 Section 6 of Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by April 6,090, California, United States of America. Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery Old Hector's Dog First published in Golden Days for Boys and Girls, June 4, 1898. His name was Trey, the old Hector truly thought. I believe that he was the most wonderful dog in the world, as well as a handsomest, for love is blind, and old Hector loved Trey. The dog was all he had to love. Nobody in Swamp Hollow knew very much about Old Hector, as he was commonly called, although he had lived among us for more years than we boys could count. He was always Old Hector to us. Nothing more, a morose, surly old man, with a gruff voice and a chronic scowl. He lived by himself in a little cabin on a back road, and made his scanty living by day labor in summer and shoe mending in winter. He had no kilth or kin in the world. As far as we ever found out, and the only living creature that belonged to him was Trey. A dog so unlovable that nobody but Old Hector could have endured such an animal about his premises. We Swamp Hollow boys had vowed mortal enmity to Trey, partly because we all heartily detested Old Hector, and partly because Trey himself never lost an opportunity of being disagreeable. He was a lanky yellow cur, with torn ears and the nearest apology for a tail. He had fought with and maimed nearly every other dog in Swamp Hollow, and was even accused of sheep raiding. But this was never proved, and I think we did Trey an injustice there. Wherever Hector went, Trey followed him, shuffling along, with his ears hanging down and his eyes watching out for stray cats or any other promising game. We boys had discovered that the surest way to annoy Hector was to tease Trey. Nothing made him so angry, and to make Old Hector mad was one of our objects in life. Nevertheless we were rather frightened of him, and took care to keep out of his reach. Why we detested the poor old man so would be hard to tell, for he had never done us any harm or interfered with us in any way, except by abusing roundly any one he caught shying a stone at Trey. I, for my part, am now thoroughly ashamed of the pleasure I used to take in tormenting the old fellow, but had gotten in that summer with a certain crowd of Swamp Hollow boys who were not the best companions in the world for me. They were locally known as Roaders, from the fact that they all lived along what was known as the Swamp Hollow Road. A locality somewhat off-caste and numbered about a dozen, all between twelve and fifteen years of age. They were a rowdy set, and at the bottom of most of the mischief that went on in Swamp Hollow. If anybody in the village offended one of them he generally found his windows broken, or his orchard raided, or his cows turned into his wheat field not long after. The guild could seldom be brought home to any one in particular, but the Roaders came to be in bad repute in Swamp Hollow. It is not to my credit that I got mixed up with them, but the fact remains that I was, although I was always regarded with suspicion by most of them. They thought me off-color and Miss Nancy-ish, and I was only tolerated among them on account of my chumship with Ted Thompson. Ted was the ringleader of the gang, and to a certain extent they were under his control, although Ted was really not at all responsible for their worst outrages. He was fond of playing pranks, but he was always against wanton destruction of property. Ted had a bad reputation in Swamp Hollow, and perhaps he deserved it, but I always liked him. He was about fifteen and had had a rough bringing up. He was generally in mischief and got the blame of all the Roaders' outrages, whether he was a share in them or not. Still he was kind-hearted in his own way, and generally stood up for the weaker side manfully. He certainly had considerable influence over the Roaders. He was a good friend, but a bad enemy, and he had taken a bitter hatred against old Hector. One night somebody had thrown a stone through old Hector's window, while he was at supper, smashing the panes in some of the few dishes on the table. It probably was a Rotor, but it certainly was not Ted. He denied it stoutly, and I never knew Ted Thompson, with all his faults, to tell a deliberate lie. But old Hector had seen him prowling around the road that evening at dusk, and fixed on him as the culprit. The next evening several of us were hanging around the blacksmith's forge, Ted among the rest, when old Hector and Trey came along. I do not think the old man intended to stop, but Ted could not resist the temptation to shy a stone at Trey, who promptly yelped. And old Hector turned furiously on Ted. He stormed at him for fully five minutes, and finally ended up dealing him a stinging cuff on the ear. Ted attempted no reprisal at the time, for there were no rotors handy to back him up, and he knew that public sympathy was against him. But he laid himself out for the remainder of the summer to make old Hector's life a burden to him. I am bound to say he succeeded. He was never at a loss for some new and original device, but his main idea of revenge centered in Trey. He had made up his mind to get possession of Trey by fair means or foul, and though he refused to tell us what he would do with him, we all supposed that Trey's career would be abruptly closed. It was, however, no easy matter to ensnare Trey. He was never seen abroad without his master, for he seemed to be instinctively aware of his unpopularity. And no one, not even the most reckless rotor, dared venture within twenty yards of old Hector's dwelling in daylight. Trey was never seen outside after dark, and slept on a mat by the old man's bed. But Ted declared that he would get him if it took all summer. Some of the rotors suggested putting poison around where Trey would find it, but Ted squirmed at this idea. It was sneaky, he said. Ted had his own coat of honour, and such as it was, he lived up to it. Although he did plenty of things, I thought shady. Between abducting and drowning Trey, as I believed Ted meant to do, although he had never said so, and poisoning him off, I did not see a great deal of difference. But Ted appeared to, and stoutly refused, to have anything to do with such a proceeding. And don't any of you chaps try it on, either. He warned the rotors, this is my affair. I've got the grudge to settle against old Hector, and I don't want any of the rest of you poking in and spoiling my fun. Do you hear that? The rotors heard and governed themselves accordingly. While Ted bided his time with a patience worthy of a better cause, one day old Hector made a trip to town to buy some of his scanty supplies. For I wonder he left Trey at home, owing, as we afterwards found, to the animals having a sore foot locked up in his little kitchen. Ted Thompson found this out in some way, and had no idea of letting so good a chance slip. He hunted up a rotor or two, who could keep a secret, and with their assistance got into old Hector's kitchen, by the shed window, secured Trey with a rope and gunny bag, and lugged him off with them. I was not with them, so I knew nothing of the affair until old Hector came down to the forge that night to hunt for Trey. He had missed his pet whenever he got home, and was in great distress of mind. As usual there was a crowd about the forge, and Ted Thompson, his black eyes shining with some secret delight, was sitting on the fence, several rotors were hanging around to see the fun. Did any of you unsee my dog hereabouts? demanded old Hector, glaring savagely as I saw. And at Ted in particular, the Smith replied, No, haven't laid eyes on him. Have you lost him? He's gone, said the old man in a strange, piteous tone. I don't know why. I left him when it went to town today, and when I came home he was gone. He never went off on his own, I'm sure. Portray, I believe some of you boys, Viar, know where he is. If you do, tell me where. He ain't never done you any harm. The old man's slip-heel touched me. I had never seen old Hector in so gentle a mood before. His distress and grief were very real and keen, but Ted's eyes only glistened more maliciously. I guess you won't ever see that old yellow dog of yours again, he called out tauntingly. He's gone for good, he is. Old Hector made a quick step towards him, but the wary Ted dodged. What have you done with him, you imp of evil? cried the old man. I might have known it was you. Tell me where he is. Well, I guess I don't. I ain't responsible for the whereabouts of your old cur. You can go and hunt him up. Oh, tell me where he is! pleaded old Hector with the wonderful patience. He never harmed you, the poor dog. Surely you haint killed him, have you? Ted winked with inexpressible impudence. Trey is gone, and you can make up your mind to that, and he won't come back in a hurry neither. Next time you box people's ears that haven't done anything to you, you can think of Trey. So you did it out of spite, said Hector, his anger mastering his grief. I'll learn you! He made a dash at Ted, but the latter leaped from his perch with a mocking whoop and went flying down the road. The rotors finding themselves deserted also took to their heels and disappeared after their leader in a cloud of dust. The other man sympathized with the old man and promised to help him find his dog if they could. Some eyed me suspiciously, for my intimacy with the rotors was well known. But I was not molested. I too felt sorry for old Hector. That evening I met Ted about dusk and tried to find out what he'd done with the dog. Ted grinned. He'd like to know now, wouldn't you, Sonny? What'd you do if I told you, run and blab? I indignantly disclaimed all intention of blabbing, and after a while Ted became more commuted to give. You won't tell? No, I'll never breathe a word. Honest? Honest. Well, the dog's alive. I've got him chained up in a safe enough place. Never mind where. I ain't going to tell you that, because you're too soft-hearted. Old Hector's mind would be kind of at rest if he thought Trey was dead, so I mean to keep him stirred up. Look here, I'm going to stick this up on Hector's door after dark. This was a half sheet of paper upon which Ted had scrawled the following. To old Hector, my dear sir, your dog ain't dead, but he'd be a heap better off if he was. He ain't very happy. You won't ever see him again. Yours respectfully, Ted Thompson. That will make the poor old man feel bad, Ted. I objected. He'll think you're ill-treating the dog. You're not, are you? No, I ain't you silly. The dog's as well off as he ever was. I just wrote that to T's Hector. It'll put him in a stew. What are you going to do with Trey? But Ted not, having found me as sympathetic as he expected, got on his dignity. He refused to say more, and we parted. For the next week old Hector's state of mind ought to have satisfied the most inveterate seeker after revenge. He could do nothing but go about mourning for his loss and seeking pitifully for some trace of Trey. Ted and the other rotors kept well out of his way. I had not seen one of them since my last recorded interview with Ted. There came a change at the end of the week. As I was not one of the parties interested, I think I had better give you the story in Ted's own words, as he told it to me when I went to see him. He was lying on the sofa with his ankle bandaged up and another bandage around his head. You see, Hal, it happened this way. Last Monday night, after dark, I went up to take that wretched Trey something to eat. We had him chained up in that old barn of Maloney's, back of the woods. Nobody ever