The Second Chance
Page 8
CHAPTER VIII
A GOOD LISTENER
The prosperity of a joke lieth in the ear of thine friend.
_----Shakespeare._
WHILE John Watson was busy fixing the dilapidated stables, he wasjoined by his nearest neighbour, Thomas Perkins, who was of a verysociable nature, and loved the sound of his own voice.
Thomas Perkins was a man of middle age, a stout man with a floridcountenance and dewy blue eyes; his skin was of that quality that iseasily roughened by the wind. He always spoke rapidly, and withoutpunctuation.
"How do you do, Mr. Watson, how do you do? Just movin' in, eh? Well,sir, I'm glad to see you; the little house looked lonely since Billand the wife left. Poor Bill, he was a decent chap, too; but he losthis bet."
"What was the bet about?" Mr. Watson asked, while the other manstopped to light his pipe.
"Well, you see, Bill bet the Government ten dollars that he couldmake a living on this farm, and the Government puts up the farmagainst the ten dollars that he can't. That's the way it goes. Nearlyevery body wins when they bet with the Government. I made the samebet twenty years ago, and it would take ten thousand dollars now toget me off of old seventeen, north half; you see, I won my bet, butpoor Bill lost his. Still, it wasn't a fair race. Bill would have wonit if the Government hadn't put the whiskey in his way. You can bepretty sure it's whiskey that wins it for the Government nearly everytime when the homesteader loses. You'll win yours, all right, no fearof that. I made my start when I was nine years old; left home withthe wind in my back--that's all I ever got from home--and I startedright in to make my pile, and I guess I haven't done too bad, eh?What's that?"
Mr. Watson had not spoken, but the other man nudged him genially anddid not resent his silence at all.
"First money I ever earned was from an old Scotch woman, pickingpotatoes at eleven cents a day, and I worked at it twenty-five hoursa day, up an hour before day--there was no night there, you bet, itwas like heaven that way; and then when I got my sixty-six cents,didn't she take it from me to keep. It was harder to get it back fromher than to earn it--oh, gosh! you know what the Scotch are like. Yesee, my mother died when I was a little fellow, and the old manmarried again, a great big, raw-boned, rangey lady. I says: 'Not formine,' when I saw her, and lit out--never got a thing from home andonly had about enough clothes on me to flag a train--and I'verailroaded and worked in lumber shanties. But a farm's the place tomake money. How many of a family have ye?"
"Nine," John Watson said, after some deliberation.
"Well, sir, you'll save a lot of hired help; that's the deuce, payin'out money to hired help, and feedin' them, too. I lost two of my boyswhen they were just little lads, beginnin' to be some good. Terribleblow on me; they'd a been able to handle a team in a year or two, ifthey'd a lived--twins they were, too. After raisin' them for sixyears, it was hard--year of the frozen wheat, too--oh, yes, 'tain'tall easy. Now, there's old Bruce Simpson, back there at Pelican Lake.It would just do you good to be there of a mornin.' He has four boysand four girls, and just at the clip of five o'clock them lads jumpout of bed--the eight feet hit the floor at the same minute and comeleppin' down the stairs four abreast, each fellow with a lantern,and get out to the stable and feed up. The four girls are just thesame--fine, smart, turkey-faced girls they are, with an arm like astove-pipe. You'll be all right with the help you've got--you'll havenearly enough to run a threshin' mill. Any girls?"
"Two girls," said John Watson.
