Cressy | Page 6

the figure was neither alarming nor unfamiliar. The master at once
recognized it as Ben Dabney, otherwise known as "Uncle Ben," a
good-humored but not over-bright miner, who occupied a small cabin
on an unambitious claim in the outskirts of Indian Spring. His
avuncular title was evidently only an ironical tribute to his amiable
incompetency and heavy good-nature, for he was still a young man
with no family ties, and by reason of his singular shyness not even a
visitor in the few families of the neighborhood. As the master looked
up, he had an irritating recollection that Ben had been already haunting
him for the last two days, alternately appearing and disappearing in his
path to and from school as a more than usually reserved and bashful
ghost. This, to the master's cynical mind, clearly indicated that, like
most ghosts, he had something of essentially selfish import to
communicate. Catching the apparition's half-appealing eye, he
proceeded to exorcise it with a portentous frown and shake of the head,
that caused it to timidly wane and fall away from the porch, only
however to reappear and wax larger a few minutes later at one of the

side windows. The infant class hailing his appearance as a heaven-sent
boon, the master was obliged to walk to the door and command him
sternly away, when, retreating to the fence, he mounted the uppermost
rail, and drawing a knife from his pocket, cut a long splinter from the
rail, and began to whittle it in patient and meditative silence. But when
recess was declared, and the relieved feelings of the little flock had vent
in the clearing around the schoolhouse, the few who rushed to the spot
found that Uncle Ben had already disappeared. Whether the appearance
of the children was too inconsistent with his ghostly mission, or
whether his heart failed him at the last moment, the master could not
determine. Yet, distasteful as the impending interview promised to be,
the master was vaguely and irritatingly disappointed.
A few hours later, when school was being dismissed, the master found
Octavia Dean lingering near his desk. Looking into the girl's
mischievous eyes, he good-humoredly answered their expectation by
referring to her morning's news. "I thought Miss McKinstry had been
married by this time," he said carelessly.
Octavia, swinging her satchel like a censer, as if she were performing
some act of thurification over her completed tasks, replied demurely:
"Oh no! dear no--not THAT."
"So it would seem," said the master.
"I reckon she never kalkilated to, either," continued Octavia, slyly
looking up from the corner of her lashes.
"Indeed!"
"No--she was just funning with Seth Davis--that's all."
"Funning with him?"
"Yes, sir. Kinder foolin' him, you know."
"Kinder foolin' him!"

For an instant the master felt it his professional duty to protest against
this most unmaidenly and frivolous treatment of the matrimonial
engagement, but a second glance at the significant face of his youthful
auditor made him conclude that her instinctive knowledge of her own
sex could be better trusted than his imperfect theories. He turned
towards his desk without speaking. Octavia gave an extra swing to her
satchel, tossing it over her shoulder with a certain small coquettishness
and moved towards the door. As she did so the infant Filgee from the
safe vantage of the porch where he had lingered was suddenly impelled
to a crowning audacity! As if struck with an original idea, but
apparently addressing himself to space, he cried out, "Crethy M'Kinthry
likth teacher," and instantly vanished.
Putting these incidents sternly aside, the master addressed himself to
the task of setting a few copies for the next day as the voices of his
departing flock faded from the porch. Presently a silence fell upon the
little school-house. Through the open door a cool, restful breath stole
gently as if nature were again stealthily taking possession of her own.
A squirrel boldly came across the porch, a few twittering birds charging
in stopped, beat the air hesitatingly for a moment with their wings, and
fell back with bashfully protesting breasts aslant against the open door
and the unlooked-for spectacle of the silent occupant. Then there was
another movement of intrusion, but this time human, and the master
looked up angrily to behold Uncle Ben.
He entered with a slow exasperating step, lifting his large boots very
high and putting them down again softly as if he were afraid of some
insecurity in the floor, or figuratively recognized the fact that the
pathways of knowledge were thorny and difficult. Reaching the
master's desk and the ministering presence above it, he stopped
awkwardly, and with the rim of his soft felt hat endeavored to wipe
from his face the meek smile it had worn when he entered. It chanced
also that he had