“What need to say a word, sence when a man’s bent1 to do a thing he does it? But keep an open ear, Timothy, boy. I’m curious to know what sort o’ trouble ’tis, Dennis hints at, as comin’ to them old people yon. And he’d never say, considerin’ as he does, that what goes on in the big house is no consarn o’ the cottage, an’ fearin’ to remind ’em even’t we’re alive, lest they pack us off an’ fetch in folks with no childer to bless an’ bother ’em. Yes, go, Timothy; and wait; here’s one them handy catch-pins, that Glory might tighten2 her skirt a bit.”
Timothy’s usually merry face had been sadly overclouded as he watched the departure of Glory and her companions, but it lightened instantly when Mary favored his suggestion to follow and learn their fortune. With his hat on the back of his head, his stick over his shoulder, and his unlighted pipe in his mouth–which still managed to whistle a gay tune3 despite this impediment–he sauntered along the road in the direction the others had taken, though at some distance behind them. But when they passed boldly through the great iron gates and followed the driveway winding4 over the beautiful lawn, his bashfulness overcame him, and he sat down on the bank-wall to await their return, which must be, he fancied, by that same route; soliloquizing thus:
“Sure, Tim, me boy, if it’s tramps they object to, what for ’s the use o’ turnin’ your honest self into such? Them on ahead has business to tend to; the business o’ makin’ sweet music where music there is none; an’ may the pennies roll out thick an’ plenteous an’ may the Eyetalian have the good sense in him to share them same with my sweet colleen. It’s thinkin’ I am that all is spent on such as her is money well invested. So I’ll enjoy the soft side this well-cut top-stone, till so be me friends comes along all in a surprise to see me here.”
His own whistling had ceased, and though he listened closely he could not hear Luigi’s organ or any sound whatever. The truth was that the way seemed endless from the entrance to the house upon the terrace; and that having reached it at last, both Luigi and Glory were dismayed by the magnitude of the mansion5 and confused by its apparently6 countless7 doorways8. Before which they should take their stand, required time to decide; but unobserved, they finally settled this point. Luigi rested his instrument upon its pole, loosed Jocko to his gambols10, and tuned11 up.
The strains which most ears would have found harsh and discordant12 sounded pleasantly enough to the listening Timothy, who nodded his head complacently13, wishing and thinking:
“Now he’s off! May he keep at it till he wheedles14 not only the pence but the dollars out the pockets o’ them that hears! ’Twill take dollars more’n one to keep Glory on her long road, safe and fed, and―Bless us! What’s that?”
What, indeed, but the wildest sort of uproar15, in which angry voices, the barking of dogs, the screams of frightened women drowning the feeble tones of “Oft in the Stilly Night,” sent Timothy to his feet and his feet to speeding, not over the graveled driveway, but straight across the shaven lawn, where passage was forbidden. But no “Keep off the grass” signs deterred16 him, as he remembered now, too late, all that he had heard of the ferocity of the Broadacre dogs which its master kept for just such occasions as this.
“Bloodhounds! And they’ve loosed them! Oh, me darlin’ colleen! Ill to me that I let ye go wanderin’ thus with that miserable17 Eyetalian! But I’m comin’! Tim’s comin’!” he yelled, adding his own part to the wild chorus above.
He reached the broad paved space before the great door none too soon, and though, ordinarily, he would have given the yelping18 hounds a very wide berth19, he did not hesitate now. Huddled20 together in a group, with the frantic21 animals bounding and barking all around them, though as yet not touching22 them, stood the terrified Luigi and his friends; realizing what vagrancy23 means in this “land of the free,” and how even to earn an honest living one should never dare to “trespass.”
But even as Timothy forced his stalwart frame between the children and the dogs, the great door opened and a white-haired gentleman came hurrying out. Thrusting a silver whistle to his lips he blew upon it shrilly24, and almost instantly the uproar ceased, and the three hounds sprang to his side, fawning25 upon him, eager for his commendation. Instead of praise, however, they were given the word of command and crouched26 beside him, licking their jaws27 and expectant, seemingly, of a further order to pounce28 upon the intruders.
“Who loosed the dogs?” demanded the gentleman, in a clear-ringing, indignant tone.
Now that he seemed displeased29 by their too solicitous30 obedience31, none of the gathering32 servants laid claim to it; and while all stood waiting, arrested in their attitudes of fear or defense33, a curious thing happened. Glory Beck threw off the protecting arms of Timothy Dowd and, with Bonny Angel clasped close in her own, swiftly advanced to the granite34 step where the white-haired gentleman stood. Her face that had paled in fear now flushed in excitement as with a voice unlike her own she cried:
“You, sir! You, sir! What have you done with my grandfather?”
The gentleman stared at her, thinking her fright had turned her brain; but saying kindly35, as soon as he could command his voice:
“There, child. It’s all right. The dogs won’t touch you now.”
“The dogs!” retorted the child, in infinite scorn. “What do I care for the dogs? It’s you I want. You, that ‘Snug-Harbor’-Bonnicastle-man who coaxed36 my grandpa Simon Beck away from his own home an’ never let him come back any more!”
Then her anger subsiding37 into an intensity38 of longing39, she threw herself at his feet, clasping his knees and imploring40, piteously:
“Oh! take me to him. Tell me, tell me where he is. I’ve looked so long and I don’t know where and–please, please, please.”
For a moment nobody spoke41; not even Colonel Bonnicastle, for it was he, indeed, though he silently motioned to a trustworthy man who had drawn43 near to take the dogs away; and who, in obedience, whistling imperatively44, gathered their chains in his hands and led them back to their kennel45.
When the dogs had disappeared, the master of Broadacres sank into a near-by chair, wiping his brow and pityingly regarded the little girl who still knelt, imploringly
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