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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54572 ***</div>
<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Chronic Loafer, by Nelson Lloyd</h1>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr class="full" />
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<div class="box-outer">
<div class="box">
<p class="center larger"><span class="smaller">THE</span><br />
CHRONIC LOAFER</p>
</div>
<div class="box">
<p class="center larger"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br />
NELSON LLOYD</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img src="images/cum-facent-clamant.jpg" width="100" height="135" alt="Publisher's mark" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="box">
<p class="center"><span class="smaller">NEW YORK</span><br />
J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY<br />
<span class="smaller">1900</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
<p class="titlepage smaller">Copyright, 1900,<br />
By<br />
<span class="smcap">J. F. Taylor & Company</span>.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>
<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>
<table summary="Contents">
<tr>
<td class="right smaller">CHAPTER</td>
<td></td>
<td class="right smaller">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">I.</td>
<td>The Reunion</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">5</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">II.</td>
<td>The Spelling Bee</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">17</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">III.</td>
<td>Absalom Bunkel</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">28</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">IV.</td>
<td>The Missus</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">37</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">V.</td>
<td>The Awfullest Thing</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">54</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">VI.</td>
<td>The Wrestling Match</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">63</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">VII.</td>
<td>The Tramp’s Romance</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">74</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">VIII.</td>
<td>Ambition—An Argument</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">80</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">IX.</td>
<td>Bumbletree’s Bass-Horn</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">97</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">X.</td>
<td>Little Si Berrybush</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">107</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XI.</td>
<td>Cupid and a Mule</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">126</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XII.</td>
<td>The Haunted Store</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">136</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XIII.</td>
<td>Rivals</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">149</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XIV.</td>
<td>Buddies</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">159</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XV.</td>
<td>Joe Varner’s Belling</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">169</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XVI.</td>
<td>The Sentimental Tramp</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">176</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XVII.</td>
<td>Hiram Gum, the Fiddler</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">183</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XVIII.</td>
<td>The “Good Un”</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">193</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>XIX.</td>
<td>Breaking the Ice</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">202</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XX.</td>
<td>Two Stay-at-Homes</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">212</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XXI.</td>
<td>Eben Huckin’s Conversion</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">219</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="right">XXII.</td>
<td>A Piece in the Paper</td>
<td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">237</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p>
<h1>THE CHRONIC LOAFER.</h1>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Reunion.</i></span></h2>
<p>In the center of one of the most picturesque
valleys in the heart of Pennsylvania lies the village
and at one end of its single street stands the
store. On the broad porch of this homely and
ancient edifice there is a long oak bench, rough,
and hacked in countless places by the knives of
many generations of loungers. From this bench,
looking northward across an expanse of meadows,
a view is had of a low, green ridge, dotted here
and there with white farm buildings. Behind that
rise the mountains, along whose sides on bright
days play the fanciful shadows of the clouds.
Close by the store is the rumbling mill, and beyond
it runs the creek, spanned by a wooden
bridge whose planking now and then resounds
with the beat of horses’ hoofs, so that it adds
its music to the roar of the mill-wheels and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
ring of the anvil in the blacksmith shop across
the stream.</p>
<p>One July day the stage rattled over the bridge,
past the mill and drew up at the store. The
G. A. R. Man, the only passenger, climbed out of
the lumbering vehicle, dragging after him a shapeless,
battered carpet-bag. He limped up the steps
in the wake of the driver, who was helping the
Storekeeper with the mail-pouch, and when on
the porch stopped and nodded a greeting to the
men who were sitting on the bench kicking their
heels together—the Patriarch, the School Teacher,
the Miller, the Tinsmith and the Chronic Loafer.
The loungers gazed solemnly at the new arrival;
at his broad-brimmed, black slouch hat, which
though drawn down over his left temple did not
hide the end of a band of court-plaster; at his
blue coat, two of its brass buttons missing; at
his trousers, in which there were several rents that
had been clumsily sewed together.</p>
<p>The silence was broken by the School Teacher,
who remarked with a contemptuous curl of the
nose, “So you’ve got home from Gettysburg,
have you? From your appearance one would
judge that you had come from a battle instead of
a reunion.”</p>
<p>“Huh! A good un—a good un!”</p>
<p>All eyes were turned toward the end of the
bench, where sat the Chronic Loafer. He was a
tall, thin, loose-jointed man. Thick, untrimmed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
locks of tawny hair fell from beneath his ragged,
straw hat, framing a face whose most prominent
features were a pair of deep-set, dull blue eyes,
two sharp, protruding cheek-bones and a week’s
growth of red beard. His attire was simple in the
extreme. It consisted of a blue striped, hickory
shirt, at the neck-band of which glistened a large,
white china button, which buttoned nothing, but
served solely as an ornament, since no collar had
ever embraced the thin, brown neck above it. A
piece of heavy twine running over the left shoulder
and down across the chest supported a pair of
faded, brown overalls, which were adorned at the
right knee by a large patch of white cotton. He
was sitting in a heap. His head seemed to join
his body somewhere in the region of his heart.
His bare left foot rested on his right knee and his
left knee was encircled by his long arms.</p>
<p>“A good un!” he cried again.</p>
<p>Then he suddenly uncoiled himself, throwing
back his head until it struck the wall behind him,
and swung his legs wildly to and fro.</p>
<p>“Well, what air you so tickled about now?”
growled the G. A. R. Man.</p>
<p>“I was jest a-thinkin’ that you’d never come
outen no battle lookin’ like that,” drawled the
Loafer.</p>
<p>He nudged the Miller with his elbow and
winked at the Teacher. Forthwith the three
broke into loud fits of laughter.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p>
<p>The Patriarch pounded his hickory stick vigorously
on the floor, pulled his heavy platinum
rimmed spectacles down to the tip of his nose and
over their tops gazed in stern disapproval.</p>
<p>“Boys, boys,” he said, “no joshing. It ain’t
right to josh.”</p>
<p>“True—true,” said the Loafer. He had wrapped
himself up again and was in repose. “My pap
allus use to say, ‘A leetle joshin’ now an’ then is
relished be the wisest men—that is, ef they hain’t
the fellys what’s bein’ joshed.’”</p>
<p>The G. A. R. Man had been leaning uneasily
against a pillar. On this amicable speech from
his chief tormenter, the frown that had been playing
over his face gave way to a broad grin, three
white teeth glistening in the open space between
his stubby mustache and beard.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said, “I hev come home afore my
’scursion ticket expired.” He removed his hat
and disclosed a great patch of plaster on his forehead.
“Ye see Gettysburg was a sight hotter fer
me yesterday than in ’63. But I’ve got to the
eend o’ my story.”</p>
<p>“So that same old yarn you’ve ben tellin’ at
every camp-fire sence the war is finished at last.
That’s a blessin’!” cried the Miller.</p>
<p>“I never knowd you was in the war. I thot
you jest drawed a pension,” interrupted the
Loafer.</p>
<p>The veteran did not heed these jibes but fixed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
himself comfortably on the upturned end of his
carpet-bag.</p>
<p>“Teacher, I’ve never seen you at any of our
camp-fires,” he began. “Consekently the eend o’
my story won’t do you no good ’less you knows the
first part. So I’ll tell you ’bout my experience at
the battle o’ Gettysburg an’ then explain my
second fight there. I was in the war bespite the
insinooations o’ them ez was settin’ on that same
bench in the day o’ the nation’s danger. I served
as a corporal in the Two-hundred-and-ninety-fifth
Pennsylwany Wolunteers an’ was honorable discharged
in ’63.”</p>
<p>“Fer which discharge he gits his pension,” the
Loafer ventured.</p>
<p>“That ain’t so. I cot malary an’ several other
complaints in the Wilterness that henders me
workin’ steady. It was no wonder, either, fer
our retchment was allus fightin’. We was knowd
ez the Bloody Pennsylwany retchment, fer we’d
ben in every battle from Bull Run on, an’ hed
had some wery desp’rate engagements. ’Henever
they was any chargin’ to be done, we done it; ef
they was a fylorn hope, we was on it; ef they was
a breastwork to be tuk, we tuk it. You uns can
imagine that be the eend o’ two years sech work,
we was pretty bad cut up. ’Hen the army chased
the rebels up inter this state we was with it, but
afore the fight at Gettysburg it was concided
that sence they wasn’t many of us, we’d better be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
put to guardin’ baggage wagons. That was a
kind o’ work that didn’t take many men, but
required fighters in caset the enemy give the boys
in front a slip an’ sneaked een on our rear.”</p>
<p>The School Teacher coughed learnedly and
raised a hand to indicate that he had something
to say. Having secured the floor, he began:
“When Darius the First invaded Europe he had
so many women, children and baggage wagons in
his train that——”</p>
<p>“See here,” cried the Patriarch, testily.
“Dar’us was afore my time, I allow. We don’t
care two snaps o’ a ram’s tail ’bout Dar’us. We
wants to know ’bout them bloody Pennsylwanians.”</p>
<p>The pedagogue shook his head in condemnation
of the ignorance of his companions, but
allowed the G. A. R. Man to proceed.</p>
<p>“Durin’ the first day’s engagement our retchment,
with a couple of others, an’ the trains, was
’bout three mile ahint Cemetary Hill, but on the
next mornin’ we was ordered back twenty mile.
It was hard to hev to drive off inter the country
’hen the boys was hevin’ it hot bangin’ away at
the enemy, but them was orders, an’ a soldier
allus obeys orders.</p>
<p>“The fightin’ begin airly that day. We got
the wagons a-goin’ afore sun-up, but it wasn’t
long tell we could hear the roar o’ the guns, an’
see the smoke risin’ in clouds an’ then settlin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
down over the country. We felt pretty blue, too,
ez we went trampin’ along, fer the wounded
an’ stragglers was faster ’an we. They’d come
hobblin’ up with bad news, sayin’ how the boys
was bein’ cut up along the Emmettsburg road, an’
how we’d better move faster, ez the army was
losin’ an’ the rebels ’ud soon be een on us. Then
they’d hobble away agin. Them wasn’t our only
troubles, either. The mules was behavin’ mean
an’ cuttin’ up capers, an’ the wagons was breakin’
down. Then we hed to be continual watchin’ fer
them Confederate cavalry we was expectin’ was
a-goin’ to pounce down on us.</p>
<p>“Evenin’ come, an’ we lay to fer the night.
The fires was started, an’ the coffee set a-boilin’,
an’ we had a chancet to rest a while. The
wounded an’ the stragglers that jest filled the
country kep’ comin’ in all the time, sometim’s
alone, sometim’s in twos an’ threes, some with
their arms tied up in all sorts o’ queer ways, or
hobblin’ on sticks, or with their heads bandaged;
about the miserablest lot o’ men I ever see. The
noise of the fight stopped, an’ everything was
quiet an’ peaceful like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’.
The quiet an’ the dark an’ the fear we was
goin’ to meet the enemy at any minute made it
mighty onpleasant, an’ what with the stories
them wounded fellys give us, we didn’t rest wery
easy.</p>
<p>“I went out on the picket line at ten o’clock.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
Seemed I hedn’t ben there an hour tell I made
out the dark figure of a man comin’ th’oo the
fiel’s wery slow like. Me an’ the fellys with me
watched sharp. Sudden the man stopped, hesitated
like an’ sank down in a heap. Then he
picked himself up an’ come staggerin’ on. He
couldn’t ’a’ ben more’n fifty yards away ’hen he
th’owed up his hands an’ pitched for’a’d on his
face. Me an’ me buddy run out an’ carried him
inter the fire. But it wasn’t no uset. He was
dead.</p>
<p>“They was a bullet wound in his shoulder,
an’ his clothes was soaked with blood that
hed ben drippin’, drippin’ tell he fell the last
time. I opened his coat, an’ in his pocket foun’
a letter, stamped, an’ directed apparent to his
wife—that was all to tell who he was. So I went
back to me post thinkin’ no more of it an’ never
noticin’ that that man’s coat ’ud ’a’ fit two of
him.</p>
<p>“Mornin’ come, an’ the firin’ begin over toward
Gettysburg. We could see the smoke risin’ agin
an’ hear the big guns bellerin’ tell the ground beneath
our feet seemed to swing up an’ down. I
tell you uns that was a grand scene. We was
awful excited, fer we knowd the first two days
hed gone agin us, an’ more an’ more stragglers
an’ wounded come limpin’ back, all with bad
news. I was gittin’ nervous, thinkin’ an’ thinkin’
over it, an’ wishin’ I was where the fun was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
Then I concided mebbe I wasn’t so bad off, fer I
might ’a’ been killed like the poor felly I seen the
night before, an’ in thinkin’ o’ the man I remembered
the letter an’ got it out. I didn’t ’tend to
open it, but final I thot it wasn’t safe to go mailin’
letters ’thout knowin’ jest what was in ’em, so
I read it.</p>
<p>“The letter was wrote on a piece o’ wrappin’
paper in an awful bad handwrite, but ’hen I got
th’oo it I set plumb down an’ cried like a chil’.
It was from John Parker to his wife Mary, livin’
somewhere out in western Pennsylwany. He
begin be mentionin’ how we was on the eve of a
big fight an’ how he ’tended to do his duty even
ef it come to fallin’ at his post. It was hard, he
sayd, but he knowd she’d ruther hev no husban’
than a coward. He was allus thinkin’ o’ her an’
the baby he’d never seen, but felt satisfaction in
knowin’ they was well fixed. It was sorrerful, he
continyerd, that she was like to be a widdy so
young, an’ he wasn’t goin’ to be mean about it.
He allus knowd, he sayd, how she’d hed a hankerin’
after young Silas Quincy ’fore she tuk him.
Ef he fell, he thot she’d better merry Silas ’hen
she’d recovered from the ’fects o’ his goin’. He
ended up with a lot o’ last ‘good-bys’ an’ talk
about duty to his country.</p>
<p>“Right then an’ there I set down an’ wrote
that poor woman a few lines tellin’ how I’d foun’
the letter in her dead husban’s pocket. I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
goin’ to quit at that, but I concided it ’ud be
nice to add somethin’ consolin’, so I told how
we’d foun’ him on the fiel’ o’ battle, face to the
enemy, an’ how his last words was fer her an’ the
baby. That day we won the fight, an’ the next I
mailed Mrs. Parker her letter. It seemed about
the plum blamedest, saddest thing I ever hed to do
with.”</p>
<p>“I’ve allus ben cur’ous ’bout that widdy, too,”
the Chronic Loafer remarked.</p>
<p>The Teacher cleared his throat and recited:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Now night her course began, and over heaven</div>
<div class="verse">Inducing darkness grateful truce imposed,</div>
<div class="verse">And silence on the odious din of war;</div>
<div class="verse">Under her cloud——”</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“No poetry jist yet, Teacher,” said the veteran.
“Wait tell you hear the sekal o’ the story.”</p>
<p>“Yes, let’s hev somethin’ new,” growled the
Miller.</p>
<p>Having silenced the pedagogue, the G. A. R.
Man resumed his narrative.</p>
<p>“I never heard no more o’ Widdy Parker tell
last night, an’ then it come most sudden. Our
retchment hed a reunion on the fiel’ this year,
you know, an’ on Monday I went back to Gettysburg
fer the first time sence I was honorable discharged.
The boys was all there, what’s left o’
’em, an’ we jest hed a splendid time wisitin’ the
monyments an’ talkin’ over the days back in ’63.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
There was my old tent-mate, Sam Thomas, on one
leg, an’ Jim Luckenbach, who was near tuk be
yaller janders afore Petersburg. There was the
colonel, growed old an’ near blind, an’ our captain
an’ a hundred odd others.</p>
<p>“Well, last night we was a lot of us a-settin’ in
the hotel tellin’ stories. It come my turn an’ I
told about the dead soldier’s letter. A big felly
in a unyform hed ben leanin’ agin the bar watchin’
us. ’Hen I begin he pricked up his ears a leetle.
Ez I got furder an’ furder he seemed to git more
an’ more interested, I noticed. By an’ by I seen
he was becomin’ red an’ oneasy, an’ final ’hen
I’d finished he walks acrosst the room to where
we was settin’ an’ stands there starin’ at me,
never sayin’ nawthin’.</p>
<p>“A minute passed. I sais, sais I, ‘Well, comrade,
what air you starin’ so fer?’</p>
<p>“Sais he, ‘That letter was fer Mary Parker?’</p>
<p>“‘True,’ sais I, surprised.</p>
<p>“‘Dead sure?’ sais he.</p>
<p>“‘Sure,’ sais I.</p>
<p>“Then he shakes his fist an’ yells, ‘I’ve ’tended
most every reunion here sence the war hopin’
to meet the idjet that sent that letter to my
wife an’ wrote that foolishness ’bout findin’ my
dead body. After twenty-five years I’ve foun’
you!’</p>
<p>“He pulls off his coat. The boys all jumps
up.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p>
<p>“I, half skeert to death, cries, ‘But you ain’t
the dead man!’</p>
<p>“‘Dead,’ he yells. ‘Never ben near it. Nor
did I ’tend to hev every blame fool in the army
mailin’ my letters nuther. Because you finds a
man with my coat on, that hain’t no reason he’s
me. I was gittin’ to the rear with orders ez lively
ez a cricket an’ th’owed off that coat jest because
it was warm runnin’.’</p>
<p>“‘Hen I seen what I’d done I grabs his arm, I
was so excited, an’ cries, ‘Did she merry Silas
Quincy?’</p>
<p>“‘It wasn’t your fault she didn’t,’ he sais, deliberate
like, rollin’ up his sleeves. ‘I got home
two days after the letter an’ stopped the weddin’
party on their way to church.’”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Spelling Bee.</i></span></h2>
<p>The Chronic Loafer stretched his legs along the
counter and rested his back comfortably against a
pile of calicoes.</p>
<p>“I allus held,” he said, “that they hain’t no
sech things ez a roarinborinallus. I know some
sais they is ’lectric lights, but ’hen I seen that big
un last night I sayd to my Missus, an’ I hol’ I’m
right, I sayd that it was nawthin’ but the iron
furnaces over the mo’ntain. Fer s’pose, ez the
Teacher claims, they was lights at the North Pole—does
you uns believe we could see ’em all that
distance? Well now!”</p>
<p>He gazed impressively about the store. The
Patriarch, the Miller and the G.A.R. Man were
disposed to agree with him. The School Teacher
was sarcastic.</p>
<p>“Where ignorance is bliss ’twere folly to be
wise,” he said. He tilted back on two legs of his
chair and adjusted his thumbs in the arm-holes of
his waistcoat, so that all eight of his long quivering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
fingers seemed to be pointing in scorn at the
man on the counter.</p>
<p>The Loafer rolled slowly over on one side and
eyed the pedagogue.</p>
<p>“Ben readin’ the almanick lately, hain’t ye?”
he drawled.</p>
<p>“If you devoted less time to the almanac and
more to physical geography,” retorted the Teacher,
“you’d know that the Aurora Borealis hain’t a
light made on <i lang="la">terra firma</i> but that it is a peculiar
magnetic condition of the atmosphere. And the
manner in which you pronounce it is exceedingly
ludicrous. It’s not a roarinborinallus. It is
spelled <em>A-u-r-o-r-a B-o-r-e-a-l-i-s</em>.”</p>
<p>The Loafer sat up, crossed his legs and embraced
his knee, thus forming a natural fortification
behind which he could collect his thoughts
before hurling them at his glib and smiling foe.
He gazed dully at his rival a moment; then said
suddenly, “My pap was a cute man.”</p>
<p>“He hasn’t left any living monument to his
good sense,” said the Teacher.</p>
<p>The Loafer looked at the Storekeeper, who was
sitting beneath him on an empty egg-crate. “Do
you mind how he use to say that Solerman meant
‘teacher’ ’hen he sayd ‘wine’; how Solerman
meant, ‘Look not upon the teacher ’hen he is
read,’ fer a leetle learnin’ leaveneth the whole
lump an’ puffs him up so——”</p>
<p>The pedagogue’s chair came down on all four<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
legs with a crash. His right thumb left the
seclusion of his waistcoat, his right arm shot out
straight, and a trembling forefinger pointed at
the eyes that were just visible over the top of the
white-patched knee.</p>
<p>“See here!” he shouted. “I’m ready for an
argyment, but no callin’ names. This is no place
for abuse.”</p>
<p>The Loafer resumed his reclining attitude and
fixed his gaze on the dim recesses of the ceiling.</p>
<p>“I hain’t callin’ no one names,” he said slowly,
“I was jest tellin’ what my pap use to say.”</p>
<p>“Tut-tut-tut, boys,” interrupted the Patriarch,
thumping the floor with his stick. “Don’t git
quarrelin’ over sech a leetle thing ez the meanin’
o’ a word. Mebbe ye’s both right.”</p>
<p>The Tinsmith had hitherto occupied a nail keg
near the stove, unnoticed. Now he began to rub
his hands together gleefully and to chuckle. The
Teacher was convinced that his own discomfiture
was the cause of the other’s mirth.</p>
<p>“Well, what are you so tickled about?” he
snapped.</p>
<p>“Aurory Borealis. Perry Muthersbaugh spelled
down Jawhn Jimson on that very word. Yes, he
done it on that very word. My, but that there
was a bee, Perfessor!”</p>
<p>“Now ’fore you git grindin’ away, sence you’ve
got on spellin’,” said the Chronic Loafer, “I want
to tell a good un——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>
<p>“Let him tell us about Perry Muthersbaugh,”
said the Teacher in decisive tones. The title
“professor” had had a softening effect, and he
repaid the compliment by supporting the Tinsmith’s
claim to the floor.</p>
<p>Compelled to silence, the Chronic Loafer closed
his eyes as though oblivious to all about him, but
a hand stole to his ear and formed a trumpet
there to aid his hearing.</p>
<p>“Some folks is nat’ral spellers jest ez others is
nat’ral musicians,” began the Tinsmith. “Agin,
it’s jest ez hard to make a good speller be edication
ez it is to make a good bass-horn player, fer
a felly that hain’t the inborn idee o’ how many
letters is needed to make a word’ll never spell no
better than the man that hain’t the nat’ral sense
o’ how much wind’s needed to make a note, ’ll play
the bass-horn.”</p>
<p>“I cannot wholly agree with you,” the Teacher
interrupted. “Give a child first words of one
syllable, then two; drill him in words ending in
<em>t-i-o-n</em> until——”</p>
<p>“We won’t discuss that, Perfessor. It don’t
affect our case, fer Jawhn Jimson was a nat’ral
speller. You never seen the like. Give him a
word o’ six or seven syllables an’ he’d spell it out
like it was on a blackboard right before him.
’Hen he was twenty he’d downed all the scholars
in Happy Grove an’ won about six bees. Then
he went to Pikestown Normal School, an’ ’hen he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
come back you never knowd the beat. He hed
stedied Lating an’ algebray there, but I guesst he
must also ’a’ spent considerable time a-brushin’
up his spellin’, fer they was only one felly ’bout
these parts could keep with him any time at all.
He was my frien’ Perry Muthersbaugh, who tot
up to Kishikoquillas.</p>
<p>“You uns mind the winter we hed the big
blizzard, ’hen the snow covered all the fences an’
was piled so high in the roads that we hed to
drive th’oo the fiel’s. They was a heap sight
goin’ on that year—church sosh’bles, singin’ school
an’ spellin’ bees. Me an’ Perry Muthersbaugh
was buddies, an’ not a week passed ’thout we went
some’eres together. Fore I knowd it him an’
Jawhn Jimson was keepin’ company with Hannah
Ciders. She was jest ez pretty ez a peach, plump
an rosy, with the slickest nat’ral hair an’ teeth
you uns ever seen. She was fond o’ edication, too,
so ’hen them teachers was after her she couldn’t
make up her min’. She favored both. Perry
was good lookin’ an’ steady an’ no fool. He’d
set all evenin’ along side o’ her an’ never say
nawthin’ much, but she kind o’ thot him good
company. It allus seemed to me that Jimson
was a bit conceity an’ bigitive, but he was amusin’
an’ hed the advantage of a normal school edication.
He kind o’ dazzled her. She didn’t know which
of ’em to take, an’ figured on it tell well inter the
winter. Her color begin to go an’ she was gittin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
thin. Perry an’ Jawhn was near wild with anxiousness
an’ was continual quarrelin’. Then what
d’ye s’pose they done?”</p>
<p>“It’ll take a long time fer ’em to do much the
way you tells it,” the Chronic Loafer grumbled.</p>
<p>“She give out,” continued the Tinsmith, not
heeding the interruption, “that she’d take the
best edicated. That tickled Jawhn, an’ he blowed
around to his frien’s how he was goin’ to send ’em
invites to his weddin’. Perry jest grit his teeth
an’ sayd nawthin’ ’cept that he was ready. Then
he got out his spellin’ book an’ went to sawin’
wood jest ez hard an’ fast ez he could.”</p>
<p>“That there reminds me o’ my pap.” The
Chronic Loafer was sitting up again.</p>
<p>“Well, if your pap was anything like his son,”
said the Teacher, “I guess he could ’a’ sawed
most of his wood with a spellin’ book.”</p>
<p>The author of this witticism laughed long and
loud, having support in the Miller and the G.A.
R. Man. The Patriarch put his hand under his
chin and dexterously turned his long beard upward
so that it hid his face. In the seclusion thus
formed he had a quiet chuckle all to himself, for
he was a politic old person and loath to offend.</p>
<p>“Boys, boys,” he said when the mirth was subsiding,
“remember what the Scriptur’ sais——”</p>
<p>“Pap didn’t git it from the Scriptur’,” said the
Loafer complacently. “He use to give it ez a
text tho’, somethin’ like this, ‘He that goeth at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
the wood-pile too fast gen’rally breaketh his saw
on the fust nail an’ freezeth all winter.’”</p>
<p>“Not ef he gits the right kind o’ firewood—the
kind that hasn’t no nails,” said the Miller hotly.</p>
<p>“Huh!” exclaimed the Loafer, and he sprawled
out upon the counter once more.</p>
<p>The Tinsmith took up the narrative again.</p>
<p>“It was agreed that the two teachers ’ud hev it
out at the big spellin’ bee ’tween their schools
the follyin’ week. The night set come. Sech
a crowd ez gathered at the Happy Grove school
house! They was sleighin’, an’ fer a quarter of a
mile in front o’ the buildin’ they was nawthin’
but horses hitched to the fences. The room was
decorated with greens an’ lighted with ile lamps
fer the occasion, an’ was jest packed. All the
seats was filled with girls. The men was lined
three deep along the walls an’ banked up on top
of one another at the back. On one side o’ the
platform, settin’ on a long bench under the blackboard,
was the sixteen best scholars o’ Happy
Grove school led be Jawhn Jimson. He was
smilin’ an’ conferdent, an’ gazed longin’ at Hannah
Ciders, who was on one o’ the front seats an’
’peared rather nervous.</p>
<p>“Perry Muthersbaugh come up to me ez I was
standin’ be the stove warmin’ up, an’ I whispered
him a few words of encouragement, tho’ I felt
sorry fer him. He was a leetle excited but ’lowed
it ’ud come out all right. Then he tuk his place<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
on the other side o’ the platform with his sixteen
scholars, an’ the proceedin’s begin.</p>
<p>“Teacher Long from Lemon township give out
the words, while me an’ another felly kep’ tally.
The first word was soupeny. Perry missed it.
He spelled it <em>s-u-p-e-n-a</em>. It jest made me sick to
hev to mark down one agin his side. Jimson
tuk it, spelled it all right, an’ commenced to smile.
Muthersbaugh looked solemn. The next felly on
his side spelled supersedes correct, while the girl
beside Jawhn missed superannuation. Happy
Grove and Kishikoquillas was even.</p>
<p>“I tell you uns it was most excitin’ to see them
trained spellers battlin’. They kep’ it up fer half
an hour, an’ ’hen they quit Happy Grove hed
two misses less than Kishikoquillas. Jimson was
smilin’ triumphant. Perry didn’t do nawthin’ but
set there quiet like.</p>
<p>“Then come the final test—the spellin’ down.
After a recess o’ ten minutes the sides lined up
agin, an’ ’henever one missed a word he hed to go
sit in the aud’ence. They spelled an’ spelled tell
they was no one left but Jawhn Jimson an’ Perry
Muthersbaugh, standin’ glarin’ at each other an’
singin’ out letters. It was a grand sight. Hannah
Ciders was pale an’ tremblin’, fer she knowd the
valley of an idle word then. The aud’ence was
most stretchin’ their necks outen joint they was so
interested. Two lamps went out an’ no one fixed
them. The air was blue with steam made be the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
snow meltin’ offen the fellys’ boots, the stove
begin to smoke, an’ the room was suffocatin’, yit
no one thot to put up a winder, the excitemen’
was so bad.</p>
<p>“Sech words ez penultimate, concatenation,
pentateuch an’ silhouette come dead easy to them
teachers. They kep’ glarin’ at each other an’
spellin’ like their life depended on it. Poor
Long’s voice got weaker an’ weaker givin’ out
words, an’ I was that nervous I could hairdly see.
They spelled all the <em>ations</em> an’ <em>entions</em>, all the
words endin’ in <em>i-s-m</em>, <em>d-l-e</em> an’ <em>ness</em>, tell it seemed
they’d use up the book. Perry was gittin’ more
excited. Jimson’s knees was tremblin’ visible.</p>
<p>“Then Rorybory Allus was give out. You
could ’a’ heard a pin drop in that room. Jimson
he begin slow, ez ef it was dead easy: ‘<em>A-r-o-r-a</em>,
Aurora; <em>b-o-r</em>, Aurora Bor; <em>e-a-l-i-s</em>, Aurora
Borealis.’</p>
<p>“A mumble went over the room. He seen he
was wrong an’ yelled, ‘<em>A-u</em>, I mean!’</p>
<p>“‘Too late,’ sais Long. ‘Only one chancet at
a time. The gentleman who gits it right first,
wins.’</p>
<p>“Jawhn was white ez a sheet, an’ his face an’
han’s was twitchin’ ez he stood there glarin’ at
Perry. Muthersbaugh looked at the floor like he
was stedyin’. I seen Hannah Ciders lean for’a’d
an’ grip the desk with her han’s. Then I knowd
she’d made up her min’ which she favored.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p>
<p>“He begin, ‘<em>A-u</em>, au; <em>r-o-r</em>, ror, Auror; <em>a</em>, Aurora;
<em>B-o-r-e</em>, bore, Aurora Bore; <em>a-l</em>, al, Aurora
Boreal—’ Then he stopped, an’ looked up at the
ceilin’, an’ stedied.</p>
<p>“I seen tears in Hannah Ciders’ eyes ez she
leaned for’a’d, not breathin’. I seen Jimson grin,
an’ knowd he remembered he’d left out the <em>u</em> an’
’ud spell it jest ez quick ez he got a chancet. I
believed Perry was goin’ to say <em>a</em>, that it was all
up with him an’ that Hannah Ciders knowd too
late who she favored.</p>
<p>“All o’ a sudden the door flew open an’ they
was a cry: ‘Hoss thief! thieves! Some un’s run
off with Teacher Jimson’s sleigh.’</p>
<p>“You uns never seen sech a panic. The weemen
jumped up an’ yelled. The men all piled outen
the door. Jawhn Jimson climbed th’oo the
winder, an’ Teacher Long dropped his spellin’
book an’ followed. To my surprise Perry Muthersbaugh
never moved. He jest stood there
lookin’ at Hannah Ciders an’ smilin’ while she
gazed back. I was gittin’ outen the winder among
the last an’ turned to see ef Perry was ahint me—that’s
how I noticed it. Fer three minutes them
two stared at each other an’ I stared at them, not
knowin’ what to make of it. Meantime the room
was cleared. Outside we heard the sleigh-bells
ringin’ ez the boys started off after the thieves;
we heard Jawhn Jimson an’ Teacher Long callin’
to ’em to go in this an’ that direction; we heard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
the weemen complainin’ because so many’d hev
to walk home.</p>
<p>“Jest then the rear winder, right back o’ where
Perry was standin’, slid up an’ his young brother
Sam stuck in his head. He looked ’round, an’
he seen the coast was clear. Then he whispered,
‘I give that ’larm in time,’ Perry, didn’t I?
Teacher Jimson’s horse is hitched right here ahint
the school-house, an’ you can take her home jest
ez soon ez the last o’ these fools gits away.’</p>
<p>“Perry wheeled round an’ run at the youngster,
ketchin’ him be the collar an’ draggin’ him
inter the room.</p>
<p>“‘What you mean,’ sais he, shakin’ him like a
rat. ‘What you mean be spoilin’ the bee?’</p>
<p>“Sam begin to yowl. ‘I seen ye was stuck,’ he
sais, ‘an’ I thot I’d help ye out.’</p>
<p>“With that Perry th’owed his brother off into a
corner o’ the room. Then he stood up straight
an’ looked Hannah Ciders right in the eye.</p>
<p>“‘He thot I was stuck,’ he sayd, steppin’ off
the platform an’ walkin’ up to the girl. ‘But
I ain’t. The last syllable’s <em>e-a-l-a-s</em>!</p>
<p>“‘No,’ she answers quiet like. ‘It’s <em>e-a-l-i-s</em>—but
that ain’t no difference.’”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Absalom Bunkel.</i></span></h2>
<p>The Patriarch flattened his nose against the
grimy windowpane and peered out into the
storm.</p>
<p>“Mighty souls!” he cried. “Jest look at it a-comin’
down! Hed I a-knowd we was goin’ to
hev it like this, you’d ’a’ seen me a-leavin’ home—you’d
’a’ seen me a-leavin’ home.”</p>
<p>The old man thoughtfully stroked his beard.
He felt that he had met but just retribution for
coming to the store to loaf. When an hour before
he had awakened from a doze in his arm-chair,
picked up his stick and hobbled to the village, the
sky was clear and blue; not a cloud was visible
anywhere, and the sun was blazing down on the
fields of yellow grain that he overlooked from the
porch of his little house on the hill. But the
storm had been gathering its force unseen behind
the neighboring mountains, piling black cloud on
black cloud. And then, like an army charging on
a sleeping enemy, it swept forth from its hiding-place,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
amid the flash of lightning and the crash of
thunder, and deluged the valley.</p>
<p>“My, oh, my!” muttered the old man. “It
serves me right. I ought to ’a’ knowd better.
’Henever I runs down here fer a minute’s loaf, it
rains; never a team comes ’long to give me a lift
home, an’ I hes to paddle back in me leaky ole
boots.”</p>
<p>He hobbled to his chair by the empty stove,
about which were gathered the men of the village,
despite the fact that no fire blazed within and the
cold weather was far ahead.</p>
<p>“I hope the company ain’t displeasin’,” drawled
the Chronic Loafer. He knocked the ashes out
of his pipe, refilled and lighted it, and sprawled
out upon the counter.</p>
<p>“Not at all—at all. It’s the loafin’ I hate. I
never could loaf jest right,” replied the Patriarch,
glancing at the prostrate form.</p>
<p>The Loafer gave no answer save a faint “Huh!”</p>
<p>“Jest because a felly sets ’round the stove
hain’t no sign he’s lazy, Grandpap,” said the
Miller with warmth.</p>
<p>“Fur be it from me from sayin’ so, boys—fur
be it,” said the old man. “But ez I was sayin’ a
while ago, I don’t want to git inter no sech habits
ez Absalom Bunkel.”</p>
<p>“Ab’slom Bunkel—Bunkel—Bunkel?” repeated
the Tinsmith, punctuating his remark with puffs
of tobacco smoke.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>
<p>“Bunkel—Bunkel?” said the Storekeeper inquiringly,
tapping the end of his nose with his
pencil.</p>
<p>“Who’s Abs’lom Bunkel?” the Loafer cried.</p>
<p>“Absalom Bunkel was a man ez was nat’rally
so lazy it was a credit to him every time he moved,”
the Patriarch began. He fixed his stick firmly on
the floor, piled his two fat hands on its big knob
head, and leaned forward until his chin almost
rested on his knuckles. “You uns knows the old
lawg house that stands where the Big Run crosses
the road over the mo’ntain. It’s all tumbled down
now. They ain’t no daubin’ atween the lawgs;
the chimbley’s fallen, the fence is gone, an’ the
lot’s choked up with weeds. It’s a forlorn place
to-day, but ’hen I was a lad it was jest about the
slickest thing along the ridge yander. That’s
where Absalom Bunkel lived, an’ his pap, an’ his
pap’s pap lived afore him. Ezry Bunkel was a
mean man, an’ he come nat’ral by his meanness,
fer they never was one o’ the name who was
knowed to buy anything he could borry or give
away anything he could sell. So ’hen he died he
left Absalom a neat little pile o’ about nine hundred
dollars. An’ a fortunate thing it was fer the
son, fer he’d ruther by fur set on the porch with the
pangs o’hunger gnawin’ th’oo him, a-listenin’ to
the birds an’ watchin’ the bees a-hummin’ over
the sunflowers, than to ’a’ worked.</p>
<p>“Now Absalom was afore my time, an’ I never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
seen him myself, but I’ve heard tell of him from
my pap, an’ what my pap sayd was allus true—true
ez gawspel it was. He otter ’a’ knowd all
about it, too, fer he was a pall-bearer at Ezry’s
funeral. Absalom was thirty-five year old ’hen
that happened. He didn’t go off spendin’ his fortune—not
much. He jest set right down in a
rockin’ chair on the front porch an’ let his sister
Nancy look after the place. Nance done the
farmin’; Nance made the garden; Nance milked
the cow; Nance done the housework an’ come to
the store. He done nawthin’—absolute nawthin’.</p>
<p>“He was never out o’ bed afore sun-up. Ef
it was warm he’d set on the leetle porch all day
lookin’ over the walley, watchin’ the folks goin’
by an’ the birds swoopin’ th’oo the fiel’s, an’
listenin’ to the dreamy hum o’ nature. Ef it was
cold he’d loaf all day be the fireplace, bakin’ his
shins. Sometim’s Nance ’ud go away fer a spell
an’ fergit to leave him wood. Does he cut some
fer himself like an ordinary man? Not him. He
jest walks to the nearest possible fence-rail, kerrys
it inter the house, puts one eend inter the fire
an’ keeps pushin’ een ez it burns off. That’s the
kind o’ a felly Absalom Bunkel was.</p>
<p>“Now it happened that ’hen he’d been livin’
this way tell his forty-fifth year ole Andy Crimmel
tuk a placet about a miled beyant his. One
nice afternoon ez Absalom set a-dozin’ on the
porch, Andy’s dotter, Annie May, come trippin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
down the road on her way to the store, lookin’
pretty ez a pictur in her red sunbonnet, swingin’
a basket an’ singin’ a melancholy piece. Absalom
woke with a start an’ rubbed his heavy eyes.
He got sight of her pink cheeks afore she ducked
under her bonnet, fer ’hen she seen him she
sudden stopped her singin’ an’ walked by a-lookin’
over the walley. That one glance done Absalom
Bunkel. He stayed awake tell she come back.</p>
<p>“That night he didn’t eat no supper.</p>
<p>“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister, ‘how fur is it
to Crimmel’s?’</p>
<p>“‘Nigh onter a miled,’ sais she.</p>
<p>“An’ he jest groaned, drawed his boots, tuk a
candle an’ went up to bed.</p>
<p>“Twicet a week all that summer Annie May
Crimmel come a-singin’ down the road. An’
Absalom, dozin’ on the porch, ’ud hear her voice
tell she’d reach the edge o’ the woods. There
she’d stop her song an’ go ploddin’ by, gazin’
over the walley like he wasn’t about or wasn’t
wuth lookin’ at. Absalom kept gittin’ fatter an’
fatter from doin’ nawthin’, an’ it seemed to him
like Annie May Crimmel was prettier every time
she went to store. He was onrastless. He was
onhappy. He knowd what was wrong, an’ he
seen no cure, fer to him that girl walkin’ ’long
the road not twenty rods from his house was like
a bit o’ bread danglin’ jest beyant the reach o’ a
starvin’ man.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p>
<p>“Perhaps you uns wonders why he didn’t go
down an’ speak to her. That wasn’t Absalom’s
way. He might ’a’ walked that fur to git warm.
But to speak to a girl? Never.</p>
<p>“Oncet he called to her, but she paid no attention,
an’ hung her head bashful like, an’ walked
on the faster.</p>
<p>“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister that night at
supper, ‘I’ve kind o’ a notion fer Annie May
Crimmel,’ he sais.</p>
<p>“‘Hev you?’ sais she, lookin’ surprised, tho’
of course she knowd it an’ fer weeks hed ben
wonderin’ what ’ud become o’ her.</p>
<p>“‘An’ mebbe,’ sais he, ‘you wouldn’t mind
steppin’ over there to-morrow an’ tellin’ her.’</p>
<p>“‘Umph,’ she sais, perkin’ up her nose. ‘You’ll
see me a-gaddin’ round the walley settin’ up with
the girls fer you!’</p>
<p>“He set thinkin’ a spell. Then he sais, trem’lous
like, ‘Nance, how fur is it to Crimmel’s?’</p>
<p>“‘A miled to an inch,’ sais she.</p>
<p>“He jest groaned an’ went off to bed agin.</p>
<p>“They say that next day toward evenin’ Absalom
was seen to rise from his chair; to hesitate;
to set down; to get up agin an’ move toward the
road. He got to the gate, pushed it half open,
an’ leaned on it. Tell sunset he stood there,
gazin’ wistful like toward Crimmel’s placet. Then
Nance called him in fer supper.</p>
<p>“Winter drove the lazy felly inter the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
All day long he’d set be the windy watchin’ fer
Annie May; an’ ez she passed he’d smile soft-like;
’hen she was gone he’d look solemn agin.
