Then There Were Five (24 page)

No wonder the grab bags were such a success. Paper and string littered the lawn, eager fingers tore apart little bundles, and Pearl Cotton at the girls' deer and Jerome Hubbard at the boys' were already beginning to wonder if the supply would hold out.

This was not all. There still remained the boat ride and the Treasure Tree.

Steve Ladislas had lent the Melendys his little homemade, flat-bottomed boat, and Dave Addison took small passengers on a thrilling tour of the swimming pool. Half the children had never even seen a boat before; they hung over the side, and trailed their fingers and screamed at the sight of minnows; a whole ocean could not have pleased them more.

The Treasure Tree was really nothing but the tree house dressed up. Still, more than half the children had never seen a tree house before, and they were well-satisfied with it, even though there was no treasure on hand, unless you counted Rush, who was in charge.

The Fair belonged to the children, first of all. They had taken it over. In the background their mothers watched, gossiped with one another, and sat in the cool shade, babies on their knees. Their fathers, the farmers, gathered about the table, talked, spat, waited for the auction to begin.

“Jeepers, who are
those?
” cried Randy suddenly, during a lull in business.

Lumbering slowly through the crowd appeared two men. They walked as if it were difficult for them not to walk on all fours. They wore dark old denim clothes, more brown than blue by now, and on their heads were denim caps with long, sharp visors. All you could see of each one's face was eyes and nose: the rest was muffled in great waves of beard.

“Why, my goodness, they're the Delacey brothers,” Daphne said. “They hardly ever come down out of the woods.”

“Rush told me about them,” Randy murmured. “I never really thought I'd see them.”

“Hardly anybody ever sees them,” said Daphne.

It was almost time for the auction. The cattle were all tied up outside the stable. The hogs were slumbering in one improvised pen; the melancholy Meeker poultry pecked and scratched in another.

At four o'clock Mr. Cutmold, the auctioneer, rang a large dinner bell. “Auction about to comm-ance!” he bellowed, in a voice that had been trained to volume. “Right over here, folks! Right over to the stable! Great opportunities for all!”

The crowd collected. Farmers to the front, of course, their faces grave: business was about to begin. Their wives came too, each with an identical pair of small children: one to carry, and one to hang on to. The other children deserted their pastimes at the sound of the bell, and joined the grown people. They pushed among the crowd, climbed bushes, and stood on railings. Rush came down out of his tree, Randy and Daphne left their cakes, the ancient gypsy stepped out of her booth with her wig on crooked, and Oliver and Billy Anton, prudently taking the money with them, deserted the box office on the principle that everybody who was coming must have come by now.

Mr. Cutmold was standing on an improvised auctioneer's block which was actually the kitchen table. He had a gavel in his hand, and an upended orange crate to knock on. Willy Sloper had been delegated to assist Mr. Cutmold, and he now led out the first cow.

“Here's a very fine little animal,” boomed Mr. Cutmold. “A fine little first-calf heifer; a grade Holstein, two years old,” and he proceeded to list her qualities and virtues. At the end he said. “What am I bid for this excellent creature?”

“Ten dollars,” said a farmer instantly.

“Ten dollars!” shouted Mr. Cutmold, as if he had been stung by a bee. “
Ten dollars!
Give her away, why not? Do I hear fifteen?”

“Fifteen,” said someone else.

“Kinda scrawny, ain't she?” murmured the first farmer's wife.

“I'll fatten her up. Twenty dollars!” said the farmer boldly.

“Do I hear twenty-five?” sang Mr. Cutmold alluringly, standing on the tips of his toes, and rolling his eyes.

He did hear twenty-five. Before the heifer was sold he heard eighty dollars.

“Eighty dollars!” said Oliver. “When I grow up I'm going to be a cow raiser.”

“I'm going to be an auctioneer,” said his friend Billy Anton, gazing raptly at Mr. Cutmold. “I got a good big voice for it already.”

Willy led one of the older cows up to the auction block. She stood there staring dreamily at the crowd, her eyes like plums, and her jaws working with a slow, swiveling motion. Her tail flapped carelessly, arrogantly, at the September flies. She looked dignified and worthy of respect.

