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diff --git a/25927.txt b/25927.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..11e5db5 --- /dev/null +++ b/25927.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2492 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Christmas Story from David Harum, by +Edward Noyes Westcott + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: The Christmas Story from David Harum + +Author: Edward Noyes Westcott + +Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #25927] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTMAS STORY FROM DAVID HARUM *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Bruce Thomas and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: WM. H. CRANE AS DAVID HARUM] + + + + + _WM. H. CRANE EDITION_ + + + + + THE + + CHRISTMAS STORY FROM + + DAVID HARUM + + By + + Edward Noyes Westcott + + ILLUSTRATED FROM MR. CHARLES FROHMAN'S + PRODUCTION OF DAVID HARUM. + A COMEDY DRAMATIZED FROM THE NOVEL + + + NEW YORK + + D. APPLETON AND COMPANY + + 1900 + + Copyright, 1898, 1900, + + By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. + + _All rights reserved._ + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +PREFACE + + +"Dave done the thing his own way," said Aunt Polly to the Widow Cullom. +"Kind o' fetched it round fer a merry Chris'mus, didn't he?" + +This is the story which is reprinted here from Mr. Westcott's famous +book. It was David Harum's nature to do things in his own way, and the +quaintness of his methods in raising the Widow Cullom from the depths of +despair to the heights of happiness frame a story which is read between +laughter and tears, and always with a quickening of affection for the +great-hearted benefactor. David Harum's absolute originality, his +unexpectedness, the dryness of his humor, the shrewdness of his insight, +and the kindliness and generosity beneath the surface, have made him a +permanent figure in literature. Moreover, the individual quality of +David Harum is so distinctively American that he has been recognized as +the typical American, typical of an older generation, perhaps, in mere +externals, but nevertheless an embodiment of characteristics essentially +national. While only Mr. Westcott's complete book can fully illustrate +the personality of David Harum, yet it is equally true that no other +episode in the book presents the tenderness and quaintness, and the full +quality of David Harum's character, with the richness and pathos of the +story which tells how he paid the "int'rist" upon the "cap'tal" invested +by Billy P. Fortunately this story lends itself readily to separate +publication, and it forms an American "Christmas Carol" which stands by +itself, an American counterpart of the familiar tale of Dickens, and +imbued with a simplicity, humor, and unstudied pathos peculiarly its +own. + +The difference between the written and the acted tale is illustrated in +the use made of the Christmas story in the play. In the book David tells +John Lenox the story of the Widow Cullom and her dealings with 'Zeke +Swinney, and reveals the truth to her in his office, and the dinner +which follows at his house is prolonged by his inimitable tales. In the +play action takes the place of description. In the first act we see +'Zeke Swinney obtaining blood-money from the widow, and the latter makes +the acquaintance of Mary Blake, newly entered upon her career of +independence as Cordelia Prendergast. In the second act we see the widow +giving the second mortgage to David, and thereby strengthening Mary +Blake's suspicions, and in the third act David pictures his dreary youth +and Billy P.'s act of kindness, and brings the widow to her own, the +climax coming with the toast which opens the dinner and closes the play. +It was a delicate and difficult task for even so distinguished an actor +as Mr. Crane to undertake a part already hedged about by conflicting +theories; but his insight and his devotion to the character have +succeeded in actually placing before us the David Harum created by Mr. +Westcott. + +The illustrations of this book, reproduced from stage photographs by +the courtesy of Mr. Charles Frohman, include the best pictures of Mr. +Crane in character, and also stage views of scenes in the second and +third acts, which show the development and culmination of the Widow +Cullom episode. The Christmas Story is now published separately for the +first time in this volume, which unites a permanent literary value with +the peculiar interest of Mr. Crane's interpretations of the famous +character. + + * * * * * + +After many discouragements, the author of David Harum lived long enough +to know that his book had found appreciation and was to be published, +but he died before it appeared. + +Edward Noyes Westcott, the son of Dr. Amos Westcott, a prominent +physician of Syracuse, and at one time mayor of the city, was born +September 27, 1846. Nearly all his life was passed in his native city of +Syracuse. His active career began early at a bank clerk's desk, and he +was afterward teller and cashier, then head of the firm of Westcott & +Abbott, bankers and brokers, and in his later years he acted as the +registrar and financial expert of the Syracuse Water Commission. His +artistic temperament found expression only in music until the last years +of his life. He wrote articles occasionally upon financial subjects, but +it was not until the approach of his last illness that he began David +Harum. No character in this book is taken directly from life. Stories +which his father had told and his own keen observations and lively +imagination furnished his material, but neither David Harum nor any +other character is a copy of any individual. No trace of the author's +illness appears in the book. "I've had the fun of writing it, anyway," +he wrote shortly before his death, "and no one will laugh over David +more than I have. I never could tell what David was going to do next." +This was the spirit of the brave and gentle author, who died March 31, +1898, unconscious of the fame which was to follow him. + +R. H. + +NEW YORK, _August, 1900._ + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration: Wm. H. CRANE Edition] + + +The Christmas Story from David Harum + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +It was the 23d of December, and shortly after the closing hour. Peleg +had departed and our friend had just locked the vault when David came +into the office and around behind the counter. + +"Be you in any hurry?" he asked. + +John said he was not, whereupon Mr. Harum hitched himself up on to a +high office stool, with his heels on the spindle, and leaned sideways +upon the desk, while John stood facing him with his left arm upon the +desk. + +"John," said David, "do ye know the Widdo' Cullom?" + +"No," said John, "but I know who she is--a tall, thin woman, who walks +with a slight stoop and limp. I noticed her and asked her name because +there was something about her looks that attracted my attention--as +though at some time she might have seen better days." + +"That's the party," said David. "She has seen better days, but she's eat +an' drunk sorro' mostly fer goin' on thirty year, an' darned little else +a good share o' the time, I reckon." + +"She has that appearance certainly," said John. + +"Yes, sir," said David, "she's had a putty tough time, the widdo' has, +an' yet," he proceeded after a momentary pause, "the' was a time when +the Culloms was some o' the kingpins o' this hull region. They used to +own quarter o' the county, an' they lived in the big house up on the +hill where Doc Hays lives now. That was considered to be the finest +place anywheres 'round here in them days. I used to think the Capitol to +Washington must be somethin' like the Cullom house, an' that Billy P. +(folks used to call him Billy P. 'cause his father's name was William +an' his was William Parker), an' that Billy P. 'd jest 's like 's not be +president. I've changed my mind some on the subject of presidents since +I was a boy." + +Here Mr. Harum turned on his stool, put his right hand into his +sack-coat pocket, extracted therefrom part of a paper of "Maple Dew," +and replenished his left cheek with an ample wad of "fine-cut." John +took advantage of the break to head off what he had reason to fear might +turn into a lengthy digression from the matter in hand by saying, "I beg +pardon, but how does it happen that Mrs. Cullom is in such +circumstances? Has the family all died out?" + +"Wa'al," said David, "they're most on 'em dead, all on 'em, in fact, +except the widdo's son Charley, but as fur's the family's concerned, it +more 'n _died_ out--it _gin_ out! 'D ye ever hear of Jim Wheton's calf? +Wa'al, Jim brought three or four veals into town one spring to sell. +Dick Larrabee used to peddle meat them days. Dick looked 'em over an' +says, 'Look here, Jim,' he says, 'I guess you got a "deakin" in that +lot,' he says. 'I dunno what you mean,' says Jim. 'Yes, ye do, goll darn +ye!' says Dick, 'yes, ye do. You didn't never kill that calf, an' you +know it. That calf died, that's what that calf done. Come, now, own up,' +he says. 'Wa'al,' says Jim, 'I didn't _kill_ it, an' it didn't _die_ +nuther--it jes' kind o' _gin out_.'" + +John joined in the laugh with which the narrator rewarded his own +effort, and David went on: "Yes, sir, they jes' petered out. Old Billy, +Billy P.'s father, inher'tid all the prop'ty--never done a stroke of +work in his life. He had a collige education, went to Europe, an' all +that, an' before he was fifty year old he hardly ever come near the old +place after he was growed up. The land was all farmed out on shares, an' +his farmers mostly bamboozled him the hull time. He got consid'able +income, of course, but as things went along and they found out how slack +he was they kept bitin' off bigger chunks all the time, an' sometimes he +didn't git even the core. But all the time when he wanted money--an' he +wanted it putty often, I tell ye--the easiest way was to stick on a +morgige; an' after a spell it got so 't he'd have to give a morgige to +pay the int'rist on the other morgiges." + +"But," said John, "was there nothing to the estate but land?" + +[Illustration] + +"Oh, yes," said David, "old Billy's father left him some consid'able +pers'nal, but after that was gone he went into the morgige bus'nis as I +tell ye. He lived mostly up to Syrchester and around, an' when he got +married he bought a place in Syrchester and lived there till Billy P. +was about twelve or thirteen year old, an' he was about fifty. By that +time he'd got 'bout to the end of his rope, an' the' wa'n't nothin' for +it but to come back here to Homeville an' make the most o' what the' was +left--an' that's what he done, let alone that he didn't make the most +on't to any pertic'ler extent. Mis' Cullom, his wife, wa'n't no help to +him. She was a city woman an' didn't take to the country no way, but +when she died it broke old Billy up wus 'n ever. She peaked an' pined, +an' died when Billy P. was about fifteen or so. Wa'al, Billy P. an' the +old man wrastled along somehow, an' the boy went to collige fer a year +or so. How they ever got along 's they did I dunno. The' was a story +that some far-off relation left old Billy some money, an' I guess that +an' what they got off'm what farms was left carried 'em along till Billy +P. was twenty-five or so, an' then he up an' got married. That was the +crownin' stroke," remarked David. "She was one o' the village +girls--respectable folks, more 'n ordinary good lookin' an' high +steppin', an' had had some schoolin'. But the old man was prouder 'n a +cock-turkey, an' thought nobody wa'n't quite good enough fer Billy P., +an' all along kind o' reckoned that he'd marry some money an' git a new +start. But when he got married--on the quiet, you know, cause he knowed +the old man would kick--wa'al, that killed the trick, an' the old man +into the bargain. It took the gumption all out of him, an' he didn't +live a year. Wa'al, sir, it was curious, but, 's I was told, putty much +the hull village sided with the old man. The Culloms was kind o' kings +in them days, an' folks wa'n't so one-man's-good's-anotherish as they be +now. They thought Billy P. done wrong, though they didn't have nothin' +to say 'gainst the girl neither--an' she's very much respected, Mis' +Cullom is, an' as fur's I'm concerned, I've alwus guessed she kept Billy +P. goin' full as long 's any one could. But 't wa'n't no use--that is to +say, the sure thing come to pass. He had a nom'nal title to a good deal +o' prop'ty, but the equity in most on't if it had ben to be put up +wa'n't enough to pay fer the papers. You see, the' ain't never ben no +real cash value in farm prop'ty in these parts. The' ain't ben hardly a +dozen changes in farm titles, 'cept by inher'tance or foreclosure, in +thirty years. So Billy P. didn't make no effort. Int'rist's one o' them +things that keeps right on nights an' Sundays. He jest had the deeds +made out an' handed 'em over when the time came to settle. The' was some +village lots though that was clear, that fetched him in some money from +time to time until they was all gone but one, an' that's the one Mis' +Cullom lives on now. It was consid'able more'n a lot--in fact, a putty +sizable place. She thought the sun rose an' set where Billy P. was, but +she took a crotchit in her head, and wouldn't ever sign no papers fer +that, an' lucky fer him too. The' was a house on to it, an' he had a +roof over his head anyway when he died six or seven years after he +married, an' left her with a boy to raise. How she got along all them +years till Charley got