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A las hermanas que resistimos frente a la
privatización de las luchas, a quienes nos
hemos posicionado frente a la violencia
venga de quien venga, a las que hacemos
camino en el feminismo comunitario hoy
urgentemente Antipatriarcal
Adriana G. Arroyo.
DESCOLONIZAR LA MEMORIA
DESCOLONIZAR LOS
FEMINISMOS

Adriana Guzmán Arroyo

Feminismo Comunitario Antipatriarcal
Qullasuyo Marka, Bolivia

Redición, Llojeta, La Paz, julio 2019

Descolonizar la Memoria, Descolonizar los
Feminismos
Adriana Guzmán Arroyo
Segunda edición 2019, La Paz – Bolivia.
Editorial: Tarpuna Muya
Feminismo Comunitario Antipatriarcal, Qullasuyu
Marka, Bolivia
[email protected]

Feminismo Comunitario Antipatriarcal

+591 67002781

La primera edición fue publicada el 2014, como

parte del libro el Tejido de la Rebeldía, que
dejamos de circular frente a las denuncias de
violencia contra Julieta Paredes, co autora de ese
texto.
 AUTONOMIA,
DESCOLONIZACION
SON NUESTROS
CUERPOS
SON NUESTROS
PUEBLOS
ES NUESTRA
DECISION
FCA
 DESCOLONIZAR LA MEMORIA
DESCOLONIZAR LOS FEMINISMOS

Antes, comparticiones importantes 1

Maya (1): No hay historia universal, tampoco en el
feminismo 6
Paya (2): Descolonizar la temporalidad 12
Kimsa (3): Las adjetivaciones de los feminismos 18
Pusi (4): Ni igualdad, ni diferencia: comunidad 24
Phisqa (5): ¿Otro/otros feminismos? 27
Suxta (6): Feminismo en América Latina y El
Caribe 32
Paqallqu (7): Feminismos sistémicos y feminismos
antisistémicos 43
Comunicado ¡nada justifica la violencia! 49
Comunicado 2/ Violencia de Julieta Paredes 54

Recuperamos los números en aymara para nombrar

cada apartado de este libro, luchamos por una
recuperación política de nuestro idioma, no gramática,
lo asumimos como un acto de descolonización.
 Antes, comparticiones importantes

Antes de empezar a caminar por el territorio de las

palabras, territorio de lucha y disputa de sentidos,
sentires y significados para nosotras como feministas
comunitarias hoy antipatriarcales, compartimos con
ustedes la memoria de esta necesidad urgente de
descolonizar el feminismo.
No venimos del feminismo, sino de la lucha en la
calle contra el patriarcado, nos organizamos en la
masacre del gas el año 2003 en El Alto y La Paz
frente a las balas de militares, francotiradores y
marines comandados por el entonces presidente
Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada, presidente gringo
genocida que nos mandó a matar a las indias, indios,
empobrecidos, porque para ellos nuestra vidas no
valen. Frente a las balas militares entendimos el
patriarcado capitalista racista colonialista
explotador, y lejos de las balas militares, en las casas
frente a nuestros compañeros que nos violentan y
también nos matan, entendimos lo estructural de la
violencia; el patriarcado disciplinador, ahí
seguramente el feminismo eurocéntrico, heredero de
la revolución francesa no alcanzaba.
El feminismo no se estudia, se hace. Nos definimos
feministas para enfrentar el patriarcado de las calles,
los gobiernos y las casas, decidimos llamarnos así
porque entendimos que la lucha no es biológica sino
política, no todas las mujeres quieren acabar con el
patriarcado, y las feministas asumen la
1
responsabilidad de hacerlo, después nos enteramos
que no todos los feminismos luchan contra el
patriarcado, pero eso fue después.
La lucha se hace desde el cuerpo, no desde los libros
ni la teoría, eso puede aportar pero no moviliza, las
opresiones sí, la rabia digna como decía la hermana
Betty Cariño sí, así que fuimos construyendo un
feminismo que nos sirviera, desde estos nuestros
cuerpos, desde estos territorios del Abya Yala, un
feminismo útil para nuestras luchas, un feminismo
que plantea la comunidad como forma de vida de la
humanidad como parte de la naturaleza, la
comunidad como autorganización y
autodeterminación.
El feminismo europeo seguro que sirve para Europa,
pero en Abya Yala no alcanza el feminismo
eurocéntrico y reproduce complicidades racistas y
coloniales con el sistema, finalmente las luchas de las
feministas en Europa y Estado Unidas respondían a
sus cuerpos y opresiones que obviamente,
entendiendo el hecho colonial de 1492, la invasión,
genocidio y violación sistemática de nuestras
abuelas, entendiendo el entronque patriarcal, no son
las mismas opresiones que viven nuestros cuerpos.
No es una competencia, no se trata de deslegitimar
los aportes que han hecho, se trata de reconocer que
responden a otros cuerpos, a otras realidades y a otras
memorias, si en su memoria está Simón de Beauvoir,
en la nuestra está Bartolina Sisa, no queremos que
nos impongan una memoria feminista, cada cual

