Baby Island

by Carol Ryrie Brink

  Solemnly they crossed their hearts.

  “Women!” snorted Mr. Peterkin. “Babies! I thought I’d escaped them.”

  “Oh, come, come!” said Mary sensibly. “You’re being awfully silly, you know. We won’t hurt you at all, and we’re offering to take all your troublesome housework off your hands. Think how nice it would be to have a tidy cabin and some well-cooked food while you go out hunting or lie in your hammock, and all we ask is a little milk for the babies. You have a lot more milk than you need yourself.”

  Mr. Peterkin looked at her and scratched his head. He looked at Jean and at each of the babies. When he looked at Ann Elizabeth, she burst into smiles and said, “Pitty-pitty.” Mr. Peterkin actually blushed. Then he turned to Halfred.

  “What say, Halfred?” he asked doubtfully. Halfred flew onto his shoulder and tweaked his ear.

  “Man the pumps, Captain, man the pumps!” he remarked genially.

  “Well,” said Mr. Peterkin. “We’ll give ’er a try. But be’ave yourselves! That’s all I say. Be’ave yourselves! An’ never for no reason look into that chest o’ mine!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mr. Peterkin’s Toe

  SO BABY ISLAND was not a desert island any longer, with Mr. Peterkin and Halfred and the goats living just around the other side. There was even a boat, Mr. Peterkin told them, which called at the island every two years to leave Mr. Peterkin’s supplies and a letter from Belinda.

  “Oh, how soon will it come?” cried Mary.

  “Just left, Miss, about two months gone.”

  “Two years to wait!” said Mary sadly, and Jean cried, “Oh, Mary, they will have forgotten all about us in two years!”

  So the girls went back to the tepee—a little happy and a little sad.

  Every Wednesday morning at daybreak either Mary or Jean started off to clean Mr. Peterkin’s house, while the other stayed at the tepee with the babies. When Mary went, Mr. Peterkin’s house was shining clean and he had a nice pan of biscuits or a cocoanut pudding. He had a bounteous store of supplies on his shelves, so that cooking should have been easy. But when Jean went, things did not always shine so brightly, and instead of golden biscuits there was a fallen cake or what Jean called a “flumperty-wumperty,” which was a mixture of whatever she could find in Mr. Peterkin’s cupboard. However, on Jean’s days there was certainly more fun, for the phonograph played most of the time and Halfred sang and Charley danced or swung from the rafters by his tail. On these occasions poor Mr. Peterkin, unable to bear “young ’uns,” went into the jungle to hunt, or far up the beach for gulls’ eggs. There was only one thing which spoiled Jean’s visits for her. Mr. Peterkin had forbidden her to look into his chest.

  “It’s that chest of his that worries me, Mary,” remarked Jean one evening after she had been at the shanty. “Think of having to see it there every time I go, and not knowing what’s inside it.”

  “Oh, old sailors always have sea chests, Jean.”

  “So do pirates, Mary, and theirs are full of poltroons.”

  “Don’t you mean doubloons, dear?”

  “Well, anyway, I can’t rest until I know.”

  “Jean, you know that story we had in our reader about Pandora? She was just the kind of girl you are and couldn’t rest until she knew what was inside everything.”

  “I don’t think I ever read that story,” said Jean uncomfortably.

  “Then I’ll tell you. She finally opened the chest to see what it held, and all the troubles and sicknesses and fearful things in the world that had been shut up in there flew out and went to work again.”

  “Well, I never said I was going to look, did I?” demanded Jean.

  “No, of course not,” said Mary. “I just thought maybe you ought to know about Pandora.”

  “Yes, and there was that awful thing that happened to Bluebeard’s wife, too, wasn’t there, Mary?”

  “Yes, Bluebeard had definitely told her not to look, and she went and did. It served her right to find all those ladies hanging by their hair.”

  “It certainly did!” agreed Jean heartily. “But you wouldn’t call Mr. Peterkin’s whisker exactly blue, would you, Mary? Or would you?”

  “It’s very, very black,” said Mary. “Sometimes very black things are almost blue.”

  Jean shuddered. “Of course, I’m not really interested in his old chest,” she said. “But what I do want to know is how he lost his toe. There must be a good story about that. I wish you’d ask him, Mary.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Maybe I will sometime, if I feel quite brave.”

