When November came, Joshua Lane had completed his work of preparing the fruit farm for the auction, according to Aunt Jimmy’s wish that it should be in full running order when sold.

The old fowls were mostly sold off, and the henhouse was full of the vigorous laying pullets that mean so much in early winter. The fall cow had calved, and the two or three yearlings were as sleek as does.

When the time came for the division of the furniture between the wives of the three Lane brothers by drawing lots, public interest again awakened, and Mrs. Slocum expressed great anxiety lest it should not be done fairly, saying to her husband: “It’s a fussy, mixed-up business anyway. Why didn’t they auction off the stuff and let folks in to see it done fair? They do say, for all Miss Jemima lived so plain, she had stores of good stuff shut up in those top rooms that even Dinah Lucky never’s had a peek at when she went to houseclean. Those old mahogany pieces are worth money at Northboro, and Lauretta Ann’s cute enough to know it, but I don’t believe those other slab-sided Lane women do; so do you watch your chance and make them an offer so soon as it’s divided. There’s a wardrobe there, solid mahogany, twice as big as one they ask fifty dollars for in the ’curious’ shop. Most likely they’d value cheap, new stuff better.”

If it had not been rather pathetic to Mrs. Lane, this breaking up of a house where she had been so much at home, the day of the division would have been one of unalloyed merriment.

In the first place, owing to the way in which Aunt Jimmy had directed the drawing should be managed, the articles were not valued in the usual way and divided so that each of the three women shared alike, but merely numbered, the duplicate slips being shaken up in a basket and drawn by Probate Judge Ricker for Lauretta Ann, the others drawing for themselves, as Joshua preferred that there should be no possible chance of his wife being criticised. While she, cheerful and thoughtful as ever of the comfort of others, prepared a nice lunch on the afternoon appointed, which she and Lammy carried to the fruit farm, and had a cheerful fire in the kitchen stove, with a big pot of fragrant coffee purring away on top of it, when Jason and Henry Lane, the younger brothers, following each other closely, drove into the yard with their wives.

Mrs. Henry Lane was a delicate, sad-looking little woman, quite above the average. She had been one of the teachers in the Milltown public school at the time of her marriage, but the struggle to wrest a living from a small hillside farm, coupled with ill health, had broken her spirit, and she sank into a rocking-chair and began to jiggle the baby that she carried to and fro.

Mrs. Jason, on the contrary, was tall and gaunt, with high cheek-bones. Life had not been very kind to her either, but still she looked as if she could hold her own; and her husband, who only reached her shoulder, fairly quaked and fell away before her like ill-made jelly.

“Do draw up to the table, sisters-in-law both,” cried Lauretta Ann, after greeting each heartily. “You must have hurried dinner to get down here by now, and I always do feel hungrier the first cool days than when winter has set square in.”

“I should feel better for a cup of coffee,” said Mrs. Henry, in a plaintive voice; “we haven’t had any for more than two weeks. Henry forgot it when he went to the store, and he doesn’t get there as often as he used, now that the mail is delivered around the country by wagon. I’ve been using tea right along, and I think it’s made me nervous; besides, the last I bought from the travelling spice-and-sugar man tasted more like buckwheat shucks and musty hay than anything else.”

At this Henry Lane’s head sank still farther into the collar of his coat, which was three sizes too big anyway, and he began whittling recklessly at a hard-wood clothespin with a broken knife, which quickly caused a deeply cut finger and much consternation, as the sight of blood always made his wife faint away, and the present occasion was no exception to the rule.

After Lauretta Ann had bathed and bound up the finger, and sent Lammy home for a little of the cherry cordial for which she was famous, she made another effort to serve the lunch, and finally succeeded in cheering the mournful company by sheer force of good temper.

“I do hope you’ll draw Grandma Lane’s canopy-top cradle and the big rocker that matches, they’d be such comforts to you as you are fixed,” Mrs. Joshua said to Mrs. Henry, as putting a friendly arm about her, they went into the sitting room, where Judge Ricker was busy kneading up the numbered papers in the basket as carefully as if he was working lard into flour for tea biscuits, and seated themselves in a semicircle.

