Some huge, unwieldy object had risen and rolled for an instant in the dim air, over Peakslow's house, then disappeared as suddenly.
At the same time Jack and Link appeared, half running, half blown by the tempest up the road. Vinnie watched them from the window, and saw the enormous sloping pillar of dust and leaves, and torn boughs, whirling above their heads, and overwhelming everything in its roaring cloud.
The last she remembered was Jack and Link darting by the corner of the house, and Snowfoot tugging at his halter. Then a strange electric thrill shot through her, the house shook with a great crash, and all was dark.
The storm could not have been two minutes in passing. Then it suddenly grew light, the tempest lulled, the heavens cleared, and in not more than ten minutes the sunset sky was smiling again, a sea of tranquil gold, over the western woods.
Fortunately, only the skirt of the storm had swept over Betterson's house, doing no very serious damage.
When Vinnie looked again from the window, she saw Snowfoot, still tied by the halter, standing with drooping head and tail, wet with rain. Jack, hat in hand, his hair wildly tumbled, was already at the horse's head, laughing excitedly, and looking back at Rufe and Link, who were coming to his side. The buggy, he noticed, had been whirled half-way round by the wind, so that the rear end was turned toward the porch.
Through it all, Lill had clung in terror to Vinnie, whose arms were still about her. Cecie sat in her chair by the supper-table, white and speechless from the electric shock which all had felt, and she more sensibly than the rest. Caroline was in the next room with the child, whose cries, for a while drowned in the terrible uproar, now broke forth again, strenuous and shrill. Mr. Betterson, holding the frightened Chokie, opened the door, and calmly asked the boys if they were hurt.
"We are all right, I guess," cried Rufe. "Wad put for the barn, to make room for the horse and buggy, which I didn't have time to get there. I don't know where Rad is."
Wad now appeared; and at the same time the cattle, started homeward by the storm, came cantering down the woodland road, with the rattling cowbell, and ran for refuge to the barnyard.
"The big oak behind the house, there,—have you seen it?" cried Wad. "It's twisted off. And where's the well-curb?"
"That flew to pieces, and the boards went up into the air like kites,—I saw them," said Link. "Where's the dog?"
"He's in the bushes, or under a log somewhere," Jack replied. "He was shot at once, with a gun held close to his head,—luckily, there was no lead in it. For a long time he was afraid of a gun; and thunder, or any big noise, frightens him even now."
"Some of our fences look pretty flat,—rails tumbled every which way!" said Rufe. "A good deal of damage must have been done south of us."
"Something looks odd over there toward Peakslow's,—what is it?" cried Link.
"Some of the tree-tops by the road have been lopped off," replied Jack.
"That isn't all," said Lord Betterson. "Sure as fate, something has happened to Peakslow's buildings."
"That is what I saw!" Vinnie exclaimed. "Something turned over in the air like the roof of a house."
"I thought just now I heard cries in that direction," said Jack. "Hark a moment!"
"There comes somebody," said Rufe, as a girl of twelve years, barefoot, bonnetless, wild with fright, came running up the road. "It's 'Lecty Ann!"
Out of breath, almost out of her wits, the girl ran as far as the door-yard fence, then stopped, as if unable or afraid to go farther, caught hold of the pickets, and, putting her pale face between them, gasped out something which nobody could understand.
"What is it?—what's the matter?" cried Jack, advancing toward her.
"House—blowed down—covered up!" was all she could articulate.
"Who is covered up?"
"Don't know—some of the folks—pa, I guess."
Jack did not stop to hear more; but, fired with a generous impulse to aid the unfortunate, whoever they might be, gave one backward look, threw up his hand as a signal, shouted "Help, boys!" ran to a length of fence which the wind had thrown down, bounded over like a deer, and was off.
Vinnie followed; but was soon overtaken by Mr. Betterson and the boys, who passed her, as if running a race. Then she heard screams behind; and there was Chokie, sprawling over the prostrate fence, which he had rashly taken, in his eagerness to keep up with Lill.
By the time Chokie was extricated Mrs. Betterson appeared, babe in arms, tottering out of the door, and hastening, in the excitement of the moment, to learn what dreadful catastrophe had overtaken their neighbors.
"Stay with Arthur and your mother," Vinnie said to Lill; "I may do something to help." And away she sped.
'Lecty Ann, met by Mrs. Betterson at the gate, was now able to tell more of her story; and so strange, so tragical it seemed, that Caroline forgot all about her ill health, the baby in her arms, and Cecie left alone in the house, and brought up the rear of the little procession,—Lill and 'Lecty Ann and Chokie preceding her down the road.
They had not gone far, when Lion came out of the woods, with downcast ears and tail, ashamed of his recent cowardly conduct. And so, accompanied by the dog and the children,—Lill lugging the baby at last,—Caroline approached the scene of the disaster.
The whole force of the tornado seemed to have fallen upon Peakslow's buildings. The stable was unroofed, and the barn had lost a door.
The house had fared still worse: it was—even as 'Lecty Ann had said—almost literally "blowed down."
It had consisted of two parts,—a pretty substantial log-cabin, which dated back to the earliest days of the settlement, and a framed addition, called a lean-to, or "linter." The roof of the old part had been lifted, and tumbled, with some of the upper logs, a mass of ruins, over upon the linter, which had been crushed to the ground by the weight.
