The Twins of Suffering Creek Part 32

Sunny raked at his beard with his unclean finger-nails. Yes, Zip must have spent hours of unremitting labor on the place since he had seen it last.

However, he lost no time in carrying out his mission.

"Kind o' busy, Zip?" he greeted the little man pleasantly.

Scipio raised a pair of shadowed eyes from the inside of the well-scoured fry-pan he was wiping.

"I'm mostly through fixin' these ch.o.r.es--for awhiles," he replied quietly. Then he nodded in the direction of the children's voices.

"Guess I'm goin' to take the kiddies down to the creek to clean 'em.

They need cleanin' a heap."

Sunny nodded gravely. He was thinking of those things he had so carefully written out.

"They sure do," he agreed. "Bath oncet a week. But not use a hand-scrubber, though," he added, under a wave of memory. "Kids is tender skinned," he explained.

"Pore little bits," the father murmured tenderly. Then he went on more directly to his visitor. "But they do need was.h.i.+n'. It's kind o'

natural fer kids to fancy dirt. After that," he went on, his eyes drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, "I'll sure have to do a bit of was.h.i.+ng." He set the frying-pan down beside the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair of child's knickers imaginable. They were black with dirt, and he held them up before Sunny's wondering eyes and smiled pathetically.

"Ridic'lous small," he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips. "Pore little gal." Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his eyes. "Them frills an' bits git me some," he said in a puzzled way.

"Y'see, I ain't never used an iron much, to speak of. It's kind of awkward using an iron."

Sunny nodded. Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron.

Birdie had said nothing about it.

"Guess you hot it on the stove," he hazarded, after a moment's thought.

"Yes, I'd say you hot it," agreed Scipio. "It's after that."

"Yes." Sunny found himself thinking hard. "You got an iron?" he inquired presently.

"Sure--two." Scipio laid the knickers aside. "You hot one while you use the other."

Sunny nodded again.

"You see," the other went on, considering, "these pretties needs was.h.i.+n' first. Well, then I guess they need to dry. Now, 'bout starch?

'Most everything needs starch. At least, ther' always seems to be starch around was.h.i.+ng-time. Y'see, I ain't wise to starch."

"Blamed if I am either," agreed Sunny. Then his more practical mind a.s.serted itself. "Say, starch kind o' fixes things hard, don't it?" he inquired.

"It sure does."

Scipio was trying to follow out his companion's train of thought.

Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned triumphantly.

"Don't use it," he cried, with finality. "You need to remember kiddies is tender skinned, anyway. Starch'll sure make 'em sore."

Scipio brightened.

"Why, yes," he agreed, with relief. "I didn't jest think about that.

I'm a heap obliged, Sunny. You always seem to help me out."

The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man's tribute was quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer's face.

"Don't mention it," he said embarra.s.sedly. "It's easy, two thinkin'

together. 'Sides, I've tho't a heap 'bout things since--since I started to fix your kiddies right. Y'see, it ain't easy."

"No, it just ain't. That is, y'see, I ain't grumbling," Scipio went on hurriedly, lest his meaning should be mistaken. "If you're stuck on kiddies, like me, it don't worry you nuthin'. Kind of makes it pleasant thinkin' how you can fix things fer 'em, don't it? But it sure ain't easy doing things just right. That's how I mean. An' don't it make you feel good when you do fix things right fer 'em? But I don't guess that comes often, though," he added, with a sigh. "Y'see, I'm kind of awkward. I ain't smart, like you or Bill."

"Oh, Bill's real smart," Sunny began. Then he checked himself. He was to keep Bill's name out of this matter, and he just remembered it in time. So he veered round quickly. "But I ain't smart," he declared.

"Anything I know I got from a leddy friend. Y'see, women-folk knows a heap 'bout kiddies, which, I 'lows, is kind o' natural."

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out several sheets of paper.

Arranging them carefully, he scanned the scrawling writing on them.

