It is the good fortune of some fatherless or motherless children to be adopted into good families where the natural love and care that have been denied them are supplied, as it were, by proxy. With young Quincy it was so, only much more so. It fell to his lot to be adopted by an entire town. Its residents had been, with few exceptions, his father's friends. The sad story of his father's loss at sea was known to all, and the town's heart warmed towards him; the town's arms were open to embrace him, and care for him.
To his Aunt Huldah Pettingill he seemed as though sent from another world. He was her husband's nephew, and hers—but there was a closer tie acknowledged within her own heart, and kept there as a precious secret. He was Quincy Adams Sawyer's son—the son of the man who had taught her what love was. It had been a bitter lesson, for when her heart was awakened, it was but to find that the one who had played upon its sensitive strings did not love her, and that her duty was to another who did love her. She had been a true and loving wife with no unsatisfied heart-longings, but—
“You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.”
So Huldah Mason still kept within a secret corner of her heart a fond remembrance of happy days gone by. And now Quincy's son was one of her family; she could be a mother to him and no one would have a right to question her manifestations of affection. It is often that the human heart thus finds solace for past sad experiences or suffering.
It was only natural that Huldah, after her father's death, should take her mother to her own home. The old Deacon had acquired enough of this world's goods to avoid the necessity of hard labour during the last years of his life. Good books had been his constant companions, and an old-fashioned cane-bottomed rocking chair his favourite seat upon the piazza or by the kitchen fire. Abner Stiles had done the necessary farm work and the household chores. When the Deacon passed away, the town lost one of its broadest-minded, most honest, most helpful citizens.
Mrs. Mason, still hale and hearty, assisted her daughter in her household duties, but allowed Abner to put up the clothes line and take it in.
“And this is his son, and his poor father—” The Deacon's good wife could say no more, but clasped little Quincy close to her motherly breast.
“You told me how it happened, Huldy, and I told father, but it don't seem real even now. His father was such a fine man.”
She stopped, for her daughter had turned her head away, and her mother knew that it was to brush away some tears that could not be kept back.
To 'Zekiel Pettingill, the boy was Alice's child. His only sister had been the apple of his eye, and his great, honest heart welcomed the boy as if he were his own.
His own son, Quincy Adams Pettingill, was in his fourteenth year and upon him devolved the outdoor education of his young cousin. In this pleasant task he was aided by his sister Sophie who was a year younger than the newcomer.
There was a scene of wild excitement when young Quincy paid his first visit to the old Pettingill place where his mother was born. It was still the home of Hiram Maxwell and his wife, formerly Mandy Skinner. The two boys, Abraham Mason Maxwell and Obadiah Strout Maxwell had been told often the story of Mr. Sawyer's visit to Eastborough, and how he boarded in that house, and little Mandy was glad to see “Kirwinzee.”
The old dog, Swiss, had, with difficulty, been dragged from the grave of his former master, Uncle Ike, but no force, or persuasion, could induce him to leave the old house. Probably the name “Quincy” had a familiar sound and he wagged his tail slowly as an evidence of recognition and welcome.
The most explosive greeting came from Mrs. Crowley.
“An' it's the foine young man he is, the picter of his feyther.” She would have taken him in her arms and hugged him but for the presence of others, but, afterwards, when alone with him she patted his curly head and told him that he would have to be a fine man to be as good as his father. Everywhere he went his father was talked about and praised, and his mother had taught him to love his father's memory. Thus early the ambition to be like his father was instilled in the boy's mind. Confident as Alice was that her husband was still living, Aunt Ella had protested effectually against her implanting any such hope in the child's mind, and he had been brought up with the belief that his father had died before he was born. There was one place where his father's praises were faint, and that was at the grocery store.
{ILLUSTRATION: “'I S'POSE ONE OF THESE DAYS YOU'LL BE WEIGHIN' SUGAR AND DRAWIN' 'LASSES.'”}
“Ah, my young man,” said Mr. Obadiah Strout, on his first visit, “your father's money started this business, but I've worked mighty hard to build it up to what it is now. I s'pose one of these days you'll be weighin' sugar and drawin' 'lasses.”
“I guess not,” exclaimed Hiram. “Rich men's sons don't us'ally take to their father's business.”
“You're right for once, Hiram,” Mr. Strout acknowledged. “They uzally run through the money, bust the biz'ness and bring up in jail.”
“Well, this young fellow won't,” cried Hiram, hotly. “He's goin' to be a great man like his father, won't you, Bub?”
“Bub” took a handful of raisins from an open box, and eyed his questioner wonderingly.
“There's many a slip 'twixt the cow and the churn,” said Mr. Strout as he took a ten cent cigar from the case and lighted it. Perhaps the sight of the son recalled a scene in the same shop many years before on Quincy's first visit to Mason's Corner when a box of cigars had been the subject of an animated discussion between the boy's father and himself, followed by a passage-at-arms—or, more correctly speaking—fists. We humans are only veneered with politeness or good nature; underneath, man's revengeful nature lies dormant—but not dead.
Mrs. Hawkins was delighted to see him. “Olive, don't you think he's the likeness of his father?”
