Even though I was licking him, Shorty didn’t seem to know it, and he wouldn’t quit. And the fight went on. Then for some reason I felt as if maybe I was getting licked myself. I could tell from the blood on my sleeve when I wiped my nose with it and the way I felt in about seventy-seven different places where I’d been hit.
All the time, I knew Dad was standing on the other side of the fence, watching and not saying a word. He was probably thinking plenty.
I was ashamed to get licked and was also wondering why he didn’t try to stop us. It would be a good time right now if he was going to. I’d certainly be ashamed to get licked with him watching. It would have been better if he had seen the one-sock fight at the mouth of the branch an hour ago, when my biceps and my other muscles had been a lot stronger than they seemed right now.
Then I quit thinking, because our fight, which had started with a flurry of socks and whams and squishes and double whams, ended the way the other one had—with just one sock on a jaw. Only it wasn’t Shorty’s jaw this time, but mine! I felt things whirling round in my head like a Sugar Creek whirlwind, and then I felt myself being sucked down into a dizzying black world. I was knocked out and didn’t know it.
When I came to, Dad was sprinkling water on my face from Mom’s washtub under the elderberry bush, the same water that quite a while ago a blue cow had had her nervous nose in.
I sat up and looked groggily around. I didn’t see Shorty or his blue cow. Mom was there, though, in the ditch on the other side of the fence. Beside her, tugging at her skirts and looking worried, was Charlotte Ann, my little sister.
Dad was grinning as he said, “I’m proud of you, son. You fought like a man. You licked him!”
I jerked my head up and looked all around to see if maybe Shorty was there somewhere on the ground and I had missed seeing him the first time I’d looked. But he wasn’t.
“You fought a clean fight, and you didn’t swear! You just happened to get hit too hard in the right place.”
There were tears in my eyes, but with both my parents watching me, I kept them out of my voice. “Where’d he go? And where’s the dumb old cow?”
“Shorty and his father have her up at the corral at the hickory trees, milking her.”
“His father!” I exclaimed as I got to my feet to see if I could still stand on them, and I could. “Did he see me get licked?”
“Not on your life. When you went down, I ordered the champion to get his cow and get out of here. He drove her up toward the corral, and his father just got there a minute ago with the pail.”
I hated to look into Mom’s eyes to see what she thought. She had been standing there not saying a word and with motherly worry on her face. She had probably said a few things before I came to.
“You boys better come in to supper,” she said to Dad and me, then surprised me by just turning and picking up Charlotte Ann and carrying her on her way toward “Theodore Collins” on our mailbox on the other side of the road.
A few half minutes later, when I went past the mailbox myself on the way to the house to get washed up for supper—which I could smell was raw-fried potatoes, for sure—I stopped to look at the Collins name. With Dad beside me, it seemed that maybe as long as that name was on the mailbox, everything would be all right as long as a boy lived—if he could manage to live, with all the troubles he accidentally stumbled into.
“Hurry up, you two!” Mom called.
And we hurried.
6
The next day was a quiet sort of day with nothing very important happening except that Shorty’s mother called up on the phone. I happened to answer it, since Mom was outdoors at the time.
“Is this Mrs. Collins?” a woman’s cracking voice asked.
It sounded like Poetry’s ducklike voice trying to be mischievous, so I said, “Yes, it is.”
The voice became a little louder then. “This is Mrs. Long. We just wanted to call and tell you how much we appreciate your boy’s carrying fresh water to our cow every day. I didn’t know until last night that she wouldn’t go to the spring. She’s been so nervous ever since her calf got run over and killed the week before we moved. She’s been afraid of her shadow. You know how you’d feel if you lost your only calf—I mean if you lost your only child—”
It still sounded like Poetry, so I cut in on the voice, saying, “Don’t try to be funny. I know who you are!”
“What’s that? I didn’t hear what you said.”
And then I felt myself cringing, as if I was in the top of a tree and the limb I was on was cracking and about to break. That voice wasn’t
Poetry’s squawky voice but was actually some woman’s voice! It was Mrs. Long’s voice, Shorty’s mother!
Was I ever glad she hadn’t heard me say, “Don’t try to be funny.”
“I’ll call my mother,” I said to her and was going to run to the kitchen door to call Mom in from the garden, where I supposed she was.
But the voice on the phone said, “Yes, I’m his mother. And that’s another thing I wanted to tell you—I’m so sorry about the fights, but you know how boys are. I do hope your son didn’t get badly hurt. I just found out about it this morning. We like to be neighborly. We’ll make it up to you some way—about watering the cow, I mean. And I’ll give my boy a talking to about fighting so much.”
I decided that if she was that hard of hearing, there wasn’t any use to try to tell her I wasn’t Mrs. Theodore Collins, so I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Long.”
She answered, “Thank you, Mrs. Collins. My boy’s not as bad as he seems sometimes. We lived in such a rough neighborhood before—that’s one reason we were glad to come back to Sugar Creek, so he could have some Christian playmates—”
And then that voice on the other end of the line broke, and I could tell there were tears in it and also in her eyes. And, as Mom says sometimes about somebody that’s unhappy, she probably had “tears in her heart” too.
