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< I

DAVID HARUM

a Stor)? or Hmcrican Xifc

EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT

TORONTO

WILLIAM BRIGGS

1899

Emtbrid Moording to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, by William BRieos, at the
Department of Agriculture.

'.\

INTRODUCTION.

The's as much human nature in some lolKS as th* it
In others, if not more. — David Harum.

One of the most conspicuous characteristics
of our contemporary native fiction is an increas-
ing tendency to subordinate plot or story to the
bold and realistic portrayal of some of the types
cf American life and manners. And the reason
for this is not far to seek. The extraordinary
mixing of races which has been going on here
for more than a century has produced an enor-
mously diversified human result; and the prod-
ucts of this " hybridization " have been still fur-
ther differentiated by an environment that ranges
from the Everglades of Florida to the glaciers of
Alaska. The existence of these conditions, and
the great literary opportunities which they con-
tain, American writers long ago perceived; and,
with a generally true appreciation of artistic val-
ues, they have created from them a gallery oi
brilliant genre pictures which to-day stand for the
highest we have yet attained in the art of fiction«

DAVID HARUM.

Thus it is that we have (to mention but a
few) studies of Louisiana and her people by Mr.
Cable ; of Virginia and Georgia by Thomas Nel-
son Page and Joel Chandler Harris; of New
England by Miss Jewett and Miss Wilkins; of
the Middle West by Miss French (Octave Tha-
net); of the great Northwest by Hamlin Gar-
land; of Canada and the land of the habitans by
Gilbert Parker; and finally, though really first in
point of time, the Forty-niners and their succes-
sors by Bret Harte. This list might be indefi-
nitely extended, for it is growing daily, but it is
long enough as it stands to sho\/ that every sec-
tion of our country has, or soon will have, its
own painter and historian, whose works will live
and become a permanent part of our literature in
just the degree that they are artistically true.
Some of these writers have already produced
many books, while others have gained general
recognition an^ even fame by the vividness and
power of a sing!e study, like Mr Howe with The
Story of a Country Town. But each one, it will
be noticed, has chosen for his field of work that
part of our country wherein he passed the early
and formative years of his life; a natural selec-
tion that is, perhaps, an unconscious affirmation
of David Harum's aphorism: " Ev'ry. boss c'n
do a thing better 'n' spryer if he's ben broke to
it as a colt."

In the case of the present volume the condi-

INTRODUCTION.

«•

tions are identical with those just mentioned.
Most of the scenes are laid in central New York,
where the author, Edward Noyes Westcott, was
born, September 24, 1847, and where he died of
consumotion, March 31, 1898. Nearly all his
life was passed in his native city of Syracuse, and
although banking and not authorship was the
occupation of his active years, yet his sensitive
and impressionable temperament had become so
saturated with the local atmosphere, and his re-
tentive memory so charged with facts, that when
at length he took up the pen he was able to create
in David Harum a character so original, so true,
and so strong, yet withal so delightfully quaint
and humorous, that we are at once compelled to
admit that here is a new and permanent addition
to the long list of American literary portraits.

The book is a novel, and throughout it runs
a love story which is characterized by sympa-
thetic treatment and a constantly increasing in-
terest; but the title role is taken by the old coun-
try banker, David Harum: dry, quaint, some-
what illiterate, no doubt, but possessing an amaz-
ing amount of knowledge not found in printed
books, and holding fast to the cheerful belief
that there is nothing wholly bad or useless in
this world. Or, in his own words : " A reason-
able amount of fleas is good for a dog — they
keep him fm broodin' on bein* a dog." This
horse-trading country banker and reputed Shy-

viii

DAVID HARUM.

lock, but real philanthropist, is an accurate por-
trayal of a type that exists in the rural districts of
central New York to-day. Variations of him may
be seen daily, driving about in their road wagons
or seated in their " bank parlors," shrewd, sharp-
tongued, honest as the sunlight from most points
of view, but in a horse trade much inclined to
follow the rule laid down by Mr. Harum himself
for such transactions : " Do unto the other feller
the way he'd like to do unto you — an' do it fust."
The genial humor and sunny atmosphere
which pervade these pages are in dramatic con-
trast with the circumstances under which they
were written. The book was finished while the
author lay upon his deathbed, but, happily for the
reader, no trace of his sufferings appears here.
It was not granted that he should live to see his
work in its present completed form, a consum-
mation he most earnestly desired; but it seems
not unreasonable to hope that the result of his
labors will be appreciated, and that David

Harum will endure.

Forbes Heermans.

Syka.c\}SE,V,Y,, August ao,i8gS,

' • . . t

DAVID HARUM.

CHAPTER I.

David poured half of his second cup of tea
into his saucer to lower its temperature to the
drinking point, and helped himself to a second
cut of ham and a third egg. Whatever was on
his mind to have kept him unusually silent during
the evening meal, and to cause certain wrinkles
in his forehead suggestive of perplexity or mis-
giving, had not impaired his appetite. David
was what he called " a good feeder."

Mrs. Bixbee, known to most of those who en-
joyed the privilege of her acquaintance as " Aunt
Polly," though nieces and nephews of her blood
there were none in Homeville, Freeland County,
looked curiously at her brother, as, in fact, she
had done at intervals during the repast; and con-
cluding at last that further forbearance was un-
called for, relieved the pressure of her curiosity
thus:

" Guess ye got somethin' on your mind, hain't
ye? You hain't hardly said aye, yes, ner no sence
you set down. Any thin' gone 'skew? "

David lilted his saucer, gave the contents a
precautionary blow, and emptied it with sundry
windy suspirations.

2 DAVID HARUM.

" No," he said, " nothin' hain't gone exac'ly
wrong, 's ye might say — not yet ; but I done that
thing I was teUin' ye of to-day."

*' Done what thing?" she asked perplexedly.

" I telegraphed to New York, he replied,
" fer that young feller to come on — the young
man General Wolsey wrote me about. I got a
letter from him to-day, an* I made up my mind
* the sooner the quicker,' an' I telegraphed him to
come 's soon 's he could."

" I forgit what you said his name was," said
Aunt Polly.

" There's his letter," said David, handing it
across the table. " Read it out 'loud."

" You read it," she said, passing it back after
a search in her pocket; ** I must 'a' left my specs
in the settin'-room."

The letter was as follows:

" Dear Sir : I take the liberty of addressing
you at the instance of General Wolsey, who spoke
to me of the matter of your communication to
him, and was kind enough to say that he would
write you in my behalf. My acquaintance with
him has been in the nature of a social rather
than a business one, and I fancy that he can only
recommend me on general grounds. I will say,
therefore, that I have had some experience with
accounts, but not much practice in them for near-
ly three years. Nevertheless, unless the work you
wish done is of an intricate nature, I think I
shall be able to accomplish it with such posting
at the outset as most strangers would require.
General Wolsey told me that you wanted some
one as soon as possible. I have nothing to pre-
vent me from starting at once if you desire to

DAVID HARUM.

have me. A telegram addressed to me at the
office of the Trust Company will reach me
promptly. Yours very truly,

"John K. Lenox."

" Wa'al," said David, looking over his glasses
at his sister, " what do you think on't? "

" The' ain't much brag in't," she replied
thoughtfully.

" No," said David, putting his eye-glasses
back in their case, " th' ain't no brag ner no prom-
ises ; he don't even say he'll do his best, like most
fellers would. He seems to have took it fer

f ranted that I'll take it fer granted, an' that's what
like about it. Wa'al," he added, " the thing's
done, an' I'll be lookin* fer him to-morrow morn-
in' or evenin* at latest."

Mrs. Bixbee sat for a moment with her large,
light blue, and rather prominent eyes fixed on her
brother's face, and then she said, with a slight
undertone of anxiety, " Was you cal'latin' to have
that young man from New York come here?"

" I hadn't no such idee," he replied, with a
slight smile, aware of what was passing in J ^.t
mind. " What put that in your head? "

" Wa'al," she answered, " you know the' ain't
scarcely anybody in the village that takes board-
ers in the winter, an' I was wonderin' what he
would do."

" I s'pose he'll go to the Eagle," said David.
" I dunno where else, 'nless it's to the Lake
House."

" The Eagil! " she exclaimed contemptuously.
" Land sakes! Comin' here from New York! He
won't Stan' it there a week."

" Wa'al," replied David, " mebbe he will an'

DAVID HARUM.

mebbe he won't, but I don't see what else the*
is for it, an' I guess 'twon't kill him for a spell.

The fact is " he was proceeding when Mrs.

Bixbee interrupted him.

" I guess we'd better adjourn t' the settin*-
room an' let Sairy clear off the tea-things," she
said, rising and going into the kitchen.

"What was you say in'?" she asked, as she
presently found her brother in the apartment
designated, and seated herself with her mending-
basket in her lap.

"The fact is, I was sayin*," he resumed, sit-
ting with hand and forearm resting on a round
table, in the centre of which was a large kerosene
lamp, " that my notion was, fust off, to have him
come here, but when I come to think on't I
changed my mind. In the fust place, except that
he's well recommended, I don't know nothin'
about him; an' in the second, you'n I are pretty
well set in our ways, an' git along all right just
as we be. I may want the young feller to stay,
an' then agin I may not — we'll see. It's a good
sight easier to git a fishhook in 'n 'tis to git it
ort I expect he'll find it putty tough at first,
uut if he's a feller that c'n be drove out of bus'nis
by a spell of the Eagle Tavern, he ain't the feller
I'm lookin' fer — though I will allow," he added
with a grimace, " that it'll be a putty hard test.
But if I want to say to him, after tryin' him a
spell, that I guess me an' him don't seem likely to
hitch, we'll both take it easier if we ain't livin*
in the same house. I guess I'll take a look at
the Trybune," said David, unfolding that paper.

Mrs. Bixbee went on with her needlework,
with an occasional side glance at her brother,
who was immersed in the gospel of his politics.

DAVID HARUM.

Twice or thrice she opened her lips as if to ad-
ess him, but apparently some restraining
thought interposed. Finally, the impulse to utter
her mind culminated. " Dave," she said, " d* you
know what Deakin Perkins is sayin' about ye?"

David opened his paper so as to hide his face,
and the comers of his mouth twitched as he asked
in return, " Wa'al, what's the deakin sayin* now? "

" He's sayin'," she replied, in a voice mixed
of indignation and apprehension, " thet you sold
him a balky horse, an' he's goin' to hev the law
on ye." David's shoulders shook behind the
sheltering page, and his mouth expanded in a
grin.

" Wa'al," he replied after a moment, lowering
the paper and looking gravely at his companion
over his glasses, " next to the deakin's religious
experience, them of lawin' an' horse-tradin' air
his strongest p'ints, an' he works the hull on 'em
to once sometimes."

The evasiveness of this generality was not lost
on Mrs. Bixbee, and she pressed the point with,
"Did ye? an' will he?"

" Yes, an* no, an* mebbe, an' mebbe not,'* was
the categorical reply.

" Wa'al," she answered with a snap, " mebbe
you call that an answer. I s'pose if you don't
want to let on you won't, but I do believe you*ve
ben playin' some trick on the deakin, an' won't
own up. I do wish," she added, " that if you hed
to git rid of a balky horse onto somebody you'd
hev picked out somebody else.'*

" When you got a balker to dispose of," said
David gravely, " you can't alwus pick an' choose.
Fust come, fust served." Then he went on more
seriously: " Now I'll tell ye. Quite a while ago—

DAVID HARUM.

in fact, not long after I come to enjoy the priv*-
lidge of the deakin's acquaintance — we hed a deal.
I wasn't jest on mj" guard, knowin' him to be a
deakin an' all that, an' he lied to me so splendid
that I was took in, clean over my head. He done
me so brown I was burnt in places, an' you c'd
smell smoke 'round me fer some time."

"Was it a horse?" asked Mrs. Bixbee gra-
tuitously.

" Wa'al," David replied, " mebbe it had ben
some time, but at that partic'lar time the only
thing to determine that fact was that it wa'n't
nothin' else."

"Wa'al, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee,
wondering not more at the deacon's turpitude
than at the lapse in David's acuteness, of which
she had an immense opinion, but commenting
only on the former. " I'm 'mazed at the deakin.'*

" Yes'm," said David with a grin, " I'm quite
a liar myself when it comes right down to the
boss bus'nis, but the deakin c'n give me both
bowers ev'ry hand. Zle done it so slick that I
had to laugh when I come to think it over — an*
I had witnesses to the hull confab, too, that he
didn't know of, an' I c'd 've showed him up in
great shape if Fd had a mind to."

"Why didn't ye?" said Aunt Polly, whose
feelings about the deacon were undergoing a re-
vulsion.

" Wa'al, to tell ye the truth, I was so com-
pletely skunked that I hadn't a word to say. I
got rid o' the thing fer what it was wuth fer
hide an' taller, an' stid of squealin' 'round the
way you say he's doin', like a stuck pig, I kep'
my tongue between my teeth an' laid to git even
some time."

DAVID HARUM.

** You ort to 've hed the law on him," declared
Mrs. Bixbee, now fully converted. "The old
scamp!"

" Wa'al," was the reply, " I gen'all prefer to
settle out of court, an' in this partic'lar case, while
I might 'a' ben willin' t' admit that I hed ben did
up, I didn't feel much like swearin' to it. I
reckoned the time 'd come when mebbe I'd git
the laugh on the deakin, an' it did, an' we're putty
well settled now in full."

" You mean this last puflformance? " asked
Mrs. Bixbee. " I wish you'd quit beatin' about
the bush, an' tell me the hull story."

" Wa'al, it's like this, then, if you will hev it.
I was over to Whiteboro a while ago on a little
matter of worldly bus'nis, an' I seen a couple of
fellers halter-exercisin' a hoss m the tavern yard.
I stood 'round a spell watchin' 'em, an' when he
come to a standstill I went an' looked him over,
an' I liked his looks fust rate.
* Fer sale?' I says.

' Wa'al,' says the chap that was ler.din* him,
' I never see the hoss that wa'n't if the price was
right.'

"'Your'nP'Isays.

" * Mine an' his'n,' he says, noddin' his head
at the other feller.

" * What ye askin' fer him? ' I says.

" * One-fifty,' he says.

" I looked him all over agin putty careful, an*
once or twice I kind o' shook my head 's if I
didn't quite like what I seen, an' when I got
through I sort o' half turned away without sayin*
anythin', 's if I'd seen enough.

" * The' ain't a scratch ner a pimple on him,*
says the feller, kind o' resentin' my looks. * He's

DAVID HARUM.

sound an* kind, an' '11 stand without hitchin', an'
a lady c'n drive him 's well 's a man.'

" * I ain't got anythin' agin him,' I says, * an*
prob'ly that's all true, ev'ry word on't; but one-
fifty's a consid'able price fer a hoss these days.
I hain't no pressin' use fer another hoss, an', in
fact,' I says, * I've got one or two fer sale my-
self.'

" * He's wuth two hundard jest as he stands,*
the feller says. * He hain't had no trainin', an' he
c'n draw two men in a road-wagin better'n fifty.'

" Wa'al, the more I looked at him the better
I liked him, but I only says, * Jes' so, jes' so, he
may be wuth the money, but jest as I'm fixed now
he ain't wuth it to me, an* I hain't got that much
money with me if he was,' I says. The other feHer
hadn't said nothin' up to that time, an' he broke
in now. * I s'pose you'd take him fer a gift,
wouldn't ye? ' he says, kind o' sneerin'.

" ' Wa'al, yes,' I says, * I dunno but I would
if you'd throw in a pound of tea an' a halter.*

" He kind o* laughed an' says, * Wa'al, this
ain't no gift enterprise, an' I guess we ain't goin'
to trade, but I'd like to know,' he says, ' jest as a
matter of curios'ty, what you'd say he was wuth
to ye? '

" * Wa'al,* I says, * I come over this mornin* to
see a feller that owed me a trifle o' money. Ex-
ceptin' of some loose change, what he paid me 's
all I go with me,' I says, takin' out my wallet.
*That wad's got a hunderd an' twenty-five into
it, an' if you'd sooner have your hoss an' halter
than the wad,' I says, * why, I'll f)id ye good-day.'

" * You're offerin' one-twenty-five fer the hoss
an* halter? * he says.

That's what I'm doin',* I says.

it t

DAVID HARUM.

" ' YouVe made a trade/ he says, puttin' out
his hand fer the money an' handin' the halter over
to me."

" An' didn't ye suspicion nuthin' when he took
ye up Hke that?"' asked Mrs. Bixbee.

" I did smell woolen some," said David, " but
I had the hoss an' they had the money, an', as fur
's I c'd see, the critter was all right. Howsomever,
I says to 'em : * This here's all right, fur 's it's
gone, but you've talked putty strong 'bout this
hoss. I don't know who you fellers be, but I c'n
find out,' I says. Then the fust feller that done
the talkin' 'bout the hoss put in an' says, 'The'
hain't ben one word said to you about this hoss
that wa'n't gospel truth, not one word.' An'
when I come to think on't afterward," said David
with a half laugh, " it mebbe wa'n't gospel truth,
but it was good enough jury truth. I guess this
ain't over 'n' above interestin' to ye, is it? " he
asked after a pause, looking doubtfully at his
sister.

" Yes, 'tis," she asserted. " I'm lookin* for-
rered to where the deakin comes in, but you jest
tell it your own way."

" I'll git there all in good time," said David,
" but some of the point of the story'll be lost if I
don't tell ye what come fust."

" I allow to Stan' it 's long 's you can," she
said encouragingly, " seein' what work I had get-
tin' ye started. Did ye find out anythin* 'bout
them fellers? "

" I ast the barn man if he knowed who they
was, an' he said he never seen 'em till the yestiddy
before, an' didn't know 'em f'm Adam. They
come along with a couple of bosses, one drivin'
an' t'other leadin' — the one I bought. I ast him if

* i

!■

DAVID HARUM.

they knowed who I was, an' he said one on 'em
ast him, an' he told him. The feller said to him,
seein' me drive up : * That's a putty likely-lookin*
hoss. Who's drivin* him?' An' he says to the
feller: 'That's Dave Harum, f'm o-er tO Home-
ville. He's a great feller fer hosses,' he says."

" Dave," said Mrs. Bixbee, " them chaps jest
laid fer ye, didn't they? "

" I reckon they did," he admitted; "an' they
was as slick a pair as was ever drawed to," which
expression was lost upon his sister. David
rubbed the fringe of yellowish-gray hair which
encircled his bald pate for a moment.

" Wa'al," he resumed, " after the talk with the
barn man, I smelt woolen stronger'n ever, but I
didn't say nothin', an' had the mare hitched an*
started back. Old Jinny drives with one hand,
an* I c'd watch the new one all right, an' as we
come along I begun to think I wa'n't stuck after
all. I never see a hoss travel evener an' nicer,
an' when we come to a good level place I sent the
old mare along the best she knew, an' the new
one never broke his gait, an' kep' right up 'ithout
'par'ntly half tryin'; an' Jinny don't take most
folks' dust neither. I swan! 'fore I got home I
reckoned I'd jest as good as made seventy-five
anyway."

CHAPTER II.

"Then the' wa'n't nothin' the matter with
him, after all," commented Mrs. Bixbee in rather
a disappointed tone,

" The meanest thing top of the earth was the
matter with him," declared David, " but I didn't
find it out till the next afternoon, an' then I found
it out good. I hitched him to the open buggy
an' went 'round by the East road, 'cause that ain't
so much travelled. He went along all right till
we got a mile or so out of the village, an' then
I slowed him down to a walk. Wa'al, sir, scat

my ! He hadn't walked more'n a rod 'fore

he come to a dead stan'still. I clucked an' git-
app'd, an' finely took the gad to him a little; but
he only jest kind o' humped up a little, an' stood
like he'd took root."

" Wa'al, now! " exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee.

" Yes'm," said David ; " I was stuck in ev'ry
sense of the word."

" What d'ye do? "

" Wa'al, I tried all the tricks I knowed — an'
I could lead him — but when I was in the buggy
he wouldn't stir till he got good an' readv; 'n'
then he'd start of his own accord an' go on a spell,
an' "

"Did he keep it up?" Mrs. Bixbee inter-
rupted.

DAVID HARUM.

! ;

" Wa'al, I s'd say he did. I finely got home
with the critter, but I thought one time I'd either
hev to lead him or spend tht night on the East
road. He balked five sep'rate times, varyin' in
length, an' it was dark when we struck tne barn."

" I should hev thought you'd a wanted to kill
him," said Mrs. Bixbf e; " an' die feliers that sold
him to ye, too.'^

" The' zvas times," David replied, with a nod
of his head, " when if he'd a fell down dead I
wouldn't hev figgered on puttin' a band on my
hat, but it don't never pay to git mad with a boss ;
an' as fur 's the feller I bought him of, when I
remembered how he told me he'd stand without
hitchin', I swan! I had to laugh. I did, fer a
fact. * Stand without hitchin'! ' He, he, he! "

" I guess you wouldn't think it was so awful
funny if you hadn't gone an' stuck that horse onto
Deakin Perkins — an' I don't see how you done
it."

" Mebbe that is part of the joke," David al-
lowed, " an' ril tell ye th' rest on't. Th' next day
I hitched the new one to th' dem'crat wagin an'
put in a lot of str ps an' rope, an' started off fer
the East road agm. He went fust rate till we
come to about the place where we had the fust
trouble, an', sure enough, he balked agin. I
leaned over an' hit him a smart cut on the off
shoulder, but he only humped a little, an' never
lifted a foot. I hit him another lick, with the self-
same result. Then I got down an' I strapped that
animal so't he couldn't move nothin' but his head
an' tail, an' got back into the buggy. Wa'al, bom-
by, it may 'a* ben ten minutes, or it may 'a* ben
more or less — it's slow work settin' still behind
a balkin* boss — he was ready to go on his own

DAVID HARUM.

never

WSM

z self-

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bom-

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i' ben

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account, but he couldn't budge. He kind o'
looked around, much as to say, ' What on earth's
the matter? ' an' then he tried another move, an'
then another, but no go. Then I got down an*
took the hopples off an' then climbed back into
the buggy, an' says * Cluck, to him, an' off he
stepped as chipper as could be, an' we went jog-
gin' along all right mebbe two mile, an' when I
slowed up, up he come agin. I gin him another
clip in the same place on the shoulder, an' I got
down an' tied him up agin, an' the same thing
happened as before, on'y it didn't take him quite
so long to make up his mind about startin', an'
we went some further without a hitch. But I
had to go through the pufformance the third time
before he got it into his head that if he didn't go
when / wanted he couldn't go when he wanted,
an' that didn't suit him ; an' when he felt the whip
on his shoulder it meant bus'nis."

"Was that the end of his balkin'?" asked
Mrs. Bixbee.

" I had to give him one more go-round," said
David, " an' after that I didn't have no more trou-
ble with him. He showed symptoms at times,
but a touch of the whip on the shoulder alwus
tetclied him. I alwus carried them straps, though,
till the last two or three times."

" Wa'al, what's the deakin kickin' about,
then?" asked Aunt Polly. ''You're jest sayin'
you broke him of balkin'."

" Wa'al," said David slowly, " some bosses
V;'ill balk with some folks an' not with others.
You can't most alwus gen'ally tell."

" Didn't the deakin have a chance to try
him?"

He had all the chance he ast fer," replied

. ■•g i *!* ! agL ^M

♦/

DAVID HARUM.

Dav'VI " Fact is, he done most of the sellin*, as
wel. .e buyin', himself."

"How's that?"

" Wa'al," said David, " it come about like
this: After I'd got the boss where I c'd handle
him I begun to think I'd had some int'restin' an'
valu'ble experience, an' it wa'n't scurcely fair to
keep it all to myself. I didn't want no patent
on't, an' I was willin' to let some other feller git
a piece. So one mornin', week before last — let's
see, week ago Tuesday it was, an' a mighty nice
mornin' it was, too — one o' them days that kind
o' lib'ral up your mind — I allowed to hitch an'
drive up past the deakin's an' back, an' mebbe
git somethin' to strengthen my faith, et cetery, in
case I run acrost him. Wa'al, 's I come along
I seen the deakin putterin' 'round, an' I waved
my hand to him an' went by a-kitin*. I went up
the road a ways an' killed a little time, an' when
I come back there was the deakin, as I expected.
He was leanin' over the fence, an' as I jogged up
he hailed me, an' I pulled up.

" ' Mornin', Mr. Harum,' he says.

" * Mornin', deakin,' I says. ' How are ye?
an* how's Mis' Perkins these days?'

"'I'm fair,' he says; 'fair to middlin', but
Mis' Perkins is ailin' some — as ttsyiil,' he says."

" They do say," put in Mrs. Bixbee, " thet
Mis' Perkins don't hev much of a time herself."

" Guess she hez all the time the* is," answered
David. " Wa'al," he went on, " we passed the
time o' day, an' talked a spell about the weather
an' all that, an' finely I straightened up the lines
as if I was goin' on, an' then I says : * Oh, by the
way,* I says, ' I jest thought on*t. I heard Dom-
inie White was lookin' fer a boss that 'd suit him.*

' I i

■|i

iriMaMMMwMi

DAVID HARUM.

' I hain't heard/ he says ; but I see in a minute he
had — an' it really was a fact — an' I says: * I've
got a roan colt risin' five, that I took on a debt
a spell ago, that I'll sell reasonable, that's as like-
ly an* nice ev'ry way a young hoss as ever I
owned. I don't need him,' I says, * an' didn't
want to take him, but it was that or nothin' at the
time an' glad to git it, an' I'll sell him a barg'in.
Now what I want to say to you, deakin, is this:
That hoss 'd suit the dominie to a tee in my opin-
ion, but the dominie won't come to me. Now if
yoti was to say to him — bein' in his church an*
all thet,' I says, 'that you c'd get him the right
kind of a hoss, he'd believe you, an' you an* me 'd
be doin' a little stroke of bus'nis, an* a favor to
the dominie into the bargain. The dominie's
well off,' I says, * an' c*n afiford to drive a good
hoss.' "

" What did the deakin say? " asked Aunt Pol-
ly as David stopped for breath.

" I didn't expect him to jump down my
throat," he answered; "but I seen him prick up
his ears, an' all the time I was talkin' I noticed
him lookin' my hoss over, head an' foot. ' Now
I 'member,' he says, ' hearin* sunthin* 'bout Mr.
White's lookin' fer a hoss, though when you fust
spoke on't it had slipped my mind. Of course,'
he says, * the' ain't any real reason why Mr. White
shouldn't deal with you direct, an' yit mebbe I
could do more with him 'n you could. But,' he
Sdvs, * I wa'n't cal'latin' to go t' the village this
niDrnin*, an' I sent my hired man ofif with my
drivin' hoss. Mebbe I'll drop 'round in a day or
two,* he says, * an* look at the roan.'

" * You mightn't ketch me,' I says, * an' I
want to show him myself; an' more'n that/ I

. iv-™

DAVID HARUM.

savs, ' Dug Robinson's after the dominie. I'll
tell ye,' I says, ' you jest git in 'ith me an' go
down an' look at him, an' I'll send ye back or
drive ye back, an' if you've got anythin' special
on hand you needn't be gone three quarters of
an hour,' I says."

" He come, did he?" inquired Mrs. Bixbee.

" He done so" said David sententiously.
" Jest as I knowed he would, after he'd hem'd an'
haw'd about so much, an' he rode a mile an' a
half livelier 'n he done in a good while, I reckon.
He had to pull that old broadbrim of his'n down
to his ears, an' don't you fergit it. He, he, he, he!
The road was jest full o' bosses. Wa'al, we drove
into the yard, an' I told the hired man to unhitch
the bay hoss an' fetch out the roan, an' while he
was bein' unhitched the deakin stood 'round an*
never took his eyes oflf'n him, an' I knowed I
wouldn't sell the deakin no roan hoss that day,
even if I wanted to. But when he come out I
begun to crack him up, an' I talked hoss fer all
I was wuth. The deakin looked him over in a
don't-care kind of a way, an' didn't 'parently give
much heed to what I was sayin'. Finely I says,
'Wa'al, what do you think of him?' 'Wa'al,'
he says, * he seems to be a likely enough critter,
but I don't believe he'd suit Mr. White — 'fraid
not,' he says. 'What you askin* fer him?' he
says. ' One-fifty,' I says, ' an' he's a cheap hoss
at the money'; but," added the speaker with a
laugh, " I knowed I might 's well of said a thou-
san'. The deakin wa'n't buyin' no roan colts that
mornin'."

" What did he say? " asked Mrs. Bixbee. •

" ' Wa'al,' he says, ' wa'al, I guess you ought
to git that much fer him, but I'm 'fraid he ain't

ttrntntut"""''''^''^

DAVID HARUM.

lught
ain't

what Mr. White wants.' An' then, ' That's quite
a hoss we come down with,' he says. * Had him
long?' 'Jest long 'nough to git 'quainted with
him,' I says. ' Don't you want the roan fer your
own use? ' I says. * Mebbe we c'd shade the price
a little.' * No,' he says, ' I guess not. I don't
need another lioss jest now.' An' then, after a
minute he says : * Say, mebbe the bay hoss we
drove 'd come nearer the mark fer White, if he's
all right. Jest as soon I'd look at him? ' he says.
' Wa'al, I hain't no objections, but I guess he's
more of a hoss than the dominie 'd care for, but
I'll go an' fetch him out,' I says. So I brought
him out, an' the deakin looked him all over. I
see it was a case of love at fust sight, as the story-
books says. * Looks all right,' he says. ' I'll
tell ye,' I says, * what the feller I bought him of
told me.' * What's that? ' says the deakin. ' He
said to me,' I says, '"that hoss hain't got a scratch
ner a pimple on him. He's sound an' kind, an'
'11 stand without hitchin', an' a lady c'd drive him
as well 's a man." '

" * That's what he said to me,' I says, * an' it's
every word on't true. You've seen whether or
not he c'n travel,' I says, ' an', so fur 's I've seen,
he ain't 'fraid of nothin'.' * D'ye want to sell
him?' the deakin says. 'Wa'al,' I says, *I ain't
oflFerin' him fer sale. You'll go a good ways,' I
says, ' 'fore you'll strike such another ; but, of
course, he ain't the only hoss in the world, an'
I never had anythin' in the hoss line I wouldn't
sell at some price.' * Wa'al,' he says, * what d' ye
ask fer him? ' ' Wa'al,' I says, ' if my own brother
was to ask me that question I'd say to him two
hunderd dollars, cash down, an' I wouldn't hold
the offer open an hour,' I says."

If DAVID HARUM.

" My» " ejaculated Aunt Polly. " Did he take
you up?"

" ' That's more'n I give fer a hoss 'n a good
while,' he says, shakin' his head, * an' more'n I
c'n afford, I'm 'fraid.' * All right,' I says; ' I c'n
afford to keep him ' ; but I knew I had the deakin
same as the woodchuck had Skip. ' Hitch up the
roan,' I says to Mike; 'the deakin wants to be
took up to his house. * Is that your last word?*
he says. ' That's what it is,' I says. ' Two hun-
derd, cash down.' "

" Didn't ye dast to trust the deakin? " asked
Mrs. Bixbee.

" Polly," said David, " the's a number of holes
in a ten-foot ladder." Mrs. Bixbee seemed to
understand this rather ambiguous rejoinder.

" He must 'a' squirmed some," she remarked.
David laughed.

" The deakin ain't much used to payin' the
other feller's price," he said, " an' it was like pull-
in' teeth; but he wanted that hoss more'n a cow
wants a calf, an' after a little more squimmidgin'
he hauled out his wallet an' forked over. Mike
come out with the roan, an' off the deakin went,
leadin' the bay hoss."

'* I don't see," said Mis. Bixbee, looking up
at her brother, '* thet after all the' was anythin'
you said to the deakin thet he could ketch holt
on."

" The' wa'n't nothin'," he replied. " The only
thing he c'n complain about's what I didn't say
to him."

" Hain't he said anythin' to ye? " Mrs. Bixbee
inquired.

" He, he, he, he! He hain't but once, an' the'
wa'n't but little of it then."

DAVID HARUM.

"How?"

" Wa'al, the day but one after the deakin sold
himself Mr. Stickin'-Plaster I had an arrant three
four mile or so up past his place, an' when I was
comin' back, along 'bout four or half past, it
come on to rain like all possessed. I had my old
unibrel' — though it didn't hender me f'm gettin*
more or less wet — an' I sent the old mare along
fer all she knew. As I come along to within a
mile f'm the deakin's house I seen somebody in
the road, an' when I come up closter I see it was
the deakin himself, in trouble, an' I kind o' slowed
up to see what was goin' on. There he was, set-
tin' all humped up with his ole broad-brim hat
slopin' down his back, a-sheddin' water like a
roof. Then I seen him. lean over an' larrup the
hoss with the ends of the lines fer all he was wuth.
It appeared he hadn't no whip, an' it wouldn't
done him no good if he'd had. Wa'al, sir, rain
or no rain, I jest pulled up to watch him. He'd
larrup a spell, an' then he'd set back; an' then
he'd lean over an' try it agin, harder'n ever. Scat
my-

I thought I'd die a-laughin'. I couldn't
hardly cluck to the mare when I got ready to
move on. I drove alongside an' pulled up. ' Hul-
lo, deakin,' I says, 'what's the matter?' He
looked up at me, an' I won't say he was the mad-
dest man I ever see, but he was long ways the
maddest-Wem' man, an' he shook his fist at me
jest like one o' the unregen'rit. ' Consarn ye,
Dave Harum! ' he says, * I'll hev the law on ye
fer this.' ' What fer?' I says. ' I didn't make it
come on to rain, did I?' I says. 'You know
mighty well what fer,' he says. ' You sold me
this damned beast,' he says, ' an' he's balked with
me nine times this afternoon, an' I'll fix ye for 't,'

' • ^fu"

DAVID HARUM.

he says. * Wa'al, deakin,' I says, * I'm 'fraid the
squire's office '11 be shut up 'fore you git there,
but I'll take any word you'd like to send. You
know I told ye,' I says, ' that he'd stand 'ithout
hitchin'.' An' at that he only jest kind o' choked
an' sputtered. He was so mad he couldn't say
nothin', an' on I drove, an' when I got about forty
rod or so I looked back, an' there was the deakin
a-comin' along the road with as much of his
shoulders as he could git under his hat an' leadin*
his new boss. He, he, he, he! Oh, my stars an'
garters! Say, Polly, it paid me fer bein' born
into this vale o' tears. It did, I declare for't!"
Aunt Polly wiped her eyes on her apron.

" But, Dave," she said, " did the deakin really
say — that word? "

" Wa'al," he replied, " if 'twa'n't that it was
the puttiest imitation on't that ever I heard."

" David," she continued, " don't you think it
putty mean to badger the deakin so't he swore,
an' then laugh 'bout it? An' I s'pose you've told
the story all over."

" Mis' Bixbee," said David emphatically, " if
I'd paid good money to see a funny show I'd be
a blamed fool if I didn't laugh, wouldn't I ? That
specticle of the deakin cost me consid'able, but it
was more'n wuth it. But," he added, " I guess,
the way the thing stands now, I ain't so much
out on the hull."

Mrs. Bixbee looked at him inquiringly.

"Of course, you know Dick Larrabee?" he
asked.

She nodded.

" Wa'al, three four days after the shower, an'
the story 'd got aroun' some — as you say, the
deakin is consid'able of a talker — I got holt of

DAVID HARUM.

Dick — I've done him some favors an' he natur'ly
expects more — an' I says to him : * Dick,' I says,

* I hear 't Deakin Perkins has got a hoss that
don't jest suit him — hain't got knee-action
enough at times,' I says, ' an' mebbe he'll sell
him reasonable.' * I've lieerd somethin' about it,'
says Dick, laughin'. * One of them kind o' bosses
't you don't like to git ketched out in the rain
with,' he says. ' Jes' so,' I says, ' Now,' I says,

* I've got a notion 't I'd like to own that hoss at
a price, an' that mebbe / c'd git him home even
if it did rain. Here's a hunderd an' ten,' I says,

* an' I want you to see how fur it'll go to buyin'
him. If you git me the hoss you needn't bring
none on't back. Want to try?' I says. 'All
right,' he says, an' took the money. * But,' he
says, * won't the deakin suspicion that it comes
from you?' * Wa'al,' I says, 'my portrit ain't
on none o' the bills, an' I reckon you won't tell
him so, out an' out,' an' off he went. Yistidy he
come in, an' I says, * Wa'al, done anythin'? ' ' The
hoss is in your barn,* he says. ' Good f er you ! '
I says. 'Did you make anythin'?' 'I'm satis-
fied,' he says. ' I made a ten-dollar note.' An'
that's the net results on't," concluded David,
" that I've got the hoss, an' he's cost me jest
thirty-five dollars."

ffiBaE6BKBI?MWisKH«>lBt. :

•

CHAPTER HI.

Master Jacky Carling was a very nice boy,
but not at that time in his career the safest per-
son to whom to intrust a missive in case its sure
and speedy delivery were a matter of importance.
But he protested " ':h so much earnestness and
good will that it shjuld be put into the very firgt
post-box he came to on his way to school, and
that nothing could induce him to forget it, that
Mary Blake, his aunt, confidante and not unfre-
quently counsel and advocate, gave it him to
post, and dismissed the matter from her mind.
Unfortunately the weather, which had been very
frosty, had changed in the night to a summer-
like mildness. As Jacky opened the door, three
or four of his school-fellows were passing. He
felt the softness of the spring morning, and to
their injunction to '* Hurry up and come along! "
replied with an entreaty to " Wait a minute till
he left his overcoat " (all boys hate an overcoat),
and plunged back into the house.

If John Lenox (John Knox Lenox) had re-
ceived Miss Blake's note of '^ondolence and sym-
pathy, written in reply to his own, wherein, be-
sides speaking of his bereavement, he had made
allusion to some changes in his prospects and
some necessary alterations in his ways for a time,
he might perhaps have read between the lines

ntW*

DAVID HARUM.

■!"

something more than merely a kind expression of
her sorrow for the trouble which had come upon
him, and the reminder that he had friends who,
if they could not do more to lessen his grief,
wo aid give him their truest sympathy. And if
some days later he had received a second note,
saying that she and her people were about to go
away for some months, and asking him to come
and see them before their departure, it is pos-
sible that very many things set forth in this nar-
rative would not have happened.

Life had always been made easy for John
Lenox, and his was not the temperament to inter-
pose obstacles to the process. A ourse at
Andover had been followed bytwoyeaiaat Prince-
ton; but at the end of the second year it had oc-
curred to him that practical life ought to begin
for him, and he had thought it rather fine of him-
self to undertake a clerkship in the office of Rush
& Co., where in the ensuing year and a half or so,
though he took his work in moderation, he got a
fair knowledge of accounts and the ways and
methods of "the Street." But that period of it
was enough. He found himself not only regret-
ting the abandonment of his college career, but
feeling that the thing for which he had given
it up had been rather a waste of time. He came
to the conclusion that, though he had entered
college later than most, even now a further ac-
quaintance with text-books and professors was
more to be desired than with ledgers and brokers.
His father (somewhat to his wonderment, and
possibly a little to his chagrin) seemed rather to
welcome the suggestion that he spend a couple
of years in Europe, taking some lectures at

DAVID HARUM.

Heidelberg or elsewhere, and traveling; and in
the course of that time he acquired a pretty fair
working acquaintance with German, brought his
knowledge of French up to about the same point,
and came back at the end of two years with a
fine and discriminating taste in beer, and a scar
over his left eyebrow which could be seen if at-
tention were called to it.

He started upon his return without any defi-
nite intentions or for any special reason, except
that he had gone away for two years and that
the two years were up. He had carried on a des-
ultory correspondence with his father, who had
replied occasionally, rather briefly, but on the
whole affectionately. He had noticed that dur-
ing the latter part of his stay abroad the replies
had been more than usually irregular, but had
attributed no special significance to the fact.
It was not until afterward that it occurred to him
that in all their correspondence his father had
never alluded in any way to his return.

On the passenger list of the Altruria John
came upon the names of Mr. and Mrs. Julius
Carling and Miss Blake.

" Blake, Blake," he said to himself. " Carling
— I seem to remember to have known that name
at some time. It must be little Mary Blake whom
I knew as a small girl years ago, and, yes, Carl-
ing was the name of the man her sister married.
Well, well, I wonder what she is like. Of course,
I shouldn't know her from Eve now, or she me
from Adam. All I can remember seems to be a
pair of very slim and active legs, a lot of flying
hair, a pair of brownish-gray or grayish-brown
eyes, and that I thought her a very nice giri, as
girls went. But it doesn't in the least follow that

DAVID HARUM.

I might think so now, and shipboard is pretty
close quarters for seven or eight days."

Dinner is by all odds the chief event of the
day on board ship to those who are able to dine,
and they will leave all other attractions, even the
surpassingly interesting things which go on in
the smoking-room, at once on the sound of the
gong of promise. On this first night of the voy-
age the ship was still in smooth water at dinner
time, and many a place was occupied which would
know its occuoant for the first, and very possibly
for the last, time. The passenger list was fairly
large, but not full. John had assigned to him
a seat at a side table. He was hungry, having
had no luncheon but a couple of biscuits and a
glass of " bitter," and was taking his first mouth-
ful of Perrier-Jouet, after the soup, and scanning
the dinner card when the people at his table
came in. The man of the trio was obviously an
invalid of the nervous variety, and the most de-
cided type. The small, dark woman wdio took
the corner seat at his left was undoubtedly, from
the solicitous way in which she adjusted a small
shawl about his shoulders — to his querulous un-
easiness — his wife. There was a good deal of
white in the dark hair, brushed smoothly back
from her face.

A tall girl, with a mass of brown hair under
a felt traveling hat, took the corner seat at the
man's right. That was all the detail of her ap-
pearance which the brief glance that John al-
lowed himself revealed to him at the moment,
notwithstanding the justifiable curiosity which he
had with regard to the people with whom he was
likely to come more or less in contact for a num-
ber of days. But though their faces, so far as
3

DAVID HARUM.

he had seen them, were unfamiliar to him, their
identity was made plain to him by the first words
which caught his car. There were two soups on
the tnaiu, and the man's mind instantly poised
itself between them.

" Which soup shall I take? " he asked,
turning with a frown of uncertainty to his
wife.

** I should say the consomme, Julius," was the
reply.

" I thought I should like the broth better," he
objected.

*' I don't think it will disagree with you," she
said.

" Perhaps I had better have the consomme,'*
he argued, looking with appeal to his wife and
then to the girl at his right. " Which would you
take, Mary?"

" I? " said the young woman; " I should take
both in my present state of appetite. — Steward,
bring both soups. — What wine shall I order for
you, Julius? I v/ant some champagne, and I pre-
scribe it for you. After your mental struggle
over the soup question you need a quick stimu-
lant."

" Don't you think a red wine would be better
for me? " he asked; " or perhaps some sauteme?
I'm afraid that I sha'n't go to sleep if I drink
champagne. In fact, I don't think I had better
take any wine at all. Perhaps some ginger ale or
Apollinaris water."

" No," she said decisively, " whatever you de-
cide upon, you know that you'll think whatever
I have better for you, and I shall want more than
one glass, and Alice wants some, too. Oh, yes,
you do, and I shall order a quart of champagne.

DAVID HARUM.

leir

rds

.sed

ked,
his

i the

■," he
," she

Q and
Id you

Id take
eward,
der for
1 1 pt-e-
ruggle
stimu-

-' better

lY ale or

— Steward " — giving her order — " please be as
quick as you can."

John had by this fully identified his neigh-
bors, and the talk which ensued between them,
consisting mostly of controversies between the
invalid and his family over the items of the bill
of fare, every course being discussed as to its
probable effect upon his stomach or his nerves —
the question being usually settled with a whim-
sical high-handedness by the young woman —
gave him a pretty good notion of their relations
and the state of affairs in general. Notwithstand-
ing Miss Blake's benevolent despotism, the in-
valid was still wrangling feebly over some last
dish when John rose and went to the smoking
room for his coffee and cigarette.

When he stumbled out in search of his bath
the next morning the steamer was well out, and
rolling and pitching in a way calculated to disturb
the gastric functions of the hardiest. But, after
a shower of sea water and a rub down, he found
himself with a feeling for bacon and eggs that
made him proud of himself, and he went in to
breakfast to find, rather to his surprise, that Miss
Blake was before him, looking as fresh — \yell, as
fresh as a handsome girl of nineteen or twenty
and in perfect health could look. She acknowl-
edged his perfunctory bow as he took his seat
with n stiff little bend of the head; but later on,
when lii ' steward was absent on some order, he
elicited a '"Thank you!" by handing her some-
thing which he saw she wanted, and, one thing
leading to another, as things have a way of doing
where young and attractive people are concerned,
they were presently engaged in an interchange
of small talk, but before John was moved to the

! i

DAVID HARUM.

point of disclosing himself on the warrant of a
former acquaintance she had finished her break-
fast.

The weather continued very stormy for two
days, and during that time Miss Blake did not
appear at table. At any rate, if she breakfasted
there it was cither before or after his appearance,
and he learned afterward that she had taken
luncheon and dinner in her sister's room.

The morning of the third day broke bright
and clear. There was a long swell upon the sea,
but the motion of the boat was even and en-
durable to all but the most susceptible. As the
morning advanced the deck began to fill with
promenaders, and to be lined with chairs, hold-
ing wrapped- up figures, showing faces of all
shades of green and gray.

John, walking for exercise, and at a wholly
unnecessary pace, turning at a sharp angle around
the deck house, fairly ran into the girl about
vrhom he had been wondering for the last two
days. She received his somewhat incoherent
apologies, regrets, and self-accusations in such a
spirit of forgiveness that before long they were
supplementing their first conversation with some-
thing more personal and satisfactory; and when
he came to the point of saying that half by acci-
dent he had found out her name, and begged to
be allowed to tell her his own, she looked at him
with a smile of frank amusement and said : " It
is quite unnecessary, Mr. Lenox. I knew you in-
stantly when I saw you at table the first night;
but," she added mischievously, ** I am afraid your
memory for people you have known is not so
good as mine."

" Well," said John, " you will admit, I think,

DAVID HARUM.

[ a
ik-

;\VO

not

sted

nee,

iken

right
; sea,
I en-
s the
with
hold-
of all

vholly
iround
about
St two
ihcrent
such a
were

ll think,

that the change from a Httle girl in short frocks
to a tall young woman in a tailor-made gown
might be more disguising than what might hap-
pen with a boy of fifteen or so. I saw your name
in the passenger list with Mr. and Mrs. Carlin};,
and wondered if it could be the Mary Blake whom
I really did remember, and the first night at din-
ner, when I heard your sister call Mr. Carling
* Julius,' and heard him call you * Mary,* I was
sure of you. But I hardly got a fair look at your
face, and, indeed, I confess that if I had had no
clew at all I miglit not have recognized you."

" I think you would have been quite excus-
able," she replied, " and whether you would or
would not have known me is * one of those thmgs
that no fellow can fmd out,' and isn't of supreme
importance anyway. We each know who the
other is now, at all events."

** Yes," said John, " I am happy to think that
we have come to a conclusion on that point. But
how does it happen that I have heard nothing of
you all these years, or you of me, as I ouppose? "

" For the reason, I fancy," she replied, '' that
during that period of short frocks with me my
sister married Mr. Carling ?nd took me with her
to Chicago, where Mr. Carling was in business.
We have been back in New York only for the
last two or three years."

" It might have been on the cards that I
should come across you in Europe," said John.
" The beaten track is not very broad. How long
have you been over? "

" Only about six months," she replied. " We
have been at one or another of the German Spas
most of the time, as we went abroad for Mr.
Carling's health, and we are on our way home

DAVID HARUM.

on about such an impulse as tliat which started
us off — he tliinks now that he will be better off
tliere."

'* I am afraid you have not derived much
pleasure from your European experiences," said
John.

"Pleasure!" she exclaimed. "If ever you
saw a young- woman who was glad and thankful
to turn her face toward home, / am that person.
I think that one of the heaviest crosses humanity
has to l)car is to have constantly to decide be-
tween two or more al)solutely trivial conclusions
in one's own affairs; but when one is called upon
to multiply one's useless perplexities by, say, ten,
life is really a burden.

" I suppose," she added after a pause, " you
couldn't help hearing our discussions at dinner
the other night, and I have wondered a little what
you must have thought."

" Yes," he said, " I did hear it. Is it the regu-
lar thing, if I may ask? "

" Oh, yes," she replied, with a tone of sadness;
" it has grown to be."

" It must be very trying at times," John re-
marked

"It is, indeed," she said, "and would often
be unendurable to me if it were not for my sense
of humor, as it would be to my sister if it were
not for her love, fof Julius is really a very lovable
man, and I, too, am very fond of him. But I
must laugh sometimes, though my better nature
should rathor, I suppose, impel me to sighs."

" ' A little laughter is much more worth,' "
he quoted.

CHAPTER IV.

They were leaninpf upon the rail at the stern
of the ship, whicli was goinpf with what Httlc
wind there was, and a following sea, with whicli,
as it plunged down the long slopes of the waves,
the vessel seemed to be running a victorious race.
The sea was a deep sapphire, and in the wake the
sunlight turned the broken water to vivid emer-
ald. The air was of a caressing softness, au'l
altogether it was a day and scene of indescri1>
able beauty and inspiration. For a while there
was silence between them, which John broke at
last.

" I suppose," he said, " that one would best
show his appreciation of all this by refraining
from the comment which must needs be com-
paratively commonplace, but really this is so
superb that I must express some of my emotion
even .^t the risk of lowering your opinion of my
good taste, provided, of course, that you have
one."

" Well," she said, laughing, " it may relieve
your mind, if you care, to know that had you
kept silent an instant longer I should have taken
the risk of lowering your opinion of my good
taste, provided, of course, that you have one, by
remarking that this was perfectly magnificent."

" I should think that this would be the sort

'.('

DAVID HARUM.

of day to get Mr. Carling on deck. This air and
sun would brace him up," said John.

She turned to him with a laugh, and said:
" That is the general opinion, or was two hours
ago; but I'm afraid it's out of the question now,
unless we can manage it after luncheon.'*

" What do you mean? " he asked with a puz-
zled smile at the mixture of annoyance and
amusement visible in her face. " Same old
story?"

" Yes," she replied, " same old story. When
I went to my breakfast I called at my sister's
room and said, * '* Come, boys and girls, come out
to play, the sun doth shine as bright as day," and
when I've had my breakfast I'm coming to lug
you both on deck. It's a perfectly glorious morn-
ing, and it will do you both no end of good after
being shut up so long.' * All right,' my sister
answered, ' Julius has quite made tip his mind
to go up as soon as he is dressed. You call for
us in half an hour, and vv^e will be ready.' "

" And wouldn't he come? " John asked; " and
why not? "

" Oh," she exclaimed with a laugh and a
shrug of her shoulders, " shoes."

" Shoes! " said John. " What do you mean? "

" Just what I say," was the rejoinder. " When
I went back to the room I found my brother-in-
law sitting on the edge of tue lounge, or what
you call it, all dressed but his coat, rubbing his
chin between his finger and thumb, and gazing
with despairing perplexity at his feet. It seems
that my sister had got past all the other dilem-
mas, but in a moment of inadvertence had left
the shoe question to him, with the result that he
had put on one russet shoe and one black one.

and

DAVID HARUM.

nd a

>an?
^Vhen

er-in-

what

ig his

razincj

seems
dilem-
id left
hat lie

k one.

and had laced them up before discovering the
discrepancy."

" I don't see anything very difficult in that
situation," remarked John.

"Don't you?" she said scornfully. "No, I
suppose not, but it was quite enough for Julius,
and more than enough for my sister and me. His
first notion was to take off both shoes and begin
all over again, and perhaps if he had been allowed
to carry it out he would have been all right; but
Alice was silly enough to suggest the obvious
thing to him — to take off one, and put on the
mate to the other — and then the trouble began.
First he was in favor of the black shoes as being
thicker in the sole, and then he reflected that they
hadn't been blackened since coming on board.
It seemed to him that the russets were more ap-
propriate anyway, but the blacks were easier to
lace. Had I noticed whether the men on board
were wearing russet or black as a rule, and did
Alice remember whether it was one of the russets
or one of the blacks that he was saying the other
day pinched his toe? He didn't quite like the
looks of a russet shoe with dark trousers, and
called us to witness that those he had on were
dark; but he thought he remembered that it was
the black shoe which pinched him. He supposed
he could change his trousers — and so on, and so
on, al fine, de capo, ad lib., sticking out first one
foot and then the other, lifting them alternately to
his knee for scrutiny, appealing now to Alice and
now to me, and getting more hopelessly be-
wildered all the time. It went on that way for,
it seemed to me, at least half an hour, and at last
I said, * Oh, come now, Julius, take off the brown
shoe — it's too thin, and doesn't go with your

DAVID HARUM.

dark trousers, and pinches your toe, and none of
the men are wearing them — and just put on the
other black one, and come along. We're all suf-
focating for some fresh air, and if you don't get
started pretty soon we sha'n't get on deck to-day.'
* Get on deck! ' he said, looking up at me with a
puzzled expression, and holding fast to the brown
shoe on his knee with both hands, as if he were
afraid I would take it away from him by main
strength — ' get on deck ! Why — why — I believe
I'd better not go out this morning, don't you? ' "

"And then?" said John after a pause.

" Oh," she replied, " I looked at Alice, and
she shook her head as much to say, * It's no use
for the present,' and I fled the place."

"M'm!" muttered John. "He must have
been a nice traveling companion. Has it been
like that all the time?"

" Most of it," she said, " but not quite all, and
this morning was rather an exaggeration of the
regular thing. But getting started on a journey
was usually pretty awful. Once we quite missed
our train because he couldn't make up his mind
whether to put on a light overcoat or a heavy
one. I finally settled the question for him, but
we were just too late."

" You must be a very amiable person," re-
marked John.

" Indeed, I am not," she declared, " but Julius
is, and it's almost impossible to be really put out
with him, particularly in his condition. I have
come to believe that he can not help it, and he
submits to my bullying with such sweetness that
even my impatience gives way."

" Have you three people been alone together
all the time? " John asked.

the
suf-

get
lay.'
Lth a
own
were
main
ilieve
ur

, and
o use

have
been

11, and

of the

)urney
lissed
mind
leavy

n, but

1," re-
Julius
>ut out
have
and he
;ss that

)gether

DAVID HARUM.

" Yes," she replied, " except for four or live
weeks. We visited some American friends in
Berlin, the Nollises, for a fortnight, and after our
visit to them they traveled with us for three
weeks through South Germany and Switzerland.
We parted with them at Metz only about three
weeks since."

" How did Mr. Carling seem while you were
all together?" asked John, looking keenly at her.

" Oh," she replied, " he was more like him-
self than I have seen him for a long time — since
he began to break down, in fact."

He turned his eyes from her face as she looked
up at him, and as he did not speak she said sug-
gestively, '* You are thinking something you
don't quite like to say, but I think I know pretty
nearly what it is."

" Yes? " said John, with a query.

" You think he has had too much feminine
companionship, or had it too exclusively. Is
that it? You need not be afraid to say so."

" Well," said John, " if you put it * too ex-
clusively,' I will admit that there was something
of the sort in my mind, and," he added, " if you
will let me say so, it must at times have been
rather hard for him to be interested or amused —
that it must have — that is to say "

" Oh, say it! " she exclaimed. " It must have
been very dull for him. Is that it? "

" * Father,' " said John with a {]^rimace, '' * I
can not tell a lie! '"

" Oh," she said, laughing, " your hatchet isn't
very sharp. I forgive you. But really," she
added, " I know it has been. You will laugh
when I tell you the one particular resource we
fell back upon."

DAVID HARUM.

" Bid me to laugh, and I will laugh," said
John.

"' Euchre! " she said, looking at him defiantly.
" Two-handed euchre! We have played, as near-
ly as I can estimate, fifteen hundred games,
in which he has held both bowers and the ace
of trumps — or something equally victorious — I
should say fourteen hundred times. " Oh! " she
cried, with an expression of loathing, " may I
never, never, never see a card again as long as I
live ! " John laughed without restraint, and after
a petulant little moiic she joined him.

'* May I light up my pipe? " he said. " I will
get to leeward."

" I shall not mind in the least," she assented.

" By the way," he asked, *' does Mr. Carling
smoke?"

" He used to," she replied, " and while we
were with the Nollises he smoked every day, but
after we left them he fell back into the notion
that it was bad for him."

John filled and lighted his pipe in silence, and
after a satisfactory puf¥ or two said: "Will Mr.
Carling go in to dinner to-night?"

" Yes," she rephed, " I think he will if it is no
rougher than at present."

" It will probably be smoother," said John.
" You must introduce me to him "

" Oh," she interrupted, " of course, but it will
hardly be necessary, as Alice and I have spoken
so often to him of you "

" I was going to say," John resumed, " that
he may possibly let me take him off your hands
a little, and after dinner will be the best time. I
think if I can get him into the smoking room
that a cigar and — and — something hot with a bit

DAVID HARUM.

of lemon peel and so forth later on may induce
him to visit with me for a while, and pass the
evening, or part of it."

*' You want to be an angel! ' she exclaimed.
" Oh, I — we — shall be so obliged. I know it's
just what he wants — some man to take him in
hand."

" I'm in no hurry to be an angel," said John,
laughing, and, with a bow, " It's better some-
times to be near the rose than to be the rose, and
you arc proposi g to overpay me quite. I shall
enjoy doing what I proposed, if it be possible."

Their talk then drifted off into various chan-
nels as topics suggested themselves until the
ship's bell sounded the luncheon hour. Miss
Blake went to join her sister and brother-in-law,
but John had some bread and cheese and beer
in the smoking room. It appeared that the ladies
had better success than in the morning, for he
saw them later on in their steamer chairs with
Mr. Carling, who was huddled in many wraps,
with the flaps of his cap down over his ears. All
the chairs were full — his own included (as hap-
pens to easy-tempered men) — and he had only a
brief colloquy with the party. He noticed, how-
ever, that Mr. Carling had on the russet shoes,
and wondered if they pinched him. In fact,
though he couldn't have said exactly why, he
rather hoped that they did. He had just that
sympathy for the nerves of two-and-fifty which is
to be expected from those of five-and-twenty —
that is, very little.

When he went in to dinner the Carlings and
Miss Blake had been at table some minutes.
There had been the usual controversy about what
Mr. Carling would drink with his dinner, and he

DAVID HARUM.

I :

H f

had decided upon Apollinaris water. But Miss
Blake, with an idea of her own, had given an
order for champagne, and was exhibiting some
consternation, real or assumed, at the fact of
having a whole bottle brought in with the cork
extracted — a customary trick at sea.

" I hope you will help me out," she said to
John as he bowed and seated himself. " ' Some
one has blundered,' and here is a whole bottle of
champagne which must be drunk to save it. Are
you prepared to help turn my, or somebody's,
blunder into hospitaUty?"

" I am prepared to make any sacrifice," said
John, laughing, " in the sacred cause."

" No less than I expected of you," she said.
" Noblesse oblige! Please fill your glass."

" Thanks," said John. " Permit me," and he
filled her own as well.

As the meal proceeded there was some dcs-
^iltory talk about the weather, the ship's run,
and so on; but Mrs. Carling was almost silent,
and her husband said but Httle more. Even
Miss Blake seemed to have something on her
mind, and contributed but little to the conversa-
tion. Presently Mr. Carling said, " Mary, do you
think a mouthful of wine would hurt me? "

*' Certainly not," was the reply. " It will do
you good," reaching over for his glass and pour-
ing the wine.

" That's enough, that's enough! " he protested
as the foam came up to the rim of the glass. She
proceeded to fill it up to the brim and put it be-
side him, and later, as she had opportunity, kept it
replenished.

As the dinner concluded, John said to Mr.
Carling: *' Won't you go up to the smoking room

Vli&s
I an

ome
:t of
cork

id to
3ome
tie of
Are
Ddy's,

' said

; said.

ind he

e dcs-

s run,
silent,
Even
11 her
versa-
o you

Ivill do
pour-

)tested

, She

itbe-

|kept it

to Mr.
room

DAVID HARUM.

with me for coffee? I like a bit of tobacco with
mine, and I have some really good cigars and
some cigarettes — if you prefer them — that I can
vouch for."

As usual, when the unexpected was presented
to his mind, Mr. Carling passed the perplexity
on to his women-folk. At this time, however,
his dinner and the two glasses of wine which Miss
Blake had contrived that he should swallow had
braced him up, and John's suggestion was so
warmly seconded by the ladies that, after some
feeble protests and misgivings, he yielded, and
John carried him off.

" I hope it won't upset Julius," said Mrs.
Carling doubtfully.

'' It won't do anything of the sort," her sister
replied. " He will get through the evening with-
out worrying himself and you into fits, and, if
Mr. Lenox succeeds, you won't see anything of
him till ten o'clock or after, and not then, I hope.
Mind, you're to be sound asleep when he comes
in — snore a little if necessary — and let him get to
bed without any talk at all."

" Why do you say " if Mr. Lenox succeeds '? "
asked Mrs. Carling.

" It was his suggestion," Miss Blake an-
swered. " We had been talking about Julius, and
he finally told me he thought he would be the
better of an occasional interval of masculine soci-
ety, and I quite agreed with him. You know how
much he enjoyed being with George Nollis, and
how much like himself he appeared."

" That is true," said Mrs. Carling.

" And you know that just as soon as he got
alone again with us two women he began back-
ing and filling as badly as ever. I believe Mr,

fti I

DAVID HARUM.

Lenox is rig^ht, and that Julius is just petticcated
to death between us."

" Did Mr. Lenox say that? " asked Mrs. Car-
hng incredulously.

" No," said her sister, laughing, " he didn't
make use of precisely that figure, but that was
what he thought plainly enough."

"What do you think of Mr. Lenox?" said
Mrs. Carling irrelevantly. "Do you like him?
I thought that he looked at you very admiringly
once or twice to-night," she added, with her eyes
on her sisters face.

" Well," said Mary, with a petulant toss of the
head, " except that I've had about an hour's talk
with him, and that I knew him when we were
children — at least when I was a child — he is a
perfect stranger to me, and I do wish," she added
in a tone of annoyance, " that you would give
up that fad of yours, that every man who comes
along is going to — to — be a nuisance."

" He seems very pleasant," said Mrs. Carling,
meekly ignoring her sister's reproach.

" Oh, yes," she replied indifferently, " he's
pleasant enough. Let us go up and have a walk on
deck. I want you to be sound asleep when Julius

comes m

I li

lg»

" he's

ralk on

Julius

CHAPTER V.

John found his humane experiment pleasanter
than he expected. Mr. Carling, as was to be an-
ticipated, demurred a little at the coffee, and still
more at the cigarette; but having his appetite for
tobacco aroused, and finding that no alarming
symptoms ensued, he followed it with a cigar and
later on was induced to go the length of *' Scotch
and soda, ' under the pleasant effect of which —
and John's sympathetic efforts — he was for the
time transformed, the younger man being sur-
prised to find him a man of interesting experi-
ence, considerable reading, and, what was most
surprising, a jolly sense of humor and a fund
of anecdotes which he related extremely well.
The evening was a decided success, perhaps the
best evidence of it coming at the last, when, at
John's suggestion that they supplement their
modest potations with a " night-cap," Mr. Car-
ling cheerfully assented upon the condition that
they should " have it wi<^h him "; and as he went
along the deck after saying " Good night," John
was positive that he heard a whistled tune.

The next day was equally fine, but during
the night the ship had run into the swell of a
storm, and in the morning there was more mo-
tion than the weaker ones could relish. The sea
grew quieter as the day advanced. John was
a. 41

DAVID HARUM.

I i '

early, and finished his breakfast before Miss Blake
came in. He found her on deck about ten
o'clock. She gave him her hand as they said
good morning, and he turned and walked by her
side.

" How is your brother-in-law this morning? "
he inquired.

** Oh," she said, laughing, " he's in a mixture
of feeling very well and feeling that he ought not
to feel so, but, as they are coming up pretty soon,
it would appear that the misgivings are not over-
whelming. He came in last night, and retired
without saying a word. My sister pretended to
be asleep. She says he went to sleep at once, and
that she was awake at intervals and knows that he
slept like a top. He won't make any very sweep-
ing admissions, however, but has gone so far as
to concede that he had a very pleasant evening —
which is going a long way for him — and to say
that you are a very agreeable young man. There !
I didn't intend to tell you that, but you have
been so good that perhaps so much as a second-
hand compliment is no more than your due."

" Thank you very much," said John. " Mr.
Carling is evidently a very discriminating person.
Really it wasn't good of me at all. I was quite
the gainer, for he entertained me more than I
did him. We had a very pleasant evening, and I
hope we shall have more of them, I do, indeed.
I got an entirely different impression of him,"
he added.

" Yes," she said, " I can imagine that you did.
He can be very agreeable, and he is really a man
of a great deal of character when he is himself.
He has been goodness itself to me, and has man-
aged my affairs for years. Even to-day his judg-

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judg-

DAVID HARUM.

ment in business matters is wonderfully sound.
If it had not been for him," she continued, " I
don't know but I should have been a pauper.
My father left a large estate, but he died very
suddenly, and his affairs were very much spread
out and involved and had to be carried along.
Julius put himself into the breach, and not only
saved our fortunes, but has considerably in-
creased them. Of course, Alice is his wife, but
I feel very grateful to him on my own account.
I did not altogether appreciate it at the time, but
now I shudder to think that I might have had
either to * fend for myself ' or be dependent."

" I don't think that dependence would have
suited your book," was John's comment as he
took in the lines of her clear-cut face.

" No," she replied, " and I thank heaven that
I have not had to endure it. I am not," she added,
*' so impressed with what money procures for
people as what it saves them from."

" Yes," said John, " I think your distinction
is just. To possess it is to be free from some of
the most disagreeable apprehensions certainly,
but I confess, whether to my credit or my shame
I don't know, I have never thought much about
it. I certainly am not rich positively, and I
haven't the faintest notion whether I may or not
be prospectively. I have always had as much as
I really needed, and perhaps more, but I know
absolutely nothing about the future." They were
leaning over the rail on the port side.

" I should think," she said after a moment,
looking at him thoughtfully, " that it was, if you
will not think me presuming, a matter about
which you might have some justifiable curiosity."

" Oh, not at all," he assured her, stepping

• V.

» I

DAVID HARUM.

to Iccvvard and producing a cipjar. " I have had
sonic stirrings of late. And please don't think
me an incorrigible idler. I spent nearly two
years in a down-town office and earned — well,
say half my salary. In fact, my business instincts
were so strong that I left college after my second
year for that purpose, but seeing no special
chance of advancement in the race for wealth,
and as my father seemed rather to welcome the
idea, I broke off and went over to Germany. I
haven't been quite idle, though I should be puz-
zled, I admit, to find a market for what I have
to offer to the world. Would you be interested
in a schedule of my accomplishments."

" Oh," she said, " I should be charmed, but
as I am every moment expecting the advent of
my family, and as I am relied upon to locate them
and tuck them up, I'm afraid I shall not have
time to hear it."

" No," he said, laughing, *' it's quite too long."

She was silent for some moments, gazing
down into the water, apparently debating some-
thing in her mind, and quite unconscious of
John's scrutiny. Finally she turned to him with
a little laugh. " You might begin on your list,
and if I am called away you can finish it at an-
other time."

" I hope you didn't think I was speaking in
earnest," he said.

" No," she replied, " I did not think you real-
ly intended to unpack your wares, but, speaking
seriously — and at the risk, I fear, that you may
think me rather * cheeky/ if I may be allowed
that expression — I know a good many men in
America, and I think that without an exception
they are professional men or business men, or,

DAVID HARUM.

being neither — and I know but few such — have
a competence or more; and I was wondering just
now after what you told me what a man Hke you
would or could do if he were thrown upon his
own resources. I'm afraid that is rather frank
for the acquaintance of a day, isn't it? " she asked
with a slight flush, ** but it really is not so per-
sonal as it may sound to you."

