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THE SILVER GATE SERIES

THE HAPPY SIX

BY
PENN SHIRLEY
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE MISS WEEZY” “LITTLE MISS WEEZY’S BROTHER”
“LITTLE MISS WEEZY’S SISTER” “YOUNG MASTER
KIRKE” “THE MERRY FIVE” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Copyright, 1897, by Lee and Shepard

All Rights Reserved

The Happy Six
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE HAPPY SIX

CHAPTER I
FIVE AND ONE

“The Happy Six” grew out of “The Merry Five,” and this was the way of it:—

The Merry Five, as you may remember, were Molly, Kirke, and Weezy Rowe, and their twin neighbors, Paul and Pauline Bradstreet; and they lived in Silver Gate City, in sunny California.

Well,—to go on with the story,—one May morning before school-time, as Kirke was amusing his little brother upon the veranda, Molly came rushing out in great excitement, crying,—

“O Kirke, you can’t guess what’s going to happen to The Merry Five!”

Kirke, engaged in attaching a string to the neck of a speckled horned toad, answered coolly without looking up,—

“No; and I never said I could. Fortune-telling is not my trade.”

“What is your trade, you funny boy?” asked little Miss Weezy, suddenly appearing from the garden.

“Just at present I am in the harness business,” he returned, as he tied together the ends of the cord.

Yellow-haired Donald, on his hands and knees at his brother’s feet, watched the proceeding with deep interest, for this toad was to be his little pony.

“In the teasing business you mean, Kirke Rowe,” retorted Molly, tossing back her long auburn braid with some impatience. “You want me to think you don’t care what happens to The Merry Five.”

“Whisper it to me, Molly, please do!” implored Weezy, her dainty sea-shell ear close to her sister’s mouth. “I can keep a secret all to myself.”

“It’s not a secret,” cried Molly, waltzing the child down the veranda. “It’s not a secret, but Kirke needn’t listen.” And she chanted gayly at the top of her voice,—

“We’re going to Europe, to Europe, to Europe,

The Merry Five are going to Europe!”

This aroused Kirke.

“Molly Rowe, what do you mean?” he cried, nearly letting the toad escape, harness and all. “Who said such a thing?”

“Well, Captain Bradstreet is going, anyway. There’s some trouble in Paris about one of his vessels: he’s obliged to go in June.”

“But what has that to do with us, I’d like to inquire?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all! Only we’re going with him; that is, I almost know we are. The doctor said yesterday that papa needed a sea voyage, and mud-baths, and things. And mamma said just now, ‘Yes, Edward, you ought to go to Europe.’ And when mamma says that”—

“I declare, Molly Rowe, it does look like it! June, did you say?”

“Is it far to Europe?” asked Weezy anxiously; “farther than Mexico?”

“Farther than Mexico? Why, you little goosie, Mexico is within sight of us, and Europe is ’way off to the other side of the world.”

“Truly? Then I’m not going to any old Europe!”

And Weezy’s lip began to quiver.

“Not with papa and mamma, darling?” said Molly. “They’ll go with us and so will Captain Bradstreet, and they’ll all take care of The Merry Five.”

“Here’s three cheers for Europe!” shouted Kirke, swinging his cap. “And hurrah! Three cheers for The Merry Five!”

“Hurrah! Free chairs for Mary Five!” echoed little Donald, flapping his arms like a windmill in a gale. “Hurrah! Free chairs for Mary Five!”

It was so droll to hear him that his listeners all laughed: and who can wonder?

“Bravo, Don!” roared Kirke, tossing the little cheerer over his shoulder. “If your Mary Five wants free chairs she ought to have ’em!”

“So I say,” said Molly, drying her eyes. “And a little boy that can shout for her like that deserves a reserved seat!”

“Let’s give him one—a reserved seat in our club,” returned Kirke good-naturedly. “He ought to come into The Merry Five.”

“Only with him, you see, we shouldn’t be The Merry Five any longer,” demurred Molly; “there’d be one to carry.”

“Then we might call ourselves The Merry Six: how is that?” amended Kirke, setting Donald down again. “What do you say to The Merry Six?”

“The Merry Half Dozen would be nicer, I think,” put in Weezy; “a great deal nicer.”

“Nonsense, Weezy,” retorted Kirke, “that sounds like a nestful of eggs! Let’s have it The Merry Six.”

“Why not The Happy Six?” asked Molly, with a roguish smile. “Let’s be happy now, just for a change.”

“Agreed, Molly, I’m willing, if Paul and Pauline are.”

