“Gosh, how Henery worked to clear this farm!” remarked the Deacon. “He hove stone for twenty years, an’ then died. Look at them trees!”
He pointed dramatically to a large orchard containing row upon row of young apple-trees.
At the sound of the wheels a woman came slowly out of the side door and watched their approach. She had the pale, sickly countenance of the wife of the inland Maine farmer, and her limp dress ill concealed the angularity of her form. Her eyes showed that she had passed a sleepless night. McAllister leaped out and lifted Abby down. The woman neither spoke to nor kissed the child, but clutched her tightly in her arms. Then she nodded to the new-comers.
“I’m obliged to ye, Deacon Brewer,” she said. “Is this the man who sent the telegram? Won’t ye come in and set down?”
“Oh, yes,” cried Abby ecstatically. “Get out, Mr. Wilkins! I want to show you the black horse, and all the hens.”
“I must be gettin’ back,” muttered the Deacon.
“Could you let us have a bite of breakfast?” inquired McAllister. “My train doesn’t go until twelve o’clock.” To return to Bangor at this particular time did not suit him.
“Such as it is,” replied Miss Higgins.
“Could you arrange to call out for me in an hour or so?” asked McAllister.
“I reckon I kin,” said the Deacon with some reluctance. “I’ll hev ter charge ye fifty cents.”
“Of course,” said McAllister.
Wilkins took down the parcels, and the Deacon drove slowly away.
“I’ll scrape somethin’ together in a few minutes,” said Miss Higgins. “How much was that telegram?”
“Oh, that’s all right!” said the abashed clubman.
“No, it ain’t. Money’s money. Was it ez much ez a quarter?”
McAllister acknowledged the amount.
“I thought so,” commented Miss Higgins. “It was wuth it.” She had the money all ready and handed it to McAllister.
Etiquette seemed to demand its acceptance.
“Did you say your name was McAllister? Who’s this man?”
“His name is Wilkins.”
“Well,” said Aunt Abby, “one of ye might split up that log, if ye don’t mind, while I get the breakfast.”
She turned into the house.
McAllister looked doubtfully at the wood-pile.
“Let Mr. Wilkins chop the wood!” shouted Abby; “I want to show you the ba-an.”
“Wilkins,” said McAllister, “wood-chopping is an art sanctified in this country by tradition.”
“Very good, sir,” answered Wilkins.
Abby grasped McAllister’s hand and tugged him joyfully over the poverty-stricken farm. They visited the orchard, the pig-sty, the hen-house, admired the horse that had been a girl, and ended at the water’s edge.
“We ketch salmon here in the spring,” explained Abby; “and smelts.”
Across the eddying river quiet farms slept in the hot sunshine. Two men in a dory swung slowly up-stream. At their feet the clear water rippled against the stones. In his mind the clubman pictured the stifling city and the squalor of relative existence there.
“It’s beautiful, Abby,” he said.
“It’s the loveliest place in the whole world,” she answered, holding his hand tightly. “And I shall never, never go away.”
Behind them came the shrill tones of Aunt Abby’s voice bidding them to breakfast. Wilkins, coatless, was bearing some mangled fragments of log toward the kitchen. His beaded face spoke unutterable dejection.
“Well, set daown; it’s all there is,” said Miss Higgins.
McAllister sat, and Abby climbed into a high chair. Wilkins remained standing.
“Ain’t ye goin’ to set?” inquired Miss Higgins.
Wilkins reddened.
“Well, ye be the most bashful man I ever met,” remarked the lady. “Set daown and eat yer victuals.”
“Sit down,” said McAllister, and for the second time master and man shared a meal.
The little room was bare of decoration except for some colored lithographs and wood-cuts, which for the most part represented the funeral corteges of distinguished Americans, with a few hospital scenes and the sinking of a steamship. A rug soiled to a dull drab made a sort of mud spot before the fireplace; a knitted tidy, suggestive of the antimacassar, ornamented the only rocker; at one end stood the stove, and hard by two fixed tubs. Everything except the carpet was scrupulously clean.
