I have spoken of my pistol. During the early part of our residence at
Rudder Grange I never thought of such a thing as owning a pistol.
But it was different now. I kept a Colt's revolver loaded in the bureau
drawer in our bedroom.
The cause of this change was burglars. Not that any of these unpleasant
persons had visited us, but we much feared they would. Several houses in
the vicinity had been entered during the past month, and we could never
tell when our turn would come.
To be sure, our boarder suggested that if we were to anchor out a little
further at night, no burglar would risk catching his death of cold by
swimming out to us; but Euphemia having replied that it would be rather
difficult to move a canal-boat every night without paddle-wheels, or
sails, or mules, especially if it were aground, this plan was considered
to be effectually disposed of.
So we made up our minds that we must fasten up everything very securely,
and I bought a pistol and two burglar-alarms. One of these I affixed to
the most exposed window, and the other to the door which opened on the
deck. These alarms were very simple affairs, but they were good enough.
When they were properly attached to a window or door, and it was opened,
a little gong sounded like a violently deranged clock, striking all the
hours of the day at once.
The window did not trouble us much, but it was rather irksome to have
to make the attachment to the door every night and to take it off every
morning. However, as Euphemia said, it was better to take a little
trouble than to have the house full of burglars, which was true enough.
We made all the necessary arrangements in case burglars should make an
inroad upon us. At the first sound of the alarm, Euphemia and the girl
were to lie flat on the floor or get under their beds. Then the boarder
and I were to stand up, back to back, each with pistol in hand, and fire
away, revolving on a common centre the while. In this way, by aiming
horizontally at about four feet from the floor, we could rake the
premises, and run no risk of shooting each other or the women of the
family.
To be sure, there were some slight objections to this plan. The
boarder's room was at some distance from ours, and he would probably not
hear the alarm, and the burglars might not be willing to wait while
I went forward and roused him up, and brought him to our part of the
house. But this was a minor difficulty. I had no doubt but that, if it
should be necessary, I could manage to get our boarder into position in
plenty of time.
It was not very long before there was an opportunity of testing the
plan.
About twelve o'clock one night one of the alarms (that on the kitchen
window) went off with a whirr and a wild succession of clangs. For a
moment I thought the morning train had arrived, and then I woke up.
Euphemia was already under the bed.
I hurried on a few clothes, and then I tried to find the bureau in the
dark. This was not easy, as I lost my bearings entirely. But I found it
at last, got the top drawer open and took out my pistol. Then I slipped
out of the room, hurried up the stairs, opened the door (setting off the
alarm there, by the way), and ran along the deck (there was a cold night
wind), and hastily descended the steep steps that led into the boarder's
room. The door that was at the bottom of the steps was not fastened,
and, as I opened it, a little stray moonlight illumed the room. I
hastily stepped to the bed and shook the boarder by the shoulder. He
kept HIS pistol under his pillow.
In an instant he was on his feet, his hand grasped my throat, and
the cold muzzle of his Derringer pistol was at my forehead. It was an
awfully big muzzle, like the mouth of a bottle.
I don't know when I lived so long as during the first minute that he
held me thus.
“Rascal!” he said. “Do as much as breathe, and I'll pull the trigger.”
I didn't breathe.
I had an accident insurance on my life. Would it hold good in a case
like this? Or would Euphemia have to go back to her father?
He pushed me back into the little patch of moonlight.
“Oh! is it you?” he said, relaxing his grasp. “What do you want? A
mustard plaster?”
He had a package of patent plasters in his room. You took one and dipped
it in hot water, and it was all ready.
“No,” said I, gasping a little. “Burglars.”
“Oh!” he said, and he put down his pistol and put on his clothes.
“Come along,” he said, and away we went over the deck.
When we reached the stairs all was dark and quiet below.
It was a matter of hesitancy as to going down.
I started to go down first, but the boarder held me back.
“Let me go down,” he said.
“No,” said I, “my wife is there.”
“That's the very reason you should not go,” he said. “She is safe enough
yet, and they would fire only at a man. It would be a bad job for her if
you were killed. I'll go down.”
So he went down, slowly and cautiously, his pistol in one hand, and his
life in the other, as it were.