“So am I, too,” assented Miss Weezy, though secretly preferring a half-dozen to six.

Paul was just now away on a visit, but when they proposed the question to Pauline that afternoon, she received “little Number Six” into the club with open arms, and declared that his extreme youth was no objection whatever. She had heard that as people grow older, they always approve of having young members come into their clubs. She was sure Paul would welcome Master Donald cordially, and would agree with them all that the new name proposed by Molly was exactly the thing.

Thus it happened that Donald and his “Mary Five” became straightway “The Happy Six;” and this is a true account of the transaction; though, to be sure, it had not been settled yet that the club was going to Europe.

“But what difference does that make?” asked Pauline. “Can’t we be The Happy Six, all the same, wherever we are? I move that we try to be happy right here in California till the middle of June, anyway, and then”—

“I second the move,” responded Molly.

“’Tis a vote,” cried Kirke and little Number Six in chorus.

And now, in the chapters that follow, you will hear more of this new brother-and-sisterhood, and will learn of its whereabouts and all its proceedings.

CHAPTER II
SHOT AND SING WUNG

Whether the Rowes should decide to go to Europe or not, the Bradstreets were going; and Captain Bradstreet thought it high time to inform Paul of the plan. The boy had not been well for some days, and for change of air had been sent to the ranch of Mr. Keith, a relative, who had a warm regard for himself and his sister Pauline.

“Kirke,” said the captain, driving up that afternoon after school, “I’m going out to Mr. Keith’s to see Paul. Would you like to go with me?”

“Thank you, thank you, Captain Bradstreet, I’ll be ready in a second,” cried Kirke, rushing for his hat.

The spirited horse had been reined up to the hedge, where he pawed and champed the bit, till his passenger appeared and vaulted headlong into the phaeton.

In his haste, Kirke had forgotten to tie Shot, the fox-terrier, into his kennel.

“Weezy, Weezy,” he called over his shoulder, as the carriage started. “Look out for Shot, please, Weezy; don’t let him follow us.”

“I won’t let him,” said Weezy; “I’ll keep him.” And she drew him into the house and closed the door.

Having done this, she went back upon the veranda to finish her sewing. She was making a golf cape for her pet doll to wear at sea; and the work proved so absorbing that she failed to notice what Donald was doing. Before she knew it, the child had opened the front door, and run into the hall; and at the same time Shot had run out, and gone tearing after the phaeton.

Kirke looked rather crestfallen when the little animal came barking about the wheels.

“There’s that dog, after all. I didn’t mean he should come.”

“Send him home, then,” suggested the captain. “Why don’t you send him home, Kirke?”

“Because he wouldn’t go,” answered the lad, in laughing confusion. “He wouldn’t go, and I should only hurt his feelings for nothing.”

The ruddy-faced captain suppressed a smile, and listened patiently, while Kirke proceeded to sing the praises of the graceful white terrier, who would not obey his master.

“He loves me tremendously; he can’t bear to stay away from me: there’s the trouble.”

And in truth a more affectionate dog than little Shot never lived. He was a general favorite, which certainly could not have been said of Zip, Donald’s Mexican cur that had died the preceding autumn.

As the phaeton whirled along, Shot darted first to one side of the road and then to the other, to chase squirrels and gophers into their holes, but without once losing sight of his beloved owner.

“I suppose, Kirke, you’re very fond of the little rascal,” observed the captain, as they drew near the end of their drive.

“You’d better believe I am, Captain Bradstreet. I wouldn’t part with him for a farm.”

“The lad’s in sober earnest,” thought the gentleman, peering from beneath his white eyebrows at Kirke’s animated face. “I never knew a boy more devoted to his friends.”

They were now spinning along the winding avenue leading to Mr. Keith’s house. At their right was a green lawn, bordered with orange-trees; on their left, a thrifty olive-orchard, in which a Chinaman was plowing.

“They’re always plowing somewhere,” commented the captain. “I understand the soil has to be turned over pretty often to keep it light and moist.”

“And it has to be irrigated, too, doesn’t it?” asked Kirke, watching Shot, skipping nimbly across the field toward the mule-team.

“Irrigated? Oh, yes. But there’s not water enough at present to do the thing thoroughly, and that is why Mr. Keith is having a new well dug over yonder.”

“I see it,” said Kirke, glancing in the direction indicated by the captain; “and he has got the curb up already.”