Mrs. Peakslow and the girls and younger children were in the log-house at the time; and, marvellous as it seemed, all had escaped serious injury.
The boys were in the field with their father, and had run a race with the tornado. The tornado beat. Dud was knocked down within a few rods of the house. Zeph was blown up on a stack of hay, and lodged there; the stack itself—and this was one of the curious freaks of the whirlwind—being uninjured, except that it was canted over a little, and ruffled a good deal, as if its feathers had been stroked the wrong way.
Mr. Peakslow was ahead of the boys; and they thought he must have reached the linter.
Zeph, slipping down from his perch in the haystack, as soon as the storm had passed, and seeing the house in ruins, and his mother and sisters struggling to get out, had run screaming for help down the road toward Mr. Wiggett's. Dud remained; and by pushing from without, while the imprisoned family lifted and pulled from within, helped to move a log which had fallen down against the closed door, and so aided the escape from the house.
'Lecty Ann ran to the nearest neighbor's up the river. The rest stayed by the ruins; and there Lord Betterson and Jack—the earliest on the spot—found them, a terrified group, bewildered, bewailing, gazing hopelessly and helplessly at the unroofed cabin and crushed linter, and calling for "Pa."
"Where is your husband, Mrs. Peakslow?" cried Jack.
"O, I don't know where he is, 'thout he's there!" said the poor woman, with a gesture of despair toward the ruined linter.
"This rubbish must be removed," said Lord Betterson. "If friend Peakslow is under it, he can't be taken out too soon."
And with his own hands he set to work, displaying an energy of will and coolness of judgment which would have astonished Jack, if he had not once before seen something of what was in the man.
Jack and the boys seconded their father; and now Dud came and worked side by side with Wad and Rufe.
A broken part of the roof was knocked to pieces, and the rafters were used for levers and props. The main portion of the roof was next turned over, and got out of the way. Then one by one the logs were removed; all hands, from Lord Betterson down to Link, working like heroes.
Meanwhile, Vinnie did what she could to aid and comfort Mrs. Peakslow; and Caroline and her little company came and looked on.
Mr. Wiggett also arrived, with Zeph, and helped get away the last of the logs.
Under the logs was the crushed shell of the linter; and all looked anxiously, to see what was under that.
A good many things were under it,—pots and kettles, wash-tubs, milk-pans (badly battered), churn and cheese-press, bed and trundle-bed,—but no Peakslow.
It was a disappointment, and yet a relief, not to find him there, after all. But where was he? Dud ran back to the field, to look for him; while the others rested from their labors.
"Did the wind do you much damage, Mr. Wiggett?" Lord inquired.
"Not so much as it mout," replied the old man. "It was mighty suddent. Banged if I knowed what in seven kingdoms was a-gwine to happen. It roared and bellered that orful, I didn't know but the etarnal smash-up had come."
"It must have passed pretty near your house,—I saw it swing that way," said Jack.
"Wal, I reckon you're right thar, young man. It jest took holt o' my cabin, an' slewed one corner on't around about five or six inches; an' done no more damage, in partic'lar, fur's I can diskiver; only, of course, it discomfusticated that ar' noon-mark. I left the ol' woman mournin' over that!"
Jack laughed, and promised to replace the noon-mark.
"There's Dud a-yelling!" said Link.
The roof of the shed—which must have been the object Vinnie saw rise and turn in the air—had been taken off very neatly, with the two gable pieces, whirled over once or more, and then landed gently, right side up with care, on the edge of the potato-patch, two or three rods away. Dud, hunting for his father, passed near it, and heard stifled cries come from under it. He was yelling, indeed, as Link said.
In a moment a dozen feet rushed to the spot, and a dozen hands laid hold of one side of the roof, under which Jack thrust a lever. Some lifted on the lever, while some lifted on the edge of the roof itself; and out crawled—bushy head and hooked nose fore-most—the shaggy shape of the elder Peakslow.
The roof was let down again as soon as Peakslow's legs were well from under it, and a wondering group—men, boys, women, and children—gathered round to see if he was hurt.
"Wal!" said Peakslow, getting upon his feet, giving his clothes a brush with his broad hand, and staring about him, "this is a mighty perty piece of business! Didn't none on ye hear me call?"
"Did you call?" said Mrs. Peakslow, trembling with joy and fright.
"Call?" echoed Peakslow, feeling his left shoulder with his right hand. "I believe I b'en callin' there for the last half-hour. What was ye knockin' that ruf to pieces for? I could hear ye, an' see ye, an' I wanted to put a stop to 't. Hadn't the wind damaged me enough, but you must pitch in?"
"We thought you were under the ruins," Mr. Betterson replied with dignity.
"Thought I was under the ruins! What made ye think that?" growled Peakslow.
"I thought so—I told them so," Mrs. Peakslow explained; while Lord Betterson walked away with calm disgust.
