Rascal Read online

  Rascal enjoyed all this activity without understanding its true meaning. He reached into each excavation, crawled back and forth through the central tunnel in the rolls of chicken wire, fished languidly in the bait pool, or merely went to sleep in the grass.

  My father sent a postcard from Montana saying he would not return for another ten days or two weeks. Fortunately we ran a charge account at the meat market and at one of the groceries. But to raise money for staples and hinges I had to dig and sell two more bushels of my potatoes. I was somewhat lonesome and very grateful for Rascal’s companionship night and day.

  Possibly I could have built the cage in less time had I not been aware of its purpose. However, the posts were soon set and, in another day, the framework nailed together. It was a cube twelve feet square which gave easy access to Rascal’s hole in the oak tree. It also encompassed the bait pool, using twelve feet of the barn along the eastern side. I had to fasten wire securely across the top of this cube, knowing that Rascal could climb any fence ever built. I used an old screen door for the principal entrance, nailing chicken wire to the frame and hinging the door to a sturdy post. But during the several days I spent building the cage, I was careful not to close this exit. Never for a moment did Rascal feel penned in. I fed him his favorite foods within the wire, always dreading the day when I must hook the door.

  It seemed to me a wicked thing, to take a wild raccoon kitten from the woods—a little animal who loved speed and adventure and exploration—and to imprison him like an animal at the zoo. I had seen the big cats and the bears pace up and down their cages in hopeless misery. Would Rascal yearn like that for his lost freedom?

  He must have more space, I thought, and more shelter!

  Then I had a small inspiration. I hurried to my work bench to get a compass, brace-and-bit, and keyhole saw. Making sure that my calculations were right, I drew a circle on the side of the barn, big enough for a raccoon but too small for a dog. I then bored four holes within the circle, and using my slender saw cut a neat opening into a long-disused box stall inside the barn. Finally I sanded the edges of this doorway so that it would not scratch Rascal; and I showed him the net result.

  Rascal loved holes of all sizes, from crayfish holes to be explored with a sensitive paw, to holes such as this one, big enough to crawl into. While I put fresh straw in the box stall, and enclosed it in chicken wire, my raccoon spent most of his time going in and out of his pleasant little door. His home was becoming more attractive day by day.

  He still didn’t understand, however, that I was building him a prison. And every time the neighbors asked when I would lock him up, I said, “Maybe tomorrow.”

  The most exciting event in Brailsford Junction each September was the Irish Picnic and Horse Fair. It was always held on a Saturday somewhat earlier in the month than the County Fair at Janesville to which many of the race horses and exhibitors later gravitated.

  I do not know why it was called the “Irish Picnic,” since a very small percentage of our town was Irish. But they did possess most of the good trotters and pacers of our area, and in all probability had instituted these races which now attracted spectators by the hundreds.

  Mike Conway, our neighbor to the west, owned a terrific trotter, a spirited stallion that had sired several of the most likely colts and fillies in the county. Early on the morning of any Irish Picnic, Mike was to be seen currying Donnybrook to a satin sheen, washing the sulky, and oiling his racing harness.

  Donnybrook seemed as aware as his master that this was the great day. His whinny could be heard at a considerable distance by interested mares, and he frisked about his pasture, kicking up his heels and tossing his head.

  Some race horses have a beloved dog or cat for a companion. Donnybrook had developed a strong affection for Rascal. Whenever my raccoon climbed one of the posts of the neat white fence around the paddock, the black stallion immediately became gentle, changing his shrill whinny to a soft whicker. While Rascal waited on the fencepost, Donnybrook would trot over to greet him. The raccoon always ran his small hands over the big velvet muzzle, fingering the bright rings of the halter. Naturally Rascal and I would be cheering for Donnybrook in any race he might ever run.

  Across the street on this same morning, Reverend Thurman was tuning up the carburetor and making other last-minute adjustments on his Model T roadster. He was bellowing hymns which were explosively interrupted whenever he pinched a finger or dropped a wrench.

