billy found croaker just where he thought he would be—clinging to the latch of the menagerie door and peering with one black eye through the chink above it at the owls, the while he hurled guttural insults at them.
"croaker," commanded his master, "get away from there!"
croaker balanced himself by flopping one short wing and laughed at the hisses of the angered owls. he hopped from his perch to the peak of the shanty as billy reached for him and there he sat, demurely turning his head from one side to the other and muttering low in his throat.
"croaker, come down here, i want'a ask you somethin'." billy's hand went into his pocket and the crow stood at attention. then as the hand came away empty he emitted an angry croak and wobbled further along the ridge-board.
"come, nice old croaker, tell me where you found the gold," coaxed billy.
croaker turned his back and murmured a whole string of "coro-corrs," which to billy meant just as plain as words could say it that he hadn't the slightest intention of telling anything.
"all right then, croaker, i'll call ringdo, an' feed him your dinner."
now, for the swamp-coon, croaker had all the jealousy and hatred a crow is capable of feeling and as a last resort, whenever he was obdurate and disobedient as he was now, his master could nearly always bring him to submission by the mere mention of ringdo's name. at billy's threat croaker raised his head and poured forth such a jargon of heart-broken lamentation that the listening owls inside crouched low in terror, their amber eyes questioning the meaning of the awful sound.
billy bent and patted an imaginary something on the ground. "good ol' ringdo," he said. "nice ol' ringdo." that was the last straw. with a croak of anguish croaker swooped down and lit on his master's shoulder. promptly five fingers gripped his feet.
"now, you black beggar, i've got you," exulted billy. this fact did not seem to worry croaker in the least. his beady eyes were busy searching for signs of his enemy. ringdo being nowhere visible, his neck feathers gradually lowered and his heavy beak closed. he snuggled close against billy's face and told him in throaty murmurs how much he loved him. billy laughed, and seating himself on a log, placed the crow on his knees.
"croaker," he addressed the bird, "you must'a found ol' scroggie's gold. he had the only gold money this country ever saw, so you must have found it some way. i don't s'pose it'll do teacher stanhope any good, 'cause it'll go to jim scroggie's father, but, croaker, it's up to us to get that money an' turn it over; hear me?"
croaker blinked and seemed to be thinking hard.
"you see," billy went on, "maybe the will'll be where the gold is. you be a real good feller an' show me where you found the gold-piece."
"sure i will," agreed croaker. he hopped down and started pigeon-toeing across the glade, peering back to see if billy were coming.
billy followed slowly, hoping, fearing, trusting that croaker's intentions were of the best. the crow was carrying on a murmured conversation with himself, flapping his wings, nodding his head sagely and in other ways manifesting his eagerness to accommodate his master. when he grew tired of walking he flew and billy had to run to keep him in sight. straight through the grove, across the green valley and on through the stumpy fallow went the crow, billy panting and perspiring behind. straight on to the pine-hedged creek and still on, until the lonely pine grove of the haunted house came into view.
"oh, jerusalem!" gasped billy, "an' me without my rabbit foot charm." he realized where croaker was leading him—straight to the haunted house. he wiped his streaming face on his sleeve and determined he'd go through with it.
croaker paused for a moment in the edge of the grove to look back at billy. the bird was plainly excited; his wings were spread, his neck feathers erect, and his raucous voice was scattering nesting birds from the evergreens in flocks.
with wildly beating heart billy passed through the pines, the twilight gloom adding to his feeling of awe. croaker had become strangely silent and now flitted before him like a black spirit of a crow. it was almost a relief when at last the tumble-down shack grew up in its tangle of vines and weeds. once more into the daylight and croaker took up the interrupted thread of his conversation with himself. he ducked and side-stepped and gave voice to expressions which billy had never heard him use before.