"Ye might 'a' knowed better'n that! Here I was under this ruf all the time. It come over on to me like a great bird, knocked me down with a flop of its wing,—mos' broke my shoulder, I believe; an' when I come to myself, and peeked through a crack, there was a crew knockin' the ruf o' the house to flinders. I was too weak to call very loud, but, if you'd cared much, I should think ye might 'a' heard me. Look a' that house, now! look a' that shed! It's the blastedest luck!"
Jack couldn't help smiling. Peakslow turned upon him furiously.
"You here? So ye think my boy's a thief, do ye?"
"Come, Lion! come, boys!" said Jack, and started to follow Mr. Betterson, without more words.
"Come here and 'cuse my boy o' stealin'!" said Peakslow, turning, and looking all about him, as if he had hardly yet regained his senses. "I had a hat somewheres. Hundred dollars—no, nor two hundred—won't pay the damage done to me this day."
"But the children, they are all safe," said Mrs. Peakslow, "and we ought to be thankful."
"Thankful! Look a' that linter! Three hundred won't do it!"
"O pa!" cried Zeph, "you've got a great gash on the back o' your head!"
"Never mind the gash," said Peakslow, putting up his hand. "That'll heal itself. Holes in the buildin's won't."
Vinnie meanwhile conferred with Jack and Mr. Betterson, as they were about going away; and also called her sister, and afterward Mrs. Peakslow, to the consultation.
"O, I don't know, Lavinia dear!" said Caroline in great distress of mind.
But Lord Betterson spoke out manfully,—
"Lavinia is right. Mrs. Peakslow, we have plenty of spare room in our house, which you are welcome to till you can do better."
"O Mr. Betterson!" the poor woman sobbed out, quite overcome by this unexpected kindness, "you are too good!"
"I beg your pardon," replied Lord Betterson, in his most gracious manner. "We wish simply to do as we might wish neighbors to do by us under similar circumstances. Our boys will help yours get your things over to my house,—whatever you want, Mrs. Peakslow."
Lord did not much mind the woman's outburst of tears and thanks; but when he observed the look of admiration and gratitude in Vinnie's deep eyes, fixed upon him, he felt an unaccustomed thrill.
Mrs. Peakslow went weeping back to her husband.
"I am sorry you spoke as you did," she said. "We all thought you was under the linter; and they was all workin' so hard—as if they had been our best friends—to get you out."
"Best friends!" repeated Peakslow, with a snort of angry contempt.
"Yes, pa; and now,—will you believe it?—now that we haven't a ruf to our heads, they offer us shelter in their house!"
"In the castle?—huh!" sneered Peakslow. "I never thought 't would come to that!"
"Where else can we go?" said Mrs. Peakslow. "It's 'most night,—nights are beginnin' to be cold,—and think o' the children! 'T will be weeks, I s'pose, 'fore ye can rebuild."
"If I couldn't rebuild in all etarnity, I wouldn't set foot in Lord Betterson's castle!" said Peakslow. He looked again at the ruined house, then at the children, and added: "Me an' the boys, we can stop in the stable, or dig holes in the stack, to make ourselves comf'table. Do what you're a min' ter, for the rest. But don't say I told ye to ask or accept a favor of them."
The Bettersons, Vinnie, and Jack were waiting between the ruined house and the road; and Mrs. Betterson was saying, "Lillie, you and I must be going back; remember, we left Cecie all alone; and the evening air is too chill for the baby," when Link cried,—
"Who's that coming down the road?"
All turned; and Vinnie and Jack and Link ran out to look. They could scarcely believe their eyes.
"It can't be!" said Vinnie.
"Yes, it is," exclaimed Link; "it's her—it's her!"
"Who?" Caroline inquired anxiously, dreading some new calamity.
"Cecie! Cecie, sure as the world!" said two or three at once.
It was indeed the little invalid, who, though she had scarcely taken a step without help for many months, was actually coming down the road, walking, and walking fast, without even the crutch she had sometimes tried to use!
She was beckoning and calling. Jack and Vinnie and the boys ran to meet her. She was pale and very much excited, and it was some time before she could speak coherently.
"Radcliff!" was almost her first word.
"What about Radcliff? where is he?" Vinnie asked.
"Gone!"
"Gone where?"
"I don't know. He came into the house—he saw the pocket-book and money on the table—I told him he mustn't take them!"
"And did he?" said Rufe.
"Yes. He only laughed at me. He said his chance had come."
"Which way did he go?"
"He drove up through the woods."
"Drove?" echoed Jack.
"He took the horse and buggy."
"My horse and buggy!" And Jack, followed by Lion and Rufe and Link, started up the road.
Though shocked at Radcliff's conduct, Vinnie thought less of the loss of the money, and of the horse and buggy, than of the seeming miracle in Cecie's case.
"How could you walk so, Cecie?"
"I don't know. I suppose it was the excitement. Strength came to me. I called, but could not make anybody hear, and I thought you ought to know."
Mr. Betterson would have carried her home in his arms, but she would not let him.
"I can walk better and better! That numbness of my limbs is almost gone. I believe I am going to be cured, after all!"
There could be no mistake about it,—pocket-book and money, and horse and buggy, were gone with Radcliff.
"He has taken the road to Chicago," said Jack, easily tracking the wheels after the recent rain. "But he'll find it not so easy selling the horse there a second time."
