Arundel by Kenneth Roberts Read Free Book Online Page A

and the only cure I know is to fare into the marshes and woods and shoot enough partridges and teal ducks so a pot-pie may be made from their breasts, and to eat the pie before a roaring fire on a sharp night and wash it down with a gallon of mulled cider.
    Angry at Mary because I wished to be alone with her and was not, I hung my head, passed her by in silence, and went into the house, where I was sulky to my mother when she gave me corn bread and milk for my breakfast. When I came out I carried the sand buckets with me and said, in a voice I tried to make gruffly indifferent, that I was going to the beach for sand for the floor; but Mary neither looked at me nor spoke; so I plodded alone through the sand dunes with Ranger galloping along to inspect rat and rabbit holes that he considered it his duty to observe daily.
    Eunice lay off shore, raising her bullet head and her shoulders high above the rollers and anxiously scanning the beach; and when she saw me slip down from the dune grass into the soft sand she dove through the surf and flopped herself to me, coughing as though afflicted with a consumption, and pressed her wet nose against the calves of my legs. Not being kindly disposed because of my gloom, I kicked her fat side, whereat Mary appeared as if from nowhere and pushed me sharply in the back.
    “You stop!” she said. She sank to her knees and put her arms around Eunice’s wet neck, and Eunice blew affectionately in her face.
    “Phew! Fish!” Mary cried, sitting back on her heels and pulling Eunice’s stiff whiskers. Offended, the foolish creature hunched herself out of reach to lie on her side and wave one flipper in the air and stare at the sun and make distressful choking sounds, after the manner of seals.
    There were many things I would have liked to say to Mary, God knows; but like most children I could never say what I wished, and so said nothing, but silently filled my buckets with sand. She came and stood quietly beside me for a while. Then she murmured: “My father’s well now. When he’s finished his beans and pie, he’ll take me home.”
    I knew this was so, and Mary must have known I knew, and surely I showed I was not happy over it. Thinking there was nothing to be said, I continued to fill the buckets and to say nothing.
    She waited for me to speak, but getting no word out of me she put her foot on the edge of a bucket and overset it. When I looked at her in surprise she ran from me, laughing, so I ran after her.
    Swift as she was, I was soon close enough to catch at her. Thus I was taken unawares when she stopped and turned. My arms were around her before I knew what had happened, and she was pressed close against me. Shamed, I dropped my arms and moved away to dig holes in the sand with my moccasin. I could feel her looking at me, but could not look at her, though I wished to do so.
    She turned and scrambled up into the dune grass at the top of the beach. I was angry at her for going, even though I had given her no cause to stay. She stood there without moving for a time: yet I would not look at her, but continued to make holes in the sand and to wish she would come down again.
    At length, in a small voice, she said, “Did you mean it last night?” and I, wishful of saying “Yes!”, stubbornly shook my head. Hearing no further sound, I looked up and found her gone.
    My surliness left me. Forgetful of the buckets and all else, I leaped up the bank and saw her speeding toward the stockade. Nor, in spite of my cries of “Mary, I meant it! Mary, I meant it!” did she slacken her pace until she came in sight of Ivory Fish on guard at the stockade gate.
    Then, walking sedately until I came up with her, she said: “Are you glad you promised last night?” Although fearful that Ivory might know what it was I had promised, I said at once I was glad. Still she was not content, and asked: “Will you hunt for spruce gum with me?”
    I knew the woods were not safe, so said, “No: there might be