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diff --git a/old/54572-h/54572-h.htm b/old/54572-h/54572-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 5a1013d..0000000 --- a/old/54572-h/54572-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9243 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> -<head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> -<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Chronic Loafer, by Nelson Lloyd</title> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<style type="text/css"> - -a { - text-decoration: none; -} - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -hr { - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb { - width: 45%; - margin-left: 27.5%; - margin-right: 27.5%; -} - -hr.chap { - width: 65%; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -p { - margin-top: 0.5em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - text-indent: 1em; -} - -table { - margin: 1em auto 1em auto; - max-width: 40em; - border-collapse: collapse; -} - -td { - padding-left: 0.25em; - padding-right: 0.25em; - vertical-align: top; -} - -.box { - border: thin solid black; - padding: 1em; - margin: 1em auto; - max-width: 20em; -} - -.box-outer { - border: thick solid black; - padding: 0.5em 1em; - margin: 1em auto; - max-width: 22em; -} - -.center { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.larger { - font-size: 150%; -} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - right: 4%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; -} - -.poetry-container { - text-align: center; - margin: 1em; -} - -.poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; -} - -.poetry .verse { - text-indent: -3em; - padding-left: 3em; -} - -.right { - text-align: right; -} - -.smaller { - font-size: 80%; -} - -.smcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; -} - -.titlepage { - text-align: center; - margin-top: 3em; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -@media handheld { - -img { - max-width: 100%; - width: auto; - height: auto; -} - -.poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; -} -} - - hr.full { width: 100%; - margin-top: 3em; - margin-bottom: 0em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - height: 4px; - border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ - border-style: solid; - border-color: #000000; - clear: both; } - </style> -</head> -<body> -<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Chronic Loafer, by Nelson Lloyd</h1> -<p>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 <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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.</p> -<p>Title: The Chronic Loafer</p> -<p>Author: Nelson Lloyd</p> -<p>Release Date: April 19, 2017 [eBook #54572]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRONIC LOAFER***</p> -<p> </p> -<h3>E-text prepared by MWS, Peter Vachuska,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - -<div class="box-outer"> - -<div class="box"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smaller">THE</span><br /> -CHRONIC LOAFER</p> - -</div> - -<div class="box"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -NELSON LLOYD</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;"> -<img src="images/cum-facent-clamant.jpg" width="100" height="135" alt="Publisher's mark" /> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class="box"> - -<p class="center"><span class="smaller">NEW YORK</span><br /> -J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY<br /> -<span class="smaller">1900</span></p> - -</div> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller">Copyright, 1900,<br /> -By<br /> -<span class="smcap">J. F. Taylor & Company</span>.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td class="right smaller">CHAPTER</td> - <td></td> - <td class="right smaller">PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">I.</td> - <td>The Reunion</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">5</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">II.</td> - <td>The Spelling Bee</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">17</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">III.</td> - <td>Absalom Bunkel</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">28</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">IV.</td> - <td>The Missus</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">37</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">V.</td> - <td>The Awfullest Thing</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">54</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">VI.</td> - <td>The Wrestling Match</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">63</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">VII.</td> - <td>The Tramp’s Romance</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">74</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">VIII.</td> - <td>Ambition—An Argument</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">80</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">IX.</td> - <td>Bumbletree’s Bass-Horn</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">97</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">X.</td> - <td>Little Si Berrybush</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">107</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XI.</td> - <td>Cupid and a Mule</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">126</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XII.</td> - <td>The Haunted Store</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">136</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XIII.</td> - <td>Rivals</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">149</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XIV.</td> - <td>Buddies</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">159</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XV.</td> - <td>Joe Varner’s Belling</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">169</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XVI.</td> - <td>The Sentimental Tramp</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">176</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XVII.</td> - <td>Hiram Gum, the Fiddler</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">183</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XVIII.</td> - <td>The “Good Un”</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">193</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>XIX.</td> - <td>Breaking the Ice</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">202</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XX.</td> - <td>Two Stay-at-Homes</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">212</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XXI.</td> - <td>Eben Huckin’s Conversion</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">219</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">XXII.</td> - <td>A Piece in the Paper</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">237</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> - -<h1>THE CHRONIC LOAFER.</h1> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Reunion.</i></span></h2> - -<p>In the center of one of the most picturesque -valleys in the heart of Pennsylvania lies the village -and at one end of its single street stands the -store. On the broad porch of this homely and -ancient edifice there is a long oak bench, rough, -and hacked in countless places by the knives of -many generations of loungers. From this bench, -looking northward across an expanse of meadows, -a view is had of a low, green ridge, dotted here -and there with white farm buildings. Behind that -rise the mountains, along whose sides on bright -days play the fanciful shadows of the clouds. -Close by the store is the rumbling mill, and beyond -it runs the creek, spanned by a wooden -bridge whose planking now and then resounds -with the beat of horses’ hoofs, so that it adds -its music to the roar of the mill-wheels and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -ring of the anvil in the blacksmith shop across -the stream.</p> - -<p>One July day the stage rattled over the bridge, -past the mill and drew up at the store. The -G. A. R. Man, the only passenger, climbed out of -the lumbering vehicle, dragging after him a shapeless, -battered carpet-bag. He limped up the steps -in the wake of the driver, who was helping the -Storekeeper with the mail-pouch, and when on -the porch stopped and nodded a greeting to the -men who were sitting on the bench kicking their -heels together—the Patriarch, the School Teacher, -the Miller, the Tinsmith and the Chronic Loafer. -The loungers gazed solemnly at the new arrival; -at his broad-brimmed, black slouch hat, which -though drawn down over his left temple did not -hide the end of a band of court-plaster; at his -blue coat, two of its brass buttons missing; at -his trousers, in which there were several rents that -had been clumsily sewed together.</p> - -<p>The silence was broken by the School Teacher, -who remarked with a contemptuous curl of the -nose, “So you’ve got home from Gettysburg, -have you? From your appearance one would -judge that you had come from a battle instead of -a reunion.”</p> - -<p>“Huh! A good un—a good un!”</p> - -<p>All eyes were turned toward the end of the -bench, where sat the Chronic Loafer. He was a -tall, thin, loose-jointed man. Thick, untrimmed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -locks of tawny hair fell from beneath his ragged, -straw hat, framing a face whose most prominent -features were a pair of deep-set, dull blue eyes, -two sharp, protruding cheek-bones and a week’s -growth of red beard. His attire was simple in the -extreme. It consisted of a blue striped, hickory -shirt, at the neck-band of which glistened a large, -white china button, which buttoned nothing, but -served solely as an ornament, since no collar had -ever embraced the thin, brown neck above it. A -piece of heavy twine running over the left shoulder -and down across the chest supported a pair of -faded, brown overalls, which were adorned at the -right knee by a large patch of white cotton. He -was sitting in a heap. His head seemed to join -his body somewhere in the region of his heart. -His bare left foot rested on his right knee and his -left knee was encircled by his long arms.</p> - -<p>“A good un!” he cried again.</p> - -<p>Then he suddenly uncoiled himself, throwing -back his head until it struck the wall behind him, -and swung his legs wildly to and fro.</p> - -<p>“Well, what air you so tickled about now?” -growled the G. A. R. Man.</p> - -<p>“I was jest a-thinkin’ that you’d never come -outen no battle lookin’ like that,” drawled the -Loafer.</p> - -<p>He nudged the Miller with his elbow and -winked at the Teacher. Forthwith the three -broke into loud fits of laughter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Patriarch pounded his hickory stick vigorously -on the floor, pulled his heavy platinum -rimmed spectacles down to the tip of his nose and -over their tops gazed in stern disapproval.</p> - -<p>“Boys, boys,” he said, “no joshing. It ain’t -right to josh.”</p> - -<p>“True—true,” said the Loafer. He had wrapped -himself up again and was in repose. “My pap -allus use to say, ‘A leetle joshin’ now an’ then is -relished be the wisest men—that is, ef they hain’t -the fellys what’s bein’ joshed.’”</p> - -<p>The G. A. R. Man had been leaning uneasily -against a pillar. On this amicable speech from -his chief tormenter, the frown that had been playing -over his face gave way to a broad grin, three -white teeth glistening in the open space between -his stubby mustache and beard.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “I hev come home afore my -’scursion ticket expired.” He removed his hat -and disclosed a great patch of plaster on his forehead. -“Ye see Gettysburg was a sight hotter fer -me yesterday than in ’63. But I’ve got to the -eend o’ my story.”</p> - -<p>“So that same old yarn you’ve ben tellin’ at -every camp-fire sence the war is finished at last. -That’s a blessin’!” cried the Miller.</p> - -<p>“I never knowd you was in the war. I thot -you jest drawed a pension,” interrupted the -Loafer.</p> - -<p>The veteran did not heed these jibes but fixed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -himself comfortably on the upturned end of his -carpet-bag.</p> - -<p>“Teacher, I’ve never seen you at any of our -camp-fires,” he began. “Consekently the eend o’ -my story won’t do you no good ’less you knows the -first part. So I’ll tell you ’bout my experience at -the battle o’ Gettysburg an’ then explain my -second fight there. I was in the war bespite the -insinooations o’ them ez was settin’ on that same -bench in the day o’ the nation’s danger. I served -as a corporal in the Two-hundred-and-ninety-fifth -Pennsylwany Wolunteers an’ was honorable discharged -in ’63.”</p> - -<p>“Fer which discharge he gits his pension,” the -Loafer ventured.</p> - -<p>“That ain’t so. I cot malary an’ several other -complaints in the Wilterness that henders me -workin’ steady. It was no wonder, either, fer -our retchment was allus fightin’. We was knowd -ez the Bloody Pennsylwany retchment, fer we’d -ben in every battle from Bull Run on, an’ hed -had some wery desp’rate engagements. ’Henever -they was any chargin’ to be done, we done it; ef -they was a fylorn hope, we was on it; ef they was -a breastwork to be tuk, we tuk it. You uns can -imagine that be the eend o’ two years sech work, -we was pretty bad cut up. ’Hen the army chased -the rebels up inter this state we was with it, but -afore the fight at Gettysburg it was concided -that sence they wasn’t many of us, we’d better be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -put to guardin’ baggage wagons. That was a -kind o’ work that didn’t take many men, but -required fighters in caset the enemy give the boys -in front a slip an’ sneaked een on our rear.”</p> - -<p>The School Teacher coughed learnedly and -raised a hand to indicate that he had something -to say. Having secured the floor, he began: -“When Darius the First invaded Europe he had -so many women, children and baggage wagons in -his train that——”</p> - -<p>“See here,” cried the Patriarch, testily. -“Dar’us was afore my time, I allow. We don’t -care two snaps o’ a ram’s tail ’bout Dar’us. We -wants to know ’bout them bloody Pennsylwanians.”</p> - -<p>The pedagogue shook his head in condemnation -of the ignorance of his companions, but -allowed the G. A. R. Man to proceed.</p> - -<p>“Durin’ the first day’s engagement our retchment, -with a couple of others, an’ the trains, was -’bout three mile ahint Cemetary Hill, but on the -next mornin’ we was ordered back twenty mile. -It was hard to hev to drive off inter the country -’hen the boys was hevin’ it hot bangin’ away at -the enemy, but them was orders, an’ a soldier -allus obeys orders.</p> - -<p>“The fightin’ begin airly that day. We got -the wagons a-goin’ afore sun-up, but it wasn’t -long tell we could hear the roar o’ the guns, an’ -see the smoke risin’ in clouds an’ then settlin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -down over the country. We felt pretty blue, too, -ez we went trampin’ along, fer the wounded -an’ stragglers was faster ’an we. They’d come -hobblin’ up with bad news, sayin’ how the boys -was bein’ cut up along the Emmettsburg road, an’ -how we’d better move faster, ez the army was -losin’ an’ the rebels ’ud soon be een on us. Then -they’d hobble away agin. Them wasn’t our only -troubles, either. The mules was behavin’ mean -an’ cuttin’ up capers, an’ the wagons was breakin’ -down. Then we hed to be continual watchin’ fer -them Confederate cavalry we was expectin’ was -a-goin’ to pounce down on us.</p> - -<p>“Evenin’ come, an’ we lay to fer the night. -The fires was started, an’ the coffee set a-boilin’, -an’ we had a chancet to rest a while. The -wounded an’ the stragglers that jest filled the -country kep’ comin’ in all the time, sometim’s -alone, sometim’s in twos an’ threes, some with -their arms tied up in all sorts o’ queer ways, or -hobblin’ on sticks, or with their heads bandaged; -about the miserablest lot o’ men I ever see. The -noise of the fight stopped, an’ everything was -quiet an’ peaceful like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’. -The quiet an’ the dark an’ the fear we was -goin’ to meet the enemy at any minute made it -mighty onpleasant, an’ what with the stories -them wounded fellys give us, we didn’t rest wery -easy.</p> - -<p>“I went out on the picket line at ten o’clock.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -Seemed I hedn’t ben there an hour tell I made -out the dark figure of a man comin’ th’oo the -fiel’s wery slow like. Me an’ the fellys with me -watched sharp. Sudden the man stopped, hesitated -like an’ sank down in a heap. Then he -picked himself up an’ come staggerin’ on. He -couldn’t ’a’ ben more’n fifty yards away ’hen he -th’owed up his hands an’ pitched for’a’d on his -face. Me an’ me buddy run out an’ carried him -inter the fire. But it wasn’t no uset. He was -dead.</p> - -<p>“They was a bullet wound in his shoulder, -an’ his clothes was soaked with blood that -hed ben drippin’, drippin’ tell he fell the last -time. I opened his coat, an’ in his pocket foun’ -a letter, stamped, an’ directed apparent to his -wife—that was all to tell who he was. So I went -back to me post thinkin’ no more of it an’ never -noticin’ that that man’s coat ’ud ’a’ fit two of -him.</p> - -<p>“Mornin’ come, an’ the firin’ begin over toward -Gettysburg. We could see the smoke risin’ agin -an’ hear the big guns bellerin’ tell the ground beneath -our feet seemed to swing up an’ down. I -tell you uns that was a grand scene. We was -awful excited, fer we knowd the first two days -hed gone agin us, an’ more an’ more stragglers -an’ wounded come limpin’ back, all with bad -news. I was gittin’ nervous, thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ -over it, an’ wishin’ I was where the fun was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -Then I concided mebbe I wasn’t so bad off, fer I -might ’a’ been killed like the poor felly I seen the -night before, an’ in thinkin’ o’ the man I remembered -the letter an’ got it out. I didn’t ’tend to -open it, but final I thot it wasn’t safe to go mailin’ -letters ’thout knowin’ jest what was in ’em, so -I read it.</p> - -<p>“The letter was wrote on a piece o’ wrappin’ -paper in an awful bad handwrite, but ’hen I got -th’oo it I set plumb down an’ cried like a chil’. -It was from John Parker to his wife Mary, livin’ -somewhere out in western Pennsylwany. He -begin be mentionin’ how we was on the eve of a -big fight an’ how he ’tended to do his duty even -ef it come to fallin’ at his post. It was hard, he -sayd, but he knowd she’d ruther hev no husban’ -than a coward. He was allus thinkin’ o’ her an’ -the baby he’d never seen, but felt satisfaction in -knowin’ they was well fixed. It was sorrerful, he -continyerd, that she was like to be a widdy so -young, an’ he wasn’t goin’ to be mean about it. -He allus knowd, he sayd, how she’d hed a hankerin’ -after young Silas Quincy ’fore she tuk him. -Ef he fell, he thot she’d better merry Silas ’hen -she’d recovered from the ’fects o’ his goin’. He -ended up with a lot o’ last ‘good-bys’ an’ talk -about duty to his country.</p> - -<p>“Right then an’ there I set down an’ wrote -that poor woman a few lines tellin’ how I’d foun’ -the letter in her dead husban’s pocket. I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -goin’ to quit at that, but I concided it ’ud be -nice to add somethin’ consolin’, so I told how -we’d foun’ him on the fiel’ o’ battle, face to the -enemy, an’ how his last words was fer her an’ the -baby. That day we won the fight, an’ the next I -mailed Mrs. Parker her letter. It seemed about -the plum blamedest, saddest thing I ever hed to do -with.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve allus ben cur’ous ’bout that widdy, too,” -the Chronic Loafer remarked.</p> - -<p>The Teacher cleared his throat and recited:</p> - -<div class="poem"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Now night her course began, and over heaven</div> -<div class="verse">Inducing darkness grateful truce imposed,</div> -<div class="verse">And silence on the odious din of war;</div> -<div class="verse">Under her cloud——”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“No poetry jist yet, Teacher,” said the veteran. -“Wait tell you hear the sekal o’ the story.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, let’s hev somethin’ new,” growled the -Miller.</p> - -<p>Having silenced the pedagogue, the G. A. R. -Man resumed his narrative.</p> - -<p>“I never heard no more o’ Widdy Parker tell -last night, an’ then it come most sudden. Our -retchment hed a reunion on the fiel’ this year, -you know, an’ on Monday I went back to Gettysburg -fer the first time sence I was honorable discharged. -The boys was all there, what’s left o’ -’em, an’ we jest hed a splendid time wisitin’ the -monyments an’ talkin’ over the days back in ’63.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -There was my old tent-mate, Sam Thomas, on one -leg, an’ Jim Luckenbach, who was near tuk be -yaller janders afore Petersburg. There was the -colonel, growed old an’ near blind, an’ our captain -an’ a hundred odd others.</p> - -<p>“Well, last night we was a lot of us a-settin’ in -the hotel tellin’ stories. It come my turn an’ I -told about the dead soldier’s letter. A big felly -in a unyform hed ben leanin’ agin the bar watchin’ -us. ’Hen I begin he pricked up his ears a leetle. -Ez I got furder an’ furder he seemed to git more -an’ more interested, I noticed. By an’ by I seen -he was becomin’ red an’ oneasy, an’ final ’hen -I’d finished he walks acrosst the room to where -we was settin’ an’ stands there starin’ at me, -never sayin’ nawthin’.</p> - -<p>“A minute passed. I sais, sais I, ‘Well, comrade, -what air you starin’ so fer?’</p> - -<p>“Sais he, ‘That letter was fer Mary Parker?’</p> - -<p>“‘True,’ sais I, surprised.</p> - -<p>“‘Dead sure?’ sais he.</p> - -<p>“‘Sure,’ sais I.</p> - -<p>“Then he shakes his fist an’ yells, ‘I’ve ’tended -most every reunion here sence the war hopin’ -to meet the idjet that sent that letter to my -wife an’ wrote that foolishness ’bout findin’ my -dead body. After twenty-five years I’ve foun’ -you!’</p> - -<p>“He pulls off his coat. The boys all jumps -up.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I, half skeert to death, cries, ‘But you ain’t -the dead man!’</p> - -<p>“‘Dead,’ he yells. ‘Never ben near it. Nor -did I ’tend to hev every blame fool in the army -mailin’ my letters nuther. Because you finds a -man with my coat on, that hain’t no reason he’s -me. I was gittin’ to the rear with orders ez lively -ez a cricket an’ th’owed off that coat jest because -it was warm runnin’.’</p> - -<p>“‘Hen I seen what I’d done I grabs his arm, I -was so excited, an’ cries, ‘Did she merry Silas -Quincy?’</p> - -<p>“‘It wasn’t your fault she didn’t,’ he sais, deliberate -like, rollin’ up his sleeves. ‘I got home -two days after the letter an’ stopped the weddin’ -party on their way to church.’”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Spelling Bee.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer stretched his legs along the -counter and rested his back comfortably against a -pile of calicoes.</p> - -<p>“I allus held,” he said, “that they hain’t no -sech things ez a roarinborinallus. I know some -sais they is ’lectric lights, but ’hen I seen that big -un last night I sayd to my Missus, an’ I hol’ I’m -right, I sayd that it was nawthin’ but the iron -furnaces over the mo’ntain. Fer s’pose, ez the -Teacher claims, they was lights at the North Pole—does -you uns believe we could see ’em all that -distance? Well now!”</p> - -<p>He gazed impressively about the store. The -Patriarch, the Miller and the G.A.R. Man were -disposed to agree with him. The School Teacher -was sarcastic.</p> - -<p>“Where ignorance is bliss ’twere folly to be -wise,” he said. He tilted back on two legs of his -chair and adjusted his thumbs in the arm-holes of -his waistcoat, so that all eight of his long quivering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -fingers seemed to be pointing in scorn at the -man on the counter.</p> - -<p>The Loafer rolled slowly over on one side and -eyed the pedagogue.</p> - -<p>“Ben readin’ the almanick lately, hain’t ye?” -he drawled.</p> - -<p>“If you devoted less time to the almanac and -more to physical geography,” retorted the Teacher, -“you’d know that the Aurora Borealis hain’t a -light made on <i lang="la">terra firma</i> but that it is a peculiar -magnetic condition of the atmosphere. And the -manner in which you pronounce it is exceedingly -ludicrous. It’s not a roarinborinallus. It is -spelled <em>A-u-r-o-r-a B-o-r-e-a-l-i-s</em>.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer sat up, crossed his legs and embraced -his knee, thus forming a natural fortification -behind which he could collect his thoughts -before hurling them at his glib and smiling foe. -He gazed dully at his rival a moment; then said -suddenly, “My pap was a cute man.”</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t left any living monument to his -good sense,” said the Teacher.</p> - -<p>The Loafer looked at the Storekeeper, who was -sitting beneath him on an empty egg-crate. “Do -you mind how he use to say that Solerman meant -‘teacher’ ’hen he sayd ‘wine’; how Solerman -meant, ‘Look not upon the teacher ’hen he is -read,’ fer a leetle learnin’ leaveneth the whole -lump an’ puffs him up so——”</p> - -<p>The pedagogue’s chair came down on all four<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> -legs with a crash. His right thumb left the -seclusion of his waistcoat, his right arm shot out -straight, and a trembling forefinger pointed at -the eyes that were just visible over the top of the -white-patched knee.</p> - -<p>“See here!” he shouted. “I’m ready for an -argyment, but no callin’ names. This is no place -for abuse.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer resumed his reclining attitude and -fixed his gaze on the dim recesses of the ceiling.</p> - -<p>“I hain’t callin’ no one names,” he said slowly, -“I was jest tellin’ what my pap use to say.”</p> - -<p>“Tut-tut-tut, boys,” interrupted the Patriarch, -thumping the floor with his stick. “Don’t git -quarrelin’ over sech a leetle thing ez the meanin’ -o’ a word. Mebbe ye’s both right.”</p> - -<p>The Tinsmith had hitherto occupied a nail keg -near the stove, unnoticed. Now he began to rub -his hands together gleefully and to chuckle. The -Teacher was convinced that his own discomfiture -was the cause of the other’s mirth.</p> - -<p>“Well, what are you so tickled about?” he -snapped.</p> - -<p>“Aurory Borealis. Perry Muthersbaugh spelled -down Jawhn Jimson on that very word. Yes, he -done it on that very word. My, but that there -was a bee, Perfessor!”</p> - -<p>“Now ’fore you git grindin’ away, sence you’ve -got on spellin’,” said the Chronic Loafer, “I want -to tell a good un——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Let him tell us about Perry Muthersbaugh,” -said the Teacher in decisive tones. The title -“professor” had had a softening effect, and he -repaid the compliment by supporting the Tinsmith’s -claim to the floor.</p> - -<p>Compelled to silence, the Chronic Loafer closed -his eyes as though oblivious to all about him, but -a hand stole to his ear and formed a trumpet -there to aid his hearing.</p> - -<p>“Some folks is nat’ral spellers jest ez others is -nat’ral musicians,” began the Tinsmith. “Agin, -it’s jest ez hard to make a good speller be edication -ez it is to make a good bass-horn player, fer -a felly that hain’t the inborn idee o’ how many -letters is needed to make a word’ll never spell no -better than the man that hain’t the nat’ral sense -o’ how much wind’s needed to make a note, ’ll play -the bass-horn.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot wholly agree with you,” the Teacher -interrupted. “Give a child first words of one -syllable, then two; drill him in words ending in -<em>t-i-o-n</em> until——”</p> - -<p>“We won’t discuss that, Perfessor. It don’t -affect our case, fer Jawhn Jimson was a nat’ral -speller. You never seen the like. Give him a -word o’ six or seven syllables an’ he’d spell it out -like it was on a blackboard right before him. -’Hen he was twenty he’d downed all the scholars -in Happy Grove an’ won about six bees. Then -he went to Pikestown Normal School, an’ ’hen he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -come back you never knowd the beat. He hed -stedied Lating an’ algebray there, but I guesst he -must also ’a’ spent considerable time a-brushin’ -up his spellin’, fer they was only one felly ’bout -these parts could keep with him any time at all. -He was my frien’ Perry Muthersbaugh, who tot -up to Kishikoquillas.</p> - -<p>“You uns mind the winter we hed the big -blizzard, ’hen the snow covered all the fences an’ -was piled so high in the roads that we hed to -drive th’oo the fiel’s. They was a heap sight -goin’ on that year—church sosh’bles, singin’ school -an’ spellin’ bees. Me an’ Perry Muthersbaugh -was buddies, an’ not a week passed ’thout we went -some’eres together. Fore I knowd it him an’ -Jawhn Jimson was keepin’ company with Hannah -Ciders. She was jest ez pretty ez a peach, plump -an rosy, with the slickest nat’ral hair an’ teeth -you uns ever seen. She was fond o’ edication, too, -so ’hen them teachers was after her she couldn’t -make up her min’. She favored both. Perry -was good lookin’ an’ steady an’ no fool. He’d -set all evenin’ along side o’ her an’ never say -nawthin’ much, but she kind o’ thot him good -company. It allus seemed to me that Jimson -was a bit conceity an’ bigitive, but he was amusin’ -an’ hed the advantage of a normal school edication. -He kind o’ dazzled her. She didn’t know which -of ’em to take, an’ figured on it tell well inter the -winter. Her color begin to go an’ she was gittin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> -thin. Perry an’ Jawhn was near wild with anxiousness -an’ was continual quarrelin’. Then what -d’ye s’pose they done?”</p> - -<p>“It’ll take a long time fer ’em to do much the -way you tells it,” the Chronic Loafer grumbled.</p> - -<p>“She give out,” continued the Tinsmith, not -heeding the interruption, “that she’d take the -best edicated. That tickled Jawhn, an’ he blowed -around to his frien’s how he was goin’ to send ’em -invites to his weddin’. Perry jest grit his teeth -an’ sayd nawthin’ ’cept that he was ready. Then -he got out his spellin’ book an’ went to sawin’ -wood jest ez hard an’ fast ez he could.”</p> - -<p>“That there reminds me o’ my pap.” The -Chronic Loafer was sitting up again.</p> - -<p>“Well, if your pap was anything like his son,” -said the Teacher, “I guess he could ’a’ sawed -most of his wood with a spellin’ book.”</p> - -<p>The author of this witticism laughed long and -loud, having support in the Miller and the G.A. -R. Man. The Patriarch put his hand under his -chin and dexterously turned his long beard upward -so that it hid his face. In the seclusion thus -formed he had a quiet chuckle all to himself, for -he was a politic old person and loath to offend.</p> - -<p>“Boys, boys,” he said when the mirth was subsiding, -“remember what the Scriptur’ sais——”</p> - -<p>“Pap didn’t git it from the Scriptur’,” said the -Loafer complacently. “He use to give it ez a -text tho’, somethin’ like this, ‘He that goeth at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -the wood-pile too fast gen’rally breaketh his saw -on the fust nail an’ freezeth all winter.’”</p> - -<p>“Not ef he gits the right kind o’ firewood—the -kind that hasn’t no nails,” said the Miller hotly.</p> - -<p>“Huh!” exclaimed the Loafer, and he sprawled -out upon the counter once more.</p> - -<p>The Tinsmith took up the narrative again.</p> - -<p>“It was agreed that the two teachers ’ud hev it -out at the big spellin’ bee ’tween their schools -the follyin’ week. The night set come. Sech -a crowd ez gathered at the Happy Grove school -house! They was sleighin’, an’ fer a quarter of a -mile in front o’ the buildin’ they was nawthin’ -but horses hitched to the fences. The room was -decorated with greens an’ lighted with ile lamps -fer the occasion, an’ was jest packed. All the -seats was filled with girls. The men was lined -three deep along the walls an’ banked up on top -of one another at the back. On one side o’ the -platform, settin’ on a long bench under the blackboard, -was the sixteen best scholars o’ Happy -Grove school led be Jawhn Jimson. He was -smilin’ an’ conferdent, an’ gazed longin’ at Hannah -Ciders, who was on one o’ the front seats an’ -’peared rather nervous.</p> - -<p>“Perry Muthersbaugh come up to me ez I was -standin’ be the stove warmin’ up, an’ I whispered -him a few words of encouragement, tho’ I felt -sorry fer him. He was a leetle excited but ’lowed -it ’ud come out all right. Then he tuk his place<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -on the other side o’ the platform with his sixteen -scholars, an’ the proceedin’s begin.</p> - -<p>“Teacher Long from Lemon township give out -the words, while me an’ another felly kep’ tally. -The first word was soupeny. Perry missed it. -He spelled it <em>s-u-p-e-n-a</em>. It jest made me sick to -hev to mark down one agin his side. Jimson -tuk it, spelled it all right, an’ commenced to smile. -Muthersbaugh looked solemn. The next felly on -his side spelled supersedes correct, while the girl -beside Jawhn missed superannuation. Happy -Grove and Kishikoquillas was even.</p> - -<p>“I tell you uns it was most excitin’ to see them -trained spellers battlin’. They kep’ it up fer half -an hour, an’ ’hen they quit Happy Grove hed -two misses less than Kishikoquillas. Jimson was -smilin’ triumphant. Perry didn’t do nawthin’ but -set there quiet like.</p> - -<p>“Then come the final test—the spellin’ down. -After a recess o’ ten minutes the sides lined up -agin, an’ ’henever one missed a word he hed to go -sit in the aud’ence. They spelled an’ spelled tell -they was no one left but Jawhn Jimson an’ Perry -Muthersbaugh, standin’ glarin’ at each other an’ -singin’ out letters. It was a grand sight. Hannah -Ciders was pale an’ tremblin’, fer she knowd the -valley of an idle word then. The aud’ence was -most stretchin’ their necks outen joint they was so -interested. Two lamps went out an’ no one fixed -them. The air was blue with steam made be the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -snow meltin’ offen the fellys’ boots, the stove -begin to smoke, an’ the room was suffocatin’, yit -no one thot to put up a winder, the excitemen’ -was so bad.</p> - -<p>“Sech words ez penultimate, concatenation, -pentateuch an’ silhouette come dead easy to them -teachers. They kep’ glarin’ at each other an’ -spellin’ like their life depended on it. Poor -Long’s voice got weaker an’ weaker givin’ out -words, an’ I was that nervous I could hairdly see. -They spelled all the <em>ations</em> an’ <em>entions</em>, all the -words endin’ in <em>i-s-m</em>, <em>d-l-e</em> an’ <em>ness</em>, tell it seemed -they’d use up the book. Perry was gittin’ more -excited. Jimson’s knees was tremblin’ visible.</p> - -<p>“Then Rorybory Allus was give out. You -could ’a’ heard a pin drop in that room. Jimson -he begin slow, ez ef it was dead easy: ‘<em>A-r-o-r-a</em>, -Aurora; <em>b-o-r</em>, Aurora Bor; <em>e-a-l-i-s</em>, Aurora -Borealis.’</p> - -<p>“A mumble went over the room. He seen he -was wrong an’ yelled, ‘<em>A-u</em>, I mean!’</p> - -<p>“‘Too late,’ sais Long. ‘Only one chancet at -a time. The gentleman who gits it right first, -wins.’</p> - -<p>“Jawhn was white ez a sheet, an’ his face an’ -han’s was twitchin’ ez he stood there glarin’ at -Perry. Muthersbaugh looked at the floor like he -was stedyin’. I seen Hannah Ciders lean for’a’d -an’ grip the desk with her han’s. Then I knowd -she’d made up her min’ which she favored.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p> - -<p>“He begin, ‘<em>A-u</em>, au; <em>r-o-r</em>, ror, Auror; <em>a</em>, Aurora; -<em>B-o-r-e</em>, bore, Aurora Bore; <em>a-l</em>, al, Aurora -Boreal—’ Then he stopped, an’ looked up at the -ceilin’, an’ stedied.</p> - -<p>“I seen tears in Hannah Ciders’ eyes ez she -leaned for’a’d, not breathin’. I seen Jimson grin, -an’ knowd he remembered he’d left out the <em>u</em> an’ -’ud spell it jest ez quick ez he got a chancet. I -believed Perry was goin’ to say <em>a</em>, that it was all -up with him an’ that Hannah Ciders knowd too -late who she favored.</p> - -<p>“All o’ a sudden the door flew open an’ they -was a cry: ‘Hoss thief! thieves! Some un’s run -off with Teacher Jimson’s sleigh.’</p> - -<p>“You uns never seen sech a panic. The weemen -jumped up an’ yelled. The men all piled outen -the door. Jawhn Jimson climbed th’oo the -winder, an’ Teacher Long dropped his spellin’ -book an’ followed. To my surprise Perry Muthersbaugh -never moved. He jest stood there -lookin’ at Hannah Ciders an’ smilin’ while she -gazed back. I was gittin’ outen the winder among -the last an’ turned to see ef Perry was ahint me—that’s -how I noticed it. Fer three minutes them -two stared at each other an’ I stared at them, not -knowin’ what to make of it. Meantime the room -was cleared. Outside we heard the sleigh-bells -ringin’ ez the boys started off after the thieves; -we heard Jawhn Jimson an’ Teacher Long callin’ -to ’em to go in this an’ that direction; we heard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -the weemen complainin’ because so many’d hev -to walk home.</p> - -<p>“Jest then the rear winder, right back o’ where -Perry was standin’, slid up an’ his young brother -Sam stuck in his head. He looked ’round, an’ -he seen the coast was clear. Then he whispered, -‘I give that ’larm in time,’ Perry, didn’t I? -Teacher Jimson’s horse is hitched right here ahint -the school-house, an’ you can take her home jest -ez soon ez the last o’ these fools gits away.’</p> - -<p>“Perry wheeled round an’ run at the youngster, -ketchin’ him be the collar an’ draggin’ him -inter the room.</p> - -<p>“‘What you mean,’ sais he, shakin’ him like a -rat. ‘What you mean be spoilin’ the bee?’</p> - -<p>“Sam begin to yowl. ‘I seen ye was stuck,’ he -sais, ‘an’ I thot I’d help ye out.’</p> - -<p>“With that Perry th’owed his brother off into a -corner o’ the room. Then he stood up straight -an’ looked Hannah Ciders right in the eye.</p> - -<p>“‘He thot I was stuck,’ he sayd, steppin’ off -the platform an’ walkin’ up to the girl. ‘But -I ain’t. The last syllable’s <em>e-a-l-a-s</em>!</p> - -<p>“‘No,’ she answers quiet like. ‘It’s <em>e-a-l-i-s</em>—but -that ain’t no difference.’”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Absalom Bunkel.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The Patriarch flattened his nose against the -grimy windowpane and peered out into the -storm.</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls!” he cried. “Jest look at it a-comin’ -down! Hed I a-knowd we was goin’ to -hev it like this, you’d ’a’ seen me a-leavin’ home—you’d -’a’ seen me a-leavin’ home.”</p> - -<p>The old man thoughtfully stroked his beard. -He felt that he had met but just retribution for -coming to the store to loaf. When an hour before -he had awakened from a doze in his arm-chair, -picked up his stick and hobbled to the village, the -sky was clear and blue; not a cloud was visible -anywhere, and the sun was blazing down on the -fields of yellow grain that he overlooked from the -porch of his little house on the hill. But the -storm had been gathering its force unseen behind -the neighboring mountains, piling black cloud on -black cloud. And then, like an army charging on -a sleeping enemy, it swept forth from its hiding-place,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -amid the flash of lightning and the crash of -thunder, and deluged the valley.</p> - -<p>“My, oh, my!” muttered the old man. “It -serves me right. I ought to ’a’ knowd better. -’Henever I runs down here fer a minute’s loaf, it -rains; never a team comes ’long to give me a lift -home, an’ I hes to paddle back in me leaky ole -boots.”</p> - -<p>He hobbled to his chair by the empty stove, -about which were gathered the men of the village, -despite the fact that no fire blazed within and the -cold weather was far ahead.</p> - -<p>“I hope the company ain’t displeasin’,” drawled -the Chronic Loafer. He knocked the ashes out -of his pipe, refilled and lighted it, and sprawled -out upon the counter.</p> - -<p>“Not at all—at all. It’s the loafin’ I hate. I -never could loaf jest right,” replied the Patriarch, -glancing at the prostrate form.</p> - -<p>The Loafer gave no answer save a faint “Huh!”</p> - -<p>“Jest because a felly sets ’round the stove -hain’t no sign he’s lazy, Grandpap,” said the -Miller with warmth.</p> - -<p>“Fur be it from me from sayin’ so, boys—fur -be it,” said the old man. “But ez I was sayin’ a -while ago, I don’t want to git inter no sech habits -ez Absalom Bunkel.”</p> - -<p>“Ab’slom Bunkel—Bunkel—Bunkel?” repeated -the Tinsmith, punctuating his remark with puffs -of tobacco smoke.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Bunkel—Bunkel?” said the Storekeeper inquiringly, -tapping the end of his nose with his -pencil.</p> - -<p>“Who’s Abs’lom Bunkel?” the Loafer cried.</p> - -<p>“Absalom Bunkel was a man ez was nat’rally -so lazy it was a credit to him every time he moved,” -the Patriarch began. He fixed his stick firmly on -the floor, piled his two fat hands on its big knob -head, and leaned forward until his chin almost -rested on his knuckles. “You uns knows the old -lawg house that stands where the Big Run crosses -the road over the mo’ntain. It’s all tumbled down -now. They ain’t no daubin’ atween the lawgs; -the chimbley’s fallen, the fence is gone, an’ the -lot’s choked up with weeds. It’s a forlorn place -to-day, but ’hen I was a lad it was jest about the -slickest thing along the ridge yander. That’s -where Absalom Bunkel lived, an’ his pap, an’ his -pap’s pap lived afore him. Ezry Bunkel was a -mean man, an’ he come nat’ral by his meanness, -fer they never was one o’ the name who was -knowed to buy anything he could borry or give -away anything he could sell. So ’hen he died he -left Absalom a neat little pile o’ about nine hundred -dollars. An’ a fortunate thing it was fer the -son, fer he’d ruther by fur set on the porch with the -pangs o’hunger gnawin’ th’oo him, a-listenin’ to -the birds an’ watchin’ the bees a-hummin’ over -the sunflowers, than to ’a’ worked.</p> - -<p>“Now Absalom was afore my time, an’ I never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -seen him myself, but I’ve heard tell of him from -my pap, an’ what my pap sayd was allus true—true -ez gawspel it was. He otter ’a’ knowd all -about it, too, fer he was a pall-bearer at Ezry’s -funeral. Absalom was thirty-five year old ’hen -that happened. He didn’t go off spendin’ his fortune—not -much. He jest set right down in a -rockin’ chair on the front porch an’ let his sister -Nancy look after the place. Nance done the -farmin’; Nance made the garden; Nance milked -the cow; Nance done the housework an’ come to -the store. He done nawthin’—absolute nawthin’.