Then he danced along to the table on the veranda and set the electric toaster going, as that was his task.
"When's Dad coming?" Champ asked his mother. "I hate Big Chief's carving. He doesn't give me half enough."
So others saw this mean streak in the eldest boy, but no one had time to say a word, for young Sojer, who had as keen ears as a dog, gave a sudden shout, "The Fire-Bird."
They all looked up at the hydro-plane which had come over the mountain and was whizzing and pounding above us.
"A message, a message," called Cassowary. "Captain Johnson has his blue streamer out. Now watch sharp for it."
Sure enough, a white package came dropping down right over the house as the plane flew by.
It danced along the roof, and fell in the garden.
Champ ran to pick it up, while young Sojer, who was a great pet of Captain Johnson's—the returned soldier who was in the Fire-Bird—said in a disappointed voice, "Not a single stunt—no nose dives, no spirals. I think he's mean."
"Oh! no, no," exclaimed Mrs. Devering, who was reading a letter from her husband. "Captain Johnson is taking a very sick man to a hospital in Toronto. He says there was an accident in Algonquin Park—a young man had his leg crushed and must be operated on immediately."
"Just like me," groaned poor Drunkard, who was reposing on a big cushion on the veranda.
"What a delicious way to go to a hospital," said Cassowary. "No bumps, no jolts."
"Where's the letter from?" asked Big Chief.
"Gull Lake." Then she turned to Dallas. "That is the air camp up north."
Big Chief looked disappointed. He wanted his father back, and I was glad to see that the good feelings of the night before were still uppermost.
"Have they caught the poachers?" asked Cassowary.
"Yes, and have had them fined heavily. Your father says they are men who have no respect for law, and the lesson will do them good. We have some very heedless persons in Canada and——"
Her sentence was never finished for young Sojer gave another shout.
All the children leaped up and sat down again.
CHAPTER XVIII THE ARRIVAL OF THE PONIES
There was nothing soft about the way they were brought up, and they had had some good punishments lately for leaving the table without permission, and for noise-making at improper times.
Mrs. Devering gazed at them, and I thought to myself that I had never seen a prouder or more loving mother-look on a woman's face.
Finally she said in a low voice, "I forgive you—the provocation was great, all except Sojer. Come here, my boy."
The other children dashed away, and Sojer going fearlessly to her pressed close against her shoulder as she sat at the head of the table.
"My darling," she said, "can't you remember to lower your voice when you are conversing?"
"Mother!" he exclaimed with another shout, "I didn't know you had two dimples. There's a little weeny one 'way over here on your left cheek."
"Whisper that sentence," she said, holding up a finger as if he were a little dog.
Sojer's eyes twinkled and he began in husky tones,
Then he threw his arms about her and hugged her.
"Incorrigible!" she murmured, then her eye fell on my young master, who often lingered near her in fascination when she caressed her children.
"What do you think of these noisy cousins of yours, my boy?"
"I love them, Aunt Bretta," he said simply, "and I love you, too. I find you so—so comely."
She got up, and going to him put her arm round him, and kissed him very kindly.
Dallas shut his eyes. "I'm just imagining you are my own mother, Aunt Bretta."
"And I will be," she said earnestly, "until you have a mother of your own. Kiss me night and morning as my own children do, and come to me with all your little troubles."
Dallas stared at her in surprise, but she turned to Sojer. "Take him to see the ponies, laddie. It is really quite a sight when they come home from over the mountain."
I trotted after my master in great excitement. Oh! how would the king of the ponies treat me? He belonged to Big Chief, and I have often noticed that as is the master so is the pony. Should I still be leader of animal society on the farm as the silly Lammie-noo had said?
There they all came, sweeping down the road from the head of the lake, two fine saddle horses leading, and behind them the surging band of ponies, their eyes glowing with anticipation as they got near their pleasant home and beloved owners.
Astride the handsomer of the horses was a young man I had not seen before, but I soon found out that all these fine animals were his especial care.
"Which is which, dear Cousin Cassowary?" Dallas was exclaiming excitedly. "First—that noble bay the young man is on."
"That's Patsie McSquirrel," she said, "Dad's horse. Isn't it delicious to see him getting over the ground in that running walk of his, and nodding his head and flapping his ears to keep time with his footfalls?"
"So that is what you call a running walk," said my young master.
"Yes, it's an all-day gait, easy alike to horse and rider. Dad is often away for a week or two at a time with his Patsie. That walk-trot-canter sorrel beside Patsie is Mother's Backwoods Beauty. He's a dear, too. Look at his style in the way he carries his head, and the arch of his neck and tail. His body is rounded and better turned than Patsie's, but he hasn't as strong a back."
"Just look at the kids," said Dallas.
It was a pretty sight to see each child running to his or her pet. Cassowary alone did not move. Her pony, Apache Girl, came stepping behind her, and thrust her head over her mistress' shoulder.
Cassowary's pony was as queer as she was. She merely put up her hand and rubbed the young animal's poll without turning round.
This Apache Girl was a tough looking, sporty pony, ewe-necked and appearing capable of any amount of hard work. I didn't like her eye. It showed spirit, but also a provoking temper. "One can't always tell what an Indian pony will do," I thought as I whinnied gently to her.
She turned her head away, and never said a word, so I went on examining the other ponies.
Big Chief had sprung proudly to the back of his Hackney pony, who was an animal showing quality and finish, but who was also sensational and smart, and had a flashy way of going with head and tail carried high.
"That's Attaboy," said Cassowary to Dallas. "We call him 'Peacock Attaboy' when Big Chief isn't round. Doesn't he cut a dash?"
"Big Chief likes that," said Dallas softly. Then he burst into laughter.
Little Big Wig, both arms round the neck of his tiny sturdy miniature work-horse pony, was galloping down the road and would soon be out of sight.
I gazed after them, my heart in my mouth. That was the Master of Bressay—that little piebald creature with the pale blue eyes, and Bressay was the island that a little pony friend of mine had come from—a dear little friend who died. I recalled the many stories he had told me of his home island and decided that of all the ponies the Master of Bressay would be my favourite. My longing eyes followed him as he tore along, as safe as a table for the child, his fuzzy-wuzzy body looking like an Angora cat blown the wrong way by the wind. There was no Arabian blood in him. He was part Shetland and part Icelandic, and as little Big Wig had said, "Not very well-bred."
