CHAPTER XVIII.
The “Good Un.”
An air of gloom pervaded the store. Outside the rain came pattering down. It ran in torrents off the porch roof and across the entrance made a formidable moat, which had been temporarily bridged by an empty soapbox. It gathered on the limbs of the leafless trees and poured in steady streams upon the backs of the three forlorn horses, that, shivering under water-logged blankets, stood patiently, with hanging heads, at the hitching rail. Within everything was dry, to be sure, but the firewood, which was damp and would not burn, so the big egg stove sent forth no cheerful rays of heat and light. Out from its heart came the sound of sizzle and splutter as some isolated flame attacked a piece of wet hickory. It seemed to have conveyed its ill-humor to the little group around it.
The Tinsmith arose from the nail keg upon which he had been seated, walked disconsolately to the door and gazed through the begrimed glass at the dreary village street. He stood there a moment, and then lounged back to the stove.
As he rubbed his hands on the pipe in vain effort to absorb a little heat, he grumbled, “This here rain’s upset all my calkerlations. I was goin’ to bile to-morrow, but you uns doesn’t catch me makin’ cider sech a day ez this. My weemen sayd they’d hev the schnitz done up to-day an’ we could start the kittles airly in the mornin’. Now all this time is loss.”
“Seems like ye’re bilin’ kind o’ late,” said the Storekeeper, resting both elbows on the counter and clasping his chin in his hands. “Luther Jimson was tellin’ me the other day how all the folks up the walley hes made.”
The storm had kept the Patriarch at home, so the Chronic Loafer had the old man’s chair. He leaned back on two legs of it; then twisted his long body to one side so his head rested comfortably against his favorite pile of calicoes.
“Speakin’ o’ apple butter,” he said, “reminds me of a good un I hed on my Missus last week.”
“It allser remin’s me,” interposed the Tinsmith, “that I met Abe Scissors up to preachin’ a Sunday, an’ he was wond’rin’ when you was goin’ to return his copper kittle.”
“Abe Scissors needn’t git worrit ’bout his kittle. I’ve a good un on him ez well ez on the Missus. His copper kittle——”
The Farmer, who had almost been hidden by the stove, at this juncture leaned forward in his chair and interrupted, “But Abe Scissors hain’t got no kittle. That there——”
“Let him tell his good one,” cried the School Teacher. “He’s been tryin’ it every night this week. Let us get done with it.”
The Farmer grunted discontentedly but threw himself back in silence. With marked attention, however, he followed the Loafer’s narration.
“The Missus made up her mind she’d bile apple-butter this year, bespite all my objections, an’ two weeks ago this comin’ Saturday she done it. They ain’t no trees on our lot, so I got Jawhn Longnecker to give me six burshel o’ Pippins an’ York Imper’als mixed, on condition I helped with his thrashin’ next month. I give Hiram Thompson that there red shote I’d ben fattenin’ fer a bawrel o’ cider. She’d cal’lated to put up ’bout fourteen gallon o’ butter. I sayd it was all foolershness, fer I could buy it a heap sight cheaper an’ was gittin’ tired o’ Pennsylwany salve any way. Fer all year round, zulicks is ’bout the best thing to go with bread.”
“Mentionin’ zulicks,” interrupted the Storekeeper, “remin’s me that yesterday I got in a bawrel o’ the very finest. It’s none o’ yer common cookin’ m’lasses but was made special fer table use.”
“I’ll bring a tin down an’ hev it filled,” continued the Loafer, “fer there’s nawthin’ better’n plain bread an’ zulicks. But the Missus don’t see things my way allus, an’ they was nawthin’ but fer me to borry the Storekeeper’s horse an’ wagon an’ drive over to Abe Scissors’s an’ git the loan o’ his copper kittle an’ stirrer.”
“But Abe Scissors hain’t got no copper kittle,” cried the Farmer vehemently.
“He sayd it was his copper kittle an’ I didn’t ast no questions,” the Loafer replied. “My pap allus used to say that ’bout one half the dissypintments an’ onhappinesses in this worl’ was due to questionin’, an’ I ’low he was right. So I didn’t catechize Abe Scissors. He ’lowed I could hev the kittle jest ez long ez I didn’t burn it, fer he claimed he’d give twenty-five dollar fer it at a sale last spring. Hevin’ made satisfactory ’rangements fer the apples, the cider, the kittle an’ the stirrer, they was nawthin’ left to do but bile. Two weeks ago to-morrer we done it.
“The Missus inwited several o’ her weemen frien’s in the day before to help schnitz, an’ I tell you uns, what with talkin’ ’bout how many pared apples was needed with so much cider biled down to so much, an’ how much sugar an’ cinn’mon otter be used fer so many crocks o’ butter, them folks hed a great time. ’Hen they finished they was a washtub full o’ the finest schnitzed apples ye ever seen.”
“Borryed my washtub-still,” exclaimed the Tinsmith.
“A gentleman is knowd be the way he lends, my pap use to say,” drawled the Loafer, gazing absently at the ceiling.
“Well, ef your father was anything like his son he knowd the truth o’ that sayin’,” snapped the Tinsmith.
“He use to argy,” continued the Loafer, ignoring this remark, “that them ez hesn’t the mawral courage to refuse to lend ’hen they don’t want to, is allus weak enough to bemoan their good deeds in public. But it ain’t no use discussin’ them pints. I got everything I needed, an’ on the next mornin’ the Missus was up airly an’ at six o’clock hed the fire goin’ in the back yard, with the kittle rigged over it an’ hed begin to bile down that bawrel o’ cider.
“Bilin’ down ain’t bad fer they hain’t nawthin’ to do. It’s ’hen ye begins puttin’ in the schnitz an’ hes to stir ketches ye. I didn’t ’low I’d stir. Missus, ’hen the cider was all biled down to a kittle full, sayd I hev ter, but I claimed I’d worked enough gittin’ the things. Besides I’d a ’pointment to see Sam Shores, the stage-driver, ’hen he come th’oo here that afternoon. The Missus an’ her weemen frien’s grumbled, but begin dumpin’ the schnitz in with the bilin’ cider an’ to do their own stirrin’. I come over here an’ was waitin’ fer the stage. After an’ hour I concided I’d run over to the house an’ git a drink o’ cider. I went in the back way, an’ there I seen Ike Lauterbach’s wife a-standin’ stirrin’. The rest o’ the weemen was in the kitchen.
