Dab Kinzer: A Story of a Growing Boy, William O. Stoddard [motivational books to read .TXT] 📗

was full in an instant, and nearly a bushel of freshly-caught and ill-tempered crabs were manoeuvring in all directions around the woolly head, which was all their late captor could now keep in sight.

"Up with the grapnel, Ford," shouted Dab. "Take an oar: we'll both row.
He can swim like a duck, but he might split his throat."

"Or get scared to death."

"Or those crabs might go for him, and eat him up."

"How he does yell!"

CHAPTER VII. A VERY ACCIDENTAL CALL.

At the very moment when the angry crab closed his nippers on the bare big toe of Dick Lee, and his shrill note of discomfort rang across the inlet, the shriller whistle of the engine announced the arrival of the morning train from the city, at the little station in the village.

A moment or so later, a very pretty young lady was standing beside a trunk on the platform, trying to get some information from the flagman.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Foster lives?"

"That's the gimlet-eyed lawyer from New Yark?"

"Yes, he's from New York," said the young lady, smiling in his face.
"Where does he live?"

"He's got the sassiest boy, thin. Is it him as took the Kinzer house?"

"I think likely it is. Can you tell me how to get there?"

"Thim Kinzers is foine people. The widdy married one of the gurrels to
Misther Morris."

"But how can I get to the house?"

"Is it there ye're afther goin'?—Hey, Michael, me boy, bring up yer owld rattlethrap, and take the leddy's thrunk. She'll be goin' to the Kinzer place. Sharp, now."

"I should say it was," muttered the young lady, as the remains of what had been a carryall were pulled up beside the platform by the skinny skeleton of what might once have been a horse. "It's a rattletrap."

There was no choice, however; for that was the only public conveyance at the station, and the trunk was already whisked in behind the dashboard, and the driver was waiting for her.

He could afford to wait, as it would be some hours before another train would be in.

There was no door to open in that "carriage." It was all door except the top and bottom, and the pretty passenger was neither helped nor hindered in finding her place on the back seat.

If the flagman was more disposed to ask questions than to answer them, Michael said few words of any kind except to his horse. To him, indeed, he kept up a constant stream of encouraging remarks, the greatest part of which would have been difficult for an ordinary hearer to understand.

Very likely the horse knew what they meant; for he came very near breaking from a limp into a trot several times, under the stimulus of all that clucking and "G'lang, now!"

The distance was by no means great, and Michael seemed to know the way perfectly. At least he answered, "Yes'm, indade," to several inquiries from his passenger, and she was compelled to be satisfied with that.

"What a big house it is! And painters at work on it too," she exclaimed, just as Michael added a vigorous jerk of the reins to the "Whoa!" with which he stopped his nag in front of an open gate.

"Are you sure this is the place?"

"Yes'm; fifty cints, mum."

By the time the trunk was out of the carriage and swung inside of the gate, the young lady had followed; but for some reason Michael at once sprang back to his place, and whipped up his limping steed. It may have been from the fear of being asked to take that trunk into the house, for it was not a small one. The young lady stood for a moment irresolute, and then left it where it was, and walked on up to the house.

No bell; no knocker. The workmen had not reached that part of their improvements yet. But the door was open; and a very neatly furnished parlor at the left of the hall seemed to say, "Come right in, please;" and in she went.

Such an arrival could not possibly have escaped the notice of the inmates of the house; and, as the young lady from the railway came in at the front, another and a very different-looking lady marched through to the parlor from the rear.

Each one would have been a puzzle to the other, if the elder of the two had not been Mrs. Kinzer, and the widow had never been very much puzzled in all her life. At all events, she put out her hand, with a cordial smile, saying,—

"Miss Foster, is it not? I am Mrs. Kinzer. How could he have made such a mistake?"

"Yes, Miss Annie Foster. But do please explain Where am I? and how do you know me?"

The widow laughed cheerily.

"How do I know you, my dear? Why, you resemble your mother almost as much as your brother Ford resembles his father. You are only one door from home here, and I'll have your trunk taken right over to the house. Please sit down a moment. Ah! my daughter Samantha, Miss Foster. Excuse me a moment, while I call one of the men."

By the time their mother was fairly out of the room, however, Keziah and Pamela were also in it; and Annie thought she had rarely seen three girls whose appearance testified so strongly to the healthiness of the place they lived in.

The flagman's questions and Annie's answers were related quickly enough, and the cause of Michael's blunder was plain at once.

The parlor rang again with peals of laughter; for Dab Kinzer's sisters were ready at any time to look at the funny side of things, and their accidental guest saw no reason for not joining them.

"Your brother Ford is on the bay, crabbing with our Dabney," remarked Samantha, as the widow returned. But Annie's eyes had been furtively watching her baggage through the window, and saw it swinging upon a broad, red-shirted pair of shoulders, just then; and, before she could bring her mind to bear upon the crab question, Keziah Kinzer exclaimed,—

"If there isn't Mrs. Foster, coming through the garden gate!"

"My mother!" and Annie was up and out of the parlor in a twinkling, followed by all the ladies of the Kinzer family. It was really quite a procession.

