Under the Lilacs (4 page)

Feeling eminently respectable and comfortable, the wanderers humbly presented themselves, and were greeted with smiles of
approval from the little girls and a hospitable welcome from the mother, who set them near the stove to dry, as both were
decidedly damp after their ablutions.

“I declare I shouldn’t have known you!” exclaimed the good woman, surveying the boy with great satisfaction; for, though still
very thin and tired, the lad had a tidy look that pleased her, and a lively way of moving about in his clothes, like an eel
in a skin rather too big for him. The merry black eyes seemed to see everything, the voice had an honest sound, and the sunburnt
face looked several years younger since the unnatural despondency had gone out of it.

“It’s very nice, and me and Sanch are lots obliged, ma’am,” murmured Ben, getting red and bashful under the three pairs of
friendly eyes fixed upon him.

Bab and Betty were doing up the tea things with unusual despatch, so that they might entertain their guest, and just as Ben
spoke Bab dropped a cup. To her great surprise no smash followed, for, bending quickly, the boy caught it as it fell, and
presented it to her on the back of his hand with a little bow.

“Gracious! how could you do it?” asked Bab, looking as if she thought there was magic about it.

“That’s nothing; look here,” and, taking two plates, Ben sent them spinning up into the air, catching and throwing so rapidly
that Bab and Betty stood with their mouths open, as if to swallow the plates should they fall, while Mrs. Moss, with her dishcloth
suspended, watched the antics of her crockery with a housewife’s anxiety.

“That does beat all!” was the only exclamation she had time to make; for, as if desirous of showing his gratitude in
the only way he could, Ben took several clothespins from a basket nearby, sent several saucers twirling up, caught them on
the pins, balanced the pins on chin, nose, forehead, and went walking about with a new and peculiar sort of toadstool ornamenting
his countenance.

The children were immensely tickled, and Mrs. Moss was so amused she would have lent her best soup tureen if he had expressed
a wish for it. But Ben was too tired to show all his accomplishments at once, and he soon stopped, looking as if he almost
regretted having betrayed that he possessed any.

“I guess you’ve been in the juggling business,” said Mrs. Moss, with a wise nod, for she saw the same look on his face as
when he said his name was Ben Brown — the look of one who was not telling the whole truth.

“Yes, ’m. I used to help Señor Pedro, the Wizard of the World, and I learned some of his tricks,” stammered Ben, trying to
seem innocent.

“Now, look here, boy, you’d better tell me the whole story, and tell it true, or I shall have to send you up to Judge Morris.
I wouldn’t like to do that, for he is a harsh sort of a man; so, if you haven’t done anything bad, you needn’t be afraid to
speak out, and I’ll do what I can for you,” said Mrs. Moss, rather sternly, as she went and sat down in her rocking chair,
as if about to open the court.

“I
haven’t
done anything bad, and I
ain’t
afraid, only I don’t want to go back; and if I tell, maybe you’ll let ’em know where I be,” said Ben, much distressed between
his longing to confide in his new friend and his fear of his old enemies.

“If they abused you, of course I wouldn’t. Tell the truth, and I’ll stand by you. Girls, you go for the milk.”

“Oh, Ma, do let us stay! We’ll never tell, truly, truly!”
cried Bab and Betty, full of dismay at being sent off when secrets were about to be divulged.

“I don’t mind ’em,” said Ben handsomely.

“Very well, only hold your tongues. Now, boy, where did you come from?” said Mrs. Moss, as the little girls hastily sat down
together on their private and particular bench opposite their mother, brimming with curiosity and beaming with satisfaction
at the prospect before them.

C
HAPTER
4

“I
ran away from a circus,” began Ben, but got no further, for Bab and Betty gave a simultaneous bounce of delight, and both
cried out at once—

“We’ve been to one! It was splendid!”

“You wouldn’t think so if you knew as much about it as I do,” answered Ben, with a sudden frown and wriggle, as if he still
felt the smart of the blows he had received. “We don’t call it splendid; do we, Sancho?” he added, making a queer noise, which
caused the poodle to growl and bang the floor irefully with his tail, as he lay close to his master’s feet, getting acquainted
with the new shoes they wore.

