Stumped

When I was a little girl and lived in Arkansas, my daddy, although he managed a lime kiln during the week often spent Sunday at a nearby town, taking another preacher’s place for the day.

One Saturday morning, bright and early, he hitched our pony, Gypsy, to the buggy, then helped in my mother, set my baby sister on her lap, seated my small brother on a little box, on the floor of the buggy, climbed in himself, and away they all trotted, toward Rogers. Since there was no more room I was left to spend the few days with my chum Mary, who lived a short distance down the street. Among the numerous other instructions Mother gave me before they drove away, she said I must empty the pan under the ice-box the next morning.

So, the following morning, before dressing for Sunday school, and wearing our red and blue calico, Mary and I frolicked over to empty the pan under the ice-box. Now this house had seven rooms which rambled about in mixed-up-fashion, all on the ground floor, and with an outside door to each room. We tried the kitchen door but it was locked; going around to the dining room door on the south, we found it fastened, too. Trying the front door, I exclaimed: “Oh shucks, they are all latched on the inside except this one, and we forgot the key for it.”

“We can raise this window and climb in through it,” answered Mary. “All right,” I agreed, stepping in after her. Neither of us thought of the little room with the broken lock, at the east end of the house, where the hired girl slept, when we had one.

After banging away on the piano for a few minutes we wandered out to the kitchen. There I stooped down, reached under the refrigerator and pulled out the large ‘dripping pan’ full of water. But instead of throwing the water outdoors, I poured it into two or three kettles and left them standing on the table. After replacing the pan, we started back through the dining room, intending to leave the way we had come.

In the center of the room Mary stopped and asked: “What was that?” “I do not know,” I replied, “Unless it was a screen rattling.”

Mary took two or three steps further, then stopped again. She stood breathlessly still for an instant, then whirled about and dashed toward the kitchen door. Following closely at her heels, I heard her say: “There’s somebody in this house. There’s somebody in this house. Let’s get out. Let’s get out.” As her fingers touched the door, with one hand she pushed back the night-latch, while with the other she turned the knob and jerked the door open, and we got out. Two or three seconds later, we rested our hands on the top board of the fence and sailed over, side by side, feet straight out in front, long braids flying straight out behind.

Arrived at Mary’s home, we stopped in her play tent long enough to restore our usual appearances before encountering her mother who, much to our chagrin laughed at us for being foolishly frightened. Monday afternoon, when my folks returned, the incident still haunted me as I followed them into the house. Going into the kitchen to deposit some packages, Mother asked: “Well Elsie, did you empty the pan under the ice box?”

“Yes,” I replied, “But I wished afterwards that I hadn’t.” Then noticing the kettles on the table, I stared at them in terrified amazement. They were all completely empty, not a drop of water anywhere.

Entering the room just in time to see the expression on my face, Daddy asked: “What is wrong, Elsie? Why do you look like that?”

“Fiddle-sticks,” he exclaimed, after the jumbled story had been told, and he pieced it together to his satisfaction. “There was nothing to be frightened about. Anything might a make a little noise.” “But look here,” I said, “We left water in those pans and they are empty now. How do you account for that?”

“You probably did that yourselves” answered Mother, “Then the scare caused you to forget it.” “No, we emptied the water into them. I can prove it by Mary. I know there was some one in this house, we both heard him step,” I doggedly replied.

Nothing more was said of the matter for some time, though Mary and I continued to feel grieved that our parents treated so lightly that which appeared to us as a vivid experience in our lives. One evening after supper, when the lamp was lighted, Daddy sat reading, Mother was putting baby sister to bed, and my brother and I were romping about on the sofa. Somehow my hand was pushed down into the crease between the level part of the couch and head. My fingers came in contact with something hard. Pulling out the object, I held it at arm’s length, gazing at it as stupefied. Catching the reflected gleam of light, the others looked up also.

“Where did that thing come from?” cried Mother, turning pale at sight of the weapon in my hand. “From right here in this couch,” I tensely replied, “Where I suppose it has been ever since that Sunday you went to Rogers. Now will you believe what Mary and I told you? Now do you think there really was someone in the house, when he left his gun behind?” I wanted to know.

“There, there, Petty? do not get so excited. Of course we believe you, now that we have the proof,” Daddy said.

“Well” I replied, placing the revolver on the table and looking first at one, then the other, “Do grown up people always have to have proof before they believe what children say?”

“Of course not,” answered Daddy, “Only—” and his voice trailed off as he resumed the reading of his paper.

I sat still for some time, turning this new thought over in my mind.

Although the mysterious weapon was laid on top of the cupboard, and, after a while, almost forgotten, the riddle was never solved. So, if you boys and girls can figure it out, you’re better men and women than we were, and that is “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”