The appearance of this apparition of Uncle Sam was received with cries, cheers, and loud clapping of hands. The Professor bowed repeatedly in response to this ovation, and it was a long time before he could make himself heard by the audience. At last he said in a loud voice:
"The audience will find the words of number three printed on the last page of the programme, and young and old are respectfully invited to jine in the chorus."
A fluttering of programmes followed and this is what the audience found on the last page, "Hark! and Hear the Eagle Scream, a new and original American national air written, composed, and sung for the first time in public by Professor Obadiah Strout, author of last season's great success, 'Welcome to the Town Committee,'"
Our Injun corn will bear the test;
Our butter, beef, and pork and cheese,
The furriner's appetite can please.
The beans and fishballs that we can
Will keep alive an Englishman;
While many things I can't relate
He must buy from us or emigrate.
Pound the drums and bang pianners;
Blow the fife and shriek for freedom,
'Meriky is bound to lead 'em.
Emigrate! ye toiling millions!
Sile enuf for tens of billions!
Land of honey, buttermilk, cream;
Hark! and hear the eagle scream.
Take rubber shoes and chewing gum;
In cotton cloth, and woollen, too,
In time we shall outrival you;
Our ships with ev'ry wind and tide,
With England's own will sail beside,
In ev'ry port our flag unfurled,
When the Stars and Stripes will rule the world.
For things that's raided, made, dug, or human,
'Meriky's the coming nation;
She's-bound to conquer all creation!
Per'aps you call this brag and bluster;
No, 'taint nuther, for we muster
The best of brain, the mighty dollar;
We'll lead on, let others foller.
Professor Strout sang the solo part of the song himself. The singing society and many of the audience joined in the chorus. Like many teachers of vocal music, the Professor had very little voice himself, but he knew how to make the best possible use of what he did possess. But the patriotic sentiment of the words, the eccentric make-up of the singer his comical contortions and odd grimaces, and what was really a bright, tuneful melody won a marked success for both song and singer. Encore followed encore. Like many more cultured audiences in large cities the one assembled in Eastborough Town Hall seemed to think that there was no limit to a free concert and that they were entitled to all they could get. But the Professor himself fixed the limit. When the song had been sung through three times he ran up the centre aisle of the platform and facing the audience, he directed the chorus, holding the variegated baton in one hand and swinging his woolly plug hat around his head with the other. At the close, amid screams, cheers, and clapping of hands, he turned upon his heel, dashed through the door and disappeared from sight.
The next number upon the programme was a piano solo by Miss Tilly James. Nothing could have pleased her audience any better than the well-known strains of the ever popular "Maiden's Prayer." In response to an encore which Quincy originated, and dexterously led, Miss James played the overture to Rossini's "William Tell" without notes. A fact which was perceived by the few, but unnoticed by the many.
At the close of these instrumental selections, the Professor reappeared in evening costume and again assumed the directorship of the concert. Robert Wood had a ponderous bass voice, which if not highly cultivated was highly effective, and he sang "Simon the Cellarer" to great acceptation. Next followed a number of selections sung without accompaniment by a male quartette composed of Cobb's twins, who were both tenors, Benjamin Bates, and Robert Wood. This feature was loudly applauded and one old farmer remarked to his neighbor, who was evidently deaf, in a loud voice that was heard all over the hall, "That's the kind of music that fetches me," which declaration was a signal for another encore.
The singing society then sang a barcarolle, the words of the first line being, "Of the sea, our yacht is the pride." It went over the heads of most of the audience, but was greatly appreciated fey the limited few who were acquainted with the difficulties of accidentals, syncopations, and inverted musical phrases.
According to the programme the next feature was to be a duet entitled "Over the Bridge," composed by Jewell and sung by Arthur Scates and Miss Lindy Putnam. The Professor stepped forward and waved his hand to quiet the somewhat noisy assemblage.
"The next number will have to be omitted," he said, "because Mr. Scates is home sick abed. The doctor says he's got a bad case of quinsy," with a marked emphasis on the last word, which, however, failed to make a point. "In response to requests, one verse of 'Hark! and Hear the Eagle Scream' will be sung to take the place of the piece that's left out."
While the Professor was addressing the audience, Quincy had whispered something in Deacon Mason's ear which caused the latter to smile and nod his head approvingly. Quincy arose and reached the Professor's side just as the latter finished speaking and turned towards the chorus. Quincy said something in a low tone to the Professor which caused Mr. Strout to shake his head in the negative in a most pronounced manner. Quincy spoke again and looked towards Miss Putnam, who was seated in the front row, and whose face wore a somewhat disappointed look.
Again the Professor shook his head by way of negation and the words, "It can't be did," were distinctly audible to the majority of both singing society and audience, at the same time a look of contempt spread over the singing-master's face. Quincy perceived it and was nettled by it. He was not daunted, however, nor to be shaken from his purpose, so he said in a loud voice, which was heard in all parts of the hall: "I know the song, and will sing it if Miss Putnam and the audience are willing."
With a smile upon her face, Miss Putnam nodded her acquiescence. All the townspeople had heard of Quincy's liberality in providing a hot supper for the sleighing party the night before, and cries of "Go ahead! Give him a chance! We want to hear him!" and "Don't disappoint Miss Putnam," were heard from all parts of the hall. The Professor was obliged to give in. He sat down with a disgusted look upon his face, and from that moment war to the knife was declared between these champions of city and country civilization.
Mr. Sawyer went to the piano, opened Miss James's copy of the music and placed it upon the music rack before her, saying a few words to her which caused her to smile. Quincy then approached Lindy, opened her music at the proper place and passed it to her. Next he took her hand and led her to the front of the platform. These little acts of courtesy and politeness, performed in an easy, graceful, and self-possessed manner, were seen by all and won a round of applause.
The duet was beautifully sung. Quincy had a fine well-trained tenor voice, while Miss Putnam's mezzo-soprano was full and melodious and her rendition fully as artistic as that of her companion. One, two, three, four, five, six encores followed each other in quick succession, in spite of Professor Strout's endeavors to quell the applause and take up the next number. The ovation given earlier in the evening to Professor Strout was weak in comparison with that vouchsafed to Quincy and Lindy when they took their seats. In vain did the Professor strive to make himself heard. Audience and chorus seemed to be of one mind. The Professor, his face as red as a beet, turned to Ezekiel Pettengill and said:
"That was a mighty impudent piece of business, don't you think so?"
"They're both mighty fine singers," Ezekiel responded in a rather unsympathetic tone.
