We've all got a crazy streak in us somewheres, I cal'late, only the streaks don't all break out in the same place, which is a mercy, when you come to think of it. One feller starts tooting a fish horn and making announcements that he's the Angel Gabriel. Another poor sufferer shows his first symptom by having his wife's relations come and live with him. One ends in the asylum and t'other in the poorhouse; that's the main difference in them cases. Jim Jones fiddles with perpetual motion and Sam Smith develops a sure plan for busting Wall Street and getting rich sudden. I take summer boarders maybe, and you collect postage stamps. Oh, we're all looney, more or less, every one of us.
Speaking of collecting reminds me of the “Antiquers”—that's what Peter T. Brown called 'em. They put up at the Old Home House—summer before last; and at a crank show they'd have tied for the blue ribbon. There was the Dowager and the Duchess and “My Daughter” and “Irene dear.” Likewise there was Thompson and Small, but they, being nothing but husbands and fathers, didn't count for much first along, except when board was due or “antiques” had to be settled for.
The Dowager fetched port first. She hove alongside the Old Home one morning early in July, and she had “My Daughter” in tow. The names, as entered on the shipping list, was Mrs. Milo Patrick Thompson and Miss Barbara Millicent Thompson, but Peter T. Brown he had 'em re-entered as “The Dowager” and “My Daughter” almost as soon as they dropped anchor. Thompson himself come poking up to the dock on the following Saturday night; Peter didn't christen him, except to chuck out something about Milo's being an “also ran.”
The Dowager was skipper of the Thompson craft, with “My daughter”—that's what her ma always called her—as first mate, and Milo as general roustabout and purser.
'Twould have done you good to see the fleet run into the breakfast room of a morning, with the Dowager leading, under full sail, Barbara close up to her starboard quarter, and Milo tailing out a couple of lengths astern. The other boarders looked like quahaug dories abreast of the Marblehead Yacht Club. Oh, the Thompsons won every cup until the Smalls arrived on a Monday; then 'twas a dead heat.
Mamma Small was built on the lines of old lady Thompson, only more so, and her daughter flew pretty nigh as many pennants as Barbara. Peter T. had 'em labeled the “Duchess” and “Irene dear” in a jiffy. He didn't nickname Small any more'n he had Thompson, and for the same reasons. Me and Cap'n Jonadab called Small “Eddie” behind his back, 'count of his wife's hailing him as “Edwin.”
Well, the Dowager and the Duchess sized each other up, and, recognizing I jedge, that they was sister ships, set signals and agreed to cruise in company and watch out for pirates—meaning young men without money who might want to talk to their daughters. In a week the four women was thicker than hasty-pudding and had thrones on the piazza where they could patronize everybody short of the Creator, and criticize the other boarders. Milo and Eddie got friendly too, and found a harbor behind the barn where they could smoke and swap sympathy.
'Twas fair weather for pretty near a fortni't, and then she thickened up. The special brand of craziness in Wellmouth that season was collecting “antiques,” the same being busted chairs and invalid bureaus and sofys that your great grandmarm got ashamed of and sent to the sickbay a thousand year ago. Oh, yes, and dishes! If there was one thing that would drive a city woman to counting her fingers and cutting paper dolls, 'twas a nicked blue plate with a Chinese picture on it. And the homelier the plate the higher the price. Why there was as many as six families that got enough money for the rubbage in their garrets to furnish their houses all over with brand new things—real shiny, hand-painted stuff, not haircloth ruins with music box springs, nor platters that you had to put a pan under for fear of losing cargo.
I don't know who fetched the disease to the Old Home House. All I'm sartain of is that 'twan't long afore all hands was in that condition where the doctor'd have passed 'em on to the parson. First along it seemed as if the Thompson-Small syndicate had been vaccinated—they didn't develop a symptom. But one noon the Dowager sails into the dining-room and unfurls a brown paper bundle.
“I've captured a prize, my dear,” says she to the Duchess. “A veritable prize. Just look!”
And she dives under the brown paper hatches and resurrects a pink plate, suffering from yaller jaundice, with the picture of a pink boy, wearing curls and a monkey-jacket, holding hands with a pink girl with pointed feet.
“Ain't it perfectly lovely?” says she, waving the outrage in front of the Duchess. “A ginuwine Hall nappy! And in SUCH condition!”
“Why,” says the Duchess, “I didn't know you were interested in antiques.”
“I dote on 'em,” comes back the Dowager, and “my daughter” owned up that she “adored” 'em.
“If you knew,” continues Mrs. Thompson, “how I've planned and contrived to get this treasure. I've schemed—My! my! My daughter says she's actually ashamed of me. Oh, no! I can't tell even you where I got it. All's fair in love and collecting, you know, and there are more gems where this came from.”
She laughed and “my daughter” laughed, and the Duchess and “Irene dear” laughed, too, and said the plate was “SO quaint,” and all that, but you could fairly hear 'em turn green with jealousy. It didn't need a spyglass to see that they wouldn't ride easy at their own moorings till THEY'D landed a treasure or two—probably two.
And sure enough, in a couple of days they bore down on the Thompsons, all sail set and colors flying. They had a pair of plates that for ugliness and price knocked the “ginuwine Hall nappy” higher 'n the main truck. And the way they crowed and bragged about their “finds” wa'n't fit to put in the log. The Dowager and “my daughter” left that dinner table trembling all over.
Well, you can see how a v'yage would end that commenced that way. The Dowager and Barbara would scour the neighborhood and capture more prizes, and the Duchess and her tribe would get busy and go 'em one better. That's one sure p'int about the collecting business—it'll stir up a fight quicker'n anything I know of, except maybe a good looking bachelor minister. The female Thompsons and Smalls was “my dear-in'” each other more'n ever, but there was a chill setting in round them piazza thrones, and some of the sarcastic remarks that was casually hove out by the bosom friends was pretty nigh sharp enough to shave with. As for Milo and Eddie, they still smoked together behind the barn, but the atmosphere on the quarter-deck was affecting the fo'castle and there wa'n't quite so many “old mans” and “dear boys” as there used to was. There was a general white frost coming, and you didn't need an Old Farmer's Almanac to prove it.