" My dear Miss Blake," he replied, " our ac-
quaintance goes back at least ten years. Please
let that fact count for something in your mind.
The truth is, I have done some wondering along
that same line myself without coming to any sat-
isfactory conclusion. I devoutly hope I may
not be so thrown absolutely, for the truth is 1
haven't a marketable commodity. * A little Latin,
and less Greek,' German and French enough to
read and understand and talk — on the surface of
things — and what mathematics, history, et cetera,
I have not forgotten. I know the piano well
enough to read and play an accompaniment after
a fashion, and I have had some good teaching
for the voice, and some experience in singing, at
home and abroad. In fact, I come nearer to a
market there, I think, than in any other direction
perhaps. I have given some time to fencing in
various schools, and before I left home Billy
Williams would sometimes speak encouragingly
of my progress with the gloves. There! That
is my list, and not a dollar in it from beginning
to end, I'm afraid."

" Who is Billy Williams?" she asked.

" Billy," said John, ** is the very mild-man-
nered and gentlemanlike ' bouncer ' at the Alt-
man House, an ex-prize-fighter, and about the
most accomplished member of his profession of

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DAVID HARUM.

his day and weight, who is employed to keep
order and, if necessary, to thrust out the riotous
who would disturb the contemplations of the
lovers of art that frequent the bar of that hotel."
It was to be seen that Miss Blake was not par-
ticularly impressed by this description of Billy
and his functions, upon which she made no com-
ment.

" You have not included in your list," she re-
marked, " what you acquired in the down-town
office you told me of."

" No, upon my word I had forgotten that,
and it's about the only thing of use in the whole
category," he answered. " If I were put to it,
and could find a place, I think I might earn fifty
dollars a month as a clerk or messenger, or some-
thing. Hullo! here are your people."

He went forward with his companion and
greeted Mrs. Carling and her husband, who re-
turned his " Good morning " with a feeble smile,
and submitted to his ministrations in the matter
of chair and rugs with an air of unresisting in-
validism, which was almost too obvious, he
thought. But after luncheon John managed to
induce him to walk for a while, to smoke a cigar-
ette, and finally to brave the perils of a sherry and
bitters before dinner. The ladies had the after-
noon to themselves. John had no chance of a
further visit with Mary during the day, a loss
only partially made good to him by a very ap-
proving smile and a remark which she made to
him at dinner, that he must be a lineal descendant
of the Samaritan. Mr. Carling submitted him-
self to him for the evening. Indeed, it came about
that for the rest of the voyage he had rather more
of the company of that gentleman, who fairly

■ ag ? -s^'-.-'T-

DAVID HARUM.

attached himself to him, than, under all the cir-
cumstances, he cared for; but the gratitude of
the ladies was so cordial that he felt paid for some
sacrifices of his inclinations. And there was an
hour or so every morning — for the fine weather
lasted through — which he spent with Mary Blake,
with increasing interest and pleasure, and he
found himself inwardly rejoicing over a mishap
to the engine which, though of no very great
magnitude, would retard the passage by a couple
of days.

There can hardly be any conditions mere fa-
vorable to the forming of acquaintanceships,
friendships, and even more tender relations than
are afforded by the life on board ship. There is
opportunity, propinquity, and the community of
interest which breaks dovv-i the barriers of ordi-
nary reserve. These relations, to be sure, are not
always of the most lasting character, and not in-
frequently are practically ended before the parties
thereto are out of the custom-house officer's
hands and fade into nameless oblivion, unless one
happens to run across the passenger list among
one's souvenirs. But there are exceptions. If
at this time the question had been asked our
friend, even by himself, wheth«r, to put it plainly,
he were in love with Mary Blake, he would, no
doubt, have strenuously denied it; but it is cer
tain that if any one had said or intimated that
any feature or characteristic of hers was faulty
or susceptible of any change for the better, he
would have secretly disliked that person, and
entertained the meanest opinion of that person's
mental and moral attributes. He would have
liked the voyage prolonged indefinitely, or, at any
rate, as long as the provisions held out.

•I

I :

'. r^

DAVID HARUM.

It has been remarked by some one that all
mundane things come to an end sooner or later,
and, so far as my experience goes, it bears out
that statement. The engines were successfully
repaired, and the ship eventually came to anchor
outside the harbor about eleven o'clock on the
night of the last day. Mary and John were
standing together at the forward rail. There
had been but little talk between them, and only
of a desultory and impersonal character. As the
anchor chains rattled in the hawse-pipes, John
said, " Well, that ends it."

"What ends what?" she asked.

" The voyage, and the holiday, and the epi-
sode, and lots of things," he replied. " We have
come to anchor."

" Yes," she said, " the voyage is over, that is
true; but, for my part, if the last six months can
be called a holiday, its end is welcome, and I
should think you might be glad that your holi-
day is over, too. But I don't quite understand
what you mean by ' the episode and lots of
things.' "

There was an undertone in her utterance
which her companion did not quite comprehend,
though it was obvious to him.

" The episode of — of — our friendship, if I may
call it so," he replied.

" I call it so," she said decisively. " You
have certainly been a friend to all of us. This
episode is over to be sure, but is there any more
than that?"

" Somebody says that * friendship is largely a
matter of streets,' " said John gloomily. " To-
morrow you will go your way and I shall go
mine."

DAVID HARUM.

" Yes," she replied, rather sharply, " that is
true enough; but if that cynical quotation of
yours has anything in it, it's equally true, isn't
it, that friendship is a matter of cabs, and street
cars, and the elevated road? Of course, we can
hardly be expected to look you up, but Sixty-
ninth Street isn't exactly in California, and the
whole question lies with yourself. I don't know
if you care to be told so, but Julius and my sister
like you very much, and will welcome you heart-
ily always."

" Thanks, very much ! " said John, staring
straight out in front of him, and forming a de-
termination that Sixty-ninth Street would see but
precious little of him. She gave a side glance at
him as he did not speak further. There was light
enough to see the expression of his mouth, and
she read his thought almost in words. She had
thought that she had detected a suggestion of sen-
timentality on his part which she intended to keep
strictly in abeyance, but in her intention not to
seem to respond to it she had taken an attitude
of coolness and a tone which was almost sarcastic,
and now perceived that, so far as results were ap-
parent, she had carried matters somewhat further
than she intended. Her heart smote her a little,
too, to think that he was hurt. She really liked
him very much, and contritely recalled how kind
and thoughtful and unselfish he had been, and
how helpful, and she knew that it had been almost
wholly for her. Yes, she was willing — and glad
— to think so. But while she wished that she had
taken a different line at the outset, she hated des-
perately to make any concession, and the seconds
of their silence grew into minutes. She stole
another glance at his face. It was plain that

(■;

DAVID HARUM.

negotiations for harmony would have to begin
with her. Finally she said in a quiet voice:

" * Thanks, very much/ is an entirely polite
expression, but it isn't very responsive."

" I thought it met your cordiality quite half
way," was the rejoinder. " Of course, I am glad
to be assured of Mr. and Mrs. Carling's regard,
and that they woi i be glad to see me, but I think
I might have been justified in hoping that you
would go a little further, don't you think?"

He looked at her as he asked the question,
but she did not turn her head. Presently she
said in a low voice, and slo^ ly, as if weighing
her words :

" Will it be enough if I say that I shall be
very sorry if you do not come? " Fe put his left
hand upon her right, which was resting on the
rail, and for two seconds she let it stay.

" Yes," he said, " thanks — very — much! "

" I must go now," she said, turning toward
him, and for a moment she looked searchingly
in his face. " Good night," she said, giving him
her hand, and John looked after her as she walked
down the deck, and he knew how it was with him.

CHAPTER VI.

John saw Miss Blake the next morning in the
saloon among the passengers in line for the cus-
toms official. It was an easy conjecture that
Ml. Carling's nerves were not up to committing
himself to a " declaration " of any sort, and that
Miss Blrke war undertaking the duty for the
party. He did not see her again until he had had
his luggage passed and turned it over to an ex-
pressman. As he was on his way to leave the
wharf he carne across the group, and stopped to
greet them find ask if he could be of service, and
was told that their houseman had everything in
charge, and that they were just going to their
carriage, which was waiting. " And," said Miss
Blake, " if you are going up town, we can offer
you a seat."

" Sha'n't I discommode yon? " he asked. " If
you are sure I shall not, I shall be glad to be
taken as far as Madison Avenue and Thirty-third
Street, for I suppose that will be your route."

" Quite sure," she replied, seconded by the
Carlings, and so it happened that John went di-
rectly home instead of going first to his father's
office. The weather was a chilly drizzle, and he
was glad to be spared the discomfort of going
about in it with hand-bag, overcoat, and um-
brella, and felt a certain justification in conclud-

— "Wrwii*

DAVID HARUM.

ing that, after two years, a few hours more or less
under the circumstances would make but little
difference. And then, too, the prospect of half
or three-quarters of an hour in Miss Blake's com-
pany, the Carlings notwithstanding, was a
temptation to be welcomed. But if he had hoped
or expected, as perhaps would have been not un-
natural, to discover in that young woman's air
any hint or trace of the feeling she had exhibited,
or, perhaps it should be said, to a degree per-
mitted to show itseif, disappointment was his por-
tion. Her manner was as much in contrast with
that of the last days of their voyage together as
the handsome street dress and hat in which she
was attired bore to the dress and headgear of her
steamer costume, and it almost seemed to him as
if the contrasts bore some relation to each other.
After the question of the carriage windows —
whether they should be up or down, either or
both, and how much — had been settled, and, as
usual in such dilemmas, by Miss Blake, the drive
up town was comparatively a silent one. John's
mind was occupied ^^^ith sundry reflections and
speculations, of many of which his companion
was the subject, and to some extent in noting the
changes in the streets and buildings which an
absence of two years made nx)ticeable to him.

Mary looked steadily out of window, lost in
her own thoughts save for an occasional brief
response to some casual comment or remark of
John's. Mr. Carling had muffled himself past all
talking, and his wife preserved the silence which
was characteristic of her when unurged.

John was set down at Thirty-third Street, and,
as he made his adieus, Mrs. Carling said, " Do
come and see us as soon as you can, Mr. Lenox "j

ij! ;

DAVID HARUM.

and,
'Do

but Miss Blake simply said " Good-by " as she
gave him her hand for an instant, and he went on
to his father's house.

He let himself in with the latch-key which he
had carried through all his absence, but was at
once encountered by Jeffrey, who, with his wife,
had for years constituted the domestic staff of the
Lenox household.

" Well, Jeff," said John, as he shook hands
heartily with the old servant, " how are you? and
how is Ann? You don't look a day older, and
the climate seems to agree with you, eh?"

" You're welcome home, Mr. John," replied
Jeffrey, " and thank you, sir. Me and Ann is very
well, sir. It's a pleasure to see you again and
home. It is, indeed."

" Thank you, Jeff," said John. " It's rather
nice to be back. Is my room ready? "

" Yes, sir," said Jeffrey, " I think it's all right,
though we thought that maybe it 'd be later in
the day when you got here, sir. We thought
maybe you'd go to Mr. Lenox's office first."

" I did intend to," said John, mounting the
stairs, followed by Jeffrey with his bag, ''but
I had a chance to drive up with some friends,
and the day is so beastly that I took advantage
of it. How is my father? " he asked after entering
the chamber, which struck him as being so
strangely familiar and so familiarly strange.

" Well, sir," said Jeffrey, " he's much about
the same most ways, and then again he's different,
too. Seeing him every day, perhaps I wouldn't
notice so much; but if I was to say that he's
kind of quieter, perhaps that'd be what I mean.

Sir.

" Well," said John, smiling, " my father was

DAVID HARUM.

about the quietest person I ever knew, and if he's
grown more so — what do you mean? "

" Well, sir," replied the man, " I notice at
table, sir, for one thing. We've been alone here
off and on a good bit, sir, and he used always to
have a pleasant word or two to say to me, and
may be to ask me questions and that, sir; but for
a long time lately he hardly seems to notice me.
Of course, there ain't any necW of his saying any-
thing, because I know all he wants, seemg I've
waited on him so long, but it's different in a wav,
sir."

" Does he go out in the evening to his club? "
asked John.

" Very rarely, sir," said Jeffrey. " He mostly
goes to his room after dinner, an' oftentimes I
hear him walking up an' down, up an' down, and,
sir," he added, * you know he often used to have
some of his friends to dine with him, and that
ain't happened in, I should guess, for a year."

" Have things gone wrong with him in any
way? " said John, a sudden anxiety overcoming
some reluctance to question a servant on such a
subject.

" You mean about business, and such like? "
replied Jeffrey. " No, sir, not so far as I know.
You know, Mr. John, sir, that I pay all the house
accounts, and there hasn't never been no — no
shortness, as I might say, but we're living a bit
simpler than we used to~in the matter of wine
and such like — and, as I told you, we don't have
comp'ny no more."

" Is that all? " asked John, with some relief.

" Well, sir," was the reply, " perhaps it's be-
cause Mr. Lenox is getting older and don't care
so much about such things, but I have noticed

DAVID HARUM.

that he hasn't had anything new from the tailor in
a long time, and really, sir, though perhaps I
oughtn't to say it, his things is getting a bit
shabby, sir, and he used to be always so partic'-
lar."

John got up and walked over to the window
which looked out at the rear of the house. The
words of the old servant disquieted him, notwith-
standing that there was nothing so far that could
not be accounted for without alarm. Jeffrey wait-
ed for a moment and then asked :

" Is there anything I can do for you, Mr.
John? Will you be having luncheon here, sir?"

"No, thank you, Jeff," said John; "nothing
more now, and I will lunch here. I'll come down
and see Ann presently."

" Thank you, sir," said Jefifrey, and withdrew.

The view from the back windows of most city
houses is not calculated to arouse enthusiasm at
the best of times, and the day was singularly
dispiriting: a sky of lead and a drizzling rain,
which emphasized the squalor of the back yards
in view. It was all very depressing. Jeffrey's
talk, though inconclusive, had stirred in John's
mind an uneasiness which was near to apprehen-
sion. He turned and walked about the familiar
room, recognizing the well-known furniture, his
mother's picture over the mantel, the book-
shelves filled with his boyhood's accumulations,
the well-remembered pattern of the carpet, and
the wall-paper — nothing was changed. It was
all as he had left it two years ago, and for the
time it seemed as if he had merely dreamed the
life and experiences of those years. Indeed, it
was with difficulty that he recalled any of them
for the moment. And then suddenly there came

"jfolf .

i I

l:|i ■

I li

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,11 :

DAVID IIARUM.

into his mind the thought that he was at the be-
ginning of a new epoch — that on this day his
boyhood ended, for up to then he had been but
a boy. The thought was very vivid. It had
come, the time when he must take upon himself
the responsibiHties of his own Hfe, and make it
for himself; the time which he had looked for-
ward to as to come some day, but not hitherto
at any particular moment, and so not to be very
seriously considered.

It has been said that life had always been
made easy for him, and that he had accepted the
situation without protest. To easy-going na-
tures the thought of any radical change in the
current of afifairs is usually unwelcome, but he was
too young to find it really repugnant; and then,
too, as he walked about the room with his hands
in his pockets, it was further revealed to him that
he had recently found a motive and impulse such
as he had never had before. He recalled the talk
that he had had with the companion of his voy-
age. He thought of her as one who could be
tender to misfortune and charitable to incapacity,
but who would have nothing but scorn for shift-
lessness and malingering; and he realized that
he had never cared for anything as for the good
opinion of that young woman. No, there should
be for him no more sauntering in the vales and
groves, no more of loitering or dallying. He
wonld take his place in the working world, and
perhaps — some day

A thought came to him with the impact of a
blow: What could he do? What work was there
for him? How could he pull his weight in the
boat? All his life he had depended upon some
one else, with easy-going thoughtlessness. Hard-

DAVID HARUM.

ly had it ever really occurred to him that he might
have to make a career for himself. Of business
he had thought as something which he should
undertake some time, but it was always a busi-
ness ready made to his hand, with plenty of capi-
tal not of his own accjuiring — something for oc-
cupation, not of necessity. It came home to him
that his father was his only resource, and that
of his father's affairs he knew next to nothing.

In addition to his affection for him, he had
always had an unquestioning confidence in his
father. It was his earliest recollection, and he
still retained it to almost a childish extent. There
had always been plenty. His own allowance,
from time to time increased, though never ex-
travagant, had always been ample, and on the
one occasion when he had grievously exceeded it
the excess had been paid with no more protest
than a gentle " I think you ought not to have
done this." The two had lived together when
John vv'as at home without ostentation or any
appearance of style, but with every essential of
luxury. The house and its furnishings were old-
fashioned, but everything was of the best, and
when three or four of the elder man's friends
would come to dine, as happened occasionally,
the contents of the cellar made them look at each
other over their glasses. Mr. Lenox was very
reticent in all matters relating to himself, and in
his talks with his son, which were mostly at the
table, rarely spoke of business matters in gen-
eral, and almost never of his own. He had read
well, and was fond of talking of his reading when
he felt in the vein of talking, which was not al-
ways; but John had invariably found him ready
with comment and sympathy upon the topics in

fU I

DAVID HARUM.

which he himself had interest, and there was a
strong if undemonstrative affection between the
father and son.

It was not strange, perhaps, all things con-
sidered, that John had come even to nearly six-
and-twenty with no more settled intentions; that
his boyhood should have been so long. He was
not at all of a reckless disposition, and, notwith-
standing the desultory way in which he had spent
time, he had strong mental and moral fiber, and
was capable of feeling deeply and enduringly.
He had been desultorv, but never before had he
had much reason or warning against it. But now,
he reflected, a time had come. Work he must,
if only for work's sake, and work he would; and
there was a touch of self-reproach in the thought
of his father's increasing years and of his lonely
life. He might have been a help and a compan-
ion during those two years of his not very fruit-
ful European sojourn, and he would lose no time
in finding out what there was for him to do, and
in setting about it.

CHAPTER VII.

The day seemed very long. He ate his
luncheon, having first paid a visit to Ann, who
gave him an effusive welcome. Jeffrey waited,
and during the meal they had some further talk,
and among other things John said to him, " Does
my father dress for dinner nowadays? "

" No, sir," was the reply, " I don't know when
I've seen your father in his evenin' clothes, sir.
Not for a long time, and then maybe two or three
times the past year when he was going out to
dinner, but not here, sir. Maybe it'll be different
now you're back Jgain, sir."

After luncheon John's lu engage arrived, and
he superintended the unpacking, but that em-
ployment was comparatively brief. The day
dragged with him. Truly his home-coming was
rather a dreary affair. How different had been
yesterday, and the day before, and all those days
before when he had so enjoyed the ship life, and
most of all the daily hour or more of the com-
panionship which had grown to be of such sur-
passing interest to him, and now seemed so ut-
terly a thing of the past.

Of course, he should see her again. (He put
aside a wonder if it would be within the proprie-
ties on that evening or, at latest, the next.) But,
in any case, " the episode," as he had said to her,

DAVID HARUM.

Si ' I

I ■; I

was done, and it had been very pleasant — oh, yes,
very dear to him. He wondered if she was find-
ing the day as interminable as it seemed to him,
and if the interval before they saw each other
again would seem as long as his impatience would
iliake it for him. Finally, the restless dullness
became intolerable. He sallied forth into the
v.eather and went to his club, having been on
non-resident footing during his absence, ynd,
finding some men whom he knew, spent there the
rest of the afternoon.

His father was at home and in his room when
John got back.

" Well, father," he said, " the prodigal has re-
turned."

" He is very welcome," was the reply, as the
elder man took both his son's hands and looked
at him affectionately. " You seem very well."

" Yes," said John; "and how are you, sir?"

" About as usual, I think," said Mr. Lenox.

They looked at each other for a moment in
silence. John thought that his father seemed
thinner than formerly, and he had instantly ob-
served that a white beard covered the always
hitherto smooth-shaven chin, but he made no
comment.

" The old place appears very familiar," he re-
marked. " Nothing is changed or even moved,
as I can see, and Ann and Jefif are just the same
old sixpences as ever."

" Yes," said his father, " two years make less
diflference with old people and their old habits
than with young ones. You will have changed
more than we have, I fancy."

" Do we dress for dinner?" asked John, afte**
some little more unimportant talk.

DAVID HARUM.

less
ibits
iged

"Yes," said his father, "in hor.or of the oc-
casion, if you like. I haven't done it lately," he
added, a little wearily.

" I haven't had such a glass of wine since I
left home," John remarked as they sat together
after dinner.

" No," said his father, looking thoughtfully at
his glass, " it's the old ' Mouton,' and pretty near-
ly the last of it ; it's very old and wants drinking,"
he observed as he held his glass up to get the
color. " It has gone off a bit even in two vears."

" All right," said John cheerfully, " we'll drink
it to save it, if needs be." The elder man smiled
and filled both glasses.

There had been more or less talk during the
meal, but nothing of special moment. John sat
back in his chair, absently twirling the stem of
his glass between thumb and fingers. Presently
he said, looking straight before him at the table:
" I have been thinking a good deal of late — more
than ever before, positively, in fact — that what-
ever my prospects may be " (he did not see the
momentary contraction of his father's brow) " I
ought to begin some sort of a career in earnest.
I'm afraid," he continued, " that I have been
rather unmindful, and that I might have been of
some use to you as well as myself if I had stayed
at home instead of spending the last two years in
Europe."

" I trust," said his father, " that they have not
been entirely without profit."

" No," said John, " perhaps not wholly, but
their cash value would not be large, I'm afraid."

" All value is not to be measured in dollars
and cents," remarked Mr. Lenox. " If I could

* 11

: "-wrt

I ;

DAVID HARUM.

have acquired as much German and French as I
presume you have, to say nothing of other things,
I should look back upor. the time as well spent
at almost any cost. At your age a year or two
more or less — you don't realize it now, but you
will if you come to my age — doesn't count for
so very much, and you are not too old," he
smiled, " to begin at a beginning."

" I want to begin," said John.

" Yes," said his father, " I want to have you,
and I have had the matter a good deal in my
mind. Have you any idea as to what you wish to
do?"

" I thought," said John, " that the most ob-
vious thing would be to go into your office."
Mr. Lenox reached over for the cigar-lamp. His
cigar had gone out, and his hand shook as he
applied the flame to it. He did not reply for a
moment.

" I understand," he said at last. " It would
seem the obvious thing to do, as you say, but,"
he clicked his teeth together doubtfully, " I don't
see how it can be managed at present, and I don't
think it is what I should desire for you in any
case. The fact is," he went on, " my business has
always been a sort of specialty, and, though it is
still worth doing perhaps, it is not what it used
to be. Conditions and methods have changed —
and," he added, " I am too old to change with
them."

" I am not," said John.

" In fact," resumed his father, ignoring John's
assertion, " as things are going now, I couldn't
make a place for you in my office unless I dis-
placed Melig and made you my manager, and for
many reasons I couldn't do that. I am too de-

DAVID HARUM.

pendent on Melig. Of course, if you came with
me it would be as a partner, but "

" No," said John, " I should be a poor
substitute for old Melig for a good while, I
fancy."

" My idea would be," said Mr. Lenox, " that
you should undertake a profession — say the law.
It is a fact that the great majority of men fail in
business, and then most of them, for lack of train-
ing or special aptitude, fall into the ranks of clerks
and subordinates. On the other hand, a man
who has a profession — law, medicine, what not —
even if he does not attain high rank, has some-
thing on which he can generally get along, at
least after a fashion, and he has the standing.
That is my view of the matter, and though I con-
fess I often wonder at it in individual cases, it is
my advice to you."

" It would take three or four years to put me
where I could earn anything to speak of," said
John, " even providing that I could get any busi-
ness at the end of the time."

" Yes," said his father, " but the time of itself
isn't of so much consequence. You would be liv-
ing at home, and would have your allowance —
perhaps," he suggested, " somewhat diminished,
seeing that you would be here "

" I can get on with half of it," said John con-
fidently.

"We will settle that matter afterward," said
Mr. Lenox.

They sat in silence for some minutes, John
staring thoughtfully at the table, unconscious of
the occasional scrutiny of his father's glance. At
last he said, " Well, sir, I will do anything that
you advise."

1 -.'i

ill

'II

!i!

DAVID HARUM.

" Have you anything to urge against it? "
asked Mr. Lenox.

" Not exactly on my own account," replied
John, " though I admit that the three years or
more seems a long time to me, but I have been
drawing on you exclusively all my life, except
for the little money I earned in Rush & Com-
pany's office, and "

" You have done so, my dear boy," said his
father gently, " with my acquiescence. I may
have been wrong, but that is a fact. If in my
judgment the arrangement may be continued for
a while longer, and in the mean time you are mak-
ing progress toward a definite end, I think you
need have no misgivings. It gratifies me to have
you feel ps you do, though it is no more than I
should have expected of you, for you have never
caused me any serious anxiety or disappointment,
my son."

Often in the u.'ter time did John thank God
for that assurance.

" Thank you, sir," he said, putting down his
hand, palm upward, on the table, and his eyes
filled as the elder mar. laid his hand in his, and
they gave each other a lingering pressure.

Mr. Lenox divided rhe last of the wine in the
bottle between the two glasses, and they drank
it in silence, as if in pledge.

" I will go in to see Carey & Carey in the
morning, and if they are agreeable ycu can see
them afterward," said Mr. Lenox. " They are
not one of the great firms, but they have a large
and good practice, and they are friends of mine.
Shall I do so? " he asked, looking at his son.

"If you will be so kind," John replied, return-
ing his look. And so the matter was concluded.

CHAPTER VIIL

-Tti

This history will not concern itself to any
extent with our friend's career as a law clerk,
though, as he promised himself, he took it seri-
ously and laboriously while it lasted, notwith-
standing that after two years of being his own
master, and the rather desultory and altogether
congenial life he had led, he found it at first even
more irksome than he had fancied. The novice
penetrates but slowly the mysteries of the law,
and, unless he be of unusual aptitude and imag-
ination, the interesting and remunerative part
seems for a long time very far off. But John
stuck manfully to the reading, and was diligent
in all that was put upon him to do; and after
a while the days spent in the office and in the
work appointed to him began to pass more
quickly.

He restrained his impulse to call at Sixty-
ninth Street until what seemed to him a fittine:
interval had elapsed; one which was longer than
it would otherwise have been, from an instinct
of shyness not habitual to him, and a distrustful
apprehension that perhaps his advent was not of
so much moment to the people there as to him.
But their greeting was so cordial on every hand
that Mrs. Carling's remark that they had been
aHost afraid he had forgotten them embarrassed

'. iJ

JMU.

DAVID HARUM.

while it pleased him, and his explanations were
somewhat lame. Miss Blake, as usual, came to
the rescue, though John's disconcert was not
lessened by the suspicion that she saw through
his inventions. He had conceived a great opin-
ion of that young person's penetration.

His talk for a while was mostly with Mr. Car-
ling, who was in a pleasant mood, being, like
most nervous people, at his best in the evening.
Mary made an occasional contributory remark,
and Mrs. Carling, as was her wont, was silent ex-
cept when appealed to. Finally, Mr. Carling rose
and, putting out his hand, said: " I think I will
excuse myself, if you will permit me. I have had
to be down town to-day, and am rather tired."
Mrs. Carling followed him, saying to John as she
bade him good night : " Do come, Mr. Lenox,
whenever you feel like it. We are very quiet
people, and are almost always at home."

" Thank you, Mrs. Carling," responded John,
with much sincerity. " I shall be most glad to.
I am so quiet myself as to be practically noise-
less."

The hall of the Carlings' house was their fa-
vorite sitting place in the evening. It ran nearly
the whole depth of the house, and had a wide
fireplace at the end. The further right hand por-
tion was recessed by the stairway, which rose
from about the middle of its length.

Miss Blake sat in a low chair, and John took
its fellow at the other angle of the fireplace, which
contained the smoldering remnant of a wood
fire. She had a bit of embroidery stretched over a
circular frame like a drum-head. Needlework
was not a passion Vi^ith her, but it was under-
stood in the Carling household that in course of

DAVID HARUM.

i'\

time a set of table doilies of elaborate devices in
colored silks would be forthcoming. It has been
deplored by some philosopher that custom does
not sanction such little occupations for masculine
hands. It would be interesting to speculate how
many embarrassing or disastrous consequences
might have been averted if at a critical point in
a negotiation or controversy a needle had had
to be threaded or a dropped stitch taken up before
a reply was made, to say nothing of an excuse
for averting features at times without confession
of confusion.

The great and wise Charles Reade tells how
his hero, who had an island, a treasure ship, and
a few other trifles of the sort to dispose of, in-
sisted upon Captain Fullalove's throwing away
the stick he was whittling, as giving the captain
an unfair advantage. The value of the embroid-
ered doily as an article of table napery may be
open to question, but its value, in an unfinished
state, as an adjunct to discreet conversation, is
beyond all dispute.

"Ought I to say good night?" asked John
with a smile, as he seated himself on the disap-
pearance of Mr. and Mrs. Carling.

" I don't see any reason," she replied. " It
isn't late. Julius is in one of his periods of retir-
ing early just now. By and by he will be sure
to take up the idea again that ' is best sleep is
after midnight. At present he is on the theory
that it is before twelve o'clock."

" How has he been since your return? " John
asked.

" Better in some ways, I think," she replied.
** He seems to enjoy the home life in contrast
with the traveling about and living in hotels; and

1 >■

■JM

DAVID HARUM.

'K I,

then, in a moderate way, he is obliged to give
some attention to business matters, and to come
in contact with men and affairs generally."

" And you? " said John. " You find it pleas-
ant to be back?"

" Yes," she said, " I do. As my sister said,
we are quiet people. She goes out so little that
it is almost not at all, and when I go it has nearly
always to be with some one else. And then, you
know that while Alice and I are originally New
Yorkers, we have only been back here for two or
three years. Most of the people, really, to whose
houses we go are those who knew my father.
But," she added, " it is a comfort not to be carry-
ing about a traveling bag in one hand and a
weight of responsibility in the other."

" I should think," said John, laughing, " that
your maid might have taken the bag, even if she
couldn't carry your responsibilities."

" No," she said, joining in his laugh, " that
particular bag was too precious, and Eliza was
one of my most serious responsibilities. She had
to be looked after like the luggage, and I used to
wish at times that she could be labeled and go
in the van. How has it been with you since your
return? and," as she separated a needleful of silk
from what seemed an inextricable tangle, " if I
may ask, what have you been doing? I was re-
calling," she added, putting the silk into the
needle, " some things you said to me on the Al-
truria. Do you remember?"

" Perfectly," said John. " I think I remember
every word said on both sides, and I have thought
very often of some things you said to me. In
fact, they had more influence upon my mind than
you imagined."

DAVID HARUM.

She turned her work so that thv "ight would
fall a little more directly upon it.

" Really? " she asked. " In whac way? "

" You put in a drop or two that crystallized
the whole solution," he answered. She looked
up at him inquiringly.

" Yes," he said, " I always knew that I should
have to stop drifting some time, but there never
seemed to be any particular time. Some things
you said to me set the time. I am under * full
steam a-head' t present. Behold in me," he
exclaimed, touc.'iir his breast, "the future chief
of the Supre? e C oart of the United States, of
whom you shall say some time in the next
brief interval c^ forty years or so, * I knew him
as a younp" man, and one for whom no one
would have predicted such eminence ! ' and per-
haps you will add, * It was largely owing to

> )>

me.

She looked at him with an expression in which
amusement and curiosity were blended.

" I congratulate you," she said, laughing,
" upon the career in which it appears I had the
honor to start you. Am I being told that you
have taken up the law?"

" Not quite the whole of it as yet," he said ;
" but when I am not doing errands for the of-
fice I am to some extent taken up with it," and
then he told her of his talk with his father and
what had followed. She overcame a refractory
kink in her silk before speaking.

" It takes a long time, doesn't it, and do you
like it?" she asked.

" Well," said John, laughing a little, " a weak-
er word than * fascinating ' would describe the
pursuit, but I hope with diligence to reach some

I'' '

1' ; 1

' i i'i

ft^

DAVID HARUM.

of the interesting features in the course of ten
or twelve years."

" It is delightful," she remarked, scrutinizing
the pattern of her work, " to encounter such en-
thusiasm."

" Isn't it?" said John, not in the least wound-
ed by her sarcasm.

*' Very much so," she replied, " but I have
always understood that it is a mistake to be too
sanguine."

" Perhaps I'd better make it fifteen years,
then," he said, laughing. " I should have a
choice of professions by that time at any rate.
You know the proverb that ' At forty every man
is either a fool or a physician.' " She looked at
him with a smile. " Yes," he said, *' I realize the
alternative." She laughed a little, but did not
reply.

" Seriously," he continued, " I know that in
everything worth accomplishing there is a lot of
drudgery to be gone through with at the first,
and perhaps it seems the more irksome to me
because I have been so long idly my own master.
However," he added, " I shall get down to it, or
up to it, after a while, I dare say. That is my in-
tention, at any rate."

" I don't think I have ever wished that I
were a man," she said after a moment, *' but
I often find myself envying a man's opportuni-
ties."

" Do not women have opportunities, too? " he
said. " Certainly tliey have greatly to do with
the determination of aflfairs."

" Oh, yes," she replied, " it is the usual an-
swer that woman's part is to influence somebody.
As for her own life, it is largely made for her.

DAVID HARUM.

She has, for the most part, to take what comes
to her by the will of others."

** And yet," said John, " I fancy that there
has seldom been a great career in which some
woman's help or influence was not a factor."

" Even granting that," she replied, " the career
was the man's, after all, and the fame and visible
reward. A man will sometimes say, ' I owe all
my success to my wife, or my mother, or sister,'
but he never really believes it, nor, in fact, does
any one else. It is his success, after all, and the
influence of the woman is but a circumstance,
real and powerful though it may be. I am not
sure," she added, " that woman's influence, so
called, isn't rather an overrated thing. Women
like to feel that they have it, and men, in mat-
ters which they hold lightly, flatter them by yield-
ing, but I am doubtful if a man ever arrives at or
abandons a settled course or conviction through
the influence of a woman, however exerted."

" I think you are wrong," said John, " and I
feel sure of so much as this: that a man might
often be or do for ? woman's sake that which he
would not for its sake or his own."

" That is quite another thing," she said.
" There is in it no question of influence ; it is one
of impulse and motive."

" I have told you to-night," said John, " that
what you said to me had influenced me greatly."

" Pardon me," she replied, " you employed a
figure which exactly defined your condition. You
said I supplied the drop which caused the solu-
tion to crystallize — that is, to elaborate your il-
lustration, that it was already at the point of
saturation with your own convictions and inten-
tions."

---•<*,—».>*;.*«

DAVID HARUM.

" I said also," he urpcd, " that you had set the
time for me. Is the idea unpleasant to you?"
ht asked after a moment, while he watched her
face. She did not at once reply, but presently
she turned to him with slightly heightened color
and said, ignoring his question :

" Would you rather think that you had done
what you thought right because you so thought,
or because some one else wished to have you?
Or, I should say, would you rather think that the
right suggestion was another's than your own?"

He laughed a little, and said evasively: " You
ought to be a lawyer. Miss Blake. I should hate
to have you cross-examine me unless I were very
sure of my evidence."

She gave a little shrug of her shoulders in
reply as she turned and resumed her embroidery.
They talked for a while longer, but of other
things, the discussion of woman's influence hav-
ing been dropped by mutual consent.

After John's departure she suspended opera-
tions on the doily, and sat for a while gazing re-
flectively into the fire. She was a person as frank
with herself as with others, and with as little van-
ity as was compatible with being human, which
is to say that, though she was not without it, it
was of the sort which could be gratified but not
flattered — in fact, the sort which flattery wounds
rather than pleases. But despite her apparent
skepticism she had not been displeased by John's
assertion that she had influenced him in his
course. She had expressed herself truly, believ-
ing that he would have done as he had without
her intervention; but she thought that he was
sincere, and it was pleasant to her to have him
think as he did.

DAVID IIARUM.

1?"

Considering the surroundings and conditions
under which she had Uved, she had had her share
of the acquaintance and attentions of agreeable
men, but none of them had ever got with her be-
yond the stage of mere friendliness. There had
never been one whose coming she had particu-
larly looked forward to, or whose going she had
deplored. She had thought of marriage as some-
thing she might come to, but she had promised
herself that it should be on such conditions as
were, she was aware, quite improbable of ever be-
ing fulfilled. She would not care for a man be-
cause he was clever and distinguished, but she felt
that he must be those things, and to have, besides,
those qualities of character and person which
should attract her. She had known a good many
men who were clever and to some extent distin-
guished, but none who had attracted her person-
ally. John Lenox did not strike her as being
particularly clever, and he certainly was not dis-
tinguished, nor, she thought, ever very likely to
be; but she had had a pleasure in being with him
which she had never experienced in the society
of any other man, and underneath some boyish
ways she divined a strength and steadfastness
which could be relied upon at need. And she ad-
mitted to herself that during the ten days since
her return, though she had unsparingly snubbed
her sister's wonderings why he did not call, she
had speculated a good deal upon the subject her-
self, with a sort of resentful feeling against both
herself and him that she should care

Her face flushed as she recalled the momen-
tary pressure of his hand upon hers on that last
night on deck. She rang for the servant, and
went up to her room.
6

f'.

111

CHAPTER IX.

It is not the purpose of this narrative to dwell
minutely upon the events of the next few months.
Truth to say, they were devoid of incidents of
sufficient moment in themselves to warrant
chronicle. What they led up to was memorable
enough.

As timf. went on John found himself on terms
of growing intimacy with the Carling household,
and eventually it came about that if there passed
a day when their door did not open to him it was
dies non.

Mr. Carling was ostensibly more responsible
than the ladies for the frequency of our friend's
visits, and grew to look forward to them. In
fact, he seemed to regard them as paid primarily
to himself, and ignored an occasional suggestion
on his wife's part that it might not be wholly
the pleasure of a chat and a game at cards with
him that brought the young man so often to the
house. And when once she ventured to concern
him with some stirrings of her mind on the sub-
ject, he rather testily (for him) pooh-poohed her
misgivings, remarking that Mary was her own
mistress, and, so far as he had ever seen, remark-
ably well qualified to regulate her own affairs.
Had she ever seen anything to lead her to sup-
pose that there was any particular sentiment ex-
isting between Lenox and her sister?
74

DAVID HARUM.

" No," said Mrs. Carling, " perhaps not ex-
Hctly, but you know how those things go, and
he ahvays stays after we come up when she is at
home." To which her husband vouchsafed no
reply, but began a protracted wavering as to the
advisabiHty of leaving the steam on or turning
it off for the night, which was a cold one — a di-
lemma which, involving his personal welfare or
comfort at the moment, permitted no considera-
tion of other matters to share his mind.

I own
lark-
[airs.

|SUp-

ex-

Mrs. Carling had not spoken to her sister
upon the subject. She thought that that young
woman, if she were not, as Mr. Carling said, " re-
markably well quahfied to regulate her own af-
fairs," at least held the opinion that she was, very
strongly.

The two were devotedly fond of each other,
but Mrs. Carling was the elder by twenty years,
and in her love was an element of maternal so-
licitude to which her sister, while giving love for
love in fullest measure, did not fully respond.
The elder would have liked to share every
thought, but she was neither so strong nor so
clever as the girl to whom she had been almost
as a mother, and who, though perfectly truthful
and frank when she was minded to express her-
self, gave, as a rule, little satisfaction to attempts
to explore her mind, and on some subjects was
capable of meeting such attempts with impa-
tience, not to say resentment — a fact of which
her sister was quite aware. But as time went on,
and the frequency of John's visits and attentions
grew into a settled habit, Mrs. Carling's uneasi-
ness, with which perhaps was mingled a bit of
curiosity, got the better of her reserve, and she

Pi J

I i

DAVID HARUM.

determined to get what satisfaction could be ob-
tained for it.

They were sitting in Mrs. Carling's room,
which was over the drawing-room in the front
of the house. A fire of cannel blazed in the
grate.

A furious storm was whirling outside. Mrs.
Carling was occupied with some sort of needle-
work, and her sister, with a writing pad on her
lap, was composing a letter to a friend with whom
she carried on a desultory and rather one-sided
correspondence. Presently she yawned slightly,
and, putting down her pad, went over to the
window and looked out.

"What a day!" she exclaimed. "It seems
to get worse and worse. Positively you can't see
across the street. It's like a western blizzard."

" It is, really," said Mrs. Carling; and then,
moved by the current of thought which had been
passing in her mind of late, " I fancy we shall
spend the evening by ourselves ,o-n'.ght."

" That would not be so ui sual as to be ex-
traordinary, would it?" said Mary.

" Wouldn't it? " suggested Mrs. Carling in
a tone that was meant to be slightly quizzical.

" We are by ourselves most evenings, are we
not? " responded her sister, without turning
around. " Why do you particularize to-night? "

" I was thinking," answered Mrs. Carling,
bending a little closer over her work, " that even
Mr. Lenox would hardly venture out in such a
storm unless it were absolutely necessary."

" Oh, yes, to be sure, Mr. Lenox ; very likely
not," was Miss Blake's comment, in a tone of
indifferent recollection.

" He comes here very often, almost every

DAVID HARUM.

ig in
leal.

Ire we
irning

:ht? "

irling,
even
ich a

llikely
Ine of

every

night, in fact," remarked Mrs. Carling, looking
up sideways at her sister's back.

" Now that you mention it," said Mary dryly,
" I have noticed something of the sort myself."

" Do you think he ought to? " asked her sis-
ter, after a moment of silence.

"Why not?" said the girl, turning to her
questioner for the first time. " And why should
I think he should or should not? Doesn't he
come to see Julius, and on Julius's invitation?
I have never asked him — but once," she said,
flushing a little as she recalled the occasion and
the wording of the invitation.

" Do you think," returned Mrs. Carling, " that
his visits are wholly on Julius's account, and
that he would come so often if there were no
other inducement? You know," she continued,
pressing her point timidly but persistently, " he
always stays after we go upstairs if you are at
home, and I have noticed that when you are out
he always goes before our time for retiring."

" I should say," was the rejoinder, " that that
was very much the proper thing. Whether or
not he comes here too often is not for me to
say — I have no opinion on the subject. But, to
do him justice, he is about the last man to wait
for a tacit dismissal, or to cause you and Julius
to depart from what he knows to be your regu-
lar habit out of politeness to him. He is a per-
son of too much delicacy and good breeding to

stay v/hen — if — that is to say " She turned

again to the window without completing her sen-
tence, and, though Mrs. Carling thought she
could complete it for her, she wisely forbore.
After a moment of silence, Mary said in a voice
devoid of any traces of confusion :

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DAVID HARUM.

"You asked me if I thought Mr. Lenox
would come so often if there were no object in
his coming except to see Julins. I can only say
that if Julius were out of the question I think
he would come here but seldom; but," she added,
as she left the window and resumed her seat, " I
do not quite see the object of this discussion, and,
indeed, I am not quite sure of what we are dis-
cussing. Do you object," she asked, looking
curiously at her sister and smiling slightly, " to
Mr. Lenox's coming here as he does, and if so,
why?" This was apparently more direct than
Mrs. Carling was quite prepared for. " And if
you do," Mary proceeded, " what is to be done
about it? Am I to make him understand that it
is not considered the p;oper thing? or will you?
or shall we leave it to Julius? "

Mrs. Carling looked up into her sister's face,
in which was a smile of amused penetration, and
looked down again in visible embarrassment.

The young woma.ii laughed as she shook her
finger at her.

"Oh, you transparent goose!" she cried.
'•What did he say?"

"What did who say?" was the evasive re-
oponse.

" Julius," said Mary, putting her finger under
her sister's chin and raising her face, " Tell me
now. You've been talking with him, and I in-
sist upon knowing the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth. So there! "

" Well," she admitted hesitatingly, " I said to
him something like what I have to you, that it
seemed to me that Mr. Lenox came very often,
and that I did not believe it was all on his ac-
count, and that he " (won't somebody please in-

■x^y.y

DAVID HARtFM.

vent another pronoun?) " alwayf* ste ; ';d when you

were at home "

-and," broke in her sister, ** inat you were

afraid my young affections were being engaged,
and that, after all, we didn't know much if any-
thing about the young man, or, perhaps, that he
was forming a hopeless attachment, and so on."

" No," said Mrs. Carling, " I didn't say that
exactly. I "

"Didn't you, really?" said Mary teasingly.
" One ought to be explicit in such cases, don't
you think? Well, what did Julius say? Was he
very much concerned?" Mrs. Carling's face
colored faintly under her sister's raillery, and she
gave a little embarrassed laugh.

" Come, now," said the girl relentlessly,
"what did he say?"

" Well," answered Mrs. Carling, " I must ad-
mit that he said * Pooh ! ' for one thing, and that
you were your own mistress, and, r.) far as he
had seen, you were very well qualified to manage
your own affairs."

Her sister clapped her hs 'd^. " Sucli dis-
crimination have I not seen," '..e exclaimed, " no,
not in Israel! What else u i he say?" she de-
manded, with a dramatic gestii e. '' Let us know
the worst."

Mrs. Carling laughed a ^'He. "I don't re-
member," she admitted, " that he said anything
more on the subject. He got into some perplex-
ity about whether the steam should be off or on,
and after that question was settled we went to
bed." Mary laughed outright.

" So Julius doesn't think 1 need watching,"
she said.

'* Mary," protested her sister in a hurt tone,

k-iss

..•aa.

DAVID MARUM.

" you don't think I ever did or could watch you?
I don't want to pry into your secrets, dear," and
she looked up with tears in her eyes. The girl
dropped on her knees beside her sister and put
her arms about her neck.

" You precious old lamb! " she cried, "I know
you don't. You couldn't pry into anybody's se-
crets if you tried. You couldn't even try. But
I haven't any, dear, and I'll tell you every one
of them, and, rather than see a tear in your dear
eyes, I would tell John Lenox that I never wanted
to see him again; and I don't know what you
have been thinking, but I haven't thought so at
all " (which last assertion made even Mrs. Car-
ling laugh), ** and I know that I have been teas-
ing and horrid, and if you won't put me in the
closet I will be good and answer every question
like a nice little girl." Whereupon she gave her
sister a kiss and resumed her seat with an air of
abject penitence which lasted for a minute. Then
she laughed again, though there was a watery
gleam in her own eyes. Mrs. Carling gave her
a look of great love and admiration.

" I ought not to have brought up the sub-
ject," she said, " knowing as I do how you feel
about such discussions, but I love you so much
that sometimes I can't help "

" Alice," exclaimed the girl, " please have the
kindness to call me a selfish P — I — G. It will
relieve my feelings."

" But I do not think you are," said Mrs. Car-
ling literally.

" But I am at times," declared Mary, " and
you deserve not only to have, but to be shown, all
the love and confidence that I can give you. It's
only this, that sometimes your solicitude makes

DAVID HARUM.

t's
es

you imagine things that do not exist, and you
think I am withholding my confidence ; and then,
again, I am enough Hke other people that I don't
always know exactly what I do think. Now,
about this matter "

" Don't say a word about it, dear," her sister
interrupted, " unless you would rather than not."

" I wish to," said Mary. " Of course I am
not oblivious of the fact that Mr. Lenox comes
here very often, nor that he seems to like to stay
and talk with me, because, don't you know, if
he didn't he could go when you do, and I don't
mind admitting that, as a general thing, 1 like
to have him stay; but, as I said to you, if it
weren't for Julius he would not come here very
often."

" Don't you think," said Mrs. Carling, now on
an assured footing, " that if it 'vere not for you
he would not come so often? "

Perhaps Mary overestimated the attraction
which her brother-in-law had for Mr. Lenox,
and she smiled slightly as she thought that it was
quite possible. " I suppose," she went on, with
a little shrug of the shoulders, " that the proceed-
ing is not strictly conventional, and that the ab-
solutely correct thing would be for him to say
good night when you and Julius do, and that
there are those who would regard my permitting
a young man in no way related to me to see me
very often in the evening without the protection
of a duenna as a very unbecoming thing."

" I never hav* had such a tliought about it,"
declared Mrs. Carling.

" I never for a moment supposed you had,
dear," said Mary, " nor have L We are rather
unconventional people, making very few claims

DAVlf) HARUM.

;ll

upon society, and upon whom * society ' makes
very few."

" I am rather sorry for that on your account,"
said her sister.

" You needn't be," was the rejoinder. " I
have no yearnings in that direction which are not
satisfied with what I have." She sat for a minute
or two with her hands clasped upon her knee,
gazing reflectively into the fire, which, in the
growing darkness of the winter afternoon, af-
forded almost the only light in the room. Pres-
ently she became conscious that her sister was
regarding her with an air of expectation, and re-
sumed: " Leaving the question of the conven-
tions out of the discussion as settled," she said,
" there is nothing, Alice, that you need have any
concern about, either on Mr. Lenox's account or
mine."

** You like him, don't you?" asked Mrs. Car-
ling.

" Yes," said Mary frankly, " I like him very
much. We have enough in common to be rather
sympathetic, and we diffe: enough not to be dull,
and so we get on very well. I never had a broth-
er," she continued, after a momentary pause,
" but I feel tovard him as I fancy I should feel
toward r. brother of about my own age, though
he is five or six years older than I am."

" You don't think, then," said Mrs. Carling
timidly, " that you are getting to care for him
at all?"

" In the sense that you use the word," was the
reply, " not the least in the world. If there were
to come a time when I really believed I should
never see him again, I should be sorry; but if
at any time it were a question of six months or

DAVID HARUM.

a year, I do not think my equanimity would be
particularly disturbed."

" And how about him? " suggested Mrs. Car-
ling. There was no reply.

" Don't you think he may care for you, or be
getting to? "

Mary frowned slightly, half closing her eyes
and stirring a little uneasily in her chair.

" He hasn't said anything to me on the sub-
ject," she replied evasively.

" Would that be necessary? " asked her
sister.

" Perhaps not," was the reply, " if the fact
were very obvious."

" Isn't it? " persisted Mrs. Carling, with un-
usual tenacity.

" Well," said the girl, " to be quite frank with
you, I have thought once or twice that he enter-
tained some such idea — that is — no, I don't mean
to put it just that way. I mean that once or
twice something has occurred to give me that
idea. That isn't very coherent, is it? But even
if it be so," she went on after a moment, with a
wave of her hands, " what of it? What does it
signify? And if it does signify, what can I do
about it?"

" You have thought about it, then? " said her
sister.

" As much as I have told you," she answered.
" I am not a very sentimental person, I think,
and not very much on the lookout for such
things, but I know there is such a thing as a
man's taking a fancy to a young woman under
circumstances which bring them often together,
and I have been led to believe that it isn't neces-
sarily fatal to the man even if nothing comes of

:.*•■ !l

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' I

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i I

DAVID HARUM.

it. But be that as it may," she said with a shrug
of her shoulders, "what can I do about it? I
can't say to Mr. Lenox, ' I think you ought not
to come here so much,' unless I give a reason for
it, and I think we have come to the conclusion
that there is no reason except the danger — to put
it in so many words — of his falling in love with
me, I couldn't quite say that to him, could I?"

" No, I suppose not," acquiesced Mrs. Car-
ling faintly.

" No, I should say not," remarked the girl.
" If he were to say anything to me in the way
of — declaration is the word, isn't it? — it would be
another matter. But there is no danger of that."

" Why not, if he is fond of you?" asked her
sister.

" Because," said Mary, with an emphatic nod,
" I won't let him," which assertion was rather
v/eakened by her adding, " and he wouldn't, if
I would."

" I don't understand," said her sister.

" Well," said Mary, " I don't pretend to know
all that goes on in his mind; but allowing, or
rather conjecturing, that he does care for me in
the way you mean, I haven't the least fear of
his telling me so, and one of the reasons is this,
that he is wholly dependent upon his father, with
no other prospect for years to come."

" I had the idea somehow," said Mrs. Car-
ling, " that his father was very well-to-do. The
young man gives one the impression of a per-
son who has always had everything that he
wanted."

" I think that is so," said Mary, " but he told
me one day, coming over on the steamer, that
he knew nothing whatever of his own prospects

DAVID HARUM.

or his father's affairs. I don't remember — at
least, it doesn't matter — how he came to say
as much, but he did, and afterward gave me a
whimsical catalogue of his acquirements and ac-
complishments, remarking, I remember, that
* there was not a dollar in the whole list ' ; and
lately, though you must not fancy that he dis-
cusses his own affairs with me, he has now and
then said something to make me guess that he
was somewhat troubled about them."

" Is he doing anything? " asked Mrs. Carling.

" He told me the first evening he called here,"
said Mary, " that he was studying law, at his fa-
ther's suggestion; but I don't remember the
name of the firm in whose office he is."

" Why doesn't he ask his father about his
prospects?" said Mrs. Carling.

Mary laughed. ** You seem to be so much
more interested in the matter than I am," she
said, " why don't you ask him yourself? " To
which unjustifiable rejoinder her sister made no
reply.

" I don't see why he shouldn't," she re-
marked.

" I think I understand," said Mary. " I fancy
from what he has told me that his father is a
singularly reticent man, but one in whom his
son has always had the most implicit confidence.
I imagine, too, that until recently, at any rate, he
has taken it for granted that his father was
wealthy. He has not confided any misgivings
to me, but if he has any he is just the sort of
person not to ask, and certainly not to press a
question with his father."

" It would seem like carrying delicacy almost
too far," remarked Mrs. Carling.

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DAVID HARUM.

" Perhaps it would," said her sister, " but I
think I can understand and sympathize with it."

Mrs. Carling broke the silence which fol-
lowed for a moment or two as if she were think-
ing aloud. " You have plenty of money," she
said, and colored at her inadvertence. Her sister
looked at her for an instant with a humorous
smile, and then, as she rose and touched the bell
button, said, "That's another reason."

■ i!

CHAPTER X.

I THINK it should hardly be imputed to John
as a fault or a shortcoming that he did not for a
long time realize his father's failing powers.
True, as has been stated, he had noted some
changes in appearance on his return, but they
were not great enough to be startling, and,
though he thought at times that his father's
manner was more subdued than he had ever
known it to be, nothing really occurred to arouse
his suspicion or anxiety. After a few days the
two men appeared to drop into their accustomed
relation and routine, meeting in the morning and
at dinner; but as John picked up the threads of
his acquaintance he usually went out after din-
ner, and even when he did not his father went
early to his own apartment.

From John's childhood he had been much of
the time away from home, and there had never,
partly from that circumstance and partly from
the older man's natural and habitual reserve,
been very much intimacy between them. The
father did not give his own confidence, and,
while always kind and sympathetic when ap-
pealed to, did not ask his son's; and, loving his
father well and loyally, and trusting him implic-
itly, it did not occur to John to feel that there
was anything wanting in the relation. It was as

i li t

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MBSH

;' I

DAVID HARUM.

it had always been. He was accustomed to ac-
cept what his father did or said without question,
and, as is very often the case, had always re-
garded him as an old man. He had never felt
that they could be in the same equation. In
truth, save for their mutual affection, they had
little in common; and if, as may have been the
case, his father had any cravings for a closer and
more intimate relation, he made no sign, ac-
quiescing in his son's actions as the son did in
his, without question or suggestion. They did
not know each other, and such cases are not
rare, more is the pity.

But as time went on even John's un watchful
eye could not fail to notice that all was not well
with his father. Haggard lines were multiply-
ing in the quiet face, and the silence at the dinner
table was often unbroken except by John's un-
fruitful efforts to keep some sort of a conversa-
tion in motion. More and more frequently it
occurred that his father would retire to his own
room immediately after dinner was over, and
the food on his plate would be almost untouched,
while he took more wine than had ever been his
habit. John, retiring late, would often hear him
stirring uneasily in his room, and it would be
plain in the morning that he had spent a wake-
ful, if not a sleepless, night. Once or twice on
such a morning John had suggested to his fa-
ther that he should not go down to the office,
and the suggestion had been met with so irri-
table a negative as to excite his wonder.

It was a day in the latter part of March. The
winter had been unusually severe, and lingered
into spring with a heart-sickening tenacity, oc-

DAVID HARUM.

te on

Is fa-

Iffice,

irri-

casional hints of clemency and promise being
followed by recurrences which were as irritating
as a personal affront.

John had held to his work in the ofifice, if
not with positiv^e enthusiasm, at least with indus-
try, and thought that he had made some prog-
ress. On the day in question the managing
clerk commented briefly but favorably on some-
thing of his which was satisfactory, and, such
experiences being rare, he was conscious of a
feeling of mild elation. He was also cherishing
the anticipation of a call at Sixty-ninth Street,
where, for reasons unnecessary to recount, he
had not been for a week. At dinner that night
his father seemed more inclined than for a long
time to keep up a conversation which, though
of no special import, was cheerful in comparison
with the silence which had grown to be almost
the rule, and the two men sat for a while over
the coffee and cigars. Presently, however, the
elder rose from the table, saying pleasantly, " I
suppose you are going out to-night."

" Not if you'd like me to stay in," was the
reply. " I have no definite engagement."

" Oh, no," said Mr. Lenox, '* not at all, not
at all," and as he passed his son on the way out
of the room he put out his hand and taking
John's, said, " Good night."

As John stood for a moment rather taken
aback, he heard his father mount the stairs to
his room. He was puzzled by the unexpected
and unusual occurrence, but finally concluded
that his father, realizing how taciturn they had
become of late, wished to resume their former
status, and this view was confirmed to his mind
by the fact that they had been more companion-
7

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DAVID HARUM.

able than usual that evening, albeit that nothing
of any special significance had been said.

As has been stated, a longer interval than
usual had elapsed since John's last visit to Sixty-
ninth Street, a fact which had been commented
on by Mr. Carling, but not mentioned between
the ladies. When he found himself at that hos-
pitable house on that evening, he was greeted
by Miss Blake alone.

" Julius did not come down to-night, and my
sister is with him," she said, " so you will have
to put up with my society — unless you'd like me
to send up for Alice. Julius is strictly en re-
traite, I should say."

" Don't disturb her, I beg," protested John,
laughing, and wondering a bit at the touch of
coquetry in her speech, something unprecedented
in his experience of her, " if you are willing to
put up with my society. I hope Mr. Carling is
not ill?"

They seated themselves as she replied : " No,
nothing serious, I should say. A bit of a cold,
I fancy; and for a fortnight he has been more
nervous than usual. The changes in the weather
have been so gieat and so abrupt that they have
worn upon his nerves. He is getting very un-
easy again. Now, after spending the winter, and
when spring is almost at hand, I believe that if
he could make up his mind where to go he would
be for setting off to-morrow."

" Really?" said John, in a tone of dismay.

" Quite so," she replied with a nod.

" But," he objected, " it seems too late or
too early. Spring may drop in upon us any day.
Isn't this something very recent?"

" It has been developing for ^ week or ten

DAVID HARUM.

ing

han

s:ty-

ited

^een

hos-

jeted

i my
have
:e me
n re-

JoUn,
ich of
iented
ing to
ling is

"No,
cold,
more
reather
[y have
try un-
er, and
that if
would

^may.

late or
[ny day.

pr ten

days," she answered, " and symptoms have indi-
cated a crisis for some time. In fact," she added,
with a little vexed laugh, " we have talked of
nothing for a week but the advantages and dis-
advantages of Florida, California, North Caro-
lina, South Carolina, and Virginia at large; be-
sides St. Augustine, Monterey, Santa Barbara,
Aiken, Asheville, Hot Springs, Old Point Com-
fort, Bermuda, and I don't know how many
other places, not forgetting Atlantic City and
Lakewood, and only not Barbadoes and the
Sandwich Islands because nobody happened to
think of them. Julius," remarked Miss Blake,
" would have given a forenoon to the discussion
of the two latter places as readily as to any of
the others."

" Can't you talk him along into warm
weather? " suggested John, with rather a mirth-
less laugh. " Don't you think that if the weather
were to change for good, as it's likely to do al-
most any time now, he might put off going till
the usual summer flitting?"

" The change in his mind will have to come
pretty soon if I am to retain my mental facul-
ties," she declared. " He might possibly, but
I am afraid not," she said, shaking her head.
" He has the idea fixed in his mind, and consid-
erations of the weather here, while they got him
started, are not now so much the question. He
has the moving fever, and I am afraid it will have
to run its course. I think," she said, after a mo-
ment, " that if I were to formulate a special
anathema, it would be, * May traveling seize
you!'"

" Or restlessness," suggested John.

" Yes," she said, " that's more accurate, per-

1 ■

,;iv

*■ (

il .

DAVID HARUM.

haps, but it doesn't sound quite so smart. Julius
is in that state of mind when the only place that
seems desirable is somewhere else."

" Of course you will have to go," said John
mournfully.

•* Oh, yes," she replied, with an air of com-
pulsory resignation. " I shall not only have to
go, of course, but I shall probably have to de-
cide where in order to save my mind. But it will
certainly be somewhere, so I might as well be
packing my trunks."

" And you will be away indefinitely, I sup-
pose? "

" Yes, I imagine so."

"Dear me!" John ejaculated in a dismal
tone.

They were sitting as described on a former
occasion, and the young woman was engaged
upon the second (perhaps the third, or even the
fourth) of the set of doilies to which she had com-
mitted herself. She took some stitches with a
composed air, without responding to lier com-
panion's exclamation.

" I'm awfully sorry,'* he said presently, lean-
ing forward with his elbows on his knees, his
hands hanging in an attitude of unmisvakable
dejection, and staring fixedly into the fire.

" I am very sorry myself," she said, bending
her head a little closer over her work. " I think
I like being in New York in the spring better
than at any other time; and I don't at all fancy
the idea of living in my trunks again for an in-
definite period."

" I shall miss you horribly," he said, turning
his face toward her.

Her eyes opened with a lift of the brows, but

ling
link
;tter
mcy
in-

|ning

but

DAVID HARUM.

whether the surprise so indicated was quite genu-
ine is a matter for conjecture.

** Yes," he declared desperately, " I shall, in-
deed."

" I should fancy you must have plenty of
other friends," she said, Hushing a li.tle, "and I
have wondered sometimes whether Julius's de-
mands upon you wei2 not more confident t'lan
warrantable, and whether you wouldn't oilen
rather have gone elsewhere than to come here
to play cards with him." She actually said this
as if she meant it.

" Do you suppose " he exclaimed, and

checked himself. " No," he said, " I have come
because — well, I've been only too glad to come,
and — I suppose it has got to be a habit," he added,
rather lamely. " You see, I've never known any
people in the way I have known you. It has
seemed to me more like home life than anything
I've ever known. There has never been any one
but my father and I, and you can have no idea
what it has been to me to be allowed to come here

as I have, and — oh, you must know " He

hesitated, and instantly she advanced her point.

Her face was rather white, and the hand
which lay upon the work in her lap trembled
a little, while she clasped the arm of the chair
with the other; but she broke in upon his hesi-
tation with an even voice:

" It has been very pleasant for us all, I'm
sure," she said, " and, frankly, I'm sorry that it
must be interrupted for a while, but that is about
all there is of it, isn't it? We shall probably be
back not later than October, I should say, and
then you can renew your contests with Julius
and your controversies with me."

■'■ t

,Y. I

DAVID HARUM.

Her tone and what she said recalled to him
their last night on board the ship, but there was
no relenting on this occasion. He realized that
for a moment he had been on the verge of tell-
ing the girl that he loved her, and he realized,
too, that she had divined his impulse and pre-
vented the disclosure; but he registered a vow
that he would know before he saw her again
whether he might consistently tell her his love,
and win or lose upon the touch.

Miss Blake made several inaccurate efforts
to introduce her needle at the exact point de-
sired, and when that endeavor was accomplished
broke the silence by saying, " Speaking of * Oc-
tober,* have you read the novel? I think it is
charming."

" Yes," said John, with his vow in his mind,
but not sorry for the diversion, " and I enjoyed
it very much. I thought it was immensely
clever, but I confess that I didn't quite sym-
pathize with the love affairs of a hero who was
past forty, and I must also confess that I thought
the girl was, well — to put it in plain English — a
fool."

Mary laughed, with a little quaver in her
voice. " Do you know," she said, " that some-
times it seems to me that I am olcer than you
are?"

" I know you're awfully wise," said John with
a laugh, ?nd from that their talk drifted ofif into
the safer channels of their usual intercourse until
he rose to say good night.

" Of course, we shall see you again before we
go," she said as she gave him her hand.

" Oh," he declared, " I intend regularly to
haunt the place."

CHAPTER XI.

When John came down the next morning
his father, who was, as a rule, the most punc-
tual of men, had not appeared. He opened the
paper and sat down to wait. Ten minutes passed,
fifteen, twenty. He rang the bell. " Have you
heard my father this morning?" he said to Jef-
frey, remembering for the .:rst time that he him-
self had not.

" No, sir," said the man. " He most gen-
erally coughs a little in the morning, but I don't
think I heard him this morning, sir."

" Go up and see why he doesn't come down,"
said John, and a moment later he followed the
servant upstairs, to find him standing at the
chamber door with a frightened face.

" He must be very sound asleep, sir," said
Jeflfrey. " He hasn't answered to my knockin'
or callin', sir." John tried the door. He found
the chain bolt on, and it opened but a few inches.
"Father!" he called, and then again, louder.
He turned almost unconsciously to Jeffrey, and
found his own apprehensions reflected in the
man's face. " We must break in the door," he
said. " Now, together! " and the bolt gave way.

His father lay as if asleep. " Go for the doc-
tor at once ! Bring him back with you. Run ! "
he cried to the servant. Custom and instinct

, 95

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■-.»'

DAVID HARUM.

said, " Send for the doctor," but he knew in his
heart that no ministrations would ever reach the
still figure on the bed, upon which, for the mo-
ment, he could not look. It was but a few min-
utes (how long such minutes are!) before the
doctor came — Doctor Willis, who had brought
John into the world, and had been a lifelong
friend of both father and son. He went swiftly
to the bed without speaking, and made a brief
examination, while John watched him with fas-
cinated eyes; and as the doctor finished, the son
dropped on his knees by the bed, and buried his
face in it. The doctor crossed the room to Jef-
frey, who was standing in the door with an awe-
stricken face, and in a low voice gave him some
directions. Then, as the man departed, he first
glanced at the kneeling figure and then looked
searchingly about the room. Presently he went
over to the grate in which were the ashes of an
extinct fire, and, taking the poker, pressed down
among them and covered over a three or four
ounce vial. He had found what he was looking
for.

There is no need to speak of the happenings
of the next few days, nor is it necessary to touch
at any length upon the history of some of the
weeks and months which ensued upon this crisis
in John Lenox's life, a time when it seemed to
him that everything he had ever cared for had
been taken. And yet, with that unreason which
may perhaps be more easily understood than ac-
counted for, the one thing upon which his mind
most often dwelt was that he had had no answer
to his note to Mary Blake. We know what hap-
pened to her missive. It turned up long after-

DAVID HARUM.

ward in the pocket of Master Jacky Carling's
overcoat; so long afterward that John, so far as
Mary was concerned, had disappeared ahogether.
The discovery of Jacky 's dereUction explained to
her, in part at least, why she had never seen him
or heard from him after that last evening at
Sixty-ninth Street. The Carlings went away
some ten days later, and she did, in fact, send
another note to his house address, asking him
to see them before their departure; but John
had considered himself fortunate in getting the
house ofif his hands to a tenant who would as-
sume the lease if given possession at once, and
had gone into the modest apartment which he
occupied during the rest of his life in the city,
and so the second communication failed to reach
him. Perhaps it was as well. Some weeks later
he walked up to the Carlings' house one Sunday
afternoon, and saw that it was closed, as he had
expected. By an impulse which was not part of
his original intention — which was, indeed, pretty
nearly aimless — he was moved to ring the door-
bell; but the maid, a stranger to him, who
opened the door could tell him nothing of the
family's whereabouts, and Mr. Betts (the house
man in charge) was " hout." So John retraced
his steps with a feeling of disappointment wholly
disproportionate to his hopes or expectations so
far as he had defined them to himself, and never
went back again.

He has never had much to say of the months
that followed.

It came to be the last of October. An errand
from the office had sent him to General Wolsey,
of the Mutual Trust Company, of whom men-

• '

K I

DAVID HARUM

tion has been made by David Harum. The gen-
eral was an old friend of the elder Lenox, and
knew John well and kindly. When the latter
had discharged his errand and was about to go,
the general said : " Wait a minute. Are you in
a hurry? If not, I want to have a little talk
with you."

" Not specially," said John.

" Sit down," said the general, pointing to a
chair. " What are your plans? I see you are
still in the Careys' office, but from v/hat you told
me last summer I conclude that you are there
because you have not found anything more sat-
isfactory."

" That is the case, sir," John replied. " I
can't be idle, but I don't see how I can keep on
as I am going now, and I have been trying for
months to find something by which I can earn
a living. I am afraid," he added, " that it will
be a longer time than I can aflford to wait before
I shall be able to do that out of the law."

