little rascal!” he said, gathering the weeping boy in his arms.
“You might have broke your arm, or your leg. You oughtn’t to stand on a table you ain’t acquainted with, that way.”
“I wanted to fall down,” said the boy, ceasing his tears at once. “I like to fall off tables I ain’t ‘quainted with.”
“Well, I just bet you do!” said Peter. “You look like that sort of a boy to me. Does your ma act funny like this often? You poor young ‘un, I hope not!”
“No,” said Buddy.
Peter looked at the woman, studying her. It might have been possible that she was insane, but the vivid red of her cheeks convinced him she was delirious with fever. Her hat, askew over one ear, gave Peter a feeling of shame for her, and he put Buddy down and walked to the bunk. He saw that the hat pin had made a cruel scratch along her cheek.
“Now, ma’am,” he said, “I’m just going to help you off with this hat, because it’s getting all mashed up, and it ain’t needed in the house.”
He put out his hand to take the hat, but the woman raised herself on one arm, and with the other fist struck Peter full in the face, so that he staggered back against the table, while she swore at him viciously.
“You hadn’t ought to do that,” he said reprovingly; “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“I know you!” shouted the woman in a rage. “I know you! You can’t come any of that over me! You took Susie, you beast, but you don’t get Buddy. Let me get at you!”
She tried to clamber from the bunk, but fell back coughing.
“Now, you are absolutely wrong, ma’am,” said Peter earnestly. “You’ve got me placed entirely wrong. I ain’t the man you think I am at all. I’m the man that got something for Buddy to eat last night. You recall that, don’t you?”
The woman looked at him craftily.
“Where’s Buddy?” she asked.
“I’m – I’m cooking eggs, Mama,” said Buddy promptly, and Peter turned.
“Well, you little rascal!” cried Peter. “You must be hungry.”
The boy had put the frying-pan on the floor while Peter’s back was turned, and had broken the remaining eggs in it. Much of the omelet had missed the pan, decorating Buddy’s clothes and the floor. The woman seemed satisfied when she heard the boy’s voice, and closed her eyes, and Peter took the opportunity to kindle the fire and start the breakfast. He cooked the omelet, the condition of the eggs suggesting that as the only method of preparing them. The woman opened her eyes as the pleasant odor filled the cabin, and followed every movement Peter made.
“I know you! You’ll run me out of town, will you?” she cried suddenly. “All right, I’ll go! I’ll go! That’s what I get for being decent. You know I ‘ve been decent since you took Susie away from me, and that’s what I get. Run me out – what do I care! I’ll go.”
She put her feet to the floor, but another coughing fit threw her back against the pillow, and when she recovered she burst into tears.
“Don’t take her!” she pleaded. “I’ll be decent – don’t! I tell you I’ll be decent. Don’t I feed her plenty? Don’t I dress her warm? Ain’t she going to school like the other kids? Don’t take her. Before God, I’ll be decent. Come here, Susie!”
“Now, that’s all right, ma’am,” said Peter, as she began coughing again. “Nobody’s going to take nobody whilst I’m in this boat, and you can make your mind up to that right off. Here’s Buddy right here, eating like a little man, ain’t you, Buddy?”
“Poor baby!” said the woman. “Come and let Ma try to carry you again. Your poor little leg’s all tired out, ain’t it?”
“It’s rested,” said Buddy, “it ain’t tired.”
“Tired, oh, God, I’m tired!” she wept. “You’ll have to get down, Buddy. Ma can’t carry you another step. God knows when I get to Riverbank I’ll be straight. I’ve got enough of this. Where’s Susie?”
“Now, I wisht, if you can, you’d try to lie quiet, ma’am,” said Peter, “for you ain’t well. Try lying still, and I’ll go right to town and get a doctor to come out and see you. I didn’t mean you no harm at all.”
“I know you, you snake!” she cried. “You ‘re from the Society. You took my Susie, and you want Buddy. I’ll kill you first. Come here, Buddy!”
The boy went to her obediently, and she drew him on to the bunk and ran her hand through his white kinks of hair. It seemed to quiet her to feel him in her arm.
“Now, ma’am,” said Peter, “you see nobody’s going to take Buddy at all, and you can take my word I won’t let anybody take him whilst I’m around. You can depend on that, I’m going to town, now, and I guess I’d better leave Buddy right here, for you’ll be more comfortable knowing where he is. Don’t you worry about nothing at all until I get back, and if you find the door locked it’s just so nobody can’t get in and bother you.”
He looked about the cabin. It was comfortably warm, and he poured water on the fire. He wished to take no chances with the woman in her present state. He even took his shot-gun and the heavy poker as he went out. Buddy watched him with interest.
“Are you stealing that gun?” he asked.
“No, son,” said Peter gravely. “Nobody’s stealing anything. You want to get that idea out of your head. Nobody in this cabin – you, nor me, nor your ma, would steal anything. Your ma’s sick and don’t know what she’s doing, but she don’t mean no real harm. I guess she ain’t been treated right, and she feels upset about it, but a boy don’t want, ever, to say anything bad about his ma.”
He went out and closed and locked the door. Involuntarily he glanced at Widow Potter’s chimneys. No smoke came from any of them.
“Now, I just bet that woman has gone and got sick, just when I’ve got my hands plumb full!” he said disgustedly. “I’ve got to go up and see what’s the matter with her, or she might lie there and die and nobody know a thing about it.”
The cold had frozen the slush into hardness, and Peter cut across the corn-field. He tried Mrs. Potter’s doors and found them all locked – which was a bad sign, unless she had gone to town while he was in the shanty-boat – but he knocked on the kitchen door noisily, and was rewarded after a reasonable wait, by hearing the widow dragging her feet across the kitchen.
“Is that you, Peter Lane?” she asked.
“Yes’m,” Peter answered.
“Well, it’s time you come, I must say,” said the widow, between groans. “You the only man anywheres near, and you’d leave me die here as soon as not. You got to feed the cows and the horse and give the chickens some grain and then hitch up and fetch a doctor as fast as he can be fetched. I might have laid here for weeks, you ‘re that unreliable. I’ll put the barn key on the kitchen table, and when the doctor comes I’ll be in my bed, if the Lord lets me live that long. I’ll be in it anyway, I dare say, dead or alive, if I can manage to get to it. And don’t you come in until I get out of the way, for I ain’t got a stitch on but my night-gown.”
“I
