CHAPTER IVTHE TRAPPERS.Jeremiah Small, constable of the town of Greenbush, sat on the top rail of the roadside fence and wedged a load of fine cut into the bowl of a burned, blackened, odorous corncob pipe, packing it down with a decidedly dirty thumb. From his perch he could look over the top of a cluster of low sumacs and keep watch upon a point on the hillside where the highway wound into view. He could also see, somewhat nearer, a tall and lonely elm tree, past which the road ran in a broadside curve.“Weepingâ€� Buzzell, another constable, was sitting on the ground in the shade of the sumacs, leaning against the fence, and occasionally wiping his red-rimmed and watery eyes with a faded and mussed bandanna handkerchief. His jaws worked wearily at a quid of tobacco, the presence of which was further advertised by the unmistakable stains at the corners of his doleful and flabby mouth. He had chosen his lowly position for comfort, and because his companion was far better adapted to the task of outlook.“I tell you, ’Miah,â€� sniffed Buzzell, “this here job is jest about played out. A dollar-sixty a day ain’t no livin’ pay for a hard-workin’ man, and that’s all we git outside commissions on the fines the jedge imposes, and the deputy sheruff gits the biggest whack at them. We have to be pacified with what comes outer the little end o’ the horn. Yis-tidday my share was thutty-two cents, and so fur to-day we ain’t nabbed only one motor-cycle feller who come through by accident, havin’ got off the road to Damascus. I’m gittin’ discouraged.â€�Constable Small made a final poke at the pipe bowl, and glanced down at the complaining individual. “Never knowed you to tackle any job that you didn’t git discouraged over in a short time, Silas,â€� he averred contemptuously. “Gittin’ discouraged is your long suit. You’ve been discouraged all your life.â€�Buzzell moved his slouching shoulders resentfully. “Mebbe that’s so, ’Miah, but I ain’t never had no luck, like some folks. When I was swore in as constable and put on this job, there was an av’rage of eighteen or twenty merchines a day that went through town regardless of speed regerlations. Business was lively, and I sorter guessed my luck had turned. But now them there automobile fellers has got wise and sent out warnin’s and posted notices in all the garrages round about cautionin’ folks to keep away from Greenbush, and they’re goin’ round by the way of Damascus or Cherryfield, and leavin’ us to twiddle our thumbs. My opinion, it’s hurt the town, too; Greenbush is deader’n a salted herrin’.â€�Small lifted a broganed foot and struck a match on the leg of his trousers, after which he held it up until his wheezing pipe was lit.“Better not go makin’ that kind of talk in the hearin’ of Jedge Wiggin,â€� he warned, pulling hard at the rebellious corncob. “If you done so, he’d tell you what in a hurry, and you’d lose your badge so quick it’d make your head swim. You know him, Silas. He ain’t got no use for automobiles nohow, and when he announced that he perposed to enforce the speed regerlations without fear or favor, he sartainly meant it. He’d slap a fine onter the President of the United States if he was to go scootin’ through town faster’n the speed limit allows.â€�“Mebbe he would,â€� said Buzzell. “He’s so hard-headed and sot it would be just like him. Jest because he’s alwus been a hoss owner and a hoss-man, he’s down on automobiles in gen’ral and ev’rybody that has anything to do with ’em. I reckon that’swhyhe wants to be representative to the legislator, he wants to go there to put through some kind of a bill to restrict the use of them merchines to certain roads so that the drivers of hosses can have the other roads to themselves. That’s jest how old-fashioned the jedge is.â€�“Lemme tell you somethin’, Silas,â€� said Constable Small, taking his pipe from between his teeth and striking an impressive attitude with it. “They better let him go. If the jedge don’t git the nomination from this deestrict, he’ll upset their apple cart as sure as preachin’. There’ll be three candidates in the primaries, and the party don’t want Rufe Crockett, for he’s a windbag, a turncoat, and a flopper, and he’d be beat at the polls, just as he was four year ago on the ticket of t’other party. But if Jedge Wiggin can’t win, I’ll bet you a twenty-cent plug of War Hoss he turns his strength ag’inst Ephraim Glover, of Palmyra, and throws the nomination to Crockett. This deestrict is the keystone, and if the party loses it, they’ll most likely lose the whole county. I understand the governor himself is ruther fretted over the situation, with the primaries comin’ on next week.â€�“I don’t keer much about politics nohow,â€� declared Buzzell, wiping his eyes again. “One party’s bad as t’other, and there ain’t neither of ’em done nothing for me. Still I s’pose I’m expected to vote for the jedge jest because I happened to be the most capable man they could find for this job. Nobody else I know of wanted it. I took it because it promised to be a purty good thing, not because I’m partic’ler agin’ automobilists. I’m goin’ to tell you my private idee: I think Nathan Wiggin’s turned Greenbush into a graveyard by finin’ ev’rybody ketched goin’ faster’n eight miles in the town limits. He’s give the place a black eye and set people to dodgin’ it. He ain’t progressive, that’s ail I got to say.