[p73]Mr. Opp cleared his throat with some dignity. “I expect to remain here permanent now. I—well—the truth is, I have decided to operate a newspaper here.”“No!” cried the girl, incredulously. “Not in the Cove!”“In the Cove,” repeated Mr. Opp, firmly. “There’s great need here for a live, enterprising newspaper. It’s a virgin field, you might say. There never was a place that needed a public voice more. My paper is going to be a voice that hears all sides of a question; it’s going to appeal to the aged and the young and all them that lies between.”“It will be mighty grand for us!” said his companion, with interest. “When is it going to start?”Definite plans being decidedly nebulous, Mr. Opp wisely confined himself to generalities. He touched casually on his remarkable fitness for the work, his wide experience, his worldly knowledge. He hinted that in time he expected to venture into even deeper literary waters—poetry,[p74]and a novel, perhaps. As he talked, he realized that for the second time that day he was looked upon with approval. Being accepted at his own estimate proved a new and exhilarating sensation.It was pleasant on the wide porch, with the honeysuckle shutting out the sun, and the long, yellow blossoms filling the air with fragrance. It was pleasant to hear the contented chuckle of the hens and the sleepy hum of the bees, and the sound of his own voice; but most of all it was pleasant, albeit disconcerting, to glance sidewise occasionally and find a pair of credulous brown eyes raised to his in frank admiration. What if the swing of the hammock was making him dizzy and one foot had gone to sleep? These were minor considerations unworthy of mention.“And just to think,” the girl was saying, “that you may be right across the road! I won’t mind staying at home so much if you’ll let me come over and see you make the newspaper.”[p75]“You might like to assist sometime,” said Mr. Opp, magnanimously, at the same time cautiously removing a fluttering pink ribbon from his knee. “I could let you try your hand on a wedding or a ’bituary, or something along that line.”“Oh, really?” she cried, her eyes brightening. “I’d just love to. I can write compositions real nice, and you could help me a little.”“Yes,” agreed Mr. Opp; “I could learn you to do the first draft, and I could put on the extra touches.”So engrossed did they become in these plans that they did not hear the click of the gate, or see the small, aggressive lady who came up the walk. She moved with the confident air of one who is in the habit of being obeyed. Her skirt gave the appearance of no more daring to hang wrong than her bonnet-strings would have presumed to move from the exact spot where she had tied them under her left ear. Her small, bright eyes, slightly crossed, apparently saw two ways at once, for on her brief journey[p76]from the gate to the porch, she decapitated two withered geraniums on the right, and picked up a stray paper and some dead leaves on the left.“Guin-never!” she called sharply, not seeing the couple on the porch, “who’s been tracking mud in on my clean steps?”The girl rose hastily and came forward. “Mother,” she said, “here’s Mr. Opp.”Mrs. Gusty glanced up from one to the other, evidently undecided how to meet the situation. But the hesitancy was not for long; Mr. Opp’s watch-fob, glittering in the sunlight, symbolized such prosperity that she hastily extended a cordial hand of welcome.“You don’t mean to tell me Guin-never has been keeping you out here on the porch instead of taking you in the parlor? And hasn’t she given you a thing to drink? Well, just wait till I get my things off and I’ll fix a pitcher of lemonade.”“Let me do it, Mother,” said Guinevere, eagerly; “I often do it at school.”[p77]“I’d hate to drink what you make,” said Mrs. Gusty, waving her aside. “You show Mr. Opp in the parlor. No; I’ll open the shutters: you’d get your hands dirty.” She bustled about with that tyrannical capability that reduces every one near it to a state of helpless dependence.The parlor was cool and dark, and Mr. Opp felt around for a chair while the refractory shutter was being opened. When at last a shaft of light was admitted, it fell full upon a sable frame which hung above the horse-hair sofa, and inclosed a glorified certificate of the births, marriages, and deaths in the house of Gusty. Around these written data was a border realistically depicting the seven ages of man and culminating in a legend of gold which readFrom the Cradle to the Grave.While Mr. Opp was standing before this work of art, apparently deeply interested, he was, in reality, peeping through a crack in the shutter. The[p78]sunlight was still filtering through the honeysuckle vines, making dancing, white patches on the porch, the bees were humming about the blossoms, and Miss Guinevere Gusty was still sitting in the hammock, her chin in her palms, gazing down the road.When Mrs. Gusty returned, she bore a glass pitcher of lemonade, a plate of crisp gingersnaps, and a tumbler of crushed ice, all of which rested upon a tray which was covered with her strawberry centerpiece, a mark of distinction which, unfortunately, was lost upon her guest.Mr. Opp, being a man of business, plunged at once into his subject, presenting the matter so eloquently and using so much more persuasion than was necessary that he overshot the mark. Mrs. Gusty was not without business sagacity herself, and when Mr. Opp met a possible objection before it had ever occurred to her, she promptly made use of the suggestion.“Of course,” said Mr. Opp, as a final[p79]inducement, “I’d be glad to run in some of Mr. Gusty’s poetical pieces from time to time.”This direct appeal to her sentiment so touched Mrs. Gusty that she suggested they go over to the shop at once and look it over.For a moment after the door of his future sanctum was thrown open Mr. Opp was disconcerted. The small, dark room, cluttered with all manner of trash, the broken window-panes, the dust, and the cobwebs, presented a prospect that was far from encouraging; but after an examination of the presses, his courage revived.After a great deal of talk on Mr. Opp’s part, and some shrewd bargaining on Mrs. Gusty’s, the stupendous transaction was brought to a close, to the eminent satisfaction of both parties.It was late that night before Mr. Opp retired. He sat in the open window of his bedroom and looked out upon the river. The cool night air and the quiet[p80]light of the stars calmed the turmoil in his brain. Gradually the colossal schemes and the towering ambitions gave way to an emotion to which the editor-elect was by no means a stranger. It was a little white-faced Fear that lurked always in a corner of his heart, and could be kept down only by brave words and aggressive deeds.He sat with his trembling knees hunched, and his arms awkwardly clasped about them, an absurd atom in the great cosmic order; yet the soul that looked out of his squinting, wistful eyes held all the potentialities of life, and embodied the eternal sadness and the eternal inspiration of human endeavor.[p81]VIIItis no small undertaking to embark in an untried ship, upon unknown waters, in the teeth of opposing gales. But Mr. Opp sailed the sea of life as a valiant mariner should, self-reliant, independent, asking advice of nobody. He steered by the guidance of his own peculiar moral compass, regardless of the rough waters through which it led him.Having invested the major portion of his savings in the present venture, it was necessary to begin operations at once; but events conspired to prevent him. Miss Kippy made many demands upon his time both by day and night; she had transferred her affection and dependence from her father to him, and he found[p82]himself sorely encumbered by this new responsibility. Moreover, the attitude of the town toward the innovation of a newspaper was one of frank skepticism, and it proved a delicate and arduous task to create the proper public sentiment. In addition to these troubles, Mr. Opp had a yet graver matter to hinder him: with all his valor and energy he was suffering qualms of uncertainty as to the proper method of starting a weekly journal.To be sure, he had achieved a name for the paper—a name so eminently satisfactory that he had already had it emblazoned upon a ream of office paper. “The Opp Eagle” had sprung full-syllabled from his teeming brain, and had been accepted over a hundred competitors.But naming the fledgling was an easy matter compared with getting it out of the nest; and it was not until the instalment of his competent staff that Mr. Opp accomplished the task.This important transaction took place one morning as he sat in his new office[p83]and struggled with his first editorial. The bare room, with the press in the center, served as news-room, press-room, publication office, and editorial sanctum. Mr. Opp sat at a new deal table, with one pen behind his ear, and another in his hand, and gazed for inspiration at the brown wrapping-paper with which he had neatly covered the walls. His mental gymnastics were interrupted by the appearance at the door of Miss Jim Fenton and her brother Nick.Miss Jim was an anomaly in the community, being by theory a spinster, and by practice a double grass-widow. Capable and self-supporting, she attracted the ne’er-do-wells as a magnet attracts needles, but having been twice induced to forego her freedom and accept the bonds of wedlock, she had twice escaped and reverted to her original type and name. Miss Jim was evidently a victim of one of Nature’s most economical moods; she was spare and angular, with a long, wrinkled face surmounted by a scant fluff of pale, frizzled hair. Her mouth[p84]slanted upward at one corner, giving her an expression unjustly attributed to coquetry, when in reality it was due to an innocent and pardonable pride in an all-gold eye-tooth.But it was her clothes that brought misunderstanding, misfortune, and even matrimony upon Miss Jim. They were sent her by the boxful by a cousin in the city, and the fact was unmistakable that they were clothes with a past. The dresses held an atmosphere of evaporated frivolity; flirtations lingered in every frill, and memories of old larks lurked in every furbelow. The hats had a jaunty list to port, and the colored slippers still held a dance within their soles. One old bird of paradise on Miss Jim’s favorite bonnet had a chronic wink for the wickedness he had witnessed.It was this wink that attracted Mr. Opp as he looked up from his arduous labors. For a disconcerting moment he was uncertain whether it belonged to Miss Jim or to the bird.“Howdy, Mr. Opp,” said the lady in[p85]brisk, businesslike tones. “I was taking a crayon portrait home to Mrs. Gusty, and I just stopped in to see if I couldn’t persuade you to take my brother to help you on the newspaper. You remember Nick, don’t you?”Mr. Opp glanced up. A skeleton of a boy, with a shaven head, was peering eagerly past him into the office, his keen, ferret-like eyes devouring every detail of the printing-presses.“He knows the business,” went on Miss Jim, anxiously pulling at the fingers of her gloves. “He’s been in it over a year at Coreyville. He wants to go back; but I ain’t willing till he gets stronger. He ain’t been up but two weeks.”Mr. Opp turned impressively in his revolving chair, the one luxury which he had deemed indispensable, and doubtfully surveyed the applicant. The mere suggestion of his leaning upon this broken reed seemed ridiculous; yet the boy’s thin, sallow face, and Miss Jim’s imploring eyes, caused him to hesitate.[p86]“Well, you see,” he said, with thumbs together and his lips pursed, after the manner of the various employers before whom he had stood in the past, “we are just making a preliminary start, and we haven’t engaged our staff yet. I am a business man and a careful one. I don’t feel justified in going to no extra expense until ‘The Opp Eagle’ is, in a way, on its feet.”“Oh, that’s all right,” said the boy; “I’ll work a month for nothing. Lots of fellows do that on the big papers.”Miss Jim plucked warningly at his sleeve, and Mr. Opp, seeing that Nick’s enthusiasm had led him beyond his depth, went gallantly to the rescue.“Not at all,” he said hastily; “that ain’t my policy. I think I might contrive to pay you a small, reasonable sum down, and increase it in ratio as the paper become more prosperous. Don’t you think you better sit down?”“No, sir; I’m all right,” said the boy, impatiently. “I can do ’most anything about a paper, setting type, printing,[p87]reporting, collecting, ’most anything you put me at.”Such timely knowledge, in whatever guise it came, seemed Heaven-sent. Mr. Opp gave a sigh of satisfaction.“If you feel that you can’t do any better than accepting the small sum that just at present I’ll have to offer you, why, I think we can come to some arrangement.”“That’s mighty nice in you,” said Miss Jim, jerking her head forward in order to correct an undue backward gravitation of her bonnet. “If ever you want a crayon portrait, made from life or enlarged from a photograph, I’ll make you a special price on it. I’m just taking this here one home to Mrs. Gusty; she had it done for Guin-never’s birthday.”Miss Jim removed the wrappings and disclosed a portrait of Miss Guinevere Gusty, very large as to eyes and very small as to mouth. She handed it to Mr. Opp, and called attention to its fine qualities.[p88]“Just look at the lace on that dress! Mrs. Fallows picked a whole pattern off on her needles from one of my portraits. And did you notice the eyelashes; you can actually count ’em! She had four buttons on her dress, but I didn’t get in but three; but I ain’t going to mention it to Mrs. Gusty. Don’t you think it’s pretty?”Mr. Opp, who had been smiling absently at the portrait, started guiltily. “Yes,” he said confusedly; “yes, ma’am, I think she is.” Then he felt a curious tingling about his ears and realized, to his consternation, that he was blushing.“She’s too droopin’ a type for me,” said Miss Jim, removing an ostrich tip from her angle of vision; then she continued in a side whisper: “Say, would you mind making Nick take this bottle of milk at twelve o’clock, and resting a little? He ain’t as strong as he lets on, and he has sort of sinking spells ’long about noon.”Receiving the bottle thus surreptitiously[p89]offered, and assisting the lady to gather up her bundles, Mr. Opp bowed her out, and turned to face the embarrassing necessity of giving instructions to his new employee. He was relieved to find, however, that the young gentleman in question possessed initiative; for Nick had promptly removed his coat, and fallen to work, putting things to rights with an energy and ability that caused Mr. Opp to offer up a prayer of heartfelt gratitude.All the morning they worked silently, Mr. Opp toiling over his editorial, with constant references to a small dictionary which he concealed in the drawer of the table, and Nick giving the presses a thorough and much-needed overhauling.At the noon-hour they shared their lunch, and Mr. Opp, firm in the authority invested in him by Miss Jim, demanded that Nick should drink his milk, and recline at length upon the office bench for twenty minutes. It was with great difficulty that Nick was persuaded to submit[p90]to this transferred coddling; but he evidently realized that insubordination at the start of his career would be fatal, and, moreover, his limbs ached and his hands trembled.It was in the intimacy of this, their first, staff meal, that they discussed the policy of the paper.