During the summer that the foregoing events were happening in Europe, Mr. Hiram Maxwell, in the little New England town of Fernborough had a serious accident happen to himself the effects of which were far reaching, and finally affected many people.
In unloading a barrel of sugar from a wagon, it slipped from the skid and fell upon his leg causing a compound fracture. He was taken home, but when the doctor was called he advised his immediate removal to the Isaac Pettingill Free Hospital for he was afraid an amputation would be necessary. Unfortunately, his fears proved to be true, and Hiram's right leg was amputated just below the knee.
“That Hiram's an unlucky cuss,” said Mr. Strout to his hearers one evening at the grocery. “But think of me. This is our busy season and with everything piled onto me I'm just about tuckered out. What help will he be stumbling around on crutches?”
“Can't he have a wooden leg?” asked Abner Stiles.
“Yes, of course he can. An' if you lost your head and got a wooden one in its place you'd be just as well off as you are now.”
This remark caused a laugh at Abner which he took good-naturedly. When Mr. Strout was out of sorts he always vented his spleen on somebody.
“Well,” said Benoni Hill, “I'm awful sorry for Hiram with a wife and children to support. Of course his pay will go right on, bein' as he's a partner.”
“I don't know about that,” said Strout. “That's for the trustees to decide, and I've got to decide whether I'll do two men's work for one man's pay.”
“He would for you,” Abner blurted out.
“If you think so much of him, why don't you come in and do his work for him?” said Strout.
“When you were going to buy this store, and Mr. Sawyer got ahead of yer, yer promised me a job here as pay for some special nosin' round I'd done fer yer—but when yer got in the saddle you forgot the feller who'd boosted yer up. When a man breaks his word to me onct he don't do it a second time. That's why,” and Abner went out and slammed the door after him.
Mr. Strout was angry, and when in that state of mind he was often lacking in prudence in speech.
“That comes of turning a place of business into a resort for loafers. If I owned this store outright there'd be a big sign up somewhere—'When you've transacted your business, think of Home Sweet Home.'”
“I reckon that's a hint,” said Benoni Hill, as he arose and put on his hat. “You won't be troubled with me or my trade in futur'. There are stores in Cottonton jus' as good as this, and the proprietors are gentlemen.”
He left the store, and one by one the “loafers” followed him as no one had the courage to break the silence that fell upon the company after old Mr. Hill's departure.
Mr. Strout, left alone to close up the store, was more angry than ever.
“What cussed fools. I was hitting back at Abner and they thought the coat fit and put it on. They'll come round again. They won't enjoy tramping over to Cottonton for kerosene and molasses.”
The store was lighted by kerosene lamps resting on brackets. It was Mr. Strout's custom to take them down, blow them out, and replace them on the brackets. One was always left burning, as Mr. Strout said “so burglars could see their way round.”
Mr. Strout's anger rose higher and higher and there was no one present upon whom he could expend it. He grasped one of the lamps, but his hold on the glass handle was insecure and it fell to the floor, the lamp breaking, while the burning oil was thrown in every direction. He wished then that some of the “loafers” were present to help him put the fire out. There was no water nearer than the pump in the back yard. He grabbed a pail and started to get some water. He forgot the back-steps and fell headlong. For some minutes he was so dazed that he could do nothing. The glare of the fire lighted up the yard, or he would have had difficulty in filling the pail. When he returned, he saw that the fire was beyond his control. He could not go through the store, so he climbed the back yard fence and made his way to the front of the store crying “Fire” at the top of his voice.
It seemed an age to him, before anyone responded. He felt then the need of friends, neighbours—even “loafers” would have been acceptable.
A bucket brigade formed, but their efforts were unavailing. As the other lamps were exploded by the heat new inflammable material was thrown about. In a quarter of an hour the whole interior was in flames, and in an hour only a grim, black skeleton, lighted up by occasional flashes of flame, remained of Strout and Maxwell's grocery store.
Next morning comment was rife. Mr. Strout had told how the fire was caused but there were unbelievers.
“I think the cuss set it on fire himself,” said Abner Stiles to his employer, Mr. Ezekiel Pettingill.
“Be careful, Abner,” was the caution given him. “It don't do to accuse a man of anything 'less you have proof, an' your thinkin' so ain't proof.” Mr. Strout went to Boston to see the trustees. The insurance was adjusted and Mr. Strout was authorized to proceed with the re-building at once. During the interim orders were filled from the Montrose store. Fortunately, the stable and wagon shed were some distance from the store, and had not been in danger.
The new store was larger than the old one, and many improvements, in Mr. Strout's opinion, were incorporated in the new structure. He ordered the new sign. When it was put up, the whole town, including the “loafers” were present. “I s'pose he fixed it with the trustees” said Benoni Hill to Abner Stiles.
“Danged if I think so,” was the reply. “He's allers been meaner'n dirt to Hiram, an' has allers wanted to git him out. Burnin' up the store giv' him his chance.”
“You mean the store burnin' up,” corrected Benoni.
“I dunno. The Bible says God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform, an' so do some individooals.”
One noon after dinner, Mr. Strout said to his wife. “Bessie, put on your things an' come down to the new store. I want to show you somethin'.”