Now, if Mrs. Foster was in any degree surprised by her daughter's sudden appearance, or by her getting to the Kinzer house first instead of to her own, it was a curious fact that she did not say so by a word or a look.

Not a breath of it. But, for all the thorough-bred self-control of the city lady, Mrs. Kinzer knew perfectly well there was something odd and unexpected about it all. If Samantha had noticed this fact, there might have been some questions asked possibly; but one of the widow's most rigid rules in life was to "mind her own business."

The girls, indeed, were quite jubilant over an occurrence which made them at once so well acquainted with their very attractive new neighbor; and they might have followed her even beyond the gate in the north fence, if it had not been for their mother. All they were allowed to do was to go back to their own parlor, and hold "a council of war," in the course of which Annie Foster was discussed, from her bonnet to her shoes.

Mrs. Foster had been abundantly affectionate in greeting her daughter; but, when once they were alone in the wee sitting-room of the old Kinzer homestead, she put her arms around her, saying,—

"Now, my darling, tell me what it all means."

"Why, mother, it was partly my mistake, and partly the flagman's and the driver's; and I'm sure Mrs. Kinzer was kind. She knew me before I said a word, by my resemblance to you."

"Oh, I don't mean that! How is it you are here so soon? I thought you meant to make a long visit at your uncle Hart's."

"So I would, mother, if it had not been for those boys."

"Your cousins, Annie?"

"Cousins, mother! You never saw such young bears in all your life. They tormented me from morning till night."

"But, Annie, I hope you have not offended"—

"Offended, mother? Aunt Maria thinks they're perfect, and so does uncle
Joe. They'd let them pull the house down over their heads, you'd think."

"But, Annie, what did they do? and what did you say?"

"Do, mother? I couldn't tell you in all day; but when they poured ink over my cuffs and collars, I said I would come home. I had just one pair left white to wear home, and I travelled all night."

Poor Mrs. Foster! A cold shudder went over her at the idea of that ink among the spotless contents of her own collar-box.

"What boys they must be! but, Annie, what did your aunt say?"

"Uncle Joe laughed till he cried; and Aunt Maria said, 'Boys will be boys;' and I half believe they were sorry; but that was only a sort of a winding-up, I wouldn't stay there another day."

Annie had other things to tell; and, long before she had finished her story, there was no further fault to be found with her for losing her temper. Still her mother said mildly,—

"I must write to Maria at once, for it won't do to let those boys make trouble between us."

Annie looked at her with an expression of face which very plainly said,—

"Nobody in the wide world could have the heart to quarrel with you."

CHAPTER VIII. A RESCUE, AND A GRAND GOOD TIME.

Dab Kinzer and his friend were prompt enough coming to the rescue of their unfortunate fellow-lubber; but to get him out of the queer wreck he had made of that punt looked like a tough task to both of them, and they said as much.

"I isn't drownin'," exclaimed Dick heroically, as the other boat was pulled alongside of him. "Jest you take your scoop-net, and save dem crabs."

"They won't drown," said Ford.

"But they'll get away," said Dab, as he snatched up the scoop. "Dick's head is perfectly level on that point."

The side-boards of the old punt were under water half the time, but the crabs were pretty well penned in. Even a couple of them, that had mistaken Dick's wool for another sheep's-head, were secured without difficulty, in spite of the firmness with which they clung to their prize.

"What luck he'd been having!" said Ford.

"He always does," said Dab. "I say, Dick, how'll I scoop you in?"

"Has you done got all de crabs?"

"Every pinner of 'em."

"Den you jest wait a minute."

Waiting was all that was left them to do, for the shining black face and woolly head disappeared almost instantly.

"He's sunk," exclaimed Ford.

"There he comes," replied Dab: "he'd swum ashore from here, and not half try. Why, I could swim twice as far as that myself, and he can beat me."

"Could you? I couldn't."

That was the first time Dab had heard his city acquaintance make a confession of inability, and he could see a more than usually thoughtful expression on his face. The coolness and skill of Dick Lee, in his hour of disaster, had not been thrown away upon him.

"If I had my clothes off," said Ford, "I believe I'd try that on."

"Dab Kinzer, you's de bes' feller dar is. But wot'll we do wid de old boat?" burst out Dick, on coming to the surface.

"Let the tide carry her in while we're crabbing. She isn't worth mending, but we'll tow her home."

"All right," said Dick, as he grasped the gunwale of Dab's boat, and began to climb over.

"Hold on, Dick."

"I is a-holdin' on."

"I mean, wait a bit. Ain't you wet?"

"Of course I's wet."

"Well, then, you stay in there till you get dry It's well you didn't have your new clothes on."

"Ain't I glad 'bout dem!" enthusiastically ex-claimed the young African. "Nebber mind dese clo'es. De water on 'em's all good, dry water, like de res' ob de bay."

And, so saying, Dick tumbled over in, with a spatter which made Ford Foster tread on two of three crabs in getting away from it. It was not the first time, by many, that Dick Lee had found himself bathing in