Donald and Dorothy

Once more the boats were in line. Again the umpire shouted: "Are you ready?" and again the crowd fluttered and murmured with expectation as every boat dashed forward.

But what was this? Dorry and Josie, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, moving rapidly as they could among the crowding spectators, and whispering urgent words that evidently produced a strong sensation.

Still the boats pressed on, every rower apparently outdoing himself, if not outdoing everything else. If cheers and shouts had inspired them before, the intense silence now was even more inspiring. Could anything have succeeded better? With every show of exertion, the rascals managed to slacken or quicken as the case required, until, when nearly home, they were all close together.

It was glorious! They never had known such fun in their lives. Now for the grand business!

Donald and Outcalt came together with a crash – a perfect "foul!" One masterly effort – over went Don's boat and over went Don, headlong into the water!

The boys in the other boats did beautifully, crowding about and, in spite of Don's wild struggles, catching him with oars and arms, never hearing the screams of the girls in the suppressed mirth and wild activity of the moment, but getting Don into his boat again, limp and dripping; and finally, with real dramatic zeal, carrying out their entire plan – too busy and delighted with success to note its effect upon the crowd of spectators. Everything worked to perfection. Don, scorning his half-drowned state, dripping and uncomfortable as he was, had sprung suddenly to his oars, and in dead earnest had won the race, against every mock-earnest competitor, and —

What do you think?

When those six oarsmen, including the victor, looked up to receive the acclamations of the crowd, white with the waving of pocket-handkerchiefs, they heard only – silence; saw nothing but an empty piazza. Not a spectator was to be seen – not even a face at a window – not a single eye peering through a crack. Worse than all, their judge and referee was in the bottom of his boat, kicking with merriment. He had strength only to point to the boat-house and gasp, between his bursts of laughter:

"Not a soul there! – they found us out! – went off before Don's ducking!"

The boat-house was, in truth, deserted. After the mysterious movements and whisperings of Dorry and Josie, every boy and girl had sped away on tiptoe; and down in a hollow grove near the road, where they could not even see the water, they were chatting and giggling and having the very best kind of a time – all because they had turned the tables on the gallant seven.

It was now well understood by these spectators who had deserted their post, that a second mock race had been carried on without a single eye-witness, and the thought was rapture. How much more they would have enjoyed it had they known of the difficult "foul," of Donald's headlong plunge, and of the subsequent frantic and exhaustive contest of rowing!

So much for carrying out one mock race and starting another in the presence of somebody named Dorothy, who first had suspected and then had been morally sure that those boys were playing a trick! When four of them crossed the line at once, her suspicions were aroused. "I do believe they're fooling!" she had said to herself, and then, remembering certain mysterious conferences that Don and some others of the "seven" had been holding, coupled with a sly look or two that she had seen exchanged by the contestants, she had jumped to the correct conclusion. As she afterwards expressed it to Ed Tyler, she had seen through it all in a flash.

Misery loves company. Those seven boys, from that day, had a peculiar tenderness for one another. They were linked by a hidden bond; and while they laughed heartily at their own expense, and tacitly confessed themselves beaten, they compelled all outsiders to be satisfied with guessing and with hints of the catastrophe that somehow came to light. Not one of them ever disclosed all the facts of the case, – the secret sessions, the frequent upset-practisings on cloudy evenings, the difficulty of the final performance, and the full sum of their defeat.

Ben, usually a kind brother, was sternness itself so far as the great race was concerned. Not one of the juvenile Danbys dared to allude to it in his august presence. Only on one occasion did he unbend, and that was when little Fandy ventured to observe that he ought to have heard what one of the girls had said about him in the race. This remark rankled even in that stony bosom. The more Ben Buster tried not to care, the more it tortured him. To make matters worse, he had betrayed himself too soon to the sagacious Fandy. In vain the big brother cajoled the little one; in vain, at cautious intervals, he tried the effect of indirect bribes and hidden threats. The more he desired to know what that girl had said, the more Fandy wouldn't tell him. At last he triumphed. In a yielding moment, when Ben had been touchingly kind, the grateful youngster let it out:

"You want t' know what that girl said? It was a compliment! She said: 'How splendid your brother Ben can row!' He! he! Now lend me your gimlet just a minute!"

Ah, that dignified Ben! Not for the world would he have had the small child know how those words thrilled him.