“‘Hen Mrs. Lauterbach seen me she sais pleasant like, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Your wife an’ the rest o’ the ladies hes made a batch o’ cookies. Now you jest stir here a minute an’ I’ll go git some fer ye.’
“I was kind o’ afraid to take holt on that there stirrer, so sayd I’d git ’em meself. But she ’sisted she’d be right out, an’ foolish I tuk the han’le. I regret it the minute I done it. I stirred an’ stirred, an’ Mrs. Lauterbach didn’t come. Then I hear the weemen in the house laughin’ like they’d die.
“The Missus she puts her head out an’ sais, ‘Jest you keep on stirrin’. Don’t you dast stop fer the butter’ll stick to the kittle an’ burn it ef ye does.’
“Down went the windy. I was jest that hoppin’ mad I’d a notion to quit right there an’ leave the ole thing burn, but then I was afraid Abe Scissors might kerry on ef I did. So I stirred, an’ stirred, an’ stirred. I tell ye I don’t know any work ez mean ez that. Stop movin’ the stick an’ the kittle burns. Ef any o’ you uns ever done it you’ll know it ain’t no man’s work.”
“The weemen allus does it with us,” said the Miller in a superior tone.
“I cal’lated they was to do it with us, but I mistook,” the Loafer continued. “I stirred, an’ stirred, an’ stirred. The fire got hotter an’ hotter an’ hotter, an’ ez it got warmer the han’le o’ the stirrer seemed to git shorter, an’ me face begin to blister. I kep’ at it fer an’ hour an’ a half, tell me legs was near givin’ way under me, me fingers was stiff an’ achin’, me arms felt like they’d drop off from pushin’ an’ twistin’ that long stick. The apples was all dissolved but the butter was thin yit, an’ I knowd it meant th’ee hours afore we could take the kittle offen the fire.
“Then I yelled fer help. One o’ the weemen come out. I was that mad I most swore, but she jest laughed an’ poked some more wood on the fire an’ sayd ef I didn’t push the stick livelier the kittle’d burn. The fire blazed up hotter an’ hotter, an’ it seemed like me clothes ’ud begin to smoke at any minute. Me arms an’ legs was achin’ more’n more. Me back was ’most broke from me tryin’ to lean ’way from the heat. Me neck was ’most twisted off be me ’temptin’ to keep the blaze from blindin’ me. It come four o’clock an’ I yelled fer help agin.
“The Missus stuck her head outen the windy an’ called, ‘Don’t you let that kittle burn!’
“I was desp’rate, but I kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’. It come sundown an’ begin to git darker an’ darker, an’ the butter got thicker an’ thicker, but I knowd be the feel that they was a couple o’ hours yit. I begin to think o’ lettin’ the ole thing drop an’ Abe Scissors’ kittle burn, fer I held he didn’t hev no business to lend it to me ’hen he knowd well enough it ’ud spoil ef I ever quit stirrin’. Oncet I was fer lettin’ go an’ slippin’ over here to the store, fer I heard several o’ the fellys drive up an’ hitch an’ the door bang shet. But ’hen I tried to drop the stick I jest couldn’t. Me fingers seemed to think it wasn’t right an’ held to the pole, an’ me arms kep’ on pushin’ an’ pushin’ tho’ every motion give me an ache. I jest didn’t dast, so kep’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’ an’ stirrin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, an’ wond’rin’ who was over here an’ what was doin’. An’ ez I kep’ pushin’ an’ pushin’, an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’, I clean forgot meself an’ all about the apple-butter.
“I come to with a jump fer some un hed me be the beard. ’Hen I looked up I seen the Missus an’ her weemen frien’s standin’ ’round me gestickelatin’. The Missus was wavin’ what was left o’ the stirrer. It was jest ’bout half ez long ez ’hen I begin with it, fer the cross piece that runs down into the butter an’ ’bout half the han’le was burned off. Seems I’d got the ole thing clean outen the kittle an’ hed ben stirrin’ it ’round the fire.”
“Reflex action,” suggested the Teacher.
“The butter was fairly smokin’. An’ the kittle! Well, say, ef that there wasn’t jest ez black on the inside ez ef if was iron ’stead o’ copper. An’ the weemen! Mebbe it was reflect actin’ they done, ez the teacher sais, but whatever it was it skeered me considerable. But final I seen how funny it was, how the joke was on the Missus who’d loss all her apple-butter, ’stead o’ on me, an’ how I’d got square with Abe Scissors fer lendin’ me his copper kittle ’hen he knowd it ’ud burn ef I ever stopped stirrin’. An’ I jest laughed.”
The Loafer straightened up in his chair and began to rock violently to and fro and to chuckle.
The Farmer arose and walked around the stove.
“What fer a kittle was that?” he asked in a low, pleasant tone. “Was they a big S stamped on the inside next the rim?”
“That’s the one exact. He! he!” cried the Loafer, with great hilarity. “S fer Scissors an’——”
“S stands fer Silver too,” yelled the Farmer. “My name’s Silver. I lent that kittle to Abe Scissors four weeks ago.”
The Loafer gathered himself together and arose from the muddy pool at the foot of the store steps. He gazed ruefully for a moment at the closed door, and seemed undecided whether or not to return to the place from which he had been so unceremoniously ejected. Then the sound of much laughing came to his ears, and he exclaimed, “Well, ef that ain’t a good un!”
And he ambled off home to the Missus.
CHAPTER XIX.
Breaking the Ice.
When William Larker irrevocably made up his mind to take Mary Kuchenbach to the great county picnic at Blue Bottle Springs he did not tell his father, as was his custom in most matters. To a straight-laced Dunkard like Herman Larker, the very thought of attendance on such a carousal, with its round dancing and square dancing, would have seemed impiety. Henry Kuchenbach was likewise a member of that strict sect, but he was not quite so narrow in his ideas as his more pious neighbor. Yet to him, also, the suggestion of his daughter being a participant in such frivolity would have met with scant approval.
But William was longing to dance. For many years he had fondly cherished the belief that he was possessed of much inborn ability in that art—a genius compelled to remain dormant, by the narrowness of his family’s views. Many a rainy afternoon had he given vent to his desire by swinging corners and deux-et-deux-ing about his father’s barn-floor, with no other partner than a sheaf of wheat and no other music than that produced by his own capacious lips.
