CHAPTER X.

Home Again

"And now," said the Lefthandiron as the Flamingo flew off and left them to themselves, "it strikes me that it is time we set about having some supper. I'm getting hungry, what with the excitement of that ride, and the fact I haven't eaten anything but a bowlful of kindling wood since yesterday morning."

"I'm with you there," said Tom. "I've been hungry ever since we started and that snow on the moon whetted my appetite."

"Never knew a boy who wasn't hungry on all occasions," puffed the Bellows. "Fact is, a boy wouldn't be a real boy unless he was hungry. Did you ever know a boy that would confess he'd had enough to eat, Pokey?"

"Once," said Poker, "I wrote a poem about him, but I never could get it published. Want to hear it?"

"Very much," said Tom.

"Well, here goes," said the Poker anxiously, and he recited the following lines:

THE WONDROUS STRIKE OF SAMMY DIKE.

Young Sammy Dike was a likely boy
Who lived somewhere in Illinois,
His father was a blacksmith, and
His Ma made pies for all the land.
The pies were all so very fine
That folks who sought them stood in line
Before the shop of Dike & Co.,
'Mid passing rain, in drifting snow,
For fear they'd lose the tasty prize
Of "Dike's new patent home-made pies."
One day, alas, poor Mrs. Dike,
Who with her pies had made the strike,
By overwork fell very ill,
And all her orders could not fill.
So ill was she she could not bake
One-half the pastry folks would take;
And so her loving husband said
He'd take her place and cook, instead
Of making horse-shoes. Kindly Joe,
To help his wife in time of woe!
He worked by night, he worked by day—
Yet worked, alas, in his own way
And made such pies, I've understood,
As but a simple blacksmith could.
He made them hard as iron bars;
He made them tough as trolley cars.
He seemed to think a pie's estate
Was to be used as armor plate.
And not a pie would he let go
That had not stood the sledge's blow
Upon the anvil in his sanctum,
Whence naught went out until he'd spanked 'em.
Result? With many alas and 'lack
The pies Joe made they all came back.
From folks who claimed they could not go
The latest pies of Dike & Co.
And here it was that Sammy came
To help his parents in the game.
"Can't eat 'em?" cried indignant Joe.
"Can't eat 'em? Well, I want to know!
Here, Sammy, show these people here
How most unjust their plaint, my dear.
Come, lad, and eat the luscious pies
That I have made and they despise."
Poor loyal Sammy then began
Upon those stodgy pies—the plan
Was very pleasing in his eyes,
For Sammy loved his mother's pies.
He nibbled one, he bit another,
And then began to think of mother.
He chewed and gnawed, he munched and bit,
But no—he could not swallow it;
And then, poor child, it was so tough
He had to say he'd had enough,
Though never in the world before
Was lad who had not wanted more.
And what became of Sammy's Ma?
And what became of Sammy's Pa?
Their profits gone, how could they eke
A living good from week to week?
They took the recipe for pies
That mother made and—Oh, so wise—
Let Father make them in his way
In form elliptical, they say.
And when the football season came
Won fortune great, and wondrous fame,
Beyond the wildest hope of dreams,
By selling these to football teams.
And those by whom this game is played
Called them the finest ever made.
"The Shuregood football" made of mince,
Has never quite been equaled since;
And few who kick them with their feet,
Know they're the pies Sam couldn't eat—
The only pies upon this orb
A healthy boy could not absorb.

"Great poem that, eh?" said the Bellows, poking Tom in the ribs, and grinning broadly.

"Splendid," said Tom. "New use for pies, that."

"It's beautifully long," said Lefty.

"But why couldn't it be published?" asked Righty. "Wasn't it long enough?"

"The editor said it wasn't true," sighed the Poker. "He had three boys of his own, you know, and he said there never was a boy who couldn't eat a pie even if it was made of crowbars and rubber, as long as it was pie."

"I guess he was right," observed Righty. "I knew a boy once who ate soft coal just because somebody told him it was rock-candy."

"Did he like it?" asked Tom.

"I don't think he did," replied Righty, "but he never let on that he didn't."

