A Knight of the Cumberland by Jr. John Fox (speld decodable readers .TXT) 📕

The seats in the “grandstand” were in the sun now, so I left the girls in a deserted band-stand that stood on stilts under trees on the southern side of the field, and on a line midway between third base and the position of short-stop. Now there is no enthusiasm in any sport that equals the excitement aroused by a rural base-ball game and I never saw the enthusiasm of that game outdone except by the excitement of the tournament that followed that afternoon. The game was close and Marston and I assuredly were stars—Marston one of the first magnitude. “Goose-egg” on one side matched “goose-egg” on the other until the end of the fifth inning, when the engineer knocked a home-run. Spectators threw their hats into the trees, yelled themselves hoarse, and I saw several old mountaineers who understood no more of base-ball than of the lost digamma in Greek going wild with the general contagion. During these innings I had “assisted” in two doubles and had fired in three “daisy cutters” to first myself in spite of the guying I got from the opposing rooters.

“Four-eyes” they called me on account of my spectacles until a new nickname came at the last half of the ninth inning, when we were in the field with the score four to three in our favor. It was then that a small, fat boy with a paper megaphone longer than he was waddled out almost to first base and levelling his trumpet at me, thundered out in a sudden silence:

“Hello, Foxy Grandpa!” That was too much. I got rattled, and when there were three men on bases and two out, a swift grounder came to me, I fell—catching it—and threw wildly to first from my knees. I heard shouts of horror, anger, and distress from everywhere and my own heart stopped beating—I had lost the game—and then Marston leaped in the air—surely it must have been four feet— caught the ball with his left hand and dropped back on the bag. The sound of his foot on it and the runner’s was almost simultaneous, but the umpire said Marston’s was there first. Then bedlam! One of my brothers was umpire and the captain of the other team walked threateningly out toward him, followed by two of his men with base-ball bats. As I started off myself towards them I saw, with the corner of my eye, another brother of mine start in a run from the left field, and I wondered why a third, who was scoring, sat perfectly still in his chair, particularly as a well-known, red-headed tough from one of the mines who had been officiously antagonistic ran toward the pitcher’s box directly in front of him. Instantly a dozen of the guard sprang toward it, some man pulled his pistol, a billy cracked straightway on his head, and in a few minutes order was restored. And still the brother scoring hadn’t moved from his chair, and I spoke to him hotly.

“Keep your shirt on,” he said easily, lifting his score-card with his left hand and showing his right clinched about his pistol under it.

“I was just waiting for that red-head to make a move. I guess I’d have got him first.”

I walked back to the Blight and the little sister and both of them looked very serious and frightened.

“I don’t think I want to see a real fight, after all,” said the Blight. “Not this afternoon.”

It was a little singular and prophetic, but just as the words left her lips one of the Police Guard handed me a piece of paper.

“Somebody in the crowd must have dropped it in my pocket,” he said. On the paper were scrawled these words:

“_Look out for the Wild Dog!_”

I sent the paper to Marston.

At last—the tournament! Ever afterward the Hon. Samuel Budd called it “The Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms—not of Ashby— but of the Gap, by-suh!” The Hon. Samuel had arranged it as nearly after Sir Walter as possible. And a sudden leap it was from the most modern of games to a game most ancient.

No knights of old ever jousted on a lovelier field than the green little valley toward which the Hon. Sam waved one big hand. It was level, shorn of weeds, elliptical in shape, and bound in by trees that ran in a semicircle around the bank of the river, shut in the southern border, and ran back to the northern extremity in a primeval little forest that wood-thrushes, even then, were making musical—all of it shut in by a wall of living green, save for one narrow space through which the knights were to enter. In front waved Wallens’ leafy ridge and behind rose the Cumberland Range shouldering itself spur by spur, into the coming sunset and crashing eastward into the mighty bulk of Powell’s Mountain, which loomed southward from the head of the valley—all nodding sunny plumes of chestnut.

The Hon. Sam had seen us coming from afar apparently, had come forward to meet us, and he was in high spirits.

“I am Prince John and Waldemar and all the rest of ‘em this day,” he said, “and `it is thus,’ ” quoting Sir Walter, “that we set the dutiful example of loyalty to the Queen of Love and Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to the throne which she must this day occupy.” And so saying, the Hon. Sam marshalled the Blight to a seat of honor next his own.

“And how do you know she is going to be the Queen of Love and Beauty?” asked the little sister. The Hon. Sam winked at me.

“Well, this tournament lies between two gallant knights. One will make her the Queen of his own accord, if he wins, and if the other wins, he’s got to, or I’ll break his head. I’ve given orders.” And the Hon. Sam looked about right and left on the people who were his that day.

