XIII.

That night as Skimpy sat with the family group by the fireside in his father’s cabin, he had much ado to maintain a fictitious flow of spirits, for at heart he was far from cheerful. Often he would pause, the laugh fading from his face, and he would lift his head as if listening intently. Surely the wind had no message for him as it came blaring down the mountain side! What significance could he detect in the clatter of the bare boughs of the tree by the door-step that he should turn pale at their slightest touch on the roof? Then recognizing the sound he would draw a deep breath of relief, and glance covertly about the circle to make sure that he had been unobserved. So expert in feigning had poor Skimpy become that he might have eluded all but the vigilance of a mother’s eye.

“Air ye ailin’, Skimpy?” she demanded anxiously. “Ye ’pear ter feel the wind. Ye shiver every time it blows brief. Be thar enny draught thar in the chinkin’?”

“Naw’m!” said Skimpy hastily. “I war jes’ studyin’ ’bout that thar song—

“‘The sperits o’ the woods ride by on the blast, An’ a witch they say lives up in the moon. Heigh! Ho! Jine in the chune! Jine in, neighbor, jine in the chune!’

“It jes’ makes my marrer freeze in my bones ter sing that song,” Skimpy said when his round fresh voice had quavered away into silence—somehow he could not sing to-night.

“Waal, I never set no store by sech,” said his mother. She looked reassuringly at him over the head of the baby, who slept so much during the day that he kept late hours, and did his utmost to force the family to follow his example. He sat on her knee, sturdily upright, although she held her hand to his back under the mistaken impression that his youthful spine might be weak; but he had more backbone—literally and metaphorically—than many much bigger people. He was munching his whole fist, for his mouth seemed not only large but flexible, and as he gazed into the fire he soliloquized after an inarticulate fashion. His face was red; his head was bald except for a slight furze, which was very red, along the crown; notwithstanding his youth he looked both aged and crusty.

Bose was at his mistress’s feet. He too sat upright, meditatively watching the fire with his one eye, and now and then lifting the remnants of his slit ears with redoubled attention as the wind took a fiercer twirl about the chimney. Occasionally as the baby’s monologue grew loud and vivacious, Bose wagged the stump of his tail in joy and pride, and it thwacked up and down on the floor.

It was a very cheerful hearth—the grinding tidiness of Mrs. Sawyer showed its value when one glanced about the well-ordered room; at the clean pots and pans and yellow and blue ware on the shelves; at the bright tints of the quilts on the bed and of the hanks of yarn and strings of peppers hanging from the rafters that harbored no cobwebs; at the clear blazes unhindered by ashes.

Obadiah with his fiddle under his chin was directly in front of the fire. He was tightening and twanging the strings; now and then cocking the instrument close to his ear to better distinguish the vibrations. There are few musicians who have a more capable and discerning air than Obadiah affected in those impressive moments of preparation. His three brothers sat on a bench, drawn across the hearth in the chimney corner, its equilibrium often endangered, for the two at one end now and again engaged in jocose scuffling, and Skimpy in the corner was barely heavy enough to keep it from upsetting. Sometimes their father, solemnly smoking his corn-cob pipe, would, with a sober sidelong glance and a deep half-articulate voice, admonish them to be quiet, and their efforts in this direction would last for a few moments at least. In one of these intervals their father spoke suddenly to Skimpy.

“I war downright glad ye tuk Ike up ez short ez ye done this evenin’, Skimp,” he said. “Though,” he added, with an afterthought, “I don’t want ye to gin yerse’f up ter makin’ game o’ folks.”

“’Twar him ez fust made game o’ me,” said Skimpy, ruefully, the taunt devised by the ingenious Binwell still rankling deep in his simple heart.

The twanging fiddle-strings were suddenly silent. Obadiah looked up with a fiery glance. “What gin the critter the insurance ter make game o’ you-uns, Skimp?” he demanded angrily.

