, not to be outdone. +“So you <i>did</i> remember–know me–us!”</p> + +<p>“How could I help–remembering–that +icy train-wreck?” He was slipping +the rope in a noose under her arms. “Perhaps, +some day.... Well! I’m glad +to be ‘Jack at a Pinch’ again, anyway.”</p> + +<p>“R-ready!” he shouted then.</p> + +<p>And Pem was drawn up, to face a Highland +squall from Andrew.</p> + +<p>“Hoot! lassie, an’ air ye sech a fechless +tomboy that a mon mun keep his een +sticket on ye a’ the time?” the Scot +angrily demanded. “How cud ye be sech +a nickum as to try sitting in yon–Deev’s +Chair?”</p> + +<p>“Ask–ask the other nickum; he did +it first,” flung back the rescued one.</p> + +<p>But under cover of the broad scolding, +the other, the Jack at a Pinch–friend +in need for the second time–had again +slipped off, without a word from either of +the girls.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span>“Bah! he is a nickum–a mysterious +imp,” snapped Pemrose, the fire that +smoldered behind her white face leaping +up. “Can’t be shyness with him; he +doesn’t look the least bit shy! Oh-h! +what a fool I was to give him a chance to +help me–save me–in a ‘pinch’, again.”</p> + +<p>Tears were springing to her eyes now,–tears +of reaction.</p> + +<p>She felt that an eighteen-year-old youth, +privileged to save her life twice–it +seemed a privilege at the moment–might, +at least, have had the manners to +let her thank him for it.</p> + +<p>“Oh! he’s the nicest and the–hor-rid-est–boy +I ever saw,” wailed Una, +in tribute to the train-wreck, still a nightmare +on her mind.</p> + +<p>Both girls were dumfounded, as well +they might be.</p> + +<p>Pemrose, with her blue eyes under jet-black +lashes–girdled, moreover, with +her father’s growing fame–Una, with +lighter eyelashes and hair, and that little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91'></a>91</span> +fixed star of angry excitement blazing +in one sweet dark eye, they were the kind +of girls whose good graces a boy would be +the last to spurn, fair even for daughters +of Columbia who, democratic in beauty, +as in all else, never hatches out an ugly +duckling.</p> + +<p>They gazed in stormy bewilderment now +after Jack at a Pinch walking off with his +party whom, indeed, he had herded away.</p> + +<p>Andrew was looking gloweringly after +him, too.</p> + +<p>“An’ so he’s the loon that sat in the +Chair first!” grumbled the still angry +chauffeur. “Aw weel–” the “dour” expression +upon the speaker’s long upper +lip softening a little–“weel! he may be +ill-trickit, but he’s a swanky lad, for a’ +that. Aye, fegs! an’ braw, too.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! he’s ‘swanky’ enough–swaggering–but +I don’t think he’s ‘braw’, +handsome–not with that little stand in +his eye–just like Una’s, only more so.” +Pem added the last words under her breath. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92'></a>92</span> +“But, oh! for goodness sake! let’s get +away from here,” she cried wildly; “over +to the other side of the Pinnacle, anywhere–anywhere–so +that we won’t see +him again, before his strutting over what +he’s done, makes me–makes me–”</p> + +<p>“Yes–it’s pretty on the other side +of the hill, easy climbing, much smoother–green +and spring-like,” assented Una +soothingly, pouring balm. “It’s all +covered with young pine trees and just +a few, very few, tall silvery birches. Not +rough and rocky as it is this side!” glancing +shiveringly down the precipice.</p> + +<p>“Not another Deev’s Chair in sight, +I’ll be hoping–fegs!” muttered Andrew, +picking up a basket which he +had carried from the automobile up the +low mountainside, and in the late emergency +had set down.</p> + +<p>It contained cocoa, sandwiches, fruit +and other toothsome dainties for a picnic +supper.</p> + +<p>“We have permission to make a fire, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span> +a Pin-na-cle blaze, to–to boil water +and toast our marshmallows. Oh! of all +things, all-ll things on this planet–I +don’t know what we may find on any +other–that’s ‘banner’, it’s a marshmallows +toast out-of-doors–isn’t it?” +chanted Una, intoning her delight to the +trees, the low spruce and pine scrub, as +she skipped among them, an evergreen +sprite, herself, for she, too, now wore the +“bonnie green”, the Camp Fire short +skirt, middy blouse and captivating Tam-o’-shanter–most +nymph-like note in +dress for daughters of the woodland.</p> + +<p>“And–and I just know the dear-est, +loveliest pin-ey nook,” she went on in a +choir-boy sing-song; “half-way down the +Pinnacle’s softer side it is, where we may +build our fire. Halleluiah! I suppose I’ll +have to get busy and gather fagots, as in +Camp Fire rank I’m a Wood Gatherer. +Oh, dear! Will you listen to old Andrew. +Now what is <i>he</i> singing?”</p> + +<p>The Scot, indeed, relaxing from prim +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span> +silence and chauffeur ceremony here upon +the Pinnacle’s height, with only two young +girls to marshal instead of the mechanism +of lever and brake–although the former, +as he had found to his cost might prove +the worse handful of the two–was alternately +whistling, with lips drily pursed, +and crooning in the burr-like accents which +adhered like a thistle to his tongue, his +version of a very old song:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Young lassie! Daft lassie,</p> +<p> I tell ye the noo,</p> +<p>I’m keepin’ some fagots,</p> +<p> An’ a stick, too, for you!</p> +<p> </p> +<p>“Singing whack fol de ri do!</p> +<p> De ri do!</p> +<p> </p> +<p>“A lassie, a dog,</p> +<p> And an auld rowan tree,</p> +<p>The mair that you thwacks ’em,</p> +<p> The better they be!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>“‘Thwacks ’em!’ Pshaw! he’s flinging +that in my direction–having a fling +at me–for sitting in the Devil’s Chair,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span> +laughed Pem, but the laughter was bitter, +two-edged. “Oh! Una,” she burst forth +shakily, “as long–as long’s ever I live, +I’ll wish I hadn’t done it, letting–letting +that Jack at a Pinch, as he called +himself, that big, boorish boy, play friend +in need to me-e again. Ugh-h!”</p> + +<p>Her stung lips quivered and were twisted, +partly upon the after-taste of terror.</p> + +<p>“Humph! forget it–oh-h! forget it,” +caroled the younger girl. “See that you +don’t make a trouble out of it, for trouble +is a hor-rid kettle-o’-fish for the troublers–see!... +But–listen! Listen! +Surely that’s singing–singing from somewhere–<i>other</i> +singing!”</p> + +<p>She paused on tiptoe, a green dryad, +one little hand, fair as a flower-petal, +curled about her startled ear.</p> + +<p>But Pem was for the moment comfort-proof.</p> + +<p>“Bah! ’Tisn’t quite so easy to forget,” +she murmured, bitterly.</p> + +<p>Her less fragile fists were mounted one +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96'></a>96</span> +upon another under her chin as if to +hold her head up. For the first time in +her life she felt as if she were being asked +to drink a cup of humiliation–she, Toandoah’s +little pal–and she made wry +faces over even a sip.</p> + +<p>“Humph! Doesn’t it seem queer–queer–outlandish?” +she snapped, bolstering +the piqued head higher with each +passionate adjective. “Here for three +months, ever since February–since I +recovered consciousness after that freezing +wreck–I’ve been longing, oh! longing +to meet again the boy whose chaff, +whose very chaff, warmed one amid the +horrors.... You didn’t hear it; you +were too far gone. And, <i>now</i>!” The +little fists lashed out. “Bah! Who could +ev-er dream that he’d turn out such a +‘chuff’, as the boys say–an un-civ-il +chuff?... Una! it’s never–it isn’t, +it can’t be Camp Fire Girls?”</p> + +<p>“It is! It is! I told you I heard +singing.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97'></a>97</span>The answer was shrill with delight as +the wiry note of the little black-poll +warbler, nesting near.</p> + +<p>“Why! Why! Goodness! That’s +what I hurled at <i>him</i>; at his crowing, +cock-a-hoop back!”</p> + +<p>The older girl’s face softened, melted +into whimsicality now,–into a freakish +surprise that encircled, like a golden ring, +her wide-open mouth.</p> + +<p>Up–up from the Pinnacle’s softer side, +its tender, heavenly side, the chant came +ringing, the merry chant and challenge:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Then–then don’t take a nap,</p> +<p>For we’re on the map!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>“Camp Fire Girls! Camp Fire Girls! Here +on the Pinnacle ‘map’!”</p> + +<p>Pem caught her breath wildly. Never–oh! +never was a turn of the tide more +welcome.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98'></a>98</span><a id='link_10'></a>CHAPTER X<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Camp Fire Sisters</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Never</span> was a diversion more welcome!</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“We’re on the map,</p> +<p>R-ready to prove it with snap!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Snap was in the very sunset as the +evening breeze learned the song.</p> + +<p>As for the inventor’s daughter, her joyous +relief was now a hop and now a dance, +anon a pine-caught hullabaloo, as she +gleefully turned her back upon the Devil’s +Chair and nickum memories–her face +to the glowing sun of sisterhood.</p> + +<p>“Camp Fire sisters! Camp Fire sisters! +Was ever such luck?” she cried. “Oh! +come, let’s find them–let’s join them.”</p> + +<p>“Oh–let us!” assented Una, her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99'></a>99</span> +excitement, too, running like wildfire +through the wood.</p> + +<p>And, presently, the two city girls, wafting +themselves airily over bowlders, threading +their way in and out among pigmy +pines, with here and there a needled patriarch +among them, came upon a forest +scene that might well have wakened +Queen Mab from her sleep in a cobweb +net and made her think that some, at least, +of the fairy dreams with which she inspired +mortals had come true.</p> + +<p>A dozen, and more, of sylvan figures, +the green tassels of their Tam-o’-shanters +waving like the tasseled green of the cinnamon +fern flitted busily in and out among +their passive brothers, the trees, not pines +here, but a few beautiful stripling birches +planted in a sunny spot.</p> + +<p>To these white-stemmed saplings, tall +and taper-like, some of the nymphs, +maidens from thirteen to seventeen, were +playing fairy godmother, affixing to their +slender trunks placards proclaiming the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100'></a>100</span> +exaction of dire forfeits from any wanton +human churl found guilty of mutilating a +silver birch tree, stripping it even of an +inch of tender skin, thus entailing upon +it decay and death.</p> + +<p>Other of the maidens were gathering +fagots for an outdoor fire to the tune of +a version of Andrew’s song, not without +humor in the present crisis:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Singing whack fol de ri do,</p> +<p> ’Twill comfort their souls,</p> +<p>To get such fine fagots,</p> +<p> When they’ve got no coals!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>One, brisk spoon in hand, was busily +stirring some fairy brew, batter rather–an +older figure superintending, Queen +Mab herself maybe, having a golden sunburst +embroidered upon the heaving +emerald of her breast.</p> + +<p>Now! to these came forth two other +maidens, emerging, breathless, from the +Pinnacle pines, and made the hand-sign +of fire.</p> + +<p>Up went gracefully a dozen green arms, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101'></a>101</span> +in charming tableau, as the woodland +nymphs paused in their work, their curving +fingers typifying the warmth of the +curling flame behind the finger–the +Camp Fire welcome to heart and hearth.</p> + +<p>A genial flame which the Guardian–she +of the golden maturity–put into +winsome words, as she approached.</p> + +<p>“Welcome–thrice welcome,–Sisters!” +she cried. “We are the White +Birch Group of Lenox, at present engaged +in protecting our younger brothers, +the little trees which we planted ourselves. +I am Tanpa–signifying Birch–Guardian +of the Group; in everyday life just +Myra Seaver.”</p> + +<p>“And my name is Lorry–Pemrose +Lorry–my ceremonial name Wantaam, +a Wise Woman.” Here the spokeswoman +for the two strangers had the grace to +blush, remembering the Devil’s Chair. +“And this–this is my friend, Una Grosvenor, +who has just been initiated into +‘Camp Fire.’ We belong to the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span> +Woo-hi-ye–Victory–Group of Clevedon +which, you know, is only a hundred miles, +or so, from here; and we–”</p> + +<p>But Tanpa’s face had become suddenly +fascinated–illumined–to rival the sunburst +upon her breast.</p> + +<p>“‘Pemrose!’” She echoed the words +softly, with transient glow. “How novel–and +pretty! But–Lorry! Oh-h! +you don’t mean to say–you don’t tell +me–that you’re anything to the great +inventor, of whom the whole world is +talking: the professor who has invented +an apparatus to–to travel anywhere +through the air, through space–even to +reach the moon?... Ah-h, there she +is now! I wonder if she’s listening to +us!”</p> + +<p>It was, indeed, at that moment that +Yachune herself, the Silver Queen, showed +her placid face above the Pinnacle pines, +pale on the rim of the waning sunset. +Did she dream of the Earth-valentine in +store for her, mild old Mammy Moon?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103'></a>103</span>No knowing! The Pinnacle, the green +Pinnacle, towered until it seemed very +near to her with the mounting pride in +one girl’s breast.</p> + +<p>“Toandoah, the inventor, is my father–oh! +Professor Lorry, I mean. The Thunder +Bird–the record-breaking Thunder Bird–is +his invention. I call it that; an ordinary +rocket he says it is.”</p> + +<p>Well! the sky was in Pem’s eyes, of a +truth, now, enough blue to make a Blue +Peter, the flag of embarking, the flag of +adventure; no rudeness of “nickum”, +earthbound, boastful, could ever humiliate +her again, with Toandoah’s emblem in +her heart.</p> + +<p>Yet, as she felt the Guardian’s saluting +kiss upon her young forehead, so starred +by fate, as she was introduced, one by +one, to her sisters of the White Birch +Group and was invited, she the center of +a flattering fuss, to sit with them by a +Pinnacle blaze, instead of being at the +pleasant pains to build her own fire, her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104'></a>104</span> +thoughts would turn back–turn back +every now and again, to Jack at a Pinch!</p> + +<p>To the quick-witted, surefooted youth, +so daring, if so unmannerly–such a +chuff–who had not even waited to make +the rope fast around his own body before +sliding down the rock to the Devil’s Chair +a second time–and who had, a second +time too, climbed, unaided.</p> + +<p>But she said nothing of him–or of +her recent escapade.</p> + +<p>And she was glad that Una didn’t!</p> + +<p>Instead, she bathed every sore spot +left by the experience in the glory of telling +her new friends all that she might tell of +the romantic, space-conquering Thunder +Bird, while, above, the Man in the Moon, +eavesdropping, learned of the surprise in +store for him.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he cribbed some hint, too, from +the excited girlish tongue of the demonstration +so soon to take place upon Mount +Greylock, when the invention would be +tried out; and lastly of the thrilling +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span> +invitation to the White Birch Group to be +present–not then–but on that Great +Day, far ahead, when the real Thunder +Bird, full-fledged with magic, red-eyed, +fiery-tailed, would embark on its hundred-hour +flight moonward, as Pem was sure +it would start, no matter where the gold-mine +to equip it came from.</p> + +<p>“Well! we seem, truly–truly–to be +treading the ‘margin of moonshine land’, +don’t we?” said the Guardian dreamily, +enchantment in her voice. “I–almost–feel +as if, some day, we might be inviting +the Man in the Moon to supper +with us here on the Pinnacle, to shoot +himself back in the small hours. Joking +apart, it does draw the Universe very +near together, doesn’t it–open the road +to such wonderful possibilities!”</p> + +<p>Her hands came together as she gazed, +that graceful, green-clad woman, speechless, +transfigured, along the aërial high-road +on which the Thunder Bird would +first pay toll by dropping its golden egg, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106'></a>106</span> +its record, off–off beyond the low night-clouds +to the mysterious sky-ways where +daylight now mated with dusk and the lunar +lamps were being softly lighted, even to +the gateway of Mammy Moon herself. +Throbbing, she flushed from head to heel, as +she thought of the two hundred and thirty +thousand miles to be traversed before the +first barrier between the heavenly bodies +had been let down–and the Thunder +Bird had won home.</p> + +<p>“It’s–too–gr-reat for words,” she +said, a break in her voice now. “Well-ll! +if we are not playing hostess to the Man +in the Moon–quite yet–at least, we +seem to be entertaining angels unawares, +with the latest rumors from the sky,” +laughingly. “How about supper now? +Later on maybe we can show you two +dear girls that we–as a Group–can do +something with red fire, too, a very earth-bound +something, mere child’s play compared +to the future of your celestial Bird. +Ha! But–what’s–that?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span>And then, for the first time in its yet +unwritten story, the Thunder Bird had its +nose put out of joint by a modest little +earth-bird–a hermit, too, as it would +be among the starry spaces–by a little, +brown-backed evening thrush singing its +good-night song in a thicket of scrub +near by.</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“O wheel-y-will-y-will-y-<i>il-l</i>!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>it caroled, as a naturalist has translated +the wonderful, silver-sweet prelude of the +master-singer of the woods, the nightingale +of America, rising, trilling until–now–with +the voice-throwing magic of the ventriloquist, +its song seemed to come from +quite another corner of the thicket, while +girls’ hearts melted in their breasts, as, +climbing a maypole of ecstasy, the notes +trembled–fluted–upon a gossamer pinnacle +of gladness at the close of a perfect +day.</p> + +<p>“Oh-h!”</p> + +<p>There was no breath in girlish bodies for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108'></a>108</span> +more than the one answering note of +passion.</p> + +<p>No wonder the Thunder Bird’s nose +was out of joint.</p> + +<p>Earth has a magic all her own.</p> + +<p>But was it ventriloquism at large? Had +the hermit power to throw his melody +right into the center of the ring of girls–so +to answer himself?</p> + +<p>It was the visitors’ turn now for a stupendous +sensation.</p> + +<p>Almost as airy and flute-like, though +not as liquidly sweet and soaring, were bird-notes +which answered back from within +the very halo of Pemrose herself; and +she turned, with her heart in her throat, +to see who–who had the thrush in her +pocket.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109'></a>109</span><a id='link_11'></a>CHAPTER XI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Mother Earth’s Romance</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Surely</span>, it was the sweetest grace ever +said.</p> + +<p>A duet between a hermit thrush and a +Camp Fire Girl! Pinnacle vespers!</p> + +<p>If gladness did not flow freely now, +then human hearts were a desert!</p> + +<p>Instead, they were enchanted ground, +those girlish hearts, carried away by a +sense that Mother Earth did not, after all, +have to go outside her own atmosphere +for her fairy-land,–her golden crown of +romance.</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Wheel-y-will-y-will-y-il!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>preluded again the little brown hermit-lover, +with the rufous tail and ruffled, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span> +speckled breast, from an evergreen twig of +the low pine-scrub.</p> + +<p>And, once more, the aping response, +the counterfeit thrush-note, came from +some little branch of that goodly green +tree known as the White Birch Group.</p> + +<p>“Who’s doing it? Oh-h! who’s doing +it–answering?” breathed Pemrose Lorry, +feeling thrown into the shade with her +Thunder Bird; which wasn’t altogether +bad for her, either. “Oh! it’s <i>you</i>, is it? +Where’s the whistle–the bird-caller’s +whistle?”</p> + +<p>“Here. Look!” A maiden shy as a +hermit-thrush herself, with rufous lights +in her sleek brown hair, and tiny, red-brown +specks flecking the iris of her eyes–corresponding +to the many freckles upon +her small face, with a luminous quality +added–opened a volunteering palm.</p> + +<p>In its concave hollow, also marbled with +sun-spots, lay the magic whistle, the two +gleaming tin disks about the size of a +fifty-cent piece, joined one upon another +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111'></a>111</span> +with an eighth of an inch distance between +them, through whose simple medium +the music in the heart of a fourteen-year-old +girl had so attuned itself to a little of +the melody in the breast of the thrush +as to draw–actually draw–the hermit +himself forth on to a rock on the edge of +the thicket, looking eagerly, a trifle doubtfully, +for the raw singer–the mate, who +had answered him.</p> + +<p>“Romeo and Juliet!” laughed the +Guardian. “Such a dear little feathered +Romeo, with a beak lined with pure gold–and +a fairy oboe in his breast! Juliet–” +she lightly touched the brown-plumaged +maiden–“Juliet answering from her balcony, +this mound!”</p> + +<p>“Only a parrot Juliet who can coin +such shabby notes to answer him with!” +breathed the girl, shyly nursing her whistle. +“No doubt he’s saying to himself: +‘Shucks! Where’s that hermit–or +hermitess–’” merrily, “‘with the frog in +her throat, or the great, big worm?’”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112'></a>112</span>“Oh! do-o try it again, anyway?” +pleaded the visitors together. “It’s +won-der-ful! We’ll be as still–as still +as a nun’s chapel!”</p> + +<p>And obligingly, once more, the human +thrush lifted up her notes of speckled +sweetness compared to the silver purity +of the strength which answered, the hermit +fluting passionately upon his rock:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p> “the song complete,</p> +<p>With such a wealth of melody sweet,</p> +<p>As never the organ pipe could blow</p> +<p>And never musician think or know!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Carried beyond himself–perhaps after +all, he was a lonely hermit–he actually +hopped from his rock, unalarmed, towards +the firelight, when–when the concert +was suddenly interrupted by a woodland +gorgon!</p> + +<p>By Andrew who, rearing his six feet two +of gaunt, hurlothrumbo length from a +fern-bed, hooking stick in hand, suddenly +lifted from the embers a boiling kettle.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113'></a>113</span>“Fegs! ’twas like to scald somebody +wi’ its daffy simmer,” he explained apologetically +to the Guardian, being, in his +capacity of chauffeur, used to camping +emergencies among these picturesque hills–so +like, in many respects, the wilds of +his Scottish Highlands where the Lady +of the Lake, an original Camp Fire Girl, +shot her skiff across the blue-eyed loch.</p> + +<p>“My certy! but ’twas pretty to see yon +<i>merle</i>, though!” he murmured, having +restored the kettle to sanity. “Fine it +minded me, ma’am, o’ the time when I +was a boy, huntin’ like a nickum for the +nests o’ mavis an’ merle–blackbird an’ +thrush–when I’d rise ‘wi’ lark an’ +light!’ Fegs!” Scotch humor ripping +chauffeur silence, “yon was a thing to +make a sober body young again; a while +agone I don’t know but I was feelin’ like +the last o’ pea-time; an’–an’, noo, I’m +a green pea again,... or I would be but +for the one sair memory,” added Andrew, +the true-penny, under his breath.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span>“Yes–yes, and you had to go jumping +around like a parched pea, and frightening +the beautiful merle, the thrush, away!” +complained Una, aggrieved. “Oh! how +did you ever learn to mimic its call, at +all?” she cried, catching at the wrist +of the human merle, now very practically +engaged in toasting bacon-strips on the +end of a stick.</p> + +<p>“My brother taught me; my only +brother, Stud–Studley–Studart they +nickname him in camp–I don’t know +why,” was the fluttering response.</p> + +<p>“A corruption of Stoutheart, I should +say!” supplied the Guardian, now +busily frying flapjacks. “Of all the Boy +Scouts in my husband’s troop, he’s the +lion-heart,” laughingly. “So I understand!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, oh! yes, but he’s so-o nice, with +it,” cooed the merle’s brown-eyed “mate.” +“He has never–oh! never–squeezed +me out of anything, just because I was +a girl; always said that two–two–could +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115'></a>115</span> +hunt together and make good headway!” +softly.</p> + +<p>“And so they can: and so they will, +when it comes to the grandest quest of all, +the hunt for truth and justice at the polls, +voting side by side! Girls! Dear–girls!” +The eyes of Tanpa, the Guardian, were +ablaze now with more than the firelight’s +glow, as she tossed her browned cakes on +to a platter. “<i>Dear</i> girls! In the new, +the wider future before us–soon to confront +all of you–let us bring to it our +Camp Fire hall-mark: the hall-mark of +the woods: purity of the Pinnacle’s breath, +the ‘pep’ of the outdoor dawn–tenderness +of the twilight, when we feel that +God is near!... And now–and now! +let us sing our grace, not for this food +alone, but for the new manna which has +fallen for us–the glorious manna of +opportunity.”