A Girl of the Limberlost (Romance Classic). Stratton-Porter Gene
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to the swamp at nite or late evnin or mornin or far in any time sompin worse an you know could git you
A FREND.
Elnora began to tremble. She hastily glanced around. The damp earth before the case had been trodden by large, roughly shod feet. She caught up the money and the note, thrust them into her guimpe, locked the case, and ran to the road.
She was so breathless and her face so white Sinton noticed it.
“What in the world's the matter, Elnora?” he asked.
“I am half afraid!” she panted.
“Tut, tut, child!” said Wesley Sinton. “Nothing in the world to be afraid of. What happened?”
“Uncle Wesley,” said Elnora, “I had more money than I brought home last night, and I put it in my case. Some one has been there. The ground is all trampled, and they left this note.”
“And took your money, I'll wager,” said Sinton angrily.
“No,” answered Elnora. “Read the note, and oh Uncle Wesley, tell me what it means!”
Sinton's face was a study. “I don't know what it means,” he said. “Only one thing is clear. It means some beast who doesn't really want to harm you has got his eye on you, and he is telling you plain as he can, not to give him a chance. You got to keep along the roads, in the open, and not let the biggest moth that ever flew toll you out of hearing of us, or your mother. It means that, plain and distinct.”
“Just when I can sell them! Just when everything is so lovely on account of them! I can't! I can't stay away from the swamp. The Limberlost is going to buy the books, the clothes, pay the tuition, and even start a college fund. I just can't!”
“You've got to,” said Sinton. “This is plain enough. You go far in the swamp at your own risk, even in daytime.”
“Uncle Wesley,” said the girl, “last night before I went to bed, I was so happy I tried to pray, and I thanked God for hiding me 'under the shadow of His wing.' But how in the world could any one know it?”
Wesley Sinton's heart leaped in his breast. His face was whiter than the girl's now.
“Were you praying out loud, honey?” he almost whispered.
“I might have said words,” answered Elnora. “I know I do sometimes. I've never had any one to talk with, and I've played with and talked to myself all my life. You've caught me at it often, but it always makes mother angry when she does. She says it's silly. I forget and do it, when I'm alone. But Uncle Wesley, if I said anything last night, you know it was the merest whisper, because I'd have been so afraid of waking mother. Don't you see? I sat up late, and studied two lessons.”
Sinton was steadying himself “I'll stop and examine the case as I come back,” he said. “Maybe I can find some clue. That other—that was just accidental. It's a common expression. All the preachers use it. If I tried to pray, that would be the very first thing I'd say.”
The colour returned to Elnora's face.
“Did you tell your mother about this money, Elnora?” he asked.
“No, I didn't,” said Elnora. “It's dreadful not to, but I was afraid. You see they are clearing the swamp so fast. Every year it grows more difficult to find things, and Indian stuff becomes scarcer. I want to graduate, and that's four years unless I can double on the course. That means twenty dollars tuition each year, and new books, and clothes. There won't ever be so much at one time again, that I know. I just got to hang to my money. I was afraid to tell her, for fear she would want it for taxes, and she really must sell a tree or some cattle for that, mustn't she, Uncle Wesley?”
“On your life, she must!” said Wesley. “You put your little wad in the bank all safe, and never mention it to a living soul. It doesn't seem right, but your case is peculiar. Every word you say is a true word. Each year you will find less in the swamp, and things everywhere will be scarcer. If you ever get a few dollars ahead, that can start your college fund. You know you are going to college, Elnora!”
“Of course I am,” said Elnora. “I settled that as soon as I knew what a college was. I will put all my money in the bank, except what I owe you. I'll pay that now.”
“If your arrows are heavy,” said Wesley, “I'll drive on to Onabasha with you.”
“But they are not. Half of them were nicked, and this little box held all the good ones. It's so surprising how many are spoiled when you wash them.”
“What does he pay?”
“Ten cents for any common perfect one, fifty for revolvers, a dollar for obsidian, and whatever is right for enormous big ones.”
“Well, that sounds fair,” said Sinton. “You can come down Saturday and wash the stuff at our house, and I'll take it in when we go marketing in the afternoon.”
Elnora jumped from the carriage. She soon found that with her books, her lunch box, and the points she had a heavy load. She had almost reached the bridge crossing the culvert when she heard distressed screams of a child. Across an orchard of the suburbs came a small boy, after him a big dog, urged by a man in the background. Elnora's heart was with the small fleeing figure in any event whatever. She dropped her load on the bridge, and with practised hand flung a stone at the dog. The beast curled double with a howl. The boy reached the fence, and Elnora was there to help him over. As he touched the top she swung him to the ground, but he clung to her, clasping her tightly, sobbing with fear. Elnora helped him to the bridge, and sat with him in her arms. For a time his replies to her questions were indistinct, but at last he became quieter and she could understand.
He was a mite of a boy, nothing but skin-covered bones, his burned, freckled face in a mortar of tears and dust, his clothing unspeakably dirty, one great toe in a festering mass from a broken nail, and sores all over the visible portions of the small body.
“You won't let the mean old thing make his dog get me!” he wailed.
“Indeed no,” said Elnora, holding him closely.
“You wouldn't set a dog on a boy for just taking a few old apples when you fed 'em to pigs with a shovel every day, would you?”
“No, I would not,” said Elnora hotly.
“You'd give a boy all the apples he wanted, if he hadn't any breakfast, and was so hungry he was all twisty inside, wouldn't you?”
“Yes, I would,” said Elnora.
“If you had anything to eat you would give me something right now, wouldn't you?”
“Yes,” said Elnora. “There's nothing but just stones in the package. But my dinner is in that case. I'll gladly divide.”
She opened the box. The famished child gave a little cry and reached both hands. Elnora caught them back.
“Did you have any supper?”
“No.”
“Any dinner yesterday?”
“An apple and some grapes I stole.”
“Whose boy are you?”
“Old Tom Billings's.”
“Why doesn't your father get you something to eat?”
“He does most days, but he's drunk now.”
“Hush, you must not!” said Elnora. “He's your father!”
“He's spent all the money to get drunk, too,” said the boy, “and Jimmy and Belle are both crying for breakfast. I'd a got out all right with an apple for myself, but I tried to get some for them and the dog got too close. Say, you can throw, can't you?”
“Yes,” admitted Elnora. She poured half the milk into the cup. “Drink this,” she said, holding it to him.
The boy gulped the milk and swore joyously, gripping the cup with