So one beautiful July day, when, attired in his best, he stepped into his buggy, tapped his sleek mare with the whip and started at a brisk pace toward the Kuchenbach farm, his stern father believed that he was going to the great bush-meeting, twelve miles up the turnpike and was devoutly thankful to see his son growing in piety. William’s best was a black frock coat, with short tails, trousers of the same material reaching just below his shoe-tops, a huge derby, once black but now green from long exposure to the elements, and a new pair of shoes well tallowed. As he drove up to the gate of the neighboring farm Mary was waiting for him, looking very buxom and rosy and neat in her plain black dress, the sombreness of which was relieved by a white kerchief at the neck and the gray poke bonnet of her sect. As she took the vacant place beside him in the buggy and the vehicle rattled away, Henry Kuchenbach called after them, “Don’t fergit to bring back some o’ the good things the brethren sais.” And good Mrs. Kuchenbach threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Ain’t them a lovely pair?”
“Yais,” said her husband grimly, “an’ fer six year they’ve ben keepin’ comp’ny an’ he ain’t yit spoke his mind.”
The buggy sped along the road, the rattle of its wheels, the clatter of the mare’s hoofs and the shrill calls of the killdeer skimming over the meadows, being the sole sounds to break the silence of the country.
A mile was gone over. Then the girl said falteringly, “Beel, a’n’t it wrong?”
In response William gave his horse a vicious cut with the whip and replied, “It don’t seem jest right to fool ’em, but you’ll fergit all about it ’hen we git dancin’.”
There was silence between them—a silence broken only at rare intervals when one or the other ventured some commonplace remark which would be rewarded with a laconic “Yais” or “Ye don’t say.”
Up hill and down rattled the buggy, following the crooked road across the valley, over three low wooded ridges, then up the broad meadows that border the river, until at length the grove in which lies Blue Bottle Spring was reached. The festivities had already begun. The outskirts of the wood were filled with vehicles of every description—buggies, buckboards, spring-wagons, omnibuses and ancient phaetons. The horses had been unhitched and tied to trees and fences, and were munching at their midday meal, gnawing the bark from the limbs, snatching at the leaves or kicking at the flies while their masters gave themselves up to the pursuit of pleasure. Having seen his mare comfortably settled at a small chestnut, William Larker took his lunch basket on one arm and his companion on the other and proceeded eagerly to the inner part of the grove, whence came the sounds of the fiddle and cornet. They passed through the outer circle of elderly women, who were unpacking baskets and tastefully arranging their contents on table-cloths spread on the ground—jars of pickles, cans of fruit, bags of sandwiches, bottles of cold tea, layer cakes of wondrous size and construction, and the scores of other dainties necessary to pass a pleasant day with nature. They went through a second circle of venders of peanuts, lemonade and ice-cream, about whose stands were gathered many elderly men discussing the topics of the day and exchanging greetings.
The young Dunkards had now arrived at the center of interest, the platform, and joined the crowd that was eagerly watching the course of the dance. An orchestra of three pieces, a bass-viol, a violin and a cornet, operated by three men in shirt sleeves, sent forth wheezy strains to the time of which men and women, young and old, gaily swung corners and partners, galloped forward and back, made ladies’ chains, winding in and out, then back and bowing, until William Larker and his companion fairly grew dizzy.
The crowd of dancers was a heterogeneous one. There were young men from the neighboring county town, gorgeous in blazers of variegated colors, and young farmers whose movements were not the less agile for the reason that they wore heavy sombre clothing and high-crowned, broad-brimmed felt hats. There were three particularly forward youths in bicycle attire, and three gay young men from a not far distant city, whose shining silk hats and dancing pumps made them centers of admiration and envy. The women, likewise, went to both extremes. Gaily flowered, airy calico, cashmere and gingham bobbed about among glistening, frigid satins and silks.
“Oh, ain’t it grand?” cried Mary Kuchenbach, clasping her hands.
“That’s good dancin’, I tell ye,” replied her companion with enthusiasm.
She had seated herself on a stump, and he was leaning against a tree at her side, both with eyes fixed on the platform.
Now in seemingly inextricable chaos; now in perfectly orderly form, six sets bowing and scraping; now winding into a dazzling mass of silk, calico, high hats, felt hats, flower-covered bonnets and blazers, then out again went the dancers.
“Good dancin’, I should say!” William exclaimed. “Jest look at them th’ee ceety fellys, with them shiny hats, a-swingin’ corners. Now, a’n’t they cuttin’ it? Next comes ‘a-la-man-all.’ Watch ’em—them two in the fur set—the way they th’ow their feet—the gal in pink with the felly in short pants an’ a stripped coat. Now back! Thet there is dancin’, I tell ye, Mary! ‘Gents dozy-dough’ next. Thet ’ere felly don’t call figgers loud ’nough. There they goes—bad in the rear set—thet’s better. See them ceety fellys agin, swingin’ partners. Grand chain! Good all ’round—no—there’s a break. See thet girl in blue sating—she turned too soon. Thet’s better. T’other way—bow yer corners—now yer own. What! so soon? Why, they otter kep’ it up.”
The music had stopped. The dancers, panting from their exertions, mopping and fanning, left the platform and scattered among the audience.
William Larker’s eyes were aglow. His companion, seated upon the stump, gazed curiously, timidly, at the gay crowd about her, while he stood frigidly beside her mentally picturing the pleasure to come. He was to dance to real music with a flesh-and-blood partner after all those years of secret practise with a wheat sheaf in the seclusion of his father’s barn. He was to put his arms around Mary Kuchenbach. His feet could hardly keep still when a purely imaginary air floated through his brain and he fancied himself “dozy-doughing” and “goin’-a-visitin’” with the rosy girl at his side.
The man with the bass-viol was rubbing resin on his bow, the violinist was tuning up and the cornetist giving the stops of his instrument the usual preliminary exercise when the floor-master announced the next dance. One after another the couples sifted from the crowd and clambered on to the platform.
“Two more pair,” cried the conductor.
“Come ’long, Mary. Now’s our chancet,” whispered the young Dunkard to his companion.
“Oh, Beel, really I can’t. I never danced in puberlick afore.”
“But you kin. It ain’t hard. All ye’ll hev to do is to keep yer feet a-movin’ an’ mind the felly thet’s callin’ figgers.”
The girl hesitated.
“One more couple,” roared the floor-master.
William was getting excited.
“You can dance with the best of ’em. Come ’long.”
“Really now, Beel, jest a minute.”
The twang of the fiddle commenced and the cracked, quavering notes of the horn arose above the buzz of conversation.
“Bow yer corners—now yer own,” cried the leader.
And the young man sat down on the stump in disgust.