" If you don't mind my asking," said the
general, " what are your resources? I don't
think you told me more than to give me to un-
derstand that your father's affairs were at a pretty
low ebb. Of course, I do not wish to pry into
your affairs-

" Not at all," John interposed ; " I am glad
to tell you, and thank you for your interest. I
have about two thousand dollars, and there is
some silver and odds and ends of things stored.
I don't know what their value might be — not
very much, I fancy — and there were a lot of
mining stocks and that sort of thing which have
no value so far as I can find out — no available
vaiue, at any rate. There is also a tract of half-

DAVID HARUM.

is
red.
(not

of
lave
ible
lalf-

wild land somewhere in Pennsylvania. There is
coal on it, I believe, and jme timber ; bat Melig,
my father's manager, told me that all the large
timber had been cut. So far as available value
is concerned, the property is about as much ot
an asset as the mining stock, v/ith the disad-
vantage that I have to pay taxes on it."

" H'm," said the general, tapping the desk
with his eyeglasses. ** H'm — well, I should think
if you lived very economically you would have
about enough to carry you through till you can
be admitted, provided you feel that the law is
your vocation," he added, looking up.

" It was my father's idea," said John, " and
if I were so situated that I could go on with it,
I would. But I am so doubtful with regard to
my aptitude that I don't feel as if I ought to use
up what little capital I have, and some years of
time, on a doubtful experiment, and so I have
been looking for something else to do."

" Well," said the general, '* if you were very
much interested — that is, if you were anxious to
proceed with your studies — I should advise you
to go on, and at a pinch I should be willing to
help you out; but, feeling as you do, I hardly
know what to advise. I was thinking of you,"
he went on, " before you came in, and was in-
tending to send for you to come in to see me."
He took a letter from his desk.

" I got this yesterday," he said. " It is from
an old acquaintance of mine by the name of
Harum, who lives in Homeville, Freeland Coun-
ty. He is a sort of a banker there, and has
written me to recommend some one to take the
place of his manager or cashier whom he is send-
ing away. It's rather a queer move, I think, but

dAm'^.y

■: I

saai.-^...-j.-:f^

» a ^«j ia

100

DAVID HARUM.

then," said the general with a smile, " Harum is
a queer customer in some ways of his own. There
is his letter. Read it for yourself."

The letter stated that Mr. Harum had had
some trouble with his cashier and wished to re-
place him, and that he would prefer some one
from out of the village who wouldn't know every
man, woman, and child in the whole region, and
" blab everything right and left." " I should
want," wrote Mr. Harum, " to have the young
man know something about bookkeeping and so
on, but I should not insist upon his having been
through a trainer's hands. In fact, I would
rather break him in myself, and if he's willing
and sound and no vice, I can get him into shape.
I will pay a thousand to start on, and if he draws
and travels all right, may be better in the long
run," etc. John handed back the letter with a
slight smile, which was reflected in the face of
the general. " What do you think of it?" asked
the latter.

" I should think it might be Very charac-
teristic," remarked John.

" Yes," said the general, " it is, to an extent.
You see he writes pretty fair English, and he can,
on occasion, talk as he writes, but usually, either
from habit or choice, he uses the most unmiti-
gated dialect. But what I meant to ask you was,
v;hat do you think of the proposal? "

" You mean as an opportunity for nief "
asked John.

" Yes," said General Wolsey, " I thought of
you at once."

" Thank you very much," said John. " What
would be your idea?"

" Well," was the reply, " I am inclined to

If"

of
lat
I to

DAVID HARUM.

lot

think I should write to him if I were you, and
I will write to him about you if you so decide.
You have had some office experience, you told
me — enough, I should say, for a foundation, and
I don't believe that Harum's books and accounts
are very complicated,"

John did not speak, and the general went
on : " Of course, it will be a great change from
almost everything you have been used to, and I
dare say that you may find the life, at first at
least, pretty dull and irksome. The stipend is
not very large, but it is large for the country,
where your expenses will be light. In fact, I'm
rather surprised at his offering so much. At any
rate, it is a living for the present, and may lead
to something better. The place is a growing
one, and, more than that, Harum is well oflf, and
keeps more irons in the fire than one, and if you
get on with him you may do well."

" I don't think I should mind the change so
much," said John, rather sadly. " My present
life is so different in almost every way from what
it used to be, and I think I feel it in New York
more even than I might in a country village ; but
the venture seems a little like burning my
bridges."

" Well," replied the general, " if the experi-
ment should turn out a failure for any reason,
you won't be very much more at a loss than at
present, it seems to me, and, of course, I will do
anything I can should you wish me to be still
on the lookout for you here."

" You are exceedingly kind, sir," said John
earnestly, and then was silent for a moment or
two. " I will make the venture," he said at
length, " and thank you very much."

r ■'

^•■.:

il-{

iKUii^ i wri Mi iM im a-li,."

102

DAVID HARUM.

" You are under no special obligations to the
Careys, are you?" asked the general.

« T *r ^°' ^ ^^^"^ "°*»" ^^^^ J°^" with a laugh.
I fancy that their business will go on without
me, after a fashion," and he took his leave.

in,

CHAPTER XII.

i 11

r\\

. i

And so it came about that certain letters
were written as mentioned in a previous chap-
ter, and in the evening of a dripping day early
in November John Lenox found himself, after a
nine hours' journey, the only traveler who
alighted upon the platform of the Homeville sta-
tion, which was near the end of a small lake and
about a mile from the village. As he stood with
his bag and umbrella, at a loss what to do, he
was accosted by a short and stubby individual
with very black eyes and hair and a round face,
which would have been smooth except that it
had not been shaved for a day or two. " Goin' t*
the village?" he said.

" Yes," said John, " that is my intention, but
I don't see any way of getting there."

" Carry ye over fer ten cents," said the man.
" Carryall's right back the deepo. Got 'ny bag-
gidge?"

"Two trunks," said John.

" That'll make it thirty cents," said the na-
tive. " Where's your checks? All right; you c'n
jest step 'round an' git in. Mine's the only rig
that drew over to-night."

It was a long clumsy affair, with windows

at each end and a door in the rear, but open at

the sides except for enamel cloth curtains, which

103

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i.'

" ^"'M ^■"■'ffn-i'-l'r-

.'?^^;T"'-''^^^^-^ .\,?!fg

104

DAVID HARUM.

were buttoned to the supports that carried a
railed roof extending as far forward as the dash-
board. The driver's seat was on a level with
those inside. John took a seat by one of the
front windows, which was open* but protected
by the roof.

His luggage having been put on board, they
began the journey at a walk, the nrst part of the
road being rough and swampy in places, and
undergoing at intervals the sort of repairs which
often prevails in rural regions — namely, the de-
posit of a quantity of broken stone, which is left
to be worn smooth by passing vehicles, and is
for the mosi part carefully avoided by such when-
ever the roadway is broad enough to drive round
the improvement. But the worst of the way
having been accomplished, the driver took op-
portunity, speaking sideways over hir shoulder,
to allay the curiosity which burned within him,
" Guess I never seen you before." John was tired
and hungry, and generally low in his mind.

" Very likely not," was his answer. Mr.
Robinson instantly arrived at the determination
that the stranger was " stuck up," but was in no
degree cast down thereby.

" I heard Chet Timson tellin' that the' was
a feller comin' f'm N'York to work in Dave
Harum's bank. Guess you're him, ain't ye? "

No answer this time: theory confirmed.

" My name's Robinson," imparted that indi-
vidual. " I run the prince'ple liv'ry to Home-
ville."

"Ah!" responded the passenger.

"What d'you say your name was?" asked
Mr. Robinson, after he had steered his team
around one of the monuments to public spirit.

DAVID HARUM.

105

" It's Lenox," said John, thinking he might
concede somethin^f to such deserving persever-
ance, " but I don't remember mentioning it."

" Now I think on't, I guess you didn't," ad-
mitted Mr. Robinson. " Don't think I ever
knowed anybody of the name," he remarked.
" Used to know some folks name o' Lynch, but
they couldn't 'a' ben no relations o' your'n, I
guess." This conjecture elicited no reply.

" Git up, goll darn ye! " he exclaimed, as
one of the horses stumbled, and he gave it a
jerk and a cut of the whip. " Bought that hoss
of Dave Harum," he confided to his passenger.
" Fact, I bought both on 'em of him, an' dum
well stuck I was, too," he added.

" You know Mr. Harum, then," said John,
with a glimmer of interest. " Does he deal in
horses?"

" Wa'al, I guess I make eout to know him,"
asserted the " prince'ple liv'ryman," " an' he'll git
up 'n the middle o' the night any time to git the
best of a hoss trade. Be you goin' to work fer
him?" he asked, encouraged to press the ques-
tion. " Goin' to take Timson's place? "

" Really," said John, in a tone which ad-
vanced Mr. Robinson's opinion to a rooted
conviction, " I have never heard of Mr. Tim-
son."

" He's the feller that Dave's lettin' go," ex-
plained Mr. Robinson. " He's ben in the bank
a matter o' five or six year, but Dave got down
on him fer some little thing or other, an' he's got
his walkin' papers. He says to me, says he, * If
any feller thinks he c'n come up here f'm N'York
or anywheres else,' he says, * an* do Dave Ha-
r urn's wor^: to suit him, he'll find he's bit off a
8

li:;

•■'^■a^^mHtumiiti

\ nU *

io6

DAVID HARUM.

dum sight more'n he c'n chaw. He'd better
keep his gripsack packed the hull time/ Chet
says."

" I thought I'd sock it to the cuss a little,"
remarked Mr. Robinson in recounting the con-
versation subsequently; and, in truth, it was not
elevating to the spirits of our friend, who found
himself speculating whether or no Timson might
not be right.

"Where you goin' to put up?" asked Mr.
Robinson after an interval, having failed to draw
out any response to his last effort.

" Is there more than one hotel? " inquired the
passenger.

"The's the Eagle, an' the Lake House, an'
Smith's Hotel," replied Jehu.

"Which would you recommend?" asked John.

" Wa'al," said Robinson, " I don't gen'ally
praise up one more'n another. You see, I have
more or less dealin' with all on 'em."

" That's very diplomatic of you, I'm sure,"
remarked Johr, not at all diplomatically. " I
think I will try the Eagle."

Mr. Robinson, in his account of the conver-
sation, said in confidence — not wishing to be
openly invidious — that " he was dum'd if ' e
wa'n't almost sorry he hadn't recommended the
Lake House."

It may be inferred from the foregoing that
the first impression which our friend made on his
arrival was not wholly in his favor, and Mr. Rob-
inson's conviction that he was " stuck up," and
a person bound to get himself " gen'ally dis-
liked," was elevated to an article of faith by his
retiring to the rear of the vehicle, and quite out of
ordinary range. But they were nearly at their

Lir

DAVID HARUM.

107

journey's end, and presently the carryall drew
up at the Eagle Hotel.

It was a frame building of three stories, with
a covered veranda running the length of the
front, fivjm which two doors gave entrance — one
to the main hall, the other to the office and bar
combined. This was rather a large room, and
was also to be entered from the main hall.

John's luggage w r> deposited, Mr. Robinson
was settled with, and took his departure without
the amenities which might have prevailed under
different conditions, and the new arrival made his
way into the office.

Behind the bar counter, which faced the
street, at one end of which was a small high desk
and at the other a glazed case containing three
or four partly full boxes of forlorn-looking
cigars, but with most ambitious labels, stood
the proprietor, manager, clerk, and what not of
the hostelry, embodied in the single person of
Mr. Amos Elright, who was leaning over the
counter in conversation with three or four loung-
ers who sat about the room with their chairs
tipped back against the wall.

A sketch of Mr. Elright would have depicted
a dull " complected " person of a tousled bald-
ness, whose dispirited expression of countenance
was enhanced by a chin whisker. His shirt and
collar gave unmistakable evidence that pajamas
or other night-gear were regarded as superflu-
ities, and his most conspicuous garment as he
appeared behind the counter was a cardigan
jacket of a frowsiness beyond compare. A greasy
neck scarf was embellished with a gem whose
truthfulness was without pretence. The atmos-
phere of the room was accounted for by a re-

• I ■

v' I

( \iff

"t "

ii h'

ll i

I !

1 ;

I08

DAVID HARUM.

mark which was made by one of the loungers
as John came in. " Say, Amr " '^^e fellow
draw'ed, " I guess the' was mc .ank cab-
bidge 'n pie plant 'n usual 'n that last lot o' cigars
o* your'n, wa'n't the'?" to which insinuation
' Ame" was spared the necessity of a rejoinder
by our friend's advent.

" Wa'al, guess we c'n give ye a room. Oh,
yes, you c'n register if you want to. Where is
the dum thing? I seen it last week somewhere.
Oh, yes," producing a thin book ruled for ac-
counts from under the counter, " we don't alwus
use it," he remarked — which was obvious, see-
ing that the last entry was a month old.

John concluded that it was a useless formal-
ity. " I should like something to eat," he said,
" and desire to go to my room while it is being
prepared; and can you send my luggage up
now? "

" Wa'al," said Mr. Elright, looking at the
clock, which showed the hour of half-past nine,
and rubbing his chin perplexedly, " supper's
ben cleared off some time ago."

" I don't want very much," said John; "just
a bit of steak, and some stewed potatoes, and a
couple of boiled eggs, and some coffee." He
might have heard the sound of a slap in the di-
rection of one of the sitters.

" I'm 'fraid I can't 'commodate ye fur's the
steak an' things goes," confessed the landlord.
" We don't do much cookin' after dinner, an' I
reckon the fire's out anyway. P'r'aps," he added
doubtfully, " I c'd hunt ye up a piece o' pie 'n
some doughnuts, or somethin' like that."

He took a key, to which vas attached a huge
brass tag with serrated edges, from a hook on a

■ i

DAVID HARUM.

109

board behind the bar — on which were suspended
a number of the like — lighted a small kerosene
lamp, carrying a single wick, and, shuflling out
from behind the counter, said, " Say, Bill, can't
you an* Dick carry the gentleman's trunks up to
•thirteen?*" and, as they assented, he gave the
lamp and key to one of them and left the room.
The two men took a trunk at either end and
mounted the stairs, John following, and when
the second one came up he put his fingers into
his waistcoat pocket suggestively.

" No,*' said the one addressed as Dick, " that's
all right. We done it to oblige Ame."

" Tm very much obliged to you, though,"
said John.

" Oh, that's all right," remarked Dick as they
turned away.

John surveyed the apartment. There were
two small-paned windows overlooking the street,
curtained with bright " Turkey-red '* cotton ;
near to one of them a small wood stove and a
wood box, containing some odds and ends of
sticks and bits of bark; a small chest of drawers,
serving as a washstand; a malicious little look-
ing-glass; a basin and ewer, holding about two
quarts; an earthenware mug and soap-dish, the
latter containing a thin bit of red translucent
soap scented with sassafras; an ordinary wooden
chair and a rocking-chair with rockers of di-
vergent aims; a yellow wooden bedstead fur-
nished with a mattress of ** e iccelsior '* (calcu-
lated to induce early rising), a dingy white
spread, a gray blanket of coarse wool, a pair of
cotton sheets which had too obviously done duty
since passing through the hands of the laun-
dress, and a pair of flabby little pi}lows in the

t ■

DAVID HARUM.

same state, in respect to their cases, as the sheets.
On the floor was a much used and faded in-
grain carpet, in one place worn through by the
edge of a loose board. A narrow strip of un-
painted pine nailed to the wall carried six or
seven wooden pegs to serve as wardrobe. Two
diminutive towels with red borders hung on the
rail of the washstand, and a battered tin slop jar,
minus a cover, completed the inventory.

"Heavens, what a hole!" exclaimed John,
and as he performed his ablutions (not with the
sassafras soap) he promised himself a speedy
flitting. There came a knock at the door, and
his host appeared to announce that his " tea "
was ready, and to conduct him to the dining-
room — a good-sized apartment, but narrow, with
a long table running near the center lengthwise,
covered with a cloth which bore the marks of
many a fray. Another table of like dimensions,
but bare, was sheared up against the wall. Mr.
Elright's ravagement of the larder had resulted
in a triangle of cadaverous apple pie, three
doughnuts, some chunks of soft white cheese,
and a plate of what are known as oyster crackers.

" I couldn't git ye no tea," he said. " The
hired girls both gone out, an' my wife's gone to
bed, an' the' wa'n't no fire anyway."

" I suppose I could have some beer," sug-
gested John, looking dubiously at the ban-
quet.

" We don't keep no ale," said the proprietor
of the Eagle, " an' I guess we're out o* lawger.
I ben intendin' to git some more," he added.

" A glass of milk? " proposed the guest, but
without confidence.

" Milkman didn't come to-night," said Mr.

DAVID HARUM.

Ill

but
Mr.

Elright, shuffling off in his carpet sHppers, worn
out in spirit with the importunities of the
stranger. There was water on the table, for it
had been left there from supper time. John man-
aged to consume a doughnut and some crack-
ers and cheese, and then went to his room, car-
rying the water pitcher with him, and, after a
cigarette or two and a small potation from his
flask, to bed. Before retiring, however, he
stripped the bed with the intention of turning
the sheets, but upon inspection thought better
of it, and concluded to leave them as they were.
So passed his first night in Homeville, and, as he
fondly promised himself, his last at the Eagle
Hotel.

When Bill and Dick returned to the office
after " obligin' Ame," they stepped with one ac-
cord to the counter and looked at the register.
" Why, darn it," exclaimed Bill, " he didn't sign
his name, after all."

" No," said Dick, " but I c'n give a putty
near guess who he is, all the same."

" Some drummer? " suggested Bill.

" Naw," said Richard scornfully. " What 'd
a drummer be doin' here this time o' year?
That's the feller that's ousted Chet Timson, an*
I'll bet ye the drinks on't. Name's Linx or
Lenx, or somethin' like that. Dave told me."

"So that's the feller, is it?" said Bill. "I
guess he won't stay 'round here long. I guess
you'll find he's a little too toney fer these parts,
an' in pertic'ler fer Dave Harum. Dave'll make
him feel 'bout as comf'table as a rooster in a
pond. Lord," he exclaimed, slapping his leg
with a guffaw, " 'd you notice Ame's face when
he said he didn't want much fer supper, only

1X2

DAVID HARUM.

beefsteak, an' eggs, an' tea, an' coflfee, an' a few
little things like that? I thought I'd split."

" Yes," said Dick, laughing, " I gues^ the'
ain't nothin' the matter with Ame's heart, or he'd
'a' fell down dead. — Hullo, Ame ! " he said when
the gentleman in question came back after min-
istering to his guest, " got the Prince o' Wales
fixed up all right? Did ye cut that pickled el'-
phant that come last week? "

"Huh!" grunted Amos, whose sensibilities
had been wounded by the events of the even-
ing, " I didn't cut no el'phant ner no cow, ner
rob no hen roost neither, but I guess he won't
starve 'fore mornin'," and with that he proceeded
to fill up the stove and shut the dampers.

" That means * git,' I reckon," remarked Bill
as he watched the operation.

"Wa'al," said Mr. Elright, "if you fellers
think you've spent enough time droolin' 'round
here swapping lies, I think /'// go to bed," which
inhospitable and injurious remark was by no
means taken in bad part, for Dick said, with a
laugh :

" Well, Ame, if you'll let me run my face for
'em. Bill 'n I'll take a little somethin' for the good
o' the house before we shed the partin' tear."
This proposition was not declined by Mr. El-
right, but he felt bound on business principles
not to yield with too great a show of readiness.

" Wa'al, I don't mind for this once," he said,
going behind the bar and setting out a bottle
and glasses, " but I've gen'ally noticed that it's
a damn sight easier to git somethin' into you fel-
lers 'n 't is to git anythin' out of ye,"

CHAPTER XIII.

les

tie

The next morning at nine o'clock John pre-
sented himself at Mr. Harun's banking office,
which occupied the first floor of a brick build-
ing some twenty or twenty-five feet in width.
Besides the entrance to the bank, there was a
door at the south corner opening upon a stair-
way leading to a suite of two rooms on the sec-
ond floor.

The banking office consisted of two rooms —
one in front, containing the desks and counters,
and what may be designated as the " parlor "
(as used to be the case in the provincial towns)
in the rear, in which were Mr. Harum's private
desk, a safe of medium size, the necessary assort-
ment of chairs, and a lounge. There was also
a large Franklin stove.

The parlor was separated from the front
room by a partition, in which were two doors,
one leading into the inclosed space behind the
desks and counters, and the other into the pas-
sageway formed by the ncx'th wall and a length
of high desk, topped by a railing. The teller's
or cashier's counter faced the street opposite the
entrance door. At the left of this counter
(viewed from the front) was a high-standing
desk, with a rail. At the right was a glass-in-
closed space of counter of the same height as that

113

'.< il

' 1

.-1

(

It
■ ' ' ' 1

■ f'l

114

DAVID HARUM.

portion which was open, across which latter the
business of paying and receiving was conducted.

As John entered he saw standing behind
this open counter, framed, as it were, between
the desk on the one hand, and the glass in-
closure on the other, a person whom he con-
jectured to be the " Chet " (short for Chester)
Timson of whom he had heard. This person
nodded in response to our friend's " Good morn-
ing," and anticipated his inquiry by saying:

"You lookin' for Dave?"

" I am looking for Mr. Harum," said John.
"Is he in the office?"

" He hain't come in yet," was the reply. " Up
to the barn, I reckon, but he's liable to come in
any minute, an' you c'n step into the back room
an' wait fer him," indicating the direction with
a wave of his hand.

Business had not begun to be engrossing,
though the bank was open, and John had hardly
seated himself when Timson came into the back
room and, taking a chair where he could see
the counter in the front office, proceeded to in-
vestigate the stranger, of whose identity he had
not the smallest doubt. But it was not Mr. Tim-
son's way to take things for granted in silence,
and it must be admitted that his curiosity in this
particular case was not without warrant. After
a scrutiny of John's face and person, which was
not brief enough to be unnoticeable, he said,
with a directness which left nothing in that line
to be desired, " I reckon you're the new man
Dave's ben gettin' up from the city."

" I came up yesterday," admitted John.
My name's Timson," said Chet.
Happy to meet you," said John, rising and

DAVID HARUM.

putting out his hand. " My name is Lenox,'*
and they shook hands — that is, John grasped the
ends of four Hmp fingers. After they had sub-
sided into their seats, Chet's opaquely bUiish
eyes made another tour of inspection, in curiosity
and wonder.

" You alwus Hved in the city? " he said at last.

" It has always been my home," was the
reply.

" What put it in your head to come up here? "
with another stare.

" It was at Mr. Harum's suggestion," replied
John, not with perfect candor; but he was not
minded to be drawn out too far.

"D'ye know Dave?"

" I have never met him." Mr. Timson looked
more puzzled than ever.

" Ever ben in the bankin' bns'nis? "

" I have had some experience of such ac-
counts in a general way."

"Ever keep books?"

" Only as I have told you," said John, smil-
ing at the little man.

" Got any idee what you'll have to do up
here? " asked Chet.

" Only in a general way."

"Wa'al," said Mr. Timson, "I c'n tell ye;
an', what's more, I c'n tell ye, young man, 't you
hain't no idee of what you're undertakin', an' ef
you don't wish you was back in New York 'fore
you git through I ain't no guesser."

" That is possible," said John readily, recall-
ing his night and his breakfast that morning.

" Yes, sir," said the other. " Yes, sir; if you
do what I've had to do, you'll do the hull darned
thing, an' nobody to help you but Pele Hopkins,

,[■ ^

ii6

DAVID HARUM.

who don't count fer a row o' crooked pins. As
fer's Dave's concerned," asserted the speaker
with a wave of his hands, " he don't know no
more about bankin* 'n a cat. He couldn't count
a thousan' dollars in an hour, an', as for addin'
up a row o' figures, he couldn't git it twice alike,
I don't believe, if he was to be hung for't."

" He must understand the meaning of his
own books and accounts, I should think," re-
marked John.

" Oh," said Chet scornfully, " anybody c'd
do that. That's easy 'nough; but as fur 's the
real bus'nis is concerned, he don't have nothin'
to do with it. It's all ben left to me: chargin* :•.'
creditin', postin', individule ledger, gen'ral ledg-
er, bill-book, discount register, tickler, for'n
register, checkin' oflf the N'York accounts, draw-
in' off statemunts f'm the ledgers an' bill-book,
writin' letters — why, the' ain't an hour 'n the day
in bus'nis hours some days that the's an hour 't
I ain't busy 'bout somethin'. No, sir," continued
Chet, " Dave don't give himself no trouble about
the bus'nis. All he does is to look after lendin'
the money, an' seein' that it gits paid when the
time comes, an' keep track of how much money
the' is here an' in N'York, an' what notes is com-
in' due — an' a few things like that, that don't put
pen to paper, ner take an hour of his time. Why,
a man'll come in an' want to git a note done, an'
it'll be * All right,' or, * Can't spare the money
to-day,' all in a minute. He don't give it no
thought at all, an' he .qin't 'round here half the
time. Now," said Chet, " when I work fer a
man I like to have him 'round so 't I c'n say to
him: 'Shall I do it so? or shall I do it sof shall
I? or sha'n't I?' an' then when I make a mis-

DAVID HARUM.

117

the

an
ney
no
the
r a
y to

take — 's anybody's liable to — he's as much to
blame *s I be.'"

" I suppose, then," said John, " that you must
have to keep Mr. Harum's private accounts also,
seeing that he knows so little of details. I have
been told that he is interested in a good many
matters besides this business."

" Wa'al," replied Timson, somewhat discon-
certed, " I suppose he must keep 'em himself in
some kind of a fashion, an' I don't know a thing
about any outside matters of his'n, though I sus-
picion he has got quite a few. He's got some
books in that safe " (pointing with his finger)
" an' he's got a safe in the vault, but if you'll
believe me " — and the speaker looked as if he
hardly expected it — " I hain't never 30 much as
seen the inside of either one on 'em. No, sir,"
he declared, " I hain't no more idee of what's in
them safes 'n you have. He's close, Dave Harum
is," said Chet v/ith a convincing motion of the
head ; " on the hull, the clostest man I ever see.
I believe," he averred, " that if he was to lay out
to keep it shut that lightnin' might strike him
square in the mouth an' it wouldn't go in an
eighth of an inch. An' yet," he added, " he c'n
talk by the rod when he takes a notion."

" Must be a difficult person to get on with,"
commented John dryly.

" I couldn't Stan' it no longer," declared Mr.
Timson with the air of one who had endured to
the end of virtue, " an' I says to him the other
day, * Wa'al,' I says, ' if I can't suit ye, mebbe
you'd better suit yourself,' "

"Ah!" said John politely, seeing that some
response was expected of him; "and what did
he say to that?"

»" M

:v'-:f \

■.i !'

■J

Ii8

DAVID HARUM.

" He ast me," replied Chet, " if I meant by
that to throw up the situation. * Wa'al/ I says
' I'm sick enough to throw up most anythin',' I
says, * along with bein' found fault with fer
nothin'.' "

"And then?" queried John, who had re-
ceived the impression that the motion to adjourn
had come from the other side of the house.

" Wa'al," replied Chet, not quite so confi-
dently, " he said somethin' about my requirin' a
larger spear of action, an' that he thought I'd do
better on a mile track — some o' his boss talk.
That's another thing," said Timson, changing
the subject. *' He's all fer bosses. He'd sooner
make a ten-dollar note on a boss trade than a
hunderd right here 'n this office. Many's the
time right in bus'nis hours, when I've wanted to
ask him how he wanted somethin' done, he'd be
busy talkin' boss, an' wouldn't pay no attention
to me more'n 's if I wa'n't there."

" I am glad to feel," said John, " that you can
not possibly have any unpleasant feeling toward
me, seeing that you resigned as you did."

" Cert'nly not, cert'nly not," declared Tim-
son, a little uneasily. " If it hadn't 'a' ben you, it
would 'a' had to ben somebody else, an' now I

seen you an' had a talk with you Wa'al, I

guess I better git back into the other room.
Dave's liable to come in any minute. But," he said
in parting, " I will give ye piece of advice: You
keep enough laid by to pay your gettin' back to
N'York. You may want it in a hurry," and with
this parting shot the rejected one took his leave.

The bank parlor was lighted by a window
and a glazed door in the rear wall, and another

DAVID HARUM.

119

Idow
kher

window on the south side. Mr. Harum's desk
was by the rear, or west, window, which gave
view of his house, standing some hundred feet
back from the street. The south, or side, win-
dow afforded a view of his front yard and that
of an adjoining dwelling, beyond which rose
the wall of a mercantile block. Business was en-
croaching upon David's domain. Our friend
stood looking out of the south window. To the
left a bit of Main Street was visible, and the
naked branches of the elms and maples with
which it was bordered were waving defiantly at
their rivals over the way, incited thereto by a
northwest wind.

We invariably form a mental picture of every
unknown person of whom we think at all. It
may be so faint that we are unconscious of it at
the time, or so vivid that it is always recalled
until dissipated by seeing the person himself, or
his likeness. But that we do so make a pic-
ture is proved by the fact that upon being con-
fronted by the real features of the person in ques-
tion we always experience a certain amount of
surprise, even when we have not been conscious
of a different conception of him.

Be that as it may, however, there was no ques-
tion in John Lenox's mind as to the identity of
the person who at last came briskly into the back
office and interrupted his meditations. Rather
under the middle height, he was broad-shoul-
dered and deep-chested, with a clean-shaven, red
face, with — not a mole — but a slight protuber-
ance the size of half a large pea on the line from
the nostril to the corner of the mouth; bald over
the crown and to a line a couple of inches above
the ear, below that thick and somewhat bushy

120

DAVID HARUM.

hair of yellowish red, showing a mingling of
gray; small but very blue eyes; a thick nose, of
no classifiable shape, and a large mouth with the
lips so pressed together as to produce a slightly
downward and yet rather humorous curve at the
corners. He was dressed in a sack coat of dark
" pepper-and-salt," with waistcoat and trousers to
match. A somewhat old-fashioned standing col-
lar, flaring away from the throat, was encircled
by a red cravat, tied in a bow under his chin.
A diamond stud of perhaps two carats showed
in the triangle of spotless shirt front, and on his
head was a cloth cap with ear lappets. He ac-
costed our friend with, " I reckon you must be
Mr. Lenox. How are you? I'm glad to see
you," tugging off a thick buckskin glove, and
putting out a plump but muscular hand.

John thanked him as they shook hands, and
" hoped he was well."

" Wa'al," said Mr. Harum, " I'm improvin'
slowly. I've got so 'st I c'n set up long enough
to have my bed made. Come last night, I
s'pose? Anybody to the deepo to bring ye over?
This time o' year once 'n a while the' don't no-
body go over for passengers."

John said that he had had no trouble. A
man by the name of Robinson had brought him
and his luggage.

" E-up! " said David with a nod, backing up
to the fire which was burning in the grate of the
Franklin stove, " * Dug ' Robinson. 'D he do
the p'lite thing in the matter of questions an' gen-
'ral conversation?" he asked with a grin. John
laughed in reply to this question.

" Where 'd you put up? " asked David. John
said that he passed the night at the Eagle Hotel.

DAVID HARUM.

121

the

;en-

fohn

John
lotel.

Mr. Harum had seen Dick Larrabee that morn-
ing and heard what he had to say of our friend's
reception, but he liked to get his information
from original sources.

** Make ye putty comf'table? " he asked, turn-
ing to eject a mouthful into the fire.

" I got along pretty well under the circum-
stances," said John.

Mr. Harum did not press the inquiry. "How'd
you leave the gen'ral?" he inquired.

" He seemed to be well," replied John, " and
he wished to be kindly remembered to you."

'* Fine man, the gen'ral," declared David, well
pleased. " Fine man all 'round. Word's as good
as his bond. Yes, sir, when the gen'ral gives his
\varrant, I don't care whether I see the critter or
not. Know him much? "

" He and my father were old friends, and I
have known him a good many years," replied
John, adding, " he has been very kind and friend-
ly to me."

" Set down, set down," said Mr. Harum,
pointing to a chair. Seating himself, he took off
his cap and dropped it with his gloves on the
floor. " How long you ben here in the office?"
he asked.

" Perhaps half an hour," was the reply.

" I meant to have ben here when you come,"
said the banker, ''but I got hen ^red about a
matter of a boss I'm looking at. i guess I'll
shut that door," making a move toward the one
into the front office.

** Allow me," said John, getting up and clos-
ing it.

" May's well shut the other one while you're
about it, Thank you," as John resumed his seat.

;.^t'' 'I

122

DAVID HARUM.

II r

" I hain't got nothin' very private, but I'm 'fraid
of distractin' Timson's mind. Did he int'duce
himself? "

** Yes," said John, " we introduced ourselves
and had a few minutes conversation."

" Gin ye his hull hist'ry an' a few relations
throwed in?"

" There was hardly time for that," said John,
smiling.

" Rubbed a little furn'ture polish into my
char'cter an' repitation?" insinuated Mr. Harum.

" Most of our talk was on the subject of his
duties and responsibilities," was John's reply.
(" Don't cal'latc to let on any more'n he cal'lates
to," thought David to himself.)

" Allowed he run the hull shebang, didn't
he? "

" He seemed to have a pretty large idea of
what was required of one in his place," admitted
the witness.

" Kind o' friendly, was he? " asked David.

" Wcl," said John, "after we had talked for
a while I said to him that I was glad to think
that he could have no unpleasant feeling toward
me, seeing that he had given up the place of his
own preference, and he assured me that he had

none.

David turned and looked at John for an in-
stant, with a twinkle in his eye. The younger
man returned the look and smiled slightly.
David laughed outright.

" I guess you've seen folks before," he re-
marked.

" I have never met any one exactly like Mr.
Timson, I think," said pur friend with a slight
laugh.

rf i '*

DAVID HARUM.

123

for

link

ard

his

had

" Fortunitly them kind is rare," observed Mr.
Harum dryly, rising and going to his desk, from
a drawer of which he produced a couple of cigars,
one of which he proffered to John, who, for the
first time in his life, during the next half hour
regretted that he was a smoker. David sat for
two or three minutes puffing diligently, and then
took the weed out of his mouth and looked con-
templatively at it.

" How do you like that cigar? " he inquired.

" It burns very nicely," said the victim. Mr.
Harum emitted a cough which was like a chuckle,
or a chuckle which was like a cough, and re-
lapsed into silence again. Presently he turned
his head, looked curiously at the young man for
a moment, and then turned his glance again to
the fire.

" I've ben wonderin' some," he said, " pertic-
'lerly since I see you, how 't was *t you wanted
to come up here to Homeville. Gen'l Wolsey
gin his warrant, an* so I reckon you hadn't ben
gettin' into no scrape nor nothin'," and again he
looked sharply at the young man at his side.

" Did the general say nothing of my af-
fairs?" the latter asked.

" No," replied David, " all 't he said was in
a gen'ral way that he'd knowed you an' your
folks a good while, an' he thought you'd be jest
the feller I was lookin' fer. Mebbe he reckoned
that if you wanted your story told, you'd rather
tell it yourself."

''' .•' 'I

re-

|Mr.
ight

aai^ri«Ub>

X li

1 1ll

CHAPTER XIV.

Whatever might have been John's repug-
nance to making a confidant of the man whom
he had known but for half an hour, he acknowl-
edged to himself that the other's curiosity was
not only natural but proper. He could not but
know that in appearance and manner he was in
marked contrast with those whom the man had
so far seen. He divined the fact that his coming
from a great city to settle down in a village town
would furnish matter for surprise and conjec-
ture, and felt that it would be to his advantage
with the man who was to be his employer that he
should be perfectly and obviously frank upon all
matters of his own which might be properly
mentioned. He had an instinctive feeling that
Harum combined acuteness and suspiciousness
to a very large degree, and he h^ '^ also a
feeling that the old man's confidence, once
gained, would not be easily shaken. So he told
his hearer so much of his history as he thought
pertinent, and David listened without interrup-
tion or comment, save an occasional " E-um'm."

" And here I am," John remarked in con-
clusion.

" Here you be, fer a fact," said David.
" Wa'al, the's worse places 'n Homeville — after
you git used to it," he added in qualification.

124

DAVID HARUM.

125

)n-

nd.
fter
ion.

" I ben back here a matter o* thirteen or four-
teen year now, an' am gettin' to feel my way 'round
putty well; but not havin' ben in these parts for
putty nigh thirty year, I found it ruther lonesome
to start with, an' I guess if it hadn't 'a' ben fer
Polly I wouldn't 'a' stood it. But up to the
time I come back she hadn't never ben ten mile
away f'm here in her hull life, an' I couldn't
budge her. But then," he remarked, " while
Homeville aint a metrop'lis, it's some a diflf'rent
place f'm what it used to be — in some ways.
Polly's my sister," he added by way of expla-
nation.

" Well," said John, with rather a rueful laugh,
" if it has taken you all that time to get used to
it the outlook for me is not very encouraging,
I'm afraid."

" Wa'al," remarked Mr. Harum, " I'm apt to
speak in par'bles sometimes. I guess you'll git
along after a spell, though it mayn't set fust
rate on your stomech till you git used to the
diet. ** Say," he said after a moment, ** if you'd
had a couple o' thousan' more, do you think
you'd 'a' stuck to the law bus'nis?"

" I'm su'-e I don't know," replied John, " but
I am inclined to think not. General Wolsey
told me that if I were very anx'ous to go on
with it he would help me, but after what I told
him he advised me to write to you."

"He did, did he?"

" Yes," said John, " and after what I had gone
through I was not altogether sorry to come
away."

" Wa'al," said Mr. Harum thoughtfully, " if
I was to lose what little I've got, an' had to
give up livin' in the way I was used to, an*

I '

126

DAVID HARUM.

couldn't even keep a hoss, I c'n allow 't I might
be willin' fer a change of scene to make a fresh
start in. Yes, sir, I guess I would. Wa'al,"
looking at his watch, " I've got to go now, an'
I'll see ye later, mebbe. You feel like takin' holt
to-day?"

" Oh, yes," said John with alacrity.

" All right," said Mr. Harum. " You tell Tim-
son what you want, an' make him show you ev-
erythin'. He understands, an' I've paid him for't.
He's agreed to stay any time in reason 't you
want him, but I guess," he added with a laugh,
" 't you c'n pump him dry 'n a day or two. It
haint r lined wisdom an' knowlidge in his part o'
the country fer a consid'able spell."

David stood for a moment drawing on his
gloves, and then, looking at John with his char-
acteristic chuckle, continued:

" Allowed he'd ben drawin' the hull load, did
he? Wa'al, sir, the truth on't is 't he never come
to a hill yet, 'f 't wa'n't more 'n a foot high, but
what I had to git out an' push; nor never struck
a turn in the road but what I had to take him by
the head an' lead him into it." With which Mr.
Harum put on his overcoat and cap and de-
parted.

Mr. Timson was leaning over the counter in
animated controversy with a man on the outside
who had evidently asserted or quoted (the quo-
tation is the usual weapon: it has a double barb
and can be wielded with comparative safety)
something of a wounding effect.

" No, sir," exclaimed Chet, with a sounding
slap on the counter, "no, sir! The' ain't one
word o' truth in't. I said myself, * I won't stan*

DAVID HARUM.

127

in'

It,' I says, ' not f'm you ner nobody else,' I says,

' an' what's more,' says I " The expression

in the face of Mr. Timson's tormentor caused
that gentleman to break off and look around.
The man on the outside grinned, stared at John
a moment, and went out, and Timson turned
and said, as John came forward, " Hello ! The
old man picked ye to pieces all he wanted
to?"

" We are through for the day, I fancy," said
our friend, smiling, " and if you are ready to be-
gin my lessons I am ready to take them. Mr.
Harum told me that you would be good enough
to show me what was necessary."

" All right," said Mr. Timson readily enough,
and so John began his first day's work in David's
office. He was surprised and encouraged to
find how much his experience in Rush & Com-
pany's office stood him in hand, and managed to
acquire in a comparatively short time a pretty
fair comprehension of the system which prevailed
in " Harum's bank," notwithstanding the inces-
sant divagations of his instructor.

It was decided between Timson and our friend
that on the following day the latter should under-
take the office work under supervision, and the
next morning John was engaged upon the pre-
liminaries of the day's business when his em-
ployer came in and seated himself at his desk in
the back room. After a few minutes, in which
he was busy with his letters, he appeared in the
doorway of the front room. He did not speak,
for John saw him, and, responding to a back-
ward toss of the head, followed him into the " par-
lor," and at an intimation of the same silent
character shut the doors. Mr. Harum sat

•I

128

DAVID HARUM.

1. ;'

down at his desk, and John stood awaiting his
pleasure.

"How 'd ye make out yestidy?" he asked.
"Git any thin' out of old tongue-tied?" pointing
with his thumb toward the front room.

" Oh, yes," said John, smiling, as he recalled
the unceasing flow of words which had enveloped
Timson's explanations.

" How much longer do you think you'll have
to have him 'round? " asked Mr. Harum.

" Well," said John, " of course your custom-
ers are strangers to me, but so far as the rou-
tine of the office is concerned I think I can man-
age after to-day. But I shall have to appeal to
you rather often for a while until I get thorough-
ly acquainted with my v^ork."

" Good fer you," said David. " You've took
holt a good sight quicker 'n I thought ye would,
an' I'll spend more or less time 'round here fer a
while, or be where you c'n reach me. It's like
this," he continued ; " Chet's a helpless kind of
critter, fer all his braggin' an' talk, an' I ben
feelin' kind o' wambly about turnin' him loose —
though the Lord knows," he said with feeling,
" 't I've had bother enough with him to kill a
tree. But anyway I wrote to some folks I know
up to Syrchester to git something fer him to
do, an' I got a letter to send him along, an'
mebbe they'd give him a show. See? "

" Yes, sir," said John, " and if you are willing
to take the chances of my mistakes I will under-
take to get on without him."

" All right," said the banker, " we'll call it a
heat — and, say, don't let on what I've told you.
I want to see how long it'll take to git all over
the village that he didn't ask no odds o' nobody.

DAVID HARUM.

129

Hadn't ben out o* a job three days 'fore the' was
a lot o' chances, an' all 't he had to do was to
take his pick out o' the lot on 'em."

"Really?" said John.

" Yes, sir," said David. " Some folks is
gaited that way. Amusin', ain't it? — Hullo, Dick!
Wa'al?"

" Willis'll give two hunderd fer the sorr'l
colt," said the incomer, whom John recognized
as one of the loungers in the Eagle bar the night
of his arrival.

" E-um'm ! " said David. " Was he speakin'
of any pertic'ler colt, or sorril colts in gen'ral? I
hain't got the only one the' is, I s'pose."

Dick merely laughed. " Because," continued
the owner of the " sorril colt," " if Stev6 Willis
wants to lay in sorril colts at two hunderd a
piece, I ain't goin' to gainsay him, but you tell
him that two-forty-nine ninety-nine won't buy
the one in my barn." Dick laughed again.

John made a move in the direction of the
front room.

" Hold on a minute," said David. " Shake
hands with Mr. Larrabee."

" Seen ye before," said Dick, as they shook
hands. " I was in the barroom when you come
in the other night," and then he laughed as at the
recollection of something very amusing.

John flushed a little and said, a bit stififly, " I
remember you were kind enough to help about
my luggage."

" Excuse me," said Dick, conscious of the
other's manner. " I wa'n't laughin' at you, that
is, not in pertic'ler. I couldn't see your face
when Ame offered ye pie an' doughnuts instid of
beefsteak an' fixins. I c'd only guess at that;

1-1 I

130

DAVID HARUM.

but Ame's face was enough fer me," and Dick
went off into another rachinnation.

David's face indicated some annoyance.
" Oh, shet up," he exclaimed. " You'd keep
that yawp o' your'n goin', I believe, if it was the
judgment day."

" Wa'al," said Dick with a grin, " I expect
the' might be some fun to be got out o' that, if
a feller wa'n't worryin' too much about his own

skin; an' as fur's I'm concerned " Dick's

further views on the subject of that momentous
occasion were left unexplained. A significant
look in David's face caused the speaker to
break off and turn toward the door, through
which came two men, the foremost a hulking,
shambling fellow, with an expression of repel-
lent sullenness. He came forward to within
about ten feet of David's desk, while his compan-
ion halted near the door. David eyed him in
silence.

" I got this here notice this mornin'," said the
man, " say in' 't my note *d be due to-morrer, an*
'd have to be paid."

" Wa'al," said David, with his arm over the
back of his chair and his left hand resting on his
desk, "that's so, ain't it?"

** Mebbe so," was the fellow's reply, " fur 's
the comin' due 's concerned, but the payin' part
's another matter."

"Was you cal'latin' to have it renewed?"
asked David, leaning a little forward.

" No," said the man coolly, " I don't know 's
I want to renew it fer any pertic'ler time, an' I
guess it c'n run along fer a while jest as 't is."
John looked at Dick Larrabee. He was watch-
ing David's face with an expression of the ut-

DAVID HARUM.

131

most enjoyment. David twisted his chair a little
more to the right and out from the desk.

"You think it c'n run along, do ye?" he
asked suavely. " I'm glad to have your views
on the subject. Wa'al, I guess it kin, too, until
to-morro' at four o'clock, an' after that you c'n
settle with lawyer Johnson or the sheriff." The
man uttered a disdainful laugh.

" I guess it'll puzzle ye some to c'lect it,"
he said. Mr. Harum's bushy red eyebrows liiet
above his nose.

" Look here, Bill Montaig," he said, " I know
more 'bout this matter 'n you think for. I know
't you ben makin* your brags that you'd fix me
in this deal. You allowed that you'd set up usury
in the fust place, an' if that didn't work I'd find
you was execution proof anyways. That's so,
ain't it?"

" That's about the size on't," said Montaig,
putting his feet a little farther apart. David had
risen from his chair.

" You didn't talk that way," proceeded the
latter, " when you come whinin' 'round here to
git that money in the fust place, an' as I reckon
some o' the facts in the case has slipped out o'
your mind since that time, I guess I'd better jog
your mem'ry a little."

It was plain from the expression of Mr. Mon-
taig's countenance that his confidence in the
strength of his position was not quite so assured
as at first, but he maintained his attitude as well
as in him lay.

" In the fust place," David began his assault,
" / didn't lend ye the money. I borr'ed it for
ye on my indorsement, an' charged ye fer doin*
it, as I told ye at the time; an* another thing

132

DAVID HARUM.

■I !

that you appear to forgit is that you signed a
paper statin' that you was wuth, in good and
available pusson'ls, free an' clear, over five hun-
derd dollars, an' that the statement was made to
me with the view of havin' me indorse your note
fer one-fifty. Rec'lect that? " David smiled
grimly at the look of disconcert which, in spite
of himself, appeared in Bill's face.

" I don't remember signin' no paper," he said
doggedly.

" Jest as like as not," remarked Mr. Harum.
" What you was thinkin' of about that time was
gittin' that money.'*

" I'd like to see that paper," said Bill, with a
pretence of incredulity.

" You'll see it when the ume comes," asserted
David, with an emphatic nod. He squared him-
self, planting his feet apart, and, thrusting his
hands deep in his coat pockets, faced the discom-
fited yokel.

" Do you think. Bill Montaig," he said, with
measureless contempt, " that I didn't know who
I was dealin' with? that I didn't know what a
low-lived, roost- robbin' skunk you was? an'
didn't know how to protect myself agin such
an'muls as you be? Wa'al, I did, an' don't you
stop thinkin' 'bout it — an'," he added, shaking
his finger at the object of his scorn, " you'll pay
that note or I'll put ye where the dogs won't bite
ye," and with that he turned on his heel and re-
sumed his seat. Bill stood for a minute with a
scowl of rage and defeat in his lowering face.

" Got any further bus'nis with me?" inquired
Mr. Haruni. " Anythin' more 't I c'n oblige ye
about?" There was no answer.

" I asked you," said David, raising his voice

DAVID HARUM.

133

and rising to his feet, " if you had any further
bus'nis with me."

" I dunno's I have," was the sullen response.

"All right," said David. "That bein' the
case, an* as I've got somethin* to do beside wast-
in' my time on such wuthless pups as you be,
I'll thank you to git out. There's the door," he
added, pointing to it.

" He, he, he, he, ho, ho, ha, h-o-0-0-0-0! "
came from the throat of Dick Larrabee. This
was too much for the exasperated Bill, and he
erred (to put it mildly) in raising his arm and ad-
vancing a step toward his creditor. He was not
swift enough to take the second, however, for
David, vAth amazing quickness, sprang upon
him, and twisting him around, rushed him out of
the door, down the passage, and out of the front
door, which was obligingly held open by an out-
going clieni, who took in the situation and gave
precedence to Mr. Montaig. His companion,
who so far had taken no part, made a motion to
interfere, but John, who stood nearest to him,
caught him by the collar and jerked him back,
with the suggestion that it would be better to
let the two have it out by themselves. David
came back ratlier breathless and very red in the
face, but evidently in exceeding good humor.

" Scat my ! " he exclaimed. " Hain't had

such a good tussle I dunno when."

" Bill's considered ruther an awk'ard custom-
er," remarked DicV. " I guess he hain't had no
such handlin' fer quite a while."

" Sho! " exclaimed Mr. Harum. " The' ain't
nothin' to him but wind an' meanness. Who was
that feller with him? "

" Name 's Smith, I believe," replied Dick.

ill (

V 1

i I -^ ''

m
m

134

DAVID HARUM.

" Guess Bill brought him along fer a witness, an*
I reckon he seen all he wanted to. I'll bet his
neck's achin' some," added Mr. Larrabee with a
laugh.

" How's that? " asked David.

" Well, he made a move to tackle you as you
was escortin* Bill out, an' Mr. Lenox there
caught him in the collar an' gin him a jerk
that'd 'a' landed him on his back," said Dick,
" if," turning to John, " you hadn't helt holt of
him. You putty nigh broke his neck. He went
off — he, he, he, he, ho! — wrigglin' it to make
sure."

" I used more force than was necessary, I'm
afraid," said Billy Williams's pupil, " but there
wasn't much time to calculate."

" Much obliged," said David with a nod.

" Not at all," protested John, laughing. " I
have enjoyed a great deal this morning."

" It has ben ruther pleasant," remarked David
with a chuckle, " but you mustn't cal'late on
havin' such fun ev'ry mornin'."

John went into the business office, leaving the
banker and Dick.

" Say," said the latter when they were alone,
" that young man o' your'n 's quite a feller. He
took care o' that big Smith chap with one hand;
an* say, you c'n git round on your pins 'bout 's
lively 's they make 'em, I guess. I swan ! " he
exclaimed, slapping his thigh and shaking with
laughter, " the hull thing head-an'-shouldered
any show I seen lately." And then for a while
they fell to talking of the " sorril colt " and other
things.

ti!(

the

)ne,

ind;

It 's

,'ith

;red

Ihile

ther

CHAPTER XV.

When John went back to the office after the
noonday intermission it was manifest that some-
thing had happened to Mr. Timson, and that the
something was of a nature extremely gratifying
to that worthy gentleman. He was beaming
with satisfaction and rustling with importance.
Several times during the afternoon he appeared to
be on the point of confiding his news, but in the
face of the interruptions which occurred, or
which he feared might check the flow of his
communication, he managed to restrain himself
till after the closinjj of the office. But scarcely
were the shutters up (at the willing hands of
Peleg Hopkins) when he turned to John and,
looking at him sharply, said, " Has Dave said
any thin' 'bout my leavin'?"

" He told me he expected you would stay as
long as might be necessary to get me well
started," said John non-committally, mindful of
Mr. Harum's injunction.

"Jest Hke him," declared Chet. "Jest like
him for all the world; but the fact o' the matter
is 't I'm goin' to-morro'. I s'pose he thought,"
reflected Mr. Timson, " thet he'd ruther you'd
find it out yourself than to have to break it to
ye, 'cause then, don't ye see, after I was gon^
Jic c'd lay the hull thing at my door."

'35

;■»?

':• V: I

■K

13^

DAVID HARUM.

" Really," said John, " I should have said that
he ought to have told me."

" Wa'al," said Chet encouragingly, " mebbe
you'll git along somehow, though I'm '{raid you'll
have more or less trouble; but I told Dave that
as fur 's I c'd see, mebbe you'd do 's well 's most
anybody he c'd git that didn't know any o' the
customers, an' hadn't never done any o' this kind
o' work before."

" Thank you very much," said John. " And
so you are off to-morrow, are you? "

" Got to be," declared Mr. Timson. " I'd 'a'
liked to stay with you a spell longer, but the's
a big concern f'm out of town that as soon as
they heard I was at libe'ty wrote for me to come
right along up, an' I s'pose I hadn't ought to
keep 'em waitin'."

*' No, I should think not," said John. " and
I congratulate you upon having located yourself
so quickly."

" Oh ! " said Mr. Timson, with ineffabhs com-
placency, " I hain't give myself no worry ; I hain't
lost no sleep. I've allowed all along that Dave
Harum'd find out that he wa'n't the unly man
that needed my kind o' work, an' I ain't meanin'
any disrispect to you when I say 't "

" Just so," said John. " I quite understand.
Nobody could expect to take just the place with
him that you have filled. And, by the way," he
added, " as you are going in the morning, and
I may not see you again, would you kindly give
me the last balance sheets of the two ledgers and
the bill-book. I suppose, of course, that they
are brought down to the first of the month, and
I shall want to have them."

" Oh, yes, cert'nly, of course — wa'al I guess

DAVID HARUM.

137

he
and

ive
and
hey
and

Dave's got *em," replied Chet, looking consider-
ably disconcerted, *' but I'll look 'em up in the
mornin'. My train don't go till ten o'clock, an'
I'll see you 'bout any little last thing in the morn-
in' — but I guess I've got to go now on ac-
count of a lot of things. You c'n shut up, can't
ye?"

Whereupon Mr. Timson made his exit, and
not long afterward David came in. By that
time everything had been put away, the safe and
vault closed, and Peleg had departed with the
mail and his freedom for the rest of the day.

" Wa'al," said Mr. Harum, lifting himself to
a seat on the counter, " how've you made out?
All O K ^ "

" Yes,'"* replied John, " I think so."

"Where's Chet?"

" He went away some few minutes ago. He
said he had a good many things to attend to as
he was leaving in the morning."

" E-um'm ! " said David incredulously. " I
guess 't won't take him long to close up his mat-
ters. Did he leave ev'ry thing in good shape?
Cash all right, an' so on ? "

" I think so," said John. " The cash is right
I am sur'."

"How 'bout the books?"

" I asked him to let me have the balance
sheets, and he said that you must have them, but
that he would come in in the morning and — well,
what he said was that he would see me in the
morning, and, as he put it, look after any little
last thing."

" E-um'm ! " David grunted. " He won't do
no such a thing. We've seen the last of him, you
bet, an' a good riddance. He'll take tii'^ nine
zo

X38

DAVID HARUM.

li I

o'clock to-night, that's what he'll do. Drawed
his pay, I guess, didn't he? "

" He said he was to be paid for this month,"
answered John, '* and took sixty dollars. Was
that right?"

" Yes," said David, nodding his head absently.
"What was it he said about them statements?"
he inquired after a moment.

" He said he guessed you must have them."

" E-um'm ! " was David's comment. " What'd
he say about leavin'?"

John laughed and related the conversation as
exactly as he could.

"What'd I tell ye," said Mr. Harum, with
a short laugh. " Mebbe he won't go till to-mor-
ro', after all," he remarked. " He'll want to put
in a leetle more time tellin' how he was sent for
in a hurry by that big concern f'm out of town
't he's goin' to."

" Upon my word, I can't understand it," said
John, " knowing that you can contradict him."

" Wa'al," said David, " he'll allow that if he
gits in the fust word, he'll take the pole. It don't
matter anyway, long 's he's gone. I guess you
an' me c'n pull the load, can't we?" and he
dropped down off the counter and started to go
out. " By the way," he said, halting a moment,
"can't you come in to tea at six o'clock? I
want to make ye acquainted with Polly, an' she's
itchin' to see ye."

" I shall be delighted," said John.

" Polly," said David, " I've ast the young
feller to come to tea, but don't you say the word
* Eagle ' to him. You c'n show your ign'rance
'bout all the other kinds of birds an* animals you

■ h

DAVID HARUM.

139

>»

ain't familiar with," said the unfeeling brother,
*' but leave eagles alone."

" What you up to now?" she asked, but she
got no answer but a laugh.

From a social point of view the entertainment
could not be described as a very brilliant success.
Our friend was tired and hungry. Mr. Harum
was unusually taciturn, and Mrs. Bixbee, being
under her brother's interdict as regarded the sub-
ject which, had it been allowed discussion, might
have opened the way, was at a loss for general-
ities. But John afterward got upon terms of the
friendliest nature with that kindly soul.

''J

go
lent,

I? I
jhe's

mng
^ord

hance
you

CHAPTER XVI.

Some weeks after John's assumption of his
duties in the ofCict of David Harum, Banker,
that gentleman si^t reading his New York paper
in the " wing^ Fettin'-room," after tea, and Aunt
Polly was occupied with the hemming of a towel.
The able editorial which David was perusing was
strengthening his conviction that all the intelli-
gence and virtue of the country were monopo-
lized by the Republican party, when his medita-
tions were broken in upon by Mrs. Bixbee, who
knew nothing :md cared less about the Force
Bill or the doctrine of protection to American
industries.

" You hain't said nothin' fer quite a while
about the bank," she remarked. " Is Mr. Lenox
gittin' along all right? "

" Guess he's gittin' into condition as fast as
c'd be expected," said David, between two lines
of his editorial.

" It must be awful lonesome fer him," she
observed, to which there was no reply.

" Ain't it?" she asked, after an interval.

" Ain't what? " said David, looking up at her.

" Awful lonesome," she reiterated.

" Guess nobody ain't ever very lonesome when

you're 'round an' got your breath," was the reply.

"What you talkin' about?"
140

DAVID HARUM.

141

" I ain't talkin' about you, 't any rate," said
Mrs. Bixbee. " I was sayin' it must be awful
lonesome fer Mr. Lenox up here where he don't
know a soul hardly, an' livin' at that hole of a
tavern."

" I don't see 't you've any cause to com-
plain long's he don't," said David, hoping that
it would not come to his sister's ears that he
had, for reasons of his own, discouraged any at-
tempt on John's part to better his quarters, " an*
he hain't ben very lonesome daytimes, I guess, so
fur, 'thout he's ben makin' work fer himself to
kill time."

" What do you mean? "

" Wa'al," said David, " we found that Chet
hadn't done more 'n to give matters a lick an' a
promise in most a year. He done just enough
to keep up the day's work an' no more an*
the upshot on't is that John's had to put
in consid'able time to git things straightened
out."

" What a shame! " exclaimed Aunt Polly.

" Keeps him f'm bein' lonesome," remarked
her brother with a grin.

" An' he hain't had no time to himself! " she
protested. " I don't believe you've made up
your mind yet whether you're goin' to like him,
an' I don't believe he'll stay anyway."

" I've told more 'n forty-leven times," said
Mr. Harum, looking up over his paper, ** that I
thought we was goin' to make a hitch of it, an*
he cert'nly hain't said nuthin' 'bout leavin', an' I
guess he won't fer a while, tavern or no tavern.
He's got a putty stiff upper lip of his own, I
reckon," David further remarked, with a short
laugh, causing Mrs. Bixbee to look up at him

\i[

In.,

142

DAVID HARUM.

inquiringly, which look the speaker answered
with a nod, saying, " Me an' him had a little go-
round to-day."

" You hain't had no words, hev ye? " she
asked anxiously.

" Wa'al, we didn't have what ye might call
words. I was jest try in' a little experiment with
him."

" Humph," she remarked, " you're alwus try-
in' exper'ments on somebody, an' you'll be liable
to git ketched at it some day."

" Exceptin' on you," said David. " You don't
think I'd try any experiments on you, do ye? "

" Me! " she cried. " You're at me the hull
endurin' time, an' you know it."

" Wa'al, but Polly," said David insinuatingly,
" you don't know how int'restin' you 6^."

" Glad you think so," she declared, with a sniff
and a toss of the head. " What you ben up to
with Mr. Lenox?"

" Oh, nuthin' much," replied Mr. Harum,
making a feint of resuming his reading.

" Be ye goin' to tell me, or — air ye too ^shamed
on't? " she added with a little laugh, which some-
what turned the tables on her teasing brother.

" Wa'al, I laid out to try an' read this paper,"
he said, spreading it out on his lap, " but," re-
signedly, ** I guess 't ain't no use. Do you know
what a count'fit bill is? " he asked.

" I dunno 's I ever see one," she said, " but
I s'pose I do. They're agin the law, ain't they?"

** The's a number o' things that's agin the
law," remarked David dryly.

"Wa'al?" ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee after a mo-
ment of waiting.

" Wa'al." said David. " the' ain't much to tell.

"? (

DAVID ttARUM.

143

but It*s plain I don't git no peace till you git it
out of me. It was like this: The young feller's
took holt everywhere else right off, but handlin'
the money bothered him consid'able at fust. It
was slow work, an' I c'd see it myself; but he's
gettin' the hang on't now. Another thing I ex-
pected he'd run up agin was count'fits. The' ain't
so very many on 'em round now-a-days, but the*
is now an' then one. He allowed to me that he
was liable to get stuck at fust, an' I reckoned he
would. But I never said nuthin' about it, nor
ast no questions until to-day; an' this afternoon
I come in to look 'round, an' I says to him,
* What luck have you had with your money?
Git any bad?' I says. * Wa'al,' he says, colorin*
up a little, * I don't know how many I may have
took in an' paid out agin without knowin' it,' he
says, * but the' was a couple sent back from New
York out o' that package that went down last
Friday.' "

" ' What was they? ' I says.

" ' A five an' a ten,' he says.

" ' Where be they? ' I says.

" ' They're in the draw there — they're ruther
int'rcbtin' objects of study,' he says, kind o' laugh-
in' on the wrong side of his mouth.

" ' Countin' 'em in the cash? ' I says, an' with
that he kind o' reddened up agin. * No, sir,' he
says, * I charged 'em up to my own account, an'
I've kept 'em to compare with.'

" * You hadn't ought to done that,' I says.

" * You think I ought to 'a' put 'em in the
fire at once?' says he.

" * No,' I says, ' that wa'n't what I meant.
Why didn't you mix 'em up with the other
money, an' let 'em go when you was payin' out?

\ :

1 i

/T*^

wt^^

li ''

1.%

144

DAVID HARUM.

Anyways/ I ijays, * you charge 'em up to profit
an' loss if you're goin' to charge 'em to any-
thin', an' let me have 'em,' I says.

" * What'll you do with 'em?' he says to me,
kind o' shuttin' his jaws together.

"'I'll take care on 'em,' I says. 'They
mayn't be good enough to send down to N* v
York,' I says, * but they'll go around here ail
right — jest as good as any other,' I says, * long 's
you keep 'em movin'.' "

"David Harum!" cried Polly, who, though
not quite comprehending some of the technical-
ities of detail, was fully alive to the turpitude of
the suggestion. " I hope to gracious he didn't
think you was in earnest. Why, s'pose they was
passed around, wouldn't somebody git stuck with
'em in the long run? You know they would."
Mrs. Bixbee occasionally surprised her brother
with unexpected penetration, but she seldom got
much recognition of it.

" I see by the paper," he remarked, " that the*
was a man died in Pheladelphy one day last
week," which piece of barefaced irrelevancy elic-
ited no notice from Mrs. Bixbee.

" What more did he say?" she demanded.

" Wa'al," responded Mr. Harum with a laugh,
" he said that he didn't see why I should be a
loser by his mistakes, an' that as fur as the bills
was concerned the} belonged to him, an' with
that," said the narrator, " Mister Man gits 'em
out of the draw an' jest marches into the back
room an' puts the dum things int' the fire."

" He done jest right," declared Aunt Polly,
" an' you know it, don't ye now? "

" Wa'al," said David, " f'm his standpoint—
f'm his standpoint, I guess he did, an'," rubbing

DAVID HARUM.

his chin with two fingers of his left hand, " it's a
putty dum good standpoint too. I've ben look-
in'," he added reflectively, " fer an honest man
fer quite a number o' years, an' I guess I've found
him; yes'm, I guess I've found him."

" An' be you goin' to let him lose that fifteen
dollars >" asked the practical Polly, fixing her
brother with her eyes.

" Wa'al," said David, with a short laugh,
" what c'n I do with such an obst'nit critter 's
he is? He jest backed into the britchin', an' I
couldn't do nothin' with him." Aunt Polly sat
over her sewing for a minute or two without tak-
ing a stitch.

" I'm sorry you done it," she said at last.

" I dunno but I did make ruther a mess of it,"
admitted Mr. Harum.

'■: VI

■0mm

CHAPTER XVII.

It was the 23d of December, and shortly after
the closing hour. Peleg had departed and our
friend had just locked the vault when David
came into the office and around behind the
counter.

" Be you in any hurry? " he asked.

John said he was not, whereupon Mr. Harum
hitched himself up onto a high office stool, with
his heels on the spindle, and leaned sideways
upon the desk, while John stood facing him with
his left arm upon the desk.

" John," said David, " do ye know the Widdo*
Cullom?"

" No," said John, " but I know who she is —
a tall, thin woman, who walks with a slight stoop
and limp. I noticed her and asked her name be-
cause there was something about her looks that
attracted my attention — as though at some time
she might have seen better days."

" That's the party,'' said David. " She has
seen better days, but she's eat £in' drunk sorro'
mostly fer goin' on thirty year, an' darned little
else good share o' the time, I reckon."

" She has that appearance certainly," said
John.

" Yes, sir," said David, " she's had a putty
tough time, the widdo' has, an* yet," he pro-
146

DAVID HARUM.

147

ceeded after a momentary pause, " the* was a time
when the Culloms was some o' the king-pins o'
this hull region. They used to own quarter o'
the county, an' they lived in the big house up on
the hill where Doc Hays lives now. That was
considered to be the finest place anywheres
'round here in them days. I used to think the
Capitol to Washington must be somethin' like
the Cullom house, ?n' that Billy P. (folks used to
call him Billy P. 'cause his father's name was
William an' his was William Parker), an' that
Billy P. 'd jest 's Hke 's not be president. I've
changed my mind some on the subject of presi-
dents since I was a boy."

Here Mr. Harum turned on his stool, put his
right hand into his sack-coat pocket, extracted
therefrom part of a paper of " Maple Dew," and
replenished his left cheek with an ample wad of
*' fine-cut." John took advantage of the break
to head oflf what he had reason to fear might
turn into a lengthy digression from the matter in
hand by saying, " I beg pardon, but how does it
happen that Mrs. Cullom is in such circum-
stances? Has the family all died out? "

" Wa'al," said David, ** they're most on 'em
dead, all on 'em, in fact, except the widdo's son
Charley, but as fur 's the family 's concerned, it
more 'n died out — it gin out! 'D ye ever hear
of Jim Wheton's calf? Wa'al, Jim brought three
or four veals into town one spring to sell. Dick
Larrabee used to peddle meat them days. Dick
looked 'em over an' says, * Look here, Jim,' he
says, * I guess you got a " deakin " in that lot,' he
says. * I dunno what you mean,' says Jim.
* Yes, ye do, goll darn ye ! ' says Dick, * yes, ye
do. You didn't never kill that calf, an' you know

Ill

148

DAVID HARUM.

it. That calf died, that's what that calf done.
Come, now, own up,' he says. * Wa'al,* says Jim,
* I didn't kill it, an' it didn't die nuther — it jest
kind o' gin out! "

John joined in the laugh with which the nar-
rator rewarded his own effort, and David went
on: "Yes, sir, they jest petered out. Old Billy,
Billy P.'s father, inheritid all the prop'ty — never
done a stroke of work in his life. He had a col-
lidge education, went to Europe, an* all that, an*
before he was fifty year old he hardly ever
come near the old place after he was growed up.
The land was all farmed out on shares, an* his
farmers mostly bamboozled him the hull time.
He got consid'able income, of course, but as
things went along and they found out how slack
he was they kept bitin' off bigger chunks all f\\t
time, an' sometimes he didn't git even the core.
But all the time when he wanted money — an' he
wanted it putty often I tell ye — the easiest way
was to stick on a morgidge; an' after a spell it
got so *t he'd have to give a morgidge to pay
the int'rist on the other morgidges."