“And leave the dishes?”
“You can bring 'em with you if you want to,” her husband replied.
When they reached the store, upon which the painters were at work, he pointed to the new sign.
“See that? Read it out loud.”
Mrs. Strout complied:
“What did I tell yer?” was his only comment.
Quincy desired to have his return to America unheralded by items in the newspapers of stories of his wonderful rescue, captivity, and final recovery of his reason, so when he booked for passage on theGalliahe gave the name of Mr. S. Adams, wife and son.
During the homeward voyage the father and son had an opportunity to become acquainted. The father told the story of his life at Mason's Corner; first going back to his college days. He told his son how he had opposed his father's wish that he would become a lawyer and sustain the reputation of the old firm of Sawyer, Crowninshield, and Lawrence; about his health breaking down and his visit to Mason's Corner; about the blind girl whom he had made his wife, and how he had secured medical assistance and her sight had been restored. Once again he lived over his life in the country town, and told about his friends and foes—Obadiah Strout and Bob Wood—who were enemies no longer, and honest, good-hearted 'Zeke Pettingill, and his sweet wife, little Huldah Mason. And Hiram who stammered so and Mandy who didn't. Nearly all the people mentioned in their long talks were well known to young Quincy and after his father had finished his reminiscences the young man supplied the sequel.
“What do you think of Mr. Strout?” asked the father.
“Think? I know he's a dishonest man. You say that you parted friends. He is no friend of yours or mine.”
Then he told of his encounter with young Bob Wood.
“I had some trouble with his father many years ago,” said Quincy. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing to me. He insulted a young lady, and I took her part. Tom was going to help me but I arranged to handle him, in a very unscientific way though.”
“It was a rough and tumble of the worst sort,” interjected Tom. “I was afraid they'd bite each other before they got through.”
“Quincy,” said his father, “you must take boxing lessons. When occasion requires, it is the gentleman's weapon.”
The mention of Mary Dana naturally led to a rehearsal of the Wood case, and all Mary had done in helping Quincy at the beginning of the search for his father.
“I think I see which way the wind blows,” laughed his father, while Quincy blushed to the roots of his hair, “and I want to meet the young lady who did so much to bring us all together again.”
Alice was proud of her son. He resembled her, having light hair and blue eyes; a decided contrast to his father whose skin had been darkened by Italian suns, who had dark eyes, dark hair frosted at the ends, and a heavy beard, cut in Van Dyke fashion. Few, if any, would have recognized in him the young man who more than twenty-three years before had taken passage on theAltonia, looking forward to a pleasant trip and an early return to his native land.
Alice explained to her son her apparent lack of affection for him in allowing him to be separated from her so long.
“I knew you were with your relatives and good friends, Quincy. In my nervous, depressed state I was poor company for a young, healthy boy. Then, I had such a fear of the ocean I dared not go to you and was afraid to have you come to me. Can you forgive me?”
“My darling mother,” said young Quincy, “what you did turned out for the best. I have been educated as an American and that fully atones for my apparent neglect. Your beautiful letters kept you always in my mind, and I used to take great pleasure in telling my schoolmates what a pretty mother I had.”
Alice, despite her years, blushed.
“Quincy, you are like your father in praising those you love.”
Tom gave Quincy's father graphic descriptions of the changes in Fernborough and fully endorsed his friend's opinion of Mr. Strout.
“He's a snake in the grass,” said Tom. “He'd pat you on the back with one hand and cut your throat, figuratively speaking, with the other.”
“Do you think he'd recognize me?” asked Quincy.
“I think not,” said Tom. “His perceptive powers are not strong. He's sub-acute rather than 'cute.”
Quincy and Alice sat for hours looking out upon the wide expanse of ocean, and at the blue sky above them. It did not seem possible that so many years had passed since they were together. Memory is a great friend. It bridged the great gap in their lives. They were lovers as of yore, and would be always. They did not hesitate to talk of the cruel past—not sadly, for were they not in the happy present?
Said Alice one morning, “While you were gone I was in a terribly nervous condition. Aunt Ella said that I must have something to employ my mind—and I wrote, or tried to write. I couldn't keep my mind on one thing long enough to write a story, but I have collected the material for one, and now that I am happy once more, when we have settled down, I am going to write it.”
“What's the title, or, rather, the subject?” her husband inquired.
“Oh, it opens with a ship-wreck—not a collision but a fire was the cause. Among the passengers are many children—of high and low degree—and they get mixed up—fall into wrong persons' hands,—fathers and mothers are lost and cannot claim them, and their future lives have supplied me with the strongest and most intricate and exciting plot that I have ever constructed.”
“Which is the 'star' child?”
“He is the son of a Russian Grand Duke—the offspring of a morganatic marriage—his mother is driven from the country by order of the Czar. The title isThe Son of Sergius.”
They did not remain in New York but took the first train for Boston. They were driven to the Mount Vernon Street house.
“I knew you were coming,” cried Maude, as she ran eagerly down the steps to meet them.
“Who has turned traitor? I pledged them all to secrecy,” cried Quincy.