An’ all the time he kep’ gittin’ fatter an’ fatter,
an’ more an’ more onrastless.</p>
<p>“Winter broke an’ March went by. Apryl first
was a fine warm day, so Absalom took his chair
out on the porch an’ set there lookin’ down the
ridge into the walley, where the men was a-plow-in’.
All at oncet he heard a creakin’ o’ wheels
an’ a rattle o’ gears that caused him to turn his
eyes up the road. Outen the woods come a
wagon piled high with furnitur’. It was a flittin’,
the Crimmel’s flittin’, ez he knowd ’hen he seen
Andy drivin’ an’ the Missus an’ Annie May
ridin’ on the horses. Bunkel was stunned—clean
stunned. The flittin’ went creakin’ past the house,
him jest settin’ there starin’. He knowd what it
meant to him. He knowd it was fer him jest the
same ez the death of Annie May, but he couldn’t
do nawthin’. The wagon swung ’round the bend
an’ was out o’ sight.</p>
<p>“‘Hen Absalom seen the last o’ the red bonnet
flashin’ in the sun, he th’owed his hands to his
head like they was a pain there. Sudden he
jumped from his chair an’ run toward the road
yellin’, ‘Hey! hey! Annie May!’</p>
<p>“He tore th’oo the gate, down the hill, an’
’round the turn. They was in sight agin.</p>
<p>“‘Annie May!’ he called, ‘Annie May!’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>
<p>“The wagon stopped. The girl climbed offen
the horse an’ run toward him, stretchin’ out her
hands an’ cryin’, ‘Absalom, Absalom!’</p>
<p>“‘Hen he seen her comin’ he set right down in
the road to wait fer her. Her arms fell to her
side, an’ she stopped.</p>
<p>“‘Annie May,’ he called, ‘come here. I’ve
somethin’ to tell yer.’</p>
<p>“She turned an’ walked with hangin’ head back
to the wagon. She climbed on her horse, an’ a
minute later the flittin’ disappeared in the hollow
at the foot o’ the ridge.”</p>
<p>The Patriarch arose from his chair, walked
slowly to the door and stood there looking out
into the rain. The men about the stove gazed in
astonished silence at his back.</p>
<p>The Miller spoke first. “Well, Grandpap?”</p>
<p>“Well?” said the old man, wheeling about.</p>
<p>“What happened?”</p>
<p>“Who sayd anything was a-goin’ to happen?”
snapped the Patriarch.</p>
<p>“What become o’ Absalom?” asked the Storekeeper
timidly.</p>
<p>“Oh, he died o’ over-exertin’,” said the Chronic
Loafer, wearily, as he threw himself back on the
counter.</p>
<p>The Patriarch gave no heed to this remark, but
raising his right hand and emphasizing each word
with a solemn wag of the forefinger, said, “Boys,
I don’t know what happened. Pap never sayd.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
But now, ’henever I thinks o’ a lazy man, I picturs
Absalom Bunkel, settin’ there in the road,
his fat legs stretched out afore him, his fat arms
proppin’ up that unwieldy body o’ hisn, his eyes
an’ his ears a-strainin’ to see an’ hear th’oo the
darkness that gathered ’round him what he
might ’a’ seen an’ heard allus hed he only hed the
ambition to ’a’ gone a few steps furder.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Missus.</i></span></h2>
<p>“A man without a missus is like an engyne
without a governor—he either goes too slow or
too fast,” said the Chronic Loafer.</p>
<p>“Mighty souls!” cried the Miller. “What in
the name o’ common sense put that idee into yer
head?”</p>
<p>“It was planted there be accident, cultiwated
be experience, an’ to-day it jest blossomed,” was
the reply.</p>
<p>The Loafer had come in from a morning on the
ridges hunting rabbits. His old muzzle loader
leaned against the counter and his hound Tiger
was sitting at his side, his head resting on the
master’s knee and his solitary eye watching every
movement of the thin, grizzled face, which was
almost hidden by a blue cloth cap, with a low
hanging visor, and ear-tabs. The Loafer removed
the tabs and stuffed them into his pocket. Then
he laid his hand on his dog’s head and stroked it.</p>
<p>The ticking of the clock, which had a place on
a shelf between two jars of stick-candy, accentuated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
the long silence that followed. Tiger seemed
to feel that the hush boded ill to his lord, and
cocked one ear and uttered a low growl.</p>
<p>The Teacher pointed his forefinger at the
Loafer and said, “I judge that you intended to
imply that havin’ a governor you run regular.
Some engines, you know, run regular but very
slow.”</p>
<p>“An’ some runs wery fast,” was the retort.
“An’ they buzzes pretty loud ’thout doin’ a tremendous
amount o’ labor.”</p>
<p>“Now you’re gettin’ personal and——”</p>
<p>“Boys, boys!” The Patriarch was rapping for
order. “Don’t git quarrelin’ over the question
of engynes. Fer my part the plain ole waterwheel
beats ’em holly.”</p>
<p>The Miller tilted over on his nail keg and
tapped the Loafer on the elbow.</p>
<p>“Tell me,” he said. “Where did ye git that
idee? It sounds almanacky.”</p>
<p>“That idee was ginirated this mornin’ ez me
an’ Tige was roamin’ ’round Gum hill tryin’ to
start a rabbit. They bein’ no rabbits, me an’
Tige set down an’ gunned for idees. It was
peaceful an’ nice there on the ridge. The woods
hed the reg’lar cheery November rattle, like a
dried up, jolly ole man. The wind was a-shakin’
the dead leaves, an’ they was a-chipperin’ an’
chirpin’. The pignuts was jumpin’ from the
limbs, sloshin’ th’oo the branches an’ tumblin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
’round the ground. Overhead a couple of crows
was a-floppin’ about an’ whoopin’ like a lot of
boys on skates, fer the air was bitin’ like, an’ put
life in ye.</p>
<p>“Ez I set there on a lawg I minded a felly I
oncet heard up to liter’ry society, who read a
piecet ’bout how the year was dyin’ fer autumn
was at hand. I noticed Tige ez he was rollin’
’round chasin’ pignuts, an’ I sais to meself, sais I:
‘Dyin’? Why, no. It’s only in its second chil’hood.’
An’ I looked down the hill into the gut
an’ seen the smoke curlin’ up th’oo the trees in
the ole Horner clearin’. That’s where I got the
Missus. Then it was that that idee ’bout engynes
an’ weemen blossomed.</p>
<p>“Before the first time I ever seen that clearin’ I
kind o’ lived in jerks. Sometimes I’d run hard
an’ fast, an’ ’ud make a heap o’ noise, an’ smash
all the machinery. Then I’d hev to lay off a
month or so to git patched up agin. My pap
was a cute man. He seen right th’oo me an’ he
knowd what was wrong. ‘What you need is a
governor,’ sayd he. An’ I got one. Sence then
I’ve ben runnin’ smooth an’ reg’lar an’ not wery
fast. But I hain’t broke no machinery, an’ I’ve
never stopped entirely.</p>
<p>“Now it went pretty hard with Pap after
Mother died, fer he never did like housework an’
was continual beggin’ me to git merried. He
was a-naggin’ an’ naggin’ all the time, petickler<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
’hen he was washin’ dishes. He’d p’int out certain
girls in the walley that he thot ’ud hev me,
an’ he’d argy that I otter step up like a leetle
man an’ speak me mind to ’em. He even went
so fur as to ’low he’d give me the whole placet
ef unly I’d git some un to take the housework
offen his hands. First it was Mary Potzer. She
hed five hundred dollars an’ was a special good
match, but her looks was agin her. She was
Omish, an’ like most Omish folk was square built,
’cept fer bein’ rounded off a leetle on top. The
ole man wouldn’t give me no peace tell I ast her.
I didn’t dast do that, but I tol’ him I hed, an’ that
she sayd she ’ud take me ef he kep’ on doin’ the
cookin’. That kind o’ quieted him fer a spell, an’
some months passed afore he tuk up the subject
agin. Next he got to backin’ Rosey Simpson.
She was tolable good-lookin’ an’ lively, he sayd,
an’ I ’lowed he was right, unly she was too lively
fer me. I minded the time I seen her sail inter
Bumbletree’s Durham bull ’hen he’d butted a
petickler pet sheep o’ hers. She made the ole
beast feel so humble that I concided she might
do fer a defender but never fer a wife. Next it
was Sue Kindler an’ then Sairy Somthin’-else,
tell I was clean tired o’ the whole idee.</p>
<p>“One night ’hen he’d ben pesterin’ me most
mighty bad I gits mad an’ sais, ‘See here, I ain’t
courtin’ trouble. I’m comf’table an’ happy ez I
am,’ I sais. ‘I’ve got you an’ Major—Major was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
the dog—so why do I want to go settin’ a trap
’hen I can’t be sure what I’m goin’ to catch?’</p>
<p>“‘My boy,’ Pap answered, ‘use the proper bait
an’ you’ll git the right game.’</p>
<p>“Now Pap use to git off some good uns oncet
in a while, but I wasn’t in fer givin’ him the
credit. I scatted the whole plan. I didn’t know
so much then ez I knows now. Still, sometim’s I
’low that ef it hedn’t ’a’ ben fer Major, I might o’
dissypinted the ole man anyhow. Major was a
coon dog, an’ a mighty fine one, bein’ half setter,
quarter houn’, an’ last quarter coach. Me an’
him was great buddies. Wherever we went he
allus hed an’ eye out fer game. He knowd the
seasons, too. Ef it was September he was watchin’
fer squirrels; October, fer patridges; November,
rabbits; springtime, girls. It was in the spring
’hen I happened to hear Si Bumbletree speakin’
o’ a petickler fine lot o’ saplin’s fer walkin’ sticks
that was growin’ on the chestnut flats at the foot
o’ the mo’ntain jest above Andy Horner’s clearin’.
So I sais to meself, I sais, it bein’ a fine warm
day, I’ll jest mosey up there an’ git me one o’
them staffs. It was a good th’ee mile up the
walley an’ over the ridge an’ acrosst the gut, but
I found the placet all right an’ cut me a nice
straight cane. I was comin’ home, peelin’ off the
bark an’ not thinkin’ o’ anything in petickler, ’hen
I hear Major givin’ a low growl. I looked up.
We was passin’ Horner’s clearin’. There stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
the dog, foreleg lifted, tail straight out, nose
pintin’ th’oo the blackberry bushes ’long the
fence.</p>
<p>“‘There is somethin’ pretty important,’ I sais
to meself.</p>
<p>“An’ with that I walks up to the hedge an’
peeks over.</p>
<p>“Settin’ on the groun’, weedin’ the onion-patch,
was the prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on. She
looked up from een under her sunbonnet outen a
pair o’ sparklin’ blue eyes, an’ showed two rosy
cheeks with a perk leetle nose atween ’em. Major
he hed ducked th’oo a hole in the fence an’ come
out on the other side, an’ was standin’ solemn-like,
lookin’ at her. All o’ a sudden he begin jumpin’
up an’ down, first on his front legs an’ then on his
hint legs, archin’ his neck, waggin’ his tail, an’
showin’ his teeth like he was smilin’ all over.</p>
<p>“‘That’s a nice dog you hev,’ sais the girl, kind
o’ musical. She had stopped her weedin’ an’ was
settin’ up lookin’ at the houn’.</p>
<p>“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘he is a tolable nice animal.’</p>
<p>“Then I thinks to meself, ‘Major seems to like
her; I wonder how she’d suit Pap.’</p>
<p>“Soon ez that come into me mind I seen it was
time I got out. I turned an’ walked down the
road harder than I’d ever walked afore.</p>
<p>“That night I couldn’t eat no supper. I’d
never felt that same way an’ it worrit me. I knowd
no cause fer it, yit I kind o’ thot I didn’t keer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
whether I lived or died. It worrit Pap too. He
’lowed he’d hev to powwow me.</p>
<p>“‘How are ye goin’ to powwow me,’ sais I, ‘’hen
ye don’t know what I’m sufferin’ from? What I’ve
got ain’t nawthin’, yit I wish it was somethin’ jest
to take me mind offen it.’</p>
<p>“That was ez near ez I could git to the disease.
Pap leaned back in his cheer an’ laughed like he’d
die. ’Hen he’d finished splittin’ his sides he come
over to where I was settin’ be the fire.</p>
<p>“‘What you needs,’ sais he, ‘is to go out an’
look at the moon.’</p>
<p>“Before that I’d never thot o’ the moon ’cept
ez a kind o’ lantern to hunt coons by. But ’hen
I tuk his adwice, an’ lit me pipe, an’ went out an’
set on the pump trough, watchin’ the ole felly
come climbin’ over the ridges, all yeller an’ smilin’
an’ friendly, I seen he hed a new uset. Whatever
it was I’d ben sufferin’ from kind o’ passed away
an’ left me ca’m an’ peaceful. Me brain seemed
like a pool o’ wotter in a wood, all still-like, ’cept
fer a few ripples o’ idees on the surface. How
long I set there I don’t know. I might ’a’
ben there all night hed the ole man not called
me een.</p>
<p>“The first thing I seen ez I went into the house,
was Major crouchin’ be the fire watchin’ it wery
intent. His supper lay beside him. Not a bone
hed ben teched.</p>
<p>“‘Whatever it is,’ sais I, ‘it’s ketchin’.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p>
<p>“They was nawthin’ doin’ ’round the house
next day after breakfast, so I minded that Pap
hedn’t a walkin’-stick. I concided I’d mosey up
to the chestnut flats an’ cut me a staff fer the ole
man. Major went along, an’ we got a petickler
nice piece o’ kinnykinnick wood. On the road
home we happened to pass be Horner’s clearin’.
Ez we was opposite the house I heard some un
a-choppin’ an’ seen the chips flyin’ up over the
hedge. Feelin’ kind o’ thirsty I stopped een to
git a drink o’ wotter. There she was a-splittin’
firewood. ’Hen I explained, she pinted out the
spring an’ went on with her work. Ye might ’a’
s’posed we was unly two coon dogs hed dropped
een fer a call, she was so cool. But I wasn’t fer
goin’ tell I’d at least passed the time a day, so I
fixed meself on a block o’ oak with Major beside
me.</p>
<p>“‘What are ye doin’?’ I asts, be way o’ openin’
up.</p>
<p>“‘It doesn’t look like ez tho’ I was knittin’,
does it?’ she sais kind o’ sharp.</p>
<p>“With that she drove the axe th’oo a stick o’
hickory ez big ’round ez my body. It was all I
could git outen her. So me an’ Major jest set
there watchin’ quiet-like. It was amazin’ the way
she could chop wood—amazin’—an’ I enjoyed it
most a mighty well. The axe ’ud swish th’oo the
air over her head; down it ’ud come on the lawg,
straight an’ true; out ’ud fly a th’ee-cornered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
chip ez neat ez ef it hed ben sawed. She never
looked one way nor the other, nor paid no attention,
but kep’ a-pilin’ up firewood tell they was
enough to last a week. Then she stuck the axe
in the choppin’ block and walked inter the house.
Me an’ Major moved on.</p>
<p>“That night I couldn’t git no sleep. The ole
trouble come on agin, an’ I went out an’ looked
at the moon tell final I dozed off in the pump-trough.
’Hen I woke next mornin’ I knowd what
was wrong. I knowd that what I hed was somethin’
I’d be better without, yit hed I to do it over
agin I wouldn’t hev awoided it. I knowd I could
cut all the saplin’s offen the chestnut flats an’ I
wouldn’t git no ease. ’Hen I went over the ridge
that day I didn’t try to fool meself cuttin’ staffs.
No sir. I walked straight fer the clearin’. Ez I
come near the house I whistled pretty loud to
give warnin’. At the gate I looked een. No one
was ’round. I thot to meself she was in the house,
so I whistled louder. Major seemed to understand
too, an’ begin barkin’ to beat all. But it
hedn’t no effect. That kind o’ made me feel
down like an’ me heart weighed wery heavy ez I
set on the stoop to wait fer her. All o’ a sudden
I hear a rat-tat-tat comin’ from the barn. There
she was on the roof, a-nailin’ shingles. I walked
down an’ looked up at her.</p>
<p>“‘Hello!’ I calls.</p>
<p>“‘Hello!’ sais she. With that she drove five<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
shingle nails one after another, never payin’ no
attention.</p>
<p>“‘What are ye doin’?’ I asts ez I fixed meself
on a chicken-coop an’ lighted me pipe. It’s
pretty hard talkin’ to a girl ’hen she’s mendin’ a
barn roof, an’ ez I didn’t git no answer I stood up
an’ yelled at the top o’ me woice, ‘What are ye
doin’?’</p>
<p>“‘Well,’ sais she, ‘I s’pose it does look ez tho’
I’m playin’ the melodium, don’t it?’</p>
<p>“She wasn’t in a wery sociable turn o’ mind,
but I’m one o’ those felly’s that oncet he gits his
plow in the furrow don’t pull it out tell he has at
least gone oncet ’round the field. So I jest set
there smokin’ while she kep’ on workin’. By an’
by the dinner-bells over in the walley begin to
ring, an’ she come down. She never sayd a word
’hen she reached the ground, but I wasn’t to be
put back that ’ay. I steps up wery polite an’ gits
her hammer an’ kerrys it inter the house fer her.
Weemen allus likes them leetle attentions. She
did any way, fer she smiled, an’ ’hen I ’lowed I
must be goin’, she sayd good-by. An’ I went.</p>
<p>“That night ez I set on the pump-trough with
Major beside me, watchin’ the moon ez it come
climbin’ up over the ridges, I hear plain an’
distinct the rat-tat-tat o’ the hammer an’ the
shingle nails. I leaned back agin the pump,
closed me eyes an’ drank in the music. Soon I
seen it all agin—the barnyard with the razor-back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
pig an’ the broken-horned cow browsin’ ’round;
the barn, so ole an’ tumble-down that the hay was
stickin’ out all over it like it growed on the boards;
the roof, half a dozen pigeons cooin’ on one end,
an’ her on the other tackin’ away. What a pictur
it ’ud made fer a reg’lar hand-paintin’!</p>
<p>“After breakfast Pap lighted his pipe, leaned
back in his cheer an’ asted me, ‘How’s that ailment
o’ yours gittin’ now?’</p>
<p>“‘Ailment?’ sais I, cool ez ye please. ‘Why,
I found it didn’t amount to nawthin’. It’s all
gone.’</p>
<p>“Pap smoked a bit. He was blinkin’ like
somethin’ amused him powerful.</p>
<p>“‘By the way,’ he sais, ‘I was up past Horner’s
clearin’ yestidy an’ I seen that humly dotter o’
Andy’s a——’</p>
<p>“It was so quick an’ sudden, I forgot meself.
Never afore hed I felt so peculiarly, so almighty
mad.</p>
<p>“‘See here,’ I cries, jumpin’ up an’ liftin’ me
cheer, ‘don’t you dast talk o’ Andy Horner’s
dotter that ’ay,’ I sais. ‘Ef ye do——’</p>
<p>“I stopped, fer he’d leaned back, an’ was lookin’
at the ceilin’ an’ laughin’ an’ laughin’.</p>
<p>“‘I thot ye hedn’t no ailment,’ he sais.</p>
<p>“Be the twinkle in his eye I seen how he’d
fooled me, an’ I set down feelin’ smaller than a
bunty hen.</p>
<p>“‘Ye see,’ sais he, ‘I was comin’ th’oo the flats<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
this mornin’ after I’d ben fishin’ trout up in the
big run, an’ ez I passed Horner’s I noticed a most
remarkable sight. There was Pet Horner a-nailin’
shingles on the barn roof while a strange man set
on a chicken-coop smokin’. I sais to meself, I
sais, ‘Ef that’s the way he gits a missus, I’ll do
the housework tell me dyin’ day.’</p>
<p>“The ole man wasn’t laughin’ now. He was
on a subject that was wery dear to him. His
woice was husky with earnestness.</p>
<p>“‘Why don’t ye spruce up?’ he sais. ‘Can’t
ye chop wood fer her, or churn fer her, or pick
some stone offen the clearin’ fer her? Unly do
somethin’ to show her ye ain’t the laziest man in
the walley. Show her your right side.’</p>
<p>“‘Pap,’ sais I, ‘’hen my Missus takes me I
wants her to know me jest ez I am, not as I otter
be. Ef there’s any lettin’ on afore the weddin’
there’ll be no lettin’ up after it.’</p>
<p>“With that I gits up an’ walks outen the
house, whistlin’ fer Major.</p>
<p>“Him an’ me went up to Horner’s together.
We found her churnin’, an’ set down in the grass
an’ watched. Ez I watched I got to thinkin’
over what the ole man hed sayd. I seen that
perhaps he was right; that I’d git her quicker
ef I worked harder. The pictur of gittin’ her
quicker almost made me git up an’ do the
churnin’. But I thot agin. Ef I churned now
I’d hev to churn allus or else I’d be cheatin’ her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
Ef she knowd she was takin’ a man who was agin
the wery suggestion’ she’d never hev no cause to
complain. So I jest lay there chewin’ a straw an’
lookin’.</p>
<p>“That’s the way I done me courtin’ day after
day all that summer. It was slow. Mighty, but
it was slow! Sometim’s I got discouraged an’
thot the eend was never comin’ an’ I’d better
give up. Then she’d drop a word or a look or
somethin’ that kind o’ kep’ me hangin’ on. It
seemed like she was gittin’ used to me. We seldom
sayd anything, fer she was a thinkin’ woman.
Fer me, I remembered how Pap allus allowed it
was less dangerous fer a man to put a boy in
charge o’ his saw-mill than to let his heart run his
tongue. So I set an’ sayd nawthin’, but looked
a heap.</p>
<p>“It was October ’hen I concided I’d make a
trial, fer even ef nawthin’ come of it no petickler
harm ’ud be done. So I ast her. She jest
th’owed back her head, folded her arms an’
looked at me.</p>
<p>“‘Well?’ I sais.</p>
<p>“She looked a leetle harder an’ a leetle sterner.
Her eyes kind o’ snapped.</p>
<p>“‘Well?’ I sais agin.</p>
<p>“‘I hevn’t no petickler dislike,’ sais she, ‘but
ye ain’t my idee of a man. A man should move
sometim’s.’</p>
<p>“‘Pet,’ I sais, ‘I know I ain’t much on leetle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
things, but wait tell they’s big things to do.
Then I’ll startle ye!’</p>
<p>“I turned an’ walked out o’ the gate an’ ’long
the road toward home.</p>
<p>“She didn’t hev to wait long. That wery night
ez I set on the porch, I seen a big snake o’ fire
come pokin’ his head over the mo’ntain top to
the north’ard of us. Fer a time he laid ’round in
the huckleberry shelf there, rollin’ an’ floppin’
about the bushes, like he was takin’ in the walley
an’ wonderin’ what was the easiest way down the
side to the chestnut flats where they was big piles
o’ leaves, laurel bushes dry ez chips, an’ hundreds
o’ dead trees, all waitin’ to be devoured. Mighty
fine the ole snake looked, an’ a heap o’ pleasure
it give me watchin’ him.</p>
<p>“The thin line o’ fire begin to spread ez it adwanced,
an’ soon the whole side o’ the mo’ntain
was ablaze. It was jest a solid bed o’ red. Now
an’ then the flames ’ud jump to the top o’ some
ole pine, the tree ’ud beat wild like, to an’ fro,
tryin’ to shake ’em off, an’ showers o’ sparks ’ud
go whirlin’ away inter the sky.</p>
<p>“‘Mighty souls!’ I sais to meself. ‘It’s jest
like a monstrous big band festival ’hen all the
boys is out with torches an’ they hes a bonfire
an’ fireworks an’ music.’</p>
<p>“Music? I hear agin the rat-tat-tat o’ the
hammer an’ the shingle nails; an’ I thot o’ her.</p>
<p>“The fire hed reached the flats. It was movin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
right on the clearin’ where she was all alone, fer
Andy was workin’ in the saw-mill in Windy Gap.</p>
<p>“You uns otter seen me an’ Major skippin’ up
the lane then. They was no loafin’ about it.
Never oncet did we stop tell we reached the ridge.
There we left the road an’ cut th’oo the fiel’s.
Soon we was over them an’ in the woods. We
stumbled on an’ on, tumblin’ over lawgs an’
stones, an’ fallin’ inter bushes tell we reached
the top o’ the hill an’ looked right down inter
the gut.</p>
<p>“There we stopped, fer we was spelled like—me
an’ Major—an’ jest stood an’ stared. The
smoke filled the whole leetle walley. Th’oo it
we could see the glare o’ the burnin’ chestnut
flats. Big tongues o’ flame was shootin’ up an’
lickin’ ’round in the air. We could hear the
snappin’ an’ crashin’ o’ the trees. We could
hear the scream o’ the wild cats ez they was
tearin’ fer the open country. A coon run right
inter Major, an’ scampered away agin, snarlin’,
but the hound never oncet lifted his eyes offen
the gut. A loud snortin’ startled me, an’ a
razor-backed pig come gallopin’ over the hill.
Then they was a bellerin’ an’ a crashin’ o’ bushes,
below us. The broken-horned cow run pantin’
up the ridge, an’ by us an’ on th’oo the woods.
’Hen me an Major seen her we jumped for’a’d
together an’ tore down th’oo the blindin’ smoke
to the clearin’.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p>
<p>“She was standin’ in the doorway, her head
buried in her apron, cryin’ like her heart ’ud break.
The minute I set eyes on her I forgot all about
the fire an’ thot unly o’ her. I jest stood there
awkward an’ looked at the girl, fer I was spelled
agin, unly worse.</p>
<p>“‘Pet,’ I sais, after a bit, ‘what’s wrong?’</p>
<p>“‘Wrong,’ she cries th’oo her apron. ‘They’s
all gone—the cow, the pig, the chickens—gone
fer the walley. Soon the clearin’ ’ll go too.’</p>
<p>“With that she raised her hand an’ pinted
th’oo the woods, over the flats to the solid wall
o’ fire.</p>
<p>“Then I laughed. An’ I hed the right to
laugh, fer ez I looked at them flames dartin’
among the trees it seemed like they was the best
friends I ever had.</p>
<p>“‘It’s mean to cheat sech good fellers out o’
sech a nice clearin’,’ I sais to meself ez I run along
the wood road puttin’ the torch to the dry leaves.
‘It’s mean, but I can’t spend the rest o’ me life
settin’ on the pump-trough watchin’ the moon.’</p>
<p>“An’ cheat ’em I did. The leaves an’ the
under-brush cot like powder, an’ the counter-fire
went runnin’ over the flats towards the mo’ntain
to tell the ole fire snakes that it wasn’t no uset to
try to git to the clearin’ fer they was no path to
it ’cept over ashes.</p>
<p>“We stood there in the wood-road watchin’ it—Pet
on one side, then Major, then me. Fer a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
long time we sayd nawthin’, tell I couldn’t stand
it no more.</p>
<p>“‘Pet,’ sais I, wery abrupt, ‘do you think now
I’m so awful slow?’</p>
<p>“‘It ain’t them ez runs fastest allus goes the
straightest an’ truest,’ she answers.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t wery much to say. Any girl might
’a’ done jest the same thing. But from the way
she looked, I knowd I’d got my Missus.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Awfullest Thing.</i></span></h2>
<p>The Chronic Loafer sat upon the anvil. A
leather apron was tied about his neck, and behind
him stood the Blacksmith, nipping at his great
shock of hair with a tiny pair of scissors. He
was facing the Tinsmith and the Miller, who had
climbed up on the carpenter bench, and by
twisting his neck at the risk of his balance, he
could see the tall, thin man standing by the mule
which the helper was shoeing. The stranger had
hair that reached to his shoulders, a clean-shaven
upper lip, a long beard and a benign aspect that
denoted him a Dunkard. He had been telling a
few stories of the recent events in Raccoon Valley,
whence he hailed.</p>
<p>“So it ain’t sech a slow-goin’, out-o’-the-way
placet ez you unsez think—still,” he said.</p>
<p>The Blacksmith thoughtfully turned to address
him.</p>
<p>“Well, stranger——”</p>
<p>“Ow—ow!” cried the Loafer. “Is you a
barber or a butcher?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p>
<p>“Sights!” exclaimed the worthy smith. “Now
that was a jag I give ye, wasn’t it?”</p>
<p>He resumed his task with redoubled vigor.
The Loafer closed his eyes and commenced to
sputter.</p>
<p>“Mighty souls! Go easy. Are you tryin’ to
choke me?”</p>
<p>“Sights!” said the other in apologetic tones,
“I didn’t notice. Now I did come near chokin’
ye, didn’t I? I was interested in Raccoon Walley.”</p>
<p>Then he began to clip very slowly.</p>
<p>The Loafer opened one eye cautiously and fixed
it on the stranger.</p>
<p>“What was that awful thing I heard ye tellin’
’bout snakes, jest afore I was smothered under
that last hay-load o’ hair?”</p>
<p>“Oh, hoop-snakes,” replied the Dunkard. He
paused from his work of brushing the flies from
the mule’s legs with a horse-tail. “We hev plenty
o’ them ’round our placet. They don’t trouble
no one tho’ tell ye bother them. Then they’re
awful.”</p>
<p>He turned his attention to the beast’s hoofs and
began sweeping them. A smile was lurking about
the corners of his mouth.</p>
<p>“Did ye ever run agin any o’ these hoop——”</p>
<p>The Blacksmith’s query was cut short by a loud
“Ouch!”</p>
<p>“See here,” said the Loafer with emphasis.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
“Either he’ll hev to quit tellin’ stories or I quit
gittin’ me hair cut.” Then to the stranger, “Is
hoop-snakes so wery pisonous?”</p>
<p>“Pisonous!” replied the Dunkard. “Well, I
should say they was. One o’ the awfullest things
I ever seen was jest the ozzer day ’hen I was
workin’ in the fiel’. All o’ a suddent one o’ these
wipers jumps outen the hay an’ strikes. I seen
it jest in time to step aside. Its fangs struck the
han’le o’ me fork.”</p>
<p>The stranger fell to brushing flies again.</p>
<p>“Well, what happened that——”</p>
<p>“There ye go,” the Loafer cried, ducking forward
and almost tumbling from the anvil. “Keep
your eye on my head an’ not on every Tom, Dick
an’ Harry in the shop.” He readjusted himself
on his perch and blew away a bunch of hair that
had settled on his nose.</p>
<p>“What happened?” he inquired, fixing his
least exposed eye on the man from Raccoon
Valley.</p>
<p>“Quick ez a flash the han’le o’ my pitch-fork
swole up tell it was thick ez my arm.”</p>
<p>The Dunkard had fixed his gaze intently on
the forefeet of the mule and was beating them
industriously with the horse-tail.</p>
<p>The smith wheeled about abruptly and gazed
at the stranger.</p>
<p>“That was an awful thing to experience,” he
said. But there was a ring of doubt in his voice.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p>
<p>The Loafer peered over his shoulder and ventured.
“Yes. It was the worst jag yit. But I
don’t mind. I’m gittin’ accustomed.”</p>
<p>The rattle of the pile of wheels upon which
the G. A. R. Man was sitting announced that the
veteran was getting restless and was preparing for
action. For a long time he had been smoking in
silence, listening to the strange tales of the strange
man from Raccoon Valley. Now he spoke.</p>
<p>“If your story is true then that was an awful
thing.” He seemed to be weighing each word.
“Still, it wasn’t so awful ez a thing that happened
to me durin’ the war.”</p>
<p>“There ye are agin,” cried the Loafer. “Can’t
a man tell a story ’thout you tryin’ to go him one
better? I don’t believe ye was in the war anyway.”</p>
<p>“Don’t I git a pension?” The veteran closed
one eye and stuck out his lower jaw threateningly.</p>
<p>“That ain’t no sign,” ventured the Miller from
the carpenter bench.</p>
<p>“Well, what fer a sign does you unsez want?”
roared the G. A. R. Man. “Does you expect a
felly to go th’oo life carryin’ a musket? Ef ye
does——”</p>
<p>“See here,” said the Blacksmith, “youse fellys
is gittin’ that mule all excited. Ef you’re goin’
to quarrel you’d better go outside where there’s
lots o’ room fer ye to run away in.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p>
<p>“Now—now—now!” said the Dunkard, wagging
the horse-tail at the company. “Don’t git
fightin’. Ef he knows anything awfuller then that
hoop-snake wenture let him out with it.”</p>
<p>“I do,” said the veteran. “But I don’t perpose
to hev it drug outen me fer you uns to hoot
at.”</p>
<p>His tone was pacific, and his companions
promised not to hoot.</p>
<p>“The awfullest thing I ever hed to do with,”
he said, “was down in front o’ Richmon’ durin’
the war. Our retchment—the Bloody Pennsylwany—was
posted kind o’ out like from the rest
o’ the army. We lay there fer th’ee weeks doin’
nawthin’ but eatin’, sleepin’, drinkin’ an’ listenin’
to the roar o’ the guns over to the front. Still it
wasn’t pleasant, fer we was allus expectin’ somethin’
to happen. It’s a heap sight better to hev
somethin’ happenin’ then to be waitin’ fer it to
come. But final it come.</p>
<p>“One mornin’ at daybreak the guard was bein’
changed, an’ down on one post they found the
picket dead, but not a mark was they on him. It
looked wery queer. We’d seen no enemy fer a
week an’ yit here was a felly killed plumb on his
post, within stone th’ow of our camp. It made
the boys feel clammy like, I tell ye, an’ they
wasn’t many a-hankerin’ to go on that beat at
night. It was a lonely placet, anyway, right on
the edge o’ a leetle clump o’ woods in a holler<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
th’oo which run a creek, gurglin’ in a way that
made ye creep from your heel-taps to your hat.
But the post hed to be covered. Ez luck ’ud hev
it, my tent-mate, Jim Miggins, ez nicet a man ez
ever shouldered a musket, was stationed there.
Next mornin’ the relief goes around, an’ Jim Miggins
is lyin’ dead be the stream—not a mark on
him nowhere. Still they was no sign o’ the
enemy, an’ we’d a clean sweep o’ fiel’s five miles
acrosst the country. Mebbe we wasn’t puzzled.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t the general put a whole regiment
in them woods an’ stop it?” asked the Loafer.</p>
<p>“That wasn’t tactics,” answered the veteran.
“Ye may think you knows better how to run a war
then our general, but ye don’t. It wasn’t tactics,
an’ even ef it hed ben it wasn’t the way the Bloody
Pennsylwany done things. One man takes the
post next night ez usual, young Harry Hopple
o’ my company, a lad with more grit then a horse
that cribs. In the mornin’—Harry’s dead—no
mark on him—no sign o’ the enemy nowhere.
Don’t tell me that wasn’t awfuller then hoop-snakes.
Why, every man knowd now that ef he
drawed that post he was a goner. That was a
recognized rule—he was a goner. ’Hen a felly
gits it he sets down an’ packs up his duds; then
he writes home to his ma or his girl, sais good-by
to the boys an’ goes out. Mornin’ comes—he’s
dead be the stream—not a mark on him—no
enemy in sight. That was the way Andy Young,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
leetle Hiram Dole, Clayton Binks o’ my company,
an’ a dozen others was tuk off.”</p>
<p>“I can’t see, nuther, why the general didn’t
fill them woods with soldiers,” the Miller interrupted.</p>
<p>“Why! It wasn’t tactics; that’s why,” the G.
A. R. Man replied brusquely. “The Bloody Pennsylwany
didn’t do things that way. No, sir.
The general he cal’lated that we couldn’t be in
that placet more’n four weeks more, which would
cost jest twenty-eight men. He sais it wasn’t
square to order a man there, so he calls fer wolunteers.
What does I do? I wolunteers. I
goes to the general an’ sais I’m willin’ to try my
luck first. An’ he sais, sais he, a-layin’ one hand
on me shoulder, ‘Me man, ef we’d a few more like
you, the war ’ud soon be ended. An’——’”</p>
<p>“Meanin’ the other side ’ud ’a’ licked,” the
Loafer interposed.</p>
<p>The veteran paid no attention to this remark
but continued: “He promised me a promotion ef
I come out alive. That night I packs up me
things, writes a letter to me wife, an’ sais good-by
to the boys. Then I gits me gun, pours in
th’ee inches o’ powder, puts in a wad; next, th’ee
bullets an’ a wad; next a half dozen buckshot
an’ a wad. An’ on top o’ it all, jest fer luck, I
rammed a bit o’ tobacky. At twelve o’clock I
relieved the man on post in the holler. Mebbe me
heart didn’t beat. Mebbe it wasn’t awfuller then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
hoop-snakes. The wind was sighin’ mournful
th’oo the leaves; a leetle slice o’ moon was
peekin’ down th’oo the trees ’hen the clouds give
it a chancet; an’ there gurglin’ along was the
creek be which I expected I’d be found in the
mornin’ layin’ dead, no mark on me nowhere.</p>
<p>“I’d made up me mind, tho’, that I was goin’
to come out of it whole ef I could. I wasn’t no
fool to set down an’ be tuk off without raisin’ a
rumpus about it. No, sir. I kept a sharp eye in
every direction ez I walked to an’ fro, down the
holler on one side, up on the other, back agin,
an’ never stoppin’. It come one o’clock, an’ I
give number eight an’ all’s well. I hear the report
go ’long the posts; then everything was
quiet. It come two o’clock an’ I give all’s well
agin. Hardly was everything still ’hen I hear a
rustlin’ noise, right out in the fiel’ beyant the
creek, not twenty feet away, an’ yit me eyes had
ben coverin’ that petickler spot fer an hour an’
not a hate hed I seen. But there it was, a standin’
hazy-like in the dark, the awfullest thing I ever
laid eyes on.”</p>
<p>The veteran had arisen from the pile of wheels
and was glaring at the company, “What does I
do? Does I set down an’ be tuk off like the
other fellys? No. I ups an’ fires an’ hits it
right atween the eyes.”</p>
<p>He resumed his seat and began refilling his
pipe. An expectant silence reigned in the shop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
The Blacksmith waited until he saw the veteran
light a match and fall to smoking.</p>
<p>“Go on,” he cried, making a threatening movement
with his scissors.</p>
<p>“They ain’t no more to tell,” said the G. A. R.
Man nonchalantly. “Wasn’t that awfuller then
a dozen hoop-snakes?”</p>
<p>“Well, what was the thing ye shot?” asked the
Loafer, slipping off the anvil and facing the pile
of wheels.</p>
<p>The old soldier’s clay pipe fell from his hand
and crashed into a hundred pieces on the floor.
He opened wide his mouth in vain effort to speak,
but the words failed to come.</p>
<p>“What was it?” shouted the Loafer.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll swan ef I know,” replied the veteran
meekly.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Wrestling Match.</i></span></h2>
<p>The village had awakened from its long winter
of sleep. It had shaken off its lethargy and
stepped forth into the light and sunshine to
take up life in the free air until the months
should speed around and the harsh winds and the
snows drive it back again to a close kitchen and
a stifling stove. The antiquated saw-mill down
by the creek buzzed away with a vim that plainly
told that the stream was swollen with the melted
snows of the winter just passed. The big grist-mill
bumped and thumped in deep melodious
tones, as though it were making an effort to drown
the rasping, discordant music of its small but
noisy neighbor. From the field beyond the line
of houses came the melancholy “haw, gee, haw,
gee-up” of the man at the plow and the triumphant
calls of the chickens, as they discovered
each luscious worm in the newly-turned furrow.
A few robins flitted among the still leafless
branches of the trees, and down in the meadows<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
beyond the bridge an occasional venturesome lark
or snipe whistled merrily.</p>
<p>The double doors of the store were wide open.
Had all the other signs of spring been missing,
this fact alone would have indicated to the knowing
that if the snows had not melted and the
birds not come back, it was high time they did.
Those doors never stood open until the Patriarch
felt it in his bones that the winter was gone and
he could with safety leave the side of the stove
within and migrate to the long bench without, to
bask in the sunshine. This morning the old man
arose from his accustomed chair with a look of
wonderment on his face. He swung one leg to
and fro for a moment, then rapped on his knee
gently with the heavy knob of his cane. He
tapped his head mysteriously with his forefinger
and gazed in silence out of the window, taking in
the outward signs.</p>
<p>“Boys,” he said at length, “it’s time we was
gittin’ out agin. Spring has come.”</p>
<p>With that he hobbled toward the door.</p>
<p>“Good, Gran’pap,” said the Chronic Loafer,
rolling off the counter and following.</p>
<p>Then the Storekeeper opened both doors.</p>
<p>The old oak bench that had stood neglected
through the long winter, exposed to wind and
warping rain, gave a joyous creak as it felt again
on its broad, knife-hacked back the weight of the
Patriarch and his friends. It kicked up its one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
short, hickory leg with such vehemence as to
cause the Storekeeper to throw out his hands, as
though the world had dropped from under him
and he was grasping at a cloud for support.</p>
<p>“Mighty souls!” he cried, when he had recovered
his equilibrium and composure.</p>
<p>“My, oh, my!” murmured the old man, his
face beaming with contentment as he sat basking
in the sun. “Don’t the old bench feel good agin?