  Mr. Peterkin was harsh, but he never forgot to pay them with a pail of goats’ milk. The girls had learned to heat it on Mr. Peterkin’s stove, so that it would not sour quickly, and, by keeping it in the cold stream which flowed past the tepee, they were able to have sweet milk for the babies for nearly a week. Toward the end of the week, however, they had to fall back on canned milk, and Mary began to wonder how they could get the fresh goats’ milk more often. It was certainly a long way around to Mr. Peterkin’s house, and, even without the babies, it took them several hours to walk each way, besides doing Mr. Peterkin’s work.

  “But we can’t move any nearer because of leaving our stream,” said Mary. “Of course, Mr. Peterkin has a spring at his place, but he’d never let us live beside him, and I’m not sure I’d want to either.”

  “If we could go through the jungle,” said Jean, “it would be nearer.”

  “I know,” said Mary, “but we’d be sure to get lost.”

  “Mr. Peterkin has never been over here,” said Jean. “Maybe he doesn’t know how far we go every week.”

  “I expect he doesn’t care. But, listen, Jean, why don’t we invite him over to dinner sometime? Let’s do it on a Sunday when he can come to Sunday school. It might do his bad character a lot of good.”

  “It might,” said Jean doubtfully, “but he’s got an awful bad character, and I don’t think that me saying the twenty-third Psalm would do anybody much good.”

  “Well, it certainly does you a lot of good, Jean. Besides, we’ll sing ’Scots, Wha’ Hae wi’ Wallace Bled,’ and maybe I’ll preach a sermon, if I can think of some good ways to reform a character like Mr. Peterkin’s. Then we’ll give him something good to eat—that always helps to reform people. You hardly ever see anyone acting bad on a full stomach.”

  But somehow the invitation was always delayed. Mr. Peterkin had a frightful way of scowling that made it very difficult even for Mary to say, “Won’t you drop in for a plain family dinner next Sabbath after service?” as Aunt Emma used to say to her friends in Scotsville.

  The next time that Jean went around the island to do Mr. Peterkin’s cleaning, she resolved to solve at least one of the mysteries surrounding him. Pandora and Mrs. Bluebeard had scared her temporarily out of thoughts about his chest, but there was still his toe. She found him taking his ease as usual in the hammock. Halfred flew out to greet her and lit upon her shoulder. Prince Charley was occupying the other shoulder at the moment and they always skirmished cheerily about her ears, Halfred trying to tweak Charley’s tail and Charley grabbing a handful of red and green feathers. But on the whole they were very good friends by now. “If only Mr. Peterkin had as nice a disposition as Halfred’s,” thought Jean. She went and stood before the hammock until Mr. Peterkin lifted the palm-leaf fan off his face and looked at her.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Mr. Peterkin, how did you lose your toe?”

  “I knew that was comin’,” cried the unfortunate seaman. “I been lookin’ for it all along. Questions! questions! and now this one! ’Ow did I lose me toe? Bly’me, I’ll tell ye!”

  Jean gave two small pieces of hardtack to Halfred and Charley to keep them quiet and seated herself cross-legged in front of the hammock.

  “All right, I’m ready.”

  “’Twas one time I was lost in the heart of darkest Hafrica,” narrated Mr. Peterkin. “The pygmies was afte
r me—”

  “Pig—whats?” asked Jean politely.

  “Pygmies, them little men with poisoned harrows,” said Mr. Peterkin with unusual patience.

  Jean nodded excitedly. This was going to be thrilling.

  “One harrow narrowly missed my ’ead as I run through the jungle, and another cut out a piece of my whisker. I run for all I was worth, but them little men was faster. Just behind me they kept, and just out of sight. At last when I seemed to be gainin’ on ’em, blow me down! if I didn’t come to a roarin’ river! ‘Ow to get across? They was comin’ along be’ind me! They’d ’ave ’ad me in a minute, and the river was full of halligators!”

  “How awful!” said Jean, feeling a new tenderness for poor Mr. Peterkin.

  “Indeed you may say so,” said the brave seaman with satisfaction. “I thought my last hour was upon me. But salvation was at ’and. Just as I reached the bank of the river, I see a great snake with ’is tail coiled round a branch hanging over the river. ’is ’ead an’ neck was ’angin’ out about five yards or so, an’ ’e was swingin’ it back an’ forth, rhythmic-like, from one side of the river to the other.”

