LITTLE by little they learned something of May Nell’s story. Her mother had intended to start for New York on the morning of the earthquake, having been called there by her own mother’s illness. Mrs. Smith, though held to the last by household business, had let her little daughter go to visit a widowed aunt and cousin, who lived in a down-town hotel, and who were to bring May Nell to meet her mother at the Ferry Building the next morning. But where at night had stood the hotel with its many human lives housed within, the next morning’s sunshine fell upon a heap of ruins burning fiercely. A stranger rescued May Nell, though her aunt and cousin had to be left behind, pinned to their death.
All that dreadful day the man searched for the little girl’s mother, but their house was early to the flames, and he could get no trace of her. He was only passing through the city; and having fortunately saved his money and tickets, was anxious to be on his way across the Pacific. Consequently nothing better offered than to send the child with other refugees to the kind hospitality of the country.
Edith had quickly put her plan in execution, aided by the willing newspapers; but so far nothing had come of it, and mother and daughter feared their charge had lost more than aunt and cousin. South America, a very definite spot in the child’s mind, was still too vague a postoffice address for even Uncle Sam’s marvellous mail-carrying; and so, while encouraging May Nell, the two women tacitly adopted her into their hearts and discussed her future as if she were their own.
It was a that even her loyal soul must yield to nature’s balm of passing time; in companionship and the warmth of a country spring she somewhat forgot the grief that would otherwise have worn to death her little body.
“My mama doesn’t believe in public school,” she had announced that first Monday morning; but had gone obediently when Mrs. Bennett it best. And the new life, the of study, the competition in class, her knowledge of books, and the prestige of her story,—these made school a delight, brought a happy light to her eye, a of color to her too fair cheek.
Her wardrobe was a heavy drain on Edith’s purse, yet the young teacher delighted almost as a mother in the dainty garments that won her to extravagance.
Billy also undertook to do his share. A generous sum of money had been offered to the best student in the graduating class of the grammar school; and he decided to try for it. And when Billy made up his mind to anything connected with books, it was as good as done. For if he had to study a little harder than some, his , added to an unusual facility in telling what he knew, helped him to success.
Mrs. Bennett wished May Nell to be in the open air as much as possible; and this meant a new experience for Billy, which he accepted with tolerable grace.
“A girl under foot all the time,” Shifty complained. He had no sister.
“Well, you know the other thing to do if you don’t like it,” Billy retorted, bluntly. “She’s my sister till her folks are found, and that isn’t likely.”
“But if your steamer works you don’t want its secrets round; and girls always blab.”
“You’re the only girl I’m afraid of in that line. Isn’t that so, Pretty?”
“You bet!” Pretty , inelegantly.
This conversation took place in Billy’s shop, a room adjoining the wood-house and given over to his use. Nothing short of the world in the second verse of Genesis was equal to the of that place. Every conceivable and job lot of “truck” was there in a heap; and Billy was never happier than when mussing it over in search of “material”; in and crownless hat, whistling merrily, bringing to substance and form the inventions of his busy brain.
The blandishments of water fountains, candy stores, and other boyish temptations, found no victim in Billy. But if Mr. Cooper, the tinshop man, had driven hard bargains he would have bankrupted the boy. As it was his weekly allowance suffered in spite of Mr. Cooper’s and Billy’s free access to a rich scrap heap at the rear of the big shop where everything, one would say, in tin and iron was made, from well pipe, tanks, and , to tin wings for Edith’s fairies in the opera.
Now a steamboat was on hand. At odd times for weeks, Billy, Harold, and one or two other boys, under of lock and key, had been slowly bringing to completion a wonderful structure.
Billy had intended naming it The Jean, but Charley had stood for Queen Bess, Harold didn’t like either name, and George and Jimmy had objected to “girl kid names, anyway.” They had, however, unanimously compromised on The Edith, for Billy’s sister was adored by all of his older friends, adored openly and “tagged” by the little ones. Edith, since May Nell’s coming, suggested her name. The little girl agreed if it could be Ellen; Billy added “Fair” with her permission; and this name he painted over each paddle wheel with no from the others.
All was now ready for firing. “She” was to be run by oil. They took her out through the double doors, both swung wide for the first time in many weeks. It was all the boys could do to carry the heavy thing, though they went quite across the vegetable garden, not without some damage to spring and summer corn, however; but on the steep, slope below, the Fair Ellen came almost to grief.
“Bear up aft there!” Billy commanded; and “Ay, ay, sir,” came back in equally language.
“Easy, mates. Kids, belay there, till we launch her!” This to the youngsters always in the way.
“Wharfmaster, ahoy!” Billy hailed, as they came near the water’s edge. “Is all ship-shape?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came this time from two boys who had charge of some logs together and crossed and recrossed by a hash-like lot of refuse , and with a dog chain.
[89]“Mother, do come and look at the procession,” Edith called cautiously from the trellises, where she was slyly watching.