“Of course,” said Mr. Opp, “we have got a vast undertaking in front of us. For the next few months we won’t scarcely have time to draw a natural breath. I am going to put every faculty I own on to making ‘The Opp Eagle’ a fine paper. I expect to get here at seven o’clockA.M., and continue to pursue my work as far into the midnight hours as may need be. Nothing in the way of pleasure or anything else is going to pervert my attention. Of course you understand that my mind will be taken up with the larger issues of things, and I’ll have to risk a dependence on you to attend to the smaller details.”“All right,” said Nick, gratefully; “you won’t be sorry you trusted me,[p91]Mr. Opp. I’ll do my level best. When will we get out the first issue?”“Well—er—the truth is,” said Mr. Opp, “I haven’t, as you might say, accumulated sufficient of material as yet. You see, I have a great many irons in the fire, and besides opening up this office, I am the president of a company that’s just bought up twenty acres of ground around here. The biggest oil proposition—”“Yes, sir,” interrupted Nick; “but don’t you think we could get started in two weeks, with the ads and the contributors’ letters from other counties, and a story or two I could run in, and your editorial page?”“I’ve got two advertisements,” said Mr. Opp; “but I don’t intend to rest content until every man in the Cove has got a card in. Now, about these contributors from other counties?”“I can manage that,” said Nick. “I’ll write to some girl or fellow I know in the different towns, and ask them to give me a weekly letter. They sign[p92]themselves ‘Gipsy’ or ‘Fairy’ or ‘Big Injun’ or something like that, and tell what’s doing in their neighborhood. We’ll have to fix the letters up some, but they help fill in like everything.”Mr. Opp’s spirits rose at this capable coöperation.“You—er—like the name?” he asked.“‘The Opp Eagle’?” said Nick. “Bully!”Such unqualified approval went to Mr. Opp’s head, and he rashly broke through the dignity that should hedge about an editor.“I don’t mind reading you some of my editorial,” he said urbanely; “it’s the result of considerable labor.”He opened the drawer and took out some loosely written pages, though he knew each paragraph by heart. Squaring himself in his revolving-chair, and clearing his throat, he addressed himself ostensibly to the cadaverous youth stretched at length before him, but in imagination to all the southern counties of the grand old Commonwealth of Kentucky.[p93]His various business experiences had stored such an assorted lot of information in his brain that it was not unlike a country store in the diversity of its contents. His style, like his apparel, was more ornate and pretentious than what lay beneath it. There were many words which he knew by sight, but with which he had no speaking acquaintance. But Mr. Opp had ideals, and this was the first opportunity he had ever had to put them before his fellow-men.“The great bird of American Liberty,” he read impressively, “has soared and flown over the country and lighted at last in your midst. ‘The Opp Eagle’ appears for the first time to-day. It is no money scheme in which we are indulging; we aim first and foremost to fulfil a much-needed want in the community. ‘The Opp Eagle’ will tell the people what you want to know better and at less expense than any other method. It will aim at bringing the priceless gems of knowledge within the reach of[p94]everybody. For what is bread to the body if you do not also clothe the mind spiritually and mentally?“We will boom this, our native, city. If possible, I hope to get the streets cleaned up and a railroad, and mayhap in time lamp-posts. This region has ever been known for its great and fine natural resources, but we have been astounded, you might say astonished, in recent visits to see its naked and crude immensities, which far exceeds our most sanguine expectations. So confident are we that a few of our most highly respectable citizens have, at the instigation of the Editor of ‘The Opp Eagle,’ bought up the land lying between Turtle Creek and the river, and as soon as a little more capital has been accumulated, intend to open up a oil proposition that will astonish the eyes of the natives!“In all candor, we truly believe this favored region of ours to have no equal in underground wealth nowhere upon this terrestrial earth, albeit we are not of globe-trotter stock nor tribe. We will[p95]endeavor to induce the home people to copy after the wise example of a few of our leading citizens and buy up oil rights before the kings of Bonanzas from the Metropolitan cities discover our treasure and wrench it from our grasp. ‘The Opp Eagle’ will, moreover, stand for temperance and reform. We will hurl grape and cannister into the camps of the saloonatics until they flee the wrath to come. Will also publish a particular statement of all social entertainments, including weddings, parties, church socials, and funerals. In conclusion, would say that we catch this first opportunity to thank you in collective manner herein for the welcome you have ordained ‘The Opp Eagle.’”Mr. Opp came to a close and waited for applause; nor was he disappointed.“Gee! I wish I could write like that!” said Nick, rising on his elbow. “I can do the printing all right, and hustle around for the news; but I never know how to put on the trimmings.”Mr. Opp laid a hand upon his shoulder;[p96]he was fast developing a fondness for the youth.“It’s a gift,” he said sympathetically, “that I am afraid, my boy, nobody can’t learn you.”“Can I come in?” said a voice from outside, and Mr. Gallop peeped around the open door.“Walk in,” cried Mr. Opp, while Nick sprang to his feet. “We are just by way of finishing up the work at hand, and have a few minutes of spare leisure.”“I just wanted to know if you’d help us get up a town band,” said Mr. Gallop. “I told the boys you’d be too busy, but they made me come. I asked Mr. Fallows if you was musical; but I wouldn’t repeat what he said.”“Oh, Jimmy is just naturally humoristic,” said Mr. Opp. “Go along and tell me what he remarked.”“Well,” said Mr. Gallop, indignantly, “he said you was a expert on the windpipe! Mr. Tucker, I believe it was, thought you used to play the accordion.”[p97]“No,” said Mr. Opp; “it was the cornet. I was considerable of a performer at one time.”“Well, we want you for the leader of our band,” said Mr. Gallop. “We are going to have blue uniforms and give regular concerts up on Main Street.”Nick Fenny began searching for a pencil.“You know,” went on Mr. Gallop, rapidly, “the last show boat that was here had a calliope, and there’s another one coming next week. All I have to do is to hear a tune twice, then I can play it. Miss Guin-never Gusty is going up to Coreyville next week, and she says she’ll get us some new pieces. She’s going to select a plush self-rocker for the congregation to give the new preacher. They’re keeping it awful secret, but I heard ’em mention it over the telephone. The preacher’s baby has been mighty sick, and so has his mother, up at the Ridge; but she’s got well again. Well, I must go along now. Ain’t it warm?”Before Mr. Opp had ceased showing[p98]Mr. Gallop out, his attention was arrested by the strange conduct of his staff. That indefatigable youth was writing furiously on the new wall-paper, covering the clean brown surface with large, scrawling characters.Mr. Opp’s indignation was checked at its source by the radiant face which Nick turned upon him.“I’ve got another column!” he cried; “listen here:“‘A new and handsome Show Boat will tie up at the Cove the early part of next week. A fine calliope will be on board.’“‘Miss Guinevere Gusty will visit friends in Coreyville soon.’“‘The new preacher will be greatly surprised soon by the gift of a fine plush rocking-chair from the ladies of the congregation.’“‘The infant baby of the new preacher has been sick, but is better some.’“‘Jimmy Fallows came near getting an undertaking job at the Ridge last week, but the lady got well.’[p99]“And that ain’t all,” he continued excitedly; “I’m going out now to get all the particulars about that band, and we’ll have a long story about it.”Mr. Opp, left alone in his office, made an unsuccessful effort to resume work. The fluttering of the “Eagle’s” wings preparatory to taking flight was not the only thing that interfered with his power of concentration. He did not at all like the way he felt. Peculiar symptoms had developed in the last week, and the quinine which he had taken daily had failed to relieve him. He could not say that he was sick,—in fact, he had never been in better health,—but there was a strange feeling of restlessness, a vague disturbance of his innermost being, that annoyed and puzzled him. Even as he tried to solve the problem, an irresistible impulse brought him to his feet and carried him to the door. Miss Guinevere Gusty was coming out of her gate in a soft, white muslin, and a chip hat laden with pink roses.“Anything I can do for you up[p100]street?” she called across pleasantly to Mr. Opp.“Why, thank you—no, the fact is—well, you see, I find it necessary for me to go up myself.” Mr. Opp heard himself saying these words with great surprise, and when he found himself actually walking out of the office, leaving a large amount of unfinished work, his indignation knew no bounds.“The sun is awful hot. Ain’t you goin’ to wear a hat?” drawled Miss Guinevere.Mr. Opp put his hand to his head in some embarrassment, and then assured her that he very often went without it.They sauntered slowly down the dusty road. On one side the trees hedged them in, but on the other stretched wide fields of tasseled corn over which shimmered waves of summer heat. White butterflies fluttered constantly across their path, and overhead, hidden somewhere in the branches, the birds kept up a constant song. The August sun, still high in the heavens, shone fiercely down on[p101]the open road, on the ragweed by the wayside, on the black-eyed Susans nodding at the light; but it fell most mercilessly of all upon the bald spot on the head of the unconscious Mr. Opp, who was moving, as in an hypnotic state, into the land of romance.[p102]VIIIByall the laws of physics, Mr. Opp during the months that ensued, should have stood perfectly still. For if ever two forces pulled with equal strength in opposite directions, love and ambition did in the heart of our friend the editor. But Mr. Opp did not stand still; on the contrary, he seemed to be moving in every direction at once.In due time “The Opp Eagle” made its initial flight, and received the approbation of the community. The first page was formal, containing the editorial, a list of the subscribers, a notice to tax-payers, and three advertisements, one of which requested “the lady public to please note that the hats put out by Miss Duck Brown do not show the wire composing the frame.”[p103]But the first page of the “Eagle” was like the front door of a house: when once you got on the other side of it, you were in the family, as it were, formality was dropped, and an easy atmosphere of familiarity prevailed. You read that Uncle Enoch Siller had Sundayed over at the Ridge, or that Aunt Gussy Williams was on the puny list, and frequently there were friendly references to “Ye Editor” or “Ye Quill Driver,” for after soaring to dizzy heights in his editorials, Mr. Opp condescended to come down on the second page and move in and out of the columns, as a host among his guests.It is painful to reflect what would have been the fate of the infatuated Mr. Opp in these days had it not been for the faithful Nick. Nick’s thirst for work was insatiable; he yearned for responsibility, and was never so happy as when gathering news. He chased an item as a dog might chase a rat, first scenting it, then hunting it down, and after mutilating it a bit, proudly returning it to his master.[p104]Mr. Opp was enabled, by this competent assistance, to spare many a half-hour in consultation with Miss Guinevere Gusty concerning the reportorial work she was going to do on the paper. The fact that nobody died or got married delayed all actual performance, but in order to be ready for the emergency, frequent calls were deemed expedient.It became part of the day’s program to read her his editorial, or consult her about some social item, or to report a new subscriber, his self-esteem meanwhile putting forth all manner of new shoots and bursting into exotic bloom under the warmth of her approval.Miss Gusty, on her part, was acquiring a new interest in her surroundings. In addition to the subtle flattery of being consulted, she was the recipient of daily offerings of books, and music, and drugstore candy, and sometimes a handful of flowers, carefully concealed in a newspaper to escape the vigilant eye of Jimmy Fallows.On several occasions she returned Mr.[p105]Opp’s calls, picking her way daintily across the road, and peeping in at the window to make sure he was there.It was at such times that the staff of “The Opp Eagle” misconducted itself. It objected to a young woman in the press-room; it disapproved of the said person sitting at the deal table in confidential conversation with the editor; it saw no humor in her dipping the pencils into the ink-well, and scrawling names on the new office stationery; and when the point was reached that she moved about the office, asking absurd questions and handling the type, the staff could no longer endure it, but hastened forth to forget its annoyance in the pursuit of business.Moreover, the conduct of the chief, as Nick was pleased to call Mr. Opp, was becoming more and more peculiar. He would arrive in the morning, his pockets bristling with papers, and his mind with projects. He would attack the work of the day with ferocious intensity, then in the midst of it, without warning, he[p106]would lapse into an apparent trance, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ceiling, and such a smile on his face as one usually reserves for a camera.Nick did not know that it was the song of the siren that was calling Mr. Opp, who, instead of lashing himself to the mast and steering for the open sea, was letting his little craft drift perilously near the rocky coast.No feature of the proceedings was lost upon Mrs. Gusty. She applied the same method to her daughter that she did to her vines, tying her firmly to the wall of her own ability, and prescribing the direction and length to which she should grow. The situation would need pruning later, but for the present she studied conditions and bided her time.Meanwhile the “Eagle” was circling more widely in its flight. Mr. Opp’s persistent and eloquent articles pertaining to the great oil wealth of the region had been reinforced by a favorable report from the laboratory in the city to which he had sent a specimen from the spring[p107]on Turtle Creek. Thus equipped with wings of hope, and a small ballast of fact, the “Eagle” went soaring on its way, and in time attracted the attention of a party of capitalists who were traveling through the State, investigating oil and mineral possibilities.One epoch-making day, the editor was called up over the long-distance telephone, and, after answering numerous inquiries, was told that the party expected to spend the following night in the Cove.This important event took place the last of November, and threw the town into great excitement. Mr. Opp received the message early in the morning, and immediately set to work to call a meeting of the Turtle Creek Land Company.