CHAPTER XIII

WHAT HAPPENED TO SPLUTTERS

"Mine enemies chased me sore, like a bird without cause."--Lam. iii, 52

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The jangling sound resounded to every part of the Grimes farm. Someone sought entrance at the castle gate. Maria heard the bell but she paid no heed. No one ever opened the gate any more but the ogre, himself. Ambrose heard the clamor, but the only interest it had for him was that of seeing all the children scurry for the barn loft. He liked to impede them in their progress and laugh at their tears when his father beat them for their delay.

They were coming now, running along like frightened sheep, with Mollie as shepherdess. Peter was watching them. He was waiting to open the gate and admit the pilgrim.

"Hurry, chil'un, hurry," gasped Mollie, breathless from her exertions, with the baby on her arm, Leathie by one hand and another of the younger children stumbling along just ahead.

The bell rang again. The ogre was waving his long arms in silent command for them to make haste. They would hear from him later.

Up the perpendicular ladder they clambered, each foot barely missing little fingers trying from below to clutch the ladder's rungs. Mollie had one child on her back now and was hoisting chubby Leon upward and onward by boosting him with her head. It was hard work, especially for the younger children and for Johnnie with his crutch, yet three and four times every day the feat was accomplished. No one who had visited the farm in all those five years had ever seen a child, other than Ambrose, on the premises.

Reaching the loft the children rushed, with one accord, to drag into position the great, wooden shutter that closed the window space. Not until then did Mollie discover that Stephen was missing. Alarmed, she ran to the opening in the floor and peered down into the stable below. Perhaps he had stopped there with old Nell. The stable was dark. Mollie, herself, had closed the barn door behind them. But there was light enough from the chinks and cracks for her to see that Stephen was not there. The girl's heart seemed to leap into her throat. She turned to the children.

"Splutters hain't hyar!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "Whar is he? Did he fall? Hain't none o' yo' seed him?"

The children shook their heads.

"He war with us back a piece," said one.

They ran to where the wooden shutter obscured them from the view of any person who might have entered the gate, and peered from every knot hole and crack for a glimpse of Stevie. He was not in sight.

The reason he was not in sight became apparent a few seconds later. For the moment, he was directly under the window with his back against the barn and facing Ambrose. He was warding off the latter's blows, trying to dodge the fat, over-grown lummox, now twice as large as himself, although much younger, and escape to some shelter before the evil eyes of Peter should discern him, or he be forced by Ambrose into view of the stranger.

The latter was plainly a native of that section and evidently a farmer. Seated in a rickety light-wagon he drove in at the open gate, which Peter promptly closed and locked behind him. The horse attached to the wagon had an aged, dejected appearance, somewhat in harmony with that of his master. The latter brought his equipage to a halt close by the hog-pen and descended to inspect its occupants.

Never having visited the farm before, he was evidently unaware how closely the swamps hedged it about, for the rear wheels of his wagon came perilously near the edge of the horrible pit over which Grimes had held Stephen more than five years before.

Lying on their sides, across the end of the wagon-box, were a couple of barrels. The farmer, having selected a shoat, paid for it, then let down the tail-board of the wagon, preparatory to loading the animal into the vehicle. As he stepped back to the pen to secure his purchase one of the barrels, jarred by the dropping of the tail-board, rolled unnoticed out of the wagon and bounced in the mire.

At the sound of the splash Peter and his customer both turned around. The latter, evidently under the impression that the bog was merely a hog wallow, strode towards it to drag his property out and replace it in the wagon.

"Dawg-gone hit," he exclaimed, turning to Peter, "Lookut thet, now. I reckon we'll hev ter git a plank--"

He paused to stare at the hog vendor. Peter seemed to be grimacing at him. In a moment it became apparent that he was laughing. He gestured toward the bog.

"Ef yo' air goin' ter git hit," he chuckled, "yo'll hev ter git hit in a swivvet an' not wait fer no plank."

The farmer's gaze turned from Peter to the barrel. His eyes dilated. The barrel was almost submerged. It was slowly but surely sinking. He took several hasty steps with some thought of wading into the mud and retrieving the barrel unaided. Peter's strange mirth and possibly, as Stevie would have said, his guardian angel stayed him at the brink. He paused again to look, and in that instant the barrel disappeared. Thick layers of mud closed over the spot where it went down.

"Tarnation!" the man gasped. "Whar--whar'd hit go?"

"Whyn't yo' g'wan in an' find out," returned Peter, making no effort to conceal his disappointment at being deprived of so pleasing a spectacle as the death of a human being. "I hain't a-stoppin' yo'."

[Illustration: _Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay_. _Sparrows_. "IS GRIMES COMIN'?"]

Again the farmer stared. Was this Peter Grimes crazy, he wondered. He had heard for years that he was "queer," but he had never had dealings with him before. The whole place seemed queer. He wished he had gone elsewhere to purchase his hog. Now he had lost the barrel of molasses he had just been to town to buy! And this man, Grimes, seemed pleased over his loss and displeased because he, himself, had not been swallowed up with his barrel. If he had--

Enlightenment came suddenly upon him. If he had, Peter Grimes would have the hog as well as the money that had just been paid for it--and also the horse, wagon and supplies! No one knew he had driven up there; no one would search for him there. It would have been assumed that he had driven off the road at some point and got lost in the swamps. Why, the man was crazy. He was capable of murder. Perhaps he would yet kill him before he got away.

