Skeeters

SKEETERS By Orvid E. Howell, Boy Scout Executive His real name was Thomas Lyle Thornton, I think, though it doesn't matter, since it was used only once annually — when the probate judge wrote it into the regular warrant for the truant officer. "Skeet- ers" was what he was called, which did matter, for just to speak it would send chills up good citizens' backs and start good matrons' tongues to wagging. Still, afterward, when the folks of Weston looked back on the history of his pranks, few indeed were the times when it could be shown that he had actually done anyone malicious injury. He was not freckled-faced and was not red-headed. His hail was dark and usually long, and, out of his rather pale face, his black eyes peered sharply. He lived with old Mr. Trimble — "Skinny Trimble," the boys called him — and chored for his board and "keep." (Back in the distant past, he had had a father and mother of a sort, but he could not remember them.) The board was wholesome, if somewhat ir- regular at times, and the keep consisted of a ragged pair of blue denim overalls, a straw hat, and calico shirt; supplemented, in Winter, by an old cap and a pair of Trimble's old shoes. Twice each year, at Christmas and on the Fourth of July, he was given "four-bits," for "spendin' " money. No, he didn't get along on that. No boy could. He got a little change once in a while by hook or crook — mostly by crook, to hear "Old Skinny" tell it. His wildest dream was to own some day a real jackknife, a can opener and a leather punch equipment, and a necktie. Skeeter's tastes ran largely to dogs, and worms, and fights, and places of solitude; preferably places as far as possible from Old Man Trimble's and the schoolhouse. He came picking his way, zig-zag, across the pasture, while a neighbor boy waited for him; zig-zagging to take advantage of every bare hillock, for his "toe-rags" offered scant protection against the damp of the early morning dew. A "toe-rag" is to a hand-me- down shoe, what an old pillow is to a broken window pane. "What kind of a bird is that new teacher?" he asked, without heeding the neighbor boy's "good morning." "A real feller. Why, you comin' to school?" "Yeh, thought I'd^ come and try it a crack." What he did not tell, but the other lad guessed, was that old r'pussy-foot," the truant officer had served his annual summons. "Yeh, he's a real feller, Mr. Lowe is," his companion went on.

SKEETERS 247 "Plays ball with us en' everything. Don't seem like a teacher. Seems more like, like a — jest a man." "How come?" "Talks with us, and everything — and jokes." Skeeters laughed scornfully. "Yeh, I'm wise to that kind. They don't fool me none. First thing you know he'll have you eatin' out his hand, and swearin' you like it." As the boy had said, Ralph Lowe, the teacher, was a real fellow. A quiet, clear-eyed, common chap, of thirty, with a friendly, smiling, though somewhat serious, face. He was idolized by the boys. He took a great interest in them, entering into their games and their home life. The school, under his direction, was running along fa- mously, quite contrary to the predictions of Trimble, who was chairman of the board of trustees, and who had warned the other mem- bers of the board that "that young feller hain't got no dignity." "Old Skinny" had wanted to hire a woman, a cousin of his wife's sister's first husband, and, being thwarted by his fellow board members, he was now watching closely for defects. Ralph started at once to try to win "Skeeters." He cultivated his confidence assiduously. They were together a lot; much to the discomfiture of Ralph's pretty, though somewhat vain wife, Lulu; who, like Trimble, felt that the association lowered her husband's dignity. They tramped the hills together and Ralph studied the lad. He visited him at his work. He played with him when he played. He took him to his own home to dinner, to the disgust and humiliation of Lulu. "I don't see what you're thinking of, Ralph," she said. "Why, the child's actually filthy. What would we have done if some of our friends had dropped in?" But Ralph could make little headway at winning Skeeters. The lad was like a wild thing fearing capture. He did not resent Ralph's advances — openly — but he maintained his air of distant aloofness. His manner said plainly, "All very fine, but there must be a catch some- where." When Ralph organized the boys into a Scout troop, Skeeters took some interest, especially in the life-saving methods, for he was a good swimmer. But he would not come to the meetings and he would not make the promise. "Make no promises and you'll never break none," he said, "that's my motter." But the look he sometimes gave Ralph would make Ralph's heart ache; as if he would like to trust him but dared not — the look of a stray dog in the street. It was that look that made Ralph so out of patience at his wife's protests.

