Chicken Little Jane on the Big John Part 5

The Captain's eyes lost their severe look--the suspicion of a twinkle lurked in their blue depths.

"I see, you didn't wish to embarra.s.s Mother, so you came without leave.

I am honored by your visit, Miss----"

"Jane, but people don't call me Miss, except d.i.c.k Harding, and he does it for a joke. I'm only thirteen."

The Captain was sliding a stout plank across a narrow part of the stream. This accomplished, he came half way across and held out his hand. "Come, I'll help you over."

Chicken Little didn't in the least need a.s.sistance. She was as sure-footed as a young goat, but she was too much overcome by this delicate attention to refuse. Placing her hand gingerly in his, she let him lead her across, then followed meekly up to the low white house. It was a one-story structure, divided in the middle by a roofed gallery.

The entire building was surrounded by a broad veranda, open to the sky, and enclosed by a rope railing run through stout oak posts. The Captain gravely a.s.sisted her up the steps.

"I call this my quarter-deck," he explained, seeing the question in her eyes. "I have been accustomed to pacing a deck for so many years that I didn't feel at home without a stretch of planking to walk on."

"Oh, isn't it nice? I've seen pictures of people on s.h.i.+ps. My mother came from England on a sailing vessel. I'm sure I'd just love the ocean!"

Captain Clarke smiled at her encouragingly but made no reply.

Chicken Little rambled on nervously. She was decidedly in awe of her host but having begun to talk, it seemed easier to keep on than to stop.

"I guess it must be wonderful out at sea when the sun is coming up.

Sometimes I get up early and go out on the prairie to watch it. It just keeps on getting lighter and lighter till finally the sun bobs up like a great smiling face. I always feel as if it were saying 'Good morning, Jane.' I suppose it's a lot grander at sea where you can't see a single thing but miles and miles of waves. Why, I should think you'd feel as if there wasn't anybody in the world but you and G.o.d. I always feel a lot more religious outdoors than I do in church. But Mother says that's just a notion. But, you know, the people are always so funny and solemn in church and the ministers most all talk through their noses or say 'Hm-n'

to fill in when they don't know what to say next. But, oh dear, I guess you'll think I'm dreadful! And please don't think I swear that way often. I haven't for ever so long before."

The Captain's face twitched, but he replied gravely:

"Don't worry about the 'Darn,' child, I've heard worse oaths, though I believe young girls are not supposed to use strong language. I feel as you do about church and the outdoors. I find it irksome to be cooped up anywhere. But come in, and I will have Wing Fan give you some pigeon pot-pie. We had a famous one for dinner and you surely must be hungry.

Afterwards, I'll show you through The Prairie Maid as I sometimes call this craft."

Chicken Little began to feel at home. "And to think Ernest said he didn't like women and girls! Pooh, I knew he was just fooling."

Wing Fan found other things beside the pot-pie, and Chicken Little was soon feasting luxuriously with the Chinaman waiting on her most deferentially. Her host watched her with a keener interest, had she but known it, than he had shown in any human being for many months.

He was a man of fifty odd. Naturally reticent, his long voyages in command of merchant vessels had fostered an aloofness and love of solitude, which had later been intensified by a great grief. His stern bearing had repelled his country neighbors in the year he had lived on Big John. He was satisfied that it should be so, yet he was intensely lonely.

But Chicken Little knew nothing of all this. The thick sprinkling of white in his black hair and the deep lines in his face, made her entirely comfortable--they were just like Father's. She was too curious to verify Ernest's tales of the queer house, to give much attention to her host at first. She stared around her with wide eyes. Yes, there were the funny little built-in cupboards and window seats, and the plate racks, and the shelves that let down with gilt chains. Every single thing was painted white. "My, how lovely and clean it all looked!" And the blue Chinese panels; she had never seen anything like them. And there were five pictures of s.h.i.+ps.

Even the dishes were a marvel to her. Jane had seen plenty of fine china but never any so curious as this old Blue Canton with its landscapes and quaint figures. The Captain was pleased with her ingenuous admiration.

When she had finished her dinner, he took her across the gallery to his library, a room seldom shown to the residents of the creek. Even Ernest and Frank hadn't seen it, Jane learned later. This apartment was quite as marvellous as the dining-room. A long, low room it was, with many lacquered and carved cabinets and tables. The wall s.p.a.ce above these was pictureless, but two great ivory tusks were crossed over a doorway.

