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McElwin hastened along the hard and slippery path that ran on a ridge at the side of the road. Sometimes a low-bending bough raked across his umbrella, and once he was made to start by a cold slap in his face, dealt by the broad leaf of a shrub that leaned and swayed above a garden fence. He came upon a wooden bridge over a small stream and halted to breathe, for his walk beneath the dark trees had been rapid and nervous. Frogs were croaking in the sluggish water. A cradle in a hovel bumped upon the uneven floor, and he remembered to have heard from his father that in the pioneer days he had been many a time rocked to sleep in a sugar trough. The lights of the town, the few that he could see, looked red and angry. He remembered a newspaper account of the way-laying and robbing of a prominent citizen. It was so easy for a tramp to knock down an unsuspecting man. Tramp and robber were interchangeable terms with him, and often, on a cold night, when he had seen the wanderer's fire, kindled close to the railway track, he had wondered why such license had been allowed in a law-abiding community. He moved off with a brisk step, for he fancied that he heard something under the bridge. There was many a worse man than McElwin, but it is doubtful whether a ranker coward had ever been born to see the light of day, or to shy at an odd shape in the dark. He felt an easy-breathing sense of relief when he reached the main street, and in the light of the tavern lamp, hung out in front, he was bold; his head went up and his heels fell with measured firmness upon the bricks. He halted in front of his bank, as his own clock was striking ten, and looked up at Lyman's window. The room was dim, but the other part of the floor, the long room, was bright. He was afraid to show anxiety concerning either Sawyer or Lyman, nor did he deem it advisable to call at old Jasper's house. For what purpose had he come, he then asked himself. He must do something to pay himself for coming, to make himself feel that his time had not been utterly thrown away. In his arrangement of economy, every piece of time must show either an actual or a possible result. To go even in the direction of old Jasper's house was out of the question, for if anyone should see him he would surely be associated with the White Caps. Why would it not be a wise move to find out whether or not Lyman was in the printing-office, and to warn him. He could easily put his call upon the ground of an argument against the impulsive man's rashness in burning the check. No, that would invite the ill-will and perhaps the outright enmity of Sawyer. He could not afford to lose Sawyer; he needed his energy for the future and the use of his money for the present. But he could bind Lyman to secrecy. "I wonder," he mused, "that I should have any faith in his word, but I have. Confound him, he has upset us all. But I ought to warn him. It is terrible to be taken out and whipped upon the bare back. I'll make him promise and then I'll tell him."
He crossed the street and began slowly to climb the stairs. He reached the first landing and halted. "It won't do," he said. "Sawyer might find it out and that would ruin everything. I advised against it; I have done my best to prevent it, and it is now no concern of mine. I will go home. I have been foolish."
He turned about and walked rapidly down the stairs. When he reached home his daughter had gone to bed, but his wife was sitting up, waiting for him. She met him at the door and looked at him, searchingly, as he halted in the light of the hall lamp to put the umbrella in the rack.
"Did you see him?" she asked, not in the best of humor, now that the worry was practically over.
"Sawyer? No, he's out in the country, so a man told me. I have decided to dismiss the matter from my mind or to think about it as little as possible. It isn't so very late yet," he added, looking at his watch. He found his slippers beside his chair when he entered the sitting-room, but he shoved them away with his foot.
"Did Mr. Menifee have anything of interest to say?" he asked, leaning with his elbows on the table.
"It may not interest you, but it has been put to Eva and me as a matter of duty, that we ought to go out to Mt. Zion to hear Henry Bostic preach."
McElwin grunted: "Menifee may put it as a matter of duty, but I don't. Fortunately I have other duties that are of much more importance. I will not go."
"He didn't seem to expect that you would," she replied.
"I hope not. He may have reason to believe me worldly in some things, but I trust he has never found me ridiculous."
"Would it be ridiculous to hear that young man preach?"
"For me to hear him? Decidedly. The true gospel has not been handed over to the keeping of the malicious idiot, I hope."
"I believe he is sincere."
"Sincere? Of course he is. So is a wasp when it stings you."
She laughed in her dignified way, her good humor having suddenly returned; and he looked up with a smile, pleased with himself. They sat for a time, talking of other matters, and he went to bed humming the defineless tune of self-satisfaction. But late in the night Mrs. McElwin awoke and found him standing at the window, listening.
"What is it, dear?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Then why are you standing there?"
"I thought I heard something."
"In the house?" she asked, rising up with sudden alarm.
"No. Over in town, or rather over by the railroad track. I noticed some tramp-fires along there."
"Oh, well, don't worry. The watchman will look after them."
"Hush," he said, leaning from the window. "There it is again."