“This here is one of the most critical moments in the history of Cove City,” he announced excitedly to Nick. “It’s a most fortunate thing that they’ve got me here to make the preliminary arrangements, and to sort of get the thing solidified, as you might say. I’ll call a[p108]meeting for eleven o’clock at Your Hotel. You call up old man Hager and the preacher, and I will undertake to notify Jimmy Fallows and Mr. Tucker.”“The preacher ain’t in town; he’s out at Smither’s Ridge, marrying a couple. I got the whole notice written out beforehand.”“Well, tear it up,” said Mr. Opp. “I’ve engaged a special hand to do all weddings and funerals.”Nick looked hurt; this was the first time his kingdom had been invaded. He kicked the door sullenly.“I can’t get the preacher if he’s out at Smither’s Ridge.”“Nick,” said Mr. Opp, equally hurt, “is that the way for a subordinate reporter to talk to a’ editor? You don’t seem to realize that this here is a very serious and large transaction. There may be hundreds of dollars involved. It’s a’ awful weight of responsibility for one man. I’m willing to finance it and conduct the main issues, but I’ve got to have the backing of all the other[p109]parties. Now it’s with you whether the preacher gets there or not.”“Shall I hunt up Mat Lucas, too?” asked Nick as he started forth.“No; that’s my branch of the work: but—say—Nick, your sister will have to be there; she owns some shares.”“All right,” said Nick; “her buggy is hitched up in front of Tucker’s. I’ll tell her to wait till you come.”Mr. Opp was not long in following. He walked down the road with an important stride, his bosom scarcely able to accommodate the feeling of pride and responsibility that swelled it. He was in a position of trust; his fellow-citizens would look to him, a man of larger experience and business ability, to deal with these moneyed strangers. He would be fair, but shrewd. He knew the clever wiles of the capitalists; he would meet them with calm but unyielding dignity.It was in this mood that he came upon Miss Jim, who was in the act of disentangling a long lace scarf from her buggy whip. Her flushed face and flashing[p110]eyes gave such unmistakable signs of wrath that Mr. Opp glanced apprehensively at the whip in her hand, and then at Jimmy Fallows, who was hitching her horse.“Howdy, Mr. Opp,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet a gentleman, after what I’ve seen.”“I hope,” said Mr. Opp, “that our friend here ain’t been indulging in his customary—”“It ain’t Mr. Fallows,” she broke in sharply; “it’s Mr. Tucker. He ain’t got the feeling of a broomstick.”“Now, Miss Jim,” began Jimmy Fallows in a teasing tone; but the lady turned her back upon him and addressed Mr. Opp.“You see this portrait,” she said angrily, pulling it out from under the seat. “It took me four weeks, including two Sunday afternoons, to make it. I begun it the second week after Mrs. Tucker died, when I seen him takin’ on so hard at church. He was cryin’ so when they took up the collection that he never even[p111]seen the plate pass him. I went right home and set to work on this here portrait, thinking he’d be glad and willing to buy it from me. Wouldn’t you, if you was a widower?”Mr. Opp gazed doubtfully at the picture, which represented Mr. Tucker sitting disconsolately beside a grave, with a black-bordered handkerchief held lightly between his fingers. A weeping-willow drooped above him, and on the tombstone at his side were two angels supporting the initials of the late Mrs. Tucker.“Why, Miss Jim,” insisted Fallows, “you’re askin’ too much of old man Tucker to expect him to keep on seein’ a tombstone when he’s got one eye on you and one eye on the Widow Gusty. He ain’t got any hair on top of his head to part, but he’s took to partin’ it down the back, and I seen him Sunday trying to read the hymns without his spectacles. He started up on ‘Let a Little Sunshine In’ when they was singing ‘Come, ye Disconsolate.’ You rub out the face and[p112]the initials on that there picture and keep it for the nex’ widower. Ketch him when he’s still droopin’. You’ll get your money back. Your mistake was in waiting too long.”“Speaking of waiting,” said Mr. Opp, impatiently, “there’s a call meeting of the Turtle Creek Land Co. for this morning at eleven at Your Hotel. Hope it’s convenient, Jimmy.”“Oh, yes,” said Jimmy; “we got more empty chairs at Your Hotel than anything else. What’s the meeting for? Struck gold?”Mr. Opp imparted the great news.“Oh, my land!” exclaimed Miss Jim, “will they be here to-day?”“Not until to-morrow night,” explained Mr. Opp. “This here meeting this morning is for the stock-holders only. We got to kinder outline our policy and arrange a sort of basis of operation.”“Well,” said Miss Jim, “I’ll take the portrait up to Mrs. Gusty’s and ask her to take care of it for me. I don’t know[p113]as I can do the face over into somebody else’s, but I can’t afford to lose it.”It was afternoon before the stock-holders could all be brought together. They assembled in the office of Your Hotel in varying states of mind ranging from frank skepticism to intense enthusiasm.Mr. Tucker represented the conservative element. He was the rich man of the town, with whom economy, at first a necessity, had become a luxury. No greater proof could have been desired of Mr. Opp’s persuasive powers than that Mr. Tucker had invested in a hundred shares of the new stock. He sat on the edge of his chair, wizen, anxious, fidgety, loaded with objections, and ready to go off half-cocked. Old man Hager sat in his shadow, objecting when he objected, voting as he voted, and prepared to loosen or tighten his purse-strings as Mr. Tucker suggested.Mat Lucas and Miss Jim were independents. They had both had sufficient experience in business to know their own[p114]minds. If there was any money to be made in the Cove or about it, they intended to have a part in it.Mr. Opp and the preacher constituted the Liberal party. They furnished the enthusiasm that floated the scheme. They were able to project themselves into the future and prophesy dazzling probabilities.Jimmy Fallows, alone of the group, maintained an artistic attitude toward the situation. He was absolutely detached. He sat with his chair tilted against the door and his thumbs in his armholes, and treated the whole affair as a huge joke.“The matter up for immediate consideration,” Mr. Opp was saying impressively, “is whether these here gentlemen should want to buy us out, we would sell, or whether we would remain firm in possession, and let them lease our ground and share the profits on the oil.”“Well, I’m kinder in favor of selling out if we get the chance,” urged Mr. Tucker in a high, querulous voice. “To[p115]sell on a rising market is always a pretty good plan.”“After we run up ag’in’ them city fellows,” said Mat Lucas, “I’ll be surprised if we git as much out as we put in.”“Gentlemen,” protested Mr. Opp, “this here ain’t the attitude to assume to the affair. To my profoundest belief there is a fortune in these here lands. The establishment of ‘The Opp Eagle’ has, as you know, been a considerable tax on my finances, but everything else I’ve got has gone into this company. It’s a great and glorious opportunity, one that I been predicting and prophesying for these many years. Are we going to sell out to this party, and let them reap the prize? No; I trust and hope that such is not the case. In order to have more capital to open up the mines, I advocate the taking of them in.”“I bet they been advocating the taking of us in,” chuckled Jimmy.“Well, my dear friends, suppose we vote on it,” suggested the preacher.[p116]“Reach yer hand back there in the press, Mr. Opp, and git the lead-pencil,” said Jimmy, without moving.“The motion before the house,” said Mr. Opp, “is whether we will sell out or take ’em in. All in favor say ‘Aye.’”There was a unanimous vote in the affirmative, although each member interpreted the motion in his own way.“Very well,” said Mr. Opp, briskly; “the motion is carried. Now we got to arrange about entertaining the party.”Mr. Tucker, whose brain was an accommodation stopping at each station, was still struggling with the recent motion when this new thought about entertainment whizzed past. The instinct of the landlord awoke at the call, and he promptly switched off the main line and went down the side track.“Gallop was here while ago,” Jimmy was saying, with a satisfied glance at Mr. Tucker; “said they wanted me to take keer of ’em. I’ll ’commodate all but the preachers. If there are any preachers, Mr. Tucker kin have ’em. I[p117]have to draw the line somewheres. I can’t stand ’em ‘Brother-Fallowsing’ me. Last time the old woman corralled one and brought him home, he was as glad to find me to work on as she’d ’a’ be’n to git some fruit to preserve. ‘Brother,’ he says, reaching out for my hand, ‘do you ever think about the awful place you are going to when you die?’ ‘You bet,’ says I; ‘I got more friends there than anywhere.’” And Jimmy’s laugh shook the stove-pipe.“How many gentlemen are coming to-morrow?” asked Miss Jim, who was sitting in a corner as far as possible from Mr. Tucker.“Ten,” said Jimmy. “Now, you wouldn’t think it, but this here hotel has got six bedrooms. I’ve tooken care of as many as twenty at a time, easy, but I’ll be hanged if I ever heard of such foolishness as every one of these fellers wantin’ a room to hisself.”“I’ve got three rooms empty,” said Mr. Tucker.“Well, that leaves one over,” said Mat[p118]Lucas. “I’d take him out home, but we’ve got company, and are sleeping three in a bed now.”Mr. Opp hesitated; then his hospitality overcame his discretion.“Just consider him my guest,” he said. “I’ll be very pleased to provide entertainment for the gentleman in question.”Not until the business of the day was over, and Mr. Opp was starting home, did he realize how tired he was. It was not his duties as an editor, or even as a promoter, that were telling on him; it was his domestic affairs that preyed upon his mind. For Mr. Opp not only led a strenuous life by day, but by night as well. Miss Kippy’s day began with his coming home, and ended in the morning when he went away; the rest of the time she waited.Just now the problem that confronted him was the entertainment of the expected guest. Never, since he could remember, had a stranger invaded that little world where Miss Kippy lived her[p119]unreal life of dreams. What effect would it have upon her? Would it be kinder to hide her away as something he was ashamed of, or to let her appear and run the risk of exposing her deficiency to uncaring eyes? During the months that he had watched her, a fierce tenderness had sprung up in his heart. He had become possessed of the hope that she might be rescued from her condition. Night after night he patiently tried to teach her to read and to write, stopping again and again to humor her whims and indulge her foolish fancies. More than once he had surprised a new look in her eyes, a sudden gleam of sanity, of frightened understanding; and at such times she would cling to him for protection against that strange thing that was herself.As he trudged along, deep in thought, a white chrysanthemum fell at his feet. Looking up, he discovered Miss Guinevere Gusty, in a red cloak and hat, sitting on the bank with a band-box in her lap.His troubles were promptly swallowed[p120]up in the heart-quake which ensued; but his speech was likewise, and he stood foolishly opening and shutting his mouth, unable to effect a sound.“I am waiting for the packet to go down to Coreyville,” announced Miss Gusty, straightening her plumed hat, and smiling. “Mr. Gallop says it’s an hour late; but I don’t care, it’s such a grand day.”Mr. Opp removed his eyes long enough to direct an inquiring glance at the heavens and the earth. “Is it?” he asked, finding his voice. “I been so occupied with business that I haven’t scarcely taken occasion to note the weather.”“Why, it’s all soft and warm, just like spring,” she continued, holding out her arms and looking up at the sky. “I’ve been wishing I had time to walk along the river a piece.”“I’ll take you,” said Mr. Opp, eagerly. “We can hear the whistle of the boat in amply sufficient time to get back. Besides, it is a hour late.”[p121]She hesitated. “You’re real sure you can get me back?”“Perfectly,” he announced. “I might say in all my experience I never have yet got a lady left on a boat.”Miss Guinevere, used to being guided, handed him her band-box, and followed him up the steep bank.The path wound in and out among the trees, now losing itself in the woods, now coming out upon the open river. The whole world was a riot of crimson and gold, and it was warm with that soft echo of summer that brings some of its sweetness, and all of its sadness, but none of its mirth.Mr. Opp walked beside his divinity oblivious to all else. The sunlight fell unnoticed except when it lay upon her face; the only breeze that blew from heaven was the one that sent a stray curl floating across her cheek. As Mr. Opp walked, he talked, putting forth every effort to please. His burning desire to be worthy of her led him into all manner of verbal extravagances, and the mere[p122]fact that she was taller than he caused him to indulge in more lofty and figurative language. He captured fugitive quotations, evolved strange metaphors, coined words, and poured all in a glittering heap of eloquence before her shrine.As he talked, his companion moved heedlessly along beside him, stopping now and then to gather a spray of goldenrod, or to gaze absently at the river through some open space in the trees. For Miss Guinevere Gusty lived in a world of her own—a world of vague possibilities, of half-defined longings, and intangible dreams. Love was still an abstract sentiment, something radiant and breathless that might envelop her at any moment and bear her away to Elysium.As she stooped to free her skirt from a detaining thorn, she pointed down the bank.“There’s some pretty sweet-gum leaves; I wish they weren’t so far down.”“Where?” demanded Mr. Opp, rashly eager to prove his gallantry.[p123]“’Way down over the edge; but you mustn’t go, it’s too steep.”“Not for me,” said Mr. Opp, plunging boldly through the underbrush.The tree grew at a sharp angle over the water, and the branches were so far up that it was necessary to climb out a short distance in order to reach them. Mr. Opp’s soul was undoubtedly that of a knight-errant, but his body, alas! was not. When he found himself astride the slender, swaying trunk, with the bank dropping sharply to the river flowing dizzily beneath him, he went suddenly and unexpectedly blind. Between admiration for himself for ever having gotten there, and despair of ever getting back, lay the present necessity of loosening his hold long enough to break off a branch of the crimson leaves. He tried opening one eye, but the effect was so terrifying that he promptly closed it. He pictured himself, a few moments before, strolling gracefully along the road conversing brilliantly upon divers subjects; then he bitterly considered the[p124]present moment and the effect he must be producing upon the young lady in the red cloak on the path above. He saw himself clinging abjectly to the swaying tree-trunk, only waiting for his strength or the tree to give away, before he should be plunged into the waters below.