big enough to help, I swan! I don't know. She +took in sewin' an' washin', an' went out to cook an' nurse, an' all +that, but I reckon the' was now an' then times when they didn't overload +their stomechs much, nor have to open the winders to cool off. But she +held on to that prop'ty of her'n like a pup to a root. It was putty well +out when Billy P. died, but the village has growed up to it. The's some +good lots could be cut out on't, an' it backs up to the river where the +current's enough to make a mighty good power fer a 'lectric light. I +know some fellers that are talkin' of startin' a plant here, an' it +ain't out o' sight that they'd pay a good price fer the river front, an' +enough land to build on. Fact on't is, it's got to be a putty valu'ble +piece o' prop'ty, more 'n she cal'lates on, I reckon." + +Here Mr. Harum paused, pinching his chin with thumb and index finger, +and mumbling his tobacco. John, who had listened with more attention +than interest--wondering the while as to what the narrative was leading +up to--thought something might properly be expected of him to show that +he had followed it, and said, "So Mrs. Cullom has kept this last piece +clear, has she?" + +"No," said David, bringing down his right hand upon the desk with +emphasis, "that's jes' what she hain't done, an' that's how I come to +tell ye somethin' of the story, an' more on't 'n you've cared about +hearin', mebbe." + +"Not at all," John protested. "I have been very much interested." + +"You have, have you?" said Mr. Harum. "Wa'al, I got somethin' I want ye +to do. Day after to-morro' 's Chris'mus, an' I want ye to drop Mis' +Cullom a line, somethin' like this, 'That Mr. Harum told ye to say that +that morgige he holds, havin' ben past due fer some time, an' no +int'rist havin' ben paid fer, let me see, more'n a year, he wants to +close the matter up, an' he'll see her Chris'mus mornin' at the bank at +nine o'clock, he havin' more time on that day; but that, as fur as he +can see, the bus'nis won't take very long'--somethin' like that, you +understand?" + +[Illustration] + +"Very well, sir," said John, hoping that his employer would not see in +his face the disgust and repugnance he felt as he surmised what a scheme +was on foot, and recalled what he had heard of Harum's hard and +unscrupulous ways, though he had to admit that this, excepting perhaps +the episode of the counterfeit money, was the first revelation to him +personally. But this seemed very bad indeed. + +"All right," said David cheerfully, "I s'pose it won't take you long to +find out what's in your stockin', an' if you hain't nothin' else to do +Chris'mus mornin' I'd like to have you open the office an' stay 'round a +spell till I git through with Mis' Cullom. Mebbe the' 'll be some papers +to fill out or witniss or somethin'; an' have that skeezicks of a boy +make up the fires so'st the place'll be warm." + +"Very good, sir," said John, hoping that the interview was at an end. + +But the elder man sat for some minutes apparently in a brown study, and +occasionally a smile of sardonic cunning wrinkled his face. At last he +said: "I've told ye so much that I may as well tell ye how I come by +that morgidge. Twon't take but a minute, an' then you can run an' play," +he added with a chuckle. + +"I trust I have not betrayed any impatience," said John, and instantly +conscious of his infelicitous expression, added hastily, "I have really +been very much interested." + +"Oh, no," was the reply, "you hain't _betrayed_ none, but I know old +fellers like me gen'rally tell a thing twice over while they're at it. +Wa'al," he went on, "it was like this. After Charley Cullom got to be +some grown he helped to keep the pot a-bilin', 'n they got on some +better. 'Bout seven year ago, though, he up an' got married, an' then +the fat ketched fire. Finally he allowed that if he had some money he'd +go West 'n take up some land, 'n git along like pussly 'n a flower +gard'n. He ambitioned that if his mother 'd raise a thousan' dollars on +her place he'd be sure to take care of the int'rist, an' prob'ly pay off +the princ'pal in almost no time. Wa'al, she done it, an' off he went. +She didn't come to me fer the money, because--I dunno--at any rate she +didn't, but got it of 'Zeke Swinney. + +"Wa'al, it turned out jest 's any fool might 've predilictid, fer after +the first year, when I reckon he paid it out of the thousan', Charley +never paid no int'rist. The second year he was jes' gettin' goin', an' +the next year he lost a hoss jest 's he was cal'latin' to pay, an' the +next year the grasshoppers smote him, 'n so on; an' the outcome was that +at the end of five years, when the morgige had one year to run, +Charley'd paid one year, an' she'd paid one, an' she stood to owe three +years' int'rist. How old Swinney come to hold off so was that she used +to pay the cuss ten dollars or so ev'ry six months 'n git no credit fer +it, an' no receipt an' no witniss, 'n he knowed the prop'ty was +improving all the time. He may have had another reason, but at any rate +he let her run, an' got the shave reg'lar. But at the time I'm tellin' +you about he'd begun to cut up, an' allowed that if she didn't settle up +the int'rist he'd foreclose, an' I got wind on't an' I run across her +one day an' got to talkin' with her, an' she gin me the hull narration. +'How much do you owe the old critter?' I says. 'A hunderd an' eighty +dollars,' she says, 'an' where I'm goin' to git it,' she says, 'the Lord +only knows.' 'An' He won't tell ye, I reckon,' I says. Wa'al, of course +I'd known that old Swinney had a morgidge because it was a matter of +record, an' I knowed him well enough to give a guess what his game was +goin' to be, an' more'n that I'd had my eye on that piece an' parcel an' +I figured that he wa'n't any likelier a citizen 'n I was." ("Yes," said +John to himself, "where the carcase is the vultures are gathered +together.") + +"'Wa'al,' I says to her, after we'd had a little more talk, 's'posen +you come 'round to my place to-morro' 'bout 'leven o'clock, an' mebbe we +c'n cipher this thing out. I don't say positive that we kin,' I says, +'but mebbe, mebbe.' So that afternoon I sent over to the county seat an' +got a description an' had a second morgige drawed up fer two hundred +dollars, an' Mis' Cullom signed it mighty quick. I had the morgige made +one day after date, 'cause, as I said to her, it was in the nature of a +temp'rary loan, but she was so tickled she'd have signed most anythin' +at that pertic'ler time. 'Now,' I says to her, 'you go an' settle with +old Step-an'-fetch-it, but don't you say a word where you got the +money,' I says. 'Don't ye let on nothin'--stretch that conscience o' +your'n if nes'sary,' I says, 'an' be pertic'ler if he asks you if Dave +Harum give ye the money you jes' say, "No, he didn't." That won't be no +lie,' I says, 'because I ain't _givin_' it to ye,' I says. Wa'al, she +done as I told her. Of course Swinney suspicioned fust off that I was +mixed up in it, but she stood him off so fair an' square that he didn't +know jes' what _to_ think, but his claws was cut fer a spell, anyway. + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act II] + +"Wa'al, things went on fer a while, till I made up my mind that I +ought to relieve Swinney of some of his anxieties about worldly bus'nis, +an' I dropped in on him one mornin' an' passed the time o' day, an' +after we'd eased up our minds on the subjects of each other's health an' +such like I says, 'You hold a morgige on the Widder Cullom's place, +don't ye?' Of course he couldn't say nothin' but 'yes.' 'Does she keep +up the int'rist all right?' I says. 'I don't want to be pokin' my nose +into your bus'nis,' I says, 'an' don't tell me nothin' you don't want +to.' Wa'al, he knowed Dave Harum was Dave Harum, an' that he might 's +well speak it out, an' he says, 'Wa'al, she didn't pay nothin' fer a +good while, but last time she forked over the hull amount. But I hain't +no notion,' he says, 'that she'll come to time agin.' 'An' s'posin' she +don't,' I says, 'you'll take the prop'ty, won't ye?' 'Don't see no other +way,' he says, an' lookin' up quick, 'unless you over-bid me,' he says. +'No,' I says, 'I ain't buyin' no real estate jes' now, but the thing I +come in fer,' I says, 'leavin' out the pleasure of havin' a talk with +you, was to say that I'd take that morgige off'm your hands.' + +"Wa'al, sir, he, he, he, he! Scat my----! At that he looked at me fer a +minute with his jaw on his neck, an' then he hunched himself, 'n drawed +in his neck like a mud turtle. 'No,' he says, 'I ain't sufferin' fer the +money, an' I guess I'll keep the morgige. It's putty near due now, but +mebbe I'll let it run a spell. I guess the secur'ty's good fer it.' +'Yes,' I says, 'I reckon you'll let it run long enough fer the widder to +pay the taxes on't once more anyhow; I guess the secur'ty's good enough +to take that resk; but how 'bout _my_ secur'ty?' I says. 'What d'you +mean?' he says. 'I mean,' says I, 'that I've got a second morgige on +that prop'ty, an' I begin to tremble fer my secur'ty. You've jes' told +me,' I says, 'that you're goin' to foreclose an' I cal'late to protect +myself, an' I _don't_ cal'late,' I says, 'to have to go an' bid on that +prop'ty, an' put in a lot more money to save my investment, unless I'm +'bleeged to--not _much!_ an' you can jes' sign that morgige over to me, +an' the sooner the quicker,' I says." + +David brought his hand down on his thigh with a vigorous slap, the +fellow of the one which, John could imagine, had emphasized his demand +upon Swinney. The story, to which he had at first listened with polite +patience merely, he had found more interesting as it went on, and, +excusing himself, he brought up a stool, and mounting it, said, "And +what did Swinney say to that?" Mr. Harum emitted a gurgling chuckle, +yawned his quid out of his mouth, tossing it over his shoulder in the +general direction of the waste basket, and bit off the end of a cigar +which he found by slapping his waistcoat pockets. John got down and +fetched him a match, which he scratched in the vicinity of his hip +pocket, lighted his cigar (John declining to join him on some plausible +pretext, having on a previous occasion accepted one of the brand), and +after rolling it around with his lips and tongue to the effect that the +lighted end described sundry eccentric curves, located it firmly with an +upward angle in the left-hand corner of his mouth, gave it a couple of +vigorous puffs, and replied to John's question. + +"Wa'al, 'Zeke Swinney was a perfesser of religion some years ago, an' +mebbe he is now, but what he said to me on this pertic'ler occasion was +that he'd see me in hell fust, 'an _then_ he wouldn't. + +"'Wa'al,' I says, 'mebbe you won't, mebbe you will, it's alwus a +pleasure to meet ye,' I says, 'but in that case this morgige bus'nis 'll +be a question fer our executors,' I says, 'fer _you_ don't never +foreclose that morgige, an' don't you fergit it,' I says. + +"'Oh, you'd like to git holt o' that prop'ty yourself. I see what you're +up to,' he says. + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act II] + +"'Look a-here, 'Zeke Swinney,' I says, 'I've got an int'rist in that +prop'ty, an' I propose to p'tect it. You're goin' to sign that morgige +over to me, or I'll foreclose an' surrygate ye,' I says, 'unless you +allow to bid in the prop'ty, in which case we'll see whose weasel-skin's +the longest. But I guess it won't come to that,' I says. 'You kin take +your choice,' I says. 'Whether I want to git holt o' that prop'ty myself +ain't neither here nor there. Mebbe I do, an' mebbe I don't, but +anyways,' I says, '_you_ don't git it, nor wouldn't ever, for if I can't +make you sign over, I'll either do what I said or I'll back the widder +in a defence fer usury. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it,' I says. + +"'What do you mean?' he says, gittin' half out his chair. + +"'I mean this,' I says, 'that the fust six months the widder couldn't +pay she gin you ten dollars to hold off, an' the next time she gin you +fifteen, an' that you've bled her fer shaves to the tune of sixty odd +dollars in three years, an' then got your int'rist in full.' + +"That riz him clean out of his chair," said David. "'She can't prove +it,' he says, shakin' his fist in the air. + +[Illustration] + +"'Oh, ho! ho!' I says, tippin' my chair back agin the wall. 'If Mis' +Cullom was to swear how an' where she paid you the money, givin' chapter +an' verse, and showin' her own mem'randums even, an' I was to swear that +when I twitted you with gittin' it you didn't deny it, but only said +that she couldn't _prove_ it, how long do you think it 'ould take a +Freeland County jury to find agin ye? I allow, 'Zeke Swinney,' I says, +'that you wa'n't born yestid'y, but you ain't so old as you look, not by +a dum sight!' an' then how I did laugh! + +"Wa'al," said David, as he got down off the stool and stretched himself, +yawning, "I guess I've yarned it enough fer one day. Don't fergit to +send Mis' Cullom that notice, an' make it up an' up. I'm goin' to git +the thing off my mind this trip." + +"Very well, sir," said John, "but let me ask, did Swinney assign the +mortgage without any trouble?" + +"O Lord! yes," was the reply. "The' wa'n't nothin' else fer him to do. +I had another twist on him that I hain't mentioned. But he put up a +great show of doin' it to obleege me. Wa'al, I thanked him an' so on, +an' when we'd got through I ast him if he wouldn't step over to the +'Eagil' an' take somethin', an' he looked kind o' shocked an' said he +never drinked nothin'. It was 'gin his princ'ples, he said. Ho, ho, ho, +ho! Scat my----! Princ'ples!" and John heard him chuckling to himself +all the way out of the office. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Considering John's relations with David Harum, it was natural that he +should wish to think as well of him as possible, and he had not (or +thought he had not) allowed his mind to be influenced by the disparaging +remarks and insinuations which had been made to him, or in his presence, +concerning his employer. He had made up his mind to form his opinion +upon his own experience with the man, and so far it had not only been +pleasant but favorable, and far from justifying the half-jeering, +half-malicious talk that had come to his ears. It had been made manifest +to him, it was true, that David was capable of a sharp bargain in +certain lines, but it seemed to him that it was more for the pleasure of +matching his wits against another's than for any gain involved. Mr. +Harum was an experienced and expert horseman, who delighted above all +things in dealing in and trading horses, and John soon discovered that, +in that community at least, to get the best of a "hoss-trade" by almost +any means was considered a venial sin, if a sin at all, and the +standards of ordinary business probity were not expected to govern those +transactions. + +David had said to him once when he suspected that John's ideas might +have sustained something of a shock, "A hoss-trade ain't like anythin' +else. A feller may be straighter 'n a string in ev'rythin' else, an' +never tell the truth--that is, the hull truth--about a hoss. I trade +hosses with hoss-traders. They all think they know as much as I do, an' +I dunno but what they do. They hain't learnt no diff'rent anyway, an' +they've had chances enough. If a feller come to me that didn't think he +knowed anythin' about a hoss, an' wanted to buy on the square, he'd git, +fur's I knew, square treatment. At any rate I'd tell him all 't I knew. +But when one o' them smart Alecks comes along an' cal'lates to do up old +Dave, why he's got to take his chances, that's all. An' mind ye," +asserted David, shaking his forefinger impressively, "it ain't only them +fellers. I've ben wuss stuck two three time by church members in good +standin' than anybody I ever dealed with. Take old Deakin Perkins. He's +a terrible feller fer church bus'nes; c'n pray an' psalm-sing to beat +the Jews, an' in spiritual matters c'n read his title clear the hull +time, but when it comes to hoss-tradin' you got to git up very early in +the mornin' or he'll skin the eye-teeth out of ye. Yes, sir! Scat +my----! I believe the old critter _makes_ hosses! But the deakin," added +David, "he, he, he, he! the deakin hain't hardly spoke to me fer some +consid'able time, the deakin hain't. He, he, he! + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +"Another thing," he went on, "the' ain't no gamble like a hoss. You may +think you know him through an' through, an' fust thing you know he'll be +cuttin' up a lot o' didos right out o' nothin'. It stands to reason that +sometimes you let a hoss go all on the square--as you know him--an' the +feller that gits him don't know how to hitch him or treat him, an' he +acts like a diff'rent hoss, an' the feller allows you swindled him. You +see, hosses gits used to places an' ways to a certain extent, an' when +they're changed, why they're apt to act diff'rent. Hosses don't know but +dreadful little, really. Talk about hoss sense--wa'al, the' ain't no +such thing." + +Thus spoke David on the subject of his favorite pursuit and pastime, +and John thought then that he could understand and condone some things +he had seen and heard, at which at first he was inclined to look +askance. But this matter of the Widow Cullom's was a different thing, +and as he realized that he was expected to play a part, though a small +one, in it, his heart sank within him that he had so far cast his +fortunes upon the good will of a man who could plan and carry out so +heartless and cruel an undertaking as that which had been revealed to +him that afternoon. He spent the evening in his room trying to read, but +the widow's affairs persistently thrust themselves upon his thoughts. +All the unpleasant stories he had heard of David came to his mind, and +he remembered with misgiving some things which at the time had seemed +regular and right enough, but which took on a different color in the +light in which he found himself recalling them. He debated with himself +whether he should not decline to send Mrs. Cullom the notice as he had +been instructed, and left it an open question when he went to bed. + +He wakened somewhat earlier than usual to find that the thermometer had +gone up, and the barometer down. The air was full of a steady downpour, +half snow, half rain, about the most disheartening combination which the +worst climate in the world--that of central New York--can furnish. He +passed rather a busy day in the office in an atmosphere redolent of the +unsavory odors raised by the proximity of wet boots and garments to the +big cylinder stove outside the counter, a compound of stale smells from +kitchen and stable. + +After the bank closed he dispatched Peleg Hopkins, the office boy, with +the note for Mrs. Cullom. He had abandoned his half-formed intention to +revolt, but had made the note not only as little peremptory as was +compatible with a clear intimation of its purport as he understood it, +but had yielded to a natural impulse in beginning it with an expression +of personal regret--a blunder which cost him no little chagrin in the +outcome. + +Peleg Hopkins grumbled audibly when he was requested to build the +fires on Christmas day, and expressed his opinion that "if there warn't +Bible agin workin' on Chris'mus, the' 'd ort ter be"; but when John +opened the door of the bank that morning he found the temperature in +comfortable contrast to the outside air. The weather had changed again, +and a blinding snowstorm, accompanied by a buffeting gale from the +northwest, made it almost impossible to see a path and to keep it. In +the central part of the town some tentative efforts had been made to +open walks, but these were apparent only as slight and tortuous +depressions in the depths of snow. In the outskirts the unfortunate +pedestrian had to wade to the knees. + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +As John went behind the counter his eye was at once caught by a small +parcel lying on his desk, of white note paper, tied with a cotton +string, which he found to be addressed, "Mr. John Lenox, Esq., Present," +and as he took it up it seemed heavy for its size. + +Opening it, he found a tiny stocking, knit of white wool, to which was +pinned a piece of paper with the legend, "A Merry Christmas from Aunt +Polly." Out of the stocking fell a packet fastened with a rubber strap. +Inside were five ten-dollar gold pieces and a slip of paper on which was +written, "A Merry Christmas from Your Friend David Harum." For a moment +John's face burned, and there was a curious smarting of the eyelids as +he held the little stocking and its contents in his hand. Surely the +hand that had written "Your Friend" on that scrap of paper could not be +the hand of an oppressor of widows and orphans. "This," said John to +himself, "is what he meant when he 'supposed it wouldn't take me long to +find out what was in my stocking.'" + + * * * * * + +The door opened and a blast and whirl of wind and snow rushed in, +ushering the tall, bent form of the Widow Cullom. The drive of the wind +was so strong that John vaulted over the low cash counter to push the +door shut again. The poor woman was white with snow from the front of +her old worsted hood to the bottom of her ragged skirt. + +"You are Mrs. Cullom?" said John. "Wait a moment till I brush off the +snow, and then come to the fire in the back room. Mr. Harum will be in +directly, I expect." + +"Be I much late?" she asked. "I made 's much haste 's I could. It don't +appear to me 's if I ever see a blusteriner day, 'n I ain't as strong as +I used to be. Seemed as if I never would git here." + +"Oh, no," said John, as he established her before the glowing grate of +the Franklin stove in the back parlor, "not at all. Mr. Harum has not +come in himself yet. Shall you mind if I excuse myself a moment while +you make yourself as comfortable as possible?" She did not apparently +hear him. She was trembling from head to foot with cold and fatigue and +nervous excitement. Her dress was soaked to the knees, and as she sat +down and put up her feet to the fire John saw a bit of a thin cotton +stocking and her deplorable shoes, almost in a state of pulp. A +snow-obliterated path led from the back door of the office to David's +house, and John snatched his hat and started for it on a run. As he +stamped off some of the snow on the veranda the door was opened for him +by Mrs. Bixbee. "Lord sakes!" she exclaimed. "What on earth be you +cavortin' 'round for such a mornin' 's this without no overcoat, an' on +a dead run? What's the matter?" + +"Nothing serious," he answered, "but I'm in a great hurry. Old Mrs. +Cullom has walked up from her house to the office, and she is wet +through and almost perished. I thought you'd send her some dry shoes and +stockings, and an old shawl or blanket to keep her wet skirt off her +knees, and a drop of whisky or something. She's all of a tremble, and +I'm afraid she will have a chill." + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +"Certain! certain!" said the kind creature, and she bustled out of the +room, returning in a minute or two with an armful of comforts. "There's +a pair of bedroom slips lined with lamb's wool, an' a pair of woolen +stockin's, an' a blanket shawl. This here petticut, 't ain't what ye'd +call bran' new, but it's warm and comf'table, an' I don't believe she's +got much of anythin' on 'ceptin' her dress, an' I'll git ye the whisky, +but"--here she looked deprecatingly at John--"it ain't gen'ally known 't +we keep the stuff in the house. I don't know as it's right, but though +David don't hardly ever touch it he will have it in the house." + +"Oh," said John, laughing, "you may trust my discretion, and we'll swear +Mrs. Cullom to secrecy." + +"Wa'al, all right," said Mrs. Bixbee, joining in the laugh as she +brought the bottle; "jest a minute till I make a passel of the things to +keep the snow out. There, now, I guess you're fixed, an' you kin hurry +back 'fore she ketches a chill." + +"Thanks very much," said John as he started away. "I have something to +say to you besides 'Merry Christmas,' but I must wait till another +time." + +When John got back to the office David had just preceded him. + +"Wa'al, wa'al," he was saying, "but you be in a putty consid'able +state. Hullo, John! what you got there? Wa'al, you air the stuff! Slips, +blanket-shawl, petticut, stockin's--wa'al, you an' Polly ben puttin' +your heads together, I guess. What's that? Whisky! Wa'al, scat my----! I +didn't s'pose wild hosses would have drawed it out o' Polly to let on +the' was any in the house, much less to fetch it out. Jes' the thing! +Oh, yes ye are, Mis' Cullom--jest a mouthful with water," taking the +glass from John, "jest a spoonful to git your blood a-goin', an' then +Mr. Lenox an' me 'll go into the front room while you make yourself +comf'table." + +"Consarn it all!" exclaimed Mr. Harum as they stood leaning against the +teller's counter, facing the street, "I didn't cal'late to have Mis' +Cullom hoof it up here the way she done. When I see what kind of a day +it was I went out to the barn to have the cutter hitched an' send for +her, an' I found ev'rythin' topsy-turvy. That dum'd uneasy sorril colt +had got cast in the stall, an' I ben fussin' with him ever since. I +clean forgot all 'bout Mis' Cullom till jes' now." + +"Is the colt much injured?" John asked. + +"Wa'al, he won't trot a twenty gait in some time, I reckon," replied +David. "He's wrenched his shoulder some, an' mebbe strained his inside. +Don't seem to take no int'rist in his feed, an' that's a bad sign. +Consarn a hoss, anyhow! If they're wuth anythin' they're more bother 'n +a teethin' baby. Alwus some dum thing ailin' 'em, an' I took consid'able +stock in that colt too," he added regretfully, "an' I could 'a' got +putty near what I was askin' fer him last week, an' putty near what he +was wuth, an' I've noticed that most gen'ally alwus when I let a good +offer go like that, some cussed thing happens to the hoss. It ain't a +bad idee, in the hoss bus'nis anyway, to be willin' to let the other +feller make a dollar once 'n a while." + +After that aphorism they waited in silence for a few minutes, and then +David called out over his shoulder, "How be you gettin' along, Mis' +Cullom?" + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +"I guess I'm fixed," she answered, and David walked slowly back into +the parlor, leaving John in the front office. He was annoyed to realize +that in the bustle over Mrs. Cullom and what followed, he had forgotten +to acknowledge the Christmas gift; but, hoping that Mr. Harum had been +equally oblivious, promised himself to repair the omission later on. He +would have preferred to go out and leave the two to settle their affair +without witness or hearer, but his employer, who, as he had found, +usually had a reason for his actions, had explicitly requested him to +remain, and he had no choice. He perched himself upon one of the office +stools and composed himself to await the conclusion of the affair. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Mrs. Cullom was sitting at one corner of the fire, and David drew a +chair opposite to her. + +"Feelin' all right now? whisky hain't made ye liable to no disorderly +conduct, has it?" he asked with a laugh. + +"Yes, thank you," was the reply, "the warm things are real comfortin', +'n' I guess I hain't had licker enough to make me want to throw things. +You got a kind streak in ye, Dave Harum, if you did send me this here +note--but I s'pose ye know your own bus'nis," she added with a sigh of +resignation. "I ben fearin' fer a good while 't I couldn't hold on t' +that prop'ty, an' I don't know but what you might's well git it as 'Zeke +Swinney, though I ben hopin' 'gainst hope that Charley 'd be able to do +morn 'n he has." + +"Let's see the note," said David curtly. "H'm, humph, 'regret to say +that I have been instructed by Mr. Harum'--wa'al, h'm'm, cal'lated to +clear his own skirts anyway--h'm'm--'must be closed up without further +delay' (John's eye caught the little white stocking which still lay on +his desk)--'wa'al, yes, that's about what I told Mr. Lenox to say fur's +the bus'nis part's concerned--I might 'a' done my own regrettin' if I'd +wrote the note myself." (John said something to himself.) "'T ain't the +pleasantest thing in the world fer ye, I allow, but then you see, +bus'nis is bus'nis." + +John heard David clear his throat, and there was a hiss in the open +fire. Mrs. Cullom was silent, and David resumed: + +"You see, Mis' Cullom, it's like this. I ben thinkin' of this matter +fer a good while. That place ain't ben no real good to ye sence the +first year you signed that morgidge. You hain't scurcely more'n made +ends meet, let alone the int'rist, an' it's ben simply a question o' +time, an' who'd git the prop'ty in the long run fer some years. I +reckoned, same as you did, that Charley 'd mebbe come to the front--but +he hain't done it, an' 't ain't likely he ever will. Charley's a likely +'nough boy some ways, but he hain't got much 'git there' in his make-up, +not more'n enough fer one anyhow, I reckon. That's about the size on't, +ain't it?" + +Mrs. Cullom murmured a feeble admission that she was "'fraid it was." + +[Illustration] + +"Wa'al," resumed Mr. Harum, "I see how things was goin', an' I see that +unless I played euchre, 'Zeke Swinney 'd git that prop'ty, an' whether I +wanted it myself or not, I didn't cal'late he sh'd git it anyway. He put +a spoke in my wheel once, an' I hain't forgot it. But that hain't +neither here nor there. Wa'al," after a short pause, "you know I helped +ye pull the thing along on the chance, as ye may say, that you an' your +son 'd somehow make a go on't." + +"You ben very kind, so fur," said the widow faintly. + +"Don't ye say that, don't ye say that," protested David. "'T wa'n't no +kindness. It was jes' bus'nis. I wa'n't takin' no chances, an' I s'pose +I might let the thing run a spell longer if I c'd see any use in't. But +the' ain't, an' so I ast ye to come up this mornin' so 't we c'd settle +the thing up without no fuss, nor trouble, nor lawyer's fees, nor +nothin'. I've got the papers all drawed, an' John--Mr. Lenox--here to +take the acknowlidgments. You hain't no objection to windin' the thing +up this mornin', have ye?" + +"I s'pose I'll have to do whatever you say," replied the poor woman in a +tone of hopeless discouragement, "an' I might as well be killed to once, +as to die by inch pieces." + +"All right then," said David cheerfully, ignoring her lethal +suggestion, "but before we git down to bus'nis an' signin' papers, an' +in order to set myself in as fair a light 's I can in the matter, I want +to tell ye a little story." + +"I hain't no objection 's I know of," acquiesced the widow graciously. + +"All right," said David, "I won't preach more 'n about up to the +sixthly--How'd you feel if I was to light up a cigar? I hain't much of a +hand at a yarn, an' if I git stuck, I c'n puff a spell. Thank ye. Wa'al, +Mis' Cullom, you used to know somethin' about my folks. I was raised on +Buxton Hill. The' was nine on us, an' I was the youngest o' the lot. My +father farmed a piece of about forty to fifty acres, an' had a small +shop where he done odd times small jobs of tinkerin' fer the neighbors +when the' was anythin' to do. My mother was his second, an' I was the +only child of that marriage. He married agin when I was about two year +old, an' how I ever got raised 's more 'n I c'n tell ye. My sister Polly +was 'sponsible more 'n any one, I guess, an' the only one o' the whole +lot that ever gin me a decent word. Small farmin' ain't cal'lated to +fetch out the best traits of human nature--an' keep 'em out--an' it +seems to me sometimes that when the old man wa'n't cuffin' my ears he +was lickin' me with a rawhide or a strap. Fur 's that was concerned, all +his boys used to ketch it putty reg'lar till they got too big. One on +'em up an' licked him one night, an' lit out next day. I s'pose the old +man's disposition was sp'iled by what some feller said farmin' was, +'workin' all day, an' doin' chores all night,' an' larrupin' me an' all +the rest on us was about all the enjoyment he got. My brothers an' +sisters--'ceptin' of Polly--was putty nigh as bad in respect of cuffs +an' such like; an' my stepmarm was, on the hull, the wust of all. She +hadn't no childern o' her own, an' it appeared 's if I was jes' pizen to +her. 'T wa'n't so much slappin' an' cuffin' with her as 't was tongue. +She c'd say things that 'd jes' raise a blister like pizen ivy. I s'pose +I _was_ about as ord'nary, no-account-lookin', red-headed, freckled +little cuss as you ever see, an' slinkin' in my manners. The air of our +home circle wa'n't cal'lated to raise heroes in. + +"I got three four years' schoolin', an' made out to read an' write an' +cipher up to long division 'fore I got through, but after I got to be +six years old, school or no school, I had to work reg'lar at anything I +had strength fer, an' more too. Chores before school an' after school, +an' a two-mile walk to git there. As fur 's clo'es was concerned, any +old thing that 'd hang together was good enough fer me; but by the time +the older boys had outgrowed their duds, an' they was passed on to me, +the' wa'n't much left on 'em. A pair of old cowhide boots that leaked in +more snow an' water 'n they kept out, an' a couple pairs of woolen socks +that was putty much all darns, was expected to see me through the +winter, an' I went barefoot f'm the time the snow was off the ground +till it flew agin in the fall. The' wa'n't but two seasons o' the year +with me--them of chilblains an' stun-bruises." + +The speaker paused and stared for a moment into the comfortable glow of +the fire, and then discovering to his apparent surprise that his cigar +had gone out, lighted it from a coal picked out with the tongs. + +"Farmin' 's a hard life," remarked Mrs. Cullom with an air of being +expected to make some contribution to the conversation. + +"An' yit, as it seems to me as I look back on't," David resumed +pensively, "the wust on't was that nobody ever gin me a kind word, 'cept +Polly. I s'pose I got kind o' used to bein' cold an' tired; dressin' in +a snowdrift where it blowed into the attic, an' goin' out to fodder +cattle 'fore sun-up; pickin' up stun in the blazin' sun, an' doin' all +the odd jobs my father set me to, an' the older ones shirked onto me. +That was the reg'lar order o' things; but I remember I never _did_ git +used to never pleasin' nobody. Course I didn't expect nothin' f'm my +step-marm, an' the only way I ever knowed I'd done my stent fur 's +father was concerned, was that he didn't say nothin'. But sometimes the +older one's 'd git settin' 'round, talkin' an' laughin', havin' pop corn +an' apples, an' that, an' I'd kind o' sidle up, wantin' to join 'em, an' +some on 'em 'd say, 'What _you_ doin' here? time you was in bed,' an' +give me a shove or a cuff. Yes, ma'am," looking up at Mrs. Cullom, "the +wust on't was that I was kind o' scairt the hull time. Once in a while +Polly 'd give me a mossel o' comfort, but Polly wa'n't but little older +'n me, an' bein' the youngest girl, was chored most to death herself." + +It had stopped snowing, and though the wind still came in gusty blasts, +whirling the drift against the windows, a wintry gleam of sunshine came +in and touched the widow's wrinkled face. + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +"It's amazin' how much trouble an' sorrer the' is in the world, an' +how soon it begins," she remarked, moving a little to avoid the +sunlight. "I hain't never ben able to reconcile how many good things +the' be, an' how little most on us gits o' them. I hain't ben to meetin' +fer a long spell 'cause I hain't had no fit clo'es, but I remember most +of the preachin' I've set under either dwelt on the wrath to come, or +else on the Lord's doin' all things well, an' providin'. I hope I ain't +no wickeder 'n than the gen'ral run, but it's putty hard to hev faith in +the Lord's providin' when you hain't got nothin' in the house but corn +meal, an' none too much o' that." + +"That's so, Mis' Cullom, that's so," affirmed David. "I don't blame ye a +mite. 'Doubts assail, an' oft prevail,' as the hymnbook says, an' I +reckon it's a sight easier to have faith on meat an' potatoes 'n it is +on corn meal mush. Wa'al, as I was sayin'--I hope I ain't tirin' ye with +my goin's on?" + +"No," said Mrs. Cullom, "I'm engaged to hear ye, but nobody 'd suppose to +see ye now that ye was such a f'lorn little critter as you make out." + +"It's jest as I'm tellin' ye, an' more also, as the Bible says," +returned David, and then, rather more impressively, as if he were +leading up to his conclusion, "it come along to a time when I was 'twixt +thirteen an' fourteen. The' was a cirkis billed to show down here in +Homeville, an' ev'ry barn an' shed fer miles around had pictures stuck +on to 'em of el'phants, an' rhinoceroses, an' ev'ry animul that went +into the ark; an' girls ridin' bareback an' jumpin' through hoops, an' +fellers ridin' bareback an' turnin' summersets, an' doin' turnovers on +swings; an' clowns gettin' hoss-whipped, an' ev'ry kind of a thing that +could be pictered out; an' how the' was to be a grand percession at ten +o'clock, 'ith golden chariots, an' scripteral allegories, an' the hull +bus'nis; an' the gran' performance at two o'clock; admission twenty-five +cents, children under twelve, at cetery, an' so forth. Wa'al, I hadn't +no more idee o' goin' to that cirkis 'n I had o' flyin' to the moon, but +the night before the show somethin' waked me 'bout twelve o'clock. I +don't know how 't was. I'd ben helpin' mend fence all day, an' gen'ally +I never knowed nothin' after my head struck the bed till mornin'. But +that night, anyhow, somethin' waked me, an' I went an' looked out the +windo', an' there was the hull thing goin' by the house. The' was more +or less moon, an' I see the el'phant, an' the big wagins--the drivers +kind o' noddin' over the dashboards--an' the chariots with canvas +covers--I don't know how many of 'em--an' the cages of the tigers an' +lions, an' all. Wa'al, I got up the next mornin' at sun-up an' done my +chores; an' after breakfust I set off fer the ten-acre lot where I was +mendin' fence. The ten-acre was the farthest off of any, Homeville way, +an' I had my dinner in a tin pail so't I needn't lose no time goin' home +at noon, an', as luck would have it, the' wa'n't nobody with me that +mornin'. Wa'al, I got down to the lot an' set to work; but somehow I +couldn't git that show out o' my head nohow. As I said, I hadn't no more +notion of goin' to that cirkis 'n I had of kingdom come. I'd never had +two shillin' of my own in my hull life. But the more I thought on't the +uneasier I got. Somethin' seemed pullin' an' haulin' at me, an' fin'ly I +gin in. I allowed I'd see that percession anyway if it took a leg, an' +mebbe I c'd git back 'ithout nobody missin' me. 