CHAPTER II

FRIENDS MAKE UP

‘Oh, Tim!’

Pud, his scuffed shoes wedged between the pickets, leaned across the fence and hailed his neighbor excitedly. But Tim, his back turned, was propelling the lawn-mower along the edge of the grass-plot in front of the house, and the strident chatter of the machine deafened him to the hail. Pud took a deeper breath and tried again. This time he almost threw himself from the fence.

‘_Tim! Tim Daley!_’

Tim heard, turned, looked, and stopped the mower.

‘Hello,’ he replied cautiously, and mopped his heated brow with the back of his hand.

‘Say, Tim, want to go with me and be a pirate?’

‘Huh?’ Tim relinquished the handle of the mower and approached the fence. It was evident by now that friendly relations were re-established, and his good-looking countenance held a smile that mingled delight with sheepishness. But Pud had forgotten for the moment all about the recent estrangement, and as Tim drew near he went on gleefully:

‘Want to be a pirate and sail down the river in dad’s motor-boat and camp out at night and――’

‘Your dad hasn’t got any motor-boat,’ responded Tim.

‘He has, too! He got it last fall in trade with a fellow who owed him some money. Don’t you remember? It’s down at Mr. Tremble’s yard. He’s going to let me take it and go off on a trip. You’re going, too, Tim, and we’re going to be pirates of the Caribbean! We’re going to have a tent and a lot of food and dad’s going to have Mr. Tremble teach us to run it!’

‘The tent?’ asked Tim puzzledly.

‘The boat, you chump! We’re going to start next Monday. Want to come?’ Pud paused anxiously.

‘Why, I guess so,’ answered Tim, ‘only I don’t know will father let me, Pud.’

‘Why not? Why won’t he let you?’

‘He says――’ Tim hesitated at the possibility of hurting his chum’s feelings. ‘He says you take too many risks.’

Pud stared, stricken to silence by such an outrageous accusation. ‘Risks!’ he finally ejaculated. ‘How do you mean risks? I ain’t any riskier than――he is!’

‘Well, you know,’ answered Tim placatingly, ‘we did get in a fix last winter on the ice that time.’

‘What of it? What’s he want to blame me for? How was I going to know that that old hunk was going to break loose like that? Gee, you’d think I’d done it on purpose, the way you talk!’

‘I don’t talk,’ denied Tim vigorously. ‘I only said what father said. Anyway, if you hadn’t insisted on going out there that day we wouldn’t have been there when it did break away. I told you it wasn’t safe.’

‘Shucks! A lot you knew about it! Besides, we got off all right, didn’t we?’

‘Y-yes, but they had to chase us way down below the bridge, and if we’d hit one of the piers――’

‘“If”! Well, we didn’t. Gee, if you don’t want to go, just say so. I guess I can find some one else. Most fellows would jump at the chance to go off a whole week in a corking boat and camp out at night and cook their own grub and――’

‘Who’s going to cook it?’ demanded Tim.

‘Both of us. Or we could take turns. _I_ don’t mind cooking a bit. Anyway, we’d just have bacon and easy things like that.’

‘I don’t like bacon,’ said Tim coldly.

‘Well, you wouldn’t _have_ to eat it, I guess. Gee, you can think up more――more objections!’

‘I can’t either! Only I don’t like to cook, and if I have to do it I’d rather not go. Couldn’t we take things that didn’t have to be cooked?’

‘Sure! That’s easy.’ Pud’s cheerfulness returned. ‘We can take things in cans, like corn-beef and――and――’

‘Frankfurters,’ suggested Tim.

Pud scowled. ‘Gee, no, they’re awful, Tim!’

‘I like them,’ said Tim placidly. ‘And then there’s beans.’

‘Yes, beans are all right. And canned tomatoes and corn――’

‘And peaches,’ added Tim wistfully.

‘Well, I guess peaches are pretty expensive. Say, had your breakfast?’

‘Yes. You?’

Pud nodded. ‘Let’s go and ask your father if you can come with me, Tim. Will you?’

‘He’s working on a job over across the creek,’ answered the other doubtfully.

‘Well, why not ask him right now? We’ll both go, eh?’

Tim looked at the mower. ‘I ought to get this grass cut,’ he muttered.

‘Gosh!’ exploded Pud. ‘How long’s that going to take, I’d like to know. You――you’re a rotten pirate!’

