september passed laden with summer perfumes and song and, beneath a blanket of hoar frost, october awoke to send her hazy heralds far across wooded upland and open. slowly those wreathing mists kissed leaf and fern, as though whispering: "rest sweetly, until spring brings you back once again."
so it seemed to the boy, as from the brow of a hill he watched the dawn-haze drift toward the newly-open sun-gates of the eastern sky; for autumn always brought a feeling of sadness to billy. he missed the twitter of the birds, the thousand and one notes of the wild things he loved and which always passed out and away from his world with the summer. the first hoar frost had come; soon the leaves would turn golden and crimson, the fern-clumps crumple and wither into sere, dead, scentless things. then with shortening days and darkening skies those leaves and plants would sag to earth and the gaunt arms of the bare trees would lift empty nests toward snow-spitting skies.
no more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden stars above the marshlands at the foot of the causeway. the season of green and blue had lived and died and in its place had been born a season of drab and brown. summer was gone. the song-birds had migrated. soon the green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the bronze woodcocks would whistle away from the bog-lands, for seldom did they tarry after the first frost. along the creek the red-winged black-birds would be sounding their up-and-away notes. no happy carol to welcome the first glow of dawn! no wonder billy sighed. then he lifted his head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle of wings. up from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild ducks came speeding, white backs flashing as they pitched downward in unbroken formation towards the calling bay-waters.
billy caught his breath quickly and a glad smile drove the shadow from his face. "canvasbacks!" he murmured, "they've come early. i bet anythin' the flocks i heard comin' in through the night was canvasbacks, too—an' redhead! i must go right over after breakfast an' tell teacher stanhope; he'll be sure to say 'let's go get 'em.' oh, gee!"
he turned back toward the house, then paused as the mellow "whirt-o-whirt" of a quail sounded from the sumach which bordered the meadow across the road. "old cock quail," he cautioned softly, "i wouldn't give that covey-call too often if i was you. joe scraff jest might hear you. only note safe fer you to whistle is 'bob white'—but you won't be whistlin' that till spring comes ag'in."
it may be that the white-throated leader of the brown covey in the stubble sensed the murmured warning of his friend, for he did not whistle again. the smile still on his lips, billy vaulted the rail fence and sought the path to the house.
he found his father, mother and anson seated at the breakfast table and as he took his place he was conscious of a foreboding of impending storm. the conviction was strengthened when his father's foot, reaching sympathetically underneath the table, touched his ever so gently. with perfect sangfroid he speared a strip of bacon with his fork and held his breath as he waited for the worst. two taps of that foot meant "on your guard," three taps "watch out for dodging."
he received two taps and sighed relievedly; then as his mother arose to bring the coffee-pot from the stove he felt three quick and distinct pressures and ducked his head just in time to miss a swinging, open-handed slap from mrs. wilson's heavy hand.
anson, sitting slit-eyed and gleeful close beside him, received the slap with a force that knocked his face into his porridge bowl.
as mrs. wilson recovered her balance and squared away for a surer stroke, croaker swooped in through the open door and, with many muffled croaks, alighted in the center of the table. in his black beak he held another glittering gold piece, which he dropped in front of mrs. wilson's plate. then picking up a fat doughnut from the platter he hopped to the motto god bless our home and perching himself on its gilt frame proceeded to appease his morning's hunger.
silence fell upon the family after the first gasp of surprise at sight of the gold piece. even anson checked his wailing to sit with his pale eyes wider open than ever they had been before and it was he who broke the silence which had fallen—broke it with a husky, fear-ridden voice as he cried:
"fer goodness sake, ma, don't touch that gold! it's bewitched, i tell you!"
his mother glared at him. "humph!" she snorted, "you're bewitched yourself, you poor coward you! now then, another word out o' you—and you get the strap. ain't i told you, anson, time and ag'in, that this dear crow has found old scroggie's pile? you git up from this table to once; go out and stay within callin' distance; i'll want you back here presently."
she picked up the gold piece and, fondling it lovingly, waited until anson had passed outside. then with characteristic deliberation she placed it safely away beneath her saucer, thereby signifying that the incident was closed for the time being.
it was not until billy had finished his breakfast and was about to slip quietly out that his mother spoke again. then fixing him with cold, accusing eyes, she said: "i want 'a know what you had to do with scarin' the new teacher so he won't never come back to the valley school ag'in, willium."
billy, who had anticipated what was coming, gave a well-feigned start.