"Dorothy Reed said it! It sounds like her," was Ben's ecstatic thought; but to poor Fandy's surprise and disappointment, he only muttered aloud: "There, there, that's a good little boy. Go and play!"

Many a time after that, in the sanctity of the lonely fields, did Ben, rather sheepishly, repeat to himself the bewitching phrase:

"How splendid your brother Ben can row!"

Judge, then, of his feelings, when one Sunday in September, Master Fandy whispered to him, rather loudly, while coming out of church, "There she is" (pointing to a pretty little tot of seven summers) – "that's the very girl who said it!"

Ben stared at her, speechless with disgust.

"I might have known," he thought, "that the little goose would call a baby like that, a girl!"

So much for Ben's private feelings. Concerning the race, the six – among themselves – enjoyed exceedingly the unexpected recoil of their little joke. I say six, for in this matter Ed Tyler was unanimously suspected by the others of being on the fence. They never could tell whether he was laughing at them or with them. Donald was sure that it was the very best thing he ever heard of in his life. Outcalt protested he wouldn't have missed it for the world; and Ben Buster, laughing rather ruefully, declared that he never knew the "beat of it" but once; and that was one day when he had slipped into Jones's cider-yard and taken a good, long drink, through a straw, from a barrel marked "sweet cider," as he thought. "I tell you, fellows," was Ben's concluding remark, "if I wasn't sold that time, I'll give in. I was so warm and thirsty that I took a good, long pull before I found out that it wasn't cider at all, but vinegar, sour enough to take a man's head off. What made it worse was, the barrel was marked 'sweet-cider vinegar,' after all. It's a blamed shame the way a fellow gets caught sometimes!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

YANKEE AND DOODLE

Donald and Dorothy exchanged but four words on the subject of the sham race after it was over, but these were very expressive:

Donald."Well, madam!"

Dorothy."Well, sir!"

Their sparkling looks, Donald's tone of accusation and injured innocence, Dorothy's playful, rather defiant, air of triumph, said the rest. Uncle George, who was present at the interview, having previously heard both sides of the story from the D's separately, was much amused. In fact, he laughed aloud in quite an undignified manner, and so did they.

The next day brought news of Dr. Lane, their old tutor, who had been living for several months in South Carolina. He was better – indeed quite well again, and having lately accepted the position of principal of the boys' academy at F – , about ten miles from Nestletown, he proposed taking up his abode there immediately.

"Oh, Don," said Dorry, as she folded the letter; "I've an idea!"

"I cannot believe it," exclaimed Don, in well-feigned surprise.

"Yes, but I have," she insisted. "Dr. Lane will be at F – by Friday. Let us ride over on Dood and Yankee and give him a welcome!"

"Agreed!"

Friday came, full of sunshine, and in a fresh, breezy way, as if to say, "Now for the ride!" – at least, so it seemed to Dorry.

Lydia, who was shaking rugs over the wide piazza railing, was pleased to salute Sailor Jack as he led the ponies, saddled and ready, to the door. Fine ponies they were, too, large of their kind, glossy black, with flowing tail and mane. Uncle George had given them to the D's, on the Fourth of July of the previous summer; and in honor of the day they had been named Yankee and Doodle. Yankee, being the more spirited, was given to Don, and Doodle, by no means a lamb, became the special pride and property of Dorry.

"Good-morrow to you, Mistress Blum!" said Jack, in a subdued though airy way, returning Lydia's nod. "Are the middies ready?"

"If you mean the twins, I presume they are, Mr. Jack. Have you looked carefully to Miss Dorothy's saddle?"

"Not extra," he answered, in an aggravating tone – first looking up at the windows to be sure that none of the family were near; "think the girth's 'most broke; 't ain't worth while to be too pertickler."

"Yes, it is; you'd better make sure of saddle and bridle too, I can tell you. Miss Dorry'll ride twenty miles, and more, before sundown."

"Well, well!" exclaimed Sailor Jack, still bent on teasing her. "Hadn't you better come down, Mistress Blum, an' see to it that the pony's legs is on good and tight? It would be dreadful if one on 'em was to tumble off, now."

Lydia laughed. "Oh, but you're a funny man, Mister Jack! Well, I needn't worry. You're even worse about Miss Dorry than I am, bless her! – Hush, here they are!"

Off went Jack's hat, though he had to hold the two bridle-reins with one hand to accomplish it.