‘I never said I was a pirate,’ replied Tim equably. ‘But if father comes home and finds I haven’t cut the grass he will be madder’n a hornet.’

‘That’s all right. When we come back I’ll get our mower and help you.’

Tim considered and finally agreed, and a minute later they were going side by side along Arundel Street. ‘How’d your father come to say you could do it?’ asked Tim.

‘He and ma think I ought to be outdoors more,’ replied Pud evasively. Tim was about to seek further enlightenment when Pud suddenly stopped short.

‘Gee!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s Harmon Johnson!’

‘What of it?’ demanded Tim, pulling away from his friend’s clutching fingers.

‘What of it! Why, don’t you see?’ Pud’s voice, lowered to a hoarse whisper, was exultant. ‘Pirates always have a black man to cook for ’em. We’ll get Harmon to come along!’

‘No, we won’t either! I’m not going to sleep with any negro!’

‘Who’s asking you to sleep with him?’ inquired Pud impatiently. ‘He can sleep outside, can’t he? And he can do all the cooking and wash the dishes and――and everything.’

‘How do you know he can cook?’

‘All colored folks can cook. Anyway, I guess he can do it as well as you or I can.’

‘Yes, that’s so.’

The object of their remarks approached unhurriedly. He was a year younger than Pud and Tim, but he looked older. He was very black, with a round and solemn countenance and a broad-shouldered, sturdy body. His father worked in the chair factory and his mother was locally famed as a laundress of more than ordinary skill. They lived in Logtown, the community of cabins clustered along the nearer bank of Town Creek. Harmon when not in school worked variously as delivery boy, messenger, assistant washer at Floyd’s Garage and chore-boy for any one who required his services. Just now, shuffling along on dusty bare feet, he appeared to be out of employment.

‘Hello, Harmon,’ greeted Pud genially.

‘Hello,’ returned Harmon, coming to a halt in front of them and resting a gravely questioning gaze on Pud.

‘Say, Harmon, want to go on a cruise in a motor-boat with us?’

Harmon nodded unemotionally. He didn’t know what Pud meant, but it sounded as though there might be a quarter or maybe a half-dollar in it. ‘When you-all want me to do it?’ he inquired.

‘We’re going to start next Monday,’ replied Pud importantly.

Harmon nodded again and started on. ‘I reckon I can ’tend to it for you,’ he assured them. ‘I usually gets half a dollar,’ he added.

‘Hold on! You don’t understand, Harmon. You――you don’t get anything for it.’

‘How-come?’ Harmon looked slightly derisive.

Pud, assisted by Tim, explained at length and with great detail that this was not a business matter, that, on the contrary, they were proposing to allow Harmon to share in a whole week of idle enjoyment, with plenty to eat and nothing to do――much.

‘Who cooks all these rations you tell about?’ asked the darky at last.

‘Why――’ Pud’s gaze wandered to the distant horizon――‘any of us. You could if you liked, Harmon.’

Harmon wiggled five toes against the dirt and observed them thoughtfully. Pud and Tim exchanged anxious glances.

‘I get my meals for nothin’, don’ I?’ Harmon inquired.

‘Sure! And a bed to sleep in――that is, a――a place to sleep; and nothing to do but have a good time!’

Harmon’s face lighted slowly and two rows of white teeth flashed. ‘Can I run the boat sometimes?’ he asked.

‘Of course you can,’ said Pud magnanimously. ‘And steer it, too.’

‘All right,’ decided Harmon. ‘You tell me when you want me an’ I’ll be there.’

‘That’s fine,’ declared Tim, ‘but what about your father, Harmon? Or your mother? Think they’ll let you go?’

Harmon nodded untroubledly. ‘Boun’ to,’ he said.

The boys continued their journey elatedly. ‘I didn’t say anything about being pirates,’ explained Pud, ‘because I didn’t want to scare him. Maybe he wouldn’t want to go if he knew. Darkies are awfully scarey, you know.’

‘Say, wait a minute,’ exclaimed Tim suspiciously. ‘What’s all this about being pirates? What do you mean pirates?’

‘Why, you know what a pirate is, don’t you?’ replied Pud evasively.

‘Sure, but there aren’t any pirates these days, so how can we be them?’

‘Aren’t any pirates, eh?’ said Pud derisively. ‘I guess you don’t know much about them. Didn’t you ever hear of river pirates?’

