Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  A shout came down the line and from his position by the tree he peered through the shade and sunshine and keened his ears. “What’s that they’re saying?” he asked Sundry.

  One of the men furthest away, whose path had taken him onto a small knoll, was jumping up and down and waving his arms. “Maybe the bear is below him,” said Sundry. He stepped past the trees where the bank grew steep, and scrutinized the narrow line of shore. He was convinced that their exertions would come to nothing; and so, turning back to Mister Walton with the words “I don’t see her” on his lips, he was more than a little surprised to discover the bear standing just above him on the bank.

  Maude had been dozing, in fact, on the opposite side of the tree against which Mister Walton had rested his shoulder—lying with her belly in a hollow between the massive roots of the ancient oak and blending nicely with the contrasting shade. But she was on her feet now, blinking sleepily and yawning soundlessly as she sauntered around the oak to see what the noise was about.

  Sundry gaped helplessly as first her nose appeared to Mister Walton, then her face and her round ears, her bulking shoulders and muscular fore-paws. To Mister Walton, whose eyes grew rounder as the bear’s presence increased, she seemed to be germinating from the tree itself.

  She was no more than medium-sized, but any bear must seem large enough when met at such close quarters. Mister Walton took two steps back, raising the rifle to his shoulder, and tripped over a protruding tree root. He landed with a thud and a gusting exhalation of breath, raising the rifle to accommodate his sudden lack of height.

  “Mister Walton!” shouted Sundry, who had been temporarily frozen.

  “Stand back, Sundry!” commanded the bespectacled gentlemen and as he squinted past the rifle’s sights, he was astonished to see the bear tuck her head between her forepaws and raise her hindquarters into the air. Gaping up where he fully expected to behold gnashing fangs, he saw instead a pair of swaying bear’s feet. Lowering his gaze to Maude’s face, his eyes grew wider still, and he said: “Good heavens! She is standing on her head!”

  “What is it?” cried Sundry, as if he had been pinched. He was scrambling now, back up the bank and through the trees.

  “Good heavens!” said Mister Walton again. “She’s smiling at me!”

  Indeed, if a bear cannot smile, then Maude was doing a very good job of trying. She could see very little with her eyes buried in the grass, but her teeth were bared in a very ingratiating grin. She gave a low, cow-like moan.

  On his feet now, his rifle lowered, Mister Walton nearly laughed with a mixture of nervousness and delight. He stood his ground but looked cautious. “I have never, Sundry! Never!”

  “Truth to tell, Mister Walton!”

  “But why is she standing on her head?”

  “It’s what she does, I think. When you told me to stand back, she just upended herself.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  Maude lost her balance at this point, and for a moment they thought she might somersault down the bank. Her claws dug in, however, and she righted herself, startling the two men with a sudden cough. Her black arms waved at Mister Walton as she sat back on her haunches.

  “Stand back!” said Mister Walton, taking a step or two back himself. Maude gave a mournful groan, laid the top of her head on the ground, and upended herself again.

  Mister Walton let out a single amazed “Ha!”

  “Shoot her!” came an angry voice. “Shoot her, before she gets away!” It was Alfred Lofton, who had drawn closer to the strange scene; he halted his progress several yards away.

  “Shoot her?” Mister Walton had forgotten the rifle in his hands.

  “Yes, I have a claim on the pelt! Your people distinctly told me I could have it if I was present at the kill! Shoot her!”

  Mister Walton glanced from the angry Lofton, to Sundry, to the upside-down bear, and back to Lofton. “Mr. Lofton,” he said, never raising his voice. “I have bagged my share of ducks, and in my thin youth successfully tracked the white-tailed deer. I come from a long line of hunting people on my mother’s side. I quite enjoy hunting. But I absolutely refuse to shoot any creature with the ingenuity, not to mention the sense of humor, to stand on its head!”

  “You refuse!” Lofton was red with anger now. His face contorted and he pulled at his collar, as if to let out steam. He stalked forward, suddenly unmindful of the nearby bruin. “Refuse! What did you come here for, if I may inquire? What sort of big-game hunter are you?”

  “Big-game hunter?”

