Chapter II: Part I: A Novel Transportation Company

It was a warm September afternoon “down to the cape,” as the local phrase runs. The drowsy little hamlet consisted, first, of a small wooden railway station, not unlike an immense drygoods box in which some frugal-minded Yankee had cut holes to serve for a door and two windows, and then in a moment of reckless extravagance had painted a dull red; next, a church, which appeared to have been dropped there by mistake; and last, of a few farmhouses, which had no doubt been there since the days of Governor Bradford. Over the door of the station was the sign “Post Office,” and, consequently, one had reason to believe that “Uncle Sam” had some claim upon this sleepy little settlement. Not a store was to be seen; not a sign of business anywhere. Even the railroad station was deserted; for no train would come up from Province Town until six o’clock, and the one going “down cape” stopped only on signal. So the station agent, who was also postmaster, was absent in a distant field, busily stacking corn. The sun beat down upon the sandy road from which the hot air arose in quivering waves. Across from the station lay a large field surrounded by a “post-rail” fence, and standing by the bars, with her head hanging lazily over the topmost one, was an old gray mare with her colt beside her. She seemed half asleep, for her eyes were closed and occasionally her head would nod exactly like that of a drowsy old woman, and bring her throat bumping against the rail. That served to rouse her for a moment, but she would presently slip off again into dreamland, perhaps to relive the days when she had been able to skim over the ground with the best of her kind; for “Gray Lady” came of famous stock, and the colt at her side gave fair promise of inheriting his mother’s good qualities. Just now, however, he seemed principally made up of legs and a scraggy mane; but the eyes below the “bristle” were wonderfully soft, and looked out between the bars with the half-mischievous, half-pleading look one often sees in a child. The delicate little muzzle was as soft as a moleskin. The tiny lips nibbled at the lichens on the rail, and, not finding these particularly satisfying, began to fuss about the mother’s warm neck, creeping gradually upward until they reached her head, where they found a tempting plaything, and she was rudely roused from her reveries by having her ear sharply pinched.

With a squeal she jerked her head out of reach, and the colt, as if highly elated with his prank, went careering over the field, his long legs executing some very extraordinary feats; for he was only six months old.

As he pranced off a shrill whistle was heard, and a moment later a boy, about twelve years of age, came down the dusty road, dragging behind him a nondescript sort of vehicle evidently of home manufacture, since it consisted of a plank fastened upon the wheels of a baby carriage.

The boy was barefooted; his clothes had seen long service; likewise his hat, for a rent in the crown afforded so free a circulation of air that there was no danger of his ever becoming bald for lack of it. Evidently he was no stranger, for the instant Gray Lady heard his whistle she raised her head, the sleepy look giving place to a very alert one, as she began to whinny softly. When he came within sight of her he shouted: “Hi! old Lady, be you a-lookin’ for me? Reckon I’m on time, though; train haint gone down yit, an’ yer can’t never expect me afore that, yer know.”

As he talked he lifted a small basket of apples from the wagon. Lady snorted and whinnied, and, the sound reaching her fly-away son, he stopped short in his wild career. Without turning, he glanced over his shoulder and gave a funny little imitation of his mother’s greeting.

“You come along back here. I aint a-gonter come tramplin’ clear off there after you, and don’t you think it,” called the boy. “Sonny” gave an independent little toss of his head as though to say: “I’m not _forced_ to come, but I will, since it is you,” and then started across the field; his funny, long legs flying about in the most aimless manner.

“Now old Lady, I’ll give you your spread first, ’cause you was on hand ter say ‘howdy,’ you know”; and, taking up his basket, he began to feed one apple at a time to his four-footed friend. This was too much for Sonny, who had got scent of the fruit and was determined to have his share.

The dainty muzzle was thrust over the boy’s shoulder as he stood feeding Lady; then it was poked into his hands and rubbed against his coat, and, as a last resort, when all these hints proved futile, a very vigorous nip was given to his arm.

“Hi, you young scamp! What are you up to? Is thet the way you mean to treat me after I lugged all these apples over here? Now just you hold on; you didn’t care a cent about me till you found out I had somethin’, did you? That’s just like some folks; they aint got no use fer a feller except ter knock him ’round till they git a notion he’s wuth somethin’ to them, and then--oh, my! _aint_ they sweet? Reckon I’ve learned somethin’ o’ _that_ game. Now don’t you try it on, fer you an’ yer ma is all the friends I got, and if _you_ go back on me I’ll plumb give out. So come on and let’s be friends.” After this bit of moralizing he put his arms about the warm little neck and he and Sonny “made love” in the most approved style.

While the three cronies were indulging in this bit of equine and human sentiment a shrill whistle announced the approach of the down train.

“There!” exclaimed the boy, “you hear that? That means the mail bag; and I’ve got to go pick it up; like ’nough ’taint got mor’n one letter anyhow. Hullo! There go two more toots; reckon they’re a-goin’ ter set down a visitor this trip and I’ll be called upon ter tote their ‘Saratogie’ up ter the ‘Summer Hotel’--meanin’ old Grump Wheeler’s attic chamber,” he added with a comical grin as he scudded across the road.