goes near it, because they say it's haunted. So it is, I guess, by us rotors. Well, we had him there, and I fed him well, anyhow. I'll bet he'd better meals and more of them than he ever had at home. I really meant to let him go back after a while, when I'd made old Hector miserable long enough. Coming back I took a short cut across the fields. Back of Hector's it was awful dark, and I had to go through Patterson's sheep pasture. You know, he had a well dug down in the hollow for his sheep. It ain't a very deep one, but just the same, a fellow wouldn't jump down it for pure fun. It went dry this summer, and before that he kept it covered up with boards. I'd clean forgotten all about the well, and I was running full tilt across the hollow when Kerblunk. I just felt myself pitching headlong, and when I came to my right senses there I was, at the bottom of Patterson's well. It wasn't very deep, as I've said, and nothing in it but mud. So I wasn't killed, but my head and face were all cut and my ankle felt dreadful. I didn't know what I had done to it, but I was afraid it was broken. The blood was running all over my face, and I thought I'd die there, all alone in the dark. I knew I couldn't get out, and I might yell all night, and nobody'd hear me. I tell you how. I felt pretty bad, and upon my word the thing that worried me most was that poor old Trey. I did wish I'd never touched him, I can tell you. It seemed an awful mean trick, all at once, especially when I remembered poor old Hector's trouble about him. I huddled up there, feeling as if I was going to die right off. I shouted as loud as I could, now and then, nobody came, of course. I think I was there about an hour. I couldn't move because my ankle hurt so. And oh, how my head did ache. All at once, just as I'd had another spell of shouting, a light flashed overhead, and next minute I saw, who do you suppose, why old Hector, peering down at the top, with a lantern close to his face. I was glad to see any one, but you'd better believe I thought my chances for getting out of the well weren't very much better than before, and small blame to him if they hadn't been. Who's down there? he asked. I hollered back that it was Ted Thompson, and then I tumbled down and broke my ankle. I honestly expected to see him march off, then and there. But the old fellow said, you poor boy, how am I to get you up out of that? Can you hold on until I run down home and get a ladder? I'll be as quick as I can. I said I could and off he went. In no time he was back with a ladder. He poked it down just as careful and down he came to. Poor little chap, he said, and he picked me up as if I'd been a baby. You know how strong he is, Hal, and so carefully and tender like. He hardly hurt me a bit. And somehow or another he climbed up with me and we got out. Then he carried me all the way down to his cabin and laid me on his bed. He was just awful good to me, Hal. He got hot water and washed the blood off my face, and then he poked around my ankle and said he didn't think any bones were broken and he bound it up. And do you know when I'd flinch there'd actually be tears in his eyes. He couldn't have fixed me up better or petted me more if I'd been Trey himself. I didn't dare to mention Trey at first. You bet I felt small. Here I'd been plaguing the life out of old Hector for months and breaking his heart by stealing his dog. This was Hal. He was paying me back. I'd just felt mean. There was no use in talking. I'd never have believed that old Hector could be so kind. He wasn't a single bit cross or gruff. He did everything he could to make me easy. And then he said, now I'm going to run down and let your father know where you are and how are you fixed? How'd you come to fall in Patterson's well anyhow? I just made up my mind to make a clean breast of it there and then. I said I'd been up to Maloney's barn to feed Trey. Old Hector gave a big jump. Is Trey alive? Is he? Is he? You bet he is, I said, and likely to live. I've looked after him well, and I've doctored his foot, too. I'd have never taken him if I'd known. I'm awful sorry. But he's all right. Please do forgive me. Just fancy, Hal, if any of the rotors had heard me asking old Hector's pardon. Do you know the tears actually ran down his face? Poor old Trey. Safe, safe, was all he could say at first. He was just overcome with joy and he didn't say a cross word to me. He went down to our place and Dad came after me with the cart and got me home somehow. I gave Hector the key of Trey's padlock, and he shuffled off to Maloney's barn to get him. I'd have given a pile to see the meeting. Anyhow, he's got Trey again. Do you know the old fellow has been down every day to see how I am getting on, and he's not a bad sort at all? I'm ashamed of my cuttings up, and I'm going to reform. Sure as you are alive! Don't blab all this to the rotors, though, Hal. Ted kept his word. Indeed, he really became quite intimate with old Hector, and frequently accompanied him on his fishing and gunning expeditions. The rest of the rotors also, although they always remained shy of their ancient enemy, were influenced by Ted to such a degree that they gave up molesting old Hector. Hector himself, perhaps through his liking for Ted, grew much more sociable, and we found that under his gruff exterior was hidden a warm, kindly heart. He never had much use for any rotor except Ted, but to the more respectable of the swamp hollow boys he became quite friendly. Ted gradually weaned himself away from his old associates, and eventually became such a peaceable, well-behaved boy that people forgot that he had ever been a rotor at all. As for Trey, I regret to say that his disposition remained the same. He was snappish and unamiable till the end. But as that was his constitutional misfortune, we overlooked it and refrained from molesting him. When he died of old age, Hector mourned him sincerely, and he and Ted buried him under the old willow in Hector's yard. And as a proof of the changes time can bring, a number of us swamp hollow boys went to the funeral. End of Section 6 Section 7 of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Holland Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery Section 7 A New Fashioned Flavoring First published in Golden Days for Boys and Girls, August 27, 1898 When Mrs. Clay went to pay a long-promised visit to her sister, it was not without some misgivings that she left her household in charge of Edmund and Ivy. To be sure Ivy could be trusted. She was fifteen and had been her mother's right hand for years. But Edmund, who was sixteen and ought to have had more sense than Ivy, but had it, was prone to tricks and nonsense. And all the rest of the little clays, around half dozen a number, were noted for the numerous scrapes they can try to get into daily. Nevertheless, Mrs. Clay stifled her doubts and went away for a week, burdening Edmund and Ivy with so many charges and reminders that they forgot half of them before she was fairly out of the gate. Edmund was deputed to kindle fires, chop wood, feed the pig, bring in water, and last but not least, he was to look after the youthful clays and keep them in order. Ivy was to do the housework and see that the children were kept comparatively clean and mended and keep a wary eye on things in general. And if anything dreadful should happen, warned their mother, be sure to send for me at once. Be careful of the fires, Ivy and Edmund, never you try to light one with kerosene. I expect in the end to come home and find the house burned to the ground or half the children killed. That isn't the right spirit to go on a visit in, mother, said Edmund. He was sitting on the edge of the wood box, whittling over the floor. Just make up your mind to enjoy yourself. Don't worry about us. We'll be all right. I give you my word. Everything will go swimmingly. I'll keep the kids straight. And Ivy too, if she gets fighting, you can depend on me, mother. I know just how much dependence is to be placed on you, Edmund, replied his mother severely. Now do behave yourself while I'm away, and don't call your brothers and sisters kids. Well, I'm sure I can't call them lambs anyhow. Just listen to that, as a crash and a scream sounded in an adjoining room. Finn and Reeve have gone over on the rocking chair again. There won't be a whole piece of furniture left in this establishment by another month. Altogether, as has been said, Mrs. Clay did not leave home in a very easy state of mind. Nevertheless, the Clay household got on wonderfully well. Edmund behaved himself tolerably well and attended to his man of the house duties with praiseworthy diligence. Moreover, he kept the younger clays within reasonable bounds and refused to aid or abet them in making nuisances of themselves. He studied hard in the long evenings after Finn and Reeve and Kitty and Joe and Frank and Bobby had been tucked away in their beds and Ivy had taken her knitting and sat down in the little sitting room. I'd put more heart into it if I thought it would come to anything, he said mournfully, but it won't. No college for me. I'll have to leave school in the spring and pitch into earning my own living and helping you folks along. It's tough on a fella to be poor. Don't I envy Scott Dawson. He's going to college next fall. It's too bad you can't go, Ed, said Ivy sympathizingly. You're ever so much smarter than Scott Dawson, but I don't suppose we could ever manage it. I know that well enough. Let a fella complain a bit will you? It eases me. No, I won't whine when it comes to the point. I'll get all that done beforehand and you'll see me grinning over the counter as if I were the happiest fellow in the world. If we were not so awfully poor, Ivy, or if the good old days of fairies and three wishes had gone by, what would you go in for? Music, answered Ivy with a little sigh. Oh, dear me, I'd just love to be a good violinist, but that costs money, too, so I needn't think of it. If that blessed Uncle Eugene of ours wasn't such a miserly old crank, continued Edmund, he might help us along a bit. He isn't much like a storybook uncle, is he, Ivy? I'd like to meet him, just to see what he's like. I wouldn't, said Ivy emphatically. If he's as cranky in particular as Mother says he is. And he behaved abominably to Father when they had that dispute over the property. No, I don't want to see Uncle Eugene. If I did, I should be apt to flare out and tell him what I thought of him. It's a mercy there's no fear of us seeing him. He wouldn't come here for anything. You don't know, it's always the unexpected that happens, replied Edmund miraculously. Wouldn't it be a joke if he were to come now when Mother is away? If the kids, I beg your pardon, I mean my hopeful brothers and sisters, behave as they usually do when we have company, how it would horrify him. Old bachelors generally know all about how children should be trained, and I have no doubt Uncle Eugene's an aggravated specimen. The clays were undeniably poor. Mr. Clay had died some five years before, leaving his family but scantily provided for. Mrs. Clay had hard work to make both ends meet. Being a woman of resource and thrift, she accomplished it, but luxuries were unknown in the little household. Yet they were happy in spite of their poverty. Edmund's college course had to be given up. He was to take a position as clerk in a dry goods store in the spring. Ivy had her own deprivations, of which she said little. She buried music dreams in the recesses of her heart, and made over her dresses and wore her hats three seasons with smiling sweetness. I think on the whole