“So he has. Ah, here comes Paul. I”—

The sentence was cut short by a prolonged howl from Shot. The confiding little creature had ventured too near the Chinaman’s heels, and Sing Wung, suspecting him of evil intentions, had driven him away by a vigorous kick.

“The old wretch!” cried Kirke, springing over the carriage-wheel. “He’s been abusing my poor little Shot!”

And as the yelping dog ran up to him for protection, Kirke soothed him as he would have soothed a baby.

Before Captain Bradstreet could hitch his horse to the post under the pepper-tree, Paul was beside him, his face aglow with pleasure as well as with sunburn. The sunburn caused him to look more than ever like his father. Each had large, frank, blue eyes and a ruddy complexion; but while the captain’s hair was snow-white, his son’s was flaxen, or, as Pauline would have it, “a light écru.”

“How are you, Paul? How are you, my dear boy? Better, I hope?”

“Oh yes, papa, ever so much better, thank you. But why haven’t you come before? I’ve looked for you and looked for you!”

Paul spoke with feeling. He and Pauline, though now fifteen years of age, were not ashamed to show their love for their father. The affection existing between Captain Bradstreet and his motherless twins was something beautiful to behold.

Kirke was surprised to see how coolly Paul received the news of the proposed trip to Europe. Though greatly pleased, he was by no means as excited as Kirke had been that morning when the plan was first mentioned. Paul was a quieter sort of boy than Kirke, and two years older. Moreover, he had already been to sea several times, and the novelty was pretty well worn off. Still, he wished to go again very much, especially if the Rowes would go, too, for “that would make it a good deal jollier.”

After chatting awhile, Captain Bradstreet went into the lemon-house to speak with his cousin, Mr. Keith, leaving the boys to entertain each other. Paul, acting as host, at once invited Kirke to visit the well that had been begun; and they sauntered by the lemon-grove to a deep hole sunk in the ground. Above the hole stood a windlass with a bucket attached to it.

“Is anybody down there now?” asked Kirke, dropping upon his knees and peering into the dark cavern.

“No, Yeck Wo is sick to-day; so Sing Wung left off working here, and is cultivating in the orchard.”

“So it takes two to run this thing?”

“Yes. Sing Wung stays below to shovel earth into the bucket, and Yeck Wo stays up here to turn the windlass and draw the bucket up into daylight.”

“I see,” said Kirke, “and the Wo fellow tips the earth out of the bucket on to this heap here, then sends the bucket back empty. It must be fun to watch him.”

“It’ll be more fun, though, when they strike hard pan, for then they’ll begin to blast.”

It was not Paul who said this, but Mr. Keith. He and Captain Bradstreet had now joined the boys and were standing with them near the well. “When they begin to blast, Kirke, you must come down here and make us a little visit,” added Mr. Keith.

Kirke accepted the invitation eagerly, for, like most boys of thirteen, he revelled in the explosion of gunpowder.

“Let’s see, can’t you come Saturday, bright and early? I’ve promised to let Sing Wung go home Friday, and Paul will drive out for him Saturday morning, and could bring you back with him as well as not.”

“O Mr. Keith, I hope I can come,” said Kirke joyously, as he and the captain took their departure.

But in repassing the olive-orchard the youth’s happy face clouded. In the distance he caught a glimpse of Sing Wung in the very act of flinging a stone at little Shot, who, forgetful of the recent repulse, had frisked again into his neighborhood.

“If that old Chinaman wasn’t so far off I’d give him ‘Hail Columbia!’” muttered he. “Mean creature! Wouldn’t I like to dump him into that new well?”

“No; you certainly wouldn’t,” said the captain with an indulgent smile. “On the contrary, I’ll wager that if he should fall in, you’d be the first to help pull him out.”

Kirke was indignantly protesting that he “should do no such thing,” when suddenly the horse, Pizarro, stumbled upon a rolling stone and turned a half-somersault down the hill.

In an instant Captain Bradstreet and Kirke had leaped to the ground.

“Sit upon his head, Kirke,” ordered the captain. “So long as his head is kept down he can’t flounder about.”

Kirke did as he was told, and while he was perched upon Pizarro’s broad cheek, Captain Bradstreet unbuckled the harness and detached it from the phaeton.

“The thill is broken, isn’t it?” asked Kirke.

“Yes, broken almost in two.”

Captain Bradstreet firmly grasped the horse’s bridle. “Now jump, Kirke, and be quick about it.”

Kirke promptly obeyed, and Pizarro straightway struggled to his feet, looking very much ashamed.

