CHAPTER VIII
THE TELEGRAM THAT TOOK BARBY AWAY
THE painting of Richard's portrait interfered with the quest for buriedtreasure from day to day; but unbeknown either to artist or model, thedreams of that quest helped in the fashioning of the picture. In thepreliminary sittings in the studio at home Richard's father found itnecessary always to begin with some exhortation such as:
"Now, Dicky, this has _got_ to be more than just a 'Study of a Boy'sHead.' I want to show by the expression of your face that it is anillustration of that poem, 'A boy's will is the wind's will, and thethoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' Chase that Binney Rogers andhis gang out of your mind for a while, can't you, and think of somethingbeside shinny and the hokey-pokey man."
So far the portrait was satisfactory in that it was a remarkably goodlikeness of an unusually good-looking boy, but it was of a boy whoseemed to be alertly listening for such things as Binney's cat-call,signaling him from the alley. Here by the sea there was no need for suchexhortations. No sooner was he seated before the easel in the loftwhich served as a studio, with its barn-like, double doors thrown openabove the water, than the rapt expression which his father coveted,crept into his dark eyes. They grew big and dreamy, following the whitesails across the harbor. He was planning the secret expedition he andGeorgina intended to undertake, just as soon as the portrait wasfinished.
There were many preparations to make for it. They would have to secretetools and provisions; and in a book from which Georgina read aloudwhenever there was opportunity, were descriptions of various rites thatit were well to perform. One was to sacrifice a black cock, and sprinkleits blood upon the spot before beginning to dig. Richard did notquestion why this should be done. The book recommended it as a practicewhich had been followed by some very famous treasure hunters. If attimes a certain wide-awake and calculating gleam suddenly dispelled thedreaminess of expression in which his father was exulting, it wasbecause a black Orpington rooster which daily strayed from a nearbycottage to the beach below the studio window, chose that moment to crow.Richard had marked that black cock for the sacrifice. It was lordlyenough to bring success upon any enterprise.
In the meantime, as soon as his duties as model were over each morning,he was out of the studio with a whoop and up the beach as hard as hecould run to the Huntingdon house. By the time he reached it he was nolonger the artist's only son, hedged about with many limitations whichbelonged to that distinction. He was "Dare-devil Dick, the DreadDestroyer," and Georgina was "Gory George, the Menace of the Main."
Together they commanded a brigantine of their own. Passers-by saw onlyan old sailboat anchored at the deserted and rotting wharf up nearestthe breakwater. But the passers-by who saw only that failed to seeeither Dare-devil Dick or Gory George. They saw, instead, two childrenwhose fierce mustachios were the streakings of a burnt match, whosemassive hoop ear-rings were the brass rings from a curtain pole, whosefaithful following of the acts of Captain Quelch and other piraticalgentlemen was only the mimicry of play.
But Barbara knew how real they were, from the spotted handkerchief tiedaround the "bunged eye" of Dare-devil Dick, under his evil-lookingslouch hat, to the old horse pistol buckled to his belt. Gory Georgewore the same. And Barbara knew what serious business it was to them,even more serious than the affairs of eating and drinking.
Tippy scolded when she found that her half-pint bottles which she keptespecially for cream had been smuggled away in the hold of thebrigantine. But without bottles how could one give a realistic touch tothe singing of "Yo ho, and the rum below"?
And Tippy thought it was heathenish for Barbara to let Georgina dress upin some little knickerbockers and a roundabout which had been storedaway with other clothes worn by Justin as a small boy. But herdisapproval was beyond words when Barbara herself appeared at the backdoor one morning, so cleverly disguised as a gypsy, that Mrs. Triplettgrudgingly handed out some cold biscuits before she discovered theimposition. The poor she was glad to feed, but she had no use for animpudent, strolling gypsy.
"Don't be cross, Tippy," pleaded Barbara, laughing till the tears came."I _had_ to do it. I can't bear to feel that Georgina is growing awayfrom me--that she is satisfied to leave me out of her games. Since she'sso taken up with that little Richard Moreland I don't seem as necessaryto her as I used to be. And I can't bear that, Tippy, when I've alwaysbeen first in everything with her. She's so necessary to me."
Mrs. Triplett made no answer. She felt that she couldn't do justice tothe occasion. She doubted if the Pilgrim monument itself could, even ifit were to stretch itself up to its full height and deliver a lecture onthe dignity of motherhood. She wondered what the Mayflower mothers wouldhave thought if they could have met this modern one on the beach, withface stained brown, playacting that she was a beggar of a gypsy. Howcould she hope to be one of those written of in Proverbs--"Her childrenrise up and call her blessed. Her own works praise her in the gates."
Tippy ate her dinner alone that day, glancing grimly through the openwindow from time to time to the sand dunes back of the house, where anold hag of a gypsy in a short red dress with a gay bandanna knotted overher head, broiled bacon and boiled corn over a smoky campfire; and twoswaggering villains who smelled of tar and codfish (because of the oldnet which half-way filled the brigantine), sucked the very cobs when thecorn was eaten from them, forever registering that feast high above allother feasts in the tablet of blessed memories.