they enjoyed life quite as well as richer people. Only, as Edmund said, a little more cash would not have been an overwhelming inconvenience. I tell you what Ivy said Edmund on Saturday afternoon as he banged down a load of wood with a deafening crash and sent a shower of dust over the dishes Ivy had so carefully wiped. I'm glad Mother's coming home Monday when all said and done. We've got a long tip top to be sure, but the cares of being at the head of family affairs have weighed me down so heavily this week that I feel like an old man. We've been fortunate so far in that we've had no visitors. But they'll be sure to come today. Just our Saturday luck. Mercy, I hope not. I'm so busy. I'm determined that Mother shall find this house in spick and span order when she comes home. So I'm having a grand rummage. This cupboard has to be put to rights. And I have fifty other things to do. And I've got the most dreadful cold in the head. I can scarcely breathe. Goodness, Ed. That's never a knock at the door. But it is. Ten to one is Aunt Lucinda Perkins come to stay over Sunday. Ed, you must go to the door said Ivy with dismayed remembrance of her wet apron and generally disorderly appearance. And whoever it is, show them to the sitting-room. Don't dare to take anyone into the parlor, for Reeve and Robbie got in there this morning to play shop before I discovered them, and it's in an awful mess. Ivy listened anxiously as Edmund went to the door. The visitors' tones were masculine, and she breathed a sigh of relief that it was not Aunt Perkins anyhow, that her complacency was of short duration when Edmund had shown the caller into the sitting-room and returned to the kitchen. Ivy defined that the something dreadful had happened at last. Ivy, the Philistines be upon thee, said Edmund, with a solemnity belied by his dancing eyes. Eyes that plainly indicated his enjoyment of the whole situation. Is it Aunt Perkins, after all? It's worse than ten Aunt Perkins'es. Ivy Clay, in that room at this very minute, sits our respected Uncle Eugene. Mercy on us, exclaimed Ivy, and then collapsed, sitting down on the wood box. Don't take a fit, sis. When I opened the door, there he stood as grim as she pleased. Is your mother at home, boy? he asked. No, sir, she isn't, I replied. Well, I'm her brother-in-law, Eugene Clay, he said, and I've come to see her as I have to wait a few hours here for my train. Whereat I gasped out, oh, and towed him into the room, feeling decidedly faint. My part's done. Now Ivy is your turn, selling gracefully and bid him welcome to the house of Clay. In this mess, I can't, declared Ivy. Well, no, you'll have to fix up a bit, brush your hair, and so forth. Do the thing up in good style, Ivy. I'm going to peek through the crack and watch the interview. Edmund, implored Ivy, beginning to recover her equanimity. Don't do anything dreadful now, will you? Don't make me laugh or anything like that. Bless you, no. I'll be a model nephew. I'm properly scared, I tell you. Don't I look pale? All I'm afraid of, Ivy, is that Uncle Eugene will get alarmed and run for all the kids are in the room above his head and are making a most unearthly racket. If some of them come crashing through the ceiling, it's no more than I expect. Oh, Ed, do go and make them stop. My head is just in a whirl. Oh, if mother were only home. Do help me out of this scrape, like a dear boy. What does he look like? Who? Uncle Eugene? Oh, he's not too savage. More civilized looking than I had expected. Well, I'll go and make those little clays up their tone down before his nervous system is utterly wrecked. You pretty yourself up, Ivy, and beard the lion in his den as if you liked it. Don't let him suspect what a martyr you are to family ties. Poor Ivy hurriedly brushed her rebellious curls into place, replaced her soiled apron by an immaculate white one, and with her heart in her mouth but looking very pretty and house-wifely, nevertheless contrite, she never knew how to get into the sitting room and say, How do you do, Uncle Eugene? I am glad to see you, hoping she would be forgiven for the atrocious fib. Are you, returned Uncle Eugene grimly? So your mother isn't home, hey? No, she's visiting at Mary. She expects to be home on Monday. Was that your brother who opened the door? Yes, that is Edmund, my older brother. Won't you take off your overcoat, sir? Of course she'll stay to tea, said Ivy, devoutly hoping he wouldn't. Well, yes, I suppose I will, if you'll get me an early one. Train leaves at 4.30. I can't wait over. Sorry your mother is away. How many are there of you? Eight? I should have thought there were four times eight by the noise that was going on overhead when I came in. So your housekeeper at present. You look like your mother. Uncle Eugene slowly divested himself of his handsome light overcoat. He was a tall man of about fifty with grizzled hair and a clean shaven face. He had a hard mouth and deep set eyes. Ivy, with a covert glance around the room, was thankful to see it was comparatively neat. A sudden calm had succeeded Edmund's entrance overhead. His measures, whatever they were, must have been sudden and effective. There, said Uncle Eugene, depositing himself comfortably in a rocker by the fire, that will do. I dare say you're busy, so don't let me detain you. You needn't think you're in duty bound to entertain me. In fact, I'd prefer you wouldn't. Thus abruptly dismissed, Ivy gladly left her grandma uncle to the charms of solitude and hastened to the kitchen, where she found Edmund scrubbing the hands and faces of all the little clays, not one of whom dared whimper under the operation, for they realized that Edmund meant business. Hello, Ivy. You didn't take long to dispose of him. Did he bite? Oh, don't, Edmund. This is no joking matter. No, indeed. It's a serious case. Don't I look as if it were? Ed, he's going to stay to tea, and he wants it early. Why can we give him to eat? What other people eat, I suppose? Or has he some abnormal appetite that craves, I mean, there's nothing baked in the house, only loaf bread. I was so busy this morning I thought I wouldn't make cake, and I've heard mother say what an epicure Uncle Eugene was. I'm going right to work to make a layer cake. It won't take long, but I shall have to hurry. And there is the quince preserve. That'll have to do. You'd better go in with him, Ed. Not I. I'll have to fly round to the grocery for butter. Do you want anything else? No, don't bother me, replied Ivy, who was scurrying in and out of the pantry with a bowl and a flour scoop. Edmund proved himself a tower of strength. He finished putting the little clays in order, and then went around to the grocery with a rush. On his return he found Ivy whipping up her cake energetically. It's all ready for the flavoring, Ed. Just hand me the bottle of vanilla out of the pantry, will you? It's on the second shelf. Edmund dived into the pantry and returned with the vanilla bottle, rushing off again to settle a noisy dispute between Frank and Bobby in the hall. Ivy measured out and stirred in a generous spoonful of vanilla, filled her pans, and triumphantly banged the oven door upon them. Now I do hope it will turn out well. I'll whip up a bit of frosting for the top. What a blessing those children are behaving so well, if they only keep it up at tea time. Ivy began to set the tea table, stepping briskly in and out of the room. She saw with dismay that Joe had strayed in somehow and was actually perched on Uncle Eugene's knee in earnest conversation with him. Now Joe Clay was six years old and not having arrived in years of discretion was justly regarded as the infant terrible of the family. He could not keep either his own secrets or those of other people, and Ivy was on thorns for there was no knowing what revelations Joe might be making to Uncle Eugene. She hoped evoutly that he had not overheard any of her or Edmund's remarks, for they would be fatally sure to be recounted. In vain, she surreptitiously beckoned Joe out of the room. Joe refused to heed her, and once Uncle Eugene saw her and said, Leave him alone, we're all right. After which she gave up in despair, although in her pilgrimages in and out she caught scraps of Joe's remarks about music and Ed wanting to do tallage that made her groan. Ivy set the table daintily with spotless cloth and shining china and put an apple geranium in pinkish bloom in the center. The loaf bread was cut in the thinnest of slices, the quince preserve was dished in an old fashioned cut glass bowl, and her cake came out of the oven as light and puffy as down. Just the best of luck, Ed said Ivy delightedly as she clapped the layers together with ruby jelly, whisked the frosting over the top and sprinkled grated coconut on it. Isn't that pretty? I hope it'll taste as good as it looks. Now Ed, I'll take in the tea and you take in the children and get them settled in their places. Keep an eye on them too, I'll have enough to attend to. And oh Ed, Joe's been sitting on Uncle Eugene's knee for an hour, and I know he's been telling him a fearful lot of stuff. Why couldn't you have decoyed him out? Didn't dare, I'll bet Uncle Eugene knows everything about our family kinks by this time. Never mind, come on, charge Ivy charge, we'll win the day with the last words of Edmund Clay. Edmund marshaled the little clays soberly in and arranged them in order at the tea table. Uncle Eugene sat down and Ivy poured out the tea with fear and trembling, but all went well at first. The tea and preserves were good and the children behaved beautifully. Uncle Eugene said absolutely nothing. He evidently considered silence to be golden. Then Edmund, in obedience to a nod from Ivy, gravely passed the layer keg to his uncle after which it went the rounds of the appreciative little clays. Ivy took none, she was too tired and worried to eat, but Edmund helped himself to a generous slice. When he had tasted it, he laid down his fork, rolled up his eyes, and opened both his hands in exaggerated dismay for Ivy's benefit. Bobby Clay followed with, Why Ivy, what's the matter with the layer cake? Edmund silenced him with such an awful look that none of the others dared open their lips, though each, after the first mouthful, left their cake uneaten on their plates. Uncle Eugene, however, appeared to taste nothing unusual, for he gravely ate his cake with an impassive face and finished the last crumb. Frank said to the ride of the agonized Ivy too far away to explain, but by his penimime he conveyed the fact that something serious was the matter. Finally she took a peek of the triangle of cake on Reeve's plate next to her. She gave a gasp. A look at Edmund, and then, sad to relate, burst into a ringing peel of laughter, which, coming after the dead silence, was electrical in effect. She caught herself up with a scarlet face, and in quick transition felt so much like crying that she might have done so if Uncle Eugene had not abruptly pushed back his chair and announced that he had had enough. Ivy fled to the kitchen, whether she was followed by Edmund with all the little clay swarming after him. Ivy demanded Edmund tragically, What in the world did you put in that cake? Never tasted anything like it in the cooking line before. Oh, Ed, how could you do such a thing? cried poor Ivy hysterically. I can never forgive you, and after promising you wouldn't play any tricks too. Me, exclaimed Edmund, too surprised to be grammatical. Goodness, what have I done? Oh, don't pretend innocence. I suppose you thought it a very smart trick to hand me out a bottle of anodyne liniment to flavor that