“He doesn’t seem to be injured anywhere,” said the captain, after carefully feeling the horse’s limbs. “I wish the same could be said of the phaeton. Have you a string about you, Kirke, to splice that shaft with?”

For a wonder Kirke’s pocket to-day did not boast of even so much as a fishing-line.

“I might run to the next ranch and beg a bit of rope,” he suggested.

“Wait a moment, my boy, here comes a greaser. Let’s see what he can do for us.”

A “greaser” is the common name for a Mexican Indian.

“What an ugly, stupid-looking fellow,” thought Kirke; “I don’t believe he knows a string from a rattlesnake.”

But, unpromising as he appeared, the Indian understood a little English, and, on being offered a silver quarter, uncoiled from his neck a long, narrow strip of deerskin, and with it tied together the splintered ends of the thill.

“The greasers use those strips of deerhide when they tote bundles on their backs,” explained the captain, when they were again on their way. “He has spliced the shaft pretty firmly, Kirke, but it may draw apart. You’d better keep close watch of it.”

The damaged thill was the one on Kirke’s side of the phaeton, and for the rest of the drive he felt such a responsibility about it that he forgot everything else; he even forgot his beloved little terrier.

They were entering the city before he noticed that Shot was nowhere in sight. Then he remembered that he had not seen him since leaving Mr. Keith’s ranch.

“Now I think of it, I haven’t seen him either,” said Captain Bradstreet. “Maybe the little scamp took a notion to stay with Paul.”

“Oh, no, Captain Bradstreet, that wouldn’t be a bit like Shot!” exclaimed Kirke vehemently. “Don’t you know how he’s always tagging after me?”

“Yes, like a dory after a pilot boat,” said the captain, smiling.

“Where can he be, I wonder? Do you suppose—you don’t suppose—that hateful Chinaman can have lamed him or anything?”

Kirke looked so extremely troubled that the tender-hearted captain hastened to reply, “No, indeed! I don’t suppose anything of the kind. More likely Shot has picked a quarrel with a gopher and is bound to have the last word. If he’s not at home by sunrise we’ll ride back to the ranch to look him up.”

He fully expected to hear the dog’s merry bark at any moment, and was quite disturbed the next morning when Kirke ran over to tell him that the little terrier was still missing.

“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find him,” he said; and immediately telephoned for the horse and surrey.

But when he and Kirke reached the ranch Shot was not there, nor had he been there since the previous afternoon. “The very last I saw of him, Sing Wung was shying a stone at him,” said Paul. “He hates dogs, that Chinaman does. I believe he’s afraid of them.”

“He couldn’t have been afraid of my dear little innocent terrier,” exclaimed Kirke savagely; “he stoned him just for meanness.”

On being interviewed, Sing Wung protested that the dog had followed the carriage, and that was all he knew about him. But he spoke in such a hesitating way that Kirke was sure he kept back the truth. The lad was passing through a fiery ordeal and his heart was hot within him. “If ever I saw lies I saw ’em to-day in those slanting eyes behind us,” he said in Paul’s ear as they turned away from the suspected Celestial. “I feel just as if he had killed poor little Shot and pitched him into the cañon.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do that, Kirke; ’twould take too much courage—Sing Wung is a chicken-hearted creature.”

“Not too chicken-hearted to stone my dog, though.”

Paul could not gainsay this, but as he bade Kirke good-by, he remarked cheerily,—

“I half believe you’ll find Shot at home waiting for you. I shall know Saturday morning. Remember I’m coming for you Saturday morning at six o’clock, sharp.”

CHAPTER III
WHO WAS THE THIEF?

Paul called for Kirke on the following Saturday, long before breakfast-time. He had driven in from the ranch in Mr. Keith’s two-seated wagon, drawn by a pair of little brown mules, and was evidently in a prodigious hurry.

“Hello, Selkirk!” he shouted to the side of the house. “Stir around lively. Mr. Keith wants Sing Wung to get to work on the well early.”

“I’ll be there in two seconds,” returned Kirke, thrusting a tumbled head through an open window. “All dressed but my hair.”

“Good! Can’t you eat your breakfast on the road?”

“To be sure. I can eat anywhere, everywhere.”

The tumbled head disappeared; and Paul began to munch a buttered roll just brought him by his sister Pauline. Their home was just across the street, and she had watched for Paul, and rushed out to meet him, and now stood leaning against the front wheel of the wagon, chatting with him. She was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, rather too heedless and outspoken at times. She had no mother to guide her, and lacked the gentle manners of her friend, Molly Rowe.