Why, me an’ this oak board hes ben buddies fer
nigh onter sixty years.”</p>
<p>The season seemed to have imposed new life
into the Chronic Loafer as it had nature. He suddenly
tossed off his coat, with one leap cleared the
steps and began dancing up and down in the road.</p>
<p>“It jest makes a felly feel like wrastlin’,
Gran’pap,” he shouted, waving his arms defiantly
at the bench. “Come on.”</p>
<p>The Patriarch stroked his long beard and smiled
amusedly at this unexpected exhibition of energy.
The Miller’s nose curled contemptuously skyward,
and he fell to beating the flour out of his coat to
show his indifference to the challenge. The Tinsmith
puffed more vigorously at his pipe, so that
the great clouds of smoke that swept upward from
the clay bowl, enveloped the Storekeeper and
caused him to sneeze violently.</p>
<p>At this indisposition on the part of the four to
take up the gauntlet he had thrown down, the
Loafer became still more defiant.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p>
<p>“Hedgins!” he sneered. “You uns is all
afraid, eh?”</p>
<p>“Nawthin’ to be afraid of,” snapped the Miller.
“Simple because spring’s come, ez it’s ben comin’
ever since I can remember, I hain’t a-goin’ to waller
’round in a muddy road.”</p>
<p>The School Teacher laid his left hand upon his
heart, and fixing a solemn gaze on the roof of the
porch, recited: “In the spring the young man’s
fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”</p>
<p>“There ye go agin,” cried the Loafer, “quotin’
that ole Fifth Reader o’ yourn.”</p>
<p>“That,” said the pedagogue, “is Tennyson.”</p>
<p>“I thot it was familar,” exclaimed the Storekeeper.
A smile crept into his usually vacant
face, and he slapped the Teacher on the knee.
“You mean ole Seth Tennyson that runs the
Shingletown creamery. He’s a cute un.”</p>
<p>The reply was a withering, pitying glance.</p>
<p>“It sounds a heap more like Seth’s brother Bill,”
ventured the Miller.</p>
<p>“Don’t git argyin’ on that,” said the Loafer.
“There’s nawthin’ particular new or good in it
any way. The main pint is I bantered ye an’
you uns ’s all dead skeert.”</p>
<p>“Come, come,” said the Patriarch, beating his
stick on the floor to call the boaster to order.
“Ef I was five year younger I’d take your banter;
I’d druv yer head inter the mud tell you’d
be afraid of showin’ up at the store fer a year, fer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
fear some un’d shovel ye inter the road. That’s
what I’d do. I hates blowin’, I do—I hates
blowin’. Fur be it from me to blow, particular
ez I was somethin’ of a wrastler ’hen I was a
young un.”</p>
<p>“I bet I could ’a’ th’owed you in less time ’an
it takes me to set down,” the Loafer said, as he
seated himself on the steps and got out his pipe.</p>
<p>“Th’owed me, would you? Well, I’d ’a’ liked
to hev seen you a-th’owin’ me.” He shook his
stick at the braggart. “Why, don’t you know
that ’hen I was young I was the best wrastler in
the walley; didn’t you ever hear o’ the great
wrastlin’ me and Simon Cruller done up to
Swampy Holler school-house?”</p>
<p>“Did Noar act as empire?” asked the Loafer.</p>
<p>“What does you mean be talkin’ of Noar an’
sech like ’hen I’m tellin’ of wrastlin’? Tryin’ to
change the subject I s’pose, eh?” cried the
Patriarch, reddening with anger. “Don’t you
know——”</p>
<p>“Tut-tut, Gran’pap,” said the Storekeeper,
gently taking the raised cane in his hand and
forcing it back into an upright position, one end
resting on the floor, while on the other were piled
the old man’s two fat hands. “Don’t mind him.
Go on with your story.”</p>
<p>The Patriarch’s wrath passed as quickly as it
had come. He speedily wandered back into his
youth, and soon was so deep in the history of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
Simon Cruller, of Simon Cruller’s family and of
Becky Stump as to be completely oblivious to his
tormentor’s presence.</p>
<p>“Me an’ Sime Cruller was buddies,” he began
at length. “That was tell we both kind o’ set
our minds on gittin’ Becky Stump. You uns
never seen her, eh? Well, mebbe you never seen
her grave-stun. It stands be the alderberry bushes
in the buryin’-groun’, an’ ef you hain’t seen it ye
otter, fer then ye might git an idee what sort o’ a
woman she was. Pretty? Why, she was a model,
she was—a perfect model. Hair? You uns don’t
often see sech hair nowadays ez Becky Stump hed—soft
an’ black like. Eyes? Why, they sparkled
jest like new buggy paint. An’ mighty souls, but
she could plough! She wasn’t none of your
modern girls ez is too proud to plough. Many a
day I set over on the porch at our placet an’
looked down acrosst the walley an’ seen her a-steppin’
th’oo the fiel’, an’ I thot how I’d like to hev
one han’le while she’d hev the other, an’ we’d
go trampin’ along life’s furrow together.”</p>
<p>“Now Gran’pap, I ’low you’ve ben readin’——”</p>
<p>“Can’t you keep still a piece?” roared the
Miller.</p>
<p>The Loafer returned to his pipe and silence.</p>
<p>“The whole thing come to a pint at a spellin’
bee up to Swampy Holler school,” continued the
Patriarch, unmindful of the interruption. “Becky
Stump was there an’ looked onusual pretty, fer it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
was cold outside an’ the win’ hed made her face
all red on the drive over from home. Sime was
there, too, togged out in store clothes, his hair all
plastered down with bear ile, an’ with a fine silk
tie aroun’ his collar that ’ud ’a’ ketched the girls
real hard hed I not hed a prettier one.</p>
<p>“Ez luck ’ud hev it, me an’ Sime Cruller was
on opposite sides. It wasn’t long afore I seen
he was tryin’ to show off with his spellin’. It’s
strange, but it’s a failin’ with men that ez soon ez
they gits their minds set on a particular girl they
wants to show off before her. Why most of ’em
taller up their boots, put on their Sunday clothes
an’ go walkin’ by their girl’s house twicet a day
fer no reason at all but jest to be seen lookin’
togged up an’ han’som. Men allus seems to want
the weemen to know they is better spellers, or
better somethin’ else ’an some other feller. They
ain’t no reason fer it. No common-sense woman
is goin’ to merry no man simple because he can
spell or wrastle better or husk more corn than
anybody else. An’ yit men’ll insist on showin’
off in them wery things ’henever they gits a
chancet.</p>
<p>“It didn’t take me five minutes to see that Sime
Cruller was tryin’ to show off afore Becky Stump;
was tryin’ to prove to her that he was a smarter
lad than me. An’ it didn’t take me that long to
concide I’d hev none of it. I seen him every
time he spelled a hard un, look triumphant like at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
her, settin’ ez she was down be the stove; then
he’d grin at me. I seen it all, an’ I spelled ez I
never spelled afore, an’ a mighty fine speller I was,
too, ’hen I was young. Mebbe I didn’t set all
over Sime Cruller. Mebbe I didn’t spile his
showin’ off. I don’t jest exactly remember what
the word was, but it must ’a’ ben a long un with a
heap of syllables, fer he missed it an’ set down
lookin’ ez mad ez a bull ’hen he steps inter a
bees’ nes’. Three others missed it, an’ it come to
me. Why do you know them letters jest rolled
off my tongue ez easy. You otter ’a’ seen the look
Becky Stump give me an’ the look Sime give me.
Huh!</p>
<p>“When intermission come, Sime he gits off in
one corner an’ begins blowin’ to a lot of the boys.
I heard him talkin’ loud ’bout me, so I steps
over. He sayd it was all a mistake; that he could
beat me at anything—spellin’, wrastlin’ or fishin’.
He was showin’ off agin, fer he talked loud like
Becky Stump could hear. I makes up me mind
I wouldn’t stand his blowin’.</p>
<p>“‘See here, Sime Cruller!’ I sais, sais I, ‘you
uns is nawthin’ but a blow-horn,’ I sais. ‘You
claims you can wrastle. Why, I can th’ow you
in less time than it takes to tell it, an’ if you steps
outside I’ll prove me words.’</p>
<p>“That kinder took Sime Cruller down, fer
wrastlin’ was his speciality an’ he’d th’owed every
felly in the walley ’ceptin’ me, an’ him an’ me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
hed never clinched, fer I wasn’t considered much
at a fight. But me dander was up an’ I wasn’t
in fer lettin’ him show off.</p>
<p>“‘You th’ow me!’ he sais. Then he begin to
laugh like he’d die at the wery idee.</p>
<p>“With that we went outside, follered by the
rest of the boys. They was a quarter-moon overhead,
an’ the girls put two candles in the school-house
winders, so, with the snow, we could see
pretty well.</p>
<p>“At it we went. Boys, you otter ’a’ ben there!
You otter ’a’ seen it! That was wrastlin’! ’Hen
Sime an’ me clinched I ketched him ’round the
waist with my right arm an’ got a hold of the strap
of his right boot with the forefinger of me left hand.
He gits his left arm ’round my neck an’ down my
back somehow, an’ with his right hand tears the buttons
off me coat an’ grabs me in the armhole of
me waistcoat. Over we goes, like two dogs, snarlin’,
an’ snappin’, while the boys in a ring around us
cheered, an’ the girls crowdin’ the school-house
porch trembled an’ screamed with fright. We
twisted, we turned, we rolled over an’ over tell we
looked like livin’ snowballs. Sime got off the
boot I’d a holt on, an’ give me a sudden turn that
almost sent me on me back. But I was quick.
Mighty souls, but I was quick! I ups with me
foot an’ lands me heel right on his chist, an’ he
went flyin’ ten feet inter a snow-bank, kerryin’ me
coat-sleeve with him. He was lookin’ up at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
moon ’hen I run up to him, an’ I’d hed him down,
but he turned over, an’ they wasn’t nawthin’ fer
me to do but to set on his back. I ’low I must ’a’
set there fer half an hour, restin’ an’ gittin’ me
wind. Anyway, I was so long I almost forgot I
was wrastlin’, fer he give me a sudden turn, an’
’fore I knowd it he hed the waist holt an’ hed
almost th’owed me.</p>
<p>“But I was quick. Mighty souls, but I was
quick! I keeps me feet an’ gits one hand inter
his waistcoat pocket an’ hung to him. ’Henever
you wrastles, git your man be the boot strap or
the pocket, an’ you has the best holt they is. Ef
I hedn’t done that I might not ’a’ ben here to-day.
But I done it, an’ fer a full hour me an’
Sime Cruller rolled ’round, even matched. Time
an’ agin I got sight o’ Becky Stump standin’ on
the porch, her hands gripped together, her face
pale, her eyes almost poppin’ outen her head, she
was watchin’ us so hard, an’ the wery sight of her
urged me on to inhuman efforts. It seemed to
hev the same ’fect on Sime. Me heart beat so
hard it made me buttons rattle. Still I kep’ at it.
Sime was so hot it was fer me jest like wrastlin’
with a stove, an’ still we kep’ at it. Then all of a
sudden—it was two hours after we hed fust
clinched—everything seemed to swim—I couldn’t
feel no earth beneath—I only knowd I was still
holdin’ onto Sime—then I knowd nawthin’.</p>
<p>“‘Hen I come to, I was layin’ be the school-house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
stove, an’ Becky Stump was leanin’ over
me rubbin’ a snowball acrosst me forehead. The
other folks was standin’ back like, fer they seemed
to think that after sech an exhibition it was all
settled an’ they didn’t want to disturb us.</p>
<p>“‘Becky,’ I whispers, ‘did I win?’</p>
<p>“‘You did,’ she sais. ‘You both fainted at
oncet, but you fainted on top.’</p>
<p>“‘An’ now I s’pose you’ll hev me,’ I sais, fer it
seemed like they was somethin’ in her eyes that
kinder urged me on.</p>
<p>“She was quiet a piece; an’ then she leans down
an’ answers, ‘Do you think I wants to merry a
fien’?’”</p>
<p>The Patriarch ceased his narration and fell to
stroking his beard and humming softly.</p>
<p>“Well?” cried the Loafer.</p>
<p>“Well?” retorted the old man.</p>
<p>“Did she ever merry?”</p>
<p>The Patriarch shook his head.</p>
<p>“Go look at the grave-stun,” he said, “an’ on
it you’ll see wrote: ‘Here lies Becky Stump.
Her peaceful soul’s at rest!’”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Tramp’s Romance.</i></span></h2>
<p>“Was you ever dissypinted in love?” inquired
the Chronic Loafer of the Tramp.</p>
<p>A light summer shower had driven the traveller
to the shelter of the store porch for a few hours,
and he was stretched easily along the floor with
his back resting against a pillar. In reply to the
question he brought the butt of his heavy hickory
stick down on the loose boards with such vigor
as to raise a small cloud of dust from the cracks,
and cried, “Wull, have I!”</p>
<p>“Come tell us about it, ole feller,” said the
Tinsmith.</p>
<p>“Not muchy.”</p>
<p>“We ain’t surprised at your hevin’ ben dissypinted,”
said the Loafer, “but it’s your persumption
catches me. What’s her name?”</p>
<p>“I called her Emily Kate,” answered the
Tramp, wiping one of his eyes with his sleeve.
“She’ll allus be Emily Kate to me, though to
other folks she ain’t nothin’.”</p>
<p>“A truly remarkable state of affairs,” said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
Teacher. “I presume that the young woman
must have been a mere chimera, a hallucination.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe she was; mebbe she wasn’t,” the
traveller replied. “I never knowd her well
enough to git acquainted with all her qualities.
In fact I’ve allus kept Emily Kate pretty much
to meself an’ have never said nothin’ ’bout her to
nobody. But youse gentlemens asts so many
questions, I s’pose yez might ez well know the
hull thing. ’Bout three year ago I was workin’
th’oo this valley toward the Sussykehanner River,
an’ one fine day—it was one o’ them days when
you feels like settin’ down an’ jest doin’ nothin’—I
come th’oo this very town an’ went up the
main road ’bout two mile tell I reached Shale
Hill. I never knowd why I done it—it must ’a’
ben fate—but I switched off onter the by-road
there ’stead o’ stickin’ to the pike. I walked on
’bout a mile an’ didn’t meet no one or see no
houses tell I come to a farm wit’ a peach orchard
sout’ o’ the barn.</p>
<p>“They was a nice grassy place under an apple
tree on the other side the road, an’ ez it was one o’
them warm, lazy, summer days I made up me min’
to rest, an’ lay down there. Ye kin laugh at folks
who allus talks weather, but I tell ye it does a
powerful sight wit’ a man. I know ef that had ’a’
ben a rainy day I’d never had that fairy-core, ez
the French calls it, that hit me then an’ come
near spoilin’ me life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p>
<p>“I was layin’ there watchin’ the clouds overhead,
an’ listenin’ to the plover whistlin’ out in
the fiel’s, an’ to the tree-frawg bellerin’ up in the
locus’, when all of a sudden I see a blue gleam in
an apple tree in the orchard ’crosst the way. I
watched it an’ pretty soon made out that it was a
woman. She was settin’ there quiet an’ still,
like she was readin’, an’ down below I see the top
of a chicking coop an’ hear the ole hen cluckin’.
I couldn’t see much fer the leaves an’ didn’t git
sight o’ her face, but I made out the outlines o’
that blue caliker dress an’ jest kind o’ drank ’em
in.</p>
<p>“It was the day done it all. ’Fore I knowd it
I begin to imagine the face that must ’a’ fit that
form. I pictured her like the girls that rides the
mowin’ machines in the agricult’ral advertisemen’
chromos—yeller hair an’ all. I wanted to try an’
git sight o’ her face but didn’t dast, fer she’d ’a’
seen me an’ that ’ud a spoilt my chancet. So I
lay there dreamin’ like, an’ ’fore I knowd it I
could think o’ nothin’ but that girl in the tree,
who I figured must ’a’ ben a heap better-lookin’
than a circus lady.</p>
<p>“It come sundown, an’ ez I had to hustle to
git supper I dragged meself together an’ moved on.
I went up the valley fer three days an’ got ’bout
thirty mile nearer the river. But I didn’t have
no peace. The hull time I was thinkin’ o’ nothin’
but the girl in the blue caliker dress. I never felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
so queer before, an’ didn’t know jest what to do.
Last I decided I’d hev to go back an’ hev another
look at her, so I turned ’round an’ kivered me
tracks.</p>
<p>“‘Bout one day later, in the afternoon, I reached
the orchard. Hanged ef she wasn’t there an’ settin’
in a tree closer to the road! I didn’t dast
go near her, fer I knows how ’fraid the weemen is
of us men. But I slid inter me ole placet, an’ lay
there watchin’ her blue dress wavin’ in the breeze.
Then when I seen ez how she’d changed trees, I
begin to think mebbe she’d seen me an’ moved
up a tree nearer the road kinder so ez we’d be
closer.”</p>
<p>The Tramp’s voice broke and he paused.</p>
<p>“Now quit yer blubberin’, Trampy,” cried the
Loafer, “an’ git to the end o’ this here yarn.”</p>
<p>The vagrant rubbed his sleeve across his eyes
and continued,</p>
<p>“Wull, ez I lay there watchin’ her so still an’
quiet, I begin to think. I wondered what her
name must be, an’ ’lowed it orter be a pretty one.
I kind o’ thought, bein’ ez I didn’t know it, I
might give her one—the prettiest I could git up.
I racked me brain an’ final’ sot on Emily Kate—that
sounded high-toned. Then I begin to wonder
who’d be so fort’nit ez ter git Emily, an’ cussed
meself for bein’ sich a bum. I kind o’ thought I
might reform, but last I ’lowed ef she’d take me
without me havin’ to reform, it ’ud be a sight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
pleasanter all ’round. I see how she’d moved
up a tree an’ kind o’ wondered ef she’d notice
me. The more I thought on it, the worse I got.
I begin to think mebbe ef I cleaned up I wouldn’t
be so bad—in fact a heap better ’an lots o’ folks
I knows. By the time it come sunset I had concided
to resk it, an’ was thinkin’ o’ crawlin’ over
the fence an’ interducin’ meself. But me heart
failed me. I put it off tell the next day an’ slid
over the fiel’s to a barn an’ spent the night.</p>
<p>“I didn’t eat no breakfas’. I couldn’t. When
it come sun up I went down to the spring an’
washed up. Then I cut fer the orchard, tendin’
to wait tell she come. I didn’t expect she’d be
there so airly sence she’d likely do up the breakfas’
dishes.</p>
<p>“I climbed the fence inter the road. Then
what a sight I seen! I near yelled. A great big
feller had his arm ’round her wais’. She was layin’
all limp like, wit’ her head pitched for’a’d so I
couldn’t see it, an’ her feet was draggin’ th’oo
the timothy, fer the man was pullin’ her ’long
down the orchard. First I was fer runnin’ to her
resky, but I thought mebbe I’d better wait tell
I see what come of it.</p>
<p>“The big feller, he pulled her, all limp, down
to the other side, an’ leaned her up agin a tree,
an’ hit her a punch wit’ his fis’. The blue caliker
sunbonnet drooped. Then he jumped the fence
an’ started away over the meddy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p>
<p>“Me heart was a-thumpin’ awful. I waited
tell he was out o’ sight. Then I slipped down to
where Emily Kate lay half dead agin the tree. I
seen a chicking coop there an’ hear the ole hen
cluckin’. I stepped up an’ raised the girl’s head.
She had a straw face an’ was keepin’ hawks away
from them chickings. My Emily Kate was a
scare——”</p>
<p>The Tramp’s voice grew husky and he faltered.</p>
<p>“See here, you ole fool,” cried the Loafer, “it’s
quit rainin’ this ten minutes an’ you’ve kep’ me
from splittin’ to-morrer’s wood with yer bloomin’
story.”</p>
<p>The wanderer picked up his bandana and
stick, arose and replied,</p>
<p>“Youse gentlemen ’sisted that I tell ye ’bout
it. I tol’ ye. Now I must be movin’.”</p>
<p>A moment later he disappeared around the
bend in the road just beyond the mill.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Ambition—An Argument.</i></span></h2>
<p>“I know that I travels slow,” said the Chronic
Loafer, “but ’hen a felly travels fast, it keeps him
so busy watchin’ the horses, he sees mighty leetle
o’ the country an’ gits awful jolted besides. It’s
a heap sight better to go slow, stoppin’ at a
stream to fish trout, or in the woods to take a
bang at a coon, or at the store fer a leetle discussion—it’s
a heap sight easier.”</p>
<p>He was sitting at the end of the porch, his back
against the pillar; one leg stretched along the
floor, the bare foot resting on its heel and wiggling
to and fro in unison with his words; the
other leg hanging down and swinging backward
and forward like a pendulum.</p>
<p>The Patriarch had the end of the bench nearest
him. Next sat the Miller meditatively chewing
his forefinger. Then there was the Tinsmith
smoking thoughtfully, and beside him, a stranger.
This last person was a young man. His jaunty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
golf cap, fresh pink shirt, spotless duck trousers
and canvas shoes marked him as a barbarian. In
fact he had swooped down from the mountains
to the north but a few days before on a bicycle,
taken board at the Shoemaker’s, fixed a short
briar pipe between his teeth and seated himself
on the bench. At first he had been coldly received.
The Store was suspicious. It closed its
mouth and waited until it could find out something
of the character of the newcomer. He volunteered
no explanation, but sat and smoked.
The Store grew desperate. At length it could
stand the suspense no longer and nudged the
stranger and inquired if he might not be a detective?
The stranger laughed, said no, and busied
himself with the making of smoke rings. Three
days passed. Then the Store allowed maybe he
might not be a drummer? No, he was not a
drummer. The mystery was deepening. There
were two things he was not. Now the Store
smoked and smoked, and watched the mountains
many days, until it had drawn an inspiration
therefrom. It winked at the young man and
guessed he had run away from his wife. But the
stranger answered that he had never married.</p>
<p>Knowing that he was not a detective, a drummer,
or a fugitive from some domestic hearthstone,
the Store felt that it had learned something
of his history and could afford to melt just a little.
So now it was talking before him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p>
<p>As the Loafer finished speaking, the stranger
drew forth a leather case, carefully tucked his pipe
away in it and returned it to his pocket. Then
he remarked calmly, “I cannot agree with you.
What would the world be to-day if all men held
such ideas as you?”</p>
<p>The Patriarch, the Miller and the Tinsmith
pricked up their ears and gazed at the speaker.
At last the truth would be out.</p>
<p>The Loafer saw his opportunity.</p>
<p>“What do you do fer a livin’?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I’m a college man,” was the bland reply.</p>
<p>Drawing his pendulum leg up on the porch, the
Loafer clasped both knees in his arms. “Well,”
he drawled, “I ’low ef you is a kawledge man,
they ain’t nawthin’ young enough to be a kawledge
boy, is they?”</p>
<p>The Patriarch dropped his cane, clasped his
hands to his fat sides, leaned back so that his
head rested against the wall, and gagged. The
Tinsmith and the Storekeeper laughed so loud
that the School Teacher tossed aside the county
paper and came running to the door to inquire
what the joke was.</p>
<p>“I’m blessed ef I know,” said the Miller, he being
the only one of the party who had retained
his powers of speech. He laid a hand on the
student’s knee and asked, “Did you make a
joke?”</p>
<p>But the young man had dived into his pocket<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
and got out his pipe again, and was busy filling it
and lighting it and smoking it, by this act asserting
his manhood. He now joined good-naturedly in
the laughter.</p>
<p>“How much does a kawledge man git a week?”
asked the Loafer. “It must pay pretty well,
jedgin’ from your clothes.”</p>
<p>“He gets nothing,” was the reply. “I am
studying, preparing myself for my work in life.”</p>
<p>“My, oh, my!” murmured the Patriarch.
“Preparin’—preparin’? Why, ’hen I was your
age I was prepared long ago. I was in full,
complete charge o’ me father’s saw-mill.”</p>
<p>The student was nettled, not at the reflection
on his own intellectual attainments which this remark
seemed to contain, but he felt that in this
company he was the representative of modern
ideas, of education and enlightenment. The
Middle Ages were attacking the Nineteenth Century,
and it was his duty to combat the forces
of Ignorance. So he removed his briar from
his mouth and sent a ring of smoke floating
away on the listless air. He watched it intently
as it passed out from the shelter of the porch into
the great world, and grew broader and bigger and
finally disappeared altogether. There was something
very impressive in the young man’s act.
His voice had fallen an octave when he turned to
address the Patriarch.</p>
<p>“Had I chosen a saw-mill as my career, I think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
I too should have long since been prepared for
it. But to fit oneself for work in the world as a
lawyer, a doctor, a minister, requires preparation.
It takes years of study.”</p>
<p>“How many?” asked the Loafer, turning
around and eyeing the student over his knees.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be twenty-four when I get through
studying and become a lawyer.”</p>
<p>“Then what’ll ye do?”</p>
<p>“I’ll work at my profession and make money.”</p>
<p>“How long’ll ye do that?”</p>
<p>“Why, I don’t know particularly—till I have a
fair fortune, I suppose.”</p>
<p>“How old’ll ye be then?”</p>
<p>“Around sixty, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Then what’ll ye do?”</p>
<p>“What does every man do eventually? Die.”</p>
<p>“Then ye’ve spent all them years learnin’ to
die, eh? Does a felly go off any easier ef his
head is crammed full of algebray or physical
g’ography? Mighty souls! Why my pap
couldn’t ’a’ tol’ ye, ef ye dewided an apple in two
halves an’ et one how many was left, yit ’hen his
time come he jest emptied out his ole pipe, leaned
back in his rocker, stretched his feet toward the
fire an’ went.”</p>
<p>“Well, what are you tryin’ to prove anyway?”
asked the Teacher, who had seated himself on an
egg-crate. His furrowed brow, one closed eye and
forefinger resting on his chin, showed that he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
struggling hard to catch the thread of the
discussion.</p>
<p>“I was jest sayin’ that the best life, the sensiblest
life, was the slow easy-goin’ one, ’hen this
young man conterdicted me,” said the Loafer.</p>
<p>His air was very condescending and it angered
the student. The inquisition just ended had left
him in a rather equivocal position, he could see by
the way the Patriarch and the Tinsmith nodded
their heads.</p>
<p>“You misunderstood me,” he said. “You have
shown, I see, that from a purely selfish standpoint,
ambition is senseless. In the end the man who
works hard is no better off than the man who
loafs. But remember there is another call—duty.”</p>
<p>“That’s the idee,” cried the Teacher. “The
sense of duty moves the world to——”</p>
<p>“Hol’ on!” the Loafer exclaimed. “Hol’ on!
Duty to who?”</p>
<p>“Why, duty to society,” the student, answered.
“Every man is endowed with certain faculties,
and it is his duty to use those faculties to the
best of his ability for the advancement of himself
and his fellow-man.”</p>
<p>“Certainly—certainly,” said the pedagogue.
“It’s the old parable of the talents all over agin.”</p>
<p>“Yes, they is some argyment in that,” said the
Loafer. “Yit they ain’t. Pap allus used to say
that too many fellys was speckilatin’ in their talents,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
an’ ’hen their employer called an accountin’ they
was only able to pass in a lot o’ counterfeit coin.”</p>
<p>“But suppose all men sat down and folded
their hands and lived as you would have them.
What would happen?” asked the college man.</p>
<p>“D’ye see yon pastur’ down there?” The
Loafer pointed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating
the meadow below the bridge, where half
a score of cattle were grazing.</p>
<p>The student nodded. The bony forefinger was
pointed at him now.</p>
<p>“Well, now s’posin’ ye was a hog an’——”</p>
<p>“I object to such a supposition,” was the angry
retort.</p>
<p>“Well then s’posin’, jest fer argyment—ye
know ye can s’pose anything ’hen ye argy—s’posin’
ye was a cow. Yon fiel’ ’ll pastur’ ten head o’
cattle comf’table all summer, ’lowin’ they is easy-goin’
an’ without no ambition. Now you uns gits
the high-flyin’ idee ye must dewelop your heaven-given
faculties fer the benefit o’ your sufferin’
fellys. The main talent a cow has is that o’
eatin’; so ye dewelop it be grazin’ night an’ day.
’Hen the other cows is friskin’ up an’ down the
meadow or splashin’ ’round the creek, you are
nibblin’ off the choice grass an’ digestin’ all the
turnip tops ye can reach th’oo the holes in the
fence. Mebbe you’ll git to be a slicker animal,
but fer the life o’ me, I can’t see how you’re benefitin’
the rest o’ the cattle.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p>
<p>“See here,” interrupted the Miller, “you are
the onsenselessest argyer I ever set eyes on. Ye
starts but on edycation an’ lands up on cattle-raisin’.”</p>
<p>“No—no, you misunderstand him,” said the
student. “His method of argument is all right,
but it seems that the figure is bad. It doesn’t
quite apply. Every man who leads an industrious,
upright life, every man who in so doing prospers
and raises himself, does an incalculable service
to the community in which he lives. His example
inspires others.”</p>
<p>“I jedge, then,” replied the Loafer, “that this
here petickler cow we’ve ben speakin’ of, in eatin’
night an’ day an’ fattenin’ itself, is elewatin’ the
rest o’ the cattle be its example. They’ll be encouraged
to quit sloshin’ ’round the creek an’
friskin’ ’bout the pastur’ an’ ’ll be after grass night
an’ day, an’ the grass’ll git skeercer an’ they’ll
take to buttin’ one another, an’ your efforts at
elewatin’ ’em ends in turnin’ a peaceful pastur’
inter a battle-fiel’.”</p>
<p>The student sent three rings of smoke whirling
from his mouth in rapid succession, but he made
no reply.</p>
<p>“Did ye ever hear o’ Zebulon Pole?” asked
the Loafer.</p>
<p>“I never did. But what has he to do with
this matter?”</p>
<p>“Zebulon Pole was a livin’ answer to it, he was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
He used to have a shanty up in Buzzard Walley
near me an’ Pap, an’ was young an’ full o’ all
them noble idees. No—he wasn’t allus full of
’em. They hed ben a time ’hen he was easy-goin’
an’ happy, askin’ nawthin’ better o’ his Maker
than a trout stream, a hook an’ a line, an’ a place
to borry a shot-gun. All o’ a sudden he bloomed
out full o’ ambition an’ high notions. He hed a
call. He was wastin’ his life loafin’ ’long the
creeks or settin’ day after day on a lawg, whistlin’
fer wild turkeys. The world needed Zebulon
Pole, an’ he answered by comin’ out ez candidate
fer superwisor. He was elected. From that day
the citizens o’ our township hed no peace. They’d
allus ben used to goin’ out on the roads in the
spring, stickin’ their shovels in the groun’, leanin’
on ’em an’ gittin’ paid a dollar a day fer it. The
new superwisor was ambitious, an’ the good ole
system o’ makin’ roads seemed a thing o’ the
past. So the boys put their heads together an’
concided that a man o’ Pole’s parts was too good
fer his place an’ should hev a higher an’ nobler
job. They made him a school-director, an’ leaned
on their shovels oncet more an’ drawed a dollar a
day fer it ez usual.</p>
<p>“Zebulon hed never gone beyant the Third
Reader in school or th’oo fractions, an’ yit ’hen
he become a school-director, he seen the hand o’
a higher power instead o’ the wotes o’ citizens
who wasn’t agin improvin’ the roads, but was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
agin hevin’ it done ’hen they was workin’ out
their road tax. He was called to the service o’
his felly-man. He was sacrificin’ his own happiness,
givin’ up his fishin’ an’ huntin’ that he might
dewote his life to helpin’ others. He hedn’t ben
school-director a month tell he concided it was an
honor, a great honor, yit the sphwere was too
narrer fer a man o’ his talents. Zebulon Pole
was learnin’. He’d found out they was better an’
higher things in this worl’ then a mountain stream
full o’ trout, a soft bed o’ moss on the bank, a
half cloudy day, a pipe an’ a hook an’ line. He’d
found out they was nobler things, so he come out
ez candidate fer county commissioner, ’lowin’
that after that he’d be Gov’nor, an’ then Presydent.
But the woters remembered how they’d over-exerted
themselves in his days ez superwisor;
they minded how in his first week ez school-director,
he’d changed the spellin’ book an’ cost ’em
twenty-five cents a head fer every blessed child in
the district. They jest snowed him under. He
was plain Zeb Pole agin. He’d tasted the sweets
o’ power an’ lost his appytite fer fishin’. His
hopes o’ bein’ Presydent was gone. They was
nawthin’ left fer him to look for’a’d to but dyin’.”</p>
<p>The student shook his head gravely.</p>
<p>“There is some argument in what you have
been saying,” he said slowly. “I admit that.
But you know your ideas are not new. You
simply carry one back to the Stoics of Greece.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p>
<p>The Loafer was puzzled. “What did you say
they was?” he asked.</p>
<p>“The Stoics of Greece. You remind me of the
Stoics of Greece.”</p>
<p>“Is that a complyment or a name?” The
Loafer leaned sharply forward and thrust his long
chin toward the speaker ominously.</p>
<p>“Why, a compliment,” was the reply. “The
Stoics were a great school of philosophers. They
taught simplicity in life. Diogenes was a Stoic.”</p>
<p>“Who?” asked the Patriarch, bending over and
fixing his hand to his ear.</p>
<p>“Diogenes.”</p>
<p>“D’ogenes—D’ogenes,” said the old man. He
paused; then added, “D’ogenes—yes, I’ve heard
the name but I can’t exactly place him.”</p>
<p>“Well, you certainly never met him,” said the
collegian. “He lived a couple of thousand years
ago in Athens. His idea was to get as close as
possible to nature, so he lived in a tub.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t they hev no suylums in them days?”
asked the Loafer.</p>
<p>“Diogenes wasn’t crazy,” cried the student.
“He was a great philosopher. They tell one
story of how he went walking around Athens carrying
a lantern in broad daylight. When asked
what he was doing, he said he was looking for an
honest man.”</p>
<p>“What was the lantern fer?” the Miller inquired.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p>
<p>“Why, he was looking for an honest man,”
shouted the collegian.</p>
<p>“I s’pose it never struck him to go to the store
fer one,” drawled the Loafer.</p>
<p>“You miss the point—the whole of you. Diogenes
was a man who spurned the material things
of this world. He tried to forget the body in the
development of the mind and soul, so he lived in
a tub, and——”</p>
<p>“See here, young felly,” interrupted the Loafer,
“fer an argyer you beat the band. First off ye
conterdicted me fer sayin’ a man should take his
time. Now ye come ’round my way, only worse.
I never sayd a man should keep house in a tub.
Why, his missus ’ud never give him no peace.
No, sir; don’t ye git no fool idees like that in
your head.”</p>
<p>“But that is the truest philosophy——”</p>
<p>“I know. Zebulon Pole got that wery idee
after he was defeated fer county commissioner.
He moped ’round the walley fer a year an’ final
one day come to me an’ sayd he was goin’ to
dewote the rest o’ his life to religious medytation.
‘It’s less trouble to git to heaven then the
White House,’ he sayd, ‘fer a good deed is easier
to do then an opposin’ candidate.’ It happened
that at this time they hed ben a woman preacher
holdin’ bush-meetin’s in our walley an’ he was a
reg’lar attendant. She pounded away at wanity.
All was wanity, she sayd. They wasn’t nawthin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
in this world wuth livin’ fer. Fine houses, fine
clothes, slick buggies, fast horses, low-cut waist-coats—all
them things was extrys which was no
more needed fer man’s sperritual comfort then
napkins fer his bodily nourishment. It didn’t take
long fer them idees to spread in our walley, an’
Pole was one o’ the first to catch ’em. I mind
comin’ home from fishin’ one day, I seen him a-settin’
on a fence chewin’ a straw an’ watchin’ the
clouds scootin’ ’long overhead.</p>
<p>“‘Ho, Zeb!’ I sais, shakin’ a nice string o’
trout under his nose. ‘Why ain’t ye out?
They’s bitin’ good.’</p>
<p>“He looks at me outen the corner o’ his eye
wery solemn.</p>
<p>“‘Fishin’?’ he sais.</p>
<p>“‘Yes, fishin’,’ I yells, kind o’ s’prised.
‘They’s bitin’ good.’</p>
<p>“‘All them things is wanity,’ sais he, straightenin’
up an’ pintin’ a finger o’ scorn at me.
‘Wanity o’ wanities. Let me warn ye, man.
I’ve give up all them worldly pleasures. I’m set
on higher things.’</p>
<p>“‘Six-rail fences,’ I answers, ‘all day long—chewin’
a straw—watchin’ clouds—wery elewatin’.’</p>
<p>“He give me a sad look.</p>
<p>“‘What are ye doin’ now?’ sais I, not intendin’
to be put down even ef he hed ben school
director.</p>
<p>“‘I’m a lily,’ he sais. ‘I’m followin’ the words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
o’ that dear sister who has cast her lot among us.
Henceforth I no longer considers the morrer. I
toil not, nuther spin.’</p>
<p>“‘See here, Zeb,’ sais I. ‘You ain’t a bit my
idee of a lily.’</p>
<p>“‘I don’t ast the approval o’ the world,’ sais
he.</p>
<p>“‘An’ ye wouldn’t git it ef ye did,’ sais I.
‘But still I s’pose ye might do pretty well in
this new ockypation ef it wasn’t fer one thing.’</p>
<p>“‘What’s that?’ he asts.</p>
<p>“‘Lilies don’t use tobacker,’ I answers.</p>
<p>“That kind o’ jolted him. His eyes opened
wide, an’ I seen a few tears.</p>
<p>“‘I never thot o’ that,’ sais he.</p>
<p>“‘Oh, it’s unimportant,’ sais I. ‘You’ll make
a fair lily. It’ll come hard fer ye first off, after
your last suit of clothes is wore out. Let’s hope
that happens in summer so ye’ll break in fer
winter easier. You’ll git used to not eatin’,’ I
sais. ‘Eatin’ is wanity. An’ ez fer tobacker—I
never seen a lily smokin’. But still, Zeb, ’hen ye
runs out o’ cut an’ dried, they is allus a placet ye
can git a leetle ’hen ye takes a rest from bloomin’
in the fiels.’</p>
<p>“That wery night Zebulon ’cepted my inwite
an’ come over to our placet an’ got a handful o’
cut an’ dried. He borryed a loaf o’ bread an’ a
can’le beside. I didn’t begrudge it a bit. Nuther
did Pap. But this lily business begin spreadin’,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
an’ all o’ Hen Jossel’s folks tuk to toilin’ not
nuther spinin’, ’long o’ Herman Brewbocker’s
family an’ Widdy Spade an’ half a dozen others.
They was dependin’ on us fer flour, matches, tobacker
an’ sech wanities, an’ it come a leetle hard.
We stood it a month but things got goin’ from
bad to worse. They wasn’t a day passed ’thout
a lily or two droppin’ in at our placet an’ ’lowin’
mebbe we mightn’t like to loan a piece o’ ham, a
tin o’ zulicks or a bit o’ oil. It worrit Pap terrible.</p>
<p>“One night I come home from store an’ found
all the doors locked. The shutters was tight
closed an’ they was no sign o’ life ’cept a leetle
bit o’ smoke dancin’ up an’ down on the chimbley
top. I give a loud knock. They was no answer.
I knocked agin an’ yelled. The garret winder
slid up an’ out come the bawrel o’ a gun, then
Pap’s head.</p>
<p>“‘Hello!’ sais he. ‘Is you a friend or a lily
o’ the walley?’</p>
<p>“‘Pap,’ I sais, ‘it’s your own lovin’ son,’ sais I.
‘Don’t leave me out here unprotected, the prey
to the next lily that comes along lookin’ where-withal
he shall borrer.’</p>
<p>“The ole man opened the door an’ let me in.
Then he locked it agin an’ barred it. He picked
up his musket wery solemn like an’ run the rammer
down the bawrel to show it was loaded half way
to the muzzle.</p>
<p>“‘They was ten lilies here, one after the other,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
to-day,’ he sais. ‘They’ve left us the bed, the
dough tray, three chairs, a table, an’ a few odds
an’ ends. ’Hen I seen the last foot o’ our sausage
disappearin’ down the road under Widdy Spade’s
arm I made a wow. The next lily that blooms
about this clearin’ gits its blossoms blowed off.’</p>
<p>“It didn’t take long fer the news o’ Pap’s wow
to fly from one eend of Buzzard Walley to the
other. Zeb Pole got a job in the saw-mill. Hen
Jossel went back to bark-peelin’ an’ cuttin’ ties.
Widdy Spade planted her garden.”</p>
<p>“Well,” exclaimed the Miller, as the Loafer
closed his account of the idiosyncracies of Zebulon
Pole, “I can’t see any way why your pap was
raisin’ sech fool things ez lilies. They’s only
good to look at.”</p>
<p>“I understand that all right,” said the student.
“What I want to know is, what have you demonstrated
by all this talk?”</p>
<p>“I ain’t demonstratened nawthin’,” replied the
Loafer. “You conterdicted me because I sayd
a man should travel slow an’ take things easy in
this world, an’ I proved that them ez travels fast
is fools, gainin’ nawthin’ in the eend fer themselves
or other folks. Then ye switches right
’round an’ adwises livin’ in a tub. I showed ye
what that led to.”</p>
<p>“Then are we all to commit suicide?”</p>
<p>“No. Travel comf’table th’oo this world.
