OLD NICK’S CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER I
“WHERE IS OLD NICK?”
“GOOD-BY!” “Good-by!” “Hope you’ll have a good time!” “Merry Christmas beforehand!” “Happy New Year, too!” “Hope you’ll get loads of pretty things, and no end of goodies which will bear transportation!” cried a dozen or more girls as they bade good-by to one of their schoolmates just leaving for her Christmas holidays.
Isabel Townsend was truly popular, not only with her schoolmates, but with teachers also. A bright, happy girl who went through life with a laugh and a song, and yet had a strong, noble character, quick to detect sham of any sort, and cordially detest it. She had a long journey before her, and was starting off earlier than the other girls; hence her “send-off.”
Forty-eight hours later the train deposited her at a small station, about fifteen miles from the city of New York, where her father awaited her.
He was a tall, handsome man, who had once enjoyed an independent income, but Wall Street had proved to him, as to many another, anything but “a land of promise.” Still, enough had been saved from the wreck to enable him to live upon the farm which had been his wife’s dower, and even to enjoy some luxuries; but he was a disappointed man, and seemed to have left his faith in his fellow-men behind him in the New York Stock Exchange. He rarely left his farm, where he found occupation in his books and in his live stock, in which he took just pride.
It was a pretty place, nestling among the Jersey hills, and as quiet and secluded as though hundreds of miles from the great city pulsating with life and daily drawing innumerable human beings into the maelstrom where hopes and schemes were lost forever.
“Well, daughter, how are you? Glad to see you home again,” was Mr. Townsend’s greeting, as he helped Isabel into the cutter and tucked the robes carefully about her.
“It’s awfully nice to be home, too; and how is mamma?” she asked, as she nestled close to his side when he had taken his seat beside her.
“Mamma is well and very anxious to have you home. I’m glad to see you looking so well, and that you have decided, after all, to wear your Christmas present beforehand,” he said, as a faint smile overspread his fine face, and he picked up one of the tails of the handsome fur collar Isabel wore.
“Yes, I just couldn’t wait for the day to come. How good you were to send me such a beauty, and to make it so easy for me to do exactly what I was dying to do all the time, by telling me to wear the furs right off and not to wait for Christmas Day.” While she spoke she stroked her pretty collar and muff, and regarded them with very genuine pride.
“Why did you get such expensive ones, daddy?” she continued. “I should have been just as pleased with a simpler style,” and she looked up with her bonny face alive with happiness.
“I’ve only one daughter,” was the brief response.
“Which horse is this, papa? I think I’ve never seen him before; have I?”
“I think not. He is one of Nancy’s colts, and was broken only this fall. He is none too reliable yet; but I use him a great deal and have great expectations of him.”
As though to give Mr. Townsend a hint of what his expectations might realize, the frisky beast at that moment elected to put the laws of gravity to a crucial test. With one bound he leaped into the air, struck out wildly, plunged forward, and took about three minutes to recover his equilibrium, evidently convinced that, so far as history has recorded, Pegasus was not the only horse capable of flying through space.
“What a crazy thing he is!” exclaimed Isabel. “Why didn’t you bring Old Nick? Dear old fellow! How I want to see him! Is he all right?”
“I think so, I think so,” said her father hurriedly. Then Mr. Townsend became much occupied with the colt, and a few moments later home was reached, where, amid warm greetings, Old Nick was, for a time, forgotten.
A few hours later Isabel came in from the stables, where she had been on a tour of inspection, with blank dismay pictured upon her face.
“Daddy,” she cried, bursting into the room, “where is Old Nick? The men say that he is sold, but I won’t believe them. He isn’t, is he?” and her voice was half-choked in sobs.
Mr. Townsend looked up from his desk, and a peculiar expression crept into his face—an expression partly of defiance, partly of self-assertion, partly of shame—but he made no answer. Isabel came toward him as one who doubted her senses, and laying a hand on each of his shoulders peered into his face, with doubt and astonishment on her own.
“Papa, of course you wouldn’t sell Old Nick! Why, he has been mine as long as I can remember, and next to you and mamma, I love him better than anything in the world. Where is he? Please tell me.”