Tim shook his head. ‘I’ve heard of oyster pirates.’

‘Huh, they ain’t real pirates. River pirates are just like the pirates of the Caribbean. That’s what we’re going to be.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Tim uneasily.

‘Why, we――well, we just be pirates! Of course we don’t murder folks, but we――we do other things.’

‘Such as what?’ persisted his chum.

‘Well――’ Pud’s gaze became far-away and sort of glassy. ‘Maybe we’ll sack a town and carry off its treasures. And board a merchant craft and capture her. And hang the captain to the――’

‘Rats!’ said Tim. ‘You can’t hang a man without murdering him, can you? All right, I’ll be a pirate of the Cabirean, just as long as it’s only play――’

‘Caribbean, you idiot. And it isn’t only play, either. At least, not――well, you never know what’s going to happen!’ And Pud stared darkly into the muddy waters of Town Creek as they tramped across the footbridge.

Mr. Daley was surprisingly complaisant when they found him. He was a tall, large-boned man with only a trace of the Irish in features and talk. He stopped planing down the edge of a board while Tim and Pud explained the nature of their errand and observed them with deep-set, kindly gray eyes. ‘Why, now,’ he said at last, ‘it’s mighty kind of your father, Pud, and I guess Tim would enjoy it fine. You’d be gone no more’n a week, eh? Well, I’ll be missing the boy, but that’s nothing if he wants to go. But I’m warning you fair, Tim, if you get drowned, I’ll whale the life out of you so soon’s I get my hands on you!’

Back at Tim’s house, they set to work on the lawn and the side yard, and for nearly an hour the two mowers droned in the hot sunlight of mid-forenoon. At last the work was done and the machines put away and the boys found a shaded spot under a big maple in Tim’s yard and went to planning. Tim’s enthusiasm was now equal quite to Pud’s as, pencil in hand, he set down item after item on a short length of clean white pine board.

‘Golly,’ he said, having corrected ‘beens’ to ‘beans’ at the bottom of the long list, ‘I wish we were going to-morrow, Pud, instead of Monday!’

‘So do I.’ Pud’s tone held an emphasis that brought an inquiring look from his companion. ‘I’ve got to do a lot of work before Monday,’ Pud sighed. ‘You see――say, I didn’t tell you about Mr. Tully, the Baptist minister, did I? That was yesterday, and――and I didn’t see you yesterday,’ Pud ended hastily.

‘What about him?’ demanded Tim eagerly.

So Pud narrated the event and its results, Tim chuckling wickedly at times. The finish of the tale held little of humor, though. ‘Dad gave me fits,’ said Pud moodily. ‘Made me promise not to do it again and said I had to apologize to Mr. Tully.’

‘Did you?’ inquired Tim interestedly.

Pud shook his head. ‘Not yet. I’m going to after dinner.’

‘Oh, that isn’t so bad.’

‘But that isn’t all of it,’ responded the other sadly. ‘I’ve got to go to dad’s office to-morrow and Saturday and help fold a lot of circulars; ’most four thousand of them. He said that was for punishment. Gee, I hate folding circulars!’

‘Four thousand!’ Tim whistled expressively. ‘You got to do them all?’

‘No, I don’t suppose so. He said I was to help Jimmy, one of the men in the shop. But I’ll bet I’ll have to do most of ’em!’

‘And that’s why we can’t start till Monday?’

‘Yes. And if they aren’t all done, we can’t get going even then!’

There was silence under the elm. Then Tim asked: ‘Is it hard? Folding circulars, I mean.’

‘No, it ain’t hard,’ answered Pud despondently, ‘but it’s awful monotonous. You just fold ’em so’――he illustrated sketchily――‘and crease ’em with a wooden ruler, so’――a second illustration――‘and then you do it again, and that’s all.’

‘Could I do it, Pud?’

Pud looked across swiftly, his brown eyes lighting as if they saw a wonderful vision. ‘Sure!’ he cried.

‘All right, then,’ said Tim, ‘I’ll help you.’

Pud nodded radiantly. Then his face sobered and his gaze dropped and another silence held for a moment. Finally, ‘Say, Tim,’ he muttered, ‘I guess maybe I was wrong the other day about you having to know more to be an editor than to be a contractor.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Tim testily. ‘You weren’t either. What’ll I put down after “beans”?’