Travel slow but allus keep movin’. Ye can see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
the country ez ye go, stoppin’ now an’ then to
fish trout, or take a bang at a coon, or at the store
to discuss a leetle. Don’t live too fast—don’t live
too slow—live mejum.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Bumbletree’s Bass-Horn.</i></span></h2>
<p>From the thick limbs of the maples came the
discordant chatter of the cricket, the katydid and
the tree-frog; from the creek beyond the mill the
hoarse bellow of the bull-frog; from the darkening
sky the shrill call of the night-hawk; and out of
the woods across the flats the plaintive cry of the
whippoorwill and the hoot of the owl. It was the
evening chorus, but the loungers on the store
porch did not hear it, for to them it was a part of
the night’s stillness. But when, wafted across the
meadows from the hills beyond, the notes of a
horn sounded faint and clear, the Chronic Loafer,
who for a long time had been smoking his pipe in
silence, cried, “What’s that?”</p>
<p>“Slatter up the Dingdang,” said the Storekeeper.
He was sitting on the steps.</p>
<p>“No, it ain’t; it’s Nellie Grey,” said the School
Teacher in a voice that brooked no contradiction.
Then in a deep bass he began singing,</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Oh, me little Nellie Grey, they have taken her away,</div>
<div class="verse">An’ I’ll never see me darlin’ any more,</div>
<div class="verse">I’m a-settin’ be the river with——”</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“You’re a-settin’ on my porch,” cried the Storekeeper,
for he was nettled at having had his
knowledge of music questioned. “Sam Butter
can’t blow that tune, an’ he has ben out every night
a-practisin’ ‘Slatter up the Dingdang!’”</p>
<p>The music on the hill ceased, leaving no tangible
ground on which the debate could be continued.
The Chronic Loafer had too long been
the butt of the pedagogue’s cutting sarcasm to
miss this opportunity of scoring him.</p>
<p>“Ef that ain’t a good un,” he roared. “Why,
you uns doesn’t know nawthin’ ’bout tunes,
Teacher. Jim Clock he was een last night an’
hear Sam a-blowin’ that wery piece. He sayd it
was ‘Slatter up the Dingdang,’ an’ I conjure that
Jim knows, fer he is ’bout the best bass-horn
player they is.”</p>
<p>The Storekeeper feared that this support from
the Loafer might somewhat prejudice his own
case in the minds of the others, so he ventured,
“Not the best they is.”</p>
<p>“Well, the best they is in Pennsylwany,” said
the Loafer.</p>
<p>“There are some ignoramuses don’t know
nothin’,” exclaimed the Teacher. It was dark,
but by the light of the lantern that hung in the
window the men could see that he was gazing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
meaningly at his adversary. “But I know some
that knows less than nothin’. The best horn-blower
they is! Why, where’s your Rubensteins,
your Paddyrewskies, your Pattis?”</p>
<p>He stopped, for he saw that the mention of
these names had had the desired effect on his
audience, as there was a wise wagging of
heads.</p>
<p>But the Loafer was irrepressible. “Why,” he
retorted, “Patti ain’t a horn-player. He’s a
singer. I was readin’ a piece in the paper ’bout
him jest last week. An’ ez fer ole Rube Stein, he
never played nawthin’ but checkers.”</p>
<p>“Well, can’t a man both sing an’ play the
horn?” the Teacher snapped.</p>
<p>“Perfessor, I agree with ye, I agree with ye entirely.”
The Tinsmith had been silent hitherto,
on the end of the bench. Now he leaned into
view, resting an elbow on his knee and supporting
his head with his hand. “Jim Clock don’t
know no more ’bout blowin’ a bass-horn then my
ole friend, Borax Bumbletree. Borax he knowd
jest that leetle he was fired outen the Kishikoquillas
In’epen’en’ Ban’. He come of a musical
fam’ly, too. His mother an’ pap use to play the
prettiest kind o’ duets on the melodium an’ ’cordine.
His sister Amandy Lucy an’ his brother
Hiram could sing like nightingales an’ b’longed
to the choir at Happy Grove Church. It seems
like Borax was left out in the distributin’ o’ music<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
in that fam’ly, an’ consequent it went hard with
him. ’Henever strangers was at the house it was
allus, ‘Mr. Bumbletree, do play the melodium,’ or,
‘Now, Amanda Lucy, sing one o’ your beautiful
pieces,’ an’ all that. Poor Borax, he jest set an’
moped.</p>
<p>“Final he ’lowed he’d give the fam’ly a s’prise
an’ learn the bass-horn, cal’latin’ to make up be
hard hustlin’ what he’d missed be natur’—the
knowledge of the dif’rence ’tween a sharp an’ a
flat, a note an’ a bar, a treble an’ a soprany, an’
all them things. He begin be j’inin’ the In’pen’en’
Ban’. Fer six weeks he practised hard, an’ at
last he did git to playin’ a couple o’ pieces. But
the other fellys in the ban’ was continual’ complainin’
that Borax didn’t keep no kind o’ time;
an’ not only that, but he drownded ’em all out,
fer he could make a heap o’ noise. They sayd
they wouldn’t play with him no more tell he
learned to blow time. Borax was clean discouraged,
but he didn’t give up. He practised six
weeks more an’ tried it with the ban’ boys agin.
They sayd now that he didn’t know pitch an’ ruined
their pieces a-bellerin’ way down in <em>A</em> ’hen they
was blowin’ up in high <em>C</em>. He was pretty well cut
up, but ’lowed he’d quit.</p>
<p>“I think he meant what he sayd an’ ’ud ’a’ kep’
his promise ef it hedn’t ’a’ ben that a woman interfered
with his good intentions. She was Pet
Parsley—Widdy Parsley, who lived with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
mother back in Buzzard Walley. Borax hed a
shine fer her afore she merried, an’ after she become
a widdy he was wus ’an ever. One night
at a ban’ festival, ’hen she was standin’ sellin’ at
the ice-crim counter, he was a-jollyin’ her. Now
he noticed that young Bill Hooker, who’d tuk his
place in the ban’, was makin’ eyes at her over the
top o’ his bass-horn while he was playin’. That
near drove Bumbletree mad, fer him an’ Bill hed
ben runnin’ neck an’ neck, an’ he knowd they was
approachin’ the string.</p>
<p>“‘Don’t Mr. Hooker play gran’?’ sais Pet kind
o’ timid like.</p>
<p>“‘Well, I don’t know,’ answers Borax, ‘I’ve
heerd better.’</p>
<p>“‘Oh, hev ye,’ sais she, kind o’ perkin’ up her
nose. ’I ’low you’re jealous. Can you play at
all?’</p>
<p>“‘Well, can I?’ sais Borax. ‘Why, I can
blow all ’round him.’</p>
<p>“‘I’d like to hear you,’ sais Pet. ‘Won’t you
come an’ blow fer me sometim’?’</p>
<p>“‘I will,’ he answers, wery determined.</p>
<p>“He went home that night bound to git time
an’ pitch together. He started to practise ’round
the house but his fam’ly objected. The missus
’lowed she could never play the ’cordine with sech
a bellerin’ goin’ on. Amandy Lucy went so fur
ez to say it ’ud ruin her voice. But that didn’t
stop Borax. He sayd he’d practise ’way from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
the house. Every night after the feedin’ was
done he use to take his horn, his music marks an’
a lantern, an’ go out on the hill ahint the barn.
There, settin’ on a lawg, with the lantern hangin’
on a saplin’, he’d blow away. Many a night that
summer ez I set over at our placet on the next
ridge, I’d hear Borax a boom-boom-boomin’ to
git the time. The big tones ’ud go echoin’ way
over in the mo’ntain. Oncet in a while he’d hit
it good, an’ I tell you uns it sounded pretty to
hear them notes a-rollin’ deep acrosst the gut,
a-sighin’ th’oo the trees an’ a-dyin’ way off in the
woods.</p>
<p>“Then he tuk up pitch. He blowed pitch fer
a week an’ then tried pitch an’ time together. I
thot he was doin’ pretty well. Still them ban’
boys wasn’t satisfied. They sayd he didn’t go up
an’ down right, an’ that they couldn’t hev him
a-blowin’ ’way at pitch an’ time an’ never makin’
no new notes. He ’lowed to me that they was a
heap to learn ’bout blowin’ a bass-horn, but he
was goin’ to git it ef it ’ud only be of uset in the
next worl’.</p>
<p>“At nights I could see his light a-twinklin’ in
the woods acrosst the gut an’ hear him tryin’ to
blow time an’ pitch an’ ups an’ downs all at
oncet. He’d git his wind fixed to blow <em>A</em>, an’
out ’ud come a <em>C</em>; or he’d try fer a <em>D</em> an’ land an
<em>E</em>. He ’lowed to me oncet that sometim’ he thot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
mebbe it was willed that he was never to git a
tune. But he kep’ at it.</p>
<p>“Now Bill Hooker hed ben to Horrisburg
that summer an’ got him a brown cady hat. That
was a new kind o’ headgear ’round Kishikoquillas
an’ it cot on wonderful well. All the boys
’lowed they’d git ’em, but tell they had a chancet
o’ buyin’ one they got to depend on Bill fer the
loan o’ hisn ’hen they was goin’ out shinin’. So
Hooker wasn’t s’prised one night ’hen Borax
Bumbletree drove up to his placet an’ ’lowed
mebbe Hooker mightn’t like to loan him his cady,
ez he was goin’ callin’. Bill allus was obligin’ an’
thot no harm ’hen he watched Borax a-drivin’
away with his cady settin’ way up on top o’ his
head. Bumbletree hitched his buckboard to
a saplin’ on the edge o’ Pet Parsley’s clearin’.
Then he got his horn out from in under the seat,
fixed himself on a stump ’bout fifty feet from the
house, put up his music marks so the moonlight
shone on ’em, an’ begin to play. He started the
serynade with ‘Soft th’oo the Eventide,’ that
bein’ sentymental an’ his most famil’ar piece.
He put his whole heart into the work an’ was
soon blowin’ time an’ pitch an’ ups an’ downs all
at oncet. The lamp that hed ben settin’ in the
windy went out—that was all to show he’d ben
heard. He blowed ‘Pull fer the Shore, Sailor.’
No sign o’ life in the house. He blowed ‘The
Star Spangled Banner.’ Still no sign. He then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
begin all over agin with ‘Soft th’oo the Eventide.’
Be this time the whole chicken-house hed
j’ined in, an’ the cows was takin’ a hand too. He
was desp’rit, dissypinted fearful an’ all used up.
So he went home.</p>
<p>“You take a reg’lar thief. He knows they’s
only one eend to thievin’—jail. An’ he’ll keep on
stealin’ tell he gits there. Take a reg’lar murderer.
He knows they’s only one eend to murder—the
galluses; yit he’ll continyer murderin’ tell
he gits there. So it is with a reg’lar man. He
knows they’s only one result o’ bein’ in lawv—to
be merried or git the mitten. An’ yit he’ll keep
right on tell he gits one or the other. So it was
with Borax Bumbletree. He hed no reason to
think he’d git anything but the mitten, yit he
went right up to Pet Parsley’s next night to take
his punishment. He tol’ me that day that he
guesst his serynade hed spoiled all the chancet he
ever had, but he wanted it over.</p>
<p>“So he was kind o’ sheepish an’ hang-dog ’hen
he’d sayd good evenin’ to the widdy an’ set down
melancholy like, on the wood-box. They was
quiet a piecet.</p>
<p>“Then he sayd, ‘I hear ye hed some music up
here last night.’</p>
<p>“He was jest fishin’.</p>
<p>“‘Did I!’ sais she, flarin’ up. ‘Well, I guesst
I did. An’ the chickens was so stirred up they
kep’ on all night an’ not a wink o’ sleep did we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
git in this house. I never heerd sech bass-horn
blowin’.’</p>
<p>“Borax jest hung his head an’ shuffled his
feet.</p>
<p>“The widdy spoke up agin. ‘Does you ever
see Bill Hooker?’</p>
<p>“‘Oncet in a long while,’ Borax answers.</p>
<p>“‘Well, you tell him,’ she sais, ‘that next time
he comes up here to serynade me to send notice
so I can git over the other side the mo’ntain.’</p>
<p>“Borax Bumbletree gasped an’ almost fell offen
the wood-box.</p>
<p>“‘How’d you know it was Bill Hooker?’ he
asts quick.</p>
<p>“‘Well, didn’t I see that new fandangled hat o’
hisn—that cady I’ve heerd so much about. Why,
I’d ’a’ knowd him a mile.’</p>
<p>“Now Borax wasn’t ez slow on everything ez
he was on music. He was right smart, he was.
He seen the way the wind blowed.</p>
<p>“Gittin’ offen the wood-box he went over to
the settee alongside o’ her.</p>
<p>“‘Pet,’ he sais, ‘I allus told you Bill Hooker
couldn’t blow the bass-horn.’</p>
<p>“‘I otter ’a’ knowd you could blow a heap
sight better,’ she sais quiet like, but meanin’ business.</p>
<p>“‘That I can,’ sais he. ‘An’ after we’re merried—not
tell after, mind ye—I’ll blow sech music
fer ye ez ye never dreamed of.’”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p>
<p>“My sights, but he was innercent!” the Loafer
cried.</p>
<p>“What do you know ’bout it?” snapped the
Tinsmith.</p>
<p>“Why, him thinkin’ she’d give him a chancet
to blow.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Little Si Berrybush.</i></span></h2>
<p>The Chronic Loafer held in his hand a single
sheet of a Philadelphia paper nine days old. The
other pages had long since left the store in
service as wrappings. This treasure he had rescued
from such ignominious use and now was
poring over it letter by letter. The center of
the page was within three inches of the end of
his nose. His brow was furrowed and his lips
moved. At intervals he lifted his right hand
and with the forefinger beat time to his reading.
He was comfortably fixed on an egg-crate close
by the stove. The paper hid him from the view
of his companions. They could not see the earnest
workings of his features but they could hear a
steady, sonorous mumble and were curious. They
knew better than to interrupt him in his arduous
task, however, and awaited with commendable
patience the time when he should choose to come
forth from his seclusion and tell them all about it.</p>
<p>They had not long to wait. Suddenly he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
jerked his head forward three times, viciously
butting the paper, simultaneously emitting a
burring sound not unlike that of an angry bull
when he tears up the sod with his horns. The
curtain fell to show him calm again but with a
puzzled expression on his countenance.</p>
<p>“Teacher,” he said, “what does <em>h-a-b-e-a-s</em>
spell?”</p>
<p>“Hab-by-ace,” replied the pedagogue promptly.
He threw out his chest and fixed his thumbs in
their favorite resting-place, the arm-holes of his
waistcoat. His attitude was that of a man who
was full to the neck with general information
and only needed uncorking.</p>
<p>“Habbyace,” said the Loafer. “Habbyace—habbyace—that’s
a new un on me.”</p>
<p>“Doubtless it is,” the other retorted, “if you
have never studied Latin. It means <em>have</em>.”</p>
<p>“Have—have,” muttered the Loafer, more
puzzled than ever. “Then what’s <em>c-o-r-p-u-s</em>
spell?”</p>
<p>“Corpuse,” replied the pedagogue, “being the
Latin for body.”</p>
<p>“Then I’m stumped.” The Loafer crumpled
up his paper in one hand and shook the other at
the assembled company. “Them ceety lawyers
certainly beat the band.”</p>
<p>“What’s all the trouble now?” inquired the
Tinsmith.</p>
<p>The Loafer unfolded the sheet again and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
smoothed it out on his knees. Then he leaned
over it and eyed it intently.</p>
<p>“I was jest readin’ a piece about a man called
Jawhn O’Brien,” he said slowly. “He was ’rested
fer killin’ his wife an’ two young uns. It sais the
evydence is dead agin him an’ he is sure to hang.
He has hired J. Montgomery Cole to defend him.
The first thing the lawyer does is to go inter court
an’ ast fer a habbyace corpuse. Mighty souls!
The idee! How’s that to defend a man—jest to
ast fer his dead body.”</p>
<p>The Patriarch shook his head solemnly. “Terrible—terrible,”
he said. “Sech men ought
never git diplomys.”</p>
<p>“Yit, Gran’pap,” suggested the Tinsmith,
“don’t ye think after all it’s best they is some sech
lawyers? Why, ef it wasn’t fer the dumb lawyers
they’d never be no murderers brought to jestice.”</p>
<p>“True—true,” said the old man. “Now it
used to be that ’hen a man committed murder
he was tried, an’ ef the evydence was agin him,
he was hung. Nowadays a felly commits murder
an’ a year is spent hevin’ him indickted. After
he’s indickted a year is ockypied with these
habbyace corpuse proceedin’s. They settles who
gits the body in caset he’s hung an’ then they finds
what they calls a ‘flaw in the indicktment.’ They
indickts him agin. Next comes the question of a
‘change in vendue.’ It takes a year to argy that
pint an’ after it the trial begins. Ef he’s found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
innercent it means he’s ben livin’ th’ee years doin’
nawthin’ at the county’s expense. Ef he’s found
guilty his lawyer takes what they calls an ‘exception,’
meanin’ he objects to him bein’ hung.
It takes a year to——”</p>
<p>“But, Gran’pap,” interrupted the Loafer,
“ye must remember that the principle o’ the
law is that because a man commits murder is no
sign he’s guilty.”</p>
<p>“I know—I know,” the Patriarch said. “Ye
can’t catch me on law. I thot o’ stedyin’ it
oncet. But ez I was sayin’—where was it I left
off?”</p>
<p>“What’s a ‘change o’ vendue,’ Gran’pap?”
inquired the Miller.</p>
<p>The old man glared at the speaker.</p>
<p>“That wasn’t the pint where I left off,” he
snapped.</p>
<p>“Yes, but what is it, Gran’pap?” the Tinsmith
asked.</p>
<p>But the Patriarch had forgotten all about the
defects of the law. He had leaned forward, resting
his hands on his cane and his head on his
hands, and was studying the floor intently.</p>
<p>“Buttonporgie stood six feet two in his stockin’s,”
he said half aloud, after a long silence.
“That there was the way to do ’em. Now ef
Si Berrybush hed ben livin’ to-day, he’d be fussin’
with indicktments an’ changes of vendues an’
all them things an’——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p>
<p>“Who air you talkin’ to now?” exclaimed the
Loafer.</p>
<p>The old man looked up. “Oh!” he said. “I
forgot. Sure, I forgot. Ye never heard o’
Tom Buttonporgie did ye, or Si Berrybush?”</p>
<p>None of the company had heard of the pair,
so the Patriarch consented to enlighten them.</p>
<p>“I got the main pints o’ the story from Tom
himself,” he began. “He used to tell it ’hen he
stayed at my pap’s place ’hen I was a bit of a
boy. He allus told it the same way, too, which
was evydence of it bein’ true. I wish all you uns
could ’a’ heard him. Mighty, but it was a treat!
Why, he was never in our house two minutes till
us children was runnin’ ’round him callin’ to him
to tell us how he done Si Berrybush. But he’d
never give us a word till he’d opened his pedler’s
pack an’ sold somethin’ to Ma an’ the girls.
Next it was his supper an’ a pipe. Then I’d
climb on his one knee an’ my sister Solly on the
other. Ed an’ May ’ud git on the wood-box an’
Pap an’ Ma on the settee. It took th’ee pipes to
wind Tom up. Then he’d go beautiful. The
words ’ud role out like music an’ you’d fergit the
kitchen an’ the folks around. You’d be out in
the woods with him, steppin’ along with him
hour after hour ez he was carryin’ Si Berrybush
to freedom. You’d see the things ez he saw, an’
you’d feel the things ez he felt. Now ye was
low down an’ discouraged. Everything was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
dark ez ye stumbled on an’ on, achin’ in every
limb, expectin’ each minute ’ud be your last.
Now ye was hopin’. They was a chance fer ye
yit. The light broke. The load was gone. Si
Berrybush was gone, an’ ye was back in the ole
kitchen agin, with Pap an’ Ma sound asleep on
the settee.</p>
<p>“Ez I was sayin’, Tom Buttonporgie stood six
feet two in his stockin’s an’ was a most powerful
man, fer walkin’ day after day, luggin’ a great pack
on his back, hed give him the muscles of an ox. He
used to come to this walley oncet every summer
so he knowd well o’ Si Berrybush, who was the
desperatest man ever seen in these parts. Si’s ockypation
was robbin’. He made his headquarters
in the mo’ntain acrosst the river. His hand was
agin everybody an’ everybody knowd it, yit he
never was catched. Oncet a pedler was found
dead in the bushes with a bullet hole in his head
an’ his pack turned inside out. They sayd Berrybush
did it, so he went down to the Sheriff’s an’
give himself up. They was no evydence an’ he
walked home agin. A couple o’ times things like
that happened an’ yit they was never an ioty o’
proof. He’d ’a’ died a nat’ral death, I guess, ef
he hedn’t forgot himself one night in the willage
an’ shot Joe Hyde. They was too many fellys
handy who hed grudges agin him to let him git
away, an’ they clapped him in jail, tried him an’
sentenced him to be hung.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p>
<p>“Now, about this time, Tom Buttonporgie come
over the mo’ntain inter the walley. Late in the
afternoon he reached Ben Clock’s place near Eden,
an’ ez they knowd him well they ast him to spend
the night. After supper the family hed a game
o’ cards an’ about nine o’clock Tom tuk up his
pack an’ started fer the barn where he was to
sleep, fer the house was full. Clock lighted the
way with a lantern an’ saw him comfortable fixed.
The pack was stowed away in a corner o’ the
barn-floor, while the pedler was settled nice ez ye
please on a horse-blanket in the hay-mow.</p>
<p>“Tom Buttonporgie slept sound an’ hard.
Everything in this world was pleasant fer him.
Things was goin’ his way. It’s strange that it
should be so, boys, but yit it is true that sleep
comes easiest an’ quickest to them ez hes nawthin’
but good things to forget in it. So from the time
he laid his head down on the hay till a kick awoke
him, Tom knowd nawthin’. He opened his eyes
with a jerk an’ set up an’ rubbed ’em. The airly
mornin’ light was jest creepin’ inter the barn, but
he could make out only a small, dark figure a few
feet away.</p>
<p>“‘Good morning, Mr. Clock,’ sais he wery pleasant,
tho’ he was a leetle put out at the rough way
he’d ben woke.</p>
<p>“‘Good mornin’, Tom,’ sais the figure wery
cheerful. ‘You’ve mistook me, fer my name is
Berrybush.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘Hen the pedler hear that he made a grab fer
his pistol. He’d laid it in the hay close to him,
but now it was gone. He started to rise but he
felt a steel bawrel pressed agin his head. Buttonporgie
was big an’ full o’ grit, but he knowd that
ye can’t argy with lead. So he set down.</p>
<p>“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘I guess you’ve got me, Mr.
Berrybush.’</p>
<p>“‘I think I hev,’ the murderer answers, ‘an’ I’ve
got ye good,’ he sais. ‘I intend to keep ye, too,
fer I’m right fresh out o’ jail an’ soon the whole
country’ll be lookin’ fer me. Excuse the familiarity,’
he goes on polite like, ‘but we’ll be Tom
an’ Si fer some hours to come, fer you’re to carry
me outen these parts in your pack.’</p>
<p>“That idee made Buttonporgie gasp. He tried
to git up but bumped agin the pistol.</p>
<p>“Si Berrybush laughed an’ went on in that
pleasant way o’ his: ‘I notice the plan ain’t
takin’ well with ye, Tom, but you’ll see how nice
it works. While you slept,’ he sais, ‘I fixed the
pack. The goods is all stowed away here in the
hay an’ I find I fit the leather box to a T. I git
in it; you put it on your back an’ go th’ee mile
an hour. Nawthin’s easier.’</p>
<p>“Then he laughed like he’d die.</p>
<p>“Be this time they was quite some light in the
barn an’ the pedler was able to see who he hed
to deal with. The first sight was encouragin’,
fer he was but a bit of a man, not more than five<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
feet th’ee. He’d a wery small body set on crooked
spindle legs. His face was pleasant enough, fer
they was nawthin’ in his leetle, black eyes an’
heavy, red beard to mark him ez a desperaydo.
The only real onlikely thing about him was the
pedler’s pistol.</p>
<p>“Tom kind o’ cheers up now an’ sais, sais he,
‘Si, you’ve mistook the whole thing. Don’t ye see
I’ll turn ye over to the first men we meet?’</p>
<p>“At that Si th’owed back his head an’ laughed.</p>
<p>“‘Will ye?’ he sais. ‘Well I guess ye would,
only this pistol’ll be stickin’ th’oo a hole in the
back o’ the pack. Ef you go to carry out sech an
idee two bullets’ll end the both of us, an’ that’s
a sight better than hangin’. So come on,’ he sais.
‘We must be movin’.’</p>
<p>“Tom wasn’t in fer undertakin’ sech a job
without objectin’.</p>
<p>“‘See here, Si!’ he sais. ‘I appeals to you ez
a gentleman,’ he sais. ‘I’ve allus heard you was
a gentleman in spite o’ your faults—I appeal to
you to tell me what good it would do you to kill
yourself an’ me too. You hain’t no particular
spite agin me,’ Tom goes on, ‘an’ I hain’t no
particular spite agin you. I’m willin’ fer you to
stay in this barn an’ me git out, or fer you to git
out an’ me stay, both of us keepin’ quiet.’</p>
<p>“Si’s eyes kind o’ twinkled an’ he pulled his
beard like he was thinkin’ wery hard.</p>
<p>“‘Shake me, Tom!’ he sais at last, ‘ef I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
like a man o’ your sperrit. Ef I wasn’t in sech a
bad hole I’d be tempted to accept your offer.
But onfortunate fer both of us,’ he sais, ‘this
whole walley will be overrun with searchin’ parties
in a few hours. They’ve got a chancet to hang
Si Berrybush an’ they ain’t goin’ to lose it ef they
can help it.’</p>
<p>“Buttonporgie was a nice man an’ a smart man
at his business, but they was some things that it
was a leetle hard to git into his head.</p>
<p>“‘See here!’ he sais, not satisfied. ‘I can’t
see what good it ’ud do you to shoot me ef I was
to call one o’ them searchin’ parties to take a
look in my pack. You’d hev to hang anyway.
Why couldn’t ye jest shoot yourself?’</p>
<p>“‘You’re wastin’ walable time,’ Si answers.
‘I’ll kill myself sooner than be catched. Ez long
ez you know that you’ll be killed ef I am catched,
you won’t bother callin’ folks to see what you are
carryin’. An’, Tom,’ he went on, ‘I might jest ez
well tell you now that ’hen we git well out o’
harm’s way, I’m goin’ to shoot ye anyhow. I
don’t want to leave no one ’round to blab.’</p>
<p>“Si Berrybush smiled the innercentest smile
you uns ever see, an’ the pedler chewed a straw
a spell.</p>
<p>“Then he looks up an’ sais, ‘You must take
me for a dummy?’</p>
<p>“‘Why?’ Si asts.</p>
<p>“‘Do you think I’ll lug you thirty or forty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
mile jest so you can shoot me?’ answers Buttonporgie.
‘I might ez well call it up now!’ he sais.</p>
<p>“Si cocked his pistol careless-like an’ pinted
it at the other man’s head ez tho’ it was his
finger an’ he was jest makin’ a good argyment
on religion.</p>
<p>“‘You are a dummy,’ he sais, laughin’. ‘Now
don’t you s’pose that ez long ez you think there’s
hope, a chancet o’ your comin’ out alive, you’ll
carry me. Of course ye will,’ he sais. ‘Not
till there’s not an ioty of a possibility o’ your
doin’ me, will you let me finish you.’”</p>
<p>“Mighty souls, but that Si was an argyer, now
wasn’t he!” the Miller interrupted.</p>
<p>“He’d ’a’ looked like small potatys ’long side
o’ my Missus. I mind the time ’hen jest fer fun
I——”</p>
<p>The Patriarch tapped the Loafer gently on the
knee with his cane.</p>
<p>“My dear man,” he said gently, “never interrupt
a good story. It ain’t polite. There is
some peculiarly minded folks ez is never happy
’less they is doin’ all the talkin’. Now where did
I leave off?”</p>
<p>“Where there was hope—some hope,” the
Miller answered.</p>
<p>“Hope—oh, yes—hope,” the old man continued.
“Mighty! Why I’ve knowd a sensible hen to
set four weeks on a chiny egg, jest in hope that she
might be mistaken. Si Berrybush knowd human<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
natur’ well, fer it didn’t need but a wiggle or two
o’ the pistol to bring Buttonporgie to takin’ his
view o’ the sensibleness o’ hopin’. The pedler
looked kind o’ sheepish an’ ’lowed he guesst Si
was right. Si sayd he guesst he was, an’ climbed
into the pack, an’ most mighty snug he fit it.
Then Buttonporgie knelt down, put his arms
th’oo the straps an’ lifted the load high on his
back. Si closed down the flap. A second later
Tom felt the muzzle o’ the pistol pressin’ him
gentle like atween the shoulders.</p>
<p>“‘Now we’re off,’ sais Si, ‘over the mo’ntains
th’oo Windy Gap. Step light, ole hoss,’ he
sais, ‘fer the gun’s cocked an’ too much joltin’ll
send it off.’”</p>
<p>“Mighty souls!” interrupted the Loafer.
“An’ how fur did he hev to carry him, Gran’pap?
A mile?”</p>
<p>“A mile!” exclaimed the Patriarch. “Pshaw!
Does you uns think a mile ’ud ’a’ put Si Berrybush
outen the way o’ the sheriff’s posse. Why, the
whole county was alive that mornin’. It was
hardly sun-up ’hen Tom Buttonporgie stepped
outen Clock’s barn an’ went ploddin’ up the big
road with his pack, yit at the eend o’ the first
mile he met th’ee men on horseback, an’ they
pulled up an’ told him all about Berrybush an’
warned him to keep out a sharp eye. Tom felt
the pistol bawrel kind o’ nosin’ ’round his
shoulders, so he laughed wery pleasant an’ ’lowed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
it was all right; he was obliged fer the warnin’
but there was no help fer Si Berrybush ef he ever
come within the length o’ his arm. On he went
agin. Ez the last o’ the horses’ hoofs died away
down the road he hear a gentle chucklin’ coming
from his pack.</p>
<p>“‘Wery good,’ sais Si, ‘most a mighty good.’</p>
<p>“The pedler was a religious man yit he swore.
At that he could feel his pack palpitatin’, fer his
load was laughin’ an’ laughin’ to beat all. Tom
swore some more, but he kept up his walkin’.</p>
<p>“Si ’lowed it wasn’t nice fer Tom to carry on so.</p>
<p>“‘It makes me feel bad,’ he sayd, talkin’ th’oo
a slit in the top o’ the pack. ‘It makes me feel
bad, Tom, to hear you behavin’ like that. I
don’t mind killin’ a good man, fer I knows he’ll
git his reward in the next world. But shootin’ a
felly after he’s used sech language hurts me,’ he
sayd.</p>
<p>“With that he rubbed the nose o’ the pistol
between Tom’s shoulder-blades. The pedler jest
bubbled.</p>
<p>“‘Keep on hopin’, Tom,’ he heard the woice at
his back. ‘Mebbe somethin’ll happen ’twixt now
an’ to-morrow mornin’ that’ll let you free o’ your
pack!’</p>
<p>“The sun come out hot, an’ the road was
dusty. The load was heavy an’ they was a good
many long hills. Time an’ agin Tom ’ud slow
down. ‘Git up, ole hoss,’ he’d hear come from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
behind him. Then they’d be that pistol jabbin’
him. He’d make a face an’ pick up his gait.
Time an’ agin he met parties ez was out huntin’
the murderer. Sometim’s he’d hurry by them;
others he stopped an’ talked to, askin’ all about
Si Berrybush an’ his escape, thankin’ ’em fer
their adwice an’ ’lowin’ over an’ over agin he’d
give his last cent jest to have the leetle man in
his grasp.</p>
<p>“Be noon he’d covered nine mile an’ reached
the foot o’ the mo’ntain.</p>
<p>“‘Now see here, Si,’ he sais, sais he, ‘you ain’t
goin’ to kill your horse be overwork, are ye?
S’posn I drop down in the road!’</p>
<p>“‘Nobody’s sorrier than I am fer your trouble,
Tom,’ come the answer. ‘It’s really pitiful. But
I’ll risk your givin’ out—I’ll risk it.’</p>
<p>“Then there was the pistol agin.</p>
<p>“At the last house in the walley Tom stopped
an’ got a loaf o’ bread be special permission. The
woman wanted to hev a look at his pack, but he
sayd no; what he had in it wasn’t worth lookin’ at.
He was carryin’ low-down, mean, mis’able stock
that wasn’t fit to show to no lady. Besides—the
pistol was jabbin’ him—he hed to hurry on to git
over the mo’ntain be sunset. An’ on he went.</p>
<p>“Si begin laughin’ so hard it set the pack
joltin’ up an’ down on Tom’s back an’ almost upset
him.</p>
<p>“‘That was a mean undercut you give me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
Thomas,’ sais the murderer. ‘A gentleman should
never abuse a gentleman behind his back!’ he
sais. ‘Now s’posn you pass that bread in here.’</p>
<p>“‘But I got it fer meself,’ Tom wentures.</p>
<p>“‘Did ye?’ answers Berrybush, pressin’ on the
butt of the gun jest a leetle. ‘Well, s’posn ye pass
it in anyway an’ dewote the rest o’ the afternoon
to hopin’. Mebbe you’ll git it after all.’</p>
<p>“Tom passed it.</p>
<p>“The road was steep an’ the way was rough in
the mo’ntain. Strong ez he was an’ light ez was
the murderer, the work begin to go heavy with
him. But the pistol was allus at his back proddin’
him on. Oncet he stepped inter a chuckhole an
pitched for’a’d, his hands jest savin’ him from
strikin’ his face to the ground. He thot that all
was up with him, fer the pack was jerked up on
his head, wrenchin’ his shoulders most dreadful.
He closed his eyes expectin’ to hear the crack o’
the gun an’ then go plungin’ on agin fer ever an’
ever.</p>
<p>“Nawthin’ happened. He climbed to his feet
kind o’ dissypinted, fer instead o’ his journey
bein’ ended he hed to go limpin’ ahead. Si was
a-cursin’ him dreadful. Tom walked like an
ellyphant, he sayd, an’ was joltin’ his bones all
out o’ j’int. Next time he stumbled the gun ’ud
be cocked dead sure.</p>
<p>“The sun was settin’ ’hen they reached the
edge o’ the woods on yon side the mo’ntain. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
murderer pushed up the lid o’ the pack an’ looked
out over Tom’s shoulder. He pinted acrosst the
walley twenty mile to where they could see the
hills agin. There, he sayd, he’d be th’oo with
his mule.</p>
<p>“Th’oo with him! Tom knowd what that
meant. He knowd now Si Berrybush ’ud keep
his word; that he’d never git out o’ that pack
an’ leave a man alive an’ runnin’ round to tell
where he could be found. He was almost willin’
to call the game up right there an’ lay down his
load an’ his life together, but still there was hope.
It was precious leetle, to be sure, but still some.
Ez Si sayd, they was no tellin’ what might happen
agin they got to the end o’ that twenty mile.</p>
<p>“Berrybush pulled in his head an’ let the flap
down over it. ‘Git up’, he sais, ‘git up, ole Tom.’
An’ with that he give him a prod.</p>
<p>“On Buttonporgie went, down the slope inter
the walley, each step takin’ him nearer an’ nearer
the hills. The sun set an’ the darkness come to
add to his troubles. The lights went out in the
houses ’long the way an’ they wasn’t no sound
to cheer him up, not a sound but the steady
breathin’ in his pack an’ the rattle o’ the
gravel under his own shufflin’ feet. It was
awful travellin’ that way, straight on an’ on
to the hills where he was to die, feelin’ allus
on his back the weight o’ the man who was to
kill him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p>
<p>“Final he couldn’t stand the silence no more.
‘Si,’ he cried, ‘Si, won’t ye talk to me!’</p>
<p>“They wasn’t no answer. He only heard a
heavy breathin’ in the pack.</p>
<p>“The moon come up an’ lighted the road an’
the dogs begin to bay at it. That might ’a’
cheered him up some had he ’a’ heard ’em, but he
didn’t hear nawthin’ now. Tom Buttonporgie
was dazed like. He kept on a-walkin’ an’ a-walkin’,
but the straps no longer cut his shoulders
an’ he forgot the load on his back. The road
with the moonlight pourin’ over it seemed like a
broad white pavement crosst the walley, smooz
ez marble. They was no chuckholes now to
stumble in, no thank-ye-ma’ams to jump over, no
ruts to twist his ankles. It was all smooz—smooz
ez marble it was. On he went, faster an’ faster.
He wanted to git to the eend o’ the white road
now an’ lay down his pack an’ sleep. He was
walkin’ mechanical.</p>
<p>“All o’ a sudden a queer sound woke him from
his doze an’ he stopped short. It all come back
agin. He was in the road an’ the road was
rough, an’ the straps was cuttin’ dreadful, an’ his
legs felt like they was givin’ way under him.
The pack was on his back an’ awful heavy too.
He reached up his hand an’ felt it. But a queer
sound was comin’ from it—most a mighty queer.
Tom didn’t dast breathe. He stood still listenin’.
Then it come louder—a soft purrin’, gentle ez a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
cat’s. An’ the peddler laughed. Natur’ hed
tackled Si Berrybush an’ walloped him. He was
snorin’.</p>
<p>“There was an oneasy movement in the pack.
Tom’s heart fell. He stepped on wery cautious.
Now agin come the sound, louder an’ louder.</p>
<p>“The road took a sudden turn ’round a thick
clump o’ woods an’ crossed a stream on a rickety
timber bridge. There Buttonporgie stopped.
An’ ez he leaned agin the rail an’ looked down
into the water there below him, gleamin’ along
in the moonlight, everything kind o’ passed away
from his mind. He only knowd that he was
wery hot, an’ the pool looked so cool an’ inwitin’.
He only knowd that he was wery tired,
an’ the pool looked so soft an’ nice, ez ef it
was jest intended for limbs achin’ like ez his.
He’d miles yit to go afore he reached the
hills. Si was sleepin’. Si wouldn’t mind. Si
wouldn’t know. They’d be movin’ agin afore Si
woke up. So he climbed over the rail an’ stepped
off. The wotter closed over his head an’ he went
down an’ down, the great weight on his back
draggin’ him. But that wasn’t what he wanted.
He was jest goin’ to lay there in the cool stream
an’ look up at the stars an’ rest. His feet struck
the bottom an’ he tore his arms free o’ the straps
that held the awful weight to him. In a second
he was on the surface an’ swimmin’, fer he was
wide awake.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p>
<p>“He used to say that ez he stood there on the
bank lookin’ at that quiet pool it seemed ez tho’
it was all a dream; that he’d never met the murderer
an’ carried him thirty mile on his back, or
felt the prod of his pistol every time his steps
lagged. But ef it was a dream, he thot, then
what was that he seen that rose to the surface
an’ went bobbin’ away on the current? It was
Si Berrybush’s ole cloth cap.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Cupid and a Mule.</i></span></h2>
<p>The wind went shrieking through the bare attic
above and singing among the boxes and barrels
in the cellar below. The big show window
in front groaned in a deep bass; the little window
in the rear accompanied it in a high treble. The
lamp, with its vague, flickering flame, cast a gloomy
glare over the store, and lighted up the faces of
the little group of men, seated on box, counter,
keg and chair, huddled about the great center of
heat.</p>
<p>The Chronic Loafer raised himself from his
favorite pile of calicoes and turned up his coat
collar.</p>
<p>“Shet that stove door an’ put on the draught,”
he cried. “What’s the uset o’ freezin’!”</p>
<p>“Cold Chrisermas to morrer,” said the Storekeeper,
as he banged the door shut and turned on
the draught in obedience to the demand.</p>
<p>“Turn up the lamp,” growled the Miller. “It’s
ez dark an’ gloomy ez a barn here.”</p>
<p>“They ain’t no uset o’ wastin’ ile,” the Storekeeper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
muttered as he complied with the second
request.</p>
<p>The great egg stove roared right merrily as the
flames darted up out of its heart, until its large
body grew red-hot and sent forth genial rays of
heat and light—the veritable sun of the narrow
village universe.</p>
<p>“Listen to the wind! Ain’t it howlin’?” said
the Loafer.</p>
<p>“Col’est Chrisermas Eve in years,” the Tinsmith
responded.</p>
<p>The Loafer pushed himself off the counter onto
an empty crate that stood below him. He leaned
forward and almost embraced the stove in his
effort to toast his hands.</p>
<p>“This, I’ve heard tell,” he said, “is the one night
in all the year ’hen the cattle talks jest like men.”</p>
<p>“Some sais it’s Holly E’en,” ventured the
Miller.</p>
<p>“No, it ain’t. It’s Chrisermas,” the Loafer replied
emphatically. He leaned back, placed his
thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat and glared
about the circle in defiance.</p>
<p>The brief silence that followed was broken by
the School Teacher.</p>
<p>“Superstition! Mere superstition!”</p>
<p>“That’s what I sais,” cried the Storekeeper.
