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diff --git a/old/54572-0.txt b/old/54572-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b75b633..0000000 --- a/old/54572-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6784 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Chronic Loafer, by Nelson Lloyd - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Chronic Loafer - - -Author: Nelson Lloyd - - - -Release Date: April 19, 2017 [eBook #54572] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRONIC LOAFER*** - - -E-text prepared by MWS, Peter Vachuska, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) - - - -THE CHRONIC LOAFER - -by - -NELSON LLOYD - - -[Illustration] - - - - - - -New York -J. F. Taylor & Company -1900 - -Copyright, 1900, -By -J. F. Taylor & Company. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. The Reunion 5 - - II. The Spelling Bee 17 - - III. Absalom Bunkel 28 - - IV. The Missus 37 - - V. The Awfullest Thing 54 - - VI. The Wrestling Match 63 - - VII. The Tramp’s Romance 74 - - VIII. Ambition--An Argument 80 - - IX. Bumbletree’s Bass-Horn 97 - - X. Little Si Berrybush 107 - - XI. Cupid and a Mule 126 - - XII. The Haunted Store 136 - - XIII. Rivals 149 - - XIV. Buddies 159 - - XV. Joe Varner’s Belling 169 - - XVI. The Sentimental Tramp 176 - - XVII. Hiram Gum, the Fiddler 183 - - XVIII. The “Good Un” 193 - - XIX. Breaking the Ice 202 - - XX. Two Stay-at-Homes 212 - - XXI. Eben Huckin’s Conversion 219 - - XXII. A Piece in the Paper 237 - - - - -THE CHRONIC LOAFER. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -_The Reunion._ - - -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 ring of the anvil in the blacksmith shop across the -stream. - -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. - -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.” - -“Huh! A good un--a good un!” - -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 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. - -“A good un!” he cried again. - -Then he suddenly uncoiled himself, throwing back his head until it struck -the wall behind him, and swung his legs wildly to and fro. - -“Well, what air you so tickled about now?” growled the G. A. R. Man. - -“I was jest a-thinkin’ that you’d never come outen no battle lookin’ like -that,” drawled the Loafer. - -He nudged the Miller with his elbow and winked at the Teacher. Forthwith -the three broke into loud fits of laughter. - -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. - -“Boys, boys,” he said, “no joshing. It ain’t right to josh.” - -“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.’” - -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. - -“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.” - -“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. - -“I never knowd you was in the war. I thot you jest drawed a pension,” -interrupted the Loafer. - -The veteran did not heed these jibes but fixed himself comfortably on -the upturned end of his carpet-bag. - -“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.” - -“Fer which discharge he gits his pension,” the Loafer ventured. - -“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 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.” - -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----” - -“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.” - -The pedagogue shook his head in condemnation of the ignorance of his -companions, but allowed the G. A. R. Man to proceed. - -“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. - -“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’ 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. - -“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. - -“I went out on the picket line at ten o’clock. 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. - -“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. - -“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. 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. - -“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. - -“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 -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.” - -“I’ve allus ben cur’ous ’bout that widdy, too,” the Chronic Loafer -remarked. - -The Teacher cleared his throat and recited: - - “Now night her course began, and over heaven - Inducing darkness grateful truce imposed, - And silence on the odious din of war; - Under her cloud----” - -“No poetry jist yet, Teacher,” said the veteran. “Wait tell you hear the -sekal o’ the story.” - -“Yes, let’s hev somethin’ new,” growled the Miller. - -Having silenced the pedagogue, the G. A. R. Man resumed his narrative. - -“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. 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. - -“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’. - -“A minute passed. I sais, sais I, ‘Well, comrade, what air you starin’ so -fer?’ - -“Sais he, ‘That letter was fer Mary Parker?’ - -“‘True,’ sais I, surprised. - -“‘Dead sure?’ sais he. - -“‘Sure,’ sais I. - -“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!’ - -“He pulls off his coat. The boys all jumps up. - -“I, half skeert to death, cries, ‘But you ain’t the dead man!’ - -“‘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’.’ - -“‘Hen I seen what I’d done I grabs his arm, I was so excited, an’ cries, -‘Did she merry Silas Quincy?’ - -“‘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.’” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -_The Spelling Bee._ - - -The Chronic Loafer stretched his legs along the counter and rested his -back comfortably against a pile of calicoes. - -“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!” - -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. - -“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 fingers seemed to -be pointing in scorn at the man on the counter. - -The Loafer rolled slowly over on one side and eyed the pedagogue. - -“Ben readin’ the almanick lately, hain’t ye?” he drawled. - -“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 _terra firma_ 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 _A-u-r-o-r-a -B-o-r-e-a-l-i-s_.” - -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.” - -“He hasn’t left any living monument to his good sense,” said the Teacher. - -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----” - -The pedagogue’s chair came down on all four 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. - -“See here!” he shouted. “I’m ready for an argyment, but no callin’ names. -This is no place for abuse.” - -The Loafer resumed his reclining attitude and fixed his gaze on the dim -recesses of the ceiling. - -“I hain’t callin’ no one names,” he said slowly, “I was jest tellin’ what -my pap use to say.” - -“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.” - -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. - -“Well, what are you so tickled about?” he snapped. - -“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!” - -“Now ’fore you git grindin’ away, sence you’ve got on spellin’,” said the -Chronic Loafer, “I want to tell a good un----” - -“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. - -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. - -“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.” - -“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 -_t-i-o-n_ until----” - -“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 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. - -“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’ thin. Perry an’ Jawhn was near -wild with anxiousness an’ was continual quarrelin’. Then what d’ye s’pose -they done?” - -“It’ll take a long time fer ’em to do much the way you tells it,” the -Chronic Loafer grumbled. - -“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.” - -“That there reminds me o’ my pap.” The Chronic Loafer was sitting up -again. - -“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.” - -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. - -“Boys, boys,” he said when the mirth was subsiding, “remember what the -Scriptur’ sais----” - -“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 -the wood-pile too fast gen’rally breaketh his saw on the fust nail an’ -freezeth all winter.’” - -“Not ef he gits the right kind o’ firewood--the kind that hasn’t no -nails,” said the Miller hotly. - -“Huh!” exclaimed the Loafer, and he sprawled out upon the counter once -more. - -The Tinsmith took up the narrative again. - -“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. - -“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 on the other side o’ the platform with his sixteen -scholars, an’ the proceedin’s begin. - -“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 _s-u-p-e-n-a_. 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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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 _ations_ an’ _entions_, all the words endin’ in _i-s-m_, -_d-l-e_ an’ _ness_, tell it seemed they’d use up the book. Perry was -gittin’ more excited. Jimson’s knees was tremblin’ visible. - -“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: ‘_A-r-o-r-a_, Aurora; -_b-o-r_, Aurora Bor; _e-a-l-i-s_, Aurora Borealis.’ - -“A mumble went over the room. He seen he was wrong an’ yelled, ‘_A-u_, I -mean!’ - -“‘Too late,’ sais Long. ‘Only one chancet at a time. The gentleman who -gits it right first, wins.’ - -“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. - -“He begin, ‘_A-u_, au; _r-o-r_, ror, Auror; _a_, Aurora; _B-o-r-e_, bore, -Aurora Bore; _a-l_, al, Aurora Boreal--’ Then he stopped, an’ looked up -at the ceilin’, an’ stedied. - -“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 -_u_ an’ ’ud spell it jest ez quick ez he got a chancet. I believed Perry -was goin’ to say _a_, that it was all up with him an’ that Hannah Ciders -knowd too late who she favored. - -“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.’ - -“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 the weemen complainin’ because so many’d hev to -walk home. - -“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.’ - -“Perry wheeled round an’ run at the youngster, ketchin’ him be the collar -an’ draggin’ him inter the room. - -“‘What you mean,’ sais he, shakin’ him like a rat. ‘What you mean be -spoilin’ the bee?’ - -“Sam begin to yowl. ‘I seen ye was stuck,’ he sais, ‘an’ I thot I’d help -ye out.’ - -“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. - -“‘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 _e-a-l-a-s_! - -“‘No,’ she answers quiet like. ‘It’s _e-a-l-i-s_--but that ain’t no -difference.’” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -_Absalom Bunkel._ - - -The Patriarch flattened his nose against the grimy windowpane and peered -out into the storm. - -“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.” - -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, amid -the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder, and deluged the valley. - -“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.” - -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. - -“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. - -“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. - -The Loafer gave no answer save a faint “Huh!” - -“Jest because a felly sets ’round the stove hain’t no sign he’s lazy, -Grandpap,” said the Miller with warmth. - -“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.” - -“Ab’slom Bunkel--Bunkel--Bunkel?” repeated the Tinsmith, punctuating his -remark with puffs of tobacco smoke. - -“Bunkel--Bunkel?” said the Storekeeper inquiringly, tapping the end of -his nose with his pencil. - -“Who’s Abs’lom Bunkel?” the Loafer cried. - -“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. - -“Now Absalom was afore my time, an’ I never 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’. - -“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. - -“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’ 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. - -“That night he didn’t eat no supper. - -“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister, ‘how fur is it to Crimmel’s?’ - -“‘Nigh onter a miled,’ sais she. - -“An’ he jest groaned, drawed his boots, tuk a candle an’ went up to bed. - -“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. - -“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. - -“Oncet he called to her, but she paid no attention, an’ hung her head -bashful like, an’ walked on the faster. - -“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister that night at supper, ‘I’ve kind o’ a -notion fer Annie May Crimmel,’ he sais. - -“‘Hev you?’ sais she, lookin’ surprised, tho’ of course she knowd it an’ -fer weeks hed ben wonderin’ what ’ud become o’ her. - -“‘An’ mebbe,’ sais he, ‘you wouldn’t mind steppin’ over there to-morrow -an’ tellin’ her.’ - -“‘Umph,’ she sais, perkin’ up her nose. ‘You’ll see me a-gaddin’ round -the walley settin’ up with the girls fer you!’ - -“He set thinkin’ a spell. Then he sais, trem’lous like, ‘Nance, how fur -is it to Crimmel’s?’ - -“‘A miled to an inch,’ sais she. - -“He jest groaned an’ went off to bed agin. - -“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. - -“Winter drove the lazy felly inter the house. 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. - -“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. - -“‘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!’ - -“He tore th’oo the gate, down the hill, an’ ’round the turn. They was in -sight agin. - -“‘Annie May!’ he called, ‘Annie May!’ - -“The wagon stopped. The girl climbed offen the horse an’ run toward him, -stretchin’ out her hands an’ cryin’, ‘Absalom, Absalom!’ - -“‘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. - -“‘Annie May,’ he called, ‘come here. I’ve somethin’ to tell yer.’ - -“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.” - -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. - -The Miller spoke first. “Well, Grandpap?” - -“Well?” said the old man, wheeling about. - -“What happened?” - -“Who sayd anything was a-goin’ to happen?” snapped the Patriarch. - -“What become o’ Absalom?” asked the Storekeeper timidly. - -“Oh, he died o’ over-exertin’,” said the Chronic Loafer, wearily, as he -threw himself back on the counter. - -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. 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.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -_The Missus._ - - -“A man without a missus is like an engyne without a governor--he either -goes too slow or too fast,” said the Chronic Loafer. - -“Mighty souls!” cried the Miller. “What in the name o’ common sense put -that idee into yer head?” - -“It was planted there be accident, cultiwated be experience, an’ to-day -it jest blossomed,” was the reply. - -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. - -The ticking of the clock, which had a place on a shelf between two jars -of stick-candy, accentuated 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. - -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.” - -“An’ some runs wery fast,” was the retort. “An’ they buzzes pretty loud -’thout doin’ a tremendous amount o’ labor.” - -“Now you’re gettin’ personal and----” - -“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.” - -The Miller tilted over on his nail keg and tapped the Loafer on the elbow. - -“Tell me,” he said. “Where did ye git that idee? It sounds almanacky.” - -“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’ ’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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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 ’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. - -“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 the dog--so why do I -want to go settin’ a trap ’hen I can’t be sure what I’m goin’ to catch?’ - -“‘My boy,’ Pap answered, ‘use the proper bait an’ you’ll git the right -game.’ - -“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 the -dog, foreleg lifted, tail straight out, nose pintin’ th’oo the blackberry -bushes ’long the fence. - -“‘There is somethin’ pretty important,’ I sais to meself. - -“An’ with that I walks up to the hedge an’ peeks over. - -“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. - -“‘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’. - -“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘he is a tolable nice animal.’ - -“Then I thinks to meself, ‘Major seems to like her; I wonder how she’d -suit Pap.’ - -“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. - -“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 -whether I lived or died. It worrit Pap too. He ’lowed he’d hev to powwow -me. - -“‘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.’ - -“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. - -“‘What you needs,’ sais he, ‘is to go out an’ look at the moon.’ - -“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. - -“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. - -“‘Whatever it is,’ sais I, ‘it’s ketchin’.’ - -“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. - -“‘What are ye doin’?’ I asts, be way o’ openin’ up. - -“‘It doesn’t look like ez tho’ I was knittin’, does it?’ she sais kind o’ -sharp. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“‘Hello!’ I calls. - -“‘Hello!’ sais she. With that she drove five shingle nails one after -another, never payin’ no attention. - -“‘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’?’ - -“‘Well,’ sais she, ‘I s’pose it does look ez tho’ I’m playin’ the -melodium, don’t it?’ - -“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. - -“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 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’! - -“After breakfast Pap lighted his pipe, leaned back in his cheer an’ asted -me, ‘How’s that ailment o’ yours gittin’ now?’ - -“‘Ailment?’ sais I, cool ez ye please. ‘Why, I found it didn’t amount to -nawthin’. It’s all gone.’ - -“Pap smoked a bit. He was blinkin’ like somethin’ amused him powerful. - -“‘By the way,’ he sais, ‘I was up past Horner’s clearin’ yestidy an’ I -seen that humly dotter o’ Andy’s a----’ - -“It was so quick an’ sudden, I forgot meself. Never afore hed I felt so -peculiarly, so almighty mad. - -“‘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----’ - -“I stopped, fer he’d leaned back, an’ was lookin’ at the ceilin’ an’ -laughin’ an’ laughin’. - -“‘I thot ye hedn’t no ailment,’ he sais. - -“Be the twinkle in his eye I seen how he’d fooled me, an’ I set down -feelin’ smaller than a bunty hen. - -“‘Ye see,’ sais he, ‘I was comin’ th’oo the flats 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.’ - -“The ole man wasn’t laughin’ now. He was on a subject that was wery dear -to him. His woice was husky with earnestness. - -“‘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.’ - -“‘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.’ - -“With that I gits up an’ walks outen the house, whistlin’ fer Major. - -“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. 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’. - -“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. - -“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. - -“‘Well?’ I sais. - -“She looked a leetle harder an’ a leetle sterner. Her eyes kind o’ -snapped. - -“‘Well?’ I sais agin. - -“‘I hevn’t no petickler dislike,’ sais she, ‘but ye ain’t my idee of a -man. A man should move sometim’s.’ - -“‘Pet,’ I sais, ‘I know I ain’t much on leetle things, but wait tell -they’s big things to do. Then I’ll startle ye!’ - -“I turned an’ walked out o’ the gate an’ ’long the road toward home. - -“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. - -“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. - -“‘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.’ - -“Music? I hear agin the rat-tat-tat o’ the hammer an’ the shingle nails; -an’ I thot o’ her. - -“The fire hed reached the flats. It was movin’ right on the clearin’ -where she was all alone, fer Andy was workin’ in the saw-mill in Windy -Gap. - -“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. - -“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’. - -“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. - -“‘Pet,’ I sais, after a bit, ‘what’s wrong?’ - -“‘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.’ - -“With that she raised her hand an’ pinted th’oo the woods, over the flats -to the solid wall o’ fire. - -“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. - -“‘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.’ - -“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. - -“We stood there in the wood-road watchin’ it--Pet on one side, then -Major, then me. Fer a long time we sayd nawthin’, tell I couldn’t stand -it no more. - -“‘Pet,’ sais I, wery abrupt, ‘do you think now I’m so awful slow?’ - -“‘It ain’t them ez runs fastest allus goes the straightest an’ truest,’ -she answers. - -“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.” - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -_The Awfullest Thing._ - - -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. - -“So it ain’t sech a slow-goin’, out-o’-the-way placet ez you unsez -think--still,” he said. - -The Blacksmith thoughtfully turned to address him. - -“Well, stranger----” - -“Ow--ow!” cried the Loafer. “Is you a barber or a butcher?” - -“Sights!” exclaimed the worthy smith. “Now that was a jag I give ye, -wasn’t it?” - -He resumed his task with redoubled vigor. The Loafer closed his eyes and -commenced to sputter. - -“Mighty souls! Go easy. Are you tryin’ to choke me?” - -“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.” - -Then he began to clip very slowly. - -The Loafer opened one eye cautiously and fixed it on the stranger. - -“What was that awful thing I heard ye tellin’ ’bout snakes, jest afore I -was smothered under that last hay-load o’ hair?” - -“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.” - -He turned his attention to the beast’s hoofs and began sweeping them. A -smile was lurking about the corners of his mouth. - -“Did ye ever run agin any o’ these hoop----” - -The Blacksmith’s query was cut short by a loud “Ouch!” - -“See here,” said the Loafer with emphasis. “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?” - -“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.” - -The stranger fell to brushing flies again. - -“Well, what happened that----” - -“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. - -“What happened?” he inquired, fixing his least exposed eye on the man -from Raccoon Valley. - -“Quick ez a flash the han’le o’ my pitch-fork swole up tell it was thick -ez my arm.” - -The Dunkard had fixed his gaze intently on the forefeet of the mule and -was beating them industriously with the horse-tail. - -The smith wheeled about abruptly and gazed at the stranger. - -“That was an awful thing to experience,” he said. But there was a ring of -doubt in his voice. - -The Loafer peered over his shoulder and ventured. “Yes. It was the worst -jag yit. But I don’t mind. I’m gittin’ accustomed.” - -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. - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“Don’t I git a pension?” The veteran closed one eye and stuck out his -lower jaw threateningly. - -“That ain’t no sign,” ventured the Miller from the carpenter bench. - -“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----” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“I do,” said the veteran. “But I don’t perpose to hev it drug outen me -fer you uns to hoot at.” - -His tone was pacific, and his companions promised not to hoot. - -“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. - -“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 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.” - -“Why didn’t the general put a whole regiment in them woods an’ stop it?” -asked the Loafer. - -“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, leetle Hiram Dole, -Clayton Binks o’ my company, an’ a dozen others was tuk off.” - -“I can’t see, nuther, why the general didn’t fill them woods with -soldiers,” the Miller interrupted. - -“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’----’” - -“Meanin’ the other side ’ud ’a’ licked,” the Loafer interposed. - -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 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. - -“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.” - -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.” - -He resumed his seat and began refilling his pipe. An expectant silence -reigned in the shop. The Blacksmith waited until he saw the veteran -light a match and fall to smoking. - -“Go on,” he cried, making a threatening movement with his scissors. - -“They ain’t no more to tell,” said the G. A. R. Man nonchalantly. “Wasn’t -that awfuller then a dozen hoop-snakes?” - -“Well, what was the thing ye shot?” asked the Loafer, slipping off the -anvil and facing the pile of wheels. - -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. - -“What was it?” shouted the Loafer. - -“Well, I’ll swan ef I know,” replied the veteran meekly. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -_The Wrestling Match._ - - -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 beyond -the bridge an occasional venturesome lark or snipe whistled merrily. - -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. - -“Boys,” he said at length, “it’s time we was gittin’ out agin. Spring has -come.” - -With that he hobbled toward the door. - -“Good, Gran’pap,” said the Chronic Loafer, rolling off the counter and -following. - -Then the Storekeeper opened both doors. - -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 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. - -“Mighty souls!” he cried, when he had recovered his equilibrium and -composure. - -“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.” - -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. - -“It jest makes a felly feel like wrastlin’, Gran’pap,” he shouted, waving -his arms defiantly at the bench. “Come on.” - -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. - -At this indisposition on the part of the four to take up the gauntlet he -had thrown down, the Loafer became still more defiant. - -“Hedgins!” he sneered. “You uns is all afraid, eh?” - -“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.” - -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.” - -“There ye go agin,” cried the Loafer, “quotin’ that ole Fifth Reader o’ -yourn.” - -“That,” said the pedagogue, “is Tennyson.” - -“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.” - -The reply was a withering, pitying glance. - -“It sounds a heap more like Seth’s brother Bill,” ventured the Miller. - -“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.” - -“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 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.” - -“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. - -“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?” - -“Did Noar act as empire?” asked the Loafer. - -“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----” - -“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.” - -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 -Simon Cruller, of Simon Cruller’s family and of Becky Stump as to be -completely oblivious to his tormentor’s presence. - -“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.” - -“Now Gran’pap, I ’low you’ve ben readin’----” - -“Can’t you keep still a piece?” roared the Miller. - -The Loafer returned to his pipe and silence. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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 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! - -“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’. - -“‘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.’ - -“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 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. - -“‘You th’ow me!’ he sais. Then he begin to laugh like he’d die at the -wery idee. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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’. - -“‘Hen I come to, I was layin’ be the school-house 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. - -“‘Becky,’ I whispers, ‘did I win?’ - -“‘You did,’ she sais. ‘You both fainted at oncet, but you fainted on top.’ - -“‘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. - -“She was quiet a piece; an’ then she leans down an’ answers, ‘Do you -think I wants to merry a fien’?’” - -The Patriarch ceased his narration and fell to stroking his beard and -humming softly. - -“Well?” cried the Loafer. - -“Well?” retorted the old man. - -“Did she ever merry?” - -The Patriarch shook his head. - -“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!’” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -_The Tramp’s Romance._ - - -“Was you ever dissypinted in love?” inquired the Chronic Loafer of the -Tramp. - -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!” - -“Come tell us about it, ole feller,” said the Tinsmith. - -“Not muchy.” - -“We ain’t surprised at your hevin’ ben dissypinted,” said the Loafer, -“but it’s your persumption catches me. What’s her name?” - -“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’.” - -“A truly remarkable state of affairs,” said the Teacher. “I presume that -the young woman must have been a mere chimera, a hallucination.” - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“‘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.” - -The Tramp’s voice broke and he paused. - -“Now quit yer blubberin’, Trampy,” cried the Loafer, “an’ git to the end -o’ this here yarn.” - -The vagrant rubbed his sleeve across his eyes and continued, - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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----” - -The Tramp’s voice grew husky and he faltered. - -“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.” - -The wanderer picked up his bandana and stick, arose and replied, - -“Youse gentlemen ’sisted that I tell ye ’bout it. I tol’ ye. Now I must -be movin’.” - -A moment later he disappeared around the bend in the road just beyond the -mill. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -_Ambition--An Argument._ - - -“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.” - -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. - -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 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. - -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. - -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?” - -The Patriarch, the Miller and the Tinsmith pricked up their ears and -gazed at the speaker. At last the truth would be out. - -The Loafer saw his opportunity. - -“What do you do fer a livin’?” he asked. - -“I’m a college man,” was the bland reply. - -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?” - -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. - -“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?” - -But the young man had dived into his pocket 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. - -“How much does a kawledge man git a week?” asked the Loafer. “It must pay -pretty well, jedgin’ from your clothes.” - -“He gets nothing,” was the reply. “I am studying, preparing myself for my -work in life.” - -“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.” - -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. - -“Had I chosen a saw-mill as my career, I think 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.” - -“How many?” asked the Loafer, turning around and eyeing the student over -his knees. - -“Well, I’ll be twenty-four when I get through studying and become a -lawyer.” - -“Then what’ll ye do?” - -“I’ll work at my profession and make money.” - -“How long’ll ye do that?” - -“Why, I don’t know particularly--till I have a fair fortune, I suppose.” - -“How old’ll ye be then?” - -“Around sixty, I guess.” - -“Then what’ll ye do?” - -“What does every man do eventually? Die.” - -“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.” - -“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 struggling hard to -catch the thread of the discussion. - -“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. - -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. - -“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.” - -“That’s the idee,” cried the Teacher. “The sense of duty moves the world -to----” - -“Hol’ on!” the Loafer exclaimed. “Hol’ on! Duty to who?” - -“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.” - -“Certainly--certainly,” said the pedagogue. “It’s the old parable of the -talents all over agin.” - -“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, an’ ’hen their employer called an accountin’ they was only able -to pass in a lot o’ counterfeit coin.” - -“But suppose all men sat down and folded their hands and lived as you -would have them. What would happen?” asked the college man. - -“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. - -The student nodded. The bony forefinger was pointed at him now. - -“Well, now s’posin’ ye was a hog an’----” - -“I object to such a supposition,” was the angry retort. - -“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.” - -“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’.” - -“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.” - -“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’.” - -The student sent three rings of smoke whirling from his mouth in rapid -succession, but he made no reply. - -“Did ye ever hear o’ Zebulon Pole?” asked the Loafer. - -“I never did. But what has he to do with this matter?” - -“Zebulon Pole was a livin’ answer to it, he was. 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. - -“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 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’.” - -The student shook his head gravely. - -“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.” - -The Loafer was puzzled. “What did you say they was?” he asked. - -“The Stoics of Greece. You remind me of the Stoics of Greece.” - -“Is that a complyment or a name?” The Loafer leaned sharply forward and -thrust his long chin toward the speaker ominously. - -“Why, a compliment,” was the reply. “The Stoics were a great school of -philosophers. They taught simplicity in life. Diogenes was a Stoic.” - -“Who?” asked the Patriarch, bending over and fixing his hand to his ear. - -“Diogenes.” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“Didn’t they hev no suylums in them days?” asked the Loafer. - -“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.” - -“What was the lantern fer?” the Miller inquired. - -“Why, he was looking for an honest man,” shouted the collegian. - -“I s’pose it never struck him to go to the store fer one,” drawled the -Loafer. - -“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----” - -“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.” - -“But that is the truest philosophy----” - -“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’ -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. - -“‘Ho, Zeb!’ I sais, shakin’ a nice string o’ trout under his nose. ‘Why -ain’t ye out? They’s bitin’ good.’ - -“He looks at me outen the corner o’ his eye wery solemn. - -“‘Fishin’?’ he sais. - -“‘Yes, fishin’,’ I yells, kind o’ s’prised. ‘They’s bitin’ good.’ - -“‘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.’ - -“‘Six-rail fences,’ I answers, ‘all day long--chewin’ a straw--watchin’ -clouds--wery elewatin’.’ - -“He give me a sad look. - -“‘What are ye doin’ now?’ sais I, not intendin’ to be put down even ef he -hed ben school director. - -“‘I’m a lily,’ he sais. ‘I’m followin’ the words o’ that dear sister who -has cast her lot among us. Henceforth I no longer considers the morrer. I -toil not, nuther spin.’ - -“‘See here, Zeb,’ sais I. ‘You ain’t a bit my idee of a lily.’ - -“‘I don’t ast the approval o’ the world,’ sais he. - -“‘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.’ - -“‘What’s that?’ he asts. - -“‘Lilies don’t use tobacker,’ I answers. - -“That kind o’ jolted him. His eyes opened wide, an’ I seen a few tears. - -“‘I never thot o’ that,’ sais he. - -“‘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.’ - -“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’, 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. - -“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. - -“‘Hello!’ sais he. ‘Is you a friend or a lily o’ the walley?’ - -“‘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.’ - -“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. - -“‘They was ten lilies here, one after the other, 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.’ - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“I understand that all right,” said the student. “What I want to know is, -what have you demonstrated by all this talk?” - -“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.” - -“Then are we all to commit suicide?” - -“No. Travel comf’table th’oo this world. Travel slow but allus keep -movin’. Ye can see 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.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -_Bumbletree’s Bass-Horn._ - - -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?” - -“Slatter up the Dingdang,” said the Storekeeper. He was sitting on the -steps. - -“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, - - “Oh, me little Nellie Grey, they have taken her away, - An’ I’ll never see me darlin’ any more, - I’m a-settin’ be the river with----” - -“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!’” - -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. - -“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.” - -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.” - -“Well, the best they is in Pennsylwany,” said the Loafer. - -“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 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?” - -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. - -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.” - -“Well, can’t a man both sing an’ play the horn?” the Teacher snapped. - -“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 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. - -“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 _A_ ’hen they was blowin’ up in high _C_. He was pretty well cut -up, but ’lowed he’d quit. - -“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 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. - -“‘Don’t Mr. Hooker play gran’?’ sais Pet kind o’ timid like. - -“‘Well, I don’t know,’ answers Borax, ‘I’ve heerd better.’ - -“‘Oh, hev ye,’ sais she, kind o’ perkin’ up her nose. ’I ’low you’re -jealous. Can you play at all?’ - -“‘Well, can I?’ sais Borax. ‘Why, I can blow all ’round him.’ - -“‘I’d like to hear you,’ sais Pet. ‘Won’t you come an’ blow fer me -sometim’?’ - -“‘I will,’ he answers, wery determined. - -“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 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. - -“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’. - -“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 _A_, an’ out ’ud come a _C_; or -he’d try fer a _D_ an’ land an _E_. He ’lowed to me oncet that sometim’ -he thot mebbe it was willed that he was never to git a tune. But he kep’ -at it. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“Then he sayd, ‘I hear ye hed some music up here last night.’ - -“He was jest fishin’. - -“‘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 -git in this house. I never heerd sech bass-horn blowin’.’ - -“Borax jest hung his head an’ shuffled his feet. - -“The widdy spoke up agin. ‘Does you ever see Bill Hooker?’ - -“‘Oncet in a long while,’ Borax answers. - -“‘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.’ - -“Borax Bumbletree gasped an’ almost fell offen the wood-box. - -“‘How’d you know it was Bill Hooker?’ he asts quick. - -“‘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.’ - -“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. - -“Gittin’ offen the wood-box he went over to the settee alongside o’ her. - -“‘Pet,’ he sais, ‘I allus told you Bill Hooker couldn’t blow the -bass-horn.’ - -“‘I otter ’a’ knowd you could blow a heap sight better,’ she sais quiet -like, but meanin’ business. - -“‘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.’” - -“My sights, but he was innercent!” the Loafer cried. - -“What do you know ’bout it?” snapped the Tinsmith. - -“Why, him thinkin’ she’d give him a chancet to blow.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -_Little Si Berrybush._ - - -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. - -They had not long to wait. Suddenly he 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. - -“Teacher,” he said, “what does _h-a-b-e-a-s_ spell?” - -“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. - -“Habbyace,” said the Loafer. “Habbyace--habbyace--that’s a new un on me.” - -“Doubtless it is,” the other retorted, “if you have never studied Latin. -It means _have_.” - -“Have--have,” muttered the Loafer, more puzzled than ever. “Then what’s -_c-o-r-p-u-s_ spell?” - -“Corpuse,” replied the pedagogue, “being the Latin for body.” - -“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.” - -“What’s all the trouble now?” inquired the Tinsmith. - -The Loafer unfolded the sheet again and smoothed it out on his knees. -Then he leaned over it and eyed it intently. - -“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.” - -The Patriarch shook his head solemnly. “Terrible--terrible,” he said. -“Sech men ought never git diplomys.” - -“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.” - -“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 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----” - -“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.” - -“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?” - -“What’s a ‘change o’ vendue,’ Gran’pap?” inquired the Miller. - -The old man glared at the speaker. - -“That wasn’t the pint where I left off,” he snapped. - -“Yes, but what is it, Gran’pap?” the Tinsmith asked. - -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. - -“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’----” - -“Who air you talkin’ to now?” exclaimed the Loafer. - -The old man looked up. “Oh!” he said. “I forgot. Sure, I forgot. Ye never -heard o’ Tom Buttonporgie did ye, or Si Berrybush?” - -None of the company had heard of the pair, so the Patriarch consented to -enlighten them. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“‘Good morning, Mr. Clock,’ sais he wery pleasant, tho’ he was a leetle -put out at the rough way he’d ben woke. - -“‘Good mornin’, Tom,’ sais the figure wery cheerful. ‘You’ve mistook me, -fer my name is Berrybush.’ - -“‘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. - -“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘I guess you’ve got me, Mr. Berrybush.’ - -“‘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.’ - -“That idee made Buttonporgie gasp. He tried to git up but bumped agin the -pistol. - -“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.’ - -“Then he laughed like he’d die. - -“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 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. - -“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?’ - -“At that Si th’owed back his head an’ laughed. - -“‘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’.’ - -“Tom wasn’t in fer undertakin’ sech a job without objectin’. - -“‘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.’ - -“Si’s eyes kind o’ twinkled an’ he pulled his beard like he was thinkin’ -wery hard. - -“‘Shake me, Tom!’ he sais at last, ‘ef I don’t 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.’ - -“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. - -“‘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?’ - -“‘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.’ - -“Si Berrybush smiled the innercentest smile you uns ever see, an’ the -pedler chewed a straw a spell. - -“Then he looks up an’ sais, ‘You must take me for a dummy?’ - -“‘Why?’ Si asts. - -“‘Do you think I’ll lug you thirty or forty mile jest so you can shoot -me?’ answers Buttonporgie. ‘I might ez well call it up now!’ he sais. - -“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. - -“‘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.’” - -“Mighty souls, but that Si was an argyer, now wasn’t he!” the Miller -interrupted. - -“He’d ’a’ looked like small potatys ’long side o’ my Missus. I mind the -time ’hen jest fer fun I----” - -The Patriarch tapped the Loafer gently on the knee with his cane. - -“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?” - -“Where there was hope--some hope,” the Miller answered. - -“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 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. - -“‘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.’” - -“Mighty souls!” interrupted the Loafer. “An’ how fur did he hev to carry -him, Gran’pap? A mile?” - -“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 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. - -“‘Wery good,’ sais Si, ‘most a mighty good.’ - -“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’. - -“Si ’lowed it wasn’t nice fer Tom to carry on so. - -“‘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. - -“With that he rubbed the nose o’ the pistol between Tom’s -shoulder-blades. The pedler jest bubbled. - -“‘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!’ - -“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 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. - -“Be noon he’d covered nine mile an’ reached the foot o’ the mo’ntain. - -“‘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!’ - -“‘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.’ - -“Then there was the pistol agin. - -“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. - -“Si begin laughin’ so hard it set the pack joltin’ up an’ down on Tom’s -back an’ almost upset him. - -“‘That was a mean undercut you give me, 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.’ - -“‘But I got it fer meself,’ Tom wentures. - -“‘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.’ - -“Tom passed it. - -“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. - -“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. - -“The sun was settin’ ’hen they reached the edge o’ the woods on yon side -the mo’ntain. The 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“Final he couldn’t stand the silence no more. ‘Si,’ he cried, ‘Si, won’t -ye talk to me!’ - -“They wasn’t no answer. He only heard a heavy breathin’ in the pack. - -“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. - -“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 cat’s. An’ -the peddler laughed. Natur’ hed tackled Si Berrybush an’ walloped him. He -was snorin’. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -_Cupid and a Mule._ - - -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. - -The Chronic Loafer raised himself from his favorite pile of calicoes and -turned up his coat collar. - -“Shet that stove door an’ put on the draught,” he cried. “What’s the uset -o’ freezin’!” - -“Cold Chrisermas to morrer,” said the Storekeeper, as he banged the door -shut and turned on the draught in obedience to the demand. - -“Turn up the lamp,” growled the Miller. “It’s ez dark an’ gloomy ez a -barn here.” - -“They ain’t no uset o’ wastin’ ile,” the Storekeeper muttered as he -complied with the second request. - -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. - -“Listen to the wind! Ain’t it howlin’?” said the Loafer. - -“Col’est Chrisermas Eve in years,” the Tinsmith responded. - -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. - -“This, I’ve heard tell,” he said, “is the one night in all the year ’hen -the cattle talks jest like men.” - -“Some sais it’s Holly E’en,” ventured the Miller. - -“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. - -The brief silence that followed was broken by the School Teacher. - -“Superstition! Mere superstition!” - -“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?” - -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. - -“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.” - -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!” - -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. - -“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.” - -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 a special lantern in it, an’ -ye hev trouble keepin’ that burnin’.” - -“But the brain’s perfectly round,” interposed the Miller, shaking his -head sagely. - -The Teacher sighed. “It’s no use talking to you men in figures----” - -“Go on. Let’s hev figgers,” cried the Storekeeper, eagerly. - -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: - -“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 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----” - -“I don’t know ’bout that,” the Loafer interrupted. “Did you uns ever see -my Missus ’hen she was sixteen an’----” - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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?’ - -“‘Nothin’,’ she answered, ‘I’ll have them in a minute.’ - -“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. - -“Then I called louder to Kate, for I was mad at Abraham for all the -trouble he’d given us, ‘The old man is a mean customer if there ever was -one!’ - -“She tramped around in the straw for a spell. Then her answer came from -the cow stable, ‘That’s what I say.’ - -“‘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!’ - -“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.’ - -“I put my hand to my ear and listened, but all was quiet, so I thinks to -myself, ‘It’s a chicken.’ - -“‘Don’t you think kickin’ is too good for a man like that, John?’ Kate -asks. - -“‘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----’ - -“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 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. - -“I opened the stable door, peeped in and said, ‘Who’s there?’ - -“The answer was a moan and, ‘Is that you, John? Help!’ - -“There Abraham Buttenberger lay on a little pile of hay at the back of -the stable, writhin’ and moanin’. - -“‘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.’ - -“‘Look out for the mule! Look out!’ he cried, as we carried him out of -the stable and put him on a wheelbarrow. - -“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 fire on your -head. And that cow! Oh, it’s awful to have the very animals on the farm -down on you like that.’ - -“‘What did they say?’ says I. - -“‘Say!’ he answers. ‘What didn’t they say? I’ll never have no peace -behind that John mule again.’ - -“The old man was quiet a spell. Then he says, ‘John, you can have my -dotter, my only dotter.’ - -“And he begin to moan. - -“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.” - -The Teacher chuckled softly as he finished his narration. - -The Storekeeper bit the legs off a candy ostrich. “It do beat all!” he -exclaimed. - -“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.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -_The Haunted Store._ - - -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. - -“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.” - -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 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. - -The G. A. R. Man joined the Loafer at the door. - -“Bad, ain’t it?” he said. “I guesst I don’t go home be way o’ the -Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground to-night.” - -The other laughed and cried, “My sights! ’Fraid o’ the buryin’-ground!” - -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. - -“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.” - -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.” - -“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 it, I knows folks that sais they hes, an’ I’ve no -reasons to doubt their words.” - -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.” - -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. - -The Storekeeper reached behind him and turned the wick of the lamp up a -little higher. - -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----” - -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.” - -The Tinsmith glanced furtively behind him into the blackness beneath the -counter. He pushed 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. - -“Ssh! What’s that?” - -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. - -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. - -The Chronic Loafer broke the silence. “Sights! I’m goin’. The Missus’ll -be gittin’ worrit.” - -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. - -“Wha--what’s that?” exclaimed the G. A. R. Man. - -The Storekeeper shook his head mournfully. “It’s the ha’nt that give my -pap so much trouble.” - -“A ha’nt!” cried the Loafer and the Miller, their teeth chattering. - -“Yes,” replied the Storekeeper, leaning his 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.” - -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. - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“My sights!” cried the Loafer. - -“Sure,” continued the Storekeeper, “an’ ’cordin’ to Pap, who hed the name -fer tellin’ the truth, them was his footsteps we heard jest now.” - -“Sam Hill!” muttered the G. A. R. Man. “His body’s in the Meth’dis’ -buryin’-ground.” - -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. - -“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.” - -“So my Missus hes ben complainin’--still--but----” - -The Storekeeper was slightly ruffled by this interruption and glared for -a moment at its author, the Loafer. Then he resumed his narrative. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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 hard cider. He walked all doubled up, fer the bucket seemed to blow -him consid’able. - -“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. - -“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!’ - -“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. - -“‘You uns ain’t ben treatin’ me right,’ sais Pap, polite like, ‘dampin’ -my sugar an’ sp’ilin’ my trade.’ - -“Ed didn’t say nawthin’, but jest looked at him quiet like an’ give his -comforter another lap ’round the neck. - -“‘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.’ - -“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’.” - -“Sights!” cried the Chronic Loafer. He drew his chair closer into -the circle, which by this time had reached the smallest possible -circumference. - -The Tinsmith glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder toward the dark -corner where lay the entrance to the store-room. - -“It do beat all,” he said. - -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. - -“Was the sugar wet next day?” asked the Miller, nervously biting the end -off the stem of his clay pipe. - -“Ssh! Listen!” whispered the Loafer. - -There was no sound save the gentle patter of the rain and the swish of -the wind in the maples outside the door. - -“It wasn’t,” the Storekeeper answered. “But the trouble began a week -later.” - -“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.” - -There was a long silence. - -From the cellar came again the weird sound, low but distinct. - -The G. A. R. Man arose and seized the lamp from the counter. - -“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.” - -He shuffled slowly toward the dark end of the store. For a moment his -companions hesitated. Then the Storekeeper joined the leader of the -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. - -“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he said. - -“Course th-th-they ain’t,” chattered the Miller, who was holding the -Storekeeper by the arm. - -“It’s r-r-rats,” the Tinsmith ventured. - -“Or a l-l-loose b-b-board,” suggested the veteran. - -“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’.” - -“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. - -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. - -“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. - -“I hev,” replied the Loafer. “An’ I guess ole Ed Harmon is still at it.” - -“What do ye think it was?” - -“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. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -_Rivals._ - - -“What was the question fer debate?” asked the School Teacher. - -“Resawlved that the Negro is more worthy o’ government support than the -Indian,” replied the Miller. - -“And the decision?” - -“One jedge voted fer the affirmative an’ one fer the negative.” - -“And the third?” - -“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.” - -“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?” - -“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. -S’posin’ the Airy View Liter’ry Society is deadlocked. How’s the poor -Injun goin’ to suffer any more by it?” - -“But did you uns ever see sech dum jedges?” asked the Miller appealingly. -“I was on the negative.” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“Bolum must ’a’ ben a wonderful talker,” the Loafer said. - -“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. - -“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.” - -“What fer a lookin’ felly was this Aleck Bolum?” asked the Chronic Loafer. - -“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.” - -“An’ he wore a Prince Al-bert coat?” inquired the Loafer anxiously. - -“Yes, a shiny black un. An’ he’d stand up an’ th’ow out his chist.” - -“Why, that’s where half the trouble come,” interrupted the Loafer. “Don’t -you know that ef ye put a Prince Al-bert coat on a clothes-horse, it’ll -stan’ right up an’ begin argyin’ with ye?” - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“‘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. - -“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. - -“‘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.’ - -“An’ the progrim fer the follyin’ Friday, which he read out, run like -this: ‘Readin’ o’ the Scriptur’ 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.’ - -“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. - -“‘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.’ - -“‘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 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. - -“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. - -“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 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’. - -“At the end of an hour we hear sleigh-bells down the road. Then they was -a stampin’ o’ boots outside on the portico. - -“‘Here they is at last,’ sais Andrew, gittin’ up on the platform an’ -rappin’ fer order. - -“The door opened. In steps Aleck Bolum. The whole society give a groan. - -“‘What’s the trouble?’ sais he, walkin’ to the middle o’ the room. ‘I -don’t hear no singin’.’ - -“The society jest hung their heads an’ looked sheepish. - -“‘Where’s the Happy Grove Social Singin Club?’ sais he pleasant like. ‘I -sees only our own members.’ - -“No one sayd nawthin’. - -“Aleck unwound his comforter, unbottoned his coat, th’owed out his chist -an’ cried, ‘Mr. Chairman, hev I the floor?’ - -“Magill kind o’ mumbled. - -“‘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.’ - -“Bolum stopped an’ drawed a paper out o’ his pocket. - -“‘Will the seckertary please read the progrim?’ he sayd. - -“Josiah Weller tuk the paper. He looked at it. Then he piked one eye on -the president. - -“‘Ye may read the progrim, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Andrew, wery dignified. - -“An’ Josiah read like this, ‘The Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society will -be pleased to render fer the entertainment o’ the Happy Grove Social -Singin’ Club the follyin’ selections: bass-horn solo, The Star Spangled -Banner, Mr. Andrew Magill.’ - -“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.’ - -“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Aleck, wery cool. - -“Josiah continyerd, ‘Vocal solo, I see Mother’s Face at the Window, Mr. -Andrew Magill.’ - -“The Chairman looked wery pleased. - -“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sayd Aleck. - -“‘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.’ - -“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.” - -“But what hed become o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club?” asked the -Miller. “Why wasn’t they there?” - -“I guesst you never heard Andrew Magill sing, did ye?” replied the -Tinsmith. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -_Buddies._ - - -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. - -“What are ye thinkin’ of, Gran’pap?” the young man asked. - -“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.” - -The Miller laid the county paper over his knees and smoothed it out. Then -he looked at the Patriarch. - -“My souls!” he cried. “Why, Hen’s ben over the mo’ntain nigh onto forty -year.” - -“That’s jest the pint,” was the rejoinder. “‘Hen folks is gone ye otter -think on ’em.” - -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. - -“You uns knowd Hen Wheedle?” he inquired. - -“He was afore my time but I’ve heard o’ him,” replied the Miller. - -The Chronic Loafer looked up from the steps, where he had been sitting, -whittling a piece of soft white pine. - -“I s’posn you’ve heard o’ Bill Siler?” he asked, in a pleasant, alluring -tone. - -“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?” - -“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 -ginirated in my head, an’ I thot ye might tell me who he was.” - -“You thot ye’d ketch me, heigh,” cried the other. “Ye thot ye’d be smart -an’----” - -“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.” - -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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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 dewided, -one fork goin’ to his placet an’ one to mine. How clear I remembers it! - -“‘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.’ - -“‘I was thinkin’ the same of you,’ sais he. - -“‘You’re right,’ I answers. ‘But I won’t treat no buddy o’ mine mean.’ - -“‘An’ the same with me,’ sais he. - -“We was quiet a piece. Then I sais, ’Henry, ef ever I finds I can’t stand -it no longer I’ll tell you.’ - -“‘An’ ef ever I gits the same way I’ll tell you,’ sais he. - -“We shook hands an’ went home. - -“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 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.” - -The old man had been talking very fast and was out of breath. He paused -to gather the threads of his story. - -The School Teacher seized the opportunity to remark: “An’ yet Solerman in -all his glory was restless an’ unhappy.” - -“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.” - -“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. 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.’ - -“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. 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.’ - -“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. - -“‘Hen,’ sais I, ‘what hev you ben doin’?’ - -“‘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.’ - -“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. - -“I thot she’d faint. - -“‘Why, you’re airly,’ she sais. - -“‘We’ve come airly a purpose, Melissy,’ sais I. ‘We wants you to choose -atween us.’ - -“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. - -“‘Take whichever one ye want,’ sais Hen kind o’ soft. - -“She didn’t answer. - -“‘Don’t keep us een suspenders,’ sais I. - -“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.’ - -“Hen an’ me turned on our heels an’ walked out. We didn’t say nawthin’ -tell we come to the fork in the road. - -“Hen stopped an’ wentured, ‘We’ve ben fools.’ - -“‘We hev,’ I sais. - -“‘Them town fellys doesn’t last long,’ sais he after a spell. ‘She’s like -to be a widdy.’ - -“‘In which caset,’ sais I, our agreement stands. We notify each other -’fore we ast her.’ - -“‘It does,’ he answers, quiet an’ wery solemn. ‘We’ve allus ben buddies, -you an’ me, an’ we allus will be.’ - -“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 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.’ - -“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.” - -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. - -“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.’” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -_Joe Varner’s Belling._ - - -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. - -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 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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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, 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“There, sitting in a great wooden rocking-chair, 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.” - -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.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -_The Sentimental Tramp._ - - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -The traveller sighed. - -“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?” - -“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.” - -“Hedgins!” the Loafer exclaimed, edging toward the end of the bench -furthest from the vagrant. “In jail fer murder!” - -A faint smile flitted across the face of the Tramp. Then he began his -story: - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“‘How long’ll it be tell they hangs me?’ I ast. - -“‘They’ll try you next month,’ she sais. ‘Then I’d ’low another month -tell----’ She bust plum inter tears. - -“‘Two months, Em’ly,’ sais I, I sais, ‘an’ you feeds the prisoners. -They’ll be the bless’dest two months o’ me life.’ - -“‘Deed, an’ that’s jest how I felt. Them words was true ef I ever sayd a -true word. The bless’dest two months o’ my life. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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’?’ - -“‘’Deed an’ I will, Tom,’ sais she. - -“‘Then I’ll be glad to go,’ sais I. An’ ’bout half that potaty went down -inter me lungs, I choked so bad.” - -The Chronic Loafer observed, “It do seem like Em’ly were jest a leetle -gone, Trampy.” - -“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. - -“The day o’ the hangin’ come. I’d ben gittin’ 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----’ - -“Jest then the Sher’ff yelled, ‘Hold on!’ - -“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. - -“When the crowd hear that they give the 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. - -“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.” - -The Tramp sighed and puffed vigorously on his pipe. - -“An’ now what air ye doin’?” asked the Storekeeper. - -“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.” - -“Does you know what I wisht?” inquired the Chronic Loafer earnestly. - -“What?” - -“I wisht Noah Punk hedn’t wrote that letter.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -_Hiram Gum, the Fiddler._ - - -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 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. - -“‘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.” - -“Did you ever hear o’ Hiram Gum?” asked the Patriarch. - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“But Sam Washin’ton’s the best fiddler they is,” the Loafer interposed -emphatically. - -“My dear man, Hiram Gum was more’n an earthly fiddler,” the Patriarch -retorted. “He hed charms. He knowd words.” - -“I don’t b’lieve in them charms furder then they ’fect snakes an’ bees.” - -“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. - -“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. He was a big, -fine-lookin’ felly, a bit o’ a boaster, an’ with a likin’ fer his own way. - -“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. - -“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 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.” - -The old man beat his stick on the porch and waved his body to and fro. - -“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! - -“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. - -“Susan was a wonderful dancer--jest ez quick ez a flash, untirin’, an’ -so light on her feet that ye 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. - -“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 big felly. I dropped to the ground an’ watched, scarce -breathin’ I was so excited. - -“Jawhn raised a heavy stick, an’ shook it, an’ stepped slow-like toward -the leetle fiddler, crowdin’ him nearer the bank. - -“‘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!’ - -“Hiram lowered his fiddle an’ answered, ‘You can’t skeer me, Jawhn -McCullagh, fer Susan doesn’t keer fer you!’ - -“‘You sha’n’t run off with her!’ the other yelled, shakin’ his stick. - -“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. - -“‘Swing yer corners, Jawhn!’ he cried, fixin’ them black eyes on the big -feller. - -“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’ 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. - -“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’. - -“‘Back to your corner, Jawhn!’ the ole man called. - -“‘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. - -“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. 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. - -“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’. - -“‘Hiram,’ she sais, ‘why was you fiddlin’? I thot you was never comin’.’ - -“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.” - -The Patriarch beat his cane softly on the floor and hummed a snatch of a -tune. - -There came a short, quick puffing as the Loafer drew on his pipe, until -the bright coals shone in the darkness. - -“But Sam Washin’ton----” - -The old man arose slowly. - -“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.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -_The “Good Un.”_ - - -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. - -The Tinsmith arose from the nail keg upon which he had been seated, -walked disconsolately to the door and gazed through the begrimed glass -at the dreary village street. He stood there a moment, and then lounged -back to the stove. - -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.” - -“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.” - -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. - -“Speakin’ o’ apple butter,” he said, “reminds me of a good un I hed on my -Missus last week.” - -“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.” - -“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----” - -The Farmer, who had almost been hidden by the stove, at this juncture -leaned forward in his chair and interrupted, “But Abe Scissors hain’t got -no kittle. That there----” - -“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.” - -The Farmer grunted discontentedly but threw himself back in silence. With -marked attention, however, he followed the Loafer’s narration. - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“I’ll bring a tin down an’ hev it filled,” continued the Loafer, “fer -there’s nawthin’ better’n 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.” - -“But Abe Scissors hain’t got no copper kittle,” cried the Farmer -vehemently. - -“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. - -“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.” - -“Borryed my washtub-still,” exclaimed the Tinsmith. - -“A gentleman is knowd be the way he lends, my pap use to say,” drawled -the Loafer, gazing absently at the ceiling. - -“Well, ef your father was anything like his son he knowd the truth o’ -that sayin’,” snapped the Tinsmith. - -“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. - -“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 wife -a-standin’ stirrin’. The rest o’ the weemen was in the kitchen. - -“‘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.’ - -“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. - -“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.’ - -“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.” - -“The weemen allus does it with us,” said the Miller in a superior tone. - -“I cal’lated they was to do it with us, but I mistook,” the Loafer -continued. “I stirred, an’ 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. - -“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. - -“The Missus stuck her head outen the windy an’ called, ‘Don’t you let -that kittle burn!’ - -“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 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. - -“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.” - -“Reflex action,” suggested the Teacher. - -“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 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.” - -The Loafer straightened up in his chair and began to rock violently to -and fro and to chuckle. - -The Farmer arose and walked around the stove. - -“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?” - -“That’s the one exact. He! he!” cried the Loafer, with great hilarity. “S -fer Scissors an’----” - -“S stands fer Silver too,” yelled the Farmer. “My name’s Silver. I lent -that kittle to Abe Scissors four weeks ago.” - -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!” - -And he ambled off home to the Missus. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -_Breaking the Ice._ - - -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. - -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 _deux-et-deux-ing_ about his father’s barn-floor, with -no other partner than a sheaf of wheat and no other music than that -produced by his own capacious lips. - -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?” - -“Yais,” said her husband grimly, “an’ fer six year they’ve ben keepin’ -comp’ny an’ he ain’t yit spoke his mind.” - -The buggy sped along the road, the rattle of 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. - -A mile was gone over. Then the girl said falteringly, “Beel, a’n’t it -wrong?” - -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’.” - -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.” - -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 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. - -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. - -The crowd of dancers was a heterogeneous one. There were young men from -the neighboring county town, gorgeous in blazers of variegated 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. - -“Oh, ain’t it grand?” cried Mary Kuchenbach, clasping her hands. - -“That’s good dancin’, I tell ye,” replied her companion with enthusiasm. - -She had seated herself on a stump, and he was leaning against a tree at -her side, both with eyes fixed on the platform. - -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. - -“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 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.” - -The music had stopped. The dancers, panting from their exertions, mopping -and fanning, left the platform and scattered among the audience. - -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. - -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 announced the next -dance. One after another the couples sifted from the crowd and clambered -on to the platform. - -“Two more pair,” cried the conductor. - -“Come ’long, Mary. Now’s our chancet,” whispered the young Dunkard to his -companion. - -“Oh, Beel, really I can’t. I never danced in puberlick afore.” - -“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.” - -The girl hesitated. - -“One more couple,” roared the floor-master. - -William was getting excited. - -“You can dance with the best of ’em. Come ’long.” - -“Really now, Beel, jest a minute.” - -The twang of the fiddle commenced and the cracked, quavering notes of the -horn arose above the buzz of conversation. - -“Bow yer corners--now yer own,” cried the leader. - -And the young man sat down on the stump in disgust. - -“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 -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.” - -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. - -“Bow yer partners,” cried the floor-master when the orchestra had started -its scraping. - -Down went the gray poke bonnet. Down went the great derby, and a smile of -joy overspread the broad face beneath it. - -“Swing yer partners!” - -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?” - -“Corners!” - -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.” - -“Leads for’a’d an’ back!” - -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 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.” - -But the young Dunkard was unconscious of it all to the end--the end that -came most suddenly and broke up the dancing. - -“Swing yer partners!” bawled the floor-master. - -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. - -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. - -Next his eyes met those of the young woman in blue satin, and he saw her -laugh and turn and 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. - -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. - -“Beel,” said the girl with a sidelong glance, “ain’t dancin’ dangerous?” - -The young man cut the mare with the whip and flushed. - -“Yais, kind o’,” he replied. “But I’m sorry I drug you off o’ the -platform like thet.” - -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. - -“Oh, I didn’t min’ thet,” she said. “It was jes’ lovely tell we hit.” - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -_Two Stay-at-Homes._ - - -“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.” - -“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----” - -“Do they prefer the domestic kind?” asked the School Teacher. - -“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.’ - -“‘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.’ - -“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.’ - -“‘Children,’ I sais, sais I, ‘your pap’s a weteran an’ a experienced -soldier. Duty calls an’ he obeys.’ - -“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. - -“Marthy seemed to think that that there settled 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. - -“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. - -“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 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. - -“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. - -“‘Hen, help,’ I whispers. - -“‘Who in the heck is you a-growin’ outen the side o’ that shanty?’ he -calls, kind o’ hoarse an’ scared. With that he pints a musket at me wery -threatenin’. - -“‘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.’ - -“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. - -“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!’ - -“‘Don’t you dast let go!’ he sayd, lookin’ up at me kind o’ agonizin’. - -“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. - -“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. - -“Marthy stared at us a minute. Then she sais, ‘Where was you a-goin’?’ - -“‘To fight Spaynyards,’ sais I, sheepish like. - -“‘An’ you, Hen Bingle?’ she asts. - -“‘Same,’ gasps Hen. - -“‘Does your wife know you’re out?’ sais the missus, stern ez a jedge. - -“‘No,’ sais Hen. - -“‘Then I’ve a mind to go over to your placet an’ git her,’ sais Marthy. - -“‘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.’ - -“Marthy turns around quiet like, walks inter the house an’ comes out with -the family Bible. - -“‘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?’ - -“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.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -_Eben Huckin’s Conversion._ - - -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. - -“‘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. - -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. - -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. - -The green shoots on the tall maple by the 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! - -“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’.’ - -“‘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?’ - -“‘I mean the preacher,’ she answers. - -“‘Mary,’ I sais, ‘ef the parson heard you a callin’ him sech -new-fandangled names, he’d hev you up before the session.’ - -“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. - -“‘Uncle,’ she sais, ‘I hope you won’t mind, but that’s what we -Piscopaleens calls preachers--rectors. Mr. Dawson is a rector.’ - -“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 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. - -“‘Hello,’ he sais. - -“‘Hello,’ sais I, never liftin’ me eyes offen the wheat field acrosst the -road. - -“‘Fine day,’ sais he. - -“‘I was jest tryin’ to make up me mind whether it was or not,’ sais I. - -“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’. - -“‘I was jest on me way up to your placet to see ye,’ he sais. - -“‘Was ye?’ I answers. ‘Well--I heard ye was comin’. I’m jest on me way to -store.’ - -“It almost seemed I could see that gentle hint comin’ outen his one ear -after it hed gone in the other. - -“‘So ye waited here fer me,’ sais he. ‘How nice of ye! We’ll jest stroll -down to the willage together.’ - -“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I’ve changed me mind. I’m goin’ to stay where I am.’ - -“‘Ye couldn’t a picked a nicer placet,’ he sais. - -“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. - -“By an’ by he speaks. ‘Mr. Huckin, that’s a nice mule you hev runnin’ -’round the pasture adjoinin’ our church.’ - -“‘So,’ sais I. - -“‘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?’ - -“‘Dimly,’ I answers. - -“‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I guesst it must ’a’ ben pretty dim, fer last week -ye forgot to take ’em 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.’ - -“‘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. - -“‘Perhaps,’ I sais, ‘these new-fandangled, ceetyfied goin’s on o’ yourn -amused him.’ - -“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.’ - -“‘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. - -“‘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 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.’ - -“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.” - - * * * * * - -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. - -Eben Huckin, standing by his boat, looked 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. - -The rattle of gravel flying before fast falling feet and a crashing of -laurel bushes along the towpath caused him to pause. - -“Hold on there!” came a voice. “Take me over.” - -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.” - -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. - -As Dawson sat watching the coming storm and 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. - -“I can never thank you enough for rowing me over, Mr. Huckin,” he said. - -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. - -“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.” - -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 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. - -“Oh, my Gawd!” cried the old man, throwing himself into the bottom of the -boat. “We’re loss, Parson, we’re loss!” - -He covered his face with his hands and swung despairingly to and fro, -crying, “We’re loss--we’re loss!” - -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. - -“Pardon me,” he said quietly, “but I don’t understand just what has -happened.” - -“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.” - -“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. - -“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.” - -“Hum!” Dawson glanced to his left anxiously. 