"Well, anyhow," put in Lefty, "it's time we had something to eat and we'd better set out for the Lobster shop or the Candydike—I don't care which."

"Or the what?" asked Tom.

"The Candydike?" said the Lefthandiron. "Didn't you ever hear of the Candydike?"

"Never," responded Tom. "What is it?"

"It's a candy Klondike," explained the Lefthandiron. "There are Gumdrop Mines and Marshmallow Lodes and Deposits of Chocolate Creams beyond the dreams of avarice. Remember 'em, Righty?"

"Oom, mh, mh!" murmured Righty, smacking his lips with joy. "Do I remember them! O, my! Don't I just. Why, I never wanted to come back from there. I had to be pulled out of the Peppermint mine with a derrick. And the river—O, the river. Was there anything ever like it?"

Tom's mouth began to water, he knew not why.

"What about the river?" he asked.

"Soda water flowing from Mountain to the Sea," returned the Righthandiron, smacking his lips again ecstatically. "Just imagine it, Tom. A great stream of Soda Water fed by little rivulets of Vanilla and Strawberry and Chocolate syrup, with here and there a Cream brook feeding the combination, until all you had to do to get a glass of the finest nectar ever mixed was to dip your cup into the river and there you were."

Tom closed his eyes with very joy at the mere idea.

"O—where is this river?" he cried, when he was able to find words to speak.

"In the Candydike, of course. Where else?" said the Poker. "But of course we can go to the Lobster shop if you prefer."

"Not I," said Tom. "I don't care for any Lobster shop with a Candydike in sight."

"Don't be rash," said the Bellows, who apparently had a strong liking for the Lobster shop. "Of course we all love the Candydike because it is so sweet, but for real pleasure the Lobster shop is not to be despised. I don't think you ought to make up your mind as to where you'll go next in too much of a hurry."

"What's the fun in the Lobster shop?" asked Tom.

"Purely intellectual, if you know what that means," said the Bellows. "You get your mind filled there instead of your stomach. You meet the wittiest oysters, and the most poetic clams, and the most literary lobsters at the Lobster shop you ever saw. For my part I love the Lobster shop. I can get something to eat anywhere. I can get a stake at any lumber yard in town. I can get a chop at any ax factory in the country, and if I want sweets I can find a Cakery—"

"Bakery, you mean?" said Tom.

"No, I don't at all," said the Bellows. "I mean Cakery. A Cakery is a place where they sell cake, and when I say Cakery I mean what I say. Just because you call it Bakery doesn't prove anything."

"We're out for pleasure, not for argument," growled the Lefthandiron. "Go on and say what you've got to say."

"Well," said the Bellows, "what I was trying to say, when interrupted, was that you can get your stomach filled almost anywhere, but your mind—that is different. I'm hungrier in my mind than in my stomach, and I'd rather be fed just now on the jests of an oyster, the good stories of a clam and the anecdotes of a Lobster, than have the freedom of the richest marshmallow mine in creation."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know what to do," said Tom, very much perplexed. The Candydike was glorious, but the Lobster shop, too, had its attractions, for Tom was fond of witty jokes and good anecdotes. The idea of having them from the lips of lobsters and oysters was very appealing.

"I say," he said in a minute, "why isn't the Lobster shop the best place for us to go after all, if we are really hungry? We could sit down at the table, you know, and listen to the Lobster's anecdotes, and then eat him afterward. In that way we could hear the stories and fill up beside."

"Well—I de-clare!" cried the Bellows. "What an idea! You most ungrateful boy!"

"Not at all," said the Poker. "Not at all. It's merely the habit of his kind. Many's the time when I've heard of men and women devouring their favorite authors. Tom couldn't better show his liking for the lobster than by eating him. On the other hand, if he goes there and turns his back on the Candydike he'll miss the most wonderful sight in all creation, and that is the Nesselrode Cataract on the Soda Water river. It is located at the point where the Vanilla glacier comes down from the Cream mountains on the one side, and the famous Marrons orchards line the other bank for a distance of seven miles. It's a perfectly gorgeous sight."