Olive agreed, because she had found that agreement with her employer's opinions made life pleasant, and also led to many desirable additions to her wardrobe.
Mrs. Hawkins surveyed him again. “I'll never forget what a poor appetite his father had when he boarded here. He never came to his meals reg'lar. But he was in love, head over heels an' an extry dip,—an' I don't blame him, for 'Zeke Pettingill's sister was good enough for any man, even if he did git to be guv'nor. Have a cookey?” and Quincy's pockets were filled with cakes that contained raisins and citron.
“Them's seedless raisins, Quincy. I had a boarder once, a reg'lar hayseed who came down here from Montrose to work hayin' time, an' he asked me how I got the stuns out of the raisins. Jes' to fool him, I said I bit 'em out, an' do you know, that old fool never teched another bit o' cake while he stopped here.”
Mr. Jonas Hawkins took him out to see the hens and chickens, and told him that he “kalkilated that mos' on 'em eggs that was bein' sot on would hatch out.” Quincy's great delight was going with Hiram in the grocery wagon. One day they went over the same road from the Pettingill farm to Eastborough Centre that his father had travelled so many times.
The old sign board “Three Miles to Mason's Corner” was still there, but how changed the other conditions. No consumptive uncle in the Poor House, no philosophical Uncle Ike living in a chicken coop, no inquisitive Mrs. Putnam, no mysterious Lindy, no battle royal with the music teacher, no town meeting to engineer, no grocery store to buy, no Deacon's daughter to go driving with, no singing school, no surprise party, no blind girl to comfort and aid—and finally marry.
There were none of the incidents that had made his father's life at Mason's Corner so exciting and interesting. Now, there was only a little boy riding in a red wagon with yellow wheels, inhaling the pure air and sweetness of the wild flowers, listening to the songs of birds, and wishing that Uncle Hiram would make the horse go faster.
It is safe to leave him with his father's friends, for surely his lines had fallen in a pleasant place.
It was February and the air was stinging cold. It was one of those nights such as Lowell wrote about in “The Courtin'.”
“God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur'z you can look or listen,Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.”
In the store of the Strout and Maxwell Company quite a number of the town's people were gathered about the big air-tight stove which was kept stuffed full of wood by willing hands and from which came great waves of almost scorching heat.
Such congregations of villagers are often said to be composed of loafers and loungers, but it was not so at Fernborough. The men who represented the brains and marrow of the town met there. It was the home of the town debating society and supplied a free forum for the discussion of public questions. If the advanced ideas in statesmanship and social economy incubated there could have become the property of the nation, our country would have grown wiser and better.
But for the intense cold the company gathered there on the evening in question would have been much larger. Benoni Hill, the former proprietor of the store and the richest man in town, did not think his wealth was any reason why he should hold aloof or consider himself above his neighbours, whose patronage had been the foundation of his fortune. He was given an old arm-chair while the others sat upon soap-boxes and nail-kegs. Cobb's Twins, William and James, were there, Emmanuel Howe, the minister's son, and Bob Wood who still sang bass in the village church choir.
The store door was opened letting in a gust of cold air which made all draw nearer to the red-hot stove. The newcomer was Samuel Hill, Benoni's son.
A chorus of voices cried: “Hello, Sam!” and a place was made for him so he could thaw out his almost frozen fingers.
“It's mighty cold, ain't it?” said his father.
“Well, I should smile,” replied Sam. This expression he had heard the last time he was in the city, and he derived great pleasure from its repetition.
“How's Tilly?” asked Bob Wood.
“Able to be up and have her bed made.”
All laughed at the rejoinder. Smiles and laughter are easily evoked in a village grocery.
Mr. Obadiah Strout and Mr. Hiram Maxwell, general partners, were in the private office, a small room adjoining the post-office. Mr. Strout was smoking a cigar and reading a letter between the puffs. Hiram, with his chair tilted back against the wall, was smoking his after-supper pipe, for it was after seven o'clock in the evening.
“Mr. Maxwell,” said Obadiah, laying down the letter he had been reading, “this is from the trustees of the estate of the Honourable Quincy Adams Sawyer, formerly our special partner, and the ex-Governor of this Commonwealth. I mention the fact of him being our former special partner first, before I said anything about his political elevation, for I don't believe, Mr. Maxwell, that he would ever have been Governor if he hadn't jined in with us.”
Mr. Strout always called Hiram “Mr. Maxwell,” when they talked over business affairs.
Hiram blew a cloud from his pipe. “Wall, I guess they're putty well satisfied with what we've been doin', ain't they?”
Mr. Strout leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied look on his face.
“Wall, they must be a pretty near set if they expect more'n twelve per cent, on the capital. No, they're all right, 'though one of 'em, that Mr. Merry, is mighty inquisitive 'bout small things. Marryin' inter the Sawyer family 'counts for it, I s'pose.”
