Johnny-In-The-Woods
JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demon-
strated his claim to be Cock of the Walk by a
most impious hand-to-hand fight with his own aunt,
Miss Janet Trumbull, in which he had been deci-
sively victorious, and won his spurs, consisting of his
late grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch,
was to take a new path of action. Johnny suddenly
developed the prominent Trumbull trait, but in his
case it was inverted. Johnny, as became a boy of
his race, took an excursion into the past, but instead
of applying the present to the past, as was the
tendency of the other Trumbulls, he forcibly applied
the past to the present. He fairly plastered the
past over the exigencies of his day and generation
like a penetrating poultice of mustard, and the
results were peculiar.
Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during the
midsummer vacation to remain in the house, to
keep quiet, read a book, and be a good boy, obeyed,
but his obedience was of a doubtful measure of
wisdom.
Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trum-
bull's dark little library while Jonathan was walking
sedately to the post-office, holding his dripping
umbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, without
regard to the wind, thereby getting the soft drive
of the rain full in his face, which became, as it
were, bedewed with tears, entirely outside any
cause of his own emotions.
Johnny probably got the only book of an anti-
orthodox trend in his uncle's library. He found
tucked away in a snug corner an ancient collection
of Border Ballads, and he read therein of many
unmoral romances and pretty fancies, which, since
he was a small boy, held little meaning for him, or
charm, beyond a delight in the swing of the rhythm,
for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when he
read of Robin Hood, the bold Robin Hood, with his
dubious ethics but his certain and unquenchable
interest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent. He
had the volume in his own room, being somewhat
doubtful as to whether it might be of the sort
included in the good-boy role. He sat beside a rain-
washed window, which commanded a view of the
wide field between the Trumbull mansion and Jim
Simmons's house, and he read about Robin Hood
and his Greenwood adventures, his forcible setting
the wrong right; and for the first time his imagina-
tion awoke, and his ambition. Johnny Trumbull,
hitherto hero of nothing except little material fist-
fights, wished now to become a hero of true romance.
In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possi-
bility of reincarnating, in his own person, Robin
Hood. He eyed the wide green field dreamily
through his rain-blurred window. It was a pretty
field, waving with feathery grasses and starred with
daisies and buttercups, and it was very fortunate
that it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons's
house was not a desirable feature of the landscape,
and looked much better several acres away. It was
a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a dis-
grace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace,
and an unsolved problem. He owned that house,
and somehow contrived to pay the taxes thereon.
He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of
evil ways, and his children were many. There
seemed no way to dispose finally of Jim Simmons
and his house except by murder and arson, and the
village was a peaceful one, and such measures were
entirely too strenuous.
Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his
window, saw approaching a rusty-black umbrella
held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the
storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with
which a soldier might hold a bayonet, and knew it
for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he beheld
also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his
long ambling body and legs. Jonathan was coming
home from the post-office, whither he repaired every
morning. He never got a letter, never anything
except religious newspapers, but the visit to the
post-office was part of his daily routine. Rain or
shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning
mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoy-
ment of a perfectly useless duty performed. Johnny
watched his uncle draw near to the house, and cruelly
reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He
even wondered if his uncle could possibly have read
Robin Hood and still show absolutely no result in his
own personal appearance. He knew that he, Johnny,
could not walk to the post-office and back, even with
the drawback of a dripping old umbrella instead of
a bow and arrow, without looking a bit like Robin
Hood, especially when fresh from reading about him.
Then suddenly something distracted his thoughts
from Uncle Jonathan. The long, feathery grass in
the field moved with a motion distinct from that
caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger-
striped back emerge, covering long leaps of terror.
Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid of Uncle
Jonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind the
first leaping, striped back, and he knew there were
more cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan. There were
even motions caused by unseen things, and he
reasoned, "Kittens afraid of Uncle Jonathan."
Then Johnny reflected with a great glow of indigna-
tion that the Simmonses kept an outrageous num-
ber of half-starved cats and kittens, besides a quota
of children popularly supposed to be none too well
nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then it was
that Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination
slapped the past of old romance like a most thorough
mustard poultice over the present. There could be
no Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws
(that is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows,
no sojourning under greenwood trees and the rest,
but something he could, and would, do and be.
That rainy day when Johnny Trumbull was a good
boy, and stayed in the house, and read a book,
marked an epoch.
