The nicks in his club by which he kept score became so numerous, and they so weakened the shaft, that he finally broke it; also one of the commandments.
The story of his calamities and of his undoing is feebly indicated by his score, which was as follows:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Out— 19 11 5 7 12 9 8 16 14—101
In—- 8 6 10 5 7 7 11 5 12— 71
—-
Total —172
Miss Harding made it in 116, and with a reasonable amount of luck I am sure she would have done much better. I played a rattling good game, completing the round in 80, which is the best score I have made this season.
I put it all over Carter, who had made me a side bet of the dinners for the four of us that his individual score would be better than mine.
Miss Harding won an automobile which will cost not less than $15,000; I won fifty-six dozen golf balls, enough to last me two years; Carter lost a dinner which I thoroughly enjoyed, and Mr. Harding lost his temper, but I will give him credit for finding it the moment the game was over.
He laughed as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
"You threw me down, Kid," he said to Miss Harding, "but I'll forgive you. You get the buzz wagon and Smith gets a cartload of balls, but I'll tell you one thing, and that is this: I'm going to learn how to hit one of those blamed balls in the nose every time I swipe at it, even if I have to resign the presidency of the R.G. & K. railroad."
I can see that the golf microbe has marked him for a shining victim.
ENTRY NO. IX
MR. SMITH GETS BUSY
I have had to neglect my golf and attend to business. For nearly a week I have not seen Miss Harding. And all on account of that miserable N.O. & G. stock.
Early in the week it dropped to more than ten points below the figure at which I purchased it. This meant a loss of $20,000.
Tuesday morning I called on my broker and he informed me that if N.O. &
G. dropped two more points he would have to call on me for margins.
There were rumours, he said, that it would pass its next dividend, or at
least reduce it. Then I got busy.
I called on Jones, the kind friend who steered me against this investment. Jones informed me that certain powerful banking interests were raiding the stock. He could not identify them, and I saw that he knew nothing about it.
"We are the lambs, Smith," he sadly said. "I'm in for a thousand shares myself."
"They have not an ounce of my fleece yet," I declared, and turned and left him.
I served two years on Wall Street under my father, and there was no streak of mutton in him. It made me furious to think that I should be made to "hold the bag" for a lot of unscrupulous tricksters.
I set about ascertaining the exact status of the business of the N.O. & G. In my search for information I was thwarted again and again, but I do not think it was entirely luck which led me to solve the mystery to my personal satisfaction. I employed detectives to assist me, and in four days had the information on which to act.
It is as neat a conspiracy as ever was hatched by financial brigands, but I think I know every tree behind which they are hid. It is probable that they are within the pale of the written law, but one would have the same right to operate in gold bricks or green goods.
It may be that the action I have taken will spell my financial ruin, but
I propose to ascertain if a gentleman cannot take a modest flyer in Wall
Street without being marked as "a come-on," which is the term used by
those who rig the market.
If they get me it will be not for $20,000 but for $2,000,000. I propose to make the fight of my life. I wonder what Miss Harding would think if she knew I were engaged in a deal of this magnitude?
On Thursday I instructed my business agents to convert certain negotiable assets into cash, and to arrange for an extension of my credit with the banks. I now propose to follow N.O. & G. to the bottom—if there be one—and if not I shall drop with my money into the fathomless void of bankruptcy.
I called on my broker.
"I wish to get out," I said to him. "I will take my losses. This has been an expensive experience to me."
"I do not imagine, Mr. Smith," he said, "that the loss of $23,000 will seriously cripple you or disturb your serenity."
I made a gesture of despair.
"If that were all I would not give it a thought," I said. He looked at me curiously.
"I hope that you are not long on this stock to any great extent," he said.
"I should have said nothing about it," I returned, looking as distressed as possible. "Please make no inference from my remark, and keep this transaction entirely an office secret."
"It is not necessary to caution me," he quickly said.
The financial papers that evening recorded a rumour to the effect that "The son of a late well-known banker and operator is said to be heavily long on N.O. & G., and the slump in that stock during the closing hours was probably due to his frantic efforts to close out an account estimated at 20,000 shares."
I wonder where that rumour originated. This is the way secrets are kept in Wall Street.
Prior to this I had commissioned Morse & Davis, brokers in whom I have implicit confidence, to purchase 5,000 shares of the stock at or below 75. I obtained 79 for my original investment, and its sale combined with the circulation of the rumour before mentioned precipitated a flurry in N.O. & G. which sent it as low as 74 and a fraction.
[Illustration: "It is not necessary to caution me"]
Before the market closed I had my five thousand shares.
Friday morning selling orders poured in from frightened small holders, and when their demands had been satisfied the "syndicated conspirators" put the screws on just as I expected. They also circulated an alleged authorised interview with an official of the N.O. & G. forecasting the passing of the regular semi-annual dividend.
Had I not been acquainted with the plans of these quotation wreckers I should have been seriously alarmed.
When the tape recorded a sale at 70 I placed an order with Morse & Davis for 10,000 shares, and they picked it up in small lots at an average of 69. It rose slightly on Saturday, and I did nothing with it.
I have put up in margins $375,000, sufficient to protect me against a drop of twenty-five points. I stand to lose $1,975,000, and know where I can place my hands on the money. I anticipate that the stock will go much lower, and have planned accordingly. My share of my lamented father's estate is worth fully two and a half millions, and it is in such shape that I can speedily convert it into cash. If these thieves can get it they are welcome to it, but they will know that they have been in a fight.
The transition from the healthy quiet of Woodvale to the feverish furore of Wall Street was startling. At times as I stood by the ticker I could hardly persuade myself that it was not a dream, from which I should awake to stroll with Miss Harding across the brooks and green meadows we both love so well.
My prolonged absence from the links created some comment, so I am told, but no questions were asked and I volunteered no information. I have arranged matters so that it will not be necessary to spend much of my time in the city, unless something unexpected develops.
I have lost no sleep, but my golf this afternoon was disappointing.
