by Peggy Bacon
Strange to say, it wasn’t the diamond bracelet that made them all as rich as they soon became, although the bracelet sold for a tidy sum. It was old Benjamin Paisley’s coin collection, containing coins of copper, silver, gold, bronze, iron and electrum, from Lydia, Persia, Italy, Greece, Phoenicia and every city of the ancient world. A great museum purchased this collection for a huge sum, which the Britts and Miss Pankey divided, because it was Bingo Britt who found the treasure in the house that Miss Pankey owned.
The Britts and Miss Pankey continued to live in the Inn, although the building was far too big for them. The Britts were tired of moving about the country, and Miss Pankey was fond of the place. She ceased to worry about its being haunted. Bingo had reconciled her to my presence. All of them were as happy as could be.
Bruno gave up painting portraits for pittances, and turned to landscape painting, which he loved. Amanda devoted herself to crewel work, embroidering all their clothes in wild designs. Miss Pankey, who had always wished to garden, grew flowers and vegetables to her heart’s content; and Bingo had a new fairy book every week. Most important of all, Pettijohn and Crackerjack led a delightful life in the best surroundings, suitably lapped in luxury and ease.
Ninth Life
[1966]
TRICK OR TREAT
IT WAS SEPTEMBER, the night before school opened.
“Ellen and I will be going to school tomorrow, Opalina,” Phillip announced. “In the evenings we’ll have our homework to do, and Jeb can’t come up here alone, so you won’t be seeing us except on weekends.”
“Oh, I’ll see you whether you see me or not. I quite enjoy watching the antics of the humans.”
“There won’t be many antics,” said the boy. “It won’t be much fun for you to watch us study.”
“And I wish you wouldn’t watch us,” Ellen cried. “It’s horrid to know that someone you can’t see is watching you. I won’t be able to concentrate at all.”
“If you stick to your books like two little Benjamin Paisleys, you can be sure I’ll pay no attention to you,” Opalina retorted huffily. “You may forget my presence from now on. I’ll doze, go into the silences, hibernate.” So saying, she swirled into a misty ball, tucked in her paws and shut her eyes tight.
“You needn’t start hibernating yet,” Phil protested. “It’s our last evening together till Saturday night.”
“Your Royal Highness, Opalina dear!” Ellen pleaded. “Please stay awake and tell us what happened to Miss Pankey and the Britts.”
Grudgingly, Opalina opened one eye.
“Well…I may as well tell you that much. Bingo is professor of mythology at a midwestern university. He and his wife, his children, his parents and Miss Pankey are living together on a nice old farm.”
“And won’t you please tell us about your ninth life?” Phillip coaxed.
“My ninth life! It’s a little too soon to ask. Nothing has happened so far, but I hope for the best.”
“Do you mean this is it?” The older children stared.
“Why yes, of course! My ninth life began when Miss Pankey sold this house to your father and mother when Clara Pankey moved out and your family moved in.”
“Miss Pankey!” Phillip exclaimed. “We didn’t know that Father bought the place from her.”
“Then there won’t be any more stories!” Ellen wailed.
“That’s up to you,” Opalina declared. “I do think you might supply a bit of excitement, in return for the entertainment I’ve provided...something worthy of my autobiography. You really owe it to me.”
“But there’s nothing to tell,” said Ellen.
“And that’s not our fault,” said Phil. “Nothing ever happens around here.”
“You thankless sillies!” Opalina hissed. “My own appearance in your paltry lives was surely a great event!”
“You know we’re grateful for that, Opalina,” said Phil, and Ellen added: “Knowing you is the most wonderful thing that ever happened to us.”
“It’s the only unusual thing that ever happened,” Phil agreed. “But it’s nothing we can tell you because you know all about it.”
“We have the fanciest pussycat in the world,” Jeb boasted.
Opalina gave him a loving glare. “The youngling never complains. A true philosopher, possessed of courtly manners and gracious speech! He never makes a fuss.”
Phillip was annoyed. “Because he doesn’t listen to what you say. He simply loves to sit and look at you.”