" But," said John, " was there nothing to the
estate but land?"

"Oh, yes," said David, "old Billy's father
left him some consid'able pers'nal, but after that
was gone he went into the morgidge busnis as
I tell ye. He lived mostly up to Syrchester and
around, an' when he got married he bought a
place in Syrchester and lived there till Billy P.
was about twelve or thirteen year old, an' he was
about fifty. By that time he'd got 'bout to the
end of his rope, an' the' wa'n't nothin* for it but
to come back here to Homeville an' make the
most o' what the' was left — an' that's what he

DAVID HARUM.

149

done, let alone that he didn't make the most on't
to any pertic'ler extent. Mis' Cullom, his wife,
wa'n't no help to him. She was a city woman
an' didn't take to the country no way, but when
she died it broke old Billy up wus 'n ever. She
peaked an' pined, an' died when Billy P. was
about fifteen or so. Wa'al, Billy P. an' the old
man wrastled along somehow, an' the boy went
to collidge fer a year or so. How they ever got
along 's they did I dunno. The' was a story
that some far-oflf relation left old Billy some
money, an' I guess that an' what they got oflf'm
what farms was left carried 'em along till Billy
P. was twenty-five or so, an' then he up an* got
married. That was the crownin' stroke," re-
marked David. " She was one o' the village
girls — respectable folks, more 'n ordinary good
lookin' an' high steppin', an* had had some
schoolin'. But the old man was prouder 'n a
cock-turkey, an* thought nobody wa'n't quite
good enough fer Billy P., an' all along kind o'
reckoned that he'd marry some money an' git a
new start. But when he got married — on the
quiet, you know, cause he knowed the old man
would kick — wa'al, that killed the trick, an' the
old man into the bargain. It took the gumption
all out of him, an' he didn't live a year. Wa'al,
sir, it was curious, but, 's I was told, putty much
the h'^U village sided with the old man. The
Culloms was kind o' kings in them days, an*
folks wa'n't so one-man's-good's-anotherish as
they be now. They thought Billy P. done
wrong, though they didn't have nothin' to say
'gainst the girl neither — an' she's very much re-
spected, Mis' Cullom is, an' as fur's I'm con-
cerned, I've alwus guessed she kept Billy P. goin'

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DAVID HARUM.

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full as long 's any one could. But *t wa'n't no
use — that is to say, the sure thing come tc pass.
He had a nom'nal title to a good deal o' prop'ty,
but the equity in most on't if it had ben to be
put up wa'n't enough to pay fer the papers. You
see, the' ain't never ben no real cash value in farm
prop'ty in these parts. The' ain't ben hardly a
dozen changes in farm titles, 'cept by inher'tance
or foreclosure, in thirty years. So Billy P. didn't
make no efifort. Int'rist's one o' them things
that keeps right on nights an' Sundays. He jest
had the deeds made out and handed 'em over
when the time came to settle. The' was some
village lots though that was clear, that fetched
him in some money from time to time until they
was all gone but one, an' that's the one Mis' Cul-
lom lives on now. It wac consid'able more'n a
lot — in fact, a putty sizable place. She thought
the sun rose an' set where Billy P. was, but she
took a crotchit in her head, and wouldn't ever
sign no papers fer that, an' lucky fer him too.
The' was a house on to it, an' he had a roof over
his head anyway when he died six or seven years
after he married, an' left her with a boy to raise.
How she got along all them years till Charley got
big enough to help, I swan! I don't know. She
took in sewin' an' washin', an' went out to cook
an' nurse, an' all tliat, but I reckon the' was now
an' then times when they didn't overload their
stomechs much, nor have to open the winders to
cool oflf. But she held onto that prop'ty of her'n
like a pup to a root. It was putty well out when
Billy P. died, but the village has growed up to it.
The's some good lots could be cut out on't, an'
it backs up to the river where the current's
enough to make a mighty good power fer a 'lee-

DAVID HARUM.

151

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it.

!C-

tric light. I know some fellers that are talkin'
of startin* a plant here, an' it ain't out o* sight
that they'd pay a good price fer the river front,
an' enough land to build on. Fact on't is, it's
got to be a putty valu'ble piece o* prop'ty, more
'n she cal'lates on, I reckon.''

Here Mr. Harum paused, pinching his chin
with thumb and index finger, and mumbling his
tobacco. John, who had listened with more at-
tention than interest — wondering the while as to
what the narrative was leading up to — thought
something might properly be expected of him to
show that he had followed it, and said, " So Mrs.
Cullom has kept this last piece clear, has she?"

" No," said David, bringing down his right
hand upon the desk with emphasis, ** that's jest
what she hain't done, an' that's how I come to
tell ye somethin' of the story, an' more on't 'n
you've cared about hearin', mebbe."

" Not at all," John protested. " I have been
very much interested."

" You have, have you? " said Mr. Harum.
" Wa'al, I got somethin' I want ye to do. Day
after to-morro' 's Chris'mus, an' I want ye to
drop Mis' Cullom a line, somethin' like this, 'That
Mr. Harum told ye to say that that morgidge
he holds, havin' ben past due fer some time, an'
no int'rist havin' ben paid fer, let me see, more'n
a year, he wants to close the matter up, an' he'll
see her Chris'mus mornin' at the bank at nine
o'clock, he havin' more time on that day; but
that, as fur as he can see, the bus'nis won't take
very long ' — somethin' like that, you under-
stand?"

" Very well, sir," said John, hoping that his
employer would not see in his face the disgust

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DAVID HARUM.

and repugnance he felt as he surmised what a
scheme was on foot, and recalled what he had
heard of Harum's hard and unscrupulous ways,
though he had to admit that this, excepting per-
haps the episode of the counterfeit money, was
the first revelation to him personally. But this
seemed very bad to him.

" All right," said David cheerfully, " I s'pose
it won't take you long to find out what's in your
stockin', an' if you hain't nothin' else to do Chris'-
mus mornin* I'd like to have you open the office
and stay 'round a spell till I git through with
Mis' Cullom. Mebbe the' '11 be some papers to
fill out or witniss or somethin'; an' have that
skeezicks of a boy make up the fires so'st the
place'll be warm."

" Very good, sir," said John, hoping that the
interview was at an end.

But the elder man sat for some minutes ap-
parently in a brown study, and occasionally a
smile of sardonic cunning wrinkled his face. At
last he said : " I've told ye .so much that I may
as well tell ye how I come by that morgidge.
'Twont take but a minute, an* then you can run
an' play," he added with a chuckle.

" I trust I have not betrayed any impa-
tience," said John, and instantly conscious of his
infelicitous expression, added hastily, " I have re-
ally been very much interested."

" Oh, no," was the reply, " you hain't betrayed
none, but I know old fellers like me gen'rally tell
a thing twice over while they're at it. Wa'al,"
he went on, " it was like this. After Charley
Cullom got to be some grown he helped to keep
the pot a-bilin', 'n they got on some better. 'Bout
seven year ago, though, he up an' got married,

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DAVID HARUM.

153

111
t

-y
-p

an* then the fat ketched fire. Finally he allowed
that if he had some money he'd go West 'n take
up some land, 'n git along like pussly 'n a flower
gard'n. He ambitioned that if his mother 'd
raise a thousan* dollars on her place he'd be sure
to take care of the int'rist, an* prob'ly pay off
the princ'ple in almost no time. Wa'al, she done
it, an' off he went. She didn't come to me fer
the money, because — I dunno — at any rate she
didn't, but got it of 'Zeke Swinney.

" Wa'al, it turned out jest 's any fool might
've predilictid, fer after the first year, when I
reckon he paid it out of the thousan', Charley
never paid no int'rist. The second year he was
jest gettin' goin', an' the next year he lost a boss
jest as he was cal'latin' to pay, an' the next year
the grasshoppers smote him, 'n so on; an' the
outcome was that at the end of five years, when
the morgidge had one year to run, Charley'd
paid one year, an' she'd paid one, an' she stood
to owe three years' int'rist. How old Swinney
come to hold off so was that she used to pay the
cuss ten dollars or so ev'ry six months 'n git no
credit fer it, an' no receipt an' no witniss, 'n he
knowed the prop'ty was improving all the time.
He may have had another reason, but at any rate
he let her run, and got the shave reg'lar. But
at the time I'm tellin' you about he'd begun to
cut up, an' allowed that if she didn't settle up the
int'rist he'd foreclose, an' I got wind on't an' 1
run across her one day an* got to talkin* with her,
an* she gin me the hull narration. * How much
do you owe the old critter? ' I says. * A hunderd
an* eighty dollars,' she says, * an* where I'm goin'
to git it,* she says, * the Lord only knows.' * An'
He won't tell ye, I reckon,' I says. Wa'al, of

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154

DAVID HARUM.

course I'd known that Swinney had a morgidge
because it was a matter of record, an' I knowed
him well enough to give a guess what his game
was goin' to be, an' more'n that I'd had my eye
on that piece an' parcel an' I figured that he
wa'n't any likelier a citizen 'n I was." (" Yes,"
said John to himself, " where the carcase is the
vultures are gathered together.")

" * Wa'al,' I says to her, after we'd had a little
more talk, * s'posen you come 'round to my place
to-morro' 'bout 'leven o'clock, an' mebbe we c'n
cipher this thing out. I don't say positive that
we kin,' I says, * but mebbe, mebbe.' So that
afternoon I sent over to the county seat an' got
a description an' had a second morgidge drawed
up fer two hundred dollars, an' Mis' Cullom
signed it mighty quick. I had the morgidge
made one day after date, 'cause, as I said to her, it
was in the nature of a temp'rary loan, but she
was so tickled she'd have signed most anythin*
at that pertic'ler time. * Now,' I says to her,
* you go an' settle with old Step-an'-fetch-it, but
don't you say a word where you got the money,'
I says. * Don't ye let on nothin' — stretch that
conscience o' your'n if nes'sary,' I says, *an' be
pertic'ler if he asks you if Dave Harum give ye
the money you jest say, " No, he didn't." That
wont be no lie,' I says, * because I aint givin* it
to ye,* I says. Wa'al, she done as I told her. Of
course Swinney suspicioned fust off that I was
mixed up in it, but she stood him off so fair an*
square that he didn't know jest what to think, but
his claws was cut fer a spell, anyway.

"Wa'al, things went on fer a while, till I
made up my mmd that I ought to relieve Swin-
ney of some of his anxieties about worldly bus'nis,

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DAVID HARUM.

155

an* I dropped in on him one mornin' an* passed
the time o' day, an' after we'd eased up our minds
on the subjects of each other's health an* such
like I says, * You hold a morgidge on the Widder
Cullom's place, don't ye?' Of course he
couldn't say nothin' but * yes.' ' Does she keep
up the int'rist all right? * I says. * I don't want
to be pokin' my nose into your bus'nis,' I says,

* an' don't tell me nothin' you don't want to.'
Wa'al, he knowed Dave Harum was Dave
Harum, an' that he might 's well spit it out, an'
he says, ' Wa'al, she didn't pay nothin' fer a good
while, but last time she forked over the hull
amount. * But I hain't no notion,' he says, ' that
she'll come to time agin.' ' An' s'posin' she
don't,' I says, * you'll take the prop'ty, won't ye? *
'.Don't see no other way,' he says, an' lookin' up
quick, * unless you over-bid me,' he says. * No,*
I says, * I ain't buyin' no real estate jest now, but
the thing I come in fer,* I says, 'leavin' out the
pleasure of havin' a talk with you, was to say that
I'd take that morgidge ofT'm your hands.'

"Wa'al, sir, he, he, he, he! Scat my !

At that he looked at me fer a minute with his
jaw on his neck, an' then he hunched himself,
'n drawed in his neck Hke a mud turtle. * No,*
he says, * I ain't suflferin* fer the money, an' I
guess I'll keep the morgidge. It's putty near
due now, but mebbe I'll let it run a spell. I
guess the secur'ty's good fer it' * Yes,' I says,

* I reckon you'll let it run long enough fer the
widder to pay the taxes on't once more anyhow;
I guess the secur'ty's good enough to take that
resk; but how 'bout my secur'ty?' I says. 'What
d'you mean?* he says. *I mean,' says I, 'that
I've got a second morgidge on that prop'ty, an*

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156

DAVID HARUM.

I begin to tremble fer my secur'ty. YouVe jest
told me,' I says, * that you're goin' to foreclose
an' I cal'late to protect myself, an' I don't cal'-
late,' I says, ' to have to go an' bid on that
prop'ty, an' put in a lot more money to save my
investment, unless I'm 'bleeged to — not much!
an' you can jest sign that morgidge over to me,
an' the sooner the quicker,' I says."

David brought his hand down on his thigh
with a vigorous slap, the fellow of the one which,
John could imagine, had emphasized his demand
upon Swinney. The story, to which he had at first
listened with polite patience merely, he had found
more interesting as it went on, and, excusing
himself, he brought up a stool, and mounting it,
said, " And what did Swinney say to that? " Mr.
Harum emitted a gurgling chuckle, yawned his
quid out of his mouth, tossing it over his shoulder
in the general direction of the waste basket, and
bit off the end of a cigar which he found by slap-
ping his waistcoat pockets. John got down and
fetched him a match, which he scratched in the
vicinity of his hip pocket, lighted his cigar (John
declining to join him on some plausible pretext,
having on a previous occasion accepted one of
the brand), and after rolling it around with his
lips and tongue to the effect that the lighted end
described sundry eccentric curves, located it
firmly with an upward angle in the left-hand cor-
ner of his mouth, gave it a couple of vigorous
puffs, and replied to John's question.

" Wa'al, 'Zeke Swinney was a perfesser of re-
ligion some years ago, an* mebbe he is now,
but what he said to me on this pertic'ler occasion
was that he'd see me in hell fust, an' then he
wouldn't.

DAVID HARUM.

157

it t

Wa'al/ I says, ' mebbe you won't, mebbe
you will, it's alwus a pleasure to meet ye,' I says,

* but in that case this morgidge bus'nis '11 be a
question fer our executors,' I says, * fer you don't
never foreclose that morgidge, an' don't you fer-
git it,* I says.

" ' Oh, you'd like to git holt o' that prop'ty
yourself. I see what you're up to,' he says.

" * Look a-here, 'Zeke Swinney,' I says, * I've
got an int'rist in that prop'ty, an' I propose to
p'tect it. You're goin* to sign that morgidge
over to me, or I'll foreclose and surrygate ye,' I
says, * unless you allow to bid in the prop'ty, in
which case we'll see whose weasel-skin's the long-
est. But I guess it won't come to that,' I says.

* You kin take your choice,' I says. * Whether
I want to git holt o' that prop'ty myself ain't
neither here nor there. Mebbe I do, an' mebbe
I don't, but anyways,' I says, * you don't git it,
nor wouldn't ever, for if I can't make you sign
over, I'll either do what I said or I'll back the
widder in a defence fer usury. Put that in your
pipe an' smoke it,' I says.

"'What do you mean?' he says, gittin' half
out his chair.

" * I mean this,' I says, ' that the fust six
months the widder couldn't pay she gin you ten
dollars to hold oflf, an' the next time she gin
you fifteen, an' that you've bled her fer shaves to
the tune of sixty odd dollars in three years, an*
then got your int'rist in full.*

" That riz him clean out of his chair," said
David. " * She can't prove it,' he says, shakin*
his fist in the air.

" * Oh, ho! ho! ' I says, tippin' my chair back
agin the wall. ' If Mis' CuUom was to swear

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158

DAVID HARUM.

how an' where she paid you the money, givin'
chapter an' verse, and showin* her own mem'ran-
dums even, an' I was to swear that when I twitted
you with gittin* it you didn't deny it, but only
said that she couldn't prove it, how long do you
think it 'ould take a Freeland County jury to
find agin ye? I allow, 'Zeke Swinney,' I says,
* that you wa'n't born yestyd'y, but you ain't so
old as you look, not by a dum sight ! ' an' then
how I did laugh!

" Wa'al," said David, as he got down off the
stool and stretchec* himself, yawning, *' I guess
I've yarned it enough fer one day. Don't fergit
to send Mis' Cullom that notice, an' make it up
an' up. I'm goin' to git the thing off my mind
this trip."

" Very well, sir," said John, " but let rae ask,
did Swinney assign the mortgage without any
trouble?"

"O Lord! yes," was the reply. "The'
wa'n't nothin' else fer him to do. I had another
twist on him that I hain't mentioned. But he
put up a great show of doin' it to obleege me.
Wa'al, I thanked him an' so on, an' when we'd
got through I ast him if he wouldn't step over to
the * Eagil ' an' take somethin', an' he looked kind
o' shocked an' said he never drinked nothin'. It
was 'gin his princ'ples, he said. Ho, ho, ho, ho!

Scat my ! Princ'ples!" and John heard

him chuckling to himself all the way out of the
office.

r I

CHAPTER XVIII.

Considering John's relations with David
Harum, it was natural that he should wish to
think as well of him as possible, and he had not
(or thought he had not) allowed his mind to be
influenced by the disparaging remarks and in-
sinuations which had been made to him, or in his
presence, concerning his employer. He had
made up his mind to form his opinion upon his
own experience with the man, and so far it had
not only been pleasant but favorable, and far
from justifying the half-jeering, half-malicious
talk that had come to his ears. It had been
made manifest to him, it was true, that David
was capable of a sharp bargain in certain lines, but
it seemed to him that it was more for the pleas-
ure of matching his wits against another's than
for any gain involved. Mr. Harum was an experi-
enced and expert horseman, who delighted above
all things in dealing in and trading horses, and
John soon discovered that, in that community at
least, to get the best of a " hoss-trade " by al-
most any means was considered a venial sin, if
a sin at all, and the standards of ordinary busi-
ness probity were not expected to govern those
transactions.

David had said to him once when he sus-
pected that John's ideas might have sustained

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DAVID HARUM.

something of a shock, "A hoss-trade ain't like
anythin' else. A feller may be straighter 'n a
string in ev'rythin' else, an' never tell the truth
— that is, the hull truth — about a boss. I trade
bosses with boss-traders. They all think they
know as much as I do, an' I dunno but what they
do. They hain't learnt no diff'rent anyway, an'
they've had chances enough. If a feller come
to me that didn't think he knowed anythin' about
a boss, an' wanted to buy on the square, he'd
git, fur's I knew, square treatment. At any rate
I'd tell him all 't I knew. But when one o' them
smart Alecks comes along and cal'lates to do up
old Dave, why he's got to take his chances, that's
all. An' mind ye," asserted David, shaking his
forefinger impressively, " it ain't only them fel-
lers. I've ben wuss stuck two three time by
church members in good standin' than anybody
I ever dealed with. Take old Deakin Perkins.
He's a terrible feller fer church bus'nis; c'n pray
an' psalm-sing to beat the Jews, an' in spiritual
matters c'n read his title clear the hull time, but
when it comes to hoss-tradin' you got to git up
very early in the mornin' or he'll skin the eye-
teeth out of ye. Yes, sir! Scat my ! I be-
lieve the old critter makes bosses! But the
deakin," added David, "he, he, he, he! the
deakin hain't hardly spoke to me fer some con-
sid'able time, the deakin hain't. He, he, he!

" Another thing," he went on, " the' ain't no
gamble like a boss. You may think you know
him through an' through, an' fust thing you
know he'll be cuttin' up a lot o' didos right out
o' nothin'. It stands to reason that sometimes
you let a boss go all on the square — as you know
him — an' the feller that gits him don't know how

DAVID HARUM.

I6l

to hitch him or treat him, an' he acts like a
diff'rent hoss, an' the feller allows you swindled
him. You see, hosses gits used to places an'
ways to a certain extent, an' when they're
changed, why they're apt to act diff'rent. Hosses
don't know but dreadful little, really. Talk
about hoss sense — wa'al, the' ain't no such thing."

Thus spoke David on the subject of his fa-
vorite pursuit and pastime, and John thought
then that he could understand and condone some
things he iiad seen and heard, at which at first he
was inclined to look askance. But this matter
of the Widow Cullom's was a different thing, and
as he realized that he was expected to play a part,
though a small one, in it, his heart sank within
him that he had so far cast his fortunes upon
the good will of a man who could plan and carry
out so heartless and cruel an undertaking as that
which had been revealed to him that after-
noon. He spent the evening in his room trying
to read, but the widow's affairs persistently thrust
themselves upon his thoughts. All the unpleas-
ant stories he had heard of David came to his
mind, and he remembered with misgiving some
things which at the time had seemed regular and
right enough, but which took on a different color
in the light in which he found himself recalling
them. He debated with himself whether he
should not decline to send Mrs. Cullom the no-
tice as he had been instructed, and left it an
open question when he went to bed.

He wakened somewhat earlier than usual to
find that the thermometer had gone up, and the
barometer down. The air was full of a steady
downpour, half snow, half rain, about the most
disheartening combination which the worst cli-

1 62

DAVID HARUM.

mate in the world — that of central New York-
can furnish. He passed rather a busy day in the
office in an atmosphere redolent of the unsavory
odors raised by the proximity of wet boots and
garments to the b;g cylinder stove outside the
counter, a compound of stale smells from kitchen
and stable.

After the h ^f^ closed he dispatched Peleg
Hopkins, the oi; . <^ bv ; with the note for Mrs.
Cullom. He had handor -ed his half-formed in-
tention to revolt, but had i^^ade the note not only
as little peremptory as was compatible with a
clear intimation of its purport as he understood
it, but had yielded to a natural impulse in begin-
ning it with an expression of personal regret — a
blunder which cost him no little chagrin in the
outcome.

Peleg Hopkins grumbled audibly when he
was requested to build the fires on Christmas
day, and expressed his opinion that " if there
warn't Bible agin workin' on Chris'mus, the* 'd
ort ter be " ; but when John opened the door of
the bank that morning he found the temperature
in comfortable contrast to the outside air. The
weather had changed again, and a blinding snow-
storm, accompanied by a buffeting gale from the
northwest, made it almost impossible to see a
path and to keep it. In the central part of the
town some tentative efforts had been made to
open walks, but these were apparent only as
slight and tortuous depressions in the depths of
snow. In the outskirts the unfortunate pedes-
trian had to wade to the knees.

As John went behind the counter his eye
was at once caught by a small parcel lying on
his desk, of white note paper, tied with a cot-

DAVID HARUM.

163

ton string, which he found to be addressed,
" Mr. John Lenox, Esq., Present," and as he
took it up it seemed heavy for its size.

Opening it, he found a tiny stocking, knit
of white wool, to which was pinned a piece of
paper with the legend, " A Merry Christmas
from Aunt Polly." Out of the stocking fell a
packet fastened with a rubber strap. Inside were
five ten-dollar gold pieces and a slip of paper
on which was written, " A Merry Christmas
from Your Friend David Harum." For r -no-
ment John's face burned, and there was a cu ioi 5
smarting of the eyelids as he held the little toe':-
ing and its contents in his hand. Surely the
hand that had written " Your Friend " on that
scrap of paper could not be the hard of an
oppressor of widows and orphans. " T 3," said
John to himself, " is what he meant when * he
supposed it wouldn't take me long to find out
what was in my stocking.*

» j>

The door opened and a blast and whirl of
wind and snow rushed in, ushering the tall, bent
form of the Widow Cullom. The drive of the
wind was so strong that John vaulted over the
low cash counter to push the door shut again.
The poor woman was white with snow from the
front of her old worsted hood to the bottom of
her ragged skirt.

" You are Mrs. Cullom? " said John. " Wait
a moment till I brush off the snow, and then
come to the fire in the back room. Mr. Harum
will be in directly, I expect."

" Be I much late? " she asked. " I made 's
much haste 's I could. It don't appear to me 's
if I ever see a blusteriner day, 'n I ain't as strong

164

DAVID HARUM.

as I used to be. Seemed as if I never would git
here."

" Oh, no," said John, as he established her be-
fore the glowing grate of the Franklin stove in
the bank parlor, " not at all. Mr. Harum has
not come in himself yet. Shall you mind if I
excuse myself a moment while you make yourself
as comfortable as possible? " She did not appar-
ently hear him. She was trembling from head to
foot with cold and fatigue and nervous excite-
ment. Her dress was soaked to the knees, and as
she sat down and put up her feet to the fire John
saw a bit of a thin cotton stocking and her de-
plorable shoes, almost in a state of pulp. A snow-
obliterated path led from the back door of the
office to David's house, and John snatched his hat
and started for it on a run. As he stamped off
some of the snow on the veranda the door was
opened for him by Mrs. Bixbee. " Lord sakes! "
she exclaimed. " What on earth be you cavortin*
'round for such a mornin' *s this without no over-
coat, an' on a dead run? What's the matter?"

" Nothing serious," he answered, " but I'm
in a great hurry. Old Mrs. Cullom has walked
up from her house to the office, and she is wet
through and almost perished. I thought you'd
send her some dry shoes and stockings, and an
old shawl or blanket to keep her wet skirt oflE
her knees, and a drop of whisky or something.
She's all of a tremble, and I'm afraid she will
have a chill." ♦

"Certain! certain!" said the kind creature,
and she bustled out of the room, returning in a
minute or two with an armful of comforts.
" There's a pair of bedroom slips lined with
lamb's wool, an' a pair of woolen stockin's, an' a

DAVID HARUM.

165

It
ff

blanket shawl. This here petticut, *t ain't what
ye'd call bran' new, but it's warm and comf'table,
an' I don't believe she's got much of anythin' on
'ceptin' her dress, an' I'll git ye the whisky, but "
— here she looked deprecatingly at John — " it
ain't gen'ally known 't we keep the stuff in the
house. I don't know as it's right, but though
David don't hardly ever touch it he will have it
in the house."

" Oh," said John, laughing, " you may trust
my discretion, and we'll swear Mrs. Cullom to
secrecy."

" Wa'al, all right," said Mrs. Bixbee, joining
in the laugh as she brought the bottle; "jest a
minute till I make a passel of the things to keep
the snow out. There, now, I guess you're fixed,
an' you kin hurry back 'fore she ketches a
chill."

" Thanks very much," said John as he started
away. " I have something to say to you besides
* Merry Christmas,' but I must wait till another
time."

When John got back to the office David had
just preceded him.

" Wa'al, wa'al," he was saying, " but you be
in a putty consid'able state. Hullo, John! what
you got there? Wa'al, you air the stuff! Slips,
blanket-shawl, petticut, stockin's — wa'al, you an'
Polly ben puttin' your heads together, I guess.

What's that? Whisky! Wa'al, scat my ! I

didn't s'pose wild bosses would have drawed it
out o' Polly to let on the' was any in the house,
much less to fetch it out. Jest the thing! Oh,
yes ye are. Mis' Cullom — jest a mouthful with
water," taking the glass from John, " jest a
spoonful to git your blood a-goin', an' then Mr.

'. ,1

i66

DAVID HARUM.

Lenox an' me '11 go into the front room while
you make yourself comf'table."

" Consarn it all!" exclaimed Mr. Harum as
they stood leaning against '.he teller's counter,
facing the street, " I didn't cal'late to have Mis'
Cullom hoof it up here the way she done. When
I see what kind of a day it was I went out to
the barn to have the cutter hitched an' send for
her, an' I found ev'rythin' topsy-turvy. That
dum'd uneasy sorril colt had got cast in the stall,
an' I ben fussin' with him ever since. I clean for-
got all 'bout Mis' Cullom till jest now."

" Is the colt much injured? " John asked.

" Wa'al, he won't trot a twenty gait in some
time, I reckon," replied David. " He's wrenched
his shoulder some, an' mebbe strained his inside.
Don't seem to take no int'rist in his feed, an*
that's a bad sign. Consarn a boss, anyhow! If
they're wuth anythin' they're more bother 'n a
teethin' baby. Alwus some dum thing ailin' 'em,
an' I took consid'able stock in that colt too," he
added regretfully, " an' I could 'a' got putty near
what I was askin' fer him last week, an' putty
near what he was wuth, an' I've noticed that
most gen'ally alwus when I let a good oflfer go
like that, some cussed thing happens to the boss.
It ain't a bad idee, in the boss bus'nis anyway, to
be willin' to let the other feller make a dollar
once 'n a while."

After that aphorism they waited in silence for
a few minutes, and then David called out over his
shoulder, " How be you gettin' along, Mis' Cul-
lom?"

" I guess I'm fixed," she answered, and David
walked slowly back into the parlor, leaving John
in the front office. He was annoyed to realize

DAVID HARUM.

167

that in the bustle over Mrs. Cullom and what fol-
lowed, he had forgotten to acknowledge the
Christmas gift ; but, hoping that Mr. Harum had
been equally oblivious, promised himself to repair
the omission later on. He would have preferred
to go out and leave the two to settle their affair
without witness or hearer, but his employer, who,
as he had found, usually had a reason for his ac-
tions, had explicitly requested him to remain, and
he had no choice. He perched himself upon one
of the office stools and composed himself to await
the conclusion of the affair.

CHAPTER XIX.

Mrs. Cullom was sitting at one corner of
tiie fire, and David drew a chair opposite to her.

" Feelin' all right now? whisky hain't made
ye liable to no disorderly conduct, has it?" he
asked with a laugh.

" Yes, thank you," was the reply, " the warm
things are real comfor'^in', 'n' I guess I hain't had
licker enough to make me want to throw things.
You got a kind streak in ye, Dave Harum, if
you did send me this here note — but I s'pose ye
know your own bus'nis," she added with a sigh
of p.£ignation. " I ben fearin' fer a good while
't I couldn't hold on t' that prop'ty, an' I don't
know but what you might's well git it as 'Zeke
Swinney, though I ben hopin' 'gainst hope that
Charley 'd be able to do more 'n he has."

" Let's see the note," said David curtly.
" H'm, humph, * regret to say that I have been
instructed by Mr. Harum ' — wa'al, h'm'm, cal'-
lated to clear his own skirts anyway — h'm'm —
* must be closed up without further delay ' (John's
eye caught the little white stocking which still
lay on his desk) — wa'al, yes, that's about what I
told Mr. Lenox to say fur's the bus'nis part's
concerned — I might 'a' done my own regrettin'
if I'd wrote the note myself." (John said some-
thing to himself.) " 'T ain't the pleasantest thing
i68

DAVID HARUM.

169

in the world fer ye, I allow, but then you see,
bus'nis is bus'nis."

John heard David clear his throat, and there
was a hiss in the open fire. Mrs. Cullom was
silent, and David resumed:

" You see. Mis' Cullom, it's like this. I ben
thinkin' of this matter fer a good while. That
place ain't ben no real good to ye sence- the first
year you signed that morgidge. You hain't
scurcely more'n made ends meet, let alone the
int'rist, an' it's ben simply a question o' time, an'
who'd git the prop'ty in the long run fer some
years. I reckoned, same as you did, that Char-
ley 'd mebbe come to the front — but he hain't
done it, an' 't ain't likely he ever will. Charley's
a likely 'nough boy some ways, but he hain't got
much * git there ' in his make-up, not more'n
enough fer one anyhow, I reckon. That's about
the size on't, ain't it? "

Mrs. Cullom murmured a feeble admission
that she was " 'fraid it was."

" Wa'al," resumed Mr. Harum, " I see how
things was goin', an' I see that unless I played
euchre, 'Zeke Swinney 'd git that prop'ty, an'
whether I wanted it myself or not, I didn't cal'-
late he sh'd git it anyway. He put a spoke in
my wheel once, an' I hain't forgot it. But that
hain't neither here nor there. Wa'al," after a
short pause, " you kno\\ I helped ye pull the
thing along on the chance, as ye may say, that
you an' your son 'd somehow make a go on't."

" You ben very kind, so fur," said the widow
faintly.

" Don't ye say that, don't ye say that," pro-
tested David. " 'T wa'n't no kindness. It was
jest bus'nis. I wa'n't takin' no chances, an' 1

i m

170

DAVID HARUM.

■J^'i

s'pose I might let the thing run a spell longer if
I c'd see any use in't. But the' ain't, an' so I
ast ye to come up this mornin' so 't we c'd settle
the thing up without no fuss, nor trouble, nor
lawyer's fees, nor nothin'. I've got the papers
all drawed, an' John — Mr. Lenox — here to take
the acknowlidgments. You hain't no objection
to windin' the thing up this mornin', have ye? "

" I s'pose I'll have to do whatever you say,"
replied the poor woman in a tone of hopeless dis-
couragement, " an* I might as well be killed to
once, as to die by inch pieces."

" All right then," said David cheerfully, ig-
noring her lethal suggestion, " but before we git
down to bus'nis an' signin' papers, an' in order
to set myself in as fair a light 's I can in the
matter, I want to tell ye a little story."

" I hain't no objection 's I know of," ac-
quiesced the widow graciously.

"All right," said David, "I won't preach
more 'n about up to the sixthly — How'd you feel
if I was to light up a cigar? I hain't much of a
hand at a yam, an' if I git stuck, I c'n puff a
spell. Thank ye. Wa'al, Mis' Cullom, you used
to know somethin' about my folks. I was
raised on Buxton Hill. The' was nine on us,
an' I was the youngest o' the lot. My father
farmed a piece of about forty to fifty acres, an'
had a small shop where he done odd times small
jobs of tinkerin' fer the neighbors when the' was
anythin' to do. My mother was his second, an'
I was the only child of that marriage. He mar-
ried agin when I was about two year old, an'
how I ever got raised 's more 'n I c'n tell ye.
My sister Polly was 'sponsible more 'n any one, I
guess, an' the only one o' the whole lot that ever

DAVID HARUM.

i;i

gin me a decent word. Small farmin' ain't cal'-
lated to fetch out the best traits of human nature
— an' keep 'em out — an' it seems to me some-
times that when the old man wa'n't cuffin' my
ears he was lickin' me with a rawhide or a strap.
Fur 's that was concerned, all his boys used to
ketch it putty reg'lar till they got too big. One
on 'em up an' licked him one night, an' lit out
next day. I s'pose the old man's disposition was
sp'iled by what some feller said farmin' was,
* workin' all day, an' doin' chores all night,* an'
larrupin' me an' all the rest on us was about all
the enjoyment he got. My brothers an' sis-
ters — 'ceptin' of Polly — was putty nigh as bad
in respect of cuffs an' such like; an' my step-
marm was, on the hull, the wust of all. She
hadn't no childern o' her own, an' it appeared 's
if I was jest pizen to her. 'T wa'n't so much
slappin' an' cuffin' with her as 't was tongue.
She c'd say things that 'd jest raise a blister like
pizen ivy. I s'pose I was about as ord'nary, no-
account-lookin', red-headed, freckled little cuss as
you ever see, an' slinkin' in my manners. The
air of our home circle wa'n't cal'lated to raise
heroes in.

" I got three four years' schoolin', an' made
out to read an' write an' cipher up to long divi-
sion 'fore I got through, but after I got to be
six year old, school or no school, I had to work
reg'lar at anything I had strength fer, an' more
too. Chores before school an' after school, an*
a two-mile walk to git there. As fur 's clo'es
was concerned, any old thing that *d hang to-
gether was good enough fer me; but by the time
the older boys had outgrowed their duds, an' they
was passed on to n:ke, the* wa'n't much left on

iji

>• -. .V' f

'i \

' nn

DAVID HARUM.

'em. A pair of old cowhide boots that leaked
in more snow an' water 'n they kept out, an* a
couple pairs of woolen socks that was putty much
all darns, was expected to see me through the
winter, an' I went barefoot f'm the time the snow
was off the ground till it flew agin in the fall.
The' wa'n't but two seasons o' the year with me
— them of chilblains an' stun-bruises."

The speaker paused and stared for a moment
into the comfortable glow of the fire, and then
discovering to his apparent surprise that his cigar
had gone out: lighted it from a coal picked out
with the tongij.

*' Farmin' 's a hard life," remarked Mrs. Cul-
lom with an air of being expected to make some
contribution to the conversation.

" An' yit, as it seems to me as I look back
on't," David resumed pensively, " the wust on't
was that nobody ever gin me a kind word, 'cept
Polly. I s'pose I got kind o' used to bein' cold an'
tired ; dressin' in a snowdrift where it blowed into
the attic, an' goin' out to fodder cattle 'fore sun-
up; pickin' up stun in the blazin' sun, an' doin'
all the odd jobs my father set me to. an' the older
ones shirked onto me. That wir ll^e reg'lar or-
der o' things; but I remember .1 liCver dH git
used 10 never pleasin' nobody. 'Course I didn't
expect nothin' f'm my step-marm, an' the only way
I ever knowed I'd done my stent fur 's father was
concerned, was that he didn't say nothin'. But
sometimes the older ones 'd git settin' 'round,
talkin' an' laughin', havin' pop corn an' apples,
an' that, an' I'd kind o' sidle up, wantin' to join
'em, an' some on 'em 'd say, * What you doin'
here? time you was in bed,' an' give me a shove
or a cuff. Yes, ma'am," looking up at Mrs. Cul-

J^. .y

\^¥M

DAVID HARUM.

173

lorn, " the wust on't was that I was kind o' scairt
the hull time. Once in a while Polly 'd give me
a mossel o' comfort, but Polly wa'n't but little
older 'n me, an' bein' the youngest girl, was
chored most to death herself."

It had stopped snowing, and though the wind
still came in gusty blasts, whirling the drift
against the windows, a wintry gleam of sunshine
came in and touched the widow's wrinkled face.

" It's amazin' how much trouble an' sorrer
the* is in the world, an' how soon it begins," she
remarked, moving a little to avoid the sunlight.
" I hain't never ben able to reconcile how many
good things the' be, an' how little most on us
gits o' them. I hain't ben to meetin' fer a long
spell 'cause I hain't had no fit clo'es, but I re-
member most of the preachin' I've set under
either dwelt on the wrath to come, or else on
the Lord's doin' all things well, an' providin'. I
hope I ain't no wickeder 'n than the gen'ral run,
but it's putty hard to hev faith in the Lord's pro-
vidin' when you hain't got nothin' in the house
but corn meal, an' none too much o' that."

" That's so. Mis' Cullom, that's so," affirmed
David. " I don't blame ye a mite. ' Doubts as-
sail, an' oft prevail,' as the hymn-book says, an'
I reckon it's a sight easier to have faith on meat
an' potatoes 'n it is on corn meal mush. Wa'al,
as I was sayin' — I hope I ain't tirin' ye with my
goin's on? "

" No," said Mrs. Cullom, " I'm engaged 10
hear ye, but nobody 'd suppose to see ye now
that ye was such a f'lorn little critter as you
make out."

" It's jest as I'm tellin' ye, an' more also, as
the Bible says," returned David, and then, rather

*y»f

V !

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1

i )

174

DAVID HARUM.

(

more impressively, as if he were leading up to
his conclusion, ** it come along to a time when
I was 'twixt thirteen an' fourteen. The' was a
cirkis billed to show down here in Homeville,
an' ev'ry barn an' shed fer miles around had pic-
tures stuck onto 'em of el'phants, an' rhinoce-
roses, an' ev'ry animul that went into the ark ; an*
girls ridin' bareback an' jumpin* through hoops,
an' fellers ridin' bareback an' turnin* summersets,
an' doin' turnovers on swings; an' clowns gettin*
hoss-whipped, an' ev'ry kind of a thing that could
be pictered out; tn' how the' was to be a grand
percession at ten o'clock, 'ith golden chariots,
an' scripteral allegories, an' the hull bus'nis; an'
the gran' performance at two o'clock; admission
twenty-live cents, children under twelve, at cet-
ery, an' so forth. Wa'al, I hadn't no more idee
o' goin' to that cirkis 'n I had o' flyin' to the
moon, but the night before the show somethin'
waked me 'bout twelve o'clock. I don't know
how 't was. I'd ben helpin' mend fence all day,
an' gen'ally I never knowed nothin' after my
head struck the bed till mornin'. But that night,
anyhow, somethin' waked me, an' I went an'
looked out the windo', an' there was the hull
thing goin' by the house. The' was more or
less moon, an' I see the el'phant, an' the big
wagins — the drivers kind o' noddin' over the
dashboards — rn' the chariots with canvas covers
— I don't kiiow how many of 'em — an' the cages
of the tigers an' lions, an' all. Wa'al, I got up the
next rrio/nin' at sun-up an' done my chores; an'
after brcakiust I ;et off fer the ten-acre lot v/here
I was mendin' ien e. The ten-acre was the far-
thest off of ^jiy, liomeville way, an' I had my
dinner in a tin pail so't I needn't lose no time

^!!L:-

DAVIt) HAHUM.

goin' home at noon, an', as luck would have it,
the* v/a'n't nobody with me that mornin*. Wa'al,
I got down to the lot an' set to work ; but some-
how I couldn't git that show out o' my head no-
how. As I said, I hadn't no more notion of goin*
to that cirkis 'n I had of kingdom come. I'd
never had two shillin' of my own in my hull life.
But the more I thought on't the uneasier I got.
Somethin' seemed pullin' an' haulin' at me, an'
fin'ly I gin in. I allowed I'd see that percession
anyway if it took a leg, an' mebbe I c'd git back
'ithout nobody missin' me. 'T any rate, I'd
take the chances of a lickin' jest once — fer that's
what it meant — an' I up an' put fer the village
lickity-cut. I done them foUr mile lively, I c'n
tell ye, an' the stun-bruises never hurt me once.
" When I got down to the village it seemed
to me as if the hull population of Freeland Coun-
ty was there. I'd never seen so many folks to-
gether in my ' ":*, an' fer a spell it seemed to me
as if ev'ryboay was a-lookin' at me an' sayin',
* That's old Harum's boy Dave, playin' hookey,*
an' I sneaked 'round dreadin' somebody 'd give
me away; but I fin'ly found that nobody wa'n't
payin' any attention to me — they was there to see
the show, an' one red-headed boy more or less
wa'n't no pertic'ler account. Wa'al, putty soon
the percession hove in sight; an' the' was a reg'lar
stampede among the boys, an* when it got by,
I run an' ketched up with it agin, an' walked
alongside the el'phant, tin pail an' all, till they
fetched up inside the tent. Then I went ofif to
one side — it must 'a' ben about 'leven or half-past,
an' eat my dinner — I had a devourin* appetite —
an' thought I'd jest walk ro'-nd a spell, an' then
light out fer home. But the' was so many things

176

DAVID HARUM.

to see an' hear — all the side-show pictures of
Fat Women, an' Livin' Skelitons; an' Wild Wom-
en of Madygasker, an' Wild Men of Borneo; an'
snakes windin' round women's necks; hand-or-
gins; fellers that played the 'cordion, an' mouth-
pipes, an' drum an' cymbals all to once, an' such
like — that I fergot all about the time an' the ten-
acre lot, an' the stun fence, an' fust I knowed the
^oiks was makin' fer the ticket wagin, an' the
band begun to play inside the tent. Be I taxin'
your patience over the limit? " said David, break-
ing off in his story and addressing Mrs. Cullom
more directly.

" No, I guess not," she replied; *' I was jest
thinkin' of a circus I went to once," she added
with an audible sigh.

" Wa'al," said David, taking a last farewell
of the end of his cigar, which he threw into the
grate, " mebbe what's comin' '11 int'rest ye more
'n the rest on't has. I was standin' gawpin'
'round, list'nin' to the band an' watchin' the folks
git their tickets, when all of a suddin I felt a
twitch at my hair — it had a way of workin' out of
the holes, in my old chip straw hat — an' somebody
says to me, * Wa'al, sonny, what you thinkin' of? *
he says. I looked up, an' who do you s'pose il
was? It was Billy P. Cullom! I knowed who
he was, fer I'd seen him before, but of course he
didn't know me. Yes, ma'am, it was Billy P.,
an' wa'n't he rigged out to kill ! "

The speaker paused and looked into the fire,
smiling. The woman started forward facing him,
and clasping her hands, cried, ''My husband!
What 'd he have on?"

"Wa'al," said David slowly and reminiscently,
" near 's I c'n remember, he had on a blue broad-

DAVID HARUM.

177

cloth claw-hammer coat with flat gilt buttons, an'
a double-breasted plaid velvet vest, an' pearl-gray
pants, strapped down over his boots, which was
of shiny leather, an' a high pointed collar an' blue
stock with a pin in it (I remember wonderin' if
it c'd be real gold), an' a yeller-white plug beaver
hat."

At the description of each article of attire Mrs.
Cullom nodded her head, with her eyes fixed on
David's face, and as he concluded she broke out
breathlessly, *' Oh, yes! Oh, yes! David, he
wore them very same clo'es, an' he took me to
that very same show that very same night ! "
There was in her face a look almost of awe, as if
a sight of her long-buried past youth had been
shown to her from a cofifin.

Neither spoke for a moment or two, and it
was the widow who broke the silence. As David
had conjectured, she was interested at last, and sat
leaning forward with her hands clasped in her lap.

" Well," she exclaimed, " ain't ye goin' on?
What did he say to ye? "

'' Cert'nly, cert'nly," responded David, " I'll
tell ye near 's I c'n remember, an' I c'n remember
putty near. As I told ye, I felt a twitch at my
hair, an' he said, ' What be you thinkin' about,
sonny?' I looked up at him, an' looked away
quick. * I dunno,' I says, diggin' my big toe into
the dust; an' then, I dunno how I got the spunk
to, for I was shyer 'n a rat, * Guess I was thinkin'
'bout mendin' that fence up in the ten-acre lot 's
much 's anythin',' I says.

" * Ain't you goin' to the cirkis? ' he says.

" * I hain't got no money to go to cirkises,' I
says, rubbin' the dusty toes o' one foot over t'
other, * nor nothin' else,' I says.

4A.

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DAVID HARUM.

'• * Wa'al/ he says, * why don't you crawl un-
der the canvas?'

"That kind o' riled me, shy 's I was. *I
don't crawl under no canvases,' I says. * If I
can't go in same 's other folks, I'll stay out,' I
says, lookin' square at him fer the fust time. He
wa'n't exac'ly smilin', but the' was a look in his
eyes that was the next thing to it."

" Lordy me!" sighed Mrs. Cullom, as if to
herself. " How well I can remember that look;
jest as if he was laughin' at ye, an' wa'n't laughin*
at ye, an' his arm around your neck! "

David nodded in reminiscent sympathy, and
rubbed his bald poll with the back of his hand.

" Wa'al," interjected the widow.

" Wa'al," said David, resuming, " he says to
me, 'Would you like to go to the cirkis?' an*
with that it occurred to me that I did want to go
to that cirkis more'n anythin' I ever wanted to
before — nor since, it seems to me. But I tell ye
the truth, I was so far f'm expectin' to go 't I
really hadn't knowed I wanted to. I looked at
him, an' ther down agin, an' began tenderin' up
a stun-bruise on one heel agin the other instep,
an' all I says was, bein' so dum'd shy, * I dunno,'
I says. But I guess he seen in my face what my
feelin's was, fer he kind o' laughed an' pulled out
half-a-dollar an' says : * D' you think you could
git a couple o' tickits in that crowd? If you kin,
I think I'll go myself, but I don't want to git my
boots all dust,' he says. I allowed I c'd try; an*
I guess them bare feet o' mine tore up the dust
some gettin' over to the wagin. Wa'al, I had
another scart gettin' the tickits, fer fear some one
that knowed me 'd see me with a half-a-dollar,
an' think I must 'a' stole the money. But I got

DAVID HARUM.

179

'em an' carried 'em back to him, an' he took 'em
an' put 'em in his vest pocket, an' handed me a
ten-cent piece, an' says, * Mebbe you'll want
somethin' in the way of refreshments fer yourself
an' mebbe the el'phant,' he says, an' walked off
toward the tent; an' I stood stun still, lookin' after
him. He got ofT about a rod or so an' stopped
an' looked back. ' Ain't you comin'? ' he says.

" * Be I goin' with youf " I says.

" ' Why not? ' he says, * 'nless you'd ruther go
alone,' an' he put his finger an' thumb into his
vest pocket. Wa'al, ma'am, I looked at him a
minute, with his shiny hat an' boots, an' fine
clo'es, an' gold pin, an' thought of my ragged ole
shirt, an' cotton pants, an' ole chip hat with the
brim most gone, an' my tin pail an' all. * I ain't
fit to,' I says, ready to cry — an' — wa'al, he jest
laughed, an' says, * Nonsense,' he says, * come
along. A man needn't be ashamed of his workin'
clo'es,' he says, an' I'm dum'd if he didn't take
holt of my hand, an' in we went that way to-
gether."

"How like him that was!" said the widow
softly.

" Yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am, I reckon it was,"
said David, nodding.

"Wa'al," he went on after a little pause, "I
was ready to sink into the ground with shyniss
at fust, but that wore off some after a little, an'
we two seen the hull show, I tell ye. We walked
'round the cages, an' we fed the el'phant — that is,
he bought the stuff an' I fed him. I 'member —
he, he, he! — 't he says, 'mind you git the right
end,' he says, an' then we got a couple o' seats,
an* the doin's begun."

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CHAPTER XX.

The widow was looking at David with shin-
ing eyes and devouring his words. All the years
of trouble and sorrow and privation were wiped
out, and she was back in the days of her girl-
hood. Ah, yes! how well she remembered him
as he looked that very day — so handsome, so
splendidly dressed, so debonair; and how proud
she had been to sit by his side that night, ob-
served and envied of all the village girls.

" I ain't goin' to go over the hull show," pro-
ceeded David, " well 's I remember it. The'
didn't nothin' git away from me that afternoon,
an' once I come near to stickin' a piece o' ginger-
bread into my ear 'stid o' my mouth. I had my
ten-cent piece that Billy P. give me, but he
wouldn't let me buy nothin'; an' when the gin-
gerbread man come along he says, * Air ye hun-
gry, Dave? (I'd told him my name), air ye hun-
gry?' Wa'al, I was a growin' boy, an' I was
hungry putty much all the time. He bought
two big squares an' gin me one, an' when I'd
swallered it, he says, * Guess you better tackle this
one too,* he says, * Vv 2 dined.' I didn't exac'ly
know what * dined ' meant, but — he, he, he, he! —
I tackled it," and David smacked his lips in
memory.

" Wa'al," he went on, " we done the hull pro-
z8o

■ '■5*',1

DAVID HARUM.

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grammy — gingerbread, lemonade — pink lemon-
ade, an' he took some o' that — pop corn, peanuts,

pep'mint candy, cin'mun candy — scat my 1

an' he pay in' fer ev'rythin' — I thought he was jest
made o' money! An' I remember how we talked
about all the doin's; the ridin', an' jumpin', an'
summersettin', an' all — fer he'd got all the shyniss
out of me for the time — an' once I looked up at
him, an' he looked down at me with that curious
look in his eyes an' put his hand on my shoulder.
Wa'al, now, I tell ye, I had a queer, crinkly feel-
in' go up an' down my back, an' I like to up an'
cried."

" Dave," said the widow, " I kin see you two
as if you was settin' there front of me. He was
alwus like that. Oh, my! Oh, my! David,"
she added solemnly, while two tears rolled slowly
down her wrinkled face, " we lived together, hus-
ban' an' wife, fer seven year, an' he never give
me a cross word."

" I don't doubt it a mossel," said David sim-
ply, leaning over and poking the fire, which oper-
ation kept his face out of her sight and was pro-
longed rather unduly. Finally he straightened
up and, blowing his nose as it were a trumpet,
said:

" Wa'al, the cirkis fin'ly come to an end, an*
the crowd hustled to git out 's if they was afraid
the tent 'd come down on 'em. I got kind o'
mixed up in 'em, an' somebody tried to git my
tin pail, or I thought he did, an' the upshot was
that I lost sight o' Billy P., an' couldn't make out
to ketch a glimpse of him nowhere. An' then I
kind o' come down to earth, kerchug! It was
five o'clock, an' I had better 'n four mile to walk
— mostly up hill — an' if I knowed anything 'bout

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182

DAVID HARUM.

the old man, an' I thought I did, I had the all-
firedist lickin' ahead of me 't I'd ever got, an' that
was sayin' a good deal. But, boy 's I was, I had
grit enough to allow 't was wuth it, an' off I
put."

"Did he lick ye much?" inqured Mrs. Cul-
lom anxiously.

" Wa'al," replied David, " he done his best.
He was layin' fer me when I struck the front gate
— I knowed it wa'n't no use to try the back door,
an' he took me by the ear — most pulled it off —
an' marched me ofif to the barn shed without a
word. I never see him so mad. Seemed like
he couldn't speak fer a while, but fin'ly he says,
* Where you ben all day? '

" * Down t' the village,' I says.

What you ben up to down there? ' he says.
Went to the cirkis,' I says, thinkin' I might
's well make a clean breast on't.

Where 'd you git the money? ' he says.
Mr. Cullom took me,' I says.
You lie,' he says. * You stole the money
somewheres, an' I'll trounce it out of ye, if I
kill ye,' he says.

" Wa'al," said David, twisting his shoulders in
recollection, " I won't harrer up your feelin's. 'S
I told you, he done his best. I was willin' to
quit long 'fore he was. Fact was, he overdone
it a little, an' he had to throw water in my face
'fore he got through; an* he done that as thor-
ough as the other thing. I was som^thin' like
a chickin jest out o' the cistern. I crawled off
to bed the best I could, but I didn't lay on my
back fer a good spell, I c'n tell ye."

" You poor little critter," exclaimed Mrs. Cul-
lom sympathetically. " You poor little critter! "

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DAVID HARUM.

183

tt >'

*T was more'n wuth it, Mis' Cullom," said
David emphatically. " I'd had the most enjoy-
'ble day, I might say the only enjoy 'ble day,
't I'd ever had in my hull life, an' I hain't
never fergot it. I got over the lickin' in
course of time, but I've ben enjoyin' that cirkis
fer forty year. The' wa'n't but one thing to ben-
der, an' that's this, that I hain't never ben able
to remember — an' to this day I lay awake nights
tryin' to— that I said * Thank ye ' to Billy P., an'
I never seen him after that day."

" How's that? " asked Mrs. Cullom.

" Wa'al," was the reply, " that day was the
turnin' point with me. The next night I lit out
with what duds I c'd git together, an' as much
grub 's I could pack in that tin pail; an' the next
time I see the old house on Buxton Hill the'
hadn't ben no Harums in it fer years."

Here David rose from his chair, yawned and
stretched himself, and stood with his back to
the fire. The widow looked up anxiously
into his face. "Is that all?" she asked after a
while.

"Wa'al, it is an' it ain't. I've got through
ya:"nin' about Dave Harum at any rate, an' meb-
be we'd better have a little confab on your mat-
ters, seein' 't I've got you 'way up here such a
mornin' 's this. I gen'ally do bus'nis fust an'
talkin' afterward," he added, " but I kind o' got
to goin' an' kept on this time."

He put his hand into the breast pocket of his
coat and took out three papers, which he shuffled
in review as if to verify their identity, and then
held them in one hand, tapping them softly upon
the palm of the other, as if at a loss how to begin.
The widow sat with her eyes fastened upon the

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DAVID HARUM.

papers, trembling with nervous apprehension.
Presently he broke the silence.

" About this here morgidge o' your'n," he
said, " I sent ye word that I wanted to close the
matter up, an' seein' 't you're here an' come fer
that purpose, I guess we'd better make a job on't.
The' ain't no time like the present, as the say-
m IS.

** I s'pose it'll hev to be as you say," said the
widow in a shaking voice.

" Mis' Ciillom," said David solemnly, " you
know, an' I know, that I've got the repitation of
bein' a hard, graspin', schemin' man. Mebbe I
be. Mebbe I've ben hard done by all my hull
Hfe, an' have had to be; an* mebbe, now *t I've
got ahead some, it's got to be second nature, an'
I can't seem to help it. * Bus'nis is bus'nis ' ain't
part of the golden rule, I allow, but the way it
gen'ally runs, fur 's I've found out, is, * Do unto
the other feller the way he'd like to do unto you,
an' do it fust.' But, if you want to keep this
thing a-runnin' as it's goin' on now fer a spell
longer, say one year, or two, or even three, you
may, only I've got somethin' to say to ye 'fore
ye elect."

" Wa'al," said the poor woman, " I expect it
'd only be pilin' up wrath agin' the day o' wrath.
I can't pay the int'rist now without starvin', an'
I hain't got ho one to bid in the prop'ty fer me
if it was to be sold."

" Mis' Cullom," said David, " I said I'd got
somethin' mo*'e to tell ye, an' if, when I git
through, you don't think I've treated you right,
includin' this mornin's confab, I hope you'll fer-
give me. It's this, an' I'm the only person livin'
that 's knowin' to it, an' in fact I may say that

DAVID HARUM.

185

I'm the only person that ever was really knowin'
to it. It was before you was married, an' I'm
sure he never told ye, fer I don't doubt he fergot
all about it, but your husband, Billy P. Cullom,
that was, made a small investment once on a time,
yes, ma'am, he did, an' in his kind of careless
way it jest slipped his mind. The amount of
cap'tal he put in wa'n't large, but the rate of
int'rist was uncommon high. Now, he never
drawed no dividends on't, an' they've ben 'cumu-
latin' fer forty year, more or less, at compound
int'rist."

The widow started forward, as if to rise from
her seat. David put his hand out gently and
said, " Jest a minute, Mis' Cullom, jest a minute,
till I git through. Part o' that cap'tal," he re-
sumed, " consistin' of a quarter an' some odd
cents, was invested in the cirkis bus'nis, an' the
rest on't — the cap'tal, an' all the cash cap'tal that
I started in bus'nis with — was the ten cents your
husband give me that day, an' here," said David,
striking the papers in his left hand with the back
of his right, " here is the dividends! This here
second morgidge, not bein' on record, may jest
as well go onto the fire — it's gettin' low — an'
here's a satisfaction piece which I'm goin' to exe-
cute now, that'll clear the thousan' dollar one.
Come in here, John," he called out.

The widow stared at David for a moment
speechless, but as the significance of his words
dawned upon her, the blood flushed darkly in
her face. She sprang to her feet and, throwing
up her arms, cried out: " My Lord! My Lord!
Dave! Dave Harum! Is it true? — tell me it's
true! You ain't foolin' me, air ye, Dave? You
wouldn't fool a poor old woman that never done
13

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1 86

DAVID HARUM.

ye no harm, nor said a mean word agin ye, would
ye? Is it true? an' is my place clear? an' I don't
owe nobody any thin' — I mean, no money? Tell it
agin. Oh, tell it agin! Oh, Dave! it's too good
to be true! Oh! Oh! Oh, my! an' here I be
cryin* like a great baby, an*, an' " — fumbling in
her pocket — " I do believe I hain't got no hank'-
chif— Oh, thank ye," to John; " I'll do it up an*
send it back to-morrer. Oh, what made ye do it,
Dave?"

" Set right down an* take it easy, Mis' Cul-
lom," said David soothingly, patting his hands on
her shoulders and gently pushing her back into
her chair. " Set right down an' take it easy. —
Yes," to John, " 1 acknowledge that I signed
that."

He turned to the widow, who sat wiping her
eyes with John's handkerchief.

" Yes, ma'am," he said, " it's as true as any-
thin* kin be. I wouldn't no more fool ye, ye
know I wouldn't, don't ye? than I'd — jerk a
hoss," he asseverated. " Your place is clear
now, an' by this time to-morro' the' won't
be the scratch of a pen agin it. I'll send the
satisfaction over fer record fust thing in the
mornin'."

" But, Dave,'* protested the widow, " i s*pose
ye know what you're doin' ? '*

" Yes," he interposed, " I cal'lace I do, putty
near. You ast me why I done it, an' I'll tell ye
if ye want to know. I'm payin' off an old score,
an* gettin* ofT cheap, too. That's what I'm doin'!
I thought I'd hinted up to it putty plain, seein*
*t I've talked till my jaws ache; but I'll sum it
up to ye if you like."

He stood with his feet aggressively wide

DAVID HARUM.

187

apart, one hand in his trousers pocket, and hold-
ing in the other the " morgidge," which he waved
from time to time in emphasis.

" You c'n estimate, I reckon," he began,
" what kind of a bringin'-up I had, an' what a
poor, mis'able, God-fersaken, scairt-to-death little
forlorn critter I was; put upon, an' snubbed, an'
jawed at till I'd come to believe myself — what
was rubbed into me the hull time — that I was the
most all-'round no-account animul that was ever
made out o' dust, an' wa'ii't ever likely to be no
difl'rent. Lookin' back, it seems to me that —
exceptin* of Polly — I never had a kind word said
to me, nor a day's fun. Your husband, Billy P.
Cullom, was the fust man that ever treated me
human up to that time. He give me the only
enjoy'ble time 't I'd ever had, an' I don't know *t
any thin' 's ever equaled it since. He spent
money on me, an' he give me money to spend —
that had never had a cent to call my own — an\
Mis' Cullom, he took me by the hand, an' he
talked to me, an' he gin me the fust notion 't I'd
ever had that mebbe I wa'n't only the scum o'
the earth, as I'd ben teached to believe. I told
ye that that day was the turnin' point of my life.
Wa'al, it wa'n't the lickin' 1 got, though that had
[.omethin' to do with it, but I'd never have had
the spunk to run away 's I did if it hadn't ben
for the heartenin' Billy P. gin me, an' never
knowed it, an' never knowed it," he repeated
mournfully. " I alwus allowed to pay some o'
that debt back to him, but seein' 's I can't do that.
Mis' Cullom, I'm glad an' thankful to pay it to
his widdo'."

" Mebbe he knows, Dave," said Mrs. Cullom
softly.

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1 88

DAVID HARUM.

" Mebbe he does," assented David in a low
voice.

Neither spoke for a time, and then the widow
said : " David, I can't thank ye 's I ought ter —
I don't know how — but I'll pray for ye night an'
mornin' 's long 's I got breath. An', Dave," she
added humbly, " I want to take back what I said
about the Lord's providin'."

She sat a moment, lost in her thoughts, and
then exclaimed, " Oh, it don't seem 's if I c'd
wait to write to Charley ! "

" I've wrote to Charley," said David, " an'
told him to sell out there an* come home, an* to
draw on me fer any balance he needed to move
him. Fve got somethin* in my eye that'll be
easier an* better payin' than fightin* grasshoppers
an* drought in Kansas."

" Dave Harum ! " cried the widow, rising to
her feet, " you ought to *a* ben a king! "

" Wa'al," said David with a grin, " I don't
know much about the kingin' bus'nis, but I guess
a cloth cap *n* a boss whip 's more *n my line
than a crown an' scepter. An* now," he added,
" 's we*ve got through 'th our bus'nis, s'pose you
step over to the house an' see Polly. She's ex-
pectin* on ye to dinner. Oh, yes," replying to
the look of deprecation in her face as she viewed
her shabby frock, " you an* Polly c'n prink up
some if you want to, but we Can't take * No '
fer an answer Chris*mus day, clo*es or no
clo*es."

" I'd really like ter," said Mrs. Culbm.

" All right then," said David cheerfully.
" The path is swep' by this time, I guess, an* I'll
see ye later. Oh, by the way," he exclaimed,
" the*s somethin* I f ergot. I want to make you

DAVID HARUM.

189

a proposition, ruther an onusual one, but seein'
ev rythin' is as 't is, perhaps you'll consider it."

" Dave," declared the widow, " if I could, an'
you ast for it, I'd give ye anythin' on the face o'
this mortal globe! "

" Wa'al," said David, nodding and smiling, " I
thought that mebbe, long *s you got the int'rist
of that investment we ben talkin* about, you'd
let me keep what's left of the princ'pal. Would
ye like to see it?"

Mrs. Cullom looked at him with a puzzled
expression without replying.

David took from his pocket a large wallet, se-
cured by a strap, and, opening it, extracted some-
thing enveloped in much faded brown paper.
Unfolding this, he displayed upon his broad fat
palm an old silver tlime black with age.

" There's the cap'tal," he said.

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CHAPTER XXI.

i II

h I

John walked to the front door with Mrs.
Cullom, but she declined with such evident sin-
cerity his offer to carry her bundle to the house
that he let her out of the office and returned to
the back room. David was sitting before the
fire, leaning back in his chair with his hands
thrust deep in his trousers pockets He looked
up as John entered and said, *' Draw up a chair."

John brought a chair and stood by the side of
it while he said, " I want to thank you for the
Christmas remembrance, which pleased and
touched me very deeply; and," he added diffi-
dently, " I want to say how mortified I am — in
fact, I want to apologize for "

" Regrettin'?" interrupted David with a mo-
tion of his hand toward the chair and a smile of
great amusement. " Sho, sho! Se' down, se'
down. I'm glad you found somethin' in your
stockin' if it pleased ye, an' as fur 's that regret o'
your'n was concerned — wa'al — wa'al, I liked ye
all the better for 't, I did fer a fact. He, he, he!
Appearances was ruther agin me, wasn't they,
the way I told it."

" Nevertheless," said John, seating himself,
" I ought not to have — that is to say, I ought to
have known "

" How could ye," David broke in, " when I
igo

DAVID HARUM.

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(

as good as told ye I was cal'latin' to rob the old

lady? He, he, he, he! Scat my ! Your

face was a picture when I told ye to write that
note, though I reckon you didn't know I no-
ticed it."

John laughed and said, " You have been very
generous all through, Mr. Harum."

" Nothin' to brag on," he replied, " nothin' to
brag on. Fur 's Mis* Cullom's matter was con-
cerned, 't was as I said, jest payin* ofif an old
score; an' as fur 's your stockin*, it's really putty
much the same. I'll allow you've earned it, if
it'll set any easier on your stomach."

" I can't say that I have been overworked,"
said John with a slight laugh.

" Mebbe not," rejoined David, " but you hain't
ben overpaid neither, an* I want yc to be satis-
fied. Fact is," he continued, " my gettin' you
up here was putty consid'able of an experiment,
but I ben watchin' ye putty close, an' I'm more'n
satisfied. Mebbe Timson c'd beat ye at figurin'
an' countin' money when you fust come, an'
knowed more about the pertic'ler points of the
office, but outside of that he was the biggist
dumb-head I ever see, an* you know how he left
things. He hadn't no tack, fer one thing. Out-
side of summin' up figures an* countin' money
he had a faculty fer gettin' things t*other-end
to that beat all. I'd tell him a thing, an'
explain it to him two three times over, an' he'd

say 'Yes, yes,' an', scat my ! when it came

to carryin* on*t out, he hadn*t sensed it a mite —
jest got it which-end-t'other. An' talk! Wa'al,
I think it must 'a* ben a kind of disease with him.
He really didn't mean no harm, mebbe, but he
couldn't no more help lettin' out anythin' he

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192

DAVID HARUM.

kriowed, or thought he knowed, than a settin' hen
c'n help settin'. He kep' me on tenter-hooks the
hull endurin' time."

" I should say he was honest enough, was he
not?" said John.

" Oh, yes," replied David with a touch of
scorn, "he was honest enough fur 's money mat-
ters was concerned ; but he hadn't no tack, nor no
sense, an' many a time he done more mischief
with his gibble-gabble than if he'd took fifty dol-
lars out an' out. Fact is," said David, " the kind
of honesty that won't actually steal 's a kind of
fool honesty that's common enough; but the
kind that keeps a feller's mouth shut when he
hadn't ought to talk 's about the scurcest thing
goin'. I'll jest tell ye, fer example, the last mess
he made. You know Purse, that keeps the gen'-
ral store? Wa'al, he come to me some months
ago, on the quiet, an' said that he wanted to
borro' five hunderd. He didn't want to git no
indorser, but he'd show me his books an' give
me a statement an' a chattel morgidge fer six
months. He didn't want nobody to know 't he
was anyway pushed fer money because he wanted
to git some extensions, an' so on. I made up my
mind it was all right, an' I done it. Wa'al, about
a month or so after he come to me with tears in
his eyes, as ye might say, an' says, * I got some-
thin' I want to show ye,' an' handed out a letter
from the house in New York he had some of his
biggist dealin's with, tellin' him that they re-
gretted " — here David gave John a nudge — " that
they couldn't give him the extensions he ast
for, an' that his paper must be paid as it fell
due — some twelve hunderd dollars. * Some-
body 's leaked,' he says, * an' they've heard of

DAVID HARUM.

193

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that morgidge, an' I'm in a putty scrape,' he
says.

" * H'm'm,' I sa> c, * what makes ye think so? '

" * Can't be nothin' else,' he says ; * I've dealt
with them people fer years an' never ast fer noth-
in* but what I got it, an' now to have 'em round
up on me like this, it can't b'^ nothin' but what
they've got wind o* that chattel morgidge,' he
says.