“Harry told me, and I had a cablegram from Florence.”
“Did she use my name? If so, we are undone and the reporters will swarm like bees.”
“You are safe,” said Maude. “The message read: Brother found. Keep quiet.”
Tom was prevailed upon to remain in Boston until Quincy could go to Fernborough. At supper they were introduced to Maude's family.
“Six of them,” said Quincy. “I am uncle to a numerous extent. Maude, what are all their names—the girls first.”
“This is Sarah, named after mother; Ella for Aunt Ella, and little Maude for her mother.”
“Good! Now the boys.”
“Stuart—the old gentleman was so nice to Harry and me when we were on our wedding tour—Nat for father, and Harry—”
“Thank Heaven—no Quincy. That name was becoming contagious. I am glad, Maude, that you were wise and kept the epidemic out of your family.”
That evening Quincy and Mr. Merry talked about business matters. Harry told of Hiram's accident and the destruction of the store by fire.
“There's something funny about it,” said Harry. “We authorized Mr. Strout to rebuild and restock at once, and we hear that he has done so, but he has not called on us for a dollar, nor has he sent up any bills for payment.”
“I wish you would send a telegram to Mr. Ezekiel Pettingill the first thing to-morrow morning asking him to come to the city—say important business.”
About three o'clock Ezekiel arrived at the office of Sawyer, Crowninshield, Lawrence and Merry. He was shown into what had been the late Hon. Nathaniel's private office, and came face to face with Quincy.
“I'm heartily glad to see you again,” he exclaimed as he wrung Quincy's helpless hand after the first surprise of the meeting. “Huldy'll be delighted too. You must come down and tell us all about it. Just to think—more'n twenty years—but you're looking well.”
Quincy assured him that his health was never better.
“What I wanted to see you about are affairs in Fernborough. What is Strout up to?”
“You've used just the right word. He's up to something. He's got up a sign—O. Strout, Fine Groceries—an' says Hiram's out of the firm, and that he owns the whole business.”
Quincy smiled. “So, I've got to fight it out with him again, have I? Well it will be the final conflict. To use Mr. Strout's words, one or the other of us will have to leave town. You aren't going back to-night?”
“Oh, I must.”
“Well, come up to the house first and see Alice and the boy. Well go down to-morrow.”
When Tom Chripp showed his father the photograph of the house in which he was born, he burst into tears.
“Just as pretty as ever,” he exclaimed. “The roof's been mended, beent it, and just the same flowers all around it as when I was a boy. Tom, I'm glad to see you back safe and sound—but that picter—Tom, when I die, you just put that picter in the coffin with me, won't you? I want your grandfather to see that the old place was looked after when he was gone.”
Tom promised.
A dark featured, dark haired man entered Mr. Strout's store. The proprietor knew he was a stranger—perhaps just moved into town, and a prospective customer.
“What can I do for you?” he inquired blandly, for he was capable of being affable.
“I am looking for Mr. Hiram Maxwell.”
“He ain't here no more.”
“But he's your partner, isn't he?”
“Didn't you read my sign? There ain't no partner on it.”
“There ought to be.”
Mr. Strout looked at the stranger with astonishment. Then he laughed, and, with a remembrance of Mr. Richard Ricker, asked sneeringly:
“What asylum did you come from?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger. “I used to know Mr. Maxwell, and they told me in the city that he was a member of the firm of Strout and Maxwell.”
“Who told ye?”
“The trustees of the estate of Mr. Sawyer. Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer. Did you know him?”
“I never knew any good of him. So they told yer, did they? That shows how much attention they give to business. The old store was burned up and that busted the firm. This store's mine from cellar to chimney.”
“The old firm must have paid you well.”
“Pretty well—but I made my money in State Street, speculating and I'm well fixed.”
“I'm glad to hear that you've prospered. I wish my friend Maxwell had been as fortunate. What became of his interest and Mr. Sawyer's in the store?”
“Went up in smoke, didn't I tell yer?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger again. “But doesn't your store stand on land belonging to the old firm?”
Strout squinted at the stranger. “I guess you're a lawyer lookin' for points, but you're on the wrong track. You won't get 'em.”
“I'm not a lawyer, Mr. Strout. I only inquired thinking my friend Mr. Maxwell might—”
“Well, he won't,” said Strout. “Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer cheated me out of one store but he can't drive me out of this. He thought he was awful smart, but when he bought the store he didn't buy the land. It belonged to the town. I'm one of the selectmen, and one of the assessors found it out and told me, and I bought it—an' this store an' way up to the sky, and the land way down to China belongs to O. Strout.”
“I am much obliged, Mr. Strout, for your courtesy—only one more question and then I'll try and find my friend Mr. Maxwell—if somebody will be kind enough to tell me where he is.”
“You didn't ask where he was. If you want to know he's up to the Hospital. He's had his leg off, an'll have to walk on crutches.”
“So bad as that,—I'mverysorry,” said the stranger.
“I've got to put up some orders—see that sign?” and he pointed to one which read:
“When You've transacted your Business, Think of Home, Sweet Home.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Strout, for taking so much of your valuable time. Do you know whether Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer is in town?”
