Uncle Jacob came up laughing and said, "Of course the specs must go down to see where the cream went to!" But Grandmother thought it was no laughing matter.
Mr. Carver and Uncle Jacob had a good many spells of fishing in the well. At last Uncle Jacob was lucky enough to catch the handle of the pail with his hook, and then he drew the pail up. It was found to be in quite a damaged condition. The water looked creamy for some time. The glasses never came to light. It seemed, therefore, no more than my duty to send Grandmother another pair, which I did soon after in a bright new six-quart pail, wishing with all my heart they were gold-bowed ones. But I could not afford to do more than replace the lost ones.
I will add that the six-quart pail was filled with the best of peaches.
The next three letters seem to have been sent at one time. Before they reached Grandmother she had worked herself into a perfect fever of anxiety.
Owing to the rabbit affair, of which they contain the whole story, William Henry had not felt like writing, so that, even before his letter was begun, they at the farm were already looking for it to arrive. Then it took a longer time than he expected to finish up his account of the matter; and when at last the letter was sealed and directed, the boy who carried it to the post-office forgot his errand, and it hung in an overcoat pocket several days. No wonder, then, the old lady grew anxious.
I was at the farm at the time they were looking for the letters, and I really tried very hard to be entertaining; but not the funniest story I could tell about the funniest little rollypoly contraband in the hospital could excite more than a passing smile.
Aunt Phebe gave me my charge before I went in.
"You must be lively," said she. "Be lively! Turn her thoughts off of Billy! That's the way! Though I do feel worried," she added. "'T is a puzzle why we don't have letters. I'm afraid something is the matter, or else it seems to me we should. He's been very good about writing. If anything has happened to Billy, I don't know what we should do. 'T would come pretty hard to Grandmother. And I do have my fears! But 't won't do to let her know I worry about him. And you better be very lively! We all have to be!"
I observed that Mr. Carver, although he talked very calmly with his mother, and urged her to rest easy, was after all not so very much at ease himself. He sat by the window apparently reading a newspaper. But it was plain that he only wished Grandmother to think he was reading; for he paid but little attention to the paper, and was constantly looking across the garden to see when Uncle Jacob should get back from the post-office; and the moment Towser barked he folded his paper and went out. Grandmother put on her "out-door" spectacles, and stood at the window. When Mr. Carver returned she glanced rapidly over him with an earnest, beseeching look, which seemed to say that it was not possible but that somewhere about him, in some pocket, or in his hat, or shut up in his hand, there must be a letter.
"The mail was late," Mr. Carver said; "Uncle Jacob couldn't wait, and had left the boy to fetch it."
Grandmother was setting the table. In her travels to and from the buttery she stopped often to glance up the road, and during meal-time her eyes were constantly turning to the windows.
Presently Aunt Phebe came in.
"The boy didn't bring any letters," said she; "but I've been thinking it over, and for my part I don't think 't is worth while to worry. No news is good news. Bad news travels fast. A thousand things might happen to keep a boy from writing. He might be out of paper, or out of stamps, or out of anything to write about, or might have lessons to learn, or be too full of play, or be kept after school, or might a good many things!"
"You don't suppose," said Grandmother, "that – you don't think – it couldn't be possible, could it, that Billy's been punished and feels ashamed to tell of it?"
"Nonsense!" said Aunt Phebe. "Now don't, Grandmother, I beg of you get started off on that notion! Yesterday 't was the measles. And day before 't was being drowned, and now 't is being punished!"
"'T wouldn't be like William not to tell of it," said Mr. Carver.
"Not a bit like him," said Aunt Phebe.
"No," said Grandmother, "I don't think it would. But you know when anybody gets to thinking, they are apt to think of everything."
I told them there was a possibility of the letter being mis-sent. And that idea reminded me of just such an anxious time we had once about little Silas. His letter went to a town of the same name in Ohio, and was a long time reaching us. I made haste to tell this to Grandmother, and thought it comforted her a little.
When I left the next morning, Mr. Carver followed me out and asked me to make inquiries in regard to the telegraphic communication with the Crooked Pond School, and to be in readiness to telegraph; for, in case no letter came that day, he should send me word to do so.
But no word arrived, as the next mail brought the following letters, with their amusing illustrations.
My dear Grandmother, —
I suppose if I should tell you I had had a whipping you would feel sorry. Well, don't feel sorry. I will begin at the beginning.
We can't go out evenings. But last Monday evening one of the teachers said I might go after my overjacket that I took off to play ball, and left hanging over a fence. It was a very light night. I had to go down a long lane to get where it was; and when I got there, it wasn't there. The moon was shining bright as day. Old Gapper Skyblue lives down that lane. He raises rabbits. He keeps them in a hen-house.
Now I will tell you what some of the great boys do sometimes. They steal eggs and roast them. There is a fireplace in Tom Cush's room. Once they roasted a pullet. The owners have complained so that the master said he would flog the next boy that robbed a hen-house or an orchard, before the whole school.
Now I will go on about my overjacket. While I was looking for it I heard a queer noise in the rabbit-house. So I jumped over. Then a boy popped out of the rabbit-house and ran. I knew him in a minute, for all he ran so fast, – Tom Cush.
Now when he started to run, something dropped out of his hand. I went up to it, and 't was a rabbit, a dead one, just killed; for when I stooped down and felt of it, it was warm. And while I was stooping down, there came a great heavy hand down on my shoulder. It was a man's great heavy hand.
Gapper had set a man there to watch. He hollered into my ears, "Now I've got you!" I hollered, too, for he came sudden, without my hearing.
"You little thief!" says he.
"I didn't kill it," says I.
"You little liar!" says he.
"I'm not a liar," says I.
"I'll take you to the master," says he.
"Take me where you want to," says I.
Then he pulled me along, and kept saying, "Who did, if you didn't? If you didn't, who did?"
And he walked me straight up into the master's room, without so much as giving a knock at the door.
"I've brought you a thief and a liar," says he. Then he told where he found me, and what a bad boy I was. Then he went away, because the master wanted to talk with me all by myself.
Now I didn't want to tell tales of Tom, for it's mean to tell tales. So all I could say was that I didn't do it.
The master looked sorry. Said he was afraid I had begun to go with bad boys. "Didn't I see you walking in the lane with Tom Cush yesterday?" says he. I said I was helping him find his ball. And so I was.
"If you were with the boys who did this," said he, "or helped about it in any way, that's just as bad."
I said I didn't help them, or go with them.
"How came you there so late?" says he.
"I went after my overjacket," says I.
"And where is your