“We’ll hev to git in the next,” he said. “Why, it’s eesy. You see this here’s only a plain quadreel. Ye otter see one thet ain’t plain—one o’ them where they hes sech figgers ez ‘first lady on the war-dance,’ like they done at the big weddin’ up in Raccoon Walley th’ee year ago. These is plain. I never danced ’em afore meself, but I’ve seen ’em do it an’ I’ve ben practisin’. All ye’ll hev to do is to mind me.”
So the following dance found them on the platform among the first. The girl was trembling, blushing and self-conscious; the young man self-conscious but triumphant and composed.
“Bow yer partners,” cried the floor-master when the orchestra had started its scraping.
Down went the gray poke bonnet. Down went the great derby, and a smile of joy overspread the broad face beneath it.
“Swing yer partners!”
The great arms went around the plump form, lifting it from its feet; their owner spun about, carefully replaced his burden on the floor, bowed, smiled and whispered, “Ain’t it grand?”
“Corners!”
The young woman in blue satin gave a slight scream that was metamorphosed into a giggle, as she felt herself swung through space in the arms of the muscular person toward whom she had careened. Her partner, one of the city men with silk hats, grinned and whispered in her ear, “Oatcake.”
“Leads for’a’d an’ back!”
William Larker seized his partner’s plump hand and bounded forward, bowing and twisting, his free arm gesticulating in unison with his legs and feet. He was in the thick of the dance now; in it with his whole heart. Whenever there was any “dozy-doughing” to be done, William did it. If a couple went “visitin’,” he was with them. When “ladies in the center” was called, he was there. In every grand chain he turned the wrong way. He gripped the women’s hands until they groaned inwardly. He tramped on and crushed the patent leather pumps of a young city man, and in response to a muttered something smiled his unconcern, bolted back to his corner, swung his partner and murmured, “Ain’t it grand?” The young women giggled and winked at their acquaintances in the next set; the forward youth in a bicycle suit talked about roadsweepers, and the city man said again, “Oatcake.”
But the young Dunkard was unconscious of it all to the end—the end that came most suddenly and broke up the dancing.
“Swing yer partners!” bawled the floor-master.
William Larker obeyed. A ragged bit of the sole of his shoe caught in a crack and over he went, off the high platform, with his partner clasped tight in his arms.
When he recovered his senses he found himself lying by the spring, the center of all eyes. His first glance fell upon Mary, who was seated at his side, weeping heartily, despite the efforts of a large crowd of sympathizing women to allay her fears.
Next his eyes met those of the young woman in blue satin, and he saw her laugh and turn and speak to the crowd. He thought that he noticed a silk hat and heard the word “Oatcake.” And then and there he resolved to return to and never again depart from the quiet ways of his fathers.
William and Mary drove back in the early evening. They had crossed the last ridge and were looking out over the broad valley toward the dark mountain at whose foot lay their homes, when the first word was spoken.
“Beel,” said the girl with a sidelong glance, “ain’t dancin’ dangerous?”
The young man cut the mare with the whip and flushed.
“Yais, kind o’,” he replied. “But I’m sorry I drug you off o’ the platform like thet.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. William just saw the corner of one of her eyes as she looked up at him from under the gray bonnet.
“Oh, I didn’t min’ thet,” she said. “It was jes’ lovely tell we hit.”
The mare swerved to one side, toward the fence. The driver seized the rein he had dropped and pulled her back into the beaten track. Then the whip fell from his hands, and he stopped and clambered down into the road and recovered it. But when he regained his place in the buggy he wrapped his reins twice around the whip, and the intelligent beast trotted home unguided.
CHAPTER XX.
Two Stay-at-Homes.
“If wantin’ to was doin’ an’ they weren’t no weemen, I’d ’a’ ben in Sandyago long ago,” said the G. A. R. Man. He rolled a nail-keg close to the stove, seated himself upon it, dipped a handful of crushed tobacco leaves from his coat pocket into his pipe and lighted the odorous weed with a sulphur match. Then he wagged his beard at the assembled company and repeated, “Yes, sir, I’d ben in Sandyago long ago.”
“Weemen ain’t much on fightin’ away from home,” observed the Chronic Loafer, biting a cubic inch out of a plug of Agriculturist’s Charm which he had borrowed from the man who was sitting next him on the counter. The charm had passed half way around the circle and the remaining cubic inch of it had been restored to its owner, when the veteran, not catching the full intent of the remark, replied: “Yas. They’s a heap o’ truth in that there. Weemen is sot agin furrin wars. Leastways my weemen is. Now——”
“Do they prefer the domestic kind?” asked the School Teacher.
“Not at all—not at all,” said the old soldier. “Ye see, my missus passed th’oo sech terrible times back in ’60, ’hen I was bangin’ away at the rebels down in the Wilterness, that ’hen this here Spaynish war broke out she sais to me, sais she, ‘Ye jest sha’n’t go.’
“‘Marthy,’ sais I, ‘I’m a weteran. The Governor o’ Pennsylwany hes call fer ten thousand men, an’ he don’t name me, but he means me jest the same. Be every moral an’ jest right, I bein’ a weteran am included in that ten thousand.’
“With that I puts on me blues, an’ gits down me musket, an’ kisses the little ones all ’round, an’ starts fer the door. Well, sir, you uns never seen sech a time ez was raised ’hen they see I was off to fight the Spaynyards. Mary Alice, the eldest, jest th’owed her arms ’round my neck an’ bust out with tears. The seven others begin to cry, ‘Pap, Pap, you’ll git shooted.’
“‘Children,’ I sais, sais I, ‘your pap’s a weteran an’ a experienced soldier. Duty calls an’ he obeys.’
“The missus didn’t see things that way. She jest gits me be the collar an’ sets me down in an arm-chair, draws me boots, walks off with them an’ me musket an’ hides ’em. She weren’t goin’ to hev no foolin’ ’round the shanty, she sayd.
“Marthy seemed to think that that there settled it, but she didn’t know me, fer all the evenin’, ez I set there be the fire so meek-like, I was a-thinkin’. Scenes wasn’t to my likin’, so I concided I’d jest let on like I hed give up all idee o’ fightin’ Spaynyards, wait tell the family was asleep an’ then vanish.