That night when Johnny went into his aunt
Janet's room she looked curiously at his face, which
seemed a little strange to her. Johnny, since he had
come into possession of his grandfather's watch,
went every night, on his way to bed, to his aunt's
room for the purpose of winding up that ancient
timepiece, Janet having a firm impression that it
might not be done properly unless under her super-
vision. Johnny stood before his aunt and wound up
the watch with its ponderous key, and she watched
him.
"What have you been doing all day, John?" said
she.
"Stayed in the house and -- read."
"What did you read, John?"
"A book."
"Do you mean to be impertinent, John?"
"No, ma'am," replied Johnny, and with perfect
truth. He had not the slightest idea of the title of
the book.
"What was the book?"
"A poetry book."
"Where did you find it?"
"In Uncle Jonathan's library."
"Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet,
in a mystified way. She had a general impression
of Jonathan's library as of century-old preserves,
altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one
from the other except by labels. Poetry she could
not imagine as being there at all. Finally she
thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and
Chaucer. The library might include them, but she
had an idea that Spenser and Chaucer were not fit
reading for a little boy. However, as she remem-
bered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny
could understand much of them. Probably he had
gotten hold of an early Victorian, and she looked
rather contemptuous.
"I don't think much of a boy like you reading
poetry," said Janet. "Couldn't you find anything
else to read?"
"No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny,
before exploring his uncle's theological library, had
peered at his father's old medical books and his
mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrify-
ing uniform editions of standard things written by
women.
"I don't suppose there ARE many books written for
boys," said Aunt Janet, reflectively.
"No, ma'am," said Johnny. He finished winding
the watch, and gave, as was the custom, the key to
Aunt Janet, lest he lose it.
"I will see if I cannot find some books of travels
for you, John," said Janet. "I think travels would
be good reading for a boy. Good night, John."
"Good night. Aunt Janet," replied Johnny. His
aunt never kissed him good night, which was one
reason why he liked her.
On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room,
whose door stood open. She was busy writing at her
desk. She glanced at Johnny.
"Are you going to bed?" said she.
"Yes, ma'am."
Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his
forehead, parting his curly hair to do so. He loved
his mother, but did not care at all to have her kiss
him. He did not object, because he thought she
liked to do it, and she was a woman, and it was a
very little thing in which he could oblige her.
"Were you a good boy, and did you find a good
book to read?" asked she.
"Yes, ma'am."
"What was the book?" Cora Trumbull inquired,
absently, writing as she spoke.
"Poetry."
Cora laughed. " Poetry is odd for a boy," said she.
"You should have read a book of travels or history.
Good night, Johnny."
"Good night, mother."
Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of
medicines, coming up from his study. But his father
did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, having
imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of
history and more knowledge of excursions into realms
of old romance than his elders had ever known during
much longer lives than his.
Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling
nearly led him astray in the matter of Lily Jennings;
he thought of her, for one sentimental minute, as
Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed
the idea peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply
laugh. He knew her. Moreover, she was a girl,
and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of
another boy who would be a kindred spirit; he
wished for more than one boy. He wished for a
following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin
Hood's. But he could think of nobody, after con-
siderable study, except one boy, younger than him-
self. He was a beautiful little boy, whose mother
had never allowed him to have his golden curls
cut, although he had been in trousers for quite a
while. However, the trousers were foolish, being
knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks,
which revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The
boy's name was Arnold Carruth, and that was against
him, as being long, and his mother firm about al-
lowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were
not allowed in the very exclusive private school
which Johnny attended.
Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beau-
tiful little boy, would have had no standing at all
in the school as far as popularity was concerned
had it not been for a strain of mischief which tri-
umphed over curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a
much-kissed rosebud of a mouth. Arnold Carruth,
as one of the teachers permitted herself to state
when relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was
"as choke-full of mischief as a pod of peas. And the
worst of it all is," quoth the teacher, Miss Agnes
Rector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden
sympathy for mischief herself -- "the worst of it is,
that child looks so like a cherub on a rosy cloud that
even if he should be caught nobody would believe
it. They would be much more likely to accuse poor
little Andrew Jackson Green, because he has a snub
nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never knew that
poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn
his lessons. He is almost too good. And another
worst of it is, nobody can help loving that little imp
of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I believe the
scamp knows it and takes advantage of it."
It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did
profit unworthily by his beauty and engagingness,
albeit without calculation. He was so young, it
was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation,
of deliberate trading upon his assets of birth and
beauty and fascination. However, Johnny Trum-
bull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive
to the situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and
Arnold Carruth only, about Robin Hood and his
great scheme.
