CHAPTER VIII

MOLLIE MAKES A DISCOVERY

"For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed and hid that shall not be made known."--Matt. x, 26

Mollie strove to comfort Cynthy. She told her the story of Moses in the bulrushes and of the wonderful care taken of the sparrows.

"Every single sparrow is God's," she explained as they worked together in the vegetable patch. "And if He looks after them when they break their wings or their legs, He'll look after a poor baby with a broken arm. Most likely He reckoned this place was going to be too hard for Buddy, and because He thought so much of him He wanted to put him in some other place. He came in the night, so as not to wake that old ogre, and just took Buddy away quietly; and by now he's prob'ly all well again."

Cynthy paused in her work of pulling weeds to consider the subject.

"He'd otter let me know," she declared, aggrievedly. "He might take keer o' me, too. Do He think I ain't got no feelin'? Ef my Pappy knowed how old Grimes 'bused me he'd shoot him plumb full o' holes. An' my Pappy paid him money so's I'd git 'nough ter eat 'thout workin' this-a-way."

"When's your Pappy coming back?" asked Stephen, pouring kerosene into the can in which he had assembled hundreds of potato bugs, plucked from the vines that day and which were now about to be incinerated. It was a task and an execution thoroughly repugnant to him and which always made him feel ill.

"He ain't never comin' back hyer no mo'," replied Cynthy. "We-all couldn't git along hyer nohow. Ther wa'n't no work nor nawthin' ter eat. When he gits a good payin' job up no'th he 'lows ter sen' money ter Pete fer me an' Buddy ter j'ine him an' Mammy. An' now Buddy's gone, an' even ef God did take him I reckon I'll ketch th' devil fer leavin' him outer my sight."

Mollie had recalled repeatedly the conversation which she had heard between Peter and Maria regarding the unpaid for baby but her natural kindness of heart kept her from telling Cynthy of the harsh words. Both she and Stephen were too young to connect them in any way with the mysterious disappearance of the baby.

The unaccustomed hardships which she and Stephen were daily compelled to undergo had already worked great changes in their appearance, their habits and conversation. Stephen, undoubtedly suffered most because he was just old enough and large enough to be made a farm drudge, carrying loads that were too heavy for his shoulders; performing duties that should have been performed by a man; repairing fences, digging in the garden, working steadily for long hours at a stretch; and all without proper nourishment or even enough food to stay the perpetual hunger which was rapidly stunting him physically and breaking down his constitution and resistance to disease.

Mollie fared a little better. She was about the house more and, because of her conversational powers, was favored by Maria. Her quick wit and lightning-like movements also aided her not only in defending herself against Ambrose without antagonizing his parents, but in securing many morsels of food and stolen moments of leisure without discovery. Everything about her personal appearance evidenced neglect but nothing so far had dulled the bright, mischievous sparkle in her eyes nor quelled the brave, daring spirit which dwelt within her small though sturdy frame.

Until her sudden transition into the rough surroundings of this farm her earlier years had been passed almost entirely within doors. Naturally robust she was being rapidly weakened by over-much care and lack of proper exercise. She was always being told that she must be a "little lady" and not a "tom-boy." And she yearned to be a "tom-boy."

From her father she had inherited a fondness for the forest, the flowers and all living creatures, as well as an intuitive sense of direction and constant urge to explore. That which was unknown and mysterious attracted her like a magnet. In a surprisingly short time after her arrival at the farm she had inspected every nook and corner of its supposed fastnesses. She knew where a small creek passed between over-hanging trees, forming an attractive pool in which the cow loved to stand occasionally and from which Walter, the horse, frequently enjoyed a cool drink. The depth of the pool varied. The water from the creek apparently emptied into or filtered through the bog, or swamp-like area which extended along one side of the isolated farm, effectually severing it from the world which lay beyond.