I required eighty-nine for the round and lost seven golf balls to
Chilvers and Boyd. This will never do![1]
[Footnote 1: NOTE BY THE EDITOR.—From the foregoing it appears that Mr. Smith's stock transactions up to this date have involved a net loss of about $51,000, with a probability of a continuance of the decline during the coming week. Under these circumstances it would seem that he attaches undue importance to the loss of seven golf balls, which I am informed, may be purchased at the standard price of fifty cents apiece.
Possibly this criticism may be impeached by those familiar with the ethics and peculiarities of golf, a game of which my knowledge is purely academic.]
On the table in front of me stands the finest golf trophy which ever delighted the eye of a devotee of the game. It is the bronze figure of a player whose mashie is in the position of that valuable iron club at the end of a short approach. It is the work of a French sculptor, and in design and execution it is nothing short of an inspiration. The position of the feet, body, arms, and shoulders, the expression of the face and eyes; all these details are perfect.
The figure is twenty-four inches in height and is mounted on an ebony pedestal.
Mr. Harding has given this magnificent bronze to the club, and it is in my keeping, as chairman of the Greens Committee. It will be presented to the winner of this year's championship of Woodvale by Miss Grace Harding, and I have posted an announcement of the conditions of the competition. It is open to all members, sixteen best scores to qualify, and then match play of eighteen holes, with thirty-six for the finals. The tournament starts a week from Tuesday.
Between watching Wall Street and getting in shape for this competition I am likely to have a busy week.
Mr. Harding called me into his apartments yesterday evening, displayed this gem of a bronze, and told me how he came to acquire it.
"It was the Kid's suggestion, but I endorsed it in a minute," he said, passing a box of cigars. "We were prowling around the jewelry haunts, Grace and I, seeing what she could flim-flam me into buying for her, when we ran across this thing. She thought it was great. I looked it over and saw that this bronze gentleman does not hold his club the way I do, and was in favour of letting him wait for another owner. Then she suggested that it would be a great scheme to buy it and give it to the club. I thought it over a minute and decided that it might be a good idea, and so I bought it, and here it is. Now you boys will have to scrap it out among yourselves, and may the best one win."
"This is the finest trophy ever offered to the club," I said, "and on behalf of the members I wish to thank you as donor and Miss Harding as the instigator."
"I'll create enough trouble around here to work out any indebtedness you fellows owe me for that gee-gaw," he laughed. "I've had an awful time since you have been down town, Smith. I reckon I've ploughed up as much turf as Jim Bishop did all last spring. Speaking of Bishop, did you know we're invited over to his place Monday evening?"
"I had not heard of it," I said.
"Well, we are," he said. "There's going to be great doings day after to-morrow night. Bishop's new red barn is finished, and a bunch of us are going over to dinner and then participate in the dance. Let's go down stairs and hunt up Grace and Carter and constitute the four of us a committee on arrangements and invitation. Grace talked to Bishop more than I did and she knows all about it."
We found Miss Harding, Miss Lawrence, LaHume, and Carter on the veranda, and decided to enlarge the committee to six. Miss Harding said Mr. Bishop intimated he should expect about a dozen of us.
"Well, let's see," figured Mr. Harding, and I felt in my bones he would make a mess of it. "Get out your pencil, Smith, and take us down as I give the names. There's Ma Harding and me, that's two; there's Carter and Grace makes four; LaHume and his sweetheart makes six; then there's——"
"Mr. LaHume and whom?" interrupted Miss Lawrence, her cheeks red and her eyes snapping fire. The grin on LaHume's face died out.
"Why, LaHume and——"
"You've gone far enough," laughed Miss Harding. "Let me help you out, papa. We will select the gentlemen first. Please take down this list, Mr. Smith. Suppose we name Mr. LaHume, Mr. Carter, Mr. Marshall, Mr. Chilvers, Mr. Smith, and Papa Harding. Then there's Miss Lawrence, Miss Ross, Mrs. Marshall, Mrs. Chilvers, Mamma, and myself. That makes twelve."
"Those were the ones I was going to name when you stopped me," declared Mr. Harding, who pretended to be much puzzled, but who knew full well what was the matter. He gave me a quiet nudge with his elbow, and then went on to say that the twelve of us would dine with the Bishops at six o'clock, and stay to the dance which would start as soon as it was dark. It ought to be great fun.
I wish I knew if Miss Harding resented the coupling of her name with
Carter. I watched both of them closely, but neither gave a sign.
Chilvers tells me that Carter and Miss Harding have played several games together during the past week, and I assured him that the fact possessed not the slightest interest to me. Chilvers pretends to think it does, and seems to take much delight in harping on that subject.
As a matter of curiosity I should like to know when and where Carter first met the Hardings. Once or twice I have thrown out a hint to Carter, but he has not said a word.
Carter is a good-looking chap, and I think he knows it. The fond mammas here in the club consider him a catch. I am not exactly a pauper myself, but I may be if this N. O. & G. deal goes against me.
I wonder how it would seem to be poor? I wonder if Miss Harding would care to play golf with me if she knew I had to work for a living? I wonder what I would work at?
I dreamed last night that N.O. & G. stock went down and down until it was worth less than nothing, and that I had lost every dollar in the world and owed several millions.
It was an awful dream. I was in jail for a time, and when they let me out I did not have the car fare to get back to Woodvale. I walked all the way, and was chased by dogs. When I got here, the steward presented my bill, which amounted to several hundred dollars. I told him I could not pay it, and he marked my name off the membership list. I met Carter and several others and they would not speak to me. I was dying from hunger, and looked longingly at the remnants of a steak left by Chilvers, but one of the servants told me to move on.
Then the scene changed, as things move in dreams, and I was at work on Bishop's farm. I was cutting and shocking corn, and the boss of the hired help swore because I was so slow. My hands were bleeding from scratches where the sharp edges of the bayonet-like blades had cut them, and I was so hungry and tired that I was ready to lie down and die. My wages were fifteen dollars a month, and every cent of it had been levied against by my Wall Street creditors. Not until I was seventy years old would any of the money I earned be coming to me. The other hired men looked on me as a weakling, and laughed at the torn golf suit in which I was clothed.
I was happy when I awoke and realised it was only a nightmare.