“You ought to put on your hat, Polly. You’re getting as brown as a Mexican,” remarked Paul, with brotherly frankness, as he attacked a second roll.

“Black, you should say,” corrected she coolly. “I’ve noticed it myself. You’re an albino. I’m a negress. I’ve no manner of doubt people call us ‘the black and white twins.’”

“What about Shot, Paul? Has he been heard from?” called Molly from behind the window-shade of her chamber.

“Oh, I hoped he had turned up by this time. No, we haven’t seen a sign of him, Molly; but we’ve found this.”

Here Paul held up a dog’s collar.

“Shot’s collar!” cried Molly.

“You don’t mean to say you’ve found that and haven’t found the dog?” exclaimed Kirke, rushing down the steps of the veranda, flourishing in one hand a gripsack, in the other a small bunch of bananas. “Where did you find it, Paul? And when?”

“Last night, Kirke, in the hedge of the olive-orchard.”

“In the hedge?”

“Yes, tucked under it, ’way out of sight.”

“Then somebody hid it there—Sing Wung! I’ll bet ’twas Sing Wung!” muttered Kirke, as he mounted the wagon. “He killed Shot. Got mad with him and killed him, and then saved his collar. He thought he could get money for it.”

“Has somebody killed Shot?” piped half-dressed Weezy, screening herself from view behind her sister. “Oh, dear, dear! Poor little Shot!”

“Deah, deah, poo’ ’ittle S’ot!” echoed Don, running to the casement in his ruffled white night-dress, and standing there quite unabashed.

“Such a sweet, lovely little dog as he was!” went on Weezy, in a tearful voice. “Just as white and good as he could be. S’pose he’s got up to heaven yet, Kirke?”

“The idea, Weezy!” Kirke’s tone was at once grieved and scornful. “Who ever heard of a fox-terrier’s going to heaven?”

“Don’t good little fox-terriers go to heaven? Nobody ever told me that before,” sighed Weezy, as Paul turned the mules toward Chinatown. “O Kirke, don’t you wish Shot had been a good little skye-terrier ’stead of a fox? He would have gone to heaven then, you know!”

“It’s no sign Shot is dead, Weezy, dear, because he just happened to lose his collar,” cried Pauline, stepping back from the wheel with a smothered laugh. “He’ll come trotting home, wagging his tail, one of these days, you’ll see!”

It was like Pauline to prophesy pleasant things. She was always hopeful, always cheerful. They called her the merriest member of The Happy Six.

“Yes, Polly, and you’ll see, too,” was Kirke’s gloomy rejoinder. “Good-by, everybody.”

“Good-by, Sobersides,” retorted Pauline, brushing her sleeves, which had rested upon the dusty tire. “Good-by, Twinny, love, I’ll be happy to meet you later in Europe, both of you.”

Kirke hardly smiled at this nonsensical farewell. He cared very little just now about Europe, or any other foreign country. He could only think of Shot’s collar found in the hedge. Somebody had hidden it there; and in his heart Kirke convicted Sing Wung.

“That collar was expensive, you know, Paul,” he broke forth, before they had reached the first corner. “He was going to sell it at one of the second-hand stores.”

“How could he have sold it? That would have given him away, Kirke. Shot’s name is on it.”

“Poh! couldn’t the villain have ripped off that plate?”

“Not very easily. Besides, Kirke, if Sing Wung really meant to sell the collar, why didn’t he carry it home with him yesterday?”

“Perhaps he couldn’t screw his courage up. He might have been afraid of getting caught taking it.”

Though by nature unsuspicious, Kirke was a boy of strong prejudices. Since making up his mind that the Chinaman was guilty of a crime, he could no longer tolerate him.

“But how are we going to prove that Sing Wung put the collar in the hedge?” asked Paul earnestly. “Mr. Keith says it isn’t fair to condemn anybody on circumstantial evidence.”

“Fudge! What more evidence does he want? Didn’t we both see Sing Wung stoning my Shot? And has anybody set eyes on my Shot from that day to this?”

“No,” said Paul, “it does look dark against Sing Wung, I confess, and I’m just as mad with him as you are.”

“I shouldn’t think Mr. Keith would keep such a sneak. He ought to discharge him, and I’ve a great mind to tell him so,” returned Kirke, as if his opinion and advice would carry great weight with that gentleman.

“Oh, he can’t discharge him now, Kirke! How can he, right in the height of the barley harvest?”

“He can hire somebody else.”

“No, he can’t for love or money. The Mexicans and Chinamen are all engaged for the season by this time. Besides, there’s the well not half done.”