"i wish he'd shut up," he murmured to himself, "but i'm scared to make him, fer fear he'll get sulky an' quit cold on the job."
croaker, mincing in and out among the rag-weeds, led straight across the yard to a tiny ramshackle building which at one time might have been a root-house. billy, feeling that at any moment an icy hand might reach out and grip his windpipe, followed. it was a terrible risk he was running but the prize was worth it. his feet seemed weighted with lead. at last he reached the root-house and leaned against it, dizzy and panting. then he looked about for croaker. the crow had vanished!
a thrill of alarm gripped billy's heart-strings. where had croaker disappeared to? what if old scroggie's ghost had grabbed him and cast over him the cloak of invisibility? then in all likelihood he would be the next to feel that damp, clutching shroud.
suddenly his fears vanished. croaker's voice, high-pitched and jubilant, had summoned him from somewhere on the other side of the building. as quickly as the weeds and his lagging feet would permit billy joined him. croaker was standing erect on a pile of old bottles, basking in the radiance of the colored lights which the sun drew from them. undoubtedly in his black heart he felt that his master would glory in this glittering pile even as he gloried in it; for was there not in this heap of dazzling old bottles light enough to make the whole world glad?
but billy gazed dully at the treasure with sinking heart and murmured: "you danged old humbug, you!" croaker was surprised, indignant, hurt. he reached down and struck one of the shiniest of the bottles with his beak but even the happy tinkle that ensued failed to rouse enthusiasm in his master.
"o croaker," groaned billy, "why won't you find the gold fer me?" croaker returned his master's look of reproach with beady, insolent eyes. "cawrara-cawrara-cawrara," he murmured, backing from the pile, which meant, "why don't you carry one of these beautiful shiny things home for me? isn't that what i brought you here to do?"
then, his master still remaining blind to the wealth of treasure disclosed to him, croaker spread his wings and sailed away over the pine-tops. billy, despair in his heart, followed. all fear of the supernatural was gone from him now, crowded out by bitter disappointment at his failure to find the hidden gold. he passed close beside the haunted house without so much as a thought of the ghost of the man who had owned it and on through the silent pines and shadowy, grave-yard silence.
then, just as he drew near to the edge of the grove, he caught his breath in terror and the cold sweat leaped out on his fear-blanched face. drifting directly toward him white as driven snow, came the ghost. it was bearing straight down upon him! his knees grew weak, refused to hold him, and he sagged weakly against a tree. he closed his eyes and waited for the end.
billy had heard that when one comes face to face with death the misdeeds of the life about to go out crowd into one brief second of darting reality before one. he had never quite believed it but he believed it now. if only he might have his misspent life to live over again! never again would he steal deacon ringold's melons or swap broken-backed, broken-bladed jack-knives for good ones with the sand-sharks, nor frighten his brother anson with tales of witches and goblins. but that chance was not for him. it was, perhaps, natural that his last earthly thought would be of her. her sweet face shone through the choking mists—her trembling lips were murmuring a last "good bye." did she know what a wonderful influence her entrance into his heart had exerted toward his reform? with an effort he opened his eyes. the white, gliding thing was almost upon him now. he tried to shake off frozen terror and run. he could not move a muscle. he groaned and shut his eyes tight, waiting for the icy touch of a spirit-hand. it found him after what seemed an eternity of waiting—but it was very soft and warm instead of clammy and cold and the voice which spoke his name was not in the least sepulchral.
"billy."
a long shiver ran through his tense frame. he opened his eyes slowly. she stood before him! yes there was no doubt of it, she was there, blue eyes smiling into his, warm fingers sending a thrill through his numbed being.
he tried to speak, tried to pronounce her name, but the effort was a failure. all he could do was to drink in her perfect loveliness. more than ever like an angel she looked, standing all in white in the blue-dark gloom of the grove, her hair glowing like a halo above the deep pools of her eyes.
"billy," she spoke again, "are you sick?"
with a supreme effort of will he shook off his numbness and the red flush of shame wiped the pallor from his cheeks. what would she think of him if she knew? the very anguish of the thought spurred him to play the part of hypocrite. it was despicable, he knew, but what man has not had to play it, sooner or later, in the great game of love?
"fell out o' a tree," he managed to say. "struck my head on a limb."
"oh!" she cried commiseratingly. she came closer to him—so close that her very nearness made him dizzy with joy. with a tiny handkerchief she wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"come out into the light and let me see where you hurt yourself," she said, oh so gently.
"i don't think it left any mark," billy stammered. "anyways, i feel a whole lot better now. it was foolish for me to climb that tall tree. i didn't have to do it."
"then why did you do it?" they were out into the hardwoods by now, in a long valley strewn with a net-work of sunbeams and shadows and he saw a hint of reproach in her big eyes as she asked the question. his heart leaped with sheer joy. she might just as well have said, "you have no right to run risks, now that you have me to consider."
they sat down on a mossy log. her fingers brushed back his hair as her eyes sought vainly for marks or bruises.