“That’s a pretty spray,” called the soft voice from above; “that one above, to the left.”Mr. Opp, rallying all his courage, reached blindly out in the direction indicated, and as he did so, he realized that annihilation was imminent. Demonstrating a swift geometrical figure in the air, he felt himself hurling through space, coming to an abrupt and awful pause when he struck the earth. Perceiving with a thrill of surprise that he was still alive, he cautiously opened his eyes. To his further amazement he found that he had landed on his feet, unhurt, and that in his left hand he held a long branch of sweet-gum leaves.“Why, you skinned the cat, didn’t you?” called an admiring voice from[p125]above. “I was just wondering how you was ever going to get down.”Mr. Opp crawled up the slippery bank, his knees trembling so that he could scarcely stand.“Yes,” he said, as he handed her the leaves; “those kind of athletic acts seem to just come natural to some people.”“You must be awful strong,” continued Guinevere, looking at him with approval.Mr. Opp sank beside her on the bank and gave himself up to the full enjoyment of the moment. Both hands were badly bruised, and he had a dim misgiving that his coat was ripped up the back; but he was happy, with the wild, reckless happiness of one to whom Fate has been unexpectedly kind. Moreover, the goal toward which all his thought had been rushing for the past hour was in sight. He could already catch glimpses of the vision beautiful. He could hear himself storming the citadel with magic words of eloquence. Meanwhile he nursed the band-box and smiled dumbly into space.[p126]From far below, the pungent odor of burning leaves floated up, and the air was full of a blue haze that became luminous as the sun transfused it. It enveloped the world in mystery, and threw a glamour over the dying day.“It’s so pretty it hurts,” said the girl, clasping her hands about her knees. “I love to watch it all, but it makes the shivers go over me—makes me feel sort of lonesome. Don’t it you?”Mr. Opp shook his head emphatically. It was the one time in years that down in the depths of his soul he had not felt lonesome. For as Indian summer had come back to earth, so youth had come back to Mr. Opp. The flower of his being was waking to bloom, and the spring tides were at flood.A belated robin overhead, unable longer to contain his rapture, burst into song; but Mr. Opp, equally full of his subject, was unable to utter a syllable. The sparkling eloquence and the fine phrases had evaporated, and only the bare truth was left.[p127]Guinevere, having become aware of the very ardent looks that were being cast upon her, said she thought the boat must be about due.“Oh, no,” said Mr. Opp; “that is, I was about to say—why—er—say, Miss Guin-never, do you think you could ever come to keer about me?”Guinevere, thus brought to bay, took refuge in subterfuge. “Why—Mr. Opp—I’m not old enough for you.”“Yes, you are,” he burst forth fervently. “You are everything for me: old enough, and beautiful enough, and smart enough, and sweet enough. I never beheld a human creature that could even begin to think about comparing with you.”Guinevere, in the agitation of the moment, nervously plucked all the leaves from the branch that had been acquired with such effort. It was with difficulty that she finally managed to lift her eyes.“You’ve been mighty good to me,” she faltered, “and—and made me lots happier; but I—I don’t care in the way you mean.”[p128]“Is there anybody else?” demanded Mr. Opp, ready to hurl himself to destruction if she answered in the affirmative.“Oh, no,” she answered him; “there never has been anybody.”[p129]“‘Why, Mr. Opp, I’m not old enough’”“Then I’ll take my chance,” said Mr. Opp, expanding his narrow chest. “Whatever I’ve got out of the world I’ve had to fight for. I don’t mind saying to you that I was sorter started out with a handicap. You know my sister—she’s a—well, a’ invalid, you might say, and while her pa was living, my fortunes wasn’t what you might call as favorable as they are at present. I never thought there would be any use in my considering getting married till I met you, then I didn’t seem able somehow to consider nothing else. If you’ll just let me, I’ll wait. I’ll learn you to care. I won’t bother you, but just wait patient as long as you say.” And this from Mr. Opp, whose sands of life were already half-run! “All I ask for,” he went on wistfully, “is a little sign now and then.[p131]You might give me a little look or something just to keep the time from seeming too long.”It was almost a question, and as he leaned toward her, with the sunlight in his eyes, something of the beauty of the day touched him, too, just as it touched the weed at his feet, making them both for one transcendent moment part of the glory of the world.Guinevere Gusty, already in love with love, and reaching blindly out for something deeper and finer in her own life, was suddenly engulfed in a wave of sympathy. She involuntarily put out her hand and touched his fingers.The sun went down behind the distant shore, and the light faded on the river. Mr. Opp was almost afraid to breathe; he sat with his eyes on the far horizon, and that small, slender hand in his, and for the moment the world was fixed in its orbit, and Time itself stood still.Suddenly out of the silence came the long, low whistle of the boat. They scrambled to their feet and hurried down[p132]the path, Mr. Opp having some trouble in keeping up with the nimbler pace of the girl.“I’ll be calculatin’ every minute until the arrival of the boat to-morrow night,” he was gasping as they came within sight of the wharf. “I’ll be envyin’ every—”“Where’s my band-box?” demanded Guinevere. “Why, Mr. Opp, if you haven’t gone and left it up in the woods!”Five minutes later, just as the bell was tapping for the boat to start, a flying figure appeared on the wharf. He was hatless and breathless, his coat was ripped from collar to hem, and a large band-box flapped madly against his legs as he ran. He came down the home-stretch at a record-breaking pace, stepped on board as the gang-plank was lifted, deposited his band-box on the deck, then with a running jump cleared the rapidly widening space between the boat and the shore, and dropped upon the wharf.He continued waving his handkerchief even after the boat had rounded the[p133]curve, then, having edited a paper, promoted a large enterprise, effected a proposal, and performed two remarkable athletic stunts all in the course of a day, Mr. Opp turned his footsteps toward home.[p134]IXThenext day dawned wet and chilly. A fine mist hung in the trees, and the leaves and grasses sagged under their burden of moisture. All the crimson and gold had changed to brown and gray, and the birds and crickets had evidently packed away their chirps and retired for the season.By the light of a flickering candle, Mr. D. Webster Opp partook of a frugal breakfast. The luxurious habits of the Moore household had made breakfast a movable feast depending upon the time of Aunt Tish’s arrival, and in establishing the new régime Mr. Opp had found it necessary to prepare his own breakfast in order to make sure of getting to the office before noon.As he sipped his warmed-over coffee,[p135]with his elbows on the red table-cloth, and his heels hooked on the rung of the chair, he recited to himself in an undertone from a very large and imposing book which was propped in front of him, the leaves held back on one side by a candlestick and on the other by a salt-cellar. It was a book which Mr. Opp was buying on subscription, and it was called “An Encyclopedia of Wonder, Beauty, and Wisdom.” It contained pellets of information on all subjects, and Mr. Opp made it a practice to take several before breakfast, and to repeat the dose at each meal as circumstances permitted. “An editor,” he told Nick, “has got to keep himself instructed on all subjects. He has got to read wide and continuous.”As a rule he followed no special line in his pursuit of knowledge, but with true catholicity of taste, took the items as they came, turning from a strenuous round with “Abbeys and Abbots,” to enter with fervor into the wilds of “Abyssinia.” The straw which served as bookmark pointed to-day to “Ants,” and[p136]ordinarily Mr. Opp would have attacked the subject with all the enthusiasm of an entomologist. But even the best regulated minds will at times play truant, and Mr. Opp’s had taken a flying leap and skipped six hundred and thirty-two pages, landing recklessly in the middle of “Young Lochinvar.” For the encyclopedia, in its laudable endeavor not only to cover all intellectual requirements, but also to add the crowning grace of culture, had appended a collection of poems under the title “Favorites, Old and New.”Mr. Opp, thus a-wing on the winds of poesy, had sipped his tepid coffee and nibbled his burnt toast in fine abstraction until he came upon a selection which his soul recognized. He had found words to the music that was ringing in his heart. It was then that he propped the book open before him, and determined not to close it until he had made the lines his own.Later, as he trudged along the road to town, he repeated the verses to himself,[p137]patiently referring again and again to the note-book in which he had copied the first words of each line.At the office door he regretfully dismounted from Pegasus, and resolutely turned his attention to the business of the day. His desire was to complete the week’s work by noon, spend the afternoon at home in necessary preparation for the coming guest, and have the following day, which was Saturday, free to devote to the interest of the oil company.In order to accomplish this, expedition was necessary, and Mr. Opp, being more bountifully endowed by nature with energy than with any other quality, fell to work with a will. His zeal, however, interfered with his progress, and he found himself in the embarrassing condition of a machine which is geared too high.He was, moreover, a bit bruised and stiff from the unusual performances of the previous day, and any sudden motion caused him to wince. But the pain brought recollection, and recollection was instant balm.[p138]It was hardly to be expected that things would deviate from their usual custom of becoming involved at a critical time, so Mr. Opp was not surprised when Nick was late and had to be spoken to, a task which the editor always achieved with great difficulty. Then the printing-press had an acute attack of indigestion, and no sooner was that relieved than the appalling discovery was made that there were no more good “S’s” in the type drawer.“Use dollar-marks for the next issue,” directed Mr. Opp, “and I’ll wire immediate to the city.”“We’re kinder short on ‘I’s’ too,” said Nick. “You take so many in your articles.”Mr. Opp looked injured. “I very seldom or never begin on an ‘I,’” he said indignantly.“You get ’em in somehow,” said Nick. “Why, the editor over at Coreyville even said ‘Our Wife.’”“Yes,” said Mr. Opp, “I will, too,—that is—er—”[p139]The telephone-bell covered his retreat.“Hello!” he answered in a deep, incisive voice to counteract the effect of his recent embarrassment, “Office of ‘The Opp Eagle.’ Mr. Toddlinger? Yes, sir. You say you want your subscription stopped! Well, now, wait a minute—see here, I can explain that—” but the other party had evidently rung off.Mr. Opp turned with exasperation upon Nick:“Do you know what you went and did last week?” He rose and, going to the file, consulted the top paper. “There it is,” he said, “just identical with what he asserted.”Nick followed the accusing finger and read:“Mr. and Mrs. Toddlinger moved this week into their new horse and lot.”Before explanations could be entered into, there was a knock at the door. When it was answered, a very small black boy was discovered standing on the step. He wore a red shirt and a pair of ragged trousers, between which strained[p140]relations existed, and on his head was the brim of a hat from which the crown had long since departed. Hanging on a twine string about his neck was a large onion.He opened negotiations at once.“Old Miss says fer you-all to stop dat frowin’ papers an’ sech like trash outen de winder; dey blows over in our-all’s yard.”He delivered the message in the same belligerent spirit with which it had evidently been conveyed to him, and rolled his eyes at Mr. Opp as if the offense had been personal.Mr. Opp drew him in, and closed the door. “Did—er—did Mrs. Gusty send you over to say that?” he asked anxiously.“Yas, sir; she done havin’ a mad spell. What’s dat dere machine fer?”“It’s a printing-press. Do you think Mrs. Gusty is mad at me?”“Yas, sir,” emphatically; “she’s mad at ever’body. She ’lows she gwine lick me ef I don’t tek keer. She done got de[p141]kitchen so full o’ switches hit looks jes lak outdoors.”“I don’t think she would really whip you,” said Mr. Opp, already feeling the family responsibility.“Naw, sir; she jes ’low she gwine to. What’s in dem dere little drawers?”“Type,” said Mr. Opp. “You go back and tell Mrs. Gusty that Mr. Opp says he’s very sorry to have caused her any inconvenience, and he’ll send over immediate and pick up them papers.”“You’s kinder skeered of her, too, ain’t you?” grinned the ambassador, holding up one bare, black foot to the stove. “My mammy she sasses back, but I runs.”“Well, you’d better run now,” said Mr. Opp, who resented such insight; “but, see here, what’s that onion for?”“To ’sorb disease,” said the youth, with the air of one who is promulgating some advanced theory in therapeutics; “hit ketches it ’stid of you. My pappy weared a’ onion fer put-near a whole year, an’ hit ’sorbed all de diseases whut[p142]was hangin’ round, an’ nary a one never teched him. An’ one day my pappy he got hongry, an’ he et dat dere onion, an’ whut you reckon? He up an’ died!”“Well, you go ’long now,” said Mr. Opp, “and tell Mrs. Gusty just exactly verbatim what I told you. What did you say was your name?”“Val,” said the boy.Mr. Opp managed to slip a nickel into the dirty little hand without Nick’s seeing him. Nick was rather firm about these things, and disapproved heartily of Mr. Opp’s indiscriminate charities.“Gimme nudder one an’ I’ll tell you de rest ob it,” whispered Val on the door-step.Mr. Opp complied.“Valentine Day Johnson,” he announced with pride; then pocketing his prize, he vanished around the corner of the house, forgetting his office of plenipotentiary in his sudden accession of wealth.Once more peace settled on the office, and Mr. Opp was engrossed in an article[p143]on “The Greatest Petroleum Proposition South of the Mason and Dixon Line,” when an ominous, wheezing cough announced the arrival of Mr. Tucker. This was an unexpected catastrophe, for Mr. Tucker’s day for spending the morning at the office was Saturday, when he came in to pay for his paper. It seemed rather an unkind trick of Fate’s that he should have been permitted to arrive a day too soon.
[p73]Mr. Opp cleared his throat with some dignity. “I expect to remain here permanent now. I—well—the truth is, I have decided to operate a newspaper here.”
“No!” cried the girl, incredulously. “Not in the Cove!”
