In the evening, after his work was done, a day or two after his talk with Mrs. Maxwell, Jonathan went into the house and took a long look at himself in the glass, with the satisfactory conclusion that he didn’t look so old after all. Why shouldn’t he take Mrs. Betty’s advice and marry? To be sure, there was no fool like an old fool, but no man could be called a fool who was discriminating enough, and resourceful enough, to win the hand of Hepsey Burke. To his certain knowledge she had had plenty of eligible 161 suitors since her husband’s death. She was the acknowledged past-master of doughnuts; and her pickled cucumbers done in salad oil were dreams of delight. What more could a man want?
So he found that the question was deciding itself apparently without any volition whatever on his part. His fate was sealed; he had lost his heart and his appetite to his neighbor. Having come to this conclusion, it was wonderful how the thought excited him. He took a bath and changed his clothes, and then proceeded to town and bought himself a white neck-tie, and a scarf-pin that cost seventy-five cents. He was going to do the thing in the proper way if he did it at all.
After supper he mustered sufficient courage to present himself at the side porch where Mrs. Burke was knitting on a scarlet sweater for Nickey.
“Good evenin’, Hepsey,” he began. “How are you feelin’ to-night?”
“Oh, not so frisky as I might, Jonathan; I’d be all right if it weren’t for my rheumatiz.”
“Well, we all have our troubles, Hepsey; and if it isn’t one thing it’s most generally another. You mustn’t rebel against rheumatiz. It’s one of those things sent to make us better, and we must bear up against it, you know.” 162
Hepsey did not respond to this philosophy, and Jonathan felt that it was high time that he got down to business. So he began again:
“It seems to me as if we might have rain before long if the wind don’t change.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised, Jonathan. One—two—three—four—” Mrs. Burke replied, her attention divided between her visitor and her sweater. “Got your hay all in?”
“Yes, most of it. ’Twon’t be long before the long fall evenin’s will be comin’ on, and I kinder dread ’em. They’re awful lonesome, Hepsey.”
“Purl two, knit two, an inch and a half—” Mrs. Burke muttered to herself as she read the printed directions which lay in her lap, and then she added encouragingly:
“So you get lonesome, do you, Jonathan, durin’ the long evenin’s, when it gets dark early.”
“Oh, awful lonesome,” Jonathan responded. “Don’t you ever get lonesome yourself, Hepsey?”
“I can’t say as it kept me awake nights. ’Tisn’t bein’ alone that makes you lonesome. The most awful lonesomeness in the world is bein’ in a crowd that’s not your kind.”
“That’s so, Hepsey. But two isn’t a crowd. Don’t 163 you think you’d like to get married, if you had a right good chance, now?”
Hepsey gave her visitor a quick, sharp glance, and inquired:
“What would you consider a right good chance, Jonathan?”
“Oh, suppose that some respectable widower with a tidy sum in the bank should ask you to marry him; what would you say, Hepsey?”
“Can’t say until I’d seen the widower, to say nothin’ of the bank book—one, two, three, four, five, six—”
Jonathan felt that the crisis was now approaching; so, moving his chair a little nearer, he resumed excitedly:
“You’ve seen him, Hepsey; you’ve seen him lots of times, and he don’t live a thousand miles away, neither.”
“Hm! Must be he lives in Martin’s Junction. Is he good lookin’, Jonathan?”
“Oh, fair to middlin’. That is—of course—I well—I—I should think he was; but tastes differ.”
“Well, you know I’m right particular, Jonathan. Is he real smart and clever?”
“I don’t know as—I ought to—to—say, Hepsey; but I rather guess he knows enough to go in when it rains.” 164
“That’s good as far as it goes. The next time you see him, you tell him to call around and let me look him over. Maybe I could give him a job on the farm, even if I didn’t want to marry him.”
“But he doesn’t want any job on the farm, Hepsey. He just wants you, that’s all.”
“How do you know he does? Did he ever tell you?”
“Hepsey Burke, don’t you know who I’m alludin’ at? Haven’t you ever suspected nothin’?”
“Yes, I’ve suspected lots of things. Now there’s Jack Dempsey. I’ve suspected him waterin’ the milk for some time. Haven’t you ever suspected anythin’ yourself, Jonathan?”
“Well, I guess I’m suspectin’ that you’re tryin’ to make a fool of me, all right.”
“Oh no! Fools come ready-made, and there’s a glut in the market just now; seven—eight—nine—ten; no use makin’ more until the supply’s exhausted. But what made you think you wanted to marry? This is so powerful sudden.”
Now that the point was reached, Jonathan got a little nervous: “To—to tell you the truth, Hepsey,” he stuttered, “I was in doubt about it myself for some time; but bein’ as I am a Christian man I turned to the Bible for light on my path.” 165
“Hm! And how did the light shine?”
“Well, I just shut my eyes and opened my Bible at random, and put my finger on a text. Then I opened my eyes and read what was written.”
“Yes! What did you find?”
“I read somethin’ about ‘not a man of them escaped save six hundred that rode away on camels.’”
