Mister Carton.heluv a rode.hosses nere ded.men kickt.basht em fur emtin botel.basht em fur mutinin bout histin stov.to dark to ce chok marks.done nex bes stile.heluv a gob wel dun.wilyum bliggs.
Mister Carton.heluv a rode.hosses nere ded.men kickt.basht em fur emtin botel.basht em fur mutinin bout histin stov.to dark to ce chok marks.done nex bes stile.heluv a gob wel dun.wilyum bliggs.
Mister Carton.heluv a rode.hosses nere ded.men kickt.basht em fur emtin botel.basht em fur mutinin bout histin stov.to dark to ce chok marks.done nex bes stile.heluv a gob wel dun.wilyum bliggs.
Mister Carton.
heluv a rode.
hosses nere ded.
men kickt.
basht em fur emtin botel.
basht em fur mutinin bout histin stov.
to dark to ce chok marks.
done nex bes stile.
heluv a gob wel dun.
wilyum bliggs.
I opened the kitchen door and looked despairingly out into the darkness; the twinkling light of the next farm-house shone far away like a star on the horizon; I must go over there and ask for food and lodging as if we were penniless wayfarers. Marion stood beside me, and together we tried to assure each other that the people whose light looked so cheery must be warm-hearted and hospitable enough to make us welcome. As we gazed, a second light appeared near the farm-house; evidently some person had come out with a lantern, for we could hear his carolling whistle accompanying the gliding movement of the light. It was coming nearer, for we could soon make out the lilting melody of the whistler and the encircling glow that surrounded him, and I felt Marion's grasp tighten on my arm with a sudden hope that had also sprung up in my breast. Nearer and nearer he came, until the globe of light grew largerand cast titanic shadows of a pair of nimble legs that passed around the end of the barn, through the yard, up to our very door, where we stood spellbound; then the whistle ceased, the lantern was raised, and by its dazzling glow we saw a little man with kindly gray eyes and thin reddish whiskers standing there.
"Good-evenin'!" he called out, cheerily. "We heard there was some people movin' in to-day, and we thought you might be kinder upsot, so I come to see if you wouldn't step along over to our place and have supper and stay the night. The missis has the beds ready, and Sairey knows how to fix things comfortable."
There was a moment's awkward pause, for we were dumb with excess of emotion.
"You don't know my name, and I don't know yourn," he proceeded. "Mine's Andy Taylor, and my place is next south, over there where you see that light."
I clutched his hand. "Mr. Taylor," I gasped, "come in. I was afraid you were an angel—perhaps you are, but we—we're awfully glad to see you."
"It's so good"—began Marion, then she collapsed.
"Why, where's your load?" he asked, looking around the vacant room.
I showed him, while Marion held the candle aloft. I related my wrongs with passionate fervor; I exhibited the Bliggs epistle, translating the rude characters as I traced them with a trembling forefinger and called down vengeance on the head of the perpetrator. A spasm shot across my visitor's face and his wide-open mouth closed with a snap; he leaned forward helplessly as if a sneeze had seized him, then a wild outburst of hilarity smote our astonished ears. "Oh, Lordy, Lordy!" he groaned. "The upliftin' power"—he pointed upward to the stove—"of—of strong drink!"
Andy Taylor's lantern shed its cheering rays over us as he led the way across the fields to the distant beacon-light of his house. Forlorn, homesick, discouraged, as we had been, his friendly hospitality filled us with gratitude too deep for words. His unquestioning acceptance of us as guestswas staggering, accustomed as we were to the artificial restrictions of social intercourse in the city. As Marion said afterward, I might have been a temporarily retired burglar who had eloped with another man's wife and kidnapped a child, or we might have been dangerous lunatics, or worse,—we might have been vulgar people! But yet, with the all-embracing charity that thinketh no evil, Andy's sprightly step led us from the chaotic discomfort of our new home to the warmth and cheer that awaited us in his. No wonder, then, that Marion wept like a tired child on the shoulder of the motherly old lady who welcomed us, or that Andy, after one glance at my expressive face, backed away with a hurried remark about having to attend to the fire. Later, when Paul had been put to sleep in an old-fashioned billowy feather bed, we settled ourselves in the kitchen for a smoke. We could hear from the sitting-room the continuous restful murmur of the women's voices, rising and falling in the responsive cadences of that sweet communion that betokens, even in the most prosaic utterances,the mingling of kindred spirits of the gentle sex. I look back upon that evening as one of the pleasantest I ever spent, and I enjoyed to the full the quaint sayings and funny stories of the genial little man who entertained me.
The clock struck eleven before either of us noticed the lateness of the hour. Andy rose reluctantly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe.
"Well, Mr. Carton," said he, "I'm mighty glad you're goin' to be a neighbor of mine. The women-folk seem to have hit it off, too," he added, opening the door into the next room, "and"——
He stopped speaking, and a look of astonishment crossed his face as a tumultuous babel of conversation reached our ears. The voices no longer rose and fell—they rose steadily, each dominating the other, it seemed, and yet—marvel of marvels!—in perfect amity, though they no longer responded but spoke at one and the same time.
"If it was two men?" whispered Andy, with a chuckle.
"Exactly," I replied; "it would mean a fight."
We listened intently. It was a problem—simple to the speakers—of gussets, and pleats, and back widths, and yet not one connected sentence could we hear.
"I tell you what, Mr. Carton," said Andy, in his hoarse whisper, "I've been married forty-two years, and I ain't found anything yet as entertainin' as the ways of a woman."
"Well," I suggested, "what about the ways of two women?"
Andy doubled himself over in silent glee; as for me, I felt that I had said something rather neat, and tried not to smile myself. Just then the voices in the next room suddenly ceased.
"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Taylor. "It's after eleven. I wonder what them men is talkin' about so quiet in the kitchen. If your husband lets him, Andy'll jest talk him blind, once he gets started."
Marion laughed merrily. "Why, Mrs. Taylor," she said, "how absurd! You don't know Henry, or you wouldn't say that."
"Talk about women gossipin', as men do, Mrs. Carton, I believe there's more gossip goes on among the men down at the post-office every day than all the women round here do in a week. Now Andy"——
At that moment Andy softly shut the door, shuffled a chair across the floor ostentatiously and announced in a loud tone that it was time to get to bed.
We had lived for two months at Waydean, and, although as far as agricultural operations were concerned we might as well have been in the city, I had begun to appreciate the delights of a country life without the usual drudgery, worry and expense. I was not raising grain at two dollars a bushel to sell for fifty cents, or making butter at a cost of a dollar a pound to sell for a quarter of a dollar, but I had time during the hot weather to enjoy the sight of Peter Waydean's waving fields as I swung in a hammock under the trees, while that old sinner frizzled in the glaring sunlight over his work. Occasionally I refreshed myself by sauntering to the field where he happened to be working, to have a little friendly conversation with him, and I never failed to let him know that new beauties were revealed to me day by day inthe agreement to pay him an extra hundred dollars for working his own land. At first he had showed signs of looking upon me with the contemptuous irritation of an angler who has accidentally landed a mud-pout, but when I artlessly hinted that I would have been willing to pay a higher rent for the place rather than make a slave of myself as he did, I could see that his previous delight in his own cleverness was completely overshadowed by the bitter regret that he had not made more of his opportunity.