2
tiene sus abuelas, venimos de las luchas de los
pueblos no de la academia, eso no más es.
Descolonizar el feminismo o los feminismos es
comprender, nombrar y caracterizar el patriarcado
que vivimos en estos territorios las mujeres
originarias, negras, empobrecidas, desobedientes con
la imposición heterosexual, comprenderlo para
acabarlo.
Las luchas no son propiedad privada, las palabras
tampoco, el feminismo no nació en Francia, nació y
nacerá en todo territorio donde enfrentemos el
sistema patriarcal de muerte, las palabras no se
privatizan, los sentidos se construyen y se disputan,
eso también es autonomía, eso es descolonizar
nuestros cuerpos y nuestros pensamientos, por eso
nombramos y ponemos en palabras escritas esta
lucha.

Adriana

3
 DESCOLONIZAR LA MEMORIA
DESCOLONIZAR EL FEMINISMO

No se trata de hablar de la descolonización,

se trata de descolonizar

Lo que presentamos en este texto, no es un manual de

cómo descolonizar la memoria, no se trata de decir
cómo se descoloniza, sino de hacerlo, de descolonizar
el feminismo, sus planteamientos teóricos y la
legitimación de sólo una parte de sus luchas y de sus
luchadoras. Esta es una necesidad ineludible del
feminismocomunitario como ejercicio de su autonomía
epistemológica e histórica, recuperar la memoria
descolonizándola, denunciando sus lecturas y
clasificaciones arbitrarias, que plantean un feminismo
de primera y otro de segunda, relación en la que ellas
tienen que enseñar y nosotras tenemos que aprender, y
“evolucionar”. A esto, nos negamos y presentamos
nuestra propia lectura, que por supuesto no las
invisibiliza, pero sí las cuestiona.

Presentamos entonces una suerte de recuento de las

historias de las luchas de las mujeres y los feminismos,
para descolonizar la memoria, sin intención de hacer
una cronología y más bien denunciando las
clasificaciones existentes como las olas del feminismo
o las que giran en torno a la modernidad eurocéntrica y
egocéntrica, presentamos un posicionamiento político
reafirmando que no hay historia universal tampoco del
feminismo, que hay que descolonizar la temporalidad,
que no somos hijas de la ilustración, no queremos un
feminismo con apellido o adjetivado sino con
5
propuesta, no planteamos igualdad, ni diferencia, sino
la comunidad, recogiendo nuestra memoria de América
Latina y el Caribe y principalmente la memoria de
comunidad Mujeres Creando comunidad, que nos
permite construir la propuesta del
feminismocomunitario y reconocer que ha habido y hay
feminismos sistémicos y feminismos anti sistémicos es
decir feminismos que buscan un lugar en el sistema de
opresiones y otros que luchan contra éste.

Maya: No hay historia universal, tampoco en el

feminismo

¿Qué es pues lo universal? Para los filósofos griegos lo

universal era lo opuesto a lo individual o particular,
pero no sólo se opone a lo particular o a lo diferente sino
que lo anula y pretende superarlo, planteando así un
conocimiento, unas teorías universales, que
supuestamente se deben cumplir y acatar, unos valores
y una ética universal, una especie de absolutismo, de un
todo, que refleja también el triunfo de la razón sobre la
naturaleza. Lo universal se propone como una estrategia
de dominación y colonización de los cuerpos y las
mentes, pues está hecho a medida de quienes detentan
el poder, los valores universales de “libertad, igualdad
y fraternidad” de la Revolución Francesa, la ciudadanía
y los derechos por ejemplo son a medida del hombre
blanco y burgués y por tanto no aplicables a las mujeres,
ni siquiera a las blancas y burguesas como ellos, y
menos aún a las indias e indios de AbyaYala que ni
siquiera eran considerados humanos y ni por si acaso
ciudadanos. Lo universal entonces es uno y no es
neutro es una estrategia de colonización.
6
Qué mejor ejemplo que la escuela, donde hemos
aprendido año tras año la historia universal, que es la
historia de Europa y Estados Unidos, y que nos ha
hecho pensar que somos un pueblo sin historia o con
una menos importante, así se crea la idea de desarrollo
republicano, la idea de modernización, que hasta hoy
persiste en algunos sectores que quieren ser a la imagen
de los países autodenominados “del primer mundo”, de
las y los académicos que creen que hay que validarse en
el norte, porque el sur será siempre el sur. No hay pues
una historia universal, lo que hay es una imposición de
datos y significados desde una hegemonía del
pensamiento, hay que pensar entonces en clave
pluriversal ¿no?