Flashing by us after Big Wig was Dovey on a donkey, and my young master just yelled with enjoyment.
"I didn't notice it before," he cried. "Why hasn't she a pony? Oh! isn't he funny with his long ears and that queer tail with so little hair on it?"
"She wanted a donkey," said Cassowary, "and she got it. Dad said, 'Anything you like, children, in the shape of horseflesh.' She just loves her Jack Bray, and I tell you he has speed and endurance in that angular leggy body of his, and you just ought to see him rub her shoulder ever so gently with his creamy old muzzle. He loves her, and she is so good to him. Your Bonnie Prince Fetlar will have to fight for his carrots now," and she put out a hand and stroked me kindly.
"What's Sojer's pony's name, and what kind is he?" asked Dallas.
"He's an Exmoor—climbs banks and leaps ditches like a wild creature."
"What's his name, Cousin?"
"Exmoor Pendennis, but we call him Hendennis because last winter he let Biddy Pilgrim roost on his back all through the cold weather. She's pretty long-headed, and had found out he was a perpetual electric cushion. The men for fun let her sleep in the stable. Henny got to love his Plymouth Rock, and she will never be killed. 'Pon my word! she's running to meet him."
Ponies and horses all this time had been joyfully making their way toward their stable quarters, and Biddy, seeing them entering the farmyard, had singled out the Exmoor and was fluttering excitedly about him.
"And some people say hens have no sense," remarked Dallas.
"Just as much sense as anybody," said Cassowary, who never lost a chance to champion the cause of the lower creation. "Now isn't it pathetic to see Mrs. Biddy pecking the pony's hoofs so lovingly, and now he's putting his head down—he's glad to see her."
"Champ's pony is the only one you haven't introduced," said Dallas. "What's his name?"
"He's David Wales. I like him better than Big Chief's Hackney. Notice his snappy and free way and his good head and neck. I tell you he's a well-formed little fellow, and fine for rough districts. The Welsh ponies are always rugged and thrifty sort of creatures. I don't like them as well as other kinds for small children. Champ is just old enough to manage him."
"Is he vicious?" asked my young master.
"Not a bit, but he wants a firm hand. There's heaps of go in him. Come on, let's run up to the stable and have a crack wi' Jock. He's a University graduate and has dandy manners—son of an old friend of Dad's—came here for his health. Wait till you hear him play the violin.
and the young girl began to dance her way toward the stable yard, while Apache Girl zigzagged behind her.
My young master, not to be outdone by anyone, began to dance, too, and sing, and his beautiful voice soon drowned Cassowary's for he forgot all about her.
he sang, for he, too was learning to make up doggerel as fast as his cousins.
Didn't I do my best steps to this jingle, and Apache Girl seeing me prance so well, began to look on me with more favor.
"Where do you come from?" she asked.
"The United States of America."
She neighed quite shrilly. "My ancestors were brought to America by the Spaniards."
"Indeed," I said gently. "They were a very high-class race."
"They were capable of very severe work under the saddle," she said, "and they got it."
"Well!" I replied, "Shetlands can do most anything. I'm not proud. I know my ancestors used to help the crofters with their work, notably in carrying panniers of peat."
"But you are very first-class," she said with a side glance at me from her queer eyes, "though you are a cross-breed."
"I'm valued pretty well," I said modestly, "though I stand a bit high—I hope we may be friends. I'm very devoted to your young mistress."
She tossed her head and said nothing, and I thought it wise to make no further advances, and trotted soberly beside her into the stable.
Cassowary was running in from the supply room with a framed name in her hand—"Apache Girl," and many ribbons hanging from it.
"There, my beauty," she said, hanging it up in the stall. "Come in and have some oats."
Jock, or to give him his real name, Mr. John Alexander Macdonald, who had been chaffing the boys, came forward and took off his cap.
Cassowary shook hands with him in a sober way, but flashed her white teeth at him.
Oh! what a nice young man he was, and so devoted to his ponies and horses. He was not at all good-looking. His hair was sandy and his complexion freckled, but the kindness of his face and the charm of his manner made up for the absence of good looks.
He stood as straight as one of the stall posts, and talked about farm matters in as interested a way as if the place belonged to him.
"We missed you," said Cassowary. "Dad and Mother don't like to play without their second fiddle."
"And I missed you," he said. "It was often lonely over the mountain."
"But camping out is great fun," said Champ. "Me for the open."
"Dallas, come here," said Cassowary suddenly to my young master, who was in the background.
It pleased me immensely to see that the young man could not keep the admiration out of his eyes when he shook hands with my dear young master.
"And he sings," exclaimed Cassowary. "Won't he be an addition to our choir!"
Big Chief, who was in a nearby stall picking the hoofs of his Hackney as he had got some small stones in them on his trip home, gave a kind of groan. He hated to hear anyone praise Dallas.
Cassowary was just going to snap at Big Chief when she caught sight of the fire warden's red canoe coming up the lake.
"He's got the mail, he's got the mail," she cried, and in two seconds there wasn't a child in the stable.
"Stop a bit, little fellow," said Mr. Macdonald to me. "I want to give you the once-over."
However, I was so impatient that he kindly let me go, after a preliminary canter only over my points.
I always loved to see the mail come in. The big leather bag was handed to Mrs. Devering, who sat on the veranda and opened it with as much ceremony as if it had been a Christmas parcel. There were always surprises in it, for the Deverings had many kind friends and relatives, many of whom thought they were banished in this attractive place.
To-day the mail was unusually heavy. So many letters and such nice books and magazines came tumbling out, and among them was a fat little package for Dallas.
He took it so joyfully, dear lad, and opened it speedily, not knowing that its sweet contents were to bring him much sorrow.
CHAPTER XIX CASSOWARY LOSES HER TEMPER ONCE
John and Margie had sent him six chocolate eggs stuffed with cream.
"It isn't Easter," squealed Dovey delightedly.
"No," said Dallas, "but John and Margie know that I love them."
"They're deliciouth," lisped little Big Wig, whereupon Dallas promptly gave him one.