We had no cattle of our own, but Peter's were in plain view in the lower field. We had no sheep, but Peter's little flock picturesquely dotted the landscape. We didn't own a horse, but, after all, Marion had a terror of being run away with, and I had made an inflexible rule never to go within range of a horse's hind legs. And in the matter of confining my farm expenditure to the price of a spade, a rake and a hoe, I had been most loyal and consistent; I had stuck not only to the letter of our agreement, but also to the spirit. Indeed,I was not merely resigned, but cheerful, knowing that the more closely I appeared to cling to Marion's plan the sooner would she begin to waver.
But a chance remark that I overheard Abner Davis make one morning as I boarded the train changed my mental attitude in an instant. "He ain't no reg'lar farmer—oh, Jiminy, no!—ha, ha!—he's jest"—How he finally labelled me to his fellow-rustic I never heard, for the train slowed up at the platform, and his voice was drowned in the noise. I just had time to turn, before I stepped on board, to cast a withering glance backwards—a glance that was wasted, however, for Abner was poking the other man in the side with his thumb and they were both doubled over with merriment. Of course, he hadn't intended me to hear, and I was quite aware that I was not a farmer, either regular or irregular, but it was this fact that made the remark so galling. There are two things I cannot bear: one is what Marion calls the truth, for that always turns out to be something odious and objectionable; the otheris ridicule. That morning my mind was filled with bitterness, for Abner Davis had managed to combine in one brief remark the essence of much that I disliked to hear. The rhythmic beat of the car-wheels clanked out the derisive refrain, "He ain't—no reg—'lar far—mer!" By the time I reached the city I had decided it was due to my self-respect to put things on a different basis. Certainly, I was not a farmer. I had neither a horse, nor a cow, nor a sheep—no, not even a guinea-pig! I had no agricultural implements, except,—oh, hateful thought!—a spade, a rake and a hoe.
I was in this mood when Harold Jones unloaded Griggs upon me in the restaurant where I was taking lunch. I knew from the twinkle in Harold's eye when he introduced us that he meant mischief. "Griggs," he explained to me, "has got farm-on-the-brain. Carton," he explained to Griggs, "had such a severe attack that his mind is unhinged. He imagines—ha, ha!—that he's a farmer! Now you two sit down and exchange symptoms. I have to get back to the office."
I treated Griggs with distant civility, not because he was thrust upon me, but because it usually takes me a year or more to get beyond formalities with an acquaintance. But Griggs was impervious to hauteur; he was unconstrained and hearty enough for two. I could see that Harold had spoken the truth in his case, for his farming mania was at its height, and he was overjoyed at finding a man who had done what he merely dreamed of doing. He was a produce commission merchant, he told me, and he was convinced that he could double his income and prolong his life by running a farm in connection with his business. It was a simple proposition, he stated, that a child could grasp. A farmer makes a profit by farming, a commission merchant by commissioning; therefore, if the merchant were also a farmer would he not absorb both profits?
Griggs tilted his chair, hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat, and challenged me to point out a flaw in his theory. I declined, for the simple reason, I said, that it was flawless; then I rose to make my escape.Griggs adjured me to sit down for a minute; he had a few questions to ask, and I was the man of all men to give him the information he sought.
Now a stitch in time, it is said, saves nine; a lie, a little one, a mere clerical plea of a pressing engagement, would have saved ninety or more. Had I not instinctively refrained from loosening one stitch in my garment of righteousness it would not have been torn to tatters.
I hesitated; I sat down; I was lost. Griggs grew friendly, more friendly, affectionate; he addressed me by my surname, and I realized that I was in the clutches of the objectionable type of person who claps you on the back at the second meeting, and demands with a boisterous laugh, "How goes it, old man?"
Beginning with generalities pertaining to agriculture, he questioned me searchingly upon my private affairs. I can parry, and occasionally thrust—but not against a battering-ram. Grigg's questions were not to be evaded. I could have declined point-blank to answer, thus intimating that he wasa boor, but that would have been unpleasant to me—perhaps not to Griggs. I could have followed my natural inclination by telling the truth, but I recoiled from laying bare to a stranger the peculiar economies of our rural life; besides, I shrink from intrusion with the same shyness that causes me to slink guiltily into a shop if I see a man approaching who is indebted to me. There was but one other alternative; I took it. I smiled my most frankly ingenuous smile; I beamed upon him with warm-hearted encouraging candor and—lied! Yes, lied with beggarly duplicity, and I kept on with Spartan fortitude; and so smooth is the grade on the broad and downward road that presently I was enjoying my own depravity. My imaginings no longer appeared as ugly bloated caterpillars, but spun themselves swiftly into chrysalides and instantly emerged as gorgeous butterflies, dazzling to their creator. And yet my mind remained alert and clear. Every statement that I made was notched deeply into my own brain, so that I could afterwards recall the slightest detail; into Griggs's also, forhe snapped at, swallowed and assimilated every fragment of information with the avidity of a starved dog. We began in this way:—
"How many acres in your farm?"......"Fifty." (It really was my farm, for I was paying more than the rent of the whole place to Peter.)
"How many horses?"......"Five—two working teams and a fast driver." (Fortunately, I knew Peter's stable.)
"Cows? .. Calves?"......"Three cows—seven calves." (I was pretty sure of the cows, but I had to guess the calves.)
"Jupiter! You never raised seven calves from three cows?"......"Oh, yes. Three pair of twins—the odd one is last year's."
"Last year's! Thought you had only been farming two months?"......"Yes, but I bought one calf with her mother."
"Three pair of twins first season! Great Caesar—what luck! What did you pay for the farm?"......"Six thousand, two hundred and fifty."
"Cash?"......"Cash."
"The devil! You must be well fixed?"......"Oh,—so, so."
"How'd you make it?"......"Emperor stock."
"Emperor! You must have been in on the ground floor?"......"Ground floor."
"Oh Lord! How many men do you keep?"......"Just one."
"What do you have to pay him?"......"Three hundred a year."
"Must be a nice place for children. How many have you?"......"Five." (This was theoretically correct. Paul had invented two sisters and two brothers, all invisible, to play with. A man's family should be screened from publicity, and this reply seemed to make Paul strictly impersonal. He did not ask me how many wives I had.)
