Part 6 (1/2)

”I've been a fool, Davy,” he said, speaking quietly. ”I've been an idle, worthless fool and now I must pay for it. Soon they'll be coming for me and I must run. But I'll come back; I'll make it all up--some day Penelope will be proud of me. Until then, Davy, my friend, you'll take care of Penelope, won't you--till I come back?”

Hearing this, Penelope dragged his face down to hers imploring him to take her with him. He kissed her. Then he lifted her high in his arms as though in play and held her off that she might see how gayly he was smiling and take heart from it.

”I don't know where I am going, child,” he said, ”but I am coming back for you very soon, and you will see what a man your father really is.

I haven't been fair to you, Penelope--but wait--wait till I come back.

And Davy will take care of you--won't you, Davy?”

”Yes, sir,” I said boldly.

What else could a boy have said in such a case, when every pa.s.sing moment meant danger to his friend? I had no thought of the full meaning of my promise, for I did not look beyond that day, and that day my goal was home. Home there was safety for me and for Penelope as well. Home all perplexing problems solved themselves. Home was a place of great peace, and my father and mother benign genii who lived only to make others happy. It was easy to lead Penelope home, and I was sure that if I told my father and mother of my promise to take care of her, they would make the way easy for me. So when the Professor had kissed the child and lowered her to the floor, I put out my hand and took hers in a self-reliant grasp.

The Professor picked up the fallen rifle and put it away in its corner; he pushed the kettle to the back of the stove; he seemed to be tidying up the house. He blew the dust from his hat and crushed it down on his head. Then standing in the open doorway, he surveyed the room critically as if to make sure that all was in order before he strolled down to the village.

”Good-by, Penelope,” he said in a quiet voice. ”Stay with Davy till I come back--I'll come back soon.”

For a moment Penelope believed him. ”Good-by, father,” she called as he turned and walked away.

He had pa.s.sed the door. Hearing her voice, he gave a start, then broke into a run. He ran as never I had seen a man run. He was not alone a man in flight. Every limb was filled with fear and moving for its life. Even his hat and coat were sensate things, struggling madly to get away to a safe refuge. Seeing him flying thus across the clearing toward the mountains, Penelope broke from me with a cry, but I caught her and held her in my arms. She called to him wildly, yet he did not turn, and in a moment had plunged into the bush.

Long after he had gone we two stood in the cabin door searching the silent wall of green for some sign of him. None was given. The shadow of the ridge crept away as the sun climbed higher and the clearing was bathed in its brightness. A crow called pleasantly from a tall pine.

The birds, back from their hiding, sang as though on such a day there could be no trouble.

I felt the blue ribbon brush my cheek, and two small bare arms about my neck.

I turned to Penelope and said: ”Don't cry, little 'un. I'll take care of you.”

CHAPTER V

To Nathan, the white mule, I owed it that I was able to take good care of Penelope Blight in the first hours of my guardians.h.i.+p. But for him I should have brought her face to face with the mob that rode out of Malcolmville to storm the clearing. I knew but one road home from the gut, and that was the way James had brought me fis.h.i.+ng. Had we followed it, we should have hardly crossed the ridge before we met the van of an ill-organized but determined army, and then to her grief terror must have been added by the wagons filled with men armed as though they were going into battle. The obstinate temperament of the mule served us a good turn. When Penelope and I led him from the barn and climbed to his back, he must have supposed that we were going to the store and should leave him tied for hours in the hot sun, switching flies, while we sat comfortably in the shade of the porch discussing the universe's affairs. Believing this, he protested, stopping in the middle of the clearing to enjoy a few tidbits of sprouting corn.

Discovering that the small boy on his back lacked his master's strength and courage, he decided to go on, but as he chose. He chose first a trot. To Penelope and me it seemed a mad gallop, and I clung desperately to his scanty mane while she clutched my waist and pleaded with me to halt him and let her down. In this eternity of suffering--ten minutes really--her greater grief was forgotten, and she was spared the pang of a last look at her deserted home, for when Nathan decided to walk she turned her head to see only a long archway of trees ending in a green wall.

”Davy,” she cried, ”please let me get off!”

Now I wanted to get off myself, but I suspected her desire to run back to the clearing, and my over-powering thought was to carry her away from that forbidding place. I had promised the Professor to take care of the girl, and responsibility had added years to my age and inches to my stature. I was no longer a s.h.i.+vering, frightened boy clinging to her hand, and, though I was not the master of the mule, while we stayed on his back I was Penelope's master, and that was what I had determined to be.

”Don't be afraid, little 'un,” I returned boldly, when I had recovered my breath and balance. ”I can handle him all right.”

To make good my boast, I even dared to kick Nathan, fearing lest a pause in our journey might allow her to slip from his back.

”I want to find father--to go with him,” she pleaded. It was the hundredth time she had told me that.

”He said you were to come with me, Penelope,” I argued. ”And he told me particular that he wouldn't be home till a week from Monday.”

This last was a little fiction of mine, which seemed warranted by the circ.u.mstances, and had Penelope pressed me and asked me when her father had made such a definite statement I was ready to go to any extent with like imaginings if only I could keep her with me. She did not, and her cheerier tone quieted my conscience.

”Is he?” she cried. ”Do you really think he will come home, Davy?”

”Didn't he tell me so?” I returned haughtily. ”And besides, what would he stay away any longer for?”

Still Penelope was inclined to doubt. She knew that the morning's strange events had brought her father into great trouble, and she could not believe that a vain search for him would satisfy his enemies. Two weeks, she thought, would suffice to wear them out, but two weeks in her small mind was an eternity when it was to be faced without him.