“Isabel, listen to me. You are no longer a child. You are nearly seventeen years old, and you ought to be capable of looking upon things from a practical standpoint. Yes, Nick is sold. I had an excellent offer from a man who was going through the country about six weeks ago, buying up horses. Nick is seventeen years old if he is a day, and such a chance could never be expected again. Mamma wanted to send you a set of furs for Christmas, and the means to purchase them had literally walked to our door. The seventy-five dollars paid for Nick bought them, and you, certainly, should be the last to complain.”
Mr. Townsend picked up his pen as though the matter were dismissed forever. But he little knows his daughter. Her hands fell from his shoulders and she slowly backed away from him, while into her big gray eyes came a look which told of a resolve born of an outraged spirit.
CHAPTER II
“I WANT TO BUY OLD NICK.”
IF Henry Townsend had expected his daughter “to make a fuss,” he was more than agreeably disappointed. She said not one word, but turned and left the room.
Going straight to her own sanctum, she took the set of beautiful furs which poor Old Nick’s money had bought, put them carefully into her drawer, and locked it. Then, placing the key in her pocket, she threw a shawl about her and started for the stable, where Hiram Bents, the foreman, was holding a monologue on the subject of “durned fool men who would sell their next o’ kin, if they could get enough cash for ’em, never mind if they bruck the purtiest leetle heart that went a pit-a-pat!”
“Hiram, did you see Nick sold?”
“I reckon I did, missie.”
“Who bought him?”
“An old duffer what was goin’ about tryin’ to git a three-hundred-dollar critter fer one hundred.”
“Where did he take Nick?”
“Down ter the city ter some horse exchange, where I’ll bet a fiver he sold him fer twict what he give fer him.”
“Do you know the man’s name?”
“Guess I kin git it. He left his cyard fer the boss, and said he’d call round agin when he had anythin’ likely he wanted fer ter sell,” and Hiram gave an indignant snort, as he took a card from a shelf above his head.
“Here yer be, missie.”
Isabel took the card and read:
“Jacob Vedder, Dealer in Horses. East Twenty-fifth Street, New York.”
“Thanks, Hiram. I’ll keep this, please.”
“Ye’re welcome. I don’t want ter tech the thing; seems like it’s a scrap o’ Old Nick’s hide.”
Isabel went back to her room, and, locking the door, opened her trunk. Down in the bottom was a jewel box, from which she took a small leather case containing a ring of curious design. The ring itself was of dull gold, holding an uncut stone. It had been sent to her when she was a mere child by an uncle in India. Excepting to mention that the stone was valuable, he had said but little about it, and she had kept it more as a curiosity than for any supposed intrinsic value.
It was still three days to Christmas and bitter cold. Weather-wise folk predicted a snowstorm within forty-eight hours.
“Mamma, dear, can you spare me to-morrow? I want to go to the city for the day,” said Isabel, as she came into the pleasant sitting room and placed her arm caressingly about her mother’s shoulders.
“Spare you, sweetheart? I’ll try. What is the demand—Christmas shopping?” asked her mother, drawing Isabel’s hand to her lips and kissing it softly.
“Oh, lots of things! May I go?”
“Certainly, dear.”
It was a determined young spirit which stepped into the big city next morning and, making her way to one of the large jewelry stores uptown, asked to see the proprietor. Ushered into his private office, she lost not a moment in coming straight to the point, and said to him:
“I have something I wish to sell.”
“Yes? May I inquire what it is?”.
“It is a ring.”
A smile crept into the jeweler’s eyes.
“Not a rarity; do you think so?”
“That I do not know, and I wish you to decide. I have been told that it is very valuable. It was sent to me from India by my uncle.”
“Have you shown it to anyone else?”
“No; but I am very anxious to sell it. Will you please tell me what you will give me for it?”
The proprietor looked not a little surprised.
“We should have to consider it, my dear young lady, and within a reasonable time give our decision.”
“But I can’t wait. I must sell it to-day—right off,” said the girl impulsively.
“Such a thing would be unheard of. But I will examine it.”