'T any rate, I'd take +the chances of a lickin' jest once--fer that's what it meant--an' I up +an' put fer the village lickity-cut. I done them four mile lively, I c'n +tell ye, an' the stun-bruises never hurt me once. + +"When I got down to the village it seemed to me as if the hull +population of Freeland County was there. I'd never seen so many folks +together in my life, an' fer a spell it seemed to me as if ev'rybody was +a-lookin' at me an' sayin', 'That's old Harum's boy Dave, playin' +hookey,' an' I sneaked 'round dreadin' somebody 'd give me away; but I +fin'ly found that nobody wa'n't payin' any attention to me--they was +there to see the show, an' one red-headed boy more or less wa'n't no +pertic'ler account. Wa'al, putty soon the percession hove in sight, an' +the' was a reg'lar stampede among the boys, an' when it got by, I run +an' ketched up with it agin, an' walked alongside the el'phant, tin pail +an' all, till they fetched up inside the tent. Then I went off to one +side--it must 'a' ben about 'leven or half-past, an' eat my dinner--I +had a devourin' appetite--an' thought I'd jes' walk round a spell, an' +then light out fer home. But the' was so many things to see an' +hear--all the side-show pictures of Fat Women, an' Livin' Skelitons; an' +Wild Women of Madygasker, an' Wild Men of Borneo; an' snakes windin' +round women's necks; hand-orgins; fellers that played the 'cordion, an' +mouth-pipes, an' drum an' cymbals all to once, an' such like--that I +fergot all about the time an' the ten-acre lot, an' the stun fence, an' +fust I knowed the folks was makin' fer the ticket wagin, an' the band +begun to play inside the tent. Be I taxin' your patience over the +limit?" said David, breaking off in his story and addressing Mrs. Cullom +more directly. + +"No, I guess not," she replied; "I was jes' thinkin' of a circus I went +to once," she added with an audible sigh. + +"Wa'al," said David, taking a last farewell of the end of his cigar, +which he threw into the grate, "mebbe what's comin' 'ill int'rist ye +more 'n the rest on't has. I was standin' gawpin' 'round, list'nin' to +the band an' watchin' the folks git their tickets, when all of a suddin +I felt a twitch at my hair--it had a way of workin' out of the holes in +my old chip straw hat--an' somebody says to me, 'Wa'al, sonny, what you +thinkin' of?' he says. I looked up, an' who do you s'pose it was? It was +Billy P. Cullom! I knowed who he was, fer I'd seen him before, but of +course he didn't know me. Yes, ma'am, it was Billy P., an' wa'n't he +rigged out to kill!" + +The speaker paused and looked into the fire, smiling. The woman started +forward facing him, and clasping her hands, cried, "My husband! What'd +he have on?" + +"Wa'al," said David slowly and reminiscently, "near 's I c'n remember, +he had on a blue broadcloth claw-hammer coat with flat gilt buttons, an' +a double-breasted plaid velvet vest, an' pearl-gray pants, strapped down +over his boots, which was of shiny leather, an' a high pointed collar +an' blue stock with a pin in it (I remember wonderin' if it c'd be real +gold), an' a yeller-white plug beaver hat." + +At the description of each article of attire Mrs. Cullom nodded her +head, with her eyes fixed on David's face, and as he concluded she broke +out breathlessly, "Oh, yes! Oh, yes! David, he wore them very same +clo'es, an' he took me to that very same show that very same night!" +There was in her face a look almost of awe, as if a sight of her +long-buried past youth had been shown to her from a coffin. + +Neither spoke for a moment or two, and it was the widow who broke the +silence. As David had conjectured, she was interested at last, and sat +leaning forward with her hands clasped in her lap. + +"Well," she exclaimed, "ain't ye goin' on? What did he say to ye?" + +"Cert'nly, cert'nly," responded David. "I'll tell ye near 's I c'n +remember, an' I c'n remember putty near. As I told ye. I felt a twitch +at my hair, an' he said, 'What be you thinkin' about, sonny?' I looked +up at him, an' looked away quick. 'I dunno,' I says, diggin' my big toe +into the dust; an' then, I dunno how I got the spunk to, for I was shyer +'n a rat, 'Guess I was thinkin' 'bout mendin' that fence up in the +ten-acre lot 's much 's anythin',' I says. + +"'Ain't you goin' to the cirkis?' he says. + +"'I hain't got no money to go to cirkises,' I says, rubbin' the dusty +toes o' one foot over t' other, 'nor nothin' else,' I says. + +"'Wa'al,' he says, 'why don't you crawl under the canvas?' + +"That kind o' riled me, shy 's I was. 'I don't crawl under no canvases,' +I says. 'If I can't go in same 's other folks, I'll stay out,' I says, +lookin' square at him fer the fust time. He wa'n't exac'ly smilin', but +the' was a look in his eyes that was the next thing to it." + +"Lordy me!" sighed Mrs. Cullom, as if to herself. "How well I can +remember that look; jest as if he was laughin' at ye, an' wa'n't +laughin' at ye, an' his arm around your neck!" + +David nodded in reminiscent sympathy, and rubbed his bald poll with the +back of his hand. + +"Wa'al," interjected the widow. + +"Wa'al," said David, resuming, "he says to me, 'Would you like to go to +the cirkis?' an' with that it occurred to me that I did want to go to +that cirkis more'n anythin' I ever wanted to before--nor since, it seems +to me. But I tell ye the truth, I was so far f'm expectin' to go 't I +really hadn't knowed I wanted to. I looked at him, an' then down agin, +an' began tenderin' up a stun-bruise on one heel agin the other instep, +an' all I says was, bein' so dum'd shy, 'I dunno,' I says. But I guess +he seen in my face what my feelin's was, fer he kind o' laughed an' +pulled out half-a-dollar an' says: 'D' you think you could git a couple +o' tickits in that crowd? If you kin, I think I'll go myself, but I +don't want to git my boots all dust,' he says. I allowed I c'd try; an' +I guess them bare feet o' mine tore up the dust some gettin' over to the +wagin. Wa'al, I had another scare gettin' the tickits, fer fear some one +that knowed me 'd see me with a half-a-dollar, an' think I must 'a' +stole the money. But I got 'em an' carried 'em back to him, an' he took +'em an' put 'em in his vest pocket, an' handed me a ten-cent piece, an' +says, 'Mebbe you'll want somethin' in the way of refreshments fer +yourself an' mebbe the el'phant,' he says, an' walked off toward the +tent; an' I stood stun still, lookin' after him. He got off about a rod +or so an' stopped an' looked back. 'Ain't you comin'?' he says. + +"'Be I goin' with _you_?' I says. + +"'Why not?' he says, ''nless you'd ruther go alone,' an' he put his +finger an' thumb into his vest pocket. Wa'al, ma'am, I looked at him a +minute, with his shiny hat an' boots, an' fine clo'es, an' gold pin, an' +thought of my ragged ole shirt, an' cotton pants, an' ole chip hat with +the brim most gone, an' my tin pail an' all. 'I ain't fit to,' I says, +ready to cry--an'--wa'al, he jes' laughed, an' says, 'Nonsense,' he +says, 'come along. A man needn't be ashamed of his workin' clo'es,' he +says, an' I'm dum'd if he didn't take holt of my hand, an' in we went +that way together." + +"How like him that was!" said the widow softly. + +"Yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am, I reckon it was," said David, nodding. + +"Wa'al," he went on after a little pause, "I was ready to sink into +the ground with shyniss at fust, but that wore off some after a little, +an' we two seen the hull show, I _tell_ ye. We walked 'round the cages, +an' we fed the el'phant--that is, he bought the stuff an' I fed him. I +'member--he, he, he!--'t he says, 'mind you git the right end,' he says, +an' then we got a couple o' seats, an' the doin's begun." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +The widow was looking at David with shining eyes and devouring his +words. All the years of trouble and sorrow and privation were wiped out, +and she was back in the days of her girlhood. Ah, yes! how well she +remembered him as he looked that very day--so handsome, so splendidly +dressed, so debonair; and how proud she had been to sit by his side that +night, observed and envied of all the village girls. + +"I ain't goin' to go over the hull show," proceeded David, "well 's I +remember it. The' didn't nothin' git away from me that afternoon, an' +once I come near to stickin' a piece o' gingerbread into my ear 'stid o' +my mouth. I had my ten-cent piece that Billy P. give me, but he wouldn't +let me buy nothin'; an' when the gingerbread man come along he says, +'Air ye hungry, Dave? (I'd told him my name), air ye hungry?' Wa'al, I +was a growin' boy, an' I was hungry putty much all the time. He bought +two big squares an' gin me one, an' when I'd swallered it, he says, +'Guess you better tackle this one too,' he says, 'I've dined.' I didn't +exac'ly know what 'dined' meant, but--he, he, he, he!--I tackled it," +and David smacked his lips in memory. + +"Wa'al," he went on, "we done the hull programmy--gingerbread, +lemonade--_pink_ lemonade, an' he took some o' that--pop corn, peanuts, +pep'mint candy, cin'mun candy--scat my----! an' he payin' fer +ev'rythin'--I thought he was jes' made o' money! An' I remember how we +talked about all the doin's; the ridin', an' jumpin', an' summersettin', +an' all--fer he'd got all the shyniss out of me for the time--an' once I +looked up at him, an' he looked down at me with that curious look in his +eyes an' put his hand on my shoulder. Wa'al, now, I tell ye, I had a +queer, crinkly feelin' go up an' down my back, an' I like to up an' +cried." + +"Dave," said the widow, "I kin see you two as if you was settin' there +front of me. He was alwus like that. Oh, my! Oh, my! David," she added +solemnly, while two tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled face, "we +lived together, husban' an' wife, fer seven year, an' he never give me a +cross word." + +"I don't doubt it a mossel," said David simply, leaning over and poking +the fire, which operation kept his face out of her sight and was +prolonged rather unduly. Finally he straightened up and, blowing his +nose as it were a trumpet, said: + +"Wa'al, the cirkis fin'ly come to an end, an' the crowd hustled to git +out 's if they was afraid the tent 'd come down on 'em. I got kind o' +mixed up in 'em, an' somebody tried to git my tin pail, or I thought he +did, an' the upshot was that I lost sight o' Billy P., an' couldn't make +out to ketch a glimpse of him nowhere. An' _then_ I kind o' come down to +earth, kerchug! It was five o'clock, an' I had better 'n four mile to +walk--mostly up hill--an' if I knowed anything 'bout the old man, an' I +thought I _did_, I had the all-firedist lickin' ahead of me 't I'd ever +got, an' that was sayin' a good deal. But, boy 's I was, I had grit +enough to allow 't was wuth it, an' off I put." + +"Did he lick ye much?" inquired Mrs. Cullom anxiously. + +"Wa'al," replied David, "he done his best. He was layin' fer me when I +struck the front gate--I knowed it wa'n't no use to try the back door, +an' he took me by the ear--most pulled it off--an' marched me off to the +barn shed without a word. I never see him so mad. Seemed like he +couldn't speak fer a while, but fin'ly he says, 'Where you ben all day?' + +"'Down t' the village,' I says. + +"'What you ben up to down there?' he says. + +"'Went to the cirkis,' I says, thinkin' I might 's well make a clean +breast on't. + +"'Where 'd you git the money?' he says. + +"'Mr. Cullom took me,' I says. + +"'You lie,' he says. 'You stole the money somewheres, an' I'll trounce +it out of ye, if I kill ye,' he says. + +"Wa'al," said David, twisting his shoulders in recollection, "I won't +harrer up your feelin's. 'S I told you, he done his best. I was willin' +to quit long 'fore he was. Fact was, he overdone it a little, an' he had +to throw water in my face 'fore he got through; an' he done that as +thorough as the other thing. I was somethin' like a chickin jest out o' +the cistern. I crawled off to bed the best I could, but I didn't lay on +my back fer a good spell, I c'n tell ye." + +"You poor little critter," exclaimed Mrs. Cullom sympathetically. "You +poor little critter!" + +"'T was more'n wuth it, Mis' Cullom," said David emphatically. "I'd had +the most enjoy'ble day, I might say the only enjoy'ble day, 't I'd ever +had in my hull life, an' I hain't never fergot it. I got over the +lickin' in course of time, but I've ben enjoyin' that cirkis fer forty +year. The' wa'n't but one thing to hender, an' that's this, that I +hain't never ben able to remember--an' to this day I lay awake nights +tryin' to--that I said 'Thank ye' to Billy P., an' I never seen him +after that day." + +"How's that?" asked Mrs. Cullom. + +"Wa'al," was the reply, "that day was the turnin' point with me. The +next night I lit out with what duds I c'd git together, an' as much grub +'s I could pack in that tin pail; an' the next time I see the old house +on Buxton Hill the' hadn't ben no Harums in it fer years." + +Here David rose from his chair, yawned and stretched himself, and stood +with his back to the fire. The widow looked up anxiously into his face. +"Is that all?" she asked after a while. + +"Wa'al, it is an' it ain't. I've got through yarnin' about Dave Harum +at any rate, an' mebbe we'd better have a little confab on your matters, +seem' 't I've got you 'way up here such a mornin' 's this. I gen'ally do +bus'nis fust an' talkin' afterward," he added, "but I kind o' got to +goin' an' kept on this time." + +He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and took out three +papers, which he shuffled in review as if to verify their identity, and +then held them in one hand, tapping them softly upon the palm of the +other, as if at a loss how to begin. The widow sat with her eyes +fastened upon the papers, trembling with nervous apprehension. Presently +he broke the silence. + +"About this here morgige o' your'n," he said. "I sent ye word that I +wanted to close the matter up, an' seem' 't you're here an' come fer +that purpose, I guess we'd better make a job on't. The' ain't no time +like the present, as the sayin' is." + +"I s'pose it'll hev to be as you say," said the widow in a shaking +voice. + +"Mis' Cullom," said David solemnly, "_you_ know, an' I know, that I've +got the repitation of bein' a hard, graspin', schemin' man. Mebbe I be. +Mebbe I've ben hard done by all my hull life, an' have had to be; an' +mebbe, now 't I've got ahead some, it's got to be second nature, an' I +can't seem to help it. 