"But he'll spend all that money," said Rufe. "He'll find it easy enough to do that."
"I wish it wasn't night," said Jack. "I would track him! And I will as it is. Have you a lantern?"
"Yes—I'll go with you! Shall we take the mare and one-horse wagon?"
"If you like. But, Rufe, if you go with me, you'll have to travel all night. I am on the war trail!"
"I'm with you!" said Rufe; and he gave an Indian war-whoop.
Mr. Betterson, coming up, approved of this resolution. "And, boys," he said, "if you should lay hands on Radcliff, you may as well bring him back with you. We'll try to have a more satisfactory settlement with him this time."
Jack left his friends to harness the mare to the wagon, and went on alone, with Lion and the lantern, up through the woods.
For a while he had no trouble in following the fresh marks of hoofs and wheels over the wet ground. But when he reached the prairie, an unforeseen difficulty appeared. The rain had not extended so far, and the tracks were not easily distinguished.
It was nearly dark when Rufe, following in the wagon, emerged from the woods. Lonesome and gloomy stretched the great prairie before him, under a sky of flying clouds. The insects of the autumn night filled the air with their shrill, melancholy notes. An owl hooted in the forest; a pair of whippoorwills were vociferating somewhere in the thickets; and far off on the prairie the wolves howled. Now and then a rift of dark blue sky and a few wildly hurrying stars were visible through the flocking clouds. No other light, or sign of life, until Rufe descried far before him in the darkness a waving, ruddy gleam, and knew it was the ray from the lantern swinging in Jack's hand.
Driving on as fast as the mare's somewhat decrepit paces would allow, he found Jack waiting for him at a point where the road divided, one branch taking a northerly direction, the other trending easterly, toward the great road to Chicago.
"Here's a puzzle," said Jack, as Rufe drove up. "I've tracked the fellow as far as here, notwithstanding he has tried the trick of driving off on the prairie in two or three places. But here, instead of taking the direct road to Chicago, as we supposed, he has taken this by-road, if my eyes are good for anything. Lion says I am right; for I believe I've made him understand we are hunting Snowfoot."
Rufe jumped down from the wagon, and saw by the light of the lantern the imperfect and yet peculiar marks of Snowfoot's rather smooth-worn shoes, and of the narrow wheel-tires.
"It is a game of his to mislead us," said Rufe. "I believe if we follow him on to where this by-road crosses the main road, we shall find he has there turned off toward the city."
"Go ahead, Lion; find Snowfoot!" cried Jack, and jumped into the wagon with Rufe.
They got on as fast as they could; but the pursuit was necessarily slow, for not only was the mare a creature of very indifferent speed, but the boys found it useful to stop every now and then and examine the tracks by the light of the lantern.
"The dog is right; and we are right so far, sure!" said Jack, after they had proceeded about half a mile in this way. "Slow and sure is our policy. We've all the fall before us, Rufe; and we'll overhaul your pretty cousin, unless something breaks. Now, drive straight on to the main road, and we'll see what we can discover there."
To the surprise of both again, the fugitive, instead of turning cityward, kept the northerly road.
"He is cunning," said Rufe. "He knows Chicago is the first place where one would be apt to look for him; and, besides, I think he is getting too well known in Chicago."
"He is bound for Wisconsin," cried Jack. "Whip along. This road passes through the timber, and brings us to the river again; we shall soon find settlements, where we can inquire for our game."
"If you can speak Dutch, and if it wasn't too late when Rad passed through," Rufe replied. "There is a colony of meinheers up here; they go to bed a little after sundown."
As they drove on from the crossing, Jack said, "That left-hand road goes to North Mills. But I sha'n't see North Mills to-night, nor for a good many nights, I'm afraid."
Jack, however, as we shall see, was mistaken.
The road above the crossing was much more travelled than below; and for a while the boys found it very difficult to make out Snowfoot's tracks. But soon again fortune favored them.
"Rain—it has been raining here!" said Jack, examining the road where it entered the skirts of the timber, "and raining hard! We must be nearing the path of the whirlwind again."
They passed through a belt of woods, where the storm had evidently passed but without doing much damage; for it was a peculiarity of that elephant of a cloud that it appeared to draw up its destroying trunk once or twice, and skip over a few miles in its course, only to swing it down again with greater fury.
The road was now drenched all the way, and the trail they followed was so distinct that the boys did not stop to make inquiries at the log-huts which began to appear before they were well through the woods.
They made comparatively rapid progress up the valley, until they came to a point where the river, in its winding course, was crossed by the road. There, again, the tornado had done a brisk business; the bridge was destroyed, the side of the road gullied, and the river swollen.
Both boys alighted and examined the track.
"Here is where he stopped and hesitated, finding the bridge gone," said Jack. "And see! here are his own tracks, as if he had got out of the buggy and gone ahead to reconnoitre."
"As well he might," Rufe answered. "Look at these tree-tops, and the timbers of the bridge lodged in the middle of the river!"
"He seems to have got through, and I guess we can," said Jack. "I've forded this stream, below the bridge, before now, when I've wanted to water my horse; but it was free from all this sort of rubbish then. There must have been a great fall of rain up here!"
