There was no sound save the gentle patter of the rain and the swish of the wind in the maples outside the door.
“It wasn’t,” the Storekeeper answered. “But the trouble began a week later.”
“It’s a strange story,” said the Tinsmith, “an’ ef any one but your Pap hed told it I’d hev my suspitchions. But his sugar was damp.”
There was a long silence.
From the cellar came again the weird sound, low but distinct.
The G. A. R. Man arose and seized the lamp from the counter.
“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he cried. “This is all foolershness. Ef you fellys comes we’ll find out what that is.”
He shuffled slowly toward the dark end of the store. For a moment his companions hesitated. Then the Storekeeper joined the leader of thehazardous enterprise and one by one the others followed. They tiptoed through the door; they wound their way among the boxes and barrels that filled the store-room, and reached the head of the stairway that led to the cellar. Here the G. A. R. Man halted. The lamp in his hand vibrated to and fro, throwing grotesque shadows on the white ceiling and walls. The men clustered about him and gazed timidly into the darkness beneath. He placed one foot on the step, then stopped.
“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he said.
“Course th-th-they ain’t,” chattered the Miller, who was holding the Storekeeper by the arm.
“It’s r-r-rats,” the Tinsmith ventured.
“Or a l-l-loose b-b-board,” suggested the veteran.
“Foolershness,” whispered the Loafer, “‘v-v-v-vestig-g-gatin’ ghosts ’hen they ain’t no sech things. The Missus is settin’ up fer me an’ I’ll hev to be goin’.”
“Pap allus was superstitchous,” exclaimed the Storekeeper, as he made his way back through the maze of boxes and barrels to the store in the wake of the Loafer. The others were hurrying along in the rear.
The rain had ceased. Overhead the black clouds, visible in the bright starlight, were scurrying away towards the hills. The G. A. R. Man and the Loafer were parting at the latter’s gate at the end of the village.
“Hev you ben gittin’ any sugar o’ him lately?” asked the veteran, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction whence they had come.
“I hev,” replied the Loafer. “An’ I guess ole Ed Harmon is still at it.”
“What do ye think it was?”
“It might ’a’ ben a rat. It might ’a’ ben a loose board. It might ’a’ ben a hundred things like that. I ain’t superstitchous—not a bit superstitchous.” The speaker paused. “But jest the same I ain’t fer investigatin’ ghosts,” he added.
“What was the question fer debate?” asked the School Teacher.
“Resawlved that the Negro is more worthy o’ government support than the Indian,” replied the Miller.
“And the decision?”
“One jedge voted fer the affirmative an’ one fer the negative.”
“And the third?”
“That’s where the trouble come. Ye see, Theophilus Bones was the third jedge, an’ he got up an’ sayd that after hearin’ an’ weighin’ all the argyments o’ the debaters he hed to concide that neither the Negro nor the Indian was worthy.”
“Deadlocked!” cried the pedagogue, bringing his chair down on all four legs with a crash, waving his arms and snapping his fingers. “Deadlocked, sure. What did ye do?”
“See here,” interrupted the Chronic Loafer from his perch on a sugar barrel, “I can’t see that it makes any diff’rence what they done.S’posin’ the Airy View Liter’ry Society is deadlocked. How’s the poor Injun goin’ to suffer any more by it?”
“But did you uns ever see sech dum jedges?” asked the Miller appealingly. “I was on the negative.”
“The point is this,” said the Teacher, shaking his cigar at the occupant of the barrel. “Here is a modern liter’ry society, whose main purpose is trainin’ its members in the art of debate. An important question is put before this same society for formal discussion, and yet these self-same trained debaters makes their points so badly that one o’ the jedges can’t decide on the merits o’ the question.”
“It ain’t so bad at all,” the Tinsmith exclaimed. “I once heard Aleck Bolum on that wery question. He argyed both affirmative an’ negative. All three o’ the jedges was deadlocked. None of ’em could concide.”
“Bolum must ’a’ ben a wonderful talker,” the Loafer said.
“Wonderful? Well, I guesst he was. Why, it was his debatin’ broke up the Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society. An’ that was a flourishin’ organization, too. Me an’ my old frien’ Perry Muthersbaugh started it together. After he went west Andrew Magill tuk a holt of it. He run it tell Aleck Bolum stepped in. Then it was a tug-o-war.
“Bolum was a livin’ Roberts-rules-of-order. He was a walkin’ encyclopedy of information. He knowd it an’ never lost no opportunity of showin’ it. Kishikoquillas school-house was his principal place fer exhibitin’. From the time Andrew Magill’s gavel fell on Friday night tell a motion was made to adjourn, Aleck was on his feet. Ef he wasn’t gittin’ off a select readin’ or a recytation or debatin’, he was risin’ to pints of order, appealin’ from the decision o’ the chair, callin’ fer divisions or movin’ we proceed to new business. Ye couldn’t git any fresh wood put in the stove ’thout hevin’ him move the ’pointment of a committee to do it. Ef a lamp burned low he’d want to hev it referred to the committee on lights. He even tried to git the recordin’ seckertary impeached because she kep’ the minutes in lead-pencil.”
“What fer a lookin’ felly was this Aleck Bolum?” asked the Chronic Loafer.
“He was a thin, leetle man, with a clean-shaved, hatchet face, an’ a bald spot on the top o’ his head over which he plastered a few skein o’ lemon-colored hair.”
“An’ he wore a Prince Al-bert coat?” inquired the Loafer anxiously.
“Yes, a shiny black un. An’ he’d stand up an’ th’ow out his chist.”
“Why, that’s where half the trouble come,” interrupted the Loafer. “Don’t you know that efye put a Prince Al-bert coat on a clothes-horse, it’ll stan’ right up an’ begin argyin’ with ye?”
“My dear felly,” replied the Tinsmith, “Aleck Bolum ’ud ’a’ argyed in his grave clothes. They wasn’t no stoppin’ him. We thot mebbe we could quiet him be givin’ him an office, so we ’lected him correspondin’ seckertary, cal’latin’ he’d hev nawthin’ to do an’ ’ud be satisfied with the honor. We’d complete misjedged him. He got up a debate be correspondence with a liter’ry society out in Kansas an’ tuk up half our evenin’s readin’ reports on it.
“So Aleck Bolum didn’t give Andrew Magill much chancet, even tho’ he was president. It went hard with Andrew, too, fer he liked to fill in all the cracks in the meetin’ hisself, an’ objected to havin’ Aleck bobbin’ up with pints of order every time he opened his mouth. But fer my part I allus preferred Bolum to Magill. Bolum wasn’t musical. Magill was. ’Henever one o’ the reg’lar men on the progrim ’ud fail to be on hand an’ he could head Aleck off, Andrew ’ud git up an’ say, ‘Mister So-an’-so, who hed the ess’y fer the evenin’, bein’ absent, the chair has consented to fill in the interval be singin’ a solo.’ Or the chair ’ud sing a duet with the seckertary; or the chair ’ud sing an anthem ’sisted be the society quartette. Then he’d stand up with his music marks an’ start away on twenty verses about Mother or Alice.