'Bus'nis is bus'nis' ain't part of the golden +rule, I allow, but the way it gen'ally runs, fur 's I've found out, is, +'Do unto the other feller the way he'd like to do unto you, an' do it +fust.' But, if you want to keep this thing a-runnin' as it's goin' on +now fer a spell longer, say one year, or two, or even three, you may, +only I've got somethin' to say to ye 'fore ye elect." + +"Wa'al," said the poor woman, "I expect it 'd only be pilin' up wrath +agin the day o' wrath. I can't pay the int'rist now without starvin', +an' I hain't got no one to bid in the prop'ty fer me if it was to be +sold." + +"Mis' Cullom," said David, "I said I'd got somethin' more to tell ye, +an' if, when I git through, you don't think I've treated you right, +includin' this mornin's confab, I hope you'll fergive me. It's this, an' +I'm the only person livin' that 's knowin' to it, an' in fact I may say +that I'm the only person that ever was really knowin' to it. It was +before you was married, an' I'm sure he never told ye, fer I don't doubt +he fergot all about it, but your husband, Billy P. Cullom, that was, +made a small investment once on a time, yes, ma'am, he did, an' in his +kind of careless way it jes' slipped his mind. The amount of cap'tal he +put in wa'n't large, but the rate of int'rist was uncommon high. Now, he +never drawed no dividends on't, an' they've ben 'cumulatin' fer forty +year, more or less, at compound int'rist." + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +The widow started forward, as if to rise from her seat. David put his +hand out gently and said, "Jest a minute, Mis' Cullom, jest a minute, +till I git through. Part o' that cap'tal," he resumed, "consistin' of a +quarter an' some odd cents, was invested in the cirkis bus'nis, an' the +rest on't--the cap'tal, an' all the cash cap'tal that I started in +bus'nis with--was the ten cents your husband give me that day, an' +here," said David, striking the papers in his left hand with the back of +his right, "_here_ is the _dividends_! This here second morgige, not +bein' on record, may jest as well go onto the fire--it's gettin' +low--an' here's a satisfaction piece which I'm goin' to execute now, +that'll clear the thousan' dollar one. Come in here, John," he called +out. + +The widow stared at David for a moment speechless, but as the +significance of his words dawned upon her, the blood flushed darkly in +her face. She sprang to her feet and, throwing up her arms, cried out: +"My Lord! My Lord! Dave! Dave Harum! Is it true?--tell me it's true! You +ain't foolin' me, air ye, Dave? You wouldn't fool a poor old woman that +never done ye no harm, nor said a mean word agin ye, would ye? Is it +true? an' is my place clear? an' I don't owe nobody anythin'--I mean, no +money? Tell it agin. Oh, tell it agin! Oh, Dave! it's too good to be +true! Oh! Oh! Oh, _my_! an' here I be cryin' like a great baby, an', +an'"--fumbling in her pocket--"I do believe I hain't got no +hank'chif.--Oh, thank ye," to John; "I'll do it up an' send it back +to-morrer.--Oh, what made ye do it, Dave?" + +"Set right down an' take it easy, Mis' Cullom," said David soothingly, +putting his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back into her +chair. "Set right down an' take it easy.--Yes," to John, "I acknowledge +that I signed that." + +He turned to the widow, who sat wiping her eyes with John's +handkerchief. + +"Yes, ma'am," he said, "it's as true as anythin' kin be. I wouldn't no +more fool ye, ye know I wouldn't, don't ye? than I'd--jerk a hoss," he +asseverated. "Your place is clear now, an' by this time to-morro' the' +won't be the scratch of a pen agin it. I'll send the satisfaction over +fer record fust thing in the mornin'." + +"But, Dave," protested the widow, "I s'pose ye know what you're +doin'----?" + +"Yes," he interposed, "I cal'late I do, putty near. You ast me why I +done it, an' I'll tell ye if ye want to know. I'm payin' off an old +score, an' gettin' off cheap, too. That's what I'm doin'! I thought I'd +hinted up to it putty plain, seem' 't I've talked till my jaws ache; but +I'll sum it up to ye if ye like." + +He stood with his feet aggressively wide apart, one hand in his trousers +pocket, and holding in the other the "morgige," which he waved from time +to time in emphasis. + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +"You c'n estimate, I reckon," he began, "what kind of a bringin'-up I +had, an' what a poor, mis'able, God-fersaken, scairt-to-death little +forlorn critter I was; put upon, an' snubbed, an' jawed at till I'd come +to believe myself--what was rubbed into me the hull time--that I was the +most all-'round no-account animul that was ever made out o' dust, an' +wa'n't ever likely to be no diff'rent. Lookin' back, it seems to me +that--exceptin' of Polly--I never had a kind word said to me, nor a +day's fun. Your husband, Billy P. Cullom, was the fust man that ever +treated me human up to that time. He give me the only enjoy'ble time 't +I'd ever had, an' I don't know 't anythin' 's ever equaled it since. He +spent money on me, an' he give me money to spend--that had never had a +cent to call my own--_an'_, Mis' Cullom, he took me by the hand, an' he +talked to me, an' he gin me the fust notion 't I'd ever had that mebbe I +wa'n't only the scum o' the earth, as I'd ben teached to believe. I told +ye that that day was the turnin' point of my life. Wa'al, it wa'n't the +lickin' I got, though that had somethin' to do with it, but I'd never +have had the spunk to run away 's I did if it hadn't ben for the +heartenin' Billy P. gin me, an' never knowed it, an' never knowed it," +he repeated mournfully. "I alwus allowed to pay some o' that debt back +to him, but seein' 's I can't do that, Mis' Cullom, I'm glad an' +thankful to pay it to his widdo'." + +"Mebbe he knows, Dave," said Mrs. Cullom softly. + +"Mebbe he does," assented David in a low voice. + +Neither spoke for a time, and then the widow said: "David, I can't +thank ye 's I ought ter--I don't know how--but I'll pray fer ye night +an' mornin' 's long 's I got breath. An', Dave," she added humbly, "I +want to take back what I said about the Lord's providin'." + +She sat a moment, lost in her thoughts, and then exclaimed, "Oh, it +don't seem 's if I c'd wait to write to Charley!" + +"I've wrote to Charley," said David, "an' told him to sell out there an' +come home, an' to draw on me fer any balance he needed to move him. I've +got somethin' in my eye that'll be easier an' better payin' than +fightin' grasshoppers an' drought in Kansas." + +"Dave Harum!" cried the widow, rising to her feet, "you ought to 'a' ben +a king!" + +"Wa'al," said David with a grin, "I don't know much about the kingin' +bus'nis, but I guess a cloth cap 'n' a hoss whip 's more 'n my line than +a crown an' scepter. An' now," he added, "'s we've got through 'th our +bus'nis, s'pose you step over to the house an' see Polly. She's +expectin' ye to dinner. Oh, yes," replying to the look of deprecation in +her face as she viewed her shabby frock, "you an' Polly c'n prink up +some if you want to, but we can't take 'No' fer an answer Chris'must +day, clo'es or no clo'es." + +"I'd really like ter," said Mrs. Cullom. + +"All right then," said David cheerfully. "The path is swep' by this +time, I guess, an' I'll see ye later. Oh, by the way," he exclaimed, +"the's somethin' I fergot. I want to make you a proposition, ruther an +onusual one, but seem' ev'rythin' is as 't is, perhaps you'll consider +it." + +"Dave," declared the widow, "if I could, an' you ast for it, I'd give ye +anythin' on the face o' this mortal globe!" + +"Wa'al," said David, nodding and smiling, "I thought that mebbe, long 's +you got the int'rist of that investment we ben talkin' about, you'd let +me keep what's left of the princ'pal. Would ye like to see it?" + +Mrs. Cullom looked at him with a puzzled expression without replying. + +David took from his pocket a large wallet, secured by a strap, and, +opening it, extracted something enveloped in a much faded brown paper. +Unfolding this, he displayed upon his broad fat palm an old silver dime +black with age. + +"There's the cap'tal," he said. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +"Why, Mis' Cullom, I'm real glad to see ye. Come right in," said Mrs. +Bixbee as she drew the widow into the "wing settin' room," and proceeded +to relieve her of her wraps and her bundle. "Set right here by the fire +while I take these things of your'n into the kitchen to dry 'em out. +I'll be right back"; and she bustled out of the room. When she came back +Mrs. Cullom was sitting with her hands in her lap, and there was in her +eyes an expression of smiling peace that was good to see. + +Mrs. Bixbee drew up a chair, and seating herself, said: "Wa'al, I don't +know when I've seen ye to git a chance to speak to ye, an' I was real +pleased when David said you was goin' to be here to dinner. An' my! how +well you're lookin'--more like Cynthy Sweetland than I've seen ye fer I +don't know when; an' yet," she added, looking curiously at her guest, +"you 'pear somehow as if you'd ben cryin'." + +"You're real kind, I'm sure," responded Mrs. Cullom, replying to the +other's welcome and remarks _seriatim_; "I guess, though, I don't look +much like Cynthy Sweetland, if I do feel twenty years younger 'n I did a +while ago; an' I have ben cryin', I allow, but not fer sorro', Polly +Harum," she exclaimed, giving the other her maiden name. "Your brother +Dave comes putty nigh to bein' an angel!" + +"Wa'al," replied Mrs. Bixbee with a twinkle, "I reckon Dave might hev +to be fixed up some afore he come out in that pertic'ler shape, but," +she added impressively, "es fur as bein' a _man_ goes, he's 'bout 's +good 's they make 'em. I know folks thinks he's a hard bargainer, an' +close-fisted, an' some on 'em that ain't fit to lick up his tracks says +more'n that. He's got his own ways, I'll allow, but down at bottom, an' +all through, I know the' ain't no better man livin'. No, ma'am, the' +ain't, an' what he's ben to me, Cynthy Cullom, nobody knows but +me--an'--an'--mebbe the Lord--though I hev seen the time," she said +tentatively, "when it seemed to me 't I knowed more about my affairs 'n +He did," and she looked doubtfully at her companion, who had been +following her with affirmative and sympathetic nods, and now drew her +chair a little closer, and said softly: "Yes, yes, I know. I ben putty +doubtful an' rebellious myself a good many times, but seems now as if He +had had me in His mercy all the time." Here Aunt Polly's sense of humor +asserted itself. "What's Dave ben up to now?" she asked. + +And then the widow told her story, with tears and smiles, and the keen +enjoyment which we all have in talking about ourselves to a sympathetic +listener like Aunt Polly, whose interjections pointed and illuminated +the narrative. When it was finished she leaned forward and kissed Mrs. +Cullom on the cheek. + +"I can't tell ye how glad I be for ye," she said; "but if I'd known +that David held that morgige, I could hev told ye ye needn't hev worried +yourself a mite. He wouldn't never have taken your prop'ty, more'n he'd +rob a hen-roost. But he done the thing his own way--kind o' fetched it +round fer a Merry Chris'mus, didn't he?" + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +David's house stood about a hundred feet back from the street, facing +the east. The main body of the house was of two stories (through which +ran a deep bay in front), with mansard roof. On the south were two +stories of the "wing," in which were the "settin' room," Aunt Polly's +room, and, above, David's quarters. Ten minutes or so before one o'clock +John rang the bell at the front door. + +"Sairy's busy," said Mrs. Bixbee apologetically as she let him in, "an' +so I come to the door myself." + +"Thank you very much," said John. "Mr. Harum told me to come over a +little before one, but perhaps I ought to have waited a few minutes +longer." + +"No, it's all right," she replied, "for mebbe you'd like to wash an' +fix up 'fore dinner, so I'll jes' show ye where to," and she led the way +upstairs and into the "front parlor bedroom." + +"There," she said, "make yourself comf'table, an' dinner 'll be ready in +about ten minutes." + +For a moment John mentally rubbed his eyes. Then he turned and caught +both of Mrs. Bixbee's hands and looked at her, speechless. When he found +words he said: "I don't know what to say, nor how to thank you properly. +I don't believe you know how kind this is." + +"Don't say nothin' about it," she protested, but with a look of great +satisfaction. "I done it jes' t' relieve my mind, because ever sence you +fus' come I ben worryin' over your bein' at that nasty tavern," and she +made a motion to go. + +"You and your brother," said John earnestly, still holding her hands, +"have made me a gladder and happier man this Christmas day than I have +been for a very long time." + +"I'm glad on't," she said heartily, "an' I hope you'll be comf'table an' +contented here. I must go now an' help Sairy dish up. Come down to the +settin' room when you're ready," and she gave his hands a little +squeeze. + +"Aunt Po----, I beg pardon, Mrs. Bixbee," said John, moved by a sudden +impulse, "do you think you could find it in your heart to complete my +happiness by giving me a kiss? It's Christmas, you know," he added +smilingly. + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +Aunt Polly colored to the roots of her hair. "Wa'al," she said, with a +little laugh, "seein' 't I'm old enough to be your mother, I guess 't +won't hurt me none," and as she went down the stairs she softly rubbed +her lips with the side of her forefinger. + +John understood now why David had looked out of the bank window so often +that morning. All his belongings were in Aunt Polly's best bedroom, +having been moved over from the Eagle while he and David had been in the +office. A delightful room it was, in immeasurable contrast to his +squalid surroundings at that hostelry. The spacious bed, with its snowy +counterpane and silk patchwork "comf'table" folded on the foot, the +bright fire in the open stove, the big bureau and glass, the soft +carpet, the table for writing and reading standing in the bay, his books +on the broad mantel, and his dressing things laid out ready to his hand, +not to mention an ample supply of _dry_ towels on the rack. + +The poor fellow's life during the weeks which he had lived in Homeville +had been utterly in contrast with any previous experience. Nevertheless +he had tried to make the best of it, and to endure the monotony, the +dullness, the entire lack of companionship and