'As Gold in the Furnace' Part 12

"Oh, oh! Nine miles--oh! Sixteen miles and crackers! Oh!" groaned Winters again. All burst out laughing at the comical look of despair Ernest's face had a.s.sumed.

"Look here, Ernie," said Roy again, "if it comes to the worst we can eat our shoes and our skate straps, and our gloves for dessert."

During their chatter they had continued their walk down the hillside toward the comfortable-looking farm. When about half way down the road they saw a jolly looking, red-faced man--in the clear atmosphere they could easily distinguish his red face--come out of the farmhouse, take his stand on the stoop or veranda, shade his eyes with his hand, and look a long time at the approaching boys.

"We shall know our fate in a few minutes," said Jack Beecham in a tragic whisper to Ernest. "If we are not welcome he will set his savage dogs on us as soon as we get near enough, and then we shall be hungry orphans out in the cold world, sure enough."

But no such catastrophe occurred. After gazing a few minutes the man went into the house and closed the door. The boys opened the yard gate with trepidation, fearful of the onslaught of some vicious watchdog, and more afraid than they would have been owing to the rascal Jack's ominous forecast of the possibilities. To their great relief no canine enemy appeared.

All they saw pleased them. There was an air of prosperous, generous plenty everywhere. The hay-mows were bursting with sweet-smelling hay.

The wheat barn was congested with unthreshed grain. The cows, pigs, and sheep were fat, and evidently well cared for. Repose was everywhere. In such a place as this, thought Roy, life must be well worth the living.

"Cave canem," whispered Bracebridge, as he espied the watchdog lying on the porch of the house. This old Roman warning, "Beware of the dog"

was, on this occasion, unnecessary, for when the animal saw the visitors he merely wagged his tail and did not take the trouble to stir. He seemed too fat and too contented with life to care about molesting a mere parcel of college boys, and his instinct told him they did not belong to the genus tramp.

As they reached the porch of the house the good-natured looking man who had watched them coming down the hillside opened the door. The boys noticed that he had put on his coat to welcome them. While making his observations he had been in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves.

"Welcome, young gentlemen. Come right in by the fire," was his hearty greeting. "Mother, Mother! Here are some young gentlemen from Cuthberton," he called to some one in the large living-room.

A kind, motherly woman appeared in the doorway. She was clad in a warm homemade linsey dress, with a white handkerchief over her shoulders, and white muslin cuffs to match. A black lace coif surmounted her snow-white hair. The boys saw a very smiling, kindly face in the doorway greeting them.

"Welcome, welcome, my dears. You are welcome. But, please, sc.r.a.pe the snow off your shoes before you come in. I am very particular about that, am I not, Roland?" and she glanced affectionately at the big man beside her.

"Yes, yes, indeed she is," he remarked humorously. "Would you believe it, gentlemen, she leads me an awful life about my dirty boots--awful--awful!"

"Roland," said the elderly lady, "how you do talk!"

The husband gave a sly, comical wink to the boys, who immediately understood the nature of the amicable bantering which they soon found was going on constantly between these two.

"Take off your overcoats, my dears, and come up to the fire. You must be cold. There's no wind, but it's near zero. And did ye walk all the way, from St. Cuthbert's College? You must all be tired."

She saw at once they were college boys.

"Did ye now! Well now! well! well! My! but that's a long way to walk.

Roland, go ye and get another hickory back log, and start a good blaze. Now sit ye there and warm yourselves. I'll be back in a minute or two," and the kindly woman put down her knitting and bustled out of the room.

"This is fine!" said Tom Shealey. "We are in luck for sure."

"I wonder where she has gone," ventured Ernest Winters, in a whisper.

"Gone? Um! um! don't you know, youngster?" said Jack Beecham, with a shrug, and a stage whisper. He was a terrible tease. "Better keep your eyes on your skates and overcoat, Ernest. Of course she has gone to gather all the hired men on the farm who will soon be here to drive us off the premises. The ogre of this castle won't stand for any such invasion as ours. You can see it in her eye."

But Ernest was not to be caught a second time.

"You can't fool me this time, mister. I think--but hus.h.!.+ here she comes."

She came. With her came two of her maids bearing with them eatables--sweet homemade bread, apparently created to make a hungry schoolboy's mouth water, delicious pats of golden b.u.t.ter, red cheese, and an enormous pitcher of new milk--what a lunch for hungry boys!

"I am very glad you came," again remarked the dear old lady. "To-day I give the farmhands and the dairy maids a sort of Christmas week feast.