“At midnight I sets up in bed. The moon was shinin’ th’oo the winder, jest half-lightin’ the room, so I could move ’round without trippin’ over the furnitur’. The missus was a-snorin’ gentle like, an’ overhead in the attic I could hear a soft snifflin’ jest ez a thrasher engine goes ’hen the men has shet down fer dinner. It was the childern asleep. I climbs out over the footboard an’ looks ’round fer me boots. There they was, stickin’ out under the missus’s pillow. Knowin’ I couldn’t git ’em without wakin’ her, I concided to vanish barefoot. But they was one thing agin this, an’ that was that the door was locked an’ some un hed took the key. I tried the winder, but that hed ben nailed shet. Then I gits mad—that there kind o’ quiet-like mad ’hen ye boils up inside an’ hes to keep yer mouth shet. It’s the meanest kind o’ mad, too. It seemed like they was a smile playin’ ’round the missus’s face, an’ that made me sourer than ever, an’ kind o’ spurred me on.
“Well, sirs, ez I stood there in the middle o’ the room thinkin’ what I’d do next an’ wonderin’ whether I hedn’t better jest slip back to bed, me eye ketched sight o’ an ole comf’table that filled a hole in the wall where the daubin’ hed fell out from atween the lawgs. That put me in mind o’ a scheme that I wasn’t long in kerryin’ out, fer the hole was pretty good sized an’ I’m a small man an’ wiry. In less’n no time the comf’table was outen that hole an’ I was in it. I stayed in it, too, fer jest ez me head an’ arms an’ shoulders got out o’ doors I felt a sharp prickin’ in me side. I pushed back an’ a great big splinter jagged me. I tried to go on for’a’d, an’ it jagged me agin so bad I ’most yelled. So I stayed right there—one-half outen the house an’ the other half een. Seemed like time begin to move awful slow then, an’ it ’peared a whole day ’fore the moon went from the top o’ the old lone pine tree into Grandaddy’s chestnut, which is jest twenty feet. Then me feet an’ legs was bakin’ over the stove, an’ the cold Apryl winds was a-whistlin’ down me neck.
“I took to countin’ jest to pass time, an’ I ’low I must ’a’ counted fifteen million afore I heard footsteps up the road. A man come outen the woods an’ inter the moonlit clearin’, where I could see he was ole Hen Bingle. I whistled. He stopped an’ looked. I whistled agin an’ called soft like to him. He sneaked up to the gate an’ looked agin.
“‘Hen, help,’ I whispers.
“‘Who in the heck is you a-growin’ outen the side o’ that shanty?’ he calls, kind o’ hoarse an’ scared. With that he pints a musket at me wery threatenin’.
“‘Hen Bingle!’ sais I. ‘Don’t you dast shoot. It’s me an’ I want you to pull me out. I’m goin’ to war.’
“Then it dawned on him what was up, an’ he come over an’ looks at me. I seen he hed on his blues, too, an’ I knowd ez he hed give his woman the sneak an’ was off to fight Spaynyards. He wanted to laugh, but I told him it were no time fer sech foolin’, but jest to break off that splinter an’ pull me loose.
“Now, Hen’s an obligin’, patriotic kind o’ a feller, an’ tho’, ez he sayd, he hedn’t much time to waste, ez his woman was likely to wake up any minute an’ find him gone, he reached up an’ broke off the splinter. But I fit the hole so tight I couldn’t budge, an’ he sayd he’d pull me out. So he gits up on the wall o’ the well which was jest below me, an’ grabs me be both hands an’ drawed. I’d moved about an inch, ’hen he kicked out wild like an’ hung to me like a ton o’ hay, an’ gasped an’ groaned. I thought that yank hed disj’inted me all over, an’ yells, ‘Let go!’
“‘Don’t you dast let go!’ he sayd, lookin’ up at me kind o’ agonizin’.
“Then I see that neither me nor Hen Bingle was ever goin’ to fight Spaynyards, fer he’d stepped off the wall an’ was hangin’ down inter the well.
“Splinters! Why, I’d ’a’ ruther hed a splinter stickin’ in every inch o’ my body then ole Hen Bingle’s two hundred pound a-drawin’ me from my nat’ral height o’ five feet six inter a man o’ six feet five. That’s what it seemed like. He ast how deep me well was, an’ ’hen I answered forty foot with fifteen foot o’ wotter at the bottom, he sayd he’d never speak to me agin if I let go my holt on him. I sayd I guesst he wouldn’t, an’ he let out a whoop that brought the missus an’ the little ones a-tumblin’ outen the house.
“Marthy stared at us a minute. Then she sais, ‘Where was you a-goin’?’
“‘To fight Spaynyards,’ sais I, sheepish like.
“‘An’ you, Hen Bingle?’ she asts.
“‘Same,’ gasps Hen.
“‘Does your wife know you’re out?’ sais the missus, stern ez a jedge.
“‘No,’ sais Hen.
“‘Then I’ve a mind to go over to your placet an’ git her,’ sais Marthy.
“‘It’s two miled,’ Hen groaned, ‘an’ I’ll be drownded agin you git back. Lemme up now an’ I’ll go home an’ stay there.’
“Marthy turns around quiet like, walks inter the house an’ comes out with the family Bible.
“‘Hen Bingle,’ she sais solemn-like, holdin’ the book to his mouth, ‘does you promise to tell the whole truth an’ nothin’ but the truth, an’ not to go to war?’
“Hen didn’t waste no time in kissin’ that book so loud I could hear an echo of it over along the ridge. I kissed it pretty loud meself, to be sure. The missus lifted Hen outen the well an’ he snuck off home. His woman never knowd nawthin’ about the trouble tell she met my missus two weeks later, at protracted meetin’ over to Pine Swamp church. Ez fer me, but fer that splinter I’d be in Sandyago now.”
CHAPTER XXI.
Eben Huckin’s Conversion.
Eben Huckin’s father had been a United Presbyterian and his mother a Methodist. Eben belonged to neither church, a fact which he ascribed to his having been drawn toward both denominations by forces so exactly equal that he had never become affiliated with either. Yet he prided himself on being a man of profound religious convictions. How could it be otherwise with one whose forefathers had for generations sung psalms and slept through two-hour sermons on the hard, uncomfortable benches of the bluest of blue-stocking Presbyterianism or prostrated themselves at the mourners’ bench on every opportunity? The austerity of these ancestors afforded him a reason for habitually absenting himself from Sunday services in either of the two temples where his parents had so long and faithfully worshiped. The church-folk in the valley were getting entirely too liberal. He was a conservative.
“‘Hen the United Presbyter’ans hes to hev an organ to sing by an’ the Methydists gits to hevin’ necktie parties an’ dancin’, it’s time for a blue-stockin’ like me to set at home o’ Sundays an’ dewote himself to readin’ Lamentations,” he was wont to explain to his cronies at the store.
