STANDING FIRM.
Walter was enjoying a brief furlough at home in October. He was in his
mother’s sewing–room that opened out of the kitchen. It was a little
nest that had room only for a sewing machine, a table, and two chairs.
Walter was now occupying one of these chairs, and his mother sat at her
table, busily preparing some work for her nimble little machine. It
was a mild, autumn day, and through the opened window came the sound
of the cricket’s shrill piping, and the beating of the grain with an
old–fashioned flail, by Farmer Grant, in his barn on the opposite side
of the road. There was a crimson–stained maple near the house, that
suggested to Walter the opening of his conversation with his mother.
“How soon that maple has turned, mother!”
“Oh no. It is time for it.”
“Let me see. It is not so early for it after all. It’s the fifteenth
of October. The fifteenth! Why, that is the day Uncle Boardman said his
mill would be done, and on my way back, I guess I’ll stop there and see
how it looks.”
“That the mill where his trees are to be sawed up?”
“Yes, and I expect a lot more will come there. You see uncle built the
mill, and Baggs buys up the timber where he can, and he and uncle run
the mill together, and divide the profits somehow. But it has cost
something to put that mill up. I know uncle had to borrow money to do
it. I don’t like that Baggs at all, mother. He took me in at first, he
was so soft–spoken, but I think I know him now.”
“He has been up in this neighborhood trying to buy woodland, and wanted
your father to trade with him, but he wouldn’t. We don’t like his looks
up this way.”
There was a lull in the conversation. The cricket without still kept
up his sharp, piercing song, and Farmer Grant patiently beat out an
accompaniment to the cricket’s tune.
“How long is it now, Walter, since you were confirmed?”
“Three months, mother.”
“How are you getting along?”
“Well, mother, I can’t say that I am making much progress, but I am
trying to hold on.”
“Any progress we make in a religious life, comes from doing just what
you say you are doing, holding on. If we are regular in our prayers and
Bible–reading, if we patiently attend to our church duties, and just
try from hour to hour to do our duty to those about us, that is all one
can do. God will do the rest.”
“I had an idea, mother, when I began this life I should make more
progress, get along faster.”
“Don’t mind that. You must just stick to your purpose, and keep on. I
remember what Mark Simpson, an old fisherman down at The Harbor said
once. Said Mark,—‘Going to heaven is like tryin’ to row round B’ilin’
P’int when the tide is agin you. If you stick to your oars, and pull
ahead, you’ll come round all right.’ And I think Mark has shown that,
if any one has. He has had all sorts of troubles, and he does what he
advised, he sticks to his oars and pulls ahead. There’s a good deal,
Walter, in what I call religious habits; in being particular about your
prayers, in reading your Bible, in your attendance at church. Get the
wheel down into that track and keep going steadily, and you will find
everything easier.”
“Yes, I suppose so, mother.”
“And there is one thing which it is well for us all to know, Walter.
It’s the most important thing. I mean we must get hold of Christ,
understand what He has done for us, what He will do for us, and holding
Him before our eyes and in our hearts, try to do for Him, and be like
Him. And Walter, there is this thing I want you to be particular about,
to do some one specific thing for Him. Of course, you try to live for
Him; but I mean a particular duty.”
“What?”
“Well, may I speak of something? It sha’n’t be very hard. Of course,
you will go to church yourself; try to get everybody else you can.
There, do that.”
“Well, I will.”
The conversation went on. By and by, his mother exclaimed, “If it isn’t
eleven o’clock! And there is your lunch, but I will have it ready soon,
and what time do you start?”
“Twelve, in the mail–wagon, you know. I go as far as Uncle Boardman’s
mill, and I promised to stop there for Chauncy Aldrich, this afternoon,
while he is away; and then I walk down to uncle’s at tea–time. It is
not more than a mile to walk.”
Walter declared the lunch to be “splendid.” Then there was “a stitch”
to be taken in Walters coat, for which he said he was “thankful.”
“That does me good,” thought his mother. “I don’t know as Walter
notices it, but since he has begun his new life, he appreciates more
what his father and mother do for him. It may seem to be foolish in me,
but the religion that doesn’t come out in little things, won’t come out
in great ones.”
Oh, patient mothers, hard working fathers, are you “foolish” to be
affected by a child’s gratitude for little things? If children only
knew it, such gratitude makes this a new world for parents. The
mail–wagon soon rolled along to the Plympton farm and halted for
Walter. He was passing through the front yard, hurrying along a lilac
and rose–bordered path, to the waiting mail–wagon before the house,
when his mother called out, “Oh, Walter! Wait a minute.” She ran down
the path.