Miss Higgins brought to the table a dish of steaming boiled eggs, half a loaf of white bread, and a vegetable dish with a large piece of butter.
“I’ll have some coffee for ye in a minute,” she remarked as she placed the dishes before them.
McAllister broke some of the eggs into a tumbler and cut the bread.
“What might be your business?” inquired Miss Higgins.
“Er—well—” hesitated McAllister. “I’ve travelled quite a bit.”
“I had a cousin in the hardware line,” remarked the hostess reminiscently. “He travelled everywheres. Has it ever taken you ez fur as St. Louis?”
“No,” said McAllister. “My line never took me so far.”
“Andrew died there—of the water. What’s your business?” continued Miss Higgins to Wilkins.
“I’m with Mr. McAllister, ma’am.”
“Oh! Same firm?”
Wilkins coughed violently and evaded the interrogation.
“Mr. Wilkins handles gents’ clothing, underwear, haberdashery, and notions,” interposed McAllister gravely.
Wilkins swayed in his seat and grew purple around the gills.
“Oh, Mr. Wilkins!” cried Abby, “what’s the matter? You will burst! Take a drink of water.”
The valet obediently tried to do as she bade him.
“How much is land worth around here?” asked the clubman. “And what do you raise?”
Miss Higgins looked at him suspiciously.
“We raise pertaters, some corn and oats, and get a purty fair apple crop in the autumn.”
“Must have been hard work clearing the farm,” added McAllister, “if one can judge by the piles of stones.”
“Work? I guess ’twas work!” sniffed Miss Higgins. “You travellin’ men hain’t got no idee of what real work is. There ain’t a stone in the nineteen acres of farm land. Henery picked ’em all up by hand.”
“Are you Abby’s guardian?” asked McAllister.
“Yes,” said Miss Higgins. “I’m all the folks she’s got, except Moses, down to Portsmouth, and a lot of good he is with that wife he’s got!”
Wilkins now asked awkwardly to be excused.
“That friend of yourn seems to be a dummy!” remarked Miss Higgins after the valet had disappeared.
“He isn’t much in the social line,” admitted his master. “But he knows his business.”
“I’m goin’ out to show Mr. Wilkins the beehive,” cried Abby, slipping down from her chair. “Come right along, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there in just a minute,” said McAllister.
Abby grabbed up her sunbonnet and ran skipping out of the kitchen.
“She’s a dear little girl,” said McAllister. “I hope she’ll have a chance to get a good education.”
“Education behind a counter in Bangor is all she’ll get,” answered her aunt.
They sat in silence for a moment, and then McAllister, feeling the craving induced by habit, drew an Obsequio from his pocket, and asked:
“Do you object to smoking?”
Miss Abby bristled.
“I don’t want none o’ them se-gars in this house, so long’s I’m in it!” she exclaimed. “Ain’t out-doors good enough for you, without stinkin’ up the kitchen?”
“I didn’t mean any offence,” apologi
zed McAllister. “I’ll wait till I go out, of course.”
“One of the devil’s tricks!” sniffed Miss Abby.
McAllister, terribly embarrassed, got up and stepped to the window. The coffee had been execrable, but a benign influence animated him. Down the slope toward the gently flowing Penobscot little Abby was leading Wilkins by the hand. The boy-horse kicked his heels in a daisy-flecked pasture beyond the barn.
“What did you say the farm was worth?” asked the clubman.
“There’s a hundred and eighty-one acres o’ woodland, and the cleared land just makes two hundred. It ought to be worth eighteen hundred dollars.”
“I know a man who wants a farm. He says some day all this river front will be valuable for a summer resort. I’m authorized to buy for him. I’ll give you sixteen hundred and fifty. Is it a bargain?”
Miss Abby turned pale.