Two of the others he shared with the bigger children, then he put the box under his arm.
He had scarcely tasted them himself, and I knew by his look that he was going to share these other three with someone who did not get as many dainties as these children. He was a most generous lad.
I saw his glance go toward the kitchen, then the lake. Ah! that meant Bingi and Bolshy—but the third one. Perhaps he would keep that for himself. I hoped he would and I followed him as he sauntered slowly toward the log cabin.
Arrived there he stared up at the wheat mow. Ah! I might have known. That third egg was for his Cousin Cassowary, who had been so kind in explaining things about the farm to him. She had a cache in the straw where she put things she did not wish her sister and brothers to see, and one day in a moment of confidence she had shown it to Dallas.
The lad went cautiously up the ladder. I knew he was going to lay the egg among Cassowary's treasures. What a joyful surprise she would get when she found it, for it was a nice large egg just stuffed with the rich cream that I like myself.
Alas! She discovered him in the act. Her grandmother had sent her some nuts and she was coming in her swift stealthy way to hide them.
She saw me standing by the ladder and heard the tell-tale rustling above. Then like a flash she was up on the mow, and had my poor young master by the collar.
The children had a very naughty trick of stealing from each other, and she was so sure that she had caught a culprit that she gave him no chance for explanation.
I was furiously angry as I heard her, beating him and dragging him round on the straw, but also delighted that he uttered no cry for mercy.
Finally she sent him flying down the ladder, and he stood before me grinning sheepishly and trying to look as if he didn't mind the blood trickling from his poor nose.
The collar was torn from his shirt, and his coat was besmeared with chocolate.
"You're a gay looking guy," said someone from the doorway, and turning round we saw Big Chief.
"What you been doing?" he went on, and Dallas remarked cheerfully, "Trying to give a present to a girl."
"You've crossed Cassowary," said Big Chief, "and she's a bad one to cross. Has she got her nest up there?"
Dallas shrugged his shoulders and did not reply.
Oh! how indignant I was with that naughty girl. I stamped and whinnied and looked up at the loft just to tease her, and Big Chief, with a knowing glance at me, began to climb the ladder, but very cautiously for he feared that he, too, might meet with a warm reception.
Cassowary had been cunning enough to keep quiet when she heard her brother's voice, but when she saw his head, she flew at him, and shouting with glee he beat a speedy retreat.
My young master, breathing painfully, sat down on a box, and put his hand to his side.
Suddenly there was a low cry from above, then a voice reading—"This chocolate egg is for my kind Cousin Cassowary."
"Oh! Oh!" said the girl coming down the ladder like a cat, and standing before Dallas. "Why didn't I look before I leaped?"
Dallas shook his head. "Lots of people don't, Cassowary."
"Oh! boy, boy," she cried, "I didn't dream you were giving me your lovely eggs, and now they're all smashed and my nuts have rolled in corners and I haven't anything. What an idiot I am!"
Dallas pressed his lips together. He was not going to tell her that she was to have only one of the eggs. However, she glanced at the paper in her hand and said, "Why you say 'egg'—for whom were the others?"
"Bolshy and Bingi."
"I'll have to give them something," she said. "Oh! what a wicked girl I am. I should not have been so quick—and your poor nose is bleeding again. Here, take my handkerchief. I don't know what Mother will say."
"Will you have to tell her?" asked Dallas in a choked voice.
Oh! how afraid I was that he would persuade her to keep the affair a secret. I wanted her punished. She had been too swift. She was too sure of herself anyway for a girl her age.
"Certainly," she sighed. "I'll go just as soon as your nose stops bleeding—what a mess you are in. I wonder whether Prince Pony would eat that chocolate?" and she made a sudden dash up the ladder and came back with some sticky brown stuff on a bit of the cardboard box.
I turned my head away. I was not going to help her clean up.
"Your Prince is indignant," she said. "He despises me. Oh! come away to the house. Maybe when I'm punished I'll feel better," and she dragged Dallas down to the veranda where her sensible mother sat quietly reading letters.
Mrs. Devering put up her eyebrows when she saw the state my dear young master was in, then she listened to Cassowary's mournful story.
Her arm was round the sobbing girl, for her dark eyes told her that the grinning cheerful Dallas did not need any sympathy.
"I am glad that your father is away, dearie," she said to Cassowary. "This would have distressed him terribly. Dallas is your guest and your cousin. I wonder what we can do to these young hands to make them remember not to offend against the laws of hospitality?"
"M-m-make them sew," gurgled Cassowary. "They just hate it."
Mrs. Devering was slowly caressing the girl's long brown fingers. "Poor little hands," she said gently, "poor little hands."
"And bad brain," said Cassowary, "bad, bad brain that makes the hands act so shamefully."
"Dallas," said Mrs. Devering, "is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, thank you, Aunt Bretta. I'm all right. Please don't fuss."
"Kindly put on a fresh shirt," said Mrs. Devering, "and give this one to Cassowary to wash and mend, and you, Girlie, come to your room with me."
"I—I'm just like an Indian in the woods," said Cassowary with a last burst of contrition.
Mrs. Devering turned an almost frightened face to me as I trotted along the veranda beside them. Then her eyes went through an open door to a picture that hung on the wall in Cassowary's room. It was that of a favourite cousin of Mrs. Devering's, and I had often heard her tell the girl that she hoped she would grow up to be as good as this cousin.
"My child," she said, "good Indians restrain their passions. Sit down there by the window and I will read to you."
After a time she left her daughter, and for the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon we could see the girl sitting sewing slowly, often breaking her thread and stopping to rub her sticky needle on her clothes.
Once when I was near I heard her muttering something she seemed to be learning from a book,
Well! she needed considerably more calmness and serenity before she would make the woman her mother was. However she was young, poor girl—I must not be too hard on her, but before the day was over, I was wishing most earnestly that she had been sent to bed and kept there until her temper had really left her excitable young body.
Her father did not come home till the middle of the afternoon, but in the meantime the work of the farm went on as usual.
Mr. MacDonald was helping Mr. Talker experiment with a new machine that cut down trees close to the roots.
