Anne of the Island - L. M. Montgomery [42]
“Anyway, I ain’t going to stand any more of Mrs. Lynde’s bossing,” spluttered Davy. “Anne and Marilla may have the right to boss me, but she hasn’t. I’m going to do every single thing she told me not to do. You watch me.”
In grim, deliberate silence, while Dora watched him with the fascination of horror, Davy stepped off the green grass of the roadside, ankle deep into the fine dust which four weeks of rainless weather had made on the road, and marched along in it, shuffling his feet viciously until he was enveloped in a hazy cloud.
“That’s the beginning,” he announced triumphantly. “And I’m going to stop in the porch and talk as long as there’s anybody there to talk to. I’m going to squirm and wriggle and whisper, and I’m going to say I don’t know the Golden Text. And I’m going to throw away both of my collections right now.”
And Davy hurled cent and nickel over Mr. Barry’s fence with fierce delight.
“Satan made you do that,” said Dora reproachfully.
“He didn’t,” cried Davy indignantly. “I just thought it out for myself. And I’ve thought of something else. I’m not going to Sunday School or church at all. I’m going up to play with the Cottons. They told me yesterday they weren’t going to Sunday School today, ’cause their mother was away and there was nobody to make them. Come along, Dora, we’ll have a great time.”
“I don’t want to go,” protested Dora.
“You’ve got to,” said Davy. “If you don’t come I’ll tell Marilla that Frank Bell kissed you in school last Monday.”
“I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know he was going to,” cried Dora, blushing scarlet.
“Well, you didn’t slap him or seem a bit cross,” retorted Davy. “I’ll tell her that, too, if you don’t come. We’ll take the shortcut up this field.”
“I’m afraid of those cows,” protested poor Dora, seeing a prospect of escape.
“The very idea of your being scared of those cows,” scoffed Davy. “Why, they’re both younger than you.”
“They’re bigger,” said Dora.
“They won’t hurt you. Come along, now. This is great. When I grow up I ain’t going to bother going to church at all. I believe I can get to heaven by myself.”
“You’ll go to the other place if you break the Sabbath day,” said unhappy Dora, following him sorely against her will.
But Davy was not scared—yet. Hell was very far off, and the delights of a fishing expedition with the Cottons were very near. He wished Dora had more spunk. She kept looking back as if she were going to cry every minute, and that spoiled a fellow’s fun. Hang girls, anyway. Davy did not say “darn” this time, even in thought. He was not sorry—yet—that he had said it once, but it might be as well not to tempt the Unknown Powers too far on one day.
The small Cottons were playing in their back yard, and hailed Davy’s appearance with whoops of delight. Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, and Mirabel Cotton were all alone. Their mother and older sisters were away. Dora was thankful Mirabel was there, at least. She had been afraid she would be alone in a crowd of boys. Mirabel was almost as bad as a boy—she was so noisy and sunburned and reckless. But at least she wore dresses.
“We’ve come to go fishing,” announced Davy.
“Whoop,” yelled the Cottons. They rushed away to dig worms at once, Mirabel leading the van with a tin can. Dora could have sat down and cried. Oh, if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her! Then she could have defied Davy, and gone to her beloved Sunday School.
They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they would be seen by people going to church. They had to resort to the brook in the woods behind the Cotton house. But it was full of trout, and they had a glorious time that morning—at least the Cottons certainly had, and Davy seemed to have it. Not being entirely bereft of prudence, he had discarded boots and stockings and borrowed Tommy Cotton’s overalls. Thus accoutered, bog and marsh and undergrowth had no terrors for him. Dora was frankly and manifestly miserable. She followed the others in their peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her Bible and quarterly tightly