"I don't hear anything," she declared. "Why, it's only a negro singing."
"So it is," he said. "I thought it was someone yelling over in town. Are you sure that it was a negro singing?"
"Oh, I don't know whether he is a negro or not, but it is someone singing. But what if it is someone yelling over in town? It's nothing unusual, I am sure. I have heard them yell at all times of the night. I believe it is someone singing," he finally said, turning from the window.
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Early in the evening old Jasper Staggs received a visit from Zeb Sawyer, and inasmuch as the social exchanges between them had never been particularly marked, the old man was not a little surprised.
"Well, you see, it aint altogether on your account that I've come," said Sawyer with a weak laugh, seeing that in the old man's astonishment there lurked an unfavorable suspicion. "Mother—and you know she's getting along—took it into her head today that nothing would do her so much good as a visit from your wife and Miss Annie. And she says she'd like mighty well to have you."
"Well," said old Jasper, "the women folks are out there in the dinin' room a fussin' around, and I reckon they'll take the time to answer for themselves, jest as I am agoin' to answer for myself, when I say that I'm obleeged to you, but I can't come. I'm talkin' for myself, recollect," he added, with emphasis, nodding his head and running his fingers through his rim of gray beard. "Yes, sir; for myself, and for myself only."
"But I guess Aunt Tobithy and Miss Annie will go, won't they?"
"I have said my say, and it was for myself only, but if you want to know anything consarnin' the other members of this house, just step right out there where they are tinkerin' with the dishes, and ask them."
Sawyer went into the dining-room. There was a hush of the rattle of dishes and knives, and then Sawyer came back and said they were kind enough to go. "I am going to stay here with you," Sawyer remarked.
"All right," the old man replied.
"And I believe it will be a little more than all right when I tell you of something. The other day I was at an old house in the country, and an old fellow that lives there took me down into the cellar to show me a new patent churn that he was working on. Well, I didn't care anything about the churn, you know, not having much to do with cows, but I looked at the thing like I was interested, just to please him. And while I was looking about I saw a small barrel, with dried moss on it, and I asked him about it, and he said it was a whisky barrel that was hid out all during the war. This made me open my eyes, I tell you; but as quiet as I could I asked him if there was any of the liquor left. He said he had about a gallon left, and I told him I'd give him twenty dollars for a quart of it, and I did, right then and there; and if I haven't got that bottle right with me now, you may crack my head like a hickory nut."
By this time old Jasper's jaw had fallen, and now he sat, leaning forward with his mouth wide open. "Zeby," he said, and his voice sounded as if he had been taken with a sudden hoarseness. "I reckon I am about as fond of a joke and a prank as any man that ever crossed Goose Creek—and some great jokers came along there in the early days—but there was things too sacred for them to joke about. You know what I said, Zeby?"
"I know all about them old fellows," Zeb said, with a laugh. "I have heard my granddad talk about them. In fact, he was one of them, and I get it from him not to joke on some things. I've that bottle of liquor in my pocket this very minute."
The old man stepped to the door. "Tobithy; oh, Tobithy."
"Well," his wife answered from the dining-room.
"Zeb is powerful anxious for you to go over to his mother's, as the old lady is wanting to see you, but I don't see how you can get off."
Sawyer looked at him in surprise. The old man made him a sign to be quiet.
A dish clattered and his wife exclaimed: "You don't see how I can go. Oh, no, but you see how I can stick here day after day, killing myself with work. I am going."
The old man grinned and sat down. "I was afraid she would back out," he said, "and I wanted to clinch the thing. Jest let me tell her that I am afraid she can't do a thing and then it would take a good deal more high water than we've had for a year or two to keep her from doing it."
His wife and Annie came into the room and he put on a sober air. "I don't think you can stay late, for it looks like rain," he said.
"I'm going to stay until I get ready to come back, and it can rain brick bats for all I care," she replied; and the old man, knowing that everything was fixed, leaned back with a long breath of contentment. The women soon took their departure; the old man watched them until they passed through a gate that opened out upon the sidewalk, then he looked at Sawyer and said:
"The bottle; I believe you 'lowed you had it with you."
talk in the parlor
"Right here," Sawyer replied, tapping a side pocket of his coat.
The old man flinched like a horse prodded in a tender place. "Don't do that again, you might break it," he said. "There ain't nothing easier to break than a bottle full of old liquor. Let me see," he added, with an air of deep meditation. "It has been about five months since I renewed my youth; it was the night Turner was elected Sheriff. And I want to tell you, Zeby, that to a man who has seen fun and recollects it, that's a good while. We'll jest wait a minute before we open the ceremonies. You can never tell when a woman's clean gone. The chances are that she may forget something and come bobbin' back at any minute. And it might take me quite a while to explain. There are some things you can explain to a woman and some things you can't, and one of the things you can't, is why you ought to take liquor when she don't feel like takin' any herself. Well, I reckon their start was sure enough," he said, looking through the window. "Now, jest step out here in the dinin' room and make yourself at home, while I pump a pail of fresh water."