“Do you begin, sister-in-law Jason, and you follow next, sister-in-law Henry,” said Mrs. Joshua, laying her hand, which would tremble in spite of herself, on Lammy’s shoulder. Lammy, by the way, had grown broader and stronger and lost much of his timidity of manner during the two months past. Whether it was the sense of responsibility that working with the college men had given him, or his determination to have Bird come back, his mother could not decide, while his father chuckled whenever the matter was referred to, saying, “’Tain’t neither; it was squarin’ up at ’Ram Slocum that made a man of him;” and though Lauretta always said, “Sho, pa! ain’t you ashamed of aidin’ and abettin’ a fight?” her smiling expression belied her words.

Mrs. Jason stepped forward and drew—the canopy cradle! A roar of laughter greeted her venture, in which she joined grimly, for her youngest offspring was a six-foot youth of seventeen, while Mrs. Henry sighed and felt secretly injured, though she said nothing.

Next came her turn, and she drew a worked motto in a gilt frame, which read, “The Lord Will Provide,” whereat she smiled feebly and whimpered, “I’ve tried to think so, but I do wish Henry Lane would help Him out better.” Mrs. Joshua drew the best china, Mrs. Henry the tall clock, which she straightway declared to be a foot higher than any of her rooms,—she finally traded it with Mrs. Jason for the cradle and rocking-chair,—until at the end of two hours the last number left the basket and three tired and confused women wandered about trying to collect their property.

The great wardrobe had fallen to Mrs. Jason’s share, but upon close inspection it proved to be merely stained cherry and not mahogany at all, and its owner remarked that she wished some one would take it off her hands, as it was too big to go in her door, and more than it was worth to truck it home, much less get it in to Northboro, where it would be possible to sell it. Her husband, however, ventured to say it would make a good harness closet for the barn and keep the rats from gnawing the leather; and so with much stretching of muscles and groans of “now heave together” it was loaded with the other articles upon the wagon.

There was quite a lively interchange of articles between the women before the rooms were finally cleared, but in the end, owing to Mrs. Joshua’s good sense, they all declared themselves well satisfied. Mrs. Jason had secured a good sewing-machine, and Mrs. Henry a parlour organ for which her melancholy spirit pined; while Mrs. Joshua, who had a machine and inwardly detested parlour organs, saying that when needful she could do her own groaning, was made happy by the best parlour set, her own chairs and lounge having been fatally collapsed by her family of men folks of assorted ages.

One thing they all regretted, which was that Aunt Jimmy had ordered all articles of every kind not mentioned in her list should be either burned or buried, according to their kind, and there were many things dear to their feminine hearts in the mass of rubbish that had been accumulating in garret and cellar, barn and loft, these many years as well as much that was salable as junk. It was of no use to object; for Joshua was determined to carry out the will in both spirit and letter, and though it had amused the eccentric old lady to collect and hoard the stuff, she was equally determined that it should never be exposed to the gaze of the curious. Joshua knew that though she thought him slow and without ambition, she trusted him, and he was not going to disappoint her.

******

As the loaded wagons filed out of the yard, a lean figure might have been seen peering through the branches of a small maple tree in the wood lot just above. It was Abiram Slocum, who, goaded by his wife, was trying to see which cart contained the wardrobe; for she had come back from Northboro the day before all eagerness to get possession of it, for the owner of the “curious shop” had said if the wardrobe was of the size and quality she described, he would pay her fifty dollars for it. Now if the owner would let it go for fifteen or even twenty-five dollars, the profit would give her new paper and a carpet for her best room; for rich as Slocum was reputed to be, he was close-fisted with his wife, and she was obliged to pick up her own pin money like her poorer neighbours, with the exception that she had not succeeded in the egg business, owing to her tendency, whenever possible, to give eleven to the dozen, and sell limed eggs at a high price to ignorant people who desired them for setting.

Abiram presently spied the wardrobe on Jason Lane’s load. He was sorry for this, for Mrs. Jason was one of the few people who had ever got the better of him in trade, and a horse trade at that, so he feared she would never sell the furniture, or if she did, would extort full value.