“I’ll say this for your father, who isn’t at home. It was his charge,
you know when you were little: ‘Honest, boy.’”
Walter laughed. “I guess I have got all my bundles now, mother.
Good–bye.”
“Good–bye, Walter.”
As the wagon rattled away, carrying off Prince Alden, the driver, two
mail–bags, and two passengers, Walter thought of these words, “Honest,
boy.” It was an expression his father had used when Walter was a little
fellow. The motto had an influence over Walter, not only because his
father uttered it, but practiced it. Mr. Plympton’s daily life was the
very crystal of honesty itself; honesty not only shining through his
words but radiant in all his actions. After a ride of nine miles, came
a group of buildings to which had been recently given the name “Blake’s
Mills.” It was a part of the business transaction between Bezaleel
Baggs and Walter’s uncle, that the latter should erect a “tide mill”
at the head of “Muskrat Creek,” a mile from The Harbor. At the head of
this creek, was a large tract of useless land belonging to Boardman
Blake, easily flooded at high tides. Swinging backward and forward with
the tides, were gates, placed in a dam that had been thrown across the
head of the creek. Through these opened gates, swept a strong, clean,
cold current from the ocean, at flood tide, and then the water was
distributed over the low lands, to be held in check until needed to
push the great wheel carrying the machinery of the mill.
“If you’ll build a mill,” said B. Baggs to Uncle Boardman, “and run it
with me, I’ll agree to furnish you with logs.”
At one time, for the sake of his “dear friend Blake,” he talked as if
he would build everything, take all risks and give all profits to that
dear friend.
He did guarantee however, a stated, handsome income to Boardman.
“Then,” he added, “you can run the mill for corn and flour, if you
wish. However I’ll warrant you on logs a long, steady job; and it will
pay you and me enough to make a handsome thing out of it. I’ll furnish
logs for five years at least.”
At the same time, he made a great display of ready money, suggesting
untold resources somewhere. He bought up the trees on extensive tracts
of woodland far and near. Wherever he went, an immense business
movement seemed to go with him. Uncle Boardman was bewildered. This
great being, like a big oceancraft, bore down on him with such an
imposing spread of financial sail, that he and his,—all but Aunt
Lydia—were easy captures. Boardman built the mill, although he was
forced to borrow five hundred dollars of Baggs that he might accomplish
this. It was a note for this amount which Walter had stumbled upon
and which his uncle had subsequently missed, but to cover the debt,
he had written and tendered another. It is true that logs had not
come to the mill so freely as Baggs had prophesied, for even logs
need a little pushing to accomplish a journey; and Uncle Boardman’s
receipts were not so large that the disposition of them had perplexed
him. It was a fact also that some people had begun to label the mill
“Boardman’s Folly;” but Bezaleel Baggs could furnish any amount of
palaver, even if he could not make trees cut themselves down, and roll
in large numbers to the mill; and his softly padded tongue kept Uncle
Boardman quiet. Chauncy Aldrich represented his uncle’s interests at
the mill, as that relative was often absent on mysterious journeys,
from which he returned with an air of vast importance; as if he had
bought up half the world to–day, and it would be delivered at ‘Blake’s
Mills’ to–morrow. In connection with Baggs’ “office,” a small, ragged,
unpainted shanty, there was a “store” to supply the hands at the mill.
Uncle Boardman had stocked this emporium, and Baggs sold the goods on
commission. Uncle Boardman sometimes thought that his profits were
exceedingly small; though he knew that his “branch store,” as Baggs
had pretentiously named it, could have very few customers. Some
people had rashly asserted that liquor was sold at this store, but as
a town–law forbade it, and as Boardman Blake’s principles forbade it
also, the sale of liquor did not seem probable. For all that, something
“mysterious” was sold there. It was at this “branch store” that Walter
expected to serve, the afternoon of his return from his parents, as
Chauncy wished to be away. The mail–wagon deposited Walter at the mill,
and then clattered away. The mill was not running, as it was flood
tide; and the water was rushing in from the sea, storing up the power
that made all mill–running possible. No one seemed to be in the great
barn–like mill, and few logs were accumulated there to feed the hungry
saws when their sharp teeth might be set in motion.
“It looks quiet,” thought Walter.
