rebecca was used to this sort of errand, for the whole village of riverboro would sometimes be rocked to the very centre of its being by simultaneous desire for a yeast-cake. as the nearest repository was a mile and a half distant, as the yeast-cake was valued at two cents and wouldn't keep, as the demand was uncertain, being dependent entirely on a fluctuating desire for “riz bread,” the storekeeper refused to order more than three yeast-cakes a day at his own risk. sometimes they remained on his hands a dead loss; sometimes eight or ten persons would “hitch up” and drive from distant farms for the coveted article, only to be met with the flat, “no, i'm all out o' yeast-cake; mis' simmons took the last; mebbe you can borry half o' hern, she hain't much of a bread-eater.”
so rebecca climbed the hills to mrs. came's, knowing that her daily bread depended on the successful issue of the call.
thirza was barefooted, and tough as her little feet were, the long walk over the stubble fields tired her. when they came within sight of the came barn, she coaxed rebecca to take a short cut through the turnips growing in long, beautifully weeded rows.
“you know mr. came is awfully cross, thirza, and can't bear anybody to tread on his crops or touch a tree or a bush that belongs to him. i'm kind of afraid, but come along and mind you step softly in between the rows and hold up your petticoat, so you can't possibly touch the turnip plants. i'll do the same. skip along fast, because then we won't leave any deep footprints.”
the children passed safely and noiselessly along, their pleasure a trifle enhanced by the felt dangers of their progress. rebecca knew that they were doing no harm, but that did not prevent her hoping to escape the gimlet eye of mr. came.
as they neared the outer edge of the turnip patch they paused suddenly, petticoats in air.
a great clump of elderberry bushes hid them from the barn, but from the other side of the clump came the sound of conversation: the timid voice of the little prophet and the gruff tones of cassius came.
rebecca was afraid to interrupt, and too honest to wish to overhear. she could only hope the man and the boy would pass on to the house as they talked, so she motioned to the paralyzed thirza to take two more steps and stand with her behind the elderberry bushes. but no! in a moment they heard mr. came drag a stool over beside the grindstone as he said:
“well, now elisha jeremiah, we'll talk about the red cow. you say you've drove her a month, do ye? and the trade between us was that if you could drive her a month, without her getting the rope over her foot and without bein' afraid, you was to have her. that's straight, ain't it?”
the prophet's face burned with excitement, his gingham shirt rose and fell as if he were breathing hard, but he only nodded assent and said nothing.
“now,” continued mr. came, “have you made out to keep the rope from under her feet?”
“she ain't got t-t-tangled up one s-single time,” said elisha, stuttering in his excitement, but looking up with some courage from his bare toes, with which he was assiduously threading the grass.
“so far, so good. now bout bein' afraid. as you seem so certain of gettin' the cow, i suppose you hain't been a speck scared, hev you? honor bright, now!”
“i—i—not but just a little mite. i”—
“hold up a minute. of course you didn't say you was afraid, and didn't show you was afraid, and nobody knew you was afraid, but that ain't the way we fixed it up. you was to call the cow your'n if you could drive her to the pasture for a month without bein' afraid. own up square now, hev you be'n afraid?”
a long pause, then a faint, “yes.”
“where's your manners?”
“i mean yes, sir.”
“how often? if it hain't be'n too many times mebbe i'll let ye off, though you're a reg'lar girl-boy, and'll be runnin' away from the cat bimeby. has it be'n—twice?”
“yes,” and the little prophet's voice was very faint now, and had a decided tear in it.
“yes what?”
“yes, sir.”
“has it be'n four times?”
“y-es, sir.” more heaving of the gingham shirt.
“well, you air a thunderin' coward! how many times? speak up now.”
more digging of the bare toes in the earth, and one premonitory tear drop stealing from under the downcast lids, then,—
“a little, most every day, and you can keep the cow,” wailed the prophet, as he turned abruptly and fled behind the shed, where he flung himself into the green depths of a tansy bed, and gave himself up to unmanly sobs.
cassius came gave a sort of shamefaced guffaw at the abrupt departure of the boy, and went on into the house, while rebecca and thirza made a stealthy circuit of the barn and a polite and circumspect entrance through the parsonage front gate.
rebecca told the minister's wife what she could remember of the interview between cassius came and elisha simpson, and tender-hearted mrs. baxter longed to seek and comfort her little prophet sobbing in the tansy bed, the brand of coward on his forehead, and what was much worse, the fear in his heart that he deserved it.
rebecca could hardly be prevented from bearding mr. came and openly espousing the cause of elisha, for she was an impetuous, reckless, valiant creature when a weaker vessel was attacked or threatened unjustly.
mrs. baxter acknowledged that mr. came had been true, in a way, to his word and bargain, but she confessed that she had never heard of so cruel and hard a bargain since the days of shylock, and it was all the worse for being made with a child.
rebecca hurried home, her visit quite spoiled and her errand quite forgotten till she reached the brick house door, where she told her aunts, with her customary picturesqueness of speech, that she would rather eat buttermilk bread till she died than partake of food mixed with one of mr. came's yeast-cakes; that it would choke her, even in the shape of good raised bread.
“that's all very fine, rebecky,” said her aunt miranda, who had a pin-prick for almost every bubble; “but don't forget there's two other mouths to feed in this house, and you might at least give your aunt and me the privilege of chokin' if we feel to want to!”