Quincy realized that something must be done to satisfy the demands of the now thoroughly excited audience. Going to Miss James, he asked her a question in a low voice, in reply to which she nodded affirmatively. He next sought Miss Putnam and evidently asked her the same question, receiving a similar answer. Then he led her forward, and she sang the opening part of "Listen to the Mocking Bird." After they had sung the chorus it was repeated on the piano and Quincy electrified the audience by whistling it, introducing all the trills, staccatos, and roulades that he had heard so many times come from under Billy Morris's big mustache at the little Opera House on Washington Street, opposite Milk, run by the Morris Brothers, Johnny Pell, and Mr. Trowbridge, and when he finished there flashed through his mind a pleasant memory of Dr. Ordway and his Aeolians. An encore was responded to, but the tumult still continued. Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said:
"Ain't it a cussed shame to spoil a first-class concert this way?"
"He's a mighty fine whistler," replied Ezekiel in the same tone that he had used before.
Finally to quiet their exuberance Quincy was obliged to say a few words, which were evidently what the audience was waiting for.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the hour is getting late and there is another number on the programme. Miss Putnam is tired and I shall have to wet my whistle before I can use it again. I thank you for your kind indulgence and applause."
This little speech pleased the audience. It was down to their level, with "no sign of stuckupativeness about it," as one country girl remarked to her chum. Quincy bowed, the audience laughed, and quiet was restored.
The Professor had fidgeted, fumed, and fussed during Quincy's occupancy of the platform. He now arose with feelings impossible to express and took up his baton to lead the closing chorus. He brought it down with such a whack upon the music stand that it careened, tottered, and fell to the platform with a crash. Tilly James leaned over and whispered to Huldy Mason: "The Professor seems to have a bad attack of Quincy, too." And the two girls smothered their laughs in their handkerchiefs. If the singing society had not been so well acquainted with the closing chorus the Professor certainly would have thrown them out by his many mistakes in beating time. The piece was a "sleighride" song. The Professor forgot to give the signal for the ringing of the sleigh bells, but the members of the singing society did not, and their introduction, which was unexpected by the audience, to use a theatrical term, "brought down the house." The number was well rendered, despite the manifest defects in leadership. The concert came to a close.
Deacon Mason and his wife, accompanied by their daughter, Huldy, and Rev. Mr. Howe, occupied a double sleigh, as did Hiram, Mandy, and Cobb's twins. Another double-seated conveyance contained Mr. and Mrs. Benoni Hill, their son, Samuel, and Miss Tilly James. Quincy also had accommodations for four in his sleigh, but its only occupants were Miss Putnam and himself. Abner Stiles sat on the front seat of another double-seated sleigh, while the Professor and Ezekiel were on the back one; the remainder of the Mason's Corner folks occupied the big barge which had been used for the sleigh ride the night before.
The barge led the procession to Mason's Corner, followed by the vehicles previously mentioned and scores of others containing residents of Mason's Corner, whose names and faces are alike unknown. By a strange fatality, the sleigh containing the Professor and Ezekiel was the last in the line. Ezekiel was inwardly elated that Mr. Sawyer had gone home with Lindy instead of with Deacon Mason's party. Strout's bosom held no feelings of elation. He did not seem to care whether the concert was considered a success or not. He had but one thought in his mind, and that was the "daring impudence of that city feller." Turning to Ezekiel, he said:
"I'll get even with that city chap the next time I meet him. As I said last night, Pettengill, this town ain't big enough to 'hold both on us and one on us has got to git."
As he said this, he leaned back in the sleigh and puffed his cigar savagely while Ezekiel was wondering if Huldy was thinking half as much about him as he was about her.
CHAPTER IV.
ANCESTRY VERSUS PATRIOTISM.
Four days had passed since the concert in the Town Hall at Eastborough. The events of that evening had been freely discussed in barn and workshop, at table and at the various stores in Eastborough and surrounding towns, for quite a number had been present who were not residents of the town. All interest in it had not, however, passed away as subsequent occurrences proved.
It was the morning of the fifth of January. Benoni Hill, who ran the only grocery store at Mason's Corner, was behind his counter and with the aid of his only son, Samuel, was attending to the wants of several customers.
While thus engaged, Miss Tilly James entered, and young Samuel Hill forgot to ask the customer on whom he had been waiting the usual question, "Anything else, ma'am?" so anxious was he to speak to and wait upon the pretty Miss James, whose bright eyes, dark curly hair, and witty remarks had attracted to her side more suitors than had fallen to the lot of any other young girl in the village. As yet she had evinced no especial liking for any particular one of the young men who flocked about her, and this fact had only served to increase their admiration for her and to spur them on to renewed efforts to win her favor.
"Do you know, Miss James," said Samuel, "I can't get it out of my ears yet." As he said this, he leaned over the counter, and being a brave young man, looked straight into Miss James's smiling face.
"If all home remedies have failed," said Tilly, "why don't you go to Boston and have a doctor examine them?"
"What a joker you are!" remarked Samuel; "I believe you will crack a joke on the minister the day you are married."
"It may be my last chance," rejoined Tilly. "Mother says the inside of a boiled onion put into the ear is good for some troubles; give me a pound of tea, Oolong and green mixed, same as we always have."
As Samuel passed the neatly done up package to Miss James, he leaned across the counter again and said in a low voice, "You know what is in my ears, Miss James. How beautifully you played for Mr. Sawyer when he whistled 'Listen to the Mocking Bird.' I don't think I shall ever forget it."
"Well, I don't know about the playing, Mr. Hill. I came near losing my place several times, because I wanted so much to hear him whistle."
During this conversation Tilly and Samuel had been so preoccupied that they had not noticed the entrance of a new-comer and his approach towards them. Only one other customer, a little girl, was left in the store, and Mr. Hill, Sr., had gone down cellar to draw her a quart of molasses.
As Tilly uttered the words, "I wanted so much to hear him whistle," she heard behind her in clear, melodious, flute-like notes, the opening measures of "Listen to the Mocking Bird." Turning quickly, she saw Mr. Sawyer standing beside her.
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Sawyer? I am delighted to see you again," she said in that hearty, whole-souled way that was so captivating to her country admirers.
"The delight is mutual," replied Quincy, raising his hat and bowing.
Samuel Hill was evidently somewhat disturbed by the great friendliness of the greetings that he had just witnessed. This fact did not escape Tilly's quick eye, and turning to Mr. Sawyer she said:
"Have you been introduced to my friend, Mr. Samuel Hill?"
"I have not had that pleasure," replied Quincy. "This is my first visit to the store."
"Then allow me," continued Tilly, "to present you to Mr. Samuel Hull and to Mr. Benoni Hill, his father, both valued friends of mine," and she added, as a roguish smile came into her face, "as they keep the only grocery store in the village, you will be obliged to buy what they have and pay them what they ask, unless you prefer a three-mile tramp to Eastborough Centre."
"I hope you're enjoyin' your stay at Mason's Corner," said Mr. Benoni Hall, "though I don't s'pose you city folks find much to please yer in a country town, 'specially in the winter."
"So far I have found two things that have pleased me very much," replied Quincy.
"The milk and eggs, I suppose," remarked Tilly.
"No," said Quincy, "I refer to Miss Lindy Putnam's fine singing and the beautiful playing of a young lady who is called Miss James."
