Sam Kimper spent several days in looking about his native town for
work. He found many sympathetic assurances, some promises, and no work
at all. Everybody explained to everybody else that they were sorry for
the poor wretch, but they couldn't afford to have a jail-bird around.
Meanwhile, Sam's stock of money, accumulated by overwork in the State
prison, and augmented by Judge Prency's present, was running low. He
kept his family expenses as low as possible, buying only the plainest
of food-material and hesitating long to break a bill, though it were
only of the denomination of one dollar. Nevertheless the little wad of
paper money in his pocket grew noticeably thinner to his touch.
His efforts to save the little he had in his possession were not
assisted by his family. His wife, thanks and perhaps blame to the
wifely sense of dependence upon her husband, had fallen back upon him
entirely after what he had said about his intention as to the future of
the family, and she not only accepted his assurances as bearing upon
the material requirements of several mouths from day to day, but she
also built some air-castles which he was under the unpleasant necessity
of knocking down. The poor woman was not to blame. She never had seen a
ten-dollar bill since the day of her marriage, when, in a spasm of
drunken enthusiasm, her husband gave a ten-dollar Treasury note to the
clergyman who officiated on that joyous occasion.
One evening Sam took his small change from his pocket to give his son
Tom money enough to buy a half-bushel of corn-meal in the village. As
he held a few pieces of silver in one hand, touching them rapidly with
the forefinger of the other, his son Tom exclaimed,--
"You're just overloaded with money, old man! Say, gi' me a quarter to
go to the ball game with? I'm in trainin', kind o' like, an' I ain't
afeard to say that mebbe I'll turn out a first-class pitcher one of
these days."
"Tom," said his father, trying to straighten his feeble frame, as his
eyes brightened a little, "I wish I could: I'd like you to go into
anything that makes muscle. But I can't afford it. You know I'm not
workin' yet, an' until I do work the only hope of this family is in the
little bit of money I've got in my pocket."
"Well," said Tom, thrusting out his lower lip, slouching across the
room, and returning again, "I don't think a quarter's enough to trouble
anybody's mind about what'll happen to his family afterwards. I've
heard a good deal from the mother about you bein' converted, and
changin' into a different sort of a man, but I don't think much of any
kind of converted dad that don't care enough for his boy to give him a
quarter to go to a ball game."
"Food before fun, Tom," said the father, resolutely closing his hand
upon such remaining silver as he had, and then thrusting the fistful
into his pocket,--"food before fun. Ball isn't business to this family
just now, an' money means business ev'ry time. When I was away an'
couldn't help it, things mebbe didn't go as they ort to have gone, but
now that I'm back again, there shan't be any trouble if I know how to
stand in the way of it."
This expression of principle and opinion did not seem to impress
favorably the eldest male member of the second generation. Master Tom
thrust out his lower lip again, glared at his father, took his hat, and
abruptly departed. There was no dinner at the Kimper table that day,
except for such members of the family as could endure slices of cold
boiled pork with very little lean to it. Late in the afternoon,
however, Tom returned, with an air of bravado, indulged in a number of
reminiscences of the ball game, and at last asked why supper was not
ready.
"Tom," asked the father, "why didn't you come back to-day with what I
gave you money to buy?"
"Well," said the young man, dipping his spoon deeply into a mixture of
hasty pudding, milk, and molasses, "I met some of the boys on the
street, an' they told me about the game, an' it seemed to me that I
wouldn't 'pear half a man to 'em if I didn't go 'long, so I made up my
mind that you an' the mother would get along some way, an' I went
anyhow. From what's in front of me, I guess you got along, didn't you?"
"Tom," said the father, leaving his seat at the table and going around
to his son's chair, on the top bar of which he leaned,--"Tom, of course
we got along; there'll be somethin' to eat here ev'ry day just as long
as I have any money or can get any work. But, Tom, you're pretty well
grown up now; you're almost a man; I s'pose the fellers in town think
you _are_ a man, don't they? An' you think you're one yourself too,
don't you?"
The young man's face brightened, and he engulfed several spoonfuls of
the evening meal before he replied,--
"Well, I guess I am somebody now'days. The time you was in jail, I
thought the family had a mighty slim chance o' countin'; but I tumbled
into base-ball, an' I was pretty strong in my arms an' pretty spry on
my feet, an' little by little I kind o' came to give the family a
standin'."