Hiram was used to hearing covert slurs and open flings at the Sawyer family, but had found replies only provocative of attacks upon himself, so he listened in silence. Mr. Strout took up the letter. “I wrote 'em 'bout startin' that new branch over to Westvale, and although they answered in a kinder top-lofty style—I reckon that young Merry writ the letter—I 'magine they're in for it, horse, foot, and dragoons. They'll put up the money. An' the question now is who'll go over and take charge of it.”
Hiram put his pipe on the table. “There's two folks that don't want to go, an' that's Mandy an' me. I don't s'pose the children would find any fault, but they're not old enough to vote on the question.”
Hiram knew that his partner was anxious to get him out of the Fernborough store, and so he filed his objections at once.
“Oh,” said Strout, “of course I didn't have no sech idee as askin' you to go, even if you did know who was the best man for the job. The snail thinks he's travelled a long ways when he goes a foot, an' some men are jus' like him.”
Hiram ignored the personal application.
“Well, bein's you didn't want me to go, I s'pose you've somebody in mind. Suit yourself, as us'al.”
“Well, I've thought it all over, an' I think Billy Ricker's our man. He'll be over from Montrose to-morrow an' I'll talk it over with him. We've got that Montrose trade so solid he can be spared from there now. Guess there ain't any trade tonight or Bob would have called us in afore this.”
“Ef we sold cord wood we might be doin' somethin',” and, laughing in his old way at his own joke, Hiram started to follow his partner into the store.
“Say, Hiram,” called out Strout in a loud voice, “bring in them two chairs—everything's occupied out here 'cept the counter.”
As the proprietors took their seats, the store door was opened again, this time admitting Mr. Abner Stiles. His teeth were chattering, and he stamped his feet upon the floor, and beat his hands against his shoulders in old-fashioned country style.
“Moses Williams!” he cried. “I kinder think the North Pole must have slid down an' come to stop in this 'ere town. I say, Strout, if that organ of yourn was pumped to-night you'd have to play 'From Greenland's Icy Mountains,' or some sech tune.”
“Where have you been?” asked Mr. Strout.
“Hain't been nowhere. Jes' came from the Pettingill house. Young Master Sawyer wants some brown sugar to make some candy. Give me five pounds.”
“So it's Master Sawyer, is it?” said Strout as he weighed the saccharine substance. “I thought it was Mister before a man was a Master.”
“I ain't a talkin' about men—he's only a boy, and a mighty smart boy too.”
“I'm tired hearing about him,” said Strout. “Can't you give us something new?”
“Yes, I kin,” said Abner. “Boys, I've got something funny to tell you. I went to Cottonton this afternoon and I'd jest got back when they sent me for the sugar.”
“What ye doin' over there?” asked Benoni.
Abner scratched his head then winked at Benoni.
“I went to buy somethin' for an individual who shall be nameless out of respect—”
“Go on with your story,” shouted Strout. “You'd better hurry home with that sugar or the 'Master' may make it hot for you.”
This remark caused a laugh at Abner's expense.
“Jes' go ahead, Abner,” said Benoni, “we're all a-waitin'.”
“Well, I met a feller on the train and he buzzed me all the way here. He wanted to know where I lived, an' when I told him I lived in Fernborough, that used to be a part of Eastborough, he jest piled me full of questions. I told him all I knew—”
“An' added a little something” broke in Strout.
“No, I jest stuck close to the truth. He wanted to know about Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer. I told him he was dead, but he said he wanted to know about him when he lived here. Then I told him there was a man in town who could tell him more'n I could about that, an' I jest giv' him your name, Obadiah.”
This sally turned the laugh on Strout who was about to make a sharp rejoinder, when the store door opened and a strong current of cold air caused all to turn.
“Shut the door!” cried Bob Wood in his gruff voice.
“I beg your pardon,” said the man, as he complied.
He was very tall,—more than six feet in height. He was dressed in a suit of shiny black; his coat was buttoned tightly and the collar was turned up. The most noticeable part of his costume was a broad-brimmed straw hat. He wore no overcoat and his hands were ungloved.
“Gentlemen, I must beg pardon for this intrusion, but I used to live in these parts many years ago, and I am here to inquire whether any of my family are awaiting the return of a long-lost relative.”
Abner nudged Mr. Strout and said in a whisper: “That's the feller.”
“What might your name be?” asked Mr. Benoni Hill in his genial manner.
“I have occupied many stations in life, and whether high or low have always assumed a cognomen to match my position.”
“A cog what?” asked Bill Cobb in a voice so low that he thought only his brother Jim could hear; but his question reached the stranger's ear.
“By cognomen I mean a desirablealiasor a characteristic appellation.”
This explanation gave rise to a chorus of “Oh's.”
“Kerzactly,” remarked Benoni, and then all laughed.
“When I left this town thirty years ago, my name was Richard Ricker. On returning to those paths which my childish feet so often trod—I have just come from the West Indies where the climate is hotter than that stove—it seems appropriate that I should assume my family name. It is done. I am now Richard Ricker.”
Abner nudged Strout again, who resented it, but Mr. Stiles remarked in a whisper: “He's crazy—mad as a March hare.”
Mr. Ricker did not hear his opinion of his sanity.