“Did that clear up all your difficulties?”
“No, can’t say as it did. But those words about ‘no man escapin’’ seemed to point towards matrimony as far as they went. Then I tried a second time.”
“Oh did you? I should think that six hundred camels would be enough for one round-up. What luck did you have the second time?”
“Well, I read, ‘Moab is my wash pot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe.’ You’ve seen ’em cast shoes at the carriages of brides and grooms, haven’t you, Hepsey? Just for luck, you know. So it seemed to point towards matrimony again.”
“Say, Jonathan, you certainly have a wonderful gift for interpretin’ Scripture.”
“Well, Scripture or no Scripture, I want you, Hepsey.”
“Am I to understand that you’re just fadin’ and pinin’ away for love of me? You don’t look thin.” 166
“Oh, we ’aint neither of us as young as we once was, Hepsey. Of course I can’t be expected to pine real hard.”
“I’m afraid it’s not the real thing, Jonathan, unless you pine. Don’t it keep you awake nights, or take away your appetite, or make you want to play the banjo, or nothin’?”
“No, Hepsey; to tell you the plain truth, it don’t. But I feel awful lonesome, and I like you a whole lot, and I—I love you as much as anyone, I guess.”
“So you are in love are you, Jonathan. Then let me give you some good advice. When you’re in love, don’t believe all you think, or half you feel, or anything at all you are perfectly sure of. It’s dangerous business. But I am afraid that you’re askin’ me because it makes you think that you are young and giddy, like the rest of the village boys, to be proposin’ to a shy young thing like me.”
“No, Hepsey; you aren’t no shy young thing, and you haven’t been for nigh on forty years. I wouldn’t be proposin’ to you if you were.”
“Jonathan, your manners need mendin’ a whole lot. The idea of insinuatin’ that I am not a shy young thing. I’m ashamed of you, and I’m positive we could never get along together.”
“But I can’t tell a lie about you, even if I do want 167 to marry you. You don’t want to marry a liar, do you?”
“Well, the fact is, Jonathan, polite lyin’s the real foundation of all good manners. What we’ll ever do when we get to heaven where we have to tell the truth whether we want to or not, I’m sure I don’t know. It’ll be awful uncomfortable until we get used to it.”
“The law says you should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth,” persisted the literal wooer.
“Now, see here, Jonathan. Would you say that a dog’s tail was false and misleadin’ just because it isn’t the whole dog?”
This proposition was exceedingly confusing to Jonathan’s intelligence, but after careful consideration he felt obliged to say “No.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Burke continued triumphantly, quickly following up her advantage. “You see a dog’s tail couldn’t be misleading, ’cause the dog leads the tail, and not the tail the dog. Any fool could see that.”
Jonathan felt that he had been tricked, although he could not see just how the thing had been accomplished; so he began again:
“Now Hepsey, we’re wanderin’ from the point, 168 and you’re just talkin’ to amuse yourself. Can’t you come down to business? Here I am a widower, and here you are a widowess, and we’re both lonesome, and we––”
“Who told you I was lonesome, I’d like to know?”
“Well, of course you didn’t, ’cause you never tell anything to anyone. But I guessed you was sometimes, from the looks of you.”
Hepsey bent her head over her work and counted stitches a long time before she looked up. Then she remarked slowly:
“There’s an awful lot of sick people in the world, and I’m mighty sorry for ’em; but they’ll die, or they’ll get well. I guess I’m more sorry for people who have to go on livin’, and workin’ hard, when they’re just dyin’ for somebody to love ’em, and somebody to love, until the pain of it hurts like a wisdom tooth. No, I can’t afford to be lonesome much, and that’s a fact. So I just keep busy, and if I get too lonesome, I just go and jolly somebody that’s lonesomer than I am, and we both feel better; and if I get lonely lyin’ awake at night, I light a lamp and read Webster’s Dictionary. Try it, Jonathan; it’s a sure anti-doubt.”
“There you go again, tryin’ to change the subject, just when I thought you was goin’ to say somethin’.” 169
“But you don’t really want to marry me. I’m not young, and I’m not interestin’: one or the other you’ve just got to be.”
“You’re mighty interestin’ to me, Hepsey, anyway; and—and you’re mighty unselfish.”
“Well, you needn’t throw that in my face; I’m not to blame for bein’ unselfish. I’ve just had to be, whether I wanted or not. It’s my misfortune, not my fault. Lots of people are unselfish because they’re too weak to stand up for their own rights.” She paused—and then looked up at him, smiling whimsically, and added: “Well, well, Jonathan; see here now—I’ll think it over, and perhaps some day before—go ’way, you horrid thing! Let go my hand, I tell you. There! You’ve made me drop a whole row of stitches. If you don’t run over home right now, before you’re tempted to do any more flirtin, I’ll—I’ll hold you for breach of promise.”
To Nickey, the Maxwells were in the nature of a revelation. At his impressionable stage of boyhood, and because of their freedom from airs and graces of any kind, he was quick to notice the difference in type—“some class to them; not snobs or dudes, but the real thing,” as he expressed it. His ardent admiration of Donald, and his adoration of Mrs. Betty, gave him ambition to find the key to their secret, and to partake of it.