"I s'pose that's all right," said the father; "but I want you to
understan' one thing, an' understan' it so plain that you can't ever
make any mistake about it afterwards. When I put any money into your
hands to be used for anythin', it don't matter what, you must spend it
for that, or you must get an awful thrashin' when you come back home
again. Do you understan' me?"
The feeding motions of the eldest male of the Kimper collection of
children stopped for an instant, and Master Tom leered at his father as
he said,--
"Who's goin' to give the thrashin'?"
"I am, Tom,--your father is,--an' don't make any mistake about it.
He'll do it good an' brown, too, if he's to die used up right away
afterwards. This family is goin' to be decent from this time on; there
ain't to be no more thieves in it, an' any member of it that tries to
make it diff'rent is goin' to feel so bad that he'll wish he'd never
been born. Do you understan'? Don't go to thinkin' I'm ugly: I'm only
talkin' sense."
The cub of the family looked upward at his father from the corners of
his eyes, and then he clinched his fists and turned slightly in the
chair. Before he could do more, his parent had him by both shoulders,
had shaken him out of the chair, thrown him upon the floor, and was
resting upon him with both knees.
"Tom," said Sam to his astonished son, "you was the first boy I ever
had, an' I'd give away my right hand rather than have any real harm
come to you, but you've got to mind me now, an' you've got to do it
until you're of age, an' if you don't promise to do it now, right
straight along, from this time forth, I'll give you the thrashin' now.
That ain't all, either, you've got to be man enough to stand by your
dad an' say somethin to the fellers, an' explain that you're goin' to
stop bein' a town loafer, an' are goin' into decent ways."
Tom was so astonished by this demonstration of spirit that he made all
the desired promises at once, and was released.
But Tom was not the only juvenile member of the family who was in need
of reformation. Mary, little Mary, not far beyond twelve years of age,
demanded money to replenish her own wardrobe.
"Mary," said her father, "we're poor; we can't afford fancy fixin's.
This ain't very cold weather. You've good enough clothes on you to
keep you warm: what d'you want o' somethin' else?"
"What do I want o' somethin' else?" echoed the child, going to the door
and tossing an imitation doll into the ash-heap, "why, I want better
clothes, so't the fellers about town'll pay some 'tention to me, like
they do to sister Jane."
The slight, bent form of the father straightened up, as he asked,
quickly,--
"Does the fellers around town pay attention to your sister Jane?"
"Why, of course they do," said little Mary, entirely unable to
translate the gaze which her father bent upon her. "Jane never gets
through her work at the hotel before there's a lot o' fellers hangin'
round the door an' wantin' to see her, an' takin' her out to get
ice-cream or sody-water, or to go to the circus if there's one in town,
or to go to the dramatic representation,--that's what they call it on
the bills,--if there happens to be one in the village that night."
"Wife," said Sam, turning to his helpmate, "what wages does Jane get?"
"Six dollars a month," said the wife.
"Does she bring any of it home? Does the family get the good of any of
it?"
"Not one cent," said Mrs. Kimper, with a pitiful whine. "She says she
has to wear decent clothes at the hotel or they won't keep her there
any more."
Sam Kimper stayed awake all that night, although his manners to his
family next morning were those of a staid and respectable citizen who
had nothing upon his mind but the ordinary duties of the day.
Nevertheless, he was out and about soon after breakfast, and he
wandered through every street of the village in which any business was
being done. Again and again he asked for work, and as often the offer
was refused or declined or relegated into the uncertain future for a
decision. The surplus in his pocket had grown lamentably small. As he
made his way homeward in a physical and mental condition which made it
impossible for him either to argue to himself or to express a sense of
hope to any extent, he passed the shop of Larry Highgetty. Larry was a
shoemaker. Sam had worked at shoemaking while he was in State prison.
He felt, although Larry might have been offended at the imputation,
that there ought to be a fellow-feeling between them; so he ventured
into the shop. Larry was sitting at his bench with a lady's shoe in one
hand and with his head leaning against the wall of the room. From the
stertorous noise which escaped his nostrils, it was quite evident that
he was asleep, and an odor which filled the room left the visitor in
no doubt as to the nature of the opiate which had induced Larry's
mid-day nap.
"You seem to be takin' business very easy, Mr. Highgetty," said Sam,
with an apologetic air, as he closed the door behind him, and Larry
awoke. "Pay must be gettin' better?"
"Better?" said Larry, rubbing his eyes. "I don't want it to be any
better than it is now. Besides, people's comin' in all the time faster
than I can tend to 'em; ev'rybody wants his work done first an' is
willin' to pay extra price to get it. Better, is it? Well, yes; I
should say that no such luck had struck shoemakers in this town in a
long while."