“My father's name was Benjamin, Martha was my mother, and I had a brother William—that is, I had them all when I ran away to sea at the age of seventeen years, ten months, and fifteen days. I always remember my exact age for I wished to know just how long I had been gone when I got back.”
The villagers looked at the stranger with marked variations in expression, but no one spoke until Abner remarked:
“I guess you've struck the right place. There's a young feller named Billy Ricker that works for Mr. Strout here,” and he pointed to that gentleman. “Billy's father was named Bill, but he's dead; so's Ben and Marthy. I know'd 'em all.”
“I am glad to learn that I have a nephew in the land of the living. Where is he?”
“He lives in Montrose, the next town north of us,” said Mr. Strout. “We have a branch store there an' Billy has charge of it.”
“If he had some capital, I suppose he could become a partner,” remarked Mr. Ricker.
“Not much,” said Strout. “We have all the money we need, and know where to get more. What we want is men, an' we have a good one in Billy.”
Mr. Ricker removed his unseasonable headgear and moved nearer to the stove.
“I have heard of the late Mr. Sawyer and was sorry to hear of his early demise.” He looked at Abner, then at Mr. Strout.
“Your friend here has told me about his wonderful exploits—how he thrashed the town bully, and beat the singing-master at his own game.”
Bob Wood and Strout glared at Abner.
“But his experiences, which I have been told have appeared in print,” the stranger continued, “are trifling compared with the perils and adventures which have fallen to my lot. I could make your blood run cold.”
“Ef we open the front door, I guess the weather will do that,” said Hiram, and it was the general opinion, though not verbally expressed, that Hiram had got one on the stranger.
Mr. Emmanuel Howe, the clergyman's son, was noted for his extreme politeness. He had attended one term at a divinity school before he met Miss Dixie Schaffer. He arose from the nail-keg upon which he had been sitting, and motioned for the stranger to take his place.
As he accepted the mute invitation, Mr. Ricker turned to the company and said: “Gentlemen, shall I intrude upon your time if I relate just one of my adventures?”
“Oh, go ahead,” said Strout. “It's our rule to let a man talk until we get enough, and then—”
He raised his right foot, suddenly.
“I understand,” said Mr. Ricker. “When I was about twenty-two years old our vessel was wrecked and I, the only one saved, was cast ashore on a cannibal island—or, to be more correct ethnologically, an island inhabited by cannibals. I was a handsome young fellow, and it is not at all surprising that the Queen, who was young, unmarried, and, fortunately, very pretty, fell in love with me and wished to become my wife.
“But the Prime Minister, or Great Panjandrum, as he was called, wished his son to marry the Queen and become King, so he, and his minions planned to get rid of me.
“Lola-Akwa, that was the Queen's name, discovered the plot, and resolved to save me.
“You all read your Bibles, and you will remember that in the olden days there were places that were called 'Cities of Refuge.' On that island there was a Tree of Refuge. It was at least one hundred feet high and for two hundred feet from it, in every direction, not a tree or shrub could be found. This open space gave the pursuers a fine chance for an arrow shot before the refugee reached the tree.
“Lola-Akwa told me to climb to the top of that tree and stay there until she sent word for me to come down.
“But the Great Panjandrum discovered my hiding place. The Queen declared that I was protected by all that was sacred in their religion, but the Great Panjandrum proved by the cannibal Bible that only cannibals were entitled to its protection. He said they would roast a man, and if I would eat him and pick his bones I might go free. I declined, for I am rather particular about my diet.
“Then the Great Panjandrum seized an axe and struck at the foot of the tree. Others followed his wicked example and it soon began to totter. They next tied a rope about the trunk of the tree. The plotters were sixteen in number—I counted them. They stood in line, tugging at the rope.
“Lola-Akwa stood far back awaiting the terrible moment of my death. I could see that her eyes were filled with tears. The tree fell, and I went flying through the air—to certain death!
“When I came to, I found myself clasped in Lola-Akwa's arms. 'Where am I?' I asked. 'Look' she said. I did, and learned the wonderful truth.
“The Great Tree had fallen upon the Great Panjandrum and his fifteen conspirators and killed them all.”
For a moment there was silence, then a chorus of voices exclaimed: “Did you marry the Queen?”
The stranger pressed his hand upon his forehead.
“No. If I remember correctly some one held an ace and took my Queen.”
He rose from the nail-keg.
“I'm hungry. I would like some supper and a bed for the night. To-morrow I will embrace my only living relative. Is there a boarding house in town?”
“Somethin' better'n that,” said Abner. “We've got a Hotel—the Hawkins House. Mrs. Hawkins keeps it. I'm going along that way and I'll interduce you. She's a pretty good talker herself,” and Abner winked with both eyes as they went out.
“Well,” said Benoni, as the door closed after them. “The Bible says Ananias was a pretty good story teller, but that gentleman seems to have added some modern improvements.”
“He's a cussed liar,” said Bob Wood.
“And if Mrs. Hawkins is smart she'll make him pay in advance.”
The door was thrown open full width and two men rushed in.
“Have you seen him?” cried one.
“Seen who?” asked Strout.
