Chapter 4 UNCLE ADAM AND MORTON.

The days slipped quietly away, and Sara managed, in the midst of all her duties, to read with the children at least one hour of each, and to get a little time besides for her own deeper studies.

She found she could take the old school-books which she had thought once so thoroughly learned, and dig new treasures from them; while the books from Miss Prue's, nearly all of a scientific character, were read and re-read with ever deepening interest.

But it was not the printed page alone that Sara studied. She had always been fond of long walks, and in these her keen eyes, directed everywhere, lost nothing that nature had to show her.

The shapes of the clouds, and their relation to the weather, the different phases of the sea, all the queer collection of weed and mollusk that it cast ashore, the formation and colors of the cliffs, the different shades and granulations in the sands of beach and pine grove; everything gave her active, hungering mind food for thought and speculation.

She seldom returned empty-handed from these strolls, and a rude little set of corner shelves she and her brother had managed to nail together, was rapidly filling with the oddest and prettiest of her findings. She managed, also, to interest the children in these things, and taught them a lesson some people never learn,-how to use their eyes.

Thus, living close to nature's heart, they could not be absolutely miserable, though want did press them closely.

Sara had enjoined secrecy on the children in regard to the money. She was naturally reticent, and dreaded the gossip of the little town, which made a nine-days' wonder of every small happening; and had besides that self-respecting pride which dislikes to thrust its misfortunes on a careless world. But perhaps more than all, a certain loyalty to the dead mother closed her lips. She would not have her blamed for her foolishness now she could not defend herself, poor thing! And they would manage somehow till father returned.

If worse came to worst, she could borrow of Squire Scrantoun, though she felt she could not resort to that humiliation except in case of actual necessity. So long as a potato or herring was left in store, she would wait for relief; but one thing did cause her most anxious thought, and that was how to procure milk for the little one.

As she stood one morning counting over the few pennies left in the old blue teapot, and wondering what she should do when they were gone, the door was flung open, and Morton, flushed and bright-eyed, entered and threw something at her feet.

It was a wild goose, limp and drabbled, and Sara looked up in surprise at the boy.

"You didn't shoot it, Morton?"

"No; but I killed it!" exultantly. "I've got the 'honk' so I can do it nearly as well as Uncle Adam Standish; and this morning I was down in a nice little cove, when I saw this old fellow light on the water close by. Then he paddled out and began feeding along the beach. So I 'honked' to him, and he answered, and I kept on, and he came closer. I'd first broken off this piece of rock to bring home and show you that bit of crystal in it, when I thought I'd use it, and I rose up and let fly! Well, it toppled him over, and I jumped out and caught hold of him before he could get away, and wrung his neck-and there's the goose, and here's the rock!"

He pointed triumphantly to each, while Molly executed a sort of scalp- dance about the group, snapping her fingers and smacking her lips, as she cried, "Won't we have a dinner, though? And I'm so sick of herring! You'll cook it for dinner, won't you, Sara?"

The young girl hesitated a moment, her eyes going from one eager face to the other with a deprecating glance. No one knew better than she how delightful this change of diet would be; but she quickly put aside her own desire, and said gently,

"I'm so proud of you, Morton! Molly and I can't complain with such a man to look after us, can we? But look at this. I have only a few pennies left, and I was wondering what we should do for milk for baby. Now, if we can all be unselfish, and let you sell this goose to Mrs. Norris or Miss Prue, it will buy milk for some time yet. Don't you see, dear?"

The boy's face flushed darkly, and all the brightness died out of it, while Molly's became as blank as the wall.

"It's all the baby's fault," he said bitterly. "We'd have had plenty of money but for him. Let him suffer too!"

"Morton!"

His head drooped at the grave tone, and Molly choked back something she was about to say.

"Could you really bear to see that little darling suffer, Morton? You know you couldn't! We all know he never meant to do such mischief. Look at his innocent little face this minute; could you see it grow thin and pale for lack of the food he craves?"

Morton gave one look, and melted.

"I didn't really mean it," he stammered; "only I'm awful hungry, Sara."

"My brave soldier! I know you are. But you're going to be the help and standby of us all till father comes home. I'll bake the potatoes to-day, you like them so, and you may have a wee bit of baby's milk to eat with them."

