The Calico Cat

by Charles Miner Thompson

  Cat licking paw.]

  II

  Meanwhile, at the Edwards house, life had grown suddenlyinteresting.

  When the report of the gun reached Jim, he had stopped pawing overthe apple barrel, and was sitting on the upper step of the staircaseat the extreme end of the loft, slowly munching an apple andthinking.

  Jim was a healthy, active boy, with no more sense than naturallybelongs to a boy of fifteen, and with a lively imagination, whichhad been most unfortunately overstimulated. Without a mother, andwith a father who paid him scant attention, he read whatever heliked, and as a result, his head was full of romantic road-agentsdelightfully kind to little crippled daughters at home, fiercepirates who supported aged and respectable mothers, and consideratebandits who restored valuable watches when told that they wereprized on account of tender associations.

  His imagination had been still further fed by certain local legendsand happenings, highly colored enough to excite the keenestinterest. Ellmington is, as has been said, near the Canadian border.The place abounds in tales of smuggling, and the popular gossip, asgossip everywhere has a pleasing way of doing, associates the namesof the most respectable and unlikely people with the disreputableventures of the smugglers.

  Of course a story of contraband trade is the more striking if thenarrator can hint that the judge of probate or the most stern ofvillage deacons might tell a good deal if he were disposed, andthere are always persons ready to give this sort of interest totheir "yarns."

  In Ellmington lived Jake Farnum, an ex-deputy marshal and anincorrigible liar, about whom gathered the boys, Jim among them, tohear exciting stories of chase and detection, exactly as boys in aseaport town gather about an old sailor to hear tales of pirates andbuccaneers. And Jake loved to hint darkly that the best peopleshared in the illicit traffic.

  With it all, Jim's sense of right and wrong was in a fair way tobecome hopelessly "mixed." Exactly as boys at the seashore are proneto believe that a pirate is, on the whole, an admirable character,so these border boys, and especially Jim, had come to feel--onlywith more excuse, because of the generally indulgent view of thecommunity--that smuggling is an occupation in which any one mayengage with credit, and which is much more interesting than most.

  Now it is not likely that Jim's father, a stern, secretive,obviously prosperous man, with an intermittent business whichtook him back and forth across the border, could in all thisgossip escape a touch of suspicion. No one, of course, deniedthat he really did deal in lumber and cattle; the fact wasobvious. But there were hints and whispers, shrewd shakingsof the head, and more than one "guessed" that all Edwards'sprofits "didn't come from cattle, no, nor lumber, neither."

  Latterly these whispers had become more definite. Pete Lamoury,a French-Canadian, whom Mr. Edwards had hired as a drover, andabruptly discharged, was spreading stories about his formeremployer which made Blackbeard, the pirate, seem like a babe bycomparison. Pete was not a very credible witness; but still,building upon a suspicion that already existed, he succeeded inadding something to its substantiality.

  These stories had come to Jim's ears, and Jim was delighted. Theconsideration that, were the stories true, his father was a criminaldid not occur to him at all. Like the foolish, romantic boy he was,he was simply pleased to think of his father as a man of irondetermination, cool wit, unshakable courage, whom no deputy sheriffcould over-match, and who was leading a life full of excitement anddanger--the smuggler king! The only thing that Jim regretted wasthat his father did not let him share in these exploits. He knew hecould be useful! But his father's manner was habitually soforbidding that Jim did not dare hint a knowledge of these probableundertakings, much less any desire to share them.

  Poor Mr. Edwards! He loved his boy, but did not in the least knowhow to show it. Silent, with a sternness of demeanor which he wasunable wholly to lay aside even in his friendliest moments, muchaway from home, and unable to meet the boy on his own level when hewas there, deprived of the wife who might have been his interpreter,he had no way of becoming acquainted with his son. Anxious in someway to share in Jim's life, he took the clumsy and mistaken methodof letting him have too much pocket-money.

  Yet if Jim, thus unguided and overindulged, had gone astray in hisconduct, Mr. Edwards was not the man to know his mistake and takethe blame. He had in him a rigidity of moral judgment, a dryness ofmind which made it certain that if Jim did do what he disapproved,he would visit upon him a punishment at once severe andunsympathetic. The man's air of cold strength excited in the sonfear as well as admiration; his reserve kept his naturallyaffectionate boy at more than arm's length. Poor Mr. Edwards! PoorJim! Misunderstanding between them was as sure to occur as the riseof to-morrow's sun.