“Here we have a splendid animal,” enthused Mr. Cutmold. “A four-year-old grade Holstein. An excellent milker, really excellent—”

“Thirty dollars,” barked a large man.

“Thirty-five!” barked someone else.

“Forty!”

“Forty-five!”

And so it went. The proud creature was sold at last for a hundred dollars.

All the cattle brought handsome sums, and then it was the pigs' turn. One by one they were displayed: the gilts, the shoats, the cranky old sow and her litter of half-grown piglets. When the mean brown boar was brought out the Delacey brothers suddenly opened their shaggy mouths and growled in unison: “Ten dollars!”

Every time a bid was called the Delaceys instantly raised it with such fierce bear voices that they soon discouraged competition. The boar was theirs.

“The three of them should be very happy together,” murmured Willy Sloper to Mr. Cutmold.

After the pigs were disposed of, Willy disappeared in the stable, a sudden heavy trampling was heard, and he came out leading the team.

These were good horses, though hard-worked. They stood there in the sunshine, quiet, broad-shouldered and strong. There was great patience and honesty about them. One could not look at them without a feeling of liking. Mark's throat felt hot when he saw them; he had known these horses for a long time. His fingers knew well the feeling of their coarse manes. He had fed them apples, harnessed them a thousand times, clambered onto their broad backs and ridden the pastures and woods for miles around, leaned his head against their sides and listened to the huge, tranquil rhythms of their hearts. He did not like to let them go.

“Now this team,” cried Mr. Cutmold, a little hoarse by now. “This is a splendid team. A splendid team. Fine workers, strong, in prime condition. A mite thin, maybe, but that's soon remedied. Six years old, and come of good mixed stock. What am I bid?”

“One hundred dollars,” stated a deep, melodious voice. Everyone turned. There on the fringes of the crowd stood a vastly fat man with a white round face like a Stilton cheese.

“That's Waldemar Crown,” Rush whispered to Father. “He's the one that wrote the letter, the one who wanted Mark.”

The faces that were turned toward the newcomer were staring and unfriendly. Even Mr. Cutmold's overworked jaw dropped open. He stood dumbfounded, with his gavel raised in mid-air before he caught himself up and went on …

“Ah, yes; ah, yes. This gentleman has bid one hundred dollars, do I hear one hundred and ten?”

“One hundred and ten,” said a clear firm voice.

“Jeepers, it's Father!” hissed Randy.

“One twenty,” said Waldemar Crown.

“One twenty-five,” said Father.

The duel continued. Heads turned hypnotized from right to left: first to Father and then to Mr. Crown. Cuffy twisted her bead necklace so hard that she broke it and never even noticed. Randy thought this must be one of those times you read about, when you could hear a pin drop.

“Father looks mad,” whispered Mona, in awe. “I never saw him look like that before.”

Father stared straight ahead at Mr. Cutmold. There were unaccustomed spots of color on his cheeks, and his eyebrows were severely drawn together. Every time Waldemar Crown made a bid, he topped it.

“One-seventy,” said Mr. Crown.

“One-eighty,” retorted Father.

“Two hundred,” snapped the fat man.

Father took a deep breath. A little vein stood out on his forehead.

“Two hundred and fifty!” he said.

Waldemar Crown hesitated and was lost. Mr. Cutmold leaped into the silence with alacrity.

“Two hundred and fifty do I hear two-fifty-five going going gone SOLD to the gentleman on my left: Mr. Martin Melendy of the Four-Story Mistake!”

People actually applauded, even the Delacey brothers. Mr. Crown slapped his broad-brimmed hat on his head and walked away, fat and furious.

“But gee, Mr. Melendy,” Mark was protesting, “you shouldn't have done it! I
told
you you could have the team, just for a present, I mean. Gee, all that money, Mr. Melendy. I don't want to take it. Why did you ever do it?”

“Stop talking nonsense, Mark. I wanted to do it. Why, I couldn't let those good horses go to a blackhearted rapscallion like Crown, could I? I've heard tales of how he treats his animals. I'm glad to have that team.”

“Father, you were wonderful!” Mona said. “You looked just like Humphrey Bogart.”

“He made
me
think of Sydney Carton,” Randy said.