“Things kept gittin’ worse an’ worse. They final come to a head one night ’hen Aleck Bolum rose to a pint of order durin’ one of Andrew’s highest notes. Magill hed to stop singin’ an’ ast him to state his pint. Then Aleck moved the solo be the president be taken up under onfinished business. Andrew jest choked.
“‘Hen the president got th’oo chokin’, we tuk up the debate. Everything was subdued like. Andrew set on the platform wery quiet an’ solemn. The debaters didn’t put no heart in their work fer they was busy keepin’ one eye on him an’ the other on Bolum. Every one was kind o’ nervous an’ hushed—that is, every one ’cept Aleck. He argyed that the pen was mightier then the sword in the reg’lar debate. ’Hen the argyment was th’owed open to all he got up agin an’ proved that the sword was mightier then the pen.
“We got th’oo with the debate an’ nawthin’ hed happened. Then Andrew Magill rose to give out the progrim fer the next meetin’. He looked solemn like at his paper a minute; then gazed ’round the room. Ye could ’a’ heard a pin drop.
“‘Several o’ our members,’ sais he, ‘complains that they ain’t hed no opportunity to be heard afore this society. This progrim is got up especial to satisfy these gentlemen.’
“An’ the progrim fer the follyin’ Friday, which he read out, run like this: ‘Readin’ o’ the Scriptur’be the president; roll call; select readin’, Mr. Aleck Bolum; recytation, Mr. Aleck Bolum; extemporaneous oration, Mr. Aleck Bolum; ess’y, The True Patriot, Mr. Aleck Bolum; debate, Resawlved that works o’ natur’ is more beautiful then works o’ art—affirmative, Mr. Aleck Bolum; negative, Mr. Aleck Bolum.’
“Andrew finished an’ set down in his chair. They wasn’t even a whisper fer every eye in the room was turned on the correspondin’ seckertary. He arose deliberate like, cleared his th’oat, th’owed open his coat so his red tie showed better, put the thumb o’ his left hand in his waistcoat pocket, raised the other hand, pintin’ his forefinger at the president. We was ready fer somethin’ hot.
“‘Mr. Chairman,’ he sayd, never crackin’ a smile. ‘I desires right here to express my approval o’ this new plan o’ yours o’ hevin’ the same man debate both sides o’ the question. It’s an excellent idee. Under the ole rule, where the debater was allowed to speak only on one side, we developed lopsided speakers. An’ I want to say right here an’ now an’ to everybody in this room that I, fer my part, ’ll do my best to make next week’s meetin’ beneficial to us all.’
“‘Hen Andrew Magill seen how he’d played right into Aleck Bolum’s hand, thots failed to express his indignation. He adjourned the meetin’, blowed out the lamps, put on his overcoat an’ hatan’ walked outen the school-house an’ down the road, jest all bubblin’ over. But Andrew wasn’t easy beaten. He’d no idee o’ settin’ all evenin’ listenin’ to Aleck Bolum’s ess’ys an’ select readin’s. He slipped ’round ’mong the members on the quiet an’ explained how he’d an invite from the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club, to bring the whole society up there the follyin’ Friday. He explained what a good un it ’ud be on Aleck ’hen he got to the school-house with his progrim all prepared an’ found fer an aud’ence—Mr. Aleck Bolum. An’ ez he offered to kerry three sled loads o’ members to the grove hisself, everybody agreed. It really begin to look ez ef Aleck was goin’ to be squelched.
“The snow was two feet deep, an’ the sleighin’ was fine. It tuk jest ’bout an hour an’ a half to cover the twelve mile ’tween Kishikoquillas an’ Happy Grove. We’d a splendid time, too. Andrew was in high sperrits. He pictured Aleck arunnin’ the liter’ry meetin’ all hisself, an’ give an imytation o’ the debate on the question whether works o’ natur’ was more beautiful then works of art. It was killin’. I mind now how Andrew hed jest started in showin’ us Bolum’s recytation, ’hen we reached the clearin’ where the school-house stood.
“The place was dark, absolute dark, an’ the door was locked. They wasn’t a soul in sight. Magill got out his watch. It sayd eight-fifteenan’ the singin’ school was set fer eight. It looked pecul’ar. We guesst we’d better wait. So one o’ the boys climbed th’oo a winder an’ unlocked the door, an’ we all went in. A few can’les was found an’ lit. Then we set down to watch fer the arrival o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club. They wasn’t any fire, an’ the place was cold an’ disygreeable. Some wanted to go home, but Andrew sayd no. We was the club’s guests. Some of ’em ’ud be ’long any minute. It wouldn’t be right fer them to find us gone. So we kep’ settin’, an’ wonderin’, an’ guessin’.
“At the end of an hour we hear sleigh-bells down the road. Then they was a stampin’ o’ boots outside on the portico.
“‘Here they is at last,’ sais Andrew, gittin’ up on the platform an’ rappin’ fer order.
“The door opened. In steps Aleck Bolum. The whole society give a groan.
“‘What’s the trouble?’ sais he, walkin’ to the middle o’ the room. ‘I don’t hear no singin’.’
“The society jest hung their heads an’ looked sheepish.
“‘Where’s the Happy Grove Social Singin Club?’ sais he pleasant like. ‘I sees only our own members.’
“No one sayd nawthin’.
“Aleck unwound his comforter, unbottoned his coat, th’owed out his chist an’ cried, ‘Mr. Chairman, hev I the floor?’
“Magill kind o’ mumbled.
“‘Then,’ sais Bolum, ‘Mebbe I can th’ow some light on the hushed voices I see gethered ’round me here to-night. Firstly, I’d like to say that we’d a most excellent meetin’ at Kishikoquillas this evenin’. After we adjourned I thot I’d run up here an’ see how you was makin’ out, fer I hed pecul’ar interest in this getherin’. Th’oo some mistake I was not properly notified that our members was comin’ here, but I learned of it. I wanted to see the Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society do itself proud to-night at music ez well ez literature. So in my capacity ez correspondin’ seckertary I got up a musical progrim yeste’day an’ forwarded it to the president of the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club, explainin’ how our organization ’ud entertain his organization to-night with melody, instrumental an’ vocal.’
“Bolum stopped an’ drawed a paper out o’ his pocket.
“‘Will the seckertary please read the progrim?’ he sayd.
“Josiah Weller tuk the paper. He looked at it. Then he piked one eye on the president.
“‘Ye may read the progrim, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Andrew, wery dignified.
“An’ Josiah read like this, ‘The Kishikoquillas Liter’ry Society will be pleased to render fer the entertainment o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’Club the follyin’ selections: bass-horn solo, The Star Spangled Banner, Mr. Andrew Magill.’
“The chairman’s gavel come down on the table, an’ he rose an’ said, ‘I feels flattered be Mr. Bolum puttin’ me on the progrim, but he otter ’a’ notified me, so I could ’a’ brung me horn.’
“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sais Aleck, wery cool.
“Josiah continyerd, ‘Vocal solo, I see Mother’s Face at the Window, Mr. Andrew Magill.’