Jack went out with the lantern upon the ruined abutment of the bridge, and showed a space beside the drift-wood, in the turbid and whirling current, where fording seemed practicable.
Then the boys got into the wagon again, and the mare was driven cautiously forward, by the glimmering light which the lantern shed faintly before and around them. Lion swam ahead, throwing up his muzzle and barking loud, like a faithful pilot showing the safest way. The wheels went in over the hubs; the water came into the bottom of the wagon-box; the flood boiled and plashed and gurgled, and swept away in black, whirling eddies; and Jack said, "This wouldn't be a very nice place to break down, eh,—would it?"
But they got safely through; and on the farther bank they were pleased to find again the trail of the horse and buggy.
They were now in high spirits. The whirlwind having passed up the river, the road lay aside from its direct path, but still within the area of rain.
"This is gay!" said Jack. "He thinks he has baffled us; and he will put up somewhere for the night; and we won't! We shall circumvent Master Radcliff!"
But soon the boys were again puzzled. Reaching another cross-road, and bringing the lantern to bear upon the trail, they found that, instead of continuing northward, toward Wisconsin, or turning to the right, in the direction of Chicago, it turned at a sharp angle to the left, in the direction of North Mills.
"This move is a perfect mystery to me!" Jack exclaimed. "It seems as if he had thought the thing all over, and finally chosen the very last place one would expect him to make for."
"Are you sure this road leads to North Mills?"
"Perfectly sure; I've been this way three or four times. But another road branches from it, and passes a mile north of the Mills; he has probably taken that."
But no; after a good deal of trouble—the road appearing once more dry and much trodden—they discovered that the horse and buggy had not taken the branch, but kept the direct route to the Mills!
"It doesn't seem possible! there must be some mistake here," said Jack. And every rod of their progress seemed now to increase the boys' doubts.
The road, long before they reached the Mills, became a mere bed of brown dust, in which it required a pretty vivid imagination to distinguish one track from another. The boys' spirits sank accordingly. Lion still led them boldly on; but his guidance could no longer be trusted.
"He's bound for home now," said Jack, "and he'll go straight there."
"If Rad did come this way," said Rufe, "he was shrewd, after all. He knew that by passing through a busy place like the Mills, he would hide his tracks as he couldn't in any other way."
"To find 'em again," Jack replied, rather gloomily, "we shall have to examine every road going out of this place."
It must have been near midnight when they entered the village. The houses were all dark and still; not a ray at a window, not even the bark of a dog, gave sign of life as they passed.
"This looks discouraging," said Jack.
"A needle in a haystack is no comparison," replied Rufe. "The lantern is almost out."
"I can get another at our house," said Jack. "We may as well follow the dog now. What did I tell you? He is going straight home!"
The dog trotted up to the gate before Mr. Lanman's cottage, and the wagon turned up after him.
"What's that ahead of us?" said Jack, as the mare came to a sudden stop.
"Seems to be a wagon standing," said Rufe, shading his eyes from the lantern and peering into the darkness.
Jack jumped out, ran forward, and gave a shout. The wagon was a buggy, and the horse was Snowfoot, standing before the gate, waiting patiently to be let in.
Quite wild with delight and astonishment, Jack took the lantern and examined horse and vehicle.
"Old Lion! you were right," he exclaimed. "The scamp must have let the horse go, and taken to his heels. And the horse made for home."
"The most he cared for was to get off with the money," said Rufe, not quite so abundantly pleased as his friend. "What's this thing under the seat?"
"The compass!" said Jack, if possible, still more surprised and overjoyed, "which I accused Zeph of stealing!"
Rufe continued rummaging, and, holding the lantern with one hand, lifted up a limp garment with the other.
"What in thunder? A pair of breeches! Rad's breeches! Where can the scamp have gone without his breeches? See what's in the pocket there, Jack."
Jack thrust in his hand, and brought out some loose bank-notes. He thrust in his hand again, and brought out a pocket-book, containing more bank-notes. It was Mr. Betterson's pocket-book, and the notes were the stolen money.
Jack was hastily turning them over—not counting them, he was too much amazed and excited to do that—when the candle in the lantern gave a final flicker and went out, leaving the boys and the mystery of the compass and the money and Rad's pantaloons enveloped in sudden darkness.
Bright rose the sun the next morning over the leafy tops of Long Woods, and smiled upon the pleasant valley.
It found many a trace of the previous day's devastation,—trees uprooted or twisted off at their trunks, branches and limbs broken and scattered, fences blown down, and more than one man's buildings unroofed or demolished.
It found Peakslow, accompanied by the two older boys, walking about his private and particular pile of ruins, in a gloomy and bewildered state of mind, as if utterly at a loss to know where the repair of such tremendous damages should begin. And (the sun itself must have been somewhat astonished) it found Mrs. Peakslow and the younger children, five in number, comfortably quartered in Lord Betterson's "castle."
It also had glimpses of Rufe, with light and jolly face, driving home by prairie and grove, alone in the one-horse wagon.
Link ran out to meet him, swinging his cap and shouting for the news.
"Good news!" Rufe shouted back, while still far up the road. "Tell the folks!" And he held up the pocket-book.
It was good news indeed which he brought; but the mystery at the bottom of it all was a mystery still.
