CHAPTER VII

WHERE IS BUDDY?

"He that stoppeth his ear to the cry of the poor, shall also cry himself and shall not be heard."--Prov. xxi, 13

It took the combined efforts and intelligence of all to alleviate the suffering of the child injured at the very moment of its arrival at the farm, through Peter's wanton carelessness. Yet no blame could attach to himself, he declared, for at the time of the accident the little fellow was sitting on his sister's lap.

"Whut war yo' a-doin'," Peter asked of the distressed little girl. (Cynthy was her name.) "Must hev ben jest a-settin' thar a-sleepin' er a-gawpin' et sumpin'."

"Thar hain't nawthin' much ter gawp at aroun' hyar," retorted the girl, angered at the injustice of the accusation. "'Tain't likely I'd go an' drep my little brother thet-a-way jest a-purpose. Whyn't yo'-all tell me yo' war a-gwine ter raise hell a-jumpin' hurdles?"

For Cynthy and little Buddie came from some point in Kentucky. There could be no question as to their station in life. They were clad in coarse garments and had sharp, pinched faces. Cynthy was bare-foot but she carried a pair of new, very stout shoes tied together by their strings, and a small bundle of clothes. These were now deposited upon the floor in a corner of the room.

Just how these two poor waifs came into Peter Grimes' clutches he alone knew. What he expected to gain by housing them was another mystery. When Maria, disturbed out of her usual lethargy by the unexpected advent of the baby, ventured a question, Peter gruffly told her to "shet up."

But clothes and conditions mattered not to Mollie. The cries of a baby in excruciating pain pierced her tender little heart like a knife. As Maria and Cynthy worked over the tortured little one Mollie watched helplessly, her pitying spirit shining in her starry eyes. When Peter came in from the barn and took hold of the broken arm to set it, the baby screamed once and mercifully lost consciousness.

Without uttering a sound Mollie dropped to the floor in a dead faint. The others paying no attention, Stephen ran to her and half-carried, half-dragged her out the door. He had a vague idea that he must get her up the ladder and into the barn loft. But the fresh air revived her. As soon as she opened her eyes she sat up and demanded to know what was being done to the baby. Stephen did not know, but he told her they were probably mending its broken arm and it would be all right in a little while.

"Oh, I do hope they'll let him stay up in the loft with us," Mollie exclaimed. "I like that little girl. She is so good to the baby. She and I could take turns looking after him. I'd call him Moses."

"He didn't come in the bull rushes."

"No, but there were the cowberry bushes growing right by the gate. He almost fell into them. And his sister was right there beside him."

Stephen could not see the connection but agreed to think it over and tell Mollie later whether or not Moses would be a suitable name for the newcomer.

"I reckon he has a name already," he observed, after a moment of serious thought. "I don't guess we ought to choose a new one until we know for sure."

"Well, anyway, I'm going to ask his sister if I may call him Moses," declared Mollie with her characteristic persistency in clinging to an idea. "If I can call you Splutters I can call him Moses."

Before the argument could be continued both children were summoned to the house. Peter wanted his supper; Maria wanted help. Cynthy, seated in a low chair, crooned over the moaning baby in an attempt to lull him to sleep. Mollie placed dishes upon the table according to Maria's direction. Stephen ground coffee in a mill which he held between his knees while he turned the crank that sent the crushed kernels down into a small receptacle in the bottom of the square box to which the grinding apparatus was affixed.

The usual menu of fat salt pork, boiled potatoes, corn bread, molasses and coffee was prepared. There was not enough table ware to go around, so the children did not eat until after Peter and Maria had finished. The portion of food remaining for the little ones was too meagre to endanger their digestions. After the meal Mollie helped Maria with the dishwashing while Stephen performed his usual chores about the barn. The baby was asleep now, so Cynthy was sent to carry feed to the chickens.

Peter went over and inspected the sleeping infant. The sleep had been induced by Maria, through the medium of her stock remedy for all bodily ills, corn liquor. After the second spoonful had been administered it became evident that the child would rest quietly for some time.

Peter glowered down upon the maimed little creature. Had it been a bird with a broken wing he would have kicked it out of his way with one sweep of his huge booted foot. Because it was a child he had been forced to repair its injury to the best of his crude ability. He had no confidence in his surgery. If those splints got awry the bone would come out of the socket again and he would have the whole thing to do over.

"Drat th' brat!" he exclaimed aloud, mentally cursing himself for having accepted the baby. "I mought ha' knowed how 'twould be, him not payin' more'n 'nough fer one. 'Tain't likely him an' her'll ever git back in these hyar parts, nuther." He crossed to the door and spat viciously at a tree in the yard.

Mollie, polishing away upon a heavy plate with a towel that resembled a scrub cloth, watched both Peter and the baby from out the corners of her eyes. Not a word of the man's soliloquy was lost to her keen ears. Later she would repeat them to Splutters and he would think out their probable meaning. Meanwhile she continued to listen.

"Them's Dave Green's young-uns," Peter suddenly announced to Maria, who had not ventured to make another inquiry after her first rebuff. "Dave an' Layunie's aimin' ter go ter Indyanner."

Maria dropped her jaw and stared, open-mouthed, awaiting further enlightenment. None coming she replenished her snuff dip and slumped into a chair, leaving the final touches of the cleaning-up process to Mollie.

Peter had enjoyed his salt pork and potatoes and felt more loquacious than usual. He cut a fresh mouthful of tobacco and settled himself in a chair by the door.