Old Jasper put a pitcher of water on the dining room table. Sawyer sat with his arms resting on the board, and with a flask held affectionately in his hands. Old Jasper cleared his throat, and drawing up a large rocking chair, sat down. He said, as he looked at the flask, that he had not felt well of late, and that whisky would do him good. Sawyer would make no apology for drinking such liquor. Good whisky was to him its own apology. Life at best was short, with many a worry, and he did not see how a so-called moral code should censure a man for throwing off his troubles once in a while. The old man needed no persuasion to lead him on. And in the dim light of a lamp, placed upon the corner of an old red side-board, they sat glowing with merriment. Sawyer drank sparingly, but Jasper declared that it took about three fingers at a time to do him any good, and into the declaration the action was dove-tailed. He told a long and rambling story, relating to a time when he had driven a stage coach; a tickling recollection touched him and he leaned back and laughed till the tears rolled down through the time-gullies in his face. Sawyer snapped his watch. The old man told him to let time take care of itself.
"That's what I'm doing," said Sawyer. "By the way, I've an idea that I'd like to go squirrel hunting. But I broke my gun the other day and sent it to the shop. Haven't got an old gun around, have you?"
"There's an old muzzle-loader in there behind the door, standing there ready to break the leg of a dog that comes over to howl in the garden."
"Can't shoot a pistol much, can you?"
"Ain't much of a hand with a pistol, Zeby."
"Haven't got one, have you?"
"Had one, but I believe Lyman took it up to his room. There's a good man, even if you have a cause not to like him; and when I got well acquainted with him I jest 'lowed that nothin' on the place was too good for him, so we brushed up the room right over the sittin' room, and there he sets late in the night and does his work, and sometimes, 'way late, I hear him walkin' up and down, arm in arm with an idea that he's tryin' to get better acquainted with, he says."
"Is he up there now?"
"No. He ain't come in yet. Sometimes he don't come till late. He's got fewer regular hours about him than any man I ever seen. He jest takes everything by fits and starts, and he's mighty funny about some things—he don't let a man know what he's doin' at all; never comes down and reads to a body the things that he writes—might write a hymn to sing at the camp-meeting, and he never would read it to you."
The old man drifted into another stage coach reminiscence and Sawyer sat in an attitude of pretended interest, but he heard nothing, so deep-buried was he within himself. He had not much time to spare, and there was one thing that must be done; it was absolutely essential that he must go to Lyman's room and get the pistol. He poured out more whisky for the old man. Jasper continued to talk, but the memories of the past did not arise to tickle him; they made him sad. He wept over a girl, his first love, a grave more than forty years old. He sobbed over his boy, killed in the army. His chin sank upon his breast. Sawyer got up quickly and began to search for the gun. He found it and hid it under a bed. Then he turned his attention to Lyman's room. The apartment was approached by an encased stairway, leading from the sitting-room. He lifted the latch and listened, the old man was snoring; the young man felt like a thief; but that was to be expected, and therefore did not alarm his conscience. The stairs creaked, still he did not pause. The door of Lyman's room, to the left at the head of the stairs, was not locked. Sawyer struck a match and stepped inside. He lighted a lamp and looked about the room. On the table lay sheets of paper, some of them covered with close, nervous writing, and upon others were scratches, half-formed words, the tracks of a mind wandering in a bog. He pulled open the table drawer and eagerly grabbed up a pistol. Then he turned out the light and walked hastily down the stairs. Old Jasper was still asleep, his head on one side, like an old hawk worn out with a long fight. Sawyer put the pistol on the side-board, behind a tin tray standing on edge, and then sat down to wait. It was nearly time for the "boys" to come. He heard a key in the front door lock, and he put out the light. The door opened and closed, the latch of the stair door clicked; he heard Lyman going up to his room.
