UNDER FIRE.
Boardman Blake sat in his store, patiently holding his hands in his
lap, and waiting for a customer. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing
else that he could very well do. He was not needed in the barn, for
Don Pedro was there, looking faithfully after oxen and cows; after
“Old Jennie,” the mare, also. Boardman had just brought from the well
all that Aunt Lydia needed in her department—“two heapin’ pails of
water.” He was tired of looking at the few books on the shelves in the
store, and he had gone through the _County Bugle_ from its first note
to its last one. As no customer arrived, his only occupation was to
nurse his hands in his lap, and wait in hope. If Boardman had waited
until an actual customer had arrived, there would have been a good deal
of nursing. He supposed at first it was a customer, when he heard a
footstep at the door, and then caught the tinkle of the watchful bell.
“Ho, Walter, that you? I am glad to see you,” and as Uncle Boardman
welcomed the young man, he expressed his pleasure in a very beaming
smile and a very firm hand–grip. Walter explained the errand about
certain goods which Keeper Barney wanted Uncle Boardman to send to the
station, and the conversation then became a personal one.
“Well, Walter, how do you like the surf business?”
“Oh, I have enjoyed it so far. It’s not all play, though.”
“No, no! It’s a rough–and–tumble life when the winter sets in. However,
I would make the best of it.
“Oh, I mean to do that, uncle.”
Here Uncle Boardman looked out of the window, and twirling his hands in
his lap, talked away on this subject of making the best of things.
“Now, at the station you won’t find everything to your mind. You won’t
like all the men; but then you can make a good deal of what you do
like; and what you don’t like, you can just look over it, and try not
to mind it, Walter.”
“I know it. There’s Joe Cardridge. I don’t take to him a bit; but I try
not to mind him. And as for Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott, I could
do anything for them. There’s Cook Charlie—he’s a jolly team, and the
Lowds, they’re great grinners, and the men make a deal of fun of them;
but they’re good–hearted as the days are long. I like Slim Tarleton.”
“Pretty hard trampin’ backwards and forwards, some nights, ain’t it?”
“Yes, that’s so; but then I say, ‘Well, there will be a warm bed when
I get through,’ and then in the morning, I can’t say I enjoy getting
up, turning out into a cold room; but I say, ‘There’s a lovely hot
breakfast downstairs,’ and I pop up quicker.”
“That’s it, Walter. I guess you’re getting the hang of the house.
How—how do you come on since—” Uncle Boardman hesitated. He felt the
pressure of a certain amount of responsibility, as he stood in the
place of Walter’s father and mother, and he wished to ask about his
religious life.
“Since—since you were confirmed, Walter?”
“I—I try to do right, uncle, and—”
“You stick to your prayers and your Bible?”
“Oh, yes. I miss my church, Sundays.”
“Well, Walter, do the best you can, your duty toward God and toward
man; but do it naturally.”
“What, sir?”
“Why, I mean by that—let me see how I shall put it? It seems to me
that I might—of course I don’t intend it—be too—too conscious of my
religion. Seems to me a man may be painfully so, going round with a
kind of holier–than–thou way. Do you understand me?”
“I think I do.”
“Just be natural. Let your religion just take possession of you, and
then come out just—just as song comes out of a bird. I don’t see
why it shouldn’t, for religion is the happiest thing in the world.
Sometimes, I find a man, and he makes me feel that he is so dreadful
good, why it would be taking a liberty, to laugh in his presence. Now
that man is sort of painfully conscious of his religion, all the time
a–worrying about it and a–fussing over it; and makes the people uneasy
all round him. Just be natural, Walter, and without your fussing over
it, it will come out easy and smooth as a bird’s singing. I tell you,
Walter, a good kind of religion is one that says when you weigh a
thing, ‘Sixteen ounces make a pound;’ and when you talk, ‘Thou shalt
not bear false witness against thy neighbor;’ and when it comes to our
no licensing, that says, ‘Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink,
that puttest thy bottle to him and makest him drunken also.’ Do you
understand, Walter? Be thorough in your religion. Pray, but act as you
pray.”
“I want to do that way.”
This was the answer Walter made audibly. What he added silently, and
what he repeated as he was going to the station, was this: “Uncle
Boardman can afford to talk, for Uncle Boardman practices. I don’t care
how much I have of that man’s religion. ‘Make the best of things,’ he
said. I wonder if he isn’t having a hard time in his mill business with
Baggs, and if it don’t come hard to be cheerful!”