</p> - -<p>“He was never out o’ bed afore sun-up. Ef -it was warm he’d set on the leetle porch all day -lookin’ over the walley, watchin’ the folks goin’ -by an’ the birds swoopin’ th’oo the fiel’s, an’ -listenin’ to the dreamy hum o’ nature. Ef it was -cold he’d loaf all day be the fireplace, bakin’ his -shins. Sometim’s Nance ’ud go away fer a spell -an’ fergit to leave him wood. Does he cut some -fer himself like an ordinary man? Not him. He -jest walks to the nearest possible fence-rail, kerrys -it inter the house, puts one eend inter the fire -an’ keeps pushin’ een ez it burns off. That’s the -kind o’ a felly Absalom Bunkel was.</p> - -<p>“Now it happened that ’hen he’d been livin’ -this way tell his forty-fifth year ole Andy Crimmel -tuk a placet about a miled beyant his. One -nice afternoon ez Absalom set a-dozin’ on the -porch, Andy’s dotter, Annie May, come trippin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -down the road on her way to the store, lookin’ -pretty ez a pictur in her red sunbonnet, swingin’ -a basket an’ singin’ a melancholy piece. Absalom -woke with a start an’ rubbed his heavy eyes. -He got sight of her pink cheeks afore she ducked -under her bonnet, fer ’hen she seen him she -sudden stopped her singin’ an’ walked by a-lookin’ -over the walley. That one glance done Absalom -Bunkel. He stayed awake tell she come back.</p> - -<p>“That night he didn’t eat no supper.</p> - -<p>“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister, ‘how fur is it -to Crimmel’s?’</p> - -<p>“‘Nigh onter a miled,’ sais she.</p> - -<p>“An’ he jest groaned, drawed his boots, tuk a -candle an’ went up to bed.</p> - -<p>“Twicet a week all that summer Annie May -Crimmel come a-singin’ down the road. An’ -Absalom, dozin’ on the porch, ’ud hear her voice -tell she’d reach the edge o’ the woods. There -she’d stop her song an’ go ploddin’ by, gazin’ -over the walley like he wasn’t about or wasn’t -wuth lookin’ at. Absalom kept gittin’ fatter an’ -fatter from doin’ nawthin’, an’ it seemed to him -like Annie May Crimmel was prettier every time -she went to store. He was onrastless. He was -onhappy. He knowd what was wrong, an’ he -seen no cure, fer to him that girl walkin’ ’long -the road not twenty rods from his house was like -a bit o’ bread danglin’ jest beyant the reach o’ a -starvin’ man.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Perhaps you uns wonders why he didn’t go -down an’ speak to her. That wasn’t Absalom’s -way. He might ’a’ walked that fur to git warm. -But to speak to a girl? Never.</p> - -<p>“Oncet he called to her, but she paid no attention, -an’ hung her head bashful like, an’ walked -on the faster.</p> - -<p>“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister that night at -supper, ‘I’ve kind o’ a notion fer Annie May -Crimmel,’ he sais.</p> - -<p>“‘Hev you?’ sais she, lookin’ surprised, tho’ -of course she knowd it an’ fer weeks hed ben -wonderin’ what ’ud become o’ her.</p> - -<p>“‘An’ mebbe,’ sais he, ‘you wouldn’t mind -steppin’ over there to-morrow an’ tellin’ her.’</p> - -<p>“‘Umph,’ she sais, perkin’ up her nose. ‘You’ll -see me a-gaddin’ round the walley settin’ up with -the girls fer you!’</p> - -<p>“He set thinkin’ a spell. Then he sais, trem’lous -like, ‘Nance, how fur is it to Crimmel’s?’</p> - -<p>“‘A miled to an inch,’ sais she.</p> - -<p>“He jest groaned an’ went off to bed agin.</p> - -<p>“They say that next day toward evenin’ Absalom -was seen to rise from his chair; to hesitate; -to set down; to get up agin an’ move toward the -road. He got to the gate, pushed it half open, -an’ leaned on it. Tell sunset he stood there, -gazin’ wistful like toward Crimmel’s placet. Then -Nance called him in fer supper.</p> - -<p>“Winter drove the lazy felly inter the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> -All day long he’d set be the windy watchin’ fer -Annie May; an’ ez she passed he’d smile soft-like; -’hen she was gone he’d look solemn agin. -An’ all the time he kep’ gittin’ fatter an’ fatter, -an’ more an’ more onrastless.</p> - -<p>“Winter broke an’ March went by. Apryl first -was a fine warm day, so Absalom took his chair -out on the porch an’ set there lookin’ down the -ridge into the walley, where the men was a-plow-in’. -All at oncet he heard a creakin’ o’ wheels -an’ a rattle o’ gears that caused him to turn his -eyes up the road. Outen the woods come a -wagon piled high with furnitur’. It was a flittin’, -the Crimmel’s flittin’, ez he knowd ’hen he seen -Andy drivin’ an’ the Missus an’ Annie May -ridin’ on the horses. Bunkel was stunned—clean -stunned. The flittin’ went creakin’ past the house, -him jest settin’ there starin’. He knowd what it -meant to him. He knowd it was fer him jest the -same ez the death of Annie May, but he couldn’t -do nawthin’. The wagon swung ’round the bend -an’ was out o’ sight.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen Absalom seen the last o’ the red bonnet -flashin’ in the sun, he th’owed his hands to his -head like they was a pain there. Sudden he -jumped from his chair an’ run toward the road -yellin’, ‘Hey! hey! Annie May!’</p> - -<p>“He tore th’oo the gate, down the hill, an’ -’round the turn. They was in sight agin.</p> - -<p>“‘Annie May!’ he called, ‘Annie May!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> - -<p>“The wagon stopped. The girl climbed offen -the horse an’ run toward him, stretchin’ out her -hands an’ cryin’, ‘Absalom, Absalom!’</p> - -<p>“‘Hen he seen her comin’ he set right down in -the road to wait fer her. Her arms fell to her -side, an’ she stopped.</p> - -<p>“‘Annie May,’ he called, ‘come here. I’ve -somethin’ to tell yer.’</p> - -<p>“She turned an’ walked with hangin’ head back -to the wagon. She climbed on her horse, an’ a -minute later the flittin’ disappeared in the hollow -at the foot o’ the ridge.”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch arose from his chair, walked -slowly to the door and stood there looking out -into the rain. The men about the stove gazed in -astonished silence at his back.</p> - -<p>The Miller spoke first. “Well, Grandpap?”</p> - -<p>“Well?” said the old man, wheeling about.</p> - -<p>“What happened?”</p> - -<p>“Who sayd anything was a-goin’ to happen?” -snapped the Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“What become o’ Absalom?” asked the Storekeeper -timidly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he died o’ over-exertin’,” said the Chronic -Loafer, wearily, as he threw himself back on the -counter.</p> - -<p>The Patriarch gave no heed to this remark, but -raising his right hand and emphasizing each word -with a solemn wag of the forefinger, said, “Boys, -I don’t know what happened. Pap never sayd.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -But now, ’henever I thinks o’ a lazy man, I picturs -Absalom Bunkel, settin’ there in the road, -his fat legs stretched out afore him, his fat arms -proppin’ up that unwieldy body o’ hisn, his eyes -an’ his ears a-strainin’ to see an’ hear th’oo the -darkness that gathered ’round him what he -might ’a’ seen an’ heard allus hed he only hed the -ambition to ’a’ gone a few steps furder.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Missus.</i></span></h2> - -<p>“A man without a missus is like an engyne -without a governor—he either goes too slow or -too fast,” said the Chronic Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls!” cried the Miller. “What in -the name o’ common sense put that idee into yer -head?”</p> - -<p>“It was planted there be accident, cultiwated -be experience, an’ to-day it jest blossomed,” was -the reply.</p> - -<p>The Loafer had come in from a morning on the -ridges hunting rabbits. His old muzzle loader -leaned against the counter and his hound Tiger -was sitting at his side, his head resting on the -master’s knee and his solitary eye watching every -movement of the thin, grizzled face, which was -almost hidden by a blue cloth cap, with a low -hanging visor, and ear-tabs. The Loafer removed -the tabs and stuffed them into his pocket. Then -he laid his hand on his dog’s head and stroked it.</p> - -<p>The ticking of the clock, which had a place on -a shelf between two jars of stick-candy, accentuated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -the long silence that followed. Tiger seemed -to feel that the hush boded ill to his lord, and -cocked one ear and uttered a low growl.</p> - -<p>The Teacher pointed his forefinger at the -Loafer and said, “I judge that you intended to -imply that havin’ a governor you run regular. -Some engines, you know, run regular but very -slow.”</p> - -<p>“An’ some runs wery fast,” was the retort. -“An’ they buzzes pretty loud ’thout doin’ a tremendous -amount o’ labor.”</p> - -<p>“Now you’re gettin’ personal and——”</p> - -<p>“Boys, boys!” The Patriarch was rapping for -order. “Don’t git quarrelin’ over the question -of engynes. Fer my part the plain ole waterwheel -beats ’em holly.”</p> - -<p>The Miller tilted over on his nail keg and -tapped the Loafer on the elbow.</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” he said. “Where did ye git that -idee? It sounds almanacky.”</p> - -<p>“That idee was ginirated this mornin’ ez me -an’ Tige was roamin’ ’round Gum hill tryin’ to -start a rabbit. They bein’ no rabbits, me an’ -Tige set down an’ gunned for idees. It was -peaceful an’ nice there on the ridge. The woods -hed the reg’lar cheery November rattle, like a -dried up, jolly ole man. The wind was a-shakin’ -the dead leaves, an’ they was a-chipperin’ an’ -chirpin’. The pignuts was jumpin’ from the -limbs, sloshin’ th’oo the branches an’ tumblin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -’round the ground. Overhead a couple of crows -was a-floppin’ about an’ whoopin’ like a lot of -boys on skates, fer the air was bitin’ like, an’ put -life in ye.</p> - -<p>“Ez I set there on a lawg I minded a felly I -oncet heard up to liter’ry society, who read a -piecet ’bout how the year was dyin’ fer autumn -was at hand. I noticed Tige ez he was rollin’ -’round chasin’ pignuts, an’ I sais to meself, sais I: -‘Dyin’? Why, no. It’s only in its second chil’hood.’ -An’ I looked down the hill into the gut -an’ seen the smoke curlin’ up th’oo the trees in -the ole Horner clearin’. That’s where I got the -Missus. Then it was that that idee ’bout engynes -an’ weemen blossomed.</p> - -<p>“Before the first time I ever seen that clearin’ I -kind o’ lived in jerks. Sometimes I’d run hard -an’ fast, an’ ’ud make a heap o’ noise, an’ smash -all the machinery. Then I’d hev to lay off a -month or so to git patched up agin. My pap -was a cute man. He seen right th’oo me an’ he -knowd what was wrong. ‘What you need is a -governor,’ sayd he. An’ I got one. Sence then -I’ve ben runnin’ smooth an’ reg’lar an’ not wery -fast. But I hain’t broke no machinery, an’ I’ve -never stopped entirely.</p> - -<p>“Now it went pretty hard with Pap after -Mother died, fer he never did like housework an’ -was continual beggin’ me to git merried. He -was a-naggin’ an’ naggin’ all the time, petickler<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -’hen he was washin’ dishes. He’d p’int out certain -girls in the walley that he thot ’ud hev me, -an’ he’d argy that I otter step up like a leetle -man an’ speak me mind to ’em. He even went -so fur as to ’low he’d give me the whole placet -ef unly I’d git some un to take the housework -offen his hands. First it was Mary Potzer. She -hed five hundred dollars an’ was a special good -match, but her looks was agin her. She was -Omish, an’ like most Omish folk was square built, -’cept fer bein’ rounded off a leetle on top. The -ole man wouldn’t give me no peace tell I ast her. -I didn’t dast do that, but I tol’ him I hed, an’ that -she sayd she ’ud take me ef he kep’ on doin’ the -cookin’. That kind o’ quieted him fer a spell, an’ -some months passed afore he tuk up the subject -agin. Next he got to backin’ Rosey Simpson. -She was tolable good-lookin’ an’ lively, he sayd, -an’ I ’lowed he was right, unly she was too lively -fer me. I minded the time I seen her sail inter -Bumbletree’s Durham bull ’hen he’d butted a -petickler pet sheep o’ hers. She made the ole -beast feel so humble that I concided she might -do fer a defender but never fer a wife. Next it -was Sue Kindler an’ then Sairy Somthin’-else, -tell I was clean tired o’ the whole idee.</p> - -<p>“One night ’hen he’d ben pesterin’ me most -mighty bad I gits mad an’ sais, ‘See here, I ain’t -courtin’ trouble. I’m comf’table an’ happy ez I -am,’ I sais. ‘I’ve got you an’ Major—Major was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -the dog—so why do I want to go settin’ a trap -’hen I can’t be sure what I’m goin’ to catch?’</p> - -<p>“‘My boy,’ Pap answered, ‘use the proper bait -an’ you’ll git the right game.’</p> - -<p>“Now Pap use to git off some good uns oncet -in a while, but I wasn’t in fer givin’ him the -credit. I scatted the whole plan. I didn’t know -so much then ez I knows now. Still, sometim’s I -’low that ef it hedn’t ’a’ ben fer Major, I might o’ -dissypinted the ole man anyhow. Major was a -coon dog, an’ a mighty fine one, bein’ half setter, -quarter houn’, an’ last quarter coach. Me an’ -him was great buddies. Wherever we went he -allus hed an’ eye out fer game. He knowd the -seasons, too. Ef it was September he was watchin’ -fer squirrels; October, fer patridges; November, -rabbits; springtime, girls. It was in the spring -’hen I happened to hear Si Bumbletree speakin’ -o’ a petickler fine lot o’ saplin’s fer walkin’ sticks -that was growin’ on the chestnut flats at the foot -o’ the mo’ntain jest above Andy Horner’s clearin’. -So I sais to meself, I sais, it bein’ a fine warm -day, I’ll jest mosey up there an’ git me one o’ -them staffs. It was a good th’ee mile up the -walley an’ over the ridge an’ acrosst the gut, but -I found the placet all right an’ cut me a nice -straight cane. I was comin’ home, peelin’ off the -bark an’ not thinkin’ o’ anything in petickler, ’hen -I hear Major givin’ a low growl. I looked up. -We was passin’ Horner’s clearin’. There stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -the dog, foreleg lifted, tail straight out, nose -pintin’ th’oo the blackberry bushes ’long the -fence.</p> - -<p>“‘There is somethin’ pretty important,’ I sais -to meself.</p> - -<p>“An’ with that I walks up to the hedge an’ -peeks over.</p> - -<p>“Settin’ on the groun’, weedin’ the onion-patch, -was the prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on. She -looked up from een under her sunbonnet outen a -pair o’ sparklin’ blue eyes, an’ showed two rosy -cheeks with a perk leetle nose atween ’em. Major -he hed ducked th’oo a hole in the fence an’ come -out on the other side, an’ was standin’ solemn-like, -lookin’ at her. All o’ a sudden he begin jumpin’ -up an’ down, first on his front legs an’ then on his -hint legs, archin’ his neck, waggin’ his tail, an’ -showin’ his teeth like he was smilin’ all over.</p> - -<p>“‘That’s a nice dog you hev,’ sais the girl, kind -o’ musical. She had stopped her weedin’ an’ was -settin’ up lookin’ at the houn’.</p> - -<p>“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘he is a tolable nice animal.’</p> - -<p>“Then I thinks to meself, ‘Major seems to like -her; I wonder how she’d suit Pap.’</p> - -<p>“Soon ez that come into me mind I seen it was -time I got out. I turned an’ walked down the -road harder than I’d ever walked afore.</p> - -<p>“That night I couldn’t eat no supper. I’d -never felt that same way an’ it worrit me. I knowd -no cause fer it, yit I kind o’ thot I didn’t keer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -whether I lived or died. It worrit Pap too. He -’lowed he’d hev to powwow me.</p> - -<p>“‘How are ye goin’ to powwow me,’ sais I, ‘’hen -ye don’t know what I’m sufferin’ from? What I’ve -got ain’t nawthin’, yit I wish it was somethin’ jest -to take me mind offen it.’</p> - -<p>“That was ez near ez I could git to the disease. -Pap leaned back in his cheer an’ laughed like he’d -die. ’Hen he’d finished splittin’ his sides he come -over to where I was settin’ be the fire.</p> - -<p>“‘What you needs,’ sais he, ‘is to go out an’ -look at the moon.’</p> - -<p>“Before that I’d never thot o’ the moon ’cept -ez a kind o’ lantern to hunt coons by. But ’hen -I tuk his adwice, an’ lit me pipe, an’ went out an’ -set on the pump trough, watchin’ the ole felly -come climbin’ over the ridges, all yeller an’ smilin’ -an’ friendly, I seen he hed a new uset. Whatever -it was I’d ben sufferin’ from kind o’ passed away -an’ left me ca’m an’ peaceful. Me brain seemed -like a pool o’ wotter in a wood, all still-like, ’cept -fer a few ripples o’ idees on the surface. How -long I set there I don’t know. I might ’a’ -ben there all night hed the ole man not called -me een.</p> - -<p>“The first thing I seen ez I went into the house, -was Major crouchin’ be the fire watchin’ it wery -intent. His supper lay beside him. Not a bone -hed ben teched.</p> - -<p>“‘Whatever it is,’ sais I, ‘it’s ketchin’.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> - -<p>“They was nawthin’ doin’ ’round the house -next day after breakfast, so I minded that Pap -hedn’t a walkin’-stick. I concided I’d mosey up -to the chestnut flats an’ cut me a staff fer the ole -man. Major went along, an’ we got a petickler -nice piece o’ kinnykinnick wood. On the road -home we happened to pass be Horner’s clearin’. -Ez we was opposite the house I heard some un -a-choppin’ an’ seen the chips flyin’ up over the -hedge. Feelin’ kind o’ thirsty I stopped een to -git a drink o’ wotter. There she was a-splittin’ -firewood. ’Hen I explained, she pinted out the -spring an’ went on with her work. Ye might ’a’ -s’posed we was unly two coon dogs hed dropped -een fer a call, she was so cool. But I wasn’t fer -goin’ tell I’d at least passed the time a day, so I -fixed meself on a block o’ oak with Major beside -me.</p> - -<p>“‘What are ye doin’?’ I asts, be way o’ openin’ -up.</p> - -<p>“‘It doesn’t look like ez tho’ I was knittin’, -does it?’ she sais kind o’ sharp.</p> - -<p>“With that she drove the axe th’oo a stick o’ -hickory ez big ’round ez my body. It was all I -could git outen her. So me an’ Major jest set -there watchin’ quiet-like. It was amazin’ the way -she could chop wood—amazin’—an’ I enjoyed it -most a mighty well. The axe ’ud swish th’oo the -air over her head; down it ’ud come on the lawg, -straight an’ true; out ’ud fly a th’ee-cornered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -chip ez neat ez ef it hed ben sawed. She never -looked one way nor the other, nor paid no attention, -but kep’ a-pilin’ up firewood tell they was -enough to last a week. Then she stuck the axe -in the choppin’ block and walked inter the house. -Me an’ Major moved on.</p> - -<p>“That night I couldn’t git no sleep. The ole -trouble come on agin, an’ I went out an’ looked -at the moon tell final I dozed off in the pump-trough. -’Hen I woke next mornin’ I knowd what -was wrong. I knowd that what I hed was somethin’ -I’d be better without, yit hed I to do it over -agin I wouldn’t hev awoided it. I knowd I could -cut all the saplin’s offen the chestnut flats an’ I -wouldn’t git no ease. ’Hen I went over the ridge -that day I didn’t try to fool meself cuttin’ staffs. -No sir. I walked straight fer the clearin’. Ez I -come near the house I whistled pretty loud to -give warnin’. At the gate I looked een. No one -was ’round. I thot to meself she was in the house, -so I whistled louder. Major seemed to understand -too, an’ begin barkin’ to beat all. But it -hedn’t no effect. That kind o’ made me feel -down like an’ me heart weighed wery heavy ez I -set on the stoop to wait fer her. All o’ a sudden -I hear a rat-tat-tat comin’ from the barn. There -she was on the roof, a-nailin’ shingles. I walked -down an’ looked up at her.</p> - -<p>“‘Hello!’ I calls.</p> - -<p>“‘Hello!’ sais she. With that she drove five<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -shingle nails one after another, never payin’ no -attention.</p> - -<p>“‘What are ye doin’?’ I asts ez I fixed meself -on a chicken-coop an’ lighted me pipe. It’s -pretty hard talkin’ to a girl ’hen she’s mendin’ a -barn roof, an’ ez I didn’t git no answer I stood up -an’ yelled at the top o’ me woice, ‘What are ye -doin’?’</p> - -<p>“‘Well,’ sais she, ‘I s’pose it does look ez tho’ -I’m playin’ the melodium, don’t it?’</p> - -<p>“She wasn’t in a wery sociable turn o’ mind, -but I’m one o’ those felly’s that oncet he gits his -plow in the furrow don’t pull it out tell he has at -least gone oncet ’round the field. So I jest set -there smokin’ while she kep’ on workin’. By an’ -by the dinner-bells over in the walley begin to -ring, an’ she come down. She never sayd a word -’hen she reached the ground, but I wasn’t to be -put back that ’ay. I steps up wery polite an’ gits -her hammer an’ kerrys it inter the house fer her. -Weemen allus likes them leetle attentions. She -did any way, fer she smiled, an’ ’hen I ’lowed I -must be goin’, she sayd good-by. An’ I went.</p> - -<p>“That night ez I set on the pump-trough with -Major beside me, watchin’ the moon ez it come -climbin’ up over the ridges, I hear plain an’ -distinct the rat-tat-tat o’ the hammer an’ the -shingle nails. I leaned back agin the pump, -closed me eyes an’ drank in the music. Soon I -seen it all agin—the barnyard with the razor-back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -pig an’ the broken-horned cow browsin’ ’round; -the barn, so ole an’ tumble-down that the hay was -stickin’ out all over it like it growed on the boards; -the roof, half a dozen pigeons cooin’ on one end, -an’ her on the other tackin’ away. What a pictur -it ’ud made fer a reg’lar hand-paintin’!</p> - -<p>“After breakfast Pap lighted his pipe, leaned -back in his cheer an’ asted me, ‘How’s that ailment -o’ yours gittin’ now?’</p> - -<p>“‘Ailment?’ sais I, cool ez ye please. ‘Why, -I found it didn’t amount to nawthin’. It’s all -gone.’</p> - -<p>“Pap smoked a bit. He was blinkin’ like -somethin’ amused him powerful.</p> - -<p>“‘By the way,’ he sais, ‘I was up past Horner’s -clearin’ yestidy an’ I seen that humly dotter o’ -Andy’s a——’</p> - -<p>“It was so quick an’ sudden, I forgot meself. -Never afore hed I felt so peculiarly, so almighty -mad.</p> - -<p>“‘See here,’ I cries, jumpin’ up an’ liftin’ me -cheer, ‘don’t you dast talk o’ Andy Horner’s -dotter that ’ay,’ I sais. ‘Ef ye do——’</p> - -<p>“I stopped, fer he’d leaned back, an’ was lookin’ -at the ceilin’ an’ laughin’ an’ laughin’.</p> - -<p>“‘I thot ye hedn’t no ailment,’ he sais.</p> - -<p>“Be the twinkle in his eye I seen how he’d -fooled me, an’ I set down feelin’ smaller than a -bunty hen.</p> - -<p>“‘Ye see,’ sais he, ‘I was comin’ th’oo the flats<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -this mornin’ after I’d ben fishin’ trout up in the -big run, an’ ez I passed Horner’s I noticed a most -remarkable sight. There was Pet Horner a-nailin’ -shingles on the barn roof while a strange man set -on a chicken-coop smokin’. I sais to meself, I -sais, ‘Ef that’s the way he gits a missus, I’ll do -the housework tell me dyin’ day.’</p> - -<p>“The ole man wasn’t laughin’ now. He was -on a subject that was wery dear to him. His -woice was husky with earnestness.</p> - -<p>“‘Why don’t ye spruce up?’ he sais. ‘Can’t -ye chop wood fer her, or churn fer her, or pick -some stone offen the clearin’ fer her? Unly do -somethin’ to show her ye ain’t the laziest man in -the walley. Show her your right side.’</p> - -<p>“‘Pap,’ sais I, ‘’hen my Missus takes me I -wants her to know me jest ez I am, not as I otter -be. Ef there’s any lettin’ on afore the weddin’ -there’ll be no lettin’ up after it.’</p> - -<p>“With that I gits up an’ walks outen the -house, whistlin’ fer Major.</p> - -<p>“Him an’ me went up to Horner’s together. -We found her churnin’, an’ set down in the grass -an’ watched. Ez I watched I got to thinkin’ -over what the ole man hed sayd. I seen that -perhaps he was right; that I’d git her quicker -ef I worked harder. The pictur of gittin’ her -quicker almost made me git up an’ do the -churnin’. But I thot agin. Ef I churned now -I’d hev to churn allus or else I’d be cheatin’ her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -Ef she knowd she was takin’ a man who was agin -the wery suggestion’ she’d never hev no cause to -complain. So I jest lay there chewin’ a straw an’ -lookin’.</p> - -<p>“That’s the way I done me courtin’ day after -day all that summer. It was slow. Mighty, but -it was slow! Sometim’s I got discouraged an’ -thot the eend was never comin’ an’ I’d better -give up. Then she’d drop a word or a look or -somethin’ that kind o’ kep’ me hangin’ on. It -seemed like she was gittin’ used to me. We seldom -sayd anything, fer she was a thinkin’ woman. -Fer me, I remembered how Pap allus allowed it -was less dangerous fer a man to put a boy in -charge o’ his saw-mill than to let his heart run his -tongue. So I set an’ sayd nawthin’, but looked -a heap.</p> - -<p>“It was October ’hen I concided I’d make a -trial, fer even ef nawthin’ come of it no petickler -harm ’ud be done. So I ast her. She jest -th’owed back her head, folded her arms an’ -looked at me.</p> - -<p>“‘Well?’ I sais.</p> - -<p>“She looked a leetle harder an’ a leetle sterner. -Her eyes kind o’ snapped.</p> - -<p>“‘Well?’ I sais agin.</p> - -<p>“‘I hevn’t no petickler dislike,’ sais she, ‘but -ye ain’t my idee of a man. A man should move -sometim’s.’</p> - -<p>“‘Pet,’ I sais, ‘I know I ain’t much on leetle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -things, but wait tell they’s big things to do. -Then I’ll startle ye!’</p> - -<p>“I turned an’ walked out o’ the gate an’ ’long -the road toward home.</p> - -<p>“She didn’t hev to wait long. That wery night -ez I set on the porch, I seen a big snake o’ fire -come pokin’ his head over the mo’ntain top to -the north’ard of us. Fer a time he laid ’round in -the huckleberry shelf there, rollin’ an’ floppin’ -about the bushes, like he was takin’ in the walley -an’ wonderin’ what was the easiest way down the -side to the chestnut flats where they was big piles -o’ leaves, laurel bushes dry ez chips, an’ hundreds -o’ dead trees, all waitin’ to be devoured. Mighty -fine the ole snake looked, an’ a heap o’ pleasure -it give me watchin’ him.</p> - -<p>“The thin line o’ fire begin to spread ez it adwanced, -an’ soon the whole side o’ the mo’ntain -was ablaze. It was jest a solid bed o’ red. Now -an’ then the flames ’ud jump to the top o’ some -ole pine, the tree ’ud beat wild like, to an’ fro, -tryin’ to shake ’em off, an’ showers o’ sparks ’ud -go whirlin’ away inter the sky.</p> - -<p>“‘Mighty souls!’ I sais to meself. ‘It’s jest -like a monstrous big band festival ’hen all the -boys is out with torches an’ they hes a bonfire -an’ fireworks an’ music.’</p> - -<p>“Music? I hear agin the rat-tat-tat o’ the -hammer an’ the shingle nails; an’ I thot o’ her.</p> - -<p>“The fire hed reached the flats. It was movin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -right on the clearin’ where she was all alone, fer -Andy was workin’ in the saw-mill in Windy Gap.</p> - -<p>“You uns otter seen me an’ Major skippin’ up -the lane then. They was no loafin’ about it. -Never oncet did we stop tell we reached the ridge. -There we left the road an’ cut th’oo the fiel’s. -Soon we was over them an’ in the woods. We -stumbled on an’ on, tumblin’ over lawgs an’ -stones, an’ fallin’ inter bushes tell we reached -the top o’ the hill an’ looked right down inter -the gut.</p> - -<p>“There we stopped, fer we was spelled like—me -an’ Major—an’ jest stood an’ stared. The -smoke filled the whole leetle walley. Th’oo it -we could see the glare o’ the burnin’ chestnut -flats. Big tongues o’ flame was shootin’ up an’ -lickin’ ’round in the air. We could hear the -snappin’ an’ crashin’ o’ the trees. We could -hear the scream o’ the wild cats ez they was -tearin’ fer the open country. A coon run right -inter Major, an’ scampered away agin, snarlin’, -but the hound never oncet lifted his eyes offen -the gut. A loud snortin’ startled me, an’ a -razor-backed pig come gallopin’ over the hill. -Then they was a bellerin’ an’ a crashin’ o’ bushes, -below us. The broken-horned cow run pantin’ -up the ridge, an’ by us an’ on th’oo the woods. -’Hen me an Major seen her we jumped for’a’d -together an’ tore down th’oo the blindin’ smoke -to the clearin’.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> - -<p>“She was standin’ in the doorway, her head -buried in her apron, cryin’ like her heart ’ud break. -The minute I set eyes on her I forgot all about -the fire an’ thot unly o’ her. I jest stood there -awkward an’ looked at the girl, fer I was spelled -agin, unly worse.</p> - -<p>“‘Pet,’ I sais, after a bit, ‘what’s wrong?’</p> - -<p>“‘Wrong,’ she cries th’oo her apron. ‘They’s -all gone—the cow, the pig, the chickens—gone -fer the walley. Soon the clearin’ ’ll go too.’</p> - -<p>“With that she raised her hand an’ pinted -th’oo the woods, over the flats to the solid wall -o’ fire.</p> - -<p>“Then I laughed. An’ I hed the right to -laugh, fer ez I looked at them flames dartin’ -among the trees it seemed like they was the best -friends I ever had.</p> - -<p>“‘It’s mean to cheat sech good fellers out o’ -sech a nice clearin’,’ I sais to meself ez I run along -the wood road puttin’ the torch to the dry leaves. -‘It’s mean, but I can’t spend the rest o’ me life -settin’ on the pump-trough watchin’ the moon.’</p> - -<p>“An’ cheat ’em I did. The leaves an’ the -under-brush cot like powder, an’ the counter-fire -went runnin’ over the flats towards the mo’ntain -to tell the ole fire snakes that it wasn’t no uset to -try to git to the clearin’ fer they was no path to -it ’cept over ashes.</p> - -<p>“We stood there in the wood-road watchin’ it—Pet -on one side, then Major, then me. Fer a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -long time we sayd nawthin’, tell I couldn’t stand -it no more.</p> - -<p>“‘Pet,’ sais I, wery abrupt, ‘do you think now -I’m so awful slow?’</p> - -<p>“‘It ain’t them ez runs fastest allus goes the -straightest an’ truest,’ she answers.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t wery much to say. Any girl might -’a’ done jest the same thing. But from the way -she looked, I knowd I’d got my Missus.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Awfullest Thing.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer sat upon the anvil. A -leather apron was tied about his neck, and behind -him stood the Blacksmith, nipping at his great -shock of hair with a tiny pair of scissors. He -was facing the Tinsmith and the Miller, who had -climbed up on the carpenter bench, and by -twisting his neck at the risk of his balance, he -could see the tall, thin man standing by the mule -which the helper was shoeing. The stranger had -hair that reached to his shoulders, a clean-shaven -upper lip, a long beard and a benign aspect that -denoted him a Dunkard. He had been telling a -few stories of the recent events in Raccoon Valley, -whence he hailed.</p> - -<p>“So it ain’t sech a slow-goin’, out-o’-the-way -placet ez you unsez think—still,” he said.</p> - -<p>The Blacksmith thoughtfully turned to address -him.</p> - -<p>“Well, stranger——”</p> - -<p>“Ow—ow!” cried the Loafer. “Is you a -barber or a butcher?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Sights!” exclaimed the worthy smith. “Now -that was a jag I give ye, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>He resumed his task with redoubled vigor. -The Loafer closed his eyes and commenced to -sputter.</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls! Go easy. Are you tryin’ to -choke me?”</p> - -<p>“Sights!” said the other in apologetic tones, -“I didn’t notice. Now I did come near chokin’ -ye, didn’t I? I was interested in Raccoon Walley.”</p> - -<p>Then he began to clip very slowly.</p> - -<p>The Loafer opened one eye cautiously and fixed -it on the stranger.</p> - -<p>“What was that awful thing I heard ye tellin’ -’bout snakes, jest afore I was smothered under -that last hay-load o’ hair?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hoop-snakes,” replied the Dunkard. He -paused from his work of brushing the flies from -the mule’s legs with a horse-tail. “We hev plenty -o’ them ’round our placet. They don’t trouble -no one tho’ tell ye bother them. Then they’re -awful.”</p> - -<p>He turned his attention to the beast’s hoofs and -began sweeping them. A smile was lurking about -the corners of his mouth.</p> - -<p>“Did ye ever run agin any o’ these hoop——”</p> - -<p>The Blacksmith’s query was cut short by a loud -“Ouch!”</p> - -<p>“See here,” said the Loafer with emphasis.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -“Either he’ll hev to quit tellin’ stories or I quit -gittin’ me hair cut.” Then to the stranger, “Is -hoop-snakes so wery pisonous?”</p> - -<p>“Pisonous!” replied the Dunkard. “Well, I -should say they was. One o’ the awfullest things -I ever seen was jest the ozzer day ’hen I was -workin’ in the fiel’. All o’ a suddent one o’ these -wipers jumps outen the hay an’ strikes. I seen -it jest in time to step aside. Its fangs struck the -han’le o’ me fork.”</p> - -<p>The stranger fell to brushing flies again.</p> - -<p>“Well, what happened that——”</p> - -<p>“There ye go,” the Loafer cried, ducking forward -and almost tumbling from the anvil. “Keep -your eye on my head an’ not on every Tom, Dick -an’ Harry in the shop.” He readjusted himself -on his perch and blew away a bunch of hair that -had settled on his nose.</p> - -<p>“What happened?” he inquired, fixing his -least exposed eye on the man from Raccoon -Valley.</p> - -<p>“Quick ez a flash the han’le o’ my pitch-fork -swole up tell it was thick ez my arm.”</p> - -<p>The Dunkard had fixed his gaze intently on -the forefeet of the mule and was beating them -industriously with the horse-tail.</p> - -<p>The smith wheeled about abruptly and gazed -at the stranger.</p> - -<p>“That was an awful thing to experience,” he -said. But there was a ring of doubt in his voice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Loafer peered over his shoulder and ventured. -“Yes. It was the worst jag yit. But I -don’t mind. I’m gittin’ accustomed.”</p> - -<p>The rattle of the pile of wheels upon which -the G. A. R. Man was sitting announced that the -veteran was getting restless and was preparing for -action. For a long time he had been smoking in -silence, listening to the strange tales of the strange -man from Raccoon Valley. Now he spoke.</p> - -<p>“If your story is true then that was an awful -thing.” He seemed to be weighing each word. -“Still, it wasn’t so awful ez a thing that happened -to me durin’ the war.”</p> - -<p>“There ye are agin,” cried the Loafer. “Can’t -a man tell a story ’thout you tryin’ to go him one -better? I don’t believe ye was in the war anyway.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t I git a pension?” The veteran closed -one eye and stuck out his lower jaw threateningly.</p> - -<p>“That ain’t no sign,” ventured the Miller from -the carpenter bench.</p> - -<p>“Well, what fer a sign does you unsez want?” -roared the G. A. R. Man. “Does you expect a -felly to go th’oo life carryin’ a musket? Ef ye -does——”</p> - -<p>“See here,” said the Blacksmith, “youse fellys -is gittin’ that mule all excited. Ef you’re goin’ -to quarrel you’d better go outside where there’s -lots o’ room fer ye to run away in.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Now—now—now!” said the Dunkard, wagging -the horse-tail at the company. “Don’t git -fightin’. Ef he knows anything awfuller then that -hoop-snake wenture let him out with it.”</p> - -<p>“I do,” said the veteran. “But I don’t perpose -to hev it drug outen me fer you uns to hoot -at.”</p> - -<p>His tone was pacific, and his companions -promised not to hoot.</p> - -<p>“The awfullest thing I ever hed to do with,” -he said, “was down in front o’ Richmon’ durin’ -the war. Our retchment—the Bloody Pennsylwany—was -posted kind o’ out like from the rest -o’ the army. We lay there fer th’ee weeks doin’ -nawthin’ but eatin’, sleepin’, drinkin’ an’ listenin’ -to the roar o’ the guns over to the front. Still it -wasn’t pleasant, fer we was allus expectin’ somethin’ -to happen. It’s a heap sight better to hev -somethin’ happenin’ then to be waitin’ fer it to -come. But final it come.</p> - -<p>“One mornin’ at daybreak the guard was bein’ -changed, an’ down on one post they found the -picket dead, but not a mark was they on him. It -looked wery queer. We’d seen no enemy fer a -week an’ yit here was a felly killed plumb on his -post, within stone th’ow of our camp. It made -the boys feel clammy like, I tell ye, an’ they -wasn’t many a-hankerin’ to go on that beat at -night. It was a lonely placet, anyway, right on -the edge o’ a leetle clump o’ woods in a holler<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -th’oo which run a creek, gurglin’ in a way that -made ye creep from your heel-taps to your hat. -But the post hed to be covered. Ez luck ’ud hev -it, my tent-mate, Jim Miggins, ez nicet a man ez -ever shouldered a musket, was stationed there. -Next mornin’ the relief goes around, an’ Jim Miggins -is lyin’ dead be the stream—not a mark on -him nowhere. Still they was no sign o’ the -enemy, an’ we’d a clean sweep o’ fiel’s five miles -acrosst the country. Mebbe we wasn’t puzzled.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t the general put a whole regiment -in them woods an’ stop it?” asked the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“That wasn’t tactics,” answered the veteran. -“Ye may think you knows better how to run a war -then our general, but ye don’t. It wasn’t tactics, -an’ even ef it hed ben it wasn’t the way the Bloody -Pennsylwany done things. One man takes the -post next night ez usual, young Harry Hopple -o’ my company, a lad with more grit then a horse -that cribs. In the mornin’—Harry’s dead—no -mark on him—no sign o’ the enemy nowhere. -Don’t tell me that wasn’t awfuller then hoop-snakes. -Why, every man knowd now that ef he -drawed that post he was a goner. That was a -recognized rule—he was a goner. ’Hen a felly -gits it he sets down an’ packs up his duds; then -he writes home to his ma or his girl, sais good-by -to the boys an’ goes out. Mornin’ comes—he’s -dead be the stream—not a mark on him—no -enemy in sight. That was the way Andy Young,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -leetle Hiram Dole, Clayton Binks o’ my company, -an’ a dozen others was tuk off.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t see, nuther, why the general didn’t -fill them woods with soldiers,” the Miller interrupted.</p> - -<p>“Why! It wasn’t tactics; that’s why,” the G. -A. R. Man replied brusquely. “The Bloody Pennsylwany -didn’t do things that way. No, sir. -The general he cal’lated that we couldn’t be in -that placet more’n four weeks more, which would -cost jest twenty-eight men. He sais it wasn’t -square to order a man there, so he calls fer wolunteers. -What does I do? I wolunteers. I -goes to the general an’ sais I’m willin’ to try my -luck first. An’ he sais, sais he, a-layin’ one hand -on me shoulder, ‘Me man, ef we’d a few more like -you, the war ’ud soon be ended. An’——’”</p> - -<p>“Meanin’ the other side ’ud ’a’ licked,” the -Loafer interposed.</p> - -<p>The veteran paid no attention to this remark -but continued: “He promised me a promotion ef -I come out alive. That night I packs up me -things, writes a letter to me wife, an’ sais good-by -to the boys. Then I gits me gun, pours in -th’ee inches o’ powder, puts in a wad; next, th’ee -bullets an’ a wad; next a half dozen buckshot -an’ a wad. An’ on top o’ it all, jest fer luck, I -rammed a bit o’ tobacky. At twelve o’clock I -relieved the man on post in the holler. Mebbe me -heart didn’t beat. Mebbe it wasn’t awfuller then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -hoop-snakes. The wind was sighin’ mournful -th’oo the leaves; a leetle slice o’ moon was -peekin’ down th’oo the trees ’hen the clouds give -it a chancet; an’ there gurglin’ along was the -creek be which I expected I’d be found in the -mornin’ layin’ dead, no mark on me nowhere.</p> - -<p>“I’d made up me mind, tho’, that I was goin’ -to come out of it whole ef I could. I wasn’t no -fool to set down an’ be tuk off without raisin’ a -rumpus about it. No, sir. I kept a sharp eye in -every direction ez I walked to an’ fro, down the -holler on one side, up on the other, back agin, -an’ never stoppin’. It come one o’clock, an’ I -give number eight an’ all’s well. I hear the report -go ’long the posts; then everything was -quiet. It come two o’clock an’ I give all’s well -agin. Hardly was everything still ’hen I hear a -rustlin’ noise, right out in the fiel’ beyant the -creek, not twenty feet away, an’ yit me eyes had -ben coverin’ that petickler spot fer an hour an’ -not a hate hed I seen. But there it was, a standin’ -hazy-like in the dark, the awfullest thing I ever -laid eyes on.”</p> - -<p>The veteran had arisen from the pile of wheels -and was glaring at the company, “What does I -do? Does I set down an’ be tuk off like the -other fellys? No. I ups an’ fires an’ hits it -right atween the eyes.”</p> - -<p>He resumed his seat and began refilling his -pipe. An expectant silence reigned in the shop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -The Blacksmith waited until he saw the veteran -light a match and fall to smoking.</p> - -<p>“Go on,” he cried, making a threatening movement -with his scissors.</p> - -<p>“They ain’t no more to tell,” said the G. A. R. -Man nonchalantly. “Wasn’t that awfuller then -a dozen hoop-snakes?”</p> - -<p>“Well, what was the thing ye shot?” asked the -Loafer, slipping off the anvil and facing the pile -of wheels.</p> - -<p>The old soldier’s clay pipe fell from his hand -and crashed into a hundred pieces on the floor. -He opened wide his mouth in vain effort to speak, -but the words failed to come.</p> - -<p>“What was it?” shouted the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll swan ef I know,” replied the veteran -meekly.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Wrestling Match.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The village had awakened from its long winter -of sleep. It had shaken off its lethargy and -stepped forth into the light and sunshine to -take up life in the free air until the months -should speed around and the harsh winds and the -snows drive it back again to a close kitchen and -a stifling stove. The antiquated saw-mill down -by the creek buzzed away with a vim that plainly -told that the stream was swollen with the melted -snows of the winter just passed. The big grist-mill -bumped and thumped in deep melodious -tones, as though it were making an effort to drown -the rasping, discordant music of its small but -noisy neighbor. From the field beyond the line -of houses came the melancholy “haw, gee, haw, -gee-up” of the man at the plow and the triumphant -calls of the chickens, as they discovered -each luscious worm in the newly-turned furrow. -A few robins flitted among the still leafless -branches of the trees, and down in the meadows<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -beyond the bridge an occasional venturesome lark -or snipe whistled merrily.