“He's tall—black clothes—had on a straw hat—”
“Who in thunder is he?” cried Strout.
“He's a lunatic—just escaped from the asylum. We tracked him to this town—”
“He's gone to the hotel,” said Bob Wood. “You can nab him easy there. I'll show you the way.”
The men started on the run, led by Bob Wood, and followed by all who had been enjoying the hospitality afforded by the soap-boxes, nail-kegs, and the red-hot stove.
“What beats me,” said Hiram, “is how he knew all about the Ricker family.”
“Simple enough,” said Strout with a sneer, “That ass Abner told him the whole business. He never could keep his mouth shet. That's the reason I wouldn't give him a job in this store.”
Mr. Strout extinguished some of the lights, locked the door, and resumed his seat by the stove.
“Ain't you going home?” asked Hiram.
“Not jest yet; I've some thinkin' to do. I don't take much stock in fightin' but I'd like to punch Abner Stiles' head.”
“What's he been doing?”
“Why, didn't you hear what he said he said to that crazy fellow about Sawyer getting the best of me at my own game?”
“Wall, he told the truth, didn't he, Strout?”
“Look here, Mr. Hiram Maxwell, I want you to understand that if we are to continue together as partners in this 'ere grocery business, there must be mutual respect atween us.”
“Wall,” said Hiram, “I s'pose you mean by that, that ef I ain't what you consider respec'ful to you, you'll get out and leave me the business. You see, Obadiah, it's not for you or me to say who'll stay in—that's for the trustees. So, I wouldn't lay down the law too fine, Obadiah.”
“Wall, I hoped,” said Strout, “that when that Sawyer married 'Zeke Pettingill's sister and left this town that we'd be able to have a little peace round here and run things our own way. Course, I don't want any man to get drowned, but it wasn't my fault that the ship he was on ran into another. He was allus runnin' into somethin' that didn't concern him. But bein' he's gone, and no blame can be laid at my door, I thought we'd heard the last of him, but since he's died the air's fuller of Sawyer than it was afore. It makes me sick the way everybody tumbles over themselves to make of that boy of his'n. I don't think there's much to him.”
“He's got a big head, an' he's a mighty bright little fellow,” said Hiram.
“Wall, then he resembles his father in one respect—hehad a big head.”
“I'm surprised, Obadiah, to hear you talk the way you do. I ain't forgot that meetin' in the Town Hall where you got up and owned up that he was 'bout right, and thet you'd been mean as dirt, but he shook hands with you, and forgave you like a gentleman as he was, and I thought you were good friends.”
“I'm good friends with anybody that keeps out of my way,” said Strout. “But that Sawyer was like thatmalarythat the boys got off to war. It gets into your blood and you can't get it out. Why, he snubbed 'Zeke Pettingill jest the same as he did me when they had that sleigh ride, and he didn't have spunk enough to hit back. If 'Zeke had jined in with me we'd had him out o' town lively. And then the way he butted in at my concert and turned a high-class musical entertainment inter a nigger minstrel show by whistling a tune vas enough to make anybody mad clean through.”
“Wall, you got mad, didn't you?” said Hiram. “What good did it do yer?”
Mr. Strout's newly aroused wrath was not appeased.
“Then again, the way he squeezed himself in at that surprise party. Since I married Bessie Chisholm, I've talked to her a good many times 'bout the way she danced with him that night.”
“Come now, Strout, what did she say? She wasn't engaged to you then. What did she say? Now be honest.”
Mr. Strout could not restrain a grim smile.
“Wall, to tell the truth, Hiram, she told me it was none of my business, an' when I came to think it over I didn't believe it was—but it would be now.”
Mr. Strout's vials of wrath had not all been emptied. He seemed to be enjoying a rehearsal of all his past troubles and grievances.
“I guess that if the folks had known at first that the Jim Sawyer who died in the Poor House was his uncle, they wouldn't have considered him such great shucks after all. An' the way he tried to get Huldy Mason to marry him and throw over 'Zeke Pettingill, who had loved her ever since she was a baby, was a mighty mean piece of business in my opinion.”
This remark gave Hiram an opportunity which he was not slow in improving.
“I heerd as how there was another feller in town who tried to get Huldy to marry him and throw poor 'Zeke over.”
Mr. Strout puckered up his mouth and there was a strained look on his face which indicated that the shot had gone home. But his verbal ammunition was not all expended.
“You can tell me what you've a mind to, but I know that he tried mighty hard to get Lindy Putnam to marry him, an' I don't imagine he'd have taken up with a blind girl if he hadn't heard that Heppy Putnam was going to leave her all her money. I had him looked up by some friends of mine in the city. They said he didn't have much himself, but his father paid his bills. His father jest gave him to understand that if he didn't marry the right girl, with plenty of dough, he wouldn't get much from him.”
“Wall, you may be right and you may be wrong, Obadiah. But when a man's dead I don't think it does you any good to roast him and pick his bones. It's too much like thosecannibilesthat crazy feller told us about. Quincy Adams Sawyer was always a good friend to me, and a better one to you, Strout, than you deserved, judgin' from the way you've been talkin'. His money has been the makin' of both on us, and while we do business together I hope we'll let Mr. Sawyer, as the church folks say, rest in pieces.”