The spell of weather developed sudden. One evening me and Cap'n Jonadab and Peter T. was having a confab by the steps of the billiard-room, when Milo beats up from around the corner. He was smiling as a basket of chips.
“Hello!” hails Peter T. cordial. “You look as if you'd had money left you. Any one else remembered in the will?” he says.
Milo laughed all over. “Well, well,” says he, “I AM feeling pretty good. Made a ten-strike with Mrs. T. this afternoon for sure.
“That so?” says Peter. “What's up? Hooked a prince?”
A friend of “my daughter's” over at Newport had got engaged to a mandarin or a count or something 'nother, and the Dowager had been preaching kind of eloquent concerning the shortness of the nobility crop round Wellmouth.
“No,” says Milo, laughing again. “Nothing like that. But I have got hold of that antique davenport she's been dying to capture.”
One of the boarders at the hotel over to Harniss had been out antiquing a week or so afore and had bagged a contraption which answered to the name of a “ginuwine Sheriton davenport.” The dowager heard of it, and ever since she'd been remarking that some people had husbands who cared enough for their wives to find things that pleased 'em. She wished she was lucky enough to have that kind of a man; but no, SHE had to depend on herself, and etcetery and so forth. Maybe you've heard sermons similar.
So we was glad for Milo and said so. Likewise we wanted to know where he found the davenport.
“Why, up here in the woods,” says Milo, “at the house of a queer old stick, name of Rogers. I forget his front name—'twas longer'n the davenport.”
“Not Adoniram Rogers?” says Cap'n Jonadab, wondering.
“That's him,” says Thompson.
Now, I knew Adoniram Rogers. His house was old enough, Lord knows; but that a feller with a nose for a bargain like his should have hung on to a salable piece of dunnage so long as this seemed 'most too tough to believe.
“Well, I swan to man!” says I. “Adoniram Rogers! Have you seen the—the davenport thing?”
“Sure I've seen it!” says Milo. “I ain't much of a jedge, and of course I couldn't question Rogers too much for fear he'd stick on the price. But it's an old davenport, and it's got Sheriton lines and I've got the refusal of it till to-morrow, when Mrs. T's going up to inspect.”
“Told Small yet?” asked Peter T., winking on the side to me and Jonadab.
Milo looked scared. “Goodness! No,” says he. “And don't you tell him neither. His wife's davenport hunting too.”
“You say you've got the refusal of it?” says I. “Well, I know Adoniram Rogers, and ifIwas dickering with him I'd buy the thing first and get the refusal of it afterwards. You hear ME?”
“Is that so?” repeats Milo. “Slippery, is he? I'll take my wife up there first thing in the morning.”
He walked off looking worried, and his tops'ls hadn't much more'n sunk in the offing afore who should walk out of the billiard room behind us but Eddie Small.
“Brown,” says he to Peter T., “I want you to have a horse and buggy harnessed up for me right off. Mrs. Small and I are going for a little drive to—to—over to Orham,” he says.
'Twas a mean, black night for a drive as fur as Orham and Peter looked surprised. He started to say something, then swallered it down, and told Eddie he'd see to the harnessing. When Small was out of sight, I says:
“You don't cal'late he heard what Milo was telling, do you, Peter?” says I.
Peter T. shook his head and winked, first at Jonadab and then at me.
And the next day there was the dickens to pay because Eddie and the Duchess had driven up to Rogers' the night afore and had bought the davenport, refusal and all, for twenty dollars more'n Milo offered for it.
Adoniram brought it down that forenoon and all hands and the cook was on the hurricane deck to man the yards. 'Twas a wonder them boarders didn't turn out the band and fire salutes. Such ohs and ahs! 'Twan't nothing but a ratty old cripple of a sofy, with one leg carried away and most of the canvas in ribbons, but four men lugged it up the steps and the careful way they handled it made you think the Old Home House was a receiving tomb and they was laying in the dear departed.
'Twas set down on the piazza and then the friends had a chance to view the remains. The Duchess and “Irene dear” gurgled and gushed and received congratulations. Eddie stood around and tried to look modest as was possible under the circumstances. The Dowager sailed over, tilted her nose up to the foretop, remarked “Humph”' through it and come about and stood at the other end of the porch. “My daughter” follers in her wake, observes “Humph!” likewise and makes for blue water. Milo comes over and looks at Eddie.
“Well?” says Small. “What do you think of it?”
“Never mind what I think of IT,” answers Thompson, through his teeth. “Shall I tell you what I think of YOU?”
I thought for a minute that hostilities was going to begin, but they didn't. The women was the real battleships in that fleet, the men wa'n't nothing but transports. Milo and Eddie just glared at each other and sheered off, and the “ginuwine Sheriton” was lugged into the sepulchre, meaning the trunk-room aloft in the hotel.
And after that the cold around the thrones was so fierce we had to move the thermometer, and we had to give the families separate tables in the dining-room so's the milk wouldn't freeze. You see the pitcher set right between 'em, and—Oh! I didn't expect you'd believe it.
The “antiquing” went on harder than ever. Every time the Thompsons landed a relic, they'd bring it out on the veranda or in to dinner and gloat over it loud and pointed, while the Smalls would pipe all hands to unload sarcasm. And the same vicy vercy when 'twas t'other way about. 'Twas interesting and instructive to listen to and amused the populace on rainy days, so Peter T. said.
Adoniram Rogers had been mighty scurce 'round the Old Home sense the davenport deal. But one morning he showed up unexpected. A boarder had dug up an antique somewheres in the shape of a derelict plate, and was displaying it proud on the piazza. The Thompsons was there and the Smalls and a whole lot more. All of a sudden Rogers walks up the steps and reaches over and makes fast to the plate.