"Them's th' travellinest folks I ever seed," he went on in a low grumbling tone as if personally aggrieved by the peregrinations of the persons he had just mentioned. "They hain't got no home an' they hain't got no money, nor they won't hev es long es they're traipsen' frum hell ter Jerusalem a-lookin' fer work whilst other folks takes keer o' the'r young-uns. Ef they think they're a-goin' ter git me ter do hit fer nawthin' they're a-goin' ter git mighty fooled, thet's all."

He turned his head slightly and cast another scowling glance in the direction of the sleeping baby.

"Didn't Dave pay yo' no money?" queried Maria, meekly. She seemed a little uncertain as to whether he expected her to say something or not.

Apparently he did, for he replied to her question with some degree of civility.

"Yes, fer th' gal, but ef I'd ha' knowed he war a-goin' ter work off a leetle set-along child on me I'd never hev driv inter town ter fotch 'em."

"An' our cow-brute's jest a-goin' dry," drawled Maria reflectively. The thought suggested by the words did not soothe Peter's ill-humor.

"Wisht I'd left him set p'int-blank whar I seed him fust, thar et th' railroad station," he said. "I come nigh a-doin' hit. But thar war folks a-comin' an' th' gal would hev set up a hullabaloo so I jes' brung him along."

"Wa'n't Dave thar!"

"Him an' Layunie'd went. I didn't git thar afore th' train fer th' no'th pulled out. Th' gal said her Pappy 'lowed hit would be all right fer ter leave th' least one, bein' es she war a-comin' ter keer fer him."

"Shucks!" ejaculated Maria. "Hit'll take more'n her ter keer fer him like he is now. Ef he gits a fever ter-night----"

A commotion out in the yard interrupted the speaker. Ambrose was yelling as if he were being killed. Vigorous slaps sounded between the yells. Interpreted with the yells came Cynthy's shrill tones.

"I'll larn yo' ter fling rocks et me, yo' mis'ble pole-cat. Co'se I killed th' ole snake. Think I want yo' racin' atter me that-a-way? Ef yo'r Mammy doan larn yo' nawthin' I'll show yo' whut happens ter shirt-tail young-uns in Kaintucky."

They reached the house together, the fat, overgrown Ambrose incoherent; the mountain girl volubly expressing her resentment of the treatment she had received at the hands of the youngster.

"He hit me with a rock----" she commenced, shrilly, as she reached the door.

"Mammy, Mammy," bawled Ambrose.

But as Maria, without rising from her chair, reached forth her arms to draw her son toward her, Peter raised his hand and slapped Cynthy in the face with such force that the little girl reeled backward down the step and into the yard.

"Mebbe thet'll larn yo' sumpin," he remarked fiercely. Then, as Cynthy staggered to her feet, "None o' yer sass, now. Git out ter th' shed whar yo' belong. G'wan. Yo' too," he added, catching sight of Mollie, standing trembling just within the door. She had been keeping as still as possible fearing to attract his attention by passing him after she had finished with the dishes.

Now, at his words, she darted by like a flash and grasped Cynthy by the hand. "Shall we take the baby!" she asked, bravely, feeling that a safe distance separated her from the ogre.

"Do we-all hev ter sleep in th' barn?" gasped Cynthy, dully comprehending what it all meant. "I cain't take keer o' Buddy lessen I'm in th' house."

Peter rose to his feet. He took one writhing step in their direction. The look in his face was murderous.

"Yo' heerd whut I said. Air yo' goin' ter move er hev I got ter giv yo' sumpin' ter make yo'?" he thundered.

"But Buddy--my little brother----" protested Cynthy, anger mingling with her sobs.

Mollie, remembering the terrible punishment that had been meted out to Splutters the morning after his arrival, tugged frantically at Cynthy's dress. Not wanting to desert the barefoot little stranger she made every effort to drag her to safety. "Come, come," she whispered. "He'll kill you. He will. He'll kill you."

The ogre was advancing. His great arm was raised. Another instant and he would be upon them. Mollie was desperate. She gave another tug at Cynthy's dress, then turned and ran with all her might in the direction of the barn, Cynthy following.

For hours the two little girls lay with their heads close together by the loft window, peering toward the house, listening for any sound that would let Cynthy know her baby brother was awake and being properly cared for. But no sound came. For a time Stephen shared their vigil but the poor boy was too wearied by the heavy work imposed upon him during the day to keep awake long. He finally crawled off to his corner and fell asleep almost at once.

As darkness finally settled down upon the lonely farm the two little watchers in the loft window succumbed to tired bodies and overwrought nerves, and also fell asleep. It was a troubled sleep, broken by low sobs from Cynthy; now and then a moan from Mollie, nervous starts and subdued cries. For each was haunted in dreams by the terrifying experiences through which they had passed and by forebodings of what was to come.

Once in the night Mollie thought she awakened. But after a moment of lying with her eyes wide open she decided that she was still asleep and dreaming. She knew she was very tired and miserable and did not want to wake up, so she just lay very still and watched the dream events unfold before her eyes. Whatever it was, it was vague and did not seem to greatly concern her.

She saw a house with a light within. The light was that of a pine torch. It moved from room to room. She heard low voices. She saw a tall, shadowy figure come out from the house and walk off into the night. She heard a faint, sharp cry and dreamed that one of the baby pigs had fallen and broken its leg. Then the dream passed on to other vague and fragmentary illusions and at last, when an old rooster crowed under the barn window she knew it was morning and that she had slept all night.

Then came the morning chores and finally the children's entrance to the house for something to eat. They looked anxiously about for the baby. Buddy was nowhere in sight!

"Where is he? Where's th' baby!" asked Cynthy of Maria.

"Hain't yo-uns got hit?" the woman replied, somewhat nervously. "I hain't seed hit sence I got up. Yo' better look out in th' barn."

They looked, wildly, frantically. But Buddy was not in the barn nor could they find a trace of the baby anywhere.