9086
EIL FILMORE'S store was about half a mile from Bishop's house, at the crossing of the Darley road and another leading into East Tennessee. Alan had gone down there one day to engage white labor to work in his growing cotton, negroes being scarce, owing to the tendency of that race to flock into the towns. With the aid of Pole Baker, who was clerking that day for Filmore, he soon employed the men he wanted and started to walk back home. On the way he was overtaken by his uncle, who was returning from Darley in his wagon.
“Hold on thar,” the old man called out; “ef you are a-goin' home I 'll rest yore legs.”
Alan smiled as he climbed up into the seat by the old man.
“I shall certainly appreciate it,” he said. “I'm tired out to-day.”
“I sorter thought you looked flabbergasted,” returned Abner, as he swung his whip over the backs of his sleek horses. “Well, I reckon I could afford to give you a ride. I hauled that cuss Dole three miles goin' t'other way. He had the cheek to yell at me from Habbersham's gin-house an' axed me ef I'd haul 'im. Then he kept me waitin' till he'd helt prayer an' read to the family.”
“You don't seem to like him,” said Alan. “I've noticed that for some time.”
“I reckon I don't to any great extent,” said Abner, clucking to his tired horses; “but it ain't raily to my credit. A feller's wrong som 'er's, Alan, that allows hisse'f to hate anything the Lord ever made. I've struggled agin that proposition fer twenty-five yeer. All this talk about the devil makin' the bad an' the Lord the good is talk through a hat. Bad things was made 'fore the devil ever jumped from his high estate ur he'd never preferred a fork to a harp. I've tuck notice, too, that the wust things I ever seed was sometimes at the root o' the best. Manure is a bad thing, but a cake of it will produce a daisy bigger 'n any in the field. Dole makes me gag sometimes; but as narrer as he is twixt the eyes, he may do some good. I reckon that hell-fire sermon he give us last August made some of the crowd sweat out a little o' the'r meanness. I'd 'a' been more merciful on sech a hot day, though. He mought 'a' reserved that harangue fer some cold day in December when the stove-flues wouldn't work. Ef I'd 'a' been a-goin' tell about future torment that hot day I'd 'a' said that every lost soul was made to set on a cake o' ice in a windy spot through all eternity, an' I'd 'a' started out by singin' 'On Greenland's Icy Mountain.' But that ain't what I axed you to git in my wagon fer.”
“You didn't intend to try to convert me, then?”
“No, I didn't, fer you are jest my sort of a Christian—better'n me, a sight, fer you don't shoot off yore bazoo on one side or t'other, an' that's the habit I'm tryin' to quit. Ef I could hold in when Dole gits to spoutin' I'd be a better man. I think I 'll do better now. I've got a tenpenny nail in my pocket an' whenever he starts in I'm goin' to bite it an' keep my holt on it till he stops. Yes, you are jest my sort of a Christian. You believe in breathin' fresh air into yore windpipe, thankin' God with a clear eye an' a good muscle, an' takin' what He gives you an' axin' 'Im to pass more ef it's handy. You know the Lord has sent you a invite to His table, an' you believe in eatin' an' drinkin' an' makin' merry, jest like you'd have a body do that was stoppin' over night with you. Yes, I wanted to say some 'n' else to you. As I got to the widder Snowden's house, a mile this side o' Darley, she came out an' axed me ef I'd object to deliverin' a couple o' smoke-cured hams to a feller in town that had ordered 'em. Of course that's what a' old bach' like me 's heer fer, so I let 'er fling 'em in the back end.”
The speaker paused and smiled knowingly, and Alan noticed that he slowed his horses up by drawing firmly on the reins as if he feared that their arrival at the farm-house might interrupt what he had to say.
“Well,” said Alan, “you delivered the hams?”
“Yes.” Abner was looking straight ahead of him. “They was fer Colonel Seth Barclay. I driv' up to the side gate, after I'd helloed in front till I was hoarse, an' who do you reckon come trippin' out o' the dinin'-room?
It washer. Ef you hain't never ketched 'er off'n her guard round the house, you've missed a treat. Durned ef I don't like 'er better without a hat on than with all the fluffy flamdoodle that gals put on when they go out. She was as neat as a new pin, an' seemed powerful glad to see me. That made me bless the widder Snowden fer sendin' me thar. She said the cook was off som 'er's, an' that old nigger Ned, the stable-man, was in the garden-patch behind the house, so she was thar by 'erse'f. She actually looked like she wanted to tote in the hams 'erse'f ruther'n bother me; but you bet my old bones hopped off'n this seat quicker'n you could say Jack Robinson with yore mouth open. I was afeerd my team wouldn't stand, fer fellers was a-scootin' by on bicycles; but I tuck the hams to the back porch an' put 'em on a shelf out'n re'ch o' the dogs. Then I went back to my wagon. She follered me to the fence, an' I noticed that some 'n' was wrong with 'er. She looked so funny, an' droopy about the mouth, an' kept a-talkin' like she was afeerd I'd fly off. She axed all about Adele an' how she was a-makin' out down in Atlanta, an' said she'd heerd that Sis was mighty popular with the young men, an' from that she axed about my craps an' the meetin' goin' on at Big Bethel. Finally she got right white about the mouth, an' said, kinder shaky, that she was afeerd you was mad about some 'n' her pa'd said about you, an' I never seed a woman as nigh cryin' as she was without doin' of it.