Nevertheless, he slipped hastily from the tree, cut across lots toward the road they must take on their way home, and fifteen minutes later met them when they stopped to rest the horse, as if he was merely sauntering toward the pasture for his cows, and was soon engaged in general conversation upon farm topics that gradually led up toward the furniture.

“Heavy load you’ve got there,” he remarked; “ain’t that there closet big for your haouse?”

Jason was about to say that it was, and that they were going to put it in the barn, when he felt his wife looking daggers, and refrained.

“’Tis big, but we can use it,” she answered dryly, starting up the horse.

“How about selling it and buying somethin’ handier?”

“I ain’t anxious. Get along, Whiteface,” she said, touching the horse with the whip.

“I’ll give yer fifteen dollars for it, here and now, if you’ll leave it to my house,” Abiram shouted as the wagon began to move away.

“’Twouldn’t pay me to turn back.”

“Twenty dollars then.”

“Nope, I’m in a hurry, and there’s a pile of good seasoned wood in the thing.”

“She knows its value, sure enough,” he said to himself, as the wagon began to climb the hill.

“Give yer twenty-five, and yer can leave it here by the road.”

“I reckon you might unpack, pa,” the gaunt woman said, a smile hovering about her mouth, adding to Abiram, “Hand up the money, and down she goes.”

In five seconds two ten-dollar bills and a five, after a searching scrutiny, found their way into Mrs. Jason’s pocket, and the clumsy piece of furniture leaned tipsily against the pasture fence exposed to the full glare of the sun.

Just as Jason Lane had remounted the seat and the wagon had begun to move again, a shout made them look round. There stood Abiram in the middle of the road, stamping and choking with rage so that he could barely speak.

“Stop! hey, stop!” he yelled; “it ain’t mahogany; it’s only stained wood. Hey, give me my money back or I’ll hev ye arrested.”

“Who said it was mahogany?” called Mrs. Jason, stopping the horse and fairly beaming with the pleasure of the contention.

Abiram hesitated a moment, felt himself caught, stammered, and said, “Mis’ Slocum did.”

“Well, go ahead and arrest Mrs. Slocum, then,” chimed in Jason, his speech for once meeting his wife’s approval.

“Oh, Lordy, Lordy, what ’ll she say, ’n’ what ’ll I do with it?” he moaned to himself, completely caught in the trap set by his own greed.

“I dunno,” shouted Mrs. Jason as she moved away, “’nless you put wheels on it to make a wagon and hitch that sorrel mare I sold you to it.”

******

The day of the sale drew near. All that remained to be done was the destroying of the rubbish, and this was no small task.

One entire day a bonfire had raged in the back lot, and what would not burn was the next day taken in the ox-cart thrice filled by Joshua himself and dumped carefully in the great bog-hole.

This quaking bog was one of the wonders of the neighbourhood and its common dumping ground, even though it could only be reached by fording the river above the mill-pond. To the eye it was merely an oozy-looking swamp tract, such as are plentiful near the back-water of rivers, but this particular bit was an ogre that swallowed up everything that was cast in it, only a few hours being necessary to engulf, without leaving a sign, an unlucky cow that had once strayed into it. So that now it was securely fenced about except at one spot, used for dumping, which was protected with logs secured to driven piles.

Mrs. Lane watched the loading of the wagon very ruefully, for she now fully realized that all her hopes concerning the fruit farm had come to as complete an end as the load of broken china and rusty tinware. When she saw the old pewter tea-pot, the dents supplemented by a crack, go by on top of a basket of broken flower pots, she begged her husband to let her keep it, saying:—

“Even if it’s worth nothin’ now, even for drawin’ tea, Aunt Jimmy must hev meant somethin’ kind when she left it to me, and I’d like it to mind me of the idea, only she got fogged up some way and didn’t plan right; fer if she set store by anything, it was by that pot on account of its bein’ buried half of the Revolution with great-grandmother Cuddy’s best teaspoons and twenty gold guineas all safe inside.”

“Lauretta Ann,” said Joshua, pausing to rest the heavy basket on the tail-board of the cart, “’tain’t often I put my foot down, but now they’ve set, heel and toe, sock and leather, both of ’em. I’m goin’ to do my work legal, but you’ve been treated shabby, and I ain’t a-goin’ to hev that tea-pot set up on a shelf for a moniment to that same. If you’re too Christian to resent, I’m goin’ to do it for yer, which she, bein’ my aunt, the quarrel is for me to take upon me, so there!”