He was too shy to speak of it,—to his mother last 171 of all, as is the nature of a boy,—and had to rely on an observant and receptive mind for the earlier steps in his quest. When Maxwell boarded with them, Nickey had discovered that he was won’t to exercise with dumb-bells each morning before breakfast. The very keenness of his desire to be initiated, held him silent. A visit to the town library, on his mother’s behalf, chanced to bring his eyes—generally oblivious of everything in the shape of a book—upon the title of a certain volume designed to instruct in various parlor-feats of physical prowess.
The book was borrowed from the librarian,—a little shamefacedly. The next morning Mrs. Burke was somewhat alarmed at the noise which came from Nickey’s room, and when there was a crash as if the chimney had fallen, she could stand it no longer, and hurried aloft. Nickey stood in the middle of the floor, clad in swimming trunks, gripping a large weight (purloined from the barn) in either hand, very red in the face, and much out of breath.
As the door unexpectedly opened he dived for bed and pulled the clothes under his chin.
“Land Sakes!” Hepsey breathed, aghast. “What’s all this about? If there’s a nail loose in the flooring I can lend you a hammer for the asking,” and she examined several jagged dents in the boards. 172
“Say ma,” urged Nickey in moving tones. “If I’d a pair of dumb-bells like Mr. Maxwell’s, I c’d hold onto ’em. I’ve pretty near smashed my feet with them things—gosh darn it,” he added ruefully, nursing the bruised member under the clothes.
“I guess you can get ’em, next time you go to Martin’s Junction; but if it’s exercise you want,” his parent remarked unsympathetically, “there’s plenty of kindlin’ in the woodshed wants choppin’.”
She retired chuckling to herself, as she caught a glimmer of what was working in her son’s mind.
The “reading habit” having been inculcated by this lucky find at the library, it was not long before Nickey acquired from the same source a veritable collection of volumes on the polite arts and crafts—“The Ready Letter-Writer”; “Manners Maketh Man”; “Seven Thousand Errors of Speech;” “Social Culture in the Smart Set,” and the like.
Nickey laboriously studied from these authorities how to enter a ball room, how to respond to a toast at a dinner given in one’s honor, how to propose the health of his hostess, and how to apologize for treading on a lady’s train.
In the secrecy of his chamber he put into practice the helpful suggestions of these invaluable manuals. He bowed to the washstand, begged the favor of the 173 next dance from the towel rack, trod on the window shade and made the prescribed apology. Then he discussed the latest novel at dinner with a distinguished personage; and having smoked an invisible cigar, interspersed with such wit as accords with walnuts and wine, after the ladies had retired, he entered the drawing-room, exchanged parting amenities with the guests, bade his hostess good night, and gracefully withdrew to the clothes-press.
Several times Hepsey caught glimpses of him going through the dumb show of “Social Culture in the Smart Set,” and her wondering soul was filled with astonishment at his amazing evolutions. She found it in her heart to speak of it to Mrs. Betty and Maxwell, and ask for their interpretation of the matter.
So, one day, during this seizure of feverish enthusiasm for self-culture, Hepsey and Nickey received an invitation to take supper at the rectory. Nevertheless, Mrs. Burke thought it prudent to give her son some good advice in regard to his behavior. She realized, perhaps, that a book is good so far as it goes, but is apt to ignore elementals. So she called him aside before they started:
“Now, Nickey, remember to act like a gentleman, especially at the table; you must try to do credit to your bringin’ up.” 174
“Yes, I’ll do my level best if it kills me,” the boy replied.
“Well, what do you do with your napkin when you first sit down to the table?”
“Tie it ’round my neck, of course!”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t do anything of the sort; you must just tuck it in your collar, like any gentleman would. And when we come home what are you goin’ to say to Mrs. Maxwell?”
“Oh, I’ll say, ‘I’ll see you later.’”
“Mercy no! Say, ‘I’ve had a very nice time.’”
“But suppose I didn’t have a nice time,—what’d I say?”
For a moment Hepsey struggled to reconcile her code of ethics with her idea of good manners, and then replied:
“Why say, ‘Mrs. Maxwell, it was awfully good of you to ask me,’ and I don’t believe she’ll notice anything wrong about that.”
“Hm!” Nickey retorted scornfully. “Seems pretty much like the same thing to me.”
“Oh no! Not in the least. Now what will you wear when we go to the rectory?”
“My gray suit, and tan shoes, and the green tie with the purple spots on it.”
“Who’ll be the first to sit down to the table?” 175
“Search me—maybe I will, if there’s good eats.”
“Nonsense! You must wait for Mrs. Maxwell and the rector to be seated first.”
“Well,” Nickey exclaimed in exasperation, “I’m bound to make some horrible break anyway, so don’t you worry, ma. It seems to me from what them books say, that when you go visitin’ you’ve got to tell lies like a sinner; and you can’t tell the truth till you get home with the door shut. I never was good at lyin’; I always get caught.”