I raised the curtain so as to let in the cool air. The links were bathed in a flood of moonlight. Half a mile away were Bishop's cornfields in which the dreamland fiends had tortured me. It was not yet midnight, and down the lane I made out the forms of Chilvers, Marshall, Lawson, and other nighthawks. Chilvers was singing, the others coming in the chorus of the last line, drawing it out to the full length and strength of a parody of the old negro song:
"Where, oh where are the long, long drivers?
Where, oh where are the long, long drivers?;
Where, oh where are the long, long drivers?
'Way down yander in the corn field."
[Illustration: The dream]
ENTRY NO. X
THE TWO GLADIATORS
There was little doing in N.O. & G. stock on Monday or Tuesday. It dropped off a point and then recovered. I told my brokers to pick up 10,000 shares at or below 65. I am confident it will strike that figure before the end of the week.
It was nearly five o'clock before we started up the lane toward Bishop's. We were delayed half an hour waiting for Marshall, but, knowing his weakness, we fixed the time of departure half an hour sooner than necessary.
If Marshall's hope for eternal salvation depended on applying at the pearly gates at a specified time, he would spend eternity in the other place on account of being thirty minutes late. Knowing this to be his habit, we always provide against it. If the club house ever catches on fire, we shall lose Marshall, and he is a splendid good fellow.
Marshall's wife informs me it took him thirty weeks to propose after he had made up his mind to do so, and that after the wedding day was set it was necessary to postpone the ceremony thirty days in order to permit him to attend to some trifling business affairs. We call him "Thirty" Marshall, and it takes him thirty seconds to smile in appreciation of the jest. But he plays a good game of golf, with at least four deliberate practise swings before each stroke at the ball.
Chilvers wanted to have a team hitched up and ride over in the club bus. He said it tired him to walk. We vetoed that proposition, and Chilvers stopped twice to rest on the half-mile jaunt to Bishop's.
Chilvers thinks nothing of playing twice around Woodvale, a distance of not less than ten miles, but when in the city he takes a cab or a street car when compelled to go a few blocks. When there is no ball ahead of him he is the most fatigued man of my acquaintance, but he can stride over golf links from daybreak until it is so dark you cannot see the ball, and quit as fresh as when he started. There are others like Chilvers.
I walked with Mrs. Harding. I had a good chance to walk with Miss Harding, but wished to show Carter that it was a matter of indifference to me. More than that, it occurred to me it was not a bad plan to become better acquainted with Mrs. Harding.
The man who gets Mrs. Harding for a mother-in-law will be fortunate. None of the thrusts and jibes of the alleged funny men will apply to her as a mother-in-law.
One would not readily identify Mrs. Harding as the wife of a famous railway magnate. Wealth certainly has not turned her motherly head. Of course, she is a little woman. Huge men such as Harding invariably select dolls of women for helpmates. She is round, smiling, pretty, and thoughtful, and I like her immensely.
We were approaching the Bishop place. The orchard trees were covered with fruit. Some of the tomatoes showed the red of their fat cheeks through the green of their foliage. Miss Lawrence had started with LaHume, but under some pretext left him and was with Carter and Miss Harding, and I doubt if Carter was pleased with that evidence of his popularity. LaHume walked with Miss Ross and talked and laughed, but I could see he was angry.
It suddenly occurred to me that Miss Lawrence would probably meet Bishop's hired man, Wallace, and I presume LaHume was thinking of the same thing. It was apparent they had quarrelled over something.
Marshall and Chilvers were together, their wives trailing on behind, as usual. The way these two married men neglect these lovely women makes me angry every time I am out with them, but the ladies do not seem to care, and I presume it is none of my business.
Harding walked with everybody, and was happy as a lark. He threw stones at a telegraph pole, and was in ecstasy when a lucky shot shivered one of the glass insulators.
"How was that for a shot, mother?" he shouted, as the glass came flying down. "Hav'n't hit one of those since I was fourteen years old. Say, I wish I was fourteen years old now, barefooted, and sitting on the bank of that creek catching shiners."
"I wouldn't throw any more stones, Robert," Mrs. Harding said, laying her hand on his arm and looking up to his happy face. "The last time you threw stones you were lame for a week, and I had to rub you with arnica."
"But think of the fun I had," he said, and then he went back and told Marshall and Chilvers some yarn which must have been very amusing from the way they laughed.
I had been praising the beauties of the country around Woodmere, and asked Mrs. Harding how she liked the club house, and if she were enjoying her summer there.
"I would enjoy it much better," she said, "if I did not know that I should be home."
"I presume you feel that you are neglecting your social duties," I ventured.
"Social fiddlesticks," she laughed. "I should be home canning tomatoes and putting up fruit. We won't have a thing in the house fit to eat all next winter."
"But the servants," I began. "The servants——"
"If you knew as much about housekeeping as you do about golf," she said, "you would know that servants do not know how to preserve fruit. Last year I put up more than two hundred cans, and unless I can drag Mr. Harding away from here, it will be too late for everything except pears and quinces, and he does not care much for either."
Think of the wife of a multi-millionaire standing over a hot kitchen fire and preserving tomatoes, cherries, grapes, jams, jells, and all that kind of thing! I did not exactly know how to sympathise with her.
"It is nice down here," she said, after a pause, "but there's nothing to do."
"The drives are splendid," I said, "and I'm sure you would become interested in golf or tennis if you took them up."
"I mean that there's no work to do," she said. "I nearly had a row with my husband before he would let me darn his socks. He does not know it, but I keep the maid out of our rooms so that I can do the work myself. It's awful to sit around all day with nothing to do but read and do fancy work. I hate fancy work. If you have any socks which need darning, Mr. Smith, I wish you would let me have them."
We both laughed, but she was in earnest and made me promise I would turn over to her any socks which show signs of wear. I shall keep them as a memento.
That is the kind of a woman I should like for a mother-in-law.
And the more I see of Mr. Harding the better I like him. But I must record the many things which happened that afternoon and evening at Bishop's.
The fine old farmhouse is ideally located on a rising slope of ground. It is surrounded with the most beautiful grove of horse-chestnut trees in this section of the country.