Holding as he did such puritanical ideas, it is not to be wondered that he viewed with bitter hostility the coming of an Episcopal clergyman to West Salem. He had offered no objection when Samuel Marsden, who owned nearly all the land surrounding the village, married a woman from the city, but when that young autocrat turned the United Presbyterians out of the building where they had worshiped for a century and had an Episcopal minister come from down the river to hold weekly services there, the blood of all the Huckins boiled and Eben felt called upon to protest.
At first these protests took the form of long discourses, delivered on the store porch and touching on the evil of introducing “ceety notions an’ new-fandangled idees” into the spiritual life of the community. They continued in this strain until one fine April day when the sun was shining with sufficient warmth to allow Eben and his cronies to move from the darkness within the store to the old hacked bench without, where they could bask in the cheering rays.
The green shoots on the tall maple by the hitching rail, the shouts of the boys fishing in the creek below the rumbling mill, the faint “gee haw” of the man who was plowing in the meadow across the stream, the contented clucking of a trio of mother hens, wandering up and down the village street with a score of piping children in their wake—these and a hundred other things told that spring was at hand. After their long winter of imprisonment the shoemaker, the squire and the blacksmith would have been contented to enjoy themselves in silence, but Eben was in one of his talkative moods. That very morning his niece had announced her intention of forsaking the church in which her fathers had worshiped, and becoming an Episcopalian. His cup of woe was overflowing. He had been able to view with complacence such defections in other families. They had afforded him splendid illustrations with which to enliven his discourses on the weakness of the generality of mankind. He had set the Huckins above the generality. It had seemed to him impossible that one could err who boasted the blood of men who had gone to church with the Bible in one hand and a gun in the other. He had always laid particular stress on that point. He was a firm believer in heredity and had long contended that the descendants of those who first settled the valley were blessed with strong characters. Yet one of the blood had become an Episcopalian! And he had met the rector!
“The first I knowd of it was this mornin’ at breakfast,” said Eben, adjusting his steel-rimmed spectacles that he might look over their tops so sternly as to check any hilarity on the part of his auditors. “Mary sais to me, ‘Uncle, I wish you’d spruce up a leetle this afternoon ez the rector’s comin’.’
“‘Mary,’ sais I, thinkin’ I’d cod her jest a leetle, ‘a miller runs a mill, a tinner works in tin, a farmer farms, but what in the name of common sense does a rector do?’
“‘I mean the preacher,’ she answers.
“‘Mary,’ I sais, ‘ef the parson heard you a callin’ him sech new-fandangled names, he’d hev you up before the session.’
“She was quiet a piece, for she seen I was in a wery sewere turn o’ mind. I didn’t pay no more attention tell I was jest about gittin’ up from the table ’hen she spoke up agin.
“‘Uncle,’ she sais, ‘I hope you won’t mind, but that’s what we Piscopaleens calls preachers—rectors. Mr. Dawson is a rector.’
“Well, sirs, I was so took back, I jest set down an’ gasped. I thot I was goin’ to hev a stroke. Here was one o’ my blood, my own brother’s dotter, raised on the milk o’ Presbyter’anism, fergittin’ the precepts o’ her youth, strayin’ out o’ the straight an’ narrow way an’ takin’ up with the new-fandangled idees o’ the Piscopaleens. An’ why? Because she liked the singin’! ’Hen I heard that I rose in my wrath an’ started down here to cool off. On reachin’ the apple tree be the bend in the road, I set down on the grassy bank to rest a leetle an’ look ’round. Pretty soon I see a man comin’ over the medder, an’ ez he got close I knowd be the cut o’ his coat an’ the flatness o’ his black slouch that it was the preacher hisself. ’Hen he reached the creek he give a run an’ jump an’ went flyin’ over it in the most ondignifiedest way I ever seen. ‘It seems like he thinks he’s an angel a’ready an’ is spreadin’ his wings,’ I sais to meself. Then he puts both hands on the top o’ the six-rail fence an’ waults over it like a circus performer, landin’ almost at me feet.
“‘Hello,’ he sais.
“‘Hello,’ sais I, never liftin’ me eyes offen the wheat field acrosst the road.
“‘Fine day,’ sais he.
“‘I was jest tryin’ to make up me mind whether it was or not,’ sais I.
“I thot that ’ud settle him, but I mistook me man. He were the thickest headedest, forwardest felly I ever laid eyes on. He jest laughed. Now I admits that ’hen he laughed he ’peared a tol’able pleasant enough sort o’ a leetle person, but I wasn’t in no frame o’ mind fer jollyin’.
“‘I was jest on me way up to your placet to see ye,’ he sais.
“‘Was ye?’ I answers. ‘Well—I heard ye was comin’. I’m jest on me way to store.’
“It almost seemed I could see that gentle hint comin’ outen his one ear after it hed gone in the other.
“‘So ye waited here fer me,’ sais he. ‘How nice of ye! We’ll jest stroll down to the willage together.’
“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I’ve changed me mind. I’m goin’ to stay where I am.’
“‘Ye couldn’t a picked a nicer placet,’ he sais.
“An’ with that he set right down be me side. Mad? Why, I was jest bubblin’. An’ I hed a right to be, fixed ez I was with a Piscopaleen preacher stickin’ to me closer then a burdock burr to a setter dog’s tail. I didn’t say a word, but jest set there with me eyes on the mo’ntain like he wasn’t about.
“By an’ by he speaks. ‘Mr. Huckin, that’s a nice mule you hev runnin’ ’round the pasture adjoinin’ our church.’
“‘So,’ sais I.
“‘An’ mebbe you wouldn’t mind pasturin’ him in some other field a Sunday,’ he went on. ‘Ye mind a few weeks ago I sent you a message askin’ that you keep your cattle out o’ that field on the Sabbath because they disturbs our service. Ye mind it, don’t ye?’
“‘Dimly,’ I answers.
“‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I guesst it must ’a’ ben pretty dim, fer last week ye forgot to take ’em out an’ added that nice mule to the flock. I like that beast mighty well, but I objects to his puttin’ his head in the chancery winder durin’ the most solemn part of our service, like he done the other day.’
“‘Hen I pictured that ole mule attendin’ the ’Piscopaleen preachin’ I wanted to laugh all over, but I didn’t dast fer it ’ud ’a’ give him an openin’. I jest turned an’ looked at the preacher ez stern ez I could.