“It isn’t exactly lyin’, Nickey; its just sayin’ nice things, and keepin’ your mouth shut about the rest. Now suppose you dropped a fork under the table, what’d you say?”
“I’d say ‘’scuse me, Mrs. Maxwell, but one of the forks has gone, and you can go through my clothes if you want to before I go home.’”
“Hm!” Hepsey remarked dryly, “I guess the less you say, the better.”
Arrived at the rectory, Nickey felt under some restraint when they first sat down to the supper table; but under the genial manner of Mrs. Maxwell he soon felt at his ease, and not even his observant mother detected any dire breach of table etiquette. His conversation was somewhat spare, his attention being absorbed and equally divided between observation 176 of his host and consumption of the feast set before him. With sure tact, Mrs. Betty—though regarding Nickey as the guest of honor—that evening—deferred testing the results of his conversational studies until after supper: one thing at once, she decided, was fair play.
After the meal was over, they repaired together to the parlor, and while Hepsey took out her wash-rag knitting and Maxwell smoked his cigar, Mrs. Betty gave Nickey her undivided attention.
In order to interest the young people of the place in the missionary work of the parish, Mrs. Betty had organized a guild of boys who were to earn what they could towards the support of a missionary in the west. The Guild had been placed under the fostering care and supervision of Nickey as its treasurer, and was known by the name of “The Juvenile Band of Gleaners.” In the course of the evening Mrs. Maxwell took occasion to inquire what progress they were making, thereby unconsciously challenging a somewhat surprising recountal.
“Well,” Nickey replied readily, “we’ve got forty-six cents in the treasury; that’s just me, you know; I keep the cash in my pants pocket.”
Then he smiled uneasily, and fidgeted in his chair.
There was something in Nickey’s tone and look 177 that excited Mrs. Betty’s curiosity, and made his mother stop knitting and look at him anxiously over her glasses.
“That is very good for a start,” Mrs. Betty commended. “How did you raise all that, Nickey?”
For a moment Nickey colored hotly, looked embarrassed, and made no reply. Then mustering up his courage, and laughing, he began:
“Well, Mrs. Maxwell, it was just like this. Maybe you won’t like it, but I’ll tell you all the same. Bein’ as I was the president of the Juv’nul Band of Gleaners, I though I’d get the kids together, and start somethin’. Saturday it rained cats and dogs, so Billy Burns, Sam Cooley, Dimple Perkins and me, we went up into the hay loft, and I said to the kids, ‘You fellows have got to cough up some dough for the church, and––’”
“Contribute money, Nickey. Don’t be slangy,” his mother interjected.
“Well I says, ‘I’m runnin’ the Juv’nals, and you’ve got to do just what I say. I’ve got a dandy scheme for raisin’ money and we’ll have some fun doin’ it, or I miss my guess.’ Then I asked Sam Cooley how much money he’d got, and Sam, he had forty-four cents, Billy Burns had fifty-two cents, and Dimple had only two. Dimp never did have much loose cash, anyway. 178 But I said to Dimp, ‘Never mind, Dimp; you aint to blame. Your dad’s an old skinflint. I’ll lend you six to start off with.’ Then I made Billy Burns sweep the floor, while Sam went down to the chicken yard and caught my bantam rooster, Tooley. Then I sent Dimp after some chalk, and an empty peach basket, and a piece of cord. Then we was ready for business.
“I marked a big circle on the barn floor with the chalk, and divided it into four quarters with straight lines runnin’ through the middle. Then I turned the peach basket upside down, and tied one end of the string on the bottom, and threw the other end up over a beam overhead, so I could pull the basket off from the floor up to the beam by the string. You see,” Nickey illustrated with graphic gestures, “the basket hung just over the middle of the circle like a bell. Then I took the rooster and stuck him under the basket. Tooley hollered and scratched like Sam Hill and––”
“For mercy sake, Nickey! What will you say next?”
“Say, ma, you just wait and see. Well, Tooley kicked like everything, but he had to go under just the same. Then I said to the kids to sit around the circle on the floor, and each choose one of the four 179 quarters for hisself,—one for each of us. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘you must each cough up––’”
“Nicholas!”
“Oh ma, do let me tell it without callin’ me down every time. ‘You kids must hand out a cent apiece and put it on the floor in your own quarter. Then, when I say ready, I’ll pull the string and raise the basket and let Tooley out. Tooley’ll get scared and run. If he runs off the circle through my quarter, then the four cents are mine; but if he runs through Dimp’s quarter, then the four cents are Dimp’s.’
“It was real excitin’ when I pulled the string, and the basket went up. You’d ought to ’ve been there, Mrs. Maxwell. You’d have laughed fit to split––”
“Nicholas Burke, you must stop talkin’ like that, or I’ll send you home,” reproved Mrs. Burke, looking severely at her son, and with deprecating side-glances at his audience.
“Excuse me, ma. It will be all over in a minute. But really, you’d have laughed like sin—I mean you’d have just laughed yourself sick. Tooley was awful nervous when the basket went up. For a minute he crouched and stood still, scared stiff at the three kids, all yellin’ like mad; then he ducked his head and bolted off the circle through my quarter and flew up on a beam. I thought the kids would bust.” 180
Mrs. Burke sighed heavily.