248 IMPROVEMENT ERA "He'll get you into trouble yet. Everyone says he will," she warned. "And who is everyone? Mr. Trimble?" "Well, he's one. And I think you ought to pay some attention to his wishes. He's the man who employs you." Halloween night came — the big night for boys in the country. The night when wagon wheels have a strange habit of disappearing, and gates change owners; when mules from distant farms may appear, quite mysteriously, in stalls where one's pure-bred heifers are supposed to be. In the afternoon, Mr. Trimble appeared at the school-yard gate and asked for Mr. Lowe. Trimble never forgot Halloween. It always annoyed him; and since it annoyed him so, he always was given good cause to remember it. "We usually expect the teacher to help hold th«se kids in check," he said, "I suppose you've warned them about staying out of mischief." "I have anticipated the event," Ralph answered, "and have planned a hike up Box canyon." Mr. Trimble looked dubious. "I was counting on you stay in' in the buildin' tonight," he said, "and watchin' things." "That will hardly be necessary, I think," Ralph replied. "The boys will all be with me." "Will Skeeters?" "Well, I don't know — I think he will." "Bet he don't go. He always figures on raisin' old Ned on Halerween." "Oh, I don't think he'll hurt anything. If he does I'll make it good." Ralph laughed. Skeeters wanted to go to Box canyon; wanted badly to go. But for two reasons he did not. First, "Old Skinny" would not let him off choring; and second, he could hardly reconcile himself to a quiet Halloween. It seemed like the catch he had been looking for. To him Halloween was a sacred institution. To interfere with it was like polluting a holy shrine with desecrating feet. So at 11:30 p. m., when the other boys and Ralph were making their beds in Box canyon, he and a kid from Cedar Creek were disar- ranging things in the main room of the schoolhouse. When they had done their mischief, and just as they were placing a candle-lit jack-o- lantern in the window, a shrill voice challenged them, and "Old Skinny" stepped from the cloak-room. There was a mad scramble for the window and a madder race up the hill. The boys won, and Trimble stopped on top breathless. He turned to descend and stopped suddenly with a squeal of amaze-

SKEETERS 249 ment. Flames were bursting from the schoolhouse window! In his haste to catch the boys, his boot heel had overturned the lantern. Half way down the hill, a dark, flying figure passed him. Skeeters, too, had seen the blaze. Frantically they fought the flames; Skeeters, and Trimble, and two tourists who happened along. Fought it, while Trimble cursed and scolded and threatened, and Skeeters, reckless to danger and in- different to pain, prayed with short, choking sobs, while the salt tears scalded his parching lips. Thanks to the aid of the tourists, the nearness of a frog pond, and a plentiful supply of forgotten dinner buckets, the building was saved with only slight damage done; but to Skeeters it was a yawning hulk, and he slunk away like a cur to its kennel, and was not seen again for days. There was talk in the village. Talk, and criticism of Ralph Lowe. Old Trimble, seeing his chance, called a board meeting while the gossip was at white heat, and it was decided, "That, for the good of the school, they would ask Mr. Lowe to resign by the coming holidays." Ralph paid the damage for Skeeters and went home wearily, dreading to face what he knew awaited him there. It was just at this time that Skeeters, like a ghost, appeared to a group of his companions. A bunch of skunk and weasel skins dangled from his belt, and over his shoulder he carried his one possession, an old "twenty-two" a friendly neighbor had given him. "Whar's teacher?" he demanded. They jerked their thumbs at Ralph's vanishing figure and promptly turned their backs upon him. Hot tears sprang to his eyes, and he turned away blindly. He was spurned and lonesome, like a king wolf deserted by his pack. He could not understand. He had done nothing that he knew of to deserve such treatment. At Ralph's house he was enlightened. As he hesitated outside, struggling with a note to leave with the offering, a voice came through the open window clearly; a woman's voice in anger. "Lost your job, and for that measly brat! Disgraced! Didn't I tell you?" "Lu, you mustn't blame the kid, he's as innocent — " "Sacrifice your wife's pride and self-respect for your maudlin sentiment! Ralph Lowe, I think it is about time that we came to an understanding." "Lulu! You mean — ?" "That if we can't get along, we'd better — " Skeeters heard no more; dropping the gun and skins on the