</p> + +<p>“If we have earned the right to eat this +bread, happy are we, but if unmerited Thy +blessings come, may we more faithful be!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116'></a>116</span>On wings of faith the moved chant +floated forth, led by the girl-thrush in a +sweet soprano, supported by the sonorous +roll of the Pinnacle organ, the murmuring +pine trees; and the voices of the +slender tree choir, the slim, white-tunicked +boy-birches, bore it aloft–aloft to +Heaven.</p> + +<p>“So you’re not only gifted as a ‘merle’, +you sing as a girl, too!” said Pemrose presently, +nestling nearer to the maiden with +the whistle in her green breast-pocket. +“You must love birds very much in +order to imitate a thrush-song like that.”</p> + +<p>“Well! my ceremonial name, as a Camp +Fire Girl, signifies a little brown bird of +the woods; so I thought it was ‘up to +me’ to learn to converse with my kind!” +was the half-shy, half-spicy answer. “My +brother Stud and I have no end of fun, +now in the early summer when the birds +have just arrived, and are mating, calling +them around our camp.”</p> + +<p>“Here–here, let me explain that we +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span> +have a sort of Community camp for boys +and girls about three miles from here, +on the wooded shores of The Bowl, that +lovely, egg-shaped lake among the hills,” +put in Tanpa, an air-drawn picture in her +glowing tones. “There are two big bungalows, +a couple of hundred yards apart, +one for the Troop, one for the Group! +Of course, we can’t occupy them all the +time, at present, not until school is closed, +but we constantly go out there over night–to +watch the summer coming–and +for week-ends.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! the lake and the woods around +it are more wonderful now than at any +other season of the year,” put in one of +the older girls, an Assistant-Guardian. +“And we can always keep warm, you +know, even if there is a cold spell in May, +because the boys chop wood for us.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and we do their mending; oh! +and quite often the shoe pinches–the +stocking, I mean–when the holes are +just haggles!” The eyebrows of a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span> +fair-haired, pretty girl of fifteen were ruefully +arched, over eyes of merriment. “But +we do–do have such fun at our Get +Togethers–our picnics and parties,” went +on she, whose ceremonial name was Aponi +the Butterfly of the mountain group.</p> + +<p>“Hur-ra-ah! There are two such Get +Togethers coming off quite soon now–one +the day after to-morrow–Saturday–a +picnic at Snowbird Cave, to explore +some other caves afterwards upon +the further side of the river, the blue +Housatonic.”</p> + +<p>This contribution came, piecemeal, from +several feasting mouths together.</p> + +<p>“Oh! the Housatonic–blue–Hous-a-tonic!” +Pemrose bent demurely over +her flapjack and cocoa, curling her toes +under her as she recalled her view of it +from the Devil’s Chair. “And what about +the second Get Together–when is that +to be?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“A week from Saturday: <i>Jubilate!</i> It’s +our anniversary day as a White Birch +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span> +Group when we hold a sort of carnival in +he afternoon in honor–in honor of the +de-ar birch trees just bursting into leaf.” +Aponi fluttered like green tree-hair, herself. +“And that’s to be followed–whoopee!–by +a party: a real, full-blown June +dance in the evening–to which all +the boys are invited. And–and, +maybe, some girls not of our Groups will +find an invitation tucked into their stockings, +too,” slily. “But for the picnic this +week the Boy Scouts are hosts.”</p> + +<p>“I guess, if they knew there were two +strange girls in camp–such girls–they’d +scuttle to ‘come across’ with an +invitation, too!” laughed the one slangy +member inseparable from every group, +whose talk is the long stitch in the thread +of conversation.</p> + +<p>“Do you think they would? Oh! I +don’t know about that. Boys are such–such +griffins, sometimes.”</p> + +<p>Wormwood was in the eye of Pemrose, +pointing the accusation, a new and gloomy +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120'></a>120</span> +pessimism born of the Devil’s Chair and +Jack at a Pinch.</p> + +<p>“<i>Ours</i> aren’t!” It was the voice of the +little girl-thrush lifted in blue-jay belligerence +now. “Our boys aren’t queer fish–not +a bit!” rising to hot defense of Stud, +the Stoutheart, who even in callow youth, +was of opinion that Life in every phase +was a game for two–in which two, of +differing sexes, could hunt together and +make good headway.</p> + +<p>“To be sure, they do love to get off jokes +on each other–and occasionally on us,” +went on Jessie, the brown-haired merle in +maiden form. “They have a society of +older boys in their camp called the Henkyl +Hunters’ Brigade. My brother Stud–he’s +a patrol leader–belongs to it. And they +go on the war-path occasionally–and +publish a bulletin about their doings.”</p> + +<p>“What’s a henkyl?” Una’s mouth was +wide open; upon its gusty breath rode +horned toads and plated lizards, in imaginary +solution.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span>“A henkyl! Oh! if you ask <i>them</i>, +they say it’s a freak of an animal that they +hunt up and down in the woods, trying to +get its scalp, or–or catch it alive. Which +they seldom or never do!” Jessie’s eyes +sparkled. “Stud says a whole ‘henkyl’ +is hard to capture; it’s so sure to shed its +horns or its teeth just as you pounce +upon it.”</p> + +<p>Pem was staring intently at the speaker, +her black brows drawn together over eyes +as speculatively blue as ever they had been +in Toandoah’s laboratory when grasping, +or trying to, grave problems of the air.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I know. I know!” she cried +suddenly, the blue breaking up in the +firelight into a harlequin patchwork of +merry gleams. “A henkyl! Why-y! it’s +a joke. A joke that they’re forever chasing +up and down, trying to get a laugh against +somebody,–that absurd brigade!”</p> + +<p>“Companionship with a Thunder Bird +has sharpened your wits,” smiled the Guardian. +“A practical joke it is, that most +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span> +elusive thing to pull off whole, point and +all, with the laugh entirely on one side! +Well! we mustn’t give them any occasion +to turn the chase against us, air their wit +in our direction, by failing in our demonstration +presently–the signaling practice +to which we challenged them; eh, +Tomoke?”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed!” A sixteen-year-old girl, +gray-eyed, vibrant with energy, mobile +as the Lightning, the mettlesome Lightning, +from which she took her Camp +Fire name, spoke up spiritedly. “We’re +going to flash a message right across the +valley, over to old Round-top, that sleepy, +dark mountain, a couple of miles away, +just as soon as the daylight is all faded +out,” she explained.</p> + +<p>“Oh, ho! That’s what the Guardian +meant when she spoke of showing us +something–a display–with red fire, +eh?” gasped Pemrose. “How are you +going to signal–with what code?”</p> + +<p>“Morse code–and a good, fat two-foot +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123'></a>123</span> +pine-knot, oozing with resin!” smiled +the Lightning, vivid with inspiration. +“How–how about sending over this +message: ‘Two strange girls in camp; +you ought to meet them’?”</p> + +<p>“Lovely! That will hit the mark!” +came the appreciative chorus, to the song +of logs. “Then–then you’ll see old +Round-top wake up, quick’s a wink and +‘come across’ with an invitation–an invitation +to that banner picnic the day +after to-morrow!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span><a id='link_12'></a>CHAPTER XII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Old Round-top</span></span></h2> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p> “C. F. G.! C. F. G.!</p> +<p>We are the Camp Fire C. F. G.!</p> +<p>Oh! none with us can compare,</p> +<p>For we looked over</p> +<p>And picked the clover,</p> +<p>And the World’s lit up</p> +<p>With our Camp Fires everywhere!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>“And, fegs! wi’ an aging, sober body +like mysel’, if he isn’t a-picking o’ the +clover blossoms, he’s a-smelling o’ them +the night,” softly soliloquized Andrew, +the chauffeur, as he listened to that halcyon +song around the Pinnacle blaze–feeling +barred out of Clover Land himself, as +he lay among the ferns, because of the +“one sair memory”, the whiff of heather +ever and anon wafted to his nostrils, as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125'></a>125</span> +it seemed, from the grave of a fifteen-year-old +lassie away back in Scotland.</p> + +<p>“Hum-m! if ’tweren’t for that, I could +maist fling out an’ dance the ‘Rigs o’ Barley’ +a-watching o’ those happy lasses,” he +whimsically confessed in the ear of a king +fern. “I could, for sure, same’s we used to +dance it in the glen around a bonfire!”</p> + +<p>But if the heather in his heart, reinforcing +chauffeur primness, checked even +the first lashing kick of a Highland Fling, +it did not restrain him, that grave Church +Elder, from taking part later in something +fully as giddy; a wild and storming +torchlight procession.</p> + +<p>“Now! what we need, girls, is a good +r-rich pine-knot, with a juicy, resinous +knot in it, that will burn ten minutes, +anyway, for signaling purposes,” said +Tomoke, the personified Lightning, as the +“C. F. G.” proclamation over, the magic +moment came for the flashing of the light +of this particular camp fire in speaking +fire from mountain to mountain–across +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126'></a>126</span> +the mile and a half of intervening valley. +That inflammable knot was not hard to +find. Split with the toy axe which the +girl who had won an honor bead for signaling +carried at her belt–a modern Maid +Marion, at home in all woodcraft–it +blazed, transplendent, a foot-long flambeau, +searching the Pinnacle’s darkest +nooks, winning sleepy birds from their +slumbers, calling upon them to follow +too, as Tomoke, nimble of foot as her +aërial namesake, presently dashed up the +hill, with it held high!</p> + +<p>Brilliant as a starshell–where near-by +objects were concerned–it counted the +needles upon the little, awed pine trees. +It painted the wild excitement upon leaping +girls’ faces, lit dancing Jack-o’-lanterns +in their eyes as, scrambling, they followed +the light-shod leader–gold-slippered +by the torch–in a breathless +tumble-up over rock and needled carpet, +amid scandalized bough and shamefaced +crag and little, blinking torrent.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127'></a>127</span>It turned to nocturnal dewdrops the +bright eyes of the birds,–scandalized, +too, yet resolved, at all costs, to come in +on the fun!</p> + +<p>Robins, flame-breasted in the glow, a +black-throated green warbler–blossom of +the night–a purple grackle, its boat-tail +stiff as a fan-shaped rudder, and, +“leggeddy-last,” a cawing crow, they +circled on low wing after the brilliant +torch,–all pecking at the wonder in the +air!</p> + +<p>It caught the whooping amazement on +Andrew’s smooth-shaven upper lip, shimmering +through a veil of anxiety lest, +somewhere, there might be another +“Deev’s Chair” around, or a madcap +lassie to sit in it, as, with an irresistible +“Hoot mon!” he brought up the rear +of the fantastic revel; the rush of green-clad +maidens, the elfin tassels of their +Tam-o’-shanters waving, and of demented +birds for the Pinnacle’s tallest crag.</p> + +<p>Poised upon that gray rock-shelf, high +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128'></a>128</span> +above the ground, her slight face with the +shining eyes, framed in the radiant torch-light +as in a golden miniature, the signaler’s +right arm held the blazing knot with its +ragged, foot-long flame at arm’s length +above her head, then described a brief +quarter circle to the left with it, quick, +snappy–once, twice–the arm being +extended on a level with the young shoulder +so slim, so stiffened!</p> + +<p>“See!–See! That stands for I: two +dots! I, three times repeated, gives the +call,” breathed the Guardian at Pem’s +elbow, her mature face a gold-set miniature +of excitement, too.</p> + +<p>“Oh–oh! I wonder if they’ll ‘get +us’, those boys–those joking Henkyl +Hunters?” The throbbing question was +on every girlish lip. Eyes burned, like +the torch, across the valley.</p> + +<p>The mountains were falling asleep in +their night-caps of mist.</p> + +<p>But suddenly one of them, far away, grim +and dim, lifted an eyelid–and responded.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129'></a>129</span>The drowsy valley caught its breath–as +old Round-top winked back.</p> + +<p>Caught its breath with many a waking +scintilla of light in the pointed flash of +pool and stream!</p> + +<p>A momentary, broken arc, a shattered +rainbow dividing the flood of dusk above +from the gulf of darkness below; and +then–and then the triumphant cry in +each gasping throat:</p> + +<p>“They’ve got us! They see us! Now–now +for the message: ‘Two strange +girls with us. You....’”</p> + +<p>But there the Lightning’s lore suddenly +gave out, her signaling memory, as the +news was vivaciously transmitted by +staccato dot and lengthier dash, the latter +being the same quarter-circle once described +in a single movement to the right.</p> + +<p>Over the valley the message was hung +up. It was hung up in Pem’s heart, too,–and +the honor, the fair grace, of boyhood +with it.</p> + +<p>If old Round-top unhesitatingly played +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130'></a>130</span> +up, “came across” with an invitation–an +invitation to that alluring Get Together +at the winter palace of the Snowbirds, +then she would feel that a nickum’s +rudeness was atoned for–and Jack at +a Pinch might go his graceless road, never +to prove a friend in need to her again–not +if she knew it!</p> + +<p>“Invite them to the picnic ... and +don’t forget the cocoa!”</p> + +<p>The valley fairly bristled with the +promptness of it–the skilled directness +of the message, so rapidly, so spontaneously +given that the poised Lightning +on the crag was hard-pressed to keep up +with the meaning–to read the handwriting +of fire and give the interpretation +thereof.</p> + +<p>Old Round-top had seized the shining +hour. The Henkyl Hunters were no +“chuffs”, no conundrums, with the strange +riddle of incivility up a sleeve.</p> + +<p>“‘Invite them to the picnic–and don’t +forget the cocoa!’” Tanpa laughed. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span> +“Just like them! We did promise to +lay in a fresh supply of sundries, as we +pass through the town to-night–if there’s +still a store left open. And that reminds +me, girlies, that it’s getting late. We have +no right to keep the birds out of bed any +longer, demoralizing the feathered world.”</p> + +<p>But the Lightning had recovered its +morale, its memory, prompted by a Morse +code-card excitedly snatched from a green +breast pocket and explored by the light +of the dwindling torch.</p> + +<p>“Invite–your–friends–to–our–d-a-n-c-e,” +slowly spelled out Tomoke, +giving back diamond for diamond.</p> + +<p>She was beginning upon the word “A-ll”, +but the pine-knot winked itself out in a +dazzlement on “dance,”–in an effulgence +of sparks that fell like golden rain upon +the hearts of the visitors.</p> + +<p>“Will it–will it be an outdoor affair–a +piazza dance?” gasped Una. +“Oh-h! I do love.... Now! Andrew!” +She broke off suddenly at the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span> +chauffeur’s declaration that it was +“magerful” show, “yon fire-talk”, that +he never expected to see the like carried +on by “tids o’ lassies”, but that it really +wasn’t in him to stand there any longer +rolling his eyes over it, like a duck in +thunder. “Now, Andrew!” reasoned his +employer’s young daughter. “You know +that you’ve driven my father and mother, +and Professor Lorry, too, to a dinner-party, +where the professor is to give a +talk about the Thunder Bird–and oh! +may its fiery tale be a long one to-night–you +won’t have to fetch them home +for another two hours yet.”</p> + +<p>“Hoot! It’s saft as peppermint. I am +wi’ ye, Miss Una, but it’s time for all +lassies to gang home,” returned the other +with paternal insistence, lifting his cap +in questioning appeal to the Guardian.</p> + +<p>“He’s right, dear. <i>We</i> must be starting +for the home camp, too–just as +soon as we’ve seen that our fire is +thoroughly extinguished,” said Tanpa. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span> +“Our paths don’t lie in the same direction, +but we hope they often will in future. +As to the dance, it will be a piazza affair, +if the evening is fine–the festive wind-up +of an exciting day, our White Birch +anniversary which we celebrate with rites +and symbolic dancing, in honor of our +patron, our woodland lady, the leafing +birch tree.”</p> + +<p>“How lovely; per-fect-ly love-ly!” flowed +from the visitors, both, in a silvery ripple.</p> + +<p>“Well! how about your spending a +few days in camp with us then–at our +camp on the Bowl–if your elders are +willing?” went on the gracious grown-up +woman, with warmth as golden as the +sunburst on her breast. “We’ll let Pemrose +Lorry plant the tallest birch sapling +in honor of the Thunder Bird. Long–long +before it’s a full-grown tree, let us +hope, the Bird will have made its great +migration, crossing, not a continent, but +space! And now, dears, <i>au revoir</i>! to +meet again at Snowbird Cave.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134'></a>134</span><a id='link_13'></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Cobweb Weed</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>Well!</span> you certainly are the laziest +bunch; you’d carry a whole bakery in +your knapsacks rather than do any cooking–especially +if there are girls around. +Lazy as Ludlam’s dog you are! Next +time–next time, I’ll set you to peeling +potatoes.”</p> + +<p>It was the chaffing voice of the Scoutmaster, +Malcolm Seaver, which spoke, +addressing some twenty scouts who were +scattered about the vine-draped entrance +to Snowbird Cave, where, yearly, the +little gray-white junco birds–otherwise +snow-birds–fluffy balls, with no heads +to speak of, wintered among the low +hemlocks near the cavern’s mouth and +fed upon the spicy hemlock bark.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span>“I–I wonder if you could tell me of +what breed Ludlam’s dog was, sir? If +he could burn up daylight chasing his +tail any better than this crowd can, lolling +around on a picnic, he must be the limit.”</p> + +<p>The answer came with the low, drawling +laugh of Stud Bennett, otherwise +Studart, brother to Jessie, the “merle’s” +calling mate, who was himself playing +fiddle-faddle in the sunshine, after a four-mile +hike.</p> + +<p>“Humph! Well, <i>I’m</i> off to locate a +spring–where’s the blue bucket? When +I get back you’ll <i>have</i> to turn to, you +dummies, build a fire and unpack the commissariat–otherwise +rolls by the dozen. The ‘duff’ and Frankforts are in +the ‘Baby’, I guess.” The Scoutmaster +shot a glance at a big, brown duffle bag +reposing on a mound, capable of containing +ten bags of rations, each pertaining +to individual scouts on a long hike, yet +hardly sufficient to transport the “cates”, +the luncheon for eighteen Camp Fire +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span> +Girls and twenty scouts, plus a couple of +invited guests, on a Together picnic.</p> + +<p>“Are there any boys and girls who are +dying to come with me, to prospect for +water?” he put forth alluringly, to the +rhythmic swing of the big water bucket +in his right hand, painted bright blue.</p> + +<p>There was an instant volunteering flutter +among certain green-clad girls and lads in +khaki, breezing up from the grass where +they had languished; others held back.</p> + +<p>“I’d rather explore the cave–I love +creepy caves–and we haven’t been half +through it yet,” said Pemrose Lorry.</p> + +<p>Forthwith Stud, the Henkyl Hunter, +decided that cave-exploiting was the pastime +for him; there was rarely a younger +boy–Studart was barely fifteen–who +did not become the captive knight of +this older girl with the sky in her eyes +under jet-black lashes!</p> + +<p>Jessie, sister of Stoutheart, she of the +thrush-song in her heart, wanted to be +near to the girl who was mate to a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span> +Thunder Bird, too; and others were drawn by +the same abstract birdlime–or else the +bat-stirred cave had lures.</p> + +<p>“There–there’s a secret lobby in it,” +said Stud, “a dark, rocky passage leading +off from that queer black, three-cornered +fissure in the right wall, ten feet +from the ground–I guess nobody has +ever explored it; nobody has cracked the +nut of what’s behind that triangular +crevice, so high up!”</p> + +<p>“Come–come; that sounds exciting, +very exciting!” remarked Tanpa, the Guardian, +remaining behind too, as chaperon.</p> + +<p>But her husband wheeled upon his jog-trot +off after water, swinging his galvanized +iron bucket after a manner to +give the air the blues.</p> + +<p>“Well! I wouldn’t try to crack the +nut, solve the riddle, of what’s behind +that queer-shaped crevice, Stud,” he said. +“It’s black–black as a tinker’s pot +in there. You wouldn’t know what you +were heading into!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span>“Aw, gammon! I wouldn’t be afraid +to tackle that fissure–find out what’s +back of it–although I’m not a Tin +Scout–ha! ha!–out with the whole +toyshop to-day; all my monkey trappings,” +exploded a rough voice suddenly +from among a trio of clownish-looking +boys who hovered, vulture-like, on the +edge of the picnic ground, transfixing with +a sanguinary eye the Baby, whose soft +heart was of blueberry “duff.”</p> + +<p>“An’ I tell you what’s more, if I were +to climb up an’ in there, I’d trust to my +own ‘bean’ and a few matches, ’thout +any gimcracks,” craked the boastful voice +further, the special gewgaw on which the +braggart fixed his eye, at the moment, +being the little Baldwin safety lamp, four +inches high, which Stud was just lighting, +attached to the front of his olive-green +scout hat.</p> + +<p>“Tr-rust to your own ‘bean’–your +own head–an’ what’s inside it! Well! +I’ll admit it’s fiery enough,” flouted the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139'></a>139</span> +Henkyl Hunter, piqued even in the presence +of girls into giving back tit for tat. +“But you’re carrying too many eggs in +one basket, let me tell you, and you’re +likely enough to take a leap in the dark +an’ smash ’em all.”</p> + +<p>“Ha! Am I now,” snarled the other, +resenting the implication that his brick-red +head was a brash basket into which +to pack all his chances of safety, such as +were not anchored to the poor stay of a +few fickle matches.</p> + +<p>“Am I now-ow?” he chortled, very +red in the face–and tongue-tied–as +he shadowed the picnic party through +the cave.</p> + +<p>At his wits’ end for a verbal retort, he +presently proceeded, after the manner of +his kind, to throw a stone in his own +garden.</p> + +<p>“See here! you kids, if you’ll let me +stand on your shoulders, you two, I’ll +give those Tin Scouts an eye-opener,” +he said, retaliating after a manner to hurt +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span> +only himself, as he addressed the two +younger boys with him, his eyes cast up +to that mysterious fissure, outlined, a +rocky tripod, above his head, of which +the Scoutmaster had remarked that all +behind it was black as a tinker’s pot.</p> + +<p>Into that ebony pot, forthwith, climbing +by the willing step-ladder of his companions’ +bodies, Ruddy, the rashling, presently +thrust his head–that flaming head +with all his chances in it!</p> + +<p>His body followed, finding entrance +through the crevice amidships, so to speak, +where it broadened out to some three +feet across from the tapering point of +the lowest corner.</p> + +<p>“Oh-h! look at him. Do look at +him!” panted the girls, held up in their +search for pale-faced cave flowers and +strange fungi by the “derring-do” act.</p> + +<p>“Gracious! some of you scouts ought +to stop him–re-al-ly ought to stop him,” +shrilled Jessie, catching her breath at +the shock of darkness visible in the yawning +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span> +fissure’s mouth, where the brief flicker +of a match now chased bogies.</p> + +<p>“Humph! We can’t head him off, +Jess.” Her brother disclaimed responsibility +with a shrug–while the little lamp +winked sarcastically from his hatbrim–but +in the heedful tone of the boy who +had been trained to feel–as Toandoah +did with his little petticoated pal–that +Life was a game in which two could hunt +together, even upon the trail of a Thunder +Bird, and make good headway. “We +can’t turn him back!” Stud shrugged +his khaki shoulders. “But he’ll strike +a blind bargain in there. Ha! There +goes another ‘niggling’ match!”</p> + +<p>A frippery flame, indeed, its reflection +flickered a moment, a gold tooth in the +fissure’s grinning mouth–darkness followed!</p> + +<p>Two or three of the boy scouts–those +who did not, like Stud, show incredulity, +sarcasm gleaming, hawk-eyed, from a +ruby lamp hooked to a hatband, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142'></a>142</span> +from a level eye beneath it–held their +breath, dazzled; for the moment beaten +at their own brave game of exploring.</p> + +<p>So did the girl who had been piqued +and dared into sitting in the Devil’s Chair–with +a sheer abyss beneath her!