“You come and see us sometime,” Mrs. Long finished just before she hung up.
I went outdoors to tell Mom what I had just heard and said.
For some reason as I pushed open the screen door and went out onto the board walk that leads to the iron pitcher pump, in spite of the fact that I had been listening to something that was half sad, I had one of the most wonderful feelings I had ever had in my heart.
I quickly pumped the pump handle up and down several times, catching the water in a tin cup and drinking a little. Then I threw the rest of it over the horse trough into the puddle that nearly always was there, startling about seventeen white-and-yellow butterflies who had been in a little huddle around the puddle drinking. They flew up in about seventeen directions as they always do. Then I quickly hung the cup on its wire hook and raced toward the two-by-four crossbeam of the grape arbor.
I made a flying-squirrel leap, caught onto it with my calloused hands, strengthened my biceps by chinning myself seven times, then skinned the cat and swung myself up on top. Remembering I had seen our old red rooster stand on the top of it once and flap his wings and crow, I did the same thing, waving my arms, flapping them down against my overall legs, and lifting my head and crowing a long “Roo-uh-uh-uh-oooooooooooo!”
Mom, who was out at the chicken coops by the orchard fence, heard and saw me at the same time and yelled, “Bill Collins! Get down from there this minute! You’ll break your neck! What on earth are you thinking?”
“It’s a wonderful day!” I called back to her as I started to come down, being able to do it without breaking my neck.
Then I looked toward the fence where she was, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but old Bentcomb with her wings spread in a mother hen mood. She was saying a fussy “Cluck, cluck, cluck” to about a dozen of the cutest, white, fluffy baby chickens I ever saw.
It was a wonderful day! Absolutely wonderful, I thought as I went on out to congratulate old Bentcomb on hatching such a fine family.
Even though Shorty’s mother appreciated what I had d
one, Shorty himself didn’t. Word got around to the gang that he didn’t at all appreciate my carrying water to his cow. He was telling different people, especially Dragonfly, that if we hadn’t scared his cow all to smithereens that time he and Dragonfly led her down to the spring for her first drink—led her, mind you!—she wouldn’t have been afraid to go down every day, and I wouldn’t have had to carry water for her.
Also, he said, I had tried to ram a pitchfork into her! He’d seen it with his own eyes and had given me a licking within an inch of my life.
Then one day, when I took a pail of water out to pour it into the tub under the elderberry bush, there wasn’t any tub! Instead, there was an envelope tied to a branch of the bush. It said on it, “For Bill Collins. Do not open till Christmas!”
The tub was gone! Mom’s old but good washtub!
Christmas is right now! I said to myself grimly and tore open the envelope. Even while I was opening it, I thought maybe it might be a note from Shorty’s mother, and I was trying to hold my dirigible down. But it wasn’t from her.
“We don’t need your help any longer,” the printed note said. “Babe is drinking spring water now!”
That was the first time I knew what he called his crazy cow.
Then, below the last word in the middle of the yellow page was a picture of a boy with a very homely face. It had little pencil marks like periods and zeros all over it, and printed below the picture were the words: “Picture of a red-haired boy who can’t fight!”
Two other pictures were in my mind as I climbed over the fence. One of them was what I would probably see when I found Mom’s washtub, and the other was what the spring would look like now that, for some reason, Shorty’s cow had gotten so she wasn’t afraid to go down to it and get her own drinking water.
I expected to find Mom’s tub out in the woods somewhere all smashed to nothing, and at the spring there would be cow tracks all over the place, our nice wooden bench knocked over into the mud and trampled upon and very dirty, and our drinking cups scattered everywhere.
“Just wait till the gang hears about this!” I muttered to myself and clenched my teeth.
I decided not to go to the spring alone. There wasn’t any sense in running the risk of having another fight with Shorty when there wasn’t even one of the gang there to watch me lick him—or even to watch me get licked, whichever it would be.
Besides, there was a verse I remembered from the Bible that was part of a prayer. It said, “Do not lead us into temptation.” And it seemed it wouldn’t be right for me to lead myself into temptation to have another battle. I knew that if I got all stirred up again, I’d probably rush right in as I sometimes had done in the past.
So I sort of moseyed over toward Poetry’s house to show him the note and to get his idea on what to do.
I met him halfway, on the way to my house.
After I’d shown Poetry the note and the homely picture of me and told him about the tub and the spring, he said, “If my bench is knocked over again, there’ll be a fight that boy’ll never forget! That guy’s just my size!’’
Poetry really looked savage when he said that.
“Let’s spy out the land first,’’ we agreed. We also agreed not to hurt the cow if we found her at the spring.
“She lost her calf in an automobile accident,’’ I told him, “and she hasn’t gotten over it yet.”
“You see what he called her in his note?” Poetry asked.
And I said, “Yeah. Babe!”
“That means,” Poetry answered, “that he’s imagining himself to be Paul Bunyan and able to do anything. Paul Bunyan was a giant.”
“An imaginary one,” I reminded him as we passed the papaw bushes and moved cautiously on toward the path that leads from the big Sugar Creek bridge to the spring.
