I MEET PRESIDENT VAN BUREN AND AM CROSS-EXAMINED BY MR. GRIMSHAW
The days went easier after that. The boys took me into their play and
some of them were most friendly. I had a swift foot and a good eye as
well as a strong arm, and could hold my own at three-old-cat--a kind of
baseball which we played in the school yard. Saturday came. As we were
sitting down at the table that morning the younger children clung to the
knees of Mr. Hacket and begged him to take them up the river in a boat.
"Good Lord! What wilt thou give me when I grow childless?" he exclaimed
with his arms around them. "That was the question of Abraham, and it
often comes to me. Of course we shall go. But hark! Let us hear what the
green chair has to say."
There was a moment of silence and then he went on with a merry laugh.
"Right ye are, Michael Henry! You are always right, my boy--God bless
your soul! We shall take Bart with us an' doughnuts an' cheese an'
cookies an' dried meat for all."
From that moment I date the beginning of my love for the occupant of the
green chair in the home of Michael Hacket. Those good people were
Catholics and I a Protestant and yet this Michael Henry always insisted
upon the most delicate consideration for my faith and feelings.
"I promised to spend the morning in the field with Mr. Wright, if I may
have your consent, sir," I said.
"Then we shall console ourselves, knowing that you are in better
company," said Mr. Hacket.
Mr. Dunkelberg called at the house in Ashery Lane to see me after
breakfast.
"Bart, if you will come with me I should like to order some store
clothes and boots for you," he said in his squeaky voice.
For a moment I knew not how to answer him. Nettled as I had been by
Sally's treatment of me, the offer was like rubbing ashes on the
soreness of my spirit.
I blushed and surveyed my garments and said:
"I guess I look pretty badly, don't I?"
"You look all right, but I thought, maybe, you would feel better in
softer raiment, especially if you care to go around much with the young
people. I am an old friend of the family and I guess it would be proper
for me to buy the clothes for you. When you are older you can buy a suit
for me, sometime, if you care to."
It should be understood that well-to-do people in the towns were more
particular about their dress those days than now.
"I'll ask my aunt and uncle about it," I proposed.
"That's all right," he answered. "I'm going to drive up to your house
this afternoon and your uncle wishes you to go with me. We are all to
have a talk with Mr. Grimshaw."
He left me and I went over to Mr. Wright's.
They told me that he was cutting corn in the back lot, where I found
him.
"How do I look in these clothes?" I bravely asked.
"Like the son of a farmer up in the hills and that's just as you ought
to look," he answered.
In a moment he added as he reaped a hill of corn with his sickle.
"I suppose they are making fun of you, partner."
"Some," I answered, blushing.
"Don't mind that," he advised, and then quoted the stanza:
"Were I as tall to reach the pole
Or grasp the ocean in a span,
I'd still me measured by my soul;
The mind's the standard of the man."
"Mr. Dunkelberg came this morning and wanted to buy me some new clothes
and boots," I said.
[Illustration: "Good Lord! What wilt thou give me when I grow
childless?"]
The Senator stopped work and stood looking at me with his hands upon his
hips.
"I wouldn't let him do it if I were you," he said thoughtfully.
Just then I saw a young man come running toward us in the distant field.
Mr. Wright took out his compass.
"Look here," he said, "you see the needle points due north."
He took a lodestone out of his pocket and holding it near the compass
moved it back and forth. The needle followed it.
The young man came up to us breathing deeply. Perspiration was rolling
off his face. He was much excited and spoke with some difficulty.
"Senator Wright," he gasped, "Mrs. Wright sent me down to tell you that
President Van Buren is at the house."
I remember vividly the look of mild amusement in the Senator's face and
the serene calmness with which he looked at the young man and said to
him:
"Tell Mrs. Wright to make him comfortable in our easiest chair and to
say to the President that I shall be up directly."
To my utter surprise he resumed his talk with me as the young man went
away.
"You see all ways are north when you put this lodestone near the
needle," he went on. "If it is to tell you the truth you must keep the
lodestone away from the needle. It's that way, too, with the compass of
your soul, partner. There the lodestone is selfishness, and with its
help you can make any direction look right to you and soon--you're
lost."
He put his hand on my arm and said in a low tone which made me to
understand that it was for my ear only.
"What I fear is that they may try to tamper with your compass. Look out
for lodestones."
He was near the end of a row and went on with his reaping as he said:
"I could take my body off this row any minute, but the only way to get
my mind off it is to go to its end."
He bound the last bundle and then we walked together toward the house,
the Senator carrying his sickle.