“Look out!” hollers the prize-winner, frantic. “You'll drop it!”
Adoniram grunted. “Huh!” says he. “'Tain't nothing but a blue dish. I've got a whole closet full of them.”
“WHAT?” yells everybody. And then: “Will you sell 'em?”
“Sell 'em?” says Rogers, looking round surprised. “Why, I never see nothing I wouldn't sell if I got money enough for it.”
Then for the next few minutes there was what old Parson Danvers used to call a study in human nature. All hands started for that poor, helpless plate owner as if they was going to swoop down on him like a passel of gulls on a dead horse-mack'rel. Then they come to themselves and stopped and looked at each other, kind of shamefaced but suspicious. The Duchess and her crowd glared at the Dowager tribe and got the glares back with compound interest. Everybody wanted to get Adoniram one side and talk with him, and everybody else was determined they shouldn't. Wherever he moved the “Antiquers” moved with him. Milo watched from the side lines. Rogers got scared.
“Look here,” says he, staring sort of wild-like at the boarders. “What ails you folks? Are you crazy?”
Well, he might have made a good deal worse guess than that. I don't know how 'twould have ended if Peter T. Brown, cool and sassy as ever, hadn't come on deck just then and took command.
“See here, Rogers,” he says, “let's understand this thing. Have you got a set of dishes like that?”
Adoniram looked at him. “Will I get jailed if I say yes?” he answers.
“Maybe you will if you don't,” says Peter. “Now, then, ladies and gentlemen, this is something we're all interested in, and I think everybody ought to have a fair show. I jedge from the defendant's testimony that he HAS got a set of the dishes, and I also jedge, from my experience and three years' dealings with him, that he's too public-spirited to keep 'em, provided he's paid four times what they're worth. Now my idea is this; Rogers will bring those dishes down here tomorrer and we'll put 'em on exhibition in the hotel parlor. Next day we'll have an auction and sell 'em to the highest cash bidder. And, provided there's no objection, I'll sacrifice my reputation and be auctioneer.”
So 'twas agreed to have the auction.
Next day Adoniram heaves alongside with the dishes in a truck wagon, and they was strung out on the tables in the parlor. And such a pawing over and gabbling you never heard. I'd been suspicious, myself, knowing Rogers, but there was the set from platters to sassers, and blue enough and ugly enough to be as antique as Mrs. Methusalem's jet earrings. The “Antiquers” handled 'em and admired 'em and p'inted to the three holes in the back of each dish—the same being proof of age—and got more covetous every minute. But the joy was limited. As one feller said, “I'd like 'em mighty well, but what chance'll we have bidding against green-back syndicates like that?” referring to the Dowager and the Duchess.
Milo and Eddie was the most worried of all, because each of 'em had been commissioned by their commanding officers not to let t'other family win.
That auction was the biggest thing that ever happened at the Old Home. We had it on the lawn out back of the billiard room and folks came from Harniss and Orham and the land knows where. The sheds and barn was filled with carriages and we served thirty-two extra dinners at a dollar a feed. The dishes was piled on a table and Peter T. done his auctioneer preaching from a kind of pulpit made out of two cracker boxes and a tea chest.
But there wa'n't any real bidding except from the Smalls and Thompsons. A few of the boarders and some of the out-of-towners took a shy long at first, but their bids was only ground bait. Milo and Eddie, backed by the Dowager and the Duchess, done the real fishing.
The price went up and up. Peter T. whooped and pounded and all but shed tears. If he'd been burying a competition hotel keeper he couldn't have hove more soul into his work. 'Twas, “Fifty! Do I hear sixty? Sixty do I hear? Fifty dollars! THINK of it? Why, friends, this ain't a church pound party. Look at them dishes! LOOK at 'em! Why, the pin feathers on those blue dicky birds in the corners are worth more'n that for mattress stuffing. Do I hear sixty? Sixty I'm bid. Who says seventy?”
Milo said it, and Eddie was back at him afore he could shake the reefs out of the last syllable. She went up to a hundred, then to one hundred and twenty-five, and with every raise Adoniram Roger's smile lengthened out. After the one-twenty-five mark the tide rose slower. Milo'd raise it a dollar and Eddie'd jump him fifty cents.
And just then two things happened. One was that a servant girl come running from the Old Home House to tell the Duchess and “Irene dear” that some swell friends of theirs from the hotel at Harniss had driven over to call and was waiting for 'em in the parlor. The female Smalls went in, though they wa'n't joyful over it. They give Eddie his sailing orders afore they went, too.
The other thing that happened was Bill Saltmarsh's arriving in port. Bill is an “antiquer” for revenue only. He runs an antique store over at Ostable and the prices he charges are enough to convict him without hearing the evidence. I knew he'd come.
Saltmarsh busts through the crowd and makes for the pulpit. He nods to Peter T. and picks up one of the plates. He looks at it first ruther casual; then more and more careful, turning it over and taking up another.
“Hold on a minute, Brown,” says he. “Are THESE the dishes you're selling?”
“Sure thing,” comes back Peter. “Think we're serving free lunch? No, sir! Those are the genuine articles, Mr. Saltmarsh, and you're cheating the widders and orphans if you don't put in a bid quick. One thirty-two fifty, I'm bid. Now, Saltmarsh!”
But Bill only laughed. Then he picks up another plate, looks at it, and laughs again.
“Good day, Brown,” says he. “Sorry I can't stop.” And off he puts towards his horse and buggy.
Eddie Small was watching him. Milo, being on the other side of the pulpit, hadn't noticed so partic'lar.
“Who's that?” asks Eddie, suspicious. “Does he know antiques?”
I remarked that if Bill didn't, then nobody did.
“Look here, Saltmarsh!” says Small, catching Bill by the arm as he shoved through the crowd. “What's the matter with those dishes—anything?”
Bill turned and looked at him. “Why, no,” he says, slow. “They're all right—of their kind.” And off he put again.