The house is more than a hundred years old, and Bishop has the sense not to attempt an improvement in its exterior architecture. When a boy I spent most of my spare time in and around the Bishop house. Joe Bishop and I were chums, but when I went away to college, Joe wandered out West, and it is years since I have seen him. I have often thought that I must have been an awful source of bother to the Bishops, but they never seemed to mind it much. All of their children are grown up and married, but here the old folks are, working away as hard as when I was a child.
I suppose James Bishop is about Mr. Harding's age, somewhere between fifty and fifty-five. He in no way resembles the farmer of the cartoons. He wears a stubby moustache, and looks more the prosperous horseman than the typical farmer. He is a big man, a trifle taller than Mr. Harding, but not so broad of shoulder. Either of them would tip the beam at 230 pounds.
Bishop was at the gate waiting for us, and back of him two good-natured dogs bayed a noisy welcome.
"Come right in," he said, shaking hands with Harding. "If I'd known that you had to walk I'd hitched up a rig and come after ye. This is Mrs. Harding, I reckon," he said, grasping that lady's hand. "Glad to meet ye, Mrs. Harding! I knowed that thar husband of your'n when he wasn't bigger nor a pint of cider."
[Illustration: "At the gate waiting for us"]
"Robert has often spoken of you, Mr. Bishop," said that lady. "How is
Mrs. Bishop?"
"She's well; first-rate, thank ye. Come right in and we'll hunt her up," he said, leading the way. "I suppose she's puttering around in the kitchen."
I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Bishop through the window. She was hurriedly shedding a large calico apron, and met us as we were on the steps of the veranda. A woman trained in the conventionalities of society could not have conducted herself better than did this American wife of an American farmer, and I was proud of her as if she had been my own mother. She had the rare tact of making her guests feel perfectly at home.
Bishop had disappeared, but soon returned with an enormous glass pitcher and a tray of glasses.
"Here's some new sweet cider for the ladies," he said, pouring out a glass and handing it to Mrs. Harding. "Pressed it out this afternoon, and picked out the apples myself. Try some, Miss Harding. Here's a glass for you, Miss——, blamed if I hav'n't forgot your name already," proffering a glass to Miss Lawrence, "but we don't mind a little thing like that, do we."
"Indeed we do not," laughed Miss Lawrence.
"How about this?" demanded Chilvers. "What was that you said about cider for the ladies? My friend Marshall is dying for a drink, and my throat is as dusty as his boots. Do we walk two miles and then choke to death? We don't want to lose Marshall like this."
"You hold your horses a minute," grinned Bishop. "The ladies like sweet cider, God bless 'em, and I made this for them. If any of you fellows would like to try some real cider, the best that ever was raised in this State, come on and follow me. I reckon the ladies have seen all they want to of you for a while. Come on; I'll show you some cider that is cider."
He led us around the house until he came to a cellar door, which he threw back and we followed him. When our eyes became accustomed to the dim light we saw long rows of huge casks, mounted on frames so that the spigots were eighteen inches from the floor. The air was deliciously cool. It was permeated with the subtle odour of apple juice long confined in wood. Films of cobwebs softened the sharp lines of the cask heads and faintly gleamed between the rafters where the light struck them.
"Here's cider that is cider!" declared Bishop, proudly tapping on the heads of the great casks as he led the way into the darker recesses of the cellar. "I reckon, Bob," he said to Harding, "that it's a long time since you've had a chance to try a swig of real old Down East hard cider."
"It's been a long time, Jim," admitted Harding. "How old is this?"
"I've put in a cask every year since I took the place," he replied, "and that's more'n thirty years ago, and not a cask here but has cider in it."
"Cider thirty years old!" exclaimed Chilvers. "You mean vinegar, don't you?"
"I said cider, young man; an' when I say cider I mean cider," retorted Bishop, rather indignantly. "It is no more vinegar than brandy's vinegar, nor champagne's vinegar. Now, I don't reckon none of you, barring my old friend John Harding, here, ever tasted a drop of real hard cider. Oh, yes, Smith has, of course; but how about the rest of ye?"
Carter, LaHume, Marshall, and Chilvers admitted that their idea of hard cider was a beverage which had started to ferment.
Bishop placed his hand reverently on a blackened, time-charred cask. It was evident he was as proud of that possession as others might be of an authenticated Raphael.
"I don't tap this here very often," he said, "but in honour of this occasion I'll let it run a bit. This here cider is fifty years old!"
He drew off a pint or so in a stone jug, and we went out into the light to examine it. It was almost colourless, slightly amber in shade, if any tint can describe it. I had seen that sacred cask when a boy, and I recall now that Joe Bishop did not dare touch it, and there were few things of which he was afraid.
We all solemnly sampled it from small glasses, which Bishop produced from some mysterious hiding place.
"There is no taste to it," declared Chilvers. "It's smooth as oil, but it has no flavour."
"Hasn't, eh?" smiled Bishop. "You just wait a minute and you'll get the bouquet—as you wine experts call it. It's one of these coming tastes, but when it hits you you cry for more."
It was as the farmer said. There came to our palates the subtle gustatory perfume of apple blossoms. Within the old cask there had been stored the fragrance and the spell of the orchard of half a century agone. It was the wine of the apple; the favoured fruit of the gods.
"Is it supposed to be intoxicating?" asked Marshall. Bishop laughed uproariously, and Harding joined in his merriment.
"My boy," Bishop said, "it's as intoxicating as the feel of your sweetheart's cheek against your own, only it affects you in a different way. I've known a man to fill up on that smooth-tastin' and innocent lookin' stuff an' not come tew until he was on shipboard, an' half way to Cape Horn. Under its influence the secretary of a peace society would tackle the Japanese navy in a rowboat. From what I know about mythology I'm sure Mars drank it regular."
Our host drew a generous allowance from a cask containing a more recent vintage, and led the way from out the old cellar to seats beneath the trees facing the smooth turf of an unused croquet ground.
LaHume wandered away in search of the ladies, whose laughter and chatter from the near-by veranda proved they were cheerfully enduring his absence. I caught a glimpse of Wallace as he drove the cows into the old barn, and wondered if LaHume seriously considered the "hired man" as a rival.
We filled our pipes and lay back in the comfortable seats, content to listen to the music of the birds overhead, and follow aimlessly the conversation between Bishop and Harding. The cider from the sacred cask had bridged the years which separated them from boyhood days back in Buckfield, Maine.
