When Jeanne had finished her morning's housecleaning, the room contained only the two built-in bunks, one above another, a small box-stove, a battered golden-oak table, that had once belonged to Mrs. Shannon, a plain wooden chair, and a home-made bench.
"Some day," said Jeanne, "I'll scrub that furniture, but if I don't eat something now I'll die. I'm glad James gave me too much money. And I have nineteen dollars in my pincushion. After I've had lunch I'll go shopping, for I need a lot of things. Old Captain shall have sheets, too; and I'll buy some cheap stuff for curtains—it'll be fun to make them and put them up. I wonder if oilcloth like Aunt Agatha had in her kitchen costs very much. That would be pleasanter to eat on than newspapers and very easy to wash. White would be nicest, I think. And if I could buy some pieces of rag carpet—my floor is pretty cold."
It was rather a long way to town, but Jeannette, freshened by a bath in the Cinder Pond and clad in a clean dull-blue linen frock, trudged along the road until she reached the sidewalk. Here she unfolded something that she carried in her hand—a small square of cloth. With it she carefully wiped the dust from her shoes.
"There," said she, throwing away the rag. "The Cinder Pond Savage looks a little more like Jeannette Huntington Duval."
She proved a better shopper than Old Captain. A new five-and-ten-cent store provided her with some excellent plated knives, forks, and teaspoons. She bought three of each—Barney might want to stay to supper sometime. Also a nice smooth saucepan, some fruit, some rolls, some cookies; besides the white oilcloth, which had proved inexpensive; and some other drygoods. So many things, in fact, that she wondered how to get them home.
SHE ALMOST BUMPED INTO A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE
"Where," asked the clerk, at the last place, "shall I send this?"
"It's out quite a little beyond the town," said Jeanne, doubtfully.
"This side of the lighthouse?"
"Yes."
"Well, we'll send it for you. The wagon is going to the life-saving station today. I'll send your other parcels, too, if you like."
"Good," said Jeanne, who meant to watch for the wagon where the road turned. "Now I'll be able to buy one or two more things."
Jeanne knew no one in the little town. When you live on a dock, your nearest neighbors are apt to be seagulls. But, as she turned the corner near the post office, where she was going to buy stamps, she almost bumped into a former acquaintance. It was Roger Fairchild, the boy that she had rescued more than two years previously. Roger was taller, but he was still quite plump.
"Oh," gasped Jeanne, recognizing him.
"Did the water spoil your clothes? I've always wondered about that."
Roger looked at her sharply. Was it—yes, it was that little shrimp of a girl that had pulled him out of the lake. She had grown a little, but she was that same child. The tomatoes in the corner grocery were no redder than Roger turned in that moment.
"Aw, g'wan," muttered embarrassed Roger, brushing past her. "I don't know yuh."
Jeanne felt slightly abashed. "I'm sure," thought she, glancing after him, "that that's the same boy. There can't be two as fat as that. Probably he doesn't know me in these clothes. Next time, I'll say a little more."
Of course Jeanne had learned under the Huntington roof that introductions were customary; but you see, when you've saved a person's life you feel as if that event were introduction enough without further ceremony. Also, when you've been kind to anybody, even an ungrateful boy, you have a friendly feeling for him afterwards. Besides, Jeanne rather liked boys, in a wholesome comrade-y sort of way.
But if Roger seemingly lacked gratitude, his mother did not. She knew that Lake Superior was both deep and cold and that even the best of swimmers had been drowned in its icy waters. She felt that she owed a large debt of thanks to the tall, mysterious young woman who had saved her only child from certain death. For two years, she had longed to pay that debt.
The Captain and Barney were landing when Jeanne reached the freight car. She ran down to hold out a hand to Barney. But Barney put his big hands behind his back.
"They ain't clean," said he. Then he turned to Old Captain and spoke in an undertone. "You got to tell her," he said. "I know I promised, but I can't."
"I guess it's got to be did," sighed the Old Captain, "but you got to stand by."
"This part of the wharf," remarked Jeanne, "looks a great deal battered up. Aren't some of the timbers gone?"
"Yes," returned Old Captain. "You see there was a bad storm last May—Barney was out in it. It—it damaged his boat some."
"Was Barney alone?"
"No. Your father and Michael was with him."
"Barney," demanded Jeanne, "where's my father now?"
Barney, who was scooping fish into a basket, grabbed the handle and strode away as fast as his long legs would carry him. Old Captain shouted: "Barney!" but the younger man did not pause.
"Jeannie girl," said Old Captain, as they followed Barney down the wharf, "Barney's ashamed to meet you; but he ain't got no call to be. What happened weren't his fault. But he thinks you'll hate him like p'isen when you know."