But Eddie wa'n't satisfied. He turns to me. “By George!” he says. “What is it? Does he think they're fakes?”
I didn't know, so I shook my head. Small fidgetted, looked at Peter, and then run after Saltmarsh. Milo had just raised the bid.
“One hundred and thirty-three” hollers Peter, fetching the tea chest a belt. “One thirty-four do I hear? Make it one thirty-three fifty. Fifty cents do I hear? Come, come! this is highway robbery, gentlemen. Mr. Small—where are you?”
But Eddie was talking to Saltmarsh. In a minute back he comes, looking more worried than ever. Peter T. bawled and pounded and beckoned at him with the mallet, but he only fidgetted—didn't know what to do.
“One thirty-three!” bellers Peter. “One thirty-three! Oh, how can I look my grandmother's picture in the face after this? One thirty-three—once! One thirty-three—twice! Third and last call! One—thirty—”
Then Eddie begun to raise his hand, but 'twas too late.
“One thirty-three and SOLD! To Mr. Milo Thompson for one hundred and thirty-three dollars!”
And just then come a shriek from the piazza; the Duchess and “Irene dear” had come out of the parlor.
Well! Talk about crowing! The way that Thompson crowd rubbed it in on the Smalls was enough to make you leave the dinner table. They had the servants take in them dishes, piece by piece, and every single article, down to the last butter plate, was steered straight by the Small crowd.
As for poor Eddie, when he come up to explain why he hadn't kept on bidding, his wife put him out like he was a tin lamp.
“Don't SPEAK to me!” says she. “Don't you DARE speak to me.”
He didn't dare. He just run up a storm sail and beat for harbor back of the barn. And from the piazza Milo cackled vainglorious.
Me and Cap'n Jonadab and Peter T. felt so sorry for Eddie, knowing what he had coming to him from the Duchess, that we went out to see him. He was setting on a wrecked hencoop, looking heart-broke but puzzled.
“'Twas that Saltmarsh made me lose my nerve,” he says. “I thought when he wouldn't bid there was something wrong with the dishes. And there WAS something wrong, too. Now what was it?”
“Maybe the price was too high,” says I.
“No, 'twa'n't that. I b'lieve yet he thought they were imitations. Oh, if they only were!”
And then, lo and behold you, around the corner comes Adoniram Rogers. I'd have bet large that whatever conscience Adoniram was born with had dried up and blown away years ago. But no; he'd resurrected a remnant.
“Mr. Small,” stammered Mr. Rogers, “I'm sorry you feel bad about not buying them dishes. I—I thought I'd ought to tell you—that is to say, I—Well, if you want another set, I cal'late I can get it for you—that is, if you won't tell nobody.”
“ANOTHER set?” hollers Eddie, wide-eyed. “Anoth—Do you mean to say you've got MORE?”
“Why, I ain't exactly got 'em now, but my nephew John keeps a furniture store in South Boston, and he has lots of sets like that. I bought that one off him.”
Peter T. Brown jumps to his feet.
“Why, you outrageous robber!” he hollers. “Didn't you say those dishes were old?”
“I never said nothing, except that they were like the plate that feller had on the piazza. And they was, too. YOU folks said they was old, and I thought you'd ought to know, so—”
Eddie Small threw up both hands. “Fakes!” he hollers. “Fakes! AND THOMPSON PAID ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE DOLLARS FOR 'EM! Boys, there's times when life's worth living. Have a drink.”
We went into the billard-room and took something; that is, Peter and Eddie took that kind of something. Me and Jonadab took cigars.
“Fellers,” said Eddie, “drink hearty. I'm going in to tell my wife. Fake dishes! And I beat Thompson on the davenport.”
He went away bubbling like a biling spring. After he was gone Rogers looked thoughtful.
“That's funny, too, ain't it?” he says.
“What's funny?” we asked.
“Why, about that sofy he calls a davenport. You see, I bought that off John, too,” says Adoniram.
I never could quite understand why the folks at Wellmouth made me selectman. I s'pose likely 'twas on account of Jonadab and me and Peter Brown making such a go of the Old Home House and turning Wellmouth Port from a sand fleas' paradise into a hospital where city folks could have their bank accounts amputated and not suffer more'n was necessary. Anyway, I was elected unanimous at town meeting, and Peter was mighty anxious for me to take the job.
“Barzilla,” says Peter, “I jedge that a selectman is a sort of dwarf alderman. Now, I've had friends who've been aldermen, and they say it's a sure thing, like shaking with your own dice. If you're straight, there's the honor and the advertisement; if you're crooked, there's the graft. Either way the house wins. Go in, and glory be with you.”
So I finally agreed to serve, and the very first meeting I went to, the question of Asaph Blueworthy and the poorhouse comes up. Zoeth Tiddit—he was town clerk—he puts it this way:
“Gentlemen,” he says, “we have here the usual application from Asaph Blueworthy for aid from the town. I don't know's there's much use for me to read it—it's tolerable familiar. 'Suffering from lumbago and rheumatiz'—um, yes. 'Out of work'—um, just so. 'Respectfully begs that the board will'—etcetery and so forth. Well, gentlemen, what's your pleasure?”
Darius Gott, he speaks first, and dry and drawling as ever. “Out of work, hey?” says Darius. “Mr. Chairman, I should like to ask if anybody here remembers the time when Ase was IN work?”
Nobody did, and Cap'n Benijah Poundberry—he was chairman at that time—he fetches the table a welt with his starboard fist and comes out emphatic.
“Feller members,” says he, “I don't know how the rest of you feel, but it's my opinion that this board has done too much for that lazy loafer already. Long's his sister, Thankful, lived, we couldn't say nothing, of course. If she wanted to slave and work so's her brother could live in idleness and sloth, why, that was her business. There ain't any law against a body's making a fool of herself, more's the pity. But she's been dead a year, and he's done nothing since but live on those that'll trust him, and ask help from the town. He ain't sick—except sick of work. Now, it's my idea that, long's he's bound to be a pauper, he might's well be treated as a pauper. Let's send him to the poorhouse.”
