Johnny-in-the-Woods
JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demonstrated his claim to be Cock of the Walk by amost impious hand-to-hand fight with his own aunt,Miss Janet Trumbull, in which he had been deci-sively victorious, and won his spurs, consisting of hislate grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch,was to take a new path of action. Johnny suddenlydeveloped the prominent Trumbull trait, but in hiscase it was inverted. Johnny, as became a boy ofhis race, took an excursion into the past, but insteadof applying the present to the past, as was thetendency of the other Trumbulls, he forcibly appliedthe past to the present. He fairly plastered thepast over the exigencies of his day and generationlike a penetrating poultice of mustard, and theresults were peculiar.Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during themidsummer vacation to remain in the house, tokeep quiet, read a book, and be a good boy, obeyed,but his obedience was of a doubtful measure ofwisdom.Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trumbull's dark little library while Jonathan was walkingsedately to the post-office, holding his drippingumbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, withoutregard to the wind, thereby getting the soft driveof the rain full in his face, which became, as itwere, bedewed with tears, entirely outside anycause of his own emotions.Johnny probably got the only book of an anti-orthodox trend in his uncle's library. He foundtucked away in a snug corner an ancient collectionof Border Ballads, and he read therein of manyunmoral romances and pretty fancies, which, sincehe was a small boy, held little meaning for him, orcharm, beyond a delight in the swing of the rhythm,for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when heread of Robin Hood, the bold Robin Hood, with hisdubious ethics but his certain and unquenchableinterest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent. Hehad the volume in his own room, being somewhatdoubtful as to whether it might be of the sortincluded in the good-boy role. He sat beside a rain-washed window, which commanded a view of thewide field between the Trumbull mansion and JimSimmons's house, and he read about Robin Hoodand his Greenwood adventures, his forcible settingthe wrong right; and for the first time his imagina-tion awoke, and his ambition. Johnny Trumbull,hitherto hero of nothing except little material fist-fights, wished now to become a hero of true romance.In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possi-bility of reincarnating, in his own person, RobinHood. He eyed the wide green field dreamilythrough his rain-blurred window. It was a prettyfield, waving with feathery grasses and starred withdaisies and buttercups, and it was very fortunatethat it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons'shouse was not a desirable feature of the landscape,and looked much better several acres away. It wasa neglected, squalid structure, and considered a disgrace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace,and an unsolved problem. He owned that house,and somehow contrived to pay the taxes thereon.He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite ofevil ways, and his children were many. Thereseemed no way to dispose finally of Jim Simmonsand his house except by murder and arson, and thevillage was a peaceful one, and such measures wereentirely too strenuous.Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of hiswindow, saw approaching a rusty-black umbrellaheld at precisely the wrong angle in respect of thestorm, but held with the unvarying stiffness withwhich a soldier might hold a bayonet, and knew itfor his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he beheldalso his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and hislong ambling body and legs. Jonathan was cominghome from the post-office, whither he repaired everymorning. He never got a letter, never anythingexcept religious newspapers, but the visit to thepost-office was part of his daily routine. Rain orshine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morningmail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoy-ment of a perfectly useless duty performed. Johnnywatched his uncle draw near to the house, and cruellyreflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. Heeven wondered if his uncle could possibly have readRobin Hood and still show absolutely no result in hisown personal appearance. He knew that he, Johnny,could not walk to the post-office and back, even withthe drawback of a dripping old umbrella instead ofa bow and arrow, without looking a bit like RobinHood, especially when fresh from reading about him.Then suddenly something distracted his thoughtsfrom Uncle Jonathan. The long, feathery grass inthe field moved with a motion distinct from thatcaused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger-striped back emerge, covering long leaps of terror.Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid of UncleJonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind thefirst leaping, striped back, and he knew there weremore cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan. There wereeven motions caused by unseen things, and hereasoned, "Kittens afraid of Uncle Jonathan."Then Johnny reflected with a great glow of indignation that the Simmonses kept an outrageous num-ber of half-starved cats and kittens, besides a quotaof children popularly supposed to be none too wellnourished, let alone properly clothed. Then it wasthat Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imaginationslapped the past of old romance like a most thoroughmustard poultice over the present. There could beno Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws(that is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows,no sojourning under greenwood trees and the rest,but something he could, and would, do and be.That rainy day when Johnny Trumbull was a goodboy, and stayed in the house, and read a book,marked an epoch.That night when Johnny went into his auntJanet's room she looked curiously at his face, whichseemed a little strange to her. Johnny, since he hadcome into possession of his grandfather's watch,went every night, on his way to bed, to his aunt'sroom for the purpose of winding up that ancienttimepiece, Janet having a firm impression that itmight not be done properly unless under her supervision. Johnny stood before his aunt and wound upthe watch with its ponderous key, and she watchedhim."What have you been doing all day, John?" saidshe."Stayed in the house and -- read.""What did you read, John?""A book.""Do you mean to be impertinent, John?""No, ma'am," replied Johnny, and with perfecttruth. He had not the slightest idea of the title ofthe book."What was the book?""A poetry book.""Where did you find it?""In Uncle Jonathan's library.""Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet,in a mystified way. She had a general impressionof Jonathan's library as of century-old preserves,altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable onefrom the other except by labels. Poetry she couldnot imagine as being there at all. Finally shethought of the early Victorians, and Spenser andChaucer. The library might include them, but shehad an idea that Spenser and Chaucer were not fitreading for a little boy. However, as she remembered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnnycould understand much of them. Probably he hadgotten hold of an early Victorian, and she lookedrather contemptuous."I don't think much of a boy like you readingpoetry," said Janet. "Couldn't you find anythingelse to read?""No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny,before exploring his uncle's theological library, hadpeered at his father's old medical books and hismother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform editions of standard things written bywomen."I don't suppose there ARE many books written forboys," said Aunt Janet, reflectively."No, ma'am," said Johnny. He finished windingthe watch, and gave, as was the custom, the key toAunt Janet, lest he lose it."I will see if I cannot find some books of travelsfor you, John," said Janet. "I think travels wouldbe good reading for a boy. Good night, John.""Good night. Aunt Janet," replied Johnny. Hisaunt never kissed him good night, which was onereason why he liked her.On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room,whose door stood open. She was busy writing at herdesk. She glanced at Johnny."Are you going to bed?" said she."Yes, ma'am."Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss hisforehead, parting his curly hair to do so. He lovedhis mother, but did not care at all to have her kisshim. He did not object, because he thought sheliked to do it, and she was a woman, and it was avery little thing in which he could oblige her."Were you a good boy, and did you find a goodbook to read?" asked she."Yes, ma'am.""What was the book?" Cora Trumbull inquired,absently, writing as she spoke."Poetry."Cora laughed. " Poetry is odd for a boy," said she."You should have read a book of travels or history.Good night, Johnny.""Good night, mother."Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly ofmedicines, coming up from his study. But his fatherdid not see him. And Johnny went to bed, havingimbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more ofhistory and more knowledge of excursions into realmsof old romance than his elders had ever known duringmuch longer lives than his.Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feelingnearly led him astray in the matter of Lily Jennings;he thought of her, for one sentimental minute, asRobin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissedthe idea peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simplylaugh. He knew her. Moreover, she was a girl,and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need ofanother boy who would be a kindred spirit; hewished for more than one boy. He wished for afollowing of heroic and lawless souls, even as RobinHood's. But he could think of nobody, after considerable study, except one boy, younger than him-self. He was a beautiful little boy, whose motherhad never allowed him to have his golden curlscut, although he had been in trousers for quite awhile. However, the trousers were foolish, beingknickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks,which revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. Theboy's name was Arnold Carruth, and that was againsthim, as being long, and his mother firm about allowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case werenot allowed in the very exclusive private schoolwhich Johnny attended.Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beautiful little boy, would have had no standing at allin the school as far as popularity was concernedhad it not been for a strain of mischief which tri-umphed over curls, socks, and pink cheeks and amuch-kissed rosebud of a mouth. Arnold Carruth,as one of the teachers permitted herself to statewhen relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was"as choke-full of mischief as a pod of peas. And theworst of it all is," quoth the teacher, Miss AgnesRector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hiddensympathy for mischief herself -- "the worst of it is,that child looks so like a cherub on a rosy cloud thateven if he should be caught nobody would believeit. They would be much more likely to accuse poorlittle Andrew Jackson Green, because he has a snubnose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never knew thatpoor child to do anything except obey rules and learnhis lessons. He is almost too good. And anotherworst of it is, nobody can help loving that little impof a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I believe thescamp knows it and takes advantage of it."It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth didprofit unworthily by his beauty and engagingness,albeit without calculation. He was so young, itwas monstrous to believe him capable of calculation,of deliberate trading upon his assets of birth andbeauty and fascination. However, Johnny Trum-bull, who was wide awake and a year older, was aliveto the situation. He told Arnold Carruth, andArnold Carruth only, about Robin Hood and hisgreat scheme."You can help," said this wise Johnny; "you canbe in it, because nobody thinks you can be in anything, on account of your wearing curls."Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tugat one golden curl which the wind blew over ashoulder. The two boys were in a secluded cornerof Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanesecedars, during an intermission."I can't help it because I wear curls," declaredArnold with angry shame."Who said you could? No need of getting mad.""Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmammawon't let me have these old curls cut off," saidArnold. "You needn't think I want to have curlslike a girl, Johnny Trumbull.""Who said you did? And I know you don't liketo wear those short stockings, either.""Like to!" Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first ofone half-bared, dimpled leg, then of the other."First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or AuntFlora's stockings and throw these in the furnace --I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear thesebaby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer,Johnny Trumbull. My mamma and my aunt Floraare awful nice, but they are queer about somethings.""Most women are queer," agreed Johnny, "butmy aunt Janet isn't as queer as some. Rather guessif she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd cut'em off herself.""Wish she was my aunt," said Arnold Carruthwith a sigh. "A feller needs a woman like that tillhe's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my curlsif I was to go to your house, Johnny?""I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unlessyour mother said she might. She has to be realcareful about doing right, because my uncle Jonathanused to preach, you know."Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he enduredpain. "Well, I s'pose I'll have to stand the curls andlittle baby stockings awhile longer," said he. "Whatwas it you were going to tell me, Johnny?""I am going to tell you because I know you aren'ttoo good, if you do wear curls and little stockings.""No, I ain't too good," declared Arnold Carruth,proudly; "I ain't -- HONEST, Johnny.""That's why I'm going to tell you. But if youtell any of the other boys -- or girls --""Tell girls!" sniffed Arnold."If you tell anybody, I'll lick you.""Guess I ain't afraid.""Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'dbeen licked.""Guess my mamma would give it to you.""Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped,would you, then?"Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightenedhimself with a quick remembrance that he wasborn a man. "You know I wouldn't tell, JohnnyTrumbull.""Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is --" Johnnyspoke in emphatic whispers, Arnold's curly head closeto his mouth: "There are a good many things inthis town have got to be set right," said Johnny.Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone inhis lovely blue eyes under the golden shadow of hiscurls, a fire which had shone in the eyes of someancestors of his, for there was good fighting bloodin the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull,although this small descendant did go about curledand kissed and barelegged."How'll we begin?" said Arnold, in a strenuouswhisper."We've got to begin right away with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.""With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?" repeatedArnold."That was what I said, exactly. We've got tobegin right there. It is an awful little beginning,but I can't think of anything else. If you can, I'mwilling to listen.""I guess I can't," admitted Arnold, helplessly."Of course we can't go around taking away moneyfrom rich people and giving it to poor folks. Onereason is, most of the poor folks in this town arelazy, and don't get money because they don't wantto work for it. And when they are not lazy, theydrink. If we gave rich people's money to poorfolks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good.The rich folks would be poor, and the poor folkswouldn't stay rich; they would be lazier, and getmore drink. I don't see any sense in doing thingslike that in this town. There are a few poor folksI have been thinking we might take some moneyfor and do good, but not many.""Who?" inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones."Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She'sawful poor. Folks help her, I know, but she can'tbe real pleased being helped. She'd rather have themoney herself. I have been wondering if we couldn'tget some of your father's money away and give itto her, for one.""Get away papa's money!""You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy asthat, Arnold Carruth?""I guess papa wouldn't like it.""Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point.It is not what your father would like; it is what thatpoor old lady would like."It was too much for Arnold. He gaped atJohnny."If you are going to be mean and stingy, we mayas well stop before we begin," said Johnny.Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. "OldMr. Webster Payne is awful poor," said he. "Wemight take some of your father's money and giveit to him."Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. "If," said he,"you think my father keeps his money where wecan get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. Myfather's money is all in papers that are not worthmuch now and that he has to keep in the banktill they are."Arnold smiled hopefully. "Guess that's the waymy papa keeps HIS money.""It's the way most rich people are mean enoughto," said Johnny, severely. "I don't care if it'syour father or mine, it's mean. And that's whywe've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats andkittens.""Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?"inquired Arnold.Johnny sniffed. "Don't be silly," said he."Though I do think a nice cat with a few kittensmight cheer her up a little, and we could steal enoughmilk, by getting up early and tagging after the milkman, to feed them. But I wasn't thinking of givingher or old Mr. Payne cats and kittens. I wasn'tthinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poorcats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has anddoesn't half feed, and that have to go huntingaround folks' back doors in the rain, when cats hatewater, too, and pick things up that must be badfor their stomachs, when they ought to have theirmilk regularly in nice, clean saucers. No, ArnoldCarruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr.Jim Simmons's cats and get them in nice homeswhere they can earn their living catching mice andbe well cared for.""Steal cats?" said Arnold."Yes, steal cats, in order to do right," said JohnnyTrumbull, and his expression was heroic, evenexalted.It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yetexultant, rang in their ears."If," said the treble voice, "you are going tosteal dear little kitty cats and get nice homes forthem, I'm going to help."The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who hadstood on the other side of the Japanese cedars andheard every word.Both boys started in righteous wrath, but ArnoldCarruth was the angrier of the two. "Mean littlecat yourself, listening," said he. His curls seemedto rise like a crest of rage.Johnny, remembering some things, was not sooutspoken. "You hadn't any right to listen, LilyJennings," he said, with masculine severity."I didn't start to listen," said Lily. "I was looking for cones on these trees. Miss Parmalee wantedus to bring some object of nature into the class, andI wondered whether I could find a queer Japanesecone on one of these trees, and then I heard youboys talking, and I couldn't help listening. Youspoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking forthat cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard allabout the Simmonses' cats, and I know lots of othercats that haven't got good homes, and -- I am goingto be in it.""You AIN'T," declared Arnold Carruth."We can't have girls in it," said Johnny the mindful, more politely."You've got to have me. You had better haveme, Johnny Trumbull," she added with meaning.Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail,but what could he do? Suppose Lily told how shehad hidden him -- him, Johnny Trumbull, the champion of the school -- in that empty baby-carriage!He would have more to contend against than ArnoldCarruth with socks and curls. He did not think Lilywould tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, be-frilled girl, gave an impression of having a knowledgeof a square deal almost as much as a boy would;but what boy could tell with a certainty what suchan uncertain creature as a girl might or might notdo? Moreover, Johnny had a weakness, a hidden,Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He ratherwished to have her act as partner in his great enterprise. He therefore gruffly assented."All right," he said, "you can be in it. But justyou look out. You'll see what happens if you tell.""She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl,"said Arnold Carruth, fiercely.Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed himwith queenly scorn. "And what are you?" said she."A little boy with curls and baby socks."Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided."Mind you don't tell," he said, taking Johnny's cue."I sha'n't tell," replied Lily, with majesty. "Butyou'll tell yourselves if you talk one side of treeswithout looking on the other."There was then only a few moments beforeMadame's musical Japanese gong which announcedthe close of intermission should sound, but threedetermined souls in conspiracy can accomplish muchin a few moments. The first move was planned indetail before that gong sounded, and the two boysraced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toadstool, which she had hurriedly caught up from thelawn for her object of nature to be taken into class.It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quitea heroine in the class. That fact doubtless gave hera more dauntless air when, after school, the twoboys caught up with her walking gracefully downthe road, flirting her skirts and now and then givingher head a toss, which made her fluff of hair fly intoa golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw hat."To-night," Johnny whispered, as he sped past."At half past nine, between your house and theSimmonses'," replied Lily, without even looking athim. She was a past-mistress of dissimulation.Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night,and the guests remarked sometimes, within the littlegirl's hearing, what a darling she was."She never gives me a second's anxiety," Lily'smother whispered to a lady beside her. "You cannot imagine what a perfectly good, dependable childshe is.""Now my Christina is a good child in the grain,"said the lady, "but she is full of mischief. I nevercan tell what Christina will do next.""I can always tell," said Lily's mother, in a voiceof maternal triumph."Now only the other night, when I thoughtChristina was in bed, that absurd child got up anddressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tomcame home with her, and of course there was nothingvery bad about it. Christina was very bright; shesaid, 'Mother, you never told me I must not get upand go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course,true. I could not gainsay that.""I cannot," said Lily's mother, "imagine myLily's doing such a thing."If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's,whom she dearly loved, she might have wavered.That pathetic trust in herself might have caused herto justify it. But she had finished her dinner andhad been excused, and was undressing for bed, withthe firm determination to rise betimes and dressand join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth.Johnny had the easiest time of them all. He simplyhad to bid his aunt Janet good night and have thewatch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of hismother at her desk and his father in his office, andgo whistling to his room, and sit in the summerdarkness and wait until the time came.Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. Hismother had an old school friend visiting her, andArnold, very much dressed up, with his curls fallingin a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to beshown off and show off. He had to play one littlepiece which he had learned upon the piano. He hadto recite a little poem. He had to be asked how oldhe was, and if he liked to go to school, and howmany teachers he had, and if he loved them, andif he loved his little mates, and which of them heloved best; and he had to be asked if he loved hisaunt Dorothy, who was the school friend and not hisaunt at all, and would he not like to come and livewith her, because she had not any dear little boy;and he was obliged to submit to having his curlstwisted around feminine fingers, and to being kissedand hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, beforehe was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moistupon his lips, and free to assert himself.That night Arnold Carruth realized himself ashaving an actual horror of his helpless state of pampered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of theboy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lipsand frown of childish brows who stole out of bed,got into some queer clothes, and crept down theback stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who wasnot his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor,he heard the clink of silver and china from thebutler's pantry, where the maids were washing thedinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and hegave a little leap of joy on the grass of the lawn.At last he was out at night alone, and -- he wore longstockings! That noon he had secreted a pair ofhis mother's toward that end. When he came hometo luncheon he pulled them out of the darning-bag,which he had spied through a closet door that hadbeen left ajar. One of the stockings was green silk,and the other was black, and both had holes inthem, but all that mattered was the length. Arnoldwore also his father's riding-breeches, which cameover his shoes and which were enormously large,and one of his father's silk shirts. He had resolvedto dress consistently for such a great occasion. Hisclothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he spedclumsily down the road.However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jen-nings, who were waiting for him at the rendezvous,were startled by his appearance. Both began torun, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand,but Arnold's cautious hallo arrested them. Johnnyand Lily returned slowly, peering through the darkness."It's me," said Arnold, with gay disregard ofgrammar."You looked," said Lily, "like a real fat old man.What HAVE you got on, Arnold Carruth?"Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculousbut triumphant. He hitched up a leg of the riding-breeches and displayed a long, green silk stocking.Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter."What you laughing at?" inquired Arnold, crossly."Oh, nothing at all," said Lily. "Only you dolook like a scarecrow broken loose. Doesn't he,Johnny?""I am going home," stated Arnold with dignity.He turned, but Johnny caught him in his little irongrip."Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!" said he. "Don'tbe a baby. Come on." And Arnold Carruth withdifficulty came on.People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Manylights were out when the affair began, many wentout while it was in progress. All three of the bandsteered as clear of lighted houses as possible, anddodged behind trees and hedges when shadowyfigures appeared on the road or carriage-wheels wereheard in the distance. At their special destinationthey were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. PeterVan Ness always retired very early. To be sure,he did not go to sleep until late, and read in bed,but his room was in the rear of the house on thesecond floor, and all the windows, besides, weredark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was a very wealthyelderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had giventhe village a beautiful stone church with memorialwindows, a soldiers' monument, a park, and a homefor aged couples, called "The Van Ness Home."Mr. Van Ness lived alone with the exception of ahousekeeper and a number of old, very well-disciplined servants. The servants always retired early,and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet forhis late reading. He was a very studious old gentle-man.To the Van Ness house, set back from the streetin the midst of a well-kept lawn, the three repaired,but not as noiselessly as they could have wished. Infact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, whichwas wide open, and one woman's voice was heardin conclave with another."I should think," said the first, "that the lawnwas full of cats. Did you ever hear such a mewing,Jane?"That was the housekeeper's voice. The three,each of whom carried a squirming burlap potato-bagfrom the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a clumpof stately pines full of windy songs, and trem-bled."It do sound like cats, ma'am," said another voice,which was Jane's, the maid, who had brought Mrs.Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot water andpeppermint, because her dinner had disagreed withher."Just listen," said Mrs. Meeks."Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundredsof cats and little kittens.""I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed.""Yes, ma'am.""You might go out and look, Jane.""Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!""How can they be burglars when they are cats?"demanded Mrs. Meeks, testily.Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side,and Lily on the other, prodded him with an elbow.They were close under the window."Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am,"said Jane. "They may mew like cats to tell oneanother what door to go in.""Jane, you talk like an idiot," said Mrs. Meeks."Burglars talking like cats! Who ever heard of sucha thing? It sounds right under that window. Openmy closet door and get those heavy old shoes andthrow them out."It was an awful moment. The three dared notmove. The cats and kittens in the bags -- not somany, after all -- seemed to have turned into multiplication-tables. They were positively alarming intheir determination to get out, their wrath with oneanother, and their vociferous discontent with thewhole situation."I can't hold my bag much longer," said poor littleArnold Carruth."Hush up, cry-baby!" whispered Lily, fiercely,in spite of a clawing paw emerging from her ownbag and threatening her bare arm.Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarelyon the shoulder, nearly knocking him down andmaking him lose hold of his bag. The other struckLily's bag, and conditions became worse; but sheheld on despite a scratch. Lily had pluck.Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leanedout of the window. "I guess they have went,ma'am," said she. "I seen something run.""I can hear them," said Mrs. Meeks, querulously."I seen them run," persisted Jane, who was tiredand wished to be gone."Well, close that window, anyway, for I know Ihear them, even if they have gone," said Mrs. Meeks.The three heard with relief the window slammeddown.The light flashed out, and simultaneously LilyJennings and Johnny Trumbull turned indignantlyupon Arnold Carruth."There, you have gone and let all those poor catsgo," said Johnny."And spoilt everything," said Lily.Arnold rubbed his shoulder. "You would havelet go if you had been hit right on the shoulderby a great shoe," said he, rather loudly."Hush up!" said Lily. "I wouldn't have let mycats go if I had been killed by a shoe; so there.""Serves us right for taking a boy with curls," saidJohnny Trumbull.But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth wasno match whatever for Johnny Trumbull, and hadnever been allowed the honor of a combat with him;but surprise takes even a great champion at a disadvantage. Arnold turned upon Johnny like a flash,out shot a little white fist, up struck a dimpled legclad in cloth and leather, and down sat JohnnyTrumbull; and, worse, open flew his bag, and therewas a yowling exodus."There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull,"said Lily, in a perfectly calm whisper. At that moment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a simul-taneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who wasshe to gloat over the misfortunes of men? But retri-bution came swiftly to Lily. That viciously clawing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limitto Spartanism in a little girl born so far from thatheroic land. Lily let go of her bag and with difficulty stifled a shriek of pain."Whose cats are gone now?" demanded Johnny,rising."Yes, whose cats are gone now?" said Arnold.Then Johnny promptly turned upon him andknocked him down and sat on him.Lily looked at them, standing, a stately littlefigure in the darkness. "I am going home," saidshe. "My mother does not allow me to go withfighting boys."Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimperingslightly. His shoulder ached considerably."He knocked me down," said Johnny.Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnoldfelt a thrill of triumph. "Always knew I could if Ihad a chance," said he."You couldn't if I had been expecting it," saidJohnny."Folks get knocked down when they ain't expecting it most of the time," declared Arnold, withmore philosophy than he realized."I don't think it makes much difference about theknocking down," said Lily. "All those poor catsand kittens that we were going to give a good home,where they wouldn't be starved, have got away,and they will run straight back to Mr. Jim Simmons's.""If they haven't any more sense than to run backto a place where they don't get enough to eat andare kicked about by a lot of children, let them run,"said Johnny."That's so," said Arnold. "I never did see whatwe were doing such a thing for, anyway -- stealingMr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. VanNess."It was the girl alone who stood by her guns ofrighteousness. "I saw and I see," she declared, withdangerously loud emphasis. "It was only our dutyto try to rescue poor helpless animals who don'tknow any better than to stay where they are badlytreated. And Mr. Van Ness has so much money hedoesn't know what to do with it; he would have beenreal pleased to give those cats a home and buy milkand liver for them. But it's all spoiled now. I willnever undertake to do good again, with a lot of boysin the way, as long as I live; so there!" Lily turnedabout."Going to tell your mother!" said Johnny, withscorn which veiled anxiety."No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales."Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnnyand Arnold, two poor little disillusioned would-beknights of old romance in a wretchedly common-place future, not far enough from their horizons forany glamour.They went home, and of the three Johnny Trumbull was the only one who was discovered. For himhis aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a confession.She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled."You have learned to fight, John Trumbull," saidshe, when he had finished. "Now the very nextthing you have to learn, and make yourself worthyof your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool.""Yes, Aunt Janet," said Johnny.The next noon, when he came home from school,old Maria, who had been with the family ever sincehe could remember and long before, called him intothe kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from asaucer, were two very lean, tall kittens."See those nice little tommy-cats," said Maria,beaming upon Johnny, whom she loved and whomshe sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys."Your aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses'for them this morning. They are overrun with cats-- such poor, shiftless folks always be -- and you canhave them. We shall have to watch for a little whiletill they get wonted, so they won't run home."Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending withthe new milk, and felt presumably much as dearRobin Hood may have felt after one of his successfulraids in the fair, poetic past."Pretty, ain't they?" said Maria. "They havedrank up a whole saucer of milk. 'Most starved. Is'pose."Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens andsat down in a kitchen chair, with one on each shoulder, hard, boyish cheeks pressed against furry, pur-ring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walkfelt his heart glad and tender with the love of thestrong for the weak.
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