THE ESCUTCHEON CLEARED
Mr. Michael Gwynne, the Mapleton storekeeper, was undoubtedly the most
popular man not in the village only but in the whole township. To begin
with he was a man of high character, which was sufficiently guaranteed
by the fact that he was chosen as Rector's Warden in All Saints
Episcopal Church. He was moreover the Rector's right-hand man, ready to
back up any good cause with personal effort, with a purse always open
but not often full, and with a tongue that was irresistible, for he had
to an extraordinary degree the gift of persuasive speech. Therefore,
the Rector's first move in launching any new scheme was to secure the
approval and co-operation of his Warden.
By the whole community too Mr. Gwynne was recognised as a gentleman, a
gentleman not in appearance and bearing only, a type calculated to
repel plain folk, but a gentleman in heart, with a charm of manner which
proceeded from a real interest in and consideration for the welfare
of others. This charm of manner proved a valuable asset to him in his
business, for behind his counter Mr. Gwynne had a rare gift of investing
the very calicoes and muslins which he displayed before the dazzled eyes
of the ladies who came to buy with a glamour that never failed to make
them appear altogether desirable; and even the hard-headed farmers fell
under this spell of his whether he described to them the superexcellent
qualities of a newly patented cream separator or the virtues of a new
patent medicine for ailing horses whose real complaint was overwork or
underfeeding. With all this, moreover, Mr. Gwynne was rigidly honest. No
one ever thought of disputing an account whether he paid it or not, and
truth demands that with Mr. Gwynne's customers the latter course was
more frequently adopted.
It was at this point that Mr. Gwynne failed of success as a business
man. He could buy with discrimination, he had a rare gift of
salesmanship, but as a collector, in the words of Sam Cheatley, the
village butcher, himself a conspicuous star in that department of
business activity, “He was not worth a tinker's curse.” His accounts
were sent out punctually twice a year. His wife saw to that. At times
of desperation when pressure from the wholesale houses became urgent,
special statements were sent out by Mr. Gwynne himself. But in such
cases the apology accompanying these statements was frequently such as
to make immediate payment seem almost an insult. His customers held him
in high esteem, respected his intellectual ability--for he was a Trinity
man--were fascinated by his charm of manner, loved him for his kindly
qualities, but would not pay their bills.
Many years ago, having failed to work harmoniously with his business
partner, a shrewd, hard-headed, Belfast draper--hard-hearted Mr. Gwynne
considered him--Mr. Gwynne had decided to emigrate to Canada with the
remnant of a small fortune which was found to be just sufficient to
purchase the Mapleton general store, and with it a small farm of fifty
acres on the corner of which the store stood. It was the farm that
decided the investment; for Mr. Gwynne was possessed of the town man's
infatuation for farm life and of the optimistic conviction that on
the farm a living at least for himself and his small family would be
assured.
But his years of business in Mapleton had gradually exhausted his
fortune and accumulated a staggering load of debt which was the occasion
of moments of anxiety, even of fear, to the storekeeper. There was
always the thought in his mind that against his indebtedness on the
credit side there were his book accounts which ran up into big figures.
There was always, if the worst came to the worst, the farm. But if Mr.
Gwynne was no business man still less was he a farmer. Tied to his store
by reason of his inability to afford a competent assistant, the farming
operations were carried on in haphazard fashion by neighbours who were
willing to liquidate their store debts with odd days' work at times most
convenient to themselves, but not always most seasonable for the crops.
Hence in good years, none too good with such haphazard farming, the farm
was called upon to make up the deficiency in the financial returns
of the store. In bad years notes had to be renewed with formidable
accumulations of interest. But such was Mr. Gwynne's invincible optimism
that he met every new embarrassment with some new project giving new
promise of success.
Meanwhile during these painful years his brave little wife by her garden
and her poultry materially helped to keep the family in food and to meet
in some degree the household expenses. She was her own servant except
that the Widow Martin came to her aid twice a week. Her skill with
needle and sewing machine and a certain creative genius which she
possessed enabled her to evolve from her husband's old clothes new
clothes for her boy, and from her own clothing, when not too utterly
worn, dresses for her two little girls. And throughout these years with
all their toil and anxiety she met each day with a spirit undaunted and
with a face that remained serene as far at least as her husband and her
children ever saw. Nor did she allow the whole weight of trials to taint
the sweetness of her spirit or to dim her faith in God. Devoted to her
husband, she refused to allow herself to criticise his business ability
or methods. The failure, which she could not but admit, was not his
fault; it was the fault of those debtors who declined to pay their just
dues.