</p> - -<p>The double doors of the store were wide open. -Had all the other signs of spring been missing, -this fact alone would have indicated to the knowing -that if the snows had not melted and the -birds not come back, it was high time they did. -Those doors never stood open until the Patriarch -felt it in his bones that the winter was gone and -he could with safety leave the side of the stove -within and migrate to the long bench without, to -bask in the sunshine. This morning the old man -arose from his accustomed chair with a look of -wonderment on his face. He swung one leg to -and fro for a moment, then rapped on his knee -gently with the heavy knob of his cane. He -tapped his head mysteriously with his forefinger -and gazed in silence out of the window, taking in -the outward signs.</p> - -<p>“Boys,” he said at length, “it’s time we was -gittin’ out agin. Spring has come.”</p> - -<p>With that he hobbled toward the door.</p> - -<p>“Good, Gran’pap,” said the Chronic Loafer, -rolling off the counter and following.</p> - -<p>Then the Storekeeper opened both doors.</p> - -<p>The old oak bench that had stood neglected -through the long winter, exposed to wind and -warping rain, gave a joyous creak as it felt again -on its broad, knife-hacked back the weight of the -Patriarch and his friends. It kicked up its one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -short, hickory leg with such vehemence as to -cause the Storekeeper to throw out his hands, as -though the world had dropped from under him -and he was grasping at a cloud for support.</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls!” he cried, when he had recovered -his equilibrium and composure.</p> - -<p>“My, oh, my!” murmured the old man, his -face beaming with contentment as he sat basking -in the sun. “Don’t the old bench feel good agin? -Why, me an’ this oak board hes ben buddies fer -nigh onter sixty years.”</p> - -<p>The season seemed to have imposed new life -into the Chronic Loafer as it had nature. He suddenly -tossed off his coat, with one leap cleared the -steps and began dancing up and down in the road.</p> - -<p>“It jest makes a felly feel like wrastlin’, -Gran’pap,” he shouted, waving his arms defiantly -at the bench. “Come on.”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch stroked his long beard and smiled -amusedly at this unexpected exhibition of energy. -The Miller’s nose curled contemptuously skyward, -and he fell to beating the flour out of his coat to -show his indifference to the challenge. The Tinsmith -puffed more vigorously at his pipe, so that -the great clouds of smoke that swept upward from -the clay bowl, enveloped the Storekeeper and -caused him to sneeze violently.</p> - -<p>At this indisposition on the part of the four to -take up the gauntlet he had thrown down, the -Loafer became still more defiant.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Hedgins!” he sneered. “You uns is all -afraid, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Nawthin’ to be afraid of,” snapped the Miller. -“Simple because spring’s come, ez it’s ben comin’ -ever since I can remember, I hain’t a-goin’ to waller -’round in a muddy road.”</p> - -<p>The School Teacher laid his left hand upon his -heart, and fixing a solemn gaze on the roof of the -porch, recited: “In the spring the young man’s -fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”</p> - -<p>“There ye go agin,” cried the Loafer, “quotin’ -that ole Fifth Reader o’ yourn.”</p> - -<p>“That,” said the pedagogue, “is Tennyson.”</p> - -<p>“I thot it was familar,” exclaimed the Storekeeper. -A smile crept into his usually vacant -face, and he slapped the Teacher on the knee. -“You mean ole Seth Tennyson that runs the -Shingletown creamery. He’s a cute un.”</p> - -<p>The reply was a withering, pitying glance.</p> - -<p>“It sounds a heap more like Seth’s brother Bill,” -ventured the Miller.</p> - -<p>“Don’t git argyin’ on that,” said the Loafer. -“There’s nawthin’ particular new or good in it -any way. The main pint is I bantered ye an’ -you uns ’s all dead skeert.”</p> - -<p>“Come, come,” said the Patriarch, beating his -stick on the floor to call the boaster to order. -“Ef I was five year younger I’d take your banter; -I’d druv yer head inter the mud tell you’d -be afraid of showin’ up at the store fer a year, fer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -fear some un’d shovel ye inter the road. That’s -what I’d do. I hates blowin’, I do—I hates -blowin’. Fur be it from me to blow, particular -ez I was somethin’ of a wrastler ’hen I was a -young un.”</p> - -<p>“I bet I could ’a’ th’owed you in less time ’an -it takes me to set down,” the Loafer said, as he -seated himself on the steps and got out his pipe.</p> - -<p>“Th’owed me, would you? Well, I’d ’a’ liked -to hev seen you a-th’owin’ me.” He shook his -stick at the braggart. “Why, don’t you know -that ’hen I was young I was the best wrastler in -the walley; didn’t you ever hear o’ the great -wrastlin’ me and Simon Cruller done up to -Swampy Holler school-house?”</p> - -<p>“Did Noar act as empire?” asked the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“What does you mean be talkin’ of Noar an’ -sech like ’hen I’m tellin’ of wrastlin’? Tryin’ to -change the subject I s’pose, eh?” cried the -Patriarch, reddening with anger. “Don’t you -know——”</p> - -<p>“Tut-tut, Gran’pap,” said the Storekeeper, -gently taking the raised cane in his hand and -forcing it back into an upright position, one end -resting on the floor, while on the other were piled -the old man’s two fat hands. “Don’t mind him. -Go on with your story.”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch’s wrath passed as quickly as it -had come. He speedily wandered back into his -youth, and soon was so deep in the history of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -Simon Cruller, of Simon Cruller’s family and of -Becky Stump as to be completely oblivious to his -tormentor’s presence.</p> - -<p>“Me an’ Sime Cruller was buddies,” he began -at length. “That was tell we both kind o’ set -our minds on gittin’ Becky Stump. You uns -never seen her, eh? Well, mebbe you never seen -her grave-stun. It stands be the alderberry bushes -in the buryin’-groun’, an’ ef you hain’t seen it ye -otter, fer then ye might git an idee what sort o’ a -woman she was. Pretty? Why, she was a model, -she was—a perfect model. Hair? You uns don’t -often see sech hair nowadays ez Becky Stump hed—soft -an’ black like. Eyes? Why, they sparkled -jest like new buggy paint. An’ mighty souls, but -she could plough! She wasn’t none of your -modern girls ez is too proud to plough. Many a -day I set over on the porch at our placet an’ -looked down acrosst the walley an’ seen her a-steppin’ -th’oo the fiel’, an’ I thot how I’d like to hev -one han’le while she’d hev the other, an’ we’d -go trampin’ along life’s furrow together.”</p> - -<p>“Now Gran’pap, I ’low you’ve ben readin’——”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you keep still a piece?” roared the -Miller.</p> - -<p>The Loafer returned to his pipe and silence.</p> - -<p>“The whole thing come to a pint at a spellin’ -bee up to Swampy Holler school,” continued the -Patriarch, unmindful of the interruption. “Becky -Stump was there an’ looked onusual pretty, fer it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -was cold outside an’ the win’ hed made her face -all red on the drive over from home. Sime was -there, too, togged out in store clothes, his hair all -plastered down with bear ile, an’ with a fine silk -tie aroun’ his collar that ’ud ’a’ ketched the girls -real hard hed I not hed a prettier one.</p> - -<p>“Ez luck ’ud hev it, me an’ Sime Cruller was -on opposite sides. It wasn’t long afore I seen -he was tryin’ to show off with his spellin’. It’s -strange, but it’s a failin’ with men that ez soon ez -they gits their minds set on a particular girl they -wants to show off before her. Why most of ’em -taller up their boots, put on their Sunday clothes -an’ go walkin’ by their girl’s house twicet a day -fer no reason at all but jest to be seen lookin’ -togged up an’ han’som. Men allus seems to want -the weemen to know they is better spellers, or -better somethin’ else ’an some other feller. They -ain’t no reason fer it. No common-sense woman -is goin’ to merry no man simple because he can -spell or wrastle better or husk more corn than -anybody else. An’ yit men’ll insist on showin’ -off in them wery things ’henever they gits a -chancet.</p> - -<p>“It didn’t take me five minutes to see that Sime -Cruller was tryin’ to show off afore Becky Stump; -was tryin’ to prove to her that he was a smarter -lad than me. An’ it didn’t take me that long to -concide I’d hev none of it. I seen him every -time he spelled a hard un, look triumphant like at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> -her, settin’ ez she was down be the stove; then -he’d grin at me. I seen it all, an’ I spelled ez I -never spelled afore, an’ a mighty fine speller I was, -too, ’hen I was young. Mebbe I didn’t set all -over Sime Cruller. Mebbe I didn’t spile his -showin’ off. I don’t jest exactly remember what -the word was, but it must ’a’ ben a long un with a -heap of syllables, fer he missed it an’ set down -lookin’ ez mad ez a bull ’hen he steps inter a -bees’ nes’. Three others missed it, an’ it come to -me. Why do you know them letters jest rolled -off my tongue ez easy. You otter ’a’ seen the look -Becky Stump give me an’ the look Sime give me. -Huh!</p> - -<p>“When intermission come, Sime he gits off in -one corner an’ begins blowin’ to a lot of the boys. -I heard him talkin’ loud ’bout me, so I steps -over. He sayd it was all a mistake; that he could -beat me at anything—spellin’, wrastlin’ or fishin’. -He was showin’ off agin, fer he talked loud like -Becky Stump could hear. I makes up me mind -I wouldn’t stand his blowin’.</p> - -<p>“‘See here, Sime Cruller!’ I sais, sais I, ‘you -uns is nawthin’ but a blow-horn,’ I sais. ‘You -claims you can wrastle. Why, I can th’ow you -in less time than it takes to tell it, an’ if you steps -outside I’ll prove me words.’</p> - -<p>“That kinder took Sime Cruller down, fer -wrastlin’ was his speciality an’ he’d th’owed every -felly in the walley ’ceptin’ me, an’ him an’ me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -hed never clinched, fer I wasn’t considered much -at a fight. But me dander was up an’ I wasn’t -in fer lettin’ him show off.</p> - -<p>“‘You th’ow me!’ he sais. Then he begin to -laugh like he’d die at the wery idee.</p> - -<p>“With that we went outside, follered by the -rest of the boys. They was a quarter-moon overhead, -an’ the girls put two candles in the school-house -winders, so, with the snow, we could see -pretty well.</p> - -<p>“At it we went. Boys, you otter ’a’ ben there! -You otter ’a’ seen it! That was wrastlin’! ’Hen -Sime an’ me clinched I ketched him ’round the -waist with my right arm an’ got a hold of the strap -of his right boot with the forefinger of me left hand. -He gits his left arm ’round my neck an’ down my -back somehow, an’ with his right hand tears the buttons -off me coat an’ grabs me in the armhole of -me waistcoat. Over we goes, like two dogs, snarlin’, -an’ snappin’, while the boys in a ring around us -cheered, an’ the girls crowdin’ the school-house -porch trembled an’ screamed with fright. We -twisted, we turned, we rolled over an’ over tell we -looked like livin’ snowballs. Sime got off the -boot I’d a holt on, an’ give me a sudden turn that -almost sent me on me back. But I was quick. -Mighty souls, but I was quick! I ups with me -foot an’ lands me heel right on his chist, an’ he -went flyin’ ten feet inter a snow-bank, kerryin’ me -coat-sleeve with him. He was lookin’ up at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -moon ’hen I run up to him, an’ I’d hed him down, -but he turned over, an’ they wasn’t nawthin’ fer -me to do but to set on his back. I ’low I must ’a’ -set there fer half an hour, restin’ an’ gittin’ me -wind. Anyway, I was so long I almost forgot I -was wrastlin’, fer he give me a sudden turn, an’ -’fore I knowd it he hed the waist holt an’ hed -almost th’owed me.</p> - -<p>“But I was quick. Mighty souls, but I was -quick! I keeps me feet an’ gits one hand inter -his waistcoat pocket an’ hung to him. ’Henever -you wrastles, git your man be the boot strap or -the pocket, an’ you has the best holt they is. Ef -I hedn’t done that I might not ’a’ ben here to-day. -But I done it, an’ fer a full hour me an’ -Sime Cruller rolled ’round, even matched. Time -an’ agin I got sight o’ Becky Stump standin’ on -the porch, her hands gripped together, her face -pale, her eyes almost poppin’ outen her head, she -was watchin’ us so hard, an’ the wery sight of her -urged me on to inhuman efforts. It seemed to -hev the same ’fect on Sime. Me heart beat so -hard it made me buttons rattle. Still I kep’ at it. -Sime was so hot it was fer me jest like wrastlin’ -with a stove, an’ still we kep’ at it. Then all of a -sudden—it was two hours after we hed fust -clinched—everything seemed to swim—I couldn’t -feel no earth beneath—I only knowd I was still -holdin’ onto Sime—then I knowd nawthin’.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen I come to, I was layin’ be the school-house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -stove, an’ Becky Stump was leanin’ over -me rubbin’ a snowball acrosst me forehead. The -other folks was standin’ back like, fer they seemed -to think that after sech an exhibition it was all -settled an’ they didn’t want to disturb us.</p> - -<p>“‘Becky,’ I whispers, ‘did I win?’</p> - -<p>“‘You did,’ she sais. ‘You both fainted at -oncet, but you fainted on top.’</p> - -<p>“‘An’ now I s’pose you’ll hev me,’ I sais, fer it -seemed like they was somethin’ in her eyes that -kinder urged me on.</p> - -<p>“She was quiet a piece; an’ then she leans down -an’ answers, ‘Do you think I wants to merry a -fien’?’”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch ceased his narration and fell to -stroking his beard and humming softly.</p> - -<p>“Well?” cried the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Well?” retorted the old man.</p> - -<p>“Did she ever merry?”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch shook his head.</p> - -<p>“Go look at the grave-stun,” he said, “an’ on -it you’ll see wrote: ‘Here lies Becky Stump. -Her peaceful soul’s at rest!’”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Tramp’s Romance.</i></span></h2> - -<p>“Was you ever dissypinted in love?” inquired -the Chronic Loafer of the Tramp.</p> - -<p>A light summer shower had driven the traveller -to the shelter of the store porch for a few hours, -and he was stretched easily along the floor with -his back resting against a pillar. In reply to the -question he brought the butt of his heavy hickory -stick down on the loose boards with such vigor -as to raise a small cloud of dust from the cracks, -and cried, “Wull, have I!”</p> - -<p>“Come tell us about it, ole feller,” said the -Tinsmith.</p> - -<p>“Not muchy.”</p> - -<p>“We ain’t surprised at your hevin’ ben dissypinted,” -said the Loafer, “but it’s your persumption -catches me. What’s her name?”</p> - -<p>“I called her Emily Kate,” answered the -Tramp, wiping one of his eyes with his sleeve. -“She’ll allus be Emily Kate to me, though to -other folks she ain’t nothin’.”</p> - -<p>“A truly remarkable state of affairs,” said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -Teacher. “I presume that the young woman -must have been a mere chimera, a hallucination.”</p> - -<p>“Mebbe she was; mebbe she wasn’t,” the -traveller replied. “I never knowd her well -enough to git acquainted with all her qualities. -In fact I’ve allus kept Emily Kate pretty much -to meself an’ have never said nothin’ ’bout her to -nobody. But youse gentlemens asts so many -questions, I s’pose yez might ez well know the -hull thing. ’Bout three year ago I was workin’ -th’oo this valley toward the Sussykehanner River, -an’ one fine day—it was one o’ them days when -you feels like settin’ down an’ jest doin’ nothin’—I -come th’oo this very town an’ went up the -main road ’bout two mile tell I reached Shale -Hill. I never knowd why I done it—it must ’a’ -ben fate—but I switched off onter the by-road -there ’stead o’ stickin’ to the pike. I walked on -’bout a mile an’ didn’t meet no one or see no -houses tell I come to a farm wit’ a peach orchard -sout’ o’ the barn.</p> - -<p>“They was a nice grassy place under an apple -tree on the other side the road, an’ ez it was one o’ -them warm, lazy, summer days I made up me min’ -to rest, an’ lay down there. Ye kin laugh at folks -who allus talks weather, but I tell ye it does a -powerful sight wit’ a man. I know ef that had ’a’ -ben a rainy day I’d never had that fairy-core, ez -the French calls it, that hit me then an’ come -near spoilin’ me life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I was layin’ there watchin’ the clouds overhead, -an’ listenin’ to the plover whistlin’ out in -the fiel’s, an’ to the tree-frawg bellerin’ up in the -locus’, when all of a sudden I see a blue gleam in -an apple tree in the orchard ’crosst the way. I -watched it an’ pretty soon made out that it was a -woman. She was settin’ there quiet an’ still, -like she was readin’, an’ down below I see the top -of a chicking coop an’ hear the ole hen cluckin’. -I couldn’t see much fer the leaves an’ didn’t git -sight o’ her face, but I made out the outlines o’ -that blue caliker dress an’ jest kind o’ drank ’em -in.</p> - -<p>“It was the day done it all. ’Fore I knowd it -I begin to imagine the face that must ’a’ fit that -form. I pictured her like the girls that rides the -mowin’ machines in the agricult’ral advertisemen’ -chromos—yeller hair an’ all. I wanted to try an’ -git sight o’ her face but didn’t dast, fer she’d ’a’ -seen me an’ that ’ud a spoilt my chancet. So I -lay there dreamin’ like, an’ ’fore I knowd it I -could think o’ nothin’ but that girl in the tree, -who I figured must ’a’ ben a heap better-lookin’ -than a circus lady.</p> - -<p>“It come sundown, an’ ez I had to hustle to -git supper I dragged meself together an’ moved on. -I went up the valley fer three days an’ got ’bout -thirty mile nearer the river. But I didn’t have -no peace. The hull time I was thinkin’ o’ nothin’ -but the girl in the blue caliker dress. I never felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -so queer before, an’ didn’t know jest what to do. -Last I decided I’d hev to go back an’ hev another -look at her, so I turned ’round an’ kivered me -tracks.</p> - -<p>“‘Bout one day later, in the afternoon, I reached -the orchard. Hanged ef she wasn’t there an’ settin’ -in a tree closer to the road! I didn’t dast -go near her, fer I knows how ’fraid the weemen is -of us men. But I slid inter me ole placet, an’ lay -there watchin’ her blue dress wavin’ in the breeze. -Then when I seen ez how she’d changed trees, I -begin to think mebbe she’d seen me an’ moved -up a tree nearer the road kinder so ez we’d be -closer.”</p> - -<p>The Tramp’s voice broke and he paused.</p> - -<p>“Now quit yer blubberin’, Trampy,” cried the -Loafer, “an’ git to the end o’ this here yarn.”</p> - -<p>The vagrant rubbed his sleeve across his eyes -and continued,</p> - -<p>“Wull, ez I lay there watchin’ her so still an’ -quiet, I begin to think. I wondered what her -name must be, an’ ’lowed it orter be a pretty one. -I kind o’ thought, bein’ ez I didn’t know it, I -might give her one—the prettiest I could git up. -I racked me brain an’ final’ sot on Emily Kate—that -sounded high-toned. Then I begin to wonder -who’d be so fort’nit ez ter git Emily, an’ cussed -meself for bein’ sich a bum. I kind o’ thought I -might reform, but last I ’lowed ef she’d take me -without me havin’ to reform, it ’ud be a sight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -pleasanter all ’round. I see how she’d moved -up a tree an’ kind o’ wondered ef she’d notice -me. The more I thought on it, the worse I got. -I begin to think mebbe ef I cleaned up I wouldn’t -be so bad—in fact a heap better ’an lots o’ folks -I knows. By the time it come sunset I had concided -to resk it, an’ was thinkin’ o’ crawlin’ over -the fence an’ interducin’ meself. But me heart -failed me. I put it off tell the next day an’ slid -over the fiel’s to a barn an’ spent the night.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t eat no breakfas’. I couldn’t. When -it come sun up I went down to the spring an’ -washed up. Then I cut fer the orchard, tendin’ -to wait tell she come. I didn’t expect she’d be -there so airly sence she’d likely do up the breakfas’ -dishes.</p> - -<p>“I climbed the fence inter the road. Then -what a sight I seen! I near yelled. A great big -feller had his arm ’round her wais’. She was layin’ -all limp like, wit’ her head pitched for’a’d so I -couldn’t see it, an’ her feet was draggin’ th’oo -the timothy, fer the man was pullin’ her ’long -down the orchard. First I was fer runnin’ to her -resky, but I thought mebbe I’d better wait tell -I see what come of it.</p> - -<p>“The big feller, he pulled her, all limp, down -to the other side, an’ leaned her up agin a tree, -an’ hit her a punch wit’ his fis’. The blue caliker -sunbonnet drooped. Then he jumped the fence -an’ started away over the meddy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Me heart was a-thumpin’ awful. I waited -tell he was out o’ sight. Then I slipped down to -where Emily Kate lay half dead agin the tree. I -seen a chicking coop there an’ hear the ole hen -cluckin’. I stepped up an’ raised the girl’s head. -She had a straw face an’ was keepin’ hawks away -from them chickings. My Emily Kate was a -scare——”</p> - -<p>The Tramp’s voice grew husky and he faltered.</p> - -<p>“See here, you ole fool,” cried the Loafer, “it’s -quit rainin’ this ten minutes an’ you’ve kep’ me -from splittin’ to-morrer’s wood with yer bloomin’ -story.”</p> - -<p>The wanderer picked up his bandana and -stick, arose and replied,</p> - -<p>“Youse gentlemen ’sisted that I tell ye ’bout -it. I tol’ ye. Now I must be movin’.”</p> - -<p>A moment later he disappeared around the -bend in the road just beyond the mill.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Ambition—An Argument.</i></span></h2> - -<p>“I know that I travels slow,” said the Chronic -Loafer, “but ’hen a felly travels fast, it keeps him -so busy watchin’ the horses, he sees mighty leetle -o’ the country an’ gits awful jolted besides. It’s -a heap sight better to go slow, stoppin’ at a -stream to fish trout, or in the woods to take a -bang at a coon, or at the store fer a leetle discussion—it’s -a heap sight easier.”</p> - -<p>He was sitting at the end of the porch, his back -against the pillar; one leg stretched along the -floor, the bare foot resting on its heel and wiggling -to and fro in unison with his words; the -other leg hanging down and swinging backward -and forward like a pendulum.</p> - -<p>The Patriarch had the end of the bench nearest -him. Next sat the Miller meditatively chewing -his forefinger. Then there was the Tinsmith -smoking thoughtfully, and beside him, a stranger. -This last person was a young man. His jaunty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -golf cap, fresh pink shirt, spotless duck trousers -and canvas shoes marked him as a barbarian. In -fact he had swooped down from the mountains -to the north but a few days before on a bicycle, -taken board at the Shoemaker’s, fixed a short -briar pipe between his teeth and seated himself -on the bench. At first he had been coldly received. -The Store was suspicious. It closed its -mouth and waited until it could find out something -of the character of the newcomer. He volunteered -no explanation, but sat and smoked. -The Store grew desperate. At length it could -stand the suspense no longer and nudged the -stranger and inquired if he might not be a detective? -The stranger laughed, said no, and busied -himself with the making of smoke rings. Three -days passed. Then the Store allowed maybe he -might not be a drummer? No, he was not a -drummer. The mystery was deepening. There -were two things he was not. Now the Store -smoked and smoked, and watched the mountains -many days, until it had drawn an inspiration -therefrom. It winked at the young man and -guessed he had run away from his wife. But the -stranger answered that he had never married.</p> - -<p>Knowing that he was not a detective, a drummer, -or a fugitive from some domestic hearthstone, -the Store felt that it had learned something -of his history and could afford to melt just a little. -So now it was talking before him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p> - -<p>As the Loafer finished speaking, the stranger -drew forth a leather case, carefully tucked his pipe -away in it and returned it to his pocket. Then -he remarked calmly, “I cannot agree with you. -What would the world be to-day if all men held -such ideas as you?”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch, the Miller and the Tinsmith -pricked up their ears and gazed at the speaker. -At last the truth would be out.</p> - -<p>The Loafer saw his opportunity.</p> - -<p>“What do you do fer a livin’?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“I’m a college man,” was the bland reply.</p> - -<p>Drawing his pendulum leg up on the porch, the -Loafer clasped both knees in his arms. “Well,” -he drawled, “I ’low ef you is a kawledge man, -they ain’t nawthin’ young enough to be a kawledge -boy, is they?”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch dropped his cane, clasped his -hands to his fat sides, leaned back so that his -head rested against the wall, and gagged. The -Tinsmith and the Storekeeper laughed so loud -that the School Teacher tossed aside the county -paper and came running to the door to inquire -what the joke was.</p> - -<p>“I’m blessed ef I know,” said the Miller, he being -the only one of the party who had retained -his powers of speech. He laid a hand on the -student’s knee and asked, “Did you make a -joke?”</p> - -<p>But the young man had dived into his pocket<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -and got out his pipe again, and was busy filling it -and lighting it and smoking it, by this act asserting -his manhood. He now joined good-naturedly in -the laughter.</p> - -<p>“How much does a kawledge man git a week?” -asked the Loafer. “It must pay pretty well, -jedgin’ from your clothes.”</p> - -<p>“He gets nothing,” was the reply. “I am -studying, preparing myself for my work in life.”</p> - -<p>“My, oh, my!” murmured the Patriarch. -“Preparin’—preparin’? Why, ’hen I was your -age I was prepared long ago. I was in full, -complete charge o’ me father’s saw-mill.”</p> - -<p>The student was nettled, not at the reflection -on his own intellectual attainments which this remark -seemed to contain, but he felt that in this -company he was the representative of modern -ideas, of education and enlightenment. The -Middle Ages were attacking the Nineteenth Century, -and it was his duty to combat the forces -of Ignorance. So he removed his briar from -his mouth and sent a ring of smoke floating -away on the listless air. He watched it intently -as it passed out from the shelter of the porch into -the great world, and grew broader and bigger and -finally disappeared altogether. There was something -very impressive in the young man’s act. -His voice had fallen an octave when he turned to -address the Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“Had I chosen a saw-mill as my career, I think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -I too should have long since been prepared for -it. But to fit oneself for work in the world as a -lawyer, a doctor, a minister, requires preparation. -It takes years of study.”</p> - -<p>“How many?” asked the Loafer, turning -around and eyeing the student over his knees.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll be twenty-four when I get through -studying and become a lawyer.”</p> - -<p>“Then what’ll ye do?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll work at my profession and make money.”</p> - -<p>“How long’ll ye do that?”</p> - -<p>“Why, I don’t know particularly—till I have a -fair fortune, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“How old’ll ye be then?”</p> - -<p>“Around sixty, I guess.”</p> - -<p>“Then what’ll ye do?”</p> - -<p>“What does every man do eventually? Die.”</p> - -<p>“Then ye’ve spent all them years learnin’ to -die, eh? Does a felly go off any easier ef his -head is crammed full of algebray or physical -g’ography? Mighty souls! Why my pap -couldn’t ’a’ tol’ ye, ef ye dewided an apple in two -halves an’ et one how many was left, yit ’hen his -time come he jest emptied out his ole pipe, leaned -back in his rocker, stretched his feet toward the -fire an’ went.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what are you tryin’ to prove anyway?” -asked the Teacher, who had seated himself on an -egg-crate. His furrowed brow, one closed eye and -forefinger resting on his chin, showed that he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -struggling hard to catch the thread of the -discussion.</p> - -<p>“I was jest sayin’ that the best life, the sensiblest -life, was the slow easy-goin’ one, ’hen this -young man conterdicted me,” said the Loafer.</p> - -<p>His air was very condescending and it angered -the student. The inquisition just ended had left -him in a rather equivocal position, he could see by -the way the Patriarch and the Tinsmith nodded -their heads.</p> - -<p>“You misunderstood me,” he said. “You have -shown, I see, that from a purely selfish standpoint, -ambition is senseless. In the end the man who -works hard is no better off than the man who -loafs. But remember there is another call—duty.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the idee,” cried the Teacher. “The -sense of duty moves the world to——”</p> - -<p>“Hol’ on!” the Loafer exclaimed. “Hol’ on! -Duty to who?”</p> - -<p>“Why, duty to society,” the student, answered. -“Every man is endowed with certain faculties, -and it is his duty to use those faculties to the -best of his ability for the advancement of himself -and his fellow-man.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly—certainly,” said the pedagogue. -“It’s the old parable of the talents all over agin.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, they is some argyment in that,” said the -Loafer. “Yit they ain’t. Pap allus used to say -that too many fellys was speckilatin’ in their talents,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -an’ ’hen their employer called an accountin’ they -was only able to pass in a lot o’ counterfeit coin.”</p> - -<p>“But suppose all men sat down and folded -their hands and lived as you would have them. -What would happen?” asked the college man.</p> - -<p>“D’ye see yon pastur’ down there?” The -Loafer pointed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating -the meadow below the bridge, where half -a score of cattle were grazing.</p> - -<p>The student nodded. The bony forefinger was -pointed at him now.</p> - -<p>“Well, now s’posin’ ye was a hog an’——”</p> - -<p>“I object to such a supposition,” was the angry -retort.</p> - -<p>“Well then s’posin’, jest fer argyment—ye -know ye can s’pose anything ’hen ye argy—s’posin’ -ye was a cow. Yon fiel’ ’ll pastur’ ten head o’ -cattle comf’table all summer, ’lowin’ they is easy-goin’ -an’ without no ambition. Now you uns gits -the high-flyin’ idee ye must dewelop your heaven-given -faculties fer the benefit o’ your sufferin’ -fellys. The main talent a cow has is that o’ -eatin’; so ye dewelop it be grazin’ night an’ day. -’Hen the other cows is friskin’ up an’ down the -meadow or splashin’ ’round the creek, you are -nibblin’ off the choice grass an’ digestin’ all the -turnip tops ye can reach th’oo the holes in the -fence. Mebbe you’ll git to be a slicker animal, -but fer the life o’ me, I can’t see how you’re benefitin’ -the rest o’ the cattle.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p> - -<p>“See here,” interrupted the Miller, “you are -the onsenselessest argyer I ever set eyes on. Ye -starts but on edycation an’ lands up on cattle-raisin’.”</p> - -<p>“No—no, you misunderstand him,” said the -student. “His method of argument is all right, -but it seems that the figure is bad. It doesn’t -quite apply. Every man who leads an industrious, -upright life, every man who in so doing prospers -and raises himself, does an incalculable service -to the community in which he lives. His example -inspires others.”</p> - -<p>“I jedge, then,” replied the Loafer, “that this -here petickler cow we’ve ben speakin’ of, in eatin’ -night an’ day an’ fattenin’ itself, is elewatin’ the -rest o’ the cattle be its example. They’ll be encouraged -to quit sloshin’ ’round the creek an’ -friskin’ ’bout the pastur’ an’ ’ll be after grass night -an’ day, an’ the grass’ll git skeercer an’ they’ll -take to buttin’ one another, an’ your efforts at -elewatin’ ’em ends in turnin’ a peaceful pastur’ -inter a battle-fiel’.”</p> - -<p>The student sent three rings of smoke whirling -from his mouth in rapid succession, but he made -no reply.</p> - -<p>“Did ye ever hear o’ Zebulon Pole?” asked -the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“I never did. But what has he to do with -this matter?”</p> - -<p>“Zebulon Pole was a livin’ answer to it, he was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -He used to have a shanty up in Buzzard Walley -near me an’ Pap, an’ was young an’ full o’ all -them noble idees. No—he wasn’t allus full of -’em. They hed ben a time ’hen he was easy-goin’ -an’ happy, askin’ nawthin’ better o’ his Maker -than a trout stream, a hook an’ a line, an’ a place -to borry a shot-gun. All o’ a sudden he bloomed -out full o’ ambition an’ high notions. He hed a -call. He was wastin’ his life loafin’ ’long the -creeks or settin’ day after day on a lawg, whistlin’ -fer wild turkeys. The world needed Zebulon -Pole, an’ he answered by comin’ out ez candidate -fer superwisor. He was elected. From that day -the citizens o’ our township hed no peace. They’d -allus ben used to goin’ out on the roads in the -spring, stickin’ their shovels in the groun’, leanin’ -on ’em an’ gittin’ paid a dollar a day fer it. The -new superwisor was ambitious, an’ the good ole -system o’ makin’ roads seemed a thing o’ the -past. So the boys put their heads together an’ -concided that a man o’ Pole’s parts was too good -fer his place an’ should hev a higher an’ nobler -job. They made him a school-director, an’ leaned -on their shovels oncet more an’ drawed a dollar a -day fer it ez usual.</p> - -<p>“Zebulon hed never gone beyant the Third -Reader in school or th’oo fractions, an’ yit ’hen -he become a school-director, he seen the hand o’ -a higher power instead o’ the wotes o’ citizens -who wasn’t agin improvin’ the roads, but was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -agin hevin’ it done ’hen they was workin’ out -their road tax. He was called to the service o’ -his felly-man. He was sacrificin’ his own happiness, -givin’ up his fishin’ an’ huntin’ that he might -dewote his life to helpin’ others. He hedn’t ben -school-director a month tell he concided it was an -honor, a great honor, yit the sphwere was too -narrer fer a man o’ his talents. Zebulon Pole -was learnin’. He’d found out they was better an’ -higher things in this worl’ then a mountain stream -full o’ trout, a soft bed o’ moss on the bank, a -half cloudy day, a pipe an’ a hook an’ line. He’d -found out they was nobler things, so he come out -ez candidate fer county commissioner, ’lowin’ -that after that he’d be Gov’nor, an’ then Presydent. -But the woters remembered how they’d over-exerted -themselves in his days ez superwisor; -they minded how in his first week ez school-director, -he’d changed the spellin’ book an’ cost ’em -twenty-five cents a head fer every blessed child in -the district. They jest snowed him under. He -was plain Zeb Pole agin. He’d tasted the sweets -o’ power an’ lost his appytite fer fishin’. His -hopes o’ bein’ Presydent was gone. They was -nawthin’ left fer him to look for’a’d to but dyin’.”</p> - -<p>The student shook his head gravely.</p> - -<p>“There is some argument in what you have -been saying,” he said slowly. “I admit that. -But you know your ideas are not new. You -simply carry one back to the Stoics of Greece.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Loafer was puzzled. “What did you say -they was?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“The Stoics of Greece. You remind me of the -Stoics of Greece.”</p> - -<p>“Is that a complyment or a name?” The -Loafer leaned sharply forward and thrust his long -chin toward the speaker ominously.</p> - -<p>“Why, a compliment,” was the reply. “The -Stoics were a great school of philosophers. They -taught simplicity in life. Diogenes was a Stoic.”</p> - -<p>“Who?” asked the Patriarch, bending over and -fixing his hand to his ear.</p> - -<p>“Diogenes.”</p> - -<p>“D’ogenes—D’ogenes,” said the old man. He -paused; then added, “D’ogenes—yes, I’ve heard -the name but I can’t exactly place him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you certainly never met him,” said the -collegian. “He lived a couple of thousand years -ago in Athens. His idea was to get as close as -possible to nature, so he lived in a tub.”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t they hev no suylums in them days?” -asked the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Diogenes wasn’t crazy,” cried the student. -“He was a great philosopher. They tell one -story of how he went walking around Athens carrying -a lantern in broad daylight. When asked -what he was doing, he said he was looking for an -honest man.”</p> - -<p>“What was the lantern fer?” the Miller inquired.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Why, he was looking for an honest man,” -shouted the collegian.</p> - -<p>“I s’pose it never struck him to go to the store -fer one,” drawled the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“You miss the point—the whole of you. Diogenes -was a man who spurned the material things -of this world. He tried to forget the body in the -development of the mind and soul, so he lived in -a tub, and——”</p> - -<p>“See here, young felly,” interrupted the Loafer, -“fer an argyer you beat the band. First off ye -conterdicted me fer sayin’ a man should take his -time. Now ye come ’round my way, only worse. -I never sayd a man should keep house in a tub. -Why, his missus ’ud never give him no peace. -No, sir; don’t ye git no fool idees like that in -your head.”</p> - -<p>“But that is the truest philosophy——”</p> - -<p>“I know. Zebulon Pole got that wery idee -after he was defeated fer county commissioner. -He moped ’round the walley fer a year an’ final -one day come to me an’ sayd he was goin’ to -dewote the rest o’ his life to religious medytation. -‘It’s less trouble to git to heaven then the -White House,’ he sayd, ‘fer a good deed is easier -to do then an opposin’ candidate.’ It happened -that at this time they hed ben a woman preacher -holdin’ bush-meetin’s in our walley an’ he was a -reg’lar attendant. She pounded away at wanity. -All was wanity, she sayd. They wasn’t nawthin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -in this world wuth livin’ fer. Fine houses, fine -clothes, slick buggies, fast horses, low-cut waist-coats—all -them things was extrys which was no -more needed fer man’s sperritual comfort then -napkins fer his bodily nourishment. It didn’t take -long fer them idees to spread in our walley, an’ -Pole was one o’ the first to catch ’em. I mind -comin’ home from fishin’ one day, I seen him a-settin’ -on a fence chewin’ a straw an’ watchin’ the -clouds scootin’ ’long overhead.</p> - -<p>“‘Ho, Zeb!’ I sais, shakin’ a nice string o’ -trout under his nose. ‘Why ain’t ye out? -They’s bitin’ good.’</p> - -<p>“He looks at me outen the corner o’ his eye -wery solemn.</p> - -<p>“‘Fishin’?’ he sais.</p> - -<p>“‘Yes, fishin’,’ I yells, kind o’ s’prised. -‘They’s bitin’ good.’</p> - -<p>“‘All them things is wanity,’ sais he, straightenin’ -up an’ pintin’ a finger o’ scorn at me. -‘Wanity o’ wanities. Let me warn ye, man. -I’ve give up all them worldly pleasures. I’m set -on higher things.’</p> - -<p>“‘Six-rail fences,’ I answers, ‘all day long—chewin’ -a straw—watchin’ clouds—wery elewatin’.’</p> - -<p>“He give me a sad look.</p> - -<p>“‘What are ye doin’ now?’ sais I, not intendin’ -to be put down even ef he hed ben school -director.</p> - -<p>“‘I’m a lily,’ he sais. ‘I’m followin’ the words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -o’ that dear sister who has cast her lot among us. -Henceforth I no longer considers the morrer. I -toil not, nuther spin.’</p> - -<p>“‘See here, Zeb,’ sais I. ‘You ain’t a bit my -idee of a lily.’</p> - -<p>“‘I don’t ast the approval o’ the world,’ sais -he.</p> - -<p>“‘An’ ye wouldn’t git it ef ye did,’ sais I. -‘But still I s’pose ye might do pretty well in -this new ockypation ef it wasn’t fer one thing.’</p> - -<p>“‘What’s that?’ he asts.</p> - -<p>“‘Lilies don’t use tobacker,’ I answers.</p> - -<p>“That kind o’ jolted him. His eyes opened -wide, an’ I seen a few tears.</p> - -<p>“‘I never thot o’ that,’ sais he.</p> - -<p>“‘Oh, it’s unimportant,’ sais I. ‘You’ll make -a fair lily. It’ll come hard fer ye first off, after -your last suit of clothes is wore out. Let’s hope -that happens in summer so ye’ll break in fer -winter easier. You’ll git used to not eatin’,’ I -sais. ‘Eatin’ is wanity. An’ ez fer tobacker—I -never seen a lily smokin’. But still, Zeb, ’hen ye -runs out o’ cut an’ dried, they is allus a placet ye -can git a leetle ’hen ye takes a rest from bloomin’ -in the fiels.’</p> - -<p>“That wery night Zebulon ’cepted my inwite -an’ come over to our placet an’ got a handful o’ -cut an’ dried. He borryed a loaf o’ bread an’ a -can’le beside. I didn’t begrudge it a bit. Nuther -did Pap. But this lily business begin spreadin’,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> -an’ all o’ Hen Jossel’s folks tuk to toilin’ not -nuther spinin’, ’long o’ Herman Brewbocker’s -family an’ Widdy Spade an’ half a dozen others. -They was dependin’ on us fer flour, matches, tobacker -an’ sech wanities, an’ it come a leetle hard. -We stood it a month but things got goin’ from -bad to worse. They wasn’t a day passed ’thout -a lily or two droppin’ in at our placet an’ ’lowin’ -mebbe we mightn’t like to loan a piece o’ ham, a -tin o’ zulicks or a bit o’ oil. It worrit Pap terrible.</p> - -<p>“One night I come home from store an’ found -all the doors locked. The shutters was tight -closed an’ they was no sign o’ life ’cept a leetle -bit o’ smoke dancin’ up an’ down on the chimbley -top. I give a loud knock. They was no answer. -I knocked agin an’ yelled. The garret winder -slid up an’ out come the bawrel o’ a gun, then -Pap’s head.</p> - -<p>“‘Hello!’ sais he. ‘Is you a friend or a lily -o’ the walley?’</p> - -<p>“‘Pap,’ I sais, ‘it’s your own lovin’ son,’ sais I. -‘Don’t leave me out here unprotected, the prey -to the next lily that comes along lookin’ where-withal -he shall borrer.’</p> - -<p>“The ole man opened the door an’ let me in. -Then he locked it agin an’ barred it. He picked -up his musket wery solemn like an’ run the rammer -down the bawrel to show it was loaded half way -to the muzzle.</p> - -<p>“‘They was ten lilies here, one after the other,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> -to-day,’ he sais. ‘They’ve left us the bed, the -dough tray, three chairs, a table, an’ a few odds -an’ ends. ’Hen I seen the last foot o’ our sausage -disappearin’ down the road under Widdy Spade’s -arm I made a wow. The next lily that blooms -about this clearin’ gits its blossoms blowed off.’