“Oh, I don’t know! It seems dreadful to sell it, after all the years Henery put into cleanin’ of it up. I was hopin’ somehow that maybe I could get work on the farm from them as bought it and keep Abby here for a while longer.”
“That’s all right,” said McAllister. “My principal is buying it on a speculation. You can stay indefinitely.”
“How about rent?” asked Miss Abby.
“You can take care of the farm, and he won’t charge you any rent.”
The terms having been finally arranged to Miss Abby’s satisfaction, McAllister drew a small check-book from his pocket and filled out a voucher for the amount.
“We can sign the papers later,” said he with a smile.
Miss Abby took the slip of paper doubtfully.
“How do I know I ain’t gettin’ cheated?” she asked. “Suppose this should turn out to be no good?”
“Then you’d have the farm,” said McAllister.
He fumbled in his pocket until he found a clean letter-back and with his stylographic pen rapidly wrote the following:
“I hereby give and convey the Henry Higgins farm, heretofore purchased by me, to my friend Abigail Martha Higgins, in consideration for much of value of which no one knows but myself. In witness whereof I sign my name and affix a seal.”
He found a used postage-stamp that still had a trifle of gum on its back and made use of it as a fragmentary seal.
While in some doubt as to the legal sufficiency of this instrument, McAllister felt that its intendment was unmistakable. Having replaced his pen, he carefully folded the document and thrust it into his pocket. Just at this moment Miss Higgins announced the return of Deacon Brewer, who was wheeling slowly into the gate. Toward the orchard McAllister could see, as he stepped to the door, little Abby still tugging along Wilkins, whose massive and emotionless face was glistening with the heat.
“Hit’s very ’ot, sir!” he remarked tentatively to his master. “I’ve been to see the ’ives.”
“How funny Mr. Wilkins talks!” said Abby. “He told me he knew a boy once who got stung, and said the bee bit ’im in ’is ’ead! Do all drummers talk like that?”
“Drummers!” exclaimed Wilkins.
“Aunt said you were both drummers; I s’pose you left your drums somewhere. I don’t like ’em; they make too much music. They have them in the circus parade in Bangor every year.”
“Be you folks ready to start?” inquired Deacon Brewer. “Purty nice view of the water from here, ain’t they? There’s a good well on the place, too, and a few boat-loads of manure would give you crops to beat—all. Don’t know enybody thet wants to speckalate a little in farmin’ land, do ye? This here is a good, likely place. Reckon you kin buy it cheap.”
“Sh-h!” said McAllister, laying his finger on his lips.
“No one sha’n’t ever buy this farm,” said Abby; “I’m goin’ to live here always.”
“Wall,” said the Deacon, “better be movin’. I don’t like to keep the mare standin’ in the sun.”
“Are you goin’ away?” cried Abby in agonized tones. “You’ll come back soon, won’t you?”
“I hope so, very soon,” said McAllister. “Don’t you want to show me the boy-horse before I start?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” she cried, seizing his hand.
The stout clubman and the little girl walked slowly across the grass-grown drive to the daisy field beside the barn, talking busily.
“Your friend’s bought this farm,” announced Miss Abby to Wilkins.
“’Oly Moses!” ejaculated the valet.
“By gum!” exclaimed the Deacon. “What did he give?”
“Sixteen hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Gee!” said the Deacon.
“An’ we’re to stay on rent-free ’s long ’s we want!”
“I swan!” commented the pillar of the local Baptist Church. “Some folks doos hev luck!”
He went over to adjust a bit of harness.
“It’ll keep ’em out o’ the poor farm,” he muttered. “But, by gosh, thet feller must be a fool!”
Over in the daisy field, McAllister, to the wonder of the boy-horse, pulled the despised cigar from his pocket, cut off the end, and began to smoke with infinite satisfaction.
“What a beautiful, beautiful, lovely ring!” exclaimed Abby joyfully, examining with delight the embossed paper of red and gold.