It did “come hard be cheerful,” for Uncle Boardman had only been a
fly in the web of that spider, “Belzebub” Baggs. To erect the mill
and inaugurate the business there, Uncle Boardman had been obliged to
put on his home a mortgage, additional to one already existing. The
first burden, the house might have sustained; but under the additional
pressure of the second, the house threatened, as a piece of of Blake
property, to collapse. Did not the fly know he was walking into a
spider’s web, when “Belzebub” came, and spoke soft words, and made
extravagant promises? The fly was suspicious, but the spider showed him
a recommendation from two men of excellent judgment whom he personally
knew. Enticed by the assurance that B. Baggs was a man of business, a
man of money, and a man of morals, the fly walked into the spider’s
web. Discovering his mistake, Uncle Boardman was now trying to rectify
it; refusing to place any more money in the mill enterprise. And
didn’t the spider threaten vengeance! Didn’t he turn on the poor fly,
and torment him with the fact that he held a certain note against him
almost due, and whose payment he would press!
“Oh!” thought Uncle Boardman. “It’s that note for $500, which I lost
somehow, and then I gave him another. Well!”
That was all the fly could say. He knew he had made mistakes, but they
were mistakes based on the opinion of those whom he supposed he could
trust. Now that the toils of the spider were closing about him, he was
doing his best to struggle out of them.
“I won’t, though, make others just miserable with my troubles,” he
declared. “I won’t give up. I’ll—I’ll—”
When he reached this place, Boardman Blake always looked up; and
amid the storm clouds, steadily gathering, not slowly but rapidly
increasing, he could see one little place that held a star.
“I’ll trust my Heavenly Father,” he said, trying to be cheerful,
patiently bearing Aunt Lydia’s reflections, (those were rather gingery
at first), good–naturedly standing up, and taking the raillery of his
neighbors also. Aunt Lydia! She _was_ gingery at first, peppery even,
and that of the cayenne sort, but when she understood the nature of the
influence brought to bear upon her husband, that he had been guided by
the judgment of others, who were supposed to be wiser, she sheathed her
tongue in all possible charity. She played the part of the true wife,
and silently looking at him through the eyes of a woman’s pity, stood
by him, and defended him, with all of a woman’s devotion and courage.
As Walter neared the station, there was a sneer leaning against the
door, and this sneer was two–legged: it was Joe Cardridge. It was a
mild December day, and he was lazily enjoying its sunshine. As Walter
approached, he superciliously looked him over, and said “Hullo,
surf–boy!”
“How are ye!” replied Walter pleasantly.
“Surf–boy” was a title, which, spoken in Joe’s sneering way, Walter
did not fancy. If Tom Walker had roared it out, Tom would have put into
it a tone of hearty good–will; and Walter would have worn the name
gladly. Joe added a sneer to it, and the title galled Walter. However,
he kept his temper under, and always addressed Joe courteously. The
other surfmen noticed Joe’s manner, and silently criticised it by
treating Walter’s youth with all the greater considerateness.
On one occasion when Joe contemptuously and with the spirit of a bully
had flung this title at him, Slim Tarleton remarked, “Hullo, Walter!
You’ve got a lot of strength, I know. You have got master arms. We’ve
got an old stump in our cow pasture, and I mean to tell father to let
you try on it when we are takin’ up stumps.”
There was no Slim standing at the station door to offset Joe’s present
sneer with the tender of another stump.
“Ben movin’ the world, boy?” continued Joe.
“I have been up to Uncle Boardman’s,” replied Walter.
“How is his mill gettin’ on? ‘A fool and his money is soon parted,’
they say.”
“He is not a fool,” said Walter resolutely. “I believe if he had an
honest man to deal with, he would get along.”
“Indeed!” remarked Joe sneeringly.
Several of the surfmen now came to the door, tempted by the mild air,
whose softness seemed to be on sea and land, softening all glaring
color and over all roughness throwing a veil of purplish haze. It was
one of the fine effects of that scenic painter, Nature.
Who of those present understood that Joe Cardridge was not only an ally
of the great Baggs, but also his hired—I can hardly say paid—agent?