“But,” says I, “he owns his place down there by the shore, don't he?”
All hands laughed—that is, all but Cap'n Benijah. “Own nothing,” says the cap'n. “The whole rat trap, from the keel to maintruck, ain't worth more'n three hundred dollars, and I loaned Thankful four hundred on it years ago, and the mortgage fell due last September. Not a cent of principal, interest, nor rent have I got since. Whether he goes to the poorhouse or not, he goes out of that house of mine to-morrer. A man can smite me on one cheek and maybe I'll turn t'other, but when, after I HAVE turned it, he finds fault 'cause my face hurts his hand, then I rise up and quit; you hear ME!”
Nobody could help hearing him, unless they was deefer than the feller that fell out of the balloon and couldn't hear himself strike, so all hands agreed that sending Asaph Blueworthy to the poorhouse would be a good thing. 'Twould be a lesson to Ase, and would give the poorhouse one more excuse for being on earth. Wellmouth's a fairly prosperous town, and the paupers had died, one after the other, and no new ones had come, until all there was left in the poorhouse was old Betsy Mullen, who was down with creeping palsy, and Deborah Badger, who'd been keeper ever since her husband died.
The poorhouse property was valuable, too, specially for a summer cottage, being out on the end of Robbin's Point, away from the town, and having a fine view right across the bay. Zoeth Tiddit was a committee of one with power from the town to sell the place, but he hadn't found a customer yet. And if he did sell it, what to do with Debby was more or less of a question. She'd kept poorhouse for years, and had no other home nor no relations to go to. Everybody liked her, too—that is, everybody but Cap'n Benijah. He was down on her 'cause she was a Spiritualist and believed in fortune tellers and such. The cap'n, bein' a deacon of the Come-Outer persuasion, was naturally down on folks who wasn't broad-minded enough to see that his partic'lar crack in the roof was the only way to crawl through to glory.
Well, we voted to send Asaph to the poorhouse, and then I was appointed a delegate to see him and tell him he'd got to go. I wasn't enthusiastic over the job, but everybody said I was exactly the feller for the place.
“To tell you the truth,” drawls Darius, “you, being a stranger, are the only one that Ase couldn't talk over. He's got a tongue that's buttered on both sides and runs on ball bearings. If I should see him he'd work on my sympathies till I'd lend him the last two-cent piece in my baby's bank.”
So, as there wa'n't no way out of it, I drove down to Asaph's that afternoon. He lived off on a side road by the shore, in a little, run-down shanty that was as no account as he was. When I moored my horse to the “heavenly-wood” tree by what was left of the fence, I would have bet my sou'wester that I caught a glimpse of Brother Blueworthy, peeking round the corner of the house. But when I turned that corner there was nobody in sight, although the bu'sted wash-bench, with a cranberry crate propping up its lame end, was shaking a little, as if some one had set on it recent.
I knocked on the door, but nobody answered. After knocking three or four times, I tried kicking, and the second kick raised, from somewheres inside, a groan that was as lonesome a sound as ever I heard. No human noise in my experience come within a mile of it for dead, downright misery—unless, maybe, it's Cap'n Jonadab trying to sing in meeting Sundays.
“Who's that?” wails Ase from 'tother side of the door. “Did anybody knock?”
“Knock!” says I. “I all but kicked your everlasting derelict out of water. It's me, Wingate—one of the selectmen. Tumble up, there! I want to talk to you.”
Blueworthy didn't exactly tumble, so's to speak, but the door opened, and he comes shuffling and groaning into sight. His face was twisted up and he had one hand spread-fingered on the small of his back.
“Dear, dear!” says he. “I'm dreadful sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Wingate. I've been wrastling with this turrible lumbago, and I'm 'fraid it's affecting my hearing. I'll tell you—”
“Yes—well, you needn't mind,” I says; “'cordin' to common tell, you was born with that same kind of lumbago, and it's been getting no better fast ever since. Jest drag your sufferings out onto this bench and come to anchor. I've got considerable to say, and I'm in a hurry.”
Well, he grunted, and groaned, and scuffled along. When he'd got planted on the bench he didn't let up any—kept on with the misery.
“Look here,” says I, losing patience, “when you get through with the Job business I'll heave ahead and talk. Don't let me interrupt the lamentations on no account. Finished? All right. Now, you listen to me.”
And then I told him just how matters stood. His house was to be seized on the mortgage, and he was to move to the poorhouse next day. You never see a man more surprised or worse cut up. Him to the poorhouse? HIM—one of the oldest families on the Cape? You'd think he was the Grand Panjandrum. Well, the dignity didn't work, so he commenced on the lumbago; and that didn't work, neither. But do you think he give up the ship? Not much; he commenced to explain why he hadn't been able to earn a living and the reasons why he'd ought to have another chance. Talk! Well, if I hadn't been warned he'd have landed ME, all right. I never heard a better sermon nor one with more long words in it.
I actually pitied him. It seemed a shame that a feller who could argue like that should have to go to the poorhouse; he'd ought to run a summer hotel—when the boarders kicked 'cause there was yeller-eyed beans in the coffee he would be the one to explain that they was lucky to get beans like that without paying extra for 'em. Thinks I, “I'm an idiot, but I'll make him one more offer.”
So I says: “See here, Mr. Blueworthy, I could use another man in the stable at the Old Home House. If you want the job you can have it. ONLY, you'll have to work, and work hard.”
Well, sir, would you believe it?—his face fell like a cook-book cake. That kind of chance wa'n't what he was looking for. He shuffled and hitched around, and finally he says: “I'll—Ill consider your offer,” he says.
That was too many for me. “Well, I'll be yardarmed!” says I, and went off and left him “considering.” I don't know what his considerations amounted to. All I know is that next day they took him to the poorhouse.