He was leaning over the counter munching a
candy lion. “What ’ud a mule talk about ’hen
he only had a chancet oncet a year?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p>
<p>A thin, meaning smile crept over the Loafer’s
face and he bent forward, thrusting his long chin
in the direction of the venturesome merchant.</p>
<p>“In my time,” he drawled, “I’ve met some
mules pullin’ plows that hed they ben able to
talk ’ud ’a’ sayd sensibler things then some ez is
engaged in easier an’ more money-makin’ ockypations.”</p>
<p>The Store was usually loath to accord recognition
to the Loafer, but this was the season of
good-will to all, and it lifted up its voice in one
mighty guffaw. Even the Teacher joined in, and
the G. A. R. Man slapped his knee and cried,
“Good shot!”</p>
<p>The victim hid his burning face in the recesses
of the sugar barrel, and under pretense of hunting
for the scoop finished the candy toy.</p>
<p>“My father-in-law was a superstitious man and
always believed in them fool things,” said the
pedagogue. “I never give them any credit myself,
for they say that education is as great an
enemy to superstition as light is to darkness. In
other words, learnin’ illumines a man’s mind and
drives out all them black, unholy beliefs that are
bred in ignorance.”</p>
<p>He paused to give effect to his words, but the
Loafer seized the opportunity, thus unintentionally
offered, to remark, “Then it ’ud seem like most
men’s brains is like cellars. They is allus some hole
or corner in a cellar that ye can’t light lest ye put<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
a special lantern in it, an’ ye hev trouble keepin’
that burnin’.”</p>
<p>“But the brain’s perfectly round,” interposed
the Miller, shaking his head sagely.</p>
<p>The Teacher sighed. “It’s no use talking to
you men in figures——”</p>
<p>“Go on. Let’s hev figgers,” cried the Storekeeper,
eagerly.</p>
<p>The pedagogue leaned back on two legs of his
chair and pillowed his head on a cheese box that
stood on the counter. After having carefully extinguished
the flame in his cigar, blown out the
smoke and placed the stump in his pocket, he
began:</p>
<p>“While I give no credit to the current superstitions,
I cherish a peculiar affection for this old
belief that the cattle talk on Christmas Eve. I
feel that to it I owe part of my happiness in life,
and I’ve had a good deal of it, too, in spite of the
hardships I had to endure as a boy. You know
my parents died when I was but seventeen year
old and left me practically penniless and a charge
on the township. So I was bound over to Abraham
Buttenberger, who had a fine farm up near
West Eden. But for one thing life with him
would have gone hard with me, for he was a
crotchety old fellow, a bit stingy, and inclined to
get the greatest possible amount of work out of
a husky lad that was gettin’ no pay but his keep.
The one thing I mentioned was Abraham’s dotter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
Kate. I have seen many weemen in my day,
and I can honestly say that I have looked on few
such pictures as she was when I first knew her.
She was sixteen then——”</p>
<p>“I don’t know ’bout that,” the Loafer interrupted.
“Did you uns ever see my Missus ’hen
she was sixteen an’——”</p>
<p>“She was sixteen then,” repeated the Teacher,
ignoring the remark; “she was sixteen and extremely
good lookin’. But most of you have
seen her since and it’s no use for me to dwell on
that point. As the years went by I got to set a
heap of store by Kate and she set a heap of store
by me. But we kept it to ourselves till we was
twenty. Then we agreed to be married. Our
agreement didn’t do any good, for Abraham set
his foot down on the scheme. He wasn’t goin’
to have no hirelin’ of his a-merryin’ his dotter. I
explained to him how his days was drawin’ to an
end; how a time was a-comin’ when the place
wouldn’t do him any more good and no more
harm ’ud come to him whether his farm-hand was
runnin’ it or not; how his dotter would need
lookin’ after and all that. His answer was to
drive me away with a horse-whip.</p>
<p>“That was in November. For seven weeks I
never laid eyes on the girl, for the old man
watched her like a hawk. But he tired of that,
and one night let her go to literary society meetin’
at Kishikoquillas school. I saw her there and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
wanted her to elope right on the spot. She said
no. It was too sudden. Besides, she wanted her
things, for she knew her father would keep them
just for spite if she run away without them. So
we fixed it up that next night—that was Christmas
Eve—she was to meet me at their barn, and
we would take one of the horses and a sleigh and
skip.</p>
<p>“Now, as I said, Abraham was a superstitious
man and continual readin’ the almanac and perusin’
charms. He believed in that old sayin’ about
the cattle talkin’ on Christmas Eve. Many a night
he’d argued the point with me. I always said if
he thot it was true, why didn’t he go listen to it.
He declared he would, but he never did—leastways
he put it off to a most onexpected time. If
there was any place the cattle was likely to talk,
I used to tell him, it was right in that big, spooky
barn of his; and if there was any place where one
could hear them perfect, it was right there. The
stables was in the basement and the mows was
overhead. The hay was stored above the horses
and mules. A hole about ten feet across and
twenty feet deep run from the top of the mow
into that particular stable. I explained to him
how he could lay at the top of the hay, put his
head down into the hole and hear everything that
passed. But that Christmas Eve I’d forgot all
about our argument. I’d other things to think
of.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p>
<p>“I reached the barn at midnight. Kate was
there, standin’ by the gate waitin’. Everything
was clear. The old man, she said, had gone to
bed and didn’t have any suspicions. So we got
the sleigh ready and went into the horse stable
to harness up. It was clear moonlight outside
but inside it was dark as pitch and fearful ghostly.
There were all kinds of noises—hay rattlin’, rats
skippin’ around, chains clinkin’; and every now
and then a hen roostin’ up in the racks would
begin to cluck and scare Kate awful. Grave-yards
is bad at night but they ain’t a circumstance
to a big barn.</p>
<p>“I picked out the white John mule, for I knew
he was a good traveler, and gettin’ the harness,
I went into his stall and began to fix it on him.
Then I couldn’t find any bridles. I whispered
to Kate. She said they was over in the cow
stable, and went to get one. It seemed to me
she was gone an awful long time. I could hear
her trampin’ around, but as she didn’t appear to
be havin’ much success I called, not very loud,
‘What’s wrong?’</p>
<p>“‘Nothin’,’ she answered, ‘I’ll have them in a
minute.’</p>
<p>“It seemed like I heard a suspicious noise
come down the hayhole from the mow above. I
listened, but I didn’t hear any more sounds, so
guessed it was a rat.</p>
<p>“Then I called louder to Kate, for I was mad at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
Abraham for all the trouble he’d given us, ‘The
old man is a mean customer if there ever was
one!’</p>
<p>“She tramped around in the straw for a spell.
Then her answer came from the cow stable, ‘That’s
what I say.’</p>
<p>“‘A nice way he treats his own dotter,’ I went
on, just talkin’ for company. ‘He thinks he’ll take
his farm with him when he dies. What a shame
in a man of his age!’</p>
<p>“Again I heard a rattle of hay up above and
whispered, ‘Ssh!’ But the girl didn’t catch it and
said particularly loud and spiteful, ‘He has treated
me powerful mean.’</p>
<p>“I put my hand to my ear and listened, but all
was quiet, so I thinks to myself, ‘It’s a chicken.’</p>
<p>“‘Don’t you think kickin’ is too good for a man
like that, John?’ Kate asks.</p>
<p>“‘Well, I’d like to have it to do,’ I answers.
‘Oh! just you wait till I get a chance, and if
I don’t——’</p>
<p>“There was an awful scream in the mow—an
unearthly scream. A great, black thing came
tumblin’ out of the hayhole into the stable, lettin’
out fearful groans all the time. I couldn’t see it
very plain and didn’t stop to investigate. I
bumped into Kate as she was pilin’ into the kitchen.
We set down a minute to get our breath.
Then I put my head out of the door. For a piece
all was quiet. Then a faint call come from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
barn. She thot maybe it was a tramp had fallen
down the hayhole. I wanted to go alone and see,
but Kate wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted on
goin’ with me and takin’ a gun and a lantern.</p>
<p>“I opened the stable door, peeped in and said,
‘Who’s there?’</p>
<p>“The answer was a moan and, ‘Is that you,
John? Help!’</p>
<p>“There Abraham Buttenberger lay on a little
pile of hay at the back of the stable, writhin’ and
moanin’.</p>
<p>“‘I always knew it,’ he groaned. ‘I always
told you they talked on Christmas Eve. But why
did you ever get me to try and hear them? See
what you’ve led me to. Look at me layin’ here
with a broken leg and see what you’ve done. It
was the white John mule—I know his voice.
T’other was the brindle cow.’</p>
<p>“‘Look out for the mule! Look out!’ he
cried, as we carried him out of the stable and put
him on a wheelbarrow.</p>
<p>“That’s the way he took on. When we’d
got him into the house I went up to town for a
doctor. I attended him that night. The next
day after he’d had breakfast, he set up in bed and
says to me: ‘John, I’ve heard people laugh about
the sayin’ that the cattle talk on Christmas Eve.
I’ve heard you make fun of the idee. But you’d
never laugh at it again if you heard what I did
last night; if you’d had a mule heapin’ coals of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
fire on your head. And that cow! Oh, it’s awful
to have the very animals on the farm down on
you like that.’</p>
<p>“‘What did they say?’ says I.</p>
<p>“‘Say!’ he answers. ‘What didn’t they say?
I’ll never have no peace behind that John mule
again.’</p>
<p>“The old man was quiet a spell. Then he
says, ‘John, you can have my dotter, my only
dotter.’</p>
<p>“And he begin to moan.</p>
<p>“Missus and I were married at home that
Christmas just fifteen years ago. We never explained
it to Abraham. There was no particular
use in it. We couldn’t ’a’ convinced him anyway.
Why, do you know he was so set on makin’
up all around that he insisted that the brindle
cow and the white mule know all about it. The
ceremony was performed in the kitchen and them
two knowin’ beasts was hitched to the window so
they could look in. He was bound to appease
’em.”</p>
<p>The Teacher chuckled softly as he finished his
narration.</p>
<p>The Storekeeper bit the legs off a candy ostrich.
“It do beat all!” he exclaimed.</p>
<p>“I knowd it,” the Loafer cried triumphantly.
“I allus knowd it. I thank you, Teacher, fer
backin’ me up with this petickler instance of it.
The cattle do talk on Chrisermas Eve.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Haunted Store.</i></span></h2>
<p>The Chronic Loafer cautiously opened the
door and peered out into the black night. A
blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the
heavens and descended to earth in a nearby wheat
field, disclosing to his view the clear outlines of a
great oak whose limbs were thrashing wildly in
the wind. There was a sound of splintering
wood, a crash of thunder overhead, then darkness
again. The door swung shut with a startled
bang. The rain beat violently against the windows.</p>
<p>“The ole tree’s hit agin,” the Loafer cried.
“Did ye see that flash? Mighty souls, what a
night! I wisht I’d gone home ’fore it begin to
come down so heavy. I hevn’t no umbrelly, an’
the Missus’ll never hear me callin’ in sech a
storm.”</p>
<p>The store was a gloomy place, lighted as it was
by a solitary oil lamp which cast weird shadows
in the recesses of the dusty ceiling and over the
shelves, laden with their motley collection of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
crockery and glassware, boxes and cans. There
was no fire in the stove, for it was late in the
spring, so the atmosphere was damp and chilly.</p>
<p>The G. A. R. Man joined the Loafer at the
door.</p>
<p>“Bad, ain’t it?” he said. “I guesst I don’t go
home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground to-night.”</p>
<p>The other laughed and cried, “My sights!
’Fraid o’ the buryin’-ground!”</p>
<p>The pair sauntered back to their places about
the cheerless stove. The Storekeeper leaned his
chair against the counter, fixed his feet firmly on
the rungs and clasped both knees tightly with his
hands.</p>
<p>“You can laugh an’ say they ain’t no sech
things ez spooks,” he said, “but I notice that
you uns an’ most other folks ’hen ye walks be
the buryin’-ground at night, cuts th’oo the fields
ez fur ’way from it ez ye can git.”</p>
<p>The Loafer reddened. For a moment he beat
his feet slowly against the side of the counter on
which he had seated himself between the Miller
and the Tinsmith. Then he retorted hotly, “I
hain’t sayd they was no sech things ez spooks.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe they is an’ mebbe they ain’t,” ventured
the Miller in a low tone. “But ef they ain’t,
why hesn’t Abe Scissors ben able to git a tenant
fer that leetle place o’ his back on the ridge?
They sais it hes a ha’nt, an’ tho’ I’ve never seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
it, I knows folks that sais they hes, an’ I’ve no reasons
to doubt their words.”</p>
<p>The G. A. R. Man nodded his head in assent.
“I don’t b’lieve in them ghosts meself, but ’hen
it comes to goin’ home be way o’ the Meth’dis’
buryin’-ground at night I allus goes the back road,
even ef it is furder.”</p>
<p>There was silence. Outside the rain beat furiously
against the windows; in the garret overhead
the wind whistled mournfully; from the
cellar below came the faint clatter of loose boards
as the rats scampered to and fro.</p>
<p>The Storekeeper reached behind him and turned
the wick of the lamp up a little higher.</p>
<p>The Miller slipped from his place on the counter
and seated himself on the box beside the veteran.
He filled and lighted his clay pipe, and began:
“My gran’pap used to tell how night after night
he heard the churn splashin’ down in his spring-house;
an’ how he stepped out once to find out
what done it. He seen the sperrit of his first wife
churnin’ an’ churnin’, an’ she told him how lest
some un ’ud break the spell she’d hev to——”</p>
<p>The Chronic Loafer had glided off the counter
and was rolling a keg close to the speaker. He
fixed himself comfortably on it; then cried,
“Turn up that there light. This dark hurts a
felly’s eyes.”</p>
<p>The Tinsmith glanced furtively behind him
into the blackness beneath the counter. He pushed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
himself from his perch, intending to join the little
knot about the stove. Hardly had he reached
the floor and taken one step when he halted.</p>
<p>“Ssh! What’s that?”</p>
<p>The Miller dropped his pipe. The Storekeeper
paled and nervously grasped the back of his chair.
The Chronic Loafer arose to his feet, his upraised
arms trembling visibly. The G. A. R. Man, with
eyes and mouth wide open, sat up rigidly upon
his keg.</p>
<p>From the cellar beneath, low, but so distinct as
to be heard above the patter of the rain and the
rattle of the windows, came the sound of footsteps.
It lasted but a moment, and then seemed
to die away in the distance.</p>
<p>The Chronic Loafer broke the silence. “Sights!
I’m goin’. The Missus’ll be gittin’ worrit.”</p>
<p>He hurried to the door, but as he opened it
there was a blinding flash of lightning, a crash of
thunder, and the whole building trembled. A
gust of wind drove the rain against the windows
with redoubled vigor. He slammed the door
shut and returned to his keg.</p>
<p>“Wha—what’s that?” exclaimed the G. A. R.
Man.</p>
<p>The Storekeeper shook his head mournfully.
“It’s the ha’nt that give my pap so much trouble.”</p>
<p>“A ha’nt!” cried the Loafer and the Miller,
their teeth chattering.</p>
<p>“Yes,” replied the Storekeeper, leaning his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
chair back on two legs. “That’s what Pap use to
say it was. He seen it. I never did, but ef you
uns draws up closer I’ll tell ye what he sayd
about it.”</p>
<p>Nothing loath to get as near as possible to
each other the men, seated on chairs, kegs and
boxes, formed a little circle about the Storekeeper,
who began his story in a voice hardly above a
whisper.</p>
<p>“My pap, you uns knows, run this here store
an’ done a pretty lively trade tell the year ’fore
he died. He bo’t it off o’ ole Ed Harmon, who’d
kep’ it a long while. You uns may remember
Ed, or mebbe ye don’t. He was a mean man
ef they ever was one; never hesytatin’ to give
short measure in sellin’ butter an’ takin’ long in
buyin’; allus buyin’ eggs be the baker’s dozen
an’ sellin’ ’em the reg’lar way; usin’ a caliker
stick an inch short of the yard. It don’t take
many years o’ that kind o’ tradin’ to hurt a man’s
repytation in these parts, an’ consequent ’hen he
died he’d the name o’ bein’ ’bout the dishonestest
felly in the county, ef you uns reck’lect.”</p>
<p>“That I do,” the Miller interposed. “An’
the sugar he sold was that wet ye could ’a’
squeezed a tin o’ wotter outen every pound.”</p>
<p>“My sights!” cried the Loafer.</p>
<p>“Sure,” continued the Storekeeper, “an’ ’cordin’
to Pap, who hed the name fer tellin’ the
truth, them was his footsteps we heard jest now.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p>
<p>“Sam Hill!” muttered the G. A. R. Man.
“His body’s in the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground.”</p>
<p>The Chronic Loafer cast an anxious glance toward
the entrance to the store-room, from which a
stairway wound down into the cellar. The Tinsmith
shifted his chair closer into the circle.
There was a roll of thunder along the mountains,
a flash of lightning that seemed to find the earth
somewhere among the distant ridges, but the
rain was still pouring down in torrents.</p>
<p>“True. That’s what Pap sayd,” the Storekeeper
continued in a low, awed tone. “He told
me all about it afore he died, an’ I guesst he told
me right, fer we’ve heard his footsteps an’ my
sugar hes ben wet lately.”</p>
<p>“So my Missus hes ben complainin’—still—but——”</p>
<p>The Storekeeper was slightly ruffled by this interruption
and glared for a moment at its author,
the Loafer. Then he resumed his narrative.</p>
<p>“It tuk Pap considerable time to build up his
trade, but he give square measure, an’ by an’ by the
folks begin comin’ here ’stead o’ goin’ to Kishikoquillas.
Then the trouble started. One day he
found a chip stuck in the scales he used fer buyin’
meat on, so it wouldn’t weigh more’n fifty pounds.
He licked me, that he did, tho’ I never done it.
Next day he found another stick there, an’ he was
that mad he licked me agin. Then I went away
fer a week, an’ every mornin’ reg’lar he found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
that chip. He begin to feel queer ’bout it ’hen
he seen I wasn’t responsible. So every day he
pulled the chip out, tell final it stopped. He thot
it was rats.</p>
<p>“Things run ’long all right fer a year, an’ then
folks begin to complain that the sugar was damp,
an’ blamed Pap fer wettin’ it to make it weigh.
He sayd he didn’t, an’ he didn’t, fer he wasn’t no
man to tell nawthin’ but the truth, let alone to
treat his sugar dishonest. But the customers begin
to drop off buyin’ an’ he to be afraid o’ losin’ his
trade. What was more, he seen that sugar he got
in the bawrel ez dry ez a chip one night was
damp next mornin’. ’Hen he declared it wasn’t
his fault, folks wouldn’t believe him, an’ they was
no denyin’ it, them goods was soakin’. So he concided
he’d find out jest what was wrong. He
found out an’ never hed no more peace. What
happened I tell you exactly ez he told me, an’ I
ain’t hed no cause to disbelieve what he sayd, fer
he wasn’t a man to waste words.</p>
<p>“One night, jest after he’d got in a bawrel o’
granilated, he went to the cellar an’ made ’rangements
to discover the trouble. He hed his ole
shot-gun along an’ hung an ile lantern to a joist
in the middle. Then he set down on a pile o’ sacks
in a corner to watch. He wasn’t a bit skeered at
first, fer the lantern was burnin’ cheery. An hour
went by, an’ he begin to git weary; they was no
signs of anything wrong. Then another, an’ he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
begin to doze off. How long he slep’ he didn’t
know, but a foot-fall woke him, an’ he set up on
the pile o’ sacks an’ looked. The lantern was
flickerin’ low, fer the ile hed most burned out, so
they was only a dim light in the placet. His
heart stopped beatin’, an’ his breath wouldn’t
come. Fer a moment they was dead silence.
The lantern seemed like it was a-goin’ to go
out.</p>
<p>“Over from the other end of the cellar come a
faint sound like the splashin’ of wotter, drippin’,
drippin’, drippin’. Pap raised hisself on his
knees, all a-tremblin’. They was another spell o’
quiet; then the same sound of a foot-fall; then
’nother an’ ’nother; an’ every time it made his
heart thump like ’twould break an’ jarred him all
over. Out o’ the dark, into the light o’ the lantern,
come the figur’ of an ole man, walkin’ slow,
step be step, ’crosst the cellar toward the sugar
bawrel. Pap rubbed his eyes in surprise, fer the
felly was Ed Harmon, who for eight year had
ben layin’ in the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground, never
missed. He wore that ole shiny black coat o’
hisn, his broken, patched boots, an’ gray cap;
’bout his neck was wound a blue woolen comforter,
an’ in his hand he kerried a bucket o’
wotter. He’d wrapped a piece o’ paper ’round
the han’le to keep it from cuttin’ his fingers.
His face was all white like it used to be, ’cept his
nose, which was red from his drinkin’ too much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
hard cider. He walked all doubled up, fer the
bucket seemed to blow him consid’able.</p>
<p>“Pap laid quiet at first, he was so scared, tremblin’
all over, with his teeth chatterin’ to beat all.
Sudden Ed stopped right under the lantern an’
set the bucket down, the wotter splashin’ over the
side an’ goin’ up in a fog ’hen it struck the floor.
Then he straightened up like to stretch his back,
an’ raised his hands to his mouth an’ begin to
blow on ’em. Pap didn’t hear no sound but he
seen the lamp flickerin’; an’ at the sight o’ Ed
standin’ there so nat’ral his courage come back.</p>
<p>“After the ghos’ hed stopped a minute his face
twisted like he was groanin’, an’ he picked up the
bucket an’ started on toward the sugar bawrel.
’Hen Pap seen that, he clean forgot it was a sperrit,
it looked so lifelike. He jumped up an’ run
out yellin’, ‘Here you, Ed Harmon, don’t you
dast put that wotter on my sugar!’</p>
<p>“The ghos’ stopped, turned ’round an’ looked
at Pap. Pap stopped an’ looked at the ghos’.
The appyrition set the bucket down easy an’
blowed on his hands. That kind o’ cooled the
ole man.</p>
<p>“‘You uns ain’t ben treatin’ me right,’ sais
Pap, polite like, ‘dampin’ my sugar an’ sp’ilin’ my
trade.’</p>
<p>“Ed didn’t say nawthin’, but jest looked at
him quiet like an’ give his comforter another lap
’round the neck.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘Now, see here,’ sais Pap, a leetle louder.
‘I’ve found you out, Ed Harmon, an’ I’ll make it
pretty hot fer you ’round these parts ef you don’t
let up.’</p>
<p>“The sperrit turned proud like, blowed on its
hands, leaned over an’ picked up the bucket, an’
started trampin’ toward the bawrel agin. Pap
clean forgot hisself. He give a run an’ a kick at
the pail, for he’d no desires to hurt the ole man,
but ’tended jest to spill the wotter. He near
dropped dead on the spot, fer his feet went right
inter it ’thout his feelin’ it; the ole thing broke
in a dozen pieces, the staves fallin’ in a heap on
the floor; the wotter ’rose up in a fog like, an’
fer an instant he could see nawthin’. It cleared
away an’ he noticed one o’ the hoops rollin’ off
inter the dark. He made a run fer it an’ grabbed
at it, but his hand went right up th’oo it. He
th’owed his arm out, thinkin’ to ketch it that ’ay.
Ez he looked up he seen the ole hoop revolvin’
there in the air above him. He give a wild jump
at it. His hand struck the lantern an’ knocked
it off the nail. They was a loud crash ez the glass
broke. What happened after that he didn’t know.
I found him sleepin’ on the pile o’ sacks next
mornin’.”</p>
<p>“Sights!” cried the Chronic Loafer. He drew
his chair closer into the circle, which by this time
had reached the smallest possible circumference.</p>
<p>The Tinsmith glanced surreptitiously over his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
shoulder toward the dark corner where lay the
entrance to the store-room.</p>
<p>“It do beat all,” he said.</p>
<p>From the mountains there came the low reverberation
of thunder. The storm had passed the
valley and now the rain was falling lightly and the
breeze was dying.</p>
<p>“Was the sugar wet next day?” asked the
Miller, nervously biting the end off the stem of
his clay pipe.</p>
<p>“Ssh! Listen!” whispered the Loafer.</p>
<p>There was no sound save the gentle patter of
the rain and the swish of the wind in the maples
outside the door.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t,” the Storekeeper answered. “But
the trouble began a week later.”</p>
<p>“It’s a strange story,” said the Tinsmith, “an’
ef any one but your Pap hed told it I’d hev my
suspitchions. But his sugar was damp.”</p>
<p>There was a long silence.</p>
<p>From the cellar came again the weird sound,
low but distinct.</p>
<p>The G. A. R. Man arose and seized the lamp
from the counter.</p>
<p>“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he cried.
“This is all foolershness. Ef you fellys comes
we’ll find out what that is.”</p>
<p>He shuffled slowly toward the dark end of the
store. For a moment his companions hesitated.
Then the Storekeeper joined the leader of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
hazardous enterprise and one by one the others
followed. They tiptoed through the door; they
wound their way among the boxes and barrels
that filled the store-room, and reached the head of
the stairway that led to the cellar. Here the
G. A. R. Man halted. The lamp in his hand
vibrated to and fro, throwing grotesque shadows
on the white ceiling and walls. The men clustered
about him and gazed timidly into the darkness
beneath. He placed one foot on the step,
then stopped.</p>
<p>“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he said.</p>
<p>“Course th-th-they ain’t,” chattered the Miller,
who was holding the Storekeeper by the arm.</p>
<p>“It’s r-r-rats,” the Tinsmith ventured.</p>
<p>“Or a l-l-loose b-b-board,” suggested the veteran.</p>
<p>“Foolershness,” whispered the Loafer, “‘v-v-v-vestig-g-gatin’
ghosts ’hen they ain’t no sech
things. The Missus is settin’ up fer me an’ I’ll
hev to be goin’.”</p>
<p>“Pap allus was superstitchous,” exclaimed the
Storekeeper, as he made his way back through
the maze of boxes and barrels to the store in the
wake of the Loafer. The others were hurrying
along in the rear.</p>
<p>The rain had ceased. Overhead the black
clouds, visible in the bright starlight, were scurrying
away towards the hills. The G. A. R. Man
and the Loafer were parting at the latter’s gate at
the end of the village.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p>
<p>“Hev you ben gittin’ any sugar o’ him lately?”
asked the veteran, pointing his thumb over his
shoulder in the direction whence they had come.</p>
<p>“I hev,” replied the Loafer. “An’ I guess ole
Ed Harmon is still at it.”</p>
<p>“What do ye think it was?”</p>
<p>“It might ’a’ ben a rat. It might ’a’ ben a
loose board. It might ’a’ ben a hundred things
like that. I ain’t superstitchous—not a bit superstitchous.”
The speaker paused. “But jest the
same I ain’t fer investigatin’ ghosts,” he added.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Rivals.</i></span></h2>
<p>“What was the question fer debate?” asked
the School Teacher.</p>
<p>“Resawlved that the Negro is more worthy o’
government support than the Indian,” replied the
Miller.</p>
<p>“And the decision?”</p>
<p>“One jedge voted fer the affirmative an’ one
fer the negative.”</p>
<p>“And the third?”</p>
<p>“That’s where the trouble come. Ye see,
Theophilus Bones was the third jedge, an’ he got
up an’ sayd that after hearin’ an’ weighin’ all the
argyments o’ the debaters he hed to concide that
neither the Negro nor the Indian was worthy.”</p>
<p>“Deadlocked!” cried the pedagogue, bringing
his chair down on all four legs with a crash, waving
his arms and snapping his fingers. “Deadlocked,
sure. What did ye do?”</p>
<p>“See here,” interrupted the Chronic Loafer
from his perch on a sugar barrel, “I can’t see
that it makes any diff’rence what they done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
S’posin’ the Airy View Liter’ry Society is deadlocked.
How’s the poor Injun goin’ to suffer any
more by it?”</p>
<p>“But did you uns ever see sech dum jedges?”
asked the Miller appealingly. “I was on the
negative.”</p>
<p>“The point is this,” said the Teacher, shaking
his cigar at the occupant of the barrel. “Here is
a modern liter’ry society, whose main purpose is
trainin’ its members in the art of debate. An
important question is put before this same society
for formal discussion, and yet these self-same
trained debaters makes their points so badly that
one o’ the jedges can’t decide on the merits o’
the question.”</p>
<p>“It ain’t so bad at all,” the Tinsmith exclaimed.
“I once heard Aleck Bolum on that wery question.
He argyed both affirmative an’ negative.
All three o’ the jedges was deadlocked. None of
’em could concide.”</p>
<p>“Bolum must ’a’ ben a wonderful talker,” the
Loafer said.</p>
<p>“Wonderful? Well, I guesst he was. Why,
it was his debatin’ broke up the Kishikoquillas
Liter’ry Society. An’ that was a flourishin’ organization,
too. Me an’ my old frien’ Perry
Muthersbaugh started it together. After he
went west Andrew Magill tuk a holt of it. He
run it tell Aleck Bolum stepped in. Then it was
a tug-o-war.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>
<p>“Bolum was a livin’ Roberts-rules-of-order. He
was a walkin’ encyclopedy of information. He
knowd it an’ never lost no opportunity of showin’
it. Kishikoquillas school-house was his principal
place fer exhibitin’. From the time Andrew
Magill’s gavel fell on Friday night tell a motion
was made to adjourn, Aleck was on his feet. Ef
he wasn’t gittin’ off a select readin’ or a recytation
or debatin’, he was risin’ to pints of order,
appealin’ from the decision o’ the chair, callin’ fer
divisions or movin’ we proceed to new business.
Ye couldn’t git any fresh wood put in the stove
’thout hevin’ him move the ’pointment of a committee
to do it. Ef a lamp burned low he’d want
to hev it referred to the committee on lights.
He even tried to git the recordin’ seckertary impeached
because she kep’ the minutes in lead-pencil.”</p>
<p>“What fer a lookin’ felly was this Aleck
Bolum?” asked the Chronic Loafer.</p>
<p>“He was a thin, leetle man, with a clean-shaved,
hatchet face, an’ a bald spot on the top o’ his
head over which he plastered a few skein o’
lemon-colored hair.”</p>
<p>“An’ he wore a Prince Al-bert coat?” inquired
the Loafer anxiously.</p>
<p>“Yes, a shiny black un. An’ he’d stand up
an’ th’ow out his chist.”</p>
<p>“Why, that’s where half the trouble come,”
interrupted the Loafer. “Don’t you know that ef<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
ye put a Prince Al-bert coat on a clothes-horse,
it’ll stan’ right up an’ begin argyin’ with ye?”</p>
<p>“My dear felly,” replied the Tinsmith, “Aleck
Bolum ’ud ’a’ argyed in his grave clothes. They
wasn’t no stoppin’ him. We thot mebbe we could
quiet him be givin’ him an office, so we ’lected him
correspondin’ seckertary, cal’latin’ he’d hev nawthin’
to do an’ ’ud be satisfied with the honor.
We’d complete misjedged him. He got up a debate
be correspondence with a liter’ry society out
in Kansas an’ tuk up half our evenin’s readin’
reports on it.</p>
<p>“So Aleck Bolum didn’t give Andrew Magill
much chancet, even tho’ he was president. It
went hard with Andrew, too, fer he liked to fill
in all the cracks in the meetin’ hisself, an’ objected
to havin’ Aleck bobbin’ up with pints of
order every time he opened his mouth. But fer
my part I allus preferred Bolum to Magill. Bolum
wasn’t musical. Magill was. ’Henever one
o’ the reg’lar men on the progrim ’ud fail to be
on hand an’ he could head Aleck off, Andrew ’ud
git up an’ say, ‘Mister So-an’-so, who hed the
ess’y fer the evenin’, bein’ absent, the chair has
consented to fill in the interval be singin’ a solo.’
Or the chair ’ud sing a duet with the seckertary;
or the chair ’ud sing an anthem ’sisted be the society
quartette. Then he’d stand up with his
music marks an’ start away on twenty verses about
Mother or Alice.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p>
<p>“Things kept gittin’ worse an’ worse. They
final come to a head one night ’hen Aleck Bolum
rose to a pint of order durin’ one of Andrew’s
highest notes. Magill hed to stop singin’ an’ ast
him to state his pint. Then Aleck moved the
solo be the president be taken up under onfinished
business. Andrew jest choked.</p>
<p>“‘Hen the president got th’oo chokin’, we tuk
up the debate. Everything was subdued like.
Andrew set on the platform wery quiet an’ solemn.
The debaters didn’t put no heart in their
work fer they was busy keepin’ one eye on him an’
the other on Bolum. Every one was kind o’
nervous an’ hushed—that is, every one ’cept Aleck.
He argyed that the pen was mightier then the
sword in the reg’lar debate. ’Hen the argyment
was th’owed open to all he got up agin an’ proved
that the sword was mightier then the pen.</p>
<p>“We got th’oo with the debate an’ nawthin’
hed happened. Then Andrew Magill rose to
give out the progrim fer the next meetin’. He
looked solemn like at his paper a minute; then
gazed ’round the room. Ye could ’a’ heard a pin
drop.</p>
<p>“‘Several o’ our members,’ sais he, ‘complains
that they ain’t hed no opportunity to be heard
afore this society. This progrim is got up especial
to satisfy these gentlemen.’</p>
<p>“An’ the progrim fer the follyin’ Friday, which
he read out, run like this: ‘Readin’ o’ the Scriptur’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
be the president; roll call; select readin’, Mr.
Aleck Bolum; recytation, Mr. Aleck Bolum; extemporaneous
oration, Mr. Aleck Bolum; ess’y,
The True Patriot, Mr. Aleck Bolum; debate, Resawlved
that works o’ natur’ is more beautiful then
works o’ art—affirmative, Mr. Aleck Bolum; negative,
Mr. Aleck Bolum.’</p>
<p>“Andrew finished an’ set down in his chair.
They wasn’t even a whisper fer every eye in the
room was turned on the correspondin’ seckertary.
He arose deliberate like, cleared his th’oat,
th’owed open his coat so his red tie showed better,
put the thumb o’ his left hand in his waistcoat
pocket, raised the other hand, pintin’ his forefinger
at the president. We was ready fer somethin’
hot.</p>
<p>“‘Mr. Chairman,’ he sayd, never crackin’ a
smile. ‘I desires right here to express my approval
o’ this new plan o’ yours o’ hevin’ the
same man debate both sides o’ the question. It’s
an excellent idee. Under the ole rule, where the
debater was allowed to speak only on one side,
we developed lopsided speakers. An’ I want to
say right here an’ now an’ to everybody in this
room that I, fer my part, ’ll do my best to make
next week’s meetin’ beneficial to us all.’</p>
<p>“‘Hen Andrew Magill seen how he’d played
right into Aleck Bolum’s hand, thots failed to express
his indignation. He adjourned the meetin’,
blowed out the lamps, put on his overcoat an’ hat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
an’ walked outen the school-house an’ down the
road, jest all bubblin’ over. But Andrew wasn’t
easy beaten. He’d no idee o’ settin’ all evenin’
listenin’ to Aleck Bolum’s ess’ys an’ select readin’s.
He slipped ’round ’mong the members on the quiet
an’ explained how he’d an invite from the Happy
Grove Social Singin’ Club, to bring the whole society
up there the follyin’ Friday. He explained
what a good un it ’ud be on Aleck ’hen he got to
the school-house with his progrim all prepared an’
found fer an aud’ence—Mr. Aleck Bolum. An’
ez he offered to kerry three sled loads o’ members
to the grove hisself, everybody agreed. It really
begin to look ez ef Aleck was goin’ to be
squelched.</p>
<p>“The snow was two feet deep, an’ the sleighin’
was fine. It tuk jest ’bout an hour an’ a half to
cover the twelve mile ’tween Kishikoquillas an’
Happy Grove. We’d a splendid time, too. Andrew
was in high sperrits. He pictured Aleck arunnin’
the liter’ry meetin’ all hisself, an’ give an
imytation o’ the debate on the question whether
works o’ natur’ was more beautiful then works of
art. It was killin’. I mind now how Andrew hed
jest started in showin’ us Bolum’s recytation, ’hen
we reached the clearin’ where the school-house
stood.</p>
<p>“The place was dark, absolute dark, an’ the
door was locked. They wasn’t a soul in sight.
Magill got out his watch. It sayd eight-fifteen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
an’ the singin’ school was set fer eight. It looked
pecul’ar. We guesst we’d better wait. So one
o’ the boys climbed th’oo a winder an’ unlocked
the door, an’ we all went in. A few can’les was
found an’ lit. Then we set down to watch fer the
arrival o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club.
They wasn’t any fire, an’ the place was cold an’
disygreeable. Some wanted to go home, but
Andrew sayd no. We was the club’s guests.
Some of ’em ’ud be ’long any minute. It
wouldn’t be right fer them to find us gone. So
we kep’ settin’, an’ wonderin’, an’ guessin’.</p>
<p>“At the end of an hour we hear sleigh-bells
down the road. Then they was a stampin’ o’
boots outside on the portico.</p>
<p>“‘Here they is at last,’ sais Andrew, gittin’ up
on the platform an’ rappin’ fer order.</p>
<p>“The door opened. In steps Aleck Bolum.
The whole society give a groan.</p>
<p>“‘What’s the trouble?’ sais he, walkin’ to the
middle o’ the room. ‘I don’t hear no singin’.’</p>
<p>“The society jest hung their heads an’ looked
sheepish.</p>
<p>“‘Where’s the Happy Grove Social Singin
Club?’ sais he pleasant like. ‘I sees only our
own members.’</p>
<p>“No one sayd nawthin’.</p>
<p>“Aleck unwound his comforter, unbottoned his
coat, th’owed out his chist an’ cried, ‘Mr. Chairman,
hev I the floor?’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p>
<p>“Magill kind o’ mumbled.</p>
<p>“‘Then,’ sais Bolum, ‘Mebbe I can th’ow some
light on the hushed voices I see gethered ’round
me here to-night. Firstly, I’d like to say that
we’d a most excellent meetin’ at Kishikoquillas
this evenin’. After we adjourned I thot I’d run
up here an’ see how you was makin’ out, fer I hed
pecul’ar interest in this getherin’. Th’oo some
mistake I was not properly notified that our
members was comin’ here, but I learned of it. I
wanted to see the Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society
do itself proud to-night at music ez well ez literature.
So in my capacity ez correspondin’ seckertary
I got up a musical progrim yeste’day an’
forwarded it to the president of the Happy Grove
Social Singin’ Club, explainin’ how our organization
’ud entertain his organization to-night with
melody, instrumental an’ vocal.’</p>
<p>“Bolum stopped an’ drawed a paper out o’ his
pocket.</p>
<p>“‘Will the seckertary please read the progrim?’
he sayd.</p>
<p>“Josiah Weller tuk the paper. He looked
at it. Then he piked one eye on the president.</p>
<p>“‘Ye may read the progrim, Mr. Seckertary,’
sais Andrew, wery dignified.</p>
<p>“An’ Josiah read like this, ‘The Kishikoquillas
Liter’ry Society will be pleased to render fer the
entertainment o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
Club the follyin’ selections: bass-horn solo, The
Star Spangled Banner, Mr. Andrew Magill.’</p>
<p>“The chairman’s gavel come down on the table,
an’ he rose an’ said, ‘I feels flattered be Mr. Bolum
puttin’ me on the progrim, but he otter ’a’ notified
me, so I could ’a’ brung me horn.’</p>
<p>“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Aleck, wery
cool.</p>
<p>“Josiah continyerd, ‘Vocal solo, I see Mother’s
Face at the Window, Mr. Andrew Magill.’</p>
<p>“The Chairman looked wery pleased.</p>
<p>“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sayd Aleck.</p>
<p>“‘An ole time jig, jewsharp an’ harmonica
mixed, Mr. Andrew Magill; vocal solo, Meet Me
Alice at the Golden Gate, Mr. Andrew Magill;
anthem, Angel Voices, Mr. Andrew Magill, ’sisted
be the society.’</p>
<p>“Josiah Weller didn’t git no furder. They was
a low roar went over the room. Some felly in
the rear ’lowed we otter put him in the pond.
But they wasn’t no one to put. Aleck Bolum
hed dissypeared. We got to the door in time to
hear his sleigh-bells jinglin’ way off th’oo the
woods. Seemed like we could ’most hear him
chucklin’, too.”</p>
<p>“But what hed become o’ the Happy Grove
Social Singin’ Club?” asked the Miller. “Why
wasn’t they there?”</p>
<p>“I guesst you never heard Andrew Magill sing,
did ye?” replied the Tinsmith.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Buddies.</i></span></h2>
<p>The Patriarch sat on the store porch. An old
cob pipe, the smoke oozing lazily from its mouth,
protruded from the recesses of his white beard.
His eyes were fixed on the mountains over whose
sides the black, sharp shadows of the clouds were
wandering. His mood was so pensive as to
awaken the curiosity of the Storekeeper, who had
been watching the old man sitting upright on the
bench, his gaze fastened on the distant hills.</p>
<p>“What are ye thinkin’ of, Gran’pap?” the
young man asked.</p>
<p>“I was thinkin’ o’ Hen Wheedle. I hain’t thot
o’ him fer a year, so I sais to meself to-day, I sais,
‘You otter think o’ Hen Wheedle!’ An’ I set
right down, an’ a mighty good time I’ve hed a
medytatin’ over him.”</p>
<p>The Miller laid the county paper over his knees
and smoothed it out. Then he looked at the
Patriarch.</p>
<p>“My souls!” he cried. “Why, Hen’s ben over
the mo’ntain nigh onto forty year.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p>
<p>“That’s jest the pint,” was the rejoinder.