Strout laughed scornfully. “In town? That's good. Why, man, he's been dead more'n twenty years—food for fishes, if they'd eat him, which I doubt. He's left a boy, same name, that used to go to school here, but, thank Heaven, he's got lots of money, and probably won't trouble us any more. Perhaps he's the one you want.”
“Are you sure the boy's father is dead? I saw him in Boston yesterday.”
“I don't take any stock in any such nonsense. This ain't the days of miracles.”
“I saw him in this town this morning.”
“Where?” gasped Strout.
“Right here. That's my name, Quincy Adams Sawyer. Do you want me to identify myself?” He stepped back, puckered up his mouth, and began whistling “Listen to the Mocking Bird.”
Strout was both startled and mad. “Just like you to come spyin' round. You allers was a meddler, an' underhanded. But now you know the truth, what are you going to do about it?”
Quincy walked to the door. “Well, Mr. Strout, I'm going to put it about as you did when I first came to Mason's Corner, Either you or I have got to leave town. This is our last fight, and I'm going to win.”
He left the store quickly and made his way to where Ezekiel was waiting for him with the carryall.
“Now, 'Zeke, we'll go to the Hospital and see poor Hiram.”
They found him hobbling about on crutches in the grounds of the Hospital.
“How long have you been here, Hiram?” was Quincy's first question.
“About twelve weeks. You see, besides breaking my leg I cracked my knee pan an' that's made it wuss.”
“We'll fix you up very soon. I'll get you an artificial leg from New York. You'll be able to walk all right but you mustn't do any heavy lifting.”
“Guess I shan't have no chance to lift anything now Strout's got the store.”
“Don't worry about that, Hiram. There are towns that have two stores in them. How's Mandy?”
{Illustration: “'JUST LIKE YOU TO COME SPYIN' ROUND. YOU ALLERS WAS A MEDDLER.'”}
“Gettin' along all right. Mr. Pettingill, there, sends a man over to help her, and Mrs. Crowley is as good as two any day.”
“Don't worry, Hiram. You'll come out on top yet”
“If I do, 'twill be because you'll put me there, I reckon.”
As they were driving back 'Zekiel asked Quincy if he knew Mrs. Hawkins was going to sell out.
“No, why. Getting too old?”
“No, she's as spry as a cat, and she's seventy odd. That ain't the reason. Jonas is dead.”
“What was the matter?”
“Chickens.”
“What—overeating?”
“No, somebody stole his chickens. So he arranged a gun with a spring and he must have forgotten it.”
“He didn't 'kalkilate' on its hitting him?”
“Guess not. Mrs. Hawkins says she's too old to marry agin, and she can't run the house without a man she can trust.”
“Let's stop and see her.”
When they entered, Mrs. Hawkins threw up her hands. “Lord a Massy! I heerd at the store all about you comin' back, but where on airthdidyou come from? They said you was dead an' here you are as handsome as ever. How's your wife, an' that boy o' yourn?”
“Both well, I'm happy to say. 'Zeke tells me you want to sell out.”
“Yes. Now Jonas has gone there's nobody to take care of the chickens, an' a hotel 'thout chickens an' fresh eggs is no home for a hungry man.”
“What will you take for the place just as it stands?”
“Well, I've figured up an' I should lose money ef I took less'n four thousand dollars, an' I ought to have five.”
“I'll take the refusal of it for forty-eight hours at five thousand. Is it agreed?”
“I'd hold it a month for you, Mister Sawyer, but I want to go and help Mandy soon's I can now that Hiram's laid up for nobody knows how long.”
“We'll have Hiram on his feet again very soon, Mrs. Hawkins. I'll be down again in a few days.”
“Give my love to Alice,” she called after them as they were driving away.
The next evening Quincy asked his son to come to the library with him.
“Quincy, I want to borrow fifty thousand dollars. Can you spare it?”
“Twice as much if you need it. I'll give it to you. It's yours anyway.”
“No, I want to borrow it at six per cent.”
“Are you going into business?”
“Yes.” Then Quincy told him of his conversation with Mr. Strout.
“How are you going to beat him?” asked young Quincy.
“I'll tell you. I'm going to buy the Hawkins House. I shall have it lifted up and another story put underneath. There will be room for a store twice as large as Strout's, and a hotel entrance and office on the ground floor. I'll put Hiram Maxwell in charge of the store.”
“Who'll run the hotel?”
“'Zeke says Sam Hill is the man for the place, and his wife Tilly will be the housekeeper, chief cook, etc.”
“Do you mean to run Mr. Strout out of town?”
“That is my present intention. Not for personal vengeance but for the ultimate good of the community.”
“I'd like to help, but the work isn't in my line.”
“Seriously speaking, Quincy, what is your line—the law?”
“No.”
“Business?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Don't know. Am thinking it over.”
“Have you seen that Miss Dana yet?”
“No. Mr. Isburn told me she is out West now on an important case.”
“We'll get her to find Strout after he leaves Fernborough. Give me that check to-morrow early. I'm going to Fernborough with an architect to have plans made for the alterations.”
Mr. Strout could look from his window and see what was going on at the Hawkins House.
“Who's bought the hotel, Abner?”