“I told 'er I was at the fust of it; but I'd noticed how worried you've looked heer of late, an' so I told 'er I'd been afeerd some 'n' had come betwixt you two. Then she put her head down on the top rail o' the fence an' helt it thar fer a good minute. After a while she looked up an' told me all about it an' ended by axin' me ef I thought she was to blame in the matter. I told 'er no; but her old skunk of a daddy had acted sech a fool that I couldn't hold in. I reckon I told 'er jest about what I thought o' him an' the more I raked up agin 'im the better she seemed pleased. I tried to pin' er down to what she'd be willin' to do in a pinch ef her pa continued to hold out agin you, but she was too sharp to commit 'erse'f. It jest looked like she wanted to make up with you an' didn't want no row nuther.”
The horses stopped to drink at a clear stream of water which ran across the road on a bed of brown pebbles. The bridles were too tight to allow them to lower their heads, so Alan went out on the heavy tongue between the pair and unfastened the reins. When he had regained his seat he told the old man in detail all that had happened at the dance at the hotel, ending with the advice he had received from Rayburn Miller.
“I don't know about that,” Abner said. “Maybe Miller could call a halt like that an' go on like nothin' had happened. I don't say he could nur couldn't; but it's fool advice. You mought miss it, an' regret it to yore dyin' day.”
Alan looked at him in some surprise; he had hardly expected just that stand on the part of a confirmed old bachelor like his uncle. The old man's glance swept dreamily over the green fields on either side of the road across which the red rays of the setting sun were streaming. Then he took a deep breath and lowered the reins till they rested on the backs of the horses.
“My boy,” he began, “I'm a good mind to tell you some 'n' that I hain't mentioned fer mighty nigh forty yeer. I don't believe anything but my intrust in that town gal an' you would make me bring it up. Huh! Ray Miller says you kin pass 'er over jest as ef you'd never seed 'er, does he? An' go on an' pick an' choose agin. Huh! I wasn't as old as you are by five yeer when the one I'm talkin' about passed away, jest a week after me 'n' her 'd come to a understandin'. I've seed women, women, women, sence I seed 'er corpse that day amongst all that pile o' wild flowers that old an' young fetched from the woods whar me 'n' 'er used to walk, but ef I live to be as old as that thar hill I 'll never forget my feelin'. I kin see 'er right now as plain as I did then, an' sometimes my heart aches as bad. I reckon you know now why I never got married. Folks has poked a lots o' fun at me, an' I tuck it as it was intended, but a lots o' times what they said made me suffer simply awful. They've picked out this un an' that un, from spring chickins to hags o' all ages, shapes, an' sizes; but the very thought o' givin' anybody her place made me sick. Thar never was but one fer me. I may be a fool, but I believe I was intended fer her. Shucks! Sech skip-abouts as Miller may talk sech bosh as that, but it's because the Lord never give 'em the glory o' the other thing. It larnt me the truth about the after-life; I know thar's a time to come, an' a blessed one, ur the Lord never would 'a' give me that taste of it. She's som 'er's out o' harm's way, an' when me 'n' her meet I 'll not have a wrinkle, an' I 'll be able to walk as spry an' hopeful as I did when she was heer. Thar ort to be punishment reserved fer hard-headed fools that separate lovin' young folks beca'se one ur t'other hain't jest so many dollars tied in a rag. Don't you listen to Miller. I don't say you ort to plunge right in an' make the old man mad; but don't give up. Ef she's what I think she is, an' she sees you ain't a-goin' to run after no fresh face, she 'll stick to you like the bark on a tree. The wait won't hurt nuther one of you, either. My wait ain't a-hurtin' me, an' yore'n won't you. I never seed a young woman I liked better 'n I do the one you selected, an' I've sent up many a petition that you'd both make it all right.”
The old man raised his reins and clucked to his horses.
“Uncle Ab,” said Alan, “you've made a better man of me. I've had a lot of trouble over this, but you make me hope. I've tried to give her up, but I simply cannot do it.”
“She ain't a-goin' to give you up, nuther,” replied Abner; “that's the purty part about it. Thar ain't no give up in 'er. She ain't that sort. She's goin' to give that daddy o' her'n a tussle.”
9092
NE morning early in July, as Alan was passing Pole Baker's cabin, on his way to Darley, Pole's wife came out to the fence and stopped him. She was a slender, ill-clad woman, who had once been pretty, and her face still had a sort of wistful attractiveness that was appealing to one who knew what she had been through since her marriage.
“Are you goin' to town, Mr. Alan?” she asked, nervously.
“Yes, Mrs. Baker,” Alan answered. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
She did not reply at once, but came through the little gate, which swung on wooden hinges, and stood looking up at him, a thin, hesitating hand on his bridle-rein.
“I'm afeerd some 'n' s happened to Pole,” she faltered. “He hain't been home fer two whole days an' nights. It's about time fer 'im to spree agin, an' I'm powerful afeerd he's in trouble. I 'lowed while you was in town that you mought inquire about 'im, an' let me know when you come back. That ud sorter free my mind a little. I didn't close my eyes all last night.”
