Ruth Fielding and the Gypsies | Page 2

his shaggy eyebrows.
Now, Ruth Fielding was worth looking at. She was plump, but not too plump; and she was quick in her movements, while her lithe and graceful figure showed that she possessed not only health, but great vitality. Her hair was of a beautiful bright brown color, was thick, and curled just a little.
In her tanned cheeks the blood flowed richly--the color came and went with every breath she drew, it seemed, at times. That was when she was excited. But ordinarily she was of a placid temperament, and her brown eyes were as deep as wells. She possessed the power of looking searchingly and calmly at one without making her glance either impertinent or bold.
In her dark skirt, middy blouse, and black stockings and low shoes, she made a pretty picture as she stood under the tree, although her features were none of them perfect. Her cheeks were perhaps a little too round; her nose--well, it was not a dignified nose at all! And her mouth was generously large, but the teeth gleaming behind her red lips were even and white, and her smile lit up her whole face in a most engaging manner.
"Do let me help you, Uncle. I know I can," she repeated, as the old miller scowled at her.
"What's that?" he said again. "Go with me in that punt to Tim Lakeby's?"
"Why not?"
"'Tain't no job for a gal, Niece Ruth," grumbled the miller.
"Any job is all right for a girl--if she can do it," said Ruth, happily. "And I can row, Uncle--you know I can."
"Ha! rowing one o' them paper-shell skiffs of Cameron's one thing; the ash oars to my punt ain't for baby's han's," growled the miller.
"Do let me try, Uncle Jabez," said Ruth again, when the lame girl broke in with:
"You are an awfully obstinate old Dusty Miller! Why don't you own up that Ruthie's more good to you than a dozen boys would be?"
"She ain't!" snarled the old man.
At that moment there appeared upon the farmhouse porch a little, bent old woman who hailed them in a shrill, sweet voice:
"What's the matter, gals? What's the matter, Jabez? Ain't nothin' broke down, hez there?"
"No, Aunt Alvirah," laughed Ruth. "I just want Uncle Jabez to let me help him----"
The old woman had started down the steps, her hand upon her back as she came, and intoning in a low voice: "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" She caught up the miller's remark, as he turned away again, very sharply, for he muttered something about "Silly gals' foolish idees."
"What d'ye mean by that, Jabez Potter?" she demanded. "If Ruth says she kin help ye, she kin. You oughter know that by this time."
"Help me row that punt across the river?" snarled the old man, wrathfully. "What nonsense!"
"I dunno," said the old woman, slowly. "I see Tim's flag a-flyin'. I guess he wants his flour bad."
"And I can pull an oar as good as you can, Uncle Jabez," added Ruth.
"Oh, all right! Come on, then. I see I shell hev no peace till I let ye try it. Ef we don't git back fer supper, don't blame me, Alviry."
The miller disappeared in the gathering gloom of the mill. Soon the jarring of the structure and the hum of the stones grew slower--slower--slower, and finally the machinery was altogether still.
Ruth had run for her hat. Then, waving her hand to Mercy and Aunt Alvirah, she ran around to the landing.
The Lumano River was a wide stream, but at this season of the year it was pretty shallow. There was little navigation from Lake Osago at any time, but now the channel was dotted with dangerous rocks, and there were even more perilous reefs just under the surface.
Uncle Jabez's boat was not really a "punt." It was a heavy rowboat, so stained and waterlogged in appearance that it might have been taken for a bit of drift-stuff that had been brought in to the Red Mill landing by the current.
And truly, that is probably the means by which the miller had originally obtained the boat. He was of a miserly nature, was Uncle Jabez Potter, and the old boat--which its first owner had never considered worth coming after, following some spring freshet--served the miller well enough to transport his goods across the river.
Tim Lakeby's store, on the north shore of the river, was in sight of the Red Mill. There were four sacks of flour to be transported, and already Uncle Jabez had placed two of them in the bottom of the boat, upon a clean tarpaulin.
"Ef we go down the river an' swamp, I shell lose this flour," grumbled Uncle Jabez. "Drat that Ben! I tell ye, he'd ought to be hum by now."
Ben was the hired man, and if the miller had not really been