cake with. But I call it mean. Edmund stared at her blankly for a minute, and then flunk himself on the sofa and went off into a burst of laughter that made the kitchen re-echo. Oh, he cried. Ivy Adela Clay, you don't mean to say you flavored that cake with anodyne liniment. Oh, if that isn't an original idea. I always knew you were a genius Ivy. How could you, Edmund? Edmund sat up. Ivy, I give you my word of honor. I didn't do it on purpose, he said solemnly. I thought it was vanilla. Honest I did. Why it was in a vanilla bottle, and it's just the same color. Yes, don't you remember Reeve broke the liniment bottle last week, and I put what wasn't spilled into an old vanilla bottle. Oh, dear me, this is dreadful. You were to blame, then? Why didn't you put it out of the way? How is a fella to tell? And how is it you didn't smell it? I couldn't with such a cold. Oh, Edmund, what must Uncle Eugene think? Dear no, said Edmund, going off into another paroxysm. I suppose the poor man will think we were trying to poison him unless he happened to recognize the taste. Fortunately, the liniment is for internal as well as external application. So nobody will die. Well, this is the latest. Flavoring a cake with anodyne liniment. Well done, Ivy. Will we—do you think we ought to say anything to Uncle Eugene about it? Goodness, no. Perhaps he didn't suspect anything amiss. He ate every crumb of it, so doubtless he imagined it was the newest thing in flavoring extracts. Your reputation as a cook would be gone forever if you let him know, Ivy. Well, said Ivy disconsolently, it's done now, and it can't be undone. Fortunately, as you say, it was harmless, but the whole thing is simply dreadful. What will mother say? Accidents will happen, even in a well-regulated family like ours. Go and clear off the ruins, Ivy, and feed that liniment cake to the pig. Uncle Eugene will never be any the wiser. Alas, when Ivy summoned up enough courage to return to the room and attack the table, what was her horror to find Joe delightedly telling all the details to Uncle Eugene? Ivy called the fatal word liniment and mentally collapsed. She must apologize somehow. Uncle Eugene, she stammered with a scarlet face. Her confusion not calmed in any degree by a glimpse of Edmund gesticulating wildly in the back hall. I'm very sorry that cake shouldn't have tasted as it did. I meant to put in vanilla, but Edmund made a mistake and, somehow, well, I put in a spoonful of anodyne liniment instead. It won't hurt anyone. You know, it's sometimes taken internally, but not in cakes, came a stage whisper from the back hall. Ivy gave up trying to explain, and, in spite of her efforts, gave vent to something that couldn't be called anything but a snicker. As for Uncle Eugene, his eyes twinkled quite genially, but all he said was, accidents will happen. And Ivy went out, considerably mystified as to what effect the disclosure had had on him. Soon after, he looked at his watch, said it was nearly train time, and put on his coat. He shook hands with Ivy and Edmund, told them to tell their mother he was sorry not to have seen her, and relieved the clay mansion of his unwelcome presence. Thank goodness at Edmund emphatically when he had seen him safely out of the gate. The old crank is gone. I guess he won't come back in a hurry. I should say liniment-flavored cake was an excellent preventative of unwelcome guests. What an opinion he must have of us. You are always doing something brilliant, Ivy, but you've surpassed yourself in this exploit. When Mrs. Clay returned home on Monday, she listened to the tale with a curious mixture of dismay and amusement. I wish I had been home, she said. I can't think what induced him to come. He once said he'd never darken our doors again. I suppose I ought to be thankful to find you all alive in sound of limb. But it's a pity Uncle Eugene should have come when I was away. I expect he's gone for good now, Ivy, after what you gave him to eat, poor man. I know how Uncle Eugene would regard anything like that. But she didn't. Last week a letter came from her brother-in-law, short and abrupt, as was his fashion, but the contents were satisfactory. It ran. Sister Martha, doubtless this will impress you. I called at your house last week and found you away. However, your son and daughter entertained me very hospitably, and I was much pleased with them both, but especially with the girl. The boy I take it is somewhat mischievous and likes to tease his sister. I dare say they think I am a crusty old fellow and they are right, but I desire to make amends for the past if you will let bygones be bygones. I am a lonely man and I want to have some interest outside myself. Edmund and Ivy did not tell me about your concerns, but I picked up an inkling from little Joe. Tell Edmund he is not to go into that store but to prepare for college next fall and I will put him through. I have nothing else to do with my money and you must gratify me in this whim. As for Ivy, you may tell her she is to take music lessons and I will send her the best violin to be had. She is a good housewifely girl. Tell her also that her linoid cake seems to have had an excellent effect on her cranky old uncle, for it appears to have made him well all over, even to his bones and marrow. I may pay you another visit soon. Until then I remain yours respectfully, Eugene Clay. Uncle Eugene is a brick, exclaimed Edmund breathlessly. A regular brick. I repent in sackcloth and ashes of anything I ever said to the contrary. He is splendid, said Ivy with shining eyes, to think I am to have music lessons and a violin. It is too good to be true. You may well be grateful. It is not every uncle who would behave so handsomely to a girl who gave him linoid cake to eat. What an advertisement this would be for that linoid firm if they got hold of it. A linoid weren't to secure not only every known body helmet, but those of the mind and heart as well. They'd make their fortune. Mother, say something. Relieve your feelings in some way. I say long live and a dying linoid, said Mrs. Clay, laughing. The experiment has turned out well this time, Ivy, but I wouldn't advise a repetition. Uncle Eugene was always kind at heart, although peculiar, and now to prevent any further mistakes, I'll go and put that new-fashioned flavoring of yours out of the vanilla bottle into a more orthodox one. The next time Uncle Eugene comes, I'll make the cake myself. End of Section 7 Section 8 of Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marcella Collado. Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Mott Montgomery. Section 8 A Brave Girl by LM Montgomery First published in Family Herald and Weekly Star, July 19, 1899. Aunt M was the herring of the story, and it was she who told it to us on her last visit here. We were all sitting around the fire one evening when Clive, my older brother, came in and said it was the darkest night he had ever been out in. I said I was glad I hadn't gone over to see Kitty Martin that evening as I had intended since I would have had to come home alone. You wouldn't have been frightened to do that would you? said Aunt M. Yes, I would have been scared to death, I admitted frankly. I'm the biggest coward that ever breathed Aunt M. Clive here would tell you that. Mother smiled across the table at Auntie. Matt would never be able to do what you did for me one time, Emmy, she said. Oh yes, she would. I was frightened enough, Alice, and you know what a dreadful coward I had always been before that night. Clive and I had sent it a story by this time, and we gave Aunt M no peace until she consented to tell us. I shall try to give it as nearly as possible in her own words. It was 30 years ago, said Aunt M, settling comfortably back to her meeting. But I'm sure I shall never forget a single incident of that night if I lived to be a hundred. I was 14 years old and your mother here was eight. We were living on a farm in one of the loneliest, drariest buck country places you could imagine. Our nearest neighbor lived three miles away and we were almost surrounded by woods. About six miles away was a little village called Crossroads, quite a steering place we thought, with a church and a store. Father and mother made frequent trips there too, but Alice and I rarely went out of sight from our own farm. We did not even get to school and not often to church. We had no playmates and were often lonely. Our family consisted of father and mother, we two girls, and old Aunt Madagret as we called her. She was really no relation at all, but a trusted nurse and servant combined and was as much a part of our household as any of us. We girls were blindly petted and spoiled by her. Looking back now, I cannot say I think she was a judicious friend by any means, for she told us so many tales of fairies and witches and spooks that our heads were full of such nonsense. I in particular grew to be dreadfully afraid of the dark. You could not have persuaded me to go into a room without a light and the mere idea of venturing out of doors alone after nightfall would fill us with terror. I knew I was very foolish, for I did not really believe in Aunt Madagret's stories at all and I honestly tried to conquer my fears, but I could not succeed, although I was very much ashamed of myself. One day, father and mother started on an expedition to the nearest town about 30 miles away. They intended to remain overnight and return the next day, leaving Alice and me in Aunt Margaret's care. I was very busy all day, for there was an extra amount of work for me to do and left Alice to the care of Aunt Margaret, who was complaining greatly about her rheumatism. Alice had always been a rather delicate child and subject to attacks of group. It was a cold day for the time of year, with a raw east wind blowing. Alice went out too much in the forenoon and would not wrap herself up. At dinner time I noticed she had a cold and Aunt Margaret insisted on her staying indoors the rest of the day. She did not seem any worse by night, but Aunt Margaret took her to bed with her, insisting that she could keep her covered up warm better than I could. I went to my own little room over the kitchen and soon fell asleep. I slept soundly, for I did not know how long, when I was suddenly awakened by a glare of light in my eyes. Aunt Margaret was standing by my bed with a lamp. Oh, Aunt Margaret, what is the matter? I exclaimed in fright. Aunt Margaret set the lamp down on the table and wrung her hands in a manner that convinced me something serious had happened. Oh, Alice has the croop, she moaned, and she's dreadful bad, all fevered up and clean out of her head. I've done all I could, but take no use. She'll dine our hands and not a soul to go for a doctor or anything. And me, all crippled up with rheumatism, oh, what's to be done? During Aunt Margaret's distracted speech, I had been dressing as quickly as my trembling fingers permitted. A great dread was tugging at my heart. Was Alice really in danger? My little sister whom I loved so dearly? Something must be done, but what and who was to do it? I took the lamp and hurried into the other room, followed by Aunt Margaret, who hobbled after me crying and lamenting dismally. She seemed to have lost her usual clear-sighted calmness altogether. Alice was her pet, and the sense of her danger quite unnerved our old nurse. I realized that the whole responsibility rested on me, and I felt very helpless. Inexperienced though I was, I saw at once that Alice was dangerously ill. She tossed to and fro, and coughed incessantly with a hoarse, choking sound. Her eyes were