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Lyman had been helping Warren with the work of putting the paper to press, and he was tired, but when he had lighted the lamp he drew the writing paper toward him, and took up a pen, turning it between his fingers, as if waiting for a word, but it did not come, and he sat there musing. His heart was heavy, though not with a sadness, but with an overweight of gentleness, a consciousness that he stood as a protector to bide the time of the lover's coming. He was proud, but had no vanity. He knew that he could win friendship, for in friendship a strong and rugged quality was a factor, but he did not realize that the same rugged quality appealed to a deeper affection. In his work he saw the character of woman, and he could fancy her capricious enough to give her heart to the most awkward of men, but when he turned this light upon himself, so many blemishes were brought out that he stepped back from the glaring revelation. He believed that in his peculiar position Eva gave him the affection that a daughter might give a father, and he was determined that this charming relationship should not be undone by the appearance, on his part, of a selfish love; and in his resolve he was strong, but in cold dread he looked forward to the time when she should come with a new light in her eyes and ask him to release her. Suddenly a noise came from below, the tramping of feet upon the veranda. Could it be a surprise party at so late an hour? He listened. The door was opened, but there was no sound of greetings, no laughter. The visitors were evidently trying to soften their foot-weight, but the house shook under their uneven tread. He heard the click of the stair-door latch; the stairs groaned. He remembered what Sawyer had said, and caution prompted him to lock the door. The next moment there came a gentle tap, but he knew that the gentleness was assumed, for he heard suppressed breathing at the head of the stairs.
"Who's there?" he asked.
"Open the door."
"But who's there?"
"The good of the community."
"Well, I don't know that I have any business with you at this time of night, Mr. Good-of-the-Community."
"But we have business with you. Open the door or we'll break it down."
Lyman stepped back and snatched open the table drawer. He straightened up and thought for a moment. They were throwing themselves against the door. He seized a light chair and stood near the door. Word to hurry up came from below. The door creaked.
"Once more, are you going to open it?"
"Wait a moment," said Lyman. "I don't know who you are, but I can guess at your business. You are violating the law, you are house-breakers and I wish to tell you—"
Crash went the door. And crash went the chair. The opening was narrow. The first man fell back. The second man staggered. The third man hesitated, then sprang upon Lyman, giving him no time to strike. Across the floor they struggled, the old house shaking. They strove to choke each other, they rolled upon the floor. Lyman got hold of the fellow's throat. His fingers were like steel clamps. The White-Cap gurgled. Lyman got up, dragged him to the door and tumbled him down the stairs. Just then there came shrieks from below. The two women had returned. The White Caps were treading one upon another in their hurry to get out. Lyman, with a chair post in his hand, followed them. They ran through the sitting-room, a flutter of white in the dark. Lyman went into the dining-room, whence the women had run. The lamp had been relighted, and there sat old Jasper, fast asleep.
"There's nothing to be alarmed about," said Lyman, as the women with their hands in the air, ran to him. "A few White Caps out of employment wanted work, and got it. There, now, don't take on. Sit down, Aunt Tobithy. Oh, old Uncle Jasper is all right."
"He is drunk," said the old woman, anger driving away her fright. "They have made him drunk and he would sit there and sleep and let them burn the house over his head. Oh, was there ever anything so disgraceful! Jasper! Jasper!" she shook him.
"Horse that would trot—trot—" the old man muttered.
"Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Take hold of him, Annie, and let's put him to bed."
"I'll take care of him," said Lyman. They put him to bed and then sat down. "I don't understand it," the old woman remarked. "Did they hurt you?"
"No, they didn't get at me. They were at a disadvantage, out on the narrow landing, while I had plenty of room to swing around in. I must have hurt two of them pretty badly."
"What do you think of it?" Annie inquired
"Sawyer," said Lyman.
The old woman made a noise that sounded like a cluck. "And he fixed it so we were to go over to his mother's," she said. "Oh, it's perfectly clear. And he brought whisky here and got Jasper drunk. I do think this is the worst community the Lord ever saw. Talk about churches and school-houses, when such things are allowed to go on."
"What are you going to do about it, Mr. Lyman?" Annie asked. "Are you going to have them arrested?"
"They ought to be hanged," the old lady spoke up. "Oh, I knew something would happen the moment I put my foot off the place. I never did know it to fail. And I might have told this morning that something wrong was goin' to take place, for I had to try twice or three times before I could pick up anything when I stooped for it, and I saw a hen out in the yard trying to crow. But, Mr. Lyman," she added, reflectively, "I do hope you will think twice before you go to law about it. I don't tell you not to, mind you, for I am the last one in the world to tell a person not to have the law enforced, but if you could see that old woman—Zeb's mother—you wouldn't want to do a thing to bend her down with grief; it makes no difference how many laws it would enforce."
"And besides what would the law do?" Annie broke in, to strengthen her mother's position. "You might have him arrested and all that, and a trial and a scandal, too, but after all, it wouldn't amount to anything. I should think that his conscience would punish him enough. And you couldn't have the others arrested without bringing him into it."