“Well, burst, then. But while they were laughin’ I raked in the cash. You see I just had to. I won it for fair. I’d kept quiet, and that’s why Tooley come across my quarter.”
Mrs. Maxwell was sorting over her music, while Maxwell’s face was hidden behind a paper. Mrs. Burke was silent through despair. Nickey glanced furtively at his hearers for a moment and then continued:
“Yes, the kids was tickled; but they got awful quiet when I told them to fork over another cent apiece for the jack-pot.”
“What in the name of conscience is a jack-pot?” Hepsey asked.
Donald laughed and Nickey continued:
“A jack-pot’s a jack-pot; there isn’t no other name that I ever heard of. We caught Tooley and stuck him under the basket, and made him do it all over again. You see, every time when Tooley got loose, the kids all leant forward and yelled like mad; but I just kept my mouth shut, and leaned way back out of the way so that Tooley’d run out through my quarter. So I won most all the time.”
There was a pause, while Nickey looked a bit apprehensively at his audience. But he 181 went on gamely to the end of the chapter.
“Once Tooley made a bolt in a straight line through Dimp’s quarter, and hit Dimp in the mouth, and bowled him over like a nine-pin. Dimp was scared to death, and howled like murder till he found he’d scooped the pot; then he got quiet. After we made Tooley run ten times, he struck work and wouldn’t run any more; so we just had to let him go; but I didn’t care nothn’ about that, ’cause you see I had the kids’ cash in my pants pocket, and that was what I was after. Well, sir, when it was all over, ’cause I’d busted the bank––”
“Nicholas Burke, I am ashamed of you.”
“Never mind, ma; I’m most through now. When they found I’d busted the bank, they looked kind of blue, and Dimp Perkins said it was a skin game, and I was a bunco steerer.”
“What did you say to that?” Donald inquired.
“Oh, I just said it was all for religion, it was church money, and it was all right. I was just gleanin’ what few cents they had, to pay the church debt to the missionary; and they ought to be ashamed to have a church debt hangin’ over ’em, and they’d oughter be more cheerful ’bout givin’ a little somethin’ toward raisin’ of it.”
When Nickey had finished, there was an ominous 182 silence for a moment or two, and then his mother said sternly:
“What do you suppose Mrs. Perkins will say when she finds that you’ve tricked her son into a regular gambling scheme, to get his money away from him?”
“Mrs. Perkins,” retorted Nickey, thoroughly aroused by the soft impeachment. “I should worry! At the church fair, before Mr. Maxwell came, she ran a fancy table, and tried to sell a baby blanket to an old bachelor; but he wouldn’t take it. Then when he wasn’t lookin’, blessed if she didn’t turn around and tie the four corners together with a bit of ribbon, and sell it to him for a handkerchief case. She got two dollars for it, and it wasn’t worth seventy-five cents. She was as proud as a dog with two tails, and went around tellin’ everybody.”
Silence reigned, ominous and general, and Nickey braced himself for the storm. Even Mrs. Maxwell didn’t look at him, and that was pretty bad. He began to get hot all over, and the matter was fast assuming a new aspect in his own mind which made him ashamed of himself. His spirits sank lower and lower. Finally his mother remarked quietly:
“Nickey, I thought you were goin’ to be a gentleman.” 183
“That’s straight, all right, what I’ve told you,” he murmured abashed.
There was another silent pause—presently broken by Nickey.
“I guess I hadn’t thought about it, just that way. I guess I’ll give the kids their money back,” he volunteered despondently—“only I’ll have to make it up, some way, in the treasury.” He felt in his pockets, and jingled the coins.
Another pause—with only the ticking of his mother’s knitting needles to relieve the oppressive silence. Suddenly the worried pucker disappeared from his brow, and his face brightened like a sun-burst.
“I’ve got it, Mrs. Maxwell,” he cried. “I’ve got seventy-five cents comin’ to me down at the Variety Store, for birch-bark frames, and I’ll give that for the blamed old missionaries. That’s square, ’aint it now?”
Mrs. Betty’s commendation and her smile were salve to the wounds of her young guest, and Donald’s hearty laughter soon dispelled the sense of social failure which was beginning to cloud Nickey’s happy spirit.
“Say Nickey,” said Maxwell, throwing down his paper, “Mrs. Betty and I want to start a Boy Scout Corps in the parish, and with your resourceful genius 184 you could get the boys together, and explain it to them, and soon we should have the whole thing in ship-shape order. Will you do it?”
“Will I?” exclaimed the delighted recruit. “I guess so—but some of ’em ’aint ’Piscopals, Mr. Maxwell; there’s Sam Cooley, he’s a Methodist, and––”
“That doesn’t cut any ice, Nickey,—excuse my slang, ladies,” he apologized to his wife and Hepsey, at which the boy grinned with delight. “We’re out to welcome all comers. I’ve got the books that we shall need upstairs. Let’s go up to my den and talk it all over. We shall have to spend evenings getting thoroughly up in it ourselves,—rules and knots and first-aid and the rest. Mrs. Burke will allay parental anxiety as to the bodily welfare of the recruits and the pacific object of the organization, and Mrs. Maxwell will make the colors. Come on!”
