Chapter XII

With Althea’s return life at the Belleport cottage speedily shifted from a summer’s idyl into more ordinary routine, and in consequence both Asaph and Lemuel Gill had occasional mornings when, no work being required of them, they were free to snatch an odd hour or two for gardening.

“It’s high time, too,” Lemmy announced. “The weeds are gettin’ the upper hand somethin’ shameful among my annuals, an’ every rose I own needs cultivatin’. Seem’s if flowers, like children, knew when your back was turned an’ took that chance to go cuttin’ up. Them phloxes of mine now--they never mildewed before; why should they suddenly start out doin’ it when I ain’t lookin’?”

“I know,” returned Asaph with an understanding nod, “for ain’t the clover playin’ fox an’ geese in the same sneakin’ fashion among my aster plants? I’ve got to give the whole bed a regular overhaulin’.”

Lemuel puffed a ring of smoke meditatively toward the sky.

“Heard anythin’ yet from those Canterbury bells you set out this spring?” he interrogated.

“Not a yip. Althea said when I ordered ’em I was throwin’ my money in a hole an’ I begin to believe her. But the catalogue read so temptin’:

“’_A noble border plant with large cup-an’-saucer-shaped flowers._

“’_Extremely handsome. Will succeed in any well-drained soil._’

“Now wouldn’t that coax you into buyin’? As it happens I ain’t, mebbe, quite so keen on cups an’ saucers as I was a while back; I figger I’ve seen too many of ’em. Still that ain’t the fault of the flowers.”

“My clarkia ain’t come up neither,” commiserated Lemmy. “Them new-fangled things don’t pay, an’ every time I’m hypnotized into attemptin’ to raise ’em I call myself a fool. Yet for all that I wouldn’t be content not to try. That’s the devil of it. You buy an’ you’re sorry; an’ you don’t buy an’ you’re sorry. You’re bound to be sorry anyhow.”

A scowl settled on his forehead as he continued:

“When it comes to temptation, a garden makes three times the spendthrift of you strong drink does. Last summer, for instance, I tucked away quite a tidy sum to have my roof mended. During the winter the rain an’ snow had kep’ me runnin’ hither an’ yon with buckets an’ basins till I was clean out of patience. I was just on the point of waylayin’ Lyman Bearse at the store an’ gettin’ him to come an’ put fresh tar paper over the leaks when in my letter box I spied a bulb catalogue advertisin’ Darwin tulips. Right off I sez to myself: ’What’s a few holes in the roof?’ So while I had the cash I made out my list an’ with the first snowfall rigged the washtubs an’ basins in place again, reckonin’ I’d lived that way four or five winters an’ likely could worry through another.”

“You ain’t regretted it, I’ll bet.”

“Regretted it! Why, just the sight of Clara Butt a-blowin’ in the wind made swabbin’ the floors all winter of no account.”

“Them catalogue fellers should hear you, Lemmy. They’d give you a job advertisin’ their goods.”

“Me? Oh, I ain’t got the smooth tongue of them rascals. Talk of mermaids an’ sirens! Were you to take their word you’d be believin’ every vine you planted was goin’ to bust the trellis inside a season. Yet in spite of the fact I know better, there’s somethin’ so convincin’ in the way they put things it drives what few grains of common sense I’ve got clean out of my head. Call their talk bosh as I may, those sentences about ‘mammoth blooms’ an’ ‘flowers of tremendous size’ get me. They keep echoin’ through my mind till they have me seein’ pansies bigger’n butter-plates.”

He paused to crowd more tobacco into his corn-cob pipe.

“I’d oughter be content with flowers of normal size,” he went on. “That’s the trouble with me. I’m graspin’ an’ want the biggest I can get. That’s why I get punished, I reckon. Any flower is pretty when you come down to it. You don’t need to go feedin’ it up with fertilizer to make it blossom different from what the Lord meant it to. Neither is there call for chasin’ the highty-tighty ones. Those that’ll ‘grow in any poor soil’ are full as good as the others if we only thought so.”

Straightening up, Asaph regarded his comrade soberly.

“I’ve always thought that was a shabby advantage to take of a plant,” declared he. “Just ’cause a flower can manage to struggle along in poor soil is no reason to announce in print to all the world that it relishes growin’ that way. Blazin’ star, now, for all it perks up an’ makes the best of a junk heap, puttin’ out blooms brave as can be, would most likely appreciate tryin’ somethin’ richer if it got the chance.”

“I dunno whether it would or not,” replied Lemuel. “’Course it seems so on the surface. Nevertheless, after all don’t you s’pose there’s plants like folks that are full as happy not to be growin’ in marble urns? I know I’m that way. Transplant me to Buckingham Palace an’ inside a day I’d be pinin’ for Cape Cod an’ my shack. I warn’t meant for any great amount of prosperity. Like blazin’ star, I’m just one of the common things that’ll succeed in any poor soil.”

He rose, put his pipe into his pocket and, stretching his arms, yawned with profound contentment.