This appeal was not lost. The boy straightened up proudly. "Well, give me the goose," he said resolutely; "I'll take it to Mrs. Norris. I saw company driving up as I came by, so I guess she'd like it."

Molly made no remonstrance to this, except to draw down her round face to a doleful length, and drawl out a ridiculous wail common among the sailors,-

"'I'm bound away to leave you-

Good-by, my love, good-by!

I never will deceive you

No never, Mary Ann!'"

which she pointed by giving the stiffened foot of the defunct goose a last fond shake in farewell. So it was with laughter and good feeling, after all, that their dinner for that day was renounced.

But the little episode had given each a spirit of self-sacrifice, which was to help them through many hard times, while it had put an idea into Morton's head that he was not slow to act upon.

As soon as he had disposed of his goose to Mrs. Norris (who snapped it up eagerly, and paid him well, its opportune arrival saving her the great mortification of giving her friends a fish dinner), he sought out old Adam Standish, the acknowledged sportsman of the village.

As usual, he found the heavily bearded, long-haired, keen-eyed old man sitting on a bench before his cabin, and at the minute gazing down the long barrel of a shot-gun which he had just been cleaning. "Hello, uncle!" was Morton's greeting.

Every man is an "uncle" in Killamet, unless he is a "cap'n," or a "squire."

"Hello!" said Adam, lowering his gun. "Oh! it's you, sonny? Come up and have a seat," sweeping together the empty gun-shells, bits of rag and wadding, small tools, etc., at his side. "How's your folks?"

"All right," remembering with a sudden sense of pleasure the money for baby's milk safe in his pocket. "Been gunning lately?"

"Waal, some, a brace or two o' brants; jest hand me them pincers, Mort.

Why? Want to buy?"

"No; I want to shoot."

"Hey? You! He, he!"

"I killed one this morning, Uncle Adam."

"Whar'd ye get yer gun?"

"Didn't have none."

"Hey? Little boys shouldn't tell squibs."

"I'm not squibbing; I 'honked' to it from behind some rocks, and then knocked it over with a stone."

"Ye did? Waal, purty good! purty good! Goin' to hev it fer dinner, I s'pose?"

"N-no, I sold it to Mrs. Norris."

"Did, hey? What'd she giv ye?"

Morton told him, and the old man ruminated a while, as he industriously cleaned, primed, and loaded his gun, while Morton waited, watching a long, plume-like line of smoke along the distant horizon, which he knew was from a Portland steamer. Finally Adam set down the gun with a contented air, and observed,-

"Haow airly kin ye git up?"

"At three, if you say so."

"Waal, come along abaout four ter-morrer mornin', an' I'll take ye 'long o' me."

"But I haven't any gun, Uncle Adam."

"Don't need none! I'm a-goin' to show ye what guns Is fer. When you've got that idee bagged, it'll be time enough fer the weepon. I ain't no patience," he went on, putting his hands on his knees and bending forward impressively, "with these fellers what mangles their game. I s'pose it's plain that the A'mighty made wild fowl to be shot, but the man what breaks their wings and leaves 'em to crawl off an' die in misery ain't human, he ain't! Make clean work o' it, or let 'em alone, I say," and he began gathering up his traps in a manner that convinced Morton the conference was over.

So he said good-morning, and went whistling down the village street, the wind from off the sea tempering the downpour of the sun on white cliff and sand, and lifting the wide rim of his torn straw hat to caress his ruddy cheek.

Away out on the bay was a schooner tacking against the wind, while just rounding Rocky Point was a trim little yacht with all sail set, flying straight in for Killamet beach.

"How pretty she rides!" he thought, and wondered, boy-like, if when he was a big man he would sail his own craft,-the end and aim of every fisher-boy along the Atlantic coast.

As he dreamed, he turned and walked down over the satiny sand of the beach to the water's edge, and now could see that there were three people in the yacht,-a little round man with big spectacles at the rudder, a taller one, young and trim-looking in his tourist costume, who stood boldly out on the bowsprit, while a beautiful woman with blond hair leaned gracefully back in a steamer-chair.

With native courtesy Morton hastened to assist in securing the boat, and was rewarded by a hearty "Thank you, my boy!" from the younger man, and a brilliant smile from the lady, which covered him with blushes and confusion. The older man seemed in a brown study, and only glared at him absent-mindedly through his large glasses.