"Up-a-daisy!" he exclaimed, as Dorry, assisted by Donald, sprang lightly to her saddle. "It's a splendid day for a ride, Miss!"

"Yes, indeed," said Dorry, looking about her with bright, happy eyes, as she stroked her pony's neck.

Uncle George came out upon the piazza. By this time Don was on Yankee's back, dexterously making him appear as spirited as possible; whereat Dorry's steed began to prance also.

"Good-by, Uncle! Good-by, Jack and Liddy!" cried Dorry, waving her whip and looking back with a smiling face.

"Good-by!" shouted Don; and they cantered off – glad to be together, glad to breathe the bright, clear air, glad at the prospect of a good gallop over the hills.

Uncle George, Liddy, and Jack looked after them proudly, till the road turned and the sound of hoofs died in the distance. Jack was the first to speak.

"Ay! but they're a pretty pair, Capt'n!"

Mr. Reed nodded a happy assent.

"An' do you know, sir, I'm fancyin' of late they're growin' liker to one another."

"Ah?" said Mr. Reed, well pleased. "In what way?"

"Why, in feature, sir, an' manners, an' most ev'ry way."

"Why shouldn't they favor one another," remarked Lydia – "bein' twins? Yet, some way, I don't see it myself, sir, as plain as I might. Shall I serve dinner on the back porch, Mr. George?"

"Well, yes, Lydia, as I shall be alone. The birds and trees will be good company for me."

And so the three separated.

Meanwhile, the D's cantered on, happy as – I was going to say, as birds, but they were happier even than birds; they were happy as happy brothers and sisters.

For a while they galloped in silence, Don often going so far ahead that he had to wait for Dorry to catch up; then, when the road was specially pleasant and shady, they rode leisurely, side by side, laughing and chatting. The day was so fine, and they saw so much to interest them, and there were so many things to talk about, that the ten-mile ride to F – was accomplished almost before they were aware of it.

Leaving the ponies in the yard of the pretty hotel, to be fed and cared for, they enjoyed a hearty luncheon, and then proceeded on foot to the Academy near by – Dorry deftly carrying the train of her riding-habit over her arm, and snapping her riding-whip softly as she tripped beside her companion. Fortunately, the path was well shaded, and the dust had been laid by showers of the night before.

Dr. Lane was surprised and delighted to see them so soon after his arrival. He had many interesting things to tell them, and they in turn, rather shyly but heartily, related the main incidents of the past months, and gave him some account of their present course of study.

Then they all went through the Academy building, which, as it was vacation, was now being cleaned and made ready for the fall term. Globes, maps, blackboards, collections of minerals, electric machines, patent desks, dining-room, and dormitory passed before them in rapid succession, figuratively speaking; afterward they went up to the cupola to see the view, and finally settled themselves on the large front porch to rest.

Then, and not till then, they noticed a change. Light clouds were gathering; the sun still was shining, but it was shining under difficulties, as Dorry observed, and the air was heavy and sultry.

"It's going to rain, Professor," said Don, rising from his seat on the steps of the porch. "I think we'll have to go now."

"Yes, indeed," said Dorry, in her impulsive way; "we've no time to lose, either. Good-by, Professor. What shall we say to Uncle for you?"

"Give Mr. Reed my hearty regards, and tell him I hope to see him at Nestletown very soon."

"Yes, thank you," said Dorry, starting toward the gate. "Good-by. Come, Donald, we may be able to get home before it rains hard."

The Professor joined her at once, and the three were soon at the hotel. At first it seemed best to wait until the approaching shower should be over; but, as the clouds grew no darker, and the ponies evidently were ready for a brisk run, it was decided that they should try a race with the shower, and see which could get home first.

The shower beat. They were not half-way home when, just after crossing the railroad, with its cottage-like station in sight, the sky darkened rapidly and a big drop fell upon Donald's nose.

"We're in for it!" he cried. "Whip up, Dot! We'll make for the station."

Reaching the station, and finding themselves still dry, in spite of the warning thunder, they decided to hurry on to the next stopping-place.

This was Vanbogen's, a little country inn about half a mile farther, where they could be housed if necessary, and the horses be sheltered also. A sudden flash gave point to their determination. On they sped, the lightning now dancing ahead of them, and the thunder rolling on apace.