Kirke bit his lip. He knew that this well was needed at once. He had seen for himself how Mr. Keith’s young orange-trees were turning yellow for want of proper irrigation. As they approached the Chinese quarter of the city, he broke the silence by remarking grimly,—

“I sha’n’t speak to Sing Wung. I want him to know I suspect him.”

“Do you suppose he’ll take the cue?” asked Paul, attempting his sister’s trick of punning.

Sing Wung was waiting for them at the door of his whitewashed cabin. He was dressed as usual in loose blue trousers and a frock of lighter blue denim, his long cue wound about his head in a coil and tied with narrow, indigo-colored ribbon.

“He has the blues awfully, hasn’t he?” whispered Kirke, not to be outdone by Paul in the play upon words.

“One of his relatives must have died,” was Paul’s low answer as he drew in the reins. “I’ve heard that the Chinese wear blue ribbon on their hair for mourning.”

“If he’s mourning for my dog, it looks well in him,” mused Shot’s bereaved master; and to emphasize his indignation Kirke turned away his head while Sing Wung climbed to the back seat of the wagon.

Paul cracked the whip, and the grotesque little mules trotted on, flapping their broad ears at every step, as if they considered them wings and were preparing to fly.

“The grass is getting brown,” remarked Paul, when they had left the city behind them, “as brown as hay. And phew! isn’t the road dusty!”

“Sneezing dusty,” answered Kirke; “I don’t believe the people that live in that shanty over yonder have to spend any money for snuff.”

As he spoke he pointed to a wretched hut a little removed from the highway, and entirely surrounded by dirt.

“Mateo lives there,” said Paul carelessly.

“Who’s Mateo?”

“Mateo? Oh, he’s a lazy, no-account Indian, who helps sometimes on the ranch.”

“I wonder if he isn’t the fellow that mended our thill for us the other day?” mused Kirke. “We broke down somewhere near here. How does he look? Is he fat?”

“Fat as butter. He ought to be, you know, considering they call him a greaser.”

Kirke giggled, and Paul looked highly gratified at the success of his witticism. He thought he might get up quite a reputation as a humorist, if Pauline didn’t always say the funny things before he had a chance. He was glad to feel that he was entertaining Kirke: he couldn’t bear to see the boy so downhearted.

The mules were frisky that morning, and reached the end of the journey in excellent season.

“Heap soon!” grinned Sing Wung, as he alighted upon the ground, apparently not at all disturbed because Kirke had taken no notice of him whatever.

“Oh, you can laugh, can you?” thought Kirke, hopping down over the opposite wheel. “You ought to be howling, you dog-murderer!”

“You’re early, Sing Wung,” said Mr. Keith, who had come out to shake hands with the boys. “You’ve got ahead of Yeck Wo.”

“Hasn’t Yeck Wo come yet?” asked Paul quickly. “You don’t suppose the man is sick again, do you, Mr. Keith?”

“I’m beginning to fear it, Paul.”

“If he is, what’s to be done, Mr. Keith?”

Paul still stood by the wagon, reins in hand. He was very much interested in the progress of the well, and wanted the digging to go on, since Kirke had come on purpose to watch it.

“Sha’n’t I go for Mateo, Mr. Keith?”

“No, Paul, thank you, not quite yet. I don’t want Mateo as long as there’s any hope of Yeck Wo. But if Yeck Wo doesn’t come, I may ask you later to go for Mateo. We’ll tie the mules here under the pepper-tree to have them handy.”

“No workee?” asked Sing Wung, not quite understanding what was said.

“Yes, yes, Sing Wung, you can go right to work here,” said Mr. Keith, leading the way to the new well. “Come boys, please, and help me lower him down in the bucket. He must go to digging.”

The boys sprang forward with alacrity, feeling that now the fun had fairly begun.

CHAPTER IV
KIRKE’S BRAVE DEED

Swinging his limber arms, the little blue clad Chinaman scuffed behind Mr. Keith and the boys to the mouth of the unfinished well. Over this stood the temporary windlass, its huge bucket swaying to and fro above the dizzy hollow.

Kirke noticed that this hollow was deeper than when he had seen it last, and the mound of loose earth near it was considerably higher.

Mr. Keith and the two boys held the crank of the windlass with an iron grip while Sing Wung stepped inside the bucket; then turning the handle slowly backward, they lowered him deeper and deeper till he had reached the bottom of the dim-yawning cave.

“I told Captain Bradstreet I’d like to dump Sing Wung into this well, and I’ve done it,” said Kirke aside to Paul.