The family gathered around, with intense interest, while he told his story and displayed Rad's pantaloons.
"The eighty dollars, which you had counted out,—you remember, father,—was loose in the pocket. I left that with Jack; he will send it to Chicago to-day. The rest of the money, I believe, is all here in the pocket-book."
"And you've heard nothing of Radcliff?" said Mr. Betterson.
"Not a word. Jack made me stop with him over night; and I should have come home the way we went, and looked for Rad, if it hadn't been so far; we must have driven twelve or fifteen miles in that roundabout chase."
"Some accident must certainly have happened to Radcliff," said Mr. Betterson. And much wonder and many conjectures were expressed by the missing youth's not very unhappy relatives.
"I bet I know!" said Link. "He drove so fast he overtook the tornado, and it twisted him out of his breeches, and hung him up in a tree somewhere!"
An ingenious theory, which did not, however, obtain much credence with the family.
"One thing seems to be proved, and I am very glad," said Vinnie. "It was not Zeph who took Jack's compass."
"Rad must have taken that, to spite Jack, and hid it somewhere near the road in the timber, where it would be handy if he ever wanted to make off with it; that's what Jack thinks," said Rufe. "Then, as he was driving past the spot, he put it into the buggy again."
"Maybe he intended to set up for a surveyor somewhere," Wad remarked. "He must have taken another pair of trousers with him."
"I am sure he didn't," said Cecie.
"And even if he did," said Rufe, "that wouldn't account for his leaving the money in the pocket."
The family finally settled down upon a theory which had been first suggested by Jack,—that in fording the river Rad had caught his wheels in the tree-tops or timbers of the ruined bridge, and, to keep his lower garments dry, had taken them off and left them in the buggy, while he waded in to remove the rubbish, when the horse had somehow got away from him, and gone home. It also seemed quite probable that Rad himself had become entangled in drift-wood, and been drowned.
"Feed the mare, boys," said Lord Betterson. "As soon as she is well rested, I'll drive up to the broken bridge, and see if any discoveries can be made."
Meanwhile, whatever Radcliff's fate, it did not prevent the family from rejoicing over the recovery of the lost money. And now Rufe's attention was called to another happy circumstance, one which promised to be to them a source of deeper and more lasting satisfaction.
Cecie could walk!
Yes, the marvellous effects of the previous day's events were still manifest in the case of the little invalid. Either the tremendous excitement, thrilling and rousing her whole system, or the electric shock which accompanied the whirlwind, or the exertions she felt compelled to make when Rad ran off with the money,—or all combined (for the doctors were divided in opinion on the subject),—had overcome the paralysis of her limbs, which a long course of medical treatment had failed to remove.
The family physician, who chanced to come over from the Mills that day, maintained that what he had been doing for the injured spine, the source of Cecie's troubles, had prepared the way for this result; while neighbor Peakslow, when he heard the news, grunted, and said he "guessed the gal could 'a' walked all the time if she had only thought she could, or wanted to very much." All which made Cecie smile. She only knew that she was cured, and was too proud and glad to care much what was said of her.
In the course of the day Mr. Betterson and Rufe visited the supposed scene of Rad's disaster, and there met by chance Jack and his friend Forrest Felton, who for a similar object had driven up from North Mills.
The river had gone down almost as rapidly as it had risen, and fording it now by daylight was no such difficult matter. But there still were the timbers and tree-tops amidst which the vehicles had passed the night before.
Jack showed marks on one of his wheels where the spokes had been sharply raked, and told how, examining Snowfoot by daylight, he had found muddy splashes on his flank, as if he had been struck there by a bough or branch drenched in turbid water.
"I think," said he, "that as Rad was getting the buggy clear, the limb of a tree turned over and hit the horse. That started him, and away he went. I don't believe Rad is drowned."
Search was made among the rubbish at the bridge, and for some distance down the river; but no traces of Rad were discovered.
"Maybe he has gone home by water," was Rufe's rather too playful way of saying that the drowned body might have floated down stream.
"If he got out alive," said Jack's friend Felton, "he must have found his way to some house near by, in quest of pantaloons." And the party now proceeded to make inquiries at the scattered huts of the Dutch—or rather German—settlers along the edge of the timber.
At the first two doors where they stopped they found only women and children, who could speak no English. But at the next house they saw a girl, who eagerly answered "Yah! yah!" to their questions, and ran and called a man working at the back door.
He was a short, thick-set man, with a big russet beard and serious blue eyes.
"Goot morgin," he said, coming to the road to greet the strangers. "Der been some vind dis vay,—you see some?—vas las' ebening."
The strangers acknowledged that they had experienced some effects of the wind the night before, and repeated their questions regarding Radcliff.
"Young man,—no priches,—yah! yah!" replied Meinheer. "He come 'long here, vas 'pout nine hours, may pe some more."
"A little after nine o'clock last night?" suggested Jack.
"Yah, yah! I vas bed shleepin', somebody knock so loud, I git some candle light, and make de door open, and der vas some young feller, his face sick, his clo'es all so vet but his priches,—his priches vas not vet, for he has no priches, only some shoes."
"Where did he come from?"