“I 'll do all I can, Mrs. Baker,” Alan promised. “But you mustn't worry; Pole can take care of himself, drunk or sober. I 'll be back to-night.”
Alan rode on, leaving the pathetic figure at the gate looking after him. “I wonder,” he mused, “what Uncle Ab would say about love that has that sort of reward. Poor woman! Pole was her choice, and she has to make the best of it. Perhaps she loves the good that's in the rascal.”
He found Rayburn Miller at his desk, making out some legal document. “Take a seat,” said Miller, “I 'll be through in a minute. What's the news out your way?” he asked, as he finished his work and put down his pen.
“Nothing new, I believe,” said Alan. “I've been away for two days. Not having anything else to do, I made it my business to ride over every foot of my father's big investment, and, to tell you the truth, I've come to you with a huge idea. Don't laugh; I can't help it. It popped in my head and sticks, that's all.”
“Good. Let me have it.”
“Before I tell you what it is,” said Alan, “I want you to promise not to ridicule me. I'm as green as a gourd in business matters; but the idea has hold of me, and I don't know that even your disapproval will make me let it loose.”
“That's a good way to put it,” laughed Miller. “The idea has hold of you and you can't let it loose. It applies more closely to investments than anything else. Once git into a deal and you are afraid to let it go—like the chap that held the calf and called for help.”
“Well, here it is,” said Alan. “I've made up my mind that a railroad can—and shall—be built from these two main lines to my father's lumber bonanza.” Miller whistled. A broad smile ingulfed the pucker of his lips, and then his face dropped into seriousness. A look almost of pity for his friend's credulity and inexperience came into his eyes.
“I must say you don't want a little thing, my boy,” he said, indulgently. “Remember you are talking to a fellow that has rubbed up against the moneyed world considerable for a chap raised in the country. The trouble with you, Alan, is that you have got heredity to contend with; you are a chip off the old block in spite of your belonging to a later generation. You have inherited your father's big ideas. You are a sort of Colonel Sellers, who sees millions in everything you look at.”
Alan' s face fell, but there remained in it a tenacious expression that won Miller's admiration even while he deplored it. There was, too, a ring of confidence in the young farmer's tone when he replied:
“How much would a railroad through that country, eighteen miles in length, cost?”
“Nothing but a survey by an expert could answer that, even approximately,” said the lawyer, leaning back in his creaking chair. “If you had the right of way, a charter from the State, and no big tunnels to make nor long bridges to build, you might, I should say, construct the road alone—without locomotives and rolling-stock generally—for a little matter of one hundred and fifty thousand. I don't know; I'm only guessing; but it wouldn't fall under that estimate.”
“I didn't think it would,” replied Alan, growing more enthusiastic. “Now then, if therewasa railroad to my father's property, how much would his twenty thousand acres be worth?”
Miller smiled again and began to figure on a scrap of paper with a pencil. “Oh, as for that,” he said, “it would really be worth—standing uncut, unsawn, including a world of tan-bark—at least twenty-five dollars an acre, say a clear half million for it all. Oh, I know it looks as plain as your nose on your face; things always do on paper. It looks big and it shines; so does a spider-web in the sunshine to a fly; but you don't want to be no fly, my boy; and you don't want any spider-webs—on the brain, anyway.”
Alan stood up and walked to the door and back; finally he shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don't care what you say,” he declared, bringing his hand down firmly on Miller's desk. “It will pay, as sure as I'm alive. There's no getting around the facts. It will take a quarter of a million investment to market a half-million-dollar bunch of timber with the land thrown in and the traffic such a road would secure to help pay expenses. There are men in the world looking for such opportunities and I'm going to give somebody a chance.”
“You have not looked deep enough into it, my boy,” mildly protested Miller. “You haven't figured on the enormous expense of running such a road and the dead loss of the investment after the lumber is moved out. You'd have a railroad property worth a quarter of a million on your hands. I can't make you see my position. I simply say to you that I wouldn't touch a deal like that with a ten-foot pole.”
Alan laughed good-naturedly as he laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. “I reckon you think I'm off,” he said, “but sooner or later I'm going to put this thing through. Do you hear me? I 'll put it through if it takes ten years to do it. I want to make the old man feel that he has not made such a fool of himself; I want to get even with the Thompson crowd, and Perkins, and everybody that is now poking fun at a helpless old man. I shall begin by raising money some way or other to pay taxes, and hold on to every inch of the ground.”
Miller's glance fell before the fierce fire of Alan's eyes, and for the first time his tone wavered.
“Well,” he said, “you may have the stuff in you that big speculators are made of, and I may simply be prejudiced against the scheme on account of your father's blind plunging, and what some men would call over-cautiousness on my part. I may be trying to prevent what you really ought to do; but I am advising you as a friend. I only knowIwould be more cautious. Of course, you may try. You'd not lose in doing that; in fact, you'd gain experience. I should say that big dealers in lumber are the men you ought to see first. They know the values of such investments, and they are reaching out in all directions now. They have cleaned up the timber near the railroads.”
9097
ILLER accompanied Alan to the door. Old Trabue stood in front of his office in his shirt-sleeves, his battered silk hat on the back part of his head. He was fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan and freely using his handkerchief on his brow. He bowed cordially to Alan and came towards him.
“I want to ask you,” he began, “as Pole Baker any way of raisin' money?”