“The slant-eyed old villain doesn’t weigh much more than your little Shot,” responded Paul, bending over the dusky abyss.

By this time the Chinaman had scrambled out of his novel elevator and was throwing into it great spadefuls of dirt.

Mr. Keith looked at his watch. “I begin to think Yeck Wo isn’t coming. If he lived anywhere near, I’d send to inquire.”

At that moment Sing Wung piped shrilly from beneath their feet.

“Heap muchee! Pullee! Pullee!”

Kirke sprang to the windlass, crying, “Lend a hand, Paul. You and I together can hoist the bucket.”

“You’re very kind, boys,” said Mr. Keith gratefully, as he assisted them in emptying the dirt. “We’ll take turns at this business for a little while, if you’re willing. Yeck Wo may soon be here. He’s worth two Mateos.”

For a half hour the work went on briskly, Sing Wung in the depths below filling the bucket, and Mr. Keith and his young aids above ground hauling it to the surface and there dumping its contents.

Then suddenly was heard a sharp, metallic sound,—the scraping of the Chinaman’s spade against a rock.

“He’s struck hard pan,” shouted the excited lads in a breath. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Sing Wung has struck hard pan.”

“You’re right, boys, I believe you’re right,” cried Mr. Keith, hardly less excited than they. “Next thing we may come to water.”

“Are you going to blast now, Mr. Keith? Shall I bring you the drills and hammer?” asked Paul eagerly.

“Yes, Paul, if you please, and a stick of giant powder and the caps and that coil of fuse.”

After these articles had been dropped into the well, Sing Wung began the process of drilling, using the shortest drill first, and longer and longer ones as he pierced farther and farther into the hard pan. He worked quickly, turning the pointed steel instrument a little with his left hand each time he struck its blunt top with the hammer.

Having assured himself of the Chinaman’s skill, Mr. Keith soon shouted to him, “Call me as soon as the hole is three feet deep,” and followed by the boys walked away for a drink of cool water from the Mexican olla on the veranda.

“It will take the man two hours at the least,” he remarked, as he reached for the gourd, “and perhaps half a day. There is nothing yet for Mateo to do.”

In about two hours and a half they were summoned by the sharp voice of Sing Wung. He had finished the drilling and awaited further instructions.

“The next thing to do, Sing Wung, is to fit one of those percussion caps to the end of the fuse,” cried Mr. Keith, when he had reached the surface of the well.

“Yah!” growled Sing Wung, like an imprisoned bear beneath.

“Well, now tie the fuse into the paper wrapped around the stick of powder. Do you hear?”

“Yah!” louder than before.

“A half stick of the giant powder will be enough. Then drop the powder, cap, and fuse into the hole, and press down with a lot of dry earth. Do you understand?”

“No tellee! Makee holee all samee,” muttered the Chinaman sulkily. Had he not blasted hard pan before?

“Then cut off the fuse about four feet from the hole, Sing Wung.”

They heard the Chinaman yawn noisily, as if to say, “Melican man muchee talkee”; but Mr. Keith continued, undaunted,—

“And when everything is ready, Sing Wung, set fire to the end of the fuse and jump into the bucket. We’ll pull you up in a hurry.”

“Allee yight!”

Sing Wung understood perfectly. He was already cutting in two a stick of giant powder. In a short time he had buried this, as directed, lighted the fuse, and been drawn up out of the well.

The four ran to a safe distance, and two minutes later came a loud explosion. Sing Wung, after the dust and smoke had cleared away, was again let down to his work. He carried in his arms a can of black gunpowder.

“If Mateo were here to lower me, I’d go down myself to see the size of the chamber made in the rock,” said Mr. Keith. “I don’t know about trusting Sing Wung’s judgment in regard to the amount of powder to use.”

“Kirke and I can let you down, Mr. Keith,” volunteered Paul promptly.

“Yes, indeed,” rejoined Kirke. “I can lift as much as Paul can.”

“I know you’re strong for your age, Kirke, but I weigh over two hundred pounds. I’m afraid you boys might let me down in too great a hurry.”

“No, no, Mr. Keith, we’ll promise not to drop you.”

Nevertheless, after the gentleman, against his better judgment, had been prevailed upon to enter the bucket, he looked so overgrown in it—like an oak-tree in a tub—that the boys could hardly manage the windlass for laughing.