In an hour of desperation she ventured to point out to her husband that
these farmers were extending their holdings and buying machinery with
notes that bore interest. “And besides, Michael,” she said, “Lawrence
must go to High School next year. He will pass the Entrance examination
this summer, and he must go.”
“He shall go,” said her husband. “I am resolved to make a change in my
method of business. I shall go after these men. They shall no longer use
my money for their business and for their families while my business and
my family suffer. You need not look that way, I have made up my mind and
I shall begin at once.”
Unfortunately the season was not suitable for collections. The farmers
were engrossed with their harvesting, and after that with the fall
ploughing, and later with the marketing of their grain. And as the weeks
passed Mr. Gwynne's indignant resolve that his customers should not do
business on his money gradually cooled down. The accounts were sent out
as usual, and with the usual disappointing result.
Meantime Mr. Gwynne's attention was diverted from his delinquent debtors
by an enterprise which to an unusual degree awakened his sympathy and
kindled his imagination. The Reverend Heber Harding, ever since his
unfortunate encounter with the travelling evangelist, was haunted with
the uneasy feeling that he and his church were not completely fulfilling
their functions in the community and justifying their existence. The
impression had been the more painfully deepened in him by the sudden
eruption of a spirit of recklessness and a certain tendency to general
lawlessness in some of the young men of the village. As a result of a
conference with the leading men of his congregation, he had decided to
organise a young men's club. The business of setting this club in active
operation was handed over to Mr. Gwynne, than whom no one in the village
was better fitted for the work. The project appealed to Mr.
Gwynne's imagination. A room was secured in the disused Orange Hall.
Subscriptions were received to make purchase of apparatus and equipment
necessary for games of various sorts. With vivid remembrance of his
college days, Mr. Gwynne saw to it that as part of the equipment a place
should be found for a number of sets of boxing gloves.
There were those who were not too sure of the uplifting influence of
the boxing gloves. But after Mr. Gwynne had given an exhibition of the
superior advantages of science over brute force in a bout with Mack
Morrison before a crowded hall, whatever doubt might exist as to the
ethical value of the boxing gloves, there was no doubt at all as to
their value as an attractive force in the building up of the membership
of the Young Men's Club. The boxing class became immensely popular, and
being conducted under Mr. Gwynne's most rigid supervision, it gradually
came to exert a most salutary influence upon its members. They learned,
for one thing, to take hard knocks without losing their tempers.
In the boxing class thus established, none showed a greater eagerness
to learn than did Larry. Every moment of his father's spare time he
utilised to add to his knowledge of the various feints and guards and
cuts and punches and hooks that appeared necessary to a scientific
acquaintance with the manly art. He developed an amazing capacity to
accept punishment. Indeed, he appeared almost to welcome rough handling,
especially from the young men and boys bigger than himself. Light
in weight and not very muscular, he was wiry and quick in eye and in
action, and under his father's teaching he learned how to “make his
heels save his head.” He was always ready for a go with any one who
might offer, and when all others had wearied of the sport Larry would
put in an extra half hour with the punching bag. With one boy only he
refused to spar. No persuasion, no taunts, no challenge could entice him
to put on the gloves with Mop Cheatley. He could never look steadily at
Mop for any length of time without seeing again on his face the sneering
grin and hearing again the terrible words spoken two years ago in the
cedar woods behind the mill pond: “You're a coward and your mother's a
coward before you.” He refused to spar with Mop for he knew that
once face to face with him he could not spar, he must fight. But
circumstances made the contest inevitable. In the working out of a
tournament, it chanced that Mop was drawn to face Larry, and although
the disparity both in age and weight seemed to handicap the smaller boy
to an excessive degree, Larry's friends who were arranging the schedule,
among them Mack Morrison with big Ben Hopper and Joe Gagneau as chorus,
and who knew something of Larry's skill with his hands and speed on his
feet, were not unwilling to allow the draw to stand.