It certainly was quiet in the big, deserted mill; in the narrow little
road without; in the adjoining fields, so level and green; in the sky
above, through which the sunshine was silently poured down. Nothing
seemed to be stirring save the tide, racing up “Muskrat Creek,” and
that went with an almost intelligent sound. As it rushed, and eddied,
and gurgled, it seemed to say, “On hand, Boardman! We’ll start that
lazy mill, shortly.” Ah, there was one other object stirring, at the
office, store, shanty door, and this was Chauncy. He looked out into
the road, then up to the sky, and then over toward the mill, as if he
expected an arrival from some quarter.
“Ha, Plympton!” he shouted.
“Here I am,” replied Walter. “Am I late, Aldrich?”
“Oh no, but this is one of the days when the market seems to be
paralyzed. Haven’t had a customer, and not a log has been hauled to the
mill. However, Uncle Baggs is off stirring ’em up somewhere, and trade
will begin to move this way. He is a master hand to stir people up and
there will be a movement soon.”
Here he shoved back his cap, and showed that bristling wall of hair
behind which he seemed to be entrenched, and from that impregnable
position was defying all the world. His air was that of a challenge to
Walter to “come on” if he dared, and show that Bezaleel Baggs would not
“stir people up”; yes, “stir ’em up,” and bring on an immense movement
in “the market.”
“Well,” said Walter, dropping his traveling bag, “if there is little
to be done, I can get a chance to read a book I have in my bag. How
long do you want to be away? Suit yourself, you know. I am here to
accommodate you, and sha’n’t be needed at my uncle’s before six.”
“Oh, I will be back by five. Besides, my uncle may come, and he will
relieve you. He is a great hand to drop on folks sort of unexpected.”
“Well, when he drops, I don’t want to be exactly under him, for he
looks like solid weight.”
“Ha—ha! When Uncle Bezaleel _does_ come down on a man, he can drop
heavy. Well, good–bye and good luck to you.”
Off swaggered Chauncy, his cap at one side of his head; his whole air
that of some bragging money king, who had sallied forth to upset “the
market” in behalf of himself; or to accomplish some other great feat of
financial tumbling. Walter was left alone in the office. For awhile,
he read a recent report of the life saving service; for the world that
centered in the little building whose outlook and flags–taff he could
see from Uncle Boardman’s storedoor, interested him exceedingly. Nobody
appeared to interrupt him save a fly, that buzzed up to him vigorously,
in Chauncy’s style, but buzzed back immediately at a wave of the hand,
which was _not_ Chauncy’s style.
“Ah,” said Walter, after an hour’s fascinating reading, “I hear a
footstep. Somebody’s coming. A customer, probably.”
He let his book drop on the counter, and awaited this arrival. A young
man entered, whom Walter thought he had seen before; but where, he
could not readily say.
“He is not over twenty–one,” thought Walter. “He has a nice form.”
The young man had a frame of much symmetry, and the dress–coat that
he wore, instead of the loose blouse common among the fishermen and
farmers, brought out into distinct outline his well–shaped figure.
Although his look was that of a rather strong excitement, which flushed
his face, and gave it an unnatural eagerness, yet Walter was attracted
toward him at once. A little girl, who bore some resemblance to the
young man, closely followed him, clinging to the skirt of his coat. The
young man appeared to be looking for something on one of the shelves,
and with a twinkle of his blue eyes, and in musical, ringing tones, he
called out, “In some stores, they say on a card, ‘If you don’t see a
thing, ask for it.’”
“Well,” replied Walter, “Ask away. I would like to sell something to
somebody.”
The young man did not lower his eyes to notice Walter, but continued to
search with them the objects on the three shelves behind the counter.
“He can’t want soap, or matches, or that pile of mittens for
fishermen,” thought Walter.
The young man, himself, here expressed his wants.
“See here!” he said in a half–whisper, leaning forward. “Where’s that
big bottle Baggs keeps on the upper shelf, generally behind a bundle of
yarn?”
As he leaned forward, Walter noticed by his breath that he had been
drinking an intoxicant of some kind. He noticed also that the little
girl in the rear was now tugging at his coat, as if to pull him back
from an exposed position. Did the child say, “Don’t!”
“Go way, Amy! Don’t pull so!” exclaimed the young man rather testily.
Still he did not look round at this interferer, and he did not even
glance at Walter. His eager eyes were fastened on those generally
uninteresting objects, soap, yarn, and matches. Surely, there could be
no snake’s eye up there to bewilder one.
“Ah, I see the top of it! Just above that big lot of yarn on the third
shelf. That’s how I made my mistake—I was looking at the second shelf,
you see, and—and it’s the third—don’t Amy! Keep quiet, Amy! There,
if you’ll just get that down! A—my, stop!”
