The wind went shrieking through the bare attic above and singing among the boxes and barrels in the cellar below. The big show window in front groaned in a deep bass; the little window in the rear accompanied it in a high treble. The lamp, with its vague, flickering flame, cast a gloomy glare over the store, and lighted up the faces of the little group of men, seated on box, counter, keg and chair, huddled about the great center of heat.
The Chronic Loafer raised himself from his favorite pile of calicoes and turned up his coat collar.
“Shet that stove door an’ put on the draught,” he cried. “What’s the uset o’ freezin’!”
“Cold Chrisermas to morrer,” said the Storekeeper, as he banged the door shut and turned on the draught in obedience to the demand.
“Turn up the lamp,” growled the Miller. “It’s ez dark an’ gloomy ez a barn here.”
“They ain’t no uset o’ wastin’ ile,” the Storekeeper muttered as he complied with the second request.
The great egg stove roared right merrily as the flames darted up out of its heart, until its large body grew red-hot and sent forth genial rays of heat and light—the veritable sun of the narrow village universe.
“Listen to the wind! Ain’t it howlin’?” said the Loafer.
“Col’est Chrisermas Eve in years,” the Tinsmith responded.
The Loafer pushed himself off the counter onto an empty crate that stood below him. He leaned forward and almost embraced the stove in his effort to toast his hands.
“This, I’ve heard tell,” he said, “is the one night in all the year ’hen the cattle talks jest like men.”
“Some sais it’s Holly E’en,” ventured the Miller.
“No, it ain’t. It’s Chrisermas,” the Loafer replied emphatically. He leaned back, placed his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat and glared about the circle in defiance.
The brief silence that followed was broken by the School Teacher.
“Superstition! Mere superstition!”
“That’s what I sais,” cried the Storekeeper. He was leaning over the counter munching a candy lion. “What ’ud a mule talk about ’hen he only had a chancet oncet a year?”
A thin, meaning smile crept over the Loafer’s face and he bent forward, thrusting his long chin in the direction of the venturesome merchant.
“In my time,” he drawled, “I’ve met some mules pullin’ plows that hed they ben able to talk ’ud ’a’ sayd sensibler things then some ez is engaged in easier an’ more money-makin’ ockypations.”
The Store was usually loath to accord recognition to the Loafer, but this was the season of good-will to all, and it lifted up its voice in one mighty guffaw. Even the Teacher joined in, and the G. A. R. Man slapped his knee and cried, “Good shot!”
The victim hid his burning face in the recesses of the sugar barrel, and under pretense of hunting for the scoop finished the candy toy.
“My father-in-law was a superstitious man and always believed in them fool things,” said the pedagogue. “I never give them any credit myself, for they say that education is as great an enemy to superstition as light is to darkness. In other words, learnin’ illumines a man’s mind and drives out all them black, unholy beliefs that are bred in ignorance.”
He paused to give effect to his words, but the Loafer seized the opportunity, thus unintentionally offered, to remark, “Then it ’ud seem like most men’s brains is like cellars. They is allus some hole or corner in a cellar that ye can’t light lest ye put a special lantern in it, an’ ye hev trouble keepin’ that burnin’.”
“But the brain’s perfectly round,” interposed the Miller, shaking his head sagely.
The Teacher sighed. “It’s no use talking to you men in figures——”
“Go on. Let’s hev figgers,” cried the Storekeeper, eagerly.
The pedagogue leaned back on two legs of his chair and pillowed his head on a cheese box that stood on the counter. After having carefully extinguished the flame in his cigar, blown out the smoke and placed the stump in his pocket, he began:
“While I give no credit to the current superstitions, I cherish a peculiar affection for this old belief that the cattle talk on Christmas Eve. I feel that to it I owe part of my happiness in life, and I’ve had a good deal of it, too, in spite of the hardships I had to endure as a boy. You know my parents died when I was but seventeen year old and left me practically penniless and a charge on the township. So I was bound over to Abraham Buttenberger, who had a fine farm up near West Eden. But for one thing life with him would have gone hard with me, for he was a crotchety old fellow, a bit stingy, and inclined to get the greatest possible amount of work out of a husky lad that was gettin’ no pay but his keep. The one thing I mentioned was Abraham’s dotter Kate. I have seen many weemen in my day, and I can honestly say that I have looked on few such pictures as she was when I first knew her. She was sixteen then——”
“I don’t know ’bout that,” the Loafer interrupted. “Did you uns ever see my Missus ’hen she was sixteen an’——”
“She was sixteen then,” repeated the Teacher, ignoring the remark; “she was sixteen and extremely good lookin’. But most of you have seen her since and it’s no use for me to dwell on that point. As the years went by I got to set a heap of store by Kate and she set a heap of store by me. But we kept it to ourselves till we was twenty. Then we agreed to be married. Our agreement didn’t do any good, for Abraham set his foot down on the scheme. He wasn’t goin’ to have no hirelin’ of his a-merryin’ his dotter. I explained to him how his days was drawin’ to an end; how a time was a-comin’ when the place wouldn’t do him any more good and no more harm ’ud come to him whether his farm-hand was runnin’ it or not; how his dotter would need lookin’ after and all that. His answer was to drive me away with a horse-whip.
“That was in November. For seven weeks I never laid eyes on the girl, for the old man watched her like a hawk. But he tired of that, and one night let her go to literary society meetin’ at Kishikoquillas school. I saw her there and wanted her to elope right on the spot. She said no. It was too sudden. Besides, she wanted her things, for she knew her father would keep them just for spite if she run away without them. So we fixed it up that next night—that was Christmas Eve—she was to meet me at their barn, and we would take one of the horses and a sleigh and skip.
“Now, as I said, Abraham was a superstitious man and continual readin’ the almanac and perusin’ charms. He believed in that old sayin’ about the cattle talkin’ on Christmas Eve. Many a night he’d argued the point with me. I always said if he thot it was true, why didn’t he go listen to it. He declared he would, but he never did—leastways he put it off to a most onexpected time. If there was any place the cattle was likely to talk, I used to tell him, it was right in that big, spooky barn of his; and if there was any place where one could hear them perfect, it was right there. The stables was in the basement and the mows was overhead. The hay was stored above the horses and mules. A hole about ten feet across and twenty feet deep run from the top of the mow into that particular stable. I explained to him how he could lay at the top of the hay, put his head down into the hole and hear everything that passed. But that Christmas Eve I’d forgot all about our argument. I’d other things to think of.
“I reached the barn at midnight. Kate was there, standin’ by the gate waitin’. Everything was clear. The old man, she said, had gone to bed and didn’t have any suspicions. So we got the sleigh ready and went into the horse stable to harness up. It was clear moonlight outside but inside it was dark as pitch and fearful ghostly. There were all kinds of noises—hay rattlin’, rats skippin’ around, chains clinkin’; and every now and then a hen roostin’ up in the racks would begin to cluck and scare Kate awful. Grave-yards is bad at night but they ain’t a circumstance to a big barn.
“I picked out the white John mule, for I knew he was a good traveler, and gettin’ the harness, I went into his stall and began to fix it on him. Then I couldn’t find any bridles. I whispered to Kate. She said they was over in the cow stable, and went to get one. It seemed to me she was gone an awful long time. I could hear her trampin’ around, but as she didn’t appear to be havin’ much success I called, not very loud, ‘What’s wrong?’
“‘Nothin’,’ she answered, ‘I’ll have them in a minute.’
“It seemed like I heard a suspicious noise come down the hayhole from the mow above. I listened, but I didn’t hear any more sounds, so guessed it was a rat.
“Then I called louder to Kate, for I was mad at Abraham for all the trouble he’d given us, ‘The old man is a mean customer if there ever was one!’
“She tramped around in the straw for a spell. Then her answer came from the cow stable, ‘That’s what I say.’
“‘A nice way he treats his own dotter,’ I went on, just talkin’ for company. ‘He thinks he’ll take his farm with him when he dies. What a shame in a man of his age!’
“Again I heard a rattle of hay up above and whispered, ‘Ssh!’ But the girl didn’t catch it and said particularly loud and spiteful, ‘He has treated me powerful mean.’
“I put my hand to my ear and listened, but all was quiet, so I thinks to myself, ‘It’s a chicken.’
“‘Don’t you think kickin’ is too good for a man like that, John?’ Kate asks.
“‘Well, I’d like to have it to do,’ I answers. ‘Oh! just you wait till I get a chance, and if I don’t——’
“There was an awful scream in the mow—an unearthly scream. A great, black thing came tumblin’ out of the hayhole into the stable, lettin’ out fearful groans all the time. I couldn’t see it very plain and didn’t stop to investigate. I bumped into Kate as she was pilin’ into the kitchen. We set down a minute to get our breath. Then I put my head out of the door. For a piece all was quiet. Then a faint call come from the barn. She thot maybe it was a tramp had fallen down the hayhole. I wanted to go alone and see, but Kate wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted on goin’ with me and takin’ a gun and a lantern.
“I opened the stable door, peeped in and said, ‘Who’s there?’
“The answer was a moan and, ‘Is that you, John? Help!’
“There Abraham Buttenberger lay on a little pile of hay at the back of the stable, writhin’ and moanin’.
“‘I always knew it,’ he groaned. ‘I always told you they talked on Christmas Eve. But why did you ever get me to try and hear them? See what you’ve led me to. Look at me layin’ here with a broken leg and see what you’ve done. It was the white John mule—I know his voice. T’other was the brindle cow.’
“‘Look out for the mule! Look out!’ he cried, as we carried him out of the stable and put him on a wheelbarrow.
“That’s the way he took on. When we’d got him into the house I went up to town for a doctor. I attended him that night. The next day after he’d had breakfast, he set up in bed and says to me: ‘John, I’ve heard people laugh about the sayin’ that the cattle talk on Christmas Eve. I’ve heard you make fun of the idee. But you’d never laugh at it again if you heard what I did last night; if you’d had a mule heapin’ coals of fire on your head. And that cow! Oh, it’s awful to have the very animals on the farm down on you like that.’
“‘What did they say?’ says I.
“‘Say!’ he answers. ‘What didn’t they say? I’ll never have no peace behind that John mule again.’
“The old man was quiet a spell. Then he says, ‘John, you can have my dotter, my only dotter.’
“And he begin to moan.
“Missus and I were married at home that Christmas just fifteen years ago. We never explained it to Abraham. There was no particular use in it. We couldn’t ’a’ convinced him anyway. Why, do you know he was so set on makin’ up all around that he insisted that the brindle cow and the white mule know all about it. The ceremony was performed in the kitchen and them two knowin’ beasts was hitched to the window so they could look in. He was bound to appease ’em.”
The Teacher chuckled softly as he finished his narration.
The Storekeeper bit the legs off a candy ostrich. “It do beat all!” he exclaimed.
“I knowd it,” the Loafer cried triumphantly. “I allus knowd it. I thank you, Teacher, fer backin’ me up with this petickler instance of it. The cattle do talk on Chrisermas Eve.”
The Chronic Loafer cautiously opened the door and peered out into the black night. A blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the heavens and descended to earth in a nearby wheat field, disclosing to his view the clear outlines of a great oak whose limbs were thrashing wildly in the wind. There was a sound of splintering wood, a crash of thunder overhead, then darkness again. The door swung shut with a startled bang. The rain beat violently against the windows.
“The ole tree’s hit agin,” the Loafer cried. “Did ye see that flash? Mighty souls, what a night! I wisht I’d gone home ’fore it begin to come down so heavy. I hevn’t no umbrelly, an’ the Missus’ll never hear me callin’ in sech a storm.”
The store was a gloomy place, lighted as it was by a solitary oil lamp which cast weird shadows in the recesses of the dusty ceiling and over the shelves, laden with their motley collection of crockery and glassware, boxes and cans. There was no fire in the stove, for it was late in the spring, so the atmosphere was damp and chilly.
The G. A. R. Man joined the Loafer at the door.
“Bad, ain’t it?” he said. “I guesst I don’t go home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground to-night.”
The other laughed and cried, “My sights! ’Fraid o’ the buryin’-ground!”
The pair sauntered back to their places about the cheerless stove. The Storekeeper leaned his chair against the counter, fixed his feet firmly on the rungs and clasped both knees tightly with his hands.
“You can laugh an’ say they ain’t no sech things ez spooks,” he said, “but I notice that you uns an’ most other folks ’hen ye walks be the buryin’-ground at night, cuts th’oo the fields ez fur ’way from it ez ye can git.”
The Loafer reddened. For a moment he beat his feet slowly against the side of the counter on which he had seated himself between the Miller and the Tinsmith. Then he retorted hotly, “I hain’t sayd they was no sech things ez spooks.”
“Mebbe they is an’ mebbe they ain’t,” ventured the Miller in a low tone. “But ef they ain’t, why hesn’t Abe Scissors ben able to git a tenant fer that leetle place o’ his back on the ridge? They sais it hes a ha’nt, an’ tho’ I’ve never seen it, I knows folks that sais they hes, an’ I’ve no reasons to doubt their words.”
The G. A. R. Man nodded his head in assent. “I don’t b’lieve in them ghosts meself, but ’hen it comes to goin’ home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground at night I allus goes the back road, even ef it is furder.”
There was silence. Outside the rain beat furiously against the windows; in the garret overhead the wind whistled mournfully; from the cellar below came the faint clatter of loose boards as the rats scampered to and fro.
The Storekeeper reached behind him and turned the wick of the lamp up a little higher.
The Miller slipped from his place on the counter and seated himself on the box beside the veteran. He filled and lighted his clay pipe, and began: “My gran’pap used to tell how night after night he heard the churn splashin’ down in his spring-house; an’ how he stepped out once to find out what done it. He seen the sperrit of his first wife churnin’ an’ churnin’, an’ she told him how lest some un ’ud break the spell she’d hev to——”
The Chronic Loafer had glided off the counter and was rolling a keg close to the speaker. He fixed himself comfortably on it; then cried, “Turn up that there light. This dark hurts a felly’s eyes.”