“Wal’,” announced he, “I must be gettin’ under way. By the by, Asaph, you ain’t got a handful of bone meal I could have, have you? Mrs. Aaron Ward needs somethin’ stimulatin’ the worst way; an’ so does the Duchess of Wellington.”

“Seems to me that Duchess of yours is always demandin’ nourishment.”

“No matter. She’s a lady an’ pays for what she gets. There ain’t a better bloomer in my whole garden.”

“Ain’t goin’ to stand by an’ hear her slandered, are you?” grinned his companion. “That’s right. A gentleman should always speak a good word for the weaker sex. I’ll fetch over the fertilizer by an’ by.”

“I can take it myself.”

“No; don’t you wait. It’s in a barrel out in the shed an’ mebbe Althea--”

“Oh!”

Asaph ignored the significant monosyllable.

“I’ll be pokin’ over your way in a little while, an’ will fetch it along in a bucket.”

“Suit yourself. You know where to find me,” called Lemmy as he ambled off down the lane.

Lemuel Gill seldom hurried, but today visions of weeds and rose beetles stimulated him to move with more purpose than he customarily displayed. Yet for all his haste he halted when part way on his journey to look seaward to where the ocean, jade green above shoals of sand, rippled with whitecaps. It was a brief glance. Nevertheless it was sufficiently extended for the picture to etch itself on his consciousness and lift him into a state of exaltation that prompted him to burst into a lustily rendered bar of “Bonnie Sweet Bessie.”

He was still singing this refrain when he turned in at his gate, where he again paused to gaze with satisfaction about him. Lemuel was very proud of his domain, which to his mind never looked prettier than in the gold of the morning sunshine.

In the little clearing of lawn was the faded green pump and the tub beneath it dimpling with water that mirrored the blue of an azure heaven. Along the clam-shell path leading up to it nodded tall Madonna lilies flanked by spires of the lapis delphinium in which he took such pride. Farther down the walk bloomed early phlox and Shasta daisies nestling amid foliage dense and green as the tropics. In the dark he could have put his hand on each one of these flowers in turn, so well did he know their haunts.

In spite of the fact that the house was a mere toy of rose-buried shingles and the grass plot before it nothing more than a pocket handkerchief affair, no laird of sweeping acres held dearer his estate than did Lemuel Gill.

“The place is mine, every inch of it--an’ mortgage free, too,” he was frequently heard to boast.

“An’ what my roof ain’t big enough to cover I put outside under God’s canopy.”

Unfortunately so trusting was Lemmy’s nature that a heterogeneous collection of his possessions had gradually accumulated under the latter shelter, and although they lent to the dwelling a certain atmosphere of picturesqueness, they did not enhance the tidiness of the place.

For example, there was Lemuel’s old yellow dory, the _Sally_, which he had always meant to overhaul and repaint. He did not need her now that he owned a motor boat. Once, long ago, when rigged with a leg-o’-mutton sail, she had been capable of outdistancing any boat in the bay; but that day, alas, was far in the past and the _Sally_ was at present only a shell of rotting timbers. Nevertheless, Lemmy clung to her. One did not lightly cast aside the companion of so many happy hours.

About this heirloom huddled a conglomeration of mackerel kegs, dilapidated lobster traps, nets, oars, and a wheezy old blue wheelbarrow which, though it creaked in every joint and constantly threatened to fall in ruins, held together sufficiently well to be of occasional service. And out of the resulting confusion stuck defiant wooden handles, some of which terminated in rakes, hoes, and shovels, and many that terminated in nothing at all but fragments of rusted metal. To enumerate the tin cans and old iron that augmented this unsightly heap would be impossible.

Altogether God’s canopy covered a so much larger proportion of Lemuel’s belongings than did his own rooftree, that Althea Holmes could scarcely be condemned for challenging the Captain’s right thus to impose on the indulgence of the Almighty, and asserting he took too many liberties with Divine Providence.

Perhaps he did. Lemmy had a childlike soul that trustingly expected kindness. It was a soul very much at peace with itself and all the world, and never had it been more entirely so than today, when, amid the splendor of the morning’s early beauty the little man, still humming to himself, stood delightedly regarding what was his.

The mundane world, however, offers few perfect moments to any of us, and no sooner had Lemuel Gill abandoned himself to ecstasy than he was brought abruptly to earth by the sight of a startled small boy darting out of the garden.

“Hi!” bawled Lemuel. “Hi, there, you varmint! What are you doin’ among my roses?”

The frightened child merely fled the faster.

“Stop where you are, you young devil, or I’ll flay the daylights out of you.”

Appalled by the threat the trespasser ran faster yet.

In a twinkling the irate Captain was after him. He knew the boy would be unable to scale the pile of rubbish lying directly in his path, and the assumption proved to be true, for he soon overtook the little fellow, who was now sobbing with terror.

Lemuel seized him by the arm.

“What you doin’ in my garden?” repeated he in a voice that might have been heard to the tip of the Cape. “How dare you come in here breakin’ down my flowers an’ tramplin’ on ’em?”

“I--I--didn’t break ’em down,” the child panted. He was a shabby urchin, tow-headed and with bare feet, which a worn pair of faded overalls, sizes too large for him, all but concealed. Over his face, streaked with dirt, now rolled two great crystal tears.