“How came you there?” asked Mrs. Moss, rather disturbed at the news.

“Why, my father was the ‘Wild Hunter of the Plains.’ Didn’t you ever see or hear of him?” said Ben, as if surprised at her
ignorance.

“Bless your heart, child, I haven’t been to a circus this ten years, and I’m sure I don’t remember what or who I saw then,”
answered Mrs. Moss, amused, yet touched by the son’s evident admiration for his father.

“Didn’t
you
see him?” demanded Ben, turning to the little girls.

“We saw Indians and tumbling men, and the Bounding Brothers of Borneo, and a clown and monkeys, and a little mite of a pony
with blue eyes. Was he any of them?” answered Betty, innocently.

“Pooh! he didn’t belong to that lot. He always rode two, four, six, eight horses to oncet, and I used to ride with him till
I got too big.
My
father was A No. 1, and didn’t do anything but break horses and ride ’em,” said Ben, with as much pride as if his parent
had been a President.

“Is he dead?” asked Mrs. Moss.

“I don’t know. Wish I did”— and poor Ben gave a gulp as if something rose in his throat and choked him.

“Tell us all about it, dear, and maybe we can find out where he is,” said Mrs. Moss, leaning forward to pat the shiny dark
head that was suddenly bent over the dog.

“Yes, ma’am, I will, thank y’,” and with an effort the boy steadied his voice and plunged into the middle of his story.

“Father was always good to me, and I liked bein’ with him after granny died. I lived with her till I was seven; then father
took me, and I was trained for a rider. You jest oughter have seen me when I was a little feller all in white tights, and
a gold belt, and pink riggin’, standin’ on father’s shoulder, or hangin’ on to old General’s tail, and him gallopin’ full
pelt; or father ridin’ three horses with me on
his
head wavin’ flags, and everyone clappin’ like fun.”

“Oh, weren’t you scared to pieces?” asked Betty, quaking at the mere thought.

“Not a bit. I liked it.”

“So should I!” cried Bab enthusiastically.

“Then I drove the four ponies in the little chariot, when we paraded,” continued Ben, “and I sat on the great ball up
top of the grand car drawed by Hannibal and Nero. But I
didn’t
like that, ‘cause it was awful high and shaky, and the sun was hot, and the trees slapped my face, and my legs ached holdin’
on.”

“What’s hanny bells and neroes?” demanded Betty.

“Big elephants. Father never let ’em put me up there, and they didn’t darst till he was gone; then I had to, else they’d ‘a’
thrashed me.”

“Didn’t anyone take your part?” asked Mrs. Moss.

“Yes, ’m, ‘most all the ladies did; they were very good to me, ‘specially ‘Melia. She vowed she wouldn’t go on in the Tunnymunt
act if they didn’t stop knockin’ me round when I wouldn’t help old Buck with the bears. So they had to stop it, ‘cause she
led first-rate, and none of the other ladies rode half as well as ‘Melia.”

“Bears! oh, do tell about them!” exclaimed Bab, in great excitement, for at the only circus she had seen the animals were
her delight.

“Buck had five of ’em, cross old fellers, and he showed ’em off. I played with ’em once, jest for fun, and he thought it would
make a hit to have me show off instead of him. But they had a way of clawin’ and huggin’ that wasn’t nice, and you couldn’t
never tell whether they were good-natured or ready to bite your head off. Buck was all over scars where they’d scratched and
bit him, and I wasn’t going to do it; and I didn’t have to, owin’ to Miss St. John’s standin’ by me like a good one.”

“Who
was
Miss St. John?” asked Mrs. Moss, rather confused by the sudden introduction of new names and people.

“Why she was ‘Melia — Mrs. Smithers, the ringmaster’s wife. His name wasn’t Montgomery anymore ‘n hers was St. John. They
all change ’em to something fine on the bills, you know. Father used to be Señor Jose Montebello; and I
was Master Adolphus Bloomsbury, after I stopped bein’ a flyin’ Coopid and a Infant Progidy.”

