CHAPTER XI.

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF SKATTA.

Old Bill had been transferred (at Ned's special desire) from the stable to the stall beside Skatta, and one morning while they (Ned and Dolly) were taking care of their respective horses, Ned suddenly stopped his currying of old Bill, struck an attitude, and recited the following:

"_And from their traces loosed Their sweating horse, which sev'rally with headstalls they repos'd, And fasten'd by their chariots; when others brought from town Fat sheep and oxen, instantly, bread, wine, and hewèd down Huge store of wood. The winds transferr'd into the friendly sky Their supper's savor; to the which they sat delightfully, And spent all night in open field; fires round about them shin'd, As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind, And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams high prospects and the brows Of all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows, And ev'n the lowly valleys joy to glitter in their sight, When unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light, And all the signs in heav'n are seen that glad the shepherd's heart; So many fires disclos'd their beams, made by the Trojan part Before the face of Ilion and her bright turrets show'd. A thousand courts of guard kept fires, and ev'ry guard allow'd Fifty stout men, by whom their horse ate oats and hard white corn, And all did wishfully expect the silver-thronèd morn._"

Ned recited these lines from Chapman's translation of Homer as though he liked them and had read them a good many times, while Dolly stayed her brushing of Skatta's mane and listened with all her might.

"What is that? What a swing there is to it," said Dolly.

"Isn't there? That's what I like--the swing. It's the other book I told you I found in the chest in the secret chamber. I'll show it to you to-night." And so in the evening Ned brought out the big old folio, and spent an hour or so reading out to Dolly the parts he liked. It was during that evening that Dolly added another bit to her store of historical lore. Cousin Kitty had been peeping over her shoulder and reading scraps from Homer too when she said, suddenly turning to Aunt Anna,

"What a charming Penelope the Little Madam makes, with her eternal spinning, Aunt Anna! But where is her Ulysses? Is he never coming?"

"I'm afraid not," replied Aunt Anna.

"Ulysses!" and Dolly looked up. "What do you mean, Cousin Kitty?" for Dolly was always very much awake to anything that concerned the Little Madam.

"Oh, it's here!" was Cousin Kitty's reply, giving the huge folio a lift. "It's in the Odyssey--how Penelope spins and spins and waits for Ulysses, who has gone to the wars, and by-and-by he comes back and they live happy ever after."

"Oh, Dolly," she exclaimed again, suddenly--such a quick, bright, charming, birdlike way Cousin Kitty had--"I saw that beautiful picture of the spinning on Boston Common."

Spinning on Boston Common! Dolly looked puzzled. Surely she never heard of such a thing! When! how! What could Cousin Kitty mean?

"What! Did you never hear of that, Dolly?" asked Cousin Kitty, rightly interpreting her look. "Well, I didn't till I saw the picture, and then I hunted it up, of course. The Little Madam and her wheel made me think of it.

"It seems that, once upon a time, when our great-grandmammas were young, cloth was scarce in Massachusetts; so it was decreed by the powers that _were_ that spinning should be done in every family. About that time, too, the Scotch-Irish came over from Londonderry, Ireland, bringing their pretty wheels for spinning linen, and a spinning craze set in; and they had a spinning-school in Scollay Square, or where Scollay Square is now, and everybody, old and young, rich and poor, fell to spinning; and they even took their wheels on to the Common, and a charming sight it must have been, and a humming like a myriad of bees; and every woman and girl who could wore a gown of her own spinning and weaving; and some young girls had a spinning-match at the minister's house one day, and when they got through they had two hundred and thirty skeins of yarn, which they bestowed on the minister, lucky man!"

One morning as Dolly opened the door of the cow-barn, old Bill looked around and whinnied; but there was no greeting from Skatta's stall--it was empty!

It was early, and twilight still lingered in the recesses of the barn. Dolly drew nearer for a second look; it was possible the first look had deceived her. But no, the stall was certainly empty. She gazed about her helplessly. Old Bill whinnied again and reached out his nose, and the cows chewed their cud leisurely while waiting for the cow-boy to turn them out into the sunny yard. They could tell her nothing.