glaringly bright, and she did not seem to know me at all. Oh Margaret, I said piteously, is she going to die? What can we do? Oh child, I don't know. I've tried every remedy I know of. I didn't want to wake you till I had to, if we had only someone to send for Doctor Long. I tried to think calmly. Our nearest neighbor was three miles away. Father and mother had taken the team to town, and I could not drive the only horse left, a wild young three-year-old. The doctor lived at Crossroads, six miles away by the roundabout main road. But there was a shorter cut, not more than two and a half miles or three at the most, through the woods directly back of our farm. I knew the road well. It was used for wood hauling, and we went through it when we went burying in the wildlands back of Crossroads. I must go for the doctor, and I must go by that dark, lonely wood road. There was no help for it. There was no other way. But you cannot realize how terribly frightened I was. Margaret stared at me in amazement as I hastily slipped on my jacket and hat. Where are you going, child? For the doctor. I'm going through the woods, and I'll be as quick as I can. Do everything you can for Alice, and keep up the hot applications. I went over to the bed, kissed my little sister, then ran downstairs and slipped back the bolt of the door. The night was very dark, and our lantern was broken. A frantic terror took possession of me, and my trembling limbs refused to move. I could not go. I could not face that dark, lonely walk, bristling with unknown horrors. I can smile at myself now, as you do, but I could not subdue my fears then. Then came the thought, if you do not go for the doctor, Alice will die. And it nerved me with a sort of desperate courage. I stepped out, shut the door, and started resolutely in the direction of the woods. It was, as I have said, very dark. But after I had been out a few minutes, my eyes got accustomed to the gloom, and I could see my way. I had to cross two large fields before I reached the wood road. I climbed the fence and fairly flew over the dew wet grass. The trees along the fences were terrifying in their deemed shadowy outlines. When a cow got up suddenly from a corner, my heart gave a painful bound. The far-off bark of some prowling fox sent the cold shivers up and down my spine. I arrived at the wood road out of breath and paused in fresh fright. The gloom under the trees was intense. There were so many eerie and mysterious sounds coming and going in the darkness too. The groaning of the wind, the swaying of the branches and the leaves all thrilled me with terror. Now, M. Carter, I said aloud, and the faint sound of my voice and that great empty darkness was as terribly as anything else. You know perfectly well there is nothing to hurt you, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You have been through this wood dozens of times in daylight and you never saw anything worse looking than yourself. You know there is no such thing as a ghost. Your sister is dying and you are skulking here afraid to take a step to save her life. By the time I got through with this monologue, I felt braver and I plunged in desperately and hurried down the dark wood road. I really yet cannot think of that experience without a little shudder. Me, the forest seemed fairly alive with a stealthy, uncanny life. I was fast, but my thoughts were faster and every ghost or boogie story Aunt Margaret had ever told me flashed across my memory. I dare not turn my head, lest some dreadful thing should be dogging my steps, although it would have had a lively race of it, for I was going at a headlong pace. Several times I tripped on roots and fell. Once I struck my face against a stump and cut my cheek. I could feel the warm blood trickling down as I scrambled up and ran on, but it seemed that very trifling thing compared with my mental agony. But at last I did get through the wood belt and came out back of the crossroads village. I had still quite a distance to go over blueberry commons dripping with dew and so overgrown with young maple that I came near losing my way, but somehow or other I pushed through, following a cow track and reached the fence along the main road. I climbed over it, but somehow in my hurry my foot slipped on the top longer and I fell heavily to the ground. I sprang up at once, but staggered back with a cry of pain, for it seemed as if a knife had been thrust through my ankle. I had sprained it somehow when I fell. I could not bear my weight on it for a minute and at first I felt as if I were going to faint. But my physical pain drove my ghostly fears out of my mind and I set my teeth firmly. There was only one thing to do and I did it. I got down and crawled, slowly and suddenly, on my hands and knees along the roadside to the doctor's house, feeling as if I must give up with every rent of my ankle. I crawled up to the door and rang the bell. It seemed hours to me before I heard steps inside. Then the door opened and Dr. Long's kindly face appeared. He carried a lamp and as the light fell over me he fairly jumped, as well he might, for my face was all bloodstained, my hat gone, my dress torn to tatters, and I was sobbing and gasping wildly. Bless my heart, exclaimed the doctor. Amy Carter here at this hour of night and in such a plight. Child, where did you come from and what is wrong? Oh, please, sir, I gasped brokenly. Alice is dying with group. Won't you come at once? There was nobody home but unmarketed and me and I've run through the woods. Oh, won't you come right away? I'm afraid I sprained my ankle jumping over a fence down there. I do declare, said Dr. Long, and he picked me up as if I had been a baby and carried me into his office. He insisted on bandaging up my ankle before he would attend to anything else and he wanted me to stay there while he went up to our place, but I declare must go back with him. So he harnessed his pony as quickly as possible, lifted me into the feet on and we started back. It seemed to me that drive would never end, but it did, of course. And we got home before unmarketed thought I had time to get to the crossroads. The doctor looked very grave over Alice. He was barely in time, he said. A very little later would have been too late. It was morning before Alice was out of danger. Then Dr. Long found time to ask me how my ankle was. I had not thought much about it as I lay helplessly on the sofa much unmarkered and him working over my sister. But when I knew Alice was safe, I began to recollect my own mishaps. It feels as if somebody were sticking needles through it, I said, and that isn't exactly pleasant. How long am I going to be laid up? Oh, not very long, said the doctor cheerfully. It's not a bad sprain, and Alice is all right. Thanks to you, my brave girl. I felt myself getting very red. Oh, I'm not brave at all, I cried. I'm an awful coward, Dr. Long. If you knew how terribly frightened I was. At first I was sure I couldn't go at all, and every step I took I was sure some dreadful thing was just on the point of catching me. I don't believe I could do it again. The doctor laughed and said something about Shakespeare's definition of bravery. Do you know it, Clive? The brave man is not he who feels no fear, for that were stupid and irrational, but he whose noble soul his fear subdues and bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from. Quoted Clive glibly. Yes, that was it, said un-M. But I told him that couldn't apply to me, for I didn't subdue my fear. I only just went somehow in spite of it. But that night cured me. I never was frightened in the dark after that. My ankle was all right in a few days, and father and mother said some very nice things to me. But my sweetest reward was the knowledge that I had really saved Alice's life. We all drew a long breath as un-M finished her story and her stocking together. Un-M, you were a break, exclaimed Clive with boyish enthusiasm. I could have never done that, un-T, I said. I think you could have needed a rose, said un-M. I would have been sure I could not do it either. But you never know what you can do until you try. End of Section 8, Recording by Marcela Collado. Section 9 of Un-Collected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by T. J. Burns. Un-Collected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Miss Marietta's Jersey by L. M. Montgomery. First published in The Household, July 1899. Miss Marietta's Jersey. It was ten o'clock on a hot July morning and Miss Marietta was helping cordially shell the peas for dinner on the back veranda, which was always cool and pleasant, shaded as it was by Virginia creepers and sibilant poplars. Miss Marietta, whose morning work was not done, was not dressed for the day. She had on her lilac wrapper and her front hair was in curlpapers. An ample white apron was tied around her trim waist and floated off in long, crisp streamers behind. She was fair and 40 and could afford to admit it since she looked all of five years younger. Her round, plump face was flushed pinkly with the heat. She swayed easily back and forth in her rocker, holding the pan of peas in her lap and running her fat white fingers deftly up the green pods as she talked to Cordily. Cordily was Miss Marietta's cousin and stayed with her. She was paid wages for so doing, but nobody ever thought of her as hired help. She was much higher up in the social scale than that. She was a thin, snapping black-eyed woman with angular elbows and nerves and she shelled four peas to Miss Marietta's deliberate one. But then Miss Marietta took things easy and Cordily never did. It wasn't her way. My, it's dreadfully warm, isn't it? said Miss Marietta, making an ineffectual attempt to fan herself with a pee-pod. I'm glad Herm has decided not to begin hay-making until next week. I'm sure I shouldn't feel like cooking for a lot of men in such weather. And I do hope Mr. Randall will come this afternoon and see about buying that jersey cow. I shall never feel easy in my mind until she's safely off the place," she concluded. I guess Nathaniel Griffith won't, either, said Cordily, giving her chair of vicious hitch around. I wonder if he's got over the last tantrum by now. My, but wasn't he mad? He knows your cow is ever so much better than his. For all they look so exactly like. And that helps to rile him up. Well, it was very aggravating to find her in his best clover hay, I've no doubt, said Miss Marietta soothingly. I'm sure I shouldn't like to find his jersey in my hay. But I must say, I wouldn't get into such a ridiculous fluster as he did for all, and—oh! goodness me, Cordily, look there! Miss Marietta pointed with a gasp across the yard. Cordily looked and saw. She sprang up, scattering peas and pods widely over the clean veranda floor in her flight. Goodness gracious Marietta, that cow has been in again! However could she have jumped out. And he's mad clear through. Scuttling through the yard at a lively rate was it a mere little jersey cow, and behind her came Miss Marietta's next-door neighbor, Mr. Nathaniel Griffith, very red and puffy and angry, as he bounced up the veranda steps and faced the two women. Now see here, Miss Hunter. He sputtered, this isn't going to do. I don't intend to put up with it. This is the third time, ma'am, I've found that jersey cow of yours in my clover hay. Think of that. I warned you last time. Now, ma'am, what do you mean by letting her in again? Mr. Griffith stopped, perforce, for want of breath. Miss Marietta rose in distress. Dear me, Mr. Griffith, I had no idea that cow was in again. I don't know how she got out, I'm sure. I'm very