Mrs. Moss leaned back in her chair to laugh at that, greatly to the surprise of the little girls, who were much impressed
with the elegance of these high-sounding names.

“Go on with your story, Ben, and tell why you ran away and what became of your Pa,” she said, composing herself to listen,
really interested in the child.

“Well, you see, father had a quarrel with old Smithers, and went off sudden last fall, just before the tenting season was
over. He told me he was goin’ to a great ridin’ school in New York, and when he was fixed he’d send for me. I was to stay
in the museum and help Pedro with the trick business. He was a nice man and I liked him, and ‘Melia was goin’ to see to me,
and I didn’t mind for a while. But father didn’t send for me, and I began to have horrid times. If it hadn’t been for ‘Melia
and Sancho I would have cut away long before I did.”

“What did you have to do?”

“Lots of things, for times was dull and I was smart. Smithers said so, anyway, and I had to tumble up lively when he gave
the word. I didn’t mind doin’ tricks or showin’ off Sancho, for father trained him, and he always did well with me. But they
wanted me to drink gin to keep me small, and I wouldn’t, ‘cause father didn’t like that kind of thing. I used to ride tip-top,
and that just suited me till I got a fall and hurt my back; but I had to go on all the same, though I ached dreadful, and
used to tumble off, I was so dizzy and weak.”

“What a brute that man must have been! Why didn’t ‘Melia put a stop to it?” asked Mrs. Moss, indignantly.

“She died, ma’am, and then there was no one left but Sanch; so I run away.”

Then Ben fell to patting his dog again, to hide the tears he could not keep from coming at the thought of the kind friend
he had lost.

“What did you mean to do?”

“Find father; but I couldn’t, for he wasn’t at the ridin’ school, and they told me he had gone out West to buy mustangs for
a man who wanted a lot. So then I was in a fix, for I couldn’t go to father, didn’t know jest where he was, and I wouldn’t
sneak back to Smithers to be abused. Tried to make ’em take me at the ridin’ school, but they didn’t want a boy, and I traveled
along and tried to get work. But I’d have starved if it hadn’t been for Sanch. I left him tied up when I ran off, for fear
they’d say I stole him. He’s a very valuable dog, ma’am, the best trick dog I ever see, and they’d want him back more than
they would me. He belongs to father, and I hated to leave him; but I did. I hooked it one dark night, and never thought I’d
see him ag’in. Next mornin’ I was eatin’ breakfast in a barn miles away, and dreadful lonesome, when he came tearin’ in, all
mud and wet, with a great piece of rope draggin’. He’d gnawed it and come after me, and wouldn’t go back or be lost; and I’ll
never leave him again, will I, dear old feller?”

Sancho had listened to this portion of the tale with intense interest, and when Ben spoke to him he stood straight up, put
both paws on the boy’s shoulders, licked his face with a world of dumb affection in his yellow eyes, and gave a little whine
which said as plainly as words—

“Cheer up, little master; fathers may vanish and friends die, but
I
never will desert you.”

Ben hugged him close and smiled over his curly white head at the little girls, who clapped their hands at the pleasing tableau,
and then went to pat and fondle the good creature, assuring him that they entirely forgave the theft of the
cake and the new dinner pail. Inspired by these endearments and certain private signals given by Ben, Sancho suddenly burst
away to perform all his best antics with unusual grace and dexterity.

Bab and Betty danced about the room with rapture, while Mrs. Moss declared she was almost afraid to have such a wonderfully
intelligent animal in the house. Praises of his dog pleased Ben more than praises of himself, and when the confusion had subsided
he entertained his audience with a lively account of Sancho’s cleverness, fidelity, and the various adventures in which he
had nobly borne his part.

While he talked, Mrs. Moss was making up her mind about him, and when he came to an end of his dog’s perfections, she said,
gravely—

“If I can find something for you to do, would you like to stay here awhile?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I’d be glad to!” answered Ben, eagerly; for the place seemed homelike already, and the good woman almost
as motherly as the departed Mrs. Smithers.