Las clasificaciones “oficiales” del feminismo han sido

hechas sobre todo por académicas y hay que reconocer
que una cosa es estudiar el feminismo y otra es ser
feminista. Esta organización de la información, que
aparentemente puede tener un fin pedagógico o
didáctico es en sí un ejercicio de poder, acaso no es una
arbitrariedad colonial y colonizadora del feminismo
eurooccidental reclamarse, dueñas de la raíz del
feminismo, dueñas de los orígenes, decir que es el hijo
– ni siquiera la hija- de la ilustración y la Revolución
Francesa e ir ordenando desde ahí las luchas de las
mujeres, que calzan en su parámetro, esa es una
pretensión universalista.

Una de estas clasificaciones es la que hace Amelia

Valcárcel (Valcárcel, 2004) de las tres etapas u olas del
feminismo como filosofía política y como práctica, la
primera ola corresponde al feminismo Ilustrado, abarca
7
desde sus orígenes en la ilustración hasta la Revolución
Francesa, siglo XVIII y parte del XIX para la
cronología Europea, la segunda ola denominada del
feminismo liberal-sufragista que va desde el manifiesto
de Seneca Falls (1848) hasta el fin de la Segunda Guerra
Mundial, y la tercera ola que comienza con las
manifestaciones principalmente estudiantiles en
Francia (1968), y que según Valcárcel seguimos
viviendo ahora en el siglo XXI.

Las temáticas o principales exigencias que

caracterizaron cada ola, Valcárcel las resume así:

Reconocimiento de la igualdad de la
Ira. Ola F.
inteligencia
Ilustrado
Reivindicación de la educación
2da. Ola F.
Acceso a todos los niveles de
Liberal-
educación, las profesiones y el voto
sufragista
Derechos civiles, derechos
3ra. Ola F.
reproductivos, paridad política,
Contemporáne
papel de las mujeres en la
o
globalización
Fuente: VALCÁRCEL Amelia ¿Qué es y qué retos plantea el feminismo? 2004: pág. 4.

En cada una de estas olas, clasificación que ha sido

asumida por varias feministas, se van identificando
hitos, declaraciones, planteamientos que visibilizan a
feministas europeas, francesas, inglesas, italianas,
alemanas, como si el feminismo o la lucha contra el

8
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The happy six
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The happy six

Author: Penn Shirley

Release date: June 25, 2024 [eBook #73914]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston, MA: Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co,

1897

Credits: David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading

Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced
from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAPPY SIX

***
 BOOKS BY PENN SHIRLEY.

BOY DONALD SERIES.

Illustrated. Price per volume, 75 cents.
Boy Donald.
Boy Donald and His Chum.
Boy Donald and His Hero.

LITTLE MISS WEEZY SERIES.

Illustrated. Price per volume, 75 cents.
Little Miss Weezy.
Little Miss Weezy’s Brother.
Little Miss Weezy’s Sister.

THE SILVER GATE SERIES.

Illustrated. Price per volume, 75 cents.
Young Master Kirke.
The Merry Five.
The Happy Six.

COMPLETE CATALOGUES FREE.

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

“The lad dashed forward”
See Page 55
 THE SILVER GATE SERIES

THE HAPPY SIX

BY

PENN SHIRLEY
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE MISS WEEZY” “LITTLE MISS WEEZY’S BROTHER”
“LITTLE MISS WEEZY’S SISTER” “YOUNG MASTER
KIRKE” “THE MERRY FIVE” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
 Copyright, 1897, by Lee and Shepard