</p> + +<p>Again did her wide-open, staring eyes, +under their black lashes, sport a Blue +Peter, the flag of adventure.</p> + +<p>“Oh! he’s plucky, anyhow. I wonder +what he’ll find in there?” her palms +were laid together upon a spicy filling of +excitement. “He really is daring–awfully +daring, you know!”</p> + +<p>“Ha! Courage cobweb-weed!” muttered +Stud laconically. “Well–well, +he’ll have tears in his eyes before I go +after him!”</p> + +<p>And–with that–there was the +rasp of a third “niggling” match, faintly-heard, +far in, a momentary reflection, +a tiny glance-coal, in the fissure’s leering +mouth! And–and, following that, a shriek!</p> + +<p>A shriek, headlong, sinking and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span> +pitching–dying like a falling star, as if some +clutch were stifling it.</p> + +<p>“Hea-vens!” The girls, blanching, +shrank against the opposite cave-wall, +which shuddered behind them.</p> + +<p>A bat, flying low, a winged Fear, +brushed Tanpa’s cheek, as she stood, transfixed,–and +her cry was almost as hysterical +as theirs.</p> + +<p>In the blackness of that Tinker’s Pot +behind the looming fissure, were there +other things–other things besides a boy, +a broken braggart of a boy?</p> + +<p>Was Death in the pot with him? Had +he sipped of its mystery–only to perish? +Death–it seemed a raving possibility–in +the shape of some wild animal, perhaps–a +live, a clutching claw!</p> + +<p>Tales were always current among the +mountains, trappers’ tales–and most of +them airy “traveler’s yarns”, too–of +strange tracks seen in lonely spots, of +lynx and bobcat; and even of the young +and roving panther.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144'></a>144</span>To be sure, a three-cornered tunnel, the +second floor back of a lofty cave, would be +the last place to look for such an ambush, +unless there was some fly-trap opening to +it from above. But there might be!</p> + +<p>Boys and girls, both, their blood flamed +upon the fear, then froze–until the +silence, the bat-churned cave silence, was +hung with icicles above them.</p> + +<p>Then, once more, it was ripped from +on top by that perishing shriek–passing +strange, remote–but now it was +as if the fissure’s three-cornered mouth +filled with it, faintly gibbered the one +word: “C-caught!”</p> + +<p>“’<i>Caught!</i>’ Oh! Stud, you warned +him; it’s his own doing. Let those other +two boys–his friends–climb up to him! +Well–if you feel–you–must?”</p> + +<p>Jessie’s cry gibbered in agony in her +throat, too, liquid as the thrush-tone in +terror for its mate. But it struck a high +note at the end.</p> + +<p>For Stud’s hand was groping +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span> +mechanically for the bright little lamp above his +forehead, as if for inspiration, his left +for the lariat at his waist, in defiance +of his threat that the desperado in the +“pot” might have tears in his eyes before +he would help him.</p> + +<p>But there was something worse than +cave-tears in question now–of that +Studart felt sure.</p> + +<p>And Pem, watching,–Jessie, too–caught +from an entering shaft of day-light +which shivered as if aghast, the +reflection of the tightening glow upon +his young face–the waggish features of +the Henkyl Hunter!</p> + +<p>And she recognized it, by the feeling +of her stiff, cold cheeks, as she clapped +her hands to them–did Toandoah’s +little chum–for the glow which had +electrified her own when she fought her +way out of a swamped Pullman, saving +her friend, driving it into the teeth of the +flood, and of the World, too, that neither +her father’s honor, nor his invention–nor +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span> +anything he ever turned out–was a +Quaker gun; letting fly with it faintly +at a rescuing youth, too, when she bade +him “take Una first.”</p> + +<p>For by that glow as by an altar-lamp, in +whose gleam she had worshiped before +she saw as the strong boy’s hand went +automatically to his equipment that lamp +and lariat were nothing–nothing–“without +the heart of a Scout!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147'></a>147</span><a id='link_14'></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Stoutheart</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>W-wedged!</span>... Wedged!”</p> + +<p>Now–now it was another word which +jabbered faintly in the dark fissure’s mouth! +A girl caught it–or thought she did.</p> + +<p>“<i>Wedged!</i>” she echoed wildly. “Caught! +Oh, maybe–maybe–there’s nothing in +there but Ruddy himself!”</p> + +<p>“Maybe–so!” Stud panted heavily +while, across an inner, gaping hollow, the +next words took a giant stride to his lips: +“Anyhow–I’m going up!”</p> + +<p>“Oh–Studley!” But beyond this one +faint cry, Jessie, stanch little partner,–the +girl behind the lines,–said no more to +hinder him now, as she watched the scout +detach his little lamp from his hatbrim +and hook it on to his khaki breast.</p> + +<p>With it glowing there, a headlight for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span> +his gallant heart, Stud set himself to climb. +Standing upon the shoulders of two +brother scouts, in his belt a club snatched +from one of them, he reached the lowest +point of the tapering fissure.</p> + +<p>“Ha! There he goes, in spite of his +teeth,” tremored a younger boy.</p> + +<p>“His teeth aren’t chattering!” Pem’s +eyes–lightning-blue–hurled back the +charge.</p> + +<p>The denial rang in Stud’s ears as he +thrust his head into the black opening, +entering, amidships, as the former muddle-headed +explorer had done.</p> + +<p>“That girl’s a trump–the girl with +eyes the color of the little ‘heal-all’, that +blue flower we pick up here in May! A +trump! But so’s little Jess, too!”</p> + +<p>Thus did Stoutheart, a knight of to-day, +pay tribute to the world he left behind him, +when he felt in his exploring knees, now +creeping along the bottom of the Tinker’s +Pot, that there was a chance of his leaving +it behind forever.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149'></a>149</span>“I don’t see what else he <i>could</i> have +done,” said Tanpa, the Guardian, her +fingers hysterically interlocking. “Somebody +had to go up; and he’s the oldest +boy–a Patrol Leader. But, oh! I wish +my husband were here. Run and meet +him, a couple of you!” She glanced appealingly +at the scouts. “Oh! do–and +hurry him back–back from the spring.”</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Stud had forgotten even his +backers in the feminine hearts below and +was banking all on just one trusty ally–the +headlight on his breast.</p> + +<p>“Without the light, the little safety +lamp, I couldn’t do-o it,” he told himself. +“Gee! but it is as black in here as Erebus, +a Tinker’s Pot, indeed–the blindest passage–blindest +bargain–I ever struck! +So–so sharp underneath, too!”</p> + +<p>Yes, difficulty masked was in the +“bargain”, yet he crept on over tapering +ridges of rock that now and again buckled +like teeth. But he knew by the parched +sound of his own voice, as he shouted a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span> +question, that his courage might have ended +in smoke, there and then, if it weren’t for +the little lamp at his breast.</p> + +<p>So rosily it burned now, in here, that its +feeding oil seemed the red blood of his +heart!</p> + +<p>“Anyhow–anyhow, with it, I’ll be +able to see which way the cat jumps!”</p> + +<p>Here, Stoutheart more tightly gripped the +club; the last words might prove more +than mere figure of speech.</p> + +<p>From ahead came strange, gurgling, +choking sounds, rising from somewhere–growing +weaker.</p> + +<p>“Where–where are you, Ruddy? +Answer! R-rap–rap out something, if +you can!” he adjured.</p> + +<p>And it was–truly–a rapping reply +that reached him; a queer, hollow knocking +at the door of some throat that semed +shutting.</p> + +<p>“My word! What on earth ... what +in thunder’s got him?” Stud felt his own +breath blow hot and cold together, but–this +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span> +crucial moment it came back to +him–the eyes of a girl out there had +driven it home, with blue lightnings, that +he did not <i>have</i> to defy his teeth.</p> + +<p>“Humph! I’m no quitter,” he told +the piloting breast-ray, blazing its ruby +trail ahead. “Well-ll! for the love of +Mike! Well! what do you know about +that?... What have we h-here?”</p> + +<p>In answer to his gasping snort, as he +gaped and gasped there in the darkness, +the little safety lamp told him what it +made of it–of the staggering sight–it +made a pair of big feet in rough cowhide +boots tightly wedged by the ankles in a +buckling switch of rock where two sharp, +narrow ridges that formed the bottom +of the Tinker’s Pot dovetailed into each +other,–after the manner of rails at a +switch.</p> + +<p>Ruddy, the slipslop explorer, had gone +in heels over head, so to speak. He was +hanging by the heels now. Nothing visible +of him but those pinioned feet!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152'></a>152</span>“<i>Hea-vens!</i> he did strike a blind bargain. +S-such a snag! The passage ends here. A +drop! A–blank–fall of rock! Gee-ee!”</p> + +<p>Dank–dank as cave-tears now was the +moisture upon Stud’s forehead. For the +first time his teeth almost chattered. What +would he see when he held the lamp over +the edge of the Tinker’s Pot into the +horror of that empty space beyond where +the passage broadened into blankness and +the rock shelved sharply down? A dead +boy? Or one so far gone from hanging +that he could not be rescued?</p> + +<p>At the first sight of those wedged feet +he had felt inclined to laugh. Now he was +laughing at the wrong side of his mouth, +as he peeped over the brink.</p> + +<p>“Oh-h! the rock <i>isn’t</i> perpendicular; +it slants down, though, pretty sharply–down +into an inner cave–by gracious! +And Ruddy, the way he’s hanging his +nose, is within an inch or two o’ the floor +of that other cave!... And, yet, he’s +helpless! Helpless as if he had a halter +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span> +round his neck! Oh-h! if some of the other +fellows were here.”</p> + +<p>But Stud did not seem to be quite alone; +he was one and a half; for the hearts of +two girls were pendent from <i>his</i> neck; +outside he knew they were backing him,–praying +for him.</p> + +<p>Also, that frenzied gurgle from the victim’s +throat, his choking cry as the light +struck him, the squirming body and up-rolling +eyes told the boy scout that he was +just in time; although the foam was +pink upon Ruddy’s lips and his congested +head was a fire-ball, indeed,–that brash +head with all his chances in it.</p> + +<p>“Ha!</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“No Loyal Scout gives place to doubt,</p> +<p>But action quick he shows!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>The song, his own, the original march-song +of his troop, sang itself through Stud’s +brain, seethed in the low whistle upon his +lips, as, guided by his ruby breast-eye, +he slid down into that strange and secret +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span> +dungeon in which the black passage ended +and, thrusting his sturdy shoulders under +the pendent body of the victim whose +convulsed hands clutched vainly at the +bare slab, raised it so that the choking boy +could breathe freely again–and in due +time shake off the dizziness of his awful +plight, hung up by the heels by the rock +itself.</p> + +<p>But not until the Scoutmaster came to +his patrol leader’s assistance could those +pinioned feet be really freed and their +owner brought to daylight again, not by +a return via the fissure route, but hoisted +in a rope-noose, as Pem had been from the +Devil’s Chair, through a grass-covered +opening discoverable in the roof of that +inner cave.</p> + +<p>“Goodness! after all, he wasn’t so much +more foolish–headstrong–than I was. +But Una! Una! If you ever-r tell them!” +Thus did the maiden of the chowchow name +spill her spice into her friend’s ear,–burning +spice, for, privately, she was shocked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155'></a>155</span> +at seeing her own folly, parodied, vulgarized, +as it were.</p> + +<p>“Well! I should say! He was hanging +between hawk and buzzard–if ever a +fellow was,” happened to be Stud’s moved +comment as, clinging to that lowered rope, +he was hoisted, too, through that covert +opening, the loyal little lamp upon his +breast paling now into a penny candle +held towards the sun.</p> + +<p>But the rescuer’s halo did not pale.</p> + +<p>It burnished the picnic luncheon which +followed, encircling, rainbow-like, little Jessie +who basked in it more than did the +rebellious hero, pelted with wild flowers by +the girls–as symbolic of other bouquets.</p> + +<p>“Oh! let up–let up–will you? +Those big fellows will take me for the +‘goat’–somebody’s ‘goat’!” protested +Stud helplessly, striving to direct attention +from himself by training it upon a straggling +group of distant youths, really too far off +to take stock of what was going on among +the merry picnic party.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span>But Pemrose was taking stock of them. +Her widening eyes, her reddening cheeks, +the little piqued shiver that electrified her +chin, told that one figure–one figure–called +for recognition; called for it, indeed, +so loudly that it couldn’t be denied +him.</p> + +<p>Every member of that group–a canoeing +party, a wading party, it was, just +landed from the near-by river, the blue +Housatonic–was a blaze of color.</p> + +<p>But the sturdiest among them was simply +barbaric. The warm sunlight of May +dripped golden from his nickum shoulders, +bronzed to the hue of a statue, bathed his +bare knees and feet, his khaki shorts, the +flame of an apricot jersey, the black and +yellow cap,–the sheaf of mayflowers within +his arm.</p> + +<p>“Oh! how boys–big boys–do revel +in color. A girl–any girl I ever knew–is +demure in her taste beside them,” murmured +the Camp Fire Guardian, with +amused, motherly tolerance.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157'></a>157</span>“Pshaw! I think it’s hor-rid. So +flashy!” snapped Pemrose; Jack at a +Pinch had made gorgeous his incivility and +was parading it before her eyes.</p> + +<p>“Oh, boy! Look at that middle fellow. +He’d have a grosbeak ‘skun a mile’!” +gasped Stud, following the direction of her +glance, with a virtuous consciousness of +his own cave-soiled khaki, moderately lit +by merit badge and service stripe.</p> + +<p>“‘Grosbeak!’ Oh, but I love grosbeaks! +And all that color–why! it paints +the landscape,” came flutteringly from +Aponi, the White Birch Butterfly, least +Priscilla-like in her tastes of the Group, +when she was not in Camp Fire green, or +soft-toned ceremonial dress.</p> + +<p>“Maybe ’twill paint the blues in old +Tory Cave, if we run across them there,” +put in Tomoke, maiden of the flambeau +and the fire-talk. “They certainly are a +perfect ‘scream’, those big boys,” her eyes +merrily following that clamor of color +now wending back towards the canoes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span>“Humph! they’d have to ‘go some’ to +leaven the blues of Tory Cave,” remarked +the Scoutmaster, laughingly addressing +himself to a roll. “The biggest bonfire on +earth wouldn’t half dry the cave-tears +there.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that’s the den of the Doleful +Dumps–their diggings!” laughed a +younger scout, flourishing aloft a mess-mug, +the gray of his rolling eyes. “Bats–bats +as big as saucers–no, soup-plates! +And, far in–far in–the sound of running +water, like a weak wind!”</p> + +<p>“Running water! Invisible running +water! A–weak–wind! Oh-h! do let +us hurry and go on there. We have to +cross the river; haven’t we?” The gurgle +of that cloistered brooklet was already in +Pem’s heart as her dilating gaze spanned +the Housatonic, broad and open, “warbling” +amid its soft meadow slopes, as she +had looked upon it from the Devil’s Chair. +“But, goody! I hope we <i>won’t</i> run across +him there–Jack at a Pinch! Flaunting +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span> +round like a grosbeak!” She bit the +thought into an olive. “Stud’s no grumpy +riddle–if he is a Stoutheart, like the +other!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160'></a>160</span><a id='link_15'></a>CHAPTER XV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Airdrawn Aëroplanes</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Running</span> water! Invisible running +water! The voice behind the scenes +prompting the play,–the grim play of +bat and rat and reptile in old Tory Cave, +where the rocks wept, the little strolling +sunbeams clapped their hands, and the +great fungi, primrose-skirted, drooped over +a drama never finished!</p> + +<p>It was even more romantic than the +girls had hoped for,–such romance as +clings, cobweb-like, to melancholy.</p> + +<p>Like a weak wind, truly, a sad wind +blowing from nowhere, was the purl of that +hidden streamlet whose mystery no man +had penetrated–nor ever seen its flow–mournfully +as cave tears it dripped upon +the ears and hearts of the girls.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161'></a>161</span>“Pshaw! Who cares for weeping rocks, +though they look as if they were bursting +with grief and ready to tear their pale hair–that +queer growth clinging to them. +Humph! Only crocodile tears, anyhow, +like ‘Alice in Wonderland!’” cried Ista, +the laughing Eye of the White Birch +Group, whose everyday name was Polly +Leavitt.</p> + +<p>“It’s <i>not</i> the tears and it’s not that +horribly sad lake with the little, blind, +colorless fish in it, that I mind–it’s the +Bats!” screamed Una Grosvenor. “Oh-h!” +as the mouse-like head of the cave mammal +and its skinny wing almost brushed her face.</p> + +<p>“Well! They’re not brick-bats,” came +reassuringly from one of the boys, as the +Togetherers ranged through the outer part +of that vast Tory Cave–once the hiding-place +of a political refugee, whose spirit +seemed flitting among them in the filmy +cave-fog which, dank and mournful, clung +about the margin of that strange lake of +fresh water where blind fish played.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162'></a>162</span>Presumably fed by that cloistered brooklet, +whose cell, far in, in an impenetrable +recess, no human foot had ever trod, the +lakelet had the floor to itself, so to speak, +so that in places scouts with their lamps, +and girls pairing off with their exploring +brothers, one piloting eye between them, +had difficulty in skirting it–without a +ducking.</p> + +<p>“Whew! a ducking in the dark–a +cave-bath–horrible!” cried Pemrose. +“Oh, mer-rcy! what–what is it?”</p> + +<p>“Bah! Only a garter snake–a pretty +fellow,” laughed Studley, picking the slim, +striped thing up from a corner of the blind +lake where it was amphibiously basking, +and letting it curl around his khaki arm, +investigating the merit badges of the patrol +leader.</p> + +<p>The green and red of the life-saver’s +embroidered badge, the crossed flags of the +expert signaler, the white plow of the +husbandman, they enlivened the gloom a +wee bit, winking up at the safety lamp +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span> +hooked to his hat-band, as he bent over the +illumined reptile.</p> + +<p>But they did not challenge it as did the +flash of an apricot sweater, blood-red in +the ruby lamplight, of a black and yellow +cap, several yellow and black caps, suddenly–eagerly–thrust +near.</p> + +<p>“He’s big–big for a garter, isn’t he, +Buddy?” remarked a voice that did not +come from the ranks of Togetherers, of +Boy Scouts and Camp Fire Girls, excitedly +scrutinizing Stud’s novel armlet.</p> + +<p>Neither–neither was it the voice of the +nickum, so much Pemrose knew, as she +edged coldly a little away,–a little nearer +to the dim and sighing lake-edge.</p> + +<p>Yet he was among them, those gaudy +big boys, whose flare of color merely striped +the cave-dusk, like the dingy markings +upon the snake’s squirming back.</p> + +<p>He actually had his armful of mayflowers, +too, the nickum, not the snake; <i>passë</i> +mayflowers, with the tan of decay on them, +was nursing them carefully, as if they were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164'></a>164</span> +part of a long lost heritage into which he +had lately come–as if he were afraid +to lay them down lest some alien should +snatch them from him.</p> + +<p>“He doesn’t look like a ‘chuff’–a +boor. He looks like a really nice college +boy, one with a hazing imp in his eye +though, lur-rking in that little star–almost +a squint; so–so like Una’s,” +thought the inventor’s daughter, familiar +with the student brand of boy. “Yet +how could he be so uncivil to us, really–actually–snub +us, after all he did, too? +Goodness! wouldn’t I like to get a chance +to snub him?” It was the Vain Elf +which slept in the shadow of the Wise +Woman in the breast of Pemrose Lorry, +that stored this wish, laid it up, a +vengeful arrow in the blue quiver of her +eyes, now shooting piqued, sidelong glances +at those flaunting big boys. “Why-y <i>should</i> +we run up against them here? Well! +he’ll never get a chance to play Jack at a +Pinch–friend in need–to me again. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165'></a>165</span> +Watch me–watch me pick my steps!” +She picked them so at random, at the +moment, moving off, that she came near +slipping in for that eerie ducking, with the +blind fish–pale as phantoms, swimming +round–and Stud, flinging the striped +garter away, hurried after her–Jessie, too!</p> + +<p>“Gee! this is a peach of a cave; isn’t +it?” effervesced the scout sarcastically. +“Melancholy so blooming thick that you +could almost sup its sorrow with a spoon, +eh?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a regular cave of despair.” The +lonely trill of the feathered hermit was in +Jessie’s answering note. “That sad voice +of water, a cascade–a stream–far in, +which nobody ever saw!”</p> + +<p>“I’d give worlds to see it!” said Pemrose.</p> + +<p>“So would I!” Stud’s voice was pitched +high. “If it weren’t for the Scoutmaster.... +Tradition says that whoever drinks +of that hidden water will have luck.”</p> + +<p>“Well! I’d let somebody else have the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166'></a>166</span> +piping times if I were you, Buddy–if +they depend on a draught from that mysterious +spring.”</p> + +<p>Now, it was the nickum who answered; +the same scintillating tones they were–how +bully they sounded then–which had +quoted Shakespeare on “Something rotten +in the State of Denmark”, amid other +depressing waters, half hidden, half liberated +by their ice-cloak.</p> + +<p>“I can look out for my own ‘piping +times’–thank you! And I’m not going +to buy any pig in a poke–take any leap +in the dark.”</p> + +<p>The scout’s reply was bristling. To a +fifteen-year-old patrol leader, a Henkyl +Hunter, who went up and down upon the +trail of a joke, there was a smack of condescension +about that “Buddy”, used twice +by those big boys; perhaps he, too, at +that moment, laid up something against +the youth of the flaming tone and rig.</p> + +<p>“Humph! hasn’t he the nerve, butting +in?” he muttered.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167'></a>167</span>“He has–has all sorts of nerve,” agreed +Pemrose readily, glancing sideways after +the boy whose courage she knew to be +as high as his colors.</p> + +<p>“The Scoutmaster wouldn’t hear of +our venturing in so far as to investigate +that running water, anyhow,” said Studley. +“My eye! What’s the rumpus now–the +kettle o’ fish?”</p> + +<p>It was a shriek from one girl–half-a-dozen +girls. It was a loud hiss, almost a +whistle, from some pallid vegetation near +the lake-edge. It was a black snake rearing +a blue-black head and glittering eye +within three feet of Una Grosvenor, novice +among Camp Fire Girls, whose scream tore +at the very stones of Tory Cave until they +cried out in echo.</p> + +<p>It was a dozen green-clad girls scattering +wildly this way and that, olive-green aspen +leaves tossing in a whirlwind, shuffling from +pillar to post–from rock to darkling rock.</p> + +<p>It was–it was a powerful reptile form, +in armor of jetty scales, trailing its six-foot +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span> +length away, the noise of its mighty tail-blows +against the earth and flying pebbles +calling all the Dumps–the Doleful Dumps–out +of the dens where they hid here, +making them take strange and shadowy +shapes, gigantic shapes, of threat.</p> + +<p>“Let me get out! Oh-h! I want to get +out, away–anywhere!” shuddered Una. +“This is no-o fun.”</p> + +<p>“Yes! it is–once you get used to it,” +laughed Pemrose, who–together with the +Jack at a Pinch still hovering near–liked +her excitement warm. “Look–<i>look</i> at +him crimp himself along! Ever–ever see +anything so crooked?” as the great muscle +in the reptile’s body contracted and relaxed +upon its hasty retreat. “When we +girls had our War Garden, a year ago, an +old farmer said we planted our potato rows +so straight that he ‘vummed ’twould make +a black snake seasick to cross from one to +the other.’”</p> + +<p>“Ha! Because he just naturally has to +go ajee!” laughed her scout knight, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span> +estimating the length of that scaly corkscrew, +if uncoiled, with his eye. “Pshaw! I’ve +tamed ’em–and killed ’em, too,” he +added.</p> + +<p>“Yes! a black snake wouldn’t harm +you, even if he did bite.” Pem was still +reassuring her friend. “Did you hear him +whistle?... But–but what’s that?” +It was just half a minute later that she +put the question. “He isn’t making that +noise with his tail still; is he?”</p> + +<p>She looked at Stud. Under the ruby +eye of the lamp his face–the face of a +Stoutheart–had turned suddenly pea-green.