"It's a race for life," thought Dorry, in high spirits – so pleased to have an adventure that she forgot to dread the threatening shower. Yankee and Dood did nobly; abandoning their canter, they galloped on, neck and neck, while their riders carried on a panting sort of conversation concerning the new turn of things, and the prospects of reaching home before dark.

"What mat – ter if – we don't?" said Dorry, her voice almost lost in the rumbling thunder; "Yankee – and Dood – can find – the way – if it's – pitch dark."

"But, Uncle – ex-pected – us by – "

"Well – he'll know – what keeps – us."

"Plucky girl!" thought Don, admiring her bright cheeks and graceful air as she at that moment dashed by.

Yankee, on principle, never let Dood beat him. In the commotion of the thunder and lightning, it seemed to Donald that a livelier race had begun; but, the next instant he realized that Dorry's pony had halted, and his own was some paces ahead.

Turning at Dorry's call, he saw that something was the matter. Dood limped painfully for a few steps, then stopped.

"He's hurt his foot," cried Dorry. "It wasn't a stumble; he tripped. Poor Dood!" she added, as the pony's head turned pitifully toward her, "you must go on now."

Dood tried, but it was slow work. He grew lamer at every step. Don, noticing that one of the pony's fore-shoes was loose, dismounted and tried to take it off, but it would not come. A turn in the road disclosed Vanbogen's not far away. By this time, slanting lines of rain showed against the trees.

"It's going to storm in earnest, Dot; you'll get soaking wet!" said Don.

"Not I," chirped Dorry. "My riding-habit is water-proof. You'll be the wet one. Hurry ahead, Don. Dood and I will be there as soon as we can. I do hope he isn't hurt seriously. Oh, Don, do hurry!"

But Don wouldn't and Dood couldn't. If the shower had not paused to take breath before making its grand dash, they certainly would have been drenched.

As it was, they hardly had dismounted at the inn before the rain came down in torrents.

"Dear me!" said Dorry, shaking her riding-skirt, as she sprang into the bare hall, "our saddles will get soaked!" But a negro, in a blue-checked jacket, already was leading the steeds to shelter.

It was a very shabby house at the best of times, but it was particularly dreary now. Dorry was sure she never before had seen anything so dismal as the damp little parlor into which Donald escorted her. The closed blinds, the mouldy, bumpy sofa, the faded-green table-cover, the stained matting, the low-spirited rocking-chair with one arm broken off, and the cracked, dingy wall-paper oppressed her strangely.

"What a horrid place!" she exclaimed in an awe-struck whisper to Don, as a flash of lightning shone through the blinds. "Let us go!"

"Don't mind it, Dot," he answered. "We'll start as soon as the shower is over. Wait here awhile, and I'll run and see what we're to do about the pony. Would you like to have a cup of hot tea?" he added, looking back as he left the room.

"Mercy, no!" said Dorry, "not here!"

They both laughed. "It's fun, after all," thought the young girl as he went out. "I don't mind anything as long as Don's around, the dear old fellow!"

Vanbogen's seemed deserted. She had noticed a solitary hen stepping daintily across the long wet stoop as she entered, and a woman, going up stairs, had turned to stare at her. A sound of men's voices, too, had reached her from a closed room opposite the parlor, yet she felt strangely alone. For company's sake she examined some faded ambrotypes, that stood upright in their half-opened cases on a table between the windows. The ghastly things made her only more lonely.

At that moment, hearing a clicking sound, she raised her head, and saw a man's face outside looking at her through the blinds. The slats closed sharply, when she moved back.

"How nervous I am!" she thought, with a slight shiver. "A pretty traveller I'd make!"

Donald soon came in.

"Here's a fine piece of business!" he said. "Dood has really injured his foot in some way – sprained, I suppose. It is swollen, and evidently pains him very much. I've sent for a man who claims to be a veterinary surgeon. No, indeed, no use in your going out there, Dot; the men appear to be doing all they can for him. It's out of the question for us to travel with that pony to-night; the last train that stops at this one-horse station has gone by, and I can't get a carriage anywhere."

"Can't you hire a horse, then, for yourself? Put my saddle on Yankee; I can ride him."

"Can't get a horse, either. They've only one, and he's out for the whole afternoon."

"Let's walk then. The shower is nearly over. It's only five miles."