The Tinsmith glanced furtively behind him into the blackness beneath the counter. He pushed himself from his perch, intending to join the little knot about the stove. Hardly had he reached the floor and taken one step when he halted.
“Ssh! What’s that?”
The Miller dropped his pipe. The Storekeeper paled and nervously grasped the back of his chair. The Chronic Loafer arose to his feet, his upraised arms trembling visibly. The G. A. R. Man, with eyes and mouth wide open, sat up rigidly upon his keg.
From the cellar beneath, low, but so distinct as to be heard above the patter of the rain and the rattle of the windows, came the sound of footsteps. It lasted but a moment, and then seemed to die away in the distance.
The Chronic Loafer broke the silence. “Sights! I’m goin’. The Missus’ll be gittin’ worrit.”
He hurried to the door, but as he opened it there was a blinding flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and the whole building trembled. A gust of wind drove the rain against the windows with redoubled vigor. He slammed the door shut and returned to his keg.
“Wha—what’s that?” exclaimed the G. A. R. Man.
The Storekeeper shook his head mournfully. “It’s the ha’nt that give my pap so much trouble.”
“A ha’nt!” cried the Loafer and the Miller, their teeth chattering.
“Yes,” replied the Storekeeper, leaning his chair back on two legs. “That’s what Pap use to say it was. He seen it. I never did, but ef you uns draws up closer I’ll tell ye what he sayd about it.”
Nothing loath to get as near as possible to each other the men, seated on chairs, kegs and boxes, formed a little circle about the Storekeeper, who began his story in a voice hardly above a whisper.
“My pap, you uns knows, run this here store an’ done a pretty lively trade tell the year ’fore he died. He bo’t it off o’ ole Ed Harmon, who’d kep’ it a long while. You uns may remember Ed, or mebbe ye don’t. He was a mean man ef they ever was one; never hesytatin’ to give short measure in sellin’ butter an’ takin’ long in buyin’; allus buyin’ eggs be the baker’s dozen an’ sellin’ ’em the reg’lar way; usin’ a caliker stick an inch short of the yard. It don’t take many years o’ that kind o’ tradin’ to hurt a man’s repytation in these parts, an’ consequent ’hen he died he’d the name o’ bein’ ’bout the dishonestest felly in the county, ef you uns reck’lect.”
“That I do,” the Miller interposed. “An’ the sugar he sold was that wet ye could ’a’ squeezed a tin o’ wotter outen every pound.”
“My sights!” cried the Loafer.
“Sure,” continued the Storekeeper, “an’ ’cordin’ to Pap, who hed the name fer tellin’ the truth, them was his footsteps we heard jest now.”
“Sam Hill!” muttered the G. A. R. Man. “His body’s in the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground.”
The Chronic Loafer cast an anxious glance toward the entrance to the store-room, from which a stairway wound down into the cellar. The Tinsmith shifted his chair closer into the circle. There was a roll of thunder along the mountains, a flash of lightning that seemed to find the earth somewhere among the distant ridges, but the rain was still pouring down in torrents.
“True. That’s what Pap sayd,” the Storekeeper continued in a low, awed tone. “He told me all about it afore he died, an’ I guesst he told me right, fer we’ve heard his footsteps an’ my sugar hes ben wet lately.”
“So my Missus hes ben complainin’—still—but——”
The Storekeeper was slightly ruffled by this interruption and glared for a moment at its author, the Loafer. Then he resumed his narrative.
“It tuk Pap considerable time to build up his trade, but he give square measure, an’ by an’ by the folks begin comin’ here ’stead o’ goin’ to Kishikoquillas. Then the trouble started. One day he found a chip stuck in the scales he used fer buyin’ meat on, so it wouldn’t weigh more’n fifty pounds. He licked me, that he did, tho’ I never done it. Next day he found another stick there, an’ he was that mad he licked me agin. Then I went away fer a week, an’ every mornin’ reg’lar he found that chip. He begin to feel queer ’bout it ’hen he seen I wasn’t responsible. So every day he pulled the chip out, tell final it stopped. He thot it was rats.
“Things run ’long all right fer a year, an’ then folks begin to complain that the sugar was damp, an’ blamed Pap fer wettin’ it to make it weigh. He sayd he didn’t, an’ he didn’t, fer he wasn’t no man to tell nawthin’ but the truth, let alone to treat his sugar dishonest. But the customers begin to drop off buyin’ an’ he to be afraid o’ losin’ his trade. What was more, he seen that sugar he got in the bawrel ez dry ez a chip one night was damp next mornin’. ’Hen he declared it wasn’t his fault, folks wouldn’t believe him, an’ they was no denyin’ it, them goods was soakin’. So he concided he’d find out jest what was wrong. He found out an’ never hed no more peace. What happened I tell you exactly ez he told me, an’ I ain’t hed no cause to disbelieve what he sayd, fer he wasn’t a man to waste words.
“One night, jest after he’d got in a bawrel o’ granilated, he went to the cellar an’ made ’rangements to discover the trouble. He hed his ole shot-gun along an’ hung an ile lantern to a joist in the middle. Then he set down on a pile o’ sacks in a corner to watch. He wasn’t a bit skeered at first, fer the lantern was burnin’ cheery. An hour went by, an’ he begin to git weary; they was no signs of anything wrong. Then another, an’ he begin to doze off. How long he slep’ he didn’t know, but a foot-fall woke him, an’ he set up on the pile o’ sacks an’ looked. The lantern was flickerin’ low, fer the ile hed most burned out, so they was only a dim light in the placet. His heart stopped beatin’, an’ his breath wouldn’t come. Fer a moment they was dead silence. The lantern seemed like it was a-goin’ to go out.
“Over from the other end of the cellar come a faint sound like the splashin’ of wotter, drippin’, drippin’, drippin’. Pap raised hisself on his knees, all a-tremblin’. They was another spell o’ quiet; then the same sound of a foot-fall; then ’nother an’ ’nother; an’ every time it made his heart thump like ’twould break an’ jarred him all over. Out o’ the dark, into the light o’ the lantern, come the figur’ of an ole man, walkin’ slow, step be step, ’crosst the cellar toward the sugar bawrel. Pap rubbed his eyes in surprise, fer the felly was Ed Harmon, who for eight year had ben layin’ in the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground, never missed. He wore that ole shiny black coat o’ hisn, his broken, patched boots, an’ gray cap; ’bout his neck was wound a blue woolen comforter, an’ in his hand he kerried a bucket o’ wotter. He’d wrapped a piece o’ paper ’round the han’le to keep it from cuttin’ his fingers. His face was all white like it used to be, ’cept his nose, which was red from his drinkin’ too much hard cider. He walked all doubled up, fer the bucket seemed to blow him consid’able.
“Pap laid quiet at first, he was so scared, tremblin’ all over, with his teeth chatterin’ to beat all. Sudden Ed stopped right under the lantern an’ set the bucket down, the wotter splashin’ over the side an’ goin’ up in a fog ’hen it struck the floor. Then he straightened up like to stretch his back, an’ raised his hands to his mouth an’ begin to blow on ’em. Pap didn’t hear no sound but he seen the lamp flickerin’; an’ at the sight o’ Ed standin’ there so nat’ral his courage come back.
“After the ghos’ hed stopped a minute his face twisted like he was groanin’, an’ he picked up the bucket an’ started on toward the sugar bawrel. ’Hen Pap seen that, he clean forgot it was a sperrit, it looked so lifelike. He jumped up an’ run out yellin’, ‘Here you, Ed Harmon, don’t you dast put that wotter on my sugar!’
“The ghos’ stopped, turned ’round an’ looked at Pap. Pap stopped an’ looked at the ghos’. The appyrition set the bucket down easy an’ blowed on his hands. That kind o’ cooled the ole man.
“‘You uns ain’t ben treatin’ me right,’ sais Pap, polite like, ‘dampin’ my sugar an’ sp’ilin’ my trade.’
“Ed didn’t say nawthin’, but jest looked at him quiet like an’ give his comforter another lap ’round the neck.
“‘Now, see here,’ sais Pap, a leetle louder. ‘I’ve found you out, Ed Harmon, an’ I’ll make it pretty hot fer you ’round these parts ef you don’t let up.’
“The sperrit turned proud like, blowed on its hands, leaned over an’ picked up the bucket, an’ started trampin’ toward the bawrel agin. Pap clean forgot hisself. He give a run an’ a kick at the pail, for he’d no desires to hurt the ole man, but ’tended jest to spill the wotter. He near dropped dead on the spot, fer his feet went right inter it ’thout his feelin’ it; the ole thing broke in a dozen pieces, the staves fallin’ in a heap on the floor; the wotter ’rose up in a fog like, an’ fer an instant he could see nawthin’. It cleared away an’ he noticed one o’ the hoops rollin’ off inter the dark. He made a run fer it an’ grabbed at it, but his hand went right up th’oo it. He th’owed his arm out, thinkin’ to ketch it that ’ay. Ez he looked up he seen the ole hoop revolvin’ there in the air above him. He give a wild jump at it. His hand struck the lantern an’ knocked it off the nail. They was a loud crash ez the glass broke. What happened after that he didn’t know. I found him sleepin’ on the pile o’ sacks next mornin’.”
“Sights!” cried the Chronic Loafer. He drew his chair closer into the circle, which by this time had reached the smallest possible circumference.
The Tinsmith glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder toward the dark corner where lay the entrance to the store-room.
“It do beat all,” he said.
From the mountains there came the low reverberation of thunder. The storm had passed the valley and now the rain was falling lightly and the breeze was dying.
“Was the sugar wet next day?” asked the Miller, nervously biting the end off the stem of his clay pipe.
“Ssh! Listen!” whispered the Loafer.
There was no sound save the gentle patter of the rain and the swish of the wind in the maples outside the door.
“It wasn’t,” the Storekeeper answered. “But the trouble began a week later.”
“It’s a strange story,” said the Tinsmith, “an’ ef any one but your Pap hed told it I’d hev my suspitchions. But his sugar was damp.”
There was a long silence.
From the cellar came again the weird sound, low but distinct.
The G. A. R. Man arose and seized the lamp from the counter.
“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he cried. “This is all foolershness. Ef you fellys comes we’ll find out what that is.”
He shuffled slowly toward the dark end of the store. For a moment his companions hesitated. Then the Storekeeper joined the leader of the hazardous enterprise and one by one the others followed. They tiptoed through the door; they wound their way among the boxes and barrels that filled the store-room, and reached the head of the stairway that led to the cellar. Here the G. A. R. Man halted. The lamp in his hand vibrated to and fro, throwing grotesque shadows on the white ceiling and walls. The men clustered about him and gazed timidly into the darkness beneath. He placed one foot on the step, then stopped.
“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he said.
“Course th-th-they ain’t,” chattered the Miller, who was holding the Storekeeper by the arm.
“It’s r-r-rats,” the Tinsmith ventured.
“Or a l-l-loose b-b-board,” suggested the veteran.
“Foolershness,” whispered the Loafer, “‘v-v-v-vestig-g-gatin’ ghosts ’hen they ain’t no sech things. The Missus is settin’ up fer me an’ I’ll hev to be goin’.”
“Pap allus was superstitchous,” exclaimed the Storekeeper, as he made his way back through the maze of boxes and barrels to the store in the wake of the Loafer. The others were hurrying along in the rear.
The rain had ceased. Overhead the black clouds, visible in the bright starlight, were scurrying away towards the hills. The G. A. R. Man and the Loafer were parting at the latter’s gate at the end of the village.
“Hev you ben gittin’ any sugar o’ him lately?” asked the veteran, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction whence they had come.
“I hev,” replied the Loafer. “An’ I guess ole Ed Harmon is still at it.”
“What do ye think it was?”
“It might ’a’ ben a rat. It might ’a’ ben a loose board. It might ’a’ ben a hundred things like that. I ain’t superstitchous—not a bit superstitchous.” The speaker paused. “But jest the same I ain’t fer investigatin’ ghosts,” he added.
“What was the question fer debate?” asked the School Teacher.
“Resawlved that the Negro is more worthy o’ government support than the Indian,” replied the Miller.
“And the decision?”
“One jedge voted fer the affirmative an’ one fer the negative.”
“And the third?”
“That’s where the trouble come. Ye see, Theophilus Bones was the third jedge, an’ he got up an’ sayd that after hearin’ an’ weighin’ all the argyments o’ the debaters he hed to concide that neither the Negro nor the Indian was worthy.”
“Deadlocked!” cried the pedagogue, bringing his chair down on all four legs with a crash, waving his arms and snapping his fingers. “Deadlocked, sure. What did ye do?”
“See here,” interrupted the Chronic Loafer from his perch on a sugar barrel, “I can’t see that it makes any diff’rence what they done. S’posin’ the Airy View Liter’ry Society is deadlocked. How’s the poor Injun goin’ to suffer any more by it?”
“But did you uns ever see sech dum jedges?” asked the Miller appealingly. “I was on the negative.”
“The point is this,” said the Teacher, shaking his cigar at the occupant of the barrel. “Here is a modern liter’ry society, whose main purpose is trainin’ its members in the art of debate. An important question is put before this same society for formal discussion, and yet these self-same trained debaters makes their points so badly that one o’ the jedges can’t decide on the merits o’ the question.”
“It ain’t so bad at all,” the Tinsmith exclaimed. “I once heard Aleck Bolum on that wery question. He argyed both affirmative an’ negative. All three o’ the jedges was deadlocked. None of ’em could concide.”
