________________________________________________
_ Bab and Betty had been playing in the avenue
all the afternoon several weeks later, but as the
shadows began to lengthen both agreed to sit
upon the gate and rest while waiting for Ben, who had
gone nutting with a party of boys. When they played
house Bab was always the father, and went hunting or
fishing with great energy and success, bringing home
all sorts of game, from elephants and crocodiles to
humming-birds and minnows. Betty was the mother, and
a most notable little housewife, always mixing up
imaginary delicacies with sand and dirt in old pans
and broken china, which she baked in an oven of her
own construction.
Both had worked hard that day, and were glad to
retire to their favorite lounging-place, where Bab was
happy trying to walk across the wide top bar without
falling off, and Betty enjoyed slow, luxurious swings
while her sister was recovering from her tumbles. On
this occasion, having indulged their respective tastes,
they paused for a brief interval of conversation, sitting
side by side on the gate like a pair of plump gray
chickens gone to roost.
"Don't you hope Ben will get his bag full? We
shall have such fun eating nuts evenings observed
Bab, wrapping her arms in her apron, for it was October
now, and the air was growing keen.
"Yes, and Ma says we may boil some in our little
kettles. Ben promised we should have half," answered
Betty, still intent on her cookery.
"I shall save some of mine for Thorny."
"I shall keep lots of mine for Miss Celia."
"Doesn't it seem more than two weeks since she
went away?"
"I wonder what she'll bring us."
Before Bab could conjecture, the sound of a step
and a familiar whistle made both look expectantly
toward the turn in the road, all ready to cry out in
one voice, "How many have you got?" Neither
spoke a word, however, for the figure which presently
appeared was not Ben, but a stranger, -- a man
who stopped whistling, and came slowly on dusting
his shoes in the way-side grass, and brushing the
sleeves of his shabby velveteen coat as if anxious to
freshen himself up a bit.
"It's a tramp, let's run away," whispered Betty,
after a hasty look.
"I ain't afraid," and Bab was about to assume her
boldest look when a sneeze spoilt it, and made her
clutch the gate to hold on.
At that unexpected sound the man looked up,
showing a thin, dark face, with a pair of sharp, black
eyes, which surveyed the little girls so steadily that
Betty quaked, and Bab began to wish she had at
least jumped down inside the gate.
"How are you?" said the man with a goodnatured
nod and smile, as if to re-assure the round-eyed
children staring at him.
"Pretty well, thank you, sir," responded Bab,
politely nodding back at him.
"Folks at home? " asked the ,an, looking over
their heads toward the house.
"Only Ma; all the rest have gone to be married."
"That sounds lively. At the other place all the
folks had gone to a funeral," and the man laughed as
he glanced at the big house on the hill.
"Whh, do you know the Squire?" exclaimed Bab,
much surprised and re-assured.
"Come on purpose to see him. Just strolling
round till he gets back," with an impatient sort of
sigh.
"Betty thought you was a tramp, but I wasn't
afraid. I like tramps ever since Ben came,"
explained Bab, with her usual candor.
"Who 's Ben!" and the man came nearer so
quickly that Betty nearly fell backward. "Don't
you be scared, Sissy. I like little girls, so you set
easy and tell me about Ben," he added, in a persuasive
tone, as he leaned on the gate so near that both
could see what a friendly face he had in spite of its
eager, anxious look.
"Ben is Miss Celia's boy. We found him most
starved in the coach-house, and he's been here ever
since," answered Bab, comprehensively.
"Tell me about it. I like tramps, too," and
the man looked as if he did very much, as Bab told
the little story in a few childish words that were
better than a much more elegant account.
"You were very good to the little feller," was all
the man said when she ended her somewhat confused
tale, in which she had jumbled the old coach
and Miss Celia, dinner-pails and nutting, Sancho and
circuses.
"'Course we were! He's a nice boy and we are
fond of him, and he likes us," said Bab, heartily.
" 'Specially me," put in Betty, quite at ease now,
for the black eyes had softened wonderfully, and the
brown face was smiling all over.