" ' H'm'm,' I says. * Any o' their people ben
up here lately?' I says.

" * That's jest it,' he says. * One o' their trav-
ellin' men was up here last week, an' he come in
in the afternoon as chipper as you please, wantin'
to sell me a bill o' goods, an' I put him off, sayin'
that I had a putty big stock, an' so on, an' he
said he'd see me agin in the mornin' — you know
that sort of talk,* he says.

" * Wa'al,' I says, * did he come in? '

" * No,' says Purse, * he didn't. I never set
eyes on him agin, an' more'n that,' he says, ' he
took the first train in the mornin', an' now,' he
says, * I expect I'll have ev'ry last man I owe
anythin' to buzzin' 'round my ears.*

" * Wa'al,' I says, * I guess I see about how
the land lays, an' I reckon you ain't fur out about
the morgidge bein' at the bottom on't, an' the'
ain't no way it c'd 'a' leaked out 'ceptin' through
that dum'd chuckle-head of a Timson. But this
is the way it looks to me — you hain't heard noth-
in' in the village, have ye? ' I says.

" * No,' he says. * Not yit/ he says.

" * Wa'al, ye won't, I don't believe,' I says,
* an' as fur as that drummer is concerned, you c'n
bet,' I says, * that he didn't nor won't let on to
nobody but his own folks — not till his bus'nis is

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squared up, an' more 'n that,' I says, ' seein' that
your trouble 's ben made ye by one o' my help,
I don't see but what I'll have to see ye through/
I says. * You jest give me the address of the
New York parties, an' tell me what you want
done, an' I reckon I c'n fix the thing so 't they
won't bother ye. I don't believe,' I says, 'that
anybody else knows anythin' yet, an' I'll shut up
Timson's yawp so 's it'll stay shut.' "

" How did the matter come out? " asked
John, " and what did Purse say? "

" Oh," replied David, " Purse went off head
up an' tail up. He said he was everlastin'ly
obliged to me, an' — he, he, he! — he said 't was
more 'n he expected. You see I charged him
what I thought was right on the 'rig'nal deal, an'
he squimmidged some, an' I reckon he allowed
to be putty well bled if I took holt agin; but I
done as I agreed on the extension bus'nis, an'
I'm on his paper for twelve hunderd fer nothin',
jest because that nikum-noddy of a Timson let
that drummer bamboozle him into talkin', I
found out the hull thing, an* the very day I
wrote to the New York fellers fer Purse, I wrote
to Gen'ral Wolsey to find me somebody to take
Timson's place. I allowed I'd ruther have some-
body that didn't know nobody, than such a clack-
in' ole he-hen as Chet."

** I should have said that it was rather a haz-
ardous thing to do," said John, " to put a total
stranger like me into what is rather a confidential
position, as well as a responsible one."

"Waal," said David, "in the fust place I
knew that the Gen'ral wouldn't recommend no
dead-beat nor no skin, an' I allowed that if the
raw material was O. K., I could break it in; an'

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DAVID HARUM.

195

if it wa'n't I should find it out putty quick. Like
a young hoss," he remarked, " if he's sound an*
kind, an' got gumption, I'd sooner break him in
myself 'n not — fur's my use goes — an' if I can't,
nobody can, an' I get rid on him. You under-
stand?"

** Yes," said John with a smile.

" Wa'al," continued David, " I liked your let-
ter, an' when you come I liked your looks. Of
course I couldn't tell jest how you'd take holt,
nor if you an' me 'd hitch. An' then agin, I
didn't know whether you could stan' it here after
livin' in a city all your life. I watched ye putty
close — closter 'n you knowed of, I guess. I seen
right off that you was goin' to fill your collar,
fur's the work was concerned, an' though you
didn't know nobody much, an' couldn't have no
amusement to speak on, you didn't mope nor
sulk, an' what's more — though I know I advised
ye to stay there fer a spell longer when you spoke
about boardin' somewhere else — I know what the
Eagle tavern is in winter; summer, too, fer that
matter, though it's a little better then, an' I al-
lowed that air test 'd be final. He, he, he!
Putty rough, ain't it?"

** It is, rather," said John, laughing. " I'm
afraid my endurance is pretty well at an end.
Elright's wife is ill, and the fact is, that since day
before yesterday I have been living on what I
could buy at the grocery — crackers, cheese, salt
fish, canned goods, et cetera."

"Scat my !" cried David. "Wa'al!

Wa'al! That's too dum'd bad! Why on earth
— ^why, you must be hungry! Wa'al, you won't
have to eat no salt herrin' to-day, because Polly
'n I are expectin' ye to dinner."

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196

DAVID HARUM.

Two or three times during the conversation
David had gone to the window overlooking his
iawn and looked out with a general air of ob-
serving the weather, and at this point he did so
again, coming back to his seat with a look of
satisfaction, for which there was, to John, no ob-
vious reason. He sat for a moment without
speaking, and then, looking at his watch, said:
"Wa'al, dinner 's at one o'clock, an' Polly's a
great one fer bein' on time. Guess I'll go out
an' have another look at that pesky colt. You
better go over to the house 'bout quarter to one,
an* you c'n make your t'ilet over there. I'm
'fraid if you go over to the Eagle it'll spoil
your appetite. She'd think it might, anyway."

So David departed to see the colt, and John
got out some of the books and busied himself
with them until the time to present himself at
David's house.

CHAPTER XXII.

Why, Mis' Cullom, I'm real glad to see ye.
Come right in," said Mrs. Bixbee as she drew
the widow into the " wing settin' room," and pro-
ceeded to reHeve her of her wraps and her bundle.
" Set right here by the fire while I take these
things of your'n into the kitchen to dry 'em out.
I'll be right back"; and she bustled out of the
room. When she came back Mrs. Cullom was
sitting with her hands in her lap, and there was
in her eyes an expression of smiling peace that
was good to see.

Mrs. Bixbee drew up a chair, and seating her-
self, said: " Wa'al, I don't know when I've seen
ye to git a chance to speak to ye, an' I was real
pleased when David said you was goin' to be
here to dinner. An' my! how well you're look-
in' — more like Cynthy Sweetland than I've seen
ye fer I don't know when; an' yet," she added,
looking curiously at her guest, " you 'pear some-
how as if you'd ben cryin'."

" You're real kind, I'm sure," responded Mrs.
Cullom, replying to the other's welcome and re-
marks seriatim; " I guess, though, I don't look
much like Cynthy Sweetland, if I do feel twenty
years younger 'n I did a while ago; an' I have
ben cryin', I allow, but not fer sorro', Polly
Harum," she exclaimed, giving the other her

197

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DAVID HARUM.

maiden name. " Your brother Dave comes putty
nigh to bein' an angel ! "

" Wa'al," replied Mrs. Bixbee with a twinkle,
" I reckon Dave might hev to be fixed up some
afore he come out in that pertic'ler shape, but,"
she added impressively, " es fur as bein' a man
goes, he's 'bout 's good 's they make 'em. I
know folks thinks he's a hard bargainer, an*
close-fisted, an' some on 'em that ain't fit to lick
up his tracks says more'n that. He's got his own
ways, I'll allow, but down at bottom, an' all
through, I know the' ain't no better man livin*.
No, ma'am, the' ain't, an' what he's ben to me,
Cynthy Cullom, nobody knows but me — an' — an'
— mebbe the Lord- -though I hev seen the time,"
she said tentatively, " when it seemed to me 't I
knowed more about my affairs 'n He did," and
she looked doubtfully at her companion, who had
been following her with affirmative and sympa-
thetic nods, and now drew her chair r% little closer,
and said softly : " Yes, yes, I know. I ben putty
doubtful an' rebellious myself a good many times,
but seems now as if He had had me in His mercy
all the time." Here Aunt Polly's sense of humor
asserted itself, " What's Dave ben up to now? "
she asked.

And then the widow told her story, with tears
and smiles, and the keen enjoyment which we all
have in talking about ourselves to a sympathetic
listener like Aunt Polly, whose interjections
pointed and illuminated the narrative. When it
was finished she loaned forward and kissed Mrs.
Cullom on the cheek.

" I can't tell ye how glad I be for ye," she
said ; " but if I'd known that David held that
morgidge, I could hev told ye ye needn't hev

DAVID HARUM.

199

worried yourself a mite. He wouldn't never
have taken your prop'ty, more'n he'd rob a hen-
roost. But he done the thing his own way —
kind o' fetched it round fer a Merry Chris'mus,
didn't he? Curious," she said reflectively, after
a momentary pause, " how he lays up things
about his childhood," and then, with a searching
look at the Widow Cullom, " you didn't let on,
an' I didn't ask ye, but of course you've heard
the things that some folks says of him, an' natch-
ally they got some holt on your mind. There's
that story about 'Lish, over to Whitcom — you
heard somethin' about that, didn't ye?"

" Yes," admitted the widow, " I heard some-
thin' of it, I s'pose."

" Wa'al," said Mrs. Bixbee, " you never heard
the hull story, ner anybody else really, but I'm
goin' to tell it to ye "

" Yes," said Mrs. Cullom assentingly.

Mrs. Bixbee sat up straight in her chair with
her hands on her knees and an air of one who
would see justice done.

" 'Lish Harum," she began, " wa'n't only half-
brother to Dave. He was hull-brother to me,
though, but notwithstandin' that, I will say that
a meaner boy, a meaner growin' man, an' a
meaner man never walked the earth. He wa'n't
satisfied to git the best piece an' the biggist piece
— he hated to hev any one else git anythin' at all.
I don't beheve he ever laughed in his life, except
over some kind o' sufif'rin' — man or beast — an'
what 'd tickle him the most was to be the means
on't. He took pertic'ler delight in abusin' an'
tormentin' Dave, an' the poor little critter was
jest as 'fraid as death of him, an' good reason.
Father was awful hard, but he didn't go out of

200

DAVID HARUM.

his way; but 'Lish never let no chance slip.
Wa'al, I ain't goin' to give you the hull fam'ly
hist'ry, an' I've get to go into the kitchen fer a
while 'fore dinner, but what I started out fer 's
this: 'Lish fm'ly settled over to Whitcom."

" Did he ever git married?" interrupted Mrs.
Cullom.

" Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Bixbee, " he got
married when he was past forty. It's curious,"
she remarked, in passing, " but it don't seem as
if the' was ever yit a man so mean but he c'd
find some woman was fool enough to many him,
an* she was a putty decent sort of a woman too,
f'm all accounts, an' good lockin'. Wa'al, she
stood him six or seven year, an' then she run
off."

"With another man?" queried the widow in
an awed voice. Aunt Polly nodded assent with
compressed lips.

" Yes'm," she went on, " she left him an*
went out West somewhere, an' that was the last
of her; an' when her two boys got old enough
to look after themselves a little, they quit him too,
an* they wa'n't no way growed up neither. Wa'al,
the long .n' the short on't was that 'Lish got goin*
down hill ev'ry way, health an' all, till he hadn't
nothin' left but his disposition, an' fairly got onter
the town. The* wa'n't nothin* for it but to send
him to the county house, onless somejody 'd
s'port him. Wa'al, the committee knew Dave
was his brother, an' one on 'em come to see him
to see if he'd come forwud an* help out, an* he
seen Dave right here in this room, an* Dave
made me stay an* hear the hull thing. Man's
name was Smith, I remember, a peaked little man
with long chin whiskers that he kep* clawin* at

DAVID HARUM.

201

•I \t

With his fingers. Dave let him tell his story, an'
he 'idn't say nothin' fer a minute or two, an' then
he says, * What made ye come to me?* he says.
* Did he send ye?'

" ' Wa'al,' says Smith, ' when it was clear that
he couldn't do nuthin', we ast him if the' wa'n't
nobody could put up fer him, an' he said you was
his brother, ?.ri' well oflf, an' hadn't ought to let
him go t' the poorhouse.'

" * He said that, did he? * says Dave.

" ' Amountin' to that,' says Smith.

" * Wa'al,' says Dave, * it's a good many years
sence I see 'Lish, an' mebbe you know him better
'n I do. You known him some time, eh? '

" * Quite a number o' years,' says Smith.

" * What sort of a feller was he,* says Dave,
'when he was somebody? Putty good feller?
good citizen? good neighber? lib'ral? kind to his
fam'ly? ev'rybody like him? gen'ally pop'lar, an'
all that? '

" * Wa'al,' says Smith, wigglin' in his chair
an' pullin' out his whiskers three four hairs
to a time, ' I guess he come some short of all
that.'

"'E'umph!' says Dave, *I guess he did!
Now, honest,' he says, * is the' man, woman, or
child in Whitcom that knows 'Lish Harum that's
got a good word fer him? or ever knowed of his
doin' or sayin' anythin' that hadn't got a mean
side to it some way? Didn't he drive his wife
off, out an' out? an* didn't his two boys hev to
quit him soon 's they could travel? An\' says
Dave, * if any one was to ask you to figure out a
pattern of the meanist human skunk you was
capable of thinkin* of, wouldn't it — honest, now! '
Dave says, * honest, now — wouldn't it be 's near

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203

DAVID HARUM.

like 'Lish Harum as one buckshot *s like an-
other? ' "

" My! " exclaimed Mrs. CuUom. " What did
Mr. Smith say to that? "

" Wa'al," replied Mrs. ^.^oee, " he didn't say
nuthin' at fust, not in so many words. He sot
fer a minute clawin' away at his whiskers — an'
he'd got both hands into 'em by that time — an'
then he made a move as if he gin the hull thing
up an' was goin'. Dave set lookin' at him, an'
then he says, * You ain't goin', air ye? '

"'Wa'al,' says Smith, ' feelin' 's you do, I
guess my arrant here ain't goin' t' amount to
nothin', an' I may 's well.'

" * No, you set still a minute,' says Dave. * If
you'll answer my question honest an' square, I've
got sunthin' more to say to ye. Come, now,' he
says.

" ' Wa'al,' says Smith, with a kind of give-it-
up sort of a grin, ' I guess you sized him up
about right. I didn't come to see you on 'Lish
Harum's account. I come fer the town of Whit-
com.' An' then he spunked up some an' says,
* I don't give a darn,' he says, * what comes of
'Lish, an' I don't know nobody as does, fur's he's
person'ly concerned; but he's got to be a town
charge less 'n you take 'm off our hands.'

" Dave turned to me an' says, jest as if he
meant it, ' How 'd you like to have him here,
Polly?'

"'Dave Harum!' I says, 'what be you
thinkin' of, seein' what he is, an' alwus was, an'
how he alwus treated you? Lord sakes!' I
says, * you ain't thinkin' of it! '

" ' Not much,' he says, with an ugly kind of
a smile, such as I never see in his face before.

DAVID HARUM.

203

* not much I Not under this roof, or any roof of
mine, if it wa'n't more'n my cow stable — an'/ he
says, turnin' to Smith, * this is what I want to
say to you: You've done all right. I hain't no
fault to find with you. But I want you to go
back an' say to 'Lish Harum that you've seen
me, an' that I told you that not one cent of my
money nor one mossel o' my food would ever go
to keep him alive one minute of time; that if I
had an empty hogpen I wouldn't let him sleep
in't overnight, much less to bunk in with a de-
cent hog. You tell him that I said the poor-
house was his proper dwellin', barrin' the jail, an*
that it 'd have to be a dum'd sight poorer house
'n I ever heard of not to be a thousan' times too
good fer him.' "

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Cullom again. "I
can't really 'magine it of Dave."

" Wa'al," replied Mrs. Bixbee, " I told ye how
set he is on his young days, an' nobody knows
how cruel mean 'Lish used to be to him; but I
never see it come out of him so ugly before,
though I didn't blame him a mite. But I hain't
told ye the upshot : * Now,' he says to Smith, who
set with his mouth gappin' open, * you under-
stand how I feel about the feller, an' I've got
good reason for it. I want you to promise me
that you'll say to him, word fer word, jest what
I've said to you about him, an' I'll do this: You
folks send him to the poorhouse, an' let him git
jest what the rest on 'em gits — no more an' no
less — as long 's he lives. When he dies you git
him the tightest coffin you kin buy, to keep him
f'm spilin' the earth a? long as may be, an' then
you send me the hull bill. But this has got to
be between you an' me only. You c'n tell the

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204

DAVID HARUM.

rest of the committee what you like, but if you
ever tell a livin' soul about this here understand-
in', an' I find it out, I'll never pay one cent, an'
you'll be to blame. I'm willin', on them terms,
to Stan' between the town of Whitcom an' harm;
but fer 'Lish Harum, not one sumarkee! Is it
a barg'in? ' Dave says.

" * Yes, sir,* says Smith, puttin' out his hand.
' An' I guess,' he says, * f'm all 't I c'n gather,
thet you're doin' all 't we could expect, an' more
too,' an' oflf he put."

" How 'd it come out?" asked Mrs. Cullom.

" 'Lish lived about two year," replied Aunt
Polly, "an' Dave done as he agreed, but even
then when he come to settle up, he told Smith he
didn't want no more said about it 'n could be
helped."

" Wa'al," said Mrs. Cullom, " it seems to me
as if David did take care on him after all, fur 's
spendin' money was concerned."

"That's the way it looks to me," said Mrs.
Bixbee, " i>ut David likes to think t'other. He
meant to be awful mean, an' he was — as mean
as he could — but the fact is, he didn't reelly know
how. My sakes! Cynthy (looking at the clock),
I'll hev to excuse myself fer a spell. Ef you
want to do any fixin' up 'fore dinner, jest step
into my bedroom. I've laid some things out on
the bed, if you should happen to want any of
'em," and she hurried out of the room.

CHAPTER XXIII.

David's house stood about a hundred feet
back from the street, facing the east. The main
body of the house was of two stories (through
which ran a deep bay in front), with mansard
roof. On the south of the main body of the
house were two stories of the " wing," in which
were the " settin* room," Aunt Polly's room,
and, above, David's quarters. Ten minutes or
so before one o'clock John rang the bell at the
front door.

" Sairy's busy," said Mrs. Bixbee apologetic-
ally as she let him in, " an* so I come to the door
myself."

" Thank you very much," said John. " Mr.
Harum told me to come over a little before one,
but perhaps I ought to have waited a few minutes
longer."

" No, it's all right," she replied, " for mebbe
you'd like to wash an' fix up 'fore dinner, so
I'll jest show ye where to," and she led the
way upstairs and into the " front parlor bed-
room."

"There," she said, " make yourself comf'table,
an' dinner '11 be ready in about ten minutes."

For a moment John mentally rubbed his eyes.
Then he turned and caught both of Mrs. Bixbee's

hands and looked at her, speechless. When he

205

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DAVID HARUM.

found words he said : " I don't know what to say,
nor how to thank you properly. I don't believe
you know how kind this is."

" Don't say nothin' about it," she protested,
but with a look of great satisfaction. " I done it
jest t' relieve my mind, because ever sence you
fust come, I ben worryin' over your bein' at that
nasty tavern," and she made a motion to go.

" You and your brother," said John earnestly,
still holding her hands, " have made me a gladder
and happier man this Christmas day than I have
been for a very long time."

"I'm glad on't," she said heartily, "an' I
hope you'll be comf'table an' contented here. I
must go now an' help Sairy dish up. Come
down to the settin' room when you're ready," and
she gave his hands a little squeeze.

"Aunt Po , I beg pardon, Mrs. Bixbee,"

said John, moved by a sudden impulse, " do you
think you could find it in your heart to complete
my happiness by giving me a kiss? It's Christ-
mas, you know," he added smilingly.

Aunt Polly colored to the roots of her hair.
" Wa'al," she said, with a little laugh, " seein' 't
I'm old enough to be your mother, I guess 't
won't hurt me none," and as she went down the
stairs she softly rubbed her lips with the side of
her forefinger.

John understood now why David had looked
out of the bank window so often that morning.
All his belongings were in Aunt Polly's best bed-
room, having been moved over from the Eagle
while he and David had been in the office. A de-
lightful room it was, in immeasurable contrast
to his squalid surroundings at that hostelry. . The
spacious bed, with its snowy counterpane and

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DAVID HARUM.

207

silk patchwork " comf table " folded on the foot,
the bright fire in the open stove, the big bureau
and glass, the soft carpet, the table for writing
and reading standing in the bay, his books on
the broad mantel, and his dressing things laid out
ready to his hand, not to mention an ample sup-
ply of dry towels on the rack.

The poor fellow's life during the weeks
which he had lived in Homeville had been utterly
in contrast with any previous experience. Never-
theless he had tried to make the best of it, and to
endure the monotony, the dullness, the entire
lack of companionship and entertainment with
what philosophy he could muster. The hours
spent in the office Vv^ere the best part of the day.
He could manage to find occupation for all of
them, though a village bank is not usually a
scene of active bustle. Many of the people who
did business there diverted him somewhat, and
most of them seemed never too much in a hurry
to stand around and talk the sort of thing that in-
terested them. After John had got acquainted
with his duties and the people he came in contact
with, David gave less personal attention to the
affairs of the bank; but he was in and out fre-
quently during the day, and rarely failed to in-
terest his cashier with his observations and re-
marks.

But the long winter evenings had been very
bad. After supper, a meal which revolted every
sense, there had been as many hours to be got
through with as he found wakeful, an empty
stomach often adding to the number of them, and
the only resource for passing the time had been
reading, which had often been well-nigh impos-
sible for sheer physical discomfort. As has been

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208

DAVID HARUM.

remarked, the winter climate of the middle por-
tion of New York State is as bad as can be im-
agined. His light was a kerosene lamp of half-
candle power, and his appliance for warmth con-
sisted of a small wood stove, which (as David
would have expressed it) " took two men an' a
boy " to keep in action, and was either red
hot or exhausted.

As from the depths of a spacious lounging
chair he surveyed his new surroundings, and con-
trasted them with those from which he had been
rescued out of pure kindness, his heart was full,
and it can hardly be imputed to him as a weakness
that for a nioment his eyes filled with tears of
gratitude and happiness — no less.

Indeed, there were four happy people at Da-
vid's table that Christmas day. Aunt Polly had
" smartened up " Mrs. Cullom with collar and
cuffs, and in various ways which the mind of man
comprehendeth not in detail; and there had been
some arranging of her hair as well, which alto-
gether had so transformed and transfigured her
that John thought that he should hardly have
known her for the forlorn creature whom he had
encountered in the morning. And as he looked
at the still fine eyes, large and brown, and shin-
ing for the first time in many a year with a soft
light of happiness, he felt that he could under-
stand how it was that Billy P. had married the
village girl.

Mrs. Bixbee was grand in black silk and lace
collar fastened with a shell-cameo pin not quite
as large as a saucer, and John caught the sparkle
of a diamond on her plump left hand — David's
Christmas gift — with regard to which she had
spoken apologetically to Mrs. Cullom:

DAVID HARUM.

209

" I told David that I was ever so much
obliged to him, but I didn't want a dimun' more'n
a cat wanted a flag', an' I thought it was jest
throwin' away money. But he would have it —
said I c'd sell it an' keep out the poorhouse some
day, mebbe."

David had not made much change in his
usual raiment, but he was shaved to the blood,
and his round red face shone with soap and sat-
isfaction. As he tucked his napkin into his shirt
collar, Sairy brought in the tureen of oyster soup,
and he remarked, as he took his first spoonful of
the stew, that he was " hungry 'nough t' eat a
graven imidge," a condition that John was able
to sympathize with after his two days of fasting
on crackers and such provisions as he could buy
at Purse's. It was, on the whole, he reflected,
the most enjoyable dinner that he ever ate.
Never was such a turkey ; and to see it give way
under David's skillful knife — wings, drumsticks,
second joints, side bones, breast — was an elevat-
ing and memorable experience. And such pota-
toes, mashed in cream; such boiled onions, tur-
nips, Hubbard squash, succotash, stewed toma-
toes, celery, cranberries, "currant jell!" Oh!
and to " top off " with, a mince pie to die for and
a pudding (new to John, but just you try it some
time) of steamed Indian meal and fruit, with a
sauce of cream sweetened with shaved maple
sugar.

" What'll you have? " said David to Mrs. Cul-
lom, "dark meat? white meat?"

" Anything," she replied meekly, " I'm not
partic'ler. Most any part of a turkey '11 taste
good, I guess."

" All right," said David. " Don't care means

^ ,

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210

DAVID HARUM.

a little o' both. I alwus know what to give Polly
— piece o' the second jint an' the last-thing-
over-the-fence. Nice 'n rich fer scraggly folks,"
he remarked. " How fer you, John? — little o'
both, eh?" and he heaped the plate till our
friend begged him to keep something for him-
self.

" Little too much is jest right," he asserted.

When David had filled the plates and handed
them along — Sairy was for bringing in and tak-
ing out ; they did their own helping to vegetables
and " passin' " — he hesitated a moment, and then
got out of his chair and started in the direction
of the kitchen door.

" What's the matter? " asked Mrs. Bixbee in
surprise. " Where you goin'?"

" Woodshed," said David.

" Woodshed ! " she exclaimed, making as if
to rise and follow.

" You set stiil," said David. " Somethin' I
fergot."

" What on earth! " she exclaimed, with an air
of annoyance and bewilderment. " What do you
want in the woodshed? Can't you set down an'
let Sairy git it for ye? "

" No," he asserted with a grin. " Sairy might
sqush it. It must be putty meller by this time."
And out he went.

" Manners ! " ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee. " You'll
think (to John) we're reg'ler heathin."

"I guess not," said John, smiling and much
amused.

Presently Sairy appeared with four tumblers
which she distributed, and was followed by David
bearing a bottle. He seated himself and began
a struggle to unwire the same with an ice-pick.

<'V «ui^

DAVID HARUM.

211

Aunt Polly leaned forward with a look of per-
plexed curiosity.

" What you got there?" she asked.

" Vewve Clikot's universal an' suv'rin rem-
edy," said David, reading the label and bring-
ing the corners of his eye and mouth almost
together in a wink to John, " fer toothache, ear-
ache, burns, scalds, warts, dispepsy, fallin' o*
the hair, windgall, ringbone, spavin, disap-
p'inted affections, an' pips in hens," and out
came the cork with a " wop,'* at which both
the ladies, even Mrs. Cullom, jumped and cried
out.

" David Harum," declared his sister with con-
viction, " I believe thet that's a bottle of cham-
pagne."

" If it ain't," said David, pouring into his tum-
bler, " I ben swindled out o' four shillin'," and
he passed the bottle to John, who held it up ten-
tatively, looking at Mrs. Bixbee.

" No, thank ye," she said with a little toss of
the head, " I'm a son o' temp'rence. I don't be-
lieve," she remarked to Mrs. Cullom, " thet that
bottle ever cost less 'n a dollar." At which re-
marks David apparently " swallered somethin' the
wrong way," and for a moment or two was un-
able to proceed with his dinner. Aunt Polly
looked at him suspiciously. It was her experi-
ence that, in her intercourse with her brother,
he often laughed utterly without reason — so far
as she could see.

" I've always heard it was dreadful expen-
sive," remarked Mrs. Cullom.

" Let me give you some," said John, reaching
toward her with the bottle. Mrs. Cullom looked
first at Mrs. Bixbee and then at David.

1: ;

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212

DAVID HARUM.

" I don't know," she said. " I never tasted
any/'

" Take a little," said David, nodding approv-
ingly.

" Just a swallow," said the widow, whose curi-
osity had got the better of scruples. She took a
swallow of the wine.

" How do ye like it? " asked David.

" Well," she said as she wiped her eyes, into
which the gas had driven the tears, " I guess I
could get along if I couldn't have it regular."

" Don't taste good? " suggested David with
a grin.

" Well," she replied, " I never did care any
great for cider, and this tastes to me about as if
I was drinkin' cider an' snufiftn' horseredish at
one and the same time."

"How's that, John?" said David, laughing.

" I suppose it's an acquired taste," said John,
returning the laugh and taking a mouthful of the
wine with infinite relish. " I don't think I ever
enjoyed a glass of wine so much, or," turning to
Aunt Polly, " ever enjoyed a dinner so much,"
which statement completely mollified her feelings,
which had been the least bit in the world " set
edgeways."

" Mebbe your app'tite's got somethin' to do
with it," said David, shoveling a knife-load of
good things into his mouth. " Polly, this young
man's ben livin' on crackers an' salt herrin' fer a
week."

"My land!" cried Mrs. Bixbee with an ex-
pression of horror. " Is that reelly so? 'T ain't
now, reelly?"

" Not quite so bad as that," John answered,
smiling; " but Mrs. Elright has been ill for a

DAVID HARUM.

213

couple of days and — well, I have been foraging
around Parse's store a little."

" Wa'al, of all the mean shames ! " exclaimed
Aunt Polly indignantly. " David Harum, you'd
ought to be ridic'lous t' allow such a thing."

" Wa'al, I never! " said David, holding his
knife and fork straight up in either fist as they
rested on the table, and staring at his sister. " I
believe if the meetin'-house roof was to blow off
you'd lay it onto me somehow. I hain't ben run-
nin' the Eagle tavern fer quite a consid'able
while. You got the wrong pig by the ear as
usual. Jest you pitch into him," pointing with
his fork to John. " It's his funeral, if anybody's."

" Wa'al," said Aunt Polly, addressing John
in a tone of injury, " I do think you might have
let somebody know; I think you'd ortter 've
known "

" Yes, Mrs. Bixbee," he interrupted, " I did
know how kind you are and would have been,
and if matters had gone on so much longer I
should have appealed to you, I should have in-
deed; but really," he added, smiling at her, "a
dinner like this is worth fasting a week for."

" Wa'al," she said, mollified again, " you
won't git no more herrin' 'nless you ask fer 'em."

" That is just what your brother said this
morning," replied John, looking at David with
a laugh.

J' ' »; »•

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CHAPTER XXIV.

The meal proceeded in silence for a few min-
utes. Mrs. Cullom had said but little., but John
noticed that her diction was more conventional
than in her talk with David and himself in the
morning, and that her manner at the table was
distinctly refined, although she ate with apparent
appetite, not to say hunger. Presently she said,
with an air of making conversation, " I suppose
you've always lived in the city, Mr. Lenox? "

" It has always been my home," he replied,
" but I have been away a good deal."

" I suppose folks in the city go to theaters a
good deal," she remarked.

" They have a great many opportunities," said
John, wondering what she was leading up to.
But he was not to discover, for David broke in
with a chuckle.

" Ask Polly, Mis' Cullom," he said. " She
c'n tell ye all about the theater, Polly kin." Mrs.
Cullom looked from David to Mrs. Bixbee,
whose face was suffused.

" Tell her," said David, with a grin.

" I wish you'd shet up," she exclaimed. " I
sha'n't do nothin' of the sort."

" Ne' mind," said David cheerfully, " Yll tell
ye. Mis' Cullom."

"Dave Harum!" expostulated Mrs. Bixbee,

but he proceeded without heed of her protest.
214

DAVID HARUM.

215

i 1

Polly an* I," he said, " went down to New
York one spring some years ago. Her nerves
was some wore out 'long of diff'rences with Sairy
about clearin' up the woodshed, an' bread risin's,
an' not bein' able to suit herself up to Purse's in
the qual'ty of silk velvit she wanted fer a Sunday-
go-tG-meetin' gown, an' I thought a spell off 'd do
her good. Wa'al, the day after we got there I
says to her while we was havin' breakfust — it was
picked-up eVphant on toast, near 's I c'n remem-
ber, waVt it, Polly? "

" 1 hat's as near the truth as most o' the rest
on't so fur," said Polly with a sniff.

" Wa'al, I says to her," he proceeded, un-
touched by her scorn, " * How'd you like to go
t' the theater? You hain't never ben,' I says, ' an'
now you're down here you may jest as well see
somethin' while you got a chanst,' I says. Up
to that time" he remarked, as it were in passing,
" she'd ben somewhat ^rtjuced 'ginst theaters,
an

" Wa'al," Mrs. Bixbee broke in, " I guess
what we see that night was cal'lated "

" You hold on," he interposed. " I'm tellin'
this story. You had a chanst to an' wouldn't.
Anyway," he resumed, " she allowed she'd try
it once, an' we agreed we'd go somewheres that
night. But somethin' happened to put it out o'
my mind, an' I didn't think on't agin till I got
back to the hotel fer supper. So I went to the
feller at the news-stand an' says, * Got any show-
tickits fer to-night? '

'' * Theater? ' he says.
■ " * I reckon so,' I says.

" * Wa'al,' he says, ' I hain't got nothin' now
but two seats fer 'Clyanthy.'

2l6

DAVID HARUM.

lit

" * Is it a good show? ' I says — ' moral, an' so
on? I'm goin' to take my sister, an' she's a
little pertic'ler about some things,' I says. He
kind o' grinned, the feller did. ' I've took my
wife twice, an' she's putty pertic'ler herself,* he
says, laughin.' "

" She must 'a' ben," remarked Mrs. Bixbee
with a sniff that spoke volumes of her opinion of
" the feller's wife." David emitted a chuckle.

" Wa'al," he continued, " I took the tickits on
the feller's recommend, an' the fact of his wife's
bein* so pertic'ler, an' after supper we went. It
was a mighty handsome place inside, gilded an'
carved all over like the outside of a cirkis wagin,
an' when we went in the orchestry was playin' an'
the people was comin' in, an' after we'd set a few
minutes I says to Polly, ' What do you think
on't?* I says.

" * I don't see anythin* very unbecomin' so
fur, an' the people looks respectable enough,*
she says.

" * No jail birds in sight fur 's ye c'n see so
fur, be they?' I says. He, he, he, he! "

" You needn't make me out more of a gump
'n I was," protested Mrs. Bixbee. " An' you was
jest as " David held up his finger at her.

" Don't you sp'ile the story by discountin' the
sequil. Wa'al, putty soon the band struck up
some kind of a dancin' tune, an' the curt'in went
up, an' a girl come prancin' down to the foot-
lights an' begun singin' an' dancin', an', scat my
! to all human appearances you c'd 'a' cov-
ered ev'ry dum thing she had on with a postage
stamp." John stole a glance at Mrs. Cullom.
She was staring at the speaker with wide-open
eyes of horror and amazement.

DAVID HARUM.

217

r »

" I guess I wouldn't go very fur into pertic'-
lers," said Mrs. Bixbee in a warning tone.

David bent his head down over his plate and
shook from head to foot, and it was nearly a min-
ute before he was able to go on. " Wa'al," he said,
" I heard Polly give a kind of a gasp an* a snort,
's if some one 'd throwed water 'n her face. But
she didn't say nothin*, an', I swan! I didn't dast
to look at her fer a spell; an' putty soon in come
a hull crowd more girls that had left their clo'es
in their trunks or somewhere, singin', an' dancin',
an' weavin' 'round on the stage, an' after a few
minutes I turned an' looked at Polly. He, he,
he, he!"

"David Harum!" cried Mrs. Bixbee, " ef
you're goin' to discribe any more o' them scand'-
lous goin's on I sh'll take my victuals into the
kitchin. / didn't see no more of 'em," she added
to Mrs. Cullom and John, ** after that fust trollop
appeared."

" I don't believe she did," said David, " fer
when I turned she set there with her eys shut
tighter 'n a drum, an' her mouth shut too so's
her nose an' chin most come together, an' her
face was red enough so 't a streak o' red paint 'd
'a' made a white mark on it. * Polly,' I says,
* I'm afraid you ain't gettin' the wuth o' your
money.*

" * David Harum,* she says, with her mouth
shut all but a little place in the corner toward
me, ' if you don't take me out o' this place, I'll
go without ye,* she says.

" * Don*t you think you c'd stan* it a little
longer? * I says. * Mebbe they've sent home fer
their clo'es,* I says. He, he, he, he! But with
that she jest give a hump to start, an* I see she

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2l8

DAVID HARUM.

meant bus'nis. When Polly Bixbee," said David
impressively, " puts that foot o' her'n doivn somc-
thin's got to sqush, an' don't you fergit it." Mrs.
Bixbee made no acknowledgment of this tribute
to her strength of character. John looked at
David.

" Yes," he said, with a solemn bend of the
head, as if in answer to a question, ** I squshed.
I says to her, ' All right. Don't make no dis-
turbance more'n you c'n help, an' jest put your
hank'chif up to your nose 's if you had the nose-
bleed,' an' we squeezed out of the seats, an'
sneaked up the aisle, an' by the time we got out
into the entry I guess my face was as red as
Polly's. It couldn't 'a' ben no redder," he
added.

" You got a putty fair color as a gen'ral
thing," remarked Mrs. Bixbee dryly.

" Yes, ma'am ; yes, ma'am, I expect that's so,"
he assented, " but I got an extry coat o' tan fol-
lerin* you out o' that theater. When we got out
into the entry one o' them fellers that stands
'round steps up to me an' says, ' Ain't your ma
feelin' well?' he says. 'Her feelin's has ben a
trifle rumpled up,' I says, * an' that gen'ally brings
on the nosebleed,' an' then," said David, looking
over Mrs. Bixbee's head, " •^Vi*^ feller went an'
leaned up agin the wall."

"David Harum!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee,
" that's a downright lie. You never spoke to a
soul, an' — an' — ev'rybody knows 't I ain't more 'n
four years older 'n you be."

" Wa'al, you see, Polly," her brother replied
in a smooth tone of measureless aggravation,
" the feller wa'n't acquainted with us, an' he onl){
went by appearances."

DAVID HARUM.

219

Aunt Polly appealed to John: "Ain't he
enough to — to — I d' know what?"

" I really don't see how you live with him,"
said John, laughing.

Mrs. Cullom's face wore a faint smile, as if
she were conscious that something amusing was
going on, but was not quite sure what. The
widow took things seriously for the most part,
poor soul.

" I reckon you haven't followed theater-goin'
much after that," she said to her hostess.

" No, ma'am," Mrs. Bixbee replied with em-
phasis, " you better believe I hain't. I hain't
never thought of it sence without tinglin* all over.
I believe," she asserted, ** that David 'd V stayed
the thing out if it hadn't ben fer me; but as true
's you live, Cynthy Cullom, I was so 'shamed
at the little 't I did see that when I comie to go to
bed I took my clo'es off in the dark."

David threw back his head and roared with
laughter. Mrs. Rixbee looked at him with un-
mixed scorn. " If I couldn't help makin* a "

she began, " I'd "

"Oh, Lord! Polly," David broke in, "be
sure 'n wrap up when you go out. If you sh'd
ketch cold an' your sense o' the ridic'lous sh'd
strik' in you'd be a dead-'n'-goner sure." This
was treated with the silent contempt which it de-
served, and David fell upon his dinner with the
remark that " he guessed he'd better make up fer
lost time," though as a matter of fact while he
had done most of the talking he had by no means
suspended another function of his mouth while
so engaged.

For a time nothing more was said which did
not relate to the replenishment of plates, glasses,

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220

DAVID HARUM.

l! (

and cups. Finally Pavid cleaned up his plate
with his knife blade and a piece of bread, and
pushed it away with a sigh of fullness, mentally
echoed by John.

" I feel 's if a child could play with me," he
remarked. " WhEt's comin' now, Polly?"

"The's a mince pie, an' Injun puddin'with ma-
ple sugar an' cream, an' ice cream," she replied.

" Mercy on us ! " he exclaimed. " I guess I'll
have to go an' jump up an' down on the verandy.
How do you feel, John? I s'pose you got so
used to them things at the Eagle 't you won't
have no stomach fer 'em, eh? Wa'al, fetch 'em
along. May 's well die fer the ole sheep 's the
lamb, but, Polly Bixbee, if you've got de-
signs on my life, I may 's well tell ye right now
't I've left all my prop'ty to the Institution fer
Disappinted Hoss Swappers."

" That's putty near next o' kin, ain't it? " was
the unexpected rejoinder of the injured Polly.

" Wa'al, scat my ! " exclaimed David,

hugely amused, " if Polly Bixbee hain't made a
joke ! You'll git yourself into the almanic, Polly,
fust thing you know." Sairy brought in the pie
and then the pudding.

" John," said David, " if you've got a pencil
an' a piece o' paper handy I'd like to have ye take
down a few of my last words 'fore we proceed to
the pie an' puddin' bus'nis. Any more * hoss-
redish' in that bottle?" holding out his glass.
** Hi ! hi ! that's enough. You take the rest
on't," which John did, nothing loath.

David ate his pie in silence, but before he
made up his mind to attack the pudding, which
was his favorite confection, he gave an audible
chuckle, which elicited Mrs. Bixbee's notice.

DAVID HARUM.

221

encil
take
to
lioss-

lass.

rest

" What you gigglin' 'bout now? " she asked.

David laughed. " I was thinkin' of some-
thin' I heard up to Purse's last night," he said
as he covered his pudding with the thick cream
sauce. " Amri Shapless has ben gittin' mar-
ried."

"Wa'al, I declare!" she exclaimed. "That
ole shack! Who in creation could he git to take
him?"^

" Lize Annis is the lucky woman," replied
David with a grin.

"Wa'al, if that don't beat all!" said Mrs.
Bixbee, throwing up her hands, and even from
Mrs. Cullom was drawn a " Well, I nfiver! "

" Fact," said David, '* they was married yes-
tidy forenoon. Squire Parker done the job.
Dominie White wouldn't have nothin' to do
with it!"

" Squire Parker 'd ortter be 'shamed of him-
self," said Mrs. Bixbee indignantly.

** Don't you think that trew love had ought
to be allowed to take its course? " asked David
with an air of sentiment.

" I think the squire 'd ortter be 'shamed of
himself," she reiterated. " S pose them two old
skinamulinks was to go an' have children? "

" Polly, you make me blush," protested her
brother. " Hain't you got no respect fer the holy
institution of matrimuny? — and — at cet'ry?" he
added, wiping his whole face with his napkin.

" Much as you hev, I reckon," she retorted.
" Of all the amazin' things in this world, the
amazinist to me is the kind of people that gits
married to each other in gen'ral; but this here
performence beats ev'rything holler."

"Amri give a very good reason for't," said

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222

DAVID HARUM.

David with an air of conviction, and then he
broke into a laugh.

" Ef you got anythin' to tell, tell it," said Mrs.
Bixbee impatiently.

" Wa'al," said David, taking the last of his
pudding into his mouth, " if you insist on't, pain-
ful as 't is. I heard Dick Larrabee tellin' 'bout
it. Amri told Dick day before yestiday that he
was thinkin' of gettin' married, an' ast him to go
along with him to Parson White's an' be a wit-
niss, an' I reckon a kind of moral support. When
it comes to moral supportin'," remarked David
in passing, " Dick's as good 's a professional, an'
he'd go an' see his gran'mother hung sooner 'n
miss anythin', an' never let his cigar go out durin'
the performence. Dick said he congratilated Am
on his choice, an' said he reckoned they'd be
putty ekally yoked together, if nothin' else."

Here David leaned over toward Aunt Polly
and said, protestingly, " Don't gi' m.e but jest a
teasp'nful o' that ice cream. I'm so full now 't
I can't hardly reach the table." He took a taste
of the cream and resumed: " I can't give it jest
as Dick did," he went on, " but this is about the
gist on't. Him, an' Lize, an' Am went to Parson
White's about half after seven o'clock an' was
showed into the parler, an' in a minute he come
in, an' after sayin' * Good evenin' ' all 'round, he
says, * Well, what c'n I do for ye? ' lookin' at Am
an* Lize, an' then at Dick.

" * Wa'al,' says Am, * me an' Mis' Annis here
has ben thinkin' fer some time as how we'd ought
to git married.'

" * Ought to git married? ' says Parson White,
scowlin' fust at one an' then at t'other.

" ' Wa'al,' says Am, givin' a kind o* shufifle

DAVID HARUM.

223

an'
r 'n

with his feet, ' I didn't mean ortter exac'ly, but
jest as well — kinder comp'ny/ he says. * We
hain't neither on us got nobody, an' we thought
we might 's well.'

"'What have you got to git married on?'
says the dominie after a minute. 'Anythin'?'
he says.

" * Wa'al,' says Am, droppin' his head side-
ways an* borin' into his ear 'ith his middle finger,

* I got the promise mebbe of a job o' work fer a
couple o' days next week.' * H'm'm'm,' says the
dominie, lookin' at him. * Have you got any-
thin' to git married on?' the dominie says, turn-
in' to Lize. * I've got ninety cents comin* to me
fer some work I done last week,' she says, wiltin*
down onto the sofy an' beginnin' to snivvle.
Dick says that at that the dominie turned round
an' walked to the other end of the room, an' he
c'd see he was dyin' to laugh, but he come back
with a straight face.

" * How old air you, Shapless? " he says to
Am. * I'll be fifty-eight or mebbe fifty-nine come
next spring,' says Am.

" * How old air youf ' the dominie says, turn-
in' to Lize. She wriggled a minute an' says,

* Wa'al, I reckon I'm all o' thirty,' she says."

"All o' thirty!" exclaimed Aunt Polly.
" The woman 's most 's old 's I be."

David laughed and went on with, " Wa'al,
Dick said at that the dominie give a kind of a
choke, an' Dick he bust right out, an' Lize looked
at him as if she c'd eat him. Dick said the dom-
inie didn't say anythin' fer a minute or two, an'
then he says to Am, * I suppose you c'n find some-
body that'll marry you, but I cert'inly won't, an'
what possesses you to commit such a piece o'

224

DAVID HARUM.

i I

folly/ he says, * passes my understandin'. What
earthly reason have you fer wantin' to marry?
On your own showin'/ he says, * neither one on
you 's got a cent o' money or any settled way o*
gettin' any.'

" * That's jest the very reason,' says Am,
* that's jest the very reason. I hain't got nothin',
an' Mis' Annis hain't got nothin', an' we figured
that we'd jest better git married an' settle down,
an' make a good home fer us both,' an' if that
ain't good reasonin'," David concluded, " I don't
know what is."

"An' be they actially married?" asked Mrs.
Bixbee, still incredulous of anything so prepos-
terous.

" So Dick says," was the reply. " He says
Am an' Lize come away f'm the dominie's putty
down in the mouth, but 'fore long Amri braced
up an' allowed that if he had half a dollar he'd
try the squire in the mornin', an' Dick let him
have it. I says to Dick, * You're out fifty cents
on that deal,' an' he says, slappin' his leg, * I don't
give a dum,' he says ; ' I wouldn't 'a' missed it fer
double the money.' "

Here David folded his napkin and put it in
the ring, and John finished the cup of clear coffee
wl ich Aunt Polly, rather under protest, had
given him. Coffee without cream and sugar was
incomprehensible to Mrs. Bixbee.

I :

CHAPTER XXV.

Two or three days after Christmas John was
sitting in his room in the evening when there
came a knock at the door, and to his " Come in "
there entered Mr. Harum, who was warmly wel-
comed and entreated to take the big chair, which,
after a cursory survey of the apartment and its
furnishings, he did, saying, " Wa'al, I thought
I'd come in an' see how Polly'd got you fixed;
whether the baskit [casket?] was worthy of the
jew'l, as I heard a feller say in a theater once."

" I was never more comfortable in my life,"
said John. " Mrs. Bixbee has been kindness
itself, and even permits me to smoke in the room.
Let me give you a cigar."

"Heh! You got putty well 'round Polly, I
reckon," said David, looking around the room
as he lighted the cigar, " an' I'm glad you're
comf'table — I reckon 't is a shade better 'n the
Eagle," he remarked, with his characteristic
chuckle.

" I should say so," said John emphatically,
" and I am more obliged than I can tell you."

" All Polly's doin's," asserted David, holding

the end of his cigar critically under his nose.

" That's a trifle better article 'n I'm in the habit

of smokin'," he remarked.

" I think it's my one extravagance," said John

225

:!ji:

:=j^--

226

DAVID HARUM.

^1 I

semi-apologetically, "but I don't smoke them ex-
clusively, I am very fond of good tobacco,
and "

" I understand," said David, " an' if I had my
life to live over agin, knowin' what I do now, I'd
do diff'rent in a number o' ways. I often think,'*
he proceeded, as he took a pull at the cigar and
emitted the smoke with a chewing movement
of his mouth, " of what Andy Brown used to say.
Andy was a curious kind of a customer 't I used
to know up to Syrchester. He liked good things,
Andy did, an' didn't scrimp himself when they
was to be had — that is, when he had the go-an'-
fetch-it to git 'em with. He used to say, * Boys,
whenever you git holt of a ten-dollar note you
want to git it intG ye or onto ye jest 's quick 's
you kin. We're he to-day an' gone to-morrer,'
he'd say, * an' the' am't no pocket in a shroud,'
an' I'm dum'd if I don't think sometimes," de-
clared Mr. Harum, " that he wa'n't very fur ofif
neither. 'T any rate," he added with a philoso-
phy unexpected by his hearer, " 's I look back, it
ain't the money 't I've spent fer the good times
't I've had 't I regret; it's the good times 't I
might 's well 've had an' didn't. I'm inclined to
l:hink," he remarked with an air of having given
the matter consideration, " that after Adam an'
Eve got bounced out of the gard'n they kicked
themselves as much as anythin' fer not havin'
cleaned up Ihe hull tree while they was about it.'*

John laughed and said that that was very
likely among their regrets.

" Trouble with me was," said David, " that till
I was consid'able older 'n you be I had to scratch
gr?.v'l like all possessed, an' it's hard work now
sometimes to git the idee out of my head but

DAVID HARUM.

227

Hit
very

It till

Iratch

now

but

what the money's wuth more 'n the things. I
guess," he remarked, looking at the ivory-backed
brushes and the various toilet knick-knacks of
cut-glass and silver which adorned John's bureau,
and indicating them with a motion of his hand,
" that up to about now you ben in the habit of
figurin' the other way mostly."

"Too much so, perhaps," said John; "but
yet, after all, I don't think I am sorry. I wouldn't
spend the money for those things now, but I am
glad I bought them when I did."

" Jess so, jess so," said David appreciatively.
He reached over to the table and laid his cigar
on the edge of a book, and, reaching for his
hip pocket, produced a silver tobacco box, at
which he looked contemplatively for a moment,
opening and shutting the lid with a snap.

" There," he said, holding it out on his palm,
" I was twenty years makin' up my mind to buy
th^t box, an' to this day I can't bring myself to
carry it all the time. Yes, sir, I wanted that box
fer twenty years. I don't mean to say that I
didn't spend the wuth of it foolishly times over
an' agin, but I couldn't never make up my mind
to put that amount o' money into that pertic'ler
thing. I was alwus figurin' that some day I'd
have a silver tobacco box, an' I sometimes think
the reason it seemed so extrav'gant, an' I put it
oflf so long, was because I wanted it so much.
Now I s'pose you couldn't understand that, could
ye? "

" Yes," said John, nodding his head thought-
fully, " I L.iink I can understand it perfectly," and
indeed it spoke pages of David's biography.

" Yes, sir," said Dav'd, " I never spent a
small amount o' money but one other time an*

•^ 1^:

I IB-n

"■^WMNniWi

228

DAVID HARUM.

got SO much value, only I alwus ben kickin' my-
self to think I didn't do it sooner."

" Perhaps," suggested John, " you enjoyed it
all the more for waiting so long."

** No," said David, " it wa'n't that— I dunno—
't was the feelin' 't I'd got there at last, I guess.
Fur 's waitin' fer things is concerned, the' is such
a thing as waitin' too long. Your appetite '11
change mebbe. I used to think when I was a
youngster that if ever I got where I c'd have
all the custard pie I c'd eat that'd be all 't I'd
ask fer. I used to imagine bein' baked into one
an' eatin' my way out. Nowdays the's a good
many things I'd sooner have than custard pie,
though," he said with a wink, " I gen'ally do eat
two pieces jest to please Polly."

John laughed. " What was the other thing? "
he asked.

"Other thing I once bought? " queried David.
" Oh, yes, it was the fust boss I ever owned.
I give fifteen dollars fer him, an' 'if he wa'n't a
dandy you needn't pay me a cent. Crowbait
wa'n't no name fer him. He was stun blind on
the off side, an' couldn't see anythin' in pertic'ler
on the nigh side — couldn't get nigh 'nough, I
reckon — an' had most ev'rythin' wrong with him
that c'd ail a boss; but I thought he was a thor-
oughbred. I was 'bout seventeen year old then,
an' was helpin' lock-tender on the Erie Canal, an'
when the' wa'n't no boat goin' through I put in
most o' my time cleanin' that boss. If he got
through 'th less 'n six times a day he got off
cheap, an' once I got up an' give him a little
attention at night. Yes, sir, if I got big money's
wuth out o* that box it was mostly a matter of
feelin' ; but as fur 's that old plugamore of a boss

h f(?

len,

an'

It in

^off

little
ley's
Ir of

lOSS

DAVID HARUM.

229

was concerned, I got it both ways, for I got my
fust real start out of his old carkiss."
" Yes?" said John encouragingly.

" Yes, sir," affirmed David, " I cleaned him
up, an' fed him up, an' almost got 'im so'st he
c'd see enough out of his left eye to shy at a
load of hay close by ; an' fin'ly traded him ofi fer
another record-breaker an' fifteen dollars to
boot."

" Were you as enthusiastic over the next one
as the first? " asked John, laughing.

" Wa'al," replied David, relighting his tempo-
rarily abandoned cigar against a protest and
proffer of a fresh one — " wa'al, he didn't lay holt
on my affections to quite the same extent. I
done my duty by him, but I didn't set up with
him nights. You see," he added with a grin,
" I'd got some used to bein' a boss owner, an' the
edge had ^vore off some." He smoked for a
minute or two in silence, with as much apparent
relish as if the cigar had not been stale.

" Aren't you going on? " asked John at last.

" Wa'c 1," he replied, pleased with his audience,
"I c'd go on, I s'pose, fast enough an' fur enough,
but I don't want to tire ye out. I reckon you
never had much to do with canals?"

" No," said John, smiling, " I can't say that
I have, but I know something about the subject
in a general way, and there is no fear of your
tiring me out."

" All right," proceeded David. " As I was
sayin', I got another equine wonder an' fifteen
dollars to boot fer my old plug, an' it wa'n't a
great while before I was in the boss bus'nis to
stay. After between two an' three years I had
fifty or sixty bosses an' mules, an' took all sorts

I I^ISf

'i .'I'll

I •','

!«MMd

230

DAVID HARUM.

) »i

of towin' jobs. Then a big towin' concern quit
bus'nis, an' I bought their hull stock an' got my
money back three four times over, an' by the time
I was about twenty-one I had got ahead enough
to quit the canal an' all its works fer good, an' go
into other things. But there was where I got
my livin' after I run away f'm Buxton Hill. Be-
fore I got the job of lock-tendin' I had made the
trip to Albany an' back twice — * walkin' my pas-
sage,' as they used to call it, an* I made one trip
helpin' steer, so 't my canal experience was putty
thorough, take it all 'round."

" It must have been a pretty hard life," re-
marked John.

David took out his penknife and proceeded
to impale his cigar upon the blade thereof.
" No," he said, to John's proffer of the box, " this
'11 last quite a spell yet. Wa'al," he resumed
after a moment, in reply to John's remark,
** viewin' it all by itself, it "vas a ^hard life. A
thing is hard though, I reckon,' because it's
harder 'n somethin' else, or you think so. Most
things go by comparin'. I s'pose if the gen'ral
run of trotters never got better 'n three 'n a half
that a boss that c'd do it in three 'd be fast, but
we don't call 'em so nowdays. I s'pose if at that
same age you'd had to tackle the life you'd V
found it hard, an' the' was hard things about it —
trampin' all night in the rain, fer instance; sleep-
in' in barns at times, an' all that; an' once the
cap'n o' the boat got mad at somethin' an' pitched
me head over heels into the canal. It was about
the close of navigation an' the' was a scum of ice.
I scrambled out somehow, but he wouldn't 'a'
cared if I'd ben drownded. He was an excep-
tion, though. The canalers was a rough set in

iia

DAVID HARUM.

231

it's

ost

I'ral

half

but

:hat

genVal, but they averaged fer disposition 'bout
hke the ord'nruy run o' folks; the' was mean
ones an' clever ones; them that would put upon
ye, an' them that would treat ye decent. The
work was hard an' the grub wasn't alwus much
better 'n what you — he, he, he! — what you ben
gettin' at the Eagle " (John was now by the way
of rather relishing jokes on that subject); *' but I
hadn't ben raised in the lap o' luxury — not to any
consid'able extent — not enough to stick my nose
up much. The men I worked fer was rough, an'
I got my share of cusses an' cuffs, an' once in a
while a kick to keep up my spirit of perseverance ;
but, on the hull, I think I got more kindness 'n
I did at home (leavin' Polly out), an' as fer gene-
ral treatment, none on 'em c'd come up to my
father, an' wuss yet, my oldest brother 'Lish. The
cap'n that throwed me overboard was the wust,
but alongside o' 'Lish he was a forty hosspower
angil with a hull music store o' harps; an' even
my father c'd 'a' given him cards an' spades; an'
as fer the victuals " (here David dropped his cigar
end and pulled from his pocket the silver tobacco
box) — " as fer the victuals," he repeated, " they
mostly averaged up putty high after what I'd ben
used to. Why, I don't believe I ever tasted a
piece of beefsteak or roast beef in my life till after
I left home. When we had meat at all it was
pork — boiled pork, fried pork, pigs' liver, an' all
that, enough to make you 'shamed to look a pig
in the face — an' fer the rest, potatoes, an' duflf, an'
johnny-cake, an' meal mush, an' milk emptins
bread that you c'd smell a mile after it got cold.
With 'leven folks on a small farm nuthin' c'd
aflford to be eat that c'd be sold, an' ev'rythin'
that couldn't be sold had to be eat. Once in a

-, i

232

DAVID HARUM.

M ii,

ip;

while the' 'd be pie of some kind, or gingerbread ;
but with 'leven to eat 'em I didn't ever git more
'n enough to set me hankerin'."

" I must say that I think I should have liked
the canal better," remarked John as David
paused. " You were, at any rate, more or less
free — that is, comparatively, I should say."

" Yes, sir, I did," said David, " an' I never
see the time, no matter how rough things was,
that I wished I was back on Buxton Hill. I
used to want to see Polly putty bad once in a
while, an' used to figure that if I ever growed up
to be a man, an' had money enough, I'd buy her
a new pair o' shoes an' the stuff fer a dress, an'
sometimes my cal'lations went as fur 's a gold
breastpin; but I never wanted to see none o' the
rest on 'em, an' fer that matter, I never did. Yes,
sir, the old ditch was better to me than the place
I was borned in, an', as you say, I wa'n't nobody's
slave, an' I wa'n't scairt to death the hull time.
Some o' the men was rough, b'ut they wa'n't
cruel, as a rule, an' as I growed up a little I
was putty well able to look out fer myself —
wa'al, wa'al (looking at his watch), I guess you
must *a' had enough o' my meemores fer one
sittin'."

" No, really," John protested, " don't go yet.
I have a little proposal to make to you," and he
got up and brought a bottle from the bottom of
the washstand.

" Wa'al," said David, " fire it out."

" That you take another cigar and a little of
this," holding up the bottle.

" Got any glasses? " asked David with prac-
tical mind.

" One and a tooth mug," replied John, laugh-

. M

DAVID IIARUM.

233

inp. " Glass for you, tooth mug for me. Tastes
just as good out of a tooth mug."

** Wa al," said David, with a comical air of
yielding as he took the glass and held it out to
John, '* under protest, stric'ly under protest —
sooner than have my clo'es torn. I shall tell
Polly — if I should happen to mention it — that
you threatened me with vi'lence. Wa'al, here's
iookin' at ye," which toast was drunk with the
solemnity which befitted it.

1 i i

.<?) •'

iWiiniii" m

! ii?

rfiii

t:rHAPTER XXVI.

The two men sat for a while smoking in
rsilence, John taking an occasional sip of his grog.
Mr. Harum had swallowed his own liquor " raw,"
as was the custom in Homeville and vicinity, fol-
lowing he potation with a mouthful of water.
Presently he settled a little farther down in his
chair and his face took on a look of amused rec-
ollection.

He looked up and gave a short laugh.
** Speakin' of canals," he said, as if the subject
had only been casually mentioned, " I was think-
in' of somethin'."

"Yes?" said John.

"E-uo,' said David. "That old ditch f'm
Albany lo Bu'.alo was an almighty big enter-
prise in th im days, an' a great thing fer the pros-
perity of the State, j.n' a good many better men
'n I be walked the ole towpath when they was
young. Yes, sir, that's a fact. Wa'al, some
years ago I had somethin' of a deal on with a
New York man by the name of Price. He had
a place in Newport where his fam'ly spent the
summer, an* where he went as much as he could
git away. I was down to New York to see him,
an' we hadn't got things quite straightened out,
an' he says to me, * I'm goin' over to Newport,
where my wife an' fam'ly is, fer Sunday, an' why
234

' 'I

DAVID HARUM.

235

can't you come with me,* he says, * an* stay over
till Monday? an' we c'n have the day to our-
selves over this matter?' * Wa'al,' I says, 'I'm
only down here on this bus'nis, an' as I left a
hen on, up home, I'm willin' to save the time 'stid
of waitin' here fer you to git back, if you don't
think,' I says, * that it'll put Mis' Price out any
to bring home a stranger without no notice.'

" ' Wa'al,' he says, laughin', ' I guess she c'n
manage fer once,' an' so I went along. When we
got there the' was a carriage to meet us, an' two
men in uniform, one to drive an' one to open the
door, an' we got in an' rode up to the house —
cottige, he called it, but it was built of stone, an'
wa'n't only about two sizes smaller 'n the Fifth
Avenue Hotel. Some kind o' doin's was goin'
on, fer the house was blazin' with light, an* music
was playin*.

" ' What's on? * says Price to the feller that
let us in.

" ' Sir and Lady somebody *s dinin' here to-
night, sir,* says the man.

" * Damn ! * says Price, * I fergot all about the
cussed thing. Have Mr. Harum showed to a
room,' he says, * an' serve dinner in my office in
a quarter of an hour, an' have somebody show
Mr. Harum there when it's ready.*

" Wa'al," pursued David, " I was showed up
to a room. The* was lace coverin's on the bed
pillers, an* a silk an' lace spread, an' more dum
trinkits an* bottles an' lookin'-glasses *n you c'd
shake a stick at, an' a bathroom, an* Lord knows
what; an' I washed up, an' putty soon one o' them
fellers come an' showed me down to where Price
was waitin*. Wa'al, we had all manner o* things
fer supper, an champagne, an* so on, an* after

I ml

236

DAVID IIARUM.

we got done, Price says, * I've got to ask you to
excuse me, Harum,' he says. ' I've got to go an'
dress an' show up in the drawin'-room,' he says,
' You smoke your cigar in here, an' when you
want to go to your room jest ring the bell.'

" ' All right,' I says. * I'm 'bout ready to
turn in anyway.' "

The narrator paused for a moment. John
was rather wondering what it all had to do with
the Erie Canal, but he said nothing.

" VVa'al, next mornin','' David resumed, " I
got up an' shaved an' dressed, an' set 'round
waitin' fer the breakfust bell to ring till nigh on
to half-past nine o'clock. Bom-by the' came a
knock at the door, an' I says, * Come in,' an' in
come one o' them fellers. * Beg pah'din, sir,'
he says. * Did you ring, sir? '

" * No,' I says, * I didn't ring. I was waitin'
to hear the bell.'

" ' Thank you, sir,' he says. * An* will you
have your breakfust now, sir?* '

**' Where?' I says.

" * Oh,' he says, kind o' grinnin*, * I'll bring
it up here, sir, d'rec'ly,' he says, an' went off.
Putty soon come another knock, an' in come the
feller with a silver tray covered with a big nap-
kin, an' on it was a couple of rolls wrapped up in
a napkin, a b'iled egg done up in another napkin,
a cup an' saucer, a little chiney cofifee-pot, a little
pitcher of cream, some loaf sugar in a silver dish,
a little pancake of butter, a silver knife, two little
spoons like what the childern play with, a silver
pepper duster an' salt dish, an' an orange. Oh,
yes, the' was another contraption — a sort of a
chiney wineglass. The feller set down the tray
an* says, ' Any thin' else you'd Hke to have, sir?*

DAVID HARUM.

237

u to
5 an'

says,
you

y to

John
with

1, "I

round
^h on
ime a
an' in
I, sir,'

kvaitin'

11 you

bring
off.
ne the
nap-
up in
apkin,
Uttle
dish,
Uttle
silver
Oh,
of a
tray
sir?'

" * No,' I says, lookin' it over, * I guess there's
enough to last me a day or two,' an' with that he
kind o' turned his face away fer a second or two.
* Thank you, sir,' he says. ' The second break-
fust is at half-past twelve, sir,' an' out he put.
Wa'al," David continued, " the bread an' butter
was all right enough, exceptin' they'd fergot the
salt in the butter, an' the coffee was all right;
but when it come to the egg, dum'd if I wa'n't
putty nigh out of the race; but I made up my
mind it must be hard-b'iled, an' tackled it on that
idee. Seems t' amuse ye," he said with a grin,
getting up and helping himself. After swallow-
ing the refreshment, and the palliating mouth-
ful of water, he resumed his seat and his nar-
rative.

" Wa'al, sir," he said, " that dum'd egg was
about 's near raw as it was when i' was laid, an'
the' was a crack in the shell, an' fust thing I
knowed it kind o' c'lapsed, an' I give it a grab,
an' it squirtid all over my pants, an' the floor, an'
on my coat an' vest, an' up my sleeve, an' all over

the tray. Scat my ! I looked gen'ally like

an ab'lition orator before the war. You never
see such a mess," he added, with an expression
of rueful recollection. " I believe that dum'd
egg held more 'n a pint."

John fairly succumbed to a paroxysm of
laughter.

" Funny, wa'n't it?" said David dryly.

" Forgive me," pleaded John, when he got his
breath.

" Oh, that's all right," said David, " but it
wa'n't the kind of emotion it kicked up in my
breast at the time. I cleaned myself up with a
towel well 's I could, an' thought I'd step out an*

> liilN)

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/r^

238

DAVID HARUM.

take the air before the feller 'd come back to git
that tray, an' mebbe rub my nose in't."

"Oh, Lord! "cried John.

" Yes, sir," said David, unheeding, " I allowed
't I'd walk 'round with my mouth open a spell,
an' git a little air on my stomech to last me till
that second breakfust; an' as I was pokin' 'round
the grounds I come to a sort of arbor, an' there
was Price, smokin' a cigar.

" * Mornin', liarum; how you elin'?' he
says, gettin' up an' shakin' hands; an' as we
passed the time o' day, I noticed him noticin' my
coat. You see as they dried out, the egg spots
got to showin' agin.

" ' Got somethin' on your coat there,' he says.

" ' Yes,' I says, tryin' to scratch it but with
m> finger nail.

" * Have a cigar? ' he says, handin' one out.

** * Never smoke on an empty stomach/ I
says.

"'What?' he says.

*' * Bad fer the ap'tite,' I says, " an* I'm savin'
mine fer that second breakfust o' your'n.*

" * What ! ' he says, ' haven't you had anythin'
to eat?' An' then I told him what I ben tellin'
you. Wa'al, sir, fust he looked kind o' mad an'
disgusted, an' then he laughed till I thought he'd
bust, an' when he quit he says, * Excuse me,
Harum, it's too damned bad; but I couldn't help
laughin' to save my soul. An' it's all my fault
too,' he says. * I intended to have you take your
breakfust with me, but somethin' happened last
night to upset me, an' I woke with it on my mind,
an' I fergot. Now you jest come right into the
house, an' I'll have somethin' got fer you that'll
stay your stomach better 'n air,' he says.

j> r

DAVID HARUM.

239

git

« (

No,' I says, * I've made trouble enough fer
one day, I guess,' an' I wouldn't go, though he
urged me agin an' agin. You don't fall in with
the customs of this region?' I says to him.

" * N:>t in that pertic'ler, at any rate,' he says.
' It's one o' the fool notions that my wife an' the
girls brought home f'm Eurup. I have a good
solid meal in the mornin', same as I alwus did/
he says."

Mr. Harum stopped lalking to relight his
cigar, and after a puff or two, " When I started
out," he said, " I hadn't no notion of goin' into all
the highways an' byways, but when I git begun
one thing's apt to lead to another, an' you never
c'n tell jest where I will fetch up. Now I started
off to tell somethin' in about two words, an' I'm
putty near as fur off as when I begun."

" Well," said John, " it's Saturday night, and
the longer your story is the better I shall like it.
I hope the second breakfast was more of a suc-
cess than the first one," he added with a laugh.