“In the Cove,” repeated Mr. Opp, firmly. “There’s great need here for a live, enterprising newspaper. It’s a virgin field, you might say. There never was a place that needed a public voice more. My paper is going to be a voice that hears all sides of a question; it’s going to appeal to the aged and the young and all them that lies between.”
“It will be mighty grand for us!” said his companion, with interest. “When is it going to start?”
Definite plans being decidedly nebulous, Mr. Opp wisely confined himself to generalities. He touched casually on his remarkable fitness for the work, his wide experience, his worldly knowledge. He hinted that in time he expected to venture into even deeper literary waters—poetry,[p74]and a novel, perhaps. As he talked, he realized that for the second time that day he was looked upon with approval. Being accepted at his own estimate proved a new and exhilarating sensation.
It was pleasant on the wide porch, with the honeysuckle shutting out the sun, and the long, yellow blossoms filling the air with fragrance. It was pleasant to hear the contented chuckle of the hens and the sleepy hum of the bees, and the sound of his own voice; but most of all it was pleasant, albeit disconcerting, to glance sidewise occasionally and find a pair of credulous brown eyes raised to his in frank admiration. What if the swing of the hammock was making him dizzy and one foot had gone to sleep? These were minor considerations unworthy of mention.
“And just to think,” the girl was saying, “that you may be right across the road! I won’t mind staying at home so much if you’ll let me come over and see you make the newspaper.”
[p75]“You might like to assist sometime,” said Mr. Opp, magnanimously, at the same time cautiously removing a fluttering pink ribbon from his knee. “I could let you try your hand on a wedding or a ’bituary, or something along that line.”
“Oh, really?” she cried, her eyes brightening. “I’d just love to. I can write compositions real nice, and you could help me a little.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Opp; “I could learn you to do the first draft, and I could put on the extra touches.”
So engrossed did they become in these plans that they did not hear the click of the gate, or see the small, aggressive lady who came up the walk. She moved with the confident air of one who is in the habit of being obeyed. Her skirt gave the appearance of no more daring to hang wrong than her bonnet-strings would have presumed to move from the exact spot where she had tied them under her left ear. Her small, bright eyes, slightly crossed, apparently saw two ways at once, for on her brief journey[p76]from the gate to the porch, she decapitated two withered geraniums on the right, and picked up a stray paper and some dead leaves on the left.
“Guin-never!” she called sharply, not seeing the couple on the porch, “who’s been tracking mud in on my clean steps?”
The girl rose hastily and came forward. “Mother,” she said, “here’s Mr. Opp.”
Mrs. Gusty glanced up from one to the other, evidently undecided how to meet the situation. But the hesitancy was not for long; Mr. Opp’s watch-fob, glittering in the sunlight, symbolized such prosperity that she hastily extended a cordial hand of welcome.
“You don’t mean to tell me Guin-never has been keeping you out here on the porch instead of taking you in the parlor? And hasn’t she given you a thing to drink? Well, just wait till I get my things off and I’ll fix a pitcher of lemonade.”
“Let me do it, Mother,” said Guinevere, eagerly; “I often do it at school.”
[p77]“I’d hate to drink what you make,” said Mrs. Gusty, waving her aside. “You show Mr. Opp in the parlor. No; I’ll open the shutters: you’d get your hands dirty.” She bustled about with that tyrannical capability that reduces every one near it to a state of helpless dependence.
The parlor was cool and dark, and Mr. Opp felt around for a chair while the refractory shutter was being opened. When at last a shaft of light was admitted, it fell full upon a sable frame which hung above the horse-hair sofa, and inclosed a glorified certificate of the births, marriages, and deaths in the house of Gusty. Around these written data was a border realistically depicting the seven ages of man and culminating in a legend of gold which read
From the Cradle to the Grave.
From the Cradle to the Grave.
While Mr. Opp was standing before this work of art, apparently deeply interested, he was, in reality, peeping through a crack in the shutter. The[p78]sunlight was still filtering through the honeysuckle vines, making dancing, white patches on the porch, the bees were humming about the blossoms, and Miss Guinevere Gusty was still sitting in the hammock, her chin in her palms, gazing down the road.
When Mrs. Gusty returned, she bore a glass pitcher of lemonade, a plate of crisp gingersnaps, and a tumbler of crushed ice, all of which rested upon a tray which was covered with her strawberry centerpiece, a mark of distinction which, unfortunately, was lost upon her guest.
Mr. Opp, being a man of business, plunged at once into his subject, presenting the matter so eloquently and using so much more persuasion than was necessary that he overshot the mark. Mrs. Gusty was not without business sagacity herself, and when Mr. Opp met a possible objection before it had ever occurred to her, she promptly made use of the suggestion.
“Of course,” said Mr. Opp, as a final[p79]inducement, “I’d be glad to run in some of Mr. Gusty’s poetical pieces from time to time.”
This direct appeal to her sentiment so touched Mrs. Gusty that she suggested they go over to the shop at once and look it over.
For a moment after the door of his future sanctum was thrown open Mr. Opp was disconcerted. The small, dark room, cluttered with all manner of trash, the broken window-panes, the dust, and the cobwebs, presented a prospect that was far from encouraging; but after an examination of the presses, his courage revived.
After a great deal of talk on Mr. Opp’s part, and some shrewd bargaining on Mrs. Gusty’s, the stupendous transaction was brought to a close, to the eminent satisfaction of both parties.
It was late that night before Mr. Opp retired. He sat in the open window of his bedroom and looked out upon the river. The cool night air and the quiet[p80]light of the stars calmed the turmoil in his brain. Gradually the colossal schemes and the towering ambitions gave way to an emotion to which the editor-elect was by no means a stranger. It was a little white-faced Fear that lurked always in a corner of his heart, and could be kept down only by brave words and aggressive deeds.
He sat with his trembling knees hunched, and his arms awkwardly clasped about them, an absurd atom in the great cosmic order; yet the soul that looked out of his squinting, wistful eyes held all the potentialities of life, and embodied the eternal sadness and the eternal inspiration of human endeavor.
Itis no small undertaking to embark in an untried ship, upon unknown waters, in the teeth of opposing gales. But Mr. Opp sailed the sea of life as a valiant mariner should, self-reliant, independent, asking advice of nobody. He steered by the guidance of his own peculiar moral compass, regardless of the rough waters through which it led him.
Having invested the major portion of his savings in the present venture, it was necessary to begin operations at once; but events conspired to prevent him. Miss Kippy made many demands upon his time both by day and night; she had transferred her affection and dependence from her father to him, and he found[p82]himself sorely encumbered by this new responsibility. Moreover, the attitude of the town toward the innovation of a newspaper was one of frank skepticism, and it proved a delicate and arduous task to create the proper public sentiment. In addition to these troubles, Mr. Opp had a yet graver matter to hinder him: with all his valor and energy he was suffering qualms of uncertainty as to the proper method of starting a weekly journal.
To be sure, he had achieved a name for the paper—a name so eminently satisfactory that he had already had it emblazoned upon a ream of office paper. “The Opp Eagle” had sprung full-syllabled from his teeming brain, and had been accepted over a hundred competitors.
But naming the fledgling was an easy matter compared with getting it out of the nest; and it was not until the instalment of his competent staff that Mr. Opp accomplished the task.
This important transaction took place one morning as he sat in his new office[p83]and struggled with his first editorial. The bare room, with the press in the center, served as news-room, press-room, publication office, and editorial sanctum. Mr. Opp sat at a new deal table, with one pen behind his ear, and another in his hand, and gazed for inspiration at the brown wrapping-paper with which he had neatly covered the walls. His mental gymnastics were interrupted by the appearance at the door of Miss Jim Fenton and her brother Nick.
Miss Jim was an anomaly in the community, being by theory a spinster, and by practice a double grass-widow. Capable and self-supporting, she attracted the ne’er-do-wells as a magnet attracts needles, but having been twice induced to forego her freedom and accept the bonds of wedlock, she had twice escaped and reverted to her original type and name. Miss Jim was evidently a victim of one of Nature’s most economical moods; she was spare and angular, with a long, wrinkled face surmounted by a scant fluff of pale, frizzled hair. Her mouth[p84]slanted upward at one corner, giving her an expression unjustly attributed to coquetry, when in reality it was due to an innocent and pardonable pride in an all-gold eye-tooth.
But it was her clothes that brought misunderstanding, misfortune, and even matrimony upon Miss Jim. They were sent her by the boxful by a cousin in the city, and the fact was unmistakable that they were clothes with a past. The dresses held an atmosphere of evaporated frivolity; flirtations lingered in every frill, and memories of old larks lurked in every furbelow. The hats had a jaunty list to port, and the colored slippers still held a dance within their soles. One old bird of paradise on Miss Jim’s favorite bonnet had a chronic wink for the wickedness he had witnessed.
It was this wink that attracted Mr. Opp as he looked up from his arduous labors. For a disconcerting moment he was uncertain whether it belonged to Miss Jim or to the bird.
“Howdy, Mr. Opp,” said the lady in[p85]brisk, businesslike tones. “I was taking a crayon portrait home to Mrs. Gusty, and I just stopped in to see if I couldn’t persuade you to take my brother to help you on the newspaper. You remember Nick, don’t you?”
Mr. Opp glanced up. A skeleton of a boy, with a shaven head, was peering eagerly past him into the office, his keen, ferret-like eyes devouring every detail of the printing-presses.
“He knows the business,” went on Miss Jim, anxiously pulling at the fingers of her gloves. “He’s been in it over a year at Coreyville. He wants to go back; but I ain’t willing till he gets stronger. He ain’t been up but two weeks.”
Mr. Opp turned impressively in his revolving chair, the one luxury which he had deemed indispensable, and doubtfully surveyed the applicant. The mere suggestion of his leaning upon this broken reed seemed ridiculous; yet the boy’s thin, sallow face, and Miss Jim’s imploring eyes, caused him to hesitate.
[p86]“Well, you see,” he said, with thumbs together and his lips pursed, after the manner of the various employers before whom he had stood in the past, “we are just making a preliminary start, and we haven’t engaged our staff yet. I am a business man and a careful one. I don’t feel justified in going to no extra expense until ‘The Opp Eagle’ is, in a way, on its feet.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the boy; “I’ll work a month for nothing. Lots of fellows do that on the big papers.”
Miss Jim plucked warningly at his sleeve, and Mr. Opp, seeing that Nick’s enthusiasm had led him beyond his depth, went gallantly to the rescue.
“Not at all,” he said hastily; “that ain’t my policy. I think I might contrive to pay you a small, reasonable sum down, and increase it in ratio as the paper become more prosperous. Don’t you think you better sit down?”
“No, sir; I’m all right,” said the boy, impatiently. “I can do ’most anything about a paper, setting type, printing,[p87]reporting, collecting, ’most anything you put me at.”
Such timely knowledge, in whatever guise it came, seemed Heaven-sent. Mr. Opp gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“If you feel that you can’t do any better than accepting the small sum that just at present I’ll have to offer you, why, I think we can come to some arrangement.”
“That’s mighty nice in you,” said Miss Jim, jerking her head forward in order to correct an undue backward gravitation of her bonnet. “If ever you want a crayon portrait, made from life or enlarged from a photograph, I’ll make you a special price on it. I’m just taking this here one home to Mrs. Gusty; she had it done for Guin-never’s birthday.”
Miss Jim removed the wrappings and disclosed a portrait of Miss Guinevere Gusty, very large as to eyes and very small as to mouth. She handed it to Mr. Opp, and called attention to its fine qualities.
[p88]“Just look at the lace on that dress! Mrs. Fallows picked a whole pattern off on her needles from one of my portraits. And did you notice the eyelashes; you can actually count ’em! She had four buttons on her dress, but I didn’t get in but three; but I ain’t going to mention it to Mrs. Gusty. Don’t you think it’s pretty?”
Mr. Opp, who had been smiling absently at the portrait, started guiltily. “Yes,” he said confusedly; “yes, ma’am, I think she is.” Then he felt a curious tingling about his ears and realized, to his consternation, that he was blushing.
“She’s too droopin’ a type for me,” said Miss Jim, removing an ostrich tip from her angle of vision; then she continued in a side whisper: “Say, would you mind making Nick take this bottle of milk at twelve o’clock, and resting a little? He ain’t as strong as he lets on, and he has sort of sinking spells ’long about noon.”
Receiving the bottle thus surreptitiously[p89]offered, and assisting the lady to gather up her bundles, Mr. Opp bowed her out, and turned to face the embarrassing necessity of giving instructions to his new employee. He was relieved to find, however, that the young gentleman in question possessed initiative; for Nick had promptly removed his coat, and fallen to work, putting things to rights with an energy and ability that caused Mr. Opp to offer up a prayer of heartfelt gratitude.
All the morning they worked silently, Mr. Opp toiling over his editorial, with constant references to a small dictionary which he concealed in the drawer of the table, and Nick giving the presses a thorough and much-needed overhauling.
At the noon-hour they shared their lunch, and Mr. Opp, firm in the authority invested in him by Miss Jim, demanded that Nick should drink his milk, and recline at length upon the office bench for twenty minutes. It was with great difficulty that Nick was persuaded to submit[p90]to this transferred coddling; but he evidently realized that insubordination at the start of his career would be fatal, and, moreover, his limbs ached and his hands trembled.
It was in the intimacy of this, their first, staff meal, that they discussed the policy of the paper.