The interruption to all this came as unexpectedly as a clap of thunderfrom a clear sky. A messenger boy on a wheel whirled up to the frontgate with a telegram. Tippy signed for it, not wanting the boy to seeBarbara in such outlandish dress, then carried it out to the picnickers.She held it under her apron until she reached them. Telegrams alwaysspelled trouble to Mrs. Triplett, but Barbara took this one from herwith a smiling thank you, without rising from her seat on the sand. Herfather often telegraphed instead of writing when away on his vacations,and she knew he was up at a lake resort in Michigan, at an Editors'Convention. Telegrams had always been pleasant things in herexperience. But as she tore this open and read she turned pale evenunder her brown stain.
"It's papa," she gasped. "Hurt in an automobile accident. They don't sayhow bad--just hurt. And he wants me. I must take the first train."
She looked up at Mrs. Triplett helplessly, not even making an effort torise from the sand, she was so dazed and distressed by the suddensummons. It was the first time she had ever had the shock of bad news.It was the first time she had ever been called upon to act for herselfin such an emergency, and she felt perfectly numb, mind and body.Tippy's voice sounded a mile away when she said:
"You can catch the boat. It's an hour till the _Dorothy Bradford_ startsback to Boston."
Still Barbara sat limp and powerless, as one sits in a nightmare.
Georgina gave a choking gasp as two awful words rose up in her throatand stuck there. "_The Tishbite._" Whatever that mysterious horror mightbe, plainly its evil workings had begun.
"Tut!" exclaimed Tippy, pulling Barbara to her feet. "Keep your head.You'll have to begin scrubbing that brown paint off your face if youexpect to reach the boat on time."
Automatically Georgina responded to that "tut" as if it were the oldchallenge of the powder horn. No matter how she shivered she must showwhat brave stuff she was made of. Even with that awful forebodingclutching at her heart like an iron hand and Barby about to leave her,she mustn't show one sign of her distress.
It was well that Georgina had learned to move briskly in her longfollowing after Tippy, else she could not have been of such service inthis emergency. Her eyes were blurred with tears as she hurried up tothe garret for suitcase and satchel, and down the hall to look upnumbers in the telephone directory. But it was a comfort even in themidst of her distress to feel that she could take such an important partin the preparations, that Tippy trusted her to do the necessarytelephoning, and to put up a lunch for Barby without dictating eitherthe messages or the contents of
the lunch-box.
When Mr. James Milford called up, immediately after Richard had racedhome with the news, and offered to take Mrs. Huntingdon to the boat inhis machine, he thought it was Mrs. Huntingdon herself who answered him.The trembling voice seemed only natural under the circumstances. Hewould have smiled could he have seen the pathetic little face upliftedtowards the receiver, the quivering lip still adorned with the fiercemustachios of Gory George, in strange contrast to the soft curls hangingover her shoulders now that they were no longer hidden by a piraticalhat. She had forgotten that she was in knickerbockers instead of skirts,and that the old horse-pistol was still at her belt, until Barbaracaught her to her at parting with a laugh that turned into a sob,looking for a spot on her face clean enough to kiss.
It was all over so soon--the machine whirling up to the door and awayagain to stop at the bank an instant for the money which Georgina hadtelephoned to have waiting, and then on to the railroad wharf where the_Dorothy Bradford_ had already sounded her first warning whistle.Georgina had no time to realize what was actually happening until it wasover. She climbed up into the mammoth willow tree in the corner of theyard to watch for the steamboat. It would come into view in a fewminutes as it ploughed majestically through the water towards thelighthouse.
Then desolation fell upon her. She had never realized until that momenthow dear her mother was to her. Then the thought came to her, suppose itwas Barby who had been hurt in an accident, and she Georgina, washurrying to her as Barby was hurrying to grandfather Shirley, unknowingwhat awaited her at the journey's end. For a moment she forgot her ownunhappiness at being left behind, in sympathetic understanding of hermother's distress. She wasn't going to think about her part of it shetold herself, she was going to be so brave----
Then her glance fell on the "holiday tree."
The holiday tree was a little evergreen of Barby's christening if notof her planting. For every gala day in the year it bore strange fruit,no matter what the season. At Hallowe'en it was as gay withjack-o-lanterns and witches' caps as if the pixies themselves haddecorated it. On Washington's birthday each branch was tipped with aflag and a cherry tart. On the fourteenth of February it was hung withvalentines, and at Easter she was always sure of finding a candy rabbitor two perched among its branches and nests of colored eggs. It seemedto be at its best at Christmas, but it was when it took its turns atbirthday celebrations that it was most wonderful. Then it blossomed withlittle glass lanterns of every color, glowing like red and green andgolden stars. Last year it had borne a great toy ship with all sailsset, and nine "surprise" oranges, round, yellow boxes, each containing agift, because she was nine years old. In just two more days she would beten, and Barby gone!
At that instant the boat whistle sounded long and deep, sending itsmelodious boom across the water. It seemed to strike some chord in thevery center of her being, and make her feel as if something inside weresinking down and down and down. The sensation was sickening. It grewworse as the boat steamed away. She stood up on a limb to watch it.Smaller and smaller it seemed, leaving only a long plume of smoke in itswake as it disappeared around Long Point. Then even the smoke faded, anda forlorn little figure, strangely at variance with the fierce piratesuit, she crumpled up in the crotch of the willow, her face hidden inher elbow, and began to sob piteously: "Oh, Barby! Barby!"
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