With sparkling eyes, Nickey followed Donald out of the room; as they disappeared Hepsey slowly shook her head in grateful deprecation at Betty.
“Bless him!” ejaculated Hepsey. “Mixin’ up religion, with a little wholesome fun, is the only way you can serve it to boys, like Nickey, and get results. Boys that are ever goin’ to amount to anything are too full of life to stand ’em up in a row, with a prayer book in one hand and a hymnal in the other, 185 and expect ’em to sprout wings. It can’t be done. Keep a boy outside enough and he’ll turn out alright. Fresh air and open fields have a mighty helpful influence on ’em. The way I’ve got it figgered out, all of us can absorb a lot of the right kind of religion, if we’ll only go out and watch old Mother Nature, now and then.”
The small town of Durford was not immune from the curse of drink: there was no doubt about that. Other forms of viciousness there were in plenty; but the nine saloons did more harm than all the rest of the evil influences put together, and Maxwell, though far from being a fanatic, was doing much in a quiet way to neutralize their bad influence. He turned the Sunday School room into a reading room during the week days, organized a gymnasium, kept watch of the younger men individually, 187 and offered as best he could some chance for the expression of the gregarious instinct which drew them together after the work of the day was over. In the face of his work in these directions, it happened that a venturesome and enterprising saloon-keeper bought a vacant property adjacent to the church, and opened up an aggressive business—much to Maxwell’s dismay.
Among the women of the parish there was a “Ladies’ Temperance League,” of which Mrs. Burke was president. They held quarterly meetings, and it was at one of the meetings held at Thunder Cliff, and at which Mrs. Burke presided, that she remarked severely:
“Mrs. Sapley, you’re out of order. There’s a motion before the house, and I’ve got something to say about it myself. Mrs. Perkins, as Mrs. Maxwell was unable to be present, will you kindly take the chair, or anything else you can lay your hands on, and I’ll say what I’ve got to say.”
Mrs. Perkins took Mrs. Burke’s place as the president, while Mrs. Burke rubbed her glasses in an impatient way; and having adjusted them, began in a decided tone from which there was meant to be no appeal:
“The fact is, ladies, we’re not gettin’ down to business 188 as we ought to, if we are to accomplish anything. We’ve been singing hymns, and recitin’ lovely poems, and listenin’ to reports as to how money spent for liquor would pay off the national debt; and we’ve been sayin’ prayers, and pledgin’ ourselves not to do things none of us ever was tempted to do, or thought of doin’, and wearin’ ribbons, and attendin’ conventions, and talkin’ about influencin’ legislation at Washington, and eatin’ sandwiches, and drinkin’ weak tea, and doin’ goodness knows what; but we’ve not done a blessed thing to stop men drinkin’ right here in Durford and breakin’ the town law; you know that well enough.”
Mrs. Burke paused for breath after this astounding revolutionary statement, and there was a murmur of scandalized dissent from the assembled ladies at this outspoken expression on the part of the honorable president of the Parish Guild.
“No,” she continued emphatically, “don’t you fool yourselves. If we can’t help matters right here where we live, then there’s no use havin’ imitation church sociables, and goin’ home thinkin’ we’ve helped the temperance cause, and callin’ everybody else bad names who don’t exactly agree with us.”
Again there were symptoms of open rebellion against this traitorous heresy on the part of the plainspoken 189 president; but she was not to be easily silenced; so she continued:
“Men have got to go somewheres when their work is over, and have a good time, and I believe that we won’t accomplish anything until we fix up a nice, attractive set of rooms with games, and give ’em something to drink.”
Cries of “Oh! Oh! Oh!” filled the room.
“I didn’t say whiskey, did I? Anybody would think I’d offered to treat you, the way you receive my remarks. Now we can’t get the rooms right off, ’cause we can’t yet afford to pay the rent of ’em. But there’s one thing we can do. There’s Silas Bingham—the new man. He’s gone and opened a saloon within about a hundred feet of the church, and he’s sellin’ liquor to children and runnin’ a slot machine besides. It’s all against the law; but if you think the village trustees are goin’ to do anythin’ to enforce the law, you’re just dead wrong, every one of you. The trustees are most of ’em in it for graft, and they ’aint goin’ to close no saloon when it’s comin’ election day ’for long, not if Bingham serves cocktails between the hymns in church. Maybe the trustees’d come to church better if he did. Maybe you think I’m usin’ strong language; but it’s true all the same, and you know it’s true. Silas Bingham’s move 190 is a sassy challenge to us: are we goin’ to lie down under it?”
“I must say that I’m painfully surprised at you, Mrs. Burke,” Mrs. Burns began. “You surely can’t forget what wonderful things the League has accomplished in Virginia and––”
“Yes,” Mrs. Burke interrupted, “but you see Durford ’aint in Virginia so far as heard from, and it’s our business to get up and hustle right here where we live. Did you think we were tryin’ to reform Virginia or Alaska by absent treatment?”