“But why can’t you decide right now? It wouldn’t take you very long, I’m sure, and it’s so important!”
“The Christmas shopping, you mean?” for there were girls in his own family, and he knew the demands of Christmas.
“Christmas shopping!” she exclaimed with fine scorn. “Do you suppose I am trying to get money for Christmas shopping? I want to buy Old Nick.”
“Old Nick!” he repeated in amazement. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who thought seriously of buying his Satanic Majesty and set about obtaining money to do it.”
“Oh, dear me! Please be serious, for really it is all too dreadful to laugh about,” and tears came into the pretty gray eyes.
“My dear young lady,” said the jeweler kindly, for he saw how deeply in earnest she was, and he was touched by the pathetic tone in the girlish voice, “I beg your pardon for smiling, and will be glad to learn the circumstances, if you are willing to tell them.”
Although nearly seventeen, Isabel was still in many respects a child, and in a moment was pouring out the story of her love for Old Nick, and her determination to buy him back. It was all told very simply, yet with a child’s dramatic touch, and her listener quickly detected her wish to shield her father from censure, even though he justly deserved it. When she had finished, he looked into the flushed face and shining eyes, as he asked:
“Can you wait an hour or so? I am in need of a certain stone, and it is just possible that the one you have may fill the want. You say it is a ruby?”
“Yes, it is a ruby,” replied Isabel, as she took the ring from her purse and handed it to him. “I will wait as long as you wish,” and she stepped into the outer shop.
In a little more than an hour she was called into the private once again. With a beating heart she entered. The jeweler rose from his chair as he saw her.
“Well, have you come to learn Old Nick’s fate?” he asked kindly. “I am happy to say that you have solved half the problem, anyway, for the stone is very beautiful, and I am willing to give you two hundred dollars for it. Do you accept my terms?”
“Two hundred dollars! Why, Old Nick was sold for less than one hundred. But one would buy him back; don’t you think so?”
It is to the man’s credit that he suppressed a smile as he answered very seriously:
“Ah, but the dealer will never be willing to sell him without making a good profit. You’d better take the two hundred; the ring is fully worth it.”
“Well, perhaps I would better,” she said simply, “I should be sorry not to have enough,” and she looked up into the big man’s face as confidingly as though she were seven instead of seventeen.
“I’m sure you would be; so take this and be careful of it. It is a good deal of money to look after.”
“I’ll be very careful, and I am so much obliged to you.” Her small, gloved hand was impulsively offered.
“Good-by, little lady, and accept my best wishes for your success.”
CHAPTER III
“POOR OLD NICK!”
IT was a short walk from the jeweler’s to the address given upon the horse-dealer’s card, and with heart beating high with hope Isabel quickly made her way there.
But when the dealer had bought Nick he had known what he was about. Very little “doctoring” was required to bring the still handsome old horse up to “market shape” and palm him off for a much younger animal than he was. So it was no wonder that ere a week had passed dear Old Nick, who had never known a hard day’s work in all his happy life, and whose big, arching neck had never drawn anything heavier than a surrey, should find it burdened with a heavy, ill-fitting collar, and himself harnessed to a city express wagon, while the dealer patted his pocket, congratulating himself that in a few days he had been able to make a profit of fifty dollars. Accustomed all his life to kind treatment and the best of care, Nick could not comprehend anything different; and the look of surprise which came into the big, beautiful eyes when his funny little kittenish overtures to play or to be petted were met with harsh words or a blow was truly a revelation. When Isabel started upon her quest, he had been hard at work for over a month, and it had told upon the old horse.
Under ordinary conditions a local city express usually keeps its horses busy, but when the Christmas rush begins it means early and late hours for horse and driver, meals snatched when and where they can be, and rushing to and fro in storm and shine.
It is really no wonder that the men become worn out and impatient, and too often the poor horses must suffer in consequence.
From the dealer, a good-natured German, Isabel learned who had become Nick’s owner and that his office was in Forty-second Street, so off she started once more. The day was growing bitter cold, and the light snowfall during the previous night had frozen upon the streets and walks, making it exceedingly uncomfortable for pedestrians, whether they traveled upon two feet or four. The sun shone brightly, however, and the spirit of Christmas-tide seemed to be abroad; for as the people slipped and slid along they laughed at one another’s mishaps.