“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’” Opalina purred complacently, washing her face and ears.
“That’s all very well! We all know you’re beautiful, but if you want a story for your autobiography, something interesting has to happen first.”
“Then get out and make it happen!” Opalina snapped. Sinking her chin on her paws, she closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep.
The two older children were baffled by Opalina’s attitude, which they considered unreasonable.
“Even if we invented a good story we couldn’t make it come true,” Phillip grumbled.
“What could we do to amuse her, anyway? What can you do for a ghost?”
“That’s not the idea, Ellen. Opalina doesn’t expect things to happen to her. She wants to see something interesting happen to us. As she says, she watches what goes on. For her, it’s sort of like going to the movies.”
“Could we make up a plot for an adventure and act it out, do you think?” Ellen suggested doubtfully.
“Adventures are accidental,” Phil replied.
“Well...what can we do?”
“That’s the trouble. I don’t know what we can do. We’ll have to think.”
During the next few weeks, Phillip and Ellen had so many other things to think of that they found no time to worry about the ghost. It is not easy to switch from one school to another. When the Finleys lived in the city, Phillip and Ellen had gone to the same school, year after year, from kindergarten on. They knew all the teachers and pupils, and had many friends among their classmates. Going to school for the first time in Heatherfield, they saw not one familiar face.
The Heatherfield children likewise knew each other, far better than children do in a city school. Their families had lived here for generations, and most of them were related in some way. There were brothers and sisters, first, second, third and fourth cousins, and distant cousins sharing the old names. Trumbulls, Paisleys and Montagues abounded. There were Evanses, Grants, Coverleys, Pankeys and Hawleys. In fact, these children formed such a close-knit group that they were in no hurry to welcome outsiders. Since Phillip and Ellen were in separate grades, each was adrift on a sea of total strangers. So the first days of school were difficult ones for the Finleys, especially for the girl.
Things were pleasant enough while classes were in session. Miss Bradley, who taught Ellen’s class, was a kind young woman. She hastened to put the newcomer at her ease. Ellen was diligent and quick to learn. She soon forgot her shyness in the classroom. It was in the schoolyard and the lunchroom that Ellen felt uncomfortably alone.
When the children went outdoors at recess, Ellen was left standing by herself. All around her games were in progress. For a while, she would hover on the outskirts, hoping that someone would think of asking her to join, but nobody seemed to notice her at all.
Finally, feeling embarrassed and conspicuous, Ellen would slip back to her desk in the classroom and study the next day’s assignments.
At noon, the girls in Ellen’s class gathered at one of the long tables in the lunchroom. Though Ellen sat with them, they seldom spoke to her. Having no share in their lives outside of class, she was unable to follow their conversations. Most of them appeared to be good-natured, and they were polite enough, in an offhand way. The trouble was, they knew each other so well, and they only knew Ellen by sight.
Ellen’s desk was near the back of the room. She sat between a fat girl named Irma, and a big, quiet boy called Bill. Irma was lazy and never knew her l
essons. She would pretend to study, but in back of the book propped open on the desk in front of her, she would be reading a comic and munching sweets. Sometimes when Irma faltered and broke down in her recitation, or failed to answer a question, Miss Bradley would call on Ellen, who usually answered correctly. Then a sullen look would cross Irma’s face.
One day as the girls and boys came back from recess, and Ellen was already at her desk, Irma remarked loudly for all to hear: “Well! Did you ever! Just look at Miss Know-it-all! Isn’t she the grind!”
“I’m not a know-it-all, and I’m not a grind!” Ellen asserted with spirit. “I’m new here, that’s all. I haven’t any friends yet, so I might as well get some of my homework done.”
“That’s all, she says!” Irma jeered. “Well, I know one thing! She wants to be teacher’s pet. She’s just a show-off. She always studies in recess. That’s being a grind!”
Ellen was struck dumb by this attack, and the rest of the class stared, but the quiet boy on her left spoke up at once: “What seems to be eating you, Irma?” He drawled. “There’s nothing wrong about studying your lessons. You ought to try it sometime. It might do you good...keep you from acting so dumb.”