She flew out of the barn, and meeting Ned, exclaimed, "Oh, Ned, Skatta's gone!"

"Gone where?"

"Oh, I don't know," was the distressed reply.

"She's somewhere about, I guess; we'll look her up," was Ned's consoling reply.

Ah yes--perhaps she had only strayed a short distance, loosed her halter herself--the little mischief!--and gone in quest of the green pastures of last summer. The cow-boy, when he came to milk, doubtless left the door ajar. A little prancing, a brief tossing of the heels, and she would come to her mistress's call. So they went out and looked over the meadows that lay far and wide to the south and west, but no Skatta was to be seen.

Then they searched the barn anew. Perhaps she had strayed into an empty manger, and was hiding--the rogue!--as she sometimes hid behind a bush in the pasture when Dolly was looking for her. Or she may have leaped the bay for a taste of the sweet rowan. These possibilities Ned suggested by way of comfort, but in neither of these places was she to be found.

They looked under the barn where the sheep were kept; they even instituted inquiries in the hen-house and the piggery, but without avail.

In despair they went back to the empty stall, and there an ominous sight presented itself. The door of the harness-closet was open--the lock had been forced--the saddle and bridle were gone! There was but one conclusion to be reached.

"Somebody has stolen her," said Dolly, and Ned was silent.

"It's that dreadful man again, Aunt Anna," said Dolly, as she told her the heavy news--"the man that killed Gaston."

"That doesn't look reasonable, Dolly," replied Aunt Anna.

But when Aunt Anna came to talk with Uncle Harry about it, he said 'twas the only reasonable solution.

"If they'd really wanted to have stolen a horse, they'd have taken Suke or Dapple instead. Besides, there isn't another Shetland within fifty miles, and it's risky taking her--everybody knows her. Dolly's right; it's that fellow, and I'll do my best to get him, for there's no knowing what he'll be at next."

"But why should he have stolen Skatta if he doesn't want her, as you say," persisted Mrs. Park.

"For revenge," was Uncle Harry's reply. "The child has thwarted him twice, and such fellows are revengeful."

And Uncle Harry did do his best. Notices of Skatta's disappearance and descriptions of her were sent as fast and as far as was possible before the era of railroads and telegraph wires. Uncle Harry scoured the country far and near searching for traces of her; word was forwarded by stage to the police of Boston to be on the watch for a Shetland pony answering the description sent. A description of the supposed thief was also sent.

Every day the stage-driver was questioned for news of her, and all along his route people hailed him to ask if she had been found, and Dolly and her Shetland Skatta shortly became famous, if fame consists in having one's name in everybody's mouth.

Everybody, too, learned of Gaston's death, and the attempt to rob the Little Madam, and of Dolly's escapade at the time of the convention. One maiden of thirteen, living in Quincy, even sent Dolly a letter--a delightful letter, too--which ran thus:

"MY DEAREST DOLLY,--I think your life is just like a story. Now nothing ever happens to me. My dog Gypsy is well and fat. Nobody tries to rob us. We haven't any queer Little Madam--oh, how I should like to see yours! I do quite envy you, having such romantic things happening all the time. My little brother got lost the other day, but we found him right away, and he was only asleep on one of the pigs. Nothing happens to us. I have longed, ever since I read the 'Mysteries of Udolpho,' that something would happen, or I could see something horrid--like a skeleton or something, you know. But our house is spandy new, and there isn't even a dark closet in it. And somebody told me there's a secret room in your tavern. Oh, how lovely! Do you suppose anybody was ever boarded up in it, and died in it, as they did in 'Marmion?' Oh, it must be so interesting to live in a house with a secret chamber! It would make me crawl all over, nights, to think of it. Do you ever go into it alone? and wasn't it splendid to get shut up in the meeting house? I should have _shrieked_ if it had been me, I know I should. But papa says you are a heroine. I think it's lovely to be a heroine. But my brother Jack--he's an awful tease, and sometimes I get awful mad with him--says he never heard of a goose being a heroine. I wouldn't have Jack know I wrote this letter for anything. He would laugh at me so. But I felt I _must_ write to you. It's almost as good as writing to Amanda Malvina Fitzwilliams in 'The Children of the Abbey.' Did you ever read that? It's sweet, but I like 'The Mysteries of Udolpho' better--it's more dreadful. I wish you would write me a letter. I should like to be your friend. I should like to send you my Gypsy. I love him, but I should like to give him to you to comfort you, because your Gaston was killed.