“Of course,” said Mr. Opp, “we have got a vast undertaking in front of us. For the next few months we won’t scarcely have time to draw a natural breath. I am going to put every faculty I own on to making ‘The Opp Eagle’ a fine paper. I expect to get here at seven o’clockA.M., and continue to pursue my work as far into the midnight hours as may need be. Nothing in the way of pleasure or anything else is going to pervert my attention. Of course you understand that my mind will be taken up with the larger issues of things, and I’ll have to risk a dependence on you to attend to the smaller details.”
“All right,” said Nick, gratefully; “you won’t be sorry you trusted me,[p91]Mr. Opp. I’ll do my level best. When will we get out the first issue?”
“Well—er—the truth is,” said Mr. Opp, “I haven’t, as you might say, accumulated sufficient of material as yet. You see, I have a great many irons in the fire, and besides opening up this office, I am the president of a company that’s just bought up twenty acres of ground around here. The biggest oil proposition—”
“Yes, sir,” interrupted Nick; “but don’t you think we could get started in two weeks, with the ads and the contributors’ letters from other counties, and a story or two I could run in, and your editorial page?”
“I’ve got two advertisements,” said Mr. Opp; “but I don’t intend to rest content until every man in the Cove has got a card in. Now, about these contributors from other counties?”
“I can manage that,” said Nick. “I’ll write to some girl or fellow I know in the different towns, and ask them to give me a weekly letter. They sign[p92]themselves ‘Gipsy’ or ‘Fairy’ or ‘Big Injun’ or something like that, and tell what’s doing in their neighborhood. We’ll have to fix the letters up some, but they help fill in like everything.”
Mr. Opp’s spirits rose at this capable coöperation.
“You—er—like the name?” he asked.
“‘The Opp Eagle’?” said Nick. “Bully!”
Such unqualified approval went to Mr. Opp’s head, and he rashly broke through the dignity that should hedge about an editor.
“I don’t mind reading you some of my editorial,” he said urbanely; “it’s the result of considerable labor.”
He opened the drawer and took out some loosely written pages, though he knew each paragraph by heart. Squaring himself in his revolving-chair, and clearing his throat, he addressed himself ostensibly to the cadaverous youth stretched at length before him, but in imagination to all the southern counties of the grand old Commonwealth of Kentucky.
[p93]His various business experiences had stored such an assorted lot of information in his brain that it was not unlike a country store in the diversity of its contents. His style, like his apparel, was more ornate and pretentious than what lay beneath it. There were many words which he knew by sight, but with which he had no speaking acquaintance. But Mr. Opp had ideals, and this was the first opportunity he had ever had to put them before his fellow-men.
“The great bird of American Liberty,” he read impressively, “has soared and flown over the country and lighted at last in your midst. ‘The Opp Eagle’ appears for the first time to-day. It is no money scheme in which we are indulging; we aim first and foremost to fulfil a much-needed want in the community. ‘The Opp Eagle’ will tell the people what you want to know better and at less expense than any other method. It will aim at bringing the priceless gems of knowledge within the reach of[p94]everybody. For what is bread to the body if you do not also clothe the mind spiritually and mentally?
“We will boom this, our native, city. If possible, I hope to get the streets cleaned up and a railroad, and mayhap in time lamp-posts. This region has ever been known for its great and fine natural resources, but we have been astounded, you might say astonished, in recent visits to see its naked and crude immensities, which far exceeds our most sanguine expectations. So confident are we that a few of our most highly respectable citizens have, at the instigation of the Editor of ‘The Opp Eagle,’ bought up the land lying between Turtle Creek and the river, and as soon as a little more capital has been accumulated, intend to open up a oil proposition that will astonish the eyes of the natives!
“In all candor, we truly believe this favored region of ours to have no equal in underground wealth nowhere upon this terrestrial earth, albeit we are not of globe-trotter stock nor tribe. We will[p95]endeavor to induce the home people to copy after the wise example of a few of our leading citizens and buy up oil rights before the kings of Bonanzas from the Metropolitan cities discover our treasure and wrench it from our grasp. ‘The Opp Eagle’ will, moreover, stand for temperance and reform. We will hurl grape and cannister into the camps of the saloonatics until they flee the wrath to come. Will also publish a particular statement of all social entertainments, including weddings, parties, church socials, and funerals. In conclusion, would say that we catch this first opportunity to thank you in collective manner herein for the welcome you have ordained ‘The Opp Eagle.’”
Mr. Opp came to a close and waited for applause; nor was he disappointed.
“Gee! I wish I could write like that!” said Nick, rising on his elbow. “I can do the printing all right, and hustle around for the news; but I never know how to put on the trimmings.”
Mr. Opp laid a hand upon his shoulder;[p96]he was fast developing a fondness for the youth.
“It’s a gift,” he said sympathetically, “that I am afraid, my boy, nobody can’t learn you.”
“Can I come in?” said a voice from outside, and Mr. Gallop peeped around the open door.
“Walk in,” cried Mr. Opp, while Nick sprang to his feet. “We are just by way of finishing up the work at hand, and have a few minutes of spare leisure.”
“I just wanted to know if you’d help us get up a town band,” said Mr. Gallop. “I told the boys you’d be too busy, but they made me come. I asked Mr. Fallows if you was musical; but I wouldn’t repeat what he said.”
“Oh, Jimmy is just naturally humoristic,” said Mr. Opp. “Go along and tell me what he remarked.”
“Well,” said Mr. Gallop, indignantly, “he said you was a expert on the windpipe! Mr. Tucker, I believe it was, thought you used to play the accordion.”
[p97]“No,” said Mr. Opp; “it was the cornet. I was considerable of a performer at one time.”
“Well, we want you for the leader of our band,” said Mr. Gallop. “We are going to have blue uniforms and give regular concerts up on Main Street.”
Nick Fenny began searching for a pencil.
“You know,” went on Mr. Gallop, rapidly, “the last show boat that was here had a calliope, and there’s another one coming next week. All I have to do is to hear a tune twice, then I can play it. Miss Guin-never Gusty is going up to Coreyville next week, and she says she’ll get us some new pieces. She’s going to select a plush self-rocker for the congregation to give the new preacher. They’re keeping it awful secret, but I heard ’em mention it over the telephone. The preacher’s baby has been mighty sick, and so has his mother, up at the Ridge; but she’s got well again. Well, I must go along now. Ain’t it warm?”
Before Mr. Opp had ceased showing[p98]Mr. Gallop out, his attention was arrested by the strange conduct of his staff. That indefatigable youth was writing furiously on the new wall-paper, covering the clean brown surface with large, scrawling characters.
Mr. Opp’s indignation was checked at its source by the radiant face which Nick turned upon him.
“I’ve got another column!” he cried; “listen here:
“‘A new and handsome Show Boat will tie up at the Cove the early part of next week. A fine calliope will be on board.’
“‘Miss Guinevere Gusty will visit friends in Coreyville soon.’
“‘The new preacher will be greatly surprised soon by the gift of a fine plush rocking-chair from the ladies of the congregation.’
“‘The infant baby of the new preacher has been sick, but is better some.’
“‘Jimmy Fallows came near getting an undertaking job at the Ridge last week, but the lady got well.’
[p99]“And that ain’t all,” he continued excitedly; “I’m going out now to get all the particulars about that band, and we’ll have a long story about it.”
Mr. Opp, left alone in his office, made an unsuccessful effort to resume work. The fluttering of the “Eagle’s” wings preparatory to taking flight was not the only thing that interfered with his power of concentration. He did not at all like the way he felt. Peculiar symptoms had developed in the last week, and the quinine which he had taken daily had failed to relieve him. He could not say that he was sick,—in fact, he had never been in better health,—but there was a strange feeling of restlessness, a vague disturbance of his innermost being, that annoyed and puzzled him. Even as he tried to solve the problem, an irresistible impulse brought him to his feet and carried him to the door. Miss Guinevere Gusty was coming out of her gate in a soft, white muslin, and a chip hat laden with pink roses.
“Anything I can do for you up[p100]street?” she called across pleasantly to Mr. Opp.
“Why, thank you—no, the fact is—well, you see, I find it necessary for me to go up myself.” Mr. Opp heard himself saying these words with great surprise, and when he found himself actually walking out of the office, leaving a large amount of unfinished work, his indignation knew no bounds.
“The sun is awful hot. Ain’t you goin’ to wear a hat?” drawled Miss Guinevere.
Mr. Opp put his hand to his head in some embarrassment, and then assured her that he very often went without it.
They sauntered slowly down the dusty road. On one side the trees hedged them in, but on the other stretched wide fields of tasseled corn over which shimmered waves of summer heat. White butterflies fluttered constantly across their path, and overhead, hidden somewhere in the branches, the birds kept up a constant song. The August sun, still high in the heavens, shone fiercely down on[p101]the open road, on the ragweed by the wayside, on the black-eyed Susans nodding at the light; but it fell most mercilessly of all upon the bald spot on the head of the unconscious Mr. Opp, who was moving, as in an hypnotic state, into the land of romance.
Byall the laws of physics, Mr. Opp during the months that ensued, should have stood perfectly still. For if ever two forces pulled with equal strength in opposite directions, love and ambition did in the heart of our friend the editor. But Mr. Opp did not stand still; on the contrary, he seemed to be moving in every direction at once.
In due time “The Opp Eagle” made its initial flight, and received the approbation of the community. The first page was formal, containing the editorial, a list of the subscribers, a notice to tax-payers, and three advertisements, one of which requested “the lady public to please note that the hats put out by Miss Duck Brown do not show the wire composing the frame.”
[p103]But the first page of the “Eagle” was like the front door of a house: when once you got on the other side of it, you were in the family, as it were, formality was dropped, and an easy atmosphere of familiarity prevailed. You read that Uncle Enoch Siller had Sundayed over at the Ridge, or that Aunt Gussy Williams was on the puny list, and frequently there were friendly references to “Ye Editor” or “Ye Quill Driver,” for after soaring to dizzy heights in his editorials, Mr. Opp condescended to come down on the second page and move in and out of the columns, as a host among his guests.
It is painful to reflect what would have been the fate of the infatuated Mr. Opp in these days had it not been for the faithful Nick. Nick’s thirst for work was insatiable; he yearned for responsibility, and was never so happy as when gathering news. He chased an item as a dog might chase a rat, first scenting it, then hunting it down, and after mutilating it a bit, proudly returning it to his master.
[p104]Mr. Opp was enabled, by this competent assistance, to spare many a half-hour in consultation with Miss Guinevere Gusty concerning the reportorial work she was going to do on the paper. The fact that nobody died or got married delayed all actual performance, but in order to be ready for the emergency, frequent calls were deemed expedient.
It became part of the day’s program to read her his editorial, or consult her about some social item, or to report a new subscriber, his self-esteem meanwhile putting forth all manner of new shoots and bursting into exotic bloom under the warmth of her approval.
Miss Gusty, on her part, was acquiring a new interest in her surroundings. In addition to the subtle flattery of being consulted, she was the recipient of daily offerings of books, and music, and drugstore candy, and sometimes a handful of flowers, carefully concealed in a newspaper to escape the vigilant eye of Jimmy Fallows.
On several occasions she returned Mr.[p105]Opp’s calls, picking her way daintily across the road, and peeping in at the window to make sure he was there.
It was at such times that the staff of “The Opp Eagle” misconducted itself. It objected to a young woman in the press-room; it disapproved of the said person sitting at the deal table in confidential conversation with the editor; it saw no humor in her dipping the pencils into the ink-well, and scrawling names on the new office stationery; and when the point was reached that she moved about the office, asking absurd questions and handling the type, the staff could no longer endure it, but hastened forth to forget its annoyance in the pursuit of business.
Moreover, the conduct of the chief, as Nick was pleased to call Mr. Opp, was becoming more and more peculiar. He would arrive in the morning, his pockets bristling with papers, and his mind with projects. He would attack the work of the day with ferocious intensity, then in the midst of it, without warning, he[p106]would lapse into an apparent trance, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ceiling, and such a smile on his face as one usually reserves for a camera.
Nick did not know that it was the song of the siren that was calling Mr. Opp, who, instead of lashing himself to the mast and steering for the open sea, was letting his little craft drift perilously near the rocky coast.
No feature of the proceedings was lost upon Mrs. Gusty. She applied the same method to her daughter that she did to her vines, tying her firmly to the wall of her own ability, and prescribing the direction and length to which she should grow. The situation would need pruning later, but for the present she studied conditions and bided her time.
Meanwhile the “Eagle” was circling more widely in its flight. Mr. Opp’s persistent and eloquent articles pertaining to the great oil wealth of the region had been reinforced by a favorable report from the laboratory in the city to which he had sent a specimen from the spring[p107]on Turtle Creek. Thus equipped with wings of hope, and a small ballast of fact, the “Eagle” went soaring on its way, and in time attracted the attention of a party of capitalists who were traveling through the State, investigating oil and mineral possibilities.
One epoch-making day, the editor was called up over the long-distance telephone, and, after answering numerous inquiries, was told that the party expected to spend the following night in the Cove.
This important event took place the last of November, and threw the town into great excitement. Mr. Opp received the message early in the morning, and immediately set to work to call a meeting of the Turtle Creek Land Company.
“This here is one of the most critical moments in the history of Cove City,” he announced excitedly to Nick. “It’s a most fortunate thing that they’ve got me here to make the preliminary arrangements, and to sort of get the thing solidified, as you might say. I’ll call a[p108]meeting for eleven o’clock at Your Hotel. You call up old man Hager and the preacher, and I will undertake to notify Jimmy Fallows and Mr. Tucker.”