"I have heard," said Tilly, "that you city gentlemen are great flatterers. That is not the reason why I am obliged to leave you so suddenly, but the fact is the tea caddy ran low this morning and grandma's nerves will remain unstrung until she gets a cup of strong tea."
With a graceful bow and a parting wave of the hand to the three gentlemen, the bright and popular young lady left the store.
"Mr. Hill," said Quincy, addressing the elder gentleman, "I've smoked all the cigars that I brought from Boston, but Deacon Mason told me perhaps you had some that would suit me. I like a good-sized, strong cigar and one that burns freely."
"Well," said Mr. Hill, "Professor Strout is the most partikler customer I have in cigars; he says he always smokes a pipe in the house, 'cause it don't hang round the room so long as cigar smoke does, but he likes a good cigar to smoke on the street or when he goes ridin'. I just had a new box come down for him last night. Perhaps some of them will satisfy yer till I can git jest the kind yer want."
Mr. Hill took his claw-hammer and opening the box passed it to Quincy, who took one of the cigars and lighted it. As he did so he glanced at the brand and the names of the makers, and remarked, "This is a good cigar, I've smoked this brand before. What do you ask for them?"
"I git ten cents straight, but as Mr. Strout always smokes up the whole box before he gits through, though he don't usually buy more than five at a time, I let him have 'em for nine cents apiece. There ain't much made on them, but yer see I have to obleege my customers."
"You don't ask enough for them," said Quincy, throwing down a twenty-dollar bill. "They sell for fifteen cents, two for a quarter, in Boston."
"How many will you have?" asked Mr. Hill, thinking that Boston must be a paradise for shopkeepers, when seven cents' profit could be made on a cigar that cost only eight cents.
"I'll take the whole box," said Quincy. "Call it ten dollars, that's cheap enough. No matter about the discount." As he said this he took half a dozen cigars from the box and placed them in a silver-mounted, silk-embroidered cigar case. "Please do them up for me, Mr. Hill, and the next time Hiram Maxwell comes in he will take them down to Deacon Mason's for me."
After much rummaging through till and pocketbook, Mr. Hill and his son found ten dollars in change, which was passed to Quincy. He stuffed the large wad of small bills and fractional currency into his overcoat pocket and sitting down on a pile of soap boxes drummed on the lower one with his boot heels and puffed his cigar with evident pleasure.
While Quincy was thus pleasantly engaged, Professor Strout entered the store and walked briskly up to the counter. He did not see, or if he did, he did not notice, Quincy who kept his place upon the pile of soap boxes. Strout was followed by Abner Stiles, Robert Wood, and several other idlers, who had been standing on the store platform when the Professor arrived.
"Did those cigars come down, Hill?" asked Strout in his usual pompous way.
"Yes!" replied Mr. Hill, "but I guess you'll have to wait till I gut another box down."
"What for?" asked Strout sharply. "Wa'n't it understood between us that them cigars was to be kept for me?"
"That's so," acknowledged Mr. Hill, "but you see, when I told that gentleman on the soap box over yonder that you smoked them, he bought the whole box, paid me a cent more apiece than you do. A dollar's worth saving nowadays. He says they sell for fifteen cents, two for a quarter, up in Boston."
"If he's so well posted on Boston prices," growled Strout, "why didn't he pay them instead of cheatin' you out of two dollars and a half? I consider it a very shabby trick, Mr. Hill. I shall buy my cigars at Eastborough Centre in the future. Perhaps you'll lose more than that dollar in the long run."
"Perhaps the gentleman will let you have some of them," expostulated Mr. Hill, "till I can get another box."
"All I can say is," said Strout in snappish tones, "if the man who bought them knew that you got them for me, he was no gentleman to take the whole box. What do yer say, Stiles?" he asked, turning to Abner, who had kept his eyes fixed on the placid Quincy since entering the store, though listening intently to what the Professor said.
"Well, I kinder reckon I agree to what you say, Professor," drawled Abner, "unless the other side has got some sort of an explanation to make. 'Tain't quite fair to judge a man without a hearin'."
"Allow me to offer you one of your favorite brand, Professor Strout," said Quincy, jumping down from the soap boxes and extending his cigar case.
"No! thank you!" said Strout, "I always buy a box at a time, the same as you do. Judging from the smell of the one you are smoking, I guess they made a mistake on that box and sent second quality. Give me a five-cent plug, Mr. Hill, if some gentleman hasn't bought out your whole stock. I fancy my pipe will have to do me till I get a chance to go over to Eastborough Centre."
During this conversation Hiram Maxwell had come in to do an errand for Mrs. Mason, and several more platform idlers, having heard the Professor's loud words, also entered.
Strout was angry. When in that condition he usually lost his head, which he did on this occasion. Turning to Quincy he said with a voice full of passion:
"What's yer name, anyway? You've got so many of them I don't know which comes fust and which last. Is it Quincy or Adams or Sawyer? How in thunder did you get 'em all, anyway? I s'pose they tucked 'em on to you when you was a baby and you was too weak to kick at being so abused."
At this sally a loud laugh arose from the crowd gathered in the store, and Abner Stiles, who was the Professor's henchman and man-of-all-work, cried out, "Fust blood for the Professor."
Quincy faced the Professor with a pale face and spoke in clear, ringing tones, still holding his lighted cigar between the fingers of his right hand. When he spoke all listened intently.
"Your memory has served you well, Mr. Strout. You have got my names correct and in the proper order, Quincy Adams Sawyer. I do not consider that any child could be abused by being obliged to wear such honored names as those given me by my parents. My mother was a Quincy, and that name is indissolubly connected with the history and glory of our common country. My father's mother was an Adams, a family that has given two Presidents to the United States. If your knowledge of history is as great as your memory for names you should be aware of these facts, but your ignorance of them will not affect the opinion of those knowing to them. My father, Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, has a world-wide reputation as a great constitutional lawyer, and I am proud to bear his name, combined with those of my illustrious ancestors. It is needless for me to add that I, too, am connected with the legal profession."
Here Hiram Maxwell called out, "First round for Mr. Sawyer."
"Shut up, you dough-head," cried Strout, his face purple with rage. Turning to Quincy he said in a choked voice, "My name is Obadiah Strout, no frills or folderols about it either. That was my father's name too, and he lived and died an honest man, in spite of it. He raised potatoes and one son, that was me. When the nation called for volunteers I went to war to save the money bags of such as you that stayed at home. It was such fellers as you that made money out of mouldy biscuits and rotten beef, shoddy clothin', and paper-soled boots. It was such fellers as your father that lent their money to the government and got big interest for it. They kept the war going as long as they could. What cared they for the blood of the poor soldier, as long as they could keep the profits and interest coming in? It wasn't the Quincys and the Adamses and the other fellers with big names that stayed at home and hollered who saved the country, but the rank and file that did the fightin', and I was one of them."