"Guess you're a scholar, so I won't need to read what I writ down here. Mebbe you'll be able to read it yourself. I sure 'low the spellin' ain't jest right, but you'll likely understand it. Y'see, the writin's clear, which is the chief thing. I was allus smart with a pen. Now, this yer is jest how our--my--leddy frien' reckons kids needs fixin'. It ain't reasonable to guess everything's down ther'.

They're jest sort o' principles which you need to foller. Maybe they'll help you some. Guess if you foller them reg'lations your kids'll sure grow proper."

He handed the papers across, and Scipio took them only too willingly.

His thanks, his delight, was in the sudden lighting up of his whole face. But he did not offer a verbal expression of his feelings until he had read down the first page. Then he looked up with eyes that were almost moist with grat.i.tude.

"Say," he began, "I can't never tell you how 'bliged I am, Sunny.

These things have bothered me a whole heap. It's kind of you, Sunny, it is, sure. I'm that obliged I--"

"Say," broke in the loafer, "that sort o' talk sort o' worrits my brain. Cut it out." Then he grinned. "Y'see, I ain't used to thinkin'

hard. It's mostly in the natur' o' work, an'--well, work an' me ain't been friends for years."

But Scipio was devouring the elaborated information Sunny had so laboriously set out. The loafer's picturesque mind had drawn heavily on its resources, and Birdie's principles had undergone a queer metamorphosis. So much so, that she would now have had difficulty in recognizing them. Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest.

He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his illuminating phraseology would inspire. But Scipio was in deadly earnest. Phraseology meant nothing to him. It was the guidance he was looking for and devouring hungrily. At last he looked up, his pale eyes glowing.

"That's fine," he exclaimed, with such a wonderful relief that it was impossible to doubt his appreciation. Then he glanced round the room.

He found some pins and promptly pinned the sheets on the cupboard door. Then he stood back and surveyed them. "You're a good friend, Sunny," he said earnestly. "Now I can't never make a mistake. There it is all wrote ther'. An' when I ain't sure 'bout nothing, why, I only jest got to read what you wrote. I don't guess the kiddies can reach them there. Y'see, kiddies is queer 'bout things. Likely they'd get busy tearing those sheets right up, an' then wher'd I be? I'll start right in now on those reg'lations, an' you'll see how proper the kiddies'll grow." He turned and held out his hand to his benefactor.

"I'm 'bliged, Sunny; I sure can't never thank you enough."

Sunny disclaimed such a profusion of grat.i.tude, but his dirty face shone with good-natured satisfaction as he gripped the little man's hand. And after discussing a few details and offering a few suggestions, which, since the acceptance of his efforts, seemed to trip off his tongue with an easy confidence which surprised even himself, he took his departure. And he left the hut with the final picture of Scipio, still studying his pages of regulations with the earnestness of a divinity student studying his Bible, filling his strongly imaginative brain. He felt good. He felt so good that he was sorry there was nothing more to be done until Wild Bill's return.

CHAPTER XVII

JESSIE'S LETTER

Scipio's long day was almost over. The twins were in bed, and the little man was lounging for a few idle moments in the doorway of his hut. Just now an armistice in his conflict of thought was declared.

For the moment the exigencies of his immediate duties left him floundering in the wilderness of his desolate heart at the mercy of the pain of memory. All day the claims of his children had upborne him. He had had little enough time to think of anything else, and thus, with his peculiar sense of duty militating in his favor, he had found strong support for the burden of his grief.

But now with thought and muscles relaxed, and the long night stretching out its black wings before him, the gray shadow had risen uppermost in his mind once more, and a weight of unutterable loneliness and depression bore down his spirit.

His faded eyes were staring out at the dazzling reflections of the setting sun upon the silvery crests of the distant mountain peaks. In every direction upon the horizon stretched the wonderful fire of sunset. Tongues of flame, steely, glowing, ruddy, shot up and athwart the picture in ever-changing hues before his unseeing eyes. It was all lost upon him. He stared mechanically, while his busy brain struggled amongst a tangle of memories and thought pictures. The shadows of his misfortune were hard besetting him.