</p> + +<p>His eyes were fixed upon a gleam of +bloated yellow dimly seen, under the lee of +a rock, not very many yards away–the +venomous, pale yellow of the dropsical +cave fungi.</p> + +<p>“Why–why! it’s only one of those +horrid, blowzy, mushroom things. But +<i>what’s</i> the noise–like–like somebody +rattling little marbles, dry peas?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170'></a>170</span>The girl felt her own breath go ratatat +as she put the question.</p> + +<p>“Oh-h! only some fellow rattling–rattling–beans +in his pocket. Let’s get +away–quick!”</p> + +<p>And then Pemrose knew what it was to +look upon a Stoutheart “rattled.”</p> + +<p>But, with that, a voice, a cry, not loud, +but strong, exploded like a spring gun in +the cave,–suddenly halting advance.</p> + +<p>“What’s that outside? What’s that +outside?” it whooped. “Is it an aëroplane? +<i>Two</i> aëroplanes? Oh! hurry out–and +see.”</p> + +<p>“A dozen aëroplanes! A corps of aëroplanes!” +boomed back those flaunting big +boys, of whom the nickum was leader, +playing up to the cue of the Scoutmaster +who had started the concentrated cry. +“Oh, hurry–hurry!”</p> + +<p>She saw him fling his mayflowers on the +ground, that strange youth, and snatch at +Una’s hand, to drag her along towards +the low cave entrance. He made a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span> +wide, circling movement to catch at hers, +too. But she dodged it. Never more +should he play Jack at a Pinch to her! +Never!</p> + +<p>Through old Tory Cave there surged +the noise of a rising wind, silencing that +weak gust afar off, now baleful, the sound +of the hidden water; reverberating among +the rocks, it might be taken for anything, +for the hum of aircraft–for a perfect +onslaught of sky cavalry!</p> + +<p>And the Scoutmaster’s cry was convincing.</p> + +<p>Yet–yet, when boys and girls tumbled +tumultuously through the cave entrance–the +girls by some mysterious understanding, +first–not a remote sign of a biplane, +even a meager <i>one</i>, decorated the sky +overhead.</p> + +<p>No flying wires sent down their challenge. +And the hum resolved itself into +what it was: the rising, random mockery +of Ta-te, the tempest, laughing at their +searching looks, going north, south, east +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172'></a>172</span> +and west, aloft, skirmishing in bewilderment +to all points of the horizon.</p> + +<p>“Hum-m. There isn’t a <i>sign</i> of a buzz-wagon! +Who pulled off that stunt–on–us?” +bleated a few of the mystified +younger boys, while Stud silently brushed +moisture like cave-tears from his forehead.</p> + +<p>So did the tall Scoutmaster, heavily +breathing relief.</p> + +<p>“Not an aëroplane in sight! Not a +single one!” breezed the girls, all ready to +be angry. “Who–who put that hoax +over?”</p> + +<p>“Varnish right–and aëroplane wrong!” +It was the freakish voice of a nickum which +answered. “No! No buzzer, as the boys +say, but there was a rattler, in there, beside +that rock. If some of you girls had gone +ahead, you’d have stepped right on him!”</p> + +<p>“A ‘rattler!’ A big rattlesnake! And–and +you started the cry, to get us out +quietly–quickly!”</p> + +<p>“Not we! The Scoutmaster had the +presence of mind to launch an aëroplane. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span> +We boomed it,” came the laughing reply, +as Jack at a Pinch, second fiddle now, +marched off with his companions.</p> + +<p>“Who–is he?” Pemrose caught wildly +at the arm of Stud, who was wishing that +he and not those patronizing big boys +had caught the Scoutmaster’s cue and +created airdrawn aëroplanes by the corps. +“Do you–do you know who he is; +that biggest–that gaudiest–one among +them?”</p> + +<p>“Yes! No-o! I do–an’ I don’t!” +stammered the boyish Henkyl Hunter. “I–we–” +indicating his scout brothers–“have +met him a couple of times in the +woods; I guess his father an’ he have a +camp on the opposite side of the lake from +ours. We’ve talked with him–tried to +be friendly. And he–he’s always jolly, +you know–like now! But–but when +it comes to finding out anything about +either of them, gee, you might as well +whistle jigs to a milestone–so-o you +might!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174'></a>174</span><a id='link_16'></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>The Council Fire</span></span></h2> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Across the lake in golden glory,</p> +<p> The fairy gleams of sunlight glow.</p> +<p>Another day of joy is ending,</p> +<p> The clouds of twilight gather low.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class='sc'>Another</span> day of joy, indeed! Without +peril of rattlesnake–or marplot nickum +to spoil it!</p> + +<p>“‘Varnish right–and aëroplane wrong!’ +That’s what <i>he</i> said when they laid that +trap to get us out of the cave, without any +fuss. But I say it’s: ‘Varnish right–and +puzzle wrong!’ All wrong!” snapped +Pemrose to herself again and again, repeating +an old saying during the week following +that first Get Together. “Nobody–nobody +has a right to drift around as a puzzle, +these days! If ever I get a chance, see me +snub him har-rd–though he did rescue +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175'></a>175</span> +me twice! Well, thank goodness! it was +the Scoutmaster, not he, who played Jack +at a Pinch in Tory Cave.”</p> + +<p>And it was the Scoutmaster, in days +gone by, with the help of his boys, who had +built the great stone fireplace in the girls’ +bungalow in which a brilliant Council +Fire was now blazing. Across the lake +the golden glory stole, and girls came tip-toeing +to the hearth-flame in soft, ceremonial +dress, fringed and beaded, the firelight, +like dawn, flushing the pearl of their +headbands,–and Pem forgot the enigma +of that eighteen-year-old youth who seemed +to have a trick of bobbing up, now and +again, under the lee of a summer holiday, +like some menacing spar to leeward of a +vessel in fair sail.</p> + +<p>Well! to recall Stud’s figure of speech, +nobody was “whistling jigs” to his milestone +heart now–or trying to. The fire +was the fiddler; and wax was not softer +or more responsive than the pliant breasts +on which its music fell.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span>“I watched a log in the fireplace burning.”</p> + +<p>They whispered it one to another and +under the spell of its transfiguring lay, +bent forward, they witnessed the last act +in a pine-tree pantomime.</p> + +<p>A dazzling transformation scene it was: +in the glow they could see, summed up, +each transition of light and heat that went +before: dawn’s tender flame, the fierce +blaze of high noon, ruby rays of evening +streaming now across the Bowl–hill-girt +lake without–gathered, all gathered, +in a golden age behind them to feed the sap +of a noble tree, here poured forth, amid a +radiant ballet of flame and spark, to furnish +life, light–inspiration–to a Council Fire.</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“I watched a log in the fireplace burning,</p> +<p> Oh! if I, too, could only be</p> +<p>Sure to give back the love and laughter,</p> +<p> That Life so freely gave to me!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Tanpa, the Guardian, softly breathed +it. And in the eye of more than one girl +the wish was transmuted into a tear,–into +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177'></a>177</span> +something more tender, more transported, +than a laugh, as the log, in a final +spurt, gave all, and fell, like a tired dancer, +upon the broad hearth, its rosy chiffons +crumpled and fading into the pale gray of +wood-ashes.</p> + +<p>“There it goes!” The eyes of Pemrose +were a patchwork now, flame embroidered +upon their shining blue; oh! if she were +to give forth what Life gave to her, which +of her Camp Fire Sisters would have such +riches to reflect?</p> + +<p>It had been hers–hers–to share the +dream of a great inventor, to look forward +with him to the pioneering moment–the +beginning of that which would surely, in +time, draw the Universe visibly together–the +moment when the Thunder Bird should +fly.</p> + +<p>She never qualified that dream by an <i>if</i>, +wherever the funds to equip it might come +from–or even if it had to wait a dozen +years, Toandoah’s triumph, like that fortune +“hung up–” for the great Bird to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178'></a>178</span> +make its new migration to the moon, in +proof that space was no barrier–when +the Thunder Bird, giving all, as the log had +done, would drop its skeleton upon the +desert of that silent satellite.</p> + +<p>But there were steps to be taken in the +meantime–exciting steps in the ladder +of success. Those patchwork eyes, looking +into the flame now, counted them, one by +one, and hung in breathless anticipation +upon the first: upon the moment, so soon +to come off, when old Greylock would +really send back a shout of gladness, for +on his darkling summit the hand of a Camp +Fire Girl of America would press the button +and loose the lesser Thunder Bird to +fly up the modest distance of a couple of hundred +miles, or so, with its diary in its head, +and send back the novel record of its flight.</p> + +<p>“I–do–believe that my father sleeps +with one eye open, thinking of that golden +egg, as he calls it–the little recording apparatus,” +she said, when the White Birch +Group, as one, asked that the special +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span> +program for this ceremonial meeting should be +a talk from an inventor’s daughter upon +this most daring enterprise of the age. +“He says that if <i>that</i> does not drift back +to earth safely with the crow-like parachute–if +anything should happen to it, to the +two little wheels, with the paper winding +from one on to the other, all dashed with +pencil marks–the world would call him +a fool’s mate.... If it did!” Pem’s +teeth were clinched. “But, of course, without +the record, there would be nothing to +show how high the little rocket had really +flown–showing the bigger one the road,” +with an excited gasp.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I can understand how anxious +he must be about the safe return of the +egg–or the log–whichever you choose +to call it–the first record from space, +anyway.” Tanpa’s tone was almost +equally excited. “And of course the wind +may play pranks with the parachute–drift +it away down the mountainside!”</p> + +<p>“So that we’d lose it in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180'></a>180</span> +darkness–oh-h!” Pem shivered upon the thought. +“But we’ll all be on the lookout to prevent +that, as many of us as are there–and that +won’t be more than a picked few, Dad says, +to witness this first experiment.... When–when +the real Thunder Bird flies, though–” +she turned those patchwork eyes now, +sky-blue, flame-red, upon her companions–“you’ll +all–all-ll be there. And, oh! +won’t it–won’t it be a sight to watch–it–tear?”</p> + +<p>Drooping towards the fire-glow, lips +parted in entranced assurance, the slight +figure became lost in the same dream which +had held it months before in a February +Pullman, while a daring flame, like a red-capped +pearl diver, plunging into the mystery +of that fairy thing, that gleaming +stole about her neck brought out milky +flashes of luster–together with those New +Jerusalem tints, jade and gold and ruby.</p> + +<p>Finished now it was, the pearl-woven +prophecy–fair record to go down to +posterity!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span>In faith–such faith as had inspired +Penelope, faithful wife, of old, to weave +and unravel her endless web, steadfast in +the belief of her husband’s return, so the +girlish fingers upon the loom had wrought +the transcendent story to a finish.</p> + +<p>To a finish even to the sprinkling of gold +pieces, the yellow bonanza, coming from +somewhere, to gorge the Thunder Bird, +for its record flight; to a finish even to the +celestial climax, the little blue powder-flash +lighting up the dear, fair face of Mammy +Moon!</p> + +<p>But of one climax, more celestial still, +Pemrose Lorry could not speak, not even +to these her Camp Fire Sisters: of the +evening of the second wreck–the wreck +of hope after that third installment of a +disappointing will had been read–when +she had taken the four feet and a half +of pearl poem to her father’s workshop, +the grim hardware laboratory, and out of +the home of light, which she herself hardly +understood, in her young, young heart, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span> +had told him, doubtful of the future, that +she knew the invention would win out–the +Thunder Bird go where nothing earthly +had ever gone before.</p> + +<p>And he had whispered something–something +surpassing–about a Wise +Woman who saved a city.</p> + +<p>It made sacred every thought now, and +humbled it, too, in the breast of this little +sixteen-year-old girl, with the mingled yarn +in her nature–the mingling spice in her +name.</p> + +<p>Others had these fair stoles, too, the +history of their girlish lives woven in pearls +of typical purity, crossed by vivid representations +of events. Drooping to their +knees, in symbolic beauty, finishing with +the soft leather fringes on which a breeze +sweeping down the wide chimney played, +they flashed here and there in the high +colors of adventure–the quaintly symbolized +adventure tale.</p> + +<p>But none could match the theme of the +two little primitive figures upon the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span> +mounttain-top, the inventor looking through a +tube, the comet-like streak of fire above +them: the opening of a highroad through +Space,–the first step towards a federation +of the heavenly bodies.</p> + +<p>The record to go down to posterity!</p> + +<p>Yet old Earth had still her individual +romance of seedtime and harvest, sun +and storm, peril and deliverance.</p> + +<p>Emblematically depicted these were in +the pearl strip of a girl, with a winsome +reflection of Andrew’s thistle-burr in her +speech. Born “far awa’ in bonnie Scotland”, +the thistle and America’s goldenrod +blent their purple and gold upon her +young shoulders; there was an idealized +plow, representing the peaceful agricultural +calling of her father,–and a jump +from peace to peril in the primitively +symbolized scene of a shipwreck through +which she had been with him when crossing +the Atlantic in a sailing vessel.</p> + +<p>“We had all to take to the boats, you +see,” said Jennie McIvor, “for the ship +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184'></a>184</span> +was leaking so badly that she couldn’t +keep afloat but a wee bit longer; and we +had a verra rough time until we were picked +up.”</p> + +<p>A rough time, indeed, typified by the +wildly driven little canoes–the most +primitive form of the boat–tossed upon +stiff water-hills, brooding above them the +quaint, corkscrew figure, with the eye in +its head, of Ta-te, the tempest.</p> + +<p>Somehow, this eye–the spying wind’s +eye–haunted Pemrose that night, curled +up in a previous suggestion of the Guardian’s +which, momentarily, had twisted itself, +snake-like, around her heart.</p> + +<p>Suppose Ta-te should prove cruel to her, +as to Jennie whom she had eventually +spared! Suppose, on the great night of +the first experiment with Toandoah’s little +rocket, Ta-te, jealous of a rival in the small +Thunder Bird which could out-soar all the +winds of Earth–out-soar even the air, +their cradle–should meanly seize upon +the black, silk parachute, light as soot, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span> +anchored to the golden egg, the little +recording apparatus! Suppose it should +whirl both off, away from the eager hands +stretched out to claim them, hide them in a +dark recess of the mountain side, maybe, +where they could not be found for days,–possibly +never!</p> + +<p>Ta-te <i>could</i> play fast and loose with her +father’s reputation, she knew; at least, with +the witness to his success as an inventor.</p> + +<p>“If the wind should do that,” she thought, +“then the World, some part of it–the +horrid World–will say that Mr. Hartley +Graham’s last thoughts about that mile-long +will were wise ones: that it was better–better +to leave all that money ‘hung +up’ awaiting the possible return of that +madcap younger brother–who’ll make +ducks and drakes of it, most likely–than–than +to turn it over to a Thunder Bird,” +with a faint flash of a smile, “in spite, oh! +in spite of the fact that daring volunteers–skilled +aviators–are wild to take passage +in the far-flying Bird.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span>Yes! even that youthful hotspur who +used the cream of rough-edged paper, and +was willing to try anything once, though +it should be once for all.</p> + +<p>The girl’s thought reverted to him now +as she gazed into the bungalow fire, seeing +in the gusty flicker of every log that menacing +spiral,–the brooding wind’s eye.</p> + +<p>It claimed her, that wild, red eye, even +while her companions of the White Birch +Group were excitedly discussing their picturesque +plans for the morrow; for the +celebration of their annual festival in honor +of the birch trees bursting into leaf, for the +odes, the songs, the dances, the planting, +each, of a silvery sapling.</p> + +<p>It mesmerized her, did Ta-te’s eye, with +its setting of flame, even to the exclusion +of enthusiasm about the big dance–the +joyous Together–in the evening, of which +Una raved in anticipation now and again, +and for which these two friends and rivals +in the matter of eyelashes had brought +their prettiest party dresses.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span>The elders presiding over the destinies +of both had given a happy consent to Tanpa’s +invitation, and the two were now the +guests for a few days of the mountain +Group at their camp on the egg-shaped +Bowl.</p> + +<p>The sigh of the mountain breeze came +soothingly across the lake to lull their +slumbers as they lay down to rest, side by +side, in the little bungalow cots of which a +dozen ranged the length of the great water-side +dormitory half-open, half-screened.</p> + +<p>Yet Pem fell asleep imploring Ta-Te–and +lost the little record altogether in her +dreams!</p> + +<p>Up and down old Greylock she plodded, +looking for it, hand in hand with Toandoah,–but +ever it eluded them!</p> + +<p>Muttering, bereft, she tossed; then for a +moment awoke, blinkingly sat up, to see +the moonlight flickering–Mammy Moon’s +own smile–upon the pearl-woven prophecy +beside her, from which she could +hardly be parted by night or day.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span>Sleep again! And now it was not only +the diary but the Thunder Bird, itself, +that was lost,–astray in space, and she +with it!</p> + +<p>She was trying to catch it by the fiery +tail-feathers when, all of a sudden–all +of a sober sudden–those feathers became +soft, flopping, buffeting,–real.</p> + +<p>They brushed her parted lips. They +flopped against her cheek. They even +mopped the dews of slumber from her +eyes.</p> + +<p>“Hea-vens! W-what is it-t?”</p> + +<p>Wildly she sat up–a second time–to +see the dawn poking at her with a pink +finger and the lake shimmering without, +a great pearl found by the morning in an +iridescent oyster-shell of mist.</p> + +<p>And, within, a bumping, buffeting something, +soft as moss, dun-gray as terror–blundering +into every sleeper’s face, as if +testing its warmth, bowling its way along +the line of cots.</p> + +<p>“Cluck! Cluck! Flutter! Flutter! Awake! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189'></a>189</span> +Awake! I’m lost! I’m lost!” it said.</p> + +<p>“What is it? <i>What is it?</i>”</p> + +<p>Never was such an exciting reveille as +girl by girl bounded up–elastic–fingering +a brushed, a tickled cheek.</p> + +<p>The answer was a screech that made the +morning blush, as if a ghost had invaded +the Tom Tiddler’s ground of open day +light.</p> + +<p>Una shrieked in echo.</p> + +<p>Morale was undermined. Cots were vacated. +Maiden jostled maiden, all colliding +upon a gaping question that fanned sensation +sky-high–until the bungalow fairly +rocked upon a hullabaloo.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190'></a>190</span><a id='link_17'></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>A Novel Santa Claus</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>It’s</span> an Owl!”</p> + +<p>“Only an owl–a little screech owl! +Not–not so little, either! Where did it +come from?”</p> + +<p>“Yes! How on earth did it get in? +Doors–windows–all are screened.”</p> + +<p>“Glory halleluiah! It came down the +chimney. Look–look at the black on +its feathers, the wood-smuts clinging to it! +Down the big chimney of the living room!”</p> + +<p>“Like Santa Claus down the chimney! +Mercy! d’you suppose it played Santa +itself? or did the boys push it down?”</p> + +<p>“The boys! Those miserable Henkyl +Hunters–always on the trail of a joke! +If they did, they’ll never own up! +Never!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191'></a>191</span>Such was the substance of the uproar +as the downy ball of mopping feathers +took on a beak, claws and big brown eyes, +blank and round, perching upon the foot-rail +of a cot!</p> + +<p>“Oh! it’s as bad as the bats in Tory +Cave. And they were so-o hor-rid!” +wailed Una. “It–it just tickled my +lips with its wing. Bah!”</p> + +<p>“Bad! It’s not bad, at all; it’s dear,” +cooed Jessie, the merle, feeling instant +kinship with the bewildered bird. “Girls! +Girls! I believe it’s blind–blind as a +bat, or as the pale fish in the cave. There +it goes–look–knocking its head, this +way and that, against the wall!”</p> + +<p>Yes, the fluttering thing, of a sudden +taking to flight again, was now playing +shuttlecock, feathered shuttlecock, to the +battledore of a broad sunbeam which +batted it wildly hither and yon.</p> + +<p>“Oh! keep back–quiet–maybe, ’twill +settle down again,” pleaded the merle.</p> + +<p>“Hasn’t it the face of a cunning little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192'></a>192</span> +kitten? Such a wise, blinking, round-eyed +kitten! Its head is reddish, not gray–and +the rufous markings on its breast, too! +Oh-h! I wonder if the boys did catch it +in the woods and thought it was a good +‘henkyl’ to put down our chimney?”</p> + +<p>But that, as the girls knew, would remain +as blind a puzzle as the long, screened +dormitory was to the dazzled owl, unable +to see clearly in daylight, out visiting when +he should have been in bed in the cool, +dark hollow of a tree.</p> + +<p>“Oo-oo-oo-ooo ... cluck!” it cooed +and grumbled, pressing a dappled breast +and wide-spread wings against a screen, +the mottled back-feathers ruffling into a +huge breeze-swept pompon.</p> + +<p>“See! He’s playing he’s a big owl.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! I wonder if he’d let me–let +me catch him.” Jessie sighed yearningly.</p> + +<p>“Do-o, and we’ll tame him–keep him for +a mascot!” It was a general acclamation.</p> + +<p>And the feathered Santa, apparently +having no objection to this rële–finding +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193'></a>193</span> +himself no longer a waif in Babel–finally +settled down again on the glittering head-rail +of Una’s cot, his fluffy breast to the +outdoor sunlight, his solemn, kittenish face–the +head turning round on a pivot +without the movement of a muscle in the +body–confronting sagely the delighted +girls.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t he the dearest thing? Oh! I’m +glad the boys played the trick–if it was +the boys. I’d rather think he played +Santa himself.”</p> + +<p>There was no inkling in Jessie’s mind, +as, so murmuring and softly barefoot, she +stole up to the visitor, now motionless as a +painted bird, of a much worse trick that +those freakish Henkyl Hunters might play, +a girl abetting them, too–shocking fact–before +night fell again upon the pearly Bowl.</p> + +<p>“Oo-oo-ooo! Boo! See me reverse!” +It seemed to be what the owl was saying +to the maidens as he turned the tables on +them again and again with that teetotum +trick of his swivel neck.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194'></a>194</span>But he did not scream any more or +offer the least objection when the merle took +him to her tender breast, cooing reassurance.</p> + +<p>“There! you’ve got a new singing +teacher, Jess–a little screech owl. Little! +My! he’s big for a small-eared owl, isn’t +he?–nearly a foot long. Brush the camouflage +off him–the smuts of the chimney!”</p> + +<p>“Well–well, whether he enacted Santa +Claus of his own accord, or whether he +didn’t–” thus Tanpa broke in on the +last flow of speech which was a medley–“he’s +brought us one gift, anyway, the +gift of a glorious day for our annual White +Birch celebration.”</p> + +<p>It did prove a banner day, from the +breakfast out of doors on the wide piazza +in that matchless warmth of early summer +when buds are bursting, trees singing themselves +into leaf–for “all deep things are +song–” when the inquisitive breeze peeps +longingly into the yellow heart of the first +wild rose and May is bourgeoning, flowering, +into the joy of June.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195'></a>195</span>Below the bungalow the three-mile lake, +a mile and a half across–the transfigured +Bowl–was still a softly glowing +pearl, treasured in cotton-wool mists which +entirely hid its real framing of lofty hills.</p> + +<p>“When the mountains cease playing +blindman’s buff with each other, then–then +it will be time for our morning swim, +won’t it? The first real swim of the season, +too,” murmured Tomoke, the signaling +maiden, nestling coaxingly near to the presiding +Guardian.</p> + +<p>“Yes, if you think the water will be +warm enough.