All Rights Reserved

The Happy Six

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
 CONTENTS
chapter page
I. Five and One 7
II. Shot and Sing Wung 15
III. Who was the Thief? 31
IV. Kirke’s Brave Deed 44
V. Off for New York 59
VI. Off for Europe 78
VII. Ten and One 93
VIII. Eleven in France 104
IX. The Mysterious Bag 115
X. Where is Number Six? 130
XI. What Strange Countries! 144
XII. The Very Happy Six 159
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
“The lad dashed forward” Frontispiece.
“‘Oh! I am ever so sorry,’ said Weezy” Page 87
“Here I is, Mamma” 142
“I’ve found it!” 169
THE HAPPY SIX
 CHAPTER I
FIVE AND ONE
“The Happy Six” grew out of “The Merry Five,” and this was the way
of it:—
The Merry Five, as you may remember, were Molly, Kirke, and Weezy
Rowe, and their twin neighbors, Paul and Pauline Bradstreet; and
they lived in Silver Gate City, in sunny California.
Well,—to go on with the story,—one May morning before school-
time, as Kirke was amusing his little brother upon the veranda, Molly
came rushing out in great excitement, crying,—
“O Kirke, you can’t guess what’s going to happen to The Merry Five!”
Kirke, engaged in attaching a string to the neck of a speckled horned
toad, answered coolly without looking up,—
“No; and I never said I could. Fortune-telling is not my trade.”
“What is your trade, you funny boy?” asked little Miss Weezy,
suddenly appearing from the garden.
“Just at present I am in the harness business,” he returned, as he
tied together the ends of the cord.
Yellow-haired Donald, on his hands and knees at his brother’s feet,
watched the proceeding with deep interest, for this toad was to be
his little pony.
“In the teasing business you mean, Kirke Rowe,” retorted Molly,
tossing back her long auburn braid with some impatience. “You want
me to think you don’t care what happens to The Merry Five.”
“Whisper it to me, Molly, please do!” implored Weezy, her dainty sea-
shell ear close to her sister’s mouth. “I can keep a secret all to
myself.”
“It’s not a secret,” cried Molly, waltzing the child down the veranda.
“It’s not a secret, but Kirke needn’t listen.” And she chanted gayly at
the top of her voice,—
“We’re going to Europe, to Europe, to Europe,
The Merry Five are going to Europe!”
This aroused Kirke.
“Molly Rowe, what do you mean?” he cried, nearly letting the toad
escape, harness and all. “Who said such a thing?”
“Well, Captain Bradstreet is going, anyway. There’s some trouble in
Paris about one of his vessels: he’s obliged to go in June.”
“But what has that to do with us, I’d like to inquire?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all! Only we’re going with him; that is, I
almost know we are. The doctor said yesterday that papa needed a
sea voyage, and mud-baths, and things. And mamma said just now,
‘Yes, Edward, you ought to go to Europe.’ And when mamma says
that”—
“I declare, Molly Rowe, it does look like it! June, did you say?”
“Is it far to Europe?” asked Weezy anxiously; “farther than Mexico?”
“Farther than Mexico? Why, you little goosie, Mexico is within sight
of us, and Europe is ’way off to the other side of the world.”
“Truly? Then I’m not going to any old Europe!”
And Weezy’s lip began to quiver.
“Not with papa and mamma, darling?” said Molly. “They’ll go with us
and so will Captain Bradstreet, and they’ll all take care of The Merry
Five.”
“Here’s three cheers for Europe!” shouted Kirke, swinging his cap.
“And hurrah! Three cheers for The Merry Five!”
“Hurrah! Free chairs for Mary Five!” echoed little Donald, flapping his
arms like a windmill in a gale. “Hurrah! Free chairs for Mary Five!”
It was so droll to hear him that his listeners all laughed: and who
can wonder?
“Bravo, Don!” roared Kirke, tossing the little cheerer over his
shoulder. “If your Mary Five wants free chairs she ought to have
’em!”
“So I say,” said Molly, drying her eyes. “And a little boy that can
shout for her like that deserves a reserved seat!”
“Let’s give him one—a reserved seat in our club,” returned Kirke
good-naturedly. “He ought to come into The Merry Five.”
“Only with him, you see, we shouldn’t be The Merry Five any longer,”
demurred Molly; “there’d be one to carry.”
“Then we might call ourselves The Merry Six: how is that?” amended
Kirke, setting Donald down again. “What do you say to The Merry
Six?”
“The Merry Half Dozen would be nicer, I think,” put in Weezy; “a
great deal nicer.”
“Nonsense, Weezy,” retorted Kirke, “that sounds like a nestful of
eggs! Let’s have it The Merry Six.”
“Why not The Happy Six?” asked Molly, with a roguish smile. “Let’s
be happy now, just for a change.”
“Agreed, Molly, I’m willing, if Paul and Pauline are.”
“So am I, too,” assented Miss Weezy, though secretly preferring a
half-dozen to six.
Paul was just now away on a visit, but when they proposed the
question to Pauline that afternoon, she received “little Number Six”
into the club with open arms, and declared that his extreme youth
was no objection whatever. She had heard that as people grow older,
they always approve of having young members come into their
clubs. She was sure Paul would welcome Master Donald cordially,
and would agree with them all that the new name proposed by Molly
was exactly the thing.
Thus it happened that Donald and his “Mary Five” became
straightway “The Happy Six;” and this is a true account of the
transaction; though, to be sure, it had not been settled yet that the
club was going to Europe.
“But what difference does that make?” asked Pauline. “Can’t we be
The Happy Six, all the same, wherever we are? I move that we try
to be happy right here in California till the middle of June, anyway,
and then”—
“I second the move,” responded Molly.
“’Tis a vote,” cried Kirke and little Number Six in chorus.
And now, in the chapters that follow, you will hear more of this new
brother-and-sisterhood, and will learn of its whereabouts and all its
proceedings.
 CHAPTER II
SHOT AND SING WUNG