"Your very true and loving friend,

"PAMELA S. DRAKE."

Dolly had never heard of this little lady before, but she answered the letter. The offer of Gypsy quite touched her, but she declined the gift; and although Pamela S. Drake has nothing further to do with this story, the fact may as well be mentioned here that the friendship thus begun has proved a life-long one.

This was the only letter Dolly received on the subject, though doubtless, had postage been as cheap then as now, she would have had a peck. But letter-writing in those days was a serious business, and postage ran all the way from five cents to twenty-five for even short distances.

While Uncle Harry was scouring the country for traces of the thieves, 'Zekle and Thankful constituted themselves a home-guard. 'Zekle furbished up the big pistol dropped by the thieves on the night of the Whig convention, and cleaned and loaded his gun anew, while Thankful went to bed every night with the biggest carving-knife handy on the light-stand by her bed, after having searched more vigorously than usual under the bed and behind her gowns in the closet for the possible man. Everybody in and about the tavern, if questioned, would have confessed to being a trifle "nervous," but all, with one exception, kept a brave front. That exception was Betty, the farmer's bouncing daughter, who helped at the tavern on extra occasions, and who had been summoned to assist in the preparations for Thanksgiving.

Betty's apple-round cheeks and plump waist were no proof of courage, and she was quite as much of a coward as though she had been slim and pale. She saw a robber behind every door, and as to looking under her bed o' nights!--she dared not do it; but having undressed, with one wild leap she plunged into the depths of the feather-bed, and covering her head with the bedclothes, did not emerge therefrom till peremptorily routed by Thankful at five o'clock in the morning.

Thankful delighted in sending her on various errands in the evening to remote parts of the tavern, and Betty would scurry timorously along with half-shrieks and little jumps, coming back all out of breath, sure she had seen a face peering in at a certain window, or heard a hand fumbling at a certain door-latch.

One evening Thankful sent her down cellar for apples.

"Harrington 'll be 'long 'n a couple o' days, an' I might 's well make a beginnin' on the mince-pies," said Thankful, by way of explanation.

(Harrington was the famous wizard who entertained so many generations of children, and who made a yearly visit to Park's Tavern, and exhibited in the dancing-hall.)

Betty did not dare to decline going down cellar, though her heart sank within her as she took a candle and she looked imploringly towards Thankful, who was cheerfully kneading dough.

'Zekle was busy examining his gun, which had kicked that day when he had fired at a flock of migrating geese; and had he not been so intent upon learning the cause of such behavior, he would have seen Betty's evident reluctance and gone down cellar with her; for 'Zekle did not approve of the tests to which Thankful was continually putting Betty's courage.

But he did not look up, and Thankful went on cheerfully kneading, and there was nothing for Betty to do but to obey the order and go down cellar for the apples.

The tavern cellar was as rambling in its way as the tavern itself. Underneath the principal stairway--there were three--was a dark cave, which terminated in an equally dark extension under the older part of the tavern. Betty never went down these stairs, even in the daytime, without feeling as though a hundred invisible hands were ready to catch at her ankles. This cellar was divided into rooms, and had arches for ashes, and arches for apples, and arches for potatoes, and for every other kind of a vegetable, each one apparently blacker and gloomier than the others. The arch which held the particular apple--the Holmes apple--which Thankful wanted was at the end of the cellar farthest from the main staircase, and the brick walk leading thither lay along a succession of these grewsome arches.

Thankful was still cheerfully kneading, and 'Zekle still intent upon his gun, when a piercing shriek arose from the cellar directly from under their feet; and in an incredibly short space of time--before they could reach the cellar-door, in fact--Betty burst into the room, shrieking, "I've seen him! I've seen him!" and sank into a chair.

"Seen him! seen _who_?" demanded Thankful, shaking her vigorously, for she showed symptoms of hysterics.