â€�“And if you’ve got any sense left in your noodle you won’t go round kow-wowing that kind of talk. If you did—— Hey! By gowdy! Here comes a bubble over the hill! Git up! Git out your ticker and ketch him when he passes the big elm. He’s hittin’ it up like a streak of greased quicksilver.â€�There was immediate action in the shade of the sumacs. With a sniffling grunt, which held something both of protest and eagerness, Weeping Buzzell heaved himself to his feet, fishing for his watch. On the fence Jeremiah Small already had his timepiece in hand. His snaggy teeth gripped the pipestem; his leathery face expressed the rapacity of the still hunter who has sighted game.“Ready, now!â€� he cried. “Ketch him when I give the word.Now!â€�Down the winding road shot the automobile, trailing a cloud of dust behind it. Besides the driver, a smoothfaced, bespectacled man of thirty, it contained only one person, a stout, florid, worried-looking individual in the middle years of life.“Careful, Hitchens!â€� warned the latter, as the man at the wheel made a turn that barely prevented them from taking to the ditch. “You know you’re not used to driving. Don’t pile us up.â€�“Don’t worry, sir,â€� returned the driver reassuringly. “You know you’ve got to catch that train if you’re going to get to your office for the conference with the chairman of the State committee. You’ll have to talk with old Wiggin over the phone. No time to stop in Greenbush and chin with him now.â€�“We’ve got to pick up the boy in town. He must have got there twenty minutes ago. We’re liable to meet him starting out after me with a hired car. Keep your eyes peeled.â€�Around another curve careened the car, and struck the straight, gentle incline running down into the village. Out from behind the sumacs dashed the constables, Jeremiah Small planting himself in the very center of the highway, one hand upflung authoritatively while the other flipped back his coat and revealed the badge pinned to his left suspender. Silas Buzzell backed him up, but with a shade more discretion about blocking the path of the speeding motor car.“Stop!â€� shouted Constable Small. “In the name of the law I command you!â€�“Hold up!â€� wheezed Constable Buzzell. “Stop right where ye be!â€�“Pinched!â€� exclaimed the driver, in disgust and consternation.“Don’t stop! Go on!â€� rasped the florid-faced man at his side. Then he lifted himself above the glass wind shield, flung up his gloved hands, and roared: “Clear the road, you idiots! Out of the way! Get out!â€�Seeing the automobile whizzing straight at him without slackening speed to any perceptible degree, Jeremiah Small cast his dignity to the winds and made a leap for safety. Weeping Buzzell backed off the shoulder of the road, caught his heel, and sat down amid the dusty grass of the shallow ditch. The car swished past, the stout man relaxing on the seat, and tore on its way.“That’ll cost ye ten dollars more for defyin’ the majesty of the law!â€� spluttered Small, shutting his eyes to prevent them from being filled with the blinding cloud of dust flung over both officers. “The jedge alwus tucks on an additional ten for that trick. Go it, you gay birds! The faster you drive, the higher you’ll bounce when you hit the bumps. Come on, Silas! Deputy Newberry’ll have that gay pair collared in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.â€�If the defiant autoists fancied they were to escape the clutches of the speed regulators in that easy manner, they soon realized their error. Farther on toward the village, running the full width of the road, were a series of artfully arranged ridges and hollows calculated to give a severe shaking up to the passengers of any motor car proceeding at a speed exceeding four or five miles an hour.When this particular car struck those speed-killers, the two occupants were shot into the air with great violence. Coming down, the car seemed to meet them coming up, and the second and third bounces were worse than the first. Indeed, it was little short of remarkable that the florid-faced passenger succeeded in staying in the car at all. The driver, clinging desperately to the wheel, had a better chance, although he found it extremely difficult. And ahead of them the road undulated for a distance of several rods, like miniature waves of the sea.“Ugh! Woogh! Woosh!â€� spluttered the older man, clutching wildly at the bucking car. “What—in—Halifax! Shut her—unk!—down, Hitchens! Stop her!â€�Hitchens struggled to obey, finally succeeding in throwing the clutch and jamming on the brake. The wheels, locked, slid with a grinding sound that meant money in the pocket of some tire manufacturer, the car bobbed and hobbled over the ragged places, and the pursuing cloud of dust swooped down over them. When the dust settled a little and they could catch their breath again, they beheld a formidable, satisfied-looking man calmly mounting the right-hand running board.“I’m the deputy sheruff of this town,â€� announced the individual who had boarded them. “And you are took up for breaking the speed limit and defyin’ two regler authorized officers of the law.â€�
Jeremiah Small, constable of the town of Greenbush, sat on the top rail of the roadside fence and wedged a load of fine cut into the bowl of a burned, blackened, odorous corncob pipe, packing it down with a decidedly dirty thumb. From his perch he could look over the top of a cluster of low sumacs and keep watch upon a point on the hillside where the highway wound into view. He could also see, somewhat nearer, a tall and lonely elm tree, past which the road ran in a broadside curve.