Now I looked upon this person as a man whom I would never meet again, never having met him before, and I parted from him with joy after having answered every question that he asked to his satisfaction, also to my own. I did not dream of entering a maze that would exhaust my ingenuity to find my way out of without ignominiouslycrying for help. But before I was done with Griggs I recalled many things of which I had never seen the full significance before. One was a tract I had read in my youth entitled, "The First False Step." Another was a remark that Marion had once made in anger: that I would say anything, without regard to veracity or the immediate future, to avoid unpleasantness. I had got her to retract the assertion to a certain extent by professing to be deeply wounded, as indeed I was, but I saw now that she knew me better than I knew myself.
Two days later, on my next trip to the city, I found Griggs awaiting me in my office. "Hello, old man!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I haven't been able to sleep since I saw you—can't think of anything but getting out to see your farm. Why, Carton, what's—what the dev"——
"Stand back," I cried warningly, with averted face and outstretched arm—"keep well away! I'm—I'm in trouble. My boy—my boy—" I sank into my chair and covered my face with my hands.
Griggs staggered back. "Which one?" he gasped.
"Which—oh,—ah—Andrew," I answered despairingly. "He broke out last night—I'm afraid it's—" I bowed my head.
"It'swhat?" demanded Griggs, moving rapidly away.
"Scarlet fever," I groaned.
Griggs vanished. "Say, Carton," he called out, from the other side of the door, "awfully sorry. Other kids all safe?"
I laughed—a hard metallic laugh—I knew it sounded like that, for I seemed to stand off and listen. Griggs didn't wait to hear more. "Hell!" he ejaculated, and his heavy footsteps pounded the stairs.
I thought that was the last of Griggs. It was—for nearly two months. By that time my point of view had changed, as the danger of complications receded, so that I sometimes found myself chuckling over the clever way in which I had managed to rid myself of an insufferable bore. I did not mention the matter to Marion, for I well knew that in some things she was incapableof judicial consideration, without regard to qualifying circumstances; then, reasoning and argument availed not. An act, she insists, is either right or wrong, therefore it is useless to juggle with words in trying to make out that it is mostly right and only a little wrong. Had Marion developed artistic ability, I am sure it would have been in the line of black and white, while my talent would as surely have run to color. It is the moral in a fable that appeals most strongly to her; it is the fable itself that delights my imagination. A moral is all very well in its place—like a capstone to a tower,—but there it should stay. To detach it for the purpose of concrete personal application, I have explained to Marion, is an outrage on the properties of family life. To choose the moment when a man is smarting under the consciousness of error for the purpose of pointing out the folly of his foolishness is positively inhuman. What, I ask, would have been the moral effect upon the prodigal had his father prepared a feast of proverbs instead of a fatted calf? This question she has never answered except bya baffling tight-lipped smile—a smile that convinces me of the utter folly of hoping that a woman will listen to reason. Yes, I had good cause to believe that mentioning the Griggs episode would lead to useless discussion.
It was a warm day in midsummer when I found a note from Griggs in my morning mail. He had learned at the office that I was spending my vacation at home, and he concluded that all danger of infection was over.
" ... Now, old chap," he wrote, "I can't wait any longer; I've got to have a look at your place. My wife has been dead against my buying a farm, but she has given in this much: that if I can find a city man who gets more out of his farm than he puts into it, she'll let me go ahead. So you're my man, Carton. I want you to give me the tip in regard to facts and figures, and if you have to dress them up a bit, like the Annual Report of a Loan and Investment Company, you may do so, with my blessing. I'm no good in that line myself, but I'm strong on a second-hand affidavit. I'lldrive out on Thursday afternoon to have a look around your farm, then you can post me on details."
It was nine o'clock when I received this epistle. Griggs, I calculated, could not arrive before the middle of the afternoon, and he would probably not stay more than an hour or two, so as to leave time to drive back to the city by daylight. The problem that confronted me was whether it would be worse for me to tell the truth to Griggs, or to Marion, or to both, or to risk the probability of Marion learning it from Griggs, or of the latter from my wife. I shrank from each solution in turn, and yet, worst of all, was the thought of being burdened any longer by the secret of my own guilt. I could have made up my mind to confess to Marion had I not been sure that she would insist upon Griggs being told the instant he arrived. That thought hardened my heart. I had gone too far to retreat; Griggs should be deceived to the bitter end.
It was at this stage of my mental conflict that the thought of confiding in Andy Taylor came to me as a sudden inspiration.That dear old soul, I felt sure, would take a positive delight in helping me out of this difficulty; indeed, I thought of borrowing his farm for the afternoon, until a better plan presented itself. I couldn't see the humorous side of the matter very clearly just then, but I knew Andy would. He did. I found him hoeing his corn, but he willingly left his work and sat down in a shady spot with me to listen to my tale. I did not attempt to excuse myself; in fact, I was rather more severe in my self-condemnation than I thought the circumstances warranted. I wanted sympathy and encouragement; I wanted to be assured that I wasn't as miserable a sinner as I declared myself to be; and I knew that, in dealing with Marion, the way to get what I yearned for was to assume the most abject repentance. But my serious air failed to impress Andy, for he was so delighted with the humor of the situation that, at first, he gave himself up to unrestrained merriment. I had to paint my despair still more vividly before he subsided into helpful contemplation.
"To tell you thetruth, Mr. Carton"—I winced at the word, and at the wink that accompanied it—"I think it's a darn good joke." He stopped to laugh once more, and I permitted a sorrowful smile to steal over my face. "And as for my opinion of your conduct," he went on, "I believe you're jest a nateral-born play-actor." I started in surprise, for this was not the kind of consolation I had expected. "That bein' the case," he concluded, "you ain't no ways blamable."
"Why, how do you make that out?" I asked, trying to conceal my elation.
"You done it," he answered, chewing a piece of June grass meditatively, with his eyes half-closed, "as innocent as that little boy of yourn when he makes believe he has all them brothers and sisters. You ain't got all the live-stock that you described, but you want 'em so bad that your imagination sort of got a cinch on your judgment."
I grasped his hand in speechless gratitude,—not only for the charitable view he took of my conduct, but also that he had pointed out the way to disarm Marion'scriticism when the time came for me to confess my misdeeds. I looked at my watch. In three or four hours Griggs would appear; there was no time to lose.
"Mr. Taylor," I said, hesitatingly, not knowing just how to broach my plan, "having gone so far, I—I don't quite see my way clear, except—by going a little farther."
Andy nodded in perfect comprehension. "See that strip of tamarac swamp over there?" he asked. "Well, it ain't no more'n half a mile wide, and it'd come nateral to me to cut through there in a bee line, but if you was to try, the chances is that every bit of it would look like every other bit, and you'd be glad to git out even on the side you started in on."
"I would," I admitted. "If I could only start afresh!"