Until today Skimpy had never mentioned his grievance, so deeply cut down was his self-esteem, and so reduced his pride in his “gift in quirin’.” He had hardly understood it himself, but he dreaded to have the family know how low his powers were rated lest they too think poorly of them. For Skimpy himself had come to doubt his gift—the insidious jeer had roused the first self-distrust that had ever gnawed him. His voice no longer sounded to him so full, so sweet, and loud, and buoyant. He sang only to quaver away, forlorn and incredulous after the first few tones. No more soaring melodies for him. He could only fitfully chirp by the wayside.

“He ’lowed,” said Skimpy, turning red, “ez I couldn’t sing—ez Bose, thar, could sing better’n _me_—hed a better voice; Bose, yander, mind ye.”

Bose at the sound of his name looked up with a sleepy inquiry in his single eye. Skimpy did not notice, but began to wheeze and rasp forth,—

“‘Oh-aw-ee-ye, Mister Kyune, Oh, Mister Kyune!’ That’s the way he ’lowed I sing.”

“Dell-law!” Obadiah’s flexible lips distended in a wide and comprehensive sneer that displayed many large irregular teeth, and was in more ways than one far from beautiful. But to Skimpy no expression had ever seemed so benignant, indicating as it did the strength of fraternal partisanship.

“He’s jes’ gredgin’ ye, Skimp,” cried Obadiah. “Else he be turned a bodacious idjit! He air a idjit fur the lack o’ sense! Shucks!”—his manner was the triumph of lofty contempt as he again lifted his violin to his ear—“don’t ye ’sturb me ag’in ’bout Ike Guyther. Don’t ye, now.”

The two boys who sat at the end of the bench talked together, so eager were they to express their scorn. “The whole Smoky Mountings knows better’n that!” cried one belligerently.

“Nobody kin sing like Skimpy—sings like a plumb red-headed mocking-bird, an’ Ike knows that fac’ ez well ez road ter mill,” said the other.

His mother had almost dropped the baby, who made a great lunge toward Bose. “Why,” she cried, “Skimpy gits his singin’ ways right straight from his gran-dad Grisham—_my_ dad—ez war knowed ter be the mos’ servigrous singer they hed ennywhar roun’ in this kentry fifty year ago. I hev hearn all the old folks tell ’bout’n his singin’ an’ his fiddlin’ when he war young, an’ I ’members he sung fune’l chunes whenst he war a old man; he hed gin up the ways o’ the worl’ an’ he wouldn’t sing none ’ceptin’ ’round the buryin’ groun’ whenst they war c’mittin’ some old friend ter the yearth. An’ his voice would sound strange—strange, an’ sweet an’ wild, like the water on the rocks in a lonesome place, or the voice of a sperit out’n the sky. Oh my!—oh my!”—she was rocking herself to and fro with the baby in her arms, her distended eyes looking far down the vistas of the past. “How I ’members it—how I ’members it!”

Hark! Skimpy starts with a sudden shock. Was that the beating of the boughs on the roof, drum-like, or a rub-a-dub measure played with two pea-sticks on the rail fence of the garden—the signal by which Jerry Binwell was to summon him should he conclude to try the hazardous enterprise this night? The wind—only the wind; wild weather without! Thankful he was to be left to this cheerful fireside, and the warm partisan hearts so near akin to him.

“I wonder ye didn’t larrup Ike, Skimpy,” said Obadiah. “Ye could do it. He’s heavy, but mighty clumsy. Ye could run aroun’ him fifty times whilst he war a-turnin’ his fat sides roun’.”

Obadiah knitted his brows and nodded confidently at Skimpy.

“I never thunk ’bout fightin’,” responded Skimpy. “My feelin’s war jes’ so scrabbled up I never keered fur nuthin’ else! Arter Ike an’ me hed been so frien’ly too!”

“That’s like my dad. Skimpy’s like his gran-dad,” said Mrs. Sawyer, dreamily. “He war tender an’ easy hurt in his feelin’s.”

