MR. BLACK, hearing nothing from Billy's people and knowing that Saunders was an able guard for his precious family, remained away for three days; for he found a number of matters in Lakeville that claimed his attention. He paid his fine cheerfully, and declared ever afterwards that the day's sport was worth all that it had cost him.
Mr. Saunders proved a most delightful companion, in spite of his misfit clothing; for the tall, slender young man had borrowed stout Mr. Black's camping costume. Wherever he went he was followed by devoted Billy and the no less devoted girls. Dave liked him, too. Even Rosa Marie waddled at his heels and grunted happily when he condescended to pat her black head or her fat brown hands. It may have been his undeniably red hair that charmed Rosa Marie, but it was his voice that pleased the girls; for he proved a decidedly eloquent person. He told them the most wonderful of fairy tales, recited miles and miles of nonsense rhymes and several yards, as Bettie said, of real poetry.
But the fairy tales pleased them most because there were so many spots near Pete's Patch that seemed just like little bits of Fairyland; and sometimes Saunders' tales were cleverly fitted to these suitable surroundings. Before the three days were over, the girls were living in a veritable land of enchantment and went about with such dreamy eyes that Mrs. Crane was certain that they were all bewitched.
On the last forenoon of the useful young man's visit, Mabel, pursuing a startled brown rabbit, happened to stumble into the very heart of Fairyland. The rabbit led her out of Pete's Patch, through thicket and marsh, to an unsuspected bayou—a little bay that had once been part of the lively river but was now merely a quiet pond. Mabel found herself on the very muddy edge of a wide circular basin that was bigger than it looked. The banks were a tangled, seemingly impenetrable mass of green foliage, showing occasionally the vivid pink of a late wild rose or the dazzling white of Queen Anne's lace and meadow-sweet. More inviting than all were quantities of strange water flowers of shining white that spangled the glinting surface of the pond. These were new to Mabel and all hers for the gathering.
"Oh!" gasped the little girl, quite overcome with the surprising beauty of this hitherto undiscovered treasure, "I guess I've found the Witch's Pool where the pale Princess was turned into a—Oh! I must get those flowers for Mrs. Crane; she'd love 'em."
A long, partly submerged log extended toward the center of the pond. Mabel very cautiously at first, then with more confidence, trusted her weight to this. If she could reach just one of those elusive flowers——
Suddenly there was a horrible "giving way" under her feet. She clutched wildly at unsubstantial air; there was a wild shriek followed by a violent splash. Millions of golden bubbles floated to the surface.
For a long moment that was all that the brown rabbit, safe among the ferns, could see. Then, a dozen feet away from the broken log, a queer green object, a most unpleasant-looking object, caught at the slimy branches of a water-logged, barkless tree that had stood in the pool for goodness only knows how many years; and, freeing one wet hand, wiped a veil of emerald slime from its mouth and eyes. The green object was Mabel; and tumbling right into Fairyland was not an entirely pleasant process.
Fortunately, a few short stumps of branches still remained firmly attached to the upright trunk. The plump "Princess" was able, happily, to find a firm foothold on one of these. Then, with her knees under water, her arms clasped about the slippery tree trunk, she stood more or less securely anchored in the treacherous pool, looking not unlike a green marble statue in the center of a fountain. Fortunately the water was not at all cold. Fortunately, too, it harbored none of the horrible things that Mabel imagined might be lurking beneath its verdant surface. It was because of her fear of possible—or rather impossible—alligators, snakes, and hippopotami that the little girl's voice proved unusually feeble when she attempted to shout for the help that she so sorely needed. At any rate, no one responded.
Although the wonderfully tinted bayou was a lovely spot to look at, with its green and golden browns in the sunlight, its deep sepia tones in the shadows, and its marvelous reflections of objects along the edge, poor Mabel found it hard to be compelled to gaze at it for so long a time. After the first half-hour, even with blue king-fishers and many-hued dragon-flies darting down after water bugs, or lightly skimming the jeweled surface, it seemed a lonely place. As for the frostlike blossoms that had lured her into the pool Mabel no longer admired them; and she hated the brown rabbit.