“Bolum must ’a’ ben a wonderful talker,” the Loafer said.
“Wonderful? Well, I guesst he was. Why, it was his debatin’ broke up the Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society. An’ that was a flourishin’ organization, too. Me an’ my old frien’ Perry Muthersbaugh started it together. After he went west Andrew Magill tuk a holt of it. He run it tell Aleck Bolum stepped in. Then it was a tug-o-war.
“Bolum was a livin’ Roberts-rules-of-order. He was a walkin’ encyclopedy of information. He knowd it an’ never lost no opportunity of showin’ it. Kishikoquillas school-house was his principal place fer exhibitin’. From the time Andrew Magill’s gavel fell on Friday night tell a motion was made to adjourn, Aleck was on his feet. Ef he wasn’t gittin’ off a select readin’ or a recytation or debatin’, he was risin’ to pints of order, appealin’ from the decision o’ the chair, callin’ fer divisions or movin’ we proceed to new business. Ye couldn’t git any fresh wood put in the stove ’thout hevin’ him move the ’pointment of a committee to do it. Ef a lamp burned low he’d want to hev it referred to the committee on lights. He even tried to git the recordin’ seckertary impeached because she kep’ the minutes in lead-pencil.”
“What fer a lookin’ felly was this Aleck Bolum?” asked the Chronic Loafer.
“He was a thin, leetle man, with a clean-shaved, hatchet face, an’ a bald spot on the top o’ his head over which he plastered a few skein o’ lemon-colored hair.”
“An’ he wore a Prince Al-bert coat?” inquired the Loafer anxiously.
“Yes, a shiny black un. An’ he’d stand up an’ th’ow out his chist.”
“Why, that’s where half the trouble come,” interrupted the Loafer. “Don’t you know that ef ye put a Prince Al-bert coat on a clothes-horse, it’ll stan’ right up an’ begin argyin’ with ye?”
“My dear felly,” replied the Tinsmith, “Aleck Bolum ’ud ’a’ argyed in his grave clothes. They wasn’t no stoppin’ him. We thot mebbe we could quiet him be givin’ him an office, so we ’lected him correspondin’ seckertary, cal’latin’ he’d hev nawthin’ to do an’ ’ud be satisfied with the honor. We’d complete misjedged him. He got up a debate be correspondence with a liter’ry society out in Kansas an’ tuk up half our evenin’s readin’ reports on it.
“So Aleck Bolum didn’t give Andrew Magill much chancet, even tho’ he was president. It went hard with Andrew, too, fer he liked to fill in all the cracks in the meetin’ hisself, an’ objected to havin’ Aleck bobbin’ up with pints of order every time he opened his mouth. But fer my part I allus preferred Bolum to Magill. Bolum wasn’t musical. Magill was. ’Henever one o’ the reg’lar men on the progrim ’ud fail to be on hand an’ he could head Aleck off, Andrew ’ud git up an’ say, ‘Mister So-an’-so, who hed the ess’y fer the evenin’, bein’ absent, the chair has consented to fill in the interval be singin’ a solo.’ Or the chair ’ud sing a duet with the seckertary; or the chair ’ud sing an anthem ’sisted be the society quartette. Then he’d stand up with his music marks an’ start away on twenty verses about Mother or Alice.
“Things kept gittin’ worse an’ worse. They final come to a head one night ’hen Aleck Bolum rose to a pint of order durin’ one of Andrew’s highest notes. Magill hed to stop singin’ an’ ast him to state his pint. Then Aleck moved the solo be the president be taken up under onfinished business. Andrew jest choked.
“‘Hen the president got th’oo chokin’, we tuk up the debate. Everything was subdued like. Andrew set on the platform wery quiet an’ solemn. The debaters didn’t put no heart in their work fer they was busy keepin’ one eye on him an’ the other on Bolum. Every one was kind o’ nervous an’ hushed—that is, every one ’cept Aleck. He argyed that the pen was mightier then the sword in the reg’lar debate. ’Hen the argyment was th’owed open to all he got up agin an’ proved that the sword was mightier then the pen.
“We got th’oo with the debate an’ nawthin’ hed happened. Then Andrew Magill rose to give out the progrim fer the next meetin’. He looked solemn like at his paper a minute; then gazed ’round the room. Ye could ’a’ heard a pin drop.
“‘Several o’ our members,’ sais he, ‘complains that they ain’t hed no opportunity to be heard afore this society. This progrim is got up especial to satisfy these gentlemen.’
“An’ the progrim fer the follyin’ Friday, which he read out, run like this: ‘Readin’ o’ the Scriptur’ be the president; roll call; select readin’, Mr. Aleck Bolum; recytation, Mr. Aleck Bolum; extemporaneous oration, Mr. Aleck Bolum; ess’y, The True Patriot, Mr. Aleck Bolum; debate, Resawlved that works o’ natur’ is more beautiful then works o’ art—affirmative, Mr. Aleck Bolum; negative, Mr. Aleck Bolum.’
“Andrew finished an’ set down in his chair. They wasn’t even a whisper fer every eye in the room was turned on the correspondin’ seckertary. He arose deliberate like, cleared his th’oat, th’owed open his coat so his red tie showed better, put the thumb o’ his left hand in his waistcoat pocket, raised the other hand, pintin’ his forefinger at the president. We was ready fer somethin’ hot.
“‘Mr. Chairman,’ he sayd, never crackin’ a smile. ‘I desires right here to express my approval o’ this new plan o’ yours o’ hevin’ the same man debate both sides o’ the question. It’s an excellent idee. Under the ole rule, where the debater was allowed to speak only on one side, we developed lopsided speakers. An’ I want to say right here an’ now an’ to everybody in this room that I, fer my part, ’ll do my best to make next week’s meetin’ beneficial to us all.’
“‘Hen Andrew Magill seen how he’d played right into Aleck Bolum’s hand, thots failed to express his indignation. He adjourned the meetin’, blowed out the lamps, put on his overcoat an’ hat an’ walked outen the school-house an’ down the road, jest all bubblin’ over. But Andrew wasn’t easy beaten. He’d no idee o’ settin’ all evenin’ listenin’ to Aleck Bolum’s ess’ys an’ select readin’s. He slipped ’round ’mong the members on the quiet an’ explained how he’d an invite from the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club, to bring the whole society up there the follyin’ Friday. He explained what a good un it ’ud be on Aleck ’hen he got to the school-house with his progrim all prepared an’ found fer an aud’ence—Mr. Aleck Bolum. An’ ez he offered to kerry three sled loads o’ members to the grove hisself, everybody agreed. It really begin to look ez ef Aleck was goin’ to be squelched.
“The snow was two feet deep, an’ the sleighin’ was fine. It tuk jest ’bout an hour an’ a half to cover the twelve mile ’tween Kishikoquillas an’ Happy Grove. We’d a splendid time, too. Andrew was in high sperrits. He pictured Aleck arunnin’ the liter’ry meetin’ all hisself, an’ give an imytation o’ the debate on the question whether works o’ natur’ was more beautiful then works of art. It was killin’. I mind now how Andrew hed jest started in showin’ us Bolum’s recytation, ’hen we reached the clearin’ where the school-house stood.
“The place was dark, absolute dark, an’ the door was locked. They wasn’t a soul in sight. Magill got out his watch. It sayd eight-fifteen an’ the singin’ school was set fer eight. It looked pecul’ar. We guesst we’d better wait. So one o’ the boys climbed th’oo a winder an’ unlocked the door, an’ we all went in. A few can’les was found an’ lit. Then we set down to watch fer the arrival o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club. They wasn’t any fire, an’ the place was cold an’ disygreeable. Some wanted to go home, but Andrew sayd no. We was the club’s guests. Some of ’em ’ud be ’long any minute. It wouldn’t be right fer them to find us gone. So we kep’ settin’, an’ wonderin’, an’ guessin’.
“At the end of an hour we hear sleigh-bells down the road. Then they was a stampin’ o’ boots outside on the portico.
“‘Here they is at last,’ sais Andrew, gittin’ up on the platform an’ rappin’ fer order.
“The door opened. In steps Aleck Bolum. The whole society give a groan.
“‘What’s the trouble?’ sais he, walkin’ to the middle o’ the room. ‘I don’t hear no singin’.’
“The society jest hung their heads an’ looked sheepish.
“‘Where’s the Happy Grove Social Singin Club?’ sais he pleasant like. ‘I sees only our own members.’
“No one sayd nawthin’.
“Aleck unwound his comforter, unbottoned his coat, th’owed out his chist an’ cried, ‘Mr. Chairman, hev I the floor?’
“Magill kind o’ mumbled.
“‘Then,’ sais Bolum, ‘Mebbe I can th’ow some light on the hushed voices I see gethered ’round me here to-night. Firstly, I’d like to say that we’d a most excellent meetin’ at Kishikoquillas this evenin’. After we adjourned I thot I’d run up here an’ see how you was makin’ out, fer I hed pecul’ar interest in this getherin’. Th’oo some mistake I was not properly notified that our members was comin’ here, but I learned of it. I wanted to see the Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society do itself proud to-night at music ez well ez literature. So in my capacity ez correspondin’ seckertary I got up a musical progrim yeste’day an’ forwarded it to the president of the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club, explainin’ how our organization ’ud entertain his organization to-night with melody, instrumental an’ vocal.’
“Bolum stopped an’ drawed a paper out o’ his pocket.
“‘Will the seckertary please read the progrim?’ he sayd.
“Josiah Weller tuk the paper. He looked at it. Then he piked one eye on the president.
“‘Ye may read the progrim, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Andrew, wery dignified.
“An’ Josiah read like this, ‘The Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society will be pleased to render fer the entertainment o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club the follyin’ selections: bass-horn solo, The Star Spangled Banner, Mr. Andrew Magill.’
“The chairman’s gavel come down on the table, an’ he rose an’ said, ‘I feels flattered be Mr. Bolum puttin’ me on the progrim, but he otter ’a’ notified me, so I could ’a’ brung me horn.’
“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Aleck, wery cool.
“Josiah continyerd, ‘Vocal solo, I see Mother’s Face at the Window, Mr. Andrew Magill.’
“The Chairman looked wery pleased.
“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sayd Aleck.
“‘An ole time jig, jewsharp an’ harmonica mixed, Mr. Andrew Magill; vocal solo, Meet Me Alice at the Golden Gate, Mr. Andrew Magill; anthem, Angel Voices, Mr. Andrew Magill, ’sisted be the society.’
“Josiah Weller didn’t git no furder. They was a low roar went over the room. Some felly in the rear ’lowed we otter put him in the pond. But they wasn’t no one to put. Aleck Bolum hed dissypeared. We got to the door in time to hear his sleigh-bells jinglin’ way off th’oo the woods. Seemed like we could ’most hear him chucklin’, too.”
“But what hed become o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club?” asked the Miller. “Why wasn’t they there?”
“I guesst you never heard Andrew Magill sing, did ye?” replied the Tinsmith.
The Patriarch sat on the store porch. An old cob pipe, the smoke oozing lazily from its mouth, protruded from the recesses of his white beard. His eyes were fixed on the mountains over whose sides the black, sharp shadows of the clouds were wandering. His mood was so pensive as to awaken the curiosity of the Storekeeper, who had been watching the old man sitting upright on the bench, his gaze fastened on the distant hills.
“What are ye thinkin’ of, Gran’pap?” the young man asked.
“I was thinkin’ o’ Hen Wheedle. I hain’t thot o’ him fer a year, so I sais to meself to-day, I sais, ‘You otter think o’ Hen Wheedle!’ An’ I set right down, an’ a mighty good time I’ve hed a medytatin’ over him.”
The Miller laid the county paper over his knees and smoothed it out. Then he looked at the Patriarch.
“My souls!” he cried. “Why, Hen’s ben over the mo’ntain nigh onto forty year.”
“That’s jest the pint,” was the rejoinder. “‘Hen folks is gone ye otter think on ’em.”
To the old man there was nothing beyond the mountains but infinite space. To him the world was bounded by the green range before him and the range back by the river. The two sprang out of the blue at a point some nine miles to the north, went their own ways some fifteen miles to the south, joined, and made the valley and the world. To go over the mountain to him meant voluntary annihilation. He would step off into space beyond and become nothingness. In the seventy-five years of his life he had known men to return, but it was as though they had arisen from the dead.
“You uns knowd Hen Wheedle?” he inquired.
“He was afore my time but I’ve heard o’ him,” replied the Miller.
The Chronic Loafer looked up from the steps, where he had been sitting, whittling a piece of soft white pine.
“I s’posn you’ve heard o’ Bill Siler?” he asked, in a pleasant, alluring tone.
“Bill Siler,” repeated the Miller. He laid his forefinger against his forehead and thought a minute. “I think I hev. His name’s wery famil’ar. But why did ye ast?”
“Oh, jest because I’ve noticed that most everybody was afore your time an’ you’ve heard o’ ’em. I never knowd Bill Siler. His name was jest ginirated in my head, an’ I thot ye might tell me who he was.”
“You thot ye’d ketch me, heigh,” cried the other. “Ye thot ye’d be smart an’——”
“Boys, boys,” the Patriarch shook his stick at his companions. “Don’t quarrel—don’t. Mebbe some day one o’ ye’ll go over the mo’ntain an’ then every mean word ye ever sayd’ll come back. Mean words is like them wooden balls on a ’lastic string that they sells the children at the county fair. The harder they is an’ the wiolenter ye th’ow ’em the quicker they bounces home to ye an’ the more they hurt. I otter know. Hen Wheedle otter know. Why every time he thinks o’ me his conscience must jest roll around inside o’ him.” The light in the old man’s pipe had gone out. He applied a sulphur match to it and sneezed violently. “But I’ve forgot the wrong Hen done me. He must ’a’ suffered innardly fer it. Ef he ever returns I’ll put this right hand in hisn an’ say, ’Hen, you done wrong, but you’ve suffered innardly an’ I fergive ye.’ They’s a heap o’ difference ’tween plain, ord’nary sufferin’ inside o’ ye, an’ sufferin’ innardly. Fer the first ye takes bitters, stops smokin’ an’ in a day you’re all right. But ’hen the conscience gits out o’ order all the bitters in the world an’ all the stoppin’ smokin’ in creation’ll give ye no ease. That’s what I sais, an’ I otter know, fer I can jest see how Hen Wheedle feels.”