“The Chairman looked wery pleased.
“‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sayd Aleck.
“‘An ole time jig, jewsharp an’ harmonica mixed, Mr. Andrew Magill; vocal solo, Meet Me Alice at the Golden Gate, Mr. Andrew Magill; anthem, Angel Voices, Mr. Andrew Magill, ’sisted be the society.’
“Josiah Weller didn’t git no furder. They was a low roar went over the room. Some felly in the rear ’lowed we otter put him in the pond. But they wasn’t no one to put. Aleck Bolum hed dissypeared. We got to the door in time to hear his sleigh-bells jinglin’ way off th’oo the woods. Seemed like we could ’most hear him chucklin’, too.”
“But what hed become o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club?” asked the Miller. “Why wasn’t they there?”
“I guesst you never heard Andrew Magill sing, did ye?” replied the Tinsmith.
The Patriarch sat on the store porch. An old cob pipe, the smoke oozing lazily from its mouth, protruded from the recesses of his white beard. His eyes were fixed on the mountains over whose sides the black, sharp shadows of the clouds were wandering. His mood was so pensive as to awaken the curiosity of the Storekeeper, who had been watching the old man sitting upright on the bench, his gaze fastened on the distant hills.
“What are ye thinkin’ of, Gran’pap?” the young man asked.
“I was thinkin’ o’ Hen Wheedle. I hain’t thot o’ him fer a year, so I sais to meself to-day, I sais, ‘You otter think o’ Hen Wheedle!’ An’ I set right down, an’ a mighty good time I’ve hed a medytatin’ over him.”
The Miller laid the county paper over his knees and smoothed it out. Then he looked at the Patriarch.
“My souls!” he cried. “Why, Hen’s ben over the mo’ntain nigh onto forty year.”
“That’s jest the pint,” was the rejoinder. “‘Hen folks is gone ye otter think on ’em.”
To the old man there was nothing beyond the mountains but infinite space. To him the world was bounded by the green range before him and the range back by the river. The two sprang out of the blue at a point some nine miles to the north, went their own ways some fifteen miles to the south, joined, and made the valley and the world. To go over the mountain to him meant voluntary annihilation. He would step off into space beyond and become nothingness. In the seventy-five years of his life he had known men to return, but it was as though they had arisen from the dead.
“You uns knowd Hen Wheedle?” he inquired.
“He was afore my time but I’ve heard o’ him,” replied the Miller.
The Chronic Loafer looked up from the steps, where he had been sitting, whittling a piece of soft white pine.
“I s’posn you’ve heard o’ Bill Siler?” he asked, in a pleasant, alluring tone.
“Bill Siler,” repeated the Miller. He laid his forefinger against his forehead and thought a minute. “I think I hev. His name’s wery famil’ar. But why did ye ast?”
“Oh, jest because I’ve noticed that most everybody was afore your time an’ you’ve heard o’ ’em. I never knowd Bill Siler. His name was jestginirated in my head, an’ I thot ye might tell me who he was.”
“You thot ye’d ketch me, heigh,” cried the other. “Ye thot ye’d be smart an’——”
“Boys, boys,” the Patriarch shook his stick at his companions. “Don’t quarrel—don’t. Mebbe some day one o’ ye’ll go over the mo’ntain an’ then every mean word ye ever sayd’ll come back. Mean words is like them wooden balls on a ’lastic string that they sells the children at the county fair. The harder they is an’ the wiolenter ye th’ow ’em the quicker they bounces home to ye an’ the more they hurt. I otter know. Hen Wheedle otter know. Why every time he thinks o’ me his conscience must jest roll around inside o’ him.” The light in the old man’s pipe had gone out. He applied a sulphur match to it and sneezed violently. “But I’ve forgot the wrong Hen done me. He must ’a’ suffered innardly fer it. Ef he ever returns I’ll put this right hand in hisn an’ say, ’Hen, you done wrong, but you’ve suffered innardly an’ I fergive ye.’ They’s a heap o’ difference ’tween plain, ord’nary sufferin’ inside o’ ye, an’ sufferin’ innardly. Fer the first ye takes bitters, stops smokin’ an’ in a day you’re all right. But ’hen the conscience gits out o’ order all the bitters in the world an’ all the stoppin’ smokin’ in creation’ll give ye no ease. That’s what I sais, an’ I otter know, fer I can jest see how Hen Wheedle feels.”
No sulphurous fume was blazing around the Patriarch’s nose, but he sneezed again and choked himself with a piece of canton-flannel that served him as a handkerchief.
“Hen an’ me was raised on joinin’ farms. From the time we was big enough to gether eggs we was buddies. At school the boy that licked me had to lick both; the boy that was licked be one was licked be both. It was a reg’lar caset o’ David an’ Joshuay all over agin.
“They’s only one thing in the world’ll separate buddies like me an’ him was. A crow-bar won’t do it; a gun won’t; nothin’ won’t but a combination o’ yeller hair an’ dreamy blue eyes an’ pink cheeks. Melissy Flower hed ’em all. But what she done she didn’t do intentional. I didn’t want her without Hen hevin’ her; he didn’t want her without me hevin’ her—so they was a hitch. We used to go over to her house together allus, an’ we’d sing duets to her melodium playin’. He sung tenor an’ I bass. At the eend of each piece she distributed her praise jest equal. ’Hen we wasn’t hevin’ music we’d be on the settee, all three, first him, then her, then me. Ef Hen was so fortnit ez to catch the sparkle o’ her eyes, she’d turn her head my way an’ give me a chancet too.
“Now things went on this way tell one night we was comin’ home from her house together. We reached the covered bridge where the roaddewided, one fork goin’ to his placet an’ one to mine. How clear I remembers it!
“‘Henry,’ I sais, lookin’ right inter his eyes—it was moonlight an’ I could almost read his thots, ’Henry, it seems to me like you’ve ben thinkin’ more ’an usual o’ Melissy lately.’
“‘I was thinkin’ the same of you,’ sais he.
“‘You’re right,’ I answers. ‘But I won’t treat no buddy o’ mine mean.’
“‘An’ the same with me,’ sais he.
“We was quiet a piece. Then I sais, ’Henry, ef ever I finds I can’t stand it no longer I’ll tell you.’
“‘An’ ef ever I gits the same way I’ll tell you,’ sais he.
“We shook hands an’ went home.
“I s’pose things ’ud ’a’ gone on ez they was fer a good many year hed not a young town felly from up the walley come drivin’ down in slick clothes an’ in a slick buggy. You uns hev all heard the old sayin’ that it ain’t the clothes that makes the man. Ye never heard the proverb that it ain’t the paint that makes the house, did ye? I guess ye didn’t, yit it’s jest ’bout ez sensible. It ain’t the paint that makes the house, but it’s the paint that keeps the boards from rottin’ an’ the hull thing from fallin’ to pieces out o’ pure bein’ ashamed o’ itself. Solerman was the wisest man that ever lived, yit the Bible sais that he allus run to fine raiment. He hed a thousandan’ odd wives an’ knowd well enough that he wouldn’t hev no peace with ’em ef he run ’round in his bare feet an’ overalls. ’Hen the Queen o’ Sheby called on him ye can bet your bottom dollar she didn’t find him settin’ on the throne with a hickory shirt ’thout no collar, an’ his second-best pants held up be binder-twine galluses.”
