The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

had borrowed from Sam with the intention of doing something about the jungle which surrounded Pirate’s Haven on three sides. That is, he had intended doing something, but now—
    “Penny for your thoughts.”
    “Lady,” he answered dismally without turning around, “you can have a bushel of them for less than that.”
    “There is a neat expression which describes you beautifully at this moment,” commented Ricky as she came up beside her brother. “Have you ever heard of a ‘sour puss?”
    “Several times. Oh, what’s the use!” Val kicked at a long twig. A warm wind brought in its hold the heavy scent of flowering bushes and trees. His shirt clung to his shoulders damply. It was hot even in the shade of the oaks. Rupert had gone to town to see LeFleur and hear the worst, so that Pirate’s Haven, save for themselves and Letty-Lou, was deserted.
    “Come on,” Ricky’s arm slid through his, “let’s explore. Think of it—we’ve been here two whole days and we don’t know yet what our back yard looks like. Rupert says that our land runs clear down into the swamp. Let’s go see.”
    “But I was going to—” He made a feeble beginning toward stooping for the pruning-shears.
    “Val Ralestone, nobody can work outdoors in this heat, and you know it. Now come on. Bring those with you and we’ll leave them in the carriage house as we pass it. You know,” she continued as they went along the path, “the trouble with us is that we haven’t enough to do. What we need is a good old-fashioned job.”
    “I thought we were going to be treasure hunters,” he protested laughingly.
    “That’s merely a side-line. I’m talking about the real thing, something which will pay us cash money on Saturday nights or thereabout.”
    “Well, we can both use a typewriter fairly satisfactorily,” Val offered. “But as you are the world’s worst speller and I am apt to become entangled in my commas, I can’t see us the shining lights of any efficient office. And while we’ve had expensive educations, we haven’t had practical ones. So what do we do now?”
    “We sit down and think of one thing we’re really good at doing and then—Val, what is that?” She pointed dramatically at a mound of brick overgrown with vines. To their right and left stretched a row of tumble-down cabins, some with the roofs totally gone and the doors fallen from the hinges.
    “The old plantation bake oven, I should say. This must be what’s left of the slave quarters. But where’s the carriage house?”
    “It must be around the other side of the big house. Let’s try that direction anyway. But I think you’d better go first and do some chopping. This dress may be a poor thing but it’s my own and likely to be for some time to come. And short of doing a sort of snake act, I don’t see how we’re going to get through there.”
    Val applied the shears ruthlessly to vine and bush alike, glad to find something to attack. The weight of his depression was still upon him. It was all very well for Ricky to talk so lightly of getting a job, but talk would never put butter on their bread—if they could afford bread.
    “You certainly have done a fine job of ruining that!”
    Val surpassed Ricky’s jump by a good inch. By the old bake oven stood a woman. A disreputable straw hat with a raveled brim was pulled down over her untidy honey-colored hair and she was rolling up the sleeves of a stained smock to bare round brown arms.
    “It’s very plain to the eye that you’re no gardener,” she continued pleasantly. “And may I ask who you are and what you are doing here? This place is not open to trespassers, you know.”
    “We did think we would explore,” answered Ricky meekly. “You see, this all belongs to my brother.” She swept her hand about in a wide circle.
    “And just who is he?”
    “Rupert Ralestone of Pirate’s Haven.”
    “Good—!” Their questioner’s hand flew to cover her mouth, and at the comic look of dismay which appeared on her face, Ricky’s laugh sounded. A moment later the stranger joined in her mirth.
    “And here I thought that I was being oh so helpful to an absent landlord,” she chuckled. “And this brother of yours is my landlord!”
    “How—? Why, we didn’t know that.”
    “I’ve rented your old overseer’s house and am using it for my studio. By the way, introductions are in order, I believe. I am Charity Biglow, from Boston as you might guess. Only beans and the Bunker Hill