Whether the Rowes should decide to go to Europe or not, the

Bradstreets were going; and Captain Bradstreet thought it high time
to inform Paul of the plan. The boy had not been well for some days,
and for change of air had been sent to the ranch of Mr. Keith, a
relative, who had a warm regard for himself and his sister Pauline.
“Kirke,” said the captain, driving up that afternoon after school, “I’m
going out to Mr. Keith’s to see Paul. Would you like to go with me?”
“Thank you, thank you, Captain Bradstreet, I’ll be ready in a
second,” cried Kirke, rushing for his hat.
The spirited horse had been reined up to the hedge, where he
pawed and champed the bit, till his passenger appeared and vaulted
headlong into the phaeton.
In his haste, Kirke had forgotten to tie Shot, the fox-terrier, into his
kennel.
“Weezy, Weezy,” he called over his shoulder, as the carriage started.
“Look out for Shot, please, Weezy; don’t let him follow us.”
“I won’t let him,” said Weezy; “I’ll keep him.” And she drew him into
the house and closed the door.
Having done this, she went back upon the veranda to finish her
sewing. She was making a golf cape for her pet doll to wear at sea;
and the work proved so absorbing that she failed to notice what
Donald was doing. Before she knew it, the child had opened the
front door, and run into the hall; and at the same time Shot had run
out, and gone tearing after the phaeton.
Kirke looked rather crestfallen when the little animal came barking
about the wheels.
“There’s that dog, after all. I didn’t mean he should come.”
“Send him home, then,” suggested the captain. “Why don’t you send
him home, Kirke?”
“Because he wouldn’t go,” answered the lad, in laughing confusion.
“He wouldn’t go, and I should only hurt his feelings for nothing.”
The ruddy-faced captain suppressed a smile, and listened patiently,
while Kirke proceeded to sing the praises of the graceful white
terrier, who would not obey his master.
“He loves me tremendously; he can’t bear to stay away from me:
there’s the trouble.”
And in truth a more affectionate dog than little Shot never lived. He
was a general favorite, which certainly could not have been said of
Zip, Donald’s Mexican cur that had died the preceding autumn.
As the phaeton whirled along, Shot darted first to one side of the
road and then to the other, to chase squirrels and gophers into their
holes, but without once losing sight of his beloved owner.
“I suppose, Kirke, you’re very fond of the little rascal,” observed the
captain, as they drew near the end of their drive.
“You’d better believe I am, Captain Bradstreet. I wouldn’t part with
him for a farm.”
“The lad’s in sober earnest,” thought the gentleman, peering from
beneath his white eyebrows at Kirke’s animated face. “I never knew
a boy more devoted to his friends.”
They were now spinning along the winding avenue leading to Mr.
Keith’s house. At their right was a green lawn, bordered with orange-
trees; on their left, a thrifty olive-orchard, in which a Chinaman was
plowing.
“They’re always plowing somewhere,” commented the captain. “I
understand the soil has to be turned over pretty often to keep it light
and moist.”
“And it has to be irrigated, too, doesn’t it?” asked Kirke, watching
Shot, skipping nimbly across the field toward the mule-team.
“Irrigated? Oh, yes. But there’s not water enough at present to do
the thing thoroughly, and that is why Mr. Keith is having a new well
dug over yonder.”
“I see it,” said Kirke, glancing in the direction indicated by the
captain; “and he has got the curb up already.”
“So he has. Ah, here comes Paul. I”—
The sentence was cut short by a prolonged howl from Shot. The
confiding little creature had ventured too near the Chinaman’s heels,
and Sing Wung, suspecting him of evil intentions, had driven him
away by a vigorous kick.
“The old wretch!” cried Kirke, springing over the carriage-wheel.
“He’s been abusing my poor little Shot!”
And as the yelping dog ran up to him for protection, Kirke soothed
him as he would have soothed a baby.
Before Captain Bradstreet could hitch his horse to the post under the