And from now on this yarn has got to be more or less hearsay. I'll have to put this and that together, like the woman that made the mince meat. Some of the facts I got from a cousin of Deborah Badger's, some of them I wormed out of Asaph himself one time when he'd had a jug come down from the city and was feeling toler'ble philanthropic and conversationy. But I guess they're straight enough.
Seems that, while I was down notifying Blueworthy, Cap'n Poundberry had gone over to the poorhouse to tell the Widow Badger about her new boarder. The widow was glad to hear the news.
“He'll be somebody to talk to, at any rate,” says she. “Poor old Betsy Mullen ain't exactly what you'd call company for a sociable body. But I'll mind what you say, Cap'n Benijah. It takes more than a slick tongue to come it over me. I'll make that lazy man work or know the reason why.”
So when Asaph arrived—per truck wagon—at three o'clock the next afternoon, Mrs. Badger was ready for him. She didn't wait to shake hands or say: “Glad to see you.” No, sir! The minute he landed she sent him out by the barn with orders to chop a couple of cords of oak slabs that was piled there. He groaned and commenced to develop lumbago symptoms, but she cured 'em in a hurry by remarking that her doctor's book said vig'rous exercise was the best physic, for that kind of disease, and so he must chop hard. She waited till she heard the ax “chunk” once or twice, and then she went into the house, figgering that she'd gained the first lap, anyhow.
But in an hour or so it come over her all of a sudden that 'twas awful quiet out by the woodpile. She hurried to the back door, and there was Ase, setting on the ground in the shade, his eyes shut and his back against the chopping block, and one poor lonesome slab in front of him with a couple of splinters knocked off it. That was his afternoon's work.
Maybe you think the widow wa'n't mad. She tip-toed out to the wood-pile, grabbed her new boarder by the coat collar and shook him till his head played “Johnny Comes Marching Home” against the chopping block.
“You lazy thing, you!” says she, with her eyes snapping. “Wake up and tell me what you mean by sleeping when I told you to work.”
“Sleep?” stutters Asaph, kind of reaching out with his mind for a life-preserver. “I—I wa'n't asleep.”
Well, I don't think he had really meant to sleep. I guess he just set down to think of a good brand new excuse for not working, and kind of drowsed off.
“You wa'n't hey?” says Deborah. “Then 'twas the best imitation everIsee. What WAS you doing, if 'tain't too personal a question?”
“I—I guess I must have fainted. I'm subject to such spells. You see, ma'am, I ain't been well for—”
“Yes, I know. I understand all about that. Now, you march your boots into that house, where I can keep an eye on you, and help me get supper. To-morrer morning you'll get up at five o'clock and chop wood till breakfast time. If I think you've chopped enough, maybe you'll get the breakfast. If I don't think so you'll keep on chopping. Now, march!”
Blueworthy, he marched, but 'twa'n't as joyful a parade as an Odd Fellers' picnic. He could see he'd made a miscue—a clean miss, and the white ball in the pocket. He knew, too, that a lot depended on his making a good impression the first thing, and instead of that he'd gone and “foozled his approach,” as that city feller said last summer when he ran the catboat plump into the end of the pier. Deborah, she went out into the kitchen, but she ordered Ase to stay in the dining room and set the table; told him to get the dishes out of the closet.
All the time he was doing it he kept thinking about the mistake he'd made, and wondering if there wa'n't some way to square up and get solid with the widow. Asaph was a good deal of a philosopher, and his motto was—so he told me afterward, that time I spoke of when he'd been investigating the jug—his motto was: “Every hard shell has a soft spot somewheres, and after you find it, it's easy.” If he could only find out something that Deborah Badger was particular interested in, then he believed he could make a ten-strike. And, all at once, down in the corner of the closet, he see a big pile of papers and magazines. The one on top was the Banner of Light, and underneath that was the Mysterious Magazine.
Then he remembered, all of a sudden, the town talk about Debby's believing in mediums and spooks and fortune tellers and such. And he commenced to set up and take notice.
At the supper table he was as mum as a rundown clock; just set in his chair and looked at Mrs. Badger. She got nervous and fidgety after a spell, and fin'lly bu'sts out with: “What are you staring at me like that for?”
Ase kind of jumped and looked surprised. “Staring?” says he. “Was I staring?”
“I should think you was! Is my hair coming down, or what is it?”
He didn't answer for a minute, but he looked over her head and then away acrost the room, as if he was watching something that moved. “Your husband was a short, kind of fleshy man, as I remember, wa'n't he?” says he, absent-minded like.
“Course he was. But what in the world—”
“'Twa'n't him, then. I thought not.”
“HIM? My husband? What DO you mean?”
And then Asaph begun to put on the fine touches. He leaned acrost the table and says he, in a sort of mysterious whisper: “Mrs. Badger,” says he, “do you ever see things? Not common things, but strange—shadders like?”
“Mercy me!” says the widow. “No. Do YOU?”
“Sometimes seems's if I did. Jest now, as I set here looking at you, it seemed as if I saw a man come up and put his hand on your shoulder.”
Well, you can imagine Debby. She jumped out of her chair and whirled around like a kitten in a fit. “Good land!” she hollers. “Where? What? Who was it?”
“I don't know who 'twas. His face was covered up; but it kind of come to me—a communication, as you might say—that some day that man was going to marry you.”
“Land of love! Marry ME? You're crazy! I'm scart to death.”
Ase shook his head, more mysterious than ever. “I don't know,” says he. “Maybe I am crazy. But I see that same man this afternoon, when I was in that trance, and—”
“Trance! Do you mean to tell me you was in a TRANCE out there by the wood-pile? Are you a MEDIUM?”
Well, Ase, he wouldn't admit that he was a medium exactly, but he give her to understand that there wa'n't many mediums in this country that could do business 'longside of him when he was really working. 'Course he made believe he didn't want to talk about such things, and, likewise of course, that made Debby all the more anxious TO talk about 'em. She found out that her new boarder was subject to trances and had second-sight and could draw horoscopes, and I don't know what all. Particular she wanted to know more about that “man” that was going to marry her, but Asaph wouldn't say much about him.