"Don't wonder a mite. You are the nicest pair
of little girls I've seen this long time," and the man
put a hand on either side of them, as if he wanted to
hug the chubby children. But he didn't do it; he
merely smiled and stood there asking questions till
the two chatterboxes had told him every thing there
was to tell in the most confiding manner, for he very
soon ceased to seem like a stranger, and looked so
familiar that Bab, growing inquisitive in her turn,
suddenly said, --
"Haven't you ever been here before? It seems as
if I'd seen you."
"Never in my life. Guess you've seen somebody
that looks like me," and the black eyes twinkled for
a minute as they looked into the puzzled little faces
before him, then he said, soberly, --
"I'm looking round for a likely boy; don't you
think this Ben would suite me? I want just such a
lively sort of chap."
"Are you a circus man?" asked Bab, quickly.
"Well, no, not now. I'm in better business."
"I'm glad of it -- we don't approve of 'em; but I
do think they're splendid!"
Bab began by gravely quoting Miss Celia, and ended
with an irrepressible burst of admiration which
contrasted drolly with her first remark.
Betty added, anxiously: "We can't let Ben go any
way. I know he wouldn't want to, and Miss Celia
would feel bad. Please don't ask him."
"He can do as he likes, I suppose. He hasn't got
any folks of his own, has he?"
"No, his father died in California, and Ben felt so
bad he cried, and we were real sorry, and gave him a
piece of Ma, 'cause he was so lonesome," answered
Betty, in her tender little voice, with a pleading look
which made the man stroke her smooth check and
say, quite softly, --
"Bless your heart for that! I won't take him
away, child, or do a thing to trouble anybody that's
been good to him."
"He 's coming now. I hear Sanch barking at the
squirrels!" cried Bab, standing up to get a good
look down the road.
The man turned quickly, and Betty saw that he
breathed fast as he watched the spot where the low
sunshine lay warmly on the red maple at the corner.
Into this glow came unconscious Ben, whistling "Rory
O'Moore," loud and Clear, as he trudged along with a
heavy bag of nuts over his shoulder and the light full
on his contented face. Sancho trotted before and
saw the stranger first, for the sun in Ben's eyes
dazzled him. Since his sad loss Sancho cherished
a strong dislike to tramps, and now he paused to
growl and show his teeth, evidently intending to warn
this one off the premises.
"He won't hurt you -- " began Bab, encouragingly;
but before she could add a chiding word to
the dog, Sanch gave an excited howl, and flew at the
man's throat as if about to throttle him.
Betty screamed, and Bab was about to go to the
rescue when both perceived that the dog was licking
the stranger's face in an ecstasy of joy, and heard the
man say as he hugged the curly beast, --
"Good old Sanch!" I knew he wouldn't forget
master, and he doesn't"
"What's the matter?" called Ben, coming up
briskly, with a strong grip of his stout stick.
There was no need of any answer, for, as he came
into the shadow, he saw the man, and stood looking
at him as if he were a ghost.
"It's father, Benny; don't you know me?" asked the
man, with an odd sort of choke in his voice, as he thrust
the dog away, and held out both hands to the boy.
Down dropped the nuts, and crying, "Oh, Daddy,
Daddy!" Ben cast himself into the arms of the shabby
velveteen coat, while poor Sanch tore round them in
distracted circles, barking wildly, as if that was the
only way in which he could vent his rapture.
What happened next Bab and Betty never stopped
to see, but, dropping from their roost, they went
flying home like startled Chicken Littles with the
astounding news that "Ben's father has come alive,
and Sancho knew him right away!"
Mrs. Moss had just got her cleaning done up, and
was resting a minute before setting the table, but she
flew out of her old rocking-chair when the excited
children told the wonderful tale, exclaiming as they
ended, --
"Where is he? Go bring him here. I declare it
fairly takes my breath away!"
Before Bab could obey, or her mother compose
herself, Sancho bounced in and spun round like an
insane top, trying to stand on his head, walk upright,
waltz and bark all at once, for the good old fellow
had so lost his head that he forgot the loss of his tail.