“Well, Mr. Strout, they do say it's Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, an' that Sam Hill and his wife Tilly are going to run it.”
“I won't sell them a darned thing.”
Mr. Stiles grinned. “Can't they buy in Cottonton, or Montrose, or Eastborough? Mr. Sawyer's got stores there.”
“Well they'll want things in a hurry, but they won't get them from me.”
A month later Abner rushed into the store.
“Say, Strout, they're putting up a new sign on the Hawkins House. Come and see it.”
Mr. Strout walked leisurely to the window and put up his hand to shade his eyes. Great white letters on a blue ground.
“By George, Strout, there's going to be another grocery.”
Mr. Strout did not speak, but walked back behind the counter. Abner went to see the sign raising.
Mr. Strout soliloquized: “So, he's going to fight me, is he? Well, I'll spend every dollar I have, and borrow some more, before I'll give in. He'll cut prices—so will I.”
Then a troubled look came into his face.
“Confound it. My commission as postmaster runs out in a month, but our Congressman is a good friend of mine.”
Opening night came at the new store, Saturday being selected. Over the doorway was an electric sign—
Mr. Strout's store was nearly deserted. About ten o'clock Abner came in.
“I say, Strout, it's just scrumptious. They got three times as many goods as you have. An' there's a smoking room back of the store with a sign over the door'Exclusively for Loafers. Loaf and Enjoy Your Soul.'They say a poet feller named Whitman writ that last part. Saturday morning is to be bargain day and everything is to be sold at half price. And, say, isn't the hotel fine? Everybody was invited upstairs, an' there was a free lunch spread out.”
“Abner, you've talked enough. You'd better go home.”
The warfare continued for three months. At the end of the first, Hiram Maxwell, an old soldier, was appointed postmaster,viceObadiah Strout. At the end of the second month Mr. Strout resigned his position as organist and the gentleman who led the orchestra that played during the evening at the hotel was chosen in his stead. At the end of the third month a red flag was seen hanging at the door of Mr. Strout's store and Mr. Beers the auctioneer whose once rotund voice had now become thin and quavering, sold off the remaining stock and the fixtures. Then the curtains were pulled down and the door locked. The next day Mr. and Mrs. Strout and family left town.
“What's become of Strout?” Quincy asked his son, who had just returned from Fernborough. Another month had passed since the auction sale.
“I heard he was seen on State Street a few days ago, and he said the best move he ever made was leaving that one-horse country town; that he could make more money in a day in State Street than he could in a month in the grocery business. It seems he has become what they call a curb broker or speculator.”
“I am glad,” said Quincy, “that Mr. Strout has found a more profitable and congenial field. It must have been very dull for him the last three months of his stay in that one-horse town.”
Quincy decided to have his company incorporated. This necessitated visits to the Secretary of the Commonwealth and the Tax Commissioner. The amount paid in cash capital was $200,000. Besides the four stores doing business, sixteen more were contemplated in Boston, Cambridge, Lowell, Lawrence, Fall River, New Bedford, and other small cities and large towns.
The design was not to form a trust with a view of controlling certain food products and raising prices, but to establish a line of stores in which the best grade at the lowest cash price should be the rule. This price was to be fixed for the Boston store and was to be the same in all the stores.
“Whom shall I put in charge of the Boston store, Quincy?” his father asked. “He will have to be general manager for the whole circuit.”
“I know a man,” said young Quincy, “who is honest, conscientious, and a perfect tiger for work, but he knows nothing about the grocery business. He has adaptability, that valuable quality, but, while learning, he might make some costly mistakes.”
“I want you to act as Treasurer for the company. It's your money, and you should handle it.”
“I've no objection to drawing checks. We sha'n't have to borrow any money for there's half a million available any time. Why didn't you have a larger capital, father?”
“Because the State taxes it so heavily; but there's no tax on borrowed money. The fellow who lends pays that.”
“If I loan money do I have to pay taxes on it when I haven't got it?”
“Certainly, and you pay just the same if there's no prospect of its ever being repaid.”
“That's funny.”
“Funny! Why, our Massachusetts tax laws are funnier than a comic almanac, and about as sensible.”
Quincy took up a pen and began writing.
“What are you writing, father?”
“I'll show you in a few minutes.”
“How will that do?”
Quincy read:
QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER,President. QUINCYADAMS SAWYER, Jr.,Treasurer. THOMAS CHRIPP,General Manager. Cash Capital, $200,000.Cable,Vienna. 20Stores.THE SAWYER GROCERY COMPANY, INC.Wholesale and Retail.
“Just the man I had in mind, father. You can depend upon him every time, and he'll keep his subordinates right up to the mark.”
Upon his return to his native state Quincy had found many of his old friends still in office. The governor and higher officials were only annuals—some not very hardy at that—while the minor officials, in many cases, were hardy perennials, whom no political hot weather or cold storm could wither or destroy.
A presidential campaign was on, and speakers, for there were few orators, were in demand. Quincy's visits to so many cities inspecting the Company's stores had brought him in contact with hundreds of local politicians. One day there came a call from the State Committee to come in and see the Secretary.