An appreciative titter sped through the group around them. Irma flushed angrily. Before she could think of a rude retort, Miss Bradley rang her desk bell and called the class to order.
The incident had a lucky ending for Ellen. Irma was not especially well liked. On the other hand, Bill Trumbull was popular, a leader, with an influence on his schoolmates. Irma had drawn attention to the new girl, intending to hold her up to ridicule. When Bill defended her, the others observed that Ellen seemed intelligent and attractive. Some of the children promptly made friends with her. The barriers fell down and Ellen was in.
Meanwhile, Phillip, in the grade ahead, had been having his troubles too. Being athletic, and bolder than his sister, he quickly became acquainted with many of the boys, but from the start he fell out with a boy named Wilbur Grant. Wilbur Grant was Irma’s elder brother, and he was rather a bully. He was taller and older than anyone in class, having been kept back in the seventh grade for failing to pass his exams.
At recess, on the second day of school, when the big boys were playing catch at one end of the playground, a little fellow from the first grade accidentally rolled his ball in their midst. It was a big rubber ball, red, white and blue, covered with gilt stars...a precious possession. The child came running forward to retrieve it. Before he could do so, Wilbur snatched it up and teasingly claimed that it was his.
The little chap burst into tears. “Give it back to the kid, can’t you!” Phil remonstrated.
“You keep your trap shut!” Wilbur yelled, bouncing the ball and laughing at the youngster.
“Ah, that’s mean! Give it back, I say!”
“Don’t you give orders to me!” Wilbur shouted, throwing the ball in the air.
With a leap; Phil caught the ball and tossed it to the tot, who scuttled away with it.
Wilbur was incensed. “I’ll teach you to mind your own business!” He rushed at Phil. They grappled and Phil went down with Wilbur on top.
For a moment or two they struggled and rolled in the dirt, while the other boys gathered around them in a ring. Phil was badly knocked about and pummeled, but he managed to give Wilbur a black eye before Mr. Jenks, the Principal, hearing the noise, hurried into the yard and stopped the fight.
Though Phil had actually had the worst of it, his scrapes and bruises were not so apparent as Wilbur’s black eye. A black eye is a very obvious thing and it does not vanish overnight. Wilbur’s eye turned many lively colors, and caused much comment as the week wore on. Because of it, Phillip was wrongly considered the victor.
A rumor sped through school that Big Wilbur had been beaten up by a much younger boy. This in turn gave rise to a general opinion that Wilbur was not to be feared.
Wilbur was as big and strong as ever, but when he discovered that nobody was afraid of him any more, he lost some of his swaggering self-confidence. And Phil was honored for conquering Goliath and for championing a poor little underdog.
Within a few weeks, Phil had a chum, John Montague, and Ellen was friendly with Bill Trumbull, who introduced her to his younger sister Bertha, in the grade below.
One Saturday in October, Phillip and Ellen invited John Montague and the Trumbulls to spend the day with them. The morning was sparkling, the autumn foliage glorious. The children packed some lunch in a picnic basket and started out for the forest.
“I wish we could find that cave of Batsy Diggs’s,” said Phil, as they set forth.
“I know the way to that,” said John Montague.
“A cave?”
“And who’s Batsy Diggs?” the Trumbulls inquired.
“He was a funny old hermit who lived in the woods,” John replied. “He died a long time ago. How did you happen to hear about him, Phil?”
“Somebody told us,” Phil answered cautiously.
“I didn’t know anyone outside our family remembered Batsy Diggs. Grandpa Fudge told me something about him when he took me to see the cave.”
“Fudge!” cried Ellen, ignoring Phil’s warning glance. “They called Molly Montague’s baby brother ‘Fudge’!”
John was puzzled. He blinked at Ellen. “Why, yes! My Great Aunt Molly is Grandpa’s older sister…but how do you two happen to know these things?” Ellen looked confused, and Phil said hastily, “Just hearsay! Come on! Here’s the Indian Trail. Let’s get going! John, you lead the way.” He caught his sister’s arm and they dropped behind.