" I managed to average up on the two meals,
I guess," David remarked. " Wa'al," he re-
sumed, " Price an' I set 'round talkin' bus'nis
an' things till about twelve or a little after, mebbc,
an' then he turned to me an' kind o' looked me
over an' says, * You an' me is about of a build,
an' if you say so I'll send one of my coats an'
vests up to your room an' have the man take
yours an' clean 'em.'

" * I guess the' is ruther more egg showin'
than the law allows,' I says, * an' mebbe that 'd
be a good idee; but the pants caught it the wust,'
I says.

" Mine'll fit ye,' he says.

" * What'll your wife say to seein' me airifyin'

/r*-

gHBD

hi
ill

Vi 'II
\i I;

C I

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240

DAVID HARUM.

'round in your git-up?' I says. He gin me a
funny kind of look. * My wife? ' he says. ' Lord,
she don't know more about my clo'es 'n you do.'
That struck me as bein' ruther curious," re-
marked David. " Wouldn't it you? "

** Very," replied John gravely.

" Yes, sir," said David. " Wa'al, when we
went into the eatin' room the table was full, most-
ly young folks, chatterin' an' laughin'. Price
int'duced me to his wife, an' I set down by him
at the other end of the table. The' wa'n't noth-
in' wuth mentionin' ; nobody paid any attention
to me 'cept now an' then a word from Price,
an' I wa'n't fer talkin' anyway — I c'd have eat
a raw dog. After breakfust, as they called it.
Price an' I went out onto the verandy an* had
some coffee, an' smoked an' talked fer an hour
or so, an' then he got up an' excused himself to.
write a letter. * You may like to look at the
papers av/hile,' he says. ' I've ordered the bosses
at five, an' if you like I'll show you 'round a
little.'

" * Won't your wife be wantin' 'em? ' I says.

" ' No, I guess she'll git along,' he says. Kind
o' smilin'.

" ' All right,' I says, * don't mind me.' An'
so at five up come the bosses an' the two fellers
in uniform an' all. I vvas lookin' the bosses over
when Price come out. * Wa'al, what do you
think of 'em?' he says.

** * Likely pair,' I says, goin' over an' exam-
inin' the nigh one's feet an' legs. ' Sore forr'ed? '
I says, lookin' up at the driver.

A trifle, sir,' he says, touchin' his hat.
What's that? ' says Price, comin' up an' ex-
aminin' the critter's face an' head. * I don't see

(( <

t( (

'IS

I? ii

DAVID HARUM.

241

anythin' the matter with his forehead,' he says.
I looked up an' give the driver a wink," said
David with a chuckle, " an' he give kind of a
chokin' gasp, but in a second was lookin' as sol-
emn as ever.

" I can't tell ye jest where we went," the nar-
rator proceeded, " but anyway it was where all
the nabobs turned out, an' I seen more style an'
git-up in them two hours 'n I ever see in my life,
I reckon. The' didn't appear to be no one we
run across that, accordin' to Price's tell, was wuth
under five m'llion, though we may 'a' passed one
without his noticin'; an' the' was a good many
that run to fifteen an' twenty an' over, an' most
on 'em, it appeared, was f'm New York. Wa'al,
fin'ly we got back to the house a little 'fore seven.
On the way back Price says, * The' are goin' to
be three four people to dinner to-night in a quiet
way, an' the' ain't no reason why you shouldn't
stay dressed jest as you are, but if you would feel
like puttin' on evenin' clo'es (that's what he called
'em), why I've got an extry suit that'll fit ye to a
" tee," ' he says.

" * No,' I says, * I guess I better not. I reck-
on I'd better git my grip an' go to the hotel. I
sh'd be ruther bashful to wear your swallertail,
an' all them folks'll be strangers,' I says. But
he insisted on't that I sh'd come to dinner any-
way, an' fin'ly I gin in, an' thinkin' I might 's
well go the hull hog, I allowed I'd wear his clo'es;
* but if I do anythin' or say anythin' 't you don't
like,' says I, * don't say I didn't warn ye.' What
would you 'a' done? " Mr. Harum asked.

" Worn the clothes without the slightest hesi-
tation," replied John. *' Nobody gave your cos-
tume a thought."

i <i

m 1

•I i

■1 ;

:"■

/T^-

242

DAVID HARUM.

" They didn't appear to, fer a fact," said David,
" an' I didn't either, after I'd sHpped up once or
twice on the matter of pockets. The same feller
brought 'em up to me that fetched the stuff in
the mornin'; an' the rig was complete — coat, vest,
pants, shirt, white necktie, an', by gum! shoes an*

silk socks, rin', sir, scat my ! the hull outfit

fitted me as if it was made fer me. * Shell I wait
on you, sir? ' says the man. * No,' I says, * I
guess I c'n git into the things; but mebbe you
might come up in 'bout quarter of an hour an*
put on the finishin' touches, an' here,' I says,

* I guess that brand of eggs you give me this
mornin' 's wuth about two dollars apiece.*

" * Thank you, sir,' he says, grinnin*, * Fd like
to furnish 'em right along at that rate, sir, an*
I'll be up as you say, sir.' '*

" You found the way to his heart," said John,
smiling.

" My experience is," said David dryly, " that
most men's hearts is located ruthtr closter to
their britchis pockets than they are 'to their breast
pockets."

" I'm afraid that's so," said John.

" But this feller," Mr. Harum continued,
" was a putty decent kind of a chap. He come
up after I'd got into my togs an' pulled me here,
an' pulled me there, an' fixed my necktie, an*
hitched me in gen'ral so'st I wa'n't neither too
tight nor too free, an' when he got through,

* You'll do now, sir,' he says.

"'Think I will?' says I.

" * Couldn't nobody look more fit, sir,* he
says, an' I'm dum'd," said David, with an assert-
ive nod, " when I looked at myself in the lookin*-
glass I scurcely knowed myself, an* (with a con-

i.ii

DAVID HARUM.

243

fidential lowering of the voice) when I got back
to New York the very fust hard work I done
was to go an' buy the hull rig-out — an'/' he
added with a grin, " strange as it may appear, it
ain't wore out yit**

I'-.

(IS

CHAPTER XXVII.

" People don't dress for dinner in Home-
ville, as a rule, then," John said, smiling.

" No," said Mr. Harum, " when they dress fer
breakfust that does 'em fer all three meals. I've
wore t;hem things two three times when I've ben
down to the city, but I never had 'em on but
once up here."

•'No? "said John.

" No," said David, " I put 'em on once to
show to Polly how city folks dressed — he, he, he,
he! — an' when I come into the room she set
forwud on her chair an' stared at me over her
specs. * What on airth! ' she says. •

" * I bought these clo'es,' I says, * to wear
when bein' ent'tained by the fust fam'lies. How
do I look? ' I says.

" ' Turn 'round,' she says. * You look f'm
behind,' she says, ' like a red-headed snappin'
bug, an' in front,' she says, as I turned agin, ' like
a reg'lar slinkum. I'll bet,' she says, * that you
hain't throwed away less 'n twenty dollars on that
foolishniss.' Polly's a very conserv'tive person,"
remarked her brother, " and don't never imagine
a vain thing, as the Bible says, not when she
knows it, an' I thought it wa'n't wuth while to
argue the point with her."

John laughed and said, " Do you recall that
244

DAVID HARUM.

245

memorable interview between the governors of
the two Carolinas?"

" Nothin' in the historical lit'riture of our
great an' glorious country," replied Mr. Harum
reverently, " sticks closter to my mind — like a
burr to a cow's tail," he added, by way of illustra-
tion. " Thank you, jest a mouthful."

" How about the dinner? " John asked after a
little interlude. "Was it pleasant?"

" Fust rate," declared David. " The young
folks was out somewhere else, all but one o'
Price's girls. The' was twelve at the table all
told. I was int'duced to all of 'em in the parlor,
an' putty soon in come one of the fellers an' said
somethin' to Mis' Price that meant dinner was
ready, an' the girl come up to me an' took holt
of my arm. * You're goin' to take me out,' she
says, an' we formed a procession an* marched out
to the dinin' room. ' You're to sit by mammer,'
she says, showin' me, an' there was my name on
a card, sure enough. Wa'al, sir, that table was
a showl I couldn't begin to describe it to ye.
The* was a hull flower garden in the middle, an'
a worked tablecloth; four five glasses of all col-
ors an' sizes at ev'ry plate, an' a nosegay, an' five
six difT'rent forks an' a lot o* knives, though fer
that matter,'* remarked the speaker, ** the' wa'n't
but one knife in the lot that amounted to any-
thin', the rest on 'em wouldn't hold nothin'; an'
the' was three four sort of chiney slates with what
they call — the — you 'n me "

" Menu," suggested John.

"I guess that's it," said David, "but that
wa'n't the way it was spelt. Wa'al, I set down
an' tucked my napkin into my neck, an' though
I noticed none o' the rest on 'em seemed to care,

llHI

246

DAVID HARUM.

I allowed that *t wa'n't my shirt, an* mebbe Price
might want to wear it agin 'fore 't was washed."

John put his handkerchief over his face and
coughed violently. David looked at him sharp-
ly. "Subject to them spells?" he asked.

" Sometimes," said John when he recovered
his voice, and then, with as clear an expression
of innocence as he could command, but some-
what irrelevantly, asked, " How did you get on
with Mrs. Price?"

" Oh," said David, " nicer 'n a cotton hat.
She appeared to be a quiet sort of woman that
might 'a' lived anywhere, but she was dressed to
kill — an' so was the rest on 'em, fer that matter,"
he remarked with a laugh. " I tried to tell Polly
about 'em afterwuds, an' — he, he, he! — she shut
me up mighty quick, an' I thought myself at
the time, thinks I, it's a good thing it's warm
weather, I says to myself. Oh, yes. Mis' Price
made me feel quite to home, but I didn't talk
much the fust part of dinner, an* J s'pose she
was more or less took up with havin' so many
folks at table; but fin'ly she says to me, * Mr.
Price was so annoyed about your breakfust, Mr.
Harum.*

" * Was he? * I says. * I was afraid you'd be
the one that 'd be vexed at me.*

" * Vexed with you? I don't understand,*
she says.

" * 'Bout the napkin I sp'iled,' I says. * Meb-
be not actially sp'iled,' I says, * but it'll have to
go into the wash 'fore it c'n be used agin.' She
kind o* smiled, an' says, * Really, Mr. Harum, I
don't know what you are talkin' about.'

" * Hain't nobody told ye? ' I says. ' Well, if
they hain't they will, an' I may *s well make a

DAVID HARUM.

247

Lr.
[r.

Ihe

if
a

clean breast on't. I'm awful sorry/ I says, ' but
this mornin' when I come to the egg I didn't see
no way to eat it 'cept to peel it, an fust I knew
it kind of exploded and daubed ev'rythin' all
over creation. Yes'm,' I says, ' it went off, 's ye
mighi say, like old Elder Maybee's powder.* I
guess," said David, '* that I must 'a' ben talkin'
ruther louder 'n I thought, fer I looked up an'
noticed that putty much ev'ry one on 'em was
lookin' our way, an' kind o' laughin', an' Price in
pertic'ler was grinnin' straight at me.

" • What's that/ he says, ' about Elder May-
bee's powder?'

" ' Oh, nuthin* much,' I says, ' jest a little
supprise party the elder had up to his house/

" ' Tell us about it/ says Price. * Oh, yes,
do tell us about it,' says Mis' Price.

" * Wa'al,' I says, ' the' ain't much to it in the
way of a story, but seein' dinner must be most
through,' I says, * I'll tell ye all the' was of it.
The elder had a small farm 'bout two miles out
of the village,' I says, * an' he was great on raisin'
chickins an' turkeys. He was a slow, putterin*
kind of an ole foozle, but on the hull a putty de-
cent citizen. Wa'al,* I says, * one year when the
poultry was comin' along, a family o' skunks
moved onto the premises an' done so well that
putty soon, as the elder said^ it seemed to him
that it was comin' to be a ch'ice between the
chickin bus'nis an' the skunk bus'nis, an' though
he said he'd heard the' was money in it, if it was
done on a big enough scale, he hadn't ben edi-
cated to it, he said, and didn't take to it any ways.
So,' I says, * he scratched 'round an' got a lot o*
traps an* set 'em, an' the very next mornin* he
went out an' found he'd ketched an ole he-one —

•?/

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'I'

I '

248

DAVID HARUM.

president of the comp'ny. So he went to git his
gun to shoot the critter, an' found he hadn't got
no powder. The boys had used it all up on
woodchucks, an' the' wa'n't nothin' fer it but to
git some more down to the village, an', as he had
some more things to git, he hitched up 'long in
the forenoon an' drove down.' At this," said
David, ** one of the ladies, wife to the judge, name
o' Pomfort, spoke up an' says, * Did he leave
that poor creature to suffer all that time?
Couldn't it have been put out of it's misery some
other way?'

" ' Wa'al marm,' I says, * I never happened to
know but one feller that set out to kill one o'
them things with a club, an' he put in most o'
his time fer a week or two up in the woods hatin'
himself,' I says. * He didn't mingle in gen'ral so-
ci'ty, an' in fact,' I says, * he had the hull road to
himself, as ve might say, fer a putty consid'able
spell.'"

John threw back his head and laughed. " Did
she sav any more?" he asked.

" No," said David with a chuckle. " All the
men set up a great laugh, an' she colored up in
a kind of huf¥ at fust, an' then she begun to laugh
too, an' then one o' the waiter fellers put some-
thin' down in front of me an' I went eatin' agin.
But putty soon Price, he says, * Come,' he says,
* tiarum, ain't you goin' on? How about that
powder?'

" * Wa'al,' I says, * mebbe we had ought to
put that critter out of his misery. The elder went
down an' bought a pound o' powder an' had it
done up in a brown paper bundle, an' put it
with his other stufif in the bottom of his dem'crat
wagin ; but it come on to rain some while he was

isSSJWMr*:

?l'l

DAVID HARUM.

ridin' back, an' the <;t„ff „ . '49

fo when he got h^r^X l^^^^^^or less wet, an'
an pu ,t u„j ^ « spread i out m a dishpan
thmkin' that i- wa'n'f Hr, • - ?" *'°^« to dry an'
"-de out to aS NaCe t f?°"^''' ^ ^ W,
frrm' on't up with the ll'tl' *^ ^^yi"' is, by
I says, • I don't ie<;V t„ 'l"^*"" Po^er. Wa'al •
the elder cerZlf^MnT7er^°,7 " ,''='PPene^ ai'
untangled fn, under what ^fw."'?'^ S°"'™
shed an' the kitchin stnL '^^f °f "'^ wood-
fotton battin', an" set h^-I'r ^" "?'' ^im up fn
house, an' a few things m,'!"^' ,^" P"' »« the
.-[ound a little, an' thVtst thin''°f "''^ ''^ '=°«e
Wa'al, wa'al, wa'al"' " av, "^ '^« says was
Mis' May bee bend i' ^ ^''« is it, pa?" 5?"'
Peowder," he says ^„ '^T" "'"^^ '"m^ - S
Peowder! I wa7i« " t?'"?",'' "° voice, "tha
jvent o-f.f, itl^nf !/!;i:",'^ °f' ^^"ttle, an' tt

'^ ■• • w"ii"r ^^^ <'°"- ' '''' '° """' ''""•

says, 'aughin''Hke'ey^°Thrn/°"J '"% '^S-' she
bee s sake '; an' in fL7" "?: J.""" Elder May-
laughed except one dler ' w °^"''' " 'hey a^l
man_l fergit*^ his „a^e Wu. T "" En^ish-
he looked kind o' m^itU ,r'^" ^ got through
imitated his style as w.i? ^l '^^^ (Mr. Harum

ally, Mr. Harum you kneow t^.^^^i' " ' ^"""^
dah always geoes nff Z^?^ *^' s the way now-
said Davfd, '' theytughed C^"^' ^" 'hen!"

'"'. so't I couldn't gft „• , ^^^y ™s all laugh-
waiter brought me a^ot," r oWf''', '?' *^" 'he

Scat my , « ^e exdai „& '', "' °f somethin'.

,j xciaimed, i thought that

.*(•,
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250

DAVID HARUM.

dinner 'd go on till kingdom come. An' wine!
Wa'al! I begun to feel somethin' like the old
feller did that swallered a full tumbler of white
whisky, thinkin' it was water. The old feller v as
temp'rence, an' the boys put up a job on him one
hot day at gen'ral trainin'. Somebody ast him
afterwuds how it made him feel, an' he said he
felt as if he was sittin' straddle the meetin* house,
an' ev'ry shingle was a Jew's-harp. So I kep'
mum fer a while. But jest before we fin'ly got
through, an' I hadn't said nothin' fer a spell, Mis'
Price turned to me an' says, * Did you have a
pleasant drive this afternoon?'

" * Yes'm,' I says, ' I seen the hull show, putty
much. I guess poor folks must be 't a premium
'round here. I reckon,' I says, * that if they'd
club together, the folks your husband p'inted out
to me to-day could almost satisfy the require-
ments of the 'Merican Soci'ty fer For'n Missions.'
Mis' Price laughed, an' looked over at her hus-
band. * Yes,' says Price, * I told Mr. Harum about
some of the people we saw this afternoon, an' I
must say he didn't appear to be as much im-
pressed as I thought he would. How's that, Ha-
rum? ' he says to me.

" ' Wa'al,' says I, ' I was thinkin' 't I'd like
to bet you two dollars to a last year's bird's nest,'
I says, * that if all them fellers we seen this after-
noon, that air over fifty, c'd be got together,
an' some one was suddinly to holler " LOW
BRIDGE!" that nineteen out o' twenty 'd duck
their heads* "

"And then?" queried John.

"Wa'al," said David, "all on 'em laughed
some, but Price — he jest lay back an' roared,
and I found out afterwuds," added David, " that

DAVID HARUM.

251

ite
■:\s'
»ue
lim
he
ise,
cep'
got

/e a

ev'ry man at the table, except the Englis'man,
know'd what * low bridge ' meant from actial ex-
perience. Wa'al, scat my ! " he exclaimed,

as he looked at his watch, " it ain't hardly wuth
while undressin'," and started for the door. As
he was halfway through it, he turned and said,
" Say, I s'pose you'd 'a' known what to do with
that t^z" but he did not wait for a reply.

)Utty
lium
[ley'd
d out
luire-
iions.
^ hus-
about
an' I
im-
Ha-

Uke
nest,'
after-
rether,

[low

duck

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p- I

\i !

!,■:,

[ugbed

loared,

" that

'•*"%.•♦»»«;«

'"jMrnau^

•^^*««**«»

CHAPTER XXVIII.

It must not be understood that the Harums,
Larrabees, Robinsons, Elrights, and sundry who
have thus fa r been mentioned, represented the
only types ..; the prosperous and enterprising
village of Homeville, and David perhaps some-
what magnified the one-time importance of the
Cullom family, although he was speaking of a
period some forty years earlier. Be that as it
may, there were now a good many families, most
of them descendants of early settlers, who lived in
good and even fine houses, and were people of re-
finement and considerable wealth. These c insti-
tuted a coterie of their own, though they were on
terms of acquaintance and comity with the " vil-
lage people," as they designated the rank and file
of the Homeville population. To these houses
came in the summer sons and daughters, nieces,
nephews, and grandchildren, and at the period of
which I am writing there had been built on the
shore of the lake, or in its vicinity, a number of
handsome and stately residences by people who
had been attracted by the beauty of the situation
and the salubrity of the summer climate. And
so, for some months in the pleasant season, the
village was enlivened by a concourse of visitors
who brought with them urban customs, cos-
tumes, and equipages, and gave a good deal of
252

W '}

DAVID HARUM.

253

life and color to the village streets. Then did
Homeville put its best foot forward and money in
its pouch.

" I ain't what ye might call an old residenter,"
said David, " though I was part raised on Bux-
ton Hill, an' I ain't so well 'quainted with the
nabobs; but Polly's lived in the village ever
sence she got married, an' knows their fam'ly his-
t'ry, dam, an' sire, an' pedigree gen'ally. Of
course," he remarked, '* I know all the men folks,
an' they know me, but I never ben into none o'
their houses except now an' then on a matter of
bus'nis, an' I guess," he said with a laugh, " that
Polly 'd allow 't she don't spend all her time in
that circle. Still," he added, " they all know her,
an' ev'ry little while some o' the women folks '11
come in an' see her. She's putty popular, Polly
is," he concluded.

" I should think so, indeed," remarked John.

" Yes, sir," said David, " the's worse folks 'n
Polly Bixbee, if she don't put on no style ; an' the
fact is, that some of the folks that lives here the
year 'round, an' always have, an' call the rest on
us * village people,' 'r' jest as countryfied in their
way 's me an' Polly is in our'n — only they don't
know it. 'Bout the only diff'rence is the way
they talk an' live." John looked at Mr. Harum
in some doubt as to the seriousness of the last
remark.

" Go to the 'Piscopal church, an' have what
they call dinner at six o'clock," said David.
" Now, there's the The'dore Verjooses," he con-
tinued; "the 'rig'nal Verjoos come an' settled
here some time in the thirties, I reckon. He was
some kind of a Dutchman, I guess " [" Dutch-
man " was Mr. Harum's gtiicnc name for all peo-

■I'r*'^

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254

DAVID HARUM.

■' il

pie native to the Continent of Europe] ; " but he
had some money, an' bought land an' morgidges,
an' so on, an' havin' money — money was awful
source in them early days — made more; never
spent anythin' to speak of, an' died pinchin' the
'rig'nal cent he started in with."

" He was the father of Mr. Verjoos the other
banker here, I suppose?" said John.

" Yes," said David, " the' was two boys an' a
sister. The oldest son, Alferd, went into the
law an' done bus'nis in Albany, an' afterw'ds
moved to New York ; but he's always kept up the
old place here. The old man left what was a
good deal o' propity fer them days, an' Alf he
kept his share an' made more. He was in the
Assembly two three terms, an' afterw'ds member
of Congress, an' they do say," remarked Mr. Ha-
rum with a wink, " that he never lost no money
by his politics. On the other hand, The'dore
made more or less of a muddle on't, an' 'mongst
*em they set him up in the bankin' bus'nis. I
say * them ' because the Verjooses, an' the Rog-
erses, an' the Swaynes, an' a lot of 'em, is all more
or less related to each other, but Alf's reely the
one at the bottom on't, an' after The 'd lost most
of his money it was the easiest way to kind o*
keep him on his legs."

" He seems a good-natured, easy-going sort
of person," said John by way of comment, and,
truth to say, not very much interested.

" Oh, yes," said David rather contemptuously,
" you could drive him with a tow string. He
don't knozv enough to run away. But what I
was gettin' at was this: He an' his wife — he mar-
ried one of the Tenakers — has lived right here
fer the Lord knows how long; born an' brought

1 <il

DAVID HARUM.

255

up here both on 'em, an* somehow we're * village
people ' an' they ain't, that's all."

'• Rather a fine distinction," remarked his
hearer, smiling.

" Yes, sir," said David. " Now, there's old
maid Allis, relative of the Rogerses, lives all
alone down on Clark Street in an old house that
hain't had a coat o' paint or a new shingle sence
the three Thayers was hung, an' she talks about
the folks next door, both sides, that she's knowed
alwus, as * village people,' and I don't believe,"
asserted the speaker, " she was ever away f'm
Homeville two weeks in the hull course of her
life. She's a putty decent sort of a woman too,"
Mr. Harum admitted. " If the' was a death in
the house she'd go in an' help, but she wouldn't
never think of askin' one on 'em to tea."

" I suppose you have heard it said," remarked
John, laughing, " that it takes all sorts of people
to make a world."

" I think I hev heard a rumor to that effect,"
said David, " an' I guess the' 's about as much
human nature in some folks as the' is in others,
if not more."

" And I don't fancy that it makes very much
diflference to you," said John, " whether the Ver-
jooses or Miss Allis call you 'village people*
or not."

" Don't cut no figger at all," declared Mr.
Harum. " Polly 'n I are too old to set up fer
shapes even if we wanted to. A good fair road-
gait 's good enough fer me; three square meals,
a small portion of the * filthy weed,' as it's called
in po'try, a boss 'r two, a ten-dollar note where
you c'n lay your hand on't, an' once in a while,
when your consciunce pricks ye, a little some-

1^1

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256

DAVID HARUM.

thin' to permote the cause o' temp'rence, an*
make the inwurd moniter quit jerkin' the reins
— wa'al, I guess I c'n git along, heh?"

" Yes," said John, by way of making some re-
joinder, " if one has all one needs it is enough."

" Wa'al, yes," observed the philosopher,
" that's so, as you might say, up to a certain
pointy an' in some ways. I s'pose a feller could
git alonjL bu". at the same time I've noticed that,
gen'ally / \hW, a leetle too big 's about the
right size.

" I am luld," sau! John, after a pause in which
the conversation seemed to be dying out for
lack of fuel, and apropos of nothing in par-
ticular, " that Homeville is quite a summer re-
sort."

" Quite a consid'able," responded Mr. Harum.
" It has ben to some extent fer a good many
years, an' it's gettin' more an' more so all the
time, only diflf'rent. I mean," he said, " that the
folks that come now make more show an' most
on 'em who ain't visitin' their relations either has
places of their own or hires 'em fer the summer.
One time some folks used to come an' stay at
the hotel. The' was quite a fair one then," he ex-
plained; "but it burned up, an'wa'n't never built
up agin because it had got not to be thought the
fash'nable thing to put up there. Mis' Robinson
(Dug's wife), an' Mis' Truman, 'round on Lay-
lock Street, has some fam'lies that come an' board
with them ev'ry year, but that's about all the
boardin' the' is nowdays." Mr. Harum stopped
and looked at his companion thoughtfully for a
moment, as if something had just occurred to
him.

" The' '11 be more o' your kind o' folk 'round,

DAVID HARUM.

25;

come summer," he said; and then, on a second
thought, " you're 'Piscopal, ain't ye? "

" I have always attended that service," replied
John, smiling, " and I have gone to St. James's
here nearly every Sunday."

" Hain't they taken any notice of ye? " asked
David.

" Mr. Euston, the rector, called upon me,"
said John, " but I have made no further acquaint-
ances."

** E-um'm!" said David, and, after a moment,
in a sort of confidential tone, " Do y <. like goin*
to church?" he asked.

" Well," said John, " that dep nds -yes, I
think I do. I think it is the proper thing," he
concluded weakly.

" Depends some on how 1 leller's ben
brought up, don't ye think so?" id David.

" I should think it very likely," John assented,
struggling manfully with a yawn.

" I guess that's about my case," remarked
Mr. Harum, " an' I sh'd have to admit that I
ain't much of a hand fer church-goin'. Polly has
the princ'pal charge of that branch of the bus'nis,
an' the one I stay away from, when I don't go,"
he said with a grin, " 's the Prespyteriun." John
laughed.

" No, sir," said David, " I ain't much of a
hand for't. Polly used to worry at me about it
till I fin'ly says to her, ' Polly,' I says, ' I'll tell
ye what I'll do. I'll compermise with ye,' I says.
* I won't undertake to foller right along in your
track — I hain't got the req'sit speed,' I says, ' but
f'm now on I'll go to church reg'lar on Thanks-
givin'.' It was putty near Thanksgivin' time,"
he remarked, " an' J dunno but she thought if

1 1' • '•

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258

DAVID HARUM.

ar'

she c'd git me started I'd finish the heat, an' so
we fixed it at that."

" Of course," said John with a laugh, " you
kept your promise? "

" Wa'al, sir," declared David with the utmost
gravity, " fer the next five years I never missed
attendin' church on Thanksgivin' day but four
times; but after that," he added, " I had to beg
off. It was too much of a strain," he declared
with a chuckle, " an' it took more time 'n Polly
c'd really afford to git me ready." And so he
rambled on upon such topics as suggested them-
selves to his mind, or in reply to his auditor's
comments and questions, which were, indeed,
more perfunctory than otherwise. For the Ver-
jooses, the Rogerses, the Swaynes, and the rest,
were people whom John not only did not know,
but whom he neither expected nor cared to
know; and so his present interest in them was
extremely small.

Outside of his regular occupations, and de-
spite the improvement in his domestic environ-
ment, life was so dull for him that he could not
imagine its ever being otherwise in Homeville.
It was a year since the world — his world — had
come to an end, and though his sensations of loss
and defeat had passed the acute stage, his mind
was far from healthy. He had evaded David's
question, or only half answered it, when he
merely replied that the rector had called upon
him. The truth was that some tentative ad-
vances had been made to him, and Mr. Euston
had presented him to a few of the people in his
flock; but beyond the point of mere politeness
he had made no response, mainly from indiffer-
ence, but to a degree because of a suspicion that

'« u

DAVID HARUM.

259

his connection with Mr. Harum would not, to
say the least, enhance his position in the minds
of certain of the people of Homeville. As has
been intimated, it seemed at the outset of his ca-
reer in the village as if there had been a com-
bination of circumstance and effort to put him
on his guard, and, indeed, rather to prejudice
him against his employer; and Mr. Harum, as it
now appeared to our friend, had on one or two oc-
casions laid himself open to misjudgment, if no
more. No allusion had ever been made to the
episode of the counterfeit money by either his
employer or himself, and it was not till months
afterward that the subject was brought up by
Mr. Richard Larrabee, who sauntered into the
bank one morning. Finding no one there but
John, he leaned over the counter on his elbows,
and, twisting one leg about the other in a restful
attitude, proceeded to open up a conversation
upon various topics of interest to his mind. Dick
was Mr. Harum's confidential henchman and fac-
totum, although not regularly so employed. His
chief object in life was apparently to get as much
amusement as possible out of that experience,
and he was quite unhampered by over-nice no-
tions of delicacy or bashfulness. But, withal, Mr.
Larrabee was a very honest and loyal person,
strong in his likes and dislikes, devoted to David,
for whom he had the greatest admiration, and he
had taken a fancy to our friend, stoutly main-
taining that he " wa'n't no more stuck-up *n you
be," only, as he remarked to Bill Perkins, " he
hain't had the advantigis of your bringin' up."

After some preliminary talk — " Say," he said
to John, " got stuck with any more countyfit
money lately?"

I 1

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fir--

260

DAVID HARUM.

^if

John's face reddened a little and Dick laughed.

" The old man told me about it," he said.
" Say, you'd ought to done as he told ye to.
You'd 'a' saved fifteen collars," Dick declared,
looking at our friend with an expression of the
utmost amusement.

" I don't quite understand," said John rather
stiffly.

*' Didn't he tell ye to charge *em up to the
bank, an' let him take 'em? " asked Dick.

"Well?" said John shortly.

" Oh, yes, I know," said Mr. Larrabee. " He
said sumpthin' to make you think he was goin' to
pass 'em out, an' you didn't give him no show
to explain, but jest marched into the back room
an' stuck 'em onto the fire. Ho, ho, ho, ho! He
told me all about it," cried Dick. " Say," he de-
clared, '* I dunno 's I ever see the old man more
kind o* womble-cropped over anythin'. Why,
he wouldn't no more 'a' passed them 1)1118 'n he'd
'a' cut his hand off. He, he, he, he! He was
jest ticklin' your heels a little," said Mr. Larrabee,
" to see if you'd kick, an'," chuckled the speaker,
" you surely did."

" Perhaps I acted rather hastily," said John,
laughing a little from contagion.

" Wa'al," said Dick, " Dave's got ways of his
own. I've summered an' wintered with him now
for a good many years, an' / ain't got to the bot-
tom of him yet, an'," he acfded, " I don't know
nobody that has."

5.1

)

CHAPTER XXIX.

Although, as time went on and John had
come to a better insight of the character of the
eccentric person whom Dick had failed to fath-
om, his half-formed prejudices had fallen away,
it must be admitted that he ofttimes found him a
good deal of a puzzle. The domains of the seri-
ous and the facetious in David's mind seemed to
have no very well defined boundaries.

The talk had drifted back to the people and
gossip of Homeville, but, sooth to say, it had not
on this occasion got far away from those topics.

*' Yes," said Mr. Harum, " Alf Verjoos is on
the hull the best off of any of the lot. As I told
ye, he made money on top of what the old
man left him, an' he m.arried money. The fam'ly
— some on 'em — comes here in the summer, an'
he's here part o' the time gen'ally, but the women
folks won't stay here winters, an' the house is left
in care of Alf's sister who never got married. He
don't care a hill o' white beans fer anything in
Homeville but the old place, and he don't cal'late
to have nobody on his grass, not if he knows it.
Him an' me are on putty friendly terms, but the
fact is," said David, in a semi-confidential tone,
" he's about an even combine of pykery an' vini-
ger, an' about as pop'lar in gen'ral 'round here
as a skunk in a hen-house; but Mis' Verjoos is

26x

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*^*- •■•■••* xwteisieaj^

262

DAVID ±.\RUM.

putty well liked; an* one o' the girls, Claricy is
her name, is a good deal of a fav'rit. Juliet, the
other one, don't mix with the village folks much,
an' sometimes don't come with the fam'ly at all.
She favors h^r father," remarked the historian.

" Inherits his popularity, I conclude," re-
marked John, smiling.

" She does favor him to some extent in that
respect/' was the reply ; " an' she's dark com-
plected like him, but she's a mighty han'some
girl, notwithstandin*. Both on 'em is han'some
girls," observed Mr. Harum, " an' great fer
iiosses, an* that's the way I got 'quainted with
*em. They're all fer ridin' hossback when they're
up here. Did you ever ride a hoss? ** he asked.

" Oh, yes," said John, " I have ridden a good
deal one time and another.**

" Never c'd ace the sense on't,** declared Da-
vid. " I c'n imagine gettin' on to a hoss's back
when *t was either that or walkin', but to do
it fer the fun o' the thing *s more 'n I c'n under-
stand. There you be," he continued, " stuck up
four five feet up in the air like a clo'espin, havin*
your backbone chucked up into your skull, an*
takin* the skin off in spots an* places, expectin'
ev'ry next minute the critter'll git out f'm under
ye — no, sir," he protested, " if it come to be that
it was either to ride a hossback fer the fun o' the
thing or have somebody kick me, an' kick me
hard, I'd say, * Kick away.* It comes to the same
thing fur 's enjoyment goes, and it's a dum sight
safer.'*

John laughed outright, while David leaned
forward with his hands on his knees, looking at
him with a broad though somewhat doubtful
smile.

■s .-I

DAVID HARUM.

263

"That being your feeling," remarked John,
" I should think saddle horses would be rather
out of your line. Was it a saddle horse that the
Misses Verjoos were interested in?"

" Wa'al, I didn't buy him fer that," replied
David, " an' in fact when the feller that sold him
to me told me he'd ben rode, I allowed that
ought to knock twenty dollars off 'n the price,
but I did have such a hoss, an', outside o' that, he
was a nice piece of hoss flesh. I was up to the
barn one mornin', mebbe four years ago," he con-
tinued, " when in drove the Verjoos carriage with
one of the girls, the oldest one, inside, an* the
yeller-haired one on a hossback. * Good morn-
in'. You're Mr. Harum, ain't you? ' she says.
* Good mornin',' I says, * Harum's the name 't
I use when I appear in public. You're Miss Ver-
joos, I reckon,' I says.

" She laughed a little, an' says, motionin' with
her head to'ds the carriage, * My sister is Miss
Verjoos. I'm Miss Claricy.' I took ofif my cap,
an' the other girl jest bowed her head a little.

" * I heard you had a hoss 't I could ride,'
says the one on hossback.

" ' Wa'al,' I says, lookin' at her hoss, an' he
was a good one," remarked David, " * fer a saddle
hoss, I shouldn't think you was entirely out o'
houses long's you got that one.' * Oh,' she says,
this is my sister's hoss. Mine has hurt his leg
so badly that I am 'fraid I sha'n't be able to ride
him this summer.' * Wa'al,' I says, * I've got
a hoss that's ben rode, so I was told, but I don't
know of my own knowin'.'

" * Don't you ride? ' she says. * Hossback?'
I says. * Why, of course,' she says. ' No,
ma'am/ I says, * not when I c'n raise the money

r ' '

'P'

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264

DAVID HARUM.

to pay my -fine.' She looked kind o' puzzled at
that," remarked David, " but I see the other girl
look at her an' give a kind of quiet laugh."

" * Can I see him? ' says Miss Claricy. * Cer-
t'nly,' I says, an' went an' brought him out.
' Oh!' she says to her sister, 'ain't he a beauty?
C'n I try him? ' she says to me. * Wa'al,' I says,

* I guess I c'n resk it if you can, but I didn't buy
him fer a saddle hoss, an' if I'm to own him fer
any len'th of time I'd ruther he'd fergit the sad-
dle bus'nis, an' in any case,' I says, ' I wouldn't
like him to git a sore back, an' then agin,' I says,

* I hain't got no saddle.'

** * Wa'al,' she says, givin' her head a toss, ' if
I couldn't sit straight I'd never ride agin. I never
made a boss's back sore in my life,' she says.

* We c'n change the saddle,' she says, an' off she

jumps, an', scat my ! " exclaimed David,

" the way she knowed about gettin' that saddle
fixed, pads, straps, girt's, an' the hull bus'nis, an'
put up her foot fer me to give her a lift, an'
wheeled that hoss an' went out o' the yard a- kitin',
was as slick a piece o' hoss bus'nis as ever I see.
It took fust money, that did," said Mr. Harum
with a confirmatory shake of the head. " W I'al,"
he resumed, " in about a few minutes back she
come, lickity-cut, an' pulled up in front of me.

* C'n you send my sister's hoss home?' she 'jays,

* an' then I sha'n't have to change agin. I'll
stay on my boss,' she says, laughin', an' tnen igin
laughin' fit to kill, fer I stood there with my
mouth open clear to my back teeth, not bein'
used to dcin' bus'nis 'ith quite so much ne-'tniss
an' dispatch, as the sayin' is.

" * Oh, it's all right,' she says. ' Poppa ' ^me
home last night an' I'll have him see yoir ^his

DAVID HARUM.

265

an'
an'

igin
my
bein'

'tniss

^me
^his

afternoon or to-morro',' * But mebbe he 'n I
won't agree about the price/ I says. * Yes, you
will/ she says, * an' if you don't I won't make his
back sore ' — an' off they went, an' left me standin*
there like a stick in the mud. I've bought an*
sold bosses to some extent fer a consid'able num-
ber o' years," said Mr. Harum reflectively, " but
that partic'ler transaction's got a peg all to itself."

John laughed and asked, " How did it come
out? I mean, what sort of an interview did you
have with the young woman's father, the popular
Mr. Verjoos?"

" Oh," said David, " he druv up to the office
the next mornin', 'bout ten o'clock, an' come into
the back room here, an' after we'd passed the
time o' day, he says, clearin' his throat in a way
he's got, ' He-uh, he-uh! ' he says, ' my daughter
tells me that she run off with a boss of yours
yestidy in rather a summery manner, an — he-uh-
uh — I have come to see you about payin' fer him.
What is the price? ' he says.

" * Wa'al,' I says, more 'n any thin' to see what
he'd say, * what would you say he was wuth?' An'
with that he kind o' stiffened a little stiffer 'n he
was before, if it could be.

" ' Really,' he says, * he-uh-uh, I haven't any
idea. I haven't seen the animal, an' I should not
consider myself qual'fied to give an opinion upon
his value if I had, but,' he says, ' I don't know
that that makes any material diff'rence, however,
because I am quite — he-uh, he-uh — in your hands
— he-uh! — within limits — he-uli-uh! — within lim-
its/ he says. That kind o' riled me," remarked
David. " I see in a minute vvhat was passin' in his
mind. ' Wa'al/ I says, * Mr. Verjoos, I guess the
fact o' the matter is 't I'm about as much in the
z8

266

DAVID HARUM.

I V

i n

mud as you be in the mire — your daughter's get
my boss,' I says. * Now you ain't dealin' with d
boss jockey/ I says, ' though I don't deny that I
buy an' sell bosses, an' once in a while make
money at it. You're dealin' with David Ha-
rum, Banlcer, an' I consider 't I'm dealin' with
a lady, or the father of one on her account,' I
says.

" * He-uh, he-uh! I meant no offense, sir,' he
says.

" ' None bein' meant, none vvill be took,' I
says. * Now,' I says, * I was oiT^-red one-seventy-
five fer that lioss day before yes'.idy, an' wouldn't
take it. I can't sell him fer thai,' I says.

" ' He-uh, uh! cert'nly not,' he says.

" * Wait a minit,' I says. * I can't sell him fer
that because I said I wouldn't; but if you feel
Hke drawin' your check fer one-scventy-.yu',' I
says, * we'll call it a deal.' " The speaker paused
with a chuckle.

"Well?" said John.

'' Wa'al," said David, " he, he, he, he! That
clean took the wind out of him, an' he or-ot redder
'n a beet. ' He-uh-uh-uh-huh! really,' he says,
* I couldn't think of ofiferin' you less than two
bunderd.'

" * All right,' I says, *' , u send up fer the boss.
One-seventy-six is my :e, no more an' no
less,' an' I got up out o' my chair."

"And what did be say then?" asked John.

" Wa'al," replied Mr. Harum, " he settled his
neck down into his collar an' necktie an' cleared
his throat a few times, an' says, * You put me in
rutber an embarrassin' position, Mr. Harum.
My daughter has set her heart on the boss, an*
— be-uh-uh-uh ! ' — with a kind of a smile like a

DAVID HARUM.

267

wrinkle ir a boot, * I can't very well tell her that
I wouldn't buy him because you wouldn't accept
a higher offer than your own price. I — I think
I must accede to your proposition, an' — he-uh-uh
— accept the favor,' he says, draggin' the words
out by the roots.

" * No favor at all,' I says, ' not a bit on't, not
n. bit on't. It was the cleanest an' slickist deal
I ever had/ I says, ' an' x've had a good miny.
That girl o' your'n,' I says, * if you don't aind
my sayin' it, comes as near bein' a full team an' a
cross dog under the wagin as you c'n git ; an' you
c'n tell her if you think fit,' I says, ' that if she
ever wants anythin' more out o' my barn I'll
throw off twenty-four dollars ev'ry time, if she'll
onlv do her own buyin'.'

'" Wa'al," said Mr. Harum, " I didn't know
but what he'd gag a little at that, but he didn't
seem to, an' when he went off after givin' me his
check, he put out his hand an' shook hands, a
thing he never done before."

" That was really very amusing," was John's
comment.

" 'T wa'n't a bad day's work either," observed
Mr. Harum. " I've sold the crowd a good many
bosses since then, an' I've laughed a thousan'
times over that pertic'ler trade. Me 'n Miss Clar-
icy," he added, " has alwus ben good friends
sence that time — an' she 'n Polly are reg'lar neet-
ups. She never sees me in the street but what
it's 'How dee do, Mr. H-a-rum?' An' I'll say,
'Ain't that ole boss wore out yet?' or, 'When
you comin' 'round to run off with another boss?'
I'll say."

At this point David get out of his chair,
yawned, and walked over to the window.

^.f

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268

DAVID HARUM.

" Did you ever in all your born days," he said,
"see such dum'd weather? Jest look out there
— no sleighin', no vvheelin', an' a barn full wantin*
exercise. Wa'al, I guess I'll be moseyin' along."
And out he went.

CHAPTER XXX.

515

If John Lenox had kept a diary for the first
year of his Hfe in Homeville most of its pages
would have been blank.

The daily routine of the office (he had no
assistant but the callow Hopkins) was more ex-
acting than laborious, but it kept him confined
seven hours in the twenty-four. Still, there was
time in the lengthened days as the year advanced
for walking, rowing, and riding or driving about
the picturesque country which surrounds Home-
ville. He and Mr. Harum often drove together
after the bank closed, or after " tea," and it
was a pleasure in itself to observe David's dex-
terous han ig of his horses, and his content and
satisfaction in the enjoyment of his favorite pas-
time. In pursuit of business he " jogged 'round,"
as he said, behind the faithful Jinny, but when
on pleasure bent, a pair of satin-coated trotters
drew him in the latest and " slickest " model of
top-buggies.

" Of course," he said, " I'd ruther ride all
alone than not to ride at all, but the's twice as
much fun in't when you've got somebody along.
I ain't much of a talker, unless I happen to git
started " (at which assertion John repressed a
smile), " but once in a while I like to have some-
body to say somethin' to. You like to come
along, don't ye?"

269

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270

DAVID HARUM.

((

Very much indeed."

" I used to git Polly to come once in a while,"
said David, " but it vva'n't no pleasure to her.
She hadn't never ben used to bosses an' alwus
set on the edge of the seat ready to jump, an' if
one o' the critters capered a little she'd want to
git right out then an' there. I reckon she never
went out but what she thanked mercy when she
struck the boss block to git back with hull
bones."

" I shouldn't have thought that she would
have been nervous with the reins in your hands,"
said John.

"Wa'al," replied David, "the last time she
come along somethin' give the team a little scare
an' she reached over an' made a grab at the lines.
That," he remarked with a grin, " was quite a
good while ago. I says to her when we got
home, * I guess after this you'd better take your
airin's on a stun-boat. You won't be so lia-
ble to git run away with an' thrOwed out,' I
says."

John laughed a little, but made no comment.

" After all," said David, " I dunno 's I blamed
her fer bein' skittish, but I couldn't have her
grabbin' the lines. It's curi's," he reflected, " I
didn't used to mind what I rode behind, nor who
done the drivin', but I'd have to adm:. that as I
git older I prefer to do it myself. I ride ev'ry
once in a while with fellers that c'n drive as well,
an' mebbe better, 'n I can, an' I know it, but if
anythin' turns up, or looks like it, I can't help
wishin' 't I had holt o' the lines myself."

The two passed a good many hours together
thus beguiling the time. Whatever David's other
merits as a companion, he was not exacting of

DAVID HARUM.

271

response when engaged in conversation, and
rarely made any demands upon his auditor.

During that first year John made few addi-
tions to his social acquaintance, and if in the
summer the sight of a gay party of young peo-
ple caused some stirrings in his breast, they were
not strong enough to induce him to make
any attempts toward the acquaintance which
he might have formed. He was often conscious
of glances of curiosity directed toward him-
self, and Mr. Euston was asked a good many
questions about the latest addition to his congre-
gation.

Yes, he had called upon Mr. Lenox and his
call had been returned. In fact, they had had
several visits together — had met out walking
once and had gone on in company. Was Mr.
Lenox " nice "? Yes, he had made a pleasant im-
pression upon Mr. Euston, and seemed to be a
person of intelligence and good breeding — very
gentlemanlike. Why did not people know him?
Well, Mr. Euston had made some proffers to that
end, but Mr. Lenox had merely expressed his
thanks. No, Mr. Euston did not know how he
happened to be in Homeville and employed by
that queer old Mr. Harum, and living with him
and his funny old sister; Mr. Lenox had not con-
fided in him at all, and though very civil and
pleasant, did not appear to wish to be communi-
cative.

So our friend did not make his entrance that
season into the drawing or dining rooms of any
of what David called the " nabobs' " houses. By
the middle or latter part of October Homeville
was deserted of its visitors and as many of that

i 11

2/2

DAVID HARUM.

class of its regular population as had the means
to go with and a place to go to.

It was under somewhat different auspices that
John entered upon the second winter of his so-
journ. It has been made plain that his relations
with his employer and the kind and lovable Polly
were on a satisfactory and permanent footing.

" I'm dum'd," said David to Dick Larrabee,
" if it hain't got putty near to the p'int when if
I want to git anythin' out o' the common run out
o' Polly, I'll have to ask John to fix it fer me.
She's like a cow with a calf," he declared.

" David sets all the store in the world by
him," stated Mrs. Bixbee to a friend, " though he
don't jest let on to — not in so many words. He's
got a kind of a notion that his little boy, if he'd
lived, would 'a' ben like him some ways. I never
seen the child," she added, with an expression
which made her visitor smile, " but as near 's I
c'n make out f'm Dave's tell, he must 'a' ben red-
headed. Didn't you know 't he'd eyer ben mar-
ried? Wa'al, he was fer a few years, though it's
the one thing — wa'al, I don't mean exac'ly that —
it's one o' the things he don't have much to say
about. But once in a while he'll talk about the
boy, what he'd be nov/ if he'd lived, an' so on;
an' he's the greatest hand fer childern — everlast-
in'ly pickin' on 'em up when he's ridin' and such
as that — an' I seen him once when we was trav-
elin' on the cars go an' take a squawlin' baby
away f'm it's mother, who looked ready to drop,
an' lay it across that big chest of his, an' the little
thing never gave a whimper after he got it into
his arms — jest went right off to sleep. No,"
said Mrs. Bixbee, " I never had no childern, an'
I don't know but what I was glad of it at the

DAVID HARUM.

273

time; Jim Bixbee was about as much baby as I

thought I could manage, but now "

There was some reason for not concluding
the sentence, and so we do not know what was
in her mind.

III

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CHAPTER XXXI.

The year that had passed had seemed a very
long one to John, but as the months came and
went he had in a measure adjusted himself to the
change in his fortunes and environment; and so
as time went on the poignancy of his sorrow and
regret diminished, as it does with all of us. Yet
the sight of a gray-haired man still brought a
pang to his heart, and there were times of yearn-
ing longing to recall every line of the face,
every detail of the dress, the voice, the words, of
the girl who had been so dear to him, and who
had gone out of his life as irrevocabiy, it seemed
to him, as if by death itself. It may be strange,
but it is true that for a very long time it never oc-
curred to him that he might communicate with
her by mailing a letter to her New York address
to be forwarded, and when the thought came to
him the impulse to act upon it was very strong,
but he did not do so. Perhaps he would have
written had he been less in love with her, but
also there was mingled with that sentiment some-
thing of bitterness which, though he could not
quite explain or justify it, did exist. Then, too,
he said to himself, " Of what avail would it be?
Only to keep alive a longing for the impossible."
No, he would forget it all. Men had died and

worms had eaten them, but not for love. Many
274

DAVID HARUM.

275

men lived all their lives without it and got on
very well too, he was aware. Perhaps some day,
when he had become thoroughly affiliated and
localized, he would wed a village maiden, and
rear a Freeland County brood. Our friend, as
may be seen, had a pretty healthy mind, and we
need not sympathize with him to the disturbance
of our own peace.

Books accumulated in the best bedroom.
John's expenses were small, and there was very
little temptation, or indeed opportunity, for spend-
ing. At the time of his taking possession of his
quarters in David's house he had raised the ques-
tion of his contribution to the household ex-
penses, but Mr. Harum had declined to discuss
the matter at all and referred him to Mrs. Bixbee,
with whom he compromised on a weekly sum
which appeared to him absurdly small, but which
she protested she was ashamed to accept. After
a while a small upright piano made iti» appear-
ance, with Aunt Polly's approval.

" Why, of course," she said. " You needn't
to hev ast me. I'd like to hev you anyway. I
like music ever so much, an' so does David,
though I guess it would floor him to try an'
raise a tune. I used to sing quite a little when I
was younger, an* I gen'ally help at church an'
prayer meetin' now. Why, cert'nly. Why not?
When would you play if it wa'n't in the evenin'?
David sleeps over the wing. Do you hear him
snore? "

" Hardly ever," replied John, smiling. " That
is to say, not very much — just enough sometimes
to know that he is asleep."

"Wa'al," she said decidedly, "if he's fur
enough off so 't you can't hear him, I guess he

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276

DAVID HARUM.

won't hear you much, an' he sure won't hear you
after he gits to sleep."

So the piano came, and was a great comfort
and resource. Indeed, before long it became the
regular order of things for David and his sister
to spend an hour or so on Sunday evenings lis-
tening to his music and their own as well — that
is, the music of their choice — which latter was
mostly to be found in " Carmina Sacra " and
"Moody and Sankey"; and Aunt Polly's heart
was glad indeed when she and John together
made concord of sweet sounds in some familiar
hymn tune, to the great edification of Mr. Ha-
rum, whose admiration was unbounded.

" Did I tell you," said David to Dick Larra-
bee, " what happened the last time me an' John
went ridin' together? "

" Not's I remember on," replied Dick.

" Wa'al, we've rode together quite a consid'-
able," said Mr. Harum, " but I hadn't never said
anythin' to him about takin' a turn* at the lines.
This day we'd got a piece out into the country
an* I had the brown colts. I says to him, * Ever
do any drivin' ? "

More or less,* he says.
Like to take the lines fer a spell? ' I says.
Yes,' he says, lookin' kind o' pleased, * if
you ain't afraid to trust me with 'em,' he says.

" * Wa'al, I'll be here,' I says, an' handed 'em
over. Wa'al, sir, I see jest by the way he took
holt on 'em it wa'n't the fust time, an' we went
along to where the road turns in through a piece
of woods, an' the track is narrer, an' we run slap
onto one o' them dum'd road-engines that had
got wee-wawed putty near square across the

<< <

n <

« (

DAVID HARUM.

277

track. Now I tell ye," said Mr. Harum, " them
bosses didn't like it fer a cent, an' tell the truth
I didn't like it no better. We couldn't go ahead
fer we couldn't git by the cussed thing, an' the
bosses was 'par'ntly tryin' to git back under

the buggy, an', scat my ! if be didn't

straighten 'em out an' back 'em 'round in that
narrer road, an' hardly scraped a wheel. Yes,
sir," declared Mr. Harum, " I couldn't 'a' done
it slicker myself, an' I don't know nobody that
could."

" Guess you must 'a' felt a little ticklish your-
self," said Dick sympathetically, laughing as
usual.

" Wa'al, you better believe," declared the
other. " The' was 'bout half a minute when I'd
have sold out mighty cheap, an' took a promise
fer the money. He's welcome to drive any team
in my barn," said David, feeling — in which view
Mr. Larrabee shared — that encomium was pretty
well exhausted in that assertion.

" I don't believe," said Mr. Harum after a mo-
ment, in which be and his companion reflected
upon the gravity of bis last declaration, " that
the's any dum thing that feller can't do. The last
thing 's a piany. He's got a little one that stands
up on it's bind legs in his room, an' be c'n play
it with both hands 'thout lookin' on. Yes, sir,
we have reg'lar concerts at my bouse ev'ry Sun-
day night, admission free, an' childern half price,
an'," said David, " you'd ought to bear him an'
Polly sing, an' — he, he, he! you'd ought to see
her singin' — tickleder 'n a little dog with a nose-
gay tied to bis tail,"

" m

' ' ''

1 ,

CHAPTER XXXII.

Our friend's acquaintance with the rector of
St. James's church had grown into something
like friendship, and the two men were quite often
together in the evening. John went sometimes
to Mr. Euston's house, and not unfrequently the
latter would spend an hour in John's room over
a cigar and a chat. On one of the latter occa-
sions, late in the autumn, Mr. Euston went to the
piano after sitting a few minutes and looked over
some of the music, among which were two or
three hymnals. " You are musical," he said.

" In a modest way," was the repl;j^.

" I am very fond of it," said the clergyman,
"but have little knowledge of it. I wish I had
more," he added in a tone of so much regret as
to cause his hearer to look curiously at him.
" Yes," he said, " I wish I knew more — or less.
It's the bane of my existence," declared the rec-
tor with a half laugh. John looked inquiringly at
him, but did not respond.

" I mean the music — so called — at St.
James's," said Mr. Euston. " I don't wonder
you smile," he remarked; " but it's not a matter
for smiling with me."

" I beg pardon," said John.

" No, you need not," returned the other, " but

really Well, there are a good many unpleas-

278

DAVID HARUM.

275

ant and disheartening experiences in a clergy-
man's life, and I can, I hope, face and endure
most of them with patience, but the musical part
of my service is a never-ending source of anxiety,
perplexity, and annoyance. I think," said Mr.
Euston, " that I expend more nerve tissue upon
that branch of my responsibilities than upon all
the rest of my work. You see we can not afford
to pay any of the singers, and indeed my people
— some of them, at least — think fifty dollars is a
great sum for poor little Miss Knapp, the organ-
ist. The rest are volunteers, or rather, I should
say, have been pressed into the service. We
are supposed to have two sopranos and two
altos; but in effect it happens sometimes that
neither of a pair will appear, each expecting
the other to be on duty. The tenor, Mr. Rub-
ber, who is an elderly man without any voice
to speak of, but a very devout and faithful
churchman, is to be depended upon to the extent
of his abilities; but Mr. Little, the bass — well,"
observed Mr. Euston, " the less said about him
the better."

"How about the organist?" said John. "I
think she does very well, doesn't she?"

" Miss Knapp is the one redeeming feature,"
replied the rector, " but she has not much cour-
age to interfere. Rubber is nominally the leader,
but he knows little of music." Mr. Euston gave
a sorry little laugh. " It's trying enough," he
said, " one Sunday with another, but on Christ-
mas and Easter, v/hen my people make an un-
usual effort, and attempt the impossible, it ?.s
something deplorable."

John could not forbear a little laugh. "I
should think it must be pretty trying," he said.

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28o

DAVID HARUM.

" It is simply corroding," declared Mr.
Huston.

They sat for a while smoking in silence, the
contemplation of his woes having apparently
driven other topics from the mind of the har-
assed clergyman. At last he said, turning to
our friend;

" I have heard your voice in church."

"Yes?"

"And I noticed that you sang not only the
hymns but the chants, and in a wav to suggest
the idea that you have had experience and train-
ing. I did not come here for the purpose," said
Mr. Euston, after waiting a moment for John
to speak, " though I confess the idea has oc-
curred to me before, but it was suggested again
by the sight of your piano and mu«.ic. I know
that it is asking a great deal," he continued, " but
do you think you could undertake, for a while
at least, to help such a lame dog as I am over
the stile? Yo'i have no idea," said tjie rector ear-
nestly, " what a service you would be doing not
only to me, but to my people and the church."

John pulled thoughtfully at his mustache lor
a moment, while Mr. Euston watched his face.
'" I don't know," he said at last in a doubtful
tone. " I am afraid you are taking too much for
granted — I don't mean as to my good will, but
as to my ability to be of service, for I suppose
you mean that I should help in drilling your
choir."

" Yes," replied Mr. Euston. " I suppose it
would be too much to ask you to sing as well."

" I have had no experience in the way of lead-
ing or directing," replied John, ignoring the sug-
gestion, "though I have sung in church more

t sug-
more

DAVID HARUM.

281

or less, and am familiar with the service, but even
admitting my abihty to be of use, shouldn't you
be afraid tliat my interposing might make more
trouble than it would help? Wouldn't your choir
resent it? Such people are sometimes jealous,
you know."

" Oh, dear, yes," sighed the rector. " But,"
he added, " I think I can guarantee that there
will be no unpleasant feeling either toward you
or about you. Your being from Now York will
give you a certain prestige, and their curiosity
and the element of novelty will make the begin-
ning easy."

There came a knock at the door and Mr.
Harum appeared, but, seeing a visitor, was for
withdrawing.

" Don't go," said John. " Come in. Of
course you know Mr. Euston."

" Glad to see ye," said David, advancing and
shaking hands. " You folks talkin' bus'nis?" he
asked before sitting down.

" I am trying to persuade Mr. Lenox to do
me a great favor," said Mr. Euston.

" Well, I guess he won't want such an awful
sight o' persuadin'," said David, taking a chair,
" if he's able to do it. What does he want of
ye?" he asked, turning to John. Mr. Euston
explained, and our friend gave his reasons for
hesitating — all but the chief one, which was that
he was reluctant to commit himself to an under-
taking which he apprehended would be not only
laborious but disagreeable.

" Wa'al," said David, " as fur 's the bus'nis
itself *s concerned, the hull thing's all nix-cum-
rouse to me; but as fur *s gettin' folks to come
an* sing, you c'n git a barn full, an' take your

V !

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282

DAVID HARUM.

pick; an' a feller that c'n git a pair of bosses an*
a buggy out of a tight fix the way you done
a while ago ought to be able to break in a little
team of half a dozen women or so."

" Well," said John, laughing, *' you could have
done what I was lucky enough to do with the
horses, but "

" Yes, yes," David broke in, scratching his
cheek, " I guess you got me that time."

Mr. Euston perceived that for some reason
he had an ally and advocate in Mr. Harum. He
rose and said good-night, and John escorted him
downstairs to the door. " Pray think of it as
favorably as you can," he said, as they shook
hands at parting.

" Putty nice kind of a man," remarked David
when John came back; "putty nice kind of a
man. 'Bout the only 'quaintance you've made
of his kind, ain't he? Wa'al, he's all right fur 's
he goes. Comes of good stock, I'm told, an'
looks it. Runs a good deal to emptins in his
preachin' though, they say. How do you find
him?"

" I think I enjoy his conversation more than
his sermons," admitted John with a smile.

"Less of it at times, ain't the'?" suggested
David. " I may have told ye," he cor tinned,
" that I wa'n't a very reg'lar churchgoer, but
I've ben more or less in my time, an' when I did
listen to the sermon all through, it gen'ally
seemed to me that if the preacher 'd put all the'
really was in it together he wouldn't need to have
took only 'bout quarter the time; but what with
scorin' fer a start, an' laggin' on the back stretch,
an' ev'ry now an' then breakin' to a stan'still, I
gen'ally wanted to come down out o' the stand be-

>^_y

DAVID HARUM.

283

than

ested
nued,
, but

I did
n'ally

II the'
have
with

retch,
till, I
d be-

fore the race was over. The's a good many fast
quarter hosses," remarked Mr. Harum, " but
them that c'n keep it up for a full mile is scurce.
What you goin' to do about the music bus'nis, or
hain't ye made up your mind yet?" he asked,
changing the subject.

" I like Mr. Euston," said John, " and he
seems very much in earnest about this matter;
but I am not sure," he added thoughtfully, " that
I can do what he wants, and I must say that I
am very reluctant to undertake it; still, I don't
know but that I ought to make the trial," and he
looked up at David.

" I guess I would if I was you," said the latter.
" It can't do ye no harm, an' it may do ye some
good. The fact is," he continued, " that you ain't
out o' danger of runnin' in a rut. It would do
you good mebbe to git more acquainted, an' meb-
be this'll be the start on't."

" With a little team of half a dozen women,
as you called them," said John. " Mr. Euston
has offered to introduce me to any one I cared to
know."

" I didn't mean the singin' folks," responded
Mr. Harum, " I meant the church folks in gen'-
ral, an' it'll come 'round in a natur'l sort of way
— not like bein' took 'round by Mr. Euston as
if you'd ast him to. You can't git along — you
may, an' have fer a spell, but not alwus — with no-
body to visit with but me an' Polly an' Dick, an'
so on, an' once in a while with the parson ; you ben
nsed to somethin' diff'rent, an' while I ain't sayin'
that Homeville soci'ty, pertic'lerly in the winter,
's the finest in the land, or that me an' Polly ain't
all right in our way, you want a change o' feed
once in a while, or you may git the colic. Now,"

. ^ 1

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284

DAVID HARUM.

proceeded the speaker, " if this singin' bus'nis
don't do more'n to give ye somethin* new to
think about, an' take up an evenin' now an' then,
even if it bothers ye some, I think niebbe it'll
be a good thing fer ye. They say a reasonable
amount o' fleas is good fer a dog — keeps him
from broodin' over bciti' a dog, mebbe," sug-
gested David.

" Perhaps you are right," said John. " In-
deed, I don't doubt that you are right, and I will
take your advice."

" Thank you," said David a minute or two
later on, holding out the glass while John poured,
" jest a wisdom toothful. I don't set up to be no
Sol'mon, an' if you ever find out how I'm bettin'
on a race jest * copper ' me an' you c'n wear di'-
monds, but I know when a boss has stood too
long in the barn as soon as the next man."

It is possible that even Mr. Euston did not
fully appreciate the difficulties of the task which
he persuaded our friend John to undertake; and
it is certain that had the latter known all that
they were to be he would have hardened his heart
against both the pleadings of the rector and the
advice of David His efforts were welcomed and
seconded by Mr. Rubber the tenor, and Miss
Knapp the organist, and there was some earnest-
ness displayed at first by the ladies of the choir;
but Mr. Little, the bass, proved a hopeless case,
and John, wholly against his intentions, and his
inclinations as well, had eventually to take over
the basso's duty altogether, as being the easiest
way — in fact, the only way — to save his efforts
from downright failure.

Without going in detail into the trials and
tribulations incident to the bringing of the mu-

and

mu-

DAVID HARUM.

285

sical part of the service, at Mr. Huston's church
up to a respectable if not a high standard, it may
be said that with unremitting^ pains this end was
accomplished, to the boundless relief and grati-
tude of that worthy gentleman, and to a good
degree of the members of his congregation.

■'iii

1 not
vhich
1; and
that
heart
the
and
Miss
rnest-
hoir;
case,
id his
over
asiest
fEorts

"ii

CHAPTER XXXIII.

i '^

I I

On a fine Sunday in summer after the close of
the service the exit of the congregation of St.
James's church presents an animated and inspir-
ing spectacle. A good many well-dressed ladies
of various ages, and not quite so many well-
dressed men, mostly (as David would have put it)
" runnin' a little younger," come from out the
sacred edifice with an expression of relief easily
changeable to something gayer. A few drive
away in handsome equipages, but most prefer to
walk, and there is usually a good d^al of smiling
talk in groups before parting, in which Mr. Eus-
ton likes to join. He leaves matters in the vestry
to the care of old Barlow, the sexton, and makes,
if one may be permitted the expression, " a quick
change."

Things had come about very much as David
had desired and anticipated, and our friend had
met quite a number of the " summer people,"
having been waylaid at times by the rector — in
whose good graces he stood so hi<^h that he
might have sung anything short of a comic song
during the offertory — and presented willy-nilly.
On this particular Sunday he had lingered a
while in the gallery after service over some mat-*
ter connected with the music, and when he came
out of the church most of the people had made
s86

DAVID HARUM.

287

their way down the front steps and up the street;
but standing near the gate wn=; a group of three
— the rector and two young .omen whom John
had seen the previous summer, and now recog-
nized as the Misses Verjoos. He raised his hat
as he was passing the group, wh(tr( Mr. Eus-
ton detained him : " I want to present you to the
Misses Verjoos." A tall girl, dressed in some
black material which gave John the impression
of lace, recognized his salutation with a slight
bow and a rather indifferent survey from a pair
of very somber dark eyes, while her sister, in
light colors, gave him a smiling glance from a
pair of very blue ones, and, rather to his surprise,
put out her hand with the usual declaration of
pleasure, happiness, or what not

" We were just speaking of the singing," said
the rector, ** and I was saying that it was all your
doing."

" You really have done wonders," conde-
scended she of the somber eyes. *' We have only
been here a day or two and this is the first time
we have been at church."

The party moved out of the gate and up
the street, the rector leading with Miss Ver-
joos, followed by our friend and the younger
sister.

" Indeed you have," said the latter, seconding
her sister's remark. " I don't believe even your-
self can quite realize what the difference is. My!
it is very nice for the rest of us, but it must be a
perfect killing bore for you."

" I have found it rather trying at times," said
John; "but now — you are so kind — it is begin-
ning to appear to me as the most delightful of
pursuits."

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288

DAVID HARUM.

"Very pretty," remarked Miss Clara. '"Do
you say a good deal of that sort of thing? "

" I am rather out of practice," replied John.
" I haven't had much opportunity for some time."

'* I don't think you need feel discouraged,"
she returned. " A good metiiod is everything,
and I have no doubt you might soon be in form
again."

" Thanks for your encouragement," said John,
smiling. " I was beginning to feel quite low in
my mind about it." She laughed a little.

" I heard quite a good deal about you last
year from a very good friend of yours," said Miss
Clara after a pause.

John looked at her inquiringly.

" Mrs. Bixbee," she said. " Isn't she an old
dear? "

" I have reason to think so, with all my
heart," said John stoutly.

" She talked a lot about you to n^e," said Miss
Clara.

"Yes?"

" Yes, and if your ears did not burn you have
no sense of gratitude. Isn't Mr. Harum funny? "

" I have sometimes suspected it," said John,
laughing. " He once told me rather an amusing
thing about a young woman's running off with
one of his horses."

" Did he tell you that? Really? I wonder
what you must have thought of me? "

" Something of what Mr. Harum did, I
fancy," said John.

"What was that?"

" Pardon me," was the reply, " but I have
been snubbed once this morning." She gave a
little laugh.

DAVID HARUM.

289

" Mr. Harum and I are great * neetups/ as he
says. Is 'neetups' a nice word?" she asked,
looking at her companion.

