Kit of Greenacre Farm | Page 2

trying
to tame for days, and which still persisted in butting its head every time
she came near it with friendly overtures. Jean and Helen had gone up to
Norwich with Mrs. Robbins for the day, and her father was out in the
apple orchard with Philemon Weaver, spraying the trees against the
attacks of the gypsy moths. Leastwise, Philemon held to spraying, but
Mr. Robbins was anxious to experiment with some of the newer
methods advocated by the government.
All unconscious of Kit's intentions or Shad's eagerness to abet them,
the two rambled off towards the upland orchards. Kit had started Shad
after the trespasser, while she went back to telephone to Mr. Hicks. The
very last thing she had said to Shad was to put the vandal in the
corn-crib and stand guard over him until Mr. Hicks came.
"Don't you worry one bit, Miss Kit," the constable of Gilead Township
assured her over the wire. "I'll be there in my car in less than twenty
minutes. You folks ain't the only ones that's suffering this year from
fruit thieves, and it's time we taught these high fliers from town that
they can't light anywhere they like and pick what they like. I'll take him
right down to the judge this afternoon."
Kit sat by the open window and fanned herself with a feeling of
triumphant indignation. If Jean or Helen had been home, she knew

perfectly well they would have been soft-hearted and lenient, but every
berry on every bush was precious to Kit, and she felt that now was the
appointed hour, as Cousin Roxy would have said.
Inside of a few minutes, Shad came back, perspiring and red faced, but
filled with unholy glee. He dipped a tin bucket into the water pail.
"I've got him," he said, happily, "safe and sound in the corn-crib, and
it's hotter than all get out in there. He can't escape unless he slips
through a crack in the floor. I just caught him red handed as he was
bending down right over the bushes, and what do you suppose he tried
to tell me, Miss Kit? He said he was looking for caterpillars." Shad
laughed riotously at the recollection. "Did you call up Han Hicks?"
Kit nodded, looking out at the corn-crib. The midsummer sun beat
down upon it pitilessly, at the end of the lane behind the barn.
"Do you suppose he'll survive, Shad? I'll bet a cookie it's a hundred and
six inside there."
"Do him good," retorted Shad. "Probably it's the only chance he's ever
had to meditate on his misdoings. Don't you fret about him. He's just as
husky as I be, and twice as hefty. It was all I could do to ketch a good
holt on him."
"Oh, Shad," exclaimed Kit. "I didn't want you to touch him, you know."
"I didn't," Shad laughed. "I just gave him a bit of sound scripture
reasoning, aided by fist persuasion when he was inclined to put up an
argument. I'll stand guard over him until Han comes along, and takes
him quietly off our hands. I reckon he didn't think we had any majesty
of the law here in Gilead."
Kit looked after his retreating figure somewhat dubiously. It was one
thing to act on the impulse of the moment and quite another to face the
consequences. Now that the prisoner was safe in the corn-crib, she
wondered somewhat uneasily just what her father would say when he
found out what she had done to protect the berry patch. But just now he

was safe in the upper orchard with old Mr. Weaver, deep in apple
culture, and she thought she could get rid of the trespasser before he
returned.
Mrs. Gorham was in the kitchen putting up peaches. Her voice came
with droning, old-fashioned sweetness through the screen door.
"When I can read my title dear To mansions in the skies, I'll bid
farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping eyes."
Kit slipped around the side drive behind the house out to the hill road.
Mr. Hicks would have to come from Gilead Green in this direction, and
here she sat on one of the high entrance posts, waiting and cogitating.
The woodbine that clambered over the two high, white posts was still
green, but scrambling along the ground were wild blackberry runners
just turning a rich brown crimson.
The minutes passed and still Mr. Hicks failed to appear. If Kit could
have visualized his journey hither, she might have beheld him,
lingering here and there along the country roads, stopping to tell the
news to any neighbor who might be working out his road tax in the lull
of the season between haying and harvest time. Beside him sat Elvira,
his youngest, drinking