“‘Perhaps,’ I sais, ‘these new-fandangled, ceetyfied goin’s on o’ yourn amused him.’
“He didn’t smile then—not a bit of it. He was riled—bad riled, an’ pinted his finger at me an’ cried, ‘See here, you old hardshell.’ That was the wery name he called me. ‘See here,’ he sais. ‘Since I’ve ben a missionary in this community I’ve tried to conduct meself in a proper an’ humble sperrit, but ef I hev to carry my missionary efforts on among the mules, I’ll do it with a gun.’
“‘Hen I heard that I stood right up an’ glared at him. I didn’t mind his shootin’. It wasn’t that what stirred me up. It wasn’t that what made me shake me stick in the air like I was scotchin’ a chestnut tree. No, sirs.
“‘Mission’ry!’ I sais. ‘Then all we is heathen,’ I sais. ‘Parson, folks hev ben singin’ sams in this walley fer a hundred an’ fifty year. The folks in this walley hes ben contributin’ to the support o’ mission’ries in furrin lan’s fer the last cent’ry. There are more camp-meetin’s, an’ bush-meetin’s, an’ protracted meetin’s, an’ revivals an’ love-feasts in this walley in a year than they are years in your life. Yit you calls yourself a mission’ry. You complains about my cattle disturbin’ your meetin’s. Ef they enjoy listenin’ to your mission’ry efforts in behalf o’ we heathen, I don’t think I otter stop it. You might do ’em some good.’
“With that I turned an’ walked down the road. I never looked ’round tell I come to the edge o’ the peach orchard. Then I peeked back over me shoulder. There was the preacher, still standin’ be the apple tree lookin’ after me. He was smilin’. Mighty souls! Smilin’! I could ’a’ choked him.”
An oak tree, upturned, its roots stretched forth appealingly in the air, its branches washing helplessly to and fro in the stream, a broken scow lying high upon the beach, bottom up, a great crevasse in the side of the canal through which could be seen an imprisoned and deserted canal-boat, told of the spring flood. The Juniata had fallen again to its natural courses, but it was still turbulent and the current was running strongly. It was fast growing dark. Heavy clouds were rolling along the mountains from the west whence sounded the low grumbling of the coming storm.
Eben Huckin, standing by his boat, looked anxiously up the river, and then across to where the village had been lost in the fast gathering blackness. By a hard pull to the opposite bank and a run up half a mile of level road he might make the shelter of the mill before the clouds broke. But this meant tremendous exertion and Eben, with the rust of sixty years in his joints, preferred a drenching. So he tucked his basket in the locker in the stern and fixed his oars as deliberately as though the sun were smiling overhead. Then he began to push out into the stream.
The rattle of gravel flying before fast falling feet and a crashing of laurel bushes along the towpath caused him to pause.
“Hold on there!” came a voice. “Take me over.”
A moment later a man emerged from among the trees and came tumbling down the bank. It was Dawson. He stopped short and hesitated when he saw Eben, and was about to turn back when the old man said brusquely, “Git in.”
Impelled by a flash of lightning on the mountain side and a crash of thunder overhead, the rector scrambled into the stern of the boat. Eben gave it a shove and climbed in after him. The river had seized the clumsy craft and had swept it far out from the bank before the old man could fix his oars and get it under control. Then with steady strokes he bore away for the other side.
As Dawson sat watching the coming storm and felt the boat moving along through the water, carrying him nearer and nearer to the lights of the village, he forgot the incident of the mule and the quarrel of the previous day and remembered only that his enemy was taking him from the dark, forbidding mountains behind, where the very trees were thrashing their limbs and straining to and fro as though they would break from their imprisonment and run for shelter too.
“I can never thank you enough for rowing me over, Mr. Huckin,” he said.
There was no reply save a vicious creak of the row-locks. The old man paused at the end of the stroke but kept his eyes fixed on the sky overhead. It seemed as if he was about to answer and then thought better of it, for, ignoring his companion completely, he leaned sharply forward, caught the water with the blades and sent a shower splashing over the stern. Dawson was wet through. He was a young man with a temper, and while he could enjoy an intellectual combat with the rough old fellow before him, he had no mind to be under dog in a physical encounter.
“See here, Eben Huckin,” he said quietly, but in a voice of determination. “Just handle those oars a little more properly or I’ll take command of this craft.”
There was another loud rattle of the row-locks, and the rector involuntarily closed his eyes and ducked, thinking to catch the oncoming wave on the top of his broad hat. The expected deluge did not materialize, and he looked up in surprise to see Eben leaning over the side of the boat grasping wildly at an oar which was now far out of his reach and floating rapidly away.
“Oh, my Gawd!” cried the old man, throwing himself into the bottom of the boat. “We’re loss, Parson, we’re loss!”
He covered his face with his hands and swung despairingly to and fro, crying, “We’re loss—we’re loss!”
The boat had turned around and was being swept along stern foremost by the swift current. Dawson saw this, but the peril of their position was not yet clear to him.
“Pardon me,” he said quietly, “but I don’t understand just what has happened.”
“Happened!” cried Eben. “Happened? Why, your talkin’ done it. I was listenin’ to you, an’ an oar got caught in some brushwood an’ twisted outen my hand. I jumped fer it, lettin’ go o’ the other. Now they’re both gone.”
“But as far as I can see the only difference is we’re going in another direction and a great deal faster,” said the rector calmly.
“We’re just goin’ right fer the canal dam,” groaned the old man. “It’s only four mile straight away, an’ ’hen the river’s like this here, it’s a reg’lar Niagry.”
“Hum!” Dawson glanced to his left anxiously. The mountains were now lost in the darkness. He looked to the right to see the lights of the village already far up the river.
“Eben,” he asked, “is there no way we can steer her into the shore?”
“All the rudders in the worl’, ef we had ’em, wouldn’t git us outen this current.”
“Is there no island we are likely to run into?”
“Nawthin’ but Bass Rock, an’ ez it’s only ten feet square we mowt ez well hope—no, no, it ain’t no uset.”
“We might swim.”
“I can’t swim.”
“I can—a little. If you could we would get out.”
Then the clouds broke and the rain came down in torrents. They were enveloped in blackness and could no longer see one another.
To Dawson, sitting in the stern, his hands grasping the sides of the boat, his head bowed against the storm, it seemed as though they had suddenly been carried out on a great sea. Land was near, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away. A plunge over the side and a few strong strokes might take him to safety. But he could not desert the old man—not till he felt the craft sinking beneath him and the water closing over his head. The boat swung up and down in monotonous cadence, and he felt himself being carried helplessly on and on.