</p> - -<p>“It didn’t take long fer the news o’ Pap’s wow -to fly from one eend of Buzzard Walley to the -other. Zeb Pole got a job in the saw-mill. Hen -Jossel went back to bark-peelin’ an’ cuttin’ ties. -Widdy Spade planted her garden.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” exclaimed the Miller, as the Loafer -closed his account of the idiosyncracies of Zebulon -Pole, “I can’t see any way why your pap was -raisin’ sech fool things ez lilies. They’s only -good to look at.”</p> - -<p>“I understand that all right,” said the student. -“What I want to know is, what have you demonstrated -by all this talk?”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t demonstratened nawthin’,” replied the -Loafer. “You conterdicted me because I sayd -a man should travel slow an’ take things easy in -this world, an’ I proved that them ez travels fast -is fools, gainin’ nawthin’ in the eend fer themselves -or other folks. Then ye switches right -’round an’ adwises livin’ in a tub. I showed ye -what that led to.”</p> - -<p>“Then are we all to commit suicide?”</p> - -<p>“No. Travel comf’table th’oo this world. -Travel slow but allus keep movin’. Ye can see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> -the country ez ye go, stoppin’ now an’ then to -fish trout, or take a bang at a coon, or at the store -to discuss a leetle. Don’t live too fast—don’t live -too slow—live mejum.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Bumbletree’s Bass-Horn.</i></span></h2> - -<p>From the thick limbs of the maples came the -discordant chatter of the cricket, the katydid and -the tree-frog; from the creek beyond the mill the -hoarse bellow of the bull-frog; from the darkening -sky the shrill call of the night-hawk; and out of -the woods across the flats the plaintive cry of the -whippoorwill and the hoot of the owl. It was the -evening chorus, but the loungers on the store -porch did not hear it, for to them it was a part of -the night’s stillness. But when, wafted across the -meadows from the hills beyond, the notes of a -horn sounded faint and clear, the Chronic Loafer, -who for a long time had been smoking his pipe in -silence, cried, “What’s that?”</p> - -<p>“Slatter up the Dingdang,” said the Storekeeper. -He was sitting on the steps.</p> - -<p>“No, it ain’t; it’s Nellie Grey,” said the School -Teacher in a voice that brooked no contradiction. -Then in a deep bass he began singing,</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p> - -<div class="poem"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Oh, me little Nellie Grey, they have taken her away,</div> -<div class="verse">An’ I’ll never see me darlin’ any more,</div> -<div class="verse">I’m a-settin’ be the river with——”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“You’re a-settin’ on my porch,” cried the Storekeeper, -for he was nettled at having had his -knowledge of music questioned. “Sam Butter -can’t blow that tune, an’ he has ben out every night -a-practisin’ ‘Slatter up the Dingdang!’”</p> - -<p>The music on the hill ceased, leaving no tangible -ground on which the debate could be continued. -The Chronic Loafer had too long been -the butt of the pedagogue’s cutting sarcasm to -miss this opportunity of scoring him.</p> - -<p>“Ef that ain’t a good un,” he roared. “Why, -you uns doesn’t know nawthin’ ’bout tunes, -Teacher. Jim Clock he was een last night an’ -hear Sam a-blowin’ that wery piece. He sayd it -was ‘Slatter up the Dingdang,’ an’ I conjure that -Jim knows, fer he is ’bout the best bass-horn -player they is.”</p> - -<p>The Storekeeper feared that this support from -the Loafer might somewhat prejudice his own -case in the minds of the others, so he ventured, -“Not the best they is.”</p> - -<p>“Well, the best they is in Pennsylwany,” said -the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“There are some ignoramuses don’t know -nothin’,” exclaimed the Teacher. It was dark, -but by the light of the lantern that hung in the -window the men could see that he was gazing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -meaningly at his adversary. “But I know some -that knows less than nothin’. The best horn-blower -they is! Why, where’s your Rubensteins, -your Paddyrewskies, your Pattis?”</p> - -<p>He stopped, for he saw that the mention of -these names had had the desired effect on his -audience, as there was a wise wagging of -heads.</p> - -<p>But the Loafer was irrepressible. “Why,” he -retorted, “Patti ain’t a horn-player. He’s a -singer. I was readin’ a piece in the paper ’bout -him jest last week. An’ ez fer ole Rube Stein, he -never played nawthin’ but checkers.”</p> - -<p>“Well, can’t a man both sing an’ play the -horn?” the Teacher snapped.</p> - -<p>“Perfessor, I agree with ye, I agree with ye entirely.” -The Tinsmith had been silent hitherto, -on the end of the bench. Now he leaned into -view, resting an elbow on his knee and supporting -his head with his hand. “Jim Clock don’t -know no more ’bout blowin’ a bass-horn then my -ole friend, Borax Bumbletree. Borax he knowd -jest that leetle he was fired outen the Kishikoquillas -In’epen’en’ Ban’. He come of a musical -fam’ly, too. His mother an’ pap use to play the -prettiest kind o’ duets on the melodium an’ ’cordine. -His sister Amandy Lucy an’ his brother -Hiram could sing like nightingales an’ b’longed -to the choir at Happy Grove Church. It seems -like Borax was left out in the distributin’ o’ music<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -in that fam’ly, an’ consequent it went hard with -him. ’Henever strangers was at the house it was -allus, ‘Mr. Bumbletree, do play the melodium,’ or, -‘Now, Amanda Lucy, sing one o’ your beautiful -pieces,’ an’ all that. Poor Borax, he jest set an’ -moped.</p> - -<p>“Final he ’lowed he’d give the fam’ly a s’prise -an’ learn the bass-horn, cal’latin’ to make up be -hard hustlin’ what he’d missed be natur’—the -knowledge of the dif’rence ’tween a sharp an’ a -flat, a note an’ a bar, a treble an’ a soprany, an’ -all them things. He begin be j’inin’ the In’pen’en’ -Ban’. Fer six weeks he practised hard, an’ at -last he did git to playin’ a couple o’ pieces. But -the other fellys in the ban’ was continual’ complainin’ -that Borax didn’t keep no kind o’ time; -an’ not only that, but he drownded ’em all out, -fer he could make a heap o’ noise. They sayd -they wouldn’t play with him no more tell he -learned to blow time. Borax was clean discouraged, -but he didn’t give up. He practised six -weeks more an’ tried it with the ban’ boys agin. -They sayd now that he didn’t know pitch an’ ruined -their pieces a-bellerin’ way down in <em>A</em> ’hen they -was blowin’ up in high <em>C</em>. He was pretty well cut -up, but ’lowed he’d quit.</p> - -<p>“I think he meant what he sayd an’ ’ud ’a’ kep’ -his promise ef it hedn’t ’a’ ben that a woman interfered -with his good intentions. She was Pet -Parsley—Widdy Parsley, who lived with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -mother back in Buzzard Walley. Borax hed a -shine fer her afore she merried, an’ after she become -a widdy he was wus ’an ever. One night -at a ban’ festival, ’hen she was standin’ sellin’ at -the ice-crim counter, he was a-jollyin’ her. Now -he noticed that young Bill Hooker, who’d tuk his -place in the ban’, was makin’ eyes at her over the -top o’ his bass-horn while he was playin’. That -near drove Bumbletree mad, fer him an’ Bill hed -ben runnin’ neck an’ neck, an’ he knowd they was -approachin’ the string.</p> - -<p>“‘Don’t Mr. Hooker play gran’?’ sais Pet kind -o’ timid like.</p> - -<p>“‘Well, I don’t know,’ answers Borax, ‘I’ve -heerd better.’</p> - -<p>“‘Oh, hev ye,’ sais she, kind o’ perkin’ up her -nose. ’I ’low you’re jealous. Can you play at -all?’</p> - -<p>“‘Well, can I?’ sais Borax. ‘Why, I can -blow all ’round him.’</p> - -<p>“‘I’d like to hear you,’ sais Pet. ‘Won’t you -come an’ blow fer me sometim’?’</p> - -<p>“‘I will,’ he answers, wery determined.</p> - -<p>“He went home that night bound to git time -an’ pitch together. He started to practise ’round -the house but his fam’ly objected. The missus -’lowed she could never play the ’cordine with sech -a bellerin’ goin’ on. Amandy Lucy went so fur -ez to say it ’ud ruin her voice. But that didn’t -stop Borax. He sayd he’d practise ’way from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -the house. Every night after the feedin’ was -done he use to take his horn, his music marks an’ -a lantern, an’ go out on the hill ahint the barn. -There, settin’ on a lawg, with the lantern hangin’ -on a saplin’, he’d blow away. Many a night that -summer ez I set over at our placet on the next -ridge, I’d hear Borax a boom-boom-boomin’ to -git the time. The big tones ’ud go echoin’ way -over in the mo’ntain. Oncet in a while he’d hit -it good, an’ I tell you uns it sounded pretty to -hear them notes a-rollin’ deep acrosst the gut, -a-sighin’ th’oo the trees an’ a-dyin’ way off in the -woods.</p> - -<p>“Then he tuk up pitch. He blowed pitch fer -a week an’ then tried pitch an’ time together. I -thot he was doin’ pretty well. Still them ban’ -boys wasn’t satisfied. They sayd he didn’t go up -an’ down right, an’ that they couldn’t hev him -a-blowin’ ’way at pitch an’ time an’ never makin’ -no new notes. He ’lowed to me that they was a -heap to learn ’bout blowin’ a bass-horn, but he -was goin’ to git it ef it ’ud only be of uset in the -next worl’.</p> - -<p>“At nights I could see his light a-twinklin’ in -the woods acrosst the gut an’ hear him tryin’ to -blow time an’ pitch an’ ups an’ downs all at -oncet. He’d git his wind fixed to blow <em>A</em>, an’ -out ’ud come a <em>C</em>; or he’d try fer a <em>D</em> an’ land an -<em>E</em>. He ’lowed to me oncet that sometim’ he thot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> -mebbe it was willed that he was never to git a -tune. But he kep’ at it.</p> - -<p>“Now Bill Hooker hed ben to Horrisburg -that summer an’ got him a brown cady hat. That -was a new kind o’ headgear ’round Kishikoquillas -an’ it cot on wonderful well. All the boys -’lowed they’d git ’em, but tell they had a chancet -o’ buyin’ one they got to depend on Bill fer the -loan o’ hisn ’hen they was goin’ out shinin’. So -Hooker wasn’t s’prised one night ’hen Borax -Bumbletree drove up to his placet an’ ’lowed -mebbe Hooker mightn’t like to loan him his cady, -ez he was goin’ callin’. Bill allus was obligin’ an’ -thot no harm ’hen he watched Borax a-drivin’ -away with his cady settin’ way up on top o’ his -head. Bumbletree hitched his buckboard to -a saplin’ on the edge o’ Pet Parsley’s clearin’. -Then he got his horn out from in under the seat, -fixed himself on a stump ’bout fifty feet from the -house, put up his music marks so the moonlight -shone on ’em, an’ begin to play. He started the -serynade with ‘Soft th’oo the Eventide,’ that -bein’ sentymental an’ his most famil’ar piece. -He put his whole heart into the work an’ was -soon blowin’ time an’ pitch an’ ups an’ downs all -at oncet. The lamp that hed ben settin’ in the -windy went out—that was all to show he’d ben -heard. He blowed ‘Pull fer the Shore, Sailor.’ -No sign o’ life in the house. He blowed ‘The -Star Spangled Banner.’ Still no sign. He then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -begin all over agin with ‘Soft th’oo the Eventide.’ -Be this time the whole chicken-house hed -j’ined in, an’ the cows was takin’ a hand too. He -was desp’rit, dissypinted fearful an’ all used up. -So he went home.</p> - -<p>“You take a reg’lar thief. He knows they’s -only one eend to thievin’—jail. An’ he’ll keep on -stealin’ tell he gits there. Take a reg’lar murderer. -He knows they’s only one eend to murder—the -galluses; yit he’ll continyer murderin’ tell -he gits there. So it is with a reg’lar man. He -knows they’s only one result o’ bein’ in lawv—to -be merried or git the mitten. An’ yit he’ll keep -right on tell he gits one or the other. So it was -with Borax Bumbletree. He hed no reason to -think he’d git anything but the mitten, yit he -went right up to Pet Parsley’s next night to take -his punishment. He tol’ me that day that he -guesst his serynade hed spoiled all the chancet he -ever had, but he wanted it over.</p> - -<p>“So he was kind o’ sheepish an’ hang-dog ’hen -he’d sayd good evenin’ to the widdy an’ set down -melancholy like, on the wood-box. They was -quiet a piecet.</p> - -<p>“Then he sayd, ‘I hear ye hed some music up -here last night.’</p> - -<p>“He was jest fishin’.</p> - -<p>“‘Did I!’ sais she, flarin’ up. ‘Well, I guesst -I did. An’ the chickens was so stirred up they -kep’ on all night an’ not a wink o’ sleep did we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> -git in this house. I never heerd sech bass-horn -blowin’.’</p> - -<p>“Borax jest hung his head an’ shuffled his -feet.</p> - -<p>“The widdy spoke up agin. ‘Does you ever -see Bill Hooker?’</p> - -<p>“‘Oncet in a long while,’ Borax answers.</p> - -<p>“‘Well, you tell him,’ she sais, ‘that next time -he comes up here to serynade me to send notice -so I can git over the other side the mo’ntain.’</p> - -<p>“Borax Bumbletree gasped an’ almost fell offen -the wood-box.</p> - -<p>“‘How’d you know it was Bill Hooker?’ he -asts quick.</p> - -<p>“‘Well, didn’t I see that new fandangled hat o’ -hisn—that cady I’ve heerd so much about. Why, -I’d ’a’ knowd him a mile.’</p> - -<p>“Now Borax wasn’t ez slow on everything ez -he was on music. He was right smart, he was. -He seen the way the wind blowed.</p> - -<p>“Gittin’ offen the wood-box he went over to -the settee alongside o’ her.</p> - -<p>“‘Pet,’ he sais, ‘I allus told you Bill Hooker -couldn’t blow the bass-horn.’</p> - -<p>“‘I otter ’a’ knowd you could blow a heap -sight better,’ she sais quiet like, but meanin’ business.</p> - -<p>“‘That I can,’ sais he. ‘An’ after we’re merried—not -tell after, mind ye—I’ll blow sech music -fer ye ez ye never dreamed of.’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> - -<p>“My sights, but he was innercent!” the Loafer -cried.</p> - -<p>“What do you know ’bout it?” snapped the -Tinsmith.</p> - -<p>“Why, him thinkin’ she’d give him a chancet -to blow.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Little Si Berrybush.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer held in his hand a single -sheet of a Philadelphia paper nine days old. The -other pages had long since left the store in -service as wrappings. This treasure he had rescued -from such ignominious use and now was -poring over it letter by letter. The center of -the page was within three inches of the end of -his nose. His brow was furrowed and his lips -moved. At intervals he lifted his right hand -and with the forefinger beat time to his reading. -He was comfortably fixed on an egg-crate close -by the stove. The paper hid him from the view -of his companions. They could not see the earnest -workings of his features but they could hear a -steady, sonorous mumble and were curious. They -knew better than to interrupt him in his arduous -task, however, and awaited with commendable -patience the time when he should choose to come -forth from his seclusion and tell them all about it.</p> - -<p>They had not long to wait. Suddenly he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -jerked his head forward three times, viciously -butting the paper, simultaneously emitting a -burring sound not unlike that of an angry bull -when he tears up the sod with his horns. The -curtain fell to show him calm again but with a -puzzled expression on his countenance.</p> - -<p>“Teacher,” he said, “what does <em>h-a-b-e-a-s</em> -spell?”</p> - -<p>“Hab-by-ace,” replied the pedagogue promptly. -He threw out his chest and fixed his thumbs in -their favorite resting-place, the arm-holes of his -waistcoat. His attitude was that of a man who -was full to the neck with general information -and only needed uncorking.</p> - -<p>“Habbyace,” said the Loafer. “Habbyace—habbyace—that’s -a new un on me.”</p> - -<p>“Doubtless it is,” the other retorted, “if you -have never studied Latin. It means <em>have</em>.”</p> - -<p>“Have—have,” muttered the Loafer, more -puzzled than ever. “Then what’s <em>c-o-r-p-u-s</em> -spell?”</p> - -<p>“Corpuse,” replied the pedagogue, “being the -Latin for body.”</p> - -<p>“Then I’m stumped.” The Loafer crumpled -up his paper in one hand and shook the other at -the assembled company. “Them ceety lawyers -certainly beat the band.”</p> - -<p>“What’s all the trouble now?” inquired the -Tinsmith.</p> - -<p>The Loafer unfolded the sheet again and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -smoothed it out on his knees. Then he leaned -over it and eyed it intently.</p> - -<p>“I was jest readin’ a piece about a man called -Jawhn O’Brien,” he said slowly. “He was ’rested -fer killin’ his wife an’ two young uns. It sais the -evydence is dead agin him an’ he is sure to hang. -He has hired J. Montgomery Cole to defend him. -The first thing the lawyer does is to go inter court -an’ ast fer a habbyace corpuse. Mighty souls! -The idee! How’s that to defend a man—jest to -ast fer his dead body.”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch shook his head solemnly. “Terrible—terrible,” -he said. “Sech men ought -never git diplomys.”</p> - -<p>“Yit, Gran’pap,” suggested the Tinsmith, -“don’t ye think after all it’s best they is some sech -lawyers? Why, ef it wasn’t fer the dumb lawyers -they’d never be no murderers brought to jestice.”</p> - -<p>“True—true,” said the old man. “Now it -used to be that ’hen a man committed murder -he was tried, an’ ef the evydence was agin him, -he was hung. Nowadays a felly commits murder -an’ a year is spent hevin’ him indickted. After -he’s indickted a year is ockypied with these -habbyace corpuse proceedin’s. They settles who -gits the body in caset he’s hung an’ then they finds -what they calls a ‘flaw in the indicktment.’ They -indickts him agin. Next comes the question of a -‘change in vendue.’ It takes a year to argy that -pint an’ after it the trial begins. Ef he’s found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -innercent it means he’s ben livin’ th’ee years doin’ -nawthin’ at the county’s expense. Ef he’s found -guilty his lawyer takes what they calls an ‘exception,’ -meanin’ he objects to him bein’ hung. -It takes a year to——”</p> - -<p>“But, Gran’pap,” interrupted the Loafer, -“ye must remember that the principle o’ the -law is that because a man commits murder is no -sign he’s guilty.”</p> - -<p>“I know—I know,” the Patriarch said. “Ye -can’t catch me on law. I thot o’ stedyin’ it -oncet. But ez I was sayin’—where was it I left -off?”</p> - -<p>“What’s a ‘change o’ vendue,’ Gran’pap?” -inquired the Miller.</p> - -<p>The old man glared at the speaker.</p> - -<p>“That wasn’t the pint where I left off,” he -snapped.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but what is it, Gran’pap?” the Tinsmith -asked.</p> - -<p>But the Patriarch had forgotten all about the -defects of the law. He had leaned forward, resting -his hands on his cane and his head on his -hands, and was studying the floor intently.</p> - -<p>“Buttonporgie stood six feet two in his stockin’s,” -he said half aloud, after a long silence. -“That there was the way to do ’em. Now ef -Si Berrybush hed ben livin’ to-day, he’d be fussin’ -with indicktments an’ changes of vendues an’ -all them things an’——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Who air you talkin’ to now?” exclaimed the -Loafer.</p> - -<p>The old man looked up. “Oh!” he said. “I -forgot. Sure, I forgot. Ye never heard o’ -Tom Buttonporgie did ye, or Si Berrybush?”</p> - -<p>None of the company had heard of the pair, -so the Patriarch consented to enlighten them.</p> - -<p>“I got the main pints o’ the story from Tom -himself,” he began. “He used to tell it ’hen he -stayed at my pap’s place ’hen I was a bit of a -boy. He allus told it the same way, too, which -was evydence of it bein’ true. I wish all you uns -could ’a’ heard him. Mighty, but it was a treat! -Why, he was never in our house two minutes till -us children was runnin’ ’round him callin’ to him -to tell us how he done Si Berrybush. But he’d -never give us a word till he’d opened his pedler’s -pack an’ sold somethin’ to Ma an’ the girls. -Next it was his supper an’ a pipe. Then I’d -climb on his one knee an’ my sister Solly on the -other. Ed an’ May ’ud git on the wood-box an’ -Pap an’ Ma on the settee. It took th’ee pipes to -wind Tom up. Then he’d go beautiful. The -words ’ud role out like music an’ you’d fergit the -kitchen an’ the folks around. You’d be out in -the woods with him, steppin’ along with him -hour after hour ez he was carryin’ Si Berrybush -to freedom. You’d see the things ez he saw, an’ -you’d feel the things ez he felt. Now ye was -low down an’ discouraged. Everything was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -dark ez ye stumbled on an’ on, achin’ in every -limb, expectin’ each minute ’ud be your last. -Now ye was hopin’. They was a chance fer ye -yit. The light broke. The load was gone. Si -Berrybush was gone, an’ ye was back in the ole -kitchen agin, with Pap an’ Ma sound asleep on -the settee.</p> - -<p>“Ez I was sayin’, Tom Buttonporgie stood six -feet two in his stockin’s an’ was a most powerful -man, fer walkin’ day after day, luggin’ a great pack -on his back, hed give him the muscles of an ox. He -used to come to this walley oncet every summer -so he knowd well o’ Si Berrybush, who was the -desperatest man ever seen in these parts. Si’s ockypation -was robbin’. He made his headquarters -in the mo’ntain acrosst the river. His hand was -agin everybody an’ everybody knowd it, yit he -never was catched. Oncet a pedler was found -dead in the bushes with a bullet hole in his head -an’ his pack turned inside out. They sayd Berrybush -did it, so he went down to the Sheriff’s an’ -give himself up. They was no evydence an’ he -walked home agin. A couple o’ times things like -that happened an’ yit they was never an ioty o’ -proof. He’d ’a’ died a nat’ral death, I guess, ef -he hedn’t forgot himself one night in the willage -an’ shot Joe Hyde. They was too many fellys -handy who hed grudges agin him to let him git -away, an’ they clapped him in jail, tried him an’ -sentenced him to be hung.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Now, about this time, Tom Buttonporgie come -over the mo’ntain inter the walley. Late in the -afternoon he reached Ben Clock’s place near Eden, -an’ ez they knowd him well they ast him to spend -the night. After supper the family hed a game -o’ cards an’ about nine o’clock Tom tuk up his -pack an’ started fer the barn where he was to -sleep, fer the house was full. Clock lighted the -way with a lantern an’ saw him comfortable fixed. -The pack was stowed away in a corner o’ the -barn-floor, while the pedler was settled nice ez ye -please on a horse-blanket in the hay-mow.</p> - -<p>“Tom Buttonporgie slept sound an’ hard. -Everything in this world was pleasant fer him. -Things was goin’ his way. It’s strange that it -should be so, boys, but yit it is true that sleep -comes easiest an’ quickest to them ez hes nawthin’ -but good things to forget in it. So from the time -he laid his head down on the hay till a kick awoke -him, Tom knowd nawthin’. He opened his eyes -with a jerk an’ set up an’ rubbed ’em. The airly -mornin’ light was jest creepin’ inter the barn, but -he could make out only a small, dark figure a few -feet away.</p> - -<p>“‘Good morning, Mr. Clock,’ sais he wery pleasant, -tho’ he was a leetle put out at the rough way -he’d ben woke.</p> - -<p>“‘Good mornin’, Tom,’ sais the figure wery -cheerful. ‘You’ve mistook me, fer my name is -Berrybush.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Hen the pedler hear that he made a grab fer -his pistol. He’d laid it in the hay close to him, -but now it was gone. He started to rise but he -felt a steel bawrel pressed agin his head. Buttonporgie -was big an’ full o’ grit, but he knowd that -ye can’t argy with lead. So he set down.</p> - -<p>“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘I guess you’ve got me, Mr. -Berrybush.’</p> - -<p>“‘I think I hev,’ the murderer answers, ‘an’ I’ve -got ye good,’ he sais. ‘I intend to keep ye, too, -fer I’m right fresh out o’ jail an’ soon the whole -country’ll be lookin’ fer me. Excuse the familiarity,’ -he goes on polite like, ‘but we’ll be Tom -an’ Si fer some hours to come, fer you’re to carry -me outen these parts in your pack.’</p> - -<p>“That idee made Buttonporgie gasp. He tried -to git up but bumped agin the pistol.</p> - -<p>“Si Berrybush laughed an’ went on in that -pleasant way o’ his: ‘I notice the plan ain’t -takin’ well with ye, Tom, but you’ll see how nice -it works. While you slept,’ he sais, ‘I fixed the -pack. The goods is all stowed away here in the -hay an’ I find I fit the leather box to a T. I git -in it; you put it on your back an’ go th’ee mile -an hour. Nawthin’s easier.’</p> - -<p>“Then he laughed like he’d die.</p> - -<p>“Be this time they was quite some light in the -barn an’ the pedler was able to see who he hed -to deal with. The first sight was encouragin’, -fer he was but a bit of a man, not more than five<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -feet th’ee. He’d a wery small body set on crooked -spindle legs. His face was pleasant enough, fer -they was nawthin’ in his leetle, black eyes an’ -heavy, red beard to mark him ez a desperaydo. -The only real onlikely thing about him was the -pedler’s pistol.</p> - -<p>“Tom kind o’ cheers up now an’ sais, sais he, -‘Si, you’ve mistook the whole thing. Don’t ye see -I’ll turn ye over to the first men we meet?’</p> - -<p>“At that Si th’owed back his head an’ laughed.</p> - -<p>“‘Will ye?’ he sais. ‘Well I guess ye would, -only this pistol’ll be stickin’ th’oo a hole in the -back o’ the pack. Ef you go to carry out sech an -idee two bullets’ll end the both of us, an’ that’s -a sight better than hangin’. So come on,’ he sais. -‘We must be movin’.’</p> - -<p>“Tom wasn’t in fer undertakin’ sech a job -without objectin’.</p> - -<p>“‘See here, Si!’ he sais. ‘I appeals to you ez -a gentleman,’ he sais. ‘I’ve allus heard you was -a gentleman in spite o’ your faults—I appeal to -you to tell me what good it would do you to kill -yourself an’ me too. You hain’t no particular -spite agin me,’ Tom goes on, ‘an’ I hain’t no -particular spite agin you. I’m willin’ fer you to -stay in this barn an’ me git out, or fer you to git -out an’ me stay, both of us keepin’ quiet.’</p> - -<p>“Si’s eyes kind o’ twinkled an’ he pulled his -beard like he was thinkin’ wery hard.</p> - -<p>“‘Shake me, Tom!’ he sais at last, ‘ef I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -like a man o’ your sperrit. Ef I wasn’t in sech a -bad hole I’d be tempted to accept your offer. -But onfortunate fer both of us,’ he sais, ‘this -whole walley will be overrun with searchin’ parties -in a few hours. They’ve got a chancet to hang -Si Berrybush an’ they ain’t goin’ to lose it ef they -can help it.’</p> - -<p>“Buttonporgie was a nice man an’ a smart man -at his business, but they was some things that it -was a leetle hard to git into his head.</p> - -<p>“‘See here!’ he sais, not satisfied. ‘I can’t -see what good it ’ud do you to shoot me ef I was -to call one o’ them searchin’ parties to take a -look in my pack. You’d hev to hang anyway. -Why couldn’t ye jest shoot yourself?’</p> - -<p>“‘You’re wastin’ walable time,’ Si answers. -‘I’ll kill myself sooner than be catched. Ez long -ez you know that you’ll be killed ef I am catched, -you won’t bother callin’ folks to see what you are -carryin’. An’, Tom,’ he went on, ‘I might jest ez -well tell you now that ’hen we git well out o’ -harm’s way, I’m goin’ to shoot ye anyhow. I -don’t want to leave no one ’round to blab.’</p> - -<p>“Si Berrybush smiled the innercentest smile -you uns ever see, an’ the pedler chewed a straw -a spell.</p> - -<p>“Then he looks up an’ sais, ‘You must take -me for a dummy?’</p> - -<p>“‘Why?’ Si asts.</p> - -<p>“‘Do you think I’ll lug you thirty or forty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -mile jest so you can shoot me?’ answers Buttonporgie. -‘I might ez well call it up now!’ he sais.</p> - -<p>“Si cocked his pistol careless-like an’ pinted -it at the other man’s head ez tho’ it was his -finger an’ he was jest makin’ a good argyment -on religion.</p> - -<p>“‘You are a dummy,’ he sais, laughin’. ‘Now -don’t you s’pose that ez long ez you think there’s -hope, a chancet o’ your comin’ out alive, you’ll -carry me. Of course ye will,’ he sais. ‘Not -till there’s not an ioty of a possibility o’ your -doin’ me, will you let me finish you.’”</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls, but that Si was an argyer, now -wasn’t he!” the Miller interrupted.</p> - -<p>“He’d ’a’ looked like small potatys ’long side -o’ my Missus. I mind the time ’hen jest fer fun -I——”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch tapped the Loafer gently on the -knee with his cane.</p> - -<p>“My dear man,” he said gently, “never interrupt -a good story. It ain’t polite. There is -some peculiarly minded folks ez is never happy -’less they is doin’ all the talkin’. Now where did -I leave off?”</p> - -<p>“Where there was hope—some hope,” the -Miller answered.</p> - -<p>“Hope—oh, yes—hope,” the old man continued. -“Mighty! Why I’ve knowd a sensible hen to -set four weeks on a chiny egg, jest in hope that she -might be mistaken. Si Berrybush knowd human<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -natur’ well, fer it didn’t need but a wiggle or two -o’ the pistol to bring Buttonporgie to takin’ his -view o’ the sensibleness o’ hopin’. The pedler -looked kind o’ sheepish an’ ’lowed he guesst Si -was right. Si sayd he guesst he was, an’ climbed -into the pack, an’ most mighty snug he fit it. -Then Buttonporgie knelt down, put his arms -th’oo the straps an’ lifted the load high on his -back. Si closed down the flap. A second later -Tom felt the muzzle o’ the pistol pressin’ him -gentle like atween the shoulders.</p> - -<p>“‘Now we’re off,’ sais Si, ‘over the mo’ntains -th’oo Windy Gap. Step light, ole hoss,’ he -sais, ‘fer the gun’s cocked an’ too much joltin’ll -send it off.’”</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls!” interrupted the Loafer. -“An’ how fur did he hev to carry him, Gran’pap? -A mile?”</p> - -<p>“A mile!” exclaimed the Patriarch. “Pshaw! -Does you uns think a mile ’ud ’a’ put Si Berrybush -outen the way o’ the sheriff’s posse. Why, the -whole county was alive that mornin’. It was -hardly sun-up ’hen Tom Buttonporgie stepped -outen Clock’s barn an’ went ploddin’ up the big -road with his pack, yit at the eend o’ the first -mile he met th’ee men on horseback, an’ they -pulled up an’ told him all about Berrybush an’ -warned him to keep out a sharp eye. Tom felt -the pistol bawrel kind o’ nosin’ ’round his -shoulders, so he laughed wery pleasant an’ ’lowed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -it was all right; he was obliged fer the warnin’ -but there was no help fer Si Berrybush ef he ever -come within the length o’ his arm. On he went -agin. Ez the last o’ the horses’ hoofs died away -down the road he hear a gentle chucklin’ coming -from his pack.</p> - -<p>“‘Wery good,’ sais Si, ‘most a mighty good.’</p> - -<p>“The pedler was a religious man yit he swore. -At that he could feel his pack palpitatin’, fer his -load was laughin’ an’ laughin’ to beat all. Tom -swore some more, but he kept up his walkin’.</p> - -<p>“Si ’lowed it wasn’t nice fer Tom to carry on so.</p> - -<p>“‘It makes me feel bad,’ he sayd, talkin’ th’oo -a slit in the top o’ the pack. ‘It makes me feel -bad, Tom, to hear you behavin’ like that. I -don’t mind killin’ a good man, fer I knows he’ll -git his reward in the next world. But shootin’ a -felly after he’s used sech language hurts me,’ he -sayd.</p> - -<p>“With that he rubbed the nose o’ the pistol -between Tom’s shoulder-blades. The pedler jest -bubbled.</p> - -<p>“‘Keep on hopin’, Tom,’ he heard the woice at -his back. ‘Mebbe somethin’ll happen ’twixt now -an’ to-morrow mornin’ that’ll let you free o’ your -pack!’</p> - -<p>“The sun come out hot, an’ the road was -dusty. The load was heavy an’ they was a good -many long hills. Time an’ agin Tom ’ud slow -down. ‘Git up, ole hoss,’ he’d hear come from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -behind him. Then they’d be that pistol jabbin’ -him. He’d make a face an’ pick up his gait. -Time an’ agin he met parties ez was out huntin’ -the murderer. Sometim’s he’d hurry by them; -others he stopped an’ talked to, askin’ all about -Si Berrybush an’ his escape, thankin’ ’em fer -their adwice an’ ’lowin’ over an’ over agin he’d -give his last cent jest to have the leetle man in -his grasp.</p> - -<p>“Be noon he’d covered nine mile an’ reached -the foot o’ the mo’ntain.</p> - -<p>“‘Now see here, Si,’ he sais, sais he, ‘you ain’t -goin’ to kill your horse be overwork, are ye? -S’posn I drop down in the road!’</p> - -<p>“‘Nobody’s sorrier than I am fer your trouble, -Tom,’ come the answer. ‘It’s really pitiful. But -I’ll risk your givin’ out—I’ll risk it.’</p> - -<p>“Then there was the pistol agin.</p> - -<p>“At the last house in the walley Tom stopped -an’ got a loaf o’ bread be special permission. The -woman wanted to hev a look at his pack, but he -sayd no; what he had in it wasn’t worth lookin’ at. -He was carryin’ low-down, mean, mis’able stock -that wasn’t fit to show to no lady. Besides—the -pistol was jabbin’ him—he hed to hurry on to git -over the mo’ntain be sunset. An’ on he went.</p> - -<p>“Si begin laughin’ so hard it set the pack -joltin’ up an’ down on Tom’s back an’ almost upset -him.</p> - -<p>“‘That was a mean undercut you give me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -Thomas,’ sais the murderer. ‘A gentleman should -never abuse a gentleman behind his back!’ he -sais. ‘Now s’posn you pass that bread in here.’</p> - -<p>“‘But I got it fer meself,’ Tom wentures.</p> - -<p>“‘Did ye?’ answers Berrybush, pressin’ on the -butt of the gun jest a leetle. ‘Well, s’posn ye pass -it in anyway an’ dewote the rest o’ the afternoon -to hopin’. Mebbe you’ll git it after all.’</p> - -<p>“Tom passed it.</p> - -<p>“The road was steep an’ the way was rough in -the mo’ntain. Strong ez he was an’ light ez was -the murderer, the work begin to go heavy with -him. But the pistol was allus at his back proddin’ -him on. Oncet he stepped inter a chuckhole an -pitched for’a’d, his hands jest savin’ him from -strikin’ his face to the ground. He thot that all -was up with him, fer the pack was jerked up on -his head, wrenchin’ his shoulders most dreadful. -He closed his eyes expectin’ to hear the crack o’ -the gun an’ then go plungin’ on agin fer ever an’ -ever.</p> - -<p>“Nawthin’ happened. He climbed to his feet -kind o’ dissypinted, fer instead o’ his journey -bein’ ended he hed to go limpin’ ahead. Si was -a-cursin’ him dreadful. Tom walked like an -ellyphant, he sayd, an’ was joltin’ his bones all -out o’ j’int. Next time he stumbled the gun ’ud -be cocked dead sure.</p> - -<p>“The sun was settin’ ’hen they reached the -edge o’ the woods on yon side the mo’ntain. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -murderer pushed up the lid o’ the pack an’ looked -out over Tom’s shoulder. He pinted acrosst the -walley twenty mile to where they could see the -hills agin. There, he sayd, he’d be th’oo with -his mule.</p> - -<p>“Th’oo with him! Tom knowd what that -meant. He knowd now Si Berrybush ’ud keep -his word; that he’d never git out o’ that pack -an’ leave a man alive an’ runnin’ round to tell -where he could be found. He was almost willin’ -to call the game up right there an’ lay down his -load an’ his life together, but still there was hope. -It was precious leetle, to be sure, but still some. -Ez Si sayd, they was no tellin’ what might happen -agin they got to the end o’ that twenty mile.</p> - -<p>“Berrybush pulled in his head an’ let the flap -down over it. ‘Git up’, he sais, ‘git up, ole Tom.’ -An’ with that he give him a prod.</p> - -<p>“On Buttonporgie went, down the slope inter -the walley, each step takin’ him nearer an’ nearer -the hills. The sun set an’ the darkness come to -add to his troubles. The lights went out in the -houses ’long the way an’ they wasn’t no sound -to cheer him up, not a sound but the steady -breathin’ in his pack an’ the rattle o’ the -gravel under his own shufflin’ feet. It was -awful travellin’ that way, straight on an’ on -to the hills where he was to die, feelin’ allus -on his back the weight o’ the man who was to -kill him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Final he couldn’t stand the silence no more. -‘Si,’ he cried, ‘Si, won’t ye talk to me!’</p> - -<p>“They wasn’t no answer. He only heard a -heavy breathin’ in the pack.</p> - -<p>“The moon come up an’ lighted the road an’ -the dogs begin to bay at it. That might ’a’ -cheered him up some had he ’a’ heard ’em, but he -didn’t hear nawthin’ now. Tom Buttonporgie -was dazed like. He kept on a-walkin’ an’ a-walkin’, -but the straps no longer cut his shoulders -an’ he forgot the load on his back. The road -with the moonlight pourin’ over it seemed like a -broad white pavement crosst the walley, smooz -ez marble. They was no chuckholes now to -stumble in, no thank-ye-ma’ams to jump over, no -ruts to twist his ankles. It was all smooz—smooz -ez marble it was. On he went, faster an’ faster. -He wanted to git to the eend o’ the white road -now an’ lay down his pack an’ sleep. He was -walkin’ mechanical.</p> - -<p>“All o’ a sudden a queer sound woke him from -his doze an’ he stopped short. It all come back -agin. He was in the road an’ the road was -rough, an’ the straps was cuttin’ dreadful, an’ his -legs felt like they was givin’ way under him. -The pack was on his back an’ awful heavy too. -He reached up his hand an’ felt it. But a queer -sound was comin’ from it—most a mighty queer. -Tom didn’t dast breathe. He stood still listenin’. -Then it come louder—a soft purrin’, gentle ez a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -cat’s. An’ the peddler laughed. Natur’ hed -tackled Si Berrybush an’ walloped him. He was -snorin’.</p> - -<p>“There was an oneasy movement in the pack. -Tom’s heart fell. He stepped on wery cautious. -Now agin come the sound, louder an’ louder.</p> - -<p>“The road took a sudden turn ’round a thick -clump o’ woods an’ crossed a stream on a rickety -timber bridge. There Buttonporgie stopped. -An’ ez he leaned agin the rail an’ looked down -into the water there below him, gleamin’ along -in the moonlight, everything kind o’ passed away -from his mind. He only knowd that he was -wery hot, an’ the pool looked so cool an’ inwitin’. -He only knowd that he was wery tired, -an’ the pool looked so soft an’ nice, ez ef it -was jest intended for limbs achin’ like ez his. -He’d miles yit to go afore he reached the -hills. Si was sleepin’. Si wouldn’t mind. Si -wouldn’t know. They’d be movin’ agin afore Si -woke up. So he climbed over the rail an’ stepped -off. The wotter closed over his head an’ he went -down an’ down, the great weight on his back -draggin’ him. But that wasn’t what he wanted. -He was jest goin’ to lay there in the cool stream -an’ look up at the stars an’ rest. His feet struck -the bottom an’ he tore his arms free o’ the straps -that held the awful weight to him. In a second -he was on the surface an’ swimmin’, fer he was -wide awake.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p> - -<p>“He used to say that ez he stood there on the -bank lookin’ at that quiet pool it seemed ez tho’ -it was all a dream; that he’d never met the murderer -an’ carried him thirty mile on his back, or -felt the prod of his pistol every time his steps -lagged. But ef it was a dream, he thot, then -what was that he seen that rose to the surface -an’ went bobbin’ away on the current? It was -Si Berrybush’s ole cloth cap.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Cupid and a Mule.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The wind went shrieking through the bare attic -above and singing among the boxes and barrels -in the cellar below. The big show window -in front groaned in a deep bass; the little window -in the rear accompanied it in a high treble. The -lamp, with its vague, flickering flame, cast a gloomy -glare over the store, and lighted up the faces of -the little group of men, seated on box, counter, -keg and chair, huddled about the great center of -heat.</p> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer raised himself from his -favorite pile of calicoes and turned up his coat -collar.</p> - -<p>“Shet that stove door an’ put on the draught,” -he cried. “What’s the uset o’ freezin’!”</p> - -<p>“Cold Chrisermas to morrer,” said the Storekeeper, -as he banged the door shut and turned on -the draught in obedience to the demand.</p> - -<p>“Turn up the lamp,” growled the Miller. “It’s -ez dark an’ gloomy ez a barn here.”</p> - -<p>“They ain’t no uset o’ wastin’ ile,” the Storekeeper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -muttered as he complied with the second -request.</p> - -<p>The great egg stove roared right merrily as the -flames darted up out of its heart, until its large -body grew red-hot and sent forth genial rays of -heat and light—the veritable sun of the narrow -village universe.</p> - -<p>“Listen to the wind! Ain’t it howlin’?” said -the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Col’est Chrisermas Eve in years,” the Tinsmith -responded.</p> - -<p>The Loafer pushed himself off the counter onto -an empty crate that stood below him. He leaned -forward and almost embraced the stove in his -effort to toast his hands.</p> - -<p>“This, I’ve heard tell,” he said, “is the one night -in all the year ’hen the cattle talks jest like men.”</p> - -<p>“Some sais it’s Holly E’en,” ventured the -Miller.</p> - -<p>“No, it ain’t. It’s Chrisermas,” the Loafer replied -emphatically. He leaned back, placed his -thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat and glared -about the circle in defiance.</p> - -<p>The brief silence that followed was broken by -the School Teacher.</p> - -<p>“Superstition! Mere superstition!”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I sais,” cried the Storekeeper. -He was leaning over the counter munching a -candy lion. “What ’ud a mule talk about ’hen -he only had a chancet oncet a year?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> - -<p>A thin, meaning smile crept over the Loafer’s -face and he bent forward, thrusting his long chin -in the direction of the venturesome merchant.</p> - -<p>“In my time,” he drawled, “I’ve met some -mules pullin’ plows that hed they ben able to -talk ’ud ’a’ sayd sensibler things then some ez is -engaged in easier an’ more money-makin’ ockypations.”</p> - -<p>The Store was usually loath to accord recognition -to the Loafer, but this was the season of -good-will to all, and it lifted up its voice in one -mighty guffaw. Even the Teacher joined in, and -the G. A. R. Man slapped his knee and cried, -“Good shot!”</p> - -<p>The victim hid his burning face in the recesses -of the sugar barrel, and under pretense of hunting -for the scoop finished the candy toy.</p> - -<p>“My father-in-law was a superstitious man and -always believed in them fool things,” said the -pedagogue. “I never give them any credit myself, -for they say that education is as great an -enemy to superstition as light is to darkness. In -other words, learnin’ illumines a man’s mind and -drives out all them black, unholy beliefs that are -bred in ignorance.”