“Not that I know of,” laughed Alan. “I don't know whether he's got a clear title to the shirt on his back. He owes everybody out our way. My father is supplying him on time now.”
“That was my impression,” said Trabue. “He wanted me to defend 'im the other day, but he couldn't satisfy me about the fee, an' I let him go. He first said he could give me a lien on a mule, but he finally admitted that it wasn't his.”
“He's not in trouble, is he?” exclaimed Alan, suddenly recalling Mrs. Baker's uneasiness.
Trabue looked at Miller, who stood leaning in the doorway, and laughed. “Well, I reckon he might call it that. That chap owned the town two days ago. He got blind, stavin' drunk, an' wanted to whip us from one end o' the place to the other. The marshals are afraid of 'im, for they know he 'll shoot at the drop of a hat, an' the butt of it was stickin' out o' his hippocket in plain sight. Was you thar, Rayburn? Well, it was better 'n a circus. Day before yesterday thar was a sort o' street temperance lecturer in front o' the Johnston House, speakin' on a dry-goods box. He had a lot o' gaudy pictures illustratin' the appearance of a drinkin' man' s stomach an' liver, compared to one in a healthy condition. He was a sort of a snide faker, out fer what he could git dropped in a hat, an' Pole was sober enough to git on to his game. Pole stood thar with the rest, jest about able to stand, an' that was all. Finally, when the feller got warmed up an' got to screechin', Pole begun to deny what he was sayin'. As fast as he'd make a statement Pole would flatly deny it. The feller on the box didn't know what a tough customer he had to handle or he'd 'a' gone slow. As it was, he p'inted a finger o' scorn at Pole an' helt 'im up fer a example. Pole wasn't sober by a long shot, but you'd 'a' thought he was, fer he was as steady as a post. He kept grinnin', as cool as a cucumber, an' sayin', 'Now you know yo' re a-lyin', stranger—jest a-lyin' to get a few dimes drapped in yore hat. You know nobody's stomach don't look like that durn chromo. You never seed inside of a drinkin' man, an' yo' re the biggest liar that ever walked the earth.' This made the crowd laugh at the little, dried-up feller, an' he got as mad as Old Nick. He begun to tell Pole his liver was swelled from too much whiskey, an' that he'd bet he was jest the sort to beat his wife. Most of us thought that ud make Pole jump on 'im, but he seemed to enjoy naggin' the feller too much to sp'ile it by a fight. A nigger boy had been carryin' round a bell and a sign advertisin' Webb's auction sale, an' stopped to see the fun. Pole heerd the tinkle of the bell, an' tuck it an' begun to ring it in the lecturer's face. The harder the feller spoke the harder Pole rung. It was the damnedest racket ever heerd on a public square. Part of the crowd—the good church folks—begun to say it was a disgrace to the town to allow a stranger to be treated that away, sence thar was no law agin public speakin' in the streets. They was in fer callin' a halt, but all the rest—the drinkin' men, an' I frankly state I was one—secretly hoped Pole would ring 'im down. When the pore devil finally won I felt like yellin' hooray, fer I glory in the pluck even of a dare-devil, if he's a North Georgian an' white. The lecturer had to stop without his collection, an' went off to the council chamber swearin' agin the town fer allowin' him to be treated that away. Thar wasn't anything fer the mayor to do but order Pole's arrest, but it took four men—two regulars and two deputized men—to accomplish it.
“The trial was the richest thing I ever attended. Pole had sobered up jest enough to be witty, an' he had no more respect fer Bill Barrett's court than he had fer the lecturer's platform. Him an' Barrett used to fish an' hunt together when they was boys, an' Pole kept callin' him Bill. It was Bill this an' Bill that; an' as Barrett had only been in office a month, he hardly knew how to rise to his proper dignity, especially when he saw the crowd was laughin' at his predicament. When I declined to defend 'im, Pole attempted to read the law on the case to Barrett an' show whar he was right. Barrett let 'im talk because he didn't know how to stop 'im, an' Pole made the best defence I ever heerd from a unlettered man. It kept the crowd in a roar. For a while I swear it looked like Pole was goin' to cleer hisse'f, but Barrett had to do his duty, an' so he fined Pole thirty dollars, or in default thereof to break rock on the streets fer ten days. You ort to 'a' heerd Pole snort. 'Looky heer, Bill!' he said, 'you know as well as yo're a-settin' cocked up thar, makin' folks say 'yore honor' ever' breath they draw, that I ain't a-goin' to break no rock in that br'ilin' sun fer ten day 'ca'se I beat that skunk at his own game!'
“You 'll have to do it if you don't pay out,” Barrett told 'im.
“'Well, I jest won't pay out, an' I won't break rock nuther,' Pole said. 'You've heerd about the feller that could lead a hoss to water but couldn't make 'im drink, hain't you? Well, I'm the hoss.'
“Yesterday was Pole's fust day on the street. They put a ball an' chain to one of his ankles an' sent 'im out with the nigger gang, but all day yesterday an' to-day he hain't worked a lick. He's as stubborn as a mule. Thar's been a crowd around 'im all the time. You kin see 'im standin' up as straight as a post in the middle of the street from one end of it to the other. I'm sorter sorry fer 'im; he looks like he's ashamed at bottom, but don't want to give in. The funniest thing about the whole thing is that Pole seems to know more about the law than the mayor. He says unless they force him to work in the specified ten days they can't hold him any longer, an' that if they attempt to flog 'im he 'll kill the first man that lays hands on him. I think Bill Barrett likes him too well to have 'im whipped, an' the whole town is guyin' him, an' axin' 'im why he don't make Pole set in.”