  Mike Conway and Gabriel Thurman had never been the best of friends, but in recent weeks their feud had taken a new turn. Mike loved horses and hated automobiles almost as ardently as his friend Garth Shadwick. Thurman was terrified of horses, but entranced with automobiles.

  Mike wouldn’t admit that he was afraid of anything. But the fact remained that he had never taken a ride in an automobile until a recent day when the minister had offered him a lift in his Ford. Mike silently asked the protection of St. Patrick, stepped into the shivering, shaking, self-propelled chariot of destruction, and they were off.

  On every possible occasion Gabriel blew his horn—a Klaxon, nerve-racking enough to frighten every horse on the block. As he turned from Albion into Fulton—the principal business street—the minister pulled down the gas lever and went roaring through the traffic with satanic delight, while Mike muttered a fervent “Hail Mary” and turned a patriotic green.

  Mike made it a point to return the favor. Two days later he hitched his training cart to Donnybrook and offered Thurman a ride across town to his church. The minister, who wasn’t entirely dim-witted, said thank you just the same. Mike taunted him a little about his courage, and Gabriel flushed a bright pink and climbed into the cart.

  The trot down Albion was not too frightening, but the established course was Fulton Street—as both men knew. In front of Pringle’s store, Mike touched up the ever-willing stallion. By the time they reached the Tobacco Exchange Bank, Donnybrook had hit his top speed. Thurman didn’t start calling upon Jehovah until they were abreast of the Badger Ice Cream Parlor. But long before they reached the Monarch Laboratories—which produced a nerve tonic for just such occasions—his eyes were rolling and he was screaming, “Help! Murder! Runaway horse! Let me out, you fool!”

  The entire town knew all about both rides, and the best-informed gossips insisted that Conway and Thurman had made some sort of wager—highly improper on the part of a minister—and that the mysterious payoff might come during the day of the Irish Picnic.

  I was as curious as everyone else. So, taking Rascal on my shoulder, I crossed the street to Thurman’s parsonage where he continued to work on his car.

  “I’d be glad to polish your brass radiator,” I said.

  Reverend Thurman glared at me and at Rascal.

  “The best way to polish a radiator is with a ’coon pelt. And if that animal of yours ever invades my property again . . .”

  “You wouldn’t do that to my pet raccoon!”

  “Oh yes, indeed; I certainly would,” said the terrible-tempered minister of the Gospel. “I’ll tack his hide right up in the woodshed. Thought you were going to lock him in his cage, like you promised.”

  “In a few days,” I said. “You can see I’ve got him on a leash.”

  “Step in the right direction,” Thurman granted.

  I knew it was impolite, but my curiosity was now quite out of control. I was slightly shocked to hear myself asking, “What’s your bet with Mike Conway, Reverend Thurman?”

  “Bet?” Thurman shouted. “What bet? Ministers never bet. Now you and your ’coon get out of here, and stay out.”

  We returned to our front porch, and Rascal and I sat in wicker chairs watching a veritable parade. Our street was the direct route to the fair grounds, and all the exhibits and livestock, the race horses and the automobiles must come past us in review, as though we were judges or privileged guests.

  There were always a few well-groomed hunters and hackney ponies, thoroughbreds and Tennessee walking horses, fiv
e-gaiters and other pampered creatures moving with pride and grace toward assured white, red, or blue ribbons. But our region was one of working prosperity rather than effortless luxury, so most of our beautiful horses were of the draft breeds.

  We had massive Belgians, often weighing more than a ton and standing seventeen hands high, Suffolks, Clydesdales, and Percherons. In the pulling contests these tremendous and faithful animals were so brave and loyal to their masters that I could not watch them long in their heartbreaking performances.

  Apparently they would soon be outmoded by the other forms of locomotion passing our front-row seat—automobiles of every kind from Fords to White Steamers and twin-six Packards. The sulkies, surreys, and neat green farm wagons, with gleaming red wheels, moved very slowly by comparison to any automobile.

  My father was still in Montana, so this year he would not be with me viewing the exhibits and watching the races. I raided my earthenware crock for my last handful of small silver, snapped the leash on Rascal, mounted my bicycle, and we were on our way.