"i asked you why you climbed the tree, billy?"
billy's mind worked with lightning speed.
"there was a little cedar bird's nest in a tall pine," he explained. "i saw a crow black bird fly out of it, and knew she had laid her egg in that nest."
"but why should she lay her egg in the cedar bird's nest; hasn't she a nest of her own?" asked lou.
"no, crow black birds are too lazy to build nests. they take the first nest comes handy."
she looked her wonder. "but, billy, you'd think they would want to enjoy building their own homes, wouldn't you?"
billy shook his head. "the crow black bird don't want to be bothered with hatchin' an' feedin' her own young. that's why she lays in other bird's nests," he explained. "she jest lays her egg an' beats it out o' there. the other poor little bird waits for her to go. then she goes back to her nest, glad enough to find it hasn't been torn to bits."
"and you mean to tell me that she hatches the egg laid by the mean, bad black bird, billy?"
"yep, she does jest that. she don't seem to know any better. birds an' animals are queer that way. why, even a weasel'll nurse a baby rabbit along with her own kittens if it's hungry."
the girl's eyes grew wider and wider with wonderment. "isn't it strange?" she half whispered, "and beautiful?"
"it's mighty queer," billy confessed. "but you see, if that little bird was wise, she'd scoop that crow black bird's egg out o' her nest, instead of hatchin' it."
"why?"
"because when the egg's hatched, the little black bird is so much stronger an' bigger than the cedar birdies he takes most of the feed the old birds bring in. he starves the other little birds an' crowds 'em clean out o' the nest."
"then it was brave of you to risk climbing that tall tree to frighten that crow bird away," declared lou. the admiration and commendation in the blue eyes watching him was more than billy could endure.
"say!" he burst out. "i lied to you, lou, i didn't fall out o' no tree, i was jest scared plum stiff when you found me, that's all."
he hung his head and braced himself to meet what was justly coming to him. she would despise him now, he knew. he felt a gentle touch on his arm, and raised his face slowly. the girl's red lips were smiling. he could scarcely believe his eyes.
"i'm glad you told me, billy," she said. "i—i hoped you might."
"then you knowed i was scared?" he cried in wonder.
she nodded. "i suppose i should have called to you, but i had forgotten what i had heard about this grove being haunted and that i was dressed all in white. but when i came to you and saw your face i knew that you were frightened."
"frightened! oh gollies, i was so scared that i chattered my teeth loose. but honest injun, lou, i don't scare easy. i wouldn't like you to think that i'm a scare-cat about real things. i'm jest scared of ghosts, that's all."
lou knit her brows in thought. "no," she disagreed, "if you had been that frightened you would not have come to the grove at all."
billy looked his relief. "i don't think i'm quite as bad as i used to be," he said. "why say, there was a time when you couldn't get me inside that grove. but lately i've been feelin' different about it. i don't s'pose there re'lly is such a thing as a ghost, is there?"
"no," she replied, "there's no such thing as a ghost, billy."
a red squirrel came scampering across the open sod before them, pausing as he sensed their presence, then springing to the trunk of a sapling the better to look them over.
"oh look at the dear little thing," cried the girl. "what do you suppose he's saying?" as the squirrel broke into a shrill chatter.
"why he's callin' us all the mean things he knows, i guess," laughed billy. "we're in his way, you see."
"then let's get out of his way. i suppose he thinks we have no business here and maybe he's right. where shall we go, billy?"
billy thought a moment. "say, how'd you like to go out in my punt, on levee crick? i kin show you some cute baby mushrats an' some dandy black-birds' nests. it's not far away. we go 'cross that big fallow and through a strip o' hardwoods an' then we climb a stump fence—an' there's the crick. it's an awful fine crick, an' plumb full of bass an' pike. say, will you go?"
he leaned toward her, waiting for her answer. his heart was singing with joy—joy that spilled out of his grey eyes and made his lips smile in spite of him. what a sweet and grand privilege it would be to carry this wonderful girl, who had so transformed his world, along the familiar by-ways that held such rare treasures of plant and wild life.
she was looking away across the forest to a strip of fleecy cloud drifting across the deep azure of the sky.
"i should like to go," she said at length, "if you are sure you don't think i will be a bother."
"bother!" billy's pulses were leaping, his soul singing. he reached down a hand and trustingly she put her's in it. very soft and cool it felt to billy's hot palm, as he assisted her from the log. then side by side they passed down through the long green valley.