</p> - -<p>He paused to give effect to his words, but the -Loafer seized the opportunity, thus unintentionally -offered, to remark, “Then it ’ud seem like most -men’s brains is like cellars. They is allus some hole -or corner in a cellar that ye can’t light lest ye put<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -a special lantern in it, an’ ye hev trouble keepin’ -that burnin’.”</p> - -<p>“But the brain’s perfectly round,” interposed -the Miller, shaking his head sagely.</p> - -<p>The Teacher sighed. “It’s no use talking to -you men in figures——”</p> - -<p>“Go on. Let’s hev figgers,” cried the Storekeeper, -eagerly.</p> - -<p>The pedagogue leaned back on two legs of his -chair and pillowed his head on a cheese box that -stood on the counter. After having carefully extinguished -the flame in his cigar, blown out the -smoke and placed the stump in his pocket, he -began:</p> - -<p>“While I give no credit to the current superstitions, -I cherish a peculiar affection for this old -belief that the cattle talk on Christmas Eve. I -feel that to it I owe part of my happiness in life, -and I’ve had a good deal of it, too, in spite of the -hardships I had to endure as a boy. You know -my parents died when I was but seventeen year -old and left me practically penniless and a charge -on the township. So I was bound over to Abraham -Buttenberger, who had a fine farm up near -West Eden. But for one thing life with him -would have gone hard with me, for he was a -crotchety old fellow, a bit stingy, and inclined to -get the greatest possible amount of work out of -a husky lad that was gettin’ no pay but his keep. -The one thing I mentioned was Abraham’s dotter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -Kate. I have seen many weemen in my day, -and I can honestly say that I have looked on few -such pictures as she was when I first knew her. -She was sixteen then——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know ’bout that,” the Loafer interrupted. -“Did you uns ever see my Missus ’hen -she was sixteen an’——”</p> - -<p>“She was sixteen then,” repeated the Teacher, -ignoring the remark; “she was sixteen and extremely -good lookin’. But most of you have -seen her since and it’s no use for me to dwell on -that point. As the years went by I got to set a -heap of store by Kate and she set a heap of store -by me. But we kept it to ourselves till we was -twenty. Then we agreed to be married. Our -agreement didn’t do any good, for Abraham set -his foot down on the scheme. He wasn’t goin’ -to have no hirelin’ of his a-merryin’ his dotter. I -explained to him how his days was drawin’ to an -end; how a time was a-comin’ when the place -wouldn’t do him any more good and no more -harm ’ud come to him whether his farm-hand was -runnin’ it or not; how his dotter would need -lookin’ after and all that. His answer was to -drive me away with a horse-whip.</p> - -<p>“That was in November. For seven weeks I -never laid eyes on the girl, for the old man -watched her like a hawk. But he tired of that, -and one night let her go to literary society meetin’ -at Kishikoquillas school. I saw her there and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -wanted her to elope right on the spot. She said -no. It was too sudden. Besides, she wanted her -things, for she knew her father would keep them -just for spite if she run away without them. So -we fixed it up that next night—that was Christmas -Eve—she was to meet me at their barn, and -we would take one of the horses and a sleigh and -skip.</p> - -<p>“Now, as I said, Abraham was a superstitious -man and continual readin’ the almanac and perusin’ -charms. He believed in that old sayin’ about -the cattle talkin’ on Christmas Eve. Many a night -he’d argued the point with me. I always said if -he thot it was true, why didn’t he go listen to it. -He declared he would, but he never did—leastways -he put it off to a most onexpected time. If -there was any place the cattle was likely to talk, -I used to tell him, it was right in that big, spooky -barn of his; and if there was any place where one -could hear them perfect, it was right there. The -stables was in the basement and the mows was -overhead. The hay was stored above the horses -and mules. A hole about ten feet across and -twenty feet deep run from the top of the mow -into that particular stable. I explained to him -how he could lay at the top of the hay, put his -head down into the hole and hear everything that -passed. But that Christmas Eve I’d forgot all -about our argument. I’d other things to think -of.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I reached the barn at midnight. Kate was -there, standin’ by the gate waitin’. Everything -was clear. The old man, she said, had gone to -bed and didn’t have any suspicions. So we got -the sleigh ready and went into the horse stable -to harness up. It was clear moonlight outside -but inside it was dark as pitch and fearful ghostly. -There were all kinds of noises—hay rattlin’, rats -skippin’ around, chains clinkin’; and every now -and then a hen roostin’ up in the racks would -begin to cluck and scare Kate awful. Grave-yards -is bad at night but they ain’t a circumstance -to a big barn.</p> - -<p>“I picked out the white John mule, for I knew -he was a good traveler, and gettin’ the harness, -I went into his stall and began to fix it on him. -Then I couldn’t find any bridles. I whispered -to Kate. She said they was over in the cow -stable, and went to get one. It seemed to me -she was gone an awful long time. I could hear -her trampin’ around, but as she didn’t appear to -be havin’ much success I called, not very loud, -‘What’s wrong?’</p> - -<p>“‘Nothin’,’ she answered, ‘I’ll have them in a -minute.’</p> - -<p>“It seemed like I heard a suspicious noise -come down the hayhole from the mow above. I -listened, but I didn’t hear any more sounds, so -guessed it was a rat.</p> - -<p>“Then I called louder to Kate, for I was mad at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -Abraham for all the trouble he’d given us, ‘The -old man is a mean customer if there ever was -one!’</p> - -<p>“She tramped around in the straw for a spell. -Then her answer came from the cow stable, ‘That’s -what I say.’</p> - -<p>“‘A nice way he treats his own dotter,’ I went -on, just talkin’ for company. ‘He thinks he’ll take -his farm with him when he dies. What a shame -in a man of his age!’</p> - -<p>“Again I heard a rattle of hay up above and -whispered, ‘Ssh!’ But the girl didn’t catch it and -said particularly loud and spiteful, ‘He has treated -me powerful mean.’</p> - -<p>“I put my hand to my ear and listened, but all -was quiet, so I thinks to myself, ‘It’s a chicken.’</p> - -<p>“‘Don’t you think kickin’ is too good for a man -like that, John?’ Kate asks.</p> - -<p>“‘Well, I’d like to have it to do,’ I answers. -‘Oh! just you wait till I get a chance, and if -I don’t——’</p> - -<p>“There was an awful scream in the mow—an -unearthly scream. A great, black thing came -tumblin’ out of the hayhole into the stable, lettin’ -out fearful groans all the time. I couldn’t see it -very plain and didn’t stop to investigate. I -bumped into Kate as she was pilin’ into the kitchen. -We set down a minute to get our breath. -Then I put my head out of the door. For a piece -all was quiet. Then a faint call come from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -barn. She thot maybe it was a tramp had fallen -down the hayhole. I wanted to go alone and see, -but Kate wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted on -goin’ with me and takin’ a gun and a lantern.</p> - -<p>“I opened the stable door, peeped in and said, -‘Who’s there?’</p> - -<p>“The answer was a moan and, ‘Is that you, -John? Help!’</p> - -<p>“There Abraham Buttenberger lay on a little -pile of hay at the back of the stable, writhin’ and -moanin’.</p> - -<p>“‘I always knew it,’ he groaned. ‘I always -told you they talked on Christmas Eve. But why -did you ever get me to try and hear them? See -what you’ve led me to. Look at me layin’ here -with a broken leg and see what you’ve done. It -was the white John mule—I know his voice. -T’other was the brindle cow.’</p> - -<p>“‘Look out for the mule! Look out!’ he -cried, as we carried him out of the stable and put -him on a wheelbarrow.</p> - -<p>“That’s the way he took on. When we’d -got him into the house I went up to town for a -doctor. I attended him that night. The next -day after he’d had breakfast, he set up in bed and -says to me: ‘John, I’ve heard people laugh about -the sayin’ that the cattle talk on Christmas Eve. -I’ve heard you make fun of the idee. But you’d -never laugh at it again if you heard what I did -last night; if you’d had a mule heapin’ coals of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -fire on your head. And that cow! Oh, it’s awful -to have the very animals on the farm down on -you like that.’</p> - -<p>“‘What did they say?’ says I.</p> - -<p>“‘Say!’ he answers. ‘What didn’t they say? -I’ll never have no peace behind that John mule -again.’</p> - -<p>“The old man was quiet a spell. Then he -says, ‘John, you can have my dotter, my only -dotter.’</p> - -<p>“And he begin to moan.</p> - -<p>“Missus and I were married at home that -Christmas just fifteen years ago. We never explained -it to Abraham. There was no particular -use in it. We couldn’t ’a’ convinced him anyway. -Why, do you know he was so set on makin’ -up all around that he insisted that the brindle -cow and the white mule know all about it. The -ceremony was performed in the kitchen and them -two knowin’ beasts was hitched to the window so -they could look in. He was bound to appease -’em.”</p> - -<p>The Teacher chuckled softly as he finished his -narration.</p> - -<p>The Storekeeper bit the legs off a candy ostrich. -“It do beat all!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“I knowd it,” the Loafer cried triumphantly. -“I allus knowd it. I thank you, Teacher, fer -backin’ me up with this petickler instance of it. -The cattle do talk on Chrisermas Eve.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Haunted Store.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer cautiously opened the -door and peered out into the black night. A -blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the -heavens and descended to earth in a nearby wheat -field, disclosing to his view the clear outlines of a -great oak whose limbs were thrashing wildly in -the wind. There was a sound of splintering -wood, a crash of thunder overhead, then darkness -again. The door swung shut with a startled -bang. The rain beat violently against the windows.</p> - -<p>“The ole tree’s hit agin,” the Loafer cried. -“Did ye see that flash? Mighty souls, what a -night! I wisht I’d gone home ’fore it begin to -come down so heavy. I hevn’t no umbrelly, an’ -the Missus’ll never hear me callin’ in sech a -storm.”</p> - -<p>The store was a gloomy place, lighted as it was -by a solitary oil lamp which cast weird shadows -in the recesses of the dusty ceiling and over the -shelves, laden with their motley collection of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -crockery and glassware, boxes and cans. There -was no fire in the stove, for it was late in the -spring, so the atmosphere was damp and chilly.</p> - -<p>The G. A. R. Man joined the Loafer at the -door.</p> - -<p>“Bad, ain’t it?” he said. “I guesst I don’t go -home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground to-night.”</p> - -<p>The other laughed and cried, “My sights! -’Fraid o’ the buryin’-ground!”</p> - -<p>The pair sauntered back to their places about -the cheerless stove. The Storekeeper leaned his -chair against the counter, fixed his feet firmly on -the rungs and clasped both knees tightly with his -hands.</p> - -<p>“You can laugh an’ say they ain’t no sech -things ez spooks,” he said, “but I notice that -you uns an’ most other folks ’hen ye walks be -the buryin’-ground at night, cuts th’oo the fields -ez fur ’way from it ez ye can git.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer reddened. For a moment he beat -his feet slowly against the side of the counter on -which he had seated himself between the Miller -and the Tinsmith. Then he retorted hotly, “I -hain’t sayd they was no sech things ez spooks.”</p> - -<p>“Mebbe they is an’ mebbe they ain’t,” ventured -the Miller in a low tone. “But ef they ain’t, -why hesn’t Abe Scissors ben able to git a tenant -fer that leetle place o’ his back on the ridge? -They sais it hes a ha’nt, an’ tho’ I’ve never seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -it, I knows folks that sais they hes, an’ I’ve no reasons -to doubt their words.”</p> - -<p>The G. A. R. Man nodded his head in assent. -“I don’t b’lieve in them ghosts meself, but ’hen -it comes to goin’ home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ -buryin’-ground at night I allus goes the back road, -even ef it is furder.”</p> - -<p>There was silence. Outside the rain beat furiously -against the windows; in the garret overhead -the wind whistled mournfully; from the -cellar below came the faint clatter of loose boards -as the rats scampered to and fro.</p> - -<p>The Storekeeper reached behind him and turned -the wick of the lamp up a little higher.</p> - -<p>The Miller slipped from his place on the counter -and seated himself on the box beside the veteran. -He filled and lighted his clay pipe, and began: -“My gran’pap used to tell how night after night -he heard the churn splashin’ down in his spring-house; -an’ how he stepped out once to find out -what done it. He seen the sperrit of his first wife -churnin’ an’ churnin’, an’ she told him how lest -some un ’ud break the spell she’d hev to——”</p> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer had glided off the counter -and was rolling a keg close to the speaker. He -fixed himself comfortably on it; then cried, -“Turn up that there light. This dark hurts a -felly’s eyes.”</p> - -<p>The Tinsmith glanced furtively behind him -into the blackness beneath the counter. He pushed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> -himself from his perch, intending to join the little -knot about the stove. Hardly had he reached -the floor and taken one step when he halted.</p> - -<p>“Ssh! What’s that?”</p> - -<p>The Miller dropped his pipe. The Storekeeper -paled and nervously grasped the back of his chair. -The Chronic Loafer arose to his feet, his upraised -arms trembling visibly. The G. A. R. Man, with -eyes and mouth wide open, sat up rigidly upon -his keg.</p> - -<p>From the cellar beneath, low, but so distinct as -to be heard above the patter of the rain and the -rattle of the windows, came the sound of footsteps. -It lasted but a moment, and then seemed -to die away in the distance.</p> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer broke the silence. “Sights! -I’m goin’. The Missus’ll be gittin’ worrit.”</p> - -<p>He hurried to the door, but as he opened it -there was a blinding flash of lightning, a crash of -thunder, and the whole building trembled. A -gust of wind drove the rain against the windows -with redoubled vigor. He slammed the door -shut and returned to his keg.</p> - -<p>“Wha—what’s that?” exclaimed the G. A. R. -Man.</p> - -<p>The Storekeeper shook his head mournfully. -“It’s the ha’nt that give my pap so much trouble.”</p> - -<p>“A ha’nt!” cried the Loafer and the Miller, -their teeth chattering.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” replied the Storekeeper, leaning his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -chair back on two legs. “That’s what Pap use to -say it was. He seen it. I never did, but ef you -uns draws up closer I’ll tell ye what he sayd -about it.”</p> - -<p>Nothing loath to get as near as possible to -each other the men, seated on chairs, kegs and -boxes, formed a little circle about the Storekeeper, -who began his story in a voice hardly above a -whisper.</p> - -<p>“My pap, you uns knows, run this here store -an’ done a pretty lively trade tell the year ’fore -he died. He bo’t it off o’ ole Ed Harmon, who’d -kep’ it a long while. You uns may remember -Ed, or mebbe ye don’t. He was a mean man -ef they ever was one; never hesytatin’ to give -short measure in sellin’ butter an’ takin’ long in -buyin’; allus buyin’ eggs be the baker’s dozen -an’ sellin’ ’em the reg’lar way; usin’ a caliker -stick an inch short of the yard. It don’t take -many years o’ that kind o’ tradin’ to hurt a man’s -repytation in these parts, an’ consequent ’hen he -died he’d the name o’ bein’ ’bout the dishonestest -felly in the county, ef you uns reck’lect.”</p> - -<p>“That I do,” the Miller interposed. “An’ -the sugar he sold was that wet ye could ’a’ -squeezed a tin o’ wotter outen every pound.”</p> - -<p>“My sights!” cried the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Sure,” continued the Storekeeper, “an’ ’cordin’ -to Pap, who hed the name fer tellin’ the -truth, them was his footsteps we heard jest now.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Sam Hill!” muttered the G. A. R. Man. -“His body’s in the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground.”</p> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer cast an anxious glance toward -the entrance to the store-room, from which a -stairway wound down into the cellar. The Tinsmith -shifted his chair closer into the circle. -There was a roll of thunder along the mountains, -a flash of lightning that seemed to find the earth -somewhere among the distant ridges, but the -rain was still pouring down in torrents.</p> - -<p>“True. That’s what Pap sayd,” the Storekeeper -continued in a low, awed tone. “He told -me all about it afore he died, an’ I guesst he told -me right, fer we’ve heard his footsteps an’ my -sugar hes ben wet lately.”</p> - -<p>“So my Missus hes ben complainin’—still—but——”</p> - -<p>The Storekeeper was slightly ruffled by this interruption -and glared for a moment at its author, -the Loafer. Then he resumed his narrative.</p> - -<p>“It tuk Pap considerable time to build up his -trade, but he give square measure, an’ by an’ by the -folks begin comin’ here ’stead o’ goin’ to Kishikoquillas. -Then the trouble started. One day he -found a chip stuck in the scales he used fer buyin’ -meat on, so it wouldn’t weigh more’n fifty pounds. -He licked me, that he did, tho’ I never done it. -Next day he found another stick there, an’ he was -that mad he licked me agin. Then I went away -fer a week, an’ every mornin’ reg’lar he found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -that chip. He begin to feel queer ’bout it ’hen -he seen I wasn’t responsible. So every day he -pulled the chip out, tell final it stopped. He thot -it was rats.</p> - -<p>“Things run ’long all right fer a year, an’ then -folks begin to complain that the sugar was damp, -an’ blamed Pap fer wettin’ it to make it weigh. -He sayd he didn’t, an’ he didn’t, fer he wasn’t no -man to tell nawthin’ but the truth, let alone to -treat his sugar dishonest. But the customers begin -to drop off buyin’ an’ he to be afraid o’ losin’ his -trade. What was more, he seen that sugar he got -in the bawrel ez dry ez a chip one night was -damp next mornin’. ’Hen he declared it wasn’t -his fault, folks wouldn’t believe him, an’ they was -no denyin’ it, them goods was soakin’. So he concided -he’d find out jest what was wrong. He -found out an’ never hed no more peace. What -happened I tell you exactly ez he told me, an’ I -ain’t hed no cause to disbelieve what he sayd, fer -he wasn’t a man to waste words.</p> - -<p>“One night, jest after he’d got in a bawrel o’ -granilated, he went to the cellar an’ made ’rangements -to discover the trouble. He hed his ole -shot-gun along an’ hung an ile lantern to a joist -in the middle. Then he set down on a pile o’ sacks -in a corner to watch. He wasn’t a bit skeered at -first, fer the lantern was burnin’ cheery. An hour -went by, an’ he begin to git weary; they was no -signs of anything wrong. Then another, an’ he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -begin to doze off. How long he slep’ he didn’t -know, but a foot-fall woke him, an’ he set up on -the pile o’ sacks an’ looked. The lantern was -flickerin’ low, fer the ile hed most burned out, so -they was only a dim light in the placet. His -heart stopped beatin’, an’ his breath wouldn’t -come. Fer a moment they was dead silence. -The lantern seemed like it was a-goin’ to go -out.</p> - -<p>“Over from the other end of the cellar come a -faint sound like the splashin’ of wotter, drippin’, -drippin’, drippin’. Pap raised hisself on his -knees, all a-tremblin’. They was another spell o’ -quiet; then the same sound of a foot-fall; then -’nother an’ ’nother; an’ every time it made his -heart thump like ’twould break an’ jarred him all -over. Out o’ the dark, into the light o’ the lantern, -come the figur’ of an ole man, walkin’ slow, -step be step, ’crosst the cellar toward the sugar -bawrel. Pap rubbed his eyes in surprise, fer the -felly was Ed Harmon, who for eight year had -ben layin’ in the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground, never -missed. He wore that ole shiny black coat o’ -hisn, his broken, patched boots, an’ gray cap; -’bout his neck was wound a blue woolen comforter, -an’ in his hand he kerried a bucket o’ -wotter. He’d wrapped a piece o’ paper ’round -the han’le to keep it from cuttin’ his fingers. -His face was all white like it used to be, ’cept his -nose, which was red from his drinkin’ too much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -hard cider. He walked all doubled up, fer the -bucket seemed to blow him consid’able.</p> - -<p>“Pap laid quiet at first, he was so scared, tremblin’ -all over, with his teeth chatterin’ to beat all. -Sudden Ed stopped right under the lantern an’ -set the bucket down, the wotter splashin’ over the -side an’ goin’ up in a fog ’hen it struck the floor. -Then he straightened up like to stretch his back, -an’ raised his hands to his mouth an’ begin to -blow on ’em. Pap didn’t hear no sound but he -seen the lamp flickerin’; an’ at the sight o’ Ed -standin’ there so nat’ral his courage come back.</p> - -<p>“After the ghos’ hed stopped a minute his face -twisted like he was groanin’, an’ he picked up the -bucket an’ started on toward the sugar bawrel. -’Hen Pap seen that, he clean forgot it was a sperrit, -it looked so lifelike. He jumped up an’ run -out yellin’, ‘Here you, Ed Harmon, don’t you -dast put that wotter on my sugar!’</p> - -<p>“The ghos’ stopped, turned ’round an’ looked -at Pap. Pap stopped an’ looked at the ghos’. -The appyrition set the bucket down easy an’ -blowed on his hands. That kind o’ cooled the -ole man.</p> - -<p>“‘You uns ain’t ben treatin’ me right,’ sais -Pap, polite like, ‘dampin’ my sugar an’ sp’ilin’ my -trade.’</p> - -<p>“Ed didn’t say nawthin’, but jest looked at -him quiet like an’ give his comforter another lap -’round the neck.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Now, see here,’ sais Pap, a leetle louder. -‘I’ve found you out, Ed Harmon, an’ I’ll make it -pretty hot fer you ’round these parts ef you don’t -let up.’</p> - -<p>“The sperrit turned proud like, blowed on its -hands, leaned over an’ picked up the bucket, an’ -started trampin’ toward the bawrel agin. Pap -clean forgot hisself. He give a run an’ a kick at -the pail, for he’d no desires to hurt the ole man, -but ’tended jest to spill the wotter. He near -dropped dead on the spot, fer his feet went right -inter it ’thout his feelin’ it; the ole thing broke -in a dozen pieces, the staves fallin’ in a heap on -the floor; the wotter ’rose up in a fog like, an’ -fer an instant he could see nawthin’. It cleared -away an’ he noticed one o’ the hoops rollin’ off -inter the dark. He made a run fer it an’ grabbed -at it, but his hand went right up th’oo it. He -th’owed his arm out, thinkin’ to ketch it that ’ay. -Ez he looked up he seen the ole hoop revolvin’ -there in the air above him. He give a wild jump -at it. His hand struck the lantern an’ knocked -it off the nail. They was a loud crash ez the glass -broke. What happened after that he didn’t know. -I found him sleepin’ on the pile o’ sacks next -mornin’.”</p> - -<p>“Sights!” cried the Chronic Loafer. He drew -his chair closer into the circle, which by this time -had reached the smallest possible circumference.</p> - -<p>The Tinsmith glanced surreptitiously over his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -shoulder toward the dark corner where lay the -entrance to the store-room.</p> - -<p>“It do beat all,” he said.</p> - -<p>From the mountains there came the low reverberation -of thunder. The storm had passed the -valley and now the rain was falling lightly and the -breeze was dying.</p> - -<p>“Was the sugar wet next day?” asked the -Miller, nervously biting the end off the stem of -his clay pipe.</p> - -<p>“Ssh! Listen!” whispered the Loafer.</p> - -<p>There was no sound save the gentle patter of -the rain and the swish of the wind in the maples -outside the door.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t,” the Storekeeper answered. “But -the trouble began a week later.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a strange story,” said the Tinsmith, “an’ -ef any one but your Pap hed told it I’d hev my -suspitchions. But his sugar was damp.”</p> - -<p>There was a long silence.</p> - -<p>From the cellar came again the weird sound, -low but distinct.</p> - -<p>The G. A. R. Man arose and seized the lamp -from the counter.</p> - -<p>“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he cried. -“This is all foolershness. Ef you fellys comes -we’ll find out what that is.”</p> - -<p>He shuffled slowly toward the dark end of the -store. For a moment his companions hesitated. -Then the Storekeeper joined the leader of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -hazardous enterprise and one by one the others -followed. They tiptoed through the door; they -wound their way among the boxes and barrels -that filled the store-room, and reached the head of -the stairway that led to the cellar. Here the -G. A. R. Man halted. The lamp in his hand -vibrated to and fro, throwing grotesque shadows -on the white ceiling and walls. The men clustered -about him and gazed timidly into the darkness -beneath. He placed one foot on the step, -then stopped.</p> - -<p>“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Course th-th-they ain’t,” chattered the Miller, -who was holding the Storekeeper by the arm.</p> - -<p>“It’s r-r-rats,” the Tinsmith ventured.</p> - -<p>“Or a l-l-loose b-b-board,” suggested the veteran.</p> - -<p>“Foolershness,” whispered the Loafer, “‘v-v-v-vestig-g-gatin’ -ghosts ’hen they ain’t no sech -things. The Missus is settin’ up fer me an’ I’ll -hev to be goin’.”</p> - -<p>“Pap allus was superstitchous,” exclaimed the -Storekeeper, as he made his way back through -the maze of boxes and barrels to the store in the -wake of the Loafer. The others were hurrying -along in the rear.</p> - -<p>The rain had ceased. Overhead the black -clouds, visible in the bright starlight, were scurrying -away towards the hills. The G. A. R. Man -and the Loafer were parting at the latter’s gate at -the end of the village.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Hev you ben gittin’ any sugar o’ him lately?” -asked the veteran, pointing his thumb over his -shoulder in the direction whence they had come.</p> - -<p>“I hev,” replied the Loafer. “An’ I guess ole -Ed Harmon is still at it.”</p> - -<p>“What do ye think it was?”</p> - -<p>“It might ’a’ ben a rat. It might ’a’ ben a -loose board. It might ’a’ ben a hundred things -like that. I ain’t superstitchous—not a bit superstitchous.” -The speaker paused. “But jest the -same I ain’t fer investigatin’ ghosts,” he added.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Rivals.</i></span></h2> - -<p>“What was the question fer debate?” asked -the School Teacher.</p> - -<p>“Resawlved that the Negro is more worthy o’ -government support than the Indian,” replied the -Miller.</p> - -<p>“And the decision?”</p> - -<p>“One jedge voted fer the affirmative an’ one -fer the negative.”</p> - -<p>“And the third?”</p> - -<p>“That’s where the trouble come. Ye see, -Theophilus Bones was the third jedge, an’ he got -up an’ sayd that after hearin’ an’ weighin’ all the -argyments o’ the debaters he hed to concide that -neither the Negro nor the Indian was worthy.”</p> - -<p>“Deadlocked!” cried the pedagogue, bringing -his chair down on all four legs with a crash, waving -his arms and snapping his fingers. “Deadlocked, -sure. What did ye do?”</p> - -<p>“See here,” interrupted the Chronic Loafer -from his perch on a sugar barrel, “I can’t see -that it makes any diff’rence what they done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -S’posin’ the Airy View Liter’ry Society is deadlocked. -How’s the poor Injun goin’ to suffer any -more by it?”</p> - -<p>“But did you uns ever see sech dum jedges?” -asked the Miller appealingly. “I was on the -negative.”</p> - -<p>“The point is this,” said the Teacher, shaking -his cigar at the occupant of the barrel. “Here is -a modern liter’ry society, whose main purpose is -trainin’ its members in the art of debate. An -important question is put before this same society -for formal discussion, and yet these self-same -trained debaters makes their points so badly that -one o’ the jedges can’t decide on the merits o’ -the question.”</p> - -<p>“It ain’t so bad at all,” the Tinsmith exclaimed. -“I once heard Aleck Bolum on that wery question. -He argyed both affirmative an’ negative. -All three o’ the jedges was deadlocked. None of -’em could concide.”</p> - -<p>“Bolum must ’a’ ben a wonderful talker,” the -Loafer said.</p> - -<p>“Wonderful? Well, I guesst he was. Why, -it was his debatin’ broke up the Kishikoquillas -Liter’ry Society. An’ that was a flourishin’ organization, -too. Me an’ my old frien’ Perry -Muthersbaugh started it together. After he -went west Andrew Magill tuk a holt of it. He -run it tell Aleck Bolum stepped in. Then it was -a tug-o-war.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Bolum was a livin’ Roberts-rules-of-order. He -was a walkin’ encyclopedy of information. He -knowd it an’ never lost no opportunity of showin’ -it. Kishikoquillas school-house was his principal -place fer exhibitin’. From the time Andrew -Magill’s gavel fell on Friday night tell a motion -was made to adjourn, Aleck was on his feet. Ef -he wasn’t gittin’ off a select readin’ or a recytation -or debatin’, he was risin’ to pints of order, -appealin’ from the decision o’ the chair, callin’ fer -divisions or movin’ we proceed to new business. -Ye couldn’t git any fresh wood put in the stove -’thout hevin’ him move the ’pointment of a committee -to do it. Ef a lamp burned low he’d want -to hev it referred to the committee on lights. -He even tried to git the recordin’ seckertary impeached -because she kep’ the minutes in lead-pencil.”</p> - -<p>“What fer a lookin’ felly was this Aleck -Bolum?” asked the Chronic Loafer.</p> - -<p>“He was a thin, leetle man, with a clean-shaved, -hatchet face, an’ a bald spot on the top o’ his -head over which he plastered a few skein o’ -lemon-colored hair.”</p> - -<p>“An’ he wore a Prince Al-bert coat?” inquired -the Loafer anxiously.</p> - -<p>“Yes, a shiny black un. An’ he’d stand up -an’ th’ow out his chist.”</p> - -<p>“Why, that’s where half the trouble come,” -interrupted the Loafer. “Don’t you know that ef<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -ye put a Prince Al-bert coat on a clothes-horse, -it’ll stan’ right up an’ begin argyin’ with ye?”</p> - -<p>“My dear felly,” replied the Tinsmith, “Aleck -Bolum ’ud ’a’ argyed in his grave clothes. They -wasn’t no stoppin’ him. We thot mebbe we could -quiet him be givin’ him an office, so we ’lected him -correspondin’ seckertary, cal’latin’ he’d hev nawthin’ -to do an’ ’ud be satisfied with the honor. -We’d complete misjedged him. He got up a debate -be correspondence with a liter’ry society out -in Kansas an’ tuk up half our evenin’s readin’ -reports on it.</p> - -<p>“So Aleck Bolum didn’t give Andrew Magill -much chancet, even tho’ he was president. It -went hard with Andrew, too, fer he liked to fill -in all the cracks in the meetin’ hisself, an’ objected -to havin’ Aleck bobbin’ up with pints of -order every time he opened his mouth. But fer -my part I allus preferred Bolum to Magill. Bolum -wasn’t musical. Magill was. ’Henever one -o’ the reg’lar men on the progrim ’ud fail to be -on hand an’ he could head Aleck off, Andrew ’ud -git up an’ say, ‘Mister So-an’-so, who hed the -ess’y fer the evenin’, bein’ absent, the chair has -consented to fill in the interval be singin’ a solo.’ -Or the chair ’ud sing a duet with the seckertary; -or the chair ’ud sing an anthem ’sisted be the society -quartette. Then he’d stand up with his -music marks an’ start away on twenty verses about -Mother or Alice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Things kept gittin’ worse an’ worse. They -final come to a head one night ’hen Aleck Bolum -rose to a pint of order durin’ one of Andrew’s -highest notes. Magill hed to stop singin’ an’ ast -him to state his pint. Then Aleck moved the -solo be the president be taken up under onfinished -business. Andrew jest choked.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen the president got th’oo chokin’, we tuk -up the debate. Everything was subdued like. -Andrew set on the platform wery quiet an’ solemn. -The debaters didn’t put no heart in their -work fer they was busy keepin’ one eye on him an’ -the other on Bolum. Every one was kind o’ -nervous an’ hushed—that is, every one ’cept Aleck. -He argyed that the pen was mightier then the -sword in the reg’lar debate. ’Hen the argyment -was th’owed open to all he got up agin an’ proved -that the sword was mightier then the pen.</p> - -<p>“We got th’oo with the debate an’ nawthin’ -hed happened. Then Andrew Magill rose to -give out the progrim fer the next meetin’. He -looked solemn like at his paper a minute; then -gazed ’round the room. Ye could ’a’ heard a pin -drop.</p> - -<p>“‘Several o’ our members,’ sais he, ‘complains -that they ain’t hed no opportunity to be heard -afore this society. This progrim is got up especial -to satisfy these gentlemen.’</p> - -<p>“An’ the progrim fer the follyin’ Friday, which -he read out, run like this: ‘Readin’ o’ the Scriptur’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -be the president; roll call; select readin’, Mr. -Aleck Bolum; recytation, Mr. Aleck Bolum; extemporaneous -oration, Mr. Aleck Bolum; ess’y, -The True Patriot, Mr. Aleck Bolum; debate, Resawlved -that works o’ natur’ is more beautiful then -works o’ art—affirmative, Mr. Aleck Bolum; negative, -Mr. Aleck Bolum.’</p> - -<p>“Andrew finished an’ set down in his chair. -They wasn’t even a whisper fer every eye in the -room was turned on the correspondin’ seckertary. -He arose deliberate like, cleared his th’oat, -th’owed open his coat so his red tie showed better, -put the thumb o’ his left hand in his waistcoat -pocket, raised the other hand, pintin’ his forefinger -at the president. We was ready fer somethin’ -hot.</p> - -<p>“‘Mr. Chairman,’ he sayd, never crackin’ a -smile. ‘I desires right here to express my approval -o’ this new plan o’ yours o’ hevin’ the -same man debate both sides o’ the question. It’s -an excellent idee. Under the ole rule, where the -debater was allowed to speak only on one side, -we developed lopsided speakers. An’ I want to -say right here an’ now an’ to everybody in this -room that I, fer my part, ’ll do my best to make -next week’s meetin’ beneficial to us all.’</p> - -<p>“‘Hen Andrew Magill seen how he’d played -right into Aleck Bolum’s hand, thots failed to express -his indignation. He adjourned the meetin’, -blowed out the lamps, put on his overcoat an’ hat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -an’ walked outen the school-house an’ down the -road, jest all bubblin’ over. But Andrew wasn’t -easy beaten. He’d no idee o’ settin’ all evenin’ -listenin’ to Aleck Bolum’s ess’ys an’ select readin’s. -He slipped ’round ’mong the members on the quiet -an’ explained how he’d an invite from the Happy -Grove Social Singin’ Club, to bring the whole society -up there the follyin’ Friday. He explained -what a good un it ’ud be on Aleck ’hen he got to -the school-house with his progrim all prepared an’ -found fer an aud’ence—Mr. Aleck Bolum. An’ -ez he offered to kerry three sled loads o’ members -to the grove hisself, everybody agreed. It really -begin to look ez ef Aleck was goin’ to be -squelched.</p> - -<p>“The snow was two feet deep, an’ the sleighin’ -was fine. It tuk jest ’bout an hour an’ a half to -cover the twelve mile ’tween Kishikoquillas an’ -Happy Grove. We’d a splendid time, too. Andrew -was in high sperrits. He pictured Aleck arunnin’ -the liter’ry meetin’ all hisself, an’ give an -imytation o’ the debate on the question whether -works o’ natur’ was more beautiful then works of -art. It was killin’. I mind now how Andrew hed -jest started in showin’ us Bolum’s recytation, ’hen -we reached the clearin’ where the school-house -stood.</p> - -<p>“The place was dark, absolute dark, an’ the -door was locked. They wasn’t a soul in sight. -Magill got out his watch. It sayd eight-fifteen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -an’ the singin’ school was set fer eight. It looked -pecul’ar. We guesst we’d better wait. So one -o’ the boys climbed th’oo a winder an’ unlocked -the door, an’ we all went in. A few can’les was -found an’ lit. Then we set down to watch fer the -arrival o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club. -They wasn’t any fire, an’ the place was cold an’ -disygreeable. Some wanted to go home, but -Andrew sayd no. We was the club’s guests. -Some of ’em ’ud be ’long any minute. It -wouldn’t be right fer them to find us gone. So -we kep’ settin’, an’ wonderin’, an’ guessin’.</p> - -<p>“At the end of an hour we hear sleigh-bells -down the road. Then they was a stampin’ o’ -boots outside on the portico.</p> - -<p>“‘Here they is at last,’ sais Andrew, gittin’ up -on the platform an’ rappin’ fer order.</p> - -<p>“The door opened. In steps Aleck Bolum. -The whole society give a groan.</p> - -<p>“‘What’s the trouble?’ sais he, walkin’ to the -middle o’ the room. ‘I don’t hear no singin’.’</p> - -<p>“The society jest hung their heads an’ looked -sheepish.</p> - -<p>“‘Where’s the Happy Grove Social Singin -Club?’ sais he pleasant like. ‘I sees only our -own members.’</p> - -<p>“No one sayd nawthin’.</p> - -<p>“Aleck unwound his comforter, unbottoned his -coat, th’owed out his chist an’ cried, ‘Mr. Chairman, -hev I the floor?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Magill kind o’ mumbled.</p> - -<p>“‘Then,’ sais Bolum, ‘Mebbe I can th’ow some -light on the hushed voices I see gethered ’round -me here to-night. Firstly, I’d like to say that -we’d a most excellent meetin’ at Kishikoquillas -this evenin’. After we adjourned I thot I’d run -up here an’ see how you was makin’ out, fer I hed -pecul’ar interest in this getherin’. Th’oo some -mistake I was not properly notified that our -members was comin’ here, but I learned of it. I -wanted to see the Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society -do itself proud to-night at music ez well ez literature. -So in my capacity ez correspondin’ seckertary -I got up a musical progrim yeste’day an’ -forwarded it to the president of the Happy Grove -Social Singin’ Club, explainin’ how our organization -’ud entertain his organization to-night with -melody, instrumental an’ vocal.’</p> - -<p>“Bolum stopped an’ drawed a paper out o’ his -pocket.</p> - -<p>“‘Will the seckertary please read the progrim?’ -he sayd.</p> - -<p>“Josiah Weller tuk the paper. He looked -at it. Then he piked one eye on the president.</p> - -<p>“‘Ye may read the progrim, Mr. Seckertary,’ -sais Andrew, wery dignified.</p> - -<p>“An’ Josiah read like this, ‘The Kishikoquillas -Liter’ry Society will be pleased to render fer the -entertainment o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -Club the follyin’ selections: bass-horn solo, The -Star Spangled Banner, Mr. Andrew Magill.’</p> - -<p>“The chairman’s gavel come down on the table, -an’ he rose an’ said, ‘I feels flattered be Mr. Bolum -puttin’ me on the progrim, but he otter ’a’ notified -me, so I could ’a’ brung me horn.’</p> - -<p>“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Aleck, wery -cool.</p> - -<p>“Josiah continyerd, ‘Vocal solo, I see Mother’s -Face at the Window, Mr. Andrew Magill.’</p> - -<p>“The Chairman looked wery pleased.</p> - -<p>“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sayd Aleck.</p> - -<p>“‘An ole time jig, jewsharp an’ harmonica -mixed, Mr. Andrew Magill; vocal solo, Meet Me -Alice at the Golden Gate, Mr. Andrew Magill; -anthem, Angel Voices, Mr. Andrew Magill, ’sisted -be the society.’</p> - -<p>“Josiah Weller didn’t git no furder. They was -a low roar went over the room. Some felly in -the rear ’lowed we otter put him in the pond. -But they wasn’t no one to put. Aleck Bolum -hed dissypeared. We got to the door in time to -hear his sleigh-bells jinglin’ way off th’oo the -woods. Seemed like we could ’most hear him -chucklin’, too.”</p> - -<p>“But what hed become o’ the Happy Grove -Social Singin’ Club?” asked the Miller. “Why -wasn’t they there?”</p> - -<p>“I guesst you never heard Andrew Magill sing, -did ye?” replied the Tinsmith.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Buddies.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The Patriarch sat on the store porch. An old -cob pipe, the smoke oozing lazily from its mouth, -protruded from the recesses of his white beard. -His eyes were fixed on the mountains over whose -sides the black, sharp shadows of the clouds were -wandering. His mood was so pensive as to -awaken the curiosity of the Storekeeper, who had -been watching the old man sitting upright on the -bench, his gaze fastened on the distant hills.</p> - -<p>“What are ye thinkin’ of, Gran’pap?” the -young man asked.</p> - -<p>“I was thinkin’ o’ Hen Wheedle. I hain’t thot -o’ him fer a year, so I sais to meself to-day, I sais, -‘You otter think o’ Hen Wheedle!’ An’ I set -right down, an’ a mighty good time I’ve hed a -medytatin’ over him.”</p> - -<p>The Miller laid the county paper over his knees -and smoothed it out. Then he looked at the -Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“My souls!” he cried. “Why, Hen’s ben over -the mo’ntain nigh onto forty year.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> - -<p>“That’s jest the pint,” was the rejoinder. -“‘Hen folks is gone ye otter think on ’em.”</p> - -<p>To the old man there was nothing beyond the -mountains but infinite space. To him the world -was bounded by the green range before him and -the range back by the river. The two sprang out -of the blue at a point some nine miles to the -north, went their own ways some fifteen miles to -the south, joined, and made the valley and the -world. To go over the mountain to him meant -voluntary annihilation. He would step off into -space beyond and become nothingness. In the -seventy-five years of his life he had known men to -return, but it was as though they had arisen from -the dead.</p> - -<p>“You uns knowd Hen Wheedle?” he inquired.</p> - -<p>“He was afore my time but I’ve heard o’ him,” -replied the Miller.</p> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer looked up from the steps, -where he had been sitting, whittling a piece of -soft white pine.