As he said this the irascible Professor shook his fist in Quincy's face, to which a red flush mounted, dyeing cheek and brow.
"That's the Lord's truth," said Abner Stiles. Then he called out in a loud voice, "Second round for the Professor. Now for the finish."
But the finish did not come then. The settlement between these two lingual disputants did not come for many days. The reason for a sudden cessation of the wordy conflict was a shrill, feminine voice, which cried out from the store platform:
"Hiram Maxwell, where are you? Mother's most out of patience waiting for you."
"Good Lord!" cried Hiram, breaking through the crowd and rushing to the counter to make the long-deferred purchase. "I'm coming in a minute."
"I think I had better see you home," remarked Huldy Mason, entering the store.
As she advanced the crowd separated and moved backward, leaving her a dear path.
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Sawyer?" said she in a pleasant voice and with a sweet smile, as she reached Quincy. "Won't you help me take Hiram home?"
"I should be happy to be of service to you," replied Quincy.
The professor turned his back toward Miss Mason and began talking in an animated manner to Abner Stiles, Bob Wood, and a few other ardent sympathizers who gathered about him.
The rest of the crowd were evidently more interested in watching the pretty Miss Mason and the genteel Mr. Sawyer. When Hiram left the store with his purchases under one arm and Quincy's box of cigars under the other, he was closely followed by Quincy and Huldy, who were talking and laughing together. The crowd of loungers streamed out on the platform again to watch their departure. As Quincy and Huldy turned from the square into the road that led to the Deacon's house they met Ezekiel Pettengill. Huldy nodded gayly and Quincy raised his hat, but Ezekiel was not acquainted with city customs and did not return the salutation. A few moments later the Professor and Abner Stiles were relating to him the exciting occurrences of the last half hour.
CHAPTER V.
MR. SAWYER MEETS UNCLE IKE.
Quincy Adams Sawyer had not come down to Mason's Corner with any idea of becoming a hermit. His father was a great lawyer and a very wealthy man. He had made Quincy a large allowance during his college days, and had doubled it when his only son entered his law office to complete his studies.
Quincy had worked hard in two ways; first, to read law, so as to realize the great anticipations that his father had concerning him; second, he worked still harder between eight in the evening and one, two, and even four in the morning, to get rid of the too large allowance that his father made him.
Like all great men, his father was unsuspicious and easily hoodwinked about family matters; so when Quincy grew listless and on certain occasions fell asleep at his desk his renowned and indulgent father decided it was due to overwork and sent him down to Eastborough for a month's rest and change of scene.
His father had known Isaac Pettengill, and in fact had conducted many successful suits for him; besides this he had drawn up the papers when Uncle Ike divided his fortune. Quincy's father had written to Uncle Ike, asking him to find his son a boarding place, and Uncle Ike had selected Deacon Mason's as the best place for him.
Quincy's father had told him to be sure and get acquainted with Mr. Isaac Pettengill, saying he was a man of fine education, and added, "I sometimes feel, Quincy, as though I would like to go into the country and take care of a chicken farm myself for a while."
His mother came of the best New England stock, and although she had been named Sarah and her husband's name was Nathaniel, we have seen that the son had been endowed with the rather high-sounding name of Quincy Adams, which his schoolmates had shortened to Quince, and his college friends had still further abbreviated to Quinn. Quincy had two sisters and they had been equally honored with high-sounding appellations, the elder being called Florence Estelle and the younger Maude Gertrude, but to pa, ma, brother, and friends they were known as Flossie and Gertie.
The next day after the affair at Hill's grocery, Quincy put several of the best cigars in town in his pocket and started towards Eastborough Centre for a walk, intending to call upon Uncle Ike Pettengill.
The young man knew that late hours and their usual accompaniments were what had undermined his health, so he determined to make his vacation of good service to him and recover his accustomed health and strength, and when he returned home cut his old acquaintances and settle down earnestly and honestly to the battle of life.
He had teen a favorite in city society; he was well educated, well read, had travelled considerably and was uniformly polite and affable to all classes, from young children to old men and women; he was very careful about his dress, and always had that well-groomed appearance, which in the city elicits commendation, but which leads the average countryman to say "dude" to himself and near friends when talking about him.
Quincy was no dude; he had been prominent in all college athletic games; he had been a member of the 'varsity eight in one of its contests with Yale, and had won a game for Harvard with Yale at base ball by making a home run in the tenth inning on a tied score. He was a good musician and fine singer. In addition he was a graceful dancer, and had taken lessons in boxing, until his feather-weight teacher suggested that he had better find a heavy-weight instructor to practise on.
Quincy was in his twenty-third year. He had been in love a dozen times, but, as he expressed it, had been saved from matrimony by getting acquainted with a prettier girl just as he was on the point of popping the question.
But we left him walking along on his way to Eastborough Centre. Deacon Mason had told him Uncle Ike's house was away from the road, some hundred feet back, and that he could not mistake it, as he could see the chicken coop from the road. He finally reached it after traversing about a mile and a half, it being another mile and a half to Eastborough Centre.
He found the path that led to the house. As he neared the steps a huge dog arose from a reclining posture and faced him, not in an ugly mood, but with an expression that seemed to-say, "An introduction will be necessary before you come any farther." The dog seemed to understand that it was his duty to bring about the necessary introduction, so he gave a series of loud barks. The door was quickly opened and Uncle Ike stood in the doorway.
"Do I address Mr. Isaac Pettengill?" asked Quincy.
Uncle Ike replied, "That's what they write on my letters."
Quincy continued, "My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer. I am the only son of the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer of Boston, and I bear a letter of introduction from him to you."
Quincy took the letter from his pocket and held it in his hand. The dog made a quick movement forward and before Quincy could divine his object, he took the letter in his mouth and took it to Uncle Ike, and, returning, faced Quincy again.
Uncle Ike read the letter slowly and carefully; then he turned to Quincy and said, "If you will talk about birds, fish, dogs, and chickens, you are welcome, and I shall be glad to see you now or any time. If you talk about lawsuits or religion I shall be sorry that you came. I am sick of lawyers and ministers. If you insist upon talking on such subjects I'll tell Swiss, and the next time you come he won't even bark to let me know you're here."
Quincy took in the situation, and smiling said, "I am tired of lawyers and lawsuits myself; that is the reason I came down here for a change. The subjects you mention will satisfy me, if you will allow me to put in a few words about rowing, running, boxing, and football."
Uncle Ike replied, "The physically perfect man I admire, the intellectually perfect man is usually a big bore; I prefer the company of my chickens." Turning to Swiss he said with a marked change in his voice, "This is a friend of mine, Swiss." Turning to Quincy he said, "He will admit you until I give him directions to the contrary."
The dog walked quietly to one side and Quincy advanced with outstretched hand toward Uncle Ike.