“Do you want to do something for the party?” asked Mr. Thwing, the Secretary.
“I have already subscribed,” said Quincy. “Do you need more?”
“Money talks,” said Mr. Thwing, “and so do you. I have a score of letters from different cities asking me to add you to our list of speakers, and to be sure and let the writers hear you.”
“I had no intention—” Quincy began.
“You're an ex-governor, and know all the State. Aren't you in the grocery business in a big way?”
“Rather.”
“'Twill boom your business in great style. Better even for groceries than boots and shoes, for food is a daily consumption.”
“I wouldn't go on the stump just to advertise my business.”
“Of course not. You would take just what the gods provided and ask no questions, and make no comments. Shall we put you down for, say, twenty nights?”
Quincy consented, but he stipulated that he was not to be placed in any city or town where he had a store.
Mr. Thwing vehemently objected. “Why, the men who want you to come live where the stores are.”
“I can't help it. Put me in the next town, and if they're so anxious to hear me they'll come.”
After the campaign was over, the votes cast, and the victory won, Mr. Thwing said, “That was a good business idea of yours, Governor, about your not going into the towns where your stores were. Of course you instructed your general manager.”
“I don't know what you mean,” said Quincy.
“Didn't you know when you spoke in places adjoining those in which you had stores that your Mr. Chripp, I think that's the name—just flooded the towns with circulars announcing that you were to speak and that you were the President of the grocery company doing business in the adjoining city, that your goods were the best, your prices the lowest—and that your teams would deliver goods free of charge in all places within five miles?”
Mr. Thwing stopped to take breath, and Quincy nearly lost his in astonishment.
“Great business idea, Mr. Sawyer.”
“I knew nothing about it. I should have stopped it had I known.”
“Why so? You got a double ad. Bright man that Chripp. You'll have to raise his salary.”
Quincy did not reply. The deed was done, and a public explanation would do no good. Chripp surely had his employer's interests at heart, even if he had mixed politics and business rather too openly. The next month's statement showed a great increase in trade. Mr. Chripp was not called to account, but his salary was materially increased at the suggestion of young Quincy.
The new President had been inaugurated, the Cabinet nominees confirmed, and the distribution of political “plums” began. Quincy felt that the lightning had struck in the wrong place when he was approached and sounded as to whether he would accept a foreign mission. He talked the matter over with his wife.
“Quincy,” said she, “I would go, if I were you.”
“Are you not happy here?”
“Yes, and no. Happy to be near my son, and relatives and friends; no, because your business takes you away so much that I see little of you. If you take the mission, I shall have you with me all the time. I am selfish, I know, but it is my love for you that makes me so.”
The Hon. Quincy Adams Sawyer was nominated and confirmed as Ambassador to Austria-Hungary. Alice had made the selection.
“Let us go to Vienna, Quincy. It was there we met after our long separation—and, this is purely a personal matter, I wish to study the scenes of my story, 'The Son of Sergius,' at close range.”
Before Quincy's departure it had been decided to lease the Beacon Street house for four years. Maude was given her choice but preferred the house in Mount Vernon Street where she had lived since her marriage.
Young Quincy was obliged to take bachelor quarters which he found at Norumbega Chambers.
His suite consisted of a sitting-room, two sleeping rooms each with bath, and a small room intended for a library or study, and which was utilized by him as an office.
Quincy went down the harbour with his father and mother on the ocean liner, returning on the tug with Tom. On the way back young Quincy took a small envelope from his pocket and extracted a short note which he had read at least a dozen times since its receipt. It was from Miss Mary Dana and informed him that she had returned to Boston and would be pleased to see him, the next day, at her office with the Isburn Detective Bureau.
It was a cold, raw day in the early part of April and when they reached the city Quincy was taken with a chill. When they reached Norumbega Chambers the chill had turned to a fever, and Tom suggested sending for a doctor. Quincy stoutly protested against any such action being taken, but Tom summoned one despite his objections. In this way, Quincy became acquainted with John Loring Bannister, M. D.
Dr. Bannister was unknown to his patient when he paid his first visit, and was professionally non-communicative, but he told him afterwards, when their acquaintance had ripened to such an extent that the names Quincy and Jack took the place of more formal designations, that it had always seemed a wonder to him that he had survived. Quincy, with no intention of indulging in flattery, replied that if a certain physician had not been called in he, probably, would not have done so.
Quincy's condition on the second day was so low, indeed, that Dr. Bannister told Tom if his friend had not made a will he had better do so. Tom's first thought was to send for Mr. Merry, but he decided that might lead to a charge of family influence, and he appealed to the doctor.
Dr. Bannister told Tom he was well acquainted with a young lawyer and that he would send him up to see Mr. Sawyer. Quincy was in such a condition when Lawyer Edward Everett Colbert made his first visit, that if he had been asked the name of the principal beneficiary he would probably have told the lawyer to let it go to the Devil. The second time that Mr. Colbert called, Quincy's physical will had resumed control and he had no need of any other.
When convalescing Quincy said to Tom, when the nurse was absent, “If you thought I was going to die, why didn't you send for Aunt Maude, and—and—you know whom I mean—Miss Dana?”
