Eli Willard must have been in his eighties now; a man of that age would be denied a driver’s license today, but he still had two good eyes and two good ears and a strong pair of hands to hold the wheel with which he steered the machine. He came to a stop in front of the Ingledew General Merchandise Store, and everybody who had not fainted or was not tending to those who had, crowded into the road, keeping a safe distance from the vehicle, except for the bravest of the Ingledews, Swains, Plowrights, Coes, Dinsmores, Chisms, Duckworths and Whitters, one man of each, who approached the machine warily after Eli Willard had cut off its engine, and who got down on their knees and stuck their heads under it to see how it was put together. Eli Willard gave a squeeze to a large rubber bulb attached to a brass horn pointing downward, and the resultant sound produced eight bruised heads, one each to an Ingledew, Swain, Plowright, Coe, Dinsmore, Chism, Duckworth and Whitter. Each of them rose and shouted his favorite epithet at Eli Willard.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” said the octogenarian from Connecticut. “I couldn’t resist. Where I come from, it is considered the height of rudeness to examine the mechanisms of another’s motorcar.”
“Gawdeverallmighty!” exclaimed a Swain, “hit aint a man nor a beast, hit’s a thang!”
“Whatever on earth is the world a-comin to?” asked a Dinsmore.
“Hit aint even got a bridle on it!” observed a Coe.
“Is that all of it?” wondered a Plowright. “Aint there any more to it?”
“Lookit them thar tars,” said a Chism, and kicked one. “Rubber tars! What’s inside ’em? Straw?”
“Air,” said Eli Willard.
“Air!” exclaimed all eight of them incredulously, and one demanded, “How d’ye git the air in ’em?”
Eli Willard demonstrated his tire pump.
“If that aint the beatinest thang ever I seed!” one exclaimed, and each man had to try it for himself, squirting air into his eyes, mouth and ears.
An Ingledew put his ear to the hood. “She was rattlin and runnin. But she’s quiet as daybreak now. Is she dead?”
Eli Willard took off his coat, retarded the spark, inserted the crank and spun it. The engine leaped to life. The men backed away, and the ring of the crowd keeping its distance expanded to more distance. The exertion of spinning the crank wearied the old man, and he sat down on the running board to rest for a few moments. Then he stood up slowly and addressed the crowd, delivering his spiel for the taking of their photographs. “Fifty cents for one person or a couple, a dollar for a group. Step right this way.”
No one stepped. He took from the rear of his vehicle the large camera and tripod, and began setting them up. Once more he appealed to the crowd, “Doesn’t anybody have fifty cents to get photographed?” No one responded. “Sharp and clear pictures, card mounted,” he said. “None of your fuzzy tintypes. Developed on the spot.” He gestured at his portable developing laboratory. But no one came forward. “All right,” he said, “twenty-five cents. Two bits. I don’t make any profit at that price, but I’m not going to just give them away.” Still no one moved, until, edging her way through the crowd, came the figure of an old but pretty woman. She went up to Eli Willard and placed a half dollar in his hand.
“Ah,” Eli Willard said, smiling and recognizing her. “Sarah’s friend. Step right over here.” He positioned her, then put his head under the hood of his camera, made adjustments, and took her picture. While he was developing it, he asked her, “And how is Sarah?” She did not answer, but from the look in her eyes he understood that Sarah was not. “And Jacob too?” The woman gave the ghost of a nod. Eli Willard brushed away a tear while he finished developing the picture. He mounted it on a stiff card and showed it to her. She was satisfied with it. As she was returning to her home, the crowd closed in on her and insisted on seeing the photograph. She gave it to them, and they passed it from hand to hand, smudging it with their fingers, so that by the time it had circulated among all of them and had come back to her, it was defaced. She returned it to Eli Willard. “Let me make you another one, without charge,” he offered, and while he was making it, he noticed that the others no longer formed a crowd but were getting into a queue; many of them dashed to their homes to don their best clothes and rushed right back.