But for the poor horses it was a different matter. Those sharp-shod managed well enough, but those with smooth shoes were utterly wretched, and, while striving to keep their equilibrium, struggled along, straining and pulling, utterly exhausted by the double effort.
Turning into Fifth Avenue, Isabel started off at a brisk pace, and was soon making good time up the steep grade which lies between Thirtieth and Fortieth Streets. The avenue was crowded with vehicles of every sort, from the elegantly appointed equipages of the wealthy, with their prancing, beautiful horses, to the humble hawkers’ carts, yet all seemed imbued with the Christmas cheer. As she neared Thirty-third Street, an express wagon drove away from the Waldorf, the man had come running from the hotel to spring upon his wagon and whip up his horse with the lack of common sense so often displayed. It is a pity that such people cannot be placed between the shafts for a short time. The experience would prove a wholesome one, I fancy, and give them a practical demonstration of the impossibility of moving heavy weights suddenly without endangering some organ of the body.
The horse sprang forward, slipped, nearly fell, and was brought to a realizing sense of his duty by another jerk and a lash. Then, with a mighty effort, he started quickly up the hill with his heavily laden wagon, his poor, smooth-shod feet slipping over the icy pavement in a manner which threatened every moment to bring him down.
It had all happened in less time than it has taken to tell it, but love has keen sight, and with a cry of “Nick! Oh, dear Old Nick!” Isabel forgetful of everybody and everything, started up the avenue like a deer. She had not far to run, for at Thirty-sixth Street the climax was reached and Nick fell.
As she reached him a crowd had surrounded the prone horse. One man sat calmly on the animal’s head, another was unhooking the traces, another the tug-straps, while the driver was indulging in language not set down in the Ten Commandments. The poor horse, utterly exhausted by his double exertions, lay as still as though the hard, icy pavement were a blissful spot. Just as the last strap was released and the men stepped aside, Isabel came to him, and crying out, “Nick! Dear, dear Nick!” went close to the edge of the curb and stretched out her hands toward him. God had not given him human speech, but if ever a dumb beast spoke Old Nick did then; for at the sound of the beloved voice the poor head was raised quickly, and as joyous a neigh as ever greeted friend rang out upon the frosty air.
As Isabel spoke the driver approached her, and touching his cap respectfully, said:
“Do you know that horse, miss?”
Isabel looked quickly up, and her heart gave a joyous bound as she said:
“Yes, oh, yes! But please, please don’t harness him to that dreadful wagon again. He was mine once, and I want to buy him back.”
“Buy him back?” incredulously.
“Yes, yes. I truly do! Where can I talk to you?”
“Will you step into this store, miss, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Thank you so much. But let me touch Nick first.”
No need to ask it. The horse was now upon his feet, and had made straight for the sidewalk, where two arms were waiting to gather the big head, which snuggled into them as a child might have done.
Never mind cold and ice now! Old Nick had no more to wish for, and would have been willing to stand there for hours just to hear the beloved voice and feel the stroke of the dear hands.
Thanks to the courtesy of the proprietor of the store in which Isabel soon took refuge, matters were settled between the expressman and herself, and, to judge from the expression of both faces, to their mutual satisfaction. As the expressman left the store he was conscious of a good day’s profit in the hundred and fifty dollars paid him for Old Nick; and when Nick was given into his charge to be looked after until he could be taken to the farm, Isabel felt that her first business transaction had been a successful one.
CHAPTER IV
OLD NICK’S HOME-COMING
NEXT arose the question of getting Nick home, but Isabel had gone too far to retreat, nor did such a thought occur to her. Home Nick must go, and home he was going, and she was to get him there. There were quick wits in that pretty head, and the plans were soon laid.
Another journey to town, ostensibly to finish the previous day’s shopping; a suit case, presumably to bring the parcels home in; a secret conference with the faithful Hiram, who, as she tripped away from the stable, slapped his thigh and ejaculated: “Wal, I be gol twisted ef she don’t beat the band!” and Old Nick’s saddle and bridle were on their way to the city.