  “Indeed, I wonder what sort of Big Game Club it is that you purport to represent!”

  “Big Game Club? I am afraid there is some confusion here.”

  “Confusion? I should say there is . . . !” Arthur Lofton paused, huffing not two paces from Mister Walton. Others of the company had closed ranks some yards away. Maude groaned from her upended posture and rolled onto all fours. “Do you mean to say that you are not a big-game hunter?”

  “Why, no, sir,” said Mister Walton. “I am nothing of the kind. Is that why you roused me this morning?”

  “And you’re not from the Big Game Club in Boston?”

  “I do not have that honor, no.”

  Maude, a bear temporarily forgotten, grew impatient with the discussion and wandered down the bank to the river.

  “You’re not the hunter they promised to send up from Boston?” asked Sundry.

  “No,” said an amazed Mister Walton, “but it certainly clears matters up to discover that you thought so. Good heavens, I thought you the most singular fellows!”

  “You’re an imposter!” said Lofton with new venom.

  “Not at all,” said Mister Walton.

  “A brazen charlatan!”

  Mister Walton would not dignify this accusation with a reply. He merely adjusted his spectacles, looking slightly hurt, and passed the rifle to Lofton. “Your rifle, sir.”

  Lofton threw the rifle to the ground and took one step forward. The men behind him had gathered around, and as one they pressed forward menacingly. Lofton’s fists were raised before him and he growled: “I have half a mind to teach you a lesson, sir!”

  “Why don’t you teach it to me first,” suggested Sundry as he stepped between them.

  “No, Sundry,” said Mister Walton. “That isn’t necessary.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Sundry, “but I think you’re too much a gentleman to swing first, and I think this fellow knows it.” Sundry eyed Lofton carefully. “You’re also a good ten or twelve years younger than Mister Walton, aren’t you? Perhaps you and I are a closer match.”

  “Stand aside,” said Lofton and he lifted his arm to push Sundry away.

  Sundry swept Lofton’s arm back and raised his fists. “Come on,” he said. “Maybe that stuffed shirt will give you some padding.” As one the company leaned forward, and Sundry took in each of them eye by eye. “Come on—one at a time, or all at once.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” came a new voice. “What seems to be the problem?”

  The tension snapped like a stick, and the assembly parted so that three official-looking men might stride into their midst. “Sundry, what is this all about?” demanded the tallest of the newcomers.

  “This gentleman here was just about to teach someone a lesson, Sheriff.” Neither Lofton nor Sundry had backed down from their threatening postures.

  “In boxing?” Sheriff Piper, rangy of limb and long of jaw, eyed Lofton with curiosity, “Mr. Lofton, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my name is Alfred Lofton.”

  “You were making some noise about the escaped bear, if I remember.”

  “I complained that nothing had been done.”

  “I do remember,” said the sheriff, and the glint in his eye indicated that the memory was not a pleasant one. “Well, Mr. Lofton, in all my years I’ve only known Sundry to be in one scuffle, and with the outcome of that particular case as evidence, I’d guess that he didn’t need any less
ons. But if you consider yourself a master of the art, you are welcome to proceed.”

  “I wouldn’t dirty my hands,” said Lofton. He snatched the rifle from the ground at his feet, gathered his company together with a haughty scan of their faces, and led the way back to the road.

  “Sundry,” said the sheriff. “Were you really going to punch that nice gentleman in the nose?”

  “If you had given me half a minute,” said the young man, “I think I might have.”

  “Well,” admitted Piper, glancing after Lofton and his becalmed hunting party, retreating up the field, “perhaps I was half a minute too hasty. Now,” he said. “It’s not an original turn of phrase, but if someone could explain to me what this was all about . . .”

  25 The Extraordinary Befuddlement of Mr. Thump, the Singular Distraction of Mr. Eagleton, and the Superior Determination of Mr. Ephram!

  MR. THUMP HAD QUITE LIKED HIS ROOMS ON PORTLAND’S INDIA STREET before his Fourth of July holiday, but they did not seem to satisfy him now. He was, these days, in something of a funk. His friends Ephram and Eagleton had not been unaware of this melancholia of his when they traveled home by rail on Sunday the fifth; nor were they unaware of the reason for his bewilderment.