The Masons—or, now, The Grinning and Ogling Tipplers’ Union—were already dressed for their monthly meeting, so after photographing Sarah’s friend again, he made the group photograph which I have mentioned of T.G.A.O.T.U., at their request moving his tripod around to the rear of the Ingledew store, where they could put on their little lambskin aprons in relative privacy. “Mason!” Eli Willard exclaimed, but John Ingledew explained to him that they were miscreant or reprobate Masons who now called themselves by another name. That name was not revealed to Eli Willard, but even so he tried all his tricks to get them to grin or ogle at the instant he took their picture. He made comical faces at them, told a couple of hilarious jokes, and even related what the farmer’s daughter said to the traveling salesman, all without avail: the twenty-eight men are expressionless in that photograph.
All day he made photographs. He offered a choice of fake backdrops, painted on canvas: one was of Niagara Falls, with a real barrel in front of it that the subject could sit in and appear to have gone over the falls in; another featured a stampede of buffalo bearing down on the subject from behind; another featured an automobile that the subject appeared to be driving; another showed a lavish mansion and acres of gardened estate that the subject could appear to be the owner of; the last—not very popular at Stay More—was the interior of the White House office of the President of the United States. Eli Willard photographed all of the Ingledews, except Isaac, who was unwilling, so we do not know what that patriarch looked like; we can only guess, by subtracting the looks of Salina, who was photographed, from those of all their children, all of whom were photographed, Perlina in a double shot with Long Jack Stapleton, and John in a group photograph with Sirena and all of their children. Since Eli Willard’s camera was portable, he was able, at their request, to photograph the Ladies’ Quilting Bee Society at work on one of their spectacular star pattern quilts, the two dentists at work with patients in their chairs, the two doctors at work with patients on their tables, Willis at work as postmaster, and other “candid” images which form a valuable documentary record of life in Stay More early in our Century.
The photographing session was terminated, late that afternoon, by a sudden heavy shower. The line of customers broke up and ran for shelter on the porches of the store or mill. Old Eli Willard, working as fast as he could, tried to drape his equipment and his automobile with the canvases that he used as backdrops for his photographs, when suddenly his eye caught sight of Denton’s and Monroe’s unusual barn in a nearby field. “Whose barn is that?” he asked the people taking refuge from the rain on the store porch. “Mine and Denton’s,” said Monroe, who was there. “Might I ask permission to park there out of the rain?” asked Eli Willard. “Park?” said Monroe, who had never heard the word before. “I’d like to remove my motorcar there,” Eli Willard said rapidly, because the rain was coming down in torrents now. Monroe had, of course, heard of the word “remove,” as in remove one’s hat, but, whereas a hat is pretty light-weight and easy to remove, it would take a mighty stout feller to remove a whole motorcar, unless…it suddenly occured to Monroe that perhaps what Ole Eli Willard wanted to do was drive the motorcar up to the barn and into the passageway, or maybe, if he wanted to remove it there, it meant he wanted to drive it there and remove it, take it apart, or whatever. “Wal—” Monroe said, but faltered. He didn’t particularly care one way or the other himself, but maybe he ought to go find Denton and talk it over with his brother to see if Denton didn’t mind.
“I’ve got to get my motorcar out of the rain!” Eli Willard beseeched. “Aw, yeah, shore,” Monroe said. “Go right ahead.” Eli Willard cranked his engine, hopped in, and drove quickly to the Ingledew barn. He had to get out and unlatch the barnyard gate
and drive through it and get out again and relatch the gate, and by the time he was sheltered in the passageway, frightening the cows and horses, he might just as well have stayed out in the rain because he and his car were soaked. He took a tin can from his tool box and began to bail the water out of the car.
Denton Ingledew had meanwhile been inside the cow crib milking one of the cows. When the Oldsmobile pulled into the passageway, Demon’s cow put her hind foot in the milk pail and kicked it over, lashed the side of his face with her tail, commenced bellowing along with her sisters, and turned completely around, mashing Denton against the wall. He got out alive, and began cussing Eli Willard, who protested, “Your brother said I could park here.” “Park?” said Denton, who had never heard the word before.
“It’s raining cats and dogs,” Eli Willard pointed out. “I had to get my motorcar out of the rain.”
