Chapter IV: Old Nick’s Home-Coming

Next arose the question of getting Nick home, but Isabel had gone too far to retreat, nor did such a thought occur to her. Home Nick must go, and home he was going, and _she_ was to get him there. There were quick wits in that pretty head, and the plans were soon laid.

Another journey to town, ostensibly to finish the previous day’s shopping; a suit case, presumably to bring the parcels home in; a secret conference with the faithful Hiram, who, as she tripped away from the stable, slapped his thigh and ejaculated: “Wal, I be gol twisted ef she don’t beat the band!” and Old Nick’s saddle and bridle were on their way to the city.

There was still sufficient money for her needs, and by one o’clock the following day a young lady might have been seen mounting a big bay horse in front of the Margaret Louisa Home. The horse was either too happy or too frisky to know what he was about, for he kept turning his head around to pull at the girl’s habit, her shoe--in short, he was acting like a spoilt child.

At the horse’s head a stableman stood, smiling in a very satisfied manner, as if he knew a pleasant Christmas secret. Nick’s late owner, with a new horse filling Nick’s place, drove up, touched his hat to the girl as he asked, “Is your bag inside, miss?” and a moment later the suit case, containing Isabel’s street clothing, was speeding upon its homeward way.

“Thank you so much for your kindness,” she said to the man who had brought Nick from the expressman’s stable, “and please take this for your children, if you have any. I hope they will be as happy as I am.” And with a smile which the man remembered for many a long day she slipped a coin into his hand, gathered up her reins, and started.

Nick’s burden seemed to have an intoxicating effect upon him--or, perhaps, the spirit of Christmas had been fastened upon his feet with his new shoes--for he acted altogether foolishly. But a wise little horsewoman rode him, and knowing the miles to be traveled over snowy roads, she took good care of her mount.

She had barely reached the Fort Lee ferry when the threatened storm began and snowflakes fell rapidly. The fifteen miles to be traveled after she reached the Jersey shore would have been a pleasant jaunt under favorable conditions, but in a driving snowstorm, with the thermometer far below freezing point, they were no joke; and even though joy had put new life into Nick, Isabel realized that reserve strength was wanting after the hard work of the past weeks.

More than one person turned to regard the pretty young girl with a questioning look as she rode up with her hair, hat, and habit powdered with snowflakes. Ten of the miles had been told off, and although doing bravely, Old Nick showed signs of great fatigue, while his brave little rider was nearly perishing from cold. The snow was falling fast and the short winter day drawing to its close. It would have been impossible to travel rapidly, had Nick been young and fresh; and although he started forward from time to time, as home drew nearer and he became familiar with the road, he soon lagged again, and his labored breathing told plainly of exhaustion.

The last turn had been made, and a straight stretch of road lay before him, with home almost in sight. He threw up his head, gave a loud neigh, stumbled, and nearly fell over something hidden by the snow. Isabel slipped from the saddle and stood knee-deep in the drifts.

“Why, Nick, dear, how did it happen?” she cried, stroking his steaming neck. But Nick was sniffing about in the snow with queer, frightened snorts.

Isabel gave a little cry, and brushing aside the snow struck a man’s garments. A moment later she was supporting her father’s unconscious form in her arms.

A bad bruise upon his temple, a broken arm, a whip lying near him told the story. Quickly taking a card from her pocket-book, she wrote upon it: “Papa is at the four corners injured. Send at once. Isabel,” and fastened the message to Nick’s headstall. Then, tying the reins securely to the pommel of the saddle, she gave Nick a sharp slap upon his flank, and cried:

“Home, Nick! Home!”

A dumb beast was then permitted to demonstrate the teachings of Him whose birthday eve it was and to return good for evil. With a wild toss of his head, Nick plunged forward, and was soon lost in the gloom, but Isabel heard the thud, thud of his fleeing feet long after he had disappeared.

Two hours later Mr. Townsend was being tenderly cared for by wife and daughter, the wretched colt which had caused the mishap was caught and returned to the stable, and Nick--dear, faithful Old Nick--was in Hiram’s care--Hiram, who rubbed him down until each separate hair was as dry as a bone, and who was now standing by while Nick enjoyed a steaming bran mash, and talking to him as to a twin brother.

“Aint she a trump, Nick? I tell ye, old man, ye needn’t never have no fears thet ye’ll leave _this_ place agin till ye’re toted out ter yer last beddin’ down. No, siree; not while thet leetle girl owns yer. Do yer believe me, sonny?”