pepper-tree, Paul was beside him, his face aglow with pleasure as
well as with sunburn. The sunburn caused him to look more than
ever like his father. Each had large, frank, blue eyes and a ruddy
complexion; but while the captain’s hair was snow-white, his son’s
was flaxen, or, as Pauline would have it, “a light écru.”
“How are you, Paul? How are you, my dear boy? Better, I hope?”
“Oh yes, papa, ever so much better, thank you. But why haven’t you
come before? I’ve looked for you and looked for you!”
Paul spoke with feeling. He and Pauline, though now fifteen years of
age, were not ashamed to show their love for their father. The
affection existing between Captain Bradstreet and his motherless
twins was something beautiful to behold.
Kirke was surprised to see how coolly Paul received the news of the
proposed trip to Europe. Though greatly pleased, he was by no
means as excited as Kirke had been that morning when the plan was
first mentioned. Paul was a quieter sort of boy than Kirke, and two
years older. Moreover, he had already been to sea several times, and
the novelty was pretty well worn off. Still, he wished to go again very
much, especially if the Rowes would go, too, for “that would make it
a good deal jollier.”
After chatting awhile, Captain Bradstreet went into the lemon-house
to speak with his cousin, Mr. Keith, leaving the boys to entertain
each other. Paul, acting as host, at once invited Kirke to visit the well
that had been begun; and they sauntered by the lemon-grove to a
deep hole sunk in the ground. Above the hole stood a windlass with
a bucket attached to it.
“Is anybody down there now?” asked Kirke, dropping upon his knees
and peering into the dark cavern.
“No, Yeck Wo is sick to-day; so Sing Wung left off working here, and
is cultivating in the orchard.”
“So it takes two to run this thing?”
“Yes. Sing Wung stays below to shovel earth into the bucket, and
Yeck Wo stays up here to turn the windlass and draw the bucket up
into daylight.”
“I see,” said Kirke, “and the Wo fellow tips the earth out of the
bucket on to this heap here, then sends the bucket back empty. It
must be fun to watch him.”
“It’ll be more fun, though, when they strike hard pan, for then they’ll
begin to blast.”
It was not Paul who said this, but Mr. Keith. He and Captain
Bradstreet had now joined the boys and were standing with them
near the well. “When they begin to blast, Kirke, you must come
down here and make us a little visit,” added Mr. Keith.
Kirke accepted the invitation eagerly, for, like most boys of thirteen,
he revelled in the explosion of gunpowder.
“Let’s see, can’t you come Saturday, bright and early? I’ve promised
to let Sing Wung go home Friday, and Paul will drive out for him
Saturday morning, and could bring you back with him as well as
not.”
“O Mr. Keith, I hope I can come,” said Kirke joyously, as he and the
captain took their departure.
But in repassing the olive-orchard the youth’s happy face clouded. In
the distance he caught a glimpse of Sing Wung in the very act of
flinging a stone at little Shot, who, forgetful of the recent repulse,
had frisked again into his neighborhood.
“If that old Chinaman wasn’t so far off I’d give him ‘Hail Columbia!’”
muttered he. “Mean creature! Wouldn’t I like to dump him into that
new well?”
“No; you certainly wouldn’t,” said the captain with an indulgent
smile. “On the contrary, I’ll wager that if he should fall in, you’d be
the first to help pull him out.”
Kirke was indignantly protesting that he “should do no such thing,”
when suddenly the horse, Pizarro, stumbled upon a rolling stone and
turned a half-somersault down the hill.
In an instant Captain Bradstreet and Kirke had leaped to the ground.
“Sit upon his head, Kirke,” ordered the captain. “So long as his head
is kept down he can’t flounder about.”
Kirke did as he was told, and while he was perched upon Pizarro’s
broad cheek, Captain Bradstreet unbuckled the harness and
detached it from the phaeton.
“The thill is broken, isn’t it?” asked Kirke.
“Yes, broken almost in two.”