Andy chuckled again. "Well," he said, with hearty encouragement, "I'm prepared to holler round the edge, or go in to look you up, or anything you say. Now, what's your scheme?"
"It struck me," I replied, casting aside my embarrassment, "that perhaps youwouldn't mind lending me some stage furniture for the afternoon." I enumerated the required number of horses, cattle, hogs, and sheep.
Andy laughed in glee, then he shook his head in assumed solemnity. "No, Mr. Carton," he said, "I couldn't do that, but I'll give 'em to you outright; then, if you like, you can give 'em back to me in the evenin'."
I was touched by his evident desire to save me from any unnecessary perversion of the truth, but I assured him that Griggs would not think of asking me if the animals he saw on my place were my own; besides, I would feel overwhelmed by the munificence of this temporary gift. But Andy was obdurate, so I let him have his way. There was just one other difficulty—that of getting my wife away from Waydean for the afternoon, but that was easily arranged. I remembered that she was in the first stage of the rag-carpet fever, and had announced her intention of getting Mrs. Taylor to instruct her in the art, so when Andy brought me into the house to have a drink of freshbuttermilk, I had only to hint at Marion's desire to learn in order to secure a pressing invitation from Mrs. Taylor to bring her over in the afternoon.
Andy accompanied me to the gate. "Mr. Carton, keep up your spirits," he said encouragingly, in parting, "and everything will go all right. You needn't feel nervous about your wife gittin' back too soon, for when two women gits started rag-carpetin' they don't remember they've got husbands until on about supper-time. When they settle down we'll drive the stock over and arrange them to look nateral. I was goin' to wash my buggy this afternoon, and I was thinkin' I might as well do it over there. I ain't had no experience of play-actin', but you need someone to look like a hired man, and I guess I could do that."
I had thought of the hired man problem, and the same idea had occurred to me, but I knew it wasn't my place to make the suggestion. "No, Mr. Taylor," I replied; "I couldn't think of letting you take such a menial part. I'd rather give up the performance—" I wilted suddenly at his lookof sceptical amusement—"unless," I added, "you would really like to do it."
"I really would," he responded, with a broad smile.
Griggs came. To my amazement, he asked no questions, at first. He had a business-like, preoccupied air, as if he were a bailiff preparing an inventory for a bill-of-sale, and he looked at me, I fancied, as if he suspected I had hastily hidden some of the effects that might legally be attached. He scarcely noticed Peter's growing crops, but he studied the domestic animals intently, jotting down memoranda in his note-book. The inspection evidently satisfied him that they were not stuffed, although in their unfamiliar surroundings the cattle wore a strained and unnatural expression, as if they thought he was an amateur photographer, and feared they might not be taken full face. His manner exasperated me, but I managed to treat him politely, even when he remarked that my hired man was a rum-looking old coon and that the horses needed grooming.
Suddenly he shut his note-book with a snap. "Carton," he burst forth, "I've been taken in!"
"Taken—in?" I ejaculated. He had an equine cast of countenance, and his eyes rolled in such a vicious way that I instinctively moved directly in front, looking at him fixedly. My surprise was not assumed.
"Duped—bamboozled—hoodwinked!" he snorted.
I grew pale with rage. I knew I did, though I could not see myself. My eyes flashed; I could feel them flashing. I would have given five dollars to see their scintillations in a mirror. I drew myself up to more than my full height—thank Heaven, I could at least see myself elongate! Andy Taylor, standing beside his buggy with a sopping sponge in one hand, his mouth hanging open and his reddish side-whiskers floating in the breeze, suddenly turned his back and hugged himself, his shoulders heaving in silent spasmodic convulsions.
"Mr. Griggs," I said icily, my tone, I was pleased to hear, as pale and frosty as ashaft of the aurora borealis, "what do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" he shouted. "I mean that I'll pay Harold Jones back for this—I'll teach him not to run a rig on me!"
"Harold—Jones?" I queried vacantly.
Griggs burst into a laugh that sounded like a horse's neigh. "Brace up, old man," he adjured me, slapping me on the back. "You don't seem to get on to my meaning, but you don't need to look like an idiot. I'll tell you the whole business."
Briefly, it seemed, he had happened to meet my friend Harold that day, and had mentioned his proposed visit to my farm; incidentally, a warm discussion had arisen. Harold had been convulsed with merriment at Griggs's conception of the extensive scope of my farming operations. When Griggs adduced his conversation with me as evidence Harold had laughed still more uproariously, declaring it was the best joke he ever heard—further, that my live-stock consisted of five old hens and some chickens. Griggs knew Harold to be fond ofjoking, but had, reluctantly, believed him. He had not expected, he admitted, to see such a well-stocked farm.
"In other words," I said, with some heat, "you expected to find that I"——
"Hold up!" interrupted Griggs hastily. "You see, Carton, I was mad at the thought of having been made a fool of. I can understand a fellow lying on a business deal, when it's to his interest, but to sit down and lie cold-bloodedly, just for recreation, like"——
"Like whom?" I demanded wrathfully, as he paused.
"Like that brute Jones," answered Griggs, with a vicious jerk of his head. "I'll get back on him, you bet!"
I began to see daylight. "Come away up to the house and we'll have a little refreshment," I said, with hospitable zeal.
Griggs brightened. It was a warm day, so I brought him around to the south veranda, but I would have entertained him anywhere else had I remembered that Paul was there. He was curled up in a chair, absorbed in a book. I knew he wasoblivious of what had been going on, but there is never any certainty of what Paul may, or may not, say, and I felt a qualm of misgiving. Griggs proceeded to attract his attention by snapping his fingers, as if the boy were a puppy or an infant, remarking, to me, that he was wondering where I kept the kids. Now Paul is not shy, but we never could induce him to notice a stranger's advances without being formally introduced, consequently, if his mind is suddenly withdrawn from his imaginary world, he looks shy; worse, he looks as if he were unseeing, deaf, and an idiot. My mind was preoccupied, or I would have avoided difficulties by introducing Griggs, but I unfortunately neglected that formality. Paul's stolid and incurious gaze rested on my visitor; I looked on spellbound, knowing that his mind was working with intensity, and that something was coming; Griggs shuffled uneasily.
"Well, sonny," said Griggs, at last, "what do you think of me?"
I have watched a toad sit motionless waiting for a fly to come within reach withexactly Paul's expression. I noticed that his eyelids didn't even blink. Griggs glanced at me; I felt, rather than saw, the patronizing condolence of his look. It is the look of the proud father who raises children guaranteed to fit ready-made clothing.
"Paul," I prompted, with pregnant meaning, "why don't you answer? What do you think of this gentleman?"
"I think, father," he answered, in his dreamy, deliberate tone, addressing me pointedly, but still looking at Griggs, "that he looks like a horse."
