Chapter XXXVII: Good-By, Mary Frances. Come Again! 325 (6)

Upon a Monday it happened that they landed at the edge of a forest which was by the sea. Standing by a cross of stone they saw a knight on horseback, armed all in white, who held by his right hand a white horse. He came to the ship, saluted the two knights and said, “Sir Galahad, you have been with your father long enough; leap upon this horse and ride where adventure shall lead in quest of the Holy Grail.”

Sir Galahad turned to his father and kissed him full courteously and said, “Father, I do not know that I shall see you again till I find the Holy Grail.”

“I pray you,” said Sir Launcelot, “that you will pray our Father in heaven to keep me in his service.”

Sir Galahad mounted his horse and then they all heard a voice that said, “Think to do well, for the one shall never see the other till the dreadful day of doom.”

“Now, my son, Sir Galahad,” said Sir Launcelot, “since we shall never see each other again, I pray the high Father of heaven to preserve both you and me.”

“Sir,” said Sir Galahad, “no prayer avails so much as yours.” So saying, he rode into the forest and his father saw him no more.

The knight in white armor then vanished as he came, and Sir Launcelot returned to the ship, and the wind arose and drove him many days across the sea to a distant land. Soon after that he left the ship, which kept on its lonely journey, until at last it arrived at the city of Sarras with its fair burden.

Now Sir Launcelot began to long for the realm of Britain which he had not seen for a year and more. So, commending himself to God, he rode through many countries and came at last to Camelot.

Here he found King Arthur and Queen Guinevere; but many of the knights of the Round Table were missing, for already more than half of them had been slain. However, Sir Gawain, Sir Ector, and Sir Lionel had returned, and many others who had failed in their quest of the Holy Grail.

All the court was exceedingly glad to see Sir Launcelot, who told of his adventures since he had departed; and also those of Sir Galahad, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors, which he knew by the letter of the dead gentlewoman, and from Sir Galahad himself.

“Now, would God,” said the king, “that all three were here.”

“That cannot be,” said Sir Launcelot, “for two of them you shall never see, but one of them shall come again.”

_Sir Galahad Achieves His Quest, and Bears the Holy Grail Across the Sea_

Now after Sir Galahad bade his father farewell and entered the forest, he rode many journeys in vain. At last he found his way out of the forest and rode five days toward the castle of the maimed king; and ever Sir Percival followed after till he overtook him, and they went on in company. At a crossroads they met Sir Bors who was riding alone, and so to their great joy the three knights were together again.

“In more than a year and half,” said Sir Bors, “I have not slept ten times in a bed, only in wild forests and mountains; but God was always with me.”

Thus they rode a long time till they came to the castle of Carbonek, where lived Pelleas, the maimed king, who was the grandfather of Sir Galahad.

When they entered the castle hall, a bed was brought in whereon lay the good old man they had come so far to see. King Pelleas was very happy, for he knew that the quest of the Holy Grail was about to be achieved.

“Sir Galahad,” said he, lifting up his head, “you are welcome, for I have long prayed for your coming, but now I trust that my suffering shall be allayed.”

Eliazar, King Pelleas’ son, then brought the broken sword with which Joseph was wounded in the thigh after he came to Britain. Sir Bors took the two pieces and tried to force them together again, but he could not. Then Sir Percival tried, but he had no more power than Sir Bors.

“Now it is your turn,” said they to Sir Galahad, “for if an earthly man can achieve it, you can.”

Sir Galahad then took the pieces and set them together, and the sword seemed as if it had just been forged and never broken. When they recovered from their astonishment they gave the sword to Sir Bors, for he was a good knight and a worthy man.

A little before evening a strange thing happened; the sword became wondrously heated so that no one could handle it, and a voice was heard which said, “They that ought not to sit at the table of our Lord arise, for now shall true knights be fed.”

So all went out save King Pelleas and his son and a maid who was his niece, and the three knights; and a table of silver was before them with the holy vessel, covered with a cloth of silk.

With that they saw nine knights all armed come in at the hall door, who took off their armor and said to Sir Galahad, “Sir, we have ridden hard to be with you at this table.”

“You are welcome,” said he, “but whence come you?”

Three of them said they were from Gaul, three from Ireland, and three from Denmark.

Upon that a voice said, “Let those among you who are not in quest of the Holy Grail depart.” So King Pelleas and his son and niece departed.

As the knights sat waiting, it seemed to them that there appeared a man from heaven, before the table on which the Holy Grail was, and they saw letters in his forehead which said:

“This is Joseph, the first bishop of Christendom, whom our Lord
rescued in the city of Sarras.”

With him were angels who bore a spear which bled marvelously.

Then the knights wondered, for Joseph had died more than three hundred years before.

“Oh, knights,” said he, “wonder not, for at one time I was an earthly man. Now shall ye have such food as never knights tasted.”

When he had said this, he and the angels vanished, and they sat there in great dread. Then they looked and saw, as it were, another man enter who said:

“My knights and my servants who are come out of this earthly life, ye shall now see a part of my secrets and my hidden things.” Then he took the holy vessel and proffered it to Sir Galahad, who kneeled down and partook; and so after him all the knights.

