A SUDDEN DEPARTURE.
The man upon whose sleeping form Job had stepped in the haymow sat up
and looked about him in a half-puzzled fashion, mechanically brushing
the loose particles from his hair and neck.
"I s'pose it's mornin'," he whispered, after a minute's silence. "How
long'll it be before daylight?"
Job, released from the other's clutch, had scrambled to his feet, and
stood staring down in astonishment at his old friend, Mose Whipple. He
had regained his fork, and held it up as if to repel a possible second
attack.
"What did you want to pitch on to me that way for?" he asked at last in
displeased tones.
"Sh-h! Talk lower!" urged Mose under his breath. "I didn't mean to hurt
you, sonny. I didn't know who you was. You come tromplin' on me here
when I was fast asleep, and I took hold of you when I wasn't hardly
woke up, you see, that's all. I didn't hurt you, did I?"
[Illustration: "SH-H! TALK LOWER!"]
"No," Job admitted grudgingly. "But there wasn't no need to throw me
down and choke me all the same."
"I thought it was somebody comin' to catch me," explained the other,
still in a whisper. "But who else is here in the barn? What time is it
gettin' to be?"
"They're just through milkin'," replied the boy. "They're gettin' the
cans out into the sleigh. They'll all be gone in a minute or two. Time?
Oh, it ain't six yet."
"That's all right," said Mose, with a weary sigh of relief. He added,
upon reflection: "Say, sonny, can you manage to get me something to
eat? I've gone the best part of two days now without a mouthful."
"Mebbe I can," responded Job, doubtingly. Then a sudden thought struck
him. "Say, Mose," he went on, "I bet I can tell what you did the first
thing when you came into the barn here. You went and stuck your hands
into the grains there--that's how it was."
The man displayed no curiosity as to the boy's meaning. "Yes, by
jiminy!" he mused aloud. "I'd 'a' liked to have got in head first. I
tell you, sonny, I was about as near freezin' to death as they make
'em. I couldn't have gone another hundred rods to save my life. They'd
have found me froze stiff on the road, that's all."
"But what are you doing here, anyway?" asked Job. "You ain't gone and
deserted, have you?"
"Well," said the other, doggedly, "you can call it what you like. One
thing's certain--I ain't down South, _be_ I?"
"Something else is pretty certain, too," the boy put in. "They'll hang
you, sure!"
Mose did not seem to have much doubt on this point. "Anyway, I'll see
the old man first," he said. "It's pitch dark outdoors, ain't it?"
The boy nodded. "I must git along with my work," he commented, after
another little silence. "What are you figgerin' on doin', anyway,
Mose?" he asked gravely.
"Well, I'm goin' to sneak out while it's still dark," said the man,
"and git across lots to our place, and just wake up the old man,
and--and--well, see how he is, that's all. Mebbe I can manage it so
that I can skip out again, and nobody be the wiser. But whether or no,
that's what I'm bound to do. Prob'ly you've heard--is he--is his health
pretty middlin' good?"
"Seems to me some one was saying something about his being kind o'
under the weather lately," replied Job, with evasion. "I was thinkin'
of goin' over this afternoon myself, if I could git the time, to see
him. The fact is, Mose, I guess he _is_ failing some. It's been a
pretty tough winter for old folks, you know. Elisha Teachout's been
laid up himself with rheumatics now for more'n a fortnight, and he
ain't old exactly."
"He ain't had 'em half bad enough!" cried Mose, springing to his feet
with suddenly revived energy. "If he's let the old man suffer--if he
ain't kept his word by him--I'll--I'll take it out of his old hide if I
have to go to jail for it!"
"You've got enough other things to go to jail for, and get hung for
into the bargain, I should think," said Job. "You'd better not talk so
loud, either."
Surely enough, one of the hired men seemed to have remained in the
barn, and to have caught the sound of voices--for the noise of his
advancing footsteps could be heard on the floor between the stanchions.
Mose threw himself flat, and rolled under the hay as best he could. Job
began to sing in a low-voiced, incoherent way for a moment, and then
loudly. Prying up a forkful of hay, he staggered under the burden back
to the cows, singing as he came toward the intruder.
It was only Nelse Hornbeck, an elderly and extra hand who worked at
starvation wages during the winter, chopping firewood and doing odd
chores about the house and barns. When he saw Job he stopped. He was in
a sociable mood, and though he leaned up against one of the stanchions
and offered no sign of going farther, displayed a depressing desire for
conversation.
The boy came and went, bringing in the hay and distributing it along
under the double row of broad pink noses on either side. He made the
task as long as he could in the hope of tiring Nelse out, but without
avail.
"I dunno but I'm almost sorry I didn't enlist myself last fall,"
drawled Hornbeck, settling himself in an easy posture. "So far's I can
make out, Mose Whipple and the rest of the boys are having a great
sight better time of it down South, with nothin' to do and plenty o'
help to do it, than we are here to hum. Why, Steve Trimble's
brother-in-law writes him that they're havin' more fun down there than
you can shake a stick at; livin' snug and warm in sort o' little houses
built into the ground, and havin' horse-races and cock-fights and so on
every day. They ain't been no fightin' since Thanksgivin', he says, and
they're all gittin' fat as seals."
