The Highgrader. William MacLeod RaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
your net. These big fellows are likely to squirm away."
THE HIGHGRADER
PRELUDE
A young idealist, ætat four, was selling stars to put in the sky. She had cut them with her own scissors out of red tissue paper, so that she was able to give a guarantee.
"But you'll have to get the ladder out of our bedroom to put 'em up wiv," she told purchasers honestly.
The child was a wild dark creature, slim and elfish, with a queer little smile that flashed sudden as an April sun.
It was evening, on the promenade deck of an ocean liner. The sea was like glass and the swell hardly perceptible. Land was in sight, a vague uneven line rising mist-like on the horizon. Before morning the Victorian would be running up the St. Lawrence. Even for the most squeamish the discomforts of the voyage lay behind. A pleasant good fellowship was in the air. In some it took the form of an idle contentment, a vague regret that ties newly formed must so soon be broken. In others it found an expression more buoyant. Merry voices of shuffleboard players drifted forward. Young couples paced the deck and leaned over the rail to watch the phosphorescent glow. The open windows of the smoking-room gave forth the tinkle of glasses and the low rattle of chips. All sounds blended into a mellow harmony.
"What's your price on a whole constellation with a lovers' moon thrown in?" inquired a young man lounging in a deck chair.
The vendor of stars looked at him in her direct serious fashion. "I fink I tan't sell you all 'at, but I'll make you a moon to go wiv the stars—not a weally twuly one, jus' a make-believe moon," she added in a whisper.
An irritated voice made itself heard. "Steward, have you seen that child anywhere? The naughty little brat has run away again—and I left her only a minute."
The dealer in celestial supplies came to earth.
"I'm goin' to be smacked," she announced with grave conviction.
An unvoiced conspiracy formed itself instantly in her behalf. A lady in a steamer chair gathered the child under the shelter of her rug. An eight-year-old youngster knotted his fists valiantly. The young man who had priced a constellation considered the chances of a cutting-out expedition.
"She should have been in bed long ago. I just stepped out to speak to our room steward and when I came back she was gone," the annoyed governess was explaining.
Discovery was imminent. The victim prepared herself for the worst.
"I don't care," she protested to her protector. "It's ever so nicer to stay up, an' if it wasn't runnin' away it would be somefing else."
At this bit of philosophy the lounger chuckled, rose swiftly, and intercepted the dragon.
"When do I get that walk you promised me, Miss Lupton? What's the matter with right now?"
The governess was surprised, since it was the first she had heard of any walk. Flattered she was, but still faithful to duty.
"I'm looking for Moya. She knows she must always go to her room after tea and stay there. The naughty child ran away."
"She's all right. I saw her snuggled under a rug with Mrs. Curtis not two minutes ago. Just a turn or two in this lovely night."
Drawn by the magnet of his manhood, Moya slipped into the chair beside the eight-year-old.
"I'd kick her darned shins if she spanked me," boasted he of the eight years.
Moya admired his courage tremendously. Her dark eyes followed the retreating figure of her governess. "I'm 'fraid."
"Hm! Bet I wouldn't be. Course, you're only a girl."
His companion pleaded guilty with a sigh and slipped her hand into his beneath the steamer rug.
"It's howwid to be a dirl," she confided.
"Bet I wouldn't be one."
"You talk so funny."
"Don't either. I'm a Namerican. Tha's how we all talk."
"I'm Irish. Mith Lupton says 'at's why I'm so naughty," the sinner confessed complacently.
Confidences were exchanged. Moya explained that she was a norphan and had nobody but a man called Guardy, and he was not her very own. She lived in Sussex and had a Shetland pony. Mith Lupton was horrid and was always smacking her. When she said her prayers she always said in soft to herself, "But pleathe, God, don't bless Mith Lupton." They were taking a sea voyage for Moya's health, and she had been seasick just the teentiest weentiest bit. Jack on his part could proudly affirm that he had not missed a meal. He lived in Colorado on a ranch with his father, who had just taken him to England and Ireland to visit his folks. He didn't like England one little bit, and he had told his cousin Ned so and they had had a fight. As he was proceeding to tell details Miss Lupton returned from her stroll.
She brought Moya to her feet with a jerk. "My goodness! Who will you pick up next? Now walk along to your room, missie."
"Yes, Mith Lupton."
"Haven't I told you not to talk to strangers?"
"He isn't stwanger. He's Jack," announced Moya stanchly.
"I'll teach you to run away as soon as my back is turned. You should have been in bed an hour ago."
"I tan't unbutton myself."
"A likely reason. Move along, now."
Having been remiss in her duty, Miss Lupton was salving her conscience by being extra severe now. She hurried her charge away.
Suddenly Moya stopped. "Pleathe, my han'erchif."
"Have you lost it? Where is it?"
"I had it in the chair."
"Then run back and get it."
Moya's thin white legs flashed along the deck. Like a small hurricane she descended upon the boy. Her arms went around his neck and for an instant he was smothered in her embrace, dark ringlets flying about his fair head.
"Dood-night, Jack."
A kiss fell helter-skelter on his cheek and she was gone, tugging a little handkerchief from her pocket as she ran.
The boy did not see her again. Before she was up he and his father left the boat at Quebec. Jack wondered whether she had been smacked, after all. Once or twice during the day he thought of her, but the excitement of new sights effaced from his mind the first romance his life had known.
But for nearly a week Moya added a codicil silently to her prayer. "And, God, pleathe bless Jack."
CHAPTER I
THE CAMPERS
Inside the cabin a man was baking biscuits and singing joyously, "It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary." Outside, another whistled softly to himself while he arranged his fishing tackle. From his book he had selected three flies and was attaching them to the leader. Nearest the rod he put a royal coachman, next to it a blue quill, and at the end a ginger quill.
The cook, having put his biscuits in the oven,