250 IMPROVEMENT ERA porch, and pinning the note to the door with a sliver, he fled into the gathering darkness wildly." Lost his job for him! So that was it! And still defending him! No wonder the gang had spurned him. Well, there was only one thing to do. His old gun and the skins might make up for the damage fee paid by Ralph, but it could never make up for the loss of the job. Only one thing to do. He must "skip the country, ' and never come back — unless some day he might come back and right the wrong — some day! At the river he stopped and removed a shoe; the wadded toe- rag threatened to make a blister. As he sat there, dangling his foot in the soothing water, a shrill cry startled him. Some children were leaning from the bridge and pointing downward. Following their directions, he saw the red-haired crown of little Dorothy Trimble sink in the whirling water. Kicking off his other shoe, he plunged in, and made for her. He reached her easily but found it difficult to return. Every- where, it sieemed, he faced a current in the whirling water. Strange, too, how heavy the little slip of a girl seemed. He wished he had paid more attention to the Scout instructions. There were many things he wished he had done — and many he wished that he had not. His muscles, weakened by days of exposure and privation, threatened to quit him. His head whirled. To him, above, the roar of the boiling water, came the cries from the bank; the cries of children, and the wail of a stricken old man — high and piercing. "Poor old man," he thought, "Poor old fellow," and taking a fresh hold on the precious burden, he redoubled his effort. Just as it seemed that his lungs would burst, he felt a snag beneath his feet, then gravel, then he fainted. For an hour Ralph worked over him, pumping his frail body in and out (as he had so often taught his scouts to do) in an effort to start the lungs to working. Worked over him, while Lulu, white with fear and sorrow, wiped away the moisture, and the dripping sweat from her husband's face, mingled with her hot tears on the lad's pale forehead. Everyone from the village was there when he first showed signs of consciousness. Trimble was hysterical. "Bring him to!" he cried. "Oh, let him live! Come back, Skeeters! Come back, .and you can have anything, anything!" Little Dorothy was unharmed. The old man was rich, and he worshipped his little daughter. Skeeters stirred and opened his eyes weakly. "D'yuh mean that?" he inquired, "Then — then give back the — the job to — to teacher." Mingled cries, and prayers, and oaths! But only one voice

SKEETERS 251 reached Skceters. He was straining his ears to hear it. It was Lulu's. "God bless his heart. Oh, Ralph, can you ever — ever — " Skeeters fought to keep awake until she finished, but he could not. A delicious drowsiness overwhelmed him. He sank back limply. The people gasped, thinking him dead, but Ralph reassured them. "Just worn out, poor kid. He'll be all right when he's rested." When Skeeters awoke, a few hours later, peace was in his heart: and it seemed to Ralph, crouched over his bed, that a great light was on his face — the kind of light that artists like to paint around the heads of saints redeemed. And why not? From a baptism of fire and water, his pure soul had emerged triumphant. Preston, Idaho. A Message From the Mountains Could I describe the mountain-tops at dawn, In words so clear those far away might see That touch celestial when the day is born — Food for the soul, rare in its purity; Could I portray the mountains' rugged strength, That others, too, might feel that mighty awe, And know the message which it bears to earth — It speaks the vast eternity of law; Oh, could I paint the beauty, rich and rare, That lives in wooded slope and splashing rill, The canyons full of misty shades alluring, The pine trees climbing ever up the hill ; Rich coloring that changes every hour, Soft tones and shades, the artist's brush eludes, Each season brings a certain added grandeur, A gift of peace, deep in the solitudes; Could I to man this mountain message bear, Of strength and beauty, purity «nd peace, The moral uplift of the balmy air, The earth-bound spirit's fetters to release: Could I but take this lesson to myself, That in my daily life its truth might tell, Just living what the mountains mean to me, I would have praised their Great Creator well. Franklin, Idaho. MARGARET STEELE.