Getting close enough to be seen by anybody who might be near the place, we dropped down and crept slowly along from bush to bush, keeping a sharp lookout every second. It would have been fun if we had been pretending to be scouts sneaking up on an imaginary enemy camp. But this wasn’t any fun. This wasn’t pretend.
“That boy and his cow are honest-to-good-ness people,” I said into Poetry’s ear. We were side by side on our stomachs at the time.
He scowled and answered, “They’re honest-to-no-goodness, you mean.”
And I grinned at what was almost a cute remark.
“Sh! Listen!” he whispered.
“Sh! Look!” I answered. Already I had seen something blue moving near the linden tree.
Poetry let out an exclamation, as I felt one shooting out of my mind. There was something blue near the linden tree all right, but it was a boy in blue overalls with a water pail in his hands. He was pouring water into something that looked like—
“That’s Mom’s washtub!” I exclaimed.
“It’s Dragonfly!” Poetry whispered back.
And it was! Dragonfly, the spindle-legged member of our gang. The neat little guy that I had always liked so well. The one who became a Christian by receiving the Savior when he was sliding down the very sycamore tree Poetry and I were on our stomachs under that very minute. There he was. Shorty’s pal. Carrying water for him!
And then I saw Shorty himself. He walked over to look down into the tub. Then he made a movement as if he was giving orders.
Dragonfly picked up the pail, which he had set down, and started toward the linden tree and the incline that led down to the spring.
We could see perfectly from where we were, yet couldn’t be seen from where they were, unless one of them really tried hard to see us. They were out in the open, and we weren’t.
And then I saw something that was like lighting the gas under Mom’s teakettle. Pretty soon my temper would be to the boiling point. Shorty was standing there at the top of the incline, looking down to where Dragonfly had just gone. He had his elbows out and his fists on his hips, as much as to say, “I’m the boss around here!”
Poetry whispered in my ear then, saying, “He’s making Dragonfly carry the water for him!”
For one second I had been looking down the side of my nose to see if I could see my upper lip. Also, I was flexing my biceps for some reason. When Poetry said that, it was like somebody had turned the gas a little higher under the teakettle.
“He thinks he’s a big shot!” Poetry growled.
I saw Dragonfly’s brown hair appear at the top of the slope, then he himself, struggling, carrying up the big two-and-one-half-gallon pail of water with both hands. Reaching the top, he set it down and stood panting for breath.
Shorty made a quick bossy move with his arms and gave a jerk of his head. I knew that if I could have heard his voice, I’d probably have heard him say, “Don’t be such a wimp!” And then he lunged toward Dragonfly as if he was going to wham him with two of the hardest fists a boy could ever get whammed with.
Dragonfly ducked, flinging up his arms to protect himself, and stooped to pick up the heavy pail of water again.
It was maddening. Even though it actually wasn’t any of our business, it looked as if it was. It was my mother’s washtub. It was our spring-water. It was Dragonfly, who belonged to our gang, who was being bossed around by a bully.
And then I did see something that upset me. It was Dragonfly leaning over, and his chest was heaving, and he was also coughing.
“He’s got his asthma!” I cried under my breath.
How many times I had seen that little guy get behind in his breathing because some pollen that was poisonous to him had made his bronchial tubes swell and he couldn’t get air in or out without having to fight for practically every breath he took. Poor little guy! I thought.
“The big bully!” Poetry muttered. He shuffled to his feet, getting there a few seconds after I did.
With our jaws set and our minds made up, we stepped out into the open, and I heard myself yelling, “You great big bully!”
We started on the run toward the tub and the water pail and our pal Dragonfly, whose thin
chest had hard enough work to keep him in air when he was just doing what a boy did naturally. It wasn’t enough to supply him when he had to carry a big pail of water up a steep hill.
We were also on our way toward one of the fiercest fighters around, one with the dirtiest mind a boy ever had, and one who thought he was a big shot.
Even as we ran, I was remembering that Bible verse about being led into temptation. I realized this wasn’t any temptation to do something wrong. Instead, I was going to help a little guy who could hardly breathe and was being bullied by a big lummox almost twice his size.
Even though Dragonfly had made his choice and had been on Shorty’s side for weeks, I was making my choice now. I was going to rescue that little allergic-nosed member of the Sugar Creek Gang from a dangerous situation.
In another short minute we would be there. That is, we would have been, but we had to dodge around a brush pile beside a thicket of hazelnut bushes. And just as I swung out to miss it, a four-legged mammal with horns swung out of those bushes into my path.
I ran ker-wham into her fast-moving blue side and got bowled over as if I had been struck with the side of a barn. I landed sprawling in the middle of a patch of mayapples. My tongue somehow got between my teeth while I was falling. My teeth closed on it, and I got a bad bite on the right side of my tongue. I’d had that kind of bite before, and once I could hardly talk for almost a day.
I was up again in a jiffy, but Shorty had seen me wham into his cow and seen me get bowled over and land sprawling in the mayapples. He started to laugh, saying, “Goody, goody, goody! The goody-goody boy got his goody-goody head bumped!”
Now, I ask you, what would you have done?
Sugar Creek Gang Set Books 25-30 Page 52