“I saw them every day, but you were too weak to see them, but if—they would have been summoned.”
“Tom, your head is so level that a plane couldn't make a shaving.”
Tom was obliged to be away daytimes, the buying for twenty stores requiring much travel.
Dr. Bannister and Lawyer Colbert were occasional visitors and Quincy received a manifest mental exhilaration from his intercourse with them. His sickness had led him to think about the future. Was he to live and die as the treasurer of a grocery company? Had he no higher ideal?
A story told by Jack and Ned, which they knew to be true, because they were the principal actors therein, led Quincy to give himself up to some mighty thinking.
The story was related one evening in the sitting-room when Tom was present.
“What I'm going to tell,” began Ned, “will include much more than I saw or knew myself, but it all comes from authentic sources. I shall omit names, since they are unessential.
“Among my clients was an old gentleman, over seventy years of age, but still erect and vigorous. One morning I received a letter requesting me to call at his house. I found him in bed feeling all tired out. He said he had never had a doctor in his life.
“The doctor, here, assures me that those people who never need a doctor until they are well advanced in life are not likely to require a physician's services more than once. The next call is for the undertaker.”
“That's so,” broke in Jack; “it's the person who is continually calling upon a doctor for every little ailment who lives to an old age, for instead of letting disease creep upon him, he calls for medical assistance as soon as he experiences any derangement of his physical system. If all the people would follow this plan, it would increase the longevity of the human race.”
“And materially increase the income of the medical profession,” added Quincy.
“It proved to be the old gentleman's first and last sickness. In order that you may fully understand the wonderful event which took place the night he died, I shall have to give you a history of his family.”
Quincy consulted his watch. “It is now but a few minutes past seven. I will give you until midnight, my usual time for retiring.”
“I have an engagement at ten or thereabouts,” said Jack, “but it's a matter of life instead of death.”
Ned continued: “My client had a son and daughter, both married. They were good children and loved their father on the American plan. The son had married an avaricious woman, while the daughter was married to a man who was not so avaricious as his sister-in-law. The old gentleman was very wealthy and like all good children they were thinking of the time when the property would be divided.”
“I see signs of a family squabble,” remarked Quincy.
“It came to pass,” said Ned. “The French have a maxim which says it is advisable to search for the woman in all mysterious cases. In this instance, the woman did not wait to be searched for but came of her own accord. She insisted upon having the card bearing the name of Mrs. James Bliss sent up to the sick man; when he saw it he, in turn, insisted upon seeing the woman. The family wished to be present at the interview but my client demanded a private conversation which lasted for an hour.
“Jack had been in daily attendance as a physician, but I was not sent for until the day following Mrs. Bliss's visit. He had told his son that he wished to make his will, and the son told the other members of the family. They wished him to make a will, of course, but they were afraid that woman had exercised undue influence. As the son expressed it, the better way would be to let the law make the decision.
“My client insisted upon seeing me alone. He told me the woman's story. Many years before, when my client was a poor man, her father had set him up in business. He had told his daughter of the loan before his death, and her visit was to ask for payment as she was a widow and poor, with three children to support.
“My client directed me to put her in the will for fifty thousand dollars, saying the original loan at six per cent, would amount to fully that amount.
“The son, when told the story by me made no objection to the bequest but the son's wife and the son-in-law declared that the note she had was outlawed and that she shouldn't have a cent. The son-in-law put a private detective on her track who learned that Mrs. Bliss was a test and trance medium, and that she gave materialization séances at private houses. The whole family then declared her to be a fraud and impostor, and declared their intention of breaking the will if it was signed.
“Now we are getting to the lively part of the story. The will was ready for signing. It was about five minutes past six when I was admitted and I went right up to my client's room. I had been there about five minutes when Jack came in. He was followed by the entire family, the son-in-law having been chosen to prevent the signing of the will.
“Then occurred a sensational episode. Mrs. Bliss came to inquire about my client's condition and the unsuspecting nurse admitted her. She came directly to the room where we were all assembled.”
“A strong situation for a play,” remarked Quincy.
“They played it,” said Ned. “The son-in-law took Mrs. Bliss into an adjoining room and ordered her to stay there. Then he returned. This was to be a Waterloo but he was the Wellington.
“My client was propped up in bed, a pen placed in his hand, while the document rested on a large book which Jack held.
“The son-in-law began the oratory. 'I protest,' he screamed. 'This sacrilege, this injustice shall not be done with my consent.' What was it you said to him, Jack?”
“I told him unless he stopped talking in such an excited manner, and made less noise, it would have a very prejudicial effect upon my patient's health.
“The son-in-law then denounced Mrs. Bliss as an adventuress, and that she had no legal claim upon his father-in-law. His loud voice and violent gestures were too much for the invalid. The pen dropped from his nerveless fingers and he fell back exhausted. I think you had better take it up now, Ned.”
“All right. You gave me a chance to rest my voice. Yes, thank you,” as Tom passed him a glass of water.
Ned resumed, “The door was opened and Mrs. Bliss looked in. 'Has he signed?' she asked.
“'No, he hasn't,' yelled the son-in-law, 'and while I live he never shall' Now you come in again, Jack.”