"Well, why _don't_ you enlist then?" demanded Job, curtly, going on
with his work.
"I dunno," said the hired man in a meditative way. "I guess I'm afeard
o' gittin' homesick. I'd always be hankerin' to git back and see my
folks, and they won't let you do that, nohow. A lot of 'em tries to
sneak off, they say, but Steve's brother-in-law says they've got
cavalry-men on horseback all around outside the camps, and they just
nail everybody that tries to git out, and then they take 'em back to
camp and shoot 'em. That's what they do--lead 'em out before breakfast
and shoot 'em down."
"I thought they hung deserters," said Job, pausing with his fork in
air.
"Some they hang and some they shoot," replied Nelse. "I don't see as it
makes much difference. I'd about as lieve be one as the other. I guess
they make it a rule to hang them that gits off into the North and has
to be brought way back again. That's only reasonable, because they've
give 'em so much extry trouble."
Job was interested. "But suppose a man does get up North--I guess they
ain't much chance of their ever findin' him after that."
"Ain't they?" exclaimed the hired man, incredulously. "Why, it's a
thousand to one they catch him! They've got their detectives in every
county just doin' nothin' but watchin' for deserters. They git paid for
every one they catch, so much a head, and that makes 'em keep their
eyes peeled."
"But how can you tell a deserter from any other man," pursued Job, "so
long as he's got ordinary clothes on and minds his own business and
keeps away from where he's known?"
"Oh, they always point for home--that's the thing of it. What do they
desert for? Because they're homesick. So all the detectives have got to
do is to watch their place, and nab 'em when they try to sneak in. It's
as easy as rollin' off a log. They always git caught, every mother's
son of 'em."
Tiresome Nelse Hornbeck was still talking when Job came to the end of
all possible pretexts of employment in the cow-barn, and was only too
obviously waiting to accompany the boy over to the house to breakfast.
At last Job had to accept the situation and go.
The boy dared no more than steal for a moment back into the hay, feel
about with his foot for where Mose lay hidden in the dark, and drop the
furtive whisper, "Going to breakfast. If I can I'll bring you some."
Then, in company with Nelse, he left the barn, shutting and hooking the
door behind him. It occurred to him that Mose must have effected an
entrance by the door at the other end, which was fastened merely by a
latch. Otherwise the displacement of the outer hook would have been
noticed.
It was lucky, he thought in passing, that Elisha Teachout did not have
padlocks on the doors of his cow-barn, as he had on those which
protected his horses and wagons and grain. If he had, there would have
been the lifeless and icy body of Mose, lying on the frozen roadside,
to be discovered by the daylight.
Poor Mose! he had saved his life from the bitterly cold night, but was
it not only to lose it again at the hands of the hangman or the firing
party?
Job remembered having seen, just a few weeks before, a picture in one
of the illustrated weeklies of a deserter sitting on his own coffin,
while files of soldiers were being drawn up to witness his impending
punishment. Although the artist had given the doomed man a very bad
face indeed, Job had been conscious at the time of feeling a certain
human sympathy with him.
As his memory dwelt now on the picture, this face of the prisoner
seemed to change into the freckled and happy-go-lucky lineaments of
Mose Whipple.
The boy took with him into the house a heart as heavy as lead.
Breakfast was already well under way in the big, old-fashioned,
low-ceiled kitchen of the Teachout homestead. Three or four hired men
were seated at one end of the long table, making stacks of hot
buckwheat cakes saturated with pork fat on their plates, and then
devouring them in huge mouthfuls.
They had only the light of two candles on the table. So long as there
was anything before them to eat, they spoke never a word. The red-faced
women over at the stove did not talk either, but worked in anxious
silence at their arduous task of frying cakes fast enough to keep the
plates before the hungry men supplied.
For once in his life Job was not hungry. He suffered Nelse Hornbeck to
appropriate the entire contents of the first plate of cakes which the
girl brought to the table, without a sign of protest. This was not what
usually happened, and as soon as Nelse could spare the time he looked
at his companion in surprise.
"What ails you this mornin'?" he asked, with his spoon in the grease.
"Ain't you feelin' well?"
Job shook his head. "I guess I'll eat some bread 'n' butter instead,"
he made reply. He added after a pause, "Somehow, I kind o' spleen
against cakes this mornin'."
"They ain't much good to-day, for a fact," assented Nelse, when he had
eaten half-way through his pile. "I guess they want more sody. It beats
me why them women can't make their cakes alike no two days in the week.
First the batter's sour, and then they put in more sody; and then it's
too flat, and they dump in a lot o' salt; and then they need more
graham flour, and then the batter's too thick, and has to be thinned
down with milk, and by that time the whole thing's wrong, and they've
got to begin all over again."
Nelse chuckled, and looked up at Job, who paid no attention.
"If we men fooled around with the cows' fodder, every day different,"
Nelse went on, "the way the girls here do with ours, why, the whole
barnful of 'em would 'a' dried up before snow blew. But that's the way
with women!" Mr. Hornbeck concluded with a sigh, and began on the
second heap of cakes.