sorry. Sorry, ma'am? Sorry isn't going to help matters any. You'd better go look at the havoc that animal has made in my hay. Troubled it from centre to circumference. It isn't to be endured. I won't endure it. Oh, you needn't scowl at me back there, Miss Cordily Hunter. I'm talking to Miss Marietta. I'm a patient man, Miss Hunter. Very, very... Cordily could not have helped saying it to save her life any more than she could have kept the sarcastic inflection out of it when she did say it. Only your patients will be the cause of your bursting a blood vessel yet if you go on in such a fashion a hot day like this. If I was a man, Nathaniel Griffith, I would try to have a little common sense. Hush, Cordily, said Miss Marietta with dignity. Mr. Griffith, I regret very much that my cow has been so much trouble to you. Perhaps if you had kept your fences in better order, she might not have been. They're not very good, I notice. My fences are all right, snapped Mr. Griffith. There were never fences built that would keep a demon of a cow like that out. Much a pair of old maids know about fences or farming either. Miss Marietta carefully set her pan of peas on the bench and stood up, the better to overwhelm Mr. Griffith. Her mild blue eyes were sparkling dangerously and her cheeks were very red. I may be an old maid, Mr. Griffith, she said, with calm distinctness. I've no doubt that I am, but it isn't because I've never had a chance to be anything else. And there are people not one hundred miles from here who know it too. Mr. Griffith grew pink all over his shiny little face, to the very top of his bald head. He stepped backward awkwardly and fanned himself with his hat. Miss Marietta was mistress of the situation after that last effective shot, and she knew it. Cordily could not repress a little chuckle of triumph as she watched him down the steps and across the yard. When he passed out of sight up the lane, Miss Marietta sat down again with a sigh. Dear me, Cordily, how very unpleasant, and me to be caught with wrapper and curl-papers too. We must certainly do something with that cow. It is quite unbearable. What a dreadful temper Mr. Griffith was in, and he has trampled those peas you spelled right into the floor. That old monster I'd have liked to pitch the whole panful at his head. Returned Cordily vindictively. Why didn't you fly at him? I'd have done it if I'd been in your place. Dear me, Cordily, what good would that have done? I've no doubt it was very trying to find that cow in his hay again. Of course he need not have been quite so ridiculous. He can't and won't ever forgive you for refusing to marry him, said Cordily. That's what's ranking in his mind, not Jersey cows or hay either. Didn't he get red, though? How many times did you refuse him, Marietta? Twice, said Miss Marietta with apparent satisfaction, and the last time pretty decided, too. It doesn't become him to be casting up to me that I'm an old maid. He's an old bachelor because nobody would have him. I suppose it's no wonder the poor man flies into tempers. I should think it would spoil anyone's temper to have to put up with a housekeeper like Mercy Fisher. I don't suppose the poor soul has a decent meal from one end of the year to the other. If you'd fly into a temper, too, said Cordily, who could not forgive Miss Marietta's easy-going ways. When he comes here plustering about his hay, it would settle him. Law, I feel better now than if I had, left Miss Marietta. You're too peppery, Cordily. Mr. Griffith does not mean half, he says. He may be sure he's sorry for it already. He's always been so from a boy. But I shall certainly sell that cow. She's no milker, and I don't like frackuses like this. To hear me, I feel quite upset. And what a dreadful state this veranda floor is in. The thunderstorm that came up at noon and drenched everything well did not last long, and at two o'clock Miss Marietta and her handmaid were dressed for driving and the carriage was at the door. Miss Marietta had harnessed the horse, her hired man being away, and moreover she shut the recalcitrant's jersey up in the milking-pen. She can't possibly get out of that unless she tears the fence down. She reflected complacently as she tied up the gate. She looks pretty quiet now. I daresay she's sickened herself on that clover hay. I'm sure I wish I'd never been persuaded into buying her. A woman is apt to make mistakes in judgment when it comes to farming after all, though I'd never admit it in Nathaniel Griffith. Sigh... And Miss Marietta sighed as she looked over the trim, well-ordered fields of her neighbor to the right. Perhaps it was on account of the shortcomings of jersey cows with jumping broclivities, or it may have been because she discovered that she had slightly draggled the skirt of her new chocolate print in crossing the yard, or it might have been for neither of these reasons. I do hope that cow will behave herself while we're away, said Miss Marietta as they drove out of the gate. It was four o'clock when they got back with a wagon full of parcels. As they drove up the lane, quarterly uttered a shrill exclamation. Miss Marietta, absorbed in a mental calculation regarding the day's expenditure, looked dreamily in the direction of quarterly's extended finger. Before them, on the right, extended Mr. Griffith's broad field of clover hay, wet and odorous and luxuriant, and there, standing squarely in the middle of it, up to her broad sides in sweetness and blinking calmly at them over the intervening blossoms stood the jersey cow. Miss Marietta dropped the reins and stood up with a curious tightening of the lips. She climbed nimbly down over the wheels, whisked across the road, and over the fence before quarterly could recover her powers of speech. Goodness gracious Marietta! Come back! screamed the letter. You'll ruin your dress in that wet hay. Ruin it, do you hear? She doesn't hear me. The woman's gone crazy, I do believe. She'll never get that cow out by herself. I must go and help her, of course. Miss Marietta was charging through the thick hay like a mad thing. Cordily hopped briskly down, tied the horse securely to the post, turned her neat plaid dress skirt over her shoulders, mounted the fence, and started in pursuit. Cordily could run faster than plump Miss Marietta, and consequently overtook her before the letter had made much headway. Behind them they left a trail that would break Mr. Griffith's heart when he should see it. Last sake, Marietta, hold on! panted poor Cordily. I'm clean out of breath and wet to the skin. We must get that cow out before Mr. Griffith sees her. Guess, Miss Marietta, I don't care if I'm drowned, if we can only do that. But the Jersey Cow appeared to see no good reason for being hustled out of her luscious browsing ground. No sooner had the two breathless women got near her, she turned and bolted squarely for the opposite corner of the field. Head her off! screamed Miss Marietta. Run! Cordily run! And Cordily ran. Miss Marietta tried to, and the wicked Jersey went around the field as if she were possessed. Privately Cordily thought she was. It was fully ten minutes before they got the cow headed off in a corner and drove her out of a gap and down the lane into their own yard just as a buggy turned in that direction. Miss Marietta did not often lose her temper, but at this critical moment she felt decidedly cross. Her dress was ruined and she was in a terrible heat. Cordily, being thinner, had suffered less, but she slammed the gate behind her with a vicious emphasis. There's Randall and his boy now, she said. He's a heaven-send if ever a man was. If you don't sell him that cow straight off Marietta, I'll give warning here and now. Land sakes! I won't get over this picnic all summer. Miss Marietta needed no urging. Her gentle nature was grievously disturbed. Mr. Randall, she said, if you've come for my cow, you can have her at your own price. I'll give her away before I keep her another hour. In exactly twenty minutes, Mr. Randall drove away and following him went his son driving the Jersey Cow. Miss Marietta counted the roll of bills in her hand complacently and Cordily looked after the disappearing bossy with malevolent satisfaction. I do hope we will have some peace of our lives now, she said. It was sunset before Miss Marietta recovered her equanimity. I guess I'll go out and begin milking, she said to Cordily, who was folding up the next day's ironing at the table. You needn't come until you've finished with the clothes. I feel flustered, yeah, I declare I do. But it's such a comfort to think that cow is out of the way. Five minutes later Cordily wheeled about at the sound of her own name to see Miss Marietta standing white and shaken in the doorway. She whirled across the room and caught the ladder's lilac arm. Marietta, Hunter, what's the matter? Are you going to take a turn? You look as if you've seen a ghost. So I have, or something worse. Said Miss Marietta with a hysterical little giggle as she dropped into a chair. Cordily, Hunter, it was Nathaniel Griffith's cow that sold to Robert Randall this afternoon. My own is out there in the milking pan yet. A lesser shock would have rattled Cordily's nerves completely, but this was so great that it left her perfectly calm. Marietta, Hunter, are you dreaming? Go and look for yourself if you don't believe me, said Miss Marietta tragically. Cordily needed no second bidding. She shot out over the veranda and flew across the yard to the gate of the milking pan. There, looking calmly out over the bars and chewing the cud of placid reflection, stood Miss Marietta's jersey cow. As she had stood, probably ever since her incarceration therein. I never did in all my life, gasped Cordily, stooping for the milking pails Miss Marietta had dropped. She got back to the house, she found the kitchen deserted and charged into Miss Marietta's bedroom where she found the ladder putting on her best dress with nervous haste. Lance, sakes Marietta, this is a nice scrape to be in. What are you going to do? she asked. Go up to Mr. Griffith and explain, of course. That is, unless you'd like to go in my place, Cordily. Heaven forbid, said Cordily devoutly, as she dropped limply into a chair. I'd rather face a lion. I never did hear of such a piece of work. Mad isn't any word for what Nathaniel Griffith will be. I wonder you ain't scared to death, Marietta. Well, I almost am. Returned Miss Marietta tremulously. But then, you see, Cordily, it has to be done if it's ever so humiliating. I suppose he'll say again that it's just what one would expect an old maid to do. There's no getting his cow back. For Randall said he meant to take her right down to Luxville and ship her on the 530 train. I shall offer him the money or my cow in her place, whichever he likes. And my cow is better than his if she does jump. Oh, dear. My crimps all came out in that hurry scurry this afternoon. And I look afright. Miss Marietta started off bravely enough, Cordily watched her out of sight, and then picked up the milking-pails again. Laws me! Won't there be a scene? She sniffed. Mr. Nathaniel Griffith was smoking a pipe on his front veranda and enjoying the view while his housekeeper was milking. Mr. Griffith never dared to smoke a pipe inside his own house. A hand-picked husband is to be pitied, but a hand-picked bachelor is the most forlorn creature on earth. Goodness me, said Mr. Griffith, removing his pipe and jumping to his feet as he caught sight of Miss Marietta skimming up the lane. If there ain't Marietta Hunter coming up here as sure as a gun, she must want to see mercy for