Alan went down the street to see Pole. He found him seated on a large stone, a long-handled rock-hammer at his feet. He looked up from under his broad-brimmed hat, and a crestfallen look came into his big, brown eyes.
“I'm sorry to see this, Pole,” said Alan.
Pole stood up at his full height, the chain clanking as he rose. “They hain't treated me right about this matter, Alan Bishop,” he said, half resentfully, half as if he recognized his own error. “Bill knows he hain't done the fair thing. I know I was full, but I jest wanted to have my fun. That don't justify him in puttin' me out heer with these niggers fer folks to gap' at, an' he knows it. He ain't a friend right. Me 'n' him has slep' together on the same pile o' leaves, an' I've let 'im pull down on a squirrel when I could 'a' knocket it from its perch; an' I've lent 'im my pointer an' gun many an' many a time. But he's showed what he is! He's got the wrong sow by the yeer, though, fer ef he keeps me heer till Christmas I 'll never crack a rock, unless I do it by accidentally step-pin' on it. Mark my words, Alan Bishop, thar 'll be trouble out o' this.”
“Don't talk that way, Pole,” said Alan. “You've broken the law and they had to punish you for it. If they hadn't they would have made themselves ridiculous. Why didn't you send me word you were in trouble, Pole?”
The fellow hung his head, and then he blurted out:
“Beca'se I knowed you would make a fool o' yorese'f an' try to pay me out. Damn it, Alan Bishop, this ain't no business o' yore'n!”
“I 'll make it my business,” said Alan. “How much is your fine? You ought to have sent me word.”
“Sent you hell, Alan Bishop,” growled the prisoner. “When I send you word to he'p me out of a scrape that whiskey got me into I 'll do it after I've decently cut my throat. Isay!—when you've plead with me like you have to quit the durn stuff!”
At this point of the conversation Jeff Dukes, a man of medium size, dressed in dark-blue uniform, with a nickel-plated badge shaped like a shield and bearing the words “Marshal No. 2,” came directly towards them from a stone-cutter's shop near by.
“Look heer, Bishop,” he said, dictatorially, “whar'd you git the right to talk to that man?”
Alan looked surprised. “Am I breaking the law, too?”
“You are, ef you hain't got a permit from the mayor in yore pocket.”
“Well, I have no permit,” replied Alan, with a good-natured smile. “Have you got another ball an' chain handy?”
The officer frowned off his inclination to treat the matter as a jest. “You ort to have more sense than that,” he said, crustily. “Pole's put out heer to work his time out, an' ef everybody in town is allowed to laugh an' joke with him he'd crack about as many rocks as you or me.”
“You are a durn liar, Jeff Dukes,” said Pole, angrily. “You are a-makin' that up to humiliate me furder. You know no law like that never was inforced. Ef I ever git you out in Pea Vine Destrict I 'll knock a dent in that egg-shaped head o' yor'n, an' make them eyes look two ways fer Sunday. You know a gentleman like Alan Bishop wouldn't notice you under ordinary circumstances, an' so you trump up that excuse to git his attention.”
The two men glared at each other, but Pole seemed to get the best of that sort of combat, for the officer only growled.
“You can insult a man when you are under arrest,” he said, “beca'se you know I am under bond to keep the peace. But I'm not afeerd of you.”
“They tell me you are afeerd o' sperits, though,” retorted the prisoner. “They tell me a little nigger boy that was shot when a passle o' skunks went to whip his daddy fer vagrancy stands at the foot o' yore bed ever' night. Oh, I know what I'm a-talkin' about!”
“Yes, you know a lots,” said the man, sullenly, as his eyes fell.
To avoid encouraging the disputants further, Alan walked suddenly away. The marshal took willing advantage of the opportunity and followed him.
“I could make a case agin you,” he said, catching up, “but I know you didn't mean to violate the ordinance.”
“No, of course I didn't,” said Alan; “but I want to know if that fellow could be released if I paid his fine.”
“You are not fool enough to do it, are you?”
“That's what I am.”
“Have you got the money in yore pocket?” The officer was laughing, as if at a good joke.
“I have.”
“Well”—the marshal laughed again as he swung his short club round by a string that fastened it to his wrist—“well, you come with me, an' I 'll show you a man that wants thirty dollars wuss than any man I know of. I don't believe Bill Barrett has slept a wink sence this thing happened. He 'll be tickled to death to git off so easy. The town has devilled the life out of him. He don't go by whar Pole's at work—I mean, whar he ain't at work—fer Pole yells at 'im whenever he sees 'im.”
That night when Alan reached home he sent a servant over to tell Mrs. Baker that Pole was all right and that he'd be home soon. He had eaten his supper and had gone up-stairs to go to bed when he heard his name called outside. Going to a window and looking out, he recognized Pole Baker standing at the gate in the clear moonlight.
“Alan,” he said, softly, “come down heer a minute. I want to see you.”