Was it a big sob, Walter heard behind this customer? The young man’s
look was no more eager now than Walter’s. The desire to know, was as
strong in the latter, as appetite was in the former, and Walter had
now mounted a rickety, flag–bottomed chair, and was pulling aside the
packages on the shelves. Reaching a big bundle of yarn on the uppermost
shelf, he saw the object of the young man’s intense desire; an immense
black bottle with an immense black stopper.
“There—there she is! Just hand her down; and if you have any water
handy, I’ll mix it myself, you know. Amy, you stop pulling, or I’ll
send you outdoors.”
The young man’s voice, though earnest, was not cross. Indeed, he had
endured a constant twitching from his small companion.
“Just hand her down, please.”
“Well, no, I think not, if it is liquor,” was Walter’s reply.
This, to the young man, was an unexpected turn of affairs. For the
first time, he now looked directly at Walter. Still, he stayed
good–natured, and that attracted Walter the more strongly.
“Why—why—of course it is liquor. You don’t suppose Baggs would hide
kerosene, say, behind his mothy old yarn, would he?” and the young man
laughed.
“Well, no, I should say not,” and Walter laughed also.
“You are here to sell, are you not?” asked the young man.
“Yes, I suppose I am, for the afternoon; but I didn’t agree to sell
everything Baggs might put into this old hole. I don’t know what your
business is, though your face looks natural; but if the man that
employed you, say to catch fish, should say some day, ‘There goes
somebody’s sheep in the road. I am going to shear it, and keep the
wool, and I want you to hold it, for I hired you to work for me,’ I
guess you would let your fingers burn first, before you would touch
the thing that was another man’s.” There was silence now in the little
shanty. The young man began to drum on the counter with his fingers.
“Then, it is against the law to sell liquor in this town,” observed
Walter.
“Oh, Baggs is cute to fix that,” replied the would–be customer in a
whisper. “You need not take any money now. Baggs _gives_ us a glass of
liquor to–day, and in a week from to–day, when we meet him, we say, ‘A
present, Mr. Baggs,’ and we _give_ him money enough to cover the worth
of the liquor.”
The young man was no longer looking at Walter, but at the bottle on the
shelf, as if addressing that.
“I should think,” said Walter, indignantly, “the devil himself would be
ashamed of that mean, underhanded way. I believe in being aboveboard
and honest. No, I am not going to have anything to do with this
business,” and as he spoke, he very resolutely thrust back the yarn,
hiding the bottle from the observation of all save those to whose sight
their appetite gave unusual keenness. While he was doing this, he heard
a noise at the door. It was only a slight stir at first, as of a lively
brush from the wind pushing its way past the door. It was just such
a “lively” effort of the wind, as at sea, may grow into a hurricane.
Turning toward the door, Walter saw Baggs. It was Baggs indeed, and
nobody else, but oh, what a change!
“Well, sir!” he roared.
How unlike that smooth–speaking, mild–tempered man, who usually went
by the name of Baggs! His face was ruffled and darkened with rage. His
skin seemed to be blown out; and as certain unnoticed pimples had
grown also, it had a mottled, puffy look, like that of a frog. In the
midst of this turgidity and discoloration, his twisted eye flashed and
wriggled in a frightful manner, while his voice was hoarse and blatant
as that of a fog–horn.
“You—you are a pretty—feller—in—in this store! Git—git—out of
this!” he shouted, catching his breath.
As his peculiarity of sight made it difficult to always tell whom he
might be looking at, both the young men glanced doubtfully at Baggs,
and then inquiringly at one another; as if about to say, “Whom does he
mean?”
“Git—git—out!” he roared again.
“Who—o—o?” asked the young man outside the counter.
“You—you—_you_!” said Baggs, with tremendous emphasis, advancing
toward the young man inside the counter. “I mean _you_, Walter
Plympton. I—I—have heard your—talk—talk—for the last five minutes.
I mean _you_, sir, whose—whose uncle I have been striving—ving—to
exalt to the—the—pin—pin—_nack_—ul of untold wealth. I mean _you_,
an ungrateful neph—neph—ew. I mean _you_, who wouldn’t give to a
fellow—that’s—that’s faint—a little sip—sip that would do him no
harm. Will the—law—law stop that work of—mer—mercy to the sick?
You were not—asked—as I understand—it—to sell, but simp—simply to
put—as I understand it—the bottle _here_.”