I felt as if I were falling from a dizzy height, but the sensation was not altogether painful. Griggs bore up better than I could have hoped, and declared with an attempt at jocularity that he would rather look like a horse than a cow. I had no more presence of mind than to reprove Paul on the spot for his rudeness, a course which could only result in one of two things: a howl or an argument. This time it was an argument; but I could better have stood a howl, for he pointed out that his mother had taught him to always tell the truth, and——
"That will do, Paul," I interrupted, hurriedly. "Stand up, and I'll introduce you to Mr. Griggs."
I left them to entertain each other, while I escaped into the house for the refreshments. Had I not done so, nothing could have warded off an indignant dissertation from Paul on the difference he was careful to observe between stating actual facts that came under his observation and his habit of making up fictitious persons and events. The latter propensity we never checked, believing that nothing should be said to prevent the fullest development of his wonderful imagination. My own excursions in the realm of undiluted fiction were trifling in comparison to Paul's; before him, doubtless, lay a future with his pen beside which even mine must pale to insignificance.
The room I was in opened upon the veranda. Paul was sitting beside the window, and I could hear his voice distinctly, but only the alternate interrogatory rumble of his companion's. Evidently Griggs was making the most of his opportunity to learn more of my domestic concerns.
"Oh, he's all right," I heard Paul announce. "He was only playing sick to get out of working. Father said it wasn't worth while to send for the doctor, and we shut him up in the barn so that the others wouldn't take it. We didn't let him out till he said he was quite well thank-you."
"They're all half-brothers and half-sisters. Not of any consequence, you know—just to amuse me."
"Father said he guessed he'd send them to the Orphan's Home; he couldn't afford to feed such a large family. Then he said he'd let me keep them if I made them work hard for their board. I can tell you I keep them going."
"Father says he cares more for me than for the whole crowd, and that he shouldn't be expected to bring up step-children."
"Yes, I let them play for an hour on Saturdays."
"They're all out picking potato bugs except Tom. He's in jail."
"Up in the attic. He stole a candy out of my box, and I locked him up for a week. He gets bread and water only once a day."
"They each have to bring a full pail of bugs, or else they don't get any tea."
"Father says he'll have Tom put in the Reformatory if I say the word."
What further information Griggs gleaned I had no means of knowing, for Paul was doing so well that I thought it better not to interrupt the conversation, and I took the opportunity of having a brief talk with Andy Taylor before returning to the veranda. Griggs was obviously distraught and had little to say except that he was in a hurry to get back to the city, but he looked at me as if he were mentally formulating charges to lay before the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he neglected to thank me for holding the gate open as he drove through, then I had difficulty in impressing upon his mind what he should say to Harold Jones.
"Tell him," I concluded, holding the horse's head, "that I consider it an impertinence for a mere acquaintance to pry into my private affairs. Is it anyone's business but my own, Mr. Griggs, whether I keeponly a few fowls or a large assortment of domestic animals? Tell him that I would never dream of asking you how many firkins of butter and crates of eggs you handled in a year, or if your profits exceed the commission you——"
"G'lang there!" shouted Griggs.
"I have no fancy for the country, as you know, my dear Marion," wrote Aunt Sophy, in conclusion, "but your description of Waydean makes me long to accept your invitation. When I heard that Henry had rented a farm I thought you must be simply crazy to let him do it, but your letter has reassured me. Of course, if he has quite determined not to go to any expense in the expectation of making money out of the land, and if youbothwant to live there, it is a different thing. I think it is a splendid idea not to work any more land than he can attend to with a spade, a rake and a hoe. Take my advice, Marion, and keep him to that—no matter what arguments he may use—and you will be perfectly safe. If your poor uncle had only been guided by my advice, or if I had beenless easily swayed by his hopefulness, I would have had more than a pittance to live on now. But no,—it was buy this, and buy that, till....
"How lovely it must be to have your own milk and butter and cream and fruit, and, above all, to know that they'reclean! And the chickens! Do you know, I can't touch chickens in the city; I haven't tasted one for a year, I am so disgusted at the thought of how they may be fed,—and yet I am just longing for a taste of plump, clean, ... grain-fed——"
Marion's voice wavered; she stopped reading. I uttered a prolonged whistle, then laughed in a hollow mirthless tone that brought a responsive gleam to Marion's worried face. She left the breakfast table and looked anxiously out of the window at the back of the room, then sat down again with a sigh of thankfulness.
"What a mercy Paul wasn't within hearing," she said; "how he would have howled!"
I went to the window. Paul was surrounded by our flock of twenty-sevenhalf-grown chickens and five hens. In one hand he held his little tin pail of corn; with the other he dealt out one grain at a time to each in turn, calling the fowl by name and reproving those that tried to snatch the others' share. "Jeremiah, here's yours—come along Aunt Noddy," I heard him say coaxingly.
I sat down again and stared at Marion hopelessly; she responded with a gaze of mute despair; then we both studied the tablecloth without speaking, feeling that the skeleton we had ignored for months had at last stalked unbidden from the closet.
As I thought the matter over I could see that Marion was entirely to blame for this hopeless complication. If she had allowed me to get eggs from pure-bred stock for setting we would have had twenty-seven chickens of exactly similar appearance that Paul never could have individualized, never have named, never have loved with the passionate fervor that he bestowed on each one of the variegated specimens hatched from eggs at ten cents a dozen. My eggs, I computed, would have cost not more than fivedollars; so in order to save four dollars and a half, Marion had saddled us with a flock as unapproachable from a culinary stand-point as so many sacred cows. This conclusion presented itself with such clearness that I was on the point of submitting it to Marion when I remembered how unpleasant it was to me to listen to wholesome truths, so I merely looked unselfish and hummed thoughtfully.
My wife regarded me with suspicion, her frown deepening. "I have asked you repeatedly," she said, with frosty distinctness, "not to hum, and not to look like that."
My complaisance vanished. I am not easily irritated, and I try to avoid answering back, but I cannot stand being told not to look like that.
"Marion," I retorted, "I don't wonder you feel annoyed, but you may as well face the difficulty now. I'm tired of people asking me how we like living in the country, and then remarking that it must be fine to have your own chickens. Of course, I'm willing to keep up appearances and to make-believe that having our own chickensis one of our many daily luxuries; but now that your Aunt Sophy is coming we've got to eat them, or she'll know the reason why. Oh, yes, I know," I added, as she tried to interrupt—"I know we can't have them in the abstract. We've got to kill and cook and pick the bones of Abner, Jeremiah, Lucy, or some other of the boy's pets; but if I had had my way about the eggs he couldn't have told one from another, and we might have had an occasional fowl without these painful personal associations."
I regretted my rashness when I saw Marion's look of calm scorn, her manner leading me to expect a revival of some of my mistakes. I can evolve plausible theories, but she usually shatters them with the most distracting personal applications.
