Sube Cane Part 11

"I will--Boom!--Boom!--Boom! Boom! Boom!" and he brought up before Gizzard with a flourish of his imaginary drumstick. "You watch me!"

"How can I watch you when you jus' 'boom' all the time?" asked Gizzard peevishly.

"My mother's goin' to a party," Sube divulged presently, "and the minute she's out of the house we'll sneak into my dad's den, and then I'll show you if I can't typewrite on the typewriter! I'll show you! You jus'

wait!"

But as far as Gizzard was concerned Sube might as well have suggested sneaking into a lion's den. "You don't need to show _me_," he declared.

"I'll wait right here!"

The cherished page was carefully removed from the alb.u.m, and in due time Sube disappeared into the house with it. After a long absence he came out again bearing in his hand an envelope smeared with enough finger prints to convict the whole underworld, but neatly addressed in typewriting to:

miss? $burton/

%main 3/8-st

"There's capital letters on the dern thing," he explained, "but I couldn't find 'em."

"She'll never know the diff," ventured Gizzard. "It's a long time since she went to school, and I'll bet she's forgot all about 'em."

That afternoon Biscuit Westfall delivered the note; but not until he had received the strongest kind of a.s.surance (including a five-cent piece) that it had been sent by Professor Ingraham, the princ.i.p.al of the school. And from an ambush of shrubbery on the opposite side of the street Sube and Gizzard watched him ascend Mrs. Burton's front porch and ring the bell. Mrs. Burton herself opened the door. She greeted Biscuit cordially, as she was very fond of him. His gentle, dutiful, sweetly pious nature appealed to her. She took the letter with effusive thanks, and learning that an answer was expected, adjusted her spectacles and read it.

&dear )miss "burton/:

7w.i.l.l.you kindley lend

your son charleis basedrum to the school entertianment and oblige

Yours affectionately D.D. Ingraham

She turned it over and glanced at the back. Then she read it a second time.

"Did Professor Ingraham write this?" she asked with a puzzled expression, tapping the missive with an index finger.

"Oh, yes, ma'am!" Biscuit a.s.sured her, thinking that he was speaking the truth.

"Strange," she mused. "What can he possibly want of that old drum?"

"He wants it for the school entertainment," Biscuit explained. "There's a rehearsal this afternoon, and he wanted me to take it to the schoolhouse just as quick as I could get it there."

Overwhelmed by Biscuit's unmistakable sincerity Mrs. Burton invited him to step inside and wait while she brought the drum down from the attic.

But he could not think of such a thing. His innate thoughtfulness would not permit.

"I'm afraid my feet are too muddy," he said. "I'll wait right here."

Mrs. Burton withdrew. A few moments later the door opened and a huge ba.s.s drum rolled out on to the porch.

"I guess it'll have to be tightened a little," she said as she surrendered it to Biscuit. And as he staggered down the walk under his awkward burden, she called after him, "Now you take real good care of it, won't you, Karl?"

Biscuit a.s.sured her that he would.

In further pursuance of the supposed instructions from Professor Ingraham, Biscuit delivered the drum at the vestibule of the schoolhouse which, fortunately, was not far away. It was, however, removed a short time afterwards by parties unknown, and was next found in the Canes'

barn, where it remained until Decoration Day, silent and shrouded in mystery and horse-blankets.

The evening that it arrived there Sube besought his mother for a grenadier's tall fur cap.

"So you have decided to have a little company of soldiers, have you?"

she asked.

"Sort of," he replied evasively.

But Mrs. Cane did not pursue the inquiry. She realized that boys love to be secretive about the most trivial matters, and turned her attention to the contriving of the grenadier's cap. This was finally accomplished to Sube's satisfaction by the coiling of a long fox boa round a form of milliner's wire. Epaulettes of gilt paper, and a pair of red flannel stripes on his intensely civilian knickerbockers completed his uniform.

CHAPTER VIII

IN THE LION'S CAGE

All things seemed to cooperate to furnish that truly funereal aspect without which no Decoration Day in a small town is complete.

In the first place Hon. E. Dalrymple Smythe of Rochester and Was.h.i.+ngton, D. C., had accepted an invitation to be the orator of the day. This was a distinct victory over Palmyra and Shortsville, which had to be content with a mere a.s.semblyman and a more mere district attorney--persons of purely local reputation--while Tyre basked in the regal presence of a personage of national fame. Colonel Smythe's voice had occupied more newspaper s.p.a.ce than any other east of the Mississippi River. Coughdrops and codliver oil had been named for him. Correspondence schools featured his method of making ANY man a convincing public speaker in thirty days without leaving his own fireside. He was the editor of the ten volume work, "The World's Most Flowery Orations," offered at the low introductory price for thirty days only.

At his first word women wept; at his second, men; and at his third, even the little children burst into uncontrollable sobbing. And Tyre was to have the pleasure of shedding its Decoration Day tears before this master of the lachrymal glands.

A touch of realism was added to the day's program by the funeral of Captain Elias Roy, a past-Commander of the G. A. R. The captain had died the week before, but the body had been held over for burial on Memorial Day; and Colonel Smythe had kindly consented to say a few words at the grave.

The weather fitted the occasion admirably. Gray clouds hung low obscuring the sun and imparting a dreary chill to the atmosphere. Nature herself seemed to have put on mourning.

As usual, it fell to the lot of Mr. Cane to entertain the guest of honor, but as the colonel was to come in the morning and depart in the evening this was not regarded as an onerous duty.

When the colonel stepped from the morning train in the wake of a white-jacketed pullman porter, he was an impressive sight. His glossy silk hat was flawless; his Prince Albert, molded after the latest whim, showed the sought-after sweeping lines; taken altogether he resembled rather an advertis.e.m.e.nt for ready-to-wear clothes than a fence-mending congressman.

A citizens' committee took him nervously to its official bosom and led him down the platform to two "hacks" the tops of which had been folded back for the dual purpose of affording the colonel a better view of the town, and giving the populace a better view of the colonel. Several persons had volunteered to transport the official party around town in their automobiles, but the committee had declined with thanks, considering that carriages were more dignified and also more deliberate.

An automobile would have exhausted the sights of Tyre in about ten minutes, whereas the committee was planning to devote in the neighborhood of two hours of carriage-riding to that delightful task.

But Colonel Smythe pleaded fatigue and the necessity of reposeful preparation for the exertions of the afternoon.

He was accordingly taken directly to the home of his host. A few moments later he was stretched at length on the uncompromising bed in the guest chamber, quite unmindful of Mrs. Cane's best lace bedspread, his eyes closed, his mind at rest, his body totally relaxed. How deliciously quiet it was! Even the birds had ceased their springtime chatter. Sleep seemed about to overcome him when he became dimly conscious of a distant throbbing sound.

At first it was rather soothing than otherwise, but as it became louder it began to be annoying. It seemed to come at regular intervals.

Throb--throb--throb-throb-throb! He could no longer escape the conviction that it was a distant drumbeat. After a little he could no longer escape the conviction that it was not so distant. Then the piping of fifes could be heard. No tune could be detected, but still it was not a sound that would have been regarded as sleep-inducing.

Mr. and Mrs. Cane were nowhere about. Having the carriage at their disposal for the day they had gone for a little drive in the country.

When they drew up before the house an hour later they were very much surprised to see their guest striding up and down the long veranda, his hands clasped behind his back beneath the skirts of his coat, his tall hat on the back of his n.o.ble head, and a fat cigar in the corner of his mouth.