"Two! That's not so bad--they'll be needed all right to help themissus. I have two girls, too; but one of them's no good--too muchlike the mother's folks. You know the Grahams are all terriblehigh-headed people--one of the old man's brothers is a preacher downin the States--Professor Graham, they call him--and sir, they can'tget over it. Martha, my oldest girl, she's all right--straightPerkins, Martha is--no nonsense about her; but Edith, she's all forgaddin' round and dressin' up. 'Pa,' she says one day to me, 'I wanta piano'--that was the Graham comin' out of her--and I says, says I'Edie, my dear, run along now and let me hear you play a toon on thecream separator or the milkin'-stool,' says I; 'there's more money init.' But, by George! the wife kept at me, too, about this pianobusiness, just pesterin' the very life out o' me, until I got sick ofit. But I got them one at last--I was at a sale in Brandon, lastfall, and I got one for eighty dollars. I told them it cost fourhundred--you have to do it, when you're dealin' with wimmin'--theylike things to cost a lot. Well, sir, I got the worth of my money,let me tell you. It's a big, long, dappled one, all carved withgrapes and lions. Two or three people can play it at once, and it'sbig enough to make a bed on it when there's company. But what do youthink of this now? Oh, it has clean disgusted me. They don't like itbecause it won't go in the parlour door, and there isn't room for itin the hall, and if you'll believe me, it's sittin' out there in themachine-shed--so I've got to take it down to Winnipeg and try tochange it.
"You see, that's what comes o' lettin' young ones go to school. SinceEdie got her education she thinks she knows more than the rest of us.My boy, young Bob--but we call him Bud--he's been to school a gooddeal; but he and Steadman's boy had a row, and I guess Bud was putout--I don't know. I was glad enough to get him home to draw polesfrom the big bush. Old George Steadman is a sly old rooster, and theother day he comes up to me in Millford, snuffin like a settin'goose, and I saw there was something on his mind. 'What's wrong,George?' I said. 'It's about them oats you promised me for seed,' hesaid. I had promised him some of my White Banner oats this spring.'Ye'll let me have them, will ye?' says he. 'I was wonderin' if itmade any difference about the boys quarrelin',' says he. I says: 'No,George, it don't make no difference; if you have the money you canhave the oats, but don't expect me to take no security on mortgagedproperty,' says I."
Mr. Perkins slapped his patient listener on the back and laugheduproariously.
"You see, that was the worst thing I could say to him, for he's soeternally proud of his land. He has nineteen hundred acres all paidfor, and him and the missus is always talkin' about it."
"Did he have much when he started?" John Watson asked.
"Well, I should say not. His wife had some money; but, you bet, shehas it yet. She was a Hunter; they're as tight as the bark to thetree, every one of them--they'd skin a flea for the hide and tallow.Well, I'll just tell you, she lent him forty dollars to buy a cowwith the first year they were in this country, with the understandin'he'd pay her back in the fall. Well, the crop didn't turn out welland he couldn't pay her, so she sold the cow, and the kids had to dowithout milk. Well, I must be goin' now to see how things are goin'.I don't work much--I just kinda loaf around and take care of thestock. How would you like a yoke of oxen to plough with? I got twobig husky brutes out there in the pasture that know how to plow--Igot them on a horse deal--and they've never done a stroke of work forme. Come on over with me and I'll fix you up with harness and all. Igot the whole thing."
John Watson looked at him in grateful surprise and thanked him forsuch welcome help.
"Oh, don't say a word about it, John," Mr. Perkins said genially,"I'll be glad to see the beggars having to work. Look out for theblack one--he's a sly old dog, and looks to me like an ox that wouldkeep friends with a man for ten years to get a good chance to land akick on him at last."
When John Watson went over for the oxen, Mrs. Perkins came outbareheaded to make kind inquiries for his wife and family. Fromwithin came the mellow hum of the cream-separator, as Martha, thesteady member of the family, played a profitable tune thereon.
That night Pearl called all her family to come out and see thesunset. The western sky was one vast blue lake, dotted with burningboats that ever changed their form and colour; each shore of the lakewas slashed into innumerable bays, edged with brightest gold; abovethis were richest shades' of pale yellow, deepening into orange,while thick gray mountains of clouds were banked around the horizon,bearing on their sullen faces here and there splashes of colour likestray rose-petals.
John Wa
tson watched it silently, and then said, more to himself thanto anyone else: "It is putty, ain't it?"