entertainment with what +philosophy he could muster. The hours spent in the office were the best +part of the day. He could manage to find occupation for all of them, +though a village bank is not usually a scene of active bustle. Many of +the people who did business there diverted him somewhat, and most of +them seemed never too much in a hurry to stand around and talk the sort +of thing that interested them. After John had got acquainted with his +duties and the people he came in contact with, David gave less personal +attention to the affairs of the bank; but he was in and out frequently +during the day, and rarely failed to interest his cashier with his +observations and remarks. + +But the long winter evenings had been very bad. After supper, a meal +which revolted every sense, there had been as many hours to be got +through with as he found wakeful, an empty stomach often adding to the +number of them, and the only resource for passing the time had been +reading, which had often been well-nigh impossible for sheer physical +discomfort. As has been remarked, the winter climate of the middle +portion of New York State is as bad as can be imagined. His light was a +kerosene lamp of half-candle power, and his appliance for warmth +consisted of a small wood stove, which (as David would have expressed +it) "took two men an' a boy" to keep in action, and was either red hot +or exhausted. + +As from the depths of a spacious lounging chair he surveyed his new +surroundings, and contrasted them with those from which he had been +rescued out of pure kindness, his heart was full, and it can hardly be +imputed to him as a weakness that for a moment his eyes filled with +tears of gratitude and happiness--no less. + +Indeed, there were four happy people at David's table that Christmas +day. Aunt Polly had "smartened up" Mrs. Cullom with collar and cuffs, +and in various ways which the mind of man comprehendeth not in detail; +and there had been some arranging of her hair as well, which altogether +had so transformed and transfigured her that John thought that he should +hardly have known her for the forlorn creature whom he had encountered +in the morning. And as he looked at the still fine eyes, large and +brown, and shining for the first time in many a year with a soft light +of happiness, he felt that he could understand how it was that Billy P. +had married the village girl. + +Mrs. Bixbee was grand in black silk and lace collar fastened with a +shell-cameo pin not quite as large as a saucer, and John caught the +sparkle of a diamond on her plump left hand--David's Christmas +gift--with regard to which she had spoken apologetically to Mrs. Cullom: + +"I told David that I was ever so much obliged to him, but I didn't want +a dimun' more'n a cat wanted a flag, an' I thought it was jes' throwin' +away money. But he would have it--said I c'd sell it an' keep out the +poor-house some day, mebbe." + +David had not made much change in his usual raiment, but he was shaved +to the blood, and his round red face shone with soap and satisfaction. +As he tucked his napkin into his shirt collar, Sairy brought in the +tureen of oyster soup, and he remarked, as he took his first spoonful of +the stew, that he was "hungry 'nough t' eat a graven imidge," a +condition that John was able to sympathize with after his two days of +fasting on crackers and such provisions as he could buy at Purse's. It +was, on the whole, he reflected, the most enjoyable dinner that he ever +ate. Never was such a turkey; and to see it give way under David's +skillful knife--wings, drumsticks, second joints, side bones, +breast--was an elevating and memorable experience. And such potatoes, +mashed in cream; such boiled onions, turnips, Hubbard squash, succotash, +stewed tomatoes, celery, cranberries, "currant jell!" Oh! and to "top +off" with, a mince pie to die for and a pudding (new to John, but just +you try it some time) of steamed Indian meal and fruit, with a sauce of +cream sweetened with shaved maple sugar. + +"What'll you have?" said David to Mrs. Cullom, "dark meat? white meat?" + +"Anything," she replied meekly, "I'm not partic'ler. Most any part of a +turkey 'll taste good, I guess." + +"All right," said David. "Don't care means a little o' both. I alwus +know what to give Polly--piece o' the second jint an' the +last-thing-over-the-fence. Nice 'n rich fer scraggly folks," he +remarked. "How fer you, John?--little o' both, eh?" and he heaped the +plate till our friend begged him to keep something for himself. + +"Little too much is jes' right," he asserted. + +When David had filled the plates and handed them along--Sairy was for +bringing in and taking out; they did their own helping to vegetables and +"passin'"--he hesitated a moment, and then got out of his chair and +started in the direction of the kitchen door. + +"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Bixbee in surprise. "Where you goin'?" + +"Woodshed!" said David. + +"Woodshed!" she exclaimed, making as if to rise and follow. + +"You set still," said David. "Somethin' I fergot." + +"What on earth?" she exclaimed, with an air of annoyance and +bewilderment. "What do you want in the woodshed? Can't you set down an' +let Sairy git it fer ye?" + +"No," he asserted with a grin. "Sairy might sqush it. It must be putty +meller by this time." And out he went. + +"Manners!" ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee. "You'll think (to John) we're reg'ler +heathin'." + +"I guess not," said John, smiling and much amused. + +Presently Sairy appeared with four tumblers which she distributed, and +was followed by David bearing a bottle. He seated himself and began a +struggle to unwire the same with an ice-pick. Aunt Polly leaned forward +with a look of perplexed curiosity. + +"What you got there?" she asked. + +"Vewve Clikot's universal an' suv'rin remedy," said David, reading the +label and bringing the corners of his eye and mouth almost together in a +wink to John, "fer toothache, earache, burns, scalds, warts, dispepsy, +fallin' o' the hair, windgall, ringbone, spavin, disapp'inted +affections, an' pips in hens," and out came the cork with a "_wop_," at +which both the ladies, even Mrs. Cullom, jumped and cried out. + +"David Harum," declared his sister with conviction, "I believe thet +that's a bottle of champagne." + +"If it ain't," said David, pouring into his tumbler, "I ben swindled out +o' four shillin'," and he passed the bottle to John, who held it up +inquiringly, looking at Mrs. Bixbee. + +"No, thank ye," she said with a little toss of the head, "I'm a son o' +temp'rence. I don't believe," she remarked to Mrs. Cullom, "thet that +bottle ever cost _less_ 'n a dollar." At which remarks David apparently +"swallered somethin' the wrong way," and for a moment or two was unable +to proceed with his dinner. Aunt Polly looked at him suspiciously. It +was her experience that, in her intercourse with her brother, he often +laughed utterly without reason--so far as she could see. + +"I've always heard it was dreadful expensive," remarked Mrs. Cullom. + +"Let me give you some," said John, reaching toward her with the bottle. +Mrs. Cullom looked first at Mrs. Bixbee and then at David. + +"I don't know," she said. "I never tasted any." + +"Take a little," said David, nodding approvingly. + +"Just a swallow," said the widow, whose curiosity had got the better of +scruples. She took a swallow of the wine. + +"How do you like it," asked David. + +"Well," she said as she wiped her eyes, into which the gas had driven +the tears, "I guess I could get along if I couldn't have it regular." + +"Don't taste good?" suggested David with a grin. + +"Well," she replied, "I never did care any great for cider, and this +tastes to me about as if I was drinkin' cider an' snuffin' horseredish +at one and the same time." + +"How's that, John?" said David, laughing. + +"I suppose it's an acquired taste," said John, returning the laugh and +taking a mouthful of the wine with infinite relish. "I don't think I +ever enjoyed a glass of wine so much, or," turning to Aunt Polly, "ever +enjoyed a dinner so much," which statement completely mollified her +feelings, which had been the least bit in the world "set edgeways." + +"Mebbe your app'tite's got somethin' to do with it," said David, +shoveling a knife-load of good things into his mouth. "Polly, this young +man's ben livin' on crackers an' salt herrin' fer a week." + +"My land!" cried Mrs. Bixbee with an expression of horror. "Is that +reelly so? 'T ain't now, reelly?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," John answered, smiling; "but Mrs. Elright +has been ill for a couple of days and--well, I have been foraging around +Purse's store a little." + +"Wa'al, of all the mean shames!" exclaimed Aunt Polly indignantly. +"David Harum, you'd ought to be ridic'lous t' allow such a thing." + +[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III] + +"Wa'al, I never!" said David, holding his knife and fork straight up +in either fist as they rested on the table, and staring at his sister. +"I believe if the meetin'-house roof was to blow off you'd lay it on to +me somehow. I hain't ben runnin' the Eagle tavern fer quite a +consid'able while. You got the wrong pig by the ear as usual. Jes' you +pitch into him," pointing with his fork to John. "It's his funeral, if +anybody's." + +"Wa'al," said Aunt Polly, addressing John in a tone of injury, "I do +think you might have let somebody know; I think you'd ortter 've +known----" + +"Yes, Mrs. Bixbee," he interrupted, "I did know how kind you are and +would have been, and if matters had gone on so much longer I should have +appealed to you, I should have indeed; but really," he added, smiling at +her, "a dinner like this is worth fasting a week for." + +"Wa'al," she said, mollified again, "you won't git no more herrin' +'nless you ask for 'em." + +"That is just what your brother said this morning," replied John, +looking at David with a laugh. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The meal proceeded in silence for a few minutes. Mrs. Cullom had said +but little, but John noticed that her diction was more conventional than +in her talk with David and himself in the morning, and that her manner +at the table was distinctly refined, although she ate with apparent +appetite, not to say hunger. Presently she said, with an air of making +conversation, "I suppose you've always lived in the city, Mr. Lenox?" + +"It has always been my home," he replied, "but I have been away a good +deal." + +"I suppose folks in the city go to theaters a good deal," she remarked. + +"They have a great many opportunities," said John, wondering what she +was leading up to. But he was not to discover, for David broke in with a +chuckle. + +"Ask Polly, Mis' Cullom," he said. "She c'n tell ye all about the +theater, Polly kin." Mrs. Cullom looked from David to Mrs. Bixbee, whose +face was suffused. + +"Tell her," said David, with a grin. + +"I wish you'd shet up," she exclaimed. "I sha'n't do nothin' of the +sort." + +"Ne' mind," said David cheerfully. "_I'll_ tell ye, Mis' Cullom." + +"Dave Harum!" expostulated Mrs. Bixbee, but he proceeded without heed of +her protest. + +"Polly an' I," he said, "went down to New York one spring some years +ago. Her nerves was some wore out 'long of diff'rences with Sairy about +clearin' up the woodshed, an' bread risin's, an' not bein' able to suit +herself up to Purse's in the qual'ty of silk velvit she wanted fer a +Sunday-go-to-meetin' gown, an' I thought a spell off 'd do her good. +Wa'al, the day after we got there I says to her while we was havin' +breakfust--it was picked-up el'phant on toast, near 's I c'n remember, +wa'n't it, Polly?" + +"That's as near the truth as most o' the rest on't so fur," said Polly +with a sniff. + +"Wa'al, I says to her," he proceeded, untouched by her scorn, "'How'd +you like to go t' the theater? You hain't never ben,' I says, 'an' now +you're down here you may jes' as well see somethin' while you got a +chanst,' I says. Up to that _time_," he remarked, as it were in passing, +"she'd ben somewhat pre_juced_ 'ginst theaters, an'----" + +"Wa'al," Mrs. Bixbee broke in, "I guess what we see that night was +cal'lated----" + +"You hold on," he interposed. "I'm tellin' this story. You had a chanst +to an' wouldn't. Anyway," he resumed, "she allowed she'd try it once, +an' we agreed we'd go somewheres that night. But somethin' happened to +put it out o' my mind, an' I didn't think on't agin till I got back to +the hotel fer supper. So I went to the feller at the news-stand an' +says, 'Got any show-tickits fer to-night?' + +"'Theater?' he says. + +"'I reckon so,' I says. + +"'Wa'al,' he says, 'I hain't got nothin' now but two seats fer +"Clyanthy."' + +"'Is it a good show?' I says--'moral, an' so on? I'm goin' to take my +sister, an' she's a little pertic'ler about some things,' I says. He +kind o' grinned, the feller did. 