  Pat on Jim's speculations about his father's stirring deeds, thegunshot came echoing through the silent barn. Jim ran to the loftdoor and looked out. He saw smoke curling up from the window of his"den," and knew that it was his own gun that had been fired. Back inthe room, a vague masculine figure moved hastily out of the door.Jim looked toward the orchard, and caught sight of another mandisappearing in the trees. He was wild with excitement. As he knewthat his father was the only person in the house, he was sure thathis father had fired the shot.

  The tales that he had heard, his belief in his father's life ofadventure, made him conclude that here was some smuggler's quarrel.So vividly did the notion take possession of his inflamedimagination that nothing henceforth could shake it. He simply_knew_ what had happened.

  And his father had fled, leaving all the evidences of his shotbehind him! Jim's loyal heart bounded; here he could help. Heturned, raced across the loft, clattered down the steep, cobwebbystairs, slipped through the shed passage, through the kitchen, andon into his own room.

  He knew what to do. Nothing must show that the gun had ever beenused! He set feverishly to work. He swabbed out the weapon, and hungit on its rack over the mantel. He tossed the rags into thefireplace and covered them with ashes. He put the shot-pouch and thepowder-flask into their proper drawer. Then he pulled a chair to thetable and set himself to a pretended study of Caesar. If any oneshould come, it would look as if he had been quietly studying allthe morning.

  All this had cost considerable self-denial; for of course he boiledwith curiosity about the man in the orchard. He did not dare to goout there, but now, stealthily glancing out of the window, he sawhis father returning from the garden with long strides. Jimunderstood. His father, going out at the front door, had slippedround to the side of the house, so that it would look as if he hadcome from the street.

  He was not surprised that his father looked stern and angry. Thatfellow must have done something mighty mean, he thought, to make hisfather shoot; and he admired at once the magnanimity and the skillwhich had merely winged the man, as he supposed, by way, presumably,of teaching him a lesson. Then, struck by the boldness and opennessof his father's return to the house, Jim suddenly felt that he hadbeen foolish; that the cleaning of the gun had not been needed.What man would dare, after such a lesson, to complain against hisfather!

  Mr. Edwards walked straight into Jim's room. Aroused from his nap bythe shot, he had leaped to the window and seen the man fall. He hadthen turned and run downstairs so quickly that he had not seen thefellow half-rise and crawl into the bushes; and, having reached thespot, he was much relieved, if somewhat staggered, to find no body.He did find tracks, for this was plowed ground; but they told himnothing of the wounded man except that he had left in a hurry on apair of rather large feet.

  He looked about for a while, and then started toward the house,determined to have an explanation with Jim. He knew Jim's gun by thesound of its report, and felt no doubt that the boy had fired theshot. What sort of culpable accident had happened?

  Suffering still with the splitting headache which he had been tryingto sleep off, angry with Jim for his carelessness, concerned lestthe man were really injured, Mr. Edwards was in his leastcompromising mood.

  "How did it happen?" he asked, without pre
face. His tones wereharsh, and he fixed Jim with stern eyes.

  "How did it happen!" repeated Jim, in pure surprise. Certainly hisfather knew much better than he how it had happened.

  "Speak out!" said Mr. Edwards, impatiently. "How did you come toshoot that man? I want to know about it."

  "Me!" cried Jim, in complete bewilderment. "I--I haven't shot anyman, father! You know I haven't."

  Mr. Edwards, never a man of nice observation, and now bewilderedwith anger and headache, took his son's genuine astonishment formere pretense and subterfuge. Were not the facts plain?

  "I don't want any nonsense about this," he said incisively. "Iheard your gun. I saw the man fall. No one else but you couldpossibly have fired it. It's useless to lie, and I won't standit. Tell me at once what happened."

  "I didn't shoot him, father. You _know_ I didn't!" reiterated Jim,more and more dumfounded. "I don't know how it happened, honestInjun--I don't, father!"

  Mr. Edwards's mouth shut tight. He swept the room with his eyesuntil they rested upon the gun in the rack over the mantelpiece.

  He stepped forward, took it down, and examined it. Holding it in hishands, he gazed about the floor. A rag which the ashes in thefireplace had not wholly covered caught his attention.