</p> - -<p>“I s’posn you’ve heard o’ Bill Siler?” he asked, -in a pleasant, alluring tone.</p> - -<p>“Bill Siler,” repeated the Miller. He laid his -forefinger against his forehead and thought a -minute. “I think I hev. His name’s wery famil’ar. -But why did ye ast?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, jest because I’ve noticed that most everybody -was afore your time an’ you’ve heard o’ ’em. -I never knowd Bill Siler. His name was jest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -ginirated in my head, an’ I thot ye might tell -me who he was.”</p> - -<p>“You thot ye’d ketch me, heigh,” cried the -other. “Ye thot ye’d be smart an’——”</p> - -<p>“Boys, boys,” the Patriarch shook his stick at -his companions. “Don’t quarrel—don’t. Mebbe -some day one o’ ye’ll go over the mo’ntain an’ -then every mean word ye ever sayd’ll come back. -Mean words is like them wooden balls on a ’lastic -string that they sells the children at the county -fair. The harder they is an’ the wiolenter ye -th’ow ’em the quicker they bounces home to ye -an’ the more they hurt. I otter know. Hen -Wheedle otter know. Why every time he thinks -o’ me his conscience must jest roll around inside -o’ him.” The light in the old man’s pipe had -gone out. He applied a sulphur match to it and -sneezed violently. “But I’ve forgot the wrong -Hen done me. He must ’a’ suffered innardly fer -it. Ef he ever returns I’ll put this right hand in -hisn an’ say, ’Hen, you done wrong, but you’ve -suffered innardly an’ I fergive ye.’ They’s a heap -o’ difference ’tween plain, ord’nary sufferin’ inside -o’ ye, an’ sufferin’ innardly. Fer the first ye takes -bitters, stops smokin’ an’ in a day you’re all right. -But ’hen the conscience gits out o’ order all the -bitters in the world an’ all the stoppin’ smokin’ -in creation’ll give ye no ease. That’s what I sais, -an’ I otter know, fer I can jest see how Hen -Wheedle feels.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span></p> - -<p>No sulphurous fume was blazing around the -Patriarch’s nose, but he sneezed again and choked -himself with a piece of canton-flannel that served -him as a handkerchief.</p> - -<p>“Hen an’ me was raised on joinin’ farms. From -the time we was big enough to gether eggs we -was buddies. At school the boy that licked me -had to lick both; the boy that was licked be one -was licked be both. It was a reg’lar caset o’ -David an’ Joshuay all over agin.</p> - -<p>“They’s only one thing in the world’ll separate -buddies like me an’ him was. A crow-bar won’t -do it; a gun won’t; nothin’ won’t but a combination -o’ yeller hair an’ dreamy blue eyes an’ pink -cheeks. Melissy Flower hed ’em all. But what -she done she didn’t do intentional. I didn’t want -her without Hen hevin’ her; he didn’t want her -without me hevin’ her—so they was a hitch. We -used to go over to her house together allus, an’ -we’d sing duets to her melodium playin’. He -sung tenor an’ I bass. At the eend of each piece -she distributed her praise jest equal. ’Hen we -wasn’t hevin’ music we’d be on the settee, all -three, first him, then her, then me. Ef Hen was -so fortnit ez to catch the sparkle o’ her eyes, -she’d turn her head my way an’ give me a chancet -too.</p> - -<p>“Now things went on this way tell one night -we was comin’ home from her house together. -We reached the covered bridge where the road<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -dewided, one fork goin’ to his placet an’ one to -mine. How clear I remembers it!</p> - -<p>“‘Henry,’ I sais, lookin’ right inter his eyes—it -was moonlight an’ I could almost read his thots, -’Henry, it seems to me like you’ve ben thinkin’ -more ’an usual o’ Melissy lately.’</p> - -<p>“‘I was thinkin’ the same of you,’ sais he.</p> - -<p>“‘You’re right,’ I answers. ‘But I won’t treat -no buddy o’ mine mean.’</p> - -<p>“‘An’ the same with me,’ sais he.</p> - -<p>“We was quiet a piece. Then I sais, ’Henry, -ef ever I finds I can’t stand it no longer I’ll tell -you.’</p> - -<p>“‘An’ ef ever I gits the same way I’ll tell you,’ -sais he.</p> - -<p>“We shook hands an’ went home.</p> - -<p>“I s’pose things ’ud ’a’ gone on ez they was fer -a good many year hed not a young town felly -from up the walley come drivin’ down in slick -clothes an’ in a slick buggy. You uns hev all -heard the old sayin’ that it ain’t the clothes that -makes the man. Ye never heard the proverb that -it ain’t the paint that makes the house, did ye? -I guess ye didn’t, yit it’s jest ’bout ez sensible. -It ain’t the paint that makes the house, but it’s -the paint that keeps the boards from rottin’ an’ -the hull thing from fallin’ to pieces out o’ pure -bein’ ashamed o’ itself. Solerman was the wisest -man that ever lived, yit the Bible sais that he -allus run to fine raiment. He hed a thousand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -an’ odd wives an’ knowd well enough that he -wouldn’t hev no peace with ’em ef he run ’round -in his bare feet an’ overalls. ’Hen the Queen o’ -Sheby called on him ye can bet your bottom dollar -she didn’t find him settin’ on the throne with -a hickory shirt ’thout no collar, an’ his second-best -pants held up be binder-twine galluses.”</p> - -<p>The old man had been talking very fast and -was out of breath. He paused to gather the -threads of his story.</p> - -<p>The School Teacher seized the opportunity to -remark: “An’ yet Solerman in all his glory was -restless an’ unhappy.”</p> - -<p>“He knowd too much,” drawled the Loafer, -looking up from his stick. “An’ Gran’pap, with -all of his wisdom, with all the good uns he sayd, -Solerman never knowd what it was to light his -ole pipe an’ set plumb down on the wood-pile an’ -play with the dog. Why, he’d sp’iled his gown.”</p> - -<p>“Boys,” resumed the Patriarch, “slick clothes -an’ a slick hoss an’ a slick buggy goes ten times -furder with a woman then a slick brain. She can -see a man’s clothes; she can see his hoss; she can -see his buggy. But it takes her fifty year to git -her eyes adjusted so she can see his mind. That’s -why I got worrit ’hen this here Perry felly got to -drivin’ down to wisit Melissy. He come oncet; he -come agin, an’ I begin thinkin’ more o’ him then I -did o’ the girl. Sometimes it seemed like I was goin’ -mad yit I couldn’t do nawthin’ on Hen’s account.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -Many an afternoon I set here on this wery porch -rewolvin’ it over an’ over: ‘Ef I don’t git her I’ll -die; ef I git her Hen’ll die; ef Perry gits her both -on us’ll die.’ It was a hard puzzle. A couple o’ -times I was near solvin’ it be leavin’ the main part -o’ the sufferin’ to the other fellys, but then I -minded how Hen looked at me that night ez we -parted at the fork o’ the road, an’ I sais, ‘I’ll treat -no buddy o’ mine mean. Git behind me, Satan, -an’ make yerself comf’table tell I need ye.’</p> - -<p>“But one afternoon ’hen I was feelin’ petickler -low in sperrits, oneasy, onrastless, I seen Perry -drivin’ th’oo, his hoss curried tell his coat was -smooth ez silk, his buggy shinin’ like it ’ud blind -me, an’ him settin’ inside in a full new suit o’ clothes. -I knowd she couldn’t stand all that wery long. -So after supper I went right over to Wheedle’s to -git Hen, ’lowin’ we’d go down to Flower’s an’ let -Melissy settle the business be choosin’. He -wasn’t een. His ma sayd he’d jest left, but she -s’posed he’d be right hum agin. So I fixed meself -on the pump trough an’ waited. My, but -them hours did drag! The sun set an’ it got dark. -I could look down the hill to Flower’s placet an’ -see a light twinklin’ in the best room where I -knowd she was with Perry. I pictured her at the -melodium twiddlin’ her fingers soft-like over the -keys while he leaned over her singin’, ‘Thine eyes -so blue an’ tender.’ Boys, it was terrible—terrible. -The lamp was allus a-twinklin’ to me to hurry up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -Then final it seemed to git tired an’ went out. It -was only eight o’clock. Now I pictured ’em settin’ -in the dark. I wanted to leave right there -an’ run down the hill, but I sais, ‘No; I’ll treat -no buddy o’ mine mean.’</p> - -<p>“By an’ by the moon come up an’ the chickens -in the barn quit cluckin’ at the rats. I begin to -git dozy an’ leaned my head agin the pump. -’Hen I come to me senses the roosters was crowin’ -an’ the light was creepin’ over the ridges yander. -I went home. Ez I come ’round the corner o’ -the house, there I see Hen Wheedle sound -asleep on the back stoop.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen,’ sais I, ‘what hev you ben doin’?’</p> - -<p>“‘Waitin’ fer you,’ he answers, ez he gits up -an’ rubs his eyes. ‘I come over last night to git -you an’ go over to Flower’s. Perry’s there.’</p> - -<p>“I told him how I’d waited all night fer him, an’ -he jest groaned. He had ’em wery bad. I mind -oncet readin’ in the weemen’s column in the paper -how spilt milk could be sopped up with a sponge. -It seemed jest ez tho’ that was what we was doin’ -’hen we went over to Flower’s that mornin’. It -was wery early an’ we’d a long time to wait ’fore -Melissy come down to git breakfast. Then Hen -an’ me stepped inter the kitchen.</p> - -<p>“I thot she’d faint.</p> - -<p>“‘Why, you’re airly,’ she sais.</p> - -<p>“‘We’ve come airly a purpose, Melissy,’ sais I. -‘We wants you to choose atween us.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> - -<p>“That girl must ’a’ thot a heap o’ one o’ we -two—which un I don’t know, but one sure, fer -she kind o’ fell agin the table, graspin’ it fer -support. She raised her apron over her face an’ -gasped like.</p> - -<p>“‘Take whichever one ye want,’ sais Hen kind -o’ soft.</p> - -<p>“She didn’t answer.</p> - -<p>“‘Don’t keep us een suspenders,’ sais I.</p> - -<p>“Then the apron fell from her face, showin’ it -all a rosy red, an’ she tells us, ‘Boys, I’m awful -sorry, but you’re late. I tuk Perry last night.’</p> - -<p>“Hen an’ me turned on our heels an’ walked -out. We didn’t say nawthin’ tell we come to the -fork in the road.</p> - -<p>“Hen stopped an’ wentured, ‘We’ve ben -fools.’</p> - -<p>“‘We hev,’ I sais.</p> - -<p>“‘Them town fellys doesn’t last long,’ sais he -after a spell. ‘She’s like to be a widdy.’</p> - -<p>“‘In which caset,’ sais I, our agreement stands. -We notify each other ’fore we ast her.’</p> - -<p>“‘It does,’ he answers, quiet an’ wery solemn. -‘We’ve allus ben buddies, you an’ me, an’ we allus -will be.’</p> - -<p>“Melissy Flower become a widdy ez Hen -’lowed an’ a mighty nice un, too. Perry was -hardly cold tell me an’ Wheedle was over singin’ -duets with her. The ole trouble come on agin fer -me worse than ever, but this time I made up me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -mind I wouldn’t be fooled. ’Hen I could stand it -no longer, I walks one night over to Wheedle’s to -notify him. He wasn’t there. I’d ’a’ gone on to -Flower’s but I minded our agreement an’ was true. -It was a temptation, but I’d never treat no buddy o’ -mine mean. I was true. It come twelve o’clock -an’ they was no sign o’ him, so I went back home -feelin’ a leetle heavy here.” The old man laid -his hand across the watch-pocket of his waistcoat. -“Next day they was a postal in the mail fer me. -It was from Hen, an’ it run like this: ‘I’m on me -way to Flower’s to ast her. I drop this in the box -to notify you ez I promised.’</p> - -<p>“That’s the way he give me notice. While I -was waitin’ to notify him right, he was astin’ her. -He done wrong. His conscience was agin him, -fer ’hen I went over to his placet to give him an -idee what I thot, I found him an’ she hed gone—gone -over the mo’ntain yander.”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch arose and shook his stick angrily -at the distant hills. He shook it until his strength -had given out and his anger had ebbed away.</p> - -<p>“That was forty year ago,” he said after a long -silence, “but ef ever Hen Wheedle comes back -I’ll lay this here right hand in hisn an’ say, ’Hen, -you done wrong, but you’ve suffered innardly. -I fergive ye.’”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Joe Varner’s Belling.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The wind rattled the windows and made creepy, -unpleasant noises in the trees outside. At long -intervals it ventured down the chimney with -sudden spurts and playfully blew the smoke out -into the room, causing momentary discomfort -to the eyes of all three of us. Then as quickly -it would retire, giving a triumphant whistle as -though it enjoyed the joke hugely. The soot -would come tumbling down and envelop the -flames in a cloud of black dust. A crackle, a -splutter, and the logs blazed up as cheerily as -ever.</p> - -<p>I stretched my feet toward the fire and buried -myself deeper in my great arm-chair. Flash, the -setter, curled at my side, poking his nose between -his fore-paws, fixed his earnest eyes on a tiny -tongue of flame that was eating its way along a -gnarled bit of hickory. Facing us, rocking slowly -to and fro on two legs of his frail wooden chair, -was Theophilus Winter, the lawyer and our companion -on many a day’s hunt. This was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -Theophilus the acme of comfort, for he had a good -cigar for an inspiration and the best of audiences, -an intelligent dog and a tired man.</p> - -<p>“Yes, as I was saying before that last gust interrupted -us, I am not a superstitious man, but as -long as no harm can come of it I prefer to plant -my garden in the right sign. While I am not in -the least superstitious I must confess some timidity -on this one point—that is, as to passing the -small log house that stands just at the foot of the -ridge on the road to Kishikoquillas on the night -of the twenty-ninth of December, or indeed -almost any time after sunset. Not that I am -afraid—far from it—but strange tales have been -abroad for the last thirty years regarding the doings -there after nightfall. They say that the -sound of fiddles can be heard, the clanging of -cow-bells and occasionally the dull report of a -gun. This, the young folks declare, is the ghosts -belling Joe Varner.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you have seen the house of which I -have spoken. It stands in a little clearing, about -fifty feet from the roadside. The great stone chimney -is now almost completely demolished. The -plaster daubing has fallen from the chinks between -the logs, revealing to the passer-by the barren interior. -The glass has been removed from the -shattered windows to let the light into some more -respectable dwelling. The weeds and briars grow -rank over all. The place presented a far different<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -picture thirty years ago. Then all was scrupulously -clean. Not a stone on the chimney top -was out of place, not an iota of daubing had -fallen away, nor was the smallest spot left unwhitewashed. -Everywhere was the evidence of -industry and thrift.</p> - -<p>“For twenty years Joe Varner had lived his -lonely life there, with no other companion than a -mongrel dog. He was a strange man, tall and -gaunt in appearance, taciturn and surly in manner, -doing his bad deeds in public and his good -ones in private, for his pride would not allow him -to parade the latter before his neighbors. Yet -with it all he was at heart a kindly old fellow who -had simply been spoiled by his way of living. -And why he had chosen this way was a puzzle to -all our people. He was not a native of our -county, but had simply appeared one day, bought -this secluded plot, built his house and settled -here. Twice, leaving no one behind him, he went -away, remained a week and then as quietly returned -to resume his lonely life. On each occasion -his return was marked by a fit of melancholy -which attracted the attention but repelled the -curiosity of his nearest neighbors. That he had -visited his old home in a distant county was all -they could ever learn.</p> - -<p>“Just thirty years ago this coming December, -Varner left for the third time. A week passed, -and he did not return. Two weeks went by, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -he was still absent. Strange rumors were abroad -as to the cause of this unaccountable delay. When -the third week had reached its end he came home, -bringing with him a wizened little woman, with -a hard face and of a most slovenly appearance. -This person he introduced laconically, but with a -very evident touch of pride, as his wife.</p> - -<p>“Just who the woman was or where from no -one knew and none dared ask, but the news of -her arrival spread quickly. Here was an opportunity -not to be lost—to bell old Joe and his -mysterious bride. Never before had the valley -made such preparations for a serenade. Full fifty -men and boys met at my father’s barn on the -night following the old man’s home-coming, and -armed with old guns, fiddles, sleigh bells and -horns we set out for the scene of our operations. -It was a good two mile walk to the house on the -ridge, and we reached it just as the full moon was -climbing over the tree tops and peeping into the -clearing. There was no sign of life anywhere save -a few dim rays of light that shone through a -crevice in the shutters.</p> - -<p>“Silently we stationed ourselves about the -cabin. At each corner we placed a horse-fiddle, -an unmusical instrument made by drawing the -edge of a board, coated with resin, over the corner -of a large box. The signal was given, and forthwith -arose the greatest din that had ever been -heard in our county. The banging of the muskets,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -the bells, the horns, with the melancholy wail of -the horse-fiddles rising above them all, made an -indescribable tumult. But the result was not as -we had expected. We believed that Joe and his -wife would come to the door, bow their acknowledgments -and invite us in to a feast of cake and -cider, as is the custom. Instead the light died -suddenly. No sound was heard within.</p> - -<p>“We kept to our work bravely. A half hour -passed. Cries of ‘Bring out the bride’ arose -above the din, giving evidence that lusty lungs -were coming to the aid of wearied limbs. ‘Bring -her out. Fetch out Mrs. Varner, Joe!’ we called -again and again.</p> - -<p>“It was of no avail. An hour passed and not -a sign of life had come from the interior of the -cabin. The noise began to weaken in volume, the -owners of the guns grew chary of wasting their -powder, and at last, much to our chagrin, we were -compelled to retire to the woods for a consultation.</p> - -<p>“A thin stream of smoke pouring from the -mouth of the chimney suggested a plan resorted -to only on the most desperate occasions—that -of smoking out the newly wedded pair. It was -the work of but a few minutes to obtain a board -suitable for the purpose and for one of the young -men to climb to the roof with it. He made his -way noiselessly to the peak, laid his burden across -the top of the chimney, then crouched low to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -await the outcome. The smoke ceased to escape. -Another half hour passed and still no sign from -the house. Anxious looks appeared on the faces -of the serenaders. The man on the roof removed -the cover and a dense volume of smoke arose, -showing that the fire had done well the work we -required. From beneath the doorway, too, a few -thin wreaths were circling vaguely out.</p> - -<p>“A chill of dread passed over us. It seemed -that something out of the ordinary must have -happened within. At first we were inclined to -the belief that the fact that the smoke had not -driven out the occupants of the house proved that -it was empty. But we remembered the light that -we had seen burning on our approach. It augured -evil.</p> - -<p>“Four stalwart fellows, holding between them -a large log, attacked the door. One blow—it -cracked. No sound inside. Another blow and -the heavy oak fell back on its hinges. The smoke, -released from its prison, poured out in dense -clouds, driving the excited bellers from the doorway. -One man dashed through it and across the -single apartment, which passed as living-room and -kitchen, and in another instant the window was -up, the shutters open and the wind was whistling -through, driving before it the heavy veil that had -hidden the interior from our view. The moonlight -streamed in.</p> - -<p>“There, sitting in a great wooden rocking-chair,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -his feet resting almost in the fire, his head fallen -low upon his breast, his stern, hard features calmly -set as if in sleep, sat he whom we had come to bell—dead. -On the spotless table by his side stood -a candlestick from which the candle had burned -away, only a bit of charred taper remaining to tell -us that in all likelihood Joe had died before we -reached his home and that the last spark of the -unattended light had fluttered out, just as we began -the hideous turmoil outside. Clutched in the old -man’s right hand was the explanation of his lonely -life as well as of the grewsome ending of the great -belling.”</p> - -<p>Theophilus Winter ceased his narration. He -drew out his pocketbook and after fumbling a -moment in its recesses, took from it a bit of paper. -It was yellow with age and soiled, and the writing -on it had almost faded out, but I could read: -“Deer Joe—you and me was never ment for one -another. i knowed that 40 years ago and thats -wi i run way with si tompson, you was good to -take me back them too other times i left, this last -time i thought i was gettin to old an you was so -fergivin i had better spend my las days with you. -i cant stand the quiet country livin an am gone -back to harrisburg. they aint no one with me. -fergive me. i gess youll be better off without -your old wife—sarah.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The Sentimental Tramp.</i></span></h2> - -<p>“Anything new ben happenin’ to you uns, -Trampy?” asked the Chronic Loafer. “We ain’t -seen ye ’bout these parts sence corn-plantin’ a -year.”</p> - -<p>“Nothin’ unusu’l,” replied the Tramp, laying -on the porch his stick and the bandana handkerchief -that contained his wardrobe. He seated -himself on the step. “Nothin’ unusu’l. I wintered -in Philadelphy an’ started fer these parts in -May.”</p> - -<p>“Seems like you’re lookin’ mighty glum,” said -the Storekeeper. He had ceased his whittling -and was examining every detail of the wanderer’s -dress and physiognomy. “Might s’pose ye was in -love agin.”</p> - -<p>The traveller sighed.</p> - -<p>“You air the sentimentalist tramp I ever seen,” -the Miller cried. “Every time ye comes th’oo -these parts, it’s a new un. Does ye think the -weemen is so almighty blind ez to git struck on a -hoodoo like you?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I keeps me passions an’ me shortcomin’s to -meself,” replied the wanderer after he had lighted -his corncob pipe. “I’ve had a heap o’ hard luck. -I wouldn’t min’ gittin’ in love or in jail fer murder -sep’rate, but both at oncet is too much even -fer a man like me.”</p> - -<p>“Hedgins!” the Loafer exclaimed, edging -toward the end of the bench furthest from the -vagrant. “In jail fer murder!”</p> - -<p>A faint smile flitted across the face of the -Tramp. Then he began his story:</p> - -<p>“In jail fer murder an’ in love wit’ the Sher’ff’s -dotter—that’s exactly what happened to me. -It’s onjust; it ain’t right, it ain’t, even fer a man -o’ my shortcomin’s. Let’s see. This is hay harvest, -ain’t it. Well, it was jest about corn-plantin’ -it all come about. I’d been workin’ me way easy -up along the Sussykehanner, an’ one night put up -wit’ an ole feller named Noah Punk, who lived in -a lawg house at the foot o’ the big mo’ntain this -side o’ Pillersville. They was no one there but -him an’ his woman. She was a bad-tempered -creetur’ an’ made things hum ’round that ranch -when me an’ the ole man was playin’ kyards after -supper. They put me to bed in the garret, -an’ next day I set out agin. Punk he sayd he’d -walk up the road a piece wit’ me, an’ he did. We -parted at a crossroads two mile from his house. -That was the last I ever seen of him. I’d never -thot no more of him nuther ef it hedn’t been that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -two days later, when I was joggin’ easy like into -Jimstontown, I was ’rested—’rested, mind ye, fer -the murder o’ Noah Punk. I never knowd jest -what it was all ’bout tell I was comf’table fixed -in the kyounty jail. An’ then I didn’t keer, fer -I’d met the Sher’ff’s dotter.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but she was a star! Jest ez plump ez ye -make ’em, wit’ a dimple, an’ yaller shiny hair, an’ -jest ez red ez a ripe rambo apple. When she -brought me up me supper the fust night, I ast her -what I was up fer, an’ she tol’ me.</p> - -<p>“It seems like no one ever seen Noah Punk -after him an’ me left the house. He never come -back, an’ when they hunted fer him they found -nothin’ but one o’ his ole shoes, all covered wit’ -blood, be the canal where him an’ me parted. -They ’rested me bekase I was last seen wit’ him. -Then the Sher’ff wanted to hang some un.</p> - -<p>“When I heard that I was kind o’ tired, an’ fer -a time jest held me head down, never sayin’ -nothin’. Then I looks up an’ seen Em’ly standin’ -there so sorrerful.</p> - -<p>“‘How long’ll it be tell they hangs me?’ I ast.</p> - -<p>“‘They’ll try you next month,’ she sais. ‘Then -I’d ’low another month tell——’ She bust plum -inter tears.</p> - -<p>“‘Two months, Em’ly,’ sais I, I sais, ‘an’ you -feeds the prisoners. They’ll be the bless’dest two -months o’ me life.’</p> - -<p>“‘Deed, an’ that’s jest how I felt. Them words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -was true ef I ever sayd a true word. The bless’dest -two months o’ my life.</p> - -<p>“But them days did fly! I never thot no more -o’ Noah Punk or o’ hangin’. It was all of -Em’ly. They was four other prisoners in the jail, -an’ I never played no kyards wit’ them, but jest -sot a-thinkin’ o’ her. She use ter bring us our -meals three times a day. Quick ez I’d finish -eatin’ I’d set waitin’ fer her to come agin. Jail -was a happy place fer me. I never wanted to -leave it.</p> - -<p>“You uns otter ’a’ seen me in them days. I -wasn’t sich a bum ez I am now. The Sher’ff give -me a shave an’ a new suit. Puttin’ all in all, I -was a pretty slick lookin’ individu’l—no red hair -an’ whiskers shootin’ out in all directions, makin’ -me look like an’ ile lamp, ez I hear one feller put -it. Me coat didn’t hang like curtains, an’ me -pants was all made o’ the same piece o’ goods. I -was a dude, I was, in spite o’ me present shortcomin’s -in that respect. Sometim’s I think mebbe -Em’ly thot so too, fer she use to allus give me a -bigger potaty than the other fellers. They guyed -me a heap about it.</p> - -<p>“A month went by, an’ I was gittin’ wus an’ -wus, when they tuk me out an’ tried me fer killin’ -Noah Punk. They was a smart little chap they -called the ’strict ’torney what done all the work -agin me. He showed the jury Punk’s bloody -shoe an’ my clothes. A doctor sayd the spots on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -my clothes was huming blood. They was, but it -was mine, an’ it got there be my leanin’ agin a -nail. Missus Punk told how I slep’ at the house. -Another feller sayd how he’d seen me an’ Punk -walkin’ along the canal. I ’lowed I didn’t kill -Punk an’ that jedgin’ from what I seen o’ Missus -Punk, he’d ’a’ thanked me ef I had. Missus Punk -an’ the ’strict ’torney got riled at that, an’ the -jedge come down so hard I didn’t dast say another -word. Then the jury found I was guilty, -an’ the jedge ’lowed they’d hang me that day four -weeks. But I didn’t keer, fer it was one month -more in jail to be fed be Em’ly.</p> - -<p>“That night she brought me a bigger potaty -’an ever. When I seen it I sais, sais I, ‘Em’ly, -will you be sorry when I’m goin’?’</p> - -<p>“‘’Deed an’ I will, Tom,’ sais she.</p> - -<p>“‘Then I’ll be glad to go,’ sais I. An’ ’bout -half that potaty went down inter me lungs, I -choked so bad.”</p> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer observed, “It do seem -like Em’ly were jest a leetle gone, Trampy.”</p> - -<p>“Mebbe she was. I don’t know. But that -very night the other pris’ners onloosed all the -locks wit’ a penknife. They wanted me to go. -I ’lowed I’d stay. I never let on what was wrong, -but sayd I was an innercent man an’ wouldn’t -run. They give me the laugh, an’ that was the -last I ever seen of ’em.</p> - -<p>“The day o’ the hangin’ come. I’d ben gittin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -wus an’ wus ’bout the Sher’ff’s dotter. I didn’t -keer much ’bout goin’, but I hated to leave the -ole jail. I’d a heap sight ruther ’a’ gone, tho’, -wit’ flyin’ colors an’ hed her sorry then to ’a’ ben -kicked out to trampin’. Em’ly didn’t give me -breakfas’ that mornin’. Instead, the Sher’ff -served me chicken an’ eggs an’ a lot of other -things they only gives a tramp ’fore they hangs -’im. He togged me out in a nice fittin’ black suit -and tuk me out ter go. Mighty, but they was a -crowd to see me off! The jail-yard was filled -with prom’nent citizens; the housetops an’ trees -around the wall was jest black wit’ men an’ boys. -I braced right up an’ never feazed a bit when I -seen the rope. The Sher’ff sayd I could make a -speech, so I gits up an’ sais, easy like,’Me frien’s,’ -I sais, ‘I haven’t no regrets in leavin’ this ’ere -world, fer I hain’t been onduly conf’table. It’s -the jail I’ll miss, an’ the Sher’ff’s pretty dotter. -I’ve——’</p> - -<p>“Jest then the Sher’ff yelled, ‘Hold on!’</p> - -<p>“I turned an’ seen him readin’ a letter. It had -come from Noah Punk out in Kansas. He sayd -he wrote bekase he seen be the papers they was -hangin’ a man fer killin’ him. He wanted to explain -that he was still livin’ an’ hed only run away -from Mrs. Punk. The blood on his shoes come -from his steppin’ on a piece of glass. He’d tuk -off his boots an’ gone west on a freight.</p> - -<p>“When the crowd hear that they give the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> -Sher’ff a groan. The Sher’ff he got mad, an’ tuk -all me new duds, give me me ole ones an’ turned -me looset.</p> - -<p>“I was a common ord’nary tramp an’ I was -clean discouratched. I knowd I’d never have -Em’ly feed me agin ’less I got back in that jail, -so I set right down on the steps. The Sher’ff -jest wouldn’t ’rest me but druv me off wit’ a club. -I busted two o’ his winders next day. Still he -wouldn’t ’rest me. I broke three more winders -an’ he nabbed me. I was nigh tickled to death -wit’ me luck. But then I hain’t no luck. That -there man treated me jest the way a farmer does -a cat that eats chickens. He put me on a train, -tuk me out to Altony an’ turned me looset.”</p> - -<p>The Tramp sighed and puffed vigorously on his -pipe.</p> - -<p>“An’ now what air ye doin’?” asked the Storekeeper.</p> - -<p>“What else ’ud a man do?” replied the traveller. -“I’m hustlin’ jest ez fast ez I kin to git -back to that jail. An’ I’m goin’ ter git in it. -I’ll never eat another potaty onless it comes from -the hand o’ the Sher’ff’s dotter.”</p> - -<p>“Does you know what I wisht?” inquired the -Chronic Loafer earnestly.</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“I wisht Noah Punk hedn’t wrote that letter.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Hiram Gum, the Fiddler.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The last red rays of the evening sun disappeared -below the mountains and the gray twilight settled -over the valley. The mill ceased its rumbling. -The mower that all day long had been clicking -merrily in the meadow behind the store stood -silent in the swaths, and the horses that had drawn -it were playfully dipping their noses in the cool -waters of the creek. The birds—the plover, the -lark and the snipe that had whistled since daybreak -over the fields and the robins and sparrows -that had chirped overhead in the trees—had long -since made themselves comfortable for the impending -night. By and by the woods beyond -the flats assumed a formless blackness and from -their dark midst came the lonely call of the whippoorwill. -The horses splashed out of the creek -and clattered through the village to the white -barn at the end of the street. The Miller padlocked -the heavy door of the mill and bid good -night to his helper, who trudged away over the -bridge swinging his dinner pail. Then he beat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -the flour out of his cap on the hitching-post and -lounged up to the store. He threw himself along -the floor, and after propping his back against a -pillar, lighted his pipe.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen it comes to fiddlin’,” the Chronic Loafer -was saying, “they is few men can beat Sam Washin’ton. -Why I’ve knowd him to set down at a -party at seven at night an’ fiddle till six next -mornin’ an’ play a different tune every time.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever hear o’ Hiram Gum?” asked the -Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“Hiram Gum!” cried the G. A. R. Man. “My -father used often to speak o’ him, but he was -afore my time. Drowned in the canal.”</p> - -<p>“Wonderful, wonderful, I’ve heard tell,” exclaimed -the Miller. “I can jest remember seein’ -him oncet ’hen I was a wee bit o’ a boy—a leetle -man with long hair an’ big eyes an’ a withered -arm.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” the old man murmured, beating -his stick upon the porch. “An’ a wonderful -fiddler was Hiram Gum. They was few ’round -these parts could han’le a bow with that man.”</p> - -<p>“But Sam Washin’ton’s the best fiddler they -is,” the Loafer interposed emphatically.</p> - -<p>“My dear man, Hiram Gum was more’n an -earthly fiddler,” the Patriarch retorted. “He hed -charms. He knowd words.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t b’lieve in them charms furder then they -’fect snakes an’ bees.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p> - -<p>“But Hiram Gum was more’n an ord’nary -man, an’ I otter know, fer I remember him well. -He was leetle, ez the Miller sayd, an’ hed long -black hair an’ a red beard that waved all around -his neck, an’ big black eyes, an’ cheeks that shined -like they was scoured. Then his left arm was all -withered an’ wasn’t no use exceptin’ that he could -crook it up like an’ work the long fingers on the -fiddle-strings. No one knowd how old Hiram -was, no more’n they knowd where he come from -’hen he settled up the walley sixty years ago, fer -he never sayd. No one ever dast ask him ’bout -sech things, fer he’d jest look black an’ say nawthin’, -an’ give you sech a glance with them big -eyes that you felt all creepy. Aside from that he -was allus a pleasant, cheery kind of a man, an’ -talked entertainin’, fer he’d traveled a heap.</p> - -<p>“Hiram settled in a little lawg house that stood -on South Ridge near where Silver’s peach orchard -is now. Peter Billings’s farm joined his lot, an’ -it wasn’t long ’fore the leetle man tuk to strollin’ -over to see his neighbors of an evenin’. By -an’ by he seemed to take a considerable shine -fer Peter’s dotter Susan. First no one thot nawthin’ -of it, fer it hairdly seemed likely that ez -pretty a girl ez she would care much about sech -a dried-up leetle speciment ez Hiram Gum. Besides, -fer a long time she’d ben keepin’ company -with young Jawhn McCullagh, whose father owned -’bout the best piece o’ farmin’ land up the walley.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -He was a big, fine-lookin’ felly, a bit o’ a boaster, -an’ with a likin’ fer his own way.</p> - -<p>“So no one ever dreamt anything ’ud come o’ -Hiram Gum loafin’ over at Billings’s. But, boys, -’hen you’ve lived ez long ez I hev, an’ seen ez -much o’ the worl’ ez I hev, you’ll come to the -conclusion that they is a heap o’ truth in the old -sayin’ that matches is made in Heaven. But it -do seem sometim’s like they wasn’t much time or -thot spent in the makin’. Fust thing we heard -that Hi hed ben drove off the Billings’s place an’ -Susan was kep’ locked in her room fer a week. -An’ sech a change ez come over that man. It -was airly in the spring ’hen it happened. He’d -allus met a man with a hearty ‘howde’ before, but -after that he never spoke ’hen he passed. From -one o’ the pleasantest o’ men he become one o’ -the blackest. From comin’ to store every day, -he got to comin’ only ’hen he needed things. -The rest o’ the time he spent mopin’ up in his -placet on the hill. Susan changed too. She -lost color an’ got solemn like. Many a time I -seen her leanin’ over the gate, lookin’ away up -the ridge to where Hiram’s placet lay.</p> - -<p>“Then come the Lander’s big party. It was -the last o’ the season fer the hot weather was -near ’hen they wasn’t no time fer swingin’ corners, -let alone the overheatin’ that ’ud come by it, so -everybody in the walley was there. Young an’ -old danced that night. They was three sets in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> -the settin’-room an’ two in the kitchen; they was -two in the entry an’ one on the porch. Save fer -layin’ off at ten o’clock fer sweet-cake an’ cider -we done wery leetle restin’. They was mighty -few wanted to rest much ’hen Hiram Gum played. -He’d no sooner tuk his placet in the corner then -every inch o’ the floor was covered with sets. -Bow yer corners! an’ we was off.”</p> - -<p>The old man beat his stick on the porch and -waved his body to and fro.</p> - -<p>“My, but that was fiddlin’! It jest went -th’oo a man like one o’ them ’lectric shockin’ -machines. Yer feet was started an’ away ye -went; ole Hiram settin’ there with his withered -arm crooked up to hold the fiddle, the long, -crooked fingers flyin’ over the strings, the bow -goin’ so fast ye could hairdly see it, his big black -eyes lookin’ down inter the instermen’, his long -hair an’ beard wavin’ ez he swung to an’ fro. -Now yer own! Oh, them was dancin’ days ’hen -Hi Gum played!</p> - -<p>“They never was a more inweterate hat-passer -then Hiram, fer be his playin’ he made his livin’, -an’ never a note ’ud he make tell they was fifty -cents in his ole white beaver. Then he’d play -that out an’ ’round he’d come agin. That night -he didn’t ast a cent, but jest sat there glum an’ -never oncet stopped the music.</p> - -<p>“Susan was a wonderful dancer—jest ez quick -ez a flash, untirin’, an’ so light on her feet that ye<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> -felt like ye was holtin’ to a fairy ’hen ye swung -corners with her. She was on the floor continual’. -I done one set with her an’ noticed how she could -scarce keep her eyes offen Hi. She only danced -one set with McCullagh an’ lay kind o’ limp like -in swingin’ corners an’ didn’t say nawthin’, so -’hen they finished he left the house. I seen him -go out o’ the door with a black look in his -face.</p> - -<p>“Most all hed gone ’hen I left Lander’s airly in -the mornin’. We lived over the river, an’ ez they -wasn’t no bridge we use to cross in a couple o’ -ole boats that was kep’ tied along the bank jest -below the canal lock. I went down over the flat -an’ th’oo the woods tell I come to the canal, -where I crossed the lock an’ walked along the -towpath, whistlin’ all the time fer company. It -was a clear night. The moon was shinin’ bright -th’oo the trees. The canal was on one side o’ me, -an’ th’oo the open places in the bushes on the -other I could see the river gleamin’ along. I got -to the bend jest a couple of hundred yards above -where the boats lay an’ was jest steppin’ out inter -the clearin’ there ’hen sudden I heard a loud voice. -I stopped. Then it come louder, an’ I recognized -Jawhn McCullagh’s rough talk. I went cautious -tell I was out o’ the woods. There, jest ahead, I -seen him, near the path, facin’ ole Hiram Gum, -who, with his fiddle under his arm, was standin’ -with his back to the canal, lookin’ quiet at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -big felly. I dropped to the ground an’ watched, -scarce breathin’ I was so excited.</p> - -<p>“Jawhn raised a heavy stick, an’ shook it, an’ -stepped slow-like toward the leetle fiddler, crowdin’ -him nearer the bank.</p> - -<p>“‘Hiram Gum!’ he sayd, ‘I’ve hed ’nough o’ -you. Git out o’ this country an’ never come back, -or you’ll never fiddle agin!’</p> - -<p>“Hiram lowered his fiddle an’ answered, ‘You -can’t skeer me, Jawhn McCullagh, fer Susan -doesn’t keer fer you!’</p> - -<p>“‘You sha’n’t run off with her!’ the other -yelled, shakin’ his stick.</p> - -<p>“I could see his face workin’ ez he swung his club -up an’ down, an’ step be step kep’ edgin’ the leetle -felly nearer the wotter. I jest lay tremblin’, I was -that frightened, fer I was but a lad in them days. -I knowd I otter run out an’ stop it, but ’fore I -got me couritch up I hear the soft notes o’ the -fiddle. There was ole Hiram with his withered -hand holdin’ the instermen’, his long fingers flyin’ -over the strings, the bow slidin’ slow like up an’ -down.</p> - -<p>“‘Swing yer corners, Jawhn!’ he cried, fixin’ -them black eyes on the big feller.</p> - -<p>“Then the notes come quick an’ short. -Jawhn’s stick dropped, an’ his arm fell limp like. -He passed one hand confused over his forehead. -He bowed. The notes come faster. In another -minute he was swingin’ corners with his arms graspin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -the air. The dead sticks cracked under his feet -ez he flung around. An’ ez ole Hi called the figgers -he followed him, yellin’ ’em louder an’ kickin’ like -mad. It was the wildest dancin’ ever I seen. He -bowed an’ twisted, back’ard an’ for’a’d, an’ chassayed -an’ chained, his feet movin’ faster an’ faster -ez the notes come quicker an’ quicker an’ the bow -slid to an’ fro like lightnin’. Ole Hiram kep’ -movin’ ’round cautious like, never takin’ his eyes -off the dancer tell he was on the river side -an’ Jawhn skippin’ ’round on the beaten towpath.</p> - -<p>“Them was awful minutes fer me. I could do -nawthin’, fer the playin’ kind o’ spelled me. ’Hen -I seen the fiddler begin to move toward the -canal an’ the mad dancin’ felly backin’ nearer -an’ nearer the bank, I tried to git up but I -kicked out with both feet an’ fell sprawlin’ on the -groun’.</p> - -<p>“‘Back to your corner, Jawhn!’ the ole man -called.</p> - -<p>“‘Corners next!’ yelled the dancer, kickin’ up -his heels an’ th’owin’ out his arms like he was -grabbin’ somethin’. Then come an awful cry. -They was a splash. He’d gone over the bank.</p> - -<p>“I jumped out, fer the music hed stopped, an’ -started toward the spot. But ’fore I got there -Hiram hed th’owed away his fiddle an’ run to the -canal, an’ was down on his knees starin’ inter -the wotter. A head come above the surface.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> -Then an arm reached wildly out. The ole man -bent over an’ grasped the hand. But it wasn’t no -uset, fer he’d nawthin’ to support himself with. -He took holt o’ the bank with his withered fingers, -but the arm give ’way an’ he toppled over. Fer -a minute all was still. I leaned over the wotter -an’ waited. They was a ripple toward the middle, -an’ two heads come up. I seen Hiram Gum’s -long black hair an’ beard an’ his drawn face ez he -looked at the sky overhead. Then they disappeared -agin. The surface of the canal become -quiet an’ still like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’. -Then I turned an’ run.