Mrs. Sapley could not contain herself another moment; so, rising to her feet excitedly she sputtered:
“I do not agree with you, Mrs. Burke; I do not agree with you at all. Our meetings have been very inspiring and helpful to us all, I am perfectly sure; very uplifting and encouraging; and I am astonished that you should speak as you do.”
“I’m very glad you’ve found them so, Mrs. Sapley. I don’t drink myself, and I don’t need no encouragin’ and upliftin’. It’s the weak man that drinks who needs encouragin’ and upliftin’; and he wouldn’t come near one of our meetin’s any more than a bantam rooster would try to hatch turtles from moth-balls. We’ve got to clear Silas Bingham from off the church steps.” 191
“Well,” Mrs. Burns inquired, “what do you propose to do about it, if I may be allowed to inquire?”
“Do? The first thing I propose to do is to interview Silas Bingham myself privately, and see what I can do with him. Perhaps I won’t accomplish nothin’; but I’m goin’ to try, anyway, and make him get out of that location.”
“You can, if anybody can,” Mrs. Sapley remarked.
“Thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Sapley. Now Mrs. President, I move, sir—that is, madam—that the parish League appoints me to interview Bingham.”
The motion was duly seconded and passed, notwithstanding some mild protests from the opposition, and Mrs. Burke resumed her place as presiding officer of the meeting. Then she continued:
“Excuse me; I forgot the previous question which somebody moved. Shall we have lettuce or chicken sandwiches at our next meetin’? You have heard the question. Those in favor of chicken please say aye. Ah! The ayes have the chicken, and the chicken is unanimously carried. Any more business to come before the meetin’? If not, we’ll proceed to carry out the lit’ary program arranged by Miss Perkins. Then 192 we’ll close this meetin’ by singin’ the 224th hymn. Don’t forget the basket by the door.”
Silas Bingham was an undersized, timid, pulpy soul, with a horizontal forehead, watery blue eyes, and a receding chin. Out of “office hours” he looked like a meek solicitor for a Sunday School magazine. One bright morning just as he had finished sweeping out the saloon and was polishing the brass rod on the front of the bar, Mrs. Burke walked in, and extended her hand to the astonished bar-keeper, whose chin dropped from sheer amazement. She introduced herself in the most cordial and sympathetic of tones, saying:
“How do you do, Mr. Bingham? I haven’t had the pleasure of meetin’ you before; but I always make it a point to call on strangers when they come to town. It must be awful lonesome when you first arrive and don’t know a livin’ soul. I hope your wife is tolerable well.”
Bingham gradually pulled himself together and turned very red, as he replied:
“Thanks! But my wife doesn’t live here. It’s awful kind of you, I’m sure; but you’ll find my wife in the third house beyond the bakery, down two 193 blocks—turn to the right. She’ll be glad to see you.”
“That’s good,” Hepsey responded, “but you see I don’t have much to do on Thursdays, and I’ll just have a little visit with you, now I’m here. Fine day, isn’t it.”
Mrs. Burke drew up a chair and sat down, adjusted her feet comfortably to the rung of another chair, and pulled out her knitting from her work-bag, much to the consternation of the proprietor of the place.
“How nice you’ve got things fixed up, Mr. Bingham,” Hepsey remarked, gazing serenely at the seductive variety of bottles and glasses, and the glare of mirrors behind the bar. “Nothin’ like havin’ a fine lookin’ place to draw trade. Is business prosperin’ now-a-days?”
Silas turned three shades redder, and stammered badly as he replied:
“Yes, I’m doin’ as well as I can expect—er—I suppose.”
“Probably as well as your customers are doin’, I should imagine? You don’t need to get discouraged. It takes time to work up a trade like yours in a nice, decent neighborhood like this.”
Silas stared hard at the unwelcome intruder, glancing apprehensively at the door from which several customers had already turned away when, through the 194 glass, they had caught sight of Mrs. Burke. He was desperately ill at ease, and far from responding cordially to Hepsey’s friendly advances; and his nervousness increased as his patrons continually retreated, occasionally grinning derisively at him through the glass in the door.
“If you don’t mind my sayin’ it, Mrs. Burke, I think you’d be a lot more comfortable at my house than you are here.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly comfortable, thanks; perfectly comfortable. Don’t you worry a bit about me.”
“But this is a saloon, and it ’aint just what you might call respectable for ladies to be sittin’ in a saloon, now, is it?”
“Why not?”
The question was so sudden, sharp and unexpected that Silas jumped and almost knocked over a bottle of gin, and then stared in silent chagrin at his guest, his nervous lips moving without speech.
“I don’t see,” Hepsey continued, “just why the men should have all the fun, and then when a woman takes to enjoyin’ herself say that it isn’t respectable. What’s the difference, I’d like to know? This is a right cheerful place, and I feel just like stayin’ as long as I want to. There’s no law against a woman goin’ to a saloon, is there? I saw Jane Dwire come 195 out of here Saturday night. To be sure, Jane ’aint just what you’d call a ‘society’ lady, as you might say; but as long as I behave myself I don’t see why I should go.”