"I hadn't intended to point out that you are responsible," she said, "but since you are so unjust as to try to blame me, I must do so. Don't you see, Henry, that it is but another instance of your habit of evading unpleasant duties. I have told you repeatedly"—I squirmed in protest, for I do hate that phrase, and I knew so well whatwas coming—"that you would say anything to tide over a disagreeable scene,—and it's true."
"Honestly, Marion," I protested, "I—I wouldn't. I'd jump into any kind of a scrimmage—I'd do anything to please you. If you'll only be cheerful I'll—I'll see that it doesn't happen"——
"There you are again," she interrupted, in a descending cadence of utter dejection. "Oh, dear—it is so hopeless! Listen, Henry, and see if you can understand this: Paul is now six, and yet he never knew there was such a thing as death until last month. You had your way about that—and what was the result? The child nearly went crazy when his bantam hen died. If you had been at home, I have no doubt you would have told him it was asleep, but you more than made up for that by assuring him that it had gone to heaven."
"I did nothing of the kind," I protested indignantly. "Paul came to me"——
"The child came tome," Marion went on sternly, "perfectly happy in the thought of Bijou having gone"——
"He came tome," I insisted, "asking if Bijou had gone to heaven. I said Ihoped"——
"It doesn't matter so much what you said as the way you said it. However, as you say, Aunt Sophy is coming, and we must eat some of those chickens; soyoumay face the situation and settle with Paul. If you had explained to him that chickens were made to eat, as I wanted you to do in the first place, you wouldn't have had this trouble now. If I thought it would be a lesson to you I could stand my share, but I know you'll forget all about it in a week and be ready to do the same thing again, so you may as well take the consequences alone."
I was preparing to ask for a properly executed death-warrant, specifying the first victims by name, but before I could speak my wife dived into her pocket for a handkerchief and retreated upstairs.
I can tackle a disagreeable duty when there is no other course open to me, but I am not upheld, as Marion is, by a strong sense of righteousness; indeed, I aminclined to feel personally unworthy to attempt any good act that is patently out of my line, yet on the rare occasions when Marion behaves in this childish manner I throw my conscientious scruples to the winds in my frantic desire to assuage her grief.
I found Paul teaching a hen and two chickens to sit still as he drew them around on his little wagon. My resolution wavered as I watched his innocent enjoyment, but the thought of Aunt Sophy spurred me on. Besides, if Marion was bloodthirsty enough to want these poor creatures eaten, it was not for me to feel faint-hearted.
"Well, Paul," I said, with spurious cheerfulness, "giving them a ride? Are these some—ha, ha!—you want to keep for pets?"
Paul has a quick ear for a false note. He studied my face with grave wonderment, his earnest gaze piercing my jocose mask. "Why, father," he exclaimed, "your voice sounds so queer—and what a funnyquestion! They're all pets,—of course, I want to keep every one."
"Come and sit on the bench beside me," I said ingratiatingly, "and we'll have a talk.... Do you know that—that people sometimes have to—that is, that people don't usually raise chickens for pets?"
"Oh, yes, I know," he replied, nodding his little head with philosophic certainty. "Most boys would rather keep dogs and rabbits, and ponies and other animals; but I don't want anything for pets except hens and chickens, and perhaps—well, I think I would like a pair of white pigeons. I heard you saying to mother that I wasn't a bit like other boys. Is that one way I'm different?"
"It is," I answered with curt emphasis.
Paul snuggled closer to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. "You say that as if"—he hesitated shyly—"as if you wished I was like other boys. Am I not as good?"
"You're better, my boy, far better!" I exclaimed, in quick remorse.
This remark may appear injudicious, but Paul is like me in many ways, and there is not a shadow of vanity or self-consciousness in his character; no amount of praise, or even flattery, could disturb the natural equipoise of his self-esteem, but he is quick to feel the hurt of unjust depreciation. When Marion forgets my imperfections and tells me I am the best man in the world, I am aware that she is drawing it a little strong; at the same time, I am strengthened and uplifted by her opinion, and I feel the yearning to do noble things, to be more worthy of my pedestal, to attain that serenity of temper which mortals name angelic.
Paul's face brightened, and I knew that I had made amends for my previous abrupt and jarring tone. I began again cautiously, taking care to speak with soothing mellowness. "I don't think I ever heard of anyone keeping twenty-seven chickens and five hens forpets."
A merry light danced in Paul's eyes. "That's what you said about farming with a spade, a rake and a hoe," he reminded me, "and mother said we must do whatwas right without thinking about other people."
Chance, instinct, or his inherited nimble mind had enabled him to checkmate me as neatly as Marion could have done it; I moved back. Passing lightly over the objectionable features, I briefly sketched the magnitude of the chicken-raising industry for supplying city markets, pointing out the necessity for poor farmers selling their fowls to buy food and clothing. Despite my care he was visibly shocked.
"No matter how poorwewere, you would never sendourchickens to market?" he inquired, breathing hard.
There could be but one answer to that question, and after I had fervently disclaimed the possibility of poverty ever making me so heartless, each of us remained buried in his own thoughts for a brief time. The chickens gathered around, and I fancied they regarded me with intuitive dread in their glistening eyes, as if they waited to hear my next attempt to seal their doom. An overgrown bully suddenly pecked a weaker brother, pulling out a bunch offeathers viciously as he spurned the victim with his feet. Paul darted to the rescue and brought the brutal assailant back to the bench a prisoner.
"What is that villain's name, Paul?" I asked with eager interest.
"Why, this is Angelica," he answered. "Don't you remember you named him yourself when he was first hatched?"
I did remember. He was then a beautiful yellowish ball of fluff, with large, soft, wide-open eyes, the prettiest one of the brood; now he was grown into a greedy, swaggering, insolent swashbuckler, proud of his stature and fine plumage.
"He's a dangerous criminal," I said, feeling his plump breast appreciatively, "and it might be better to—to"—somehow the word stuck in my throat; I hesitated.
"I know, father," cried Paul joyfully. "I'm the policeman and you're the judge—he must be tried and then sentenced to wear a muzzle."
Angelica was tried and sentenced, then muzzled with a small rubber band that fitted tightly over his bill. His antics amusedus so much that for a few minutes I forgot my fatal errand.
"He looks wicked enough to kill some of the others," I remarked, after a pause. "Do you know, Paul, how a person who kills another is punished?" He looked up with sudden, awed interest. "They put a rope around—him, and—and"——
"Andwhat?"
"——fine him a dollar and costs."
"Oh!" he gasped, "I'm so glad that's all. And do they take the rope off afterwards?"
"I believe they do," I replied, in deep dejection.
"Father, I just love chickens. Don't you?"