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. - -“Eben,” he asked, “is there no way we can steer her into the shore?” - -“All the rudders in the worl’, ef we had ’em, wouldn’t git us outen this -current.” - -“Is there no island we are likely to run into?” - -“Nawthin’ but Bass Rock, an’ ez it’s only ten feet square we mowt ez well -hope--no, no, it ain’t no uset.” - -“We might swim.” - -“I can’t swim.” - -“I can--a little. If you could we would get out.” - -Then the clouds broke and the rain came down in torrents. They were -enveloped in blackness and could no longer see one another. - -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. - -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. - -Huckin half rose to his feet. - -“It’s ole Hen Andrews,” he cried. “I wonder ef he seen us.” - -Thereupon he shouted lustily for help. He continued his unavailing cries -for some minutes, and then sank back to his seat. - -“Parson,” he said, as if by a sudden thought, “Parson, kin you pray?” - -“I’ve been praying all along, Eben,” was the quiet reply. - -“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.” - -He was silent a moment, and added regretfully, “Oh, don’t I wish he was -here now!” - -“You are not afraid to die, are you?” asked Dawson. - -“Most any other way, I’m not,” was the answer. “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.” - -The old man leaned forward and clasped his companion’s hand. - -“Pray agin, Parson, pray agin!” he cried. - -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. - -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. - -For a long time the two men lay in silence, face downward, on the stone. -Then the storm 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. - -“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. - -“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?” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -The rector smiled faintly. He gazed inquiringly at his companion. The -moon shining full on Eben’s countenance gave him a saintly appearance, -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. - -For a long time nothing passed between the two. Then Eben nudged the -rector gently and whispered, “D’ye believe in sperrits?” - -“Why, of course not,” was the reply. - -“Well, I’m glad you don’t.” - -“Why did you ask?” - -“Well, I thot ef ye did you’d like to know this here rock is sayd to have -a ha’nt.” - -“To be haunted!” exclaimed Dawson, edging a little closer. - -“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.” - -“Goodness me!” said the rector. “I had no idea the people hereabouts were -so superstitious.” - -“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.” - -“Eben, the spirits of the dead have better things to do than to spend -their nights sitting on cold, damp rocks.” - -“I know, Parson, I know; but the case o’ 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.” - -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. - -“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----” - -“I’m glad you don’t, Eben,” the rector interrupted. “But suppose we talk -of something more cheerful.” - -A long silence followed. - -“Parson,” the old man at length said, “why don’t ye sleep?” - -“On this narrow rock? I’d roll into the river.” - -“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.” - -The rector replied by rolling over on his back 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. - -“Parson,” he said softly, “I guesst ye needn’t mind no more about that -mule.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -_A Piece in the Paper._ - - -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. - -“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’.” - -The Loafer turned and looked down on the pedagogue. There was pity in his -eyes and disdain lurking about the corners of his mouth. - -“Well, you don’t feel hurt, do you?” snapped the Teacher. - -“I guess you never fished,” was the reply. - -“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’ along a creek tryin’ to catch a -few small trout that never did me any harm.” - -“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.” - -“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 shanty most -amazin’. All the joys o’ expectation ’ll be wiped outen your mind by -dissypintment.” - -“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’.” - -The G. A. R. Man arose. - -“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.” - -“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.” - -The veteran dropped back to his place on the bench. - -The Patriarch nudged him and said pleasantly, “Why don’t you go on?” - -“I guesst I’d better wait fer the stage an’ git the news,” was the -growling reply. - -“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’.” - -“True,” the Loafer replied. “I was thinkin’ o’ Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord -Desmon.” - -“Mighty souls!” the Patriarch cried. “Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon! -You are the greatest man fer makin’ acquaintances I ever seen.” - -“Deeverox was that new segare drummer that come th’oo here yesterday, -wasn’t he?” the Tinsmith inquired. - -“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.” - -“Desmon! An’ where in all nations is Desmon?” the Patriarch exclaimed. - -“Englan’,” was the calm reply. - -“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?” - -“‘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 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.” - -“What in the name o’ common sense is an earl?” asked the Miller. “What -does he do?” - -“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.” - -“What gits me is jest how many o’ them Lord Desmons they was,” the -Tinsmith interposed. - -“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.” - -“That there name Lord seemed to run in the family,” said the Miller. “I -don’t wonder they got mixed. Why didn’t they hev a Joe or a Jawhn?” - -“Was these here some o’ your pap’s friends?” asked the Patriarch. - -“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’ _The Home an’ Fireplace_ 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.” - -The Patriarch brought his stick down on the floor with a vigorous bang. - -“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.” - -“Now see here,” was the spirited answer, “it ain’t jest that I should be -accused this ’ay. _The Home an’ Fireplace_ 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.” - -“Shucks! So all this here is nothin’ but somethin’ you’ve been readin’ in -the paper,” the Teacher sneered. - -“Exact. An’ ef you’d read the same piecet I guess you’d ben worrit, too.” - -“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?” - -“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.” - -“Now I do recklect somethin’ about that caset,” the Tinsmith interposed. -“It was a fight over a bit o’ property an’ a girl.” - -“Exact,” said the Loafer. - -“Well, how d’ye know it’s so?” the Miller asked. “Because it’s in the -paper is no sign it’s true.” - -“See here,” was the sharp reply, “do you s’pose ’hen they is so much in -this world that’s true the editor o’ _The Home an’ Fireplace_ ’ud go to -the trouble o’ makin’ up lies to print? Why, it wouldn’t pay.” - -The Miller was about to argue against this proposition, but the -Patriarch leaned over and laid a hand on his knee, checking him. - -“Jest wait tell we find out who got the property,” the old man said. - -“An’ the girl,” cried the Tinsmith. - -“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 _p-a-t-r-i-c-i-a-n_ cast o’ -features. She was twenty year old an’ hed an income o’ ten thousand pound -a year.” - -“Pound o’ what?” inquired the Patriarch. - -“The paper didn’t tell. It jest sayd pound.” - -“That’s the way with them editors,” cried the old man. “They allus -forgits important points. They expects a man to know everything.” - -“I guess that them must ’a’ ben pound o’ somethin’ they raised on the -place,” the Tinsmith suggested. - -“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. -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 _M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o_ or -somethin’ like that.” - -“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’----” - -The Patriarch interrupted with a hilarious chuckle. - -“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 -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.” - -“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----” - -“The what?” asked the Miller. - -“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?” - -“Oh, one o’ them!” the Miller said. “Well, I guesst those must ’a’ ben -pound o’ gold Alice Fairfax got a year.” - -The Loafer resumed the narrative. - -“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 jedge. A -minute later Lord Desmon run up all out o’ wind. The dead beast was his -_M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o_. 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 _a-v-e-n-g-e-d_. An’ ez he looked up at the stranger that young man -knowd Lord hed it in fer him. - -“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----” - -“He done what?” cried the Patriarch. - -“He pushed a button an’----” - -“Pushed a button! Well, mighty souls!” the G. A. R. Man exclaimed. “What -a fool thing to do.” - -“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.” - -“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?” - -“Don’t ye s’pose he might ’a’ pushed one o’ Butler’s waistcoat buttons?” -replied the Loafer. “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. - -“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----” - -“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----” - -“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----” - -“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----” - -“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.” - -“Come, come; no argyin’.” The Patriarch was in his soothing mood. “What -become o’ Lord?” - -“Lord hated Reginal’ with a bitter hatred, the paper sayd, because of the -death of _M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o_, 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.” - -“Hunt what?” asked the Miller. - -“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----” - -“Hol’ on!” cried the Patriarch. “Did you say weemen an’ all, a-huntin’ -foxes? That 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.” - -“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. - -“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----” - -“She couldn’t ’a’ made much of a hat outen jest the tail,” said the G. A. -R. Man. - -“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 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!” - -“Now, watch for a good ole wrastle,” cried the Patriarch. - -“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.” - -The Miller’s clay pipe fell to the floor and shattered into a hundred -pieces. - -“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?” - -“What happened next?” inquired the Teacher. - -“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.” - -“A hunt what?” The Patriarch leaned forward with his hand to his ear. - -“A hunt ball--a dance,” the pedagogue explained. “Over there after -huntin’ they always have a dance.” - -“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 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.” - -“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’. - -“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 ez the black thing toppled over the -edge, the paper sayd.” - -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. - -“Well?” cried the men on the bench in unison. - -“Well?” repeated the Loafer. - -“Which Desmon was it?” asked the Tinsmith. - -“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’----” - -“Mighty souls!” gasped the Patriarch. - -“Did ye look fer it?” asked the Miller, rising and moving toward the door. - -“Well of course I looked. D’ye s’pose I ain’t ez anxious ez you to know -which Desmon was kilt?” - -“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?” - -“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.” - -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. - -“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.” - -“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.” - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRONIC LOAFER*** - - -******* This file should be named 54572-0.txt or 54572-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/4/5/7/54572 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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