"You can help," said this wise Johnny; "you can
be in it, because nobody thinks you can be in any-
thing, on account of your wearing curls."
Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug
at one golden curl which the wind blew over a
shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner
of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese
cedars, during an intermission.
"I can't help it because I wear curls," declared
Arnold with angry shame.
"Who said you could? No need of getting mad."
"Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma
won't let me have these old curls cut off," said
Arnold. "You needn't think I want to have curls
like a girl, Johnny Trumbull."
"Who said you did? And I know you don't like
to wear those short stockings, either."
"Like to!" Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of
one half-bared, dimpled leg, then of the other.
"First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt
Flora's stockings and throw these in the furnace --
I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear these
baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer,
Johnny Trumbull. My mamma and my aunt Flora
are awful nice, but they are queer about some
things."
"Most women are queer," agreed Johnny, "but
my aunt Janet isn't as queer as some. Rather guess
if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd cut
'em off herself."
"Wish she was my aunt," said Arnold Carruth
with a sigh. "A feller needs a woman like that till
he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my curls
if I was to go to your house, Johnny?"
"I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless
your mother said she might. She has to be real
careful about doing right, because my uncle Jonathan
used to preach, you know."
Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured
pain. "Well, I s'pose I'll have to stand the curls and
little baby stockings awhile longer," said he. "What
was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?"
"I am going to tell you because I know you aren't
too good, if you do wear curls and little stockings."
"No, I ain't too good," declared Arnold Carruth,
proudly; "I ain't -- HONEST, Johnny."
"That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you
tell any of the other boys -- or girls --"
"Tell girls!" sniffed Arnold.
"If you tell anybody, I'll lick you."
"Guess I ain't afraid."
"Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'd
been licked."
"Guess my mamma would give it to you."
"Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped,
would you, then?"
Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened
himself with a quick remembrance that he was
born a man. "You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny
Trumbull."
"Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is --" Johnny
spoke in emphatic whispers, Arnold's curly head close
to his mouth: "There are a good many things in
this town have got to be set right," said Johnny.
Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in
his lovely blue eyes under the golden shadow of his
curls, a fire which had shone in the eyes of some
ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood
in the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull,
although this small descendant did go about curled
and kissed and barelegged.
"How'll we begin?" said Arnold, in a strenuous
whisper.
"We've got to begin right away with Jim Sim-
mons's cats and kittens."
"With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?" repeated
Arnold.
"That was what I said, exactly. We've got to
begin right there. It is an awful little beginning,
but I can't think of anything else. If you can, I'm
willing to listen."
"I guess I can't," admitted Arnold, helplessly.
"Of course we can't go around taking away money
from rich people and giving it to poor folks. One
reason is, most of the poor folks in this town are
lazy, and don't get money because they don't want
to work for it. And when they are not lazy, they
drink. If we gave rich people's money to poor
folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good.
The rich folks would be poor, and the poor folks
wouldn't stay rich; they would be lazier, and get
more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things
like that in this town. There are a few poor folks
I have been thinking we might take some money
for and do good, but not many."
"Who?" inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones.
"Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's
awful poor. Folks help her, I know, but she can't
be real pleased being helped. She'd rather have the
money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't
get some of your father's money away and give it
to her, for one."
"Get away papa's money!"
"You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as
that, Arnold Carruth?"
"I guess papa wouldn't like it."
"Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point.
It is not what your father would like; it is what that
poor old lady would like."
It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at
Johnny.
"If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may
as well stop before we begin," said Johnny.
Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. "Old
Mr. Webster Payne is awful poor," said he. "We
might take some of your father's money and give
it to him."
Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. "If," said he,
"you think my father keeps his money where we
can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. My
father's money is all in papers that are not worth
much now and that he has to keep in the bank
till they are."
Arnold smiled hopefully. "Guess that's the way
my papa keeps HIS money."
"It's the way most rich people are mean enough
to," said Johnny, severely. "I don't care if it's
your father or mine, it's mean. And that's why
we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and
kittens."
"Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?"
inquired Arnold.
Johnny sniffed. "Don't be silly," said he.
"Though I do think a nice cat with a few kittens
might cheer her up a little, and we could steal enough
milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milk-
man, to feed them. But I wasn't thinking of giving
her or old Mr. Payne cats and kittens. I wasn't
thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor
cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and
doesn't half feed, and that have to go hunting
around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats hate
water, too, and pick things up that must be bad
for their stomachs, when they ought to have their
milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. No, Arnold
Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr.