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! it was quite warm yesterday when +we paddled out around the float–the +floating pier.” Jessie, who was tempting +the feathered Santa Claus, pampered captive +under her arm, with every tidbit she +could think of, from cereal to lake-cod +caught by the girls themselves, looked down +at that buoyant pier–a golden raft, at +the moment–tossing a dozen yards from +the base of a fifteen-foot cliff where the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span> +shore jumped sharply down to the water. +Yesterday it had been wreathed with +boughs for the coming festival: the swimming +structure, naëvely composed of two +great barrels, boarded over, with a broad +plank, as a bridge, running out ashore.</p> + +<p>To it a couple of shining canoes and two +broad camp boats were moored; it also +served as a springboard for diving.</p> + +<p>Built by girl-carpenters themselves–with +a little masculine help–presently +to be garlanded with daisy-chains and +buttercups, for the June carnival, and to +hide its crudity, it stood, so the Guardian +thought, exquisitely for the practical and +the poetic in Camp Fire life, which ever in +“glorifying Work” seeks Beauty!</p> + +<p>The sun was seeking that too, just now, +gloating over his own noble reflection in the +green-lipped Bowl,–benevolently promising, +indeed, a day hot for the season, as +well as radiant.</p> + +<p>“Yes! the temperature has taken a leap +ahead,” said Tanpa musingly. “I think +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197'></a>197</span> +you can go in–for a short swim, any +way.”</p> + +<p>“Notify me–notify me if you see me +drowning–for I can’t hear the voice of +doom through my bathing cap!” laughed +Una Grosvenor, two hours later, in consequence +of this permission, wading coyly +out beyond the float, to where the lake-water +rose over the crossed logs of the +Camp Fire emblem on the breast of her +blue bathing suit.</p> + +<p>“Oh! she’s in no danger of drowning; +she swims better than I–I do-o now,” +shivered Pemrose, rather wishing that June +were July and the Bowl had undergone the +gradual glow of a heating process. “Aren’t +you coming, Thrush?” she cried. “Aren’t +you coming in, Jessie?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t leave the owl! I believe the +boys meant him as an anniversary present–though +they went about presenting him +in a queer way,” was the fostering answer.</p> + +<p>The other girls, however, were in the +water, as those grigs of boys had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span> +before them; the Bowl seemed to froth +with their laughter, spray creaming around +the bare, sunflushed arms flung above it, +as if the lake itself, in festive mood, were a +sentient sharer in the joy of these daring +June bathers.</p> + +<p>“Now–now who wants to dress and +come out in the boats for a study of pond-life +under the microscope?” cried the +Guardian.</p> + +<p>“Whoo! Whoo! That–that’s a bait +to which the fish always rise,” cried one and +another, eagerly splashing ashore blue +of brow and covered with gooseflesh, yet +loath to admit that on this the feathered +Santa Claus’ gift of a prematurely perfect +June day the creamy Bowl was still too +emphatically a cooler.</p> + +<p>Up the rude sod steps of the cliff they +trooped–a bevy of shivers–fleeing for +warmth and the shelter of the bungalow.</p> + +<p>“Oo-oo-oo! I’ve never been in bathing +so early in the year before,” shook out +Pemrose, to whom the experience–the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span> +lingering chill of this mountain Bowl many +hundred feet above sea-level–was rather +too much of a weak parody upon her last +freshwater ducking.</p> + +<p>“Oh! you’ll soon warm up. Come, +hurry and dress! It’s no end of fun studying +water-snails and egg-boats–gnats’ +funny egg-boats–under a microscope, with +the Scoutmaster,” encouraged Tomoke, in +everyday life Ina Atwood, blue as her +lightning namesake, and rather hankering +after the warmth of her pine-knot +torch.</p> + +<p>“Ye-es; and–and minnows–where +every one of them is–is a chief Triton +among the minnows!” laughed another +girl, scrambling into her clothes. “Meaning +no minnows, at all–all-ll Tritons!”</p> + +<p>All Tritons, sure enough, rosy Tritons, +brilliant now in the early summer, the +breeding season, with wonderful colors, the +males, especially.</p> + +<p>Swimming about, near the surface, as the +minnows usually do, the clear waters of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span> +June Bowl became for the girls, looking, +one by one through the large microscope +over the boat’s side, a “vasty deep” in +which leviathans played–fairy fish–seeing +everything rose-color, painting themselves +to ecstasy with the joys of mating, +the joy of June.</p> + +<p>“See–see they’re not all red–or +partly so–s-such a lovely pinky-red, especially +around the fins and head–that’s +where they keep their pigment,” said +Tanpa. “Some have colored themselves +like goldfish; others are greenish–or lighter +yellow.”</p> + +<p>“Ha! While others, again, are gotten +up as if for a minstrel show for their marriage–painted +black, for the time being!” +laughed her husband, the tall Scout Officer.</p> + +<p>“Yes. That’s why we like, girls and +boys, to come down to our camp early in +the season–if only at intervals–because +we watch the summer coming and can study +the wonderful lake life as at no other time,” +remarked the Guardian again, and then +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201'></a>201</span> +subsided into private life in the stern of the +broad, red camp-skiff, scribbling something +in verse form to be read at the White Birch +celebration in the afternoon when land as +well as lake was a-riot with young color, +strewn with wild flowers for gay June to +tread on.</p> + +<p>“Oh! isn’t it the most wonderful–wonderful +season? In the city we go +camping too late. The freshness isn’t +there.” Pem’s eyes were dim as she applied +one to the lens of the microscope, to +gaze once more at the painted Tritons; +she was glad that in the freshness of the +year it was–oh! so soon now–that the +little Thunder Bird would momentarily +color the skies and paint the World rose-colored +in excitement over its demonstration–over +the heights that could be +reached–paving the way for the Triton +of Tritons to come.</p> + +<p>“Well! if we spend any more time with +the minnows, we’ll have to ‘cut out’ the +‘fresh-water sheep’, the little roaches, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span> +the insects’ egg-boats,” said the Scoutmaster. +“Speaking of the latter, I saw a +curious one yesterday upon a stagnant +pool over on the other side of the lake; +perhaps the visitors would be interested in +it.”</p> + +<p>The visitors were interested in the bare +mention. Warming equally to comfort and +excitement again, they clamored–Pemrose +and Una–for a sight of that raft +of gnats’ eggs, so cunningly formed and +glued together, minute egg to egg, hundreds +of them, that it was a regular lifeboat–no +storm could sink it, and pressure only +temporarily.</p> + +<p>Yet, after all, Pemrose only half heard +the Scoutmaster’s explanation of how the +insect chose a floating stick or straw as a +nucleus, placed her forelegs on it and laid +the egg upon her hind ones, holding it there +until she had brought forth another to join +it, gluing the two together by their sticky +coating,–and so on till the broad and +buoyant boat was constructed!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203'></a>203</span>Pemrose hardly heard, for as the party +made its way to that stagnant pool, an overflow +at some time of the sparkling Bowl, +and hidden in a dense little wood, she had +a sudden demonstration of how, under +certain circumstances, a girl’s heart is +much more capsizable than a gnat’s egg-boat.</p> + +<p>Hers positively turned turtle–yes! +really, turned turtle–at sight of a long, +gray figure lying, breast down, amid undergrowth +upon the margin of a little stream +that was hurrying away from it to the +lake.</p> + +<p>She felt momentarily topsy-turvy, every +bit of her, for anywhere on earth–aye, +even if she were scouring space with the +Thunder Bird–she would recognize that +angular figure.</p> + +<p>It had once pulled her up a snow-bank +to the distant rumble of an engine’s explosion.</p> + +<p>Yes, and surely she had seen it again, +once again, since then–although, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204'></a>204</span> +sandwiched as it now was between egg-boats +and painted Tritons she could not–for +the moment–remember where.</p> + +<p>“Fine day! Having luck? Catching +anything?” hailed the Scoutmaster, with +genial interest, as one woodsman to another, +for the figure was angling with a fly-rod.</p> + +<p>The latter shot a side long glance at the +party from under a broad Panama hat,–then +jammed that, rather uncivilly, further +down upon his head.</p> + +<p>“Bah! The fish aren’t ex-act-ly jumping +out of the water, saying ‘Hullo!’ to +you!” it returned in the freakish drawl of +a masked battery, shrinking deeper into +cover amid the ferns.</p> + +<p>Yet, when the Nature students had +passed on, one quivering girl, with ears +intently on the alert, heard it fire off something +in the same fern-cloaked rumble +about a certain fly being a “perfect peach” +to fish with.</p> + +<p>And the answer came in clear, ringing, +boyish tones–from another angler +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205'></a>205</span> +presumably–momentarily rainbowing the +wood.</p> + +<p>“Yes–sure–that Parmachene belle +is <i>the girl</i>, Dad! If–if there’s a trout in +the stream, she’ll put the ‘come hither!’ +on it.”</p> + +<p>“Bah! Likening a trout-fly to a girl! +So like his ’nickum’ impudence!” Pem’s +teeth–in her present mood–came together +with a snap. And, of course, she +couldn’t see the gnat’s raft when she arrived +at the stagnant puddle, for she had +borrowed the gnat’s sting with which to +barb the snub which she meant to inflict, +some time, upon that angling youth who +had sat, unabashed, in the Devil’s Chair,–if +ever luck held out a chance.</p> + +<p>“Yes–yes! and if he had played Jack +at a Pinch forty-eleven million times, I’d +do it.” Her eyes were flashing now like +the sky-dots in the pool, forked by iridescent +shadows. “So–so <i>here’s</i> where +they have their camp,” craning her neck +for a glimpse of a log-cabin amid the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206'></a>206</span> +spruces. “Stud said it was just across +the lake from the girls’!”</p> + +<p>After that–well! who could be interested +in gnat-boats when they had just +lit upon the ambush of a Puzzle; a puzzle +that would only open in a pinch and shut +up, like a Chinese ring-box, afterwards?</p> + +<p>And, moreover, that woodland lurking-place +was just a bare mile and a half across +the Bowl from the floating barrel pier, +decked, as it was built, by girls’ hands, and +from the great heart’s-ease bungalow, now, +too, in process of decoration for the gala +time in the afternoon around the White +Birch totem; and for the blissful, far-off +event, drawing nearer with every shining +moment, the brilliant piazza, dance in the +evening!</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207'></a>207</span><a id='link_18'></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>Reprisals</span></span></h2> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“Her tunic is of silver,</p> +<p> Her veil of green tree-hair,</p> +<p>The woodland Princess donning</p> +<p> Her pomp of summer wear.</p> +<p> </p> +<p>White arms to heaven reaching,</p> +<p> Shy buds that, tiptoe, meet</p> +<p>The kiss of June’s awaking,</p> +<p> The season’s hast’ning feet!</p> +<p> </p> +<p>Oh, sure, a laugh is lisping</p> +<p> In each uncurling leaf;</p> +<p>The joy of June is thrilling</p> +<p> Some sense to transport brief!</p> +<p> </p> +<p>Sister of mine, White Birch Tree!</p> +<p> That sense my own sets free,</p> +<p>For in thy dim soul-stirrings</p> +<p> My Father speaks to me.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span>It was Tanpa, with the sunburst upon +her right breast, general symbol of the +Camp Fire, and the birch tree in grace +of green and silver embroidered above +it upon emerald khaki, who read the +verses which she had scribbled in the +skiff’s stern under cover of the general +interest in water-snails, eggboats and +“fresh-water sheep.”</p> + +<p>“Most beautiful of forest trees–the +Lady of the Woods!” came the responsive +hail from eighteen green-clad maidens, +tiptoeing around the Silver Lady, the +emerald tassels of their Tam-o’-shanters +skipping in the June breeze that peeped +under her fluttering veil, still tucked with +buds, to kiss those white limbs lifted to +the skies, with surely, some bud of conscious +joy.</p> + +<p>It was June! Upon the cliff-brow, above +the lake, wild roses were budding, too; +and the girls’ cheeks painted themselves +with their reflection–even as did the +blushing minnows in the lake.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span>But the lady of the woods had the +best of it so far as decoration went. Never +new-crowned head wore in its coronet +Life as hers did,–fledgling life.</p> + +<p>For amid the heart-shaped leaves, so +brightly green, was the cap-sheaf of summer +wear:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p>“A nest of robins in her hair.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>The poet who penned that line would +have gloried in the sight of her, that bungalow +birch tree, a tall, straight specimen, +radiant as a silver taper from the black, +frescoed ring about the foot to the topmost +ivory twig, and here and there +amid the fluttering, pea-green tresses a +little tuft of conscious life–a nestling +with open beak and craving, coralline +throat.</p> + +<p>He would have joyed in the sight of the +tree-loving Group, too, as the earth was +turned and the first silver sapling rooted +deep to the music of Tomoke’s voice, +softly proclaiming:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210'></a>210</span>“He who plants a tree,</p> +<p>He plants love.</p> +<p>Tents of coolness spreading out above</p> +<p>Wayfarers he may not live to see.</p> +<p>Gifts that grow are best,</p> +<p>Hands that bless are blest,</p> +<p>Plant! Life does the rest.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>And Life would do the rest–oh! surely–in +the case of her father and herself, +was the dewy thought of Pemrose Lorry +as she planted her baby tree in honor of +that novel Wayfarer, that would first +traverse space and conquer it–bridge +the gulf which made Earth a hermit amid +the heavenly bodies–of the great invention, +whereof poets in future ages +would sing, that daringly took the first +step towards linking planet with planet.</p> + +<p>And the tender sapling was rooted in +the hope that long before it was a mature +tree that comet-like Wayfarer would start,–the +Thunder Bird would fly.</p> + +<p>Well! star-dust never blinded the eyes. +But it certainly dazzled those of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211'></a>211</span> +Pemrose, that young visionary, as she pressed +earth around her sapling’s root: would +there ever come a time when the Camp +Fires of Earth would hail the Camp Fires +of some other planet across that illimitable +No Man’s Land of Space, first–oh! +thought transcendent–first bridged by +her father’s genius?</p> + +<p>But with the high seasoning of that +thought came the salty smack of another! +All unseen in the planting excitement a +tear dropped upon the spading trowel as +she thought of that whimsical “Get thee +behind me, Satan, but don’t push!” plea +of the inventor sorely tempted to commercialize +his genius, thwart its inspired range, +because of the difficulties about bringing +his project to fruition–and of that money +hung up, idle, for the next twelve years.</p> + +<p>“Daddy-man thinks he’ll be–well! +not an old man, but that his best energies +will be spent by that time, even if–”</p> + +<p>But here the trowel dug vigorously, +burying head over ears the thought of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212'></a>212</span> +the possible return within that time of the +“zany” who had been such a mad fellow +in youth that, according to her father +and others, it was like sitting on +a barrel of gunpowder to have +anything to do with him, so sure +were you to come to grief through +his explosive pranks. And yet, and +yet–perhaps it was the dash of +spice in her name–Pem could not +help feeling an interest for his own sake +in that “hot tamale”, the Thunder Bird’s +rival in the will!</p> + +<p>So she spaded away, watering her sapling +for the first time, herself, with that +little tributary tear; and then, propitiating +it, after the manner of the Indians, +in the graceful Leaf Dance, capering +around it, around the Queen Birch, too, +with her companions, upon the lightest +fantastic toe, their green arms outstretched +and waving, to imitate the leaves above +them, blown by the wind.</p> + +<p>Went the phonograph upon the bungalow +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213'></a>213</span> +piazza, as it threw off the music, the +quaint Indian accompaniment to those +stamping, shuffling, skipping feet, to the +queer little half-savage syllables, borrowed +from the Creek Indians, upon the +lips of the chanting, dancing girls, to +the coconut hand-rattle wielded by Aponi, +the Butterfly, most fairy-like of the green +dancers, as she led and led, in honor of +the new <i>idlwissi</i>, or tree-hair, the listening +leaves–ethereal partners overhead.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i4'></a><img src='images/illus-mus.jpg' alt='' /> +</div> + +<p>Containing little pebbles picked from +the lake-side, with a stick running through +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span> +the painted coconut-shell for a handle, +its gleeful rattle fairly turned girls’ heads +with the joy of June.</p> + +<p>“I think we’ll have to ask you to repeat +that dance to-night for the benefit +of the boys, your guests,” said the Scoutmaster, +who was manipulating the phonograph. +“Fairyland wouldn’t be ‘in it’ +with the human leaves tripping in pink +and gold and green and–no ordinary +man knows what!”</p> + +<p>Fairyland, indeed, seemed beaten hollow +as “across the lake in golden glory” the +waning sunbeams of early June bathed +the little floating pier, wreathed in laurel +and daisy chains, then climbed with flagging +feet, like a tired angel, the sod-steps +cut into the side of the steep cliff, and, +gaining the top, joined their rose-colored +brothers skipping among girlish forms +in every fair hue imaginable, claiming +partners in a dance as of Northern Lights +before ever their human brothers, the scouts +in gilded khaki, got a chance at a reel.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span>“Oh! I feel it in my toes that this is +going to be a won-der-ful party,” said +Toandoah’s little pal, kicking lightly, impatiently +with those satin toes of her +party slippers at the tufted grass, as she +sat enthroned upon the sod of the cliff’s +brow, with two knights beside her, Stud +of the stout heart, and a bright-eyed +luckless tenderfoot, whose parents, in a +fit of dementia surely, had named him +Louis Philip Green, which, as he used only +the initial letter of his second name, had +of course entailed a nickname.</p> + +<p>“You promised you’d dance the +Lancers with me, although I’m only a +tenderfoot,” said Peagreen, nibbling a +blade of grass as he lay prone upon the +sod and shooting a glance, bright and +eager as a robin’s, in the direction of the +black-haired girl with those skybeams in +her eyes under inky lashes.</p> + +<p>“Humph! The cheek of some kids who +ought to be tucked up in their Beehive +when–when that dance comes off!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span> +grumbled the fifteen-year-old Stud, with +the arrogance of a Patrol Leader, directing +his glance at a brown, conical bungalow +flanking a large one, where the younger +boys turned in at what seemed to them +unseemly hours, while scout veterans sat +up overhauling the day’s doings for an +occasion of a laugh against somebody, +practical joke, of course, preferred, to be +published in the Henkyl Hunter’s typewritten +Bulletin and hung up in the porch +next morning.</p> + +<p>“Well! I’m safe for the Grand March, +anyhow–and the Virginia reel, too, eh!” +Stud dug congratulatory fists into his +brown sides, wriggling aggressively upon +the cliff-brow, like Peagreen figuratively +hugging the ground with an impatient +nose.</p> + +<p>Privately he was inclined to the opinion +that the blue-eyed girl’s friend who had +that little nearsighted stand in one of +her dark eyes, and two dimples to Pemrose’s +one, was the daintier “peach” of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217'></a>217</span> +the two–and that his own sister, Jess, +was as pretty as either; but think of the +distinction of leading off with a girl whose +father would lead off amid the dance of +planets, in sending a messenger to the +moon, Mars, too, maybe!</p> + +<p>“Whoopee!” He kicked the sod as +if spurning it as common or garden earth–although +there were moments when, +like others–elders–in a skeptical world, +he told himself that the Thunder Bird +would prove, after all, a Flying Dutchman,–just +an extravagant dream.</p> + +<p>“So–so you were out on the lake +this morning, studying pond life with the +professor,” he said, alluding to the Scoutmaster. +“He’s instructor in a college +and each year he gets us started on something; +last summer it was astronomy–he +brought a small telescope along.”</p> + +<p>Pem’s heels drummed more excitedly +on the sod–the starry heavens were <i>her</i> +scope.</p> + +<p>“But we have a good deal of fun with +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218'></a>218</span> +the big compound microscope, too–and +more without it,” acknowledged Studley. +“Fancy last week we caught a huge pike +which had jumped clear out of the water, +on to the bank, after a water-hen!”</p> + +<p>“Where was that? How–how big +was it?” The girlish questions mounted +helter-skelter.</p> + +<p>“The pike? Oh! he weighed about +fifteen pounds. It was right over there, +on the other side of the lake,” pointing +to the spot where the party interested +in egg-boats had landed that morning. +“He–he gobbled the hen, too.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Did</i> he?” But he might have been +threatening to gobble her, judging by the +start which the girl gave at the moment.</p> + +<p>Her heart jumped down to the water’s +edge as abruptly as did the cliff beneath +her.</p> + +<p>Her eyes were on a boat rowing out of +the sunset’s eye directly across the lake +from that very spot.</p> + +<p>There was but one individual in it and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span> +he–he was rowing by instinct, as the +birds fly, for his gaze was glued to a newspaper +sheet, the sun’s own evening edition, +gorgeously printed by the painted rays +in every hue of the spectrum.</p> + +<p>He was heading straight–straight for +the floating wharf with its plank-bridge +running out ashore.</p> + +<p>Jack at a Pinch again!</p> + +<p>“Do–do you know who he is?” Pem +flashed the question upon the older of +her two boy-knights.</p> + +<p>“Well-ll! I guess so.” Stud’s joy in +the recognition floundered a little. “He–he’s +the fellow–one of the fellows–who +boomed the aëroplane, the other +day, to get you girls quietly out of the +cave, when there was a ‘rattler–’”</p> + +<p>“As if we’d have made a fuss, anyhow!” +The girl’s eyes blazed, again a +patchwork, drawing their red center from +the sun. “You said–you said that it +was so hard to make friends with him, +like whistling jigs to a milestone–ah!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220'></a>220</span> +Her own voice was suddenly stony. +“Have you–oh! have you made any +headway since?”</p> + +<p>“Humph! Yes. I’ve found out something +about him.”</p> + +<p>The patrol leader’s preoccupied eyes +were on the boat edging vaguely nearer +to the wharf, with its one “nickum” +figure, so nonchalantly rowing, so absorbed +in the rainbowed sheet upon its knees +that at this moment it awkwardly +“caught a crab” and almost suggestively +lost an oar.</p> + +<p>Simultaneously, however, the phonograph +on the piazza struck up, as a prelude +to festivities, the Virginia reel, the +notes tripping gaily out across the painted +lake; and the rower shot one glance upward, +as if to say: “I’ll be there in time!” +then bent his hungry nose to the paper +again.</p> + +<p>“What–what did you find out about +him?” Pem’s interest was equally hungry–positively +famishing. “His name–eh?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span>“Ha–that’s the question! Over on +Greylock the farmers’ sons call him Shooting +Star’, alias ‘Starry’,” with a boyish +laugh, “because when they were awf’ly +hard up for a player in the last ball game +of the series against Willard College, having +lost their second baseman and substitute +too, by gracious! he breezed along, an’ the +captain, hearing he had played on a college +team, roped him in ... an’–an’, what +do you know, but he won the game for +that mountain team with a home run! +A home run over the left field fence! +Bully!”</p> + +<p>“But, surely, <i>they</i> know his–real–name!” +Pem’s aloof absorption in that +fell like fog-drip even upon the glow from +that left field fence.</p> + +<p>“Maybe they do–and maybe they +don’t! He refused it to the fans. And +when the Greylock coach cornered him he +palmed it off as Selkirk. But my cousin +who’s pitcher on the team says in his +opinion that was just ‘throwing a tub to a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222'></a>222</span> +whale’–something fishy about it, see?” +Stud winked. “For ‘Starry’ an’ his father–who’s +a queer fish, if ever there was +one–had a camp then up on Greylock +peak, and the postmaster in charge o’ +the Greylock mail owned that he received +letters for them addressed to another name–only +he couldn’t–wouldn’t–give it +away.