There was still sufficient money for her needs, and by one o’clock the following day a young lady might have been seen mounting a big bay horse in front of the Margaret Louisa Home. The horse was either too happy or too frisky to know what he was about, for he kept turning his head around to pull at the girl’s habit, her shoe—in short, he was acting like a spoilt child.
At the horse’s head a stableman stood, smiling in a very satisfied manner, as if he knew a pleasant Christmas secret. Nick’s late owner, with a new horse filling Nick’s place, drove up, touched his hat to the girl as he asked, “Is your bag inside, miss?” and a moment later the suit case, containing Isabel’s street clothing, was speeding upon its homeward way.
“Thank you so much for your kindness,” she said to the man who had brought Nick from the expressman’s stable, “and please take this for your children, if you have any. I hope they will be as happy as I am.” And with a smile which the man remembered for many a long day she slipped a coin into his hand, gathered up her reins, and started.
Nick’s burden seemed to have an intoxicating effect upon him—or, perhaps, the spirit of Christmas had been fastened upon his feet with his new shoes—for he acted altogether foolishly. But a wise little horsewoman rode him, and knowing the miles to be traveled over snowy roads, she took good care of her mount.
She had barely reached the Fort Lee ferry when the threatened storm began and snowflakes fell rapidly. The fifteen miles to be traveled after she reached the Jersey shore would have been a pleasant jaunt under favorable conditions, but in a driving snowstorm, with the thermometer far below freezing point, they were no joke; and even though joy had put new life into Nick, Isabel realized that reserve strength was wanting after the hard work of the past weeks.
More than one person turned to regard the pretty young girl with a questioning look as she rode up with her hair, hat, and habit powdered with snowflakes. Ten of the miles had been told off, and although doing bravely, Old Nick showed signs of great fatigue, while his brave little rider was nearly perishing from cold. The snow was falling fast and the short winter day drawing to its close. It would have been impossible to travel rapidly, had Nick been young and fresh; and although he started forward from time to time, as home drew nearer and he became familiar with the road, he soon lagged again, and his labored breathing told plainly of exhaustion.
The last turn had been made, and a straight stretch of road lay before him, with home almost in sight. He threw up his head, gave a loud neigh, stumbled, and nearly fell over something hidden by the snow. Isabel slipped from the saddle and stood knee-deep in the drifts.
“Why, Nick, dear, how did it happen?” she cried, stroking his steaming neck. But Nick was sniffing about in the snow with queer, frightened snorts.
Isabel gave a little cry, and brushing aside the snow struck a man’s garments. A moment later she was supporting her father’s unconscious form in her arms.
A bad bruise upon his temple, a broken arm, a whip lying near him told the story. Quickly taking a card from her pocket-book, she wrote upon it: “Papa is at the four corners injured. Send at once. Isabel,” and fastened the message to Nick’s headstall. Then, tying the reins securely to the pommel of the saddle, she gave Nick a sharp slap upon his flank, and cried:
“Home, Nick! Home!”
A dumb beast was then permitted to demonstrate the teachings of Him whose birthday eve it was and to return good for evil. With a wild toss of his head, Nick plunged forward, and was soon lost in the gloom, but Isabel heard the thud, thud of his fleeing feet long after he had disappeared.
Two hours later Mr. Townsend was being tenderly cared for by wife and daughter, the wretched colt which had caused the mishap was caught and returned to the stable, and Nick—dear, faithful Old Nick—was in Hiram’s care—Hiram, who rubbed him down until each separate hair was as dry as a bone, and who was now standing by while Nick enjoyed a steaming bran mash, and talking to him as to a twin brother.
“Aint she a trump, Nick? I tell ye, old man, ye needn’t never have no fears thet ye’ll leave this place agin till ye’re toted out ter yer last beddin’ down. No, siree; not while thet leetle girl owns yer. Do yer believe me, sonny?”
Nick evidently did believe it, for he promptly put his mark thereto by raising a very slobbery muzzle and rubbing it against Hiram’s sleeve.