“‘Hen folks is gone ye otter think on ’em.”</p>
<p>To the old man there was nothing beyond the
mountains but infinite space. To him the world
was bounded by the green range before him and
the range back by the river. The two sprang out
of the blue at a point some nine miles to the
north, went their own ways some fifteen miles to
the south, joined, and made the valley and the
world. To go over the mountain to him meant
voluntary annihilation. He would step off into
space beyond and become nothingness. In the
seventy-five years of his life he had known men to
return, but it was as though they had arisen from
the dead.</p>
<p>“You uns knowd Hen Wheedle?” he inquired.</p>
<p>“He was afore my time but I’ve heard o’ him,”
replied the Miller.</p>
<p>The Chronic Loafer looked up from the steps,
where he had been sitting, whittling a piece of
soft white pine.</p>
<p>“I s’posn you’ve heard o’ Bill Siler?” he asked,
in a pleasant, alluring tone.</p>
<p>“Bill Siler,” repeated the Miller. He laid his
forefinger against his forehead and thought a
minute. “I think I hev. His name’s wery famil’ar.
But why did ye ast?”</p>
<p>“Oh, jest because I’ve noticed that most everybody
was afore your time an’ you’ve heard o’ ’em.
I never knowd Bill Siler. His name was jest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
ginirated in my head, an’ I thot ye might tell
me who he was.”</p>
<p>“You thot ye’d ketch me, heigh,” cried the
other. “Ye thot ye’d be smart an’——”</p>
<p>“Boys, boys,” the Patriarch shook his stick at
his companions. “Don’t quarrel—don’t. Mebbe
some day one o’ ye’ll go over the mo’ntain an’
then every mean word ye ever sayd’ll come back.
Mean words is like them wooden balls on a ’lastic
string that they sells the children at the county
fair. The harder they is an’ the wiolenter ye
th’ow ’em the quicker they bounces home to ye
an’ the more they hurt. I otter know. Hen
Wheedle otter know. Why every time he thinks
o’ me his conscience must jest roll around inside
o’ him.” The light in the old man’s pipe had
gone out. He applied a sulphur match to it and
sneezed violently. “But I’ve forgot the wrong
Hen done me. He must ’a’ suffered innardly fer
it. Ef he ever returns I’ll put this right hand in
hisn an’ say, ’Hen, you done wrong, but you’ve
suffered innardly an’ I fergive ye.’ They’s a heap
o’ difference ’tween plain, ord’nary sufferin’ inside
o’ ye, an’ sufferin’ innardly. Fer the first ye takes
bitters, stops smokin’ an’ in a day you’re all right.
But ’hen the conscience gits out o’ order all the
bitters in the world an’ all the stoppin’ smokin’
in creation’ll give ye no ease. That’s what I sais,
an’ I otter know, fer I can jest see how Hen
Wheedle feels.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span></p>
<p>No sulphurous fume was blazing around the
Patriarch’s nose, but he sneezed again and choked
himself with a piece of canton-flannel that served
him as a handkerchief.</p>
<p>“Hen an’ me was raised on joinin’ farms. From
the time we was big enough to gether eggs we
was buddies. At school the boy that licked me
had to lick both; the boy that was licked be one
was licked be both. It was a reg’lar caset o’
David an’ Joshuay all over agin.</p>
<p>“They’s only one thing in the world’ll separate
buddies like me an’ him was. A crow-bar won’t
do it; a gun won’t; nothin’ won’t but a combination
o’ yeller hair an’ dreamy blue eyes an’ pink
cheeks. Melissy Flower hed ’em all. But what
she done she didn’t do intentional. I didn’t want
her without Hen hevin’ her; he didn’t want her
without me hevin’ her—so they was a hitch. We
used to go over to her house together allus, an’
we’d sing duets to her melodium playin’. He
sung tenor an’ I bass. At the eend of each piece
she distributed her praise jest equal. ’Hen we
wasn’t hevin’ music we’d be on the settee, all
three, first him, then her, then me. Ef Hen was
so fortnit ez to catch the sparkle o’ her eyes,
she’d turn her head my way an’ give me a chancet
too.</p>
<p>“Now things went on this way tell one night
we was comin’ home from her house together.
We reached the covered bridge where the road<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
dewided, one fork goin’ to his placet an’ one to
mine. How clear I remembers it!</p>
<p>“‘Henry,’ I sais, lookin’ right inter his eyes—it
was moonlight an’ I could almost read his thots,
’Henry, it seems to me like you’ve ben thinkin’
more ’an usual o’ Melissy lately.’</p>
<p>“‘I was thinkin’ the same of you,’ sais he.</p>
<p>“‘You’re right,’ I answers. ‘But I won’t treat
no buddy o’ mine mean.’</p>
<p>“‘An’ the same with me,’ sais he.</p>
<p>“We was quiet a piece. Then I sais, ’Henry,
ef ever I finds I can’t stand it no longer I’ll tell
you.’</p>
<p>“‘An’ ef ever I gits the same way I’ll tell you,’
sais he.</p>
<p>“We shook hands an’ went home.</p>
<p>“I s’pose things ’ud ’a’ gone on ez they was fer
a good many year hed not a young town felly
from up the walley come drivin’ down in slick
clothes an’ in a slick buggy. You uns hev all
heard the old sayin’ that it ain’t the clothes that
makes the man. Ye never heard the proverb that
it ain’t the paint that makes the house, did ye?
I guess ye didn’t, yit it’s jest ’bout ez sensible.
It ain’t the paint that makes the house, but it’s
the paint that keeps the boards from rottin’ an’
the hull thing from fallin’ to pieces out o’ pure
bein’ ashamed o’ itself. Solerman was the wisest
man that ever lived, yit the Bible sais that he
allus run to fine raiment. He hed a thousand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
an’ odd wives an’ knowd well enough that he
wouldn’t hev no peace with ’em ef he run ’round
in his bare feet an’ overalls. ’Hen the Queen o’
Sheby called on him ye can bet your bottom dollar
she didn’t find him settin’ on the throne with
a hickory shirt ’thout no collar, an’ his second-best
pants held up be binder-twine galluses.”</p>
<p>The old man had been talking very fast and
was out of breath. He paused to gather the
threads of his story.</p>
<p>The School Teacher seized the opportunity to
remark: “An’ yet Solerman in all his glory was
restless an’ unhappy.”</p>
<p>“He knowd too much,” drawled the Loafer,
looking up from his stick. “An’ Gran’pap, with
all of his wisdom, with all the good uns he sayd,
Solerman never knowd what it was to light his
ole pipe an’ set plumb down on the wood-pile an’
play with the dog. Why, he’d sp’iled his gown.”</p>
<p>“Boys,” resumed the Patriarch, “slick clothes
an’ a slick hoss an’ a slick buggy goes ten times
furder with a woman then a slick brain. She can
see a man’s clothes; she can see his hoss; she can
see his buggy. But it takes her fifty year to git
her eyes adjusted so she can see his mind. That’s
why I got worrit ’hen this here Perry felly got to
drivin’ down to wisit Melissy. He come oncet; he
come agin, an’ I begin thinkin’ more o’ him then I
did o’ the girl. Sometimes it seemed like I was goin’
mad yit I couldn’t do nawthin’ on Hen’s account.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
Many an afternoon I set here on this wery porch
rewolvin’ it over an’ over: ‘Ef I don’t git her I’ll
die; ef I git her Hen’ll die; ef Perry gits her both
on us’ll die.’ It was a hard puzzle. A couple o’
times I was near solvin’ it be leavin’ the main part
o’ the sufferin’ to the other fellys, but then I
minded how Hen looked at me that night ez we
parted at the fork o’ the road, an’ I sais, ‘I’ll treat
no buddy o’ mine mean. Git behind me, Satan,
an’ make yerself comf’table tell I need ye.’</p>
<p>“But one afternoon ’hen I was feelin’ petickler
low in sperrits, oneasy, onrastless, I seen Perry
drivin’ th’oo, his hoss curried tell his coat was
smooth ez silk, his buggy shinin’ like it ’ud blind
me, an’ him settin’ inside in a full new suit o’ clothes.
I knowd she couldn’t stand all that wery long.
So after supper I went right over to Wheedle’s to
git Hen, ’lowin’ we’d go down to Flower’s an’ let
Melissy settle the business be choosin’. He
wasn’t een. His ma sayd he’d jest left, but she
s’posed he’d be right hum agin. So I fixed meself
on the pump trough an’ waited. My, but
them hours did drag! The sun set an’ it got dark.
I could look down the hill to Flower’s placet an’
see a light twinklin’ in the best room where I
knowd she was with Perry. I pictured her at the
melodium twiddlin’ her fingers soft-like over the
keys while he leaned over her singin’, ‘Thine eyes
so blue an’ tender.’ Boys, it was terrible—terrible.
The lamp was allus a-twinklin’ to me to hurry up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
Then final it seemed to git tired an’ went out. It
was only eight o’clock. Now I pictured ’em settin’
in the dark. I wanted to leave right there
an’ run down the hill, but I sais, ‘No; I’ll treat
no buddy o’ mine mean.’</p>
<p>“By an’ by the moon come up an’ the chickens
in the barn quit cluckin’ at the rats. I begin to
git dozy an’ leaned my head agin the pump.
’Hen I come to me senses the roosters was crowin’
an’ the light was creepin’ over the ridges yander.
I went home. Ez I come ’round the corner o’
the house, there I see Hen Wheedle sound
asleep on the back stoop.</p>
<p>“‘Hen,’ sais I, ‘what hev you ben doin’?’</p>
<p>“‘Waitin’ fer you,’ he answers, ez he gits up
an’ rubs his eyes. ‘I come over last night to git
you an’ go over to Flower’s. Perry’s there.’</p>
<p>“I told him how I’d waited all night fer him, an’
he jest groaned. He had ’em wery bad. I mind
oncet readin’ in the weemen’s column in the paper
how spilt milk could be sopped up with a sponge.
It seemed jest ez tho’ that was what we was doin’
’hen we went over to Flower’s that mornin’. It
was wery early an’ we’d a long time to wait ’fore
Melissy come down to git breakfast. Then Hen
an’ me stepped inter the kitchen.</p>
<p>“I thot she’d faint.</p>
<p>“‘Why, you’re airly,’ she sais.</p>
<p>“‘We’ve come airly a purpose, Melissy,’ sais I.
‘We wants you to choose atween us.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p>
<p>“That girl must ’a’ thot a heap o’ one o’ we
two—which un I don’t know, but one sure, fer
she kind o’ fell agin the table, graspin’ it fer
support. She raised her apron over her face an’
gasped like.</p>
<p>“‘Take whichever one ye want,’ sais Hen kind
o’ soft.</p>
<p>“She didn’t answer.</p>
<p>“‘Don’t keep us een suspenders,’ sais I.</p>
<p>“Then the apron fell from her face, showin’ it
all a rosy red, an’ she tells us, ‘Boys, I’m awful
sorry, but you’re late. I tuk Perry last night.’</p>
<p>“Hen an’ me turned on our heels an’ walked
out. We didn’t say nawthin’ tell we come to the
fork in the road.</p>
<p>“Hen stopped an’ wentured, ‘We’ve ben
fools.’</p>
<p>“‘We hev,’ I sais.</p>
<p>“‘Them town fellys doesn’t last long,’ sais he
after a spell. ‘She’s like to be a widdy.’</p>
<p>“‘In which caset,’ sais I, our agreement stands.
We notify each other ’fore we ast her.’</p>
<p>“‘It does,’ he answers, quiet an’ wery solemn.
‘We’ve allus ben buddies, you an’ me, an’ we allus
will be.’</p>
<p>“Melissy Flower become a widdy ez Hen
’lowed an’ a mighty nice un, too. Perry was
hardly cold tell me an’ Wheedle was over singin’
duets with her. The ole trouble come on agin fer
me worse than ever, but this time I made up me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
mind I wouldn’t be fooled. ’Hen I could stand it
no longer, I walks one night over to Wheedle’s to
notify him. He wasn’t there. I’d ’a’ gone on to
Flower’s but I minded our agreement an’ was true.
It was a temptation, but I’d never treat no buddy o’
mine mean. I was true. It come twelve o’clock
an’ they was no sign o’ him, so I went back home
feelin’ a leetle heavy here.” The old man laid
his hand across the watch-pocket of his waistcoat.
“Next day they was a postal in the mail fer me.
It was from Hen, an’ it run like this: ‘I’m on me
way to Flower’s to ast her. I drop this in the box
to notify you ez I promised.’</p>
<p>“That’s the way he give me notice. While I
was waitin’ to notify him right, he was astin’ her.
He done wrong. His conscience was agin him,
fer ’hen I went over to his placet to give him an
idee what I thot, I found him an’ she hed gone—gone
over the mo’ntain yander.”</p>
<p>The Patriarch arose and shook his stick angrily
at the distant hills. He shook it until his strength
had given out and his anger had ebbed away.</p>
<p>“That was forty year ago,” he said after a long
silence, “but ef ever Hen Wheedle comes back
I’ll lay this here right hand in hisn an’ say, ’Hen,
you done wrong, but you’ve suffered innardly.
I fergive ye.’”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Joe Varner’s Belling.</i></span></h2>
<p>The wind rattled the windows and made creepy,
unpleasant noises in the trees outside. At long
intervals it ventured down the chimney with
sudden spurts and playfully blew the smoke out
into the room, causing momentary discomfort
to the eyes of all three of us. Then as quickly
it would retire, giving a triumphant whistle as
though it enjoyed the joke hugely. The soot
would come tumbling down and envelop the
flames in a cloud of black dust. A crackle, a
splutter, and the logs blazed up as cheerily as
ever.</p>
<p>I stretched my feet toward the fire and buried
myself deeper in my great arm-chair. Flash, the
setter, curled at my side, poking his nose between
his fore-paws, fixed his earnest eyes on a tiny
tongue of flame that was eating its way along a
gnarled bit of hickory. Facing us, rocking slowly
to and fro on two legs of his frail wooden chair,
was Theophilus Winter, the lawyer and our companion
on many a day’s hunt. This was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
Theophilus the acme of comfort, for he had a good
cigar for an inspiration and the best of audiences,
an intelligent dog and a tired man.</p>
<p>“Yes, as I was saying before that last gust interrupted
us, I am not a superstitious man, but as
long as no harm can come of it I prefer to plant
my garden in the right sign. While I am not in
the least superstitious I must confess some timidity
on this one point—that is, as to passing the
small log house that stands just at the foot of the
ridge on the road to Kishikoquillas on the night
of the twenty-ninth of December, or indeed
almost any time after sunset. Not that I am
afraid—far from it—but strange tales have been
abroad for the last thirty years regarding the doings
there after nightfall. They say that the
sound of fiddles can be heard, the clanging of
cow-bells and occasionally the dull report of a
gun. This, the young folks declare, is the ghosts
belling Joe Varner.</p>
<p>“Perhaps you have seen the house of which I
have spoken. It stands in a little clearing, about
fifty feet from the roadside. The great stone chimney
is now almost completely demolished. The
plaster daubing has fallen from the chinks between
the logs, revealing to the passer-by the barren interior.
The glass has been removed from the
shattered windows to let the light into some more
respectable dwelling. The weeds and briars grow
rank over all. The place presented a far different<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
picture thirty years ago. Then all was scrupulously
clean. Not a stone on the chimney top
was out of place, not an iota of daubing had
fallen away, nor was the smallest spot left unwhitewashed.
Everywhere was the evidence of
industry and thrift.</p>
<p>“For twenty years Joe Varner had lived his
lonely life there, with no other companion than a
mongrel dog. He was a strange man, tall and
gaunt in appearance, taciturn and surly in manner,
doing his bad deeds in public and his good
ones in private, for his pride would not allow him
to parade the latter before his neighbors. Yet
with it all he was at heart a kindly old fellow who
had simply been spoiled by his way of living.
And why he had chosen this way was a puzzle to
all our people. He was not a native of our
county, but had simply appeared one day, bought
this secluded plot, built his house and settled
here. Twice, leaving no one behind him, he went
away, remained a week and then as quietly returned
to resume his lonely life. On each occasion
his return was marked by a fit of melancholy
which attracted the attention but repelled the
curiosity of his nearest neighbors. That he had
visited his old home in a distant county was all
they could ever learn.</p>
<p>“Just thirty years ago this coming December,
Varner left for the third time. A week passed,
and he did not return. Two weeks went by, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
he was still absent. Strange rumors were abroad
as to the cause of this unaccountable delay. When
the third week had reached its end he came home,
bringing with him a wizened little woman, with
a hard face and of a most slovenly appearance.
This person he introduced laconically, but with a
very evident touch of pride, as his wife.</p>
<p>“Just who the woman was or where from no
one knew and none dared ask, but the news of
her arrival spread quickly. Here was an opportunity
not to be lost—to bell old Joe and his
mysterious bride. Never before had the valley
made such preparations for a serenade. Full fifty
men and boys met at my father’s barn on the
night following the old man’s home-coming, and
armed with old guns, fiddles, sleigh bells and
horns we set out for the scene of our operations.
It was a good two mile walk to the house on the
ridge, and we reached it just as the full moon was
climbing over the tree tops and peeping into the
clearing. There was no sign of life anywhere save
a few dim rays of light that shone through a
crevice in the shutters.</p>
<p>“Silently we stationed ourselves about the
cabin. At each corner we placed a horse-fiddle,
an unmusical instrument made by drawing the
edge of a board, coated with resin, over the corner
of a large box. The signal was given, and forthwith
arose the greatest din that had ever been
heard in our county. The banging of the muskets,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
the bells, the horns, with the melancholy wail of
the horse-fiddles rising above them all, made an
indescribable tumult. But the result was not as
we had expected. We believed that Joe and his
wife would come to the door, bow their acknowledgments
and invite us in to a feast of cake and
cider, as is the custom. Instead the light died
suddenly. No sound was heard within.</p>
<p>“We kept to our work bravely. A half hour
passed. Cries of ‘Bring out the bride’ arose
above the din, giving evidence that lusty lungs
were coming to the aid of wearied limbs. ‘Bring
her out. Fetch out Mrs. Varner, Joe!’ we called
again and again.</p>
<p>“It was of no avail. An hour passed and not
a sign of life had come from the interior of the
cabin. The noise began to weaken in volume, the
owners of the guns grew chary of wasting their
powder, and at last, much to our chagrin, we were
compelled to retire to the woods for a consultation.</p>
<p>“A thin stream of smoke pouring from the
mouth of the chimney suggested a plan resorted
to only on the most desperate occasions—that
of smoking out the newly wedded pair. It was
the work of but a few minutes to obtain a board
suitable for the purpose and for one of the young
men to climb to the roof with it. He made his
way noiselessly to the peak, laid his burden across
the top of the chimney, then crouched low to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
await the outcome. The smoke ceased to escape.
Another half hour passed and still no sign from
the house. Anxious looks appeared on the faces
of the serenaders. The man on the roof removed
the cover and a dense volume of smoke arose,
showing that the fire had done well the work we
required. From beneath the doorway, too, a few
thin wreaths were circling vaguely out.</p>
<p>“A chill of dread passed over us. It seemed
that something out of the ordinary must have
happened within. At first we were inclined to
the belief that the fact that the smoke had not
driven out the occupants of the house proved that
it was empty. But we remembered the light that
we had seen burning on our approach. It augured
evil.</p>
<p>“Four stalwart fellows, holding between them
a large log, attacked the door. One blow—it
cracked. No sound inside. Another blow and
the heavy oak fell back on its hinges. The smoke,
released from its prison, poured out in dense
clouds, driving the excited bellers from the doorway.
One man dashed through it and across the
single apartment, which passed as living-room and
kitchen, and in another instant the window was
up, the shutters open and the wind was whistling
through, driving before it the heavy veil that had
hidden the interior from our view. The moonlight
streamed in.</p>
<p>“There, sitting in a great wooden rocking-chair,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
his feet resting almost in the fire, his head fallen
low upon his breast, his stern, hard features calmly
set as if in sleep, sat he whom we had come to bell—dead.
On the spotless table by his side stood
a candlestick from which the candle had burned
away, only a bit of charred taper remaining to tell
us that in all likelihood Joe had died before we
reached his home and that the last spark of the
unattended light had fluttered out, just as we began
the hideous turmoil outside. Clutched in the old
man’s right hand was the explanation of his lonely
life as well as of the grewsome ending of the great
belling.”</p>
<p>Theophilus Winter ceased his narration. He
drew out his pocketbook and after fumbling a
moment in its recesses, took from it a bit of paper.
It was yellow with age and soiled, and the writing
on it had almost faded out, but I could read:
“Deer Joe—you and me was never ment for one
another. i knowed that 40 years ago and thats
wi i run way with si tompson, you was good to
take me back them too other times i left, this last
time i thought i was gettin to old an you was so
fergivin i had better spend my las days with you.
i cant stand the quiet country livin an am gone
back to harrisburg. they aint no one with me.
fergive me. i gess youll be better off without
your old wife—sarah.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The Sentimental Tramp.</i></span></h2>
<p>“Anything new ben happenin’ to you uns,
Trampy?” asked the Chronic Loafer. “We ain’t
seen ye ’bout these parts sence corn-plantin’ a
year.”</p>
<p>“Nothin’ unusu’l,” replied the Tramp, laying
on the porch his stick and the bandana handkerchief
that contained his wardrobe. He seated
himself on the step. “Nothin’ unusu’l. I wintered
in Philadelphy an’ started fer these parts in
May.”</p>
<p>“Seems like you’re lookin’ mighty glum,” said
the Storekeeper. He had ceased his whittling
and was examining every detail of the wanderer’s
dress and physiognomy. “Might s’pose ye was in
love agin.”</p>
<p>The traveller sighed.</p>
<p>“You air the sentimentalist tramp I ever seen,”
the Miller cried. “Every time ye comes th’oo
these parts, it’s a new un. Does ye think the
weemen is so almighty blind ez to git struck on a
hoodoo like you?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p>
<p>“I keeps me passions an’ me shortcomin’s to
meself,” replied the wanderer after he had lighted
his corncob pipe. “I’ve had a heap o’ hard luck.
I wouldn’t min’ gittin’ in love or in jail fer murder
sep’rate, but both at oncet is too much even
fer a man like me.”</p>
<p>“Hedgins!” the Loafer exclaimed, edging
toward the end of the bench furthest from the
vagrant. “In jail fer murder!”</p>
<p>A faint smile flitted across the face of the
Tramp. Then he began his story:</p>
<p>“In jail fer murder an’ in love wit’ the Sher’ff’s
dotter—that’s exactly what happened to me.
It’s onjust; it ain’t right, it ain’t, even fer a man
o’ my shortcomin’s. Let’s see. This is hay harvest,
ain’t it. Well, it was jest about corn-plantin’
it all come about. I’d been workin’ me way easy
up along the Sussykehanner, an’ one night put up
wit’ an ole feller named Noah Punk, who lived in
a lawg house at the foot o’ the big mo’ntain this
side o’ Pillersville. They was no one there but
him an’ his woman. She was a bad-tempered
creetur’ an’ made things hum ’round that ranch
when me an’ the ole man was playin’ kyards after
supper. They put me to bed in the garret,
an’ next day I set out agin. Punk he sayd he’d
walk up the road a piece wit’ me, an’ he did. We
parted at a crossroads two mile from his house.
That was the last I ever seen of him. I’d never
thot no more of him nuther ef it hedn’t been that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
two days later, when I was joggin’ easy like into
Jimstontown, I was ’rested—’rested, mind ye, fer
the murder o’ Noah Punk. I never knowd jest
what it was all ’bout tell I was comf’table fixed
in the kyounty jail. An’ then I didn’t keer, fer
I’d met the Sher’ff’s dotter.</p>
<p>“Oh, but she was a star! Jest ez plump ez ye
make ’em, wit’ a dimple, an’ yaller shiny hair, an’
jest ez red ez a ripe rambo apple. When she
brought me up me supper the fust night, I ast her
what I was up fer, an’ she tol’ me.</p>
<p>“It seems like no one ever seen Noah Punk
after him an’ me left the house. He never come
back, an’ when they hunted fer him they found
nothin’ but one o’ his ole shoes, all covered wit’
blood, be the canal where him an’ me parted.
They ’rested me bekase I was last seen wit’ him.
Then the Sher’ff wanted to hang some un.</p>
<p>“When I heard that I was kind o’ tired, an’ fer
a time jest held me head down, never sayin’
nothin’. Then I looks up an’ seen Em’ly standin’
there so sorrerful.</p>
<p>“‘How long’ll it be tell they hangs me?’ I ast.</p>
<p>“‘They’ll try you next month,’ she sais. ‘Then
I’d ’low another month tell——’ She bust plum
inter tears.</p>
<p>“‘Two months, Em’ly,’ sais I, I sais, ‘an’ you
feeds the prisoners. They’ll be the bless’dest two
months o’ me life.’</p>
<p>“‘Deed, an’ that’s jest how I felt. Them words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
was true ef I ever sayd a true word. The bless’dest
two months o’ my life.</p>
<p>“But them days did fly! I never thot no more
o’ Noah Punk or o’ hangin’. It was all of
Em’ly. They was four other prisoners in the jail,
an’ I never played no kyards wit’ them, but jest
sot a-thinkin’ o’ her. She use ter bring us our
meals three times a day. Quick ez I’d finish
eatin’ I’d set waitin’ fer her to come agin. Jail
was a happy place fer me. I never wanted to
leave it.</p>
<p>“You uns otter ’a’ seen me in them days. I
wasn’t sich a bum ez I am now. The Sher’ff give
me a shave an’ a new suit. Puttin’ all in all, I
was a pretty slick lookin’ individu’l—no red hair
an’ whiskers shootin’ out in all directions, makin’
me look like an’ ile lamp, ez I hear one feller put
it. Me coat didn’t hang like curtains, an’ me
pants was all made o’ the same piece o’ goods. I
was a dude, I was, in spite o’ me present shortcomin’s
in that respect. Sometim’s I think mebbe
Em’ly thot so too, fer she use to allus give me a
bigger potaty than the other fellers. They guyed
me a heap about it.</p>
<p>“A month went by, an’ I was gittin’ wus an’
wus, when they tuk me out an’ tried me fer killin’
Noah Punk. They was a smart little chap they
called the ’strict ’torney what done all the work
agin me. He showed the jury Punk’s bloody
shoe an’ my clothes. A doctor sayd the spots on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
my clothes was huming blood. They was, but it
was mine, an’ it got there be my leanin’ agin a
nail. Missus Punk told how I slep’ at the house.
Another feller sayd how he’d seen me an’ Punk
walkin’ along the canal. I ’lowed I didn’t kill
Punk an’ that jedgin’ from what I seen o’ Missus
Punk, he’d ’a’ thanked me ef I had. Missus Punk
an’ the ’strict ’torney got riled at that, an’ the
jedge come down so hard I didn’t dast say another
word. Then the jury found I was guilty,
an’ the jedge ’lowed they’d hang me that day four
weeks. But I didn’t keer, fer it was one month
more in jail to be fed be Em’ly.</p>
<p>“That night she brought me a bigger potaty
’an ever. When I seen it I sais, sais I, ‘Em’ly,
will you be sorry when I’m goin’?’</p>
<p>“‘’Deed an’ I will, Tom,’ sais she.</p>
<p>“‘Then I’ll be glad to go,’ sais I. An’ ’bout
half that potaty went down inter me lungs, I
choked so bad.”</p>
<p>The Chronic Loafer observed, “It do seem
like Em’ly were jest a leetle gone, Trampy.”</p>
<p>“Mebbe she was. I don’t know. But that
very night the other pris’ners onloosed all the
locks wit’ a penknife. They wanted me to go.
I ’lowed I’d stay. I never let on what was wrong,
but sayd I was an innercent man an’ wouldn’t
run. They give me the laugh, an’ that was the
last I ever seen of ’em.</p>
<p>“The day o’ the hangin’ come. I’d ben gittin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
wus an’ wus ’bout the Sher’ff’s dotter. I didn’t
keer much ’bout goin’, but I hated to leave the
ole jail. I’d a heap sight ruther ’a’ gone, tho’,
wit’ flyin’ colors an’ hed her sorry then to ’a’ ben
kicked out to trampin’. Em’ly didn’t give me
breakfas’ that mornin’. Instead, the Sher’ff
served me chicken an’ eggs an’ a lot of other
things they only gives a tramp ’fore they hangs
’im. He togged me out in a nice fittin’ black suit
and tuk me out ter go. Mighty, but they was a
crowd to see me off! The jail-yard was filled
with prom’nent citizens; the housetops an’ trees
around the wall was jest black wit’ men an’ boys.
I braced right up an’ never feazed a bit when I
seen the rope. The Sher’ff sayd I could make a
speech, so I gits up an’ sais, easy like,’Me frien’s,’
I sais, ‘I haven’t no regrets in leavin’ this ’ere
world, fer I hain’t been onduly conf’table. It’s
the jail I’ll miss, an’ the Sher’ff’s pretty dotter.
I’ve——’</p>
<p>“Jest then the Sher’ff yelled, ‘Hold on!’</p>
<p>“I turned an’ seen him readin’ a letter. It had
come from Noah Punk out in Kansas. He sayd
he wrote bekase he seen be the papers they was
hangin’ a man fer killin’ him. He wanted to explain
that he was still livin’ an’ hed only run away
from Mrs. Punk. The blood on his shoes come
from his steppin’ on a piece of glass. He’d tuk
off his boots an’ gone west on a freight.</p>
<p>“When the crowd hear that they give the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
Sher’ff a groan. The Sher’ff he got mad, an’ tuk
all me new duds, give me me ole ones an’ turned
me looset.</p>
<p>“I was a common ord’nary tramp an’ I was
clean discouratched. I knowd I’d never have
Em’ly feed me agin ’less I got back in that jail,
so I set right down on the steps. The Sher’ff
jest wouldn’t ’rest me but druv me off wit’ a club.
I busted two o’ his winders next day. Still he
wouldn’t ’rest me. I broke three more winders
an’ he nabbed me. I was nigh tickled to death
wit’ me luck. But then I hain’t no luck. That
there man treated me jest the way a farmer does
a cat that eats chickens. He put me on a train,
tuk me out to Altony an’ turned me looset.”</p>
<p>The Tramp sighed and puffed vigorously on his
pipe.</p>
<p>“An’ now what air ye doin’?” asked the Storekeeper.</p>
<p>“What else ’ud a man do?” replied the traveller.
“I’m hustlin’ jest ez fast ez I kin to git
back to that jail. An’ I’m goin’ ter git in it.
I’ll never eat another potaty onless it comes from
the hand o’ the Sher’ff’s dotter.”</p>
<p>“Does you know what I wisht?” inquired the
Chronic Loafer earnestly.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I wisht Noah Punk hedn’t wrote that letter.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Hiram Gum, the Fiddler.</i></span></h2>
<p>The last red rays of the evening sun disappeared
below the mountains and the gray twilight settled
over the valley. The mill ceased its rumbling.
The mower that all day long had been clicking
merrily in the meadow behind the store stood
silent in the swaths, and the horses that had drawn
it were playfully dipping their noses in the cool
waters of the creek. The birds—the plover, the
lark and the snipe that had whistled since daybreak
over the fields and the robins and sparrows
that had chirped overhead in the trees—had long
since made themselves comfortable for the impending
night. By and by the woods beyond
the flats assumed a formless blackness and from
their dark midst came the lonely call of the whippoorwill.
The horses splashed out of the creek
and clattered through the village to the white
barn at the end of the street. The Miller padlocked
the heavy door of the mill and bid good
night to his helper, who trudged away over the
bridge swinging his dinner pail. Then he beat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
the flour out of his cap on the hitching-post and
lounged up to the store. He threw himself along
the floor, and after propping his back against a
pillar, lighted his pipe.</p>
<p>“‘Hen it comes to fiddlin’,” the Chronic Loafer
was saying, “they is few men can beat Sam Washin’ton.
Why I’ve knowd him to set down at a
party at seven at night an’ fiddle till six next
mornin’ an’ play a different tune every time.”</p>
<p>“Did you ever hear o’ Hiram Gum?” asked the
Patriarch.</p>
<p>“Hiram Gum!” cried the G. A. R. Man. “My
father used often to speak o’ him, but he was
afore my time. Drowned in the canal.”</p>
<p>“Wonderful, wonderful, I’ve heard tell,” exclaimed
the Miller. “I can jest remember seein’
him oncet ’hen I was a wee bit o’ a boy—a leetle
man with long hair an’ big eyes an’ a withered
arm.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” the old man murmured, beating
his stick upon the porch. “An’ a wonderful
fiddler was Hiram Gum. They was few ’round
these parts could han’le a bow with that man.”</p>
<p>“But Sam Washin’ton’s the best fiddler they
is,” the Loafer interposed emphatically.</p>
<p>“My dear man, Hiram Gum was more’n an
earthly fiddler,” the Patriarch retorted. “He hed
charms. He knowd words.”</p>
<p>“I don’t b’lieve in them charms furder then they
’fect snakes an’ bees.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p>
<p>“But Hiram Gum was more’n an ord’nary
man, an’ I otter know, fer I remember him well.
He was leetle, ez the Miller sayd, an’ hed long
black hair an’ a red beard that waved all around
his neck, an’ big black eyes, an’ cheeks that shined
like they was scoured. Then his left arm was all
withered an’ wasn’t no use exceptin’ that he could
crook it up like an’ work the long fingers on the
fiddle-strings. No one knowd how old Hiram
was, no more’n they knowd where he come from
’hen he settled up the walley sixty years ago, fer
he never sayd. No one ever dast ask him ’bout
sech things, fer he’d jest look black an’ say nawthin’,
an’ give you sech a glance with them big
eyes that you felt all creepy. Aside from that he
was allus a pleasant, cheery kind of a man, an’
talked entertainin’, fer he’d traveled a heap.</p>
<p>“Hiram settled in a little lawg house that stood
on South Ridge near where Silver’s peach orchard
is now. Peter Billings’s farm joined his lot, an’
it wasn’t long ’fore the leetle man tuk to strollin’
over to see his neighbors of an evenin’. By
an’ by he seemed to take a considerable shine
fer Peter’s dotter Susan. First no one thot nawthin’
of it, fer it hairdly seemed likely that ez
pretty a girl ez she would care much about sech
a dried-up leetle speciment ez Hiram Gum. Besides,
fer a long time she’d ben keepin’ company
with young Jawhn McCullagh, whose father owned
’bout the best piece o’ farmin’ land up the walley.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
He was a big, fine-lookin’ felly, a bit o’ a boaster,
an’ with a likin’ fer his own way.</p>
<p>“So no one ever dreamt anything ’ud come o’
Hiram Gum loafin’ over at Billings’s. But, boys,
’hen you’ve lived ez long ez I hev, an’ seen ez
much o’ the worl’ ez I hev, you’ll come to the
conclusion that they is a heap o’ truth in the old
sayin’ that matches is made in Heaven. But it
do seem sometim’s like they wasn’t much time or
thot spent in the makin’. Fust thing we heard
that Hi hed ben drove off the Billings’s place an’
Susan was kep’ locked in her room fer a week.
An’ sech a change ez come over that man. It
was airly in the spring ’hen it happened. He’d
allus met a man with a hearty ‘howde’ before, but
after that he never spoke ’hen he passed. From
one o’ the pleasantest o’ men he become one o’
the blackest. From comin’ to store every day,
he got to comin’ only ’hen he needed things.
The rest o’ the time he spent mopin’ up in his
placet on the hill. Susan changed too. She
lost color an’ got solemn like. Many a time I
seen her leanin’ over the gate, lookin’ away up
the ridge to where Hiram’s placet lay.</p>
<p>“Then come the Lander’s big party. It was
the last o’ the season fer the hot weather was
near ’hen they wasn’t no time fer swingin’ corners,
let alone the overheatin’ that ’ud come by it, so
everybody in the walley was there. Young an’
old danced that night. They was three sets in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
the settin’-room an’ two in the kitchen; they was
two in the entry an’ one on the porch. Save fer
layin’ off at ten o’clock fer sweet-cake an’ cider
we done wery leetle restin’. They was mighty
few wanted to rest much ’hen Hiram Gum played.
He’d no sooner tuk his placet in the corner then
every inch o’ the floor was covered with sets.
Bow yer corners! an’ we was off.”</p>
<p>The old man beat his stick on the porch and
waved his body to and fro.</p>
<p>“My, but that was fiddlin’! It jest went
th’oo a man like one o’ them ’lectric shockin’
machines. Yer feet was started an’ away ye
went; ole Hiram settin’ there with his withered
arm crooked up to hold the fiddle, the long,
crooked fingers flyin’ over the strings, the bow
goin’ so fast ye could hairdly see it, his big black
eyes lookin’ down inter the instermen’, his long
hair an’ beard wavin’ ez he swung to an’ fro.
Now yer own! Oh, them was dancin’ days ’hen
Hi Gum played!</p>
<p>“They never was a more inweterate hat-passer
then Hiram, fer be his playin’ he made his livin’,
an’ never a note ’ud he make tell they was fifty
cents in his ole white beaver. Then he’d play
that out an’ ’round he’d come agin. That night
he didn’t ast a cent, but jest sat there glum an’
never oncet stopped the music.</p>
<p>“Susan was a wonderful dancer—jest ez quick
ez a flash, untirin’, an’ so light on her feet that ye<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
felt like ye was holtin’ to a fairy ’hen ye swung
corners with her. She was on the floor continual’.
I done one set with her an’ noticed how she could
scarce keep her eyes offen Hi. She only danced
one set with McCullagh an’ lay kind o’ limp like
in swingin’ corners an’ didn’t say nawthin’, so
’hen they finished he left the house. I seen him
go out o’ the door with a black look in his
face.</p>
<p>“Most all hed gone ’hen I left Lander’s airly in
the mornin’. We lived over the river, an’ ez they
wasn’t no bridge we use to cross in a couple o’
ole boats that was kep’ tied along the bank jest
below the canal lock. I went down over the flat
an’ th’oo the woods tell I come to the canal,
where I crossed the lock an’ walked along the
towpath, whistlin’ all the time fer company. It
was a clear night. The moon was shinin’ bright
th’oo the trees. The canal was on one side o’ me,
an’ th’oo the open places in the bushes on the
other I could see the river gleamin’ along. I got
to the bend jest a couple of hundred yards above
where the boats lay an’ was jest steppin’ out inter
the clearin’ there ’hen sudden I heard a loud voice.
I stopped. Then it come louder, an’ I recognized
Jawhn McCullagh’s rough talk. I went cautious
tell I was out o’ the woods. There, jest ahead, I
seen him, near the path, facin’ ole Hiram Gum,
who, with his fiddle under his arm, was standin’
with his back to the canal, lookin’ quiet at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
big felly. I dropped to the ground an’ watched,
scarce breathin’ I was so excited.</p>
<p>“Jawhn raised a heavy stick, an’ shook it, an’
stepped slow-like toward the leetle fiddler, crowdin’
him nearer the bank.</p>
<p>“‘Hiram Gum!’ he sayd, ‘I’ve hed ’nough o’
you. Git out o’ this country an’ never come back,
or you’ll never fiddle agin!’</p>
<p>“Hiram lowered his fiddle an’ answered, ‘You
can’t skeer me, Jawhn McCullagh, fer Susan
doesn’t keer fer you!’</p>
<p>“‘You sha’n’t run off with her!’ the other
yelled, shakin’ his stick.</p>
<p>“I could see his face workin’ ez he swung his club
up an’ down, an’ step be step kep’ edgin’ the leetle
felly nearer the wotter. I jest lay tremblin’, I was
that frightened, fer I was but a lad in them days.
I knowd I otter run out an’ stop it, but ’fore I
got me couritch up I hear the soft notes o’ the
fiddle. There was ole Hiram with his withered
hand holdin’ the instermen’, his long fingers flyin’
over the strings, the bow slidin’ slow like up an’
down.</p>
<p>“‘Swing yer corners, Jawhn!’ he cried, fixin’
them black eyes on the big feller.</p>
<p>“Then the notes come quick an’ short.
Jawhn’s stick dropped, an’ his arm fell limp like.
He passed one hand confused over his forehead.
He bowed. The notes come faster. In another
minute he was swingin’ corners with his arms graspin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
the air. The dead sticks cracked under his feet
ez he flung around. An’ ez ole Hi called the figgers
he followed him, yellin’ ’em louder an’ kickin’ like
mad. It was the wildest dancin’ ever I seen. He
bowed an’ twisted, back’ard an’ for’a’d, an’ chassayed
an’ chained, his feet movin’ faster an’ faster
ez the notes come quicker an’ quicker an’ the bow
slid to an’ fro like lightnin’. Ole Hiram kep’
movin’ ’round cautious like, never takin’ his eyes
off the dancer tell he was on the river side
an’ Jawhn skippin’ ’round on the beaten towpath.</p>
<p>“Them was awful minutes fer me. I could do
nawthin’, fer the playin’ kind o’ spelled me. ’Hen
I seen the fiddler begin to move toward the
canal an’ the mad dancin’ felly backin’ nearer
an’ nearer the bank, I tried to git up but I
kicked out with both feet an’ fell sprawlin’ on the
groun’.</p>
<p>“‘Back to your corner, Jawhn!’ the ole man
called.</p>
<p>“‘Corners next!’ yelled the dancer, kickin’ up
his heels an’ th’owin’ out his arms like he was
grabbin’ somethin’. Then come an awful cry.