With new and frightful energy, Baggs here pounded the counter, which he
had struck several times before.
“You were not asked—asked—to do anything more. Will you—you
not—befriend the—the—”
Although Baggs’ philanthropy did not fail him, and he could have talked
an hour as the champion of the faint and weary, yet his breath _did_
desert him; and he stood there, gasping, “the—the—the—the—”
Baggs had a great reputation as orator at town meetings, and he was
declared by admirers “always to be equal to the occasion,” and it was
mortifying now to be found so unequal to this emergency. There was no
help for it, though. He could only gasp, “the—the—the—”
“Oh well,” remarked Walter, “I can go as well now, as any time. When
you catch me selling liquor, you will be likely to find at the same
time the Atlantic full of your mill–logs. Good–day, sir.”
This reference to Baggs’ logs, which were not numerous enough that day
to fill anything, so affected the orator, that he did succeed in making
a new forensic effort.
“Go, boy!” he thundered.
The next moment, Walter was rushing out of the door, as indignant on
the side of the clerk, as Baggs was on the side of the employer.
“Such impudence!” exclaimed Baggs, his wrath slowly subsiding. “If you
don’t feel just right, I’ll ’tend to you,” he said to the customer.
“I’ll trouble you to get down that bottle.”
The young man did not stir. He seemed to be in a stupor.
“What’s the matter?” asked Baggs. “Feel wuss?” and a sarcastic humor
lighted up his twisted eye.
“I’m going,” said the young man.
“And not take a drink?”
“No, I’ve seen enough of it. That young fellow is right in not selling,
and if he can’t sell, I won’t be fool enough to drink.”
“Come, come!” said a little voice behind him.
“Yes, Amy; I’m going,” and out of the store he went. Baggs was amazed.
He could not understand it.
“Well, if that ain’t queer!” he muttered. He began to wonder if the
recent scene were real, whether it might not have been a dream. There
was Walter, though, now almost out of sight; and the young man was
moving in the same direction, his coat–skirts still clutched by Amy.
These three were substantial witnesses to the reality of the affair;
and Baggs, wiping his forehead with a very red, and a very dirty
handkerchief, turned toward his desk in what was strictly the “office”
part of the shanty.
Walter did not intend to take the road he was now traveling, but when
he left Baggs, he was feeling so intensely, that the matter of a road
was too trivial to be noticed. The road in which he was walking led
him to The Harbor; and from this village, he could reach his uncle’s,
though his walk would be a long one.
“I have started,” he reflected, “and I might as well keep on. Besides,
if I turn back to take the right road, I shall have to pass Baggs’
office, and I don’t want to go near that rascal. I will walk a mile to
avoid him.” He tramped forward with a kind of fierce energy, busily
thinking.
“The idea! Wanting to exalt Uncle Boardman to a pinnacle of wealth! And
he has been constantly befooling him. He has been pretending to buy up
woodland far and near; and I don’t know but that he has bought it, in
one way, but I don’t believe he has paid for it. Aunt Lydia saw through
him all the time, and she was the sharpest of the lot. Then that liquor
business! Wasn’t he cunning, giving away his whiskey! Well, he found
one person who would neither sell, nor give for him.”
So intensely was Walter thinking, he did not notice how rapidly he was
passing through the little fishing–village. There were not more than
forty houses at The Harbor, and these were located anywhere along the
crooked line of the one narrow street. The neighborhood was very rocky,
and in and out among the ledges, wound this single street. Some of the
houses were very old, and their roofs were patched with moss. Planted
near the ledges, these ancient relics of domestic architecture seemed
more like masses of lichen, that had fastened on the ledges, becoming
a part of them; and resolute to maintain their rocky anchorage as long
as the rough sea winds, and the driving rains, would let them. The
village had a small store, whose proprietor considered himself as a
dangerous competitor of Boardman Blake, and a box schoolhouse, capped
with a rude little belfry, which never had entertained a bell as its
guest. It had also an unpainted “hall,” where one evening a dance might
be pounded out by the vigorous feet of the young men and women of the
village; the next evening might witness an auction; and if the third
evening belonged to Sunday, some kind of a religious service might be
held there. These three public buildings, the store, the schoolhouse,
the hall, Walter had passed. Chancing to look up, he said, “I am
almost through the village. I have been so mad, I have made pretty
quick time; and there is the road that goes up to Uncle Boardman’s;
and—and—there’s the ‘Crescent’! I have a great mind to go home that
way, by the Crescent.”