"I shall introduce you to the President," he said as we neared our
destination. "Then perhaps you had better leave us."
At home we had read much about the new President and regarded him with
deep veneration. In general I knew the grounds of it--his fight against
the banks for using public funds for selfish purposes and "swapping
mushrats for mink" with the government, as uncle put it, by seeking to
return the same in cheapened paper money; his long battle for the
extension of the right of suffrage in our state; his fiery eloquence in
debate. Often I had heard Uncle Peabody say that Van Buren had made it
possible for a poor man to vote in York State and hold up his head like
a man. So I was deeply moved by the prospect of seeing him.
I could not remember that I had ever been "introduced" to anybody. I
knew that people put their wits on exhibition and often flung down a
"snag" by way of demonstrating their fitness for the honor, when they
were introduced in books. I remember asking rather timidly:
"What shall I say when--when you--introduce me?"
"Oh, say anything that you want to say," he answered with a look of
amusement.
"I'm kind o' scared," I said.
"You needn't be--he was once a poor boy just like you."
"Just like _me_!" I repeated, thoughtfully, for while I had heard a good
deal of that kind of thing in our home, it had not, somehow, got under
my jacket, as they used to say.
"Just like _you_--cowhide and all--the son of a small freeholder in
Kinderhook on the Hudson," he went on. "But he was well fed in brain and
body and kept his heart clean. So, of course, he grew and is still
growing. That's a curious thing about men and women, Bart. If
they are in good ground and properly cared for they never stop
growing-never!--and that's a pretty full word--isn't it?"
I felt its fulness, but the Senator had a way of stopping just this side
of the grave in all his talks with me, and so there was no sign of
preaching in any of it.
"As time goes on you'll meet a good many great men, I presume," he
continued. "They're all just human beings like you and me. Most of them
enjoy beefsteak, and apple pie and good boys."
We had come in sight of the house. I lagged behind a little when I saw
the great man sitting on the small piazza with Mrs. Wright. I shall
never forget the grand clothes he wore--black, saving the gray
waistcoat, with shiny, brass buttons--especially the great, white
standing collar and cravat. I see vividly, too, as I write, the full
figure, the ruddy, kindly face, the large nose, the gray eyes, the thick
halo of silvered hair extending from his collar to the bald top of his
head. He rose and said in a deep voice:
"He sows ill luck who hinders the reaper."
Mr. Wright hung his sickle on a small tree in the dooryard and answered.
"The plowman has overtaken the reaper, Mr. President. I bid you welcome
to my humble home."
"It is a pleasure to be here and a regret to call you back to
Washington," said the President as they shook hands.
"I suppose that means an extra session," the Senator answered.
"First let me reassure you. I shall get away as soon as possible, for I
know that a President is a heavy burden for one to have on his hands."
"Don't worry. I can get along with almost any kind of a human being,
especially if he likes pudding and milk as well as you do," said the
Senator, who then introduced me in these words:
"Mr. President, this is my young friend Barton Baynes of the
neighborhood of Lickitysplit in the town of Ballybeen--a coming man of
this county."
"Come on," was the playful remark of the President as he took my hand.
"I shall be looking for you."
I had carefully chosen my words and I remember saying, with some
dignity, like one in a story book, although with a trembling voice:
"It is an honor to meet you, sir, and thank you for the right to
vote--when I am old enough."
Vividly, too, I remember his gentle smile as he looked down at me and
said in a most kindly tone:
"I think it a great honor to hear you say that."
He put his hands upon my shoulders and turning to the Senator said:
"Wright, I often wish that I had your modesty."
"I need it much more than you do," the Senator laughed.
Straightway I left them with an awkward bow and blushing to the roots of
my hair. A number of boys and girls stood under the shade trees opposite
looking across at the President. In my embarrassment I did not identify
any one in the group. Numbers of men and women were passing the house
and, as they did so, taking "a good look," in their way of speaking at
the two great men. Not before had I seen so many people walking
about--many in their best clothes.
As I neared the home of Mr. Hacket I heard hurrying footsteps behind me
and the voice of Sally calling my name. I stopped and faced about.
How charming she looked as she walked toward me! I had never seen her
quite so fixed up.
"Bart," she said. "I suppose you're not going to speak to me."
"If you'll speak to me," I answered.
"I love to speak to you," she said. "I've been looking all around for
you. Mother wants you to come over to dinner with us at just twelve
o'clock. You're going away with father as soon as we get through."
I wanted to go but got the notion all at once that the Dunkelbergs were
in need of information about me and that the time had come to impart it.
So then and there, that ancient Olympus of our family received notice
as it were.