“Galahad,” said he, “dost thou know what I hold in my hands?”

“Nay,” said Sir Galahad, “unless ye tell me.”

“This,” said he, “is the holy vessel in which I ate the Last Supper, but thou hast not seen it openly as thou shalt see it in the city of Sarras; therefore, thou must go hence, and bear this vessel with thee. This night it shall depart from the realm of Britain to be seen no more, for it is not honored as it ought to be by the people of this land, who are turned to evil living. Therefore, go to-morrow down to the sea where you shall find a ship ready; and with you take the sword with the strange belt, and Sir Bors and Sir Percival. Also I will that ye take the blood of the spear and anoint the maimed king, and he shall have his health.”

Then he gave them his blessing and vanished away. Sir Galahad went at once to the spear which lay on the table and touched the blood with his fingers and came to his grandfather, the maimed king, and anointed him. Immediately he stood upon his feet a whole man, and gave thanks for his healing.

That same night, about midnight, they heard a voice that said, “Go ye hence as I bade you.”

“Lord, we thank thee,” said they; “now may we prove ourselves worthy.”

In all haste they took their armor, ready to depart. Now, the three knights of Gaul were great gentlemen, and Sir Galahad said to them: “If you come to King Arthur’s court I pray you salute my father, Sir Launcelot, and all the company of the Round Table,” and they promised to do so.

Sir Galahad, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors then departed and rode three days, till they came to the seashore and found their ship. When they went on board they saw the table of silver and the Holy Grail covered with a cloth of red silk, and were exceeding glad to have them in their keeping.

Now, on the voyage Sir Galahad spent a long time in prayer, asking that he might pass out of this world; he prayed so earnestly that at last a voice said to him, “Galahad, thou shalt have thy request.”

Sir Percival heard this and asked him why he prayed for such things.

“That shall I tell you,” said he. “The other day when we saw part of our adventures of the Holy Grail, I was filled with such joy as I supposed no earthly man could feel; therefore, I know well that when my body is dead, my soul shall have the great joy of heaven.”

Then he lay down and slept a great while, and when he awoke he saw before him the city of Sarras; and as they were about to land they saw the ship in which Sir Percival had put his sister.

“Truly,” said Sir Percival, “well has my sister kept her word.”

They first took out of their ship the table of silver and the holy vessel, and Sir Percival and Sir Bors went before, and Sir Galahad behind. At the city gate they saw a crooked old man. Then Sir Galahad called him and bade him help bear the heavy table.

“Truly,” said the old man, “for ten years I have not been able to walk without crutches.”

“Care not,” said Sir Galahad. “Rise up and show thy good will.”

On getting up he found himself whole as he ever was; so he ran and took hold with Sir Galahad. At once the report spread that a cripple had been cured by a strange knight that had entered the city.

The three knights then returned to the water and brought Sir Percival’s sister into the spiritual place, and buried her richly as a king’s daughter ought to be.

When the king of the city, who was called Estorause, saw the three comrades he asked them who they were and what they brought upon the table of silver, and they told him the truth of the Holy Grail. Now the king was a tyrant of heathen birth, and he took them and put them in prison in a deep hole.

At the year’s end King Estorause fell sick and knew that he would die; then he sent for the three knights and asked pardon for what he had done, and they forgave him freely, and so he died.

When the king was dead all the city was disheartened and knew not who might be their king. As they were in council there came a voice that bade them choose the youngest of the three knights. So they made Sir Galahad king with the assent of all the people of the city.

His first act was to have made a chest of gold and precious stones to cover the holy vessel, and every morning the three comrades came to the palace where it was kept and said their devotions.

_The Passing of Sir Galahad, The End of Sir Percival, and the Return of Sir Bors to Camelot_

Now, after Sir Galahad had been king a year, the three friends rose early, as was their custom, and came to the palace and saw the holy vessel and a man kneeling there, who had about him a great company of angels.

He called Sir Galahad and said, “Come forth, good and faithful servant, and thou shalt see what thou hast much desired to see.”

Then Sir Galahad began to tremble greatly, for he knew his time had come.

“Now,” said the good man, “knowest thou who I am?”

“Nay,” said Sir Galahad.

“I am Joseph of Arimathea, whom our Lord sent here to bear thee fellowship; for thou art like me more than any other in two things. One is, thou hast seen the Holy Grail; and the other is, thou hast been a blameless knight as I am.”

When he had said these words, Sir Galahad went to Sir Percival and Sir Bors and kissed them and commended them to God, and said, “Salute me to my father, Sir Launcelot, as soon as ye see him and bid him remember this unstable world.”

He then kneeled before the table and prayed, and suddenly his soul departed and a great company of angels bore his soul up to heaven. And his two friends saw a hand take the holy vessel and bear it up to heaven. Since then no man has ever been so bold as to say that he had seen the Holy Grail.

* * * * *

When Sir Percival and Sir Bors saw Sir Galahad dead, they sorrowed as much as ever did two men, and if they had not been good men they might easily have fallen into despair; and the people of the city sorrowed with them.