The Crescent was a peculiarity of rock and sand in the harbor. If it
had been simply a shoal of sand, though shaped like a young moon this
year, the shifting tides every day, the great storms of spring or
autumn, would have worked it over into something very unlike a young
moon another year. There were nubs of rocks at either end, and ledges
were scattered along the sides of this marine scimeter, so that a
measure of the restless sand was retained; and year after year, the
Crescent kept substantially its form.
At low tide, the Crescent could be easily reached by any pedestrian.
One in passing from The Harbor to Boardman Blake’s, could leave the
road, and at low tide cross over to the Crescent, pass along its ledges
and sand, and leaving it, at its easterly extremity, regain the land
without wetting the feet. This course would carry one not far from
the lane that straggled from the life saving station up to Boardman
Blake’s; and although a much longer route than by the road, it had its
attractions for those who liked to see the surf tumble on the rocks.
Walter was of this number, and instead of following any farther the
crooked street that wound among the ledges, and then curved toward
Boardman Blake’s store, he digressed at a point opposite the Crescent;
and he took the longer, but more romantic way home.
“I will cross to those rocks half way down the Crescent, and sit down
a while and watch the waves break over the rocks,” he said. “Splendid
place there.”
It was a tempting outlook upon the somersets thrown by those acrobats
of the ocean, the waves, when they reached the rocky line of the shore,
and there made tumble after tumble. Walter sat a long time watching and
thinking:
“Then I have run against Baggs,” he said, “and I didn’t anticipate
that. Wasn’t he mad! I never thought that smooth–talking man could
rave like one of these waves. I am sorry for Uncle Boardman’s sake, for
I imagine—poor man—he has enough to worry him, and my fuss with Baggs
may make him some trouble. But I don’t see what else I could have done.
That fellow—I wonder where I have seen him—had been drinking already,
and a glass or two more might have just finished him. I could not do
that; no, not even set down the bottle for him. And the law was against
it; and I could not in any way help break the law. Baggs could not ask
it of me, for I didn’t go there for any such purpose. No, sir! I think
I did the right thing, and I’ll stick to it, and stand by it.”
In his earnestness, Walter rose, stamped on the ledges with his feet,
as if to give emphasis to his opinion, and looked off on the wide ocean
of blue, whose play was as restless as that of his thoughts. And as
he looked, somehow it seemed to him as if he had the sympathy of that
wide reach of nature he was watching. The sky seemed to bend down to
him in an approval which the gently blowing wind whispered, and that
great ocean had a voice, sounding in the thousands of waves pressing
toward him, and saying in the roar of the surf, “You are right.” This
secret sympathy between law in nature and its keeper in the sphere
of principle, is one of the rewards of right–doing. And above all, in
his heart, Walter had the sense of satisfaction whose source he knew
to be God. He did not know what might be the personal consequences of
his difficulty with Baggs, but he felt that he was right; and he could
plant his feet on that assurance solid as the ledges under him. He
remained a long time watching the waves, till he was startled to see
what a protracted shadow his form threw on the black ledges.
“Sun is getting low,” he said. “I must be going.”
He turned, and moved away a short distance, when he turned again, and
looked back upon the rocks he had left.
“That is strange,” he said.
He noticed that this particular ledge, called the “Center Rock” by
the fishermen, had a divided summit. The outline of the eastern half
of this summit was curiously like that of a chair; as if placed there
in anticipation of an arrival by sea. No one, though, came out of the
great, empty waste of water, now rapidly blackening in the twilight.
“Sort of funny,” he exclaimed, and hurried away.
“Ho, what is this?” he asked. Looking toward the land, he noticed that
while he had been watching the waves, the tide had turned, and covered
the low, sandy flats with a floor of crystal.
“Well, it is not so very deep, and I can wade ashore,” said Walter.
He was untying his shoes, when he heard the noise of oars. As he
chanced to look up to see who might be coming, the boatman turned, and
resting on his oars, faced Walter. A smile as from an old acquaintance
overspread his features, and he called out, “Hold on there!”
A few more strokes, and the boat was on the sand at Walter’s feet.
“One good turn deserves another,” cried the boatman. “Jump in!”
“Oh, that you?” cried Walter. “Well, I will.” And into the boat he
jumped.
This opportune arrival was the young man he had met in Baggs’ store
that afternoon. He was dressed now for work, and wore a blue blouse.
It could not hide, though, his broad shoulders, and when he rowed, one
could but admire the easy, strong sweep of the arms.