Alan went down and joined him. For a moment Pole stood leaning against the fence, his eyes hidden by his broad-brimmed slouch hat.
“Did you want to see me, Pole?” Alan asked.
“Yes, I did,” the fellow swallowed. He made a motion as if to reach out his hand, but refrained. Then he looked straight into Alan's face.
“I couldn't go to sleep till I'd said some 'n' to you,” he began, with another gulp. “I laid down an' made a try at it, but it wasn't no go. I've got to say it. I'm heer to swear that ef God, or some 'n' else, don't show me a way to pay you back fer what you done to-day, I 'll never draw a satisfied breath. Alan Bishop, yo're a man,God damn it!a man from yore outside skin to the marrow o' yore bones, an' ef I don't find some way to prove what I think about you, I 'll jest burn up! I got into that trouble as thoughtless as I'd play a prank with my baby, an' then they all come down on me an' begun to try to drive me like a hog out'n a field with rocks an' sticks, an' the very Old Harry riz in me an' defied 'em. I reckon thar wasn't anything Bill could do but carry out the law, an' I knowed it, but I wasn't ready to admit it. Then you come along an' rendered a verdict in my favor when you needed the money you did it with. Alan, ef I don't show my appreciation, it 'll be beca'se I don't live long enough. You never axed me but one thing, an' that was to quit drinkin' whiskey. I'm goin' to make a try at it, not beca'se I think that 'll pay you back, but beca'se with a sober head I kin be a better friend to you ef the chance ever comes my way.”
“I'm glad to hear you say that, Pole,” replied Alan, greatly moved by the fellow's earnestness. “I believe you can do it. Then your wife and children—”
“Damn my wife an' children,” snorted Pole. “It'syouI'm a-goin' to work fer—you, I say!”
He suddenly turned through the open gate and strode homeward across the fields. Alan stood looking after him till his tall form was lost in the hazy moonlight, and then he went up to his bed.
Pole entered the open door of his cabin and began to undress as he sat on the side of his crude bedstead, made of unbarked poles fastened to the bare logs in one corner of the room. His wife and children slept on two beds on the other side of the room.
“Did you see 'im, Pole?” piped up Mrs. Baker from the darkness.
“Yes, I seed 'im. Sally, say, whar's that bottle o' whiskey I had the last time I was at home?”
There was an ominous silence. Out of it rose the soft breathing of the children. Then the woman sighed. “Pole, shorely you ain't a-goin' to begin agin?”
“No, I want to bu'st it into smithereens. I don't want it about—I don't want to know thar's a drap in the house. I've swore off, an' this time she sticks. Gi'me that bottle.”
Another silence. Suddenly the woman spoke. “Pole, you've swore off as many times as a dog has fleas. Often when I feel bad an' sick when you are off, a drap o' whiskey makes me feel better. I don't want you to destroy the last bit in the house jest be-ca'se you've tuck this turn, that may wear off before daylight. The last time you emptied that keg on the ground an' swore off you got on a spree an' helt the baby over the well an' threatened to drap 'er in ef I didn't find a bottle, an' you'd 'a' done it, too.”
Pole laughed softly. “I reckon yo' re right, old gal,” he said. “Besides, ef I can' t—ef I ain't man enough to let up with a bottle in the house I won't do it without. But the sight or smell of it is hell itse'f to a lover of the truck. Ef I was to tell you what a little thing started me on this last spree you'd laugh. I went to git a shave in a barber shop, an' when the barber finished he soaked my face in bay-rum an' it got in my mustache. I kept smellin' it all mornin' an' tried to wipe it off, but she wouldn't wipe. All the time I kept walkin' up an' down in front o' Luke Sell-more's bar. Finally I said to myself: 'Well, ef you have to have a bar-room stuck under yore nose all day like a wet sponge, old man, you mought as well have one whar it 'll taste better, an' I slid up to the counter.” The woman sighed audibly, but she made no reply. “Is Billy awake?” Pole suddenly asked.
“No, you know he ain't,” said Mrs. Baker.
“Well, I want to take 'im in my bed.” Pole stood out on the floor in the sheet of moonlight that fell through the open door.
“I wouldn't, Pole,” said the woman. “The pore little feller's been toddlin' about after the others, draggin' bresh to the heap tell he's tired. He drapped to sleep at the table with a piece o' bread in his mouth.”
“I won't wake 'im, God bless his little heart,” answered Pole, and he reached down and took the limp child in his arms and pressed him against the side of his face. He carried him tenderly across the room and laid down with him. His wife heard him uttering endearing things to the unconscious child until she fell asleep.
9107
T was the second Sunday in July, and a bright, clear day. In that mountainous region the early mornings of dry summer days are delightfully cool and balmy. Abner Daniel was in his room making preparations to go to meeting at Rock Crest Church. He had put on one of his best white shirts, black silk necktie, doeskin trousers, flowered waistcoat, and long frock-coat, and was proceeding to black his shoes. Into an old pie-pan he raked from the back of the fireplace a quantity of soot and added to it a little water and a spoonful of sorghum molasses from a jug under his bed, stirring the mixture into a paste. This he applied to his shoes with a blacking-brush, rubbing vigorously until quite a decent gloss appeared. It was a thing poverty had taught him just after the war, and to which he still resorted when he forgot to buy blacking.