</p> - -<p>“I flew along the towpath, acrosst the clearin’, -inter the woods agin, an’ down toward the river -where the boats lay hid among the willer bushes. -An’ ez I went crashin’ th’oo the branches I hear -a girl’s voice callin’.</p> - -<p>“‘Hiram,’ she sais, ‘why was you fiddlin’? I -thot you was never comin’.’</p> - -<p>“Another second an’ I was th’oo the willers an’ -on the bank. There, settin’ in a boat, her hands -on the oars ready to pull away, was Susan Billings.”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch beat his cane softly on the floor -and hummed a snatch of a tune.</p> - -<p>There came a short, quick puffing as the Loafer -drew on his pipe, until the bright coals shone in -the darkness.</p> - -<p>“But Sam Washin’ton——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> - -<p>The old man arose slowly.</p> - -<p>“I don’t keer ’bout Sam Washin’ton. I must -be goin’ home. I’ll git the rhuem’tism on sech a -night sure, fer I’ve no horse-chestnut in me -pocket.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>The “Good Un.”</i></span></h2> - -<p>An air of gloom pervaded the store. Outside -the rain came pattering down. It ran in torrents -off the porch roof and across the entrance made -a formidable moat, which had been temporarily -bridged by an empty soapbox. It gathered on -the limbs of the leafless trees and poured in steady -streams upon the backs of the three forlorn horses, -that, shivering under water-logged blankets, stood -patiently, with hanging heads, at the hitching rail. -Within everything was dry, to be sure, but the -firewood, which was damp and would not burn, -so the big egg stove sent forth no cheerful rays of -heat and light. Out from its heart came the -sound of sizzle and splutter as some isolated flame -attacked a piece of wet hickory. It seemed to -have conveyed its ill-humor to the little group -around it.</p> - -<p>The Tinsmith arose from the nail keg upon -which he had been seated, walked disconsolately -to the door and gazed through the begrimed glass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -at the dreary village street. He stood there a -moment, and then lounged back to the stove.</p> - -<p>As he rubbed his hands on the pipe in vain effort -to absorb a little heat, he grumbled, “This -here rain’s upset all my calkerlations. I was goin’ -to bile to-morrow, but you uns doesn’t catch me -makin’ cider sech a day ez this. My weemen sayd -they’d hev the schnitz done up to-day an’ we -could start the kittles airly in the mornin’. Now -all this time is loss.”</p> - -<p>“Seems like ye’re bilin’ kind o’ late,” said the -Storekeeper, resting both elbows on the counter -and clasping his chin in his hands. “Luther Jimson -was tellin’ me the other day how all the folks -up the walley hes made.”</p> - -<p>The storm had kept the Patriarch at home, so -the Chronic Loafer had the old man’s chair. He -leaned back on two legs of it; then twisted his -long body to one side so his head rested comfortably -against his favorite pile of calicoes.</p> - -<p>“Speakin’ o’ apple butter,” he said, “reminds -me of a good un I hed on my Missus last week.”</p> - -<p>“It allser remin’s me,” interposed the Tinsmith, -“that I met Abe Scissors up to preachin’ a Sunday, -an’ he was wond’rin’ when you was goin’ to -return his copper kittle.”</p> - -<p>“Abe Scissors needn’t git worrit ’bout his kittle. -I’ve a good un on him ez well ez on the Missus. -His copper kittle——”</p> - -<p>The Farmer, who had almost been hidden by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -the stove, at this juncture leaned forward in his -chair and interrupted, “But Abe Scissors hain’t -got no kittle. That there——”</p> - -<p>“Let him tell his good one,” cried the School -Teacher. “He’s been tryin’ it every night this -week. Let us get done with it.”</p> - -<p>The Farmer grunted discontentedly but threw -himself back in silence. With marked attention, -however, he followed the Loafer’s narration.</p> - -<p>“The Missus made up her mind she’d bile apple-butter -this year, bespite all my objections, an’ two -weeks ago this comin’ Saturday she done it. They -ain’t no trees on our lot, so I got Jawhn Longnecker -to give me six burshel o’ Pippins an’ York -Imper’als mixed, on condition I helped with his -thrashin’ next month. I give Hiram Thompson -that there red shote I’d ben fattenin’ fer a bawrel -o’ cider. She’d cal’lated to put up ’bout fourteen -gallon o’ butter. I sayd it was all foolershness, -fer I could buy it a heap sight cheaper an’ was -gittin’ tired o’ Pennsylwany salve any way. Fer -all year round, zulicks is ’bout the best thing to go -with bread.”</p> - -<p>“Mentionin’ zulicks,” interrupted the Storekeeper, -“remin’s me that yesterday I got in a -bawrel o’ the very finest. It’s none o’ yer common -cookin’ m’lasses but was made special fer table -use.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll bring a tin down an’ hev it filled,” continued -the Loafer, “fer there’s nawthin’ better’n<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -plain bread an’ zulicks. But the Missus don’t see -things my way allus, an’ they was nawthin’ but -fer me to borry the Storekeeper’s horse an’ wagon -an’ drive over to Abe Scissors’s an’ git the loan o’ -his copper kittle an’ stirrer.”</p> - -<p>“But Abe Scissors hain’t got no copper kittle,” -cried the Farmer vehemently.</p> - -<p>“He sayd it was his copper kittle an’ I didn’t -ast no questions,” the Loafer replied. “My pap -allus used to say that ’bout one half the dissypintments -an’ onhappinesses in this worl’ was due to -questionin’, an’ I ’low he was right. So I didn’t -catechize Abe Scissors. He ’lowed I could hev -the kittle jest ez long ez I didn’t burn it, fer he -claimed he’d give twenty-five dollar fer it at a sale -last spring. Hevin’ made satisfactory ’rangements -fer the apples, the cider, the kittle an’ the stirrer, -they was nawthin’ left to do but bile. Two weeks -ago to-morrer we done it.</p> - -<p>“The Missus inwited several o’ her weemen -frien’s in the day before to help schnitz, an’ I tell -you uns, what with talkin’ ’bout how many pared -apples was needed with so much cider biled down -to so much, an’ how much sugar an’ cinn’mon -otter be used fer so many crocks o’ butter, them -folks hed a great time. ’Hen they finished they -was a washtub full o’ the finest schnitzed apples -ye ever seen.”</p> - -<p>“Borryed my washtub-still,” exclaimed the -Tinsmith.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> - -<p>“A gentleman is knowd be the way he lends, -my pap use to say,” drawled the Loafer, gazing -absently at the ceiling.</p> - -<p>“Well, ef your father was anything like his son -he knowd the truth o’ that sayin’,” snapped the -Tinsmith.</p> - -<p>“He use to argy,” continued the Loafer, ignoring -this remark, “that them ez hesn’t the mawral -courage to refuse to lend ’hen they don’t want to, -is allus weak enough to bemoan their good deeds -in public. But it ain’t no use discussin’ them -pints. I got everything I needed, an’ on the -next mornin’ the Missus was up airly an’ at six -o’clock hed the fire goin’ in the back yard, with the -kittle rigged over it an’ hed begin to bile down -that bawrel o’ cider.</p> - -<p>“Bilin’ down ain’t bad fer they hain’t nawthin’ -to do. It’s ’hen ye begins puttin’ in the schnitz -an’ hes to stir ketches ye. I didn’t ’low I’d stir. -Missus, ’hen the cider was all biled down to a kittle -full, sayd I hev ter, but I claimed I’d worked -enough gittin’ the things. Besides I’d a ’pointment -to see Sam Shores, the stage-driver, ’hen he -come th’oo here that afternoon. The Missus an’ -her weemen frien’s grumbled, but begin dumpin’ -the schnitz in with the bilin’ cider an’ to do their -own stirrin’. I come over here an’ was waitin’ fer -the stage. After an’ hour I concided I’d run over -to the house an’ git a drink o’ cider. I went in -the back way, an’ there I seen Ike Lauterbach’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -wife a-standin’ stirrin’. The rest o’ the weemen -was in the kitchen.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen Mrs. Lauterbach seen me she sais pleasant -like, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Your wife -an’ the rest o’ the ladies hes made a batch o’ -cookies. Now you jest stir here a minute an’ I’ll -go git some fer ye.’</p> - -<p>“I was kind o’ afraid to take holt on that there -stirrer, so sayd I’d git ’em meself. But she ’sisted -she’d be right out, an’ foolish I tuk the han’le. I -regret it the minute I done it. I stirred an’ -stirred, an’ Mrs. Lauterbach didn’t come. Then -I hear the weemen in the house laughin’ like -they’d die.</p> - -<p>“The Missus she puts her head out an’ sais, -‘Jest you keep on stirrin’. Don’t you dast stop -fer the butter’ll stick to the kittle an’ burn it ef -ye does.’</p> - -<p>“Down went the windy. I was jest that hoppin’ -mad I’d a notion to quit right there an’ leave -the ole thing burn, but then I was afraid Abe -Scissors might kerry on ef I did. So I stirred, -an’ stirred, an’ stirred. I tell ye I don’t know -any work ez mean ez that. Stop movin’ the stick -an’ the kittle burns. Ef any o’ you uns ever done -it you’ll know it ain’t no man’s work.”</p> - -<p>“The weemen allus does it with us,” said the -Miller in a superior tone.</p> - -<p>“I cal’lated they was to do it with us, but I -mistook,” the Loafer continued. “I stirred, an’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -stirred, an’ stirred. The fire got hotter an’ hotter -an’ hotter, an’ ez it got warmer the han’le o’ the -stirrer seemed to git shorter, an’ me face begin to -blister. I kep’ at it fer an’ hour an’ a half, tell -me legs was near givin’ way under me, me fingers -was stiff an’ achin’, me arms felt like they’d drop -off from pushin’ an’ twistin’ that long stick. The -apples was all dissolved but the butter was thin -yit, an’ I knowd it meant th’ee hours afore we -could take the kittle offen the fire.</p> - -<p>“Then I yelled fer help. One o’ the weemen -come out. I was that mad I most swore, but she -jest laughed an’ poked some more wood on the -fire an’ sayd ef I didn’t push the stick livelier the -kittle’d burn. The fire blazed up hotter an’ hotter, -an’ it seemed like me clothes ’ud begin to -smoke at any minute. Me arms an’ legs was -achin’ more’n more. Me back was ’most broke -from me tryin’ to lean ’way from the heat. Me -neck was ’most twisted off be me ’temptin’ to keep -the blaze from blindin’ me. It come four o’clock -an’ I yelled fer help agin.</p> - -<p>“The Missus stuck her head outen the windy -an’ called, ‘Don’t you let that kittle burn!’</p> - -<p>“I was desp’rate, but I kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’. -It come sundown an’ begin to git darker an’ darker, -an’ the butter got thicker an’ thicker, but I knowd -be the feel that they was a couple o’ hours yit. I -begin to think o’ lettin’ the ole thing drop an’ -Abe Scissors’ kittle burn, fer I held he didn’t hev<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -no business to lend it to me ’hen he knowd well -enough it ’ud spoil ef I ever quit stirrin’. Oncet -I was fer lettin’ go an’ slippin’ over here to the -store, fer I heard several o’ the fellys drive up an’ -hitch an’ the door bang shet. But ’hen I tried to -drop the stick I jest couldn’t. Me fingers seemed -to think it wasn’t right an’ held to the pole, an’ -me arms kep’ on pushin’ an’ pushin’ tho’ every -motion give me an ache. I jest didn’t dast, so -kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ -thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, an’ wond’rin’ who was over -here an’ what was doin’. An’ ez I kep’ pushin’ -an’ pushin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, I clean forgot -meself an’ all about the apple-butter.</p> - -<p>“I come to with a jump fer some un hed me be -the beard. ’Hen I looked up I seen the Missus -an’ her weemen frien’s standin’ ’round me gestickelatin’. -The Missus was wavin’ what was left -o’ the stirrer. It was jest ’bout half ez long ez -’hen I begin with it, fer the cross piece that runs -down into the butter an’ ’bout half the han’le -was burned off. Seems I’d got the ole thing -clean outen the kittle an’ hed ben stirrin’ it -’round the fire.”</p> - -<p>“Reflex action,” suggested the Teacher.</p> - -<p>“The butter was fairly smokin’. An’ the kittle! -Well, say, ef that there wasn’t jest ez black on the -inside ez ef if was iron ’stead o’ copper. An’ the -weemen! Mebbe it was reflect actin’ they done, -ez the teacher sais, but whatever it was it skeered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -me considerable. But final I seen how funny it -was, how the joke was on the Missus who’d loss -all her apple-butter, ’stead o’ on me, an’ how I’d -got square with Abe Scissors fer lendin’ me his -copper kittle ’hen he knowd it ’ud burn ef I ever -stopped stirrin’. An’ I jest laughed.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer straightened up in his chair and -began to rock violently to and fro and to chuckle.</p> - -<p>The Farmer arose and walked around the stove.</p> - -<p>“What fer a kittle was that?” he asked in a -low, pleasant tone. “Was they a big S stamped -on the inside next the rim?”</p> - -<p>“That’s the one exact. He! he!” cried the -Loafer, with great hilarity. “S fer Scissors -an’——”</p> - -<p>“S stands fer Silver too,” yelled the Farmer. -“My name’s Silver. I lent that kittle to Abe -Scissors four weeks ago.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer gathered himself together and -arose from the muddy pool at the foot of the -store steps. He gazed ruefully for a moment at -the closed door, and seemed undecided whether -or not to return to the place from which he had -been so unceremoniously ejected. Then the -sound of much laughing came to his ears, and he -exclaimed, “Well, ef that ain’t a good un!”</p> - -<p>And he ambled off home to the Missus.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Breaking the Ice.</i></span></h2> - -<p>When William Larker irrevocably made up -his mind to take Mary Kuchenbach to the great -county picnic at Blue Bottle Springs he did not -tell his father, as was his custom in most matters. -To a straight-laced Dunkard like Herman Larker, -the very thought of attendance on such a carousal, -with its round dancing and square dancing, would -have seemed impiety. Henry Kuchenbach was -likewise a member of that strict sect, but he was -not quite so narrow in his ideas as his more pious -neighbor. Yet to him, also, the suggestion of -his daughter being a participant in such frivolity -would have met with scant approval.</p> - -<p>But William was longing to dance. For many -years he had fondly cherished the belief that he -was possessed of much inborn ability in that art—a -genius compelled to remain dormant, by the -narrowness of his family’s views. Many a rainy -afternoon had he given vent to his desire by -swinging corners and <em>deux-et-deux-ing</em> about his -father’s barn-floor, with no other partner than a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -sheaf of wheat and no other music than that produced -by his own capacious lips.</p> - -<p>So one beautiful July day, when, attired in his -best, he stepped into his buggy, tapped his sleek -mare with the whip and started at a brisk pace -toward the Kuchenbach farm, his stern father -believed that he was going to the great bush-meeting, -twelve miles up the turnpike and was -devoutly thankful to see his son growing in piety. -William’s best was a black frock coat, with short -tails, trousers of the same material reaching just -below his shoe-tops, a huge derby, once black but -now green from long exposure to the elements, -and a new pair of shoes well tallowed. As he -drove up to the gate of the neighboring farm -Mary was waiting for him, looking very buxom -and rosy and neat in her plain black dress, the -sombreness of which was relieved by a white kerchief -at the neck and the gray poke bonnet of -her sect. As she took the vacant place beside -him in the buggy and the vehicle rattled away, -Henry Kuchenbach called after them, “Don’t -fergit to bring back some o’ the good things the -brethren sais.” And good Mrs. Kuchenbach -threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Ain’t them -a lovely pair?”</p> - -<p>“Yais,” said her husband grimly, “an’ fer six -year they’ve ben keepin’ comp’ny an’ he ain’t yit -spoke his mind.”</p> - -<p>The buggy sped along the road, the rattle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -its wheels, the clatter of the mare’s hoofs and -the shrill calls of the killdeer skimming over the -meadows, being the sole sounds to break the -silence of the country.</p> - -<p>A mile was gone over. Then the girl said falteringly, -“Beel, a’n’t it wrong?”</p> - -<p>In response William gave his horse a vicious -cut with the whip and replied, “It don’t seem jest -right to fool ’em, but you’ll fergit all about it -’hen we git dancin’.”</p> - -<p>There was silence between them—a silence -broken only at rare intervals when one or the -other ventured some commonplace remark which -would be rewarded with a laconic “Yais” or “Ye -don’t say.”</p> - -<p>Up hill and down rattled the buggy, following -the crooked road across the valley, over three low -wooded ridges, then up the broad meadows that -border the river, until at length the grove in which -lies Blue Bottle Spring was reached. The festivities -had already begun. The outskirts of the -wood were filled with vehicles of every description—buggies, -buckboards, spring-wagons, omnibuses -and ancient phaetons. The horses had -been unhitched and tied to trees and fences, and -were munching at their midday meal, gnawing -the bark from the limbs, snatching at the leaves -or kicking at the flies while their masters gave -themselves up to the pursuit of pleasure. Having -seen his mare comfortably settled at a small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -chestnut, William Larker took his lunch basket -on one arm and his companion on the other and -proceeded eagerly to the inner part of the grove, -whence came the sounds of the fiddle and cornet. -They passed through the outer circle of elderly -women, who were unpacking baskets and tastefully -arranging their contents on table-cloths -spread on the ground—jars of pickles, cans of -fruit, bags of sandwiches, bottles of cold tea, -layer cakes of wondrous size and construction, -and the scores of other dainties necessary to pass -a pleasant day with nature. They went through -a second circle of venders of peanuts, lemonade -and ice-cream, about whose stands were gathered -many elderly men discussing the topics of the -day and exchanging greetings.</p> - -<p>The young Dunkards had now arrived at the -center of interest, the platform, and joined the -crowd that was eagerly watching the course of -the dance. An orchestra of three pieces, a bass-viol, -a violin and a cornet, operated by three men -in shirt sleeves, sent forth wheezy strains to the -time of which men and women, young and old, -gaily swung corners and partners, galloped forward -and back, made ladies’ chains, winding in -and out, then back and bowing, until William -Larker and his companion fairly grew dizzy.</p> - -<p>The crowd of dancers was a heterogeneous one. -There were young men from the neighboring -county town, gorgeous in blazers of variegated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -colors, and young farmers whose movements were -not the less agile for the reason that they wore -heavy sombre clothing and high-crowned, broad-brimmed -felt hats. There were three particularly -forward youths in bicycle attire, and three gay -young men from a not far distant city, whose -shining silk hats and dancing pumps made them -centers of admiration and envy. The women, -likewise, went to both extremes. Gaily flowered, -airy calico, cashmere and gingham bobbed about -among glistening, frigid satins and silks.</p> - -<p>“Oh, ain’t it grand?” cried Mary Kuchenbach, -clasping her hands.</p> - -<p>“That’s good dancin’, I tell ye,” replied her -companion with enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>She had seated herself on a stump, and he was -leaning against a tree at her side, both with eyes -fixed on the platform.</p> - -<p>Now in seemingly inextricable chaos; now in -perfectly orderly form, six sets bowing and scraping; -now winding into a dazzling mass of silk, -calico, high hats, felt hats, flower-covered bonnets -and blazers, then out again went the dancers.</p> - -<p>“Good dancin’, I should say!” William exclaimed. -“Jest look at them th’ee ceety fellys, -with them shiny hats, a-swingin’ corners. Now, -a’n’t they cuttin’ it? Next comes ‘a-la-man-all.’ -Watch ’em—them two in the fur set—the way -they th’ow their feet—the gal in pink with the -felly in short pants an’ a stripped coat. Now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -back! Thet there is dancin’, I tell ye, Mary! -‘Gents dozy-dough’ next. Thet ’ere felly don’t -call figgers loud ’nough. There they goes—bad -in the rear set—thet’s better. See them ceety -fellys agin, swingin’ partners. Grand chain! -Good all ’round—no—there’s a break. See thet -girl in blue sating—she turned too soon. Thet’s -better. T’other way—bow yer corners—now yer -own. What! so soon? Why, they otter kep’ it -up.”</p> - -<p>The music had stopped. The dancers, panting -from their exertions, mopping and fanning, left -the platform and scattered among the audience.</p> - -<p>William Larker’s eyes were aglow. His companion, -seated upon the stump, gazed curiously, -timidly, at the gay crowd about her, while he -stood frigidly beside her mentally picturing the -pleasure to come. He was to dance to real music -with a flesh-and-blood partner after all those years -of secret practise with a wheat sheaf in the seclusion -of his father’s barn. He was to put his arms -around Mary Kuchenbach. His feet could hardly -keep still when a purely imaginary air floated -through his brain and he fancied himself “dozy-doughing” -and “goin’-a-visitin’” with the rosy -girl at his side.</p> - -<p>The man with the bass-viol was rubbing resin -on his bow, the violinist was tuning up and the -cornetist giving the stops of his instrument the -usual preliminary exercise when the floor-master<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -announced the next dance. One after another -the couples sifted from the crowd and clambered -on to the platform.</p> - -<p>“Two more pair,” cried the conductor.</p> - -<p>“Come ’long, Mary. Now’s our chancet,” -whispered the young Dunkard to his companion.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Beel, really I can’t. I never danced in -puberlick afore.”</p> - -<p>“But you kin. It ain’t hard. All ye’ll hev to -do is to keep yer feet a-movin’ an’ mind the felly -thet’s callin’ figgers.”</p> - -<p>The girl hesitated.</p> - -<p>“One more couple,” roared the floor-master.</p> - -<p>William was getting excited.</p> - -<p>“You can dance with the best of ’em. Come -’long.”</p> - -<p>“Really now, Beel, jest a minute.”</p> - -<p>The twang of the fiddle commenced and the -cracked, quavering notes of the horn arose above -the buzz of conversation.</p> - -<p>“Bow yer corners—now yer own,” cried the -leader.</p> - -<p>And the young man sat down on the stump in -disgust.</p> - -<p>“We’ll hev to git in the next,” he said. “Why, -it’s eesy. You see this here’s only a plain -quadreel. Ye otter see one thet ain’t plain—one -o’ them where they hes sech figgers ez ‘first lady -on the war-dance,’ like they done at the big weddin’ -up in Raccoon Walley th’ee year ago. These<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> -is plain. I never danced ’em afore meself, but -I’ve seen ’em do it an’ I’ve ben practisin’. All -ye’ll hev to do is to mind me.”</p> - -<p>So the following dance found them on the platform -among the first. The girl was trembling, -blushing and self-conscious; the young man self-conscious -but triumphant and composed.</p> - -<p>“Bow yer partners,” cried the floor-master when -the orchestra had started its scraping.</p> - -<p>Down went the gray poke bonnet. Down -went the great derby, and a smile of joy overspread -the broad face beneath it.</p> - -<p>“Swing yer partners!”</p> - -<p>The great arms went around the plump form, -lifting it from its feet; their owner spun about, -carefully replaced his burden on the floor, bowed, -smiled and whispered, “Ain’t it grand?”</p> - -<p>“Corners!”</p> - -<p>The young woman in blue satin gave a slight -scream that was metamorphosed into a giggle, as -she felt herself swung through space in the arms of -the muscular person toward whom she had careened. -Her partner, one of the city men with -silk hats, grinned and whispered in her ear, -“Oatcake.”</p> - -<p>“Leads for’a’d an’ back!”</p> - -<p>William Larker seized his partner’s plump hand -and bounded forward, bowing and twisting, his free -arm gesticulating in unison with his legs and feet. -He was in the thick of the dance now; in it with his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -whole heart. Whenever there was any “dozy-doughing” -to be done, William did it. If a couple -went “visitin’,” he was with them. When “ladies -in the center” was called, he was there. In every -grand chain he turned the wrong way. He -gripped the women’s hands until they groaned inwardly. -He tramped on and crushed the patent -leather pumps of a young city man, and in response -to a muttered something smiled his unconcern, -bolted back to his corner, swung his -partner and murmured, “Ain’t it grand?” The -young women giggled and winked at their acquaintances -in the next set; the forward youth -in a bicycle suit talked about roadsweepers, and -the city man said again, “Oatcake.”</p> - -<p>But the young Dunkard was unconscious of it -all to the end—the end that came most suddenly -and broke up the dancing.</p> - -<p>“Swing yer partners!” bawled the floor-master.</p> - -<p>William Larker obeyed. A ragged bit of the -sole of his shoe caught in a crack and over he -went, off the high platform, with his partner -clasped tight in his arms.</p> - -<p>When he recovered his senses he found himself -lying by the spring, the center of all eyes. His -first glance fell upon Mary, who was seated at his -side, weeping heartily, despite the efforts of a large -crowd of sympathizing women to allay her fears.</p> - -<p>Next his eyes met those of the young woman -in blue satin, and he saw her laugh and turn and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> -speak to the crowd. He thought that he noticed -a silk hat and heard the word “Oatcake.” And -then and there he resolved to return to and never -again depart from the quiet ways of his fathers.</p> - -<p>William and Mary drove back in the early -evening. They had crossed the last ridge and -were looking out over the broad valley toward the -dark mountain at whose foot lay their homes, -when the first word was spoken.</p> - -<p>“Beel,” said the girl with a sidelong glance, -“ain’t dancin’ dangerous?”</p> - -<p>The young man cut the mare with the whip -and flushed.</p> - -<p>“Yais, kind o’,” he replied. “But I’m sorry I -drug you off o’ the platform like thet.”</p> - -<p>She covered her mouth with her hand. William -just saw the corner of one of her eyes as she -looked up at him from under the gray bonnet.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I didn’t min’ thet,” she said. “It was -jes’ lovely tell we hit.”</p> - -<p>The mare swerved to one side, toward the fence. -The driver seized the rein he had dropped and -pulled her back into the beaten track. Then the -whip fell from his hands, and he stopped and -clambered down into the road and recovered it. -But when he regained his place in the buggy he -wrapped his reins twice around the whip, and the -intelligent beast trotted home unguided.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Two Stay-at-Homes.</i></span></h2> - -<p>“If wantin’ to was doin’ an’ they weren’t no -weemen, I’d ’a’ ben in Sandyago long ago,” -said the G. A. R. Man. He rolled a nail-keg close -to the stove, seated himself upon it, dipped a -handful of crushed tobacco leaves from his coat -pocket into his pipe and lighted the odorous weed -with a sulphur match. Then he wagged his beard -at the assembled company and repeated, “Yes, -sir, I’d ben in Sandyago long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Weemen ain’t much on fightin’ away from -home,” observed the Chronic Loafer, biting a -cubic inch out of a plug of Agriculturist’s Charm -which he had borrowed from the man who was sitting -next him on the counter. The charm had -passed half way around the circle and the remaining -cubic inch of it had been restored to its owner, -when the veteran, not catching the full intent of -the remark, replied: “Yas. They’s a heap o’ -truth in that there. Weemen is sot agin furrin -wars. Leastways my weemen is. Now——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Do they prefer the domestic kind?” asked the -School Teacher.</p> - -<p>“Not at all—not at all,” said the old soldier. -“Ye see, my missus passed th’oo sech terrible -times back in ’60, ’hen I was bangin’ away at the -rebels down in the Wilterness, that ’hen this here -Spaynish war broke out she sais to me, sais she, -‘Ye jest sha’n’t go.’</p> - -<p>“‘Marthy,’ sais I, ‘I’m a weteran. The Governor -o’ Pennsylwany hes call fer ten thousand -men, an’ he don’t name me, but he means me jest -the same. Be every moral an’ jest right, I bein’ a -weteran am included in that ten thousand.’</p> - -<p>“With that I puts on me blues, an’ gits down -me musket, an’ kisses the little ones all ’round, an’ -starts fer the door. Well, sir, you uns never seen -sech a time ez was raised ’hen they see I was off -to fight the Spaynyards. Mary Alice, the eldest, -jest th’owed her arms ’round my neck an’ bust out -with tears. The seven others begin to cry, ‘Pap, -Pap, you’ll git shooted.’</p> - -<p>“‘Children,’ I sais, sais I, ‘your pap’s a weteran -an’ a experienced soldier. Duty calls an’ he -obeys.’</p> - -<p>“The missus didn’t see things that way. She -jest gits me be the collar an’ sets me down in an -arm-chair, draws me boots, walks off with them an’ -me musket an’ hides ’em. She weren’t goin’ to -hev no foolin’ ’round the shanty, she sayd.</p> - -<p>“Marthy seemed to think that that there settled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> -it, but she didn’t know me, fer all the evenin’, -ez I set there be the fire so meek-like, I was -a-thinkin’. Scenes wasn’t to my likin’, so I concided -I’d jest let on like I hed give up all idee -o’ fightin’ Spaynyards, wait tell the family was -asleep an’ then vanish.</p> - -<p>“At midnight I sets up in bed. The moon was -shinin’ th’oo the winder, jest half-lightin’ the room, -so I could move ’round without trippin’ over the -furnitur’. The missus was a-snorin’ gentle like, an’ -overhead in the attic I could hear a soft snifflin’ -jest ez a thrasher engine goes ’hen the men has -shet down fer dinner. It was the childern asleep. -I climbs out over the footboard an’ looks ’round -fer me boots. There they was, stickin’ out under -the missus’s pillow. Knowin’ I couldn’t git ’em -without wakin’ her, I concided to vanish barefoot. -But they was one thing agin this, an’ that -was that the door was locked an’ some un hed -took the key. I tried the winder, but that hed ben -nailed shet. Then I gits mad—that there kind o’ -quiet-like mad ’hen ye boils up inside an’ hes to -keep yer mouth shet. It’s the meanest kind o’ -mad, too. It seemed like they was a smile playin’ -’round the missus’s face, an’ that made me sourer -than ever, an’ kind o’ spurred me on.</p> - -<p>“Well, sirs, ez I stood there in the middle o’ -the room thinkin’ what I’d do next an’ wonderin’ -whether I hedn’t better jest slip back to bed, me -eye ketched sight o’ an ole comf’table that filled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> -a hole in the wall where the daubin’ hed fell out -from atween the lawgs. That put me in mind o’ a -scheme that I wasn’t long in kerryin’ out, fer the -hole was pretty good sized an’ I’m a small man -an’ wiry. In less’n no time the comf’table was -outen that hole an’ I was in it. I stayed in it, -too, fer jest ez me head an’ arms an’ shoulders got -out o’ doors I felt a sharp prickin’ in me side. I -pushed back an’ a great big splinter jagged me. -I tried to go on for’a’d, an’ it jagged me agin so -bad I ’most yelled. So I stayed right there—one-half -outen the house an’ the other half een. -Seemed like time begin to move awful slow then, -an’ it ’peared a whole day ’fore the moon went -from the top o’ the old lone pine tree into Grandaddy’s -chestnut, which is jest twenty feet. Then -me feet an’ legs was bakin’ over the stove, an’ -the cold Apryl winds was a-whistlin’ down me -neck.</p> - -<p>“I took to countin’ jest to pass time, an’ I ’low -I must ’a’ counted fifteen million afore I heard -footsteps up the road. A man come outen the -woods an’ inter the moonlit clearin’, where I could -see he was ole Hen Bingle. I whistled. He -stopped an’ looked. I whistled agin an’ called -soft like to him. He sneaked up to the gate an’ -looked agin.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen, help,’ I whispers.</p> - -<p>“‘Who in the heck is you a-growin’ outen the -side o’ that shanty?’ he calls, kind o’ hoarse an’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -scared. With that he pints a musket at me wery -threatenin’.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen Bingle!’ sais I. ‘Don’t you dast -shoot. It’s me an’ I want you to pull me out. -I’m goin’ to war.’</p> - -<p>“Then it dawned on him what was up, an’ he -come over an’ looks at me. I seen he hed on his -blues, too, an’ I knowd ez he hed give his woman -the sneak an’ was off to fight Spaynyards. He -wanted to laugh, but I told him it were no time -fer sech foolin’, but jest to break off that splinter -an’ pull me loose.</p> - -<p>“Now, Hen’s an obligin’, patriotic kind o’ a -feller, an’ tho’, ez he sayd, he hedn’t much time -to waste, ez his woman was likely to wake up any -minute an’ find him gone, he reached up an’ broke -off the splinter. But I fit the hole so tight I -couldn’t budge, an’ he sayd he’d pull me out. So -he gits up on the wall o’ the well which was jest -below me, an’ grabs me be both hands an’ drawed. -I’d moved about an inch, ’hen he kicked out wild -like an’ hung to me like a ton o’ hay, an’ gasped -an’ groaned. I thought that yank hed disj’inted -me all over, an’ yells, ‘Let go!’</p> - -<p>“‘Don’t you dast let go!’ he sayd, lookin’ up -at me kind o’ agonizin’.</p> - -<p>“Then I see that neither me nor Hen Bingle -was ever goin’ to fight Spaynyards, fer he’d -stepped off the wall an’ was hangin’ down inter -the well.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Splinters! Why, I’d ’a’ ruther hed a splinter -stickin’ in every inch o’ my body then ole Hen -Bingle’s two hundred pound a-drawin’ me from -my nat’ral height o’ five feet six inter a man o’ -six feet five. That’s what it seemed like. He -ast how deep me well was, an’ ’hen I answered -forty foot with fifteen foot o’ wotter at the bottom, -he sayd he’d never speak to me agin if I let -go my holt on him. I sayd I guesst he wouldn’t, -an’ he let out a whoop that brought the missus -an’ the little ones a-tumblin’ outen the house.</p> - -<p>“Marthy stared at us a minute. Then she sais, -‘Where was you a-goin’?’</p> - -<p>“‘To fight Spaynyards,’ sais I, sheepish like.</p> - -<p>“‘An’ you, Hen Bingle?’ she asts.</p> - -<p>“‘Same,’ gasps Hen.</p> - -<p>“‘Does your wife know you’re out?’ sais the -missus, stern ez a jedge.</p> - -<p>“‘No,’ sais Hen.</p> - -<p>“‘Then I’ve a mind to go over to your placet -an’ git her,’ sais Marthy.</p> - -<p>“‘It’s two miled,’ Hen groaned, ‘an’ I’ll be -drownded agin you git back. Lemme up now -an’ I’ll go home an’ stay there.’</p> - -<p>“Marthy turns around quiet like, walks inter -the house an’ comes out with the family Bible.</p> - -<p>“‘Hen Bingle,’ she sais solemn-like, holdin’ the -book to his mouth, ‘does you promise to tell the -whole truth an’ nothin’ but the truth, an’ not to -go to war?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Hen didn’t waste no time in kissin’ that book -so loud I could hear an echo of it over along the -ridge. I kissed it pretty loud meself, to be sure. -The missus lifted Hen outen the well an’ he snuck -off home. His woman never knowd nawthin’ -about the trouble tell she met my missus two -weeks later, at protracted meetin’ over to Pine -Swamp church. Ez fer me, but fer that splinter -I’d be in Sandyago now.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Eben Huckin’s Conversion.</i></span></h2> - -<p>Eben Huckin’s father had been a United -Presbyterian and his mother a Methodist. Eben -belonged to neither church, a fact which he -ascribed to his having been drawn toward both -denominations by forces so exactly equal that he -had never become affiliated with either. Yet he -prided himself on being a man of profound religious -convictions. How could it be otherwise -with one whose forefathers had for generations -sung psalms and slept through two-hour sermons -on the hard, uncomfortable benches of the bluest -of blue-stocking Presbyterianism or prostrated -themselves at the mourners’ bench on every opportunity? -The austerity of these ancestors afforded -him a reason for habitually absenting himself -from Sunday services in either of the two -temples where his parents had so long and faithfully -worshiped. The church-folk in the valley -were getting entirely too liberal. He was a conservative.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Hen the United Presbyter’ans hes to hev an -organ to sing by an’ the Methydists gits to hevin’ -necktie parties an’ dancin’, it’s time for a blue-stockin’ -like me to set at home o’ Sundays an’ -dewote himself to readin’ Lamentations,” he was -wont to explain to his cronies at the store.</p> - -<p>Holding as he did such puritanical ideas, it is -not to be wondered that he viewed with bitter -hostility the coming of an Episcopal clergyman -to West Salem. He had offered no objection -when Samuel Marsden, who owned nearly all the -land surrounding the village, married a woman -from the city, but when that young autocrat turned -the United Presbyterians out of the building -where they had worshiped for a century and had -an Episcopal minister come from down the river -to hold weekly services there, the blood of all the -Huckins boiled and Eben felt called upon to -protest.</p> - -<p>At first these protests took the form of long -discourses, delivered on the store porch and touching -on the evil of introducing “ceety notions an’ -new-fandangled idees” into the spiritual life of the -community. They continued in this strain until -one fine April day when the sun was shining with -sufficient warmth to allow Eben and his cronies -to move from the darkness within the store to -the old hacked bench without, where they could -bask in the cheering rays.</p> - -<p>The green shoots on the tall maple by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> -hitching rail, the shouts of the boys fishing in the -creek below the rumbling mill, the faint “gee -haw” of the man who was plowing in the meadow -across the stream, the contented clucking of a trio -of mother hens, wandering up and down the village -street with a score of piping children in their -wake—these and a hundred other things told that -spring was at hand. After their long winter of -imprisonment the shoemaker, the squire and the -blacksmith would have been contented to enjoy -themselves in silence, but Eben was in one of his -talkative moods. That very morning his niece -had announced her intention of forsaking the -church in which her fathers had worshiped, and -becoming an Episcopalian. His cup of woe was -overflowing. He had been able to view with -complacence such defections in other families. -They had afforded him splendid illustrations with -which to enliven his discourses on the weakness -of the generality of mankind. He had set the -Huckins above the generality. It had seemed to -him impossible that one could err who boasted -the blood of men who had gone to church with -the Bible in one hand and a gun in the other. -He had always laid particular stress on that point. -He was a firm believer in heredity and had long -contended that the descendants of those who first -settled the valley were blessed with strong characters. -Yet one of the blood had become an -Episcopalian! And he had met the rector!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> - -<p>“The first I knowd of it was this mornin’ at -breakfast,” said Eben, adjusting his steel-rimmed -spectacles that he might look over their tops so -sternly as to check any hilarity on the part of his -auditors. “Mary sais to me, ‘Uncle, I wish you’d -spruce up a leetle this afternoon ez the rector’s -comin’.’</p> - -<p>“‘Mary,’ sais I, thinkin’ I’d cod her jest a -leetle, ‘a miller runs a mill, a tinner works in tin, -a farmer farms, but what in the name of common -sense does a rector do?’</p> - -<p>“‘I mean the preacher,’ she answers.</p> - -<p>“‘Mary,’ I sais, ‘ef the parson heard you a callin’ -him sech new-fandangled names, he’d hev you -up before the session.’</p> - -<p>“She was quiet a piece, for she seen I was in a -wery sewere turn o’ mind. I didn’t pay no more -attention tell I was jest about gittin’ up from the -table ’hen she spoke up agin.</p> - -<p>“‘Uncle,’ she sais, ‘I hope you won’t mind, but -that’s what we Piscopaleens calls preachers—rectors. -Mr. Dawson is a rector.’</p> - -<p>“Well, sirs, I was so took back, I jest set down -an’ gasped. I thot I was goin’ to hev a stroke. -Here was one o’ my blood, my own brother’s -dotter, raised on the milk o’ Presbyter’anism, fergittin’ -the precepts o’ her youth, strayin’ out o’ -the straight an’ narrow way an’ takin’ up with the -new-fandangled idees o’ the Piscopaleens. An’ -why? Because she liked the singin’! ’Hen I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> -heard that I rose in my wrath an’ started down -here to cool off. On reachin’ the apple tree be -the bend in the road, I set down on the grassy -bank to rest a leetle an’ look ’round. Pretty soon -I see a man comin’ over the medder, an’ ez he got -close I knowd be the cut o’ his coat an’ the flatness -o’ his black slouch that it was the preacher -hisself. ’Hen he reached the creek he give a -run an’ jump an’ went flyin’ over it in the most -ondignifiedest way I ever seen. ‘It seems like -he thinks he’s an angel a’ready an’ is spreadin’ his -wings,’ I sais to meself. Then he puts both hands -on the top o’ the six-rail fence an’ waults over it -like a circus performer, landin’ almost at me feet.</p> - -<p>“‘Hello,’ he sais.</p> - -<p>“‘Hello,’ sais I, never liftin’ me eyes offen the -wheat field acrosst the road.</p> - -<p>“‘Fine day,’ sais he.</p> - -<p>“‘I was jest tryin’ to make up me mind whether -it was or not,’ sais I.</p> - -<p>“I thot that ’ud settle him, but I mistook me -man. He were the thickest headedest, forwardest -felly I ever laid eyes on. He jest laughed. Now -I admits that ’hen he laughed he ’peared a tol’able -pleasant enough sort o’ a leetle person, but I -wasn’t in no frame o’ mind fer jollyin’.</p> - -<p>“‘I was jest on me way up to your placet to -see ye,’ he sais.</p> - -<p>“‘Was ye?’ I answers. ‘Well—I heard ye was -comin’. I’m jest on me way to store.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> - -<p>“It almost seemed I could see that gentle hint -comin’ outen his one ear after it hed gone in -the other.