Jim Simmons's cats and get them in nice homes
where they can earn their living catching mice and
be well cared for."
"Steal cats?" said Arnold.
"Yes, steal cats, in order to do right," said Johnny
Trumbull, and his expression was heroic, even
exalted.
It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet
exultant, rang in their ears.
"If," said the treble voice, "you are going to
steal dear little kitty cats and get nice homes for
them, I'm going to help."
The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had
stood on the other side of the Japanese cedars and
heard every word.
Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold
Carruth was the angrier of the two. "Mean little
cat yourself, listening," said he. His curls seemed
to rise like a crest of rage.
Johnny, remembering some things, was not so
outspoken. "You hadn't any right to listen, Lily
Jennings," he said, with masculine severity.
"I didn't start to listen," said Lily. "I was look-
ing for cones on these trees. Miss Parmalee wanted
us to bring some object of nature into the class, and
I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese
cone on one of these trees, and then I heard you
boys talking, and I couldn't help listening. You
spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for
that cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all
about the Simmonses' cats, and I know lots of other
cats that haven't got good homes, and -- I am going
to be in it."
"You AIN'T," declared Arnold Carruth.
"We can't have girls in it," said Johnny the mind-
ful, more politely.
"You've got to have me. You had better have
me, Johnny Trumbull," she added with meaning.
Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail,
but what could he do? Suppose Lily told how she
had hidden him -- him, Johnny Trumbull, the cham-
pion of the school -- in that empty baby-carriage!
He would have more to contend against than Arnold
Carruth with socks and curls. He did not think Lily
would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, be-
frilled girl, gave an impression of having a knowledge
of a square deal almost as much as a boy would;
but what boy could tell with a certainty what such
an uncertain creature as a girl might or might not
do? Moreover, Johnny had a weakness, a hidden,
Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather
wished to have her act as partner in his great enter-
prise. He therefore gruffly assented.
"All right," he said, "you can be in it. But just
you look out. You'll see what happens if you tell."
"She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl,"
said Arnold Carruth, fiercely.
Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him
with queenly scorn. "And what are you?" said she.
"A little boy with curls and baby socks."
Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided.
"Mind you don't tell," he said, taking Johnny's cue.
"I sha'n't tell," replied Lily, with majesty. "But
you'll tell yourselves if you talk one side of trees
without looking on the other."
There was then only a few moments before
Madame's musical Japanese gong which announced
the close of intermission should sound, but three
determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much
in a few moments. The first move was planned in
detail before that gong sounded, and the two boys
raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toad-
stool, which she had hurriedly caught up from the
lawn for her object of nature to be taken into class.
It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite
a heroine in the class. That fact doubtless gave her
a more dauntless air when, after school, the two
boys caught up with her walking gracefully down
the road, flirting her skirts and now and then giving
her head a toss, which made her fluff of hair fly into
a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw hat.
"To-night," Johnny whispered, as he sped past.
"At half past nine, between your house and the
Simmonses'," replied Lily, without even looking at
him. She was a past-mistress of dissimulation.
Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night,
and the guests remarked sometimes, within the little
girl's hearing, what a darling she was.
"She never gives me a second's anxiety," Lily's
mother whispered to a lady beside her. "You can-
not imagine what a perfectly good, dependable child
she is."
"Now my Christina is a good child in the grain,"
said the lady, "but she is full of mischief. I never
can tell what Christina will do next."
"I can always tell," said Lily's mother, in a voice
of maternal triumph.
"Now only the other night, when I thought
Christina was in bed, that absurd child got up and
dressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tom
came home with her, and of course there was nothing
very bad about it. Christina was very bright; she
said, 'Mother, you never told me I must not get up
and go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course,
true. I could not gainsay that."
"I cannot," said Lily's mother, "imagine my
Lily's doing such a thing."
If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's,
whom she dearly loved, she might have wavered.
That pathetic trust in herself might have caused her
to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and
had been excused, and was undressing for bed, with
the firm determination to rise betimes and dress
and join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth.
Johnny had the easiest time of them all. He simply
had to bid his aunt Janet good night and have the
watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his
mother at her desk and his father in his office, and
go whistling to his room, and sit in the summer
darkness and wait until the time came.
Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His
mother had an old school friend visiting her, and
Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls falling
in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be
shown off and show off. He had to play one little
piece which he had learned upon the piano. He had
to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old
he was, and if he liked to go to school, and how
many teachers he had, and if he loved them, and
if he loved his little mates, and which of them he
loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his
aunt Dorothy, who was the school friend and not his
aunt at all, and would he not like to come and live
with her, because she had not any dear little boy;
and he was obliged to submit to having his curls
twisted around feminine fingers, and to being kissed
and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before
he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist
upon his lips, and free to assert himself.