The old grindstone reminded Harding of an incident, to the telling of which both contributed details. They told of swimming exploits; of how they helped lock the school teacher out of the little red building which seemed to them a prison; they told of blood-curdling feats of coasting and of skating on thin ice, and of other things more or less distorted, perhaps, when seen through the haze of forty years.
Then they told of the boys they had "licked," and of the boys who had whipped them, also of the feud between the lads of Buckfield and Sumner and the desperate encounters which resulted from it.
"Do you remember, Bob," asked Bishop, after a moment's pause, "of that 'rasslin' match we had on the floor of your dad's barn?"
"The time I got a black eye, and you lost part of your ear?" asked
Harding, his eyes brightening at thought of it.
"That's the time," declared Bishop. "I tore your clothes most to pieces."
"I don't remember about that," responded the railroad magnate, "but I do remember that I flopped you three times out of five."
"Three times outer nothin'!" exclaimed the farmer. "I put you down fair and square three times running, Bob, and if you'll stop and think a minute you'll recollect it."
"Recollect nothing!" defiantly laughed Harding. "You never saw the day in your life, when you or any boy in Buckfield could put my shoulders to the ground three times running. You're losing your memory, Jim."
"I did it all right."
"I say you didn't!"
"And I can do it again!"
"You can, eh?" shouted Harding, springing to his feet and pulling off his coat. "We'll mighty quick see if you can! I'll tackle you right here on this croquet ground!"
"Side holt, square holt, or catch-as-catch-can?" asked Bishop, casting one anxious look towards the house.
"We always rassled catch-as-catch-can, and you know it," declared Harding. "I suppose you think just because I do nothing but build railroads and things that I've grown effeminate since you tackled me the last time. Come on; I'll show you!"
"I'm afraid I'll hurt you, Bob," said Bishop, and I could see that he honestly meant it. "I've been outer doors all my life, an' you've been——"
"I suppose you think I've been in an incubator, don't ye?" snorted Harding. "Don't weaken! Don't be a coward, Jim! There's the line; toe it!" and he marked a crease in the soft turf.
"You bet I'll toe it!" growled the now irate farmer. "And don't whimper if I break a bone or two when I flop ye!"
As Bishop threw his cap to the ground and rushed toward the defiant millionaire Carter saw fit to interfere.
"Don't do this," he protested, jumping between them. "One of you will get hurt! It's dangerous for men of your age to wrestle!"
Both of them reached out and brushed Carter away, and the next instant they were at it.
Bishop ducked and got an underhold, and I was sure Harding would go down, but he braced himself with his huge legs, and with the strength of a giant broke the clasp of his opponent's arms. It takes skill as well as muscle to do this, and I saw at a glance that Harding had not forgotten the tricks of his boyhood. As Bishop spun half-way around the other caught him at a disadvantage, raised him clear from the turf and dashed him down, falling with all his weight upon him.
It was as clean and quick a fall as I have seen, but for a second my heart stood still, fearing Bishop's neck had been broken. He gasped once or twice, and then I heard a muffled laugh.
"Let me up, Bob; that's one for you!" he said, and both struggled to their feet. There was a rent in the right knee of Harding's trousers, and his shirt was a sight, but he neither knew of this nor would have cared for it.
"Not quite so soft and easy as you thought I was eh, Jim?" he panted, extending his hand. "You got the holt all right, but you wasn't quick enough."
"I held you too cheap that time," admitted Bishop, rather sheepishly, throwing away a pair of ruined suspenders, "but I'll get you this time. Come on, Bob!"
"You referee this match, Smith!" said Harding, standing on guard. "You know the rules. No fall unless both shoulders and one hip is down."
Misfortune had taught Bishop caution. I could see he feared Harding's enormous strength and that he aimed to wind him if possible. He managed to elude the grasp of his antagonist for probably a minute, and more by luck than skill fell on top when the end of the clinch came. But Harding was not down by any means, and there then ensued a struggle which made me oblivious to all surroundings.
Though I was the referee I was "rooting" for Harding, and so was Carter, while Marshall and Chilvers were giving mental and vocal encouragement to Bishop. I do not suppose any of us realised we were saying a word.
First Harding would have a slight advantage, and then the tide would turn in favour of Bishop. The latter was more agile, but the former outclassed him in power. They writhed along that croquet ground like two gigantic tumble-bugs locked in a life and death struggle. Neither said a word, and both were absolutely fair in attack and defense. As the struggle continued it seemed to me that Harding was weakening, but he told me later he was merely resting for the effort which would insure him victory.
I heard the swish of skirts, the frightened cry of female voices, and the next instant two most estimable ladies invaded the improvised ring and laid hands on the principals.
I doubt if the combined physical exertion of Mrs. Bishop and Mrs. Harding could have made the slightest impress on the embrace which held their lords and masters, but what they said had a magical and peacemaking effect.
"James Bishop, you should be ashamed of yourself!" exclaimed Mrs. Bishop, tugging at the remnant of a shirt, which promptly detached itself from the general wreck.
[Illustration: "We're not fighting, my dear!"]
"Robert Harding, what do you mean by fighting?" gasped Mrs. Harding, tugging at his undershirt, the outer garment long since having lost its entity.
Instantly they relaxed their holds, rolled over and came to a sitting posture, facing each other and their respective wives. It was as if the act had carefully been rehearsed, and was ludicrous beyond any description at my command.
Their glances rested for an instant on one another, and then on their frightened and indignant helpmates. Their attitude was that of two schoolboys detected by their teachers in some forbidden act. I am sure Harding would have spoken sooner if he could have recovered his breath.
"We're not fighting, my dear!" he managed to say. "Are we, Jim?" he added with a mighty effort.
"Of course not," declared Bishop, gouging a piece of turf from his eye.
"We're only rasslin'; that's all, isn't it, Bob?"
"And you in your best suit of clothes, James Bishop!" exclaimed his good wife.
"You should see how you look, Mr. Harding," added his better half with justifiable emphasis. "Are you hurt?" anger changing to solicitude.
"Of course I'm not hurt," he asserted. "We were only fooling. Where in thunder is my shirt?"