"I can't," I said. "I've got to study my lessons before I go away with
your father."
It was a blow to her. I saw the shadow that fell upon her face. She was
vexed and turned and ran away from me without another word and I felt a
pang of regret as I went to the lonely and deserted home of the
schoolmaster.
I had hoped that the Senator would ask me to dinner, but the coming of
the President had upset the chance of it. It was eleven o'clock. Mrs.
Hacket had put a cold bite on the table for me. I ate it--not to keep it
waiting--and sat down with my eyes on my book and my mind at the
Dunkelbergs'--where I heard in a way what Sally was saying and what "Mr.
and Mrs. Horace Dunkelberg" were saying.
At twelve-thirty Mr. Dunkelberg came for me, with a high-stepping horse
in a new harness and a shiny still-running buggy. He wore gloves and a
beaver hat and sat very erect and had little to say.
"I hear you met the President," he remarked.
"Yes, sir. I was introduced to him this morning," I answered a bit too
proudly, and wondering how he had heard of my good fortune, but deeply
gratified at his knowledge of it.
"What did he have to say?"
I described the interview and the looks of the great man. Not much more
was said as we sped away toward the deep woods and the high hills.
I was eager to get home but wondered why he should be going with me to
talk with Mr. Grimshaw and my uncle. Of course I suspected that it had
to do with Amos but how I knew not. He hummed in the rough going and
thoughtfully nicked the bushes with his whip. I never knew a more
persistent hummer.
What a thrill came to me when I saw the house and the popple tree and
the lilac bushes--they looked so friendly! Old Shep came barking up the
road to meet us and ran by the buggy side with joyful leaps and cries.
With what affection he crowded upon me and licked my face and hands when
my feet were on the ground at last! Aunt Deel and Uncle Peabody were
coming in from the pasture lot with sacks of butternuts on a
wheelbarrow. My uncle clapped his hands and waved his handkerchief and
shouted "Hooray!"
Aunt Deel shook hands with Mr. Dunkelberg and then came to me and said:
"Wal, Bart Baynes! I never was so glad to see anybody in all the days o'
my life--ayes! We been lookin' up the road for an hour--ayes! You come
right into the house this minute--both o' you."
The table was spread with the things I enjoyed most--big brown biscuits
and a great comb of honey surrounded with its nectar and a pitcher of
milk and a plate of cheese and some jerked meat and an apple pie.
"Set right down an' eat--I just want to see ye eat--ayes I do!"
Aunt Deel was treating me like company and with just a pleasant touch of
the old company finish in her voice and manner. It was for my
benefit--there could be no doubt of that--for she addressed herself to
me, chiefly, and not to Mr. Dunkelberg. My absence of a few days had
seemed so long to them! It had raised me to the rank of company and even
put me above the exalted Dunkelbergs although if Mrs. Horace Dunkelberg
had been there in her blue silk and gold chain "big enough to drag a
stone boat," as Aunt Deel used to say, she might have saved the day for
them. Who knows? Aunt Deel was never much impressed by any man save
Silas Wright, Jr.
Mr. Grimshaw came soon after we had finished our luncheon. He hitched
his horse at the post and came in. He never shook hands with anybody. In
all my life I have met no man of scanter amenities. All that kind of
thing was, in his view, I think, a waste of time, a foolish
encouragement to men who were likely to be seeking favors.
"Good day," he said, once and for all, as he came in at the open door.
"Baynes, I want to have a talk with you and the boy."
I remember how each intake of his breath hissed through his lips as he
sat down. How worn and faded were his clothes and hat, which was still
on his head! The lines on his rugged brow and cheeks were deeper than
ever.
"Tell me what you know about that murder," he demanded.
"Wal, I had some business over to Plattsburg," my uncle began. "While I
was there I thought I'd go and see Amos. So I drove out to Beekman's
farm. They told me that Amos had left there after workin' four days.
They gave him fourteen shillin's an' he was goin' to take the stage in
the mornin'. He left some time in the night an' took Beekman's rifle
with him, so they said. There was a piece o' wood broke out o' the stock
o' the rifle. That was the kind o' gun that was used in the murder."
It surprised me that my uncle knew all this. He had said nothing to me
of his journey or its result.
"How do you know?" snapped Mr. Grimshaw.
"This boy see it plain. It was a gun with a piece o' wood broke out o'
the stock."
"Is that so?" was the brusque demand of the money-lender as he turned to
me.
"Yes, sir," I answered.
"The boy lies," he snapped, and turning to my uncle added: "Yer mad
'cause I'm tryin' to make ye pay yer honest debts--ain't ye now?"