The old man had been talking very fast and was out of breath. He paused to gather the threads of his story.
The School Teacher seized the opportunity to remark: “An’ yet Solerman in all his glory was restless an’ unhappy.”
“He knowd too much,” drawled the Loafer, looking up from his stick. “An’ Gran’pap, with all of his wisdom, with all the good uns he sayd, Solerman never knowd what it was to light his ole pipe an’ set plumb down on the wood-pile an’ play with the dog. Why, he’d sp’iled his gown.”
“Boys,” resumed the Patriarch, “slick clothes an’ a slick hoss an’ a slick buggy goes ten times furder with a woman then a slick brain. She can see a man’s clothes; she can see his hoss; she can see his buggy. But it takes her fifty year to git her eyes adjusted so she can see his mind. That’s why I got worrit ’hen this here Perry felly got to drivin’ down to wisit Melissy. He come oncet; he come agin, an’ I begin thinkin’ more o’ him then I did o’ the girl. Sometimes it seemed like I was goin’ mad yit I couldn’t do nawthin’ on Hen’s account.Many an afternoon I set here on this wery porch rewolvin’ it over an’ over: ‘Ef I don’t git her I’ll die; ef I git her Hen’ll die; ef Perry gits her both on us’ll die.’ It was a hard puzzle. A couple o’ times I was near solvin’ it be leavin’ the main part o’ the sufferin’ to the other fellys, but then I minded how Hen looked at me that night ez we parted at the fork o’ the road, an’ I sais, ‘I’ll treat no buddy o’ mine mean. Git behind me, Satan, an’ make yerself comf’table tell I need ye.’
“But one afternoon ’hen I was feelin’ petickler low in sperrits, oneasy, onrastless, I seen Perry drivin’ th’oo, his hoss curried tell his coat was smooth ez silk, his buggy shinin’ like it ’ud blind me, an’ him settin’ inside in a full new suit o’ clothes. I knowd she couldn’t stand all that wery long. So after supper I went right over to Wheedle’s to git Hen, ’lowin’ we’d go down to Flower’s an’ let Melissy settle the business be choosin’. He wasn’t een. His ma sayd he’d jest left, but she s’posed he’d be right hum agin. So I fixed meself on the pump trough an’ waited. My, but them hours did drag! The sun set an’ it got dark. I could look down the hill to Flower’s placet an’ see a light twinklin’ in the best room where I knowd she was with Perry. I pictured her at the melodium twiddlin’ her fingers soft-like over the keys while he leaned over her singin’, ‘Thine eyes so blue an’ tender.’ Boys, it was terrible—terrible. The lamp was allus a-twinklin’ to me to hurry up.Then final it seemed to git tired an’ went out. It was only eight o’clock. Now I pictured ’em settin’ in the dark. I wanted to leave right there an’ run down the hill, but I sais, ‘No; I’ll treat no buddy o’ mine mean.’
“By an’ by the moon come up an’ the chickens in the barn quit cluckin’ at the rats. I begin to git dozy an’ leaned my head agin the pump. ’Hen I come to me senses the roosters was crowin’ an’ the light was creepin’ over the ridges yander. I went home. Ez I come ’round the corner o’ the house, there I see Hen Wheedle sound asleep on the back stoop.
“‘Hen,’ sais I, ‘what hev you ben doin’?’
“‘Waitin’ fer you,’ he answers, ez he gits up an’ rubs his eyes. ‘I come over last night to git you an’ go over to Flower’s. Perry’s there.’
“I told him how I’d waited all night fer him, an’ he jest groaned. He had ’em wery bad. I mind oncet readin’ in the weemen’s column in the paper how spilt milk could be sopped up with a sponge. It seemed jest ez tho’ that was what we was doin’ ’hen we went over to Flower’s that mornin’. It was wery early an’ we’d a long time to wait ’fore Melissy come down to git breakfast. Then Hen an’ me stepped inter the kitchen.
“I thot she’d faint.
“‘Why, you’re airly,’ she sais.
“‘We’ve come airly a purpose, Melissy,’ sais I. ‘We wants you to choose atween us.’
“That girl must ’a’ thot a heap o’ one o’ we two—which un I don’t know, but one sure, fer she kind o’ fell agin the table, graspin’ it fer support. She raised her apron over her face an’ gasped like.
“‘Take whichever one ye want,’ sais Hen kind o’ soft.
“She didn’t answer.
“‘Don’t keep us een suspenders,’ sais I.
“Then the apron fell from her face, showin’ it all a rosy red, an’ she tells us, ‘Boys, I’m awful sorry, but you’re late. I tuk Perry last night.’
“Hen an’ me turned on our heels an’ walked out. We didn’t say nawthin’ tell we come to the fork in the road.
“Hen stopped an’ wentured, ‘We’ve ben fools.’
“‘We hev,’ I sais.
“‘Them town fellys doesn’t last long,’ sais he after a spell. ‘She’s like to be a widdy.’
“‘In which caset,’ sais I, our agreement stands. We notify each other ’fore we ast her.’
“‘It does,’ he answers, quiet an’ wery solemn. ‘We’ve allus ben buddies, you an’ me, an’ we allus will be.’
“Melissy Flower become a widdy ez Hen ’lowed an’ a mighty nice un, too. Perry was hardly cold tell me an’ Wheedle was over singin’ duets with her. The ole trouble come on agin fer me worse than ever, but this time I made up memind I wouldn’t be fooled. ’Hen I could stand it no longer, I walks one night over to Wheedle’s to notify him. He wasn’t there. I’d ’a’ gone on to Flower’s but I minded our agreement an’ was true. It was a temptation, but I’d never treat no buddy o’ mine mean. I was true. It come twelve o’clock an’ they was no sign o’ him, so I went back home feelin’ a leetle heavy here.” The old man laid his hand across the watch-pocket of his waistcoat. “Next day they was a postal in the mail fer me. It was from Hen, an’ it run like this: ‘I’m on me way to Flower’s to ast her. I drop this in the box to notify you ez I promised.’
“That’s the way he give me notice. While I was waitin’ to notify him right, he was astin’ her. He done wrong. His conscience was agin him, fer ’hen I went over to his placet to give him an idee what I thot, I found him an’ she hed gone—gone over the mo’ntain yander.”
The Patriarch arose and shook his stick angrily at the distant hills. He shook it until his strength had given out and his anger had ebbed away.
“That was forty year ago,” he said after a long silence, “but ef ever Hen Wheedle comes back I’ll lay this here right hand in hisn an’ say, ’Hen, you done wrong, but you’ve suffered innardly. I fergive ye.’”