Captain Bradstreet firmly grasped the horse’s bridle. “Now jump,
Kirke, and be quick about it.”
Kirke promptly obeyed, and Pizarro straightway struggled to his feet,
looking very much ashamed.
“He doesn’t seem to be injured anywhere,” said the captain, after
carefully feeling the horse’s limbs. “I wish the same could be said of
the phaeton. Have you a string about you, Kirke, to splice that shaft
with?”
For a wonder Kirke’s pocket to-day did not boast of even so much as
a fishing-line.
“I might run to the next ranch and beg a bit of rope,” he suggested.
“Wait a moment, my boy, here comes a greaser. Let’s see what he
can do for us.”
A “greaser” is the common name for a Mexican Indian.
“What an ugly, stupid-looking fellow,” thought Kirke; “I don’t believe
he knows a string from a rattlesnake.”
But, unpromising as he appeared, the Indian understood a little
English, and, on being offered a silver quarter, uncoiled from his
neck a long, narrow strip of deerskin, and with it tied together the
splintered ends of the thill.
“The greasers use those strips of deerhide when they tote bundles
on their backs,” explained the captain, when they were again on
their way. “He has spliced the shaft pretty firmly, Kirke, but it may
draw apart. You’d better keep close watch of it.”
The damaged thill was the one on Kirke’s side of the phaeton, and
for the rest of the drive he felt such a responsibility about it that he
forgot everything else; he even forgot his beloved little terrier.
They were entering the city before he noticed that Shot was
nowhere in sight. Then he remembered that he had not seen him
since leaving Mr. Keith’s ranch.
“Now I think of it, I haven’t seen him either,” said Captain
Bradstreet. “Maybe the little scamp took a notion to stay with Paul.”
“Oh, no, Captain Bradstreet, that wouldn’t be a bit like Shot!”
exclaimed Kirke vehemently. “Don’t you know how he’s always
tagging after me?”
“Yes, like a dory after a pilot boat,” said the captain, smiling.
“Where can he be, I wonder? Do you suppose—you don’t suppose—
that hateful Chinaman can have lamed him or anything?”
Kirke looked so extremely troubled that the tender-hearted captain
hastened to reply, “No, indeed! I don’t suppose anything of the kind.
More likely Shot has picked a quarrel with a gopher and is bound to
have the last word. If he’s not at home by sunrise we’ll ride back to
the ranch to look him up.”
He fully expected to hear the dog’s merry bark at any moment, and
was quite disturbed the next morning when Kirke ran over to tell him
that the little terrier was still missing.
“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find him,” he said; and immediately
telephoned for the horse and surrey.
But when he and Kirke reached the ranch Shot was not there, nor
had he been there since the previous afternoon. “The very last I saw
of him, Sing Wung was shying a stone at him,” said Paul. “He hates
dogs, that Chinaman does. I believe he’s afraid of them.”
“He couldn’t have been afraid of my dear little innocent terrier,”
exclaimed Kirke savagely; “he stoned him just for meanness.”
On being interviewed, Sing Wung protested that the dog had
followed the carriage, and that was all he knew about him. But he
spoke in such a hesitating way that Kirke was sure he kept back the
truth. The lad was passing through a fiery ordeal and his heart was
hot within him. “If ever I saw lies I saw ’em to-day in those slanting
eyes behind us,” he said in Paul’s ear as they turned away from the
suspected Celestial. “I feel just as if he had killed poor little Shot and
pitched him into the cañon.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t do that, Kirke; ’twould take too much courage—
Sing Wung is a chicken-hearted creature.”
“Not too chicken-hearted to stone my dog, though.”
Paul could not gainsay this, but as he bade Kirke good-by, he
remarked cheerily,—
“I half believe you’ll find Shot at home waiting for you. I shall know
Saturday morning. Remember I’m coming for you Saturday morning
at six o’clock, sharp.”
 CHAPTER III
WHO WAS THE THIEF?