"You don't need to argue any longer," Lyman replied. "The merest reference to his old mother settles it with me. The law part would be a farce anyway. But let me remind you that it is quite a serious thing when an American citizen is ordered to leave his home at the whim of a scoundrel."
He bade them good night and went up to his room. The door lay upon the floor and fragments of the cast-iron lock were scattered about. The image of Sawyer arose before him, as he had appeared in the office, and so hateful and disturbing was the picture, that he arose and bathed his face, as if to wash out the vision. He heard a man's voice below and he stepped to the head of the stairs and listened. He recognized the voice of the town marshal. Already the law had begun its feeble farce. The marshal came up the stairs and looked around, at the door and the fragments of the lock. He took up a bit of iron and put it into his pocket, as if he had found a ton's weight of evidence.
"I'll take this along," he said gravely.
"Help yourself," said Lyman.
"Yes, for little things count," the marshal replied with the air of a great and mysterious detective. "And now," he added, "have you any idea or any suspicion as to who led this gang?"
Lyman had sat down and was crossed-legged, swinging one foot. "Oh," he answered carelessly, "I guess you know who it is. However, we will let the subject drop. I don't wish to discuss it."
"But, my dear sir, the law—"
Lyman held up his hand. "Let us hear nothing more about the law," said he. "Good night."
The marshal tramped down the stairs and Lyman went to bed to forget the mob and to dream of the rippling creek and a voice that was softer and sweeter than the echo of a flute. At early morning there came a rapping on the stairway, to summon him to breakfast. Old Jasper, with his hot hands in his pockets and with a sick expression of countenance was doddering about the sitting room.
"Ah, Lord," he said, when Lyman stepped down upon the floor. "Walt a minute. Let me shut this door. The smell of the kitchen gig—gig—- gags me. Lyman, I do reckon I ought to take a rusty knife and cut my infamous old throat. Yes, I do. I deserve it. And all because I wanted to renew my youth. I know I've said it before, but I want to say right now that I'll never touch another drop of the stuff as long as I live, I don't care if Noah had it with him in the Ark. But it is a fact that I sat here asleep while a mob was in my house?"
"Yes," said Lyman, "you were asleep when I came down stairs."
"Well, sir, it's news to me. And it shows what licker will fetch a man to. It will take me some little time to explain it to Tobithy."
"I suppose it will," said Lyman, smiling at him.
"Oh, it's a fact. Women fight against reason, you know, as long as they can. Yes, sir, it will take me a month to convince her that I wa'n't drunk. I admit that I drank a few drinks, small ones, not enough to hurt me if I had been right at myself, but I was tired and sleepy before I touched a drop. Lyman, I wish you would explain it to her. She's got a good deal of confidence in you—a good deal more than she has in me. I wish you would tell her that I wasn't drunk."
"I think the best plan, Uncle Jasper, would be to say nothing about it."
"All right, we'll let it drop then. But I'll have to reason with her, and, as I said before, it is goin' to take some time to explain. Go in to breakfast and let me sit down here in my misery. Say, if you could hint that I am awfully sorry I'd be obliged to you; and if you could give them to understand that you don't think I'm goin' to live long, it would be a big favor."
When Lyman stepped out upon the street he was soon made to feel that the White Cap affair had become common property. Some of the villagers were inclined to treat it as a great joke, but the graver ones looked upon it as a serious infraction of the law. Sawyer's name was not mentioned, but everyone appeared to understand that he was the leader.
Warren was standing at the foot of the office stairs as Lyman came up. They smiled at each other.
"Well," said Warren, "have you got another piece of news to suppress?"
"I am afraid so," Lyman answered, as he started up the stairs.
"You are afraid so?" said Warren, tramping beside him. "How much longer is this suppression act to remain in force? Confound it, you help make three-fourths of the news in the neighborhood and then won't print it because it concerns you. All news concerns somebody, you must understand."
They went into the editorial room. Lyman took up his pipe and Warren stood looking at him. Lyman sat down and lighted his pipe. "My boy," said he, "it may seem hard, but I have a reason for keeping this thing out of print. It is not for myself, for my own sense of delicacy does not protest against it, but it would wound an old woman, and we can't afford to do that. We might say something about the mob, but it won't do to mention names."
"You mean Mrs. Sawyer?"
"Yes; it would hurt her."
"Lyman, you are the best writer I ever saw, but you were not intended for a newspaper man."
"I know that, my boy. If I thought we could sell ten thousand papers I wouldn't print a thing to hurt an old woman."
"Oh, I don't want to hurt an old woman or a young one either," said Warren, "but I look at the principle of the thing. Somebody's hurt every time a paper comes from the press, and if everybody was as tender-hearted as you are, there would be no newspapers after awhile, and then where would we be?"