Until he was fourteen years of age, young Quincy attended the public schools in Fernborough and Cottonton. While in England he had had a governess and later a tutor, so that when he reached America he was much farther advanced than Fernborough boys of his own age. Methods in the New England town were different, however, and his Uncle Ezekiel was satisfied to have him keep pace with the others, and not arouse antagonism by asking for any special promotion.
Ezekiel's son Quincy had decided to become a farmer, following in his father's footsteps. But scientific farming was supplanting old methods, and he had taken the course at the Agricultural College and received his diploma.
Young Quincy wished a college education. To obtain admission it was necessary for him to attend a preparatory school, and, relying upon Mr. Gay's description of its advantages, Andover was selected.
While at the Cottonton High School, Quincy's chum had been a boy two years older than himself, named Thomas Chripp. He was the son of a weaver at Cottonton. Like Quincy, he had been born in England, but his father had been drawn to America by the lure of higher wages, nothing having been said to him, however, about the increased cost of living.
Thomas's father would not let him become a back-boy in the mill.
“I've breathed cotton all my life,” said Mr. Chripp to Ezekiel, “and I think too much of my only boy to condemn him to a life in a hot room, where the only music is the whizzing shuttles. No, my boy Tom shall breathe God's fresh air and become a big, strong man instead of a wizened-up little fellow like me. Why, would you believe it, Mr. Pettingill, I began work in a cotton mill when I was eight years old, and I've lived in one ever since—forty years! Sundays when I walk out in the fields I can't get the din out of my ears, and I told Susan, my old wife, the other day, that if I died before she did to have the lid screwed down extra tight so I could be sure of a little quiet.”
“My nephew,” said 'Zekiel, “thinks a lot of your boy and wants him to go to college with him.”
“But I haven't got the money to pay his way,” said Mr. Chripp.
“My nephew has plenty of money, and if he's willing to help your boy along in the world there's nobody to object that I know of.”
So it was arranged that Tom Chripp should go to the preparatory school and college with Quincy, the latter to pay the expenses of both. “'Twas a lucky day for Tom that sent that Sawyer boy to school in Cottonton,” said Mr. Chripp to his wife.
“It'll be the making of Tom,” he added, and the happy mother thought so too.
When Mr. Strout heard of it, he remarked to his partner Mr. Maxwell,
“More of the arrogance of wealth. If I was a young man like Tom Chripp I'd make my own way in the world.”
Hiram swallowed some smoke, coughed, and then replied: “Probably he will, when he gits his eddikation. Money makes the mare go now as it always has, Obadiah, an' you an' me can't stop it.”
“Like father, like son, I guess, Hiram. His father used to enjoy throwing his money away an' the son's goin' to sail in the same boat. I shouldn't be surprised if he came back to town some day and licked somebody jest to be like his father.”
“I shouldn't nuther,” said Hiram as he began putting up an order for the Hawkins House.
While Quincy was attending the public schools, Mrs. Nathaniel Sawyer made two visits each year to Fernborough to learn of her grandson's progress. Thanksgiving he passed at his Uncle 'Zekiel's where he had eagerly watched the growth of the turkey that was destined to grace the festal board on that day. At Christmas he went to Boston and returned laden with gifts, many of which were immediately donated to his cousins and Mandy Maxwell's children.
Mr. Strout's ire was kindled when Hiram described the presents his children had received from Quincy.
“Thank the Lord I've got money enough to buy my children's presents myself without dependin' on second-hand things that other folks don't want.”
“So've I,” said Hiram, “but what I save that way I puts in the bank, for I'm bound to own the old Pettingill Place some day.”
“Oh, spend your money, Hiram. Your rich friends will give you the house some day.” He was so pleased with the subtle humour of his last remark that he tossed a scoop half full of coffee into the sugar barrel, much to Hiram's amusement.
During Quincy's first year at Andover he was twice called from his studies. The Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer after his return home from a bank directors' banquet was taken with an attack of acute indigestion. He was in great pain. One of the most prominent physicians in the city was summoned. He gave a strong hypodermic injection of morphine to stop the pain, but did nothing to remove the cause. The pain itself was stopped by the anodyne, but the cause of the pain—the indigestion—stopped the beating of Mr. Sawyer's heart within an hour.
By his will, $250,000 were left to his daughter Florence, and $100,000 to his daughter Maude. To compensate for the $150,000 difference in the bequests, the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer's interest in the firm of Sawyer, Crowninshield, and Lawrence was conveyed to Mr. Harry Merry, provided that one-third of his share from the income of the law-business was paid to the trustees of the estate of his grandson Quincy Adams Sawyer. The remainder of his property, both real and personal, was left to his wife, Sarah Quincy Sawyer.