“Do you remember about the lonely man who lived in the big white house I told you of?” asked McAllister.
“Of course I do,” sighed Abby. “Poor man! He was so good, and nobody loved him.”
“Do you love him?” asked McAllister.
“Dear man! I love him, all my heart!” cried the child.
“Then the man is very, very happy,” said McAllister softly.
Overhead a single black crow, wheeling out of a stumpy pine, circled to investigate this strange love-scene. Satisfied of its propriety, he cawed loudly and resettled himself upon the shaking topmost bough.
McAllister drew the golden band from his cigar and took the folded paper from his pocket.
“Here’s a love-letter,” said he. “Your aunt will read it for you when I’ve gone.”
Abby took it sadly.
“Now hold up your left hand,” said McAllister, smiling. As he slipped the paper circle over her fourth finger he said gravely:
“‘With this ring I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.’ Give me a kiss.”
She did so, in wonder.
“Now we are married,” said he.
THE JAILBIRD, by Arthur Train
Taken from McAllister and His Double (1905).
I
Now it had come, he was not quite sure that he wanted it. For a moment he longed to go back and join the men marching away to the shoe-shop. Inside those walls he had never had to think of what he should eat or drink, or wherewithal he should be clothed.
Over against the gray parapet echoed the buzzing of the electric cars, a strange sound to ears accustomed only to the tramp of marching feet, the harsh voices of wardens, and the clang of iron doors. Below him the harbor waves danced and sparkled, ferry-boats rushed from shore to shore, big ships moved slowly toward the distant islands and the still more distant sea, while near at hand the busy street flowed like a river, which he was compelled to swim but in which he already felt the millstone of his past dragging him down.
His heart sank as he asked himself what life could hold for him. How often, sitting on his prison bed with his head in his hands, he had pictured joyously the present moment! Now he felt like a child who has lost its parent’s hand in the passing throng.
There had been a day, the year before, when his old mother’s letter had not come, and, instead, only a line of stereotyped consolation from the country pastor to the village ne’er-do-well. No one had seen him choke over his bowl of soup and bread, or noticed the tears that trickled down upon the shoe-leather in his hand.
She had been the only one who had ever written to him. There was nothing now to take him back to the little cluster of white cottages among the hills where he was born.
As he stood there alone facing the world, he yearned to throw himself once more upon his cot and weep against its iron bars—for three years the only arms outstretched to comfort him.
II
The Judge concluded his charge with the usual, “I leave the case with you, gentlemen,” and the jury, collecting their miscellaneous garments, slowly retired. Leary, the County Detective assigned to “Part One,” pushed an indictment across the desk, whispering:
“Try him; he’s a short one,” for it was getting late, and the afternoon sun was already gilding the dingy cornices of the big court-room, now almost deserted save by a lounger or two half asleep on the benches.
“People against Graham,” called Dockbridge, the youthful deputy assistant district attorney.
“Fill the box!” shouted the clerk. “James Graham to the bar!” and another dozen “good men and true” answered to their names and settled themselves comfortably in their places.
At the rear the door from the pen opened and the prisoner entered, escorted by an officer. He walked stolidly around the room, passed through the gate held open for him, and took his seat at the table reserved for the defendant and his attorney. There appeared, however, to be no lawyer to represent him.
“Have you counsel?” casually inquired the clerk.
“No,” answered the prisoner.
“Mr. Crookshanks, please look after the rights of this defendant,” directed the Judge.
The prisoner, a thick-set man of medium height, half rose from his seat, and, turning toward the weazened little lawyer, shook his head rather impatiently. It was obvious that they were not strangers. After a whispered conversation Crookshanks stepped forward and addressed the Court.
“The defendant declines counsel, and stands upon his constitutional right to defend himself,” he said apologetically.
There was a slight lifting of heads among the jury, and a few sharp glances in the direction of the prisoner, which seemed in no wise to disconcert him.
The Victorian Villains Megapack Page 53