When he reached the bottom of the steps I changed my mind. I could not
remain above while the burglar and Euphemia were below, so I followed.
The boarder was standing in the middle of the dining-room, into which
the stairs led. I could not see him, but I put my hand against him as I
was feeling my way across the floor.
I whispered to him:
“Shall we put our backs together and revolve and fire?”
“No,” he whispered back, “not now; he may be on a shelf by this time, or
under a table. Let's look him up.”
I confess that I was not very anxious to look him up, but I followed the
boarder, as he slowly made his way toward the kitchen door. As we opened
the door we instinctively stopped.
The window was open, and by the light of the moon that shone in, we saw
the rascal standing on a chair, leaning out of the window, evidently
just ready to escape. Fortunately, we were unheard.
“Let's pull him in,” whispered the boarder.
“No,” I whispered in reply. “We don't want him in. Let's hoist him out.”
“All right,” returned the boarder.
We laid our pistols on the floor, and softly approached the window.
Being barefooted, out steps were noiseless.
“Hoist when I count three,” breathed the boarder into my ear.
We reached the chair. Each of us took hold of two of its legs.
“One--two--three!” said the boarder, and together we gave a tremendous
lift and shot the wretch out of the window.
The tide was high, and there was a good deal of water around the boat.
We heard a rousing splash outside.
Now there was no need of silence.
“Shall we run on deck and shoot him as he swims?” I cried.
“No,” said the boarder, “we'll get the boat-hook, and jab him if he
tries to climb up.”
We rushed on deck. I seized the boat-hook and looked over the side. But
I saw no one.
“He's gone to the bottom!” I exclaimed.
“He didn't go very far then,” said the boarder, “for it's not more than
two feet deep there.”
Just then our attention was attracted by a voice from the shore.
“Will you please let down the gang-plank?” We looked ashore, and there
stood Pomona, dripping from every pore.
We spoke no words, but lowered the gangplank.
She came aboard.
“Good night!” said the boarder, and he went to bed.
“Pomona!” said I, “what have you been doing?”
“I was a lookin' at the moon, sir, when pop! the chair bounced, and out
I went.”
“You shouldn't do that,” I said, sternly.
“Some day you'll be drowned. Take off your wet things and go to bed.”
“Yes, sma'am--sir, I mean,” said she, as she went down-stairs.
When I reached my room I lighted the lamp, and found Euphemia still
under the bed.
“Is it all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “There was no burglar. Pomona fell out of the
window.”
“Did you get her a plaster?” asked Euphemia, drowsily.
“No, she did not need one. She's all right now. Were you worried about
me, dear?”
“No, I trusted in you entirely, and I think I dozed a little under the
bed.”
In one minute she was asleep.
The boarder and I did not make this matter a subject of conversation
afterward, but Euphemia gave the girl a lecture on her careless ways,
and made her take several Dover's powders the next day.
An important fact in domestic economy was discovered about this time by
Euphemia and myself. Perhaps we were not the first to discover it, but
we certainly did find it out,--and this fact was, that housekeeping
costs money. At the end of every week we counted up our expenditures--it
was no trouble at all to count up our receipts--and every week the
result was more unsatisfactory.
“If we could only get rid of the disagreeable balance that has to
be taken along all the time, and which gets bigger and bigger like a
snow-ball, I think we would find the accounts more satisfactory,” said
Euphemia.
This was on a Saturday night. We always got our pencils and paper and
money at the end of the week.
“Yes,” said I, with an attempt to appear facetious and unconcerned, “but
it would be all well enough if we could take that snow-ball to the fire
and melt it down.”
“But there never is any fire where there are snow-balls,” said Euphemia.
“No,” said I, “and that's just the trouble.”
It was on the following Thursday, when I came home in the evening, that
Euphemia met me with a glowing face. It rather surprised me to see her
look so happy, for she had been very quiet and preoccupied for the first
part of the week. So much so, indeed, that I had thought of ordering
smaller roasts for a week or two, and taking her to a Thomas Concert
with the money saved. But this evening she looked as if she did not need
Thomas's orchestra.
“What makes you so bright, my dear?” said I, when I had greeted her.
“Has anything jolly happened?”
“No,” said she; “nothing yet, but I am going to make a fire to melt
snow-balls.”