"Ah, Robare!" said the lady with an odd little accent, "I have now a thought; it may be this boy could to us tell of some public-house near by, to which we could go for this night."

All turned to Morton, who said hesitantly,-

"Yes, there is one, or at least there's Miss Zeba Osterhaus; she keeps store in her front window, and has rooms up-stairs that she doesn't use. Sometimes she takes in a painter fellow, or the goose-men."

"The what?" laughed the young man, advancing with a large portfolio, which he had taken from the yacht as soon as she was made fast.

"Why, the men that come for the wild geese-gunning, you know."

"Ho, yes indeed! I'd like to be a 'goose-man' myself, for once in a way. What do you say, uncle and aunt; can you make yourselves contented with your geological and artistic prowls to-morrow, and let me off for a bit of a shoot?" Both gave a ready assent, and the speaker turned to Morton.

"And now, my boy, can you add to your favors by showing us the way to this-What's her name?-you mentioned, and telling me, as we go along, where I can get hold of a good guide and sportsman about here?"

As he spoke he attempted to slip a half-dollar into the boy's hand, but it was sharply withdrawn.

"I'll tell you all I can, sir, without pay," flushing as he spoke; for a sudden memory of the cruel needs at home made him almost regret yielding to his first impulse of pride and self-respect.

The young man flushed a little also, and slid he silver piece back into his own pocket rather quickly.

"Pardon me," he said in a graver tone than he had yet used. "I shall be very grateful for your information."

"Well, sir, there's old Uncle Adam Standish, he's the best I know," said

Morton, as they led the way towards the village, followed by the others.

"He can hit his bird on the wing every time, and he can 'honk' so's to

fool any goose alive, and find the best blinds of anybody 'longshore."

"Really? He must be a genius!"

"Yes,"-wondering what a genius might be,-"if he'll only let you go with him you'll have a good shoot."

"If he'll let me! Why shouldn't he? I expect to pay him for his trouble."

Morton laughed.

"That wouldn't make any difference. He doesn't seem to care much for money; all he notices is how a man handles his gun. If you hold it just to suit him, he'll go, and if you don't, he won't."

"How ridiculous! Well, do for goodness' sake tell me in what manner I must handle the gun that I may please this Criticus."

Morton bridled with indignation.

"He ain't a cuss, Uncle Adam ain't. He's a nice man, and he knows what he's about too. If you'd see some o' the fools that come down here to shoot you'd be particular too, I guess. They're a good deal more apt to hit their guide than the birds, I can tell you."

The young man laughed heartily.

"My boy, I hadn't the slightest intention of calling your relative names; that was simply a title many men would be proud to bear."

"That's all right." in a mollified tone; "but he isn't any relation to me. Everybody calls him uncle."

"Ah, I see. You make me feel wonderfully interested in this wise Adam, and only in a fright for fear I won't hold my weapon to suit him; couldn't you give me a lesson or two, now?"

Morton looked at the stranger askance; was he making fun of him? then straightening his boyish shoulders, he said proudly, "I can tell you something better than that. I'm going gunning with Adam to-morrow morning at four o'clock, and perhaps I can get him to take you along too, if he likes your looks."

"Let us hope he may!" observed the other fervently. "What! is this the place we're bound for?" looking dubiously at the weather-worn cottage opposite, in whose gable end was a primitive bay-window, through which could be seen half a dozen jars of barber-pole candy hobnobbing sociably with boxes of tobacco, bags of beans, kits of salted mackerel, slabs of codfish, spools of thread, hairpins, knives and forks, and last, but by no means least, a green lobster swimming about in a large dishpan.

Morton wondered what this stranger could have expected better than this, and remarked encouragingly,-

"She's got carpets on most all her rooms, and she hooks the nicest rugs in Killamet,-all big flowers, or cats lying down,-the prettiest you ever saw!"

"Aunt Felicie, do you hear that?" flinging the question over his shoulder. "We are about to meet your rival! You paint flowers, and she,-just hear the alarming word,-she 'hooks' them! Cats, too, and dogs, did you say? Does the verb have a dishonest meaning here in Killamet, my boy?"

Morton stared back wonderingly, not understanding much except that in some way either he or Miss Zeba, or perhaps Killamet in general, was being held up to ridicule, and that it was his business to resent it.