When noon arrived without bringing always hungry Mabel back to Pete's Patch—never before had she missed a meal—the other campers began to grow alarmed. By two o'clock the entire camp was scouring forest, lakeshore, and river banks for Mabel or traces of Mabel. Mr. Saunders had even loaded Mr. Black's gun and was firing it, at intervals, thus providing Mabel with a new cause for alarm, since she didn't know that the gun was pointed toward the open lake. Laddie was searching the rocks at Barclay's Point, Jean and Henrietta were examining the roads that Mabel sometimes explored for mushrooms, Dave and Marjory were following all the more or less familiar trails.
"She's fallen in, somewhere," declared Mrs. Crane, pale with anxiety, "and is drowned. Nothing else would have kept her away from lunch."
"And she can't get near water without falling in," agreed Bettie. "But, so far, she's always gotten out again."
Sometimes the hateful brown rabbit, safe on dry land, bobbed up to look at Mabel. Sometimes a saucy squirrel ran along an overhanging branch to scold loudly at the little girl. Once a big mud-hen waded into sight, then, suddenly discovering the discouraged "Princess," fled with an alarmed—and alarming squawk.
"I suppose," groaned Mabel, "I'm missing a million things. Most likely Mr. Black is back with splendid news for Billy—I'm sure he'll turn out to be somebody perfectly grand, like a young duke or the only son of a mayor. Or Mr. Saunders is telling that loveliest-of-all fairy tale that he promised to save for the very last. And I know they'll eat every crumb of those splendid huckleberry pies that Mrs. Crane was making when I left camp. And, oh! What'll I do when it gets dark?"
But Mabel, happily, was spared this last horror. At three o'clock Mahjigeezigoqua, Rosa Marie's really beautiful mother, parted the branches that fringed the pool and peered at the strange object upright in the water.
"Oh!" cried weary Mabel, in sudden excitement, "do come and get me—a rope, a boat, anything——"
"Can you hol' on som' more?" demanded the young woman, testing the ground with a cautious foot.
"Yes, yes," cried Mabel, almost letting go in her joy. "Only please save me soon—I'm awfully tired of this place—I've been here for years."
"Ah'll breeng ma brodder," promised the dusky beauty, slipping noiselessly away.
It seemed another year before Dave finally came, bounding like a deer through the thicket, with his sister at his heels. Dave plunged in—he had learned by this time exactly how to rescue Mabel from all sorts of watery graves—and soon that relieved young person was safe on some very black, oozy mud that, ordinarily, wouldn't have seemed so pleasant underfoot.
There was great rejoicing when this frequently cast away castaway, still well besmeared with green slime, was escorted by Dave and his pretty sister to Pete's Patch.
"Geeve her som' bat' hon de lake," advised Dave, before disappearing in search of certain herbs for which he had found a use.
Mrs. Crane, feeling that Mabel had been sufficiently punished for her thoughtlessness without being scolded, hastily prepared a hot meal—after all, she had saved Mabel's share of the pie. Then, while Mrs. Crane was setting a place for her, the culprit, escorted to the lake by Jean and Henrietta, was thoroughly scrubbed, rubbed dry, and hustled into clean clothing.
"Hurry!" cried Mrs. Crane, "or the stew will get cold again."
Just as Mabel was opening her mouth for the first delicious bite, a brown, sinewy hand deftly placed a dingy tin cup at her lips, her head was unexpectedly twitched backward, and before Mabel could realize what was happening, Dave had poured a generous dose of his evil-smelling herb tea down her unresisting throat.
"Ah'm learn dose good trick off ma gran'modder," explained Dave, evidently much elated at his success. "Ma gran'modder ver' smart ol' squaw."
"I wish," choked Mabel, crimson with indignation, "your horrid old grandmother 'd never been born."
"Som' tam'," smiled Dave, sympathetically, "Ah'm used for weesh dat, too. But dose medicine ees ver' good—mak' you feel all bully hon top your inside, bam-bye. Maybe you lak' som' more, hey?"
"You go home!" snapped Mabel. "I'll taste that stuff for a year."
Dave chuckled as he slipped away. And, however dreadful it looked and smelled and tasted, the medicine at any rate did no harm; for Mabel awoke next morning none the worse for either the prolonged soaking, Dave's unpalatable remedy, or even an unusually large portion of Mrs. Crane's famous pie.