'I've took my wife twice, an' she's +putty pertic'ler herself,' he says, laughin'." + +"She must 'a' ben," remarked Mrs. Bixbee with a sniff that spoke +volumes of her opinion of "the feller's wife." David emitted a chuckle. + +"Wa'al," he continued, "I took the tickits on the feller's recommend, +an' the fact of his wife's bein' so pertic'ler, an' after supper we +went. It was a mighty handsome place inside, gilded an' carved all over +like the outside of a cirkis wagin, an' when we went in the orchestry +was playin' an' the people was comin' in, an' after we'd set a few +minutes I says to Polly, 'What do you think on't?' I says. + +"'I don't see anythin' very unbecomin' so fur, an' the people looks +respectable enough,' she says. + +"'No jail birds in sight fur 's ye c'n see so fur, be they?' I says. He, +he, he, he!" + +"You needn't make me out more of a gump 'n I was," protested Mrs. +Bixbee. "An' you was jest as----" David held up his finger at her. + +"Don't you sp'ile the story by discountin' the sequil. Wa'al, putty +soon the band struck up some kind of a dancin' tune, an' the curt'in +went up, an' a girl come prancin' down to the footlights an' begun +singin' an' dancin', an', scat my----! to all human appearances you c'd +'a' covered ev'ry dum thing she had on with a postage stamp." John stole +a glance at Mrs. Cullom. She was staring at the speaker with wide-open +eyes of horror and amazement. + +"I guess I wouldn't go very _fur_ into pertic'lers," said Mrs. Bixbee in +a warning tone. + +David bent his head down over his plate and shook from head to foot, and +it was nearly a minute before he was able to go on. "Wa'al," he said, "I +heard Polly give a kind of a gasp an' a snort, 's if some one 'd throwed +water 'n her face. But she didn't say nothin', an', I swan! I didn't +dast to look at her fer a spell; an' putty soon in come a hull crowd +more girls that had left their clo'es in their trunks or somewhere, +singin', an' dancin', an' weavin' 'round on the stage, an' after a few +minutes I turned an' looked at Polly. He, he, he, he!" + +"David Harum," cried Mrs. Bixbee, "ef you're goin' to discribe any more +o' them scand'lous goin's on I sh'll take my victuals into the kitchen. +_I_ didn't see no more of 'em," she added to Mrs. Cullom and John, +"after that fust trollop appeared." + +"I don't believe she did," said David, "fer when I turned she set there +with her eyes shut tighter 'n a drum, an' her mouth shut too so's her +nose an' chin most come together, an' her face was red enough so 't a +streak o' red paint 'd 'a' made a white mark on it. 'Polly,' I says, +'I'm afraid you ain't gettin' the wuth o' your money.' + +"'David Harum,' she says, with her mouth shut all but a little place in +the corner toward me, 'if you don't take me out o' this place, I'll go +without ye,' she says. + +"'Don't you think you c'd stan' it a little longer?' I says. 'Mebbe +they've sent home fer their clo'es,' I says. He, he, he, he! But with +that she jes' give a hump to start, an' I see she meant bus'nis. When +Polly Bixbee," said David impressively, "puts that foot o' her'n _down_ +somethin's got to sqush, an' don't you fergit it." Mrs. Bixbee made no +acknowledgment of this tribute to her strength of character. John looked +at David. + +"Yes," he said, with a solemn bend of the head, as if in answer to a +question, "I squshed. I says to her, 'All right. Don't make no +disturbance more'n you c'n help, an' jes' put your hank'chif up to your +nose 's if you had the nosebleed,' an' we squeezed out of the seats, an' +sneaked up the aisle, an' by the time we got out into the entry I guess +my face was as red as Polly's. It couldn't 'a' ben no redder," he added. + +"You got a putty fair color as a gen'ral thing," remarked Mrs. Bixbee +dryly. + +"Yes, ma'am; yes, ma'am, I expect that's so," he assented, "but I got an +extra coat o' tan follerin' you out o' that theater. When we got out +into the entry one o' them fellers that stands 'round steps up to me an' +says, 'Ain't your ma feelin' well?' he says. 'Her feelin's has ben a +trifle rumpled up,' I says, 'an' that gen'ally brings on the nosebleed,' +an' then," said David, looking over Mrs. Bixbee's head, "the feller went +an' leaned up agin the wall." + +"David Harum!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, "that's a downright _lie_. You +never spoke to a soul, an'--an'--ev'rybody knows 't I ain't more 'n four +years older 'n you be." + +"Wa'al, you see, Polly," her brother replied in a smooth tone of +measureless aggravation, "the feller wa'n't acquainted with us, an' he +only went by appearances." + +Aunt Polly appealed to John: "Ain't he enough to--to--I d' know what?" + +"I really don't see how you live with him," said John, laughing. + +Mrs. Cullom's face wore a faint smile, as if she were conscious that +something amusing was going on, but was not quite sure what. The widow +took things seriously for the most part, poor soul. + +"I reckon you haven't followed theater-goin' much after that," she said +to her hostess. + +"No, ma'am," Mrs. Bixbee replied with emphasis, "you better believe I +hain't. I hain't never thought of it sence without tinglin' all over. I +believe," she asserted, "that David 'd 'a' stayed the thing out if it +hadn't ben fer me; but as true 's you live, Cynthy Cullom, I was so +'shamed at the little 't I did see that when I come to go to bed I took +my clo'es off in the dark." + +David threw back his head and roared with laughter. Mrs. Bixbee looked +at him with unmixed scorn. "If I couldn't help makin' a----" she began, +"I'd----" + +"Oh, Lord! Polly," David broke in, "be sure 'n wrap up when you go +out. If you sh'd ketch cold an' your sense o' the ridic'lous sh'd strike +in you'd be a dead-'n'-goner sure." This was treated with the silent +contempt which it deserved, and David fell upon his dinner with the +remark that "he guessed he'd better make up fer lost time," though as a +matter of fact while he had done most of the talking he had by no means +suspended another function of his mouth while so engaged. + +[Illustration] + +For a time nothing more was said which did not relate to the +replenishment of plates, glasses, and cups. Finally David cleaned up his +plate with his knife blade and a piece of bread, and pushed it away with +a sigh of fullness, mentally echoed by John. + +"I feel 's if a child could play with me," he remarked. "What's comin' +now, Polly?" + +"The's a mince pie, an' Injun puddin' with maple sugar an' cream, an' +ice cream," she replied. + +"Mercy on us!" he exclaimed. "I guess I'll have to go an' jump up an' +down on the verandy. How do you feel, John? I s'pose you got so used to +them things at the Eagle 't you won't have no stomech fer 'em, eh? +Wa'al, fetch 'em along. May 's well die fer the ole sheep 's the lamb; +but, Polly Bixbee, if you've got designs on my life, I may 's well tell +ye right now 't I've left all my prop'ty to the Institution fer +Disappinted Hoss Swappers." + +"That's putty near next o' kin, ain't it?" was the unexpected rejoinder +of the injured Polly. + +"Wa'al, scat my----!" exclaimed David, hugely amused, "if Polly Bixbee +hain't made a joke! You'll git yourself into the almanic, Polly, fust +thing you know." Sairy brought in the pie and then the pudding. + +"John," said David, "if you've got a pencil an' a piece o' paper handy +I'd like to have ye take down a few of my last words 'fore we proceed to +the pie an' puddin' bus'nis. Any more 'hossredish' in that bottle?" +holding out his glass. "Hi, hi! that's enough. You take the rest on't," +which John did, nothing loath. + +David ate his pie in silence, but before he made up his mind to attack +the pudding, which was his favorite confection, he gave an audible +chuckle, which elicited Mrs. Bixbee's notice. + +"What you gigglin' 'bout now?" she asked. + +David laughed. "I was thinkin' of somethin' I heard up to Purse's last +night," he said as he covered his pudding with the thick cream sauce. +"Amri Shapless has ben gittin' married." + +"Wa'al, I declare!" she exclaimed. "That ole shack! Who in creation +could he git to take him?" + +"Lize Annis is the lucky woman," replied David with a grin. + +"Wa'al, if that don't beat all!" said Mrs. Bixbee, throwing up her +hands, and even from Mrs. Cullom was drawn a "Well, I never!" + +"Fact," said David, "they was married yestidy forenoon. Squire Parker +done the job. Dominie White wouldn't have nothin' to do with it!" + +"Squire Parker 'd ortter be 'shamed of himself," said Mrs. Bixbee +indignantly. + +"Don't you think that trew love had ought to be allowed to take its +course?" asked David with an air of sentiment. + +"I think the squire 'd ortter be 'shamed of himself," she reiterated. +"S'pose them two old skinamulinks was to go an' have children?" + +"Polly, you make me blush," protested her brother. "Hain't you got no +respect fer the holy institution of matrimuny?--and--at cet'ry?" he +added, wiping his whole face with his napkin. + +"Much as you hev, I reckon," she retorted. "Of all the amazin' things +in this world, the amazinist to me is the kind of people that gits +married to each other in gen'ral; but this here performence beats +ev'rything holler." + +"Amri give a very good reason for't," said David with an air of +conviction, and then he broke into a laugh. + +"Ef you got anythin' to tell, tell it," said Mrs. Bixbee impatiently. + +"Wa'al," said David, taking the last of his pudding into his mouth, "if +you insist on't, painful as 't is. I heard Dick Larrabee tellin' 'bout +it. Amri told Dick day before yestiday that he was thinkin' of gettin' +married, an' ast him to go along with him to Parson White's an' be a +witniss, an' I reckon a kind of moral support. When it comes to moral +supportin'," remarked David in passing, "Dick's as good 's a +professional, an' he'd go an' see his gran'mother hung sooner 'n miss +anythin', an' never let his cigar go out durin' the performence. Dick +said he congratilated Am on his choice, an' said he reckoned they'd be +putty ekally yoked together, if nothin' else." + +Here David leaned over toward Aunt Polly and said, protestingly, "Don't +gi' me but jest a teasp'nful o' that ice cream. I'm so full now 't I +can't hardly reach the table." He took a taste of the cream and resumed: +"I can't give it jest as Dick did," he went on, "but this is about the +gist on't. Him, an' Lize, an' Am went to Parson White's about half after +seven o'clock an' was showed into the parler, an' in a minute he come +in, an' after sayin' 'Good evenin'' all 'round, he says, 'Well, what c'n +I do fer ye?' lookin' at Am an' Lize, an' then at Dick. + +"'Wa'al,' says Am, 'me an' Mis' Annis here has ben thinkin' fer some +time as how we'd ought to git married.' + +"'_Ought_ to git married?' says Parson White, scowlin' fust at one an' +then at t'other. + +"'Wa'al,' says Am, givin' a kind o' shuffle with his feet, 'I didn't +mean _ortter_ exac'ly, but jest as _well_--kinder comp'ny,' he says. 'We +hain't neither on us got nobody, an' we thought we might 's well.' + +"'What have you got to git married on?' says the dominie after a minute. +'Anythin'?' he says. + +"'Wa'al,' says Am, droppin' his head sideways an' borin' into his ear +'ith his middle finger, 'I got the promise mebbe of a job o' work fer a +couple o' days next week.' 'H'm'm'm,' says the dominie, lookin' at him. +'Have _you_ got anythin' to git married on?' the dominie says, turnin' +to Lize. 'I've got ninety cents comin' to me fer some work I done last +week,' she says, wiltin' down on to the sofy an' beginnin' to snivvle. +Dick says that at that the dominie turned round an' walked to the other +end of the room, an' he c'd see he was dyin' to laugh, but he come back +with a straight face. + +"'How old air you, Shapless?' he says to Am. 'I'll be fifty-eight or +mebbe fifty-nine come next spring,' says Am. + +"'How old air _you_?' the dominie says, turnin' to Lize. She wriggled a +minute an' says, 'Wa'al, I reckon I'm all o' thirty,' she says." + +"All o' thirty!" exclaimed Aunt Polly. "The woman 's most 's old 's I +be." + +David laughed and went on with, "Wa'al, Dick said at that the dominie +give a kind of a choke, an' Dick he bust right out, an' Lize looked at +him as if she c'd eat him. Dick said the dominie didn't say anythin' fer +a minute or two, an' then he says to Am, 'I suppose you c'n find +somebody that'll marry you, but I cert'inly won't, an' what possesses +you to commit such a piece o' folly,' he says, 'passes my understandin'. +What earthly reason have you fer wantin' to marry? On your own showin',' +he says, 'neither one on you 's got a cent o' money or any settled way +o' gettin' any.' + +[Illustration] + +"'That's jes' the very reason,' says Am, 'that's jes' the _very +reason_. I hain't got nothin', an' Mis' Annis hain't got nothin', an' we +figured that we'd jes' better git married an' settle down, an' make a +good home fer us both,' an' if that ain't good reasonin'," David +concluded, "I don't know what is." + +"An' be they actially married?" asked Mrs. Bixbee, still incredulous of +anything so preposterous. + +"So Dick says," was the reply. "He says Am an' Lize come away f'm the +dominie's putty down in the mouth, but 'fore long Amri braced up an' +allowed that if he had half a dollar he'd try the squire in the mornin', +an' Dick let him have it. I says to Dick, 'You're out fifty cents on +that deal,' an' he says, slappin' his leg, 'I don't give a dum,' he +says; 'I wouldn't 'a' missed it fer double the money.'" + +Here David folded his napkin and put it in the ring, and John finished +the cup of clear coffee which Aunt Polly, rather under protest, had +given him. Coffee without cream and sugar was incomprehensible to Mrs. +Bixbee. + + +THE END + + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + +Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation in the original +book have been retained. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Christmas Story from David Harum, by +Edward Noyes Westcott + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTMAS STORY FROM DAVID HARUM *** + +***** This file should be named 25927.txt or 25927.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/9/2/25927/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Bruce Thomas and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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