My young master was much interested in this small saw which was operated by a little motor. He followed the men for some time and saw them fell some old dead trees on the hill, then he watched the Macedonian and another man working in the hay field.
Finally he brought up beside Big Chief who was repairing a sheep rack back of the barn.
The younger children had all been on their ponies' backs scurrying up and down the road, finally turning their pets loose outside the gates where they moved about cropping the short sweet grass and clover by the foot paths or lifting their heads to look lovingly at their beloved owners.
Jack Gray had a very amusing manner, and a most original way of moving his long ears. He was always classed with the ponies as there was no other donkey about the place, and the little Master of Bressay had already whispered to me in confidence that it made Jack very angry to be called a donkey. He had been so much with ponies that he thought he was one.
Big Chief, flattered by his cousin's interest, jerked out remarks as he hammered and sawed.
"Best way to feed sheep is on ground—if ground is muddy, feed in racks. Sheep should get heads in racks. To prevent wool from being pulled from necks slats should be smooth and not too close together."
My young master became so interested that he got another hammer and began to nail too, and I, hearing Dovey calling to her younger brothers to come to the house, trotted over to see what they were going to do.
"Want to come, Prince?" she asked. "We're going to bring Barklo home."
I bowed my head and went gaily along beside her and Sojer and little Big-Wig.
Suddenly she stopped and pushing back her square cut hair from her forehead said, "I'm hot—I think Big Chief's mean."
"Was he told to come for Barklo?" asked Sojer.
"Yes, Mother asked him but he was lazy."
"You little goose," I thought. "Big Chief is working harder now than if he were sauntering along this lovely lake road."
"He's too bossy with us," said Sojer fiercely.
"Yeth" lisped little Big Wig, "I've a great mind to give him a thlap thome day."
Young Dovey, far from dreaming that she was to play the part of a firebrand and that she would be assisted by her big sister, gabbled on about Big Chief's tiresome ways until they came to the Widow Detover's small brown house set in a garden having an orchard behind it.
There was a whitewashed fence about the garden and opening the gate they all went up a brick walk to the open front door.
A thoroughbred Airedale came bounding out and almost ate them up.
Behind him appeared the funny fat little widow, who had an enormous chest and breathed with difficulty.
She called them "My dears," and invited them into a cool little parlour with old-fashioned furniture covered with horsehair and having a stuffed animal in each corner of the room.
I looked in the window. I detest stuffed animals. They often have moths in them and usually smell queer, and I can't understand what pleasure deadly musty creatures can give to human beings.
The bear cub, fox, wildcat and raccoon all seemed to be staring at the strange sight of a good-sized lamb lying on a red blanket.
It was a soiled and wilted kind of a lamb who was terribly bored at being kept in the house this warm day.
"How is your poor animal?" inquired Dovey in a grown-up way.
"Some better," said the widow. "Cheer up, Constancy, and look at your nice callers."
The lamb looked strangely at the children, then put her head down on the sofa cushion.
"It's bitters time, sweetheart," said the widow, and going to the mantel she took up a black bottle and holding back the lamb's lip poured some down her throat.
"What a pity you're thuch a gooth," said young Big Wig indignantly.
His sister and brother looked shocked, and the widow hopeless.
"What does he say?" she asked. "I can't understand his dear little gibberish."
Dovey didn't want to tell her that Big Wig had called her a goose, so she said falteringly, "I think Big Wig thinks that your three acre field was too much for the lamb."
Big Wig was going on, "My Daddy saith widowth mean to Conthanthy. She thould have let me cut grath with my mower."
"Did your father think I was wrong to ask the lamb to eat the grass in my field?" exclaimed the widow.
Dovey glanced at Sojer but he would not open his young mouth, so she said politely, "Dad thought Constancy was pretty small, and the field was pretty big. She was lost in that grass—and Dad thinks she's lonely. Why don't you put her with our sheep?"
"She's not lonely with that dog," said the widow bristling up.
"But that dogth our dogth," broke in Big Wig, "and we ith going to take him home."
The widow broke into a wailing. The lamb would die without the dog and she was a lonely creature. Couldn't they spare her one animal out of their abundance?
Big Wig who was the only one not embarrassed said simply to Barklo, "Doth you want to sthay here?"
"Oh! no, no," barked the Airedale, "I'm dying of homesickness. This woman is a fat old fuss. She doesn't know how to take care of animals—Constancy, get off that sofa and run to my lovely home with me."
Constancy promptly did as she was bid, and the widow began to mourn. "You're all going to leave me. I won't stay here alone. I'll put on my bunnit and go along with you—Constancy, I'm ashamed of you."
The lamb who was just following the dog out the doorway turned round. "Ba-a-a, I'm tired of you. I hate this sofa and those stuffed animals and your grass made me sick. I want a change of diet and to live with my own kind."
"Mrs. Detover," said Dovey, "come and call on Mother. She is a great one to straighten things out."
The widow nodded, then as she came to the window to pull down the blind she said, "Why, drat that pony—he's on my lilies of the valley. Shoo! Pony."
I wasn't on her lilies, but I ran on beside Barklo and Constancy who were talking to each other in low voices.
"Don't go back," said the dog. "She'll kill you. She means well but she's one of those persons who should never have an animal to bring up—Hello! Pony, I've heard of you. What do you think of that old woman?"
"I agree with Big Wig," I said drily.
"Mrs. Devering will settle her," said Barklo as we trudged along. "Oh! how glad I am to get home. How glad, how glad! No one knows how hard it is for a dog to do his duty."
"You'll appreciate your home all the more for having done your duty," I said.
Barklo didn't hear me. He was leaping to meet Champ who was coming up from the wharf carrying some rowlocks in his hand.
Champ embraced him, then turned to his sister and brothers who were alone now, the widow having gone trotting up to the veranda where she saw Mrs. Devering sitting; the lamb, after a glance at her, trailing happily after the dog.
The boy was annoyed, and Dovey said, "What's fretting you?"
"Big Chief sent me for these," he said, jingling the rowlocks. "He promised them to Mr. Talker for his boat. Why didn't he get them himself? I'm not his slave!"
This was enough for the young ones, and they started another indignation meeting, finally agreeing that they would not wait on their big brother any more. The next time he gave an order they would turn on him.