And then Chilvers and Carter and Marshall and I exploded. It was not a dignified thing to do, and I apologised to both of the ladies afterward, but we fell down on that mutilated croquet-ground and laughed until exhausted. I am glad Miss Harding and the others were not there.
Assisted by their wives the two gladiators had struggled to their feet, but the most cursory inspection disclosed that they were more presentable when on the ground. And then the ladies joined in the laugh.
"Jack," said Mr. Bishop, who has called me by that nickname since I was seven years old, "Jack, go out to the old barn and get a pair of horse blankets. You know where I keep them."
"You've got a great head on you, Jim," roared Harding. "I was thinking of a pair of barrels."
When I returned with the red and yellow blankets the ladies had disappeared.
"Never mind sending down to the club for your other clothes," Bishop was saying. "I've got several suits, such as they are, and I reckon one of them will fit ye."
"This blanket is pretty good," declared the magnate. "Say, Jim, what was it you said about that fifty-year-old cider?"
"I'm glad I didn't give you any more of it; I'd lost my life as well as my clothes," declared the farmer. "If they'd stayed away 'nother minute or so I'd won that second fall, sure as sin, Bob," he said, rather ruefully, as we wrapped the blanket around him.
"You just think you would," grinned Harding, lifting up the blanket so as to keep from stumbling over it. "Say, it must be tough to have to wear skirts all the time. Be a good fellow, Smith, and hold up my train."
They tried to sneak in at the back entrance, but Miss Harding and the others saw them and headed them off. I shall never forget their looks of amazement, and then the screams of laughter which followed the hurried explanation.
I must postpone an account of the dinner and the dance until the next entry.
[Illustration: "It must be tough to have to wear skirts all the time"]
ENTRY NO. XI
THE BARN DANCE
We gave Mr. Harding a great reception when he appeared on the veranda, arrayed in garments furnished by our host. I have an idea Mr. Bishop's wardrobe was about exhausted when the two of them had completed their toilet.
"What do you think of me?" demanded Harding, striking a pose.
He obtained a variety of opinions. They were unable to find a "boiled shirt" with an eighteen inch neck band or collar, so a blue gingham one was made to do service. The only coat broad enough across the shoulders was a "Prince Albert," in which Bishop had been married, and Harding admitted the combination was not exactly de rigeur. The trousers were woefully tight at the waist, and were inches too long.
"You are lucky to get anything," declared Mrs. Harding, retying the wonderful red and yellow scarf and vainly attempting to smooth out some of the wrinkles in the coat. "You should be made to go home and to bed without your supper."
"You surely are the real goods, Governor," said Chilvers, walking about him and inspecting his costume from all angles. "What show have Marshall and the rest of us at to-night's dance against you?"
[Illustration: "What do you think of me?"]
Miss Lawrence pinned a bunch of nasturtiums on his coat, and we all stood and hilariously admired him. Bishop called him aside and motioned me to join them.
"Mother and I don't know what to do about Wallace," our host said, after hesitating a moment. "He's our hired man, you know," he added.
"What about him?" asked Harding.
"He's always eaten with us," Bishop said. "He's a quiet, well-behaved sorter chap, and he's company for us, but mother is afraid it wouldn't be just the thing to have him at the table when company's here, and so I thought I'd ask you and Jack. We don't have folks here very often, and I wanter do what's right."
"You have him sit right down with us," promptly advised Harding. "If there's anybody in this country who has a right to eat good and plenty it's a hired man. If any of our folks don't like it, let them wait until the second table."
That settled it, and I could see that Bishop was pleased over the outcome.
"I sorter hated to tell Wallace to wait," he said to me after Harding had turned away. "It might offend him. He's a queer fish, but has the makings of the best hired man in the county."
When we entered the big dining-room Wallace was sitting in one corner reading. He laid aside the book, arose and bowed slightly. Harding went right up to him.
"Mr. Wallace, I believe," he said, shaking hands. "My name's Harding, and I'll introduce you to the rest of us." And he did.
This young Scotchman is a handsome chap. His features are those of Byron in his early manhood. His hair is dark and wavy as it falls back from a smooth high forehead. He is tall, broad of shoulder and singularly easy and graceful in his movements. He certainly looks like a man who has seen better days.
I am still inclined to my original opinion that he is some college chap who is trying to get a financial start so as to enter on his chosen profession.
He sat opposite me, and not until the first course was served did I notice that he was to the right of Miss Lawrence, with LaHume to her left. When I first observed this trio Miss Lawrence and Wallace already were engaged in a spirited conversation—or, more properly speaking, Miss Lawrence was.
There was a babble of voices and of laughter, and I could make out little they were saying during the early part of the dinner, though I was so impolite as to attempt to do so. Miss Lawrence was praising the scenic beauties of Woodvale and its environs, he adding a word or a sentence now and then with the tact of one pleased to listen to the chatter of a charming companion. The trace of Scotch in his enunciation was so slight as to defy reproduction, but it was sufficient to stamp the place of his nativity.
LaHume made several attempts to join in their conversation, and though Wallace lent him all possible aid Miss Lawrence effectually discouraged LaHume's participation. He reminded me of a boy making ineffectual attempts to "catch on behind" a swift-moving sleigh, and who is finally tumbled on his head for his pains.
Mrs. Bishop is famous the country round as a cook, and she excelled herself that afternoon. Bishop is a crank on truck gardening, and the vegetables served would have taken prizes in any exhibit. A delicious soup was followed by a baked sea trout—I must not forget to ask Mrs. Bishop how she made that sauce.
I wonder why it is that the most skilled hotel chefs cannot fry spring chicken so as to faintly imitate the culinary wonders attained by a capable housewife?
"I want to ask you a question, Mrs. Bishop," said Mr. Harding, after he had made a pretense of refusing a third helping of fried chicken. "Did you really raise these chickens on this farm?"
Mrs. Bishop smiled and said they did.
"I don't believe it," he returned. "If the truth were known they lit down here from heaven, and Jim Bishop nailed them and you cooked them."
