It must not be understood that the Harums, Larrabees, Robinsons,
Elrights, and sundry who have thus far been mentioned, represented the
only types in the prosperous and enterprising village of Homeville, and
David perhaps somewhat magnified the one-time importance of the Cullom
family, although he was speaking of a period some forty years earlier.
Be that as it may, there were now a good many families, most of them
descendants of early settlers, who lived in good and even fine houses,
and were people of refinement and considerable wealth. These constituted
a coterie of their own, though they were on terms of acquaintance and
comity with the "village people," as they designated the rank and file
of the Homeville population. To these houses came in the summer sons and
daughters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren, and at the period of
which I am writing there had been built on the shore of the lake, or in
its vicinity, a number of handsome and stately residences by people who
had been attracted by the beauty of the situation and the salubrity of
the summer climate. And so, for some months in the pleasant season, the
village was enlivened by a concourse of visitors who brought with them
urban customs, costumes, and equipages, and gave a good deal of life
and color to the village streets. Then did Homeville put its best foot
forward and money in its pouch.
"I ain't what ye might call an old residenter," said David, "though I
was part raised on Buxton Hill, an' I ain't so well 'quainted with the
nabobs; but Polly's lived in the village ever sence she got married, an'
knows their fam'ly hist'ry, dam, an' sire, an' pedigree gen'ally. Of
course," he remarked, "I know all the men folks, an' they know me, but I
never ben into none o' their houses except now an' then on a matter of
bus'nis, an' I guess," he said with a laugh, "that Polly 'd allow 't she
don't spend all her time in that circle. Still," he added, "they all
know her, an' ev'ry little while some o' the women folks 'll come in an'
see her. She's putty popular, Polly is," he concluded.
"I should think so, indeed," remarked John.
"Yes, sir," said David, "the's worse folks 'n Polly Bixbee, if she don't
put on no style; an' the fact is, that some of the folks that lives here
the year 'round, an' always have, an' call the rest on us 'village
people,' 'r' jest as countryfied in their way 's me an' Polly is in
our'n--only they don't know it. 'Bout the only diff'rence is the way
they talk an' live." John looked at Mr. Harum in some doubt as to the
seriousness of the last remark.
"Go to the 'Piscopal church, an' have what they call dinner at six
o'clock," said David. "Now, there's the The'dore Verjooses," he
continued; "the 'rig'nal Verjoos come an' settled here some time in the
thirties, I reckon. He was some kind of a Dutchman, I guess"
["Dutchman" was Mr. Harum's generic name for all people native to the
Continent of Europe]; "but he had some money, an' bought land an'
morgidges, an' so on, an' havin' money--money was awful scurce in them
early days--made more; never spent anythin' to speak of, an' died
pinchin' the 'rig'nal cent he started in with."
"He was the father of Mr. Verjoos the other banker here, I suppose?"
said John.
"Yes," said David, "the' was two boys an' a sister. The oldest son,
Alferd, went into the law an' done bus'nis in Albany, an' afterw'ds
moved to New York; but he's always kept up the old place here. The old
man left what was a good deal o' propity fer them days, an' Alf he kept
his share an' made more. He was in the Assembly two three terms, an'
afterw'ds member of Congress, an' they do say," remarked Mr. Harum with
a wink, "that he never lost no money by his politics. On the other hand,
The'dore made more or less of a muddle on't, an' 'mongst 'em they set
him up in the bankin' bus'nis. I say 'them' because the Verjooses, an'
the Rogerses, an' the Swaynes, an' a lot of 'em, is all more or less
related to each other, but Alf's reely the one at the bottom on't, an'
after The 'd lost most of his money it was the easiest way to kind o'
keep him on his legs."
"He seems a good-natured, easy-going sort of person," said John by way
of comment, and, truth to say, not very much interested.
"Oh, yes," said David rather contemptuously, "you could drive him with a
tow string. He don't _know_ enough to run away. But what I was gettin'
at was this: He an' his wife--he married one of the Tenakers--has lived
right here fer the Lord knows how long; born an' brought up here both
on 'em, an' somehow we're 'village people' an' they ain't, that's all."
"Rather a fine distinction," remarked his hearer, smiling.