When the mail bag was tossed off he picked it up with an educated toe, deftly landed it upon his wagon, then squatted upon it to await further developments. After depositing an immense valise upon the platform, the conductor lifted down a cripple child of about seven or eight years of age, and looked helplessly around for a place to seat her. A delicate looking woman, evidently her mother, quickly followed and placed beneath the child’s arms the crutches she carried for her.

“It is strange that Ruth isn’t here to meet us,” said she. “Do you know of anyone who can take us up to my sister’s house?”

“Can’t say as I do,” answered the conductor. “Wish I could stop and help you out, but I can’t,” and he waved his hand to the engineer and sprang aboard his train.

The woman stood looking helplessly about and the child thumped across the platform on her crutches, as though the motion was a relief from standing. Catching sight of the boy, the woman walked quickly over to him and asked: “Is there a wagon of any kind that I can get to take us where we want to go?”

“That depends on where you’re a-goin’,” was the laconic reply.

“To Mrs. Caleb Parker’s; she is my sister. I wrote to her to expect us by this train, but I’m afraid she did not receive the letter, for she would have sent to meet us if she had.”

“When did you send the letter and where did you send it from?” asked the boy.

“I sent it yesterday morning from Boston.”

“Then it’s right snug in this very bag I’m sittin’ on this minit, fur there aint been no mail sense this time yistiddy.”

“Dear me! dear me! What am I to do? Is it far to Mrs. Parker’s?”

“Nigh ’bout a mile, I reckon.”

“Is there _anybody_ you can get to carry us over?”

“Don’t know nobody, less it’s Squire Davis, an’ his house is on a spell beyond Mrs. Parker’s. Most of the men folks is out shuckin’ their corn, like Pop Bates up yonder. He’s the station agent. See him?”

“Couldn’t he help us?”

The boy laughed: “Mebby he could if yer could make him understand what yer wanted, but he’s as deef as that post yonder.” He pointed to the post-rail fence across the road, and then, as though the action had suggested something, he hopped up, saying: “Say, I’ll tell yer what yer can do, if yer will. Like as not yer’ll be scared ter; but yer needn’t, fer Lady’s as steady as a rock and wouldn’t harm nothin’. She often pulls me all round the lot, but old Wheeler, the man what she belongs to, don’t know it; he’d caterpillar, sure, if he did.”

The woman did not ask what physical or mental condition was implied as a possibility for “old Wheeler” should he gain a knowledge of Lady’s performance, but she hastened to say: “If you know of some way of getting us there pray tell it quickly, for Lucy is nearly ready to drop.”

“Will you let her ride on my wagon if I fix it up for her?”

“Certainly; but you will never be able to draw her and this great satchel all that distance.”

“I aint a-gonter; Lady yonder will,” and he gave a funny laugh as he scampered across the sandy road.

Placing around the mare’s neck a piece of rope which he had picked up from the station platform, he then let down the bars and led her out. “Now, look a-here, old Lady, you’ve got ter be on yer very primest behavior, ’cause I’ve give my word fer yer. Do yer hear? So mind what I’m a-sayin’,” and he led her in front of his wagon. Picking up the rope with which he had drawn it, he tied it firmly to Lady’s long tail.

“There, ma’am! How’s that fer a swell Boston Common broosh?”

“Why, she will never in this world draw it that way; your wagon will be kicked to atoms.”

“Will it? Just see now,” and, stretching himself full length upon it and crossing his arms beneath his head, he called out, “Git along, Lady.” Lady gave one inquiring look behind to see that all was right; whisked her tail about to be sure that all was fairly hitched, and, calling her son to her side, marched off down the road as sedately as though she were harnessed to a farm wagon. Sonny capered along beside her or stopped to poke his nose into the boy’s face. They certainly presented a comical spectacle, for the boy had crossed his legs and one bare foot stuck straight up in the air.

After they had journeyed about twenty rods he called out: “Halt!” and Lady stopped. “Right about face, forward march!” cried the boy, and Lady calmly turned herself about and marched back to the station.

“Well, I never! If that don’t beat all I ever heard tell of,” exclaimed the woman. “Well, come along; we’ve got to get there somehow, and this seems the only way.”

“Wait a minit and I’ll fix it all hunky,” cried the boy, and, running down to the end of the platform, he picked up a lot of potato sacks which were lying there. These he piled on the wagon, then, wadding some of them up for a pillow, he said: “There you are, ma’am, fine as a fiddle.”

Together they placed the little invalid upon the queer vehicle, and after settling the big valise at her feet, as a sort of bunker in case Lady should prove resentful, the boy took the leader and off they started. It was a funny enough procession and would have drawn a smile from the dullest.

As they trudged along through the sand the woman asked: “How did you come to try such a prank as this, I’d like to know? What is your name?”