The days preceding the tournament were days of misery for Larry. The
decision in the contest would of course be on points and he knew that he
could outpoint without much difficulty his antagonist who was clumsy and
slow. For the decision Larry cared nothing at all. At the most he had
little to lose for it would be but small disgrace to be beaten by a boy
so much bigger. The cause of his distress was something quite other
than this. He knew that from the first moment of the bout he would be
fighting. That this undoubtedly would make Mop fight back, and he was
haunted by the fear that in the stress of battle he might play the
coward. Would he be able to stand up to Mop when the fight began to
go against him? And suppose he should run away, should show himself a
coward? How could he ever live after that, how look any of the boys in
the face? Worst of all, how could he face his father, whose approval in
this boxing game since he had revealed himself as a “fighting man” the
boy coveted more than anything else. But his father was not present when
the boy stepped into the ring. Impelled by the dread of showing himself
a coward and running away, Larry flung to the winds his father's
favourite maxim, “Let your heels save your head,” a maxim which ought
if ever to be observed in such a bout as this in which he was so
out-classed in weight.
At the word “Time” Larry leaped for his opponent and almost before Mop
was aware that the battle had begun he was being blinded, staggered and
beaten all around the ring, and only a lucky blow, flung wildly into
space and landing heavily upon Larry's face, saved him from complete
defeat in the first round. That single heavy blow was sufficient to give
temporary pause to Larry's impetuosity, but as soon as he got back his
wind he once more ran in, feinting, ducking, plunging, but ever pressing
hard upon his antagonist, who, having recovered from his first surprise,
began to plant heavy blows upon Larry's ribs, until at the end of the
round the boy was glad enough to sink back into his corner gasping for
breath.
Ben Hopper, who was acting as Larry's second, was filled with surprise
and indignation at his principal's fighting tactics. “You blame fool,”
he said to Larry as he ministered to his all too apparent necessities.
“What do you think you're doing? Do you think he's a sausage machine
and you a bloody porker? Keep away from him. You know he's too heavy for
you. If he were not so clumsy he would have had you out before this. One
good punch from him would do it. Why don't you do your foot work?”
“Corec,” said Joe. “Larree, you fight all the same Mack Morrison's ram.
Head down, jump in--head down, jump in. Why you run so queek on dat Mop
feller? Why you not make him run after you?”
“He's right, Larry,” said Ben. “Use your feet; make him come after you.
You will sure get his wind.”
But Larry stood recovering his breath, glowering meanwhile at his enemy
across the ring. He neither heeded nor heard the entreaties of his
friends. In his ears one phrase only rang with insistent reiteration.
“He's a coward, an' his mother's a coward before him.” Only one
obsession possessed him, he must keep hard at his enemy.
“Time!” The second round was on. Like a tiger upon his prey, Larry was
upon his foe, driving fast and furious blows upon his head and face. But
this time Mop was ready for him, and bearing in, head down, he took on
his left guard the driving blows with no apparent injury, and sent back
some half a dozen heavy swings that broke down Larry's guard, drove him
across the ring and finally brought him gasping to his knees.
“Stay where you are,” yelled Ben. “Take your count, Larry, and keep away
from him. Do you hear me? Keep away, always away.”
At the ninth count Larry sprang to his feet, easily eluded Mop's
swinging blow, and slipping lightly around the ring, escaped further
attack until he had picked up his wind.
“That's the game,” yelled Ben. “Keep it up, old boy, keep it up.”
“C'est bon stuff, Larree,” yelled Joe, dancing wildly in Ben's corner.
“C'est bon stuff, Larree, for sure.”
But once more master of his wind, Larry renewed his battering assault
upon Mop's head, inflicting some damage indeed, but receiving heavy
punishment in return. The close of the round found him exhausted and
bleeding. In spite of the adjurations and entreaties of his friends,
Larry pursued the same tactics in the third round, which ended even more
disastrously than the second. His condition was serious enough to bring
Mack Morrison to his side.
“What's up with you, Larry?” said Mack. “Where's your science gone? Why
don't you play the game as you know it?”
“Mack, Mack,” panted Larry. “It ain't a game. I'm--I'm fighting, and,
Mack, I'm not afraid of him.”
Mack whistled. “Who said you are afraid of him, youngster?”