Joshua had never before made such a long speech in all their married life, and his wife, fairly awed by his earnestness, said no more, but turning away, took the private pathway homeward that led through the meadow and garden, closing the gap in the wall with brush as she went, for soon now she would have no longer any right to come and go.

That afternoon as Lammy came home from school he saw in the distance his father and the ox-team taking the last load along the highway, and as he realized how soon the auction would take place, his heart sank and his feet dragged heavily along. Turning to take a short cut through the lane, he came face to face with an old coloured man with snow-white, woolly hair, who was scratching up the leaves with his cane, in search of chestnuts.

His name was Nebuchadnezzar Lucky, or Old Lucky, as he was called for short, and he was the husband of Dinah, who was general factotum of the village, and supported her man, who was double her age, by cooking, nursing, or housecleaning, as the season or circumstances demanded, absolutely taking pride in the fact, as if it was his right and his due. For was not Old Lucky a superior being who made charms, brewed herb medicines, and told fortunes, in addition to having turns of “seeing things,” which caused him to be regarded with awe by children and the credulous of all ages, even in this prim New England town where witches were once burned?

“Howdy, Massa Lammy? ’Pears like the squir’ls and chippin monkeys has got all the chestnuts this season, and dey ain’t left one for old Uncle Lucky to bile soft so’s him can eat ’em. You ain’t got a handful laid up you could spare ’thout missin’, I reckon now?” And the old man gave a persuasive, yet terrifying leer with eyes that were so badly crossed that they fairly seemed tangled.

An idea struck Lammy, as the tales of Lucky’s power came back to him, for even the practical folk who scoffed, allowed that there was something queer in it. He would consult the old man as to what he could do to get the fruit farm and Bird back at the same time. But stop! Where was the money to come from? For it was well known among his customers that Lucky could not “see things” until he had rubbed his eyelids with a piece of silver. Lammy’s money was all in the bank. Ah! he had it! John O’More’s silver dollar that was hidden away in Bird’s paint-box!

Away he flew like a scurrying rabbit, leaving Old Lucky muttering in amazement, and in a half-hour returned, carrying a salt-bag full of chestnuts in one hand and the coin wrapped in paper in the other.

The old man, by this time having grown tired of his useless hunt for nuts, had gone home, and Lammy followed him to his cabin that was perched on the edge of the bank overhanging the mill stream. Lucky was sitting in an arm-chair by the window when Lammy entered and stammered out his wish and request for advice, at the same time offering his bag of nuts and the coin which he first polished on his trousers.

If Lucky was surprised at the size of the offering, his usual fee being a quarter, while he never refused a dime, he did not show it, but felt the money carefully, passed it across his dim eyes, munched a nut or two, and falling back in his chair, covered his head with a red and yellow handkerchief and began to mutter, beckoning Lammy to come near and listen, which he did, scarcely daring to breathe. The mutterings went on for several minutes, and then took the form of words.

“Take—a—shotgun,” said the voice in a tone meant to be hollow, but which stopped at being cracked, “load him wif bullets you make umsself, go up on de churchyard hill and shoot der shadder of a Christmas tree on a—black,—dark night,—an’ den,—an’ den—”

“Then what?” besought Lammy, in an agony of suspense.

“Den you’ll hear sumpfin’!” shouted Lucky, suddenly pulling the handkerchief from his face and fixing Lammy with a cross-eyed stare that was paralyzing.

“But recommember,” Lucky added, shaking his forefinger ominously, “make dem bullets out o’ sumpfin’ yo’ find, not bought nor lead uns, but sumpfin’ white like silver, or dis year charm hit won’t work.”

“But where shall I find it?” gasped Lammy, so much in earnest that he did not realize the absurdity of what the old man said.

This question seemed to take the magician out of his depth, and annoyed him not a little. After casting his eyes helplessly about, they chanced to rest on the stream below the window, when he quickly closed them and whispered, “Yo’ must look in water—not in a pond, but in running water!” after which he refused to say another word.