Quincy's grandmother did not live long to enjoy her fortune. Maude wished her to sell the Beacon Street house and come to Mount Vernon Street. Her mother wished her to come to Beacon Street. While theprosandconswere being considered, the old lady died of absolute inanition. She had been dominated so long by a superior will power, she had been so dependent upon her late husband in every event of her life, that without him she was a helpless creature, and so willing to drop her burden, that she did not cling to life but gave up without the semblance of a struggle. Her last will and testament was very short, containing but one clause, which gave all her property to her grandson Quincy Adams Sawyer. When Aunt Ella heard of her sister's death, she said to Alice:
“They were not two distinct beings, Nathaniel was one and a half, and Sarah only a half.”
“That boy will sure go to the devil now,” was Mr. Strout's comment.
“I don't think so,” said Hiram. “He's too much like his father.”
“How do you know where his father has gone?” snapped Mr. Strout, who did not believe, evidently, that good works were a sure passport to future bliss.
Quincy's vacation after his first year at Andover was passed at Fernborough. He was warmly welcomed and congratulated upon the great fortune that had fallen to him.
“He's got a big head, sure enough,” said Mr. Strout, “but I think he's a little weak in the legs. He won't disgust the community by fightin' as his father did.”
“I wish he'd thrash Bob Wood's son—he's too impudent to live,” said Mrs. Amanda Maxwell, to whom Mr. Strout had addressed his remark.
“No danger o' that,” and Mr. Strout laughed gleefully. “Young Bob's as good with his fists as his father was.”
“He didn't amount to much when Mr. Sawyer tackled him,” and with a scornful laugh Mrs. Maxwell flounced out of the store.
“Your wife's as bad as the rest on 'em, Hiram.”
“Yes, Obadiah; it seems to be whoopedemic, as the doctors say.”
Quincy's second and third years at Andover passed quickly and again vacation time had come.
“Let's go to Fernborough as usual,” said Quincy, and Tom, without argument, seconded the motion. This time, Tom was Quincy's guest. They were young men now. Quincy was seventeen and Tom nineteen, but the fields were as green, the fruit as sweet, the vegetables as crisp and fresh, and their friends as glad to see them as when they were children.
A year had brought some changes. Mrs. Maxwell mourned the loss of her son Obadiah, who had been gored by an angry bull and found dead in the West pasture. For a wonder, Mr. Strout showed some sympathy, perhaps because the little boy was his namesake.
The Rev. Caleb Howe had passed away. In his place the church had called the Rev. Hudson Quarles, a bachelor of forty, whose hobby was fancy fowls. He joined the Grange and talked on “Poultry Raising” and “A Small Fortune in Squabs.” His hens were the heaviest for their age in the community, and to prove it he was always willing to “weigh up” at the grocery store.
Mr. Strout called him a crank and played a joke on him that led to a division in the church and came near costing Mr. Strout his position as organist.
There were two scales on the long grocery counter. Mr. Strout tampered with one of them by affixing two pounds of lead to it which he covered with gold paint to hide the deception.
Bob Wood's hen was weighed in the fraudulent scales and beat Mr. Quarles' by a half pound, the clergyman's being really a pound and a half the heavier. The plot would have been a success but for the keen-eyed Quincy who examined the scales and discovered the imposition.
Mr. Strout declared it was all a joke and that he was going to own up when he got ready to do so. This explanation was accepted by some and scoffed at by others. Naturally, Mr. Strout looked upon Quincy as a meddler.
“By Godfrey!” he exclaimed to Hiram, “either that Sawyer boy or me has got to leave town.”
“When are yer goin'?” asked Hiram, quietly, but he got no reply.
Miss Dixie Schaffer retired from the stage and settled down. Her mother-in-law, being an invalid confined to her room, prevented any interference in her household affairs, and she was free from suggestions as to what she should give, and what she shouldn't give her son, who had been named Hugh after her own father.
Many new people had moved into the town. Among the newcomers was a former detective on the Boston police force named Horace Dana. Through an injury received in making an important arrest, he had become a cripple, able to get around only slowly and with crutches. He was a widower with one daughter, about fifteen years of age, named Mary.
The young lady was as old in appearance as many girls of eighteen, and her looks so belied her age, that the village beaux paid court to her at once. Her most persistent suitor was young Bob Wood who had just reached his majority.
As she was walking one day in the Center Road, far from any dwelling, she met Bob. He improved the opportunity by asking her to be his wife.
“Why, Mr. Wood, I'm too young to marry.”
“But I'm just old enough,” said Bob, “and you suit me exactly.”
“Mr. Wood, I'm going to tell you the truth. I'm not yet fifteen years old. Father says I can't have a beau till I'm eighteen, and I'm sure I don't want one.”
Bob had learned much street slang during his visits to Cottonton, and considered its acquisition a benefit and its use an accomplishment.
“You've said it. Now sneeze it, and dust your brain.”
Mary regarded him with astonishment. “I don't understand such language, Mr. Wood. What do you mean? I haven't a cold in my head.”
Bob laughed insolently.
“No, but you've got a cold heart. What I meant by my French was that you're bluffing. If you ain't eighteen, I'm a primary school boy.”
“Then you don't believe me!” Mary's blue eyes opened to their fullest extent.