"What happened?" pleaded Jeanne, pale with dread.
"It was like this. The squall came up sudden, an' the boat went over. A tug picked Barney up—he was hangin' on to the bottom of the boat."
"And—and daddy?"
"There was nobody there when the tug come but Barney."
"Was my father—you said daddy and Michael—they did go out that day? They surely did go in the boat?"
"Yes," returned Old Captain, sorrowfully. "They went and they didn't come back. That's all."
"They went and they didn't come back—they went and they didn't come back"—Jeanne's feet kept time to the words as the pair walked up the dock. "They went and they didn't come back."
Jeanne couldn't believe it. Yet, somehow, she had known it. All that summer, in spite of her brave assurances to herself, she had felt—fatherless. The fatherless feeling had been justified. Yet she couldn't believe it. Her precious father—and poor little Michael!
"Maybe—maybe you'd want to go inside and cry a bit," suggested the worried Captain. "Shall I—just hang about outside?"
Jeanne dropped to the bench outside the car. Her eyes, very wide open but perfectly tearless, were fixed on Old Captain. Her cheeks were white. Even her lips were colorless.
Captain Blossom didn't know what to do. A crying child could be soothed and comforted with kind words; but this frozen image—this little white girl with wide black eyes staring through him at the lake—what could a rough old sailorman do to help her?
Suddenly, a lanky, bowlegged boy, with big, red ears that almost flopped, came 'round the corner of the car.
"Say," said he, "I'm looking for a party named 'Devil'—Jane et a Hungry Devil, looks like."
"Right here," returned Old Captain. "It's Jeannette Huntington Duval."
Every inch of that boy was funny. Even his queer voice was provocative of mirth. Jeanne laughed.
But the boy had barely turned the corner before surprised Jeanne, a little heap on the bench, was sobbing sobs a great many sizes too large for her small body.
"It's soaked in," said the Captain, patting her ponderously. "There, there, Jeannie girl. There, there. Just cry all ye want to. I cried some myself, when I heard about it."
Presently the big Old Captain went inside his old car and there was a great clatter among the cooking utensils, mingled with a sort of muffled roar. He was working off his overcharged feelings.
Jeanne's sobs, having gradually subsided, she began to be conscious of the unusual disturbance inside the car. Next, she listened—and hoped that Old Captain wasn't saying bad words, but—
"Hum! Ladies present," rose suddenly above the clatter of dishes. The silence, followed by: "Dumbed if she hasn't eaten all the bread!"
Right after that the listening Captain heard the sound of tearing paper. A moment later, Jeanne was in the doorway—a loaf of bread in one hand, a basket of peaches in the other. Her face was tear-stained, but her eyes were brave. She even smiled a little, twisty smile—a smile that all but upset Old Captain.
"There's some rolls, too," she said, in rather a shaky voice. "Take these and I'll bring you the tablecloth. After this, I'm going to be the supper cook. I planned it all out this morning."
Jeanne, brave little soul that she was, was back among the everyday things of life. The greatly relieved Captain beamed at the shining white tablecloth and the cheap, plated silver. He picked up one of the new knives and viewed it admiringly.
"I ain't et with a shiny knife like this since I was keepin' bachelor's hall," said he. "I'll just admire eatin' fried potatoes with this here knife."
The Captain was very sociable that evening. He had to see the contents of all the parcels, and expressed great admiration for the checked gingham that was to be made into a big apron. Once, he disappeared to rummage about in the dark, further end of the long car. Presently he returned with a rusty tin box.
"This here," said he, "is my bank."
He opened it. It was filled with money.
"You see," said he, "when you earns more than you spends, the stuff piles up. Now here's a nice empty can. We'll set it, inconspicuous-like, in this here corner of the cupboard. Any time you wants any money for anything—clothes or food or anything at all—you look in this can. There'll be some thar. You see, you're my little girl, just now. The rest'll be put away safe—you can forgit about that. Was that there a yawn? Gettin' sleepy, are you? Well, well, where's the lantern?"
At the door of the Duval shack, Jeanne stumbled over something—a large basket with the cover fastened down tight. Jeanne carried it inside and lifted the cover. It contained four small kittens and a bottle of milk. A card hung from the neck of the bottle. On it was printed:
"We got no Mother. From BARNEY."
"Drat him," said the Captain, "them kittens'll keep you awake."
"Not if I feed them," returned Jeanne. "Of course I shall still love Bayard Taylor, but after all, kittens are a lot more cuddle-y than snails. I'm so glad Barney thought of them. They're dear—such a pretty silvery gray with white under their chins. I do hope they'll find me a nice mother."
By the time the kittens were fed and asleep, Jeanne, who had certainly spent an exhausting day, was no longer able to keep her eyes open.