Denton noticed how wet Eli Willard and his motorcar were, and observed, “Didn’t do ye much good, did it? My cows is havin conniption fits. And lookee at them hosses in thar, a-bustin up their stalls. You have done went too far, Mr. Willard. I am a-gorn to have to law ye.”
“Law me?” said Eli Willard.
“Sue ye in court,” Denton explained, and he went off to confer with his attorney, Jim Tom Duckworth, who counseled him that it stood to reason, even if it didn’t stand in the books, that damages and nuisances caused by animals’ reactions to the sight and sound of self-propelled conveyances ought to be actionable, and Jim Tom straightway took the matter to court at Jasper.
Eli Willard was summonsed, to appear as soon as the rain stopped. But the rain lasted for several days before stopping, and by then the dirt road was a morass of mud. The motorcar was mired hopelessly before it had gone fifty feet from the barn. Laughing, Monroe Ingledew offered, for a small consideration, to hitch a team of his horses to the motorcar and get it out. The horses performed this task contemptuously but successfully. Eli Willard paid Monroe the small consideration, and drove on. He had not gone far, however, when he got stuck again, up to the hubs. One of the Swain men hitched a team to him and pulled him out, for a slight fee. In front of the Plowrights’ house, another team extricated him from the ooze, in return for a freewill donation. The Dinsmores accepted a trifling premium. The Chisms required only a scant compensation. The Duckworths’ bill was insignificant. But Eli Willard realized that at his present rate of travel he would take weeks to reach Jasper, so he persuaded the Whitters, after they had hauled his motorcar out of the mud for a pittance, to accept a substantial reward in return for pulling him all the way to the Jasper courthouse, which they did, people pointing and laughing all along the route. Eli Willard hired one of the lawyers hanging around the courthouse to represent him.
There was no jury; the judge alone heard the case. “Yore Honor,” Jim Tom began, “my client the plaintiff here, with the help of his brother a-sittin over thar, built a mighty fine barn up to Stay More, with a sorta open passway right through the middle of it for the purpose of drivin a team and wagon into the barn under cover to unload the hay and put it up in the two lofts either side of the passway. The defendant, thar, on the date mentioned, did unlawfully operate a self-propelled vee hickle, or hossless kerridge, that’s it yonder a-settin right out thar through the winder, in such a manner as to enter the aforementioned passway, with the intent to, or fer the purpose of, gittin in out a the rain, and by so doing, did aggerpervoke the plaintiff’s cows and hosses, which caused the former to give sour milk ever since, and caused the latter to rare up and strike the gates of their stalls in such a way as to shatter same, not to mention it has lately been discovered one of ’em has got a lame fetlock. We ask real damages of one hundred smackers plus punitive damages of one hundred.”
Eli Willard’s attorney said, “If hit please the Court, I’d like to ask Yore Honor to find whar it says, anywhar in the statues, that hit’s a-gin the law to drive a hossless kerridge into a barn.”
The judge recessed the court while he consulted the books, which said nothing whatever about hossless kerridges. He reconvened the court, informed the plaintiff and defendant of this fact, and declared, “Since I caint rule ipso jure, reckon I’ll jist have to rule ipso facto. Proceed, gents.”
Eli Willard’s attorney argued that the defendant had received permission from the plaintiff’s brother, co-builder of the barn, to deposit his vee hickle there. The defendant did not know that the barn was inhabited by cows and horses at that moment, and the defendant had no intention of causing any damage, and furthermore the defendant, as you can plainly see, is very old and probably senile and probably didn’t even know what he was doing.
Be that as it may, argued Jim Tom Duckworth, a senile old man had no business operating a dangerous machine. “Yore Honor,” he asked the judge, “do you know what makes that hossless kerridge go?”
“Court perfesses ignorance,” replied the judge.
“Infernal combustion!” declared Jim Tom. “That thar senile ole defendant has been combustin all over creation, and it’s all that combustin what skeers the cows and hosses and gener’ly raises up hell.”
Eli Willard was not feeling well. He did not enjoy hearing references to his advanced age, and he did not like the thought that he was senile. He told his attorney, “Rest our case, and let’s get it over with.”