When Lammy reached home, his mother was setting the supper on the table, while his father and brothers were going over the same old arguments as to the possibility or impossibility of buying the fruit farm. Lammy smiled to himself as he lifted Twinkle to his shoulder and then put the dog on a chair beside him, his usual place at meal-times, where he waited, one ear up and one down, until it was time to be fed.

No one noticed how red the boy’s cheeks were and how his eyes shone, as he hurried from supper to learn his lessons, that he might have time in the morning to begin his search for metal for the magic bullets before going to school. He thought if he had the material, all else would be easy, for there was an old bullet-mould in the workroom in the barn, where mending was done, also an iron pot that had been used for melting solder.

He did not tell his mother of his plan, not that he meant in any way to deceive her; but if she knew nothing, the surprise at the result would be all the greater.

For the next two or three days Lammy went up and down the river banks from the Mill Farm to the upper fork, apparently as aimlessly as in the time that he was dubbed “Look-out Johnny,” and the neighbours nodded, and said, “The brace he got fightin’ didn’t last,—he’s trampin’ again,” while his mother took it to heart and thought it was because he was grieving for Bird, as they had heard nothing definite or satisfactory from her for more than a month, and then only a few words on a card inquiring for Twinkle.

When Saturday came, Lammy started off in the morning early, asking his mother for a lunch to carry with him, which was nothing unusual. This day, instead of heading downstream, he started above the mill and followed the river up toward the woods. All the forenoon he looked here and there, and after eating his luncheon came out of the woods near where the highway branched and crossed the ford on the way to the bog dumping ground.

He stood there a few minutes, idly watching the dead leaves swirl along, and an occasional fish dart by, when his eyes became fixed upon an object lying close under a big stone in mid-stream; it glistened as the sun shone upon it, and then turned dull again. Whatever it was, it fascinated him strangely, and jumping from stone to stone, he soon reached it. “Only an old tin pan,” he muttered in disgust; “that won’t make bullets.”

As luck would have it, the stone upon which he stood turned, making him jump splash into the water, kicking the pan as he went. When he recovered himself, he looked about for footing, and there where the pan had been, to his amazement, lying almost at his feet, was the pewter tea-pot!

“However did that get here?” he exclaimed; but the answer was so simple that he guessed it at once. The tea-pot, in company with the pan, had been jolted from the ox-cart in crossing the ford on its way to the dump, and so escaped being swallowed.

“Hurrah!” cried Lammy, picking up the treasure and making his way to land, where he danced about in glee. “This ’ll melt into bullets first rate, and it’s kind of white like silver if it’s cleaned. When it’s melted, pop can’t call it ‘an eyesore’ or a ‘moniment,’ so it’s no harm for me to take it home.”

He could not tell why, but he took off his coat and wrapped it carefully around the tea-pot, and then slipped from the highway into the woods again.

When he reached home, it was still early afternoon. His father was cutting wood in the upper lot, and his mother had gone to Northboro with eggs for her Saturday customers, so Lammy had the place to himself.

First he buried the tea-pot deep in the feed bin, and taking the key of the house from its hiding-place under the door-mat, stole up to his room for dry shoes and socks, as it was a cold day and his sopping feet were already making him shiver and feel tight in the throat. Somehow the possession of the tea-pot gave him an uneasy feeling. Did it really belong to him? He hung about the house for a time, then walked straight out the gate and down to the Squire’s office in the town house. This same “Squire” was a man of education as well as a lawyer, and Lammy’s knock was answered by a cheery “Come in!” which he did, saying, all in one breath and quite reckless of grammar, “Please, sir, if I find anything that’s been took to the dump, but fell off and not been swallowed, would it be mine to make bullets of?”

The Squire looked up from under his bushy eyebrows and smiled at the lad encouragingly. “Certainly it would be yours, my boy; what is intentionally thrown away is fair plunder for any one.” And with a hasty “Thank you, sir,” Lammy was off again with an easy conscience, to find an old axe, break up the tea-pot, and melt it if possible before his parents’ return. Ah, but Lucky’s charm was surely working.

“Strange child that,” said the Squire, looking after him; “he’ll either turn out a fool or a genius. There is no middle path for such as he. I must keep my eye on him.”