No sulphurous fume was blazing around the Patriarch’s nose, but he sneezed again and choked himself with a piece of canton-flannel that served him as a handkerchief.
“Hen an’ me was raised on joinin’ farms. From the time we was big enough to gether eggs we was buddies. At school the boy that licked me had to lick both; the boy that was licked be one was licked be both. It was a reg’lar caset o’ David an’ Joshuay all over agin.
“They’s only one thing in the world’ll separate buddies like me an’ him was. A crow-bar won’t do it; a gun won’t; nothin’ won’t but a combination o’ yeller hair an’ dreamy blue eyes an’ pink cheeks. Melissy Flower hed ’em all. But what she done she didn’t do intentional. I didn’t want her without Hen hevin’ her; he didn’t want her without me hevin’ her—so they was a hitch. We used to go over to her house together allus, an’ we’d sing duets to her melodium playin’. He sung tenor an’ I bass. At the eend of each piece she distributed her praise jest equal. ’Hen we wasn’t hevin’ music we’d be on the settee, all three, first him, then her, then me. Ef Hen was so fortnit ez to catch the sparkle o’ her eyes, she’d turn her head my way an’ give me a chancet too.
“Now things went on this way tell one night we was comin’ home from her house together. We reached the covered bridge where the road dewided, one fork goin’ to his placet an’ one to mine. How clear I remembers it!
“‘Henry,’ I sais, lookin’ right inter his eyes—it was moonlight an’ I could almost read his thots, ’Henry, it seems to me like you’ve ben thinkin’ more ’an usual o’ Melissy lately.’
“‘I was thinkin’ the same of you,’ sais he.
“‘You’re right,’ I answers. ‘But I won’t treat no buddy o’ mine mean.’
“‘An’ the same with me,’ sais he.
“We was quiet a piece. Then I sais, ’Henry, ef ever I finds I can’t stand it no longer I’ll tell you.’
“‘An’ ef ever I gits the same way I’ll tell you,’ sais he.
“We shook hands an’ went home.
“I s’pose things ’ud ’a’ gone on ez they was fer a good many year hed not a young town felly from up the walley come drivin’ down in slick clothes an’ in a slick buggy. You uns hev all heard the old sayin’ that it ain’t the clothes that makes the man. Ye never heard the proverb that it ain’t the paint that makes the house, did ye? I guess ye didn’t, yit it’s jest ’bout ez sensible. It ain’t the paint that makes the house, but it’s the paint that keeps the boards from rottin’ an’ the hull thing from fallin’ to pieces out o’ pure bein’ ashamed o’ itself. Solerman was the wisest man that ever lived, yit the Bible sais that he allus run to fine raiment. He hed a thousand an’ odd wives an’ knowd well enough that he wouldn’t hev no peace with ’em ef he run ’round in his bare feet an’ overalls. ’Hen the Queen o’ Sheby called on him ye can bet your bottom dollar she didn’t find him settin’ on the throne with a hickory shirt ’thout no collar, an’ his second-best pants held up be binder-twine galluses.”
The old man had been talking very fast and was out of breath. He paused to gather the threads of his story.
The School Teacher seized the opportunity to remark: “An’ yet Solerman in all his glory was restless an’ unhappy.”
“He knowd too much,” drawled the Loafer, looking up from his stick. “An’ Gran’pap, with all of his wisdom, with all the good uns he sayd, Solerman never knowd what it was to light his ole pipe an’ set plumb down on the wood-pile an’ play with the dog. Why, he’d sp’iled his gown.”
“Boys,” resumed the Patriarch, “slick clothes an’ a slick hoss an’ a slick buggy goes ten times furder with a woman then a slick brain. She can see a man’s clothes; she can see his hoss; she can see his buggy. But it takes her fifty year to git her eyes adjusted so she can see his mind. That’s why I got worrit ’hen this here Perry felly got to drivin’ down to wisit Melissy. He come oncet; he come agin, an’ I begin thinkin’ more o’ him then I did o’ the girl. Sometimes it seemed like I was goin’ mad yit I couldn’t do nawthin’ on Hen’s account. Many an afternoon I set here on this wery porch rewolvin’ it over an’ over: ‘Ef I don’t git her I’ll die; ef I git her Hen’ll die; ef Perry gits her both on us’ll die.’ It was a hard puzzle. A couple o’ times I was near solvin’ it be leavin’ the main part o’ the sufferin’ to the other fellys, but then I minded how Hen looked at me that night ez we parted at the fork o’ the road, an’ I sais, ‘I’ll treat no buddy o’ mine mean. Git behind me, Satan, an’ make yerself comf’table tell I need ye.’
“But one afternoon ’hen I was feelin’ petickler low in sperrits, oneasy, onrastless, I seen Perry drivin’ th’oo, his hoss curried tell his coat was smooth ez silk, his buggy shinin’ like it ’ud blind me, an’ him settin’ inside in a full new suit o’ clothes. I knowd she couldn’t stand all that wery long. So after supper I went right over to Wheedle’s to git Hen, ’lowin’ we’d go down to Flower’s an’ let Melissy settle the business be choosin’. He wasn’t een. His ma sayd he’d jest left, but she s’posed he’d be right hum agin. So I fixed meself on the pump trough an’ waited. My, but them hours did drag! The sun set an’ it got dark. I could look down the hill to Flower’s placet an’ see a light twinklin’ in the best room where I knowd she was with Perry. I pictured her at the melodium twiddlin’ her fingers soft-like over the keys while he leaned over her singin’, ‘Thine eyes so blue an’ tender.’ Boys, it was terrible—terrible. The lamp was allus a-twinklin’ to me to hurry up. Then final it seemed to git tired an’ went out. It was only eight o’clock. Now I pictured ’em settin’ in the dark. I wanted to leave right there an’ run down the hill, but I sais, ‘No; I’ll treat no buddy o’ mine mean.’
“By an’ by the moon come up an’ the chickens in the barn quit cluckin’ at the rats. I begin to git dozy an’ leaned my head agin the pump. ’Hen I come to me senses the roosters was crowin’ an’ the light was creepin’ over the ridges yander. I went home. Ez I come ’round the corner o’ the house, there I see Hen Wheedle sound asleep on the back stoop.
“‘Hen,’ sais I, ‘what hev you ben doin’?’
“‘Waitin’ fer you,’ he answers, ez he gits up an’ rubs his eyes. ‘I come over last night to git you an’ go over to Flower’s. Perry’s there.’
“I told him how I’d waited all night fer him, an’ he jest groaned. He had ’em wery bad. I mind oncet readin’ in the weemen’s column in the paper how spilt milk could be sopped up with a sponge. It seemed jest ez tho’ that was what we was doin’ ’hen we went over to Flower’s that mornin’. It was wery early an’ we’d a long time to wait ’fore Melissy come down to git breakfast. Then Hen an’ me stepped inter the kitchen.
“I thot she’d faint.
“‘Why, you’re airly,’ she sais.
“‘We’ve come airly a purpose, Melissy,’ sais I. ‘We wants you to choose atween us.’
“That girl must ’a’ thot a heap o’ one o’ we two—which un I don’t know, but one sure, fer she kind o’ fell agin the table, graspin’ it fer support. She raised her apron over her face an’ gasped like.
“‘Take whichever one ye want,’ sais Hen kind o’ soft.
“She didn’t answer.
“‘Don’t keep us een suspenders,’ sais I.
“Then the apron fell from her face, showin’ it all a rosy red, an’ she tells us, ‘Boys, I’m awful sorry, but you’re late. I tuk Perry last night.’
“Hen an’ me turned on our heels an’ walked out. We didn’t say nawthin’ tell we come to the fork in the road.
“Hen stopped an’ wentured, ‘We’ve ben fools.’
“‘We hev,’ I sais.
“‘Them town fellys doesn’t last long,’ sais he after a spell. ‘She’s like to be a widdy.’
“‘In which caset,’ sais I, our agreement stands. We notify each other ’fore we ast her.’
“‘It does,’ he answers, quiet an’ wery solemn. ‘We’ve allus ben buddies, you an’ me, an’ we allus will be.’
“Melissy Flower become a widdy ez Hen ’lowed an’ a mighty nice un, too. Perry was hardly cold tell me an’ Wheedle was over singin’ duets with her. The ole trouble come on agin fer me worse than ever, but this time I made up me mind I wouldn’t be fooled. ’Hen I could stand it no longer, I walks one night over to Wheedle’s to notify him. He wasn’t there. I’d ’a’ gone on to Flower’s but I minded our agreement an’ was true. It was a temptation, but I’d never treat no buddy o’ mine mean. I was true. It come twelve o’clock an’ they was no sign o’ him, so I went back home feelin’ a leetle heavy here.” The old man laid his hand across the watch-pocket of his waistcoat. “Next day they was a postal in the mail fer me. It was from Hen, an’ it run like this: ‘I’m on me way to Flower’s to ast her. I drop this in the box to notify you ez I promised.’
“That’s the way he give me notice. While I was waitin’ to notify him right, he was astin’ her. He done wrong. His conscience was agin him, fer ’hen I went over to his placet to give him an idee what I thot, I found him an’ she hed gone—gone over the mo’ntain yander.”
The Patriarch arose and shook his stick angrily at the distant hills. He shook it until his strength had given out and his anger had ebbed away.
“That was forty year ago,” he said after a long silence, “but ef ever Hen Wheedle comes back I’ll lay this here right hand in hisn an’ say, ’Hen, you done wrong, but you’ve suffered innardly. I fergive ye.’”
The wind rattled the windows and made creepy, unpleasant noises in the trees outside. At long intervals it ventured down the chimney with sudden spurts and playfully blew the smoke out into the room, causing momentary discomfort to the eyes of all three of us. Then as quickly it would retire, giving a triumphant whistle as though it enjoyed the joke hugely. The soot would come tumbling down and envelop the flames in a cloud of black dust. A crackle, a splutter, and the logs blazed up as cheerily as ever.
I stretched my feet toward the fire and buried myself deeper in my great arm-chair. Flash, the setter, curled at my side, poking his nose between his fore-paws, fixed his earnest eyes on a tiny tongue of flame that was eating its way along a gnarled bit of hickory. Facing us, rocking slowly to and fro on two legs of his frail wooden chair, was Theophilus Winter, the lawyer and our companion on many a day’s hunt. This was to Theophilus the acme of comfort, for he had a good cigar for an inspiration and the best of audiences, an intelligent dog and a tired man.
“Yes, as I was saying before that last gust interrupted us, I am not a superstitious man, but as long as no harm can come of it I prefer to plant my garden in the right sign. While I am not in the least superstitious I must confess some timidity on this one point—that is, as to passing the small log house that stands just at the foot of the ridge on the road to Kishikoquillas on the night of the twenty-ninth of December, or indeed almost any time after sunset. Not that I am afraid—far from it—but strange tales have been abroad for the last thirty years regarding the doings there after nightfall. They say that the sound of fiddles can be heard, the clanging of cow-bells and occasionally the dull report of a gun. This, the young folks declare, is the ghosts belling Joe Varner.
“Perhaps you have seen the house of which I have spoken. It stands in a little clearing, about fifty feet from the roadside. The great stone chimney is now almost completely demolished. The plaster daubing has fallen from the chinks between the logs, revealing to the passer-by the barren interior. The glass has been removed from the shattered windows to let the light into some more respectable dwelling. The weeds and briars grow rank over all. The place presented a far different picture thirty years ago. Then all was scrupulously clean. Not a stone on the chimney top was out of place, not an iota of daubing had fallen away, nor was the smallest spot left unwhitewashed. Everywhere was the evidence of industry and thrift.
“For twenty years Joe Varner had lived his lonely life there, with no other companion than a mongrel dog. He was a strange man, tall and gaunt in appearance, taciturn and surly in manner, doing his bad deeds in public and his good ones in private, for his pride would not allow him to parade the latter before his neighbors. Yet with it all he was at heart a kindly old fellow who had simply been spoiled by his way of living. And why he had chosen this way was a puzzle to all our people. He was not a native of our county, but had simply appeared one day, bought this secluded plot, built his house and settled here. Twice, leaving no one behind him, he went away, remained a week and then as quietly returned to resume his lonely life. On each occasion his return was marked by a fit of melancholy which attracted the attention but repelled the curiosity of his nearest neighbors. That he had visited his old home in a distant county was all they could ever learn.
“Just thirty years ago this coming December, Varner left for the third time. A week passed, and he did not return. Two weeks went by, and he was still absent. Strange rumors were abroad as to the cause of this unaccountable delay. When the third week had reached its end he came home, bringing with him a wizened little woman, with a hard face and of a most slovenly appearance. This person he introduced laconically, but with a very evident touch of pride, as his wife.
“Just who the woman was or where from no one knew and none dared ask, but the news of her arrival spread quickly. Here was an opportunity not to be lost—to bell old Joe and his mysterious bride. Never before had the valley made such preparations for a serenade. Full fifty men and boys met at my father’s barn on the night following the old man’s home-coming, and armed with old guns, fiddles, sleigh bells and horns we set out for the scene of our operations. It was a good two mile walk to the house on the ridge, and we reached it just as the full moon was climbing over the tree tops and peeping into the clearing. There was no sign of life anywhere save a few dim rays of light that shone through a crevice in the shutters.