Paul called for Kirke on the following Saturday, long before breakfast-
time. He had driven in from the ranch in Mr. Keith’s two-seated
wagon, drawn by a pair of little brown mules, and was evidently in a
prodigious hurry.
“Hello, Selkirk!” he shouted to the side of the house. “Stir around
lively. Mr. Keith wants Sing Wung to get to work on the well early.”
“I’ll be there in two seconds,” returned Kirke, thrusting a tumbled
head through an open window. “All dressed but my hair.”
“Good! Can’t you eat your breakfast on the road?”
“To be sure. I can eat anywhere, everywhere.”
The tumbled head disappeared; and Paul began to munch a
buttered roll just brought him by his sister Pauline. Their home was
just across the street, and she had watched for Paul, and rushed out
to meet him, and now stood leaning against the front wheel of the
wagon, chatting with him. She was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl,
rather too heedless and outspoken at times. She had no mother to
guide her, and lacked the gentle manners of her friend, Molly Rowe.
“You ought to put on your hat, Polly. You’re getting as brown as a
Mexican,” remarked Paul, with brotherly frankness, as he attacked a
second roll.
“Black, you should say,” corrected she coolly. “I’ve noticed it myself.
You’re an albino. I’m a negress. I’ve no manner of doubt people call
us ‘the black and white twins.’”
“What about Shot, Paul? Has he been heard from?” called Molly from
behind the window-shade of her chamber.
“Oh, I hoped he had turned up by this time. No, we haven’t seen a
sign of him, Molly; but we’ve found this.”
Here Paul held up a dog’s collar.
“Shot’s collar!” cried Molly.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve found that and haven’t found the
dog?” exclaimed Kirke, rushing down the steps of the veranda,
flourishing in one hand a gripsack, in the other a small bunch of
bananas. “Where did you find it, Paul? And when?”
“Last night, Kirke, in the hedge of the olive-orchard.”
“In the hedge?”
“Yes, tucked under it, ’way out of sight.”
“Then somebody hid it there—Sing Wung! I’ll bet ’twas Sing Wung!”
muttered Kirke, as he mounted the wagon. “He killed Shot. Got mad
with him and killed him, and then saved his collar. He thought he
could get money for it.”
“Has somebody killed Shot?” piped half-dressed Weezy, screening
herself from view behind her sister. “Oh, dear, dear! Poor little Shot!”
“Deah, deah, poo’ ’ittle S’ot!” echoed Don, running to the casement
in his ruffled white night-dress, and standing there quite unabashed.
“Such a sweet, lovely little dog as he was!” went on Weezy, in a
tearful voice. “Just as white and good as he could be. S’pose he’s
got up to heaven yet, Kirke?”
“The idea, Weezy!” Kirke’s tone was at once grieved and scornful.
“Who ever heard of a fox-terrier’s going to heaven?”
“Don’t good little fox-terriers go to heaven? Nobody ever told me
that before,” sighed Weezy, as Paul turned the mules toward
Chinatown. “O Kirke, don’t you wish Shot had been a good little
skye-terrier ’stead of a fox? He would have gone to heaven then,
you know!”
“It’s no sign Shot is dead, Weezy, dear, because he just happened to
lose his collar,” cried Pauline, stepping back from the wheel with a
smothered laugh. “He’ll come trotting home, wagging his tail, one of
these days, you’ll see!”
It was like Pauline to prophesy pleasant things. She was always
hopeful, always cheerful. They called her the merriest member of
The Happy Six.
“Yes, Polly, and you’ll see, too,” was Kirke’s gloomy rejoinder. “Good-
by, everybody.”
“Good-by, Sobersides,” retorted Pauline, brushing her sleeves, which
had rested upon the dusty tire. “Good-by, Twinny, love, I’ll be happy
to meet you later in Europe, both of you.”
Kirke hardly smiled at this nonsensical farewell. He cared very little
just now about Europe, or any other foreign country. He could only
think of Shot’s collar found in the hedge. Somebody had hidden it
there; and in his heart Kirke convicted Sing Wung.
“That collar was expensive, you know, Paul,” he broke forth, before
they had reached the first corner. “He was going to sell it at one of
the second-hand stores.”
“How could he have sold it? That would have given him away, Kirke.
Shot’s name is on it.”
“Poh! couldn’t the villain have ripped off that plate?”
“Not very easily. Besides, Kirke, if Sing Wung really meant to sell the
collar, why didn’t he carry it home with him yesterday?”
“Perhaps he couldn’t screw his courage up. He might have been
afraid of getting caught taking it.”
Though by nature unsuspicious, Kirke was a boy of strong
prejudices. Since making up his mind that the Chinaman was guilty
of a crime, he could no longer tolerate him.
“But how are we going to prove that Sing Wung put the collar in the
hedge?” asked Paul earnestly. “Mr. Keith says it isn’t fair to condemn
anybody on circumstantial evidence.”
“Fudge! What more evidence does he want? Didn’t we both see Sing
Wung stoning my Shot? And has anybody set eyes on my Shot from
that day to this?”
“No,” said Paul, “it does look dark against Sing Wung, I confess, and
I’m just as mad with him as you are.”
“I shouldn’t think Mr. Keith would keep such a sneak. He ought to
discharge him, and I’ve a great mind to tell him so,” returned Kirke,
as if his opinion and advice would carry great weight with that
gentleman.
“Oh, he can’t discharge him now, Kirke! How can he, right in the
height of the barley harvest?”
“He can hire somebody else.”
“No, he can’t for love or money. The Mexicans and Chinamen are all
engaged for the season by this time. Besides, there’s the well not
half done.”
Kirke bit his lip. He knew that this well was needed at once. He had
seen for himself how Mr. Keith’s young orange-trees were turning
yellow for want of proper irrigation. As they approached the Chinese
quarter of the city, he broke the silence by remarking grimly,—
“I sha’n’t speak to Sing Wung. I want him to know I suspect him.”
“Do you suppose he’ll take the cue?” asked Paul, attempting his
sister’s trick of punning.
Sing Wung was waiting for them at the door of his whitewashed
cabin. He was dressed as usual in loose blue trousers and a frock of
lighter blue denim, his long cue wound about his head in a coil and
tied with narrow, indigo-colored ribbon.
“He has the blues awfully, hasn’t he?” whispered Kirke, not to be
outdone by Paul in the play upon words.