“All I can say is,” says Ase, “that he didn't appear to me like a common man. He was sort of familiar looking, and yet there was something distinguished about him, something uncommon, as you might say. But this much comes to me strong: He's a man any woman would be proud to get, and some time he's coming to offer you a good home. You won't have to keep poorhouse all your days.”
So the widow went up to her room with what you might call a case of delightful horrors. She was too scart to sleep and frightened to stay awake. She kept two lamps burning all night.
As for Asaph, he waited till 'twas still, and then he crept downstairs to the closet, got an armful of Banners of Light and Mysterious Magazines, and went back to his room to study up. Next morning there was nothing said about wood chopping—Ase was busy making preparations to draw Debby's horoscope.
You can see how things went after that. Blueworthy was star boarder at that poorhouse. Mrs Badger was too much interested in spooks and fortunes to think of asking him to work, and if she did hint at such a thing, he'd have another “trance” and see that “man,” and 'twas all off. And we poor fools of selectmen was congratulating ourselves that Ase Blueworthy was doing something toward earning his keep at last. And then—'long in July 'twas—Betsy Mullen died.
One evening, just after the Fourth, Deborah and Asaph was in the dining room, figgering out fortunes with a pack of cards, when there comes a knock at the door. The widow answered it, and there was an old chap, dressed in a blue suit, and a stunning pretty girl in what these summer women make believe is a sea-going rig. And both of 'em was sopping wet through, and as miserable as two hens in a rain barrel.
It turned out that the man's name was Lamont, with a colonel's pennant and a million-dollar mark on the foretop of it, and the girl was his daughter Mabel. They'd been paying six dollars a day each for sea air and clam soup over to the Wattagonsett House, in Harniss, and either the soup or the air had affected the colonel's head till he imagined he could sail a boat all by his ownty-donty. Well, he'd sailed one acrost the bay and got becalmed, and then the tide took him in amongst the shoals at the mouth of Wellmouth Crick, and there, owing to a mixup of tide, shoals, dark, and an overdose of foolishness, the boat had upset and foundered and the Lamonts had waded half a mile or so to shore. Once on dry land, they'd headed up the bluff for the only port in sight, which was the poorhouse—although they didn't know it.
The widow and Asaph made 'em as comfortable as they could; rigged 'em up in dry clothes which had belonged to departed paupers, and got 'em something to eat. The Lamonts was what they called “enchanted” with the whole establishment.
“This,” says the colonel, with his mouth full of brown bread, “is delightful, really delightful. The New England hospitality that we read about. So free from ostentation and conventionality.”
When you stop to think of it, you'd scurcely expect to run acrost much ostentation at the poorhouse, but, of course, the colonel didn't know, and he praised everything so like Sam Hill, that the widow was ashamed to break the news to him. And Ase kept quiet, too, you can be sure of that. As for Mabel, she was one of them gushy, goo-gooey kind of girls, and she was as struck with the shebang as her dad. She said the house itself was a “perfect dear.”
And after supper they paired off and got to talking, the colonel with Mrs. Badger, and Asaph with Mabel. Now, I can just imagine how Ase talked to that poor, unsuspecting young female. He sartin did love an audience, and here was one that didn't know him nor his history, nor nothing. He played the sad and mysterious. You could see that he was a blighted bud, all right. He was a man with a hidden sorrer, and the way he'd sigh and change the subject when it come to embarrassing questions was enough to bring tears to a graven image, let alone a romantic girl just out of boarding school.
Then, after a spell of this, Mabel wanted to be shown the house, so as to see the “sweet, old-fashioned rooms.” And she wanted papa to see 'em, too, so Ase led the way, like the talking man in the dime museum. And the way them Lamonts agonized over every rag mat, and corded bedstead was something past belief. When they was saying good-night—they HAD to stay all night because their own clothes wa'n't dry and those they had on were more picturesque than stylish—Mabel turns to her father and says she:
“Papa, dear,” she says, “I believe that at last we've found the very thing we've been looking for.”
And the colonel said yes, he guessed they had. Next morning they was up early and out enjoying the view; it IS about the best view alongshore, and they had a fit over it. When breakfast was done the Lamonts takes Asaph one side and the colonel says:
“Mr. Blueworthy,” he says, “my daughter and I am very much pleased with the Cape and the Cape people. Some time ago we made up our minds that if we could find the right spot we would build a summer home here. Preferably we wish to purchase a typical, old-time, Colonial homestead and remodel it, retaining, of course, all the original old-fashioned flavor. Cost is not so much the consideration as location and the house itself. We are—ahem!—well, frankly, your place here suits us exactly.”
“We adore it,” says Mabel, emphatic.
“Mr. Blueworthy,” goes on the colonel, “will you sell us your home? I am prepared to pay a liberal price.”
Poor Asaph was kind of throwed on his beam ends, so's to speak. He hemmed and hawed, and finally had to blurt out that he didn't own the place. The Lamonts was astonished. The colonel wanted to know if it belonged to Mrs. Badger.
“Why, no,” says Ase. “The fact is—that is to say—you see—”
And just then the widow opened the kitchen window and called to 'em.
“Colonel Lamont,” says she, “there's a sailboat beating up the harbor, and I think the folks on it are looking for you.”
The colonel excused himself, and run off down the hill toward the back side of the point, and Asaph was left alone with the girl. He see, I s'pose, that here was his chance to make the best yarn out of what was bound to come out anyhow in a few minutes. So he fetched a sigh that sounded as if 'twas racking loose the foundations and commenced.
He asked Mabel if she was prepared to hear something that would shock her turrible, something that would undermine her confidence in human natur'. She was a good deal upset, and no wonder, but she braced up and let on that she guessed she could stand it. So then he told her that her dad and her had been deceived, that that house wa'n't his nor Mrs. Badger's; 'twas the Wellmouth poor farm, and he was a pauper.