  Ever since his collision with Mrs. Roberto (in her attractive suit of tights) the substantial world had grown hazy to Thump. It was not the bump, taken on the forehead from one of her black high-heel boots—the bruise from that portion of the impact was well on its way to disappearing. No: it was the softer shock of waking in that striking lady’s compassionate lap, and the continued shock of gazing past her ample charms into her lovely (and extremely frank) brown eyes.

  The force of this experience had been amplified that very evening at the Fourth of July Ball, when Thump so manfully led a conversation with the attractive Mrs. Roberto into an invitation to dance that she could not refuse. Their conversation (presented here for those studying the art of masculine charm) followed this course:

  MRS. ROBERTO [spoken in a hushed and husky whisper just a fraction of an inch from the back of Thump’s ear]: Ah, my darling sir! How I hoped to reacquaint myself with you under less trying circumstances!

  [ THUMP, who has felt as much as heard MRS. ROBERTO’S sweet speech, says nothing, but looks as if he has tried unsuccessfully to swallow a large marble.]

  MRS. ROBERTO [her lips closer to THUMP’S ear, her voice huskier]: When I first gazed down upon your magnificent beard and your noble brow and saw how gallantly you attempted to break my fall, tears rose in my eyes!

  [ THUMP, now convinced that he has accidentally ingested several large marbles, all of which are lodged somewhere between his jaw and his shoulders, says nothing. The ploy is effective. MRS. ROBERTO, sensing his manly reticence, moves to the fore so that she can speak to him face to face.]

  MRS. ROBERTO [her dark hair gorgeously frames her exotic features; décolletage is the watchword of her gown; she wags a tapered finger at him]: You thought to have me at a disadvantage, leaving me without your name.

  [ THUMP says nothing.]

  MRS. ROBERTO [one dark eyebrow arching luxuriously]: But I have inquired and found you out.

  [ THUMP says nothing, but does grow pale. It will be remembered that THUMP’S friends EPHRAM and EAGLETON have left the scene in order to socialize with two young women on the other side of the hall. In the absence of his friends, his erudition and virile flair are all the more remarkable.]

  MRS. ROBERTO: I must properly introduce myself and express my— [ THUMP hiccoughs.]

  MRS. ROBERTO:—admiration. [Here her hand finds itself in his and is raised to his lips. THUMP is so artful in his paralysis that it would seem to anyone watching that she alone has motivated this intimate action. She says]: Please call me, as my late husband did— [ THUMP hiccoughs.]

  MRS. ROBERTO [forming the word as if she were expressing the essence of chocolate]:—Dorothea . . .

  [ THUMP says nothing.]

  [ MRS. ROBERTO looks at THUMP as if he were the very confection she has seemed to have been describing. THUMP says nothing, but looks rather as if he might melt in a particularly warm hand.]

  MRS. ROBERTO [though no invitation has been heard by our ears]: Oh, I would love to dance. [And being an athletic woman, she is able to lift him briefly from his feet as they are swept onto the dance floor.]

  [ THUMP is silent, but slowly his lessons from Mrs. De Riche’s Academy of Ballroom Sciences begin to take effect. Once his limbs actually begin to move, their steps take on something like grace.]

  Thump had always respected the opposite sex to an extreme degree and done so from a safe distance. That distance had been uncannily shortened, and he was not yet in the way of recovering. His rooms, as a result, seemed rather empty of a sudden, and what had given him immense comfort only three days ago now evoked little pleasure for him.

  He had first taken these rooms seven years ago, in 1889; it was the year of the Oklahoma Land Rush and the Johnstown Flood; Benjamin Harrison was President. He had been a good deal younger then—his beard was not so extraordinary and his world view (he liked to think) was not so . . . well, worldly as now.

  On the day that he first occupied his rooms, he bought the inaugural volume of Theodore Roosevelt’s The Winning of the West and spent the evenings of the next several days ensconced in his new den, marveling at Mr. Roosevelt’s strenuous prose. Inspired, he took several long walks.

  Thump was fascinated with the vigorous life and often read about it. The shelves of his den were lined with the adventures of great travelers and explorers. He was especially interested in sailing, and always knew when high and low tide could be expected.