"They are coming! they are coming! See, Ma,
what a nice man he is," said Bab, hopping about on
one foot as she watched the slowly approaching pair.
"My patience, don't they look alike! I should
know he was Ben's Pa anywhere!" said Mrs. Moss,
running to the door in a hurry.
They certainly did resemble one another, and it was
almost comical to see the same curve in the legs, the
same wide-awake style of wearing the hat, the same
sparkle of the eye, good-natured smile and agile
motion of every limb. Old Ben carried the bag in
one hand while young Ben held the other fast, looking
a little shame-faced at his own emotion now, for
there were marks of tears on his cheeks, but too glad
to repress the delight he felt that he had really found
Daddy this side heaven.
Mrs. Moss unconsciously made a pretty little picture
of herself as she stood at the door with her honest
face shining and both hands ont, saying in a hearty
tone, which was a welcome in itself,
"I'm real glad to see you safe and well, Mr.
Brown! Come right in and make yourself to home.
I guess there isn't a happier boy living than Ben is
to-night."
"And I know there isn't a gratefuler man living
than I am for your kindness to my poor forsaken little
feller," answered Mr. Brown, dropping both his burdens
to give the comely woman's hands a hard shake.
"Now don't say a word about it, but sit down and
rest, and we'll have tea in less'n no time. Ben must
be tired and hungry, though he's so happy I don't
believe he knows it," laughed Mrs. Moss, bustling
away to hide the tears in her eyes, anxious to make
things sociable and easy all round.
With this end in view she set forth her best china,
and covered the table with food enough for a dozen,
thanking her stars that it was baking day, and
every thing had turned out well. Ben and his father sat
talking by the window till they were bidden to "draw
up and help themselves" with such hospitable warmth
that every thing had an extra relish to the hungry
pair.
Ben paused occasionally to stroke the rusty coat-
sleeve with bread-and-buttery fingers to convince
himself that "Daddy" had really come, and his father
disposed of various inconvenient emotions by eating as
if food was unknown in California. Mrs. Moss beamed
on every one from behind the big tea-pot like a mild
full moon, while Bab and Betty kept interrupting one
another in their eagerness to tell something new about
Ben and how Sanch lost his tail.
"Now you let Mr. Brown talk a little; we all want
to hear how he 'came alive,' as you call it," said Mrs.
Moss, as they drew round the fire in the "settin'-room,"
leaving the tea-things to take care of themselves.
It was not a long story, but a very interesting one
to this circle of listeners; all about the wild life on the
plains trading for mustangs, the terrible kick from a
vicious horse that nearly killed Ben, sen., the long
months of unconsciousness in the California hospital,
the slow recovery, the journey back, Mr. Smithers's
tale of the boy's disappearance, and then the anxious
trip to find out from Squire Allen where he now was.
"I asked the hospital folks to write and tell you as
soon as I knew whether I was on my head or my
heels, and they promised; but they didn't; so I came
off the minute I could, and worked my way back,
expecting to find you at the old place. I was afraid
you'd have worn out your welcome here and gone
off again, for you are as fond of travelling as your
father."
"I wanted to sometimes, but the folks here were
so dreadful good to me I couldn't," confessed Ben,
secretly surprised to find that the prospect of going off
with Daddy even cost him a pang of regret, for the
boy had taken root in the friendly soil, and was no
longer a wandering thistle-down, tossed about by
every wind that blew.
"I know what I owe 'em, and you and I will work
out that debt before we die, or our name isn't B.B.,"
said Mr. Brown, with an emphatic slap on his knee,
which Ben imitated half unconsciously as he exclaimed
heartily, --
"That's so!" adding, more quietly, "What are
you going to do now? Go back to Smithers and the
old business?"
"Not likely, after the way he treated you, Sonny.
I've had it Out with him, and he won't want to see
me again in a hurry," answered Mr. Brown, with a
sudden kindling of the eye that reminded Bab of Ben's
face when he shook her after losing Sancho.
"There's more circuses than his in the world; but
I'll have to limber out ever so much before I'm good
for much in that line," said the boy, stretching his
stout arms and legs with a curious mixture of satisfaction
and regret.