</p> - -<p>“‘So ye waited here fer me,’ sais he. ‘How -nice of ye! We’ll jest stroll down to the willage -together.’</p> - -<p>“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I’ve changed me mind. I’m -goin’ to stay where I am.’</p> - -<p>“‘Ye couldn’t a picked a nicer placet,’ he -sais.</p> - -<p>“An’ with that he set right down be me side. -Mad? Why, I was jest bubblin’. An’ I hed a -right to be, fixed ez I was with a Piscopaleen -preacher stickin’ to me closer then a burdock burr -to a setter dog’s tail. I didn’t say a word, but -jest set there with me eyes on the mo’ntain like -he wasn’t about.</p> - -<p>“By an’ by he speaks. ‘Mr. Huckin, that’s a -nice mule you hev runnin’ ’round the pasture adjoinin’ -our church.’</p> - -<p>“‘So,’ sais I.</p> - -<p>“‘An’ mebbe you wouldn’t mind pasturin’ him -in some other field a Sunday,’ he went on. ‘Ye -mind a few weeks ago I sent you a message askin’ -that you keep your cattle out o’ that field on the -Sabbath because they disturbs our service. Ye -mind it, don’t ye?’</p> - -<p>“‘Dimly,’ I answers.</p> - -<p>“‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I guesst it must ’a’ ben -pretty dim, fer last week ye forgot to take ’em<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -out an’ added that nice mule to the flock. I like -that beast mighty well, but I objects to his puttin’ -his head in the chancery winder durin’ the most -solemn part of our service, like he done the other -day.’</p> - -<p>“‘Hen I pictured that ole mule attendin’ the -’Piscopaleen preachin’ I wanted to laugh all over, -but I didn’t dast fer it ’ud ’a’ give him an openin’. -I jest turned an’ looked at the preacher ez stern -ez I could.</p> - -<p>“‘Perhaps,’ I sais, ‘these new-fandangled, ceetyfied -goin’s on o’ yourn amused him.’</p> - -<p>“He didn’t smile then—not a bit of it. He was -riled—bad riled, an’ pinted his finger at me an’ -cried, ‘See here, you old hardshell.’ That was -the wery name he called me. ‘See here,’ he sais. -‘Since I’ve ben a missionary in this community -I’ve tried to conduct meself in a proper an’ humble -sperrit, but ef I hev to carry my missionary -efforts on among the mules, I’ll do it with a gun.’</p> - -<p>“‘Hen I heard that I stood right up an’ glared -at him. I didn’t mind his shootin’. It wasn’t -that what stirred me up. It wasn’t that what -made me shake me stick in the air like I was -scotchin’ a chestnut tree. No, sirs.</p> - -<p>“‘Mission’ry!’ I sais. ‘Then all we is heathen,’ -I sais. ‘Parson, folks hev ben singin’ sams in this -walley fer a hundred an’ fifty year. The folks -in this walley hes ben contributin’ to the support -o’ mission’ries in furrin lan’s fer the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -cent’ry. There are more camp-meetin’s, an’ bush-meetin’s, -an’ protracted meetin’s, an’ revivals an’ -love-feasts in this walley in a year than they are -years in your life. Yit you calls yourself a mission’ry. -You complains about my cattle disturbin’ -your meetin’s. Ef they enjoy listenin’ to -your mission’ry efforts in behalf o’ we heathen, I -don’t think I otter stop it. You might do ’em -some good.’</p> - -<p>“With that I turned an’ walked down the road. -I never looked ’round tell I come to the edge o’ -the peach orchard. Then I peeked back over me -shoulder. There was the preacher, still standin’ -be the apple tree lookin’ after me. He was smilin’. -Mighty souls! Smilin’! I could ’a’ choked -him.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>An oak tree, upturned, its roots stretched forth -appealingly in the air, its branches washing helplessly -to and fro in the stream, a broken scow lying -high upon the beach, bottom up, a great crevasse -in the side of the canal through which could be -seen an imprisoned and deserted canal-boat, told -of the spring flood. The Juniata had fallen -again to its natural courses, but it was still turbulent -and the current was running strongly. It -was fast growing dark. Heavy clouds were rolling -along the mountains from the west whence -sounded the low grumbling of the coming storm.</p> - -<p>Eben Huckin, standing by his boat, looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> -anxiously up the river, and then across to where -the village had been lost in the fast gathering -blackness. By a hard pull to the opposite bank -and a run up half a mile of level road he might -make the shelter of the mill before the clouds -broke. But this meant tremendous exertion and -Eben, with the rust of sixty years in his joints, -preferred a drenching. So he tucked his basket -in the locker in the stern and fixed his oars as deliberately -as though the sun were smiling overhead. -Then he began to push out into the stream.</p> - -<p>The rattle of gravel flying before fast falling -feet and a crashing of laurel bushes along the towpath -caused him to pause.</p> - -<p>“Hold on there!” came a voice. “Take me -over.”</p> - -<p>A moment later a man emerged from among -the trees and came tumbling down the bank. It -was Dawson. He stopped short and hesitated -when he saw Eben, and was about to turn back -when the old man said brusquely, “Git in.”</p> - -<p>Impelled by a flash of lightning on the mountain -side and a crash of thunder overhead, the rector -scrambled into the stern of the boat. Eben -gave it a shove and climbed in after him. The -river had seized the clumsy craft and had swept it -far out from the bank before the old man could -fix his oars and get it under control. Then with -steady strokes he bore away for the other side.</p> - -<p>As Dawson sat watching the coming storm and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -felt the boat moving along through the water, carrying -him nearer and nearer to the lights of the village, -he forgot the incident of the mule and the quarrel -of the previous day and remembered only that his -enemy was taking him from the dark, forbidding -mountains behind, where the very trees were -thrashing their limbs and straining to and fro as -though they would break from their imprisonment -and run for shelter too.</p> - -<p>“I can never thank you enough for rowing me -over, Mr. Huckin,” he said.</p> - -<p>There was no reply save a vicious creak of the -row-locks. The old man paused at the end of the -stroke but kept his eyes fixed on the sky overhead. -It seemed as if he was about to answer and -then thought better of it, for, ignoring his companion -completely, he leaned sharply forward, -caught the water with the blades and sent a -shower splashing over the stern. Dawson was wet -through. He was a young man with a temper, -and while he could enjoy an intellectual combat -with the rough old fellow before him, he had no -mind to be under dog in a physical encounter.</p> - -<p>“See here, Eben Huckin,” he said quietly, -but in a voice of determination. “Just handle -those oars a little more properly or I’ll take command -of this craft.”</p> - -<p>There was another loud rattle of the row-locks, -and the rector involuntarily closed his eyes and -ducked, thinking to catch the oncoming wave on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -the top of his broad hat. The expected deluge -did not materialize, and he looked up in surprise -to see Eben leaning over the side of the boat -grasping wildly at an oar which was now far out -of his reach and floating rapidly away.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my Gawd!” cried the old man, throwing -himself into the bottom of the boat. “We’re -loss, Parson, we’re loss!”</p> - -<p>He covered his face with his hands and swung -despairingly to and fro, crying, “We’re loss—we’re -loss!”</p> - -<p>The boat had turned around and was being -swept along stern foremost by the swift current. -Dawson saw this, but the peril of their position -was not yet clear to him.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me,” he said quietly, “but I don’t -understand just what has happened.”</p> - -<p>“Happened!” cried Eben. “Happened? Why, -your talkin’ done it. I was listenin’ to you, an’ -an oar got caught in some brushwood an’ twisted -outen my hand. I jumped fer it, lettin’ go o’ the -other. Now they’re both gone.”</p> - -<p>“But as far as I can see the only difference is -we’re going in another direction and a great deal -faster,” said the rector calmly.</p> - -<p>“We’re just goin’ right fer the canal dam,” -groaned the old man. “It’s only four mile -straight away, an’ ’hen the river’s like this here, -it’s a reg’lar Niagry.”</p> - -<p>“Hum!” Dawson glanced to his left anxiously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> -The mountains were now lost in the -darkness. He looked to the right to see the -lights of the village already far up the river.</p> - -<p>“Eben,” he asked, “is there no way we can -steer her into the shore?”</p> - -<p>“All the rudders in the worl’, ef we had ’em, -wouldn’t git us outen this current.”</p> - -<p>“Is there no island we are likely to run into?”</p> - -<p>“Nawthin’ but Bass Rock, an’ ez it’s only ten -feet square we mowt ez well hope—no, no, it -ain’t no uset.”</p> - -<p>“We might swim.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t swim.”</p> - -<p>“I can—a little. If you could we would get -out.”</p> - -<p>Then the clouds broke and the rain came down -in torrents. They were enveloped in blackness -and could no longer see one another.</p> - -<p>To Dawson, sitting in the stern, his hands -grasping the sides of the boat, his head bowed -against the storm, it seemed as though they had -suddenly been carried out on a great sea. Land -was near, but it might as well have been a thousand -miles away. A plunge over the side and a -few strong strokes might take him to safety. But -he could not desert the old man—not till he felt -the craft sinking beneath him and the water closing -over his head. The boat swung up and down in -monotonous cadence, and he felt himself being -carried helplessly on and on.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was a flash of lightning, a deafening -crash overhead, and all was dark again. It was -but for an instant, and yet he saw clearly, hardly -a stone’s throw away, a small house on the river -bank. A thin wreath of smoke was fighting its -way out of the chimney against the rain. In one -window there was a light, and in that light a man -was standing, complacently smoking a pipe and -peering out through the narrow panes and over -the river, watching the play of the lightning along -the Tuscaroras.</p> - -<p>Huckin half rose to his feet.</p> - -<p>“It’s ole Hen Andrews,” he cried. “I wonder -ef he seen us.”</p> - -<p>Thereupon he shouted lustily for help. He -continued his unavailing cries for some minutes, -and then sank back to his seat.</p> - -<p>“Parson,” he said, as if by a sudden thought, -“Parson, kin you pray?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been praying all along, Eben,” was the -quiet reply.</p> - -<p>“Mebbe it’ll do some good,” Eben rejoined, -“I hain’t never ben much on it meself—not ez -much ez I otter ’a’ ben, but my pap he was -powerful in prayer.”</p> - -<p>He was silent a moment, and added regretfully, -“Oh, don’t I wish he was here now!”</p> - -<p>“You are not afraid to die, are you?” asked -Dawson.</p> - -<p>“Most any other way, I’m not,” was the answer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> -“But I don’t like drownin’, an’ I don’t -make no bones about it. Our family hes allus -gone be apoplexy, an’ I had an idee I’d go that -way, too. All this here comes so sudden. Oh, -Parson, it’s sech an onrastless, oncertain way o’ -goin’, a-washin’ roun’ like this fer hours. Ef it -’ud stop after we was gone, I wouldn’t min’ so -much, but to keep on a-washin’ an’ bobbin’ roun’ -this ole river—Parson, Parson, pray agin.”</p> - -<p>The old man leaned forward and clasped his -companion’s hand.</p> - -<p>“Pray agin, Parson, pray agin!” he cried.</p> - -<p>A flash of lightning lit up the river. Just -ahead Dawson saw a broad rock. As they were -going they would sweep by it. He sprang forward -over the seats until he reached the bow. -Then he leaped into the water, still keeping a -fast hold with one hand on the side of the boat. -A few strong strokes and the clumsy craft turned -her head. The swimmer’s feet touched the shelving -stone, and he reached out blindly till he felt -a jagged bit of rock. The stern of the boat swung -around and it tugged hard to release itself from -the firm grasp that had checked its wild career.</p> - -<p>Eben Huckin tumbled into the water. Dawson -seized him and dragged him from the river, -while the boat, now free, went whirling away -down stream.</p> - -<p>For a long time the two men lay in silence, -face downward, on the stone. Then the storm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> -went by and the moon came climbing up the -other side of the mountain, and by its light they -could make out the narrow confines of their -refuge. It was hardly ten feet in length and -breadth, and was divided down the middle by a -crevice. They could see the river whirling on -all sides. To their right, over the stretch of -water, rose the Tuscaroras; to their other hand -they looked into the blackness of the woods which -extended from the bank to the ridges miles away.</p> - -<p>“Parson, do ye hear that rumblin’, that rumblin’ -jest like the mill in busy times, ’hen all the -wheels is goin’?” Huckin was sitting up watching -Dawson wring the water from his felt hat. -The rector strained his ears.</p> - -<p>“That’s the dam, Parson. It’s jest a piece below -here, an’ mighty near we come to hearin’ -that soun’ most onpleasant loud. Who’d ’a’ thot -we’d ever hit this here bit o’ rock?”</p> - -<p>“Why, Eben, I rather had an idea all along -that we might do so,” Dawson laughed. “I was -watching for it. I had no intention of letting -myself get drowned when you heathen in the valley -needed a missionary so badly.”</p> - -<p>“True, Parson, true,” said the old man fervently. -“It ’ud ’a’ ben a hard blow fer the walley -to hed you tuk jest at this time.”</p> - -<p>The rector smiled faintly. He gazed inquiringly -at his companion. The moon shining full -on Eben’s countenance gave him a saintly appearance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> -for the rougher features had disappeared -in the half-light, and the long white hair and -beard, so unkempt in the full glare of day, now -framed a benevolent, serious face. Dawson was -satisfied.</p> - -<p>For a long time nothing passed between the -two. Then Eben nudged the rector gently and -whispered, “D’ye believe in sperrits?”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course not,” was the reply.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m glad you don’t.”</p> - -<p>“Why did you ask?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I thot ef ye did you’d like to know this -here rock is sayd to have a ha’nt.”</p> - -<p>“To be haunted!” exclaimed Dawson, edging -a little closer.</p> - -<p>“Yes, be Bill Springle’s ghos’. I never put -much stock in the story meself, but that’s what -folks sais. I know them ez claims to hev seen it. -I knows one man ez refused to sleep here all -night fer a five-dollar bill.”</p> - -<p>“Goodness me!” said the rector. “I had no -idea the people hereabouts were so superstitious.”</p> - -<p>“It ain’t jest superstition, Parson. It’s mostly -seein’ an’ believin’. Bill Springle’s ben dead these -thirty year, an’ in that time, they sais, many folks -hes seen him.”</p> - -<p>“Eben, the spirits of the dead have better -things to do than to spend their nights sitting on -cold, damp rocks.”</p> - -<p>“I know, Parson, I know; but the case o’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> -Springle was onusual. He lived back along the -other mo’ntain an’ one night killed a pedler fer -his money. The sheriff’s posse chased him clean -acrosst the walley to the river, an’ here they loss -sight o’ him. Fer a whole week they beat up an’ -down the bank an’ then give up the chase. A year -after they foun’ all that was left o’ Bill Springle -wedged right in that crack ahint me.”</p> - -<p>Dawson arose to his knees and peered over the -prostrate body of his companion into the interesting -crevice. Then he fell back to his old place, -giving vent, as he did so, to a little laugh.</p> - -<p>“He’d starved to death,” Eben continued, “an’ -they sais that sometimes on stormy nights he kin -be seen settin’ here. I never put much faith in -the story meself, ez——”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you don’t, Eben,” the rector interrupted. -“But suppose we talk of something more -cheerful.”</p> - -<p>A long silence followed.</p> - -<p>“Parson,” the old man at length said, “why -don’t ye sleep?”</p> - -<p>“On this narrow rock? I’d roll into the river.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll watch ye. D’ye see that lone pine tree -standin’ out o’ that charcoal clearin’ on top o’ the -mo’ntain?” Huckin indicated the spot with his -hand, and Dawson nodded. “Well, ’hen the -moon gits over that tree I’ll wake ye up. Then -I’ll sleep.”</p> - -<p>The rector replied by rolling over on his back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> -and watching the stars until his eyes closed. Soon -the old man heard a soft, contented purring and -he knew that for a time he was alone—at least till -Bill Springle joined him. For a long while he -sat in deep thought with his eyes fixed on the -whirling waters below him. Suddenly he leaned -over and peered into the face of the man sleeping -at his side.</p> - -<p>“Parson,” he said softly, “I guesst ye needn’t -mind no more about that mule.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>A Piece in the Paper.</i></span></h2> - -<p>The Chronic Loafer arose from the bench and -stepped to the edge of the porch. He rested his -left hand on the pillar, thrust his right hand into -his pocket and gazed searchingly at the mountains.</p> - -<p>“What’s keepin’ you so quiet to-day?” asked -the Teacher, lifting his eyes from the county -paper. “One might suppose from the way you -was watchin’ those mountains, you was expectin’ -them to come over here so you could go fishin’.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer turned and looked down on the -pedagogue. There was pity in his eyes and disdain -lurking about the corners of his mouth.</p> - -<p>“Well, you don’t feel hurt, do you?” snapped -the Teacher.</p> - -<p>“I guess you never fished,” was the reply.</p> - -<p>“To tell the truth I prefer more active pursuits.” -The learned man said this with the air -of one who was in the front rank in the great -battle of life. “I prefer doin’ things to loungin’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -along a creek tryin’ to catch a few small trout -that never did me any harm.”</p> - -<p>“I thot you’d never fished much,” said the -Loafer, letting himself down on the steps and -getting out his pipe. “Ef you hed you’d know -that half the pleasure of it is gittin’ to the stream. -You figure on how nice it’ll be ’hen you’re away -from the dusty road, in the woods, lyin’ in the -grass ’longside of a cool, gurglin’ pool, with the -trout squabblin’ among themselves to git at your -bait. You arrive there, an’ first thing you set on -a rattlesnake. That makes you oneasy fer the -rest o’ the day. Then you find you’ve left your -bait-can at home an’ stirs up some yeller-jackets, -ez you are huntin’ under rocks fer worms. You -lays down your extry hooks where you can find -’em quick, an’ then ’hen you need ’em you discovers -they’re in your foot. No, sir, ef I was -wantin’ to go fishin’ in them mo’ntains, an’ I -hed the power, I’d tell ’em to git back five mile -so I’d hev furder to walk to reach the run.”</p> - -<p>“I hain’t got nawthin’ agin your idees o’ fishin’,” -said the Patriarch from his place on the -bench between the Tinsmith and the G. A. R. -Man, “but what you say about expectin’ is ridic’lous. -You was sayin’ a bit ago that you was -goin’ to hev chicken an’ waffles fer supper to-night. -You’ve put in a fine day expectin’ it. -But ef you goes home an’ sets down to sausage -an’ zulicks, I can see things flyin’ ’round your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> -shanty most amazin’. All the joys o’ expectation -’ll be wiped outen your mind by dissypintment.”</p> - -<p>“But you are talkin’ o’ great expectations, -Gran’pap,” said the Loafer. “They result in -great dissypintments. I’ve been speakin’ o’ the -leetle things o’ life. Now there’s the old soldier.” -He pointed to the veteran. “He was eight year -expectin’ to git a pension. He talked o’ nawthin’ -else. Ef he’d only git it he’d be happy. -Well, he got it, an’ he lost the pleasure o’ lookin’ -for’a’d to it. Is he satisfied? No. He’s jest -put in wouchers claimin’ that th’ee new diseases -hev cropped out on him an’ that he laid the -foundations fer ’em in the Wilderness thirty year -ago. He wants a raise. He’s happy agin, fer -he is expectin’.”</p> - -<p>The G. A. R. Man arose.</p> - -<p>“I’m goin’ home,” he said, “an’ I guess I -might ez well stop in at your place an’ tell your -missus to never mind the chicken an’ waffles ez -you’ve hed enough fun jest expectin’ ’em.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that would be a good idee,” the Loafer -drawled. “But you’d better jest yell it to her -over the fence. You know she’s ben expectin’ -chicken an’ waffles, too.”</p> - -<p>The veteran dropped back to his place on the -bench.</p> - -<p>The Patriarch nudged him and said pleasantly, -“Why don’t you go on?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I guesst I’d better wait fer the stage an’ git -the news,” was the growling reply.</p> - -<p>“You hain’t answered my first question yet,” -said the Teacher to the Loafer. “You was standin’ -there half an hour lookin’ at them mountains -as though they was made of chicken an’ waffles. -You were thinkin’ of somethin’.”</p> - -<p>“True,” the Loafer replied. “I was thinkin’ -o’ Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon.”</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls!” the Patriarch cried. “Reginal’ -Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon! You are the -greatest man fer makin’ acquaintances I ever seen.”</p> - -<p>“Deeverox was that new segare drummer that -come th’oo here yesterday, wasn’t he?” the Tinsmith -inquired.</p> - -<p>“No,” the Loafer responded. “He was never a -segare drummer ez fur ez I know. He was the -real hair to the Earldom of Desmon.”</p> - -<p>“Desmon! An’ where in all nations is Desmon?” -the Patriarch exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“Englan’,” was the calm reply.</p> - -<p>“Then I s’pose you was fussin’ ’round Englan’ -last week, ’hen we thot ye was wisitin’ your ma’s -folks in Buzzard Walley,” cried the Tinsmith. -“Now what air you givin’ us?”</p> - -<p>“‘Hen I told you uns I was wisitin’ Mother’s -folks, I sayd what was true.” The Loafer was -undisturbed by the storm he had raised and spoke -very slowly, emphasizing his words by a shake of -his pipe. “You see it was this ’ay. The man I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> -was speakin’ of was called Lord Desmon, tho’ his -reg’lar name was Earl o’ Desmon. His pap’s -name was Lord Desmon, too, an’ so was his gran’pap’s. -Before his gran’pap died, his pap’s older -brother, that is the uncle o’ the man I’m referrin’ -to, merried a beautiful maid who was workin’ -about the placet. The old man cast him off an’ -he went to South Ameriky, leavin’ a son who -went be the name o’ Reginal’ Deeverox. Be -rights this Deeverox should ’a’ hed the property, -bein’ the hair o’ the oldest son. He didn’t know -it tho’, an’ his uncle didn’t take the trouble to -hunt him up ’hen the gran’pap died, but jest -settled down on the farm himself.”</p> - -<p>“What in the name o’ common sense is an -earl?” asked the Miller. “What does he do?”</p> - -<p>“Nawthin’,” the Loafer explained. “In Englan’ -an earl is a descendant o’ them ez first -cleared the land. He usually hes a good bit o’ -property an’ farms it on the half.”</p> - -<p>“What gits me is jest how many o’ them Lord -Desmons they was,” the Tinsmith interposed.</p> - -<p>“There was the original gran’pap—he’s one. -Then there was his son that merried the maid an’ -ought to ’a’ ben earl—he is two. Next there was -his brother who got the property—he is th’ee. -His son makes four, an’ Reginal’ Deeverox, whose -right name was Lord Desmon, is five.”</p> - -<p>“That there name Lord seemed to run in the -family,” said the Miller. “I don’t wonder they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> -got mixed. Why didn’t they hev a Joe or a -Jawhn?”</p> - -<p>“Was these here some o’ your pap’s friends?” -asked the Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“I only wished he hed ’a’ knowd them,” the -Loafer answered. “I don’t think he did tho’. -Mebbe he was acquainted with Alice Fairfax, but -I never heard him speak o’ her an’ <cite>The Home an’ -Fireplace</cite> never mentioned him ez bein’ at her -castel. I guessed ef Pap hed ’a’ been there he -would ’a’ told me, fer he wasn’t much on keepin’ -things secret.”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch brought his stick down on the -floor with a vigorous bang.</p> - -<p>“See here,” he cried, “what has got into you -anyway? Ef you knows anything about this here -Lord Desmon, Reginal’ Deeverox, Alice Fairfax -business, out with it, I sais. ’Hen you hears a -piece o’ news ye jest set an’ smiles all over it to -yourself like ez tho’ you was tormentin’ us. Ez -ef we cared! Let anybody else hev a bit o’ news -tho’ an’ you don’t give ’em no rest tell you’ve -wormed it out of ’em—not tell you’ve wormed it -all out of ’em.”</p> - -<p>“Now see here,” was the spirited answer, “it -ain’t jest that I should be accused this ’ay. <cite>The -Home an’ Fireplace</cite> magazine was layin’ ’round -the counter a whole week afore I even looked at -it. I s’posed you’d all ben readin’ it. That’s -why I thot ye might help me out.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Shucks! So all this here is nothin’ but somethin’ -you’ve been readin’ in the paper,” the -Teacher sneered.</p> - -<p>“Exact. An’ ef you’d read the same piecet I -guess you’d ben worrit, too.”</p> - -<p>“Reginal’ Deeverox—Deeverox.” The Patriarch -was thinking hard and talking to himself. -“I don’t mind that piecet, an’ I read most o’ that -paper,” he said, looking up. “What page was it -on?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind the number,” the Loafer answered, -“but it begins on a page that hes a pictur -o’ the house o’ Miss Annie Milliken in Tootlesbury, -Massachusetts, an’ a long letter from -her sayin’ how she hed been bed-rid fer thirty -year tell a kind friend recommended Dr. Tarball’s -Indian Wegetable Pacific.”</p> - -<p>“Now I do recklect somethin’ about that caset,” -the Tinsmith interposed. “It was a fight over a -bit o’ property an’ a girl.”</p> - -<p>“Exact,” said the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Well, how d’ye know it’s so?” the Miller -asked. “Because it’s in the paper is no sign it’s -true.”</p> - -<p>“See here,” was the sharp reply, “do you s’pose -’hen they is so much in this world that’s true the -editor o’ <cite>The Home an’ Fireplace</cite> ’ud go to the -trouble o’ makin’ up lies to print? Why, it -wouldn’t pay.”</p> - -<p>The Miller was about to argue against this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> -proposition, but the Patriarch leaned over and -laid a hand on his knee, checking him.</p> - -<p>“Jest wait tell we find out who got the property,” -the old man said.</p> - -<p>“An’ the girl,” cried the Tinsmith.</p> - -<p>“That’s jest what I’ve ben tryin’ to find out,” -said the Loafer. Forthwith he plunged into the -history of Reginald Devereux and Lord Desmond. -“You see I found the paper on the counter -yesterday ez I was waitin’ for the mail. I remember -now ’most everything that was in that -piecet, an’ most a mighty puzzlin’ piecet it was, -too. It begin at a placet called Fairfax Castel, -which was the home o’ Alice Fairfax, who the -paper sayd was most tremendous good-lookin’, -bein’ tall an’ willowy, with gold-colored hair an’ -what it called <em>p-a-t-r-i-c-i-a-n</em> cast o’ features. She -was twenty year old an’ hed an income o’ ten -thousand pound a year.”</p> - -<p>“Pound o’ what?” inquired the Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“The paper didn’t tell. It jest sayd pound.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the way with them editors,” cried the -old man. “They allus forgits important points. -They expects a man to know everything.”</p> - -<p>“I guess that them must ’a’ ben pound o’ somethin’ -they raised on the place,” the Tinsmith suggested.</p> - -<p>“That’s jest the way I looked at it,” the Loafer -continued. “It didn’t make no difference, anyhow, -ez long ez she hed somethin’ to live on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> -This here Lord Desmon hed a placet near hers -an’ used to ride over every day regular an’ set up -with her. He was tall an’ hed keen black eyes. -Wherever he went he tuk with him a hound he -called <em>M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o</em> or somethin’ like that.”</p> - -<p>“Now ye mind that he hed no real claim on -the Desmon placet an’ he knowd it. Before his -pap died he hed called him to his bedside an’ -sayd to him, ‘Beware of a man with an eagle -tattooed on his right arm. He’s the real hair.’ -So Lord re’lized that he was livin’ on a farm that -belonged to the son o’ his pap’s brother. He -knowd that afore his uncle died he’d sent word -home that his son an’ hair could be told be the -eagle. Of course the warnin’ made Lord kind o’ -oneasy at first, but ez the years went by an’ he -heard nawthin’ o’ his cousin he concided that the -ole man hed jest ben th’owin’ a scare inter him. -Meantime he’d ben doin’ wery well with Alice -Fairfax, an’ things was all goin’ his way. Then -a strange artist come th’oo the walley. He was -paintin’——”</p> - -<p>The Patriarch interrupted with a hilarious -chuckle.</p> - -<p>“Now, boys, look out,” he cried. “They never -yit was a painter that wasn’t catchin’ with the -weemen. Ye mind Bill Spiegelsole’s widdy an’ -how she’d fixed it up to merry Joe Dumple? She -hired a regular painter to come out from town -to put a new coat on the house, an’ he made himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> -so all-fired handy ’round the placet mendin’ -stove-pipes, puttin’ in glass an’ slickin’ up the -furnitur’ she took him afore Joe got there.”</p> - -<p>“This here artist wasn’t one o’ that kind,” the -Loafer said. “He made them regular hand-paintin’s -they hangs in parlors, an’ done a leetle in the -way o’ portrates. He put up at the tavern an’ -then started out fer a stroll th’oo the Fairfax -placet. He hed jest entered the park, the paper -sayd, ’hen——”</p> - -<p>“The what?” asked the Miller.</p> - -<p>“The park. Don’t ye know, one o’ them places -fixed up special fer walkin’ in, with benches, an’ -brick pavements, a fountain, an’ flower-beds an’ a -crowket set. Hain’t ye never seen the one at -Horrisburg?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, one o’ them!” the Miller said. “Well, I -guesst those must ’a’ ben pound o’ gold Alice -Fairfax got a year.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer resumed the narrative.</p> - -<p>“Ez the artist walked along th’oo the park he -heard a scream, follered be a beautiful girl who -run down the road pursued be a ferocious dog. -The paper sayd the great hound was in the act o’ -leapin’ at her to catch her be the neck ’hen the -stranger run for’a’d an’ grabbin’ the brute be the -th’oat throttled the life outen him. The anymal’s -fiery breath, the paper sayd, was blowin’ in the -artist’s face ’hen his hands closed on the furry -neck. It was a mighty close shave, I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> -jedge. A minute later Lord Desmon run up all -out o’ wind. The dead beast was his <em>M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o</em>. -He thot a heap o’ the hound, an’ the paper sayd -that ’hen he looked on the still quiverin’ body of -his dead companion he swore to be <em>a-v-e-n-g-e-d</em>. -An’ ez he looked up at the stranger that young -man knowd Lord hed it in fer him.</p> - -<p>“Alice Fairfax couldn’t thank the artist enough, -an’ nawthin’ ’ud do but he must come up to her -house an’ meet her pap. ’Hen the ole man hear -the story he wouldn’t hev it any other way but -that the stranger must stop with them. The paper -sayd that he quickly pushed a button——”</p> - -<p>“He done what?” cried the Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“He pushed a button an’——”</p> - -<p>“Pushed a button! Well, mighty souls!” the -G. A. R. Man exclaimed. “What a fool thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“He pushed a button an’ one o’ the hands -appeared. This felly’s name was Butler an’ he -was employed jest a purpose to do chores ’round -the house. The ole man give him orders to hev -Reginal’ Deeverox’s—that was the artist’s name—trunk -brought up from the tavern an’ put in the -spare room.”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t got it clear yit,” the Miller interposed. -“Ef ole man Fairfax pushed one o’ his own waistcoat -buttons how in the name o’ all the prophets -’ud Butler feel it?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t ye s’pose he might ’a’ pushed one o’ -Butler’s waistcoat buttons?” replied the Loafer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> -“That’s a pint o’ no importance. The main thing -is that Deeverox put up at Fairfax’s an’ from that -day things went wrong with Lord.</p> - -<p>“Reginal’ was a wonderful good-lookin’ chap -He was six-foot tall an’ wery soople. He’d long, -curly hair that flowed over his shoulders like a -golden shower, ez the editor put it. His bearings -was free an’ noble. Now Lord was no slouch -either, an’ with his money he was pretty hard fer -a poor painter to beat, yit——”</p> - -<p>“Joe Dumple hed th’ee hundred a year an’ a -fifty-acre farm,” the Patriarch cried, “but choosin’ -between him an’ the painter, Bill Spiegelsole’s -widdy tuk——”</p> - -<p>“I’ve told ye afore that this here Deeverox was -a portrate painter, an’ ye can’t settle this question -be referrin’ to the Spiegelsoles any way. Ez I -was sayin’, Reginal’ hed no money but he hed a -brilliant mind. His face was like an open book, -the paper sayd——”</p> - -<p>“That’s rather pecul’ar.” It was the veteran -who broke into the story this time. “There’s -Jerry Sprout, who lives beyant Sloshers Mills, he -hes a head jest the shape of a fam’ly Bible, but ye -can shoot me ef I can see how a man could hev a -face like an——”</p> - -<p>“Open book,” the Loafer said. “Well, you hev -no ’magination. But ef ye don’t believe what -I’m tellin’, you can go git the paper an’ read it -yourself.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Come, come; no argyin’.” The Patriarch -was in his soothing mood. “What become o’ -Lord?”</p> - -<p>“Lord hated Reginal’ with a bitter hatred, the -paper sayd, because of the death of <em>M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o</em>, -an’ now, ez Alice Fairfax begin to look not onkindly -on the handsome stranger, his cup was more -embittered an’ he wowed revenge. Things kept -gittin’ hotter an’ hotter ’round the castel. Ole -man Fairfax was tickled to death with Reginal’ -an’ ’sisted on him stayin’ all summer. Lord -come over regular every day, spyin’ ’round an’ -settin’ up with Alice ’hen he’d git a chancet. -Time an’ agin, the paper sayd, he asted her to -be his own, but she spurned him. The last time -he asted her was at a huntin’ party they hed at -the castel. Everybody in the county was there—Lord -Mussex, Duke Dumford, Earl Minnows, -Lady Montezgewy an’ a lot of others—all over -to hunt.”</p> - -<p>“Hunt what?” asked the Miller.</p> - -<p>“Well, I s’pose they would be likely to drive -five or six mile over to Fairfax’s to hunt eggs—wouldn’t -they?” roared the Loafer. “Hunt -what? Mighty souls! What would they hunt? -Foxes, of course. The whole party started off -after the hounds, Alice Fairfax an’ Lord Desmon -leadin’ with——”</p> - -<p>“Hol’ on!” cried the Patriarch. “Did you -say weemen an’ all, a-huntin’ foxes? That<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> -Englan’ must be a strange placet. Why, it ain’t -safe to trust a woman with a gun. Oh, what a -pictur! S’pose we was to go huntin’ that ’ay -with our weemen.” The old man leaned back -and shook. “Pictur it! Jest pictur it! Why, -they ’ud be blowed afore they got to the top o’ -the first ridge.”</p> - -<p>“An’ we’d hev to spend most of our time -lettin’ the bars up an’ down so they could git -th’oo the fences,” the Tinsmith said.</p> - -<p>“Well, the weemen over there was along—least -that’s what the article sayd,” the Loafer continued. -“They got track o’ a fox an’ final -catched him in a lonely bit o’ woods. They give -his tail to Lady Montezgewy, who——”</p> - -<p>“She couldn’t ’a’ made much of a hat outen -jest the tail,” said the G. A. R. Man.</p> - -<p>“Well, the article doesn’t explain much about -that. It sais while these things is occurrin’ we -will take the reader to another part o’ the fiel’ -where Lord Desmon kneels at the feet of Alice -Fairfax. The paper sais she sais, ‘I loves another.’ -‘What,’ sais he, the paper sais, springin’ -to his feet an’ makin’ a movement ez tho’ graspin’ -an unseen foe. ‘What,’ he sais, ‘that low -painter varlet!’ Jest then, the paper sais, the -bushes was pushed aside an’ forth jumped Reginal’ -Deeverox. ‘You here, Miss Fairfax?’ he sais, the -paper sais. ‘I’ve hunted fer ye fur an’ near.’ In -his eagerness to reach her side a twig cot his coat-sleeve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> -an’ tore it wide open. The paper sais ez -Lord Desmon looked upon the splendid figure of -his rival he seen there on his arm—What? the -paper sais. An eagle!”</p> - -<p>“Now, watch for a good ole wrastle,” cried the -Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“You’re wrong, Gran’pap,” said the Loafer. -“They didn’t dast fight afore a lady. Instead -Lord jest ground his teeth. The paper sayd he -knowd that the lost hair o’ the broad acres o’ the -Desmons hed come to claim his own.”</p> - -<p>The Miller’s clay pipe fell to the floor and -shattered into a hundred pieces.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll swan!” he exclaimed. “Why, this -here artist was one o’ them Desmon boys ye -was speakin’ of first off, wasn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“What happened next?” inquired the Teacher.</p> - -<p>“The article didn’t tell,” the Loafer replied. -“It cut right off there an’ carried the reader back -to Fairfax Castel. It was evenin’ an’ they was -hevin’ a hunt ball.”</p> - -<p>“A hunt what?” The Patriarch leaned forward -with his hand to his ear.</p> - -<p>“A hunt ball—a dance,” the pedagogue explained. -“Over there after huntin’ they always -have a dance.”</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls! but them English does enjoy -themselves,” the old man murmured. “Goes -huntin’ all day—takes the weemen along leavin’ -no one behind to look after the place—then hes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> -a dance after they gits back. Now ’hen I hunted -foxes I was allus so low down tired an’ scratched -up be the briars agin I got home, I was satisfied -to draw me boots, rub some linnyment on me -shins an’ go to bed. But go on. I guesst the -paper’s right.”</p> - -<p>“That night, walkin’ up an’ down the terrace, -Reginal’ Deeverox told Alice Fairfax the secret -o’ his life, the article sayd, how he was Lord -Desmon an’ how the other Lord Desmon was -livin’ on stolen property. He ast her to hev him, -an’ ez she didn’t say nawthin’ he jest clasped her -to his boosum, the paper sayd. All this time -Lord hed ben watchin’ from behind a statute. -’Hen the girl run away to tell her pap about it, -Lord stepped out an’ faced Reginal’.</p> - -<p>“He sayd, ‘One of us must die.’ With that -he catched Deeverox be the th’oat an’ tried to -push him off the terrace. They was a clean drop -o’ fifty foot there, with runnin’ water at the bottom. -Reginal’ was quick an’ grabbed his foe -’round the waist. Back’ard an’ for’a’d they -writhed, the paper sayd, twistin’ an’ cursin’. Now -they was on the edge o’ the precipice, an’ Alice -Fairfax, runnin’ to meet her loved one, ez the -article explained, seen dimly outlined in the glare -o’ the castel lights the black figures o’ the cousins -ez they fought o’er the terrace of death. She was -spelled. Sudden the one Desmon hurled the -other Desmon from him. They was an awful cry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> -ez the black thing toppled over the edge, the -paper sayd.”</p> - -<p>The Loafer put his hand in his coat-pocket and -brought it forth full of crushed tobacco leaves, -with which he filled his pipe. Then he lighted a -match and began smoking.</p> - -<p>“Well?” cried the men on the bench in unison.</p> - -<p>“Well?” repeated the Loafer.</p> - -<p>“Which Desmon was it?” asked the Tinsmith.</p> - -<p>“That’s jest where I’m stumped,” was the reply. -“That’s jest what’s ben puzzlin’ me, too. -Ye see that page hed ben tore out an’——”</p> - -<p>“Mighty souls!” gasped the Patriarch.</p> - -<p>“Did ye look fer it?” asked the Miller, rising -and moving toward the door.</p> - -<p>“Well of course I looked. D’ye s’pose I ain’t -ez anxious ez you to know which Desmon was -kilt?”</p> - -<p>“What does you mean be gittin’ us anxious,” -yelled the old man. “Why don’t ye keep your -troubles to yourself ’stead o’ unloadin’ em on -other folks?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t blame me that ’ay,” said the Loafer. “I -done the best I could. I looked all over the -store fer that page. I didn’t git no sleep last -night jest from thinkin’ what become of it. Now -I mind that last Soturday I seen a felly from -Raccoon Walley carry it off wrapped ’round a -pound o’ sugar. I done the best I could fer ye.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Teacher arose and walked to the end of -the porch. Here he wheeled about and faced the -company, stretching his legs wide apart, throwing -out his chest and snapping his suspenders with his -thumbs.</p> - -<p>“You should never begin a story if you can’t -tell it to the end,” he said. “I might as well teach -my scholars how to add only half down a column -of figures.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the Patriarch, “I would like to -know most a mighty well which o’ them Desmon -boys was kilt. But I’m too ole to chase a pound -o’ sugar nine mile to Raccoon Walley to find out. -They are terrible things, these struggles caused be -onrastless human passions. This here petickler -story is all the more terrible because them boys -was cousins. While we do all feel a bit put out -at not knowin’ which of ’em licked, we’ve at least -learned somethin’ ’bout how they lives in Englan’. -An’ it should teach us a lesson o’ thankfulness -that we was born an’ raised in a walley -where folks is sensible—that is most of ’em.”</p> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRONIC LOAFER***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 54572-h.htm or 54572-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/4/5/7/54572">http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/5/7/54572</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>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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