They was a splash. He’d gone over the bank.</p>
<p>“I jumped out, fer the music hed stopped, an’
started toward the spot. But ’fore I got there
Hiram hed th’owed away his fiddle an’ run to the
canal, an’ was down on his knees starin’ inter
the wotter. A head come above the surface.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
Then an arm reached wildly out. The ole man
bent over an’ grasped the hand. But it wasn’t no
uset, fer he’d nawthin’ to support himself with.
He took holt o’ the bank with his withered fingers,
but the arm give ’way an’ he toppled over. Fer
a minute all was still. I leaned over the wotter
an’ waited. They was a ripple toward the middle,
an’ two heads come up. I seen Hiram Gum’s
long black hair an’ beard an’ his drawn face ez he
looked at the sky overhead. Then they disappeared
agin. The surface of the canal become
quiet an’ still like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’.
Then I turned an’ run.</p>
<p>“I flew along the towpath, acrosst the clearin’,
inter the woods agin, an’ down toward the river
where the boats lay hid among the willer bushes.
An’ ez I went crashin’ th’oo the branches I hear
a girl’s voice callin’.</p>
<p>“‘Hiram,’ she sais, ‘why was you fiddlin’? I
thot you was never comin’.’</p>
<p>“Another second an’ I was th’oo the willers an’
on the bank. There, settin’ in a boat, her hands
on the oars ready to pull away, was Susan Billings.”</p>
<p>The Patriarch beat his cane softly on the floor
and hummed a snatch of a tune.</p>
<p>There came a short, quick puffing as the Loafer
drew on his pipe, until the bright coals shone in
the darkness.</p>
<p>“But Sam Washin’ton——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p>
<p>The old man arose slowly.</p>
<p>“I don’t keer ’bout Sam Washin’ton. I must
be goin’ home. I’ll git the rhuem’tism on sech a
night sure, fer I’ve no horse-chestnut in me
pocket.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>The “Good Un.”</i></span></h2>
<p>An air of gloom pervaded the store. Outside
the rain came pattering down. It ran in torrents
off the porch roof and across the entrance made
a formidable moat, which had been temporarily
bridged by an empty soapbox. It gathered on
the limbs of the leafless trees and poured in steady
streams upon the backs of the three forlorn horses,
that, shivering under water-logged blankets, stood
patiently, with hanging heads, at the hitching rail.
Within everything was dry, to be sure, but the
firewood, which was damp and would not burn,
so the big egg stove sent forth no cheerful rays of
heat and light. Out from its heart came the
sound of sizzle and splutter as some isolated flame
attacked a piece of wet hickory. It seemed to
have conveyed its ill-humor to the little group
around it.</p>
<p>The Tinsmith arose from the nail keg upon
which he had been seated, walked disconsolately
to the door and gazed through the begrimed glass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
at the dreary village street. He stood there a
moment, and then lounged back to the stove.</p>
<p>As he rubbed his hands on the pipe in vain effort
to absorb a little heat, he grumbled, “This
here rain’s upset all my calkerlations. I was goin’
to bile to-morrow, but you uns doesn’t catch me
makin’ cider sech a day ez this. My weemen sayd
they’d hev the schnitz done up to-day an’ we
could start the kittles airly in the mornin’. Now
all this time is loss.”</p>
<p>“Seems like ye’re bilin’ kind o’ late,” said the
Storekeeper, resting both elbows on the counter
and clasping his chin in his hands. “Luther Jimson
was tellin’ me the other day how all the folks
up the walley hes made.”</p>
<p>The storm had kept the Patriarch at home, so
the Chronic Loafer had the old man’s chair. He
leaned back on two legs of it; then twisted his
long body to one side so his head rested comfortably
against his favorite pile of calicoes.</p>
<p>“Speakin’ o’ apple butter,” he said, “reminds
me of a good un I hed on my Missus last week.”</p>
<p>“It allser remin’s me,” interposed the Tinsmith,
“that I met Abe Scissors up to preachin’ a Sunday,
an’ he was wond’rin’ when you was goin’ to
return his copper kittle.”</p>
<p>“Abe Scissors needn’t git worrit ’bout his kittle.
I’ve a good un on him ez well ez on the Missus.
His copper kittle——”</p>
<p>The Farmer, who had almost been hidden by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
the stove, at this juncture leaned forward in his
chair and interrupted, “But Abe Scissors hain’t
got no kittle. That there——”</p>
<p>“Let him tell his good one,” cried the School
Teacher. “He’s been tryin’ it every night this
week. Let us get done with it.”</p>
<p>The Farmer grunted discontentedly but threw
himself back in silence. With marked attention,
however, he followed the Loafer’s narration.</p>
<p>“The Missus made up her mind she’d bile apple-butter
this year, bespite all my objections, an’ two
weeks ago this comin’ Saturday she done it. They
ain’t no trees on our lot, so I got Jawhn Longnecker
to give me six burshel o’ Pippins an’ York
Imper’als mixed, on condition I helped with his
thrashin’ next month. I give Hiram Thompson
that there red shote I’d ben fattenin’ fer a bawrel
o’ cider. She’d cal’lated to put up ’bout fourteen
gallon o’ butter. I sayd it was all foolershness,
fer I could buy it a heap sight cheaper an’ was
gittin’ tired o’ Pennsylwany salve any way. Fer
all year round, zulicks is ’bout the best thing to go
with bread.”</p>
<p>“Mentionin’ zulicks,” interrupted the Storekeeper,
“remin’s me that yesterday I got in a
bawrel o’ the very finest. It’s none o’ yer common
cookin’ m’lasses but was made special fer table
use.”</p>
<p>“I’ll bring a tin down an’ hev it filled,” continued
the Loafer, “fer there’s nawthin’ better’n<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
plain bread an’ zulicks. But the Missus don’t see
things my way allus, an’ they was nawthin’ but
fer me to borry the Storekeeper’s horse an’ wagon
an’ drive over to Abe Scissors’s an’ git the loan o’
his copper kittle an’ stirrer.”</p>
<p>“But Abe Scissors hain’t got no copper kittle,”
cried the Farmer vehemently.</p>
<p>“He sayd it was his copper kittle an’ I didn’t
ast no questions,” the Loafer replied. “My pap
allus used to say that ’bout one half the dissypintments
an’ onhappinesses in this worl’ was due to
questionin’, an’ I ’low he was right. So I didn’t
catechize Abe Scissors. He ’lowed I could hev
the kittle jest ez long ez I didn’t burn it, fer he
claimed he’d give twenty-five dollar fer it at a sale
last spring. Hevin’ made satisfactory ’rangements
fer the apples, the cider, the kittle an’ the stirrer,
they was nawthin’ left to do but bile. Two weeks
ago to-morrer we done it.</p>
<p>“The Missus inwited several o’ her weemen
frien’s in the day before to help schnitz, an’ I tell
you uns, what with talkin’ ’bout how many pared
apples was needed with so much cider biled down
to so much, an’ how much sugar an’ cinn’mon
otter be used fer so many crocks o’ butter, them
folks hed a great time. ’Hen they finished they
was a washtub full o’ the finest schnitzed apples
ye ever seen.”</p>
<p>“Borryed my washtub-still,” exclaimed the
Tinsmith.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p>
<p>“A gentleman is knowd be the way he lends,
my pap use to say,” drawled the Loafer, gazing
absently at the ceiling.</p>
<p>“Well, ef your father was anything like his son
he knowd the truth o’ that sayin’,” snapped the
Tinsmith.</p>
<p>“He use to argy,” continued the Loafer, ignoring
this remark, “that them ez hesn’t the mawral
courage to refuse to lend ’hen they don’t want to,
is allus weak enough to bemoan their good deeds
in public. But it ain’t no use discussin’ them
pints. I got everything I needed, an’ on the
next mornin’ the Missus was up airly an’ at six
o’clock hed the fire goin’ in the back yard, with the
kittle rigged over it an’ hed begin to bile down
that bawrel o’ cider.</p>
<p>“Bilin’ down ain’t bad fer they hain’t nawthin’
to do. It’s ’hen ye begins puttin’ in the schnitz
an’ hes to stir ketches ye. I didn’t ’low I’d stir.
Missus, ’hen the cider was all biled down to a kittle
full, sayd I hev ter, but I claimed I’d worked
enough gittin’ the things. Besides I’d a ’pointment
to see Sam Shores, the stage-driver, ’hen he
come th’oo here that afternoon. The Missus an’
her weemen frien’s grumbled, but begin dumpin’
the schnitz in with the bilin’ cider an’ to do their
own stirrin’. I come over here an’ was waitin’ fer
the stage. After an’ hour I concided I’d run over
to the house an’ git a drink o’ cider. I went in
the back way, an’ there I seen Ike Lauterbach’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
wife a-standin’ stirrin’. The rest o’ the weemen
was in the kitchen.</p>
<p>“‘Hen Mrs. Lauterbach seen me she sais pleasant
like, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Your wife
an’ the rest o’ the ladies hes made a batch o’
cookies. Now you jest stir here a minute an’ I’ll
go git some fer ye.’</p>
<p>“I was kind o’ afraid to take holt on that there
stirrer, so sayd I’d git ’em meself. But she ’sisted
she’d be right out, an’ foolish I tuk the han’le. I
regret it the minute I done it. I stirred an’
stirred, an’ Mrs. Lauterbach didn’t come. Then
I hear the weemen in the house laughin’ like
they’d die.</p>
<p>“The Missus she puts her head out an’ sais,
‘Jest you keep on stirrin’. Don’t you dast stop
fer the butter’ll stick to the kittle an’ burn it ef
ye does.’</p>
<p>“Down went the windy. I was jest that hoppin’
mad I’d a notion to quit right there an’ leave
the ole thing burn, but then I was afraid Abe
Scissors might kerry on ef I did. So I stirred,
an’ stirred, an’ stirred. I tell ye I don’t know
any work ez mean ez that. Stop movin’ the stick
an’ the kittle burns. Ef any o’ you uns ever done
it you’ll know it ain’t no man’s work.”</p>
<p>“The weemen allus does it with us,” said the
Miller in a superior tone.</p>
<p>“I cal’lated they was to do it with us, but I
mistook,” the Loafer continued. “I stirred, an’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
stirred, an’ stirred. The fire got hotter an’ hotter
an’ hotter, an’ ez it got warmer the han’le o’ the
stirrer seemed to git shorter, an’ me face begin to
blister. I kep’ at it fer an’ hour an’ a half, tell
me legs was near givin’ way under me, me fingers
was stiff an’ achin’, me arms felt like they’d drop
off from pushin’ an’ twistin’ that long stick. The
apples was all dissolved but the butter was thin
yit, an’ I knowd it meant th’ee hours afore we
could take the kittle offen the fire.</p>
<p>“Then I yelled fer help. One o’ the weemen
come out. I was that mad I most swore, but she
jest laughed an’ poked some more wood on the
fire an’ sayd ef I didn’t push the stick livelier the
kittle’d burn. The fire blazed up hotter an’ hotter,
an’ it seemed like me clothes ’ud begin to
smoke at any minute. Me arms an’ legs was
achin’ more’n more. Me back was ’most broke
from me tryin’ to lean ’way from the heat. Me
neck was ’most twisted off be me ’temptin’ to keep
the blaze from blindin’ me. It come four o’clock
an’ I yelled fer help agin.</p>
<p>“The Missus stuck her head outen the windy
an’ called, ‘Don’t you let that kittle burn!’</p>
<p>“I was desp’rate, but I kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’.
It come sundown an’ begin to git darker an’ darker,
an’ the butter got thicker an’ thicker, but I knowd
be the feel that they was a couple o’ hours yit. I
begin to think o’ lettin’ the ole thing drop an’
Abe Scissors’ kittle burn, fer I held he didn’t hev<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
no business to lend it to me ’hen he knowd well
enough it ’ud spoil ef I ever quit stirrin’. Oncet
I was fer lettin’ go an’ slippin’ over here to the
store, fer I heard several o’ the fellys drive up an’
hitch an’ the door bang shet. But ’hen I tried to
drop the stick I jest couldn’t. Me fingers seemed
to think it wasn’t right an’ held to the pole, an’
me arms kep’ on pushin’ an’ pushin’ tho’ every
motion give me an ache. I jest didn’t dast, so
kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’, an’ thinkin’ an’
thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, an’ wond’rin’ who was over
here an’ what was doin’. An’ ez I kep’ pushin’
an’ pushin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, I clean forgot
meself an’ all about the apple-butter.</p>
<p>“I come to with a jump fer some un hed me be
the beard. ’Hen I looked up I seen the Missus
an’ her weemen frien’s standin’ ’round me gestickelatin’.
The Missus was wavin’ what was left
o’ the stirrer. It was jest ’bout half ez long ez
’hen I begin with it, fer the cross piece that runs
down into the butter an’ ’bout half the han’le
was burned off. Seems I’d got the ole thing
clean outen the kittle an’ hed ben stirrin’ it
’round the fire.”</p>
<p>“Reflex action,” suggested the Teacher.</p>
<p>“The butter was fairly smokin’. An’ the kittle!
Well, say, ef that there wasn’t jest ez black on the
inside ez ef if was iron ’stead o’ copper. An’ the
weemen! Mebbe it was reflect actin’ they done,
ez the teacher sais, but whatever it was it skeered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
me considerable. But final I seen how funny it
was, how the joke was on the Missus who’d loss
all her apple-butter, ’stead o’ on me, an’ how I’d
got square with Abe Scissors fer lendin’ me his
copper kittle ’hen he knowd it ’ud burn ef I ever
stopped stirrin’. An’ I jest laughed.”</p>
<p>The Loafer straightened up in his chair and
began to rock violently to and fro and to chuckle.</p>
<p>The Farmer arose and walked around the stove.</p>
<p>“What fer a kittle was that?” he asked in a
low, pleasant tone. “Was they a big S stamped
on the inside next the rim?”</p>
<p>“That’s the one exact. He! he!” cried the
Loafer, with great hilarity. “S fer Scissors
an’——”</p>
<p>“S stands fer Silver too,” yelled the Farmer.
“My name’s Silver. I lent that kittle to Abe
Scissors four weeks ago.”</p>
<p>The Loafer gathered himself together and
arose from the muddy pool at the foot of the
store steps. He gazed ruefully for a moment at
the closed door, and seemed undecided whether
or not to return to the place from which he had
been so unceremoniously ejected. Then the
sound of much laughing came to his ears, and he
exclaimed, “Well, ef that ain’t a good un!”</p>
<p>And he ambled off home to the Missus.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Breaking the Ice.</i></span></h2>
<p>When William Larker irrevocably made up
his mind to take Mary Kuchenbach to the great
county picnic at Blue Bottle Springs he did not
tell his father, as was his custom in most matters.
To a straight-laced Dunkard like Herman Larker,
the very thought of attendance on such a carousal,
with its round dancing and square dancing, would
have seemed impiety. Henry Kuchenbach was
likewise a member of that strict sect, but he was
not quite so narrow in his ideas as his more pious
neighbor. Yet to him, also, the suggestion of
his daughter being a participant in such frivolity
would have met with scant approval.</p>
<p>But William was longing to dance. For many
years he had fondly cherished the belief that he
was possessed of much inborn ability in that art—a
genius compelled to remain dormant, by the
narrowness of his family’s views. Many a rainy
afternoon had he given vent to his desire by
swinging corners and <em>deux-et-deux-ing</em> about his
father’s barn-floor, with no other partner than a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
sheaf of wheat and no other music than that produced
by his own capacious lips.</p>
<p>So one beautiful July day, when, attired in his
best, he stepped into his buggy, tapped his sleek
mare with the whip and started at a brisk pace
toward the Kuchenbach farm, his stern father
believed that he was going to the great bush-meeting,
twelve miles up the turnpike and was
devoutly thankful to see his son growing in piety.
William’s best was a black frock coat, with short
tails, trousers of the same material reaching just
below his shoe-tops, a huge derby, once black but
now green from long exposure to the elements,
and a new pair of shoes well tallowed. As he
drove up to the gate of the neighboring farm
Mary was waiting for him, looking very buxom
and rosy and neat in her plain black dress, the
sombreness of which was relieved by a white kerchief
at the neck and the gray poke bonnet of
her sect. As she took the vacant place beside
him in the buggy and the vehicle rattled away,
Henry Kuchenbach called after them, “Don’t
fergit to bring back some o’ the good things the
brethren sais.” And good Mrs. Kuchenbach
threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Ain’t them
a lovely pair?”</p>
<p>“Yais,” said her husband grimly, “an’ fer six
year they’ve ben keepin’ comp’ny an’ he ain’t yit
spoke his mind.”</p>
<p>The buggy sped along the road, the rattle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
its wheels, the clatter of the mare’s hoofs and
the shrill calls of the killdeer skimming over the
meadows, being the sole sounds to break the
silence of the country.</p>
<p>A mile was gone over. Then the girl said falteringly,
“Beel, a’n’t it wrong?”</p>
<p>In response William gave his horse a vicious
cut with the whip and replied, “It don’t seem jest
right to fool ’em, but you’ll fergit all about it
’hen we git dancin’.”</p>
<p>There was silence between them—a silence
broken only at rare intervals when one or the
other ventured some commonplace remark which
would be rewarded with a laconic “Yais” or “Ye
don’t say.”</p>
<p>Up hill and down rattled the buggy, following
the crooked road across the valley, over three low
wooded ridges, then up the broad meadows that
border the river, until at length the grove in which
lies Blue Bottle Spring was reached. The festivities
had already begun. The outskirts of the
wood were filled with vehicles of every description—buggies,
buckboards, spring-wagons, omnibuses
and ancient phaetons. The horses had
been unhitched and tied to trees and fences, and
were munching at their midday meal, gnawing
the bark from the limbs, snatching at the leaves
or kicking at the flies while their masters gave
themselves up to the pursuit of pleasure. Having
seen his mare comfortably settled at a small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
chestnut, William Larker took his lunch basket
on one arm and his companion on the other and
proceeded eagerly to the inner part of the grove,
whence came the sounds of the fiddle and cornet.
They passed through the outer circle of elderly
women, who were unpacking baskets and tastefully
arranging their contents on table-cloths
spread on the ground—jars of pickles, cans of
fruit, bags of sandwiches, bottles of cold tea,
layer cakes of wondrous size and construction,
and the scores of other dainties necessary to pass
a pleasant day with nature. They went through
a second circle of venders of peanuts, lemonade
and ice-cream, about whose stands were gathered
many elderly men discussing the topics of the
day and exchanging greetings.</p>
<p>The young Dunkards had now arrived at the
center of interest, the platform, and joined the
crowd that was eagerly watching the course of
the dance. An orchestra of three pieces, a bass-viol,
a violin and a cornet, operated by three men
in shirt sleeves, sent forth wheezy strains to the
time of which men and women, young and old,
gaily swung corners and partners, galloped forward
and back, made ladies’ chains, winding in
and out, then back and bowing, until William
Larker and his companion fairly grew dizzy.</p>
<p>The crowd of dancers was a heterogeneous one.
There were young men from the neighboring
county town, gorgeous in blazers of variegated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
colors, and young farmers whose movements were
not the less agile for the reason that they wore
heavy sombre clothing and high-crowned, broad-brimmed
felt hats. There were three particularly
forward youths in bicycle attire, and three gay
young men from a not far distant city, whose
shining silk hats and dancing pumps made them
centers of admiration and envy. The women,
likewise, went to both extremes. Gaily flowered,
airy calico, cashmere and gingham bobbed about
among glistening, frigid satins and silks.</p>
<p>“Oh, ain’t it grand?” cried Mary Kuchenbach,
clasping her hands.</p>
<p>“That’s good dancin’, I tell ye,” replied her
companion with enthusiasm.</p>
<p>She had seated herself on a stump, and he was
leaning against a tree at her side, both with eyes
fixed on the platform.</p>
<p>Now in seemingly inextricable chaos; now in
perfectly orderly form, six sets bowing and scraping;
now winding into a dazzling mass of silk,
calico, high hats, felt hats, flower-covered bonnets
and blazers, then out again went the dancers.</p>
<p>“Good dancin’, I should say!” William exclaimed.
“Jest look at them th’ee ceety fellys,
with them shiny hats, a-swingin’ corners. Now,
a’n’t they cuttin’ it? Next comes ‘a-la-man-all.’
Watch ’em—them two in the fur set—the way
they th’ow their feet—the gal in pink with the
felly in short pants an’ a stripped coat. Now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
back! Thet there is dancin’, I tell ye, Mary!
‘Gents dozy-dough’ next. Thet ’ere felly don’t
call figgers loud ’nough. There they goes—bad
in the rear set—thet’s better. See them ceety
fellys agin, swingin’ partners. Grand chain!
Good all ’round—no—there’s a break. See thet
girl in blue sating—she turned too soon. Thet’s
better. T’other way—bow yer corners—now yer
own. What! so soon? Why, they otter kep’ it
up.”</p>
<p>The music had stopped. The dancers, panting
from their exertions, mopping and fanning, left
the platform and scattered among the audience.</p>
<p>William Larker’s eyes were aglow. His companion,
seated upon the stump, gazed curiously,
timidly, at the gay crowd about her, while he
stood frigidly beside her mentally picturing the
pleasure to come. He was to dance to real music
with a flesh-and-blood partner after all those years
of secret practise with a wheat sheaf in the seclusion
of his father’s barn. He was to put his arms
around Mary Kuchenbach. His feet could hardly
keep still when a purely imaginary air floated
through his brain and he fancied himself “dozy-doughing”
and “goin’-a-visitin’” with the rosy
girl at his side.</p>
<p>The man with the bass-viol was rubbing resin
on his bow, the violinist was tuning up and the
cornetist giving the stops of his instrument the
usual preliminary exercise when the floor-master<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
announced the next dance. One after another
the couples sifted from the crowd and clambered
on to the platform.</p>
<p>“Two more pair,” cried the conductor.</p>
<p>“Come ’long, Mary. Now’s our chancet,”
whispered the young Dunkard to his companion.</p>
<p>“Oh, Beel, really I can’t. I never danced in
puberlick afore.”</p>
<p>“But you kin. It ain’t hard. All ye’ll hev to
do is to keep yer feet a-movin’ an’ mind the felly
thet’s callin’ figgers.”</p>
<p>The girl hesitated.</p>
<p>“One more couple,” roared the floor-master.</p>
<p>William was getting excited.</p>
<p>“You can dance with the best of ’em. Come
’long.”</p>
<p>“Really now, Beel, jest a minute.”</p>
<p>The twang of the fiddle commenced and the
cracked, quavering notes of the horn arose above
the buzz of conversation.</p>
<p>“Bow yer corners—now yer own,” cried the
leader.</p>
<p>And the young man sat down on the stump in
disgust.</p>
<p>“We’ll hev to git in the next,” he said. “Why,
it’s eesy. You see this here’s only a plain
quadreel. Ye otter see one thet ain’t plain—one
o’ them where they hes sech figgers ez ‘first lady
on the war-dance,’ like they done at the big weddin’
up in Raccoon Walley th’ee year ago. These<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
is plain. I never danced ’em afore meself, but
I’ve seen ’em do it an’ I’ve ben practisin’. All
ye’ll hev to do is to mind me.”</p>
<p>So the following dance found them on the platform
among the first. The girl was trembling,
blushing and self-conscious; the young man self-conscious
but triumphant and composed.</p>
<p>“Bow yer partners,” cried the floor-master when
the orchestra had started its scraping.</p>
<p>Down went the gray poke bonnet. Down
went the great derby, and a smile of joy overspread
the broad face beneath it.</p>
<p>“Swing yer partners!”</p>
<p>The great arms went around the plump form,
lifting it from its feet; their owner spun about,
carefully replaced his burden on the floor, bowed,
smiled and whispered, “Ain’t it grand?”</p>
<p>“Corners!”</p>
<p>The young woman in blue satin gave a slight
scream that was metamorphosed into a giggle, as
she felt herself swung through space in the arms of
the muscular person toward whom she had careened.
Her partner, one of the city men with
silk hats, grinned and whispered in her ear,
“Oatcake.”</p>
<p>“Leads for’a’d an’ back!”</p>
<p>William Larker seized his partner’s plump hand
and bounded forward, bowing and twisting, his free
arm gesticulating in unison with his legs and feet.
He was in the thick of the dance now; in it with his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
whole heart. Whenever there was any “dozy-doughing”
to be done, William did it. If a couple
went “visitin’,” he was with them. When “ladies
in the center” was called, he was there. In every
grand chain he turned the wrong way. He
gripped the women’s hands until they groaned inwardly.
He tramped on and crushed the patent
leather pumps of a young city man, and in response
to a muttered something smiled his unconcern,
bolted back to his corner, swung his
partner and murmured, “Ain’t it grand?” The
young women giggled and winked at their acquaintances
in the next set; the forward youth
in a bicycle suit talked about roadsweepers, and
the city man said again, “Oatcake.”</p>
<p>But the young Dunkard was unconscious of it
all to the end—the end that came most suddenly
and broke up the dancing.</p>
<p>“Swing yer partners!” bawled the floor-master.</p>
<p>William Larker obeyed. A ragged bit of the
sole of his shoe caught in a crack and over he
went, off the high platform, with his partner
clasped tight in his arms.</p>
<p>When he recovered his senses he found himself
lying by the spring, the center of all eyes. His
first glance fell upon Mary, who was seated at his
side, weeping heartily, despite the efforts of a large
crowd of sympathizing women to allay her fears.</p>
<p>Next his eyes met those of the young woman
in blue satin, and he saw her laugh and turn and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
speak to the crowd. He thought that he noticed
a silk hat and heard the word “Oatcake.” And
then and there he resolved to return to and never
again depart from the quiet ways of his fathers.</p>
<p>William and Mary drove back in the early
evening. They had crossed the last ridge and
were looking out over the broad valley toward the
dark mountain at whose foot lay their homes,
when the first word was spoken.</p>
<p>“Beel,” said the girl with a sidelong glance,
“ain’t dancin’ dangerous?”</p>
<p>The young man cut the mare with the whip
and flushed.</p>
<p>“Yais, kind o’,” he replied. “But I’m sorry I
drug you off o’ the platform like thet.”</p>
<p>She covered her mouth with her hand. William
just saw the corner of one of her eyes as she
looked up at him from under the gray bonnet.</p>
<p>“Oh, I didn’t min’ thet,” she said. “It was
jes’ lovely tell we hit.”</p>
<p>The mare swerved to one side, toward the fence.
The driver seized the rein he had dropped and
pulled her back into the beaten track. Then the
whip fell from his hands, and he stopped and
clambered down into the road and recovered it.
But when he regained his place in the buggy he
wrapped his reins twice around the whip, and the
intelligent beast trotted home unguided.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Two Stay-at-Homes.</i></span></h2>
<p>“If wantin’ to was doin’ an’ they weren’t no
weemen, I’d ’a’ ben in Sandyago long ago,”
said the G. A. R. Man. He rolled a nail-keg close
to the stove, seated himself upon it, dipped a
handful of crushed tobacco leaves from his coat
pocket into his pipe and lighted the odorous weed
with a sulphur match. Then he wagged his beard
at the assembled company and repeated, “Yes,
sir, I’d ben in Sandyago long ago.”</p>
<p>“Weemen ain’t much on fightin’ away from
home,” observed the Chronic Loafer, biting a
cubic inch out of a plug of Agriculturist’s Charm
which he had borrowed from the man who was sitting
next him on the counter. The charm had
passed half way around the circle and the remaining
cubic inch of it had been restored to its owner,
when the veteran, not catching the full intent of
the remark, replied: “Yas. They’s a heap o’
truth in that there. Weemen is sot agin furrin
wars. Leastways my weemen is. Now——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p>
<p>“Do they prefer the domestic kind?” asked the
School Teacher.</p>
<p>“Not at all—not at all,” said the old soldier.
“Ye see, my missus passed th’oo sech terrible
times back in ’60, ’hen I was bangin’ away at the
rebels down in the Wilterness, that ’hen this here
Spaynish war broke out she sais to me, sais she,
‘Ye jest sha’n’t go.’</p>
<p>“‘Marthy,’ sais I, ‘I’m a weteran. The Governor
o’ Pennsylwany hes call fer ten thousand
men, an’ he don’t name me, but he means me jest
the same. Be every moral an’ jest right, I bein’ a
weteran am included in that ten thousand.’</p>
<p>“With that I puts on me blues, an’ gits down
me musket, an’ kisses the little ones all ’round, an’
starts fer the door. Well, sir, you uns never seen
sech a time ez was raised ’hen they see I was off
to fight the Spaynyards. Mary Alice, the eldest,
jest th’owed her arms ’round my neck an’ bust out
with tears. The seven others begin to cry, ‘Pap,
Pap, you’ll git shooted.’</p>
<p>“‘Children,’ I sais, sais I, ‘your pap’s a weteran
an’ a experienced soldier. Duty calls an’ he
obeys.’</p>
<p>“The missus didn’t see things that way. She
jest gits me be the collar an’ sets me down in an
arm-chair, draws me boots, walks off with them an’
me musket an’ hides ’em. She weren’t goin’ to
hev no foolin’ ’round the shanty, she sayd.</p>
<p>“Marthy seemed to think that that there settled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
it, but she didn’t know me, fer all the evenin’,
ez I set there be the fire so meek-like, I was
a-thinkin’. Scenes wasn’t to my likin’, so I concided
I’d jest let on like I hed give up all idee
o’ fightin’ Spaynyards, wait tell the family was
asleep an’ then vanish.</p>
<p>“At midnight I sets up in bed. The moon was
shinin’ th’oo the winder, jest half-lightin’ the room,
so I could move ’round without trippin’ over the
furnitur’. The missus was a-snorin’ gentle like, an’
overhead in the attic I could hear a soft snifflin’
jest ez a thrasher engine goes ’hen the men has
shet down fer dinner. It was the childern asleep.
I climbs out over the footboard an’ looks ’round
fer me boots. There they was, stickin’ out under
the missus’s pillow. Knowin’ I couldn’t git ’em
without wakin’ her, I concided to vanish barefoot.
But they was one thing agin this, an’ that
was that the door was locked an’ some un hed
took the key. I tried the winder, but that hed ben
nailed shet. Then I gits mad—that there kind o’
quiet-like mad ’hen ye boils up inside an’ hes to
keep yer mouth shet. It’s the meanest kind o’
mad, too. It seemed like they was a smile playin’
’round the missus’s face, an’ that made me sourer
than ever, an’ kind o’ spurred me on.</p>
<p>“Well, sirs, ez I stood there in the middle o’
the room thinkin’ what I’d do next an’ wonderin’
whether I hedn’t better jest slip back to bed, me
eye ketched sight o’ an ole comf’table that filled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
a hole in the wall where the daubin’ hed fell out
from atween the lawgs. That put me in mind o’ a
scheme that I wasn’t long in kerryin’ out, fer the
hole was pretty good sized an’ I’m a small man
an’ wiry. In less’n no time the comf’table was
outen that hole an’ I was in it. I stayed in it,
too, fer jest ez me head an’ arms an’ shoulders got
out o’ doors I felt a sharp prickin’ in me side. I
pushed back an’ a great big splinter jagged me.
I tried to go on for’a’d, an’ it jagged me agin so
bad I ’most yelled. So I stayed right there—one-half
outen the house an’ the other half een.
Seemed like time begin to move awful slow then,
an’ it ’peared a whole day ’fore the moon went
from the top o’ the old lone pine tree into Grandaddy’s
chestnut, which is jest twenty feet. Then
me feet an’ legs was bakin’ over the stove, an’
the cold Apryl winds was a-whistlin’ down me
neck.</p>
<p>“I took to countin’ jest to pass time, an’ I ’low
I must ’a’ counted fifteen million afore I heard
footsteps up the road. A man come outen the
woods an’ inter the moonlit clearin’, where I could
see he was ole Hen Bingle. I whistled. He
stopped an’ looked. I whistled agin an’ called
soft like to him. He sneaked up to the gate an’
looked agin.</p>
<p>“‘Hen, help,’ I whispers.</p>
<p>“‘Who in the heck is you a-growin’ outen the
side o’ that shanty?’ he calls, kind o’ hoarse an’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
scared. With that he pints a musket at me wery
threatenin’.</p>
<p>“‘Hen Bingle!’ sais I. ‘Don’t you dast
shoot. It’s me an’ I want you to pull me out.
I’m goin’ to war.’</p>
<p>“Then it dawned on him what was up, an’ he
come over an’ looks at me. I seen he hed on his
blues, too, an’ I knowd ez he hed give his woman
the sneak an’ was off to fight Spaynyards. He
wanted to laugh, but I told him it were no time
fer sech foolin’, but jest to break off that splinter
an’ pull me loose.</p>
<p>“Now, Hen’s an obligin’, patriotic kind o’ a
feller, an’ tho’, ez he sayd, he hedn’t much time
to waste, ez his woman was likely to wake up any
minute an’ find him gone, he reached up an’ broke
off the splinter. But I fit the hole so tight I
couldn’t budge, an’ he sayd he’d pull me out. So
he gits up on the wall o’ the well which was jest
below me, an’ grabs me be both hands an’ drawed.
I’d moved about an inch, ’hen he kicked out wild
like an’ hung to me like a ton o’ hay, an’ gasped
an’ groaned. I thought that yank hed disj’inted
me all over, an’ yells, ‘Let go!’</p>
<p>“‘Don’t you dast let go!’ he sayd, lookin’ up
at me kind o’ agonizin’.</p>
<p>“Then I see that neither me nor Hen Bingle
was ever goin’ to fight Spaynyards, fer he’d
stepped off the wall an’ was hangin’ down inter
the well.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p>
<p>“Splinters! Why, I’d ’a’ ruther hed a splinter
stickin’ in every inch o’ my body then ole Hen
Bingle’s two hundred pound a-drawin’ me from
my nat’ral height o’ five feet six inter a man o’
six feet five. That’s what it seemed like. He
ast how deep me well was, an’ ’hen I answered
forty foot with fifteen foot o’ wotter at the bottom,
he sayd he’d never speak to me agin if I let
go my holt on him. I sayd I guesst he wouldn’t,
an’ he let out a whoop that brought the missus
an’ the little ones a-tumblin’ outen the house.</p>
<p>“Marthy stared at us a minute. Then she sais,
‘Where was you a-goin’?’</p>
<p>“‘To fight Spaynyards,’ sais I, sheepish like.</p>
<p>“‘An’ you, Hen Bingle?’ she asts.</p>
<p>“‘Same,’ gasps Hen.</p>
<p>“‘Does your wife know you’re out?’ sais the
missus, stern ez a jedge.</p>
<p>“‘No,’ sais Hen.</p>
<p>“‘Then I’ve a mind to go over to your placet
an’ git her,’ sais Marthy.</p>
<p>“‘It’s two miled,’ Hen groaned, ‘an’ I’ll be
drownded agin you git back. Lemme up now
an’ I’ll go home an’ stay there.’</p>
<p>“Marthy turns around quiet like, walks inter
the house an’ comes out with the family Bible.</p>
<p>“‘Hen Bingle,’ she sais solemn-like, holdin’ the
book to his mouth, ‘does you promise to tell the
whole truth an’ nothin’ but the truth, an’ not to
go to war?’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p>
<p>“Hen didn’t waste no time in kissin’ that book
so loud I could hear an echo of it over along the
ridge. I kissed it pretty loud meself, to be sure.
The missus lifted Hen outen the well an’ he snuck
off home. His woman never knowd nawthin’
about the trouble tell she met my missus two
weeks later, at protracted meetin’ over to Pine
Swamp church. Ez fer me, but fer that splinter
I’d be in Sandyago now.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Eben Huckin’s Conversion.</i></span></h2>
<p>Eben Huckin’s father had been a United
Presbyterian and his mother a Methodist. Eben
belonged to neither church, a fact which he
ascribed to his having been drawn toward both
denominations by forces so exactly equal that he
had never become affiliated with either. Yet he
prided himself on being a man of profound religious
convictions. How could it be otherwise
with one whose forefathers had for generations
sung psalms and slept through two-hour sermons
on the hard, uncomfortable benches of the bluest
of blue-stocking Presbyterianism or prostrated
themselves at the mourners’ bench on every opportunity?
The austerity of these ancestors afforded
him a reason for habitually absenting himself
from Sunday services in either of the two
temples where his parents had so long and faithfully
worshiped. The church-folk in the valley
were getting entirely too liberal. He was a conservative.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘Hen the United Presbyter’ans hes to hev an
organ to sing by an’ the Methydists gits to hevin’
necktie parties an’ dancin’, it’s time for a blue-stockin’
like me to set at home o’ Sundays an’
dewote himself to readin’ Lamentations,” he was
wont to explain to his cronies at the store.</p>
<p>Holding as he did such puritanical ideas, it is
not to be wondered that he viewed with bitter
hostility the coming of an Episcopal clergyman
to West Salem. He had offered no objection
when Samuel Marsden, who owned nearly all the
land surrounding the village, married a woman
from the city, but when that young autocrat turned
the United Presbyterians out of the building
where they had worshiped for a century and had
an Episcopal minister come from down the river
to hold weekly services there, the blood of all the
Huckins boiled and Eben felt called upon to
protest.</p>
<p>At first these protests took the form of long
discourses, delivered on the store porch and touching
on the evil of introducing “ceety notions an’
new-fandangled idees” into the spiritual life of the
community. They continued in this strain until
one fine April day when the sun was shining with
sufficient warmth to allow Eben and his cronies
to move from the darkness within the store to
the old hacked bench without, where they could
bask in the cheering rays.</p>
<p>The green shoots on the tall maple by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
hitching rail, the shouts of the boys fishing in the
creek below the rumbling mill, the faint “gee
haw” of the man who was plowing in the meadow
across the stream, the contented clucking of a trio
of mother hens, wandering up and down the village
street with a score of piping children in their
wake—these and a hundred other things told that
spring was at hand. After their long winter of
imprisonment the shoemaker, the squire and the
blacksmith would have been contented to enjoy
themselves in silence, but Eben was in one of his
talkative moods. That very morning his niece
had announced her intention of forsaking the
church in which her fathers had worshiped, and
becoming an Episcopalian. His cup of woe was
overflowing. He had been able to view with
complacence such defections in other families.
They had afforded him splendid illustrations with
which to enliven his discourses on the weakness
of the generality of mankind. He had set the
Huckins above the generality. It had seemed to
him impossible that one could err who boasted
the blood of men who had gone to church with
the Bible in one hand and a gun in the other.
He had always laid particular stress on that point.
He was a firm believer in heredity and had long
contended that the descendants of those who first
settled the valley were blessed with strong characters.
Yet one of the blood had become an
Episcopalian! And he had met the rector!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p>
<p>“The first I knowd of it was this mornin’ at
breakfast,” said Eben, adjusting his steel-rimmed
spectacles that he might look over their tops so
sternly as to check any hilarity on the part of his
auditors. “Mary sais to me, ‘Uncle, I wish you’d
spruce up a leetle this afternoon ez the rector’s
comin’.’</p>
<p>“‘Mary,’ sais I, thinkin’ I’d cod her jest a
leetle, ‘a miller runs a mill, a tinner works in tin,
a farmer farms, but what in the name of common
sense does a rector do?’</p>
<p>“‘I mean the preacher,’ she answers.</p>
<p>“‘Mary,’ I sais, ‘ef the parson heard you a callin’
him sech new-fandangled names, he’d hev you
up before the session.’</p>
<p>“She was quiet a piece, for she seen I was in a
wery sewere turn o’ mind. I didn’t pay no more
attention tell I was jest about gittin’ up from the
table ’hen she spoke up agin.</p>
<p>“‘Uncle,’ she sais, ‘I hope you won’t mind, but
that’s what we Piscopaleens calls preachers—rectors.
Mr. Dawson is a rector.’</p>
<p>“Well, sirs, I was so took back, I jest set down
an’ gasped. I thot I was goin’ to hev a stroke.
Here was one o’ my blood, my own brother’s
dotter, raised on the milk o’ Presbyter’anism, fergittin’
the precepts o’ her youth, strayin’ out o’
the straight an’ narrow way an’ takin’ up with the
new-fandangled idees o’ the Piscopaleens. An’
why? Because she liked the singin’! ’Hen I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
heard that I rose in my wrath an’ started down
here to cool off. On reachin’ the apple tree be
the bend in the road, I set down on the grassy
bank to rest a leetle an’ look ’round. Pretty soon
I see a man comin’ over the medder, an’ ez he got
close I knowd be the cut o’ his coat an’ the flatness
o’ his black slouch that it was the preacher
hisself. ’Hen he reached the creek he give a
run an’ jump an’ went flyin’ over it in the most
ondignifiedest way I ever seen. ‘It seems like
he thinks he’s an angel a’ready an’ is spreadin’ his
wings,’ I sais to meself. Then he puts both hands
on the top o’ the six-rail fence an’ waults over it
like a circus performer, landin’ almost at me feet.</p>
<p>“‘Hello,’ he sais.</p>
<p>“‘Hello,’ sais I, never liftin’ me eyes offen the
wheat field acrosst the road.</p>
<p>“‘Fine day,’ sais he.</p>
<p>“‘I was jest tryin’ to make up me mind whether
it was or not,’ sais I.</p>
<p>“I thot that ’ud settle him, but I mistook me
man. He were the thickest headedest, forwardest
felly I ever laid eyes on. He jest laughed. Now
I admits that ’hen he laughed he ’peared a tol’able
pleasant enough sort o’ a leetle person, but I
wasn’t in no frame o’ mind fer jollyin’.</p>
<p>“‘I was jest on me way up to your placet to
see ye,’ he sais.</p>
<p>“‘Was ye?’ I answers. ‘Well—I heard ye was
comin’. I’m jest on me way to store.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p>
<p>“It almost seemed I could see that gentle hint
comin’ outen his one ear after it hed gone in
the other.</p>
<p>“‘So ye waited here fer me,’ sais he. ‘How
nice of ye! We’ll jest stroll down to the willage
together.’</p>
<p>“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I’ve changed me mind. I’m
goin’ to stay where I am.’</p>
<p>“‘Ye couldn’t a picked a nicer placet,’ he
sais.</p>
<p>“An’ with that he set right down be me side.