There was a flash of lightning, a deafening crash overhead, and all was dark again. It was but for an instant, and yet he saw clearly, hardly a stone’s throw away, a small house on the river bank. A thin wreath of smoke was fighting its way out of the chimney against the rain. In one window there was a light, and in that light a man was standing, complacently smoking a pipe and peering out through the narrow panes and over the river, watching the play of the lightning along the Tuscaroras.
Huckin half rose to his feet.
“It’s ole Hen Andrews,” he cried. “I wonder ef he seen us.”
Thereupon he shouted lustily for help. He continued his unavailing cries for some minutes, and then sank back to his seat.
“Parson,” he said, as if by a sudden thought, “Parson, kin you pray?”
“I’ve been praying all along, Eben,” was the quiet reply.
“Mebbe it’ll do some good,” Eben rejoined, “I hain’t never ben much on it meself—not ez much ez I otter ’a’ ben, but my pap he was powerful in prayer.”
He was silent a moment, and added regretfully, “Oh, don’t I wish he was here now!”
“You are not afraid to die, are you?” asked Dawson.
“Most any other way, I’m not,” was the answer. “But I don’t like drownin’, an’ I don’t make no bones about it. Our family hes allus gone be apoplexy, an’ I had an idee I’d go that way, too. All this here comes so sudden. Oh, Parson, it’s sech an onrastless, oncertain way o’ goin’, a-washin’ roun’ like this fer hours. Ef it ’ud stop after we was gone, I wouldn’t min’ so much, but to keep on a-washin’ an’ bobbin’ roun’ this ole river—Parson, Parson, pray agin.”
The old man leaned forward and clasped his companion’s hand.
“Pray agin, Parson, pray agin!” he cried.
A flash of lightning lit up the river. Just ahead Dawson saw a broad rock. As they were going they would sweep by it. He sprang forward over the seats until he reached the bow. Then he leaped into the water, still keeping a fast hold with one hand on the side of the boat. A few strong strokes and the clumsy craft turned her head. The swimmer’s feet touched the shelving stone, and he reached out blindly till he felt a jagged bit of rock. The stern of the boat swung around and it tugged hard to release itself from the firm grasp that had checked its wild career.
Eben Huckin tumbled into the water. Dawson seized him and dragged him from the river, while the boat, now free, went whirling away down stream.
For a long time the two men lay in silence, face downward, on the stone. Then the storm went by and the moon came climbing up the other side of the mountain, and by its light they could make out the narrow confines of their refuge. It was hardly ten feet in length and breadth, and was divided down the middle by a crevice. They could see the river whirling on all sides. To their right, over the stretch of water, rose the Tuscaroras; to their other hand they looked into the blackness of the woods which extended from the bank to the ridges miles away.
“Parson, do ye hear that rumblin’, that rumblin’ jest like the mill in busy times, ’hen all the wheels is goin’?” Huckin was sitting up watching Dawson wring the water from his felt hat. The rector strained his ears.
“That’s the dam, Parson. It’s jest a piece below here, an’ mighty near we come to hearin’ that soun’ most onpleasant loud. Who’d ’a’ thot we’d ever hit this here bit o’ rock?”
“Why, Eben, I rather had an idea all along that we might do so,” Dawson laughed. “I was watching for it. I had no intention of letting myself get drowned when you heathen in the valley needed a missionary so badly.”
“True, Parson, true,” said the old man fervently. “It ’ud ’a’ ben a hard blow fer the walley to hed you tuk jest at this time.”
The rector smiled faintly. He gazed inquiringly at his companion. The moon shining full on Eben’s countenance gave him a saintly appearance, for the rougher features had disappeared in the half-light, and the long white hair and beard, so unkempt in the full glare of day, now framed a benevolent, serious face. Dawson was satisfied.
For a long time nothing passed between the two. Then Eben nudged the rector gently and whispered, “D’ye believe in sperrits?”
“Why, of course not,” was the reply.
“Well, I’m glad you don’t.”
“Why did you ask?”
“Well, I thot ef ye did you’d like to know this here rock is sayd to have a ha’nt.”
“To be haunted!” exclaimed Dawson, edging a little closer.
“Yes, be Bill Springle’s ghos’. I never put much stock in the story meself, but that’s what folks sais. I know them ez claims to hev seen it. I knows one man ez refused to sleep here all night fer a five-dollar bill.”
“Goodness me!” said the rector. “I had no idea the people hereabouts were so superstitious.”
“It ain’t jest superstition, Parson. It’s mostly seein’ an’ believin’. Bill Springle’s ben dead these thirty year, an’ in that time, they sais, many folks hes seen him.”
“Eben, the spirits of the dead have better things to do than to spend their nights sitting on cold, damp rocks.”
“I know, Parson, I know; but the case o’ Springle was onusual. He lived back along the other mo’ntain an’ one night killed a pedler fer his money. The sheriff’s posse chased him clean acrosst the walley to the river, an’ here they loss sight o’ him. Fer a whole week they beat up an’ down the bank an’ then give up the chase. A year after they foun’ all that was left o’ Bill Springle wedged right in that crack ahint me.”
Dawson arose to his knees and peered over the prostrate body of his companion into the interesting crevice. Then he fell back to his old place, giving vent, as he did so, to a little laugh.
“He’d starved to death,” Eben continued, “an’ they sais that sometimes on stormy nights he kin be seen settin’ here. I never put much faith in the story meself, ez——”
“I’m glad you don’t, Eben,” the rector interrupted. “But suppose we talk of something more cheerful.”
A long silence followed.
“Parson,” the old man at length said, “why don’t ye sleep?”
“On this narrow rock? I’d roll into the river.”
“I’ll watch ye. D’ye see that lone pine tree standin’ out o’ that charcoal clearin’ on top o’ the mo’ntain?” Huckin indicated the spot with his hand, and Dawson nodded. “Well, ’hen the moon gits over that tree I’ll wake ye up. Then I’ll sleep.”
The rector replied by rolling over on his back and watching the stars until his eyes closed. Soon the old man heard a soft, contented purring and he knew that for a time he was alone—at least till Bill Springle joined him. For a long while he sat in deep thought with his eyes fixed on the whirling waters below him. Suddenly he leaned over and peered into the face of the man sleeping at his side.
“Parson,” he said softly, “I guesst ye needn’t mind no more about that mule.”