THERE were days when there was a mighty ferment in the systems of
Griggsby.
On a gray, chilly Saturday in the early autumn the village was full of
farmer folk who had come to market their produce. With these people and
the mill hands, Saturday was apt to be a busy day, with all doors open
until eight or nine o'clock. Most of the farmers went home in good order
after their selling and buying. Some, however, proceeded to squander the
proceeds and went home reeling in their wagons, with horses running and
lathering under the whip.
Late in the afternoon Henry Dunbar and I were walking down the main
street when we saw a crowd gathering and heard an outburst of drunken
profanity. We ran with the crowd, which was surrounding the town bully,
a giant blacksmith, of the name of Josh, noted for his great strength
and thunderous voice, and a farmer from an Irish neighborhood above the
village. Both had been drinking, and the blacksmith was berating the
farmer. We mounted a wagon that stood near, where we could see and hear.
The blacksmith had rolled up his right shirt sleeve to the shoulder, and
stood with his huge arm raised as the foul thunder of his wrath broke
the peace of the village.
The farmer rushed in, striking with both fists. Josh seized him about
the shoulders, and the two wrestled for a moment, then fell, the farmer
underneath. Josh held him by his hair and ears, and was banging his head
on the stone pavement. It was now like a fight between bulldogs; blood
was flowing. The farmer had the blacksmith's thumb between his teeth,
and the latter was roaring with pain. There were loud cries of “Stop
it!” Two bystanders were tugging at the great shoulders of Josh.
Henry and I leaped from the wagon, pushed our way through the crowd,
and, seizing the blacksmith by his collar, broke their holds with
a quick pull and brought Josh's neck to the ground. The farmer was
surrounded and pushed away, while the mighty Josh made for me. I was
minded to run away, but how could I, after all that Smead had said to
me? I expected to be killed, but I could not run away. So I did a
thing no man had ever done before when the great Josh was coming. I ran
straight at the giant and, as I met him, delivered a blow, behind
which was the weight and impulse of my body, full in the face of that
redoubtable man. It was like the stroke of a hundred-and-sixty-pound
sledge hammer. The man toppled backward and fell into a cellarway,
head foremost, burst the door at the foot of the stairs, and stopped
senseless on the threshold of a butcher's shop. It was a notable fall,
that of this town bully, and his pristine eminence was never wholly
recovered. Henry, too, was set upon by rowdy partisans, and was
defending himself when the town constable reached the battlefield and
arrested Josh and the farmer and me for a breach of the peace. But the
incident was not closed.
Friends of the fighters began to discuss the merits of the men and their
quarrel in the bar-rooms and stable yards of Griggsby. Feeling ran high,
and there was noisy brawling in the streets.
Soon after nightfall a fight began in a bar-room between the two
factions represented by farmer boys and horse-rubbers, and was carried
into the back yard; and while it lasted one young man was kicked in the
chest until he was nearly dead. Word ran through the town that a murder
had been committed. The Websterian age of Griggsby had come to its
climax, and naturally.
Next day Henry was arrested for his part in the affray. His father, who
happened to be in Boston at the time, was summoned by a telegram from
Florence. He came, and the result of his coming was the purchase of
_The Little Corporal_ for his daughter. I sat with him and his son and
daughter when Dan'l Webster Smead told him the story of that day with
the insight of a true philosopher.
“The old town is in a bad way,” said Dunbar, when the story was
finished.
“But it can be set right,” said Smead, “an' you're the man to do it.”
“How?”
“Buy _The Little Corporal_ for your daughter, an' we'll do the rest,”
said Smead.
Mr. Dunbar shook his head. “I'd rather she'd marry some fine young
fellow and settle down,” said he.
“What's the matter with her doin' both?” Smead asked.
“Give me the _Corporal_, and I'll attend to the young fellow,” said
Florence.
“Well, if you'll agree to help her in both enterprises,” said Dunbar to
Smead, “I'll buy the paper. But you and Havelock must agree to help with
the newspaper, and make no important contracts without my consent.”
So I agreed to work for the _Corporal_, and changed my plan of leaving
Griggsby.
Immediately I began to suffer an ill-earned and unwelcome adulation. The
Dan'l Websters touched their hats when I passed, and one likened me to
Achilles; small boys followed me in the streets and gazed into my face.
Fortunately, my alleged crimes were soon forgotten. That is one
curious thing about the Yankees: they will use a lie for conversational
purposes, but they never believe it. They rarely love a man until
they have taken him apart and put him together again by the surgery of
conversation. They want to know how he stands it.