  "You cleaned the gun and put it away," he said grimly. "Then youtried to hide the rag with which you cleaned it," and he touched thebit of cloth sticking from the ashes contemptuously with his foot."What do you expect me to think from that?"

  Jim was silent. The boy was unlike his father in many ways, but theywere alike in this: they both were proud. Each would meet an unjustaccusation in silence. And Jim was beginning to show another of hisfather's characteristics. A still anger was beginning to burn in himagainst this man who accused him of a deed which he himself haddone, and he felt rising within him a stubborn will to endure, notto surrender. If his father was going to act like that, why, lethim--

  "Where is your shot-pouch?" asked Mr. Edwards.

  Jim motioned toward the drawer.

  "Is your powder-flask there, too?"

  "Yes."

  Mr. Edwards was silent After all, he was a just man. He was trying,as well as his headache would let him, to see things straight.

  "It's plain what happened," he said at last. "You had an accidentand got frightened. You cleaned your gun, you hid the rags, you putaway your ammunition, you got your books and pretended to study.You're afraid to tell the truth now."

  Jim's face flushed hotly, but he kept silent. Such assurance, suchcruelty, he had never imagined. If this was what smugglers werelike--if this was a sample of their tricks--

  "I'll give you one more chance to tell the truth," said Mr. Edwards."Did you do it?"

  "No, I didn't!" said Jim, and his jaw snapped close like hisfather's.

  "Very well," said Mr. Edwards. "I'll leave you until you changeyour mind. You will stay here. Sarah will bring you bread and milkat supper-time. If you're willing to talk to me then, you may tellher that you'd like to see me."

  He turned to go, then paused.

  "It's a serious matter; and all the facts are against you. It wouldgo hard with you in court. It will go harder if you stick to yourstubborn and foolish lie. One thing more: if you don't choose totell the truth, you will have to reckon with the law as well aswith me."

  Mr. Edwards, upon this, shut the door and departed. His was a sternfigure, but the hurt within was very sore. This, then, he reflectedbitterly, was the kind of boy he had. He suffered deeply at thediscovery, which for him was unquestionable.

  Jim felt outraged. He had done his loyal best to save his fatherfrom the consequences of his rash act, and now, with incredibleingenuity and cool injustice, his father was using his son's acts ofhelpfulness to make it appear that he had done the deed. Without ascruple, his father had made him a scapegoat.

  Jim told himself that he would gladly have taken the blame had hisfather, as chief of the band, demanded the sacrifice of this, hisdevoted follower. Nay, more, he would have endured the ordealwithout a murmur had his father, deeming it unsafe to enter intoformal explanations, only hinted to him that this was a farce whichthey two must play together. If his father had only winked at him!Surely he might have done that with safety! But not to be admittedto the secret,--not to be allowed to play the heroic part,--to beused as an ignoble tool by a father who neither loved him nor knewhis courage,--that was too much! He would not betray his father--no,a thousand times, no! But the day would come--

  The afternoon dragged on. Jim sat there in his room, looking outinto the pleasant sunshine, conscious that the boys were playing"three old cat" in the field not faraway--as rebellious andmagnanimous, as hot and angry, as heroic and morally muddled a boyas one could wish to see. And looking at the affair from his pointof view, not many people will blame him. It is delightful, ofcourse, to have a pirate chief for father; but what if he makes youwalk the plank?

  It is amusing to think of Mr. Peaslee and Jim each shut up in hisrespective room; but if Mr. Peaslee in his gloomy parlor--faced bythe crayon portrait of his masterful wife, a vase of wax flowersunder a glass dome, the family Bible on a marble-topped table, andthree stiff horsehair-covered chairs--had the advantage of beingable to leave at any moment, he was even more perturbed in mind.

  "Terrible awk'ard mess," he kept repeating to himself, as he moppedhis damp forehead with his handkerchief, "terrible awk'ard." Andindeed it would be awkward for a respectable citizen with politicalaspirations to be accused before a grand jury of which he is amember of assault with a dangerous weapon upon an inoffensive man.

  Mr. Peaslee's reflections rose in a strophe of hope and fell in anantistrophe of despair.

  "'T ain't likely it hurt him any--just bird shot," said Hope.

  "Bird shot's mighty irritatin'--specially to a wrathy fellow," saidDespair.