“He did, Mack, he called me a coward--you remember, Ben, up in the cedar
bush that day we played hookey--you remember, Ben?” Ben nodded. “He
called me a coward and”--grinding the words between his teeth--“he
called my mother a coward. But I am not afraid of him, Mack--he can't
make me afraid; he can't make me run away.” What with his rage and his
secret fear, the boy had quite lost control of himself.
“So that's it,” said Mack, reading both rage and fear in his eyes.
“Listen to me, Larry,” he continued in a voice low and stern. “You quit
this monkey work right now or, by the jumping Jehoshaphat, I will lick
the tar out of you myself when this is over. You're not afraid of him;
I know that--we all know that. But you don't want to kill him, eh? No.
What you want is to make him look like a fool. Well, then, fight, if you
want to fight, but remember your rules. Play with him, make him follow
you round until you get his wind; there's your chance. Then get him hard
and get away.”
But the boy spoke no word in reply. He was staring gloomily,
desperately, before him into space.
Mack seized him, and shaking him impatiently, said, “Larry boy, listen
to me. Don't you care for anybody but yourself? Don't you care for me at
all?”
At that Larry appeared to wake up as from a sleep.
“What did you say, Mack?” he answered. “Of course I care, you know that,
Mack.”
“Then,” said Mack, “for God's sake, get a smile on your face. Smile,
confound you, smile.”
The boy passed his gloved hand over his face, looked for a moment into
Mack's eyes, and the old smile came back to his lips.
“Now you're all right,” cried Mack in triumph. “Remember your father's
rule, 'Keep your head with your heels.'” And Larry did remember! For
on the call of “Time” he slipped from Ben's knees and began to circle
lightly about Mop, smiling upon him and waiting his chance. His chance
soon came, for Mop, thinking that his enemy had had about enough and was
ready to quit, adopted aggressive tactics, and, feinting with his right,
swung heavily with his left at the smiling face. But the face proved
elusive, and upon Mop's undefended head a series of blows dealt with
savage fury took all the heart out of him. So he cried to the referee as
he ducked into his corner:
“He's fightin'. He's fightin'. I'm not fightin'.”
“You'd better get busy then,” called Ben derisively from his corner.
“Now, Larry, sail into him,” and Larry sailed in with such vehemence
that Mop fairly turned tail and ran around the ring, Larry pursuing him
amid the delighted shouts of the spectators.
This ended the contest, the judges giving the decision to Mop, who,
though obviously beaten at the finish, had showed a distinct superiority
on points. As for Larry, the decision grieved him not at all. He carried
home a face slightly disfigured but triumphant, his sole comment to his
mother upon the contest being, “I was not afraid of him anyway, mother;
he could not make me run.”
“I am not so sure of this boxing, Lawrence,” she said, but the boy
caught the glint in her eyes and was well enough content.
In the late evening Ben, with Larry and Joe following him, took occasion
to look in upon Mop at the butcher shop.
“Say, Mop,” said Ben pleasantly, “what do you think of Larry now? Would
you say he was a coward?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mop, suspecting trouble.
“Just what I say,” said Ben, while Larry moved up within range, his face
white, his eyes gleaming.
“I ain't saying nothing about nobody,” replied Mop sullenly, with the
tail of his eye upon Larry's white face and gleaming eyes.
“You say him one tam--in de cedar swamp,” said Joe.
“Would you say Larry was a coward?” repeated Ben.
“No, I wouldn't say nothing of the sort,” replied Mop promptly.
“Do you think he is a coward?” persisted Ben.
“No,” said Mop, “I know he ain't no coward. He don't fight like no
coward.”
This appeared to satisfy Ben, but Larry, moving slightly nearer, took up
the word for himself.
“And would you say my mother was a coward?” he asked in a tense voice,
his body gathered as if for a spring.
“Larry, I wouldn't say nothing about your mother,” replied Mop
earnestly. “I think your mother's a bully good woman. She was awfully
good to my mother last winter, I know.”
The spring went out of Larry's body. He backed away from Mop and the
boys.
“Who said your mother was a coward?” inquired Mop indignantly. “If
anybody says so, you bring him to me, and I'll punch his head good, I
will.”
Larry looked foolishly at Ben, who looked foolishly back at him.
“Say, Mop,” said Larry, a smile like a warm light passing over his face,
“come on up and see my new rabbits.”