As soon as Sir Galahad was buried, Sir Percival retired to a hermitage outside the city and Sir Bors was always with him. Thus Sir Percival lived a year and two months, and then passed out of this world, and Sir Bors buried him by his sister and Sir Galahad in the spiritual place.

Now, when Sir Bors saw that he was alone in a far country, as far away as Babylon, he took his armor and departed from Sarras and entered a ship, and so at last came to the realm of Britain and to Camelot where King Arthur was. On his return there was great rejoicing at the court, for they thought that he was dead, he had been so long out of the country.

Then King Arthur sent for the best clerks to make a chronicle of the adventures of the good knights. Sir Bors told of Sir Percival and his sister, and of Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail. Sir Launcelot told what he had seen; and all the tales were written in great books and put in the armory at Salisbury.

Sir Bors said to Sir Launcelot, “Sir Galahad, your son, saluted you by me, and after you, King Arthur and all the court, and so did Sir Percival; for I buried them with mine own hands in the far city of Sarras. Also, Sir Launcelot, Sir Galahad bids you remember this unstable world, as ye promised when ye were together more than half a year.”

“That is true,” said Sir Launcelot; “now I trust to God his prayer shall avail me.”

Then Sir Launcelot put his arms about Sir Bors and said, “Gentle cousin, you are welcome to me, and all that ever I may do for you and yours, you shall find me ready at all times, while I have life, and this I promise you faithfully, and never to fail you: and know well, gentle cousin, Sir Bors, that you and I will never separate while our lives shall last.”

“Sir,” said he, “I will as ye will.”

* * * * *

“Sir Galahad was not the only knight who found the Holy Grail,” added the Story Lady after a pause.

“But I thought from the story,” said Mary Frances, “that Sir Galahad and his two comrades were the only ones who were permitted to find it.”

“No, there were others,” said the Story Lady. “Your own American poet, James Russell Lowell, tells of another, Sir Launfal, who found the Grail in a place he had never thought to look.”

The Story People listened eagerly, for they liked the tale of Sir Galahad so much that they were ready for more; so the Story Lady told the tale of a fourth knight who succeeded.

XXVI

HOW SIR LAUNFAL ACHIEVED THE HOLY GRAIL

ONCE upon a time there was a young knight, Sir Launfal, who had read of the success of Sir Galahad, and of the failure of many of the knights of the Round Table. This made him very eager to try his fortune; so he vowed that some day he too would set out in quest of the Holy Grail.

Now, Sir Launfal lived in a cold gray castle in the North Country, whose gates were never opened save to knights or ladies of high degree, who were as proud and haughty as himself.

One beautiful June day, Sir Launfal was in the happy mood which often comes to people after the passing of a cold, bleak winter; a day when it seems easy for the grass to be green, the sky to be blue, and the heart to be brave.

On this lovely day Sir Launfal remembered his vow and called his squire, and said, “Bring me my best armor and my golden spurs and get my horse ready, for to-morrow I shall set out over land and sea in quest of the Holy Grail.”

When the squire brought his shining armor, the knight put it on, and said to himself, “I will never sleep in a bed nor lay my head on a soft pillow till I have performed my vow.”

With that he lay down in the tall grasses by the brook, his golden spurs by his side, to think and plan what he would do. Slowly his eyelids closed; slowly sleep came upon him and he dreamed, and this was his dream.

It is summer. The crows flap their wings and fly by twos and threes overhead in the deep blue sky. The cattle stand in the shallow brook, and the water runs along with a sweet gurgling music. The little birds sing in the branches of the trees as if trying to burst their throats telling of the joy of living. Even the leaves seem to sing on the trees, the earth is so beautiful and gay. But the castle stands encircled by its high walls and deep ditch full of water, proud, haughty and forbidding, untouched by the loveliness round about it.

The drawbridge drops over the water with a surly clang, and through the dark arch across the bridge springs a charger, bearing Sir Launfal, dressed in his gilded armor which gleams brightly in the sun. He is setting forth wherever adventure may lead him in quest of the Holy Grail.

Just as he passes out, he is aware of a beggar who sits crouching by the dark gate. The beggar is a leper; he holds out his hands and begs an alms. The sight of so much misery fills the young knight with loathing, but he scornfully tosses him a piece of gold and rides on.

Strange to say, the beggar leaves the gold on the ground and says, “Better turn away empty from the rich man’s door, and take the poor man’s crust and his blessing, than such a worthless gift as that.”

Now the scene changes; it is winter. There are no leaves on the bushes and trees. The bare boughs rattle shudderingly as the winds sweep through them. The brook is frozen over and the cattle are huddled in their stalls. A single crow sits high up in a tree-top in the wintry sunlight, and the cold snow covers the ground.

At the castle gate stands a bent old man, worn out and frail. The wind rustles through his wiry gray hair, and blows through his ragged clothing. He peers eagerly through the window slits at the joyous scene within, for it is Christmas time, and then turns away.

The bent old man is Sir Launfal. After many weary years he has returned to his castle disappointed, for he has not found the Holy Grail, and another heir who thinks him long dead rules in his place. He sinks down by the gate and his mind wanders. He sees again the scenes of the desert, the camels as they pass over the hot sands, the vain search of the caravan for water, and then the slender necklace of grass about the little spring as it leaps and laughs in the shade.