I was ashamed of Chilvers. He ate seven ears of green corn and boasted of it, but I will admit I did not know it was possible to produce corn such as was served at that farmhouse dinner. The crisp sliced cucumbers, the ice-cold tomatoes, the succulent hearts of lettuce, the steaming dishes of string beans, summer squash, and green peas—it makes me hungry as I write of that simple but excellent feast.
I thought as we sat there of the democracy of that little gathering. There was Harding, the multi-millionaire railway magnate, in his hickory shirt; the fastidious and monocled Carter with his wealth and boasted New England ancestry; Miss Lawrence, an heiress in whose veins flowed the purest blood of the southern aristocracy; Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, plain honest folk from 'way down east in Maine; and the unknown Wallace, driven no doubt by stress of poverty from the hills of his beloved country—there we all were meeting one another as equals, enjoying the bounties Nature has so lavishly bestowed on her children.
I caught Miss Harding's eye, and she smiled as if in sympathy with my wandering thoughts. It takes a remarkably pretty young woman to lose none of her charm while eating green corn off the cob, but Miss Harding triumphantly stands that test. She was talking to Marshall, who is so constitutionally slow that he is invariably half a course behind everyone else at a table.
Marshall was attempting to explain to Miss Harding how it is possible to hook a ball and play off the right foot. He laid out a diagram on the table cloth, using "lady-fingers" to show the positions of the feet, a round radish to indicate the ball, and a fruit knife to illustrate the face and direction of the club.
Chilvers watched this most unconventional dinner performance with a grin on his face, and just as Marshall was showing just how the club should follow through, Chilvers called "Fore!" in a sharp tone. Miss Harding and Marshall were so absorbed in the elucidation of this most difficult golf problem that they instinctively dodged, and when Miss Harding recovered, her cheeks were delightfully crimson.
I never noticed until that moment that there are traces of dimples in her cheeks. Unless Venus had dimples she had no just claim to be crowned the goddess of love and beauty.
"Jim," said Mr. Harding, addressing our host, when coffee was served, "did you know our friend Smith when he was a kid?"
"Knew him when he couldn't look over this table," replied Mr. Bishop.
"What kind of a boy was he?"
"Full of the Old Nick, like most healthy boys," he answered. "He and my boy Joe went to school together, got into trouble together and got out of it again. What was it the boys used to call you, Jack?" he said to me, a twinkle in his eye.
"Never mind," I said, and attempted to turn the conversation, but it was no use.
"They used to call him 'Socks Smith,'" said Bishop. "That was it, 'Socks
Smith.' I hadn't thought of it in years."
"What an alliterative nickname," laughed Mrs. Chilvers. "How did you ever acquire it, Mr. Smith?"
"He won't tell ye," declared my tormentor, without waiting for me to say a word, "but it's nothin' to his discredit. You know that mill pond where—"
"Don't tell that incident," I protested.
"Tell it! Tell it, Mr. Bishop!" pleaded Miss Lawrence, Miss Harding, and others in chorus.
"Sure I'll tell it," continued Bishop. "As I was saying, you all know the mill pond where you folks try to drive golf balls over. Well, it uster be bigger an' deeper than it is now, and in the winter it was the skating place for all the lads in the neighbourhood. Up at the far end there is a spring, and even in the coldest weather it don't freeze over above that spring."
"One bitter cold day—and it never gets cold enough to keep boys off smooth ice—young Smith, here—he was about twelve or fourteen years old at that time—was out on the ice with his skates on, wrapped up in an overcoat, a comforter over his ears and thick mittens on his hands, skatin' around that pond with my boy Joe and other lads, all of them thinkin' they was havin' the time of their lives. Mother, what was the name of that poor family that lived over in the old Bobbins' house at the time?"
"Andersons," said Mrs. Bishop.
"That's right; Andersons," continued the Boswell of my infantile exploits. "Well, these Andersons were so poor they didn't have any skates, but some of the boys had let them take a sled, and two of these little Anderson kids were slidin' around on the ice and havin' all the fun they could, even if they didn't have skates. I suppose their toes was as cold and their noses as blue, and that's half of skatin' or sleighin'."
"Smith, Joe, and the other skaters were on the southwest end of the pond playin' 'pigeon goal,' and these poor Anderson kids were slidin' around up at the other end where they would be out of the way. The wind was blowin' pretty hard, and I suppose they were careless; anyhow a gust struck them and swept them along into that air hole."
"They yelled as best they could, and some boys who were near them hollered, and the boys who were skating heard them and came tearing along to see what was the matter. Jack Smith, here, was fixing a strap or somethin', and was the last one to get started. The whole bunch of them were standin' 'round watching those poor Anderson kids drown, so scared they didn't know what to do. The poor little tots were hanging onto the sled right out in the middle of an open space about thirty yards wide."
[Illustration: "Jack … never stopped a second"]
"Jack, here, never stopped a second. He saw what was up as he came skatin' along, and he legged it all the harder, and in he went—skates, overcoat, comforter, mittens and all. It's no easy job swimmin' with such an outfit, to say nothin' of rescuin' two half-drowned youngsters, and I don't know how he did it, and I don't reckon you do either, Jack. But anyhow, he got to them, paddled along to the edge of the ice, and held on to them until the other boys pushed out boards and finally got the whole caboodle of 'em up on solid ice."
"Bully for you, Smith!" exclaimed Chilvers, "didn't know it was in you."
"Mr. Chilvers is jealous of you," declared Miss Lawrence. "I think it was real heroic."
"So do I," asserted Miss Harding, "but I cannot imagine how you acquired so absurd a nickname as 'Socks Smith' from that incident."
"Was the water cold?" asked Marshall.
"I hav'n't finished my story," said Mr. Bishop, after these and other comments had-been made. "I reckon the water was some cold, and the air colder; at any rate I happened along in my wagon just as they were draggin' them out, and before I could get them up to Smith's father's house the whole bunch of them was frozen so stiff that I had to pack 'em into the kitchen like so much cordwood."
"But boys of that age are tough, and when they had been thawed out, boiled in hot baths, and blistered with mustard poultices they was as good as new, and I reckon the Anderson kids was a mighty sight cleaner than they had been since the last time they went in swimmin'."