"He say he come from up stream; he pass de pridge over, and der vas no pridge; and he dhrive 'cross de vaser, and he cannot dhrive 'cross; so he git out, only his priches not git out, for de vaser vas vet, and his priches keeps in de vagon, vile he keeps in de vaser; he make some lift on some logs, and someding make de hoss fright, and de hoss jump and jerk de vagon, and de vagon jerk someding vat jerk him; and de priches rides off, and he shtop in de vaser, and dhink some, and git sick, and he say de log in his shtomach and so much vaser was pad, and I mus' give him some dhink viskey and some dry priches, and I gives 'em."
"A pair of your breeches?" cried Rufe, eying the baggy proportions of Meinheer's nether garments.
"I have no oder; I fetch 'em from faderland; and I gives him some. He stick his legs in, and some of his legs come too much under; de priches vas some too vide, and some not long genoof. He dhink more viskey, and feel goot, and say he find his team and bring back my priches to-morrow, and it is to-morrow yet, and he not come."
Even the grave uncle of the luckless nephew had to laugh as he thought of the slim legs pursuing their travels in the short but enormous "priches" fetched from fatherland.
"How much were your breeches worth?" Lord said, taking out some money.
"I don't know—I don't keeps priches to sell; may pe vun tollar."
Betterson gave the German a dollar, saying,—
"Allow me to pay for them; for, if I mistake not, you will never see the young man or your breeches again."
He was quite right: the German never did.
Neither—it may as well be said here—did Radcliff's own relatives see him again for many years. What various adventures were his can only be surmised, until one of the "Philadelphia partners," settling up his accounts with the world, left him a legacy of six thousand dollars, when he once more bloomed out as a fine gentleman, and favored his Western friends with a visit.
He ran through his little fortune in a few months, and once more disappeared from view, to turn up again, five or six years later (when Jack and Vinnie saw him for the last time), as a runner for one of the great Chicago hotels.
"Mercy on me!" said Caroline, hearing an unusual noise in the front part of the house; "now we are to have the racket of those Peakslow children! What could you have been thinking of, Lavinia dear? I'm sure I didn't know what I was saying when I gave my consent to their coming. The idea of their turning our library into a kitchen! Not that I blame you, Lavinia dear. I ought to have considered."
"Surely you wouldn't have denied the houseless family a shelter?" Vinnie replied. "That would have seemed too bad, with those great chambers unoccupied. As for the library,"—Vinnie smiled, for the unfurnished room called by that choice name had nothing in it but a fireplace,—"I don't think any harm can happen to that."
Vinnie had a plan regarding the Peakslow children, which she laid before Mrs. Peakslow as soon as the new inmates were fairly settled in the house.
"Since my sister and the baby have been so much better, I have begun a little school, with only two scholars,—Cecie and Lilian. Wouldn't your children like to join it? I think it would be pleasant."
"Whuther they would or not, I'd like to have 'em," replied Mrs. Peakslow, gratefully. "The chances for schoolin' is dreffle slim in this country; we've no school-house within nigh two mile. But how shall I pay ye?"
"You needn't mind about that."
"Yes, I shall mind too. We must do somethin' for you in return."
"Well, then," said Vinnie, "if you like, you may let one of the girls help a little in my sister's kitchen, to make up for the time I spend with them."
"I'll do it, sartin! You shall have Lyddy. She's a good smart hand at housework, and you may git all out of her you can."
So it was arranged. The little school of two was increased to five; the "parlor"—used only to store grain in hitherto—was turned into a school-room; and Lyddy worked in Mrs. Betterson's kitchen.
"Lavinia dear, you are an extraordinary girl!" said Caroline. "It seems the greatest miracle of all to see one of the Peakslows washing our dishes!"
No one was better pleased with this arrangement than Jack, who could never be reconciled to seeing Vinnie—with all her health and strength and cheery spirits—doing the hardest of the housework.
Jack took early occasion, on visiting Long Woods, to go and see Mr. Peakslow, and make him a frank apology for having once suspected Zeph of taking his compass. But he got only an ugly scowl and surly grunt for his pains.
For a while Peakslow did not go near his family, quartered in his enemy's house; but slept in the haystack, with Dud and Zeph, and ate the meals his wife cooked and sent to him three times a day.
But soon Dud went to sleep at the "castle," and found he had nothing more formidable to meet than Vinnie's bright eyes,—for Dud had suddenly developed into a bashful youth.
Zeph in a night or two followed his example, and Peakslow was left alone in his haystack.
And the nights were growing chill; and the repair of the buildings went on slowly, carpenters being scarce; and Peakslow, who had a heart for domestic comforts, began to yearn for the presence of his family at mealtime and bedtime.
At length he stole into the house after dark one evening, and stole out again before light the next morning. That did not seem to hurt him; on the contrary, it suited Peakslow; his neighbor's house was better than a haystack. Then he came to supper and stayed to breakfast. Then there was no good reason why he should not come to dinner; and he came accordingly.
Then he stopped after dinner one day to see how Vinnie conducted her little school, and went away looking wonderfully thoughtful. The boys remembered that he did not scold them so sharply that afternoon as he had been wont to do since the tornado disturbed his temper.