"Mercy me!" cried Tom. "Indeed, I should like to see that."

"No doubt," put in the Bellows. "Nevertheless, you can see Nesselrode pudding at home at any time, but did you ever see there a Turtle that can recite a fairy story of his own composition or a Crab capable of narrating the most thrilling story of the American revolutionary war that anybody ever dreamed of?"

"O dear, O dear, O dear!" said Tom. "What shall I do?"

As he spoke, from far down in the valley there seemed to come a crash and a roar, following close upon which the barking of a dog made itself heard.

"The ice is slipping," cried the Poker, as the mountain trembled beneath them. "There's going to be an avalanche, and we're on it!"

The whole top of the mountain shook as if it had been in an earthquake, and then it began to crash rapidly downward.

"Dear me! How annoying," observed the Bellows. "As if we haven't had enough coasting this trip without taking a turn on an avalanche."

"But what shall we do?" roared the Andirons excitedly. "I never foresaw this."

"Slide, I guess," said the Poker calmly. "It's all we can do."

The barking of the dog approached closer.

"Good!" cried Righty, clapping his claws together gleefully, as an idea flashed across his mind. "It's one of those famous St. Bernards; he'll take care of Tom, and as for us—"

The thunderous roar of the descending avalanche drowned the sounds of Righty's voice, and all that could now serve as a means of conveying their thoughts to each other was the making of wild motions with the hands. The Poker stood erect and stiff, looking grimly ahead of him, as if resolved to meet his fate bravely; the Bellows threw himself flat upon the glacier and panted; while the two Andirons, standing guard on either side of Tom, peered anxiously about for the rescuer of their little guest, nor did they look in vain, for in a few moments the huge figure of a St Bernard appeared below them, rushing with all his might and main to their side. For some reason or other, the St Bernard seemed to have something familiar about him, but Tom couldn't quite say what it was.

"Bow-wow-wow!" the dog barked gleefully, for this was just the sort of work he most enjoyed.

Strangely enough, Tom seemed to understand dog language for the first time in his life, for the bark said to him as plainly as you please: "Climb on my back sonny, and I'll have you out of this in a jiffy."

The lad lost not a moment in obeying. Aided by the affectionate boosts of the Andirons he soon found himself lying face downward upon the broad, shaggy back of the faithful beast.

He closed his eyes to shut out the blinding snow for a moment, and then—

Tom sat up and rubbed them, for there was no snow, no avalanche, no Alp, no St. Bernard dog in sight. Only a friendly pair of andirons staring fixedly at him out of the fireplace of his father's library: the poker standing like a grenadier at one side, and the bellows, hanging from a brass-headed nail on the other. Beside these, lying on the rug beside him, his head cocked to one side, his eyes fixed intently upon Tom's face, and his tail wagging furiously, was Jeffy, not a St Bernard, but a shaggy little Scotch terrier.

"Hello, Jeffy!" said Tom, as he rubbed his eyes a second time. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Woof!" barked Jeff, and cocking his eye knowingly.

"And was it you who rescued me from the avalanche?" Tom asked.

"Woof!" replied Jeff, as much as to say he wouldn't tell.

"Well, it was mighty good of you, if you did, Jeffy," Tom said, gratefully. "Only I wish you could have taken me to the Candydike or the Lobster shop instead of straight home—because I'm not only hungry Jeffy, but I should very much have liked to visit those wonderful places."

"Woof!" said Jeffy.

Which Tom took to be a promise that his rescuer would do better next time.

The little party has not been off again since, but the other night some pieces of newspaper were thrown into the fire place and all but one of them were burned. Righty held this one under his claw and Tom, while trying to get a word out of his friend, caught sight of it.

"Hello," said Tom, as he read what was printed on the clipping. "The astronomers at the Lick observatory have discovered a new constellation in the southeast heavens. It is of huge dimensions and resembles in its outlines the figure of a rhinoceros or some such pachydermatous creature."

"Well, I never!" he cried, as he read. "I say, Righty, do you believe that's the old Hippopotamus?"

And Righty said never a word, but the look in his eye indicated that he thought there was something in the notion.

The End