Of course I was very anxious to know how she was going to do it, but she
would not tell me. It was a plan that she intended to keep to herself
until she saw how it worked. I did not press her, because she had so few
secrets, and I did not hear anything about this plan until it had been
carried out.
Her scheme was as follows: After thinking over our financial condition
and puzzling her brain to find out some way of bettering it, she
had come to the conclusion that she would make some money by her own
exertions, to help defray our household expenses. She never had made any
money, but that was no reason why she should not begin. It was too bad
that I should have to toil and toil and not make nearly enough money
after all. So she would go to work and earn something with her own
hands.
She had heard of an establishment in the city, where ladies of limited
means, or transiently impecunious, could, in a very quiet and private
way, get sewing to do. They could thus provide for their needs without
any one but the officers of the institution knowing anything about it.
So Euphemia went to this place, and she got some work. It was not a very
large bundle, but it was larger than she had been accustomed to carry,
and, what was perfectly dreadful, it was wrapped up in a newspaper!
When Euphemia told me the story, she said that this was too much for her
courage. She could not go on the cars, and perhaps meet people belonging
to our church, with a newspaper bundle under her arm.
But her genius for expedients saved her from this humiliation. She had
to purchase some sewing-cotton, and some other little things, and when
she had bought them, she handed her bundle to the woman behind the
counter, and asked her if she would not be so good as to have that
wrapped up with the other things. It was a good deal to ask, she knew,
and the woman smiled, for the articles she had bought would not make a
package as large as her hand. However, her request was complied with,
and she took away a very decent package, with the card of the store
stamped on the outside. I suppose that there are not more than half a
dozen people in this country who would refuse Euphemia anything that she
would be willing to ask for.
So she took the work home, and she labored faithfully at it for about
a week, She did not suppose it would take her so long; but she was not
used to such very plain sewing, and was much afraid that she would not
do it neatly enough. Besides this, she could only work on it in the
daytime--when I was away--and was, of course, interrupted a great
deal by her ordinary household duties, and the necessity of a careful
oversight of Pomona's somewhat erratic methods of doing her work.
But at last she finished the job and took it into the city. She did not
want to spend any more money on the trip than was absolutely necessary,
and so was very glad to find that she had a remnant of pocket-money
sufficient to pay her fare both ways.
When she reached the city, she walked up to the place where her work was
to be delivered, and found it much farther when she went on foot than it
had seemed to her riding in the street cars. She handed over her bundle
to the proper person, and, as it was soon examined and approved, she
received her pay therefor.
It amounted to sixty cents. She had made no bargain, but she was a
little astonished. However, she said nothing, but left the place without
asking for any more work. In fact she forgot all about it. She had an
idea that everything was all wrong, and that idea engrossed her mind
entirely. There was no mistake about the sum paid, for the lady clerk
had referred to the printed table of prices when she calculated the
amount due. But something was wrong, and, at the moment, Euphemia could
not tell what it was. She left the place, and started to walk back to
the ferry. But she was so tired and weak, and hungry--it was now an hour
or two past her regular luncheon time--that she thought she should faint
if she did not go somewhere and get some refreshments.
So, like a sensible little woman as she was, she went into a restaurant.
She sat down at a table, and a waiter came to her to see what she would
have. She was not accustomed to eating-houses, and perhaps this was
the first time that she had ever visited one alone. What she wanted
was something simple. So she ordered a cup of tea and some rolls, and a
piece of chicken. The meal was a very good one, and Euphemia enjoyed it.
When she had finished, she went up to the counter to settle. Her bill
was sixty cents. She paid the money that she had just received, and
walked down to the ferry--all in a daze, she said. When she got home she
thought it over, and then she cried.
After a while she dried her eyes, and when I came home she told me all
about it.
“I give it up,” she said. “I don't believe I can help you any.”
Poor little thing! I took her in my arms and comforted her, and before
bedtime I had convinced her that she was fully able to help me better
than any one else on earth, and that without puzzling her brains about
business, or wearing herself out by sewing for pay.
So we went on in our old way, and by keeping our attention on our weekly
balance, we prevented it from growing very rapidly.
We fell back on our philosophy (it was all the capital we had), and
became as calm and contented as circumstances allowed.