One morning, as he was going out, Peakslow saw Lord Betterson in the yard, and advanced awkwardly toward him, holding his hat in one hand and scratching his head with the other. There was, after all, a vein of diffidence in the rough quartz of the man's character; and somehow, on this occasion, he couldn't help showing his neighbor a good deal of respect.
"I'm a-gun to have a bee this arternoon,—a raisin',—gun to try to git the logs back on to the house, an' the ruf on to the shed,—everything ready,—some o' the neighbors comin' to help,—and if you an' your boys can lend a hand, I'll do as much for you some time."
"Surely; very glad to serve you, Neighbor Peakslow," Lord Betterson replied, in his magnificently polite way, much as if he had been a monarch dismissing a foreign ambassador.
Jack came over to Long Woods that afternoon, and, having rectified Mrs. Wiggett's noon-mark, stopped at Peakslow's raising on his way back up the valley.
He found a group of men and boys before the house, partaking of some refreshments,—sweetened whiskey and water, passed round in a pail with a tin dipper by Zeph, and "nut-cakes" and "turn-overs," served by Mrs. Peakslow and 'Lecty Ann.
The sight of Snowfoot tied to his fence made Peakslow glare; nor was his ruffled spirit smoothed when he saw Jack come forward with a cheery face and a compass in his hand.
Jack greeted the Bettersons, Mr. Wiggett, and one or two others he knew, and was talking pleasantly with them, when Peakslow pushed the inverted cut-water of his curved beak through the crowd, and confronted him.
"So that air's the compass, is it?"
"This is the compass, Mr. Peakslow."
"Keep it in yer hand, now'days, do ye? Don't trust it in the wagon? Good idee! No danger of its bein' stole, an' your comin' agin to 'cuse my boys of the theft!"
Peakslow's ancient wrath rekindled as he spoke; his voice trembled and his eyes flamed.
Jack kept his temper admirably, and answered with a frank and honest face,—
"I have made the best amends I could for that mistake, by apologizing to you for it, Mr. Peakslow. I don't keep the compass in my hand because I am afraid it may be stolen. I have called—as I promised Mrs. Peakslow the other day that I would do—to give her a noon-mark on her kitchen floor."
"How's this?—promised her?—I don't understand that!" growled Peakslow.
"Yes, pa!" said Mrs. Peakslow, with a frightened look. "I seen him to Mis' Betterson's. He'd made a noon-mark for Mis' Wiggett, and Mis' Betterson's sister asked me if I wouldn't like one, as he was comin' to make them one some day."
Off went Peakslow's hat, and into his bushy hair went his fingers again, while he stammered out,—
"But he can't make no noon-mark this arternoon,—we're all in a mess an' litter, so!"
"Just as well now as any time," said Jack. "The doorway is clear. I sha'n't interfere with anybody."
"What'll be to pay?" Peakslow asked.
"O, I don't charge anything for a little job like this,—to one of Mr. Betterson's neighbors."
"That's jes' so; he didn't charge me nary red," said Mr. Wiggett. "An' he's done the job for me now tew times,—fust time, the tornado come and put the noon-mark out o' j'int, 'fore ever a noon come round."
Jack adjusted his compass, while the house-raisers looked on, to see how the thing was done, Peakslow appearing as much interested as anybody.
Jack got Link to make the first marks for him on the floor, and laughed, as he looked through the sights of the compass, to hear Mr. Wiggett describe the finding of his section corner,—"runnin' a line plumb to the old stake, out on the open perairie,"—and praise the boy-surveyor's skill.
The mark was made with quickness and precision; friends and strangers crowded around Jack with kind words and questions; and he was surprised to find himself all at once a person of importance.
Peakslow puffed hard at his pipe. His face was troubled; and two or three times he pulled the pipe out of his mouth, thrust his knuckles under his hat, and took a step toward the young surveyor. He also cleared his throat. He evidently had a word to say. But the word would not come.
When at last he let Jack go off without offering him even a syllable of thanks, the bystanders smiled, and somebody might have been heard to mutter, "Peakslow all over! Just like his hoggishness!"
Jack smiled too as he went, for he had shrewdly observed his enemy, and he knew it was not "hoggishness" which kept Peakslow's lips closed, but a feeling which few suspected in that grasping, hard, and violent-tempered man.
Peakslow was abashed!
The house made once more inhabitable, Peakslow's family moved back into it. But this change did not take Lyddy away from the "castle," nor break up Vinnie's school.
The "castle" now underwent some renovation. The long-neglected plastering was done, and the rooms in daily use were made comfortable.
Meanwhile the boys were full of ambition regarding their water-works. The project had cost them a good deal more trouble than they had anticipated at first; but they were amply repaid for all on the day when the water was finally let on, and they saw it actually run from the spout in the back-room! Such a result had seemed to them almost too good ever to come true; and their joy over it was increased ten-fold by the doubts and difficulties overcome.
Jack had come over to be present when the water was brought in, and he was almost as happy over it as they.
"No more trouble with the old well!" said Rufe.
"No more lugging water from the grove!" said Wad.
"Or going into the river head-first after it, as you and I did!" said Link.
Vinnie was proud of her nephews, and Caroline and Lord were proud of their sons.