"We would be slower, less wise, but in many instances more respectable," Lyman replied. He leaned back in his chair, slowly puffing his pipe.
"From the high-grade point of view I reckon you're right," said Warren, raking up the newspapers on the table, "but we can't all live on the high grades. By the way," he added with a laugh, "I walked over to the express office this morning and took my paper out, as if it were a matter of course. The fellow looked at me and sighed, and I thought he was going to say something about the numerous times I had bled under the hob-nailed heel of his company. But he didn't; he asked me to send him the paper, and he paid for it right there. Oh, things are getting pretty bright when trusts and corporations begin to bid for your influence. But what are you going to do with that fellow Sawyer?" he asked, becoming grave, or rather, more serious, for gravity could hardly spread over his lightsome face.
"I don't know," Lyman answered.
"But you can't afford to keep on letting him hurt you; you'll have to hunt him to shut him off."
"Yes, I'll have to do something, but I don't know what it will be. I have met a good many mean men—mean fellows at a saw mill, and I thought that a mean mill man was about the meanest—but Sawyer strikes off somewhat in advance of any meanness I ever encountered."
"Well, don't you get mad? Don't you feel like you want to take a gun and shoot him?"
"Yes, I have all sorts of feelings with regard to him; and sometimes when I awake at night it is a good thing he is not within reach. But I'll try to worry along with him. I don't expect to stay here very much longer."
Warren caught his breath, as if he had stuck a splinter into his finger, and his face pinched up with sharp anxiety. "I have been expecting to hear that," he said, smoothing out the papers on the table. "I have been looking for it, and I don't blame you in the least, though I hate to give you up. But," he added, brightening, "you have given me a start and they can't take it away from me. I'm all right and I know you are. And the first thing you know, I'm going to get married and settle down. I am about half way in love with a girl now. She put her hand on a high seat and jumped right up into a wagon. And when she batted her eyes, I wondered that they didn't crack like a whip, they were so sharp. I said to myself right then that I was about half way in love with her, and I watched her as she sat there, eating an apple; and when she drove away I went and got an apple and ate it, and I never tasted an apple before, I tell you. It must be a great girl that can give flavor to fruit."
"Who is she?" Lyman asked, his eyes brightening with amusement.
"I don't know her name. She drove in with her father—I reckon he was her father—and I didn't find out her name or anything about her. I went into the store where the man bought a jug of molasses and asked the clerk in there if he knew the man, and he said he didn't. But I'll find out and will marry her if she has no particular objections. A woman who can jump like that and then flavor an apple can catch me any day."
"You don't know but that she may be already married," said Lyman.
"Oh, no. We must not suppose that. Why, that would kill everything. Of course the fellow with her might be her husband, but it would be nonsense to presume so when, with the same degree of reason, I can presume he is not. If you've got to do any presuming, always presume for the best."
Lyman threw himself back and laughed. "Neither the ancients nor the moderns ever evolved from life any better philosophy than that," he declared. "Why, of course she is not married, nor shall she be until you marry her. It was intended that she should flavor your life, even as she flavored the apple. Here comes someone. Why, it's McElwin. Step out into the other room a moment, please. I believe he wants to see me alone."
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McElwin arose after a night of cat-naps. He was up long before breakfast. He stood at the gate, looking up and down the road; and when a peddler came along the banker hailed him and asked if there were any news in the town. The fellow held up a chicken. McElwin shook his head and repeated the inquiry. The fellow put the chicken back into his cart and held up a duck, whereupon McElwin ordered him to move on. At the breakfast table he sat with an unseeing stare. The clouds were gone, the day was bright and the air came sweet from the garden. His daughter spoke to him and he broke his stare and looked at her.
"Did you speak to me?" he asked.
"I said I was afraid you were not well this morning."
"Oh, yes, quite well, I thank you. But I didn't sleep very much."
"You might say you didn't sleep at all," his wife spoke up; "and I don't think you ought to go down town today."
This preposterous suggestion made him nervous. "Gracious alive, don't make an invalid of me," he replied. "I am all right, but an over-concern about my health will make me sick. Did you ever notice that when the newspapers begin to discuss a man's health he dies pretty soon? It's a fact. One newspaper comes out and says that Mr. Jones is not looking well. Another paper declares that Mr. Jones is looking better than he has looked for years. Then all the papers have their fling and the first thing you know Mr. Jones is dead."
Eva laughed; the idea struck her as being so humorously true, and Mrs. McElwin smiled, but it was the sad smile of protest. "James," she said, "you are a man of wonderful judgment, but sometimes you persist in looking at life through stained glass. Something is wrong with you and you ought to see a doctor at once."