“The preacher ain’t in town; he’s out at Smither’s Ridge, marrying a couple. I got the whole notice written out beforehand.”
“Well, tear it up,” said Mr. Opp. “I’ve engaged a special hand to do all weddings and funerals.”
Nick looked hurt; this was the first time his kingdom had been invaded. He kicked the door sullenly.
“I can’t get the preacher if he’s out at Smither’s Ridge.”
“Nick,” said Mr. Opp, equally hurt, “is that the way for a subordinate reporter to talk to a’ editor? You don’t seem to realize that this here is a very serious and large transaction. There may be hundreds of dollars involved. It’s a’ awful weight of responsibility for one man. I’m willing to finance it and conduct the main issues, but I’ve got to have the backing of all the other[p109]parties. Now it’s with you whether the preacher gets there or not.”
“Shall I hunt up Mat Lucas, too?” asked Nick as he started forth.
“No; that’s my branch of the work: but—say—Nick, your sister will have to be there; she owns some shares.”
“All right,” said Nick; “her buggy is hitched up in front of Tucker’s. I’ll tell her to wait till you come.”
Mr. Opp was not long in following. He walked down the road with an important stride, his bosom scarcely able to accommodate the feeling of pride and responsibility that swelled it. He was in a position of trust; his fellow-citizens would look to him, a man of larger experience and business ability, to deal with these moneyed strangers. He would be fair, but shrewd. He knew the clever wiles of the capitalists; he would meet them with calm but unyielding dignity.
It was in this mood that he came upon Miss Jim, who was in the act of disentangling a long lace scarf from her buggy whip. Her flushed face and flashing[p110]eyes gave such unmistakable signs of wrath that Mr. Opp glanced apprehensively at the whip in her hand, and then at Jimmy Fallows, who was hitching her horse.
“Howdy, Mr. Opp,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet a gentleman, after what I’ve seen.”
“I hope,” said Mr. Opp, “that our friend here ain’t been indulging in his customary—”
“It ain’t Mr. Fallows,” she broke in sharply; “it’s Mr. Tucker. He ain’t got the feeling of a broomstick.”
“Now, Miss Jim,” began Jimmy Fallows in a teasing tone; but the lady turned her back upon him and addressed Mr. Opp.
“You see this portrait,” she said angrily, pulling it out from under the seat. “It took me four weeks, including two Sunday afternoons, to make it. I begun it the second week after Mrs. Tucker died, when I seen him takin’ on so hard at church. He was cryin’ so when they took up the collection that he never even[p111]seen the plate pass him. I went right home and set to work on this here portrait, thinking he’d be glad and willing to buy it from me. Wouldn’t you, if you was a widower?”
Mr. Opp gazed doubtfully at the picture, which represented Mr. Tucker sitting disconsolately beside a grave, with a black-bordered handkerchief held lightly between his fingers. A weeping-willow drooped above him, and on the tombstone at his side were two angels supporting the initials of the late Mrs. Tucker.
“Why, Miss Jim,” insisted Fallows, “you’re askin’ too much of old man Tucker to expect him to keep on seein’ a tombstone when he’s got one eye on you and one eye on the Widow Gusty. He ain’t got any hair on top of his head to part, but he’s took to partin’ it down the back, and I seen him Sunday trying to read the hymns without his spectacles. He started up on ‘Let a Little Sunshine In’ when they was singing ‘Come, ye Disconsolate.’ You rub out the face and[p112]the initials on that there picture and keep it for the nex’ widower. Ketch him when he’s still droopin’. You’ll get your money back. Your mistake was in waiting too long.”
“Speaking of waiting,” said Mr. Opp, impatiently, “there’s a call meeting of the Turtle Creek Land Co. for this morning at eleven at Your Hotel. Hope it’s convenient, Jimmy.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jimmy; “we got more empty chairs at Your Hotel than anything else. What’s the meeting for? Struck gold?”
Mr. Opp imparted the great news.
“Oh, my land!” exclaimed Miss Jim, “will they be here to-day?”
“Not until to-morrow night,” explained Mr. Opp. “This here meeting this morning is for the stock-holders only. We got to kinder outline our policy and arrange a sort of basis of operation.”
“Well,” said Miss Jim, “I’ll take the portrait up to Mrs. Gusty’s and ask her to take care of it for me. I don’t know[p113]as I can do the face over into somebody else’s, but I can’t afford to lose it.”
It was afternoon before the stock-holders could all be brought together. They assembled in the office of Your Hotel in varying states of mind ranging from frank skepticism to intense enthusiasm.
Mr. Tucker represented the conservative element. He was the rich man of the town, with whom economy, at first a necessity, had become a luxury. No greater proof could have been desired of Mr. Opp’s persuasive powers than that Mr. Tucker had invested in a hundred shares of the new stock. He sat on the edge of his chair, wizen, anxious, fidgety, loaded with objections, and ready to go off half-cocked. Old man Hager sat in his shadow, objecting when he objected, voting as he voted, and prepared to loosen or tighten his purse-strings as Mr. Tucker suggested.
Mat Lucas and Miss Jim were independents. They had both had sufficient experience in business to know their own[p114]minds. If there was any money to be made in the Cove or about it, they intended to have a part in it.
Mr. Opp and the preacher constituted the Liberal party. They furnished the enthusiasm that floated the scheme. They were able to project themselves into the future and prophesy dazzling probabilities.
Jimmy Fallows, alone of the group, maintained an artistic attitude toward the situation. He was absolutely detached. He sat with his chair tilted against the door and his thumbs in his armholes, and treated the whole affair as a huge joke.
“The matter up for immediate consideration,” Mr. Opp was saying impressively, “is whether these here gentlemen should want to buy us out, we would sell, or whether we would remain firm in possession, and let them lease our ground and share the profits on the oil.”
“Well, I’m kinder in favor of selling out if we get the chance,” urged Mr. Tucker in a high, querulous voice. “To[p115]sell on a rising market is always a pretty good plan.”
“After we run up ag’in’ them city fellows,” said Mat Lucas, “I’ll be surprised if we git as much out as we put in.”
“Gentlemen,” protested Mr. Opp, “this here ain’t the attitude to assume to the affair. To my profoundest belief there is a fortune in these here lands. The establishment of ‘The Opp Eagle’ has, as you know, been a considerable tax on my finances, but everything else I’ve got has gone into this company. It’s a great and glorious opportunity, one that I been predicting and prophesying for these many years. Are we going to sell out to this party, and let them reap the prize? No; I trust and hope that such is not the case. In order to have more capital to open up the mines, I advocate the taking of them in.”
“I bet they been advocating the taking of us in,” chuckled Jimmy.
“Well, my dear friends, suppose we vote on it,” suggested the preacher.
[p116]“Reach yer hand back there in the press, Mr. Opp, and git the lead-pencil,” said Jimmy, without moving.
“The motion before the house,” said Mr. Opp, “is whether we will sell out or take ’em in. All in favor say ‘Aye.’”
There was a unanimous vote in the affirmative, although each member interpreted the motion in his own way.
“Very well,” said Mr. Opp, briskly; “the motion is carried. Now we got to arrange about entertaining the party.”
Mr. Tucker, whose brain was an accommodation stopping at each station, was still struggling with the recent motion when this new thought about entertainment whizzed past. The instinct of the landlord awoke at the call, and he promptly switched off the main line and went down the side track.
“Gallop was here while ago,” Jimmy was saying, with a satisfied glance at Mr. Tucker; “said they wanted me to take keer of ’em. I’ll ’commodate all but the preachers. If there are any preachers, Mr. Tucker kin have ’em. I[p117]have to draw the line somewheres. I can’t stand ’em ‘Brother-Fallowsing’ me. Last time the old woman corralled one and brought him home, he was as glad to find me to work on as she’d ’a’ be’n to git some fruit to preserve. ‘Brother,’ he says, reaching out for my hand, ‘do you ever think about the awful place you are going to when you die?’ ‘You bet,’ says I; ‘I got more friends there than anywhere.’” And Jimmy’s laugh shook the stove-pipe.
“How many gentlemen are coming to-morrow?” asked Miss Jim, who was sitting in a corner as far as possible from Mr. Tucker.
“Ten,” said Jimmy. “Now, you wouldn’t think it, but this here hotel has got six bedrooms. I’ve tooken care of as many as twenty at a time, easy, but I’ll be hanged if I ever heard of such foolishness as every one of these fellers wantin’ a room to hisself.”
“I’ve got three rooms empty,” said Mr. Tucker.
“Well, that leaves one over,” said Mat[p118]Lucas. “I’d take him out home, but we’ve got company, and are sleeping three in a bed now.”
Mr. Opp hesitated; then his hospitality overcame his discretion.
“Just consider him my guest,” he said. “I’ll be very pleased to provide entertainment for the gentleman in question.”
Not until the business of the day was over, and Mr. Opp was starting home, did he realize how tired he was. It was not his duties as an editor, or even as a promoter, that were telling on him; it was his domestic affairs that preyed upon his mind. For Mr. Opp not only led a strenuous life by day, but by night as well. Miss Kippy’s day began with his coming home, and ended in the morning when he went away; the rest of the time she waited.
Just now the problem that confronted him was the entertainment of the expected guest. Never, since he could remember, had a stranger invaded that little world where Miss Kippy lived her[p119]unreal life of dreams. What effect would it have upon her? Would it be kinder to hide her away as something he was ashamed of, or to let her appear and run the risk of exposing her deficiency to uncaring eyes? During the months that he had watched her, a fierce tenderness had sprung up in his heart. He had become possessed of the hope that she might be rescued from her condition. Night after night he patiently tried to teach her to read and to write, stopping again and again to humor her whims and indulge her foolish fancies. More than once he had surprised a new look in her eyes, a sudden gleam of sanity, of frightened understanding; and at such times she would cling to him for protection against that strange thing that was herself.
As he trudged along, deep in thought, a white chrysanthemum fell at his feet. Looking up, he discovered Miss Guinevere Gusty, in a red cloak and hat, sitting on the bank with a band-box in her lap.
His troubles were promptly swallowed[p120]up in the heart-quake which ensued; but his speech was likewise, and he stood foolishly opening and shutting his mouth, unable to effect a sound.
“I am waiting for the packet to go down to Coreyville,” announced Miss Gusty, straightening her plumed hat, and smiling. “Mr. Gallop says it’s an hour late; but I don’t care, it’s such a grand day.”
Mr. Opp removed his eyes long enough to direct an inquiring glance at the heavens and the earth. “Is it?” he asked, finding his voice. “I been so occupied with business that I haven’t scarcely taken occasion to note the weather.”
“Why, it’s all soft and warm, just like spring,” she continued, holding out her arms and looking up at the sky. “I’ve been wishing I had time to walk along the river a piece.”
“I’ll take you,” said Mr. Opp, eagerly. “We can hear the whistle of the boat in amply sufficient time to get back. Besides, it is a hour late.”
[p121]She hesitated. “You’re real sure you can get me back?”
“Perfectly,” he announced. “I might say in all my experience I never have yet got a lady left on a boat.”
Miss Guinevere, used to being guided, handed him her band-box, and followed him up the steep bank.
The path wound in and out among the trees, now losing itself in the woods, now coming out upon the open river. The whole world was a riot of crimson and gold, and it was warm with that soft echo of summer that brings some of its sweetness, and all of its sadness, but none of its mirth.
Mr. Opp walked beside his divinity oblivious to all else. The sunlight fell unnoticed except when it lay upon her face; the only breeze that blew from heaven was the one that sent a stray curl floating across her cheek. As Mr. Opp walked, he talked, putting forth every effort to please. His burning desire to be worthy of her led him into all manner of verbal extravagances, and the mere[p122]fact that she was taller than he caused him to indulge in more lofty and figurative language. He captured fugitive quotations, evolved strange metaphors, coined words, and poured all in a glittering heap of eloquence before her shrine.
As he talked, his companion moved heedlessly along beside him, stopping now and then to gather a spray of goldenrod, or to gaze absently at the river through some open space in the trees. For Miss Guinevere Gusty lived in a world of her own—a world of vague possibilities, of half-defined longings, and intangible dreams. Love was still an abstract sentiment, something radiant and breathless that might envelop her at any moment and bear her away to Elysium.
As she stooped to free her skirt from a detaining thorn, she pointed down the bank.
“There’s some pretty sweet-gum leaves; I wish they weren’t so far down.”
“Where?” demanded Mr. Opp, rashly eager to prove his gallantry.
[p123]“’Way down over the edge; but you mustn’t go, it’s too steep.”
“Not for me,” said Mr. Opp, plunging boldly through the underbrush.
The tree grew at a sharp angle over the water, and the branches were so far up that it was necessary to climb out a short distance in order to reach them. Mr. Opp’s soul was undoubtedly that of a knight-errant, but his body, alas! was not. When he found himself astride the slender, swaying trunk, with the bank dropping sharply to the river flowing dizzily beneath him, he went suddenly and unexpectedly blind. Between admiration for himself for ever having gotten there, and despair of ever getting back, lay the present necessity of loosening his hold long enough to break off a branch of the crimson leaves. He tried opening one eye, but the effect was so terrifying that he promptly closed it. He pictured himself, a few moments before, strolling gracefully along the road conversing brilliantly upon divers subjects; then he bitterly considered the[p124]present moment and the effect he must be producing upon the young lady in the red cloak on the path above. He saw himself clinging abjectly to the swaying tree-trunk, only waiting for his strength or the tree to give away, before he should be plunged into the waters below.