“Silently we stationed ourselves about the cabin. At each corner we placed a horse-fiddle, an unmusical instrument made by drawing the edge of a board, coated with resin, over the corner of a large box. The signal was given, and forthwith arose the greatest din that had ever been heard in our county. The banging of the muskets, the bells, the horns, with the melancholy wail of the horse-fiddles rising above them all, made an indescribable tumult. But the result was not as we had expected. We believed that Joe and his wife would come to the door, bow their acknowledgments and invite us in to a feast of cake and cider, as is the custom. Instead the light died suddenly. No sound was heard within.
“We kept to our work bravely. A half hour passed. Cries of ‘Bring out the bride’ arose above the din, giving evidence that lusty lungs were coming to the aid of wearied limbs. ‘Bring her out. Fetch out Mrs. Varner, Joe!’ we called again and again.
“It was of no avail. An hour passed and not a sign of life had come from the interior of the cabin. The noise began to weaken in volume, the owners of the guns grew chary of wasting their powder, and at last, much to our chagrin, we were compelled to retire to the woods for a consultation.
“A thin stream of smoke pouring from the mouth of the chimney suggested a plan resorted to only on the most desperate occasions—that of smoking out the newly wedded pair. It was the work of but a few minutes to obtain a board suitable for the purpose and for one of the young men to climb to the roof with it. He made his way noiselessly to the peak, laid his burden across the top of the chimney, then crouched low to await the outcome. The smoke ceased to escape. Another half hour passed and still no sign from the house. Anxious looks appeared on the faces of the serenaders. The man on the roof removed the cover and a dense volume of smoke arose, showing that the fire had done well the work we required. From beneath the doorway, too, a few thin wreaths were circling vaguely out.
“A chill of dread passed over us. It seemed that something out of the ordinary must have happened within. At first we were inclined to the belief that the fact that the smoke had not driven out the occupants of the house proved that it was empty. But we remembered the light that we had seen burning on our approach. It augured evil.
“Four stalwart fellows, holding between them a large log, attacked the door. One blow—it cracked. No sound inside. Another blow and the heavy oak fell back on its hinges. The smoke, released from its prison, poured out in dense clouds, driving the excited bellers from the doorway. One man dashed through it and across the single apartment, which passed as living-room and kitchen, and in another instant the window was up, the shutters open and the wind was whistling through, driving before it the heavy veil that had hidden the interior from our view. The moonlight streamed in.
“There, sitting in a great wooden rocking-chair, his feet resting almost in the fire, his head fallen low upon his breast, his stern, hard features calmly set as if in sleep, sat he whom we had come to bell—dead. On the spotless table by his side stood a candlestick from which the candle had burned away, only a bit of charred taper remaining to tell us that in all likelihood Joe had died before we reached his home and that the last spark of the unattended light had fluttered out, just as we began the hideous turmoil outside. Clutched in the old man’s right hand was the explanation of his lonely life as well as of the grewsome ending of the great belling.”
Theophilus Winter ceased his narration. He drew out his pocketbook and after fumbling a moment in its recesses, took from it a bit of paper. It was yellow with age and soiled, and the writing on it had almost faded out, but I could read: “Deer Joe—you and me was never ment for one another. i knowed that 40 years ago and thats wi i run way with si tompson, you was good to take me back them too other times i left, this last time i thought i was gettin to old an you was so fergivin i had better spend my las days with you. i cant stand the quiet country livin an am gone back to harrisburg. they aint no one with me. fergive me. i gess youll be better off without your old wife—sarah.”
“Anything new ben happenin’ to you uns, Trampy?” asked the Chronic Loafer. “We ain’t seen ye ’bout these parts sence corn-plantin’ a year.”
“Nothin’ unusu’l,” replied the Tramp, laying on the porch his stick and the bandana handkerchief that contained his wardrobe. He seated himself on the step. “Nothin’ unusu’l. I wintered in Philadelphy an’ started fer these parts in May.”
“Seems like you’re lookin’ mighty glum,” said the Storekeeper. He had ceased his whittling and was examining every detail of the wanderer’s dress and physiognomy. “Might s’pose ye was in love agin.”
The traveller sighed.
“You air the sentimentalist tramp I ever seen,” the Miller cried. “Every time ye comes th’oo these parts, it’s a new un. Does ye think the weemen is so almighty blind ez to git struck on a hoodoo like you?”
“I keeps me passions an’ me shortcomin’s to meself,” replied the wanderer after he had lighted his corncob pipe. “I’ve had a heap o’ hard luck. I wouldn’t min’ gittin’ in love or in jail fer murder sep’rate, but both at oncet is too much even fer a man like me.”
“Hedgins!” the Loafer exclaimed, edging toward the end of the bench furthest from the vagrant. “In jail fer murder!”
A faint smile flitted across the face of the Tramp. Then he began his story:
“In jail fer murder an’ in love wit’ the Sher’ff’s dotter—that’s exactly what happened to me. It’s onjust; it ain’t right, it ain’t, even fer a man o’ my shortcomin’s. Let’s see. This is hay harvest, ain’t it. Well, it was jest about corn-plantin’ it all come about. I’d been workin’ me way easy up along the Sussykehanner, an’ one night put up wit’ an ole feller named Noah Punk, who lived in a lawg house at the foot o’ the big mo’ntain this side o’ Pillersville. They was no one there but him an’ his woman. She was a bad-tempered creetur’ an’ made things hum ’round that ranch when me an’ the ole man was playin’ kyards after supper. They put me to bed in the garret, an’ next day I set out agin. Punk he sayd he’d walk up the road a piece wit’ me, an’ he did. We parted at a crossroads two mile from his house. That was the last I ever seen of him. I’d never thot no more of him nuther ef it hedn’t been that two days later, when I was joggin’ easy like into Jimstontown, I was ’rested—’rested, mind ye, fer the murder o’ Noah Punk. I never knowd jest what it was all ’bout tell I was comf’table fixed in the kyounty jail. An’ then I didn’t keer, fer I’d met the Sher’ff’s dotter.
“Oh, but she was a star! Jest ez plump ez ye make ’em, wit’ a dimple, an’ yaller shiny hair, an’ jest ez red ez a ripe rambo apple. When she brought me up me supper the fust night, I ast her what I was up fer, an’ she tol’ me.
“It seems like no one ever seen Noah Punk after him an’ me left the house. He never come back, an’ when they hunted fer him they found nothin’ but one o’ his ole shoes, all covered wit’ blood, be the canal where him an’ me parted. They ’rested me bekase I was last seen wit’ him. Then the Sher’ff wanted to hang some un.
“When I heard that I was kind o’ tired, an’ fer a time jest held me head down, never sayin’ nothin’. Then I looks up an’ seen Em’ly standin’ there so sorrerful.
“‘How long’ll it be tell they hangs me?’ I ast.
“‘They’ll try you next month,’ she sais. ‘Then I’d ’low another month tell——’ She bust plum inter tears.
“‘Two months, Em’ly,’ sais I, I sais, ‘an’ you feeds the prisoners. They’ll be the bless’dest two months o’ me life.’
“‘Deed, an’ that’s jest how I felt. Them words was true ef I ever sayd a true word. The bless’dest two months o’ my life.
“But them days did fly! I never thot no more o’ Noah Punk or o’ hangin’. It was all of Em’ly. They was four other prisoners in the jail, an’ I never played no kyards wit’ them, but jest sot a-thinkin’ o’ her. She use ter bring us our meals three times a day. Quick ez I’d finish eatin’ I’d set waitin’ fer her to come agin. Jail was a happy place fer me. I never wanted to leave it.
“You uns otter ’a’ seen me in them days. I wasn’t sich a bum ez I am now. The Sher’ff give me a shave an’ a new suit. Puttin’ all in all, I was a pretty slick lookin’ individu’l—no red hair an’ whiskers shootin’ out in all directions, makin’ me look like an’ ile lamp, ez I hear one feller put it. Me coat didn’t hang like curtains, an’ me pants was all made o’ the same piece o’ goods. I was a dude, I was, in spite o’ me present shortcomin’s in that respect. Sometim’s I think mebbe Em’ly thot so too, fer she use to allus give me a bigger potaty than the other fellers. They guyed me a heap about it.
“A month went by, an’ I was gittin’ wus an’ wus, when they tuk me out an’ tried me fer killin’ Noah Punk. They was a smart little chap they called the ’strict ’torney what done all the work agin me. He showed the jury Punk’s bloody shoe an’ my clothes. A doctor sayd the spots on my clothes was huming blood. They was, but it was mine, an’ it got there be my leanin’ agin a nail. Missus Punk told how I slep’ at the house. Another feller sayd how he’d seen me an’ Punk walkin’ along the canal. I ’lowed I didn’t kill Punk an’ that jedgin’ from what I seen o’ Missus Punk, he’d ’a’ thanked me ef I had. Missus Punk an’ the ’strict ’torney got riled at that, an’ the jedge come down so hard I didn’t dast say another word. Then the jury found I was guilty, an’ the jedge ’lowed they’d hang me that day four weeks. But I didn’t keer, fer it was one month more in jail to be fed be Em’ly.
“That night she brought me a bigger potaty ’an ever. When I seen it I sais, sais I, ‘Em’ly, will you be sorry when I’m goin’?’
“‘’Deed an’ I will, Tom,’ sais she.
“‘Then I’ll be glad to go,’ sais I. An’ ’bout half that potaty went down inter me lungs, I choked so bad.”
The Chronic Loafer observed, “It do seem like Em’ly were jest a leetle gone, Trampy.”
“Mebbe she was. I don’t know. But that very night the other pris’ners onloosed all the locks wit’ a penknife. They wanted me to go. I ’lowed I’d stay. I never let on what was wrong, but sayd I was an innercent man an’ wouldn’t run. They give me the laugh, an’ that was the last I ever seen of ’em.
“The day o’ the hangin’ come. I’d ben gittin’ wus an’ wus ’bout the Sher’ff’s dotter. I didn’t keer much ’bout goin’, but I hated to leave the ole jail. I’d a heap sight ruther ’a’ gone, tho’, wit’ flyin’ colors an’ hed her sorry then to ’a’ ben kicked out to trampin’. Em’ly didn’t give me breakfas’ that mornin’. Instead, the Sher’ff served me chicken an’ eggs an’ a lot of other things they only gives a tramp ’fore they hangs ’im. He togged me out in a nice fittin’ black suit and tuk me out ter go. Mighty, but they was a crowd to see me off! The jail-yard was filled with prom’nent citizens; the housetops an’ trees around the wall was jest black wit’ men an’ boys. I braced right up an’ never feazed a bit when I seen the rope. The Sher’ff sayd I could make a speech, so I gits up an’ sais, easy like,’Me frien’s,’ I sais, ‘I haven’t no regrets in leavin’ this ’ere world, fer I hain’t been onduly conf’table. It’s the jail I’ll miss, an’ the Sher’ff’s pretty dotter. I’ve——’
“Jest then the Sher’ff yelled, ‘Hold on!’
“I turned an’ seen him readin’ a letter. It had come from Noah Punk out in Kansas. He sayd he wrote bekase he seen be the papers they was hangin’ a man fer killin’ him. He wanted to explain that he was still livin’ an’ hed only run away from Mrs. Punk. The blood on his shoes come from his steppin’ on a piece of glass. He’d tuk off his boots an’ gone west on a freight.
“When the crowd hear that they give the Sher’ff a groan. The Sher’ff he got mad, an’ tuk all me new duds, give me me ole ones an’ turned me looset.
“I was a common ord’nary tramp an’ I was clean discouratched. I knowd I’d never have Em’ly feed me agin ’less I got back in that jail, so I set right down on the steps. The Sher’ff jest wouldn’t ’rest me but druv me off wit’ a club. I busted two o’ his winders next day. Still he wouldn’t ’rest me. I broke three more winders an’ he nabbed me. I was nigh tickled to death wit’ me luck. But then I hain’t no luck. That there man treated me jest the way a farmer does a cat that eats chickens. He put me on a train, tuk me out to Altony an’ turned me looset.”
The Tramp sighed and puffed vigorously on his pipe.
“An’ now what air ye doin’?” asked the Storekeeper.
“What else ’ud a man do?” replied the traveller. “I’m hustlin’ jest ez fast ez I kin to git back to that jail. An’ I’m goin’ ter git in it. I’ll never eat another potaty onless it comes from the hand o’ the Sher’ff’s dotter.”
“Does you know what I wisht?” inquired the Chronic Loafer earnestly.
“What?”
“I wisht Noah Punk hedn’t wrote that letter.”
The last red rays of the evening sun disappeared below the mountains and the gray twilight settled over the valley. The mill ceased its rumbling. The mower that all day long had been clicking merrily in the meadow behind the store stood silent in the swaths, and the horses that had drawn it were playfully dipping their noses in the cool waters of the creek. The birds—the plover, the lark and the snipe that had whistled since daybreak over the fields and the robins and sparrows that had chirped overhead in the trees—had long since made themselves comfortable for the impending night. By and by the woods beyond the flats assumed a formless blackness and from their dark midst came the lonely call of the whippoorwill. The horses splashed out of the creek and clattered through the village to the white barn at the end of the street. The Miller padlocked the heavy door of the mill and bid good night to his helper, who trudged away over the bridge swinging his dinner pail. Then he beat the flour out of his cap on the hitching-post and lounged up to the store. He threw himself along the floor, and after propping his back against a pillar, lighted his pipe.
“‘Hen it comes to fiddlin’,” the Chronic Loafer was saying, “they is few men can beat Sam Washin’ton. Why I’ve knowd him to set down at a party at seven at night an’ fiddle till six next mornin’ an’ play a different tune every time.”
