Free Baby Island by Carol Ryrie Brink, Helen Sewell Page A

shanty door, “he’s got a phonograph.”
    As it happened, the phonograph was Mr. Peterkin’s greatest weakness, and now he couldn’t resist showing it off. Making a great pretense of grumbling, he went into the shanty and wound it up. It was an old-fashioned affair with a large horn shaped like a purple morning-glory. The records were little black-wax cylinders. With a certain amount of pride and condescension, Mr. Peterkin played two records for them: “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree,” and “Oh, Bedelia.” Halfred, perching himself upon the horn, sang the choruses. He was quite off key and about a measure behind, but nobody minded that.
    “So that’s where he learned it,” said Mary, “and nearly scared Jean to death!”
    Jean and the babies were delighted, but soon tidy Mary could do nothing but gaze about the awful disarray of Mr. Peterkin’s one room.
    “Oh, Mr. Peterkin!” she said, “what a dreadful mess!”
    “I’m not a ’ousekeeper, Miss,” said he, apologetically.
    “I should say not!”
    “Oh, but it’s a lovely mess, Mary!” cried Jean. “What with the phonograph and Pharaoh’s Horses in that greatgold picture frame, and the shells and ship models, and the iron stove, and that great brass-bound chest. What’s in that, Mr. Peterkin?”
    “I say, you leave that chest alone, you ’ear?” Mr. Peterkin was angry again, and Jean retreated rapidly. “You’re not to touch that, never! D’you ’ear?”
    “But his bed’s not made,” said Mary, unable to think of anything else, “and the dust is terrible.”
    “Well, I ’ates ’ousework!” cried Mr. Peterkin crossly. “’Tis the only ’ardship in living by myself. Cookin’ is ’ateful, too, but a man’s got to live even on a desert hi’land!”
    Suddenly Mary’s eyes grew starry with an idea.
    “Look here!” she said. “If one of us came over every week and cleaned your house and cooked up some food for you, would you give us milk for the babies? Would you?”
    He scratched his head. “You’d bother me,” he growled.
    “No, we promise not to bother! We’ll cross our hearts, won’t we, Jean?”
    Solemnly they crossed their hearts.
    “Women!” snorted Mr. Peterkin. “Babies! I thought I’d escaped them.”
    “Oh, come, come!” said Mary sensibly. “You’re being awfully silly, you know. We won’t hurt you at all, and we’re offering to take all your troublesome housework off your hands. Think how nice it would be to have a tidycabin and some well-cooked food while you go out hunting or lie in your hammock, and all we ask is a little milk for the babies. You have a lot more milk than you need yourself.”
    Mr. Peterkin looked at her and scratched his head. He looked at Jean and at each of the babies. When he looked at Ann Elizabeth, she burst into smiles and said, “Pitty-pitty.” Mr. Peterkin actually blushed. Then he turned to Halfred.
    “What say, Halfred?” he asked doubtfully. Halfred flew onto his shoulder and tweaked his ear.
    “Man the pumps, Captain, man the pumps!” he remarked genially.
    “Well,” said Mr. Peterkin. “We’ll give ’er a try. But be’ave yourselves! That’s all I say. Be’ave yourselves! An’ never for no reason look into that chest o’ mine!”

CHAPTER TEN
Mr. Peterkin’s Toe
    S O B ABY I SLAND was not a desert island any longer, with Mr. Peterkin and Halfred and the goats living just around the other side. There was even a boat, Mr. Peterkin told them, which called at the island every two years to leave Mr. Peterkin’s supplies and a letter from Belinda.
    “Oh, how soon will it come?” cried Mary.
    “Just left, Miss, about two months gone.”
    “Two years to wait!” said Mary sadly, and Jean cried, “Oh, Mary, they will have forgotten all about us in two years!”
    So the girls went back to the tepee—a little happy and a little sad.
    Every Wednesday morning at daybreak either Mary or Jean started off to clean Mr. Peterkin’s house, while the other