“Yore Honor,” the attorney began his summation, “jist let me say this. My client is innocent. As you well know, all my clients is innocent, but this here client, I’m a-tellin ye, is straight-up-and-down innocent, which means that he caint possibly be guilty noway. Why, he’s the tore-downdest innocentest feller they ever was. To look at it another way, he is blameless. The fault, if thar ever was one, aint his’n. May hit please the Court, I do hereby pronounce this pore ole senile Yankee peddler feller, whose hands is clean as a hound-dog’s tooth, pure of crime and in the clear! Defense rests.”
“Yore Honor,” countered Jim Tom Duckworth, “I shore wouldn’t swaller that line, iffen I was you. The defendant’s hands aint clean; they’re red! Look at ’em! Why, that feller is guilty. He is the guiltiest defendant ever I saw; in fact, he is the most guiltiest defendant ever I saw. It’s all his fault, ever bit of it, right down the line. He has transgressed! He has trespassed! He has offended! He has damaged! Judge, listen to me, if he aint guilty, I’m a monkey’s uncle. If he aint guilty, black is white and up is down and hot is cold and dry is wet and God knows what all! I swear up and down and all over the place that he is guilty. He don’t know what innocent is. He has done wrong and must pay for it. I stand here with proud haid bared afore the bar of justice and I p’int my finger at that rascal and I declare that he is, without the slightest doubt in the least, to blame. He is GEE EYE DOUBLE-ELL TEE WHY!”
The judge listened thoughtfully to both of these summations, and decided that Jim Tom’s was the more eloquent of the two, and thus he found against the defendant. Eli Willard paid up, and left town.
The Jasper Disaster gave the case brief mention under the headline MOTORIST CONVICTED OF SPOOKING LIVESTOCK. The years went by, one by one, and Eli Willard did not come back to Stay More again. The people wondered if he was just sulking, or if he had died. Either way, they were very sorry to see him go, or, rather, very sorry to see him not come back. Denton Ingledew himself wanted to write a letter to Eli Willard and apologize and invite him to come back, but he did not know where to address it. At any rate, no more hossless kerridges were seen in Stay More for several years, and the Ingledew barn remained pastoral.
These were the Ingledew children, John’s sons, conceived at night while he slept, and his assumed daughter: Elhannon Harvey, who never could speak his own name, and was called “E.H.”; he had an excess of yellow bile, and was generally irascible. Odell Hueston, called variously “Ode,” “Dell” and “Odd,” had an excess of black bile, and was thus the son who most resembled his father: gloomy and doomy. Bevis Handy, called “Beef” or sometimes “Bevis,” destined to become the father of the next (and penult
imate) wave of Ingledews, had an excess of blood, and was, depending on how you interpreted it, excitable, passionate or maniacal. Tearle Harley, called always “Tearle,” which is pronounced “Tull,” had an excess of sweat and was industrious, too much so, which made him frakes-prone, so that in his thirties he acquired an excess of alcohol, which rendered him good natured and witty, because alcohol is the most humorous of the humors. Lola Hannah, called “Lola,” pronounced “Lowly,” the only daughter, who was not really John’s daughter but Willis’s, although none of them knew that, not even her mother, who was sleepwalking when she entered Willis’s room, and not Willis, who slept through it all; Lola had an excess of menses, and was untouchable. Stanfield Henry, called, for some reason, “Stay,” as in Stay More, or sometimes “Flem” because he had an excess of phlegm and was sluggish, or self-possessed. And the last-born, Raymond Hugh, called “Ray,” who had an excess of semen, and was lustful. Raymond was just reaching puberty when his older brothers and his half-sister turned the hayloft of the barn into a clubhouse, but he could tell a joke just as ribald as anyone’s.
The boys tried to exclude Lola from these hayloft gatherings, but she insisted on attending, and threatened to tell on them if they didn’t let her, although she never participated in their activities but remained an interested kibitzer. They said and did things in her presence that they would never have dreamed of saying or doing in the presence of any other female, but after all she was their sister; if they had known she was only their half-sister, they would have said and done only half the things. Lola remained a spinster all her life, and one cannot help but wonder if the fact that she was the only girl among six brothers had anything to do with it, or whether her watching and listening to the goings-on of the hayloft clubhouse gave her a negative attitude toward the opposite sex.
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1 Page 106