“Did you ever hear o’ Hiram Gum?” asked the Patriarch.
“Hiram Gum!” cried the G. A. R. Man. “My father used often to speak o’ him, but he was afore my time. Drowned in the canal.”
“Wonderful, wonderful, I’ve heard tell,” exclaimed the Miller. “I can jest remember seein’ him oncet ’hen I was a wee bit o’ a boy—a leetle man with long hair an’ big eyes an’ a withered arm.”
“Yes, yes,” the old man murmured, beating his stick upon the porch. “An’ a wonderful fiddler was Hiram Gum. They was few ’round these parts could han’le a bow with that man.”
“But Sam Washin’ton’s the best fiddler they is,” the Loafer interposed emphatically.
“My dear man, Hiram Gum was more’n an earthly fiddler,” the Patriarch retorted. “He hed charms. He knowd words.”
“I don’t b’lieve in them charms furder then they ’fect snakes an’ bees.”
“But Hiram Gum was more’n an ord’nary man, an’ I otter know, fer I remember him well. He was leetle, ez the Miller sayd, an’ hed long black hair an’ a red beard that waved all around his neck, an’ big black eyes, an’ cheeks that shined like they was scoured. Then his left arm was all withered an’ wasn’t no use exceptin’ that he could crook it up like an’ work the long fingers on the fiddle-strings. No one knowd how old Hiram was, no more’n they knowd where he come from ’hen he settled up the walley sixty years ago, fer he never sayd. No one ever dast ask him ’bout sech things, fer he’d jest look black an’ say nawthin’, an’ give you sech a glance with them big eyes that you felt all creepy. Aside from that he was allus a pleasant, cheery kind of a man, an’ talked entertainin’, fer he’d traveled a heap.
“Hiram settled in a little lawg house that stood on South Ridge near where Silver’s peach orchard is now. Peter Billings’s farm joined his lot, an’ it wasn’t long ’fore the leetle man tuk to strollin’ over to see his neighbors of an evenin’. By an’ by he seemed to take a considerable shine fer Peter’s dotter Susan. First no one thot nawthin’ of it, fer it hairdly seemed likely that ez pretty a girl ez she would care much about sech a dried-up leetle speciment ez Hiram Gum. Besides, fer a long time she’d ben keepin’ company with young Jawhn McCullagh, whose father owned ’bout the best piece o’ farmin’ land up the walley. He was a big, fine-lookin’ felly, a bit o’ a boaster, an’ with a likin’ fer his own way.
“So no one ever dreamt anything ’ud come o’ Hiram Gum loafin’ over at Billings’s. But, boys, ’hen you’ve lived ez long ez I hev, an’ seen ez much o’ the worl’ ez I hev, you’ll come to the conclusion that they is a heap o’ truth in the old sayin’ that matches is made in Heaven. But it do seem sometim’s like they wasn’t much time or thot spent in the makin’. Fust thing we heard that Hi hed ben drove off the Billings’s place an’ Susan was kep’ locked in her room fer a week. An’ sech a change ez come over that man. It was airly in the spring ’hen it happened. He’d allus met a man with a hearty ‘howde’ before, but after that he never spoke ’hen he passed. From one o’ the pleasantest o’ men he become one o’ the blackest. From comin’ to store every day, he got to comin’ only ’hen he needed things. The rest o’ the time he spent mopin’ up in his placet on the hill. Susan changed too. She lost color an’ got solemn like. Many a time I seen her leanin’ over the gate, lookin’ away up the ridge to where Hiram’s placet lay.
“Then come the Lander’s big party. It was the last o’ the season fer the hot weather was near ’hen they wasn’t no time fer swingin’ corners, let alone the overheatin’ that ’ud come by it, so everybody in the walley was there. Young an’ old danced that night. They was three sets in the settin’-room an’ two in the kitchen; they was two in the entry an’ one on the porch. Save fer layin’ off at ten o’clock fer sweet-cake an’ cider we done wery leetle restin’. They was mighty few wanted to rest much ’hen Hiram Gum played. He’d no sooner tuk his placet in the corner then every inch o’ the floor was covered with sets. Bow yer corners! an’ we was off.”
The old man beat his stick on the porch and waved his body to and fro.
“My, but that was fiddlin’! It jest went th’oo a man like one o’ them ’lectric shockin’ machines. Yer feet was started an’ away ye went; ole Hiram settin’ there with his withered arm crooked up to hold the fiddle, the long, crooked fingers flyin’ over the strings, the bow goin’ so fast ye could hairdly see it, his big black eyes lookin’ down inter the instermen’, his long hair an’ beard wavin’ ez he swung to an’ fro. Now yer own! Oh, them was dancin’ days ’hen Hi Gum played!
“They never was a more inweterate hat-passer then Hiram, fer be his playin’ he made his livin’, an’ never a note ’ud he make tell they was fifty cents in his ole white beaver. Then he’d play that out an’ ’round he’d come agin. That night he didn’t ast a cent, but jest sat there glum an’ never oncet stopped the music.
“Susan was a wonderful dancer—jest ez quick ez a flash, untirin’, an’ so light on her feet that ye felt like ye was holtin’ to a fairy ’hen ye swung corners with her. She was on the floor continual’. I done one set with her an’ noticed how she could scarce keep her eyes offen Hi. She only danced one set with McCullagh an’ lay kind o’ limp like in swingin’ corners an’ didn’t say nawthin’, so ’hen they finished he left the house. I seen him go out o’ the door with a black look in his face.
“Most all hed gone ’hen I left Lander’s airly in the mornin’. We lived over the river, an’ ez they wasn’t no bridge we use to cross in a couple o’ ole boats that was kep’ tied along the bank jest below the canal lock. I went down over the flat an’ th’oo the woods tell I come to the canal, where I crossed the lock an’ walked along the towpath, whistlin’ all the time fer company. It was a clear night. The moon was shinin’ bright th’oo the trees. The canal was on one side o’ me, an’ th’oo the open places in the bushes on the other I could see the river gleamin’ along. I got to the bend jest a couple of hundred yards above where the boats lay an’ was jest steppin’ out inter the clearin’ there ’hen sudden I heard a loud voice. I stopped. Then it come louder, an’ I recognized Jawhn McCullagh’s rough talk. I went cautious tell I was out o’ the woods. There, jest ahead, I seen him, near the path, facin’ ole Hiram Gum, who, with his fiddle under his arm, was standin’ with his back to the canal, lookin’ quiet at the big felly. I dropped to the ground an’ watched, scarce breathin’ I was so excited.
“Jawhn raised a heavy stick, an’ shook it, an’ stepped slow-like toward the leetle fiddler, crowdin’ him nearer the bank.
“‘Hiram Gum!’ he sayd, ‘I’ve hed ’nough o’ you. Git out o’ this country an’ never come back, or you’ll never fiddle agin!’
“Hiram lowered his fiddle an’ answered, ‘You can’t skeer me, Jawhn McCullagh, fer Susan doesn’t keer fer you!’
“‘You sha’n’t run off with her!’ the other yelled, shakin’ his stick.
“I could see his face workin’ ez he swung his club up an’ down, an’ step be step kep’ edgin’ the leetle felly nearer the wotter. I jest lay tremblin’, I was that frightened, fer I was but a lad in them days. I knowd I otter run out an’ stop it, but ’fore I got me couritch up I hear the soft notes o’ the fiddle. There was ole Hiram with his withered hand holdin’ the instermen’, his long fingers flyin’ over the strings, the bow slidin’ slow like up an’ down.
“‘Swing yer corners, Jawhn!’ he cried, fixin’ them black eyes on the big feller.
“Then the notes come quick an’ short. Jawhn’s stick dropped, an’ his arm fell limp like. He passed one hand confused over his forehead. He bowed. The notes come faster. In another minute he was swingin’ corners with his arms graspin’ the air. The dead sticks cracked under his feet ez he flung around. An’ ez ole Hi called the figgers he followed him, yellin’ ’em louder an’ kickin’ like mad. It was the wildest dancin’ ever I seen. He bowed an’ twisted, back’ard an’ for’a’d, an’ chassayed an’ chained, his feet movin’ faster an’ faster ez the notes come quicker an’ quicker an’ the bow slid to an’ fro like lightnin’. Ole Hiram kep’ movin’ ’round cautious like, never takin’ his eyes off the dancer tell he was on the river side an’ Jawhn skippin’ ’round on the beaten towpath.
“Them was awful minutes fer me. I could do nawthin’, fer the playin’ kind o’ spelled me. ’Hen I seen the fiddler begin to move toward the canal an’ the mad dancin’ felly backin’ nearer an’ nearer the bank, I tried to git up but I kicked out with both feet an’ fell sprawlin’ on the groun’.
“‘Back to your corner, Jawhn!’ the ole man called.
“‘Corners next!’ yelled the dancer, kickin’ up his heels an’ th’owin’ out his arms like he was grabbin’ somethin’. Then come an awful cry. They was a splash. He’d gone over the bank.
“I jumped out, fer the music hed stopped, an’ started toward the spot. But ’fore I got there Hiram hed th’owed away his fiddle an’ run to the canal, an’ was down on his knees starin’ inter the wotter. A head come above the surface. Then an arm reached wildly out. The ole man bent over an’ grasped the hand. But it wasn’t no uset, fer he’d nawthin’ to support himself with. He took holt o’ the bank with his withered fingers, but the arm give ’way an’ he toppled over. Fer a minute all was still. I leaned over the wotter an’ waited. They was a ripple toward the middle, an’ two heads come up. I seen Hiram Gum’s long black hair an’ beard an’ his drawn face ez he looked at the sky overhead. Then they disappeared agin. The surface of the canal become quiet an’ still like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’. Then I turned an’ run.
“I flew along the towpath, acrosst the clearin’, inter the woods agin, an’ down toward the river where the boats lay hid among the willer bushes. An’ ez I went crashin’ th’oo the branches I hear a girl’s voice callin’.
“‘Hiram,’ she sais, ‘why was you fiddlin’? I thot you was never comin’.’
“Another second an’ I was th’oo the willers an’ on the bank. There, settin’ in a boat, her hands on the oars ready to pull away, was Susan Billings.”
The Patriarch beat his cane softly on the floor and hummed a snatch of a tune.
There came a short, quick puffing as the Loafer drew on his pipe, until the bright coals shone in the darkness.
“But Sam Washin’ton——”
The old man arose slowly.
“I don’t keer ’bout Sam Washin’ton. I must be goin’ home. I’ll git the rhuem’tism on sech a night sure, fer I’ve no horse-chestnut in me pocket.”
An air of gloom pervaded the store. Outside the rain came pattering down. It ran in torrents off the porch roof and across the entrance made a formidable moat, which had been temporarily bridged by an empty soapbox. It gathered on the limbs of the leafless trees and poured in steady streams upon the backs of the three forlorn horses, that, shivering under water-logged blankets, stood patiently, with hanging heads, at the hitching rail. Within everything was dry, to be sure, but the firewood, which was damp and would not burn, so the big egg stove sent forth no cheerful rays of heat and light. Out from its heart came the sound of sizzle and splutter as some isolated flame attacked a piece of wet hickory. It seemed to have conveyed its ill-humor to the little group around it.
The Tinsmith arose from the nail keg upon which he had been seated, walked disconsolately to the door and gazed through the begrimed glass at the dreary village street. He stood there a moment, and then lounged back to the stove.
As he rubbed his hands on the pipe in vain effort to absorb a little heat, he grumbled, “This here rain’s upset all my calkerlations. I was goin’ to bile to-morrow, but you uns doesn’t catch me makin’ cider sech a day ez this. My weemen sayd they’d hev the schnitz done up to-day an’ we could start the kittles airly in the mornin’. Now all this time is loss.”
“Seems like ye’re bilin’ kind o’ late,” said the Storekeeper, resting both elbows on the counter and clasping his chin in his hands. “Luther Jimson was tellin’ me the other day how all the folks up the walley hes made.”
The storm had kept the Patriarch at home, so the Chronic Loafer had the old man’s chair. He leaned back on two legs of it; then twisted his long body to one side so his head rested comfortably against his favorite pile of calicoes.
“Speakin’ o’ apple butter,” he said, “reminds me of a good un I hed on my Missus last week.”
“It allser remin’s me,” interposed the Tinsmith, “that I met Abe Scissors up to preachin’ a Sunday, an’ he was wond’rin’ when you was goin’ to return his copper kittle.”
“Abe Scissors needn’t git worrit ’bout his kittle. I’ve a good un on him ez well ez on the Missus. His copper kittle——”
The Farmer, who had almost been hidden by the stove, at this juncture leaned forward in his chair and interrupted, “But Abe Scissors hain’t got no kittle. That there——”
“Let him tell his good one,” cried the School Teacher. “He’s been tryin’ it every night this week. Let us get done with it.”
The Farmer grunted discontentedly but threw himself back in silence. With marked attention, however, he followed the Loafer’s narration.
“The Missus made up her mind she’d bile apple-butter this year, bespite all my objections, an’ two weeks ago this comin’ Saturday she done it. They ain’t no trees on our lot, so I got Jawhn Longnecker to give me six burshel o’ Pippins an’ York Imper’als mixed, on condition I helped with his thrashin’ next month. I give Hiram Thompson that there red shote I’d ben fattenin’ fer a bawrel o’ cider. She’d cal’lated to put up ’bout fourteen gallon o’ butter. I sayd it was all foolershness, fer I could buy it a heap sight cheaper an’ was gittin’ tired o’ Pennsylwany salve any way. Fer all year round, zulicks is ’bout the best thing to go with bread.”
“Mentionin’ zulicks,” interrupted the Storekeeper, “remin’s me that yesterday I got in a bawrel o’ the very finest. It’s none o’ yer common cookin’ m’lasses but was made special fer table use.”