The wind rattled the windows and made creepy, unpleasant noises in the trees outside. At long intervals it ventured down the chimney with sudden spurts and playfully blew the smoke out into the room, causing momentary discomfort to the eyes of all three of us. Then as quickly it would retire, giving a triumphant whistle as though it enjoyed the joke hugely. The soot would come tumbling down and envelop the flames in a cloud of black dust. A crackle, a splutter, and the logs blazed up as cheerily as ever.
I stretched my feet toward the fire and buried myself deeper in my great arm-chair. Flash, the setter, curled at my side, poking his nose between his fore-paws, fixed his earnest eyes on a tiny tongue of flame that was eating its way along a gnarled bit of hickory. Facing us, rocking slowly to and fro on two legs of his frail wooden chair, was Theophilus Winter, the lawyer and our companion on many a day’s hunt. This was toTheophilus the acme of comfort, for he had a good cigar for an inspiration and the best of audiences, an intelligent dog and a tired man.
“Yes, as I was saying before that last gust interrupted us, I am not a superstitious man, but as long as no harm can come of it I prefer to plant my garden in the right sign. While I am not in the least superstitious I must confess some timidity on this one point—that is, as to passing the small log house that stands just at the foot of the ridge on the road to Kishikoquillas on the night of the twenty-ninth of December, or indeed almost any time after sunset. Not that I am afraid—far from it—but strange tales have been abroad for the last thirty years regarding the doings there after nightfall. They say that the sound of fiddles can be heard, the clanging of cow-bells and occasionally the dull report of a gun. This, the young folks declare, is the ghosts belling Joe Varner.
“Perhaps you have seen the house of which I have spoken. It stands in a little clearing, about fifty feet from the roadside. The great stone chimney is now almost completely demolished. The plaster daubing has fallen from the chinks between the logs, revealing to the passer-by the barren interior. The glass has been removed from the shattered windows to let the light into some more respectable dwelling. The weeds and briars grow rank over all. The place presented a far differentpicture thirty years ago. Then all was scrupulously clean. Not a stone on the chimney top was out of place, not an iota of daubing had fallen away, nor was the smallest spot left unwhitewashed. Everywhere was the evidence of industry and thrift.
“For twenty years Joe Varner had lived his lonely life there, with no other companion than a mongrel dog. He was a strange man, tall and gaunt in appearance, taciturn and surly in manner, doing his bad deeds in public and his good ones in private, for his pride would not allow him to parade the latter before his neighbors. Yet with it all he was at heart a kindly old fellow who had simply been spoiled by his way of living. And why he had chosen this way was a puzzle to all our people. He was not a native of our county, but had simply appeared one day, bought this secluded plot, built his house and settled here. Twice, leaving no one behind him, he went away, remained a week and then as quietly returned to resume his lonely life. On each occasion his return was marked by a fit of melancholy which attracted the attention but repelled the curiosity of his nearest neighbors. That he had visited his old home in a distant county was all they could ever learn.
“Just thirty years ago this coming December, Varner left for the third time. A week passed, and he did not return. Two weeks went by, andhe was still absent. Strange rumors were abroad as to the cause of this unaccountable delay. When the third week had reached its end he came home, bringing with him a wizened little woman, with a hard face and of a most slovenly appearance. This person he introduced laconically, but with a very evident touch of pride, as his wife.
“Just who the woman was or where from no one knew and none dared ask, but the news of her arrival spread quickly. Here was an opportunity not to be lost—to bell old Joe and his mysterious bride. Never before had the valley made such preparations for a serenade. Full fifty men and boys met at my father’s barn on the night following the old man’s home-coming, and armed with old guns, fiddles, sleigh bells and horns we set out for the scene of our operations. It was a good two mile walk to the house on the ridge, and we reached it just as the full moon was climbing over the tree tops and peeping into the clearing. There was no sign of life anywhere save a few dim rays of light that shone through a crevice in the shutters.
“Silently we stationed ourselves about the cabin. At each corner we placed a horse-fiddle, an unmusical instrument made by drawing the edge of a board, coated with resin, over the corner of a large box. The signal was given, and forthwith arose the greatest din that had ever been heard in our county. The banging of the muskets,the bells, the horns, with the melancholy wail of the horse-fiddles rising above them all, made an indescribable tumult. But the result was not as we had expected. We believed that Joe and his wife would come to the door, bow their acknowledgments and invite us in to a feast of cake and cider, as is the custom. Instead the light died suddenly. No sound was heard within.
“We kept to our work bravely. A half hour passed. Cries of ‘Bring out the bride’ arose above the din, giving evidence that lusty lungs were coming to the aid of wearied limbs. ‘Bring her out. Fetch out Mrs. Varner, Joe!’ we called again and again.
“It was of no avail. An hour passed and not a sign of life had come from the interior of the cabin. The noise began to weaken in volume, the owners of the guns grew chary of wasting their powder, and at last, much to our chagrin, we were compelled to retire to the woods for a consultation.
“A thin stream of smoke pouring from the mouth of the chimney suggested a plan resorted to only on the most desperate occasions—that of smoking out the newly wedded pair. It was the work of but a few minutes to obtain a board suitable for the purpose and for one of the young men to climb to the roof with it. He made his way noiselessly to the peak, laid his burden across the top of the chimney, then crouched low toawait the outcome. The smoke ceased to escape. Another half hour passed and still no sign from the house. Anxious looks appeared on the faces of the serenaders. The man on the roof removed the cover and a dense volume of smoke arose, showing that the fire had done well the work we required. From beneath the doorway, too, a few thin wreaths were circling vaguely out.
“A chill of dread passed over us. It seemed that something out of the ordinary must have happened within. At first we were inclined to the belief that the fact that the smoke had not driven out the occupants of the house proved that it was empty. But we remembered the light that we had seen burning on our approach. It augured evil.
“Four stalwart fellows, holding between them a large log, attacked the door. One blow—it cracked. No sound inside. Another blow and the heavy oak fell back on its hinges. The smoke, released from its prison, poured out in dense clouds, driving the excited bellers from the doorway. One man dashed through it and across the single apartment, which passed as living-room and kitchen, and in another instant the window was up, the shutters open and the wind was whistling through, driving before it the heavy veil that had hidden the interior from our view. The moonlight streamed in.
“There, sitting in a great wooden rocking-chair,his feet resting almost in the fire, his head fallen low upon his breast, his stern, hard features calmly set as if in sleep, sat he whom we had come to bell—dead. On the spotless table by his side stood a candlestick from which the candle had burned away, only a bit of charred taper remaining to tell us that in all likelihood Joe had died before we reached his home and that the last spark of the unattended light had fluttered out, just as we began the hideous turmoil outside. Clutched in the old man’s right hand was the explanation of his lonely life as well as of the grewsome ending of the great belling.”
Theophilus Winter ceased his narration. He drew out his pocketbook and after fumbling a moment in its recesses, took from it a bit of paper. It was yellow with age and soiled, and the writing on it had almost faded out, but I could read: “Deer Joe—you and me was never ment for one another. i knowed that 40 years ago and thats wi i run way with si tompson, you was good to take me back them too other times i left, this last time i thought i was gettin to old an you was so fergivin i had better spend my las days with you. i cant stand the quiet country livin an am gone back to harrisburg. they aint no one with me. fergive me. i gess youll be better off without your old wife—sarah.”