Billy heard her, though. “Come on, sister, mamma, too, and see the fun,” he called, not , for he was a bit proud of their work now that it was out in the light of day. He had reason; it was really an craft for boys to build from .
A crowd of smaller children momentarily increasing, about the sweating five. Max bounded over the high fence, breathless, fearing he would be late. Jean and Bess hurried down the hill, each telling the other she couldn’t spare the time for “just boys’ foolishness.” Jackson appeared on top of the south stone abutment, halting there till Billy’s invitation brought him flying down into the inclosure.
Bouncer barked at Billy’s heels. Geewhillikins chased an imaginary down the hill, and Jerusalem Crickets crept stealthily along the upper support of the side fence, trailing a venturesome sparrow.
Even the white chickens followed in a cackling bunch as they always did when Billy appeared at this hour, for it was almost feeding time. And the pigeons wheeled and whirred, almost under foot only to be up and off again, a flash of white and gray.
Behind the two women a baby. “I see Billy boat,” he cried, , stumbled, fell, up again, and repeated his refrain.
“Why, Buzz Lancaster, how did you get here?” Edith went back and steadied him over the uneven ground. “Phew! He smells of gasoline! Where has he been, do you suppose, mother?”
“I comed,” he said, calmly, “I see Billy boat.”
“Hurry up, Buzz!” Billy called as he raced by from the shop, where he had been for the oil can to fill the boat’s reservoir.
“Shan’t we the ceremonies till we can get Charley’s little sister and Jackson’s two weeks’ old brother?” Jimmy asked, disagreeably.
“Hold your , Sour,” Harold expostulated.
“Please don’t call Jimmy ‘Sour,’” May Nell pleaded. “He’s big and dark and splendid; and his other name is going to be Roderick Dhu; and he’ll be kind to all weak things, and fight for the Douglases, and for the Fair Ellen.” She waved her hand toward the steamboat.
Jimmy tried not to look pleased, but failed. Something about May Nell attracted him, whether it was her beauty, her fearlessness, or her air of distinction he did not know. It was really her recognition of something fine in him that his cold and irascible father had almost whipped out of him.
“All ready?” cried Captain Billy. “Are you ready, Ladybird?”
“Yes, Captain,” she answered, her eyes while she smoothed frills. She wore a wonderful trailing robe of tissue paper, “ruffled to the guards,” Billy said. On her head was a towering cap of the same; and a light wind out her wide angel sleeves like sails before a breeze.
She stood at the end of the creaking , and one little bare arm was lifted high. She held a small fruit jar filled with water and juice. It was awkward, but Billy had insisted on the fruit jar,—“So’s it will be sure to break; it’s the only kind of a bottle that always will break.”
They fired up. An sizz and began. Five pairs of hands shoved the smart boat into the water at May Nell’s feet. The children shouted. The dog barked and the chickens cackled. And above all the May Nell’s sweet voice rang out, “I christen thee, O , The Fair Ellen.” She hastily; for no one had thought to prepare a speech for the occasion.
The bottle went crash, and a furious yell informed the neighborhood that the Gang was “up to some new deviltry.”
But another and unexpected crash followed, and a shower of burning oil shot up and caught May Nell’s flimsy paper frock.
Yet before one could think, almost before the paper had time to burn, Jimmy sprang to her, seized her in his arms, tearing at the shrivelling paper, and jumped far out over the flaming boat into a deep pool.
For a horror-stricken moment no one . Even the dumb creatures were still; and Buzz, thinking it all for his benefit, watched open-mouthed for the next act in the play.
But Mrs. Bennett, fleet though speechless, was at the water’s edge by the time Jimmy had risen with May Nell quite safe. She spluttered and choked a little; but Jimmy had been so quick there was not even a red spot on her flesh to show the touch of fire.
She was a queer draggled little creature, with her soaked and dress, and her yellow curls all stringlets. Timidly she touched Jimmy’s hands, realized what he had saved her from, and when she looked her into his dark eyes something awoke in his heart that never slept again.
“You had very soon to fight for the Douglases, didn’t you, Roderick Dhu?” she said, as Mrs. Bennett covered her with an , and Billy took her up and went toward the house.
“I thank you, Roderick Dhu,” she called out over Billy’s shoulder with another little choke, for Jimmy had refused Mrs. Bennett’s offer of dry clothes and was starting home alone.
So had been, that no one thought of the poor small steamer burning unchecked to the water’s edge while the procession climbed the hill; no one knew till days that busy Buzz had entered the open shop and mixed Billy’s cans so that it was gasoline instead of that he fed that fated craft. But gratitude for Jimmy’s bravery and May Nell’s safety even in the youngest heart all regret for the boat.
All but May Nell; when Edith and Mrs. Bennett rubbed and warmed her she declared she didn’t need it, and was so absorbed in the loss of the Fair Ellen, she could think of nothing else.
“So long as it isn’t you, Ladybird, it’s all right,” Billy consoled; “we can make more boats.”
But May Nell was not to be comforted, till that evening when she composed a wonderful ode to “The of the Fair Ellen.”