“I’ll bring a tin down an’ hev it filled,” continued the Loafer, “fer there’s nawthin’ better’n plain bread an’ zulicks. But the Missus don’t see things my way allus, an’ they was nawthin’ but fer me to borry the Storekeeper’s horse an’ wagon an’ drive over to Abe Scissors’s an’ git the loan o’ his copper kittle an’ stirrer.”
“But Abe Scissors hain’t got no copper kittle,” cried the Farmer vehemently.
“He sayd it was his copper kittle an’ I didn’t ast no questions,” the Loafer replied. “My pap allus used to say that ’bout one half the dissypintments an’ onhappinesses in this worl’ was due to questionin’, an’ I ’low he was right. So I didn’t catechize Abe Scissors. He ’lowed I could hev the kittle jest ez long ez I didn’t burn it, fer he claimed he’d give twenty-five dollar fer it at a sale last spring. Hevin’ made satisfactory ’rangements fer the apples, the cider, the kittle an’ the stirrer, they was nawthin’ left to do but bile. Two weeks ago to-morrer we done it.
“The Missus inwited several o’ her weemen frien’s in the day before to help schnitz, an’ I tell you uns, what with talkin’ ’bout how many pared apples was needed with so much cider biled down to so much, an’ how much sugar an’ cinn’mon otter be used fer so many crocks o’ butter, them folks hed a great time. ’Hen they finished they was a washtub full o’ the finest schnitzed apples ye ever seen.”
“Borryed my washtub-still,” exclaimed the Tinsmith.
“A gentleman is knowd be the way he lends, my pap use to say,” drawled the Loafer, gazing absently at the ceiling.
“Well, ef your father was anything like his son he knowd the truth o’ that sayin’,” snapped the Tinsmith.
“He use to argy,” continued the Loafer, ignoring this remark, “that them ez hesn’t the mawral courage to refuse to lend ’hen they don’t want to, is allus weak enough to bemoan their good deeds in public. But it ain’t no use discussin’ them pints. I got everything I needed, an’ on the next mornin’ the Missus was up airly an’ at six o’clock hed the fire goin’ in the back yard, with the kittle rigged over it an’ hed begin to bile down that bawrel o’ cider.
“Bilin’ down ain’t bad fer they hain’t nawthin’ to do. It’s ’hen ye begins puttin’ in the schnitz an’ hes to stir ketches ye. I didn’t ’low I’d stir. Missus, ’hen the cider was all biled down to a kittle full, sayd I hev ter, but I claimed I’d worked enough gittin’ the things. Besides I’d a ’pointment to see Sam Shores, the stage-driver, ’hen he come th’oo here that afternoon. The Missus an’ her weemen frien’s grumbled, but begin dumpin’ the schnitz in with the bilin’ cider an’ to do their own stirrin’. I come over here an’ was waitin’ fer the stage. After an’ hour I concided I’d run over to the house an’ git a drink o’ cider. I went in the back way, an’ there I seen Ike Lauterbach’s wife a-standin’ stirrin’. The rest o’ the weemen was in the kitchen.
“‘Hen Mrs. Lauterbach seen me she sais pleasant like, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Your wife an’ the rest o’ the ladies hes made a batch o’ cookies. Now you jest stir here a minute an’ I’ll go git some fer ye.’
“I was kind o’ afraid to take holt on that there stirrer, so sayd I’d git ’em meself. But she ’sisted she’d be right out, an’ foolish I tuk the han’le. I regret it the minute I done it. I stirred an’ stirred, an’ Mrs. Lauterbach didn’t come. Then I hear the weemen in the house laughin’ like they’d die.
“The Missus she puts her head out an’ sais, ‘Jest you keep on stirrin’. Don’t you dast stop fer the butter’ll stick to the kittle an’ burn it ef ye does.’
“Down went the windy. I was jest that hoppin’ mad I’d a notion to quit right there an’ leave the ole thing burn, but then I was afraid Abe Scissors might kerry on ef I did. So I stirred, an’ stirred, an’ stirred. I tell ye I don’t know any work ez mean ez that. Stop movin’ the stick an’ the kittle burns. Ef any o’ you uns ever done it you’ll know it ain’t no man’s work.”
“The weemen allus does it with us,” said the Miller in a superior tone.
“I cal’lated they was to do it with us, but I mistook,” the Loafer continued. “I stirred, an’ stirred, an’ stirred. The fire got hotter an’ hotter an’ hotter, an’ ez it got warmer the han’le o’ the stirrer seemed to git shorter, an’ me face begin to blister. I kep’ at it fer an’ hour an’ a half, tell me legs was near givin’ way under me, me fingers was stiff an’ achin’, me arms felt like they’d drop off from pushin’ an’ twistin’ that long stick. The apples was all dissolved but the butter was thin yit, an’ I knowd it meant th’ee hours afore we could take the kittle offen the fire.
“Then I yelled fer help. One o’ the weemen come out. I was that mad I most swore, but she jest laughed an’ poked some more wood on the fire an’ sayd ef I didn’t push the stick livelier the kittle’d burn. The fire blazed up hotter an’ hotter, an’ it seemed like me clothes ’ud begin to smoke at any minute. Me arms an’ legs was achin’ more’n more. Me back was ’most broke from me tryin’ to lean ’way from the heat. Me neck was ’most twisted off be me ’temptin’ to keep the blaze from blindin’ me. It come four o’clock an’ I yelled fer help agin.
“The Missus stuck her head outen the windy an’ called, ‘Don’t you let that kittle burn!’
“I was desp’rate, but I kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’. It come sundown an’ begin to git darker an’ darker, an’ the butter got thicker an’ thicker, but I knowd be the feel that they was a couple o’ hours yit. I begin to think o’ lettin’ the ole thing drop an’ Abe Scissors’ kittle burn, fer I held he didn’t hev no business to lend it to me ’hen he knowd well enough it ’ud spoil ef I ever quit stirrin’. Oncet I was fer lettin’ go an’ slippin’ over here to the store, fer I heard several o’ the fellys drive up an’ hitch an’ the door bang shet. But ’hen I tried to drop the stick I jest couldn’t. Me fingers seemed to think it wasn’t right an’ held to the pole, an’ me arms kep’ on pushin’ an’ pushin’ tho’ every motion give me an ache. I jest didn’t dast, so kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, an’ wond’rin’ who was over here an’ what was doin’. An’ ez I kep’ pushin’ an’ pushin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, I clean forgot meself an’ all about the apple-butter.
“I come to with a jump fer some un hed me be the beard. ’Hen I looked up I seen the Missus an’ her weemen frien’s standin’ ’round me gestickelatin’. The Missus was wavin’ what was left o’ the stirrer. It was jest ’bout half ez long ez ’hen I begin with it, fer the cross piece that runs down into the butter an’ ’bout half the han’le was burned off. Seems I’d got the ole thing clean outen the kittle an’ hed ben stirrin’ it ’round the fire.”
“Reflex action,” suggested the Teacher.
“The butter was fairly smokin’. An’ the kittle! Well, say, ef that there wasn’t jest ez black on the inside ez ef if was iron ’stead o’ copper. An’ the weemen! Mebbe it was reflect actin’ they done, ez the teacher sais, but whatever it was it skeered me considerable. But final I seen how funny it was, how the joke was on the Missus who’d loss all her apple-butter, ’stead o’ on me, an’ how I’d got square with Abe Scissors fer lendin’ me his copper kittle ’hen he knowd it ’ud burn ef I ever stopped stirrin’. An’ I jest laughed.”
The Loafer straightened up in his chair and began to rock violently to and fro and to chuckle.
The Farmer arose and walked around the stove.
“What fer a kittle was that?” he asked in a low, pleasant tone. “Was they a big S stamped on the inside next the rim?”
“That’s the one exact. He! he!” cried the Loafer, with great hilarity. “S fer Scissors an’——”
“S stands fer Silver too,” yelled the Farmer. “My name’s Silver. I lent that kittle to Abe Scissors four weeks ago.”
The Loafer gathered himself together and arose from the muddy pool at the foot of the store steps. He gazed ruefully for a moment at the closed door, and seemed undecided whether or not to return to the place from which he had been so unceremoniously ejected. Then the sound of much laughing came to his ears, and he exclaimed, “Well, ef that ain’t a good un!”
And he ambled off home to the Missus.
When William Larker irrevocably made up his mind to take Mary Kuchenbach to the great county picnic at Blue Bottle Springs he did not tell his father, as was his custom in most matters. To a straight-laced Dunkard like Herman Larker, the very thought of attendance on such a carousal, with its round dancing and square dancing, would have seemed impiety. Henry Kuchenbach was likewise a member of that strict sect, but he was not quite so narrow in his ideas as his more pious neighbor. Yet to him, also, the suggestion of his daughter being a participant in such frivolity would have met with scant approval.
But William was longing to dance. For many years he had fondly cherished the belief that he was possessed of much inborn ability in that art—a genius compelled to remain dormant, by the narrowness of his family’s views. Many a rainy afternoon had he given vent to his desire by swinging corners and deux-et-deux-ing about his father’s barn-floor, with no other partner than a sheaf of wheat and no other music than that produced by his own capacious lips.
So one beautiful July day, when, attired in his best, he stepped into his buggy, tapped his sleek mare with the whip and started at a brisk pace toward the Kuchenbach farm, his stern father believed that he was going to the great bush-meeting, twelve miles up the turnpike and was devoutly thankful to see his son growing in piety. William’s best was a black frock coat, with short tails, trousers of the same material reaching just below his shoe-tops, a huge derby, once black but now green from long exposure to the elements, and a new pair of shoes well tallowed. As he drove up to the gate of the neighboring farm Mary was waiting for him, looking very buxom and rosy and neat in her plain black dress, the sombreness of which was relieved by a white kerchief at the neck and the gray poke bonnet of her sect. As she took the vacant place beside him in the buggy and the vehicle rattled away, Henry Kuchenbach called after them, “Don’t fergit to bring back some o’ the good things the brethren sais.” And good Mrs. Kuchenbach threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Ain’t them a lovely pair?”
“Yais,” said her husband grimly, “an’ fer six year they’ve ben keepin’ comp’ny an’ he ain’t yit spoke his mind.”
The buggy sped along the road, the rattle of its wheels, the clatter of the mare’s hoofs and the shrill calls of the killdeer skimming over the meadows, being the sole sounds to break the silence of the country.
A mile was gone over. Then the girl said falteringly, “Beel, a’n’t it wrong?”
In response William gave his horse a vicious cut with the whip and replied, “It don’t seem jest right to fool ’em, but you’ll fergit all about it ’hen we git dancin’.”
There was silence between them—a silence broken only at rare intervals when one or the other ventured some commonplace remark which would be rewarded with a laconic “Yais” or “Ye don’t say.”
Up hill and down rattled the buggy, following the crooked road across the valley, over three low wooded ridges, then up the broad meadows that border the river, until at length the grove in which lies Blue Bottle Spring was reached. The festivities had already begun. The outskirts of the wood were filled with vehicles of every description—buggies, buckboards, spring-wagons, omnibuses and ancient phaetons. The horses had been unhitched and tied to trees and fences, and were munching at their midday meal, gnawing the bark from the limbs, snatching at the leaves or kicking at the flies while their masters gave themselves up to the pursuit of pleasure. Having seen his mare comfortably settled at a small chestnut, William Larker took his lunch basket on one arm and his companion on the other and proceeded eagerly to the inner part of the grove, whence came the sounds of the fiddle and cornet. They passed through the outer circle of elderly women, who were unpacking baskets and tastefully arranging their contents on table-cloths spread on the ground—jars of pickles, cans of fruit, bags of sandwiches, bottles of cold tea, layer cakes of wondrous size and construction, and the scores of other dainties necessary to pass a pleasant day with nature. They went through a second circle of venders of peanuts, lemonade and ice-cream, about whose stands were gathered many elderly men discussing the topics of the day and exchanging greetings.
The young Dunkards had now arrived at the center of interest, the platform, and joined the crowd that was eagerly watching the course of the dance. An orchestra of three pieces, a bass-viol, a violin and a cornet, operated by three men in shirt sleeves, sent forth wheezy strains to the time of which men and women, young and old, gaily swung corners and partners, galloped forward and back, made ladies’ chains, winding in and out, then back and bowing, until William Larker and his companion fairly grew dizzy.
The crowd of dancers was a heterogeneous one. There were young men from the neighboring county town, gorgeous in blazers of variegated colors, and young farmers whose movements were not the less agile for the reason that they wore heavy sombre clothing and high-crowned, broad-brimmed felt hats. There were three particularly forward youths in bicycle attire, and three gay young men from a not far distant city, whose shining silk hats and dancing pumps made them centers of admiration and envy. The women, likewise, went to both extremes. Gaily flowered, airy calico, cashmere and gingham bobbed about among glistening, frigid satins and silks.
“Oh, ain’t it grand?” cried Mary Kuchenbach, clasping her hands.
“That’s good dancin’, I tell ye,” replied her companion with enthusiasm.
She had seated herself on a stump, and he was leaning against a tree at her side, both with eyes fixed on the platform.
Now in seemingly inextricable chaos; now in perfectly orderly form, six sets bowing and scraping; now winding into a dazzling mass of silk, calico, high hats, felt hats, flower-covered bonnets and blazers, then out again went the dancers.