  The world was sparkling and cool that bright September morning. The dust had been settled during the night by a sprinkle of rain—not enough to make a muddy track, just enough to put ozone in the air and dew on the grass. Whistling any tune that came into my head, I pedaled happily toward the fair grounds with Rascal in the basket.

  In the traffic were additional guarantees of a good day: the pie wagon, the ice-cream truck which also carried many cases of root beer, the popcorn and crackerjack wagon, and a balloon-man riding a bicycle and blowing an enchanting little whistle that lured children as surely as the pipe of the Pied Piper. From up ahead within the fair grounds, we could hear the steam calliope playing: “Come Josephine In My Flying Machine.”

  And now the bright tents and the white buildings came into view and we could hear the happy buzz and murmur of the crowd already gathering. Yes, this was certainly the day of the Irish Picnic, worth coming miles to see.

  I put my bicycle in the bicycle rack under the grandstand and with Rascal on my shoulder began to tour the grounds. We saw all the canned goods, quilts, and other fancywork in the homecraft department.

  In another building we admired the huge pumpkins, Hubbard squashes, and melons, the seed corn, apples, and grapes. It was a good thing that I had Rascal on a leash. He wanted to run his avid hands over everything he saw, like a woman shopper at a fire sale. In the case of the prize-winning bunch of grapes, I restrained him just in time.

  On visiting the livestock building Rascal walked the top rail of the pens, utterly confident and unafraid. Calves and colts came over to say hello. The fattened lambs were also gentle. But a big Poland China sow with her autumn litter was menacing. And a Merino ram charged the fence on which Rascal was standing, moving like an oncoming locomotive and crashing his big curled horns into the wooden partition. Rascal would have been thrown into the pen by this heavy jolt if I had not literally dragged him from danger by his leash.

  We were more careful after that, as we visited the horse pavilion to see again, at closer range, the beautiful animals we had seen passing our house earlier in the morning.

  Most of the horses were not entered in any special event except the grand parade around the race track. They were judged in their pavilion by three craggy and serious horsemen brought in for the occasion; and some of the blue, red, and white ribbons had already been awarded. But out in the racing stables were the handsome trotters and pacers we would later watch in action. There were two-year-olds—both colts and fillies—who would compete in the Junior Classic. They were high-spirited young things with fire and mischief in their eyes, and I kept Rascal well back from the paddock doors. Most of the three-year-olds were better behaved. And, of course, there was Donnybrook, who whickered his greeting and nuzzled Rascal affectionately. In two of the last three years he had won the Senior Classic. And I think he knew that we were pulling for him.

  It was pure delight to be showing Rascal all this for the first time, and he was constantly interested in all that he saw. We rode the merry-go-round together, Rascal sitting ahead of me on the wooden pony, going gaily up and down, round and round. He wanted a second ride, but I had to be careful of my dimes or we would never get through the day without going bankrupt. We couldn’t resist the Ferris wheel, however. It was the biggest one that had ever come to the Irish Picnic, and when we reached the top we could see all the way to the village of Albion far across the marshes. Height didn’t frighten either of us, and it was a little like flying to soar upward and come swooping down again.

  Rascal would gladly have ridden all day, and so would I, but the silver in my pocket was disappearing far too rapidly.

  It didn’t cost anything to enter the three-legged race. But when I saw some of those long-legged fourteen-year-olds teaming up, I knew that Oscar Sunderland and I didn’t have a chance. Instead we decided to enter another free event soon to begin, the pie-eating contest.

  Gabbling happily about Rascal and the coming muskrat season, we walked toward the long plank table and adjoining benches laid out with twenty blueberry pies.

  “I seen a mink track,” Oscar said. “Lives in the tile that drains Mud Lake. You got your traps oiled?”

  “Not yet. But I sent to St. Louis for our fur catalogues.”

  “Boy, we’re going to make a fortune this fall. We’re going to be filthy rich.”

  “I could use some money,” I admitted. “I’m just about stone broke.”

  “Gee, so am I. Flat busted . . . Say, look at that pie.”

  “Not as good as your mother makes.”