Uncle Ike did not extend his. He said, "I never shake hands, young man. It is a hollow social custom. With Damon and Pythias it meant something. One was ready to die for the other, and that hand-clasp meant friendship until death. How many hand shakings mean that nowadays? Besides," with a queer smile, "I have just been cutting up a broiler that I intend to cook for my dinner. Come in, you are welcome on the conditions I have mentioned."
Quincy obeyed and stepped into the kitchen of Sleepy Hollow. He owned to himself in after years that that was the most important step he had taken in life—the turning-point in his career.
CHAPTER VI.
SOME NEW IDEAS.
"Did you ever kill a chicken?" asked Uncle Ike, as Quincy entered the room and took a seat in the willow rocker Uncle Ike pointed out to him.
"No," replied Quincy, "but out in Chicago I saw live hogs killed, bristles taken off, cut up, assorted according to kind and quality, and hung up to cool off, in three minutes."
Uncle Ike responded vehemently, "Yes, I know, and it is a shame to the American people that they allow such things."
"That may be true," said Quincy, "but even at that speed they cannot kill and pack as fast as it is wanted."
"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "in the old days man feared God, and he treated man and beast better for that reason. In these days man serves Mammon and he will do anything to win his favor."
"Do you think it is true that men were better in the old days?" asked Quincy.
"No," answered Uncle Ike, "I didn't say so. I said that in the old days man was afraid to do these things; now if he has money he is afraid of neither God, man, nor the devil. To speak frankly, that is why I am so independent myself. I am sure of enough to support me as long as I live; I owe no man anything, and I allow no man to owe me anything."
Quincy, changing the subject, inquired, "What is your method of killing chickens?"
Uncle Ike said, "Let me tell you why I devised a new plan. When I was about eight years old I went with my mother to visit an uncle in a neighboring town. I was born in Eastborough myself, in the old Pettengill house. But this happened some twenty miles from here. My uncle was chopping wood, and boy like, I went out to watch him. An old rooster kept running around the block, flapping its wings, making considerable noise. Uncle shooed him off three or four times. Finally uncle made a grab at him, caught him by the legs, whacked him down on the block and with his axe cut off his head close to his body, and then threw it out on the grass right in front of me. Was that rooster dead? I thought not. It got up on its legs, ran right towards where I was sitting, and before I could get away I was covered with the blood that came from its neck. I don't know how far the rooster ran, but I know I never stopped until I was safe in my mother's arms. The balance of the time I stayed there you couldn't get me within forty yards of my uncle, for every time I met him I could see myself running around without my head."
"That made a lasting impression on you," remarked Quincy.
"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "it has lasted me sixty-eight years, one month, and thirteen days," pointing to a calendar that hung on the wall.
As Quincy looked in the direction indicated he saw something hanging beside it that attracted his attention.
It was a sheet of white paper with a heavy black border. Within the border were written these words, "Sacred to the memory of Isaac Pettengill, who was killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 4th, 1863, aged twenty-nine years. He died for his namesake and his native land."
Quincy said interrogatively, "Did you lose a son in the war?"
"No," was the reply. "I never had a son. That was my substitute."
"Strange that your substitute should have the same name as yourself."
"Yes, it would have been if he had, but he didn't. His right name was Lemuel Butters. But I didn't propose to put my money into such a name as that."
"Were you drafted?" asked Quincy.
"No," said Uncle Ike. "I might as well tell you the whole story, for you seem bound to have it. I came down here in 1850, when I was about sixty. Of course I knew what was going on, but I didn't take much interest in the war, till a lot of soldiers went by one day. They stopped here; we had a talk, and they told me a number of things that I hadn't seen in the papers. I haven't read the daily papers for thirteen years, but I take some weeklies and the magazines and buy some books. Well, the next day I went over to Eastborough Centre and asked the selectmen how much it would cost to send a man to the war. They said substitutes were bringing $150 just then, but that I was over age and couldn't be drafted, and there was no need of my sending anybody. I remarked that in my opinion a man's patriotism ought not to die out as long as he lived. It seemed to me that if a man had $150 it was his duty to pay for a substitute, if he was a hundred. The selectmen said that they had a young fellow named Lem Butters who was willing to go if he got a hundred and fifty. So I planked down the money, but with the understanding that he should take my name. Well, to make a long story short, I got killed at Gettysburg and I wrote that out as a reminder."
"Don't you ever get lonesome alone here by yourself?" Quincy asked.
"Yes," said Uncle Ike. "I am lonesome every minute of the time. That's what I came down here for. I got tired being lonesome with other people around me, so I thought I would come down here and be lonesome all by myself, and I have never been sorry I came."
Quincy opened his eyes and looked inquiringly at Uncle Ike.
"I don't quite understand what you mean by being lonesome with other people around you," said he.
"No, of course you don't," replied Uncle Ike. "You are too young. I was sixty. I was thirty-five when I got married and my wife was only twenty-two, so when I was sixty she was only forty-seven. One girl was twenty-three and the other twenty. I went to work at seven o'clock in the morning and got home at seven at night. My wife and daughters went to theatres, dinners, and parties, and of course I stayed at home and kept house with the servant girl. In my business I had taken in two young fellows as partners, both good, honest men, but soon they got to figuring that on business points they were two and I was one, and pretty soon all I had to do was to put wood on the fire and feed the office cat. So you can see I was pretty lonesome about eighteen hours out of the twenty-four."
Quincy said reflectively, "And your family—"
Uncle Ike broke in, "Are alive and well, I suppose. They don't write me and I don't write them. I told my partners they must buy me out, and I gave them sixty days to do it in. I gave my wife and daughters two-thirds of my fortune and put the other third into an annuity. I am calculating now that if my health holds good I shall beat the insurance company in the end."
Quincy, finding that his inquiries provoked such interesting replies, risked another, "Are your daughters married?"
Uncle Ike laughed quietly. "I don't read the daily papers as I said, so I don't know, but they wouldn't send me cards anyway. They know my ideas of marriage."
Quincy, smiling, asked, "Have you some new ideas on that old custom?"
"Yes, I have," replied Uncle Ike. "If two men go into business and each puts in money and they make money or don't make it, the law doesn't fix it so that they must keep together for their natural lives, but allows the firm to be dissolved by mutual consent."
"Why, sir, that would make marriage a limited partnership," said Quincy with a smile.
"What better is it now?" asked Uncle Ike. "The law doesn't compel couples to live together if they don't want to, and if they don't want to live together, why not let them, under proper restrictions, get up some new firms? Of course, there wouldn't be any objection to parties living together for their natural lives, if they wanted to, and the fact that they did would be pretty good proof that they wanted to."
Quincy started to speak, "But what—"
"I know what you were going to say," said Uncle Ike. "You are going to ask that tiresome old question, what will become of the children? Well, I should consider them part of the property on hand and divide them and the money according to law."
"But few mothers would consent to be parted from their children."