“I was busy watching the waves,” explained Walter, “and I did not
notice that the tide had turned.”
“You would have crossed without much difficulty to the shore, though in
three hours from this time you might have done some swimming.”
“I am good for that.”
“Dare say. You would have got along, though they do tell some boogerish
stories about those rocks. Did you notice the ‘Chair’? It is on the
easterly side of what we call the ‘Center Rock.’”
“Oh yes, I saw that.”
“Well, they say a young girl was caught on the Crescent by the tide
toward night, and a rain and fog set in. Oh, it was years ago, and
we had no station here; and it was when the men folks used to go off
fishing down to Banks—the Newfoundland—and of course there were few
folks at home. I mean men folks. Some of the women thought they heard
screams in the night; but then in a storm, the waves keep up such a
pounding, you can hardly hear your own ears. The storm got worse all
that night, and in the morning, it was bad enough outside the Crescent.
Soon as the storm would let them cross over, some of the people went,
they say; but they didn’t find the girl.”
“Well, how did they know she stayed there? Perhaps she went somewhere
else.”
“They never heard of her anywhere else; and that reminds me of
something I didn’t put in. There was a fishing–sloop running along
the shore, and made harbor here. It passed by the Crescent in the
afternoon, and the skipper saw a girl sitting in what we call the
Chair, on the ocean side of Center Rock. That was the last seen of her,
and the weather had not set in rainy then. Oh, I have heard my mother
tell the story many times; and what was queer, there was a boy mixed
up with the affair,—the girl’s brother. My mother used to say that
the boy and girl had had some quarrel, and he asked her to go over to
Center Rock and see a curious chair there, knowing of course that the
tide would turn and bother her. I think he led her there, and left her
there. I don’t know as he intended anything so serious as her drowning,
but he was mad, and meant to punish her enough to frighten her. But it
set in raining, and the fog you know is bewildering; and then the storm
was pretty bad that night, and the waves wash clear over Center Rock in
a storm. Then my mother used to say—my mother is not living now—the
girl was a stranger here, and didn’t know what the Chair might do for
one. She and her brother were visiting here, I believe; and isn’t it
singular that their name should have been Baggs? Not singular that I
know of, only we had something to do with somebody of the same name
this afternoon, and one thing suggests another.”
The young man here rested on his oars, and looking into Walter’s face,
said: “You did a good thing for me, this afternoon.”
“I am glad if I did.”
“What I call ‘the craze’ was on me then. I had one glass, and that
is always enough to start me, and I thought I must have more. It was
strong, you know, and I can’t touch the stuff safely. It’s too powerful
for me. Our talk though, gave me a chance to think; and when Baggs
came, I surprised him by refusing it,—he offered it to me, you see.
Then I went home, and my sister—she is as good as she can be—gave me
a hot supper and some coffee, and I am all right now.”
“That’s good. I expect Baggs will want to pitch into me.”
“No, he won’t. He knows that I know something about his style of
handling that bottle, and I think that will hold him back. I believe
that he will be very glad to keep on the right side of you. If he
don’t, he will get on the wrong side of me. Baggs is a coward. He can
blow and bluster worse than a nor’easter, but he is a coward at the end
of it.”
“He must stop, though, his liquor business. If nothing more, it will
get my uncle into trouble. You see he owns the goods in—”
“Does he? I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, he owns what is in that pen.”
“Though not the pig, or the two pigs, I should say; counting in that
precious nephew of Baggs’. Ha–ha!”
“That selling, or giving, will give my uncle a bad name.”
“I see, I see, for it will come out and every body know it, sooner or
later, of course.”
“As for the liquor business itself, I won’t have anything to do with
it.”
“You are right, I know; and I want to do the right thing myself. I mean
to do right, and I have just promised my sister I would try again.”
“Ask God to help you,” said Walter in a hearty, boy–fashion.
“Well, yes, I suppose I ought. But here we are ashore, and sooner than
I thought for.”
The boat was in a little sand–cove where, affected by the Crescent, the
roll of the surf was very gentle.
“You go up to your uncle’s, I s’pose, and I go to the life saving
station. I am one of the crew there, and it was my turn to be off
to–day.”
“There! I thought I had seen you somewhere before.”
“I have seen you there, and you would have known me quicker, perhaps,
if I hadn’t shaved off my beard. That alters me somewhat.”
“But it seems to me as if I had seen you before I came this way.”
“Shouldn’t wonder. People meet, you know, under queer circumstances.”