We were stunned by this quick attack. Uncle Peabody rose suddenly and
sat down again. Mr. Grimshaw looked at him with a strange smile and a
taunting devilish laugh came out of his open lips.
Uncle Peabody, keeping his temper, shook his head and calmly said: "No I
ain't anything ag'in' you or Amos, but it's got to be so that a man can
travel the roads o' this town without gettin' his head blowed off."
Mr. Dunkelberg jumped into the breach then, saying:
"I told Mr. Grimshaw that you hadn't any grudge against him or his boy
and that I knew you'd do what you could to help in this matter."
"Of course I'll help in any way I can," my uncle answered. "I couldn't
harm him if I tried--not if he's innocent. All he's got to do is to
prove where he was that night."
"Suppose he was lost in the woods?" Mr. Dunkelberg asked.
"The truth wouldn't harm him any," my uncle insisted. "Them tracks
wouldn't fit his boots, an' they'd have to."
Mr. Dunkelberg turned to me and asked:
"Are you sure that the stock of the gun you saw was broken?"
"Yes, sir-and I'm almost sure it was Amos that ran away with it."
"Why?"
"I picked up a stone and threw it at him and it grazed the left side of
his face, and the other night I saw the scar it made."
My aunt and uncle and Mr. Dunkelberg moved with astonishment as I spoke
of the scar. Mr. Grimshaw, with keen eyes fixed upon me, gave a little
grunt of incredulity.
"Huh!--Liar!" he muttered.
"I am not a liar," I declared with indignation, whereupon my aunt
angrily stirred the fire in the stove and Uncle Peabody put his hand on
my arm and said:
"Hush, Bart! Keep your temper, son."
"If you tell these things you may be the means of sending an innocent
boy to his death," Mr. Dunkelberg said to me. "I wouldn't be too sure
about 'em if I were you. It's so easy to be mistaken. You couldn't be
sure in the dusk that the stone really hit him, could you?"
I answered: "Yes, sir--I saw the stone hit and I saw him put his hand on
the place while he was running. I guess it hurt him some."
"Look a' here, Baynes," Mr. Grimshaw began in that familiar scolding
tone of his. "I know what you want an' we might jest as well git right
down to business first as last. You keep this boy still an' I'll give ye
five years' interest."
Aunt Deel gave a gasp and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Uncle
Peabody changed color as he rose from his chair with a strange look on
his face. He swung his big right hand in the air as he said:
"By the eternal jumpin'--"
He stopped, pulled down the left sleeve of his flannel shirt and walked
to the water pail and drank out of the dipper.
"The times are hard," Grimshaw resumed in a milder tone. "These days the
rich men dunno what's a-comin' to 'em. If you don't have no interest to
pay you ought to git along easy an' give this boy the eddication of a
Sile Wright."
There was that in his tone and face which indicated that in his opinion
Sile had more "eddication" than any man needed.
"Say, Mr. Grimshaw, I'm awful sorry for ye," said my uncle as he
returned to his chair, "but I've always learnt this boy to tell the
truth an' the hull truth. I know the danger I'm in. We're gettin' old.
It'll be hard to start over ag'in an' you can ruin us if ye want to an'
I'm as scared o' ye as a mouse in a cat's paw, but this boy has got to
tell the truth right out plain. I couldn't muzzle him if I tried--he's
too much of a man. If you're scared o' the truth you mus' know that Amos
is guilty."
Mr. Grimshaw shook his head with anger and beat the floor with the end
of his cane.
"Nobody knows anything o' the kind, Baynes," said Mr. Dunkelberg. "Of
course Amos never thought o' killing anybody. He's a harmless kind of a
boy. I know him well and so do you. The only thing that anybody ever
heard against him is that he's a little lazy. Under the circumstances
Mr. Grimshaw is afraid that Bart's story will make it difficult for Amos
to prove his innocence. Just think of it. That boy was lost and
wandering around in the woods at the time o' the murder. As to that
scar, Amos says that he ran into a stub when he was going through a
thicket in the night."
Uncle Peabody shook his head with a look of firmness.
Again Grimshaw laughed between his teeth as he looked at my uncle. In
his view every man had his price.
"I see that I'm the mouse an' you're the cat," he resumed, as that
curious laugh rattled in his throat. "Look a' here, Baynes, I'll tell ye
what I'll do. I'll cancel the hull mortgage."
Again Uncle Peabody rose from his chair with a look in his face which I
have never forgotten. How his voice rang out!