“For heaven’s sake, keep quiet!” He whispered in her ear. “Use your brains! We can’t explain how we know, without telling them about Opalina.”
“Why shouldn’t we tell them?”
“Because they wouldn’t believe us.”
The Indian Trail was no longer overgrown, as it had been when the Montague twins were young. The Forestry Department had stepped in and was taking entirely too much care of it. Zealous men chopped saplings and cleared undergrowth and raked the path to keep it wide and neat. At the edge of the forest, they had set up a sign with a big red hand pointing: “To the Indian Trail,” destroying instantly all sense of adventure.
The children strolled along this easy route for a couple of miles. Then John left the trail and led them forth into the wilderness, which was as rugged as it had ever been. As they passed through a grove into a clearing beside a brook, Ellen and Phillip recognized the spot where Pelley had first met the hermit.
“There’s the ring of stones where he cooked the ducks,” Phil whispered excitedly. “And look! This must be part of the gate he used as a grill.” He pointed to a rusty iron bar.
Eagerly they hurried after the others, who were already climbing the hill toward the cliff. But upon entering the cave, Ellen and Phil were stricken with disappointment. They had given no thought to the passage of time.
Poor old Batsy was long since dead and gone, and gone were his humble possessions. Gone were the furry hides that had covered the dirt floor, making his home warm and snug. Gone were his burlap bag, his rod and gun. The bin that was his bed had rotted away. The one token of his former presence was his dinner table, the big round section of tree trunk; and the air was no longer sweet with the odor of pine needles, but dank and sour with the smell of decay. This was most depressing to the Finleys, who suddenly felt as though they had lost a friend.
The other three children felt nothing of the kind. Since they had not heard Opalina’s description of the nest that Batsy had created, they did not sense the change, the desolation. Having no picture of that strange old man, they could not mourn for him. John, Pelley Montague’s great-grandson, knew scarcely anything about his forebears, compared to what the Finley children knew. He hadn’t been told much about Batsy Diggs, and the Trumbulls had never heard the name till now. Far from being downcast, the Finley’s friends found the cave a fascinating place.
A hunk of stone and sod had
fallen from the roof and lay on the ground near Batsy’s table. A bar of sunlight diffused a watery glow over the walls of the cave conveniently, since none of them had thought to bring a flashlight. In semidarkness the children commenced to prowl and poke about, hunting for they knew not what.
They did succeed in finding a few trifles. John picked up an Indian-head penny, Bill a battered jackknife. Ellen spotted a bit of broken china that she decided must be part of the saucer that Batsy had used to hold his candle end. Bertha discovered the nicest thing of all.
She had been prodding a squirrel’s hoard of nuts from a hole in the rock on a level with her eye. Scooping out the last crumbling nutshells, her fingers closed on something hard and cold. Drawing it forth, she crowed:
“Look what I’ve got!”
Phil, next to her, uttered a sharp exclamation. “The whippoorwill whistle!”
And Ellen, equally forgetful, cried: “The whistle Pelley gave Batsy !“
The brother and sister gazed at the object, spellbound.
So did the others. Then they stared at the Finleys — from Phil to Ellen and back again at Phil.
“What do you mean?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The whippoorwill whistle?”
“What is a whippoorwill whistle?”
“It’s a silver whistle that sounds like a whippoorwill,” Ellen explained.
And John demanded: “How do you know what it is?”
“Well, we do!” Phil put in defiantly. “If you don’t believe us, you can blow it and see.”
“Go on, Bertha, blow it,” Bill urged.
“I can’t,” said his sister. “It’s stopped up.”
“Here, let me fix it!” Phil reached for the whistle but Bertha held onto it.
“No,” she said. With a bobbie pin from her hair she pried out a nutshell, polished the whistle on her skirt, took a deep breath and blew.
Shrill sounds rent the air...magical sounds…the clear, cool, three-note call of the whippoorwill…so lifelike that it seemed to the startled children as though the bashful bird was in their midst, hiding somewhere in the shadowy cave. They took turns blowing the whistle, enthralled with the toy. Then the others fired questions at the Finleys: