"I don't see how those pigs got out," said Dr. Morton disgustedly. "I thought that small pen was secure."

The girls listened attentively.

"They were there at four o'clock, I saw them," Sherm remarked.

"Oh, I suppose the heavy rain loosened the earth and it was easy rooting."

"Possibly," said Sherm.

The incident might have awakened more interest if the Doctor had not returned, bringing a fateful letter. The long-expected letter from Senator Pratt had come. He would be most happy to give Ernest the appointment immediately, if he thought he could pass the mental examinations. An extra examination was to be held on the 30th at Annapolis. He was sending a catalogue and some special literature as to the ground to be covered, by the same mail. He would, however, recommend that Ernest go immediately to some reputable physician and see if he could pass the physical examination. They had a naval surgeon there in Topeka, if he cared to incur the expense of a visit to the Capital.

Ernest was so busy poring over the catalogue that he could hardly be induced to stop long enough to eat his supper.

"I'm more afraid of the mathematics than anything else. I wonder if I couldn't get Prof. Smith to coach me. I could study all week and go in Saturdays to recite."

"The first thing to do is to get that doctor's certificate. We'll go to town to-morrow and have Dr. Hardy look you over, and if he doesn't find anything suspicious, we'll run down to Topeka to see the surgeon and call on the senator at the same time. I think I could go Monday."

The entire family held its breath or at least tried to, for the next few days. Mrs. Morton quite forgot how badly she had wanted Ernest to have an education, when she learned that he could only come home once a year, and then only for a short month. She sighed so much and was so distraught, that the family were almost afraid to rejoice with Ernest, when he came home jubilantly waving his physician's certificate.

"Never mind, Mother, that surgeon may send me packing. Don't worry till you are sure I'm going. Even if I am vouched for as up to the scratch physically, I may flunk, alas! Wouldn't that be nice after Father had put up a lot of money to send me on? You'd be ashamed of me, Mother, you wouldn't want to see me come home."

"I am not expecting you to fail, son," said Dr. Morton, "though I wish we could have arranged matters sooner to give you more time for review. But with the exception of a little extra mathematics, the requirements are certainly no worse than for college entrance exams. And you've tested yourself out twice on those. Aren't you glad I insisted on more geometry?"

"He doesn't need to come home if he does fail. He can visit some of our friends in Centerville till college opens. It would only be a few days," Frank consoled him. "However, I am not expecting you to fail, old boy. I have always flattered myself that the Morton family are not lacking in brains, and you know how to study."

"I most wish he would fail so he could come to see us. Mother would love to have him spend the Christmas vacations with us," put in Katy naively.

"Thank you, Katy, I'd enjoy nothing better, but I've kinder set my heart on showing this naval outfit that a wild and woolly Kansan can measure up with some of those down-easters."

The naval surgeon confirmed Dr. Hardy's judgment. The senator had been cordial, and after some questioning, said he would send Ernest's name to the department immediately. He also gave him some helpful suggestions as to what subjects to put the emphasis on.

Two weeks seemed a pretty short time for preparation. Ernest thanked his lucky star that he had done a little studying through the summer in preparation for his college entrance, and was not rusty. The entire family waited on him and followed him round till Frank declared they would ruin the boy, if he didn't get off soon. Chicken Little sadly neglected her guests whenever it was possible to hang round Ernest. But Ernest was so busy, she seldom had a word alone with him. The two were very dear to each other despite their occasional bickering, and Chicken Little was almost jealous of every one who came near him during those last few days.

"Ernest," said his father the Saturday before his departure, "will you take one farewell turn at herding to-morrow? Jim Bart wants to get off for the day and I'd like to have the cattle clean off that stubble field. I think I will plow early and put it in winter wheat this year. I have promised to drive Mother and the girls to town to church in the morning. We are to have dinner with the parson and won't be home until evening."

That evening Ernest overtook Chicken Little coming up from the spring with the butter and cream.

"Say, Sis, don't you want to stay home and help me herd to-morrow? The girls wouldn't mind this once."

"Oh, I'd love it. We just haven't had a good talk for ages—but I don't know what Mother'll say."

"I'll fix Mother," he answered confidently.

Later, he whispered: "It's all O. K."

"Gee, I guess Mother'd give you the moon if she could, she feels so bad about having you go so far away."

"Poor Mother, it's mighty rough on her out here on the ranch. Say, Sis, I don't mind if you want to wear some of my old truck to-day—we'll just be down in the field and your riding skirt will be a nuisance in among the cattle."

This was a mighty concession for Ernest, who had a considerable share of his mother's respect for the conventions. Chicken Little appreciated it.

She reached up and gave him a big hug.

"It's going to be awful hard to have you go, Ernest."

Ernest didn't say anything in reply, but he squeezed his young sister tight, as if he were realizing himself that he was about to miss something precious from his life.

The two were up early the next morning and off with the herd before the rest of the family were fairly through breakfast. Sherm was going in with the others to church. Annie had put up a lunch for Ernest and Jane; they did not expect to get back to the house until late afternoon.

The day was an August masterpiece, warm, but not too warm, with a fresh breeze blowing and shreds of blue haze lingering over the timber along the creek.

"It has almost a fall feel," said Chicken Little.

A brisk half-hour's work, in which Huz and Buz took an active part, hindering rather more than helping in the cattle driving, was sufficient to transfer the herd from the pasture to the stubble field. Chicken Little was thankful she had discarded her skirt, for they had many a chase after refractory animals through the timber and underbrush. Calico and Caliph, being mustangs, seemed to enjoy the sport as much as their riders.

"Cricky, Caliph is almost human when it comes to heading off a steer, and he's never done much cattle driving either. He must have inherited the range instinct."

"Humph, what about Calico?" retorted Jane. "He turned that roan Father always says is so mean, three times."

The cattle scattered over the stubble eagerly. Ernest picketed the ponies so they could graze after their good work and he and Chicken Little threw themselves down under a red bud tree near the edge of the field to rest.

"They won't stray much till they get their stomachs full," said Ernest, "and that won't be before afternoon. I brought a book along—Cooper's 'Naval History.' It's great, though Father says it's better romance than history. Do you mind if I read you a bit?"

Chicken Little backed up against a tree and settled herself comfortably and they were soon fighting with Paul Jones, so utterly absorbed that the herd had drifted down to the farther end of the field before they realized it. A half dozen adventurous beasts were already disappearing into the timber, apparently headed for the Captain's cornfield, which lay just beyond the creek.

"The pesky brutes! Why can't they be content with a good square meal at home?" Ernest hated to be interrupted.

"Perhaps they like to go visiting as much as we do. Besides, they don't often have a chance at green corn."

It took some time to recover the truants. By the time they were settled once more under the tree, the sun was nearing the zenith and they were growing hungry.

"It's only half past eleven, but I'm starved. Let's eat now." Ernest eyed the packet of luncheon hungrily.

"All right, go fill the water jug, and I'll get it out."

After lunch they read for awhile, but, presently, the sun seemed to grow hotter and they commenced to feel drowsy. They decided to take turns watching the cattle and napping. The cattle also seemed to feel the heat and were hunting patches of shade, lying down to chew their cuds contentedly. The air seemed palpitating with the incessant humming and whirring of insects. Bees, and white and yellow butterflies flittered in a mat of weeds and wild blackberry vines, which had entirely covered an angle of the old rail fence near them.

Ernest's nap was a long one. The boy had been studying hard for his examinations and was thoroughly tired. He was lying on his side, his face resting on his hand, and his old straw hat drawn over his face to keep off the flies. But the nagging insects soon discovered his neck and hands. Chicken Little fished his bandanna out of his pocket to protect his neck, covering the hand that lay on the grass with her own handkerchief.

He woke at length with a start, smiling up at Chicken Little when he discovered the handkerchiefs.

"Thank you, Sis. Whew, I must have slept for keeps," he added, glancing at the sun. "It's four o'clock. The folks will be along about six."

He sat up and took a survey of the field. The cattle were all quiet. Chicken Little was braiding little baskets with a handful of cat tail leaves she had brought from the slough. Ernest reached over and patted the busy fingers.

"Sis, I'm mighty fond of you—do you know it?"

Chicken Little looked up at him affectionately. "I suspected it, Ernest," she answered demurely.

The boy was going on with his own thoughts. "I'm mighty glad to get away from the ranch. I don't believe I'm cut out for this sort of thing. Guess, maybe, I'm not democratic enough—you remember that party at Jenkins'? Well, I've been thinking about it a good deal since. I guess Sherm sort of set me to thinking with his fuss about the kissing games. At any rate, I've made up my mind I don't intend to be like any of the boys on this creek, and I don't propose that you shall be like any of the girls if I can help it. It isn't that they aren't smart enough and good enough. The people round here are mighty touchy about one person's being just as good as another. Maybe one person is born just as good as anybody else, but, thank goodness, they don't all stay alike. I mayn't be any better than the Craft boys, but I know I'm a sight cleaner, and I don't murder the king's English quite every other word, and I know enough to be polite to a lady. And if I take the trouble to make myself decent, and they don't, I don't see any reason why I should be expected to pretend they're as good as I am."

Ernest was waxing wroth. The insistent equality of the Creek was on his nerves.

"I don't care if people do think I'm stuck up—I'm going to try to associate with the kind of people I like. It isn't money—it's just nice living. If it wasn't for people like the Captain and one or two others we'd forget what lady and gentleman meant. And that isn't saying that there aren't lots of good kind people on the Creek, too. But they're so dead satisfied with themselves the way they are—they don't seem to know there is any better way to live."

Chicken Little was listening eagerly.

"I know what you mean. Lots of it's little things. I noticed that night at the Jenkins'. Mamie's prettier than me and the boys like her better, but I don't want to be like her all the same."

"I should think not, Chicken Little, and you needn't worry. You're nothing but a kid yet, but by the time you're eighteen, Mamie Jenkins won't hold a candle to you. And while I think of it, Sis, the less you see of Mamie the better. And I don't want you playing any more kissing games—you're too big."

"Humph, you just said I was nothing but a kid. You're as bad as Mother."

Ernest was not to be diverted. "None of your dodging. I want you to promise me you won't."

Chicken Little considered.

"It isn't that I want to play them," she argued, "but if I don't, I'll have to sit and look on and all the old folks'll ask me if I'm not well, and the girls'll say I'm stuck up. It wasn't as easy as you seem to think, Ernest Morton, but I'll promise, if you'll promise not to kiss any girl while you're gone."

"Nonsense, Jane, you don't understand. It's different with a boy."

Chicken Little fixed her brown eyes upon Ernest's face musingly.

"How is it different?"

"Chicken Little Jane Morton, haven't you had any raising? You know as well as I do it isn't nice for a girl to let boys kiss her."

Chicken Little considered. "You needn't be so toploftical; girls don't want most boys to kiss 'em."

"Most?"

"That's what I said. I hated it when Grant kissed me at Mamie's party, but I don't know that I'd mind if Sherm——"

She got no further. Ernest bristled with brotherly indignation.

"Has Sherm ever——"

"Of course not, Sherm wouldn't! I guess it's because I know he wouldn't, that I shouldn't much mind if he did."

Chicken Little said this soberly, but her face grew a little red.

Ernest's brotherly eyes were observant.

"Oh, Sherm's all right, but Sis, I want that promise."

"I told you I'd promise if you would." Chicken Little drew her lips together in a firm way.

"But I can't—it would be silly—I might look ridiculous sometime if I refused. The fellows would guy me if they knew I made such a promise."

"Well, I just told you they'd guy me if I refused to do what the others do."

"But, Chicken Little, it isn't nice."

"I guess I know that as well as you do. And I don't know that I shall ever play that kind of games again, but I'm not going to promise if you won't. Boys don't need to think they can do everything they want to, just because they're boys. You don't want anybody to kiss me, but I'd like to know how you are going to kiss a girl without making somebody else's sister do something that isn't nice, Ernest Morton."

The discussion ended there. Ernest was not very worldly wise himself, and Chicken Little's reasoning was certainly logical.

They had but little time to talk after that. The cattle began to roam restlessly once more and they were in the saddle pretty constantly for the remainder of the afternoon.

Ernest took the trouble to lift her down from Calico when they reached the stable that evening, an unusual attention. He also gave her a shy kiss on the cheek and whispered: "I'll promise, Sis. I don't know but you are about half right."



CHAPTER XIV

OFF TO ANNAPOLIS

"Golly, I sha'n't have any fingers left by the time I finish this needle case! King's excuse, Katy, you needn't mind. I know I said it, but if you tried to push a needle through this awful leather and pricked yourself every other stitch you'd say Golly, too." Chicken Little edged off as she saw Katy approaching.

Katy was not to be deterred. "You said to pinch you every single time, Jane Morton, and you've said it twice. Besides, your mother said she hoped I could cure you." Katy gave Chicken Little's arm two vigorous pinches to emphasize this statement.

Chicken Little did not take this kindly office in the spirit in which it was intended. She hated to sew and she had been toiling all morning on a little bronze leather case to hold needles, buttons, and pins—a parting gift to Ernest.

"Katy Halford, I told you not to! I think you are real mean to do it when I'm having such a hard time. I'll thank you not to any more, if I do say it."

"You don't need to go and get mad! You told me to."

"Yes, and I just now told you not to!"

"I guess you'd say King's excuse every time if I'd let you. A lot of good it's going to do, if you sneak out of it whenever you want to."

"I don't sneak out of it—this is the very first time, and you know it!"

"I don't know any such thing, but I don't think it's very good manners to be telling your guests they're saying something that isn't so! The day before they're going home, too!" Katy forgot the dignity of her fifteen years.

"Well, I think it's quite as good manners as to tell your friends they're sneaks!" Jane's tone was icy.

Gertie came between the belligerents. "Please don't quarrel, girls. It'd be dreadful the very last day, after we have had such a beautiful summer. I never did have such a good time in all my life. I most wish I could live on a ranch always."

"I shouldn't like to live on a ranch, but we have had a jolly time, Chicken Little," Katy recovered herself enough to say graciously.

Chicken Little was not to be outdone. "I suppose I was ugly, Katy. It always makes me cross to sew. I wish nobody had ever invented needles. O dear, I shall be as lonesome as pie when you are gone. It isn't much fun being the only girl on the ranch, I tell you. Sometimes, I don't even see another girl for weeks."

"But your school begins soon, doesn't it?"

"Yes, and I'll have Sherm. I just don't believe I could bear to have Ernest go if Sherm wasn't going to stay."

"I'm awful glad Mr. Lenox put off coming for another day so we can go on the same train with Ernest." Katy had been exulting over this for the past twenty-four hours.

"Ernest will be on the train for three days. I feel as if he would be as far away as if he were going to China."

Their conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Morton's entrance.

"Would you rather have chocolate or cocoanut cake for your lunch, girls? Annie has killed three chickens, and I thought you could take a basket of those big yellow peaches; I only wish I could send some to your mother. And I'll put in cheese and cold-boiled ham and a glass of current jelly. Mr. Lenox may want to get a meal or two at the stations, but you are so hurried at these—and it's always well to have plenty of lunch in traveling. Dr. Morton told Ernest that he'd better get all his breakfasts at the eating houses to have something hot. And by the third day his lunch will be too stale—even if there is any left."

Ernest was creepy with excitement between joy at going and his haunting fear that he might disgrace the family by failing to pass the examinations.

"Buck up, old chap," Frank admonished, "you've got facts enough in your head if you can only get them out at the right time. My advice is to forget all about exams and enjoy your trip. One doesn't go to Washington and Baltimore every day. You ought to have several hours in St. Louis if your train is on time. Be sure to eat three square meals every day and keep yourself as fresh as you can and I'll back you to pass any fair test."

"If you have time in St. Louis I want you to be sure to go and see Shaw's Gardens. They used to be wonderful and they must have been greatly improved since I saw them," said Mrs. Morton.

Each individual member of the Morton family, except Jilly and Huz and Buz, took Ernest aside for a parting chat with advice and remembrances. Jilly and the dogs secured their share by getting in the way as often as possible.

Chicken Little had her turn first. She tendered the needle case doubtfully.

"Mother said you would have to sew on your own buttons at the Academy and that you'd find this mighty handy, but I'd loathe to have anybody give me such a present. And, Ernest, here's the five dollars I got last birthday. You take it and buy something you really want."

Ernest demurred about accepting the money, but Jane insisted.

"Little Sis, you're sure a dear——" Ernest found himself choking up most unaccountably. He gave her a good old-fashioned hug in conclusion to save himself the embarrassment of words.

Dr. Morton took his son into the parlor and closed the door immediately after dinner. They stayed an hour, during which time the Doctor gave Ernest much practical advice about his conduct and sundry warnings not to be extravagant or careless in handling his money. No sooner had they emerged, Ernest looking important and rather dazed, when his mother laid her hand upon his arm, saying: "My son, I also wish to have a little talk with you. We shall be hurried in the morning so perhaps we would better have it now."

Ernest returned to the parlor with his mother. Chicken Little lay in wait outside in the hall. She and Katy had a beautiful plan for a last boat ride that afternoon. She knew Ernest would be going over to say good-bye to the Captain anyway.

Chicken Little waited and yawned and waited and squirmed for a solid hour and a quarter. The steady hum of her mother's voice was interrupted occasionally by brief replies from Ernest. At last, Chicken Little heard a movement and roused herself joyously. But her mother began to speak again—this time with reverent solemnity. Chicken Little forgot herself and listened a moment.

"Umn, I guess she's praying—they must be most through. Golly, I bet Ernest's tired!"

When the door opened a moment later there were tears on Mrs. Morton's lashes and Ernest looked sober. He held a handsome Oxford bible in his hand. Mrs. Morton glanced at Jane suspiciously, but passed on into the sitting room.

Chicken Little surveyed her brother wickedly.

"Did Mother give you a new bible?"

"Yep."

"I thought you had one."

"Got two—Mother forgot, I s'pose."

"Bet you'd rather have had a new satchel—that bible must have cost a lot."

"Yes, I would, but don't you dare let on to Mother. I wouldn't hurt her feelings for a farm! She's awful good, but she doesn't understand how a fellow feels about things. I'd rather be licked any day than prayed over. I guess if I attended all the 'means of grace' she wants me to, I wouldn't have any time left for lessons. I'm going to try all-fired hard not to do anything to hurt Mother or make her ashamed of me, but I'm not calculating to wear out the pews at prayer meetings—not so you'd notice it." Ernest grinned at Chicken Little defiantly.

Jane replied soberly:

"A prayer meeting's a real treat to Mother. She hasn't had a chance to go to one for so long she is just pining for the privilege, but I bet she didn't feel that way when she was young! But she thinks she did, so there's no use fussing."

Marian's admonition to Ernest was brief and to the point. She stood him up against the wall and looked him so squarely in the eyes that she could see her own reflection in the pupils. Ernest's six feet of vigorous youth was good to look at. His hazel eyes gazed back at her steadfastly. Marian smiled up at him.

"Ernest Morton, I'm downright proud to be your sister, and if you can look me in the eye as fearlessly and unashamed when you come home, I shall be still prouder. I want to tell you something I overheard in a store the other day about Father. Some men were evidently discussing him in connection with a business deal, and one remarked emphatically: 'Old man Morton may have his weaknesses like the rest of us humans, but his word's as good as his bond any day, and there's precious few men you can say that of.' It's worth while to have that sort of a father, Ernest, but it makes the Morton name somewhat of a responsibility to live up to, doesn't it?"

Marian gave him a pat and pulled his head down to kiss him.

Katy and Gertie had been busy all day with their own preparations for departure. Marian was helping them with their packing, because Mrs. Morton had her hands full with the lunch and Ernest's clothes and trunk. Chicken Little vibrated between the two centers of interest. Jilly also assisted, contributing articles of her own when she caught the spirit of packing. Her mother rescued a cake of soap and one of her shoes, but after Katy and Gertie arrived at home, they discovered one of Jilly's nighties reposing on top of their Sunday hats and her rag doll neatly wedged in a corner of their trunk. Ernest was not overlooked either. When he unpacked at Annapolis, his recently acquired New York roommate was decidedly amazed to see him draw forth a small, pink stocking from the upper tray and a little later, a soiled woolly sheep along with his shirts. Ernest found his explanations about a baby niece received rather incredulously until a choice packet containing half a doughnut, a much-mutilated peach, two green apples, and a mud pie appeared. Jilly had evidently prepared a lunch for her uncle. They both went off into rumbles of mirth over this remarkable exhibit and began a friendship which was destined to be enduring.

Jane's boat ride scheme found favor, but Mrs. Morton declared they must put it off till after supper. They drove over and found the Captain smoking contentedly on the veranda.

"I was hoping you young people would come to-night," he said, "though I intended going to the train to see you off in any event. I shall miss these young ladies sadly, and Ernest seems to belong to me a little, now that he has decided to be a sailor, too."

"If I get in, I shall owe it to you, for I should never have thought of Annapolis if you hadn't suggested it," Ernest replied.

"Well, I trust I have not influenced you to a decision you will some day regret. You seem to me to have many of the qualifications for a naval officer."

"Do you think he is sufficiently qualified to row the Chicken Little, Captain Clarke?" asked Jane suggestively.

The Captain's eyes twinkled. "If he isn't, I think Sherm is. We might let the one who gets there first prove his skill."

The boys were not slow in acting upon this hint. They sprinted their best without waiting for a starter, and reached the skiff so exactly together that the question of precedence was still unsettled. The boys did not wait for an umpire. Ernest untied the boat and both attempted to fling themselves in with disastrous results. The Chicken Little had not been built for wrestling purposes. She tipped sufficiently to spill both boys into the creek. The water was shallow, but Sherm was wet well up to the waist, and Ernest, who had been pitched still farther out, was soaked from head to foot. They appeared ludicrously surprised and sheepish.

The girls and the Captain laughed most unfeelingly. But Chicken Little immediately began to consider the consequences.

"Poor Mother, she'll have to dry that suit out and press it before it can be packed. It's a blessed thing you didn't wear your new suit as you wanted to, Ernest Morton."

"My, but you are wet!" exclaimed Katy. "Oughtn't you to go right home and change?"

"Come with me into the house, boys. I think Wing and I can fix you up." The Captain cut a laugh in the middle to offer aid.

The lads were so ludicrously crestfallen; they were doubly comical.

Wing, fortunately, had a good fire in the kitchen and soon had their wet garments steaming before it, while the Captain hunted out dry clothes for them. Some spirit of mischief prompted him to array Ernest in an old uniform of his own, with amazing results, for Ernest was considerably slimmer than the older man, and fully two inches taller. The ample blue coat with its gold braid hung on him as on a clothes rack. The sleeves were so short they left a generous expanse of wrist in view, and the trousers struck him well above the ankle.

The Captain saluted him ceremoniously, chuckling at the boy's absurd appearance. The girls were openly hilarious.

Chicken Little struck an attitude. "Behold the future admiral! Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to introduce Admiral Morton, of whose distinguished exploits you have often heard. His recent feat of capsizing the enemy's frigate single-handed, has never been equalled in the annals of our glorious navy."

She was not permitted to finish this speech undisturbed. Ernest had chased her half way round the house before she got the last words out.

He clapped his hand firmly over her mouth to restrain her from further eloquence.

Jane struggled helplessly. "Katy—say, Katy, come—help——"

Katy, nothing loath, flung herself on Ernest from the rear and the three had a joyous tussle, with honors on the side of the future admiral, till Sherm, who had been a little slower in dressing than Ernest, came out the front door.

Jane called to him despite the restraining hand and her shortening breath: "Sherm, he's choking me——"

"Choking nothing—it's Katy who is choking me—just wait till I get hold of you, Miss Halford!"

Katy had both hands gripped fairly on his coat collar and was tugging Ernest backward with all her might, while Chicken Little struggled to get away.

"Come help,—Sherm, please!" Chicken Little loosened herself from the gagging hand enough to plead again.

"Keep out, Sherm. Three against one is no fair."

Sherm watched the fray a moment, undecided.

"You may have bigger odds than that, Ernest," laughed the Captain. "You might as well be getting your hand in."

Sherm sauntered leisurely over and helped Chicken Little wrench loose, then, whispering something hastily, took her by the hand and they both made for the creek.

Ernest, relieved of his sister, swung quickly round, catching Katy by the shoulders before she could save herself.

"I've a mind to——" At this moment he detected Sherm's game. "No, you don't, smarties!"

Katy likewise saw and acted even more quickly than Ernest. She was very light and swift, and she darted past Sherm and Chicken Little like a flash, reaching the boat twenty seconds ahead.

"Come on, Ernest!" She slipped the rope deftly from the post, not waiting to untie it, and, pushing off, leaped lightly into the row boat.

Ernest needed no second invitation. Katy motioned to him to run farther along the bank and paddled the skiff in close enough for him to climb on board. Sherm and Chicken Little, dazed by the suddenness of this maneuver, were still some feet away.

"Katy Halford, you're a pretty one to go back on your own side that way," Jane scolded.

"Katy, I didn't think it of you—after asking me to come and help you, too!" Sherm was also reproachful.

"I didn't ask you, Sherman Dart. It was Chicken Little."

"Of course," Ernest encouraged. "Katy's been on my side all the time. Haven't you, Katy?"

Katy nodded, laughing.

The Captain, who had followed the young people at a more sober gait, smiled at this outcome of the skirmish.

"When a woman will she will, you may depend upon it," he quoted. "The trouble is to find out what she wills."

Ernest, secure in the rower's seat, could afford to be generous. He brought the boat in and took them all on board. Gertie had been a quiet spectator of the frolic. She had little taste for boisterous fun.

Captain Clarke handed her in with a flourish. "Gertie is my partner."

Sherm had his revenge. Ernest rowed energetically—so energetically that he was tired enough to be willing to resign the oars before a half hour had gone by. Under the circumstances he did not quite like to ask Sherm to relieve him. Sherm seemed to be oblivious to the fact that it required energy to propel the boat. He was strumming an imaginary banjo as an accompaniment to the familiar melodies the girls were softly singing, occasionally joining in himself. Katy did not fail to observe that Ernest dropped one of his oars to regard a blister ruefully, and she did her best to help.

"Say, Ernest, let me try one oar. I believe I could row with you if you would take shorter strokes."

Ernest hadn't much faith in Katy's skill, but the experiment gave him an excuse to rest a minute. He moved over and handed her the oar with a little smile of gratitude.

"You're a trump, Katy," he whispered.

Darkness dropped softly in the timber. They heard a distant splash where a muskrat had taken to the water. Every one wished solemnly by the evening star. And two of the wishes came true in record time. The Captain wished that he might find the son so long lost to him. Katy wished—she didn't quite put the wish into words—but she did want Ernest to have what he wanted. One by one the other stars twinkled forth and the darkness deepened till their faces were dim, white blurs, and the girls' pink-and-blue dresses faded into patches of dusk in the blackness. Fireflies winked in the gloom. At the Captain's suggestion, Katy and Ernest rested on their oars. They stopped singing and listened to the night's silences—silences broken by rustling movements from a thicket on the farther bank or by eery creakings of the branches overhead. The little group felt vaguely the bigness of things, though no one but the Captain knew exactly why.

It was ten o'clock before they went back to the house. Wing had performed a miracle in the meantime; the boy's suits were not only dried, but neatly pressed.

Mrs. Morton let them all sleep late the next morning in view of the long journey ahead for Ernest and the girls.

Poor Sherm found this last day trying. His father's health was not improving and a fear lay close in his heart that he should never see him again. It was almost more than he could bear to hear the girls talk about going home. He eased the ache by keeping at work. Dr. Morton had already initiated him into Ernest's duties. The others were too busy to think much about Sherm but Chicken Little, who sat beside him at the table, noticed that he scarcely tasted his dinner. She started to remark about it, but a glance at Sherm's drawn face warned her in time.

Presently, she had a gracious thought. "Sherm, let's ride Caliph and Calico in to the train, then the others won't be so crowded and Marian and Jilly can go, too."

Sherm somehow felt better immediately. The brisk gallop they took at starting helped still more. Sunflowers and golden rod lined the roadside for miles; brown cat tails nodded above the swales. A bobolink, swaying on a weed stalk near by, answered Sherm's chirrup to the ponies with a volley of golden notes.

"Chicken Little," he remarked, apropos of nothing, after they had ridden a few miles, "you are a mighty comfortable person to have 'round."

"Maybe you won't think so in a day or two. I shall be so lonesome I may be tempted to follow you about like Huz and Buz."

"You can't scare me that way, Chicken Little, I think the ranch is going to be a pretty loose fit for all of us for a few days. But your school begins about the middle of September, doesn't it? That will help."

"Yes, I wish you were going to school, too. Say, Sherm, why couldn't you arrange to take one or two special studies under the new teacher? They say he only lacks one year of graduating from college and knows a lot. He's teaching to save the money for his last year. Perhaps you might take some of your freshman work."

"I wish I could—I hate to get behind the rest of the boys. But your father is hiring me to work, not to study."

"I know, but when winter comes you won't need to work all the time, and you'll have all your evenings—Jim Bart does."

"If I could only keep up my mathematics and Latin, I wouldn't be losing so much." Sherm was considering.

The nine-mile ride to town seemed shorter than usual to most of the party that afternoon. Ernest, in spite of his joy in actually going away to school, found home and home folk unexpectedly dear now that he was leaving them for many months. Poor Mrs. Morton could hardly tear her eyes from the son who was taking his first step away from her. Chicken Little was feeling disturbingly sober; no Ernest, no Katy, no Gertie—how could she ever stand it?

"Sherm, if I start to cry, just wink, will you—that funny way you do sometimes. Ernest bet I would—and I won't, but I know I'm going to want to dreadfully."

Chicken Little was as good as her word. She didn't—that is, as long as Ernest could see her. She kissed him good-bye and gave him a playful box on the ear. She threw kisses, smiling as the group at the car window slid by, then the lump in her throat grew startlingly bigger.

"Race you to the horses, Chicken Little," said Sherm. "If it's all right with you, Mrs. Morton, we'll go straight home."

Chicken Little raced with Sherm and with her tears. She beat Sherm but the tears won out. She could hardly see to untie Calico's rein. Sherm took the strap out of her hand, fastened it, and swung her up.

"Shut your eyes and open your mouth," he commanded, as soon as she was securely seated.

Jane obeyed meekly and Sherm popped a big chocolate drop in.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, smiling through the trickling tears, "was that what you stopped down town for? My, what a baby you must think me!"

Sherm reached over and patted her hand. "I think you are several pumpkins and some squash, Chicken Little. Have another?"



CHAPTER XV

SCHOOL

The days crawled by during the next two weeks.

"I hate them so by night, I want to shove them off into to-morrow by main force," Jane told Marian complainingly, the third day after Ernest and the girls had gone.

"You'll be all right in a day or two. It's always hardest at first," Marian consoled her.

"I suppose it doesn't make any difference whether I'm all right or all wrong—the folks have gone just the same."

"And you might as well make the best——"

"Oh, yes, I might as well! 'Count your blessings, my brethren, etc.' I've done counted 'em till I'm sick of hearing about them! Marian, if you don't find me something new to do I shall bust!"

Marian was particularly busy that morning and not so patient as usual.

She waved her hand around the room ironically. "I shall be charmed, Chicken Little, will you finish these dishes or sweep the sitting room or sew on that dress of Jilly's? I can furnish you an endless variety to choose from."

"I said something new."

"Jilly's dress is brand spanking new."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know, Jane, I have had the feeling myself, but I don't imagine the heavens are going to open and shower down something new and choice on you because you're lonesome and bored. If you can't amuse yourself, you might as well be useful and have something to show for a tedious day."

Chicken Little drummed on the window for several minutes without replying, then swung round with a grimace.

"Hand over the dress—I can run up the seams on the machine all right, I suppose."

The family waited, excited and expectant, for the report on Ernest's examinations. They had had a long letter telling of his journey and safe arrival. Katy and Gertie and Mrs. Halford had each written long letters full of Centerville news and references to their pleasant summer. Mrs. Halford could not say enough concerning the girls' improved appearance. Katy wrote the most interesting item. "What do you think? Carol Brown left for Annapolis, too. Do you suppose Ernest will know him? P. S. We showed him your picture and he stared at it awful hard and said—you've got to get me a trade last for this—'Say, Chicken Little's going to be a hummer if she keeps on!' Don't you think I'm nice to tell you?"

Jane gave the letter to Sherm to read, forgetting this part. Sherm snorted when he came to it, glancing up curiously at her.

"Do you like that sort of stuff, Chicken Little?" he asked later.

* * * * *

It was almost two weeks after Ernest went, before Dr. Morton, on his return from town one September evening, came up the walk excitedly waving a telegram.

"Oh!" exclaimed Chicken Little.

"He must have passed or Father wouldn't look so pleased," said Mrs. Morton.

The doctor came in slightly breathless.

"Well, Mother, I'm afraid you have lost your boy."

Mrs. Morton looked startled for a moment, then, reassured by her husband's smile, fumbled nervously for her glasses to read the yellow paper he handed her.

She was maddeningly deliberate. Jane, perched upon the arm of her chair, tried to anticipate her, but her mother held it so she could not see.

"It's Mother's place to see it first, daughter."

Reproving Chicken Little steadied Mrs. Morton's nerves, and she read the few words aloud with dignity.

"Sworn in to-day—hurrah!" Ernest.

"That means that he——?" She looked inquiringly at her husband.

"That means he has passed both physical and mental examinations and has been regularly sworn in to Uncle Sam's service."

"But I thought he was just going to the Naval Academy—why does he have to be sworn in as if he were enlisting?"

"Because he, practically, has enlisted. He enters the government service when he enters the academy, and he simply takes his oath of allegiance."

Mrs. Morton's questioning was interrupted by the entrance of Sherm, Frank, and Marian, who came in demanding news.

"Don't worry, Mother," said Frank, patting her shoulder, "your precious lamb is in good hands. He'll be back next September such a dude the family won't know how to behave in his presence." Frank couldn't resist teasing even when he tried to comfort.

Mrs. Morton sighed. "A great many things can happen in a year."

"Yes, Mother dear, they can, but most always they don't. The only things you can depend on are bad weather and work."

A letter soon followed the telegram, giving details of the examinations, and a glimpse of Ernest's new life, which comforted his mother, because he was forming punctual habits and had to go regularly to chapel whether he wished to or not. He had met Carol unexpectedly, to their mutual joy. "He's an awfully handsome chap—knows it, too, but I think he has too much sense to let it spoil him. It's jolly to have some one I know here," Ernest wrote.

School began for Chicken Little at the little brown schoolhouse a mile distant, on the fifteenth of September. Chicken Little and the whole Morton family rejoiced, for she had been a most dissatisfied young person of late. Her mother watched her walk away down the lane, immaculate in her new flower-bordered calico, lunch basket in hand, with positive thankfulness.

"Glad to have her out of the way, aren't you, Mother? Jane is too restless a girl to be idle," laughed Marian.

Jane had spoken to her father about her plan for Sherm and he had heartily agreed. But Sherm was not to begin until the first of November when the most pressing of the farm work would be over.

Chicken Little promptly talked the matter over also with the new teacher, Mr. Clay, a young man of twenty-one, fresh from his junior year at college. He was wide awake and attractive, and while ignorant, as they, of many of the niceties of polite society, seemed a very elegant being to the majority of his new pupils. Mamie Jenkins had concluded to stay at home for the fall term instead of going to the Garland High School. For some reason it took an astonishing number of consultations with the teacher to arrange Mamie's course satisfactorily, especially when she learned that Sherm would be coming soon. She quizzed Chicken Little carefully as to what studies Sherm would take.

"Geometry and Latin, I think. I asked Mr. Clay and he said he could. Maybe bookkeeping, too."

"I was just thinking I ought to go on with my Latin. I had Beginning Latin last year, and I really ought to take Caesar right away before I forget."

Jane regarded her thoughtfully. She happened to know that Sherm was planning to study Cicero. How mad Mamie would be if she started Caesar all alone! She had half a mind to let her go ahead. Mamie had spent the entire morning recess telling her how the boys bored her hanging round. Yes, it would do Mamie good to have to recite alone. Chicken Little shut her lips firmly for a second. When she opened them, she replied that she understood Caesar was a very interesting study.

Mamie bridled and said condescendingly: "It's a pity you haven't had Latin so you could come into the class, too."

"Oh, I see enough of Sherm at home!" returned Chicken Little maliciously. Mamie had the faculty of always rubbing her up the wrong way.

Mamie gave her shoulders a fling. "Of course, I always forget you are just a little girl, Jane. You're so big and——" Mamie didn't finish her sentence. She merely glanced expressively at Jane's long legs. "I think I'll go in and talk to Mr. Clay. He must be sick of having all those kids hanging round him."

Mamie sailed off in state, leaving Jane feeling as if she had run her hand into a patch of nettles. She was standing there in the sunshine looking after Mamie resentfully when Grant Stowe came along.

He nodded toward the schoolhouse door through which Mamie had vanished. "What's Miss Flirtie been saying to make you so ruffled? She's begun to sit up nights now fixing her cap for the teacher. Bet you a cookie he's too slick for her."

Chicken Little laughed, but retorted: "Humph, how many times have you sat on her front porch this summer?"

Grant reddened. "Oh, we're neighbors, and a fellow has to kill time summer evenings. Father and mother always go to bed with the chickens and it's no fun listening to the frogs all by yourself. Suppose your folks wouldn't let anybody come to see you—I hear they're all-fired particular."

Jane did not have an opportunity to answer. One of the little girls came begging her to play Blackman with a group of the younger children. Grant suggested that she choose up for one side, and he would for the other. She had just begun to choose when Mr. Clay appeared at her elbow. "May I play on your side, Jane?"

"Teacher's" entrance into the game acted like magic. The few big boys who had come on this first day, edged near enough to be seen and were speedily brought into the sport. Mamie, venturing languidly to the door to see what had become of Mr. Clay, suddenly decided she was not too big to play "just this once."

Teacher and Jane were both swift runners and Grant had hard work to make a showing. Mamie sweetly let herself be caught by teacher the first rush, to Grant's openly expressed disgust. The big boys warmed into envious rivalry with Mr. Clay right from the start, but he soon convinced them that they would have to work, if they worsted him at any of their games or exercises.

Chicken Little found team work with him very delightful and could scarcely believe the noon hour was over, when he pulled out his watch and announced that he must call school. She turned a radiant face up to him.

"Oh, it's such fun to have you play—I wish you would often."

"Thank you, it's fine exercise, isn't it?"

Mamie began her Caesar the next day, requiring much help from "Teacher." She also came to school in her best dress. Mamie had faith in first impressions. Chicken Little had been tempted the night before to betray Mamie's schemes to Sherm, but she stopped with the words on the tip of her tongue. She couldn't exactly have explained the scruple that would not let her "give Mamie away," as she phrased it.

"Is the teacher any good?" Sherm had asked, meeting her at the ford on her way home, and taking lunch basket and books with an air of possession, which was the one trick of Sherm's that annoyed Chicken Little. He never asked leave or offered to relieve her of burdens; he merely reached over and took them.

She minded this more than usual to-day; Mr. Clay's manner had been so delightful. She couldn't even thank Sherm. They trudged along in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Sherm asked dryly: "Left your tongue at school, Miss Morton?—you're not very sociable."

Chicken Little responded by making a face at him, which brought an ominous sparkle into the boy's eyes. Things hadn't gone very well with him that day and he had waited for Jane for a little companioning.

"Well," he demanded gruffly, "what's the matter? Did Mr. Clay stand you in a corner the first day or did the handsome Grant neglect you for Mamie?"

The last thrust put fire in Chicken Little's eye. She turned and looked at him squarely.

"Sherm, if I slapped you some day would you be surprised?" she demanded unexpectedly.

Sherm flashed a sidelong glance at her. "Not as surprised as you'll be, if you ever try it."

Chicken Little considered this remark. Just what did he mean?

Sherm's face was flushed a trifle angrily. He looked as if he might mean most anything. She replied demurely with a provoking shrug of her shoulders.

"I didn't say I should—but I wanted to dreadfully a minute ago."

The tall lad beside her seemed genuinely surprised at this statement.

"I suppose you know what you are talking about, Chicken Little, but I'm blamed if I do."

"It's the way you take my books and——"

"Yes?" Sherm was still more surprised. Then an idea popping into his mind, "Oh, I presume you'd like to have me take off my hat and make you a profound reverence as your favorite heroes do in novels. What in thunder you girls find to like in those trashy novels is more than I can see!"

Chicken Little bristled. "Hm-n, Walter Scott and Washington Irving, trashy! Shows how much you know, if you have graduated from High School, Sherman Dart! Besides, I didn't mean any such thing. Only, you sort of take my things without asking—as if—as if——" She was getting into rather deeper water than she had anticipated.

"Yes, as if what?"

"Oh, I don't suppose you mean it that way—but you act as if I was only a silly little girl—and didn't count!"

Chicken Little was decidedly red in the face by the time she finished.

Sherm didn't say anything for a moment, but he continued to look at her. He looked at her as if he had found something about her he hadn't noticed before.

"Who put that idea into your head?—Mamie?"

She shook her head indignantly.

"Grant Stowe?"

"Nobody, thank you, I guess I have a mind of my own."

"New teacher start in by giving you a lecture on deportment?"

Chicken Little stamped her foot. "You're perfectful hateful—and I sha'n't walk another step with you!"

They were near the gate leading from the lane into the orchard and she suited the action to the word, by darting through it and running off under the trees.

Sherm looked after her a moment, undecided whether to stand on his dignity or to pursue. He had considered Jane a little girl—most of the time. Some way she was alluringly different to-day. He suddenly resolved that he would not be flouted in any such fashion. It took him about two minutes to catch up with Chicken Little and slip his arm through hers.

"No, you don't, Miss. You are going to sit down here under this tree and tell me exactly what's the matter!"

Chicken Little struggled rebelliously, but Sherm held her firmly.

"I can't—Mother told me to come straight home from school; she wanted me."

"Fibber! Your mother and Marian went over to Benton's this afternoon. You needn't try to dodge—you and I are going to have this out right now. So you might as well be obliging and sit down comfortably."

"It wasn't anything to make such a fuss about."

"Then why are you making such a row?"

Chicken Little flung herself down upon the grass.

Sherm stretched his muscular length on the sward in front of her and began to chew a grass stem in a leisurely fashion while he watched her.

Chicken Little pulled a handful of long grasses and commenced plaiting them. Her hair was windblown and her face rose-flushed from her run. She declined to look at Sherm.

"Chicken Little—O Chicken Little, are you very mad? Chicken Little?"

Chicken Little kept her brown eyes fixed upon the pliant stems.

"Chicken Little," Sherm murmured softly, "you have the prettiest eyes of any girl I know."

Chicken Little caught the touch of malice in his tone and shot an indignant glance at him from the aforesaid eyes.

Sherm laughed delightedly. "Chicken Little, you don't need to tell me what's the matter with you—I know."

Chicken Little shot another indignant glance. "There isn't anything the matter except what I told you—of course, it wasn't anything really—only——"

"Yes, there is, Chicken Little, that was only a symptom."

"Stop your fooling."

"Don't you want me to tell you?"

"No!"

"Bet you do—honest, don't you?"

"I haven't the least curiosity—so you can just stop teasing." Jane was positively dignified.

"Well, I'm going to tell you, whether you want to hear it or not. You're growing up, Chicken Little, that's what's the matter with our little feelings. But don't forget you promised to give me part of Ernest's place this winter. It was a bargain, wasn't it?" Sherm reached over and took possession of her busy fingers. "Wasn't it? Chicken Little Jane, wasn't it?"

Jane looked at this new and astonishing Sherm and nodded shyly.

Sherm gathered up her books with a laugh. "Come on, your mother wants you."

"She does not—and I'm going to sit here till I make a grass basket for Jilly."

* * * * *

September and October slipped away quietly, their warm, hazy days gay with turning leaves and spicily fragrant with the drying vegetation and ripening fruits. Chicken Little found school under Mr. Clay unwontedly interesting. He departed from the regulation mixture of three parts study and one part recitation and tried to lead his pupils' thoughts out into the world a little. Indeed, some of his innovations were regarded with suspicion by certain fathers and mothers in the district. When he advised his advanced history class to read historical novels and Shakespeare in connection with their work, there was much shaking of heads. But when he took advantage of the coming election to waken an interest in politics, the district board waited on him. If the visit of the school board silenced Mr. Clay, it did not discourage his charges, and partisanship ran high. The favorite method of boosting one's candidates being to write their names on the blackboard at recesses and noons, and then stand guard to prevent the opposing faction from erasing them.

The fun grew furious. The Mortons were staunch Republicans, and Chicken Little strove valiantly to write "Garfield and Arthur" earlier and oftener than the Democrats, led by Grant Stowe and Mamie Price, could replace them with "Hancock and English."

Grant was the biggest and strongest and bossiest lad in school. His favorite method of settling the enemy was to pick them up bodily and set them outside the schoolhouse door while he rubbed out their ticket. Or better still, to hold the door while Mamie or some other democrat turned the entire front board into a waving sea of "Hancocks and Englishes."

The Republicans were in the lead as to numbers, but they were mostly the younger children. But few of the older boys could be spared from the farm work to enter school so early in the fall. So Chicken Little captained her side, aided by quiet suggestions from Mr. Clay who did not wish to take sides openly.

Many were the ruses employed to capture the blackboards. Jane stayed one evening after school to have things ready for the morrow, but, alas, Grant Stowe was in the habit of waiting to walk a piece home with her. He waited down the road till he grew suspicious, and, coming back, caught her in the act.

He took swift revenge, none too generously, by forcing her to erase every line, then rubbed it in by guiding her hand to make her write the names of the opposition candidates. Despite all Chicken Little's struggles, he persisted until the hated names were finished in writing that decidedly resembled crow tracks, but could be read by anyone having sufficient patience.

Chicken Little was furious but helpless. Mr. Clay had gone home early in order to drive into town that evening. Grant treated her anger as a good joke. She finally wrenched her hand loose and gave him a resounding smack across the cheek, that made her tormentor's face tingle.

It was Grant's turn to be vexed now. He caught her arm and twisted it till she winced. "Say you're sorry!"

"I won't!"

Grant turned the supple wrist a twist farther. "Now, will you?"

"No sir, not if you twist till you break it—I won't! I'm not going to be bullied!"

Grant began to be afraid she meant what she said. But his pride would not let him give in to a girl. "All right, little stubborn, I'll kiss you till you do."

As Grant loosened his hold on her wrist, Jane jerked away and fled toward the door in a panic. She was more than half afraid of Grant in this humor—and then her promise to Ernest.

"Oh, dear, I knew better than to do that, but he made me so mad!" she mourned.

Grant was close upon her. She fairly hurled herself out the door and most unexpectedly bumped into Sherm, who caught her in time to save her catapulting down the steps.

"Save the pieces, Chicken Little, what's your hurry?"

"O Sherm,—oh, I'm so glad you came—I——"

Before she could finish Grant reached the door, stopping short on seeing Sherm.

Jane clutched Sherm's arm tight. "Don't let him, please don't let him!"

Her words were not entirely clear, but Sherm promptly shoved her behind him and confronted Grant angrily.

"Big business you're in, frightening girls—you bully!"

Sherm had taken a dislike to Grant that evening at Mamie's and exulted in this opportunity to pick a quarrel. Grant was equally ready. He scorned explanations and replied by pulling off his coat. Sherm swiftly peeled his also. Chicken Little was alarmed by these warlike preparations.

"Don't, boys, don't! I guess it was part my fault, Sherm. Grant didn't mean any harm. We were scrapping over the election and——"

"I don't care whether it was your fault or not, Jane. If Grant doesn't know enough to be a gentleman, it's time he learned."

Sherm sprang forward and the boys clinched. They were pretty evenly matched. Grant outweighed Sherm, but the latter was quicker and had had some training in wrestling. This was the popular method of settling quarrels, boxing not having come into vogue. Inside of three minutes both were down, rolling over the ground an indiscriminate, writhing heap of arms and legs.

Chicken Little was utterly dismayed. She didn't want either of the boys hurt, but they heeded her remonstrances no more than if she had been a mosquito. She even tried pulling at the one who came uppermost, but they both pantingly warned her off. Chicken Little set her jaw firmly. She flew into the schoolhouse to the water bench, and seizing the water bucket, flew out. Pausing long enough to take good aim, she dashed its contents over the boys' heads with all her might.

Grant being underneath at the moment, with lips parted from his exertions, received the full force of the water in his mouth and nose, and nearly strangled from the dose. Sherm had to let him up and apply first aid to help him recover his breath—the lad was purple. When he began to breathe readily once more, both boys got to their feet, glaring reproachfully at Chicken Little. Each was restrained by the presence of the other from expressing forcibly his opinion of the young lady. The heroine was in wrong with both the villain and the hero. However, the heroine did not care.

"You boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves, both of you—fighting like a pair of kids. I wish you could see yourselves! You look exactly like drowned rats!"

The lads could not not see themselves, but they could see each other, and the exhibit was convincing. Sherm's mouth puckered into its crooked smile.

"Well, if that's the way you feel about it, Chicken Little, it's all right with me. So long, Grant."

Sherm picked up his coat and cap and set off, leaving Jane to follow or linger as she saw fit. She turned to Grant.

"I didn't mean to get you into trouble, Grant."

"Don't mention it, and, truly—I didn't intend to frighten you, Chicken Little. I guess you aren't like most of the girls on the Creek—I didn't suppose you'd take it that way. Good-bye, Sherm," he called. Grant also picked up his belongings and departed.

Chicken Little rescued the water pail and carried it into the schoolhouse. She secured her hat and lunch basket, and was starting for the door when a wonderful idea buzzed in her brain. Slipping to the window she glanced out. Grant was striding rapidly off up the road. She ran to the board and hastily erased that hateful "Hancock and English" and as hastily wrote the names of the other presidential candidates in letters a foot high across the front board, underlining them heavily and putting hands pointing toward them on each of the side boards. This done, she locked the schoolhouse door, as she had promised Mr. Clay, and, taking the key over to a neighbor's a few rods away, joyously departed homeward.

Sherm was not in sight when she started. A little farther down the hill she saw him waiting beside a haystack. He had evidently been watching to make sure she did not get into further trouble. He walked briskly on as soon as he caught sight of her.

Young Mr. Dart looked a trifle sulky at supper that evening. Chicken Little tried to attract his attention in various ways without success. Sherm was resolved to ignore her. Finally, she addressed him directly.

"Won't you please pass the water, Sherm?" she asked with exaggerated meekness.

Sherm grinned in spite of himself. The other members of the family looked at Jane inquiringly. Jane, having received the water, ate her supper in profound silence.

He came on her unexpectedly down by the spring a little later. It was growing dark and he did not see her until he was almost beside her. He hesitated a moment, then joined her. She glanced up demurely.

He regarded her an instant in complete silence. Chicken Little tossed her head.

Sherm came a step closer and Jane prepared to fly if necessary, but Sherm contented himself with staring at her till he made her drop her eyes.

"You mischievous witch, I'd like to shake you hard!"



CHAPTER XVI

THE PRAIRIE FIRE

The prairies were brown—a dead, crisp brown, as if they had been baked by hot suns through long, rainless days and nipped by a whole winter of killing frosts.

"I don't understand why the grass is so dry by the middle of November," said Dr. Morton. "Of course the summer was pretty dry, but then we had rains in September."

"Yes, Father," Frank replied, "but there has been less rainfall for the past two years than Kansas has known for a decade. I imagine the ground is baked underneath on the prairies, and the rains only helped for a time."

"Well, whatever caused it, we shall have to feed earlier than usual. I am afraid we may have some bad fires, too, if we don't have rain or a snowfall soon."

"There was a fire over on Elm Creek night before last," spoke up Sherm. "Grant Stowe's cousin was telling us about it at school."

"I saw smoke off to the north yesterday," said Chicken Little.

"Oh, I hope we sha'n't have any bad fires this fall!" exclaimed Mrs. Morton. "I do think a big prairie fire is one of the most terrifying sights, especially at night. I couldn't sleep that first fall for dreading them. I used to get up in the middle of the night and look out the windows to see if that awful glare was anywhere on the horizon."

"Don't go borrowing trouble, Mother. There hasn't been a bad fire on Big John for years. The country is so thickly settled a fire doesn't have the sweep it used to." Dr. Morton tried to reassure her.

"They must be wonderful things to see. I hope there won't be any bad ones, but if one shows up anywhere within ten miles, I propose to be on hand," Sherm said eagerly.

"You won't be so keen after you have fought one or two, Sherm." Frank smiled with the wisdom of the initiated. "Say, Father, I think Jim and I had better fire round those stacks on the north eighty. It would be hard to save them if a fire got started on the divide."

"Yes, I don't know but you'd best do it this afternoon. Burn a pretty wide strip. And we ought to run a guard on the west from that field of winter wheat to the county road. If a fire ever got in there, it might come down on the house."

Chicken Little spoke up. "May I go, too, Frank? I love to watch you."

"You will be in school, but you can come home that way if we are still at work. You can easily see the smoke. We won't try it if the wind rises, and I believe it is going to."

"Chicken Little, if you see the smoke you may tell Mr. Clay I won't come for my recitation this afternoon. I am going to find out how this back-firing business is done."

Sherm had begun his studies some two weeks previous and was making rapid progress, studying evenings, and going to the school a half hour before closing time to recite.

Chicken Little found this arrangement extremely pleasant, because Sherm was always there to walk home with her. They took all sorts of detours and by-paths through the woods, instead of coming along the road to the ford. They discovered unexpected stores of walnuts and acorns and wild rose hips, and scarlet bitter-sweet just opening its gorgeous berries after the first hard frosts.

Jane helped Sherm press autumn leaves and pack a huge box of nuts to send home. His mother wrote back that his father hadn't showed as much interest in anything for weeks, as he did in the nuts. They seemed to carry him back to his own boyhood.

Mr. Dart seldom left his bed now, and Sherm's mother told but little of his condition. Sherm understood her silence only too well. Chicken Little noticed that he always worked hard and late the days he heard from home. She began to watch for the letters herself, and to mount guard over the boy when he looked specially downcast, teasing him into going for a gallop or wheedling him into making taffy or playing a game of checkers. She got so she recognized Sherm's blue devils as far off as she could see him.

Sherm did not notice this for some time or suspect she was looking after him, but one day he remarked carelessly when she thought she had been specially clever:

"Chicken Little, don't make a mollycoddle of me. A man has to learn to take what comes his way without squealing."

"Yes, Sherm, but if you get thorns in your hand, it's better to try to pull them out than to go on pushing them in deeper, isn't it? I know when I was a kid, it always helped a lot to have Mother kiss it better."

"How'd you get so wise, Chicken Little?" The lad smiled his wry smile.

"Don't make fun of me, please, Sherm."

"Make fun of you? Lady Jane, I've been taking off my hat to you for a week. How in the dickens you girls find out exactly what's going on inside a chap beats my time. It's mighty good of you to put up with my glooming and try to cheer me along. Maybe I don't look grateful, but I am." Sherm was eager to make this acknowledgment, but found it more trying than he had anticipated. He revenged himself by starting in to tease.

"Say, I wish you'd try your hand at this splinter—I can't budge the critter."

Jane flew for a needle, unsuspecting. The splinter didn't look serious, but she painstakingly dug it out.

"Is that all right?" she demanded, looking up to encounter a wicked glint in Sherm's gray eyes.

"Hm-n, aren't you going to put any medicine on it?"

"Medicine?"

"Well, you know you said it helped." Sherm was grinning impishly.

"Sherman Dart, I think you're too mean for words!" She was about to turn away affronted when she had an inspiration.

"Mother," she called, "O Mother!"

Mrs. Morton had been placidly sewing in the sitting room while the young people were studying their lessons by the dining-room table. She came to the door, inquiring.

"Mother, Sherm's had a splinter in his finger and he wants you to kiss it better."

Sherm started to protest, but Mrs. Morton did not stop to listen.

"Jane, I think that kind of a joke is very ill-timed, making your poor mother get up and come to you for nothing. You must remember I am not as young as I once was."

Mrs. Morton departed with dignity.

"Now will you be good?" chuckled Sherm.

"Oh, I guess I'm square," Chicken Little retorted, going back to her lessons.

Mrs. Morton had said truly that she was not so young as formerly. She had not been well all fall. Dr. Morton had persuaded her to see another physician, who, having assured her that she was merely run down, had prescribed the usual tonic. He had told Dr. Morton, however, that her heart action was weak and warned him to guard her against shocks of any kind and to have her rest as much as possible. This had agreed with the doctor's own diagnosis of her condition, and the family had been trying to save her from all exertion. So Chicken Little was a tiny bit conscience-stricken.

High winds and more pressing farm duties had interfered with running the fire guards. It was not until the week before Thanksgiving that the men got at it, then they succeeded only in protecting the stacks. They had intended to finish the job the following morning, but one of the neighbors, passing through the lane, stopped to tell Dr. Morton of a sale of yearlings to be held the next afternoon in the neighboring county.

"It must be part of the Elliott herd. They're three-quarters bred shorthorn; I'd like mighty well to pick up a bunch of them. We have plenty of feed for any ordinary winter." Dr. Morton was talking the matter over with Frank after supper.

"Suppose we ride over, Father, it's only about twenty miles. We can start early—we don't need to buy unless they are actually a bargain."

They were off at six the following morning, planning to return the same day. Dr. Morton, however, warned his wife not to be anxious if she did not see them before the next afternoon. If they bought the steers, they would not try to drive them home the same day.

The morning was bright and pleasant, but the wind rose toward mid-day and was blowing a young gale by the time Chicken Little returned from school at half-past four. Mrs. Morton began worrying lest the doctor and Frank had not wrapped up sufficiently.

"Why, it isn't cold yet, Mrs. Morton. In fact, it is astonishingly warm for November. And there's the queerest, yellowish haze I have ever seen." Sherm said this to reassure her.

"Probably dust," replied Mrs. Morton carelessly, relieved from her anxiety about her family.

Chicken Little hurried through her supper and went over to see Marian. Presently Marian threw a shawl over her head and they both climbed the hill back of the house. The wind was still blowing fiercely. Sherm saw them on the ridge and followed to see what was tempting them to a stroll on such a night.

"What's up?"

Marian answered. "Why, Jane thinks all this yellow haze comes from a prairie fire. We've been trying to see if we could see any trace of it. It seems to me I do smell smoke—there's a kind of pungent tang to the air, too." Marian sniffed uneasily.

"Like burning grass or leaves?"

Marian's face paled. "Sherm, that's exactly what it is! What can we do? And the menfolks all away except Jim Bart, and he's gone to Benton's on an errand. He'll be back in a few minutes though."

"Don't worry, Marian," said Jane, "if it's a prairie fire it's miles and miles off. It must be on the other side of Little John. It can never cross the creek—besides, the wind is blowing the wrong way for it to sweep down on us."

"That's so—but the wind might change any minute, and in a gale like this I'm not so sure it might not jump Little John. I do wish Frank had finished that back-firing."

"I suppose it wouldn't be possible to do it until the wind lulls, but Mrs. Morton, I'll sit up and watch to-night—at least until the wind goes down. It often falls about midnight," said Sherm, looking troubled.

"It looks to me as if we were in for a three-days' blow," Marian replied despondently. "But I'd be much obliged if you would, Sherm, I don't quite like to ask Jim Bart to, for he's had such a hard day. Do you think you can keep awake? And, Chicken Little, don't let on to Mother—we mustn't worry her."

"Sherm," said Jane, after they went into the house, "I'm going to stay up, too; I'll slip down again after Mother goes to bed. It's a lot easier for two people to keep awake than one."

"No, Chicken Little, I don't believe you'd better. Your mother wouldn't like it. And we'd be dead sure to laugh or talk loud enough for her to hear us. I hope the wind will go down early. If it doesn't and I find I can't stay awake, I'll call you and let you watch while I doze on the couch here."

Jane stayed up as late as her mother would let her, and Sherm made the excuse of having special studying to do, to sit up later. After Mrs. Morton had retired he made frequent excursions to the hill top. A lurid glare lit up the horizon to the northwest. He could still catch the tang of smoke and whiffs of burning grass, but these were not so pungent as earlier in the evening. The fire seemed farther away. By eleven, the glare was decidedly fainter and the wind had subsided noticeably. At twelve, he concluded it was safe to go to bed.

Chicken Little waking about two, stole down stairs and finding everything dark, made the rounds of the windows, but the distant fire showed only a faint glow in the night.

When they arose the next morning there was no trace of the fire to be seen. Sherm hailed some men passing, for news. They reported that it had swept the north side of Elm Creek and said it had burned up a lot of hay. There was a rumor that two of the upland farmers had lost everything they had and that a man and team had been caught in it. But they hadn't been able to get any details.

"Though it wouldn't be surprising," one of the strangers added, "that fire was traveling faster than any horse could run."

Chicken Little had come out and was standing beside Sherm. Her eyes grew big. "Do they really think somebody got burned?"

One of the men nudged the man who had spoken.

"No, Sis, it was just a rumor—I don't 'low it was true. When folks can't give you any name or place—it most generally ain't so."

The men drove on.

It was Saturday. Jim Bart had gone down to town for the weekly supplies and Sherm was busy with odd jobs. He asked Jane to go up to the hill top occasionally to make sure there were no fresh signs of the fire, though Jim Bart had assured him the danger was over. Sherm noticed that the wind had changed. It was blowing freshly from the very direction where they had seen the fire the preceding night.

Chicken Little obediently made trips once an hour until noon; she could detect nothing to occasion alarm. After dinner her mother set her to making doughnuts and she forgot all about it.

Mrs. Morton was not so well to-day and Jane persuaded her to go to bed. Drawing the blinds to, she put a hot iron to her mother's feet and left her to sleep. The clock striking four attracted Jane's attention as she came back into the sitting room, the last doughnut was draining in the collender while Annie mopped the kitchen floor.

She stood irresolute for an instant, undecided whether to read or to fetch some walnuts from the smokehouse for Sunday. Dr. Morton always liked to have a basket of walnuts handy on Sunday afternoons. "I guess I'll get the nuts, and perhaps I'd better run up the hill to be sure that old fire hasn't had a change of heart. Father says often some little side fire smolders and burns after the main fire is all out. Though I guess one would have showed up long before this if there'd been any this time."

She argued with herself for two or three minutes, finally deciding that it wasn't much trouble to go take a look, even if it were foolish. Just outside the door she met Sherm and he walked up to the crest with her.

Half way up the slope Chicken Little suddenly stopped, sniffing suspiciously. "Sherm, I believe I smell smoke again."

Sherm stopped also to draw in a long breath. He did not wait to announce his observations, but broke into a run for the top of the hill. Chicken Little followed him a length in the rear. Sherm took one look and gave vent to a surprised whistle. Chicken Little stared, fascinated, at a tiny line of fire burning merrily on a hillside not a mile distant.

"Jumping Jehosophat!" exclaimed Sherm, "how did it ever creep up on us this way?"

Jane was thinking rapidly. She scarcely noticed what he said.

"Sherm, Frank left the water barrels and the mops and everything on the wagon, didn't he?"

"Yes—what——"

"Are the barrels filled?"

"Yep, do you think——"

"Sherm, run hitch the bay team to the wagon quick. I'll get Marian and warn Annie not to tell Mother—she's asleep still. Hurry, Sherm, every minute's precious!"

Sherm's "All right" drifted from him on the run. He was already on his way to the stable. He realized that Jane knew more about fire fighting than he did.

Jane hurried to the cottage. Marian listened to her news, white to the lips.

"Annie can take Jilly. Perhaps I'd better ride over after Mr. Benton."

"Marian," protested Chicken Little, "there isn't time. And if Mr. Benton's home, he has probably seen it, too, and is trying to protect his own place. No, we've got to work fast. Unless we can run a fire guard before the fire reaches that tall grass on the division line, the whole place is a goner! It isn't coming very fast yet. Here, I'll run with Jilly over to the house and you put on a pair of Frank's trousers—your skirts might catch. I'll get that old pair of Ernest's. Hurry, Marian, hurry!"

Chicken Little gathered up Jilly and started on the run.

Both Marian and Jane reached the stable yard just as Sherm drove the heavy farm wagon clattering out of the gate. They hurriedly climbed in and Sherm lashed the horses into a gallop. As they passed the cottage, Marian exclaimed: "Did you get matches either of you?"

Sherm slowed up the team and examined his pockets.

"A handful."

"Stop a moment—I'll run fetch a box. It takes a lot." Chicken Little was over the wheel before the words were fairly out of her mouth.

She was back in a jiffy with the matches, which she proceeded to divide among them, while the horses leaped forward again.

"Stop on the backbone where the Santa Fe trail strikes the road."

Precisely four minutes later Sherm pulled up the panting team. Chicken Little promptly took command. She had been out many times with her father and brothers and knew exactly what to do.

"Wet your mop—take a bucket of water and fire right along the trail, Marian,—that buffalo grass burns slow. Call if it starts to get away from you. I'll begin there by the hedge. Drive about fifty yards farther on, Sherm,—the horses will stand. Fill all the buckets and wet the extra mops. We're liable to want them in a rush."