Like that saintly old man! How _could_ she think it. Skimpy was ready to burst into tears. And yet, he argued, there was nothing wicked about what he was to do. He wished only to help Jerry Binwell to secure the box of papers that could do naught but harm now—to help a man who could have no other aid. Why did the enterprise terrify him as a crime might? he asked himself in exasperation. Certainly as far as he could see there was no mischief in it. As far as he could see! Alas, Skimpy! How shortsighted a boy is apt to be! He began to say to himself that it was because everybody was down on Binwell, being poor and therefore unpopular, that he too was influenced by the prevalent feelings, even when he sought to be friendly. Yet this reasoning was specious. If it had involved no disobedience, his heart would have been light enough. He could have gone along gayly with his father, whom he trusted, and explored every chasm and cavity in Keedon Bluffs, or, for the matter of that, in the Great Smoky Mountains. But as he listened for the summons—a faint travesty of a drum-beat on the rail fence—he would grow rigid and pale, and when the boughs swaying in the blast touched with quick, tremulous twigs the clapboards of the roof with a tapping sound, he shivered, and started from his seat, and fell back again, hot and cold by turns.

“I be glad fur ye ter hev no mo’ ter do with them Guythers, ennyhow,” said his father gravely. “They hev acted mighty strange bout’n Jerry Binwell—an’ ef they consorts with sech ez him me an’ mine can’t keep in sech comp’ny. Folks hev tuk ter specla’tin’ powerful bout’n Ab an’ him hevin’ been sech enemies—Ab war blinded through his treachery—an’ now livin’ peaceable together under one roof. Some folks ’low ez Ab hev got his reasons fur it, an’ they ain’t honest ones. I ain’t a-goin’ ter pernounce on that; I ain’t a-goin ter jedge, kase I don’t want ter be jedged. I reckon I’d show up powerful small—though honest—thar ain’t no two ways ’bout that, I thank the mercy. But ye done mighty well, Skimpy, ter gin up yer frien’ like I tole yer ter do thout no questions, kase this Binwell war thar. Ye’ll l’arn one day ez I hed a reason—a mighty good one, too.”

He sucked his pipe sibilantly. “Ye done mighty well, Skimpy,” he repeated with an earnest sidelong glance at his son.

Skimpy listened, half choking with the confession that crowded to his lips. And yet how could he divulge that he had given up Ike indeed for Binwell himself; how could he confide Binwell’s secret of the Bluffs, the story of the courier and his hidden box and the order to be shot as a deserter; and above all, how could he admit having assisted in throwing away old Corbin’s ladder—the malice and the mischief of it frightened him even yet.

“I’ll tell ez soon ez I kin put it back. I’ll tell dad ennyhows; I hev got ter holp Jerry Binwell this time, but arter that I’ll never go along o’ him ag’in,” he thought, as he stared pale and abstractedly at his father, who was tilted back in his chair contentedly smoking his pipe.

Obadiah twanged gleefully on his fiddle while the firelight and shadows danced to the measure; the other two boys scuffled merrily with one another, sometimes leaving the bench to “wrastle” about the floor, falling heavily from time to time. The baby sputtered and crowed and grabbed Bose’s ear in a strong mottled fist until that amiable animal showed the white of his eye in gazing pleadingly upward at the infantile tyrant. The wind whirled about the house, the door shook, and the branches of the tree close by thrashed the roof.

“Why, Skimpy, how mournful ye look!” exclaimed Mrs. Sawyer.

“Shucks!” said Obadiah fraternally, “ye needn’t be mournin’ over Ike an’ his comp’ny. I wouldn’t gin a pig-tail, nor a twist of one, fur Ike!”

“Ye hev got comp’ny a plenty at home,” exclaimed Mrs. Sawyer, “with yer three big brothers”—

“An’ the baby,” cried one of the wrestlers pausing for breath.

“An’ Bose,” added the other, red-faced and panting.

“Laws-a-massy, Skimp,” exclaimed Obadiah, rising to the heights of heroism, “I’ll gin ye the loan o’ my fiddle. Thar!”

He placed the instrument in Skimpy’s trembling hand, and laid the bow across his knee. And this from Obadiah, who had always seemed without feeling except for his own music!

Their kindness melted Skimpy, who held the instrument up to his agitated face as if to shield it from observation, and burst into tears.

“Waal, sir!” exclaimed the wrestlers in chorus.

“Tut—tut—Skimpy boy!” said his father in remonstrance.