Suddenly he hears a voice. “For Christ’s sweet sake I beg an alms.”

Sir Launfal is startled and looks around him. There at his side he sees the leper cowering, more wretched, more miserable, more loathsome than before. But he does not look at him in scorn this time. Instead, he says, “I will share with you the little that I have, for in giving to you I shall be giving to Him who has given so much for me.”

So he divides his crust of coarse bread and gives half to the beggar, and he goes to the brook, breaks open the ice, and gives him a drink of water from his wooden bowl.

Then suddenly a light shines round about the place, and the leper no longer crouches at his side, but stands a glorified figure who says:

“Lo, it is I, be not afraid!
In many climes, without avail,
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold, it is here--this cup which thou
Did’st fill at the streamlet for me but now;
This crust is my body broken for thee,
This water His blood that died on the tree.

* * * * *

Not what we give, but what we share,
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.”

Sir Launfal awoke, sat up and rubbed his eyes, and looked about him. Here were the tall grasses, the brook, the cattle, just as he had left them when he went to sleep and dreamed. He was not in rags and tatters, but was a young knight clad in gleaming armor, his spurs at his feet. It was not winter, but a beautiful June day, with birds flying about, singing songs of gladness, and cattle browsing in the meadows.

Sir Launfal quickly arose and made his way into the great hall of the castle where every one met him with surprise.

“Why, sir knight,” said his sister, “we thought by now you would be far on your journey in quest of the Holy Grail.”

“I have found it,” cried Sir Launfal, “here at my castle gate!”

Then he laid aside his arms and said to his squire, “Hang these idle weapons upon the walls and let the spiders weave their webs about them. Whoever would find the Holy Grail must wear another sort of armor--the armor of unselfish kindness.”

Now, the castle gates stand wide open and those in need are as welcome there as the birds in the elm-tree’s branches. No matter what the weather outside, it is summer in the castle the year round, for hearts are happy in giving and sharing the great blessings there bestowed; and the happiest of all is the good knight himself.

* * * * *

“So you see, Sir Launfal found the Holy Grail, and he did something even better,” said the Story Lady as she finished the tale; “he showed others how to find it.”

THE STORIES OF THE FOURTH DAY

MUSIC BEWITCHED.--ANN CATCHES A THIEF.--JOHN AND MARGARET PATON
AMONG SAVAGES.--THE STRANGE GUEST.--ROBERT OF SICILY.--THE MAN
WITHOUT A COUNTRY.--YOUR FLAG AND MY FLAG.

THE STORIES OF THE FOURTH DAY

XXVII

MUSIC BEWITCHED

WHEN all the Story People were assembled, the Story King in his place, Mary Frances in the blue velvet chair beside the Story Queen, the Ready Writer with pen upraised, the Story Lady began:

“To-day we have six short stories. The first is about a school boy named Bob, and how he conquered his worst enemies.”

* * * * *

_Bob’s Three Foes_

Thud! thud! thud! “Hit him in the eye!” “Knock the pipe out of his mouth!” “Ha! ha! there goes his nose! I hit him that time!”

These dreadful sounds seemed to say that some barbarous piece of cruelty was going on; but the victim was only a snow-man, which the boys of Strappington School had set up in their playground. Truth to tell, the snow-man did not like it much, but boys cannot be expected to understand the feelings of a snow-man, so he bore it very patiently, and when one snowball came in each eye, and a third in his mouth, he never spoke a word or flinched a muscle.

But how was the schoolmaster to know that it was only a snow-man? And what was more natural than that he should peep over the playground wall to see what was going on? And how was little Ralph Ruddy to know that the schoolmaster was there? And how was he to know that the snowball which was meant for the snow-man’s pipe would land itself on the schoolmaster’s nose? Oh, the horror that seized upon the school at that dire event! and the dead silence that reigned in that playground! For those were the good old times of long ago when anything that went wrong was set right with a birch rod. Little Ralph Ruddy knew only too well what was coming when the angry schoolmaster ordered him into the schoolroom.

The snow-man, of course, was left in the playground all alone. He saw the boys troop indoors and heard some angry words and some cries of pain and saw poor little Ralph thrust into the cold playground, and heard the door slam behind him, and stared without once turning his head or blinking his eyes, while the little fellow sat on the snowy doorstep, with a knuckle screwed into each eye; and indeed the good snow-man himself felt half inclined to cry, only the tears froze inside before they got out of his eyes. So he couldn’t.

When the bell rang at four o’clock, the boys came out, and among them Bob Hardy, the son of a poor farm laborer.

“A cruel shame I call it,” muttered Bob, “to whip a little chap like that, and then shut him out in the cold. I told him Ralph Ruddy never meant to do it, and then he caned me as well. A real brute I call him, and I’ll pay him out, too. I declare I’ll break his bedroom windows this very night, and let him try how he likes the winter wind!”

And Bob meant to do it, too. He climbed out of the cottage window when all were asleep, and made his way down to the schoolhouse by moonlight, with a pocketfull of stones, and climbed the wall of the playground, and stood there all ready to open fire, when a voice startled him, a sort of shivering whisper.