"_No, sir_!" he shouted so loudly that we all jumped to our feet and
Aunt Deel covered her face with her apron and began to cry. It was like
the explosion of a blast. Then the fragments began falling with a loud
crash:
"NO, SIR! YE CAN'T BUY THE NAIL ON MY LITTLE FINGER OR HIS WITH ALL YER
MONEY--DAMN YOU!"
It was like the shout of Israel from the top of the mountains. Shep
bounced into the house with hair on end and the chickens cackled and the
old rooster clapped his wings and crowed with all the power of his
lungs. Every member of that little group stood stock-still and
breathless.
I trembled with a fear I could not have defined. Quick relief came when,
straightway, my uncle went out of the room and stood on the stoop, back
toward us, and blew his nose vigorously with his big red handkerchief.
He stood still looking down and wiping his eyes. Mr. Grimshaw shuffled
out of the door, his cane rapping the floor as if his arm had been
stricken with palsy in a moment.
Mr. Dunkelberg turned to my aunt, his face scarlet, and muttered an
apology for the disturbance and followed the money-lender.
I remember that my own eyes were wet as I went to my aunt and kissed
her. She kissed me--a rare thing for her to do--and whispered brokenly
but with a smile: "We'll go down to the poorhouse together, Bart, but
we'll go honest."
"Come on, Bart," Uncle Peabody called cheerfully, as he walked toward
the barnyard. "Le's go an' git in them but'nuts."
He paid no attention to our visitors--neither did my aunt, who followed
us. The two men talked together a moment, unhitched their horses, got
into their buggies and drove away. The great red rooster had stood on
the fence eying them. As they turned their horses and drove slowly
toward the gate, he clapped his wings and crowed lustily.
"Give it to 'em, ol' Dick," said Uncle Peabody with a clap of his hands.
"Tell 'em what ye think of 'em."
At last the Dunkelbergs had fallen--the legendary, incomparable
Dunkelbergs!
"Wal, I'm surprised at Mr. Horace Dunkelberg tryin' to come it over us
like that--ayes! I be," said Aunt Deel.
"Wal, I ain't," said Uncle Peabody. "Ol' Grimshaw has got him under his
thumb--that's what's the matter. You'll find he's up to his ears in debt
to Grimshaw--prob'ly."
As we followed him toward the house, he pushing the wheelbarrow loaded
with sacks of nuts, he added:
"At last Grimshaw has found somethin' that he can't buy an' he's awful
surprised. Too bad he didn't learn that lesson long ago."
He stopped his wheelbarrow by the steps and we sat down together on the
edge of the stoop as he added:
"I got mad--they kep' pickin' on me so--I'm sorry, but I couldn't help
it. We'll start up ag'in somewheres if we have to. There's a good many
days' work in me yet."
As we carried the bags to the attic room I thought of the lodestone and
the compass and knew that Mr. Wright had foreseen what was likely to
happen. When we came down Uncle Peabody said to me:
"Do you remember what you read out of a book one night about a man
sellin' his honor?"
"Yes," I answered. "It's one o' the books that Mr. Wright gave us."
"It's somethin' purty common sense," he remarked, "an' we stopped and
talked it over. I wish you'd git the book an' read it now."
I found the book and read aloud the following passage:
"Honor is a strange commodity. It can not be divided and sold in
part. All or none is the rule of the market. While it can be sold
in a way, it can not be truly bought. It vanishes in the transfer
of its title and is no more. Who seeks to buy it gains only loss.
It is the one thing which distinguishes manhood from property. Who
sells his honor sells his manhood and becomes simply a thing of
meat and blood and bones--a thing to be watched and driven and
cudgelled like the ox--for he has sold that he can not buy, not if
all the riches in the world were his."
A little silence followed the words. Then Uncle Peabody said:
"That's the kind o' stuff in our granary. We've been reapin' it out o'
the books Mr. Grimshaw scolded about, a little here an' a little there
for years, an' we knew it was good wheat. If he had books like that in
his house mebbe Amos would 'a' been different. An' he'd 'a' been
different. He wouldn't 'a' had to come here tryin' to buy our honor like
you'd buy a hoss."
"Oh, dear!" Aunt Deel exclaimed wearily, with her hands over her eyes;
"a boy has to have somethin' besides pigs an' cattle an' threats an'
stones an' hoss dung an' cow manure to take up his mind."
Uncle Peabody voiced my own feeling when he said:
"I feel sorry, awful sorry, for that boy."
We spent a silent afternoon gathering apples. After supper we played Old
Sledge and my uncle had hard work to keep us in good countenance. We
went to bed early and I lay long hearing the autumn wind in the popple
leaves and thinking of that great thing which had grown strong within
us, little by little, in the candle-light.