"You haven't half finished what you're on now, Larry," said Sam, taking
the shoe from the cobbler's hand and looking at it.
"That isn't all of it," said the cobbler, with a maudlin wink at his
visitor. "I don't know when I'll have it finished, if I keep on feelin'
as I do now. It's pretty tough, too, bekase that shoe belongs to Mrs.
Judge Prency, an' she's comin' for it this afternoon; but I'm that
sleepy that--" Larry's head gently sought the wall again.
"An' a very good woman she is, Larry. Brace up, my boy, why don't you,
an' finish your work?"
"Eh? Say 'Brace up' to somebody that's not got anythin' in him to
brace him down. She kin wait for her shoe while I'm havin' my aise an'
forgettin' all about work."
"When did you promise the shoe to her?" asked Sam.
"Oh, sometime this afternoon," said Larry, "an' she hasn't come in here
yet. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, ye know the good book
says, Sam. Maybe she won't come in till to-morrow; she's a busy woman;
nobody knows where she's goin' or what she's doin' throughout the day,
an', to tell ye the truth, I thought to myself I'd shut up the shop an'
go home, so if she came there'd not be anybody here to tell a loie
about it."
"Well, Larry, wouldn't it do just as well if there was somebody here to
tell the truth about it?"
"Oh, there, now, Sam," said the shoemaker, rallying himself for an
instant; "they tould me that you was converted in jail, an' that sounds
a good deal like it. Now, Sam, I want to tell ye if ye want to argy on
the subject of the truth, or any other of the moral sintiments, with
any man whatsoever, ye don't want to come to a shoemaker's shop an'
find a fellow who's just had three drinks in him at somebody else's
expense. Now go 'way; come 'round here to-morrow when I'm sober, an'
I'll own up to everything you say, no matter what it is."
"That won't get Mrs. Prency her shoes," said Sam. "Go home an' go to
bed, an' let me finish that shoe in your hand, an' if she comes here
it'll be ready for her, an' if she don't you won't have anything on
your conscience,--not so far as she's concerned."
The cobbler took possession of himself with a tremendous effort, and
looked sharply from his bleared eyes for an instant as he said,--
"An' what do you know about shoemakin'?"
"As much as two years in State prison could learn me, Larry; though I
don't think you need to have asked me."
"It's all right, me boy; I take it back; an' if ever I'm sent to State
prison myself you may ask it of me ten times over; that's the Bible
rule, I belave. Now I'll go home to my wife an' family, an' if you
choose to finish that shoe an' stay here until Mrs. Judge Prency comes
in to get it, why, you're quite welcome to do the work an' keep the
pay; I tould her fifty cints."
Sam began work upon the bit of repairing which he had taken from the
shoemaker's hands, and although it was not of the routine nature which
all of his jail-work had placed in his hands, he knew enough of the
requirements of an ordinary shoe to do what was necessary. While he was
working, the room suddenly darkened, and as he looked up he saw Mrs.
Judge Prency herself.
"Why it's Mr. Kimper! Are you working here?"
"Only to finish a job that was promised for this afternoon, Mrs.
Prency."
"Where's Larry?"
"He felt very badly," said Sam, "an' he wanted to go home, an' I
promised to finish his work for him. I believe this is your job,
ma'am?" said he, holding the shoe in the air for an instant.
"Yes," said the judge's wife. "I will sit down for a moment, if you
will allow me, while you finish it."
"Certainly, ma'am," said Sam, plying the needle and awl vigorously. He
looked up only for a second at a time during the next few moments, but
what he saw impressed him very favorably. Mrs. Prency was not a young
woman, but apparently she had a clear conscience and a good digestion,
for she sat with an entirely satisfied and cheerful air, with her
shoulders against the back of the chair, as if it were a real pleasure
to rest against something, while her cheeks flushed, probably from the
exertion of a rapid walk from some other portion of the town. Like any
other woman of good health, good character, and good principles, she
was a pleasing object to look upon, and the ex-convict looked at her
as often as he dared, with undisguised and respectful admiration. But
suddenly the uplifting of his eyes was stopped by a remark from the
lady herself, as she said,--
"Sam--Mr. Kimper, I've heard some remarks about your speech at the
experience-meeting the other night. You know I was there myself; you
remember I spoke to you as you came out?"