Landed at last in safety upon the bed-rock, Mr. Keith found that the hole drilled by the Chinaman had been enlarged by the giant powder to the size of a great kettle. Into this hole he poured about four quarts of black gunpowder and inserted the end of a fresh fuse. Finally he filled the rest of the cavity with fine dry earth and “tamped” this down very firmly.

“I’ve put in a heavy charge, Sing Wung,” he said, as he turned from the man and stepped back into the bucket. “After you’ve lighted the fuse, you must run for your life. You mustn’t go to sleep.”

“All yightee, no sleepee!” responded the Chinaman, who, notwithstanding his oblique eyes, could sometimes see a joke.

“The Chinese ought to understand gunpowder, considering that they invented it,” remarked Mr. Keith, as he emerged into the upper air. “I hope I sha’n’t have to go underground again to teach Sing Wung.”

The boys secretly echoed this hope, having found their host’s weight a severe strain to their muscles.

That this weight had been also a severe strain upon the rope—not a new one—had not occurred to them or to Mr. Keith, or, indeed, to Sing Wung himself.

“It is evident that Yeck Wo is not coming,” said Mr. Keith again, consulting his watch. “After this next explosion there will be a great deal of hard pan to be hoisted out, and we must have Mateo to help us. If you’ll bring him, Paul, I’ll be much obliged.”

Paul went, and was away some time. Before his return Sing Wung had finished drilling the hole in the rock and begun to put in the charge. Mr. Keith and Kirke had let the bucket down to the bottom of the well and stood ready to turn the windlass at a second’s notice.

Suddenly a faint light glimmered in the darkness below, and the Chinaman leaped into the bucket yelling,—

“Pullee! Pullee!”

He had just ignited the fuse, and as the flame crept slowly along its tube the gunpowder interwoven in its fibres gave out a quick succession of snapping sounds.

“Hold on, Sing Wung, we’ll pull you out in no time!” Mr. Keith shouted back; and he and Kirke turned the crank with a will.

But, alas! at the second revolution of the windlass the rope broke, dropping the bucket and its living freight back into the well!

Half-crazed by the accident, Sing Wung struggled to his knees with a piercing cry, and glared at the fire which drew every moment nearer, hissing and crackling.

“Step on it! Put it out, man! Quick, quick! are you crazy?” shrieked Mr. Keith, leaning down into the well at the risk of losing his balance.

The unfortunate wretch was so paralyzed with fright that he seemed powerless to obey. He could only cower upon the rocks below, muttering and mumbling.

“Good heavens, Kirke, he’ll be blown to inch-pieces! Where are his wits?” ejaculated Mr. Keith, rushing to the porch for the olla in the frantic hope of quenching the spark with water. To his dismay the jar was empty.

Kirke, left to his own devices, roared to Sing Wung, “Try to catch hold of the rope! Hang on to it! I’ll draw you up!”

But the frenzied creature never raised his eyes from that fascinating spark creeping, creeping toward the little mine of powder.

“Thunder and lightning, what ails him? I must save him if I can,” thought Kirke, hastily making fast the windlass by tying down the handle.

Never pausing to consider the risk he was taking, he grasped the dangling rope and slid down upon it, hand over hand, toward the burning fuse. Should he be in season to smother it? Ah, that was the question.

When he sprang from the end of the rope to a foothold upon the rock beside Sing Wung, the advancing flame was scarcely a finger’s length from the buried powder. Even then help might be too late.

With his heart in his throat, the lad dashed forward and planted his foot upon the spark. Oh, joy! it was soon extinguished! He had saved the life of Sing Wung!

Little cared Kirke at that moment for dizzy head or blistered hands. Even his late hatred of the suspected Chinaman was quite over-weighed by the intense satisfaction of having been the means of his rescue.

How Sing Wung, speedily rallying from his nervous shock, deftly spliced the severed rope; and how he and his deliverer, one after the other, were lifted from their gloomy quarters, will always remain to Kirke Rowe a blurred memory, for he had hardly returned to the sunlight before he fainted.

A dash of cold water restored him to consciousness, and he opened his eyes to find himself extended full length upon the lawn, and Mr. Keith and Paul bending anxiously over him. There were tears in both pairs of eyes, and Mr. Keith was saying in broken tones,—

“God bless the noble boy!”

And what more did Kirke see? What was that white object nestling lovingly against his breast, now lapping his cold cheek, now barking for joy? Was it,—he could hardly believe his own senses,—yes, surely, that was Shot, his dear lamented terrier!

“Why, Shot, you blessed good little dog, where have you been?” he exclaimed, starting up, all alive with happiness. “Why, Shot, where have you been?”