something. I'm blessed if I want to face her after the fool I made myself down there about that cow to earn her. But it won't ever do to run, with Mercy way down in the yard and she'd see me anyhow. Mr. Griffith did not run, but manfully stood his ground, though he got pinker and pinker until, when Miss Marietta sailed up the steps, he was crimson from chin to crown. But Miss Marietta in her own confusion failed to notice this. Oh, Mr. Griffith, she said desperately, without wasting time on preliminaries. I've... I've something dreadful to tell you. Bless my soul, ma'am, exclaimed Mr. Griffith. Sit down, ma'am. Do sit down. Has that cow of yours gotten to my hay again? But it's no difference. No difference at all, ma'am, if she has. I was too hasty today, ma'am. Far too hasty. Oh, it's worse than that, said poor Miss Marietta, taking no notice of the rustic seat Mr. Griffith pushed nervously towards her. I... don't know how to tell you. I shot my cow up, after you brought her home, and quarterly and I went over to Luxville after dinner. And, when we came back, we saw a Jersey cow in the hay again, and we chased it out. And Mr. Randall came along just then, and I was so exasperated I sold her to him on the spot, and he took her away. And, to-night, when I went out to milk, there was my cow in the pen, and it was yours I had sold, Mr. Griffith. And, the revelation being over, Miss Marietta sat down in the rustic chair with a distinct sob. Ah, bless my soul, said Mr. Griffith. What an extraordinary thing. Don't cry, ma'am. I beg of you. It's no difference at all. Nothing to disturb yourself over, ma'am. There now. Don't cry, my dear. He stepped over and patted her shoulder nervously. Miss Marietta wiped her eyes. It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Griffith. She sobbed. I do feel so dreadfully about it. Your cow is a hundred miles away by now. But I've brought the money over, or you can have my jersey if you'd rather. She's a very good cow. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. No need to be sorry at all, ma'am, said Mr. Griffith gently, still patting Miss Marietta's arm. It was an accident, ma'am. One cow is the same to me as another. I'll take yours in her place, since you want to get rid of her. Now, don't think another thing about it. Bless me. I'd rather lose every cow I've got than have your feelings harrowed up so, my dear. Miss Marietta colored a little and stood up. I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Griffith. Here I will drive the cow over in the morning. I guess I must be going now. Cordily is milking all alone. Mr. Griffith fidgeted down two steps and up again. Uh, no hurry, ma'am. Mercy will be in in a minute or two. Sit down again, won't you, and have a neighborly chat. It's... it's lonesome here by spells. Miss Marietta sat down again. It would be very uncivil to refuse under the circumstances. Mr. Griffith had been so nice about the cow, and it must be rather lonesome for a man all the time with no company but a cross-old housekeeper. He looked neglected. She felt sorry for him. Cordily had almost made up her mind to start out and see if Mr. Griffith had murdered Marietta when she saw two figures coming up the lane in the moonlight. There she is now, said Cordily, peering out of the kitchen window in relief. What on earth kept her so long? And old Griffith's with her, or my name isn't Cordelia Hunter. What can be going to happen? Miss Marietta and Mr. Griffith stood and talked at the gate for nearly half an hour, until Cordily thought they must both be demented. When Miss Marietta finally came in, with a very high color in her face, she found Cordily sitting blankly on a chair. Marietta Hunter, said Cordily solemnly, did I, or did I not, see Nathaniel Griffith kiss you out there at the gate? I daresay you did, was the calm response, especially if you happened to be peaking out of the window. We're... we're going to be... married. Well, I never did, Cordily was overwhelmed. Marietta Hunter, I've heard you say a dozen times if you said it once that you wouldn't marry Nathaniel Griffith if he were the last man left alive on earth, and after you're refusing him twice. Huh? The third time's generally lucky, I've noticed, said Miss Marietta, listening her bonnet strings, composedly. Ah, dear me, what a day this has been. If you could see the state that poor man's house is in, do you think it's time somebody took pity on him? And it's a woman's privilege to change her mind, you know? To be sure, I might never have changed my mind if it hadn't been for that blessed jersey. What could you do, Cordily Hunter? You couldn't say no to a man when he's just forgiven you so beautifully for selling his price, cow. I couldn't anyway, and I don't know that I'm sorry either. End of Section 9, recording by T.J. Burns. Section 10 of Uncollected Short Stories of L.M. Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Raymond Cockle. Uncollected Short Stories of L.M. Montgomery. By Lucy Maud Montgomery. A double joke. Well, the sun is setting, so I suppose that signifies that we must be trudging. It almost takes the edge off a fellow's fund to have to walk four miles to and from it. You know you'd walk three times as far for as glorious an afternoon skating as we've had today, Phil. So what's the use of growling? We always have to pay a certain price for our fun in this world, old fellow, and in this corner of it especially. For my part, I rather enjoy a tramp home over good roads on a night like this. A night like this was a clear, crisp winter evening, frosty and sharp, without being unpleasantly cold. The sun was just setting behind a ridge of pine-fringed hills in the southwest, and the gleaming sheet of ice before the boys, covered with an intricate tracery of skate tracks, reflected all the tints of the sky that was a vast lake of cloudy crimson and melting crocus and transparent rose. Up on the hill behind them, the spires and roofs of a small village came out with clearest darkness against the arc of colour. It was named Forest Hill, but Phil Burgess and Bert Lawrence, who had been spending the afternoon in having what they termed a glorious skate, did not belong there. They came from over Ashbury Way, as the forest hillites would have said, with a fine inflection of disdain. Ashbury was a settlement about four miles east of Forest Hill and was just as good as the latter in every particular, except, as Bert would have said, it was overlooked when skating arrangements were made. There wasn't in the length and breadth of Ashbury any kind of place for skating, unless the miserable little saucer of ice in Kohl's field could be called so. It served as a place for new beginnings and girls to practice on, but for the real article, the Ashbury boys were forced to partake themselves and their skates over to Crystal Lake at Forest Hill. There was no love lost between the Ashbury boys and the Forest Hill boys, and that famous ice had been the scene of more than one spirited brush between the two factions, in which victory perched now upon one standard and now upon the other, with an impartiality that kept the balance pretty even. But Phil and Bert had the ice all to themselves that day and had enjoyed themselves immensely. Bert, at the conclusion of his last sentence, sat down and dragged his skates off. Phil went off for a final twirl. I suppose it's time we were going, he said regretfully, but I'll have one more spin, anywho. When it was over, he rejoined Bert, and the two chums started off across the snowy fields. On the crest of the hill, Phil paused to look back and saw a dozen or so dark figures descending the opposite slope. Jing, he exclaimed, there are the hillites now. Won't they have a glorious evening? It's going to be moonlight. I have a half notion to go back. What say, Bert? Not I, declared his chum. There will be nobody from Ashbury, and those hillites are mad yet over the licking we gave them last week. We're in a huge minority and we'd be sure to get in a row. Don't know as I'd care if we did, said Phil, moving on, however. I feel exactly like having some excitement, just in the mood for doing something wild. This, I am afraid, was not at all an uncommon mood for Phil, or Bert either, for that matter. They were in mischief every day of their lives, although it was generally harmless, yet they were growing up into big boys now, and some of their pranks had gone rather too far. They were simply average boys, neither scumps nor saints, and their tricks were mostly the outcome of mere boyish thoughtlessness and spirits. Still, habit makes character after a while, and Bert and Phil were at a somewhat critical period. As old Jim Carpenter, the Ashbury Oracle remarked, sagely, those two lads want to stop or put on them right off before it gets too late. Nobody had as yet applied the stopper, however, or seemed likely to. Their last escapade, untying and retying in a different place, all the horses and carriages hitched to the church fence when a lecture was going on inside, so that when people came out on a night so dark that it was dated from, the scene of confusion was one that made history. Had been a good deal talked about, but no serious damage had been done, and as it couldn't be positively proved that it was they who did it, they got off scot-free. Old Jim Carpenter's theory was the correct one. Bert and Phil were in need of a little kindly and careful advice and repression just at this turning point in their teens. This they were not likely to get. Phil lived with a mummy-like old uncle who concerned himself over nothing earthly but the making of money and let his nephew grow up as he would. And Bert's father was an easygoing mortal who found a refuge from all responsibility in the indisputable assertion that boys will be boys. Nobody wants them to be turnips or cabbages, he said. Bert's alright, he'll tone down in time. Bless me, I never saw anything so funny as old Johnny Stone flying around the other night hunting for that old sorrel mag of his. The boys had walked two miles and were just entering on the strip of fur woods that marked the boundary between Ashbury and Forest Hill. When a twinkle of bells behind them made them look around, a cutter with a solitary occupant was coming around a curve in the road and Phil recognized the turnout. There's Dr. Taylor coming, Bert with that little mare who bought down at Oakvale last month. Take a good look at her as she goes past. I tell you she's a dandy. She can just walk away from anything in Ashbury or Forest Hill either. I'd give almost anything just to get a spin behind her. Phil's wish was gratified more speedily and surely than wishes generally are in this work-a-day world. The little mare and the cosy cutter came to a prompt standstill and the doctor called out cheerily. Jump in boys, the cutter holds three. Nothing loth the boys jumped in and away they went at a speed that Phil declared next thing to flying. What do you think of Bonnie Queen? Asked the doctor proudly. Is that her name, sir? Well, I think it just suits her. I never saw anything to equal her before. Phil spoke honestly. The little mare was a beauty. Clean, limbed, and sat encoded with a record for speed which no horse in Ashbury could touch. The doctor smiled well pleased. The name is proud and fond of her as if she were one of my own family, he said. She's never had a blow in her life and never will, I hope. I let nobody drive her but myself. She's rather a nervous little animal and doesn't like strangers. Well, here we are at the hall. There's a meeting of the shareholders here tonight and I promised