It was he that had induced a number of the men to intrust their money
with Baggs; and on every man’s money he had been promised a commission.
“I most–er–wish I had taken out my kermission fust, afore sendin’ Baggs
the money,” Joe had said; but it was too late to make changes. He
still lived, though, in the hope that out of those exhaustless money
fountains Baggs was reputed to own, a golden stream might run some day
into Joe Cardridge’s pocket. Feeling that he was the representative
of the great house of Baggs, he did not fancy the nature of Walter’s
remark, knowing its meaning. However, the thunder storm raging under
his vest he prudently concealed in the presence of Tom Walker, Cook
Charlie, and Woodbury Elliott. Although he had received no pay from the
great mercantile house employing him, he meant in its behalf to give
“pay,” in an underhand fashion to the young fellow now insulting Baggs,
as he thought.
“Fellers,” he said, “it’s pleasant, and the grass is thick and dry; and
it won’t hurt if we git tumbled; and let’s have a rastle.”
The proposition of a friendly wrestle did not seem unpleasant to these
young fishermen, proud of their muscle, and ambitious to show it.
“I’m willin’,” said Tom Walker, gaping, and at the same time
ostentatiously throwing up a pair of brawny arms.
“So am I,” said Woodbury Elliott, straightening up, and bringing into
firm outline his splendid frame.
“So—so—am I,” said Cook Charlie, waddling about; “pervided—you let
me beat.”
This proposition was welcomed with a laugh, but it was instantly
followed by another from Joe.
“Come, surf–boy, let’s you and me try.”
“Surf–boy!” growled Tom Walker. “He has got a lot of strength, Joe.”
“Oh, I’m willing,” said Walter pleasantly “Any time.”
Joe was the older and the taller of the two, but Walter was as heavy,
and his frame was more compact. Joe’s bones had been put together
loosely. If Walter could have looked down to the bottom of Joe’s
dark, evil eyes, he would have read this determination there: “I’ll
punish this boy smartly ’fore I git through with him to–day.” Walter
however saw no such sinister spirit, and he only said, “Ready!” The two
gripped, and quickly Joe came to the ground in a heap. Joe looked angry
when he rose. “Let’s try that agin!” he said.
Woodbury noticed the anger in Joe’s face, and called out, “Fair play,
fair!”
Joe made no answer, but renewed his effort, only to make a worse heap
on the ground than before. When he rose the second time, he was furious
with wrath and immediately struck at Walter. The “surf–boy” though,
quietly pinioned his arms and laid him on the ground a third time.
Rising again, his fury was his master, and he would have thrown himself
on Walter, but Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott planted themselves
before Joe, and called out to him to stop.
“I challenge—him!” said the almost breathless Joe. “I
want—to—try—it—in fightin’ fashion.”
“I shan’t fight,” said Walter. “But I can take care of myself if I am
attacked.”
“You are afeared!”
“Quiet, Joe!” said Tom. “He has come off fust best, and he is not
afraid; and he could use you all up, and I ’vise you to keep quiet. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself that you can’t play fair. Here comes
the keeper, too.”
Hearing this, Joe stumbled off into the station, looking like a
disgraced animal, which he really was. He muttered vengeance however,
as he stole away.
“Didn’t that boy carry himself well?” said Tom to Woodbury, as they
strolled back of the station. “I’ve been a–watchin’ him and he has
stood Joe’s mean fire like a hero. I think he means to do the right
thing.”
“No doubt about that; but I guess he felt pretty well stirred up.”
“That’s so. I imagine he jest felt like bilin’ over; but he didn’t show
it more than the outside of an iron pot, where the bilin’ is. I think
he did well. He jest conquered that Joe, and he conquered himself; and
I think I could more easily give ten lickin’s of the fust sort, to one
of the second.”
As for Walter, he had entered the station, gone upstairs, and was
looking out of a window that faced the west, where the sun was
frescoing the misty walls of the sky with daintiest shades. He was
in no quiet mood. He was sorry that he had consented to any trial of
strength ending so unpleasantly. He was sorry to find out that under
the roof with him, was an avowed enemy. The world looks friendly to the
young, and it is a bitter discovery to hear lions roaring about our
path. Walter resolved, though, he would try the harder to do only the
thing that was right; and as he stood with his face to the flaming sky,
he asked God to help him.