** I should think so if I were in Mr. Harum's
place," said John. " It means ' cronies,' I be-
lieve, in his dictionary."

They had come to where Freeland Street ter-
minates in the Lake Road, which follows the bor-
der of the lake to the north and winds around
the foot of it to the south and west.

" Why! " exclaimed Miss Clara, " there comes
David. I haven't seen him this summer."

They halted and David drew up, winding the
reins about the whipstock and pulling off his
buckskin glove.

"How do you do, Mr. Harum?" said the
girl, putting her hand in his.

" How air ye. Miss Claricy? Glad to see ye
agin," he said. " I'm settin* up a little ev'ry day
now, an' you don't look as if you was off your
feed much, eh? "

" No," she replied, laughing, " I'm in what
you call pretty fair condition, I think."

" Wa'al, I reckon," he said, looking at her
smiling face with the frankest admiration.
" Guess you come out a little finer ev'ry season,
don't ye? Hard work to keep ye out o' the ' f ree-
fer-all' class, I guess. How's all the folks?"

" Nicely, thanks," she replied.

" That's right," said David.

" How is Mrs. Bixbee ? " she inquired.

" Wa'al," said David with a grin, ** I ben a
little down in the mouth lately 'bout Polly —
seems to be fallin' away some — don't weigh much
more 'n I do, I guess ; " but Miss Clara only
laughed at this gloomy report.

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DAVID HARUM.

" How is my horse Kirby? " she asked.

" Wa'al, the ole bag-o'-bones is breathin* yet,"
said David, chuckling, " but he's putty well wore
out — has to lean up agin the shed to whicker.
Guess I'll have to sell ye another putty soon
now. Still, what the* is left of him 's 's good 's
ever 't will be, an' I'll send him up in the mom-
in'." He looked from Miss Clara to John, whose
salutation he had acknowledged with the briefest
of nods.

" How*d you ketch him? " he asked, indicat-
ing our friend with a motion of his head. " Had
to go after him with a four-quart measure, didn't
ye? or did he let ye corner him? "

" Mr. Euston caught him for me," she said,
laughing, but coloring perceptibly, while John's
face grew very red. " I think I will run on and
join my sister, and Mr. Lenox can drive home
with you. Good bye, Mr. Harum. I shall be
glad to have Kirby whenever it is convenient.
We shall be glad to see you at Lalcelawn," she
said to John cordially, " whenever you can
come;" and taking her prayer book and hymnal
from him, she sped away.

" Look at her git over the ground," said
David, turning to watch her while John got into
the buggy. " Ain't that a gait? "

" She is a charming girl," said John as old
Jinny started oflf.

" She's the one I told you about tha run off
with my boss," remarked David, " an' I alwus
look after him fer her in the winter."

" Yes, I know," said John. " She was laugh-
ing about it to-day, and saying that you and she
were great friends."

" She was, was she? " said David, highly

said
into

b old

DAVID HARUM.

291

pleased. " Yes, sir, that's the girl, an', scat my

! if I was thirty years younger she c'd run

oflf with me jest as easy — an' I dunno but what
she could anyway," he added.

" Charming girl," repeated John rather
thoughtfully.

" Wa'al," said David, " I don't know as much
about girls as I do about some things; my ex-
perience hain't laid much in that line, but I
wouldn't like to take a contract to match her on
any limit. I guess," he added softly, " that the
consideration in that deal *d have to be * love an'
affection.' Git up, old lady," he exclaimed, and
drew the whip along old Jinny's back like a ca-
ress. The mare quickened her pace, and in a few
minutes they drove into the barn.

It '

'■ I

■

•iC

i >-?&—

^'^^imm'^w.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

-t.'*.

"Where you ben?" asked Mrs. Bixbee of
her brother as the three sat at the one o'clock
dinner. " I see you drivin' off somewheres."

" Ben up the Lake Road to 'Lizer Howe's,"
replied David. ** He's got a boss 't I've some
notion o' buyin'.'

" Ain't the' week-days enough," she asked,
" to do your horse-tradin' in 'ithout breakin' the
Sabbath?"

David threw back his head and lowered a
stalk of the last asparagus of the vear into his
mouth.

" Some o* the best deals I ever made," he said,
" was made on a Sunday. Hain't you never
heard the sayin', * The better the day, the better
the deal'?"

" Wa'al," declared Mrs. Bixbee, " the' can't
be no blessin' on money that's made in that way,
an' you'd be better off without it."

" I dunno," remarked her brother, " but
Deakin Perkins might ask a blessin* on a boss
trade, but I never heard of it's bein' done, an' I
don't know jest how the deakin 'd put it; it'd be
two fer the deakin an' one fer the other feller,
though, somehow, you c'n bet."

" Humph ! " she ejaculated. *' I guess nobody
ever did; an' I sh'd think you had money enough
292 ....

t'l

DAVID HARUM.

293

an' horses enough an' time enough to keep out o'
that bus'nis on Sunday, anyhow."

"Wa'al, wa'al," said David, " mebbe I'll
swear off before long, an' anyway the' wa'n't no
blessin' needed on this trade, fer if you'll ask
'Lizer he'll tell ye the' wa'n't none made. 'Lizer
's o' your way o' thinkin' on the subjict."

" That's to his credit, anyway," she asserted.

" Jes' so," observed her brother; " I've gen'-
ally noticed that folks who was of your way o'
thinkin' never made no mistakes, an' 'Lizer 's a
very consistent beHever;" whereupon he laughed
in a way to arouse both Mrs. Bixbee's curiosity
and suspicion.

" I don't see anythin' in that to laugh at," she
declared.

" He, he, he, he! " chuckled David.

" Wa'al, you may 's well tell it one time 's an-
other. That's the way," she said, turning to
John with a smile trembling on her lips, " 't he
picks at me the hull time."

" I've noticed it," said John. " It's shame-
ful."

" I do it hully fer her good," asserted David
with a grin. " If it wa'n't fer me she'd git in
time as narrer as them seven-day Babtists over
to Peeble — they call 'em the * narrer Babtists.'
You've heard on 'em, hain't you, Polly? "

" No," she said, without looking up from her
plate, " I never heard on 'em, an' I don't much
believe you ever did neither."

"What!" exclaimed David. "You lived
here goin' on seventy year an' never heard on
'em?"

"David Harum!" she cried, "I ain't within
ten year "

' il

'ill

til
I

.ii

'if:

294

DAVID HARUM.

" HoJd on," he protested, " don't throw that
teacup. I didn't say you was, I only said you
was goin' on — an' about them people over to
Peeble, they've got the name of the ' narrer Bab-
tists ' because they're so narrer in their views
that fourteen on *em c'n sit, side an' side, in a
buggy." This astonishing statement elicited a
laugh even from Aunt Polly, but presently she
said:

" Wa'al, I'm glad you found ore man that
would Stan' you off on Sunday."

" Yes'm," Said her brother, " 'Lizer 's jest
your kind. I knew 't he'd hurt his foot, an' prob'-
ly couldn't go to meetin', an' sure enough, he was
settin' on the stoop, an' I drove in an* pulled up
in the lane alongside. We said good mornin' an*
all that, an' I ast after the folks an' how his foot
was gettin' 'long, an* so on, an* fin'ly I says, * I
see your boy drivin' a hoss the other day that
looked a little — f'm the middle o* ^the road — as
if he might match one I've got, an' I thought
I'd drive up this mornin' an' see if we couldn't
git up a dicker.' Wa'al, he give a kind of
a hitch in his chair as if his foot hurt him, an*
then he says, * I guess I can't deal with ye to-
day. I don't never do no bus'nis on Sunday,' he
says.

" * I've heard you was putty pertic'ler,' I says,
* but I'm putty busy jest about now, an' I thought
that mebbe once in a way, an' seein* that you
couldn't go to meetin* anyway, an* that I've come
quite a ways an' don't know when I c'n see you
agin, an' so on, that mebbe you'd think, under
all the circumstances, the' wouldn't be no great
harm in't — long 's I don't pay over no money,
at cetery,' I says.

DAVID HARUM.

395

« (

No/ he says, shakin' his head in a sort o'
mournful way, ' I'm glad to see ye, an' I'm sorry
you've took all that trouble fer nuthin', but my
conscience won't allow me/ he says, ' to do no
bus'nis on Sunday/

" * Wa'rtl,* I says, ' I don't ask no man to go
agin his conscience, but it wouldn't be no very
glarin' transgression on your part, would it, if
I was to go up to the barn all alone by myself
an* look at the boss?' I c'd see," continued Mr.
Harum, " that his face kind o* brightened up at
that, but he took his time to answer. * Wa'al/
he says fin'ly, * I don't want to lay down no law
fer you, an* if you don't see no harm in't, I guess
the' ain't nuthin' to prevent ye/ So I got down
an* started fer the barn, an' — he, he, he! — when
I'd got about a rod he hollered after me, ' He's
in the end stall/ he says.

" Wa'al," the narrator proceeded, " I looked
the critter over an* made up my mind about what
he was wuth to me, an' wrnt back an' got in,
an' drove into the yard, an* turned 'round, an*
drew up agin 'longside the stoop. *Lizer looked
up at me in an askin' kind of a way, but he didn't
say anythin'.

" * I s'pose,' I says, * that you wouldn't want
me to say anythin' more to ye, an' I may *s well
jog along back.*

" * Wa'al,* he says, * I can't very well help
hearin' ye, kin I, if you got anythin' to say? '

" * Wa'al,* I says, ' the boss ain't exac'ly what
I expected to find, nor jest what I'm lookin'
fer; but I don't say I wouldn't 'a' made a deal
with ye if the price had ben right, an* it hadn't
ben Sunday.' I reckon," said David with a wink
at John, " that that there foot o* his'n must *a'

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(<PmB

296

DAVID HARUM.

give him an extry twinge the way he wriggled in
his chair; but I couldn't break his lockjaw
yit. So I gathered up the lines an* tc ' : the
whip, an* made all the motions to go, «.i then
I kind o' stopped an* says, * I don't want you
to go agin your princ'ples nor the law an* gosp'l
on my account, but the' can't be no harm in
s'posin* a case, can the*? * No, he allowed
that s'posin' wa'n't jest the same as doin*.
' Wa*al,' says I, * now s'posin' I'd come up
here yestidy as I have to-day, an' looked your
boss over, an' said to you, " What price do you
put on him?" what do you s'pose you'd 'a*
said?'

"'Wa'al,' he said, 'puttin* it that way, I
s*pose I'd *a' said one-seventy.'

" * Yes,' I says, * an' then agin, if I'd said that
he wa'n't wuth that money to me, not bein' jest
what I wanted — an' so he ain't — but that I'd give
one-forty, cash, what do you s'pose you'd 'a'
said?'

" * Wa'al,* he says, givin' a hitch, * of course
I don't know jest what I would have said, but I
guess,' he says, * 't I'd 'a' said if you'll make it one-
fifty you c'n have the boss/

" * Wa*al, now,' I says, * s'posin' I was to send
Dick Larrabee up here in the mornin' with the
money, what do you s'pose you'd do? *

" * I s'pose I'd let him go,* says 'Lizer.

" ' All right,* I says, an' off I put. That con-
science o' 'Lizer's," remarked Mr. Harum in
conclusion, " is wuth its weight in gold, jest
abo^t."

" David Harum," declared Aunt Polly, " you'd
ort to be 'shamed o' yourself,"

" Wa'al," said David with an air of meekness,

DAVID HARUM.

297

" if I've done anythin' I'm sorry for, I'm willin'

to be forgi'n. Now, s'posin* "

" I've heard enough 'bout s'posin' fer one
day," said Mrs. Bixbee decisively, " unless it's
s'posin' you finish your dinner so's't Sairy c'n git
through her work sometime."

li. I

CHAPTER XXXV.

After dinner John went to his room and
David and his sister seated themselves on the
** verandy." Mr. Harum lighted a cigar and en-
joyed his tobacco for a time in silence, while Mrs.
Bixbee perused, with rather perfunctory dili-
gence, the columns of her weekly church paper.

" I seen a sight fer sore eyes this mornin',"
quoth David presently.

" What was that? " asked Aunt Polly, looking
up over her glasses.

" Claricy Verjoos fer one part on't," said
David.

" The Verjooses hev come, hev they? Wa'al,
that's good. I hope she'll come up an* see me."

David nodded. *' An' the other part on't
was," he said, '* she an' that young feller of our'n
was walkin' together, an' a putty slick pair they
made too."

" Ain't she purty?" said Mrs. Bixbee.

" They don't make 'em no puttier," affirmed
David; "an' they was a nice pair. I couldn't
help thinkin'," he remarked, " what a nice hitch
up they'd make."

" Guess the' ain't much chance o' that," she
observed.

t either," said David.

guess

He hain't got anythin* to speak of, I s'pose,
298

Xt S . - .--^-r.- •

DAVID HARUM.

299

she

an' though I reckon she'll hev prop'ty some day,
all that set o' folks seems to marry money, an'
some one's alwus dyin* an' leavin' some on 'em
some more. The' ain't nothin' truer in the
Bible," declared Mrs. Bixbee with conviction, ** *n
that sayin' thet them that has gits."

" That's seemin'ly about the way it runs in
gen'ral," said David.

" It don't seem right," said Mrs. Bixbee, with
her eyes on her brother's face. " Now there
was all that money one o' Mis' Elbert Swayne's
relations left her last year, an' Lucy Scramm,
that's poorer *n poverty's back kitchin, an' the
same relation to him that Mis' Swayne was,
only got a thousan' dollars, an' the Swaynes
rich already. Not but what the thousan* was
a godsend to the Scramms, but he might jest
as well 'a' left 'em comf'tibly off as not, 'stid
of pilin' more onto the Swaynes that didn't
need it."

" Does seem kind o' tough," David observed,
leaning forward to drop his cigar ash clear of the
veranda floor, " but that's the way things goes,
an' I've often had to notice that a man'll some-
times do the foolishist thing or the meanest thing
in his hull life after he's dead."

" You never told me," said Mrs. Bixbee, after
a minute or two, in which she appeared to be fol-
lowing up a train of reflection, " much of any-
thin' about John's matters. Hain't he ever told
you anythin' more 'n what you've told me? or
don't ye want me to know? Didn't his father
leave anythin'?"

" The' was a little money," replied her brother,
blowing out a cloud of smoke, " an' a lot of un-
likely chances, but nothin* to live on."

1 IV

300

DAVID HARUM.

:ili i

" An' the' wa'n't nothin' for 't but he had to
come up here? " she queried.

" He'd 'a' had to work on a salary somewhere,
I reckon," was the reply. " The' was one thii:g,"
added David thoughtfully after a moment, ** that'll
mebbe come to somethin' some time, but it may
be a good while fust, an' don't you ever let on
to him nor nobody else 't I ever said anythin'
about it."

" I won't open my head to a livin' soul," she
declared. " What was it? "

" Wa'al, I don't know 's I ever told ye," he
said, " but a good many years ago I took some
little hand in the oil bus'nis, but though I didn't
git in as deep as I wish now 't I had, I've alwus
kept up a kind of int'rist in what goes on in that
line."

" No, I guess you never told me," she said.
" Where you goin'?" as he got out of his chair.

" Goin' to git my cap," he answered. " Dum
the dum things! I don't believe the's a fly in
Freeland County that hain't danced the wild
kachuky on my head sence we set here. Be I
much specked?" he asked, as he bent his bald
poll for her inspection.

" Oh, go 'long! " she cried, as she gave him a
laughing push.

'"Mongst other things," he resumed, when he
had returned to his chair and relighted his cigar,
" the' was a piece of about ten or twelve hunderd
acres of land down in Pennsylvany havin* some
coal on it, he told me he understood, but all the
timber, ten inch an' over, 'd ben sold off. He
told me that his father's head clerk told him that
the old gentleman had tried fer a long time to
dispose of it; but it called fer too much to de-

DAVID HARUM.

301

velop it, I guess; 't any rate he couldn't, an*
John's got it to pay taxes on."

" I shouldn't think it was wuth anythin' to
him but jest a bill of expense," observed Mrs.
Bixbee.

" 'Tain't now," said David, " an' mebbe won't
be fer a good while; still, it's wuth somethin', an'
I advised him to hold onto it on gen'ral prin-
c'ples. I don't know the pertic'ler prop'ty, of
course," he continued, " but I do know somethin'
of that section of country, fer I done a little pros-
pectin' 'round there myself once on a time. But
it wa'n't in the oil territory them days, or wa'n't
known to be, anyway."

" But it's eatin' itself up with taxes, ain't it?"
objected Mrs. Bixbee.

" Wa'al," he replied, " it's free an' clear, an'
the taxes ain't so very much — though they do
stick it to an outside owner down there — an' the
p'int is here: I've alwus thought they didn't drill
deep enough in that section. The' was some
little traces of oil the time I told ye of, an' I've
heard lately that the's some talk of a move to
test the territory agin, an', if anythin' was to be
found, the young feller's prop'ty might be wuth
somethin', but," he added, "of course the' ain't
no tellin'."

< u

5' U

■\i,* .V^." -/*');'JIIfJ

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Well," said Miss Verjoos, when her sister
overtook her, Mr. Euston having stopped at his
own gate, " you and your latest discovery seemed
to be getting on pretty well from the occasional
sounds which came to my ears. What is he
like?"

" He's charming," declared Miss Clara.

" Indeed," remarked her sister, lifting her eye-
brows. " You seem to have come to a pretty
broad conclusion in a very short period of time.
* Charming * doesn't leave very much to be added
on longer acquaintance, does it? "

" Oh, yes it does," said Miss Clara, laughing.
" There are all degrees : Charming, very charm-
ing, most charming, and perfectly charming."

" To be sure," replied the other. " And there
is the descending scale : Perfectly charming, most
charming, very charming, charming, very pleas-
ant, quite nice, and, oh, yes, well enough. Of
course you have asked him to call."

" Yes, I have," said Miss Clara.

" Don't you think that mamma-

" No, I don't," declared the girl with deci-
sion. " I know from what Mr. Euston said, and
I know from the little talk I had with him this
morning, from his manner and — je ne sais quoi
— ^that he will be a welcome addition to a set of
30a

DAVID HARUM.

303

people in which every single one knows just what
every other one will say on any given sub-
ject and on any occasion. You know how
It is.

" Well," said the elder sister, smiling and half
shutting her eyes with a musing look, " I think
myself that we all know each other a little too
well to make our affairs very exciting. Let us
hope the new man will be all you anticipate, and,"
she added with a little laugh, and a side glance at
her sister, " that there will be enough of him to
go 'round."

It hardly needs to be said that the aristocracy
of Homeville and all the summer visitors and
residents devoted their time to getting as much
pleasure and amusement out of their life as was
to be afforded by the opportunities at hand:
Boating, tennis, riding, driving; an occasional
picnic, by invitation, at one or the other of two
very pretty waterfalls, far enough away to make
the drive there and back a feature; as much
dancing in an informal way as could be managed
by the younger people; and a certain amount of
flirtation, of course (but of a very harmless sort),
to supply zest to all the rest. But it is not intend-
ed to give a minute account of the life, nor to de-
scribe in detail all the pursuits and festivities
which prevailed during the season. Enough to
say that our friend soon had opportunity to par-
take in them as much and often as was compat-
ible with his duties. His first call at Lake-
lawn happened to be on an evening when the
ladies were not at home, and it is quite certain
that upon this, the occasion of his first essay of
the sort, he experienced a strong feeling of relief
to be able to leave cards instead of meeting a

304

DAVID HARUM.

number of strange people, as he had thought
would be likely.

One morning, some days later, Peleg Hop-
kins came in with a grin and said, " The's some
folks eout in front wants you to come eout an'
see 'em."

" Who are they? " asked John, who for the
moment was in the back room and had not seen
the carriage drive up.

" The two Verjoos gals," said Peleg with an-
other distortion of his freckled countenance.
" One on 'em hailed me as I was comin' in and
ast me to ast you to come eout." John laughed
a little as he wondered what their feeling would
be were they aware that they were denomi-
nated as the " Verjoos gals " by people of Peleg's
standing in the community.

" We were so sorry to miss your visit the
other evening," said Miss Clara, after the usual
salutations.

John said something about the, loss having
been his own, and after a few remarks of no
special moment the young woman proceeded to
set forth her errand.

" Do you know the Bensons from Syrches-
ter? " she asked.

John replied that he knew who they were but
had not the pleasure of their acquaintance.

" Well," said Miss Clara, " they are extremely
nice people, and Mrs. Benson is very musical;
in fact, Mr. Benson does something in that line
himself. They have with them for a few days a
violinist, Fairman I think his name is, from Bos-
ton, and a pianist — what was it, Juliet? "

" Schlitz, I think," said Miss Verjoos.

" Oh, yes, that is it, and they are coming to

rW^:<:^

DAVID HARUM.

305

the house to-night, and we are going to have
some music in an informal sort of way. We shall
be glad to have you come if you can."

" I shall be delighted," said John sincerely.
"At what time?"

" Any time you like," she said; " but the Ben-
sons will probably get there about half-past eight
or nine o'clock."

"Thank you very much, and I shall be de-
lighted," he repeated.

Miss Clara looked at him for a moment with
a hesitating air.

" There is another thing," she said.

"Yes?"

" Yes," she replied, " I may as well tell you
that you will surely be asked to sing. Quite a
good many people who have heard you in the
quartette in church are anxious to hea/ you sing
alone, Mrs. Benson among them."

John's face fell a little.

" You do sing other than church music, do
you not? " she asked.

" Yes," he admitted, " I know some other
music."

" Do you think it would be a bore to
you."

" No," said John, who indeed saw no way out
of it; "I will bring some music, with pleasure."
if you wish."

" That's very nice of you," said Miss Clara,
" and you will give us all a great deal of pleas-
ure."

He looked at her with a smile.

" That will depend," he said, and after a mo-
ment, "Who will play for me?"

" I had not thought of that," was the reply.

3o6

DAVID HARUM.

" I think I rather took it for granted that you
could play for yourself. Can't you? "

" After a fashion, and simple things," he said,
" but on an occasion I would rather not at-
tempt it."

The girl looked at her sister in some per-
plexity.

" I should think," suggested Miss Verjoos,
speaking for the second time, " that Mr. or Herr
Schlitz would play your accompaniments, par-
ticularly if Mrs. Benson were to ask him, and if
he can play for the violin I should fancy he can
for the voice."

" Very well," said John, " we will let it go at
that." As he spoke David came round the cor-
ner of the bank and up to the carriage.

" How d*y' do, Miss Verjoos? How air ye,
Miss Claricy?" he asked, taking ofif his straw
hat and mopping his face and head with his hand-
kerchief. " Guess we're goin' to lose our sleigh-
in', ain't we? "

" It seems to be going pretty fast," replied
Miss Clara, laughing.

" Yes'm," he remarked, " we sh'U be scrapin'
bare ground putty soon now if this weather holds
on. How's the old hoss now you got him agin? "
he asked. " Seem to 've wintered putty well?
Putty chipper, is he?"

" Better than ever," she affirmed. " He
seems to grow younger every year."

" Come, now," said David, " that ain't a-goin'
to do. I cal'lated to sell ye another hoss this
summer anyway. Ben dependin' on't in fact, to
pay a dividend. The bankin' bus'nis has been so
neglected since this feller come that it don't
amount to much any more," and he laid his hand

DAVID HARUM.

307

on John^s shoulder, who colored a little as he
caught a look of demure amusement in the som-
ber eyes of the elder sister.

" After that," he said, " I think I had better
get back to my neglected duties," and he bowed
his adieus.

" No, sir," said Miss Clara to David, " you
must get your dividend out of some one else this
summer,"

" Wa'al," said he, " I see I made a mistake
takin' such good care on him. Guess I'll have to
turn him over to Dug Robinson to winter next
year. Ben havin' a little visit with John?" he
asked. Miss Clara colored a little, with some-
thing of the same look which John had seen in
her sister's face.

" We are going to have some music at the
house to-night, and Mr. Lenox has kindly prom-
ised to sing for us," she replied.

"He has, has he?" said David, full of interest.
" Wa'al, he's the feller c'n do it if anybody can.
We have singin' an* music up t' the house ev'ry
Sunday night — me an' Polly an' him — an' it's
fine. Yes, ma'am, I don't know much about
music myself, but I c'n beat time, an' he's got a
stack o' music more'n a mile high, an' one o' the
songs he sings '11 jest make the windows rattle.
That's my fav'rit," averred Mr. Harum.

" Do you remember the name of it? " asked
Miss Clara.

" No," he said ; " John told me, an' I guess I'd
know it if I heard it; but it's about a feller sittin'
one day by the org'n an' not feelin' exac'ly right
— kind o' tired an' out o' sorts an* not knowin'
jest where he was drivin' at — jest joggin' 'long
with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an' so on; an*

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308

DAVID HARUM.

then, by an' by, strikin' right into his gait an'
goin* on stronger 'n stronger, an' fin'ly finishin'
up with an A — men that carries him quarter way
round the track 'fore he c'n pull up. That's my
fav'rit," Mr. Harum repeated, " 'cept when him
an' Polly sings together, an' if that ain't a show
— pertic'lerly Polly — I don't want a cent. No,
ma'am, when him an' Polly gits good an' goin'
you can't see 'em fer dust,"

" I should like to hear them," said Miss Clara,
laughing, " and I should particularly like to hear
your favorite, the one which ends with the Amen
— the very large A — men."

" Seventeen hands," declared Mr. Harum.
" Must you be goin'? Wa'al, glad to have seen
ye. Polly's hopin' you'll come an' see her putty
soon."

" I will," she promised. " Give her my love,
and tell her so, please."

They drove away and David sauntered in,
went behind the desks, and perched himself up
on a stool near the teller's counter as he often
did when in the office, and John was not particu-
larly engaged.

" Got you roped in, have they? " he said,

using his hat as a fan. " Scat my ! but ain't

this a ring-tail squealer? "

" It is very hot," responded John.

" Miss Claricy says you're goin' to sing fer
'em up to their house to-night."

" Yes," said Johii, with a slight shrug of the
shoulders, as he pinned a paper strap around a
pile of bills and began to count out another.

" Don't feel very fierce for it, I guess, do
ye? " said David, looking shrewdly at him.

" Not very," said John, with a short laugh.

DAVID HARUM.

gait an'
finishin'
ter way
lat's my
len him
a show
t. No,
i' goin'

s Clara,
to hear
; Amen

Elarum.
ve seen
T putty

ly love,

red in,
self up
often
larticu-

said,
ut ain't

ng fer

of the
)und a

ss, do

lugh.

309

" Feel a little skittish 'bout it, eh? " suggested
Mr. Harum. " Don't see why ye should — any-
body that c'n put up a tune the way you kin."

" It's rather different," observed the younger
man, " singing for you and Mrs. Bixbee and
standing up before a lot of strange people."

" H-m, h-m," said David with a nod; " diff'-
rence 'tween joggin' along on the road an' driv-
in* a fust heat on the track; in one case the' ain't
nothin' up, an' ye don't care whether you git there
a little more previously or a little less; an' in the
other the's the crowd, an' the judges, an' the
stake, an' your record, an' mebbe the pool box
into the barg'in, that's all got to be considered.
Feller don't mind it so much after he gits fairly
off, but thinkin' on't beforehand 's fidgity bus'-
nis.

" You have illustrated it exactly," said John,
laughing, and much amused at David's very
characteristic, as well as accurate, illustration.

" My! " exclaimed Aunt Polly, when John
came into the sitting room after dinner dressed
to go out. " My, don't he look nice? I never
see you in them clo'es. Come here a minute,"
and she picked a thread off his sleeve and took
the opportunity to turn him round for the pur-
pose of giving him a thorough inspection.

" That wa'n't what you said when you see me
in my gold-plated harniss," remarked David, with
a grin. " You didn't say nothin' pmly to me."

" Humph! I guess the's some diii :^nce," ob-
served Mrs. Bixbee with scorn, and her brother
laughed.

" How was you cal'latin' to git there? " he
asked, looking at our friend's evening shoes.

t \

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310

DAVID HARUM.

I thought at first I would walk," was the
reply, " but I rather think I will stop at Robin-
son's and get him to send me over."

" I guess you won't do nothin' o' the sort,"
declared David. " Toi.i's all hitched to take you
over, an' when you're ready jest ring the bell."

" You're awfully kind," said John gratefully,
"but I don't know when I shall be cominc
home." ^

" Come back when you git a good ready,"
said Mr. Harum. " If you keep him an' the hoss
waitin' a spell, I guess they won't take cold this
weather."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

The Verjoos house, of old red brick, stands
about a hundred feet back from the north side of
the Lake Road, on the south shore of the lake.
Since its original construction a porte cochere
has been built upon the front. A very broad
hall, from which rises the stairway with a double
turn and landing, divides the main body of the
house through the middle. On the left, as one
enters, is the great drawing room ; on the right a
parlor opening into a library; and beyond, the
dining room, which looks out over the lake.
The hall opens in the rear upon a broad, covered
veranda, facing the lake, with a flight of steps to a
lawn which slopes down to the lake shore, a dis-
tance of some hundred and fifty yards.

John had to pass through a little flock of
young people who stood near and about the en-
trance to the drawing room, and having given
his package of music to the maid in waiting, with
a request that it be put upon the piano, he mount-
ed the stairs to deposit his hat and coat, and then
went down.

In the south end of the drawing room were
some twenty people sitting and standing about,
most of them the elders of the families who con-
stituted society in Komeville, many of whom
John had met, and nearly all of whom he knew
3"

312

DAVID HARUM.

by sight and name. On the edge of the group,
and halfway down the room, were Mrs. Verjoos
and her younger daughter, who gave him a cor-
dial greeting; and the elder lady was kind enough
to repeat her daughter's morning assurances of
regret that they were out on the occasion of
his call.

" I trust you have been as good as your
word," said Miss Clara, " and brought some
music."

" Yes, it is on the piano," he replied, looking
across the room to where the instrument stood.

The girl laughed. " I wish," she said, " you
could have heard what Mr. Harum said this
morning about your singing, particularly his de-
scription of The Lost Chord, and I wish that I
could repeat it just as he gave it."

" It's about a feller sittin' one day by the
org'n," came a voice from behind John's shoulder,
so like David's as fairly to startle him, " an' not
feelin' exac'ly right — kind o* tired an' put o' sorts,
an' not knowin' jest where he was drivin' at — jest
joggin' along with a loose rein fer quite a piece,
an' so on; an' then, by an' by, strikin' right into
his gait an' goin' on stronger an' stronger, an'
fin'ly finishin' up with an, A — men that carries him
quarter way 'round the track 'fore h . c'n pull
up." They all laughed except Miss V'jnoos,
whose gravity was unbroken, save that behind
the dusky windows of her eyes, as she looked at
John, there was for an instant a gleam of mis-
chievous drollery.

" Good evening, Mr. Lenox," she said. " I
am very glad to see you," and hardly vaiting
for his response, she turned and walked away.

'' That is Juliet all over," said her sister.

DAVID HARUM.

313

" You would not think to sec her ordinarily that
she was given to that sort of thing, but once in
a while, when she feels like it — well — pranks!
She is the funniest creature that ever lived, I be-
lieve, and can mimic and imitate any mortal crea-
ture. She sat in the carriage this morning, and
one might have fancied from her expression that
she hardly heard a word, but I haven't a doubt
that she could repeat every syllable that was ut-
tered. Oh, here come the Bensons and their
musicians."

John stepped back a pace or two toward the
end of the room, but was presently recalled and
presented to the newcomers. After a little talk
the Bensons settled themselves in the corner at
the lower end of the room, where seats were
placed for the two musicians, and our friend took
a seat near where he had been standing. The vio-
linist adjusted his folding music rest. Miss Clara
stepped over to the entrance door and put up her
finger at the young people in the hall. " After
the music begins," she said, with a shake of the
head, " if I hear one sound of giggling or chat-
tering, I will send every one of you young hea-
then home. Remember now! This isn't your
party at all."

" But, Clara, dear," said Sue Tenaker (aged
fifteen), "if we are very good and auiet do you
think they would play for us to dance a little
by and by? "

" Impudence!" exclaimed Miss Clara, giving
the girl's cheek a playful slap and going back to
her place. Miss Verjoos came in and took a
chair by her sister. Mrs. Benson leaned forward
and raised her eyebrows at Miss Clara, who took
a quick survey of the room and nodded in return,
ai

■ )

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314

DAVID HARUM.

i !

I > ;

Herr Schlitz seated himself on the piano chair,
pushed it a Httle back, drew it a Httle forward to
the original place, looked under the piano at
the pedals, took out his tandkerchief and wiped
his face and hands, and after arpeggioing up
and down the key-board, swung into a waltz of
Chopin's (Opus 34, Number i), a favorite of
our friend's, and which he would have thor-
oughly enjoyed — for it was splendidly played —
if he had not been uneasily apprehensive that he
might be asked to sing after it. And while on
some accounts he would have been glad of the
opportunity to " have it over," he felt a cowardly
sense of relief when the violinist came forward
for tl e next number. There had been enthusi-
astic applause at the north end of the room, and
more or less clapping of hands at the south end,
but not enough to impel the pianist to supple-
ment his performance at the time. The viohn
number was so well received that Mr. Fairman
added a little minuet of Boccherini's without ac-
companiment, and then John felt that his time
had surely com.e. But he had to sit, drawing
long breaths, through a Liszt fantasie on themes
from Faust before his suspense was ended by
Miss Clara, who was apparently mistress of cere-
monies and who said to him, " Will you sing
now, Mr. Lenox?"

He rose and went to the end of the room
where the pianist was sitting. " I have been
asked to sing," he said to that gentleman. " Can
I induce you to be so kind as to play for me? "

" I am sure he will," said Mrs. Benson, look-
ing at Herr Schlitz.

" Oh, yes, I blay for you if you vant," he
said, " yhere is your moosic? " They went oyej

DAVID HARUM.

315

chair,
/ard to
ano at

wiped
ing up
^altz of
►rite of
i thor-
layed —
that he
hile on
[ of the
Dwardly
forward
enthusi-
3m, and
ath end,

supple-
le violin
Fairman
fiout ac-
his time
drawing

themes
ided by

of cere-

ou sing

le room
ve been
"Can
me?"
m, look-
ant," he
rent over

t.-

to the piano. " Oh, ho! Jensen, Lassen, Hel-
mund, Grieg — you zing dem?"

" Some of them," said John. The pianist
opened the Jensen album.

" You want to zing one of dese? " he asked.

" As well as anything," replied John, who had
changed his mind a dozen times in the last ten
minutes and was ready to accept any suggestion.

" Ver' goot," said the other. " Ve dry dis :
Lehn deine wang' an meine Wang'." His face
brightened as John began to sing the German
words. In a measure or two the singer and
player were in perfect accord, and as the former
found his voice the ends of his fingers grew
warm again. At the end of the song the ap-
plause was distributed about as after the Chopin
waltz.

" Sehr schon ! " exclaimed Herr Schlitz, look-
ing up and nodding; "you must zing zome
more," and he played the first bars of Marie,
am Fenster sitzest du, humming the words under
his breath, and quite oblivious of any one but
himself and the singer.

" Zierlich," he said when the song was done,
reaching for the collection of Lassen. " Mit
deinen blauen Augen," he hummed, keeping time
with his hands, but at this point Miss Clara came
across the room, followed by her sister.

" Mrs. Tenaker," she said, laughing, " asked
me to ask you, Mr. Lenox, if you wouldn't please
sing something they could understand."

" I have a song I should like to hear you
sing," said Miss Verjoos. " There is an obligate
for violin and we have a violinist here. It is a
beautiful son^ — Tosti's Beauty's Eyes, Do you
know it? "

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DAVID HARUM.

Yes," he replied.

" Will you sing it for me? " she asked.

" With the greatest pleasure," he answered.

Once, as he sang the lines of the song, he
looked up. Miss Verjoos was sitting with her
elbows on the arm of her chair, her cheek rest-
ing upon her clasped hands and her dusky eyes
were fastened upon his face. As the song con-
cluded she rose and walked away. Mrs. Ten-
aker came over to the piano and put out her
hand.

" Thank you so much for your singing, Mr.
Lenox," she said. " Would you like to do an old
woman a favor?"

" Very much so," said John, smiling and
looking first at Mrs. Tenaker and then about the
room, " but there are no old women here as far
as I can see."

" Very pretty, sir, very pretty," she said, look-
ing very graciously at him. " Will you sing
Annie Laurie for me?"

" With all my heart," he said, bowing.
He looked at Herr Schlitz, who shook his
head.

" Let me play it for you," said Mrs. Benson,
coming over to the piano.

"Where do you want it?" she asked, modu-
lating softly from one key to another.

" I think D flat will be about right," he re-
plied. " Kindly play a little bit of it."

The sound of the symphony brought most of
even the young people into the drawing room.
At the end of the first verse there was a subdued
rustle of applause, a little more after the second,
and at the end of the song so much of a burst of
approval as could be produced by the audience.

'it

;J5J.^,

DAVID HARUM.

317

Mrs. Benson looked up into John's face and
smiled.

" We appear to have scored the success of the
evening," she said with a touch of sarcasm. Miss
Clara joined them.

" What a dear old song that is ! " she said.
" Did you see Aunt Charlie (Mrs. Tenaker) wip-
ing her eyes? — and that lovely thing of Tosti's!
We are ever so much obliged to you, Mr.
Lenox."

John bowed his acknowledgments.

" Will you take Mrs. Benson out to supper?
There is a special table for you musical people
at the east end of the veranda."

" Is this merely a segregation or a distinc-
tion?" said John as they sat down.

" We shall have to wait developments to de-
cide that point, I should say," replied Mrs. Ben-
son. " I suppose that fifth place was put on the
off chance that Mr. Benson might be of our par-
ty, but," she said, with a short laugh, " he is prob-
ably nine fathoms deep in a flirtation with Sue
Tenaker. He shares Artemas Ward's tastes, who
said, you may remember, that he liked little girls
— big ones too."

A maid appeared with a tray of eatables, and
presently another with a tray on which were
glasses and a bottle of Pommery sec. " Miss
Clara's compliments," she said.

" What do you think now? " asked Mrs. Ben-
son, laughing.

" Distinctly a distinction, I should say," he
replied.

" Das ist nicht so schlecht," grunted Herr
Schlitz as he put half a pate into his mouth, " bot
I vould brefer beer."

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318

DAVID HARUM.

" The music has been a great treat to me,"
remarked John. " I have heard nothing of the
sort for two years."

" You have quite contributed your share of
the entertainment," said Mrs. Benson.

" You and I together," he responded, smiling.

" You have got a be-oodifool woice," said
Herr SchHtz, speaking with a mouthful of salad,
" und you zing ligh a moosician, und you bro-
nounce your vorts very goot."

" Thank you," said John.

After supper there was more singing in the
drawing room, but it was not of a very classical
order. Something short and taking for violin
and piano was followed by an announcement
from Herr Schlitz.

" I zing you a zong," he said. The worthy
man " breferred beer," but had, perhaps, found
the wine quicker in effect, and in a tremendous
bass voice he roared out, Im tiefen Keller sitz' ich
hier, auf einem Fass voll Reben, which, if not
wholly understood by the audience, had some of
its purport conveyed by the threefold repetition
of " trinke " at the end of each verse. Then a
deputation waited upon John, to ask in behalf of
the girls and boys if he knew and could sing
Solomon Levi.

" Yes," he said, sitting down at the piano, " if
you'll all sing v/ith me," and it came to pass that
that classic, followed by Bring Back my Bonnie
to Me, Paddy Duffy's Cart, There's Mitoic in the
Air, and sundry other ditties dear to all hearts,
was given by " the full strength of the company "
with such enthusiasm that even Mr. Fairman was
moved to join in with his violin; and when the
Soldier's Farewell was given, Herr Schlitz would

DAVID HARUM.

319

:' fl

have sung the windows out of their frames had
they not been open. Altogether, the even-
ing's programme was brought to an end with a
grand climax.

" Thank you very much," said John as he
said good night to Mrs. Verjoos. '* I don't know
when I have enjoyed an evening so much."

" Thank you very much," she returned gra-
ciously. " You have given us all a great deal of
pleasure."

" Yes," said Miss Verjoos, giving her hand
with a mischievous gleam in her half-shut eyes,
" I was enchanted with Solomon Levi."

1' ■ .f

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**?=—

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

« )

David and John had been driving for some
time in silence. The elder man was apparently
musing upon something which had been sug-
gested to his mind. The horses slackened their
gait to a walk as they began the ascent of a long
hill. Presently the silence was broken by a sound
which caused John to trrn his head with a look
of surprised amusement — Mr. Harum was sing-
ing. The tune, if it could be s' called, was scale-
less, and these were the wordi,.

" MonAxy mormrC I married, me a 7tnfe,
TAinMn' to lead z more contented U/e j'
J^iddlin' an* dancin' the* yfa.%2^ayed.
To see how yxnhapfy poor / was made.

" Tuesdzy momin\ 'bout break o' day.
While my head on the/i71er did lay,
She tuned up her clack, an' scolded more
Than I evtx heard htfore."

" Never heard me sing before, did ye? " he
said, looking with a grin at his companion,, who
laughed and said that he had never had that pleas-
ure. " Wa'al, that's all 't I remember on't," said
David, " an' I dunno 's I've thought about it in
thirty year. The' was a number o' verses which
carried 'em through the rest o' the week, an'
ended up in a case of 'sault an' battery, I rec'lect,
320

DAVID HARUM.

321

but I don't remember jest how. Somethin' we
ben sayin' put the thing into my head, I guess."

" I should like to hear the rest of it," said
John, smiling.

David made no reply to this, and seemed to
be turning something over in his mind. At last
he said:

" Mebbe Polly's told ye that I'm a wid'wer."

John admitted that Mrs. Bixbee had said as
much as that.

" Yes, sir," said David, " I'm a wid'wer of
long standin'."

No appropriate comment suggesting itself to
his listener, none was made.

" I hain't never cared to say much about it to
Polly," he remarked, " though fer that matter
Jim Bixbee, f'm all accounts, was about as poor
a shack as ever was turned out, I guess, an' "

John took advantage of the slight hesitation
to interpose against what he apprehended might
be a lengthy digression on the subject of the de-
ceased Bixbee by saying:

" You were quite a young fellow when you
were married, I infer."

" Two or three years younger 'n you be, I
guess," said David, looking at him, " an' a putty
green colt too in some ways," he added, handing
over the reins and whip while he got out his sil-
ver tobacco box and helped himself to a liberal
portion of its contents. It was plain that he was
in the mood for personal reminiscences.

" As I look back on't now," he began, " it
kind o' seems as •'" it must 'a' ben some other
feller, an' yet I remember it all putty dum'd well
too — all but one thing, an' that the biggist part
on't, an' that is how I ever come to git married

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322

DAVID HARUM.

at all. She was a widdo' at the time, an* kep' the
boardin' house where I was livin'. It was up to
Syrchester. I was better lookin' them days 'n I
be now — had more hair at any rate — though," he
remarked with a grin, " I was alwus a better goer
than I was a looker. I was doin' fairly well," he
continued, " but mebbe not so well as was
thought by some.

" Wa'al, she was a good-lookin' woman, some
older 'n I was. She seemed to take some shine
to me. I'd roughed it putty much alwus, an' she
was putty clever to me. She was a good talker,
liked a joke an' a laugh, an' had some education,
an' it come about that I got to beauin' her 'round
quite a consid'able, and used to go an' set in her
room or the parlor with lier sometimes evenin's
an' all that, an' I wouldn't deny that I liked it
putty well."

It was some minutes before Mr. Harum re-
sumed his narrative. The reins were sagging
over the dashboard, held loosely between the
first two fingers and thumb of his left hand,
while with his right he had been making ab-
stracted cuts at the thistles and other eligible
marks along the roadside.

" Wa'al," he said at last, "we was married, an'
our wheels tracked putty well fer quite a consid'-
able spell. I got to thinkin' more of her all the
time, an' she me, seemin'ly. We took a few days
off together two three times that summer, to Ni-
ag'ry, an' Saratogy, an' 'round, an* had real good
times. I got to thinkin* that the state of mat-
rimony was a putty good institution. When it
come along fall, I was doin' well enough so 't
she could give up bus'nis, an' I hired a house an'
we set tip housekeepin*. It was really more on

DAVID HARUM.

323

my account than her'n, fer I got to kind o' feelin'
that when the meat was tough or the pie wa'n't
done on the bottom that I was 'sociated with it,
an' gen'ally I wanted a place of my own. But,"
he added, " I guess it was a mistake, fur 's she
was concerned."

"Why?" said John, feeHng that some show
of interest was incumbent.

" I reckon," said David, " 't she kind o* missed
the comp'ny an' the talk at table, an' the goin's
on gen'ally, an' mebbe the work of runnin' the
place — she was a great worker — an' it got to be
some diflf'rent, I s'pose, after a spell, settin' down
to three meals a day with jest only me 'stid of a
tableful, to say nothin* of the evenin's. I was
glad enough to have a place of my own, but at
the same time I hadn't ben used to set<^in' 'round
with nothin' pertic'ler to do or say, with some-
body else that hadn't neither, an' I wa'n't then
nor ain't now, fer that matter, any great hand fer
readin'. Then, too, we'd moved into a difT'rent
part o' the town where my wife wa'n't acquainted.
Wa'al, anyway, fuit things begun to drag some
— she begun to have spells of not speakin', an*
then she begun to git notions about me. Once
in a while I'd have to go down town on some
bus'nis in the evenin'. She didn't seem to mind
it at fust, but bom-by she got it into her head
that the' wa'n't so much bus'nis goin' on as I
made out, an' though along that time she'd set
sometimes mebbe the hull evenin' without sayin'
anythin' more *n yes or no, an' putty often not
that, yet if I went out there'd be a flare-up ; an' as
things went on the'd be spells fer a fortni't to-
gether when I couldn't any time of day git a
word out of her hardly, unless it was to go fer

i :\

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DAVID HARUM.

me 'bout somethin* that mebbe I'd done an' meb-
be I hadn't — it didn't make no diff'rence. An*
when them spells was on, what she didn't take
out o* me she did out o' the house — diggin' an'
scrubbin', takin' up carpits, layin' down carpits,
shiftin' the furniture, eatin' one day in the kitchin
an' another in the settin' room, an' sleepin' most
anywhere. She wa'n't real well after a while,
an' the wuss she seemed to feel, the fiercer she
was fer scrubbin' an' diggin' an' upsettin' things
in gen'ral, an' bom-by she got so she couldn't
keep a hired girl in the house more 'n a day or
two at a time. She either wouldn't have 'em, or
they wouldn't stay, an' more 'n half the time we
was without one. This can't int'rist you much,
can it?" said Mr. Harum, turning to his com-
panion.

" On the contrary," replied John, " it interests
me very much. I was thinking," he added, " that
probably the state of your wife's health had a
good deal to do with her actiops and views of
things, but it must have been pretty hard on you
all the same."

" Wa'al, yes," said David, " I guess that's so.
Her health wa'n't jest right, an' she showed it
in her looks. I noticed that she'd pined an*
pindled some, but I thought the' was some natu-
ral criss-crossedniss mixed up into it too. But
I tried to make allow'nces an' the best o' things,
an* git along 's well *s I could; but things kind
o* got wuss an' wuss. I told ye that she begun
to have notions about me, an' 't ain't hardly nec'-
sary to say what shape they took, an* after a
while, mebbe a year 'n a half, she got so 't she
wa'n't satisfied to know where I was nights — she
wanted to know where I was daytimes. Kind o*

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DAVID HARUM.

325

makes me laugh now," he observed, " it seems
so redic'lous; but it wa'n't no laugfhin' matter
then. If I looked out o* winder she'd hint it up
to me that I was watchin' some woman. She
grudged me even to look at a picture paper; an'
one day when we happened to be walkin' to-
gether she showed feelin' about one o' them
wooden Injun women outside a cigar store."

" Oh, come now, Mr. Harum," said John,
laughing.

" Wa'al," said David with a short laugh,
"mebbe I did stretch that a little; but 's I told
ye, she wanted to know where I was daytimes
well *s nights, an* ev'ry once 'n a while she'd turn
up at my bus'nis place, an' if I wa'n't there she'd
set an' wait fer me, an' I'd either have to go
home with her or have it out in the office. I
don't mean to say that all the sort of thing I'm
tellin' ye of kep' up all the time. It kind o* run
in streaks; but the streaks kep* comin* oftener
an* oftener, an* you couldn't never tell when
the' was goin' to appear. Matters *d go along
putty well fer a while, an* then, all of a sudden,
an* fer nothin' *t I could see, the* 'd come on a
thunder shower 'fore you c'd git in out o' the
wet."

" Singular," said John thoughtfully.

" Yes, sir,'* said David. " Wa*al, it come
along <o the second spring, 'bout the first of May.
She'd ben more like folks fer about a week mebbe
'n she had fer a long spell, an* I begun to chirk
up some. I don*t remember jest how I got the
idee, but f'm somethin' she let drop I gathered
that she was thinkin' of havin' a new bunnit I
will say this for her,'* remarked David, " that she
was an economical woman, an* never spent no

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DAVID HARUM.

money jest fer the sake o' spendin* it. Wa'al,
we'd got along so nice fer a while that I felt
more 'n usual like pleasin' her, an' I allowed to
myself that if she wanted a new bunnit, money
shouldn't stand in the way, an' I set out to give
her a supprise."

They had reached the level at the top of the
long hill and the horses had broken into a trot,
when Mr. Harum's narrative was interrupted and
his equanimity upset by the onslaught of an ex-
cessively shrill, active, and conscientious dog of
the " yellow " variety, which barked and sprang
about in front of the mares with such frantic as-
siduity as at last to communicate enough of its
excitement to them to cause them to bolt forward
on a run, passing the yellow nuisance, which,
with the facility of long practice, dodged the cut
which David made at it in passing. It was with
some little trouble that the horses were brouofht
back to a sober pace.

** Dum that dum'd dog!" exclaimed David
with fervor, looking back to where the object of
his execrations was still discharging convulsive
yelps at the retreating vehicle, " I'd give a five-
dollar note to git one good lick at him. I'd
make him holler * pen-an'-ink ' once! Why any-
body's willin* to have such a dum'd, wuthlcss,
pestiferous varmint as that 'round 's more 'n I
c'n understand. I'll bet that the days they churn,
that critter, unless they ketch him an' tie him
up the night before, '11 be under the barn all day,
an' he's jest blowed off steam enough to run a
dog churn a hull forenoon."

Whether or not the episode of the dog had
diverted Mr. Harum's mind from his previous
topic, he did not resume it until John ventured

DAVID HARUM.

327

to remind him of it, with " You were saying
something about the surprise for your wife."

•' That's so," said David. " Yes, wa'al, when
I went home that night I stopped into a mil'nery
store, an' after I'd stood 'round a minute, a girl
come up an* ast me if she c'd show me any-
thin'.

" * I want to buy a bunnit,* I says, an* she
kind o' laughed. ' No,* I says, * it ain't fer me,
it's fer a lady/ I says; an' then we both laughed.

" * What sort of a bunnit do you want?* she
says.

" * Wa'al, I dunno,' I says, * this is the fust
time I ever done anythin' in the bunnit line.* So
she went over to a glass case an' took one out
an' held it up, turnin' it 'round on her hand.

" * Wa'al,* I says, * I guess it's putty enough
fur *s it goes, but the' don't seem to be much of
anythin' to it. Hain't you got somethin' a little bit
bigger an'-

(( (

Showier?' she says. 'How is this?' she
says, doin' the same trick with another.

" * Wa'al,* I says, ' that looks more like it, but
I had an idee that the A i, trible-extry fine ar-
ticle had more traps on't, an' most any one might
have on either one o* them you've showed me an*
not attrac* no attention at all. You needn't mind
expense,' I says.

" * Oh, very well,* she says, * I guess I know
what you want,* an' goes over to another case an*
fetches out another bunnit twice as big as either
the others, an* with more notions on't than you
c'd shake a stick at — flowers, an* gard*n stuff, an*
fruit, an* glass beads, an* feathers, an* all that, till
you couldn*t see what they was fixed on to. She
took holt on't with both h?ipc|s, the girl did, an'

s'f 1

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328

DAVID HARUM.

put it onto her head, an* kind o' smiled an' turned
'round slow so 't I c'd git a gen'ral view on't

"'Style all right?' I says.

" * The very best of its kind,' she says.

" * How 'bout the kindf ' I says.

" * The very b: »t of its style,' she says."

John laughed outright. David looked at him
for a moment with a doubtful grin.

" She was a slick one, wa'n't she? " he said.
*' What a hoss trader she would 'a' made. I
Jidn't ketch on at the time, but I reelected after-
ward. Wa'al," he resumed, after this brief di-
gression, "'how much is it?' I says.

" * Fifteen dollars,' she says.

" * What? ' I says. ' Scat my ! I c'd buy

head rigging enough to last me ten years fer
that.'

" * We couldn't sell it for less,' she says.

" ' S'posin' the lady 't I'm buyin' it fer don't
jest like it,' I says, * can you alter it or swap
somethin' else for it? '

" * Cert'n)y, within a reasonable time/ she
says.

" ' Wa'al, all tight, I says, * do her up.' An'
so she wrapped tije thing 'round with soft paper
an' put it in a box, an' I paid for't an' moseyed
along up home, feelin' that ev'ry man, woman,
an' child had their eyes on my parcel, but thinkin*
how tickled my wife would be."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The road they were on was a favorite drive
with the two men, and at the point where they
had now arrived David always hahed for a look
back and down upon the scene below them — to
the south, beyond the intervening fields, bright
with maturing crops, lay the village; to the west
the blue lake, winding its length like a broad
river, and the river itself a silver ribbon, till it
was lost beneath the southern hills.

Neither spoke. For a few minutes John took
in the scene with the pleasure it always afforded
him, and then glanced at his companion, wb.o
usually had some comment to make upon any-
thing which stirred his admiration or interest.
He was gazing, not at the landscape, but appar-
ently at the top of the dashboard. " Ho, hum,"
he said, straightening the reins, with a " elk " to
the horses, and they drove along for a while in
silence — so long, in fact, that our friend, while
aware that the elder man did not usually aban-
don a topic until he had " had his say out," was
moved to suggest a continuance of the narra-
tive which had been rather abruptly broken off,
and in which he had become considerably inter-
ested.

" Was your wife pleased? " he asked at last.

" Where was I? " asked the other in return,
sa 339

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330

DAVID HARUM.

You were on your way home with your
purchase," was the reply.

" Oh, yes," Mr. Harum resumed. " It was a
little after tea time when I got to the house, an'
I thought prob'ly I'd find her in the settin' room
waitin' fer me; but she wa'n't, an' I went up
to the bedroom to find her, feelin' a little less
sure o' things. She was settin' lookin' out o'
winder when I come in, an' when I spoke to her
she didn't give me no answer except to say, look-
in' up at the clock, * What's kept ye like this? '

" * Little matter o' bus'nis,' I says, lookin' as
smilin' 's I knew how, an' holdin' the box be-
hind me.

" * What you got there? ' she says, slewin' her
head 'round to git a sight at it.

" ' Little matter o' bus'nis,' I says agin, bring-
in' the box to the front an' feelin' my face straight-
en out 's if you'd run a flat iron over it. She
seen the name on the paper.

" * You ben spendin' your tkne there, have
ye? ' she says, settin' up in her chair an' pointin*
with her finger at the box. * That's where you
ben the last half hour, hangin' 'round with them
minxes in Mis' Shoolbred's. What's in that
box? ' she says, with her face a-blazin*.

" * Now, Lizy,' I says, ' I wa'n't there ten min-
utes if I was that, an' I ben buyin' you a bunnit.'

" * You — hen — buyirC — me — a — bunnit? ' she
says, stif'niii' up stifTer 'n a stake.

" ' Yes,' I says, * I heard you say somethin'
'bout a spring bunnit, an' I thought, seein' how
economicle you was, that I'd buy you a nicer one
'n mebbe you'd feel like yourself. I thought it
would please ye,' I says, tryin' to rub her the
ri^-ht way.

DAVID HARUM.

331

" * Let me see it/ she says, in a voice dryer 'n
a lime-burner's hat, pressin' her lips together an*
reachin* out fer the box. Wa'al, sir, she snapped
the string with a jerk an' sent the cover skimmin'
across the room, an' then, as she hauled the par-
cel out of the box, she got up onto her feet.
Then she tore the paper oflf on't an' looked at it
a minute, an' then took it 'tween her thumb an'
finger, like you hold up a dead rat by the tail,
an' held it off at the end of her reach, an' looked
it all over, with her face gettin' even redder if it
could. Fin'ly she says, in a voice 'tween a whis-
per 'n a choke:

" ' What'd you pay fer the thing? '

" * Fifteen dollars,' I says.

" * Fifteen dollars? * she says.

"'Yes,' I says, 'don't ye like it?' Wa'al,"
said David, " she never said a word. She drawed
in her arm an' took holt of the bunnit with her
left hand, an* fust she pulled off one thing an'
dropped it on the floor, fur off as she c'd reach,
an' then another, an' then another, an' then, by
gum! she went at it with both hands jest as fast
as she could work *em, an* in less time 'n Fm
tellin' it to ye she picked the thing cleaner 'n
any chicken you ever see, an' when she got down
to the carkis she squeezed it up between her two
hands, give it a wring an' a twist like it was a
wet dish towel, an' flung it slap in my face.
Then she made a half turn, throwin' back her head
an' grabbin' into her hair, an' give the awfullest
screechin' laugh — one screech after another that
you c'd 'a' heard a mile — an' then throwed her-
self face down on the bed, screamin' an' kickin*.
Wa'al, sir, if I wa'n't at my wits' end, you c'n
have my watch an* chain.

■r-

DAVID HARUM.

" She wouldn't let me touch her no way, but,
as luck had it, it was one o' the times when we
had a hired ^irl, an' hearin' the noise she come
gallopin* up the stairs. She wa'n't a young girl,
an' she had a face humbly 'nough to keep her
awake nights, but she had some sense, an* —
* You'd bether run fer the docther,' she says,
when she see the state my wife was in. You better
believe I done the heat cf my life," said Da""fd,
"an' more luck, the doctor was home an' j= st
finishin' his tea. His house an' office wa'u't but
two three blocks off, an' in about a few minutes
me an' him an' his bag was leggin' it fer my
house, though I noticed he didn't seem to be 'n
as much of a twitter 's I was. He ast me more
or less questions, an' jest r.s we got to the house
he says:

" * Has your wife had anythin' to 'larm or
shock her this evenin'?'

"'Nothin' 't I know on,' I says, "cept I
bought her a new bunnit that didn't seem to
come quite up to her idees.' At that," remarked
Mr. Harum, " he give me a funny look, an' we
went in an' upstairs.

" The hired girl," he proceeded, " had got her
quieted down some, but when we went in she
looked up, an' seein' me, set up another screech,
an' he told me to go downstairs an' he'd come
down putty soon, an' after a while he did.

"'Wa'al?' I says.

" * She's quiet fer the present,' he says, takin'
a pad o' paper out o' his pocket, an' writin' on it.

" * Do you know Mis Jones, your next-door
neighbor? ' he says. I allowed 't I had a speak-
in' acquaintance with her.

Wa'al,' he says, * fust, you step in an' tell

a <

DAVID HARUM,

333

her Fm here an' want to see her, and ast her if
she won't come right along; an' then you go
down to my office an' have these thmgs sent up ;
an' then,' he says, * you go down town an' send
this ' — handin' mc a note that he'd wrote an' put
in an envelope — * up to the hospital — better send
it up with a hack, or, better yet, go yourself,' he
says, * an' hurry. You can't be no use here,' he
says. * I'll stay, but I want a nurse here in an
hour, an' less if possible.' I was putty well
scared," said David, " by all that, an' I says,
* Lord,' I says, * is she as bad off as that? What
is it ails her? '

" * Don't you know? ' says the doc, givin' me
a queer look.

" * No,' I says, * she hain't ben fust rate fer
a spell back, but I couldn't git nothin' out of her
what was the matter, an' don't know what per-
tic'ler thing ails her now, unless it's that dum'd
bunnit,' I says.

" At that the doctor laughed a little, kind as
if he couldn't help it.

" * I don't think that v/as hully to blamo,' he
says ; * may have hurried matters up a little —
somethin' that was liable to happen any time in
the next two months.'

You don't mean it?' I says.
Yes,' he says. * Now you git out as fast
as you can. Wait a minute,' he says. * How old
is your wife? '

" * F'm what she told me 'fore we was mar-
ried,' I says, * she's thirty-one.'

" * Oh ! ' he says, raisin' his eyebrows. * All
right; hurry up, now.'

" I dusted around putty lively, an' inside of
an hour was back with the nurse, an 'jest

(< (

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334

DAVID HARUM.

after we got inside the door-

-" David paused
thoughtfully for a moment and then, lowering his
tone a little, "jest as we got inside the front
door, a door upstairs opened an' I heard a little
'Waa! waa!' hke it was the leetlist kind of a
new lamb — an' I tell you," said David, with a little
quaver in his voice, and looking straight over the
off horse's ears, " nothin' 't I ever heard before
nor since ever fetched me, right where I lived,
as that did. The nurse, she made a dive fer the
stairs, wavin' me back with her hand, an' I — wa'al
— I went into the settin' room, an — wa'al — ne*
mind.

" I dunno how long I set there list'nin* to 'em
movin' 'round overhead, an' wonderin' what was
goin' on; but fin'ly I heard a step on the stair
an' I went out into the entry, an' it was Mis*
Jones. 'How be they?' I says.

" * We don't quite know yet,' she says. ' The
little boy is a nice formed little feller,' she says,
* an' them childern very often grdw up, but he is
very little,' she says.

" * An' how 'bout my wife? ' I says.

" * Wa'al,' she says, * we don't know jest yet,
but she is quiet now, an' we'll hope fer the best.
If you want me,' she says, * I'll come any time,
night or day, but I must go now. The doctor
will stay all night, an' the nurse will stay till you
c'n git some one to take her place,' an' she went
home, an'," declared David, "you've hearn tell of
the * salt of the earth,' an' if that woman wa'n't
more on't than a boss c'n draw down hill, the'
ain't no such thing."

"Did they live?" asked John after a brief
silence, conscious of the bluntness of his ques-
tion, but curious as to the sequel.

DAVID HARTJM.

335

" The child did," replied David ; " not to grow
up, but till he was 'twixt six an' seven; but my
wife never left her bed, though she lived three
four weeks. She never seemed to take no in-
t'rist in the little feller, nor nothin' else much;
but one day — it was Sunday, long to the last — •
she seemed a little more chipper *n usual. I was
settin' with her, an' I said to her how much better
she seemed to be, tryin' to chirk her up.

" * No,' she says, * I ain't goin' to live.'

" ' Don't ye say that,' I says.

" * No,' she says, ' I ain't, an' I don't care.'

" I didn't know jest what to say, an' she spoke
agin:

" * I want to tell you, Dave,' she says, * that
you've ben good an' kind to me.'

" ' I've tried to,' I says, ' an' Lizy,' I says, ' I'll
never fergive myself about that bunnit, long *s I
live.'

"'That hadn't really nothin' to do with it,'
she says, * an' you meant all right, though,' she
says, almost in a whisper, an' the' came across
her face, not a smile exac'ly, but somethin' like
a little riffle on a piece o' still water, * that bunnit
was enough to kill most a«3;body.'

II It'

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■'I

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CHAPTER XL.

John leaned out of the buggy and looked
back along the road, as if deeply interested in
observing something which had attracted his at-
tention, and David's face worked oddly for a
moment.

Turning south in the direction of the village,
they began the descent of a steep hill, and Mr.
Harum, careful of loose stones, gave all his at-
tention to his driving. Our friend, respecting his
vigilance, forebore to say anything which mi?fht
distract his attention until they reached level
ground, and then, "You never rnarried again?"
he queried.

" No," was the reply. " My matrymonial ex-
perience was * brief an' to the p'int,' as the say-
m IS.

" And yet," urged John, " you were a young
man, and I should have supposed "

" Wa'al," said David, breaking in and emit-
ting his chuckling laugh, " I allow 't mebbe I
sometimes thought on't, an' once, about ten year
after what I be a tellin' ye, I putty much made up
my mind to try another hitch-up. The' was a
woman that I seen quite a good deal of, an' liked
putty well, an' I had some grounds fer thinkin'
't she wouldn't show me the door if I was to ask
her. In fact, I made up my mind I would take
336

k "Sf^

DAVID HARUM.

337

looked

sted in

his at-

r for a

village,
,nd Mr.
his at-
ting his
1 mi?cht
;d level
again i

nial ex-
:he say-

i young

id emit-
nebbe I
ten year
nade up
was a
m' liked
thinkin*
s to ask
uld take

the chances, an' one night I put on my best bib
an' tucker an' started fer her house. I had to go
'cross the town to where slie lived, an' the farther
I walked the fiercer I got — havin' made up my
mind — so 't putty soon I was travelin' 's if I
was 'fraid some other feller'd git there 'head o'
me. Wa'al, it was Sat'day night, an' the stores
was all open, an' the streets was full o' people, an'
I had to pull up in the crowd a little, an' I don't
know how it happened in pertic' ler, but fust thing
I knew I run slap into a woman with a ban'box,
an' when I looked 'round, there was a mil'nery
store in full blast an' winders full o' bunnits.
Wa'al, sir, do you know what I done? Ye don't.
Wa'al, the' was a boss car passin' that run three
mile out in the country in a diflf'rent direction
f'm where I started fer, an' I up an' got onto
that car, an' rode the length o' that road, an' got
off an' walked back — an' I never went near her
house f'm that day to this, an' that," said David,
" was the nearest I ever come to havin' another
pardner to my joys an' sorro's."

" That was pretty near, though," said John,
laughing.

" Wa'al," said David, " mebbe Prov'dence
might 'a' had some other plan fer stoppin' me
'fore I smashed the hull rig, if I hadn't run into
the mil'nery shop, but as it was, that fetched me
to a stan'still, an' I never started to run agin."

They drove on for a few minutes in silence,
which John broke at last by saying, " I have been
wondering how you got on after your wife died
and left you with a little child."

" That was where Mis' Jones come in," said
David. " Of course I got the best nurse I could,
an' Mis' Jones 'd run in two three times ev'ry day

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338

DAVID HARUM.

;|i|

an* see 't things was goin' on as right *s they
could; but it come on that I had to be away f'm
home a good deal, an* fin'ly, corre fall, I got the
Joneses to move into a bigger house, where I
could have a room, an' fixed it up with Mis' Jones
to take charge o* the little feller right along.
She hadn't but one child, a girl of about thirteen,
an' had lost two little ones, an' so between havin*
took to my little mite of a thing f'm the fust, an*
my makin' it v/uth her while, she was willin', an'
we went on that way till — the* wa'n't no further
occasion fur *s he was concerned, though I lived
with them a spell longer when I was at home,
which wa'n't very often, an' after he died I was
gone fer a good while. But before that time,
when I was at home, I had him with me all the
time I could manage. With good care he'd
growed up nice an' bright, an' as big as the aver-
age, an* smarter 'n a steel trap. He liked bein'
with me better *n anybody else, and when I c'd
manage to have him I couldn't bear to have him
out o' my sight. Wa'al, as I told you, he got to
be most seven year old. I'd had to go out to Chi-
cago, an' one day I got a telegraph sayin* he was
putty sick — an' I took the fust train East. It
was 'long in March, an' we had a breakdown, an'
run into an awful snowstorm, an* one thing an-
other, an' I lost twelve or fifteen hours. It
seemed to me that them two days was longer 'n
my hull life, but I fin'ly did git home about nine
o'clock in the mornin*. When I got to the house
Mis* Jones was on the lookout fer me, an' the
door opened as I run up the stoop, an* I see by
her face that I was too late. * Oh, David, Da-
vid!* she says (she'd never called me David be-
fore), puttin* her hands on my shoulders.

DAVID HARUM.

339

« I

<( (

<< <

When?' I says.

'Bout midnight,' she says.

Did he suffer much?' 1 says.

No,' she says, ' I don't think so; but he
was out of his head most of the time after the
fust day, an' I guess all the time the last twenty-
four hours.'