"I don't know, sir," he answered stoutly, "what you mean: but if you want to know whether Miss Zeba is a nice woman, I can tell you that; she's just as good as gold, sir! and I suppose if folks don't like our ways in Killamet they needn't come here, there's plenty of room outside, I guess."

The young man turned and gave him a critical look, which soon grew approving, then held out his hand. "This is the second time I've had to ask your pardon; will you make up, and be friends? I like you, and if they've got any more of your sort here, I shall like Killamet!"

Morton extended his hand readily enough, and felt it seized in a close, strong pressure which pleased him, though he could not have told why, and the young man turned again to his aunt.

"Here we are at-now, what is that name, my lad?"

"Miss Zeba Osterhaus, sir."

"Oh, yes! I believe I could remember it if I could once see it spelled, however"-

The rest of his sentence was broken off by the sharp jangle of the bell above the door, as Morton opened it; and the warning note brought Miss Zeba herself from an inner room.

Whatever of fun had been dancing in the young man's eyes suddenly died out at the sight of her. She was small, like a little child, but had the wan, drawn, yet sweet-looking face of a middle-aged woman, while between her shoulders she bore that fleshy symbol of Christian's burden, that painful affliction, that almost intolerable deformity for a woman to endure, a hump back.

Instantly the young man's hat was off, and the young man's voice grew almost tender, as he said,-

"We beg pardon for disturbing you, but is this Miss Osterhaus?"

"Yes, sir," she responded, with a quaint little old-time courtesy, directed with much precision, so as to include the three adults, beginning with the lady.

"And have you a spare room, or two; do you ever take in strangers for a few days?"

"Sometimes, sir, when they do be gentlefolk, like you," with a smiling little nod; "a lone woman can't be too keerful."

The blond lady stepped forward and took up the word in her sweet foreign voice.

"Ah, it will be such a kindness, and we are most easy to bear, I hope you will find."

"Yes, as my aunt says, you will not find us hard to suit; we can put up with a few inconveniences, if necessary. Might we look at your rooms?"

These were found to be so neat and cheerful-in spite of low roofs and small windows-that a bargain was quickly consummated; and having planned with Miss Zeba for a dinner in half an hour, the young man turned to his little guide.

"Now," said he, with the fun leaping to his eyes again, "now for the ordeal! Will you conduct me to this Diogenes of a gunner, and have him tell you, without a lantern, whether I am the man he is looking for, or no?"

"Yes, we'll go," said Morton in a matter-of-fact tone; "but I don't think he's looking for you. He never goes a-nigh the post-office, because he says he hates a crowd; so even if you'd written some one that you were coming, he wouldn't know it."

"Ah, yes, I see; we will take him entirely by surprise, then; well, 'lead on Macduff!'"

"My name's Morton Olmstead, if you please, sir."

"And a good name too, laddie; I like it, and what's more I like you!

You're going to make a fine man some day, did you know it?"

Morton's eyes kindled.

"I mean to, sir. Sara says I can if I will; she says the good God started me with a sound brain and a healthy body, and I ought to be able to do the rest."

"She does, eh?" opening his eyes surprisedly. "And who may this wise and epigrammatic Sara be, I'd like to know?"

Morton concluded to let the suspicious word go unchallenged. "Yes, sir, she is wise and good. She's been to school lots, and she's my oldest sister."

"Ah, indeed? That accounts for your unusually good English, I suppose. I had wondered at it here."

Morton felt this to be a compliment, so turned red and squirmed, not knowing just how to acknowledge it, and his friend, perhaps to relieve him, asked kindly, "How old is Sara?" having already decided she was nearing the thirties, at least.

"She's seventeen, sir."

"Is that all?" quickly. "Such a mere girl, and yet talks like a wise- acre, eh? How does she look?"

"Well, she's tall, and walks straight and proud-like, and her hair's kind of copper-colored where the sun shines on the waves in it, and her eyes are big and brown, and can drag a lie right out of you, sir; but when she laughs her teeth shine, and there's a dimple in one corner of her mouth, and she looks pretty well."

"H'm, I should think likely," said the young man in a musing tone, then, as Morton turned a sharp corner, "What, that way?"

"Yes, sir; there's Uncle Adam now, sitting on his bench smoking, and he looks good-natured; aren't you glad?"