“Good dancin’, I should say!” William exclaimed. “Jest look at them th’ee ceety fellys, with them shiny hats, a-swingin’ corners. Now, a’n’t they cuttin’ it? Next comes ‘a-la-man-all.’ Watch ’em—them two in the fur set—the way they th’ow their feet—the gal in pink with the felly in short pants an’ a stripped coat. Now back! Thet there is dancin’, I tell ye, Mary! ‘Gents dozy-dough’ next. Thet ’ere felly don’t call figgers loud ’nough. There they goes—bad in the rear set—thet’s better. See them ceety fellys agin, swingin’ partners. Grand chain! Good all ’round—no—there’s a break. See thet girl in blue sating—she turned too soon. Thet’s better. T’other way—bow yer corners—now yer own. What! so soon? Why, they otter kep’ it up.”
The music had stopped. The dancers, panting from their exertions, mopping and fanning, left the platform and scattered among the audience.
William Larker’s eyes were aglow. His companion, seated upon the stump, gazed curiously, timidly, at the gay crowd about her, while he stood frigidly beside her mentally picturing the pleasure to come. He was to dance to real music with a flesh-and-blood partner after all those years of secret practise with a wheat sheaf in the seclusion of his father’s barn. He was to put his arms around Mary Kuchenbach. His feet could hardly keep still when a purely imaginary air floated through his brain and he fancied himself “dozy-doughing” and “goin’-a-visitin’” with the rosy girl at his side.
The man with the bass-viol was rubbing resin on his bow, the violinist was tuning up and the cornetist giving the stops of his instrument the usual preliminary exercise when the floor-master announced the next dance. One after another the couples sifted from the crowd and clambered on to the platform.
“Two more pair,” cried the conductor.
“Come ’long, Mary. Now’s our chancet,” whispered the young Dunkard to his companion.
“Oh, Beel, really I can’t. I never danced in puberlick afore.”
“But you kin. It ain’t hard. All ye’ll hev to do is to keep yer feet a-movin’ an’ mind the felly thet’s callin’ figgers.”
The girl hesitated.
“One more couple,” roared the floor-master.
William was getting excited.
“You can dance with the best of ’em. Come ’long.”
“Really now, Beel, jest a minute.”
The twang of the fiddle commenced and the cracked, quavering notes of the horn arose above the buzz of conversation.
“Bow yer corners—now yer own,” cried the leader.
And the young man sat down on the stump in disgust.
“We’ll hev to git in the next,” he said. “Why, it’s eesy. You see this here’s only a plain quadreel. Ye otter see one thet ain’t plain—one o’ them where they hes sech figgers ez ‘first lady on the war-dance,’ like they done at the big weddin’ up in Raccoon Walley th’ee year ago. These is plain. I never danced ’em afore meself, but I’ve seen ’em do it an’ I’ve ben practisin’. All ye’ll hev to do is to mind me.”
So the following dance found them on the platform among the first. The girl was trembling, blushing and self-conscious; the young man self-conscious but triumphant and composed.
“Bow yer partners,” cried the floor-master when the orchestra had started its scraping.
Down went the gray poke bonnet. Down went the great derby, and a smile of joy overspread the broad face beneath it.
“Swing yer partners!”
The great arms went around the plump form, lifting it from its feet; their owner spun about, carefully replaced his burden on the floor, bowed, smiled and whispered, “Ain’t it grand?”
“Corners!”
The young woman in blue satin gave a slight scream that was metamorphosed into a giggle, as she felt herself swung through space in the arms of the muscular person toward whom she had careened. Her partner, one of the city men with silk hats, grinned and whispered in her ear, “Oatcake.”
“Leads for’a’d an’ back!”
William Larker seized his partner’s plump hand and bounded forward, bowing and twisting, his free arm gesticulating in unison with his legs and feet. He was in the thick of the dance now; in it with his whole heart. Whenever there was any “dozy-doughing” to be done, William did it. If a couple went “visitin’,” he was with them. When “ladies in the center” was called, he was there. In every grand chain he turned the wrong way. He gripped the women’s hands until they groaned inwardly. He tramped on and crushed the patent leather pumps of a young city man, and in response to a muttered something smiled his unconcern, bolted back to his corner, swung his partner and murmured, “Ain’t it grand?” The young women giggled and winked at their acquaintances in the next set; the forward youth in a bicycle suit talked about roadsweepers, and the city man said again, “Oatcake.”
But the young Dunkard was unconscious of it all to the end—the end that came most suddenly and broke up the dancing.
“Swing yer partners!” bawled the floor-master.
William Larker obeyed. A ragged bit of the sole of his shoe caught in a crack and over he went, off the high platform, with his partner clasped tight in his arms.
When he recovered his senses he found himself lying by the spring, the center of all eyes. His first glance fell upon Mary, who was seated at his side, weeping heartily, despite the efforts of a large crowd of sympathizing women to allay her fears.
Next his eyes met those of the young woman in blue satin, and he saw her laugh and turn and speak to the crowd. He thought that he noticed a silk hat and heard the word “Oatcake.” And then and there he resolved to return to and never again depart from the quiet ways of his fathers.
William and Mary drove back in the early evening. They had crossed the last ridge and were looking out over the broad valley toward the dark mountain at whose foot lay their homes, when the first word was spoken.
“Beel,” said the girl with a sidelong glance, “ain’t dancin’ dangerous?”
The young man cut the mare with the whip and flushed.
“Yais, kind o’,” he replied. “But I’m sorry I drug you off o’ the platform like thet.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. William just saw the corner of one of her eyes as she looked up at him from under the gray bonnet.
“Oh, I didn’t min’ thet,” she said. “It was jes’ lovely tell we hit.”
The mare swerved to one side, toward the fence. The driver seized the rein he had dropped and pulled her back into the beaten track. Then the whip fell from his hands, and he stopped and clambered down into the road and recovered it. But when he regained his place in the buggy he wrapped his reins twice around the whip, and the intelligent beast trotted home unguided.
“If wantin’ to was doin’ an’ they weren’t no weemen, I’d ’a’ ben in Sandyago long ago,” said the G. A. R. Man. He rolled a nail-keg close to the stove, seated himself upon it, dipped a handful of crushed tobacco leaves from his coat pocket into his pipe and lighted the odorous weed with a sulphur match. Then he wagged his beard at the assembled company and repeated, “Yes, sir, I’d ben in Sandyago long ago.”
“Weemen ain’t much on fightin’ away from home,” observed the Chronic Loafer, biting a cubic inch out of a plug of Agriculturist’s Charm which he had borrowed from the man who was sitting next him on the counter. The charm had passed half way around the circle and the remaining cubic inch of it had been restored to its owner, when the veteran, not catching the full intent of the remark, replied: “Yas. They’s a heap o’ truth in that there. Weemen is sot agin furrin wars. Leastways my weemen is. Now——”
“Do they prefer the domestic kind?” asked the School Teacher.
“Not at all—not at all,” said the old soldier. “Ye see, my missus passed th’oo sech terrible times back in ’60, ’hen I was bangin’ away at the rebels down in the Wilterness, that ’hen this here Spaynish war broke out she sais to me, sais she, ‘Ye jest sha’n’t go.’
“‘Marthy,’ sais I, ‘I’m a weteran. The Governor o’ Pennsylwany hes call fer ten thousand men, an’ he don’t name me, but he means me jest the same. Be every moral an’ jest right, I bein’ a weteran am included in that ten thousand.’
“With that I puts on me blues, an’ gits down me musket, an’ kisses the little ones all ’round, an’ starts fer the door. Well, sir, you uns never seen sech a time ez was raised ’hen they see I was off to fight the Spaynyards. Mary Alice, the eldest, jest th’owed her arms ’round my neck an’ bust out with tears. The seven others begin to cry, ‘Pap, Pap, you’ll git shooted.’
“‘Children,’ I sais, sais I, ‘your pap’s a weteran an’ a experienced soldier. Duty calls an’ he obeys.’
“The missus didn’t see things that way. She jest gits me be the collar an’ sets me down in an arm-chair, draws me boots, walks off with them an’ me musket an’ hides ’em. She weren’t goin’ to hev no foolin’ ’round the shanty, she sayd.
“Marthy seemed to think that that there settled it, but she didn’t know me, fer all the evenin’, ez I set there be the fire so meek-like, I was a-thinkin’. Scenes wasn’t to my likin’, so I concided I’d jest let on like I hed give up all idee o’ fightin’ Spaynyards, wait tell the family was asleep an’ then vanish.
“At midnight I sets up in bed. The moon was shinin’ th’oo the winder, jest half-lightin’ the room, so I could move ’round without trippin’ over the furnitur’. The missus was a-snorin’ gentle like, an’ overhead in the attic I could hear a soft snifflin’ jest ez a thrasher engine goes ’hen the men has shet down fer dinner. It was the childern asleep. I climbs out over the footboard an’ looks ’round fer me boots. There they was, stickin’ out under the missus’s pillow. Knowin’ I couldn’t git ’em without wakin’ her, I concided to vanish barefoot. But they was one thing agin this, an’ that was that the door was locked an’ some un hed took the key. I tried the winder, but that hed ben nailed shet. Then I gits mad—that there kind o’ quiet-like mad ’hen ye boils up inside an’ hes to keep yer mouth shet. It’s the meanest kind o’ mad, too. It seemed like they was a smile playin’ ’round the missus’s face, an’ that made me sourer than ever, an’ kind o’ spurred me on.
“Well, sirs, ez I stood there in the middle o’ the room thinkin’ what I’d do next an’ wonderin’ whether I hedn’t better jest slip back to bed, me eye ketched sight o’ an ole comf’table that filled a hole in the wall where the daubin’ hed fell out from atween the lawgs. That put me in mind o’ a scheme that I wasn’t long in kerryin’ out, fer the hole was pretty good sized an’ I’m a small man an’ wiry. In less’n no time the comf’table was outen that hole an’ I was in it. I stayed in it, too, fer jest ez me head an’ arms an’ shoulders got out o’ doors I felt a sharp prickin’ in me side. I pushed back an’ a great big splinter jagged me. I tried to go on for’a’d, an’ it jagged me agin so bad I ’most yelled. So I stayed right there—one-half outen the house an’ the other half een. Seemed like time begin to move awful slow then, an’ it ’peared a whole day ’fore the moon went from the top o’ the old lone pine tree into Grandaddy’s chestnut, which is jest twenty feet. Then me feet an’ legs was bakin’ over the stove, an’ the cold Apryl winds was a-whistlin’ down me neck.
“I took to countin’ jest to pass time, an’ I ’low I must ’a’ counted fifteen million afore I heard footsteps up the road. A man come outen the woods an’ inter the moonlit clearin’, where I could see he was ole Hen Bingle. I whistled. He stopped an’ looked. I whistled agin an’ called soft like to him. He sneaked up to the gate an’ looked agin.
“‘Hen, help,’ I whispers.
“‘Who in the heck is you a-growin’ outen the side o’ that shanty?’ he calls, kind o’ hoarse an’ scared. With that he pints a musket at me wery threatenin’.
“‘Hen Bingle!’ sais I. ‘Don’t you dast shoot. It’s me an’ I want you to pull me out. I’m goin’ to war.’
“Then it dawned on him what was up, an’ he come over an’ looks at me. I seen he hed on his blues, too, an’ I knowd ez he hed give his woman the sneak an’ was off to fight Spaynyards. He wanted to laugh, but I told him it were no time fer sech foolin’, but jest to break off that splinter an’ pull me loose.
“Now, Hen’s an obligin’, patriotic kind o’ a feller, an’ tho’, ez he sayd, he hedn’t much time to waste, ez his woman was likely to wake up any minute an’ find him gone, he reached up an’ broke off the splinter. But I fit the hole so tight I couldn’t budge, an’ he sayd he’d pull me out. So he gits up on the wall o’ the well which was jest below me, an’ grabs me be both hands an’ drawed. I’d moved about an inch, ’hen he kicked out wild like an’ hung to me like a ton o’ hay, an’ gasped an’ groaned. I thought that yank hed disj’inted me all over, an’ yells, ‘Let go!’
“‘Don’t you dast let go!’ he sayd, lookin’ up at me kind o’ agonizin’.
“Then I see that neither me nor Hen Bingle was ever goin’ to fight Spaynyards, fer he’d stepped off the wall an’ was hangin’ down inter the well.
“Splinters! Why, I’d ’a’ ruther hed a splinter stickin’ in every inch o’ my body then ole Hen Bingle’s two hundred pound a-drawin’ me from my nat’ral height o’ five feet six inter a man o’ six feet five. That’s what it seemed like. He ast how deep me well was, an’ ’hen I answered forty foot with fifteen foot o’ wotter at the bottom, he sayd he’d never speak to me agin if I let go my holt on him. I sayd I guesst he wouldn’t, an’ he let out a whoop that brought the missus an’ the little ones a-tumblin’ outen the house.
“Marthy stared at us a minute. Then she sais, ‘Where was you a-goin’?’
“‘To fight Spaynyards,’ sais I, sheepish like.
“‘An’ you, Hen Bingle?’ she asts.
“‘Same,’ gasps Hen.
“‘Does your wife know you’re out?’ sais the missus, stern ez a jedge.
“‘No,’ sais Hen.
“‘Then I’ve a mind to go over to your placet an’ git her,’ sais Marthy.
“‘It’s two miled,’ Hen groaned, ‘an’ I’ll be drownded agin you git back. Lemme up now an’ I’ll go home an’ stay there.’
“Marthy turns around quiet like, walks inter the house an’ comes out with the family Bible.
“‘Hen Bingle,’ she sais solemn-like, holdin’ the book to his mouth, ‘does you promise to tell the whole truth an’ nothin’ but the truth, an’ not to go to war?’
“Hen didn’t waste no time in kissin’ that book so loud I could hear an echo of it over along the ridge. I kissed it pretty loud meself, to be sure. The missus lifted Hen outen the well an’ he snuck off home. His woman never knowd nawthin’ about the trouble tell she met my missus two weeks later, at protracted meetin’ over to Pine Swamp church. Ez fer me, but fer that splinter I’d be in Sandyago now.”