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Wha-at!</i>”</p> + +<p>Pem’s hand suddenly smote her lips.</p> + +<p>Her wide eyes were no patchwork now. +Stud had not thought that a girl’s eyes +could be so blue. It almost gave him +the “Willies”, their remote, peculiar sky-glow, +as if afar–afar–they were seeing +things.</p> + +<p>“What!” she gasped again, while that +vivid glow faded, became bluish, blank, +the tint of “Moonshine”–of a strange, +wild, nondescript dream.</p> + +<p>Moonshine that seemed flooding her +whole being!</p> + +<p>And yet–although she was a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223'></a>223</span> +quick-witted girl–it was too vague for her to +draw from it one clear thought–only an +uneasy, unreal, absolutely breathless feeling!</p> + +<p>And then the queer, air-drawn sensation +as suddenly passed–and with it +the blue moon which had momentarily +turned her world to nothing–“shooed” +off by a very real, very tangible, quite +pressing apprehension:</p> + +<p>“He–he’s not coming to the da-nce?”</p> + +<p>She sprang up hurriedly, pointing to +the boat below; to its one preoccupied +figure, clad neither in rough sweater nor +May-fly gaudiness, now, but, if the sunset +didn’t exaggerate, in a very becoming +dark suit.</p> + +<p>“Humph! I don’t know! I guess he +is! Didn’t think he could pull it off for +some reason or other–” Stud’s shoulders +were shrugged. “But, maybe, he’s found +where there’s a will there’s a way.”</p> + +<p>“Why-y?” The girl’s lips were parted +breathlessly, her foot involuntarily stamping.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span>“Oh! you know you told us to invite +our friends to the party; not you, but the +other girls did, when they signaled across +that night from the green Pinnacle–gee! +and it was some signaling, too.” +The scout’s glance was teasing now as +it shot up from the grass. “So–so +one of the older boys he ran across that +bunch o’ fellows who were blooming round +in the cave the other day–they’re all +from camps on the lake–and invited the +whole five. This one thought he couldn’t +accept, but I guess he’s making a dash +at it–at coming just the same!”</p> + +<p>“Oh!... Oh, <i>dear</i>! I wish he +wasn’t!”</p> + +<p>“Why?” Now it was the scout’s turn +to hang, breathless, upon the interrogation +as he too jumped to his feet.</p> + +<p>“Because–oh! because I’d be–be +ever so much more comfortable without +him–enjoy myself more.” Pem caught +her breath wildly.</p> + +<p>“Then ’twill be A. W. O. L. for him! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225'></a>225</span> +... A. W. O. L. for him–if I perish +for it!”</p> + +<p>“What–what does that mean?”</p> + +<p>“Absent With-Out Leave, as they set +it down in the Army!”</p> + +<p>Mischief leaped to the Henkyl Hunter’s +eye.</p> + +<p>He beckoned Peagreen from the grass +to follow him. A whisper in the tender-foot’s +ear and down the winding sod-steps +of the cliff they scrambled!</p> + +<p>Pem knew that she ought to call them +back; knew it from the white parting at +the side of her throbbing little head to +the toe of her satin slipper tumultuously +beating the ground, as she sank down, an +orchid amid her chiffons, to watch.</p> + +<p>But it was a moment when the spice of +her chowchow name had all spilled over; +when the Vain Elf which, according to her +father, slept in the shadow of the Wise Woman, +was broadly–mutinously–awake.</p> + +<p>The boat had drawn in alongside the +decked float now.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226'></a>226</span>It was gently rocking there, on and off, +the rower having shipped his oars and +laid them beside him, his strong fingers +now and again hooking the wharf when +there was danger of his drifting away, +while his obsessed nose was bent closer +still to the newspaper sheet, catching the +last rays of daylight on it.</p> + +<p>He did not look up when the scouts, +running out over the plank bridge, spoke +to him.</p> + +<p>Suddenly one of them–Stud it was–leaned +down and snatched the oars, lifted +them high in the air, the nickum’s evil +genius having prompted him to lay them +in the boat’s side nearest the wharf; perhaps +it was the demon which he had dared +by sitting in the Devil’s Chair.</p> + +<p>At the same time Peagreen gave the +boat a strong shove outward to where a +current caught it and swept it further–mockingly +further, towards the darkening +center of the Bowl.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I say–I say, you fellows, that’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227'></a>227</span> +no stunt to pull off!” roared the nickum +wrathfully. “I’m due at the dance now!”</p> + +<p>“You’re not coming to the dance. +There’s a girl here who doesn’t want +you!” rang back the voice of callow chivalry +in the barbarous pipe of the tenderfoot.</p> + +<p>And Pem, slipping up from the grass, +her hands to her burning cheeks–for +she had not meant it to go as far as this–stole +back to the piazza, to dance away +from the shamefaced ecstasy of reprisal +in her heart.</p> + +<p>Perhaps she would have felt that this +was too sore a snub to inflict for any +rudeness on Jack at a Pinch; perhaps +she would have compelled her boy-knights +to put out in the camp skiff and return +those oars–under pain of not dancing +with them, at all–had she seen the +illuminated column over which the victim’s +nose had been so disastrously bent.</p> + +<p>It was in every sense a highly colored +description of her father’s record-breaking +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228'></a>228</span> +invention, dwelling particularly, though +vaguely, upon the experiments so soon +to take place with a lesser Thunder Bird, +a smaller rocket, from the remote and +misty top of old Mount Greylock.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229'></a>229</span><a id='link_19'></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>A Record Flight</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>It</span> had come at last, that starless night, +that stupendous night of which Pemrose +had dreamed for a year, as she perched +on a laboratory stool and watched her +father at work, when the little Thunder +Bird, the smaller rocket, would take its +experimenting flight, its preliminary canter, +up a couple of hundred miles, or so, into +the air,–and on into thin space.</p> + +<p>Most dashing explorer ever was, +it would keep a diary, or log, of its flying +trip.</p> + +<p>But whereas travelers, hitherto, had +carried that up a sleeve or in a breast-pocket, +it would have its journal in its +cone-shaped head; the little openwork +box, five inches square, with the tape-like +paper winding from one to another +of the wheels within and the tiny pencil +making shorthand markings, curve or dash, +as the air pressed upon it, until it got +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230'></a>230</span> +beyond the air-belt altogether–out into +that bitter void of space, where pressure +there was none.</p> + +<p>No wonder that the inventor called this +log the golden egg, for when the magic +Bird had flown its furthest, when all the +little powder-rockets which, exploding +successively, sent it on its way, were spent, +then its dying scream would release the +log from its bursting head.</p> + +<p>Back that would come, fluttering to +earth on the wing of a sable parachute, +lit on the way, as it drifted down two +hundred miles, or so, by the glowworm +gleam of a tiny electric battery,–a little +dry cell attached to it!</p> + +<p>And this, really, was, as Pemrose had +said, the kernel of the present experiment +to her father, the only witness to +prove that the baby Thunder Bird had, +indeed, “got there”, flown higher than +anything earthly had ever ventured before; +and that if a little two-footer in +the shape of a sky-rocket had done so +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231'></a>231</span> +much, then there was nothing to prevent +a twenty-foot steel Bird from flying on +indefinitely,–even to Mammy Moon, +herself, or fiery-eyed Mars, perhaps.</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe that Dad has slept for +two nights now, thinking about its safe +return,” said Pemrose to Una, as in the +starless, breeze-tickled night the two +crouched together upon the mountain-top.</p> + +<p>“Well! that little firefly, the tiny electric +lamp–the ‘wee bit battery’, as Andrew +calls it–will guide us to finding +it when it drifts down,” panted the other +girl, excitement fixing that little peculiar +stand, like a golden lamp, in her dark +eye.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but–” perhaps her dream in +the bungalow of Ta-te, the tempest, was +affecting Pemrose–“but suppose, oh! +suppose, that the wind–there is a wind–should +waft it away–away from us, +down the mountainside, to where we +couldn’t find it in the woods–dark +woods–to where somebody, some +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232'></a>232</span> +horrid meddler, might pick it up, and get a +look at the Thunder Bird’s diary before +us ... the first record from so high up. +Oh–dear!”</p> + +<p>The girl’s sigh was echoed by that +stealthy wind around her, in whose every +whisper there was menace, as it swept +through the long grasses and ruffled the +ash trees of Greylock’s summit.</p> + +<p>Una, to whom this “half the battle”, +the quick locating of the parachute and +its treasure, was not so vital, soared above +all threat in this witching-time of excitement–the +transcendent hour.</p> + +<p>“The Thunder Bird’s diary! Oh-h! +the Thunder Bird’s diary,” she repeated +dreamily, as if reciting a charm.</p> + +<p>Being Camp Fire Girls of fervid imagination, +the supreme invention, the beginning +of old Earth’s reaching out to the +heavenly bodies, gained its crowning +romance from them.</p> + +<p>As moment by moment flew by romance +in their young breasts became a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233'></a>233</span> +sort of rhapsody that set every thought +to wild music.</p> + +<p>To Pem it was as she had dreamed it +would be, away back in her father’s laboratory, +before the February train wreck.</p> + +<p>Hands seemed reaching out to her from +everywhere,–she the satellite reflecting +her father’s light.</p> + +<p>From the four quarters of the habitable +earth eyes seemed trained upon her, as +she knelt in a little island of flashlight, +with her thumb on an electric button +which, connected by wires with a platform +about a hundred feet away, would +throw the switch and release the magic +Bird to flying.</p> + +<p>“N-now, keep cool, Pem! Don’t get +excited–too ex-ci-ted–or-r you may +miss the moment when they shout to you: +‘R-ready! Shoot!’” breathed Una, so +wrought up herself that her words had a +sort of little zip, a hiss, in them, like the +soft sighing of the breeze at the moment.</p> + +<p>Pemrose knew that her father’s thoughts +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234'></a>234</span> +were taken up all the time with that summit +breeze, on how far it might affect the +safe return of the golden egg, as he hovered +about the low platform, a hundred feet +away, on which the little Thunder Bird +was mounted, together with his young +assistant tightening up every bolt and +screw for the record flight. A third tall +figure hovered near, within the ring of +distant flashlight, that of Una’s father, as +transported now over the whole experiment +as if he had never hinted that the +far-flying rocket was a Quaker gun.</p> + +<p>With the girls in their little fairy-like +ring of electric light–to go out like a +will o’ the wisp presently–was their +usual body-guard, old Andrew, who had +driven the party up the mountain.</p> + +<p>“Cannily noo, lassie! <i>Cannily.</i> Dinna +be fechless–flighty!” The Scot was +breathing like a Highland gust as he cautioned +the girl whose tingling little thumb +touched lightly as thistledown the fairy +button. “Whoop!” he grunted sharply. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235'></a>235</span> +“I reckon they’re maist ready, noo, to +gie it its fling–let it go!”</p> + +<p>It was at this moment that in the distant +island of flashlight an arm was flung up. It +was that of the professor’s young assistant.</p> + +<p>He forgot to bring it down again.</p> + +<p>And, lo! a hush, as of a world suspended, +fell upon old Greylock,–that +grim, black mountain-top.</p> + +<p>The long grasses ceased to whisper. +The mountain-ash trees cuddled their little +pale berry-babies in awe.</p> + +<p>“All R-ready! <i>Shoot!</i>”</p> + +<p>Toandoah’s battle-cry it was.</p> + +<p>A roar as of a small brass cannon, the +first gun of the new conquest, responded, +as the hand of a Camp Fire Girl of America +pressed the button, triumphantly throwing +the switch in the nozzle, or tailpart, of the +mounted rocket, a hundred feet away.</p> + +<p>Simultaneously the flashlights went out.</p> + +<p>And in the darkness–into the blackness +the little Thunder Bird soared.</p> + +<p>Soared with the wild red eye of its +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236'></a>236</span> +headlight challenging the heavens themselves +to stop it, with its comet-like tail +of red fire streaming out full twenty feet +behind it.</p> + +<p>At lightning speed,–fifty miles the first +minute, a hundred the next,–it leaped from +its mountain platform straight up–bound +for the vacant lot of space.</p> + +<p>Explosion after bright explosion tore +the cloud-banks as, one by one, the innumerable +little rockets, which Pem had +watched her father fitting into their +grooves in its interior–far back in that +quiet laboratory–went off.</p> + +<p>And with each radiant roar higher–faster–it +dashed, the little Thunder Bird, +with never a puff of smoke to dim the +spectacle–the transplendency of its +flight.</p> + +<p>“Michty! Michty!... <i>Magerful!</i>”</p> + +<p>There was just the one skirl from Andrew, +to lend it music on its upward way; +he had not thought that he came to +America to witness a thing like this.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237'></a>237</span>“Magerful”, indeed! Magical, indeed! +The others were silent, swept away by +the magic of it–the greater, moon-storming +magic to come.</p> + +<p>Only–only, they breathlessly asked +themselves: “What next?”</p> + +<p>Well! the immediate “next” would be +the return of the golden egg, the diary, +the falling fruit of the experiment, without +which there was no proof of its success–of +how high the fiery Bird had +flown–before, its last automatic charge +expended, it sang its swan-song somewhere +in space.</p> + +<p>At the increasing speed with which +the little Thunder Bird flew–when miles +were but a moment–the record might +be expected back in a few minutes.</p> + +<p>Minutes–but they seemed a moon’s +age!</p> + +<p>It was Una–Una–who saw it first: +the tiny speck of star-dust drifting down, +down among the woolly clouds–dark +as if the night had been shorn and its +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238'></a>238</span> +fleece hung out to dry–alighting here +and there, the little firefly, in other words +the atomy electric battery attached to +the precious record, trying so hard, with the +parachute’s aid, to find its way back to +earth from the lonely height it had reached.</p> + +<p>Another quarter of a minute, and they +could trace the outline of the black silk +parachute, itself, a drifting crow with +their prize in its claws; that prize which +the inventor, at least, would have given +ten years of his life to grasp–if, grasping +it, he could see that the little pencil +had duly made its record markings–the +proof that his Thunder Bird had “got +there.”</p> + +<p>“Glory halleluiah! it’s drifting down +right into our laps–into the old mountain’s +lap, rather! The wind won’t carry +it far, I bet! ’Twill land within quarter +of a mile of us, anyhow,” shrieked the +professor’s young assistant, a college boy, +an athlete, who had led the quarter-mile +sprint on many a hard-won field, when +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239'></a>239</span> +the racing honor of a school was at stake; +and he ran as never before to get the +better of the tricky gusts and seize the +parachute–faster, even, than the +nickum, that mysterious youth, had run, +when he saved the day for the mountain +team at baseball.</p> + +<p>“Hoot mon! Dinna ye let it get away +frae ye into the dar-rk woods!” skirled +Andrew, equally excited, and filled with +awe of the raven parachute now springing, +like a great, black mushroom, out of +the night–and of the firefly which had +been up so high.</p> + +<p>“Oh! it is–it is drifting towards the +dark spruce woods–where we’ll have +hard work to find it.”</p> + +<p>In the wild chase after the prize, Pemrose +made a good third, as she thus shouted +her fear.</p> + +<p>“See–oh! see, it <i>is</i> landing,” she +cried again, “c-coming down–touching +earth.”</p> + +<p>Yes! for one fleeting instant it did +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240'></a>240</span> +alight upon a mound, the shooting starlet, +the little electric dry cell, winking +brilliantly against the background of +somber evergreens, now dark as Erebus, +that girdle old Greylock’s crown.</p> + +<p>Then, freakish firefly, there, it was off +again, the prey of the nickum gusts, before +ever a hand could touch it–the +black parachute rotating like a whirligig.</p> + +<p>Never–oh, never–was such a chase +for such a prize since mountain was mountain +and man was man!</p> + +<p>Once again the steely clog, the weight +of the five-inch box containing the recording +apparatus, the precious log, almost +dragged it to a standstill! But the summit +gusts were strong.</p> + +<p>Even the college boy began to have +heart-quakes and Pemrose heart-sinkings.</p> + +<p>“Jove! What a stunt you’re pulling +off on us, you old black crow of a +parachute–you booby-headed umbrella!” +groaned he. “C-can’t you stay put for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241'></a>241</span> +just a second? Or are you bent on leading +us a dance through the woods?”</p> + +<p>He began to lose hope of its landing +in his lap, that breezy athlete, as it made +straight for the jaws of darkness now, the +inky spruce-belt–the parachute coquetting +with its pursuers, like a great black fan.</p> + +<p>Was–was it the wind then?</p> + +<p>Something–something caught it up, the +golden log–the first record from space–something +snatched it up and whisked +it off, off into those blackamoor woods, +while the feet of the foremost runner were +still many yards away.</p> + +<p>“’Twas na the wind! ’Twas mon or +deil; I saw it loop out frae the boggart +trees!” roared Andrew.</p> + +<p>And now in his skirl there was a wild +ring of superstition that turned girlish +hearts quite cold.</p> + +<p>“I saw it loup out frae the dark–dar-rk +woods!” he insisted hoarsely.</p> + +<p>Ah! but those dim spruce woods were +faintly illumined now with strange little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242'></a>242</span> +dots and dashes of light–the firefly +winking passionately, as if somebody, some +thief, were running with it.</p> + +<p>And <i>they</i> ran, too, its rightful owners, +in full cry, calling frantically upon the +robber, whether thief, or tempest, to stop.</p> + +<p>And the girls kept bravely up with +the men. Or one of them did! For all +the spice of her chowchow name was +afire in Pemrose Lorry now; and she +would have tackled the thief, single-handed, +to get back her father’s record.</p> + +<p>Into the core of darkness–in among the +ebony spruce-boughs–the jetty, frowning +trunks, the snarling, brambly underbrush, +dashed the chase, the hue and cry, not +daring to turn on a flashlight and in its +glare lose the one little piloting blink +ahead, which now seemed to have considerable +odds on them, as it fled helter-skelter +through the woods.</p> + +<p>“My word! this–this beats anything +I ever dr-reamed of,” gurgled the college +boy. “The Thing, whatever it is, has +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243'></a>243</span> +us nicely fooled. There–there, it has +switched off the ‘glim’ now–the little, +telltale battery. Now–where are we?”</p> + +<p>No one could tell, as they floundered +about, three men, and two girls, in the +mysterious night-woods–without a clew–Pemrose +clinging desolately to her +father now, Una to hers–while Andrew, +the Church Elder, muttered weird Highland +curses.</p> + +<p>Nobody could tell where they were, +indeed, figuratively, of course, except–except +that the experiment was a failure, +so far as any proof to the World was concerned!</p> + +<p>Except that Toandoah’s hopes were +dashed,–if not broken!</p> + +<p>The first record from Space was stolen,–or +lost.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244'></a>244</span><a id='link_20'></a>CHAPTER XX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>The Search</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>No!</span> She did not think the nickum +had taken it,–that mysterious Jack at +a Pinch!</p> + +<p>This is what the bleeding heart of Pemrose +told her over and over again within +the next twenty-four hours,–and after +that, too!</p> + +<p>True, she had robbed him of his oars +and a dance,–or had been responsible for +the trick!</p> + +<p>She had not made her scout-knights +return those ashen blades until the morning +after the dance, when they were +surreptitiously deposited upon the opposite +shore of the lake in the neighborhood of +the camp near the insects’ egg-boats.</p> + +<p>And she had enjoyed herself hugely +as the guest of the White Birch Group +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245'></a>245</span> +at the wind-up of the June carnival, while +he, twice a rescuer, a friend in a pinch, +was drifting helplessly out upon the dark +night-waters of the Bowl, trying to paddle +with his hands, within hearing of the +festive dance music, until some good Samaritan +from his own shore rowed out and +gave him a homeward tow.</p> + +<p>But all this, as the girl passionately +told herself, was an everyday trick,–just +a paper pellet thrown at one beside +the overwhelming blow of the loss of her +father’s record.</p> + +<p>And he who could quote Shakespeare +upon “Something rotten in the state of +Denmark”, amid the horrors of a zero +train-wreck, who “liked his excitement +warm”, had a sense of humor.</p> + +<p>True humor is never without a sense +of proportion.</p> + +<p>It knows where to stop.</p> + +<p>But if the nickum was not the thief,–who +then?</p> + +<p>Ta-te, the tempest–otherwise the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246'></a>246</span> +mountain gusts–had to be acquitted +too.</p> + +<p>For at the first dawn after the blighted +experiment some thin silk rags of a raven +parachute were found clinging, soot-like, +to bushes in the spruce wood, together +with a portion of a twisted and bent wire +frame.</p> + +<p>There was not a trace of the diary, the +golden egg, the little perforated steel box, +with the recording pencil and paper in +it. Deprived of its wing, that could not +have gone on alone,–without some hand +carrying it.</p> + +<p>So the weary and despondent searchers +were forced to accept Andrew’s assertion +that “mon or deil” had robbed them; +and it was plain from the solemn shake +of the “true-penny’s” gray head in its +up-to-date chauffeur’s cap that he, himself, +was disposed to lay the blame on a +“deev.”</p> + +<p>“It’s plain to me, noo, that this auld +Earth should bide where she belangs,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247'></a>247</span> +he told the two girls, “not go outside +o’ her ain bit atmosphere–be sending +muckle messages outside it–it’s na +canny.”</p> + +<p>He even respectfully delivered himself +of this opinion to the inventor–to Toandoah, +with the hungry look of loss in his +eye, which occasionally wrought Pemrose +to the point of choking sobs and to clenching +her fists at the mysterious robber.</p> + +<p>And he repeated it, with elaborations, +did Andrew, on the second June morning +after the loss when Professor Lorry, declaring +that it would take a year to search +every foot of Greylock Peak, and that +he was not going to waste time in crying +over spilt milk, went down the mountain +with his young assistant and Mr. Grosvenor, +who had business in the valley, +to procure materials for another experiment–although +not on the same scale +as the first–the girls being left behind +with the landlady of the little mountain +inn where they were staying.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248'></a>248</span>The chauffeur wore a “dour” look as +he saw them depart, Una’s father driving +his own car; for the first time in all +his well-trained service, the true-penny +was inclined to sulk over being told to +keep an eye on two “daft lassies”, who +refused to go down to the town, because +they wanted to search some more–or +Pemrose did.</p> + +<p>So he sat on a bench outside the little +mountain house, thirty-six hundred feet +above sea-level, where there were no +visitors at this early season, with the exception +of the experimenting party, and, +between whiffs of his pipe, discoursed +upon the folly of simple earth folk in +“ganging beyant themselves, thinking o’ +clacking wi’ the Man in the Moon, forbye”–and, +in tones seemingly bewitched, +of the black shape he had seen +jump forth from the woods.</p> + +<p>“Pshaw! I do believe you think that +it was some bad fairy, Andrew,–fairy +or mountain ‘deev’, who stole the little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249'></a>249</span> +record, and part of the parachute, too–spirited +them away,” said Una, with +fanciful relish, having not quite grown +beyond the fairy-tale age, herself.</p> + +<p>“If that’s so, girlie,” said the mountain +landlady–alas! for Andrew True-penny, +alias Campbell, now came the +evil chance over which he sulked–“if +that’s so, and you could only find the +mountain wishing-stone, stand on it and +wish three times–wish har-rd–maybe, +the good fairies would give you back what +you’re looking for!”