“Anything new ben happenin’ to you uns, Trampy?” asked the Chronic Loafer. “We ain’t seen ye ’bout these parts sence corn-plantin’ a year.”
“Nothin’ unusu’l,” replied the Tramp, laying on the porch his stick and the bandana handkerchief that contained his wardrobe. He seated himself on the step. “Nothin’ unusu’l. I wintered in Philadelphy an’ started fer these parts in May.”
“Seems like you’re lookin’ mighty glum,” said the Storekeeper. He had ceased his whittling and was examining every detail of the wanderer’s dress and physiognomy. “Might s’pose ye was in love agin.”
The traveller sighed.
“You air the sentimentalist tramp I ever seen,” the Miller cried. “Every time ye comes th’oo these parts, it’s a new un. Does ye think the weemen is so almighty blind ez to git struck on a hoodoo like you?”
“I keeps me passions an’ me shortcomin’s to meself,” replied the wanderer after he had lighted his corncob pipe. “I’ve had a heap o’ hard luck. I wouldn’t min’ gittin’ in love or in jail fer murder sep’rate, but both at oncet is too much even fer a man like me.”
“Hedgins!” the Loafer exclaimed, edging toward the end of the bench furthest from the vagrant. “In jail fer murder!”
A faint smile flitted across the face of the Tramp. Then he began his story:
“In jail fer murder an’ in love wit’ the Sher’ff’s dotter—that’s exactly what happened to me. It’s onjust; it ain’t right, it ain’t, even fer a man o’ my shortcomin’s. Let’s see. This is hay harvest, ain’t it. Well, it was jest about corn-plantin’ it all come about. I’d been workin’ me way easy up along the Sussykehanner, an’ one night put up wit’ an ole feller named Noah Punk, who lived in a lawg house at the foot o’ the big mo’ntain this side o’ Pillersville. They was no one there but him an’ his woman. She was a bad-tempered creetur’ an’ made things hum ’round that ranch when me an’ the ole man was playin’ kyards after supper. They put me to bed in the garret, an’ next day I set out agin. Punk he sayd he’d walk up the road a piece wit’ me, an’ he did. We parted at a crossroads two mile from his house. That was the last I ever seen of him. I’d never thot no more of him nuther ef it hedn’t been thattwo days later, when I was joggin’ easy like into Jimstontown, I was ’rested—’rested, mind ye, fer the murder o’ Noah Punk. I never knowd jest what it was all ’bout tell I was comf’table fixed in the kyounty jail. An’ then I didn’t keer, fer I’d met the Sher’ff’s dotter.
“Oh, but she was a star! Jest ez plump ez ye make ’em, wit’ a dimple, an’ yaller shiny hair, an’ jest ez red ez a ripe rambo apple. When she brought me up me supper the fust night, I ast her what I was up fer, an’ she tol’ me.
“It seems like no one ever seen Noah Punk after him an’ me left the house. He never come back, an’ when they hunted fer him they found nothin’ but one o’ his ole shoes, all covered wit’ blood, be the canal where him an’ me parted. They ’rested me bekase I was last seen wit’ him. Then the Sher’ff wanted to hang some un.
“When I heard that I was kind o’ tired, an’ fer a time jest held me head down, never sayin’ nothin’. Then I looks up an’ seen Em’ly standin’ there so sorrerful.
“‘How long’ll it be tell they hangs me?’ I ast.
“‘They’ll try you next month,’ she sais. ‘Then I’d ’low another month tell——’ She bust plum inter tears.
“‘Two months, Em’ly,’ sais I, I sais, ‘an’ you feeds the prisoners. They’ll be the bless’dest two months o’ me life.’
“‘Deed, an’ that’s jest how I felt. Them wordswas true ef I ever sayd a true word. The bless’dest two months o’ my life.
“But them days did fly! I never thot no more o’ Noah Punk or o’ hangin’. It was all of Em’ly. They was four other prisoners in the jail, an’ I never played no kyards wit’ them, but jest sot a-thinkin’ o’ her. She use ter bring us our meals three times a day. Quick ez I’d finish eatin’ I’d set waitin’ fer her to come agin. Jail was a happy place fer me. I never wanted to leave it.
“You uns otter ’a’ seen me in them days. I wasn’t sich a bum ez I am now. The Sher’ff give me a shave an’ a new suit. Puttin’ all in all, I was a pretty slick lookin’ individu’l—no red hair an’ whiskers shootin’ out in all directions, makin’ me look like an’ ile lamp, ez I hear one feller put it. Me coat didn’t hang like curtains, an’ me pants was all made o’ the same piece o’ goods. I was a dude, I was, in spite o’ me present shortcomin’s in that respect. Sometim’s I think mebbe Em’ly thot so too, fer she use to allus give me a bigger potaty than the other fellers. They guyed me a heap about it.
“A month went by, an’ I was gittin’ wus an’ wus, when they tuk me out an’ tried me fer killin’ Noah Punk. They was a smart little chap they called the ’strict ’torney what done all the work agin me. He showed the jury Punk’s bloody shoe an’ my clothes. A doctor sayd the spots onmy clothes was huming blood. They was, but it was mine, an’ it got there be my leanin’ agin a nail. Missus Punk told how I slep’ at the house. Another feller sayd how he’d seen me an’ Punk walkin’ along the canal. I ’lowed I didn’t kill Punk an’ that jedgin’ from what I seen o’ Missus Punk, he’d ’a’ thanked me ef I had. Missus Punk an’ the ’strict ’torney got riled at that, an’ the jedge come down so hard I didn’t dast say another word. Then the jury found I was guilty, an’ the jedge ’lowed they’d hang me that day four weeks. But I didn’t keer, fer it was one month more in jail to be fed be Em’ly.
“That night she brought me a bigger potaty ’an ever. When I seen it I sais, sais I, ‘Em’ly, will you be sorry when I’m goin’?’
“‘’Deed an’ I will, Tom,’ sais she.
“‘Then I’ll be glad to go,’ sais I. An’ ’bout half that potaty went down inter me lungs, I choked so bad.”
The Chronic Loafer observed, “It do seem like Em’ly were jest a leetle gone, Trampy.”
“Mebbe she was. I don’t know. But that very night the other pris’ners onloosed all the locks wit’ a penknife. They wanted me to go. I ’lowed I’d stay. I never let on what was wrong, but sayd I was an innercent man an’ wouldn’t run. They give me the laugh, an’ that was the last I ever seen of ’em.