"Oh, that's nonsense," replied Uncle Ike. "I have a Massachusetts State Report here that says about five hundred children every year are abandoned by their mothers for some cause or other. They leave them on doorsteps and in railroad stations; they put them out to board and don't pay their board; and the report says that every one of these little waifs is adopted by good people, and they get a better education and a better bringing up than their own parents could or would give them. Have you ever read, Mr. Sawyer, of the Austrian baron who was crossed in love and decided he would never marry?"
Quincy shook his head.
"Well, he was wealthy and had a big castle, with no one to live in it, and during his life he adopted, educated, clothed, and sent out into the world, fitted to make their own living, more than a thousand children. To my mind, Mr. Sawyer, he was a bigger man than any emperor or king who has ever lived."
Quincy asked, "But how are you going to start such a reform, Mr. Pettengill? The first couple that got reunited on the partnership plan would be the laughing stock of the community."
"Just so," said Uncle Ike, "but I can get over that difficulty. The State of Massachusetts has led in a great many social reforms. Let it take the first step forward in this one; let it declare by law that all marriages on and after a certain day shall terminate five years from the date of marriage unless the couples wish to renew the bonds. Then let everybody laugh at everybody else if they want to."
"Well, how about those couples that were married before that day?"
"That's easy," was Uncle Ike's reply. "Give them all a chance five years after the law to dissolve by mutual consent, if they want to. Don't forget, Mr. Sawyer, that with such a law there would be no need of divorce courts, and if any man insulted a woman, imprisonment for life and even the gallows wouldn't be any too good for him. Will you stay to lunch, Mr. Sawyer? My chicken is about done."
Quincy arose and politely declined the invitation, saying he had been so much interested he had remained much longer than he had intended, but he would be pleased to call again some day if Mr. Pettengill were willing.
"Oh, yes, come any time," said Uncle Ike, "you're a good listener, and I always like a man that allows me to do most of the talking. By the way, we didn't get a chance to say much this time about shooting, fishing, or football."
Quincy went down the steps, and Uncle Ike stood at the door, as he did before he entered. Swiss looked at Quincy with an expression that seemed to say, "You have made a pretty long call." Quincy patted him on the head, called him "good dog," and walked briskly down the path towards the road. When he was about fifty feet from the house, Uncle Ike called out sharply, "Mr. Sawyer!" Quincy turned on his heel quickly and looked towards the speaker. Uncle Ike's voice, still sharp, spoke these farewell words:
"I forgot to tell you, Mr. Sawyer, that I always chloroform my chickens before I cut their heads off."
He stepped back into the house. Swiss, with a bound, was in the room beside him, and when Quincy again turned his steps towards the road the closed door had shut them both from view.
CHAPTER VII.
"THAT CITY FELLER."
As usual, the next morning Hiram was down to the Pettengill house between nine and ten o'clock. He opened the kitchen door unobserved by Mandy and looked in at her. She was standing at the sink washing dishes and singing to herself. Suddenly Hiram gave a jump into the room and cried out in a loud voice, "How are you, Mandy?"
She dropped a tin pan that she was wiping, which fell with a clatter, breaking a plate that happened to be in the sink.
"I'm much worse, thank you," she retorted, "and none the better for seeing you. What do you mean by coming into the house and yelling like a wild Injin? I shall expect you to pay for that plate anyway."
"He who breaks pays," said Hiram with a laugh. "But why don't you shake hands with a fellow?"
"I will if I like and I won't if I like," replied Mandy, extending her hand, which was covered with soapsuds.
"Wipe your hand," said Hiram, "and I'll give you this ten cents to pay for the plate."
As he said this he extended the money towards her. Mandy did not attempt to take it, but giving her wet hand a flip threw the soapsuds full in Hiram's face. He rushed forward and caught her about the waist; as he did so he dropped the money, which rolled under the kitchen table.
Mandy turned around quickly and facing Hiram, caught him by both ears, which she pulled vigorously. He released his hold upon her and jumped back to escape further punishment.
"Now, Mr. Hiram Maxwell," said she, facing him, "what do you mean by such actions? I've a good mind to put you outdoors and never set eyes on you again. What would Mr. Pettengill have thought if he'd a come in a minute ago?"
"I guess he'd a thought that I was gittin' on better'n I really am," replied Hiram, with a crestfallen look. "Now, Mandy, don't get mad, I didn't mean nothin', I was only foolin' and you began it fust, by throwin' that dirty water in my face, and no feller that had any spunk could stand that." As he said this, a broad smile covered his face. "Say, Mandy," he continued, "here comes Obadiah Strout, we'd better make up before he gits in or it'll be all over town that you and me have been fightin'. Got any chores this mornin', Mandy, that I can do for you?"
At this moment the kitchen door was again opened and Professor Strout entered.
"Where's Pettengill?" he asked of Mandy, not noticing Hiram.
"I guess he's out in the wood-shed, if he hasn't gone somewheres else," replied Mandy, resuming her work at the sink.
Strout turned towards Hiram and said, as if he had been unaware previously of his presence, "Oh! you there, Hiram? Just go find Pettengill for me like a good feller and tell him Professor Strout wishes to see him up to the house."
"At the same time, Hiram," said Mandy, "go find me that dozen eggs that I told you I wanted for that puddin'."
Hiram winked at Mandy, unseen by the Professor and started for the chicken coop.
"Guess I'll have a chair," remarked the Professor.
"All right, if you don't take it with you when you go," replied Mandy, still busily washing dishes.
"Fine weather," said Strout.
"Sorter between," laconically replied Mandy.
"Did you enjoy the concert?" asked Strout.
"Some parts of it," said Mandy. "I thought Mr. Sawyer and Miss Putnam were just splendid. His whistling was just grand."
"He'll whistle another kind of a tune in a few days," remarked Strout.
"What? Are you going to give another concert?" asked Mandy, looking at him for the first time.
"If I do," replied the Professor, "you bet he won't be one of the performers."
"Oh, I see," said Mandy, "you're mad with him 'cause he hogged the whole show. Mr. Maxwell was just telling me as how Mr. Sawyer was going to hire the Town Hall on Washington's birthday and bring down a big brass band from Boston and give a concert that would put you in the shade, and somebody was telling me, I forget who, that Mr. Sawyer don't like to sit 'round doing nothin', and he's goin' to give music lessons."
These last two untruthful shots hit the mark, as she knew they would, and Strout, abandoning the subject, blurted out, "Where in thunder's that Hiram? I'll be blowed if I don't believe he went to look for the eggs first."
"I reckon he did," said Mandy, "if he means to keep on good terms with me. He ain't likely to tend to stray jobs till he's done up his regular chores."
"I s'pose Deacon Mason sends him down here to wait on you?" remarked Strout with a sneer.
"Did Deacon Mason tell you that you could have him to run your errands?" inquired Mandy, with a pout.
"Guess the best thing I can do," said Strout rising, "is to go hunt Pettengill up myself."