</p> + +<p>“Where–where is it–the wishing-stone?” +The little fixed star in Una’s +eye was never so bright–a twinkling +star of portent. “The wishing stone on +Greylock! Oh! I never knew there <i>was</i> one.”</p> + +<p>“Havers, woman! Dinna ye ken that +ye hae a tongue to hold?” muttered the +grizzled chauffeur, in a stern aside.</p> + +<p>But the motherly New Englander–who, +with her old husband, could not for +a moment be suspected of the theft–had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250'></a>250</span> +her heart full for two sorrowing girls.</p> + +<p>“Why! it’s a little over a mile from +here, I guess, down the Man Killer trail, +the third flat slab you come to. I’d +go with you myself–though it’s rough +traveling, the steepest trail on the mountain–only +my man is laid up with the +rheumatiz, hangin’ on to him like a puppy-dog +to a root.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! we can find it for ourselves–hurrah!” +shouted Una, almost squinting +with anticipation. “I’ve never stood upon +a real mountain wishing-stone before. +Who–who knows what may come of it?”</p> + +<p>In her young blood, as in Andrew’s, +was the extravagant excitement of the +whole experiment,–this first step in the +ladder of demonstration which was by +and by to reach the moon–lending to +all an unearthly touch.</p> + +<p>“The–the Man Killer trail! Why! +that’s <i>one</i> place where we haven’t +searched–yet!” A moping Pemrose +suddenly awoke.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251'></a>251</span>To her, who had grown up amid the +mathematical realities of an inventor’s +laboratory, who had “plugged” so hard +at her elementary physics that she might +be able to grasp the first principles of her +father’s work, some day–some day to +work with him,–to her, the little girl-mechanic, +a wishing stone was no golden +magnet.</p> + +<p>But the very fact that there was one +spot, not so far from the summit, either–wildest +spot on the mountain though it +be–still unexplored, was enough to draw +her restless feet anywhere, against any +deadlock of difficulty.</p> + +<p>“Ha! The Man Killer trail!” she +whooped again. “Oh-h! we could easily +find it; we saw a sign directing to it, as +we came up the mountain.”</p> + +<p>“It’s na a trail; it’s just a hotch-potch +o’ rocks–some sharp as stickit +teeth!” groaned Andrew, who saw his +own doom fixed, in vain protesting.</p> + +<p>He felt rather like a man who had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252'></a>252</span> +left behind to hold a wolf by the ears +when, in the teeth of every remonstrance +he could offer, he found himself, a little +later, starting out in the rear of two adventurous +girls, in quest of that third slab +of a wishing stone–and the breath-racking +Man Killer trail.</p> + +<p>But those girls were, to some degree, +seasoned climbers, both,–sure-footed as +venturesome!</p> + +<p>Through the dim limelight of fringing +pine woods, across oozing mud-beds, soft +from spring rains and freshets, over a +babbling brook spanned by an elastic +bridge formed of the interlacing roots +of giant trees–where Una found much +delight in bouncing up and down in anticipation +of the magic stone–they stubbornly +held their way, and came at last +to the chaos of rocks crowding a steep +gorge which marked the head of the +lonely Killer trail.</p> + +<p>“Noo–I gang first!” said Andrew–a +true-penny still, though the stamp was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253'></a>253</span> +reversed. “My word!” he added sourly, +“this is na trail–juist a scratch on the +mountainside–an’ the muckle rocks +they’re a flail for beating the breath out +of a puir body.”</p> + +<p>“What–what do I care if they +shouldn’t leave me a pinch if only I could +find something–even a few more rags of +the parachute!” gasped Pemrose, in stifled +tones of passion, as she climbed, hurry-skurry, +over a piled capsheaf of bowlders.</p> + +<p>Indeed, that battling breath was at a +low ebb in all three when, following the +tangled skein of a sort of trail which the +feet of daring climbers had beaten, here +and there, amid the rocks, they reached +in due time the third slab which, like +the invisible running water in Tory Cave, +was supposed to bring “piping times” +of luck to whoever should brave the difficulties +of the wild pass, to stand on it +and wish.</p> + +<p>“Oh–oh! there it is, at last,” cried +Una, her hand to her breathless side, “a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254'></a>254</span> +nice ‘squatty’ slab–almost as smooth +as glass–an’ shaped like a mud-turtle. +I wonder if there is a fairy underneath +it–lurking under the rim. Now–now +for the wishing cap!”</p> + +<p>But before she could don Fortunatus’ +cap by breaking a wee branch from a +dwarf cedar growing amid the crags and +wreathing it, like a green cottage bonnet, +around her head, she slipped upon the +wet moss girdling the stone where a tiny +spring bubbled, and almost pitched headlong +down the trail, at this point particularly +steep.</p> + +<p>“Easy there, lassie! Ye dinna want to +mak’ o’ that auld flat slab a tombstone, +eh?” murmured Andrew, laying a great +hand upon her shoulder, with a little +smack of laughter upon his long, smooth-shaven +upper lip.</p> + +<p>But immediately he winced as if his +own words hurt him, and Pemrose–herself +in an aching mood–knew what he +was thinking of, that grizzled chauffeur.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255'></a>255</span>Una, her balance recovered, jumped +upon the stone.</p> + +<p>Surely, no wishing-cap ever before was +so bonnie, so becoming as the fine, +emerald needles of the little cedar branch +gripped together under the dimpled chin, +fringing the sweet, saucy, girlish face, the +star in the bright dark eye so intently +fixed.</p> + +<p>Pem smiled; in the present crisis of +her young life she didn’t care if her friend’s +eyelashes were longer than hers by a whole +ell. And Andrew sighed because of that +one “sair memory” which had oppressed +him on the Pinnacle.</p> + +<p>The serio-comic passion in the green-framed +face, the fervor in the one little +clenched fist drooping at Una’s side, might +well have won over all the good fairy-hosts +that ever landed in the wake of the Pilgrims, +and set them to scouring Greylock +for the missing record from on high.</p> + +<p>“Now then! Pemrose, it’s up to you! +Turn your backbone into a wishbone.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256'></a>256</span>The wreathed figure stepped from the +pedestal,–a laughing June spot against +the wintry grimness of the Man Killer +trail.</p> + +<p>Obligingly the inventor’s daughter +stepped up, closing her eyes half-humorously, +doubling the drooping hands +at her panting sides.</p> + +<p>But, as suddenly, the eyelids were flung +up, like shutters from the blue of day. +The uncurling fists were outflung passionately.</p> + +<p>“I can’t! I <i>can’t</i>!” cried Pemrose +Lorry, choking upon her own wishbone. +“I–I’m not in the humor for it–for +foolery! I must go on–right on–and +search! This–this is the shortest trail +down the mountain, if it’s the roughest–I +know that!” She looked desperately +at old Andrew. “If any mean +thief–anybody–stole that record, +there could be only one–one motive +for it, my father-r says–curiosity; to be +the fir-rst to see that very first record man +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257'></a>257</span> +has ever got from so high up–high up +in the earth’s thin atmosphere, where +the air ends–and space begins!”</p> + +<p>She seemed to have that whole zero +void in her heart now, its light, stifling +gases in her distended throat–Toandoah’s +little pal–as she looked distractedly +down the gorge.</p> + +<p>“Oh! it’s pos-si-ble–just barely +possible, that after he had satisfied his +cur-ios-ity–or mischief–or whatever +it was–he might have thrown away +the little steel box, dropped it somewhere +on the trail,” she panted extravagantly. +“Or–or we might even come +on some more rags of the parachute and +track him–track him to a camp! My +father-r–”</p> + +<p>It was the passionate break on that +word, even more than the spice in the +blue eyes, that went straight to the shadowed +spot in Andrew’s heart and found the +little sprig of memorial heather, hidden there, +the mountain heather, the tiny, pinkish +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258'></a>258</span> +blossoms, with the faint, wild tang, which +he plucked whenever he went home to +Scotland from a small grave in a hillside +“kirkyard” on whose granite marker +was printed: “Margery Campbell, aged +fifteen!”</p> + +<p>It had been as much the restlessness of +bereavement as a desire to better their +fortunes which had brought his wife and +him to the New World, for she had been +their only child, with the exception of +one son, old enough to be in the American +Army.</p> + +<p>The fragrance of that imaginary heather-bloom +tucked away in the impassive +chauffeur’s breast was occasionally +apparent in a furtive glance thrown skyward, +or in a momentary glisten of mist +in the gray shell of the mechanical eye.</p> + +<p>It had made the whole family of his +employers very sympathetic towards +Andrew, as to a friend. And now a whiff +of that heather memory stood Pemrose +in good stead.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259'></a>259</span>“I reckon if leetle Margery were livin’, +she’d feel in the verra same way gin +anny misfortune happed to me,” he told +himself.</p> + +<p>“Aw, weel, lassie!” Thus he spoke +aloud. “Since ye’re set on gaeing on a +wee bit further, we’ll gang; but dinna +get yer hopes stickit on finding onything!”</p> + +<p>“Andrew–Andrew, himself, has found +something! Look–look at him!”</p> + +<p>It was barely twenty minutes later that +the wildly startled cry burst from Una +as the trio struggled on–on down the +fitful path, between the rocky jaws of +the Man Killer, where beetling crags +loomed, fang-like, on either side of them +and, here and there some swollen rill +made of a green moss-bank a slimy mud-bed.</p> + +<p>“He–he’s hearing things, if he isn’t +seeing them. Oh, look!... Look at +him!”</p> + +<p>Una’s hand was at her jumping heart–pressing +hard as if to hold it in her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260'></a>260</span> +body–as she beheld the tall figure of +the chauffeur, motionless as arrested +mechanism, upon the trail, ahead.</p> + +<p>“I heerd a–skirl.” Andrew’s face was +stony as that of the Old Man of Greylock–a +featured rock–as he turned +it upon the breathless girls.</p> + +<p>“A skirl! A cry!” he repeated hoarsely. +“’Twas na the yap of an animal, either! +Somebody–somebody’s yawping for help +out here in this awfu’ spot! Dinna ye hear +it, children?”</p> + +<p>They did. Their flesh began to creep.</p> + +<p>Up, upward, struggling between great +rocks, it climbed, that cry, where the +stony teeth of the Man Killer bit the trail +right in two.</p> + +<p>“Help–h-help!” it pleaded. “Oh–help!” +Then feebly, but fierily: “<i>Oh-h!</i> +confound it–<i>help</i>, I say!”</p> + +<p>That was the moment when Pemrose +Lorry shook as if the old Man Killer were +devouring her.</p> + +<p>Was there–could there be something +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261'></a>261</span> +familiar, half-familiar, about the faint, +volcanic shout: some accent she seemed to +have heard before? And yet–and yet, +not quite that, either!</p> + +<p>“My word! Some puir body’s hur-rted +bad–ba-ad–like a toad under a harrow,” +grunted Andrew, and scrambled hastily on +over a gray barrier of rocks,–the girls +following.</p> + +<p>Once again it limped painfully up to +them, the cry, like a visible, broken thing. +“Help–h-help, I say!” Then, feebly, +in rock-bitten echo: “<i>Help!</i>”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262'></a>262</span><a id='link_21'></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>The Man Killer</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>We</span> must lift him out of the mud! +Oh-h! even if it hurts him–terribly–we’ll +have to lift him to a dry spot.”</p> + +<p>It was Pemrose Lorry who spoke. Together +with her Camp Fire sisters she +had taken some training in first aid. And +one agonizing accident which she had been +told how to deal with was the case of a +knee-cap displaced or broken.</p> + +<p>There almost seemed to be a broken +head on her own young shoulders through +which wild, streaky lights and shadows +came stealing, like moonlight through +cracked shutters whose chinks are not +wide enough to reveal clearly any object +in a room.</p> + +<p>It was the same breathlessly unreal +feeling–the same dim moonlit groping, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263'></a>263</span> +that she had felt as she sat on the cliff-brow +with Stud, when he talked of the +nickum and his father–and called the +latter a “queer fish!”</p> + +<p>For one thing she knew at a glance! +She had seen the injured man, who lay +calling for help in a miry spot of the Man +Killer trail, before. Three times before, +said lightning perception!</p> + +<p>And it came upon her now, as emergency’s +stiff breeze blew the cobwebs from her brain, +the occasion of the second time, sandwiched +in between that zero day when he had +dragged her up a snow-bank, the youth +who saved her addressing him as Dad, and +the smiling June one when he lay on a fernbed +before his lake-shore camp, grumpily +fishing.</p> + +<p>“I–I saw him: I know I saw him–again–crossing +the street outside +Una’s home on the day when the last +installment of the Will was read,” she +realized, her hands coming together convulsively +at the thought of the blighting +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264'></a>264</span> +codicil which hung up the fortunes of the +moon-going Thunder Bird for twelve long +years.</p> + +<p>“He–he was wearing the same gray +cap!” was the next cleaving flash of +memory.</p> + +<p>He was not really wearing it now. It +bobbed in the rill beside him.</p> + +<p>As one eye turned feverishly towards +it, the third thunder clap of perception +came in the staggering sense of how like +he was to Una.</p> + +<p>She might have been his daughter–Una–with +that little fixed star of feeling +set like a shining pebble now in her +right, fascinated eye, reflected, exaggerated +in the glazed cast of pain in the stone-gray +eye of the man beneath her, whose +climber’s suit of homespun was daubed +with mountain mud,–whose tweed cap +was the brooklet’s toy.</p> + +<p>He had been trying to scoop up water +in it.</p> + +<p>And that brought Pemrose Lorry, Camp +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265'></a>265</span> +Fire Girl, to herself again, within quarter +of a minute of her first laying eyes on him.</p> + +<p>For there is one gallant anchor that +will hold in any pinch,–when thought +is shattered and speculation the maddest +blur: the Camp Fire law: Give Service!</p> + +<p>She unhooked her little camper’s cup +from where it hung at her green belt, and +offered him a drink.</p> + +<p>She dipped her handkerchief in the +trickle of water and wiped the cold drops +of faintness and agony from his forehead.</p> + +<p>And then, when he had confided to +Andrew, who knelt beside him, that he +had slipped upon the wet, slimy moss +beside the rill, as he ascended the trail, +and broken his knee-cap by striking +heavily against a confronting rock, she +said that they must lift him to a dry spot.</p> + +<p>“That’s–r-right. She knows what +to–do. Ouch! a–a knee-cap slipped, +or broken–is–the deuce of a rack,” +groaned the victim, as they proceeded to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266'></a>266</span> +raise him, the girls supporting, each, a +knickerbockered leg, Pemrose the injured +one, while Andrew took the main weight +of the writhing body, until they laid it +upon some dry moss.</p> + +<p>Yes! and she knew further what to +do, that Camp Fire Girl who wore the +Fire Maker’s bracelet upon her wrist, +for plucking off her soft, green sweater +she rolled it into a wad and placed it +under the hollow of the injured knee, so +flexing it, supporting it, while Una +doubled hers into a pillow for his head,–Una +who moved as if in a fantastic dream.</p> + +<p>And then arose the question as to the +next move; how to go about obtaining +further help.</p> + +<p>“We might–might make a stretcher +with poles, saplings, with our sweaters, +your coat, Andrew, and–and carry him +down to the nearest farmhouse,” Pem +suggested.</p> + +<p>“No-o thank–you!” The injured +man shifted his shoulders ever so slightly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267'></a>267</span> +upon one elbow and looked at her; the +tiniest laugh shot the rapids of pain in +his eye. “My son said you had a whole +lot of ‘pep’–same that’s in your inventor-father, +I suppose, who wants to +bombard the moon!... My son who’s +play-ing baseball now down on the Greylock +field–mountain’s foot!” The +sufferer here appealed to Andrew. “If +you could–only–get him up here, I’d +be all right! There’s an auto at the nearest +farmhouse–maybe they’d let you take +it. Any one–any one can point out +‘Starry’”–in a lame rush of pride–“player +who made that home run–”</p> + +<p>“Hadna I better bid him bring a doctor +along too–a stretcher as weel?” put +in the Scotchman dryly.</p> + +<p>The victim nodded, looking at the +other’s cap.</p> + +<p>“You’re a chauffeur,” he pleaded; +“you’ll drive fast?”</p> + +<p>“Aye, fegs! Fast as God and gasoline +will let me!” answered Andrew +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268'></a>268</span> +devoutly, with an anxious glance at the +two girls.</p> + +<p>As his tall, spare figure scrambled on +down the trail, the sufferer raised his +eyes to Pemrose.</p> + +<p>“If–if you could t-twist my knapsack +round from under me,” he murmured; +“there’s a restorative in it–a +few drops of ammonia–I’m faint!”</p> + +<p>She did so–and turned for the moment +as faint as he was.</p> + +<p>The whole trail swam, grew black–black +as the wisp of thin, ebony silk, +parachute silk, with a fraction of a bent +wire frame peeping out from one corner +of that roomy knapsack.</p> + +<p>“Well! are you going to desert me +now-ow?... Now that the thief is so-o +nice-ly bagged!”</p> + +<p>The man looked up at her, some dash +of whimsical fire in him mastering weakness; +at the girl kneeling, bolt upright, +with the black rag between her hands, +and the twisted scrap of frame,–the +frame which had drifted down two hundred +miles.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i5'></a><img src='images/illus-268.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +The man looked up at her, some dash of whimsical fire mastering weakness. <i>Page</i> 268. +</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269'></a>269</span>“Ar-re you–going–to desert me +now?”</p> + +<p>Again the anchor held; the noble +anchor: Give Service: it was as if a voice +outside of her numbed self spoke the +words.</p> + +<p>The raven rags dropped from between +her fingers,–their reflection from her face.</p> + +<p>Steadily enough, she found the little +vial lying amid the top layer in that +pigskin knapsack, shook a few drops from +it, into the thimble-like glass accompanying, +mixed them with water, held them +to his lips.</p> + +<p>At the same time she dipped her handkerchief +again and passed it over his forehead.</p> + +<p>“Ha! Pity as well as ‘pep’ in you, +eh? Good!” The sufferer actually +winked one eye as the stimulant trickled +down. “Well! my dear, the little recording +apparatus is in that knapsack +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270'></a>270</span> +too; I–I make you a present of it–and +of the codicil to my brother’s will, +as well.... You won’t have to wait +twelve years.”</p> + +<p>Then, indeed, the trail seemed to double +up, to wind itself around Pem’s brain, +rocks and all,–only every rock was gold-edged, +a nugget.</p> + +<p>Her eyes stared straight before her,–blue +as the June violet that caught a drop +from the spring near.</p> + +<p>“Who–who are you?” screamed Una, +forgetting that she was speaking to a +broken man.</p> + +<p>“How about my being your uncle, Treffrey +Graham, my dear, who–who was +such a mad fellow–in–youth; s-such an +oddity? Oh-h! you’ve heard of him–have–you?”</p> + +<p>The whimsical light in the pain-reddened +eyes burned to mockery now. +It showed the hippogriff, the “hot tamale”, +still there. Evidently eccentricity wasn’t +all dead.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271'></a>271</span>“Humph! By Jove! I’m having +some fun out of my broken knee, after +all–electrifying you girls,” gurgled the +still racked voice. “Dramatic setting for +a denouement, too, the old Man Killer +trail!”</p> + +<p>“But why–oh! why-y did you do it?” +Pem snatched up the rag of parachute +again, her eyes going wildly from the +soot-like scrap of silk to a wonderful, +antique ring upon the little finger of the +pale hand which twitched so strangely +below her.</p> + +<p>“What! S-steal the little record, you +mean!” The bushy eyebrows were +twitching, too. “Well! maybe I want-ed +to make sure, for myself, that the rocket +really had gone higher than anything +earthly ever flew yet, before–before I +resigned a fortune to it.”</p> + +<p>That was the moment when the nuggets +all turned to rocks again for Pemrose. +He saw the change in her face.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I don’t mean anything der-og-a-tory +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272'></a>272</span> +to your father, my dear”–pain +snatched at the man’s breath–“or to his +invention, either. I knew him before you +did. ‘Why did I do it?’ Curiosity–eccentricity, +I suppose–anything you +like to call it! I always was such a +‘terror’–a regular zany, my college +friends used to call me.”</p> + +<p>A flash from those prankful days, erratic +as a shooting star, shot the glaze in the +sufferer’s eye.</p> + +<p>“And, then–and then, I really am +interested in everything connected with +the conquest of the air–of space–myself,” +the hampered speaker went on. +“I’ve done a little flying, out West,–my +son, too! I found out when the +experiments with your father’s in-vention–”</p> + +<p>“We call it the Thunder Bird,” put +in Una, as pain again called for a break.</p> + +<p>“Ha! Good name for it! Piles up +the moon-going romance, eh? Well-ll,” +wearily, “having found out the par-ti-cu-lar +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273'></a>273</span> +night on which the lit-tle model +rocket was to fly, I came up the mountain +to a small camp that my son and I +have ne-ar the summit–east side of +Greylock. I was standing on the edge +of the spruce woods, watching the whole +performance. Then–then, when the +parachute dragging the little recording +apparatus blew towards me in the darkness, +almost into my hand, I–why! +I snatched it up and ran with it. Why? +Oh, because I suppose the boy has never +died in me: the boy that’s ‘part pirate, +part pig!’” with a grating chuckle.</p> + +<p>Incredible as it seemed, the low laughter, +the treacherous tinkle, was echoed by +girlish lips as that renascent urchin momentarily +swaggered in the glaze of the +suffering eye!</p> + +<p>“And then–and then something told +me–an aberration, I suppose, as my +impulses usually are–that I had some +sort of r-right to see the very first record +man had ever got of that upper air, of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274'></a>274</span> +Space, if–if I was go-ing to turn over +a couple of hundred thousand dollars, for +the pursuit of the–sov-er-eign invention.”</p> + +<p>“I–I can’t believe it,” murmured Pem +into the stony teeth of the Man Killer.</p> + +<p>“I meant to return the record next +morning, but I was a-fraid your father +might shoot me,” to Pemrose. “Then, +later, I heard he had gone down the mountain–that +was yesterday and a mistake–I +went-down, too, to beard him. A–a +little more water, please! I could +not climb again until to-day; I took the +Man Killer trail, as being the shortest. +And–here I am!” grimly.</p> + +<p>“Incidentally, I gave our family lawyer +a shock, little niece,” he went on, as Una, +plucking up courage, adjusted her sweater +under his head; she began to like this uncle +with the pebble-like cast in his stone-gray +eye, she began to think that girls–Camp +Fire Girls, especially, with their love of the +fanciful–might have more patience with +him than others had had.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275'></a>275</span>“Yes! you bet I gave old Cartwright +the staggers!” He laughed down the +twinge of agony in his voice. “Called +him up on the long distance telephone, +told him I was Treffrey Graham back; +that I had been in the East nearly six +months, with my son; that I came pretty +near disclosing myself on the–on the day +when the third installment of my brother’s +will was read–actually walked up to +the door of my sister’s house, then shied +off, because ... Oh, gosh! this knee.”</p> + +<p>The voice broke; it had really become +a feverish babble of excitement now–pain’s +wild excitement.</p> + +<p>“Well! What was I saying–yes! I +didn’t ring the bell because I hadn’t made +up my mind whether I wanted to claim +any share of my brother’s fortune, or not; +you see he hadn’t been very fair to me +in youth–taking away my sweetheart. +None of my family had–for–that–matter! +I didn’t know whether I wanted +to meet them again. Although I liked the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276'></a>276</span> +look of my little niece; I had seen her, at +a distance, with her mother. And then, we +didn’t need the money, my boy and I! +Had enough of our own; Treffrey Graham +may be a terror, but he isn’t a failure–financially!”