"He'll strike you," remarked Big Wig cheerfully.
"Let him strike," said Champ. "We'll strike back. He's getting too big for his boots. I wish Dad would lick him."
CHAPTER XX CASSOWARY LOSES HER TEMPER TWICE
"Oh! the troubles of youth, the troubles of youth," I said to myself as I ran up to the barnyard. "They are as important to these growing creatures as the troubles of older years are to the grown-ups."
Young Dallas was not with Big Chief now. He was strolling gloomily to and fro, hands in pockets and occasionally kicking a pebble from his path.
What had happened? Big Chief was going on with his work whistling noisily and rudely. He must have done something to insult my young master. I had never before seen that angry frown on Dallas' pleasant face.
Presently the four younger children came slowly up and Champ threw the rowlocks down at Big Chief's feet. "There! Mr. Bully, the next time you want anything, you go yourself."
Big Chief stared angrily, then stepped forward.
"Would you hammer me?" asked Champ.
Big Chief promptly dropped the hammer, but his hand shot out and catching Champ by the collar he shook him.
He didn't hurt him. He was merely warning him. I was standing near and saw it all, but the cross tired little Dovey thought he was hurting her brother, and giving a squeal she threw herself on Big Chief's back.
As if this had been a signal Sojer caught Big Chief's arm, and little Big Wig clasped his tiny hands round one of his legs.
It was amusing at first. Big Chief, who of course at heart loved his sister and brothers and did not want to hurt them, stood struggling with the four, and to make matters worse at this instant my young master attempted to take the part of the children.
It is always dangerous to interfere in a purely family row. We ponies used to notice that if we were having a scrap among ourselves and the horses stepped in, it always made more trouble than if we were let alone.
However my dear young master could not be expected to know as much about quarrelling as a pony of my age, so he gallantly tried to make Big Chief release Champ as he stood still holding him by the coat collar.
The worst stroke of all came now when Cassowary sent by her mother came flying up to tell the children that their father was coming.
Excited and repentant, and feeling very tender toward Dallas, she arrived just when Big Chief in trying to push away this fifth young one to attack him, had the misfortune to strike Dallas' nose still tender from Cassowary's beating.
It began to bleed, and Cassowary seeing this flew at her big brother and picking off his assailants as if they had been little leeches started to dress him down herself.
I heard afterward that the girl rarely lost complete control of herself, but when she did she was a perfect little fury.
In the midst of her kicking and scratching, Mr. Macdonald came sauntering from the stable and interposing his sturdy arms between the children said, "Bless you, young ones—this is a sight I have never seen here before."
"It's all his fault," panted Cassowary, glaring at Big Chief; "he's getting uglier and uglier to the little ones. He's a beast."
"Come! Come!" said the young man soothingly. "Your brother is a fine lad. These are only growing spasms. He'll get over them. He's head of the house when your father is away. You should obey him."
Cassowary stamped her foot at him. "You, you Old Countryman," she said furiously, "with your law of primo—primo——"
"Primogeniture," he said, squinting up his eyes at her angry face.
"What does that mean?" whispered Barklo to me.
"Rule of the first-born," I said, "an Old Country idea."
"Cassowary looks as old as her brother," he said, "and acts older."
Cassowary was spluttering on, "We're Canadians—it's share and share alike here. The eldest brother isn't going to have everything."
"Easy now, Miss Cassowary," said Mr. Macdonald. "Shake hands and make up."
But she wouldn't shake hands and make up, and the young man, hearing Mr. Talker calling him, swung on his heel and went to the stable.
Cassowary stepped up to her brother and said in a low ugly voice, "There's one in this family adopted—I heard the parents say so one day when they didn't know I was near. I'm sure it's you. You don't act like us and we all hate you."
This was such an alarming statement that we all gasped—all that were there. The four younger children seeing their father coming in the green canoe had run down to the house.
My young master, who was nursing his poor sore nose, dropped the hand holding the handkerchief. Big Chief was staring speechlessly at his sister and Dallas stammered, "Cassowary, d-don't jest. You're tormenting Big Chief. Say it's a joke."
Cassowary was not joking, I saw that, and she was no longer upset. She was mistress of herself now and very cool and collected.
"Can't you see that you don't look like us?" she went on. "Look at your round head, your stubby fingers, your small eyes. We have long heads, slender hands, and large eyes."
The bewildered Big Chief turned his hands over and stared at them. Then he put one of them up to his face.
"Oh! girl, girl, have mercy," I felt like pleading, but alas! I could not speak. I pushed myself forward a bit, but she, always such a lover of animals, gave me a calm slap that sent me back pretty quick from the circle of human beings. I must just sorrowfully submit.
The grief in Big Chief's eyes was dreadful. Scales seemed to have fallen from them. It did not occur to him evidently to doubt her statement. Oh! how could she make him suffer so, even if what she said were true.
He turned and stared at Dallas as if begging him to help him.
"Cousin Cassowary," said Dallas, "you have always played the game as I have noticed you. On your word of honor, do you really believe that your brother is adopted?"
Such a strange cold unloving light glowed in her eyes. "On my word of honor," she said sulkily. "I have believed it for a long time, but I would never have said it if he had not been so disagreeable lately to the rest of us."
Alas! poor laddie, he had brought this trouble on himself, and Dallas turned to him in deep compassion. He longed to say or do something to comfort him, but how could he manage with a nose that would not behave itself. However after a few minutes of dreadful silence, he stepped close to Cassowary, and holding his handkerchief pressed close against his face, spoke in a loving indistinct way.
"Dear Cassowary, Big Chief was not hurting the children. They all flew at him. I see now that it would have been better for me not to have interfered."
Cassowary turned to him. "Big Chief has been perfectly nasty to you. Not one good word have you had from him since you came. You are better looking, better behaved, and you would make a better brother than Big Chief. I wish you were my elder brother. If he runs away and hides his disgrace as he should, for any day he could be turned out in the cold world, you, as our cousin, could take his place."
Was the girl bewitched? Dallas was so shocked that for a moment he could not speak. Then he took Cassowary by the shoulder. "Cousin—you don't know what you're talking about. It's awful not to have a mother and a father. Don't take away your family from your adopted brother. Big Chief is all right—look at him," and he seized her hand as if to lead her to him.
