The Girl From Tim's Place. Charles Clark Munn
bespoke truth; but it revealed such a pigsty state of morality at this Tim’s Place that the little group of astonished listeners could scarce finish supper or cease watching this much-soiled girl.
“And so your name is Chip,” queried Angie at last. “Chip what?”
“Chip McGuire,” answered the waif, quickly; “only my real name ain’t Chip, it’s Vera; but they’ve allus called me Chip at Tim’s Place.”
“And your father sold you to this man?”
“He did, ’n’ he’s a damn bad man,” replied Chip, readily. “He killed somebody once, an’ he don’t show up often. I hate him!”
“You mustn’t use swear words,” returned Angie, “it’s not nice.”
The girl looked abashed. “I guess you’d cuss if you’d been sold to such a nasty-looking man as Pete,” she responded. “He chaws terbaccer ’n’ lets it drizzle on his chin, ’n’ he hain’t but one eye.”
Angie smiled, while Martin stared at the girl with increased astonishment. He knew who this McGuire was, and something of his history, and that Tim’s Place was a hillside clearing far up the river, inhabited by an Irish family devoted to the raising of potatoes. He had halted there once, long enough to observe its somewhat slothful condition, and to buy pork and potatoes; but this tale was a revelation, and the girl herself a greater one.
This oasis in the wilderness was fully forty miles above here, its only connection with civilization was a seldom-used log road which only an experienced woodsman could follow, and how this mere child had dared it, was a marvel.
But there she was, squat on the ground and watching them with big black, pleading eyes. There was but one thing to do, to care for her now, as humanity insisted, and Angie made the first move. It was in the direction of cleanliness; for entering the tent, she soon appeared with some of her own extra clothing, soap, and towels, and bade the girl follow her up the river a few rods.
The moon was shining clearly above the tree-tops, the camp-fire burned brightly, and Martin, Ray, and Levi were lounging near it when the two returned, and in one an astonishing transformation had taken place.
Angie had gone away with a girl of ten in respect to clothing, her skirt evidently made of gunny cloth and reaching but little below her knees, and for a waist, what was once a man’s red flannel shirt, and both in rags. Soiled with black mud, and bleeding, she was an object pitiable beyond words; she returned a young lady, almost, in stature, her face shining and rosy, and her eyes so tender with gratitude that they were pathetic.
Another change had also come with cleanliness and clothing–a sudden bashfulness. It was some time ere she could be made to talk again, but finally that wore away and then her story came. What a tale it was–scarce credible.
At first were growing terrors as she plunged deeper and deeper into the shadowy forest, the brush and logs that tripped her, the mud holes she wallowed through, the ever increasing horrors of this flight, the blood-chilling cries of night prowlers, the gathering darkness while she waited on the bridge, the awful moment when she saw two yellow eyes watching her, not twenty feet away, her screams of agonized fear, and then time that seemed eternity, while she expected the next moment to feel the fangs of a hungry panther.
How blessed the first dawn of morning had seemed, how she ran on and on, until faint with hunger she halted to eat roots, leaves, berries–anything to sustain life! The river had been her one boon of hope and consolation, and even beyond the fear of wild beast had been the dread of pursuit and capture by this half-breed. When night came, she had crept into a thicket, covering herself with boughs; when daylight dawned, she had pushed on again, ever growing weaker and oft stumbling from faintness.
Hope had almost vanished, her strength had quite left her, the last day had been a partial blank so far as knowledge of her progress went, but filled with eerie sights and sounds. From first to last the spites of Old Tomah had kept her company–by day she heard them, swifter-footed than she, in the undergrowth; by night they were all about, dodging behind trees, hopping from limb to limb, and sometimes snapping and snarling. The one supreme moment of joy, oft referred to, was when she had seen her rescuers’ camp-fire, with human, and possibly friendly, faces about it.
It was a fantastic, weird, almost spookish tale,–the spectres she had seen were so real to her that the telling made them seem almost so to the rest, and beyond that, the girl herself, so like a young witch, with her shadowy eyes and furtive glances, added to the illusion.
But now came a diversion, for Levi freshened the fire, and at a nod from Angie, Ray brought forth his banjo. It was his one pet foible, and it went with him everywhere, and now, with time and place so in accord, he was glad to exhibit his talent. He was not an expert,–a few jigs and plantation melodies composed his repertory,–but with the moonlight glinting through the spruce boughs, the river murmuring near, somehow one could not fail to catch the quaint humor of “Old Uncle Ned,” “Jim Crack Corn,” and the like, and see the two dusky lovers as they floated down the “Tombigbee River,” and feel the pathos of “Nellie Grey” and “Old Kentucky Home.”
Ray sang fairly well and in sympathy with each theme. To Angie and the rest it was but ordinary; but to this waif, who never before had heard a banjo or a darky song, it was marvellous. Her face lit up with keen interest, her eyes grew misty at times, and once two tears stole down her cheeks.
For an hour Ray was the centre of interest, and then Angie arose.
“Come, Chip,” she said pleasantly, “it’s time to go to bed, and you are to share my tent.”
“I’d rather not,” the girl replied bluntly. “I ain’t fit. I kin jist ez well curl ’longside o’ the fire.”
But Angie insisted and the girl followed her into the tent.
Here occurred another incident that must be related. Angie, always devout, and somewhat puritanical, was one who never forgot her nightly prayer, and now, when ready for slumber, she knelt on the bed of fir twigs, and by the light of one small candle offered her usual petition, while Chip watched her with wide and wondering eyes. As might be expected, that waif was mentioned, and with deep feeling.
“Do ye s’pose God heard ye?” she queried with evident candor, when Angie ceased.
“Why, certainly,” came the earnest answer; “God hears all prayers.”
“And do the spites hear ’em?”
“There are no such creatures as ‘spites,’ ” answered Angie, severely; “you only imagine them, and what this Indian has told you is superstition.”
“But I’ve seen ’em, hundreds on ’em, big and little,” returned the girl, stoutly.
Angie looked at her with pity.
“Put that notion out of your head, once for all,” she said, almost sternly. “It is only a delusion, and no doubt told to scare you.”
And poor Chip, conscious that perhaps she had sinned in speech, said no more.
For a long time Angie lay sleepless upon her fragrant bed, recalling the waif’s strange story and trying to grasp the depth and breadth of her life at Tim’s Place; also to surmise, if possible, how serious a taint of evil she had inherited. That her father was vile beyond compare seemed positive; that her mother might have been scarce better was probable. No mention, thus far, had been made of her; and so Angie reflected upon this pitiful child’s ancestry and what manner of heritage she had been blessed or cursed with. Some of her attributes awoke Angie’s admiration. She had shown utter abhorrence of this brutal sale of herself, a marvellous courage in endeavoring to escape it. She seemed grateful for what had been done for her, and a partial realization of her own unfitness for association with refined people. Her speech was no worse than might be expected from her life at Tim’s Place. Doubtless, she was unable to read or write. And so Angie lay, considering all the pros and cons of the situation and of this girl’s life.