“Weeping� Buzzell, another constable, was sitting on the ground in the shade of the sumacs, leaning against the fence, and occasionally wiping his red-rimmed and watery eyes with a faded and mussed bandanna handkerchief. His jaws worked wearily at a quid of tobacco, the presence of which was further advertised by the unmistakable stains at the corners of his doleful and flabby mouth. He had chosen his lowly position for comfort, and because his companion was far better adapted to the task of outlook.
“I tell you, ’Miah,� sniffed Buzzell, “this here job is jest about played out. A dollar-sixty a day ain’t no livin’ pay for a hard-workin’ man, and that’s all we git outside commissions on the fines the jedge imposes, and the deputy sheruff gits the biggest whack at them. We have to be pacified with what comes outer the little end o’ the horn. Yis-tidday my share was thutty-two cents, and so fur to-day we ain’t nabbed only one motor-cycle feller who come through by accident, havin’ got off the road to Damascus. I’m gittin’ discouraged.�
Constable Small made a final poke at the pipe bowl, and glanced down at the complaining individual. “Never knowed you to tackle any job that you didn’t git discouraged over in a short time, Silas,� he averred contemptuously. “Gittin’ discouraged is your long suit. You’ve been discouraged all your life.�
Buzzell moved his slouching shoulders resentfully. “Mebbe that’s so, ’Miah, but I ain’t never had no luck, like some folks. When I was swore in as constable and put on this job, there was an av’rage of eighteen or twenty merchines a day that went through town regardless of speed regerlations. Business was lively, and I sorter guessed my luck had turned. But now them there automobile fellers has got wise and sent out warnin’s and posted notices in all the garrages round about cautionin’ folks to keep away from Greenbush, and they’re goin’ round by the way of Damascus or Cherryfield, and leavin’ us to twiddle our thumbs. My opinion, it’s hurt the town, too; Greenbush is deader’n a salted herrin’.�
Small lifted a broganed foot and struck a match on the leg of his trousers, after which he held it up until his wheezing pipe was lit.
“Better not go makin’ that kind of talk in the hearin’ of Jedge Wiggin,� he warned, pulling hard at the rebellious corncob. “If you done so, he’d tell you what in a hurry, and you’d lose your badge so quick it’d make your head swim. You know him, Silas. He ain’t got no use for automobiles nohow, and when he announced that he perposed to enforce the speed regerlations without fear or favor, he sartainly meant it. He’d slap a fine onter the President of the United States if he was to go scootin’ through town faster’n the speed limit allows.�
“Mebbe he would,� said Buzzell. “He’s so hard-headed and sot it would be just like him. Jest because he’s alwus been a hoss owner and a hoss-man, he’s down on automobiles in gen’ral and ev’rybody that has anything to do with ’em. I reckon that’swhyhe wants to be representative to the legislator, he wants to go there to put through some kind of a bill to restrict the use of them merchines to certain roads so that the drivers of hosses can have the other roads to themselves. That’s jest how old-fashioned the jedge is.�
“Lemme tell you somethin’, Silas,� said Constable Small, taking his pipe from between his teeth and striking an impressive attitude with it. “They better let him go. If the jedge don’t git the nomination from this deestrict, he’ll upset their apple cart as sure as preachin’. There’ll be three candidates in the primaries, and the party don’t want Rufe Crockett, for he’s a windbag, a turncoat, and a flopper, and he’d be beat at the polls, just as he was four year ago on the ticket of t’other party. But if Jedge Wiggin can’t win, I’ll bet you a twenty-cent plug of War Hoss he turns his strength ag’inst Ephraim Glover, of Palmyra, and throws the nomination to Crockett. This deestrict is the keystone, and if the party loses it, they’ll most likely lose the whole county. I understand the governor himself is ruther fretted over the situation, with the primaries comin’ on next week.�
“I don’t keer much about politics nohow,� declared Buzzell, wiping his eyes again. “One party’s bad as t’other, and there ain’t neither of ’em done nothing for me. Still I s’pose I’m expected to vote for the jedge jest because I happened to be the most capable man they could find for this job. Nobody else I know of wanted it. I took it because it promised to be a purty good thing, not because I’m partic’ler agin’ automobilists. I’m goin’ to tell you my private idee: I think Nathan Wiggin’s turned Greenbush into a graveyard by finin’ ev’rybody ketched goin’ faster’n eight miles in the town limits. He’s give the place a black eye and set people to dodgin’ it. He ain’t progressive, that’s ail I got to say.�
“And if you’ve got any sense left in your noodle you won’t go round kow-wowing that kind of talk. If you did—— Hey! By gowdy! Here comes a bubble over the hill! Git up! Git out your ticker and ketch him when he passes the big elm. He’s hittin’ it up like a streak of greased quicksilver.â€�
There was immediate action in the shade of the sumacs. With a sniffling grunt, which held something both of protest and eagerness, Weeping Buzzell heaved himself to his feet, fishing for his watch. On the fence Jeremiah Small already had his timepiece in hand. His snaggy teeth gripped the pipestem; his leathery face expressed the rapacity of the still hunter who has sighted game.