She pulled it from him, and he said sadly, "Our good kind Cassowary has gone away. We shall have to wait till she comes back."
"She will never come back," said Cassowary coldly over her shoulder as she started to walk to the house. "I am grown up now. I have had so much trouble lately."
Big Chief sat with terrified eyes fixed on her retreating back, and when she was out of sight he got up and staggered to Dallas as if to say, "Don't you too leave me."
"Come on in out of sight," said my young master pityingly, and he led the boy to my stall.
They sat down on a box, and with his arm thrown over Big Chief's shoulder Dallas told wonderful stories he had heard of kind people adopting children and thinking as much of them as if they were their own.
His talk floated to me as I stood in the doorway. I don't think the suffering boy heard a word he said, and when presently a voice was heard—— "Dallas, Big Chief—where are you?" the boy exclaimed, "It's Dad—I can't meet him. You go, Dallas—I'll hide."
By this time I had sauntered into my stall and was pretending to lick my revolving salt cake.
Big Chief darted in and hid behind me, and presently we two were all alone in the stable.
I had seen boys suffer but never like this, and in my pony mind I could not help comparing this lad with my young master, who in like circumstances would not have sorrowed without hope.
My master was spiritual and refined. This boy was of the earth earthy. I saw he had valued most his proud position as the eldest son of a rich man—now everything was swept from him. He knew what adopted children usually were—foundlings from the street. Probably he was a boy without a name, without a family, and these kind persons had adopted him and treated him with such kindness that it had spoiled him and he had in his pride turned the children of his benefactors into such active enemies that, as Cassowary said, they all hated him.
How did I know what was going through his mind?
By his disjointed sentences and suffering exclamations. He grovelled in a corner on my bedding, his hot face in his hands.
How I longed to comfort him, but I could do nothing, for when I put my head down to him he pushed it away.
What a pity that he was not more of a man! His trouble was serious, but it was not hopeless, and at last to my joy he got up, straightened his clothing, and going to a small looking glass on a post arranged his tie, then dipping his handkerchief in the running water in my stall mopped his flushed and swollen face with it.
Then he came back and stared at me strangely. "I can't stand it—I shall run away. Shall I take this fellow or my own?—— My own," he repeated.
"Oh! my heart," and he laid his head on his arm and sobbed like a baby. "I have nothing—I own nothing—I am a nobody."
Finally there was another call, "First-born, First-born—where are you?"
He trembled from head to foot. That was his father's very choicest pet name for him, bestowed only in moments of great affection. Springing to the harness-room, he hid himself in a closet while I paced slowly out and met Mr. Devering, who greeted me kindly and said, "What have you done with my lad, Bonnie Prince? They said he was with you."
I saw in a flash that Cassowary had either lied or was mistaken. No man could look like that when he spoke of a boy that was not his own. Oh! how could this boy doubt his father? However I could not honourably lead the way to the spot where the unhappy lad was hiding, so I stepped out beside Mr. Devering and went with him down to the house where I took my usual station under the lilacs, my ears turned forward to catch all that was going on.
The family was having afternoon tea in honour of Mr. Devering's arrival, and a table laden with cakes, bread and jam and hot muffins was set out on the veranda. Mrs. Devering was pouring tea and Champ and Mr. Macdonald passed the cups.
At first they talked about the poachers, and then Mrs. Devering, with the children hanging on her words, told her husband all about Bolshy's midnight visit.
When anyone told Mr. Devering of anything wrong that had been done, this good man never showed temper. He always said, "Why did So-and-So do this naughty thing, and what can we do to help him?"
In case of the poachers, he had been for punishment. In the case of Bolshy, he said, "Our Russian friend is in the melting-pot, thanks to Denty and Dallas. Now what can the rest of us do to keep the home fires burning?"
The family discussed a number of plans, and it was Mrs. Devering who finally said, "He is a stranger in a strange land. Let us do something to remind him of home."
"Good!" said her husband. "Now, Jock, my lad, your turn."
"Show your Russian pictures in the school-house," said the young man, grinning cheerfully over his delicious cup of tea.
"Fine!" exclaimed Mr. Devering. "Now, children," and he turned to the younger ones.
Cassowary, who was eating a piece of sponge cake with the calm air of a saint who feels a halo round her head, said sweetly, "If I were a girl alone in Russia, I should think of my dear home and my loving mother, also my religion," and she rolled her eyes piously in the direction of the attractive white chapel up the road built for the settlement by Mrs. Devering's mother.
"Oh! you naughty girl," I wanted to whinny, while her father said joyfully, "Right you are, girlie. We'll practise some Russian chants and have a men's chorus behind a screen as they have in the Greek Church—but tell me everyone, where is my boy?" and he looked restlessly about.
Cassowary got up in a leisurely way and said, "I will get him. I think he has a toothache."
"Well! if you are not a masterpiece," I thought to myself, "and who is the story-teller now?" and I walked after her as she sauntered toward the stable.
"Prince Fetlar," she said flicking me gently in the face with her handkerchief, "seems to me you take a great interest in the personal affairs of this family. Go right back to your lilacs and don't forget that you are adopted too."
"You young witch!" I thought, as I turned and went confusedly back to stand in my shrubbery stall.
I don't know what she said to Big Chief, but she came back presently, stepping lightly beside him.
He was clothed and in his right mind, but both eyes were swollen and his face was flushed. He agreed with her little lie about his toothache, but I had a heartache as I saw him throw his arms about his father's neck and say, "Oh! Dad."
Mr. Devering drew back and stared at him. "Why, First-Born! what unusual effusion. I do believe you value your parent after all."
Dear man! so good, but so blind just now. The boy thought he was taking a last farewell of the person he loved better than anyone else.
I was proud of him when he went to sit beside his mother. Never before had he waited on her so politely, though he ate nothing himself.
The expression in his eyes seemed to puzzle her. I watched her carefully as she examined him. I have seen a good many mothers and a good many children and I have seen a few adopted children. There is a difference. A mother looks at her own child in a peculiar way—a way a man does not.
The father had accepted the explanation of the toothache, the mother doubted it. The boy could not deceive her. She was too clever in mother sense.