"Mrs. Prency, I know it; an' that isn't all; I'll remember it just as
long as I live. I'd rather have been the dyin' thief on the cross than
said what I said in that church that night, but I was asked to do it,
an' the more I thought about it the more I thought I couldn't say no.
But I didn't know what else to say."
"You did quite right, Mr. Kimper: you spoke like a real, true, honest
man. If it's any comfort to know it, I can tell you that my husband,
the judge, thinks as I do. I told him what you said,--I remembered it
all, word for word,--and he said to me,--these are exactly his
words,--'I believe that is an honest man, and that he is going to
remain an honest man.'"
Sam bent over the shoe a little closer, and said, in a faint voice, as
if he were talking to himself,--
"What Judge Prency says about human natur ort to be true. If there's
any other man in this county that's had more opportunities of knowin'
all about it, I don't know who he can be."
There was silence for a moment or two. Sam quickened his labors upon
the shoe, and the lady bent her gaze closely upon the shoemaker. At
last she said,--
"Mr. Kimper, don't mistake the meaning of what I am going to ask you. I
am a member of the church, myself, and I have as hearty an interest in
you and sympathy for you as the best friend you have. But I want to ask
you one thing, merely out of curiosity. Has any one questioned you,
since, about what you said that evening?"
"Nobody but Deacon Quickset, ma'am."
"Ah? Deacon Quickset? Did he say anything that annoyed you in any way?"
"I can't say that he did, ma'am; though he kind o' filled my mind with
doubts an' gave me a sort o' sleepless evenin'."
"I'm very sorry for that. There's some one else who may trouble you
somewhat, and I'm sorry to say that if he does I shall be to blame for
it. He is a young lawyer. His name is Reynolds Bartram."
"I know him, ma'am; at least, I know him by sight. He's of very good
stock, ma'am. His folks have been in this county a longtime, from what
I've heerd, off an' on."
"Very true," replied Mrs. Prency; "but he has peculiar views, and when
he hears of any one who believes--believes in religion as you do, he is
quite likely to visit him and to ask a great many questions."
"Well, ma'am, if he comes in on me anywhere, an' asks any questions,
an' they're on the subject I talked about that night at the church
meetin', why, I'll say anythin' I know an' everythin' I believe, an' if
he says anythin' on the other side, why, all I've got to say is, he
can't change my mind the least bit."
"I'm very glad to hear you say so," said Mrs. Prency. "Ah, is the shoe
done, entirely done? Good. Very much obliged. It's quite as good as Mr.
Highgetty himself could have made it. Fifty cents, I believe? Is that
satisfactory?"
"Quite satisfact'ry, ma'am," said the substitute, as he rose from his
bench and removed his hat, which had been on his head during the
interview. Mrs. Prency started towards the door, but stopped suddenly
and turned back.
"Mr. Kimper, the young man, Mr. Bartram, of whom I spoke to you,--I
really believe he is inclined to come and talk to you, and perhaps talk
a great deal, about what you seem to believe very sincerely and what he
doesn't believe at all. I hope you won't change your mind through
anything that can be said to you by a person of that kind, or by any
person whatever?"
"Mrs. Prency," said the cobbler's substitute, taking his hat from the
bench on which he had placed it and circling it in his hand as if he
were endeavoring to stimulate his mental faculties, "whatever I believe
on that subject I'm goin' to stick to, an' nobody, not even if he is
the best lawyer in the county, or your husband himself, or the judge of
the biggest court in the United States, is goin' to change my mind
about it."
"Thank you, Mr. Kimper. I might have known as much from what I heard
during your remarks the other night. I only wanted to say to you that
Mr. Bartram is a very smart talker and very quick to see whatever
mistakes any one else may make."
"If I make any mistakes," said Sam, "it's because of somebody who's a
great deal smarter than I am, who don't back me up as much as I need
for the time-bein'."
"Good-day, Mr Kimper," said the lady.
"Good-day, ma'am," said the ex-convict.
He stood in the dingy shop looking out of the window at the retreating
form of the lady, and then at the gathering clouds over the evening
sunset, and at the houses on the opposite side of the street,
apparently that he might divert his mind from something. Then he
looked at the coin which he had received for the work, as if it were an
amulet or a charm.
Suddenly his attention was distracted by the appearance, on the other
side of the street, of a very pretty young woman, accompanied by a
young man in good attire and of fine bearing.
"Well, well," said the ex-convict, "I wonder if that's what it means?
That's Bartram himself, as sure as I'm born, an' with him is Mrs.
Prency's only daughter an' only child. Well, well!"