"There you go," he cried, winking at his daughter. "Call in a doctor and that would settle it. The newspapers would then have their fling and that would fix me. I am worried, I acknowledge that, but it won't last long. Who is that at the gate?" he broke off, looking through the window. "He's moving off now. I thought at first that it was old Jasper Staggs."
It was his custom to read a newspaper in the library after breakfast, but this morning he did not tarry a moment, but went straightway toward the bank. At the wooden bridge he met Caruthers, and halted to speak to him. It was the first time that the lawyer had ever received the great man's attention, but knowing the cause of the interest now manifested, he was determined to dally with it as a sort of revenge.
"Any news, Mr. Caruthers?"
"Oh, you know my name. I am much flattered, I assure you. Of course I have known you for many years, but I didn't think you remembered me."
McElwin stood blinking at the sun. "I think I have spoken to you on an average of once a day for the last fifteen years," said he. "I am not a gusher, however. I have not seen a newspaper this morning and ask you if there is any news."
"Oh, I suppose there must be," Caruthers replied, leaning back against the rail of the bridge. "I haven't seen a newspaper either and I don't know what may have happened in the outside world."
"Any news about town?"
"No, nothing unusual, I believe. A dog was found dead on the public square, I understand; and I hear that old Mart Henley's son has been suspected of stealing a ham from Avery's meat house. Let me see." He passed his hand over his brow, as if in deep meditation. "Maxey's cow tramped down the roses in Donalson's yard and Thompson's hogs, covered with mud, have rubbed themselves against Tillman's white fence."
"Such occurrences are of no interest to me," said the banker.
"No, nor to me either. Well, I'll bid you good morning. Wait a moment," he added. "There was something else on my mind. Oh, did you hear of the White Caps?"
"No!" McElwin said with a gasp. "What about them?"
"Well, they went last night to have some fun with Sam Lyman."
"Ah, and they took him out and whipped him?"
"Well, hardly. He wore out a chair over them, and about three miles from town, I understand that old Doc Mason has been kept pretty busy since midnight sewing up their heads. Lyman didn't tell me, but I got it pretty straight that somebody stole the pistol out of his room; and if it hadn't been for that the undertaker would have had no cause to complain of the dullness of the season."
"You don't tell me!"
"Yes, I am inclined to think I do. Old Jasper had a visitor early in the evening; the women went out calling, and the visitor got the old man drunk."
"And it is suspected that the visitor had something to do with the subsequent call of the White Caps?"
"Well, it is not only suspected, but pretty well established. I suppose you could guess the name of the visitor."
"How could I, sir?"
"Well, I have heard it said that the visitor never makes an investment without consulting you, and it is thought more than likely that he consulted you on the occasion of this bad investment."
Caruthers leered and the banker winced. "As yet I am at a loss as to who the visitor might have been," said McElwin; "but no matter who, I wish to say that he did not consult me. I have never been known to violate the law, sir."
"Oh, no one would suspect you of that, Mr. McElwin. We all know that you never break the law, but we don't know that you are not sometimes aware that the law is going to be broken. Good morning."
"Wait a moment, sir. Do you mean to tell me that I am suspected of complicity in this infamous outrage?"
"No, I don't mean to tell you that. Neither do I mean to say that you would be wrong in doing so. You have had cause. Lyman's stubbornness is quite enough to rasp a saint. I couldn't stand it; and between me and you, I wish they had lashed him till he would have craved the privilege of going away."
"Wait just one more moment, Mr. Caruthers. Is what you have told me in reality suspected by the people or did you evolve it out of your own richness of observation?"
Caruthers bowed his head under the outpour of this compliment. "It is not public talk," he admitted.
"Ah, thank you. Drop in at the bank some time and see me, sir. Good morning."
Warren stepped out of the room, merely nodding to McElwin as he passed. Lyman got up, handed McElwin a chair, and without speaking, sat down again. McElwin stood with his hands on the back of the chair, looking at Lyman, and evidently embarrassed as to what he ought to say. "Beautiful morning," said Lyman, seeing his embarrassment and feeling that it was his duty as host to help him out of it.
"Yes, very bright after the rain."
"That's a fact; it did rain last night."
"Mr. Lyman, I heard something this morning that has grieved me very much."
"Oh, about the White Caps. Sit down, won't you?"
McElwin sat down. "Yes, the White Caps." He was silent for a moment and then he continued: "The intercourse between you and me has been far from friendly. I do not deny that I should like to see you leave this place, never to return; I acknowledge that I would bribe you to go, but I would not give countenance to a mob that would force you to leave."
Lyman looked at him with a cool smile. "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. McElwin, that Sawyer did not speak to you of his intention to take me out as if I were a thief or a wife-beater—"
"Stop, sir!" McElwin commanded, holding up his hand. "I forbid you to—"
"Forbid is rather a strong word. Don't you think that request would be better?"
"Well," said McElwin, softening, "we will say request. As I tell you, your presence in this community is distasteful to me, and your farcical marriage stands directly opposed to my plans. But I would not violate the law and commit a misdemeanor to drive you off. You have reasons for believing that Mr. Sawyer—"
"Yes, he was the organizer."
"But not with my sanction, sir."
"No? But perhaps not without your knowledge."
"Sir!"
"Keep your seat. Now I am going to tell you what I believe. I believe that Sawyer came to you, after I had burned the check, and told you what he intended to do."
"He did, and I told him not to do it."
"Ah. But did you go to the law and enter a protest against an outrage which you knew he was going to commit? Did you send me a word of warning or did you quietly wait in the hope that the result might rid you of me?"
"Mr. Lyman, I am going to tell you the absolute truth. I advised against it, and after he was gone, I went out to look for him, but he had driven down into the country to—"
"To organize his mob," Lyman suggested.
"Well, yes, we will say that he had gone for that purpose. And at night I came down town in the rain to see if I could not find him, and when I failed in this, I thought that I would come up here to warn you." He hesitated, with a slight cough.
"But you didn't come."
"No, not all the way. I halted on the stairs and turned back. I felt that I—" He hesitated.
"You felt that you could not afford to antagonize Mr. Sawyer."
McElwin coughed. "It was not exactly that, Mr. Lyman. But I did think that it was meddling with something that—that did not concern me."
"Didn't concern you? I thought you were deeply concerned, enough at least to feel yourself warranted in attempting to buy me, to hire me to leave."
"You don't quite understand, Mr. Lyman."
"Oh, yes I do. The trouble with you is that I understand too well. Go ahead with your absolute truth."
McElwin cleared his husky throat. "I went home, sir, and passed a most anxious night; I suffered, sir, far more than you did."
"No doubt of that. I enjoyed myself."
"Mr. Lyman, will you please not make a joke of this affair."
"Oh, I won't make a joke of it. It will be earnest enough by the time it is over with. I am informed that Mrs. Sawyer is very old and that to introduce her son's name in connection with the White Caps would greatly distress her, and I have resolved not to do this. But there are punishments, moral lessons to be served out, and I think it well to begin with you."
"Mr. Lyman, we are not friends, but would you ruin me in the estimation of the public?"
"No, I will say nothing to the public. I will tell your daughter."
McElwin started. His mind had been so directly fixed upon the public that he had not thought of his home. Being the master there he could command respect, and it was on the tip of his tongue now to say that his daughter would not believe Lyman, but, as if a bitter taste had suddenly arisen in his mouth, he felt that this man's word out-weighed his own. He had a strong hope that when his daughter should be set free and left to choose at will, her judgment would finally settle upon Sawyer. But he knew that should she be convinced that her father had counciled him to engage the services of lawless men or had even connived at the brutal procedure—he knew that, convinced of this, she would turn in scorn upon Sawyer and, in a moment, wreck the plans that it had taken years to build.
"Mr. Lyman," he said, "I admit that I am largely to blame, and I now throw myself upon your mercy, sir. Please don't tell my daughter."
All his dignity and arrogance had vanished, and the chair creaked under him. His brown beard, usually so neatly trimmed, looked ragged now, and his eyes, which Lyman had thought were full of sharp and cutting inquiry, now looked dull and questionless. "I throw myself upon your mercy," he repeated.
"Then, sir, you knock my props from under me," Lyman replied. "I am not equipped with that firmness which men call justice. Nature sometimes makes sport of a man by giving him a heart. And what does it mean? It means that he shall suffer at the hands of other men, and that when his hour for revenge has come, his over-grown heart rises up and commands him to be merciful. McElwin, I ought to publish you—I ought to tell your wife and daughter that you have conspired with ruffians to have me whipped from the town, but I will not. You may go now."
The banker's arrogance flew back to him. "You may go" were words that pierced him like a three-pronged fork, but he controlled himself, for now his judgment was stronger than his dignity. He arose and stepped up close to Lyman. "I am under deep obligations to you," he said. "You are a kind and generous man."
"Why don't you say that you are thankful to find me a fool?"
McElwin took no notice of this remark. "And I hope that I may be able to do something for you," he said. Still he stood there, as if he had not struck the proper note. "Do something for you. And if you need—need money, I shall be glad to let you have it."
"Oh, you couldn't get away without mentioning your god-essence, could you? Good day."