Nick evidently did believe it, for he promptly put his mark thereto by raising a very slobbery muzzle and rubbing it against Hiram’s sleeve.

HOW NED TOODLES TOLD TIME

HOW NED TOODLES TOLD TIME

“Denise, darling, are you upstairs?” called Aunt Helen, at the foot of the playhouse stairs.

“Yes, auntie; do you want me?”

“Only to know whether you have seen John anywhere about, dear.”

“I think he has gone with Sunshine and Flash to the blacksmith’s. I saw him lead them away about half an hour ago.”

“Dear me, that is too bad, for we need him very much.”

“What is it, auntie? Can I do it for you?”

“Why, the grocer has just delivered the morning’s order, but has forgotten to bring the half barrel of sugar ordered, and cook is nearly beside herself, for she is in the midst of her jelly-making and needs the sugar very much.”

“Oh! let me go after it. It will be lots of fun.”

Aunt Helen laughed as she gave her consent, and a moment later Denise had let down the bars of the day stall and was dragging Ned Toodles out by his forelock, much to that animal’s disgust, for it was nearly twelve o’clock, and that meant dinner time for him.

It took her only a jiffy to whisk his harness on him, and a few moments later she rattled out of the playhouse, down the driveway, and through the gate.

It was not more than a mile to the village, but that mile tried Denise’s patience.

Ned bounced and jerked along, first upon one side of the road and then upon the other, in order to show his disapproval at being sent upon an errand just at dinner time.

“I certainly think I shall do something dreadful to you, if you don’t behave yourself. What makes you act so, anyway?” she cried, as she drew up his rein and cracked her whip threateningly. “I’d be ashamed of myself to make such a fuss just because I thought my dinner was going to be half an hour late,” she continued, in a scathing tone.

A fig cared Ned for anybody’s opinion, and as Denise came up to the store at which she had to stop and turned around so that Ned was headed toward home, he gave his head a saucy wag, as though to say:

“Perhaps some people had better reserve their opinions until they are asked.”

Tie-strap in hand, Denise hopped out of the wagon, but just as she was about to tie Ned, for she had very pronounced misgivings of his sense of honor, the proprietor of the store slipped out to say:

“I know what you have come for, Miss Denise, but we will send it at once.”

“I will take it with me in the back of my wagon, Mr. Groves, thank you.”

“Very well. I’ll send it right out.” Denise stepped back into the wagon to wait, and then came the beginning of Ned’s humiliation. Dong! rang out the bell of the town clock. Dong! dong! until twelve strokes of the bell had sounded. Ned knew a great deal, and he must also have known how to count, for as the last stroke rung out he began to fidget. “Now you are up to some new prank,” said Denise to herself, “and I won’t say one word, but will see what you will do.” So she let the reins hang loose and kept perfectly still.

Ned’s blinders prevented him from seeing her, but one ear was laid back to listen.

Denise sat as silent as the whip socket.

First a sidling step away from the curbstone; then another. Still no restraint from the wagon. Surely Denise must have gone into that store, thought Ned.

Two or three more steps took him well into the middle of the road, and that road led home and to dinner.

Still it would be wiser to listen again, and a knowing pair of ears were prepared to catch the faintest sound from the wagon.

But no sound came, although Denise was nearly convulsed with laughter.

Surely things were progressing famously, and when dinner was to be had so easily why not go after it? And off my laddie started, at a brisk pace.

But walking was slow work. Not a vehicle was in sight, so very shortly Master Ned was trotting along at a fine rate.

“Dear me! trotting is a very common-place manner of getting over the ground. Can’t we improve on it?” Surely, and a moment later the little villain was bounding along like a deer, the wagon jerking and rattling behind him.

By this time Denise thought the joke had gone far enough, and so said in her most sarcastic tone:

“Well, sir, how much further do you intend to run?”

But the effect was astounding. With one final bound Ned stopped short.

Snap went the breeching straps, and over went Denise, landing straight across the dashboard, with her hands spread out upon Ned’s fat haunches, where she could only lie and laugh. When she had laughed till she couldn’t laugh any more, she scrambled out, and, walking around to Ned’s head, peeped over the blinders, and beheld a very subdued little horse.

“Well, sir, when I’ve fixed up your harness, and gotten you into some sort of shape again, we’ll go back for the sugar, if you please, and it would serve you just exactly right if you did not get one bit of dinner until two o’clock instead of one.”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.