She was shocked, all right enough, but afore she had a chance to ask a question, he begun to tell her the story of his life. 'Twas a fine chance for him to spread himself, and I cal'late he done it to the skipper's taste. He told her how him and his sister had lived in their little home, their own little nest, over there by the shore, for years and years. He led her out to where she could see the roof of his old shanty over the sand hills, and he wiped his eyes and raved over it. You'd think that tumble-down shack was a hunk out of paradise; Adam and Eve's place in the Garden was a short lobster 'longside of it. Then, he said, he was took down with an incurable disease. He tried and tried to get along, but 'twas no go. He mortgaged the shanty to a grasping money lender—meanin' Poundberry—and that money was spent. Then his sister passed away and his heart broke; so they took him to the poorhouse.
“Miss Lamont,” says he, “good-by. Sometimes in the midst of your fashionable career, in your gayety and so forth, pause,” he says, “and give a thought to the broken-hearted pauper who has told you his life tragedy.”
Well, now, you take a green girl, right fresh from novels and music lessons, and spring that on her—what can you expect? Mabel, she cried and took on dreadful.
“Oh, Mr. Blueworthy!” says she, grabbing his hand. “I'm SO glad you told me. I'm SO glad! Cheer up,” she says. “I respect you more than ever, and my father and I will—”
Just then the colonel comes puffing up the hill. He looked as if he'd heard news.
“My child,” he says in a kind of horrified whisper, “can you realize that we have actually passed the night in the—in the ALMSHOUSE?”
Mabel held up her hand. “Hush, papa,” she says. “Hush. I know all about it. Come away, quick; I've got something very important to say to you.”
And she took her dad's arm and went off down the hill, mopping her pretty eyes with her handkerchief and smiling back, every once in a while, through her tears, at Asaph.
Now, it happened that there was a selectmen's meeting that afternoon at four o'clock. I was on hand, and so was Zoeth Tiddit and most of the others. Cap'n Poundberry and Darius Gott were late. Zoeth was as happy as a clam at high water; he'd sold the poorhouse property that very day to a Colonel Lamont, from Harniss, who wanted it for a summer place.
“And I got the price we set on it, too,” says Zoeth. “But that wa'n't the funniest part of it. Seems's old man Lamont and his daughter was very much upset because Debby Badger and Ase Blueworthy would be turned out of house and home 'count of the place being sold. The colonel was hot foot for giving 'em a check for five hundred dollars to square things; said his daughter'd made him promise he would. Says I: 'You can give it to Debby, if you want to, but don't lay a copper on that Blueworthy fraud.' Then I told him the truth about Ase. He couldn't hardly believe it, but I finally convinced him, and he made out the check to Debby. I took it down to her myself just after dinner. Ase was there, and his eyes pretty nigh popped out of his head.
“'Look here,' I says to him; 'if you'd been worth a continental you might have had some of this. As it is, you'll be farmed out somewheres—that's what'll happen to YOU.'”
And as Zoeth was telling this, in comes Cap'n Benijah. He was happy, too.
“I cal'late the Lamonts must be buying all the property alongshore,” he says when he heard the news. “I sold that old shack that I took from Blueworthy to that Lamont girl to-day for three hundred and fifty dollars. She wouldn't say what she wanted of it, neither, and I didn't care much;Iwas glad to get rid of it.”
“Ican tell you what she wanted of it,” says somebody behind us. We turned round and 'twas Gott; he'd come in. “I just met Squire Foster,” he says, “and the squire tells me that that Lamont girl come into his office with the bill of sale for the property you sold her and made him deed it right over to Ase Blueworthy, as a present from her.”
“WHAT?” says all hands, Poundberry loudest of all.
“That's right,” said Darius. “She told the squire a long rigamarole about what a martyr Ase was, and how her dad was going to do some thing for him, but that she was going to give him his home back again with her own money, money her father had given her to buy a ring with, she said, though that ain't reasonable, of course—nobody'd pay that much for a ring. The squire tried to tell her what a no-good Ase was, but she froze him quicker'n—Where you going, Cap'n Benije?”
“I'm going down to that poorhouse,” hollers Poundberry. “I'll find out the rights and wrongs of this thing mighty quick.”
We all said we'd go with him, and we went, six in one carryall. As we hove in sight of the poorhouse a buggy drove away from it, going in t'other direction.
“That looks like the Baptist minister's buggy,” says Darius. “What on earth's he been down here for?”
Nobody could guess. As we run alongside the poorhouse door, Ase Blueworthy stepped out, leading Debby Badger. She was as red as an auction flag.
“By time, Ase Blueworthy!” hollers Cap'n Benijah, starting to get out of the carryall, “what do you mean by—Debby, what are you holding that rascal's hand for?”
But Ase cut him short. “Cap'n Poundberry,” says he, dignified as a boy with a stiff neck, “I might pass over your remarks to me, but when you address my wife—”
“Your WIFE?” hollers everybody—everybody but the cap'n; he only sort of gurgled.
“My wife,” says Asaph. “When you men—church members, too, some of you—sold the house over her head, I'm proud to say that I, having a home once more, was able to step for'ard and ask her to share it with me. We was married a few minutes ago,” he says.
“And, oh, Cap'n Poundberry!” cried Debby, looking as if this was the most wonderful part of it—“oh, Cap'n Poundberry!” she says, “we've known for a long time that some man—an uncommon kind of man—was coming to offer me a home some day, but even Asaph didn't know 'twas himself; did you, Asaph?”
We selectmen talked the thing over going home, but Cap'n Benijah didn't speak till we was turning in at his gate. Then he fetched his knee a thump with his fist, and says he, in the most disgusted tone ever I heard:
“A house and lot for nothing,” he says, “a wife to do the work for him, and five hundred dollars to spend! Sometimes the way this world's run gives me moral indigestion.”
Which was tolerable radical for a Come-Outer to say, seems to me.