"why, ma," he cried, in amazement, "you don't mean to say he's gone?"
"yes, he's gone an' i s'pose you're satisfied, you and your outlaw companions in crime. cobin keeler stopped by this mornin' and he told us the teacher left his writ' resign in his hands. he declares he won't risk his life among a lot of young savages."
"i think that mr. johnston went a little too far there," wilson ventured.
"you shet right up, tom!" commanded his wife. "ain't it nuthin' to you that your son grows up wild and uneddicated?"
"but he had no right to call us savages, ma," protested billy.
"oh, hadn't he then! well, who up and deliberately stole his horse, i'd like to know?" mrs. wilson held her breath waiting for the answer.
"nobody stole his horse," replied billy. "the poor thing was so lean an' hungry that it weaved when it walked; all we did was sneak it out o' the school-yard an' hide it where there was good pasture."
"well, maybe that ain't stealin' it, but if it ain't what would you call it, willium?"
"i'd call it bein' kind to dumb animals," spoke up wilson, his eyes meeting the angry ones of his wife.
"listen, ma," said billy gently. "that old johnston was awful mean to us kids, there's no mistake about that. he whipped us fer nothin', an' what's worse, he was always sneerin' at us fer being low-born an' ignorant, an' that meant sayin' things ag'in our folks. but we was willin' to stand all that, cause we'd promised teacher stanhope that we'd do our best to put up with the teacher in his place. but, ma, if you could'a seen that poor ol' horse, so starved that every rib showed like the ridges in your wash-board, lookin' over that school-yard fence at the long grass an' beggin' with his hungry eyes fer jest a bite—"
billy paused and rolled a bread crumb. when he looked up his eyes were dark. "anse has told you that it was me who sneaked him out o' the yard, an' led him away where he could feed an' rest an' get the sores made by the hard saddle an' hickory healed, an' anse didn't lie fer once. i did do it, an' i'd do it ag'in.
"what's more, ma, that ol' horse is goin' to stay right where he is, belly-deep in clover, till it gets so cold we'll have to stable him. then he's goin' to have all the good hay an' oats he wants."
mrs. wilson could scarcely believe her ears. "you don't mean that havin' took him you had any thoughts of keepin' him, willium?" she managed to say.
"yes, ma'am; i mean jest that. you see, ma, that ol' horse don't belong to teacher johnston any more. we bought him."
"bought him!" exclaimed man and woman in a breath.
billy nodded. "me an' jim scroggie bought him from mr. johnston, an' we got a receipt provin' our ownership, too, you bet. this is how we did it. 'long 'bout the second er third day after ol' thomas disappeared me an' jim met up with johnston walkin' home from school to fairfield where he boards. jim had fifty dollars, all his own, an' we'd planned jest what we'd say to the teacher.
"first off when he sees us, he asks us if we'd happened to find any tracks of his horse. it was funny to see his snakey eyes callin' us liars at every polite word we said to him. finally he comes right out flat-footed an' tells us that he knows we had somethin' to do with ol' thomas wanderin' off, an' he says he's goin' to make our fathers pay fer his loss."
"course we got real scared then—leastwise johnston thought we was—an' jim he ups an' tells him that we fergot to latch the gate an' let the horse out. then johnston got real mean—meaner than i ever see him get, an' that's sayin' quite a lot. he said he would turn back with us an' interview—that's the word he used, whatever it means—interview our fathers.