After the tea table had been taken away, Mr. Devering called Big Chief to him and began to ask him questions about the ailing tooth.
Mrs. Devering however drew the boy to her. "I think, Daddy," she said, "that it is more headache than toothache. I am going to put him to bed and bathe his head."
Big Chief followed her with this same head hanging low.
I stepped along by the veranda until I came to his room. His bed was near the window. It would not be put out till later.
She made him lie down and seeing he was disinclined to talk, she sat by him till it was time for the other children to come in to supper.
After supper the children were very quiet, and before they went to bed, every boy Jack and every girl Jill came to say good-night to their big brother.
Little Big Wig, who had evidently heard the older ones pitying the sick one, said as he reached up to kiss him, "We're thorry, boy, we'll not sthrike you again."
"What's that?" asked Mrs. Devering sharply. "Have you children been beating your brother?"
"Oh! rubbish," said Big Chief, "it's only the kid's fun. Good-night, young one," and I heard the sound of a hearty boyish kiss. Alas! poor lad, it was another farewell.
Cassowary did not kiss him. I heard her calmly wishing him a good sleep from the doorway.
Then Mr. Devering came, put his boy's bed outside and wishing him pleasant dreams went with his wife and Mr. Macdonald into the living room, where the three sang Canadian songs most cheerfully for an hour before going to bed.
The harmonious sound floated out of the house across the water and also up to the stables.
How animals love music when not too near them.
I could not stay long in my lilac quarters that night. My head was full of business and I fairly galloped to the Hackney pony's stall.
He must be told that his young master intended to run away from home that night, and he must be induced to concoct some plan with me by which we could keep him from carrying out his rash plan.
CHAPTER XXI A FLIGHT BY NIGHT
"Attaboy," I said as I stood behind him in his stall, "may I come in? I wish to whisper something in your ear."
Now I knew quite well that he was jealous of me. He had got all the farm news from the other creatures since he came home, so I was not surprised when he turned his stylish head and showed me a cold eye.
The stable was as light as day. The sun had gone down but the electric lights were all on for Mr. Devering liked his animals to be cheerful.
My skin quivered as I felt that cold eye travelling up and down and across me.
At another time I might have yielded to this nervousness (for I hate any creature to dislike me) and run away. Now however there was too much at stake, and I tried to make myself feel as calm as an old pony for was I not working for my dear young master.
"I am not deaf," said Attaboy at last. "I can hear you from where you stand. You did well to speak. I should have kicked if you had come near me without warning."
"I am not as stupid as that," I said. "A horse's stall is his castle. No one should enter without speaking. Many a man gets kicked for that—from fright," I added hastily, as Attaboy glared at me. "Not through viciousness."
"Well!" he said curtly, "go on—what do you want?"
"Your young master is going to run away from home to-night."
"Really," he said sarcastically, "and you suppose I know nothing of it?"
I saw there was no use in fencing with this fellow. He was in an ugly mood, so I would play up to him.
"Of course you know nothing of it," I said. "I stumbled on it by accident. I came here to plead with you to keep him at home."
"And what business is it of yours?" he asked, "if my master chooses to take a night ride?"
He whinnied so shrilly that all the ponies stopped eating and listened to what he was saying.
They were in a row beyond him. First came my stall, then Apache Girl's, then Attaboy's, the Exmoor's, David Wales', the Welsh pony's, the donkey's, and the dear little Master of Bressay's.
I stood in the alley way, and behind me and opposite the ponies were the stalls of Largs and Dalry, the two well set-up Clydesdales, and the saddle horses Patsie McSquirrel and Backwoods Beauty.
It was quite a congress of horseflesh, and I was just as well pleased to have everybody hear, for I might want some help before I got through with this stubborn Attaboy.
"Your young master is in a desperate frame of mind," I said.
"Boys often run away from home," he replied indifferently, "it is a common thing for them to do when peeved."
"But this boy, I tell you, is in a terrible state. He thinks Mr. and Mrs. Devering are not his real parents."
Patsie McSquirrel put in a word there. "Sure there is one adopted child in the family. Prince Fetlar is right there, but I don't know which one it is."
"He haw! he haw!" brayed young Jack suddenly; "it isn't my little Dovey."
"Nor my cute little young master," shrilled out the small Bressay.
"Nor my Sojer," called out the Welsh pony, and he neighed irritably.
"And it's certainly not Master Champ," said the Exmoor haughtily. "He's the dead image of his father."
"And it's not my master either," said Attaboy fiercely, "I'll kick any horse who says so."
Apache Girl was the only one who did not lift her voice. She kept a proud silence, but we all knew what she thought. Her adored young mistress looked as much like her mother as a younger sister, although she certainly did not act like her.
"Attaboy," I said suddenly, "I believe you're right. I think young Big Chief is making a dreadful mistake, but it doesn't matter what we think, it's what he thinks. Upon my word, I'm afraid he might drown himself."
"Well you may just save yourself that suspicion," said Attaboy disagreeably. "He has too much sense to do anything so idiotic. He may run away, but he'll never hurt that precious body of his."
"He went without his supper to-night," I said solemnly.
At that, there were sounds of general consternation in the stable, and for the first time they all believed that the matter was serious.
All the horse family knows the importance of food. This was sad news that a healthy growing boy should refuse to eat.
"What do you want me to do?" asked Attaboy shortly. "You've got some plan in your head. I feel that."
"When that lad comes up here to-night and saddles you," I said, "I want you to pretend to go lame."
"What for?" he asked in astonishment.
"So that he may take me. I'll be hanging round—he knows I'm a racer. He'll slip on my back and away we'll go."
"And then?" asked Attaboy angrily.
"I have a plan for bringing him home."
"And pray," asked Attaboy relapsing into his former cold manner, "why are you taking all this trouble for a boy that isn't your master?"
"Oh! Can't you see," I said earnestly, "at root it is for my dear master. Your boy is jealous of mine. If your boy disappears, my boy may be blamed. To tell the truth, one finger of my master's is dearer to me than the whole body of your queer-acting young master. I'm working for him—the boy that owns me. He's all the world to me. I don't want you all to die, but if I had to choose between him and you, I'd have to sorrowfully see all Devering Farm slip into Fawn Lake!"