"Yes, sir," said David. "Now, there's old maid Allis, relative of the
Rogerses, lives all alone down on Clark Street in an old house that
hain't had a coat o' paint or a new shingle sence the three Thayers was
hung, an' she talks about the folks next door, both sides, that she's
knowed alwus, as 'village people,' and I don't believe," asserted the
speaker, "she was ever away f'm Homeville two weeks in the hull course
of her life. She's a putty decent sort of a woman too," Mr. Harum
admitted. "If the' was a death in the house she'd go in an' help, but
she wouldn't never think of askin' one on 'em to tea."
"I suppose you have heard it said," remarked John, laughing, "that it
takes all sorts of people to make a world."
"I think I hev heard a rumor to that effect," said David, "an' I guess
the' 's about as much human nature in some folks as the' is in others,
if not more."
"And I don't fancy that it makes very much difference to you," said
John, "whether the Verjooses or Miss Allis call you 'village people' or
not."
"Don't cut no figger at all," declared Mr. Harum. "Polly 'n I are too
old to set up fer shapes even if we wanted to. A good fair road-gait 's
good enough fer me; three square meals, a small portion of the 'filthy
weed,' as it's called in po'try, a hoss 'r two, a ten-dollar note where
you c'n lay your hand on't, an' once in a while, when your consciunce
pricks ye, a little somethin' to permote the cause o' temp'rence, an'
make the inwurd moniter quit jerkin' the reins--wa'al, I guess I c'n git
along, heh?"
"Yes," said John, by way of making some rejoinder, "if one has all one
needs it is enough."
"Wa'al, yes," observed the philosopher, "that's so, as you might say, up
to a certain _point_, an' in some _ways_. I s'pose a feller could git
along, but at the same time I've noticed that, gen'ally speakin', a
leetle too big 's about the right size."
"I am told," said John, after a pause in which the conversation seemed
to be dying out for lack of fuel, and apropos of nothing in particular,
"that Homeville is quite a summer resort."
"Quite a consid'able," responded Mr. Harum. "It has ben to some extent
fer a good many years, an' it's gettin' more an' more so all the time,
only diff'rent. I mean," he said, "that the folks that come now make
more show an' most on 'em who ain't visitin' their relations either has
places of their own or hires 'em fer the summer. One time some folks
used to come an' stay at the hotel. The' was quite a fair one then," he
explained; "but it burned up, an' wa'n't never built up agin because it
had got not to be thought the fash'nable thing to put up there. Mis'
Robinson (Dug's wife), an' Mis' Truman, 'round on Laylock Street, has
some fam'lies that come an' board with them ev'ry year, but that's about
all the boardin' the' is nowdays." Mr. Harum stopped and looked at his
companion thoughtfully for a moment, as if something had just occurred
to him.
"The' 'll be more o' your kind o' folk 'round, come summer," he said;
and then, on a second thought, "you're 'Piscopal, ain't ye?"
"I have always attended that service," replied John, smiling, "and I
have gone to St. James's here nearly every Sunday."
"Hain't they taken any notice of ye?" asked David.
"Mr. Euston, the rector, called upon me," said John, "but I have made no
further acquaintances."
"E-um'm!" said David, and, after a moment, in a sort of confidential
tone, "Do you like goin' to church?" he asked.
"Well," said John, "that depends--yes, I think I do. I think it is the
proper thing," he concluded weakly.
"Depends some on how a feller's ben brought up, don't ye think so?" said
David.
"I should think it very likely," John assented, struggling manfully with
a yawn.
"I guess that's about my case," remarked Mr. Harum, "an' I sh'd have to
admit that I ain't much of a hand fer church-goin'. Polly has the
princ'pal charge of that branch of the bus'nis, an' the one I stay away
from, when I _don't_ go," he said with a grin, "'s the Prespyteriun."
John laughed.
"No, sir," said David, "I ain't much of a hand for't. Polly used to
worry at me about it till I fin'ly says to her, 'Polly,' I says, 'I'll
tell ye what I'll do. I'll compermise with ye,' I says. 'I won't
undertake to foller right along in your track--I hain't got the req'sit
speed,' I says, 'but f'm now on I'll go to church reg'lar on
Thanksgivin'.' It was putty near Thanksgivin' time," he remarked, "an' I
dunno but she thought if she c'd git me started I'd finish the heat,
an' so we fixed it at that."