“That’s a pretty spray,” called the soft voice from above; “that one above, to the left.”
Mr. Opp, rallying all his courage, reached blindly out in the direction indicated, and as he did so, he realized that annihilation was imminent. Demonstrating a swift geometrical figure in the air, he felt himself hurling through space, coming to an abrupt and awful pause when he struck the earth. Perceiving with a thrill of surprise that he was still alive, he cautiously opened his eyes. To his further amazement he found that he had landed on his feet, unhurt, and that in his left hand he held a long branch of sweet-gum leaves.
“Why, you skinned the cat, didn’t you?” called an admiring voice from[p125]above. “I was just wondering how you was ever going to get down.”
Mr. Opp crawled up the slippery bank, his knees trembling so that he could scarcely stand.
“Yes,” he said, as he handed her the leaves; “those kind of athletic acts seem to just come natural to some people.”
“You must be awful strong,” continued Guinevere, looking at him with approval.
Mr. Opp sank beside her on the bank and gave himself up to the full enjoyment of the moment. Both hands were badly bruised, and he had a dim misgiving that his coat was ripped up the back; but he was happy, with the wild, reckless happiness of one to whom Fate has been unexpectedly kind. Moreover, the goal toward which all his thought had been rushing for the past hour was in sight. He could already catch glimpses of the vision beautiful. He could hear himself storming the citadel with magic words of eloquence. Meanwhile he nursed the band-box and smiled dumbly into space.
[p126]From far below, the pungent odor of burning leaves floated up, and the air was full of a blue haze that became luminous as the sun transfused it. It enveloped the world in mystery, and threw a glamour over the dying day.
“It’s so pretty it hurts,” said the girl, clasping her hands about her knees. “I love to watch it all, but it makes the shivers go over me—makes me feel sort of lonesome. Don’t it you?”
Mr. Opp shook his head emphatically. It was the one time in years that down in the depths of his soul he had not felt lonesome. For as Indian summer had come back to earth, so youth had come back to Mr. Opp. The flower of his being was waking to bloom, and the spring tides were at flood.
A belated robin overhead, unable longer to contain his rapture, burst into song; but Mr. Opp, equally full of his subject, was unable to utter a syllable. The sparkling eloquence and the fine phrases had evaporated, and only the bare truth was left.
[p127]Guinevere, having become aware of the very ardent looks that were being cast upon her, said she thought the boat must be about due.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Opp; “that is, I was about to say—why—er—say, Miss Guin-never, do you think you could ever come to keer about me?”
Guinevere, thus brought to bay, took refuge in subterfuge. “Why—Mr. Opp—I’m not old enough for you.”
“Yes, you are,” he burst forth fervently. “You are everything for me: old enough, and beautiful enough, and smart enough, and sweet enough. I never beheld a human creature that could even begin to think about comparing with you.”
Guinevere, in the agitation of the moment, nervously plucked all the leaves from the branch that had been acquired with such effort. It was with difficulty that she finally managed to lift her eyes.
“You’ve been mighty good to me,” she faltered, “and—and made me lots happier; but I—I don’t care in the way you mean.”
[p128]“Is there anybody else?” demanded Mr. Opp, ready to hurl himself to destruction if she answered in the affirmative.
“Oh, no,” she answered him; “there never has been anybody.”
[p129]“‘Why, Mr. Opp, I’m not old enough’”
“Then I’ll take my chance,” said Mr. Opp, expanding his narrow chest. “Whatever I’ve got out of the world I’ve had to fight for. I don’t mind saying to you that I was sorter started out with a handicap. You know my sister—she’s a—well, a’ invalid, you might say, and while her pa was living, my fortunes wasn’t what you might call as favorable as they are at present. I never thought there would be any use in my considering getting married till I met you, then I didn’t seem able somehow to consider nothing else. If you’ll just let me, I’ll wait. I’ll learn you to care. I won’t bother you, but just wait patient as long as you say.” And this from Mr. Opp, whose sands of life were already half-run! “All I ask for,” he went on wistfully, “is a little sign now and then.[p131]You might give me a little look or something just to keep the time from seeming too long.”
It was almost a question, and as he leaned toward her, with the sunlight in his eyes, something of the beauty of the day touched him, too, just as it touched the weed at his feet, making them both for one transcendent moment part of the glory of the world.
Guinevere Gusty, already in love with love, and reaching blindly out for something deeper and finer in her own life, was suddenly engulfed in a wave of sympathy. She involuntarily put out her hand and touched his fingers.
The sun went down behind the distant shore, and the light faded on the river. Mr. Opp was almost afraid to breathe; he sat with his eyes on the far horizon, and that small, slender hand in his, and for the moment the world was fixed in its orbit, and Time itself stood still.
Suddenly out of the silence came the long, low whistle of the boat. They scrambled to their feet and hurried down[p132]the path, Mr. Opp having some trouble in keeping up with the nimbler pace of the girl.
“I’ll be calculatin’ every minute until the arrival of the boat to-morrow night,” he was gasping as they came within sight of the wharf. “I’ll be envyin’ every—”
“Where’s my band-box?” demanded Guinevere. “Why, Mr. Opp, if you haven’t gone and left it up in the woods!”
Five minutes later, just as the bell was tapping for the boat to start, a flying figure appeared on the wharf. He was hatless and breathless, his coat was ripped from collar to hem, and a large band-box flapped madly against his legs as he ran. He came down the home-stretch at a record-breaking pace, stepped on board as the gang-plank was lifted, deposited his band-box on the deck, then with a running jump cleared the rapidly widening space between the boat and the shore, and dropped upon the wharf.
He continued waving his handkerchief even after the boat had rounded the[p133]curve, then, having edited a paper, promoted a large enterprise, effected a proposal, and performed two remarkable athletic stunts all in the course of a day, Mr. Opp turned his footsteps toward home.
Thenext day dawned wet and chilly. A fine mist hung in the trees, and the leaves and grasses sagged under their burden of moisture. All the crimson and gold had changed to brown and gray, and the birds and crickets had evidently packed away their chirps and retired for the season.
By the light of a flickering candle, Mr. D. Webster Opp partook of a frugal breakfast. The luxurious habits of the Moore household had made breakfast a movable feast depending upon the time of Aunt Tish’s arrival, and in establishing the new régime Mr. Opp had found it necessary to prepare his own breakfast in order to make sure of getting to the office before noon.
As he sipped his warmed-over coffee,[p135]with his elbows on the red table-cloth, and his heels hooked on the rung of the chair, he recited to himself in an undertone from a very large and imposing book which was propped in front of him, the leaves held back on one side by a candlestick and on the other by a salt-cellar. It was a book which Mr. Opp was buying on subscription, and it was called “An Encyclopedia of Wonder, Beauty, and Wisdom.” It contained pellets of information on all subjects, and Mr. Opp made it a practice to take several before breakfast, and to repeat the dose at each meal as circumstances permitted. “An editor,” he told Nick, “has got to keep himself instructed on all subjects. He has got to read wide and continuous.”
As a rule he followed no special line in his pursuit of knowledge, but with true catholicity of taste, took the items as they came, turning from a strenuous round with “Abbeys and Abbots,” to enter with fervor into the wilds of “Abyssinia.” The straw which served as bookmark pointed to-day to “Ants,” and[p136]ordinarily Mr. Opp would have attacked the subject with all the enthusiasm of an entomologist. But even the best regulated minds will at times play truant, and Mr. Opp’s had taken a flying leap and skipped six hundred and thirty-two pages, landing recklessly in the middle of “Young Lochinvar.” For the encyclopedia, in its laudable endeavor not only to cover all intellectual requirements, but also to add the crowning grace of culture, had appended a collection of poems under the title “Favorites, Old and New.”
Mr. Opp, thus a-wing on the winds of poesy, had sipped his tepid coffee and nibbled his burnt toast in fine abstraction until he came upon a selection which his soul recognized. He had found words to the music that was ringing in his heart. It was then that he propped the book open before him, and determined not to close it until he had made the lines his own.
Later, as he trudged along the road to town, he repeated the verses to himself,[p137]patiently referring again and again to the note-book in which he had copied the first words of each line.
At the office door he regretfully dismounted from Pegasus, and resolutely turned his attention to the business of the day. His desire was to complete the week’s work by noon, spend the afternoon at home in necessary preparation for the coming guest, and have the following day, which was Saturday, free to devote to the interest of the oil company.
In order to accomplish this, expedition was necessary, and Mr. Opp, being more bountifully endowed by nature with energy than with any other quality, fell to work with a will. His zeal, however, interfered with his progress, and he found himself in the embarrassing condition of a machine which is geared too high.
He was, moreover, a bit bruised and stiff from the unusual performances of the previous day, and any sudden motion caused him to wince. But the pain brought recollection, and recollection was instant balm.
[p138]It was hardly to be expected that things would deviate from their usual custom of becoming involved at a critical time, so Mr. Opp was not surprised when Nick was late and had to be spoken to, a task which the editor always achieved with great difficulty. Then the printing-press had an acute attack of indigestion, and no sooner was that relieved than the appalling discovery was made that there were no more good “S’s” in the type drawer.
“Use dollar-marks for the next issue,” directed Mr. Opp, “and I’ll wire immediate to the city.”
“We’re kinder short on ‘I’s’ too,” said Nick. “You take so many in your articles.”
Mr. Opp looked injured. “I very seldom or never begin on an ‘I,’” he said indignantly.
“You get ’em in somehow,” said Nick. “Why, the editor over at Coreyville even said ‘Our Wife.’”
“Yes,” said Mr. Opp, “I will, too,—that is—er—”
[p139]The telephone-bell covered his retreat.
“Hello!” he answered in a deep, incisive voice to counteract the effect of his recent embarrassment, “Office of ‘The Opp Eagle.’ Mr. Toddlinger? Yes, sir. You say you want your subscription stopped! Well, now, wait a minute—see here, I can explain that—” but the other party had evidently rung off.
Mr. Opp turned with exasperation upon Nick:
“Do you know what you went and did last week?” He rose and, going to the file, consulted the top paper. “There it is,” he said, “just identical with what he asserted.”
Nick followed the accusing finger and read:
“Mr. and Mrs. Toddlinger moved this week into their new horse and lot.”
Before explanations could be entered into, there was a knock at the door. When it was answered, a very small black boy was discovered standing on the step. He wore a red shirt and a pair of ragged trousers, between which strained[p140]relations existed, and on his head was the brim of a hat from which the crown had long since departed. Hanging on a twine string about his neck was a large onion.
He opened negotiations at once.
“Old Miss says fer you-all to stop dat frowin’ papers an’ sech like trash outen de winder; dey blows over in our-all’s yard.”
He delivered the message in the same belligerent spirit with which it had evidently been conveyed to him, and rolled his eyes at Mr. Opp as if the offense had been personal.
Mr. Opp drew him in, and closed the door. “Did—er—did Mrs. Gusty send you over to say that?” he asked anxiously.
“Yas, sir; she done havin’ a mad spell. What’s dat dere machine fer?”
“It’s a printing-press. Do you think Mrs. Gusty is mad at me?”
“Yas, sir,” emphatically; “she’s mad at ever’body. She ’lows she gwine lick me ef I don’t tek keer. She done got de[p141]kitchen so full o’ switches hit looks jes lak outdoors.”
“I don’t think she would really whip you,” said Mr. Opp, already feeling the family responsibility.
“Naw, sir; she jes ’low she gwine to. What’s in dem dere little drawers?”
“Type,” said Mr. Opp. “You go back and tell Mrs. Gusty that Mr. Opp says he’s very sorry to have caused her any inconvenience, and he’ll send over immediate and pick up them papers.”
“You’s kinder skeered of her, too, ain’t you?” grinned the ambassador, holding up one bare, black foot to the stove. “My mammy she sasses back, but I runs.”
“Well, you’d better run now,” said Mr. Opp, who resented such insight; “but, see here, what’s that onion for?”
“To ’sorb disease,” said the youth, with the air of one who is promulgating some advanced theory in therapeutics; “hit ketches it ’stid of you. My pappy weared a’ onion fer put-near a whole year, an’ hit ’sorbed all de diseases whut[p142]was hangin’ round, an’ nary a one never teched him. An’ one day my pappy he got hongry, an’ he et dat dere onion, an’ whut you reckon? He up an’ died!”
“Well, you go ’long now,” said Mr. Opp, “and tell Mrs. Gusty just exactly verbatim what I told you. What did you say was your name?”
“Val,” said the boy.
Mr. Opp managed to slip a nickel into the dirty little hand without Nick’s seeing him. Nick was rather firm about these things, and disapproved heartily of Mr. Opp’s indiscriminate charities.
“Gimme nudder one an’ I’ll tell you de rest ob it,” whispered Val on the door-step.
Mr. Opp complied.
“Valentine Day Johnson,” he announced with pride; then pocketing his prize, he vanished around the corner of the house, forgetting his office of plenipotentiary in his sudden accession of wealth.
Once more peace settled on the office, and Mr. Opp was engrossed in an article[p143]on “The Greatest Petroleum Proposition South of the Mason and Dixon Line,” when an ominous, wheezing cough announced the arrival of Mr. Tucker. This was an unexpected catastrophe, for Mr. Tucker’s day for spending the morning at the office was Saturday, when he came in to pay for his paper. It seemed rather an unkind trick of Fate’s that he should have been permitted to arrive a day too soon.