The farmer, whose name was Craddock, stepped hastily back from the edge of the bog and around to his horse's head, keeping his eyes focused upon Peter, meanwhile, suspicious of the latter's intentions.

"I didn't know you-all had one of them sinkholes up so clost ter yer house," he remarked, taking hold of the horse's bridle and pulling him about until the wagon stood in a safer position. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"'Sposed yo' hed eyes," replied Peter, belligerently, stooping, nevertheless and helping his customer pick up the shoat he had purchased and toss it into the wagon.

Then, just as the tail-board was again fastened, an astonishing thing happened.

A child--a boy, evidently, for it was practically obscured by a man's coat and a hat several sizes too large,--dropped suddenly, apparently from heaven, and landed on the ground directly between Peter and farmer Craddock. From their faces it would have been difficult to judge which was the more amazed. The child stood, silent and trembling, before them.

Then the children, from their hiding place in the barn loft, all saw him. It was Splutters! Mollie involuntarily shut her eyes. She expected to see Grimes strike him dead or pick him up bodily and hurl him into the bog. She knew, now, what had happened. It had happened before--but the limb of the tree had never broken before. Ambrose had tripped Stevie. He had held him back from entering the barn door. She, in her haste to close it, had not noticed that he was still outside. Then, in a desperate attempt to elude Ambrose, Stevie, weak and sick as he was, had struggled and fought his way up the outside of the building until he could swing into the limbs of a large tree where, among the foliage, he might screen himself from observation.

Stephen alone knew how difficult the feat had been, for in his weakened physical condition he was totally unequal to any exertion. So loud was the roaring in his ears and the pressure on his head that, when the limb broke and he was dropped like plumpet right at the feet of the two men, the boy was incapable of sensing anything accurately.

But he was vaguely conscious that the stranger's voice was kindly and that when he looked upon him his keen, trustworthy eyes seemed to see and understand his misery.

He was also vaguely conscious that in response to the stranger's inquiry, Peter Grimes, with a murderous look, had said:

"Oh, he's a leetle feller I'm a lookin' arter fer a spell, but I doan aim ter keep him long," at which Stephen had almost imperceptibly drawn nearer the stranger.

And at the moment the latter placed his hand not un-gently upon the boy's shoulder.

"I could use a leetle feller like him on my place. Them bugs--the little old hatefuls--is jist eatin' the life out o' my potatoes," he said. "Spose I gin ye a dollar more an' tote him along with me."

If he had not exhibited the dollar bill as he spoke it is likely Peter Grimes would have deliberated long enough to become suspicious of the offer and decline it. Now, acting solely upon impulse resultant from his desire to lay violent hands upon Stephen at the earliest possible moment, he signified his acceptance by action rather than word. Extending one hand for the money, with the other he reached out and clutched Stephen by the coat collar, lifted him up like a sack of oats and, instead of tossing him into the bog, sat him down with vicious force on the remaining barrel in the wagon.

Farmer Craddock mounted quickly to the seat, picked up the reins and turned his horse's head towards the gate which Peter went to unfasten. As the wagon turned about Stephen, from his seat in the rear, faced the shuttered window of the loft. He knew he was going away--leaving Mollie and the others, perhaps never to see them again! But he was too ill, too dazed, too troubled by the roaring and surging, and pressure of his head to think about it. He just sat still and watched the farm panorama pass slowly by him as the wheels of the wagon revolved.

On the left, the bog. To the right, the house, with Maria sitting, listless, on the doorstep, Ambrose near by, tormenting the dog. In the distance, the hated truck-patch and hog-pen. And straight before him, as he rode backwards from the place was that shuttered window behind which Mollie and the other children were watching, and before which he and Mollie had knelt so many nights, mingling their childish tears and praying for someone to come and take them away.

Now he was going and Mollie was still there--in that prison, behind those rough boards, looking out at him and wondering, perhaps, why he did not take her with him. He wanted to send her some word, to call to her, to wave his hand but he felt powerless, inert, unable to move hand or foot. His head ached. Poor little Splutters could not think.

But what was that his eyes beheld--there, at that shuttered window? Oh, yes, he knew, now. It was a hand--Mollie's hand! She saw him, then. She understood. She was waving to him.

Another hand! Still another. Lots of hands. Why, all the children were there! Mollie had called them. She was telling them all to wave--to him--to Splutters,--to tell him good-by!

How they fluttered--those hands. Like birds--little, white birds! They were growing smaller now--farther away. But he could still see them. The wagon was passing through the gate. He strained his eyes for a farewell look. Yes, they were still there--waving--the little birds--waving--waving--

Something--something was shutting them from him. He could no longer see them. They were gone. Everything was black before him--

The ogre closed the gate!

Splutters lay unconscious beside the shoat, in the bottom of the wagon.