"I do, indeed," I affirmed, with sudden reckless, despairing intention; "but I love them in two different ways. If they're nice, well-mannered birds I love to see them running about with their featherson; but if they're naughty I love to see them not running about with their feathersoff." Paul laughed in glee. "Your mother and Aunt Sophy like them too," I went on warily,my heart thumping; "and I think if chickens are cruel and bad they deserve to be stuffed"—his expression changed suddenly, but he still looked bravely into my eyes—"with bread-crumbs, and roasted, with thick—brown—rich—gravy."
Paul jerked his little hand from mine and stood up in front of me, his face twitching and his eyes brimming. "You greedy—greedy—GREEDY!" he gasped.
"Paul,—my boy,—listen," I implored; "your aunt Sophy is coming, and she's awfully fond"——
My words were lost in a prolonged howl. He had a phenomenal voice, but this delayed howl eclipsed all previous ones. I followed him in frantic haste, eager to forswear all designs on his pets, but he fled as if I were after his scalp. When I finally found him, too late, he was in his mother's arms, and I knew she had promised him everything, from the look she turned on me,—a look that caused me to slink silently away, a soulless brute, and alas!—a tailless one.
"Henry," said Aunt Sophy, complacently, as I drove her to the station after her visit, "in all the time my husband had his farm I never could get him to use our own chickens. He said they cost him two dollars apiece, being from thoroughbred stock, but I see you have more sense and raise good plain barnyard fowls that you can eat every day if you want to. Why, we must have had them three times a week while I've been here, and you seem to have a good large flock yet. I've tried a dozen times to count them, but they always went criss-cross. How many have you got left?"
"Just twenty-seven," I answered, stroking my mustache with modest pride.
I did not approve of Marion's habit of keeping accounts at Waydean. There was always a missing balance, but I never could get her to see what a needless worry and waste of time it was to try to locate it, or how much better it is to take my plan and merely count the cash on hand to settle one's financial standing. It is diverting to me to calculate future hypothetical receipts and expenditures, but it is the reverse of entertaining to look backwards at the irrevocable past, the past that is called back by various carefully entered items in Marion's account book, prominent among which looms payment of three hundred dollars for Emperor mining shares.
It was one evening while I was engaged in preparing my weekly agricultural page for theObserver, and Marion was poring over her account book that she suddenlydropped her pencil and exclaimed: "Henry!"
"Well?" I asked, with meek resignation, my brain beginning to stiffen, for I judged from her tone that she had arrived at some miraculous result in figures.
"We've been living in the country four months," she said impressively, "and what do you think I find? We've actually paid more for butter and milk and vegetables than in any four months while we lived in the city."
"How strange," I commented, trying to look interested.
My wife smiled slightly, in a way that I find peculiarly irritating. "You're only pretending to listen," she said, "and you couldn't possibly understand while you look like that."
My weariness vanished; I started up indignantly. "While I look like what?" I demanded.
Marion laughed. "That's better," she said. "I'd rather see you look angry than stupid. Now I'll try again to get your attention. Do you remember what you saidwhen I gave you the choice of a lawn-mower or a hammock for your birthday?"
I did remember. I had made a swift calculation at the time that a hammock would be easier to run, so I had urged Marion not to go to the expense of a lawn-mower, reminding her also that it might properly be ranked among the tabooed farm implements.
"Certainly," I answered, at a loss to know what was coming, "I said I would prefer a hammock."
"And do you remember that you promised to hire or borrow one of Peter's cows to crop the grass on the lawn?"
"Well, I didn't exactly promise. I said it would be easy enough to get one."
"And now the grass is as long as hay. Why didn't you do it?"
I frowned, for I hate insistent, unnecessary questions,—questions that are bound to lead up to some unpleasant climax that it would be better to avoid. I could stand being thrown overboard without ceremony better than being forced to walk the plank with measured tread, yet if I protest againstthis Socratic method of arriving at conclusions she tells me with pained surprise that it is for my good,—that I should learn not only to regret my mistakes, but to thoroughly understand why I am sorry. Rather than have her say that, I am willing to answer any ordinary question with outward docility.
"The plan didn't seem so feasible when I thought it over," I replied meekly. "It would have looked foolish to offer to pay Peter for letting me feed his cow, and I couldn't make up my mind to borrow one, so the time slipped away before——"
"Of course it did," she interrupted; "the way it always does. But, after all, I think"—a merry light danced in her eyes—"I'll forgive you. There'll be all the more grass for,—oh, dear, you do look so funny!—our cow."
"Ourcow!" I gasped, in stupefaction.
"Henry," she burst forth excitedly, "I've been trying to break it to you gently, but you don't seem to understand. I've come round to your way of thinking—you may go and buy a cow to-morrow."
It was a complete surprise to me that Marion should be so suddenly seized by the desire to own a cow. For my own part I would rather have started with a herd, but still, it was something to be thankful for that she did not insist upon beginning with a goat. Then there was the possibility that a cow might grow into a herd; that would mean a hired man, horses, implements, a large dairy business, more land, an ultimate fortune. Yes, I was more than gratified that Marion was beginning to see that my ideas on farm management were sound.
When I asked our butcher the next morning if he knew of any cows for sale in the neighborhood we awaited his answer with breathless anxiety. He half-closed his eyes, studying the mud on the wagon-wheel in profound meditation, our suspense intensified by this dramatic pause.
"I'll tell you what I'd do," he said, at last, pointing northward impressively with his long knife. "I'd go up there on the clay where the pastures is dried up and the farmers is feedin' hay at fifteen dollars a ton, and I'd buy a cow for half what she couldbe bought for down here where the grass is green."
That sounded reasonable, and when he proceeded to name some of his customers "on the clay," I stopped him at the name Waydean.
"Any relation of Peter's?" I asked, with sudden interest.
"His brother," he answered, with an odd smile—"and it's a dead fright how them two men hate each other! I believe Peter'd go clean off his head if you was to buy a cow from John."
I smiled with satisfaction. Peter had set his snares in vain in many artful endeavors to sell me some of his belongings; with sunny smiles I had avoided giving him a chance to add to the exorbitant rent that I paid him, and he could scarcely conceal glances of sour disappointment in my presence. That I should buy a cow from anyone else would, I knew, be pain to him; his pain would not be less if I bought her from his brother John.
"Well," said the butcher, when I had announced my intention of having a look atJohn Waydean's cattle, "I pass within half a mile of his place on my round, so I can give you a lift if you like to come along with me. Of course," he added, taking a sidelong survey of me, "John can't skin a man quite so neat as Peter, but he's pretty sharp on a bargain, and you want to keep your weather eye open when you dicker with him. Know much about cattle?"
Some people can boast about acquirements they haven't got; I cannot. I merely looked shrewd and modest, nodding slightly to the butcher, simultaneously with a faint movement of one eyelid. Marion, misunderstanding my silence, exclaimed confidently: "Oh, he knowsallabout that sort of thing. He writes articles for theObserver."