“Ready, now!� he cried. “Ketch him when I give the word.Now!�
Down the winding road shot the automobile, trailing a cloud of dust behind it. Besides the driver, a smoothfaced, bespectacled man of thirty, it contained only one person, a stout, florid, worried-looking individual in the middle years of life.
“Careful, Hitchens!� warned the latter, as the man at the wheel made a turn that barely prevented them from taking to the ditch. “You know you’re not used to driving. Don’t pile us up.�
“Don’t worry, sir,� returned the driver reassuringly. “You know you’ve got to catch that train if you’re going to get to your office for the conference with the chairman of the State committee. You’ll have to talk with old Wiggin over the phone. No time to stop in Greenbush and chin with him now.�
“We’ve got to pick up the boy in town. He must have got there twenty minutes ago. We’re liable to meet him starting out after me with a hired car. Keep your eyes peeled.�
Around another curve careened the car, and struck the straight, gentle incline running down into the village. Out from behind the sumacs dashed the constables, Jeremiah Small planting himself in the very center of the highway, one hand upflung authoritatively while the other flipped back his coat and revealed the badge pinned to his left suspender. Silas Buzzell backed him up, but with a shade more discretion about blocking the path of the speeding motor car.
“Stop!� shouted Constable Small. “In the name of the law I command you!�
“Hold up!� wheezed Constable Buzzell. “Stop right where ye be!�
“Pinched!� exclaimed the driver, in disgust and consternation.
“Don’t stop! Go on!� rasped the florid-faced man at his side. Then he lifted himself above the glass wind shield, flung up his gloved hands, and roared: “Clear the road, you idiots! Out of the way! Get out!�
Seeing the automobile whizzing straight at him without slackening speed to any perceptible degree, Jeremiah Small cast his dignity to the winds and made a leap for safety. Weeping Buzzell backed off the shoulder of the road, caught his heel, and sat down amid the dusty grass of the shallow ditch. The car swished past, the stout man relaxing on the seat, and tore on its way.
“That’ll cost ye ten dollars more for defyin’ the majesty of the law!� spluttered Small, shutting his eyes to prevent them from being filled with the blinding cloud of dust flung over both officers. “The jedge alwus tucks on an additional ten for that trick. Go it, you gay birds! The faster you drive, the higher you’ll bounce when you hit the bumps. Come on, Silas! Deputy Newberry’ll have that gay pair collared in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.�
If the defiant autoists fancied they were to escape the clutches of the speed regulators in that easy manner, they soon realized their error. Farther on toward the village, running the full width of the road, were a series of artfully arranged ridges and hollows calculated to give a severe shaking up to the passengers of any motor car proceeding at a speed exceeding four or five miles an hour.
When this particular car struck those speed-killers, the two occupants were shot into the air with great violence. Coming down, the car seemed to meet them coming up, and the second and third bounces were worse than the first. Indeed, it was little short of remarkable that the florid-faced passenger succeeded in staying in the car at all. The driver, clinging desperately to the wheel, had a better chance, although he found it extremely difficult. And ahead of them the road undulated for a distance of several rods, like miniature waves of the sea.
“Ugh! Woogh! Woosh!â€� spluttered the older man, clutching wildly at the bucking car. “What—in—Halifax! Shut her—unk!—down, Hitchens! Stop her!â€�
Hitchens struggled to obey, finally succeeding in throwing the clutch and jamming on the brake. The wheels, locked, slid with a grinding sound that meant money in the pocket of some tire manufacturer, the car bobbed and hobbled over the ragged places, and the pursuing cloud of dust swooped down over them. When the dust settled a little and they could catch their breath again, they beheld a formidable, satisfied-looking man calmly mounting the right-hand running board.
“I’m the deputy sheruff of this town,� announced the individual who had boarded them. “And you are took up for breaking the speed limit and defyin’ two regler authorized officers of the law.