Cynthy said that all creeks ran into rivers. Mollie knew that large boats passed on the river near her home. Her father had a boat. She could not recollect ever having seen him on it, for she had been such a baby when he went away. And when he returned there had been all the crying and excitement following her dear mother's strange sleep. (Mollie had never been told that her mother was dead.)

So she had never gone riding on the water, though she had often wished to. But she had spent many happy hours playing about her father's boat--a launch, her mother had called it--down in the boat house where it was laid up pending its owner's return. Mollie knew, or thought she knew, exactly what made it go. It was a wheel, up in front. You just kept on turning that wheel and the boat sailed through the water like a bird. She had often played that she was sailing to her father, away on the other side of the world, wherever that was.

She entertained Cynthy with some of these reminiscences, always ending with the avowal that some day, if Stephen's friends did not find out about the mistake which had brought him to the farm and nobody came for her, she was going to find some way of getting away from the place.

"I'm too little, now," she would say. "But you just wait till I'm big enough. You'll see what I'll do."

And she was growing faster even than the weeds she was kept perpetually pulling. The air and sunshine had been just what she needed to send the red blood coursing through her veins and bring the little hot-house plant to a fuller and more vigorous stage of development. It was her enjoyment of the out-door life and freedom from conventional restraints of dress and conduct that enabled the little girl to endure that which would otherwise have broken her physically and mentally.

Since the strange disappearance of Buddy, other children had arrived at the farm. Among them were two little boys, Bobby and Willie. Bobby brought with him a little, red wagon and some building blocks. Willie knew how to climb trees and do lots of interesting acrobatic feats. But Ambrose broke the little red wagon and threw the building blocks into the bog. When their little owner protested, he was beaten with the handle of a hoe the ogre chanced to be carrying at the moment.

The effect of that awful beating left the child's body covered with welts and great, purple bruises. Cynthy knew what to do for bruises. You took common, brown paper and soaked it in vinegar and placed the moist, pungent-smelling mass upon the wound. Mollie procured the necessary vinegar and paper from the house and, with Stephen to play doctor, that evening after their chores were done the children managed to make the little sufferer comfortable for the night.

But the next day Bobby had to go to the vegetable patch with the other children and the hot sun made him ill. Mollie promptly abandoned her task for the time being and started forth in search of a shady retreat where Peter or Ambrose would not be likely to disturb the sick child.

An attractive spot was not so easily found. Everything about the farm was untidy, unkempt and unsavory. There were beautiful nooks but they were marred by filth and debris. Mollie finally found a spot she thought might answer but even it needed attention. Patiently she gathered up the sticks, stones and battered tin cans that had accumulated and carried them, a few at a time, to the edge of the bog, into which she flung them, shutting her eyes tight as the black, viscid mass licked them hungrily like a gloating monster, before swallowing them in its depths.

One of the cans fell short. It landed almost at her feet. Like the other children she was now barefoot. She did not enjoy it. Her feet had not yet hardened. They were covered with scratches, bruises and insect stings. Night after night she had cried--and so had Stephen--over the smarting, aching discomfort resultant from going without shoes and stockings. But there was no alternative. Those they had worn when they came had been taken from them. They were told they might need them, some day, if they ever went anywhere, but they were unnecessary on the farm.

The can, in falling, dislodged a narrow strip of thin board that seemed to have lodged in the earth just at the edge of the bog. A splinter from the board entered Mollie's toe. She stooped to remove the splinter and paused, wide-eyed and frozen with horror at what she beheld.

For dangling from the board and still partially wound about it, were the strips of bandage she had last seen wrapped about Buddy's broken arm. Now, they were stained with blood.

What did it mean? What had happened? Something terrible must have hurt Buddy or even eaten the baby alive!

Again Mollie's thoughts flew to the ogre. Her first theory had been right, after all. Splutters must be wrong. Ogres were not make-believe. They were real and Peter Grimes was real. Nothing else could account for his bringing so many little children to the farm. If he didn't actually eat little children, he liked to hurt them and that was just as bad. He had hurt Buddy and then he had thrown him into the bog. And he had managed to do it at night just when God was busy looking after His sparrows. And here she had been telling Cynthy that maybe God had taken the baby away to save him!