I heard a rustling among the bedding as the horses and ponies moved their limbs to help their minds digest my speech.
"Same here," said Attaboy. "You and your master can ride to Hudson Bay for aught I care. Seems to me you're a pair of snobs and bosses anyway."
"Shut up, you fool Hackney," said a sudden voice, and Largs the Clydesdale's heavy neigh filled the stable. "You're insulting this little fellow, who is one of the best bits of ponyflesh I ever saw. Here he is offering to take your master over a dark stretch of road not known to him as it is to you. He may break his leg and he knows it, and we all know what happens when a pony breaks his leg."
"I don't want the new pony shot," wailed a sad voice from the tiny Bressay's stall. "I don't care much about him, but my little Big Wig loves him. He told me so and made me jealous."
"Attaboy," called Apache Girl in her queer sudden voice, "my Cassowary won't want anything to happen to her brother. If you dare to oppose this new little beast, who is as conceited as he is smart, you'll have a mysterious trouble to-morrow that will land you in the hospital stall."
This was a dreadful threat, and everybody kept still for a minute. Then Attaboy said in a would-be boastful voice, "You think you can hurt me. Just you try it."
"I shan't speak again," said Apache Girl. "You all know I speak seldom, but when I do I keep my word. I know some tricks handed down from my Spanish ancestors."
Attaboy was awed. Ponies, like human beings, are afraid of the mysterious. Apache Girl had a bad-tempered streak in her, and her threat really decided him to give in to me.
While he thought matters over, every horse and pony that had not spoken lifted up a voice for me, and when he still did not open his mouth, the enormous Largs addressed him again.
"Good for you, old fellow," I thought as I listened to Largs. "For sound, solid, common sense commend me to a faithful old work-horse."
This is what he said: "Attaboy, you're jealous of this pony, who is much smaller than you in body and much bigger in mind. Get over it, lad. He has more brains than you, he has more self-control. Have you watched him eat?—No?—then do so. He is dainty and particular. He never gobbles, and if his master calls, he leaves his food untouched. Now look at the paving stones in your food box showing that you hog your grain. A pony that has no rein on his appetite will never lead other ponies. You've got to take second place till this little man goes. I know it's hard, for you've tried to be boss of the ponies, but Apache Girl has really been the leader. Give in, give in, my pony. We're all against you. Do as Bonnie Prince Fetlar advises. If you don't, you'll have trouble with Dalry and me, eh! old man?" and he gave his mate an affectionate glance through the open partition between their stalls.
Dalry gave a kind of horse roar. He always stood by his mate. "Attaboy lies down, cow fashion," he said, "and he bites his blanket. I've had my eye on him."
At the mention of these two horse sins, every animal in the stable laughed, and even the high-bred Patsie and Beauty, who usually kept pretty much to themselves, advised Attaboy not to go against the general opinion.
Thoroughly frightened now, he said to me, "Tell me what to do."
"Nothing but to go dead lame. I'll see to the rest."
"How soon am I to be lame?" he asked humbly.
"The minute your young master throws the saddle over you," I replied, and I stepped away from the stable and left the animals to talk things over, though I knew the affair was settled. Attaboy would not dare to go back on me.
I was most anxious to see what was going on down at the house, and I found that Mr. Devering and Mr. Macdonald had gone to their rooms, but Mrs. Devering, with a white wrap over her shoulders, was sitting by her boy's bed on the veranda.
I knew the lad was pretending to sleep in order to get rid of his dear adopted mother as he supposed her to be. For two hours she sat there. Mothers are very patient. Then, with a sigh, she got up and went to her own room.
She had said "Boysie!" several times in a low voice and he had not answered, so knowing he did not wish her to stay she had left him.
Big Chief began to stir about his bed as soon as she went away. He raised his head and glanced at the adorable Lady Moon who was showing him a round disapproving face. Then he sat up in bed.
Hearing a noise, he snuggled down again under the bedclothes.
I stood for another half hour. Then he slipped quietly to his room, threw on his clothes and tiptoeing to the veranda cast a wistful eye toward his parents' room. He did not dare to look in, lest his watchful mother should see him.
I heard him choke back a sob as he stretched out a hand to pat the wondering Barklo, who raised his head from the foot of Big Wig's bed where he lay so comfortably, occasionally glancing at the lamb who slept on the lawn to be near him.
I forgot to say that Mrs. Devering had kindly invited the Widow Detover to visit her until her son came back from some mines in the north.
Now my place was in the stables, and I crept up cautiously by a roundabout way.
There was no Drunkard now careering about in his painstaking manner. His leg bones were slow in uniting and he was still confined to his quarters on the veranda.
Girlie however was on the lookout and as soon as she heard my wary footfalls outside the barn cellar she was beside me.
"All right, old girl," I said, "Barklo's watching. I'm just going to have a little race with old Father Time."
"He'll beat you, Prince," she said sleepily, "he always does," and she crept back to her place beside Guardie.
"Not to-night," I said as I stepped into the stable to see what Attaboy was doing.
To give the Hackney his due I must say that when he had made up his mind to be a pony gentleman, he was one.
As poor Big Chief flung the saddle over his back, Attaboy gave a groan and when the boy told him to follow him from the stable his limp was enough to make one's heart ache.
Big Chief was surprised and sorry, but in an absent-minded way. He stared at him, and then at me as I carelessly strolled near as if to say, "What is going on?"
Even in the midst of his trouble the lad took time to examine his pet hurriedly. Of course he found no cause for lameness and shaking his head he came back to me.
I stood right by the harness-room door. I knew how the boy's mind was working. I was swifter than any of the other ponies but I belonged to his cousin.
He hesitated an instant. Then an ugly look came in his eyes and he seized me by my foretop.
"All right, my boy," I thought. "You'll be paid back for this treachery to my young master. I want you to take me, but you've no business to want to take me. You're going to get the surprise of your young life pretty soon."
He saddled me and bridled me and led me swiftly over the soft grass till we got well outside the farm gates. Then he sprang on my back and away we went.
The road was as familiar to him as the veranda floor, and it was over this same bit of smooth highway that my beloved young master had had his riding lessons from his uncle.