"All right, Jane, save your breath—you'll need it. Careful there, Mrs. Morton, beat out the flames along the trail as you go. Never mind how fast it whoops the other way. Caesar's ghost! that fire is getting close!"

The waving, irregular lines of flame on the hillside were coming steadily on, now leaping up several feet high as the breeze freshened, now creeping close to the ground when the gusts died away. The wind was fitful.

Marian and Sherm both had their trail of fire flickering into a blaze before Chicken Little got hers kindled. Her hands shook so she could hardly hold the match. The first flickered and went out, a second, then a third, blackened, before she could coax the stubbly grass to burn. She caught up a bunch of weeds, set it blazing in her hand and dragged it swiftly along the ground. Tiny swirls of yellow flame wavered in her wake, crackled feebly for an instant in the shorter herbage, then, reaching out tongues into the longer blue stem beyond, leaped forward like a frolicsome animal. Sherm's and Marian's lines of fire were eating their way merrily toward hers on each side.

It was easy to beat out the flame in the Buffalo grass, which formed their safety line toward the house, and the three soon had several hundred feet of fire running to meet those menacing flames on the neighboring hillside. For a while it seemed almost pretty play save for that haunting dread of disaster. But the dripping mops were heavy for girls' wrists and arms, the constant stooping and rising and the lifting of the heavy buckets pulled painfully on aching muscles. They must backfire for a third of a mile before they dared hope the place was safe.

A field of winter wheat adjoining the wagon road where they had started, and extending down to the bank of Big John, was the best of protection to the lower half of the farm. West from this, there was neither track nor field to break the tindery sweeps of prairie grass, until the strip of breaking on the north boundary of the pasture was reached. The old Santa Fe trail along which they were firing, fortunately extended to within some two hundred yards of the breaking, and was their safeguard against the ever-present danger of letting the fire get away from them to the rear.

Older heads would have selected that hundred yards of high grass as a starting place, while they were fresh and best able to cope with its perils. Chicken Little was leaving it to the last. Swiftly as the three worked, the head fire was rapidly gaining on them. Again and again, one of them glanced toward the house in the hope that Jim Bart might have returned, or some neighbor have seen their danger and be on the way to help. Not a human being was in sight in any direction.

Marian straightened up with a groan and glanced despairingly at the head fire. Sherm's gaze followed hers anxiously.

"We've got to do better than this, girls. Here, Chicken Little, make a torch of some of those resinous weeds—those long crackly ones—and fire just as fast as you can. I'll follow with the mop and yell if I can't manage it."

The plan worked well for a time—their haven of hope, the brown strip of breaking, seemed to move steadily nearer. But Chicken Little and Marian were fast becoming exhausted. The main fire was now so close that its smoke was beginning to drift in their faces. Prairie chickens and quail, startled and confused by the double line of flame, whirred above their heads, uncertain how to seek safety. A terrified jack rabbit leaped up almost at Sherm's feet. Rabbits, ground squirrels, one lone skunk, and even an occasional coyote, darted past them. Back at the road where they had begun, the head fire was already meeting their line of back fire and dying down in sullen smoke. Still, that hundred yards of blue stem was untouched.

They paused a moment at its edge in hurried consultation.

"Let's souse all the mops—dripping wet—and trail across first," suggested Chicken Little in short, labored gasps. She had been running for several minutes.

"Yes, and then fire back. Christ!—we must hurry!" Sherm, too, was breathless. "Can you stick it out a few minutes longer, Marian?"

Marian Morton's face was drawn and colorless. She nodded and rested a moment, leaning on her mop.

For the next sixty-five yards the blows of the wet mops rained down with the precision of clock work. Twice the flames started in quick eddies back of their line, but, panting, the girls almost sobbing, they beat them back. The smoke was growing stifling. The wind, freshening, blew it from both fires full in their faces. They could see only a few feet ahead.

"Light another torch and run, Chicken Little—there's no time to lose—we must chance it!"

Chicken Little obeyed silently. Half way to the breaking she stumbled and fell. Her torch of twisted grass flew from her hand, scattering the burning fragments about her. Before she could get to her feet, the grass was ablaze all around. Quick-witted Sherm threw her a mop, then beat his way toward her. Marian, summoning her last remaining strength, ran to help, but sank to the ground in a faint before she could reach Jane.

Sherm and Chicken Little, beating, stamping madly, did not see her fall. The flames fairly licked up the long grass. They beat them out around Jane only to see them spread in an ever-increasing circle. Chicken Little's legs gave way under her and she sank helplessly down, watching the rushing fire. Sherm struggled on with parched throat and stinging eyes, but he, too, was fast becoming exhausted in the unequal fight, when a strong pair of hands seized the mop from his straining arms and rained swift blows on the flaming grass. Answering blows resounded from four other stout pairs of hands and an irregular line of charred vegetation was soon all that was left to tell the tale of the danger they had escaped.

"Thank God, we got here in time!" Captain Clarke ejaculated fervently, raising Marian's head and dashing water in her face to restore her.

"We're so shut in by the timber at our place, I didn't dream the fire was in this part of the country till one of the hands went up in the pasture. We mounted and came double quick, I tell you. And we'd have got here quicker, if I'd known what straits you were in. You're a plucky lot! Easy there, Mrs. Morton, you are all right, and the fire is safe to smoke out at its leisure. Here, drink a drop of this whiskey."

Sherm had gathered up Chicken Little and carried her beyond the smoke, then dropped down beside her with a sigh to recover his breath. He felt numb and so dazed he hardly heeded what the Captain was saying.

"Pretty well done for, yourself, aren't you, lad?" one of the men inquired. "You sure knew exactly what to do, if you are a tenderfoot."

Sherm roused himself enough to twist the corners of his mouth into his wonted smile.

"Me? I didn't do anything—Chicken Little was the boss of this gang."



CHAPTER XVII

THE LOST OYSTER SUPPER

Thanksgiving came and went its turkey-lined way rather lonesomely. Christmas preparations also lacked their usual zest.

"Everything seems to have caved in round where Ernest was," Chicken Little confided to Marian. "You see, we always talked everything over and planned our Christmas together. Sherm takes Ernest's place in lots of ways, but, of course, he isn't interested in what I'm making for Mother, or in helping me make $5.25 go clear round the family and piece out for Katy and Gertie besides."

"If sympathy is all you need, Jane, I can lend you a listening ear." Marian crocheted another scallop.

"I'd be thankful for a few suggestions, too, I can't think of anything to send Ernest. When he has to have everything regulation, and the government furnishes him with every single thing it wants him to have, why—it's awful."

"Yes, I agree with you—I've been racking my brains for Ernest, too. Mother is patiently knitting him a muffler, which I know he won't be permitted to wear, but I haven't the heart to discourage her—she gets so much comfort out of it. Uncle Sam should be more considerate of fond female relatives. He might at least tolerate a few tidies and hand-painted shovels or a home-made necktie."

"Or a throw or a plush table cover with chenille embroidery. Mamie Jenkins is making one for Mr. Clay. He will be too cross for words. He loathes Mamie, though he tries not to show it, and plush is his special abomination. He says it reminds him of caterpillar's fuzz." Chicken Little's eyes danced maliciously.

Marian looked at her young sister-in-law meditatively.

"Mamie doesn't seem to be dear to your heart just now. Is she too popular or too affected or too dressy?"

"Oh, she's just too utterly too too all around. I do have lots of fun with her—she can be awfully nice when she wants to be, but——"

"But?"

"Oh, I don't know—she swells up so, lots of times over things I'd be ashamed to tell—they're so silly."

"Yes, I guess Mamie's pretty cheap, but as long as you make friends with her, don't rap her behind her back. It was all right to tell me—I quizzed you anyhow. I wish you didn't see so much of her."

"Why, she's the only girl at school I can go with, who is anywhere near my own age. The Kearns twins aren't even clean—I don't like to go near them."

"I shouldn't think you would. Our public school system has its drawbacks as well as its virtues. Well, Jane, be nice to Mamie, but don't—don't be like her."

"You needn't worry; she's going to town to school after Christmas, so I sha'n't see much more of her."

Mrs. Morton was still far from well, and she hung on Ernest's letters almost pathetically. Ernest, boy fashion, was inclined to write long letters when he had something interesting to tell and preserve a stony silence when he didn't. Life at the academy was monotonous and he had to work hard to keep up with his studies. Further, his father and Frank suspected he was having many disagreeable experiences which he kept from his family. These were still the days of rough hazing at the academy and Ernest, being a western boy, big and strong and independent, was likely to attract his full share of this unpleasant nagging. He revealed something of his experiences in a letter to Sherm. Sherm showed the letter to Chicken Little and Chicken Little, vaguely worried, told her father. Dr. Morton talked it over with Frank.

"There isn't a thing you can do about it, Father. Most of it does the boys more good than harm anyway. I talked to a West Pointer once about the hazing there. He said some of it was pretty annoying and at times decidedly rough, but that if a fellow behaved himself and took it good-naturedly they soon let him alone. He said it was the best training he had ever known for curing a growing boy of the big head. Don't worry—Ernest has sense—he's all right."

To Chicken Little, Ernest confided, two weeks before Christmas, that he was getting confoundedly tired of having the same things to eat week after week. "Say, Sis, if you and Mother would cook me up a lot of goodies for Christmas, I'd like it better than anything you could do. Send lots, so I can treat—a turkey and fixings."