“Better not, Bob! Better wait a bit!” said the voice.

Bob dropped the stone and looked about, but there was no one near except the snow-man shining weirdly in the pale moonlight. However, the words, whoever spoke them, set Bob a thinking, and instead of breaking the schoolmaster’s windows, he went home again and got into bed.

That was in January, and when January was done February came, as happens in most years. February brought good fortune--at least Bob’s mother said so, for she got a job as charwoman at the squire’s, for which she was well paid.

It did not turn out so very well, though, after all, for the butler said she stole a silver spoon, and told the squire so; and if the butler could have proved what he said, the squire would have sent her to prison; only he could not, so she got off, and Bob’s mother declared that she had no doubt the butler took the spoon himself.

“All right,” said Bob to himself, “I’ll try the strength of my new oaken stick across that butler’s back.”

And he meant it, too, for that very evening he shouldered his cudgel and tramped away to the big house. And when he got there the door stood wide open, so in he walked.

Now there hung in the hall the portrait of a queer old lady in a stiff frill and a long waist, and an old-fashioned hoop petticoat; and when Bob entered the house what should this old lady do but shake her head at him! To be sure there was only a flickering lamp in the entry, and Bob thought at first it must have been the dim light and his own fancy, so he went striding through the hall with his cudgel in his hand.

“Better not, Bob!” said the old lady. “Better wait a bit!”

“Why, they won’t let me do anything!” grumbled Bob; but he went home without thrashing the butler, all the same.

That was in February, you know. Well, when February was done, March came, and with it came greater ill-fortune than ever; for Bob’s father was driving his master’s horse and cart to market, when, what should jump out of the ditch but old Nanny Jones’s donkey, an ugly beast at the best of times, and enough to frighten any horse; but what must the brute do on this occasion but set up a terrific braying, which sent Farmer Thornycroft’s new horse nearly out of his wits, so that he backed the cart and all that was in it--including Bob’s father--into the ditch. A pretty sight they looked there, for the horse was sitting where the driver ought to be, and Bob’s father was seated, much against his wish, in a large basket full of eggs, with his legs sticking out one side and his head the other.

Of course Farmer Thornycroft did not like to lose his eggs--who would?--for even the most obliging hens cannot be persuaded to lay an extra number in order to make up for those that are broken; but for all that Farmer Thornycroft had no right to lay all the blame on Bob’s father, and stop two shillings out of his week’s wage. So Bob’s father protested, and that made Farmer Thornycroft angry, and then, since fire kindles fire, Bob’s father grew angry too, and called the farmer a cruel brute; so the farmer dismissed him, and gave him no wages at all.

We can hardly be surprised that when Bob heard of all this he felt a trifle out of sorts, but the desire for vengeance which he felt could hardly be justified. He went pelting over the fields, and all the way he went he muttered to himself:

“A cruel shame I call it, but I’ll pay him out; I mean to let his sheep out of the pen, and then I will just go and tell him that I’ve done it.”

Now, the field just before you come to Farmer Thornycroft’s sheep-pen was sown with spring wheat, and they had put up a scarecrow there to frighten the birds away. The scarecrow was very much down in the world--his coat had no buttons and his hat had no brim, and his trousers had only a leg and a half--his well-to-do relations in the tailors’ windows would not have cared to meet him in the street at all. But even the ragged and unfortunate have their feelings, and the scarecrow was truly sorry to see Bob scouring across the field in such a temper; so just as Bob passed him, he flapped out at him with one sleeve, and the boy turned sharply round to see who it was.

“Only a scarecrow,” said he, “blown about by the wind,” and went on his way. But as he went, strange to say, he heard, or thought he heard, a voice call after him, “Better not, Bob! Better wait a bit!”

So Bob went home again and never let the sheep astray after all, but he thought it very hard that he might not punish either the schoolmaster, or the butler, or the farmer.

_Father Pan’s Revenge_

Now the folk that hide behind the shadows thought well of Bob for his self-restraint, and they determined that they would work for him and make all straight again; so when Bob went down to the river side next day, and took out his knife to cut some reeds for “whistle-pipes,” Father Pan breathed upon the reeds and enchanted them.

“What a breeze!” exclaimed Bob; but he knew nothing at all of what had in reality happened.

Bob finished his pan-pipes, and trudged along and whistled on them to his heart’s content. When he got to the village he was surprised to see a little girl begin to dance to his tune, and then another little girl, and then another. Bob was so astonished that he left off playing and stood looking at them, open-mouthed, with wonder; but so soon as ever he left off playing, the little girls ceased to dance; and as soon as they had recovered their breath they began to beg him not to play again, for the whistle-pipes, they were sure, must be bewitched.

“Ho! ho!” cried Bob, “here’s a pretty game; I’ll just give the schoolmaster a turn. Come, that will not do him any harm, at any rate!”

Strange to say, at that very moment the schoolmaster came along the street.

“Toot! toot! toot! tweedle, tweedle, toot!” went the pan-pipes, and away went the schoolmaster’s legs, cutting such capers as the world never looked upon before. Gayly trudged Bob along the street, and gayly danced the schoolmaster. The people looked out of their windows and laughed, and the poor schoolmaster begged Bob to leave off playing.

“No, no,” answered Bob; “I saw you make poor little Ralph Ruddy dance with pain. It is your turn now.”

Just then the squire’s butler came down the street. Of course he was much puzzled to see the schoolmaster dancing to the sound of a boy’s whistle, but he was presently more surprised to find himself doing the very same thing. He tried with all his might to retain his stately gait; but it was all of no use, his legs flew up in spite of himself, and away he went behind the schoolmaster, following Bob all through the village.

The best sight was still to come; for the tyrannical Farmer Thornycroft was just then walking home from market in a great heat, with a big sample of corn in each of his side-pockets, and turning suddenly round a corner, went right into the middle of the strange procession and caught the infection in a moment. Up flew his great fat legs, and away he went, pitching and tossing, and jumping and twirling, and jigging up and down like an elephant in a fit.

How the people laughed, to be sure, standing in their doorways and viewing this odd trio! It was good for them that they did not come too near, or they would have been seized with the fit as well. The schoolmaster was nearly fainting, the butler was in despair, and the perspiration poured down the farmer’s face; but that mattered not to Bob; he had promised himself to take them for a dance all round the village, and he did it; and, at length, when he had completed the tour, he stopped for just one minute, and asked the schoolmaster whether he would beg Ralph Ruddy’s pardon, and the schoolmaster said he would if only Bob would leave off playing. Then he asked the farmer if he would take his father back and pay him his wages, and the farmer said he would; and finally he asked the butler if he would give up the spoon that he had stolen, and confess to the squire that Bob’s mother had nothing to do with it, but the butler said, “Oh, no, indeed!”

So Bob began to play again, and they all began to dance again, till at last the schoolmaster and the farmer both punched the butler until he promised; and then Bob left off playing. The three poor men went home in a terrible plight; and the schoolmaster begged little Ralph’s pardon, and the butler cleared the stain from Bob’s mother’s character, and Bob’s father went back to work, and Farmer Thornycroft soon afterwards took Bob on too, and he made the best farm-boy that ever lived.

* * * * *

The Story Lady rested a minute while the Story People were laughing and talking about what they had heard. As she began again, there was instant silence.

“The next story,” she said, “is that of a brave girl who lived in the work-a-day world.”

XXVIII

ANN CATCHES A THIEF

AS a rule the office in which Ann Carstairs was employed did not close until six o’clock, but at five-thirty on the December afternoon of this story Ann found herself alone.

At four, the heads of the firm left for the day; and the billing clerk and the stenographer, taking advantage of the absence of authority, helped themselves to an extra half hour.

“We have a little shopping to do,” the billing clerk explained as they passed Ann’s desk.

Before they reached the stair door, the inside salesman closed his desk with a snap, and seized his hat and coat.

“Wait a minute, girls,” he called; “I’ll take you down to Broadway in my machine.” As he followed them he said to Ann, “Good night, Miss Carstairs, don’t stay late!”

A few minutes after they had gone, Mr. Bradford, the bookkeeper, closed the safe and twirled the nickel knob gayly; “I’m off, too,” he announced. “I’m going to leave the vault for you to close to-night, Miss Ann.”

He shrugged himself into his overcoat and departed stiffly. He had worked hard over his books that afternoon, and his legs and arms were aching in unison with his head. He came back for a moment to turn off some of the big lights.

“No use wasting electricity,” he explained. “No one will be in this evening, and a little girl like you can’t use all this light.”

A minute later Ann heard the street door at the foot of the stairs close with a bang, and she was left all alone in the big office.

She was not sorry to be alone. The day had been hard, and her nerves had been near the breaking point all the afternoon. The switchboard was Ann’s special charge, but she also took care of the odds and ends of copy work and dictation for her busy associates. Odds and ends have a curious way of accumulating and Ann seldom had a spare moment.

“I’m just dead tired,” she declared aloud, raising her arms above her head in a vain effort to relieve their ache. “I’m always snowed under with work, yet no one seems to think I have anything to do. It’s just: ‘Miss Carstairs, will you copy that for me?’ ‘I’ll give you a letter now, Miss Carstairs, and you can run it off in your spare time.’ Spare time! Did any one ever see me with a moment to spare? They don’t think I amount to a row of pins, anyway. I’d just like to show them; I’d like to let Mr. Ross see that I do amount to something.”

Mr. Ross was the senior partner of the big manufacturing plant, and eighteen-year-old Ann admired him immensely. He was so calm, so quiet, and yet so forceful; a splendid business man, but one whose family’s wants and wishes were cared for before all else. Ann knew he must be an ideal father, for he possessed all the qualities that Ann’s own father had lacked.

Mr. Carstairs had been far from an ideal parent and had ended his selfish, careless life just as Ann was preparing to enter college. Ann and her mother had bravely gathered together what money remained, and Ann started off to a business school instead.

For three months she worked feverishly night and day, and at the end of that time, when their finances were in a precarious condition, she left the school to enter the manufacturing firm of Ross and Hayward. She had been there for nearly two years now, years of worry and careful planning to make the slender salary cover growing needs.