“'Ladies and gentlemen.' said I, 'this excitement must stop. As medical adviser I order you all to leave the room.' They objected, but I told them if they didn't, I should resign charge of the case and refuse to give a death certificate unless there was an inquest. That frightened them, and they all went out, the son-in-law escorting Mrs. Bliss.”
“We propped up the patient again, and I gave him some brandy. He said, 'I must sign.' He took the pen and made a ragged, disjointed capital 'T.'
“The pen dropped from his hand and he fell back upon the pillow. Ned put the unsigned will in his pocket. I found that the end was very near and I told Ned to call the family. Now, it's your turn, Ned.”
“I told the family they had better go to their father's room at once. Mrs. Bliss arose with the intention of following them but I told her she was not one of the family; that she could remain with me as my services were no longer needed. She turned to me and asked: 'Was it signed?' I shook my head. Without a word she sank upon the nearest chair and buried her face in her arms.
“I stood irresolute. The spectacle of this silent woman, speechless because she was to be deprived of what was justly due her, was a situation with which I did not know how to deal. I was saved the necessity of saying or doing anything by the sudden entrance of Jack who cried: 'Ned, it's all over; he's dead.'”
“Now comes the wonderful, inexplainable, part of the story. There was a single gas-burner alight in the room. It was turned down low; faces were discernible, but the room was only half lighted. Hearing a movement, Jack and I turned towards Mrs. Bliss. She had lifted her head from the table and was gazing directly at us. Her eyes were open, but they had a glassy look. Then it seemed as though the room was gradually becoming darker and darker, until the darkness became intense.
“My first thought was that Mrs. Bliss had put out the gas. Before I had time to question her, Jack and I caught sight of a white spot that was approaching us from the corner of the room nearest the doorway which led into the hallway. This light, which was no larger than a man's hand at first, increased in size and intensity until it covered a space at least two feet wide and six feet high. I must admit that my hair was inclined to stand on end.”
“And mine too,” exclaimed Jack.
“Suddenly,” said Ned, “the light, which was nebulous, began to fall away in places and assume a shape like the form of a man. Then the portion where a man's head ought to be, assumed the appearance of one. Jack and I clasped hands and retreated to the farther corner of the room. This act on our part was purely voluntary. If I had possessed a Remington rifle, six Colt's revolvers, and a dynamite bomb, I should have backed out just the same.
“We could not remove our eyes from the glittering, moving, thing; and now a most surprising change took place. The light seemed to leave the figure, so that it was not visible as a light, and yet it filled the room with a radiant glow.
“Who was that who stood before us? Could we believe our eyes? Were they playing us a trick? Were we the victims of a too active imagination? No, there could be no mistake. The form that stood before us was that of the man who lay dead in the next room.
“Turning towards us, from the form came the words distinctly spoken—'It must be signed!' The figure pointed to the table near which Mrs. Bliss still sat in an apparently unconscious state. I took the will from my pocket, opened it, advanced to the table, and laid it thereon. The figure reached out its right hand and beckoned. The thought came to me that he wanted a pen. There was none in the room. Jack divined the situation as quickly as I did and took his stylographic pen from his visiting book, fitted it for use, and laid it on the table beside the will. The form advanced, took up the pen, joined a small letter to the capital 'T' already written, and finished out the name in full.
“The form then laid the pen upon the table and pointed to the places set apart for witnesses. I wrote my name, Edward Everett Colbert, and Jack put his,—John Loring Bannister, under mine.”
“Did the form sit down?” asked Quincy.
“No. The only chair near the table was the one in which Mrs. Bliss sat. I could not resist the inclination to whisper in Jack's ear: 'What do you think of that?' We both turned with the intention of taking another look at 'That,' but it had disappeared and the gas was burning at about half-light.
“Mrs. Bliss arose from her seat with a pleasant smile on her face. 'You said that he had signed it—I understood you to say so, did I not?' I said nothing, but drew the will from my pocket and pointed to the signatures. Then Jack said it was his duty to see the sorrowing family and for me to escort Mrs. Bliss to a car.
“Jack and I took dinner together in a private room at Young's the next day. We decided that it was my duty to present the will for probate. Although it is presumed by the statutes of this Commonwealth that a will is signed by a living man, I was unable to find anything in said statutes to prevent a dead man, if he were so disposed and able, or enabled, doing so.”
“Of course the will was presented for probate,” said Quincy.
“It was,” replied Ned, “and despite the energetic efforts of the avaricious son-in-law, was admitted. His lawyer brought up the point that the will should have had three witnesses, but I showed him the note, told him Mrs. Bliss's story, and declared that I would fight the case up to the Supreme Court if necessary.
“There was no doubt in the mind of the registrar as to the authenticity of the will for was it not duly signed and witnessed by Dr. Bannister, a physician of the highest repute, and Lawyer Colbert, a bright and shining light of the legal profession?”
“Your story taxes my credulity,” said Quincy, “but I will not allow it to break our friendship. Tom, kindly ring for that supper to be sent up.” He looked at his watch. “Doctor, you've time to spare. 'Tis only nine-thirty.”