Bob thought those blue eyes and light brown hair, golden in the sunlight, those rosy cheeks, and pretty mouth made a most attractive picture, and, in his rough way, he really loved her.
“I'm going home,” said Mary, “and I shall tell my father you said I lied to you.”
“No, you don't,” cried Bob, and he grasped her arm so tightly that she winced. “You don't go until you promise me not to say anything to your father.”
“I won't promise!” Hot tears filled her eyes.
“Then you don't go,” and Bob tightened his grip.
The next moment a hand clutched his coat collar and he was thrown violently on his back.
Bob, who was agile, was quickly on his feet again and faced his assailant. “Oh, that's you, Sawyer, is it? Why do you interfere with what's none of your business?”
“I think it is,” said Quincy, calmly. “My, friend and I—” He turned, and at that moment Tom emerged from behind a clump of bushes at the roadside.
“My friend and I,” Quincy repeated, “were behind those bushes and overheard your insulting language to this young lady and your brutal treatment of her.”
“Hiding to see what you could hear,” said Bob, sneeringly.
“Not at all. We came 'cross lots and were just stepping into the road when we espied you, and retreated, awaiting your departure.”
“Very prettily said, Master Sawyer, but I don't believe a word of it.”
“You called this young lady a liar and she was powerless to resent it, but I'm not. Tom, hold my coat.”
“Oh, please don't fight,” pleaded Mary. “I'll never speak to him again.”
“Say, Quincy,” exclaimed Tom, “he's too heavily built for you. Let me tackle him.”
“Two to one! I s'pose that's what you city snobs call fair play.”
Bob removed his coat and threw it on the ground. “If you'll come one at a time, I'll lick you both.”
Quincy addressed Mary. “Don't be distressed. You may pardon his offence to you if you choose, but I'm going to settle my personal account with him. He doubted my word. I'm going to make him believe what I said, and by that time he'll be ready to apologize to you.”
Bob squared off, but Quincy did not raise his hands.
“Are you 'fraid? Don't you know how to put up your dukes?”
“I'm not a boxer,” said Quincy, “if that's what you mean. I'll look out for myself, rough and tumble.”
Bob rushed forward and aimed a blow at Quincy's face. It fell short, for Quincy retreated; then, springing forward, he gave Bob a violent kick on his left knee. As his opponent threw his right leg over to keep his balance he was obliged to lean forward; Quincy caught him by the collar and Bob went sprawling upon the ground. He leaped to his feet, red with rage.
“Why don't you fight fair?” he bellowed.
“You fight your way and I'll fight mine,” was Quincy's reply.
“All right,” cried Bob, “I'll try your way.”
He sprang upon Quincy and grabbed him by the collar with both hands and pulled him forward. This just suited Quincy, for, catching Bob around the legs, he lifted him high in the air and threw him backwards over his head. Bob's face was cut and bleeding, when he arose.
“Time's up,” cried Tom. “Three straight falls settle it.”
“The first one don't count,” growled Bob. “He sneaked in on me and I had no show.”
“He's right, Tom,” said Quincy. “We'll have one more after this if he wants it.”
This time Bob profited by having observed his antagonist's tactics. He caught Quincy around the body and tried to crush him with his brawny, muscular arms.
Tom gave a cry of alarm and came close to the wrestlers.
“Keep back, Tom,” cried Quincy. As he spoke he fell backwards, carrying Bob with him, who gave a yell of exultation as Quincy's shoulders struck the ground. His hold was relaxed while falling. Quincy doubled his legs up, put both feet against Bob's stomach, gave him a violent kick, and Bob was once more upon his back.
“'Twarn't fair,” he yelled. “I had him down first.”
“We weren't playing for points,” said Quincy, “and everything's fair in rough and tumble. If you want some more, I'm ready.”
Bob stood sullenly, but made no move forward.
“Now, let's talk it over,” said Tom. “Do you think this young lady or my friend lied to you? Before you answer, just remember this is my fight now, and unless you take back the lie and apologize for what you said and did to this young lady, I'll thrash you so they'll have to send a wagon to carry you home.”
Bob did not speak.
“Quincy,” said Tom, “you go along with the young lady, and I'll settle my account after you're gone. You look a little white around the gills. You had no right to fight a heavy-weight like him.”
“I wish to thank you both,” said Mary, “but I'm a stranger in this town—I have lived here only a few months, and—I don't know your names.”
She blushed prettily and the lids modestly covered the blue eyes. The three had moved along the road a short distance while she was speaking.
“My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer, and this is my friend and classmate at Andover, Thomas Chripp.”
The lids were lifted but the blush deepened. “My name is Mary Dana. I live with my father on Pettingill Street.”
“Why,” cried Quincy, “Ezekiel Pettingill is my uncle—I live with him. I'm going home your way, and, with your permission, I will escort you to your father's house.”
“All right, Quincy—you go ahead,” said Tom. “But you must excuse me. I've kept Mr. Wood waiting.”
They were around a bend in the road by this time. When Tom returned to the scene of the encounter, Mr. Wood was not in sight. Mr. Chripp laughed, and paraphrased an old couplet.