“But, ma’am,” Silas protested in wrathful desperation, “I must ask you to go. You’ll hurt my trade if you stay here any longer.”
“Hurt your trade! Nonsense! You aren’t half as polite as I thought you were. I’m awful popular with the gentlemen. You ought to be payin’ me a commission to sit here and entertain your customers, instead of insinuatin’ that I ’aint welcome. Ah! Here comes Martin Crowfoot. Haven’t seen Martin in the longest time.”
Martin slouched in and reached the bar and ordered before he caught sight of Mrs. Burke. He was just raising the glass to his lips when Hepsey stepped up briskly, and extending her hand, exclaimed:
“How do you do, Martin? How are the folks at home? Awful glad to see you.”
Martin stared vacantly at Mrs. Burke, dropped his glass, and muttered incoherently. Then he bolted hastily from the place without paying for his drink.
Bingham was now getting a bit hysterical over the situation, and was about to make another vigorous protest, when Hiram Green entered and called for 196 some beer. Again Hepsey extended her hand cordially, and Hiram jumped as if he had seen a ghost—for they had been friendly for years.
“Hepsey Burke, what in the name of all that’s decent are you doin’ in a place like this?” he demanded when he could get his breath. “Don’t you know you’ll ruin your reputation if you’re seen sittin’ in a saloon?”
“Oh, don’t let that worry you, Hiram, My reputation’d freeze a stroke of lightnin’. You don’t seem to be worryin’ much about your own reputation.”
“Oh well, a man can do a lot of things a woman can’t, without losin’ his reputation.”
For an instant the color flamed into Mrs. Burke’s face as she retorted hotly:
“Yes, there’s the whole business. A man can drink, and knock the seventh commandment into a cocked hat; and then when he wants to settle down and get married he demands a wife as white as snow. If he gets drunk, it’s a lark. If she gets drunk, it’s a crime. But I didn’t come here to preach or hold a revival, and as for my welfare and my reputation, Mr. Bingham and I was just havin’ a pleasant afternoon together when you came in and interrupted us. He’s awful nice when you get to know him real intimate. Now, Hiram, I hate to spoil your fun, and you do 197 look a bit thirsty. Suppose you have a lemonade on me, if you’re sure it won’t go to your head. It isn’t often that we get out like this together. Lemonades for two, Mr. Bingham; and make Hiram’s real sweet.”
Mrs. Burke enjoyed hugely the disgust and the grimaces with which Green swallowed the syrupy mixture. He then beat a hasty retreat down the street. For two hours Hepsey received all who were courageous enough to venture in, with most engaging smiles and cordial handshakes, until Silas was bordering on madness. Finally he emerged from the bar and mustered up sufficient courage to threaten:
“Mrs. Burke, if you don’t quit, I’ll send for the police,” he blustered.
Hepsey gazed calmly at her victim and replied:
“I wouldn’t, if I was in your place.”
“Well then, I give you fair warning I’ll put you out myself if you don’t go peaceable in five minutes.”
“No, Silas; you’re wrong as usual. You can’t put me out of here until I’m ready to go. I could wring you out like a mop, and drop you down a knot-hole, and nobody’d be the wiser.”
The door now opened slowly and a small girl, miserably clad, entered the saloon. Her head was covered 198 with a worn, soiled shawl. From underneath the shawl she produced a battered tin pail and placed it on the bar with the phlegmatic remark, “Pa wants a quart of beer.”
Mrs. Burke looked at the girl and then at Bingham, and then back at the girl inquiringly.
“Are you in the habit of gettin’ beer here, child?”
“Sure thing!” the girl replied, cheerfully.
“How old are you?”
“Ten, goin’ on eleven.”
“And you sell it to her?” Hepsey asked, turning to Bingham.
“Oh, it’s for her father. He sends for it.” He frowned at the child and she quickly disappeared, leaving the can behind her.
“Does he? But I thought you said that a saloon was no place for a woman; and surely it can’t be a decent place for a girl under age. Now my friend, I’ve got somethin’ to say to you.”
“You are the very devil and all,” Silas remarked.
“Thanks, Silas. The devil sticks to his job, anyway; and owin’ to the likes of you he wins out, nine times out of ten. Now will you clear out of this location, or won’t you?”
“Another day like this would send me to the lunatic asylum.” 199
“Then I’ll be around in the mornin’ at six-thirty sharp.”
“You just get out of here,” he threatened.
“If you promise to clear out yourself within three days.”
“I guess I’d clear out of Heaven itself to get rid of you.”
“Very well; and if you are still here Saturday afternoon, ten of us women will come and sit on your steps until you go. A woman can’t vote whether you shall be allowed to entice her men-folk into a place like this, and at the very church door; but the average woman can be mighty disagreeable when she tries.”
Silas Bingham had a good business head: he reckoned up the costs—and cleared out.