"then jim he begged him not to do that. 'we'll pay you whatever's right fer your horse, sir,' he says, but johnston jest snorted. 'where would you get fifty dollars!' he says, but jim, he nudged me to keep quiet, an' said: 'i've got fifty dollars of my very own, right here, sir. we'll buy your horse an' take chances on findin' him, if you'll sell him to us.'
"'gimme the money,' says johnston.
"so we give him the money but we made him give us what jim calls a regular bill o' sale receipt fer it. an' so, you see, ma, we've got mr. johnston there, an' he won't ever lay the rod on poor ol' thomas no more."
mrs. wilson, arms folded on the white table-cloth, was gazing out of the window now. perhaps she saw a poor old horse, belly deep in luscious grass, making up for the fasts of hard and stern days, mercifully behind it forever now and enjoying life to the full—the new life which billy had helped to purchase.
at any rate, her voice had lost much of its harshness as she asked: "but what about the wild animal that broke into the school an' tore the teacher's clothes fair off his back an' chased him up the road? that's the thing that scared him so he quit the school ferever. now, willium, what did you have to do with that?"
billy sat silent, striving to keep back the grin that would come in spite of him. wilson, on pretext of getting his pipe, got up and left the room.
"i'm waitin', willium."
"well, ma, you see ol' ringdo got out of his cage yesterday mornin'. i've kept him shut up a lot an' what with feedin' on meat an' rich stuff that old swamp coon was playfuller than usual, i guess. it seems teacher johnston had took a notion to get down to the school at eight o'clock instead of nine as he usually does. when teacher stanhope taught school ringdo used t' often go there an' get apples an' stuff that the teacher saved for him. yesterday when he got loose he must've been lonesome fer mr. stanhope, an' he went to the school. he got in an' found johnston alone, i guess, an' maybe tried to get friendly. mr. johnston must have kicked him er hit him. all i know about it is what i seen fer myself.
"i was goin' down the path to the road, anse with me, when the teacher went past, runnin' fer all he was worth. come to think of it his coat had been clawed some, an' i remember now his face was bleedin' from a scratch er two. he didn't see us an' he didn't stop. he kept right on goin'. anse an' me went on to the school, an' there we found ringdo jest finishin' the teacher's lunch. i brought him back an' put him in his cage. that's all, ma, an' it's every blessed word true."
mrs. wilson remained thoughtful. billy, watching her with furtive speculation, hoped from the relaxing lines in her brow that all was well with the world once more. hope became an assurance with her next words.
"you kin have that jim scroggie over to supper tonight, willium, if you want to."
billy's heart jumped with joy. he wanted to hug his mother, but restrained the desire and sat gazing pensively at his plate.
"what's the matter, don't you want him?" asked his mother. "i thought maybe you'd like to have him, seein's you're such cronies an' there must be some good in him in spite of his looks. i could have them partridges that joe scraff sent over roasted with bacon strips across 'em, an' baked potatoes, an' maybe i might boil an apple dumplin'."
billy sighed. "that's awful good of you, ma, an' i sure would like to have jim over to supper, but he's so fond of his sister he won't go anywheres without her, you see."
"well," flared his mother, "can't he fetch her along with him, if he wants to? what's to hinder him from fetchin' her? she's a sweet little thing an' i'd be proud to have her."
billy closed his eyes and took tight hold of his chair seat. he knew that if he did not summon all his self restraint he would surely spoil all he had accomplished through strategy. he longed to swoop down on his mother and hug her, slap her on the back and yell in her ear that she was a brick. but experience had taught him caution. and besides, billy reasoned, there was still something more to be accomplished.
"i say we kin have louie over, too, willium," mrs. wilson suggested once again.
"yep, we could do that, i s'pose," said billy, "only—" he frowned and shook his head. "i guess we best not ask either of 'em, ma. maurice might hear of it, an' wonder why he wa'n't asked too. he's awful funny that way, you know."