“I’ll have you hung for comin’ in here,” thundered the Captain. “I’ll shake the life out of you. I’ll flay you till every bone in your body is broken.”

With every threat the unlucky youngster cowered miserably.

“I’ll hang you up by the thumbs,” continued Lemmy, “an’ tar an’ feather you afterwards.”

The captive uttered a strangling moan of fear.

“What brought you in here, anyhow?” fumed the little man in a voice that began to evince exhaustion.

“I--I--wanted to--to see the roses,” gasped the boy.

“Do what?”

“See the--the roses,” reiterated the intruder with accumulating courage. “I spied ’em from the beach. We ain’t got any at our house.”

“Where do you live?”

“Over Wilton way.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Father sailed some boarders over for a picnic.”

“An’ where are the rest of ’em?” demanded Lemmy, doubtful of the story.

“Down on the shore. I ran away.”

“You did, did you! Well, now you see what comes of it. Runnin’ away ain’t ever the thing to do. It gets you into trouble. If you’d stayed with your folks you wouldn’t ’a’ got the larripin’ I’m goin’ to give you now.” He glowered down on the offender. “Whereabouts in the garden have you been?”

“I didn’t go nowheres in the flower beds--only along the edge of the border to look at this red rose,” whimpered the child.

“Humph! Like roses?” inquired Lemuel in a gruff tone.

“Yes.”

“What do you like about ’em?”

“The smell best--an’ the color,” answered the little boy, venturing for the first time timidly to raise his eyes to those of the man standing beside him. “The wild ones along the road smell nice, but not like these. Besides, none of ’em are red.” With delight he pointed toward the bloom of a giant Jacqueminot.

“So you like red roses, do you?” said Lemmy, letting the hand that had gripped the urchin’s arm slip slowly down until it clasped the small, clinging fingers.

“Yes.”

A pause ensued during which each of the combatants sought to recover his breath.

“Do--do--you like red roses?” the child presently asked, drawing closer to his captor.

“Yes, I do. I love all colors.” Involuntarily Lemmy gave the hand he held a sympathetic squeeze.

Instantly the child smiled up at him.

“How would you like to have a red rose?” suddenly interrogated the owner of the garden.

“One of these!” With shining eyes the small boy motioned in the direction of the velvety flowers nodding in the breeze.

“Any one you choose. You can pick it out yourself. How’ll that do? Then I’ll pin it on your shirt. What’s your name, sonny?”

“Danny Watson.”

“Wal’, Daniel, you certainly fell into a lion’s den when you came here. Lucky for you I didn’t eat you up.”

The child laughed merrily.

“Fortunately there’s tame lions same’s there’s wild ones,” went on Lemuel, whimsically. “Mebbe you’ve seen ’em at the circus.”

The boy’s eyes grew big and bright and he nodded.

“Well, that’s the kind I am; I’m a tame lion,” explained the Captain. “I roar just the same as a wild one, but when it comes to bitin’ I stop just short of it. Still, you don’t want to bank on that, ’cause some day I might. Now s’pose after I’ve pinned this rose on you an’ given you a cookie you an’ me set out to find your dad. He may be worryin’ about you. Have you any notion where you left him?”

“Round the curve of the beach.”

“My soul!” Lemmy ejaculated. “That’s quite a stretch of ground for your little legs to cover. Ain’t you tired?”

“Kinder.”

“I reckon you are. Did you ever ride pig-a-back?”

“Dad often carries me that way.”

“You know how to mount up, then, don’t you? Keep a tight hold round my neck so’st you won’t fall, Danny boy. I’ll ride you part way down the shore. You can play you’re ridin’ a lion.”

“But you ain’t a lion,” objected the child, as with two soft arms he obediently clasped Lemuel. “Lions are cross.”

“Warn’t I cross?”

“Only at first.”

“That’s because I’m a tame lion,” grinned the Captain.

It was fully an hour later when Lemmy, hot and exhausted from trudging through the sand, returned to find Asaph Holmes awaiting him.

“Where in thunder have you been?” called his visitor impatiently. “You told me I’d find you right here in the garden. I’ve been hangin’ round with this bucket of fertilizer goodness knows how long.”

“I meant to be here, an’ I’d oughter been,” responded Lemuel. “The whole mornin’s gone an’ I’ve nothin’ to show for it. Look at these weeds. Did you ever see such a jungle of ’em?”

He indicated a few microscopic shoots of clover.

“Where were you?”

“Trouncin’ a small boy I found in the garden.”

“The scalawag! I hope you gave it to him good.”

“Yes, I did--that is--well, you see he was such a mite of a critter--too little to shake. Besides, he liked flowers.” Then catching sight of Asaph’s twinkling eyes he blustered: “But I walloped him, the rascal! Don’t you fear I didn’t. He won’t be meddlin’ again with my roses.”

In this prediction he was fully justified. Little Danny Watson would have been drawn and quartered before he would have harmed a petal of Lemuel Gill’s flowers.