“The day o’ the hangin’ come. I’d ben gittin’wus an’ wus ’bout the Sher’ff’s dotter. I didn’t keer much ’bout goin’, but I hated to leave the ole jail. I’d a heap sight ruther ’a’ gone, tho’, wit’ flyin’ colors an’ hed her sorry then to ’a’ ben kicked out to trampin’. Em’ly didn’t give me breakfas’ that mornin’. Instead, the Sher’ff served me chicken an’ eggs an’ a lot of other things they only gives a tramp ’fore they hangs ’im. He togged me out in a nice fittin’ black suit and tuk me out ter go. Mighty, but they was a crowd to see me off! The jail-yard was filled with prom’nent citizens; the housetops an’ trees around the wall was jest black wit’ men an’ boys. I braced right up an’ never feazed a bit when I seen the rope. The Sher’ff sayd I could make a speech, so I gits up an’ sais, easy like,’Me frien’s,’ I sais, ‘I haven’t no regrets in leavin’ this ’ere world, fer I hain’t been onduly conf’table. It’s the jail I’ll miss, an’ the Sher’ff’s pretty dotter. I’ve——’
“Jest then the Sher’ff yelled, ‘Hold on!’
“I turned an’ seen him readin’ a letter. It had come from Noah Punk out in Kansas. He sayd he wrote bekase he seen be the papers they was hangin’ a man fer killin’ him. He wanted to explain that he was still livin’ an’ hed only run away from Mrs. Punk. The blood on his shoes come from his steppin’ on a piece of glass. He’d tuk off his boots an’ gone west on a freight.
“When the crowd hear that they give theSher’ff a groan. The Sher’ff he got mad, an’ tuk all me new duds, give me me ole ones an’ turned me looset.
“I was a common ord’nary tramp an’ I was clean discouratched. I knowd I’d never have Em’ly feed me agin ’less I got back in that jail, so I set right down on the steps. The Sher’ff jest wouldn’t ’rest me but druv me off wit’ a club. I busted two o’ his winders next day. Still he wouldn’t ’rest me. I broke three more winders an’ he nabbed me. I was nigh tickled to death wit’ me luck. But then I hain’t no luck. That there man treated me jest the way a farmer does a cat that eats chickens. He put me on a train, tuk me out to Altony an’ turned me looset.”
The Tramp sighed and puffed vigorously on his pipe.
“An’ now what air ye doin’?” asked the Storekeeper.
“What else ’ud a man do?” replied the traveller. “I’m hustlin’ jest ez fast ez I kin to git back to that jail. An’ I’m goin’ ter git in it. I’ll never eat another potaty onless it comes from the hand o’ the Sher’ff’s dotter.”
“Does you know what I wisht?” inquired the Chronic Loafer earnestly.
“What?”
“I wisht Noah Punk hedn’t wrote that letter.”
The last red rays of the evening sun disappeared below the mountains and the gray twilight settled over the valley. The mill ceased its rumbling. The mower that all day long had been clicking merrily in the meadow behind the store stood silent in the swaths, and the horses that had drawn it were playfully dipping their noses in the cool waters of the creek. The birds—the plover, the lark and the snipe that had whistled since daybreak over the fields and the robins and sparrows that had chirped overhead in the trees—had long since made themselves comfortable for the impending night. By and by the woods beyond the flats assumed a formless blackness and from their dark midst came the lonely call of the whippoorwill. The horses splashed out of the creek and clattered through the village to the white barn at the end of the street. The Miller padlocked the heavy door of the mill and bid good night to his helper, who trudged away over the bridge swinging his dinner pail. Then he beatthe flour out of his cap on the hitching-post and lounged up to the store. He threw himself along the floor, and after propping his back against a pillar, lighted his pipe.
“‘Hen it comes to fiddlin’,” the Chronic Loafer was saying, “they is few men can beat Sam Washin’ton. Why I’ve knowd him to set down at a party at seven at night an’ fiddle till six next mornin’ an’ play a different tune every time.”
“Did you ever hear o’ Hiram Gum?” asked the Patriarch.
“Hiram Gum!” cried the G. A. R. Man. “My father used often to speak o’ him, but he was afore my time. Drowned in the canal.”
“Wonderful, wonderful, I’ve heard tell,” exclaimed the Miller. “I can jest remember seein’ him oncet ’hen I was a wee bit o’ a boy—a leetle man with long hair an’ big eyes an’ a withered arm.”
“Yes, yes,” the old man murmured, beating his stick upon the porch. “An’ a wonderful fiddler was Hiram Gum. They was few ’round these parts could han’le a bow with that man.”
“But Sam Washin’ton’s the best fiddler they is,” the Loafer interposed emphatically.
“My dear man, Hiram Gum was more’n an earthly fiddler,” the Patriarch retorted. “He hed charms. He knowd words.”
“I don’t b’lieve in them charms furder then they ’fect snakes an’ bees.”
“But Hiram Gum was more’n an ord’nary man, an’ I otter know, fer I remember him well. He was leetle, ez the Miller sayd, an’ hed long black hair an’ a red beard that waved all around his neck, an’ big black eyes, an’ cheeks that shined like they was scoured. Then his left arm was all withered an’ wasn’t no use exceptin’ that he could crook it up like an’ work the long fingers on the fiddle-strings. No one knowd how old Hiram was, no more’n they knowd where he come from ’hen he settled up the walley sixty years ago, fer he never sayd. No one ever dast ask him ’bout sech things, fer he’d jest look black an’ say nawthin’, an’ give you sech a glance with them big eyes that you felt all creepy. Aside from that he was allus a pleasant, cheery kind of a man, an’ talked entertainin’, fer he’d traveled a heap.
“Hiram settled in a little lawg house that stood on South Ridge near where Silver’s peach orchard is now. Peter Billings’s farm joined his lot, an’ it wasn’t long ’fore the leetle man tuk to strollin’ over to see his neighbors of an evenin’. By an’ by he seemed to take a considerable shine fer Peter’s dotter Susan. First no one thot nawthin’ of it, fer it hairdly seemed likely that ez pretty a girl ez she would care much about sech a dried-up leetle speciment ez Hiram Gum. Besides, fer a long time she’d ben keepin’ company with young Jawhn McCullagh, whose father owned ’bout the best piece o’ farmin’ land up the walley.He was a big, fine-lookin’ felly, a bit o’ a boaster, an’ with a likin’ fer his own way.
“So no one ever dreamt anything ’ud come o’ Hiram Gum loafin’ over at Billings’s. But, boys, ’hen you’ve lived ez long ez I hev, an’ seen ez much o’ the worl’ ez I hev, you’ll come to the conclusion that they is a heap o’ truth in the old sayin’ that matches is made in Heaven. But it do seem sometim’s like they wasn’t much time or thot spent in the makin’. Fust thing we heard that Hi hed ben drove off the Billings’s place an’ Susan was kep’ locked in her room fer a week. An’ sech a change ez come over that man. It was airly in the spring ’hen it happened. He’d allus met a man with a hearty ‘howde’ before, but after that he never spoke ’hen he passed. From one o’ the pleasantest o’ men he become one o’ the blackest. From comin’ to store every day, he got to comin’ only ’hen he needed things. The rest o’ the time he spent mopin’ up in his placet on the hill. Susan changed too. She lost color an’ got solemn like. Many a time I seen her leanin’ over the gate, lookin’ away up the ridge to where Hiram’s placet lay.