It is a holiday in this house to-day. We don't have dinner to-day until after two o'clock, and as that is late and you must be hungry with your long walk already--my! it's nigh onto eight miles to the big school, isn't it--you had just better take a snack before dinner-time. Come, sit up to the table, my dears; that is if you are warmed enough."

The young fellows did not need a second invitation. Hunger is a good sauce. Growing boys are always hungry and the sweet, wholesome farmhouse fare was extremely enticing. Such b.u.t.ter! No oleomargarine there. Were it not, as mentioned before, that boys have a perpetual appet.i.te, I am afraid that the amount of bread, cheese, b.u.t.ter, and milk disposed of would have seriously interfered with the enjoyment of the forthcoming dinner. At all events it wanted considerably over two hours to dinner-time.

CHAPTER XI

AN AFTERNOON'S FUN

If the writer of these veracious chronicles knows anything about boys--and he has been accused of having that knowledge--he is sure that his boy readers, and his girl readers, too, for that matter, will expect an account of that famous farmhouse dinner. Well, we can not delay the story by merely describing what people eat; yet it was a gorgeous feast for our friends. The enjoyment was greatly enhanced by the complete unexpectedness of it all. Not the least part of this enjoyment was the hearty, extraordinary welcome given to a troop of boys who had never been to the house before and were entire strangers to the good people who entertained them so royally.

A few minutes after two o'clock the farmer took from a shelf in the common living-room a large seash.e.l.l and went to the porch and sounded it l.u.s.tily, much to the astonishment of George McLeod, who had never seen a sh.e.l.l put to such a use before.

"How did you do it?" he asked.

"Just blew into it. Try it yourself," said the farmer. McLeod tried and tried again, but could not produce a sound.

"What is it for?" he inquired.

"To call the hands to dinner. We have no bells or whistles out here in the country, so we use a horn, or a big sh.e.l.l, which is the next best thing, and I believe it sounds farther. On a still day I have heard this sh.e.l.l five miles away."

"Come, boys; wash for dinner," called the motherly housekeeper. They were not allowed in the kitchen while the maids were dis.h.i.+ng the dinner. They were taken to a side porch and there shown a rain-barrel and several tin pans and soap. A large round towel hung on a nail close by. The boys enjoyed this primitive method of performing their ablutions.

The dinner was a surprise even to those boys who were not unused to occasional big dinners at home. George McLeod said that never in his life had he seen so large a turkey, but it was found none too large after it had pa.s.sed the guests and traveled to the end of the table.

And the stuffed ham! And the mince pies, and tarts, and rosy apples and nuts, and that old-fas.h.i.+oned plum-pudding! Well, we must stop: it is not fair.

There were two wings in the rear of the house which the boys had not noticed when descending the hill in front of the dwelling. To one of these all the maids of the large household retired after dinner, and the farmhands went to the other, where they spent the rest of the afternoon in smoking and enjoyment until it was time to feed and water the stock, milk the cows, and do the other necessary daily farm ch.o.r.es.

Roy Henning and his companions, after the dinner, were invited to sit around the blazing yule log. The old lady sat in the center of the group in an old-fas.h.i.+oned armchair whose back reached some twelve inches above her head, and which had large, broad, comfortable arms.

It was well padded and comfortable, and was covered with a serviceable chintz of a soft green color. She sat in the midst of her guests, before the blazing logs, a very picture of content and matronly dignity. Her husband sat next to her, and their guests were arranged on either side.

With fine tact she drew out each boy and made him appear at his best.

Although, owing to the generous welcome given them, all reserve and bashfulness had vanished long before the dinner, yet the coziness of a winter afternoon indoors made them chatty and even confidential. They told her of the play the night before and of its success. They found interested listeners in host and hostess.

"I should so like to have been there," said the old lady. "I am so fond of good dramatic productions. Providing the tone is correct there is no more elevating form of amus.e.m.e.nt than the drama."

"Hold on there, mother," said the husband, "grand opera is finer. In that we get all that dramatic presentation gives, with the addition of excellent music."

"You know, my dears," said Mrs. Thorncroft, for that was the old lady's name, "my husband is an enthusiast in matters musical."

"So is Ernie Winters," said his friend George McLeod.

"Is that so?" said Mr. Thorncroft, enthusiastically. "Is that so?

Well, well! Now I wonder, mother, whether these young gentlemen could not sing some songs for us. Wouldn't that be fine, eh?"

"Jack Beecham can sing, ma'am," said George again.