"Good!" said Don. "But no – Yankee can carry you, and I'll trot alongside on foot;" and he hastened out to have the side-saddle put on Yankee.

To Dorry's amazement, Donald came back in a few minutes, looking flushed and excited. "I've taken a room for you, Dot; come up stairs – quick."

"But I don't want a room. I – "

"Yes, you do; you'll need to rest. Come right up," he insisted in a low voice, hastily locking the parlor door behind him, and almost pulling her toward the stairs. "I'll tell you up there; come quick."

They ran up together. "What's the matter?" she asked on the way. "What have you heard?"

"Oh, nothing at all," he said, as he stepped into a room shabby with ragged matting and worn-out furniture; then, closing the door, he added: "Dorry, you must go away from this place at once. Don't ask any questions! Oh, it's nothing much, Dot," as he noticed her alarm; "but this is a rough sort of place, you see, and of course I can't go away and leave Dood here with these fellows. The sooner you get off, the better. I'll bring Yankee round to the back door at the end of the hall, so as not to attract attention. Lock your door while I'm gone, and when I come back, hurry down with me, jump on Yankee, and be off without a word."

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, half inclined to laugh, but he was gone.

She turned the key in the lock and ran to the window, pulling its green-paper shade aside. Nothing to be seen but tumble-down out-buildings, a dog-kennel, trampled grass, an empty clothes-line, and a barrel or two.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed again. "Oh, there comes the pony."

Donald lost not a moment; but it seemed to Dorry that he never would come up. Meantime she resolved that, happen what might, she would not go and leave him. Unlocking the door, she stood with her hand upon the knob, intending to discuss the matter with Don; but no sooner had his hand touched the other side than somehow she found herself on the stairs, in the hall, then on Yankee's back, and leaning to catch Don's words.

"Careful, now, don't lose a moment! Send Jack to me at once, with Lady and the buggy! Go!" Even after she had started, she still seemed to feel the pressure of his hand upon hers. Never had she seen Don more resolutely in earnest.

As she galloped through the open gateway, and passed the inn, she turned and saw him in the hall, talking savagely to a man in a wet linen duster, whose back was toward her.

"The idea of leaving Don here alone! I shall not go," she said, suddenly pulling at the bridle. But Yankee, hungry for his supper, thought otherwise. He determined that she should. After a momentary contest, Dorry yielded, deciding to hurry home as fast as possible, and send Jack to Don's relief.

The shower, which had held back for a while, now started afresh. Yankee, with visions of a dry stall and bountiful supper before him, went on his rapid way through the rain, troubling himself little about Dood or Don, and quite unconscious of the disturbed state of his rider's mind, in which anxious thoughts and surmises chased each other in quick succession.

"I noticed that it was a rough place the moment we went in. Who were the noisy men in the other room, I wonder? The man in the wet duster wasn't one of them. What could Don have been saying to him? May be Dood had broken a leg, and Don didn't like to tell me. Ridiculous idea, as if a pony with a broken leg could go a step! May be Don's watch was stolen, or he'd lost his pocket-book. But he could have told me that. Dear me, he needn't have been so dreadfully afraid for me to stay there. It's forlorn to be a girl, and have people think you can't stand anything. Don can take care of himself, anyhow. I'd like to see any of those fellows trying to hurt him," – and here, by way of showing how very much she would like it, Dorry's cheek turned pale. "How foolish! Probably he stayed for Dood's sake. Poor Dood! I hope he'll not be laid up long; Jack could cure him quickly enough. Dear me, how it rains! Glad my riding-habit is water-proof. Liddy will be frightened about me. I suppose they think we're at F – yet, waiting to ride home by moonlight. How well Dr. Lane looks! But he has a fearfully Greek-and-Latin expression. Can't help it, I suppose. Don knows nearly as much Latin as Uncle, I do believe. Dear old Don! I How kind he is! Oh, if anything should happen to him!" Here, Yankee, already speeding bravely, received instructions to "get up," and then Dot, to her great joy, spied a familiar horse and buggy in the distance, coming swiftly toward her.

Lady was a fast mare when Sailor Jack held the reins.

CHAPTER XXIV.

DONALD

Donald was talking rather savagely when Dorothy turned and saw him in the hall as she galloped through the opened gateway. But the man in the wet duster was not in the least vexed by Donald's manner. On the contrary, he assumed an air of superiority, and called him "my boy."