"The thief! And oh, he grinned, and opened his horrid mouth, and gnashed his teeth at me--and--and--I think he had a tail!" she concluded, in a whisper, looking fearfully around.

"Don't be a fool!" said Thankful, contemptuously. "'Fraid o' y'r own shadder--a thief with a tail! Well, you _are_ a gump!" and, disgusted beyond measure, Thankful went back to her kneading.

But 'Zekle questioned Betty: "Where d' y' see him, Betty?"

"In the flat-turnip bin 'n the shadder, an' I couldn't make him out first. I saw his eyes, an' I says to myself, says I, now, Betty, don't be scared 't nothin', an' then he give a kind o' a fling, an' I see his tail!"--lowering her voice and looking furtively at Thankful. "Oh, 'Zekle, he was horrid--_wus_ than horrid!"

"Diabolical" was probably the word Betty was groping after, only she didn't know it.

Then 'Zekle said he "guessed he'd jest go down an' see f'r himself;" and taking his lantern and gun, he preceded Betty down the cellar-stairs; for Betty had no thought of remaining behind to be scoffed at, and--in modern phrase--to be set down upon by Thankful.

They went slowly and cautiously down the stairs and along the brick walk till they came to the flat-turnip bin, when 'Zekle suddenly stopped. Yes, there were the eyes, sure enough!--sly, mischievous, with a spice of malice in them--peering through the darkness, and presently the grinning mouth opened, displaying a double row of sharp, white teeth. 'Zekle opened the door of the lantern and threw the full light of the candle into the bin.

"A monkey, by gosh!" he exclaimed, dropping his gun in his astonishment. Now, 'Zekle rarely used that expletive--hardly twice a year, in fact--and his doing so was expressive of extreme surprise.

The monkey, for it was a monkey, had on a scarlet coat and a scarlet-and-gilt cocked hat. He raised the latter politely, and, coming forward, held out his paw to 'Zekle graciously.

"Wa'al, I vum 'f th' critter don't want t' shake hands!" said 'Zekle, taking the monkey's paw. "He's 'scaped from th' menadgeri at Braintree. I heered 'bout it yest'day. Si Prince was down t' Braintree--saw th' richenceros, but th' monkey 's gone--couldn't git no track o' him nowheres; an' I'll be hanged 'f this ain't him, clothes an' all!

"Wa'al, Betty, no wonder you's scared. We'll jest take him up an' interduce him t' Thankful;" and 'Zekle chuckled as he anticipated Thankful's amazement.

They returned, Betty leading the way, carefully keeping 'Zekle between herself and the monkey; for, never having seen one before, she did not place implicit confidence in 'Zekle's assurance that he "wouldn't hurt nobody."

"Thankful," said 'Zekle, as he opened the kitchen door, "let me interduce the thief; an' he has got a tail, sure."

The monkey, whisking by 'Zekle and Betty, doffed his hat with a low bow to the astonished Thankful, and then, his natural love of mischief getting the better of his artificial politeness, he leaped upon the table, snatched from the kneading-bowl the elastic ball of dough, and began tossing it to the ceiling and catching it.

It was impossible not to laugh at the creature's pranks. Even Thankful gave way, and the noise brought Ned and Dolly, together with Cousin Kitty, from the sitting-room, where they were having a romping game of blind-man's-buff; for Cousin Kitty was trying every method to cheer Dolly during the uncertainty concerning Skatta.

After some consultation, it was decided to chain their unexpected though not wholly unwelcome guest near the fireplace, to give him a mat upon which to lie, and an old shawl wherewith to wrap himself up.

"F'r they're cold critters, monkeys are," said 'Zekle, "an' sly, too--'tarnal sly." "Sly as J. B.," 'Zekle would probably have said, had he been acquainted with Dickens; but this was before the creation of the delightful "Dombey and Son."

Thankful herself went down cellar this time for fresh "emptins" for a new batch of dough, while Betty went off to bed, with the comfortable assurance that for once, at least, she hadn't been "scared at nothin'." Absorbed in this pleasant reflection, she forgot to make her usual leap and plunge, and so got into bed in a civilized manner.