"I guess you've struck it right this time," assented Mandy, as Strout left the room and started for the wood-shed.
As he closed the door, Mandy resumed her singing as though such conversations were of everyday occurrence.
She finished her work at the sink and was fixing the kitchen fire when Hiram returned.
"All I could find," said he, holding an egg in each hand. "The hens must have struck or think it's a holiday. S'pose there's any out in the barn? Come, let's go look, Mandy. Where's old Strout?"
"I guess he's gone to look for Mr. Pettengill," replied Mandy, with a laugh.
"I kinder thought he would if I stayed long enough," said Hiram, with a grin; "but come along, Mandy, no hen fruit, no puddin'."
"Mr. Maxwell," said Mandy, soberly, "I wish you'd be more particular about your language. You know I abominate slang. You know how careful I try to be."
"You're a dandy," said Hiram, taking her hand.
They ran as far as the wood-shed, when seeing the door open, they hid behind it until Strout came out and walked down towards the lane to meet Ezekiel, whom he had seen coming up from the road. Then Hiram and Mandy sped on their way to the barn, which they quickly reached and were soon upon the haymow, apparently searching intently for eggs.
When Strout reached Ezekiel he shook hands with him and said, "Come up to the barn, Pettengill, I've got a little somethin' I want to tell you and it's kinder private. It's about that city feller that's swellin' round here puttin' on airs and tryin' to make us think that his father is a bigger man than George Washington. He about the same as told me down to the grocery store that the blood of all the Quincys flowed in one arm and the blood of all the Adams in the other, but I kinder guess that the rest of his carcass is full of calf's blood and there's more fuss and feathers than fight to him."
By this time they had reached the barn and they sat down upon a pile of hay at the foot of the mow.
"Now my plan's this," said Strout. "You know Bob Wood; well, he's the biggest feller and the best fighter in town. I'm goin' to post Bob up as to how to pick a quarrel with that city feller. When he gets the lickin' that he deserves, I rayther think that Deacon Mason will lose a boarder."
"But s'posin' Mr. Sawyer licks Bob Wood?" queried Ezekiel.
"Oh! I don't count much on that," said Strout; "but if it should turn out that way we're goin' to turn in and get up a surprise party for Miss Mason and jist leave him out."
"I hope you ain't goin' to do any fightin' down to Deacon Mason's?" remarked Ezekiel.
"Oh, no!" protested Strout, "it'll be kind o' quiet, underminin' work, as it were. Remarks and sayin's and side whispers and odd looks, the cold shoulder business, you know, that soon tells a feller that his company ain't appreciated."
"Well, I don't think that's quite fair," said Ezekiel. "You don't like him, Mr. Strout, but I don't think the whole town will take it up."
The Professor said sternly, "He has insulted me and in doing that he has insulted the whole town of Eastborough."
A smothered laugh was heard.
"By George! What was that?" cried Strout.
Ezekiel was at a loss what to say, and before he could reply, Mandy's laughing had caused the hay to move. As it began to slide she clutched at Hiram in a vain effort to save herself, and the next instant a large pile of hay, bearing Hiram and Mandy, came down, falling upon Ezekiel and Strout and covering them from sight.
When all had struggled to their feet, Ezekiel turned to Mandy and said sharply, "What were you doin' up there, Mandy?"
"Looking for eggs," said she, as she ran out of the barn and started for the house.
Hiram stood with his mouth distended with a huge smile. Strout turned towards him and said savagely, "Well, if you're the only egg she got, 'twas a mighty bad one."
Hiram retorted, "I would rather be called a bad egg than somethin' I heard about you."
Strout, in a passion, cried out, "Who said anything about me?"
Hiram made for the barn door and then said, "heard a gentleman say as how there was only one jackass in Eastborough and he taught the singin' school."
Strout caught up a rake to throw at him, but Hiram was out of sight before he could carry out his purpose. Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said, "I bet a dollar, Pettengill, it was that city feller that said that, and as I have twice remarked and this makes three times, this town ain't big enough to hold both on us."
CHAPTER VIII.
CITY SKILL VERSUS COUNTRY MUSCLE.
Hiram Maxwell was not called upon to perform very arduous duties at Deacon Mason's. The Deacon had given up farming several years before, and Hiram's duties consisted in doing the chores about the house. He had plenty of spare time, and he used it by going down to the Pettengill place and talking to Mandy Skinner.
The next morning after the adventure in the barn, Hiram went down as usual after his morning's work was done to see Mandy.
"How do you find things, Mandy?" said Hiram, opening the kitchen door and putting his head in.
"By looking for them," said Mandy, without looking up from her work.
"You are awful smart, ain't you?" retorted Hiram.
Mandy replied, "People's opinion that I think a good deal more of than yours have said that same thing, Mr. Maxwell."
Hiram saw that he was worsted, so he changed the conversation.
"Anybody to hum?"
Mandy answered sharply, "Everybody's out but me, of course I am nobody."
Hiram came in and closed the door.
"You needn't be so pesky smart with your tongue, Mandy. Of course I can't keep up with you and you know it. What's up?"
Mandy replied, "The thermometer. It isn't nearly as cold as it was yesterday."
Hiram, seeing a breakfast apparently laid out on a side table inquired, "Expectin' somebody to breakfast?"
"No," said Mandy, "I got that ready for Mr. Pettengill, but he didn't have time to eat it because he was afraid he would lose the train."
"Has he gone to the city?" asked Hiram.
"I 'spect he has," answered Mandy.
"Well," remarked Hiram, "s'posin' I eat that breakfast myself, so as to save you the trouble of throwin' it away."
"Well," said Mandy, "I was going to give it to the pigs; I suppose one hog might as well have it as another."
Hiram said, "Why, you don't call me a big eater, do you, Mandy?"
Mandy laughed and said, "I can't tell, I never saw you when you wasn't hungry. How do you know when you have got enough?"
Hiram said, "I haven't got but one way of tellin', I allus eats till it hurts me, then I stop while the pain lasts."
Then he asked Mandy, "What did 'Zekiel go to the city for?"
Mandy answered, "Mr. Pettengill does not confide his private business to me."
Hiram broke in, "I bet a dollar you know why he went, just the same."
Mandy said, "I bet a dollar I do."
Then she broke into a loud laugh. Hiram evidently thought it was very funny and laughed until the tears stood in his eyes.
"What are you laughing for?" asked Mandy.
Hiram's countenance fell.
"Come down to the fine point, Mandy, durned if I know."
"That's a great trick of yours, Hiram," said Mandy. "You ought not to laugh at anything unless you understand it."
"I guess I wouldn't laugh much then," said Hiram. "I allus laugh when I don't understand anythin', so folks won't think that I don't know where the p'int domes in. But say, Mandy, what did Pettengill go to the city for?"
During this conversation Hiram had been eating the breakfast that had been prepared for Ezekiel. Mandy sat down near him and said, "I'll tell you, but it ain't nothing to laugh at. Mr. Pettengill had a telegraph message come last night."