On his way to church, as he was crossing a broom-sedge field and steering for the wood ahead of him, through which a path made a short cut to Rock Crest Church, he overtook Pole Baker swinging along in his shirt-sleeves and big hat.
“Well, I 'll be bungfuzzled,” Abner exclaimed, “ef you hain't got on a clean shirt! Church?”
“Yes, I 'lowed I would, Uncle Ab. I couldn't stay away. I told Sally it ud be the biggest fun on earth. She's a-comin' on as soon as she gits the childern ready. She's excited, too, an' wants to see how it 'll come out. She's as big a believer in you as I am, mighty nigh, an' she 'lowed, she did, that she'd bet you'd take hair an' hide off'n that gang 'fore they got good started.”
Abner raised his shaggy eyebrows. If this was one of Pole's jokes it failed in the directness that usually characterized the jests of the ex-moonshiner.
“I wonder what yo' re a-drivin' at, you blamed fool,” he said, smiling in a puzzled fashion.
Pole was walking in front, and suddenly wheeled about. He took off his hat, and, wiping the perspiration from his high brow with his forefinger, he cracked it into the broom-sedge like a whip.
“Looky' heer, Uncle Ab,” he laughed, “what you givin' me?”
“I was jest tryin' to find out what you was a-givin' me,” retorted the rural philosopher, a dry note of rising curiosity dominating his voice.
They had reached a rail fence which separated the field from the wood, and they climbed over it and stood in the shade of the trees. Pole stared at the old man incredulously. “By hunkley, Uncle Ab, you don't mean to tell me you don't know what that passle o' hill-Billies is a-goin' to do with you this mornin' at meetin'?”
Abner smiled mechanically. “I can't say I do, Pole. I'm at the fust of it, if thar is to be any—”
Pole slapped his thigh and gave vent to a loud guffaw that rang through the trees and was echoed back from a hidden hill-side.
“Well, what theyarea-goin' to do with you 'll be a God's plenty. They are a-goin' to walk yore log, ur make you do it on all fours so they kin see you. You've made it hot fer them an' they are a-goin' to turn t'other cheek an' git a swipe at you. They are a-goin' to show you whar you come in—ur, ruther, whar you go out.”
Abner's face was a study in seriousness. “You don't say!” he muttered. “Ididnotice that brother Dole kinder give our house a wide berth last night. I reckon he sorter hated to eat at the same table with a feller he was goin' to hit at to-day. Yes, Dole is at the bottom of it. I know in reason I pushed 'im too fur the last time he was heer, but when he rears back an' coughs up sanctimony like he was literally too full of it fer comfort, I jest cayn't hold in. Seems to me I kin jest close my eyes an' hit some spot in 'im that makes 'im wiggle like a tadpole skeered in shallow water. But maybe I mought 'a' got a better mark to fire at; fer this 'll raise no end of a rumpus, an' they may try to make me take back water, but I never did crawfish. I couldn't do that, Pole. No siree, I—I can' t crawfish.”
Abner was a special object of regard as he and Pole emerged from the wood into the opening in front of the little unpainted meeting-house, where the men stood about among the buggies and horses, whittling, gossiping, and looking strange and fresh-washed in their clean clothes. But it was noticeable that they did not gather around him as had been their habit. His standing in that religious community was at stake; his continued popularity depended on the result of that day's investigation. Pole could afford to stand by him, and he did. They sat down on a log near the church door and remained silent till the cast-iron bell in the little belfry, which resembled a dog-kennel, was rattled vigorously as an announcement that the service was about to begin. They all scurried in like sheep. Abner went in last, with slow dignity and deliberation, leaving Pole in a seat near the door.
He went up the narrow aisle to his accustomed seat near the long-wood stove. Many eyes were on his profile and the back of his neck. Dole was seated in the arm-chair behind the preacher's stand, but somehow he failed to look at Abner as he entered, or even after he had taken his seat. He seemed busy making notes from the big Bible which lay across his lap. Abner saw Bishop and his wife come in and sit down, and knew from the glances they gave him that they had heard the news. Mrs. Bishop looked keenly distressed, but Bishop seemed to regard the matter only as a small, buzzing incident in his own troubled career. Besides, Abner was no blood relative of his, and Bishop had enough to occupy him in looking after the material interests of his own family without bothering about the spiritual welfare of a connection by marriage.
Dole stood up and announced a hymn, and read it from beginning to end in a mellow, sonorous voice. The congregation, all eying Abner, rose and sang it energetically; even Abner, who sang a fair bass of the rasping, guttural variety, popular in the mountains, found himself joining in, quite unconcerned as to his future right to do so. After this, Dole led in prayer, standing with both hands resting on the crude, unpainted stand, the sole ornament of which was a pitcher of water, a tumbler, and a glass lamp with a green paper shade on it. Abner remarked afterwards that Dole, in this prayer, used the Lord as a cat's-paw to hit at him. Dole told the Lord a few things that he had never had the courage to tell Daniel. Abner was a black sheep in a flock earnestly striving to keep itself white—a thing in human shape that soiled that with which it came in contact. He had the subtle tongue of the serpent that blasted the happiness of the primeval pair in the Garden of Eden. Under the cloak of wit and wisdom he was continually dropping poison into the beverages of earnest folk who had not the religious courage to close their ears. As a member of a consecrated body of souls, it was the opinion of many that Abner was out of place, but that was to be decided after careful investigation in the Lord's presence and after ample testimony pro and con had been submitted. Any one wishing to show that the offending member had a right to remain in good standing would be gladly listened to, even prayerfully. On the other hand, such members as had had their religious sensibilities wounded should feel that a most sacred duty rested on them to speak their minds. All this Dole said he trusted the Lord would sanction and bless in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the Saviour and Director of all men.