“Observe the nobles and ladies,” he said, still following Sir Walter, and waving at the towns-people and visitors in the rude grandstand. “Observe the yeomanry and spectators of a better degree than the mere vulgar”—waving at the crowd on either side of the stand—“and the promiscuous multitude down the river banks and over the woods and clinging to the tree-tops and to yon telegraph-pole. And there is my herald”—pointing to the cornetist of the local band—“and wait— by my halidom—please just wait until you see my knight on that black charger o’ mine.”

The Blight and the little sister were convulsed and the Hon. Sam went on:

“Look at my men-at-arms”—the volunteer policemen with bulging hip-pockets, dangling billies and gleaming shields of office—“and at my refreshment tents behind” —where peanuts and pink lemonade were keeping the multitude busy—“and my attendants”—colored gentlemen with sponges and water-buckets—“the armorers and farriers haven’t come yet. But my knight—I got his clothes in New York— just wait—Love of Ladies and Glory to the Brave!” Just then there was a commotion on the free seats on one side of the grandstand. A darky starting, in all ignorance, to mount them was stopped and jostled none too good-naturedly back to the ground.

“And see,” mused the Hon. Sam, “in lieu of the dog of an unbeliever we have a dark analogy in that son of Ham.”

The little sister plucked me by the sleeve and pointed toward the entrance. Outside and leaning on the fence were Mollie, the big sister, and little Buck. Straightway I got up and started for them. They hung back, but I persuaded them to come, and I led them to seats two tiers below the Blight—who, with my little sister, rose smiling to greet them and shake hands— much to the wonder of the nobles and ladies close about, for Mollie was in brave and dazzling array, blushing fiercely, and little Buck looked as though he would die of such conspicuousness. No embarrassing questions were asked about Mart or Dave Branham, but I noticed that Mollie had purple and crimson ribbons clinched in one brown hand. The purpose of them was plain, and I whispered to the Blight:

“She’s going to pin them on Dave’s lance.” The Hon. Sam heard me.

“Not on your life,” he said emphatically. “I ain’t takin’ chances,” and he nodded toward the Blight. “She’s got to win, no matter who loses.” He rose to his feet suddenly.

“Glory to the Brave—they’re comin’! Toot that horn, son,” he said; “they’re comin’,” and the band burst into discordant sounds that would have made the “wild barbaric music” on the field of Ashby sound like a lullaby. The Blight stifled her laughter over that amazing music with her handkerchief, and even the Hon. Sam scowled.

“Gee!” he said; “it is pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“Here they come!”

The nobles and ladies on the grandstand, the yeomanry and spectators of better degree, and the promiscuous multitude began to sway expectantly and over the hill came the knights, single file, gorgeous in velvets and in caps, with waving plumes and with polished spears, vertical, resting on the right stirrup foot and gleaming in the sun.

“A goodly array!” murmured the Hon. Sam.

A crowd of small boys gathered at the fence below, and I observed the Hon. Sam’s pockets bulging with peanuts.

“Largesse!” I suggested.

“Good!” he said, and rising he shouted:

“Largessy! largessy!” scattering peanuts by the handful among the scrambling urchins.

Down wound the knights behind the back stand of the base-ball field, and then, single file, in front of the nobles and ladies, before whom they drew up and faced, saluting with inverted spears.

The Hon. Sam arose—his truncheon a hickory stick—and in a stentorian voice asked the names of the doughty knights who were there to win glory for themselves and the favor of fair women.

Not all will be mentioned, but among them was the Knight of the Holston— Athelstanic in build—in black stockings, white negligee shirt, with Byronic collar, and a broad crimson sash tied with a bow at his right side. There was the Knight of the Green Valley, in green and gold, a green hat with a long white plume, lace ruffles at his sleeves, and buckles on dancing-pumps; a bonny fat knight of Maxwelton Braes, in Highland kilts and a plaid; and the Knight at Large.

“He ought to be caged,” murmured the Hon. Sam; for the Knight at Large wore plum-colored velvet, red base-ball stockings, held in place with safety-pins, white tennis shoes, and a very small hat with a very long plume, and the dye was already streaking his face. Marston was the last —sitting easily on his iron gray.

“And your name, Sir Knight?”

“The Discarded,” said Marston, with steady eyes. I felt the Blight start at my side and sidewise I saw that her face was crimson.

The Hon. Sam sat down, muttering, for he did not like Marston:

“Wenchless springal!”

Just then my attention was riveted on Mollie and little Buck. Both had been staring silently at the knights as though they were apparitions, but when Marston faced them I saw Buck clutch his sister’s arm suddenly and say something excitedly in her ear. Then the mouths of both tightened fiercely and their eyes seemed to be darting lightning at the unconscious knight, who suddenly saw them, recognized them, and smiled past them at me. Again Buck whispered, and from his lips I could make out what he said:

“I wonder whar’s Dave?” but Mollie did not answer.

“Which is yours, Mr. Budd?” asked the little sister. The Hon. Sam had leaned back with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his white waistcoat.

“He ain’t