The boy had not listened. A project had been gradually shaping itself
in his mind, until now it seemed as if he had left the cow-barn with it
definitely planned out. As soon as the other men, who for the moment
were idling with their knives and forks, had been supplied with a fresh
batch of cakes, he would put it into execution.
"Why, you was feelin' first rate a few minutes ago," remonstrated
Nelse, between mouthfuls, "singin' away for dear life."
"Remember how Mose Whipple used to sing?" put in one of the others.
"The' was one song o' his, 'The Faded Coat o' Blue'--seems's if I could
set and listen to him singin' that all day long. He sung it over at
Steve Trimble's huskin', I remember, and Lib Truax let him see her
home, just on account of it. She wouldn't so much as looked at him any
other time. She told my sister afterward that if he'd 'a' popped the
question then, with that singin' o' his in her ears, as like as not
she'd 'a' said yes."
"Lucky for her he didn't, then," remarked another. "I give Mose credit
for one thing, though. He had sense enough not to git married--and
that's more'n most shiftless coots like him have. He always said that
as long's the old man was alive, he'd keep a roof over his head, and
let everything else slide. Whatever else you may say, there's no
denyin' Mose was a good son to the old man."
"If I was old," said a third, "and was dependent on my son, I'd think a
good deal more of him if he shinned around, and worked stiddy, and put
somethin' by for a rainy day, even if he did marry into the bargain,
instid o' bein' bone-lazy like Mose, and never knowin' one day where
the next day's breakfast was comin' from."
"Not if you was old Asa Whipple," rejoined the first speaker. "Mose was
jest after the old man's heart. I never see father and son so wrapped
up in one another as them two was. Seems's if they didn't need no other
company--they was company enough for themselves. That's what made it so
rough on the old man when Mose 'listed."
"He couldn't help himself," said Nelse Hornbeck; "there was the
interest comin' due on the mortgage, and how else----"
"Sh-h! can't ye!" muttered one of the others, kicking Nelse under the
table, and giving a backward nod of the head toward the women by the
stove. "Want them to tell 'Lishe Teachout you're blabbin' about his
affairs, you sawney?"
Nelse bent hastily over his cakes, and the others busied themselves at
making way with the steaming fresh supply which had accumulated while
they talked.
Job's opportunity had come. He rose with as fine an assumption of
carelessness as he could manage, and walked up to the other end of the
table, where the big loaf of home-made bread and the butter-dish were.
He cut off two thick slices; the butter which he tried to spread upon
them had become hard with the night's intense cold, and had not been
near enough to the fire to be softened. So Job could only distribute it
in lumps over the soft surface of one slice, and then put the other on
top of it.
Then, watching his chance in the dim light, he conveyed the bread to
his jacket pocket. Nobody at the table had observed him, he was sure.
He turned to discover that the sitting-room door close at his back had
been opened wide, and that Elisha Teachout was standing in the doorway,
looking at him with all his eyes.
It was Elisha Teachout's habit to look very closely at everything and
everybody--and his was at the best of times a somewhat uncomfortable
gaze to sustain. Job felt that this was not one of the best of times.
His employer was in all seasons an austere and exacting man, coldly
suspicious of those about him, and as pitiless in his treatment of his
hired help's shortcomings as he was vigilant in looking out for them.
But in the winter, when rheumatism put its dread touch upon the marrow
of his bones, he was irascible as well, and led his household what they
used to describe outside as "a life of it."
His lean, small figure did not seem as much bent as usual this
morning--probably he was better, Job thought--but his little
steel-colored eyes had an abnormally piercing effect. His pallid face,
hairless and wrinkled, with its sunken lips and sharply hooked nose,
was of a yellower and sourer aspect than usual, too. The boy felt
himself turning very red.
It turned out to be a needless alarm. Mr. Teachout diverted his gaze
from Job to look at his old silver watch, which he took from his fob,
and then ostentatiously held it in his hand.
"Milk late again this morning?" he demanded, raising his querulous
voice with a snap.
"No, it got off in good season," replied the head hired man,
nonchalantly.
He had answered the same question now every day for several years, and
was at home with it. As a matter of fact the milk from the Teachout
farm was never late, but this had not prevented the masters query
becoming a formula.
"Then breakfast ought to 'a' been out of the way half an hour ago!" he
exclaimed, in the same high, snarling tone. "If I didn't get up and
come out, sick as I am, I suppose you'd be settin' here gorging
yourselves till noon! And you women, you jest aid and abet 'em in their
laziness and gormandizing!"
Job stayed to hear no more. Relieved from his fear of detection, he had
taken advantage of the attack upon the others to get his cap and sidle
unobtrusively from the room.
Once outside he scampered headlong across the frozen ruts and hummocks
of the yard to the cow-barn. There was a perilous show of pink and
lemon lights in the eastern sky. Very soon it would be daylight.
He groped his way past between the stanchions to the hay, and began
feeling about with his feet.
"Here you are, Mose!" he called out. "It's almost daylight! Here's
something to eat."
No answer came. The boy trampled foot by foot over the whole mow in
vain. Mose Whipple was gone.