“Then come the Lander’s big party. It was the last o’ the season fer the hot weather was near ’hen they wasn’t no time fer swingin’ corners, let alone the overheatin’ that ’ud come by it, so everybody in the walley was there. Young an’ old danced that night. They was three sets inthe settin’-room an’ two in the kitchen; they was two in the entry an’ one on the porch. Save fer layin’ off at ten o’clock fer sweet-cake an’ cider we done wery leetle restin’. They was mighty few wanted to rest much ’hen Hiram Gum played. He’d no sooner tuk his placet in the corner then every inch o’ the floor was covered with sets. Bow yer corners! an’ we was off.”
The old man beat his stick on the porch and waved his body to and fro.
“My, but that was fiddlin’! It jest went th’oo a man like one o’ them ’lectric shockin’ machines. Yer feet was started an’ away ye went; ole Hiram settin’ there with his withered arm crooked up to hold the fiddle, the long, crooked fingers flyin’ over the strings, the bow goin’ so fast ye could hairdly see it, his big black eyes lookin’ down inter the instermen’, his long hair an’ beard wavin’ ez he swung to an’ fro. Now yer own! Oh, them was dancin’ days ’hen Hi Gum played!
“They never was a more inweterate hat-passer then Hiram, fer be his playin’ he made his livin’, an’ never a note ’ud he make tell they was fifty cents in his ole white beaver. Then he’d play that out an’ ’round he’d come agin. That night he didn’t ast a cent, but jest sat there glum an’ never oncet stopped the music.
“Susan was a wonderful dancer—jest ez quick ez a flash, untirin’, an’ so light on her feet that yefelt like ye was holtin’ to a fairy ’hen ye swung corners with her. She was on the floor continual’. I done one set with her an’ noticed how she could scarce keep her eyes offen Hi. She only danced one set with McCullagh an’ lay kind o’ limp like in swingin’ corners an’ didn’t say nawthin’, so ’hen they finished he left the house. I seen him go out o’ the door with a black look in his face.
“Most all hed gone ’hen I left Lander’s airly in the mornin’. We lived over the river, an’ ez they wasn’t no bridge we use to cross in a couple o’ ole boats that was kep’ tied along the bank jest below the canal lock. I went down over the flat an’ th’oo the woods tell I come to the canal, where I crossed the lock an’ walked along the towpath, whistlin’ all the time fer company. It was a clear night. The moon was shinin’ bright th’oo the trees. The canal was on one side o’ me, an’ th’oo the open places in the bushes on the other I could see the river gleamin’ along. I got to the bend jest a couple of hundred yards above where the boats lay an’ was jest steppin’ out inter the clearin’ there ’hen sudden I heard a loud voice. I stopped. Then it come louder, an’ I recognized Jawhn McCullagh’s rough talk. I went cautious tell I was out o’ the woods. There, jest ahead, I seen him, near the path, facin’ ole Hiram Gum, who, with his fiddle under his arm, was standin’ with his back to the canal, lookin’ quiet at thebig felly. I dropped to the ground an’ watched, scarce breathin’ I was so excited.
“Jawhn raised a heavy stick, an’ shook it, an’ stepped slow-like toward the leetle fiddler, crowdin’ him nearer the bank.
“‘Hiram Gum!’ he sayd, ‘I’ve hed ’nough o’ you. Git out o’ this country an’ never come back, or you’ll never fiddle agin!’
“Hiram lowered his fiddle an’ answered, ‘You can’t skeer me, Jawhn McCullagh, fer Susan doesn’t keer fer you!’
“‘You sha’n’t run off with her!’ the other yelled, shakin’ his stick.
“I could see his face workin’ ez he swung his club up an’ down, an’ step be step kep’ edgin’ the leetle felly nearer the wotter. I jest lay tremblin’, I was that frightened, fer I was but a lad in them days. I knowd I otter run out an’ stop it, but ’fore I got me couritch up I hear the soft notes o’ the fiddle. There was ole Hiram with his withered hand holdin’ the instermen’, his long fingers flyin’ over the strings, the bow slidin’ slow like up an’ down.
“‘Swing yer corners, Jawhn!’ he cried, fixin’ them black eyes on the big feller.
“Then the notes come quick an’ short. Jawhn’s stick dropped, an’ his arm fell limp like. He passed one hand confused over his forehead. He bowed. The notes come faster. In another minute he was swingin’ corners with his arms graspin’the air. The dead sticks cracked under his feet ez he flung around. An’ ez ole Hi called the figgers he followed him, yellin’ ’em louder an’ kickin’ like mad. It was the wildest dancin’ ever I seen. He bowed an’ twisted, back’ard an’ for’a’d, an’ chassayed an’ chained, his feet movin’ faster an’ faster ez the notes come quicker an’ quicker an’ the bow slid to an’ fro like lightnin’. Ole Hiram kep’ movin’ ’round cautious like, never takin’ his eyes off the dancer tell he was on the river side an’ Jawhn skippin’ ’round on the beaten towpath.
“Them was awful minutes fer me. I could do nawthin’, fer the playin’ kind o’ spelled me. ’Hen I seen the fiddler begin to move toward the canal an’ the mad dancin’ felly backin’ nearer an’ nearer the bank, I tried to git up but I kicked out with both feet an’ fell sprawlin’ on the groun’.
“‘Back to your corner, Jawhn!’ the ole man called.
“‘Corners next!’ yelled the dancer, kickin’ up his heels an’ th’owin’ out his arms like he was grabbin’ somethin’. Then come an awful cry. They was a splash. He’d gone over the bank.
“I jumped out, fer the music hed stopped, an’ started toward the spot. But ’fore I got there Hiram hed th’owed away his fiddle an’ run to the canal, an’ was down on his knees starin’ inter the wotter. A head come above the surface.Then an arm reached wildly out. The ole man bent over an’ grasped the hand. But it wasn’t no uset, fer he’d nawthin’ to support himself with. He took holt o’ the bank with his withered fingers, but the arm give ’way an’ he toppled over. Fer a minute all was still. I leaned over the wotter an’ waited. They was a ripple toward the middle, an’ two heads come up. I seen Hiram Gum’s long black hair an’ beard an’ his drawn face ez he looked at the sky overhead. Then they disappeared agin. The surface of the canal become quiet an’ still like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’. Then I turned an’ run.
“I flew along the towpath, acrosst the clearin’, inter the woods agin, an’ down toward the river where the boats lay hid among the willer bushes. An’ ez I went crashin’ th’oo the branches I hear a girl’s voice callin’.
“‘Hiram,’ she sais, ‘why was you fiddlin’? I thot you was never comin’.’
“Another second an’ I was th’oo the willers an’ on the bank. There, settin’ in a boat, her hands on the oars ready to pull away, was Susan Billings.”
The Patriarch beat his cane softly on the floor and hummed a snatch of a tune.
There came a short, quick puffing as the Loafer drew on his pipe, until the bright coals shone in the darkness.
“But Sam Washin’ton——”
The old man arose slowly.
“I don’t keer ’bout Sam Washin’ton. I must be goin’ home. I’ll git the rhuem’tism on sech a night sure, fer I’ve no horse-chestnut in me pocket.”