"Of course," said John with a laugh, "you kept your promise?"
"Wa'al, sir," declared David with the utmost gravity, "fer the next five
years I never missed attendin' church on Thanksgivin' day but _four_
times; but after that," he added, "I had to beg off. It was too much of
a strain," he declared with a chuckle, "an' it took more time 'n Polly
c'd really afford to git me ready." And so he rambled on upon such
topics as suggested themselves to his mind, or in reply to his auditor's
comments and questions, which were, indeed, more perfunctory than
otherwise. For the Verjooses, the Rogerses, the Swaynes, and the rest,
were people whom John not only did not know, but whom he neither
expected nor cared to know; and so his present interest in them was
extremely small.
Outside of his regular occupations, and despite the improvement in his
domestic environment, life was so dull for him that he could not imagine
its ever being otherwise in Homeville. It was a year since the
world--his world--had come to an end, and though his sensations of loss
and defeat had passed the acute stage, his mind was far from healthy. He
had evaded David's question, or only half answered it, when he merely
replied that the rector had called upon him. The truth was that some
tentative advances had been made to him, and Mr. Euston had presented
him to a few of the people in his flock; but beyond the point of mere
politeness he had made no response, mainly from indifference, but to a
degree because of a suspicion that his connection with Mr. Harum would
not, to say the least, enhance his position in the minds of certain of
the people of Homeville. As has been intimated, it seemed at the outset
of his career in the village as if there had been a combination of
circumstance and effort to put him on his guard, and, indeed, rather to
prejudice him against his employer; and Mr. Harum, as it now appeared to
our friend, had on one or two occasions laid himself open to
misjudgment, if no more. No allusion had ever been made to the episode
of the counterfeit money by either his employer or himself, and it was
not till months afterward that the subject was brought up by Mr. Richard
Larrabee, who sauntered into the bank one morning. Finding no one there
but John, he leaned over the counter on his elbows, and, twisting one
leg about the other in a restful attitude, proceeded to open up a
conversation upon various topics of interest to his mind. Dick was Mr.
Harum's confidential henchman and factotum, although not regularly so
employed. His chief object in life was apparently to get as much
amusement as possible out of that experience, and he was quite
unhampered by over-nice notions of delicacy or bashfulness. But, withal,
Mr. Larrabee was a very honest and loyal person, strong in his likes and
dislikes, devoted to David, for whom he had the greatest admiration, and
he had taken a fancy to our friend, stoutly maintaining that he "wa'n't
no more stuck-up 'n you be," only, as he remarked to Bill Perkins, "he
hain't had the advantigis of your bringin' up."
After some preliminary talk--"Say," he said to John, "got stuck with any
more countyfit money lately?"
John's face reddened a little and Dick laughed.
"The old man told me about it," he said. "Say, you'd ought to done as he
told ye to. You'd 'a' saved fifteen dollars," Dick declared, looking at
our friend with an expression of the utmost amusement.
"I don't quite understand," said John rather stiffly.
"Didn't he tell ye to charge 'em up to the bank, an' let him take 'em?"
asked Dick.
"Well?" said John shortly.
"Oh, yes, I know," said Mr. Larrabee. "He said sumpthin' to make you
think he was goin' to pass 'em out, an' you didn't give him no show to
explain, but jest marched into the back room an' stuck 'em onto the
fire. Ho, ho, ho, ho! He told me all about it," cried Dick. "Say," he
declared, "I dunno 's I ever see the old man more kind o' womble-cropped
over anythin'. Why, he wouldn't no more 'a' passed them bills 'n he'd
'a' cut his hand off. He, he, he, he! He was jest ticklin' your heels a
little," said Mr. Larrabee, "to see if you'd kick, an'," chuckled the
speaker, "you _surely_ did."
"Perhaps I acted rather hastily," said John, laughing a little from
contagion.
"Wa'al," said Dick, "Dave's got ways of his own. I've summered an'
wintered with him now for a good many years, an' _I_ ain't got to the
bottom of him yet, an'," he added, "I don't know nobody that has."