“Bob Slocum,” he replied, answering the second question first: “Oh, I don’t know,” he continued, “yer see old Pop Bates is so deef that he can’t half hear what folks says to him, and so I kinder got into the way of comin’ along ’bout train time when the mail was due, and then I could help him out. Sometimes there is a letter or something for some of the folks ’round here and I take it to ’em. That saves ’em comin’ to the post office, and they near ’bout always give me a hunk of cake or a piece of pie, er suthin’, an’ say: ‘Thanky, Bob.’ That’s about the only time I ever get anything _sweet_ for my heart er my gizzard; fer old Wheeler--he’s the man I live with--aint got nothin’ fer a feller but thumps and leavin’s.”

“Haven’t you any parents?”

“Nope; don’t even remember them. Ma, she died when I was born, and dad didn’t live long after her. Folks ’round here says he died ’cause ma did. He worked for old Wheeler, and I reckon most likely he starved ter death. He’d like to starve me if he could. But I guess I aint the starvin’ kind. I can git along somehow, and folks ’round here is pretty good to me.”

“What do you do for Mr. Wheeler? You can’t be more than twelve years old.”

“I’ll be twelve next November. What _don’t_ I do, you’d better ask. ’Most anything a boy twelve years can do an’ a lot some fifteen can’t. I milk seven cows twice a day; cut all the wood; tote water; take care of the stock; run errants; hoe corn, an’ do about a hundred things beside; an’ all fer my board an’ keep--mostly _keep_.”

“Do you go to school?”

“Aint none to go ter. Nearest one’s five mile away, an’ old Wheeler don’t keep no trotters fer my use.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes’m, some. There was a lady stoppin’ up to Squire Davis’s one summer and she learnt me; an’ ever sence I’ve been a-pickin’ up some from the newspapers. Squire Davis takes a lot of ’em, an’ when he’s done with ’em he lets me have ’em.”

By this time they had reached their destination and the boy, pointing to a low white house which nestled in a garden filled with hollyhocks, dahlias, and brilliant asters, said: “There’s Mis’ Parker’s. You go on in an’ tell Si, her hired man, ter come out an’ get yer bag whilst I stay here along with my friends.”

Without a thought of questioning him the woman started for the house, and, turning to the child upon the wagon, who thus far had scarcely spoken a word, he said: “You’ll soon be all right now. Are yer tired?”

“Not very. The ride on the train from Boston was awful hot, but this part has been splendid. How did you ever get Lady to let you hitch her up this way? She loves you, doesn’t she, and Sonny does, too; how did you make them?”

“Guess ’cause we didn’t have nobody else to love. Old Wheeler don’t care nothin’ for her now she is gettin’ old. He hardly ever takes any notice of her. She used to be the fastest horse on the Cape, and there aint one that’s got better blood in her veins. I bring her apples or somethin’ every day, and I was the first one Sonny, here, saw after he come into the world. Sonny an’ I are great cronies. I’m only waitin’ fer him to grow up, an’ then we’re goin’ to run away, aren’t we, old feller?” and he laid his arm over the colt’s neck.

Sonny nestled close up to him, and Lady looked benignly upon them both.

“Will you come to see me while I am here?” asked the child.

“I’ll come when I can get off. Bet I’d ketch it now if they knew I was gallavintin’ like this. I’ll sneak over when I can. Here comes Si.”

Out bustled Mrs. Parker, followed by her sister; both talking at once. Close behind them came “Si.”

“My land er Goshen!” exclaimed Mrs. Parker, “did anyone ever hear tell of such doin’s? And that blessed lamb dragged up to my front door just as if she was a sack er flour. How do, Bob; seems as if this part of the world couldn’t get along without you, nohow; don’t it? Run ’long ’round to the back of the house to the buttry and eat your fill; you certain sure deserve it this time.”

“Can’t now; got to get back with Lady or I’ll have Mr. Wheeler after me. Will the stuff keep? I’ll come along ’round to-morrow if it will.”

“Yes, indeed, and if it don’t there’s plenty more that will,” and she nodded her head at him reassuringly.

“All right, I’ll be on hand. Good-by, folks,” and, flopping down on his wagon, he called out, “Right about, Lady,” and the wise creature turned around and started back toward the station.

They returned more quickly than they had come, for Lady jogged along, with the cart jerking and rattling behind her. They soon reached the pasture, and, after placing his charges safely within it, he put up the bars once more, and then clambered upon the topmost one.

“Now come along and say ‘good-by,’ ’cause I’ve got ter git ’long back.”

Lady came up to him and laid her big head across his shoulder, and the boy reached up and circled her soft, warm neck with his arm as he rested his face against her mane.

Little Sonny looked at him a moment as though to say, “Do you want me, too?”

“Yes, come along and say good-by, too,” said Bob. Sonny laid his head across Bob’s knee and looked up at him with his brown eyes full of love for the friend who never forgot him, but came to him day after day, in sunshine or shower, to bring the dainty of which he often deprived himself that his four-footed friends might not be disappointed.

And as he sits there stroking the colt’s silky ears and nestling close to the mother’s neck, we must bid him “good-by,” too, and skim forward on the wings of time to a period eight years later, when both he and Sonny have grown up and Sonny found an opportunity to repay him for his years of devotion to himself and his mother, Gray Lady.