Mad? Why, I was jest bubblin’. An’ I hed a
right to be, fixed ez I was with a Piscopaleen
preacher stickin’ to me closer then a burdock burr
to a setter dog’s tail. I didn’t say a word, but
jest set there with me eyes on the mo’ntain like
he wasn’t about.</p>
<p>“By an’ by he speaks. ‘Mr. Huckin, that’s a
nice mule you hev runnin’ ’round the pasture adjoinin’
our church.’</p>
<p>“‘So,’ sais I.</p>
<p>“‘An’ mebbe you wouldn’t mind pasturin’ him
in some other field a Sunday,’ he went on. ‘Ye
mind a few weeks ago I sent you a message askin’
that you keep your cattle out o’ that field on the
Sabbath because they disturbs our service. Ye
mind it, don’t ye?’</p>
<p>“‘Dimly,’ I answers.</p>
<p>“‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I guesst it must ’a’ ben
pretty dim, fer last week ye forgot to take ’em<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
out an’ added that nice mule to the flock. I like
that beast mighty well, but I objects to his puttin’
his head in the chancery winder durin’ the most
solemn part of our service, like he done the other
day.’</p>
<p>“‘Hen I pictured that ole mule attendin’ the
’Piscopaleen preachin’ I wanted to laugh all over,
but I didn’t dast fer it ’ud ’a’ give him an openin’.
I jest turned an’ looked at the preacher ez stern
ez I could.</p>
<p>“‘Perhaps,’ I sais, ‘these new-fandangled, ceetyfied
goin’s on o’ yourn amused him.’</p>
<p>“He didn’t smile then—not a bit of it. He was
riled—bad riled, an’ pinted his finger at me an’
cried, ‘See here, you old hardshell.’ That was
the wery name he called me. ‘See here,’ he sais.
‘Since I’ve ben a missionary in this community
I’ve tried to conduct meself in a proper an’ humble
sperrit, but ef I hev to carry my missionary
efforts on among the mules, I’ll do it with a gun.’</p>
<p>“‘Hen I heard that I stood right up an’ glared
at him. I didn’t mind his shootin’. It wasn’t
that what stirred me up. It wasn’t that what
made me shake me stick in the air like I was
scotchin’ a chestnut tree. No, sirs.</p>
<p>“‘Mission’ry!’ I sais. ‘Then all we is heathen,’
I sais. ‘Parson, folks hev ben singin’ sams in this
walley fer a hundred an’ fifty year. The folks
in this walley hes ben contributin’ to the support
o’ mission’ries in furrin lan’s fer the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
cent’ry. There are more camp-meetin’s, an’ bush-meetin’s,
an’ protracted meetin’s, an’ revivals an’
love-feasts in this walley in a year than they are
years in your life. Yit you calls yourself a mission’ry.
You complains about my cattle disturbin’
your meetin’s. Ef they enjoy listenin’ to
your mission’ry efforts in behalf o’ we heathen, I
don’t think I otter stop it. You might do ’em
some good.’</p>
<p>“With that I turned an’ walked down the road.
I never looked ’round tell I come to the edge o’
the peach orchard. Then I peeked back over me
shoulder. There was the preacher, still standin’
be the apple tree lookin’ after me. He was smilin’.
Mighty souls! Smilin’! I could ’a’ choked
him.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>An oak tree, upturned, its roots stretched forth
appealingly in the air, its branches washing helplessly
to and fro in the stream, a broken scow lying
high upon the beach, bottom up, a great crevasse
in the side of the canal through which could be
seen an imprisoned and deserted canal-boat, told
of the spring flood. The Juniata had fallen
again to its natural courses, but it was still turbulent
and the current was running strongly. It
was fast growing dark. Heavy clouds were rolling
along the mountains from the west whence
sounded the low grumbling of the coming storm.</p>
<p>Eben Huckin, standing by his boat, looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
anxiously up the river, and then across to where
the village had been lost in the fast gathering
blackness. By a hard pull to the opposite bank
and a run up half a mile of level road he might
make the shelter of the mill before the clouds
broke. But this meant tremendous exertion and
Eben, with the rust of sixty years in his joints,
preferred a drenching. So he tucked his basket
in the locker in the stern and fixed his oars as deliberately
as though the sun were smiling overhead.
Then he began to push out into the stream.</p>
<p>The rattle of gravel flying before fast falling
feet and a crashing of laurel bushes along the towpath
caused him to pause.</p>
<p>“Hold on there!” came a voice. “Take me
over.”</p>
<p>A moment later a man emerged from among
the trees and came tumbling down the bank. It
was Dawson. He stopped short and hesitated
when he saw Eben, and was about to turn back
when the old man said brusquely, “Git in.”</p>
<p>Impelled by a flash of lightning on the mountain
side and a crash of thunder overhead, the rector
scrambled into the stern of the boat. Eben
gave it a shove and climbed in after him. The
river had seized the clumsy craft and had swept it
far out from the bank before the old man could
fix his oars and get it under control. Then with
steady strokes he bore away for the other side.</p>
<p>As Dawson sat watching the coming storm and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
felt the boat moving along through the water, carrying
him nearer and nearer to the lights of the village,
he forgot the incident of the mule and the quarrel
of the previous day and remembered only that his
enemy was taking him from the dark, forbidding
mountains behind, where the very trees were
thrashing their limbs and straining to and fro as
though they would break from their imprisonment
and run for shelter too.</p>
<p>“I can never thank you enough for rowing me
over, Mr. Huckin,” he said.</p>
<p>There was no reply save a vicious creak of the
row-locks. The old man paused at the end of the
stroke but kept his eyes fixed on the sky overhead.
It seemed as if he was about to answer and
then thought better of it, for, ignoring his companion
completely, he leaned sharply forward,
caught the water with the blades and sent a
shower splashing over the stern. Dawson was wet
through. He was a young man with a temper,
and while he could enjoy an intellectual combat
with the rough old fellow before him, he had no
mind to be under dog in a physical encounter.</p>
<p>“See here, Eben Huckin,” he said quietly,
but in a voice of determination. “Just handle
those oars a little more properly or I’ll take command
of this craft.”</p>
<p>There was another loud rattle of the row-locks,
and the rector involuntarily closed his eyes and
ducked, thinking to catch the oncoming wave on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
the top of his broad hat. The expected deluge
did not materialize, and he looked up in surprise
to see Eben leaning over the side of the boat
grasping wildly at an oar which was now far out
of his reach and floating rapidly away.</p>
<p>“Oh, my Gawd!” cried the old man, throwing
himself into the bottom of the boat. “We’re
loss, Parson, we’re loss!”</p>
<p>He covered his face with his hands and swung
despairingly to and fro, crying, “We’re loss—we’re
loss!”</p>
<p>The boat had turned around and was being
swept along stern foremost by the swift current.
Dawson saw this, but the peril of their position
was not yet clear to him.</p>
<p>“Pardon me,” he said quietly, “but I don’t
understand just what has happened.”</p>
<p>“Happened!” cried Eben. “Happened? Why,
your talkin’ done it. I was listenin’ to you, an’
an oar got caught in some brushwood an’ twisted
outen my hand. I jumped fer it, lettin’ go o’ the
other. Now they’re both gone.”</p>
<p>“But as far as I can see the only difference is
we’re going in another direction and a great deal
faster,” said the rector calmly.</p>
<p>“We’re just goin’ right fer the canal dam,”
groaned the old man. “It’s only four mile
straight away, an’ ’hen the river’s like this here,
it’s a reg’lar Niagry.”</p>
<p>“Hum!” Dawson glanced to his left anxiously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
The mountains were now lost in the
darkness. He looked to the right to see the
lights of the village already far up the river.</p>
<p>“Eben,” he asked, “is there no way we can
steer her into the shore?”</p>
<p>“All the rudders in the worl’, ef we had ’em,
wouldn’t git us outen this current.”</p>
<p>“Is there no island we are likely to run into?”</p>
<p>“Nawthin’ but Bass Rock, an’ ez it’s only ten
feet square we mowt ez well hope—no, no, it
ain’t no uset.”</p>
<p>“We might swim.”</p>
<p>“I can’t swim.”</p>
<p>“I can—a little. If you could we would get
out.”</p>
<p>Then the clouds broke and the rain came down
in torrents. They were enveloped in blackness
and could no longer see one another.</p>
<p>To Dawson, sitting in the stern, his hands
grasping the sides of the boat, his head bowed
against the storm, it seemed as though they had
suddenly been carried out on a great sea. Land
was near, but it might as well have been a thousand
miles away. A plunge over the side and a
few strong strokes might take him to safety. But
he could not desert the old man—not till he felt
the craft sinking beneath him and the water closing
over his head. The boat swung up and down in
monotonous cadence, and he felt himself being
carried helplessly on and on.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p>
<p>There was a flash of lightning, a deafening
crash overhead, and all was dark again. It was
but for an instant, and yet he saw clearly, hardly
a stone’s throw away, a small house on the river
bank. A thin wreath of smoke was fighting its
way out of the chimney against the rain. In one
window there was a light, and in that light a man
was standing, complacently smoking a pipe and
peering out through the narrow panes and over
the river, watching the play of the lightning along
the Tuscaroras.</p>
<p>Huckin half rose to his feet.</p>
<p>“It’s ole Hen Andrews,” he cried. “I wonder
ef he seen us.”</p>
<p>Thereupon he shouted lustily for help. He
continued his unavailing cries for some minutes,
and then sank back to his seat.</p>
<p>“Parson,” he said, as if by a sudden thought,
“Parson, kin you pray?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been praying all along, Eben,” was the
quiet reply.</p>
<p>“Mebbe it’ll do some good,” Eben rejoined,
“I hain’t never ben much on it meself—not ez
much ez I otter ’a’ ben, but my pap he was
powerful in prayer.”</p>
<p>He was silent a moment, and added regretfully,
“Oh, don’t I wish he was here now!”</p>
<p>“You are not afraid to die, are you?” asked
Dawson.</p>
<p>“Most any other way, I’m not,” was the answer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
“But I don’t like drownin’, an’ I don’t
make no bones about it. Our family hes allus
gone be apoplexy, an’ I had an idee I’d go that
way, too. All this here comes so sudden. Oh,
Parson, it’s sech an onrastless, oncertain way o’
goin’, a-washin’ roun’ like this fer hours. Ef it
’ud stop after we was gone, I wouldn’t min’ so
much, but to keep on a-washin’ an’ bobbin’ roun’
this ole river—Parson, Parson, pray agin.”</p>
<p>The old man leaned forward and clasped his
companion’s hand.</p>
<p>“Pray agin, Parson, pray agin!” he cried.</p>
<p>A flash of lightning lit up the river. Just
ahead Dawson saw a broad rock. As they were
going they would sweep by it. He sprang forward
over the seats until he reached the bow.
Then he leaped into the water, still keeping a
fast hold with one hand on the side of the boat.
A few strong strokes and the clumsy craft turned
her head. The swimmer’s feet touched the shelving
stone, and he reached out blindly till he felt
a jagged bit of rock. The stern of the boat swung
around and it tugged hard to release itself from
the firm grasp that had checked its wild career.</p>
<p>Eben Huckin tumbled into the water. Dawson
seized him and dragged him from the river,
while the boat, now free, went whirling away
down stream.</p>
<p>For a long time the two men lay in silence,
face downward, on the stone. Then the storm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
went by and the moon came climbing up the
other side of the mountain, and by its light they
could make out the narrow confines of their
refuge. It was hardly ten feet in length and
breadth, and was divided down the middle by a
crevice. They could see the river whirling on
all sides. To their right, over the stretch of
water, rose the Tuscaroras; to their other hand
they looked into the blackness of the woods which
extended from the bank to the ridges miles away.</p>
<p>“Parson, do ye hear that rumblin’, that rumblin’
jest like the mill in busy times, ’hen all the
wheels is goin’?” Huckin was sitting up watching
Dawson wring the water from his felt hat.
The rector strained his ears.</p>
<p>“That’s the dam, Parson. It’s jest a piece below
here, an’ mighty near we come to hearin’
that soun’ most onpleasant loud. Who’d ’a’ thot
we’d ever hit this here bit o’ rock?”</p>
<p>“Why, Eben, I rather had an idea all along
that we might do so,” Dawson laughed. “I was
watching for it. I had no intention of letting
myself get drowned when you heathen in the valley
needed a missionary so badly.”</p>
<p>“True, Parson, true,” said the old man fervently.
“It ’ud ’a’ ben a hard blow fer the walley
to hed you tuk jest at this time.”</p>
<p>The rector smiled faintly. He gazed inquiringly
at his companion. The moon shining full
on Eben’s countenance gave him a saintly appearance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
for the rougher features had disappeared
in the half-light, and the long white hair and
beard, so unkempt in the full glare of day, now
framed a benevolent, serious face. Dawson was
satisfied.</p>
<p>For a long time nothing passed between the
two. Then Eben nudged the rector gently and
whispered, “D’ye believe in sperrits?”</p>
<p>“Why, of course not,” was the reply.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m glad you don’t.”</p>
<p>“Why did you ask?”</p>
<p>“Well, I thot ef ye did you’d like to know this
here rock is sayd to have a ha’nt.”</p>
<p>“To be haunted!” exclaimed Dawson, edging
a little closer.</p>
<p>“Yes, be Bill Springle’s ghos’. I never put
much stock in the story meself, but that’s what
folks sais. I know them ez claims to hev seen it.
I knows one man ez refused to sleep here all
night fer a five-dollar bill.”</p>
<p>“Goodness me!” said the rector. “I had no
idea the people hereabouts were so superstitious.”</p>
<p>“It ain’t jest superstition, Parson. It’s mostly
seein’ an’ believin’. Bill Springle’s ben dead these
thirty year, an’ in that time, they sais, many folks
hes seen him.”</p>
<p>“Eben, the spirits of the dead have better
things to do than to spend their nights sitting on
cold, damp rocks.”</p>
<p>“I know, Parson, I know; but the case o’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
Springle was onusual. He lived back along the
other mo’ntain an’ one night killed a pedler fer
his money. The sheriff’s posse chased him clean
acrosst the walley to the river, an’ here they loss
sight o’ him. Fer a whole week they beat up an’
down the bank an’ then give up the chase. A year
after they foun’ all that was left o’ Bill Springle
wedged right in that crack ahint me.”</p>
<p>Dawson arose to his knees and peered over the
prostrate body of his companion into the interesting
crevice. Then he fell back to his old place,
giving vent, as he did so, to a little laugh.</p>
<p>“He’d starved to death,” Eben continued, “an’
they sais that sometimes on stormy nights he kin
be seen settin’ here. I never put much faith in
the story meself, ez——”</p>
<p>“I’m glad you don’t, Eben,” the rector interrupted.
“But suppose we talk of something more
cheerful.”</p>
<p>A long silence followed.</p>
<p>“Parson,” the old man at length said, “why
don’t ye sleep?”</p>
<p>“On this narrow rock? I’d roll into the river.”</p>
<p>“I’ll watch ye. D’ye see that lone pine tree
standin’ out o’ that charcoal clearin’ on top o’ the
mo’ntain?” Huckin indicated the spot with his
hand, and Dawson nodded. “Well, ’hen the
moon gits over that tree I’ll wake ye up. Then
I’ll sleep.”</p>
<p>The rector replied by rolling over on his back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
and watching the stars until his eyes closed. Soon
the old man heard a soft, contented purring and
he knew that for a time he was alone—at least till
Bill Springle joined him. For a long while he
sat in deep thought with his eyes fixed on the
whirling waters below him. Suddenly he leaned
over and peered into the face of the man sleeping
at his side.</p>
<p>“Parson,” he said softly, “I guesst ye needn’t
mind no more about that mule.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p>
<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.<br />
<span class="smaller"><i>A Piece in the Paper.</i></span></h2>
<p>The Chronic Loafer arose from the bench and
stepped to the edge of the porch. He rested his
left hand on the pillar, thrust his right hand into
his pocket and gazed searchingly at the mountains.</p>
<p>“What’s keepin’ you so quiet to-day?” asked
the Teacher, lifting his eyes from the county
paper. “One might suppose from the way you
was watchin’ those mountains, you was expectin’
them to come over here so you could go fishin’.”</p>
<p>The Loafer turned and looked down on the
pedagogue. There was pity in his eyes and disdain
lurking about the corners of his mouth.</p>
<p>“Well, you don’t feel hurt, do you?” snapped
the Teacher.</p>
<p>“I guess you never fished,” was the reply.</p>
<p>“To tell the truth I prefer more active pursuits.”
The learned man said this with the air
of one who was in the front rank in the great
battle of life. “I prefer doin’ things to loungin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
along a creek tryin’ to catch a few small trout
that never did me any harm.”</p>
<p>“I thot you’d never fished much,” said the
Loafer, letting himself down on the steps and
getting out his pipe. “Ef you hed you’d know
that half the pleasure of it is gittin’ to the stream.
You figure on how nice it’ll be ’hen you’re away
from the dusty road, in the woods, lyin’ in the
grass ’longside of a cool, gurglin’ pool, with the
trout squabblin’ among themselves to git at your
bait. You arrive there, an’ first thing you set on
a rattlesnake. That makes you oneasy fer the
rest o’ the day. Then you find you’ve left your
bait-can at home an’ stirs up some yeller-jackets,
ez you are huntin’ under rocks fer worms. You
lays down your extry hooks where you can find
’em quick, an’ then ’hen you need ’em you discovers
they’re in your foot. No, sir, ef I was
wantin’ to go fishin’ in them mo’ntains, an’ I
hed the power, I’d tell ’em to git back five mile
so I’d hev furder to walk to reach the run.”</p>
<p>“I hain’t got nawthin’ agin your idees o’ fishin’,”
said the Patriarch from his place on the
bench between the Tinsmith and the G. A. R.
Man, “but what you say about expectin’ is ridic’lous.
You was sayin’ a bit ago that you was
goin’ to hev chicken an’ waffles fer supper to-night.
You’ve put in a fine day expectin’ it.
But ef you goes home an’ sets down to sausage
an’ zulicks, I can see things flyin’ ’round your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
shanty most amazin’. All the joys o’ expectation
’ll be wiped outen your mind by dissypintment.”</p>
<p>“But you are talkin’ o’ great expectations,
Gran’pap,” said the Loafer. “They result in
great dissypintments. I’ve been speakin’ o’ the
leetle things o’ life. Now there’s the old soldier.”
He pointed to the veteran. “He was eight year
expectin’ to git a pension. He talked o’ nawthin’
else. Ef he’d only git it he’d be happy.
Well, he got it, an’ he lost the pleasure o’ lookin’
for’a’d to it. Is he satisfied? No. He’s jest
put in wouchers claimin’ that th’ee new diseases
hev cropped out on him an’ that he laid the
foundations fer ’em in the Wilderness thirty year
ago. He wants a raise. He’s happy agin, fer
he is expectin’.”</p>
<p>The G. A. R. Man arose.</p>
<p>“I’m goin’ home,” he said, “an’ I guess I
might ez well stop in at your place an’ tell your
missus to never mind the chicken an’ waffles ez
you’ve hed enough fun jest expectin’ ’em.”</p>
<p>“Well, that would be a good idee,” the Loafer
drawled. “But you’d better jest yell it to her
over the fence. You know she’s ben expectin’
chicken an’ waffles, too.”</p>
<p>The veteran dropped back to his place on the
bench.</p>
<p>The Patriarch nudged him and said pleasantly,
“Why don’t you go on?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p>
<p>“I guesst I’d better wait fer the stage an’ git
the news,” was the growling reply.</p>
<p>“You hain’t answered my first question yet,”
said the Teacher to the Loafer. “You was standin’
there half an hour lookin’ at them mountains
as though they was made of chicken an’ waffles.
You were thinkin’ of somethin’.”</p>
<p>“True,” the Loafer replied. “I was thinkin’
o’ Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon.”</p>
<p>“Mighty souls!” the Patriarch cried. “Reginal’
Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon! You are the
greatest man fer makin’ acquaintances I ever seen.”</p>
<p>“Deeverox was that new segare drummer that
come th’oo here yesterday, wasn’t he?” the Tinsmith
inquired.</p>
<p>“No,” the Loafer responded. “He was never a
segare drummer ez fur ez I know. He was the
real hair to the Earldom of Desmon.”</p>
<p>“Desmon! An’ where in all nations is Desmon?”
the Patriarch exclaimed.</p>
<p>“Englan’,” was the calm reply.</p>
<p>“Then I s’pose you was fussin’ ’round Englan’
last week, ’hen we thot ye was wisitin’ your ma’s
folks in Buzzard Walley,” cried the Tinsmith.
“Now what air you givin’ us?”</p>
<p>“‘Hen I told you uns I was wisitin’ Mother’s
folks, I sayd what was true.” The Loafer was
undisturbed by the storm he had raised and spoke
very slowly, emphasizing his words by a shake of
his pipe. “You see it was this ’ay. The man I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
was speakin’ of was called Lord Desmon, tho’ his
reg’lar name was Earl o’ Desmon. His pap’s
name was Lord Desmon, too, an’ so was his gran’pap’s.
Before his gran’pap died, his pap’s older
brother, that is the uncle o’ the man I’m referrin’
to, merried a beautiful maid who was workin’
about the placet. The old man cast him off an’
he went to South Ameriky, leavin’ a son who
went be the name o’ Reginal’ Deeverox. Be
rights this Deeverox should ’a’ hed the property,
bein’ the hair o’ the oldest son. He didn’t know
it tho’, an’ his uncle didn’t take the trouble to
hunt him up ’hen the gran’pap died, but jest
settled down on the farm himself.”</p>
<p>“What in the name o’ common sense is an
earl?” asked the Miller. “What does he do?”</p>
<p>“Nawthin’,” the Loafer explained. “In Englan’
an earl is a descendant o’ them ez first
cleared the land. He usually hes a good bit o’
property an’ farms it on the half.”</p>
<p>“What gits me is jest how many o’ them Lord
Desmons they was,” the Tinsmith interposed.</p>
<p>“There was the original gran’pap—he’s one.
Then there was his son that merried the maid an’
ought to ’a’ ben earl—he is two. Next there was
his brother who got the property—he is th’ee.
His son makes four, an’ Reginal’ Deeverox, whose
right name was Lord Desmon, is five.”</p>
<p>“That there name Lord seemed to run in the
family,” said the Miller. “I don’t wonder they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
got mixed. Why didn’t they hev a Joe or a
Jawhn?”</p>
<p>“Was these here some o’ your pap’s friends?”
asked the Patriarch.</p>
<p>“I only wished he hed ’a’ knowd them,” the
Loafer answered. “I don’t think he did tho’.
Mebbe he was acquainted with Alice Fairfax, but
I never heard him speak o’ her an’ <cite>The Home an’
Fireplace</cite> never mentioned him ez bein’ at her
castel. I guessed ef Pap hed ’a’ been there he
would ’a’ told me, fer he wasn’t much on keepin’
things secret.”</p>
<p>The Patriarch brought his stick down on the
floor with a vigorous bang.</p>
<p>“See here,” he cried, “what has got into you
anyway? Ef you knows anything about this here
Lord Desmon, Reginal’ Deeverox, Alice Fairfax
business, out with it, I sais. ’Hen you hears a
piece o’ news ye jest set an’ smiles all over it to
yourself like ez tho’ you was tormentin’ us. Ez
ef we cared! Let anybody else hev a bit o’ news
tho’ an’ you don’t give ’em no rest tell you’ve
wormed it out of ’em—not tell you’ve wormed it
all out of ’em.”</p>
<p>“Now see here,” was the spirited answer, “it
ain’t jest that I should be accused this ’ay. <cite>The
Home an’ Fireplace</cite> magazine was layin’ ’round
the counter a whole week afore I even looked at
it. I s’posed you’d all ben readin’ it. That’s
why I thot ye might help me out.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p>
<p>“Shucks! So all this here is nothin’ but somethin’
you’ve been readin’ in the paper,” the
Teacher sneered.</p>
<p>“Exact. An’ ef you’d read the same piecet I
guess you’d ben worrit, too.”</p>
<p>“Reginal’ Deeverox—Deeverox.” The Patriarch
was thinking hard and talking to himself.
“I don’t mind that piecet, an’ I read most o’ that
paper,” he said, looking up. “What page was it
on?”</p>
<p>“I don’t mind the number,” the Loafer answered,
“but it begins on a page that hes a pictur
o’ the house o’ Miss Annie Milliken in Tootlesbury,
Massachusetts, an’ a long letter from
her sayin’ how she hed been bed-rid fer thirty
year tell a kind friend recommended Dr. Tarball’s
Indian Wegetable Pacific.”</p>
<p>“Now I do recklect somethin’ about that caset,”
the Tinsmith interposed. “It was a fight over a
bit o’ property an’ a girl.”</p>
<p>“Exact,” said the Loafer.</p>
<p>“Well, how d’ye know it’s so?” the Miller
asked. “Because it’s in the paper is no sign it’s
true.”</p>
<p>“See here,” was the sharp reply, “do you s’pose
’hen they is so much in this world that’s true the
editor o’ <cite>The Home an’ Fireplace</cite> ’ud go to the
trouble o’ makin’ up lies to print? Why, it
wouldn’t pay.”</p>
<p>The Miller was about to argue against this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
proposition, but the Patriarch leaned over and
laid a hand on his knee, checking him.</p>
<p>“Jest wait tell we find out who got the property,”
the old man said.</p>
<p>“An’ the girl,” cried the Tinsmith.</p>
<p>“That’s jest what I’ve ben tryin’ to find out,”
said the Loafer. Forthwith he plunged into the
history of Reginald Devereux and Lord Desmond.
“You see I found the paper on the counter
yesterday ez I was waitin’ for the mail. I remember
now ’most everything that was in that
piecet, an’ most a mighty puzzlin’ piecet it was,
too. It begin at a placet called Fairfax Castel,
which was the home o’ Alice Fairfax, who the
paper sayd was most tremendous good-lookin’,
bein’ tall an’ willowy, with gold-colored hair an’
what it called <em>p-a-t-r-i-c-i-a-n</em> cast o’ features. She
was twenty year old an’ hed an income o’ ten
thousand pound a year.”</p>
<p>“Pound o’ what?” inquired the Patriarch.</p>
<p>“The paper didn’t tell. It jest sayd pound.”</p>
<p>“That’s the way with them editors,” cried the
old man. “They allus forgits important points.
They expects a man to know everything.”</p>
<p>“I guess that them must ’a’ ben pound o’ somethin’
they raised on the place,” the Tinsmith suggested.</p>
<p>“That’s jest the way I looked at it,” the Loafer
continued. “It didn’t make no difference, anyhow,
ez long ez she hed somethin’ to live on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
This here Lord Desmon hed a placet near hers
an’ used to ride over every day regular an’ set up
with her. He was tall an’ hed keen black eyes.
Wherever he went he tuk with him a hound he
called <em>M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o</em> or somethin’ like that.”</p>
<p>“Now ye mind that he hed no real claim on
the Desmon placet an’ he knowd it. Before his
pap died he hed called him to his bedside an’
sayd to him, ‘Beware of a man with an eagle
tattooed on his right arm. He’s the real hair.’
So Lord re’lized that he was livin’ on a farm that
belonged to the son o’ his pap’s brother. He
knowd that afore his uncle died he’d sent word
home that his son an’ hair could be told be the
eagle. Of course the warnin’ made Lord kind o’
oneasy at first, but ez the years went by an’ he
heard nawthin’ o’ his cousin he concided that the
ole man hed jest ben th’owin’ a scare inter him.
Meantime he’d ben doin’ wery well with Alice
Fairfax, an’ things was all goin’ his way. Then
a strange artist come th’oo the walley. He was
paintin’——”</p>
<p>The Patriarch interrupted with a hilarious
chuckle.</p>
<p>“Now, boys, look out,” he cried. “They never
yit was a painter that wasn’t catchin’ with the
weemen. Ye mind Bill Spiegelsole’s widdy an’
how she’d fixed it up to merry Joe Dumple? She
hired a regular painter to come out from town
to put a new coat on the house, an’ he made himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
so all-fired handy ’round the placet mendin’
stove-pipes, puttin’ in glass an’ slickin’ up the
furnitur’ she took him afore Joe got there.”</p>
<p>“This here artist wasn’t one o’ that kind,” the
Loafer said. “He made them regular hand-paintin’s
they hangs in parlors, an’ done a leetle in the
way o’ portrates. He put up at the tavern an’
then started out fer a stroll th’oo the Fairfax
placet. He hed jest entered the park, the paper
sayd, ’hen——”</p>
<p>“The what?” asked the Miller.</p>
<p>“The park. Don’t ye know, one o’ them places
fixed up special fer walkin’ in, with benches, an’
brick pavements, a fountain, an’ flower-beds an’ a
crowket set. Hain’t ye never seen the one at
Horrisburg?”</p>
<p>“Oh, one o’ them!” the Miller said. “Well, I
guesst those must ’a’ ben pound o’ gold Alice
Fairfax got a year.”</p>
<p>The Loafer resumed the narrative.</p>
<p>“Ez the artist walked along th’oo the park he
heard a scream, follered be a beautiful girl who
run down the road pursued be a ferocious dog.
The paper sayd the great hound was in the act o’
leapin’ at her to catch her be the neck ’hen the
stranger run for’a’d an’ grabbin’ the brute be the
th’oat throttled the life outen him. The anymal’s
fiery breath, the paper sayd, was blowin’ in the
artist’s face ’hen his hands closed on the furry
neck. It was a mighty close shave, I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
jedge. A minute later Lord Desmon run up all
out o’ wind. The dead beast was his <em>M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o</em>.
He thot a heap o’ the hound, an’ the paper sayd
that ’hen he looked on the still quiverin’ body of
his dead companion he swore to be <em>a-v-e-n-g-e-d</em>.
An’ ez he looked up at the stranger that young
man knowd Lord hed it in fer him.</p>
<p>“Alice Fairfax couldn’t thank the artist enough,
an’ nawthin’ ’ud do but he must come up to her
house an’ meet her pap. ’Hen the ole man hear
the story he wouldn’t hev it any other way but
that the stranger must stop with them. The paper
sayd that he quickly pushed a button——”</p>
<p>“He done what?” cried the Patriarch.</p>
<p>“He pushed a button an’——”</p>
<p>“Pushed a button! Well, mighty souls!” the
G. A. R. Man exclaimed. “What a fool thing to do.”</p>
<p>“He pushed a button an’ one o’ the hands
appeared. This felly’s name was Butler an’ he
was employed jest a purpose to do chores ’round
the house. The ole man give him orders to hev
Reginal’ Deeverox’s—that was the artist’s name—trunk
brought up from the tavern an’ put in the
spare room.”</p>
<p>“I ain’t got it clear yit,” the Miller interposed.
“Ef ole man Fairfax pushed one o’ his own waistcoat
buttons how in the name o’ all the prophets
’ud Butler feel it?”</p>
<p>“Don’t ye s’pose he might ’a’ pushed one o’
Butler’s waistcoat buttons?” replied the Loafer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
“That’s a pint o’ no importance. The main thing
is that Deeverox put up at Fairfax’s an’ from that
day things went wrong with Lord.</p>
<p>“Reginal’ was a wonderful good-lookin’ chap
He was six-foot tall an’ wery soople. He’d long,
curly hair that flowed over his shoulders like a
golden shower, ez the editor put it. His bearings
was free an’ noble. Now Lord was no slouch
either, an’ with his money he was pretty hard fer
a poor painter to beat, yit——”</p>
<p>“Joe Dumple hed th’ee hundred a year an’ a
fifty-acre farm,” the Patriarch cried, “but choosin’
between him an’ the painter, Bill Spiegelsole’s
widdy tuk——”</p>
<p>“I’ve told ye afore that this here Deeverox was
a portrate painter, an’ ye can’t settle this question
be referrin’ to the Spiegelsoles any way. Ez I
was sayin’, Reginal’ hed no money but he hed a
brilliant mind. His face was like an open book,
the paper sayd——”</p>
<p>“That’s rather pecul’ar.” It was the veteran
who broke into the story this time. “There’s
Jerry Sprout, who lives beyant Sloshers Mills, he
hes a head jest the shape of a fam’ly Bible, but ye
can shoot me ef I can see how a man could hev a
face like an——”</p>
<p>“Open book,” the Loafer said. “Well, you hev
no ’magination. But ef ye don’t believe what
I’m tellin’, you can go git the paper an’ read it
yourself.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p>
<p>“Come, come; no argyin’.” The Patriarch
was in his soothing mood. “What become o’
Lord?”</p>
<p>“Lord hated Reginal’ with a bitter hatred, the
paper sayd, because of the death of <em>M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o</em>,
an’ now, ez Alice Fairfax begin to look not onkindly
on the handsome stranger, his cup was more
embittered an’ he wowed revenge. Things kept
gittin’ hotter an’ hotter ’round the castel. Ole
man Fairfax was tickled to death with Reginal’
an’ ’sisted on him stayin’ all summer. Lord
come over regular every day, spyin’ ’round an’
settin’ up with Alice ’hen he’d git a chancet.
Time an’ agin, the paper sayd, he asted her to
be his own, but she spurned him. The last time
he asted her was at a huntin’ party they hed at
the castel. Everybody in the county was there—Lord
Mussex, Duke Dumford, Earl Minnows,
Lady Montezgewy an’ a lot of others—all over
to hunt.”</p>
<p>“Hunt what?” asked the Miller.</p>
<p>“Well, I s’pose they would be likely to drive
five or six mile over to Fairfax’s to hunt eggs—wouldn’t
they?” roared the Loafer. “Hunt
what? Mighty souls! What would they hunt?
Foxes, of course. The whole party started off
after the hounds, Alice Fairfax an’ Lord Desmon
leadin’ with——”</p>
<p>“Hol’ on!” cried the Patriarch. “Did you
say weemen an’ all, a-huntin’ foxes? That<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
Englan’ must be a strange placet. Why, it ain’t
safe to trust a woman with a gun. Oh, what a
pictur! S’pose we was to go huntin’ that ’ay
with our weemen.” The old man leaned back
and shook. “Pictur it! Jest pictur it! Why,
they ’ud be blowed afore they got to the top o’
the first ridge.”</p>
<p>“An’ we’d hev to spend most of our time
lettin’ the bars up an’ down so they could git
th’oo the fences,” the Tinsmith said.</p>
<p>“Well, the weemen over there was along—least
that’s what the article sayd,” the Loafer continued.
“They got track o’ a fox an’ final
catched him in a lonely bit o’ woods. They give
his tail to Lady Montezgewy, who——”</p>
<p>“She couldn’t ’a’ made much of a hat outen
jest the tail,” said the G. A. R. Man.</p>
<p>“Well, the article doesn’t explain much about
that. It sais while these things is occurrin’ we
will take the reader to another part o’ the fiel’
where Lord Desmon kneels at the feet of Alice
Fairfax. The paper sais she sais, ‘I loves another.’
‘What,’ sais he, the paper sais, springin’
to his feet an’ makin’ a movement ez tho’ graspin’
an unseen foe. ‘What,’ he sais, ‘that low
painter varlet!’ Jest then, the paper sais, the
bushes was pushed aside an’ forth jumped Reginal’
Deeverox. ‘You here, Miss Fairfax?’ he sais, the
paper sais. ‘I’ve hunted fer ye fur an’ near.’ In
his eagerness to reach her side a twig cot his coat-sleeve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
an’ tore it wide open. The paper sais ez
Lord Desmon looked upon the splendid figure of
his rival he seen there on his arm—What? the
paper sais. An eagle!”</p>
<p>“Now, watch for a good ole wrastle,” cried the
Patriarch.</p>
<p>“You’re wrong, Gran’pap,” said the Loafer.
“They didn’t dast fight afore a lady. Instead
Lord jest ground his teeth. The paper sayd he
knowd that the lost hair o’ the broad acres o’ the
Desmons hed come to claim his own.”</p>
<p>The Miller’s clay pipe fell to the floor and
shattered into a hundred pieces.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll swan!” he exclaimed. “Why, this
here artist was one o’ them Desmon boys ye
was speakin’ of first off, wasn’t he?”</p>
<p>“What happened next?” inquired the Teacher.</p>
<p>“The article didn’t tell,” the Loafer replied.
“It cut right off there an’ carried the reader back
to Fairfax Castel. It was evenin’ an’ they was
hevin’ a hunt ball.”</p>
<p>“A hunt what?” The Patriarch leaned forward
with his hand to his ear.</p>
<p>“A hunt ball—a dance,” the pedagogue explained.
“Over there after huntin’ they always
have a dance.”</p>
<p>“Mighty souls! but them English does enjoy
themselves,” the old man murmured. “Goes
huntin’ all day—takes the weemen along leavin’
no one behind to look after the place—then hes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
a dance after they gits back. Now ’hen I hunted
foxes I was allus so low down tired an’ scratched
up be the briars agin I got home, I was satisfied
to draw me boots, rub some linnyment on me
shins an’ go to bed. But go on. I guesst the
paper’s right.”</p>
<p>“That night, walkin’ up an’ down the terrace,
Reginal’ Deeverox told Alice Fairfax the secret
o’ his life, the article sayd, how he was Lord
Desmon an’ how the other Lord Desmon was
livin’ on stolen property. He ast her to hev him,
an’ ez she didn’t say nawthin’ he jest clasped her
to his boosum, the paper sayd. All this time
Lord hed ben watchin’ from behind a statute.
’Hen the girl run away to tell her pap about it,
Lord stepped out an’ faced Reginal’.</p>
<p>“He sayd, ‘One of us must die.’ With that
he catched Deeverox be the th’oat an’ tried to
push him off the terrace. They was a clean drop
o’ fifty foot there, with runnin’ water at the bottom.
Reginal’ was quick an’ grabbed his foe
’round the waist. Back’ard an’ for’a’d they
writhed, the paper sayd, twistin’ an’ cursin’. Now
they was on the edge o’ the precipice, an’ Alice
Fairfax, runnin’ to meet her loved one, ez the
article explained, seen dimly outlined in the glare
o’ the castel lights the black figures o’ the cousins
ez they fought o’er the terrace of death. She was
spelled. Sudden the one Desmon hurled the
other Desmon from him. They was an awful cry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
ez the black thing toppled over the edge, the
paper sayd.”</p>
<p>The Loafer put his hand in his coat-pocket and
brought it forth full of crushed tobacco leaves,
with which he filled his pipe. Then he lighted a
match and began smoking.</p>
<p>“Well?” cried the men on the bench in unison.</p>
<p>“Well?” repeated the Loafer.</p>
<p>“Which Desmon was it?” asked the Tinsmith.</p>
<p>“That’s jest where I’m stumped,” was the reply.
“That’s jest what’s ben puzzlin’ me, too.
Ye see that page hed ben tore out an’——”</p>
<p>“Mighty souls!” gasped the Patriarch.</p>
<p>“Did ye look fer it?” asked the Miller, rising
and moving toward the door.</p>
<p>“Well of course I looked. D’ye s’pose I ain’t
ez anxious ez you to know which Desmon was
kilt?”</p>
<p>“What does you mean be gittin’ us anxious,”
yelled the old man. “Why don’t ye keep your
troubles to yourself ’stead o’ unloadin’ em on
other folks?”</p>
<p>“Don’t blame me that ’ay,” said the Loafer. “I
done the best I could. I looked all over the
store fer that page. I didn’t git no sleep last
night jest from thinkin’ what become of it. Now
I mind that last Soturday I seen a felly from
Raccoon Walley carry it off wrapped ’round a
pound o’ sugar. I done the best I could fer ye.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p>
<p>The Teacher arose and walked to the end of
the porch. Here he wheeled about and faced the
company, stretching his legs wide apart, throwing
out his chest and snapping his suspenders with his
thumbs.</p>
<p>“You should never begin a story if you can’t
tell it to the end,” he said. “I might as well teach
my scholars how to add only half down a column
of figures.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said the Patriarch, “I would like to
know most a mighty well which o’ them Desmon
boys was kilt. But I’m too ole to chase a pound
o’ sugar nine mile to Raccoon Walley to find out.
They are terrible things, these struggles caused be
onrastless human passions. This here petickler
story is all the more terrible because them boys
was cousins. While we do all feel a bit put out
at not knowin’ which of ’em licked, we’ve at least
learned somethin’ ’bout how they lives in Englan’.
An’ it should teach us a lesson o’ thankfulness
that we was born an’ raised in a walley
where folks is sensible—that is most of ’em.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54572 ***</div>
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