" * Do you think he'd 'a' knowed mc? ' I says.
'Did he say anythin'?' an' at that," said David,
" she looked at me. She wa'n't cryin' when I
come in, though she had ben ; but at that her face
all broke up. * I don't know,' she says. * He
kept sayin' things, an' 'bout all we could under-
stand was " Daddy, daddy," ' an' then she

throWed her apern over her face, an' "

David tipped his hat a little farther over his
eyes, though, like many if not most " horsey "
men, he usually wore it rather far down, and
leaning over, twirled the whip in the socket be-
tween his two fingers and thumb. John studied
the stitched ornamentation of the dashboard until
the reins were pushed into his hands. But it
was not for long. David straightened himself,
and, without turning his head, resumed them as
if that were a matter of course.

" Day after the fun'ral," he went on, " I says
to Mis' Jones, * I'm goin' back out West,' I says,
' an' I can't say how long I shall be gone — long
enough, anyway,' I says, * to git it into my head
that when I come back the* won't be no little
feller to jump up an' 'round my neck when I
come into the house; but, long or short, I'll come
back some time, an' meanwhile, as fur 's things
between you an' me air, they're to go on jest the
same, an' more *n that, do you think you'll re-
memlDer him some?' I says.

(T^ -••■ --.

I Hi

340

DAVID HARUM.

" * As long as I live/ she says, ' jest like my
own.'

** * Wa'al/ I says, ' long *s you remember him,
he'll be, in a way, livin' to ye, an' as long 's that
I allow to pay fer his keep an' tendin' jest the
same as I have, aw',' I says, * if you don't let me
you ain't no friend o' mine, an' you hen a good
one.' Wa'al, she squimmidged some, but I
wouldn't let her say * No.' ' I've 'ranged it all
with my pardner an' other ways,' I says, ' an'
more 'n that, if you git into any kind of a scrape
an' I don't happen to be got at, you go to him
an' git what you want.' "

" I hope she lived and prospered," said John
fervently.

" She lived twenty year," said David, " an' I
wish she was livin' now. I never drawed a check
on her account without feelin* 't I was doin'
somethin' for my little boy.

" The's a good many diff'rent^sorts an' kinds
o' sorro'," he said, after a moment, " that's in some
ways kind o' kin to each other, but I guess losin*
a child 's a specie by itself. Of course I passed
the achin', smartin' point years ago, but it's some-
thin' you can't fergit — that is, you can't help feel-
in' about it, because it ain't only what the child
zvas to you, but what you keep thinkin' he'd 'a*
ben growin' more an' more to he to you. When
I lost my little boy I didn't only lose him as he
was, but I ben losin' him over an' agin all these
years. What he'd 'a' ben when he was so old;
an' what when he'd got to be a big boy; an'
what he'd 'a' ben when he went mebbe to col-
lidge; an' what he'd 'a' ben afterward, an' up to
now. Of course the times when a man stuffs
his face down into the pillers nights, passes.

^■ssw

DAVID HARUM.

341

after a while; but while the's some sorro's
that the happenin' o' things helps ye to fergit,
I guess the's some that the happenin' o' things
keeps ye rcmemberin', an' losin' a child *s one

on em.

<».

^•'''iWEw

CHAPTER XLI.

V. "■>

It was the latter part of John's fifth winter
in Homeville. The business of the office had
largely increased. The new manufactories which
had been established did their banking with Mr.
Harum, and the older concerns, including nearly
all the merchants in the village, had transferred
their accounts from Syrchester banks to Da-
vid's. The callow Hopkins had fledged and
developed into a competent all-'round man, able
to do anything in the office, and there was a new
" skeezicks " discharging Peleg's former func-
tions. Considerable impetus had been given to
the businoss of the town by the new road whose
rails had been laid the previous summer. There
had been a strong and acrimonious controversy
over the route which the road should take into
and through the village. There was the party
of the " nabobs " (as they were characterized by
Mr. Harum) and their following, and the party
of the " village people," and the former had car-
ried their point; but now the road was an ac-
complished fact, and most of the bitterness which
had been engendered had died away. Yet the
struggle was still matter for talk.

" Did I ever tell you," said David, as he and

his cashier were sitting in the rear room of the

bank, " how Lawyer Staples come to switch

round in that there railroad jangle last spring?"

34a

1 I

DAVID HARUM.

343

I remember," said John, " that you told me
he had deserted his party, and you laughed a little
at the time, but you did not tell me how it came
about."

" I kind o' thought I told ye," said David.

" No," said John, " I am quite sure you did
not."

" Wa'al," said Mr. Harum, " the* was, as you
know, the Tenaker-Rogers crowd wantin' one
thing, an' the Purse-Babbit lot bound to have the
other, an' run the road under the other fellers'
noses. Staples was workin' tooth an' nail fer
the Purse crowd, an' bein' a good deal of a poli-
tician, he was helpin' 'em a good deal. In fact,
he was about their best card. I wa'n't takin'
much hand in the matter either way, though my
feelin's was with the Tenaker party. I know 't
would come to a point where some money 'd
prob'ly have to be used, an' I made up my mind
I wouldn't do much drivin' myself unless I had
to, an' not then till the last quarter of the heat.
Wa'al, it got to lookin' like a putty even thing.
What little show I had made was if anythin' on
the Purse side. One day Tenaker come in to see
me an' wanted to know flat-footed which side ^he
fence I was on. * Wa'al,' I says, * I've ben settin*
up fer shapes to be kind o' on the fence, but I
don't mind sayin*, betwixt you an' me, that the
bulk o' my heft is a-saggin' your way ; but I hain't
took no active part, an' Purse an' them thinks
I'm goin' to be on their side when it comes to a
pinch.*

" ' Wa'al,' he says, * it's goin* to be a putty
close thing, an' we're goin' to need all the help
we c'n git.'

Wa'al,' I says, * I guess that's so, but fer

« <

iii

^ • I:

fei

')i

f^...

'*«-«WM«iWi«a,^

344

DAVID HARUM.

the present I reckon I c'n do ye more good by
keepin' in the shade. Are you folks prepared to
spend a Httle money? ' I says.

" * Yes/ he says, * if it comes to that.'

" * Wa'al/ I says, * it putty most gen'ally does
come to that, don't it? Now, the's one feller
that's doin' ye more harm than some others.'

" * You mean Staples? ' he says.

" * Yes,' I says, ' I mean Staples. He don't
really care a hill o' white beans which way the
road comes in, but he thinks he's on the pop'lar
side. Now,' I says, * I don't know as it'll be
nec'sary to use money with him, an* I don't say
't you could, anyway, but mebbe his yawp c'n be
stopped. I'll have a quiet word with him,' I says,
' an' see you agin.' So," continued Mr. Harum,
" the next night the' was quite a lot of 'em in
the bar of the new hotel, an' Staples was ha-
ranguin* away the best he knowed how., an'
bime by I nodded him off to ope side, an' we
went across the hall into the settin' room.

" ' I see you feel putty strong 'bout this bus'-
nis,' I says.

" * Yes, sir, it's a matter of princ'ple with me,'
he says, knockin' his fist down onto the table.

"'How does the outcome on't look to ye?'
I says. * Goin' to be a putty close race, ain't it? '

" * Wa'al,* he says, * 'tween you an' me, I
reckon it is.*

" * That's the way it looks to me,* I says, ' an*
more'n that, the other fellers are ready to spend
some money at a pinch.'

" * They be, be they? * he says.

" * Yes, sir,* I says, * an' we've got to meet *em
halfway. Now,' I says, takin' a paper out o' my
pocket, 'what I wanted to say to you is this:

DAVID HARUM.

345

You ben ruther more prom'nent in this matter
than most anybody — fur's talkin' goes — but I'm
consid'ably int'risted. The's got to be some
money raised, an' I'm ready/ I says, * to put
down as much as you be up to a couple o' hun-
derd, an' I'll take the paper 'round to the rest;
but,' I says, unfoldin' it, * I think you'd ought
to head the list, an' I'll come next.' Wa'al," said
David with a chuckle and a shake of the head,
" you'd ought to have seen his jaw go down.
He wriggled 'round in his chair, an' looked ten
difif'rent ways fer Sunday.

" * What do you say?' I says, lookin' square
at him, * '11 you make it a couple a hunderd? '

" * Wa'al,' he says, * I guess I couldn't go 's
fur 's that, an' I wouldn't Hke to head the list
anyway.'

" ' All right,' I says, ' I'll head it. Will you
say one-fi'ty?'

" * No,' he says, pullin' his whiskers, * I guess
not.'

" * A hunderd? ' I says, an' he shook his
head.

" * Fifty,' I says, * an' I'll go a hunderd,' an
at that he got out his hank'chif an' blowed his
nose, an* took his time to it. * Wa'al,' I says,
* what do ye say?'

" * Wa'al,' he says, * I ain't quite prepared to
give ye 'n answer to-night. Fact on't is,' he
says, * it don't make a cent's wuth o' diff'rence
to me person'ly which way the dum'd road comes
in, an' I don't jest this minute see why I should
spend any money in it.'

" * There's the principle o' the thing,' I says.

" ' Yes,' he says, gettin' out of his chair, * of
course, there's the princ'ple of the thing, an' —

34^

DAVID HARUM.

wa'al, I'll think it over an' see you agin,' he says,
lookin' at his watch. * I got to go now.'

" Wa'al, the next night," proceeded Mr. Ha-
rum, " I went down to the hotel agin, an' the'
was about the same crowd, but no Staples. The'
wa'n't much goin' on, an' Purse, in pertic'ler, was
lookin' putty down in the mouth. * Where's
Staples? ' I says.

" ' Wa'al,' says Purse, * he said mebbe he'd
come to-night, an* mebbe he couldn't. Said it
wouldn't make much diff'rence; an' anyhow he
was goin' out o' town up to Syrchester fer a few
days. I don't know what's come over the feller,'
says Purse. * I told him the time was gittin'
short an' we'd have to git i.i our best licks, an*
he said he guessed he'd done about all 't he could,
an' in fact,' says Purse, * he seemed tO 'a' lost
int'rist in the hull thing.' "

" What did you say? " John asked.

" Wa'al," said David with -a grin, " PurF*»
went on to allow 't he guessed somebody's pock-
etbook had ben talkin', but I didn't say much of
anythin*, an' putty soon come away. Two three
days after," he continued, " I see Tenaker agin.

* I hear Staples has gone out o' town,* he says,

* an* I hear, too,' he s^.ys, * that he's kind o*
soured on the hull thing — didn't care much how
it did come out*

" * Wa'al,' I says, * when he comes back you
c'n use your own judgment about havin' a little
interview with him. Mebbe somethin' 's made
him think the's two sides to this thing. But
anyway,* I says, * I guess he won't do no more
hollerin'.*

" * How's that? ' says Tenaker.

Wa'al/ I says, * I ^uess I'll have to tell ye

« (

le says,

Ir. Ha-
m* the'
. The'
ler, was
iVhere's

be he'd
Said it
how he
;r a few
e feller,'
5 gittin'
cks, an'
le could,
'a' lost

" Pur?*».
s pock-
nuch of
vo three
er agin,
le says,
kind o*
ch how

ack you
a little
; made
;. But

■lo more

tell ye

DAVID HARUM.

347

a little story. Mebbe you've heard it before, but
it seems to be to the point. Once on a time,*
I says, * the' was a big church meetin' that had
lasted three days, an' the last evenin' the' was
consid'able excitement. The prayin' an' singin'
had warmed most on 'em up putty well, an' one
o' the most movin' of the speakers was tellin' 'em
what was what. The' was a big crowd, an' while
most on 'em come to be edified, the' was quite a
lot in the back part of the place that was ready fer
anythin'. Wa'al, it happened that standin' mixed
up in that lot was a feller nam: J — we'll call him
Smith, to be sure of him — an' Smith was jest
runnin' over with power, an' ev'ry little while
when somethin' the speaker said touched him on
the funny bone he'd out with an " A — men! Ves,
Lord ! " in a voice like a fact'ry whistle. Wa'al,
after a little the' was some snickerin' an' gigglin'
an' scroughin* an' hustlin' in the back part, an'
even some of the serioustest up in front would
kind o' smile, an' the moderator leaned over an'
says to one of the bretherin on the platform,
" Brother Jones," he says, " can't you git down
to the back of the hall an' say somethin' to quiet
Brother Smith? Smith's a good man, an' a
pious man," the moderator says, " but he's very
excitable, an' I'm 'fraid he'll git the boys to
goin' back there an' disturb the meetin'." So
Jones he worked his way back to where Smith
was, an' the moderator watched him go up to
Smith and jest speak to him 'bout ten seconds;
an' after that Smith never peeped once. After
the meetin' was over, the moderator says to
Jones, " Brother Jones," he says, " what did you
say to Brother Smith to-night that shut him up
so quick?" "I ast him fer a doD^r for For'n

^ - > mmem^ ,.

348

DAVID HARUM.

Missions," says Brother Jones, * an*, wa'al,* I
says to Tenaker, * that's what I done to Sta-
ples.' "

"Did Mr. Tenaker see the point?" asked
John, laughing.

♦' He laughed a little," said David, " but didn't
quite ketch on till I told him about the subscrip-
tion paper, an' then he like to split."

" Suppose Staples had taken you up," sug-
gested John.

" Wa'al," said David, " I didn't think I was
takin' many chances. If, in the fust place, I
hadn't knowed Staples as well 's I did, the Smith
fam'ly, so fur 's my experience goes, has got
more members 'n any other fam'ly on top of the
earth." At this point a boy brought in a tele-
gram. David opened it, gave a side glance at
his companion, and, taking out his pocketbook,
put the dispatch therein.

'al,' I
) Sta-

asked

: didn't
bscrip-

" sug-

I was
lace, I
: Smith
las got
) of the

a tele-
ance at
etbook,

CHAPTER XLII.

The next morning David called John into
the rear room. "Busy?" he asked.

" No," said John. " Nothing that can't wait."

" Set down," said Mr. Harum, drawing a
chair to the fire. He looked up with his charac-
teristic grin. " Ever own a hog? " he said.

" No," said John, smiling.

" Ever feel like ownin' one? "

" I don't remember ever having any cravings
in that direction."

" Like pork?" asked Mr. Harum.

" In moderation," was the reply. David pro-
duced from his pocketbook the dispatch received
the day before and handed it to the young man
at his side. " Read that," he said.

John looked at it and handed it back.

" It doesn't convey any idea to my mind," he
said.

" What? " said David, " you don't know what
* Bangs Galilee ' means? nor who * Raisin ' is? "

" You'll have to ask me an easier one," said
John, smiling.

David sat for a moment in silence, and then,
" How much money have you got? " he asked.

" Well," was the reply, " with what I had and
what I have saved since I came I conld get to-
gether about five thousand dollars, I think."

349

DAVID HARUM.

" Is it where you c'n put your hands on't? "

John took some slips of paper from his pock-
etbook and handed them to David.

" H'm, h'm," said the latter. " Wa'al, I owe
ye quite a little bunch o' money, don't I ? Forty-
five hunderd! Wa'al! Couldn't you 'a' done
better 'n to keep this here at four per cent? "

" Well," s. M John, * perhaps so, and perhaps
not. I prefer ^ to do this at all events."

"Thought -i't .! man was safe anyway,
didn't ye?" saiu Davir? 'n a tone which showed
that he was highly pleaood.

" Yes," said Tohn.

" Is this all? " asked David.

" There is some interest on those certificates,
and I have some balance in my account," was the
reply ; " and then, you know, I have some very
valuable securities — a. beautiful line of mining
stocks, and that promising Pennsylvania prop-
erty."

At the mention of the last-named asset
David looked at him for an instant as if about to
speak, but if so he changed his mind. He sat
for a moment fingering the yellow paper which
carried the mystic words. Presently he said,
opening the message out, "That's from an old
friend of mine out to Chicago. He come from
this part of the country, an' we was young fellers
together thirty years ago. I've had a good many
deals with him and through him, an' he never
give me a wrong steer, fur 's I know. That is, I
never done as he told me without comin' out all
right, though he's give me a good many pointers
I never did nothin' about. 'Tain't nee sary to
name no names, but * Bangs Galilee ' means * buy
pork,' an* as I've ben watchin' the market fer

DAVID HARUM.

351

is on't? "
lis pock-

il, I owe
Forty-
'a' done
mt? "
I perhaps
s."

anyway,
1 showed

irtificates,
" was the
ome very
>f mining
nia prop-

led asset

about to

He sat

^er which

he said,

m an old

Dme from

ing fellers

3od many

he never

That is, I

in' out all

y pointers

sc'sary to

eans * buy

larket fer

quite a spell myself, an' standard pork 's a good
deal lower 'n it costs to pack it, I've made up my
mind to buy a few thousan' barrels fer fam'ly use.
It's a handy thing to have in the house," declared
Mr. Harum, " an' I thought mebbe it wouldn't
be a bad thing fer you to have a little. It looks
cheap to me,'* he added, " an' mebbe bime-by
what you don't eat you c'n sell."

" Well," said John, laughing, " you see me
at table every day and know what my appetite
is like. How much pork do you think I could
take care of? "

" Wa'al, at the present price," said David, ' i
think about four thousan' barrels would give ye
enough to eat fer a spell, an' mebbe leave yc a
few barrels to dispose of if you should happen to
strike a feller later on that wanted it wuss 'n y( a
did."

John opened his eyes a little. " I SixOuld
only have a margin of a dollar and a quarter,"
he said.

" Wa'al, I've got a notion that that'll carry
ye," said David. " It may go lower 'n what it is
now. I never bought anythin* yet that didn't
drop some, an' I guess nobody but a fool ever
did buy at the bottom more'n once; but I've
had an idee for some time that it was about
bottom, an' this here telegraph wouldn't 'a' ben
sent if the feller that sent it didn't think so too,
an' I've had some other cor'spondence with
him." Mr. Harum paused and laughed a little.

" I was jest thinkin'," he continued, *' of what
the Irishman said about StofTord. Never ben
there, have ye? Wa'al, it's a place eight nine
mile f'm here, an' the hills 'round are so steep
that when you're goin' up you c'n look right

i?^

1i ll

352

DAVID HARUM.

back under the buggy by jest leanin* over the
edge of the dash. I was drivin' 'round there
once, an* I met an Irishman with a big drove o'
hogs.

"'Hello, Pat!' I says, 'where 'd all them
hogs come from ? '

" * Stofford,' he says.

" ' Wa'al,' I says, ' I wouldn't 'a' thought the'
was so many hogs in StofTord.'

"'Oh, be gobs!' he says, 'sure they're all
hogs in Stofiford;' an'," declared David, "the
bears ben sellin' that pork up in Chicago as if the
hull everlastin' West was all hogs,"

" It's very tempting," said John thought-
fully.

" Wa'al," said David, " I don't M'ant to tempt
ye exac'ly, an' certain I don't want to urge ye.
The' ain't no sure things but death an' taxes, as
the sayin' is, but buyin' pork at these prices is
buyin' somethin' that's got valu€, an' you can't
wipe it out. In other words, it's buyin' a war-
ranted article at a price consid'ably lower 'n it
c'n be produced for, an' though it may go lower,
if a man c'n stick, it's bound to level up in the
long run."

Our friend sat for some minutes apparently
looking into the fire, but he was not conscious of
seeing anything at all. Finally he rose, went
over to Mr. Harum's desk, figured the interest on
the certificates up to the first of January, in-
dorsed them, and filling up a check for the bal-
ance of the amount in question, handed the check
and certificate to David.

" Think you'll go it, eh? " said the latter.

"Yes," said John; "but if I take the quan-
tity you suggest, I shall have nothing to remar-

DAVID HARUM.

353

gin the trade in case the market goes below a
certain point."

" I've thought of that," replied David, " an'
was goin' to say to you that I'd carry the trade
down as fur as your money would go, in case
more margins had to be called."

" Very well," said John. " And will you look
after the whole matter for me?"

'• All right," said David.

John thanked him and returned to the front
room.

ik.i

There were times in the months which fol-
lowed when our friend had reason to wish that all
swine had perished with those whom Shylock
said " your prophet the Nazarite conjured the
devil into ; " and the news of the world in general
was of secondary importance compared with the
market reports. After the purchase pork dropped
off a little, and hung about the lower figure for
some time. Then it began to advance by de-
grees until the quotation was a dollar above the
purchase price.

John's impulse was to sell, but David made
no sign. The market held firm for a while, even
going a little higher. Then it began to drop
rather more rapidly than it had advanced, to
about what the pork had cost, and for a long pe-
riod fluctuated only a few cents one way or the
other. This was followed by a steady decline to
the extent of half-a-dollar, and, as the reports
came, it " looked like going lower," which it did.
In fact, there came a day when it was so " low,"
and so much more ** looked like going lower "
than ever (as such things usually do when the
"bottom' is pretty nearly reached), that our

354

DAVID HARUM.

I>3

friend had not the courage to examine the market
reports for the next two days, and simply tried
to keep the subject out of his mind. On the
morning of the third day the Syrchester paper
was brought in about ten o clock, as usual, and
laid on Mr. Harum's desk. John shivered a
little, and for some time refrained from looking
at it. At last, more by impulse than intention,
he went into the back room and glanced at the
first page without taking the paper in his hands.
One of the press dispatches was headed: " Great
Excitement on Chicago Board of Trade: Pork
Market reported Cornered: Bears on the Run,'*
and more of the same sort, which struck our
friend as being the most profitable, instructive,
and delightful literature that he had ever come
across. David had been in Syrchester the two
days previous, returning the evening before.
Just then he came into the office, and John
handed him the paper.

" Wa'al," he said, holding it off at arm's
length, and then putting on his glasses, " them
fellers that thought they was all hogs up West,
are havin* a change of heart, are they? I reck-
oned they would 'fore they got through with it.
It's ben ruther a long pull, though, eh? " he said,
looking at John with a grin.

" Yes," said our friend, with a slight shrug of
the shoulders.

" Things looked ruther colicky the last two
three days, eh?" suggested David. "Did you
think * the jig was up an' the monkey was in the
box?'"

" Rather." said John. " The fact is," he ad-
mitted, " I am ashamed to say that for a few days
back I haven't looked at a quotation. I suppose

two

DAVID HARUM.

355

How

you must have carried me to some extent,
much was it?"

" Wa'al," said David, " I kept the trade mar-
gined, of course, an' if we'd sold out at the bot-
tom you'd have owed me somewhere along a
thousan' or fifteen hunderd; but," he added, ** it
was only in the slump, an' didn't last long, an'
anyway I cal'lated to carry that pork to where it
would 'a' ketched fire. I wa'n't worried none,
an' you didn't let on to be, an' so I didn't say
anythin'."

"What do you think about it now?" asked
John.

" My opinion is now," replied Mr. Harum,
" that it's goin' to putty near where it belongs, an'
mebbe higher, an' them 's my advices. \Vc can
sell now at some profit, an' of course the bears '11
jump on agin as it goes up, an' the other fellers
'11 take the profits f'm time to time. If I was
where I could watch the market, I'd mebbe try
to make a turn in 't 'casionally, but I guess as
't is we'd better set down an' let her take her own
gait. I don't mean to try an' git the top price —
I'm alwus willin' to let the other feller mak ^ a
little — but we've waited fer quite a spell, an' . ^
it's goin' our way, we might 's well wait a little
longer."

" All right," said John, " and I'm very much
obliged to you."

" Sho, sho! " said David.

It was not until August, however, that the
deal was finally closed out.

'^■r

""f^PPBiPP

CHAPTER XLIII.

The summer was drawing to a dose. The
seaion, so far as the social part of it was con-
cerned, had been what John had grown accus-
tomed to in previous years, and there were few
changes in or among the people whom he had
come to know very well, save those which a few
years make in young people: some increase of
importance in demeanor on the part of the young
men whose razors were coming into requisition;
and the changes from short to long skirts, from
braids, pig-tails, and flowing manes to more elab-
orate coiffures on the part of the young women.
The most notable event had been the reopening
of 're Verjoos house, which had been closed for
two summers, and the return of the family, fol-
lowed by the appearance of a young man whom
Miss Clara had met abroad, and who represented
himself as the acknowledged fiance of that young
v/oman. It need hardly be said that discussions
of the event, and upon the appearance, manners,
prospects, etc., of that fortunate gentleman had
formed a very considerable part of the talk of
the season among the summer people; and, in-
deed, interest in the affair had permeated all
grades and classes of society.

It was some six weeks after the settlement of
the transaction in '' pork " that David and John
356

DAVID HARUM.

357

were driving together in the afternoon as they
had so often done in the last five years. They
had got to that point of understanding where
neither felt constrained to talk for the purpose of
keeping up conversation, and often in their long
drives there was little said by either of them. The
young man was never what is called " a great
talker," and Mr. Harum did not always " git
goin'." On this occasion they had gone along
for some time, smoking in silence, each man ab-
sorbed in his thoughts. Finally David turned to
his companion.

" Do you know that Dutchman Claricy Ver-
joos is goin' to marry?" he asked.

"Yes," replied John, laughing; "I have met
him a number of times. But he isn't a Dutch-
man. What gave you that idea? "

" I heard it was over in Germany she run
across him," said David.

" I believe that is so, but he isn't a German.
He is from Philadelphia, and is a friend of the
Bradways."

" What kind of a feller is he? Good enough
for her? "

" Well," said John, smiling, " in the sense in
which that question is usually taken, I should
say yes. He has good looks, good manners, a
good deal of money, I am told, and it is said that
Miss Clara — which is the main point, after all —
is very much in love with him."

" H'm," said David after a moment. " How
do you git along with the Verjoos girls? Was
Claricy's ears pointed all right when you seen
her fust after she come home? "

" Oh, yes! " replied John, smiling, " she and
her sister were perfectly pleasant and cordial,

1 1

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"1"

limpviSSBSiM

358

DAVID HARUM.

» '

and Miss Verjoos and I are on very friendly
terms."

" I was thinkin'," said David, " that you an'
Claricy might be got to likin* each other, an'
mebbe "

" I don't think there could ever have been the
smallest chance of it," declared John hastily.

" Take the lines a minute," said David, hand-
ing them to his companion after stopping the
horses. " The nigh one's picked up a stone, I
guess," and he got out to investigate. " The
river road," he remarked as he climbed back into
the buggy after removing the stone from the
horse's foot, " is about the puttiest road 'round
here, but I don't drive it oftener jest on account
of them dum'd loose stuns." He sucked the air
through his pursed-up lips, producing a little
squeaking sound, and the horses started forward.
Presently he turned to John :

" Did you ever think of gettiq' married? " he
asked.

" Well," said our friend with a little hesita-
tion, " I don't remember that I ever did, very
definitely."

" Somebody 't you knew 'fore you come up
here?" said David, jumping at a conclusion.

" Yes," said John, smiling a little at the
question.

" Wouldn't she have ye? " queried David, who
stuck at no trifles when in pursuit of information.

John laughed. ** I never asked her," he re-
plied, in truth a little surprised at his own will-
ingness to be questioned.

" Did ye cal'late to when the time come
right?" pursued Mr. Harum.

Of this part of his history John had, of course,

DAVID HARUM.

359

iriendly

fou an'
ler, an'

icen the
ily.

I, hand-
ing the
stone, I
"The
ack into
om the
i 'round
account
I the air
a Httle
forward.

ed? " he

hesita-
id, very

:ome up
ion.
at the

/id, who
rmation.
he re-
ivn will-

e come

; course,

never spoken to David. There had been a time
when, if not resenting the attempt upon his con-
fidence, he would have made it plain that he did
not wish to discuss the matter, and the old wound
still gave him twinges. But he had not only
come to know his questioner very well, but to be
much attached to him. He knew, too, that the
elder man would ask him nothing save in the
way of kindness, for he had had a hundred proofs
of that; and now, so far from feeling reluc-
tant to take his companion into his confidence,
he rather welcomed the idea. He was, withal,
a bit curious to ascertain the drift of the inquiry,
knowing that David, though sometimes working
in devious ways, rarely started without an inten-
tion. And so he answered the question and what
followed as he might have told his story to a
woman.

" An' didn't you never git no note, nor mes-
sage, nor word of any kind? " asked David.

" No."

" Nor hain't ever heard a word about her f'm
that day to this?"

" No."

" Nor hain't ever tried to? "

" No," said John. " What would have been
the use? "

" Prov'dence seemed to 've made a putty
clean sweep in your matters that spring, didn't
it?"

" It seemed so to me," said John.

Nothing more was said for a minute or two.
Mr. Harum appeared to have abandoned the pur-
suit of the subject of his questions. At last he
said :

" You ben here most five years."

"'if

/T*-

1" i

iSmmmm

360

DAVID HARUM.

»»

*' Very nearly," John replied.

" Ben putty contented, on the hull?

" I have grown to be," said John. " Indeed,
it's hard to realize at times that I haven't always
lived in Homeville. I remember my former life
as if it were something I have read in a book.
There was a John Lenox in it, but he seems to
me sometimes more like a character in a story
than myself."

" An' yet," said David, turning toward him,
" if you was to go back to it, this last five years
'd git to be that way to ye a good deal quicker.
Don't ye think so? "

*' Perhapb so," replied John. " Yes," he
added thoughtfully, " it is possible."

' I guess on the hull, though," remarked Mr.
Harum, " you done better up here in the country
'n you might some 'ers else "

" Oh, yes," said John sincerely, " thanks to
you, I have indeed, and "

" — an' — ne' mind about me— you got quite a
little bunch o' money together now. I was think-
in' 't mebbe you might feel 't you needn't to stay
here no longer if you didn't want to."

The young man turned to the speaker inquir-
ingly, but Mr. Harum's face •" ^ straight to the
front, and betrayed nothing*.

" It wouldn't be no more 'n natural," 'le went
on, " an' mebbe it would be best for ye. You're
too good a man to spend all your days w'orkin'
fer Dave Harum, an' I've had it in my mind fer
some time — somethin' like that pork deal — to
make you a little independent in case anythin'
should happen, an' — gen'ally. I couldn't give ye
no money 'cause you Vv^ouldn't 'a' took it even if
I'd wanted to, but now you got it, why "

%:.

DAVID HARUM.

■ Indeed,
t always
•mer life

a book.
i€€nis to

a story

ard him,

ve years

quicker.

fes," he

rked Mr.
; country

hanks to

)t quite a
as think-
.'t to stay

IT inquir-
ht to the

'le went

You're

i w^orkin'

mind fer

deal — to

anythin'

t give ye

it even if

3^1

" I feel very much as if you had given it to
me," protested the young man.

David put up his hand. " No, no," he said,
" all 't I did was to propose the thing to ye, an'
to put up a Httle money ter two three days. I
didn't take no chances, an' it's all right, an' it's
your'n, an' iL makes ye to a certain extent inde-
pendent of Homeville."

** I don't quite see it so," said John.

" Wa'al," said David, turning to him, " if
you'd had as much five years ago you wouldn't
'a' come here, would ye?"

John was silent.

" What I was leadin' up to," resumed Mr.
Harum after a moment, " is this : I ben thinkin'
about it fer some time, but I haven't wanted to
speak to ye about it before. In fact, I might 'a'
put it ofif some longer if things wa'n't as they
are, but the fact o' the matter is that I'm goin'
to take down my sign."

John looked at him in undisguised amaze-
ment, not unmixed with consternation.

*' Yes," said David, obviously avoiding the
other's eye, " * David Harum, Banker,' is goin' to
come down. I'm gettin' to be an' old man," he
went on, " an' what with some investments I've
got, an' a hoss-trade once in a while, I guess I c'n
manage to keep the fire goin' in the kitchin stove
fer Polly an' me, an' the' ain't no reason why I
sh'd keep my sign up much of any longer. Of
course," he said, "if I was to go on as I be now Fd
want ye to stay jest as you are ; but, as I was say in*,
you're to a consid'able extent independent. You
hain't no speciul ties to keep ye, an' you ought
anyway, as I said before, to be doin' better for
yourself than jest drawin' pay in a country bank."

362

DAVID HARUM.

I f

One of the most impressive morals drawn
from the fairy tales of our childhood, and indeed
from the literature and experience of our later
periods of life, is that the fulfilment of wishes is
often attended by the most unwelcome results.
There had been a great many times when to our
friend the possibility of being able to bid fare-
well to Homeville had seemed the most desirable
of things, but confronted with the idea as a real-
ity — for what other construction could he put
upon David's words except that they amounted
practically to a dismissal, though a most kind
one? — he found himself simply in dismay.

" I suppose," he said after a few moments,
" that by ' taking down your sign ' you mean
going out of business "

" Figger o' speech," explained David.

" — and your determination is not only a
great surprise to me, but grieves me very much.
I am very sorry to hear it — more sorry than I
can tell you. As you remirul me, if I leave
Homeville I shall not go almost penniless as I
came, but I shall leave with great regret, and, in-
deed Ah, well " he broke off with a

wave of his hands.

" What was you goin' to say? " asked David,
after a momeit, his eyes on the horizon.

■* I can't say very much more," replied the
young man, " than that T am very sorry. There
have been times," he added, " as you may under-
stand, when I have been restless and discouraged
for a V 'hilc. particularly at first ; but I can see now
thai, tn the vhole, I have been far from unhappy
here. Y-ar i.ouse has grown to be more a real
home than *nv I have ever known, and you and
your sist'^r are sike my own people. What you

■;;i»

DAVID HARUM.

363

say, that I ought not to look forward to spending
my life behind the counter of a village bank on a
salary, may be true; but I am not, at present at
least, a very ambitious person, nor, I am afraid,
a very clever one in the way of getting on in the
world; and the idea of breaking out lor myself,
even if that were all to be considered, is not a
cheerful one. I am afraid all this sounds rather
selfish to you, when, as I can see, you have de-
ferred your plans for my sake, and after all else
that you have done for me."

" I guess I sha'n't lay it up agin ye," said
David quietly.

They drove along in silence for a while.

" May I ask," said John, at length, " when
you intend to ' take down your sign,' as you
put it?"

" Whenever you say the word," declared
David, with a chuckle and a side glance at his
companion. John turned in bewilderment.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

" Wa'al," said ' .vid with another short laugh,
" fur 's the sign 's concerned, I s'pose we could
stick a new one over it, but I guess it might 's
well come down; but we'll settle that matter
later on."

John still looked at the speaker in utter per-
plexity, until the latter broke out into a laugh.

" Got any idee what's goin' onto the new
sign? " he asked.

" You don't mean "

" Yes, I do," declared Mr. Harum, " an' my
notion 's this, an' don't you say aye, yes, nor no
till I git through," and he laid his left hand re-
strainingly on John's knee.

" The new sign '11 read ' Harum & Comp'ny,*

ft . _, — ^;,

'>'Y

364

DAVID HARUM.

or * Harum & Lenox,' jest as you elect. You
c'n put in what money you got an' I'll put in as
much more, which '11 make cap'tal enough in
gen'ral, an' any extry money that's needed —
wa'al, up to a certain point, I guess I c'n manage.
Now putty much all the new bus'nis has come
in through you, an' practically you got the hull
thing in your hands. You'll do the work about
's you're doin' now, an' you'll draw the same sal-
'ry; an' after that's paid we'll go snucks on any-
thin' that's left— that is," added David with a
chuckle, " if you feel that you c'n sian' it in
Homeville."

" I wish you was married to one of cur
Homeville girls, though," declared Mr. Harum
later on as they drove homeward.

. You
It in as
ugh in
;eded —
nanage.
s come
he hull
i about
me sal-
Dn any-
with a
i' it in

of cur
Harum

CHAPTER XLIV.

Since the whooping-cough and measles of
childhood the junior partner of Harum & Com-
pany had never to his recollection had a day's
illness in his life, and he fought the attack which
came upon him about the first week in December
with a sort of incredulous disgust, until one
morning when he did not appear at breakfast.
He spent the next week in bed, and at the end of
that time, while he was able to be about, it was
in a languid and spiritless fashion, and he was
shaken and exasperated by a persistent cough.
The season was and had been unusually inclem-
ent even for that region, where the thermometer
sometimes changes fifty degrees in thirty-six
hours; and at the time of his release from his
room there was a period of successive changes of
temperature from thawing to zero and below, a
characteristic of the winter climate of Homeville
and its vicinity. Dr. Hayes exhibited the inevi-
table quinine, iron, and all the tonics in his phar-
macopoeia, with cough mixtures and sundry, but
in vain. Aunt Polly pressed bottles of sovereign
decoctions and infusions upon him — which were
received with thanks and neglected with the
blackest ingratitude — and exhausted not only the
markets of Homeville, but her own and Sairy's
culinary resources (no mean ones, by the way)

365

'W\

366

DAVID HARUM.

i'l

to tempt the appetite which would not respond.
One week followed another without any im-
provement in his condition; and indeed as time
went on he fell into a condition of irritable list-
Icssness which filled his partner with concern.

"What's the matter with him, Doc?" said
David to the physician. " He don't seem to take
no more int'rist than a foundered hoss. Can't
ye do nothin' for him? "

" Not much use dosin' him," replied the doc-
tor. " Pull out all right, may be, come warm
weather. Big strong fellow, but this cussed in-
fluenzy, or grip, as they call it, sometimes hits
them hardest."

" Wa'al, warm weather *s some way oflf," re-
marked Mr. Harum, " an' he coughs enough to
tear his head off sometimes."

The doctor nodded. " Ought to clear out
somewhere," he said. " Don't like that cough
myself."

" What do you mean? " aske3 David.

" Ought to go 'way for a spell," said the doc-
tor; " quit working, and get a change of cli-
mate."

" Have you told him so? " asked Mr. Ha-
rum.

" Yes," replied the doctor; " said he couldn't
get away."

"H'm'm!'; said David thoughtfully, pinch-
ing his lower lip between his thumb and finger.

A day or two after the foregoing interview,
John came in and laid an open letter in front of
David, who was at his desk, and dropped lan-
guidly irto a chair without speaking. Mr.
Harum rei:d the letter, smiled a little, and turn-
ing in his chair, took off his glasses and looked

DAVID HARUM.

367

espond.
iny im-
as time
ble list-
mcern.
?" said
to take
. Can't

the doc-
e warm
ssed in-
nes hits

off," re-
ough to

lear out
t cough

the doc-
of cli-

^r. Ha-

couldn't

, pinch-
inger.
terview,
front of
Ded lan-
r. Mr.
id turn-
looked

at the young man, who was staring abstractedly
at the floor.

" I ben rather expectin' you'd git somethin'
like this. What be you goin' to do about it? "

" I don't know," replied John. " I don't like
the idea of leasing the property in any case, and
certainly not on the terms they offer; but it is
lying idle, and I'm paying taxes on it "

" Wa'al, as I said, I ben expectin' fer some
time they'd be after ye in some shape. You got
this this mornin'?"

" Yes."

" I expect you'd sell the prop'ty if you got a
good chance, wouldn't ye?"

" With the utmost pleasure," said John em-
phatically.

" Wa'al, I've got a notion they'll buy it of
ye," said David, " if it's handled right. I
wouldn't lease it if it was mine an' I wanted to
sell it, an' yet, in the long run, you might git
more out of it — an' then agin you mightn't," he
added.

" I don't know anything about it," said John,
putting his handkerchief to his mouth in a fit of
coughing. David looked at him with a frown.

" I ben aware fer some time that the' was a
movement on foot in your direction," he said.
" You know I told ye that I'd ben int'ristid in
the oil bus'nis once on a time ; an' I hain't never
quite lost my int'rist, though it hain't ben a very
active one lately, an' some fellers down there
have kep' me posted some. The' 's ben oil found
near where you're located, an' the prospectin'
points your way. The hull thing has ben kep' as
close as possible, an' the holes has ben plugged,
but the oil is there somewhere. Now it's like

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368

DAVID HARUM.

this: If you lease on shares an' they strike the
oil on your prop'ty, mebbe it'll bring you more
money; but they might strike, an' agin they
mightn't. Sometimes you git a payin' well an* a
dry hole only a few hunderd feet apart. Never-
theless they want to drill your prop'ty. I know
who the parties is. These fellers that wrote this
letter are simply actin' for 'em."

The speaker was interrupted by another fit
of coughing, which left the sufferer very red in
the face, and elicited from him the word which
is always greeted with laughter in a theater.

" Say," said David, after a moment, in which
he looked anxiously at his companion, " I don't
like that cough o' your'n."

" I don't thoroughly enjoy it myself," was the
rejoinder.

" Seems to be kind o' growin' on ye, don't
it?"

" I don't know," said John:

" I was talkin' with Doc Hayes about ye,"
said David, " an' he allowed you'd ought to have
your shoes off an' run loose a spell."

John smiled a little, but did not reply.

" Spoke to you about it, didn't he? " contin-
ued David.

" Yes."

" An' you told him you couldn't git away? "

"Yes."

" Didn't tell him you wouldn't go if you
could, did ye?"

" I only told him 1 couldn't go," said John.

David sat for a moment thoughtfully tapping
the desk with his eyeglasses, and then said with
his characteristic chuckle:

" I had a letter f'm Chet Timson yestidy."

DAVID HARUM.

369

John looked up at him, failing to see the con-
nection.

" Yes," said David, " he's out fer a job, an'
the way he writes I guess the dander's putty well
out of him. I reckon the' hain't ben nothin'
much but hay in his manger fer quite a spell," re-
marked Mr. Harum.

"H'm!" said John, raising his brows, con-
scious of a humane but very faint interest in
Mr. Timson's affairs. Mr. Harum got out a
cigar, and, lighting it, gave a puf¥ or two, and
continued with what struck the younger man
as a perfectly irrelevant question. It really
seemed to him as if his senior were making con-
versation.

" How's Peleg doin' these days? " was the
query.

" Very well," was the reply.

" C'n do most anythin' 't's nec'sary, can't
he?"

A brief interruption followed upon the en-
trance of a man, who, after saying good-morn-
ing, laid a note on David's desk, asking for
the money on it. Mr. Harum handed it back,
indicating John with a motion of his
thumb.

The latter took it, looked at the face and back,
marked his initials on it with a pencil, and the
man went out to the counter.

" If you was fixed so 't you could git away
fer a spell," said David a moment or two after
the customer's departure, " where would you
like to go? "

" I have not thought about it," said John
rather listlessly.

" Wa'al, s'pose you think about it a little

■\

^Kr

370

DAVID HARUM.

V, ,-

1' f

^■"^

now, if you hain't got no pressin' engagement.
Bus'nis don't seem to be very rushin' this
mornin'."

" Why? " said John.

" Because," said David impressively, " you're
goin* somewhere right oflf, quick *s you c'n git
ready, an' you may 's well be makin' up your
mind where."

John looked up in surprise. " I don't want
to go away," he said, " and if I did, how could I
leave the office?"

" No," responded Mr. Harum, " you don't
want to make a move of any kind that you don't
actually have to, an' that's the reason fer makin'
one. F'm what the doc said, an' f'm what I c'n
see, you got to git out o' this dum'd climate,"
waving his hand toward the window, against
which the sleet was beating, "fer a spell; an' as
fur 's the office goes, Chet Timson 'd be tickled
to death to come on an' help out while you're
away, an' I guess 'mongst us we c'n mosey along
some gait. I ain't quite to the bone-yard yet
myself," he added with a grin.

The younger man sat for a moment or two
with brows contracted, and pulling thoughtfully
at his moustache.

"There is that matter," he said, pointing to
the letter on the desk.

"Wa'al," said David, "the' ain't no tearin*
hurry 'bout that; an' anyway,! was goin' to make
you a suggestion to put the matter into my hands
to some extent."

" Will you take it ? " said John quickly. " That
is exactly what I should wish in any case."

" If you want I should," replied Mr. Harum.
"Would you want to give full power attorney,

DAVID HARUM.

37«

or jest have me say 't I was instructed to act
for ye?"

" I think a better way would be to put the
property in your name altogether," said John.
" Don't you think so? "

"Wa'al," said David, thoughtfully, after a
moment, " I hadn't thought of that, but mebbe 1
could handle the matter better if you was to do
that. I know the parties, an' if the' was any
blufiin' to be done either side, mebbe it would
be better if they thought I was playin' my own
hand."

At that point Peleg appeared and asked Mr.
Lenox a question which took the latter to the
teller's counter. David sat for some time drum-
ming on his desk with the fingers of both hands.
A succession of violent coughs came from the
front room. His mouth and brows contracted in
a wince, and rising, he put on his coat and hat
and went slowly out of the bank.

That

■ «»-«.-^.i.^^

CHAPTER XLV.

The Vaterland was advertised to sail at one
o'clock, and it wanted but fifteen or twenty min-
utes of the hour. After assuring himself that his
belongings were all together in his state-room,
John made his way to the upper deck and lean-
ing against the rail, watched the bustle of em-
barkation, somewhat interested in the people
standing about, among whom it was difficult in
instances to distinguish the passengers from those
who were present to say farewell. Near him at
the moment were two people, apparently man
and wife, of middle age and rather distinguished
appearance, to whom presently approached, with
some evidence of hurry and with outstretched
hand, a very well dressed and pleasant looking
man.

" Ah, here you are, Mrs. Ruggles," John
heard him say as he shook hands.

Then followed some commonplaces of good
wishes and farewells, and in reply to a ques-
tion which John did not catch, he heard the lady
addressed as Mrs. Ruggles say, " Oh, didn't you
see her? We left her on the lower deck a few
minutes ago. Ah, here she comes."

The man turned and advanced a step to meet
the person in question. John's eyes involuntarily
followed the movement, and as he saw her ap-
372

DAVID HARUM.

373

I at one
ity min-
that his
e-room,
id lean-
of em-
people
ficult in
m those
him at
"ly man
guished
d, with
retched
ooking

' John

)f good
ques-
he lady
In't you
c a few

proach his heart contracted sharply : it was Mary
Blake, He turned away quickly, and as the
collar of his ulster was about his face, for the air
of the January day was very keen, he thought
that she had not recognized him. A moment
later he went aft around the deck-house, and go-
ing forward to the smoking-room, seated himself
therein, and took the passenger list out of his
pocket. He had already scanned it rather cur-
sorily, having but the smallest expectation of
coming upon a familiar name, yet feeling sure
that, had hers been there, it could not have es-
caped him. Nevertheless, he now ran his eye
over the columns with eager scrutiny, and the
hands which held the paper shook a little.

There was no name in the least like Blake.
It occurred to him that by some chance or error
hers might have been omitted, when his eye
caught the following:

William Ruggles New York.

Mrs. Ruggles

Mrs. Edward Ruggles

It was plain to him then. She was obviously
traveling with the people whom she had just
joined on deck, and it was equally plain that she
was Mrs. Edward Ruggles. When he looked
up the ship was out in the river.

to meet
untarily
her ap-

■/T"'"

>Mm«WMWi

waB'<

^"i^ttauiiMtttet^itsai..

CHAPTER XLVI.

John had been late in applying for his pas-
sage, and in consequence, the ohip being very
full, had had to take what berth he could get,
which happened to be in the second cabin. The
occupants of these quarters, however, were not
rated as second-class passengers. The Vater-
land took none such on her outward voyages,
and all were on the same footing as to the fare
and the freedom of the ship. The captain and
the orchestra appeared at dinner in the second
saloon on alternate nights, and,the only disadvan-
tage in the location was that it was very far aft;
unless it could be considered a drawback that the
furnishings were of plain wood and plush Mistead
of carving, gilding, and stamped leather, in fact,
as the voyage proceeded, our friend decided that
the after-deck was pleasanter than the one amid-
ships, and the cozy second-class smoking-room
more agreeable than the large and gorgeous one
forward.

Consequently, for a while he rarely went
across the bridge which spanned the opening be-
tween the two decks. It may be that he had a
certain amount of reluctance to encounter Mrs.
Edward Ruggles.

The roof of the second cabin deck-house was,
when there was not too much wind, a favorite
374

DAVID HARUM.

37S

amid-

went

ng be-

had a

' Mrs.

place with him. It was not much frequented, as
most of Lhose who spent their time on deck
apparently preferred a place nearer amidships.
He was sitting there on the morning of the fifth
day out, looking idiy over the sea, with an occa-
sional glance at the people who were walking on
the promenade-deck below, or leaning on the rail
which bounded it. He turned at a sliglit sound
behind him, and rose with his hat in his hand.
The flush in his face, as he took the hand which
was offered him, reflected the color in the face
of the owner, but the grayish brown eyes, which
he remembered so well, looked into his, a little
curiously, perhaps, but frankly and kindly. She
was the first to speak.

" How do you do, Mr. Lenox? " she said.

" How do you do, Mrs. Ruggles?" said John,
throwing up his hand as, at the moment of his
reply, a puff of wind blew the cape of his mackin-
tosh over his head. They both laughed a little
(this was their greeting after nearly six years),
and sat down.

"What a nice place I" she said, looking
about her.

" Yes," said John ; " I sit here a good deal
when it isn't too windy."

" I ha\e been wondering why I did not
get a sight of you," she said. " I saw your
name in the passenger list. Have you been
ill? "

" T'm in the second cabin," he said, smiling.

She looked at him a little incredulously, and
he explained.

" Ah, yes," sha said, " I saw your name, but
as you did not appear in the dining saloon, I
thought you must either be ill or that you did

37^

DAVID HARUM.

not sail. Did you know that I was on board?"
she asked.

It was rather an embarrassing question.

" I have been intending," he replied rather
lamely, '* to make myself known to you — that is,
to — well, make my presence on board known to
you. I got just a glimpse of you before wc
sailed, when you came up to speak to a man who
had been saying good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Rug-
gles. I heard him speak their name, and look-
ing over the passenger list I identified you as
Mrs. Edward Ruggles."

" Ah," she said, looking away for an instant,
" I did not know that you had seen me, and I
wondered how you came to address me as Mrs.
Ruggles just now."

" That was how," said John; and then, after
a moment, " it seems rather odd, doesn't it, that
we should be renewing an acquaintance on an
ocean steamer as we did once before, so many
years ago ? and that the first ' bit of intelligence
that I have had of you in all the years since I
saw you last should come to me through the pas-
senger list?"

"Did you ever try to get any?" she asked.
" I have always thought it very strange that we
should never have heard anything about you."

" I went to the house once, some weeks after
you had gone," said John, " but the man in
charge was out, and the maid could tell me noth-
mg.

" A note I wrote you at the time of your fa-
ther's death," she said, " we found in my small
nephew's overcoat pocket after we had been some
time in CaHfornia; but I wrote a second one
before we left New York, telling you of

DAVID HARUM.

377

our intended departure, and where we were
going."

" I never received it," he said. Neither spoke
for a while, and then :

" Tell me of your sister and brother-in-law,"
he said.

" My sister is at present living in Cambridge,
where Jack is at college," was the reply; " but
poor Julius died two years ago."

" Ah," said John, " I am grieved to hear of
Mr. Carling's death. I liked him very much."

" He liked you very much," she said, " and
often spoke of you."

There was another period of silence, so long,
indeed, as to be somewhat embarrassing. None
of the thoughts which followed each other in
John's mind was of the sor which he felt like
broaching. He realized that the situation was
getting awkward, and that consciousness added
to the confusion of his ideas. But if his compan-
ion shared his embarrassment, neither her face
nor her manner betrayed it as at last she said,
turning, and looking frankly at him:

" You seem very little changed. Tell me
about yourself. Tell me something of your life
in the last six years."

During the rest of the voyage they were to-
gether for a part of every day, sometimes with
the company of Mrs. William Ruggles, but more
often without it, as her husband claimed much of
her attention and rai ely came on deck ; and John,
from time to time, gave his companion pretty
much the whole history of his later career. But
with regard to her own life, and, as he noticed,
especially the two years since the death of her
brother-in-law, she was distinctly reticent. She
2i

'iS^lii/tf^'^-^^i^'^M^^i*^,^

378

DAVID HARUM.

never spoke of her marriage or her husband,
and after one or two faintly tentative allusions,
John forebore to touch upon those subjects, and
was driven to conclude that her experience had
not been a happy one. Indeed, in their inter-
course there were times when she appeared dis-
trait and even moody; but on the whole she
seemed to him to be just as he had known and
loved her years ago; and all the feeling that he
had had for her then broke forth afresh in spite of
himself — in spite of the fact that, as he told him-
self, it was more hopeless than ever: absolutely
so, indeed.

It was the last night of their voyage together.
The Ruggleses were to leave the ship the next
morning at Algiers, where they intended to re-
main for some time.

" Would you mind going to the after-deck? "
he asked. " These people walking about fidget
me," he added rather irritably.

She rose, and they made their way aft. John
drew a couple of chairs near to the rail. " I
don't care to sit down for the present," she said,
and they stood looking out at sea for a while in
silence.

" Do you remember," said John at last, " a
night six years ago when we stood together, at
the end of the voyage, leaning over the rail like
this?"

" Yes," she said.

" Does this remind you of it?" he asked.

" I was thinking of it," she said.

" Do you remember the last night I was at
your house? " he asked, looking straight out over
the moonlit water.

" Yes," she said again.

DAVID HARUM.

379

" Did you know that night what was in my
heart to say to you?"

There was no answer.

"May I tell you now?" he asked, giving a
side glance at her profile, which in the moonlight
showed very white.

** Do you think you ought? " she answered in
a low voice, " or that I ought to listen to you? "

" I know," he exclaimed. " You think that
as a married woman you should not listen, and
that knowing you to be one I should not speak.
If it were to ask anything of you I would not.
It is for the first and last time. To-morrow we
part again, and for all time, I suppose. I have
carried the words that were on my lips that night
all these years in my heart. I know I can have
no response — I expect none ; but it can not harm
you if I tell you that I loved you then, and
have "

She put up her hand in protest,

" You must not go on, Mr. Lenox," she said,
turning to him, " and I must leave you."

" Are you very angry with me? " he asked
humbly.

She turned her face to the sea again and gave
a sad little laugh.

" Not so much as I ought to be," she an-
swered ; " but you yourself have given the reason
why you should not say such things, and why I
should not listen, and why I ought to say good-
night."

"Ah, yes," he said bitterly; "of course you
are right, and this is to be the end."

She turned and looked at him for a moment.
" You will never again speak to me as you have
to-night, will you?" she asked.

■twill

380

DAVID HARUM.

■vfH

" I should not have said what I did had I not
thought I should never see you again after to-

never see
" and I

am not likely to do
she said hesitatingly.

morrow, " said John,
that, am I?"

" If I could be sure,"
and as if to herself.

" Well," said John eagerly. She stood with
her eyes downcast for a moment, one hand rest-
ing on the rail, and then she looked up.

" We expect to stay in Algiers about two
months," she said, " and then we are going to
Naples to visit some friends for a few days, about
the time you told me you thought you might be
there. Perhaps it would be better if we said
good-bye to-night ; but if after we get home
you are to spend your days in Homeville and I
mine in New York, we shall not be likely to meet,
and, except on this side of the ocean, we may, as
you say, never see each other again. So, if you
wish, you may come to see me in Naples if you
happen to be there when we are. * I am sure after
to-night that I may trust you, may I not? But,"
she added, " perhaps you would not care. I am
treating you very frankly; but from your stand-
point you would expect or excuse more frankness
than if I were a young girl."

" I care very much," he declared, " and it will
be a happiness to me to see you on any footing,
and you may trust me never to break bounds
again." She made a motion as if to depart.

"Don't go just yet," he said pleadingly;
" there is now no reason why you should for a
while, is there? Let us sit here in this gorgeous
night a little longer, and let me smoke a cigar."

At the moment he was undergoing a revul-
sion of feeling. His state of mind was like that

HV/H:

DAVID HARUM.

381

of an improvident debtor who, while knowing
that the note must be paid some time, does not
quite realize it for a while after an extension.
At last the cigar was finis' cd. There had been
but little said between them.

" I really must go," she said, and he walked
with her across the hanging briijje and down
the deck to the gangway door.

" Where shall I address you to let you know
when we shall be in Naples?" she asked as they
were about to separate.

" Care of Cook & Son," he said. " You will
find the address in Baedeker."

He saw her the next morning long enough
for a touch of the hand and a good-bye before
the bobbing, tubby little boat with its Arab crew
took the Ruggleses on board.

Ii '

'i*:^!***jA«tfe&i4% '

'«ri%Sii<:a*.iJ..,;;^^,

4,¥:

CHAPTER XLVII.

How John Lenox tried to kill time during
the following two months, and how time retali-
ated during the process, it is needless to set forth.
It may not, however, be wholly irrelevant to note
that his cough had gradually disappeared, and
that his appetite had become good enough to
carry him through the average table d'hote din-
ner. On the morning after his arrival at Na-
ples he found a cable dispatch at the office of
Cook & Son, as follows : " Sixty cash, forty
stock. Stock good. Harum."

"God bless the dear old bdy!" said John
fervently. The Pennsylvania property was sold
at last; and if "stock good" was true, the dis-
patch informed him that he was, if not a rich
man for modern days, still, as David would have
put it, " wuth consid'able." No man, I take it,
is very likely to receive such a piece of news
without satisfaction; but if our friend's first sen-
sation was one of gratification, the thought which
followed had a drop of bitterness in it. " If I
could only have had it before ! " he said to him-
self; and indeed many of the disappointments of
life, if not the greater part, come because events
Are unpunctual. They have a way of arriving
sometimes too early, or worse, too late.

Another circumstance detracted from his sat-
38a . _^

DAVID HARUM.

383

isfaction: a note he expected did not appear
among the other communications waiting him at
the bankers, and his mind was occupied for the
while with various conjectures as to the reason,
none of which was satisfactory. Perhaps she had
changed her mind. Perhaps — a score of things!
Well, there was nothing for it but to be as patient
as possible and await events. He remembered
that she had said she was to visit some friends
by the name of Hartleigh, and she had told
him the name of their villa, but for the moment
he did not remember it. In any case he did not
know the Hartleighs, and if she had changed her
mind — as was possibly indicated by the omission

to send him word — well ! He shrugged his

shoulders, mechanically lighted a cigarette, and
strolled down and out of the Piazza Martiri and
across to the Largo della Vittoria. He had a half-
formed idea of walking back through the Villa
Nazionale, spending an hour at the Aquarium,
and then to his hotel for luncheon. It occurred
to him at the moment that there was a steamer
from Genoa on the Monday following, that he
was tired of wandering about aimlessly and alone,
and that there was really no reason why he
should not take the said steamer and go home.
Occupied with these reflections, he absently ob-
served, just opposite to him across the way, a
pair of large bay horses in front of a handsome
landau. A coachman in livery was on the box,
and a small footman, very much coated and silk-
hatted, was standing about; and, as he looked,
two ladies came out of the arched entrance to
the court of the building before which the equi-
page was halted, and the small footman sprang
to the carriage door.

•I'/
II

I ';

^m^'Aim^

mta

^mmm'

384

DAVID HARUM.

One of the ladies was a stranger to him, but
the other was Mrs. William Ruggles; and John,
seeing that he had been recognized, at once
crossed over to the carriage; and presently, hav-
ing accepted an invitation to breakfast, found
himself sitting opposite them on his way to the
Villa Violante. The conversation during the
drive up to the Vomero need not be detailed.
Mrs. Hartleigh arrived at the opinion that our
friend was rather a dull person. Mrs. Ruggles,
as he had found out, was usually rather taciturn.
Neither is it necessary to say very much of the
breakfast, nor of the people assembled.

It appeared that several guests had departed
the previous day, and the people at table con-
sisted only of Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles, Mary, Mr.
and Mrs. Hartleigh and their two daughters, and
John, whose conversation was mostly with his
host, and was rather desultory. In fact, there was
during the meal a perceptible ajr of something
like disquietude. Mr. Ruggles in particular said
almost nothing, and wore an appearance of what
seemed like anxiety. Once he turned to his host:
" When ought I to get an answer to that cable,
Hartleigh? to-day, do you think?"

" Yes, I should say so without doubt," was
the reply, " if it's answered promptly, and in fact
there's plenty of time. Remember that we are
about six hours earlier than New York by the
clock, and it's only about seven in th* morning
over there."

Coffee was served on the balustraded platform
of the flight of marble steps leading down to the
grounds below.

" Mary," said Mrs. Hartleigh, when cigarettes

DAVID HARUM.

385

had been offered, " don't you want to show Mr.
Lenox something of La Violante?"

" I shall take you to my favorite place," she
said, as they descended the steps together.

The southern front of the grounds of the Villa
Violante is bounded and upheld by a wall of tufa
fifty feet in height and some four hundred feet
long. About midway of its length a semicircu-
lar bench of marble, with a rail, is built out over
one of the buttresses. From this point is visible
the whole bay and harbor of Naples, and about
one third of the city lies in sight, five hundred
feet below. To the left one sees Vesuvius and
the Sant' Angelo chain, which the eye follows to
Sorrento. Straight out in front stands Capri, and
to the right the curve of the bay, ending at Po-
silipo. The two, John and his companion, halted
near the bench, and leaned upon the parapet of
the wall for a while in silence. From the streets
below rose no rumble of traffic, no sound of
hoof or wheel; but up through three thousand
feet of distance came from here and there the
voices of street-venders, the clang of a bell, and
ever and anon the pathetic supplication of a don-
key. Absolute quiet prevailed where they stood,
save for these upcoming sounds. The April sun,
deliciously warm, drew a smoky odor from the
hedge of box with which the parapet walk was
bordered, in and out of which darted small green
lizards with the quickness of little fishes.

John drew a long breath.

" I don't believe there is another such view in
the world," he said. " I do not wonder that this
is your favorite spot."

" Yes," she said, " you should see the grounds
^the whole place is superb — ^but this is the glory

-^.tfsi^^b,..

-!^^*k>.^^^^,.,,^^^^^_

386

DAVID HARUM.

of it all, and I have brought you straight here
because I wanted to see it with you, and this may
be the only opportunity."

"What do you mean?" he asked apprehen-
sively.

" You heard Mr. Ruggles's question about
the cable dispatch?" she said.

" Yes."

" Well," she said, " our plans have been very
much upset by some things he has heard from
home. We came on from Algiers ten days ear-
lier than we had intended, and if the reply to Mr.
Ruggles's cable is unfavorable, we are likely to
depart for Genoa to-morrow and take the steamer
for home on Monday. The reason why I did not
send a note to your bankers," she added, "was
that we came on the same boat that I intended
to write by; and Mr. Hartleigh's man has in-
quired for you every day at Cook's so that Mr.
Hartleigh might know of your coming ai?d call
upon you."

John gave a little exclamation of dismay.
Her face was very still as she gazed out over the
sea with half-closed eyes. He caught the scent
of the violets in the bosom of her white dress.

" Let us sit down," she said at last. " I have
something I wish to say to you."

He made no rejoinder as they seated them-
selves, and during the moment or two of silence
in which she seemed to be meditating how to
begin, he sat bending forward, holding his stick
with both hands between his knees, absently
prodding holes in the gravel.

" I think," she began, " that if I did not be-
lieve the chances were for our going to-morrow,
I would not say it to-day." John bit his lip and

DAVID HARUM.

387

gave the gravel a more vigorous punch. " But I
have felt that I must say it to you some time be-
fore we saw the last of each other, whenever that
time should be."

"Is it anything about what happened on
board ship? " he asked in a low voice.

" Yes," she replied, " it concerns all that took
place on board ship, or nearly all, and I have had
many misgivings about it. I am afraid that I
did wrong, and I am afraid, too, that in your
secret heart you would admit it."

" No, never! " he exclaimed. " If there was
any wrong done, it was wholly of my own doing.
I was alone to blame. I ought to have remem-
bered that you were married, and perhaps — yes,
I did remember it in a way, but I could not re-
alize it. I had never seen or heard of your
husband, or heard of your marriage. He was
a perfectly unreal person to me, and you — you
seemed only the Mary Blake that I had known,
and as I had known you. I said what I did that
night upon an impulse which was as unpre-
meditated as it was sudden. I don't see how you
were wrong. You couldn't have foreseen what
took place — and "

" Have you not been sorry for what took
place?" she asked, with her eyes on the ground.
" Have you not thought the less of me since?"

He turned and looked at her. There was a
little smile upon her lips and on her downcast
eyes.

" No, by Heaven! " he exclaimed desperately,
" I have not, and I am not sorry. Whether I
ought to have said what I did or not, it was true,
and I wanted you to know "

He broke off as she turned to him with a

'*ilif'!AU,«iklUtv„v

f>i^ifc.^M..f«»aM;.4;.,

388

DAVID HARUM.

smile and a blush. The smile was almost a
laugh.

" But, John," sne said, " 1 am not Mrs. Ed-
ward Ruggles. I am Mary Blake."

The parapet was fifty feet above the terrace.
The hedge of box was an impervious screen.

Well, and then, after a little of that sort of
thing, they both began hurriedly to admire the
view again, for some one was coming. But it
was only one of the gardeners, who did not un-
derstand English; and confidence being once
more restored, they fell to discussing — every-
thing.

" Do you think you could live in Homeville,
dear? " asked John after a while.

" I suppose I shall have to, shall I not? " said
Mary. " And are you, too, really happy, John? "

John instantly proved to h«r that he was.
" But it almost makes me unhappy," he added,
" to think how nearly we have missed each other.
If I had only known in the beginning that you
were not Mrs. Edward Ruggles!"

Mary laughed joyously. The mistake which
a moment before had seemed almost tragic now
appeared delightfully funny.

" The explanation is painfully simple," she
answered. " Mrs. Edward Ruggles — the real
one — did expect to come on the Vaterland,
whereas I did not. But the day before the
steamer sailed she was summoned to Andover
by the serious illness of her only son, who is at
school there. I took her ticket, got ready over-
night — I like to start on these unpremeditated
journeys — and here I am." John put his arm

DAVID HARUM.

389

about her *o make sure of this, and kept it there
— lest he should forget. " When we met on the
steamer and I saw the error you had made I was
tempted — and yielded — to let you go on uncor-
rected. But," she added, looking lovingly up
into John s eyes, " I'm glad you found out your
mistake at last."

•• -I

CHAPTER XLVIII.

A FORTNIGHT later Mr. Harum sat at his desk
in the office of Harum & Co. There were a
number of letters for him, but the one he opened
first bore a foreign stamp, and was postmarked
" Napoli." That he was deeply interested in the
contents of this epistle was manifest from the be-
ginning, not only from the expression of his face,
but from the frequent " wa'al, wa'als " which were
elicited as he went on; but interest grew into
excitement as he neared the close, and culmi-
nated as he read the last few lints.

"Scat my CATS!" he cried, and, grabbing his
hat and the letter, he bolted out of the back door
in the direction of the house, leaving the rest of
his correspondence to be digested — any time.
390

EPILOGUE.

I MIGHT, in conclusion, tell how John's fur-
ther life in Homeville was of comparatively short
duration; how David died of injuries received in
a runaway accident; how John found himself the
sole executor of his late partner's estate, and, save
for a life provision for Mrs. Bixbee, the only
legatee, and rich enough (if indeed with his own
and his wife's money he had not been so before)
to live wherever he pleased. But as heretofore
I have confined myself strictly to facts, I am, to
be consistent, constrained to abide by them now.
Indeed, I am too conscientious to do otherwise,
notwithstanding the temptation to make what
might be a more artistic ending to my story.
David is not only living, but appears almost no
older than when we first knew him, and is still
just as likely to " git goin' " on occasion. Even
" old Jinny " is still with us, though her mas-
ter does most of his " joggin* 'round " behind
a younger horse. Whatever Mr. Harum's tes-
tamentary intentions may be, or even whether
he has made a will or not, nobody knows but
himself and his attorney. Aunt Polly — well,
there is a little more of her than when we first
made her acquaintance, say twenty pounds.

John and his wife live in a house which they
built on the shore of the lake. It is a settled

391

392

DAVID HARUAC.

thing that David and his sister dine with them
every Sunday. Mrs. Bixbee at first looked a lit-
tle askance at the wine on the table, but she does
not object to it nowr. Being a " son o* temp'-
rence," she has never been induced to taste any
champagne, but on one occasion she was per-
suaded to take the smallest sip of claret.
" Wa'al," she remarked with a wry face, " I guess
the' can't be much sin or danger *n drinkin' any-
thin' 't tastes the way that does."

She and Mrs. Lenox took to each other from
the first, and the latter has quite supplanted (and
more) Miss Claricy (Mrs. Elton) with David. In
fact, he said to our friend one day during the
first year of the marriage, " Say, John, I ain't
sure but what we'll have^to hitch that wife o'
your'n on the off side."

I had nearly forgotten one person whose con-
versation has yet to be recorded in print, but
which is considered very interesting by at least
four people. Hi: name is David Lenox.

I think that's all.

THE END.

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