  “Like a pendulum?”

  “Like a pendulum.”

  “Oh, Mr. Peterkin, what did you do?”

  “When ’e swung back on my side of the river, I caught ’old of ’im an’ I gave a mighty jump. Away we went, sailin’ through the air, an’ we’d a-fetched up right enough on tother bank if it hadn’t been that the beggar was so slippery. Slippery ’e were, slippery as a heel. I lost me grip, and just as we was about to make the bank, I felt myself fallin’. Down, down, I went, just into the hedge of the river, an’ there a halligator caught me an’ bit off me toe as neat as your granny could do it with her shears. I’ve always cherished the ’ope that it gave ’im hindigestion.”

  “But you escaped?” breathed Jean.

  “I’m ’ere,” said Mr. Peterkin. He closed his eyes, and began to fan himself softly with the palm leaf.

  Jean was kinder to Mr. Peterkin’s house that day than she had been before. She spread the bed so smoothly and dusted so well, and the cake was neither burned nor fallen! For surely Mr. Peterkin had a right to tender care after all that he had been through.

  She hurried all the way home to tell Mary, but, when she arrived, Mary didn’t give her a chance.

  “Jeannie, dear,” said Mary, coming out to meet her, “I’m an awfully forgetful person. As soon as you had gone this morning I knew that I had forgotten to tell you something interesting. The babies just drove it completely out of my head, but I’m going to tell you right now because you were so anxious to know and were afraid to ask yourself. It’s about Mr. Peterkin’s toe. I asked him the last time I was over.”

  “He told me today,” said Jean with a shade of disappointment.

  “Oh, then you know about the Harabs and the sandstorm and the hungry camel?”

  Jean’s mouth fell open. At last she closed it and said, “No, but I know about the pygmies and the snake and the halligators.”

  “Oh, no, dear,” said Mary gently, “it was like this: Mr. Peterkin was in the desert in Harabia, and a very fierce tribe of Harabs was after him. He was escaping and escaping over the desert sands on his trusty camel when suddenly he saw a dark cloud on the horizon. It came closer and closer, barring his way, and suddenly he saw that it was a terrific sandstorm. The Harabs were galloping, galloping close behind him, but he saw that his only chance to survive was in lying down beside his trusty camel and letting the storm blow over him. Jeannie, that storm lasted for seven days and seven nights. Mr. Peterkin says that camels do not get thirsty for days at a time, but that they do get terribly hungry. His camel was so hungry, before the storm blew over, that Mr. Peterkin was afraid he would take a bite out of him, and one night, while Mr. Peterkin dozed off to sleep—”

  “Did what?” asked Jean breathlessly.

  “Take a bite out of him. He bit off his toe, said Mr. Peterkin, ‘as neat as your granny could do it with her shears.’”

  “Mary,” said Jean solemnly, “you better get that sermon ready. He’s worse than you suppose.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mary. “I felt real sorry for him.”

  “I mean just this,” said Jean, “he told me he lost his toe in Hafrica, escaping from the pygmies.”

  “Maybe,” said Mary charitably, “maybe he has two toes missing.”

  “I never noticed it,” Jean remarked grimly, setting her mouth in a firm line. “I guess we’ll have to reform him all right, and the sooner we get started the better.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mary Preaches a Sermon

  SO THE girls took their courage in their hands and invited Mr. Peterkin and Halfred over for dinner the very next Sunday. He was quite cross about it and made a great many remarks about “meddlesome young ‘uns,” but at last he accepted for himself and Halfred.

  Jean was all for Psalms and sermons without food, but Mary insisted that food and kindness must form the backbone of any program of reform.

  “It’s too bad the Snodgrasses aren’t here,” lamented Jean. “They’re so used to reforming savitches, it would be easy for them.”

  “I’m counting a lot on the babies,” said Mary softly. “There’s nothing like the sight of some clean, sweet, innocent babies.”

  “Oh, shucks! You always say that, Mary. It didn’t seem to make much difference at Mr. Peterkin’s house that day. He just hates babies.”

  “Nobody really hates babies, Jean. He just thinks he does. We’ve got to give him a chance.”