“We have almost proved that the necessities of life are unnecessary, so nearly have we come to getting along on next to nothing,” she had laughingly told her mother only the evening before.

But though she joked about it, the situation was becoming serious, and Ann had reached the place where she felt that she must steel herself to the point of asking for more wages.

“Do people always have to ask for an increase?” she wondered. “Everybody here treats me as if I were a child, except when it comes to giving me work. That’s a different matter.”

Ann did not as a rule complain about the amount of work she had to do. Instead, she was rather proud of being able to accomplish so much in a single day. To-night, however, she was tired and all out of sorts. She felt, too, that her looks were all against her. Curly hair and freckles, added to a diminutive figure, gave her a decidedly childlike appearance.

“I wish,” she declared to herself, “I wish I were tall and had straight hair, and wrinkles around my mouth. What chance has anyone to advance when she is short and freckled? I just must make them sit up and take notice!”

She glanced around her with a proprietary look as she spoke. Her desk and switchboard were in the outer office near the head of the short flight of stairs leading from the street door, and commanded a view of the entrance door and the stairway leading to the upper floors. At the extreme end of the room was the entrance to the stock room, and beside it the great iron door leading to the vault where the business records were kept. In the dark corner by the vault door stood two tall piles of sales books. Since the bookkeeper had turned off the extra lights, the big office was lighted only by the globe above Ann’s head. The heavy presses and machinery in the factory, running at full speed, shook the building, and their roar and clatter sounded unusually loud now that the office was quiet.

The switchboard was never very busy after half-past five, and Ann leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment. She opened them almost immediately with a start, suddenly aware of another presence in the big office. The new janitor, a scraggly feather duster in his hand, stood by her desk.

“Did you want something?” Ann asked sharply.

She did not approve of the new janitor; his hair was too long and shaggy, his chin too stubbly, and his bushy eyebrows shaded eyelids that drooped. His appearance was in accord with his shiftless way of dusting and sweeping, Ann thought with disfavor. Her voice was decidedly sharp as she asked again, “Did you want something?”

“I wanted to see the cashier,” the man answered. His drooping eyelids gave a peculiar, leering expression to his face that filled Ann with repulsion. Then she braced herself; no matter how afraid she was, he must not know it.

“He has gone for the day. Come back in the morning,” she said, turning to her typewriter to cut the conversation short. The man hesitated for a moment, but her preoccupied air chilled him and Ann soon heard him walk away.

At that moment a tall young woman came hurrying down the stairs from the upper floor.

“I declare!” she cried, looking about the darkened office. “Everybody has gone home! And Mr. Bradford has locked the safe! Now will you tell me, Miss Carstairs, what I am going to do with all this money?”

She waved a green cardboard box in the air as she spoke, her voice rising higher and higher in her agitation.

“I have collected eight hundred dollars on those Liberty Bond payments, and here Mr. Bradford has locked the safe and gone home. I’m going to the country to-night and I can’t take all this money with me.”

“Sh! Miss Benson!” Ann warned, glancing quickly at the swing door that had not yet ceased swaying after the departing janitor. “Don’t tell any one. Can’t you put it in the vault? Mr. Bradford left it for me to lock to-night.”

“But,” Miss Benson objected, “something may happen to it and I am responsible. I can’t take it with me, though. I’ll have to put it in there, I guess.”

“See, Miss Carstairs,” she called a moment later from the depths of the vault, “I’m putting it beside the stamp box.”

With Miss Benson’s departure the big office suddenly seemed doubly large, and dim and empty. Ann shivered slightly, appalled by the fact that she was alone with eight hundred dollars in cash in the open vault. The factory machinery made such a din that none of the employees could hear if she called for help. What would she do if the janitor had overheard Miss Benson and should make up his mind to steal the money? She glanced sharply at the swinging door. It was quiet now.

She reassured herself. “I’m as nervous as Miss Benson. I’ll just shut that vault now, though, and have it over with. It is almost six o’clock anyway.”

At that moment a call came in on the telephone, the strident whir startling the girl with its suddenness.

“Ross and Hayward,” she answered mechanically into the receiver.

“Miss Carstairs,”--it was Mr. Ross speaking--“I left a couple of Liberty Bonds in my desk. Please tell Bradford to put them into the safe.”

“Mr. Bradford has gone for the day, Mr. Ross,” she answered, “but he has left the vault for me to close; I’ll put them in.”

“All right. Put them in the stamp box; I guess they’ll be all right there. Good night!”

Ann pulled out the plug and rose from her desk. Her rubber-soled shoes made no noise as she crossed the room. She found the bonds face down on Mr. Ross’s desk, and as she picked them up she could not fail to notice the denominations. She stared at them.

“Two thousand dollars!” she whispered awestruck. “If only they were mine!”

As she started to place them in the stamp box, its shabbiness caught her eye. She hesitated, then laid the bonds down.

“I’ll get a new box for the stamps,” she decided, snapping off the light as she left the vault.