“Hullo, Woodbury,” called out a man dressed like a fisherman, and
waiting on the rocks above the strip of sand. “I’ve been here
a–waitin’, some time.”
“Then his name is Woodbury,” thought Walter. “I know that much.”
The fisherman sprang into the boat vacated by Woodbury and Walter, and
thrusting his oar into the sand, pushed off at once. Woodbury went to
the left toward the station, while Walter took the lane to his uncle’s.
“I am very much surprised to know that Mr. Baggs would do anything
of the kind,” said Uncle Boardman in his slow, meditative way, when
Walter after supper related the affair of the day. Uncle Boardman, as
he spoke, worked his fingers nervously, as if they were pencils, with
which he was working out a problem on a slate.
“Sur–_prised_, Boardman?” inquired Aunt Lydia, thrusting forward her
sharp features. “You sur–_prised_? I am not. I don’t think there is
anything that mean critter won’t be up to, or down to, rather. I
ventur’ to say there’s been queer carryin’s on, if we only knew.” And
Aunt Lydia’s sharp face suggested the beak of a bird that was after its
prey; and woe be to that worm, the unhappy Baggs, if once before the
beak!
“I thought I ought to speak of the matter,” said Walter apologetically.
“I hate anything that looks like telling, but I knew you owned the
goods up there in Baggs’ place, and you might be involved in trouble.”
“Walter, don’t you ’polergize one bit. I shan’t take it, if Boardman
does. That mean critter don’t deserve nary a ’polergy.”
“Jingle, jingle!” went the warning bell in the store.
“I will go, uncle.”
“Oh, no! Somebody may want me.” When Uncle Boardman returned, he
remarked, “I thought as much. It was—”
“Baggs?” said Aunt Lydia eagerly guessing.
“Yes, and I thought there must be some extenuating circumstances.
He brought it in while we were talking together, saying he had had
occasion to give a little liquor to some of the fishermen when sick and
faint, and he allowed that he might have been mistaken, in other cases.”
“Why should he receive presents of money afterwards, and why not take
it at the time, if everything was all right, uncle?”
“Now, Boardman, you mean to be charitable,” ejaculated Aunt Lydia, “and
it says charity shall hide a multitude of sins, but sich a big sinner,
you can’t kiver him up. His sins _will_ stick out.”
“Oh, well, Lydia, I only mean to say what can be said for him, and he
allows he hasn’t always done just right, but he promises to stop.”
“But what will the poor, sick, faint fishermen do?” inquired Aunt Lydia
solicitously, and in a sarcastic tone.
Uncle Boardman, though, had taken a candlestick from the mantel–piece,
had lighted a long specimen of tallow manufacture, by Aunt Lydia, and
was passing out of the door that led upstairs to his chamber.
“Well, I guess,” said Uncle Boardman good–naturedly laughing, “we will
send ’em round to you. I don’t know of a better hand to take care of
tramps and paupers.”
Aunt Lydia had a peculiarity, and that was the indiscriminate relief of
everybody who might ask for her charity. In that way, she had nourished
some very deserving souls, behind the pitiful looks and shabby garments
pleading at her door, and she had also nourished some who were not so
deserving, but were frauds of the worst kind.
The tallow candle carried by Uncle Boardman had now withdrawn its
diminutive rays, and his footsteps had ceased sounding on the
uncarpeted stairway leading to the second story.
“There,” declared Aunt Lydia, “if that man wasn’t a saint, I wouldn’t
take folks’ heads off like that ere Baggs’. There, they do set right
down on him; and it jest riles me.”
“Aunt,” inquired Walter, “did you ever hear about an accident at the
Chair, on the Crescent, when it was said a girl went there, and the
tide cut her off from the land?”
“A storm comin’ up that night?”
“That’s the time.”
“Oh, yes, only it happened thirty years ago. But, Walter—” and Aunt
Lydia looked at him with her sharp, black eyes—“though it was so long
since, I can see that ere gal now.”
“Did you see her?”
“Of course. She went by our winders right down that ’ere road. Poor
thing! She never came back.”
“What was it her brother did?”
“Why, they was a–visitin’ here, and they had some quarrel, and he
urged her to go there, they said, and he met her beyond the house and
went with her. Then, they said, he left her there on purpose—told her
suthin’ to keep her there, I s’pose—and she didn’t know ’bout the
tides, and was caught. I b’lieve he ’lowed to somebody arterwards that
he hadn’t done jest right.”
“Was his name Baggs?”
“Bagster.”
“Oh!”