"You've been living in clover and got fat, you
rascal," and his father gave him a poke here and there,
as Mr. Squeers did the plump Wackford, when displaying
him as a specimen of the fine diet at Do-the-boys Hall.
"Don't believe I could put you up now
if I tried, for I haven't got my strength back yet, and
we are both out of practice. It's just as well, for I've
about made up my mind to quit the business and
settle down somewhere for a spell, if I can get any
thing to do," continued the rider, folding his arms and
gazing thoughtfully into the fire.
"I shouldn't wonder a mite if you could right here,
for Mr. Towne has a great boarding-stable over
yonder, and he's always wanting men." Said Mrs.
Moss, eagerly, for she dreaded to have Ben go, and
no one could forbid it if his father chose to take
him away.
"That sounds likely. Thanky, ma'am. I'll look
up the concern and try my chance. Would you call
it too great a come-down to have father an 'ostler
after being first rider in the 'Great Golden Menagerie,
Circus, and Colossem,' hey, Ben? " asked Mr. Brown,
quoting the well-remembered show-bill with a laugh.
"No, I shouldn't; it's real jolly up there when
the big barn is full and eighty horses have to be
taken care of. I love to go and see 'em. Mr. Towne
asked me to come and be stable-boy when I rode the
kicking gray the rest were afraid of. I hankered
to go, but Miss Celia had just got my new books, and
I knew she'd feel bad if I gave up going to school.
Now I'm glad I didn't, for I get on first rate and
like it."
"You done right, boy, and I'm pleased with you.
Don't you ever be ungrateful to them that befriended
you, if you want to prosper. I'll tackle the stable
business a Monday and see what's to be done. Now
I ought to be walking, but I'll be round in the morning
ma'am, if you can spare Ben for a spell to-morrow.
We'd like to have a good Sunday tramp and talk;
wouldn't we, Sonny?" and Mr. Brown rose to go with
his hand on Ben's shoulder, as if loth to leave him
even for the night.
Mrs. Moss saw the longing in his face, and forgetting
that he was an utter stranger, spoke right out of
her hospitable heart.
"It's a long piece to the tavern, and my little back
bedroom is always ready. It won't make a mite of
trouble if you don't mind a plain place, and you are
heartily welcome."
Mr. Brown looked pleased, but hesitated to accept
any further favor from the good soul who had already
done so much for him and his. Ben gave him no
time to speak, however, for running to a door he
flung it open and beckoned, saying, eagerly, --
"Do stay, father; it will be so nice to have you.
This is a tip-top room; I slept here the night I came,
and that bed was just splendid after bare ground for a
fortnight."
"I'll stop, and as I'm pretty well done up, I guess
we may as well turn in now," answered the new guest;
then, as if the memory of that homeless little lad so
kindly cherished made his heart overflow in spite of
him, Mr. Brown paused at the door to say hastily,
with a hand on Bab and Betty's heads, as if his
promise was a very earnest one, --
"I don't forget, ma'am, these children shall never
want a friend while Ben Brown's alive; " then he shut
the door so quickly that the other Ben's prompt
"Hear, hear!" was cut short in the middle.
"I s'pose he means that we shall have a piece of
Ben's father, because we gave Ben a piece of our
mother," said Betty, softly.
"Of course he does, and it's all fair," answered
Bab, decidedly. "Isn't he a nice man, Ma?
"Go to bed, children," was all the answer she got;
but when they were gone, Mrs. Moss, as she washed
up her dishes, more than once glanced at a certain
nail where a man's hat had not hung for five years,
and thought with a sigh what a natural, protecting air
that slouched felt had.
If one wedding were not quite enough for a child's
story, we might here hint what no one dreamed of
then, that before the year came round again Ben
had found a mother, Bab and Betty a father, and Mr.
Brown's hat was quite at home behind the kitchen
door. But, on the whole, it is best not to say a word
about it. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXIV. THE GREAT GATE IS OPENED
Read previous: CHAPTER XXII. A BOY'S BARGAIN
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