  And alternating thus, his thoughts ran on: "Bird shot'll show Ididn't have any serious _in_tent; but mebbe a piece of the marblestruck him. He went off mighty lively; don't seem as if he'd beenhurt _much_; more scared hurt, likely. But he might have been hurtbad, arm or suthin', mebbe. Marble! 'T ain't anythin' but bakedclay; split all to pieces prob'ly--but ye can't tell. I've heard yecan shoot a taller candle through an inch plank--and that'sconsid'able softer than a marble. And that pesky cat's jest asfrisky as ever!"

  Had any one seen him? There certainly had not been any one in thestreet, but where had been Mr. Edwards, Jim, the housekeeper? Wherehad his own wife been? There were windows from which she might haveseen him returning, some from which she might even have seen himfire the fatal shot. But pshaw, there now! Probably no one had seenhim at all, not even his wife, not even his victim! Probably no onewould ever find out.

  "Must have been some worthless feller, stealin' apples, mebbe, whowon't dare make a fuss. 'T ain't likely I'll ever hear anythin' ofit. 'T ain't no use sayin' anythin' till suthin' happens. What folksdon't know don't hurt 'em none."

  The structure of comfort which he thus built himself was shakyindeed, but it had to serve. He nerved himself to meet his wife. Hemust not excite her suspicion by too long an absence. She wasdoubtless full of curiosity, for of course she had heard the shot,and would expect him to know what it meant.

  It would not do to seem to enter the house by the front door, sacredto formal occasions, so, sneaking outdoors again, he slipped roundto the side of the house, and with much trepidation went into thekitchen.

  His wife began the moment she saw him. "Well, of all the crazycarryings on!" she cried. "What's the Ed'ards boy firin' off gunsfor, right under peaceable folks' windows? I'm goin' to speak to Mr.Ed'ards right off."

  "Now don't ye, Sarepty, now don't ye!" said Mr. Peaslee, in alarm.

  Relieved as he was to find himself unsuspected, he did not like theidea of having his wife pick a quarrel with Mr. Edwards for what hehimself had done! The less said about that shot the better he wouldbe pleased.

  "For the land's sake, why not, I should like to know?"

  "Well, now, Sarepty,
I wouldn't. That Ed'ards boy ain't more of aboy than most boys, I guess. Always seemed a real peaceable littlefeller. And Ed'ards is kinder touchy, I guess. It might make hardfeelin'. 'T wouldn't look well for us to speak, bein' newcomers so.I wouldn't, Sarepty, I wouldn't. Mebbe some time I'll slide in aword, just slide it in kinder easy, if he does it again."

  And Mr. Peaslee looked appealingly at his wife through his bigspectacles, his eyes looking very large and pathetic through thestrong lenses.

  "Humph!" said his wife, unmoved. "I ain't afraid of Ed'ards, if yoube."

  Nor could she be moved from her determination. Mr. Peaslee wasvastly disturbed.

  But presently he forgot this small annoyance in greater ones. Thatevening after tea, when he went up to the post-office, he heard thatPete Lamoury had been shot by Jim Edwards, and was now in bed withhis wounds. Jim's arrest was predicted. Young Farnsworth, who keptthe crockery store, told him the news. And presently Jake Hibbard,the worst "shyster" in the village, shuffled in--noticeable anywherefor his suit of rusty black, his empty sleeve pinned to his coat,the green patch over his eye, and his tobacco-stained lips. Heconfirmed the report.

  "Pete's hurt bad," he said, shaking his head, "hurt bad. I've takenhis case. Young Edwards is going to see trouble."

  The speech frightened poor Mr. Peaslee, and he was hardly reassuredby the skeptical smile of Squire Tucker, and his remark that hewould believe that Lamoury was hurt when he saw him. The squire hadsmall faith in either Lamoury or Hibbard. He knew them both.

  But Mr. Peaslee returned home with dragging feet. Silent andpreoccupied all the evening, he went to bed early--but not to sleep.Long he lay awake and tossed, while the Calico Cat wailed on therear fence--exultant, triumphant, insulting.

  And when he did finally get to sleep, he dreamed that he was beingprosecuted in court by--was it Jake Hibbard, with the green patchover his eye, or the Calico Cat, with the black patch over hers? Hecould not tell, study the fantastic, ominous figure of hisprosecutor as he would!