The frightened, perplexed little girl stood there in the gloom of those tall trees and held her breath while she gazed, awe-stricken, at the tell-tale, crimson stains at her feet. Something must be done. Something must be done quick, she realized, or more of the children would disappear the same way. Oh, if she were only bigger and older!

Hark! What was that? It sounded like something moving in the bushes just beyond. And she was alone there. The other children were in the garden. She realized now that she no longer heard their voices. She had come to fix a resting place for the little sick boy. Perhaps something had happened. It seemed a long time since she had started off by herself. If the ogre or Maria had come and not found her with the others----

Thoughts tumbled through her brain so fast that the seconds seemed hours. The awful sensation that someone--or something--threatening and ominous was near, unseen, watching her, waiting, waiting to seize her, and crush her as little Buddy had been crushed, became so overwhelming that a very convulsion of terror caused Mollie to tremble and her teeth to chatter. She wanted to turn and run, but found herself powerless. She wanted to scream but could not make a sound.

And then, surmounting all other sensations, came the vision of her father, the strong, dark-faced, almost unknown young man standing, with some kind of a spear in his hand, facing a lion. She had heard him tell someone the story. Had seen him illustrate just how steady he stood. And now, as clear as when she stood by his side, she seemed to hear him say:

"It doesn't do to be afraid. The man who gets nervous and frightened is sure to be killed. The only thing to do is keep steady and watch your chance."

Mollie set her teeth and clinched her little hands till the nails cut into the flesh. As she did so she took a slow, steady look up at the sky and all about her. It was to make anyone who might be observing her think that she was not afraid and did not suspect the presence of anyone. Then she stooped, picked up the refractory tin can she had previously tried to cast into the bog and made another attempt. This time the can went far enough and, without waiting to see it disappear, she turned about and retraced her steps, back to the truck patch.

The children were still there. They were quiet because they were tired and, so Cynthy told Mollie in a whisper, because "old Pete" was around somewhere.

Mollie knew then that her consciousness of somebody watching her was not just imagination. The ogre had actually been peering at her from between the bushes!

She had just resumed her work when Peter Grimes entered the truck patch. He walked to where she was at work and leered down upon her.

"This all yo' got done?" he asked.

Mollie stood erect and faced him. "No, sir."

"What else yo' ben a-doin'?"

"Reddin' up." Mollie was unconsciously adapting herself to the language she heard about her.

"Reddin' up what? Whyn't yo' do es yer told?"

"Them cans we burned bugs in were all gaumed up. I got clean ones and threw 'em in the bog."

"I seed yo'. Thought yo' war a-loafin'. Doan let me ketch ary one o' yo' a-tryin' hit," he continued, glaring about at the frightened little toilers. "An' hyar's sumpin' more yo' mought es well git inter yer haids, ef I ketch ary one o' yo' a-lyin' ter me when I ax yo' sumpin' I'll skin yo' alive an' fling yo' ter th' hawgs."

His small eyes focused like gimlets upon Mollie.

The little girl met the piercing look as frankly, fearlessly as before. Splutters, walking wearily past them, displayed a remarkably clean tin can.

(After hearing Mollie's first statement he had quickly and unobtrusively cleaned the receptacle with grass, sand and a fragment of cloth torn from his now tattered shirt.)

Grimes eyed the can, the boy and the girl.

The can looked about as clean as anything on the premises. The boy, moving steadily and silently along the potato vines, appeared wholly intent upon his occupation. The girl was looking up into Peter's face out of her large, clear eyes that seemed to the twisted, abnormal man almost to smile upon him.

He turned and, without another word, dragged his unwilling, halting leg down the length of the potato hills and away towards the house.

From that day Mollie's intellectual supremacy became an accepted though unacknowledged fact. The children yielded to her leadership and learned to depend upon her. Grimes, without knowing it, actually feared her.