THAT Ruel was a good weather-prophet, there could be no doubt. Long before blue eyes and brown were opened at The Pines, the sun was shining over hill and valley, and birds singing in every thicket, to welcome the bright day.
Plans were eagerly discussed at breakfast, and by eight o’clock the great wagon was before the door, ready for a start. Tom alone hung back and refused to go, saying he wanted to walk over to the Pond; so they drove off without him, toward the Pineville Station.
The horses, who had just enjoyed a rainy day’s rest in their stalls, stepped off merrily. How sweet the air was! The girls and Randolph drew in long breaths, and shouted and sang till they were tired. Mr. Percival listened, and watched them with kindly eyes, now and then engaging in the conversation himself.
“Aren’t there any boys and girls around here except ourselves?” asked Randolph as they whirled along over the road, here carpeted with pine needles.
“O there are plenty in Readville and Jamestown,” replied his uncle, touching the glossy flank of the off horse with his whip. “There’s a good-sized school in each town, and they draw the young folks together, from all parts.”
“What do they do for fun, I wonder?”
“Well, just now they’re full of base-ball. The boys do the hard work, out in the sun, and the girls make caps and badges for them and watch them play. There’s a club in each town, I’m told.”
“How nice!” exclaimed Bess. “I do so like to see real exciting games!”
“Don’t you believe we could drive over sometime, Uncle?” asked Kittie.
“Yes indeed, yes indeed; take you over to-morrow if you like—or send you with Ruel.”
“They’d be glad enough to git the boys to play with ’em,” remarked Ruel, chiming in as his name was spoken. “They always think city boys must know how, because they’ve seen the big clubs.”
“HE WAS OFTEN AWAY FROM THE HOUSE, ALONE.”
It might as well be added right here that the boys did go over to Readville, though not on the following day; and the village club were so well pleased with their playing, that they invited the new-comers to join their nine, during vacation, and to take part in any matches that might occur. Randolph, indeed, so gained in favor by his pleasant ways and cool head that he was regularly elected Captain. Tom did well, too, being a more graceful player than his cousin, but not so reliable in an emergency. All this I have mentioned, to explain how the great Match Game came about, of which we shall hear before long.
Meanwhile the ride to the railroad progressed pleasantly. An excursion to Bessie’s mountain (where she had lighted the birch-tree torch during the thunder-storm) was planned in all its details.
“Pet will soon be rested,” said Kittie in gleeful tones, “and then we’ll have our picnic. Ruel, you must take plenty of matches, and your axe.”
“What’s the axe fer?”
“O tables, and a tent, perhaps.”
“And birch bark,” added the guide.
“Birch bark? I thought you cut that off with penknives. O, can we get a lot, to carry home?”
“Don’t see why not, ef you c’n stan’ the work.”
“Has Pet another watch?” asked Randolph suddenly. “She said something about it in her last letter to you, Bess, didn’t she?”
“No. Her father thinks it was careless of her to lose it, now that it’s certain it didn’t go into the pond when she fell overboard.”
“I should like to know what’s the matter with Tom,” broke in Kittie. “He’s acted queer, ever since that day.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Percival soberly. “I’m troubled about the boy. He isn’t his old merry self at all.”
“What did he say about the Indians that afternoon, Uncle?”
“Said he believed they took the watch and hid it; and that he hadn’t seen it himself, and knew nothing about it.”
“Was that at the trial?”
“Just before. He wasn’t in the house when we examined the Indians.”
“Well, he thinks everything of Pet,” said Randolph. “I guess he feels bad about her losing it, and that’s what ails him. Hulloa, see that crow on the fence just ahead there!”
“He’s gone, he’s gone! O what are those little birds fluttering round him?”
“Them’s king-birds,” said Ruel. “They can’t put up with crows, nohaow.”
“What, are they fighting him now?”
“Teeth an’ claws. Look at him dive, to git out o’ their way!”
“Do crows do any good, Ruel?”
“Wal, I d’no. I s’pose, when you come right daown to it, the creeturs ought ter be killed off. They do suck small bird’s eggs, an’ they’re a powerful nuisance in a cornfield. But thar, I do hate to shoot anything with wings on ’em, in these big woods.”
“Why, Ruel?” inquired the boy curiously.
“Wal, fer one reason, they’re good company, even those black rascals. Many’s the time I’ve been off alone in the woods, in the winter, when I couldn’t see nor hear a livin’ thing fer a week together. An’ some mornin’ I’d hear a queer croakin’ noise near my cabin, an’ thar’d be a crow—head on one side, a-talkin’ to a neighbor over’n a pine. Their talkin’ ain’t anything like their reg’lar cawin’.”
“What does it sound like?”
“O, I d’no. Like a hoarse old man, talkin’ to himself, p’raps. Anyway, it sounds sort o’ human, and I couldn’t knock ’em over, to save me.”
By this time the girls had found something else to interest them by the roadside, in the tree-tops, or the sky overhead; and so the ride went on, happily, toward Pineville.
But it is time to look back a little, and see what Tom is about, left alone at The Pines.
As soon as the rest were gone, Tom glanced carelessly over his shoulder, and sauntered off toward the woods. At a distance of about a thousand feet from the house, he paused and looked curiously about him. He had entered a clump of oaks and birches, just on the edge of the pine forest; before him lay a little valley, into which he descended, and leaving the path, followed the course of what was evidently in the spring season a small stream, now entirely dry. Stepping cautiously, to avoid treading upon dry twigs, he kept on down the ravine until he reached a large bowlder, forming the outworks of a picturesquely broken cliff whose fern-draped front towered some forty feet or more above his head.
An aged beech-tree, rooted about half-way up the juncture of the boulder and the cliff, had bent downward in the course of years, until its lowermost branches almost touched the ground. Seizing the nearest of these, and aiding himself by slight projections and crannies in the ledge itself, Tom drew himself up to the thick end of the tree, upon the curving trunk of which he seated himself, breathless. He was now in a sort of cavity, formed by the fall of the bowlder in ages past, which had given shelter to the young beech and collected soil for its nourishment. Ferns grew thickly above, below, on every side, along the shelving surfaces, which, projecting over Tom’s head, made a snug nook some five or six feet deep. This hiding-place the boy flattered himself was entirely his own discovery, and thither he was accustomed to betake himself on long summer afternoons; then, stretching out comfortably at full length in the green shade, he would fancy himself in a wild country, flying from Indians; or would pull a book from his pocket, and lose himself in tales of peril and adventure.
On this occasion, however, he had no book, and gave himself up to no day dreams. Instead, he seemed worried and frightened, and peering downward through the leaves, listened for any footstep that might be approaching.
No, he was quite alone. Only a thrush, singing musically, near by; and from beyond, the solemn, never-ceasing murmur of the pines.
With slow and careful movements, taking care not to disturb the loose rocks or soil in the cavity, the boy turned and thrust his arm into a narrow cleft that had been concealed by a clump of ferns.
When he drew back his hand, something bright gleamed in it. It was round, and shone gayly in an innocent bit of sunlight that came flickering down through the tree-tops. It was talking to itself, too, in a very busy and wise little way, as Tom satisfied himself at once, holding it to his ear and listening anxiously.
What would Pet have thought, as she whirled along in the North-bound express from Boston that fair morning, could she have seen Tom crouching on the shadowy ledge, trembling at every sound in the forest, pale and frightened, clasping in his hand—her lost watch? Poor Tom!