After the drama of the horses, the chicken sale was tame. The Melendys didn't even wait to see what became of the New Hampshire Reds (Rush said it sounded more like a football team than hens). But there were those among the crowd who had been living for this moment. The bidding was sharp and high.

The children vanished into the house to prepare for the show. The crowd thinned a little. Willy and Mr. Cutmold helped old Harrison Neeper load cows onto his truck, and crates of hens were placed clucking and complaining in ramshackle jalopies covered with back-roads dust.

“Now we've got a team, what are we going to do with it, Willy?” said Father.

“Say, Mr. Melendy, it sure raises up a lot of consequences. Can't let a team lay idle, you know. First thing, we'll have to start a real farm to work 'em on.”

“Grain,” said Father gloomily. “Oats and all that sort of thing. Plowed fields in the spring. That means a plow. Maybe I can borrow one. Then the mowing and shocking. That means a reaper or a combine.
Then
the threshing. That means— Oh, Lord,” sighed Mr. Melendy, “what have I done?”

“Don't you worry, Mr. Melendy. I'll figure out a way to use 'em. And they'll make real nice company for Lorna Doone.”

“Names,” said Father. “Have they got names?”

“Jess and Damon. Damon is the one with the star on his forehead.”

And now it was time for the show!

In the end they had decided to have it behind the house because the earth was more or less flat there, and the high clothesline was the logical place to hang the curtain. Benches and boxes were arranged to accommodate the audience, and the shed roof, cellar doors, and kitchen steps all made excellent vantage points.

Rush opened the show by dashing dramatically into the old Brahms Rhapsody. The piano had been moved outdoors, which didn't agree with it. It twanged like a cheap tin music box, but Rush did the best he could, and everybody was impressed. Next he played the Schumann Novelette he had been slaving over all summer.

After that Randy danced while he played. Yes, in her pink costume, and new pink ballet slippers, with a splendid disregard for grass stain, Randy danced like a fairy; floated above the mole hills and ambushed clothespins which would have tripped anyone less skillful. This was such a success that she had to improvise an encore.

After this Jerome Hubbard played “God Bless America,” and “O Sole Mio” on his musical saw. Dave Addison recited the Gettysburg Address. Little Nancy Skeynes did her famous tapdance on an overturned washtub; Mark obliged by walking on his hands and turning handsprings, and then Mona, with the wrinkles scrubbed off her face, did a monologue which she had written herself. It was all about a captive French girl sending code messages to the British from an abandoned lighthouse, and was really by far the most successful thing about the show.

At the end everybody stood up and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” with Rush playing a loud impassioned accompaniment, and the Fair was over.

“If only Mrs. Oliphant could have seen it,” sighed Mona, “then it would really have been perfect.”

Later, after the Red Cross money and Mark's livestock money had been counted (and fine substantial sums they were, too), the weary time of cleaning up arrived.

In the fading light the children moved about, taking down the Chinese decorations to be packed away for some future festival. Papers were littered all over the lawn. Mark was gathering them up in armfuls and stuffing them into a burlap sack, to be kept for the paper salvage. Rush took the Bedouin tents apart. In one of them he discovered Oliver, cross-legged on the ground, drinking leftover punch right out of the bucket.

“Oh, brother, are you going to be sick tonight!” said Rush with a sort of awe; a prophecy which subsequently proved correct.

Staggering with weariness they managed to clear away the worst of the mess, though plenty was left for tomorrow. Everybody helped: Cuffy, Willy, Father, everyone. Isaac and John Doe, let out of the house at last, hurled themselves about the lawn, leaping upon everyone and speaking with loud, expostulatory barks.

A plaintive mooing was heard in the distance. Rush looked wanly at Mark.

“Jeepers. The cows. We forgot to milk them!”

As they trudged toward the pasture Mark stooped and picked something out of the grass. It was one of Oliver's handmade tickets. Mark looked at it in the faint light, and smiled a little.

“‘Admit one,'” he said aloud. “That's me, all right. I've been admitted. To a family. To a swell, real family. Boy, am I ever a lucky guy! No guy I ever heard of before was ever half so lucky!”

“Don't be a dope!” said Rush. “Who's lucky? Ran, and Mona, and Oliver, and I. We're the lucky ones. Didn't you know that?”