Poor Cecco/Chapter 6
Chapter VI
THE STORM
They must have slept quite a long time, for when they woke up it was nearly dusk. There was a storm coming on; big drops were already pattering on the burdock leaves, and it was one of these, tumbling straight on his nose, that roused Poor Cecco from slumber. He sat up, looked about him, and was just in time to push the boat further under shelter when the storm broke.
It was raining now in good earnest. The wind blew strongly and black jagged clouds were racing across the sky. And at once the little rainpeople appeared everywhere on the surface of the water, bobbing up and down and shouting. Bulka began to whimper and crept as close to Poor Cecco as he could. Soon the boat was rocking to and fro. The burdock leaves bent beneath the weight of moisture; little rivulets trickled down their broad stems. Before long the two friends were drenched through and through.
They were so wet that the water ran out through their heels, and to make matters worse the stream itself, swollen with the rain, began to rise; great waves swept down it with a rushing sound, awful things were happening out there in the darkness and at any moment they felt the vessel might be torn from its moorings and carried away on the flood.
“We must jump!” cried Poor Cecco, and seizing Bulka by the paw he leapt ashore. Only just in time, for at that very moment the raft began to sink beneath their feet and was lost.
Bulka, who had never before been out in a storm at night, was afraid of the noise and darkness, and sobbed bitterly. To him it seemed that the whole world was sliding into the river, and they were about to perish miserably, in the wet and the cold. He lifted up his voice and wept, while Poor Cecco, still clutching his paw, dragged him up the bank to a place of safety.
Here, pressed close against a decaying tree-stump, they waited shivering until the worst of the storm had abated. Somewhere they must seek warmth and shelter, but where?
“You stay here,” said Poor Cecco, “while I go out and see what can be done.”
But Bulka would not hear of this; he was far too frightened and miserable. So paw in paw the two ventured out together into the unknown darkness.
The earth was sticky and muddy; it clung in lumps to their feet, and there were deep sloshy puddles everywhere. The weeds grew high above their heads, a dense forest. It was impossible to see one’s way. The rain was still falling steadily.
Poor Cecco saw something shining in the darkness and ran towards it. “There’s a light!” he cried.
But it was only a tin can, battered, and shining in the wet. Near it lay an old boot. That was no help either, for it was soaked through and gaping at the toe. In any case there was not room for them both to creep inside.
“If only there were a box,” thought Poor Cecco, “we could crawl into that and be sheltered till the morning.” But it is always the way with boxes, that however many there may be in the world one is never to be found when you most need it.
There was nothing to do but keep on, but presently they found a path at least. It was not much of a path, but fairly plain to trace between the tall weeds, and it must surely lead somewhere, for that is what paths are for. And it did lead them presently, and after a very long time, to a tumbledown wooden fence.
Poor Cecco stood and sniffed.
“It smells like a house,” he said at last. “Yes, it certainly smells like a house!” And he squeezed himself through the wooden palings and dragged Bulka after him.
Here perhaps was the end of their troubles. A house it might be, but the question was, what sort of people lived in it, and that wasn’t easy to tell from the outside, especially after dark. But while they stood there shivering, and wondering whether they should go to the door and knock, there was a rustling among the bushes, and some one poked his nose out.
Sure enough, of all unexpected things, it was the little black dog who took care of the blind man on the bridge!
“Well, here’s a fine finish to your sight-seeing!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you you'd do better to stay with me? It’s a good thing I was listening at the door, or you might have stayed here till morning. But my cottage is not far off, and there’s still a bit of fire to warm yourselves by!”
“Do you live here?” cried Poor Cecco and Bulka at once.
“Indeed I don’t,” returned the little dog. “There’s a nasty old woman lives here, and she’d soon send you chasing with a broom if you go near her door after dusk! But follow me, and I’ll take you where you’ll be warm and dry.”
So they squeezed through the palings again, the little black dog leading the way, and followed him—trot—trot—along the path, till he turned in by a clump of currant bushes, and there was the door of his cottage, with a fine beam of light shining out through the crack underneath.
The little dog barked twice, and the blind man let him in. To be sure he grumbled, but that was at the little black dog, because he had been obliged to open the door for him twice already that evening, and each time the rain beat in, and as he rightly explained, that sort of thing was bad for any one’s rheumatism.
“He’s a rare grumbler,” said the little dog, “but don’t you mind him. He means nothing by it, and he’ll be asleep again in two minutes. And now make yourselves at home!”
The blind man’s cottage had only one room, but it was warm and comfortable. The stove burned cheerfully, there was a bed in one corner where the blind man slept and another under the table for the little dog. On the floor stood a saucer of bread-and-milk, left over from the little dog’s own supper, which he said they might finish up and welcome; as for himself, he had all he wanted.
While they were sitting round the stove, getting thoroughly warm and dry, the old blind man took his fiddle down from the wall and began to play. It was wonderful how he drew the bow across the strings, and at once the music came out, capital tunes, one after another, that made one long to get up and dance. The little dog sat still, blinking; he had heard these tunes many times before and took no great stock in them, he said, one air was just like another to him. The blind man’s head nodded as he played, and his foot tapped on the boards. Presently Poor Cecco could stand it no longer. He jumped up, and seizing Bulka round the waist began to whirl him about the floor. It was a pity the little dog didn’t dance too. If Virginia May and Tubby had been there, what a wonderful time they would have had! It seemed too bad that they should miss this, when Tubby so dearly loved dancing, and the only music they could get at home was the broken musical-box, that would only play three notes and then stop.
The blind man smiled; with his sightless eyes he was seeing again the old farmhouse kitchens in the country where he had been such a fine dancer in his youth, and all the girls were proud to stand up beside him. But presently his head drooped; his foot ceased to tap on the floor and he rose yawning and hung his fiddle up on the wall again. He was old and sleepy, and he wanted to smoke another pipe before he went to bed.
And now there was a rap at the door, and the little dog pulled back the latch. It was Mrs. Greypuss, who lived next door but one. She had tucked her babies in bed and come across in the rain to learn what the festivity was about.
“You’re having a good time here,” she said. “I thought I’d step over a minute and join you, seeing the storm is nearly over!”
So she sat down beside Bulka and Poor Cecco, who were still out of breath from dancing, and they chatted together while the fire died down in the stove and the old man nodded off to sleep, his pipe between his fingers; and presently Mrs. Greypuss, who could never sit idle for long, took a needle and thread from the useful little pocket that all cats wear in their ears, and sewed Bulka up where his stitches had come undone, so that he was all strong and ready for the morrow.
“For who knows?” she said, “what further adventures two are going to meet!”