Ann knew just where to find the particular box that she wanted and did not stop to turn on the light as she entered the stockroom. She was in the act of reaching up for the box, when the door stealthily opened. She shrank back against the shelves as the new janitor came in. He stopped for a moment and glanced around, then a minute later Ann heard the snap of the electric button as the light in the vault was turned on. She gasped in dismay. The bonds and the Liberty Loan money were all there in plain sight! For a brief moment the girl was paralyzed with fright. The janitor was after the money! She rushed forward. As she paused by the open doorway of the vault she had a momentary glimpse of the janitor with the green box in one hand, and heard the familiar crackly paper of the bonds as he hurriedly thrust them into his pocket. In a panic she caught the huge iron door and slammed it shut, hurriedly throwing the big bolt in place.

“I’ve got him,” she gasped exultantly; but the words had not left her lips before she was knocked from her feet by a sudden blow on her shoulder. As she fell, another stunning blow came upon her head.

A minute later, so it seemed to the girl, she opened her eyes to find Mr. Ross and his daughter, Margaret, bending over her.

“She’s coming to, now,” she could faintly hear Mr. Ross say. “Bathe her head some more.”

Then he added jokingly, “Well, now, Miss Ann, you certainly gave us a start. What were you trying to do?”

Ann’s head ached agonizingly. She lifted her hand to her forehead, and felt it gingerly. A lump as large as a walnut was there just above the temple. She became aware, now that the mist was fading from her eyes and the ringing from her ears, that the factory was quiet. All the noise of machinery had ceased.

“What time is it?” she asked; and then, without waiting for an answer, “Where did you come from?”

“It is after eight. We were driving by on our way to see a friend on the East Side, and I thought I would drop in and see if you had remembered to lock the safe.” Mr. Ross laughed. “Fortunate for you that I doubted your ability.”

Ann raised her head and looked about her; then she dropped it heavily back on the improvised pillow Miss Ross had tucked under her head.

“It was that old sales book that knocked me down. It must have been on the edge of the pile and tipped over when I slammed the door.” She felt the bump on her head again. “I suppose I hit the wrapping desk when I fell.”

“It wouldn’t take much to knock out a little thing like you,” Mr. Ross laughed.

Ann opened her eyes again, a thought flashed through her mind, and she sat bolt upright on the floor.

“Mr. Ross,” she said, “if I can prove to you that I was big enough to save you two thousand dollars, would you think me big enough to be given an increase in salary?”

“I surely would, Miss Carstairs!” Mr. Ross answered, becoming suddenly grave.

Ann’s voice shook with excitement.

“Your bonds are safe in the vault, Mr. Ross, together with eight hundred dollars that Miss Benson collected on Liberty Loan payments--and the new janitor!”

“You’re a brave girl,” said Mr. Ross, helping her to her feet. “The increase is yours; you have certainly earned it.”

* * * * *

“She was, indeed, a brave girl,” said the Story King, as the Story Lady paused; “and deserved all her good fortune.”

“The next,” went on the Story Lady, smiling, “is the story of a young man and a young woman whose only ambition in life was to help others.”

XXIX

JOHN AND MARGARET PATON AMONG SAVAGES

THE tropical island of Aniwa drowsed in the afternoon sunshine. Long, lazy swells rolling in from the Pacific broke on the outlying reefs, overflowed into the turquoise bay, and gently lapped the stretch of sandy beach. The softest of breezes stirred the palm trees and rustled the banana thickets.

Before the door of a low, thatched hut, nestling under a clump of date-palms, stood a fair-haired young woman anxiously watching a canoe which was making a perilous passage through the surf to the shelter of the bay. When at last it slid into smooth water she breathed a sigh of relief and went slowly down the hill toward the shore.

The craft nosed stealthily up to the beach, where a stalwart, grave-faced white man sprang out; then the boat, propelled by the muscular arms of two kinky-headed blacks, slipped away and vanished around a little promontory.

“I’m glad you’re safe home, John,” the young woman cried, as the big man came swiftly toward her. “Is all well?”

“Very far from that, Margaret,” the newcomer answered, as he reached her side. “I’ve found a great deal of unrest throughout the island.”

“Because of the drought?”

“Yes,” he replied, and stood looking down upon her thoughtfully.

She came nearer and slipped her arm through his.

“I can see that you are anxious, John,” she said softly. “Do you fear an uprising?”

“Margaret,” he exclaimed, as they turned and began to climb the hill to the hut, “I should not have brought you here!”

“Oh!” she cried. “More than anything else I desired the privilege of helping you in your work. Do you mean that I have failed? That I have proved a burden rather than a help?”

“You know it is not that,” he replied quickly. “You have been wonderful, dear. But I should not have allowed you to leave old Scotland for the hardships and perils of these heathen isles.”

“It has not been easy,” she acknowledged; “but I have never once regretted coming.”

“I thought I was doing right to bring you,” he went on; “but now--now--”

“You feel,” she interposed, “that we are in real danger?”

“We shall be if the natives rise,” he replied. “I think you should know the truth, dear.”

Her blue eyes darkened, but there was no fear in them.

“But the people have come to feel we are their friends,” she protested. “Some of them love us. Surely they will not harm us.”

By this time they had reached the hut. He put her gently into a camp-chair before the door, and flung himself upon the white sand at her feet.

“A trading-ship touched on the other side of the island yesterday,” he told her.