Dole then started another hymn, and when it had been sung he announced that no sermon would be preached that day, as the important business in hand would consume all available time before the dinner-hour. Then he courageously faced Abner. His countenance was pale and determined, his tone perfunctory and sharp as a knife.
“I reckon, brother Daniel,” he said, “that you have a idee who I've been talkin' about?”
Abner was slightly pale, but calm and self-possessed. The light of merriment, always kindled by contact with Dole, danced in his eyes. “I kinder 'lowed I was the one,” he said, slowly, “an' I'm sorter curis to see who' ll speak an' what they 'll say. I 'll tell you now I ain't a-goin' to do myse'f jestice. I 'ain't been to a debatin' club sence I was a boy, but I 'll do my best.”
Dole stroked his beard and consulted a scrap of paper in the palm of his hand. “Brother Throg-martin,” he called out, suddenly, and a short, fat man on a bench behind Abner rose and cleared his throat.
“Now, brother Throgmartin,” went on the preacher, “jest tell some o' the things you've heerd brother Daniel say that struck you as bein' undoctrinal an' unbecomin' a member of this body.”
“Well, sir,” Throgmartin began, in a thin, high voice that cut the profound silence in the room like a rusty blade, “I don't raily, in my heart o' hearts, believe that Ab—brother Daniel—has the right interpretation of Scriptur'. I remember, after you preached last summer about the sacred teachin' in regard to future punishment, that Ab—brother Daniel—an' me was walkin' home together. Ever' now an' then he'd stop in the road an' laugh right out sudden-like over what you'd contended.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Dole's face hardened. He couldn't doubt that part of the testimony, for it was distinctly Abner's method.
“Yes, sir,” responded Throgmartin, sternly, “he 'lowed what you'd said was as funny to him as a circus clown's talk, an' that it was all he could do to hold in. He 'lowed ef you was to git up in a Darley church with sech talk as that they'd make you preach to niggers. He 'lowed he didn't believe hell was any hot place nohow, an' that he never could be made to believe that the Lord ud create folks an' then barbecue 'em alive through all eternity. He said it sorter turned his stomach to see jest a little lamb roasted at a big political gatherin', an' that no God he believed in would institute sech long torture as you spoke about when you brought up the mustard-seed p'int.”
“He deliberately gives the lie to Holy Scripture, then,” said Dole, almost beside himself with rage. “What else did he say of a blasphemous nature?”
“Oh, I hardly know,” hesitated the witness, his brow wrinkled thoughtfully.
“Well,” snarled Dole, “you hain't told half you said to me this mornin' on the way to meetin'. What was his remark about the stars havin' people on 'em ever' bit an' grain as worthy o' salvation as us all?”
“I disremember his exact words. Perhaps Ab—brother Daniel—will refresh my memory.” Throg-martin was gazing quite respectfully at the offender. “It was at Billy Malone's log-rollin', you know, Ab; me 'n' you'd eat a snack together, an' you said the big poplar had strained yore side an' wanted to git it rubbed.”
Abner looked straight at Dole. The corners of his big, honest mouth were twitching defiantly.
“I said, I think,” he answered, “that no matter what some folks mought believe about the starry heavens, no man ever diskivered a big world with a tail to it through a spy-glass without bein' convinced that thar was other globes in the business besides jest this un.”
Dole drew himself up straight and gazed broadly over his congregation. He felt that in the estimation of unimaginative, prosaic people like his flock Abner's defence would certainly fall.
“Kin I ax,” he asked, sternly, “how you happen to think like you do?”
Abner grasped the back of the bench in front of him and pulled himself up, only to sink back hesitatingly into his seat. “Would it be out o' order fer me to stand?” he questioned.
Dole spread a hard, triumphant smile over the congregation. “Not at all, if it will help you to give a sensible answer to my question.”
“Oh, I kin talk settin',” retorted the man on trial. “I jest didn't know what was right an' proper, an' I 'lowed I could hit that spit-box better standin' than I kin over brother Tarver's legs.”
The man referred to quickly slid along the bench, giving Abner his place near the aisle, and Abner calmly emptied his mouth in the wooden box filled with sawdust and wiped his lips.
“I hardly know why I think like I do about other worlds,” he answered, slowly, “unless it's beca'se I've always had the notion that the universe is sech a powerful, whoppin' big thing. Most folks believe that the spot they inhabit is about all thar is to creation, anyway. That's human natur'. About the biggest job I ever tackled was to drive a hungry cow from bad grass into a good patch. She wants to stay thar an' eat, an' that's about the way it is with folks. They are short-sighted. It makes most of 'em mad to tell 'em they kin better the'r condition. I've always believed that's the reason they make the bad place out so bad; they've made up the'r minds to live thar, an' they ain't a-goin' to misrepresent it. They are out o' fire-wood in this life an' want to have a good sweat in the next.”