"why, sakes alive!" cried his mother, "i never give maurice a thought. o' course we'll have him, too. an' if there happens to be anybody else you'd like, you best say so now, willium."
"i'd awful like to have harry o'dule, too."
mrs. wilson caught her breath, but whatever objections her mind raised against the last named remained unuttered. all she said was. "this is your party, willium. anybody else, now?"
"elgin scraff," spoke up billy, promptly.
mrs. wilson looked out of the window and considered. "let's see. that leaves little louie the only girl among all of you boys, so we'll jest have to have another girl er two. how'd you like to have ann spencer and phoebe scraff?"
billy agreed with delight.
mrs. wilson pushed back her chair and arose from the table. "now, then, willium, you get along out. i've got a whole lot to do afore supper-time, and i guess maybe you best run across and ask mrs. keeler to come over and help me. you kin go 'round and give the invites to your friends."
she picked up the saucer and stood looking down at the gold piece which croaker had brought in. "i don't s'pose there's a particle of use keepin' an eye on that crow?" she asked.
"haven't i been keepin' an eye on him?" cried billy, "an' you see what he does. jest as soon as i turn my back he plays sharp. i've done my best to get him to show me where he finds that gold, but he won't do it. but i'll catch him yet. i'll jest run along an' see what he's at now; he's so quiet i know he's into some mischief."
he picked up his hat and bounded outside. he found croaker seated on the chicken yard fence, gravely surveying his ancient and mortal enemy, the old game cock, and whispering guttural insults that fairly made the rooster bristle with anger.
billy shook his fist at the crow. "you old beggar," he said fondly, "if that rooster was wise he'd go out with the rest of the chickens an' scratch his breakfast, 'stead o' quarrelin' with you. he don't know that you're doin' your best to starve him to death."
billy knew that croaker would hang close to his enemy all morning and feeling reasonably sure that no further trips to the hidden treasure would be made during his absence on his mother's errand he started for keeler's. at the road gate he met cobin coming in, a pitchfork on his shoulder. keeler and billy's father "changed works" during wheat and corn harvest, and the former was coming over to help haul in fodder.
"ho, billy!" he boomed, gripping the lad's arm in his huge hand, "you won't steal maurice away from the work i've set him to do this mornin', i'll be bound. back to the house you come with me, young man. i want maurice to finish his job."
"i don't want maurice," billy hastened to explain. "ma wants missus keeler to come over an' give her a hand, so i'm on my way to tell her. honest, mr. keeler, that's right."
"by jimminy, you've fooled me so many times, billy, i have an idea you might jest do it ag'in." mr. keeler's grip tightened, and his smile broadened. "cross your heart, it's right?"
"yep, cross my heart, an' spit on my thumb," grinned billy.
keeler's roaring laugh might have been heard half a mile away. "well, along you go," he shouted, lifting billy bodily over the gate. "you'll find ma deefer than usual on account of a cold in the head, so talk real close and loud to her."
billy found mrs. keeler peeling onions in the cook-house and after some trouble made her understand what was wanted. while she was shedding her apron and hunting for her hat he went outside. maurice's school-books and slate lay on the bench beneath the hop vine. billy grinned as his eyes fell on them. he climbed to the top of the gate-post and searched the surrounding fields for his chum, locating him finally down near the ditch, a lonely and pathetic figure seated on a little knoll, methodically topping mangles with a sickle. his back was toward billy and it took all the latter's self restraint to refrain from giving the rally call, but he remembered what he had promised maurice's father. so he slid down from the post and picking up the slate, produced a stub of slate-pencil from a pocket and wrote a message in symbols. then on the other side of the slate he duplicated the message, adding the necessary key to the code. this was the message that billy wrote
when mrs. keeler came out, laden with bake-pans and other kitchen utensils, billy led her carefully across the stubble by a new route, nor did she dream his motive in so doing was to keep the house between them and the lonesome mangle-topper in the valley.