"Now, as I said before, these Andersons were desperate poor, but they were good folks, and what you might call appreciative. Jack had saved the lives of two of the family, and they wanted to show what they thought of him in some way or other. There was twelve children in the Anderson family, six boys and six girls, and the older girls and the old lady went to work, and blamed if they didn't knit a dozen pair of woollen socks and sent them to Jack as a Christmas present."
"And that is how Jack got the name of 'Socks Smith,'" concluded Mr. Bishop, when the laughter had subsided. "For riskin' his life he got all those nice warm socks and a nickname that uster make him so darned mad that I suppose he's had a hundred fights on account of it, and I'm not certain he won't poke me in the jaw when he gets me alone for tellin' this yarn on him."
"This darned woollen yarn," observed Marshall.
"You're all right, Socks," declared Chilvers. "I only wish I could get as good a press agent as our friend Bishop. When I was a kid I used to push 'em into the pond and run, and let someone else fish them out."
"If a man were to do an act as brave as that," asserted Miss Harding, "the world would acclaim him a hero, and not pile ridicule on him."
"All of which proves that no boy is a hero to another boy," commented Mr. Harding, "and that is as it should be. Boys get their heroes out of books, and as a rule they are fighters and pirates rather than of the self-sacrificing type."
I was glad when Miss Lawrence changed the topic of conversation.
"What do you think?" she exclaimed, addressing no one in particular, "I have discovered that Mr. Wallace knows how to play golf, and that he learned the game on some of the famous old courses of Scotland. He has promised to teach me the St. Andrews swing."
LaHume's face was a study as Miss Lawrence made this rather startling announcement. Surprise, disgust, and anger were reflected in his eyes and in the lines of his mouth.
"You have played St. Andrews?" asked Carter of Wallace.
"Yes, many a time," said this remarkable "hired man." "I was born hard-by the old town," he added.
"Indeed?" sneered LaHume. "What were you while there; caddy or professional?"
I thought I detected a flash of anger in the eyes of the young
Scotchman, but if offended he controlled himself admirably. Not so with
Miss Lawrence, who glared indignantly at LaHume.
"I doubt if I knew enough of the game," said Wallace, quietly, "to be either. I merely played there and at other places when I had the opportunity."
"Mr. Wallace says that St. Andrews does not compare with some of the newer links in Scotland," declared Miss Lawrence, ignoring LaHume.
"Which ones, for instance?" asked Carter, who has played over most of the fine courses in Great Britain.
"Muirfield and Prestwick offer better golf than St. Andrews, and are not so crowded," replied Wallace. "The farther you get from St. Andrews the greater its reputation, but it is too rough for perfect golf. A long, straight drive is often penalised by a bad lie, and an indifferent shot favoured by a good one, which is more luck than golf."
Carter smiled, and he afterwards told me it struck him as odd that a farmhand should converse in such words and on so peculiar a topic. Wallace good-naturedly and modestly answered a number of questions, but evaded telling the class of his game.
I wonder where Miss Lawrence will receive those lessons which will enable her to acquire the "St. Andrews swing"? I doubt if our rules will permit this remarkable farm labourer to play over Woodvale, even as the guest or at the request of Miss Lawrence. I shall watch developments with much interest.
Wallace asked to be excused, observing with a laugh that it was milking time, and a few minutes later we saw him pass the window, clad in blue overalls and a "jumper."
"Tell you what I'll do with you, LaHume," said Chilvers, who never misses an opportunity to stir up trouble. "I'll bet you a box of Haskells that our Scotch friend, who is now out there milking, can outdrive you twenty yards, and I never saw him with a club in his hands."
"I am not his rival in that or in any other capacity," warmly declared
LaHume.
At this instant our hostess arose, giving the signal that the dinner was ended, and we adjourned to the lawn. LaHume said something to Miss Lawrence; she laughed scornfully, and left him and joined Miss Harding.
After cigars and pipes we inspected the new red barn. It is a huge structure, modern in every particular, and Bishop was properly proud of it. The lofts were partially filled with sweet clover hay, and the odour combined with that of the new pine lumber was delicious. The floor had been planed smooth, and oiled and waxed so as to make an excellent space for dancing. The uprights were twined with ivy and decorated with wild flowers, and the effect was pleasing.
The guests were already arriving in all sorts of vehicles, from farm wagons to automobiles.
An "orchestra" of five pieces was on hand, and the musicians took their places beneath a cluster of Chinese lanterns. There were fully a hundred on the floor at nine o'clock, when Mr. Harding and Mrs. Bishop led off in the grand march. I had secured Miss Harding as my partner, and LaHume and Miss Lawrence were behind us. Carter was with some village beauty, but I saw nothing of Wallace in the grand march.
Later he appeared and danced a waltz with Miss Ross, and they made a handsome couple. The "hired man" was as well dressed as any gentleman in the room, and I have never seen a more graceful dancer than that tall, young Scotchman. LaHume watched him like a hawk. When Wallace claimed Miss Lawrence for a schottische the glum LaHume stood by the door and looked as if he would rather fight than dance. Chilvers told him he was making an ass of himself.
It was a glorious night beneath the radiance of a full moon which silvered the lace-work of a mackerel sky. I never fully realised what dancing was until Miss Harding favoured me with a polka. And then we wandered out into the moonlight, talked about the moon, and hunted for the Great Dipper.
Even a plain woman looks pretty when with eyes and chin lifted she gazes at the star-studded heavens, her face profiled against the gleaming orb of a full moon, but no words of mine can describe the splendid beauty of Miss Harding in that attitude. I tried to think of something to say, but was under a spell and could think of nothing, and it was perhaps just as well. I composed some ripping good sentences before I went to sleep that night, but it was too late to use them, and I shall not record them here.
And then we met Wallace and Miss Lawrence, her arm drawn through his, her face lifted toward his, and her tongue going when she was not laughing. They were "walking out" a dance, and evidently enjoying it.
Mr. Harding had the time of his life. He danced with stout farm wives, slender village maidens, and executed a clog dance which made the barn shudder on its foundations. He led the singing, told stories to groups of farmers who shouted with laughter, and refused to go home until Mrs. Harding took him by the arm and fairly dragged him away.
I walked home with Miss Harding.
[Illustration: "Mr. Harding … executed a clog dance"]