Above the fireplace rows of weapons were ranged--queer swords and daggers with gold and mother-of-pearl on their hilts, a s.h.i.+p's cutla.s.s, several scimitars, and the strangest guns and pistols. Chicken Little was fascinated with the frightful array. A huge bearskin lay on the floor among strange, beautifully colored rugs, which reminded her of her mother's India shawl. Rugs where queer stiff little men and animals that looked as if a child had drawn them, wandered about among curlicues and odd geometrical patterns. A tiger-skin, head and dangling claws distressingly lifelike, hung in the middle of one wall. She was spell-bound for a few minutes with the strangeness of it all.

Her host seemed to enjoy her wonder. He explained most patiently a great compa.s.s set on a tripod in one corner. After she had roamed and gazed to her heart's content, he opened the locked cabinets, and let her take miniature ebony elephants from Siam into her hands. He had her look through a reading gla.s.s at intricate ivory carvings, so tiny, it did not seem that human fingers could ever have wrought them. There were boxes of sandalwood and ugly heathen idols with leering faces. The drawers were crowded with prints and embroideries. The Captain pulled one out that had girl's things in it. She caught a glimpse of a spangled scarf, and fans and laces, even gay-colored beads. But he shut this drawer hastily. She did not have time to wonder much about this incident just then, but she thought about it a good deal afterwards. The things looked quite new as if they had never been used.

Chicken Little had natural taste and had read more than most girls of her age. She handled the Captain's curios reverently, drinking in eagerly his explanations and the strange tales of where he had found these wonders.

So absorbed were they both, that the shadows were lengthening before Captain Clarke realized the afternoon was slipping away, and that home folk might be disturbed if he kept his young guest too long. Chicken Little was distressed too.

"Oh, I'm afraid Father and Mother will get home before I do. They'll be awfully worried!"

"You mustn't try to go back through the woods. They are too dense to be a very safe route for a child, and it would be dark before you could reach home. I'll have one of the men hitch up, and I'll drive you over."

Chicken Little commenced to fidget. It would not make her coming scolding any lighter, if her parents learned that the Captain had felt in duty bound to bring her home. But she did not wish to be rude and it was a long walk by the road.

Captain Clarke saw she was disturbed and began to laugh. Her navete charmed him.

"If my program doesn't suit you, won't you tell me what is wrong? I haven't enjoyed anything so much in years as your visit, my dear. I should like to pay my debt by doing whatever you would like."

Jane was radiant by the time he had finished.

"Didn't you truly mind my coming? You aren't just being polite?"

"Mind? Child, if you ever come to be as lonesome and as old as I am, you will know what a comfort it has been to have anyone as young and sweet and fresh as you are, around. Just a moment, I want to show you one thing more."

He went into his bedroom and returned with an old photograph. It was a likeness of a two-year-old child.

She took a good look at it, then turned to her host.

"It is the picture of the little boy I--I--lost. He was my only one.

He--he would be seventeen now."

"Why that's just Ernest's age!"

"Your brother? The one who was here the other evening?"

"Yes, he was seventeen his last birthday. I'm so sorry you lost your little boy." Chicken Little slipped her hand into his to express her sympathy.

The Captain did not reply except with an answering pressure. She laid the picture down gently.

"He was a beautiful baby--it almost seems to me I've seen someone who looks like him--especially the eyes. And that merry little twist to his mouth. I can't seem to think who it is." Jane puckered her forehead and the Captain observed her closely.

"Was it some boy?" He seemed interested in this resemblance.

"Yes, how silly of me not to remember. It's Sherman Dart, one of Ernest's old friends back in Centerville."

"Centerville? That is in Illinois, is it not?"

"Yes, where we used to live. And the eyes are exactly like Sherm's and Sherm always twisted his mouth crooked like that when he smiled."

"This boy, he wasn't an orphan, was he?"

"Oh no, Mr. and Mrs. Dart are both living though Mr. Dart's been sick a long time."

The Captain seemed to have lost interest.

"Well, my dear, am I to have the pleasure of driving you home--I'm afraid your parents will be distressed about you."

Jane had a bright idea.

"Captain Clarke," she spoke rather hesitatingly.