Obadiah’s face was anxious. “Jes’ lean a leetle furder ter the right, Skimp,” he said, “don’t drap no tears inter the insides o’ that thar fiddle—might sp’ile it tee-totally.”

Skimpy held the violin well to one side, and wept as harmlessly as he might. He found a great relief in his sobs, a relaxation of the nervous tension—he might have told them all then had it not been for the inopportune solicitude of his mother.

“Ye hed better go ter bed, sonny. I know it’s early yit, but ye look sorter raveled out. Ye better go ter bed an’ git a good sleep, an’ ye won’t keer nuthin’ ’bout Ike an’ his aggervations in the mornin’.”

Skimpy, still carefully holding the precious violin, sat on the bench for a moment longer, struggling with that extreme reluctance to retire which is characteristic of callow humanity. But he felt that it would be better to be out of the sight of them all; he might be tempted to say or do something that he would regret afterward; he rose slowly, and with an averted face, held the fiddle and bow out toward Obadiah who grasped them with alacrity, glad enough that his generosity had not resulted in the total destruction of the instrument in which his heart was bound up. Skimpy with slow tread and a downcast look which greatly impressed the two sympathetic wrestlers, who were standing still now and gravely gazing after him, took his way up the ladder in the corner which ascended into the roof-room of the cabin. He paused when he had almost reached the top, turned and glanced down doubtfully at the group below.

The flames, yellow and red, filled all the chimney, and the little room was brave in the golden glow. Already the two wrestlers were again matching strength in friendly rivalry, seizing each other by the waist, and swaying hither and thither with sudden jerks to compass a downfall—their combined shadow on the wall reeling after them seemed some big, frightful two-headed monster. Obadiah’s cheek was tenderly bent upon the violin; a broad smile was on his face as the whisking bow in his deft handling drew out the tones. The baby’s stalwart grip on Bose’s ear had begun to elicit a long, lingering, wheezing whine for mercy, not unlike the violin’s utterance; it ended in a squeak before Mrs. Sawyer noticed how the youngster was enjoying himself.

“Pore Bose!” she cried as she unloosed the mottled pink and purple fist, and then with a twirl she whisked the baby around on her lap with his back to his victim. A forgiving creature was Bose, for as the baby’s bald head turned slowly on its neck and the staring round eyes looked after the dog, Skimpy could hear his stump of a tail wagging in cheerful fealty to the infant, and thwacking the floor—although the wrestlers were unusually noisy, although the violin droned and droned, and although the winds sang wildly without and the sibilant leaves whirled.

Skimpy hesitated even then for a moment as he stood on the ladder; finally he mounted the remaining rungs, his story untold.

It was not very dark in the roof-room; through the aperture in the floor, where the ladder came up, rose the light from the fire below, and there were many cracks which served the same purpose of illumination. Skimpy could see well enough the two beds where he and his brothers were wont to sleep. Garments hung from the rafters, familiar some of them and often worn, and others were antique and belonged to elders in the family long ago dead; these had never been taken down since placed there by their owners; several were falling to pieces, shred by shred, others were still fresh and filled out, and bore a familiar air of humanity.

Skimpy did not approach the beds, he quietly crossed the room to the gable end, paused to listen, then opened the batten shutter of a little glassless window beside the chimney. Dark—how dark it was as he thrust out his head; he started to hear a dull swaying of the garments, among the rafters, as if they clothed again life and motion. Only the illusion of the wind, he remembered, as he strove to calm the tumultuous throbbing of his heart, his head instinctively turning toward the fluttering vestments that he could barely see.

The wind still piped—not so sonorous a note, however; failing cadences it had and dying falls, as of a song that is sung to the end. Once again the boughs beat upon the eaves—and, what was that! Skimpy’s heart gave a great plunge, and he felt the blood rush to his head. A faint clatter—a ra-ta-ta, beaten drum-like on the rail fence of the “garden spot”—or was it his fancy?

The wind comes again down the gorge. The althea bushes and the holly shiver together. The dead Indian corn, standing writhen and bent in the fields, sighs and sighs for the sere season. And the boughs of the tree lash the roof. An interval. And once more—ra-ta-ta! from the garden fence! And ra-ta-ta, again.