</p> + +<p>No–not by a long shot! said the +flame of the pigeon-blood ruby upon the +pale little finger, now curling significantly +in air,–the gem whose fire in this wild +spot seemed as erratic as his own, seeing +that none but a zany would have worn +it here.</p> + +<p>“So–so I told old Cartwright this +morning that I stepped out of that strung-out +will,” a smile curled the pallid lips +now; “that I authorized him to make +preparations, at once, for the turning +over of the remainder of my brother’s +wealth, in his name and mine, to the +University of our native city, to be used +for the furtherance of Professor Lorry’s +won-der-ful invention for r-reaching in-de-finite +heights.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277'></a>277</span>“My father!... Oh! my fa-ther!” +It was a wild little cry to which the Man +Killer rang now, as the head of Pemrose +Lorry went down upon her knees.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I’m glad his way is clear–though, +I suppose, only a man ‘whose head +grew under his arm’ would have managed +the thing as I have done.” The sufferer +winked through the veil of pain. “Now! +my son is different. He’s a dare-devil +too–but he knows where to stop. You +couldn’t have bribed him to steal that record–though +somebody played a trick on him +the other night–robbed him of his oars +and a dance–just when he had ‘taken the +bit between his teeth’, too; said he was +tired of this camouflage business, and he was +going–going whether I liked it, or not!”</p> + +<p>“<i>Ah-h!</i>” That was the moment when +Pem’s shoulders trembled like the needles +upon the little green cedar sapling that +grew by the rill: all because the Wise +Woman in her was shaking the Elf, bidding +her go to sleep for ever–which +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278'></a>278</span> +the Elf, very properly, refused to do, +for, after all, undiluted wisdom would +be a colorless cloak for any young back.</p> + +<p>“Well! he–he wouldn’t speak to us +when we just wanted to thank him for +saving us in that terrible train-accident,” +put in Una defensively.</p> + +<p>“Ha! That was my fault, little niece. +I made him promise, on coming East, +that he wouldn’t go near any of his relatives, +risk being identified by them, until +I had decided what to do about the legacy–and +whether I was going to make myself +known to them, or not. Now-ow, I +hope you’ll be friends. He’s your own +cousin–Treff junior.”</p> + +<p>And so Jack at a Pinch at last came +into his own in the shape of a name!</p> + +<p>“Yes, called after me, he is! Goodness! +don’t I wish he’d hurry up and +get here, now–with the doctor?”</p> + +<p>It was a hollow groan. Pain was, at +length, getting the better of that capricious +spirit.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279'></a>279</span>“Can’t–can’t I do–anything–to +make you more comfortable?” Pemrose +asked.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly remembering that it was +he who was making the Thunder Bird’s +fortune, as impulsively as the little cedar +tree leaned to the swollen rill, she bent +and kissed the cold sweat of pain from +his forehead.</p> + +<p>“That–that’s worth coming East for,” +murmured the man, his own eyes growing +wet. “Little niece! don’t you want to–follow–suit? +I suppose, a year from now, +your Thunder Bird will fly.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280'></a>280</span><a id='link_22'></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>A June Woman</span></span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>I feel</span> as if I was in the pictures!”</p> + +<p>“Oh! I feel as if I was in the pictures.”</p> + +<p>It was the wild thought in each girl’s +breast, as minutes went on.</p> + +<p>The loneliness of the mountain pass, +nearly three thousand feet above sea-level, +the rigors of the wind sweeping up +it, chill now, June not yet being ten days +old, the frowning crags, the remote heads +of other tall mountains peeping over their +shoulders, the two green dots of girls on +either side of a broken man, they took +it all in, to the full, most dramatically +too–and felt as if they were in the pictures.</p> + +<p>A surpassing moving picture reel, more +telling than any they had ever witnessed, +in which–oh, queer double-headed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281'></a>281</span> +feeling–they were both actors and spectators!</p> + +<p>But pain–pain left no atmosphere of +unreality about it for the suffering man, +for the sufferer who monopolized both +their soft sweaters, while they shivered +convulsively, until if it came to a beauty +contest between the two now, the old Man +Killer, awarding the palm, would not have +made it dependent on a mere matter of +eyelashes, but on which little nose was the +least blue bitten.</p> + +<p>Pain released something in that sufferer +too,–a fire that was not all wild-fire! +For suddenly he dragged Una’s green +sweater-roll from under his head and +thrust it towards her with an imperious: +“Put it on, child!”</p> + +<p>“I shan’t!” replied that child of luxury, +as arbitrarily, slipping it back under +the pallid cheek, above which the stand +of agony in the stony eye told that the +man was suffering almost to a point of +delirium now.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282'></a>282</span>“Who ever thought Una would be such +a brick?” Pem nibbled the words between +her chattering teeth. “She’s shivering–yes! +and frightened and trying to cry–but +the brick in her won’t allow it!”</p> + +<p>There was no doubt that the uncle of +her blood was a brick, too, for he fought +the groans reverberating behind his +clenched teeth, like a bee in a bottle, +only breaking out now and again in a +yearning prayer for the coming of his +son.</p> + +<p>“If he were only here–here!” he +moaned; it was evident that the youthful +daredevil who liked excitement, but +“knew where to stop”, was a tower of +strength to the less balanced father.</p> + +<p>Pem was longing uncontrollably for his +appearance, also–for the rower whom she +had robbed of his oars, while the sufferer +seemed to find his only relief in talking +about him.</p> + +<p>“My son and I have been in bad scrapes +before among–mountains,” he panted, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283'></a>283</span> +feverishly. “Once high up in the +Canadian Rockies, we missed our guide +who had gone back for provisions. Bad +plight then, but the boy didn’t ‘cave’! +He was only fifteen when he shot his +bear in Arizona. He loves the West. +But the East’s in his blood. Just went +wild over these Berkshire Hills, this spring, +over his first sight of mayflowers! They +seemed more of a treasure than the fortune +he wanted to part with. <i>Hiff-f!</i>”</p> + +<p>Before the eyes of both girls rose the +clamor of color “blooming round” in old +Tory Cave–the armful of passë blossoms +flung down at the “rattler” scare.</p> + +<p>“Yes–his Mother Earth has been +good to him,” muttered the whimsical +voice. “Very good! Yet–yet such are +earth-sons that he’d turn his back on +her to-morrow–go off on a wild-goose +chase after some other world–even a +dead one–if only that moon-storming +Thunder–Bird–”</p> + +<p>“What! You don’t mean to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284'></a>284</span> +say–oh! did he write to my father about it–write +to my father and sign himself +‘T. S.’?” broke in Pemrose, glancing back +along the trail which she had traveled +these past few months and finding it +stranger, more baffling than the Man +Killer’s.</p> + +<p>“May–may–have done so,” came +the answer, with a faint chuckle. “I asked +him when pressed for a name to give his +mother’s–his middle one–Selkirk. But +he a lunar can-di-date! Not if I know it! +With me, the moon may have the money–but +not the boy!”</p> + +<p>“The moon may have the money!” +Pemrose Lorry glanced at the mud-stained +knapsack lying by the sufferer,–the +knapsack tucked away in which was the +golden egg, the precious record; she +would not unearth it and glance at it, +because the second look, at least, belonged +to her father.</p> + +<p>This mature madcap upon the ground, +this queer, practical joker, chastened now, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285'></a>285</span> +if never before, had played on him a cruel +prank, but, at least, he was not the fool +who loved money for its own sake.</p> + +<p>“If–only–I could do anything for +him!” yearned the girl passionately. +“Oh! I’d want father–father–to +feel that I did ev-ery-thing for him.”</p> + +<p>And, as once before in a watery pinch, +the thought of Toandoah’s honor, Toandoah’s +debt to this trapped March hare, +was the vital breath of inspiration.</p> + +<p>“Have–have you any matches?”</p> + +<p>Suddenly she bent to the ashen ear.</p> + +<p>“In my br-reast pocket, yes.” It was +a feebly appreciative flicker.</p> + +<p>“A fire! I–I a Camp Fire Girl–and +not to think of it sooner! Una! +Una! Get busy! Gather wood, quickly–quickly–all-ll +the dry wood you can!”</p> + +<p>And the friendly little cedar gave of +its one brown arm, the spruce chit, the +birch stripling, the pine urchin–all the +hop-o’-my-thumb timber that flourished +in this wild pass–contributed of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286'></a>286</span> +dead limbs torn from them by last winter’s +blasts, to burn up the chill in the old +Man Killer’s heart.</p> + +<p>Una’s little nose, piquantly tiptilted, +warmed from a fashionable orchid-color +to a cheery rose pink, with the excitement, +the pressing adventure of trailing +firewood among the rocks and dragging +it captive to the new-born blaze which +Pem was fanning with her breath and with +the breezy bellows of her short green skirt.</p> + +<p>As for the sufferer, hope stirred anew +in him as he turned his head towards the +flaming pennons of good cheer, while the +fire, prospering gayly, feathered its nest +with scarlet down.</p> + +<p>He saw, too, that the fire-witch was preparing +something in that red nest for him.</p> + +<p>Raking out the first glowing embers, +she filled her little aluminum cup at the +rill and set it among them; when it +steamed she shook into it a few drops +from the little vial–the aromatic spirits +of ammonia–and held it to his lips.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287'></a>287</span>“It’s the best I can do,” she murmured, +but her eyes stretched that best +into an indefinite blue of longing to capture +the pain even for a short time and +bear it for him–for him who was making +the Thunder Bird’s fortune.</p> + +<p>As before, the stimulant set the racked +heart to sending strength through the freezing +veins–and with it a touch of the whimsicality +which Death alone could quench.</p> + +<p>“Little girl!” Treffrey Graham’s eye +winked upon a mote of fun that softened +to a mist. “Your fa-ther’s invention is +the gr-reatest thing yet; it’s a Success–I +know that from the one glimpse I +had at the record–” Pemrose winced–“but–but +you may tell him from me +that I doubt if, after all, his Thunder +Bird is the best thing he’s turned out.”</p> + +<p>“Some-somebody coming! Oh-h, some-body–coming!” +cried Una, at that +moment, so that the man started up, +with a heyday exclamation–and tumbled +back, a wreck of groans.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288'></a>288</span>For it was not his son. Neither was +it the long-coated figure of the chauffeur, +at sight of which each girl would have +passionately hugged herself–if not him.</p> + +<p>But it was a messenger whom Andrew +had sent.</p> + +<p>And at sight of her, of the fresh mountain +rose in her cheeks, with its heart of +American gold, the climbing flash in her +hazel eye, Una just tumbled into sobs, +herself, that little fixed star in her eye +blazing pathetic welcome, for this was +her first taste of emergency’s pinch, emergency’s +call for sacrifice.</p> + +<p>“Are you–oh! are you come to stay +with us–us?” she cried, running forward +with childish confidence.</p> + +<p>“That I be–girlie!” responded the +mountain woman, throwing a warm arm +around her. “The man that borrowed +our little aut’mobile truck and set off in +it at a score down the mountain, the man +with a queer blowpipe at the roots of his +tongue, he told me that he had left two +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289'></a>289</span> +lassies up here on the lonely trail, with +a badly hurt man. ‘Woman!’ says he, +kind o’ fierce-like, ‘if they were yer own +bit lassies, ye’d scorch the rocks, climbing +to ’em.’ ‘Man!’ says I,” the Greylock +woman paused, half-laughingly, to catch +her breath, “‘I never laid eyes on them, +or on the broken-kneed man, either, but +I’ll warm the way, just the same.’ But, +mercy! it took me most an hour to get +here–though only a mile of climbing–the +old Man Killer is–so-o–fierce.”</p> + +<p>Her eye, at that, went to the fire, now +brilliantly painting the trail, to the +pillowed figure upon the moss, with the +sweater-roll in the hollow of the injured +knee.</p> + +<p>“But, land sakes! I needn’t ha’ been +in such a mad hurry getting here, after +all–giving my skin to make ear-laps +for the old Man Killer!” she cried, holding +up two raw palms, flayed by indiscriminate +climbing. “For, my senses! they’re +no stray lambs o’ tenderfoot–those ‘twa bit +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290'></a>290</span> +lassies’!” mimicking Andrew’s blowpipe. +“They know how to take care of themselves +in a pinch–and of somebody else, +too!... And–and, see here, what +I’ve brought you, honey, rolled in the +blanket for <i>him</i>!”</p> + +<p>“Cake–choc’late cake! C-coffee!” +Una gasped feebly, confronted by the +ghost of her everyday life.</p> + +<p>She grasped the reality, though, of that +normal life, somewhere waiting for her, +with the first bite into the brown-eyed cake, +while her sweater was restored to her thinly +clad shoulders as the mountain woman +spread her blanket over the injured man +and tucked it under him for a pillow.</p> + +<p>“You–you’re a ‘trump,’ little niece–letting +me have it for-r so long,” he said +wistfully.</p> + +<p>And Una shyly forbore to answer.</p> + +<p>Occasionally it is easier to land gracefully +after a long jump than a short one in +the case of an awkward gulf to be crossed! +She saw that her friend Pemrose, no relation +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291'></a>291</span> +at all to this extraordinary uncle, could +care for him and welcome him without +embarrassment, while, with every doubtful +glance in his direction, she felt, still, +as if she did not quite know whether she +was on her head or her heels.</p> + +<p>She crept, for reassurance, very close +to the mountain woman, the typical June +woman, with the normal rose in her cheeks, +and the golden buttercup for a heart, as +she picnicked, subdued, by the trail fire.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think–oh! I don’t believe +I ever met anybody q-quite like you before. +But I’m so glad you’re in the +world!” she murmured gratefully.</p> + +<p>“And I just wish you could come into +<i>my</i> world often, girlie,” was the cuddling +answer, “for it’s lonely as old Sarum +here on the mountainside–though where +old Sarum is I don’t know myself!” +breezily.</p> + +<p>“Nor I!” laughed Una.</p> + +<p>“Old Man Greylock doesn’t talk to +one, you know–only roars sometimes.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292'></a>292</span> +The woman lifted her eye to the dim +peak above her, with the pale mists +streaming, tress-like, about its crown, +from which Mount Greylock takes its +name; then her anxious glance returned +to the sufferer. “Ha! there he goes–making +faces at the pain again,” she +murmured pityingly. “And, mercy! I +suppose ’twill be a blue moon yet–a dog’s +age–before his son can get here.”</p> + +<p>It was a long age anyhow; although, +in reality, little more than an hour–a +wild, wind-ridden, fire-painted hour–before +three haggard men came stumbling +up the trail.</p> + +<p>Two carried a stretcher between them. +One had a bag in his hand.</p> + +<p>As they hoisted that collapsible +stretcher between its poles over the last +bleak hurdle of rock, one, the youngest, +dropped his end of it, which the doctor, +shifting his bag, took up.</p> + +<p>Jack at a Pinch rushed forward.</p> + +<p>And ever afterwards Pem liked that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293'></a>293</span> +churlish nickum because he ignored her +then; because he had no more consciousness +of her presence, or of Una’s, or of the +June woman’s, than if they had been rocks–blank +rocks–by the trail, as he flung +himself on his knees beside his father.</p> + +<p>“Dad! <i>Dad!</i>” he cried, his face as gray-blue +with hurry as his baseball flannels. +“Oh-h! Dad, what have you been doing +to yourself–now?”</p> + +<p>“The biter bitten–Treff! Joker +pinched!” came the answer in tones +almost jocular, for the love in that boyish +voice was a cordial. “Well! I guess +I haven’t got my death-blow now you’ve +come. And–and the murder is out, +boy: these little girls know all-ll: who +you are–who I am!”</p> + +<p>Then, indeed, Jack at a Pinch raised +his head and looked straight across into +the blue eyes of Pemrose Lorry.</p> + +<p>“You must have thought me an awful +‘chuff’,” he said.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry about the oars,” was the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294'></a>294</span> +mute reply of the girl’s eyes, but the least +little tincture of a smile trickling down +from her lip-corners, said: “But I’m +glad I got even with you, somehow!”</p> + +<p>However, there was too much “getting +even” just now in this wild spot–Life +grimly settling accounts with the dragon +who had so often “hazed” others–for +the boy and girl to spend any more conscious +thoughts upon each other.</p> + +<p>There was the terrible trip–the worst +mile ever traveled–down the Man +Killer trail, for him, strapped to the +stretcher, after the doctor had examined +the injury and found the delicate kneecap +both slipped and broken.</p> + +<p>“I guess if–if I pull through this, I’ll +be a–reformed–character; no more–no +more eccentricity for me,” he murmured +dizzily to Pemrose who, when the +trail permitted, walked beside him, stroking +his hand,–and he rolled his eyes +faintly, through the veil of the opiate +which the doctor had given, at the knapsack +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295'></a>295</span> +beside him, wherein lay the golden +egg.</p> + +<p>And with his own hands, the Man Killer +at last conquered, as they laid him in an +ambulance, he took the five-inch, open-work +steel box, the precious record, from +that knapsack’s depth and handed it to +her.</p> + +<p>She could not look at it, the little Thunder +Bird’s log of that two-hundred mile +trip aloft, she could only jealously clasp +it to her breast,–Toandoah’s little pal.</p> + +<p>“T-tell your fa-ther from–me,” said +the broken voice, “that Treff Graham is +the same old Treff; that he m-may be +a pirate, but he isn’t a pig–not re-al-ly! +That,” faintly, “he apol-o-gizes–and +steps aside; that, with all his heart–it’s +there, if it is a madcap–” wanderingly, +winkingly, he touched his left breast–“he +hopes that, a year from now, the highways +of the hea-vens may be opened–the +im-mor-tal Thun-der Bird will fly!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296'></a>296</span><a id='link_23'></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span class='sc'>The Celestial Climax</span></span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>A year</span> from then it did!</p> + +<p>It awoke the World with its challenging +roar, silencing for ever, let us hope, +the racket of guns upon this dear planet, +leading man in future to seek his conquests +in more transcendent ways, even +outside Earth’s atmosphere, as it took +its pioneer flight again from the misty +top of old Mount Greylock.</p> + +<p>The World and his wife were there to +see: scientists from the four quarters +of the globe–Earth’s great ones.</p> + +<p>And other spellbound spectators, too: +Una, the White Birch Group, their Boy +Scout comrades–Stud fast developing +into the type of hotspur who wanted +to take passage for the moon–all massed +in such a stupendous Get Together as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297'></a>297</span> +made the mountain seem “moonshine +land”, indeed, to their thrill-shod feet.</p> + +<p>And never–oh! never since the +history of Mother Earth and her satellite +began did such a spectacular traveler +start on such a flaming trip as when the +hand of a Camp Fire Girl of America +threw the switch and the steel explorer, +twenty feet long, leaped from its platform +high into the air, pointed directly +for the moon, with a great inventor’s +mathematical precision,–trailing its two-hundred-foot, +rosy trail of fire.</p> + +<p>There was not breath–not breath, +even, to cry: “Watch it tear!”</p> + +<p>Only breath enough, in young girls’ +bodies, at least, to gaze off at Mammy +Moon, loved patron of many an outdoor +revel, and ponder upon the nature of the +shock she would get when the Thunder +Bird’s last explosion lit up her fair face +with a blue powder-flash–lit it up for +earth to see!</p> + +<p>“Do–do you think ’twill ev-er get +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298'></a>298</span> +there–two hundred and thirty thousand +miles, about, when–when an eighth +of an inch out at the start; and it would +m-miss–miss?” breathed a youth who +knelt by the heroine of the evening, the +inventor’s daughter.</p> + +<p>“Toandoah doesn’t miss. My father +doesn’t miss.” The young head of Pemrose +Lorry queened it in the darkness, +with a pride which made of old Greylock, +at that moment, the world’s throne. +“But how–how are we to live through +the next hundred hours–the next four +days–the time the Thunder Bird will +take to travel?”</p> + +<p>Yet they did succeed in living through +it and in leading time a merry dance too, +for young Treffrey Graham, junior, all +old scores forgotten, was proving a prince +of chums, as spirited in play as he was +prompt in a pinch.</p> + +<p>And together–hand clasped in hand, +indeed–by virtue of her being the inventor’s +daughter, he the son of the man +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299'></a>299</span> +who had resigned a fortune to the transcendent +invention, side by side with two +or three of those Very Great Ones, they +stood, four nights later, looking through +a monster telescope upon a mountaintop, +and saw–saw the celestial climax, +the first of the heavenly bodies reached.</p> + +<p>Saw the blue powder-flash light up the +full, round face of the Silver Queen they +loved, while the Thunder Bird, expiring, +dropped its bones upon her dead surface.</p> + +<p>“It’s–got–there,” breathed the youth. +“What next? Some day–some day, maybe, +we’ll be shooting off there–together?”</p> + +<p>“Yes! if only the Man in the Moon +could shoot us back!” breathed Pemrose.</p> + +<p>Already it had come to be “we” bound +up with “What next?” for it would, +indeed, be a zero “next” in which the +hands of youth and maiden would not +meet in comradeship–and love.</p> + +<p>But the sun and center of the girl’s +heart was still–and would be for long–her +father.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300'></a>300</span>The greatest moment of that unprecedented +night came when Toandoah bent to +her, and said:</p> + +<p>“Little Pem! there was just one moment +when I may have been discouraged, +you remember! None knew the Wise +Woman who saved the city.”</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i6'></a><img src='images/illus-em2.jpg' alt='' /> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='c i fs08 mb20'>A story of the best type of home life, with a charming heroine.</p> + +<p class='c sc fs16 mb20'>Then Came Caroline</p> + +<p class='c'>By LELA HORN RICHARDS</p> + +<p class='fs08 c'>With illustrations by M. L. Greer.</p> + +<p class='fs08 c'>12mo.    Cloth    306 pages.</p> + +<hr class='hr20' /> + +<p>Caroline was the fourth daughter in Doctor Ravenel’s family +of five girls,–fourth on the list, but first in mischief, in ingenuity, +in originality, in human sympathy and democracy. The +father’s health made it necessary for the Ravenels to leave their +old Southern home and migrate to Colorado. Here Caroline +grew up–from ten to eighteen–her days full of interest, +her courage, as the family struggled along under straitened +circumstances, always unflagging. Sometimes the delight and +sometimes the despair of her mother and her sisters, Caroline +made friends in many quarters and met in unusual ways the many +emergencies into which her impulsiveness led her.</p> + +<p>This is a splendid story of the best type of home life, and the +four other girls–Leigh the unselfish, Alison the ambitious and +self-seeking, Mayre the artistic and Hope the baby–complete +a well-individualized group, alternately caressed and disciplined +by old black “Mammy,” who had accompanied her “fam’bly” +from Virginia. There are plenty of boys in the story too, likable +lads, such as inevitably would gather around a group of wholesome +and merry girls, ready for a game, a dance or any other +frolic. Caroline will be a favorite with girl readers. They will +enjoy the account of her running away; her attempt to help her +mother form a “social acquaintance” in their new home; her outwitting +of Alison at the party; her early literary efforts; and the +daring with which she “puts her finger” in nearly everyone’s “pie.”</p> + +<hr class='hr20' /> + +<p class='c sc'>LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers</p> +<p class='c sc fs08'>34 Beacon Street, Boston</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEMROSE LORRY, CAMP FIRE GIRL***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 31748-h.txt or 31748-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/1/7/4/31748">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/7/4/31748</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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