  His rooms (the den, a parlor, a bedroom, and water closet) reflected this robust outlook—the furniture was large and dark and masculine, the doilies and antimacassars were plain, and the curtains were serious and contemplative. The few knickknacks that he had collected were of a nature wild and foreign; he had a teak elephant on his parlor mantel and a pair of unidentified antlers on his den wall, both items bought (with the encouragement of his friends Ephram and Eagleton) from a local merchant.

  The routine of his life had seemed pleasant as well, before the Fourth of July: his Thursday–night dinners with Ephram and Eagleton, the days that he looked in on the family’s shipping firm and chatted with the clerks, reading, walking in the park, visiting his uncle in Exeter. It is true that he had quietly yearned for female companionship (as had his friends) and (with his friends) had cultivated the necessary talents with dance lessons and art-appreciation seminars and concerts.

  But until his Fourth of July holiday he had not felt truly dissatisfied with his lot. His rooms seemed empty now, his way of life uneventful. By Tuesday afternoon, drastic action seemed required and, bracing himself, he took a walk almost an hour earlier than he had originally intended.

  Mr. Eagleton had grown as restless as Mr. Thump over the last day or so. The problem, of course, with a successful holiday is that it may very well cast a cold light upon the mundane progress of a normal day; and when you are wealthy in a worldly sense, and therefore wealthy in time, it takes some ingenuity to make such a normal day pass quickly.

  The term hobby-horse had been coined, sometime in the seventeenth century, to describe the eccentric enthusiasms and whims of the well-to-do classes; by the end of the nineteenth century that term had been shortened simply to “hobby” and given the respectable attention of all the better periodicals and many seemingly rational people. It was near the turn of the century that the collecting of stamps and coins abetted by increased travel, first took hold of the idle imagination. The breeding of horses and dogs and cats, not strictly for practical purposes, was imbued with sudden importance. Some eccentrics with time on their hands began to write books!

  Eagleton’s own hobby was the prognostication and comprehension of the weather. He often looked at the weather. His friends Ephram and Thump admired the way in which he clasped his hands behind his back, squared his shoulders,
and tilted his head ever so slightly, the better to contemplate some atmospheric phenomenon. Eagleton observed the skies with the eye of a man whose cerebral faculties were wholly concentrated upon the object of his attention; and he could gaze at a cloud with a degree of seriousness and candor that caused others to believe that he saw with a deeper vision than they.

  One of Eagleton’s favorite haunts was Portland’s beloved observatory on Munjoy Hill, and from its top (when the wind wasn’t blowing too stiffly) he was alert to the widened horizons and a great deal more weather than could be observed upon the ground. There was no place of greater altitude in the environs of the city, and Eagleton thought highly of it.

  But even the observatory held no fascination for him today. He had attempted to wrest himself free of his fitful state by taking his lunch to the top of the tower, but could not focus his mind upon the sunny weather at hand. He thought only of the rain on Saturday night when, under the protection of his umbrella, he had escorted a lady by the name of Ophelia to her family’s carriage.

  He was in his own carriage now, being driven back to his home on Chestnut Street and thinking of that charmed evening. It was fortunate (and more fortunate than he knew) that Ophelia and her friend, Sallie, were masterful conversationalists. He and Ephram had said little more than what you would expect to hear from a guard at Buckingham Palace (having adopted a similar posture). But the course of the one-sided dialogue (and the men themselves) had been thoroughly captivated by Sallie and Ophelia’s easy chatter and contagious laughter.

  Ophelia, thought Eagleton, sighing as his carriage trundled down Middle Street. At about this juncture, he did unknowingly pass Thump (who was, when we last saw him, moving on foot in the direction of Eagleton’s house). Eagleton sighed again, thinking: She laughed so prettily.

  Ophelia and Sallie had laughed heartily that evening, saving their strongest gales of amusement for those moments (which fell every ten minutes or so) when Ephram announced the time and Eagleton the weather. Ophelia was sure that she had never met anyone who could make her laugh so and said as much. She had even touched Eagleton’s hand during this communication—a gesture that had shot through him like a bolt of lightning.