  The girls were busy for several days preparing the feast. By this time they had a tidy collection of dishes made from cocoanut shells, empty cans, flat stones, and large shells picked up on the beach. They made napkins and tablecloths of large leaves, and spoons of small shells, and so they were able to set a dainty table. It was similar to the way in which they had served mud-pie meals in Scotsville, only now they served real food which they had cooked over their own campfire. Jean brought in the finest bananas and breadfruits, the largest crabs and clams, and the best of everything she could find, while Mary used all her skill as a cook to prepare them.

  Mr. Peterkin, with Halfred on his shoulder, arrived late. He was quite red in the face from walking so far in the heat, and he was puffing like a steam engine.

  “Blow me down!” he exclaimed. “Why did ye build your ‘ouse so far around here? ’Tis a fearful tiresome walk on a warm day.”

  “It certainly is!” said Jean. “We know, because we have to walk over to your house and back every Wednesday.”

  “But this is why our house stands here,” said Mary, holding out a cocoanut shell full of cool fresh water. Mr. Peterkin drained its contents, then he let out a long contented “A-ah!” and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Now you sit right down in the shade and make yourself at home.”

  Mr. Peterkin obeyed with a heavy sigh. “ ’Oo built your ouse for you?” he asked.

  “We built it ourselves.” “Well, I never!”

  “It’s not as stylish as yours, but it’s quite homelike.”

  “When do we eat?” next asked Mr. Peterkin.

  “Questions! questions!” grumbled Jean with a twinkle in her eye, but Mary replied politely: “Church first. It’s Sunday, you know, and I’ve prepared a sermon.”

  “Well, tan my hide!” said Mr. Peterkin, too surprised to protest.

  “We didn’t really plan to tan your hide—” said Mary politely, “only bring you to judgment, if you don’t mind. Now if you’ll just sit quietly under that palm tree, please. And I’m sure you won’t mind holding Jonah and Ann Elizabeth for us, as Jean and I have to be active in the service.”

  Mr. Peterkin’s mouth fell open in the middle of his whiskers, but, before he could reply, he found himself jouncing babies again.

  “Pitty-pitty!” said Ann Elizabeth, reaching for Mr. Peterkin’s whiskers.

  “Now we will please com
e to order,” said Mary, and everybody was quiet.

  The twins and Prince Charley had learned to sit quietly on large stones which Mary provided for them during Sunday services, and Halfred, being a smart bird, was quick to follow their example.

  “Now before we start the service,” said Mary firmly, “there’s one point that has to be cleared up. Mr. Peterkin, will you kindly tell us how you lost your toe?”

  Mr. Peterkin, still too much surprised to have regained his usual bad temper, cleared his throat and swallowed several times so that his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down under his whisker.

  “ ’Twas many years ago when I were a lad in Harabia,” he began in a slow voice, which was touched with wistful memories.

  “You see, Jean?” cried Mary. “Harabia! You must have misunderstood him.”

  “Mr. Peterkin!” shouted Jean. “You told me Hafrica and the pygmies!”

  Mr. Peterkin looked gently pained. “I beg your pardon,” he said thoughtfully. “ ’Twas in Halbania, the winter of the great snow.”

  “Halbania!” cried the girls in an outraged chorus.

  The honest seaman looked more and more confused.

  “No, p’r’aps it weren’t Halbania. Haustralia! Haustralia were the spot! ‘Twere a dark an’ moonless night in the Haustralian bush, an’ bushmen were on my trail. My ‘erd of trusty kangaroos ‘ad just stampeded an’—“

  “Mr. Peterkin!” cried Mary indignantly. “Be careful what you say about Australia. Our father lives there, and I know he hasn’t any herds of trusty kangaroos. You’re just making up tales! A wickeder man I never saw!”

  “And you an honest seaman!” said Jean reproachfully.

  “Pitty-pitty!” said Ann Elizabeth softly, stroking Mr. Peterkin’s black beard.

  “Wicked, Miss?” said Mr. Peterkin, with a startled look in his eyes.

  “Yes, wicked!” said Mary firmly. “Why don’t you tell the truth?”

  “Look ‘ere, Miss,” said Mr. Peterkin with tears in his eyes. “I ’aven’t ’ad a very lively sort of life, way out ‘ere on a desert hi’land. If I told you ’ow I really lost my toe, you’d think it was tame. Tame, that’s what it is! Tame! I ’ave to make up these tales to keep my courage up.”