“Both of you get to sleep as soon as you can,” he directed. “I’ll go down and tell the family she’s found.”
“Is Jack angry at me?” inquired Priscilla, sleepily.
“Not a bit, dear. We thought you were lost. Everybody has been looking all over for you, out in the barn, in the woods, and—”
“And here I was all the time,” giggled the child, wholly unconscious of having been the cause of great anxiety and effort.
Along the shore, the next morning, as the Wistmores started out after parting reluctantly with the Riboux family, were hundreds of gulls looking for food, and the air was filled with their harsh croaking cries. Out on the blue waters floated others, at rest on the ripples. In the meadows herds of black and white cows wandered about, cropping the grass heavy with dew, their bells tinkling constantly as they sought for choicer tidbits.
“Before we get to Saulnierville we make our first stop,” said Desiré, consulting the list she had taken from Jack’s pocket.
“We’ll be there shortly.”
“Oh, I hope we sell just lots of stuff!” cried Priscilla, who was quite herself again.
“Yes, lots of stuff,” echoed René, grabbing Jack around the neck.
“Don’t choke brother,” laughed Desiré, loosening the embracing arms.
Before many minutes passed, they came in sight of a small grey house. An immense grey barn stood behind it, its double doors freshly painted a brilliant red. The farm was enclosed by a grey fence with double gates of pure white.
“Why don’t the gates and the doors match, I wonder,” remarked Priscilla, who had an eye for color combinations.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Jack, bringing the wagon to a stop before a path bordered with clam shells. The path led up to the front door, and another row of clam shells surrounded the house, which was built, like so many others in Nova Scotia, with overlapped shingles on one side and clapboards on the other three.
“Let the youngsters run about a bit while I go in,” directed Jack, preparing to climb over the wheel.
At this moment the sound of galloping horses on the road over which they had just come made everyone turn; and they saw another wagon, the counterpart of their own, swaying crazily from side to side as the driver urged on his excited animals.
“Runaway!” squealed René delightedly.
“They’ll hit us!” shrieked Priscilla.
Jack deftly pushed off the road into a field, and jumped from the wagon ready to be of assistance. His keen eye saw at once, however, that the approaching team was not out of control. As soon as it came abreast of the Wistmore “store” the driver pulled up with a suddenness which threw the animals on their haunches; and, leaping from his seat, he faced Jack belligerently.
CHAPTER VIII
A FIGHT
“My territory!” growled the man, motioning toward the house. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re mistaken,” responded Jack quickly. “I have old Simon’s entire route, and this is the first stop on the list he gave me.”
“It may have been his, but it ain’t goin’ to be yours!”
“And who is going to prevent me?” inquired Jack, in even, quiet tones which Desiré knew meant that he was working hard to keep his temper under control.
“I am. I made up my mind soon as I heard the old man was sick, that I would take this route; and nobody’s goin’ to stop me. Least of all, you,” he added, looking Jack’s slender form up and down contemptuously.
“You great—big—” began Priscilla excitedly.
“Be quiet, Prissy,” said her brother. “You and the others stand over there beside the wagon.”
As he spoke, he started in the direction of the farmhouse. Like a flash the thick-set figure was in his pathway.
“No, you don’t!” he sneered.
The two measured each other silently for a moment, standing as motionless as dogs in that last tense moment just before they spring.
Jack put out his foot to advance, and his opponent was upon him. They fell heavily to the ground, the stranger on top.
“He’ll kill him!” sobbed Priscilla, while René added his wails to hers.
“Don’t kill Jack!” he cried.
“Hush!” pleaded Desiré, her eyes wide with fright. “Say a prayer that Jack will come out all right.”
The terrified little group watched the two adversaries roll over and over, pounding, grappling, struggling. Then Jack, with a quick twist, loosened the grasp of the other and sprang to his feet. With surprising swiftness, for a man so heavy, the enemy also righted himself and again leaped upon Jack. Back and forth they swayed, locked in a close embrace, each trying desperately to keep his own footing and trip the other. At times they stood stock still waiting to get breath and strength for a renewal of the contest. Then it began all over again.
Finally Jack succeeded in twisting one of his long legs quickly around one of his adversary’s, thereby throwing him heavily to the ground. With a leap, Jack was astride of him, pinning his arms to the earth. The man tried to roll sufficiently to throw him off, but Jack was too well placed to allow him very much motion. Weight, anger, and unskilled methods had worked against him; now Jack had complete advantage.
“Shall I give you what you deserve?” demanded Jack, after a moment’s pause.
“Nough!” muttered the man sullenly.
“Get off this route, then, and stay off of it; or next time—” threatened Jack, getting up. “Turn that team right around, and go back to Yarmouth, or wherever you come from!”
Slowly, keeping one eye on Jack the while, he obeyed. As soon as he was on the way, Desiré and the children ran toward their brother.
“Oh, Jack, aren’t you hurt somewhere?” demanded Desiré anxiously.
“Only a few bruises and scratches, thank God!” was the grateful response. “I kept wondering what you would do, poor child, if I were smashed up.”
After a good brushing, and “first-aid” treatment of his scratches, Jack pronounced himself as good as new.
“Children,” said Desiré, “we begged so hard for Jack’s safety. We mustn’t fail to say ‘Thank You’ for what we received. Let’s each say a little prayer of thanksgiving right now.”
After a moment of silence they again turned their attention to the business in hand. Desiré and the children stayed with the wagon, while Jack started once more toward the house.
At his knock, the inner door opened, a woman’s head showed behind the glass of the storm door, and then the outer door was pushed back. Almost every dwelling, no matter how small and unpretentious, has its storm door, and usually these are left on all summer.
“I’m taking old Simon’s route this summer,” began Jack, using the words he was to repeat so many times that season; “and I called to see if you need anything.”
“Yes, I do,” answered the plump little woman in the doorway, her black eyes busily inspecting Jack, and traveling rapidly to the wagon, the girl, and the children on the road. “I’m all out of thread, crackers, kerosene, and—what else was it? Oh, yes, shoe laces. Where’s old Simon? I’ve been watching out for him for three weeks.”
“Sick, in Yarmouth,” replied Jack, turning to go to the wagon to fill her order. The woman followed him.
“This