"You don't say so!" said Hiram. "It must be pretty important for persons to spend money that way. Nobody dead, I s'pose?"
"Well," said Mandy, "Mr. Pettengill left the telegram in his room and I had to read it to see whether I had to throw it away or not, and I remember every word that was in it."
Hiram asked earnestly, "Well, what was it? Is his sister Alice goin' to get married?"
Mandy answered, "No, she is sick and she wanted him to come right up to Boston at once to see her."
Hiram said, "'Zekiel must think a powerful lot of that sister of his'n. Went right off to Boston without his breakfast."
"I guess it would have to be something nearer than a sister to make you do that," said Mandy. "I don't know but one thing, Hiram, that would make you go without your feed."
"What's that, Mandy?" said he. "You?"
"No," replied Mandy, "a famine."
"You ain't no sort of an idea as to what's the matter with her, have you?" he asked.
"No, I haven't," said Mandy, "and if I had I don't imagine I would tell you. Now you better run right home, little boy, for I have to go upstairs and do the chamber work."
She whisked out of the room, and Hiram, helping himself to a couple of apples, left the house and walked slowly along the road towards Eastborough Centre.
Suddenly he espied a man coming up the road and soon saw it was Quincy Adams Sawyer.
"Just the feller I wanted to see," soliliquized Hiram.
As Quincy reached him he said, "Mr. Sawyer, I want to speak to you a minute or two. Come into Pettengill's barn, there's nobody to hum but Mandy and she's upstairs makin' the beds."
They entered the barn and sat down on a couple of half barrels that served for stools.
"Mr. Sawyer, you've treated me fust rate since you've been here and I want to do you a good turn and put you on your guard."
Quincy laughed.
Hiram continued, "Well, maybe you won't laugh if Bob Wood tackles you. I won't tell you how I found it out for I'm no eavesdropper, but keep your eye on Bob Wood and look out he don't play no mean tricks on you."
Quincy remarked, "I suppose Mr. Strout is at the bottom of this and he has hired this Bob Wood to do what he can't do himself."
"I guess you have got it about right, Mr. Sawyer," said Hiram. "Can you fight?" he asked of Quincy.
"I am a good shot with a rifle," Quincy replied. "I can hit the ace of hearts at one hundred feet with a pistol."
"I don't mean that," said Hiram. "Can you fight with yer fists?"
"I don't know much about it," said Quincy with a queer smile.
"Then I am afraid you will find Bob Wood a pretty tough customer. He can lick any two fellers in town. Why, he polished off Cobb's twins one day in less than five minutes, both of 'em."
"Where does this Bob Wood spend most of his time?" asked Quincy.
"He loafs around Hill's grocery. When he ain't wokin' at his trade," said Hiram, "he does odd jobs for the Putnams in summer and cuts some wood for them in winter. You know Lindy Putnam, the gal you sang with at the concert?"
"Come along," said Quincy, "I feel pretty good this morning, we'll walk down to Hill's and see if that Mr. Wood has anything to say to me."
"Don't you think the best plan, Mr. Sawyer, would be to keep out of his way?" queried Hiram.
"Well, I can't tell that," said Quincy, "until I get better acquainted with him. After that he may think he'd better keep out of my way."
"Why, he's twice as big as you," cried Hiram, with a look of astonishment on his face.
"Come along, Hiram," said Quincy. "By the way, I haven't seen Miss Putnam since the concert. I think I will have to call on her."
Hiram laughed until his face was as red as a beet.
"By gum, that's good," he said, as he struck both legs with his hands.
"What's good?" asked Quincy. "Calling on Miss Putnam?"
"Yes," said Hiram. "Wouldn't she be s'prised?"
"Why?" asked Quincy. "Such a call wouldn't be considered anything out of the way in the city."
"No, nor it wouldn't here," said Hiram, "but for the fact that Miss Putnam don't encourage callers. She goes round a visitin' herself, and she treats the other girls fust rate, 'cause she has plenty of money and can afford it. But she has got two good reasons for not wantin' visitors."
"What are they?" asked Quincy.
"Well, I'm country myself," said Hiram, "and there are others in Eastborough that are more country than I am. But if you want to see and hear the genooine old Rubes you want to see old Sy Putnam and his wife Heppy."
"But Miss Mason said Miss Putnam was quite wealthy."
"You bet she is," said Hiram. "She's worth hundreds of millions of dollars."
"I think you must mean thousands," remarked Quincy.
"Well, as far as I'm concerned," said Hiram, "when you talk about millions or thousands of money, one's just the same to me as t'other. I never seed so much money in my life as I seed since you've been here, but I don't want you to think I'm beggin' for more."
"No," said Quincy, "I should never impute such a motive to you."
Quincy took a dollar bill from his pocket and held it up before Hiram.
"What's that?" he asked.
"That's one hundred cents," said Hiram, "considerably more than I have got."
"Well," said Quincy, "if you tell me why Miss Putnam doesn't like callers I will give you that dollar."
"Stop a minute," replied Hiram. "Soon as we turn this next corner we'll be in full sight of the grocery store. You can go ahead and I'll slip 'cross lots and come up from behind the store. If Wood thought I'd told you he would lick me and I'm no fighter. Now about Miss Putnam," dropping his voice, "I heard it said, and I guess it's pretty near the truth, that she is so blamed stuck up and dresses so fine in city fashions that she is just 'shamed of her old pa and ma and don't want nobody to see 'em."
"But," asked Quincy, "where did she get her money?"
Hiram answered, "From her only brother. He went down to Boston, made a pile of money, then died and left it all to Lindy. If what I've told you ain't gospel truth it's mighty near it. Well, I'll see you later, Mr. Sawyer."
And Hiram ran down a path that led across the fields.
Quincy turned the corner and walked briskly towards Hill's grocery store. A dozen or more young men and as many older ones were lounging about the platform that ran the whole length of the store, for it was a very mild day in January, and the snow was rapidly leaving under the influence of what might be called a January thaw.
Quincy walked through the crowd, giving a friendly nod to several faces that looked familiar, but the names of whose owners were unknown to him. He entered the store, found a letter from his mother and another from his sister Gertie, and saying "Good morning" to Mr. Hill, who was the village postmaster, soon reached the platform again.
As he did so a heavily built young fellow, fully six feet tall and having a coarse red face, stepped up to him and said brusquely, "I believe your name's Sawyer."
"Your belief is well founded," replied Quincy. "I regret that I do not know your name."
"Well, you won't have to suffer long before you find out," said the fellow. "My name's Robert Wood, or Bob Wood for short."
"Ah! I see," said Quincy. "Robert for long wood and Bob for short wood."
Wood's face grew redder.
"I s'pose you think that's mighty smart makin' fun of folks' names. I guess there ain't much doubt but what you said what a friend of mine tells me you did."