At this point I disclaimed, with becoming embarrassment, all pretension to unusual lore, but the butcher looked profoundly impressed and delighted.
"That's all right!" he said cheerily. "I know his cows is mostly fresh, but he's got one or two strippers."
I went into the house to get ready forthe trip; Marion followed me. "Henry," she inquired, in a confidential tone, "whatarefresh cows,—and strippers?"
It was the very problem I was wrestling with. If the butcher had not been waiting, and if Marion hadn't followed me so closely, I would have snatched a moment to consult my books of reference, but I had no time even to collect my thoughts properly. I was in the awkward predicament of the schoolboy who knows he knows the answer to a question, but somehow cannot think of the words. I was in a great hurry, but Marion was so anxious for information that I did my best to enlighten her.
"A fresh cow," I said, struggling into my coat in jerks, "is one—in the prime—of life—and—and vigor; a stripper, on the contrary, is merely—a—a middle-aged—juvenile."
I seized my hat and hurried away. As we drove out of the yard I noticed that Marion was standing in the kitchen doorway gazing after me with the expression of one who is prevented from seeing the bottom of a pool by the reflections on its surface. Iwaved her a gay farewell and hoped for the best.
I had a dim idea that I could find out indirectly during the drive what the butcher thought these terms meant, but I needed all my mental agility to make a creditable appearance of understanding his voluble allusions to grades, stockers, springers, shorthorns, yearlings, heifers, and numerous other varieties of cattle. My answers were brief and guarded, and when I tottered I was so swift to recover my balance that my errors were not apparent to my companion. On such occasions I may sometimes be suspected of not being familiar with a subject, but I would defy anyone to prove my ignorance. If Marion's reputation for veracity had not been at stake I might have been willing to act the part of a humble tyro asking for information, but since she had plainly said that I knew all about cattle it was my duty to try to make her statement appear credible.
I descended from the wagon feeling that I was utterly incapable of choosing a cow, but I concealed my fears under a mask ofcalm assurance as I bade the butcher good-by.
"Mr. Carton," he said, in parting, "if you was a greenhorn that didn't know the difference between a stocker and a springer, like most city men, I'd say to buy your cow off of some other man than John Waydean, but he'll know better than to try to palm off scrub-stock onto you."
This cheerful prediction almost made me perspire with apprehension, particularly as scrub-stock was a brand new variety that he had not mentioned previously. My confidence returned, however, when I stood in John Waydean's barnyard and saw his cows paraded for my inspection, for no two of them were alike, and I could tell at a glance which were Jerseys and which were common cows. I took care not to express a preference until I found out which ones their owner appeared most anxious to sell, and these I instantly decided not to buy. Even had I not been warned by the butcher I would have mistrusted John Waydean, for his face had not the prepossessing appearance of his brother's, and his mannerwas surly and suspicious. I examined each of the animals with a critical air, ignoring his evident desire to make me believe that an ugly creature resembling a bison was the finest cow, and finally chose a graceful, neat-limbed, fawn-colored Jersey. The reluctance to part with her that I detected in the old man's manner, and the fact of his asking me ten dollars more for her than for any other, confirmed my intuition that I had chosen wisely. I was about to close the bargain when the butcher's words came back to my mind. I looked sharply at the seller. His smooth-shaven face was creased with deep lines about the mouth—a mouth resembling his brother Peter's in its smug rigidity, but whether it concealed regret or triumph I could not determine.
"Mr. Waydean," I said, with stern incisiveness, "is that animal a fresh cow or a stripper?"
His reply had a ring of indignant, scornful reproach. Take her or leave her, he didn't care a blank, but I couldn't run no rig on him by asking such questions. However, since I had mentioned thematter, I'd better come into the stable and see the prettiest week-old calf in the county. He'd sell it for two dollars, and if I raised it on that cow's milk he'd be willing to buy it back in the fall for ten. My lingering doubts were dispelled when I saw the pretty little soft-eyed creature, and I suddenly remembered that a fresh cow is one with a fresh calf. Marion hadn't spoken about getting a calf, but I felt sure that if I suggested it should be made into veal she would insist upon its being kept, then I would have a tangible nucleus toward the realization of my dream of owning a herd of dairy cows. I closed the bargain hurriedly, with the proviso that he was to hitch up his team and deliver my purchases at Waydean. In a few minutes the calf was hoisted into the wagon, bleating dismally. I looked for some demonstration of sympathy from its mother, but she appeared quite unconcerned and would not follow until she had been tied to the rear of the vehicle. I thought this rather peculiar, but the old man explained that she had always showed a great fondness for home and wasreluctant to leave. During our drive he was almost as voluble as the butcher had been, discoursing of the iniquities of the man whom he was ashamed to call his brother. "Mr. Carton," he warned me solemnly, "I wouldn't put it past him to come over and run that cow down, he'll be that mad that you knew too much to buy one off of him, but don't you believe a word he says. A man that'd go into court and swear as he done in connection with my late father's property wouldn't stick at nothin'. You watch Pete; if he ain't took you in on the rent, he'll even up in some other way, for it ain't in him to act straight and square like me."
* * * * * * *
"The dear little lovely thing! I do believe it's hungry, Henry. How are you going to feed it?"
I have been asked many questions for which I have been obliged to invent answers, but this was not one of them. I had never owned a calf before, so my ideas on calf-raising were logical andconclusive. The theory that the progeny of a cow should not be allowed to associate with the mother was, I explained, founded upon true scientific laws. A calf brought up on a milk-pail would learn to take its food at stated intervals, escape indigestion, heaves and hollow horn, and grow up into a gentle, courteous and productive adult; while the mother, segregated from an otherwise guzzling, irrational, worrying offspring, would chew her cud in the placid beatitude most essential to the production of the largest quantity of rich milk.
Marion listened silently, with a knowing smile, but when I had finished she remarked that I knew perfectly well that I was talking rubbish, and that the natural way of feeding anything was the right way. Hadn't I better get the soup ladle and her mixing-bowl and teach the calf to sit up properly at the kitchen table while I was about it?
I replied rather hastily, and before I had finished speaking Marion left me and went into the house. I was alone with a calf, a cow, and a guilty conscience; alone at thevery time when I most needed help and encouragement. Five minutes before I had looked on my purchases with exultation, while my wife stood in the stable beside me, uttering ecstatic exclamations of delight because I had bought a cow so beautiful to behold and the dearest little calf that I must never mention in connection with veal again; now, in my black despair over this disagreement, I hated the innocent cause of it. If Marion had tried persuasion, I would have been willing to cast my theory to the winds, but I could not brook ridicule and I determined to bring up that calf by hand at whatever cost in time and trouble. I decided to begin at once by learning to milk the cow; after that, I would be in a better position to look up Marion and forgive her for the way I had behaved.