  “She does make good pie at that,” Oscar admitted. “Mom’s all right.”

  We sat down on either side of the table, ten boys on each side. Our hands were tied behind our backs, and while we awaited the starting gun we shouted happy insults at each other. The object of this messy contest was to eat the full-sized pie faster than any other contestant. You had to eat it with your face, and pull the pie tin back with your teeth if it started slipping beyond reach. I noticed a knot in the wide plank that might be helpful. If I could maneuver the pie tin right up against that knot, I could really dig in.

  Then I discovered that I was directly across the table from Slammy Stillman, and I knew this would be the toughest pie-eating contest I had ever entered. Slammy was the biggest, greediest, meanest twelve-year-old in town. We hated each other with a fine, soul-satisfying hatred born of many fist fights in which I was always outweighed and outslugged. But by boyhood rules you could never refuse to fight.

  We glared at each other balefully. This was a grudge fight to the last blueberry and the last crumb of pie crust.

  Bang! We were off with a good juicy plunge through the crust and deep into the berries. The knot in the plank helped a little, but not enough. It held the pie tin for about three good slurps, then let it slip. There was so much commotion, noise, and splattering of blueberries, with some boys practically lying on the table trying to recover their pie tins, that it was hard to see who was winning. The crowd around us was roaring with laughter, but it wasn’t very funny to us. We were desperate, exasperated, covered with blueberries, and breathing hard. Everybody wanted the three-dollar grand prize, not to mention the glory and the blue ribbon.

  I was practically certain that only Slammy Stillman was ahead of me, and I didn’t see how I could ever catch up. Then my best friend came to my rescue. Rascal knew all about pies, and he loved blueberries. He leaped to the table and started helping me eat my pie, licking it up at a wonderful rate. Best of all, he was working from the other side of the pie, adding five-and-one-half pounds of raccoon to the resistance already supplied by the knot. My tin scarcely slipped at all.

  Slammy Stillman was the first to notice. He was completely infuriated. This character, who never abided by any rule, started screaming, “Cheater, cheater, look at that cheater!”

  While Slammy was yelling he couldn’t eat pie. Rascal and I were gaining on him fast. The judges were laughin
g so hard they couldn’t catch their breath to shout a ruling.

  Rascal and I came in strong on the last lick, an eighth of a pie ahead of our nearest competitor, who luckily was Oscar Sunderland.

  Neither Spaulding nor Hoyle has ever published a handbook on pie-eating contests, and the judges went into a huddle that became vociferous. Rascal and I were partially disqualified. Oscar got the three dollars and the blue ribbon, which made me happy because Oscar was my trapping partner and as nearly penniless as I. But I received the consolation prize, a real league baseball autographed by every member of our local team.

  Slammy would have been red in the face if he hadn’t been completely blue in the face. All day long he grumbled and threatened, shouting “Cheater” whenever he saw me and my raccoon. It was a delicious victory.

  The September sun was directly overhead. But for some reason Rascal and I did not respond to the dinner bells being rung by warm and hearty matrons serving food in several denominational tents. On the Methodist menu were roast chicken with dressing, three vegetables, and blueberry pie. It was this last item which convinced us that we didn’t need a noonday meal.

  At two in the afternoon the horse races began. A beautiful bay filly from Janesville nosed out the favorite colt from Madison in the Junior Classic. She had the movements of a Swiss watch, lifting her feet proudly, her muscles rippling smoothly. After this upset, the three-year-olds performed more predictably, with a magnificent pacer from Stoughton breaking the track record for eight furlongs. As race followed race, however, the spectators asked each other, “Where is Donnybrook?”

  Mike Conway was not tiring his black stallion.

  Much as he enjoyed winning the Senior Classic, he had another aim in view today—the all-but-impossible hope that he could outrun a greater menace than any competing horse, in fact Gabriel Thurman’s Model T.

  There are probably no more than fifty trotters who have pulled a sulky one mile in two minutes. Possibly ninety pacers have achieved this immortality. Generally speaking, it takes a great horse in harness racing to speed one furlong in fifteen seconds, or one mile in two minutes.