I'd attend. But I don't care about leaving Bonnie Queen out this frosty night. And I haven't a blanket with me either. I guess I'll go on home. But just at this juncture, Squire Clay came along. Good evening, doctor. You're going to stay, of course. I am not sure, said the doctor, hesitatingly. You must, said Squire Clay, immediately. We can't do without you. A few minutes conversation aside resulted in the doctors turning to the boys. It's only a mile to my place, he said. And I want you to take Queen home for me. Don't drive her too fast. Gordon is home and he'll attend to her. Will you? Would they? Well, they just guessed so. Drive Bonnie Queen for a mile through Ashbury with everybody envying them. What a windfall! I wouldn't trust a horse like that with those two for a good deal, commented Squire Clay, when the cutter was out of airshot. They don't know what mischief to be up to next, either of them. It's said they were at the bottom of that affair at the church the night of the lecture, too. The doctor looked troubled. But it was too late. Phil and Bert were already out of sight and Bonnie Queen was prancing along the road on her slender feet, as if she knew her own value. It was a perfect night. The sunset glow still lingered in the west and the moonlight was becoming brilliant. Every boy in Ashbury seemed to be on the road and the sight of Phil Burgess and Bert Lawrence driving Dr. Taylor's Bonnie Queen made a sensation which our two heroes enjoyed to the utmost. I wish it were half a dozen miles instead of one, said Bert. The remark was like a match to powder. Phil had not yet worked off his mischievous mood. Just before them was the corner where the road to the Seven Oaks branched off at right angles. That, coupled with Bert's remark, sent an idea scintillating who fills brain with dizzying impulse. Let's make it six miles, he said promptly. How? Just let's drive over to Seven Oaks corner just for the fun of it. Before we take the Queen home the doctor will never know it'll be a capital joke. Bert thought so, too. But what if the doctor should find it out, he said doubtfully. Oh, he won't. Not for a while, anywho. We can be back long before that meeting will be out. And the Taylor boys will suppose we've just come from the hall. Of course, it will leak out in time but we'll have had our fun and all will be well over. And to put the matter beyond discussion Phil turned Bonnie Queen down the Seven Oaks road and gave her free reign. Neither of the two boys stopped to think at all seriously over what they were doing. It was in their eyes a good joke and there was fun to be had besides. But it was something a little worse than any of their past tricks for there was a principle of honour involved in this. They were betraying their trust but they did not see it in this light at all. They were enjoying themselves recklessly to be sure they felt a little anxious at first but that feeling soon wore off. The evening was moonlit and frosty Bonnie Queen was on her metal and fairly flew Phil tingled with excitement to his very fingertips and sent the mare along at a pace that would have broken the doctor's heart if he had seen it. Can't she just go though? But what wouldn't you give for a horse like that? Dr. Taylor doesn't half drive her. He's so afraid of hurting her. Won't we make a sensation at the corner though? Seven Oaks corner was six miles from Ashbury. There was a store at the corner which was the evening rendezvous of all the Seven Oaks boys. The place was in rather bad repute. Careful, Ashbury fathers and mothers did not like to see their sons go over that way in the evening. The corner boys were reported to be a tough lot. Phil and Bert had no business to be there and they knew it but they had scraped up an acquaintance with the boys there and went over all too often. Phil had not underrated the sensation their appearance driving Dr. Taylor's celebrated Queen whose fame had reached Seven Oaks would make at the corner. When they drew up before it with a curve and a prance and a clash of silvery bells the loafers in and around the store swarmed about them with noisy admiration and questions. The boys told their story with gusto. In the eyes of the Seven Oaks contingent their exploit was regarded as a cute trick. Nobody in the crowd noticed a dark figure standing silently on the front porch of a house next to the store. When the boys had finished their story and the cornerites had looked the Queen over, admiringly Oliver Bates, the son of the storekeeper, said Well, tie up and come in for a while, boys. You're cold and in no great hurry, I suppose. Even Phil was a little dubious about doing this. Now that the first sparkle of excitement was over he began to feel slightly uneasy and he felt it would be risky to leave Bonnie Queen unguarded at the mercy of all the ragtag and bobtail of Seven Oaks who might be skulking around. Phil suddenly realised that if anything should happen to the animal it would be a serious case for Burt and him. But Oliver coaxed and the cornerites sarcastically inquired if he was afraid they'd put the mare in their pockets if he left her and the end of it all was that Phil and Burt hitched Bonnie Queen to the post and went into the store while the dark, quiet figure aforesaid still lingered in the shadow of Mr Bates front porch. The boys did not mean to stay long but there was much to hear and relate. Mr Bates was genial and the store warm and finally Oliver treated the crowd to peanuts and candy all around so that it was all of half an hour or more before Phil and Burt bethought themselves of Bonnie Queen standing blanketless in the frosty air after her hot drive. It's time we were off whispered Burt anxiously if we don't hurry the doctor will be home before we are and we'll get into trouble. Come on Phil. All right responded Phil as he demolished his last peanut. I'm ready. Now for a 240 spin back to Ashbury. Out into the sparkling moonlight went the noisy crowd Bonnie Queen was gone. Phil and Burt stared daisily at the post at first quite incapable of realising what had happened then the horror of it broke upon them. Burt gasped Phil in a voice utterly unlike his own where, where is the horse? It was a question Burt could not answer nor anyone else apparently there did not seem to be a soul in sight around the corner except the crowd who had come out of the store. But the horse and cutter had vanished leaving not a trace behind. She must have got loose and started home said Oliver Bates consolingly. Nobody would have dared to take her. Phil and Burt were not so sure of this. They knew that there were several tufts in Seven Oak who were capable of having done it. What in the world was to be done? They found out just then the worth of corner friendship. Their hail fellows well met of the past half hour melted away as if by magic. They had no desire to be tangled up in any Ashbury scrape about Dr. Taylor's horse. Oliver Bates was almost the only one who stayed to advise the boys. The best thing you can do is to go straight home, he said, and see if the mirror's gone home. If not you can get help to hunt her up but I think you'll find her there. Phil and Burt looked at each other miserably. A six miles walk home wasn't a pleasant prospect certainly. But that wasn't a circumstance to the disappearance of Bonnie Queen. Perhaps if you had searched Seven Oaks and Ashbury and Forest Hill and all the outlying and adjacent districts and villages you might possibly have found too limper, cheaper, more thoroughly frightened boys than Phil Burgess and Burt Lawrence just about that time but I doubt it. In their hearts the boys did not believe that Bonnie Queen could have got loose of her own accord. She had been too well tied for that but some cornerite or other might have loosened her for a trick and she might have gone home. At any rate, as Oliver said, there was nothing to do but go and see. So they started. Neither of them ever forgot that walk. You can call it only six miles from Seven Oaks corner to Ashbury if you like, said Phil to me afterwards, but it was ten times six that night. They were too disgusted and scared to talk it over. In grim silence they trumped along, filled with gloomy forebodings. They had plenty of time to see their joke in its true light with all its alarming possibilities. When they finally reached the Ashbury Road it was half past nine o'clock. They decided to go straight to Dr. Taylor's and took a short cut across the fields there too. There was a light in the stable yard and as the boys rounded the corner of the shed they saw a sight that made their hearts give one wild bound of relief and amazement. Before the carriage house door, Edgar Taylor was unharnessing a horse from a cutter and by the light of the lantern Gordon Taylor held both Bert and Phil recognized Bonnie Queen. The boys standing in the shadow of the shed had not been noticed by the Taylor's and in the calm night they heard plainly what Edgar was saying to his brother. Those two smart boys drove up just as I came out of the house. I knew the Queen at sight and you'd better believe I wondered what on earth they were doing there with her. They didn't see me and when their cronies came out I heard the whole story. At first I thought I'd mark to ride out and face them. Then I thought of a better way since they seemed to be so fond of a joke. When they went in and left poor Bonnie Queen tied there, in a reek of perspiration too mind you I just waited till all was quiet, took off her bells and drove away. I called down at Curdie's for a while and then came home. I'll bet I had those two chaps her feeling small enough to crawl through a knot hole by now. It'll give them a jolly good scare and they'll richly deserve it. They might have ruined Queen driving her like that but luckily she hasn't to scratch. Are you going to tell father? Asked Gordon. Not just now, was their reply. It would worry him. He wouldn't believe what she was hurt. He'll hear the story in a few days of course but it will be all over then. But I'll give those two boys a piece of my mind when I see them that they won't forget in a hurry and Edgar led the mare into the stable. Outside Bert looked at Phil and Phil looked at Bert. You could buy me for a cent said the former. I'd give myself away for nothing said the latter. Let's go home We went home. They did not do much talking but there is every reason to believe that they did some hard thinking. When they parted at Bert's gate Phil said we're a pair of fools Bert. That's a fact Phil. The joke's dead against us this time. I don't feel as if I wanted to play anymore. Of course in a day or so the story drifted over from Seven Oaks and Phil and Bert chaffed unmercifully but they kept very quiet and when Edgar Taylor met them and proceeded to give the promised peace of his mind they took it so humbly and repentently that he did not come down on them half as heavily as he had intended. In due time the tale reached the doctor's ears and horrified him not a little but it was all well over. He said nothing rightly deeming that the boys had been already well punished and they had. The stopper had been applied with good results. Bert and Phil gave up playing jokes and turned their attention to the cultivation of good behaviour which was the more easily done in that their visits to Seven Oaks were cut short at once and forever. They never dared go there again for the cornerites would have tormented their lives out. As Phil said single jokes are funny enough but when it comes to double ones you don't appreciate the point quite so cheerfully. End of section 10