That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as
having an actual horror of his helpless state of pam-
pered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of the
boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips
and frown of childish brows who stole out of bed,
got into some queer clothes, and crept down the
back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was
not his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor,
he heard the clink of silver and china from the
butler's pantry, where the maids were washing the
dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and he
gave a little leap of joy on the grass of the lawn.
At last he was out at night alone, and -- he wore long
stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of
his mother's toward that end. When he came home
to luncheon he pulled them out of the darning-bag,
which he had spied through a closet door that had
been left ajar. One of the stockings was green silk,
and the other was black, and both had holes in
them, but all that mattered was the length. Arnold
wore also his father's riding-breeches, which came
over his shoes and which were enormously large,
and one of his father's silk shirts. He had resolved
to dress consistently for such a great occasion. His
clothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped
clumsily down the road.
However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jen-
nings, who were waiting for him at the rendezvous,
were startled by his appearance. Both began to
run, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand,
but Arnold's cautious hallo arrested them. Johnny
and Lily returned slowly, peering through the dark-
ness.
"It's me," said Arnold, with gay disregard of
grammar.
"You looked," said Lily, "like a real fat old man.
What HAVE you got on, Arnold Carruth?"
Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous
but triumphant. He hitched up a leg of the riding-
breeches and displayed a long, green silk stocking.
Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter.
"What you laughing at?" inquired Arnold, crossly.
"Oh, nothing at all," said Lily. "Only you do
look like a scarecrow broken loose. Doesn't he,
Johnny?"
"I am going home," stated Arnold with dignity.
He turned, but Johnny caught him in his little iron
grip.
"Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!" said he. "Don't
be a baby. Come on." And Arnold Carruth with
difficulty came on.
People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many
lights were out when the affair began, many went
out while it was in progress. All three of the band
steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and
dodged behind trees and hedges when shadowy
figures appeared on the road or carriage-wheels were
heard in the distance. At their special destination
they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter
Van Ness always retired very early. To be sure,
he did not go to sleep until late, and read in bed,
but his room was in the rear of the house on the
second floor, and all the windows, besides, were
dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was a very wealthy
elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given
the village a beautiful stone church with memorial
windows, a soldiers' monument, a park, and a home
for aged couples, called "The Van Ness Home."
Mr. Van Ness lived alone with the exception of a
housekeeper and a number of old, very well-disci-
plined servants. The servants always retired early,
and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet for
his late reading. He was a very studious old gentle-
man.
To the Van Ness house, set back from the street
in the midst of a well-kept lawn, the three repaired,
but not as noiselessly as they could have wished. In
fact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, which
was wide open, and one woman's voice was heard
in conclave with another.
"I should think," said the first, "that the lawn
was full of cats. Did you ever hear such a mewing,
Jane?"
That was the housekeeper's voice. The three,
each of whom carried a squirming burlap potato-bag
from the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a clump
of stately pines full of windy songs, and trem-
bled.
"It do sound like cats, ma'am," said another voice,
which was Jane's, the maid, who had brought Mrs.
Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot water and
peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with
her.
"Just listen," said Mrs. Meeks.
"Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundreds
of cats and little kittens."
"I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You might go out and look, Jane."
"Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!"
"How can they be burglars when they are cats?"
demanded Mrs. Meeks, testily.
Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side,
and Lily on the other, prodded him with an elbow.
They were close under the window.
"Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am,"
said Jane. "They may mew like cats to tell one
another what door to go in."
"Jane, you talk like an idiot," said Mrs. Meeks.
"Burglars talking like cats! Who ever heard of such
a thing? It sounds right under that window. Open
my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and
throw them out."
It was an awful moment. The three dared not
move. The cats and kittens in the bags -- not so
many, after all -- seemed to have turned into multi-
plication-tables. They were positively alarming in
their determination to get out, their wrath with one
another, and their vociferous discontent with the
whole situation.
"I can't hold my bag much longer," said poor little
Arnold Carruth.
"Hush up, cry-baby!" whispered Lily, fiercely,
in spite of a clawing paw emerging from her own
bag and threatening her bare arm.
Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely
on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down and
making him lose hold of his bag. The other struck
Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she
held on despite a scratch. Lily had pluck.
Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned
out of the window. "I guess they have went,
ma'am," said she. "I seen something run."
"I can hear them," said Mrs. Meeks, queru-
lously.
"I seen them run," persisted Jane, who was tired
and wished to be gone.
"Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I
hear them, even if they have gone," said Mrs. Meeks.
The three heard with relief the window slammed
down.
The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily
Jennings and Johnny Trumbull turned indignantly
upon Arnold Carruth.
"There, you have gone and let all those poor cats
go," said Johnny.
"And spoilt everything," said Lily.
Arnold rubbed his shoulder. "You would have
let go if you had been hit right on the shoulder
by a great shoe," said he, rather loudly.
"Hush up!" said Lily. "I wouldn't have let my
cats go if I had been killed by a shoe; so there."
"Serves us right for taking a boy with curls," said
Johnny Trumbull.
But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was
no match whatever for Johnny Trumbull, and had
never been allowed the honor of a combat with him;
but surprise takes even a great champion at a dis-
advantage. Arnold turned upon Johnny like a flash,
out shot a little white fist, up struck a dimpled leg
clad in cloth and leather, and down sat Johnny
Trumbull; and, worse, open flew his bag, and there
was a yowling exodus.
"There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull,"
said Lily, in a perfectly calm whisper. At that mo-
ment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a simul-
taneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was
she to gloat over the misfortunes of men? But retri-
bution came swiftly to Lily. That viciously claw-
ing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit
to Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that
heroic land. Lily let go of her bag and with diffi-
culty stifled a shriek of pain.
"Whose cats are gone now?" demanded Johnny,
rising.
"Yes, whose cats are gone now?" said Arnold.
Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and
knocked him down and sat on him.
Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little
figure in the darkness. "I am going home," said
she. "My mother does not allow me to go with
fighting boys."
Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering
slightly. His shoulder ached considerably.
"He knocked me down," said Johnny.
Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold
felt a thrill of triumph. "Always knew I could if I
had a chance," said he.
"You couldn't if I had been expecting it," said
Johnny.
"Folks get knocked down when they ain't ex-
pecting it most of the time," declared Arnold, with
more philosophy than he realized.
"I don't think it makes much difference about the
knocking down," said Lily. "All those poor cats
and kittens that we were going to give a good home,
where they wouldn't be starved, have got away,
and they will run straight back to Mr. Jim Sim-
mons's."
"If they haven't any more sense than to run back
to a place where they don't get enough to eat and
are kicked about by a lot of children, let them run,"
said Johnny.
"That's so," said Arnold. "I never did see what
we were doing such a thing for, anyway -- stealing
Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. Van
Ness."
It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of
righteousness. "I saw and I see," she declared, with
dangerously loud emphasis. "It was only our duty
to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't
know any better than to stay where they are badly
treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so much money he
doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been
real pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk
and liver for them. But it's all spoiled now. I will
never undertake to do good again, with a lot of boys
in the way, as long as I live; so there!" Lily turned
about.
"Going to tell your mother!" said Johnny, with
scorn which veiled anxiety.
"No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales."
Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny
and Arnold, two poor little disillusioned would-be
knights of old romance in a wretchedly common-
place future, not far enough from their horizons for
any glamour.
They went home, and of the three Johnny Trum-
bull was the only one who was discovered. For him
his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a confession.
She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled.
"You have learned to fight, John Trumbull," said
she, when he had finished. "Now the very next
thing you have to learn, and make yourself worthy
of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool."
"Yes, Aunt Janet," said Johnny.
The next noon, when he came home from school,
old Maria, who had been with the family ever since
he could remember and long before, called him into
the kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from a
saucer, were two very lean, tall kittens.
"See those nice little tommy-cats," said Maria,
beaming upon Johnny, whom she loved and whom
she sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys.
"Your aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses'
for them this morning. They are overrun with cats
-- such poor, shiftless folks always be -- and you can
have them. We shall have to watch for a little while
till they get wonted, so they won't run home."
Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending with
the new milk, and felt presumably much as dear
Robin Hood may have felt after one of his successful
raids in the fair, poetic past.
"Pretty, ain't they?" said Maria. "They have
drank up a whole saucer of milk. 'Most starved. I
s'pose."
Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens and
sat down in a kitchen chair, with one on each shoul-
der, hard, boyish cheeks pressed against furry, pur-
ring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walk
felt his heart glad and tender with the love of the
strong for the weak.
-THE END-
Mary E Wilkins Freeman's short story: Johnny-In-The-Woods
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